#(and Danish men.... one Danish man in particular....)

[somedaytakethetime]

NOW THAT'S MORE LIKE IT, KING

[kinardsevan]

so i'm one of those who is really of the mindset rn that this fling needs to be with Josh, and living in that mindset, I wrote this:

Evan glances up across the coffee house with a smile on his face, laughing at Josh’s comment on the petulance of some first responders. 

The relationship that has developed between the two of them recently is interesting, to say the least. He never really saw his sister’s coworker as someone he’d know any deeper than as an acquaintance, but after Maddie was kidnapped by that serial killer, Josh had somehow found a place in his life. 

Initially, it was because of they were in such close quarters while Maddie was missing. Josh could tell he was still going through it after Tommy, and then there was the issue of Eddie leaving also weighing on him. Maddie getting taken was the cherry on top that had nearly broken him, and somehow the other man being there as a shoulder in the midst of it all had been more meaningful than Evan could express. So a few late night coffees after Maddie had been found turned into a hookup, and then one hookup turned into two, and suddenly it had been a few weeks.

Granted, they were both clear on what was happening between them. At best, they were friends now with some really stellar benefits. He really liked Josh, could maybe see something else growing between them if his heart wasn’t still basically smashed potatoes all over the ground. Plus, being around the other man had given Evan the clarity of the fact that his attraction to men wasn’t solely tied to Tommy. If anything, it was simply that the intensity of his attraction to Tommy is what had finally shoved his bisexuality out of the dark and into the open. Hanging out with Josh, hooking up with him from time to time, helped him understand better that pursuing a relationship with another man wasn’t all that different than trying to pursue one with a woman. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Josh laughs, bumping into Evan’s shoulder as the blonde picks up his coffee and danish from the order counter. 

“I’m not disagreeing,” Evan states, lifting a hand in surrender. Josh grabs his things after Evan, and they head towards an open table. Evan has his danish shoved between his teeth and he makes a face with it. 

“Oh that’s priceless,” Josh states, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I need to send a picture to your sister.” 

Evan rolls his eyes, but he turns towards the other man, still walking backward towards the table as he makes the face again while Josh snaps a few photos. He’s still moving when he stumbles into someone, suddenly stepping forward and whipping around, letting the danish fall into his hand as he stammers that he’s so sorry and looking up-

right into those blue eyes. 

Evan gulps as the amusement on his face sinks away. All at once, he feels his heart hammering in his chest as though it’s trying to take flight out of his body and physically attach itself to the other man. 

“I’m so-…E- Buck.” 

It feels like someone’s twisting a fist around his stomach, hearing Tommy say his nickname. There’s no particular intonation. It’s just the fact that he’s called him that at all. It hurts just as much as it did the first time. 

Right at that moment, Josh decides to make his presence known, and he steps forward, shoving a hand out and giving a warm smile to Tommy. 

“Josh Russo,” he states. Tommy blinks a few times before he realizes what’s happening and he shakes Josh’s hand. 

“Tommy,” he answers, his voice soft. There’s the flash of something in his eyes as he glances at Evan, but he releases Josh’s hand a moment later and rubs his own over the leg of his jeans. Evan can’t help but glance over at Josh, who smirks at the gesture. 

“We were just getting coffee,” Evan says, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to make an excuse, or if he thinks Tommy would even care. Either way, Tommy only smiles in response, a small one at that, and nods. 

“That’s- that’s good,” he replies. He moves to step around them toward the counter. “I have to grab mine, actually.” 

Evan turns toward him, mouth open like he wants to say something, but the words don’t come, and he turns back around. 

“Should we sit,” Josh asks after a moment. Evan doesn’t so much respond as he just finishes crossing the cafe to the table they’d been headed towards, and they sit down. 

He doesn’t know what to say, and in that moment, he’s silently thanking God that Josh keeps talking about his entire point he’d been on before their disruption, because Evan isn’t sure he could focus if he tried. As much as he knows its rude, he can’t stop himself from glancing back up in Tommy’s direction, taking him in. It feels like torture and like coming home all at the same time. Seeing him again calms something inside of him, if for no other reason than being able to know that he’s still alive and apparently safe. At the same time, he’s astutely aware of the darkness under Tommy’s eyes, the way his cheeks are more sallow than the last time they saw each other. He doesn’t know the story there, but he wants to. 

He watches with intermittent gazes, glancing over and then away quickly whenever Tommy seems to be looking in his direction. Still, the entire period is over far too quickly, and then his ex-boyfriend is crossing back through the coffee house quickly, walking out with his coffee order. 

“You should go after him.” 

Evan snaps out of his reverie as the door slides shut and glances back at Josh, shaking his head. 

“Huh? W-what?” 

Josh nods, a friendly smile on his face. “I mean it. You should go after him.” 

Evan furrows his brow at Josh. “He broke up with me.” 

Josh lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head at Evan. “So, when I asked all those weeks ago, did you ever actually tell him you’re in love with him?” 

Evan’s jaw goes slack at the question, unsure of what he means. “In love…?” 

“Oh my god, okay,” Josh replies, still chuckling. It’s almost off-putting to Evan. “I recognize the look, Buck. From every time I had to listen to your sister talk about how much she missed her husband when they were split up before Jee-Yun. And newsflash?” He points out the window in the general direction of where Tommy headed off in. “He’s got the same look, and it’s like everyone knows it but the two of you.” 

Evan gulps, considering Josh’s words. For all the things he’d thought about in the time after the conversation at the dispatch center, after deciding to ask Tommy to move in with him, and after the breakup, he’d never rethought the whole “in love with him” question. Still, if he has to quantify the feeling inside of him, make comparative notes to other times he’s known himself to be in love, the only person who even comes close to comparing—and even then it’s a long shot—is Abby. And as he pieces that together in his head, it’s almost too much to bear.

He loves Tommy. He’s in love with Tommy.

Josh nods as he watches the realization cross Evan’s face. 

“Like I said. You should go after him.” 

Evan pushes up from the table suddenly, only to stop halfway up, feeling bad about the sitaution. 

“Listen, I didn’t-..” 

Josh laughs again. “Oh, sweet, sweet, baby Buckley. I have known what this was from day one. I was just wondering how long it was going to take the two of you to pull your heads out of your asses.” 

Evan snorts at the comment, rolls his eyes again but still gives Josh a smile. 

“Besides,” Josh adds. “We can still be friends. I have to imagine the beefy one has gay friends he can introduce me to.” 

Evan laughs. “I’ll see what I can do about that for you.” 

“You better,” Josh replies, lifting his coffee to his lips. “Now go get your man.” 

Evan doesn’t wait a moment longer. He rushes out so fast that he leaves his coffee and bitten-into danish sitting on the table. On the street, he whips his head back and forth, and it takes him a moment to spot Tommy as he starts to round the corner onto the next street. 

Evan bolts after him, crossing the distance between them swiftly on his long legs. Still, when he reaches Tommy a minute later, he’s only a few feet from his truck. His coffee sloshes as Evan turns him around, and when Tommy’s eyes meet his, he has that same sad look in them. 

“Buck, what?” 

“First of all, don’t ever call me that again,” Evan states quickly, a bit breathless. “And second of all…” He settles flat on his feet, looking back and forth between Tommy’s eyes for a moment. Something in him keeps thinking back on Tommy’s obsession with romantic comedies, and the fact that there’s nothing quite more ‘romantic comedy’ than stopping someone on the street and just kissing them. 

So he does. He steps into Tommy’s space and wraps a hand around his head and pulls him in, kissing him with enough passion and determination that if he could shoot actual sparks, they’d both be on fire. For a moment, Tommy doesn’t respond, and Evan isn’t sure if it’s because of the surprise of it all or because he doesn’t feel the same way, but after a moment, he feels Tommy melt, and open his mouth to Evan’s request for access, kissing him back fully. 

Who knows how long the kiss goes on for. All Evan knows is that when he finally breaks away from Tommy, he’s breathless, and so. Fucking. Happy. He presses his forehead against Tommy’s, stroking his thumb down the back of his head. 

“I love you,” he states softly. “I’m in love with you. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I love you, and I’m going to keep loving you, no matter what you think I need to do to sew some wild oats.” 

“Evan,” Tommy murmurs back. His expression is still pained, and Evan can see the conflict in his eyes. 

“You, Tommy,” he counters. “You. Not someone else, not a different option, or a different life. You. Only you.” 

“You could-..” 

“I could do a lot of things,” Evan states. “I could die on my way home today. I could have an aneurysm tomorrow. I could live sixty more years, all without you because you’re too afraid to give in. I know who I am and what I want, and I know I’m not going to find it anywhere else because the way I feel about you? No one else has ever come close.” 

Tommy stares at him with those sad, expressive eyes, and the want in his expression is so clear that it makes Evan hurt for him. He watches as Tommy’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He’s quiet for another moment before taking a breath. 

“I’ve been back in therapy,” he says softly. “Trying to work through it all. I thought you were moving on-..” 

“I’m so close to not moving on that I can still see the starting line in front of me,” Evan tells him. He lets out a soft huff. “Josh- he- there was a thing. With Maddie. He was there through that, a-and he’s queer, so he’s been a good friend recently.” 

Tommy stares at him skeptically for a moment, as though he’s questioning what all of that means. Except, there’s also the part where he told Evan that he was still figuring himself out and basically needed to see other people, and from that standpoint, there’s not a lot he can do or say, especially when the man is standing in front of him telling him that even after spending time with another man, nothing has changed for him. 

“I don’t want you to feel like-..” 

“I don’t,” Evan cuts him off, gesturing between them. “I’m clear on this. On you. And I think if I was going to change my mind, that would’ve happened by now. The problem is that I kinda can’t stop being in love with you.” 

He watches Tommy gulp, sees him nod. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he rests his forehead against Evan’s. 

“I kind-of can’t stop being in love with you, either,” he replies softly. “Much as I’ve tried.” 

Evan lets out a small laugh and then leans into him, kissing him once more. 

Tommy’s arms are tight around his back this time, keeping him close as he sighs into Evan’s mouth. There’s so much to say, so much to work through from the past few months, so much to be considered in the midst of it all. But love hadn’t been a factor in the breakup, and with it on the table, it’s not something either one of them can turn away from. 

When they break apart again, Evan laughs again, and Tommy laughs with him. They remain close for a moment before Evan finally realizes the back of his sweatshirt is wet. He turns his head and glances at it, spots the coffee stain quickly. 

“Shit, sorry,” Tommy says, turning toward his truck and then back towards Evan. “I uh, I have-…” He blushes. “I have one of your hoodies in my duffel, if you want to change.” 

“That would be nice actually,” Evan responds, a smirk on his own face. Tommy nods and they cross the few feet over to his truck. He opens the back seat and pulls his duffel bag up, retrieving the blue hoodie and offering it to Evan. Evan tugs the wet one over his head, revealing a navy t-shirt that’s sinfully too tight. He swaps pieces of clothing with Tommy, who rests the wet one in his backseat before turning back to Evan. Evan’s smile is wider as his head comes through top of his hoodie. 

“Smells like you,” he states. Tommy’s own smile falters a little. 

“Yeah, I know,” he responds wistfully. Evan steps forward as he tucks his a hand into the pouch of the hoodie, uses the other to curl his finger around Tommy’s chin and pull him into another quick kiss. 

“I can solve that for you, if you’d like,” he states. Tommy is quiet for a moment and Evan is smiling at him again. “You free?” 

Tommy rolls his eyes, unable to stop the smile on his own face. “Yes, I’m free.” 

Evan nods, gesturing back towards the coffee house. “It’s a little early for a beer. Coffee?” 

Tommy glances down at the cup in his hand and then back up at Evan. “Considering half of this one is on your sweater, sure. You still owe me a drink anyway.” 

[snowbunnywatching]

How would Danish highschools and unis change after the influx of Black students? How would policies and attitudes and curricula evolve to be respectful of the new arrivals' culture? What expectations would a Danish girl face, from her friends, parents, and authorities? What would the average Danish girl's social life be like?

How would life look like in the Africanized Denmark I described here?

Education Curricula would evolve to be more respectful of Black culture, as you say.

For example, history classes would take on a more comparative perspective. Instead of just studying Danish history, students would learn that while their ancestors were burying their kings in mounds of dirt, Egyptians were building the Great Pyramid of Giza.

Physical education would also change. The focus would shift from seeing physical activity as a component of well-being to seeing it as a requirement for sexual attractiveness.

Danish gymn classes of today are big on communal activities, teaching students how to be part of a team without the competitive focus of American phys ed. The purpose of the exercises aren't to "get in shape" as much as to give students the sensation of using their bodies, resulting in little more than a pair of healthy blushing cheeks.

This would all change in Africanized Denmark. Now the focus would be on being the most attractive version of yourself that you can be.

For the guys, this would consist of muscle-building exercises, like weight-lifting and push-ups. Mostly for the Black men, of course, with white guys being encouraged to take on the role of spotter.

The atmosphere would be very masculine, and (Black) students would be allowed to decorate the locker room with their favorite pin-ups.

For the girls, gym class would start with an individual weighing in front of the entire class. Weight losses would be commended, and girls would be warned not to become "chubby".

This would be followed by strenuous exercises designed to make your tummy tighter and your butt bigger. The only cheeks blushing would be those on your backside as you went through your twerking exercises.

Critical Race Theory would also play a central role in the curriculum. Students would be encouraged to explore the historical roots and contemporary manifestations of racism. This would include exploring and apologizing for subconcious racism among the Danish students themselves. I've written more about this here.

Expectations faced by Danish girls Danish girls in particular would be expected to extend their hospitality to the new arrivals.

Posting pro-BLM material on your social media profile would be expected and considered the bare minimum. Likewise attending anti-racist rallies. As our dark-skinned guests are greeted at the border, Danish teens would be marching and chanting in protest of police brutality against Blacks.

There would also be an expectation of dating the new arrivals. As a single Danish girl you would be expected to be on at least one dating or hookup app, advertising your desire to welcome a Black man into your bed.

This pressure would especially be felt by those girls blessed with a big booty. A bona fide PAWG in a relationship with a Danish guy would be accused of "wasting" her body on a white guy when a Black man would enjoy it so much more.

[ultraericthered]

One Villainous Scene: Enough To Feed A Whole Army

It's serendipitous that this one come not only as Winter Is Coming, but also soon after the final episode of The Penguin, as the scene in question pulls a similar thing to what the events of that episode did.

Episode 14 of the first season of Vinland Saga, titled "The Light of Dawn", might just be the most uncomfortable episode in the series, and in any anime series. Rather oddly centering heavily around a bit character who never matters in the series narrative ever again beyond this particular episode and what it sets off for the following one, it reaches its climax when the viking army that Thorfinn, Prince Canute, Ragnar, Priest Willibald, and the rest of Ragnar's men are accompanying - y'know, our main characters - arrive at Anne's village and raids the place, rounding up all the villagers to force them out into the snowy cold while the vikings ransack all the houses to check the grand total of all supplies in the village, particularly the rations.

Only Anne managed to flee to safety but is watching what befalls her family and neighbors from a distance away. We see men, women, children, and even crying infants, all people who have done no harm to these Danish invaders whatsoever, huddled outside. Askeladd has determined that the village holds enough food for 50 people to last the winter, which comes up short for 104 soldiers. After chiding Willibald for an earlier display of defiance towards him and making a threat on his life should he do so again, Askeladd's attention is turned to the villagers as one pleads with him to let the villagers keep half of the food supply, with the other half being forfeited to the Danes. He even plays the "I have a baby!" card as an appeal to Askeladd's humanity. Only no such humanity seems to be moved in Askeladd, who dryly responds "A baby? That's rough." A stern, cold-blooded Askeladd announces to the masses that he has put all of them into consideration, and looks to ensure that none of them have to worry about going hungry during the winter...or for any winters to come for that matter. He intends to release them from their suffering, by ending the lives of all of them. Every last man, woman, and child.

At the protest of doing this to innocent civillians, Askeladd replies with only stone cold rationale - if he were to let all of them live but banish them from their home village, he'd have no food or drink to give to them that would sustain them out in the winter's cold, as he plans to keep all of the village's food and make it last for as long as they're able to stay there before winter fades, and should any one of them escape with their life, they'd be able to tell Thorkell and his forces where they are (which is indeed what ends up happening with Anne after her survival btw). As such, they all must perish. Askeladd's already had his warrior flunkies dig deep holes in the snow-covered ground to cram in up to 62 dead bodies. "But these people are Christians!" Ragnar protests. To which Askeladd gives a literal, word for word "So what?" Askeladd belongs to no conventional religious faith, and he doesn't let beliefs, affiliations, nationalities, gender or age set for him any standard of who he can or cannot shed the blood of without hesitation should the cause of the moment call for such blood to be shed. Which this moment does, as he's keen to remind Ragnar: this is what's best for Prince Canute. So with no more questions to be asked, Askeladd issues his command: "Kill them."

The massacre that follows is appalling and horrific to behold, even though very little of the butchering is shown on-screen. But what gives it its horror isn't what's transpiring, but how and why it is, and by who's hand. Askeladd is the true protagonist of Vinland Saga's Prologue Arc (its first season in the anime) in many regards, and we've followed him up to this point and continue to follow him even afterwards. The insights into his past and how it shaped his present character, the glimmers of deeply held convictions, motivations, and beliefs we get out of him that offset his usual devil may care attitude, his badass warrior spirit and charming personality endear him to us and allow us to be invested in his actions that drive the plot forward. He is in fact so charismatic that the viewer will likely be so enraptured by him to the point of wanting to follow him, of wanting to root for his success, of disregarding or perhaps even forgetting the basic fact of who and what Askeladd is, which is what he's always been from the moment we met him: a remorseless, merciless, spiritually detached, machiavellian and oftentimes cruel mass murderer. He's not a man, he's a beast. He knows he's a beast, and he laments it only as often as he relishes it. The same man capable of murdering Thors in such a despicably underhanded, craven way is of course capable of ordering the bloody massacre of an entire village full of innocent civillians under rationalizations of taking life and butchering bodies when such evils are deemed "necessary" by him. He feels nothing about seeing people all the way down to literal babies get dispatched of swiftly but no less brutally and painfully. To him it's all just part of how he lives his life being the man he is and doing what a man like him does. But to us in the audience who've by this point bonded with him in a way and have come around to trusting, supporting, and liking the bastard, this moment comes in like a knife in the back or through the throat to serve as a wake-up call that pulls no punches. We see Askeladd and his viking crew through the eyes of non-players not affiliated with them and who know nothing of them that we've gotten to know, and it reminds us of the ugly truth of what callous, barbaric, inhumane monsters these people are to others.

And just as disturbing? The silent complicity of Thorfinn and Canute. They're a part of this too. They also own it. The blood of the innocent soaks their hands as well, even if neither one lifted a single weapon against a single villager. This is where the path you follow Askeladd down inevitably leads, and it will weigh on their souls forevermore.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Appendix VII: The Origin of the Family

At the time when I wrote the chapter inserted in the text, a certain accord seemed to have been established amongst anthropologists concerning the relatively late appearance, in the institutions of men, of the patriarchal family, such as we know it among the Hebrews, or in Imperial Rome. However, works have been published since, in which the ideas promulgated by Bachofen and MacLennan, systematized especially by Morgan, and further developed and confirmed by Post, Maxim Kovalevsky, and Lubbock, were contested — the most important of such works being by the Danish Professor, C.N. Starcke (Primitive Family, 1889), and by the Helsingfors Professor, Edward Westermarck (The History of Human Marriage, 1891; 2nd ed. 1894). The same has happened with this question of primitive marriage institutions as it happened with the question of the primitive land-ownership institutions. When the ideas of Maurer and Nasse on the village community developed by quite a school of gifted explorers, and those of all modern anthropologists upon the primitively communistic constitution of the clan had nearly won general acceptance — they called forth the appearance of such works as those of Fustel de Coulanges in France, the Oxford Professor Seebohm in England, and several others, in which an attempt was made — with more brilliancy than real depth of investigation — to undermine these ideas and to cast a doubt upon the conclusions arrived at by modern research (see Prof. Vinogradov’s Preface to his remarkable work, Villainage in England). Similarly, when the ideas about the non-existence of the family at the early tribal stage of mankind began to be accepted by most anthropologists and students of ancient law, they necessarily called forth such works as those of Starcke and Westermarck, in which man was represented, in accordance with the Hebrew tradition, as having started with the family, evidently patriarchal, and never having passed through the stages described by MacLennan, Bachofen, or Morgan. These works, of which the brilliantly-written History of Human Marriage has especially been widely read, have undoubtedly produced a certain effect: those who have not had the opportunity of reading the bulky volumes related to the controversy became hesitating; while some anthropologists, well acquainted with the matter, like the French Professor Durkheim, took a conciliatory, but somewhat undefined attitude.

For the special purpose of a work on Mutual Aid, this controversy may be irrelevant. The fact that men have lived in tribes from the earliest stages of mankind, is not contested, even by those who feel shocked at the idea that man may have passed through a stage when the family as we understand it did not exist. The subject, however, has its own interest and deserves to be mentioned, although it must be remarked that a volume would be required to do it full justice.

When we labour to lift the veil that conceals from us ancient institutions, and especially such institutions as have prevailed at the first appearance of beings of the human type, we are bound — in the necessary absence of direct testimony — to accomplish a most painstaking work of tracing backwards every institution, carefully noting even its faintest traces in habits, customs, traditions, songs, folklore, and so on; and then, combining the separate results of each of these separate studies, to mentally reconstitute the society which would answer to the co-existence of all these institutions. One can consequently understand what a formidable array of facts, and what a vast number of minute studies of particular points is required to come to any safe conclusion. This is exactly what one finds in the monumental work of Bachofen and his followers, but fails to find in the works of the other school. The mass of facts ransacked by Prof. Westermarck is undoubtedly great enough, and his work is certainly very valuable as a criticism; but it hardly will induce those who know the works of Bachofen, Morgan, MacLennan, Post, Kovalevsky, etc., in the originals, and are acquainted with the village-community school, to change their opinions and accept the patriarchal family theory.

Thus the arguments borrowed by Westermarck from the familiar habits of the primates have not, I dare say, the value which he attributes to them. Our knowledge about the family relations amongst the sociable species of monkeys of our own days is extremely uncertain, while the two unsociable species of orang-outan and gorilla must be ruled out of discussion, both being evidently, as I have indicated in the text, decaying species. Still less do we know about the relations which existed between males and females amongst the primates towards the end of the Tertiary period. The species which lived then are probably all extinct, and we have not the slightest idea as to which of them was the ancestral form which Man sprung from. All we can say with any approach to probability is, that various family and tribe relations must have existed in the different ape species, which were extremely numerous at that time; and that great changes must have taken place since in the habits of the primates, similarly to the changes that took place, even within the last two centuries, in the habits of many other mammal species.

The discussion must consequently be limited entirely to human institutions; and in the minute discussion of each separate trace of each early institution, in connection with all that we know about every other institution of the same people or the same tribe, lies the main force of the argument of the school which maintains that the patriarchal family is an institution of a relatively late origin.

There is, in fact, quite a cycle of institutions amongst primitive men, which become fully comprehensible if we accept the ideas of Bachofen and Morgan, but are utterly incomprehensible otherwise. Such are: the communistic life of the clan, so long as it was not split up into separate paternal families; the life in long houses, and in classes occupying separate long houses according to the age and stage of initiation of the youth (M. Maclay, H. Schurz); the restrictions to personal accumulation of property of which several illustrations are given above, in the text; the fact that women taken from another tribe belonged to the whole tribe before becoming private property; and many similar institutions analyzed by Lubbock. This wide cycle of institutions, which fell into decay and finally disappeared in the village-community phase of human development, stand in perfect accord with the “tribal marriage” theory; but they are mostly left unnoticed by the followers of the patriarchal family school. This is certainly not the proper way of discussing the problem. Primitive men have not several superposed or juxtaposed institutions as we have now. They have but one institution, the clan, which embodies all the mutual relations of the members of the clan. Marriage-relations and possession-relations are clan-relations. And the last that we might expect from the defenders of the patriarchal family theory would be to show us how the just mentioned cycle of institutions (which disappear later on) could have existed in an agglomeration of men living under a system contradictory of such institutions — the system of separate families governed by the pater familias.

Again, one cannot recognize scientific value in the way in which certain serious difficulties are set aside by the promoters of the patriarchal family theory. Thus, Morgan has proved by a considerable amount of evidence that a strictly-kept “classificatory group system” exists with many primitive tribes, and that all the individuals of the same category address each other as if they were brothers and sisters, while the individuals of a younger category will address their mothers’ sisters as mothers, and so on. To say that this must be a simple façon de parler — a way of expressing respect to age — is certainly an easy method of getting rid of the difficulty of explaining, why this special mode of expressing respect, and not some other, has prevailed among so many peoples of different origin, so as to survive with many of them up to the present day? One may surely admit that ma and pa are the syllables which are easiest to pronounce for a baby, but the question is — Why this part of “baby language” is used by full-grown people, and is applied to a certain strictly-defined category of persons? Why, with so many tribes in which the mother and her sisters are called ma, the father is designated by tiatia (similar to diadia — uncle), dad, da or pa? Why the appellation of mother given to maternal aunts is supplanted later on by a separate name? And so on. But when we learn that with many savages the mother’s sister takes as responsible a part in bringing up a child as the mother itself, and that, if death takes away a beloved child, the other “mother” (the mother’s sister) will sacrifice herself to accompany the child in its journey into the other world — we surely see in these names something much more profound than a mere façon de parler, or a way of testifying respect. The more so when we learn of the existence of quite a cycle of survivals (Lubbock, Kovalevsky, Post have fully discussed them), all pointing in the same direction. Of course it may be said that kinship is reckoned on the maternal side “because the child remains more with its mother,” or we may explain the fact that a man’s children by several wives of different tribes belong to their mothers’ clans in consequence of the savages’ ignorance of physiology;” but these are not arguments even approximately adequate to the seriousness of the questions involved — especially when it is known that the obligation of bearing the mother’s name implies belonging to the mother’s clan in all respects: that is, involves a right to all the belongings of the maternal clan, as well as the right of being protected by it, never to be assailed by any one of it, and the duty of revenging offences on its behalf.

Even if we were to admit for a moment the satisfactory nature of such explanations, we should soon find out that a separate explanation has to be given for each category of such facts — and they are very numerous. To mention but a few of them, there is: the division of clans into classes, at a time when there is no division as regards property or social condition; exogamy and all the consequent customs enumerated by Lubbock; the blood covenant and a series of similar customs intended to testify the unity of descent; the appearance of family gods subsequent to the existence of clan gods; the exchange of wives which exists not only with Eskimos in times of calamity, but is also widely spread among many other tribes of a quite different origin; the looseness of nuptial ties the lower we descend in civilization; the compound marriages — several men marrying one wife who belongs to them in turns; the abolition of the marriage restrictions during festivals, or on each fifth, sixth, etc., day; the cohabitation of families in “long houses”; the obligation of rearing the orphan falling, even at a late period, upon the maternal uncle; the considerable number of transitory forms showing the gradual passage from maternal descent to paternal descent; the limitation of the number of children by the clan — not by the family — and the abolition of this harsh clause in times of plenty; family restrictions coming after the clan restrictions; the sacrifice of the old relatives to the tribe; the tribal lex talionis and many other habits and customs which become a “family matter” only when we find the family, in the modern sense of the word, finally constituted; the nuptial and pre-nuptial ceremonies of which striking illustrations may be found in the work of Sir John Lubbock, and of several modern Russian explorers; the absence of marriage solemnities where the line of descent is matriarchal, and the appearance of such solemnities with tribes following the paternal line of descent — all these and many others[317] showing that, as Durckheim remarks, marriage proper “is only tolerated and prevented by antagonist forces;” the destruction at the death of the individual of what belonged to him personally; and finally, all the formidable array of survivals,[318] myths (Bachofen and his many followers), folklore, etc., all telling in the same direction.

Of course, all this does not prove that there was a period when woman was regarded as superior to man, or was the “head” of the clan; this is a quite distinct matter, and my personal opinion is that no such period has ever existed; nor does it prove that there was a time when no tribal restrictions to the union of sexes existed — this would have been absolutely contrary to all known evidence. But when all the facts lately brought to light are considered in their mutual dependency, it is impossible not to recognize that if isolated couples, with their children, have possibly existed even in the primitive clan, these incipient families were tolerated exceptions only, not the institution of the time.

[halfmylife]

I’m Not Going Anywhere

Pairing Sihtric x Reader

Summary Before Sihtric joined Uhtred he fought for the Danes and now you’re his captive

Warnings some slight language

A/N I wanted to do an enemies to lovers type thing and it just felt right with Sihtric

Part 1 || Part 2

You had been pushed and shoved forward so much that you were sure bruises littered your skin. One Dane in particular had been leading your path. He seemed quite content in grabbing you by the arm and yanking which ever way he needed.

“Don’t move.” He barked, pushing you to the floor, not even glancing in your direction as he marched off to go and speak to someone. You frankly didn’t care about what he was doing and was still trying to find a way out of this mess.

“I wasn’t planning on it.” You voice was thick with sarcasm as you waved your bound hands in the air. What exactly did he think you were planning? A full coup of the camp before your heroic escape? You were lucky you got this far unharmed, especially considering how outnumbered you were.

Whilst you waited for your captors return, you surveyed the area, taking in every small detail. Though you couldn’t help the looks you received from a few of them men surrounding you.

“Up.” You felt the hand around your bicep, before you even heard him approach. The man barely gave you time to move before he started yanking you upwards.

“You could ask nicely.” You mumbled, not expecting him to hear. Your feet managed to stabilise themselves after the abrupt pull and soon you were walking beside him again.

“That was nicely.” He muttered back. So he had heard. Clearly he wasn’t impressed either.

“Didn’t seem very nice. You should work on your manners.” You were hardly in the position to bark out orders or even argue with him yet still you carried on. It was the only bit of respite you had from the uncomfortable silences and you wanted to make it quite clear you would not be going down without a fight.

“You should learn to stay quiet.” The Dane was growing more agitated with each moment he spent with you and it was becoming increasingly obvious the more you press.

“Not a quality I possess I’m afraid.” You quipped.

“I noticed.” He growled. His grasp around your arm tightened for a small moment and you wondered if perhaps he was at his wits end with you, if he had not been already.

You had been moving for some time, albeit begrudgingly and slowly your mind started to wander. You had heard what Danes enjoyed doing to women when they raided villages and thought you would be no different.

“If you’re dragging me off to hump me just get it over and done with.” You spat out suddenly. The Dane seemed to almost reel back from the comment. He looked you over, expressionless before turning away once more, never breaking a stride.

“I’m not going to hump you.” As soon as he spoke, you didn’t know whether to feel relieved or not.

“What exactly do you want to do with me then?” You tugged against him, hoping to draw his attention back to you. He gave you very little, only tugging you back into pace with him with ease.

“I don’t want to do anything.” He said quietly. For a moment it did not seem like a man who was serving a Dane lord but rather a man who was tired of such things. “Your a daughter of a rich man. He’ll pay us well for your safe return.”

“So you’re going to keep me here whilst you wait for him to pay?” You scoffed. Your father was unlikely to pay, especially if there had been an inclination of foul play. There was no way out of this one it was only a matter of time before the Danes took what they wanted.

“That’s the idea.” Though you couldn’t see it, you were sure he was rolling his eyes. “You should be thankful.” You wanted to laughed.

“Thankful? For being kidnapped and held captive? I don’t think so.” What was there to be thankful for? You had been kidnapped and bound, only to then be paraded through a danish camp for all the men to stare at. Hardly a winning proposition.

“What do you think happened to the other women in your village?” The Dane stopped suddenly, turning to face you. You didn’t want it to be true but now you supposed you could not hide from it. Even as he stared at you, you knew it had not been a lie.

“Did you?” You asked quietly, unsure if you even wanted to know the truth. You hadn’t even realised how close the Dane was until silence wrapped around you. His silence was the only answer you needed. “Why not?”

“I was asked to deal with you.” He sighed, but where disgust had been so finely laced in his voice before now something else had crept in. Relief. Or was it? You could not be sure, why would a Dane be relieved about such a thing?

“That’s bullshit.” The man could no longer look at you as he sat you down. He made sure to deliberately avert his eyes and keep his concentration elsewhere.

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” His voice raised slightly. You half laughed as he attempted to change the subject.

“Didn’t I tell you that I struggle with that premise?” You spat back, not caring to struggle against him when he checked the ropes binding your wrists. It’s not like you were going anywhere.

“Whore.” He whispered.

“Twat.” You muttered back.

The silence that fell around you was suffocating as neither of you knew what to do next. You have expected him to storm off and leave you behind but the Dane did no such thing. Instead he moved you over to some furs under what looked like a tent if it could even be called that.

“Get some rest.” He didn’t even wait for a response, leaving you to your own devices whilst he took a seat just beyond the tent. “Don’t try anything.” He called back.

This time you have no smart response or no witty retort. He had given you a place to sleep, not just left you in the mud like you’d half expected. You weren’t about to thank him but at least you would not be cold tonight. As for what would happen tomorrow you could only imagine.

[sailtomarina]

Secret admirer

I may or may not have been sipping on my own coffee with far too much creamer while thinking out this prompt.

As she stood to retrieve her mocha (soy, no whip cream) from the counter, Hermione quirked a brow at the blackberry danish plated next to it.

“I didn’t order this.”

Taylor, the barista, leaned out from behind the espresso machine with a wink and pointed tilt of his head to the side. “You have a secret admirer.” 

Hermione surreptitiously turned in the direction of his nod to identify her benefactor, but the only people seated were a few men her father’s age arguing heatedly, a harried-looking woman staring morosely into her mug, and the platinum-head of her current coworker. 

She must have just missed him.

Hermione gathered her items and went to join Draco at what had not too long ago become “their table” at the Atrium’s coffee cart. After several months of amicable teamwork, coffees delivered to her desk turned into his insistence that she take actual breaks—as if she had all the time in the world for such frivolous, lackadaisical habits.

Annoyingly, these breaks resulted in an almost immediate upturn in her focus and productivity. She refused to correlate the two.

“Oh, good. You never eat enough.”

She scowled at his observation and bit into her danish with more ferocity than required. It was, frustratingly, delicious, and exactly what her stomach apparently wanted because a moan of satisfaction escaped before she could stop it.

“That good?” The prat had the audacity to smirk with his dimples on full display.

“It’s…not bad. Could be laced with poison, though.”

His eyebrows shot up in alarm at her statement, before he took a measured sip of his tea. “Is there any particular reason why you say that?”

“Apparently, I have a secret admirer who added this to my coffee order.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one to notice your appalling lack of awareness for your own wellbeing,” he mused, handing her a napkin as she finished the last bites of her pastry.

“Yes, well, if he keeps treating me to these I might just entertain the idea of a date. Maybe. Probably.” Hermione chased down the sweet blueberry notes with her semi-bitter dark mocha, missing the way Draco sat up taller in his chair. Circe, it’d been far too long since her last good shag.

Finishing up their drinks with some chatter about the upcoming weekend—yes, there was a poetry reading she planned to attend, no, she was not going to the Falcon’s game though she hoped they beat the Canons—they stood to make their way back upstairs. Walking behind her, Draco risked a glance over to Taylor and nodded his gratitude for the young man’s assistance. The next Ministry event was scheduled to take place only a couple of months from now and he fully intended to attend at Granger’s side. Not her on his arm like some adornment, but together as equals. Ideally, partners.

He just hoped the cart had a decent variety of baked goods to rotate until then.

[sihtricsimp]

Modern!Revolution!Sihtric x Femme!OC

Chapter 1

Warnings: Death, war, guns, shooting, death

Based on this photo (thanks to one of my fellow Nowallian mutuals for finding it for me <3)

Most people would be thrilled to be one of the top pilots from one of the most powerful nations in Europe. Ellia, however, was growing tired of being perfect all the time. Growing tired of their leader seemingly doing nothing about the invading Northmen, spouting peace like it was gospel, yet continuing the hellish war effort as if Satan had possessed him. His war with the incoming Danes, who just wanted a new home after theirs was almost destroyed by storms, his refusal to acknowledge the rebellion so clearly growing right under his nose. It almost made one want to join the rebellion oneself.

But, just like everyone else, Ellia had grown used to her position, afraid of what might happen if they lost even a little of their power. People she had trusted and thought were good to their core were now selfish and complacent, not caring about the lives of their soldiers. General Athelflead, leader of the RAF and daughter to their ever-gracious leader, King Alfred, was one of those people. She had taught Ellia how to fly and was the one to give her the callsign of "Finch". A small bird was perfect for the shortest, and as some of the men would say, prettiest Commander in the Royal Air Force.

General Aethelflead brought Ellia out of her thoughts with a "Well, what do you think, Finch?"

Ellia placed her helmet down on the table with a sigh, "I think it's another suicide mission. Juker, Scramble, Uno, and I just barely survived our last mission to the Danish foothold. We lost eight good pilots in a single dogfight. We should focus on peace talks with Prime Minister Aethelred in Mercia so we can reinforce our dwindling presence in Northumbria!"

"I am well aware of the dire situation in Northumbria," Aethelflead said, "but we can't send the forces there without risking our own borders to the Danes. My father would never approve of the mission, you know this."

"Just because I know it, doesn't make it right." Ellia looked at her mentor, who rose her eyebrows expectantly. "But yes, if it is our holy duty from God, we shall carry it out."

Athelflead nodded. "You leave at 0600 tomorrow. Take the remainder of your squad. Since this is a stealth mission, you can use the new S-40s."

"But we haven't had much-" Ellia was about to protest when Aethelflead raised a hand.

"You and your squad are dismissed, Finch." Aethelflead used her other hand to rub her temple in frustration. "You will need ample time to prepare, will you not?"

"Yes, ma'am." Ellia tried to not let her tone become sarcastic as she saluted the General, and marched towards the barracks, the rest of the squad following suit.

On their way to the barracks, they passed by the War Room, a name given somewhat affectionately to the main meeting room of the facility. It was where all the important meetings took place, and from the look of things, the King was holding an important one. Ellia and her squad were fully intent on just walking past. None of them, Ellia, in particular, had the patience to deal with the incompetence and idiocy of the King and his other generals. King Alfred, sitting side on to the door, had other ideas.

"Ah, Commander Ellia, is it? Just the pilot I wanted to see!" He said looking up from the war table. Of course, he had to be sitting right by the open door.

Ellia suppressed a sigh. Here was the man who was responsible for her friends' deaths. Yet, she could do nothing about it unless she wanted to join her fallen comrades in whatever came next.

"Yes sir, Commander Ellia Goldstrum, callsign Finch, at your service." She gave a quick salute, her three squadmates following suit.

"At ease, ladies." The King stood and motioned for the squad to enter the room. As they did so, Ellia noticed the distinct lack of anyone else other than old white men in the room. With Athelflead out on duty, the major war decisions were being made by crusty Generals who hadn't seen real combat since before Ellia was born. "I know you four have had some contact with the rebellion while on your last flight?" The King continued.

"No, sir, those were Danes we fought. They flew Danish planes that carried Danish insignia, and wore Danish uniforms." Ellia was quickly loosing patience. To be sent on the same suicide mission the following day by the daughter, to then be questioned about the first mission by the father.

"We have credible intelligence from my nephew that the Danes have a shaky alliance with the Rebellion, so they are using Danish equipment." Alfred, as per usual, was calm and composed, even when talking about the savages on the other side.

It made sense that the Danes and the Rebellion would ally themselves, they both had a vendetta against Alfred. The shakiness also seemed correct, as the leader of the Rebellion was known to most as the Daneslayer.

"So you want us to go and confirm this intelligence, then?" Ellia guessed. The crown had a habit of telling its soldiers where to fly and who to fight without saying why, expecting blind loyalty until the last breath. This tracked with Ellia's experience with Christianity. Blind faith without question. Ellia was quite comfortable living in hidden godlessness, knowing there was no risk of burning eternally for her, just the calm nothingness of the void.

After a pause, the King replied, "Yes, we need the intelligence confirmed, but we didn't want you to know in case you got captured by them. They don't need to know that we know about their alliance."

"Can do, sir." Was the only words Ellia could get out without losing her cool. The only reason they were risking their lives was to confirm intelligence? Something spies could easily have done? It was bullshit.

"Dismissed, ladies. You'll need all the rest you can get for tomorrow." The King raised his hand, shooing them away, before turning back to his council. They started talking as Ellia and her squad marched away, but they were all engrossed in their own thoughts to hear what was said.

Ellia only relaxed when they got back to their shared barracks near the flight deck. There were two bunk beds, and they each got a draw to themselves in the dresser, the only other piece of furniture in the room. The higher-ups reckoned they didn't need to waste money on a window to the outside world when their pilots were spending all day in the air regardless.

"I want to defect to the Daneslayer's rebellion more with each passing mission" Juker complained, once they were safely back in their shared bunk room, out of the earshot of their superiors. "I mean, we're flying the exact same path as we did last time, the path that got Candy and Wolf's squads downed." Everyone was draped across their bunks, Juker above Ellia, and Uno above Scramble.

"You find us the rebellion stronghold, and I'll be right there with ya, Juker." Scramble joked, flicking through the same 'Kilted Men' magazine she'd had since forever, a smile on her face.

Leaning over her bunk to look at Scramble, Uno laughed, "Ha! Good luck, their base is harder to find than I am to beat at card games!" Uno always bragged about her winning streak in every card game they played, specifically in her callsign namesake, that was only still a streak because everyone refused to play with her.

"Ya know, I'm still convinced ya cheat every time." Scramble glanced up from her magazine to roll her eyes at Uno.

Uno gasped, her hand going to her forehead, pretending to faint. "Me? Cheat? Why, I would never!"

"Except for when you definitely dealt both Jokers into your hand in Scum," Juker added, getting an offended look from Uno.

"Multiple times, might I add." Ellia enjoyed joining in on her squad's antics, even if it was just one small jab in the middle of a faux argument. She watched the other three joke around, laughing their asses off at something another said, thinking of the love they had for each other. It had been a tough few years for them, and they all needed all of the love and laughter they could get.

Juker and Ellia had come from the same small village on the southern coast. They were only separated for a few months since joining the RAF when Juker crashed into a mountain after avoiding an enemy aircraft and had to hike back to base.

Scramble was from Ireland and had lost her husband somewhere along the way, their baby daughter dying from a chill while she made her way to Wessex with her. Uno, however, was born and raised in Wessex and used flying as a way to see the world and get out of her city life bubble.

Once the sun started to set, and they all had their nightly rations, Ellia called lights out.

"Oh, come on Finch, five more minutes?" Uno protested as Ellia reached for the switch.

"Do you want to be falling asleep at your yoke tomorrow, Uno?"

"I guess falling asleep at the controls a few thousand meters in the air would be bad for my health." Uno conceded, slipping under her sheets.

"Right, 0400 wake up call tomorrow morning, be ready ladies." Ellia turned the lights off, having received a resounding 'yes ma'am' from her squad.

The mission started off well. The S40s were able to climb higher, move faster, carry more ammo than the typical stealth jet, and had much better on board surveillance tech than the S30s. And they were fun to fly.

The squad was formed in a diamond shape, Ellia taking the lead position. Uno was to her left, Scramble on her right and Juker taking up the rear.

"We're coming up on the Danish settlement, Finch.” Juker said, “Break through these clouds and we should see it.”

“Copy that, Juker,” Ellia said. They were at the same location as last time, she recognised the longitude and latitude. She felt her chest sink out of sadness and anxiety. What if there was another ambush? Ellia couldn’t take losing another pilot. “Radio silence from now on, communicate by hand signals. Don’t want the heathens to know they’re being spied on by girls. Let’s just get in and out ladies.”

Ellia received thumbs up from her flanks, and she trusted Juker enough to know she’d listen. They flew in silence for most of the way, but something about this new silence felt heavier. Maybe it was the weight of their former friends and pilots sitting on their soldiers. Or maybe the very air the Danes breathed was toxic.

Ellia didn’t get time to dwell on it though, as they broke through the child’s high above the Danish base. They were high enough up to not be easily spotted by radar or the naked eye, but their powerful cameras allowed them to get a good view of the base.

She saw too much equipment for the Danish army around the base. A few more planes, plenty more trucks and boxes around the buildings, with doubtless more under cover.

The intel gathered by the King’s nephew was correct. The Rebellion had allied themselves with the Danes. Neither the Danes nor the Rebellion had this many resources individually.

Ellia noted down the number of planes and trucks she saw, and made her best approximation on the weapons caches she could see.

She was about to give the back to base signal when a red blip appeared on the edge of her radar. That usually meant a bogey, and they usually hung around. However, it disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. Glancing to her right, Scramble gave a shrug. Ellia made the eyes up gesture to Scramble. She then turned to give the signal to Uno.

Suddenly, as if like a ghost, a Danish plane flew over Uno’s plane, then the rest of the squad. It had a custom paint job on it’s belly, a Mjolnir symbol, as far as Ellia could make out.

“Alright, comms back on, they know we’re here. Game faces, he might not be alone.” Ellia said, “we might not have much experience in these planes, but God be damned if we aren’t the best pilots in all of Britannia.”

Ellia’s eyes tracked the Danish plane, but it quickly disappeared into the clouds. It was a bad idea to follow it, since it could clearly hide itself from radar.

Before Ellia could even finish her thought, gunfire reigned overhead. The Dane had banked around to behind them.

“Break!” Ellia shouted, Banking left with Uno, Scramble, and Juker going to the right. The pilot had made a mistake, the pilot had alerted them to their presence too early, leaving the squad plenty of time to shoot at the pilot.

Ellia pulled her trigger, bullets flying through the air. The pilot dodged the bullets, pulling up only to reveal a second aircraft. Ellia barely had time to register the four leaf clovers adorning each wing before she herself was hit by the new contender.

The next thing she knew, she woke up, still strapped to her seat. The first thing she noticed was another wreckage next to her, one of her squad members it looked like. Ellia couldn't make out who it was, but whoever was inside wasn't moving.

She scrambled out of her plane as fast as she could and rushed over to the wreck, the adrenaline covering any pain Ellia doubtlessly had. She reached the wreck. Forced open the cockpit. Lifted the head of the pilot.

Ellia screamed, jumping back from the downed jet. Juker. It couldn't be Juker. Juker couldn't be gone. She was known for her evasive maneuvers. She couldn't have been shot down. If anyone was going to survive this mission, it was going to be her.

Ellia tried to compose herself as she climbed the wreck again, to check again. Definitely Juker. She dipped her ear to Juker's mouth. No breath. Tears streamed down Ellia's cheeks, scattering both hers and Juker's bloodstained flight suits.

As she took the dog tags from around Juker's neck, Ellia heard a twig snap behind her. She drew the gun from the holster on her hip, pointing at the noise.

"Commander, it's us..." Scramble said, hands raised.

"What's wrong, Finch?" Uno walked up to the edge of the wreck, "Why have you got Juker's dog tags?"

Ellia sat down on the edge of the cockpit, revealing Juker to the others. She broke down into sobs as they started crying too. Ellia, mid sob, slipped Juker's dog tags on and got down from the plane.

"Right," she sniffled, "Juker would want us to keep moving, find our way back. And I think I may need a bandage for my arm." Now that the adrenaline had worn off a bit, she could feel a good gash in her left arm, going from shoulder to elbow. "I think it's shallow at least, otherwise I would have bled out a while ago."

"You're right, we need to find shelter, and get your would cleaned." Scrambler wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"You think we can chance it with the Danes?" Uno joked. She always tried to lighten the mood, no matter how dire the situation was. They were stranded in enemy territory with no way to contact home, and no one coming after them.

"We have less of a chance with the Danes than you have at losing at cards," Scrambler replied.

Before they could come to a conclusion, a Danish pilot came into view from behind Juker's wreck.

"So you ladies come here often?" He said, his messy hair covering his eyes slightly.

"Who the fuck are you, Daneboy?" Ellia drew her gun for the second time, followed closely by the others.

"Commander Goldstrum, is it? My name is Sihtric Kjartansson, callsign Runt, with the Rebellion. I am to take you and your squad to the Daneslayer."

[jlwilliams-us]

The Second-Greatest American Ballet Choreographer You Never Heard Of

[Originally published in October 1995]

Ask a balletomane to list some major American choreographers, and the odds are good that Lew Christensen will not be among the first that leap to mind. Thumb through a few general reference works — or even dance-specific ones — and you're likely to find him mentioned only as a secondary entry, if at all.

It's not that Christensen is obscure. Well-informed ballet enthusiasts know the story of Salt Lake City's three Christensen brothers — grandsons of an immigrant Danish balletmaster — who brought ballet to the western United States: Harold, the progenitor of Ballet West; Willam, the founder of the San Francisco Ballet; and Lew, its artistic director from 1952 until his death in 1985. Or they may recall Christensen as the nation's first homegrown premier danseur: the first American to dance the title role in George Balanchine's Apollon Musagète, and later principal dancer with Balanchine's seminal Ballet Caravan.

As a choreographer, though, Christensen seems to have drifted away from the reputation mainstream. Although he created more than 100 works — including a genuine historical landmark (Filling Station, 1938) and a much-loved minor classic (Con Amore, 1953) — comparatively few are staged today. And few younger choreographers, even those he brought to the San Francisco Ballet, chose to follow his stylistic lead, as Arlene Croce noted in a 1978 review.

"Oddly enough, their work — on this showing, at least — derives from everywhere but the Christensen repertory," she wrote. "Maybe he's just too eccentric, and maybe his mind does wander, but it is a choreographic mind of no small distinction. The Christensen ballets hold a provocative secret. They ought to be much better known than they are."

Today, Christensen enthusiasts still feel that his works deserve more recognition than they're getting. Among those trying to do something about it are two of his San Francisco Ballet alumni: Richard Carter, now balletmaster of the Miami City Ballet, who stages Christensen revivals throughout the country; and Robert Vickrey, now artistic manager of Pittsburgh Ballet Theater and former artistic director of Nebraska's Ballet Omaha company -- where he became one of the few contemporary artistic directors to build a Christensen repertory from scratch.

Between them, the two may know Christensen's works from more angles than anyone else alive. From the 1950s until Christensen's death, Carter served him at various times as dancer, ballet master, production manager and technical director. During his nine years at the helm of Ballet Omaha, Vickrey inaugurated the "Lew Christensen Project," introducing audiences to a rotating trio of ballets selected from the choreographer's early, middle and late periods: Filling Station, Con Amore, and Il Distratto (1967.) Both men are quietly but firmly convinced that Christensen was one of America's greatest choreographers — possibly the second greatest, after Balanchine, and entirely different in style and approach.

Carter, a sincere Balanchine admirer, nonetheless shows no reluctance to mention Christensen in the same breath. Often, he finds that the clearest way to illustrate a unique characteristic of Christensen's style is to point to Balanchine for contrast.

"Balanchine used to say that ‘ballet is woman.'" he said. "Lew Christensen must have said ‘ballet is man.' All his works are male-oriented. Balanchine glorified the female… Lew was more interested in the male dancing.

"The role of Mac [in Filling Station] he choreographed for himself, and no one has ever been able to do it like him. I've seen movies in the Library of the Performing Arts in New York, and it's incredible! He was a great male dancer. There was one step in particular where he'd do a series of turns in a circle, and he used to do them so fast that he'd lean into the circle. When he went to set the work on me – I couldn't do that! No one could do that! So he had to rechoreograph it. Of course I was really disappointed that I couldn't live up to his expectations – and then years later I saw that movie, and I thought, ‘My God! He was a strong, strong dancer.' As strong as I ever saw.

"Balanchine had become an American, but came from a European/Asian influence. He had his ideas set before he came here. But Lew was American from the very core. He grew up in Utah. The ballet Filling Station is the first *American* ballet – did you know that? Not very many people do. It had an American theme, American composer, American choreographer, American scenery and costumes, and was danced by Americans. There was not one European in it. It preceded Billy the Kid, which a lot of people think is the first American ballet, by about nine months.

"All Lew's works, I must tell you, have that same signature. Balanchine was able to choreograph Americana…he picked up things that he saw in America and put them, in an ingenious way, in a ballet. The "Rubies" section of Jewels – it's very American, jazzy. The last movement of Concerto Barocco starts with the Charleston step. This is Balanchine.

"Lew, on the other hand, didn't pick up and use tricks like that. His [movement] themes were very American to begin with. I don't know how to articulate the difference. I can feel it, but I can't tell you what it is. One of the differences is the flourish of the port de bras, the arms. Balanchine had a very rococo arm – actually it was French, wasn't it? He got it from Violette Verdy, very flowing. Whereas Lew thought that was too much, and he made it very square, very basic. And he wanted dancers to dance that way – not with all this affectation, if you will. That's one of the differences."

Another difference, Carter said — one that sometimes makes it hard for today's dancers to learn Christensen's style — is that his basic "atom" of choreography was different from Balanchine's.

"Lew choreographed in phrases," he said. "Like sentences, you know: da-dum, da-dum, da-da-da-dum – that was all one step, although it was a phrase of music. Balanchine didn't do that – Balanchine choreographed steps. It's hard to imagine the difference – but to a dancer, it's a world of difference.

"The steps that Balanchine created are phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal. He did things such as, just a simple chaîné turn, just a chain of turns: in one ballet he would do it turned out, then in another ballet he would do it turned in, then in the next ballet he would do it in first position, next ballet he would do it in fourth position. It was incredible – he would take steps and do them in a different way, and that's the miracle of Balanchine. It was incredible the way he did this.

"But Lew related directly from the music – it came from the music. I don't know if Balanchine ever tried to do that – he never tried to explain the music. He went beyond the music, into another level. Lew tried to explain the music, the phrasing."

Getting dancers to grasp this key difference is a major challenge in staging Christensen's choreography, Carter said. "It's hard to get them to dance in terms of phrases," he said. "That's very difficult. The last company I was [staging a work] in, for the Russians it was like pulling teeth. In the Russian training, they do a step, and stop. They do another step, and stop.

"This isn't that way. Each time you bend your leg, that's a preparation for the next step. You go up, you come down, you go up again. And then you go up again. You just keep going. Russians aren't used to that. They're used to going up, down, and stop; and then you start the next step – up, down and stop. I had to get very angry and insist, and carry on, and create quite a scene to get these people to understand what I was talking about – that you can't adapt the work to you; you have to go to the work. You can't change ballet to you – you've got to become a dancer."

Even Christensen's methodical working style was diametrically opposed to Balanchine's, the two recalled.

"He'd always try to plan his patterns absolutely." Vickrey said. "He'd come into rehearsal with specific plans.'

"…Which was absolutely anti-Balanchine," said Carter. "Balanchine asked Lew to do a work; it was called Pocahontas. Lew was very enthusiastic. He came in with all these reams of notes and everything. He came into the studio – and Balanchine came and took his notes! ‘Now, dear,' he said, ‘just paint.'

"And Lew said, ‘What?!' He couldn't believe it! Lew told me this on the Q.T. – we got drunk one night, and he was telling me - he said, ‘I used to write the stuff on my shirt, and sneak it in when Balanchine wasn't looking.' He couldn't remember all the stuff!

"Balanchine was just the opposite. I used to watch him, and he was a genius. He used to come into the studio and say [imitating his voice] ‘Now, dancers, here's what we're going to do,' and then WHOOSH! The stuff would pour out, and people were trying to remember it, and it was crazy – it was coming out so fast you couldn't memorize it. And he'd get irritated if he had to go back. He was overwhelming, really.

"But Lew wasn't that way. Lew would come in, and everything was sort of planned out – he'd have worked it out at home, and he knew what he was going to do when he got there."

That preplanning extended beyond choreography to every aspect of theater, Carter said:

"He used to build [model] theaters, with lights and everything. One of his in-laws invented Celastic…it's a plastic-impregnated cloth. You'd put acetone on it, and put it over something, and it would take that shape. You could make almost anything with it. He used to make molds and then cast these proscenium arches; he'd have a whole theater, complete with fly curtains and everything, and he'd even have little spotlights made out of flashlights. And he used to manipulate these and work out his ballets.

"He knew a lot about theater. If you look at any of his ballets, they're very carefully thought out. He had a lot of background in technical theater – he knew a lot about lighting, he knew a lot about backdrops, props and all that kind of stuff. Did you ever see A Masque of Beauty and the Shepherd? It's lost now – I mean, I could reconstruct it, but… anyway, it was a charming work. It was about the Judgment of Paris – the apple, and the three goddesses vying for the apple. At the very end of this ballet they constructed a big ship, right on the stage, in front of your eyes, that happened so fast it was just BANG – ‘What? How'd you do that?' It was incredible, actually incredible. He knew how to do these things.

"Balanchine, you know, was just the dance; he didn't like a lot of scenery and costumes. He didn't do that until later, when he got into the State Theater, and it looked awfully bare. But Lew incorporated all these various theatrical things at all times, and used them in an intelligent way. He was interested in that kind of stuff, and ways that he could use it in dance."

Christensen himself attributed some of his theatrical savvy to his pre-ballet days on the vaudeville circuit. And it was there, Vickrey thinks, that he picked up another trait: his willingness to make his ballets entertaining. This accessibility, he said, makes Christensen's repertory ideal for artistic directors who need to program both for artistic quality and for audience-building appeal.

"A lot of what I always liked about his works is that they are so accessible," he said. "I think a lot of that goes back to his vaudeville history, to pleasing an audience. Trying to be intelligent about his work, and trying to get his ideas across choreographically – but always knowing that he needed to please his audience. Especially in a situation like San Francisco, where he had to sell those tickets – people had to come back."

"I read a review that said, ‘An intelligent person can see the San Francisco Ballet and come away rewarded,'" Carter said. "But I think an unintelligent person can go and see some of Lew Christensen's works, and come away rewarded too. It sort of hits you at all levels. It's not so esoteric that it's only for aficionados."

Another Christensen asset for artistic directors, Vickrey said, is flexibility. Most of his works don't demand a large corps of perfectly-matched dancers, because Christensen seldom had that luxury himself.

"He didn't necessarily have what San Francisco Ballet has now as a standard of style, or what New York City Ballet has that's come out of their school," he said. "He would have a group of dancers – some from the school, some from here, some from there, some from everywhere – and he would just work with what he had, and make them look brilliant. Some of them were brilliant, don't misunderstand me. But…"

"He worked with the people who were available to him," Carter said. "Who he had in Ballet Caravan…weren't the finest dancers in the world. They had certain capabilities, and that's the way the steps came out.

"Now, the beauty of that is that you can take a work like Filling Station and go almost anywhere with it. You have two central roles, Mac and the Rich Girl, who are dance roles. You have to have some ability to do those roles, you see? The rest of them, you don't! The last company I was in, I actually had a girl do the State Trooper and a girl do the Thief – dressed up as a man. The truck drivers – one of them was a Russian, more of a character dancer – he came from the Moiseyev [folk dance company.] ��He didn't even have ballet training. And yet we were able to set it on them, because these steps are more universal, and it's more acting than actual dancing."

So why is it that this versatile, accessible, creative, decent artist ("He was a gentle man," said Carter; "a nice guy, really a nice guy.") is not more famous as a choreographer? Carter has a blunt answer:

"The reason Lew is not more famous is that he left New York! And went to San Francisco, and that's 3,000 miles away. The center of dance has always traditionally been New York. It hasn't been until recent years, with jet airplanes, that it's been simple to get to the West Coast. In the ‘50s, on a propeller plane, it took about 14 hours – it was a long, harrowing trip.

"And I think that one other problem with his fame [or lack of fame] was that he himself was more of an introvert. He was a shy man; he never tooted his own horn."

One consequence of this neglect, Carter said, is that Christensen's ballets are gradually disappearing.

"The Christensen legacy has really been lost in the San Francisco Ballet, in a sense," he said. "What they tend to do now is throw on a token Christensen work for the season, and so these works are in danger of being lost. There are a couple, I'll tell you, that are lost, and will never be done again; one of them was one of the finest works he ever did, Don Juan. It was phenomenal."

In this, as in other areas, the Christensen story is eerily reminiscent of another Dane's: a man of the theater, a champion of the male dancer, a lover of musicality and humor; famous in his own time, but later obscured by geography and shifts in critical taste; his legacy now imperiled by neglect in his "home" company. Could Christensen be America's 20th-century counterpart to August Bournonville?

Bournonville, at least, was rediscovered eventually. Christensen, his admirers believe, is still waiting for the renaissance he deserves.

[jazeejae]

SOULMATE, LOVE, DATING, MARRIAGE IN SOUTH KOREA.

This research was done by a person living in South Korea. I was asked a question and given advice by someone who mentioned "soulmate" and I don't claim to have the perfect answer to these questions, just my research that may clarify, remember this is South Korean culture, not the USA's or any other country. I agree with this person's research. I don't believe that Tae and Jimin are soulmates but I do believe that Jimin and Jungkook are soulmates according to this research. If you remember Jungkook's mother called Jimin... Jimin'ah is giving notification of calling him "son". She also expressed to Jimin that she loves him. Only the family will use the 'ah expression at the end of a name.

"Promise you'll marry a Korean woman, and she'll do anything" is a common stereotype among foreign men, which is not true. It's another form of discrimination toward women.

Needless to say that no two Korean women or men have the same criteria when they date or the same principles about dating behavior. As a linguist, I am interested in how Koreans talk when they date, and a common denominator is that compared to many Western societies, many things are left unsaid. If you think this "indirect" way of talking is peculiar among Asian people, I heard that Scandinavians, especially Danish couples, also had that "indirect" way of speaking to each other.

Korean society has particular gender roles among young people. Some couples date for years, four years, five years, or ten years, without ever mentioning that they are in love or will one day marry each other in Korea. Men, in general, are still expected to do all the talking related to where the couple is heading.

But dating in Korea, just like everywhere else, is a little more complicated than that. Some men and women want to date exclusively to marry, while others want to experiment before marriage. How does it all start? Remember that Koreans never talk to people they are not affiliated with or know. It is technically out of the question to go to a bar or nightclub, dance, has a drink with a man or woman we are physically attracted to, or exchange phone numbers.

To explain this is why the concept of "소개팅" (seogetting) is so popular. Seogetting is when a friend - "the third party" - introduces a friend -"the potential soulmate"- to a friend, "the single friend" - so that they can eventually date. The process involves the third party talking to his single friend about the potential soulmate giving every detail: age, college attended, attendance company, parents' job, family situation, etcetera etcetera.

Koreans take every detail into account, and one minor flaw can end up in rejection. Say, if the father died of a genetic illness, the single friend might refuse. Or the single friend may accept to meet the potential soulmate a few times but may make them wait until career progress is assured. Say, if the man or woman is expecting a promotion, the single friend may wait until the advertising is effective to engage in any form of dating.

Other forms of dating involve people dating people who are from the same organization. Still, since dating someone from the same school or company often consists of gossip from former classmates or colleagues, the most popular affiliation for couples is churches or temples. The funny thing is that many single Koreans attend churches only to find a soulmate as to what was told to me and then quit attending church as they find their significant other.

There is no conventional definition of dating in Korea. Some couples claim that they date but never actually kissed each other. It is not uncommon for foreigners to think they are dating Koreans until asked if the person they are dating is a "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" and to their surprise, find out that they are not.

As I mentioned, gender roles are critical, and men guide women in dating. Men usually choose appointment places, pay for meals, and do most of the talking. Korean couples tend to avoid topics they may disagree upon or demand specialization: politics, society, the economy, etc., and tend to discuss lighter issues: entertainers, and yellow papers. Note that gossip may take an essential portion of their conversation if they belong to the same organization. If they don't belong to the same organization, it is not uncommon for couples in Korea to have very little to tell each other.

Of course, in expectation, men in South Korea plan the future in an almost "unilateral" way: men plan everything, and women either agree or disagree but never directly offer alternatives. Women may indirectly suggest options for the future, saying, "We should go to the Maldives one day" rather than saying, "let's spend our honeymoon in the Maldives."

Also, note that it's considered "deviant" for a woman to "break up" with their significant other (dating/engaged), so women will do everything, including date someone else, rather than tell their boyfriends, "let's break up."

[snail-speed-6]

Hamlet's Motivations (and lack thereof)

Hello Tumblr I want to share with you some of my Hamlet musings. This one's about why Hamlet acts the way he does. This is analysis not fanfiction! 

Hamlet wishes “be all my sins remembered”, because to him, as long as he is remembered that will be enough, regardless of how he is remembered. He develops a fear of being forgotten through watching everyone forget his father. 

As he dies, Hamlet’s last request is for Horatio to share his story. He freely gives a foreign ruler his blessing without conflict and seemingly no particular interest about preserving the Danish future of his country, but just asks that his personal story be told. 

This longing for remembrance shapes Hamlet’s actions throughout the play, and could be the reason as to why the ghost’s instruction “remember me” has such a profound effect on the character. In this ghost’s command Hamlet sees himself and his desire, and perhaps he thinks that if he can keep the ghost’s - and therefore Old Hamlet’s - memory alive, then perhaps there is a chance for him to be remembered too. 

As John Kerrigan put it in his article ‘Memory and Remembrance in Hamlet’, Hamlet is haunted by a past that is begging to be remembered, which drives him to a madness and provokes further speculation about the fate of his own memory. 

This fear could also play a role in Hamlet’s ‘procrastination’ of his revenge, as he knows that as soon as the deed is done, he will likely meet an unfortunate fate himself and no longer have a chance to influence and interact with the world he so dearly wishes to be remembered by. Influenced by how the people around him treat memory, Hamlet acts accordingly, vowing to remember his father as long as he can and to somewhat keep him alive by prolonging the ghost’s wishes. Once that is fulfilled, as Hamlet fears, “the rest is silence.”

Hamlet’s tendency of self-criticism could also be the factor that determines his actions in the play, because it is at moments of self-criticism in his soliloquies that Hamlet resolves to take action and effectively move the plot forward. 

In act 2 scene 2, Hamlet cries “O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!” calling himself a cheat and a coward for all he has not done, then goes on to craft a plan to catch Claudius with the play. And as he leaves for England, Hamlet sees the soldiers going to fight for land and feels useless, but then resolves that “from this time forth, let my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth”. However, it can also be seen in the play that these moments of self-loathing and criticism come from Hamlet reflecting on the actions of others and comparing them to himself, which could mean that Hamlet is only basing his action and worth on others, and what he feel the expectation of his should be, not what he feels is right. 

Coupled with this, Hamlet believing that his thoughts must be “bloody or be nothing worth” could be Shakespeare exposing the way that men were expected to act ‘brave’ and ‘strong’ to be considered “worthy”, and uses Hamlet as an example of how constant influence, and expectation of rash action making the ‘better man’, can corrupt otherwise kind people into those who believe in nothing but violence. For someone like Hamlet, who is chiefly a person of thought and not action, adopting this ideology would have completely changed him. 

In fact, Laertes almost completely mirrors Hamlet in this way; after his father is killed, he goes straight to action, resorting to violence almost immediately, whereas Hamlet (despite his previous sentiment) still hesitates. 

Laertes’ thoughts are “bloody”, and it is this that allows Claudius to manipulate and corrupt him through his desire to take revenge. As a foil to Hamlet, Laertes shows how easily corruption could have taken hold had Hamlet succumbed to his self-criticisms borne from a heavily patriarchal world that couples strength with violence. 

Shakespeare, therefore, attacks the idea that a man must be willing to kill for honour and perhaps dissuades from the idea of taking revenge at all by the tragic fate almost all the characters end up in in Hamlet and Laertes' pursuit of revenge. This could also be Shakespeare praising a lifestyle of thought and not action, as most direct action taken in the play leads to some sort of tragedy.

If you made it to the end I'd love to hear some opposition!! What do y’all think?

[oneiriad]

Would you like to hear the fairytale about The Princess Who Became a Man?

I assume you do, if you keep reading, so...

Anyway, this is apparently a not-uncommon fairytale with variants across Europe and further abroad (a Romanian version comes with dragon slaying, just because), but this particular version of the fairytale is Danish, collected by the folklorist Evald Tang Kristensen in Jutland in the late 19th century, and published in one of his collections.

And I thought, you know, maybe I should translate this for fun, but no. It’s a fairytale. It’s an oral, traditional fairytale.

There’s a proper way of doing these things, right? So this is what I’m going to do: I’m going to retell the story.

Once upon a time there was a king and a queen, and they had a daughter. The queen was very beautiful and so was their daughter, the princess.

As the princess grew up, alas, her mother died - as mothers are prone to do in fairytales. The court urged the king to re-marry, because he only had a daughter and he’d need a son to inherit the kingdom, but he refused. After all, what woman would ever compare to his beautiful queen?

Or he refused until the day the princess decided it was time to go through her late mother’s wardrobe and was trying on some of her clothes, when the king walked in. Here, at last, was a woman as beautiful as his late queen, and he instantly decided to wed her.

“Father, you can’t be serious?!” said the princess, but try as she might to talk him out of it, he was adamant. The king would marry the princess and that was that.

Once she realized that he was entirely serious, she decided to run away. So one dark night she slipped out of the castle and into the woods.

As soon as her father the king noticed that his bride to be was gone, he sent his two hunting hounds to chase her. As the princess sees them approaching she takes out her knife and cuts off her breasts - one, two - and throws them to the hounds, one each, and the hounds grab her breasts and run back home with them.

Leaving the now injured princess to stagger through the woods. She finds some moss and puts on her wounds to stop the blood, then staggers further along.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been walking when she comes upon a tiny cabin. An old man steps out of the cabin and takes one look at her: “Child, get inside - you look awful.”

The old man from the forest tended her injuries, and when she got better she stayed with him, as he promised to teach her everything he knew - and so he did, dressing her in men’s clothes and teaching her hunting and how to use a gun, until she was a better shot than anybody.

Finally came the time when the old man told her that he had nothing more to teach her. “Now leave the forest that way,” he told her, “ and you’ll find a royal castle. Go ask them for work as a huntsman. But if you’re ever in need, all you’ll have to do is think of me.”

So she went and got the job as royal huntsman, and did it well. But the king of that castle had a daughter, and of course that daughter went and fell in love with the handsome young huntsman. They became friendly and a wedding date was set.

But at this court there was a knight, Sir Red, and he wanted the princess for himself. So on their wedding night he sneakily snuck into their bedchamber and hid under the bed, hoping to get something juicy no doubt from their pillow talk.

The happy couple goes to bed, and of course at this point the young huntsman has to explain to his bride the princess, that actually, he’s a princess as well. This does not seem to particularly disturb the princess bride - they come to the agreement that that’s nobody’s business but theirs and they’ll live happily together just fine.

After the newlyweds have gone to sleep, Sir Red sneaks out. Now he’s got ammunition, and the next morning, when the court comes to congratulate the couple, he makes a throwaway remark where the king can hear it.

“It’s such a beautiful thing to behold,” says Sir Red, “how even a same sex couple can love one another.”

Later, when Sir Red and the king were alone, the king demanded that he explain that comment, and Sir Red explained that, well, the king’s new son-in-law just happened to be a woman.

At first the king probably laughed him off, but Sir Red persisted. The king could easily see for himself. Just gather the entire court - most of which had been partying hard into the night - and command them all to go bathe in the nearby river, and the naked truth would reveal itself.

So the king commanded - because the court was probably a bit ripe anyway, he could always justify to himself - and the court went and off came the clothes and into the water people splashed. Except the new prince, who was so strangely reluctant, tugging slowly at the lacings on his clothes, and thinking of the old man from the forest, because now, oh now he was in need.

Suddenly a magnificent stag came running, dashing straight into the river, and the king shouted “Grab it, grab it,” and the huntsman/prince went after it, because he was a huntsman, after all, and besides he was the only one still dressed. So he runs after the stag as it disappears behind a small hill, and as he follows suddenly the stag is gone, and instead there is the old man.

“From this moment forth,” said the old man, “you’re a man, and you can freely walk back there and take your bath. But you must promise me this in exchange: your firstborn child.”

And so the prince promised. What choice did he have?

When he came home and explained to the princess, she was not best pleased, but a word’s a word - and about a year later, when the princess gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, the prince took the child and went into the woods to seek the old man of the forest.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” the old man goes. “Bring it outside where I’ve got an axe and a chopping block.”

And so he does.

“Now you grab one leg,” and the old man grabbed the other, and he split that child right up to the navel.

“Did that hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“As it hurt me, the day your father saw you in your mother’s clothes and wanted to wed you.”

He swung the axe again and split that child right up to its neck.

“Did that hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“As it hurt me, the day you had to cut off your breasts and throw them to your father’s dogs.”

And he swung the axe one final time and split that child’s head.

“Did that hurt you?”

“Yes.”

Then the old man gathered the pieces and went into his cabin, telling the prince to wait a bit. Soon he came back, carrying a large platter with a lid.

“Here’s a platter for you to bring to your wife. Only, you must not lift the lid, not once, before you pass it into her hands.

The prince took the platter and brought it home to the princess, handing it to her. She lifted the lid and behold, there was their child, as hale and whole as before.

And they lived happily from that day forward.

[serasvictoria]

Aquarius

Pairing: Hvitserk x Saxon Reader (implied Ubbe x Saxon Reader)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10.140

Summary: Your plans for the morning consisted of nothing but washing clothes by the river, but an interrupting Viking has other ideas…

Notes: Little bit of canon divergence in this one, because Hvitserk would have stayed with Ubbe right before the battle for Kattegat and now he’s ended up in England with his brother and the rest of the group.

The language that Hvitserk sometimes speaks is Danish. He does translate it at times, but not always that well since he’s kind of preoccupied with other things to be honest 😏 (whatever he does not translate are nicknames)

Near the end certain sections of conversation are italicised to indicate that it is spoken in their native tongue.

And I am blaming @vikingstrash for this. One day we were talking about how clean Vikings were and started joking about Hvitserk interrupting some poor woman who was just trying to do her work and that��s how this particular fic was born. So I hope you’re proud of yourself 🤣

Screencap provided by @underragingwaves, other images came from Pinterest

Tagging @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @ritual-unions-gotme @vikingstrash @pomegranates-and-blood @quantumlocked310 @punkrocknpearls @captainkilly @adrille88

Carrying a basket that was almost filled to the brim with dirty clothes against your hip, you hummed a tune to yourself as you made your way down to the river. You took care to avoid the places where the other women gathered, for you had no mind to listen to their exhausting gossip. So you walked through the woods for about ten minutes until you found a fairly secluded spot where you could wash the clothes in relative peace.

Most of the women tended to talk of nothing but the Vikings which now found themselves in Wintanceaster and the surrounding area.

When they had first arrived with Bishop Heahmund, a lot of the people talked about what happened a few years previous and all the blood that had been spilled in revenge for the death of King Ragnar. It wasn’t until King Alfred had made it clear that he meant to offer the former invaders refuge in exchange for services on the battlefield that all talk surrounding these people changed considerably. Some people still eyed them suspiciously even now, whispering that the heathens couldn’t be trusted, but after a while the whispers turned more favourable and in particular from the women.

Conversation would turn to nothing but giggles whenever one of the women would shyly admit to having caught one of these tall Northmen winking at her in the market or elsewhere. Some of the women had already lain with some of them, but most of the women that had would not dare say that out loud out of fear of angering the local men who appeared to have waged some kind of personal vendetta against them.

Oswine, a local boy who had been trying to unsuccessfully woo you for many years now, called them filthy heathens, but you could always hear the jealousy in his voice quite clearly. He only ever seemed to say it when one of them was near you which seemed to offend him greatly, though you were always too caught up in your work to even notice why something like that might upset him so. Whenever you made eye contact with one of these Viking men all you saw were their radiant smiles which always made you avert your eyes shyly and then focus all your attention on mending the clothes that you had been given to repair.

Besides, the term filthy did not really apply to them for they were cleaner than any man that you knew. Whenever you found yourself close to one of the men, they even smelled faintly of flowers which was a lot better than the decidedly more musty smell of Oswine. He smelled like he slept in a barn, which was exactly where he slept actually, on a small wooden platform right above his family’s cow.

It was this talk that you were trying to avoid. You did not need to hear about how clean these men were, what they were like in bed or which Viking male had been trying to get two women into bed at the same time. This was one of the few moments you got to clear your head and where you wouldn’t be bothered with inane rumours.

Dropping the basket down near the water’s edge, you sat down next to it and removed your shoes and stockings before tying your skirt together so that it wouldn’t get wet. You dipped a toe into the water and pulled it back instantly when you felt that it was freezing.

No other thing to do other than just getting in quickly. Not that doing that made it any less cold, but it was a lot better than easing yourself into it. Doing that only seemed to make you more aware of how cold the water was. Soon enough, you were up to your knees in the water, willing yourself to get used to the temperature. Some parts of your dress that you hadn’t tied up well enough were already soaking up water and you could feel patches of wet fabric stick to your thighs which you ignored.

If you had been paying closer attention however, you might have noticed that there was a pile of clothes on the riverbank a few feet away from you. It wasn’t as if it had been particularly well hidden either, it looked as if someone had just dropped their clothes where they stood, not caring much if anyone found them. The owner of the clothes however, was currently hidden behind a low branch that was hanging in the water, and he was currently keeping a very close eye on you.

You turned the basket over and reached for the first item of clothing, a blue tunic with a neatly embroidered pattern on the collar, the hemline and on the sleeves. The stains that had been on it had already been almost entirely removed after being treated with lye previously. Dunking it under the clear surface of the water, you rubbed the fabric together to get rid of it altogether, then squeezed the moisture out of it and repeated the process until you were satisfied.

The sound of the water flowing down the rocks a bit further up the bend, the wind rustling the trees overhead and the birds chirping away excitedly on the branches (and a particularly loud crow that was adding nothing to the lovely birdsong at all) ensured that you didn’t hear anything else. Least of all a Viking male who was swimming in your direction as quietly as possible.

But since he had no intention of scaring the living daylights out of you, he called out to you when he was close enough.

“Hello!” The voice sounded jovial enough, but you didn’t recognize it at all. You looked up at the riverbank, thinking that someone was standing there, and then frowning when you saw no one. “Other side.”

Turning your head in the other direction, you saw him behind you in the middle of the river, visible from the shoulders up, long dirty blonde hair sticking to his long neck and drifting in the water around him. The mischief in his hazel eyes was the last thing you saw before you stumbled and fell backwards in shock.

Suddenly you were sitting on your ass in the riverbed, the water lapping around your waist and soaking your dress. When you heard his laughter on your left, you levelled him with a glare that only seemed to make him laugh harder.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you bit back as you got back to your feet and got out of the water. “Caught me off guard. That’s all.”

The way the fabric of the dress clung to you really left nothing to the imagination and your male companion, if he could even be called that, did not seem to mind that one bit. His eyes kept trailing up and down your body, lingering on your chest a bit longer than he should have. You were still fully clothed, but he made you feel as naked as the day that you were born.

“What do you want anyway?”

“Nothing,” he replied with a shrug. “Just wanted to know what you were doing.”

“I was washing clothes until you interrupted me.”

“I’ve seen you around town.” He did not appear to be listening, instead curious to see what you were going to do next, but since you hadn’t left in a huff yet he decided that it was a good sign. “You always ignore me.”

“What?” The minor discomfort of your wet clothes forgotten, you took a closer look at his face. Oh. He was one of the princes, wasn’t he? What was his name again? You honestly couldn’t recall. “You are Prince Ubbe’s brother.”

“Hvitserk,” he said with a laugh. “I have made no impact on you at all, seeing how you can not even remember my name.”

“I didn’t…” You had feared causing him offence, but the way that his eyes crinkled with mirth told you that he could care less. “Your names are difficult,” you said finally.

“Funny, because I say the same thing about your names.” He winked and you could feel your cheeks burn. “Mind telling me yours? Promise I won’t forget it.” For a few seconds there, you actually found yourself believing him and told him your name. He repeated it with a wide grin and added, “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

You shook your head over his rather obvious attempt at charming you and then went back to thinking about the most pressing issue that currently plagued you; what you were going to do about your wet clothes. There was a dry dress in the grass and you supposed that you could wear that, but then there was the question of how you were going to change into it now that Hvitserk’s eyes were on you. There was no way that he wasn’t going to follow you if there was even the smallest chance that he could see you out of your clothes.

Though if you were perfectly honest with yourself, the thought of undressing right in front of him was one that you found a little bit too thrilling.

“Why not join me, eh?” Naturally he had noticed your momentary discomfort, but again, you had not left him to his own devices yet either. “The water’s nice.”

“No, thank you. I have work to do.”

“Fine. I’ll help you then.”

When he moved towards the bank, more and more of his body became visible and it was like you were hypnotised. You simply could not tear your eyes away from him. The water trailed down his body in little rivulets and sunlight that was filtering through the leaves was giving his wet body a sheen that made him look even more attractive. But when he made no signs of stopping, you were suddenly unsure about whether you were ready to see all of him. You screeched loudly when his belly button came into view and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Please stop walking,” you cried out. “You’re not wearing anything.”

“Well no,” he replied with a dazzling smile. “Do you wear clothes when bathing?”

“Of course not,” you blurted out. “But you’re a man.”

“And?”

“A naked man.”

“Well yes. Is that a problem?”

“Yes!” You held the until now forgotten wet tunic in front of your body, folded it and then dropped it in the basket. “I don’t know how you do things where you are from, but women don’t tend to see naked men until they are married.”

That final statement was a lie, but he did not need to know that.

“You’re missing out.” He took another step towards the shore and you could see his hip bones come into view now. Your eyes could not help but be drawn downwards, to the light trail of hair that was visible and disappearing below the waterline. “You can watch me if you like. I don’t mind.”

“Watch you do what exactly?”

Hvitserk looked at you with his eyebrows raised, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He placed his hand in the middle of his chest, fingers moving through the small patch of chest hair that covered it, and started moving it down slowly. Your eyes grew bigger the lower his hand went. When it finally disappeared into the water, you gasped and looked away suddenly.

“Don’t you want to watch anymore?”

You did want to watch. That was the problem.

It also wasn’t as if you were entirely innocent either. You knew what men and women did when they lay together. One of your friends had very candidly told you about it since she was more experienced in that department, having slept with her current husband before they were married. Sadly your only option in that particular area seemed to be Oswine, who had seemingly decided on his own that he was the only man who was allowed to court you, and whenever he had kissed or tried to touch you, you felt nothing.

But this young man… Now that would be a different thing altogether.

“I-I do…”

You admitted it hesitantly, but you still did not look in his direction. You were so curious though and when he said your name, you looked back at him again. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, not taunting you like before, thank god.

“Join me,” he repeated his earlier words. “You know you want to.”

Temptation was starting to get the best of you. Not that you had been resisting him very hard before. If you had not been interested, you could have left immediately.

Yet you were still here, your dress sticking to you like a second skin, your eyes still glued to him and currently studying the blue markings on his skin. When he noticed what you were looking at, he turned his left arm in your direction so you could look at them more closely. You had no idea what it was supposed to be, but the design was beautiful. Then he raised his right arm to brush his fingers over his chest to make you focus on that design, but all he did was draw your eye straight to his nipple.

And from the way that he flashed you a wide grin suddenly, he had definitely noticed.

Your hands moved to your waist and to the cloth belt that was tied around it. You half expected your hands to fumble and have difficulty undoing the knot, but your movements were sure and steady. Soon it lay in the grass at your bare feet. Moving on to your dress, you simply pulled that up over your head and dropped it on the ground as well. The only things that you were wearing now was a thin shift dress that was sticking to your body and your undergarments. The idea of being entirely naked like he was, was a thought that was simply too overwhelming for now so you stepped into the cold water while still wearing those last remaining items of clothing.

The last pieces of cloth that would protect your virtue.

“Thought you said that your people didn’t wear any clothes when bathing.”

“We don’t,” you replied as you moved to the deepest part of the river while also putting a little bit of distance between the two of you. “If you object so much I could just get out of the water.”

“I’d rather you got out of that dress.”

“Not yet.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you silently cursed yourself. You had basically admitted that there was every chance that you would end up removing it later on and whilst all the signs were pointing in that direction, you hadn’t wanted to admit it this soon. “I meant…”

“Oh no. I know exactly what you meant.”

Hvitserk swam over to where you were unhurriedly, because he knew that you would not attempt to swim away. You had essentially given him permission. The water was clear enough to see all of him if you chose to look down, but instead you held his gaze almost defiantly even if you knew that you would not resist him. Your feet were only barely touching the ground and when he was close enough, his feet hit solid ground as well which made the difference in height apparent immediately.

His hand brushed over your shoulder, hooking his finger under the strap of your shift and lifting it up slowly. Even if you hadn’t pushed his hand away nor had you voiced any objections to what he was doing, he still let go. It wasn’t until you let out a soft whine to indicate that you bemoaned the lack of contact, that he moved his hand up to the side of your neck so he could trail his fingers over your artery. They came to a stop when he touched your ear, moved back down until he touched the strap and then back up again. You had no idea how many times he repeated the gesture, the silence between you stretching on, but you were seconds away from just giving him permission to do whatever he wanted.

As if he was able to sense that the anticipation was damn near killing you, he finally opened his mouth. “Can I take this off now?”

You nodded a bit too quickly for your own liking and he chuckled in reply. Reaching his hands down, he grabbed the shift and started lifting it up. Long before he had even reached your arms, for he was moving slowly once more, you had already lifted your arms for him and stood there awkwardly as you waited for him to finally lift it up over your head. He balled the shift up and threw it at the riverbank where it landed with a wet thud.

“That’s better.” He looked down at the scarf that you used to support your breasts and then further down still to your underpants. “You going to let me take those off as well?”

“Maybe.”

“Really now.” You could tell that he was suppressing a laugh. “Are we going to negotiate about this?”

“Perhaps,” you replied teasingly. “Maybe I want something from you first.”

“Oh?” His hand cupped your chin, tilting your head further upward and you briefly wondered if he had been able to read your mind just now. “And what do you want?”

You could have told him exactly what you wanted, in some very clear terms too, but you were growing tired of waiting. Surging forward, you closed the distance and your lips finally connected with his. He didn’t move at first, letting you take the lead, but when you wrapped your arms around his neck, he pulled you flush against his chest and started kissing you back in earnest.

Thankfully, he didn’t waste any more time after that.

His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, leaving you gasping into the kiss. His hands were on your back, one hand stopped at your breast covering, fingers dipping underneath so he could touch bare skin, while the other dipped down until it was resting on your ass. He pulled you closer to him until you could feel something hard pressing against your still covered mound.

When you suddenly released him, he pulled away, thinking that he might have pushed you too far too soon, but you saw his pupils dilate when you reached for the scarf that was still keeping your breasts covered and pulled the knot at your side loose. Leaning back so your chests weren’t pressed together, you unwrapped it and then unveiled yourself to him. His hands immediately cupped your breasts from below, brushing his long fingers over your chest and giving them a light squeeze.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered right before dipping his head down and closing his mouth over one of your hardened nubs.

Hanging onto his shoulders, your head fell back as his tongue circled your nipple. He kept eagerly kneading your other breast, giving an equal amount of attention to both of them. You sucked in a harsh breath when he switched sides suddenly. He murmured words in his own language against your skin that you did not understand, but they sounded reverential so you assumed that whatever he was saying, that it was good.

“I can wait no longer,” he murmured against her skin. “I must have you now.”

Before you could say anything, Hvitserk lifted you up, cradled you against his chest, waited a moment so you could wrap your arms around his neck and then carried you out of the water. His strides were large so it took little to no time at all to get from the deepest part of the river to the grassy riverbank. He walked in the direction where your wet shift had landed earlier and he attempted to spread it out a little with his foot. He put you down carefully and reached down to swiftly remove your last cloth barrier. When the soft breeze touched your bare sex, you shivered involuntarily. You pushed yourself up into a sitting position, your eyes falling on his manhood accidentally and when you saw the size of him, panic settled in.

“I have never-“

“Shhh.” He pressed a finger to your lips and hung over you. “I know.” His lips found yours again and he kissed you until your nerves settled down a bit, even if you felt them flare up again when you felt his hands on your thighs that you had clenched tightly together. “I will make sure that you are ready for me.”

“H-how?” You had heard that it would hurt and you looked down again. His hands had gently opened your legs and how he had moved to sit on his knees in between them. “It won’t fit.”

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled and moved his head so he was filling your line of vision entirely now. “I will go slow. Promise.” Despite feeling nothing but trepidation, you also could not ignore the fact that you wanted him and that you craved what he was offering. You nodded and gave him the consent that he seemed to want before continuing. “I will make sure you won’t regret it,” he said before giving you another fiery kiss. “I promise on my honour as a true Viking.”

“I trust you.” It sounded odd to say that to someone that you barely knew, but you found that you did indeed trust him. After all, he had been doing things at your speed up until now so you had no reason to suspect that he would push you into doing anything that you did not desire. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.” When he saw a slight frown crease your brow, he kissed you again, with more hunger this time, as his hands skimmed its way down your body. “Lie back and enjoy yourself. That’s what I want you to do.”

“That is all?”

“Yes.”

This was indeed a far cry from Oswine’s more clumsy groping. He had grown more insistent lately and you did not know how much longer you would be able to keep him at bay. The arrival of the Northmen had made him more convinced that they would steal you away from him one day, even if you had never been his to begin with. How right he had been in that regard.

Hvitserk’s hands settled on your chest once more, his nimble fingers tweaking your nipples into hardened peaks. You arched your back, pushing your chest into his hands, wanting more of his touch. He had told you to lay back and enjoy yourself, but you had remained seated so you could look him in the eye. His eyes were mostly green with some flecks of brown and you were struck with how beautiful they were.

Green as the first leaves that emerged in early spring. Green as the grass on the meadows that lay just outside of Wintanceaster. Green as some of those stones that richer people had on their jewellery…

“What?” He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours intently. His fingers never once paused their ministrations and drew soft moans from you every time that he rolled one of your nipples between his fingers. “Tell me what you’re thinking, min elskede.”

“Your eyes,” you breathed out and you brushed a hand over his cheek. “They’re beautiful.”

“Women usually say that to my brothers…”

Before he could finish his sentence, you’d cupped his face in your hands and kissed him full on the lips. He matched your fervour easily. One of his hands moved to the back of your head, keeping you there while he slipped his tongue past your lips and swallowed up every single one of your small gasps.

The hand that had been steadily massaging your breast slid down your belly, until his fingers brushed through the coarse hairs that covered your mound which made your skin tingle, only for his hand to move to the side and brush down your thigh.

“What was that word, the one that you said earlier…”

“Min elskede?” You nodded and his hand moved to the inside of your thigh, fingers dancing over your skin and steadily moving upward. “My love.”

“Oh.” You shivered when his hand came to a stop mere inches from your core and you tilted your hips up, hoping that it would tempt him into moving again. When that didn’t seem to work, you set to pleading. “Please…”

“Viltu mig?” He dug his fingers into your skin and you felt his thumb press into the apex of your thighs. “Do you want me?”

“Yes.” Never before in your life had you been so sure about anything. Yes, you did want him and the pleasure that he would be able to offer. “I want you,” you breathed against his lips when you closed the distance between the two of you once more. “I want you, Hvits-oh!”

The intention had been to add his name to the confirmation in an attempt to make your desire for him even clearer, but when you had gotten the first few syllables out of your mouth, he moved his hand up to cup your sex and his fingers dipped between your folds to pick up the moisture there and spread it all over your slit. He paid special attention to what lay at the top, almost buried there, and when his skilled fingers circled around it you felt your muscles spasm in delight.

“Kan du lide det?”

You had no idea what he was saying, but since he was looking at your face so intently, you assumed that he had asked if you liked what he was doing. You nodded and bit your lip to stifle a moan when his fingers moved a bit faster. He moved the hand that had been gripping the back of your neck to your mouth, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“Jeg ønsker at høre din stemme.” He pulled your lip down ever so slightly and you gasped when his other fingers applied light pressure against your entrance. “Want to hear you.”

Any words that you would have used to answer him, died on your tongue as soon as he slid one finger into your channel. It was an odd sensation, to have something enter you like that, but not altogether unpleasant. He kept his movements slow to let you get used to it and when he was confident that you had, he added another finger.

There was a mild stretch from having two of his digits inside you, but it was soon replaced by the first waves of a growing feeling of ecstasy. Especially when he found a spot that made a heat bloom in your lower abdomen. You gasped when the heel of his hand applied pressure on your clit once more, the movement of his fingers increasing and the sound that they made as they moved in and out of you was bordering on obscene.

Your hips bucked up against his hand helplessly, needing more friction, just plain desperate for more.

His skilful fingers played you like a harp, moving with such precision that it was mind blowing. The heat that had been simmering at a low burn was steadily increasing, building to such heights that it was hard to bear. You reached down in a flash, grabbing his forearm and digging your fingernails into his skin. You were torn between pulling his hand away and wanting him to continue.

The slight smile that had been on his face the entire time suddenly turned wicked, more devilish in a way, and then his fingers thrust harder and deeper into you than before. It brought along a new layer of sensation that you were entirely unprepared for and it essentially exploded within you, scorching a path through your body with such an intensity that you cried out suddenly. Your walls clamped down on his fingers, desperately trying to keep them there and draw them deeper inside still. Your entire body was shaking, your muscles pulled tight as a bowstring.

A pitiful whine escaped from your lips when he pulled his hand away from your sex. Moments earlier you weren’t sure if you even wanted his hand on your cunt at all and now you wanted his fingers to stay between your legs indefinitely. With your hand still wrapped around his wrist, he brought his hand up to his face, briefly looking at how his digits were coated in your juices in wonder before sticking them into his mouth. An involuntary gasp broke free as you watched him sucking on his fingers like they were covered in the sweetest fluids known to man. His eyes were closed in concentration, wanting to savour every drop.

When he finally opened his eyes again, the corners of his mouth curled up because the awe was easily readable in your expression. Hvitserk brought his hand up to your face and presented his fingers to you. You briefly tilted your head to the side, slightly unsure for a moment, but seeing the sparkle in his eyes made you lean forward. You parted your lips for him and he pressed his fingers inside. Despite not tasting anything worth savouring in particular, you still sucked on his fingers eagerly, twirling your tongue around his fingers and loving how his own lips parted when you did this. The tip of his tongue darted out, poking out of the corner in concentration, which you took as a sign that what you were doing felt good.

Your grip on his wrist tightened, pulling his hand away and then bridging the gap between the two of you so you could catch his lips with yours. This time you swore that you could taste yourself on his tongue or maybe there was just something about his particular taste that you liked. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating. It was having the same effect on you as when you’d had one cup of ale too many, that all too familiar lightheaded feeling.

You barely even noticed that he was bringing your hand down to his groin and it wasn’t until you felt his shaft brush against the back of your fingers that you realised what was happening. Your eyes shot down, focusing on his rock hard member once more and then quickly focusing your eyes back on his face.

“Vær ikke bange, min elskede,” he murmured against your temple, his voice soft and raspy. “Scared?”

“No,” you replied in an effort to come across as more bold than you actually were. He leaned back slightly so he could look at your face and his raised eyebrows told you that he was seeing straight through your lie. “A little,” you finally admitted. “I-I apologise.”

“No need,” he said with a grin. He teased your fingers from his wrist which you still held in an ironlike grip. You flexed your fingers and then he started guiding your hand to his cock, his own hand covering yours. Your palm soon made contact with the smooth skin of his shaft and he urged you to wrap your fingers around it. Your curiosity drew your eyes back down and you were suddenly struck with the realisation of how small your hand looked. “Scared of me?”

“No.” You blurted out the word and it was plain to see on his face that he believed you this time. Your other hand had been firmly pressed into the ground all this time and you brought it up to touch his face. Your fingers left little trails of dirt along his cheek which you instantly tried to rub away, but instead you only made it worse. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s not so bad.” The dirty smear that now ran from just below his eye all the way down to his jaw did nothing to diminish his beauty. “We can wash again after.”

“Oh yes. I suppose we could.” You could feel your cheeks burning up in embarrassment. You hadn’t even considered that even if the two of you were sitting right next to the water which provided a nice calming noise in the background. Even if it did nothing to calm your heart which was still furiously pumping blood through your body. “But you just…”

“I know, I know…” He trailed off just when he jerked your hand up and started hissing through his teeth instead. He guided your hand a few times until your hand started to move on its own. “Godt… good…”

Apparently Hvitserk had difficulty keeping track of which language to use now that his excitement was growing. Speaking in his native tongue while caught up in the throes of passion was probably a lot easier for him and you felt another burst of heat erupt between your legs. All that because of the thought of what it must be like to have him on top of you and to hear him groan those unknown words directly into your ear.

You hadn’t even noticed that your breathing had gotten more laboured until he put his hand on your chest and made you more aware of the quick rise and fall of your ribcage. Pressing his forehead against yours, his hazel eyes peering directly into yours, his gaze was so intense that it made you accidentally squeeze him a bit tighter. Any apology that you could offer died quickly on your tongue, because the way that his face contorted told you everything that you needed to know. You gave another slightly more tentative squeeze and the same thing happens, accompanied by a moan this time.

“You like that?”

It was your turn to ask him now and he gave you a quick nod. His hips jerked up into your hand when you repeated the gesture. You were enjoying the power that you had over him right now. While you had been completely at his mercy before, the roles seemed to be reversed at this very moment. The urge to see him unravel from your touch was overwhelming. His head dropped down to your shoulder and when you speeded up your movements, taking your cue from how good it had felt when he fucked you faster with his fingers, he emitted a low groan.

“Stop.” His lips moved against your skin and he reached down to grab your hand to make you stop what you were doing. “Don’t want to…”

“What?” You stared at him in confusion, unsure why he even wanted you to stop. Hvitserk had obviously liked what you were doing, so why did he pull your hand away from him? “You don’t want to… what?”

“Kom i din…”

He gestured at your hand somewhat feebly. It seemed like he was at a loss for words. It took you a moment to process what he actually meant.

“Oh. You mean…”

Your cheeks were burning up again. It seemed to be turning into a regular occurrence and you briefly wondered how many more times he would be able to make that happen.

Hvitserk put his hand on your sternum and pushed you back until you were laying down. Your heart was beating so fast that you feared that it would be bursting out of your chest any minute now.

This was it. It was going to happen. You really were going to allow this Viking prince to have you.

Positioning himself on top of you, he caged you in his arms and briefly looked down into your eyes. Perhaps he wanted to check if you were still interested in going through with this. Since he didn’t vocalise his thoughts, you had no idea. Moving your hand up to his face, you traced a fading scar under his right eye and you found him leaning into your touch. In turn, he moved one of his hands to your mouth, holding himself up with one arm now, his index finger tracing the outline of your lips.

It wasn’t until you smiled at him that he leaned down to kiss you again. The kiss deepened in seconds and his hand glided over your skin, pausing on one of your breasts briefly to give a quick squeeze and then moving down lower and settling at the top of your legs. His fingers found the swollen nub at the top of your slit effortlessly, drawing quick circles around it that left you moaning into his mouth.

His hips had started moving of their own volition and his erection kept proding into your thigh. There was still a minor hint of trepidation in the back of your mind over what was about to happen, but you steeled your resolve and reached down so you could wrap your fingers around his cock. He bucked his hips up so hard that the tip suddenly came into contact with your dripping folds and brushed against your aching clit. You breathed in sharply, it felt as if all your nerve endings were on fire, even more so than before.

The anticipation was killing you. You wanted him now.

But once again, he brushed your hand away.

“No,” he said in a low voice. “Not yet.”

The urge to beg and plead with him to continue, to ask him to stop his teasing and somehow convince him that you were ready for him was starting to overtake every other emotion that you felt. You were wondering what else there was that he could possibly do and when he shifted suddenly, you hoped that that question would soon be answered.

Moving down, he started kissing and licking his way down your body, momentarily stopping to pay special attention to certain areas as you writhed underneath him. It wasn’t until he reached your stomach and still made no signs of stopping that you seemed to understand where he was going. You tried to squeeze your thighs together, but since his chest was currently in between your legs, you were unable to.

Hvitserk paused and briefly looked up at you, confusion lining his handsome features. “Vil du ikke dette?” When you didn’t immediately reply, he pressed a kiss on your lower belly, mere inches away from the apex of your thighs. “Do you not want me to?”

Feeling very exposed all of a sudden, you covered up your chest with your hands. He waited for you to find the words to vocalise your sudden change of heart. You wanted him to continue. Really you did, but the thought of his head in between your thighs was one that felt even scarier than having him stick his member inside of you. You had heard stories of men doing this kind of thing, some liking it even, but those stories were few and far between.

“I don’t know.” Your voice sounded softer than usual and you cleared your throat so you wouldn’t sound quite so scared. “I’ve never done this.”

“I know,” he replied soothingly. “It will make you feel good. I promise.”

Having trusted him before somehow made it easier to believe him again. Hvitserk hadn’t lied earlier so if he told you that you were going to enjoy this, who were you to doubt him? When you had never experienced anything like this before? He obviously knew what he was doing, that much was clear, so that made him more knowledgeable about this than you. Taking in a deep breath, you tried to get your nerves back under control. Hvitserk seemed to sense that you were loosening up a little bit and pressed another tentative kiss below your belly button followed by another one directly below it.

When he reached your thigh, he dragged his lips over your flushed skin until he had made it down to your knee. Settling on his stomach with your still wet shift spread out underneath him, he very slowly started kissing a path up the inside of your thigh. At one point you could feel his teeth break the skin, leaving a love bite there and temporarily marking you for any potential other lovers that you might end up having.

Though how you could ever be convinced to experience this with another man after having Hvitserk was anybody’s guess. None of the local boys could ever hope to measure up to him.

The closer he got to reaching your core, the more you started to squirm. You heard him shushing you as if he was calming a frightened animal. He placed his hand on your belly, fingers splayed out over your skin and without thinking, you covered his hand with your own. He lifted his hand up slightly so you could wrap your fingers around it and he gave you a comforting squeeze. You found yourself focusing on that instead and the more you did, the more you relaxed.

His warm breath hit your cunt, blowing air against your soaked folds first and then you felt his lips on your clit. There was a sudden noise that sounded inhuman to your ears and it took you a short while before you noticed that you were the one that was making those noises. He was hitting every spot effortlessly and left you keening with every swipe of his tongue, like he knew your body better than you ever did.

“You taste…” Hvitserk started to say, adding a vibration that was hurtling you closer to the edge with every passing second. “...så godt.”

He started humming against your sex, opening his mouth wide and moved his tongue against your opening, pressing the muscle in as deep as it could go. You bucked your hips up against his face, your fingernails digging into his palm. His grip on your thigh was hard and he was pressing it down into the dirt as hard as he could to keep your legs open. Your other leg was wrapped around his shoulder, your heel continuously applying pressure to the top of his spine, but you could feel the muscles in your leg begin to tense up from your impending orgasm.

“Oh my g-”

The last word came out as a strangled cry, something that no one would be able to make sense of. The hand that had been clutching your breast, shot down to grab at Hvitserk’s head, your fingers tangling in the intricate braids and probably pulling a little bit too hard. The only thing coming out of your mouth was a long stretched out moan as you pushed his head down against your core. You swore you could feel him grinning against you right before the waves pulled you under and you were left drowning in such pleasure that you had never been able to imagine before.

If your eyes had been open, you would have seen that his eyes were on you, his lips sucking on your swollen and overworked clit, showing no signs of stopping until he was satisfied that you had come to pieces entirely. By the time that he released you, you were such a mess that you barely even knew where you were anymore.

Surely this was heaven. It had to be. There was no other possible explanation. Odd to think that heaven could be found in the mouth of a Viking prince.

Hvitserk crawled up your body and his face hovered above you for a bit, carefully studying your still blissed out features.

“Godt?” His word for ‘good’ sounded very much like he was saying ‘God’ and you couldn’t help giggling to yourself. Considering the way he had made you feel, you supposed that it wasn’t such an odd comparison to make, even if it felt mildly blasphemous to even think about it. “Good?” He repeated himself with the right word this time.

Even if he knew the answer already, his face still lit up when you nodded to him and whispered an affirmative reply. Delight creased his features and then he nuzzled your cheek, huffing his warm breath against your skin as he placed a trail of kisses down your jaw and then capturing your lips in a searing kiss. This time you could taste yourself on his lips and even more so when he pushed his tongue into your mouth.

A hand settled at the top of your legs, his fingers rubbing over your wet, swollen folds with a sense of urgency. His fingers almost slide in too easily and he groans when he feels your walls clenching around them. He presses in until he can go no further and pulls his hand away just as quickly.

“Now you are ready,” Hvitserk breathes against your mouth and then you feel the head of his cock against you which he slides over your folds slowly until you’re panting beneath him. Reaching down, he lines himself up in front of your entrance and very slowly starts to press himself inside.

It’s a lot wider than his fingers were and the stretch as he presses himself further into you is amazing. You breathe in sharply when you feel a slight pang of pain and almost immediately Hvitserk starts whispering how good you’re doing, how well you are taking him. You focus on his voice as he stretches you wider still and it wasn’t until he stopped moving, sheathed up to the hilt inside you, that you seemed to notice that your eyes had been screwed tightly shut.

Opening your lids, the first thing that you see are his eyes and then his smile right before he kisses you again. He shifts his hips, grinds them against you and the way that your body responds to him draws a moan from your throat. How is it even possible that he could make you experience such pleasure again?

“You alright?”

“Yes.” You cannot help but sound surprised. You had been expecting more pain than this, but right now it is nothing more than a dull, throbbing kind of pain. His hand reaches up to brush away an errant tear, bringing your attention to the fact that your eyes were wet. “Tears of joy,” you quickly and he chuckles softly in reply. “Not pain.”

“Good.” He grinds against you again and you lift your leg to wrap it over his thigh. “Because I need to move.”

“So move.”

Not needing to be told twice, he pulls back, sliding almost all the way out and then plunges back in again. You cried out, your skin scraping over the dirt and grass underneath you as the force of the impact made you slide up. He grabbed your thighs, his grip tight, so he could angle your body just right. With every consecutive thrust his body made contact with yours in such a way that he was hitting the right spot on the outside and on the inside.

The fact that he seemed unable to take it slow didn’t matter to you. It made you forget about the slight hint of pain. Instead it made you focus on how he filled you up to the brim every time that he rammed himself into you and the brief feeling of emptiness when he pulled out only to impale you again seconds later. It was impossible to keep up with, but the faster he moved, the more you felt the pressure inside yourself start to build until you were damn near fit to burst.

Without any warning, it practically exploded inside of you, attacking you from the inside with such force that all you were capable of was to cry out, though you could have also been screaming at that point. Your nails clawed at every part of his body that you get purchase on, digging into the skin of his back that you wouldn’t have been surprised if you had actually drawn blood. Your walls clamped down on him, practically milking him, and he swore in his mother tongue.

His own movements got more frantic as he fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own release now. You whimpered when his hips slammed against yours one final time and you could feel his cock twitch inside of you as he coated your walls with his seed. He let out an almighty growl when his arms buckled underneath him and he collapsed on top of you, laughing breathlessly. It took a while for your orgasm to ebb away and Hvitserk was taking the same breaths that you were in an effort to steady himself.

“Hvordan var det?” When you didn’t reply, he lifted his head from your shoulder and pressed a finger against your brow when he saw how it was knitted together in confusion. “How was that?”

“Amazing.” Hvitserk beamed a smile at you and you found yourself wishing that you could see yourself, because you were absolutely positive that the bliss that you felt inside was written all over your face. “Truly amazing.”

His lips found yours again the second that you stopped talking. This one was decidedly more sweet than the others and it felt like there was a hint of a promise behind it that there was more where that came from if you ever desired it. When he shifted to pluck a blade of grass from your chest, he raised himself up on his arms to look down at your bodies. There were bits of grass everywhere from when he had been laying on his belly before. You did not even want to know what kind of state your back was in at this point.

“Dirty,” Hvitserk said with a wide grin. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and took a short moment to look at you, as if he wanted to burn the disheveled sight of you into his memory. Holding a hand out to you, he pulled you up into a sitting position and leaned in to steal a quick kiss from your lips. “Come. Let me wash you.”

As soon as the two of you had gotten back into the water again, Hvitserk set to getting all the dirt from your hair, arms and back. He even dipped his hand in between your legs again and while you let out a whimper as soon as his fingers made contact with your sex, his aim was not to get you worked up this time but to clean you.

“You said something earlier…”

“Hmmm?” He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled your back flush against his chest. “What is it, min søde?”

“You said that I always ignored you, but we never even met before today.”

“Oh, that.” His fingers drew absentminded circles on your stomach and his lips made contact with the base of your neck. “You never seemed interested. And I’m not the only one that thought that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are a beauty so naturally we were curious.” All of this was brand new information to you and you had no idea that they had even been talking about you. Then again, that would explain some of the more lingering looks that you only seemed to notice when it was too late. “And then there was that boy who is always by your side. We thought he was your husband.”

“Oh my lord,” you exclaimed suddenly. “Oswine is not… I’m not married and I will definitely never get married to him. He’s… he’s… I’ve known him my entire life and I-”

“No matter.” When he cut you off, you could hear the amusement in his voice. “I will kill him if he gets too close to you.”

“You can’t just-”

“Maim?”

“No!”

“Not even a little bit?” Hvitserk swiftly turned you around and laughed when he saw your pitiful attempt at what was supposed to be an angry look. He cupped your chin and brushed his lips over yours briefly. “I need to protect my woman, but if you don’t want me to punish him then I won’t.”

“Your wo-”

There was meant to be more. A question and maybe even a kiss at the end of it. Or two, but quite possibly even more than that. You swallowed the last part of the word however when a deeper voice called out from not that far away.

“Hvitserk? Where the fuck are you?”

“Over here!”

“There you are, brother. Been looking all over for…” Another figure stumbled out from behind a large tree and he stopped talking as soon as he saw that his brother was not alone. “Oh. You are with someone.”

“Yes! This beauty was finally left unsupervised. Lucky me!” Somewhere in between their conversation, you had hidden yourself behind Hvitserk’s back and were pressing your chest against him in an effort to obscure yourself from his brother Ubbe’s vision as much as you could. The way that his blue eyes remained fixed on you was telling you that it was not working however. Hvitserk briefly peered at you over his shoulder and flashed you an easygoing smile and then talked to his brother once more. “Come into the water, brother. She won’t mind.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“You think?” You couldn’t understand a word that they were saying, but Hvitserk sounded surprised over whatever Ubbe had just said. “I was supposed to go swimming with my brother, but he was… busy?” He switched back to Saxon and did his utmost not to burst out laughing when he said the last word. You could see his brother’s nostrils flare with anger. “You really need to tell her to get lost one day.”

“I keep trying,” Ubbe said with a deep sigh. “But she will not listen.”

“Want me to tell her? Please let me tell her.”

“No. I can handle it.” Ubbe’s eyes darted over to you again and you noticed that he tilted his head quizzically while his smile grew more with every second. You pressed your cheek against Hvitserk’s shoulder blade so you could avoid his brother’s heated gaze that was already igniting another flush of heat in your lower belly. “I don’t think your new friend likes me very much, brother.”

“That would be a first,” Hvitserk replied with a laugh. “Skønne?” You hazarded a glance up so you could meet his hazel eyes. “Do you mind if my brother gets into the water as well? He smells like a pig when he hasn’t washed himself.” When you looked in Ubbe’s direction, you could see that he rolled his eyes at his brother’s words, but his features softened somewhat when he saw that your eyes were on him again. “I share a room with him and it’s terrible. The stink makes my eyes water.”

“Hvitserk!”

“It’s true!” You covered your mouth to stop yourself from bursting out in laughter, because you didn’t want it to look like you were laughing at Ubbe’s expense. “So. Can he?”

You managed to sneak another glance in the older brother’s direction. His ongoing stare was really doing nothing to quench the growing fire inside you. Hiding your face behind Hvitserk once more, you pressed your cheek against his neck and made sure that he was able to tell that you were nodding in approval.

“You have been granted permission.”

Soon after Hvitserk spoke those words, you could hear the rustle of clothing coming from just a few feet away. It was very tempting to look up. Very tempting. You tried to resist the lure of seeing Ubbe strip down out of his clothing for as long as you could, but in the end you were quite simply unable to withstand the call so to speak.

Turning your head so your eyes could peek over Hvitserk’s bare shoulder, you saw that Ubbe had taken off everything apart from his trousers. Your breath hitched when you took in the sight of his half naked form. Their physiques couldn’t be more different. While Hvitserk was rather lithe, Ubbe was considerably bigger. His shoulders were broad and his muscles rippled as he moved. It wasn’t that Hvitserk didn’t have muscles, but he was built differently. With narrow hips and long legs, he seemed to be built for speed more than anything. His brother appeared to be better suited for strength and endurance.

You would have come up with more differences between them if Ubbe hadn’t pulled his trousers open and pushed them down. A loud squeak burst free when you saw his cock, making you avert your gaze instantly. Two sets of chuckles filled your ears and you could feel Hvitserk’s laughter vibrating through his back.

“She is shy!” Hvitserk said loudly and you heard Ubbe give a bark of laughter back in reply. “You don’t have to be afraid of him. My brother won’t bite you.” He craned his neck so he could press his lips against your temple and whisper a small addition to his words. “Not unless you want him to.”

His teasing words made you gasp and you looked back up just to watch Ubbe wade into the water. God almighty, he was beautiful. He didn’t appear to be paying you much attention and instead started rubbing his hands all over his body to clean himself. It meant that you could stare at him as much as you wanted and it had not gone unnoticed by Hvitserk.

“You want my brother too?” When you heard his voice, you quickly splashed some water on your face to somehow make it seem like you had not been ogling Ubbe like a piece of meat. “You can if you want to.” Hvitserk pressed on regardless, pretending not to notice that you were pretending very hard not to be interested in whatever he was trying to propose. “We used to share women before.”

“You did?”

“A few times.” It wasn’t until Ubbe replied that you realised that he had been paying attention to what Hvitserk had been saying, yet he did not look in your direction. “We have a way of working things out when we both want the same thing.”

You bit your lip in thought. Before Ubbe had arrived, you and Hvitserk had a talk about how he thought that you had been ignoring him before. You recalled how he had implied that it hadn’t just been him who had noticed you before.

We were curious. Those were his exact words.

Whenever you saw Hvitserk or Ubbe in town (and you had noticed them before no matter what Hvitserk had thought), they were always in each other’s company. Spot one and the other would no doubt be near. So if Hvitserk had been talking about you with someone else then the chances were high that the other person was Ubbe.

It was almost as if Hvitserk had noticed the moment that the realisation set in for you and he twisted round until he was facing you. His hand was on your chin, angling your head up so he could look straight at you. Apparently your facial expression was satisfactory, because he pulled away and moved to stand behind you so you had a clear and unobstructed view of his brother.

Ubbe ran a hand over the top of his head and your eyes followed it as he moved it down his thick braids. When his hand dipped below the surface of the water, you swallowed hard before looking up at his face. His gaze was nothing short of hungry now and you rubbed your thighs together to ease some of the pressure.

“Don’t be shy,” Hvitserk whispered directly into your ear. “My brother won’t do anything that you don’t want him to.”

“B-but what should I...”

“Easy.” Hvitserk’s lips started nipping at your neck, just below your ear. “Tell him to come to you.”

Easy, huh? That didn’t sound easy at all. A fearsome Viking warrior and all you had to do was tell him to come to you. Was that really all that there was to it? Just one word and you could have him too? Both of them?

You released a breath that you hadn’t even realised you had been holding and when you raised your arm up, it was almost as if it was happening in slow motion. Turning your palm up to the sky, you beckoned to Ubbe with your finger and said, “Come here.”

“Godt.” Hvitserk’s voice sounded husky and his hands settled on your hips as Ubbe came over to where the two of you were standing. Like Hvitserk had done moments earlier, he cupped your chin and tilted your head up so he could press his lips down on yours without ever saying a single word to you. “You are learning…”

[brewedlove]

Thorfinn Falls for Askeladd’s Daughter

Series/Fandom: Vinland Saga

Character (x reader): Thorfinn, Dad!Askeladd

Relationship to Reader: Romantic with Thorfinn, Daughter of Askeladd. There isn’t actually a Reader-insert but feel free to imagine yourself as Askeladd’s daughter if you’d like

Reader Specifications: Technically, I didn’t insert a reader but feel free to imagine yourself as Askeladd’s daughter if you’d like. She is female and uses she/her pronouns. Ethnicity isn’t specified or her any details about her appearance or who her mother is. I did write this with the mindset that she is Askeladd’s biological child so I was thinking that she has some Danish and Welsh blood in her but that’s just me.

Word Count: 1194

Warnings: Suggestive Sexual Actions (but not with the daughter/Reader), Alcohol, Teasing, Suggestive Threats

Requested: Yes

A/N: I have no idea how to title it so.. Yeah. I was literally working on this all day because I got carried away from how excited I was for this. I did not proofread any of this because my brain has melted but it was worth it so if there are any grammatical errors, please notify me. I didn’t actually insert a Reader into this but feel free to imagine yourself as Askeladd’s daughter if you would like. (Click the picture for better quality).

UPDATED A/N: If you recognize this piece on a different blog under the name @iwritesinsandsins it’s because Tumblr silenced all my posts there so I’m starting over again. (／ˍ・、)

~

Bjorn weaved his way through the mass of people, careful not to bump into any of the women who went about the night serving drunken men food, drinks, or their bodies.

He kept his eyes focused above the sea of heads on one man in particular who sat alone at a table littered with meals and dirty dishes.

Even from where he was, Bjorn could see the disdain on the blonde’s face that subtly scrunched up as he kept his gaze in a single direction.

Approaching him, Askeladd turned his head towards him and nodded his head in acknowledgment as his mouth pulled into a playful grin as if he wasn’t just scowling moments ago, “Enjoying the welcome home party, Bjorn?”

Answering with a shrug, the taller man moved to sit in the empty seat next to his boss, crossing his arms while he leaned back and stretched out his legs in the process.

“Same as any other party when we come back,” with his helmet off, it allowed the range of his vision to expand while he looked into the crowd until he spotted the possible source of Askeladd’s irritation.

There, Bjorn notices their most recent recruit seated at a table directly across from theirs on the other side of the sloppily moving bodies of villagers and pirates.

The teen looked painfully awkward as he kept his eyes away from locking with the girl next to him.

She was around the same age as Thorfinn; a little too close in age in Askeladd’s personal opinion.

Admittedly, Bjorn found the scene amusing and even cute, especially during these times of constant bloodshed and immoral actions performed by nearly everyone he’s come across.

“You should enjoy the party,” neither man took their focus off the pair as the brunette advised the captain, to which he only received a short huff in response.

With the boisterous laughter and chatter enveloping the village, she had to raise her voice a little louder so the boy could hear her properly but it didn’t help his poor heart at all.

Not only was she alluringly beautiful and her personality and attitude made his chest tighten in an unfamiliar way, but she was also Askeladd’s daughter.

Her question about his travels with her father went in one ear and out the other when she went to place her hand on his shoulder.

The sudden contact unknowingly assisted by Askeladd’s icy glare through the drunken mass caused the boy to shiver unintentionally and cling to his clothes.

He could feel the weight of her hand leave him while instead of curiosity, her voice now is laced with concern, “Are you cold? I can get you a quilt,”

Before she could move to stand, Thorfinn quickly declined her offer, insisting that he wasn’t cold at all.

When he turned to look over at her, she stole this opportunity to press the back of her hand to his forehead.

The complete innocence of her actions was the culprit of the boy’s rising temperature, his cheeks now flushed a faint shade of pink and all eyes of the crew now fell on him, including her father.

Their slurred hollering sounded no different to how they sounded just a moment ago so the girl paid no mind to them while Thorfinn held all her attention.

Being too stunned at the physical contact, he didn’t hear her muttering to herself about how he may have come down with a fever.

Whistles and laughter around the village came to an abrupt halt, finally resulting in the duo to look around for the reason before they settled their focus on Askeladd who hadn’t bothered casting his eyes elsewhere other than on them.

In his hand was a now dented gold cup with alcohol spilling over his fingers, soaking into the soil of the ground at his feet.

Just as quickly as she had placed it there, his daughter retracted her hand from the other teen and rushed over to the captain; his subordinates knew better than to get in her way.

Askeladd locked eyes with the younger blonde boy until the girl approached him, a clean rag ready in her hands.

His ambiguous smile returned as she took the cup from him and checked his hand for any injuries before lightly scolding him, telling him he should be more careful.

While she helped clean his hand, the party resumed behind her.

Matching the same volume as before, she couldn’t hear the few crewmates on the opposite side of the crowd teasing Thorfinn about his sudden infatuation to which he grit his teeth and threatened them.

They only laughed in response and continued to push him until your voice called out to him, stating that you’d be back with some medicine for him while you went to get a new cup for your father.

That didn’t help their relentless comments nor did it stop the captain from glaring daggers into his head that he could’ve sworn felt like the real thing.

After another moment, he finally had enough.

Too overwhelmed and flustered, he briskly walked away from the party leaving behind the small band of alcoholics obnoxiously laughing at his attitude.

When the girl returned both a new cup and herbal medicine in hand, she was disappointed to see that the boy she was talking to was no longer there.

It was something that did not go unnoticed by Askeladd.

Later that night when the rest of the village slept off the aftermath of the party, Thorfinn felt a presence nearing him and placed his hands over the handle of his weapons as a precaution.

(BONUS - I apologize beforehand and will see myself out, bye.)

Descending a small hill, Askeladd’s hardened expression became clearer as he came to stand next to him, staring off into the horizon where Thorfinn’s eyes settled prior to his own.

Without having to look over at him, the captain was straight to the point in his words, asking if the boy was interested in his daughter.

Admittedly, it sounded more like a statement rather than an actual question but the younger blonde didn’t mention it, instead choosing to deny his feelings.

“Is my daughter not good enough for you?” Askeladd turned to hold eye contact with him, face void of any emotions, surprising the teen for a few seconds as he racked his brain to come up with an answer.

Before he was given the chance, Askeladd’s lips pulled up into a teasing grin.

It was the sort of face that Thorfinn expected to be followed with a “just kidding” comment afterwards but nothing came.

His eyes never matched his mysterious smile and it didn’t change until he turned around, moving to walk back to the village but not before he placed a hand on Thorfinn’s shoulder; the same shoulder his daughter had placed hers on earlier but firmer and threatening, even.

As he leaned down, the corner of his lips dropped, displaying his unamusement towards the teenager.

Askeladd’s words carried the same suffocating weight as his hand while he sent words of caution to Thorfinn.

“If she calls anyone else around here, ‘Daddy’, we’re going to have a problem. Am I clear, boy?”

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

just say yes- rich boy gojo satoru!

synopsis: business au where rich boy gojo satoru buys out your startup company but gives your dream job instead>>>

tags: modern au!, eventual smut, eventual romance, slight enemies to lovers, nanami being a boss ass bitch bc we love him, and gojo doing us like we deserve.

for the first time in what seemed like years, gojo knew when to speak up.

"tell her I'm offering $500k." this comment made even the most collected business men stare. specifically a blonde, overworked danish man that happened to be his COO.

"you can't be serious..." the tan suitted buisness man looks over his notes, "other companies are offering $100, $200, even..."

"and tell her," gojo ignores his friends words, pulling down his shades so that he could look at the administrative assistant dead in the eye.

"that all of her current employees will be compensated for."

++++

"what do you mean he's offering $500k?" you try to not choke up on your breathing as your assistant was giving you the major run downs of her meeting with the CEO of Kento's Enterprise Association.

it was a successful company, you had noted. with over 5 years of experience, the company managed to uphold 3 successful companies on their own. now they wanted yours? your own start-up that you worked hard to build throughout your college years?

this trace of ideas reminded you of a conversation you discussed with a particular white haired man last week. he was unbelievably handsome, as you would never outwardly admit.

"what are you doing in New York if you don't live here?" you asked that one friday night at a local bar.

"I'm staying for about a week," he offered you a charming smile before picking up a glass, "I have a business project that I'm here for. if it goes well, then I might stay for a bit longer..."

you hummed along, watching as the stranger plays with the alcoholic beverage in his hand.

5 minutes had passed along and not once did he bring the glass to his lips.

"what would you do if it weren't for your job?" he asked out of the blue, making your cheeks flush red as he turned to you.

"Um... well," you startled a laugh, "no one's ever asked me that before, but if it weren't for work, then I guess I'd travel? open up a bookshop? maybe a flowershop..."

"in new york?" he asks.

"no," you shake your head, "san fransisco."

"ah," he clicks his tongue, leaning further into his seat, "the golden state."

you nod, finding the energy from within you to laugh. suddenly, his phone chimes causing him to press his lips into a straight line.

"what's your name?" he asks.

you extend your hand, being bold enough for a stranger you think you won't ever see again. when you give him your name, he nods.

"I'll see you around," you don't take his word as he smiles shortly before taking the glass into his lips. in disgust, he places the cup back on the table before exiting. cellphone in hand as he's already on a call.

that was friday night.

and on tuesday morning, you were met with your bidders.

think about the common right for everyone, you think to yourself as you walk towards the conference room.

these people you've employed... they're counting on you. they have jobs to uphold, you can't just sell them away like chess pieces.

neither you nor the man with frosted hair catch each other until you're at the center of the room. your assistant does you the honor of introducing you to the charming man you once thought you'd never see again.

"I'd like to introduce you to gojo satoru, CEO of KEA. he's also your highest bidder for the company."

a/n: I might do a part two for this. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this! <3

[adito-lang]

German language films I love (part 2)

Like in part 1 these are in no particular order. If you're up for watching something depressing, look no further than Persischstunden. Land of Mine also has it’s sad moments but is on the more hopeful side. If you want laughs, go for Frau Müller muss weg! Good music? Comedian Harmonists. Nuanced queer representation? Futur Drei. And if you want to feel on edge for over two hours, try Victoria. 

1) Land of Mine⎹  While this is a Danish production (original title is Under Sandet), a lot of the dialogue is in German. After World War II, a group of a dozen young German prisoners of war are ordered to clear land mines on a beach in Denmark - land mines were originally planted by the Nazis in anticipation of Allied forces landing there. The Danish officer in charge, as well as most of the villagers, initially doesn’t care if the boys live or starve (or get blown up), but as the operation continues a bond forms between them.

2) Victoria⎹  Most of this film is in English, but I can’t not include this when talking about my favorite German (language) films! You know how 1917 was edited to look like it was shot in one long continuous take? Well, Victoria was actually shot in a 140-minute continuous take. The main character of this crime thriller is Victoria, a Spanish woman who recently moved to Berlin. After a night out of dancing and drinking, she meets four young men in front of the club and joins them on a walk through the city. Over the next two hours, Victoria becomes sucked into a heist gone wrong. This here is some insanely good filmmaking and acting.

3) Futur Drei⎹  After being involved in a robbery, Parvis, the son of Iranian immigrants, is sentenced to 120 hours community service. He begins working at a detention center for refugees as a translator, where he meets Iranian brother-sister duo Amon and Banafshe. A fragile relationship develops between the three as Banafshe faces the threat of deportation and Parvis falls in love with Amon. I love how this film examines the intersecting themes of queerness, migration, and privilege in Germany today and share the sentiment of Raquel Molt from Jünglinge, the collective that developed the film, who says: Banafshe sagt ja am Ende ‘Wir sind die Zukunft,’ und ich glaube, sie weiß ja irgendwo schon, dass das falsch ist... weil Banafshe, Amon, und Parvis eigentlich schon längst die Gegenwart sind, bloß die Mehrheitsgesellschaft das irgendwie noch nicht gecheckt hat und noch nicht abbilden kann. (”At the end of the film, Banafshe says ‘We are the future,’ and I think she knows in a way that that’s not true, because Banafshe, Amon and Parvis have actually been the present for a long time. It’s just that the majority society hasn’t realized that and can’t portray it yet.”)

4) Persischstunden⎹  Gilles, a young Jewish man fleeing Antwerp, is captured by the Nazis and pretends to be Iranian to avoid being executed in a concentration camp. The deputy commandant at the concentration camp, Klaus Koch, orders Gilles to teach him Persian, as he hopes to visit Tehran when the war is over. Having no choice but to agree, Gilles scrambles to invent a language he must both teach Klaus as “Persian” and also memorize himself if he is to survive.

5) Frau Müller muss weg!⎹  In this comedy, a group of overbearing parents is concerned about their children’s final elementary school grades being too low, as this will hinder their children getting into Gymnasium, so they decide to gang up on the teacher, Frau Müller. Their impromptu parent-teacher meeting and plan to have Frau Müller give up teaching the class backfires and hilarity ensues.

6) Comedian Harmonists⎹  This film is about the popular German vocal group Comedian Harmonists, who sang and performed together in the 1920s and 1930s, achieving international fame. However, when the Nazis come to power, the group faces increasing difficulties, as half of the six members are Jewish.