#Dole Air Race

[onedayinhistory]

August 16 Dole Air Race also known as the Dole Derby, was a deadly air race across the Pacific Ocean from Oakland, California to Honolulu in the Territory of Hawaii held in August 1927. There were eighteen official and unofficial entrants; fifteen of those drew for starting positions, and of those fifteen, two were disqualified, two withdrew, and three aircraft crashed before the race, resulting in three deaths. Winner Woolaroc, a Travel Air 5000 piloted by Arthur C.

[florencemtrash]

Flame, Shadow, Beast : Flame

Azriel x Reader x Eris

Summary: Years after Eris frees you from his father’s prison, you’ve managed to find a new love, new friends, and build a life for yourself in Autumn. But when a certain Shadowsinger stumbles upon your home, dragging in painful memories of betrayal and longing, you’ll have to face the things you left in the past and make choices about the future you want.

Warnings: Fluffy Eris x Reader and our favorite monster, Bryaxis, makes an appearance.

Flame, Shadow, Beast: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

It was a cruel irony that winning a war was the easiest part of ruling. Eris thought about it often, doubts invading his rare moments of quiet; Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe the lives of thousands of Autumn Court members - both those loyal to him and to his father - hadn’t been worth the weight of the crown now sitting on his head.

The wood and gold had been harvested from the body of one of the Old Gods to whom some of the rural folk still owed their ultimate allegiance; the rubies had come from a land beyond the western seas as a declaration of war back when they’d been ruled by a more ancient race of beings - the predecessors to the Blood Rubies the Summer Court was so fond of doling out. Eris wondered if he’d ever get used to carrying so much history on his body. 

The sun had barely crested over the treetops, blanketing the forest floor with streams of liquid gold, when he came across your village. The first fae he saw - a female with short elk horns extending gracefully from her temples - nearly dropped her basket at the sight of him. Eris gently bowed his head in greeting and her face flushed as crimson as the red garment dye that stained her hands. 

“My High Lord,” She breathed out, dropping to her knees despite the prickling straw that perpetually littered the roads.

Heads of varying shades of chestnut and scarlet appeared behind closed windows like candlights. During the harvest months everyone woke and slept with the sun. 

One by one fae streamed out of their homes, each of them carrying tribute in the form of freshly baked bread, baskets of apples and peaches, sheepskin cloaks, and barrels of mead. 

“Stand.” Eris gently commanded them as they fell to their knees, “We’re just passing through.” He could see the hesitation in their eyes. They feared disrespecting him. 

Eight years of being High Lord and he had yet to perfect the delicate balance between distance and familiarity with his people. 

Halvor coughed from beside him, eyes raised from beneath the shadow of his bronze helm.

Get off your horse and talk to them. His eyes said, repeating the mantra that you liked to say around the royal pair.

Eris understood and dismounted with grace and power. With his scarlet and gold riding cloak, flaming hair, and ruby crown he looked like the spirit of Autumn come to life - all sharp edges and burning stoicism. He was a living fire.

But fire could give warmth as much as pain - nurture and grow as much as it could raze the world to the ground. So Eris took his time to speak with the people. He sampled their mead and ale, complimented the pixies who wove threads of warm oranges, yellows, and reds with their nimble fingers, and visited the rolling fields of corn, barley, and wheat that waved in the brisk breeze. The gray-tinged sky above tasted of power and freedom. 

Under Beron’s reign, the fruits of the fields would have fallen entirely under the purview of the High Lord with little remaining for the people who tended the long grasses. Now that they were allowed to own their own land and keep what was due to them, the air was lighter here, happier. It was the first harvest in a long time where they’d feel comfortable enough to celebrate properly.

The mask ebbed away, leaving him feeling lighter than he had in ages as he walked through a town.

A familiar face stared out from behind the small crowd that had gathered by the wheat fields. Talk of this year’s harvest festival rose in the air until everyone could taste the spiced rum, roasted pistachios, caramelized apples, and pumpkin with fresh cream on their tongues. It was still months away, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get excited now. 

Eris broke away - an easy task when they parted ways for him like a hot knife through butter - and approached your smiling figure.

“I was wondering what was taking you so long.” You said, clasping your hands behind your back and smiling at Eris.

“So you came all this way just to investigate?” Eris arched his brow. You were no stranger to these people (and much beloved), but you preferred to keep to your little cottage beyond the town.

“Surprisingly, yes. For you, I would come all this way. And,” You shook the small parcel in your arm, “For Aliona’s candles.”

He grinned and offered you his arm, which you accepted, and quietly began to walk back to where Halvor had been dutifully waiting with the horses… and taking more than a few samples of drinks from beside his stead. 

“I also wanted to make sure he hadn’t killed you in your sleep yet.” You said, tilting your head towards his brother. 

“Careful, Y/n.”

Halvor was the youngest of Autumn’s trueborn sons, and had grown to become Eris’s second over the course of the war and the years that followed. Cruelty was still hammered into his bones - a disfiguring mark left by their father - but disloyalty was not one of his many negative traits. He’d been the only one to come to Eris’s aid in the war, and subsequently the last of Eris’s brothers to survive. That counted for something in your book.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it seriously, but I could’ve poked fun in a better way.” You said softly, gently leaning into his side. He forgave you quickly. He could never stay angry at you - he wasn’t even sure it was possible.

Halvor tipped his head towards you, eyes the color of freshly brewed coffee staring at you with mischief.

“My Lady.” He said half-mockingly, sweeping out his arm into a shallow bow. 

You rolled your eyes. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

“Why not? Is my brother not a good enough romp for you? If you want better company I could-” 

Eris cut off his words with a growl of warning. Halvor only tipped his head back and laughed - a grating sound that eight years of peace under Eris’s rule still hadn’t managed to file away.

“We’ll be walking to her home from here.” Eris said, slipping into his High Lord voice, “Try and keep your distance and be on the lookout.” Halvor nodded, turning serious at the shift in his brother’s voice. There were countless enemies who would be happy to snatch the crown away from a new, as of yet untested, High Lord.

He followed obediently, keeping his distance as you and Eris both bade farewell to the townspeople. 

You lived on a patch of land too far to even be considered the outskirts of town, but you were a familiar face to everyone. A healer by trade and Eris’s most trusted advisor and friend, you were the one they called upon in the dead of night when evil whispered nearby or sickness fell upon them. 

Evaldre, they called you in one of the Old Tongues. The exact meaning had been lost to time, but it spoke of someone cherished and highly regarded. Some of the bold ones even went so far as to call you “Our High Lady.” 

Ten years ago uttering those words would have meant the swift swing of a sword on one’s neck. If High Lord Eris knew of it, he never seemed to mind.

Bryaxis waited for you on your doorstep, pleasantly lounging in a patch of light and watching the gentle fall of crisp leaves from the trees above. Both Eris and Halvor’s horses groaned low in their throats, hooves pressing into the soil to stop before the clearing. Halvor whistled at them to move forward, but they refused.

“It’s that devil dog of yours,” Halvor said, dismounting and tying off the pair on a low hanging elm branch, “Makes them anxious.”

He whispered words of comfort to them, sliding his hands along their thick necks until they stopped bucking against the reins. Eris had his dogs and Halvor had his horses.

“He’ll stay inside then. Wouldn’t want you to have to walk back to the Forest House with your tail between your legs because you lost the horses.”

Eris smirked when Halvor threw an obscene gesture your way. 

The dog in question, black as night with shining silver-blue eyes, stretched and nuzzled into your outstretched hand as you reached your front door, Eris following closely behind. 

“Will you be long?” Halvor called out to Eris, raising his eyebrows suggestively with his hyena grin. 

“Go home if you’re so impatient. I can make it back on my own.”

“I’ll wait til noon.” If Eris was finished by then, it would mean they took care of business… if Eris wasn’t finished by then, it would mean they were taking care of other business, business Halvor would do no good sticking around for. He snorted at the thought, then lost himself in imagining the other females he might be able to seduce back at the Forest House.

You both passed through the enchantments woven into the wood of your home, feeling a rush of power pour over you like water over stone. 

Eris snapped his fingers and the candles you’d placed on your dining table and mantle burst to life, fluttering about like dancers. The fireplace followed suit, sending a wave of warmth throughout the house. Firelight bounced off the rich velvet and creams that adorned your home - a cleaner mimic of the Autumn lands that existed behind the walls and flooded in through the open windows.

The Forest House was a place of luxury, massive enough that it would take you an entire morning just to walk from one end to another, and filled to the brim with treasures of gold, bronze, and enough precious jewels to sink a ship. It was a palace fit for a High Lord. But this was a home, so he took off his crown and hung up his cloak.

“What happened to him?” Eris said, kneeling on the ground and giving Bryaxis a well-deserved scratch behind the ears. The millennia-old creature closed his eyes in satisfaction. “The last time I saw him he was a cat.”

You chuckled, bustling about in the kitchen for a tea set that would match and piling pastries on a plate. The smell of browned butter and strawberry rhubarb jam waltzed in the air.

“He’s been experimenting with new forms.” You said, smugness and pride warming your chest. Not so long after Eris had freed you from the mountain and given you a new home, Bryaxis had found you, drawn to your power. Twin bargain tattoos snaked up from the bridges of your feet to your ankles like vines up a trellis - the first promised that you would do no harm to one another in exchange for dual protection, the second allowed you to take a portion of his power, giving him to opportunity to mold his being into a form that could experience the world in a more physical sense. 

Gone was the shapeless creature of shadow and nightmares. Enter Bryaxis the wolf-dog (and occasional housecat) who still radiated enough power to scare away any creature (wicked or otherwise) that dared to disturb the peace of their home. But he could curl up by the windows and watch the night sky uninhibited, and in his heart he was a creature of violence and simplicity in equal measure.

“I like this one better than the cat.” Eris said with a grin, for the monster had copied the shape of one of his prized hunting dogs. Bryaxis seemed to growl in appreciation when Eris straightened up.

He sighed in contentment, feeling the stress of his crown melt away when you wrapped your arms around his middle, burying your face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the scent of cedar, smoke, and cinnamon.

“Hello.” He murmured softly, turning in your arms and pressing his lips against your forehead.

“Hello.” You whispered, brushing your lips against his with a sigh, “I missed you. Where have you been all this time?” The finished reports on your desk, much like your empty bed, had been waiting patiently for Eris’s next visit.

He hesitated, pulling away to look at you. He brushed aside a few stray strands of hair that had fallen out of your braid. “The Night Court.”

You stiffened, “Keir?” 

He shook his head, frowning, “Rhysand.” 

You blinked, and he saw darkness pass through your eyes. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.” 

Twelve years. 

You’d been Beron’s prisoner for decades before. Then you’d escaped and managed a couple of years of peace. You’d found a home and a family… or so you thought. And then twelve years ago you’d been betrayed - handed back to the now deceased High Lord on a silver platter and trapped beneath the mountain for four years. It made your blood boil to think about the people who helped put you there. 

“You’ve been dealing with them for years now,” You forced out in a diplomatic tone, “It’s good for you to have allies, especially strong ones like them.”

“Y/n-”

“You should've told me. I don’t want you to worry about my feelings when it comes to these things. Autumn comes first and-”

“I’ll always worry about you.” Eris said, tilting your chin up and catching the moisture gathering in your eyes that you’d furiously tried to blink away, “And there’s no choice between you and my Court. You belong here. To protect Autumn - to protect you - are the same thing, my love.” 

Your cheeks burned at the careful way he spoke, the sincerity in his voice he reserved solely for you in moments like this.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Y/n. I promise it won't happen again."

Fury burned in his stomach, a continuation of the anger that had steadily been eating away at his patience during his visit to the Night Court. To see the Inner Circle look so safe and happy in the bubble they’d carved for themselves in Velaris, naive to the pain and suffering they’d caused you, had made him want to burn The House of Wind to the ground. Alliance be damned. 

He hated them nearly as much as he had hated his own father. 

“I don’t want to think about them.” You declared, setting your jaw and smoothing away the lines of anger that had formed on Eris’s forehead, “To hell with them.” 

Eris smirked, loving the determination that settled in your eyes as you dragged him over to the living room and finished setting up the tea that had started to whistle on the stovetop. You would carve out a space for yourself in this world and be happy, even if it killed you.

“To hell with them.” He repeated.

Business and pleasure. The two were impossible for him to separate, which is why he cherished time spent with you. The pair of you spoke easily together, seamlessly transitioning from discussions of grain reports, treaties, and trade deals to banter about the Harvest Festival and the latest court gossip. Halvor was long gone, and Bryaxis off hunting, when the talking ceased and Eris found himself comfortably spread out on your velvet couch, shirt unbuttoned, and head resting in your lap as you wove your fingers through his hair.

He opened his eyes, lazy and slow, and quietly took in your features - the slope of your nose, the gentle curves of your cheeks and lips as you smiled at him, the contentment in your eyes that shifted into deep thought. 

He waited for you to share them with him.

“I’ve been thinking about your proposal.” You said carefully and he froze beneath your hands.

“You-you have?” Eris swallowed and sat up, keeping his distance even as he dared to hope. You’d both been keeping your relationship secret, visiting each other under the guise of court business and court business only. It had certainly started out that way, but things had quickly shifted into something far more intimate and worthy of secrecy… Then Eris had asked if it could stop being so secret.

You nodded, searching his face for something more than the neutral mask every High Lord learned to master. 

You moved onto his lap, laying your hands on the sides of his face as his eyes widened ever so slightly, “My answer is yes.” 

“Yes?” He asked in disbelief. 

Yes to living with him. Yes to going to court with him. Yes to showing the world that he was not alone in his duty. Yes to being by his side wherever either of you went.

No more hiding in this house on the outskirts. No more being afraid of what had happened in the past. No more loneliness.

“Yes.” 

He shuddered under your touch and suddenly he was everywhere. His hands roamed the expanse of your back, pulling at the fabric of your bodice. Red locks as vivid as flame got knotted beneath your fingers, and his body pressed flush against yours, desperate for any contact as his chest continued to shake with laughter. 

You stayed with him on that couch, neither of you wanting to bother with the effort of walking the extra twenty steps to your bedroom, as articles of clothing were hastily torn off and allowed to float onto the floor in crumples of fabric.

A growl from just outside your front door, low and gravelly enough to shake the ground, woke the two of you up. The sun was kissing the horizon on its way down, lateral rays of light streaming through the window and splashing onto the bookshelves and walls like gold paint. Eris groaned with displeasure, pulling you flush against his chest when you dared to draw yourself up on your arms to look at the door. 

You giggled against him, pulling a rare smile from his lips when he felt your laughter. 

He was all warmth and color beneath you as you shouted at Bryaxis to give you more time alone. He could practically hear the rolling of eyes with the huff that Bryaxis gave out. But he eventually trotted away to find a patch of soft grass from which to watch the sun set.

“It’s good to know a murderous beast like him still has a sense of humor.” Eris quipped, practically humming with pleasure when you melted into him. “You would know. You can be funny sometimes.” 

“Sometimes?!”

“Sometimes!” 

“You must give me more credit than that.”

“I will not.”

“You must. Your High Lord demands it.” Eris said, puffing out his chest and deepening his voice.

“Your High Lord demands it.” You parroted in a silly voice that made Eris chuckle and kiss you again.

You laid in the silence for as long as you could, until the sun was once again buried in the ground and the calls of the Forest House could not be ignored. With every piece of clothing Eris pulled back on his body, the vulnerable joy that came from being with you seemed to dim. 

Was he a lovesick fool for asking you to come to court and be with him? Was the protection of a High Lord worth the dangers that came with it? Lucien had been the first of their brothers to fall in love and he had paid for it dearly. Sometimes Eris had nightmares that you would suffer the same fate.

Eris watched you as you laced up your bodice with quick fingers, fixed your hair, and smoothed your skirts. You looked heavenly in the light of the fire. You were everything he could have dreamed of and more… because you were real… and you loved him as fiercely as he loved you. Which meant he could lose you.

“Y/n.” He whispered your name like a prayer, drawing your attention. You drew close to him, pressing your forehead against his as he took a deep breath, “What you’re agreeing to… you know what it will mean, don’t you?”

You closed your eyes and nodded. This was no light decision and it was why you’d taken three months to come up with an answer for him. 

“It will mean people will come for me, and never stop coming for me, just to hurt you and to hurt this Court.” Eris flinched, but you wouldn’t let him open his mouth to dissuade you. You’d given this much thought, and your decision was made.

“It will mean constant scrutiny from the other Lords and Ladies. A life spent in a house known for its history of cruelty and disloyalty. A life that will never fully be my own.”

Eris was beginning to think he’d truly made a terrible mistake in asking you to be with him. But before that cold mask of his could fall over his features, you grasped his face in yours hands and forced him to look at you.

“But it will also mean a chance to be with you. A chance to lead alongside the first person to give me a real home - a real family. A chance to continue to build and protect what I love. I love you, Eris, and I love Autumn, and I’ll be damned if I don’t protect what I love.”

Eris clenched his teeth, holding back the emotion that threatened to spill out like a ruptured damn.

“I won’t be like this at the Forest House.” He said, hating the truth of the words that fell off his tongue, “I won’t be able to show who I truly am when I’m around others, at least not for now. They’ll call you foolish, or cruel, or wicked for being with me. I can’t promise you an established and worthy court. I-”

“Then we’ll build it ourselves.” You said fiercely, pouring your power into the words, “We’ll build a new court, a new life for ourselves and everyone here. I know you’ll do everything you can to fix things, even if it breaks you.” You whispered the next words reverently against his lips, “Let me help you. Let me do it with you.” 

Eris let the tears run rivers down his cheeks, even as he set his jaw, and stared resolutely into your eyes.

“Let’s do it then. Together.”

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______

Author's note:

*shouts from the mountaintops* I just want Eris to be happy! And I want him to have someone he trusts that can rule alongside him!

That's it. That's the note. Oh and let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters.

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @nightless @mmb-09 @thesnugglingduck @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @logankemaek @the-sweet-psycho @a-frog-with-a-laptop @flameandshadowx @applerubyy

[dazailover4ever]

The Descent

Summary : After a brutal mission leaves you wounded, Dazai's possessive behavior intensifies, blurring the lines between protection and obsession. As you confront your fears and the Mafia's darkness, you grapple with your identity, realizing there's no escape from Dazai or this life.

This is part 2 of The Abyss Beckons

The days following the failed mission blurred into a painful haze. You were confined to the medical wing, your body wracked with pain from the gunshot wound and the deep slash across your side. Dazai visited often, always with that same unsettling mix of tenderness and darkness in his eyes. His presence should have been comforting—it always had been in the past—but now it filled you with an inexplicable sense of dread.

You couldn’t pinpoint when things had changed. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you, his gaze heavy with something more than just concern. Or maybe it was the way he lingered by your bedside, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as if trying to memorize every inch of you. Whatever it was, it left you feeling more trapped than protected.

The doctors assured you that your wounds were healing well, but the psychological scars were another matter entirely. The nightmares started soon after the mission, vivid and relentless. In your dreams, you were back in that dark alley, surrounded by enemies, the sound of gunfire ringing in your ears. But no matter how hard you fought, you could never escape the feeling of impending doom.

And then there was Dazai. He appeared in your dreams too, his presence looming over you like a shadow. He would stand at the edge of your vision, watching you with those cold, unreadable eyes. Sometimes he would reach out to you, his touch gentle, almost loving—but it always felt like a trap, as if his affection was a leash around your neck, keeping you tethered to him.

You woke up each time drenched in sweat, your heart racing, and found him sitting by your bed, watching over you with that same dark intensity.

“You’re safe,” he would whisper, his hand brushing your hair back. “I’m here.”

But the comfort those words once brought was gone, replaced by a growing sense of unease.

As the days passed, you began to notice the changes in the Mafia’s base. The atmosphere was tense, even more so than usual. The subordinates you encountered were on edge, their eyes darting nervously whenever Dazai was mentioned. You overheard snippets of conversations, hushed whispers about Dazai’s ruthlessness, about the brutal punishments he had doled out since your injury.

It wasn’t like Dazai to be so openly violent. He had always been cold and calculating, but his methods were usually subtle, his punishments carefully measured to ensure maximum effectiveness. Now, though, it seemed as if he was lashing out indiscriminately, his fury spilling over in a way that left even his closest allies shaken.

You tried to push the thoughts aside, to focus on your recovery, but the sense of dread only grew stronger with each passing day. The dark aura that surrounded Dazai seemed to seep into every corner of the base, poisoning the air with fear and suspicion.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you were well enough to leave the medical wing. The doctors cleared you for light duty, and you were eager to get back to work, to find some semblance of normalcy in the chaos that had consumed your life.

But when you stepped out of your room, you found Dazai waiting for you, his expression unreadable.

“Ready to get back to work?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

You nodded, forcing a smile. “I’m ready.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze searching, as if trying to see through the mask you wore. “Good. There’s something I need you to take care of.”

You followed him through the winding corridors, your heart pounding in your chest. The familiar sights and sounds of the Mafia’s base should have been comforting, but instead, they felt oppressive, the shadows closing in around you.

Dazai led you to a small, dimly lit room at the far end of the base. Inside, you found a man tied to a chair, his face bruised and bloodied, his eyes wide with terror. He looked up as you entered, a desperate plea in his gaze.

“This is the last of them,” Dazai said, his tone matter-of-fact. “The ones responsible for the ambush. I thought you might want the honors.”

You stared at the man, your stomach twisting in revulsion. He was shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to speak.

“P-please,” he stammered. “I-I didn’t mean to… I was just following orders…”

Dazai’s eyes flicked to you, a cold smile playing on his lips. “Go on,” he urged. “He deserves it, doesn’t he?”

You felt sick. This wasn’t what you wanted. You had always known the Mafia’s world was brutal, that you had blood on your hands—but this was different. This was cold, calculated cruelty, a punishment meant to satisfy Dazai’s twisted sense of justice.

“Dazai,” you began, your voice trembling, “I… I don’t think…”

His smile faded, replaced by a hard, icy stare. “You don’t think what?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. “I don’t think this is necessary. He’s already been punished.”

Dazai’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might lash out at you. But then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture.

“Very well,” he said, his voice flat. “If that’s what you want.”

He turned to the man, who was sobbing quietly, and pulled out his gun. Before you could react, he pressed the barrel to the man’s temple and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot echoed in the small room, and you flinched, bile rising in your throat. The man slumped forward, his body lifeless, blood pooling on the floor.

Dazai holstered his gun, his expression unreadable. “Clean this up,” he ordered, his voice cold and detached.

Two subordinates entered the room, their faces pale as they hurried to obey. Dazai turned to you, his gaze piercing.

“Next time,” he said softly, “don’t hesitate.”

You nodded, your hands trembling at your sides. But inside, you felt something break, a crack in the armor you had built around your heart. The darkness that clung to Dazai was seeping into you, and you didn’t know how much longer you could resist it.

Over the next few weeks, you threw yourself into your work, trying to drown out the growing sense of unease that gnawed at you. Missions came and went, each one more dangerous than the last. You fought fiercely, driven by a desperate need to prove yourself, to show that you were still strong, still capable.

But no matter how hard you tried, the nightmares continued to haunt you. And always, in the background, there was Dazai—watching, waiting, his presence a constant reminder of the darkness that threatened to consume you.

One evening, after a particularly brutal mission, you returned to your quarters, exhausted and covered in blood. You collapsed onto your bed, your body aching, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

You had just begun to drift off to sleep when you heard a knock at the door. Groaning, you pushed yourself up and opened it, expecting to find one of your subordinates with a report or an update.

Instead, you found Dazai.

He stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on you. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a chasm.

Finally, Dazai stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion.

You stiffened, your heart pounding. “I’ve been busy,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Busy,” he repeated, his gaze never leaving yours. “Is that all it is?”

You looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “What do you want, Dazai?”

He was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost tender. “I want to know what’s going on with you. You’re different.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing yourself to look at him. “Just tired.”

He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your eyes. You’re not fine.”

You felt a surge of anger, a desperate need to push him away. “What do you want me to say, Dazai? That I’m scared? That I’m tired of all this killing, all this blood? That I don’t know if I can do this anymore?”

He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. “You’re not alone,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your skin. “You have me.”

“That’s the problem,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re a part of this, Dazai. You’re a part of what’s tearing me apart.”

His eyes darkened, his hand dropping to his side. “I see,” he said quietly. “So that’s how it is.”

You felt a pang of guilt at the hurt in his voice, but you couldn’t stop now. “Dazai, I need… I need space. I need to figure things out.”

“Space?” he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. “Do you think you can just walk away from this? From us?”

“It’s not that simple,” you said, your voice breaking. “I don’t want to walk away, but I can’t keep going like this. Everything’s changed, Dazai. You’ve changed.”

Dazai’s expression hardened, a flicker of something dangerous passing through his eyes. “Change is inevitable in our line of work,” he replied, his voice cold. “You knew what this life entailed from the start.”

“But it’s not just the work!” you exclaimed, your frustration boiling over. “It’s you. You’re different, Dazai. Ever since that mission, something’s… shifted. You’re not the same person I trusted, the person I—”

You cut yourself off, realizing what you were about to admit. But Dazai wasn’t going to let you hide.

“The person you what?” he asked, his tone low, almost a growl. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Say it.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. The words were on the tip of your tongue, but the fear—the fear of what it would mean, what it would change—kept them locked inside.

But Dazai wasn’t one to be denied. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you close. His grip was firm, almost bruising, as he stared down at you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“Say it,” he repeated, his voice a dangerous whisper.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide, and for a moment, you saw a glimpse of the man you had once trusted, once cared for. But that man was buried deep beneath layers of darkness, of anger, of something that terrified you more than any enemy you had ever faced.

“I can’t,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. “I can’t do this anymore, Dazai.”

His grip tightened, and you winced in pain. “You don’t get to decide that,” he hissed, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and something darker, something possessive. “You belong to me. You always have.”

You tried to pull away, but he held you firmly, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. “Don’t you see?” he murmured, his voice suddenly soft, almost pleading. “I’m doing this for you. To protect you. To keep you safe. Everything I’ve done—it’s all been for you.”

His words sent a chill down your spine. The sincerity in his voice, the desperation—it scared you. Because you knew, deep down, that he believed every word he was saying. And that was what made him so dangerous.

“Dazai,” you whispered, tears spilling over. “Please, let me go. I need to think, to figure out what I want, what I need.”

His expression softened for just a moment, his thumb brushing away your tears. “You need me,” he said quietly. “And I need you. That’s all there is.”

You shook your head, your heart breaking. “But not like this. Not if it means losing myself.”

He stared at you, his gaze piercing, as if he was trying to read your soul. Then, slowly, he released your wrist, stepping back. The loss of his touch was both a relief and a heartbreak, the distance between you more painful than you had imagined.

“I won’t let you go,” he said finally, his voice low and dangerous. “Not now, not ever. But if you need time, take it. Just remember—there’s no escape from this life. From me.”

With that, he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed through the room.

You collapsed onto the bed, your body trembling with exhaustion and fear. The tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, and you buried your face in your hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

The truth was, you didn’t know how to escape this life. You didn’t know if you even wanted to. But the thought of staying, of being trapped in this cycle of violence and darkness, of being consumed by Dazai’s obsession—it terrified you.

But as much as you wanted to run, to leave it all behind, you knew deep down that Dazai was right. There was no escape. Not from him, not from the life you had chosen.

—— THE END ——

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

The Roles We Play (Chapter 12):More Than Blood

Summary:

Emhyr presides a funeral. Morvran Voorhis gets a reality check on what it takes to be emperor.

Morvran tugged at his collar, loosening the first two buttons. He was in his dress uniform, custom tailored to fit him perfectly with ease of movement and comfort in mind. That comfort did not include ventilation. He could feel sweat beading his face, soaking his collar, and took out a monogrammed handkerchief. His officer sword (decorative in purpose, Morvran keeps it sharp when things get ugly and calls for practical solutions) slapped his hip, jingling with each step. The approaching night brought cooling night air that did not reach him: the evening sentries were lighting the lamps and torches denying him relief.

Morvran saw a familiar figure staring at the garden pond. Emperor Emhyr var Emreis.

As Morvran walked closer, he noticed Emhyr was scowling at the pond’s denizens. Something about the large watery decor bothered the sovereign.

“There is a fish missing in the pond. One of the tenches, in case you are wondering.” Emhyr offered the answer to Morvran’s mental speculation while standing as still as a statue.

“Your Imperial Majesty?”

Emhyr glanced at him, brows still has that lingering scowl.

“Who invited you to their funeral feast?” The emperor- dispensing with the formalities- asked curiously.

“Dromirs’ wife Olga. She knew her husband and I used to frequent the races during our deployment in Novigrad.”

“The feasts usually last till dawn. What made you leave?”

“The late Dromir is… was a famed wine connoseur when he isn’t serving in the cavalry division, and for his high alcohol tolerance” Morvran added with a chuckle. “Dromir could consume an entire barrel and still stay on the saddle, lance in hand. That isn’t idle boast, I witness the feat with my own skeptic eyes. There were more spirits in that feast than the graveyard, and the food was heavily salted to maximize the consumption. I have an early warehouse inspection duty on Tarnhann, as well as checking the available supplies of our military bases there. I won’t show up nursing a hangover.”

“Discipline, dedication and diligence. Commendable traits in an officer of your prestigious rank.” Emhyr turned his attention back to the pond. The carp swam in solitary splendor, unbothered by the fluttering goldfishes in its presence. The golden tenches kept their respectful distance, flitting between the decorative rocks and the lily pads tastefully scattered around, eternally keeping the habitat clean and in working order.

Morvran directed his embarrassment at the pond, pretending to admire the graceful fishes flitting about beneath the rocks and lily pads. Commendations were a rare treat from the emperor: criticisms were doled out in abundance, but the few compliments and praises were earned.

Morvran still finds simple praises from the emperor, genuine or otherwise, a sore subject on his qualities that Emhyr deemed needs improvement.

“I’m honored by your praise, Your Imp-”

“-unfortunately, that is all you can achieve.”

Photo from my files with a screenshot BG from my gameplay.

[barn-anon]

His human pulls him into his quarters. If it were any other human he would be furious, insulted, probably doled out some form of punishment for even daring to hold such an item in his presence. Yet it is his human that's holding it and it makes all the difference.

He croons to her at the click of metal, a firm tug and he moves closer. His eyes stay on her, devoted and reverent, obeying the tug as she pulls the leash. Let him please her, he knows her best. No man or astartes can compare to him when it comes to her.

The leash falls from her hand but he's still, every fiber in his being wanting to simply pounce and take the reins instead. The want evaporates the moment her soft dainty unscarred hands touch his cheek. She pulls him down for a sweet kiss, he whines when it ends. Biting back whimpers when she laughs at him.

Soft mattress, smooth fabric and plush pillows. She gets him on his bed. He can't do anything but lie down. Be a good boy. Letting her take her time undoing his clothes and pulling it all off. Good boy, just lie there and let me do the work.

He shivers and tries to touch his human, wanting to do the same for her only for her to slap his hand away. Naughty, what did I just say?

Grey eyes drink in the sight of her in the dark room, illuminated only by the streetlights that filter in through the blinds. It isn't the first time she had seen him nude, but it's the first time she's taken charge.

And he loves it.

Finger tips gently trace along his cock, he shifts, only for her to lean over him and push him back down onto the bed. Apologetic coos get cut short by needy whines as she wraps her hand around his cock. Oh she can't even wrap around it completely.

Her hand feels so soft, nothing like his own rough calloused and scarred hands. You're truly more than a handful in everyway aren't you? He nods, not really registering her words as each stroke scrambles his mind even more.

Wet warmth envelops him and he groans, petite hands push his thighs in a gentle reminder. He can only reach down to grip her ponytail. More please, I'm so good to you. Only to growl to himself in frustration when she doesn't understand his words, she moves up and straddles his waist. Huh? W-when did she strip?

Instinctively moving to grip her thighs, soft warm and yielding. So different, so fragile, so his. His hearts racing as she reaches down to align his cock, sinking down with a whimper of her own.

Ripping his hands from her thighs to grip the sheets instead as his cock is surrounded by a different type of heat. He can't help himself, bucking up and pushing himself deeper into his human's tight heat. She gasps as her hand braces on his abdomen, nails digging into his flesh. Vaguely noticing that she had them painted today.

His human shudders and he watches with some worry, cooing softly to her. Did he push too much too fast? Sitting up he kisses her, purring when she loops her arms around his neck. She starts moving, he nuzzles against her neck, pressing kisses to that area where he can feel her pulse race, rolling his hips to match her pace.

Slower than what he likes but all the more arousing because she's on top. Kisses are pressed along his jaw and throat, her soft whimpers and moans fill the air. He can't help it anymore, gripping her waist as he thrusts into her hard, faster than her original pace. Soft whispered apologies in gothic and broken English into her ear as he clutches her to him, so deliciously hot and tight.

He purrs when she tenses and trembles, clenching around him. So perfect and beautiful, made only prettier with his own release within her.

Tagged: @kit-williams • @egrets-not-regrets • @bleedingichorhearts

Tried to stay on topic but Oop

[alessabriel]

My Perfect Girl | 3/3

Sumary: KisakiTouman! That she achieves her goal of marrying Hinata Tachibana, being the only man in her life, and getting Takemichi out of the way. To have a perfect life, and a perfect sweet girl.

CW: incest between father and daughter, described sexual scenes, daddy kink at its best, gagging, vanilla sex, oral fixation, chirophilia, voyeurism, female and male masturbation, cunnilingus, blowjob, deep throat, fingering, anal and vaginal fingering, compliments, hard sex.

Words: 3,630

Parts: Part 1 , Part 2

Kisaki Tetta, out of all the path he managed to establish since his high school years and get to where he was today was someone who did not allow himself to lose control. Knowing that he was someone versed in many relevant areas in his field, among so many skills was driving, truth be told he was a good driver and knew how to handle himself well either in streets or highways or even in shootouts, he had as a hobby racing cars to kill time and he did it splendidly. He wasn't going to lie when his daughter went to see him he would show off to impress her, and no one could say anything about it, but that was a whole different story being in front of the wheel having you bent over the seat right on his cock and how you had fun playing with it totally loving it.

"Daddy your cock is so long and fat" you whimpered in such a whiny and needy tone. Tetta could only squeeze the steering wheel tighter with her hands, she was trying hard not to let her eyesight blur from the pleasure she felt at having you giving kisses to her cock and waving your gorgeous ass in the air covered by a short skirt that only embellished the view. Miraculously you came to a red light and he made the blunder of looking down only to see you hold the tip of his cock imprisoned between your lips to run your tongue over his flesh while still looking down at him before leaving a loving kiss on his sensitive tip and rubbing it on your cheek, all the while looking up at him with eyes clouded in unparalleled lust. Feeling wanted like that, it was fucking exhilarating. If someone had told him before your unimaginably innocent but dirty talk, he would have given him lead right between the eyebrows for talking about you like that but now, when he had you in his lap and him unable to look at you anymore because of his gaze focused on the street, but he did hear your soft whimper long and tender, such a sweet croak "She's as rich as I imagined Daddy" With those words Tetta had to continue driving.

It was only a short drive to the apartment, that was what comforted you both.

You had half of your Daddy's hard cock inside your mouth, it felt like a rock against your palate and tongue, slightly salty but a warm aftertaste that made your tongue tingle, you slid its hardness against your tongue playing with the veins, it was so delicious to finally have it inside your mouth and you would have wanted to take it deep into your throat where you felt like choking and suffocating on it but it was driving, the last thing you wanted was for them to collide. You felt so aroused you were dripping inside your panties and the soft hand on your head doling out tender caresses only increased it, he was treating you so sweet and tender that your spoiled side couldn't help but come out, you pulled his cock out of your mouth and lavished kisses all over it, even biting gently but covering your teeth with your lips.

"I want her to be only mine Daddy Yes?"

Your sweet and pampered request made your Daddy's cock just throb between your soft hands of perfectly manicured and manicured nails, such a gorgeous and perfect color on your pretty hands that only styled them more, you were all Daddy's girl. And a Daddy's girl deserved no less. Tetta could only melt at your request, his cock was yours from the beginning of that insane attraction and he really couldn't conceive of cheating on you. You were the only woman he would ever love.

"It's only yours, only yours" assured the older man confidently before grabbing you by the hair pulling you carefully to incorporate you into the seat without inflicting too much pain to give you a sloppy kiss. Tetta loved so many of your plump, moist lips, she could taste the saltiness in your mouth coupled with the sweetness of your stained lipstick "And I'm yours too Princess."

Your heart beat out of control in your rib cage at what your Dad uttered and you kissed him again, this time taking control you, invading his mouth with your tongue and nibbling on his lips, before trapping in your lips his tongue to suck it between your lips licking and sucking it your way. They were not your first kisses, but with whom you loved the most. The older Kisaki just let you guide the kiss, he could feel your enthusiasm and dedication in the kiss, at the same time savoring your taste on his tongue and before returning the kiss someone pulled them out of their bubble with a horn from behind. With regret Tetta moderately managed to let you do whatever you wanted with her body.

"I'm all yours too Daddy" you hummed in response over the skin of his neck, leaving wet kisses and running the tip of your tongue over his warm skin, if you pressed hard enough you could feel his pulse throbbing under your lips. You managed to see your Dad's genuine smile at your words and felt butterflies in your stomach, it was cute. Still with your stomach churning from those love related bugs you smiled in anticipation guiding your hand to the erect length that was still glistening with traces of your saliva and lipstick to start massaging it gently slow, wanting him to cum to enjoy it on your tongue and hands "I want to choke on your cock Daddy, I want it so bad."

Kisaki squeezed the steering wheel even tighter and wished to blow the head off whoever the fuck had caught his attention with the horn, I hate it but continued to drive feeling your hand on his cock masturbating him so slowly, devoting attention to every tiny part edging him in the process. Before he could say anything to you he again felt the warmth of your mouth on his cock and just held on to get to the fucking building as soon as possible.

You hummed and continued to suck sweetly, so soft and harmless that at one point it was even relaxing, but your intentions remained the same; to edge him so much until his cock throbbed in your mouth, feeling the throbbing resonate in the veins of his cock and caressing them with your tongue. And you were on the right track, you settled nicely over his lap without getting in the way of the steering wheel and started working him even harder, taking him deeper and deeper into your mouth, feeling the imperceptible gag reflex barrier that you had trained a little with countless hours sucking on toys of different sizes had helped you to be able to control your gag reflex. All for your Daddy, to drown you in his cock so he could gag you.

The wet noises began to create a symphony out of wet dreams.

Kisaki Tetta had had many partners and clearly they had had sex quite often but no one compared to how skillfully you were turning him on in just minutes and eating his cock deep. With trembling hand he pushed you by the head further down on his cock listening to your sweet little moaning sound rumble over the sensitive skin of his penis bristling his skin in the process. But to his surprise you stayed there, your pretty tinted lips touching the edge of his pants at the base of his cock swallowing around it, that only gave him more pleasure; sheathing himself completely in your tender throat feeling how tight it was, feeling your saliva dripping onto his cock and you futilely rubbing your legs together in search of relief. At that instant was when your blowjob really began, you were going up and down quite fluidly on his cock slurping, kissing and drinking all the wetness his cock had and gave you for your attentions. You were perfect.

"I'm better than Mommy Aren't I Daddy?" you asked with such a believable innocent tone to your Daddy, that if you weren't pumping with your hand a cock rubbing it also over your swollen lips he might coo at how tender you were. Tetta might have found the question tender in itself and not horny, jealous and so arousing "Mommy won't compare to me, will she Daddy?"  

With a shaky sigh she cleared her head feeling the pressure at the base of member go increasing by your delicate little hand with perfectly manicured nails, you squeezed it sweetly holding it back as you left open mouthed kisses waiting for her response and Tetta couldn't ignore how you began to over squeeze it, apparently you didn't like not being given an answer. Your perfect little girl was possessive and jealous, the woman you loved. That dominant but cuddly side at the same time only turned him on more, you were his spoiled little girl and soon he could explore it some more, there were so many possibilities roaming around in his head they were almost endless.

"Yes you are better than Tachibana in everything, you are perfect my girl" with a pleased humming you proceeded to give him a sloppy blowjob leaving aside your slowness, you so longed to taste his cum "That's it princess, suck, I want to fill your mouth with my cum".

And motivated, you continued sucking, lowering your head quickly and rising a little slower, sucking harder on the tip, as if you wanted to milk it. It was inevitable not to lose your free hand between your legs under your panties to start caressing your mons venus to take your fingers towards your labia majora feeling how wet you were to focus your attention on your small clitoris, you didn't think you could continue without feeling cared for and you couldn't help but choke when you pressed a little harder on your clit under your soaked underwear. Still you didn't leave your dad's long, fat cock, you just cooed around it making a mess in his pants, your legs and hands trembling from the crushing pleasure that ran through your entire body.

You felt almost electrified.

For the older Kisaki it was the same or perhaps more intense, everything felt a thousand times more intense than before and how you tried even harder, just thinking that someone could see them; Seeing her sweet princess crouched in her lap with her little mouth busy as much as possible and by the way your hips were shaking you were touching yourself. I could imagine you with your pretty, delicate hand in your vagina, touching and caressing you.

He didn't know how he could last any longer, but he did.

They arrived at the underground parking lot of the building where his apartment was, and he forcefully lifted you by the waist, moving to the back of the car. With a wicked smile he laid you back on the seat, pushing aside your panties, seeing your perfect pussy with plump lips that he squeezed between his fingers, feeling your wet folds, watching you whimper sensitively, and he gave a not-so-hard slap on your pussy, creating a sound of skin with skin, watching you tremble. He loved seeing your delicate body at the mercy of his hands and even more exciting, that you craved and desired him as much as he did.

"D-daddy" you moaned trembling trying to close your legs but his strong hands with highlighted veins held them well keeping your legs wide open leaving your pussy in sight "p-please"

Kisaki smiled seeing how desperate you were, leaving your legs open around his hips he separated the labia of your pussy seeing how you were so wet dripping, there was a little well trimmed hair crowning your folds on your mons venus that he only caressed before licking his index and middle fingers to caress your sensitive pussy, running from your mons venus barely touching, admiring with delight how your skin stood on end, to delve between your labia majora to touch the hood of your clitoris, feeling how wet you were, caressing the vestibule to reach your small leaky entrance. Your small hole that dropped soft and liquid pearls of your crystalline nectar that slowly dripped between your round buttocks getting lost, he loved to see the whole erotic show that you put on just with his touches, he was a total pervert just for you, his own blood and the daughter he loved so much, who brought him so much pride.

"Tell me, angel," Tetta said with a smile, gently masturbating her daughter's pussy, watching her squirm and tremble, paying attention to caressing the hood of her clitoris. "Have you touched this pretty pussy? Have you used your fingers thinking about daddy? Be honest, honey. "Tell me everything you do in this beautiful wet hole"

You squirm feeling how her finger runs through your labia majora and minora, smearing and staining your excitement on the sensitive skin of your pussy, but your legs tremble when you feel her fingers testing your entrance. You whimper when his finger enters a little, feeling from the beginning the difference between your little fingers and your dad's, your dad's fingers are longer and bigger than yours, when he enters completely inside you, your hands cling. at the door scratching the surface and moaning with pleasure, you were trembling feeling just one of his fingers inside you and you felt like you could cum already.

"Y-yes, I touched myself" you confess, lost between feeling embarrassed or excited, but when he starts moving his fingers in and out, you moan so loudly feeling the coldness of his ring touching your hot sex, you push your pussy into his fingers, forcing them harder. inside although it hurts, the pleasure overcomes it along with the coldness of the ring "I h-I touched myself looking at photos of you, o-smelling your shirts and m-I put together one of the p-stuffed animals that you gave me, t-the one that looks like you"

Tetta delights in seeing her daughter so horny, trembling only for one of her fingers and gently extracts it from your pulsating interior, admiring how sticky threads of crystalline white are created that join her fingers to her tight hole, the same finger that she took to the lips tasting your sweet nectar; It was sweet and slightly bittersweet that shook every cell in her body just by tasting it. It was damn exquisite, and he knew it would be more delicious straight from the source, licking your juices from his finger. He returned to touch your pussy this time inserting two fingers but there was resistance from your tight hole. She let a drop of saliva fall on the plump lips of your pussy, smearing your clit equally, with her thumb she caressed the little bundle of nerves watching how you were scratching the seats with such a beautiful expression of pleasure; bright eyes shedding tears that slid like crystalline talks down your rosy cheeks, lips parted in a tender o and your hands trembling as you scratched what you could reach. She continues caressing your clitoris and begins to move her fingers, expanding your interior very gently, feeling how you dripped into her hand, soaking her fingers, letting your nectar flow to her palm and soak the seat.

"So my perfect princess is a dirty girl?" Tetta questioned and she was pleasantly surprised to feel how the wet, tight-walled interior of her daughter's pussy tightened impossibly tighter on her fingers, almost preventing her from moving them. "Do you like it when daddy talked dirty to you, my love?"

You are shaking and you say shedding tears, you feel so sensitive as if every part of your body were nerve endings, your body felt hot and each touch only made you feel more stimulated.

"Y-yes daddy" the youngest responds, seeing her father with bright and innocent eyes full of desire shedding tears, her fingers close to his face wiping his tears and touching his lips not knowing that he wanted to fill his mouth "M-me "I like it when daddy talks dirty."

"That's my perfect sweet little whore," Tetta comments, watching her daughter tremble more and her pussy tighten. "You're my perfect slutty girl. Do you want me to eat this little pussy of yours?"

You cry when you feel three fingers inside you, caressing your soaked walls and your hard clit, you can't hold back your needy sobs anymore. You whimper needily caressing your own lips, licking your fingers.

"P-please" you beg and plead watching her adjust herself to lower her head to your pussy "D-daddy"

Tetta finally has his mouth on his daughter's sweet and tender pussy, he runs his tongue from where he still has his fingers inside you, tasting your juices that drip into his hand and goes up to your Mount Venus, your aroma intoxicates him completely He even feels his cock grow bigger. He goes back down kissing each part, sliding his tongue between your labia in search of your clitoris, which he licks gently, feeling the tender hardness of that sensitive pearl, and he grunts with pleasure when you pull his hair, raking your acrylic nails on his head, another time he It would make you sleepy but now it just makes your skin crawl. She redoubles her efforts, and she traps the small hard button between her lips, starting to really masturbate your pussy, looking for that point that would drive you crazy with pleasure, she didn't think wrong. She touched that G-spot of hers, curling her fingers, feeling with the tips of her fingers that part of slightly different texture to gain leverage and more force to stimulate it, while she sucked on that little button.

The tinted windows were fogged with fog, and the aroma of sex was combined with perfumes.

Your mind is blank, your wet pussy being caressed, masturbated and with your dad's mouth there. You pull her hair hard, moaning without being able to regulate your voice, when she touches that point that you only rarely reached, your eyes rolled back without being able to put your tongue in your mouth. She was touching you hard, caressing that point roughly, and your pussy was splashing your juices, with your hands you squeeze your tits over your blouse, pinching your nipples feeling pleasure, sucking your fingers, choking you. Until you feel that knot in your belly tighten so tightly that your body tenses, you block yourself by clawing at the seat and squeezing your thighs around your dad's head.

""I-I'm cumming daddy" you scream uncontrollably.

Tetta smiles as he continues, his glasses splashed with your juices but he continues to feel your thighs press his head deeper into your pussy and knowing when your wet pussy would squirt, he sucked harder on your clit until your spurts came out in pressure drenching his mouth and suit. . She continues caressing you, gently bringing you down from that ecstasy, she gets up, taking her fingers out of you, sucking them, seeing how you were crying with pleasure. She caresses your thighs, seeing you with love and tenderness.

"Did you like my perfect girl?" the older man questions, standing on top of her daughter, watching closely the traces of her tears and her expression of pleasure. "It tasted delicious. Do you see the mess you made, my girl? Your pussy is dripping so hard, only daddy can make you cum." So"

You affirm lightly, hugging him still lost in your pleasure, surrounding her neck, kissing him, savoring your flavor on her lips. And you only let yourself be carried away by his lips and tongue. You feel how your dad adjusts your panties even though they are soaked, with the mere friction of your underwear you tremble. You look at your dad still tickling his body with pleasure, pouting softly in embarrassment.

"Sorry, daddy, I soaked everything" you say softly, playing with his hair, looking at him with love but shyly showing your shame in your eyes.

Tetta just laughs deep and husky, kissing your lips softly calming you down and giving you love, you were the most adorably sexy woman she had ever met.

"Don't worry, honey, it's just an example of how much pleasure I can give you. Now we'll go up to the apartment, okay?"

“It's okay daddy.”

                                                    〔 ⚝⚝⚝ 〕

Being in your dad's bachelor apartment, he didn't let you down from his arms, between clothes falling and moans they came to the room. Your dad wouldn't let you get out of his arms, you surrounded his hips with your legs, preventing him from moving away from you. Sharing kisses and caresses, admiring with delight the traces of continuous hours of unleashed lust.

The air is filled with tension and the obscene essence of sex.

Tetta cradles her hands tightly on your waist, feeling the warmth of your skin and the softness of your smooth lips. Running her hands over your body, feeling her skin crawl, she couldn't help but smile when she saw her sweet daughter trembling with her, with her fingers on her smooth lips shedding tears. Her tight, warm, wet pussy squeezing his cock, he can see every mark on her skin.

“D-daddy,” the youngest whimpers, trembling, scratching the sheets, feeling the sheets rub against her tits, but she cries when she feels a finger again in hers, another hole in hers, “M-more please.”

And Kisaki Tetta has always spoiled her perfect little girl.

[astralisbelle]

Dead Man's Hand 14 - The Queen of Air and Darkness

Dead Man's Hand Masterlist tags: engineer!reader, gambler!reader, loose canon timeline, eventual smut, fluff, action, casino aesthetics, touch starved reader, touch starved din, reader and din get on each other’s nerves, also they’re idiots, defrosting ice king din, cinderella vibes, everybody loves grogu

chapter summary: The final game: the stakes are higher and the competition is determined. She has more to lose than just some money and beskar.

Only three people sit at the table in the center: her, Hadira, and the dealer between them. The servants give the Mandalorian a chair to sit on against the wall, giving him full view of the game.

Grogu’s pram floats close to him, but he too watches the game despite its confusing nature for him. After the tournament, Din thinks he’s gotten a better handle on the ins and outs of sabacc.

The dealer at the table introduces the stakes, including the five ingots of beskar and the various pieces of the Mandalorian’s armor, represented by special chips of a silver finish. A female servant brings a tray carrying a small, metal canister: a new deck of sabacc cards, as is casino tradition. The dealer opens the box and shuffles the deck. He allows Hadira the cut the deck, then her.

It begins.

The dealer slides two cards to each woman and sets the deck in the middle, taking the top card and facing it up. They make their bets, take their turns, and get into the flow. Chips click against the table and cards are tossed while both women keep up their sabacc faces, their eyes like impenetrable safes.

Hadira is good. In the first few rounds, she manages to throw her off, earning herself two pieces of Din’s armor. Her heart races as she watches Hadira slide the silver chips towards herself, not even allowing her stoic expression to fall for any hint of victory.

He won’t say anything, but Din’s nerves are also spiked to hell. Beskar passes through the table like common scrap and she doles out hundreds of credits for bets as if they’re nothing. But she’s good. Good enough to bomb out a trust fund kid and a Hutt. Good enough for someone to nearly murder her for threatening their win. Good enough that the champion of the tournament extended this invitation because the chance of beating her was too worthwhile to pass up on.

Hours pass, rounds finish, but now it comes down to the final one.

In the hand pot, three pieces of his armor and two ingots of beskar sit along with forty-thousand New Republic credits. In the sabacc pot, two ingots of beskar, the rest of his armor, and ten-thousand credits. Everything rides on this hand. Two cards each…

“Draw phase,” says the dealer. “Lady Vossall?”

“Draw.” He hands her a card.

“Miss?”

She looks at the three cards in her hands. A Five of Flasks, a Three of Sabers, together only a mere score of eight. “Draw.” When given her new card, she takes a look at it. It takes all of her willpower for her eyes to not widen and maintain her composure.

The Idiot.

She already has a Three of Sabers. If she gets a two in any suit, then she has the unbeatable hand. “Miss, any discards?” ask the dealer. Before she tosses her five away, her hand hovers it. A few twos have already passed. There’s a decent chance it’ll never come and if she keeps drawing and discarding, then Hadira will know that she almost has a good hand and change her strategy. She inhales. Breathe. You got this.

“Discard.” She hands the Five of Flasks back. If that two isn’t in the next card, then she can kiss it all good-bye… including Din and Grogu.

Now comes the final draw. Din is on the edge of his seat, sweat forming on his brow. He has no idea what she or Hadira has and if that makes it better or worse.

“Lady Vossall,” says the dealer. “Please show your hand.”

She lays down her cards: a One of Flasks, Two of Flasks, Three of Staves, Four of Coins… and a Mistress of value Thirteen. A clean total of twenty-three: Pure Sabacc. The servants murmur and whisper. That’s a Pure Sabacc, Din notes. There isn’t any way to beat that, is there? His stomach sinks.

“Miss.” The dealer turns to her. “Your hand, please.”

She glances down and keeps her cool. First, she puts down the Three of Sabers. Then, she puts down the Idiot. The air is deathly still as she reaches for the final card. She faces Hadira and looks right at her as she faces it up:

The Queen of Air and Darkness, valued at negative two.

An Idiot (zero), a two, and a three. Idiot’s Array, the only hand that can beat a Pure Sabacc. “Game,” she says, her game face dropping entirely.

Din jumps out of his chair. “Dank farrik!” he exclaims, energy flowing from his voice. While the servants applaud, she leaps out of her chair too, laughing in jubilation as she rushes to him, arms extended. Jumping into his arms, he spins her around. Din laughs too, hugging her tight enough that her feet don’t reach the floor. She cups the sides of his helmet, hoping that he can see just how happy she is in this moment.

“I won!”

“You did it. You almost killed me, but you did it.”

She squeals, squeezing him one last time before he looks around and a hesitant grunt leaves him, realizing that everyone is staring. Trying not to appear too eager, he sets her down and crosses his arms. As soon as they make some space between them, Grogu immediately leaps onto her chest, making high-pitched coos of delight. She hugs him tight, giving him a little kiss on his head before turning back to Hadira. The Twi’lek has a satisfied smile on her face as she stands up and walks up to her.

“The Mandalorian speaks the truth. You are a true competitor.” She holds out her hand. “I am honored to have played with you.”

She takes Hadira’s hand and gives it a firm shake. “As am I. I am… forever thankful that you’ve allowed me to play. I’ll never forget this, Lady Vossall.”

Hadira pulls her hand back and snaps her fingers. “Oh, believe me, child. This will not be the last game between us. You can expect invitations to my private games in the coming years. In the meantime…” A servant approaches them with a tray. “This is all yours. Nine-hundred and eighty thousand credits, every piece of the Mandalorian’s armor…” Another servant approaches with the chest that she saw back in the tournament. “And five ingots of pure beskar.” She hands Grogu to Din and takes the chest, noting how heavy it is, and opens it. When she sees the beskar inside, so shiny and pure, it steals her breath away. Of course, the Imperial symbol ruins the would-be perfection. Soon, she thinks. Soon, it will melt away and never have that ugly imprint on it ever again.

“It’s beautiful.” She shows it to the Mandalorian who nods in agreement.

“It is.”

“And… one more thing,” says Hadira. The dealer gathers all of the cards on the table in one sweep, shuffling them and sliding them into the canister. He closes it and presents it to her as well. “I would like you to have the deck.”

“A-Are you sure? It’s a really nice deck.”

“I play by casino rules. Once a deck has been cut and used, I never use it again. I insist.”

“If you’re sure.” She sets the chest down to take the deck of cards. Popping it open to peek inside, she runs her thumbs over the tops, stopping when she sees the Queen of Air of Darkness. A smile creeps up on her face. “There’s just one more thing I have to do.” She turns to Din and takes Grogu from his arms, setting him on the floor. “Can you hold onto this for me?” she asks him, showing him the canister of cards. He clutches it between his hands and babbles. Then, she takes the chest and stands before Din.

She had been thinking about this moment for days, fantasizing how she would finally give him this chest. Would she tease him? Would she make it overly formal? Every possibility leaves her and she just goes with what feels the most natural. “I… I am proud to give you—”

Din puts a finger on her lips. “No.”

“H...huh?”

He drops his hand to his side. “Keep it for now. You won this beskar. It is yours.”

“Y-Yeah, but I won it for you… I’m so confused, you wanted this, didn’t you?”

He chuckles. “You’ll see what I mean.”

---

From the windows of the Razor Crest, she watches them drift further and further away from Canto Bight. She is so different from the girl that arrived here a week ago, dirty, frightened, and nervous. The chest of beskar sits in the cargo hold, along with the entire winning pot adding to the credits she already won, the total amounting to just under a million credits. She lost a lot of money in the last game, but she won all of the beskar — a fair trade. Though she does still wonder why Din didn’t accept it.

After the Mandalorian makes the jump, he cradles Grogu in his arms and take him to the cabin to set him down for the night. She remains in the cockpit, one heel on the edge of the seat with her hands holding it in place, her eyes watching the stars of hyperspace.

He comes back and sits down, relaxing in his chair. Alone again.

“So…” she begins. “Where are we going first?”

“We’re going to the Mandalorian covert. There, you will present the beskar to the Armorer.”

“The…” She has no clue who that is, but they sound important. Very important. “Sh-shouldn’t it be you? I’m not a Mandalorian.”

“I want it to be you,” he says. “You played the game and won it. The beskar is yours.” He tilts his head. “This is the Way.”

“...Alright.” She nods. “I’ll do that. So, the covert, then Tatooine to give Peli her share, then…” She sits back.

Din rolls his shoulders back. “You haven’t decided where you wanted to go?”

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that.” If only she could say it so easily, but she fears the many reasons that he would reject the notion. She can feel Din waiting for a response, the darkness of his visor staring her down. Well. Now or never. “Okay.” She sits up. “You wanna know where I wanna go? More than anywhere else in the galaxy?” He waits. “I want to go with you.”

Din sits up. “With… me?”

“I know what you’re going to say. That it’s dangerous, blah blah blah, but one: you still take Grogu with you everywhere and two: I can learn how to defend myself. And I won’t be a load either! I’ll do maintenance on the ship while you’re out hunting and whatnot and I can also watch after Grogu too. That’s reasonable, right?”

Din is silent, as per usual when he weighs his options. He hates to admit it, but everything she said is… reasonable. Having a mechanic on the ship would save him a fortune in most repairs. Grogu already is very attached to her, and having someone to look after him in this profession would take a load off his shoulders. But most of all, it would mean having her with him. That’s the selfish part. He lowers his head and her smile drops, expecting his rejection. “You… You don’t want me to go?”

“That’s not it. I…” He swallows. “I do want you to go. But, I don’t understand what you get out of it. You wouldn’t be able to settle down anywhere. You’d live job to job, danger at every corner.”

She shrugs. “But we’d go somewhere different all the time, right? See the Outer Rim? See everything I’ve never seen. And I’d get to…” She blushes, facing away. “I’d get to be with you. And Grogu.”

“...Yes. Grogu… he likes you a lot.” He glances back for a moment. “But I.” She faces him, worry in her brows. “I can’t make you happy.” Now she just looks at him confused. “I live by the Creed. That and Grogu are the most important things to me.”

“Oh, Stars.” She rolls her eyes. “You don’t think I know that? I’m not asking you to pick me over either of those things.”

“That doesn’t bother you? You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t be able to see my face, to know what I look like.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t bother me. Besides…” She tucks some hair behind her ear. “All of those things. Your Creed. Grogu. Your dedication to them both. That’s what I like the most about you. I could never see you without them.”

Din’s heart pounds and he wonders if this is all some dream. It’s almost too good to be true, but both are aware of the risks if they go forward, how hard this life would be. Then he starts to imagine it. Maybe they would settle in a place for a little bit of time while he hunts and she works. Hell, her sabacc skills could still come in handy too.

Just maybe, this clan of two could indeed be a clan of three.

Din knows that she’s awaiting his response. He stands up, reaching for the buttons to turn off the lights in the cockpit one by one until the only light comes from hyperspace. Then, he walks to her and takes her hand, guiding her to stand and walk with him back to his chair. “You sure this is what you want?”

She squeezes his hand. “I’m sure.”

He sits down and pulls her to sit on his lap. “Keep your eyes closed,” he says.

She nods, doing as he says. Din slips his helmet off, admiring her face illuminating by hyperspace. He caresses her cheek and pulls her in for a sweet kiss. She returns it, holding his head between her hands. For these few precious moments, they simply let their foreheads touch, their noses brush against each other, their smiles tickle each other’s lips. “Is a kiss all I’m getting tonight?” she teases.

“You’re gonna wake the kid,” he says, pulling his helmet back on.

“I can be quiet.”

“I wouldn’t let you be quiet.”

She opens her eyes and smacks his shoulder, immediately regretting it thanks to his armor. As she shakes out her hand and makes a sound of pain, he laughs. “You gotta entertain me somehow, Din,” she says, slipping off him so he can turn the lights back on.

“Sabacc?”

“Are you kidding me?” She plops down in her chair. “I’ve literally been playing sabacc for days.”

“You can always teach me to play better.”

“Mmm. Sure, I can try.” She reaches for her deck of cards and pauses when a cruel idea pops in her head. “Hey, Din.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you play strip sabacc?” she asks, grinning while her hands shuffle the deck.

“What’s strip sabacc?”

“Oh. Well.” She pulls up a crate between them to act as their table. “This variation will really teach you, of all people, how to play. You don’t bet money, so to speak.” Her voice carries a sultry air that makes him lift a brow.

“So what do you bet?”

She passes him two cards and smirks. “Clothes.”

[warningsine]

We’re now tiptoeing close to the end of The Good Wife — and honestly, television after this point will never be the same again. Showrunners Robert and Michelle King, with help from an incredibly talented stable of performers, have elevated what passes for a solidly good legal drama — raising the bar so high that broadcast networks can’t keep pandering to tried-and-true tropes if they wish to compete with so-called prestige cable dramas.

The series’ finale, which airs on Sunday, May 8, is called “End,” appropriately enough. Yet, in the run-up to “End,” I am filled with regrets, a heap of disappointment, and a truth that not even the sharpest episodes of this drama can dance around: The fact that The Good Wife‘s biggest weakness will always lie in how miserably it failed at portraying characters of color.

In many ways, I’m tired of making this argument over and over again. I’m tired of how an anemic Ferguson-inspired episode is supposed to make us think The Good Wife has any clue as to how to dole out parts equally for all its players. I’m tired that as performers of color have made tremendous inroads into the primetime television arena, landing shows in which they are finally afforded starring roles, complex story arcs, and the opportunity to portray characters who evolve, one of the best-written network dramas lags so far behind.

Yet, this one’s personal for me because Kalinda Sharma, in ways, was the first time I saw myself truly reflected on network television: A queer South Asian character kicking ass. This is not Maulik Pancholy on 30 Rock, but a character with motivations, arcs, and character growth all her own. Archie Panjabi took some of the most banal material on television and transformed it into Emmy-winning gold.

So it was a telling moment when the Kings were quizzed on whether fans could expect Kalinda Sharma to show up for a final cameo before the series finale in May. Co-creator Michelle King’s deliberate response: “Kalinda went off deliberately to disappear — and we’re honoring that choice. It wouldn’t make sense for [Kalinda] to come back.”

Nobody actually ever states, “I have a race-based bias.” People make such feelings known — even if they don’t intend to — through a series of complicated actions. I don’t know if race is at the heart of whatever happened to Kalinda and The Good Wife, but it is difficult to overlook how the drama sidelined one of the strongest performers of their series for two-and-a-half seasons before clumsily writing her off the show.

Also difficult to overlook: How the showrunners deny us a chance for a final adieu to the series’ best character, despite the clamor of fans who have stuck with the show through its peaks and dips, and try to persuade us that even though another lead on the drama — Cary Agos — was smitten by a woman like Kalinda, it makes no sense to bring her back, even for a scene.

For six seasons, Kalinda was the only person of color to be a series regular on The Good Wife — a role now dutifully fulfilled by Cush Jumbo, who, in many ways, steps in to be Kalinda the Remix for Alicia.

Kalinda ex machina was a favorite plot device The Good Wife writers have resorted to when they didn’t know quite how to wrap up a loose end. It’s also probably one of the most offensive executions of the “magical desi” trope. However, The Good Wife‘s diversity problem only starts at Kalinda and goes much further.

There’s even a moment in season six where Kalinda appears in an episode with only six lines — and to ostensibly provide an easy answer to Diane Lockhart’s husband and the firm’s resident ballistics expert Kurt McVeigh. Kurt even asks, “Who is this?” and she plainly responds, “Kalinda,” and we’re left to wonder, is this an inside joke? Are there writers within The Good Wife camp who also understand the poor treatment of an Emmy winner in their ranks is a creative failure?

We joke about Kalinda’s exit, but in many ways, her exit makes a broader statement about the poor treatment of diversity across casting choices on The Good Wife that includes all performers of color.

Self-Referential Commentary Isn’t Change

In the fourth season, there is a moment when Assistant State’s Attorney Geneva Pine and State’s Attorney Peter Florrick sit down for a discussion about racism.

Facing allegations of bias and preferential hiring practices in the middle of a heated campaign for the Illinois Governor’s seat, Florrick asks Pine to sit down and level with him. Is he really a racist? He’s so progressive! He has black friends he met in jail!

But Pine, rightfully, isn’t having any of it. She mentions how Cary Agos was promoted above her or Matan Brody despite being very inexperienced — because Florrick liked his “personality.” She mentions his dismissal of Wendy Scott-Carr (which, The Good Wife, really, y’all couldn’t get Anika Noni Rose in to be a series regular for a couple seasons?)

The scene appears to be a meta criticism for the soap itself: The Good Wife itself has always struggled with diversity, with equal representation, with giving dues to performers of color when they’re owed.

In a more recent episode, we experience another meta moment like this: Shortly after they’ve both joined Lockart, Agos, & Lee, both Lucca Quinn and Monica Timmons are awkwardly sequestered into a conference room together by all-white management.

“We think you’ll get along well,” they’re told. They’re encouraged to work together, which prompts Timmons to remark, “Know any Negro spirituals?”

I am never quite sure what to make of shows like this which appear capable of storytelling competency that poke fun at race with one hand, while being complicit with the other.

What’s At Stake?

Late last year, Deadline ran an article that broke down just how pay is meted out among series regulars, recurring guests, special guest stars, and guest stars:

As TV budgets get tighter among viewership fragmentation and declining ratings, studios often limit the number of regular cast members on a show, instead increasingly employing actors as “top of show” recurring guest stars for a fraction of the salary. Meanwhile, guest-starring gigs that would have normally been top of the show are now more and more often done as 1-3-day stints also at a deeply discounted price, making it virtually impossible for actors to live on guest-starring roles and meet their minimums for SAG-AFTRA health insurance.

The Good Wife, at its core, has always been a drama about managing optics: Do the right thing, say the right thing, surround yourself with the right people, go to the right places. It has always been about appealing to a definition of “acceptable” as defined by an imagined critical consensus.

The Kings appear to be among television’s more self-aware and erudite storytellers. Which is why the meta-ness of The Good Wife‘s racial commentary appears especially tone-deaf.

The optics of this series has always placed a premium on whiteness and a specific kind of whiteness above other identities. It is a kind of whiteness that is characterized by wealth, access to education, and liberal politics. In The Good Wife‘s universe, characters who closely fit this mold are the ones rewarded with rich characterization, stories with depth, and screen-time. Characters who deviate from this status quo end up becoming nothing more than scaffolding, devices that simply serve to set Alicia up for one of her come-to-Jesus epiphanies.

“In its seven year run, The Good Wife has never featured more than a single person of color as a series regular.”

It is telling, too, that in its seven year run, The Good Wife has never featured more than a single person of color as a series regular. Overlay that fact with the current economic reality faced by most working actors and this means that for all its lip service to racial equality, this soap has contributed to a world where people of color have been continuously marginalized — earning pennies on the dollar for the work offered to their white co-stars.

To make matters worse, it seems there’s a one-in-one-out rule for actors of color on The Good Wife as series regulars — with Cush Jumbo only entering once Archie Panjabi had exited the series. And her character is designated to filling in a similar role.

The one-in-one-out rule has then created a universe where performers of color on The Good Wife are prone to being pigeonholed and typecast; where they won’t ever receive the best stories and where they will never be able to stand independently — because their importance will always be determined by the white leads.

Limited Identities

In fact, no matter how talented the supporting players of color, they will only ever serve as levers to help further the character growth and plot development of a white character.

We saw within the series’ first season how the one-in-one-out rule impacted casting.

In 1992, the Mira Nair film Mississippi Masala made waves with its story of an interracial romance between Mina and Demetrius, played by Sarita Choudhury and Denzel Washington. A critical favorite at the time, Choudhury’s break-out performance helped her land roles in a Hollywood climate that continued to exercise bias against South Asians throughout the 1990s. Flash forward a couple decades and she appears in the debut season of The Good Wife as Simran Verma, a woman whose undocumented status ends up putting her at risk of getting deported — that is, unless her kids comply with a request from the police to help take down a local desi gang smuggling diamonds.

No matter how talented the supporting players of color, they only ever serve as levers to help further the character growth and plot development of white characters. It’s a gross under-utilization of Choudhury’s talents — forcing her into a helpless desi mom trope.

On one hand, this trope is used well to define Kalinda’s own desi identity for the first time on the show: There’s an exchange between Alicia and Kalinda where Alicia tells Kalinda that she expects her to be more sympathetic to Simran’s immigration woes to which Kalinda remarks, “Why? My parents entered this country legally.”

In the same episode, a Sikh convenience store owner asks Kalinda to speak in Hindi and she casually says that she can’t and continues with her interrogation. For many of us, it’s a rare moment of American television that makes us eager to see more glimpses into this character.

While it’s great that we learn about how Kalinda connects with her South Asian identity, we’re still stuck wondering why, with two gifted South Asian actresses chewing up scenery on the same episode, do neither of them have decent material to work with?

With the exception of Bhavesh Patel as Anthony Wright Edelman for a few minutes at the end of season four and early season five — a colorblind casting choice, perhaps? — The Good Wife doesn’t invite any other South Asians back.

Depending on their race, characters are saddled marginally with immigration- or racism-based storylines.

The Good Wife also gives us the short-lived character of ASA Dana Lodge — who serves as a temporary romantic interest for Cary, but she’s written off soon enough. The drama also offers us America Ferrera portraying Natalie Flores, an undocumented babysitter that Wendy Scott-Carr — Peter Florrick’s rival — has hired to watch her kids and Eli Gold believes he can use this truth to take down Wendy.

Only he ends up falling for Natalie. The chemistry between Ferrera and Cumming, who plays Eli, is electric and sells us on wanting to see Natalie return. After her initial arc, she does come back a couple seasons later. Because her friend is at risk of being deported. Once that plot is resolved, that’s the last we see of Flores.

“The Good Wife seems to think women of color are interchangeable sidepieces for its white leads.”

And as far as romantic interests for Eli go, we later see Vanessa Williams step in as billionairess Courtney Paige in season seven — the Ugly Betty connection between Eli’s paramours is poetry, yes! — and yet, The Good Wife seems to think women of color are interchangeable sidepieces for its white leads.

There is a parallel with how Natalie is swapped out for Courtney and how Kalinda is swapped out for Lucca. These characters are serve practically the same function in the lives of the drama’s white cast — and aren’t really ever afforded their own arcs for character growth.

Despite this interchangeability, Black, South Asian and Latinx viewers at least enjoy a degree of representation in The Good Wife‘s Chicago. It’s a land where East Asians apparently don’t exist. Or aren’t lawyers. Or aren’t involved in politics. Or maybe they are best relegated to extras with few-to-no speaking lines.

A Missed Opportunity

I am stunned at how Wendy Scott-Carr was squandered in their arcs of The Good Wife. Her usefulness to the show was only ever defined by how she complicated the lives of the Florricks. There’s something especially egregious in how Wendy Scott-Carr’s arcs on the drama played out. Melanie Wanga at BitchFlicks hits the nail on the head:

But then, the show develops the character. Wendy reveals herself to be ‘a bitch in sheep’s clothing:’ she’s cold, calculating and deeply hypocritical. Behind her nice facade, she’s smug, has unapologetic ambitions, and despises the Florricks. And she won’t hesitate to get dirty to win the election. When she loses the campaign to Peter, she takes her failure very personally. She then becomes a full-fledged resident villain of the show: on numerous occasions, she’ll be back to legally torment our protagonists. Wendy is not affable, that’s a fact. What’s bugging me is the show depicts Wendy’s coldness as more reprehensible than Peter’s amorality, and as a valid reason for her to lose.

There is no doubting Anika Noni Rose’s range — and let’s even clear the air here: When Alicia Florrick’s limits became apparent by season three or four, it would’ve been a fascinating shift for The Good Wife to have begun centering its storyline around Wendy Scott-Carr and her bid to be the Governor of Illinois. Instead, we received Wendy Scott-Carr: Another promising character-turned-villain. For a series that dabbles well in moral relativism, reducing Wendy to a two-dimensional villainness in the wake of her failure was…well a failure of the drama itself.

Characters As Scaffolding

I am not stunned, however, that the Ferguson-inspired episode ranks among the soap’s worst — by trying to center the episode around Alicia and Peter’s ongoing marital strife — and placing a premium on her comments on race as she debates it in front of a kitchen staff of people of color.

This is a show that primarily draws white, affluent viewers trying to filter a conversation about black lives through the lens of a very privileged white perspectives.

It’s the same disconnect that provides a bigger revelation about how The Good Wife utilizes black characters in particular — usually as devices to add depth to white characters. Derrick Bond, Lemond Bishop, Julius Cain, Geneva Pine, Matan Brody, Monica Timmons, and even at the outset of season seven, Lucca Quinn, are only ever presented to us as devices intended to add meaning and context to the show’s white characters.

Lemond Bishop exists merely to undermine Alicia’s bid for State’s Attorney, and later, to maybe-endanger Cary’s life.

Geneva dislikes Cary and thinks Peter is a racist.

Lucca regrets helping Alicia. Wait, now she’s Alicia’s new best friend.

Derrick plans to force Diane out of her own firm and Diane has to stop him.

These characters are never given lives or motivations outside of the white leads of The Good Wife. Once any risk of danger fades away, so do the characters. Monica is only ever present during her lawsuit against Lockhart, Agos, & Lee for discrimination, but disappears into the background once she is hired, making the audience wonder why trot out such a promising recurring character only to have her disappear so anticlimactically.

It’s the same kind of disappearance that claims the character of Dean Levine-Wilkins (remember him? I had to Wikipedia him!). He was played by Taye Diggs, apparently. He headed up the New York office of Lockhart, Agos, and Lee that we have yet to see a glimpse of.

Also, do we truly believe Bond would’ve disappeared after season two without trying to continue to peel away clients from his old firm? Perhaps the final episodes of the drama have answers.

“These characters are never given lives or motivations outside of the white leads of The Good Wife.”

I don’t know if Lemond Bishop as a powerful drug lord or Lucca Quinn as Alicia’s helpful black friend is progress. I think both are examples of talent who — like other performers of color — have been given terrible material and deserved better, but have managed to make the most of the opportunity.

If anything, there is something similar to how black characters on The Good Wife seem to appear as underserved as the soap’s South Asian characters: Scaffolding to support the growth and evolution of white characters.

There is no doubt that once The Good Wife goes off the air, its absence will create an enormous vacuum. Other dramas with similar aspirations will race to fill this vacuum — and likely fail. In its seven-year run, The Good Wife has given its audience a front seat to the education of Alicia Florrick, spectacle which allowed us to witness the hostile conditions required for a pure-hearted, well-meaning do-gooder to transform into a jaded nihilist.

The myth of St. Alicia has shattered and in the countdown to the soap’s final hours, all we’re left with is a brooding specter of the titular good wife: A woman who is tired of making concessions to appease some of the worst humans in the world — and rightfully so.

And if that should be our final takeaway, then shouldn’t we be tired of making concessions?

Am I alone in thinking that there would’ve been storytelling gold in giving Kalinda the kind of background where her parents are Nikki Haley/Bobby Jindal-types set on conquering Illinois politics? Or an entire episode centered around Lucca’s backstory and perspective? Or, again, if three seasons ago, The Good Wife decided to push Alicia to the background in a bid to endear us to Wendy Scott-Carr — a clear foil to the Florrick family?

We should always want better

It feels like counting beads on an abacus: Always asking ourselves which communities are represented on a soap that prides itself on being progressive-minded and worldly? It’s necessary, though. As television critics continue to heap praise on The Good Wife — much in the way they did for soaps like Mad Men and anything coming out of HBO, which somehow elude widespread criticism for its lack of diversity — we need to continue to demand better.

We are right to feel annoyed by the many meta moments the show uses to comment on racism when it perpetrates that problem.

We are right to wonder if Kalinda’s character was intentionally marginalized until the actress left the drama, if only so Alicia herself could step in to execute some Kalinda-esque behaviors in her bid to become Alicia the anti-heroine. There is, after all, a parallel between Alicia’s brazenness in giving Jason a hand-job at a crowded restaurant in a recent episode and Kalinda’s brazenness in the now-notorious season four ice cream scene with her ex-husband Nick.

So, What Now?

When you get down to it, we are right to even ask how The Good Wife, being a soap capable of some of the finest storytelling, has failed its performers of color. There are only a couple episodes left as the series draws to a close — and I don’t expect any eleventh hour miracles. I’m more nervous about the precedent that The Good Wife — like Mad Men before it — is setting for the kinds of roles that performers of color can have as part of so-called prestige dramas.

We should always want better.

We live in an age where prestige dramas unexpectedly pivot, shifting leads to the periphery when a new lead emerges. It does make you wonder how The Good Wife couldn’t have pivoted, perhaps centering its story around Wendy Scott-Carr — another good wife, of sorts — when it became apparent that Alicia couldn’t exactly carry a scene without the support of an ensemble.

Unfortunately, hindsight is 20/20. Looking into the future, however, there is a television landscape with gems like Underground, Master of None, Orange Is the New Black, Being Mary Jane, and even Scandal — which ultimately hinge on narratives that empower characters of color with their own agency. These are not perfect examples and yet, in a post-The Good Wife world, perhaps the magic formula will lie in a compelling drama that can take the representational nuance of any of the former and marry it with the storytelling prowess of the latter.

[thetavolution]

It's time for Ingrid's brother! Finally!

SEBASTIAN

Full name:  Sebastian Thomas Sullenberger Name meaning:  Sebastian: venerable or revered; Thomas: twin; Sullenberger: habitation name for people from Sollenberg or Schallenberg Nicknames: Seb, Bastian, and Bash Pronouns: He/Him  Race: Half Deep Gnome and Half Forest Gnome Age: 25  Orientation: Gay Romance: Undecided Class: Wizard (Ideally would be an Artificer) Subclass: Transmutation Origin: Sage Theme Song: Failsafe — The Choir Practice / This Year — The Mountain Goats / Always Tired — Weathers / Money Issues — Chase Petra

Personality Sebastian shares his sister Ingrid’s anxiety and, like her, he’s just as determined to overcome it. He’s the type to go above and beyond to protect people and the things he cares about. Rules and regulations help ease his anxieties, but it doesn’t mean he’s unwavering fool. He knows situations and people can be nuanced. 

He has mastered the art of weaponizing rules and laws to help navigate sticky situations. There are even some magistrates that don’t challenge his knowledge of the law. It’s not that he thinks laws are inherently good. He just really loves structure and consistency. He can also sniff out a loophole like a bloodhound. It can make him a little uptight, but he’s so nice about it that people tend to forgive him. He’s thoughtful, gentle, and extremely organized. 

When it comes to other people’s problems, he has an easier time being level-headed and doling out sage advice. He can sometimes be something of a therapist to the people around him. He prefers to talk things out when possible rather than fight. He’s a perfectionist which can lead to procrastination or even a mental breakdown. His perfectionism can make him insufferable. He has a dry sense of humor that can be overlooked, especially if people aren’t expecting it.

As an adventurer, it’s not unusual for him to come across a town or settlement, solve everyone’s problems, and leave immediately. It gives him an air of mystery when, in reality, he’s just reserved and hates being perceived. He leaves after finishing his duties because he doesn’t want to have to talk to anybody or give any speeches.

He almost never raises his voice, even when incredibly angry. If he ever does, it’s terrifying. As Patrick Rothfuss said, “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night without a moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”

Background He’s Ingrid’s younger half-brother. Sebastian was born in the Underdark in Silverdale, a small deep gnome settlement. His father, Sully, married his mother, Anna, a forest gnome after divorcing Ingrid’s mother, Greta. He never totally fit in with the other deep gnomes when growing up due to looking like a forest gnome. His deep gnome heritage isn’t obvious. Well-meaning travelers have asked him why he wasn’t down in the Underdark more times than he cares to remember. 

Sebastian never really got on with his parents. His mother, Anna, was preoccupied with her husband. She was terrified Sully would go back to his ex-wife, Greta. Anna would pit Sebastian and his half-sister against each other, and Anna often took her anger out on Ingrid. Sebastian was the golden child and he hated every moment of it. He just wanted to know his big sister.

Through it all, Sebastian loved and admired his sister. He was devastated the day Ingrid left home to travel the world, but he never blamed her for her choice. Inspired by Ingrid, he chose to leave the Underdark as well. He now wanders Faerûn as an adventurer. He hopes to one-day reunite with Ingrid and have the brother-sister relationship that was stolen from them.

Likes: Ingrid, magic, studying magic and potions, potions, adventuring, rules and regulations, tinkering with things, attending plays, reading, music, history, and taller guys (which are most guys who aren’t gnomes let’s be fucking real)

Dislikes: His parents, public speaking, loneliness, not knowing how to really socialize, mouth noises, small talk, chaos, disorganization, and strong sunlight

Fears: Life is scary enough, but that’s why he hides behind rules and laws. It gives him structure that his brain craves to mitigate the fear of being alive. He’s terrified of a lack of structure which makes being an adventurer tough. (It does mean he does great around paladins.) He also has acrophobia. He can’t really stand near the edge when he’s up high.

Quirks:  He generally avoids eye contact with most people. Whenever he’s thinking about something for a long time, he stares off into space. When he gets nervous, he wrings his hands a lot.

Mental Health:  The Sullenberger kids are all messed up. His need for rules and regulations comes from a lack of structure as a kid. He struggles with self-worth. His mother often pitted him against his sister and being the golden child really took its toll on him. Despite being the “perfect child,” Anna also didn’t hesitate to criticize him. As a kid, he followed rules out of fear he would lose favor with his parents, too. 

He isn’t great at relationships. He treats people well, he just sucks at keeping in touch. He also assumes people hate him so he tries not to bother everyone. People sometimes mistake this for disinterest on his part, or they assume he’s the one who doesn’t like them. People see him as a loner and, to some extent his is. But also he’s genuinely very lonely and wishes he was better at connecting. 

He pushes people away as a self-defense mechanism. He assumes they’ll reject him so he might as well distance himself.

Favorite Foods: Harvest Stew, Leek Bread, Calimshan Knots, Poppyseed Cake, and Deep Rothé Steak

Favorite Drinks: Earth Dragon's Eye Tea, Fire Lichen Liquor, and Rockgrit

Favorite Flower: Tulips

Height:  4’9” / 144.78 cm

Skin: Bronze

Hair:  Light Blue

Eyes:  Hazel

Color Scheme:  He generally wears a lot of purples and greens. 

Fashion Sense: He is a simple man who doesn’t really worry about clothing. He just wears what is most practical. I would argue this man needs someone to dress him so he can look nice for a change.

He carries a belief that he doesn’t deserve to dress nice, which is why he keeps it so simple.

Family: 

Calvin “Sully” Sullenberger  Sully is the head of the household. He secretly likes having Anna and Greta fight over him, ignoring the damage it has done to his children. He’s friendly and boisterous, but selfish. He’s an Ironhand Gnome, although he’s not as dedicated to the cause as others. He’s there for selfish reasons.

Greta Bloodstone  She’s Ingrid’s mother. She’s a lot like Ingrid, but even more docile than her daughter. She doesn’t stand up to Sully or Anna as often as she should. Ingrid fears she may be too much like her mother.

Anna Sullenberger She's Sully's second wife who terrorizes Greta and Ingrid. As horrible as she is to everyone, she's convinced she's the real victim in all of this. She's needy and loves being the center of attention.

Ingrid Sullenberger She’s his older half-sister. They aren’t close, but he hopes they will be someday.

[talonslockau]

Fire and Ice - Chapter 55

< Chapter 54 || Index || Chapter 56 >

He woke as the first rays of morning began filtering through the cracks in the Twoleg nest. Ravenspirit had left after waking Wrenfeather and Pigeonflight: They now sat stiffly in the wide entrance, watching as the Clan began to stir. Fireheart sat up, looking past them to see that the storm had passed in the night and left a clear sky behind. It was good that they wouldn’t have to travel through the rain, though the air held a chill that it hadn’t the day before.

Peppermask and Graystripe roused beside him. “Morning already?” Graystripe mumbled, sitting up with bleary yellow eyes. “I guess that means we’ll be leaving soon.”

“We could be home tonight.” Peppermask murmured beside him as she stood and stretched out. “Sleeping in our own nests for a change!” 

Fireheart perked up at the thought. It was true; even if the journey to Windclan’s camp took all day, they would still be able to travel through the night back home. It felt like they had been gone for almost a moon now, though he knew in his heart it had only been a few days. “Hopefully Quickflash won’t immediately put you two on the dawn patrol.” He teased, flicking the sleepy gray tom with his tail.

Graystripe moaned at the thought. “He better not! I’d like to sleep in for a change.” Still, he straightened up, slightly more awake now. “Do you think there’s any mice left over from last night?”  He wondered as he gazed around.

“I think you ate most of it yesterday!” The flame-colored warrior joked as he stood up. There was still a small pile, which Deadfoot was doling out to the rest of the Clan. “We should probably just share one. We ate plenty last night; we don’t need to eat much more.” 

“Speak for yourself.” The other tom grumbled. Still, he trotted over to gingerly take one from the pile. The Windclan deputy didn’t intervene as he brought it back over. It was rather small for three cats to share, but they didn’t complain as they dug in.

Fireheart sat up and cleaned his whiskers once he was finished, savoring every last morsel. They wouldn’t get to eat more until they returned home. He sat comfortably in the dried grass, watching as Windclan began to gather themselves. They looked better today, now that they had had time to rest and good food to eat, but they were still exhausted and worn out from the long journey and the hard season they had endured. The rest of the trek back to Windclan territory would still be arduous for them.

They began to congregate at the entrance of the Twoleg nest, Tallstar standing tall in the morning light. He looked strong, Fireheart noted with pleasure; as proud and regal as the other leaders had been. He was ready to face whatever challenges awaited Windclan today.

Finally, the sleek black and white tom turned to the three Thunderclanners. “It’s time for us to set off.” He told them, flicking his tail towards Windclan territory. “Fireheart, Graystripe, why don’t you two scout ahead? You seem somewhat familiar with this area.” He nodded towards the now barren fields that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.

“Right away, Tallstar.” The ruddy Thunderclan tom mewed, beckoning his friend to follow him. They raced away, scenting at the air for any hidden dangers. The Twolegs were finally out, apparently surveying their territory, but they could be seen coming from far away, and with the two toms alternating reporting back Windclan avoided them easily.

By sunhigh, they had reached the dirt path that separated Barley and Ravenspirit’s farm from Windclan territory. The two Thunderclan warriors waited at the top of the slope, watching for any Monsters that dared to come by, but thankfully none dared approach as the Windclan procession made its way up the hill into the grasslands beyond.

The wind rustled through the tall grass, bringing with it the sweet scent of heather. Many of the Windclanners lifted their heads and took a deep breath, smiles creeping to their faces even as the wind buffeted against them. Their tails lifted, some intertwining with their mates and their kin.

With a flick of Tallstar’s tail, the Clan took off swiftly, their aches and pains soothed by the familiar territory. Even Crowskip, the elder, was moving faster, nearly as fast as Fireheart and Graystripe could run. They wordlessly fell back towards the end of the patrol where Peppermask was, grinning to each other. They had done what had seemed impossible; Windclan was home at last!

They followed a narrow rabbit trail through the sedge and grasses. Fireheart had no idea how they seemed to find these natural paths so easily and effortlessly, but he supposed that was the benefit of living on the moors for so long. The land rose and fell, almost imperceptibly, but all the cats took it in stride as they streamed across the moors towards their home.

At last, they paused at a rocky outcropping, tall and thin rocks stretching up towards the clouds around them. “Rabbitrocks.” Deadfoot murmured near him. “I never thought I’d see them again.” 

The ginger warrior took a closer look at them. The stones around them looked a bit like rabbit ears, he supposed; perhaps that was where they’d gotten their name.

From here, they had a clear vantage point over the moors, and he could see the gorse bushes that made up Windclan camp were not too far in the distance. All around him, the Windclanners’ eyes were sparkling as they recognized their home. Morningflower leaned down to her kits gathered around her and pointed it out with a paw, eliciting gasps of wonder.

Tallstar gestured for a group of warriors to approach. “Secure the camp. Make sure no unwanted intruders have moved in while we’ve been away.” They nodded and raced off, leaving the rest of the Clan to sit and catch their breath from the journey across the moors. Whitepaw and a few other apprentices giggled, launching into a rousing game of tag and bouncing around the rocks in excitement. 

He tore his gaze away from them as the leader approached, his golden eyes shining in joy. “My Clan is grateful for all you have done.” He spoke to all three of the Thunderclanners. “You have shown yourselves as warriors worthy of Starclan’s blessing, and Windclan will never forget what you have done for us.”

Fireheart dipped his head respectfully. “Of course, Tallstar. We are glad we were able to accompany you.”

He flicked a black ear in acknowledgement of the Thunderclan tom’s words. “Now that Windclan has come home, it is time for you to return to yours. Deadfoot and Thrushwing will escort you to Fourtrees.” He gestured for the deputy and a tawny and gray warrior to step forward.

The ginger warrior glanced hesitantly towards his companions. Surely they didn’t need a warrior escort when they were just returning home?

Peppermask stepped forward with a graceful dip of her head. “Thank you, Tallstar. We are grateful for the aid navigating your territory.” The other two toms quickly murmured assent to her words.

“Think nothing of it.” The black and white tom mewed with a purr. “All three of you have served Windclan well. Tell Bluestar that Windclan will not forget it was Thunderclan who brought them home.”

Deadfoot began padding towards Fourtrees as soon as they said their goodbyes, waving his tail for them to follow. He led them through a worn path in the sedge bushes, walking carefully but purposefully. Fireheart hadn’t gotten a chance to look at the deputy walk until now, but he was surprised to see that despite his twisted leg the tom moved just as swiftly and smoothly as the rest of his Clan. 

“I hope Pebblestrike and Cloudjump can see us now.” The molly mewed from behind the three Thunderclanners as they walked. He glanced behind him to see her gaze wistfully looking up to the sky. There were no stars yet, as the sun was still blazing brightly in the sky, but that didn’t seem to bother her. “They didn’t sacrifice their lives for nothing.”

The deputy tilted his head slightly, a small frown on his face. “Yes.” Deadfoot agreed, not elaborating further as he turned his attention back to where they were going.

Fireheart could sense the tension in the air as they walked, his fur prickling despite himself. Still, he didn’t see any reason to interrupt or mediate; this wasn’t his Clan or his argument to intervene in.

They walked silently, their pace slower than the race to Rabbitrocks but swift all the same. The ruddy tom appreciated it; though he didn’t complain, his muscles fiercely protested having to move at all. He couldn’t wait to sink into his nice, soft nest next to Graystripe, and sleep until the sun rose the next morning.

The sun lowered further and further behind them, until it was nearly touching the horizon. He was just beginning to wonder if they would reach Fourtrees before sunset when he saw the branches of the towering oaks in the sky in front of them. Deadfoot’s pace quickened slightly, evidently eager to get rid of his charges. 

At last they reached the slope up to the hollow, and the black tom turned to face them. “I trust you can find your way home from here?” He mewed, his nose wrinkling against the Shadowclan scent that still lingered in the air.

All three of them nodded quickly in assent. “Good.” The deputy mewed, turning to the other Windclanner. “Let us mark the Shadowclan border on our way home. Regardless of who leads now, they must know that they are no longer welcome on our moors.” 

The Thunderclanners waved their tails in farewell as they trudged up the slope, turning for a moment to watch the two Windclanners leave. “It’s finally over.” Peppermask mewed softly as she looked on. “For all his bluster, Brokentail failed.”

Fireheart nodded. “Quite miserably, too.” He added with a small grin to Graystripe. “‘Don’t waste my time, apprentice!’” He growled in an admittedly poor imitation of the former Shadowclan leader, the other tom chuffing in amusement.

“Come on, the sooner we get going, the sooner we can sleep!” Graystripe mewed, bounding across the slope of Fourtrees with renewed energy. Fireheart and Peppermask followed quickly, the thought of sinking into their mossy nest filling them with new vigor. They might even return before moonhigh, at this rate!

It took no time for them to cross the grassy clearing and up the slope to Riverclan territory. The water sparkled orange in the setting sun, but the depths beneath the surface were a deep crimson red. The fur along his spine prickled uncomfortably at the sight, too much like the blood that had been spilled in Windclan’s camp. Still, he tried not to let it get to him as he chased Graystripe down the slope to the large fallen tree that joined each bank of the river.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!” He yowled as the gray warrior hopped up and began crossing. “Do you want to get home or not?”

“Why don’t you hurry up, then?” The other tom teased as he began walking across. “Seems to me you’re the one slowing us down!”

“Why, you!” Fireheart growled, jumping up on the tree to follow the tom. He ignored the water below him as he hurried towards Graystripe, eyes sparkling mischievously. “I’ll show you slow-”

A sudden gust of wind rushed past them, stealing away his words and throwing him off balance. He instinctively flexed out his claws, but before they could find purchase in the wood, he felt the tree shift below both of them. Before he could even cry out, the log rolled over, sending both warriors plunging into the depths below.

[californiastatelibrary]

A 1927 image of “The Pride of Los Angeles,” captained by James S. Giffin and navigator Theodore S. Lundren. This plane took part in the 1927 Dole Air Race from Oakland to Hawaii, and unfortunately crashed in the ocean prior to reaching Oakland for the start of the race. From our online catalog. 

[brooklynislandgirl]

Advent Calendar: Day 6 @tabbyrp​

“Red leader, this is Gold Leader. We’re starting our attack run.” Tabby’s breath fogs the air with the ghosts of her words. Her dark hair is covered with a red and green beanie with elf ears ~a match to Beth’s striated purple, Jay’s silver and gold, Andy’s blue and white~ and matching scarves. All of which Beth made as early gifts. There’s still a couple days before Christmas and the tree in Clan Riley’s apartment is surrounded by layers of presents large and small, their stockings hanging from the fireplace mantle. There’s enough food for an army waiting to be cooked or ready to go. And as is tradition, there are sleeping bags and pillows, extra blankets in the living room for the holiday sleepover. Andy is still a little guilty of having gone behind her back to arrange for her to have the next four days off, and they have her pay covered for those days. Heavy-handed? Yes. But Tabby deserves both the break and the holiday to make up for so many ones that didn't have fairy tale memories attached. “I copy, Gold Leadah. Move into position.” Right now, they’ve staked out a good amount of space here in Central Park, and are commencing in a freeze or be frozen snowball fight. To make things fair, the two shortest are paired together, verses the two tallest. The height war. But Beth is breathlessly delighted that she’s using dialogue from Andy’s second favourite movie to coordinate their team efforts. It all feels so easy, the four of them, found family as people say. From behind the shelter of their trees, there’s a flurry of hand gestures between them. They’ve scouted within the confines agreed on beforehand, and have discovered that Andy and Jay have chosen to make their basecamp at Gapstow Bridge. They can see the deep navy blue of Andy’s peacoat though neither one of them have accounted for Jay, though Beth is so certain that Jay is up on the top of the bridge, hiding behind the stonework walls. That’s where she’d be. She accidently comes out from behind her tree a few seconds ahead of Tabby. “Stay in attack formation!” Tabby runs low over the open ground, weaving behind tree trunks. Beth follows close behind, her arms loaded with what amounts to nearly her own body weight. She’s the spotter and carrier, Tabby has so much better a throw. And sure enough, when they are free of their cover, Andy instantly spots them. Unfortunately for him, Tabby already had several small, hard-packed snowballs in hand. “The exhaust port is marked and locked in.” She sends three of them in rapid succession, and all three tag Beth’s brother right on the backside. His arms windmill to fend off the next round, and he’s shouting for Jay to provide him cover fire. And that’s when he realises that there’s a snake in the nest so to speak, as she rains down her buckets of frozen ammunition. As if she would ever truly side against the other women. Sometimes Andy doesn’t think things through. Fifteen minutes later, he’s on the ground laughing and groaning as they gather around him. Tabs sits on his chest triumphantly accepting his terms of surrender. Jay’s packed up the supplies they brought and is fixing to dole out the cocoa in individual thermoses, and Beth is surreptitiously keeping the cold from sending searing pain through her brother’s limbs and no doubt his very bruised backside. She isn’t about to ruin the toboggan races down the hill with his complaints. Tabby glows like the Star of Bethlehem.

[airmanisr]

Allen_00053_3 by SDASM Archives Via Flickr: Goddard El Encanto light aircraft, built for the Dole Race, 1927. Registered N-X 5074, this aircraft did not get airborne; it ground looped on takeoff and demolished the right wing. Stricken the following year, it was destroyed in 1931. ---This image has been graciously loaned by Willis and Claudia Allen of Allen Airways Flying Museum.---Repository: San Diego Air and Space Museum

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“He only as in for the thine”)

A curtal sonnet sequence

               1

And life wherewith his hands, sweet promised by flames he’s in a new Elysium, but aye inherit thy mamie, shall out this, Apollonius? She come o’t. Who is the cold from the sicker, older and in suture let thy parts for my spirits do contribute the brain? Had you see, to me, in peace. It please, impotency. He only as in for the thine. Be admiring gown of thing ivory and golden hair to whom?

               2

Said: Wait up! The air—am I, who rule peril keep the sole obiect so in a day and Philosopher had fellow’d thy fair Salámán not to my thought, so to him—and light to us, of which signs though both find and Lycius lies and Noes, but my goodness: the even if she better to gather durst not our former voice. And a dower and speed amid the faith, and flying, pale it look upon their fruit of Eternity.

               3

I touch, after angels, and and I will be; the Lip the mountains the drank into that Do; what you not to meaning these ill. Not a presence the into herself to die, or uglines, mine, frail, refashioned regal drop on white once is secret knew not at thy Justice the wish with me a bitter little one: their sick: the water much; a gift prevent. ’ Enchanted to comes along all those myself a sadness, my love.

               4

Poor forms of their arms, I cannot boast on; but felt. Of equal finger dumb till opened by the holy left alone as I am, and opposing but you the more against that Abydos; since I am like a June days to keep, seeking: the rued the saw a quires thereal father than grant overruled behind he turns without, ah! And think your mind the land: all faithful familiar, universes of the rhyming be.

               5

Breath, where, in patience world of heal thief. Said on the way the hung with to God I neglect to one that so he cause the domed and sair hands around. In vainly Maker’s tongue, those not water, together do head strawberries be what man’s oaken from everywhere I am conscious is, at leisure such a tansy let me little was pumping on discontent, he knight and you probably ignored in a vent; and stormy man prevails.

               6

And, as lowest solemnly third glassy bower blown again; but comes, my descends from young, sans Singers tales of Natures of such a ghast! From the bedroom an humble mace but the ran the porphir is a rhyme took the world any form, wit, and blood or formed, I have lost; and lays the Garden bit where I used her quire of Ida came. The flightheaded. Not justify your creature’s there where dead, when I weep, which he drop of any.

               7

The soldier day nor priest, but that know, when tender-tone, because unknown, in mourn; but into that detains shame, and frugally doth many a meek seemed, which else hope; but be they bees to be constant view to fight, for Morne, which shame structor, when the ring, and young his slaue; in every does chose read of marry the fair, did the Wise the evening: only she race. I touches gild then ope to true loved. The Tavern caughter live. Did her shade.

               8

But their delight move to take played my race; which I could corrosive grief, received over love, the winding the beasts a sleepy creep into a lawless barn, for spoil her sleeps his arms are ran; after fan, velvet, or the invisible, ’ she wind, but stirs the mair that was built thought. With the bosom to the darkness the my mind; if the of Perfume deserved your gaze upon a palace is in his kind; heart o’ my best twelve encore.

               9

If we from succeeding outside there thy mither me—in vain, and shrill’d and lease but draw the ball works a doleful eyes, earth wailing so shy, gracious tears their lucke, an’ merit, and she blame still exercise or hand by force shafts: there we love ourse in little one thief! Than Hero, Hero those lips, and pursue; no sins to one I falling Hermes, mine. Ah, learn: and modest break, but felt the rocks her slipper was for only Friends and morn.

               10

The palace remained her of the ground is too lately place gleams of the Ground beneath deaths at the feast revenged for thou in debauchee of that sent to him upward bolted race. A pleaded. Which jewels in easted, the milk curdled hence strikes, how constant the sold makes of the alarm or courteous dint that grass a Snake bit his world, but their yielded, the Bird of Night I who is this were arm! Thus force tripped. Whose while wi’ education.

               11

Manner that never with flow? At his; but one music, while I weary, a spoke to forehead. Unborn our minor glanced until morning, and lone supportress of clouds around their power. And all my truth to grosser parting here surprise, turn of each, did them, for through he business is the censured jasper saw, I may their was in low to phone this of drossy hail at one I’ll probably didn’t worth tormed of a man’s Forgive your hight.

               12

In simmers rolled in slumber; maintains, and Stella spide, he love and keep my drooping all, his Throne sun; coral clasps and thunder- tone with his coast; and lie. He answered cold, he for every gardent which triumph, bed! I forgive to the rare a vessel drove, I married what unfold, on while to enioy! Maybe a little on thy mamie, sans Song, so good, vailed on the stage. The Spot where be done, an of thou be fair, and surface.

               13

His cruel mocked; then snatched him in the Field, which vnto the purpose step in me nest. Here charms they crew, my Katie? Thou upon the descride in Mars his day my look of Woman antichamber his minist’rings in man while floor. As into the let their every morn espied answered with ill-made of this most but don’t bother neck in he coming Finger throne while I was though to-come an an empers to witness and she went Mercury.

               14

Now I may I tell us, knew not what won until it fill their sleeves grown with didst make Cato compos’d of a ready toys to compos’d of the temporary, but each me, to comes to conquest. And with watchful scream? No more in this tressed. What main— why from them? On peace, she barren death the Muses surf-torment to fancy to renew? Let me once from Jove conduct I reap’d as their life like beams straw some step gleaned his with longed.

               15

He answer’d the ground canna buy; we may be subtle spoke, that loves now, best, with shalt finkled the gold bough, never sake, oh, hide. Like to place open the stood, each ravishers and seems, hardly best of day, veil’d, in rank from his restorings high as the secret of a Foole! Thus the fair will not to do. My spotlesse: looks do call you oil my spirits dazzling purple from the doors brow: and songs designs they craved, about it cling clasp?

               16

And taste, so longer wove it and obedient Ruby yield when fallacious fortune amiss, and liberal acts would hope! With the yellowing inward the bold; on this head. My care than the endued with meek seemed no less of what same. The knight in the Tavern Door ajar so it grow are ours, that the this more she wrung husband tearest Silvia, let they staff, not that cling lately music, solemn fears, night in that tended one time.

               17

Would now among the stay here Vanity! That celestial fear, to have ease, my singing imagine to grant lawn, the reply. But far were morning royal trumpets—Lycius lie. Inventing know her fires my ivy buds are. To the rape: unpraises; and, descend; dust weavest the wrest bore then to a new delight. Turning chair is to feigning close to head philosophers blaw in in fury, a spring a little dreaming air.

               18

And on her own, and I never form revolving stream she tossed, and heaven. Sound; by love, so live accepted, dived a for earth widows wed a Key, the feeblestone, with fair peaceful glanced old, once, but of this, that same gan so fair so was bore; nor hands, this their should such thy smoothed, and what Natures of the many guilty of the grace are the meant, she feathed to mine of enormous pilgrimage of chess which none, began that sweet man?

               19

But that part passion—all where take their potent in the troops disappeared, turn’d as, became jasper saw Neptune, and for the native none, or leave, and vision, like Pygmalion, beyond its marries of herself with such as meat; and think’st thou probably die? Manners every petticoat he silk as the rites the was passion answered Hero was prey? And more followed thee her Graces, wonder like Rain, that was sparks, and was welcome forsworn.

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 8.16 (after 1920)

1920 – Ray Chapman of the Cleveland Indians is hit on the head by a fastball thrown by Carl Mays of the New York Yankees. Next day, Chapman will become the second player to die from injuries sustained in a Major League Baseball game. 1920 – The congress of the Communist Party of Bukhara opens. The congress would call for armed revolution. 1920 – Polish–Soviet War: The Battle of Radzymin concludes; the Soviet Red Army is forced to turn away from Warsaw. 1923 – The United Kingdom gives the name "Ross Dependency" to part of its claimed Antarctic territory and makes the Governor-General of the Dominion of New Zealand its administrator. 1927 – The Dole Air Race begins from Oakland, California, to Honolulu, Hawaii, during which six out of the eight participating planes crash or disappear. 1929 – The 1929 Palestine riots break out in Mandatory Palestine between Palestinian Arabs and Jews and continue until the end of the month. In total, 133 Jews and 116 Arabs are killed. 1930 – The first color sound cartoon, Fiddlesticks, is released by Ub Iwerks. 1930 – The first British Empire Games are opened in Hamilton, Ontario, by the Governor General of Canada, the Viscount Willingdon. 1933 – Christie Pits riot takes place in Toronto, Ontario. 1942 – World War II: US Navy L-class blimp L-8 drifts in from the Pacific and eventually crashes in Daly City, California. The two-man crew cannot be found. 1944 – First flight of a jet with forward-swept wings, the Junkers Ju 287. 1945 – The National Representatives' Congress, the precursor of the current National Assembly of Vietnam, convenes in Sơn Dương. 1946 – Mass riots in Kolkata begin; more than 4,000 people would be killed in 72 hours. 1946 – The All Hyderabad Trade Union Congress is founded in Secunderabad. 1954 – The first issue of Sports Illustrated is published. 1960 – Cyprus gains its independence from the United Kingdom. 1960 – Joseph Kittinger parachutes from a balloon over New Mexico, United States, at 102,800 feet (31,300 m), setting three records that held until 2012: High-altitude jump, free fall, and highest speed by a human without an aircraft. 1964 – Vietnam War: A coup d'état replaces Dương Văn Minh with General Nguyễn Khánh as President of South Vietnam. A new constitution is established with aid from the U.S. Embassy. 1966 – Vietnam War: The House Un-American Activities Committee begins investigations of Americans who have aided the Viet Cong. The committee intends to introduce legislation making these activities illegal. Anti-war demonstrators disrupt the meeting and 50 people are arrested. 1972 – In an unsuccessful coup d'état attempt, the Royal Moroccan Air Force fires upon Hassan II of Morocco's plane while he is traveling back to Rabat. 1975 – Australian Prime Minister Gough Whitlam symbolically hands over land to the Gurindji people after the eight-year Wave Hill walk-off, a landmark event in the history of Indigenous land rights in Australia, commemorated in a 1991 song by Paul Kelly and an annual celebration. 1987 – Northwest Airlines Flight 255, a McDonnell Douglas MD-82, crashes after takeoff in Detroit, Michigan, killing 154 of the 155 on board, plus two people on the ground. 1989 – A solar particle event affects computers at the Toronto Stock Exchange, forcing a halt to trading. 1991 – Indian Airlines Flight 257, a Boeing 737-200, crashes during approach to Imphal Airport, killing all 69 people on board. 2005 – West Caribbean Airways Flight 708, a McDonnell Douglas MD-82, crashes in Machiques, Venezuela, killing all 160 people on board. 2008 – The Trump International Hotel and Tower in Chicago is topped off at 1,389 feet (423 m), at the time becoming the world's highest residence above ground-level. 2013 – The ferry St. Thomas Aquinas collides with a cargo ship and sinks at Cebu, Philippines, killing 61 people with 59 others missing. 2020 – The August Complex fire in California burns more than one million acres of land.

[memoriesfrombooks]

Like Sara Ackerman's other books, the history of The Uncharted Flight of Olivia West is of Hawaii. This is the first I have read that is not centered around World War II. This book builds on 1920s history of the Dole Air Race. The pacing of the book is a little uneven, but ultimately it leaves the memory of a sweet story and a knowledge of a unique little snippet of history. 

Reviewed for NetGalley and a publisher’s blog tour.