#and some obsession and possessiveness but that's par for the course i just mean its not. well its not as bad as some of the shit ive seen.

[eternalchant]

seriously I have to put that guy in a saw trap

[springfallendeer]

Newfound Treasure (Vampire!Eclipse x Reader)

This here is a commission that I recently finished. I had a lot of fun with it. It takes place in the same AU as "Celestial Pact", but is sort of a run-off idea of the Reader getting into a relationship with Eclipse. Specifically a relationship in which the Vampiric Deity becomes very possessive of them. (This is definitely the result of me relentlessly bullying someone with ideas of Vampire Eclipse being possessive).

Par for the course, it contains things like biting, blood drinking, and some implications of violence and animal death.

Female reader, though I don't get overly involved in descriptions this time. No nicknames. Just a story about finding a wounded God and them falling in love with you (or developing an obsession with you).

Part 1: Newfound Treasure

The blood of a God.

An ichor saturated in power far beyond the grasp, or the understanding of mankind. Thick. Never to be spilt without justifiable cause, lest horrific curses fall upon thee who dared to draw it.

That forbidden substance now marks a trail on the path. Glowing, and hot, it naturally draws your attention; and the attention of all others in the town; to its source.

Like the others around you, you tremble at the sight of the wounded God.

Like the others around you, you recall the many horrific legends that revolve around the Deity, and what he is capable of doing to those like you.

He is an ancient, powerful God of the Cosmos. A being which rules over space and all that exists within it. One which is capable of destroying this world and others like it; one which has, most definitely, brought other worlds to ruin.

If that alone was not terrifying enough, he doubles as a God of Vampirism. And like the others afflicted with the curse, he is doomed to sustain himself on the blood and flesh of mortals.

He is the origin of the curse. He may very well be the only means of ending it. But that... That cannot be proven, and proving it would only lead to catastrophe.

You anxiously watch as the Deity limps through the town.

His frozen flesh is battered and torn, seemingly from a violent battle with another God. A battle which he surely must have won, otherwise he would no longer be standing.

Glowing ichor seeps from the many open wounds. His heated blood steams and sizzles upon meeting the ground, where it gradually cools and loses its fiery hue.

Everyone gives him a wide berth, terrified of what might happen should they allow him to draw near enough to reach out and touch them.

He... Pays them no mind, strangely enough.

In fact, he seems quite lost. He looks dazed. Delirious, even. As though he is not only unsure of where he is, but unsure of where he means to go.

He isn’t reacting to the people around him, or even looking in anyone’s direction. Even though he must be hungry, it is as though he is ignorant to the presence of food.

Or perhaps... Perhaps he is intentionally ignoring the people around him?

Perhaps he is frightened, because he is hurt and lost?...

The idea of that being the case... Makes you strangely sad.

Empathy really is a powerful thing. Capable of overwriting fear or logic.

Tentatively, you reach into your pocket to retrieve a handkerchief.

Though you hesitate... You eventually work up the nerve to approach him.

His eyes flicker to you the instant that you step towards him, rather than away. But he takes his gaze off of you just as quickly, making you believe that he really must be intentionally ignoring the many humans that inhabit this space around him.

Maybe he is afraid... No. He must be afraid. Afraid of you, and afraid of the people that are standing around gawking at him.

Cautiously, you make your way over to him. You stop well within arms reach of him, and nervously extend your hand towards him.

Your hand trembles as you bring the handkerchief to his cheek.

He keeps his eyes off of you, up until the fabric comes into contact with his face. The instant that he feels you touch him, his focus moves to you and to you alone.

His gaze burns with the intensity of the sun. A sun blocked out by the body of the moon, in hopes of preventing your soul from being burned by its light…

You know now why he is the one that they call “Eclipse”.

His gaze alone proves so intense that you nearly recoil in fright.

Just nearly.

Instead, you guide your trembling hand to the deep gash upon his cheek, where the handkerchief immediately soaks up the thick, glowing blood that flows from the wound.

You yank your hand almost immediately after. Not because you’re afraid, but because his blood proves hot enough to scald your delicate flesh.

He visibly flinches in response to your abrupt movement, seemingly startled. Or perhaps he simply resists the urge to reach out and touch you in turn.

You see one of his many arms shift ever so slightly at his side, as though he meant to reach out for you. But if that was his desire, then he hesitated, and in doing so resisted the urge to reach out and... Do something. You don’t know what he would do if he actually reached for you.

But you’re perfectly safe!... Probably. Hopefully.

Hopefully the actions taken today will not come back to haunt you…

He keeps his eyes locked on you as you stand before him. His gaze is somehow not only intense, but heavy. It burns your soul just like his blood has burnt your hand. And while you somehow urge yourself to maintain eye contact with him, you cannot help but feel as though a crushing weight is slowly settling over your meager frame.

“I-I-!” You stammer, opening your mouth to speak before you can even think of something to say. But having not even taken the time to determine what you actually mean to do, you then close your mouth just as quickly.

His posture changes ever so slightly in response to your voice. You swear you see him straighten out his hunched body. If he were to straighten out and stand at his true height, you have no doubt that he would tower over you.

You are but a child in comparison to his full stature. If he were to stand up properly, you are unsure if you would even be able to work up the nerve to try and speak to him, yet alone approach him as you have done.

You take a deep breath in hopes of composing yourself.

When you next open your mouth, it is because you have taken the time to think of the right words to say.

“You look tired, my Lord...” You awkwardly murmur, taking a slight step back so that you might offer the Deity a respectful half bow.

“If it would please you, you are welcome to come and rest in my home.” You offer, albeit with a note of uncertainty obvious in your voice.

You then fall silent.

Honestly... You don’t expect much of a verbal response from him, if any. The stories that you’ve been told have all made him out to be this silent, malevolent force that would sooner tear your head off your shoulders to guzzle your blood than share a single word with you.

But at the same time... The stories seemed wrong. They made him out to be this monstrous force that desired only to devour the mortals of this world; so much so that he was forced to lock himself away, otherwise he would consume everything that came into his line of sight.

Yet here he was, limping through a human town without offering so much as a malicious gaze and flinching in response to an unexpected human touch.

The stories had to be wrong. Or at least heavily embellished.

You are safe.

Or at least you assumed yourself to be safe, until he finally got around to fully standing up.

He had basically been kneeling in front of you due to wounds on his legs. Wounds which must have made it painful for him to walk, as he had kept them mostly curled up whilst he limped through the town. That was why you had been able to reach out and touch his face in the first place.

You see his body shudder and strain in response to the change in posture, as if attempting to fight off the urge to curl back up so that the pain would be kept at a reasonable level.

You seem to shrink as he rises to his full height. Or at least, you feel as though you're shrinking whilst you watch him grow before your very eyes.

Skies above, he towers over you! He is easily, easily, twice your height. If not taller.

He also seems a lot less docile now that he has stood up fully.

Nothing about his expression has changed. Nor has his pain become any less apparent. It is genuinely scary how easily he can remind you of your own mortality simply by standing and observing you with his body straightened out.

He could crush you beneath his heel. Or pick you up and tear your limbs off like a child ripping the wings off of a fly. Or throw you to the far side of the town with the ease of a man tossing a stone.

Nothing about his expression implies that he has any desire to do such brutal things to you. But his alarmingly massive height, mixed with the many stories of your youth, and the intensity of his gaze all work together to simply make you feel…

Insignificant.

You are nothing compared to him and you will continue to be nothing whether or not he kills you or ignores you.

Despite being absolutely terrified, you do not run from him. Nor do you withdraw your gaze from his. Some part of you has seemingly been paralyzed by his divine presence, and that is the part of you that would allow you to retreat.

Tears well in your eyes as you stare up at him. Not only from the fear, but because you have not blinked once since first locking eyes with him.

He reaches for your face just as that first tear rolls down your cheek.

You don’t even flinch when you feel his fingers brush against your damp skin, though you are unsure of how you manage to keep still.

But you do calm down, somewhat, in response to the contact.

You can feel the gentleness in his touch as he wipes away your tears. The simple contact proves more than enough to make it clear that he has no intention; yet alone any desire; to harm you.

And that is all the reassurance that you need to calm yourself in his presence. Though you do, unfortunately, remain easily intimidated by him. So you do not fully relax, despite understanding that he harbors no ill will towards you.

You find yourself absently leaning into his touch. Just slightly.

Though his blood is boiling hot, his skin is cold as ice. It warms faintly in response to your heat. Not enough to resemble the warmth of human touch, but enough to almost feel pleasant against your skin.

He remains silent for a very long time as he stands there with his hand against your cheek.

You remain silent in turn.

The town remains just as silent, as if frozen by the astonishing events which are taking place. No one moves. No one speaks. Even the birds and the wind have fallen silent, as if waiting with bated breath to see what will unfold as a result of your actions.

“Are you not afraid?” He suddenly asks, admittedly startling you to the point that you jolt in response to his voice.

He does not sound nearly as monstrous as the stories made him out to be. In fact, his voice is... Surprisingly pleasant. Smooth and deep, but calm. It is the voice of a guardian and a protector. Not the voice of a ravenous beast bent on bloodshed.

“I am... A little.” You admit in response. The idea of lying or even downplaying your anxiety never even crosses your mind. And so you reply to him with complete and total honesty.

You are afraid of him, yes. But you are afraid of him in the same way that you fear a large dog, or a horse. The fear comes from knowledge that you could be easily harmed by an entity so much stronger than you. But you know, based upon the behavior of this powerful entity, that the danger is not real.

He has no intention of harming you, and you can feel it. So while you are afraid of his power, you are at ease with his ability to keep that power under control.

“But you should be terrified. Am I not monstrous? Do you not fear what I might do to you?” He asks in turn, as if dissatisfied with your overall response. He almost sounds... Startled. Or confused. It seems as though he cannot fathom the idea that his presence alone does not fill you with dread.

Yet even as he seemingly attempts to instill you with more fear, his touch remains gentle. The only change that you can feel is a slight tremor in his hand; likely from the pain of maintaining his stance when covered in so many wounds.

“You don’t want to hurt me.” You bluntly and confidently reply.

“Are you certain?” He questions, spitting out his words so quickly that he would have interrupted you had you actually had more to say. So quickly, in fact, that even his voice seems to tremble; even if only slightly.

“I could devour you here, in front of all your friends and family. They would be able to do nothing to save you.”

“Yet you touch my cheek so gently, my Lord...” You murmur in response.

You feel his hand twitch somewhat in response to your words, but he otherwise falls still and silent.

Finally, you find the will to blink. Or rather, you wind up calming down enough that you can finally relax your eyes.

Intense as his gaze has been, it was never really all that threatening. As in you did not look into his eyes and sense any manner of malice. They were just... Powerful; as the eyes of a God should rightly be.

That power startled you and made your poor mortal soul seize up in alarm, that was all.

In a way, you had simply been awestruck. The eyes of the Divine are not so regularly encountered. As the windows to the soul, you found yourself unwittingly staring at something that your fragile, moral mind could not immediately comprehend. Of course you would freeze up in response!

For a few moments, he remains silent.

You remain silent in turn, absently leaning into the palm of his hand as he stares down at you.

Every now and again you resume eye contact with him, and your body stiffens faintly as if on the brink of seizing up. But the sensation grows weaker and weaker between each blink as your mind and soul adjust to the dominating presence of a God.

Eclipse breaks the silence with a sigh.

A long, tired, pained sigh. And as he sighs, his body relaxes and submits to the agony that has overtaken it. He shrinks back down as he curls up, seemingly satisfied enough with this interaction to stop putting up a brave front.

Whatever he meant to do, he must be satisfied with the outcome. Though you aren’t sure if he meant to chase you away or test your honesty.

And, honestly, you aren’t going to ask. Who are you to question the motivations of a God? Yet alone a wounded one who would have every reason to be cautious while in this vulnerable state.

“I would like to rest.” He finally replies, having decided that he would take you up on your offer.

You then cautiously reach up to your cheek to wrap your hand around his, so that you can guide him to your home.

“Can you walk?” You quietly ask, naturally aware of how hard it must be for him to move if he is in this much pain.

If needed, you could probably find a wagon or an animal that could be used to move him. He genuinely looks exhausted.

“I am tired. But I will manage.” He replies.

You do not question him on the matter. It is not your place to do so.

So you gently pull on his hand to guide him towards your home; which is, unfortunately, a good distance away. He will have to limp after you for a while. And you will have to endure the many heavy stares of the other people in town as you guide this wounded, Vampiric God to your home.

The journey is made in silence. Neither you nor Eclipse speak. The people that you pass by do not make a sound; though their eyes scream loud enough whenever you dare lock your gaze with someone.

The only real sound to be heard is that of footsteps. Yours as they steadily trek along the path, and his as his feet scrape heavily against the stone.

His every footstep grows heavier and more tedious as you walk with him. But as a God, he is nothing if not powerful. He manages to endure the journey to your home. He even endures the difficult journey up the stairs to your guest bedroom, where you encounter something of a problem.

He will not fit... Anywhere. You brought him upstairs because there was no place for him to properly rest downstairs. But none of the beds in your home are large enough to support his body.

This is when you get your first glimpse of what he is capable of doing.

You hear him murmur something in a language that you cannot understand. And then you watch, admittedly dumbstruck, as the room warps and changes around you.

The foundation of your home creaks and groans as wood and stone stretch to accommodate his size. The bed and bedding make concerning sounds of violent destruction as they too transform to better support him.

The room and the bed grow larger to provide him with a comfortable place to rest. And when all is said and done, the Deity is left looking even more exhausted.

Once the initial shock of what you’ve just witnessed wears off, you give Eclipse’s arm another tug to guide him to his newly redone bed.

Thankfully, he is able to climb up on his own; though he is left gasping for breath after the fact.

He settles onto his back and folds his hands atop his torso. You listen for a moment as he breathes heavily, and you awkwardly stand nearby as he attempts to recover from the recent strain.

“Uhm...” You... Make a bit of an awkward noise in preparation to speak. It at least catches his attention.

“Can I get you anything, my Lord?” You ask.

It was only polite of you to try and tend to your guest. He was wounded and tired and while you were unsure of how to ease away his discomfort, you still had every intention of doing what you could to be of help.

“Blood.” Eclipse bluntly replies.

Your stomach sinks.

While you probably should have anticipated such a response, there was something of a difference between suspecting something and having it actually happen.

The Deity seems to take notice of your sudden shift in mood.

Or maybe he just noticed how quickly you went pale in response to his request.

You watch as he closes his eyes and covers them with the back of his hand.

He takes a deep, wheezing breath.

“Not your blood.” He calmly specifies.

“A goat or a sheep will do fine. Even a pig, if that’s all that you can find.” He states.

You stare at him, completely bewildered by his statement, as he begins to feel around his body.

He pats along his chest and sides, and along his hips as if in search of something. Until eventually he manages to locate what he’s looking for.

He then holds up a small coin pouch. Based upon the sag of it, you can tell that it contains quite a few coins.

He uncovers his eyes to look at you as he properly holds the pouch out for you to take.

“There should be more than enough here to purchase an animal.” He states as you tentatively reach out to accept the coin pouch.

You’re admittedly startled by the weight of it. Where the pouch should only hold around ten to fifteen coins, it feels as though it's being used to carry over a hundred!

“I only need the blood. You may keep the meat to use it as you will.” He adds.

In other words, you’re to go and buy him an animal to use for food. He’ll take the blood, and you’ll keep the rest.

It sounds like more than a fair trade, to be honest. Him giving you such a considerable amount of food in exchange for providing him with shelter and care.

Yet for some reason, you hesitate.

“Will animal blood really satisfy you?...” You find yourself hesitantly asking.

Call it morbid curiosity. Or call it genuine concern; or confusion. But for some reason, you aren’t really satisfied with the idea of just going out to buy an animal for him to drain of its vital essence.

“It will not be the same as human blood.” Eclipse calmly replies.

He then falls silent.

You remain quiet for a short while as you weigh your thoughts.

You want to be a good host. Eclipse himself has just admitted that while he will drink animal blood, human blood is what will be of more help to him.

You know that he is wounded and in an obviously weakened state; which likely means that he will struggle to perform his Godly duties until he has healed.

Not only that. If another Deity were to arrive to challenge him while he was in this state... Would he even be able to fend them off?...

You try to ignore the faint trembling of your hand as you reach to place the coin purse on the edge of the bed.

This is probably a foolish idea.

A very foolish idea.

You carefully undo the first few buttons of your shirt to further expose your neck and shoulders.

“What are you doing?...” Eclipse unexpectedly asks. He almost sounds nervous.

“You said that human blood would be better...” You murmur in response, hesitantly working your shirt down one shoulder to better expose an area for him to bite.

“Animal blood will serve me just fine-” He attempts to rebuke you, only to stiffen as you step closer to the bed and begin to climb up.

The instant that your knee presses into the mattress, he goes silent.

“... I cannot offer much, my Lord. But you may drink what I can give. And I will fetch an animal after.” You reply.

Human blood would be better for him. So having a drink from you along with the animal blood would be better than just giving him an animal to drain, would it not? You would effectively be giving him a nutritious boost to make the less desirable food more substantial.

It was like adding fresh meat to a dish that only drew protein from eggs. You would add to the nutritional value of the meal, rather than leave it as it would be; incomplete.

Eclipse seems visibly uneasy as you climb further onto the bed.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly unable to find the words to protest what you’re doing.

You can hear how dry his mouth is. Each time he parts his lips, you can hear how they struggle to peel away from each other. You can hear his tongue pull away from the roof of his mouth.

He must be parched.

You hope that this will not leave you... Compromised. Yeah, that’s the word. Compromised. Worse off than you are now.

There certainly isn’t a better word to describe what you’re afraid of.

Honestly, you half expected to have to force the Deity to take your blood, given his hesitation. So when he abruptly reaches out to drag you down on top of him, you cannot help the little gasp of surprise that escapes you.

His touch feels different, now. Intense and desperate.

His blood soaks into your clothes as you lay across his body. If not for the cold temperature of his flesh, his boiling ichor might have burned your delicate skin.

It is still hot. But not hot enough to be painful.

Goosebumps form upon your skin as you feel his heated breath roll across the nape of your neck.

“Are you certain?” He asks, taking this last opportunity to try and scare you away or convince you to back out.

Though you tremble in response to his voice rattling against the side of your neck, you do not retreat.

“You may have what I can offer.” You reply in turn, intentionally using very specific words.

He may only take what you can afford to give him. Nothing more.

Given his experience and his power, he should know what that limit is and he should be able to prevent himself from crossing that line. You have no choice but to put faith in that ideal now that you have offered yourself onto him.

He offers no additional rebuttal. No additional warnings or arguments of any sorts.

What you next feel is his mouth upon your throat. Ravenous and desperate.

You feel the bitter sting of his teeth piercing your skin; the dull ache of blood seeping from the wound with each beat of your heart.

His tongue is hot. Just like his breath. And despite the pain, you find yourself strangely drawn to it. Lured in by the forbidden pleasure which dwells at the edge of the great bleed.

He greedily consumes every drop of blood that spills from your throat, and you feel your body growing weaker with every passing second. Each contraction of his throat pulls more and more of your vital essence for him to consume.

He only bites you once, and he drinks until the blood stops flowing. Then he yanks his mouth from your throat as if startled by his own actions.

You’re still conscious, but you’re exhausted. Just trying to lift your head proves strenuous. More so when the Deity proceeds to lay an arm across your back, causing you to effectively fall down completely on top of him.

“Rest.” Eclipse quietly murmurs.

“But the goat...” You mutter in response, your voice now as quiet and exhausted as his is.

He proceeds to lay a second arm over top of you, literally trapping you with him on the bed in the process.

“You must rest.” He repeats his command, this time a little more sternly.

“I took a lot from you. As much as you could give, just as you offered. But it was more than enough to weaken you...” He sighs, having clearly decided that you’re entitled to a reason behind him insisting that you should stay and rest. Or maybe he had figured out that if you were not given a good enough reason, you would continue to try and leave so that you could buy him a goat.

“... It would bother me, greatly, to know that you left on my behalf only to get hurt. The animal could overwhelm you. Or mean spirited people could lash out at you, for daring to show me this kindness. I do not wish for you to be harmed because of me.” He explains further.

You can clearly hear the pain in his tone as he speaks. Pain and fear.

The idea of you getting hurt genuinely upsets him. It hurts him to think that you might get hurt because of him, and he is very much afraid that you will be harmed as a result of helping him.

You cannot help but chance a glance towards his face.

He looks so... Conflicted. Tired and conflicted. This whole situation must be so alien to him, given how heavily feared he is.

A reluctant sigh escapes you as you allow your eyes to close.

He really is kind. Surprisingly so, for someone depicted in such a monstrous light.

“I’ll rest.” You murmur, hoping to reassure the being that you will do as he has asked of you.

“Just for a little while, though. You’ll need more blood if you want to recover, right?” You add.

He shouldn’t complain about that sort of arrangement, right?

You hear him sigh in turn.

“When you can climb out from under my arms without a struggle, you may go.” Eclipse retorts.

You furrow your brows somewhat in response.

That sure is a strange way to go about doing things. But then again... Well there isn’t a better means of gauging your strength right now, is there? He certainly isn’t in any state to give you a less unusual means of testing your strength.

He wasn’t holding you down. He had just laid his arms across your back. You just happen to be so worn out from his feeding that you don’t have the strength to hold yourself up with his arms on your back. Simple as that.

“... Very well.” You mutter, opting not to try and argue with him on the matter.

He did have a point. With you this weak, the goat; or any other animal you might buy; would probably be able to overpower you if it decided to act up. And then you wouldn’t have the strength to chase it down and catch it if it somehow managed to get away from you.

There was also no telling if anyone in town would be willing to help you catch the rowdy beast, given the circumstances. So you were better off just trying to rest while you had the chance.

Even if it was a bit awkward that you were using the wounded God as a bed...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 2: Treasure Claimed

Ten days.

That was how long it took for Eclipse to recover from his injuries. Ten days.

Ten days of routine care. Ten days of fetching him livestock to use for sustenance. Ten days of helping him clean his wounds. Ten days of fretting.

Ten days of watching him heal, and watching him open up to you.

He isn’t a monster at all. The Vampiric curse just has a habit of taking good people and twisting them into unrecognizable husks of their true selves when they fail to satiate their thirst for blood.

He feeds from animals because he does not want to hurt people. He does not want to be the monster that they think him to be.

During his stay, he has only allowed himself to feed from you thrice. Each time, you had to convince him that he was allowed to do so. And each time he made sure to treat you with utmost care.

With each bite, the feeding became less painful, and more pleasant. Relaxing, even.

In a weird way, you would probably miss the tired feeling that washed over you following each feeding session.

But you were probably just going to miss him in general.

Today was meant to be his last day with you. You went out to fetch one last goat. So that you could celebrate his recovery and send him on his way with a full stomach.

This time, the farmer wasn’t happy to see you.

Ten goats you had bought from him. Ten strong, healthy goats that he would have rather used for breeding, or for his own needs. All of them were sold to you so that you could feed them to a “Ravenous God”, as he called Eclipse.

He did not want to sell you an eleventh goat. He did not want to sell you another animal, period. Not if you were just going to use it to satiate the bloodlust of the “Monstrous Deity” that you brought into your home and encouraged to stay in town.

Now your arm hurts.

The farmer was needlessly rough in turning you down and sending you on your way. A faint burning, almost itchy sensation on your shoulder remained as some proof of the physical damage that had been done. Not to mention the red mark surrounding the small scratches that were barely hidden under your shirt.

You solemnly rub your shoulder in a vain attempt at soothing the discomfort.

This was not the first time that someone had manhandled you, and it would not be the last. But this has soured your mood, unfortunately.

No one else in town would sell to you. Not while Eclipse was here. None of them wanted to provide a meal to the Deity, as they believed that it encouraged him to stay or to return in search of food.

No one wanted him here.

Aside from you.

Now you had to go home and tell him that there would be no goat tonight. No goat, or sheep, or anything. He would have to take his leave on an empty stomach, unless he would be satisfied with one last drink of your blood.

Heck, you could use the relaxation that his feeding would bring, because you felt pleasantly heavy and tired whenever he finished. It would be nice to just lay down and sleep and not have to worry about anything.

You ignore the various looks you receive as you make your way back home.

Eclipse is there to greet you when you step inside.

For a split second you see something flash in his eyes, but you hardly have the time to register what it is.

Concern, most likely. It is obvious that you’re upset. Given how attentive he has been to you during his stay here; at least in the sense that he has worried over your wellbeing.

“I could not get you a goat. I’m sorry.” You murmur as you haphazardly remove your coat. You also offer him back his coin purse, as there is no need for you to keep hold of it.

“What happened?” Eclipse asks in response.

You swear that you hear something in his voice. A heightened emotion of some sort. But honestly, you’re so worked up that you can’t be bothered to really focus on it.

“You may feed from me if you’re hungry.” You reply, completely ignoring his question. You do not want to talk about it. You do not want to discuss how the people in the town have decided to turn on you in response to you having provided this being with food and shelter.

You then jump and freeze as the Deity proceeds to slam his hand into the wall over your shoulder when you turn away from him.

He easily could have put his hand through the wall if he had wanted too. But he did not.

The tension in the room is palpable now.

Fear bubbles up inside of you as the Vampiric God proceeds to trap you between himself and the wall.

His gaze is intense and burning. You can feel your skin tingle in response to his eyes.

More so when he leans down to bring his face right next to your ear.

“What happened?” He repeats, sternly.

Now you can definitely hear it. The anger in his voice.

Goosebumps rise on your skin as he brings a hand up to easily tug down the collar of your shirt, exposing the minor injury that the farmer left on your shoulder during your confrontation.

Multiple thin lines reveal where nails roughly dragged against your skin. The slightest hint of pink shows that while shallow, the wounds were just deep enough to draw trace amounts of blood.

You shudder, feeling Eclipse’s heated breath roll down over the marks on your shoulder.

His tongue follows suit. Initially, to clean the wound.

But then he bites you. Unexpectedly and without warning.

He sinks his teeth in, easily engulfing the wound with his mouth and surrounding it with the imprint of his teeth.

You whine at the sharp sting of the initial puncture, then gasp at the feel of his tongue dragging against the fresh wound upon release.

You offered your blood a moment ago. And even though he’s bitten you, it's obvious that he is not feeding.

Whatever he’s doing now feels closer to... Domination. Or possessiveness. It's as though he’s overwhelmed the injury inflicted upon you by the farmer with a wound of his own making.

Your legs are trembling by the time he sucks his tongue back into his mouth so that he can move his face back to your ear.

The wound is still bleeding, but he has elected to ignore it.

“What happened?!” He repeats again, the anger in his voice getting more intense this time; possibly because you’ve opted to ignore his question twice now. Even if the second time wasn’t entirely your fault, given his unexpected attack.

Only now do you realize how heavily you’re breathing. Likely from the adrenaline rush that came with being cornered like this.

You’ve never seen him so worked up. It's genuinely intimidating. Threatening, even.

Eclipse goes back to licking the blood from your wound as he waits for your response. His tongue focuses unnecessarily on the small scratches that the farmer gave you, as if attempting to completely erase the marks.

Little do you realize that that is his plan, and that he succeeds.

He commands the minor wound to completely heal through the movements of his tongue, while simply lapping up the blood that seeps from his bite in the meantime.

“T-the farmer-” You whine, genuinely distracted by the motions of his heated tongue against your skin. Whatever he’s doing is making you feel all tingly, in a weird sort of way.

What’s fucked up is that you’re pretty sure you like it. But you’re also so intimidated by him that it's hard to tell.

Eclipse withdraws his tongue completely when you finally start talking. Though he remains a distraction in pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

You can hear him panting. His breath rolls across your skin in heated pulses.

“The f-farmer was angry. He would not sell me a goat... And he was rough in making me leave.” You admit.

The Deity seems to growl in response. Though the sound was so faint that you hardly hear it.

You suddenly feel his teeth against the side of your throat.

He doesn’t bite you. Not immediately. He just uses his teeth and mouth to coax your head back so that you will further expose your neck to him.

You comply, even as you tremble in anticipation.

His lips wrap around your throat. You feel his teeth pressing faintly into your flesh; but he still does not bite.

He does not bite, yet he sucks roughly on your skin.

A pathetic sound escapes you in response. A pathetic and embarrassing sound, at that.

You should be terrified, given how he’s behaving. He’s acting like a territorial animal threatening to tear you apart!

Yet despite your anxiety, you cannot deny how arousing this situation is.

The panting. The firm, controlling physical contact. Everything from his nuzzling to his biting has been used to assert some level of power over you, and yet he has not done anything to hurt you.

Well... The bite did sting at first and it is technically a wound. But you do not perceive that as him having harmed you.

You aren’t quite sure what’s gotten into him, and as confused and anxious as you are, you don’t really hate it.

You’re... Uncertain. Unsure as to what he’s doing or why, or what he even means to do with you.

When he finally pulls his mouth from your throat, you hear the audible pop of your skin escaping the intense suction of his lips.

A faint sting makes it clear that he’s left a mark.

No.

He’s left a hickey on your neck.

You feel your cheeks flush the instant that that realization dawns on you. Which in turn draws his attention to your face, prompting him to nuzzle your cheek while making... A noise that sounds somewhere between a growl and a purr.

Oh.

Oh dear.

Is he?!...

You shudder a bit, having now grown acutely aware of something else being pressed up against you.

Where the fuck did this come from?! Throughout all of his time here, he’s never said or done anything that implied any level of carnal interest!

Yet here he is half grinding his obvious carnal interest against you whilst he traps your much smaller body against the wall with his own. He’s practically curled up around you in order to do what he’s doing, which just further makes it clear how persistent he’s being in dominating your personal space.

“E-Eclipse-?!” You stammer his name, though you quickly fall silent again as he drags his tongue along your cheek. Your thoughts escaped you the instant you felt the warmth of his tongue against your skin.

What did you even plan to say? You can’t remember.

Not with him so close. Not while he’s being so persistent with whatever he’s doing.

Your legs nearly buckle as his tongue finds your ear.

He drags you into his arms to keep you secure as he continues to tease your ear with his tongue. And once you’re in his arms, his hands don’t hesitate to begin their exploration. Nor do they explore you gently.

He nips the shell of your ear as his hands quite literally tear at your clothes so that they can access the unexplored flesh hidden beneath.

The noises that he coaxes out of you with his antics are absolutely shameful.

You still aren’t sure where all of this has come from, but for some reason, you don’t hate it. Even if you’re confused and nervous, you don’t hate what he’s doing.

Even as his claws nick your tender flesh and his teeth lightly pierce into your ear, you don’t hate what he’s doing.

“....” Eclipse suddenly murmurs your name into your ear as he nuzzles the side of your head.

You tremble in response.

His voice has gotten so raspy and intense. His arousal is beyond obvious just in his tone. And something about the way it sounds sends pleasant tingles rolling along your spine.

He wants you. His tone makes it obvious.

So does everything else he’s been doing for the past... God, how long has he been all over you like this? Time feels like it's standing still.

But he’s gotten you all riled up now and whatever happens next, you’re going to blame on him for acting like such a lust-stricken beast.

His actions prove infectious enough to make you abandon your inhibitions and pull him into a kiss.

With one swift motion you bring both of your hands to his face to hold him still while you turn your head, and you press your lips against his.

For a split second, Eclipse completely freezes.

The next thing you know, you’re being thrown onto the bed.

The very same bed that he spent his time resting in while you nursed him back to health. The stains from his blood still mark the unkempt bedding.

You stare up at him, completely bewildered, as he stares down at you in turn.

Intense.

His eyes are so intense, and hungry.

Everything about his body language screams danger; from his intense eyes to his almost predatory movements as he calmly steps closer to the bed.

You watch him peel off his own shirt before he crouches to climb onto the bed.

He crawls over top of you like a spider creeping in to devour a helpless fly.

You certainly feel helpless beneath him. And yet, somehow, you don’t feel as though you’re in any danger.

He could have done you serious harm at any point, if he wanted. And he still hasn’t. Which means, despite his visible hunger, he doesn’t actually mean to devour you like an animal.

But despite understanding that you’re probably not in any actual danger, you can’t help the fight or flight that kicks in once he comes to loom over you.

You’re confused. Scared. Aroused.

You don’t know what you’re trying to do or why you’re even trying to roll over and crawl out from under him. The adrenaline and all of these conflicting emotions are just making you react, and the only way that you can think to react is to try and escape. Even if you don’t actually intend to get away from him.

Eclipse responds in turn like an animal apprehending its prey.

His hands easily capture your small, laughably weak body. And once he has a good hold on you, he roughly pins you down atop the bed.

Your submissive mewling is muffled by the pillows as even your head is pressed down. Not enough to risk smothering you, but enough to establish that there’s no easy way to squirm out from under him.

You wrap your arms around the pillow instinctively, holding it tightly as if it will provide you some sense of stability as you wriggle about in his grasp.

Eclipse isn’t the only one acting like an animal right now.

In your squirming, you find yourself practically presenting yourself to him. He allows you to lift your hips and tuck your knees, and because that’s all that you can do, you do it.

You kneel under him like a bitch in heat and he practically mounts you like a dog. The only thing preventing him from actually claiming you is your clothes.

Yours and his, technically. He still has his pants on.

Not for long, though.

He tears apart the clothing that is keeping him from feeling you and your squirming body directly against his. You hear it and you feel it when he literally reduces your clothing to ribbons using his claws.

None too gently, at that.

Your skin stings, which makes it clear that he’s caught you with his talons again. But you don’t care.

You just whine pathetically into your pillow as you feel Eclipse pressing his fully exposed genitals against you.

You swear you feel two. They’re sliding between your thighs, threatening to invade you. But you can’t find the nerve to look back and see for yourself what he’s got going on between his legs.

“E-Eclipse!” You whine his name into the pillow as you feel him grinding against you.

Fuck, you’re so wet. If he felt like it, he could just slide right in and stretch you out without issue.

You gasp at the unexpected feeling of his mouth against the back of your neck.

He’s biting you. And for some reason, it burns.

It burns like…

You tentatively reach back to feel where his mouth is locked against your flesh. And in doing so, you burn the tips of your fingers on his scalding hot ichor.

“Eclipse?!” You whimper his name, admittedly bewildered, as the heat of his blood spreads throughout your body from the bite on the back of your neck.

You hear and feel him growl in response.

He keeps his teeth locked so long that the bite genuinely starts to become painful. Genuinely painful. His teeth pull free of you only when those first tears begin to roll down your cheeks; at which point he begins to lap at the sore wound in order to soothe it. But by then you’re meekly sniffling from the pain brought about by the intensity of the bite and the unpleasant sensation of his blood singing your wounded flesh.

The only real distraction that he can give you is the feel of his cock - er, cocks? - sliding into your waiting body.

You cannot help but cry out in response. The pain and the pleasure mix together, creating a sensation that genuinely overwhelms you as he claims you completely.

He moans like a beast as he invades your body.

You moan and you sob, clinging tightly to your pillow as you feel him stretch you to the brink of breaking.

Hot.

You feel hot. Especially around the back of your neck, and where his body invades yours.

Eclipse practically curls around you to hold you close as he animalistically ruts into you. He presses you so close to him that he can barely even rock his hips.

But whether he manages to slide an inch, or six inches, it still feels incredibly intense.

So much so that you can’t stop crying. Even though the pain is gone and your neck has stopped bothering you, you’re just so overwhelmed by it all that you cannot help but sob underneath him as he fucks you like a beast.

It feels good. But it feels too good.

So good that you have to grip the pillow until your knuckles turn white from the strain.

So good that you genuinely cannot tell how many times you’ve orgasmed before you feel an unexpected rush of heat as the Deity apparently reaches his climax.

His ejaculate is hot. Just like his blood, but not nearly as intense.

Your abdomen is left feeling incredibly warm after he spills his seed into you. Even from the outside, you can feel it when you press your hand against your abdomen in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure.

You feel so hot and full.

There’s so little space between your bodies that his seed has nowhere to go but inside. So your abdomen bloats ever so slightly from the excess fluid that has been pumped deep inside of you.

He bites you again mid-ejaculation.

You whine meekly as his teeth pierce your shoulder.

The one that was previously completely unharmed.

God, you’re covered in marks. From his teeth. From his claws. From the sheer strength of his grip.

Bite marks. Claw marks. Bruises.

You genuinely look as though you’ve just been attacked by an animal, and yet all that you can really focus on is the sensation in your abdomen as you feel his seed permeate your uterus.

Good Lord, he fucked you like he meant to breed you. And given the heat spreading through your insides, he very well might have.

Somehow he’s still hard.

You can feel him throbbing inside of you, now that he’s holding still.

You whimper again as you feel him start to nuzzle the crook of your neck. The last of your tears roll down your cheeks as you begin to hiccup uncontrollably, all of the emotions now catching up with you now that the intensity of the moment has passed.

Eclipse shushes you gently. Apologetically, even.

“I’m sorry...” He murmurs, moving to gently nuzzle your cheek as he shifts ever so slightly, coaxing another whine out of you unintentionally.

“Shh. It's okay.” He hums, adjusting you in his arms so that he can roll you over until you face him.

You then wrap your arms around him and cling to him tightly; even as you feel him slip out of you, along with a sudden gush of his seed.

Your cheeks flare with the embarrassment of the sensation. But he draws no attention to it, because his focus is entirely on comforting you.

“I was too rough with you. I’m sorry.” He murmurs, continuing to apologize even as he rolls over so that you can lay on top of him.

For a few moments, he seems content to just hold you. Until suddenly his arms shift so that he can hoist you off of him.

Initially, you try to resist him. And at first, he allows it. But after a few seconds, he gets very persistent with his movements and you have no choice but to obey him.

“Let me see.” He requests, establishing that he wants to see what he’s done to you.

You whine, mostly in protest, and partly in embarrassment as he proceeds to sit you upright on top of him. Then you shudder as your recently demolished, still overly sensitive genitals come into contact with his bare abdomen.

His skin is so cold. It feels strangely pleasant against your nethers. Soothing, in a way. Like a rush of cool water on a burn.

You cannot help but awkwardly roll your hips.

Despite the stimulation that the friction brings, the soothing chill of his skin is worth it. Though you fail to properly take into consideration that Eclipse can see what you’re doing. And what you’re doing is basically humping his chiseled abdominal muscles like an untrained animal. Not that he seems to mind, given that his hands are on your hips, and he could stop you at any moment.

He does not want to stop you, though.

If you had bothered to stop and pay attention, you would be able to take in his expression. You would see the intense desire in his half-lidded eyes. You would see how he has to fight the urge to arch his back against you as you shamelessly grind against him. You would see the faint curl of his lips and the pleasured snarl that he gives you with each motion. A pleasured snarl that remains silent only because he somehow finds the strength of will to keep from moaning underneath you.

You become aware of his heavy stare only when he finally tightens his hold on your hips to force you to keep your body still. At which point you realize what exactly you’ve been doing, and you hide your face behind your hands in embarrassment.

“I am” Eclipse groans, his hands now shaking as he trails them down your hips to your thighs “I am trying to be gentle, with you!”. He practically scolds you as he coaxes your hips up off of his abdomen; which has now been heavily smeared with a mixture of your own arousal and his spent ejaculate.

“Have you any idea how hard it is to control myself, with you throwing yourself at me like this?!” He asks, though his tone is anything but accusatory.

He sounds excited, to say the least. And you know that it must be your fault, given the little show you just put on for him.

You struggle to fight back a needy moan as he guides your hips back so that he can bring you down to his pelvis.

You can see how strange his anatomy is now. He really does have two penises. But they are not shaped like anything a human has ever had. They are long, and striking in their color. Fiery orange. They stand out as a sharp contrast against his ebony skin.

No wonder they feel so hot. With a color like that, how could they possibly be made from anything but flame?

You watch, literally trembling with anticipation, as the two tendrils coil around each other like snakes.

Did you really take both of these, before? Skies above; they were huge! And when wrapped around each other like they were now, their combined base must have been as thick as your arm!

“Say that you want me!” Eclipse commands, holding you so that you hover over his writhing mass of arousal. You’re kept high enough that he cannot slip into you, but low enough that you can feel the two tips greedily reaching out to explore your sensitive flesh.

He even forces you to lean slightly so that he can specifically tease your clitoris with his bizarre phalluses, stimulating your further and coaxing dramatic sound from your trembling lips.

“I-I wh-?!” You try to question him, only to be distracted by the teasing stimulation.

Fuck. You want him! Of course you want him! You would have sobbed and begged him to stop if you had not wanted him to mount you earlier! So why does he care about consent now, when he’s already marked your womb with his divine seed?!

“I claimed you once already, while my mind was gone. Nngh - I-I want to hear it from your lips! Tell me. Gift yourself to me, and become mine completely, while I still have this moment of sanity!” He commands again, giving you more thorough details this time around.

He seems to be struggling to maintain his composure. You can see it in his face, as you gaze down at him.

Come to think of it, you saw it earlier as well. Back when this little confrontation first began, and it took place right up until you kissed him.

Eclipse is battling with a part of himself. A part that desperately wants to just take you and claim you as his. A part of him that is likely governed by the beastly instincts of the Vampiric curse; the part of him that contains the monster that he could become if his bloodlust goes unquenched.

The other part of him; the part that is currently in control, the part that houses his humanity; it wants to make sure that you’re alright with this.

He wants you to be his. Both sides; the God and the Vampire. But one side will take you without your consent, whereas the other desperately wants to give you the right to choose.

You tremble as you stare down at him.

You really are messed up, aren’t you? To be turned on by the idea of being claimed by a God; with or without the right to turn him down; is absolutely abhorrent.

But you don’t care how wrong it is to want this, or to want to be made his property.

He is kind.

Despite everything; he is kind. He has shown you more human compassion in his brief stay here than you have received from the actual humans that live here.

And you have shown him more compassion and understanding than any other human that he has had the chance to meet. That is likely why he has grown so fixated on you in the first place. You embody everything he has longed for since he was stripped of his humanity, and he is not willing to let the opportunity satiate his desires slip past his fingers.

You hold just as much power over him as he has over you. Maybe not in the literal sense, but still.

“I-I-” You whine, struggling to find your words as you desperately try to lower yourself down onto him.

“I-I” He relaxes his grip, allowing you to sink down onto him of your own free will “I want you!” you finally blurt out.

Eclipse responds in turn by pulling you down onto him completely. He mercilessly reclaims your body, coaxing a strangely relieved moan out of you as you feel him stretch you out again.

The heat is back. Intense and addictive.

The God uses his hold on your hips to guide you as you begin to ride him. His other hands move elsewhere to support your body as you move.

One hand tangles with yours while the other cups your face.

His thumb slips into your open mouth. You feel it hold down your tongue; which makes your moans appear so much louder than before.

“You are mine!” Eclipse practically snarls these words as he maintains unwavering eye contact with you.

“No one else may have you! No one else may do so much as touch you! Or I will show them how monstrous I can be!” He states, grunting between every word as you bounce relentlessly on top of him.

Droll dribbles down your cheek and tears of pleasure well in your eyes as you become overwhelmed by the sensations once more, but you cannot help but bounce your hips.

This is all your doing. You’re the one riding him. You’re the one moaning like a whore as you feel his heated lengths impale your womanhood time and time again.

You’re the one offering yourself to him as a willing sacrifice. One that is meant to be treasured, rather than slaughtered.

“After this, I must go... I have duties to attend to.” He groans, obviously fighting back his orgasm in a desperate pursuit of dragging out these last few moments by your side.

“But I-” He groans, arching his back and trembling as the pleasure nearly overwhelms him “I will return!” He promises.

You gasp as he pulls you down completely onto him, stretching you to the brink of breaking as he ejaculates once more. You’re made to take every drop of his seed while he holds you completely still to prevent anything from spilling.

You moan, practically broken mentally from the pleasure, as you watch your abdomen bloat from the internal pressure.

“When-” He pants “When the bite on your neck fades, I will return to mark you again.” He promises, sitting up so that he can claim your lips in a rough and dominating kiss.

You moan sweetly into his mouth as he tangles his tongues with yours, devouring your pleasure with his kiss.

By the time your brain registers the sensation of him slipping out of you, he’s already gone. Long, long gone.

Your mind completely blanked out at some point during the kiss. What would have been a couple hours of aftercare have become nothing but a foggy dream in the back of your mind. But you can remember the feel of his embrace as he ushered you off into sleep, promising to return for you before the bite on your neck could heal completely.

Your cheeks flush faintly as you reach up to brush your fingers against the mark on the back of your neck. Though it is sore, knowing that you have it makes your stomach feel all fluttery.

You do not know for certain if this is a mark of love. It is too early to say for certain what it truly means to be claimed by a God.

But you know that Eclipse treasures you like he treasures nothing else upon this Earth. And that alone is enough to give you those same lovestruck butterflies that anyone else might feel in those moments where they first catch feelings.

And honestly, just knowing that you’re cared for is enough. At least for now.

[seaofserene]

i got the serenity boss fight brainrot again so here’s me brainstorming under the cut;

content warning for morbidness and hydrophobia

so lately ive really been trying to imagine what it’d be like if serenity was an actual threat you could face in a sonic game --- and more specifically; what a boss fight with her would look like. (because she absolutely would have one. she has final boss potential for sure.)

in terms of setting/platforming; it DEFNITELY would be a water based fight. serenity would need to be in her full element in order to reach maximum threat capacity. whether or not this means its in the ocean is up for debate. but there’d definitely be a body of water in the area. my brain goes to the ancient crumbled temples she inhabits now, but i’m also obsessed with the concept of her commandeering the oracle’s sanctum (which is a special place where her estranged people live. but thats more lore-stuff i’ll have to get into another time.) bottom line is: it would be VERY bad for everyone involved. 

she would definitely need a reliant source of power in order to keep her attacks consistent so she doesn’t burn out, because while she has a wide range of abilities, they do tax her energy and can exhaust her if she uses them in great extremes.

now if it were sonic who had to fight her, which is usually par for the course when it comes to the games; it’d certainly be one of the greatest challenges he’d face yet. never mind the obvious fact that its yet another enemy that has to deal with his greatest fear; water --- but someone who can bring forth your deepest fears too? it would be a testament to his bravery and mental fortitude for sure. i think serenity’s siren call is very willpower based, so obviously those who possess one strong enough can withstand her illusions.

that aside, serenity would not give you any room to breathe. she’d be throwing everything she’s got at you. it would start out as a ranged fight, she’d be relying on hydrokinesis and her siren call for attacks. you would have to avoid heavy water waves from knocking you off the platform you’re standing on as well as ice spikes being shot at you or driving up from the ground you’re standing on. i think the technique of getting a hit on her would be waiting for the water to freeze so you can rush in and land some attacks on her before having to quickly get back to a solid platform. (even cooler thought; the water freezing in the form of a slide or ramp that you gotta maneuver on in order to get an attack in on her.)

and then there’s the siren call to take into question, now if it’s SONIC who’s fighting her, there would be sections during this phase of the fight where it LOOKS LIKE the water has flooded all around you, but obviously you’d still be standing on the platform just fine. you would also hear sonic’s friends crying out for his help! sounding terrified and like they’re on the verge of death. (if you’ve seen or read the hunger games, think like the mockingjays in the 75th hunger games :’D hahaha trauma.) that would be her vocal mimicry coming into play. these sections would be intended to distract you and blindside you while serenity is still attacking with hydrokinesis, so the technique would be to remain focused on still evading the physical attacks until you can get some pot shots in.

THAT WOULD BE THE FIRST PHASE OF THE FIGHT. the second phase would involve serenity becoming frustrated and taking it upon herself to attack directly. there would still be elements from the first phase here, but now she’s actually coming at you and slashing at you with her claws. she would also attempt to grapple you and drag you into the water, so i’d imagine there’d be a quick time event you have to pull off to avoid getting dragged (which would be another opportunity to land a hit on her), but if you DO get caught, you’d have to struggle free before you get pulled in (and it would cost you rings). she would also taunt the hell out of you while she does. or laugh. one of the two.

SPEAKING of dialogue, here’s some quotes i thought of off the top of my head. ‘cause she is the type to try to discourage you from trying. (they would also be audio cues to let you know when she’s about to do a certain attack so you do have some time to prepare.)

after/during hydrokinesis attacks:

“ You’ve lasted longer than I was expecting. It’s just a shame that you are only prolonging the inevitable... ”

“ It is a pointless effort. You will die. You know that, don’t you? ”

“ Once I am through with you, the rest will follow suit... ”

“ HAHAHA! That looked painful! Why not have another!? ”

“ Oh, so close. Are you ready to give up, yet? ”

during/after the siren call sections:

“ I wonder ... what do you fear the most? ”

“ And not just you, all of them... ”

“ Oh my! You look rather disturbed. Is something wrong? ”

“ Hmhmhm! They can’t hear youuu ~ ! ”

during/after her rush attacks and/or when she’s dragging you:

“ ENOUGH. Let’s see you survive this! ”

“ HOLD STILL SO I CAN GUT YOU! ”

“ Lay down and DIE already! ”

“ I wonder what your soul tastes like ... Let’s find out, shall we?! ”

“ If you come nicely, I promise that your death will be quick! ”

“ HmhMHAHAHA! ”

after landing an attack on her:

“ Nrgh! You are going to regret that... ”

“ Ugh! How did... ? ”

“ Ha... It’s nothing! ”

“ Damn you. ”

“ STAY STILL! ”

“ Grgh! You call that a hit?! ”

ANYWAY... thats all i can really think of for now. besides, after beating her. she would be a sore loser. it would be a big insult to her pride so fully expect one angy, desperate siren.

OH YEAH AND BEFORE I FORGET the whole reason i’m even thinking about this is because i commissioned a friend to write serenity a boss fight theme. so yeah, while all of this is happening: THIS SONG IS PLAYING.

needless to say, it would be one hell of a ride.

[thedarkplume]

Throwback Thursday

Dust off those browsers, friends. We’re gonna travel back in time to the stories that brought us into the fandom or the ones that have stuck with you through the years.

Share your super old faves and reblog them, showing the authors their classics are not forgotten. Leave them a love note showing them how much it means to you.

Then reblog the first story you wrote for your current fandom or even the first one you wrote for each fandom you belong to. The world is our oyster. Let’s rediscover some pearls.

I'm not going to lie. This Ask made me a little bit sad. There have been some really great writers on this site that have left us for unspecified reasons, and some for the childish bullying that seems to be a daily thing.

One of my favorite blogs was @chocolatecherubs. They were a blog that was written specifically for black female characters in the Marvel Universe, with Steve and Bucky as the central love interests, particularly during the 1940s.

However, all is not lost! There are still plenty of blogs that I follow and love and can always count on to provide the most entertainment you can achieve without picking up an actual book. One of the blogs who always delivers on this front regardless of the subject matter is the beautiful and talented @avintagekiss24 . I've been following her for a year and it has been a nonstop rollercoaster of fun, excitement, surprise, and even a little bit of heartbreak.

@avintagekiss24 has so many stories that I reread over and over again, it's nearly impossible to pick just one. But...if I did have to choose a classic in a split-second decision it would be Night Shift. This was my first time ever reading a story about Andy Barber and since then I have not stopped!

As for my own forays into fanfiction, I've written for Twilight, Harry Potter, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Cruel Intentions, a few WIPs for We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Knives Out, and the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and that's not counting all of the stories knocking around in my head vying for attention!

Here is a VERY old Buffy the Vampire Slayer story I wrote.

Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Pairing: Buffy/Angelus

Setting: 1700s, New Colonies

A/N: This story is a little different from the others I’ve written. This story is set in the days of Angelus’ life when Drusilla had just turned Spike. Bear with me if everything is not exactly up to par historically – I am not a history buff! NSFW 18+ Warnings for offensive language, subject matter, violence, blood, gore, and sexual abuse.

His features could not be termed uninteresting—there lay in them something bold and daring—but the expression on the whole anything but benevolent. There were contempt and sarcasm in the cold dark eyes, whose glance, however, was at times so piercing that no one could endure it long.

from The Mysterious Stranger (1860) – Anonymous

What is obsession? Is it the madness that consumes a man when he’s confronted with the one thing he knows he is not supposed to have? Is it the burning desire to possess the aforementioned object, ensuring that she will only think of him as he only thinks of her? Angelus paced back and forth in his chosen room of the mansion. Darla was still off reconnecting with Dracula and giving Angelus some much-needed breathing room. While she was off having her own adventures, he moved his childe and grandchilde to the American Colonies. They were in the colony named New York. Angelus loved the New Colonies. The women were not as sexually repressed, and the humans as a whole were more trusting. Since their arrival, government officials, writers, artists, scholars – everyone who held wealth and power had invited Angelus, his “sister” Drusilla and her husband William, to parties. There was nothing Angelus enjoyed more than drunk socialites.

And it was at one of these parties that he saw her. The object of his obsession. Elizabeth Anne Summers. Buffy, to those who knew her intimately. She had long, golden blonde hair, not unlike Darla’s, but hers had more of a silky texture. Her eyes were large and hazel, brimming with innocence. She had sun-kissed skin that seemed to glow underneath the moonlight.

Angelus wanted her. He wanted to bury his fangs and his cock inside her. Her scent proved that she was untried, but that would only last so long. Angelus found out everything he could about her. She was promised to the governor’s son. She lived with her parents Hank and Joyce Summers. She had a baby sister – Dawn – who caught pneumonia and died at the age of six. Her father worked as a developer for the colony and his wife owned a prominent boutique. She had two best friends, Willow Osbourne née Rosenberg and Alexander Harris, husband to the beautiful and licentious Cordelia Harris née Chase.

The first time Angelus spoke to her was at a party that was thrown by an oil barren. Angelus, as usual, found himself surrounded by three potential meals. Drusilla stood by William’s side, smiling proudly as he recited poetry. It was terrible, but the women thought it was the most beautiful thing they had ever heard.

“Do you hunt, Mr. McConroy?” one of the women – Mrs. O’Hara or something or another – said, pulling him from his thoughts.

Angelus flashed an enticing smile. “Why yes, Mrs. O’Hara. ‘Tis one of my many pleasures.”

She wet her lips and fluttered her eyes in what he was sure was meant to be attractive. “Well, in that case, you should come to my husband’s estate in the country. You two can hunt and later you could tell me more about your pleasures.”

“How can a man of sound mind resist such an enticing offer?” he said, kissing the back of her hand.

The woman continued to place unnecessary hints concerning secret rendezvous and Angelus almost lost control and snapped her neck on the spot until one of the younger women spoke up.

“There’s that Elizabeth Summers.”

Angelus’ attention immediately shifted, seeking out his dark obsession. She came in with her parents. Her large hazel eyes seemed sad, and Angelus suddenly wanted to seek out that which had caused her misery and destroy it. He wanted to be the sole source of any pain she felt. But he could not gaze upon his obsession in peace as one of the three women continued her verbal assault.

“How a strange girl like that was lucky enough to have a contract with Governor Finn’s son is baffling.”

“She is a strange one, Harmony,” Cordelia Harris vehemently agreed. “My husband says that she spends all of her time reading. Reading! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Well, I hear that she wishes to become a writer! As if any respectable man would want anything written by a woman! A proper lady should spend her time learning to attend a household and concern herself with pleasing her husband.”

“Yes, well, we all know that Buffy,” she sneered the name. “Is as far from a lady as one can be. It baffles me why Alexander enjoys her company so. It’s embarrassing!” she glared as said husband made his way over to Buffy.

“I see nothing wrong with a properly educated woman, Mrs. Harris,” Angelus said, drawing their attention away from Buffy. “It would be refreshing to hear a woman contribute something to the conversation beyond how pretty the dresses are overseas.”

Cordelia Harris’ expression darkened so that if Angelus had been human, he might have been afraid. “Well,” she sniffed, highly offended. “It is upon the hour, and I believe I shall take my leave.” She stood and scowled at Angelus when he broke societal conventions and refused to stand when she did. “I bid you goodnight, Mrs. O’Hara, Harmony, Mr. McConroy.”

“Mrs. Harris,” his flourishing bow was meant and taken in all its mockery. He smirked as she huffed and stomped away. He watched her approach Buffy and Alexander, and used his enhanced hearing to listen in.

“…husband and I must be going,” she said in a clipped tone.

Buffy knew that her friend’s wife didn’t like her, but for Xander’s sake, she at least made an effort. “I am sorry that you must be leaving so soon. I hope you will feel well, Cordy.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, how many times must I remind you to call me Mrs. Harris?” she said tightly.

“Of course. I apologize.”

“Alexander.”

The dark-haired young man looked between his wife and his friend, wishing he could stay, but knowing he would never hear the last of it if he did. “Of course, dear. See you soon, Buffy.”

Her other friend, Willow, who had watched the scene from across the room, performed her usual damage control ritual. “You know I think one of these days he shall divorce her.”

“Willow!” she whispered, linking their arms. “You should not say such things.”

“Well, he should! I’m fairly certain the only reason he puts up with her is for the sex and we both know the pregnancy scare was the incentive for the marriage to start with…”

Angelus watched the two young women disappear out onto the gardens. “Ladies, if you will excuse me.” He left the woman at the table and sought out William. He didn’t have the same mental link with him as he did with Drusilla, but William could feel when his grandsire called him.

“You called?” he said, appearing moments later.

“Yes, I’m stepping out for a moment. Make sure no one sees Dru nibbling on the livestock.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s so special about this bird? I mean, she’s a cutie and all, but is she really worth our queen mother handing you your own arse?”

“What Darla doesn’t know won’t kill me.” Angelus knew William had a point. Darla was extremely jealous and possessive of him, but he was still sore around the edges where she was concerned, considering that she left him to die in a burning barn. Darla was his sire and that was a bond not easily broken, but nothing could reestablish the trust he lost for her. He glanced at Drusilla to see if she was keeping out of trouble and caught her thralling Harmony. “If you want the blonde as a party favor you should take her out of here. She’s as dumb as a post but has a pleasant peach scent to her.”

Angelus left his grandchilde to attend to Dru and followed Buffy’s scent through the large garden maze. She and her friend, Willow sat on a bench in front of a pond talking quietly.

“…says?”

“You mean when she’s not nursing a bottle? She blames me. She says even whores aren’t low enough to chase their own fathers,” she sniffled.

“Oh, Buffy, have you thought about telling Riley?”

“No, I can’t tell him, Will. If he thought for a moment that it’s gone further than a drunken fumbling, he’ll never speak to me again.”

“And right now, he’s your only way out,” Willow sighed in sympathy to her friend’s plight. “You know Oz and I will let you move in with us.”

“People will talk.”

“They’re already talking. One of New York’s most beloved sons married to a kike?”

“Willow!” Buffy admonished. “Don’t ever call yourself that.”

The redhead shrugged carelessly. “I have been called much worse. I am just telling you that Oz and I do not care what anyone else says about us.”

“I appreciate it. And if the wedding was happening later than next month I would say yes.”

“But what if he goes too far before Riley can save you?”

The unanswered question hung heavy in the air. Angelus seethed. He barely restrained himself from going back inside, grabbing Hank Summers and tearing off his worthless cock with his bare hands. It didn’t anger Angelus that the man was taking liberties with his daughter. It bothered him that his touch would not be the first she had known from a man.

“I should get back inside before Oz starts looking for me. Come with?”

“In a little while. I just want a little more time away from the noise.”

“Don’t take too long. Your parents,” she mumbled.

Angelus watched the Osbourne woman return to the party from his place in the shadows. He turned his attention back to Buffy realizing that they were finally alone. She leaned back, her hands flat on the bench and her face turned up towards the starlit sky. Her eyes were closed, and the subtle breeze disturbed the tendrils of silky tresses framing her face. Angelus had the perfect view of the golden skin of her smooth throat. His face shifted as he imagined sinking his fangs into her throat as her naked body writhed helplessly underneath his.

Buffy’s eyes suddenly snapped open. She stood and she looked around her as if sensing she was not alone. “Is someone there?” she called.

Angelus contained his excitement and returned to his human visage. “Just me,” he said, pretending as though he was simply out for a stroll through the garden’s maze. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Buffy stared at the man before her. She was certain that she had never seen him around before. He was tall, very tall. He had long dark hair that was bound behind his head. He had a wide mustache and she wondered if it was as soft as his hair looked. He had dark eyes. Eyes that were mischievous and secretive. She started to believe she was dreaming. She always thought Riley was cute in a boyish way, but this man before her with the long brown hair, his piercing dark eyes and his enticing smirk was…beautiful. His smirk seemed to widen, and Buffy realized with startling clarity that she was rather rudely staring at him.

“No, you did not frighten me, sir,” she recovered.

“You are Elizabeth Summers, correct?”

“Yes, but everyone calls me Buffy.”

He took her hand – it seemed tiny and engulfed by his – and pressed a small kiss to it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Buffy. I am Angelus McConroy.”

Recognition flashed in her large hazel eyes. “Of course, Mr. McConroy! You live in the Crawford’s old mansion. Your brother-in-law, William, is it? He ordered a gown from my mother’s boutique for your sister.”

Angelus suppressed another smirk. He had sent William on that particular mission to scout out the boutique and Buffy’s work hours, and to spread the word to the local undead community that she, her family and friends, were off limits.

“Yes, my family and I moved there a few months ago.”

Buffy fidgeted with her dress before resuming her place on the bench. “Would you…would you care to sit?” she offered timidly.

He flashed a dazzling smile and took his place beside her. “Now what is a lovely girl such as yourself doing out here all alone? It’s really not safe,” said the wolf to the rabbit.

Buffy glanced up at him and flushed as he stared down at her unblinkingly. “Oh, well, I just stepped out for a moment. Just for some air,” she shrugged.

“You don’t truly enjoy parties, do you?”

“They are…acceptable.”

“Ah, but a lass such as yourself would much rather be at home in front of the fire with a book. You prefer the silence and solitude to the noise and excitement.”

She flushed an attractive pink and looked up at him from under her lashes. “I realize that those are not exactly the qualities one looks for in a woman, but…”

“But you are far from a woman, lass. You’re still a wee child.” He watched appreciatively as her skin flushed a darker red.

“Sir, I will have you know that I am of sixteen years and will soon be a wife,” she said, not really succeeding in sounding offended.

“Yes, to Governor Finn’s lad no less. I find it difficult to see what it is the boy could have done to deserve the hand of such a fair lass.”

Her hazel eyes met his and she wore a smile befitting that of the most experienced of coquettes. “Do you tell all your ladies that, Mr. McConroy?”

“Only the pretty ones,” he smirked and wiggled his eyebrows.

She started laughing and Angelus thought it was the most enticing sound he had ever heard. “You are indeed a charmer, Mr. McConroy. If I may be so bold…?”

“You may.”

“Why is there not a Mrs. McConroy? A gentleman such as yourself should have amassed quite the number of prospects from the fairer sex.”

Angelus, seeing his opportunity, angled his body towards hers. “Perhaps it is because a man can only have ale for so long before he starts to long for a fine wine.”

He could hear her heart pounding in fear and excitement as their seemingly innocent conversation began to take a different turn. “But what if you’re not supposed to have the wine?” she breathed.

“That’s when it’s the sweetest.” His hand cupped her cheek and her eyes fluttered from the contact. “Look at me, Buff,” he commanded. “Look into my eyes.” Angelus knew he could have waited rather than jumping at the first opportunity to thrall her, but he was anxious to have her in his bed.

“You have pretty eyes.”

Angelus felt his eyebrows rise. You have pretty eyes? Angelus concentrated harder and Buffy flinched as he suddenly seemed to be scowling at her.

“What? Men can have pretty eyes,” she pouted slightly, thinking he was offended.

Angelus blinked. He surveyed her carefully, playing close attention not to let himself linger on her pouting pink lips. He didn’t understand how it was possible for her to resist his thrall. No one had ever resisted! The girl was obviously human. She smelled human. She had a heartbeat. What had gone wrong? His eyebrows knitted together as he ran through any and all explanations as to why his gift had failed him. He felt her warm hand press against his own.

“Angelus? Is something wrong?”

He recovered, wearing his signature smirk. “You think my eyes are pretty, do ye?”

Buffy fiddled with the sleeves of her dress looking anywhere but at him. “Yes, they resemble little pools of chocolate.” She felt his fingers lace through hers and looked down. She liked the way their hands fit.

“Now which one of us is the charmer here, Buff?” he watched her shiver as his fingers idly stroked hers.

“There you are!”

Buffy stood, withdrawing her hand from Angelus, completely missing his darkened expression. “Riley,” she said, her heart pounding heavily as though she’d been caught doing something terribly wicked.

“I have been searching all over for you, Bethie.”

He took her hand in his own, missing her subtle wince at the nickname she loathed. “Forgive me if I have caused distress. I only stepped out for a moment.”

“Your mother and father are looking for you. They –.” Riley stopped short when he saw movement behind Buffy. “Hello,” he said to the man who sat on the bench watching them unabashedly. “I do not believe we have met. I am Riley Finn, Elizabeth’s husband-to-be.”

“Oh, yes, the governor’s boy,” Angelus said, taking in the blue-eyed baby-faced boy with mocking eyes.

Although the sarcasm went completely over the boy’s head as he puffed out his chest and stood a little taller, Angelus smirk only grew when Buffy gave him a warning glare.

“Yes, yes, I am,” he said proudly.

“Riley, this is Mr. McConroy.”

Riley tensed slightly, something neither Angelus nor Buffy missed. “McConroy. You purchased the old Crawford Mansion.”

“Yes,” he confirmed, his eyes glinting slightly.

“Well, it was nice making your acquaintance, Mr. McConroy, but Elizabeth and I must be going.”

“Of course. Nice meeting you, Finn.” He turned his penetrating eyes to Buffy. He picked up her hand and gave her a lingering kiss that left her near breathless. “T’was a pleasure makin’ your acquaintance, Buffy.”

“Mr. McConroy,” she blushed.

Riley’s jaw clenched as he led Buffy away. But his annoyance over what he saw as a threat to his future wife was nothing compared to Angelus’ fury over Finn impeding the progress he had made.

“I do not trust that McConroy fellow,” he confided when they were of a safe distance away from him. Or so he thought. “He worries me.”

“Riley,” Buffy sighed. “Mr. McConroy is a nice man.”

“You know him well, then?”

“No. We only made acquaintance tonight.”

“Yet he already calls you Buffy.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Riley Finn, I do believe you are jealous.”

“Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “Do you find him attractive?”

Buffy blushed and lowered her eyes. “He is…agreeable. But it is you who will become my husband. Your name I will carry and your children I shall bear. Tell me once more why you are jealous?”

With a few well-executed words, Angelus could see Finn’s worries and inferiorities fade away. He leaned down and kissed her lips as carefully as if she were made of glass.

“Bethie?” he whispered, still holding her close.

“Yes?”

“If I asked you to do something, as your future husband, would you do it?”

Buffy tensed. Her small hands fisted the sides of his shirt as her mind twisted and turned over in itself. As her future husband, he could ask almost anything of her, and she was duty bound to obey. She trembled against him and swallowed the bile suddenly flooding her mouth. “Yes.”

“I wish for you to have no further contact with Mr. McConroy or any of his family.”

Buffy stepped back from him so that she could see into his eyes. “Riley, I have already told you that Mr. McConroy bears no threat to us.”

“But he does,” he argued. “Have you noticed the strange occurrences in our town?”

“Are you referring to Madeleine Archer?” Maddie Archer was two years younger than Buffy and had gone missing from her bed in the dead of night.

“Yes, as well as Rebekah Harte, Joshua Black, Edward Morton, Christine Adams, and countless others.”

“Riley, how do these unfortunate people pertain to you desiring distance between Mr. McConroy and myself?”

“They all vanished or perished inexplicably after McConroy, and his family took residence in the Crawford Mansion.”

“You are not suggesting…?” she gasped.

“There is something amiss about them. His sister is said to be touched in the mind, but there is more. She speaks in prophecies. Her husband, William, the poet, who may I say is not very good, he was seen with Rebekah Harte before she went missing. Then there is your new acquaintance. He never leaves the mansion during the day. He does not work and yet he attends every party and somehow amasses enough wealth to support his family. They have no servants or cooks. Their skin is unnaturally porcelain – must I go on?”

“Are you suggesting to me that Mr. McConroy, his sister and her husband may be…nefarious individuals?”

Riley smiled humorlessly. “Why does it frighten you to speak the word, Bethie? You once told me that what most would believe to be a monster, you see as a beast maintaining his nature.”

“I was referring to the work of Bram Stoker, Riley. Beasts exist, yes, but not of that sort, and certainly not amongst Mr. McConroy and his family.”

“You have always had faith in the most undeserving of creatures, Bethie.” He reached inside his trouser pocket and withdrew a silver cross on a chain.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I wish you to wear it whenever you leave the mansion.”

“Even in the sunlight?” she quipped.

“Even in the sunlight,” he answered, unaffected by her glibness. “All of the victims’ blood was drained through small punctures to the throat.”

Buffy paled as she gasped. “What? But you never said anything!”

“My father thought it was best that the families were not informed of this. It would lead to panic and at this time, the authorities have declared it a beast. Wear it. For me.”

“Okay,” she whispered, still struggling with the concept of the creatures she learned of as a child could truly exist beyond the pages of a novel.

Riley secured the cross around Buffy’s neck and exhaled in relief. “Now I believe we should find your parents. They can hardly fault a man for enjoying the company of his love.”

The couple left the garden arm in arm, completely oblivious to the heavy stare on their backs.

Angelus was beside himself with fury when the Finn’s and the Summers left the Hardy Mansion. He had covered his tracks and the tracks of his childe and grandchilde carefully. Yet, the Finn boy seemed to have linked all of their victims back to them. Although he tried his best to come across as noble and caring in Buffy’s eyes, the boy was far more concerned with her affections rather than her safety. The thought in itself caused a malicious smirk to befall his angelic features. They would have to be careful. Meticulous. One mistake and all would be lost. Nevertheless, Angelus would have Buffy Summers…even if he had to eviscerate every townsman to get her.

Angelus itched to relieve his fury and he knew just how to do it.

“Margaret, is it?” she was nothing. An aide in the Hardy household with the burden of a fatherless son. She was not remotely attractive, and her blood was not in the slightest appealing. But her polite smile and cautious eyes appeased him.

“Yes, sir.”

“I regret to bother you as I can see you are terribly busy, but I am afraid I require your assistance.”

“In what way, sir?” still so trusting.

“Come with me, please.”

Ah. There is the hesitation. “Very well, sir.”

He led her to a dark corner underneath the stairs hidden from the rest of the intoxicated socialites. “Ah, that’s better, isn’t it? Not complete privacy, but it should do for what I have in mind,” he said, letting his eyes drift over her, hoping to discomfort her. She predictably squirmed under his gaze, unaware that her used and aged body held no appeal for him.

“Sir, I…I should get back,” she stuttered, her heart pounding beautifully, forcing her blood to flow quicker through her arteries.

“Why not stay a while? After all, you did say you would help a fellow with his problem,” he purred, moving even closer to the frightful maid.

*“Sir, please, I should return to the party.”

*“Margaret, Margaret, there’s no hurry.”

She tried to pull away from him, hoping that someone might see. *“Mistress will be wondering…”

*“Sshh,” he cooed. “Mistress will be wondering how to get the good Reverend Chalmers into bed and will not notice the absence of canapé.” He stroked her chin for good measure, and she shuddered in spite of her fear. “Stay with me,” he urged.

Angelus could tell by her eyes that she was considering it. How could she not? A lowly maid, past her prime, receiving the attentions of the young and wealthy Mr. McConroy, a man that all women, be they married, betrothed, or divine worshippers, have attempted to lure into their beds.

*“Sir, people might talk,” she weakly protested. “I’ll be put out on the streets. My little boy would…I can’t lose this job,” she said, forgoing any thoughts she might have had about taking a chance with the beautiful Angelus McConroy.

Angelus, sensing her resolve, lost his temper. He grabbed her arms. *“Then you must keep quiet.”

*“You’re hurting me!” she said, speaking a little louder than she intended.

*“Ah! Cry out. Call for help. I’m sure Mistress will believe your behavior beyond reproach,” he sneered.

*“Please!” she gasped, wriggling in his embrace.

Angelus shook her roughly. *“Come, make a scene, huh?” he taunted. “Shall I?”

Margaret hesitated. *“No,” she whispered.

*“No, no. We’ll be as quiet as mice.”

Margaret lowered her head. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. If she closed her eyes and didn’t put up a fight, maybe it would be over soon. No one would believe her if she said their familiarity was forced.

Angelus could almost taste her defeat. His face shifted and when she looked back up at him, her fear and terror flooded his senses. *“No matter what.”

*“Sir!” she trembled, tears welling in her eyes. “My son!”

Good, he had almost forgotten. *“Oh, he’ll make a fine dessert, huh?”

He grabbed her, sinking his fangs into her throat before she could scream. He drained her quickly. She was unsatisfying and not at all fulfilling. He released her, letting her body fall carelessly to the floor. He tucked her away in the corner, knowing one of the other servants or perhaps her Mistress herself would find her. Angelus maneuvered around the intoxicated guests, following Margaret’s scent to the servant’s quarters. He found Margaret’s whelp sleeping in his bed. He was a boy of no more than seven years. His hair was curly like his mother's and a brighter shade of blonde. Margaret’s pallet lay positioned beside the boy’s bed. The boy clutched a worn brown bear that was missing its left eye. He was a beautiful child, clearly taking after his father. The boy opened his eyes and startling emerald green eyes met his own.

“Are you an angel?” he whispered.

His lips twitched as he fought the smirk that threatened to reveal itself. “An angel?”

“Mum says when it’s time an angel will come and take me to see my Da. Will you take me?”

He arranged the boy’s body in his bed and retrieved his mother, placing her on top of her pallet. From a distance, it would look as If they were merely sleeping. He returned to his mansion an hour before sunrise.

“Daddy, we saved her for you!” Drusilla called over the screams.

He strolled down to the “playroom” in the cellar. The room smelled of sex, blood, and fear. The young woman from the party, Harmony, was naked and railroad spikes had been driven through her hands and ankles, courtesy of William. Her legs and stomach were flayed, and Drusilla greedily lapped up her flowing blood.

William leaned against the wall, a pipe in his hand. “How did it go with the bird?”

Before he could answer, Harmony turned towards Angelus. Her face had been clawed, most likely by Drusilla, and her right eye hung out of its socket and lay limply against her cheek. “Mr. McConroy, help! Please help me!” she whimpered.

A cold smirk drifted on his lips as he played with her blood-soaked hair. “I could help you, Harmony, but you would have to do something for me first,” he taunted.

“Anything, anything.”

“Open your mouth.” A single tear fell from her good eye. She opened her mouth without hesitation. Angelus released his semi-hard cock and shoved it into her mouth. She choked and gagged as his hand knotted in her hair. “She resisted my thrall.”

William pushed off from his relaxed stance against the wall. “Resisted? How the bloody hell did she do that?”

“Gee, William, I have no idea. I’ll be sure to ask her next time,” he growled, shoving his entire length down Harmony’s throat.

“She’s not like the others,” Drusilla whispered. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. She was having a vision.

“What do you see, pet?”

Just as Harmony’s heart stopped beating, Angelus felt his seed spurt into her mouth. He pulled out, using her hair to clean himself off, smiling lightly as his seed and her blood dripped from her mouth.

“She was almost Called.”

“Called?”

“As in…?” Angelus had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“But the Powers…she was unworthy…innocent blood on her hands…now she is just a human.”

Angelus ran a hand through his hair, attempting to process what they had just learned. Buffy was meant to take the Calling. She was to be a Slayer, but she killed someone. The Powers deemed her unworthy and now she will never be a Slayer. But even though she didn’t have the Call, she was still equipped with the typical Slayer attributes. A mental block to resist the thrall. Possibly strength to fight against any demonic creature.

“Darla is going to kill you,” William snickered.

“Darla is too busy fucking Dracula to care what I do!”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Drusilla hunched over, moaning and hugging her stomach. William’s good mood faded quickly as he and Angelus flocked to her side protectively. “What do you see, Dru?”

“Bad man…bad man…bad man…”

“What bad man? What is he doing?” Angelus questioned her as she leaned against William.

“Touching…bad touch…bad touch…wants to keep her…wants to hurt her…!” she moaned.

Angelus growled deeply, startling his childe and grandchilde. “Hank Summers is a dead man. William, at first dark, I need you to do something for me.”

[anangelicday-mrwolf]

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 52 – How Come You Did Nothing?!

“We’re here.”

As a werewolf’s resolute howl was resonating in a deserted isle across the sea, Yuhyung’s eyes incandesced even before Rael’s words were met with a period.

He had kept his eyes open, unlike his previous trips upon Rael’s back.

With that moment just about few steps away from him, his heart did not allow his eyes to close.

“...Now what should I do?”

“Hide, of course. I...”

That was when concern smeared over Rael’s face as he looked around, and Yuhyung could imagine why.

The zone they had sought now remained completely desolate, following the visit from Lunark, Zarga, Urokai, and the 8th Elder.

Nobody would believe that this place once used to be as thick as Amazon rainforest with skyscrapers, just like any other spot in Seoul.

Being a deserted, uncluttered space, it appeared no different from the surface of the moon.

In other words, there was no place at all for Yuhyung to take refuge, except for one thing: a body of concrete that surely would have constituted a wall or a pillar of a building, stranded out in the open for some reason.

“I can stay behind this thing if you could raise it for me.”

Rael fell into awkward silence at the human’s suggestion.

Knowing that nobles can completely powder a telephone pole with a punch, Rael could tell that this chunk of concrete would be as good as nothing.

Nonetheless, he decided that it would be better than nothing. And Yuhyung had foreseen that Rael would decide so.

“One moment, please.”

Rael erected the pile, much bigger than his entire physique, with a single hand.

Behind him, Yuhyung rolled his eyes to watch whether Rael spies what is beneath his shoes.

And he was contented at the fact that Rael never once shifted his attention from the artificial rock.

In truth, this piece of concrete did not belong there; it was stationed after KSA’s cleanup of the war zone.

Its purpose was to serve as a cairn and a veil that signs and hides the equipment he entrusted Helga’s teammate with.

It worked in his favor that it happened to be Rael who accompanied him; had he been with anybody from KSA or RK, he would have faced accusation right away.

‘And now, I’ll have to distract him. But damn, what’s taking him so long?’

Yuhyung scanned his perimeter, scowling as inconspicuously as possible.

“...Here he comes.”

Yuhyung inwardly questioned whom Rael is talking about, before he reminded himself of the man both of them were expecting and made an inaudible “ah” with his lips.

With the sound of an object slicing through the air, something quite bulky stomped the earth.

“Oh, dear. That trip was meant to be elusive.”

Rael had not seen him for a while, but his smile was not at all like what was in his memories.

The noble was grinning in a cautious manner, not much discrepancy for them to see from his usual servile, overtly polite semblance.

However, Rael could see through what lay underneath: animosity, jealousy, and hostility towards him.

“Were you waiting for me? Or does this mean...”

Deneb eyed the human standing behind Rael.

Yuhyung, being truthful to his performance until the last moment, sluggishly moved for shelter behind Rael’s black robe.

“Well, not that it matters. I was bound to be caught as soon as I hit this country.”

“...So, are you actually planning on fighting me, Deneb Illiness?”

“Fight you? No, sir. I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to eliminate you.”

“...You know that making an enemy out of your own kind with no appropriate reason is an act of rejection of the lord’s laws, established by our ancestors and rooted deeply upon our motherland. You don’t have to be a head of a clan to be aware of this must-know rule. Not to mention attempt of disconnecting my path for good at this point is equal to sabotaging the QuadraNet project. Am I going too far to say that you have no interest or loyalty for the said project?”

“No, sir. I’m more than well-aware of the meaning of my actions. Of course I do. However, there is this golden teaching that applies to every era and race: dead men tell no tales.”

He must be out of his mind, thought Rael.

Even with the question of possession of soul weapon put aside, those from non-octaclans are inferior to those from octaclans in terms of combat competence.

Rael could bet Deneb would not even last a minute against Regis – the weakest of current heads of octaclans due to his age – or Seira – defined the weakest of heads of octaclans before Regis’s official appointment – even if they are to bench either one of their hands.

‘Looks like his obsession with Seira and jealousy against me have fatally clouded his judgment.’

On the other hand, Rael could not ignore the tug at his chest, for he flaunts a history of troubles he brewed out of his obsessional affection for Seira.

The prickly sensation in his heart was replaced with frigid heat.

As regrettable as it was that he was to exercise his power against his own kind at a time like this, when unity is the key, what Deneb was carrying out was a violation of the laws of noblekind.

Something that Rael, as the head of a Lukedonian clan, must not oversee.

Rael in turn handed something to Yuhyung.

“Here – I’ll need maximum concentration to wrap this up as quickly as possible. So I must ask you to please tend to any communication we may receive.”

What Rael offered to Yuhyung was an in-ear communicator he saved from Tao just in case he needs assistance from the RK, which he had picked up upon his visit to Korea as the Lukedonian ambassador.

However, his intention was to make this battle quick, one-time, and unnoticed, which means he will be unable to reply to any message from KSA or RK, if they are to ask where he and Yuhyung are.

Although he was not sure if it would be possible for him to finish a battle against a noble unnoticed, he was determined to do his best.

And that was when with a swish something flew towards Deneb in an arc that was barely visible.

Deneb snatched the object and rotated his hand, and Rael’s countenance grew as cold as ice upon recognizing that he was holding the communicator he just yielded.

“I can see that you have changed for sure. Before I wouldn’t have even imagined you’d be carrying human inventions.”

With a piece of bicker and a noise of something crashing, the communicator was shattered to dozen bits.

“What did you just...?!”

Rael shifted his off-balanced gaze towards the one who caused such rapid turnout; he paid no attention and strode as if he were out on a walk, towards Deneb.

Rael’s cognition blacked out for a second at the flow of events that was improbable and expected to be impossible.

“...What is the meaning of this?”

“...Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, it’s not! You said Deneb Illiness forced you to...”

“Yes, at first it was forced. So he did not tell you that what was forced was later coined into an agreement.”

Agreement? What agreement?

“He asked for protection during what he is about to unfold here. And part of my plan was to one day take you out if I must, so I deemed an extension of our relation necessary.”

As Rael was petrified at the revelation he could not and did not want to believe, Yuhyung was digging the spot where the concrete used to be.

As he was quietly stabbing the earth like a dog scavenging for a bone, Rael shouted out to him, “How could you?! Do you have any idea what meaning your actions hold?! He has forsaken the laws of Lukedonia! If you are to take his side...”

“It can be understood as rebellion against the QuadraNet project and Lukedonia and KSA, as well as rebellion against the alliance of Lukedonia, KSA, and wolfkind. Yes, I know. That’s exactly what I have in mind.”

His mouth open halfway, Rael posed shaky, distraught eyes at how Yuhyung’s speech became aggressive, his eyes vindictive, good enough to bewilder him.

‘Is this what he is really like?’

But why?

Rael’s last words failed to keep themselves tucked behind his lips, and in response Yuhyung straightened up and shoved his filthy hands into his collar, to bring out a bunch of silver chain necklaces with thin metal plates attached.

“This is what is left of my colleagues who were sacrificed back then. Yes, I’m talking about the incident that turned this place into a graveyard with no tombstones.”

Yuhyung snapped, having read what Rael’s eyes were asking.

“Am I doing this for vengeance? Yes, that’s the initial purpose. But what I am aiming for is to pioneer the power for vengeance. Had things worked out as originally outlined, I would have ended up with enough data at KSA, to build a bridge that will lead us to the power that can put us on par with your kind and werewolves. Though we would have needed a lot of time to as well.”

“...What are you talking about? Are you saying you consider nobles AND werewolves the subject of your vengeance? But... It’s true that nobles and a werewolf were affiliated in that incident, but...”

“The Union is to truly blame. Yes, it was Union that commanded the incident. But don’t you dare tell yourself that nobles and werewolves can avoid the blame.”

Yuhyung spat out through grinding teeth, back to his job of unearthing something.

“I know how elevated were the seats that Union once used to occupy on a global scale. Even with science and technology omitted from discussion, there is no field or area on this planet that is free from Union’s monstrous spider web. Which was why we couldn’t even dream of officially complaining to them of the destruction they wrought in this country.”

In the meantime, something finally came to reveal itself under his hands.

“But where were you while the Union had been cultivating its power all this time?”

Rael’s entire body froze, as he was trying to peek at the object about to show itself.

“I once heard from this Tao guy the origin of the term noblesse oblige. But if your lot valued nobleness and the balance of the world so much, how come you never stood out whenever Union butchered and thrashed about in this world? Huh?! I was powerless... We were powerless. Too powerless to protect our beloved. But you do have power. So how come you never stopped them?! How come you did nothing?!”

Yuhyung’s voice freed from its rein mercilessly speared Rael’s ears, to puncture his heart.

Rael could think of several counters, but for some reason he could not vocalize any of them.

“But now things will change. Now we will have the power to protect. But since we can never reach there if we stick to the humane method as we have... This is the only way.”

Yuhyung lowered his body, and his hands drew out a sort of a device.

As unfamiliar as he was with human technology, Rael could not ascertain what exactly was the purpose of the device.

If any of the ex-Union RK were there, he would have learned that the device was designed to launch something.

Without sparing a second for Rael to enlarge his eyes, Yuhyung stuck inside the device something that was safekept along with it.

“Now... All humans within KSA will get the powers we need.”

Leaving a smirk, Yuhyung violently jabbed the button that was bulging out from the device.

(next chapter)

At last Yuhyung has revealed what he was planning all this time. As you can see, his goal is to have his vengeance, but not simply on Union - he seeks vengeance upon wolfkind and noblekind alike.

As I was composing this chapter, I realized that it's been a year since I've been writing this fic (well, not exactly a year; the very first chapter was uploaded on 28th of April, 2020). The finale of this fic draws near, so I shall do my best for the remaining chapters as well. :)

[charliejrogers]

I’m Thinking of Ending Things (Or, What Many Will Think About Midway Through This Movie)

You may be expecting a long review for this movie. I mean, let’s be honest, I dissected the shit out of Birds of Prey, to the point that it was almost inappropriate for the kind of movie it was. But this movie? The arthouse classic-to-be from the much-revered Charlie Kaufman (both writer and director here), I’m Thinking of Ending Things? A movie filled to the brim with symbolism and which refuses to commut itself to any one point of view or plane or reality? This guy’s gonna write about it for fucking eternity.

Well, no. It won’t be the case. Why? Because I don’t think I really got it. Sure, I could try to wax poetic about my thoughts on aging, time, whether there’s meaning in relationships, meaning to our lives (all themes the film raises and which serve as its central core) But it would just kinda sound bullshit coming from me.

So, yeah, this isn’t much of a plot movie. It starts with a young woman (Jessie Buckley) waiting in the street of a snowy quiet country town’s downtown for her boyfriend, Jake, (Jesse Plemons) of one month (or longer?) so that the two can join Jake’s parents for dinner. Despite taking this proverbial big step in her relationship, she’s wondering (evoking the film’s title) whether she should end things. Or is that really what the title is about. Like everything in this movie, every piece of dialogue every character, every suggestion of a chronology, things are laden with a second meaning. Part of your enjoyment from the film will derive from whether or not you enjoy being strung along for 135 minutes without ever really understanding what’s going on, what’s really being said, who these characters really are, or when/where the hell are we in the world?

Despite those tantalizing and exciting questions, I’m here to warn you now, nothing big or exciting happens in this film, at least by conventional movie standards. We watch the couple drive to the Jake’s parents’ house and that takes about 25 minutes of film time. We’re in the house with his parents for probably about 45 minutes. Then the drive home takes another 20-25 minutes. The scenes about driving are just that: two people in a car talking to one another without much event. It’s like the car ride scenes from your favorite buddy/road trip movie but with all the fun adventures taken out. Instead what we get are long, confusing conversations more akin to Matthew McConaughey’s time spent in a car on True Detective.

But one thing becomes exceedingly clear when we finally get to Jake’s parents’ house: the film’s banal settings (a country road, a farmhouse, a rural high school) belie a truth about the film. It is not set in our reality. Jake and the woman’s conversation on the car ride is full of reflections on the nature of time, aging, depression, and life. Jake is a slightly insufferable intellectual. He’s the kind of guy who says he doesn’t know a whole lot about musical theater and then proceed to list 15-20 musicals of various fame and obscurity. The whole scene feels as quirky and just-shy of overwritten, i.e. par for the course of a pretentious art house film such as this. But the mannerisms of Jake’s parents are more than can be attributed to a quirky film. His mother is a jealous, possessive neurotic played by Toni Collette in a way only she could and a twitchy, and his father is a lecherous rival obsessed with his girlfriend played by David Thewlis (a favorite actor of mine). And throughout the meal, the confident, know-it-all we knew from the drive regresses into the behavior of a weak, embarrassed child. These are caricatures taken word from word from a textbook on Freudian psychology more than they are believable humans. The film admits and confirms the Freudian aping rather explicitly.

But just when you think you understand what the film’s up to, it switches course. After dinner, the woman starts to explore their house and starts a journey through time (but, again, with none of the excitement that sentence would normally imply.) It’s my second favorite sequence in the film (the first being an interpretive dance that occurs towards the film’s end… yes, it’s THAT kind of film). It’s filmed and framed in the trappings of a horror movie, but there’s no jump scares or horrible truth to be found. It’s how I imagine someone would adapt the tone of the superb video game Gone Home (yes, I’m one of THOSE people). But yeah, there’s no horrible truth… except if you consider the inevitability of human decay and disease to be a terrible truth. Every room the woman stumbles upon finds Jake’s parents appear to be a different age and health than when she first got to the house, ranging from a mother decked out in 50s/60s apparel to old, feeble gentleman. From there the movie continues to refuse to stay in one place and becomes odder and odder. It’s then I realized to think of this movie of a totally abstract piece of art, like the dream sequences of The Sopranos or Buffy.

So what do I think is going on? Obviously spoilers for here on out. Despite getting the majority of the screen time, this is NOT a movie about the young woman. At the very beginning of the film we are introduced, briefly, to an older, portly gentleman in his late 70s, looking out a window. The film cuts back to that exact same room and window 30 seconds later, but in the old man’s place is Jesse Plemons’ Jake. From that I take it to mean the two are the same person, with Plemons representing the older Jake younger self (or imagined younger self). Alongside the main plot, we occasionally get images and short scenes of the older Jake, a janitor at a rural high school who lives alone. The intellect (or perhaps false sense of intellect) of his younger self is clearly not meeting its potential. He is mocked by students for his age and fragility. What I think we’re watching is this older Jake trying to make sense of what it means to be old and who is currently on the verge of suicide unable to see its meaning. Although I compared the film to a dream sequence, I don’t think it’s fair to reduce the whole thing to Jake’s dream. More I feel like we are seeing a manifestation of Jake’s subconscious thoughts on screen play out.

Who is the young woman then? I’m not sure. I doubt she represents any actual woman – she’s given a variety of names. She almost plays the part of our (and his) guide into Jake’s subconscious like Virgil to Dante, but she’s more than a void. I think she represents what Jake would want in a woman in his life, a confident woman who can see through Jake’s faults (but notably sees them and sees them clearly). She’s not overtly sexual like the women at the ice cream who clearly make Jake uncomfortable. But yet, it’s telling that even in his deepest, most private thoughts that I think we’re seeing, he cannot imagine that even his ideal woman would want to be with him.

We get lots of reasons for why Jake thinks things are like this. Clearly he holds resentment for his parents, even if he feels like it’s cliché to do so. But time is his true nemesis. For me the most telling scenes for my understanding of the movie comes at the end with the interpretive dance, which shows Jake and the young woman (or, at least, stand-ins for those two) engage in a beautiful display of courtship, love, and marriage, only for the young Jake stand-in to be violently by a representation of the older janitor Jake. Clearly Jake thinks of his current self as something wholly distinct from his younger self, and that the creature he is now, a creature created by time, has destroyed who he once was. Like many of us (or as many of us think), he peaked in high school, the last place where people gave him awards for being who he is. This detail adds a sadness to the fact that he works as a janitor at one now. And it is notable that the film’s journey ends there, at a high school, where inexplicably he is being awarded a lifetime achievement award. Achievement in what? It’s unclear. What is clear that the person receiving the award is not the janitor Jake, but the younger Jake (Jesse Plemons) with old-age make-up on. With his dying breath he is able to see the self he loves, his younger self, grow up and live the life he wanted. There’s no sense at all of his present circumstances or person. Then we cut to a shot of janitor Jake’s truck buried in snow, presumably (on my interpretation) with janitor Jake frozen inside, dead.

So ultimately whether or not you like this movie depends on your tolerance for head-up-its-butt dialogue about the grand questions of life combined with its purposefully obtuse presentation. As one of the biggest douchebags I know, I liked it, but didn’t fall head over heels for it. The only other associated Kaufmann production I’ve seen is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but from what I understand, this movie is Kaufmann at its Kaufmann-iest. I have a great respect for the planning and thought behind every second of the film and I can honestly say I was never not entertained. I loved the film’s mood and atmosphere and that I was always on my toes. It’s a movie that truly has gotten better as I’ve continued to think about it over the last three days. But still, I don’t think I always understood what was going on and it’s a little too obtuse/abstract for it to be an all-time classic. I respect that for some people this may be their favorite movie of all time, and for others it may be a crock of shit. I’m somewhere in the middle, and cautiously recommend this film to those of you who are open to some abstract art in film. If you are, definitely try it out, you won’t forget it. If you are not open to it, skip it; you will have no qualms about endings things early.

***1/4 (Three and one-fourth stars out of four)

[littlelostbluejay]

Describe Our Love

Oneshot summary: Lucas & Cristi relax together on the couch while enjoying an intimate moment in one another presence.

Rating: PG-13

An inaudible gentle rush of air blew through her nose, brown hues half-lidded and muscles relaxed, the exquisite, intimate warmth of Lucas's chest underneath her shoulder blades as his heart sustains an unhurried beat beneath the bare skin of her upper back. Sweet serenity coursed through their veins and pervaded their minds as the two laid there on their comfy black leather sofa, wherein he reclined his head back upon the armrest while she lay between his long legs; he stretched one far out while the other was bent at the knee propped against the backrest as Chris lay her smaller body atop his. Hearts flutter as slow music streamed into the spacious living room from a vintage inspired record player nearby, a river of love songs pouring into their ear canals that contained soulful rhythms and soft beats, the vinyl record being brought to life by the tiny needle that grazes its smooth surface while it plays Michael Jackson's RnB ballad, 'Butterflies'.

The sense of his presence, his very scent overwhelming but always welcoming; and embraces ever loving when she had found that rare shade of haven she been searching for in his arms. Chris couldn't have been more blessed with such a perfect man. Or wolf man. Whichever.

Movement caused by Lucas pulled Chris out of her quiescent musings, her gaze being brought to the attention of her hands that were being lifted upward in her view as he delicately adjusted the position of them to his liking in his palms, and she realize he was trying to match them up against his own. But his were larger than hers with fingers long and sturdy that were adorned with rings on a few digits, while the tips of her small nails barely reached the intermediate joint of his phalanges. The flesh beneath her fingers is smooth and firm, warm, built solely to protect and hold ones he found dear. She stares in silent fascination at the way her hands seem so meek compared to his.

For a moment, she felt his chest expand beneath her to draw in air, only for him to issue a lengthy exhale from deep within his chest, the breath of his essence at the same time cool and warm from his nostrils as it lightly stirs the natural locks of her hair, before gliding across her cheek from behind where she rested the back of her head in the curve of his neck. "Lucas, how would you describe our love?" She asked, for the sole purpose to hear his voice, to become lost in it as she would often have gone astray amongst specks of galactic stardust in his cosmic eyes.

A low, resonant rumble occupies in the base of Lucas's throat against her ear as he presses his full lips on a small spot on the edge of her eye, the tip of his nose pressing gently into her left temple, and this dotting adulation he bestows elicits her lashes to flutter, a small sigh passing between her lips as she tenderly nudged her head against him. Lucas is quiet as he contemplates her question, takes him a moment to respond as memories of this special woman flashed in his mind's eye, and sorts through mental archives he kept stored to help inspire a superior answer. But to elaborate on the type of love where incorporeal emotional energy flows from his wife by touch alone, can literally feel the sincerity of her emotions course through him as he absorbs it like nourishment, was near impossible to find words that could express their love in the language known to man.

One-minute ticks away, two as he reflects while she waits in patience, and when a concept finally arrives that embodies their love does he clear the airways of his throat, indicates he was ready to amuse her with his response. "Our love is like a friendship caught on fire." His hot breath swept down her cheek, causes her to involuntarily shudder as it dances along the flush skin of her neck and collarbone. Then he releases her hands, taking his own to encircle one around her small waist so his fingers may play on the piano keys of her ribs, the other rubbing the length of her arm in loving strokes as he continues onward with his poetic verse. "In the beginnin' a flame, very pretty, often hot an fierce, but still only light an flickerin'..." He murmurs in a full, sonorous tone, and nuzzles his shaven cheek against the side of her head as he shut his eyes. "...and as our love grows older, our hearts will mature an our love become as coals... deep burnin'... an unquenchable."

His personal interpretation he reckons to represent what their hearts murmured to each other in secret, words marinated with amative patterns between letters that reflected their mutual love, came to a beautiful end, one that flexed one corner of her full lips to slightly curve to bear a closed smile, inwardly enraptured with his answer.

Chris shifts in his hold, forces Lucas to raise his arms while she adjusts the position of her body, turns herself over onto her belly, and expels a gentle sigh as she rests her head upon the comforts of his bosom, and after situated to her liking, feels his hand land on her back while the other entangled its fingers into the thick mass of her dark brown locks. "How was tha', puppy?" he spoke with an inquiry as he removed some curly strands that once shielded her eyes from his view, "think tha's good enough?" and administers a sweet peck when he connected his lips to her forehead.

"Mhmm." She hums, nods in approval as her cheek rubs up and down against his chest, eyes closed and body relaxed while she listens to the comforting rhythmic beat of his heart thrum against her ear. "Loved it, babe." His masculine scent drifts up her nostrils, reminisces of the deep woods, earthy soil saturated in rainfall.

"Good, I was honestly 'bout t'say some beauty an the beast type of shit for a sec." A half-suppressed snicker slid through clenched teeth as his stomach shook under her with vitality, conveys humor that the abstract thought aroused within him which he formerly entertained before deciding to switch the quote, while she, likewise, giggled at this funny piece of information he shared with her. "I wracked the hell outta my brain tryin ta think of somethin' romantic an less corny for once, that question was way too deep to jus spit out some foolish nonsense."

She arched a single brow as a funny look crossed her face, rising on her hands to stare at him. "I don't know what you're talking about, you've always been a romantic," she paused, "okay corny sometimes but still romantic and smooth...either way, corny can be romantic too, y'know."

"Oh wait a minute now," Lucas propped himself up onto his elbows, gazes up at her with a mischievous grin as she sat up, straddling his lap securely between her thick thighs as her hands found a resting place on his abdomen for support, while at the same time, tries to ignore the familiar feeling of his big bulge beneath his gym shorts, "lil mama think wolf daddy is smooth, eh?"

The way he looked at her made a small smile to shyly grace her lips. "Hmmm yea...but don't let it get to your head. You can when you wanna be."

His mouth made a motorboat noise as he sat up and grabbed her legs to wrap around his torso, then circled his muscular arms about her small waist, pulls her closer to him as he straightens his spine. In this position, her head just reaches his nose, which makes it easy for him to notice when her eyes automatically lock on the thick shape of his juicy lips that she was obsessed with. "Pfft, too late cause I already know I got it like tha' baby, you an all the ladies at the juke joint knows it so don' be tryin ta soft-pedal this debonair panache I got goin on that I honed in the 1950's."

In reference to the old-fashioned aesthetic club he performs at regularly, Lucas was one of the most popular male performers in his band, and the fact he could not only play a number of instruments but also vocalize a song with passion into a microphone made the women go crazy. Although, Chris was not sure if she'll ever get accustomed to females eyeballing him while she also watches him from afar, but during every intermission or once the gig is over, he always makes time to walk over to her and give her attention, lets everyone know who he rightfully belongs to. But even if a few were aware of their martial relationship status, even when they were in the dating stage, as futile as it proved to be, some were that desirous to try to gain his attentions.

"Don't get cocky, Lucas, you ain't all that." She shook her head, knew he was mainly joking. Despite his superior dire wolf status in the supernatural realm, Lucas was a humble and modest man who didn't necessarily view himself as above anyone else, but that didn't mean he lacked self-confidence in his abilities, nor failed to recognize the great amount of charisma he possessed that influenced the way women behaved in his presence. Everyone loved an entertainer, and he was one who loved to entertain the public with his vocal capabilities and musical skills.

"How's I being cocky if tha's jus the way it is, sugah mama?" Black eyes droop half-lid as he cocked of his head to the left, and upon full lips displayed traces of a sly smirk where his mouth opened enough for her to observe the way his thick tongue ran a seductive trail across his perfect alignment of white teeth, the light tease in his voice languidly infused with that smooth feeling of red wine trickling down your throat she believed he sounded, and couldn't help the shivers that rippled across her arms when words of poetic elegance blew in her face. "How else was I able ta catch a fine lil doe like ya'self into these jaws of mine? Don't tell me it was jus these bright fangs that blinded 'em pretty brown eyes, makin ya stare into the light like a deer caught in the headlights 'bout ta end their life...but ya got it twisted, lady of mine, don' ya know this wolf jus wanna lead you to a new life with him in par-a-dise?" A low, sexy growl rumbled up his throat as he abruptly drew his face towards her ear to catch her lobe in between his teeth, finds pleasure at the cute sounds of a tiny whimper that slipped between her lips as he nipped and pulled her flesh gently.

Chris was absolute putty in his hands; he favors how her body trembles at his intimate gestures, sometimes she involuntarily gave away that conveyed implicit desires he's able to stimulate with ease by his proximity, not to mention that since she was a poet, Lucas foresaw the response he'll receive when he whispered in verses and rhymes to her.

"Y-you didn't give me much of a choice!" Her hand collided against his hard chest for a soft smack, prompts the arrival of a breathy laugh from him while his stomach convulses with enthusiasm as she drew back from him. It was true - he practically didn't give her a choice due to his persistent attitude, although it wasn't that she didn't reciprocate the same feelings, the issue laid in fear of loving someone. "But I wouldn't be surprised because you were always in my face all the time with that handsome smile...soo bright it can light up a dark tunnel for sure..." Bistre hues breaks eye contact to glance down at the near nonexistent space between them, and he feels tickled by her finger that softly traces the convex contour of his chest concealed by the black wife beater he wore. "I don't know but... it must've been why because you wouldn't leave me alone even though there were many other girls for you to choose that I felt were... better than me I guess." Past insecurities momentarily resurfaced as she murmured the last set of words, although, sensitive ears heard them loud and clear, and pure benignity shimmered in the darkness of his eyes as he gazed down at his wife, lips parted as the exterior of his umber visage replaced amusement for a softer expression.

Lucas did all he could to help raise her self-confidence and get past insecurities she fought with, and while she came a long way with good progress, there were times they'll creep up on her once every blue moon. But he was always there by her side to chase them away before those inner demons could overwhelm her mind.

Silence, except for the slow music that played in their midst, fell upon them for a few seconds, that is until it was broken when Lucas spoke out the blue. "Welp," he exhaled a deep sigh, his voice gathering her attention to peek up at him where she noticed a closed lopsided smile was etched on his full lips, and within the black holes of his iris's a glint of mischief circulates in the depths of them. "I'm sorry ta disappoint ya ma'am but when a carnivore got their eye on sumthin' then they out ta get tha' piece of meat, y'know wha' I mean? And all my efforts were rewarded in full with this nice piece of ass I got right here, bow chika wow wow baybeh!" And at the end of his sentence his hand sent a loud slap against her butt cheek, causing her to jump with a yelp when his palm struck her hard that left a stinging sensation in the area where her booty shorts didn't cover.

"Ow! Lucas!!"

"What?" A full-blown grin, one cheeky, had brightened his features as he began massaging her ample cheek in the spot that fell assailable to his strike he afflicted pain upon. "Don't be actin like ya don't like that shit now." He added on as he offered a knowing look with a high arch of his thick brow. Lucas usually took it upon himself to lighten the mood when negativity weighed down on the atmosphere, his optimistic, sanguine nature opposed anything that involved the concept of pessimism; he firmly believed good humor and a positive outlook could improve people's lives for the better, and he was here to offer her a dose of that special medicine. "I never would'a thought you could be such a vixen with ya quiet self toots, but...boy did you prove me wrong after I got you goin' by hittin that spot jus right."

Hey eyes narrowed into a squint that formed part of a peeved expression meant for him, but try as she might, curly locks bounced as she shook her head, unable to restrain the small smile he stirred by his irreverent sense of humor she concluded was contagious. "You're soo ridiculous." Chris doesn't attempt to suppress an eye roll as she tried to get up off his lap, but she felt his arms fix around her waist even more so, constricting her movement of any chance to escape his clutches.

"Yeah well yer booty is ridiculous but there ain't no shame in tha', dawlin'." His head quickly fell low into the side of her neck, plump lips parted to allow his mouth to playfully suck upon her delicate honey-brown skin, but the corners of his lips morphs into a grin against her neck when the breath of her laughter caressed his ear like a gentle wind, incorporated with a lewd gesture of his hand as she felt his fingers continues to knead a handful of her butt.

It did his heart good to know he was the one who solely caused her laughter, joy, and contentment when, while on her own, always suffered a difficult time searching high and low for that special map which could lead her to abundant treasures where happiness dwelt. Nevertheless, unbeknownst to Chris, the map was divided in separate pieces and in time arrived a wolf who appeared as her guide to aid in her hunt for what she ached to find, along the way, a man who supplied her with directions and riddles as to where they could be hidden. But as the map slowly became whole when the lost pieces were brought together, she discovered the treasures were inside herself the entire time locked within a chest where particles of dust caked its surface, and he was the key who unlocked a part of herself she never believed she'd see.

Lucas, an old wise soul, led her on a long journey to find felicitousness within herself again - the bountiful boost of encouragement he fed her that was accompanied with unconditional love his actions audaciously expressed without fear, proved to be the root of all her accomplishments she struggled with over the years before he stepped into her life. As eccentric his lycan nature proved to be behind closed doors, she was blessed with a man like him who presented her with a sense of belonging, and he the same for this young woman whose traits held a similarity to the kind meekness of a female deer.

As the couple were jesting among themselves on the couch, the music grew quiet as it reached its end, but the vinyl continues revolving, transitions to another song that caught Lucas's ears as he listened to the smooth disco vibes of 'Rock with you' that now fills the space of the living room. Chris noticed a little shift in his energy level, observes him in fascination as she acknowledged how his focus was altered by the music, and knew once he returned her stare that he had something in mind.  

Lucas clutched her body to his as he hoisted her up, lifting them off the couch as she clung onto him before his feet lead them near to where the record player sat on a side table. And her dainty feet touched the hardwood floor when he set her down, though in vain, she stood a few inches taller on her tippy toes to try to reach his height. He bit his bottom lip as he peered down into lovely eyes that shared a semblance of russet brown autumn leaves he often finds himself falling into. His fingers entwined with hers when he took her hand in his own while the other applied light pressure on her lower back, pushing her smaller body up against his taller one. "Aye, mind rockin with me tonight, mama?" The appearance of sharp canines glistened down on her when he shot her a charming smile with his question, accompanied by a playful wink of his eye which enkindled warmth to arise in her cheeks, complemented the demure countenance she bore in the way she shied away from his eyes for a moment. That perfect smile of his was an absolute killer.

Chris was never much of a dancer when she lived alone, but Lucas, of course, changed all that when he filled her life with excitement she missed out on in her early, sheltered days as a child and adolescent.

The sudden urge to dance made his body tingle with new found vigor, motivated by funky rhythms their bodies subjected themselves to as their feet stepped to the music that flowed around them, and with a smooth bounce in his step, he sang along with the lyrics to his dearest doe. "Ya gotta feel tha' heat! An we can ride the boogaaie! Share tha' beat of looooooove!"

Lucas twirled her around before the chorus began, pulling her back against his front as he circled his arms around her, head lowered for his lips to sing sweetly into her ear canal,  rhythmically swaying their bodies side to side in sync to the beat. "I wanna rock with you, all niiiight. Dance ya into day, sunliiiight."

Her lips part slightly where a small smile takes form at the corners of her mouth that Chris couldn't care to suppress, blissfully submerged in the joys of contentment while in the arms of her husband as his body moved against her back. She felt his head lift to place his chin atop her head, heartfelt passion expressed in the pitch of his voice that rose an octave as he continued to sing. "I wanna rooock with you, all night. Rock the night awaaay..."

And that's what they did as night expanded across the land.

[aceyugiohdreamer]

Hey! (I'm the anon dude who asked about your Judai hatred) So I'm currently gradually catching up in my watch on VRAINS, and I just finished EP34. The whole badly animated episode made me quite uncomfortable because of its more blatant fanservice that sucked the episode's obviously weak budget. But when I reached the end to see Aoi's persona violently crushed head first on the ground, it made the feminist within me feel REALLY uncomfortable watching this. (1/2 or 3, I dunno)

Hey again! Thanks for coming back! I’m putting the rest under a cut because I ended up having quite a bit to say lol …

I know what I’m watching, a kid showtarget towards nippon boys and mostly otaku, and even the original mangacommitted the original Dark Magician Girl sin first, but now that the show ispurely a TCG commercial, I guess there’s not much moral left. I vigorously hatethe previous two shows but actually surprised myself enjoying VRAINS, knowingwhat it is, as I usually don’t watch anime. But after reading about somedragging Japanese idol assault case on my feed today, (2/3)

this episode really strikes me… Idon’t see many YGO fans that I relate too online, and I only found your blogrecently, but I wondered what you opinion on this would be (?) , what yourreaction at the time of the ep’s broadcast was (?) , being a queer duelist too- if I may label you as such without intended offense. Maybe I’m just gettingtoo old for anime as a mid-20s guy, but this Blue Angel character’s fucked,whilst the Aoi side is the most decent female since early Aki.. Opinion? (3/3)

(I’m definitely not offended by“queer”, I like the word, so you are more than welcome to use it with me ^^)

Ughhhh what a topic. Frankly, Ican’t really name anything about yugioh that has ever felt feminist to me, andvrains is no exception. I had some hopes in the very beginning that Aoi wasgoing to be a respectable (and respected, by the narrative) character, but those hopes were dashed pretty quickly and it’s only gottenworse as the show has gone on. She was set up to be a strong duelist, but thenquickly got demoted to damsel who’s not allowed to be on par with the amazingprotagonist. She gets lip service from characters who say she’s good, but wedon’t get to see it on screen, which is a problem.

And I don’t understand idol culture,so that whole persona of hers really turned me off. It’s not just that Ipersonally don’t like that kind of hyper-feminine aesthetic, it was also thatthey directly tied that aesthetic with a character that the writers seemeddeliberately determined to weaken and fetishize. She’s only allowed to havecute, frilly female monsters, and in any duel that matters to the plot, sheloses most of the time, which just continues this association betweenfemininity and weakness. Aoi/her Blue avatars are mostly meant to be eye candyand waifus, and it’s so fucking frustrating.

To be honest, I tend to forget a lotof details from vrains after I’ve watched an episode because I’m just not incrediblyinvested in it, so I don’t put much effort into trying to remember it. I justremember what happens to stick, and I don’t think about it much. I’m mostlyonly watching out of some kind of nostalgic love for the original, not out of agenuine love for vrains itself, even though I do enjoy it on some level.

So I had to google which episodenumber 34 was to remember the scene you mentioned. And yeah, I feel you, thephysical abuse Aoi endures in this show comes across as brutal in a way thatfeels different from the trauma Yusaku went through. What he went through wasfucked up too, but it’s been presented as the catalyst for him becoming strongand focused and justice-oriented. With Aoi, her defeats are spectacles,sometimes given lavish attention, and they don’t seem to lead to anysubstantial development for her. She gets a few superficial changes, but thenarrative still treats her as second-class and expendable, because ultimatelyher development doesn’t have much impact on the overall story.

I don’t really remember how I feltat the time I first saw the episode, but I’m pretty sure it was something alongthe lines of an annoyed sigh, because it was just so disappointing andpredictable at the same time. Of course she lost. It’s just Blue Angel afterall, why would she be important enough to defeat an enemy? (At least a maleone. She does win against the one other female character in the enemy camp,because THAT’S allowed apparently.)

I don’t think the violent manner ofher defeat struck me at the time, but seeing it again and in that context ofactual idols getting assaulted, it does feel pretty gross. It’s always felt tome like idols are presented as public property and not human beings deservingof dignity and agency, and they perform specifically to draw out love fromtheir fans to encourage them to obsess and feel possessive of them. So when yousee a fictional idol getting physically hurt like that, it does smack of thatidea that idols exist for the emotions of their fans. If Blue Angel gets hurt,it’s because the writers are hoping to get an emotional reaction, not becausethey plan on using it for any substantial purpose. So yeah, anything having todo with Aoi makes the feminist in me cringe, but I went through that with Akitoo and I’ll still never forgive the writers for how they ruined her.

I wanted to like Aoi, but they justcouldn’t resist making a mockery of her and dropping any potential she had tobe a character that actually mattered.

And I totally agree that the show feelslike an ongoing TCG commercial. That’s why I only half payattention to the duels because I can’t keep up with them anymore. I don’t remember the originalfeeling this way, and maybe that was because a lot of the monsters felt likecharacters themselves and actually played an emotional role in the players’ lives, whereaswith vrains, there’s no relationship between players and their monsters. It’sall about their relationship with vrains and the AIs. The cards have become simple tools now with no heart and soul and meaning to them.

(and if you want to keep talking about this, you’re more than welcome to message me on chat, or keep sending anons, whatever works for you, it’s all good ^^)

[bennettmarko]

Fiction and Identity Politics

I hate to disappoint you folks, but unless we stretch the topic to breaking point this address will not be about “community and belonging.” In fact, you have to hand it to this festival’s organisers: inviting a renowned iconoclast to speak about “community and belonging” is like expecting a great white shark to balance a beach ball on its nose. The topic I had submitted instead was “fiction and identity politics,” which may sound on its face equally dreary.

But I’m afraid the bramble of thorny issues that cluster around “identity politics” has got all too interesting, particularly for people pursuing the occupation I share with many gathered in this hall: fiction writing. Taken to their logical conclusion, ideologies recently come into vogue challenge our right to write fiction at all. Meanwhile, the kind of fiction we are “allowed” to write is in danger of becoming so hedged, so circumscribed, so tippy-toe, that we’d indeed be better off not writing the anodyne drivel to begin with.

Let’s start with a tempest-in-a-teacup at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. Earlier this year, two students, both members of student government, threw a tequila-themed birthday party for a friend. The hosts provided attendees with miniature sombreros, which—the horror— numerous partygoers wore. When photos of the party circulated on social media, campus-wide outrage ensued. Administrators sent multiple emails to the “culprits” threatening an investigation into an “act of ethnic stereotyping.” Partygoers were placed on “social probation,” while the two hosts were ejected from their dorm and later impeached. Bowdoin’s student newspaper decried the attendees’ lack of “basic empathy.”

The student government issued a “statement of solidarity” with “all the students who were injured and affected by the incident,” and demanded that administrators “create a safe space for those students who have been or feel specifically targeted.” The tequila party, the statement specified, was just the sort of occasion that “creates an environment where students of colour, particularly Latino, and especially Mexican, feel unsafe.” In sum, the party-favour hats constituted – wait for it – “cultural appropriation.”

Curiously, across my country Mexican restaurants, often owned and run by Mexicans, are festooned with sombreros – if perhaps not for long. At the UK’s University of East Anglia, the student union has banned a Mexican restaurant from giving out sombreros, deemed once more an act of “cultural appropriation” that was also racist.

Now, I am a little at a loss to explain what’s so insulting about a sombrero – a practical piece of headgear for a hot climate that keeps out the sun with a wide brim. My parents went to Mexico when I was small, and brought a sombrero back from their travels, the better for my brothers and I to unashamedly appropriate the souvenir to play dress-up. For my part, as a German-American on both sides, I’m more than happy for anyone who doesn’t share my genetic pedigree to don a Tyrolean hat, pull on some leiderhosen, pour themselves a weisbier, and belt out the Hoffbrauhaus Song.

But what does this have to do with writing fiction? The moral of the sombrero scandals is clear: you’re not supposed to try on other people’s hats. Yet that’s what we’re paid to do, isn’t it? Step into other people’s shoes, and try on their hats.

In the latest ethos, which has spun well beyond college campuses in short order, any tradition, any experience, any costume, any way of doing and saying things, that is associated with a minority or disadvantaged group is ring-fenced: look-but-don’t-touch. Those who embrace a vast range of “identities” – ethnicities, nationalities, races, sexual and gender categories, classes of economic under-privilege and disability – are now encouraged to be possessive of their experience and to regard other peoples’ attempts to participate in their lives and traditions, either actively or imaginatively, as a form of theft.

Yet were their authors honouring the new rules against helping yourself to what doesn’t belong to you, we would not have Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. We wouldn’t have most of Graham Greene’s novels, many of which are set in what for the author were foreign countries, and which therefore have Real Foreigners in them, who speak and act like foreigners, too.

In his masterwork English Passengers, Matthew Kneale would have restrained himself from including chapters written in an Aboriginal’s voice – though these are some of the richest, most compelling passages in that novel. If Dalton Trumbo had been scared off of describing being trapped in a body with no arms, legs, or face because he was not personally disabled – because he had not been through a World War I maiming himself and therefore had no right to “appropriate” the isolation of a paraplegic – we wouldn’t have the haunting 1938 classic, Johnny Got His Gun.

We wouldn’t have Maria McCann’s erotic masterpiece, As Meat Loves Salt – in which a straight woman writes about gay men in the English Civil War. Though the book is nonfiction, it’s worth noting that we also wouldn’t have 1961’s Black Like Me, for which John Howard Griffin committed the now unpardonable sin of “blackface.” Having his skin darkened – Michael Jackson in reverse – Griffin found out what it was like to live as a black man in the segregated American South. He’d be excoriated today, yet that book made a powerful social impact at the time.

The author of Who Owns Culture? Appropriation and Authenticity in American Law, Susan Scafidi, a law professor at Fordham University who for the record is white, defines cultural appropriation as “taking intellectual property, traditional knowledge, cultural expressions, or artifacts from someone else’s culture without permission. This can include unauthorised use of another culture’s dance, dress, music, language, folklore, cuisine, traditional medicine, religious symbols, etc.”

What strikes me about that definition is that “without permission” bit. However are we fiction writers to seek “permission” to use a character from another race or culture, or to employ the vernacular of a group to which we don’t belong? Do we set up a stand on the corner and approach passers-by with a clipboard, getting signatures that grant limited rights to employ an Indonesian character in Chapter Twelve, the way political volunteers get a candidate on the ballot? I am hopeful that the concept of “cultural appropriation” is a passing fad: people with different backgrounds rubbing up against each other and exchanging ideas and practices is self-evidently one of the most productive, fascinating aspects of modern urban life.

But this latest and little absurd no-no is part of a larger climate of super-sensitivity, giving rise to proliferating prohibitions supposedly in the interest of social justice that constrain fiction writers and prospectively makes our work impossible.

So far, the majority of these farcical cases of “appropriation” have concentrated on fashion, dance, and music: At the American Music Awards 2013, Katy Perry got it in the neck for dressing like a geisha. According to the Arab-American writer Randa Jarrar, for someone like me to practice belly dancing is “white appropriation of Eastern dance,” while according to the Daily Beast Iggy Azalea committed “cultural crimes” by imitating African rap and speaking in a “blaccent.”

The felony of cultural sticky fingers even extends to exercise: at the University of Ottawa in Canada, a yoga teacher was shamed into suspending her class, “because yoga originally comes from India.” She offered to re-title the course, “Mindful Stretching.” And get this: the purism has also reached the world of food. Supported by no less than Lena Dunham, students at Oberlin College in Ohio have protested “culturally appropriated food” like sushi in their dining hall (lucky cusses— in my day, we never had sushi in our dining hall), whose inauthenticity is “insensitive” to the Japanese.

Seriously, we have people questioning whether it’s appropriate for white people to eat pad Thai. Turnabout, then: I guess that means that as a native of North Carolina, I can ban the Thais from eating barbecue. (I bet they’d swap.) This same sensibility is coming to a bookstore near you. Because who is the appropriator par excellence, really? Who assumes other people’s voices, accents, patois, and distinctive idioms? Who literally puts words into the mouths of people different from themselves? Who dares to get inside the very heads of strangers, who has the chutzpah to project thoughts and feelings into the minds of others, who steals their very souls? Who is a professional kidnapper? Who swipes every sight, smell, sensation, or overheard conversation like a kid in a candy store, and sometimes take notes the better to purloin whole worlds? Who is the premier pickpocket of the arts? The fiction writer, that’s who.

This is a disrespectful vocation by its nature – prying, voyeuristic, kleptomaniacal, and presumptuous. And that is fiction writing at its best. When Truman Capote wrote from the perspective of condemned murderers from a lower economic class than his own, he had some gall. But writing fiction takes gall.

As for the culture police’s obsession with “authenticity,” fiction is inherently inauthentic. It’s fake. It’s self-confessedly fake; that is the nature of the form, which is about people who don’t exist and events that didn’t happen. The name of the game is not whether your novel honours reality; it’s all about what you can get away with.

In his 2009 novel Little Bee, Chris Cleave, who as it happens is participating in this festival, dared to write from the point of view of a 14-year-old Nigerian girl, though he is male, white, and British. I’ll remain neutral on whether he “got away with it” in literary terms, because I haven’t read the book yet.

But in principle, I admire his courage – if only because he invited this kind of ethical forensics in a review out of San Francisco: “When a white male author writes as a young Nigerian girl, is it an act of empathy, or identity theft?” the reviewer asked. “When an author pretends to be someone he is not, he does it to tell a story outside of his own experiential range. But he has to in turn be careful that he is representing his characters, not using them for his plot.” Hold it. OK, he’s necessarily “representing” his characters, by portraying them on the page. But of course he’s using them for his plot! How could he not? They are his characters, to be manipulated at his whim, to fulfill whatever purpose he cares to put them to.

This same reviewer recapitulated Cleave’s obligation “to show that he’s representing [the girl], rather than exploiting her.” Again, a false dichotomy. Of course he’s exploiting her. It’s his book, and he made her up. The character is his creature, to be exploited up a storm. Yet the reviewer chides that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell” and worries that “Cleave pushes his own boundaries maybe further than they were meant to go.”

What stories are “implicitly ours to tell,” and what boundaries around our own lives are we mandated to remain within? I would argue that any story you can make yours is yours to tell, and trying to push the boundaries of the author’s personal experience is part of a fiction writer’s job.

I’m hoping that crime writers, for example, don’t all have personal experience of committing murder. Me, I’ve depicted a high school killing spree, and I hate to break it to you: I’ve never shot fatal arrows through seven kids, a teacher, and a cafeteria worker, either. We make things up, we chance our arms, sometimes we do a little research, but in the end it’s still about what we can get away with – what we can put over on our readers.

Because the ultimate endpoint of keeping out mitts off experience that doesn’t belong to us is that there is no fiction. Someone like me only permits herself to write from the perspective of a straight white female born in North Carolina, closing on sixty, able-bodied but with bad knees, skint for years but finally able to buy the odd new shirt. All that’s left is memoir.

And here’s the bugbear, here’s where we really can’t win. At the same time that we’re to write about only the few toys that landed in our playpen, we’re also upbraided for failing to portray in our fiction a population that is sufficiently various.

My most recent novel The Mandibles was taken to task by one reviewer for addressing an America that is “straight and white”. It happens that this is a multigenerational family saga – about a white family. I wasn’t instinctively inclined to insert a transvestite or bisexual, with issues that might distract from my central subject matter of apocalyptic economics. Yet the implication of this criticism is that we novelists need to plug in representatives of a variety of groups in our cast of characters, as if filling out the entering class of freshmen at a university with strict diversity requirements.

You do indeed see just this brand of tokenism in television. There was a point in the latter 1990s at which suddenly every sitcom and drama in sight had to have a gay or lesbian character or couple. That was good news as a voucher of the success of the gay rights movement, but it still grew a bit tiresome: look at us, our show is so hip, one of the characters is homosexual!

We’re now going through the same fashionable exercise in relation to the transgender characters in series like Transparent and Orange is the New Black. Fine. But I still would like to reserve the right as a novelist to use only the characters that pertain to my story.

Besides: which is it to be? We have to tend our own gardens, and only write about ourselves or people just like us because we mustn’t pilfer others’ experience, or we have to people our cast like an I’d like to teach the world to sing Coca-Cola advert?

For it can be dangerous these days to go the diversity route. Especially since there seems to be a consensus on the notion that San Francisco reviewer put forward that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell.”

In The Mandibles, I have one secondary character, Luella, who’s black. She’s married to a more central character, Douglas, the Mandible family’s 97-year-old patriarch. I reasoned that Douglas, a liberal New Yorker, would credibly have left his wife for a beautiful, stately African American because arm candy of color would reflect well on him in his circle, and keep his progressive kids’ objections to a minimum. But in the end the joke is on Douglas, because Luella suffers from early onset dementia, while his ex-wife, staunchly of sound mind, ends up running a charity for dementia research. As the novel reaches its climax and the family is reduced to the street, they’re obliged to put the addled, disoriented Luella on a leash, to keep her from wandering off.

Behold, the reviewer in the Washington Post, who groundlessly accused this book of being “racist” because it doesn’t toe a strict Democratic Party line in its political outlook, described the scene thus: “The Mandibles are white. Luella, the single African American in the family, arrives in Brooklyn incontinent and demented. She needs to be physically restrained. As their fortunes become ever more dire and the family assembles for a perilous trek through the streets of lawless New York, she’s held at the end of a leash. If The Mandibles is ever made into a film, my suggestion is that this image not be employed for the movie poster.”

Your author, by implication, yearns to bring back slavery.

Thus in the world of identity politics, fiction writers better be careful. If we do choose to import representatives of protected groups, special rules apply. If a character happens to be black, they have to be treated with kid gloves, and never be placed in scenes that, taken out of context, might seem disrespectful. But that’s no way to write. The burden is too great, the self-examination paralysing. The natural result of that kind of criticism in the Post is that next time I don’t use any black characters, lest they do or say anything that is short of perfectly admirable and lovely.

In fact, I’m reminded of a letter I received in relation to my seventh novel from an Armenian-American who objected – why did I have to make the narrator of We Need to Talk About Kevin Armenian? He didn’t like my narrator, and felt that her ethnicity disparaged his community. I took pains to explain that I knew something about Armenian heritage, because my best friend in the States was Armenian, and I also thought there was something dark and aggrieved in the culture of the Armenian diaspora that was atmospherically germane to that book. Besides, I despaired, everyone in the US has an ethnic background of some sort, and she had to be something!

Especially for writers from traditionally privileged demographics, the message seems to be that it’s a whole lot safer just to make all your characters from that same demographic, so you can be as hard on them as you care to be, and do with them what you like. Availing yourself of a diverse cast, you are not free; you have inadvertently invited a host of regulations upon your head, as if just having joined the EU. Use different races, ethnicities, and minority gender identities, and you are being watched.

I confess that this climate of scrutiny has got under my skin. When I was first starting out as a novelist, I didn’t hesitate to write black characters, for example, or to avail myself of black dialects, for which, having grown up in the American South, I had a pretty good ear. I am now much more anxious about depicting characters of different races, and accents make me nervous.

In describing a second-generation Mexican American who’s married to one of my main characters in The Mandibles, I took care to write his dialogue in standard American English, to specify that he spoke without an accent, and to explain that he only dropped Spanish expressions tongue-in-cheek. I would certainly think twice – more than twice – about ever writing a whole novel, or even a goodly chunk of one, from the perspective of a character whose race is different from my own – because I may sell myself as an iconoclast, but I’m as anxious as the next person about attracting vitriol. But I think that’s a loss. I think that indicates a contraction of my fictional universe that is not good for the books, and not good for my soul.

Writing under the pseudonym Edward Schlosser on Vox, the author of the essay “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Scare Me” describes higher education’s “current climate of fear” and its “heavily policed discourse of semantic sensitivity” – and I am concerned that this touchy ethos, in which offendedness is used as a weapon, has spread far beyond academia, in part thanks to social media.

Why, it’s largely in order to keep from losing my fictional mojo that I stay off Facebook and Twitter, which could surely install an instinctive self-censorship out of fear of attack. Ten years ago, I gave the opening address of this same festival, in which I maintained that fiction writers have a vested interest in protecting everyone’s right to offend others – because if hurting someone else’s feelings even inadvertently is sufficient justification for muzzling, there will always be someone out there who is miffed by what you say, and freedom of speech is dead. With the rise of identity politics, which privileges a subjective sense of injury as actionable basis for prosecution, that is a battle that in the decade since I last spoke in Brisbane we’ve been losing.

Worse: the left’s embrace of gotcha hypersensitivity inevitably invites backlash. Donald Trump appeals to people who have had it up to their eyeballs with being told what they can and cannot say. Pushing back against a mainstream culture of speak-no-evil suppression, they lash out in defiance, and then what they say is pretty appalling.

Regarding identity politics, what’s especially saddened me in my recent career is a trend toward rejecting the advocacy of anyone who does not belong to the group. In 2013, I published Big Brother, a novel that grew out of my loss of my own older brother, who in 2009 died from the complications of morbid obesity. I was moved to write the book not only from grief, but also sympathy: in the years before his death, as my brother grew heavier, I saw how dreadfully other people treated him – how he would be seated off in a corner of a restaurant, how the staff would roll their eyes at each other after he’d ordered, though he hadn’t requested more food than anyone else.

I was wildly impatient with the way we assess people’s characters these days in accordance with their weight, and tried to get on the page my dismay at how much energy people waste on this matter, sometimes anguishing for years over a few excess pounds. Both author and book were on the side of the angels, or so you would think.

But in my events to promote Big Brother, I started to notice a pattern. Most of the people buying the book in the signing queue were thin. Especially in the US, fat is now one of those issues where you either have to be one of us, or you’re the enemy. I verified this when I had a long email correspondence with a “Healthy at Any Size” activist, who was incensed by the novel, which she hadn’t even read. Which she refused to read. No amount of explaining that the novel was on her side, that it was a book that was terribly pained by the way heavy people are treated and how unfairly they are judged, could overcome the scrawny author’s photo on the flap.

She and her colleagues in the fat rights movement did not want my advocacy. I could not weigh in on this material because I did not belong to the club. I found this an artistic, political, and even commercial disappointment – because in the US and the UK, if only skinny-minnies will buy your book, you’ve evaporated the pool of prospective consumers to a puddle.

I worry that the clamorous world of identity politics is also undermining the very causes its activists claim to back. As a fiction writer, yeah, I do sometimes deem my narrator an Armenian. But that’s only by way of a start. Merely being Armenian is not to have a character as I understand the word.

Membership of a larger group is not an identity. Being Asian is not an identity. Being gay is not an identity. Being deaf, blind, or wheelchair-bound is not an identity, nor is being economically deprived. I reviewed a novel recently that I had regretfully to give a thumbs-down, though it was terribly well intended; its heart was in the right place. But in relating the Chinese immigrant experience in America, the author put forward characters that were mostly Chinese. That is, that’s sort of all they were: Chinese. Which isn’t enough.

I made this same point in relation to gender in Melbourne last week: both as writers and as people, we should be seeking to push beyond the constraining categories into which we have been arbitrarily dropped by birth. If we embrace narrow group-based identities too fiercely, we cling to the very cages in which others would seek to trap us. We pigeonhole ourselves. We limit our own notion of who we are, and in presenting ourselves as one of a membership, a representative of our type, an ambassador of an amalgam, we ask not to be seen.

The reading and writing of fiction is obviously driven in part by a desire to look inward, to be self-examining, reflective. But the form is also born of a desperation to break free of the claustrophobia of our own experience. The spirit of good fiction is one of exploration, generosity, curiosity, audacity, and compassion. Writing during the day and reading when I go to bed at night, I find it an enormous relief to escape the confines of my own head. Even if novels and short stories only do so by creating an illusion, fiction helps to fell the exasperating barriers between us, and for a short while allows us to behold the astonishing reality of other people.

The last thing we fiction writers need is restrictions on what belongs to us. In a recent interview, our colleague Chris Cleave conceded, “Do I as an Englishman have any right to write a story of a Nigerian woman? … I completely sympathise with the people who say I have no right to do this. My only excuse is that I do it well.”

Which brings us to my final point. We do not all do it well. So it’s more than possible that we write from the perspective of a one-legged lesbian from Afghanistan and fall flat on our arses. We don’t get the dialogue right, and for insertions of expressions in Pashto we depend on Google Translate. Halfway through the novel, suddenly the protagonist has lost the right leg instead of the left one. Our idea of lesbian sex is drawn from wooden internet porn. Efforts to persuasively enter the lives of others very different from us may fail: that’s a given. But maybe rather than having our heads taken off, we should get a few points for trying. After all, most fiction sucks. Most writing sucks. Most things that people make of any sort suck. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make anything.

The answer is that modern cliché: to keep trying to fail better. Anything but be obliged to designate my every character an ageing five-foot-two smartass, and having to set every novel in North Carolina.

We fiction writers have to preserve the right to wear many hats – including sombreros.

This is the full transcript of the keynote speech, Fiction and Identity Politics, Lionel Shriver gave at the Brisbane Writers Festival on 8 September.

[triumphorce]

I hope you enjoy these poems,

Been long enough since I’ve opened, but what’s wrote here is longer,

Sequoia length,

Hyperbolic-time flow in composition,

Bestowin lines of hopeful intervention,

Archs of ideas risen over an extended period, sheddin blood and perspiration,

No menopause, or birthin babies, no days off or on vacation, just endless effort,

An ellipsis stasis, pausing mentally to pay tribute and revisit thoughts degraded,

Or friends neglected,

Pausin like Nintendo, to eat some dinner before it’s cold and tastes of resentment,

Coldest chest bearin my truest intentions, similar to Sloths’ paws in my grip,

Skeptic in the presence of predators, pause to remain calm from all the norm’s digestion

On my South Paw Tekken method, so I stagger to keep them guessin,

In a mega melee between every one of these beings

And their baseless, no basis for patience, faceless and conceited bantering,

So, I’ll get angry if I get angry,

Pressin pause, once again before, just in case, breathing deeply,

Moment of recollection to intellectually understand the present,

And fast forward through every pressure, as I wordplay on endeavors,

All the while trying to buy me time and spare my mind displeasure

From hiding all these lines, wondering if it’s better to attribute pride

And be forever biased toward my dreams, ignorin finding securer ties

Amidst future porch-lit oblivions,

So I chose to approve all I choose with a stronger sense of what to do, Truth in use,

My Love for Truth reaches deepest distances to defining deeper motive behind the chosen,

Chase my dreams or loathe them, stop wasting time on goals or continue on toward them,

Still I end up writing my mind half the time, a bad habit of thinkin it’s lunch time

When it’s crunch time, bursts of ideas, floodin skies, rainin food for thoughtful animals

So now it’s hunt time and I’m roaming cranial parameters, ramblin in Rome-like stadiums,

A Rome of ages, no Brutus betrayal or Germanic invasion,

No collapsing, I make full course, my own track and traction,

Presidential pioneer of passion; a growth in hope from anger,

A ronin-rioteer, slashing throats of loathe and fear, lies and anguish,

Meaning is now the Home and I’m Forrester, on occasion,

Lovely to me to be left alone, to zone and be free from true isolation,

To redefine, no, renovate my limits, halls of castles spreadin from DNA,

To roofs, my being raising from half staff, saluting empires of past and present acceptance,

No predictions or master plans, only assumed direction and adaptive passion, always fittest,

Regardless of destination or where I land, its presence is foremost and always welcomed,

Whether I am or not, but okay, whatev, bet I’m still gone write, yep, bet I’m still gone type, gone but bet I’ll be right

Back, and bet I’m still gone knock, bet I still remain as obsessive as day one, towards an art,

So check the tech of this apex poet’s level in rap, floetry runneth over and I keep it coming like porno,

And…yea, good, that’s a wrap,

Horde of spun gears in wholesome work, cog-nizant abundance here,

An aggressive submissiveness, self competitive modes of progression shown in

An impressive stanza collection, goin all the way back, ’07, low and undetected,

007 impressions all the way to present moments, presenting poems,

Where 117 is now the logo, a present decree of freeing motives,

Steering hope to fearless and it couldn’t but be made more clear, this here

Can’t be on apprentice level s***, not anymore, I’m no where near, I’m better than,

Mirror Anakin, made aware of hidden traits, clearly bred colossal wake

As the inevitable dawn of day, endless skywalkin in either night or day,

On my Goku and Brolly game, got me on my jolly way,

So hold up, I’m bout to blow it up,

Bomberman noggin blogs, pardon the post-ignited fury,

Sparks from muse are used to light the fuse, moving through my spine,

To the keys I strike, to viewable words through screens of yours,

And then boom, my H2O line of sight crosses Alkaline insides,

Fleeting debris of my being sinking six feet in fire’s keep,

Leaving only a smoke flow of unspoken life, rise to flight,

About to air it out, openin insides to fair against the pain,

Another verbal hurricane, reign of Hadouken waved verses

Bringing pages, like a journalist, cursor brain attached to qwerty nerves,

Constant saving, birthing a freeze frame nature to nurture critiqued allure,

From observin to shining light on might of mind on mind excursion,

Lyrics of Merlin, magickal bound occurrence of astounding verbal wizardry,

Showin beauty in comprehension between the likes of those alike

And others who talk against,

So much hate, yet little mercy, despite what they claim to be in the first place,

So next to action, I narrate..

My part,

a poetic curator organizing deep extractions of Art within an Art,

Sorta clean cause of time off, still far from set Par,

Seeing only as far as I’m made able, free of cataracts

and until the rest is made available I place my faith in words,

Come out unscathed and church

Clean, from housing Temple worship,

Sermons of mental journeys, Hobbit-length, traversing Misty Mountain cliffs,

Where Stone Giants wage war, Bid on shoulder’s girth, a foundation never destroyed,

Only converted, only a change in surface, only courage

Made under fire, slay the dragon buried under the least of worries,

Traded violence and bias for brighter means of time spent,

Breaking dawn of storms, over shores of lore,

Growing force from self-remorse, stored distortion,

From getting used to moving forward,

overcoming obstacles, that before had me stuck in floors, all the lags had me glitchin,

Took a minute but I gathered, from the tension, a meta-genomic grasp

On philosophic-bloodlust in retinas of optics searching for oxygen,

yin-yang-third-eye watchin, a mind concaved to problem solvin at the microscopic,

Supplyin a macro-meson metropolis, comprising atomic gardens,

Ever meso-fixed in topless limits, I can’t stop, no need for friends,

Only accomplice to accomplishin, raising the bar again and again within myself,

Machine-like of John Conner, type neurologic, a bionic Laureate, I been on it,

A token-Conan,

A hint of Homer,

From scarlet bowties and formal clothing

To swinging forth the sword of warriors,

Spreadin life with an aura flourished in poetry,

Sort of like Tenseiga but just as sharp as Tessaiga to slay and defend what’s important,

So I Bakuryūha when cornered, no more warnings to get off my Case,

A Sherlock self-entitlist, just decipherin Edgar Poe whims,

With magnifying-focus, John Locked at poems coordinates,

Geologist-range, Rovin problems over with mecha-method,

reignin hectic over perfect tempo,

Mental metronomes, metabolic gyroscopic, hydraulic steps over all the bulls*** people talkin,

Supplyin medic-tomes to audiences, I guess,

Instead of poems, just a chivalric code in ir-realistic flow,

Just another dose of illness, to strengthen defenses

Here we go and, oh yea, that was just the beginnin’, oh snap, no he didn’t

lul.

So here is my written vaccination, a statement of my mission,

Sick of losing my mind and always seeing accepted ignorance,

Lettin go of trust, just to grab hold of hope I choose to trust again,

Desire to love and forgive poses more importance than holding in

Or holding on to thorns of torn rose stems,

Better at maintaining a utopia within, Jesus-morale through crucial friction,

Yieldin malice to oncoming Semi-driven peace,

Even when afflictions make it uneasy,

I make sure love is not only at its peak when toward family,

Because Kin is everybody I co-Exist amongst, an invisible brand in genes,

Givin me infinitely hope that I can defend beliefs of neighborly bred instincts,

Leading actions to condone sequence of repeated interactions,

Like dominos,

Between

people’s

compassion’s

path’s

Crossing

With that of

My own that I’m steady walkin, not really lookin back,

Exponentially increasing from lack of to getting back up,

Ours, as a world, to combine, or back up, and Choose disbelief,

Giving power to the powers To be, whose power to Be is defiling

Our Choice’s portrait of supposedly empty highlights, making ordinary

Unimportant, so thus this becomes the light of truth and leads life to corrupted view,

Either you losing sight of you or me of myself, misconstruing reason to pay it forward,

So I’m usin lucrative lines to lubricate the minds still a little prude to the nude of life,

Faded from strained engagement, makin the choice to die before you’re ever abused again,

To stand unphased in the face of hate and maintain a level stage of patience, that few appreciatin,

Proof that even in the height of uselessness, truth exist in a dimension fixed from vision,

Rooted fixture of a singularity, opposing ideals varying, extend as phloem,

Still can’t elude the speed of photons in a system of life and physics where the right to choose, itself,

Is the life in what lives stand for,

Beyond the physical, a Worth indivisible, formed from what we did and didn’t do,

Warm with smitten, passive light, passin every night and day,

By the hour, orbit revolutions of quintupled Arcturus regions, knowledge empowered brain,

Observin league’s descent uncharted, breeching in darkest hour,

Gravitate my beliefs to massive reason, dimension of must equalin mass of love

To not corrupt where hearts conduct or infest all I possess with lust,

Hope I can maintain the way I touch hearts and pump in months of hardwork,

I keep learning from how I feel to why I feel that way,

Found difference in being indigent and being ignorant,

Intelligence directly reflectin indignant wisdom, transmittin,

Referrals I purpose of personal Shells in ideals, splurging words earnestly

To enter these journals, but if I’m supposed to, what’s the purpose,

Who am I to deserve such a love to words, just an observer

With judicial poetic touch,

And if it’s certain, to whomever, that fate is written, a moral contingent imminent to emptyin,

then what’s the Purpose to existence other than fulfilling an omni-present minister’s wishes of progression,

So I’m administering this obsession to keep anyone who’s missin those “blessings” to please hold on for new direction because I’m tired of seeing depression used as weapons, ammunition from confusion spreadin, duly attentive to fully removin this sickness in sentenced remedies,

Imprison the Nil of pre-destined influences, bring immunity to kill tetanus infections,

Yet still refusing to refute my messages’ meaning even when people misread or dis-link from me

In fear of appearing foolish when light’s free, wool lids over open eyed fools,

Mule witted minds losin focus,

Allusive motive to controlling themselves,

Soo they leave it to forces brail, leaving me to expose

Where the heart is and what it is I was composed to do, go through,

With an ambition prone to fail, I suppose, According to premeditated rulings,

Meaning everyone can’t avail, so only some progress while others are rejected,

Some succeed, some fail, some live, some dwell, well, all alive, but none feel,

Not one well,

And once accepted they remain as frail as I stay mute, but that’s changin soon,

Realizing the truth to stay ahead, never aim to win, life is better played at whim,

Not a favor to anyone to stay blind because you believe you have no play in it,

And claiming peace, while inside, you fake as s***,

So no more resigned use of…

Of life in muses, only new identities I can side by, fuse with,

Away from what therein lies of pre-inscribed mysterious finds, binding will to higher kinds,

Leaving little clarity between actuality and their desire,

Entirety of irrationality blurring passions with pre-happenings,

So I’m writing packet-deep, massive thesis type lyrics,

Not on what life is, more on what it should look like,

Negate effects of strife in what we go through every day

In dreaming and seeking Faith, ending wake of endless waking, like Kenny’s nature,

Mysterion mind deliberating meaning in decisions that supposedly lead us, survival of the fated,

Achievements naked, blank sheet, feat-less wasteland of failures, aka

Someone else’s graceland’s sake,

Astray a world of involuntary reflexes, committed daily,

So what are we without the choices that we make?

And what are reached achievements if choices obsolete,

Our thoughts subjection leaning toward subjective mercy,

Always worrying things will turn for the worse, or should service us,

Circling merit, false in essence, always expectin credit, all these undeserved expectations,

Just another damn reason to instruct and detain, trained to hush,

Contained in corruption, so I break away and lead myself free of it,

Free of following a truth untold, or rushed through,

I slow it down,

Piercing meaning, rupturing relations between changes in Being

And being thankful for living,

Every reason I find, convenes in front of spleens,

Instead of wasting time slaving to understand something always changing

I can easily provide more beauty with “ordinary” in wording, ordaining my own action,

Than any do with reasons still a mystery because they believe in divinity’s selection,

Well I believe everyone, no matter skin, beliefs, see a peace, regardless of objective,

Peace is the seed that exist in you and me, me in you and you in me, nothing sexual,

Just technical, so here’s to findin triumph in effort hulled, fighting for survival of hope in better situations

Distribute it mainstream, with only precedence toward bestowing bravery,

Traversing in shoals of intricate migrations, from skull to throat,

Talkin over people trollin the same thing, about damnation, nuclear devastation, or no hope in humanity,

Betraying speaking peace in pieces, plain to see,

Disarray in creation of fate-sung predicaments

So I remain an algebraic humanist, Ethos patron instinctively,

Regardless of what will be, only means to believe in,

And I choose to believe then,

From the whole of me, giving heed in forms of rhyming reads,

Waiting for the time to reach and grab my chance before it passes me…

My chance to be, to chance is to breathe in depths of stress, under endless seas of probabilities,

Chance is the rise to waves accent to cling to being, where wind swiftly leads a symphony

Of dreams and just when air seems di-minished, chance then Links courage to cappin fear,

Ceasing deceasing of a dwindled breeze, bringing back forgotten memories,

Connected to the past, of where one love met another,

Growth in a happiness conceived bliss, paintings above everyone;

A past’s collage of pensive imagery, collision of Imagination and color,

As wind in the sky blows to soothe the dried, pacifyin,

Past trees, to carry seeds to where they land and breed,

Chance is the treaty between faith and reason,

So tired, so much time to chancing, less to myself, more to finding pride,

Wealth applied to build a health in a life worth more than itself, meant to help,

Enrich those left with doubt, pursued in talents used to salvage faith and shelter,

Compelling thoughts of jealousy and hatred, still a becoming, in the making,

No black and white, I’m in the gray, changin, becomin blanker to a race based on skin,

A lot of work in becoming the change I wish to see replacing all the deceit and greed shit,

To give people something to believe and then proceed to give them reason guaranteeing chance,

Fairing change in paths and enhance the passion made elastic by creating a canvas of emotions gathered

When faced with resistance in liberation from fated actions, I supply my own motivation,

I never tire, never slack, forever writing, sometimes gaming,

I design, repay debt and fines,

I find when lost,

I admire the quaint breeze,

I aspire to aspire,

Seeking others to re-fire fired dreams,

Finally seeing the beauty in dying leaves,

I am only but the comprisee, comprised to further ideas beyond that Comprising…

And at every Dawn of Morn’, perfect timing,

Lightly sun brushed adorned emotions course vibrantly,

Alarm chime got me up like Dug and Russell,

Carl Orff auricular consumption as I rise to shining,

Leaving bunks made comfortable, plying a nine to five,

Adrift corrupted, yet functional systems of injustice,

That people blindly trust in, such a numb to love world,

So I’m livin sure of what I want, but never deserving,

More for serving, because I see a turning in returning,

Learning TM 27, to defend without hesitation, those hurting,

Putting plenty work in, stayin sturdy, steady, stern,

So no more sleep, reenergize my mind with ultraviolet multi-focused drive,

Never tried thriving in just one type of art, renaissance rhymes or charcoal lines,

Bars of ideals primed in furnace fire,

Filled from philosophical mines I, from time to time, step inside to dig further,

Almost a decade, now, dedicated toward a storyline that transformed to novels,

From Lanowen to Cenoria,

From one part to over four, comic-concepts

From porch bottom to views with No horizon,

Just me and Hiz,

From RP to a simple Story, to a Foyer of plots,

Elevating floors high, Glory rises to tell of the dormant tales,

Tales of war, Tales of cheer, Tales Galore, Tales of Fears,

A tale of Fictional artists, just tryin to stay in chime tune with reality,

Eyes open, as trays of a balance-beam,

We only dream To chase them, after, running mentally to catch them,

Dippin off through darkened streets, literally,

And when dusk begins reality slumbers in Dippers over me,

Ephemeral solace into the evening, leaving me in

Pleasant never ending brinks, extinct of larks or peeps,

Sole existence of a solo dolo sidewalk dreamer,

A roamin Caesar, Rome enthusiast

To scenic artistry of stars gleaming in navy-bluest skies,

Light mists of moonlight sonata-like cloaks linger through the night,

A bliss as infinite as the stars are distant, holdin my hopes in suspension,

Ensuing thoughts to compose notes in my dome or on moleskine,

Brim-row view in opera lands, Baritone parlando, harking heartfelt cantos,

Stealing back the hope I robbed myself of, so no more dead silence,

No sounds, just NC headphones and instrumentals to get my mind scheming,

Socratic Luther King in Light and in my sleep,

Still a modern Machiavelli, to stand for what’s right,

Keep what’s on back and neck protected, look like an easy

Target, but I promise that that ain’t promised,

Fingers crossin keyboards like twist ties,

Butter bread lines, sun-beams, from always goin ‘gainst the grain,

In an Adidas skully over curls as I stroll the lunar World,

Lennon-shoes, solar-albedo Chuck Soles Chauffer luster, a sulfer glow of soulful surges from Sol-lit sources, shone off earth’s surface, in all directions, time reversin from my inertia, I surf a universe of Umi-verses, rainin fiercely, floodin nyxheim, floodin tumblr, floodin notebooks, on my flood the world s***, only observable once I give life to words shaped in a matrix muse, wor-ship of my curse or gift, I make that discernment, man what the hell, I been murkin, think it’s time for me to call the curtains, I’m outta here, peace and heart, hope you enjoyed the work,

Fin

[cupidsbower]

I’m still the same old me, that’s all I’ll ever be

Supernatural 12x17, “The British Invasion,” and 12x18, “The Memory Remains.”

Two episodes about legacies, two episodes about how our actions can shape the future. Two episodes about making connections and breaking them. And irony. Don’t forget the irony. That’s key!

There have been several British Invasions of the Americas, notably Columbus of course, and the War of Independence perhaps also counts, but ironically, the invasion actually called “The British Invasion” was... wait for it... pop music in the 1960s. The Beatles. The Animals. The Kinks!

Hahahaha.

Anyway, there was also a “Second British Invasion” in the 80s, which included this gem, which wasn’t on the soundtrack for 12x17 but really, really should have been.

Come On Eileen, by Dexys Midnight Runners

A song about religious guilt, symbolised by desire for a pretty girl called Eileen. On the money, right? *pointedly looks at Mick’s cultish brainwashing*

So, Eileen. She was the highlight of this episode. I love her so! Sam is obviously a bit smitten, and who can blame him. I really adore their dynamic. I’m slightly less enamoured that her life was Mick’s final exam, but she lived so I’m letting it go.

In short, Eileen can come back any time. In fact, I’m intrigued by the possibilities of her coming back. She retreated to Ireland after the accidental shooting of Renny Rawlings, upper-class twit par excellence. And here’s the thing about Ireland... lets just say it doesn’t exactly have a happy relationship with Britain, and would not take kindly to the BMOL doing anything on their turf. Eileen is probably pretty safe there. If Eileen does return this season, it wouldn’t surprise me if she comes back with some Irish colleagues who are sympathetic to the Americans.

The three other meaty aspects of this episode are Mick’s arc, Kelly’s pregnancy, and Mary’s dubious sexual choices.

Mick, ah Mick. You were objectively kind of horrible, but the writers did a pretty good job of making me marginally sympathetic in this episode. Being brainwashed as a kid casts a long shadow, as John’s legacy has demonstrated only too well, and Mick’s childhood was obviously very much an indoctrination into the cult of the BMOL. He just didn’t have quite enough time to grow out of its shadow before it swallowed him up.

Mick’s fate was decided by abusive “nurturing” (if it can be called nurturing) by an adoptive female guardian (the anti-Mary -- present but terrible, instead of a terrible absence). He was indoctrinated into a legacy that shared many of the same problems as Sam and Dean’s, but like them, Mick started to question and see shades of grey once he achieved some distance from the abusive authority figure. Mick’s journey raises the question once more: is a nephilim born evil, or is it raised evil? How much does maternity/paternity define the child, and how much is choice?

I kind of like the symmetry of Mick’s arc, because in the last episode with Claire, and now this one with Eileen, the female characters were lessons for Mick. But his completed arc has turned out to be another kind of lesson -- it’s a major mirror for the nephilim arc. And for all that Lucifer seems so sure it’s a boy, I have my suspicions that it’s a girl. The foreshadowing is definitely hinting at it.

Which brings me to Kelly’s pregnancy. I have such mixed feelings about this plotline. The show is being so cautious, which I get is because they don’t want to alienate their conservative viewers. But I do wish Kelly’s arc had a bit more nuance. I have no objection to her loving her unborn child, or wanting to have it. I do wish we had a bit more insight into her hopes, fears and plans, though. I mean, she was the aide to a super-religious President, right? But she also had sex with him out of wedlock. These are potential contradictions, but we have no insight into how she thinks about them -- I’m curious about where she is on the religious spectrum. Is she also super-religious, and if so, would her fear of Lucifer trump her love of an unborn child? And if she’s not super-religious, what the hell is she making of all this? Is she afraid she’ll die, or does she think that’s hokum and a good hospital will do the trick? Is she missing her friends and family? Does she have any???

Like, I get that she’s probably going to be a disposable container who dies at the end of the season, so that our leads have a baby to deal with next season, but come on. Surely we can get some characterisation along the way before she’s fridged???? This is potentially such rich ground, and we’ve basically been given bupkis.

Now Mary, on the other hand, I’m enjoying a lot. It’s such a pleasure to learn more about her, and get some fresh and unexpected characterisation. I don’t really like her very much at the moment, but her choices are so interesting! Choosing to sleep with Ketch is fascinating (and gross) for so many reasons. For a start, it means she’s coming back to life. She’s making choices about her own pleasure. Sure they are kind of shitty choices, but just a few eps ago, she was in a place where she seemed to see no joy in life as a possibility for her at all, even such fleeting solace as this. I’m curious to see how this will play out. Ketch is a psychopath, but he’s an obsessive one I think. I don’t foresee any love-inspired turning-over of leaves in his future, but I do see him acting in a skeevy or possessive way which has unintended consequences that pay off in interesting plot twists.

Aside from all of that, Mary’s choice to have sex with someone she doesn’t have any deeper feelings for also draws the parallel between her and Dean ever more clearly. Mary will choose pleasure of the moment when she can’t have the deeper pleasures and connections she really wants, and she’s very much aware that this is the choice she’s making. Dean makes exactly the same choice in the very next episode, which is kind of extraordinary once you dig into it. We’ve already had the impala scene, in which Dean realised Mary had had sex in it (just as he has), so the sexual parallel between them isn’t new. But the larger implication of why they both chose fleeting sexual pleasure at this particular moment is new -- for Mary it’s about pining and solace and wanting to feel alive, which due to the parallel implies that it’s also about pining and solace and life for Dean. Both of them are pining for people who aren’t there. Both of them try to take what they can from life anyway.

I keep thinking the show must have plumbed the depths of the possibilities for queer subtext, and then it basically parallels Castiel and John as the missing lovers in question, and I just... Really? Really?

Moving on to 12x18, this episode had some lovely writing in it. From the unacknowledged queer possibilities in the opening scene -- two guys watching het couples make out, and getting off on it -- to the goddamn gorgeous subversion of John’s hunting motto, and a bunch of other things too, this ep made me happy. John Bring, I like you, Please write more!

So there were two main plot strands in this ep, and one major theme. On the one hand we have the bunker being invaded by the BMOL, and on the other, we have the Winchesters taking out a god, no big deal. And through it all runs the thread of legacies -- the things we leave behind for those who come after us.

The title of the ep is probably taken from the Metallica song of the same name, about an aging film star who goes off the rails as their fame fades. Rather like the British Empire has faded compared to its former colony, for instance.

However, the track in the episode which is most directly related to the BMOL is Bongzilla’s Prohibition (4th Amendment). I confess, I had no idea there was such a thing as a stoner band called Bongzilla, but now I have been educated! Their song Prohibition (4th Amendment) is exactly what it sounds like -- an ode to the 4th Amendment to the US Constitution, which “prohibits unreasonable searches and seizures” (x). Obviously an important issue to stoners. I guess.

My main takeaway from the BMOL’s search of the bunker was sadness. I’m now pretty sure that Sam and Dean are going to lose their home when they reject the legacy of the MOL at the end of the season. All that will remain are those carved initials... assuming the whole bunker isn’t blown up, due to the explosive birth of a nephilim for instance.

There’s no doubt in my mind, however, that a rejection of the MOL legacy is coming for Sam and Dean, and it won’t go easy.

The only other thing I want to say about the BMOL strand of this ep is that Ketch’s weird Thing for the Winchesters is officially creepy, especially as it’s not entirely clear whether it’s a Thing for Mary or a Thing for Dean -- Ketch did that whole seduction play for Dean several eps ago, long before Mary decided to jump that, and both Dean and Mary are in the pic.

Maybe it’s both! Ugh barely expresses it really.

I for one will enjoy it very much when he gets his comeuppance.

Moving on to the hunt part of the episode. There are so many things to enjoy here. First, it’s a god, and as Dean says, it’s just “normal” to go eight rounds with one and win if you’re a Winchester. I really do love the juxtaposition of the Winchesters casually taking out a god (Sam is so badass), while the very human BMOL are their actual antagonists for the season. The ridiculousness of it delights me.

The little details of the plot are delightful too. We have the Sheriff who is fighting the legacy of his past, compared with the other kind of legacy -- the illegitimate brother who wants to inherit the sins of the father. And that’s when we get this, which was a highlight of the ep for me:

Pete: That's what we do, right? Hunting people. Killing them. The family business.

And the reason I love it so much is because this is straight out telling us that the Winchester script is no longer John’s script. Because what Pete says shows up just how wrong it is. Hunting and killing people is not the family business. First, because it’s no longer possible to tell who “people” are just by whether they are human or supernatural, and second, because as Sam told us, what matters is saving people -- that is Sam and Dean’s legacy. That is their business.

Sam: But the people we saved, they're our legacy. And they'll remember us and then I guess we'll eventually fade away, too.

When we get these glimpses of Sam’s inner life, it makes me yearn for more. I had so much hope this season was going to be a Sam season, given how it started, but it seems to have trailed off in the second half and I miss it. More inner Sam, please, Mr Dabb.

Anyway, they are not hunters. They are saviours! I mean... *waves hands wildly* Oh em gee. That’s huge!

I am now 100% convinced that the nephilim baby will not die because of Sam, Dean or Castiel. They’ll save it, because it’s the family business.

Okay, the one other thing I want to talk about is Dean and his liaison with the waitress. I’ve already mentioned the parallel with Mary, but I have to say, I liked this part of the ep. It was so cheesy, but it was also Dean celebrating life, which we haven’t seen in a while. Everything from the music as he undertook his hilarious seduction (Tony Hatch’s Music to Watch Girls By) to the affectionate look on Sam’s face the morning after -- it was done with a light touch, and didn’t come off as a no-homo to me. Rather, it felt like a blast from the past. A happy, nostalgic nod back to Dean’s past, signalling that there’s about to be a major shift in his path as we go into season 13.

And the capper, as he ate his hamburger afterwards without a glance at the waitress, was this playing in the background.

Burgers and Fries, Charley Pride

If that’s not a goodbye to a major part of his life that’s now over, I don’t know what is.

Previously:

The Ministry of Information vs Wayward Sons Carrying On (12x01)

My, my, how can I resist you? (12x02) and follow-up about Bohemian Raphsody

So what am I so afraid of? (I think I love you) (12x03)

I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy Down in my heart (Where?) (12x04) and a follow-up about the codependency and about Dean’s self-flagellation and issues with space

There can be only one! (12x05), and a follow-up conversation with elizabethrobertajones on Freud vs Schwartz.

They shall fall by the sword: they shall be a portion for foxes (12x06)  

Presenting the Immaculate Heart Reunion Tour (12x07)    

I’m still living the life where you get home and open the fridge and there’s half a pot of yogurt and a half a can of flat Coca-Cola. ~Alan Rickman (12x08, 12x09)

When the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men (12x10)    

in re (12x11)

Making the most of teachable moments (12x12) and an added thought, In-and-out-laws

Don’t fuck with the branches on my family tree (12x13)

To Protect and to Serve (12x14) and some more thoughts

Hiding in the shadow of love (12x15) and some further thoughts in response to @elizabethrobertajones‘ meta.

You’re living in the past, it’s a new generation (12x16)

[puclpodcast]

PDL Week 4 Recap

PDL Week 4 Recap

This is the final week before the first bye week and teams are giving it all they have got before a well deserved week of rest.

DEP vs. BAL: 2-0

NWN vs. AUK: 0-4

HEH vs. MIN: 0-3

VAV vs. DCC: 0-4

TOT vs. MIL: 0-3

BFS vs. MID: 0-3

COG vs. ITA: 6-0

SHS vs. LOL: 6-0

SLC vs. JAX: 3-0

NJJ vs. HFW: 0-5

BEN vs. PIP: 3-0

NYY vs. BLP: 3-0

This week the Corsola Cola Division played off against the Rhyhorn Steakhouse and lets just say that Corsola Cola can’t overpower the flavor form the Rhyhorn Steakhouse. With 5 out of the 6 games going in favor of the Rhyhorn Steakhouse division. The same  outcome happened between the Green Tauros division and the Toxapepsi Division. The hooves from Green Tauros stopped the Merciless flavors of Toxapepsi in almost every match. The past 3 weeks have pinned division vs division and those matches overall were closer with the Rhyhorn Steakhouse coming out with the most wins of all the divisions thus far. Is this telling of how things will look for playoffs or is this just week 4 madness stretching across the conference. I guess we will find out soon enough. 

I have to mention how impressed I am with how well teams are adapting to this format and improving already. A bunch of team got their first win, or made strides towards the top of the standings, with now only 3 teams left undefeated. What’s becoming more and more apparent is that the teams that do good prep usually come out on top. There is one match in particular that highlights how useful prep can be when your opponents don’t expect something. That would be the AUK vs NWN game. Sparky! Coached his team through a difficult match up and showed why he is a force to be reckoned with this season. (If you want to see Vileplume, tied for #3 on the MVP leaderboard, sweep a team I recommend checking out the HFW vs. NJJ game.)

AUK Side: DG6G-WWWW-WWWL-B2AY

NWN Side:  AEJG-WWWW-WWWL-R29W

Pick’ems

These are becoming tougher and tougher to pick correctly with the majority of teams this week with only 7 correct. However no one got a perfect week so they do not get mentioned here. The reason for that is because of the 4 Pick ‘em upsets. Despite COG being 3-0 ,at the top of the standings and a previous UUTC winner, the majority of picks 9 went in favor of ITA the most current UUTC winner. While this is not a traditional upset it is one in terms a pick ‘ems. The second one comes at SHS taking down LOL with the same margin 9-4. NYY gets their first win over BLP who came off an upset win last week. Those picks were 10-3 in favor of BLP. Finally there was one person who called the BEN upset over PIP this week. Clearly and match no one saw coming.

Trades

Here are the Trades from week 4 that will be live week 5 after the bye

DCC Tyranitar T1 Free Agent Reuniclus DCC Hitmontop T4 Free Agent Aerodactyl NYY Azumarill T1 Free Agent Tyranitar VAV Rotom-W T1 Free Agent Azumarill VAV Gardevoir T3 Free Agent Meloetta VAV Altaria T5 Free Agent Servine

  DCC after a rough start made some necessary changes to help improve their matchups in weeks to come by adding Aerodactyl and Reuniclus to their roster. Some fancy mon dropping in free agency allowed NYY to drop Azumarill to pick up the Tyranitar that DCC dropped and VAV picked up the Azumarill. VAV also added Meloetta dn servine to their roster which is bound to bring in new energy to the team.

Interview with Hydra

This week I’m joined by (In my opinion, one of the better battlers in PUCL) Hydra.

C9: Thank you Hydra for taking the time to answer these questions for the fans. Being randomly selected for first pick of the draft, how did you feel about?

Hydra: Whenever I see I’ve gotten first pick in a league, there’s always a rush of excitement due to all the options it gives for starting a draft. So, I was definitely happy that I could build a plan that didn’t have to factor being sniped in round 1.

C9: How do you think that impacted your draft, if at all?

Hydra: Due to the way PDL does S-tier picks, there’s a cost associated with picking the usual draft format no-brainers like Tapu Koko or Celesteela, and you can’t just jump on one of those round 1 without consequences. Additionally, the mons I ended up desiring weren’t ones I usually see taken quickly in draft format. As a result, I don’t think it ultimately influenced my draft much.

C9: What are your goals for this season of PDL?

Hydra: I’d ideally like to use all of my Pokemon to their full potential, and with a wider variety of sets. Last season I was using pokemon with more straightforward roles (also there were some Free Agency trades over an awkwardly long period of time,) and as a result there just wasn’t as much variety week to week.

C9: Who are most looking forward to battling this season?  

Hydra: Geo for sure. Going off his record he seems like a strong battler, and we may or may not have had disagreements in the past involving a flying prehistoric pokemon with facial hair.

C9: Is there anyone you are glad you don’t have to face in the regular season?

Hydra: I’d say Thatch. I faced him twice last season, and although I can’t recall if it was bad plays, prep, or just an unfortunate draft matchup, I lost to him both times. So, it’s nice to not have to worry about a third match (at least until a potential comeback in season 3!)

C9: I know I’m not looking forward to our match, week 7, but either way it should be a fun battle.

Hydra: I’m flattered by your dread! But as long as we’re not going to fight twice in a row like we had to in the UUTC, it should be fun. Back-to-back battles aren’t usually a great time, but maybe that’s just me.

C9: Why did you choose the team name, The Norwalk Nosepass?

Hydra: I’m glad you asked- it’s the violently creative combination of my hometown, Norwalk, and a pokemon that possesses my favorite type, Nosepass. Despite both this Connecticut town and gen 3 Pokemon lacking any noteworthy characteristics I can discern, I’ve got a fondness for both of them.

C9: Were there any secret techs that you brought for your matchups that you didn’t get to showcase?

Hydra: There’s surprisingly already been a few. Though I did get to show off Shattered Psyche Serperior (EM Mirror Coat being the base) as a finishing move, it didn’t prove to be the surprise game winner I thought it would be as my opponent didn’t bring the Pokemon it was meant to break through, Amoonguss. I feel like I might end up bringing the other wacky techs again sometime soon, so I’ll keep quiet on those.

C9: Who would you say is the mon you are most excited to use on your team this year?

Hydra: Surprisingly, it’s proven to be Miltank. I wasn’t terribly excited about using it at first, and simply picked it to add some bulk to my draft. But it’s been a very effective and versatile Pokemon, so much so that every week so far I’ve had reason to breed a new set on it. Makes sense considering usable stats for several roles, an expansive movepool, and three good abilities to pick from.

C9: Let’s learn about you as a pokemon Fan. When did you start listening to PUCL?

Hydra: I was really into the VGC15 meta, especially post worlds, and at the time was also expanding the amount of different podcasts I listened to quite a bit. PUCL was the only one I could find that covered the format and competitive battling overall in any meaningful sense, and I’ve been a listener since.

C9: What pokemon generation did you start with?

Hydra: For me, it started back- I mean, right around gen 4. No particularly interesting story to tell, unfortunately. I’d been obsessed with the cards or anime from time to time, and eventually got Pearl upon hearing about from my older brother (but not yet understanding) the wonders this franchise had to offer in video game form.

C9: What is your favorite region?

Hydra: I’d probably go with Hoenn. As far as I remember it has the most diverse locations (and did a lot of them first,) featuring volcanoes, forests, deserts, pillars that touch the sky, and just the right amount of water. Now that I think about it, Alola is probably just as diverse in terms of locations, but it needed multiple islands to get that done so I’ll stick with Hoenn.

C9: Who is your favorite pokemon?

Hydra: Hydreigon! Ever since I first saw it and its incomparably cool typing browsing Serebii while waiting for BW’s American Release, it’s been my favorite. Worth even the absolutely ridiculous grind for level 64 and a 4x weakness resulting from it being too broken in gen 5. Snorlax and Psyduck would be my honorable mentions.

C9: If you had to pick: Attack or Special Attack?

Hydra: I’d go with Special Attack. Intimidate is gross, and moves like Psyshock or Secret Sword mean you can get the best of both worlds going with Special sometimes.

C9: What is your battle style:  Stall/Hyper Offense/Bulky Offense/Balance?

Hydra: I generally lean Hyper Offense, simply because it’s quicker/easier to build for and battle with, which of course means more time for more battles!

C9: Do you prefer Speed or Trick Room?

Hydra: The answer’s probably obvious to anyone who battled me in the UUTC this year, but Trick Room. The setup is convoluted of course and means that you’re often better off going for straight speed in singles, but the payoff is immense when it works. It’s usually my default strategy when trying to figure out a new VGC format as well.

C9: What is your favorite Weather; Hail/Sand/Rain or Sun?

Hydra: Definitely Hail, partly due to it being the underdog of weather conditions for so long and me being a New Englander who doesn’t mind the cold weather. Hail was my favorite playstyle in the previously mentioned VGC15, as Blizzard would largely tear apart CHALK type teams if you had Heatran covered. The new tools it got in gen 7 finally put it on par with the other weather conditions too, so it’s less of an uphill battle to use it now.

C9: Electric/Misty/Grassy or Psychic Terrain?

Hydra: Grassy Terrain! I like Bulu a whole lot, and the effects of Grassy terrain lend themselves better than the other terrains to building defensive cores. Heatran’s another Pokemon I really like, and it can form an impeccable core with Bulu thanks to the three effects of Grassy Terrain that all benefit it.

C9: Favorite status to inflict: Sleep/Freeze/Paralysis/Burn or Poison?

Hydra: Paralysis for me. Even though it only cuts speed by 50% now, that’s still enough to make most things slower than even a lot of your walls, and that 25% chance of total immobility can mean you pulling of all kinds of things you otherwise couldn’t. And of course, I thought that the animation for it looked really neat in Diamond and Pearl.

C9: Have you watched the Pokemon anime? If yes, what is your favorite Theme song?

Hydra: I unfortunately haven’t watched the anime in quite some time, so it’s hard to say. But, I’ve heard that a Patrat goes for a high five but gets left hanging in one of the Black and White theme songs, and that sounds fantastic to me, so I’ll go with that.

C9: Thank you Hydra, for joining us today! We will be back in 2 weeks after the week 5 matches. See ya soon

from PDL Week 4 Recap

[bookofsurvival-blog]

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