#and it is now further layered with the races of the characters being added in which is INTENTIONAL

[dayas]

This post contains spoilers for Wicked (2024) and the Broadway musical!

A word on Cynthia Erivo’s performance as Elphaba in Wicked: Phenomenal.

In regards to the critique that she plays her too timidly: in my opinion, she plays her exactly as she is meant to be played. Watching Elphaba navigate Shiz University was so clearly a parallel to how Black women have to operate in Predominantly White spaces. Every single time her powers went out of whack, she was labeled as dangerous, and at the end, the Wizard and Madame Morrible immediately painted her out to be monstrous, vicious, and angry. Seeing her poster produced a visceral reaction in me — not because it was terrifying, but because it reminded me of those old fashioned racist posters 💀 which! Isn’t a bad thing, I think it speaks to the larger message of making Elphaba out to be the Wicked Witch, despite her only crimes at that point (that we know about) being attempted Animal Liberation and further Civil Rights movements. To me, watching Elphaba at Shiz was watching another Black woman try to fit in despite knowing she will never truly be like those around her, and to not draw any more of their ire and to not fly off the handle and be labeled as ‘angry’ or further outcast. When she sings I’m Not That Girl, it hits harder having been in that position and truly understanding what it means to not be desired or considered pretty or beautiful by anyone around you while your friends are. Honestly, it adds more in my opinion. I think Cynthia Erivo’s performance carried an excellent nuance that speaks specifically to Black women and our experiences. While it is perfectly okay to have a differing opinion, it would be a major disservice to overlook that very intentional lens painted by the film. As many have noted, having Elphaba be played by a Black woman adds so much depth to the character. It also shifts and adjusts how she presents herself when her Broadway and Book counterpart may be considered bolder (which begets a whole other essay on White Women, oppression Olympics politics, and needing elements of Whiteness to appear in oppressive narratives for the sake of ‘relatability’ despite them coming off, in my opinion, more disingenuous than not). All of this to say: Elphaba is still fierce in her own right. She stands up for herself, sets her own terms, but she does so within the realm of what is socially acceptable for a reason. I’m gonna need y’all to think a little more critically ❤️

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Miscarriage, death of a foetus, blood, depression, anger, angst, grief.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello sweethearts, please read the trigger warnings for this one. Tread carefully as always, and I love you all. I have absolutely LOVED seeing you all talking and thinking and even plotting on what is happening! Makes me so happy <3

Chapter 91: The Absence of Three

Aemond escorted you back to your chambers as you whimpered and hissed in pain. It was so overwhelming, and unlike anything you felt before. The pain came in waves, and it felt like your hips were being crushed together, your whole core clenching in agony. 

Aemond kept asking you what was wrong, kept whispering to you what was happening, and each time he came to your side as you clutched the back of the chaise, another wave crashing through you, you grit your teeth and pushed him away with a curse.

“I shall fetch the Maester.”

“He’s dead.” You growled, hands rubbing against the front of your dress as anxiety climbed higher and higher within you.

“I shall fetch the other.”

“No.” You snipped, doubling over again. 

And then you felt it.

Something wet and warm between your legs which felt familiar and foreign all at once. But you knew. Of course you knew. Because your body knew.

Aemond watched in confusion as you reached a hand beneath your skirts, grunting as you moved under the different layers. 

Just as you mother once had.

Your fingertips pressed against the warm, wetness, and with slow movements, you brought it back out and away, your hand hovering in front of you. 

But you knew. 

You already knew.

They were covered in blood. 

“What’s happening?” Aemond asked, spotting the blood.

But it was too late.

And you knew.

And he knew that too, but he was in denial. A sick and twisted attempt to undo what had been done, to have faith in his precious Seven that the child would be saved.

But deep down, he knew, just as you did.

It felt like the day your mother had lost your sister. Now only you in her place.

Is this what she had felt? Was this the agony she had endured?

But Rhaenyra's pregnancy was further along than yours, and she had to give birth to the body of your sister who was already still. 

Would you face the same fate?

Agony rolled through you again, and you sobbed. Aemond rushed to your side, holding your back and one arm as you grunted. You squeezed his hand as the pain did not let up, nor ease.

As if thinking he could help, the fool that he was, the man that he was, for men don't truly know the horrors of being a woman, Aemond raced towards the door and called for the knight to bring the Maester.

You laughed humourlessly at him, watching as he turned around in confusion, your knuckles white against the back of the chaise.

“It’s too late.” You sobbed angrily, pushing away from the chaise as you stumbled towards the wardrobe, bending over as your hand reached behind it, Aemond watching with a hawklike expression. 

“What are you doing?” His brows were furrowed from across the room, rooted to the spot as he watched you rummage at a wall.

“Something I should have done in the first place.” You spat back at him, pain, and anger, and grief moving through you. Your fingers finally found what they were looking for, grazing the small vial that you had wedged there, not too long ago. 

Aemond took slow steps towards you, suspicion in his eye as you whimpered once again. With great determination, you pulled the vial from the wall, uncorking it with your teeth and bringing it to your lips.

The ruta root slid down the vial and into your waiting mouth. 

Aemond stormed towards you, snatching the vial from your hand as he looked at it. You chewed hastily and swallowed, ignoring the foul taste on your tongue.

Aemond looked ready to break, his hand grasping your cheeks painfully, forcing you to open your mouth as his eye searched inside, finger following to try and feel or scoop what you had eaten, only to find nothing but remnants of the root. 

“What have you done?” He asked in a rush, panic in his voice.

He thought you were trying to kill yourself.

“Ensured that it’s dead.” You sneered, the vile, bitter taste of the root on your tongue.

“What?” Aemond breathed, “Where did you get that?” The Prince panicked, looking at the vial in his hand once more as he turned it over rapidly.

“A parting gift from our Maester.” You grit, pushing away from him, and limping back towards the fire.

You stood by the chaise again, leaning against its back as your fingers dug into the wood. You bent forward, hand against your stomach in pain as another wave of agony rolled through you. 

Aemond rushed towards you, trying to guide you to sit, but you slapped his hands away, irritation and pain and anger continuing to swallow you whole. The Prince stood and stared at you with his brow drawn, obvious fear in his eye as he watched you whimper and whine. 

It was all too much. All too much.

Everything was too much. But your body took over, inhaling deeply despite your lungs feeling withered, and your throat feeling shut. A pain that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Something that was concentrated and spread out, as though it was creeping up along your spine and into your ribcage.

Aemond moved from your periphery as another sob left your lips, a tear falling from your eye to drip onto the stone below.

When he came back to you, he did it carefully, whispering your name to coax you to look at him. And so you did. You looked at him with watery eyes, and a face full of agony and grief, and eyes flickering with rage.

Slowly, as though approaching a startled animal, Aemond lifted his hand. In his palm was a small cloth. A handkerchief or napkin, or perhaps even just a scrap of material. You did not know, nor did you care, as he moved to gently wipe at your face, swiping the light sheen of sweat that had gathered on your brow, and the stray tears that streaked down your cheeks.

Aemond waited for the Maester to arrive, tension in his shoulders as he hovered about you, unsure of how to tend to you as waves of contractions wracked your body.

“You did this.” You whispered, not looking at him, eyes locked on the fire place, where two dearly missed figures had begun to appear, “We lost the babe because of you.”

It was all a blur when the new Maester arrived, ordering you to lay in bed as he tried to give you Moon Tea to help with the continuation of the miscarriage. But you refused it,  pushing it away from you, knowing the ruta root would do the job.

Aemond had ensured the Maester that he would get you to drink it, and had spoken quietly to him at the side of the room as to what to do if you became worse, or pale, or fevered with chill.

It was, in that moment, that you realised that this was the Maester that had once had sewn his face shut. A Maester who had tended to Aemond and his healing. A Maester that Aemond clearly trusted. 

You lay in the bed in pain, feeling the wet blood between your thighs as you cried quietly.

It felt so familiar. To be in that bed, crying and bleeding.

Was it a curse? Was this what you were destined to? To be burdened with the pain of being a woman?

To be born a woman is to be cursed.

Another wave coursed through you and you curled on your side, clutching at your stomach as you tried to hum to yourself softly, anything to distract yourself from the pain that slid through you like a knife, your body reacting on its own, clenching and tensing. 

Aemond sat himself on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he watched you cry and groan, shifting with the pain as your body began to get the urge to push.

It was so strange. It was just as Alicent said.

Your body would know what to do. 

But it was too early.

And it was too late. 

And the child that had begun to grow within you was gone.

Aemond brushed the hair that had stuck to your face from your sweat or tears, hushing you as the contractions rolled through you hotly.

You sobbed, grasping his hand as you squeezed, hoping to channel the pain through him.

“I’m sorry.”

-

The next days blurred together, and you found that you barely had the strength to leave the bed. The pain slowly subsided, but the sorrow had burrowed its way inside of you like mould. No matter how much you had tried to scrub it free, it would always come back.

The Maester had come to check on you multiple times a day, checking your condition, and ensuring that you passed the embryonic tissue completely.  

It was after the third day that you found the strength to leave the bed. And it made you ache even more for you mother, as she lost her father, the throne and her daughter all in one day. She had to burn her daughter, and stand before the council, all in one day. She was crowned, all in one day.

She was stronger than you. 

Stronger than most.

And you wished she was here. 

As you shifted amongst the sheets, you moved to stand, but the sound of the sheets rustling caused Aemond to jump from his seat, padding across the chambers towards you as he offered you an arm, and held the top of yours gently. 

Whincing, you shied away from his touch, “Please, don’t.”

“Let me help you.” Aemond insisted, and reached to try and grab your arm again.

Anger erupted from you, “You’ve helped plenty.” You snapped.

You moved slowly, grasping a cloak from its spot in the wardrobe, throwing it over your shoulders before slowly shuffling out of the chambers.

Pain was still in your body, grief was still in your chest. 

You moved down to the Godswood, where you would always go and sit. To talk to the Gods. To talk to yourself. To simply be. But all you could do was think.

Did you do this to yourself?

When you thought of such things beneath its branches?

When you thought of losing the child to spite him?

Had you wished for this and the Gods had delivered?

That silken stillness of grief was back.

The leaves above you were quiet, no breeze to rustle them, nor birds to sing amongst their branches. It was all so quiet. So still. The world seemed to have stopped. Or it had stopped for you.

You sat for a time in your grief beneath the leaves of the Godswood, wondering what your child could have been, what they would have been like.

But it was not just the child that had been lost. You sat with the knowledge that the Maester was no longer here. And your allies in the Keep had dwindled dramatically. 

Perhaps now, more than ever, was the time to ask for the star fruit. 

But the eyes on you would be sharper right now, and your movements had to be more calculated and secretive moving forward.

They would all be waiting to you to act.

Or waiting for your family to react. 

It was no longer as safe as you thought at the Red Keep.

Not that it ever really was. 

Beneath the shade of the Godswood was where you sat until a familiar head of chestnut brown came to stand before you, a usual vision of green.

Alicent looked down at you sadly, and gave her shallow condolences.

You swallowed the lump that formed in your throat, keeping your eyes to the branches of the tree instead of letting them drop to the woman before you.

If you looked down, you were sure tears would spill over. 

“How are you faring?” She asked tentatively, tone gentle.

All that the Dowager Queen got in response, was a soft rustle of the breeze and the silence of nothing. She stood for a moment more, if only waiting for your resolve to break, for you to turn and face her, seek her out as a daughter, like the one she was missing. 

But you didn’t. 

And so the older woman left you to be alone with the Old Gods.

You counted your breaths, and mentally filled the cracks in your chest with a thick, goopy paste, similar to the one the Maester had given you.

You thought of each stroke of your hand, filling in the gaps with the paste until there was nothing left to show. As though the cracks were never there to begin with.

Each stroke of the paste you counted, and each stroke you inhaled deeply.

On the twenty-seventh stroke in your mind, the twenty-seventh breath in your lungs, and the twenty-seventh count in your head, the gentle sound of feet atop grass pulled your attention away from the mental image and repetitive motions.

But the person did not come to stand in front of you, nor did they move to stand beside you, or even pass through the small courtyard. Instead, the feet stopped on the opposite side of the tree, and the rustling of robes indicated they had sat down beneath the Godswood.

Just by the action alone, a habit, muscle memory, memory itself, you knew it was him. 

Aemond had sat beneath the crimson leaves and white speckled bark of the ancient Weirwood tree, behind you and hidden away, much like how he did as a child. And though, you could not see him, you could feel his presence greatly.

It struck a cord in your already string plucked chest.

“I did not tell Larys.” He whispered to you, voice almost lost to the wind.

“I told no one of what you did.” Your uncle paused, and you rested you head back against the bark, looking up into the shadowed sky, “He must have found out through his spiders.”

And once again, you believed him. 

It wasn’t him.

He had not told Aegon.

Larys had.

You are both silent for some time, basking in the familiarity of it all until you heard him shift, and soon a shadow was cast across you, for however brief it was, before he sat himself down. His shoulder gently brushed against yours as he sat close to you, yet made no move to touch you with his hands. 

And you were thankful for it.

As you sat in the silence, your mind raced away from you again, the sticky paste that you had crammed into the cracks, slowly dripped away to reveal them once more. With each drip of the paste, another crack was revealed, and with each crack revealed, another chip of your resolve crumbled away.

You realised that Larys didn’t care for Alys. 

You had threatened him, and told him there were things that he didn’t know in your stupidity. In your anger. And in your moment of triumph against him;

You had hinted that you had an ally. 

And so he had spun his web, and waited for his prey to lay a foot on one of his strings.

The Maester got caught in the web that was crafted to catch him.

You sat shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the branches together in the quiet knowing of your shared loss. Another thing that you would both endure. Another piece of grief to bring you two closer together.

“I don’t think I can survive much more loss, Aemond.” You whispered, surprising yourself to find your voice.

The One-Eyed Prince turned his head to finally look at you, hand coming to your lap to hold yours, touching the scar from the ceremony gently as he always did, almost as if he doesn’t believe that it is real.

As if he doesn’t believe that it is there. 

That he would wake up one day, and you would be gone.

“I am sorry for my part in it.” His voice was steady.

Your heart clenched.

“No you’re not, because you wouldn’t let me suffer the way you do.” The words passed your lips, gentle and quiet, fragile as snow, the words lingering in delicate silk around you. A fatal movement of a hand could cause them to break, to crumple and fall apart. Even the breeze could blow too steadily, and whisk the silk threads away. 

But they held strong. And they hovered above the two of you heavily.

“I am truly alone in this Keep.” You breathed.

You could feel Aemond’s eye on the side of your face, his hand tightening around yours.

“You are not alone.” He countered, head turned to look at you completely.

A small laugh escaped you, too tired to hold it in, too weary to stamp it out, and so you let it be, let it crackle from your dry lips that were bitten raw.

You looked down to where he held your hand. A hand that had hurt you. A hand that had taken from you. A hand that had given. A hand that had held, and caressed, and stroked. A hand that now loved, and cherished you.

The hand of the man who has so many sides.

“You and I both know that that is not the truth,” You confessed, “As much as we both wish otherwise.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

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[aduckinpain]

The Ice and The Snow

(can't melt with each other near)

Tags: Loscar, Logan Sargeant centered, Logan Sargeant Character Analysis, Hurt/Comfort, Rookies handling their first year as mirrors of each other, Happy Ending, That one radio in Qatar with James Vowel, Las Vegas 2023 Grand Prix, the consequences of Qatar haven't left yet

Word Count: 2.7k

This work is also on AO3 under user roianamustang (me).

Eyes would blink open. Body wrapped in a soft, fuzzy blanket. The air cold, but the atmosphere warm. Winter had always felt special, with its holidays, weather, and new year resolutions.

With the snow. Gentle snowflakes descend slowly. Each one has intricate and unique details. Yet each one still falls down. Depending on where they land, they either melt, or they pile up. Stacked on top of each other, invincible to the human eye when they stand alone, but wondrous when they form their patchworks. It’s almost as if a needle is being thread, linking each one with the other.

But this link never happens so delicately. The snow's weight pushes on itself, causing it to get packed. The pressure never leaves, it just unifies them.

Living in Florida gets everyone accumulated to heat and humidity, so when winter starts knocking on windows, it is rare that the package that arrives with it, is made of fluffy whiteness. 

But snow can get deadly. It is slippery and wet. It builds up and always keeps on tumbling. It drags along everything in its path. It pulls.

An avalanche is a large amount of ice, snow, and rock falling down a slope, such as a hill or mountain. 

With 2023 starting, Logan felt like he was hit by an avalanche with no ground to stop him. He was stuck under layers of freezing temperatures. Tremors and shivers were expected. Ice involuntarily and unknowingly scraping his skin.

And he was trying so, so hard. He kept digging and pushing around. But he’s been there for some time. He can’t find a way out. He can’t see the light.

Which way is up and which way is down?

Please. I promise I can do this.

Being the first American to win an FIA Karting World Championship title since 1978, is a fact that Logan keeps close to his heart. Lets it rest there, coil around. Reassure.

Entering in 2015, opened up new pathways and a clear goal to aim for. So the years continued. Full throttle.

The snow kept falling. Piling up.

Snowmen were created, snowball fights were won. And in 2016, as a newly entered Formula 4 driver, he met Ice.

The ice was immovable and quiet, yet intimidating. Somehow it has always been there, yet it just showed up. 

The title was won with him standing as a solid third in the championship ranking. He was closer to the cold than to the trophies. 

Soon enough in 2018, Logan wasn’t achieving podiums anymore. He was achieving wins. The high was exhilarating, the slower he fell from each cloud, the more he appreciated the crisp, fresh air. But the clouds kept rising and without him noticing, the pressure was increasing. His ice left for a bit. He missed his comfort. After all, the cold keeps the snow from melting.

2019 was a year full of points and disappointments, but Logan didn’t let that deter him. His path was now drawn and he’d entered it with purple sectors. The wind had picked up a bit, kept changing the trajectory of the flakes, but the destination was clear. 

In 2020 the ice returned stronger than ever. The snow solidified with no chances of melting and plummeted to results. He ended up third in the championship. A result he added to the coil around his heart. His glacier won the championship, but the snow would catch up.

I promise you James, I will finish this race.

You have my word.

In 2021 Logan decided to take one more year of Formula 3, in hopes of achieving more, of having a more assured future. His ice felt like verglas, further away and much thinner. 

While he had ranked lower than the first time in the championship, a majority of the team's points were won by him alone. He’d worn his gloves and slowly packed the snow together.

Still, when he received the news of Williams' support, he could not believe it., it came as a surprise. Things were looking good, he was excited. A good F2 season would give him more chances to fulfill his dream, his goal, his future. 

He exited Prema’s building, while entering William’s and felt like a rime. Excited and cold, from the rapid freezing of the water around him. He wasn’t alone. Other drivers were there, his teammate was there, but most importantly, the snow touched its ice.

Oscar Piastri was an iceberg . Logan had never met someone quieter. But Oscar didn’t have to act loud, he was loud. His presence screamed hard-work and talent. A champion in F3, that people still underestimated. People seemed to warm up to him with a bit of time, but no one could deny the ruthless gleam in his eyes. Oscar didn’t just come for a win or a road to F1. Oscar was here to be champion. 

So the hail picked up the pace. He couldn’t be beaten easily. He’d make it a challenge. 

The snow cascaded down, each day with a new speed, with a greater intent. Pieces of ice were caught in its plunge. 

Oscar became an intricate part of Logan’s life. Whether he liked it or not the videos and the activities brought them together. The ice kept the snow cold. Logan felt safe, calm. 

The boys spent time together playing on their PlayStations, looking at each other’s simulator results and laughing at jokes with the team. Nothing, however, could beat their quiet nights. 

Being with Oscar made Logan feel serene, if he didn’t want to talk, they just wouldn’t talk. If he wanted to rant, Oscar Piastri and those stupid big brown eyes of his would cling onto every sentence, every word. Logan felt listened to. He felt important. Sheltered, guarded. 

When he was with Oscar, the wind fell silent, the snow fell slowly, softly. It never melted. It got cradled.

Oscar was the Champion of the 2021 F2 season, and no matter how annoyed Logan wanted to be, the pride surging through his chest overwhelmed him. Logan was second anyways, he’d bind for his time. The only thing that this season’s results assured him, was that the snow and its ice would meet again. 

This time in F1. This time competing in their dream.

So while Oscar awaited his turn as a reserve driver for Alpine, Logan went through another season. This time with an ultimatum. If he managed to receive the correct amount points necessary for a Super License, his next year would be in a Formula 1 car, alongside Alexander Albon. 

Coming fourth in the championship allowed him to get his license. What more could he want in life?

During this season however, his ice wasn’t there. Now usually, that would be okay, however the few times they called, texted or even met up, Oscar would seem dim, tired, unsure. Not physically, no. He felt defeated, confused. Alpine had promised him a lot of things yet, there he stood, jobless, dreamless. So this time Logan packed the snow, made a fort, an igloo, anything to protect the ice. 

This is maybe, why he was so surprised when Oscar called him at 1 AM one night, something he doesn’t like to do generally, only to tell him the news. 

@OscarPiastri

I understand that, without my agreement, Alpine F1 have put out a press release late this afternoon that I am driving for them next year. This is wrong and I have not signed a contract with Alpine for 2023. I will not be driving for Alpine next year.

8:00 PM · Aug 2, 2022

44.2K Reposts 50.7K Quotes 386K Likes 4,282 Bookmarks

Next year, his ice will be orange.

Next year, his ice will have his snow.

The year started and while Sargeant realistically knew the potential of a Williams car, it still overwhelmed him. Or underwhelmed him. 

It whelmed him.  

Getting used to an F1 car was different. The step from F2 to F1 was supposed to be gradual, seamless. It was neither of those. 

Every race was a disappointment. At first he had hopes, he’d get used to the car or the car would be good enough to at least go near points. The longer time went on, the more he yearned, the more he lost. Disappointment coursed through his veins.

He was tired. 

At himself.

While at the beginning he could reason with the prospect that he was a rookie and looked at Oscar who was going through the same thing, albeit with more drama, that could not be an excuse anymore after the summer break. 

The ice was growing.

The snow was melting.

The avalanche was nosediving. 

I will show you I can do this, please. I promise you I will.

Each weekend felt like the shards of ice were slipping away from his fingers, or digging deep into the blizzard. Logan started growing quiet, reluctant. He’d seen the jokes, laughed with some even, but what got to him was the comments. 

This year, F2 drivers were chosen to drive an F1 car as a test. They got good results. 

This year, Liam Lawson, his past teammate, stepped foot in an F1 car, passed Yuki Tsunoda, got points and beat Max Verstappen to Q3.

This year, after the summer break, Oscar Piastri was breaking records and expectations alike. He was loved more by the second and gradually carved his way into being McLaren’s greatest choice and Alpine’s greatest failure. 

This year, Logan Sargeant was consistent. For a full season, he had managed to accumulate no points and be outqualified by his teammate in every race. 

His seat was being wasted. All the years of hard work and achievements, reduced to water. Melted. 

It all plunged in Qatar.

Any time someone bothered to use his face on social media, it tended to be followed by two things.

What the fuck is a kilometer, a joke which he had to admit, at first was funny.

And the eagle. 

The eagle was supposed to represent the USA. His home, his safe space. He was supposed to represent where he came from. Give it meaning and value in this sport. Yet at every moment that passed, he felt two sharp talons digging onto his shoulders. Blood dripped down. The weight of this apex predator was bringing him to his knees. He was melting. He sank.

He didn’t ask for this. He just wanted people to be proud.

He just wanted Oscar to be his equal.

He missed Oscar.

He didn’t deserve Oscar.

Logan had given up on setting expectations for himself a long time ago, so the Grand Prix started and he went along with the flow.

Entering the car, he remembers making a joke about the weather. After all, Qatar was known for its intense heat. But nothing could prepare him. Nothing could prepare anyone.

Sweat dripped down his face, fogged up his helmet, sticking each strand of hair to his balaclava. Maybe it wasn’t the fog, because with a sudden jolt, Logan realized his vision was getting blurry. The content in his stomach had been swirling around for some time now, a sensation which only aided to his growing discomfort. Every muscle ached. He could feel every tendon tense in his body. There was a weight pushing down on him. Packing him up.

Every turn he could feel the effects of the G-force. It felt intensified, worse. His hands shook around the steering wheel. He was scared for a moment. He blinked.

He opened his eyes again.

He had blacked out. For a moment sure, but he had blacked out in a car going over 250 km/h.

Lap: 23/57 SAR: 1’29.298

Sargeant: I’m feeling pretty sick. I’ll be alright.

Jego: Okay. Zhou 1.5 behind. Focus on your lap times.

Lap: 26/57 SAR: 1’34.588

Sargeant: I’m not feeling well at all.

Jego: Okay, understood. Are you happy to continue, question?

Sergeant: Yeah.

Lap: 27/57 SAR: 1’53.468

Jego: Are you feeling okay? Are you happy to continue, question?

Sargeant: Let’s keep going.

Jego: Okay.

Sergeant: I feel like I might throw up.

Lap: 32/57 SAR: 1’28.230

Sargeant: I’m not doing well, mate. Fucking hell.

Jego: Can you continue?

Lap: 33/57 SAR: 1’28.804

Vowles: Logan, you’ve fought a brave day, but let’s bring it in and call it a day. Let’s look after you.

Sargeant: James, I promise you I can do this.

Vowles: Alright, I’ll leave it to you, buddy.

Sargeant: You have my word

Lap: 39/57 SAR: 1’29.587

Sergeant: I don’t feel well man.

Jego: Are you retiring, mate? Please confirm.

Sergeant: I don’t know.

Jego: If you’re feeling unwell, you retire. Your call, buddy. Doing opposite to Hulkenberg otherwise, opposite to Hulkenberg otherwise.

Lap: 40/57 SAR: 1’51.661

Jego: Racing Bottas on pit exit. You’re the one making the call if you want to retire or not, Logan. There’s no shame in retiring if you’re feeling unwell.

Sergeant: Yeah, I need to stop. I’m stopping. I’m stopping.

Jego: Okay. Okay. Okay. We will stop. Box, box, retiring the car.

He doesn’t remember much after that.

He remembers anger, sadness, frustration and hands keeping him upright. Getting out of the car was a struggle. He could finally breathe.

He turned his head to one of the TVs in the garage and saw a blurry orange passing by.

He let go.

He came to for a moment, only to see bright lights and white walls. Slowly rising, he managed to sit upright. The room swiveled, or maybe he did. 

He felt dehydrated.

James Vowel entered the room, and for the first time that day, Logan broke down.

He didn't need water to cry. He had melted.

Oscar’s sprint win and second podium and Logan’s fifth DNF. Things to be celebrated, obviously. 

Oscar is not a party person, but having a legendary weekend is bound to make any man break character. That is why Logan refrained from texting him. Closed his phone.

He went back on an old promise. He was having a hard time, sure, but he wasn’t going to let it soil Oscar’s success. He deserved it.

At least that’s what he was trying to convince himself with.

The phone's screen lit up the darkened room. He typed.

You have a new message.

LS: Hey

Oscar Piastri picked up his jacket, bid goodbyes and left.

Wrapped under the covers, Logan didn’t even hear the knocking. What brought him back to reality, is his phone suddenly ringing and shaking the bed.

‘Open the door, mate.’ Logan blanked for a bit, got up, wore his slippers and opened the door. Hands shaking. Exhaling

Oscar Piastri in the flesh was standing before him, remarkably less drunk than he had anticipated. 

An eyebrow was raised and he moved out of the way. 

Before he realized, he felt the wood of the bed frame dig into his back. On his left, stood an iceberg. 

In the quiet.

His mind so loud, he didn’t even hear Oscar the second time he spoke, call out to him.

To be honest, he didn’t think he had more in him, yet the tears flowing down his cheeks were adamant to prove him wrong. 

Each breath that escaped him was held in cold hands, protected. 

As if he knew everything, Oscar reassured. Whispered.

No, it wasn’t his fault.

No, he wasn’t bothering him.

No, it’s completely normal and fair to feel what he’s feeling with everything that is happening.

Never, ever assume his opinions. Of course he wanted to be there.

Because Logan was a priority. He held importance.

He was important. 

The snow froze to a comfortable temperature. Its ice was encased around him.

Las Vegas.

The land of the lucky, impulsive and very, very bright and shiny lights.

Finally at home.

He’d done better these past few races. Even got points in Austin. By pure luck, sure, but points were points and Logan was not complaining. And this track was new to everyone.

And according to everyone, loved by no one.

People's expectations were all over the place.

Friday came and went. Their tyres destroyed, even in a low grip track.

Saturday came. Saturday did not leave.

Qualifying.

P6 and P7.

With Sainz’ penalty, P5 and P6.

Logan was P6. 

James was proud.

Alex was proud.

Oscar went up to him immediately, proud.

Logan was proud.

It may be a small step, but the avalanche had stopped and the clouds were liberating the snowflakes. Small and new, still unique, still falling. Landing on top of soft ice. The sun shined but nothing melted.

Logan smiled.

-End-

Please note that no matter how much I am writing here, it is all artistic speculation of what Logan himself has decided to show the world. Do not forget that these drivers are real people.

A short analysis yay:

The obvious things first, Logan is the Snow and Oscar is the Ice.

Verglas, a thin coating of ice or frozen rain on an exposed surface.

Rime, frost formed on cold objects by the rapid freezing of water vapor in cloud or fog.

The eagle is the vague legacy the America has put on Logan's shoulders and he feels like he is failing it.

The Qatar radio is completely accurate as I thought it displayed accurately how hopeless Logan sounded and probably felt

His future may be unsure, but for now things are improving.

This piece is 2,777 words I felt like that is a great omen to Las Vegas

I got emotionally attached to an american and I have no excuse besides that he actually sounds so sweet. He's just so.....american you get put off by it.

Honestly, I think this may be my weakest one. Be it because of the lack of Logan content online or just wanting to hug the dude, I needed to write something but I can't say I am the proudest. However I have decided that if it took time to write then I will post anything.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean a lot if I managed to get some reposts, comments or liked!

If you like this, I have written more stories that can be found on my Formula 1 masterlist. Including: Lestappen and Landoscar with more to come. If it manages to spark your interest, please go support those as well!

[writeonthrough]

Namy Nuggets (13/13)

A fanfic collection of Amy and Nathan scenes from CBC’s Heartland. (Catch up on the series here) A big special thank you to @heartlandians, @1299sblog, @smokinholsters, @kvanbooven, and @scoutbooradley for being so supportive and enthusiastic towards me and this story. It means a lot. I shared this story because I was incredibly fun and enriching for me to write and—after many months, I finally decided that other people would/could enjoy it. Even though this last 'nugget' is more stressful than fluffy, I feel like it properly concludes the arc that I was trying to tell and leaves them in a good, strong place. I thought/was hoping another arc for Nathan/Amy would come to me before I finished posting all the completed chapters. It hasn't. One reason is probably because the show's season 18 is unusually stressful this year. So, we'll see if I come up with another arc for Amy/Nathan during the show's next long hiatus. Thank you so much to all who have enjoyed this story. Without further ado: Nugget #13: Across the Fence

“Come on, Shadow,” Amy leads him out the Heartland barn and out to the fields on a gallop. The fast pace helps clear her head after a going the entire weekend without hearing from Nathan once. She busied herself with Lyndy and client horses, trying to convince herself everything was fine with Nathan and his own ranch work kept him busy.

Perfectly understandable, she tells herself as Shadow races down a sloped hill, he has a big ranch to run, and, she shakes her head, we don’t have to talk every day anyway. We don’t have to be that type of couple that talks all the time, do we? She slows Shadow to a canter and takes a turn, we don’t…but we have been ever since we’ve got together.

The fence that separates Heartland from Nathan’s land appears before her. Shadow continues his forward path until he reaches the barrier and naturally turns to follow the fence line. As he does so, Nathan’s truck comes into focus. Amy’s heart patters at the sight, at the opportunity to see him.

She slows Shadow to walk and takes her time to approach. The truck door slams and Nathan appears, carrying fence posts in his arms and his hands full of tools. Before he reaches the truck’s flatbed to put everything down, though, his gaze falls on Amy.

She smiles warmly at him, “Hey.”

He nods before turning to set down the posts and the tools on the flatbed. Now with free hands, he takes a deep breath and turns back to her. “Hi.”

Amy waits for him to say more. He doesn’t. So, she tries, “How’s it going?”

“Busy,” he leans against the truck’s flatbed, half-sitting on it. “Just busy.”

“Yeah, work must have been piling up,” Amy softly offers him an out before adding, “I didn’t see you all weekend.”

“Yeah, I know,” Nathan sighs. “But Heartland always seems to be bustling with visitors, so I’m sure you were busy too.”

Amy retreats at the snide remark, so out-of-character for him. She takes a beat to decide what to do, and then pulls her leg over to hop off Shadow. She stands across the fence from him. “You’ve never been one for flippant insinuations,” one eyebrow raises with the observation. “You want to try being straight with me?”

Outwardly, he shakes his head and scoffs in disbelief. Inwardly, he layers the disbelief with amazement at her forthrightness and maturity, all of which add to the fear that he spent all weekend trying to avoid.

He crosses his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me about Scott and Ty?”

“Scott?” she repeats, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? You’re mad because I didn’t tell you Scott was close to Ty?” When he doesn’t respond, she questions further, “Why does it matter?”

“It matters to me, Amy,” he states stronger. “And I’m not mad. I just don’t think it’s fair to me to be caught off guard like that.”

“Caught off guard by the fact that Scott was a sort of mentor to both of you or that Scott and Ty were close at all?”

He shakes his head again and uncrosses his arms to gesture down the field. “You told me half the story. You said he dated Lou and conveniently left out the fact that he was mentor to Ty.”

Amy gapes at him. “We were in the middle of dinner with your friends!”

“And you didn’t think to tell me about it later?”

The question surprises her, quelling her defensives. “No, honestly,” her tone softens. “I don’t think about Scott that much.”

Nathan scoffs. “You put me in position where I was out of the loop at dinner—with Scott, with Lyndy—”

Amy retracts. “With Lyndy?”

“Yes!” He stands from the truck and takes a step closer. “You should have seen the way Scott was looking at Lyndy—interacting with her—it was so delicate, like she was so precious to him and he was trying to soak up every moment with her…like,” Nathan cocks his head, emphasizing his point, “Like she reminded him of someone that meant a lot to him—and I watched them together, and I totally didn’t get it.”

“Okay. So,” She works hard to keep her body calm and her voice soft. “What would you like me to tell you Nathan? Should I go around the ranch with you, pointing out people and places that meant something to Ty?” She raises her flat palm as if she is presenting something, her voice changes to mimic a tour guide. “‘This is the truck that meant the world to us and here’s why,’ oh and ‘this is Clint, here’s why he’s so important to Ty,’ and oh ‘here’s where he—’”

“Okay, Amy,” he puts his hand out. “I got it. I only meant that Scott already came up between us and you didn’t say anything.  You knew my history with Scott and you didn’t mention that it was similar to Ty’s history with him during or after the dinner with Josh.”

She shakes her head. “It’s really not that similar.”

“Amy…Come on…” he warns incredulously before turning his back to her and returning to his truck.

She follows him. “Why does this matter so much to you? Please tell me why you’re picking a fight with me just because I didn’t tell you that Scott had a history with Ty.”

He turns back to her and they stand facing each other parallel to the truck’s flatbed. “It matters to me that Ty and I have something in common other than you and Lyndy. And it matters to me that you left me out of the loop at dinner with Lou and Scott.”

“Okay,” Amy relaxes and surrenders. “Okay. I hear you. I’m sorry.” Nathan nods his acceptance of her apology. ��I just—” she surprises them both by continuing what seemed like a finished conversation. He places a hand on his hip. She takes a deep breath, “I thought we just agreed the other day that we were talking too much about Ty. Nathan, I don’t want us to talk him all the time.”

“For who?” He challenges her lightly. “For you or for me?”

“Honestly, Nathan,” she speaks gently. “For both of us���and he’s been coming up a lot lately—and I’m happy to tell you about him and give you a few key points in my history with Ty—but not everything. I don’t want to live in the past, I don’t want to be in that headspace all the time. I want a relationship with you and I want to build our own history together.” She lets the words sink in for a moment. “But look at us—we having our first fight—and it’s over Ty.”  She steps back in reflection. “Really? I don’t want that.”

He shakes his head. “This isn’t about Ty,” he clarifies with confidence. “This is about you not telling me relevant information.” He pauses to make his point. In the silence, he figures out the best way to express himself. Softening, he starts, “I meant what I said when I told you I want you to feel like you tell me things. Amy, I want to know what’s important to you, what you’re thinking about when things come up—and not be out of the loop, lost on the important subtext or implications in a conversation.”  

“Okay,” she agrees softly. It takes her a moment to realize Nathan’s concern over her withholding information from him is something Ty would repeatedly get upset with her about. She takes a single step closer. “You’re right. That’s fair.”

“Thank you,” he reaches out to touch her for the first time that day, resting a hand on her shoulder. “And for the record, I never minded hearing about Ty.”

“Why?” She asks, amazed at his kindness and empathy. “Why don’t you mind it?”

“Because,” his thumb strokes her shoulder and he smiles. “I love hearing about your life and I love getting to know you. I don’t think you know how incredible you are, but I do know that Ty is a big part of that, so that’s okay to acknowledge.”

“You’re pretty incredible too, you know.” Unsure, Nathan gives her the side-eye, but she nods, reaching for him, and closing the distance between them. She wraps her arms around his torso and leans further into him. “Yes, you are,” she nods and brings her lips to his cheek for a meaningful kiss. “Thank you for being so kind and understanding,” she whispers.

[darkfictionjude]

Etymology nonnie here!

Well, then I'll ask questions about the Hollywood IF.

You've said two things:

1) The MC is a nepo baby.

2) The MC can be POC, but always will be white passing (understandable, given the setting, and I'm very excited to see how you'll write it).

It makes me wonder how are you going to handle these two things. If MC is a nepo baby, I would assume one of their parents would be in the entertainment industry of the time. Being that the case, it would only make sense that specific parent is white. The issue comes, and it may be due to my ignorance on the subject, I was under the impression that during that time in the US different race couples couldn't marry. Now, this may be a different case based on which state we are talking about (maybe California was more lax on this than, for example, Texas or Georgia). In fact, I went to google this while I was writing this ask, and discovered California only removed the restriction in 1948 (as most US states began to do so after WW2). All of this to say, I wonder if you thought about MC being an illegitimate mixed child (for the people who want to play as a white passing POC MC), or would you make both parents be the same ethnicity no matter what?

After all, something so central to character writing demands to be thought about a lot. Having such different upbringings (between a legitimate child and an illegitimate one) would demand different ways to approach the relationship between MC and their parents in a very dramatic fashion. Enough so that many scenes wouldn't be compatible between two MC's with a different origin.

On the other hand, an illegitimate MC feels less alike the nepo baby stereotype I think you want to portray. Yet, at the same time, it would serve as further motivation for MC to prove themselves worthy of their opportunity in the industry.

So, what do you have in mind for this topic? As you said, you are free to tell me as much as you'd like, and say what you prefer not to share.

I just thought this could be a rather safe topic, given that so far it does not seem like an IF where MC origin should be guarded as a secret only revealed as the story goes. But you never know, so maybe I'm wrong in this regard.

Yeah so one parent is white. That is unchangeable as it focuses on a theme I want to write. The theme of the privilege of being white and not seeing it and viewing with shame a child who’s colouring or certain features might be too pronounced that certain things would have to be done to cover that up. MC is “technically” legitimate regardless of skin colour the bastard allegations are a theme too it’s just that with a biracial child it will have that added layer of racism in Hollywood and whitewashing.

To give you an idea of what I’m interested in… think of Clark Gable’s daughter with Loretta Young 😉

[provinyl09]

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[isimpfortoomanypeople]

Omg! You did amazing portraying the whole sibling thing and relationship.

The part where yn scared bully was funny.

Please do another, maybe an epilogue like Billy spying on dates?

"Get out of the fucking tree,"

"I'm birdwatching,"

"it's two am idiot,"

"fuck,"

Lmao anything with badass reader (hargrove ) dating Steve

A/N: Aww thanks so much and I’m so happy that you loved it. I love this idea of Billy spying on them and just being an idiot.

Stay away from my sister- Steve Harrington x Fem Y/N Hargrove part 2

Part 1

Warnings: small mentions of catcalling, the reader is Billy’s fraternal twin to include all readers

A/N: I’m from the U.K. sorry if this sounds overly British, apologises for all spelling and grammatical mistakes as I’m super dyslexic, enjoy

It’s been a week since Tina’s party, one week exactly since you kissed Steve in front of your brother’s face. You wished that you would of recorded Billy’s reaction because it was hilarious, he looked mortified like he had just witnessed the worst thing imaginable. From his big reaction you would of expected him to at least yell at Steve, yell at you for betraying him for kissing the Harrington boy, but no Billy was being oddly reasonable it was unsettling. Sure he made the occasional glare towards him whenever their eyes met but this new found silence was so unlike the brother you knew.

“What’s wrong darling?” Steve asked as he slid his arm around your waist. It was like clockwork at this point, Steve met you at your locker daily at the exact time to carry your books to class, snaking his arm around your waist and pepper your face in a million kisses just to see you blush. Which according to Steve was the most adorable thing in the world. But today there was something off about you, you seemed distracted and dazed like your mind was in a different dimension entirely.

“It’s just Billy, I don’t know. He’s been too quiet about us dating, I was at least expecting some form of reaction by now” you sighed closing the metal door of your locker, passing Steve your chemistry textbook.

“Maybe Billy has accept us dating?, I mean you were very intimidating. You even scared me for a second” he smirked, gently guiding you towards the direction of your next class.

“Have you met my brother? He loves the dramatics, he’s up to something and I don’t know what”

“Forget about him, are we still good for tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world” Steve leant into you, placing a long tender kiss on your lips. “Now go, before you’re late to O’Donnell’s. that woman is seriously terrifying”

Steve laughed, placing another kiss on your lips before running down the corridor hoping to get there before the bell rang.

You watched him go and felt your heart flutter which made the butterflies in your stomach race. The corners of your lips curled into a small smile as you realised, yep your definitely falling for Steve Harrington

——————————————————————————

Swiping on another layer of gloss upon your lips before grabbing your jacket and headed towards the front door. Before you could turn the handle you heard Billy’s voice.

“You look nice”

“Thanks, Steve is taking me out?” Your voice dragged out the sentence till it sounded like a question, highlighting how unsure you were about your brother’s nonchalant attitude towards tonight.

“Oh, where is he taking you?” He asked completely unfazed by the whole situation which further added to how out of character he was acting. Billy hated Steve’s guts, he despised his whole existence to the point he practically knocked him over during a basket ball game. Now he was okay with his sister dating the boy he hates, something wasn’t adding up which led to an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

“He’s taking me to the movies” you took a moment to observe his face and saw no reaction upon his features, not even the little twitch in his eye that he gets when he’s on the verge of rage. “Why are you so okay with this?”

“Huh?” He looked at you like you just grew another head, this started to irritate you. You knew your brother more than anyone and for him to be totally unfazed was exasperating.

“You hate Steve to the point you nearly punched him at Tina’s party, now you’re okay with me going on a date with him? So what gives?”

“Why do you care about what I think? You made it very clear that you would kill me if I laid a finger on the ‘king of Hawkins’, Y/N I saw you punch that guy who catcalled you a few days ago. I’d rather not take that risk” Billy shrugged, gently brushing past your shoulder as he walked towards the kitchen.

Your eyes grew wide and your brows furrowed together, Billy is definitely up to something. You’re definitely not going crazy or picking up on signals that weren’t there, he’s definitely up to no good.

A knock at the door brought you out of your thoughts, you turned the handle and called over your shoulder

“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m out”

“Wouldn’t dream of it”

You open the wooden frame to see Steve, he stood in blue jeans with a blue striped shirt, he looked so handsome that all your sentences got lodged in your throat. Leaving your mouth agape staring at him.

He chuckled about how blatantly obvious you were being, like he could see every cog in your brain coming to a screeching halt. You truly were the most beautiful person he had ever laid his eyes upon.

“Ready darling?”

You quickly darted your eyes away from him as you felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment from being caught, but who could blame you when he looked this good?

“I’m ready”

“You look beautiful by the way”

you smiled back at him, as your cheeks became nearly as red as the dress you were wearing. Steve had some form of hold over you. You once prided yourself upon being an independent person, who obtained the same level of “I don’t give a fuck” attitude as your twin, but when Steve was around that persona faded away leaving you in this lovesick mush.

——————————————————————————

Steve chose ‘nightmare on elm street’ for you both to watch, he was secretly hoping that you’d become scared and would cuddle into his side for comfort. While he could do that romantic cliche of putting his arm around you, holding you closer, whispering into your ear that he’d protect you.

What Steve didn’t factor in for is that you were Billy’s twin, Billy would force you to watch ‘Carrie’ and ‘the shining’. Doing that whole annoying brother thing of scaring you with the horror classics of Steven King and all of the classics within that genre . You were now use to scary movies, in fact you were starting to like them.

So Steve’s plan to act as the protector was ruined, you may or may not have even acted as his protector every time Freddy’s face flashed across the screen. But you swore to secrecy that you didn’t have to hold Steve tight while he had his head buried in the dip of your shoulder.

You both didn’t want the night the to end, so Steve suggested that you both go to the most beautiful place in Hawkins, a small secluded woods that contained a beautiful lake within the middle. Steve didn’t tell you the name of the lake and how he pretty much invented the place, in fear of you thinking that he’s a player. Steve swears that he has left those days in his past, for he has only known you for two weeks but he swears that he has never met anyone like you. He has never met anyone who has captured his heart the way you have, he was far from saying ‘love’ but he knew deep down that he would say those words to you in the future.

Staring up at the stars, nestled upon Steve’s chest looking at the night sky, this felt romantic and familiar as if fate has brought you to this moment.

“What are you thinking about?” Steve questioned looking dotingly at your face illuminated in the pale moonlight.

“Just how beautiful this is”

Steve dipped his head to down gently kiss your forehead, you smiled relaxing into his embrace-

Wait did that tree just move? You slowly arose from Steve’s warm arms to investigate the disturbance further.

Upon closer inspection you saw a leather jacket stretched across one of the branches, and familiar curls of sandy blonde hair.

Wait! Surely not?

“Billy?” You called up to the shadowy figure a few branches above from you. The figure froze not daring to move an inch.

Shit! Billy thought, he has done so well so far not to be caught. He didn’t want to spy but he’s heard about Steve’s old reputation of being a player and he was making sure that his sister wasn’t going to be hurt, plus Billy doesn’t trust Steve as far as he can throw him.

Billy froze in place hoping that if he didn’t move you wouldn’t see him and go away

“Billy?” You called again, silence was the response you received. You couldn’t help but let out a laugh over this whole situation.

He seriously doesn’t think that you’re that stupid?

“Billy get out of the fucking tree!”

“I’m birdwatching” he blurted back, cringing as he didn’t have time to register what he just said till it was out in the open. He was honestly such a terrible liar

“It’s 2am you idiot” you hissed, you didn’t know wether to laugh at how much of a fucking idiot he was being, or if to die of embarrassment for you could hear Steve’s howls of laughter over this mortifying situation.

“Fuck!” He groaned, he smacked the palm of his hand to his forehead. He truly was an idiot and now all he wanted to do was wallow in his own embarrassment.

“Go home you creep” you joked, the moonlight wasn’t bright enough to see his reaction but you knew that he was turning as red as a beetroot. Yep Billy you definitely aren’t going to hear the last of this.

A/N: I just love the idea of Billy being a protective brother and to me Steve is a himbo, I don’t make the rules he just gives off that energy. Thanks to everyone who has sent in their requests, I’m currently working on them :)

@manyfandomsfanvergent

[puff-poff]

The Culture of the Demon World

One part of The Promised Neverland that I always wanted to learn more about was the demons and their culture. Demons are a whole new race with their own language, religions, traditions, food, and history, and I want to learn more about their society. So, I decided to do a bit of research on a few specific aspects of the demon world. After writing everything down and connecting the pieces while trying to remain true to canon, I finally have something clear enough to share with you all.

Without further ado, I present to you my analysis of demon culture.

Part One: Clothing Just like in real life, the clothing demons wear depends on their social status and wealth. The middle and lower-class demons wear loose, flowing clothes with wide collars and sleeves. They most likely do this just in case they aren’t able to eat human meat and maintain their form; baggy clothes won’t tear if the demons start to degenerate. This is why the wealthy demons wear tighter clothing. Tight-fitting outfits show that you can afford plenty of human meat and that you aren’t worried about degenerating.

Many demons, both poor and rich, wear long, layered clothing, but it’s hard to tell if this is a societal standard or a byproduct of cold weather. Almost all of the demons we see are wearing long-sleeved tops and ankle-length bottoms, as well as a jacket, shawl, cape, or scarf. However, the feet and hands are almost always uncovered.

A major part of demon clothing is, of course, their masks. This extra page explains the styles and functionality of the Goldy Pond demon’s masks:

Like the rest of their clothing, wealth plays a part in demon’s masks as well. Detailed masks with large horns, like Luce’s, are worn by rich demons who want to flaunt their wealth, while lower-class demons wear simple, paneled masks with short horns. Demons who want a more functional mask might choose one without horns so they don’t get in their way. The aristocrat demons also have a unifying feature between their territory’s masks to differentiate themselves from the leaders of other territories. Whether or not your mask shows your mouth appears to be a personal preference since Legravalima, Mujika, Sonju, Awla, and Mawla all have uncovered mouths despite the character’s drastic differences.

Another detail I would like to point out is the material of the masks. Most demon masks are likely made of a material similar to clay, but there are a few demons with special masks that appear to be made out of something else. Nous and Nouma, for example, have athletic masks coated with shiny material that’s probably similar to polyester. However, it was Legravalima and Sonju’s masks that interested me the most. Legravalima’s mask is smooth, glossy, and seemingly made out of metal. A metallic mask is likely a sign of royal status and immense wealth. This explains why Sonju had a metallic mask as a child, and why he doesn’t have one now. When he was a prince, Sonju wore a shiny mask with a design similar to Legravalima’s. After running away with Mujika, he grew out of his mask and now wears a clay one of the same design.

This might just be the art style of the series changing over time, but I also find it interesting that Sonju’s mask suddenly becomes glossy in chapter 156 during the battle at the royal capital. It’s his first time stepping foot in the palace since he ran away, and it’s as if his mask is suggesting that returning to the palace has given Sonju his royal status back.

Part Two: Architecture In many ways, the architecture in the demon world reminds me of places like the Sant Francesc Church in Spain and Royal Ontario Museum in Canada. As time goes on, old buildings are expanded and improved with modern additions to accommodate the changing world. This can be seen in the paradise hideout, where a newer building was constructed next to the original settlement.

The old, traditional demon buildings are made of clay and other types of stones. They don’t appear to have many windows, and the few windows they do have are holes without window panes. Many of the older buildings were carved out of mountains or trees, or at least rest atop a mountain with steps carved into the side. This traditional style of demon architecture is similar to old Pueblo architecture and adobe homes.

The newer demon architecture likely came into style sometime before Goldy Pond was built, seeing as Goldy Pond has buildings similar to those in modern demon villages. It resembles the European Tudor style with its grid window panes, timber frames, and sloped roofs. The walls were probably made using the wattle and daub technique and painted white or cream. Some of the buildings have stone foundations, but unlike the old style of architecture, the stones are laid like bricks. Buildings made using the new style of architecture also have shutters, awnings, and Juliet balconies.

This picture of the royal capital’s streets perfectly shows the mixing of the old and new architectural styles:

Here, you can see the original clay buildings with the balconies, awnings, and wooden frames of the new style added on. The buildings in the foreground have open windows while the ones further back have grid panes. One of the structures on the right is built in the style of the older demon homes, but it uses modern stone bricks and balconies. This blend of architecture helps show the development of the demon society through the years.

Part Three: Food Human meat is the most important food in demon culture since it’s what keeps the majority of demons from degenerating. I won’t be talking a lot about the farms and human meat in this post since it’s already been explored by the manga and people smarter than me. If you want to read more about demons and human meat, I recommend this post by the-silliest-idiot and this translation of the fanbook, particularly the Q&A sections.

As explained in the manga, the appearance of demons changes depending on the type of meat they eat. The aristocrat demons eat human meat, Parvus eats monkey meat, and the demon horse Sonju rides eats horse meat. As explained in the fanbook, humanoid demons will lose their human appearance if they don’t eat human meat, but monkey demons like Parvus can retain their appearance for a while. To keep themselves from degenerating or changing forms, humanoid demons don’t eat a lot of meat other than the human meat from the farms. When the demons do eat other meats, they eat bugs, fish, and birds, probably because those animals are difficult to change into.

While it’s unclear if demons eat the plants in the forest, we know that there are plenty of edible berries, nuts, fungi, and other plants that the human escapees eat during their travels. Demons also have a variety of fruits, vegetables, and nuts that they grow and harvest. In just these two panels, we can see that the demons have their own versions of pears, hazelnuts, pineapples, kiwi, and mangos (the mangos seem to be popular in the royal capital).

All demons, regardless of wealth or social status, appear to have equal access to all food except human meat. Lower-class demons get low-quality meat, but the same berries and nuts being sold at street markets are present in the Tifari offering.

Part Four: Language Unfortunately, I’m not smart enough to decode the old demon language. In the words of the fanbook, “Sugita created demon god's name, but every other text from the demon language that appeared afterward was Posuka's creation.” The language was made up by Posuka, and I’m not sure if there’s enough dialogue to translate a full alphabet. The old demon language looks like a combination of Japanese and Enochian, but that’s all I can gather from it. It’s also unclear if the language has a written form. 

However, the old demon language isn’t used anymore. The language died out for two major reasons; a general lack of knowledge and to separate language from the old faith. The aristocratic demons know the language well enough, but we don’t see many commoner demons speaking it. The modern demon society writes in English, as shown by the signs at Goldy Pond, and it’s likely that they also speak English despite the story being written in Japanese. There's also a chance that the demons speak Old English since the promise was forged during medieval times. If this is true, then the aristocrats and heads of the farms could have a more modern accent because they often talk to people from the human world.

Part Five: The Arts Sadly, we don't know much about art in the demon world. The promise was made around the 11th century, so art in the demon world is likely reflective of that time. I can only assume they have their own literature, art movements, and music, but it's mostly speculation. One thing I noticed is that the demon world has a lot of embroideries, whether it be on the edges of a cape or banners inside the palace. This fits with my theory of medieval Europe-inspired art and languages. During medieval times, top layer garments such as coats and cloaks were commonly embroidered along the hemline and cuffs. This kind of embroidered clothing is worn by many demons throughout the series.

Banners, tapestries, and flags were also commonly created by artists during medieval times. Lines of flags are seen throughout the demon world, and a few buildings in the capital have banners hanging outside. The palace has a few banners of its own, though they're fancier than the ones in the capital streets.

Damask fabric is another example of demon artistry being influenced by medieval Europe. Damask is a reversible fabric created by weaving. The royal demons seem to have jumped on the damask train before the promise was sealed because it can be found in many places throughout the palace. Most notably, Legravalima's dress is partially made of damask, though the silhouette is very different from that of a medieval damask evening gown. Damask was commonly used to make curtains as well, like the ones draped around the Tifari offering.

We don’t know much about literature in the demon world. The books we see were written in the human world and sent to the farms, but surely the demons have their own books and stories. Seeing as the rest of the arts in the demon world were inspired by medieval Europe, I can only assume that their books, fables, and plays are as well. Much of medieval literature was based on religion and chivalry. There were also many fables and myths derived from old stories and religious texts. Demon children probably read many stories about the Evil Blooded, the runaway prince, and heroic knights who protect the demons from harm. There likely are many stories written in the old demon language as well. Similar to Latin and Old English in the Middle Ages, the old demon language was probably the main written language until the 11th century, when the demons began using English as a primary language.

I imagine that Anglo Saxon, Byzantine, and Norman (ha get it) art heavily inspired art in the demon world. The palace is likely covered in tapestries and murals depicting historic events. Metal and tilework were probably once a major part of demon artistry, but the practices died out over time. Instead, many demon artists practice painting and embroidery. Pieces of art in the demon world would be very vibrant and colorful, especially the works displayed in the palace.

When it comes to music in the demon world, there isn’t much to go off of. We know that the farms have access to instruments and sheet music because of Leslie and Nat. Barbara also sings a Japanese children’s song in chapter 113. Unfortunately, we don’t get much information about music in the demon world outside of the farms. I assume that demons primarily play string instruments and piano because of their long fingers. They also have more fingers than humans, meaning they can make a variety of chords that humans can’t. More fingers also allow demons to add more strings to their instruments. Even though it’s possible that demons have their own special instruments, we know that they also have human instruments like cellos, trumpets, and pianos.

Conclusion: There’s a lot more I wish I could talk about (mainly the elements of culture), but I’m stopping for now so this doesn’t get any longer. Feel free to correct me or add on anything I missed. If you made it this far, thank you for reading this incredibly long analysis of demon culture and I hope you have a great day.

[du0tine]

   ༄𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐀༄

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄: 5.3K 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 | 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖!

prominent use of bad language. mentions of people hooking up and using drugs but no explicit description, there is no smut in this prologue but are some light suggestive scenes. description of a drug overdose, drug intoxication and hallucinations. mentions of candy flipping: the use of MDMA and LSD combined. main character death and resurrection. graphic imagery. light mentioning of religious anecdotes. 

viewer discretion is advised. 

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄:

THIS IS THE FIRST PART TO THE PROLOGUE!

at the end of the second prologue you may choose a route that will lead you to one of the four stories with either:

na jaemin, jung jaehyun, wong yukhei or xiao dejun.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

@stayinzencity @prettyjaems @hunjins @neonun-au @bumblebeenct @neojaems​ + there may have been more people but i kinda forgot to write them down sorry! lmk if you would like to be added. just let me know which member’s route, you can choose as many as you’d like.

It was all too confined. 

Sweaty bodies aggressively shoving against each other in the mosh pit. People falling from side to side, crushing each other as they flailed their bodies around. The smell of DMT lingered in the air clouding your thoughts ever so slightly, tinging your mind with a light haziness. As the vibrant, disco lights blinded you, making your sight kaleidoscopic. You were seeing double and it didn’t help since it served as the only source of light in this underground club. You were pretty sure that had you not been so painfully sober and not shit faced drunk you would’ve been pressed against the club’s dirty floor next to some girls abandoned, dirty thong with people jumping on top of you, crushing your body.

It was hopeless. You’d lost sight of your friends from the moment you got into this dreaded hole of sweaty bodies, quite literally being engulfed by the ocean of people. Your body felt like a pulp, compressed and sweaty, falling apart at the seams. Even your feet were terribly blistered since your toes began to sink further down, your heels pressing uncomfortably against the leather material. Scanning the crowd, you desperately look for an exit to find the bathroom. Of course, you weren’t expecting it to be any better. There would most likely be people hooking up or doing drugs in the empty stalls but you’d at least expect less people inside and more space to just collect yourself and find your friends since there was no way you could just leave. The lineup was almost an hour long and the bouncer wasn’t going to let you in twice. 

Finally you spot the broken LED sign that held the exit sign. It’s hues sparking above the crowd, omitting an array of bright colours that mostly alternated between red and blue. Overjoyed, you roughly shove people out of your way, getting shoved back a few times in return but overall, the heavy traffic pushed you closer to the exit and finally you were met with a dimly lit, long corridor. It was rather empty except for the few clusters of people either nearly fucking on the spot or passed out on the floor. 

Carefully, navigating your way through the hallway you almost slip on some dark yellow vomit. Your heels squelching against the ground as you mentally cringe feeling disgusted. Nearly yelling out loud at the person who’d thrown up but much to your dismay they were long gone with their face against the floor, eyes shut tight. Roughly dragging the scuff of your shoe against the floor you wipe the putrid substance off before continuing your march through the hallway of hell. 

The further you went, the darker it got and you were starting to think you’d come the wrong way. There was no bathroom. Hell, there wasn’t even an exit; it was just a dingy, dark hallway with absolutely no end. As you continued downwards you start to feel uneasy, almost as if there was someone watching you. With each and every step away from the dance floor you hear the music become more and more faint, the sound of the bass thumping lightly along with the sound of the crowd almost disappearing. Soon enough it became painfully silent, the only noise that bounced against the walls of the corridor were your own and they omitted from the clapping of your heels that clacked against the cold floor.

One, two, three, four steps and you start to hear double. Stopping in place, you’re met with a silence. It’s just you and this hallway you think to yourself before taking a few more steps ahead and then hearing it again. It was definitely the sound of someone’s shoes, ones besides yours. Perhaps, someone was following you? You weren’t sure. In fact, you were just too scared to turn your head around and take a look back mostly because something deep inside you warned you not to look back. Maybe there was something about how anxious this place made you feel. 

As a result, it made your head spin, the vertigo making you feel nauseous as you struggled to even keep marching forwards through this endless abyss of a walkway. 

Nonetheless, you push yourself to keep moving ahead. Forcing yourself to think that the further you went, the faster the bathroom would appear. A doorway that would you lead into a disgusting, nasty as hell bathroom filled with people from the club. This illusion you fed yourself forced you into a sense of false comfort as you tried your best to fight the urge to look back and keep moving. 

Your mission was to reach the bathroom because you knew that you’d be safe then. Despite not even knowing what followed you, you kept your vision dead straight ahead becoming so focused you failed to realize how the walls around you twisted and contorted. The chipped paint started to come alive developing a pulse, beating as if it was alive like flesh inside the body of a human. Something that never saw the light of life until given the opportunity to do so and right now it was tearing itself apart stripping itself, revealing the grimy, almost ghastly white woodwork behind it as its paint wilted at your feet. Hypnotized you kept moving forward as the sound of those dreaded footsteps got closer and closer. 

Clack, clack, clack it rang through your ears. Echoing through your eardrums and spiralling through your mind. The paranoia ate away at your sanity, it replaced all senses of feeling and thinking with fear and ignorance. You ignored how your mind screamed at you to turn back and stop going forward in fear of what lay ahead. Instead you listened to how your body forced you to place one foot right in front of the other and march straight into your doom. 

Finally, you see an exit. A doorway that stands there perfectly still, illuminated around its perimeter with a bright mix of red and blue. You feel yourself fall at ease as you pick up your pace practically racing for the door as you hold a hand out eager to feel the cold, brass doorknob around your sweaty palms. The distance between you and the door close with each step that you take but so does the sound of those dreaded feet behind you. With merely a few inches between you and the door, you feel a gush of hot wind against your neck. Its someones breath. 

It feels like your whole body falls into a frenzy, a complete panicking mess. As you finally grip onto the door knob giving it a rapid turn, twisting it with everything you had within you and yet, nothing. It doesn’t budge. Rather simply it stands there silently mocking you as you tug at the door. Your movements only becoming more violent when you feel someones hand atop your shoulder. Goosebumps erupt across your skin, decorating it like grains of sand, the granules sitting coldly atop your body. It surges through your frame and shoots up your spine as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in shock. 

“Going somewhere?” Questions the voice as you freeze in place. Your objective of getting the hell out momentarily pausing as you feel eerily intrigued by the voice. Who could it be? The voice was almost incoherent and yet, it held a tone that would perhaps come from a man. The vibrations from its voice made the shivers that stood at the top of your spine come tumbling back down onto your tall bone as you shudder in response. Just who exactly was this? You had to find out. After all, there was no going back now. 

Mustering the very little courage that you had within the pits of your stomach, you tense up. Your muscles restricting themselves making your movements very slow as you take your time turning around. Your eyes glued to the ground, staring at the floor and only just realizing how it jiggled underneath you, almost as if you were standing on top of jello. It’s checkered black and white tiles moving around as you pivot, the toes of your feet sinking in ever so slightly. 

You know you’re facing the figure when you see a pair of sleek, perfectly polished mens dress shoes in front of you. The gloss that radiants from the black shoes almost blind you as you can’t help but momentarily look away staring at your own feet that were beginning to sink deeper into the translucent, gelatine floor. Your heels doing nothing more but piercing into the meaty layer beneath you. 

“My gosh, you’re so fucking high,” Snickers the voice as you snap your head upwards. Contorting your eyebrows in confusion as you quickly retort their observation, “I am not!” 

As the words abruptly leave your mouth you can’t help but feel like you’ve had the wind knocked out of you. In front of you stands a masked man, dressed in a black suit that you could just tell was fabricated with the finest materials and by a crafted tailor no less. The tufts of his hair rotate between the colours of silver, an auburn brown, black and yellow blonde. The mask that adorns his face is plain white, with no slits for eyes nor a mouth leaving you astonished as to how exactly could this masked figure see but you don’t speak the thoughts of your mind. Almost as if you knew that questioning him would lead nowhere. 

Instead you continue to gawk at him with your eyes wide, pupils extremely dilated. Your fruity lips drifted apart as you momentarily forget to breath. Slowly you watch as he brings a hand forward to rest on your cheek. Not even realizing how hot and flustered you were until you feel his cold hand caress your skin. He’s gentle as he continues to observe you. Making you feel like a delicate flower in the grasps of a strong being, one wrong move and you could be crushed. 

“I’m not high,” Are the words that flutter past your lips once more as you stare at him, your thoughts are in a daze. You can’t even think straight as he lets out a laugh. 

“Sure you aren’t. In fact you totally didn’t spend the night candy flipping for nothing, you’ve called upon me and that’s…pretty sweet. The taste of death, reward of the afterlife,” He replies, his fingers leaving your soft cheek and moving towards the locks of your hair as he runs his fingers through them, combing it gently ridding it of its knots.  

“Death? I’m sorry what?” You question as you snap out of your thoughts pushing his hand away from yourself as you look around you. Nothing looked normal, the hallway seemed to replicate one from the inside of a twisted funhouse, except this was all but fun. As the realization of being somewhere that you don’t belong in hits you, you begin to panic. The fear settling in at the pit of your stomach, clouding your thoughts as your surroundings begin to darken. Everything seems to take a turn for worse as the floor beneath you continues to cave in faster and faster. Soon you find yourself knee deep staring in horror at the man in front of you, desperately you reach out your hand begging him to pull you up, to save you. 

“You’re mistaken! I’m not dead, I was just fine. Perfectly sober in fact!” You shriek out absolutely horrified as you grip onto the jacket of his suit. You’re now thigh deep and sinking in faster. Calmly he holds your hand with his before bringing his other hand and placing it atop your head once more. 

“I’m afraid you are dead. Having overdosed in the reckless amount of MDMA and LSD you consumed, eager to reach that ecstasy. That feeling of being in a euphoric state of mind, the bliss coursing through your veins only to be crushed by the mindless bodies of those whom you once danced with, then dragged out by your very own friends. Only to be left alone in the corridor soaked in your vomit.”

Deadpanned, the realization hits you hard. You really were dead and in fact, you’d walked past your very own dead body twice. Astonished and feeling completely drained you look up at the man with sorrowful eyes. This time you don’t speak as you stare at him with oceans in your gaze, the tears seeping from the ducts of your lifeless eyes as they fall down your now stone cold cheeks. You’re now waist deep into the ground as you continue to sink further down with nothing left to say. 

“You’ll have a second shot, if you make things right,” He says before using his body weight and strength to push your body down into the ground with his hand. Eyes widening in shock you scream in horror as he submerges you completely, engulfing your voice in the floor beneath as everything swallows you alive and falls black. 

It feels like you’re floating, your body is essentially weightless as you drift around in the dark mindlessly. You simply exist with no burdens atop your shoulders, no responsibilities and no sins. Your mind is a clean slate and it feels like you’re swimming around, sauntering inside a dark womb. Everything that surrounds you is inexplicable and unknown but it makes itself present. It’s a cold comfort. Perhaps, this is what it’s like to be dead. No hell, no heaven, simply a dark void. A looming and mysterious abyss where you’re overcome by nothing more except peace and eternal silence. 

The silence is short as you suddenly feel a large pressure against your body. An unknown force dawning its mass, crushing you as your senses abruptly flutter awake. You begin to feel more confined, your surroundings no longer providing comfort but working against you. Slowly the unknown force begins to coat your body, covering every nook and cranny with its substance. Rubbing against your skin, grinding with pressure. Its the feeling of small, tiny granules but perhaps millions of them. Though this time it isn’t exactly goosebumps, no longer a natural phenomenon that occurs as a reaction in the human body. Instead, it seems to be sand as it works its way around your figure, engulfing you. Making you feel as if you’re caught inside an hourglass with no way to go but down. The sensation is suffocating as you catch particles of the sand inside your mouth, drying up your taste buds. Its objective is to swallow you whole and consume your existence with itself.  

There is no longer any zen. The pulsations that once lingered through mind, body and soul is now gone and replaced with another kind of awakening. One that is urgent, one that screams for you to get out. In desperation you begin to panic, flailing your arms around. Your movements are drastically slower than you expect with the heavy sand slowing your momentum. With one arm in front of the other you swim your way through the sand, clawing your way out of the dark, pushing away from the suction that holds you down. You don’t stop until you feel the light breeze of what seems to be air brushing past your fingertips. 

You’ve partially reached the surface. The adrenaline is now coursing through your veins, pumping through your heart with such speed. It feels like your heart is ready to burst through your ribcage at any given moment. But you don’t stop fighting against the quicksand until you’re met with the nights sky, seeing how the constellations are littered upon its dark blue canvas. Your eyes twinkle in the moonlight as you gasp for air, spitting out any of the remnants of sand that linger inside your mouth. Hacking rather loudly as you exhale the sand and inhale in the sweet air. 

Mustering the last bit of energy that remains inside of you, you pull your torso out of the sand. The lower half of your body are next to follow as you flop onto the ground and onto your back. The scene is one that someone may have seen in a zombie movie, the undead coming back to life crawling their way out of their graves. Their resting place no longer sufficient. Reborn they quench for the thirst of human flesh except for you, you’re thirsty for life. To live again is all you wish for and you’ve been granted exactly that. Having been given the chance of taking another shot at this cruel game of life. Unbeknownst to you, you’re willing to do whatever it takes to make this permanent. 

Gazing up at the nights sky you’re blown away at the sight. The sticky situation of being buried alive is no longer relevant having been replaced with the beauty of the world. Bringing forward a hand you hold it up towards the sky, holding it in reference next to the moon. Like porcelain, you shine. The flesh of your skin is soft and supple like a newborn baby, everything about you is new. You’re no longer dead but instead given the chance to take host in this new vessel. The body is still yours, it is you but it’s new and improved. There are no signs of your old body, no vomit seeping past your lips tainting your skin. Your bones are perfectly intact with no signs of damage, there is no wear and tear, everything seems to be working perfectly fine. All that remains is the black Saint Laurent minidress that you wore that night, in its pristine condition.

Sitting upwards you observe your surroundings before dusting the sand off of your body and proceeding to stand up. The landscape is rather vast and covered in nothing but sand. However, it seems like you’ve dug yourself out from the side of a sand dune. The tall hill that sits proudly behind you seems like a good idea to climb. Perhaps there will be more to see at the top, a perfect vantage point. Standing upwards you quickly start climbing, your feet dragging into the sand causing you to fall on your face a couple times but nonetheless you reach the top and what lies in front of you takes your breath away. 

It’s a bustling city, lit up by street lanterns and filled with people. It glows in the dark, radiating the silhouettes of its architectural elements. The tall and looming arabesque styled buildings make you feel tiny in comparison. As it draws you in, it doesn’t even look real. Perhaps, this was all a mirage. None of this could be real, you could just be in a state of delusion having just dug yourself out of a hole in the ground but nonetheless you feel hypnotized completely captured by the beauty what lay ahead. In a trance you make your way towards the city. 

Your eyes don’t leave the landscape. Admiring how despite how late it seemed, the people were just as lively. The closer you got, the louder the sounds of the city came alive. The place was surrounded by the desert except for the large port docked with multiple ships to the left of the city where it stretched out onto a large body of water. Perhaps, it led out to the seas? You didn’t know. This place seemed almost mythical like a story coming to life, none of it felt real until you found yourself standing in the middle of it all, walking through its streets. 

As you wandered around you were met with the confused stares of its citizens as they all gawked at you. Taking one look at yourself and back at them you soon realized you weren’t dressed like they were. The people of the city were adorned in different types of silk garments, light enough to withstand the heat of the dessert but strong enough to protect from the winds at night. Meanwhile you wore something that just seemed skimpy in comparison to their clothing, it made it obvious you weren’t from here. 

Ignoring their stares you continue to wander around following the crowds of people. All of which seemed to be heading in one particular direction straight into the upper north side of the city. Up north stood a perfectly, coral white palace that overlooked the city. One that perhaps resembled the Taj Mahal but exceeded in size and was much more grandiose. Strung up in what looks like an assortment of lights it glistens brightly. People fluttering into the palace through its big gates but not just anyone. The people granted access inside were dressed elegantly and much more expensive than the average citizen. 

Just what exactly lay ahead? You had to find out. 

Stopping a random lady in her path you quickly question her about what lies ahead. After receiving a rather annoyed look from her she’s quick to give you a snarky reply, “We’re celebrating the success of the Jung Family. Their son has gratefully claimed our land back from those filthy pirates.” 

“The Jung family? Pirates?” You question out loud as she looks at you stunned. Quickly you change the tone of your reply when you see her squinting her eyes at you in suspicion. Rapidly repeating yourself and fixing your mistake, “Oh yeah! The Jung family! And those pesky little pirates huh?!” 

The women simply rolls her eyes in response before quickly scurrying up ahead not wanting to be bothered by your horrible facade. You watch as she walks past the guards and inside leaving you behind. Standing in the outdoor lobby, your feet are cold and perhaps rather grimy against the polished marble floors as you debate whether or not to go inside. It seemed like there was a definite possibility they wouldn’t allow you indoors but maybe going inside would provide you answers on where exactly you were. Taking a deep breath you stride towards the gates, not making any eye contact with the guards. 

You maybe get a foot into the palace before you’re stopped and roughly thrown back out.

“No beggars allowed inside.” 

Contorting your eyebrows in confusion you look at the guards with disbelief. Here you stood dressed in something that definitely cost more than what someone else was wearing and yet you were denied access inside. Before you could lash out at the guards for being so rough you remember these people aren’t bouncers, in fact it looked like they were from a whole other time period.

This only proved just how out of place you were and you weren’t going anywhere unless you found a change of clothes or somehow snuck inside. Standing back where you once stood with the guards glaring at you, your eyes wander the palace looking for a way in. Glancing at every potential entry point, you scan the entire perimeter. Finally coming to the conclusion that every square inch of the building seemed impossible to penetrate through unseen and with the last few posh citizens piling inside and the gates slamming shut you felt hopeless. 

Here you were in a city you didn’t recognize. A place that looked like the Atlantis of the sands, something out of a mythological book with nowhere to go. Just as you turn around to leave the palace something catches your eye. Within the corner of your peripheral vision you see a figure dart in the near distance, whipping your head in that direction just in time to see a young man climb through a window. His silver hair whipping through the wind. One moment he’s there and the next he’s not.

For a moment you decide that maybe this isn’t worth it. Sneaking in couldn’t promise anything but if it did, the reward would probably be huge. Either that or it held huge consequences. Standing there you debate on whether or not you should go and when you remember the words of the man who’d greeted your soul that night his words speak to you once more.

‘You’ll have a second shot, if you make things right.’ 

Perhaps, this city you were thrown into meant something. A sign of the afterlife? Maybe something that held significant importance? After all, he was the one who’d transferred you here and granted you this new vessel and it seemed to be pretty clear to you by now that everything happens for a reason. Being granted this temporary second shot at life seemed too good to be true but it seemed like there’d be a price to pay if you didn’t accomplish what you were sent for. The only question was, what was it that you needed to do? Glancing at the window you watch as it blows the gold curtains from inside, fluttering it out in the wind. The entryway was almost signalling you inside. The silver haired man from before must have recklessly left it open. 

Taking that as your signal, you run towards the opening. Quickly hoisting yourself up onto the window sill and before slipping inside, you hesitate. All that echoes through your mind is your subconscious screaming at you to just go for it, you do exactly that thinking, 

“Fuck it. What’s the worst that could happen, dying twice?” 

Like an absolute moron you tumble into the room colliding rather loudly with the hard floor. The whole idea of staying quiet and unseen seemed to be impossible for you to accomplish. Turning around you reach for the doors of the window thinking that at least covering your tracks would help. Just as your fingers brace against the metallic framing of the handle you’re stopped in your tracks. 

“Hey,” Calls out someone. The tone of the voice isn’t commanding but instead rather friendly. Looking downwards, you’re met with a rather tall man. His black hair is sleeked back in a hairstyle, two small braids hanging from the side of his scalp. His dark , obsidian orbs are staring right back at you as you gawk at him like a deer caught in the headlights. Clad in the same attire as everyone else you simply brush him off, quickly reaching for the knob and trying to slam it shut in fear of being caught. Only to have your movements halted when his large hand makes contact with your wrist. 

“Leave the window open will you?” He asks as the corners of his mouth stretch into a rather playful grin.

“What? Why don’t you just go through the gate like everyone else?” You ironically retort as you attempt to shake his grip off with no success. 

“What if I don’t belong here?” He questions. Raising his eyebrows rather theatrically as you freeze on the spot, “Just like you.” With those words you’re quick to release the knob and he’s just as quick to release his grip. He’d clearly been watching you and you were absolutely clueless as to just exactly how long. 

The encounter is quick to set off your fight or flight instinct as you make a run for the door, trying to get as far away as possible from the window. Only to be stopped by the same man from before, plummeting to the floor merely inches away from freedom. He rolls you onto your back as he straddles your body, his weight doesn’t crush you in pain but he’s certainly applying pressure and it doesn’t feel great. Using one of his hands to hold both of yours above your head making you essentially defenceless as you try and kick him off with no result. 

“Let’s just make something clear,” He begins. Slowly leaning in closer and closer towards you, stopping merely inches away from your face and specifically from your lips. His breath is hot against your skin as you inhale the heavy smell of tobacco and light cologne that omits from his body. Despite having nowhere to look but at him, deep down you feel hot. The burning sensation that rests at the pit of your stomach makes butterflies erupt inside. You can’t help but admire just how good looking he is and how dangerous. A combination you always couldn’t resist. Your chest is heaving up and down as you struggle to stay calm, your breath even hitches a couple times as his eyes burn into yours. He’s reading you silently like an open book and you can’t help but feel like this vulnerability is lustrous and you want more.

Slowly his other hand snakes up your torso, starting at your navel and tiptoeing through the valley in between of your breasts, finally stopping at your neck. His movements are agile and it feels like his fingers are dancing upon your skin. He takes his time knowing that he’s got the upper hand and that the ship sails his way, not yours. 

Suddenly his hand is wrapped tightly around your neck, gripping the flesh with his slender, calloused fingers. As they press into the sides of your neck skillfully avoiding your windpipe. You’re thankful he isn’t holding you directly down or else he’d probably crush your only main source of breathing. As your vision starts to fall hazy, you’re seeing stars. It’s like peering into the milky way through a telescope looking at the numerous planets and right now you’re looking at Venus. He is beauty, he is mysterious and he is bold. If Venus was a boy it’d be this man hovering above you. Helplessly watching his every movement as he leans down closer gravitating towards your lips before swerving to the left and placing his mouth close to your ear. The situation makes your heart bounce almost as if you’ve just dodged an astroid. 

“If you tell anyone about our little encounter, about me. I’ll go out of my way to kill you first and believe me my schedules pretty full,” The tone in his voice is menacing, definitely evoking more fear within you and you can’t help but gargle out a weak agreement in response. This man came to do business and it seemed like he’d barely decided to spare you and he definitely wouldn’t the next time. He must’ve been convinced with your response because you feel his body weight shift away from you. The sounds of his footsteps move towards the door, his weight creaking against the floor boards and just before he leaves, you prop yourself up calling out to him weakly, “W-who are you?” 

Slowly he turns around looking down on you, the light from the corridor behind him illuminating his figure. “Let’s just say, I’m not very liked here,” Is his response as he brings a finger up towards his lips, twisting them and playfully and throwing away the make belief key. With that he’s gone, disappearing down the hallway and you can’t help but think of one word and one word only. The exact definition of just exactly who this man was, a pirate. Given tonights circumstances that the lady from before had mentioned, it didn’t look like things were going to end very well in terms of the celebration. 

𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑽𝑬𝑫 ©︎𝑫𝑼0𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑬

[filmhistorymptv1145]

Reckon with the impact of World War II on cinema history. In what ways did this cataclysmic event shape film as an art form? How do postwar films differ from prewar films either in form or content? Consider the examples that deal directly with the war and its aftermath, but reflect on earlier films we have seen as well, which may be useful points of comparison.

The aftershocks of World War II left the entire planet in shambles. From Japan to Germany and all the way to the United States, the effects were taking its toll on both their people and economies. More than sixty-one million people were dead. The shift in society was momentous, and affected the everyday lives of the average citizens, and government officials were left to pick up the pieces. One of the most noticeable shifts in artistic trends after the War was the change in the production of films. After 1948, some of the glitz and glamour left Hollywood’s movies, and directors and creators around the world began to take notice and incorporated darker, grittier themes into their work. Directors and screenwriters did not feel afraid to attack how their respective country had changed after the war, infusing their films with political tension and subtle criticisms of the powers that be.

The shift in darker subject matter challenged the Hollywood bauble. Even with the Code firmly in place, directors and screenwriters found creative ways to tell their stories around it. Subliminal messages conveyed through staging, dialogue and light became the norm after 1948. Instead of dealing with outside forces, such as unrequited love or corporate greed, narratives began to turn inward. Questioning the moral fiber of man and what good or evil we do with the immense amount of knowledge at our fingertips became the groundwork for post-war cinema. 

In Hollywood movies, directors had to be subtle and creative about showcasing their criticisms of American ideals on screen. Through the use of cinematography and subtext, a film like All That Heaven Allows can seem like a romantic drama on the surface to the average viewer. However, Douglas Sirk was able to infuse the film with multiple layers of subtext which criticized the highly sought after and idealized ‘American Dream’. Sirk wanted to take a good, hard look at the kind of lifestyle so many American soldiers had fought and died for.

Cary is a wealthy widow who falls in love with a younger man who is of lower class than she is, a gardener named Ron. Through Cary’s story, Sirk is able to turn the narrative inward to inspect the pillars of American suburban life: order, conformism, and intolerance. Cary’s friends and neighbors are aghast that she is planning to marry again, and to her gardener at that. Sirk attacks the snobby and patronizing attitudes of Cary’s upper-class acquaintances, who appear to be friendly to Cary on the surface. Even her own children appear to be devastated by her personal choices about her love life. In a scene where she is talking to her son, he speaks to her from the other side of a screen, his face obscured by wire mesh. Almost like he is talking to her from the other side of a cage. A metaphor for the manner in which Cary’s children and friends have her trapped inside of their expectations for her as a widow, as indifferent to her wishes and desires as grouchy prison guards would be towards a recalcitrant inmate.

Materialism of the American suburbia becomes another subject for Sirk to condemn near the end of the film. Cary’s children, pleased with their mother’s apparent decision to stay away from Ron, present her with a television set for Christmas. In the shot below, Sirk uses the television screen to again show us how Cary is trapped, this time by consumerism. Her son earnestly believes that she will have all the company she needs now that she owns a TV, seemingly forgetting the fact that he snubbed Ron when Cary first introduced him to her children. Her son believes that her gardener that is below her class is absurd for companionship, and yet a television set seems adequate for the lonely widow. In 1955, the age of gluttonous consumerism, replacing a loved one with a material object would have been seen as normal.

This is different from a film such as Ninotchka, where not even the USSR could keep Ninotchka and Leon apart, compare this to when Cary almost ends up letting Ron go. Between her children’s unhappiness and the way her friends have refused to accept Ron into their social circles, the future for them looks utterly hopeless for a time. Unlike in Ninotchka, where her comrades are more than approving of Leon. When Cary and Ron do eventually get together at the end of the film, Sirk dramatizes this moment by having Cary lit up in an angelic halo and even goes over the top by including a deer arriving at the nearby window. Ron’s recovery from his injuries is also miraculous, further adding to Sirk’s subtle critique of the American melodrama. 

Other countries who suffered much greater losses from World War Two, such as Japan, instead chose to make something entirely new out of the suffering they had endured. Suffering not just one, but two atomic bombs dropped on their country, Japanese cinema underwent one of the most drastic transformations after the War.

One director looked at the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and somehow found inspiration to create something from the horror. With a negative attitude towards nuclear weapons and all they stood for, Ishiro Honda directed Godzilla as a metaphor for the destructive and devastating powers of atomic bombs. Nuclear testing conducted in the Pacific Ocean’s Marshall Islands by the United States in 1954 sparked both an anti-nuclear movement across the country and inspired Honda to create the film. Twenty-three sailors aboard the Dragon no. 5 were within range of the fallout of the blast perished within days of returning home, since the weather had shifted past the US military’s calculations. The blast was also much more powerful than the US had predicted, raining death ash on the fisherman, who were positioned over eighty miles away. The story of Dragon no. 5 swept across Japan, gripping its people in panic of a possible third nuclear disaster, compounded by the fact that it had only been nine years since Hiroshima and Nagasaki were destroyed.

In the film’s story, Godzilla is created by an ordinary lizard feeding off of the nuclear radiation that is present in Japan’s waters and mutating into its current monstrous form. Not only is he capable of crushing massive buildings with just his body, but the monster is also able to breathe fire that is hot enough to melt steel.

Honda had visited the ruins of Nagasaki, after returning to Japan from being kept as a prisoner of war in China. What he saw shook him to the core. Honda insisted that the texture of his scaly skin replicates the lesions that would form on those in Japan who had suffered radiation poisoning and cancer after the atomic bombs had been dropped. 

Throughout the film, Honda uses Godzilla to mirror the strength of nuclear weapons by showing the Japanese military’s inability to harm Godzilla with any of their weaponry. The film contains deep political subtext, hinting at the ongoing nuclear arms race between Russia and The US, seen near the end when Doctor Serizawa is conflicted about using the oxygen destroyer to kill Godzilla. He states that he worries about the world’s politicians becoming interested in the oxygen destroyer even after one use, and that ‘right now, it’s nothing but a weapon of mass destruction’. It is not difficult to guess what he meant by ‘world’s politicians’, with the tensions that were present in the early years of the Cold War. Although witnessing the destruction Godzilla has wreaked on land is enough to change his mind, Serizawa still destroys all of his notes and research about the oxygen destroyer. He goes even further and volunteers to use the device on Godzilla himself, and he ends up dying in the process. In his mind, taking the secrets of what might have ultimately ended up eradicating humanity with him to his grave was the only way to keep the world safe from destruction, a key insight into just how fiercely the Japanese people felt animosity towards nuclear warfare.

Other directors in Japan chose to look inward and see how the War might shape one’s morals and attitudes. Akira Kurosawa tackles this in Rashomon, a film that both defined a new method of telling a story and questions the concepts of truth and human knowledge. To this day, Kurosawa’s groundbreaking technique is still utilized in modern movies. Normally, flashbacks in film were meant to be taken as entirely truthful. Kurosawa disrupts this trend in Rashomon. In Rashomon, a nobleman is supposedly murdered by a crazed bandit named Tajomaru, who also rapes his wife. Three men are discussing the event while taking shelter from the heavy rainstorm in a ruined temple, two of them having been at the court hearing. Four characters recount the story throughout the film: Tajomaru, the nobleman’s wife, the nobleman himself, communicating through a medium, and finally the woodcutter who is at the ruined temple. The medium’s confession is thought to be the truth, since the monk says that the dead cannot lie. The husband’s version of the story is the darkest, the effect multiplied by Noriko Honma’s feral and terrifying performance as a medium for the dead.

Each telling of the story shows the audience that there are obvious inaccuracies from one person to the next. In one recount, the husband orders his wife to commit suicide after suffering the shame of being raped. In another, the wife begs the bandit to kill her husband and take her away with him. This leaves the audience with many questions. Obviously, someone is lying. Only at the end of the film is the truth revealed whether or not we believe it by then. The woodcutter admits that he lied during his hearing at the court, that he had not just found the husband’s body and the wife’s discarded hat. Allegedly, he witnessed the entire unfortunate encounter between the married couple and Tajomaru unfold before his eyes. At first, it is hard to take the woodcutter’s account as truthful, since the entire film up until this point has been about how people will lie and deceive others, as well as themselves. Kurosawa’s story is dual-sided, since he displays the foulest traits of human nature, and people’s desire to better themselves.

The woodcutter proves himself to be noble, when the three men are interrupted by the sounds of a crying baby, abandoned at the temple. The common man grabs the kimono the baby was wrapped in, as well as the protective amulet that was left with the infant and runs off. The monk picks up the child, unsure as to what to do. The woodcutter reaches for the baby, and the monk reacts negatively, accusing the man of wanting to take what little the child has left. The woodcutter is hurt by this, and says he was going to take the baby home, since he already had six children and one more would not make a difference. The monk apologizes and lets him take the baby, stating that the woodcutter’s actions had restored his faith in the human soul. The baby itself is a symbol for hope for the future of the people of Japan, further punctuated by how the rain has finally stopped, and sunlight shines down on the woodcutter as he carries the infant home.

War does not often come to mind when we consider sources for artistic inspiration. It is an ugly, horrible thing, and World War Two was no exception. However, just like with the Motion Picture Production Code, filmmakers were still able to create masterpieces even after a crippling hardship. Whether it be through direct or indirect means, directors and screenwriters are always influenced by the world around them and it shows in their work. Watching films from the past is almost like viewing a time capsule, the current trends and conflicts of the world reflecting on screen. 

[r2vi2]

Runaway

Mando x f!Reader

Chapter 1/?: Hauntings of a Runaway

Summary: Working here was never your long-term plan, and as time passes you realize you can’t afford to stay here any longer. As your past is fighting to make itself know a certain Mandalorian appears in town, becoming your only hope in making it off this planet before they find you.

Rating: SFW

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: No real warning I can think of for this chapter!! Added Character! Reader works as a bartender but get scheduled as a dancer for the night. Slightly alludes to some sexual or intimate situations and besides that canon type behaviour:) let me know if you see anything that I should add

A/N: This chapter is my first dabble into writing fan fiction, so it sets the stage for our favourite tin-can right before he meets the child, so it’s a lill over the place. A lot of the questions posed here will be answered in the following chapters such as their past, parents etc so a lill slow burn start. Hopefully, it’s okay, and I’ll be working on the next one very soon!!

It had been years since you’d looked in the mirror and had found a reflection that did not paint an expression of exhaustion. One would think that after so much time it would become easier, but leaning closer you can still see the same tired eyes that have haunted you for years. Quickly turning your gaze away from your reflection, before you linger on it to long.

At this point you're an expert at avoiding your reflection, only allowing yourself a quick glance when getting ready, never quite prepared to face the woman in the mirror staring back. No longer recognizing the young girl underneath, instead, opting to push down the memories of better times. You know it’s a weak attempt, but it has allowed you to move on from thinking about everything that could have been. Choosing instead to focus on the dance floor and bar that despite everything always seem to be covered by a layer of dust. Focusing on the countless bodies that come through the club for the same reason that you’d stay because it was all there was, for now.

Although it would be a lie to say that you didn't dream about the possibility of someone entering the bar and taking you away, someone to give you a reason to stop running away on your own. A second chance to explore the galaxy, perhaps even adventure or romance that didn’t end in bloodshed. That maybe this dread wouldn’t haunt you forever, weigh you down as you’re forced to watch the shadows. Never escaping the fear no matter how many times you’d try to bury it. 

You’re brought back to reality with the faint sound of water running through the pipes, reminded of the fact that as the years have continued to pass, nothing has changed. The idea of running away this time becoming laughable, as you don’t have a place to go to nor the credits needed to survive, either destroyed or depleted over the years. Instead, settling for the set routine that starts with the sunrise peeking through the window rails and ends with your ears humming from the music played throughout the night. Today not being any different, or at least, so you thought.

Turning back to the mirror you give your body one more glance, you note how the slip is slowly starting to fray at the hem, before bending down and slipping on your heels. Choosing to ignore the material for now as you let out a final sigh before making your way out of the fresher. You close the door behind you and glance down the dimly lit hallway, gathering your breath before navigating your way down the hall. Making your way towards your designated booth for the night, annoyed at the fact that you won’t be working the bar instead.

Tonight sent to the private booths instead, filling in due to a shortage of dancers available. A change from your usual routine where you’d entertain customers quiet conversations at the bar, before continuing to fuel their bad habits by the glass. Frowning as you’ll miss out on watching the familiar faces intertwine with new ones, sometimes seeing a glimpse of yourself in them. A glimpse of those same tired eyes you desperately try to avoid yourself staring right back at you in the face of a stranger.

Unlikely to the bar, the booths at the club feel far more intimate due to size. The small space decorated with black walls and a circle couch draped in a velvet like material. A raised stage with a stool in the centre of the room, leaving the dancers to be the centre of attention. While the red-toned lights that hang from above help to set the tone it’s all hidden from wandering eyes due to the heavy curtains blocking the entrance, forcing clients to pay before getting to view what was hidden behind them.

You can hear your heels click against the floor as you make your way to the stage to sit down, the music playing the only other noise accompanying you. Before lowering yourself on the cold metal of the classic black stool that has seen far too many days like these as it wobbles slightly due to a broken leg.

Caressing your hands down your body, you end up playing with the frayed hem of your borrowed slip. Studying the tattered material closer you catch sight of a few holes scattered along the bottom, accompanying a small rip that undoubtedly must’ve been from a previous customer. You pull a face at the thought, knowing how various clients tend to get dragged out due to their erratic behaviour towards the girls—before being banned from returning.

As you continue to caress your hands down your body you gloss across the room, noting soft chatter over the music before the curtains pull apart, revealing the first customer for the night. You try to even your breath as you ready yourself, sitting up straight on the stool before you flash him a smile.

-------

You leave your booth a few hours later, switching with one of the girls for the rest of the night. Deciding quickly that you’d scan the club to see if Kal was working at the bar, before you’d head to bed. All you had to do before going off to find him was hand over your boss' share of credits, after which you find Kal serving a customer a drink at the bar. As you walk up you note the people scattered across the club, all too engrossed in their conversations or company to bother you for favours.

Working here might not have been your ultimate dream job but some of the people who work here made for good company. From the girls and their endless banter backstage before opening to the guys at the bar that would drag out any customers if needed. It made the everyday routine slightly more exciting, it felt in a way like family. 

You turn to avoid bumping into a customer, before moving across the floor towards the bar a bit faster than before. Your eyes landing on an open spot in the far corner—closest to Kal— before you note a glimmer from your peripheral view. Too concerned with claiming the spot to take a closer look. The glimmer disappearing just as fast as it had appeared.

You plop yourself down on the spot with a melodramatic sigh and catch Kal shooting you a small smile before turning to you.

“Tough day?” he asks with a teasing tone, smiling at the pout you’re wearing across your face. Knowing just by your expression that you were in a dire need of food and company. Not even waiting for your answer as he turns to prepare a bowl of soup. Carefully filling the bowls with the hot contents for both of you, before making his way over with everything.

You straighten up at the sight of the hot bowl of soup as he sets it in front of you. “How’d you guess,” you chuckle, before swallowing down your first sip, humming at the warm feeling passing through you. Looking up when you hear Kal laughing at you, before digging in himself. 

You both sit in silence as you work on your bowls, looking around the club in-between sips as you study everyone, wondering if you should ask him if anyone interesting came by today. As you get the courage to ask him you catch the same glimpse from before in the corner of your eye, turning your head towards the source. You furrow your brows as you try to get a better view at the man in the armour. Struggling at first as he’s hidden partially by the shadows before you slowly start to recognize the armour, confusion set across your face as you wonder what a Mandalorian would be here for.

Intrigued by the presence of the Mandalorian you almost miss the way Kal tries to catch your attention, until the man in the armour whips his head around and meets your gaze. With a startle, you rip your gaze from his figure and turn to Kal with embarrassment, your cheeks flushed red by having been caught staring. Sucking in a breath you try to calm your racing heart as you feel the gaze of the warrior burning in your back, too afraid to return it. Instead, turning to gaze up at Kal when you hear his voice call out to you again.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice tinged with concern as he studies your face, before he sneaks a glance across your shoulder in search for whatever you were engrossed by just moments before, immediately recognizing the figure from the previous night. Furrowing his brows and straightening his back he returns his gaze to your flushed face. Watching your face as you collect yourself together with slow nod.

“Oh yeah… I-I just thought I saw something” You mumble quickly, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Interested in trying to hide your growing curiosity for the armoured figure. 

You'd never actually seen a Mandalorian before, having only heard of the legends concerning their line of work. Which only furthered your wonder on what a mercenary such as him was doing on a backwater planet like this? He clearly wasn’t indulging himself in any of the services of the club, let alone drowning his sorrows with drinks?

You quiet for a moment, wondering if perhaps Kal had spoken to him or disclosed any information over his plans here. 

“W-Who’s that?” you ask, turning to Kal with a hopeful look. Annoyed with the unusual stumble in your speech, hoping he won’t question you for it, before he returns your hopeful look with scrutiny.

“A Mandalorian,” he states matter-of-factly, “This is the second night he’s visited… “ He trails off, examining the man in the corner, wondering if he should continue his train of thought. The man in armour, still hidden by the shadows of the club before returning to face your curious eyes. “When he came by last night he was accompanied by someone else. I didn’t catch their entire conversation, but I overheard something about a bounty”, he continues as his eyes flicker between you and the warrior. Nervous that the warrior might hear the quiet conversation despite the distance.

Your breath hitching at Kal’s words “A bounty?” you whisper in disbelief as you subtly peer over your shoulder “Here?” The club seeming like an unlikely place for a criminal to hide, even in this corner of the galaxy. You feel a flood of panic at the acknowledgment of possible danger, before a thought crosses your mind as you slowly turn back towards Kal. 

Maybe, just maybe this could be your ticket out...

“Yea, I think it might have been a difficult one too” Kal confesses lowly before looking at your startled expression. The word -difficult- ringing through your mind, as you wonder who could possibly cause a warrior as such that much difficulty. 

Perhaps it’s why he had come here, to retrace the steps of his bounty.

Hope slowly growing stronger in your chest because what if you had seen the bounty come through the club! Or even spoken to them. That would be worth something, right? Could it be possible that if you’d offer your help to the Mandalorian, he would help you in return? Make a deal of some sorts.

Your thoughts quickly interrupted by Kal when he catches your expression. Knowing what the expression on your face truly means, worried that it might cause more bad than good.

“Don’t even think about it,” he exclaims before meeting your gaze with a serious expression. 

“I could help,” you counter without hesitation, trying to elaborate on your idea “I might’ve seen the bounty pass through the club-“

“I don’t think you understand the various ways that could go wrong,” he retaliates as he shakes his head. You can see concern rather than frustration written across his face as he folds his arms across his chest. You let out a small huff at his statement before he continues with an indifferent tone “besides, I’m pretty sure people like them work alone” before turning to put his focus on clearing the bowls from the bar. Stepping away to make his way to the back with the dirty dishes, swiftly disappearing around the corner.

When you see Kal fully gone you turn to steal a glance behind you in search for the Mandalorian, only to be disappointed when the corner is empty. His empty seat only furthering your frustration as it seems that the man in armour appears just as fast as he disappears, leaving you to wonder if he’d return here again tomorrow. Moving back to face the bar when you hear the faint sound of Kal’s footsteps returning from the back. Looking up to give him a small smile, clearing your throat awkwardly before standing up from your spot.

“I think I’m going to call it a night,” you say with a stiff nod towards where the girls quarters are. “I’ll see you tomorrow” you mumble as you feel your eyes starting to feel heavier. Glancing at Kal before turning around to walk away when you hear a low sigh escape his lips, making you hold your position. Looking back at his figure, you can see exhaustion set in his face as he rubs his hand across his face in worry.

“You’re going to do it aren’t you” he murmured, already knowing the answer. Putting his hands down on the bar before meeting your gaze. Feeling guilt slowly flood your system at his expression, clasping your hands together before you try to answer.

“Yes,” you reply weakly, aware of the way it causes Kal to stiffen his stance before turning his head to escape your gaze. “You know more than anyone else, that I have to at least try…right?” you practically plead, slowly stepping closer to the bar. Flickering your eyes across the club before settling them on him again “I’ve been here for far too long… I can’t— I need to keep moving.”

“You can stop—“

“No, I can’t… I don’t think I ever could” You say, slowly feeling the guilt over power you as your view becomes blurry. You bite your tongue to hold a sob threatening to escape before looking down at your feet. “I made a promise to-maybe we can find a way to both get out of here” catching your breath as you finish pleading your case, grabbing Kal’s hand before continuing “We could…w-we could find a new place to call home.”

A sympathetic chuckle escaping his lips before he turns his gaze back to your teary eyes, shaking his head in disbelief “I’m already home.” His eyes softening as he looks at you “This idea of yours— it’s your dream, not mine” he exclaims lowly, letting your hand go before cupping your cheek to wipe a stray tear away.

------

It isn’t until later when you finally make your way down the hallway that connects the club to the girls quarters. Slipping your shoes off as you go to open up the door to find the lights off and find some of the girls already sound asleep in their cots.

Walking in you can see the stars visible through the window rails beside your bed. They shine a soft light across the room as you go to pull back the covers to lay down, not bothering with changing. Too exhausted to focus on finding a clean shirt. Instead, pulling the covers over your bare legs, basking in the temporary comfort and silence. Trying to ignore the sob trying to make its way to the surface, as you allow yourself to take one last glance at the stars above you, before turning your back towards them.

Shutting your eyes tight you can’t stop the tear that manages to escape the corner of your eye at the idea of leaving. Letting the image of the man hidden in the shadows burn into your mind, so the next time you lay your eyes on him, you might never forget him. Promising to yourself that you will find a way too runaway, no matter the price.

------

You wake with a jolt, sitting up to see the sun shining brightly through the window rails. A low groan escaping your throat when you plop back down on your cot. Dust slowly drifting above you as you pass your hand through the air in boredom, knowing that if you don’t get up soon you’ll just fall back asleep again.

Dropping your hand back down you note the silence in the room, slowly realizing that you’re the only one left. A thought quickly discard when you hear loud shouting from outside the quarters, groaning when you recognize your boss’ voice.

Sitting up you can still hear chatter, not recognizing the voice accompanying your boss’. Passing one last glance across the room before reaching underneath the cot for your clothing. Settling for a pair of old pants and a cream button up that were left behind by a previous person, before silently making your way to the door. 

You put your ear to the door but can no longer hear the voices from before, frowning as you reach for the handle before turning it slowly. Peeking your head around the corner, disappointed when you see nothing, the hallway vacant from traffic as you take a step out. Turning back towards the room for your bag before heading towards the fresher.

Inside the fresher you do your best to avoid your reflection in the mirror while you work on making yourself presentable, blindly gathering your hair in a bun. A strand falling to frame your face making you glance towards yourself, gasping at the sight. Your eyes are red and puffy from the night before with exhaustion written across your face. Feeling your heart sting at the memory before you continue to navigate your way in the tight confines of the fresher to get dressed, bending down to slip on your shoes, you catch sight of a small hole forming around the heel and groan in frustration.

Great there goes another pair

Standing back up to grab your bag from the counter before laying it on your lap as you go to sit down. Letting out a breath when you finally spot the small pouch that contains your credits. You reach for it and dump its contents in your hand. Mumbling to yourself quietly as you count the number of credits available. Looking up from your hand with a sigh, before tipping your head back against the wall. Previous concerns returning as you realize you don’t even have enough credits to attempt to bribe the Mandalorian if needed. Closing your eyes you—

*BOOM BOOM BOOM*

The loud noise surprising you, causing you to loosen your grip on the credits, as they slip in-between your fingers before scattering across the floor. You let out a curse with a quick breath before you bend down to try and pack everything back into your bag as quickly as your shaky hands allow you too.

Trying to organize your thoughts before shouting “I’m sorry I-I’m going to— I just need a minute,”

Scanning your eyes across the floor to see if you missed anything, before you stand up from the floor. Dragging your sweaty palms across your pants before you take one more look across the fresher before you move to open the door. Coming face to face with an irritated scowl, recognizing your boss’ face before moving aside quickly as you can, shooting him an apologetic look for the hold-up.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were waiting” you say, as you fidget with your bag strap, before fully exiting the fresher. Allowing him to slip inside before you let out a breath, trying to calm your heart rate down before heading towards the exit, hoping that the market won’t be too packed for the day.

-----

You arrive around noon, the sun beating down on you as you try to make your way through the market. Occasionally, stopping at stands that pique your interest, before you continue your search for a stand that might sell you a new pair of shoes.

While walking a glimmer in the corner of your eye catches your attention, as you feel a shiver run across your body. You glance around for any signs of the Mandalorian, disappointed when you see nothing out of the ordinary, slowly returning your gaze to the stands in-front of you. Deciding that your heightened paranoia is playing a joke on you, making you believe in things that aren’t there--in people that aren’t there. A soft groan escaping your lips before you start moving along again, crossing your arms across your chest as you try to make your way through the marketplace.

After pacing the market for a while you strike a deal for a new pair of shoes, deciding you’ll try to avoid spending any more credits for the day, until you can’t help being distracted by a stand that is selling a handful of warm thermal sweaters. A simple black one catching your eye, as you make your way over.

Letting the material slip between your fingers you revel in the soft material. Wondering how the material would feel on the colder nights at the club, when covers aren’t enough. You let out a small sigh in defeat before you turn to flag down the seller. Startled when you catch sight of the Mandalorian a few feet away, purchasing the same item that you are holding, before tucking it away in his bag. You aren’t close enough to catch what his voice might sound like, but as you try to move closer you forget about the shirt in hand. Forced to quit your eavesdropping when you feel a heavyweight land against your arm.

“Ow kkriff wha—“ you groan clutching your arm in pain, before turning to face the vendor with a scowl across your face.

“Thief!! You need to pay for the goods!” the vendor shouts as he continues to hit your arm causing you to loosen your grip on the material until it drops out of your hand with a shriek.

Your cheeks tinted red as you snap back to the vendor before he can get another hit in “I wasn’t stealing anything!” Stepping away from the stall, appalled by the vendors' accusation, before you bend down to snatch the shirt from the ground and throw the material back in his face.

“You-“ he tries to snap back before you cut him off.

“I’m not a thief!” You say with a sharp tone, holding your breath as you wait for the vendor to challenge you. Instead, startled when the next voice you hear isn’t his, making you whip your head around as fast as possible, landing your gaze on the Mandalorian.

His stance calm as he tilts his helmet slightly. “Is there a problem” he asks in a challenging tone, as you observe his hand hovering over the blaster on his hip, his baritone voice sounding surprisingly husky due to the modulator in his helmet. Leaving you to stare straight into the blacked-out t-shaped visor of his helmet. Feeling his gaze burn as you finally let out a breath, before tearing your eyes from the man in-front of you to look back at the vendor.

Seeing him refold the material with a scowl on his face, unnerved by the warriors' proximity before answering “No, everything is fine.”

You can slowly feel your heartbeat start to return to normal, but struggle to regain your calm with the Mandalorian continuing to gaze at you. You close your eyes for a quick second before gathering the courage to face the warrior.

As you turn to stare at the Mandalorian you take a mental note of how broad his shoulders seem up close, the shadows from the club undoubtedly having hidden how significant he’d be in broad daylight. A shiver runs down your back as you continue to subtly scan your eyes across his armour, the scuffed up metal revealing some worn down areas affected by his line of work.

An exasperated sigh breaks you out of your trance, back to the marketplace and warrior in front of you. His stance highlighting his slight annoyance before he starts to move past you. Panic setting in as you realize that this might be your only opportunity to confront him, causing you to unceremoniously blurt out the first thing possible “I heard you were looking for a bounty.”  Holding your breath as you wait for an answer. Seeing the warrior freeze in his step before turning to look back at you. The tilt of his helmet revealing his travelling gaze across your figure, before straightening his back. The motion making a sliver of skin visible with his proximity, surprised as your eyes land on the tan skin.

Your question continues to linger in the air as his deafening silence engulfs you. Panic slowly starts to seep into your expression as you fear that perhaps he might have found the bounty already. Gathering a breath as you try to explain yourself “Right?—I-I heard you were,” stumbling over your words as you start to fidget with the strap of your bag, feeling yourself burn up under his gaze.

“Why do you care to know?” he questions after a moment, continuing to hold his stance your desperation slowly kicks in, as you try to answer in a convincing manner.

“I want to help… I could help. I actually saw you at the club and thought that—“

“You thought that you could help me?” he asks in a sceptic tone, wondering what the true intentions behind your offer is

“Well, I work at the club and— look, many strangers pass by, and I might have seen something. I can— or let you know if the bounty came through,” you continue as you glance down towards your feet, kicking up some dust from the ground before continuing softly. “I’ve heard of your kind, you tend to hold your promises when making a deal. So, that’s what I’m asking for… A deal, nothing more.” Slowly lifting your gaze to observe his reaction, disappointed when your confession is met with silence, once again.

So much for an escape.

A frustrated sigh escaping you as you question if you should continue. Your heart starting to thrum wildly when you see the warrior tilt his helmet in thought. Slowly raising his hands to his hips before letting out a modulated sigh “What kind of deal?” he asks with a low voice, taking one step closer to you, slowly closing the distance between you.

“The kind where I give you information, and you get me off this planet” you proclaim confidently, not sure where you found it but thankful nonetheless.

“I’m not a taxi service” he grumbles roughly, annoyed with your proposed offer. “Find someone else” he huffs as he tilts his helmet away from you before dropping his hands from his hips and turning to continue out of the marketplace. Leaving you behind with a confused expression, before an angered expression replaces it as you stalk after the masked warrior, refusing to let him go without a fight.

Taking a few quick strides you try to catch up with the Mandalorian, trailing behind him as he turns out of the marketplace into an empty alleyway. Refusing to acknowledge you as he continues to walk away, not bothering to slow down his pace for you.

Your frustration only growing when he decides to turn another corner, making you dash forward before trying to clasp a firm grasp around his arm. Your hopes that he’ll slow his pace for you answered when you feel the ground beneath your feet disappear.

Just not in the way…you’d hoped for.

You feel your breath knocked out of your lungs when he grasps you by your shirts collar and slams your back into the wall of the alleyway. Moving an arm across your chest as he presses you further into the wall, a pained whimper leaving you as he tightens his grasp on you. Your feet barely touching the floor with how high he’s lifted you against the wall. A jagged breath of his heard through the modulator, as you struggle against his arm, before you feel his hands tightening further around the material of your blouse as your wide eyes stare into his blacked out visor, trying to locate his own. Shock and fear written across your face as his physical response serves as a harsh reminder of whom you’re trying to strike a deal with, hearing Rex’s warning from the night before ringing through your mind.

“I. Don't. Want. To. Hurt. You” he seethes through his teeth, emphasizing every word as before releasing his grip on you, still hovering over your body as you try to focus on responding to his words. Feeling his chest heave up and own in anger as you feel your eyes drifting from his visor to the small sliver of skin visible, the scent of the Mandalorian slowly engulfing your senses as you feel your hands tremble. Wondering if you’re even allowed to see the tiny amount of skin shown, before tearing your eyes away, slowly feeling your eyes water before meeting his gaze, nodding slowly in understanding.

“O-Okay” you croak feeling your throat tighten up at his harsh voice. “I’m s-sorry—I just thought—“

“You weren’t thinking.” He scoffed, his anger clearly visible despite his layer of armour. Moving away from you in a fluid motion before shaking his head lightly, returning his gaze to your figure, noticing the slight tremble in your legs.

“I Just—” gathering a breath before continuing more clearly “Please let me help, it’s all I ask” you ask with a slight shake in your voice closing your eyes as you drop your head forward before continuing, “Please I’ll give you anything that I can, if you can get me out of here, anywhere. I don't care, you can drop me off wherever you’re going next” your eyes burning as you can feel them start to water, biting the inside of your cheek to keep it in. “Anything” you promise in a steady voice, swallowing the brick in your throat, before lifting your head back up to meet his gaze “Anything”.

Letting out a breath when you hear his answers coming out in a low voice through the modulator, “Tonight. I’ll meet you for information. If it’s worth something, I will help you.” Not bothering to elaborate any further as he turns to walk away, stopping for a split second in his tracks before continuing with a harsh growl “Do me a favour and try to not get yourself killed before then” before turning around the corner down the alleyway, as he disappears once again. 

Leaving you alone as you clutch your hands together against your chest, standing against the wall for a few second before your knees finally give out, letting yourself slide down to the ground.  

Maybe, just maybe you’ll find your way out

[readerinsertfanfiction]

Exchange

Fandom: Ikemen Series

Prompt: Wow, did anyone expect this? I certainly didn’t. Anyway, @kamesama​ and I made a little deal and with that deal this exchange came to be. I also added a lil’ surprise, because I like surprises and one may even consider her victim #7.

For someone to deserve Kamemom’s attention the suitor needs to be someone a little more in tune with their emotions. Someone who won’t play (emotional) mindgames, or set unfair expectations. Above all it needs to be someone that can appreciate Kamemom’s duality of being a badass, confident and independent individual whilst also being sensitive with her insecure and childlike moments. Important is that Kamemom finds the comfort and room in her relationship to be herself, express herself, but that it also teaches her to be alright to slow down and not focus on growth and adulthood yet. That enjoying life is also something that can be done when older and that being free and yourself isn’t childish. A relationship that will encourage her intellectually and creatively is of importance as well, but one where she doesn’t feel like she is miles behind to catch up on. For this reason I match her with:

Ranmaru Mori

With the recent release of Kennyo’s route we have come to see more of this young male and his motivations. What moves him and what drives him. It is from there that we can draw the conclusion that he is devoted, attentive and someone who just wants to make his loved ones happy. Despite his youth Ranmaru carries a huge responsibility and task on his small shoulders, much like Kamemom does. It is in this similarity that I believe the two of them to bond over as friends first. Both are sharp in their intuitions and are a whole lot more sensitive from what they like to show themselves. In part, I believe this is what will draw Ranmaru to Kame, because she often tends to sacrifice herself for the happiness of others, or as she put it: she finds her own worth in the smile of another. Much in the same way does Ranmaru weigh himself.

Now imagine, two good beans coming together who just want to make their most precious smile and each other? It is wholesome and it is uplifting. Kamemom being a little shy and reserved in character is no border either, for Ranmaru is bubbly and bright, without being pushy in his friendliness and willingness to get along. He will be exactly what she needs to get coaxed out of her shell and to break open that absolute chaotic energy that she holds within.

They are by no means a perfect match, however. Though not manipulative, Ranmaru holds his secrets and they affect his confidence as much as his mentality. The chances of this being a tipping point in her trust for him could mean the end. His willingness to do absolutely anything to make Kennyo ‘happy’ can mean that he might turn his back on Kamemom believing that to be the right choice. Bright as the young man is, we cannot claim that he is wise, unfortunately. This path of self-destruction will be ultimately what can make everything fall apart. But never fear! The chances of it turning that dramatic are slim for the people surrounding Ranmaru care just as much about him as he does about them, even if he doesn’t realise it.

Date ideas: Visiting all of the candy shops and get high on sugar together, cuddlefests, long hikes to get rid of the excess energy gained from the sugar and sassing the rest of the warlords.

Scenario: The light step of his gait were contradicting towards the energy and excitement he excuded. Rounding the corner Ranmaru’s eyes lit up at the sight of Kame, his smile unconsciously widening even further from what it already was. 

“Just the person I was looking for!” he exclaimed approaching the female with a sway in his movements, “there is a new stand opening in the castle town and they sell delicious peach snacks, do you want to try it with me?” 

The invitation was easily extended, as if it was the most natural thing to do. Though, Ranmaru knew that the beat of his heart suggested otherwise as he felt his breath stall just for a second, as if fearing a rejection heading his way. 

SECOND MATCH: 

Keiji Maeda

In case the first match is not appreciated I luckily have a second proposal to pitch! He isn’t out yet in the English version, but soon shall be and from the stories I have heard I believe Kamemom and Keiji make an interesting match. Boisterous and confident Keiji is a force to be reckoned with, an older brother figure for many, a friend to all. Once more this affable man is friendly without being pushy and comes with the right amount of adventure to keep Kamemom on her toes.

However, just like Ranmaru this man has a hidden layer that he doesn’t like to show. A hurt child within that only few seem to care and pick up on. An attentive man that pays close attention to everyone's moods and adjusts himself accordingly because he wishes to make everyone smile. Yes, there is a pattern here. The Kamemom that loves to make everyone else smile and laugh meets her match in another soul alike. This wildchild is as much in need of someone who will make him smile just as much as he loves to make everyone else smile.

Now what concerns me the most in this match is the tendency of both to hide behind their masks. As common within these types they will recognise the behaviour, but not call upon it. The question thus remains if they will ever shed said masks. But I have faith that time will undo it all for the both of them, time and timing. The fact that they’re both known as equestrians gives them a shared activity to bond over with.

Date ideas: Horse riding/races, cuddlefests, art hours (poetry, music, everything), going to festivals and parties.

Scenario: Always on the move, always busy with something. Keiji knew how to occupy himself, but that did not mean he didn’t know how to enjoy life. Far be it for him as he lead two horses out of the stables. His trusty steed along with another. 

“We’re going out for a ride and after that I will take you to the festival. If you can beat me I will even treat you!” he had challenged Kame as he handed the horse over, though he already had all of the intention to treat her anyway. Just none in letting her win so easily. 

BONUS: Ikemen Vampire Match 

Charles Henri Sanson

Now, I have come to understand that Kamemom has been matched with this bean multiple times now and whilst this suitor isn’t introduced yet in the English version of the app I have been (suffering) all of the stories related to him. Anyway, Charles is a caring and affectionate young man with the magical ability to make friends with all! Eager to make everyone smile he is just one bundle of joy ready to share his sparkle with the world. And yes, there is a definite pattern here in my ideas of matching Kamemom.

Just like with everyone else Charles has a dark past and his secrets as well as his pain. Wishing to be a doctor, but denied to pursue it because of prejudices and a status as a pariah, he is catching up now on his dreams. This means that Kamemom and Charles can have study sessions together in which they can cuddle up and encourage each other to pursue the path they both are aiming for. All in the meanwhile they could cheer each other on with their bad days and make one another smile.

Admittedly, I don’t know enough about Charles to voice any legitimate concerns, but one that I have seen is perhaps his overly attached nature. Kamemom may be affectionate, but also may feel overwhelmed. She will have to draw clear boundaries with Charles, though I believe that Charles is more than ready to respect all and everything Kamemom is and wishes.

Date ideas: Study sessions, cuddlefests, playing tag, go around and cause mischief while playing doctor

Scenario: “Are you hungry?” the question sounded hollow through the large study hall the two of you occupied in the castle. Books spread out all across the long table along with notes and other curiosa as the redhead looked up at his studymate. 

“I can steal some strawberries for you?” he adds in with a twinkle in his eyes, though the both of you know that it might be better to grab a different snack. 

[tsarisfanfiction]

Cracks Under The Surface

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, Jeff, Virgil

History likes to repeat itself, and the human brain likes to find patterns.

Another @badthingshappenbingo​ this time with the square “Falling Through The Ice” - with Jeff and one of the boys (as requested by @ak47stylegirl​).

I’m still taking prompts for non-Scott TAG characters for the other squares!  I have at least one character per prompt for most of them now, but I’m always up for adding more (sometimes it’s that addition that gives me the spark I need!)

Ice skating was fun.  Ten-year-old Scott loved it, loved gliding across the smooth surface as fast as he could go, just enough for the wind to ruffle his hair and chill his cheeks.  Dad took him out as regularly as he could in the winter, when the lakes froze over enough for him to play.  It was something just between the two of them – John had the bad habit of falling over all the time, Virgil preferred to sit still and draw the scenery, and Gordon was too young for their parents to dare strap blades to his feet.

“Be careful, Scott!” Dad warned as he ran ahead, skates held by their laces in one hand.  It was the first true chill of winter, snow coating the countryside and ice slowly spidering its way across any standing water.  Scott had watched the advance impatiently, running to the lake every day to see if it had frozen over yet.  Weeks had passed in that fashion, with his daily visits showing more and more ice but still thin and fragile in the middle, water peeking through to taunt the impatient child.

Dad took him to ice rinks, but that wasn’t the same.

Now, it was December, Christmas was just around the corner, and the lake had finally crusted over in its entirety.  Scott had dragged Dad out to it to the day before, tugging on his hand with all the excitement of a child determined to finally get their own way and have some fun.

Dad had inspected it carefully, one hand held out in front of Scott to keep him off the ice as he surveyed it with experienced eyes.  “Tomorrow,” he’d declared eventually, to Scott’s delight, and now it was tomorrow and Dad was being so slow and Scott couldn’t wait to get on the ice and feel the chill wind in his hair and the sting of the cold on his cheeks.

A fresh blanket of snow laid over the area, an overnight snowfall adding to the winter wonderland image.  The only footprints were those Scott left in his wake, bounding up and down excitedly and running back to Dad when the gap between them got too big.

“Hurry up, Dad!” he complained on his third return to the man’s side, reaching out to tug at his arm and pull him along.  “You’re so slow!”

Dad chuckled, letting Scott set the pace.

“There’s no hurry, Scooter,” he promised.  “The ice isn’t going anywhere any time soon.”  It was cold, their breaths fogging as they left their mouths.  Virgil liked to try and huff it into shapes; Scott all but ignored it, no patience for anything that didn’t go fast or fly.

The lake was beautiful, pristine with its smooth ice and snowy banks.  At the far edge, there were small tracks of some animal, seeking water and leaving disappointed.  Scott paid them no attention, throwing himself to sit on the snow to pull on his skates.  The seats of his pants grew damp, but he ignored that, too.  Beside him, Dad chuckled again and sat down, using his coat as a buffer between his pants and the snow before pulling Scott over to sit on it with him.

“Wet pants aren’t comfortable,” he reminded him.  Scott shrugged, reaching over to snag his right skate and pulling it on before lacing them up tightly and suffering through Dad’s checks to make sure they were on properly.  As soon as Dad pronounced himself satisfied, Scott surged straight to his feet and ran the last few feet to the ice, well-practiced in balancing on the blades of his skates.

One foot hit the ice, and then he was off like a shot, propelling himself along with an ease born of years of practice.

“Stick to the edges, Scott,” Dad warned him, cautiously making his own way to his feet and taking the same steps to the frozen lake, but at half the speed. “You can go further out in a few days.”

Scott called back a vague acknowledgement, already approaching the furthest part of the lake.  With a laugh, Dad set out in pursuit.  He never caught up with Scott; smaller, lighter and nimbler, Scott breezed around the edge and came up behind his father before he’d completed a full circuit, laughing as he spun to face the way he’d come and continued to skate backwards.

“Watch where you’re going,” Dad reminded him, but Scott smiled at him.

“There’s nothing behind me,” he replied with all the surety of a ten-year-old who couldn’t possibly be wrong.  “You’d say if there was.”

“It’s still good practice,” Dad insisted, but he was smiling again, and Scott grinned back at him, holding out his hands for Dad to take as they completed another circuit of the lake, laughing as Scott went faster and faster, trusting Dad to keep up.

One lap later and he pulled his hands back, spinning back around with a little jump just because he could before he was off like a shot again, leaving Dad in a flurry of ice shavings as he raced himself, pushing harder and harder because it was fun, because Scott loved speed and the wind in his hair and the chill on his cheeks.

“Scott, be careful!” Dad called out.  Scott waved at him as he slipped past, abandoning the simple circuits to carve figures of eight and other elegant shapes on the surface of the ice – it was as artistic as he ever got, grooves spitting out ice shavings as they overlapped again and again.

“I’m always careful!” he called back, arms outspread as he pulled himself into a sudden halt before spinning around on the spot, fixing his eyes on a tree in the distance as Dad had taught him the first time he tried it and ended up so dizzy he almost threw up.  That had been a long time ago, though – half his life, and five years felt like a long time to a boy of ten – and now he had the spin down to an art.  A very fast, almost frantically so, art that tore delighted laughter from his lips.

He didn’t notice the hairline crack beneath him, growing with every rotation as the young ice – thinner near the middle, and Scott had strayed far enough from the land to be dancing on the invisible edge of safety – started to show the strain.  His laughter drowned out the quiet noises of icy protest, so it was with no warning at all that after one more spin the ice gave way and deposited him straight down, into the cold waters below.

Scott’s laugh turned to a shriek, cut off abruptly by the cold clutching at his lungs and stealing his air, and then he was underwater, skates pulling him down, down, down as he trashed.  Thick winter clothes, ideal for keeping a young boy warm during hours of playtime at the coldest time of the year, absorbed water at a frightening rate, making them heavy and sluggish, trapping him inside thick layers that should have protected him while the sturdy, bladed boots acted as leaden weights on his feet.

A particularly frantic kick propelled him up, but he wasn’t where he’d fallen any more and the ice was thicker.  Lungs screaming for air, panic overwhelmed him as he pushed and shoved at the ice above his head with all his strength.  It didn’t give at all, nature more than a match for a child whose strength was quickly being sapped by the water and sheer terror of being trapped, couldn’t breathe, needed air, needed air.

His clothes clung to him tighter, tangling around him and forcing him to stop fighting the immovable ice.  Scott thrashed more, knowing that he needed to get out, that his lungs were burning, that he couldn’t breathe.

And then the ice was gone, the water didn’t cover his head anymore, and he reflexively swallowed gulp after gulp of air.  Water ran down his face and it tasted salty as it reached his lips but Scott didn’t care that he was crying, that he was shaking, that he couldn’t control his body.

“Scott!”  Warm arms wrapped around him, pressing his face into a soft winter coat and stroking his hair.  “Scott, are you hurt?”  He sobbed into Dad’s chest, clinging to his clothes with trembling fingers that wouldn’t listen to him properly.  “Let’s get you off the ice.”  The arms moved and then Scott wasn’t standing anymore, his legs instead dangling down as Dad scooped him up in his arms and carried him away from the lake and back to solid ground.

He burrowed into the warmth, uncaring that Dad’s arms were wet and there were splashes all over his coat, too.  Dad was warmth, Dad was safety, and slowly his sobs reduced to sniffles, although he didn’t stop trembling.

“Scotty, are you hurt?” Dad asked again, and he managed to shake his head. Not hurt, just cold and scared and he’d thought he was going to die.  “Okay, stay awake for me.  Can you do that, Scooter?  Stay awake and we’ll get you home and warmed up.”  Scott nodded silently, and if possible Dad’s grip got even tighter.  “That’s my boy.”

Dad sounded sad and proud all at the same time, but Scott barely noticed. He was cold, so cold, with his clothes sodden and the chill of the winter air clinging to him in a way he’d enjoyed not five minutes earlier.  Now, all he wanted to do was escape it, burying deeper into Dad’s warmth and closing his eyes.

“No, Scotty, stay awake.”  Dad jostled him slightly, and he sounded scared so Scott peeled his eyes open again, eyelashes clinging together.  “You can’t sleep while you’re cold.”

Scott shivered.

“We’re nearly home, Scott.  Stay awake just a little longer.”  Scott hadn’t realised Dad was running, but the man was panting and it took longer than that to get to the lake, he thought.  But then, the black edges to his vision were increasing and he wanted to stay awake because Dad said so, but he was so, so, cold and so tired.

“No, Scotty,” Dad insisted.  “See, home’s right there.”  He peeled his eyes open at the unspoken request but he couldn’t see anything, just blurs and the ever-growing blackness.

Warmth rushed over him and he slipped away.

Crack.

Fifteen years later, on a mission to help some lost hikers he hadn’t even found yet, that was all the warning Scott got before the ice beneath his feet – supposedly firm, thick ice that should easily have taken his weight – splintered and plunged him into the frigid depths of the river below.  A scramble for his grapple was abruptly cut off by the shock of the cold; their uniforms were good, but not infallible, and a sudden dunking in water still stole the breath from his lungs.  He had barely enough time to gasp in a mouthful of air before the water closed above his head and the river took him.

Don’t panic.  Don’t struggle.  Conserve energy, conserve heat.  Strict lessons drilled into them by Gordon on what to do in the event of suddenly finding themselves in cold water ran through his brain.  Gordon had thrown him into the pool unexpectedly over and over again until the training had stuck – and then carried on doing it anyway, because he was Gordon and loved a prank.

Air.  Air was a problem.  Scott wasn’t Gordon, but he could hold his breath reasonably well under normal conditions.  Frigid water and a river churning its way ferociously downstream at a too-fast lick compared to the stillness of the ice perching atop it made it harder.  Tossed and turned and churned by the currents, Scott dragged himself under control, working with the flow instead of against it but aiming to get up, up, back to the surface.

Bare fingertips glanced off of something solid, smooth and cold.  He reached out again, eyes open, and a swirl from the water slammed his palm up against that same solid, smooth, cold thing.  Ice.  He scrabbled at it, fingernails trying to get a purchase and then he was ten years old again, skates weighting down his feet viciously and panic clawing at his throat.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find a way up, back out of the ice and the hole he’d fallen through.  Ten or twenty-five, ice still refused to break as he pounded at it, black blurring at his vision and lungs burning for a breath he couldn’t take.

Dad had saved him last time, but Dad wasn’t here, was six years gone into an explosion, and Scott was an adult who still couldn’t get himself out of trouble as he pushed and shoved and pounded against the ice while the river pushed and shoved and pounded him further downstream, away from his impromptu entry point and potential exit points.

His air was gone, the cold was sapping his strength even as he mustered it to try and fight his way free, and his vision was dark, falling in and out of black as he clung to consciousness with everything he had.  He had to get out, he had to get out, he had to get-

The ice shattered, crashing down all around him but he couldn’t fight the water anymore as it tried to carry him away again.  He was so cold, so tired, everything was black, he couldn’t breathe.

His head cleared the water and his lungs were sucking in air before he even registered the change.  It was still black, too black to see, but there was warmth around him and he was being moved, pulled out of the vicious water and clear of the ice.

“Scott!”

Dad had saved him when he was ten, and it was Dad’s voice again now.  Deep, full of love and worry, but it couldn’t be Dad, Dad was gone-

He forced his eyes to open, peeling reluctant eyelids apart.  Everything was hazy, and still tinged with darkness, but the man leaning over him was unmistakable.  Tall, muscular with dark hair and the softest, warmest, touch.

“Dad…” he breathed, eyes sliding closed again.  He was cold, so, so, cold, and tired, but Dad was here, so everything would be okay.

“Scott, no!”  He was pulled against Dad’s firm chest, all warmth and safety.  “Stay awake!”  Dad sounded worried, and Scott should maybe be worried about that, too, but Dad was here, everything would be okay, and Dad was so warm…

He was scooped up like he was ten years old, and maybe he was, maybe the last fifteen years had all been a dream.  Dad’s heartbeat echoed in his ear, fast but steady, and his arms were warm and Scott was tired-

Dad jostled him; he was saying words, but Scott didn’t hear what they were. His voice was soothing, his heartbeat a lullaby; Scott was cold and so, so tired…

There was an annoying beeping sound and a pinch in his hand that caused part of his brain to stir, recognising the signs as meaning something.  Reluctantly, Scott opened his eyes and found himself facing a plain white ceiling that seemed to go on for forever.  He knew that ceiling, just like he knew that sound and that pinch on his hand.

He squinted, trying to recall where from, and as his brain slowly found itself waking up recognition sparked.  It was the infirmary ceiling, a blank canvas they’d begged Virgil to decorate but words like sterile and hygiene bandied around as excuses why paint wasn’t allowed.  The beeping must be one of the machines, and that pinch was none other than Scott’s nemesis – an IV.

What had happened?  He pushed himself up into a sitting position, the top layers covering him falling victim to gravity and pooling in his lap.  The sight of them, the full compliment of blankets available in the infirmary topped off with a worn old quilt that only saw the light of day when someone was particularly worried, brought back the feeling of cold too cold, and with that came broken ice and river and rescue. He shivered.

Dad.

Dad had been there, but Scott knew that wasn’t possible.  Pulling the blankets and quilt closer at the phantom chill in the room, he looked around to a shock of dark hair and his heart skipped a beat before his eyes traced the falling once-spikes and red plaid covering broad shoulders.  Virgil looked to be asleep, hunched over with his arms resting on the side of the bed and head resting on those arms, and Scott smiled fondly.  Typical Virgil.  He’d get a bad back if he slept like that.

Stifling a yawn that crept up on him all of a sudden and clutching his many layers close to stave off the chill he suspected didn’t affect anything else in the room, he leaned forwards and buried his hand in his brother’s hair.  It was already a mess, so it wasn’t like he was going to make it any worse like that, and it was also the easiest thing to reach without leaving his cocoon.

Scott didn’t like being cold, had long since lost any adoration for a chill wind biting his cheeks.  It had started with a sudden dunking into cold too cold water and cemented itself to stay with roaring snow too loud too fierce Mom!  The chill in his body could be real, could be the last dredges of his latest encounter with icy water, but it could also be all in his mind, trapped in a memory of the past.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

When Virgil slept in his bed, waking him was a task left to the loser of whichever bet or competition was held with three brothers scurrying to be not it while the fourth watched from space with an amused smile playing on his lips and an adamant refusal to mess with the middle brother’s alarms.  In his bed, the bear hibernated, cocooned up in blankets because Virgil didn’t like the cold either, and left his cave only when the sun was high in the sky and there was enough coffee in the house for the air to taste of it.

When Virgil napped in the infirmary, holding a bedside vigil for whoever had ended up there this time, he woke easily, snapping to awareness in a single blink of deep brown eyes, and this time was no different.  As soon as Scott’s questing fingers buried deep enough to reach his scalp, his head was rising and worried brown eyes pinned him with a look that tugged at his heart painfully.

“Scott!”  There was relief in his voice, but Scott saw his attention turn to the huddle of blankets he was holding close and the tremble in his shoulders from the maybe-real-maybe-imagined cold. “You were hypothermic,” he was told immediately, before hands smoothed out the crumpled quilt and fixed the mess he’d made of his blankets by moving. “What do you remember?”

Dad, but Scott didn’t trust his memory because that wasn’t possible but it’d happened once before so of course that’s what his memory filled in the blanks with.  He didn’t say any of that, knew it mattered but also knew Virgil would go quiet and pensive and more upset than he’d show.  It didn’t matter that much.

“I tried to cross the river,” he said instead, summoning memories of before, memories he thought were trustworthy, memories before the cold too cold.  “Life signs put the hikers on the other side, and the ice should have been enough to take my weight.”  They needed to look into that, find out why it had given when preliminary data said it was thick enough.  “But it didn’t.  The hikers?”

Virgil was still looking at him with those dark brown, pain-filled eyes. “Safe.”  He didn’t offer any more information.  “Anything else?”

Dad, but he couldn’t have, because Dad was six years gone and it was just his brain filling in gaps because brains liked to do that sort of thing. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”  Virgil still didn’t sound happy, but none of them were ever happy when any of them were stuck in the infirmary.  He bent down instead and Scott peered over the edge of the bed to see that he was taking his boots off, tucking the laces inside to be neat in a way Virgil only ever was in the infirmary and revealing socks with a hole in the big toe.  “You’re still cold.”

It was an observation, not a question, but Virgil wasn’t looking at any readouts, any scans of Scott’s actual body temperature.  He didn’t need to; whether it was real or all in his head, Scott knew he was still trembling and it was a weakness he hated to show, but it was one they all shared.

There was a reason they lived on a tropical island.

“Move over.”  Scott complied, feeling the IV drag at his hand and wishing he could just tear it out, but Virgil was right there and would replace it before it was even all the way out.  Later, when he wasn’t so cold.

Virgil clambered in next to him, and two fully grown men in a bed should have been a tight squeeze, especially as neither of them were small – and while Scott’s muscles were mostly lithe, Virgil’s were bulk – but this was an old routine, and almost as a joke response to his sons’ occasional clinginess, Dad had made sure that even the infirmary beds were wide enough to take two reasonably comfortably.  Burrowed under the covers, Virgil didn’t wait or even ask for permission before snaking his arms around Scott and curling up around him.

He was warm.  Warmth with a softest touch, and those observations were familiar, swirling around in Scott’s memory just below the surface.  Too familiar, and Scott turned his head to see tall, muscular with dark hair and the softest, warmest, touch and realisation doused him with cold too cold like the icy river.

Dad, but Dad wasn’t the only one in the family that was tall and muscular with dark hair and a soft, warm touch.  Dad wasn’t there, was six years gone, but Scott hadn’t gone on that rescue alone, followed by the steady presence of his brother and-

He let go of the blankets covering him and clutched at red plaid instead, feeling the yank from an IV needle displeased at the sudden change in position, but that wasn’t important because Dad wasn’t there but Virgil was, and Dad hadn’t pulled him out of the river but Virgil had, and he’d called for Dad but it was Virgil.

Virgil’s arms tightened around him, strong and steady, but his eyes were still worried and pained and Scott knew he hadn’t imagined it.

Alan called him Dad sometimes, when he was half asleep and dreaming and Scott always pretended it didn’t happen because his brother never realised he’d said it – pretended it didn’t bother him if someone else was in earshot, always looking straight to him to see how he’d react – and Gordon, Virgil, even John weren’t immune to turning to the desk with the older man sat at it with Dad on their lips before it died half spoken as they remembered. He ignored it, pretended not to hear it, that it didn’t bother him, but that was a lie.

The name sank into his bones, ill-fitting and wrong but etched there all the same.  He remembered exactly how many times Alan had said it, half asleep and dreaming and unaware, how many times Gordon, Virgil, John had let a da spit out into the air before remembering themselves and killing it mid-word.  It hurt, a fiery blade and icy dagger all at once into his heart, but he’d never let them know that, pretended to shrug them off because that was a pain none of them needed to know about.

And now he’d inflicted it on Virgil.  It didn’t matter that he’d been barely conscious, hypothermic and probably delirious as well – he’d hurt his brother and it could never be taken back, a wound that would never heal.  Virgil knew that pain now, and it was his fault.  All his fault.

“When I was ten, Dad took me skating,” he said, because there was nothing he could say that could ever make it right but he couldn’t say nothing and let Virgil suffer in silence.  He’d said he didn’t remember what had happened after he’d fallen in, but that was a lie and Virgil had been fishing to see if he remembered saying that word and driving the fiery blade and icy dagger into his heart.  He did, and Virgil deserved to know.  “The ice was still new and I got too close to the middle.  It didn’t take my weight.  Dad pulled me out.”

There was silence, and he looked away, staring at the white ceiling while the blankets, quilt and brother cocooned him in warmth his body wouldn’t accept.

“I remember.”  Virgil’s voice was soft but Scott’s eyes snapped back to him all the same.  He was smiling, but it was melancholic.  “Dad almost broke the door when he ran in carrying you.” One arm left Scott and the chill started to creep back in, only to be stopped when Virgil snagged the worn old quilt that laid over both of them and brought it up higher, showing it to Scott as though he thought he didn’t know it was there.  “That was the first time I remember seeing this.  Dad was beside himself because you’d fallen asleep and he couldn’t wake you but Mom pulled this out of the old blanket box John liked to sit on and wrapped you up in it.”  His smile brightened, and with it some of the cold left Scott.  “It was a bit less threadbare back then and didn’t need any help warming you up.”

Scott reached for the quilt himself, running the familiar fabric through his fingers fondly.  Mom had made it for Dad, a little piece of home to travel the stars with him.  A little piece of Mom.  It had ended up being shared between the six of them – the husband it was made for and the five sons who each grabbed at it whenever the chance arose, because for them it was a little piece of Dad, too.

“I was a lot smaller back then,” he acknowledged, and Virgil chuckled, a deep rumble that Scott felt where they were pressed together.

“We all were.”  Hand still gripping the quilt, Virgil brought his arm back around Scott, clutching the fabric closer to both of them.  “You know,” he continued, and Scott heard the shift from fond reminiscing to something softer, quieter.  Reassuring. “You’re allowed to miss him, too.” Scott made the mistake of meeting his eyes.  Deep dark brown eyes were filled to overflowing with love, and Scott looked away because he couldn’t hold their gaze.

Virgil sighed, sounding disappointed but unsurprised.

“It’s okay, Scott,” he promised.  “I won’t lie and say it didn’t scare me, but you’re home safe and that’s what matters.”

“But, I-”

Virgil clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling his protest.  “But nothing,” he said.  “We’ve all done it, and we’ll all keep doing it because we miss him.  Being the oldest doesn’t make you immune, and I’d be more upset if you didn’t slip up like the rest of us, Scott.  It…” He faltered for a moment but his hand was still over Scott’s mouth, keeping him from speaking up.  “If even you do it sometimes, then that means I don’t have to feel bad whenever I do.”

Startled, Scott met Virgil’s eyes again.  They were still filled with love, but there was the deep-set adoration – big brother worship, some kids had called it at school before Scott had shown them exactly why his brothers trusted him so much – that Virgil usually didn’t show quite so openly.

If you can mess up, then it’s okay if I do, too.

That hadn’t occurred to him, the idea that his brothers were trying to follow his lead on even how to grieve, how to address the elephant in the room that was Dad’s accident and the hole it had left in their family.  That they felt bad every time they slipped, not because it hurt to say Dad’s name, but because Scott didn’t slip.

Scott always tried to be strong for his brothers, to lead them in a world that seemed determined to tear them apart, but maybe, in just this one thing, they needed his weakness and not his strength.

Virgil’s hand left his mouth in favour of his arm wrapping around him again, and Scott released his grip on red plaid to wrap his arms around his brother firmly instead.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, for the slip but also for being a source of unnecessary pressure he’d never even realised he was exuding.

“It’s okay,” Virgil repeated, an acceptance and dismissal all at once, and the chill finally began to seep away, leaving Scott with the warmth of his brother and that quilt that was a little bit of Mom and also a little bit of Dad. “It’s okay.”

[ellaofoakhill]

My Thoughts on Boxes

Something has kinda been bugging me the last little while, that I like to think a lot of people can relate to. We live in a society that, generally speaking, likes putting things into boxes; we like analyzing and sorting and organizing. And there’s nothing really wrong with that in and of itself--frankly, I could stand to do a lot more of it in the more practical aspects of my life--but such a system only really works with things that easily fit into discreet categories, and the things that aren’t or can’t be easily sorted are either forced into a box where they don’t fit, or left adrift without any real place to be.

In particular, I’m talking about fiction. You have numerous genres that multiply by the day, and the age categories that stories within those genres are deemed suitable for. And don’t get me wrong, there are lots of practical reasons for those categories; they make advertising and the organization of bookstores and libraries dramatically easier, and for most stories, this system works great, with each finding the audience most likely to derive benefit from reading it.

But--again, solely my opinion here--this may have produced stories that are a lot flatter than stories written in previous eras (which had their own problems, I will NOT get into that today). By flat, I don’t mean boring, or a failure of the story. I mean that the story feels like it was changed to fit into the category it most closely matched. In the most egregious examples, I feel like things were either added to a story that did nothing for it besides make it fit its box better, or taken out that were either integral to the story or added a depth and breadth to it that improved the work overall, even if that made it harder to sort.

This makes me think of the Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch quote, “Murder your darlings”, but completely opposite to what he was getting at. The general interpretation is “Even if you like a given piece of writing/painting/sculpture/etc., if it does more bad than good for your work, you need to remove it for the sake of the art.” What I feel is happening is “You need to change your story so it fits the target demographic, no matter what it looks like at the end.” The former serves the story and its spirit; the latter sacrifices the story for... I don’t know, ease of advertising, perhaps? Certainly financial gain is involved there.

So my first argument against this jaded, greedy way of thinking runs thus. Look at the stories that are now considered classics of Western literature: look at Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice; look at White Fang and Call of the Wild; look at Dracula and Frankenstein; look at The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia (no, I couldn’t resist throwing in two classic fantasy titles, and no, I won’t apologize for it). If you haven’t read these stories, you probably should. Yes, they have problems that mark them as products of their time, but every last one of them has one thing in common: none of them were written with a box in mind. We’ve thought of lotr as a fantasy staple for so long that we’ve forgotten that, prior to its popularity, fantasy as a genre wasn’t really a thing. There were fairy-tales, yes, and stories with fantastical elements, but a genre of story with precise conventions? Not really.

Let’s zoom in on Tolkien’s work, for a moment. Look at his world and its origins, and it draws heavy inspiration from Old English and Scandinavian myths and legends. Look at his characters, in particular his four hobbits, and he drew from his love of the English countryside, his respect for the common working man (Sam, the gardener, literally carries Frodo, the wellbred young gentleman, on his shoulders in the final leg of their gruelling journey to the Cracks of Doom), and his horrific experiences in the First World War. Hilariously enough, a big part of the reason he wrote the stories was as a self-justification for his indulgence in and lifelong love affair with language invention (look at the huge appendices at the back of The Return of the King and tell me I’m lying!). Read his work and any and all interviews with him, and a “genre box” seems clearly to have never crossed his mind.

Putting aside the genre box for a moment, let’s talk age categories. The Hobbit was a story he invented for his children, and it does show. Look at the Lord of the Rings, and it is clearly at a higher level of reading comprehension, and written for a more mature audience; there’s less silliness, though he keeps the wonder at this wild, magical world. But where to put it? The hobbits run a spectrum from basically teenagers (Pippin) to almost middle age (Frodo is in his fifties when he embarks on his journey to Rivendell), yet they’re clearly his protagonists, though we also see some narration revolving around Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, all of whom are adults, though the latter two are somewhat younger for their respective races, whereas Aragorn is in his eighties (this being offset somewhat by the fact that he lives to over two hundred, but I digress...). We’re told today (falsely; VERY falsely) that the main character(s) should match the age of their target audience. Where does lotr fit, then, in terms of age category?

The answer you’re looking for is: not really very well anywhere; at least, not according to modern convention. As for my personal experience, I could and did read both The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion at age thirteen. I consider myself a fairly intelligent young man, but I was varying degrees of lost when I read those. When I re-read them as an adult I was fine, but that isn’t to imply that teens shouldn’t be reading lotr, far from it. There’s nothing in them content-wise one wouldn’t reasonably expect a teenager to handle, and there’s a lot of good, powerful story and commentary in there that’s relevant to this day.

My point is, the age category doesn’t really matter. If I may shamelessly plug my own work for a moment, when I was first writing tftem, and even as I’m editing and publishing it now, I wondered and still wonder about this age category business. There is nothing in these stories I’d consider inappropriate for kids, and anyone above the age of about 8, with perhaps a slight stretch to their vocabulary, could comfortably read every story beginning to end. Further complicating matters, my beta readers ranged from 8 to almost 80, and most of the spectrum in between. They all liked it; whether they liked it for the same reasons is moot.

Which leads me into my second argument against boxing and categorizing stories. The boxes aren’t very reliable. If I may change media for a moment, cultural convention says, as an adult, there is only a narrow sleazy strip of cartoon entertainment I should be watching and enjoying. That tiny slice of the cartoon pie is the only slice I avoid like the plague. Yes, there are stories that don’t appeal to me because they’re too simplistic, or are problematic in ways that I find repellent, or just aren’t executed very well, but aside from things aimed at toddlers and the aforementioned “adult” cartoons, any cartoon is fair game. Give me an interesting concept, or a fascinating character, or hell just give me a good laugh or line of dialogue or beautiful fight scene, and I’ll give it a try.

My point is (yes I had one, and no, believe it or not I didn’t forget it), don’t write or draw or create with a box in mind. You will murder the spirit of your darlings. The box does not exist to define what you, the writer, are allowed to do, or what you should do. At best, the box exists in hindsight, once the work is done, to tell your prospective audience whether your story was written for them. And even then, lots of fantastic stories don’t sit well in boxes. Some of them actively rip the boxes to pieces. Lotr is a story that transcends boxes, and as a result has many layers and rabbit-holes and nuances that you can pick up when you’re ready to appreciate them, however old you are. In many ways, it’s ageless.

I didn’t write tftem to emulate Tolkien, nor even as an homage to him, or C.S. Lewis, or anyone else. But I did want to write a similarly ageless story, a story that could be read and appreciated a hundred years from now, by an audience of eight-year-olds or octogenarians. Why did we ever start moving away from stories like this? They were the foundation of stories for as long as stories have existed on Earth. People are still reading and marvelling at The Epic of Bloody Gilgamesh!

Tl;dr: don’t try to force your stories into boxes; they suffocate. Write what you enjoy writing; chances are it’ll live longer.

[crybabytoy59]

The Meeting (reworking)

The meeting.

I was so aroused that day my first weekend to myself in a long time my business consuming most but all of my time. Often i wished i was not such a product of my own success. looking through all the ad’s I had found on Craig’s list that evening a warm sunny day i had left work at lunchtime giving my staff the afternoon off as i did each Friday of a “Play Weekend”.

Now sat on my favourite wee leather kneeling stool in my pink pvc maids dress, a pink cartoon fairy disposable Nappy, with two large 4000ml pads both i had cut to let my pee pass through to the next this made for a very swollen Nappy plus i could wet multiple times, over them my pink pvc popper nappy cover i loved the softness of them plus i found the smell of the soft pink rubber Very overpowering. Next my huge frilly silk pants I had custom-made they had a Huge frilly heart at the rear inside the huge frilly white layered heart was embroidered the word “crybaby” ! Around the pants layers of silk and lace stood out ward around six inches! With the nappy under them my butt looked huge, the hem of the pink maids uniform only just hid the bulky Sissy Pants my petticoat pushing the huge hemlines upwards to almost 90deg such was the fullness of the handmade garments custom-made for me by an ebay seller i had become friends with she had made all of my wardrobe.

I decided to place an ad of my own on craigslist working on a small window of who I was as a sissy Abdl/bondage play Thing....posting it my heart was racing...

I went back to my usual internet bank of clips and pictures, feeling more and more aroused i put the first Baby bottle to my lips the huge teat filling my mouth as the warm milk slid over my tongue i swallowed compressing the teat as i did made it refill starting an almost siphoning effect i gulped it down.

I was going to have the weekend to myself to play my self bondage games, taking myself further each time I played....

But this was interrupted by a ping from Craig’s list..I had a reply to my ad?...it was from a couple they had read my ad and felt very sad for me that I felt I would never get to be who lived inside of me, they also said they had followed the link to my tumblr and that my stories were very good....We need to talk “Baby”..was all they put ..a link appearing to a WhatsApp page...this I followed I typed in a simple “Hi I found your reply to my ad ...would you like to talk?” I waited but nothing came back, so I went to close it and noticed someone was typing...

A reply came ! “Clever Baby...that was your first “Little” step...Now as it’s Friday night are you playing by yourself? ( my ad told of my self play at weekends to

Fuel my Kink) I typed in “Yes” no my keyboard, almost instantly a reply came ...how long do you play Baby?  I replied that I was off this weekend so I am going to play All weekend 😜....a reply came...Well you have read our ad would you like to meet for a drink and a chat?....”Eh yes please but it’s getting late?” ..Don’t fret we stay Very close to you....I was confused by this as their ad said a different area..so I typed a message back...

I think we stay in different areas? ...it’s ok Baby our ad is old we have moved..Ok you have 30mins ! are you dressed? If so put on something to cover up to go outside, if Not go and get dressed Now ! I typed back that i was already dressed for the evening.

Then we will see you in 30mins at  M* ,*******y,s in the car park we will be parked under the sign...park up then come to our Car under the sign 29mins “Baby”...

That was it even though I sent an Ok ..nothing more came back, so I rushed to get one of my boiler suit’s on as the bulk was so large I could fit nothing else on!...driving there I felt very nervous also my adrenaline was pumping so hard I felt I needed the toilet but time was ticking away... so I took Breath’s through the Need to go and they passed, sitting in the car with all my padding felt strange but nice I had never driven dressed up, in fact i had never went out in public with anything more than a simple Tena nappy in plain white so if I was discovered it could be explained away with a medical excuses, but this?...this was different i was in full sissy AB attire a huge padded rear with a swollen straining “Clittie” !!

As I drove into the car park there was a 4x4 under the sign! But only one person in it?... I parked up but was hesitant due to the single occupant, so thought to myself I would simply go over and ask for directions that way if I was wrong no harm..

As I got to the car the door opened to my surprise a man got out opening the back door...as I walked up he spoke “In the back Baby”. I did as I was Told,there was a girl in the back she spoke to me....”In Baby Kneel on the floor face me...Clever Baby..Open Wide!”

The car had one of the back seats removed so there was a space on the floor with a changing mat in its place,this mat had Winnie the Pooh bear characters on it ! I felt something being put around my ankles & I panicked slightly....Blurting out ...”P,p,please are we not going for a chat?” Suddenly my mouth was pulled open from behind as the girl pushed in a rubber ball gag with a face harnessing, this was pulled Very tightly! My arms were forced behind me and locked In cuffs! I was spun around and a hood pulled over my face, next I was in the seat with a seatbelt put over me.m The door shut then the second door shut as the car started up.....she spoke to me.... “Clever Baby Sit Still just a short drive and we will be home....Then Cutie The Fun Will Begin....Baby we Are going to make Your stories seem like a soft fairytale.....tell me Cuteness are you a bit afraid at the moment ? (I nodded) Clever Baby...You Have Good reason to be Afraid....what’s this all under here Eh? you can Hardly Sit !...don’t fret Baby... we are going to make sitting Very uncomfortable for You!” They both laughed but not a funny laugh ...a Deeply wicked laughter.....That’s us here Baby let’s get you inside so we can have a better Look at You Babyslave!!”....I was taken into their home...the hood was Not removed... they put a spreader bar on my ankles then he spoke “Now Baby I want you to wet and mess yourself in a moment so kneel for us...Eh Now Babyslave!”..... (if any of you have knelt with a spreader bar on its quite difficult) ..I collapsed to My Knees, The hood was bellowing in and out over my face as I gasped, she spoke to me “Ok let me explain what is happening as You potty for us....(the hood was being unfastened as she spoke to me) My Name is Mistress M....that is Master D when we allow You to talk you will talk with a lisp like the Little You Are....a Three year old girlie Got that ?” I nodded as the hood came off...I was blinking because there was a bright light in my face I could see her but only a shadow figure, she continued “Baby we are going to have a weekend together, if after that you would like us to keep You we will take that next step... should you wish to leave your free to do so...Ok? You can answer past the gag we will understand You...” I told them Yes lisping best I could past the gag, she spoke again.......”Now The Hard Part Babyslave!....You will have No Safeword  & No limits!! We will not hurt you permanently or leave you scared in any way...Only perhaps mentality ! Now Babyslave Master D is going to uncuff you, if you want to leave put your arms out in front of you, But if You fully understands what I just told You & are the person in your “stories” I Want You to put your handies behind your head keeping them there..Ok Babyslave Toy..time too choose ??”

I could now start to focus on her she was stunning! Long black hair in a ponytail she was very slim around 5’9″ tall smiling down at me...

I put my hands together behind my head interlocking My fingers.....

This was what they had hoped for they had spent hours looking over ads reading through them they had come across his ad it was very different from most as it held an Abdl content as she read over this Mistress Mandy smiled she knew of abdl but had not chosen that path in her FEM DOM career, but now older looking to retirement both her and her husband were looking towards having her Deepest Fantasy fulfilled to use a genuine submissive without bounds other than the physical limits of the human body the Mind ..well that was a different thing altogether !! Reading his ad she had become very wet....asking her husband over to look at the ad she was grinning ear to ear ! Turning to his wife he smiled are You sure ?...but he could already tell this new Toys fate was sealed, she smiled “yes darling am sure the abdl will give us a huge Humiliation element to his training, plus i kind of like that I could have him collapsing into a Babyslave’....Ok message him I lets see what happens darling was all he said.

They could not believe there luck not only was he Deeply submissive he was alone at home for the weekend already Playing !! The next bit was simple as she typed “Baby you have 30mins !” Heading in the car too there home she was throbbing with want a Deep Want of Dominance her way, a wish about to be fulfilled, they parked up...five mins latter a silver Bmw drove into the car park facing them as he stepped out she turned smiling “That him look at the shape”...he got out opening the door....

Her thoughts returned to her she spoke to him “Clever Babyslave Ok lets begin Get her up on her feet Master D”. I was pulled upright! She unzipped the suit as Master D pulled it down I felt a tug at the side then a ripping sound then a second tug followed by a second ripping sound as the hook on the blade cut through the black overalls....

I now stood before them in my pink maids uniform with the huge Nappy on, Master D lifted the dress at the sides then spoke “My my Mistress M look at this Sissy is already dressed to go to work for us!...” Mistress M spoke “Yes indeed Master D...But She has her very first task to do ..Don’t You Crybaby! Do it Now!....push Hard I want to see that Crybaby Face go red with Effort!,”

They both came around to watch the spectacle as I went Potty’Pants in front of them both ! I felt so Very ashamed but strangely I found I was Very turned on at the same time...she spoke to me “Clever girlie Crybaby is that it all out? ...then turn the fuck around so we can get a good look at your poopies” as I turned in the spreader bar I couldn’t believe my eyes I was in a dungeon!! It had every bondage Toy around whips,paddles,leather straps,hoods, cases with strange-looking equipment in them....

She patted my rear lightly Sit Down!” As I bent I could feel the mess spreading up my back. Suddenly my hips was held and I was slowly lowered on to something? It was a knee ? Mistress M came around in front of me then bent forwards “Bounce on Master Daddy’s Knee Crybaby! ....this was something I knew about them from there page..they were both heavily into Humiliation !! As I bounced I felt a smack to My rear! Then Master Daddy Spoke taking my hips “No Crybaby like this !” He forced me up & down getting more & more forceful as he did, Mistress M spoke “Clever girlie Crybaby that’s better isn’t it!..yes ? (They both giggled as I listed out a Wess) Louder Crybaby! Say it !..Clever girlie you bounce for Master Daddy as I get your first punishment set up....its time to see You Crying....

She wheeled over a large box it was black the top had a hole around 8” Mistress M opened the top, inside was what looked like a saddle with a back to it, this had straps on it.

She loved this box a friend had given her the saddle and another carpenter friend had built the box, inside the black leather saddle was mounted on a leather-covered platform 2ft high this was oval so the Slave in the saddle had to both bend their knees wide but angled under them once in the leather ankle cuffs, the back had a padded angular back rest with a built-in arm binder that laced up the rear once the slates hands were made immobile by the ball mittens, above this the lid had a round leather covered top a hole at its centre that was in two half’s so the slaves head would be the only thing seen once closed up tight. It’s Was truly a wicked bit of  BDSM furniture !!

Master Daddy was still Bouncing me at this point he then stopped, I still had my hands behind my head as I was genuinely afraid to move them ! Master Daddy then lifted me up the mess was spread everywhere I could now smell it, he pushed me forward towards the box he spoke to his wife “ Let’s hurry up as stinky butt here needs to appreciate The Gift we let her have Mistress Mummy” He then took the spreader bar off as she stood in front of me....

Mistress M spoke “Ok into the box for us Crybaby leggies Down the side of the saddle for Mistress Mummy..Clever girlie Crybaby arms down the back so Master Daddy can strap You into your armbinder” my arms were slowly being pulled together tighter and tighter, i started whimpering as my chest was forced forwards the more my arms tightened my shoulders became taut pulled relentlessly back, the last two straps crossed over my chest down over my shoulders to the waiting buckles these he wrenched upwards ! as I jerked due to the force he spoke “Clever girlie Crybaby..lets close this up”  patting my head He positioned the top rear part then spoke “headie all the way back....Clever Crybaby Hold Still for us “Master Daddy pushed closed the front part then locked the two half’s together now only my head was out the box, Mistress Mummy had a rubber hood this one went on tightly it covered my head but left my face open framed by black rubber, Master Daddy had what looked like a large helmet in two half’s with buckles all over it to join the two half’s together, at the mouth it had a short oval tube, Mistress Mummy spoke to me “Open Wide Crybaby! “ as I did the tube was forced into my mouth i had to open really wide to accept it...I whimpered as he pushed it on Very hard pulling the two half’s together the oval passed behind my teeth holding my mouth open, he strapped it on tightly! I heard pumping as the inside of the helmet Got tighter!.. It was inflatable !!

Master Daddy put a tube from the back of the box to the helmet at the rear, then patted my head walking off, Mistress Mummy squatted down at my side as she spoke “Ok Crybaby Master Daddy and I have to get something set up for you so sit here till we’re Ready for you Crybaby, as there was not much time to prepare Your punishment equipment for this evening...So as you Sit here contemplating what we’re going to do to You Crybaby here is a wee taster so too speak’ she giggled as Master Daddy came over with a red funnel this had a tube from it around six inches long, handing it to Mistress Mummy she started pushing it in my nostril hole! Next Master Daddy did something to the box and it tilted backwards! As she held the funnel he lifted A condom full of a huge load ! Without warning he poured it into the funnel! I could feel it go down the back of my throat, it was still warm! I started to tear up as I knew this pair meant every word of their Dominance over me...with her other hand Mistress Mummy pushed a cock gag into my mouth making me hold it!  As she strapped it behind my head.

“Clever Baby hold that until we get back did you like Mummy & Daddy’s Gift ...Yes Cutie it was from us both You made us so het we had to Make love..But we didn’t want our Baby to miss out so Mistress Mummy squatted Over the wee funnel as she climaxed Master Daddy’s Gift Out to mix with hers...Clever girlie... Crybaby cock sucker!”

She removed the tube from my nose then pulled mask over my nose and mouth that clipped to the helmet via holes in its sides..I Suddenly heard a sound like the hollow tubes as a kid we would spin around our heads to make different sounds..but this tube echoed to my Breaths as I slowly started to smell my rear only much stronger !!!

Mistress loved this bit of the Box as it had a built in fan that made the slave have to endure whatever they decided to put in the box, she had put many things into the Box at her clients ask, But this time ? This was her choice her devious plan to slowly reprogram his mind to her will..Her wants and needs...

They seemed to have been away for ages, with me sat in the box kneeling over the saddle smelling my own mess!..I tested the bonds but it made the smell stronger as I moved spreading my mess even further around my now soaking wet nappy !! when the door opened Mistress Mummy was first to walk in she had changed into a black rubber skirt and white rubber top it was sleeveless she had on black rubber tights and hold ups...She strode over without a word then picked up an item a strange two foot long tube, it had a shaft from it with a handle the inner and outer shaft were threaded at the base of the inner it looked like an oval leather pad...Mistress went behind me screwed it to the back of the box....as Master Daddy came in he had on a black rubber shirt and rubber pants on the front of these was a pouch...He stood in front of me then spoke “Now Crybaby we have everything set up for You so now let’s give You a look at what Is ahead” ..then Mistress Mummy Spoke “Right Crybaby look back at me..Clever girlie Crybaby Keep looking at Me!!” Suddenly I felt something in my back pushing me forward into more of an arch....”Clever girlie Crybaby Keep looking at Me !” It started to hurt being bent in an arch the more I arched the less movement I had till I could simply Not move! I started crying...

“Awww Clever girlie Crybaby...tears already look Master Daddy real tears, seems Crybaby has very low limits poor thing”...Master Daddy just chuckled as he took the pouch off his shorts, Mistress Mummy removed the harness then the gag. In front of me he was already swollen, straddling the box pushing into the mouth hole..”Right Crybaby lets give You a good skull Fucking...then we can take you to get cleaned up for your Obedience Training!”....he started slowly entering my mouth!!....mistress mummy held my head  looking down at me as I gagged for air as I was throat fucked by this man i had only just met !!

“Clever girlie Crybaby work Master Daddy’s Dummy nice and you get air ! if not ? No Air cuteness...that’s a girlie!” Master Daddy withdrew as I gasped for air, he spoke “Clever girlie Crybaby just like that suck with your cute Baby tongue under Master Daddy’s Dummy....Clever girlie Crybaby here we go Deeper this time though cuteness ! Hold her nice and tightly Mistress Mummy, she needs to learn To sallow !”....Mistress mummy forced me on his shaft as I wrenched I felt him swelling then the first spasm! Mistress mummy barked at me “Don’t You Dare pass out Crybaby!! Swallow! ..Do it every last drop of Master Daddy’s gift!”

Fuck this was all she had hoped for he was a true submissive as they worked there trade he had simply collapsed tears streaming from him at the realisation they were Very much in control a control they would use to train him to total submission a compliment Babyslave that they and there friends would use...Yes she would take her time show her DOMINANT friends just how she could mould a SLAVE....

[katieqnmr]

reflection - portrait of a drag king (representing the real)

 Below is an informal reflection, I just wanted to get some words down. Beneath that is my formal, assessed reflection. I just put them in the same post because I think they’re both valuable!

INFORMAL REFLECTION

before we had the critique session, I wrote this:

Onto the finish! As we close on this project, I have some informal reflections to make. I would firstly say that this project has been a really calming one. I realise that for me, my role (visual director, animator) was not too demanding. My group has been outstanding, and I am just so proud that we have worked so well even when hundreds of miles apart!

ROLES AGAIN:

Natalia - Visual director (and principal director)

Myself - Visual director, animator

Rosie - Editor

Bethany & Rosie - Cinematography, B-Roll shooting etc

 I was able to do the animation for this project, and Natalia and I did visual directing (though she was principal director!) As I was saying, this has been relaxing for me because I’ve been able to somehow (!) insert my love of art and sketching into this project! I animated a number of elements, and I think they nestle in just right with everything else. :) I would also like to thank Mia, the Drag King who we interviewed. She has been so helpful and eager and honestly, entertaining throughout this whole process! The way she speaks is a delight to listen to (a very useful element when making a documentary), and she seemed so at ease in front of the camera. She was super helpful the whole way, offering to film anything for us, and more importantly letting us see quite a private side of her, or perhaps quite a personal side. Identity can be uprooting to share with others, so I’m really grateful she chose to share herself with us.

And now I can reflect fully, with all feedback on hand. 

And WOW am I happy! The feedback we received on this project is probably the most positive for any project I’ve been involved in, which is such a lovely thing, everyone seemed to genuinely really enjoy it! :D Mia also said she loved it, which meant a great deal. I know we were a little nervous for her to see what portrayal we’d made of her.

FORMAL REFLECTION (CRITICAL ASSESSMENT REPORT)

Throughout the research stage, I tried to find material that would enable me to greater understand the world of drag, as I was not entirely familiar beforehand. I used a range of materials, from books, to articles, to films and TV shows, (examples being ‘The Art of Drag’, ‘Gender Troubles’, and of course Ru Paul’s drag race, for a more mainstream approach.)

 I wanted to explore each media to reflect on what might work in presenting a character through documentary, and early on, our group decided on a rougher, 90’s aesthetic, bright colours, and an energetic pace, which would capture Mia’s personality in part, and form a visually engaging base for the documentary.

 We planned across the country, deciding that Mary and Bethany would together or individually shoot Mia, as they live close to her in Dundee, thus assigning them the roles of cinematographers. The rest of our group, Rosie, Natalia and myself, would be the editor, and visual directors, respectively. Our pre production plans relied on group meetings where we could discuss the basic outline for the edits, and we were all of one mind in this project. We all agreed almost effortlessly the direction it should go in, in terms of the aesthetic I mentioned earlier, subject matter (drag kings, gender and identity), and how the edit would be arranged, (a mixture of b-roll, Mia’s sketches and my animations layered on top, her interview and poems running throughout). 

 All arrangements were simple, though a few shooting days had to be rescheduled, which wasn’t a problem as we planned with plenty of time, and additionally the extension was helpful there too. Natalia and myself as visual directors, were clear in our plans for what would be shot, we collated a list of basic shots we wanted in the documentary, which Mary and Bethany fulfilled perfectly. The shoot went great, and Natalia and myself transcribed the entire thing (though she did more than me), and then we moved onto Rosie’s stage, the edit. 

 Rosie was a fantastic editor, communicating really clearly with us so we could go back and forth between draft edits and all together decide on the best structure of the film. We dispersed Mia’s poetry throughout, and Rosie edited the desired aesthetic fantastically, using my animations and Mia’s own drawings in harmony with the footage shot. The structure was also based on Mia’s history in performance, her thoughts on a fractured identity and how she presented herself to others, and her reflections for the future, as she said she’s still trying to find her ‘yearning’.

 Our focus was always going to be Mia, her identity and her struggles with that identity. The documentary sort of branched from ‘drag king’ to ‘identity of drag’, but it still maintained that Mia’s identity was formed partly from her drag.

 In terms of sound, we didn’t focus too heavily on it, which is maybe a thought for the future. It might’ve furthered the effect of our piece, though I am glad we didn’t add any music, as with all the visuals on-screen, I feel it would’ve been overwhelming at best! With more time, we might’ve considered adding Foley, in terms of paper scrunching, or the jumper muffling sounds, but our time limit caused us to focus elsewhere. Luckily I don’t think it’s too much of a dealbreaker, and is something to consider if we move further with the project. We also forgot to add credits at the end, but that would be an easy fix.

 I have no doubt that our film is engaging, only the pacing was considered an issue, which I can totally understand. It is very rapid-fire, although arguably this was appropriate, (though this was not intentional) given that Mia herself felt overwhelmed by her fragments of identity. Our group all felt that the edit was the correct pace throughout the development stage, so I don’t think I would change much. 

I learned so much from this project, more so than any other so far, in terms of the subject matter (I feel so much more knowledgeable about the art of drag now), and I also learnt a lot about collaborating, which I think our group did immensely successfully.

 Mia later told us that she really enjoyed the film and that she felt seen, and she was the person who I really wanted to feel happy about it. So I would say that it was a success. I think the film illustrates Mia’s nuances, and her intelligence, and it showcases her ability to articulate these things. So I am very pleased, and so proud of everyone involved. Thank you Mia.