#DOES THIS STUPID FICTIONAL MAN KNOW THAT I SLAVED OVER THIS ALL DAY FOR HIM

[bluebellwrenart]

Icewind Suite

Happy Birthday, Kaeya 💙❄️

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

Dearly Beloved 🔞 Final.

In which you've got a crush on your coworker- and a stalker problem.

Tags/Warnings: I do not condone any of Jungkooks questionable actions, this is fiction, soft Yandere!Jungkook, stalking, criminal actions (trespassing, stealing), obsession, he's really not quite right in the head, mc is kind of stupid for not involving police but wbk

Additional Chapter Warnings: insert 'oh no' tiktok meme here.

Length: long?

There is no taglist for this fic.

-> Masterlist

•━━━━━━━━━━���.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━•

He's gonna do it. He has to. What if he misses his chance? You already love him.

You just don't know it yet.

But the entire day at the office, someone steals your attention away. There's always someone standing at your desk, asking pointless things, chasing you around like a slave for things that could've been a fucking e-mail. Why do you need to go and copy something for Yaerin when she's got to working legs?

Maybe if she didn't wear those high heels she constantly trips in she would be able to do her job correctly. Or maybe she's simply a viper, trying to work you down until you burn out, unable to offer this place anymore of your energy. She's done it before. She'll do it again.

People like her disgust him. She's rotten to the core, especially considering how she constantly soils the office seats in the meeting room with her disgusting perfume every time she fucks another one of the higher ups in there. He knows it's happening, has walked in on her and a CEO once- and while he told her that her secret was safe with him, he really only did it to have something up his sleeve if he ever needed her for something.

Does that make him just as rotten as her? Maybe. But all is fair in love and war.

He can't help but fidget at this point, watching how you clearly try and stay nice to a coworker currently attempting to convince you to go drinking with everyone after this shift. You don't like karaoke, you don't even drink in social settings because it makes you anxious- Jungkook knows these things.

He would never ask something of you that you're not comfortable with- he'd take you out for your favorite fast food instead to eat it in the car while listening to crappy pop-songs on the radio. That's what you love.

You've mentioned it before. And he never forgets those things.

Who's that man to you anyways? He can sense the tenseness in your muscles as the guy leans on your table, clearly taking up space and showing that he's not going to leave anytime soon- and Jungkook feels his anger grow inside his chest. You don't like this guy. He needs to get him away from you.

"Uh- Steven, right?" Jungkook meekly asks, the man's face snapping to him with an annoyed smile.

"Yeah. What's up kook?" He jokes as if they're best buddies.

They're not. Jungkook couldn't care less if the guy died in a ditch.

"I think Yaerin wanted to talk to you about something being wrong with the calculations for last month?" Jungkook stammers, needing to uphold his image. And also, he can't help it- his emotions make him quiver a bit, muscles unable to stay still as he rubs his hands. "She said it's urgent." He presses.

That's actually only half a lie. It's not urgent- but that whore did want to talk to him about something. There probably won't be much talking involved except maybe a command to take his dick further down her throat- but Jungkook doesn't care what they do. The only thing he does care about is that he fucking leaves.

Which he does, finally, making Jungkook take in a deep breath as he watches the man walk off.

"Thank you so much." You say behind him, and when Jungkook turns around to look at you, you're gazing at him with such warm eyes he feels his trembling body levitate on nothing but thin air. Everything's alright again- if he could look at you like this for the next years of his life, he'd thank every god in existence for it. "I have.. a hard time telling people no." You sigh, running your hands over your face.

"That's.. that's fine." Jungkook nods, a little awkwardly, smiling back. "I'm not that.. good at it either." He chuckles, and you laugh along, already feeling a lot better.

"Do you.. uhm.." You look at your keyboard for a second before you lick your lips- is that new lipgloss you wear? Or did you eat something that stained them? Jungkook isn't sure, but he wants a taste. "Do you wanna.. grab a drink or two after work with me?" You wonder, rushing the sentence out, and Jungkook's lips part a little, eyes round and open as they stare you down with their boba-pearl charm.

"Uh- yes! Yes, sure!" He nods, closing his mouth, before he pats his pants, looking for his phone. "W-wait, I'll uh- I'll give you my number!" He rushes out, writing it down with trembling hands on a sticky note, before offering it to you, who smiles shyly.

"Alright!" You nod. "I'll.. see you tonight then?" You ask, and Jungkook nods, entire body set aflame.

"Tonight."

•━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━•

He fucked up.

He fucked up.

He fucked up.

He's pacing in front of your door because you surely know. You had to have found out- there's no way you didn't. The moment you texted him, he knew you knew-

because he gave you the wrong number. In his panic, he gave you a number you already have.

Is the police on its way? Did you call the cops? Or another friend maybe to beat the shit out of him? You must be terrified, creeped out to no ends, and he can't blame you. What the hell did he even do? This isn't right.

"Jungkook?" You ask, ripping him out of whatever panicked episode he was going through, wild eyes staring at you who's looking at him with an unreadable expression.

It's quiet as you stare each other down, tension able to be cut with a knife for a good while, before you speak.

"You could've.. just said something." You mumble, and Jungkook isn't sure what you mean. There's a variety of things and situations this sentence could apply to- and he doesn't want to out himself if he's not caught yet. If there's just a simple chance of getting away with it, he will take it. "Do you... like me this much?" You ask, and he's swallowing thickly now.

You clearly want an answer, but he doesn't know in what context. What is he supposed to say.

"I mean, I knew something was off when.." you explain, playing with the strings of your hoodie as you fumble with your words. "When.. I wasn't scared." You admit.

"Because it was you all along."

His entire body grows cold, veins freezing over as he gets his confirmation. You know. You know, and you're probably going to tell him next that you've already asked for a restraining order-

Wait. What do you mean by you weren't scared?

"Do you want to.. come in with permission this time?" You ask, trying to lighten the mood, but he's confused. This isn't the reaction he thought he'd get.

"I-" he starts, stammers. "I'm sorry." He presses out. "I don't.. I just-" he fails to find appropriate words because he really doesn't know why he's like this. He knows it's a problem, he knows he's sick- it's obvious, that little sane part of him is aware of the pure wrongness of his actions up until now.

"I know." You say, nodding, before you step aside to let him inside.

"I can't." Jungkook denies. "I can't- I shouldn't, I'm not- don't let me in, don't ever let me in-" he worries, unsure what's wrong with him now. Is this what realization feels like?

If that's the case, he wants to go back to insanity, because this is torturous.

"Its fine." You reassure. "You're.. I'd really hate to see you leave right now." You deny, offering compassion. "You're not well right now." You say, and he agrees.

But he's never been well ever since he met you almost a year ago.

He'll never be well.

"You're too.. you shouldn't. I might hurt you." He explains in a hurry.

"You won't." You deny. You're not sure why you're so convinced about it- maybe because he's had the chance to hurt you so many times and didn't. Or maybe because you're so lonely that you'll take this love no matter how tainted it is.

"Please come inside." You ask once more.

And slowly, with great hesitance, does he enter your home, painfully wringing his hands as if to keep himself occupied.

"When my mom had a brain stroke, years ago, she changed a lot." You explain, walking in to fill up two glasses of water before you set them on the coffee table in the living room area, sitting down on the couch right after- inviting him.

He takes the invitation. His eyes sting with unshed tears.

"She suddenly hated me. Hated almost everyone." You remember. "The doctors said that it can happen. That if we.. injure just a tiny little specific part of our brains, our whole personality changes." You retell, and Jungkook listens, unsure where to look now.

He's been here before, but he's never seen the apartment with the lights on.

"But we still got along until she passed." You nod. "She went to therapy, and reconnected with me and her old friends." You say.

"I'm.. I think I know what you're suggesting-" he says, before he puts his face in his hands. "But I don't want to." He denies.

"Why not?" You worry with a soft tone. "Jungkook, you're not a bad person. You just need help." You offer.

"But what if my love for you is just mental illness?!" He yells out, panicked, eyes now leaking tears. "I don't want them to kill that. I want to stay- I want to stay sick if it means that I still love you.." he weeps, looking at you with desperation.

"Then we'll rebuild it." You shrug easily. "I'll make you love me again." You say, and Jungkook breaks.

"C-can I touch you?" He whimpers from the other side of the couch. "Just a bit?" He wonders, and you nod, opening your arms.

Welcoming him, because he's not a threat or a danger or a monster.

He's just a little sick.

[dwellordream]

“...Where the show had sensibly added yurts and merely forgot to have any way to move them, Martin has the Dothraki live in “palaces of woven grass” (AGoT, 83) which I assume the show did not replicate because the moment someone described doing that everyone realized what a bad idea it was and moved on to something more sensible like a yurt covered in leather. Grass and reeds, of course, can be woven. However, as anyone who has done so will tell you, the idea of trying to weave what is essentially a grass basket the size of a tent in a single day is not an enviable – or remotely possible – task.

Trying to move such a giant grass basket without it coming apart or developing tears and gaps is hardly better. And at the end, a woven-grass structure wouldn’t even really be particularly good at controlling temperature, which is its entire purpose! It is rather ironic, given that unlike the show’s Dothraki, Martin’s Dothraki do seem to use at least some carts, because Viserys is forced to ride in one (AGoT, 323) and so could bring yurts with them. They just don’t.

More to the point, it is very clear that Martin imagines the Dothraki subsistence system to consist almost entirely of horses. The Dothraki ride horses, they eat horses, they drink fermented mare’s milk. The Dothraki – as in the show – are presented as eating almost entirely horsemeat. They eat horsemeat at the wedding (AGoT, 84), and Daenerys’ attendants are surprised that she asks for any kind of meat other than horse (AGoT, 129), although Daenerys herself seems to have access to a more agrarian diet (AGoT, 198) and other characters observe that the Dothraki prefer horsemeat to anything else (AGoT, 272). There is no mention of herds of anything except people and horses moving with the khalasaar.

There is also no sense that the Dothraki are hunting big game like one would in the Great Plains; Drogo kills a hrakkar – a sort of lion, apparently – as a display of bravery (AGoT, 495) but there is nothing that would suggest the kind of bison-based subsistence system (at the very least, if that was the system, Daenerys would be well aware of it, because the camp would be awash in bison-products). I found no references to larger game and the Wiki only offers, “packs of wild dogs, herds of free-ranging horses, and rare hrakkar” which is, needless to say, not enough to make up for the absence of large herds of bison, especially for trying to feed Drogo’s camp of perhaps a hundred thousand people (or more!).

They clearly do not herd sheep. This becomes painfully obvious with the raid on the Lhazareen village. The Dothraki – Khal Ogo’s men – in raiding a sedentary pastoralist settlement, kill all of the sheep and leave them to rot. Dany sees them “thousands of them, black with flies, arrow shafts bristling from each carcass” and only knows that this isn’t Drogo’s work because he would have killed the shepherds first (AGoT, 555). And we are told that the people there “the Dothraki called them haesh rakhi, the Lamb Men….Khal Drogo said they belong south of the river bend. The grass of the Dothraki sea was not meant for sheep” (AGoT, 556).

We are told that the Dothraki have “vast herds” but this can only mean herds of horses, given that they apparently take offense at any other animal being grazed on the Dothraki and look down at shepherds in general (AGoT, 83). To be clear, for a nomadic people moving over vast grassland to spurn the opportunity to capture vast herds of sheep would be extraordinarily stupid. At the very least, thousands of sheep are valuable trade goods that can literally walk themselves to the point of sale (we’ll get to this idea that the Dothraki also don’t understand commerce a little later, but it is also intense rubbish; horse nomads in both the New World and the Old understood trade networks quite well and utilized them adroitly). But more broadly, as I hope we’ve laid out, sheep are extremely valuable for subsistence in Steppe terrain.

But Martin does not even do horse-string logistics right. While Daenerys eats cheese (AGoT, 198), we never hear of the Dothraki doing so. The Dothraki do have an equivalent to qumis, but no qulut, no yogurt. Even the frankly badass bit about drinking the horse’s blood as a source of nourishment does not appear. The horses themselves are also wrong. First, Daenerys and Drogo each have one horse they use, seemingly to the exclusion of all others. If you have been reading this long, you know that is nonsense: they ought to both (and Jorah too, if he intends to keep up) be shifting between multiple horses to avoid riding any of them into the ground. Moreover, Martin has imported a European custom about horses – that men ride stallions and women ride mares – into a context where it makes no sense. Drogo’s horse is clearly noted as a red stallion (AGoT, 88) while Daenerys’ horse is a silver filly (AGoT, 87). But of course the logistics of Steppe raiding revolves around mares; in trying to give Drogo the ultimate manly-man horse, he has actually given him the equivalent of a broken down beater – a horse only able to fulfill a slim parts of its role.

Finally, the group size here is wildly off. For comparison, Timothy May estimates that, in 1206, when Temujin he took the name Chinggis Khan and thus became the Great Khan, ruling the entire eastern half of the Eurasian Steppe, that the Mongol army “probably numbered less than a hundred thousand men” (May, The Mongols, (2019), 43), though by that point his army included not merely Mongols, but other ethnically distinct groups of steppe nomads, Merkits, Naimans, Keraites, Uyghurs and the Tatars (the last of which Chinggis had essentially exterminated – next time, we’ll get to the nonsense of the Dothraki being a single ethnic group).

That is, to be clear, compared to the armies of sedentary empires of similar size (which is to say, huge) a fairly small number! We’re going to come back to this next week, but the strength of Steppe nomads was never in numbers. Pastoralism is a low density subsistence strategy, so the steppe nomads were almost always outnumbered by their sedentary opponents (Chinggis himself overcomes this problem by folding sedentary armies into his own, giving him agrarian numbers, backed by the fearsome fighting skills of his steppe nomads).

Khal Drogo’s khalasaar, which moves as a single unit, supposedly has 40,000 riders (AGoT, 325-6); Drogo is perhaps the strongest Khal, but still only one of many. With 40,000 riders, we have to imagine an entire khalasaar of at least 120,000 Dothraki (plus all the slaves they seem to have – put a pin in that for later; also that number is a low-ball because violent mortality is clearly very high among the Dothraki, which would increase the proportion of women and children) and probably something like 300,000 horses. At least. Of course no grassland could support those numbers without herds of sheep or other cattle. As noted above, Isenberg’s figures suggest much lower density in the absence of herding – just under 70,000 nomadic Native Americans on the Great Plains in 1780 (and less than 40,000 in 1877), including women and children! But more to the point, no assemblage of animals and people that large could stay together for any length of time without depleting the grass stocks.

Even if we ignore that problem and even if we assume that the Dothraki have Mongol-style pastoral logistics to enable higher population density on the Dothraki Sea, my sense is that the numbers still don’t work. Even before Drogo dies, we meet quite a few other independent Khals with their on khalasaars – Moro, Jommo, Ogo, Zekko and Motho at least and it is implied that there are more. Drogo’s numbers suggests he should be roughly at the stage Chinggis Khan was in 1201 or so – with Chinggis controlling roughly half of the Mongolian Steppe, and his old friend and rival Jamukha the other half. But Khal Drogo has evidently at least a half-dozen rivals, probably more. It is hard to say with any certainty, but the numbers generally seem too high. Having that entire group concentrated, moving together for at least nine months (long enough for Daenerys to become pregnant and give birth) would be simply impossible inside of a grazing-based subsistence system, sheep or no sheep.

In short, no part of this subsistence system works, either from a North American or a Eurasian perspective. This isn’t actually much of a surprise. Martin has been pretty clear that he doesn’t like the kind of history we’re doing here. As he states: I am not looking for academic tomes about changing patterns of land use, but anecdotal history rich in details of battles, betrayals, love affairs, murders, and similar juicy stuff.

That’s an odd position for an author who critiques other authors for being insufficiently clear about their characters’ tax policy (what does he think they are taxing, other than agricultural land use?). Now, I won’t begrudge anyone their pleasure reading, whatever it may be. But what I hope the proceeding analysis has already made clear is that it simply isn’t possible to say any fictional culture is ‘an amalgam’ of a historical culture if you haven’t even bothered to understand how that culture functions. And it should also be very clear at this point that George R. R. Martin does not have a firm grasp on how any of these cultures function.”

- Bret Devereaux, “That Dothraki Horde, Part II: Subsistence on the Hoof.”

[generallypo]

[   Constellation ’Director of the False Last Act’ is looking at you.   ]

------

dark academia!hsy, yeeee! the white coat is fantastic, but unlike kdj and yjh, she doesn’t really switch up the color scheme. no, her bum-aesthetic purple hoodie does not count. i think she’s super hot. i yell about how much i love her under the cut.

------

yo han sooyoung is actually amazing, incredible, powerful, witty, drop-dead sexy... what makes her so irresistible? let me explain

1) yeah, kdj takes the kdj company to end of the scenarios, but please. how many times does he have to kill himself to get there? not to mention his intentional (and unintentional) kill count? 

sure, he does the job, but damn is he kind of inefficient about it. say what you like about hsy’s methods or personality, but the 1863rd round far surpasses the 1864th in terms of the lives preserved while still managing to take the team to the end.

without the benefit of cheat-like knowledge, skills, and resurrections, hsy almost single-handedly orchestrates the events of the 1863rd round to a satisfying finale. kmw, problematic as he is, survives and becomes an admittedly better person, yjh finds a timeline where he can rest in peace, and the rest of the cast have their eyes set on the hopeful end of all scenarios. all this, while only being HALF of a person (hsy originally split off into two after misusing her avatar ability). do her actions lead to the happiest ending? no. but it’s the one that sacrifices the least and saves the most. for the greater good, in other words. 

hsy may be an intrinsically selfish person, but unlike kdj, she has the ability to grasp the entire picture and avoid tunnel-visioning into a crappier, more convoluted and self-sacrificial solution. ironically, it ends up saving more lives. perks of being a talented writer, i guess. 

and the 1864th hsy emerges as a leader in her own right as well. the epilogue arc shows her assuming roughly the same role as her 1863rd self in kdj’s absence: yjh breaks off from the main group (AND BECOMES A TERRORIST AKFDJDSLKSL HAHAHA) to assume a similarly antagonistic role to the remaining members of kdj company. as a result, she’s the most powerful lawful incarnation remaining, and once more the incarnations circle around her for direction.

2) independent, confident, competent (hot and kinda shameless about it). this woman has the most delightfully unrepentant attitude towards life -- how to defeat the man with the strongest defensive ability without dealing a single blow? summon a horde of your naked dancing clones to terrify his innocent sensibilities, and then cackle at his helplessness. the fact that her sponsor is literally the chuuni-est cringefest in the entire galaxy and she gives no fucks about him is just additional comedic gold. her undisguised disgust for what should otherwise be a highly respected/feared entity is a clear indicator of her supremely dominant position over everyone else, and i admire her consistent irreverence of everyone and everything.

hsy is the only character who can consistently bully kdj, brush off his deflections, and bully him again. 1863rd round hsy gives kdj about 50 migraines in the span of 5 minutes of conversation before confirming her superior wit. jhw comes close, but unfortunately, she actually respects the rat bastard. i wish i could mention yjh, but let’s be real: he -- and just about every existing version of him -- has been whipped for the guy for at least 250+ chapters now. 

hsy, on the other hand, has no regard for anything except herself... man, i respect that so much. what a queen. 

and i won’t lie! i didn’t like her in the first fifty or so chapters. plagiarism? homicide? kind-of-in-general-just-being-an-obstacle-to-kdj’s-plans? yeah, i almost fell into the trap of disliking her purely because she didn’t cave immediately in the grand scheme of kdj’s plotting -- thereby denying me the power rush that came with seeing kdj bulldoze his way through the puny attempts of small fry characters. she’s neither a friend nor a despicable foe, but rather someone who acts independently and in her own self-interest, WITH the ability to thwart major players if need be. aka, the one who frustrated kdj’s plans -- and me -- the most. 

going by my previous isekai/power-fantasy trope experience, i figured she’d get pegged into the sexy-but-sassy harem candidate, or get killed off if that didn’t work out. in hindsight, i’m just pretty fucking dumb, but honestly, i can accept that with gratitude -- 

-- because in fact. the whole ‘she-gets-in-my-way-so-she-either-goes-into-the-harem-or-dies’ trope in light novels/webnovels and the like, is, frankly, misogynistic and boring as hell. i had some admittedly low expectations for ORV, which consequently blasted my ass to the moon and left me there sobbing for 42 years as i mourned my stupidity and paid my respects to its incredible ending and character development. hsy is a particular delight, especially in her meta awareness of these tropes -- blatantly stating she isn’t obligated to kdj for saving her life and declaring the damsel-in-distress cliche as ridiculous, for example. 

and it really is, because suspension bridge effect aside, you’re not gonna want to bang a total shady stranger in the middle of the apocalypse. it’s the little statements of self-awareness, self-worth, and frankness that build up hsy’s charm. as ORV progresses, these little windows of her personality bloom as her presence takes stage center -- and then BAM! you really get to know how strong she is, how hugely capable of love she is, how subtly but wonderfully she expresses it, how she leads and protects those close to her, and how damn good she is at it. hsy is amazing. we stan an iconic queen -- no, black flameS EMPRESS. *kneeling*.

3) writes an entire EPIC, just to keep one lonely, broken fifteen-year-old alive. like. at that point in ORV, i knew. i knew. hsy is the fucking GOAT. seeing her spend the rest of her life on WOS, making sure it reaches completion because it’s the only thing that will sustain kdj until the advent of the scenarios... that hits too hard. inadvertently, it also damns the rest of the world to the terror and tragedy that the star stream brings.. but that’s the call she makes in order to save kdj’s life. 

obviously, there’s no precise beginning to the timelines -- ORV is so neatly crafted in its cycle of writer, protagonist, and reader -- but i’d have to argue that hsy holds the greatest power in the trinity. creating the existence known as ‘yoo joonghyuk’ and granting life-changing hope to an otherwise forgotten boy.. is pretty powerful. yjh, for the most part, is a slave to the scenarios (until he breaks free in the 1863rd and 1864th rounds, in particular), while kdj (unwittingly) admits it himself: he’s truly the most powerless god in existence. i forget exactly where he mentions it, but it’s in response to lgy’s reverent commentary that, with all his knowledge and presumed confidence, kdj seems like the protagonist of story or a god to him. kdj’s inner monologue, of course, is appropriately self-deprecating and scarily accurate.

in a lot of ways, WOS -- and ORV itself, really -- is a love letter to readers. it’s a two-way connection, writer and reader, between someone who creates with all their passions and someone who consumes and responds with equally sincere feelings. Ways Of Survival -- the story of a man who defied death and grief and great powers far beyond his being -- is a fictional guide to surviving in a ruined world. but to a battered, bullied, and ostracized boy, it’s not just escapism, or wish fulfilment anymore. WOS is the map to navigating the hell of his reality. there’s a certain power in the right words being spoken -- or in this case, written -- at the right time, even if it’s only for the temporary burst of endorphins upon reading an especially delightful chapter. even if it’s forgotten the next day, you’ve managed to connect. you’ve touched another person’s heart. you made them think about questions they’ve never considered before; maybe, you made them smile. 

what can i say but the honest truth? ORV, without a shadow of doubt, has most certainly reached me. i’m a goner for this story and its excellent characters -- long, long gone. something has changed, something that wasn’t there the previous day. 

the mark has been made on the reader -- small as it is, it’s irrevocable. behold, in all of its little magnificence: the power of a writer, and their story.

[booksandwords]

Sword Dance by A.J. Demas

Series: Sword Dance, #1 Read time: 1 Day Rating: 4/5

The quote: I think this masculine-feminine thing isn’t just because I’m a eunuch. I think I would have been like this—sort of wanting to be both—even if I’d grown up as a whole man. But I might not have known what to do with it. — Varazda

I did not know what to expect when I read this. I did decide to read it because of the nb angle and likely the enemies to lovers concept. But it was a beautiful story with well-written characters and just a beautiful relationship. The plot reveals itself in a timely fashion while there perhaps some elements of slight predictability to it. The beats are familiar even if the people hitting them are not, if that makes sense. But that said it isn't about the plot for me so much, it's about the characters. On the setting, it's only in the afterword that A.J. Demas confirms the setting for the novel. “set in a fictional world loosely based on the cultures of the ancient Mediterranean”. Pseuchaia feels a bit like it could be Greece, Zash/Sasia could Turkey in that case. Look I like geography even fictional geography. I figured it was in a Mediterranean setting quite early but it was nice to have hat confirmed.

On the characters, it is quite a substantial cast but it is largely focused on the main characters Varazda and Damiskos. Varazda (formerly Varazda son of Nahaz son of Aroz of the clan Kamun) is called Pharastes by everyone other than Damiskos. They mean the same thing, warrior, but most people in Pseuchaia can't pronounce Varazda so he goes by Pharastes.  Varazda is a eunuch, a former slave and a highly talented sword dancer. His being free is a rarity and he lives in a super cute found family with two other freed slaves and a precious little girl (all of whom I believe readers meet in Saffron Alley). There is no sexual relationship between Varazda, Yazata and Tash. Varazda is nonbinary but is always referred to by masculine pronouns, importantly his nb-ness has nothing to do with his eunuch-ness.  I adore Varazda he is so well written. He is unexpectedly complex for a story of this size. Because of his past he has major trust and intimacy issues, he doesn't have an interest in sex now after years of sexual assault. But Damiskos just works for him. Its a combination of factors mostly acceptance and willingness to come to his level ie speaking Zash. “Aristokles’s slave was lovely in a way that seemed somehow basic and elemental, as if he were really neither male nor female, but a being of his own unique nature with a beauty that had no relation to either”. Varazda is stunningly attractive a wonderful blend of masculine and feminine. The way he is written is intelligent. He flows between masculine and feminine contextually, his movements are usually almost catlike which is quite appealing for a dancer.

Damiskos Temnon is the narrator. A former soldier he is lame (as in crippled) due to something in his past but as a soldier, he was an elite soldier. He is not what he appears. He's severed in Zash and has some understanding of where Varazda is coming from. The breakup of his engagement in Zash is closely tied to Varazda. It is worth saying that Damiskos is a man of principle and a master strategist. It's an interesting combination in a single man (something Varazda finds intoxicating). “I don’t know if you’ve worked this out, First Spear,” came Varazda’s muffled voice, “but I fancy soldiers.” I'm going to be honest the dynamic between Varazda and Damiskos is enjoyable to read and so well written. Their intimacy is unexpected and fully triggered by laying out of the truths. Varazda wants to explore the sexual attraction he so rarely feels. Damiskos is just revelling in the uniqueness of Varazda. Their flirtation is so much fun.

The supporting cast is broad and largely female. This is definitely aimed at women, the leading men are endearing and in love the women are strong and sure.  Their strength comes from loyalty and love for each other and family. Nione Kukara is a badass woman who did well in her prior role and is now making her way in the world. I think she likes people to underestimate her. Her long-running friendship with Damiskos is part of the set up for the story and honestly to be admired. They have been friends for over 15 years, both of them in roles where that would be unusual (well with someone of the opposite sex at least). Niko is something of the comedic relief, a child slave in Nione's household. He's a piece of levity as the plot grows dark. The old men are just stupid in that way that you want to facepalm over their actions.

Sword Dance ends at the right place. It allows for Saffron Alley to fit right in but if a reader wanted to read only one book that would work too. I really like the writing style. It's almost visceral. "The kiss lingered on his senses like a vanished phrase of music, tantalizing and irrecoverable. The cool softness of Varazda’s lips; the tiny, fleeting brush of his fingertips along Damiskos’s jaw; the scent that he wore, citrus and something spicy, neither masculine nor feminine.", basically anytime Varazda's dance or fighting is written it is truly enchanting. A.J. Demas does a great job of getting the reader in the narrators head. The characters are beautiful and their coding is intelligent, no one is two dimensional. Sword Dance is wonderfully aware of some of the potential issues in play. Damiskos does think his attraction to Varazda could just a kink. Varazda knows the difference having experienced his identity being used. The potential distractions that their chemistry may cause in a fight, neither of them try to stop. Also, the whole concept of what is being written "the idea of catching Varazda when he dropped from a railing suggested midnight assignations and romantic fiction more than escape from a reconnaissance mission gone wrong". There is a deep appeal in Remi's existence and Varazda's whole family that is a fantastic use of the found family trope and Damiskos's acceptance of the situation no questions asked.

This is a book that plays with LGBTQ themes. There are multiple characters of varying identities, nonbinary, lesbian and I'm guessing bi or pan. I want to add a warning there is a not-insignificant amount of hate speech in Sword Dance. Some is directed at the eunuch main character, Varazda. The rest is directed at well almost everyone else in the world, the antagonists have a whole thing with ‘Phemian purity.’, racial purity. Both of these can be problematic for people but works well in context.

[yn-dreamlife]

Katsuki Bakugo x Reader || My Little Flower

pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x reader 

Warnings: mentions/memories of abuse, angst, guilty todoroki, guilty bakugo, Panic attacks, angst, fluff

Characters: Katsuki Bakugo, Izuku Midoriya, Ochaco Uraraka, Eijiro Kirishima, Shoto Todoroki, Mina Ashido, Tenya Iida.

Description: When one of Katsukis harmless insults Sends you flashing back into your abusive past you fear what he’ll think of you. Will your friendship possibly be ruined because of this? A.N: ok so I haven’t been able to watch a bunch of this show yet cause online schooling I’m going off of the fan fiction I’ve read so don’t come at me please. I love this fandom and honestly it would break my heart if I offended someone. I hope you enjoy. Also for the sake of things pretend that UA is a college 

I walk next to one of my best friends not noticing his heterochromiac gaze in me. I bite my lip deep in my thoughts i was still relatively new to the idea that I actually have to stay at UA college ever since it became a boarding school and to say I was nervous was a understatement, who would I be with? How would the rooms work? Would it be by class? What if I didn’t know anyone? What if-  “y/n,” shotos soft voice besides me brings me from my thoughts. I hummed in acknowledgement feeling my cheeks heat up worried he would be upset I was being like this. “relax.” He whispered softly placing a hand on my shoulder and letting out a warmth to help against the cool winter wether.  I felt some of the anxiety leave me.... some. Of course he wasn’t mad he knew how I got, anxious I was doing something wrong breaking an unspoken rule or not making everyone happy, worried constantly about grades, not caring for myself, all because of them. I smile apologetically at the duo colored hair boy. And he returns one back. 

But that doesn’t mean my anxiety’s of the dorm rooms would go away. We got to UA our bags in tow behind us as we walked up I saw a some of the people who have become some of my truest friends. Izuku Midoriya was standing next to Ochaco Uraraka, and I could see both there faces had a slight flush as there arm kept brushing against one another. I also saw Tenya Iida standing with them he was our class representative. I was still shocked I was in a class with such amazing people. As we came closer I also saw three other people approaching.  Mina Ashido smiled brightly at me rushing to give me a hug while leaving her bag to the two men she was walking with, I gladly welcomed the embrace needing it but never forgetting Shoto was right there because truth be told I would be crying already had it not been for his constant presences.  Due to her sprinting towards me it grabbed the attention of the group of three I had already noticed but my eyes where closed shut clutching to her. When we pulled away her two companions Eijiro Kirishima, and Katsuki Bakugo where also there now along with Midoriya, Uraraka, and Iida.  “Hi everybody!” I said happily willing the heat rising to my cheeks down. Whenever Bakugo was around my heart soared and butterfly’s formed in my stomach and if I dint keep my emotions down a flower crown would soon be forming on my head. Todoroki place a cooling hand on my back calming me but I think he did it to calm the heat glaring to my cheeks as all the eyes landed on me. 

“Hey there pretty lady!” Kiri said to me smiling pulling me into a hug and I gladly hugged my red haired fiend. He was always so happy which made it easier for me. 

“So does anyone know how this is all going to work?” I asked worried maybe I was the only clueless one. Most everyone looked confused except of course for Iida. “We will be placed by classroom into rooms all classes will have one common area but all of us have bedrooms, I am unsure at the time if any of us will be sharing.” I nodded my head “Of course no boys and girls will be sharing. Right?”

He gave a pointed look to me. “W-what’s that look for?!” I shrieked as I could do nothing to hide the blush. And when shotos hand left me due to him covering his mouth as he laughed it only seemed down my neck. “Oh come on we all know you and Todoroki are together!” Uraraka spoke smiling, Shoto stopped laughing.

“Not so funny know huh Shoto?!” He only glared at me But there was no heat behind it, and looked at our friends. “Me and y/n are not together.” He spoke seriously. All there faces turned to confusion and Midoriya spoke first. “Wait your not? But you two call each other by first name and you don’t do that to anyone else!” He said defensively. “Well yeah Shoto does it out of respect I don’t do it because none of you have given me permission to do so. Besides Shoto is like my brother, I could never do anything like that.” I smiled over at him and he returned it.

“Maybe stop making heart eyes at icy hot and maybe we’ll believe you, shitty woman.” Bakugo scoffed Kirishima hit his shoulder rather roughly at the look on my face. Usually his playful insults never bothered me and I’d fire back but that one.... he Used that one. Shoto without thinking shot out in front of me shielding me from everyone as I took a few steps back slowly. Third person P.O.V

Todoroki knew the moment the words left Bakugos mouth what would happen. He quickly moved in front of you and Shielded you from view. Kirishima never liked when his bakubro spoke to you that way knowing of his feelings towards you and yours towards him but he looked over and saw as you took a few steps back. Your eyes seemed to glass over and you had a far off look, one that reminded him of the pro hero’s who had seen to much in there time.

Everyone made a move to get closer to you but you quickly stepped back again, Shoto took another step forward practically growling, but you where to busy turning around to notice as you ran off. Todoroki let you knowing you needed space for a minute but he would give you no more time than that.

“What the fuck happened icyhot?!” Bakugo spoke daring anyone to mention the worry that leaked into his voice with a glare. No one mentioned it to worried, they had never seen you like that. You had an energy like Kirishima always happy and smiling always helping others. And your reaction to the name was not anticipated. So often you would fire something back at Bakugo that he was left feeling horribly guilty. Before anyone could ask Todoroki made his way to you.

Your P.O.V

Warning abuse flashback

I ran to the only place I had felt safe in all of UA it was a hidden garden long since forgotten at the back of the school. Once I had found it the first few days of school I instantly fell in love my quirk blossomed here. I could control all things natural from the elements to plants and animals. I could make animals listen and plants grow. But I also had the power to kill said plants easily. The trail of death I left behind in the grass as I ran a clear path to anyone but i was to far gone in my mind.

“You want to be a hero?!” His cold voice echoed in the basement the voice I still longed to hear praise come from. “Your quirk is nothing compared to mine. Do you hear me?! NOTHING! And besides....” he grabbed my throat roughly making me meet his eye, “your gonna be my slave for the rest of your stupid life.” His cold eyes once so filled with love broke the last part of my spirit I had left, I bowed my head in submission.

——

“Oh shitty woman!” His voice echoed through the house to my cage in the basement i whimpered. “Be ready cause I’m just pissed of tonight!” I shook out of both fear and coldness. I wasn’t allowed to wear anything except my shackles. He liked to keep me chained up my wrists attached to a chain that was liked to a metal collar around my neck. My feet also cuffed together. Both allowing me to move but never escape. I was his slave, his dog, his shitty woman, his punching bag, and his fuck hole. I had no other purpose anymore. I haven’t spoken to any of my loved ones in months? Years? Time blurred together, especially since I was locked away in the dark damp windowless basement. I heard his foot steps come thudding down the stairs, he held a knife in his hands, he liked to make me bleed.

I can’t tell how long it’s been, hours, days, minutes? All I knew was he wasn’t stopping and I knew one more cut, one more kick, I would be gone I couldn’t stop the happiness that flooded me I would be free.

I didn’t notice Shoto coming towards me till he placed his cool hand on one cheek and his warm one on the other the two temperatures grounding me slightly  

“y/n come back, you’re in your garden remember? I got you out of there, he’s gone he can’t hurt you.” His words shifted my thoughts to what happened next.

The hope I had just felt was suddenly ripped away as the doorbell rang. He growled and stormed upstairs stripping off the bloody shirt. I couldn’t hear anything but suddenly I heard his frustrated scream through the whole house the name he cried barley recognizable since the amount of time it has been since I heard it but a part of me knew.

“Todoroki!!” I laid there stunned... Todoroki? Thoughts of a pair of heterochromia eyes popped into my brain. The piecing blue and grey, but they held warmth. I could remember his hair two colors both white and red. I heard frantic footsteps rush down the stairs.

“y/n!” I heard a man yell I flinched but looking up I was met with those warm eyes except they had worry and fear i ached to take that away my mind still foggy on how I knew him. and it suddenly all came back, the times we spent laughing so hard tears streamed down our faces, sneaking into his home to see him when his father shut him away, sparing with him, creating flowers the same color as his eyes and hair.

“Sho...” I whispered the ghost of a smile in my eye the last thing I heard was his calming voice

“Don’t worry sweet flower I’ve got you”

“Sho?” I spoke the fog slowly leaving my brain I squeezed his hands to my face. “That’s it, there you go...welcome back.” I looked around and sighed but it was quickly turned into a hitch in my breathe as I saw the path of death I had created, quickly with a wave of my hand it was regrowing, Shoto smiles at me. “Sorry about that.” I muttered quietly he shook his head pulling me into a hug, “never apologize,” He pulled me away slightly staring at me directly in the eyes. “Never.” I nodded and he smiled at me grabbing my hand and helping me stand. It was getting dark so we headed back to what was now our class dorm.

When I entered I was quickly pulled into a hug I recognized it as Kirishima and hugged him back letting him hold me for a while as Shoto walked off going to his room. When I pulled away I looked behind him not seeing anyone else. “How is he?” I asked softly. “I should be asking about you.” He smiled softly “but of course you always worry about everyone else... he’s upset, to say the least but not at you more at himself.” I nodded and kiri showed me to my room turns out we didn’t have to share much to all of our reliefs. We loved each other sure but our own space was nice. It had been several hours and in that time I decided to clean my room, unpack everything, read something and scroll through social media all to distract myself from the inevitable nightmare I would have. But of course I drifted to sleep and of course I had a nightmare. I woke up hot a sweaty shaking away the flashes of the dream, I was back with my ex but this time he made bakugo watch as he did things to me and he begged and cried even though I knew the real bakugo had never shown such emotions to me but it seemed so real.

I walked out to the kitchen the mere thought of his eyes looking that way and my ex made me once again cry. I bit my hand the way I always did and before I knew it snow was falling above me.

“y/l/n?” I heard a voice behind me I turned around and saw none other than bakugo. The sight of his eyes made the sob I was holding back rip from my throat. They where the same eye from my dream the same look of pain and sadness in them.

“Katsuki-” I stopped myself despite my sobs. I felt a surge of dread wash through me. I knew I called him that in my head but to say it to him felt so rude without permission. I fell to my knees my hands taking position in front of my chest clasped together as I softly whispered

“I’m sorry I meant no offense bak-” I was cut off my soft hands cupping my face and sweat pants clad knees brushing against the skin of my own bare knees. “Don’t, katsuki is fine. I’m more concerned about what’s wrong?” I pursed my lips shaking my head. He sighed as he hoisted me up into his arms and began walking into the living room type area. He set my on the couch and then sat himself down next to me. “So tell me y/n, what’s wrong.” I took a deep breathe studying myself. He gave me all the time I needed and I was grateful. I sighed running my hand through my hair as I stood up. “what I’m telling you only Shoto knows I’m trusting you to keep this information to yourself.” He nodded sitting up and I felt like he had the same commitment to that Silent promise As he did to trying to be number one hero. “I was with an ex... and we where together towards our senior year of high school. You probably didn’t notice but well we went to the same high school you, and i know you knew that. But you probably didn’t notice my absence towards the end of the year. Well my boyfriend snapped or something and he... he made me his slave. Locked me in the basement, kept me chained, he would abuse me in every way possible. Sexually, physically, mentally, emotionally... and well Shoto... when he found me I was an inch from death and I was ready to welcome it with open and willing arms... that was a year ago.” His breathe hitched.

“Thanks to someone’s quirk a lot of the memories are gone... for the most part, I still have triggers and nightmares. One of those triggers being what he used to call me. I was his fuck hole, his slave, his... shitty woman.” I watched his hand fly to his mouth anger seeping into his eyes. “And today, I called you- oh my god I am so sorry!” He truly looked like he was about to pass out. “Is that why you where upset just now? Because of me? I can get my room transferred probably I’ll do whatever I ca-” I shook my head. “no not directly you, it was a nightmare I had but well uh.... you where in it.” I watched color leave his face I knew what he thought so I quickly stopped the thought from continuing by adding “my ex was doing those things in front of you! He was making you watch and I had to watch you... I had to watch your beautiful vermillion eyes be covered in pain and sadness and worry. And well you came into the kitchen and that’s the exact look i saw. And the reason it affected me is because I like you katsuki. A lot and honestly I’m sorry, because who wants some broken cry baby to be head over heels for them but I am and I understand if you don’t wish to speak to me again.” before I could comprehend what was happening I was being pulled into his arms. His scent of burnt sugar and caramel invading my senses. His hands moved through my hair and I hummed at the feeling.

“i feel the same way about you baby.” I sighed as I moved closer to him and he in turn pulled me into his lap. He rubbed his hands steadily up and down my back as he layer down on the couch. “I’m sorry all of that happened to you, I’m sorry I said that to you, and I’m sorry that I never went to check on you in high school. Truth is I did notice I just thought you moved or something.” We sat in scilence for a little while till I spoke up again.

“Katsuki...” he hummed “what am I to you?” He moved my head so I was looking at him. I saw his vibrant eyes and they warmed me throughout even my whole soul. “you... you’re my little flower, so delicate under harsh conditions but no matter how heavy the foot or how harsh the winter you’ll come back as vibrant or even more vibrant than before. You are my light, and my everything and if you will allow me the honor my girlfriend.”

Tears brimmed my eyes “Oh god, I’m sorry. Don’t cry! Shit! Um-” I cut him off smiling and he sighed and visibly relaxed.

“i would love nothing more than to be your girlfriend, firework man.” I gently leaned down my lips a hairs breath away from his and he leaned in closing the distance I sighed I had wanted this since I first layed eyes on him. It felt so nice.

“Goodnight katsuki.” I whispered as I kissed his jaw cuddling back into his warm bare chest on,y now realizing his attire but not caring enough to be embarrassed. “goodnight my little flower.” The last thing I heard before drifting into sleep was “ill protect you, always.”

[sokkathebluewolf]

A review Why you do that? Making Sokka mention 28 in his vows now everyone think he slept around after the best time of his life? They both dont deserve this June slaves Hina Tylee now this Please don't make more girls fall for him involve with him feels like the whole fic turned around this Haru deserves better Tylee is flirting around

Don't get me wrong This is your fic and you can do anything you feel fit I'm merely giving an opinion ''cause Gladiator has things which you handled the best There is a Reason for this success I just hope this plus 1 girl thing in Sokkla relationship Stops But I always respect you with your great work(:

You do realize how utterly laughable it is to tell me “DON’T MAKE MORE GIRLS FALL FOR HIM IT FEELS LIKE THE WHOLE FIC IS TURNING AROUND” and then say “you can do anything you feel fit, I respect your work (:”, right?

This is not respect. This is not “constructive criticism”. This is not an opinion so important and valuable that it warrants being repeated about a million times across A YEAR. Most people? They give out their opinions, negative or positive, ONE TIME, and leave it be, because what matters to them is CONVEYING how they feel, not forcing a writer to constantly explain themselves or write whatever they would be comfortable with. Actually? Most people who have given me negative opinions so far have been like that, except one guy who was outright flaming my story because he wanted to wank to it, and he couldn’t believe he had to read 97 chapters to finally reach the smut. That I’m comparing you to this reader and reviewer is PROBABLY a bad sign, don’t you think?

Sokka didn’t MENTION 28: Sokka acknowledged his past mistakes because he’s a grown man who knows to feel remorse when he hurts people he loves. That he brings up having hurt her, to this day, isn’t in the purpose of going “HEY HEY AZULA REMEMBER WHEN I BROKE YOUR HEART LOL”, it’s in the purpose of saying: “I’ve learned from my mistakes and, as it has been for YEARS, I will devote myself to NEVER hurting you again”. That, anon, is a PERFECTLY VALID SENTIMENT for a wedding vow, and one that requires far more character growth and complexity than “Lol I’m so happy we were both virgins because that is the only kind of pure love that has ever been valid in the universe, anything else doesn’t count”.

Hell, you’ve literally made me go right back to the chapter to look at what he says, exactly: “I messed things up between us over my damn stupidity”, he... is literally beating himself up about this. To this day. He’s not talking about it proudly. And yet you’re here complaining as though he were?

SPOILER: More people will have feelings for Sokka in future chapters. In fact, I want to make it even MORE people than I’d originally planned after receiving all these asks. I’d rather derail my story into something you can’t stomach reading than cater to you. Azula will outright JOKE about being “jealous” in a future chapter, and Sokka will know it’s a joke! :D And I’m NOT lying about this to mess with you, it IS going to happen and your persistent asks absolutely WON’T make me alter my content. And why is it going to happen, you’ll ask? Why, because nice, charming, charismatic guys like Sokka attract people whether they want to or not. It’s what they DO about attracting others what matters to me! :’) And that Sokka rejects other people who attempt to be with him should be, I think, a much more important message about loyalty to someone you love than “I ONLY EVER ATTRACTED ONE PERSON IN MY LIFE AND MARRIED THEM”. Because I know that’s virtually the only thing you appear willing to accept, going by the first ask.

And holy crap, Ty Lee is... flirting around? Flirting around... with Haru. The guy she’s in a committed relationship with, whom she’s going to marry. The whole situation is meant to be insanely ironic considering Ty Lee is with the guy she SHOULD be with but it looks like it’s something else? (Hell, nobody even KNOWS it was Ty Lee, Mei Xun didn’t stick around long enough to discover the woman’s identity, so her reputation’s actually safe?) But you’re just so emotionally compromised by anything regarding Sokka being with anyone else, even if it’s 1. not true because he’s MILES away, with Azula 2. a joke 3. a plot device for a FUTURE EVENT, that you just can’t grasp this irony at all?

Ty Lee, by design in this story, has ALWAYS been pretty damn liberal about flirting and relationships. Despite we’ve mainly just heard such relationships mentioned on the side, rather than witnessing them directly, she is objectively the cast member who’s had the most relationships, whether serious or casual or just occasional, with other people. And even then, she’s getting married. Even when she’s had so many people in her past, she’s settling down with Haru for good. And Haru? Haru is THRILLED. Because he loves her. Because she loves him. Because HER past does NOT have a single thing to do with THEIR future. And yet you seriously read these chapters, where Ty Lee is having a lot of fun with her fiancé, and your brain just translated this as “OMG TY LEE IS A SLUT HARU DESERVES BETTER!”? Seriously?

I feel like I’m getting asks from a childish version of Drax from Guardians of the Galaxy. Everything that isn’t straightforward needs to be explained point by point, apparently, and even then, you don’t get it. I literally went to literature school and was told to write intelligent fiction so readers would feel compelled to unravel its complexities themselves... apparently that was a big fat lie? :’) Your persistence actually has convinced me that it is.

Oh and, for future reference (because I KNOW you’ll come back, that’s all you ever do): not because you throw compliments at me later to “cushion” your complaint does it mean you’re respecting me and my story. You can’t slap someone in the face and then go “Oh your cheeks are so plump that I bet it doesn’t hurt”. You can’t just disregard my request that you keep these sorts of questions to my PERSONAL blog rather than the fic’s blog, and pretend you respect me. You can’t come to me time after time with the same complaints and attitude, watch how I’ve basically gone from initially responding with discomfort (because, in my personal blog, there are MANY asks that predate yours, where I’d already explained my reasoning to someone else who apparently didn’t get it, which means the subject wears me out, A LOT), then seeing that I started ignoring your asks, then seeing I closed the inbox so I could regain some sense of normalcy in my life that you refused to let me reclaim, and then seeing that I’m answering with outright hostility, and pretend that it’s ME who has a problem. 

If someone I respected responded in any similar manner to ANYTHING I said to them, I’d basically feel like shit and never talk to them again because I don’t want to be a burden or a problem for someone whom I value in any way. You, apparently, would rather be a problem, and to no avail, because all you’re achieving so far is convincing me to continue writing things that will make you riot until you stop reading my story. If you CAN’T stop reading regardless of the horrifying, amoral, dreadful decisions I’ve made? Congratulations: you still don’t have the right to tell me what to do with my story. And until you GENUINELY understand that, your compliments don’t mean anything to me. I have readers I value who have conveyed complaints, MANY TIMES, in an actual respectful manner. Readers who are even bothered by the same thing you are. And yet I’m even FRIENDS with them. Imagine that :’) It’s almost like the problem isn’t having whatever opinion you do... but rather, the intent of IMPOSING your opinion constantly and persistently until you’ve driven me to lash out as bluntly and cruelly as I may! To the point I’m outright saying I’m going to rewrite my story into becoming EVERYTHING you don’t want it to be so you leave me alone!

And if you’re not the one who’s been here for a year, and this is not really an echo chamber (despite all of these messages have the same complaints, wording, tone, format, style, punctuation and grammar mistakes), yet you SAW that other people have been doing this for a long time, and thought it was PERFECTLY FINE to join the party? You’re no less of an asshole than the rest of them. No matter if it’s your first time voicing your “opinion”. Because it’s NOT about what you’re saying: it’s about HOW you’re saying it. It’s about trying to guilt trip me into writing whatever you want and claiming the story is going off the rails because something makes you personally uncomfortable. This is NOT objective criticism. This is SUBJECTIVE, ENTIRELY. This isn’t a real problem in storytelling, it’s a personal problem for you because it clashes with your moral values. And NO ONE is forcing you to continue consuming content that goes against your moral values, you’re choosing to do that yourself.

If you’re to live by any of the words you said in these two asks, make it “This is your fic and you can do anything you feel fit”. Because that’s literally what I’m going to do. It’s what I’ve done over EVERY complaint in poor faith I’ve gotten, ranging from “quit writing so much happiness it’s boring” to “where’s the sex you prude”. And it’s what I intend to continue doing. What kind of criticism do I value? “This particular scene features a factually contradictory line with a previous event”, such as Zuko claiming he never went to Sokka’s house when he in fact did, and I plain and simple FORGOT about it. What more kinds of criticism do I value? “You need to work out the Gladiator League’s system better because it’s not a solid business venture”, and this one was right? And yet it was too late to fix it, despite it’s 100% spot-on and I should’ve worked it out way better than I did. Another? “Sokka may have gotten over the fact that Azula captured him and tossed him in a slave market too easily”, because? It’s a perfectly valid sentiment? I disagree because Sokka is canonically shown to get over grudges relatively quickly, and yet I CAN see why it seems too fast for some people. What else do I value? Maybe suggestions on wording problems! I’ve made a lot of stupid wording mistakes, in virtue of being a non-native speaker. I’ve done my best to amend those, but it’s a work in progress even now.

Point and case being: in literature, and thus, in fanfiction? Constructive criticism isn’t “WRITE WHAT I WANT TO READ BECAUSE I WANT TO BE PERFECTLY COMFORTABLE WITH ALL I CONSUME”. Constructive criticism is given by people who KNOW storytelling. So I’d only consider it constructive criticism if it’s given by people who can read those chapters and see that the ENTIRE purpose of that conflict is to trigger growth and development as both Sokka and Azula realize their own mistakes and shortcomings with each other. So, someone who’s giving actual constructive criticism wouldn’t come to my inbox a million times with the same complaint... someone who’s giving constructive criticism would come to my inbox, ONE TIME, and say “Hey, maybe this alternative to conveying Azula is instinctively jealous over her canonical insecurities about being a monster and earning people’s love and loyalties COULD have been preferable, despite I know you can’t change that anymore as it’s fundamental for your story”, or “Hey, I thought of another way for Sokka to convey that he realized their interest in each other could result in something TERRIBLE if they ever acted on their feelings, a way for him to not act on that specific impulse to flirt with Suki to push away Azula, but to act on ANOTHER, believable, IC Sokka-compliant impulse that might still convey exactly what you needed to”. But again, even if it were complaints like THESE? I can’t change anything anymore. It’s TOO LATE. If I think it’s too late to fix Zuko saying “lol I never went to Sokka’s house” when it’s not true? It’s WAY TOO LATE to rewrite chapters that are over SEVEN years old, and I don’t even want to do it to begin with. But I WOULD concede these criticisms. I would accept them. I wouldn’t consider them offensive to me, or my work, or disrespectful in any way.

Constructive criticism is NOT about forcing an author to agree with you, or to do whatever you ask them to. Constructive criticism is about helping an author convey what they were conveying in a better, smoother way. If you CAN’T understand what the author was conveying? You don’t qualify for offering constructive criticism. If you need explanations as to why the author did anything they did? You’re, again, not qualified to offer constructive criticism. Your criticism, in any such cases, is NOT constructive, no matter what you’re telling yourself. This is a VERY important distinction, and one you can’t pretend isn’t valid just by throwing a bunch of compliments at me after telling me I’m ruining my story.

Until the day you DO understand the difference between constructive criticism, and subjective complaints? Your opinions will not be considered valuable enough to affect my story in a positive way. And the more disrespectful you show yourself, by continuing to disregard my DIRECT request for you to stop coming back with these complaints, as well as the direct request to stop sending these questions to this blog? The less your opinions will count for me. I don’t bend over backwards for anyone. And I’m definitely not going to do it for you.

[mrae71]

School’s Out

One thing people didn’t know about my father was that he was an awesome story teller.  According to his tales, he lived quite a life.  I’m not sure how much he told was fact or fiction; I call it fiction presented as fact.  I am currently compiling his stories into a book, and here’s one of them:

School’s Out

                Rudy stared eagerly at the clock, watching the seconds, then minutes tick by as the school year came to a close.  The classroom was like a furnace, not only holding in heat, but seeming to also take it in through the open windows.  He waited eagerly as his teacher, Mrs. Winlock, passed out the year-end reports one by one.

              After handing them all out, she sat down at her desk and said those final, long awaited words to her class of fifth, sixth and seventh graders, “thank you class, see you next year!”  With that the children let out a collective whoop as they quickly gathered their things and left the drudgery of books and assignments behind them.  Except Rudy. He sat quietly perplexed; he hadn’t received a home report.

              “Reuben,” Mrs. Winlock said softly, “stay behind please, I’d like to speak with you.”

              Rudy remained in his seat and nodded.  He liked Mrs. Winlock, she was kind and patient. She came from one of the town’s most prominent and wealthy families, living in a huge Victorian home on acres of land.  She even had servants.  He had heard adults saying that her family used to own slaves, but he never dared ask about it.  First, he was eavesdropping on what was supposed to be a conversation between his aunt and his grandmother, a conversation that he was sternly ordered to see himself away from.  And secondly, even at 11, he knew it would be rude to bring up such a delicate matter.

              Mrs. Winlock waited for the room to empty and then approached the child, envelope in hand.  She sat on the desk beside him and began gently, “first, Reuben,” she always addressed him by his proper name, “I wanted to know, would you like to work for me again this summer?”

              Rudy smiled widely, nodding his head.  He had worked for her all last summer, and enjoyed it ever much, tending the gardens, cutting grass, piling wood, mending fences, tending animals, and generally doing anything that needed doing.  He only worked through the week, leaving his weekends free to fish or play ball and she always invited him inside for a tasty lunch.  “Yes, ma’am, I’d like that.”

              The teacher smiled warmly, “good,” she patted his arm, “I can do $5 a week, plus, just like last year, you’re free to take home some of the produce, fruit, etc. that we won’t require, does that suit you?”

              He nodded eagerly, $5 was a full 50 cents over and above his weekly wage the year before, and the work wasn’t all that hard.

              Mrs. Winlock shoved the few greyish-brown strands of hair that hung from her neat bun behind her ear and took a deep breath before handing Rudy his home report.  She wished more than anything that she could rip it up, call it a huge mistake and welcome the boy as a sixth-grade student the coming fall.  But that wasn’t going to happen.  He simply hadn’t achieved the necessary outcomes to warrant promotion.

              It wasn’t for lack of trying.  Not on her part, and not on his.  Sure, Rudy was like most boys, more interested in what was going on outside than what was happening at the front of the classroom, but he was always quiet, attentive enough and eager to please.  The truth was, Mrs. Winlock, even with over 30 years as a teacher, had no idea what the disconnect was.  Rudy wasn’t stupid, not by a long shot.  He wasn’t one of the many children she’d seen in her career that were just simply slower than most to comprehend.  In fact, she found the young lad very quick to pick things up, especially if he were shown it.

              She remembered the time her husband, a fairly feeble man for 54 after having had a fairly severe stroke which left him with limited mobility on his right side, went outside and showed Rudy just how to prune the tomato plants, cutting the shooters to allow the blossoming vines more room to grow.  He only needed one quick lesson, which was more than the teacher could say for herself. In fact, her husband, Ned, forbade her from ever touching the tomato plants after more than once having hacked them half to death.

              She couldn’t put her finger on it, if she could have, she’d have fixed it, but somehow, whatever she was doing in the classroom wasn’t getting through to the bright-eyed child.  It was as if whatever his mind responded to had nothing to do with classroom teaching and while he was able to slide by with marginally acceptable results until now, as the work became more complex, she saw him fall further and further behind.

              She had thought about doing the charitable thing and pushing him through, reasoning that perhaps the confidence boost would propel the boy to work harder but decided against it.  She knew of other teachers who had done so and if she were honest, she had done it a time or two herself, but the circumstances were different. She normally reserved such mercy for those students who had a track record of turning in good performances and then suddenly, usually due to some issue at home, sometimes something as simple as plain old hunger, had fallen behind.  The fact was Rudy was falling further and further behind with every grade and to advance him to the next grade would serve no one, not the class, not herself and not Rudy.  “Please take this home directly,” she said firmly, handing him the envelope, “do not open it, I want your mother to read it first, do you understand?”

              Rudy nodded.  He knew what it said anyway.  The entire year had been a long series of F’s and “please try agains”.  It didn’t take any sort of eminent scholar to see the writing on the schoolhouse wall.  “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Winlock, I will.”

              The teacher chocked back her tears and turned her head momentarily to compose herself.  She didn’t want Rudy to see her upset.  She didn’t want to upset him.  She cared a great deal for the lad.  In fact, she could readily admit to herself, and to her husband, that he was the favourite of all her students, ever. She imagined had she been able to bear a child, he’d have been much like Rudy, strikingly handsome, tall and wiry, strong as a small ox.  He was hard working and wanted only to please those around him.  He had a surprisingly soft heart that most people didn’t take the time to see.  He seemed to take very well to and to protect the younger children just coming into school and she had caught him more than once cradling or singing to a calf or a lamb in her barn.

She’d spent five years watching him grow and blossom, fight and struggle and she knew about his homelife.  Woodstock wasn’t a big town and talk got around.  She knew the black eyes and bruises he often sported came from the hand of his father after downing more than his share of whiskey.

              She didn’t know Reuben Senior as a younger man but had heard the stories.  He was once just like his son, sweet, tender hearted but with a steel exterior.  He had somehow managed to lie his way into military service in 1916, stating his age as 18 rather than 16 in order to do his part for the country and as the story goes, he came back from the First World War alive, but forever changed.  But that wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back she knew.  He came back more aggressive for sure and made a name for himself as quite a good boxer.  But years later, when young Rudy was just a baby, he and Thea lost a child, baby Grace. Mrs. Winlock was given to understand that the 10-month-old was a perfectly healthy infant until suddenly falling ill and passing away some five or six days later.  It seemed Reuben senior never recovered from the loss and his aggression quickly turned to red hot anger and the occasional drink with the guys turned into binge drinking to the point of blackout.

              Rudy, she knew got the brunt of his father’s aggression and she worried for the child, wondering what this home report would bring.  Sober, he seemed a decent enough sort, she’d spoken to him several times and he was quick witted, but quiet, almost charming.  However, fueled by drink, he often sought his oldest son out and took out his frustrations on him.  It was as though the child, who was in fact, visually, the very picture of his father thirty years prior, represented all the unfulfilled hopes, plans, and dreams he had that never worked out.  What better way to address what you see as your shortcomings than to beat up on your younger self?  Well, except for the fact, he was beating on his son.  She shook her head, trying to make the awful thought disappear, “Reuben, please, promise me, you’ll take this directly to your mother, she begged, sounding a little more desperate than she had intended.

              Rudy agreed and was dismissed.  He walked outside into the late-June heat and found the school yard empty.  He walked toward home, just far enough to get out of sight.  He darted behind a group of trees and opened the envelope. He scanned it furiously, not wanting to be caught.  He skipped over the individual subject reports to get to the bottom line, “I regret to inform that Reuben has not met the necessary requirements to be promoted and will be required to repeat fifth grade.”  His heart sank and he sat down behind the tree and cried, his head in his knees.  He knew it was coming, but he hoped, naively, as children do, that maybe, just maybe, it would all be okay, but there it was in print.  He mourned the defeat, dried his tears and after a few moments, stood up and walked home, knowing exactly what he would do.

              When he arrived home, he saw his mother surrounded by many of his siblings, all basking in her praise.  Of course, Althea was front and centre, basking in her triumph. Having jut turned 13 the month before, she was quickly taking on the bearing of a young woman.  She was slender, curvy and had a pretty face which boys were starting to notice.  However, she had very little time for local boys or their nonsense.  She had plans, plans to become a teacher and later a wife and mother.  She was to spend her summer minding Dr. and Mrs. Baldwin’s eight children and taking in sewing in her free time. She was to be paid $3 a week, but she kept some for herself.  He didn’t understand all the ins and outs of it, but his mother explained that young women needed pocket money for important things, things only women understood.  He imagined it had something to do with dresses or maybe lipstick. She, of course, received glowing marks, and finished top of the seventh-grade class.

              Enid stood right behind her sister, jumping up and down, eagerly awaiting her turn at praise. She was a tiny wisp of a girl, but her personality loomed larger than life.  She did reasonably well this year. Her home reports going forward always read the same, “Enid is capable of exceptional work when she puts her mind to it,” and this year was no exception.  She was a bright girl, there was no doubt, but she had a streak in her, a fierce independence that often bordered on defiance and troubled their mother. The girl was intent on doing things her way.  She wasn’t unruly or disobedient, but had something not often seen in little girls of the time, a sense that she wasn’t supposed to conform to the world, but that in fact it was the other way about, the world should conform to her.  Their grandmother politely called her a “spirited child.”

              Then there was Bobby, he managed to get through second grade unscathed although his teacher opined that “further effort will be required to be successful in coming years.”

              And finally, David, the impish first-grader, complete with a toothless grin.  Sharp as a tack, but inattentive and mischievous.  He was the first to peer out the window at anyone or anything that happened by.  He was also the first first-grader to put a dead frog on Mrs. Mullins’ chair back in October.  He denied it vehemently, but his guilty giggles gave him away.  His older brother Bobby saved him from his father’s beating, claiming responsibility for the prank, something he often did.  In any event, despite his lack of attention and his tendency toward pranks, he got through with better than average grades.

              Rudy lowered his head and when the crowd dispersed, having received an adequate amount of praise, approached his mother, cleared his throat and handed her his home report, “Mrs. Winlock says for you to read this,” his face reddened with shame.  The idea of disappointing his mother killed him.  He knew she worked so hard, especially now, with so many children. There was him, Althea, Enid, Bobby, David, Jimmy, Johnny, and now, baby Francine, just six months old.  She was a pretty baby and from what he could see, fairly well behaved.  She didn’t fuss a lot.  That made eight kids, and he had heard whispers that another may be on the way, but that hadn’t been confirmed.  He kind of hoped not, the house was a tight squeeze as it was, the boys, Bobby, David, Jimmy, and himself, shared one room while the babies, Johnny and Francine shared another.  Althea, who had previously enjoyed the enviable position of having her own room had recently been forced to suffer the indignity of sharing with Enid.  Rudy was sure she hated that, but in true Althea fashion, she accepted the assignment as her duty to the family and said nothing about it.

              Thea turned to her children, still milling about in the living room as Rudy stood beside her, “you all get on outside,” she ordered, “I want to have a talk with Rudy.”

              “But Mama,” Enid whined, “it’s hot.”

              Thea stared hard at the children, her plump brown face set in that way that let them know she meant business, “then go swimming, but scoot, I’ll not tell you a second time.”

              The kids scrambled out the door as their mother told them and Thea turned to her eldest son, “let’s see this, then.”  She knew what was inside.  She gingerly opened the envelope and read it as tear began to stream down her son’s face again.

              Rudy buried his face in her ample bosom, sobbing, “I’m sorry Mama, I’m sorry!”

              She cradled the child gently then took his face in her hands, wiping his tears, “it’s okay, Rudy, I knew it was coming, you’ll just try harder next year.”  She didn’t know why, but she had known for some time that her eldest son struggled with schoolwork.

              Rudy snuffed the snot back from his nose and stood straight, “I’m not going back, ma’am,” he declared, “I’m going to work.”

              Thea looked at the child in disbelief, “you’re 11, what do you think you’ll work at?”

              “I’ll be 12 come January,” he explained, “I’ll do just like Daddy, I’ll join the army, fight in the war, just like him!”

              Fear welled up in his mother.  Thea knew well what war did to her husband and she also knew her son was just impulsive enough to try such a thing, although she also knew he had no chance, even at 12, looking young for his age, of being accepted into any army, it was time for a strong message.  She softly slapped his face with the back of her hand, “you will do no such thing!” she exclaimed, “and I’ll hear no more talk of any army, do you understand?”

              Rudy began to cry again, the slap didn’t hurt physically, she barely touched him.  But his pride hurt desperately.  He nodded in submission, “yes, Mama, I understand.”  Then he added, “but I could continue for a while at Mrs. Winlock’s till after apple season, that’ll take me into October, then I can go work in the woods.” He had it all figured out in his mind and in his young mind, it seemed to be the only reasonable choice.

              Thea softened, “Go on outside and play,” she told him, “I know you’re disappointed, we’ll talk about this nearer the school year, okay?”  She had no intention of allowing him to quit school.

              Rudy agreed, quietly set in his intention never to return to the classroom.

              The summer went quickly and soon it was time to get ready to return to school.  Thea and Reuben took their eldest son aside to see how he was feeling about repeating fifth grade.

              Rudy stood straight and tall, as tall as an 11-year-old could and informed his parents of his intentions, “I’m not going.”

              Thea, now confirmed to be expecting, yet again, shook her head, “Reuben, don’t start,” she warned.

              The child continued, steel-faced in his opposition, “no, Mama, I’m not going back,” he explained, “Mrs. Winlock says I can stay on ‘till at least October, then I got some work with old man Hawthorne lined up, and I also got a bit over at the general store, only a few hours here and there, but it’ll do us.”

              Thea’s heart sank, “Rudy, you’re a boy, you need your schooling.”  She was devastated, it was hard enough in 1941 to be a black man, but to be a black man with next to no education, the thought terrified her.  She always wanted better for her kids.  She wanted them to achieve, to have the opportunities she and their father never had, to be seen as they were, equal members of the human race.

              Reuben Senior spoke up, “woman,” he said, “we both know the boy ain’t much for the books,” he took a big gulp from his mug, “if he don’t wanna go, maybe we shouldn’t make him.”  Another gulp and he turned to his son and poked him hard in the chest, “but if you ain’t in no kinda school,” he warned, “you’re payin’ room and board!”

              The boy agreed, “of course Daddy,” he said breathlessly, “Mama can have all the money, just like always.”  He always turned over his entire weekly earnings to his mother for household expenses, often refusing her pleas that he take something, even a quarter for himself.  He added, expanding in his long-term plan, “anyway, it’s only ‘till I can get into the army and go into the war like you did, Daddy.”

              His father panicked in his whiskey fueled haze as memories of World War 1 trenches came flooding back faster than he could process them.  The gun fire, the filth, the rain and mud, the slop they passed off as food, and to top it off, the way black solders like him were treated like simple cannon fodder, pushed out to the front lines, never recognized for anything more than boots on the ground, it was all more than he could bear.  He didn’t want his son going through that.  Rage filled him, rage at every white superior that called him boy. Rage at every German that shot in his direction.  Rage at the impetuous, unwitting brat in front of him who had no real idea about the harsh realities of the world.  Before he knew it, his hand was up and he smacked the boy, hard, across the face, knocking him across the room and onto his ass, screaming, “shut up, boy, shut up!”

              Thea jumped between them, begging her husband to stop.

              Enraged and seeing nothing but the life his son would have if he chose the military, he shoved his wife out of the way, sending her into the stove.

              Young Rudy rose to his feet staring his father in the face for the first time in his life, cocked back his fist and punched his father in the jaw with all his might.  It was enough to send the man, now in his early forties and suffering more and more from his war wounds, not to mention the whiskey, stumbling.  “Never hit Mama again,” Rudy screamed, “never, or I will knock you out!”

              Thea took a seat, trying not to cry in front of her son.  Reuben Senior composed himself and looked at his son with a hard, critical eye.  He both loved and hated the child now.  He loved his resolve and strength.  He hated his resolve and strength.  He mostly hated that the boy had shown him up.

              Rudy knew nothing would ever be the same. He knew he couldn’t strike his father and expect to live in his home.  He looked at him and said in an apologetic tone, “Daddy, if I can collect my things, I think it’s best I go to Grannie’s.”

              Thea protested, but her husband overruled her, agreeing with his son.  The house was crowded as it was, and it gave him a quick opportunity to save at least a little dignity.  He agreed with the boy and said sharply, “you got 10 minutes and then I’ll kick you out by the ass!”

[sparksinthenight]

A story idea:

K I don’t have the time to actually write this, considering that I already have five WIPs. So if anyone has time and wants to write this, feel free.

Okay so it’s a historical fact that George Washington’s family was very racist, greedy, egotistical, exploitative, power-hungry, wealthy, powerful, etc. They owned slaves and we’re all-round scum. George himself was also all this. This is a historical fact. Watch RenegadeCut’s video about the Cult if Tradition if you’re want more information.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OwUIDNYwZRY

Okay so now the fiction comes in:

So the story starts when George’s mom is pregnant with him. His father has invested in some business ventures that are too risky for his likings - I don’t know enough about history to know why this would be at the time - and he stands to lose some of his obscene fortune. He can’t stand this and eventually his desire for money and also the power and status that come with money win out over his desire not to do anything too weird.

He follows a young poor woman to where she lives. There’s rumours of her being a witch because she lives out in the forest by herself without a man. But she’s also the best embroider there is and people really like her work so they keep her around. But anyways, Augustine (George’s dad) I’d hoping that she is a witch. Not in order to get the town to burn her but in order to blackmail her into doing magic for him. He has like a special copy of the bible given to him by a really sketchy priest with him that can help him detect witchcraft. He has it hidden.

The woman knows that he is following her, though he tries to be very secretive about it, and she confronts him immediately. He says that he is merely wanting to confirm that she isn’t doing some horrible witchy stuff or whatever and that he is merely trying to keep the town safe. She tries to get him to stop following her but he is really insistent. She recognizes that the power imbalance between them means she can’t do anything about him following her so she lets him.

It turns out that she lives in a small cottage that she found in the woods. Though he doesn’t know this yet, she is in fact a witch and also he helps slaves to escape. She sends out a magical message to the slaves hiding in her home that danger is coming and they should probably hide, so they hide in her cellar. Meanwhile Augustine, using the special bible, detects that she’s just used magic though he doesn’t know what magic she used.

So he calls her out in her witchcraft, shows her the proof, and she’s terrified. But he assures her that he will not tell anyone as long as she does what he says. She promises him that she will. And he commands her to see into the future to learn what is in store for his plantation.

She does so, and sees that there we’ll be great suffering for the many people who work on it, for generations upon generations to come. But she can’t really say that because even though she’s technically obeying him he’ll still get her killed if she says that. Instead she tells him that his profits will continue to improve and his bloodline will prosper. Not lies. But she really wants to stick it to him. She tells him that the first child born in his house February of this year will become a great leader and a hero whose honourable deeds would have effects for centuries to come. Augustine knows that his child is due in February and takes this as glorious news. But she knows that the first child born in the house in February will not be George. It will be a little black girl named Liberty (is that too in the nose?). She knows that Augustine never pays attention to the lives of his slaves and does not see them as people, so he won’t even notice that his maid is also pregnant. And of course he won’t pay any attention to a black girl.

So then we go to February. Towards the beginning of the month Liberty’s mother goes into labour and there is no-one around so she can’t get help and she gives birth on the cellar floor. It is a deeply traumatizing experience and terrifying and painful experience for her because she had no access to support or comfort or medical care or anything. Which obviously sucks, she deserves better, but stupid systems create injustice. But despite the traumatic birth, the girl is healthy and beautiful and she loves her immediately. It’s the middle of night by the time the child is born and there is incredible starlight, mirroring what happened when Jesus was was born. She gathers her strength and walks to her hut, to where her husband is, and they decide together to name the child Liberty.

So then we get to see George’s mother giving birth with a fictitious and a midwife and the best painkillers they had at the time, in her hugs and soft bed.

And we see both the children growing up. We see George being snobbish and racist and treating his slaves badly.

And we see Liberty being humble and kind and friendly to her fellow slaves. We see her suffering and doing child labour. But we also see her listening to the problems of her friends and family in the slave quarters, and offering them support and encouragement. We see her telling stories if hope and bravery and confidence go the younger kids, and even the older kids. She becomes a great storyteller, weaving tales of defying unbeatable odds, rising up against oppressors, showing silent, secret defiance, of showing compassion and togetherness and unity. And we see her living her ideals as much as we can. We see her stealing bits of extra food to share with her people when she could. We see her finding funny ways to secretly mock the masters. We see her lying cleverly to protect people from punishment. She is incredibly proud if her people. How they make it through the depths if hell by finding light in each other. How they try so hard to survive. Everything about them.

As George grows, he increased in his spoiled ness and his pride but also becomes charismatic and manipulative.

As Liberty grows, she only grows more protective and brave. She lives her people more than anything, and has inspired, helped, empowered, and even saved so many people. When she is fifteen she gets sold to another plantation. And that’s heartbreaking. She finds herself loving her new family of fellow slaves and supporting and sticking up for them just as much. She even draws attention to herself purposefully when the younger slaves mess up, so that the overseers’ wrath can be directed at her instead and they can be safe. People admire her for her selflessness and spirit. She admires then did their kindness, longing, community, wisdom, hope, the list goes on. They find hope in each other.

Liberty gets involved with the (well there wasn’t an Underground Railroad yet, but the equivalent) and she slaves run away to freedom. She never goes herself, knowing that if she stays on the plantation she can help many slaves become free. And she is hailed as a hero.

Eventually she is found out by the whites and hanged for all this. But before she dies she proclaims that they won’t be able to keep her people in inequality forever and that one day there will be justice. Then she dies. A whole bunch of black people see how she was defiant until the end. George Washington is in the crowd. He feels true fear for the first time in his life. For just a second.

And the truth is that with her humility, her selflessness, her pride and her ability to find power within an abjectly powerless situation, she positively impacted so many more lives than the president with his fame and his power and his glory ever did. She sowed the seeds of love, of hope, of true freedom, rather than the seeds of blind patriotism and capitalism and false freedom.

Sure, the president is the man that the history books remember, but his actions were based on selfishness, ego, and greed. He hijacked a revolution that should’ve been for and led by poor people and slaves. And he built the foundations of an empire that ended up being worse than the British one.  

It was the strength and the togetherness and the hope and the love and the ability to find bits of power in the most hopeless of situations, that all the slaves had, it was what built the foundations of true freedom in America. Every single slave was a necesssty key into opening true freedom. And Liberty played her part beautifully, inspiring hundreds of people to believe in their people, to fight for their people. Those people in torn found their own power and inspired other people, and so on and so forth.

And eventually the world that Liberty believed in triumphed over the world that George believed in.

[mimicofmodes]

Sanditon, episode 4 part ii

Arthur has fainted from sunstroke while taking a very hearty walk on the cliffs. Diana’s response is that he can no longer exercise and “must move only when it is essential.” Poor Diana! These ladies who found him have a few interesting things going on - the striped gown on the left was more like a 1790s open robe, and the bonnet on the right seems like a late 1840s type? But I do like the boldness of  the red ribbon on the left bonnet with the paleness of the gown.

The Misses Beaufort are well-dressed and well-coiffed for the period. Nice! I appreciate that time is taken even for these very minor characters that exist only to be inspid foils for Georgiana.

Sidney comes to Mrs. Griffiths’s to find Georgiana, and the ruse is unveiled!

Lady Denham is lecturing Sir Edward about getting married to a wealthy woman, and Esther and Clara exchange significant looks. This is obviously about what she saw earlier and the power it gives her over the Denhams, but may a bitch not read sexual tension into every set of exchanged glances? May a bitch not nominate this work of fiction for Yuletide in order to write Clara/Esther? “Could it be that no man will ever measure up to Edward?” Clara asks to goad her when Lady Denham rails about Esther not even trying to get married. “That’s a fair question, I grant you,” says Edward in all seriousness. (Lady Denham, who has been meaner and meaner to Clara through this whole series, whips out the emotional abuse, telling her that she’s so much more agreeable when she smiles and says nothing. This does help to make the machinations over her money in her will less morally concerning.)

Otis explains to Charlotte that he was born in Africa and taken to the West Indies as a slave, then freed and educated, which is why he’s a member of the Sons of Africa, an abolition society. Charlotte is floored because she thinks “slavery is consigned to history” ... it’s really nice to have someone point out that “enlightened” English people of the time benefited enormously by the slavery practiced overseas, but it’s hard to believe that Charlotte is really so stupid she doesn’t know that slavery still existed in the Americas and Caribbean. Georgiana then tells her that Sidney made money from slaves in Antigua somehow, which floors her again.

It all has the effect of making Charlotte not butt in when G and Otis go for their goodbye kiss. She even offers to help G take a back way home so they won’t be seen, and apologizes for her initial coldness, and when G suggests that Sidney doesn’t want her to marry Otis because he’s black, she looks like she’s not sure but certainly doesn’t argue that that can’t be true.

Clara claims to need help turning pages in order to get Esther alone, then taunts her with a thinly veiled discussion of tempo, calling herself semplice (simple), Esther agitato (agitated), and Edward lusingando (coaxing, tender), forza (forceful), or passionato (passionate), and Esther storms out. It seems a bit stupid of Clara to not just say, “I know what’s going on, leave me alone or I spill the beans,” because Esther strikes me as someone who will poison, strangle, or drown someone who pushes her far enough.

Charlotte does impressions of Mrs. Griffiths and Sidney, and they’re GREAT. But of course, due to the law of imitating someone else in a show, Sidney appears behind her and is angry at her disrespect and inability to chaperone Georgiana. He commands that Georgiana be under even tighter supervision, and splits up the couple.

I didn’t notice before, but Otis’s waistcoat is reasonably close in color to Georgiana’s outfit.

We get a confrontation between Sidney and Charlotte (loud! in the middle of the street!): he’s angry that she’s "making judgments about a situation [she doesn’t] understand” because she hasn’t known G and Otis long enough, and this is all probably a deliberate parallel with Pride and Prejudice again. Both because this is reminiscent of the bit where Mr. Darcy gets annoyed with Elizabeth after his first, disastrous proposal re: Jane’s happiness and Mr. Wickham, and the whole “younger sister figure called Georgiana, romance she’s not supposed to have,” etc. Sidney thinks she “find[s] it impossible to judge between the truth and [her] own opinion,” but he doesn’t offer any of the truth himself, so it rings very hollow. Sidney is a rude man and a bad guardian, by Regency and modern standards - he has been verbally dismissive of Charlotte for very little reason from day one, he’s neglected Georgiana and not shown her a moment of real kindness ... he is not a Fitzwilliam Darcy. He actually shouts in her face when she accuses him of having money tainted by slavery, which does shock him enough to stop fighting with her. 

(Stringer, wearing a very ugly hat, sees what’s happening but doesn’t push in. Which I guess is reasonable given the issue that Sidney is the brother of his employer and a gentleman, but I’m afraid I will have to dock a point or two for not stepping in to defend Charlotte.)

Clara now suddenly tries to commiserate with Esther as though she’s suffering unwanted advances from her brother, which seems an odd tack given that she was just kind of taunting her ... Esther agrees that it’s weird, because she likes banging her (step-)brother. Clara suggests that she find herself a husband, because she’s not going to have a happy future with him, sort of echoing Lady Denham’s cross comment to her at the beginning of the episode about nothing lasting forever (applied, at the time, to Clara always being her companion).

Cuties! She complains to Stringer about how some people are just disagreeable even when you break through their outer disagreeable layers, and he smiles and says she’s not afraid to speak her mind. What a contrast to some unnamed persons! “I wouldn’t wish for you to change. Not for the world.” MARRY THE GIRL, DOCTOR.

Esther pleads with Sir Edward to go away with her to the continent and leave the money to be picked up by Clara, but he sighs and says they can’t and they’ll both have to get married. Yep, Clara was right. She keeps up the icy exterior, but after he leaves, she bursts into ugly, silent tears. :(

Sidney couldn’t get any of the London banks to give Tom more money, and points out that he should live within his means to save. Tom sort of crumples internally, which I get. He’s built his whole life on the idea that he’s going to turn Sanditon into a Destination and reap the rewards, and when you get to the point where you realize that your determination is not going to solve things, it’s a blow. Sidney does apologize, to his credit.

He then runs into Charlotte in the hall, and her hair is up? It’s very nice to see but I have to wonder why they chose this of all times to do it.

And Tom gives his wife that necklace as (a continuation of his issues with lying to his wife, and) “a promise of things to come,” a promise which will hopefully pan out. It’ll be very painful if it doesn’t.

[thenightling]

Dracula The Vampire’s “Origin”

Now that Hotel Transylvania 3 and Castlevania have popularized two very distinctly different incarnations of Dracula there has been some question to what his origin is.  Well, there are several answers.   This post will discuss some of them, including some favorites and some... not so favorites.

There are many contemporary stories on how Vladislaus Drakulya (archaic: Wladislaus Dragulya) AKA Vlad III (the third) of Wallachia AKA Vlad Țepeș ( Țepeș means The impaler) became the vampire of Bram Stoker’s famous novel.

(Continue reading under the cut.)

First... Vlad the Impaler:

The first implication that Dracula’s backstory is that if Vlad the Impaler comes from the novel itself. “He must indeed be the Voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk.” - Doctor Abraham Van Helsing in the novel Dracula by Bram Stoker.

Vlad the Impaler never answered to Țepeș as that literally just means ”Impaler.”  He called himself Vladislaus Drakulya (Dracula) because of his and his father’s membership to The order of the Dragon.  In modern Romanian Dracula means son of the Devil but in the fifteenth century it meant Son of the Dragon or Little Dragon.  The root word was the Latin Draco.

This was his chosen surname as a means to distance himself from the cousins whom he blamed for his father and older brother’s deaths. 

The first people to call him Vlad The Impaler were The Ottoman Turks, who were his sworn enemy, as they had held him and his brother, Raduk prisoner as children, and later demanded tribute of gold and boy slaves (which Dracula would not abide). The Ottomans called him Kaziklu Bey meaning (Impaler Prince or Impaler Lord).  This later evolved to the Romanian Țepeș but only after Vlad’s death. 

Though Dracula, the vampire, can grow older or younger (based on how much blood he consumes in the novel) it would seem his “base” (default or youngest) age is about forty-five or forty-six-years-old, the age Vlad the Impaler would have been at the time of his mortal death in late 1476 or early 1477.

Further comment: There is NO lore where the vampiric Dracula’s fangs are “straws.”   Often he is described as not only craving blood and needing it to maintain his strength, but also enjoying the taste. This would be exceedingly difficult to savor if he’s slurping up the blood with his teeth-straws. (God, that idea is so stupid...)   As far as I know he still uses the human digestive tract but burns all the components of the blood and therefore does not produce waste and this is why he “does not sup” (quote from the novel), as his body probably cannot process human food.

Many people got “bored” with the idea of Count Dracula being the historic Vlad the Impaler so they latched on to the historical inaccuracies of the novel, and the fact that the name was chosen late into the writing of the novel, as proof to argue that the vampire was not him, or they would pretend it was another relation of Vlad the Impaler even though Vlad the Impaler is the only Voivode (General or Warrior Prince) who won his name against the Turks.  And he chose his own surname of Dracula because he resented his own cousins, whom he held accountable for his father’s death.  Vlad The Impaler’s father answered to Dracul.  The “a” at the end is important as it implies “Son of”.

The fictional story by Bram Stoker loosely implies that after his death in 1476 (or early 1477) the historic Dracula rose from his grave as the infamous vampire.  There is no specific story in the original Stoker novel explaining how Dracula became the vampire, only a vague reference to his possible attendance of Scholomance (Folkloric school of magic.  Think darker Hogwarts.)

Many recent (within the last thirty years) fictions came up with stories to explain how Dracula became a vampire.

Examples of modern origin ideas:

The 1992 film Bram Stoker’s Dracula claims he renounced God after he was told his wife was probably damned for committing suicide.  He then... stabbed a giant stone cross that bled and during his tantrum he drank the blood that poured out...  I like the movie but I’m not a fan of this origin for the vampire, I tend to ignore that part when watching the movie.

The film Dracula 2000 took another extreme approach and claimed Dracula was Judas.   Claiming that this is why he’s repulsed by silver (since he was paid in silver) and why he’s weaker by day (because he hung himself at dusk), and why he is repulsed by crosses. I don’t really like this version because it ignores all the events of Vlad the Impaler’s very obviously human life pre-vampirism. It’s also weird to imply that a Middle Eastern Jewish man somehow became an early renaissance Romanian Eastern (Greek) Orthodox who later converted to Catholicism.  

 I don’t think this particular origin is clever at all as it’s used far too often.  It became a trend to make Dracula or the first vampire into a Biblical figure.

Note: Dracula is NOT the longest lived / oldest vampire in the lore of the Bram Stoker novel.  That is never claimed.  He’s just a powerful vampire.  The idea that he is the king of the vampires was invented in the films and or is a self-given title.

Anyway, thanks to Dracula 2000 a trend started. DC Comics decided to attempt making Cain the first vampire during New 52, and the 2013 film Dracula: The Dark Prince (2013 film not to be confused with Dark Prince: The True Story of Dracula, which is a far superior film, or even the Hammer Dracula: Prince of Darkness.) had it that Dracula was Abel and only a descendant of Cain could kill him... for some reason...  Honestly, I got tired of the idea of Dracula being a Biblical figure really quickly as this was just a result of people being “bored” with the idea of him being Vlad the Impaler post-Death.     The TV show Dracula (2013) that aired on NBC (not to be confused with the more enjoyable 1990 TV series of the same name), claimed that Dracula was turned into a vampire by The Order of The Dragon after they murdered his wife, to punish him for putting science before religion.   As... You know... it totally makes sense to turn your enemy into a powerful immortal who can rip your throats out...  (I’m not a fan of this show AT ALL!)  

The film Dark Prince: The True Story of Dracula (2000) told a slightly loose retelling of the historic Dracula’s life story and implied that he became a vampire because he was murdered as in many old legends someone with unfinished business or whom was murdered (or commited suicide) might return as a vampire.

The film Dracula: Untold (2014) told an even looser (and far less respectful) version of the historic Dracula’s backstory.  (I feel Dark Prince: The True Story of Dracula did it better).  This one had an ancient vampire hiding out in a cave transform Vlad into his heir by feeding him his blood.  A human victim being fed the blood of a vampire is a common method of vampiric transformation in modern fiction.  Anne Rice uses it, and in the original Dracula novel by Bram Stoker, Mina had described being forcibly fed Dracula’s blood.    

The graphic novel series called Dracula: The Company of Monsters indicated that much like in Stoker’s novel, Dracula practiced Magick during his human life, and that the mixture of honey and herbs used to preserve his head when it was delivered to the Sultan of the Ottoman empire, was actually part of an arcane process (that he orchestrated to bring about his own vampiric immortality.    

The manga and anime Hellsing (and Hellsing OVA Ultimate) gives yet another origin and it’s one of the few to remember he had been decapitated during or after his assassination.  

The Castlevania video game franchise gave yet another origin to Dracula. Also note that Lords of Shadow is considered an AU (Alternate universe).  I’m not a big fan of this origin though I love the current Castlevania animated series on Netflix.   Despite what some viewers have theorized, yes, in the franchise he was originally human.  He was not born a vampire. Don’t expect any historical accuracy in Castlevania but it does have a great portrayal of Dracula, nevertheless. 

   Also note:  He bites a major artery.  No need for illogical and idiotic “straw” (I still can’t get over that there are people on Tumblr who like that idea) teeth.  You rupture the carotid artery and there will be a major torrent of blood and probable death. I’m sorry for harping on this but I still can’t grasp that there are people who “Like” the stupid fan idea that vampire teeth are straws.  Go home, you anatomically-confused children of mosquitos.  

Favorite origin for Dracula:

There are many recent stories invented to tell the origin of Dracula the vampire.   But my personal favorite is the one told in Fred Saberhagen’s Dracula book series.  Fred Saberhagen’s Dracula books (Sometimes called the New Tales of Dracula or The New Dracula, or The Dracula sequence) retell the novel Dracula from Dracula’s point of view and then tell further adventures.  It entails ten novels starting with The Dracula Tape and three short stories.  The sixth book in the series is called “A Matter of Taste” and it includes Dracula’s vampiric origin.

The story covers his death in historically accurate and graphic detail but after his death his body (and severed head) are retrieved by loyalists who spirit away his body and severed head (leaving behind a fallen soldier who resembled him).  They tend to his body for burial and as they do the candles keep going out and the head seems to be re-attaching to the neck.  Growing nervous they hastily bury him at a crossroads with the intention of retrieving him later for a proper burial.  The head of the false Dracula corpse was delivered to the Sultan in 1477, matching the historic record.   

After some time Dracula heals in this grave and rises as a vampire.  Where most vampires are created via a blood exchange in this book series (a human bitten and then drinking the blood of a vampire) Dracula claims to have never been bitten by another vampire, nor did he drink another vampire’s blood, making him unusual to the other vampires of the book series. 

He convinces himself it was a transition of will that he refused to die and so became the vampire but the reality is he actually has no idea how it happened and I kind of like that a lot. 

 It’s an explanation and a non-explanation while being respectful to the history and not undoing or changing any of the events of the human man’s life.  It just deals with posthumous unlife.

Also, contrary to popular modern beliefs, Dracula does have a soul in the original Bram Stoker novel and the heroes even became convinced they could save him (spiritually) after Mina scolded them about talking about Hell.  She said the better part of him might still be saved and ascend and that he should be pitied.  At the end of the novel they were relieved by the look of peace on his face when they destroyed him, implying that yes, despite all that he had done as a vampire, yes, he had been forgiven and had gone on to Heaven.

Fred Saberhagen also had an interesting theory as to why symbols of faith hurt vampires.  He believed it was psychosomatic.  That a vampire is easily influenced by the beliefs of those around him because his is naturally psychic he’ll pick up on the beliefs of those around him and if a believe is strong enough it can plant a suggestion that has a physical manifestation.  This also accounts for why you need faith for the symbol to actually work in such films as Fright Night (original 1985 film). 

An interesting thing to note is that in 1931, when they really dug up where Vlad the Impaler was supposed to have been buried, all they found were animal bones.  

In the book and documentary (narrated by Christopher Lee) “In Search of Dracula” it was suggested that his body may have been relocated to under the altar of the chapel where he had been buried.   This remains unconfirmed.  

[mst3kproject]

Mole Men Against the Son of Hercules

Mole Men and dudes in loincloths?  Gosh, what more could an MST3K blog possibly want?

Our hero is Machestes (pronounced either Majestic or My Chest Grease, depending on who’s saying it), who is out seeking adventure and righting wrongs, or whatever it is he does, when he comes upon a beach where some soldiers are getting their butts kicked by people in white fun fur.  My Chest Grease fights off the fur people, but he’s too late to save the soldiers. Instead, he has to get the story from the last survivor back at their village – the Hideous Mole Men took a few people prisoner and slaughtered the rest!

Naturally, My Chest Grease isn’t going to stand for that. His next foray against the Mole Men manages to free a captive named Bangor, an even buffer, oilier dude who wears an even shorter skirt.  Bangor guides him to the valley where the Mole Men keep their horses, and the two infiltrate the underground caverns through the simple means of pretending to be asleep and letting the Mole Men capture them.  Once inside, they learn that not only are the villagers being kept as slaves, Princess Salleira is going to be sacrificed on the upcoming full moon!

The Mole Men are very disappointing.  Under their amusing fun fur hats and wooden horns, which make them look like they’re trying to cosplay Where the Wild Things Are, they’re just ordinary guys who’ve been cursed to wither away to dust if they go out in the sun.  Those aren’t Mole Men, those are just Pale Day Players!  They even execute criminals in the same way the Albino Sumerians did, by exposing them to the sunlight.

I’ve seen a lot of shitty day-for-night since I began this blog.  So much, in fact, that I rarely talk about it anymore – there’s only so much I can say about it before it gets boring.  I feel the need to bring it up here, though.  Mole Men Against the Son of Hercules still isn’t quite as bad as Godzilla vs Mechagodzilla but it’s right up there with Attack of the The Eye Creatures… and like Attack of the The Eye Creatures, it’s made extra-obnoxious by the fact that the Mole Men’s weakness is sunlight!  It’s impossible not to observe that they spend an awful lot of time in the sunshine for beings who will supposedly die when it touches them, and it takes you out of the movie every time.  You can see blue sky in half the shots, for crying out loud.

I’ve been trying to find a place in reviews to say something nice about a movie no matter how bad that movie is, but Mole Men Against the Son of Hercules is very short on redeeming qualities.  Everything about it is just bad.  Bad photography, bad acting, bad costumes, cruelty to animals, you name it.  It’s far too long, with ‘plot twists’ that are utterly predictable and dull.  The good guys wear stock loincloths and never show evidence of any sort of culture, whereas the bad guys are a bizarre amalgam of Egyptian, Mayan, and Vegas Revue.  There’s a bit where a line of horses are tripped by a rope, and I can only hope they got the shot they wanted on the first take.  The worst thing about the movie, however, is its characters and storytelling choices, which are often not only bad but downright offensive.

Take, for example, Bangor.  He’s the first black character we meet in the movie. After laying low while My Chest Grease fights off the Mole Men who have captured him, Bangor immediately lays down at his savior’s feet and declares that he will be his slave forever out of gratitude for saving his life.  He continues to behave like My Chest Grease’s servant even after the other man insists that he doesn’t believe in slavery, and the story emphasizes repeatedly that Bangor may be strong but he’s not very bright – when forced to fight My Chest Grease, Bangor knocks himself out attempting to headbutt him!

The second black character is Tulak, one of Mole Queen Halismuya’s handmaidens.  Black people in this movie are slaves and servants.  Even when they are taking an active part in the plot, they don’t do things for themselves but only in order to help and further the heroism of the white characters.  Based on the dialogue one gets the impression that the characters aren’t intended to be racist but the writers sure were, and it is gross.

Then there’s Queen Halismuya herself, who dreams of seeing the sun (and of My Chest Grease’s rock-hard glutes, but that’s less romantic). Most of the Mole Men are just random white guys made to look whiter by slathering them in Observer makeup, but Halismuya is Romani actress Moira Orfei, whom we saw as the Queen of the Amazons in The Loves of Hercules.  She’s treated as some exotic bauble instead of a human being, and her character is cruel, despotic, and a voyeuristic sexual sadist. She orders Bangor and My Chest Grease to fight each other to the death because watching it turns her on, later tries to have My Chest Grease crushed with stone slabs for the same reason, and makes potential suitors prove their worth by cage-fighting a guy in a monkey costume.  This sexualization of violence is another thing in Mole Men Against the Son of Hercules that’s just really icky.

The monkey cage fight is at least the funniest thing in the movie.  The suit looks like a Hallowe’en costume version of the Australopithecines from 2001: A Space Odyssey and you can see the actor’s eyes and mouth moving behind the mask.  There’s also one bit I really like, where the actor hangs onto the bars of the cage with his hands while using his feet to strangle My Chest Grease, which is one of the most believably simian things I’ve ever seen from an actor in a costume.  Points for that bit, at least.

Halismuya and her slaves, who are all from different conquered peoples, are the only Mole Women we see in the movie.  I kept thinking this was going to be a plot point, especially after we learn that Halismuya herself was kidnapped from another tribe as a child to introduce some sun-resistant genes into the bloodline, but it never was.

The people who are supposedly the main characters are entirely devoid of interest, because we know nothing about them and their relationships.  My Chest Grease arrives in the movie on a raft, just as his counterpart did in Colossus and the Headhunters, but we have even less idea what the hell he’s doing there.  All the people he meets seem to know who he is and greet him by name, but I don’t think he’s actually part of this small community because surely if he were he wouldn’t have to be introduced to people like Bangor and Salleira.  Why does he decide to help these people, besides just because he’s The Hero?

Bangor and Tulak seem to have some history together but we have only the vaguest idea what it is.  Their dialogue suggests that they’re from a different culture than the white villagers but if so there’s no clarification of how Bangor ended up as Salleira’s bodyguard – if that’s even what the was doing, because that’s not clear either.

Princess Salleira is never introduced to us as a character we ought to care about.  We don’t know her or her family.  Calling her ‘princess’ serves as a shorthand way of telling us she needs to be rescued without actually having to bother with who she is.  She is a mere MacGuffin, the equivalent of the suitcase in Pulp Fiction with lipstick on.  She spends most of the movie hiding in a sacred grotto, mostly forgotten by the characters and completely forgotten by the audience.  I kind of want to call her a sexy lamp, but she’s not even that, because she’s never presented as sexy – thank goodness, since I think she’s supposed to be about fourteen or fifteen years old.  She’s just a lamp.

The movie behaves as if Halismuya has redeemed herself by sparing My Chest Grease’s life and declaring that seeing the sun means more to her than all her power and riches, but she’s still a tyrant who has wiped out entire civilizations simply out of jealousy that they can get a tan and she can’t.  It’s gonna take one more than one act of mercy and a declaration of love to make us forget that.  Especially when even after she’s supposed to have become sympathetic, she still chains up and tortures Bangor to make him tell her where My Chest Grease and Salleira are!

The ending sucks.  Halismuya learns of her true ancestry and gets to see the sun for the first time, only to stumble over a cliff while gazing at a rainbow.  I guess this is supposed to be ironic.  It’s just kind of stupid and denies her the full redemption the movie wanted her to have.

I never really cared about what was going on this whole story, and it’s mostly because I never knew what any of these characters really wanted.  Why is My Chest Grease saving these people?  What good are the Mole Men’s diamonds when they have nobody to trade with?  Why do the Mole Men want to sacrifice Princess Salleira and why do they forget about it immediately after she’s rescued?  The whole thing is a mess and nobody seems to do anything for any reason other than because that’s their role in the movie: Hero, Damsel, Evil Queen, Black Sidekick, Villainous Priest.  It sucks, but not in the fun kind of way that the title made me hope.  Were it not for Paul Wynter’s glistening deltoids I probably would have fallen asleep.

[dramaqueeenamby]

The Tulips Are Too Red

A/N: So, I have a favor to ask of you all. Sooooo many of you have shared such kind words with me, sending encouragement my way in regards to my writing. Many of you even believe that I could be published my day. That still gets to me. 

Anyway, here’s the thing, before I ventured into writing BP fics, I created a completely fictional story that I planned to post on Wattpad once I finished the other stories on there. Well, that never happened. I was working on chapters, getting up to three done but stopped as I was busy with other Wattpad fics. However, you guys have really got me thinking about my writing and just future in general.

So, I’m posting one of the chapters that I’ve written in the hopes that you guys will let me know your honest opinion of it. If it’s shitty, please say so. Constructive criticism will only make me better as a writer. 

Also, as I was rereading it, I realized that I could really turn this into a BP fanfic as well, a T’Challa x OC story once I finish up the rest of the fics that I’m juggling. 

Okay. I’ll shut up and allow you to read. I also won’t tag anyone because this is far from what you’re used to seeing from me.

----

It Is Winter Here

Chapter 1

It is Winter Here.

There are exactly twenty-four hours in a day. In minutes, that number grows to 1,440, and in seconds, it’s a whopping 86,400. Most people don’t think about stuff like that. Time. Unless they’re wondering how much they have left before they can clock off and go home to their adoring wife who’s been slaving over a stove all day. Or maybe their kids who’ve been home alone since they got out of school doing God knows what with God knows who. Other than those scenarios, and maybe a few more, like I said, hardly ever cross the mind.

But I’m not most people.

I tend to think about these things. I think about a lot of things actually. Like how long Craig plans to grow out his hair, or if Tammy will ever realize that that infomercial with claims of a one hundred percent success rate is based on a trial of exactly five participants, four of them, paid ‘volunteers’. I also notice a lot of things. Most of which, again, people are never privy to because of their supercilious concerns.

Like I said.

Not most people.

I watch her, not even attempting to hide my suspicious stare. She’s been sitting in the same spot for over an hour, a People magazine in hand and expensive shades over her eyes. To anyone else, she’s just another patron with plenty of time to spare. To me, she’s a hawk. No one reads the same magazine for an hour straight, especially one with a Kardashian on the cover.

“For someone who literally needs someone to wipe his ass, this guy is one hell of a di*k.” I look over at Candi who has been reading for roughly thirty minutes and is almost halfway through with the 400-page novel. “He sounds cute though. At least, the way she describes him makes him sound cute.”

“So you’d take him to the shop?” Zaria shifts in her seat, eyes staying on the photographic book in her lap. She’s had the same one for over an hour.

Candi giggles and lifts her left shoulder. “He could own the shop.” I roll my eyes and tap my nails against the mahogany wood armrest of my spacious chair. “Candi likes being on top anyway.”

“Candi likes all positions.” I chime, finally throwing in my two cents.

She sighs loudly and flips her blonde locks over a naturally tanned shoulder. “I’m a lover, Nova. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh I think you have enough to give for the three of us, Candi Cane.” I wink and return my eyes to the woman in question. I squeeze the solid chair, ignoring the pressure it puts on my weak nails. She still has that same damn magazine and has again started from the first page, looking over the front cover like she doesn’t already have the scandalous image and cliched caption memorized.

“Guys.” Zaria’s voice brings me back to reality as she pulls down the sleeves of her white shirt. There’s no need for her to do so, but it’s a habit of hers. “It’s time.”

Sure enough, Pat is only feet away from us, that stupid rehearsed smile on his droopy face.

“Already.” Candi pouts and puts her arms in front of her, hands in between her thighs, her busty chest on full display. “But I’m almost done.”

Pat offers a strained smile, chubby fingers going up to adjust his thick-rimmed glasses. “Why don’t you just buy the book, Candi?”

She tilts her head to the side and deepens her pout. “I already spent my allowance.”

“On?” When she smiles wickedly, his Adam's apple moves up and then down. “Candi.”

“Oh relax, Patty.” She giggles again and chews on her bottom lips, untangling her long legs and rising to her full height. “What kind of girl do you think I am?” She pulls out a southern accent and pulls a finger to her mouth, pretending to think. “Or is it woman?”

“I wanna buy mine,” Zaria informs, also standing up, looking like a lost child next to Candi’s lengthy frame. “Nova?”

I get up, taking Candi’s book and placing it on top of mine. “Yeah. Let’s go.” Zaria pulls her sleeves down again and tucks the book under her arm, walking in front of me, leaving poor Pat to deal with Candi while we complete this transaction.

On our way to the registers, I look back and see that the Hawk is walking out, stuffing the magazine in her black Hamilton bag.

She can’t be stealing. It’s a possibility, but judging by the tennis bracelet on her wrist and that rock on her ring finger, stealing seems rather out of character. No. The magazine is clearly hers. I wiggle my fingers and fix my jaw.

Who in the hell comes to a bookstore to read a magazine they already own?

Like I said, hawk.

✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻

The car ride back is long, bumpy, and crowded. The van, overdue for some serious improvements or a junking, has a strong odor. It’s not vomit inducing, but its stench will leave you crinkling your nose when you first get a waft. In the second row, seatbelt stretched and clutching onto a protruding chest, Candi engages in conversation with the driver.

He’s new, probably a tempt, and after a car ride with Candi Wallace, this will be his last time filling in.

“It’s so beautiful.” Zaria murmurs to my left, her tiny fingers and raggedy nails trailing over a portrait of the grand canyon. “The view from the top must be breathtaking.”

I give the picture a few seconds of my time, for her sake. It is nice, but nature has never really stood out to me. Too many elements that I can’t control. “Maybe one day you can take your own picture. That one, I’d maybe even frame.”

Aside from a small smile, she says nothing.

The rest of the ride is filled with Candi’s musing and Pat’s occasional business calls. When we pull up, the driver and Pat flash ID’s; the guard peaks his head in the car to make sure that everything checks out.

After Candi flashes him a wink and places her index finger in her mouth, he gives her a one-over and lets us in.

“He wants me.” She mouths to us and then giggles, clapping her hands together and resuming her goal of bugging the driver. When we pull up to the entrance, she’s the first one out, blowing him a kiss and happily waving. “Call me.”

“Maybe,” I add on, smiling when she shoots me a glare. “I couldn’t help.”

“Jealousy really isn’t becoming of you, Nova.” She raises her chin and saunters through the automatic doors, switching her hips and uttering variations of hello to everyone she passes.

“You gotta admit.” Zaria starts, keeping her book clutched against her chest. “She’s fun to be around.”

I look over my shoulder to see Pat watching us closely. He’s so annoying.

I roll my eyes. “My lady, you and I have very different definitions of fun.” Swinging my arm around her shoulder is easy as we’re roughly the same height. I think I have an inch on her, maybe even less.

She laughs, and I crack a small smile. Those are becoming more prevalent by the day. It’s a stark contrast from our first meeting where she woke me up out of my sleep with screams and sobs that were only silenced by a heavy sedative.

We’ve come a long way.

“Ladies.” Pat interrupts. I suppress my eye roll.

As always, Candi is the first to volunteer. Smiling happily, she keeps her arms up wide and legs spread perfectly. “It’s new.” She informs happily when the man reaches her chest and pouts when he says nothing in reference to Candi’s new bra. When he’s done, Candi mouths ‘as*hat’ to us, and I put myself in front of the man before he gets a chance to call on Zaria.

With a bored face, I let him do his job, sending a glare when he keeps his hands on my as* for too long.

Creep.

When it comes to Zaria’s turn, I take her book from her, sending her a reassuring grin. She doesn’t return my gesture, but I’m okay with that. Her eyes say thanks. That’s enough for me.

Any sign of trust from Zaria is enough for me.

My glare stays on the jerk the entire time. I watch his every movement, waiting for him to try something with her. When he gets to her chest, I feel fingers move about, fighting the urge to ball my fist. I can literally see the discomfort on her part. She’s literally counting the seconds until he moves his hands anywhere else. I don’t know if he can tell that I’m willing to have my level 5 access revoked or if he senses the ardent apprehension radiating from her, but he keeps it short and professional. As soon as he’s done, she’s back by me, reaching for her book.

“Well, he was a meanie,” Candi comments as we wait for Pat to put the key in the panel right next to the elevator.

“Too touchy feely for my liking,” I reply loud enough so Pat can hear. He says nothing. Neither does Zaria. The rest of the elevator ride is in silence aside from Candi humming “Oops! I Did It Again.”

When we finally reach our floor, the three of us stand outside the elevator for our evaluation.

“Well, you ladies seemed to have done rather well today.” Pat smiles, the fat on his face parallel with the rolls that make up his neck. “If you’d like, we can try again next week.” I yawn, wishing that I could just walk away. I’d risk losing my clearance for Zaria or even Candi, but not myself.

Someone has to keep these two from extending their bid.

“Tomorrow the group outing is to the aquarium.” He smiles fondly like this is the best news we’ve heard all day. One glance to a somewhat excited Zaria makes me realize that for her, it probably is. “I think you all would have a fine time.”

“I wanna show off my new bra. I’m game.” Candi grabs her boobs, lifting them with a wink and a smile. “Nova?”

I can literally think of a million things that I’d rather do than spend a day at the aquarium, but one look at Zaria, and I know my decision has already been made for me.

“I guess a day with Happy Feet won’t be too bad.” What I want to say is it won’t kill me, but around here, there are just some words you want to try and avoid. Kill being one of them. It’s for good reason though.

Even I’m not too much of an as*hole to admit that.

✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻

For dinner, we had chicken lasagna with mixed vegetables, garlic bread,  and apple pie for dessert. If it sounds magically delicious, you’re magically wrong.

The chicken was bland, the vegetables cold, and the garlic bread might have left me with some cracked teeth. The apple pie was decent, but nothing to brag about. I shouldn’t complain. Yesterday we had beef casserole.

Majority of my plate ended up in the trash.

“He was cute though, right?” Candi brushes through her hair, that dazed look in her eyes. That can only mean one thing. She’s already been given her nighttime dosage. “Of course he was. I only fu*k with the best.”

Zaria, fresh-faced, arms out and exposed in her short-sleeved shirt and blue Soffee shorts, offers a small laugh. “He must have been close to forty Candi.”

“And I thought you only liked ballers?” I wondered aloud from my position on Zaria’s bed. Next to me, she continues to admire the pictures in her book.

“Well, duh. I need a middleman to get to him.” She says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, moving her shoulders from side to side, admiring her reflection. “I think my tits are getting bigger.”

“Your tits or your ego?”

She glares through the mirror and then pouts. “Boo, you whore.”

Zaria frowns. “You know I don’t like that word.”

“You don’t like anything, Zaria.” Candi rolls her eyes.

“Better than liking everything.” Zaria shoots back with a sly smile. I high five her, much to Candi’s chagrin. “If you catch my drift.”

“You guys are mean.” She stomps her feet and resumes brushing her hair.

When Zaria yawns, I realize her that her Clonezepam has already kicked in. Her lids are heavy, and she moves to put her book up.

“Uh oh. I think someone is sweepy.” She says in a baby voice and moves to pinch Zaria’s cheek, but Zaria swats her hand away. Candi laughs and sits on the bed, giving her a half hug. “Night, ladybug.” She kisses her cheek and brushes the top of her head.“You know I’m right down the hall if ya’ need me, sugar.”

“And I’m right next door,” I add on, lightly punching her on the arm. “Sleep tight, kid.”

“Thanks, guys.” She smiles gratefully, getting up at the same time we do so she can pull back the covers. She doesn’t even care that the horizontal lines on the inside of her thighs from not even two years ago are on full display. In the privacy of her room, even with Candi and I, Zaria is true to be herself.

We all are.

Candi yawns loudly with outstretched arms. “I’m wiped.”

“Doesn’t take much.” I chuckle, but hug her side. “Good night Candi Cane.”

She smiles brightly, her pearly whites distracting the small mole on the right side of her chin. “Night, babycakes.” I don’t even react as she squeezes my butt. I simply shake my head and walk over to my door.

I stop when I go to turn the handle, noticing the light peaking through the bottom of the door.

Smirking, I walk in and shut it behind me.

“Can I help you with something?”

He’s sitting on the green, faux leather chair in the corner of my room. I narrow my eyes, wishing that I could wipe that smug grin off his chiseled face. He leans forward, his green scrubs a contrast against his sun-kissed skin, the short sleeves clinging against solid muscle.

“I’m here for night check.”

I chuckle, purposely taking my time as I make my way over to him. “Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you Mr..,” I look over at the badge on his shirt. “Collins, but I have level 5 access. I don’t need a night check.” My body is jolted forward, my knees immediately separating so that I’m straddling him. “This is highly unprofessional and extremely inappropriate.” I moan as one hand goes to stroke my already hardened nipple and the other slips into my shorts.

He mimics my chuckle, satisfied when he feels the wetness already pooling from my core. “I’ve seen your records, Ms. Young.” He stands us up, his hand still in my shorts, teasingly running his finger up and down my folds. “Breaking rules is your specialty.”

I look down at him, his blue eyes holding nothing but pent up lust. Using my index finger, I run my finger down his cheek, parting his mouth and tugging on his bottom lip.

“Then what are you waiting for, Doctor?”

With a guttural growl, he throws me on the bed. I don’t think I need to tell you what happened next.

Two hours later, he’s long gone, and I’m out like a light.

Just another typical day at Lakeshore Mental Hospital.

[goforwardgreenwriter-blog]

The Worm Reads: Empire of Storms, Ch 32 - 33

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Aedion had been up half the night, debating the merits of every possible place to meet his father.

I am such a sucker for good parent/child relationships in fiction (extra bonus points if it’s adopted parents/child relationship) but honestly Assdion needs to stay the fuck away.

Beforehand Assdion put Lysandra to bet after she shifted back from some other form.

[Aedion] flipped back the crisp cotton sheets with one hand and then laid [Lysandra] down, her once-again long hair covering her high, firm breasts. So much smaller than the ones he’d first seen her with. He didn’t care what size they were—they were beautiful in both forms.

Uhhh does SJM not get how creepy this sounds? Lysandra is asleep and Aedion is staring at her boobs thinking about how beautiful they are?? God damnit SJM just stick to erotica if your characters are gonna be horny 24/7.

Lysandra made [Aedion] change out of his dirty travel clothes, barged into Aelin and Rowan’s room wearing no more than her own bedsheet, and took whatever she wanted from the Fae Prince’s armoire. Aelin’s barked Get out! was likely heard from across the bay, and Lysandra was smirking with feline wickedness as she returned, chucking the green jacket and pants at him.

This sounds like the beginning of a college fic where all the characters live in the same dorm. Not a fucking epic fantasy series constantly compared to LOTR. Tolkien must be rolling in his grave.

Dorian stirred, a cool breeze fluttering in as if his magic awoke as well, squinted at them both, then at the clock atop the mantel.

WHAT. Is this a medieval settings or not? The characters all use swords and bow and arrows and there’s hints of medieval Britain monarchies everywhere but the characters have clocks? What is this word building?

Gods, the females in his court ate more than [Aedion] did.

This is prompted after Lysandra eats breakfast. After we have already been told she burns a lot of energy with her shape shifting. Go fuck yourself, Assdion.

Aedion opened the door, finding the cadre precisely where he’d guessed they’d be at this hour: eating breakfast in the taproom. The two males halted as they entered. And Aedion’s eyes went right to the golden-haired man—one of two, but … there was no denying which one was … his.

I am actually so stressed. Either A) Aedion is gonna act like a dick to his poor father and be treated as right for it, or B) SJM is gonna turn Gav into a dick just so Aedion can angst over his daddy issues. Place your bets, folks.

“You look … ,” Gavriel breathed, sinking into his chair. “You look so much like her [Aedion’s mom].”

HHHHH SJM STOP I HATE THIS SHITTY BOOK AND ASSDION I DON’T WANT THESE FEELS....

“They could have cured [mama Aedion] in the Fae compounds, but she wouldn’t go near them, wouldn’t let them come for fear of Maeve”—[Aedion] spat the name—“knowing I existed. For fear I’d be enslaved to her as you were.”

I wish Assdion’s mom could’ve been a character, but nope, gotta kill off potentially awesome characters for the sake of main character pain. I know that’s just a thing that happens in 95% of stories at this point, but SJM literally only brings these dead characters up once or twice and it has no other impact on her main characters or the plot.

“I’m sorry,” his father said, those Lion’s eyes full of such grief Aedion wondered if he’d just struck a male already down. “I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” he said, turning toward the door.

Am I a dumb dumb, or... who the fuck is Assdion talking about? Is he talking about apologizing to.. Assdion’s mom? I’m so confused.

Assdion stomps out after his little tantrum. I mean, I understand why he’s upset, but... I need context? Was Gav forced to take the blood oath to Maeve, or was it his own choice? ‘Cause if it was the latter yeah he’s kinda a shitty dad, but if it’s the former, it’s not his fault??? This series is batshit confusing.

“We need them to work with us. I might have made an enemy of him.” [Lysandra] tucked her hair over a shoulder. “Trust me, Aedion, you have not. If you’d told him to crawl over hot coals, he would have.”

HHHH FUCK IT GAV IS A GOOD DAD..... I just feel so so sorry for him. He’s just a punching bag for everyone else. Protect Gav 2k18

He laughed, surprised he could even do so. “He’s a handsome bastard, I’ll give him that.” “I think Maeve likes to collect pretty men.” Aedion snorted. “Why not? She has to deal with them for eternity. They might as well be pleasant to look at.”

I mean a lot of those men have confirmed that they were forced to take the blood oath and are now basically slaves to her but sure, tee hee oh Maeve that slutty bitch, collecting only the hottest young men to enslave! Fuckin’ end me.

Bearing both Goldryn and Damaris for once, Aelin walked into the Sea Dragon two hours later and wished for the days when she could sleep without the dread or urgency of something pulling at her.

Greaaat, back to Alien’s POV.

A grand total of five minutes before Lysandra barged in, Rowan had awoken—and begun the process of awakening her, too. Slowly, with taunting, proprietary strokes down her bare torso, her thighs, accented with little biting kisses to her mouth, her ear, her neck.

EWWWWWWW if I wanted to read this shit, I’d go look up fanfiction. Preferably fanfiction with characters I’m endeared to and actually ship. Skip!

Gavriel and Fenrys were now sitting with Rolfe at the table in the back of the taproom, no sign of Aedion, both a bit wide-eyed as she swaggered in.

This is a nit pick but Gav/Fenrys always being described together irks me. They have the literal same reaction to everything. Like, are they doing this all in unison? Actually, that’s a pretty funny mental image.

Rowan took up a spot beside [Aelin] his knee brushing hers. Like even a few feet of distance was unbearable.

GDI. It’s a meeting. With a Pirate Lord. And all Rowboat can think about is getting his dick wet inside of Alien. I’m almost ready to tap out.

“What is this,” [Aelin] said, stabbing a finger near the main line of figures stretched across the middle of the continent. “It’s the latest report,” Rolfe drawled, “of the locations of Morath’s armies. They have moved into position. Aid to the North is now impossible. And they stand poised to strike Eyllwe.”

Ooo, action scene? Please action scene, I cannot handle any more scenes of these assholes being horny around one another.

Next chapter!

“Eyllwe has no standing army,” Aelin said, feeling the blood drain from her face. “There is nothing and no one to fight after this spring—save for rebel militia bands.”

Starts right where the last one left off, as per SJM’s protocol

Rowan said to Rolfe, “Do you have exact numbers?” “No,” the captain said. “The news was given only as a warning—to keep any shipments away from the Avery. I wanted their opinions”—a nod of the chin toward the cadre—“for handling it.“

??? Is it me or is this expression really fucking weird? Was “a nod of the head” not good enough?

“Why attack Eyllwe, though?” Fenrys asked. “And why move into position but not sack it?” [Aelin] couldn’t say the words aloud. That she’d brought this upon Eyllwe by mocking Erawan, because he knew who Celaena Sardothien had cared for, and he wanted to break her spirit, her heart, by showing her what his armies could do. What they would do, whenever he now felt like it. Not to Terrasen … but to the kingdom of the friend she’d loved so dearly.

Once again, we’re about to witness the destruction of a kingdom and all Alien cares about is her stupid feelings. Go fuck yourself Alien.

“You are the heir of the Mycenian people,” Aelin said. “And I have come to claim the debt you owe my bloodline on that account, too.” Rolfe did not move, did not blink. “Or were all the sea dragon references from some personal fetish?” Aelin asked.

SJM JUST USED THE WORD “FETISH” IN HER EPIC FANTASY SERIES. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

[Aelin] allowed a flicker of her magic to rise to the surface then, allowed the gold in her eyes to glow like bright flame. Gavriel and Fenrys straightened as her power filled the room, filled the city. The Wyrdkey between her breasts began thrumming, whispering.

I’m sorry, lovely readers, I keep ragging on about this, but holy fuck. I hate it so much. SJM wants this scene to be all epic and show what a special snowflake badass Alien is but then she undercuts all that supposed tension by drawing focus to her boobs I just. ajhdafdfagfds dj hdsa im b rea kin  g

Alien lets loose some of her power that literally shakes the world and rings bells or some shit? idk i guess its 2deep4me

“What the rutting hell was that?” Rolfe at last demanded. Fenrys and Gavriel became very interested in the map before them. Rowan said smoothly, “Milady has to release bits of her power daily or it can consume her.”

ROWBOAT CONFIRMED FOR NICE GUY HOLY SHIT

Aedion and Lysandra arrived after some time—and her cousin only spared Gavriel a passing glance as he stood over the map and fell into that general’s mindset, demanding details large and minute. But Gavriel silently stared up at his son, watching her cousin’s eyes dart over the map, listening to the sound of his voice as if it were a song he was trying to memorize.

Gav deserves a better series than this. I want to take him, Manon, Darrow, and Rolfe away so they can be at peace. How does Darrow/Gavriel sound to everyone? Pure old dads who rule their kingdom fairly, bringing peace and prosperity forward. What a lovely image.

SJM described the meeting rather than shows. It’s basically 90% everyone gushing over how powerful Alien is. Skip!

“You once said I would pay for my arrogance. And I did. Many times. But Sam and I took on your entire city and fleet and destroyed it. All for two hundred lives you deemed less than human. So perhaps I’ve been underestimating myself. Perhaps I do not need you after all.” [Aelin] turned again, and Rolfe sneered, “Did Sam die still pining after you, or did you finally stop treating him like filth?”

Dick move, maybe, but I mean... he’s not wrong. The Assassin’s Blade is literally just Alien being pissy towards Sam for no reason and then he gets angry when their master beats lAlien’s face in (you know, what any normal functioning human being would react like) and she’s suddenly frothing at the mouth to fuck him. Maybe I should review TAB next.........

Rowboat chokes Rolfe and throws him down, and everyone smirks. How are these characters adults? They’re all written like immature teenagers. Anyways, a bell rings out, signifying something bad.

Aelin watched as black - darker than the ink that had been etched there - spread across [Rolfe’s] fingers, to his palms. Black such as only the Valg could bring.

Please action scene I can’t handle one more “witty’ “banter” conversation between these assholes

The door banged open, and Rolfe’s towering figure filled it. “You.” Aelin put a hand on her chest. “Me?”

Pfft. I hated that I snickered at this, but I always laugh at the “dramatic hand on chest” joke.

“And what of your idealism—what of that child who stole two hundred slaves from me? You’d leave the people of this island to perish?” “Yes,” she said simply. “I told you, Rolfe, that Endovier taught me some things.” Rolfe swore. “Do you think Sam would stand for this?” “Sam is dead,” she said, “because men like you and Arobynn have power. But Arobynn’s reign is now over.” She smiled at the darkening horizon. “Seems like yours might end rather soon as well.”

Sam deserves better than this. He was an okay guy to my memory - not a poisonous fuck boy like Rowboat.

“Eight warships teeming with soldiers —at least a hundred on each, more on the lower levels I couldn’t see. They’re flanked by two sea-wyverns. All moving so fast that it’s like storm winds carry them.”

FUCK YEAAAH SEA DRAGONS LETS GO

Rolfe finally breaks down and agrees to join Alien’s war effort. Love it when one of the few good characters is kicked and beaten down to prop up the despicable protagonist. Then we swap to Dorian’s POV.

Aelin was insane, Dorian realized. Brilliant and wicked, but insane. And perhaps the greatest, most unremorseful liar he’d ever encountered.

Dorian, honey, you okay? Blink twice if Alien is holding you captive.

This war would not be won on smiles and manners. It would be won by a woman willing to gamble with an entire island full of people to get what she needed to save them all.

Yeah, doesn’t that make Alien likeable! I know war involves sacrifice and death but Jesus, could she feel even a little remorse? Innocent people may die today but Aelin’s head is so far up her own ass she doesn’t even care.

Fenrys kept at a distance from the others, but Gavriel remained close, his gaze still fixed on his son. Gods, they looked so much alike, moved alike, the Lion and the Wolf.

Stop ittttt Gavriel deserves better.....

Aelin tells Dorian to stay behind and the chapter ends. God, that was a lot of bullshit in two chapters.

[mo-mo-and-porkchop]

Freedom is a state of mind.

Vikings Fan Fiction

Chapter 3 here

Chapter 4

Warnings: language, slavery, violence, disability

*I do not own any part of the Canon Vikings characters. It is simply my interpretation. I make no profit off of this.

**I do own the original characters and everything associated with them.

Gif credit: Google search

((This is my first attempt at this.  Hope you enjoy.  A special thanks to @ragnarsscn for help with the inspiration for this work and to @bonniebird for helping me understand this whole process better. ))

Tagging for updates: @whenimaunicorn , @captstefanbrandt @kenzieam @mblaqgi

Ehrlana followed the man back through Kattegat to the area where the slaves lived. He motioned for her to stay quiet as he guided her to a small space tucked away in a corner used for new arrivals. A few makeshift beds, nothing more than glorified piles of grass and leaves welcomed the pair. Blankets had been thrown over them in an effort to make them seem less like beds reserved for livestock.

“Go ahead. That one is empty,” he said pointing at a bed before taking the one next to it. She slowly sat on top of the fur and did her best to become comfortable.

At least the leaves will keep the ground warm.

Her fingers brushed through the fur beneath her. She let her hand slip from the softness when a soft breeze blew over them. Ehrlana pulled her cape around her tighter, a shiver crawling over her skin.

“I know who you are,” he admitted softly as he watched her. “Who your father is,” he continued calmly, eyes focused on hers.

Her chest tightened with fear as he spoke. Slowly her gaze found his and their eyes locked. The princess did her best to hide her fear, but her eyes revealed the truth.

“And who do you think I am?” she asked attempting to mimic his calm, the small hope that he was mistaken lingering. Silent tension grew between them.

“Ehrlana nic Conchobar,” he said confidently.

Her lungs deflated. Her skin was set ablaze. A small tremble ran through her spine, her nerves electrified. Her jaw clenched and she had to fight back the tears that had pooled in the corners of her eyes; all while holding his gaze.

How did he know?!

Ehrlana feared her worst nightmares would come true and her identity would be used to bring harm to her people; raids being the very reason she was there in the first place. She could not let that happen.

“I am not who you think I am,” she said as herself and not her disguise. “I am a slave. Same as you,“ she finished, hoping the message had been understood. Her identity could not be known; no matter how good the connection to home felt.

Declan, though disappointed she hadn’t admitted it, knew it was her. He knew it. She was Ehrlana nic Conchobar and as his homeland’s princess her unspoken order would be followed.

“You’re right,” he responded with a forced smirk and small shake of his head. “You look like someone from back home. I must miss it more than I thought,” he added quietly.

He watched her sadly for a few moments before breaking his gaze away. “I hope you can one day enjoy this place,” he whispered, breaking the silence. “Good night Ehrlana.“

She watched him silently, her fear slowly subsiding the longer he spoke. “Good night Declan,” she whispered in return before laying down herself. Sheltered or not, she was not yet ready to trust this place enough to sleep. It soon found its way to her, however and her day came to an end.

— the next day —

She’d been doing her best to keep up with the other servants, but the language barrier was making it extremely difficult. She hadn’t understood a single word since Ivar introduced himself and everyone, save for Declan, had ignored her; shooing her out of their way as they worked.

Her eyes caught sight of him as he hauled meat off to the smokehouse. Ehrlana watched as he disappeared behind a wall and out of sight. Her eyes blinked themselves back to reality when another slave bumped into her and mumbled something under her breath.

“Præll!“ Ivar called out as he watched his brothers being served their meals. “Præll!” he called out a second time when she didn’t respond.

He grabbed a hunk of bread off of Sigurd’s plate as it walked by and threw it at her. It bounced off of her shoulder and fell into the nearby pot of stew, splashing some on her apron. Ivar didn’t bother holding back his laugh at the sight. She glanced over at him as she wiped off what she could, his smirk sending a chill through her spine.

“Matur,“ he called to her when their eyes met. “Drykki,” he added before falling silent.

All eyes felt as if they were glued to her, not just Ivar’s. All waiting to see how this scene would play out. Ivar was not the easiest son of Ragnar to serve. His quick temper was nearly uncontrollable at times and his wrath was unavoidable.

Her confusion was evident and another slave took pity on her, quietly repeating his words while showing her what they meant. Quickly she made his plate and filled a cup with water. 

She would need to learn their language.  And learn it fast.  It had been made painfully clear in the short time since her arrival that the man who now held claim over her was not favored among the city’s residents.  Ehrlana had seen the fear in their eyes every time they fell to him.  She was terrified it would not take long for her to understand why if she stayed monolingual.

“Heimsk stelpa,”  he said grabbing the cup out of her hand, splashing some of its contents onto the table before drinking. 

He side eyed her as she waited silently at his side. Her blood ran cold and a chill washed over her, crawling across her skin.  Had she angered him further somehow?  A wave of relief flooded her when he irritatingly waved her away.

“Fara,” he growled. He mumbled some insult under his breath that only he found amusing as the rest of the slaves finished serving the table.

“You should not be so mean to her Ivar,“ Ubbe’s said as she did as ordered. “She does not even understand what you are saying.” Ivar stopped eating and looked to his brother, his irritation clear.

“It is bad enough that she has to follow you while you crawl around like a baby,“ Sigurd chimed in. He glanced her way, genuinely feeling sorry for her.  Poor girl is stuck with Ivar of all people.  “You should give her time to learn our tongue,” he added in agreement, His eyes going back to his brother.  He kept his gaze a few nervous moments before going back to his meal.

Anger replaced his irritation with Sigurd’s voice.  His brother was always interfering where he didn’t belong. His fist tightened around his spoon and his anger rose further the longer he stared at his younger brother, eating as if he hadn’t just insulted him.

“Anything is better than listening to you play your stupid music,” Ivar spat through gritted teeth.  His jaw tensed as he held Sigurd’s gaze.  A devious smirk tugged at his lips when he went back to eating.  Coward!  “You are just mad that she isn’t yours.  Then again she is a woman.  Not exactly your type.”

He let the realization of his words wash over his brothers.  Hvitserk had been caught mid bite when the insult fell from Ivar’s tongue, his eyes glued to Sigurd for his reaction.  Ubbe had stopped worrying about filling his belly as soon as Sigurd interrupted them.  He now silently scooted himself further from the table as he watched, ready for the inevitable fight that would follow.  Sigurd swallowed his last bite, anger now beginning to itch for release, and quietly set his spoon down next to his bowl.  The slaves had grown unusually quiet.  Ehrlana cautiously made her way to the table once she noticed. 

“Is she?” Ivar continued cockily now that he had everyone’s undivided attention. 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Sigurd asked attempting to mask his anger with irritation, bringing his gaze straight to Ivar’s.

“What do you think it means?” he retorted condescendingly.  “Had she been a man you would have already offered up your ass to him,” he hissed at him.

Sigurd’s angered filled glance at Ehrlana sent a chill through her.  Her arms instinctively wrapped themselves around her and controlled the shiver it manifested.  What is happening? The tension between the two men could be felt throughout the entire hall as the silence grew. Her brow furrowed in worry as the blonde held her gaze before going back to Ivar. 

I am sorry.

“I would know how to handle her better than you,” he countered, leaning his elbow onto the table.  He wanted Ivar to hear his next word.  “Boneless.”

Fucker!

Ivar lurched from his chair at Sigurd with a roar and sent it flying back.  Ehrlana was forced to leap from its way, its path nearly colliding with hers.  Sigurd jumped from his chair, but wasn’t fast enough and tumbled to the ground once the brothers connected.  Slaves rushed to move out of the way as chaos began to ensue.

Ivar’s hands scrambled to reach Sigurd’s throat.  Hvitserk rushed from his spot to gain a front row seat to the fight, an almost entertained smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  Sigurd struggled against Ivar’s fury, desperately trying to free himself as he clawed his way on top of him.  Ubbe sighed and almost casually got out of his seat, calmly moving Sigurd’s out of the way as the two continued fighting.  

The eldest of Aslaug’s sons firmly gripped onto the shoulders of Sigurd’s tunic and yanked him from beneath Ivar.  He forced enough space between them that he could now focus on Ivar who still went after Sigurd, his anger completely controlling him.  “Enough!” he shouted as his youngest brother.  “Both of you!” he added looking to Sigurd who’d scrambled to his feet and ran off.

Once out of sight, Ivar began to regain control of himself, his chest heaving.  Ubbe grunted while he planted Ivar back onto his chair.  Ivar’s eyes remained glued to the space Sigurd had just occupied.  He grunted in frustration and pounded his fist onto the arm of his chair.  “One day you will not be there to save him Ubbe,” he said lowly, but still angry, his gaze finding Ubbe.  “You can not fight all of his battles for him.”

There was nothing Ubbe could say to that.  Ivar was right.  Ivar left his chair and crawled through the frightened crowd.  Ehrlana’s heart pounded.  Fear and panic still pumped adrenaline through her veins.  She now understood the looks she’d been given the day before upon her arrival.  It hadn’t been pity.  It had been fear.

Her own terror froze her in place, watching as he left. Cautiously she glanced around. Everyone seemed to slowly come out of their shock, his brothers the first to move once he’d passed. Ehrlana felt even more out of place the longer she stood there. Being his, was she meant to follow? Or was her place among the other servants as they began returning the hall to normal?

Her silent inquiries were answered when Hvitserk quietly caught her attention and motioned toward Ivar. She quickly regained control of herself and forced her feet forward, disappearing along with Ivar moments later.

[oddsnendsfanfics]

Mine

Genre: Fan Fiction (Vikings) Pairing: Ivar/Reader Warnings: Smut Rating: R Length: One Shot Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: I was listening to Mariana’s Trench, Astoria, and there is a part in the song which inspired this. It’s my first Ivar smut, I have been sitting on it for a few days. Go easy on me :P 

Read Pt 2

A fevered blur, through names obscured, and speeches slurred What's another bridge burned? I'm on my own, you came alone All dressed up in bad news (I know you've been hurt too) This would be the wrong move (Maybe we should leave soon) You can lay with me while you think of him Drown our sorrows deep in each other's skin I touch your face while I think of her I will raise my lips to the way we were Bite my neck while you say his name I will scratch your back to forget her face Our regret tastes sweet through a soft liqueur We can raise our lips to the way we were

Outside was cold in the bitter winter not that it mattered to you, inside, wrapped up in the furs of none other than the newly crowned King of Kattegat. Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar, nothing but the town cripple had rose to his position of power in the only way he knew how. Taking what he wanted, showing no mercy, and no cares for those who were cut down along the way.

If somebody had something that Ivar wanted, he took it. Land, titles, women. Nothing was off limits to the handsome and feared King. Not even his favoured brother's wife to be.

You had been promised to Hvitserk Ragnarsson when your father wanted to please the gods and his former King Ragnar. The lanky glutton Hvitserk was handsome enough, but too wrapped up in his own desires and darkness to care about you or your position as his wife to be. If he did care, he had a funny way of showing it while he ran off with every other woman who looked in his direction.

Ivar on the other hand – Ivar paid you the attention you craved. Even if it meant you sneaking around like a thief in the night, the time spent in the King's grasp was worth it.

"You came alone?" Ivar's stern voice was greeted you, when you ducked into his quarters.

Lowering the hood of your cloak, you nodded quickly.

"Nobody saw you?" He questioned from his position on a stool in the corner.

"If they did then they were not expecting it to be me, under this." You held up the stolen cloak. The dark cloak had belonged to one of Ivar's slaves. "Your slave girl left this behind, when she fled two moons ago. Your brother was too stupid to notice that she had left without it."

"Nobody has ever claimed Hvitserk to be the smart brother." Ivar's laugh was deep in his chest. If his idiot brother wanted to squander his affection away on slaves, so be it, that only meant more of you for Ivar and a waiting punishment when Ivar found which slave had pissed you off.

"It must be a good thing the Gods made him handsome, then." You smirked knowing that the small compliment paid to the older brother would irritate Ivar. On cue, Ivar's rolled his eyes and snarled. "Not as handsome as you, my King."

"What is with the flattery? You already know that you've a place in my bed. Now come," He waved his hand at you, beckoning you to him, "Let's not waste any more time discussing my brother."

Stepping closer, you watch intently as Ivar chews his bottom lip, his hands reaching for you as he continues to sit on the stool at waist height.

This wasn't the first time you had snuck away to be with Ivar, nor would it be the last. This had all started as some sort of twisted game, when Ivar had heard the rumors of his brother's unfaithful ways. Wanting what he couldn't have, after being left lonely by his last lover, Ivar had pursued you and won. Who were you to deny the most powerful man in Kattegat?

Kneeling before him, your head lulled as his hands undid your dress. Pushing the material off of your shoulders to free your breasts. Ivar hummed in approval, dipping his head to kiss your neck and collar bones. Steadying himself by holding onto your shoulders, Ivar pulled his head away, his eyes glassy with the sudden desire that had overcame him.

"What are you waiting for?" His voice was eerily calm. His swollen lips turning into a smirk. How you wished to kiss him properly, but he never allowed it, a mystery in the riddle that was Ivar.

Undoing the buckle on his belt, Ivar watched you closely, your hands tugging the material of his pants down as far as you could in his seated position. Ivar never allowed you to take his pants off the full way, it went without saying that he was never going to allow another to see his useless legs. Your hands fumbled only slightly working to free him, faced with his prick you looked up at him, waiting for your next command.

"You know what to do," Ivar gestured for you to continue. Wrapping your hand around his girth, you smiled when Ivar hissed under your touch. You'd be a fool to think he hadn't used his prick in the days since you'd last been together. Ivar took pride in having any woman he wanted, but when the one he wanted the most was occupied, taking care of himself wasn't a difficult task.

Working your hand up and down the shaft, you took your sweet time, making sure to get him excited enough for what was to follow. Some days it would take what felt like a dog's age to get Ivar hard, on others he would barely look in your direction and would be begging to be released.

"Stop," Ivar grabbed your hair, pulling your head back as you were about to take him in your mouth. Licking your lips, your eyes searched his face. He loved it when you sucked him. Had you done something wrong?

"Was that not pleasing?"

"If I allow you to work your magic, in that way, there will be nothing left for anything else." Ivar moved passed you, crawling the short distance to his bed. "Come, now!"

His demands shamefully turned you into a mess. His voice and eyes said it all, without so much as a touch, Ivar could have you begging him for more while a release crept up on you. His older brother would do well to learn such techniques and dominance. If Hvitserk worried about your pleasure as much as he did his own, you would be more willing to lie with your soon to be husband.

"Get on your knees," Ivar demanded sharply. You had no other choice but to comply, your dress clinging around your waist, pushed to the floor before you joined him on the bed. Bent before him in the desired position, you resisted the urge to look back at Ivar. It was all part of the game, do as he said and enjoy the reward.

"Ivar." Your whimper was like music to his ears. "Please,"

He loved to hear you begging him.

It took only a minute for Ivar to position himself, his body resting over yours, if you were uncomfortable with the extra weight bearing down on you then it was best to never say. You widened your legs, allowing him to rest between them. In a swift and practiced motion, Ivar grunted and you felt his tip nudge your folds, with another quick breath his prick sank into you.

Comfortably stretching to fit around him, your heart began to thunder against your chest, drowning out the world around you. Tonight he didn't bother with the formalities as it were, there would be no exploring one another in a slow and soft manner. Tonight Ivar was looking for a quick and fast release, who were you to tell him No?

His body was warm on top of yours, his hands gripping your hips while he took a few seconds to tease you. Fully sheathed inside of you; Ivar slowly moved his hips back inch by inch and paused. Waiting for the right moment to drive himself forward, hitting the most delicate spot on your body in only the way he could. You sighed softly in frustration.

"Is something the matter, my dove?" Ivar's breath was hot on your ear.

"N..No." You squeaked, clenching your eyes shut in an attempt to keep from begging. He wanted you to beg, to plead, and stroke his ego a little.

"Then you will be fine, if we stop this here and now? You're okay, if I sent you back to my useless brother?" Ivar's tongue traced the shell of your ear. His prick barely grazing against you.

"Y..yes."

"Oh dove, why do you lie to me?" Ivar made a tsk noise, his hands gripping your hips harder than before. Fingers biting into your flesh, he jerked forward with all his strength, sending him back into you with a sharp pain.

"Ivar!" the wail rose from your throat.

It was as if the world had stopped and you were suspended in time, when you were with Ivar. The feeling he could bestow upon you was one that you would find yourself craving for days after he last had you. This would be no exception. His body grew heavier and his chest sweatier, bodies tied together in an absolute intimate moment left you gasping and practically in tears.

"Does he make you feel this good? Can my brother make you scream the way that I do?" Ivar's teeth sank into the skin on your shoulder, barely missing your neck. Hissing in pleasure, you shook your head, finding your voice would be impossible. "I can't hear you," Ivar grunted with a hard thrust.

"No, no Hvitserk cannot make me," You gasp, "Scream the way that you can, my King."

"Your King," Ivar's laugh was dark. "Is that why you lie with Me? Because I am your King?" He grunted in exertion and pleasure.

"No," You shook your head, the last thing you wanted was Ivar thinking that you were only with him because he was King. Your reasons were deeper than that.

"Do you only come to me, because you think I demand it?" Ivar pried for answers while his fingers pried into your sides, his hips snapped forward thrusting deeper.

"No! No, Ivar; I lay with you because it is my choosing." You whimper at the feeling flooding your body. "Because, because," You stammer like a fool when his tongue traces between your shoulder blades, "you please me far better than anyone ever has."

"And I," His words were tight between a heaving breath, "keep you because there is nobody who excites me more." His breath sent a shiver through you, thrusting harder and more frantically, Ivar grunted loudly bellowing into the dark.

"I-Ivar." Your breath was caught in a gasping scream.

It was as if you'd saw the Gods themselves when you were with Ivar, the spark and the fire that he could send running through your body was mightier than any feeling you'd ever felt. Your body coated in a sheen of sweat, your lungs constricting as you made the attempt to level your thoughts once more. Beside you, Ivar laid flat on his back, his hair stuck to his head and his face flushed.

Gathering your wits, you rolled over, now was the part you hated the most. You would get dressed and head back to the home given to you solely because of your position with Hvitserk. The cold, dull, loveless home loomed in your mind.

"Stay," Ivar reached for your hand, drawing you back to him. If he wanted you in his bed there were no words to make you leave. Odin himself couldn't drag you away.

"You are impossible," You lie back into the furs, your body snuggling into Ivar. "How can I ever deny you?"

Not answering, Ivar's hand stroked the back of your hair, his eyes locked on your face. Red with the exercise that you had just endured. His blue eyes studying you carefully, one hand on your stomach and the other behind your head – a simple gesture and your body was still lit on fire from Ivar's contact.

"You always do as I ask," Ivar's tone meant business. "What if I asked you to renounce Hvitserk in order to be my wife?"

"My father..."

"Your father has long since gone, as is mine. I am King now and I want you to be my wife." Ivar spoke as if the mead had finally rotted his brain.

Biting your bottom lip, you laid silently.

"Well?"

"But Hvitserk."

"What about him? He is an idiot. A fool for not loving you, for not wanting you in his bed. I want you, here, not as some woman who keeps my bed warm. I want you here as my wife, Queen of Kattegat. Stay here, sleep and come daylight I want your answer." Ivar lazily sighed, his hands leaving their position on you, before he moved to roll himself onto his side. "My brother can give you a house, but I can give you far more."

His words burning into your ears, you flap your mouth as if you are a fish. "I...I shall ask the Gods then." You reply staring at the back of his head, unsure if he'd heard your answer or if he'd drifted off.

@pathybo , @imgoldielikehawn , @sparklemichele , @titty-teetee , @kirah34 , @kduran04 , @badassbaker , @capitanostella , @hoeghfabulous ,  @tornupandbored​ , @deleteidentity​ , @alex-ivar-minx​