#and that death is wry and funny and loves to read

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading updates: may 2025

jesus christ you guys. May is already over.

I feel like I've lost most of the month to various agonies (power outage, worst period I've had in years, horrific anxiety attacks) but you know what I did manage to do? read the shit out of some books.

what have I been reading?

Zombies vs. Unicorns (ed. Holly Black and Justine Larbalestier, 2010) - I wrote about this one pretty extensively over on patreon, complete with a ranked list of every short story in the anthology. I read this book as a teen and discovered that I remembered way more about these short stories (authored by a dozen names from all across the late aughts YA field) than I remembered, and was really pleasantly surprised by how well it held up 15 years later! as for whether I was Team Zombie or Team Unicorn... well, check out the 'tron ;)

My Best Friend's Honeymoon (Meryl Wilsner, 2025) - I promise this is the last time I'm going to do this, but I also wrote a review of this on patreon. tl;dr: so unbelievably stale that it made me yearn for the weird toxic MILF-ery of Wilsner's other novel, Mistakes Were Made. but, on the plus side, this is one of the only works of fiction I've ever encountered where anyone but gay men are shown to enjoy eating ass 🍑

Martyr! (Kaveh Akbar, 2024) - with each passing day I understand more and and more what Harry Styles meant when he said "it's like a real movie that you'd see in the cinema." Martyr! is like a real novel that you'd seen in a bookstore, or in a library, or discussed in a class where some hot insufferable idiot is going to have opinions so good and so irritating that you're incapable of NOT fucking them. I'm honestly like a little horny about this book, and if you know anything about me and my love of death as a storytelling device you won't be surprised: the main character, Cyrus Shams, is passively suicidal at best, struggling to think of the most meaningful way a person can lose their one and only life. by chance he finds his way to a terminally ill artist living out her final days in museum exhibit, performing her own death, and the to strike up a connection that blows his world wide open. reader, the REVEAL of this book made me shriek.

Don't Fear the Reaper (Stephen Graham Jones, 2023) - the first book in Jones' Indian Lake trilogy, My Heart is a Chainsaw, left me impressed but overwhelmed; the whole time I was reading the book I couldn't help but feel like I was missing something, failing to keep up with either the abundance of references to slasher movies or the convoluted plot of smalltown murder unfolding in the novel. this time around I was on steadier ground, and while I still can't say I 100% kept up with the action at all times, that may well be because I was reading too damn fast - this book's a certifiable chonker, but I breezed right through it, unable to step away from the snaking twists and reveals. I'd say that I hope this town stops serving as a magnet for serial killers and vengeful ghosts soon, but unfortunately I know perfectly well that that's just what Idaho is like.

My Garden (Book): (Jamaica Kincaid, illus. Jill Fox, 1999) - I happen to be an extremely, extremely amateur gardener, by which I mean I very much like to stand in the tiny patch of earth in front of my house and marvel at how many things are growing there now, planted without rhyme or reason, in a soil that's surprisingly rich considering that just a few years ago it was all bone-dry dirt. but whether you take any joy in dirt and plants or not, I think this is a really lovely read. it's about gardening but it's also about making a home your own, and it's about the many colonialist implications of how plants are managed and named, and mainly it's about Kincaid being an extremely funny and wry observer of a great many things. I'd love to offer her a seat on my porch and let her talk for hours about how her garden's doing these days.

Harriet Tubman: Live in Concert (Bob the Drag Queen, 2025) - right in the first five seconds of this book you have to accept a lot. famous historical figures have started returning from the dead, no explanation, and one of them is Harriet Tubman, accompanied by half a dozen other formerly enslaved folks and abolitionists. and what is Harriet up to in the 21st century? well, she's started a band, and she's reached out for help from our protagonist Darnell, a producer who's distanced himself from the industry. got that? good. don't worry about the how or why too much; this isn't that kind of book. this is a book for Miss the Drag Queen to examine the legacy of historical Black heroes like Harriet Tubman and what their sacrifices mean for Black Americans today. Harriet and her supporting cast offer up various views on enslaved life, abolition, spirituality, and more, to the point that it will sometimes feel like the author just wants you to know how much reading she did about Harriet Tubman. but it also seems abundantly clear that this is a deeply personal project, and I was surprised by how much the raw sincerity could get to me even when it felt a bit didactic. I think the best way to enjoy this book is absolutely to listen to it on audio, so that you can not only hear Bob read her own work but also catch the two original songs she recorded specifically for the book.

Daydream Hour: Doodles by Ryoko Kui (Ryoko Kui, 2024, trans. Taylor Engel, 2025) - this one possibly barely counts as having read a book, since it's primarily bonus doodles pertaining to Dungeon Meshi's creatures, characters, and lore, but man, it was still such a delight and a nice little treat to have. Kui has such an obvious adoration for her characters, and it's fun to see her play with them like dolls! the highlight for me has got to me my awful little meow meow Mithrun receiving a hot water bottle shaped like a walking mushroom and, seemingly, enjoying it as much as he's capable of enjoying anything.

Cooling the Tropics: Ice, Indigeneity, and Hawaiian Refreshment (Hi'ilei Julia Kawehipuaakahaopulani Hobart, 2022) - look, I'll be real: this is an Academic Text(tm), and the reading felt like hard work in places. but that work imparted SO many ideas that I never even would have considered before, and I love being able to feel learning happening. there are so many fascinating ideas here about the role of climate in shaping colonial ideas about race, and the regulation of temperature as an expression of colonial power even in something as seemingly innocuous as ice for beverages. you don't think about where ice comes from, but in a time where ice arrives via ship from a continent away, that's hardly a neutral or apolitical thing, is it?

this book actually tied in really well with a particular passage in Jamaica Kincaid's My Garden (Book): in which Kincaid, who grew up in Antigua, recalled this anecdote:

"I must have been about ten years old when I first came in contact with cold air; where I lived the air was only hot and then hotter... But once, the parents of a girl I knew got a refrigerator, and when they were not at home, she asked me to come in and put my hand in the freezer part. I became convinced then (and remain so even now) that cold air is unnatural ad man-made and associated with prosperity (for refrigerators were common in the prosperous North) and more real and special than the warm air that was so ordinary to me..."

and that's a passage that might have been interesting regardless, but something about reading multiple books at one time is that sometimes you stumble onto something in one book that's so SO much more meaningful because of something totally different that you happen to be reading at the same time, and Cooling the Tropics made me pause and give way more consideration to an Antiguan girl's first memory of artificial cold.

Triple Sec (TJ Alexander, 2024) - I'm about to damn this book with a lot of faint praise. it's definitely better than the other TJ Alexander romance I've read, Chef's Kiss. unlike many tradpubbed gay romance novels, it actually feels really queer. and it's definitely the best thruple romance novel I've read, since it lets both halves of the established couple bond with the newcomer separately rather than treating them as two people with one brain who feel exactly the same about everything. the actual plot is a little on the dull end and all three central characters feel a little half-baked, which is a frequent pitfall of adding a third character to a romance, but it's a quick, breezy read that I would say this is a really strong start for queer people who are looking for real deal QUEERNESS in their romance novels. and also it has, like, probably one of the hotter kinky sex scenes we're ever gonna get in a tradpub romance? ngl, Mel and Kade getting together did something for me. iykyk.

Dick Fight Island Vol. 1 (Reibun Ike, 2019, trans. Adrienne Beck 2021) - look. I don't know what to tell you. this is just a really good sports manga where the sport happens to be uuuuuuh an ancient duel between representatives of eight island clans who compete to see who can make their opponent cum first. whoever cums first loses. whoever can withstand the sensual onslaught without blowing their load the longest will win the right to name the next king of the island. it's about duty and camaraderie and intimacy and it does some really interesting things to subvert norms of masculinity. and also it's about a lot of lovingly drawn panels of throbbing dicks and oozing cum and absolutely gaping assholes. win-win! unironically, zero joke, I was delighted by every page.

[youruinedmylifebynotbeingreal]

Baby, It's Cold Outside

AO3

Summary: Soren is cold because of the dark magic in his body, but he has a very warm boyfriend. Corvus can't help but wonder why his boyfriend is always so cold and has inexplicable scars.

Note: I was listening to my Sorvus playlist as I wrote, and Good Love by Aly & AJ came on and I realized it fit the vibes of this fic perfectly. I then played it on repeat for most of while I was writing. So, listen to that while reading if you want the full experience.

I honestly debated titling the piece after that song, but decided I couldn't pass up a good pun.

Inspired by @multifandom-nerds-blog's headcanons that Soren is cold and has scars because of the dark magic used on him in the past. Mix that with waking up cold every morning in the winter. Thus, a fic is born.

...

Soren couldn’t help it. He was almost always freezing. The dark magic in his veins guaranteed it. 

Except, somehow, right before bed. Even in the middle of winter, he’d have to take most of his layers off before laying down, because otherwise he’d never be able to fall asleep. 

Especially if he wanted to fall asleep cuddled into Corvus; he’d quickly get too warm. Even if they ended up on separate sides of the bed by the morning (because Soren couldn’t stay still in sleep, either), falling asleep in each other's arms helped to ward off the nightmares. Half the time he even woke up with all of his blankets crumpled at the foot of the bed because he’d kicked them off. Corvus was quickly learning to keep a death grip, even in sleep, on any blanket he actually wanted to keep on him.

So, on the night of the first freeze of the winter season in Katolis, Soren went through his usual nighttime routine of lavender scented skin and hair care products. He’d already put on his lightest pair of pajamas, not thinking about the weather; his only concern had been how quickly he could get out of his heavy armor and into Corvus’s waiting arms. It was Soren’s night to be the little spoon, and it had been a long day.

Soren stopped in the doorway to their bedroom and watched Corvus, mesmerized by the way the lamplight reflected on his skin. He was sitting in their bed, under the covers, working on perfecting his next cello piece.

“You look deep in thought,” Soren said, breaking Corvus’s concentration.

Corvus didn’t look up, but he couldn’t help his smile. “I’ve got a great muse.”

Soren’s face turned red.

Corvus let the words hang for a beat before he continued. “Yeah, you know, Pyrrah’s been really inspirational recently.”

Soren had been making his way across the room and stopped. He made the confused, deep-in-thought face that Corvus lovingly referred to as his “wait for it” expression. Then came the “realization” face.

“Was that… a joke?” Soren asked after a moment, Corvus’s dry sense of humor dawning on him.

Corvus put the papers on his bedside table with a wry grin. “It was! What did you think?”

Soren practically pounced on the man waiting for him in bed. Corvus let out an “oof” of air at Soren’s landing - like a big dog, sometimes Soren forgot how large he actually was.

 “It’s not funny when you joke about me,” he pouted into Corvus’s chest dramatically, words muffled by fabric and skin. On instinct, Corvus wrapped his arms around Soren.

“Soren, you know nothing compares to the awe you inspire in me.” Corvus ran his fingers through the silky blond hair tickling his chin. Now he’d also smell like lavender all night.

Soren’s head popped up with a grin. “That’s what I like to hear!”

Corvus rolled his eyes and tried not to smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched, unable to hide his amusement. Soren let Corvus’s hand on the back of his head guide him into a gentle kiss.

“Hi,” Soren breathed when they broke apart, forehead to forehead.

“Hi.”

Soren, abruptly breaking the quiet moment, rolled off of him and scrambled under the covers. “Okay, time for bed. Hold me!”

Corvus barked out a laugh. “Geez, aren’t you demanding this evening.”

Still, Corvus did just as Soren specifically requested, quickly snuffing out his lamp, laying down, and wrapping his arms around Soren from behind.

“Well, as Head Crownguard -”

“Don’t.”

“You know you love me,” Soren said, snuggling back into Corvus’s warmth. Soren tangled their hands together and brought Corvus’s free hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on whatever skin was nearest as he closed his eyes.

“I really do.”

…

Corvus was used to sleeping in the roughest of terrain. On the forest floor, in the mountains, in a tree - really, just about anywhere. He didn’t even need a tent or a sleeping mat because being a tracker meant being discreet and able to pack up quickly.

What was he not used to?

Waking up with his freezing boyfriend clinging to him for dear life on a cold winter morning.

“Soren…?” he asked groggily, eyes adjusting to the early rays of sunlight shining through their window. He turned his head and met icy blue eyes. “Are you okay? Did you just sneeze?”

Soren nodded minutely, digging his fingers deeper into Corvus’s side. “Yup. Because of the light. But I’m okay, just currently feeling a bit like an icicle.”

“Then why don’t you have a blanket on?”

“Too cold to move.”

Corvus rolled his eyes and sat up. Soren whined, but due to his grip on Corvus, sat up too. Corvus reached over to dislodge Soren’s hands from his side so he could stand up to get Soren another shirt and fix the blankets, but a small “Don’t go…” stopped him.

Corvus’s annoyance melted away as he felt his heart clench.

“Darling, I’m not going anywhere, I just want to help,” Corvus said, dropping a kiss on Soren’s forehead.

Soren vehemently shook his head, burying his head in the crook of Corvus’s neck and wrapping his legs around Corvus’s, forcing him to stay down. Corvus gasped at the shock of Soren’s freezing nose and cold toes against sensitive skin. He relented with a sigh, reaching towards the bottom of the bed for the mixture of sheets and blankets that Soren had crumpled there.

Corvus brought the blankets up, tucking them around Soren as best he could, and stretched towards his folded scarf on his bedside table, sending his papers scattering to the floor. He sighed. He’d have to pick all of those up later and put them back in order.

The things he did for this man.

“Soren, I will need you to extricate yourself from my body for a moment if you want to wear my scarf.”

Soren relented, loosening his grasp by a fraction. His eyes were bright. “It’s too early to figure out what ‘extra-kate’ means, but I heard the word scarf. I get to wear it?!”

Corvus nodded. Judging by Soren’s reaction, you’d think Corvus never let his partner borrow it, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Corvus loved seeing Soren in his scarf. It brought out his eyes and, honestly, a part of him loved knowing that people would see Soren in it and know they were together. That this goofy, fascinating man was his goofy, fascinating man. The man who balanced him out and inexplicably complemented his personality almost perfectly.

Corvus had also taken to leaving his scarf with Soren when either of them had a mission away. Soren, on the other hand, always sent Corvus with his favorite dragon plushie. Sometimes Soren would wear the scarf the whole trip. Or sometimes only at night, like how Corvus would sleep with Soren’s stuffed dragon beside him. It helped ease the ache of being apart.

Soren acted like this every time because he knew how important the scarf was to Corvus and treated each time he got to use it with reverence.

Soren finally released Corvus from his grasp, sitting up next to him, but kept their legs tangled together. Soren tried to keep his face serious, but Corvus still thought he looked like a kid about to get their birthday presents (to be fair, Soren also looked like that when he was about to get his birthday presents).

Corvus carefully looped the scarf around Soren’s neck, using adjusting it as an excuse to touch him. He couldn’t help but notice that the lightning-like scarring across Soren’s torso seemed to be more prominent than usual in the cold. He held his tongue, not wanting to ruin this moment that almost felt sacred.

But of course, Soren tracked Corvus’s eyes to his scars.

…

Most everybody knew Soren ran cold, but most did not know the reasoning. Not Corvus. Not even Ezran and Callum, who actually knew bits and pieces of the “why,” since they grew up together.

Not that he didn’t want to share it with Corvus. But his past and his family were so - ironically - cold and dark. Whereas what he had with Corvus was so good and bright and warm. He didn’t want to taint it by bringing up the past. Every other time Corvus had inquired about his scarring, he’d found a way to change the subject. Or distract Corvus with a kiss.

Of course, Corvus noticed him dodging the question, but he respected Soren’s need to reveal things in his own time. And he’d gladly be distracted by Soren’s mouth anytime.

The light filtering through the window made Soren feel… safe. Time felt like it was suspended, as if what happened now wouldn’t really count in the glaringly bright light of a winter’s day.

Which he knew was ridiculous. If this conversation was about to happen, it’s not like Corvus would somehow forget as soon as they officially woke up for the day.

But wrapped up in blankets, his boyfriend’s scarf, and with Corvus’s grounding presence next to him, Soren felt like maybe it was time.

Plus, Corvus was staring at his scars with that face he got when he was really committing things to memory. Usually he loved when Corvus looked at him with that face - it made him feel… wanted. Handsome. Precious. A thousand other feelings he didn’t have words for.

But this time, it just made him want to tell Corvus everything.

“Hey, I see you ogling my muscles,” Soren grinned, joking to try and psych himself up for what he wanted to talk about. “I’m just kidding. You can stare at them as much as you want.”

Soren followed up his statement with a dramatic flex of an arm and a wink, then a kiss to Corvus’s cheek. He could feel the heat from Corvus’s flushed face against his cool lips. 

“You know what ‘ogling’ means?” Corvus asked, raising an eyebrow once he’d managed to compose himself a bit.

“Of course I do,” he responded haughtily. “I read romance books.”

Corvus smiled softly, endlessly amused by his partner, which led Soren’s boisterous grin to turn into a genuine smile. Soren put a hand to Corvus’s right cheek and ran his thumb gently along his eyebrow scar. Corvus closed his eyes and nuzzled into the touch.

“Okay, but in all seriousness,” Soren started quietly. If he didn’t do this now, he feared he never would. “I can see the question in your eyes and I… I think I’m ready.”

Corvus nodded. He didn’t want to say anything and disturb the moment. They broke apart, and Corvus leaned back against the headboard, ready for Soren to continue when he was ready.

“So, you may or may not know that I was a pretty sickly child.”

Another nod in response. Soren and others around the castle had alluded to it previously, but he didn’t know much else.

“But what you don’t know is that… I wasn’t getting better. As a child, I couldn’t… I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t play with Claudia without having a coughing fit or walk to the kitchen without wheezing. I was dying, Corvus.”

Soren heard his childhood mantra in his head. In through your nose, out through your mouth. He felt Corvus slip an arm around his shoulders and Soren leaned into the touch.

“But then, one day when I hadn’t been able to get out of bed for weeks… Poof. It was gone. I could breathe. I could run. I was like a new man - er, well, boy. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but that was the day these showed up,” he said, gesturing to his chest. “My being cold wasn’t as bad back then, when dark magic had only been used on me once.”

Soren heard Corvus’s intake of breath, fingers squeezing into Soren’s shoulder.

“Once?” Corvus asked, tentatively.

Soren nodded. “Yup. That was… that was the first time. But I didn’t realize what had saved me from my breathing sickness until the second time. Viren never told me how I got better, and I never thought to question it until I was grown and... and truly saw what he'd turned into.

“So, this next part you’ve definitely heard about. It was when I taunted Pyrrah in that town. When me and Clauds had you captured. While you were off being your gentlemanly self, saving the day and tracking the princes - or, well, king and prince, I guess - I was… taunting Pyrrah, yet again. We got into a bit of a fight and… well, let’s just say my armor couldn’t protect me from being thrown across a field and hitting my spine against a sharp rock.”

Corvus had indeed heard about it, but assumed the stories he’d heard about Soren’s injuries must have just been overly exaggerated. He was quickly learning that they were, in fact, not.

“I was paralyzed. Clauds tried everything she could, but nothing changed. I’d accepted it. That’s when I got the idea to reinvent myself as a poet, actually. But Claudia… she wouldn’t, couldn’t accept it. They kicked her out of the doctor’s office. I don’t know what she did while she was gone, but when she came back, she had this spell that made me start moving again.”

Soren unconsciously wiggled his fingers. Corvus took that as an invitation to grab his hand. When he felt how cold Soren’s hand was, he gave it a squeeze of encouragement and started rubbing the hand between his to help Soren warm up.

“That’s when her hair started going white,” Soren continued softly. “And that’s when the scars on my back showed up. I was cold to the touch from that day on. It took a little bit for me to put all the pieces together, but I eventually realized dark magic was inside me, and it had been that way for a while. I asked Viren as much when I was still on his side, and he confirmed it.”

Soren took a deep breath. He no longer felt like an icicle, and a weight was lifted from his shoulders. “So, yeah.” He met Corvus’s eyes. “Dark magic is the reason I’m alive today.”

…

Soren had ended up in Corvus’s arms as the story went on, and Corvus looked down at him, buried under blankets, in wonder. He’d joked the night before that Soren left him awestruck, but it was truer every day. The more Corvus learned about his partner and his past, the more he admired how strong he was to get up and start every day with a smile on his face.

No wonder Soren had such complex feelings surrounding magic as a whole. Dark magic had saved him and let him stay a member of the Crownguard, but it had also taken away his family and harmed so many.

Corvus couldn’t help but be selfishly grateful for it, since it meant Soren was around to lounge in bed with him like this. He couldn’t fathom a world without Soren’s vibrance in it.

“Soren, you never fail to astound me,” Corvus said, leaning in to kiss Soren’s no-longer-ice-cold nose.

“Aw, thanks babe. Back at you.” A moment of silence. “I think. What exactly does astound mean?”

“Amazing. Wondrous. Incredible.”

Soren’s cheeks turned the prettiest shade of pink, and Corvus couldn’t help but give him a kiss. Soren shivered, and not because of the cold.

One kiss turned into multiple when Soren wrapped his arms around Corvus’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair, grasping at his back. Corvus tried to convey all of the love he felt for Soren, how glad he was that Soren was alive, into every touch of his hands, every brush of their lips.

“You know, I could think of some other ways you could help me stay warm…” Soren said once they broke apart, Corvus hovering over him. Soren followed up his statement with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

“Soren!” Corvus chided, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “We have work soon.”

 Soren shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

Corvus pressed a kiss to that same shoulder, snuggling into Soren as they laid back down to rest for a little while longer. “I didn’t say never. We have plenty more cold mornings in our future.”

“Yay!”

After that, they went quiet, enjoying each other's company. Corvus lay on top of Soren, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. That big, beautiful heart of his. It was strong and sure, even through the fabric of Soren’s pajamas. It was the most beautiful sound Corvus had ever heard.

Corvus waited so long to say anything, he thought Soren might have fallen back to sleep. 

“Darling?” he asked quietly, looking up at Soren’s face.

“Hmm?” came the groggy reply, eyes blearily blinking open.

“Thank you. For telling me. I know how difficult that was for you.”

“You make everything easier…” Soren said with a tender smile, sentence trailing off as his eyes closed once again. In moments, his breathing evened out.

Corvus brought the blankets up a little higher around them and closed his eyes.

...

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading!!

I tried to handle the topic of Soren being paralyzed as delicately as I could. I don't think he views it as a bad thing or that he was "saved" from it in the same way as his breathing sickness and I hope I portrayed that well.

Also, I personally imagine Soren's scarring to be kind of like Nora Valkyrie from RWBY after Volume 8!

My personal headcanon is that Corvus actually loves Soren’s little nicknames after they get together, but he just likes to keep them between them <3 and when Corvus is feeling especially affectionate he will also drop a pet name, which leaves Soren glowing for the rest of the day. And Corvus is almost always feeling especially affectionate when alone with Soren. Hence, multiple pet name drops this fic.

Also, Soren being a romance book reader is a headcanon originally thought up by the incredible jomipay on AO3/@halfofmysoulistrees on Tumblr. It's canon in my heart.

[justforbooks]

‘Books picked me up on bad days’: how reading romance helped Lucy Mangan through grief

After the death of her father, the writer took refuge in the kinds of stories she had once written off – discovering a comforting world of funny heroines and happy endings

Grief is an intensifier. It doesn’t often – despite what films and television would have you believe – cause you to act massively out of character. Like motherhood or any other huge life upheaval, its actual effect is to strip away the nonsense and leave your essential nature, your core, not just intact but now unobscured by everyday concerns and frivolities.

So it was no real surprise to find myself, in the immediate weeks after the death of my beloved dad in 2023, flinging myself into books. I would have done so literally, if I could. I wanted to gather my physical books into a wall – or better yet, a cave – around me that would both protect me from this new reality and let me cry in peace within it. Failing that, I took mental refuge in them instead.

I read like I had never read before. I read like a chain smoker smokes, turning the last page of one book and immediately opening up the cover of another. I had books lined up before me to make sure I didn’t go a moment without. None of my usual leisurely picking and choosing, reading blurbs and reviews, feeling my way into what would best suit my mood. Because my mood was simple, uniform and deeply miserable, and what I needed was new stories and characters ceaselessly streaming into my cortex and banishing, for as many seconds at a time as they could, the fact that outside those pages the unforgiving real world no longer had the gentle, wry, witty form of my dad in it.

Every moment that I was not inescapably occupied (with work, with Mum, with making sure life carried on as normally as possible for my son), I was reading. And when I was vitally occupied, I was longing to read, burning to in a way I hadn’t properly felt since I was a child. It felt so odd to have arrived at the same place via sorrow, rather than joy. Adulthood sure can be the pits sometimes.

Anyway it was all odd, and difficult, and my heart goes out to people grieving harder and more complicated losses than that of an elderly father who went peacefully, and on his own terms, when it was absolutely time to go.

The retreat from the world didn’t last as long as I had expected. I felt at first like I would be floored for ever. But now – and I’m writing this six months later – I spend a lot of the time feeling bad that I don’t feel worse in the absence of this man whom I, quietly but unreservedly, loved so much, who knew me so well and who loved me, even more quietly but just as unreservedly, right back. But it’s because I still feel him with me – which, as someone with no religious faith and no goddamn spiritual side either, I really did not expect. But he’s there. Or it’s there; or something’s there anyway. I do really feel, as the poem has it, that he has only gone into the next room. Mum says it’s because we are so much alike. This evolution of the exasperated cry “You’re exactly like your father!”, when she found me next to some set chore abandoned because I’d been distracted by a book, which pursued me throughout my childhood, both charms and aggrieves me. But I hold on to the idea that it’s true.

And I have discovered romance. Not in real life, obviously. Yuck. But the genre, once forsworn, is now very necessary to me. Once I stopped feeling quite like I would be floored for ever, I started being drawn towards books with light, bright covers that promised distraction, an uplift and – above all – a happy ending. I realise this is not a psychologically complex phenomenon. But however obvious the route, the comfort they offered was real and wonderful. Especially as the first three I came across – Emily Henry’s Book Lovers, Stephanie Butland’s Lost for Words and Harriet Evans’s Happily Ever After – were all about the world of books, bookworms and bookshops, and formed the perfect bridge to cross into this new, unexplored region.

There also seemed to have been, in the 20-odd years since I had last surveyed the landscape, a move away from the ditsy/hot-mess heroines that sprang up post-Bridget Jones. The new generation of protagonists all had their problems – particularly Loveday Cardew, whose emotional withdrawal after her repeated battering by life is carefully and compassionately depicted by Butland and further explored, with great consistency and credibility, in the sequel Found in a Bookshop – but they weren’t chaotic collections of neediness and neuroses held together by the offices of devoted friends, who in real life would have been well within their rights to have deleted these succubi from their phones years ago. They were properly funny, properly thoughtful, capable – often even maintaining professional standards day in, day out at the office! – and generally life-affirming, rather than life-depleting, people to hang out with. I felt like introducing them to some of the longsuffering best friends in earlier books. “Look, this is what you deserve! Enjoy!”

It was a reminder – though I do try to stay aware of it anyway – never to write off any field, any genre, for ever, for the simple reason that even if it doesn’t evolve (and sometimes, as with the hot messes above, it does), you do. You toughen up a bit here, break down a bit there, learn this, rediscover that, have children, have cancer, move jobs, move countries, are opened up to more experiences, more possibilities, live through more world events, governments, relationships, McDonald’s menus, Kardashian exploits and iterations of the Strictly Come Dancing panel – all these things change you and change what you need, what you want and what you bring to previously discarded books, when you pick them up again.

Romantic/popular/commercial fiction, whatever you want to call it, picked me up on bad days, brushed me down and sent me off again with a loving pat to get through the next few hours, days, weeks until I collapsed back into its arms. It’s a trust fall. The writers of commercial fiction know their audience, are often part of that audience (Evans is a lifelong fan of Georgette Heyer, for example, and I suspect none has come to the job without an early affinity with the genre and an absorption of its rules, both the obvious and the ineffable, into their bones) and consider it their duty to deliver. I think of them now like a quieter, more studious version of the A-Team, except that if you have a problem, if no one else can help (or if you have soaked all the available shoulders with tears and need to give them a bit of time to dry out), you can always find them, these soldiers of romantic fortune.

And when I need further bolstering – when, for example, I reach that stage of grief everyone passes through at some point, where it starts to feel absolutely infuriating that your loved one is still dead, when you have missed them quite enough, they have proved that their absence really is a bad thing and it really is time that they came back, because carrying on like this is too hard, really beyond a joke – I stop buying new books and look to my library shelves. Not just the children’s section, though of course that is where any number of my strongest and favourite memories of Dad reside.

But Dad is there in adult books too. Murphy’s Boy by Torey Hayden was my first ever true-life tale. I tried to buy it after seeing the film based on it (Trapped in Silence, starring Marsha Mason and a very young Kiefer Sutherland, fact-fans), about a neglected child who refused to speak or communicate via other means in the wake of his abuse and was eventually “saved” by psychologist Hayden, who specialised in the phenomenon of elective mutism. It could be seen as a forerunner of the misery memoir, but, like most forerunners of popular trends, it is much better than the thing it became. It wasn’t available in England at the time, so Dad asked one of his American friends to buy it for me and, when she handed it over next time she visited, I literally could not believe it.

There’s also Grace Metalious’s proto-bonkbuster Peyton Place, reminding me of when I was seven or eight and first heard Jeannie C Reilly sing Harper Valley PTA. I had to take the line “Well, this is just a little Peyton Place and you’re all Harper Valley hypocrites” to Dad for elucidation, and he told me all about this very famous and bestselling book, which I pledged to myself I would read as soon as I was old enough. I forgot about it until I came across a battered copy in The Brazen Head bookshop in Norfolk and pounced. It was even better than the song.

The run of Philip Roth reminds me of one of our rare disagreements. I was home for the university holiday and Dad came across me reading the newly published American Pastoral. This was just after he had read Claire Bloom’s memoir Leaving a Doll’s House, in which she details her long relationship with the volatile, controlling and verbally abusive author. Dad felt that, at the very least, I should read his books in the light of this knowledge; or, maybe, choose not to read them at all. I, at 20, felt that I could – and should – separate the man from the art.

More upliftingly, I spy Sarah Perry’s The Essex Serpent – a complex, gentle, yet sinuous story about a woman freed by her violent older husband’s death to start life anew. She moves to the Essex marshes to follow her long-denied interest in palaeontology and give her autistic son the peace and freedom he needs. Her scientific mind finds a strange resonance with the local rector’s attempts to stop the village community turning from God to the supernatural when it appears that the monstrous folkloric serpent has returned to the marshes. I read it, loved it and passed it to Dad. It’s a book about all the different forms of love there can be, and how they enrich a life in different ways. When he returned it, he said he had thought it as wonderful as I did. I told him that some reviewers – perhaps because you don’t at any point actually get a scene in which a giant sea monster rises out of the waters and lays waste to a village – had dismissed it as a bit of a book about nothing. “But,” he said, frowning, “it’s about everything.” And that is why I loved him, and that is how he enriched my life too.

🔴 This is an extract from Bookish: How Reading Shapes Our Lives by Lucy Mangan, published by Square Peg on 13 March.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Children

Annie and Halsin have a talk about children and the future. Mostly SFW.

It was a conversation Anais knew she and Halsin needed to have.

Need? Yes.

Will it be as awkward as when I told him my feelings? Almost certainly.

Does my heart feel like it’s going to beat out of my chest and run back to Baldur’s Gate on its own? You’re damn right it is.

Their relationship had continued to progress rather quickly, not that they minded. Anais began spending most nights in Halsin’s tent (reading, sleeping, tons of sex) in addition to bathing together (I can’t wait to get ahold of my shampoo at home and use it on his hair---he’ll smell just like cookies). However, as she was wont to do, she dreamed a future after this adventure was over.

And with whom she wanted to share her life.

When she caught sight of him sitting on a stool and whittling, she could not help but smile. As she approached, she called to him. “Hi, love.”

He looked up and met her smile with his own. “My heart, are you well?”

She pulled a second stool and sat down, giving him a quick kiss. “Of course. I haven’t seen you since breakfast, and we’ve been busy with exploring the rest of town…I missed you.” And I’m freaking out because we need to have a talk. “What’s that going to be?”

“A bear for one of the tiefling children. The lad must’ve seen me in wildshape, because he’s asked me a million questions about bears and occasionally being one.” He chuckled, placing his knife and future bear down. “Such an inquisitive mind! Reminds me of myself as a boy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Running around asking about bears?” She teased softly.

He wrapped a muscled arm around her broad shoulders, placing a kiss on her cheek. “I wanted to know anything and everything about nature. However, I’ve grown to understand that there are some secrets nature prefers to keep.” And as I found out, nature also needs reminding that Halsin is not, in fact, married to it. “Was there something you need, my heart?”

Play it cool, Annie. This is a very normal conversation to have. She smiled nervously. “Well, it’s funny you mentioned children, because that’s exactly what I want to talk to you about.”

His hazel eyes twinkled as he laughed softly. “Ah yes, I knew this topic would come up eventually. So, my love…what say you?”

“You know I love children. I adore them! I’ve always wanted to be a mum.” She giggled nervously. “That’s pretty much it.” That’s it! Keep it simple, Annie!

“All things I am not at all surprised to learn, dearest one.” He chuckled, giving her another kiss on her cheek before speaking again. “I-I’ve never had the chance to have a family of my own. My responsibilities to nature, the grove, Thaniel, the Shadow Curse…they all took precedence. I had lovers, of course, but precautions were taken. That being said,” squeezing her soft upper arm, he kissed her red hair. “If the Oak Father blesses us with a cub or two, I will welcome them with my whole heart and be further indebted to you---for giving me the greatest gifts nature can bestow.” A wry smile tugged on his lips. “I’ll not lie. I’ve thought about breeding you, my heart.”

I’M SORRY, DID HE JUST SAY WHAT I THINK HE SAID?! “B-breed me?” Anais sputtered, her brown eyes wide. Why does that sound so hot? WHY?!

He laughed heartily. “What’s the matter, Annie? Was that too crass for a woman of the city? I mean what I say, sweetest one. To fill you until bursting with my seed, to see you grow heavy with child and your breasts swell,” Halsin love, you’re going to be the death of me before we even make it to Moonrise Towers. “It stirs my heart and loins, just as you always do.” He sighed and kissed her gently. “As nice as it is to dream of a possible future, let us ensure we have a future first. There’s much still to do.”

Anais quirked an eyebrow. “And blood to be spilt?”

“Ha! Correct as always, my love.”

***

Standing in front of the mirror in her and Halsin’s bedroom, Anais took in her reflection. Won’t be long now…your father’s estimation is any day both of you should be arriving. Our little cubs. She rubbed her belly and smiled. I can’t wait to meet you. We love you so much already. Then she felt a sharp kick to her ribs. Won’t be missing that though. “Oof, be nice to Mummy. We’ll be meeting each other soon enough.”

“Whenever they are ready, they will come, my heart.” Her lover rumbled behind her, her large hands caressing her belly. “It may be today, tomorrow, a tenday from now…who knows? Maybe they still need to grow a little more.” Halsin chuckled, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Oh dear. She laughed nervously. “Really hope not, love. I don’t think there’s any more room.” She focused on her reflection again. “Do you remember what you said to me our first night together?”

He thought for a moment, furrowing his brow. “I said many things, my love. What in particular are you thinking of?”

“Quite literally the most beautiful description of me I’ve ever heard. You said that I’m a ‘harvest and fertility goddess in the flesh.’”

He kissed her cheek. “Ah yes, I do remember saying that. It was true then, and…” His eyes were twinkling, and he tickled her belly a little.

Grinning, she nodded. “Definitely true now.” They stood, smiling and enjoying each other, before Anais spoke. “Gods, I could murder a few scones, an apple, and some of those little sausages Mum brought. And a biscuit.” He said to listen to my body and trust nature, which of course means satisfying every craving. Every. Single. One. “Actually, fuck it---sausage, egg, and cheese on a biscuit with the scones and apple.”

Halsin laughed heartily as he kissed along her jaw. “My heart, you fill my life with such love and laughter. I wouldn’t have been able to dream a life such as ours, but even if I did, it wouldn’t compare to reality.” Blinking tears, he gently turned her to face him with one of his hands tilting her chin up. “You make me happier than I ever thought possible.”

“I love you too, my handsome bear.” Wait, why do my thighs feel really wet? Anais felt a sharp pain in her belly as she glanced down to see a small puddle at her feet. “Erm, love? I think…it might be time.”

With a nod, he moved to stand in front of her, raising a hand. She never got tired of seeing the golden glow of his magic. “Yes, it is time. Let’s get you undressed, and I’ll see how dilated you are, my heart.” As she began to pull off her dress, one of his large, calloused hands reached for her face and stroked her cheek. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, my love. I’ll take care of you and our cubs.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her brown eyes and smiling. “I know, Halsin.” OOF. She opened her eyes as she felt another contraction. “I think we need to get this little show on the road, so to speak. Your cubs are…ow, hey!” Looking down at her belly, she tried to look annoyed. “You’ll be out soon enough, my little loves.”

***

Several hours later, their not at all little cubs were, indeed, out. And out like little lights after such an exciting day. Exciting and very painful but worth it. After Halsin delivered the twins, he cleaned and examined them with midwife Morelle’s assistance (“they’re as healthy as they can be” he said), he helped Anais bathe and got her settled back into bed. Which is where we are now. Time for a little relaxing.

The older twin (by approximately seven minutes) Ciaran was napping against his father’s bare chest. He said it helps with bonding, similar to when I feed them. The younger twin Cormoran (I couldn’t not name one of them after Da) was currently feeding from his mother. They have his ears and my nose. Little wisps of dark red hair. They’re so cute! “You should try to meditate, love. Get some rest.” Anais said as she kissed his cheek.

“I will in a while,” he murmured, never taking his eyes off Ciaran. “Until they both sleep. I’ve sent ravens to your mother and to Nadia and Astarion. Sending spells to the others I can—” He stopped when she kissed his cheek again.

“Rest. Please, love. You act like you did nothing today.”

He laughed softly. “You gave birth, not me, my heart.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but you delivered them.”

“And you ensured they arrived safely. I’d say we are even then.” He turned his head, and their lips briefly touched in a gentle kiss. Resting his head against hers, he glanced back down at the sleeping infant. “Thank you, Annie. Thank you for them. I never dreamed I would ever have children of my own, and you made it all possible.” Excuse you, I thought I was going to die a spinster because of my mishaps with finding a suitor. Without you, I wouldn’t be as happy with myself as I am today. To love you, to truly love myself for the first time in my life, to loving the life we’ve made together in Moonrise…it’s all because of you.

“Technically,” she giggled. “We both made it possible.”

“You know what I mean, sweet one.” He chuckled. “Without you, none of this would be possible. I love you.” He looked at her once again, tears in his eyes. “Silvanus has blessed us this day, but he truly blessed me with you. I’m forever grateful.”

Anais sniffled as she nodded. “Me too, love. Me too.”

[thegeminisage]

oh boy IT'S tng update time. last night* we watched "imaginary friend" and "i, borg."

*tonight. it's 1am. whatever. it's posting tomorrow when i'll be awake but busy. anyway im gonna have to start splitting these up so tumblr will stop FUCKING me re my character count

imaginary friend:

what i like about this episode and indeed tng as a whole is that the little girl was fucking adorable. tng fans, your show has at least one point of validity. whenever there was a child on tos i wanted to throw them out of the airlock because they acted possessed. all the children on tng inspire within me motherly concern.

HOWEVER. THERE SHOULD NOT BE. CHILDREN ON A STARSHIP.

we've gone over this at length. we don't need to do it again. i am sick to death of hearing myself talk about it. i want to stop. and yet. every. and i mean EVERY. SINGLE. PROBLEM. in this episode. happened because there were children on a starship.

problem #1: child is making up a fake imaginary friend instead of making real ones = it's because her dad hops from starship to starship

problem #2 her imaginary friend is real now and wants to drown her in the pool like in that one episode of s*pernatural = this is because an alien, from space, read her mind, which it could not have done if she wasn't in space on a starship

problem #3: the alien HATES the grownups and thinks they should die = because she is seeing the ship from a child's pov, because there are children on this starship

and on and on and on.

aside from this huge and ongoing point of contention it was solidly watchable. i liked the little girl. i like guinan. i like worf being a big old softie when he found them out of bounds. i like people not undermining deanna's counseling work. i liked the horrifically unsettling imaginary friend with laser eyes who definitely absolutely inspired 2.11 playthings.

can anyone tell me if the other star trek shows just let them have kids on the ships? ds9 i get because that's a space station but are there kids on the ship in enterprise? voyager? discovery? genuinely please write in i can't take living like this

i, borg:

ooooooh. ooh i am twirling my hair and kicking my feet and giggling about it. OHHH finally we get a good tng episode. and not just a good episode a GREAT episode. the liz community has forgiven tng. oh baby where do i even begin

okay, firstly, beverly. she so instantly sees someone injured and HAS to help, i mean HAS to, it's so good. it's very bonescore in a way that doesn't feel like they're trying to make her a cheap bones knockoff but rather a spiritual successor. he would have also helped his enemy rather than watching him die. hell, he DID do that and got quite literally mind-raped for his trouble, and he'd probably do it again. i was really really lukewarm on poor bev at first but she's come into her own so well and i'm proud of her

the borg himself - third of five, aw, just like seven of nine - but no, hugh - the name is dumb but whatever i'm glad he has one - was well-cast. it would have been easy to make him uncanny and an unpleasant presence onscreen (this was my biggest issue with data's daughter even though the ep DID make me cry, deeply sorry to data whomst i love the most). his "you will be assimilated resistance is futile" song and dance was actually really funny when played off of geordi's wry indifference. "ok, but before we get assimilated, can we please finish x test?" so true king

geordi's a natural choice to pair with this guy because when he's not being the creepiest person on earth to holodeck girls he's sociable, outgoing, and patient. PLUS he has experience befriending machines because of data. hugh actually reminded me of data in some ways because of his general lack of understanding re: humanity but - and this is critical to me - HE IS HUMAN

like, i feel like the episode didn't quite nail the point home hard enough possibly because they were afraid of the implications but the cold hard truth of the matter is that each and every person on the borg cube IS A PERSON. they have been assimilated, but we've twice now seen that it's possible to unassimilate them with only a few days of effort. picard (and guinan!) consider the entire collective their enemy but the collective is comprised of brainwashed prisoners. those fucked up little borg babies they found in the cube were assimilated as INFANTS - i assume they weren't born on the cube bc if the borg could reproduce on its own it wouldn't need to assimilate - but even if they were born on the cube, they had no choice but to be this. you know.

which is whyyyy it's so fucked picard was like yeah give hugh some digital poison let him carry it back to his cube and we'll kill them like ants <3 like, oh my god his lingering borg trauma or whatever. MWAH. when he told deanna he didn't wanna talk. when he and guinan had to trauma-bond while fencing. when he told geordi that he needed to unattach himself because it was nothing more than animal experimentation. STONE FUCKING COLD BY THE WAY. he is fighting in the war on animal experimentation on the side of animal experimentation. he was going to let his cre heal and feed that kid and then send him back laced with poison. diabolical <3

and, of course, when he didn't want to speak or associate that borg kid at all because that's who he used to be AND WHO HE STILL IS in some corner of his brain (!!!)

LIKE. WHEN HE WAS FINALLY CONVINCED TO INTERROGATE THIS KID. and IMMEDIATELY broke out the locutus voice. he still remembered all the protocol! the way of speaking! everything! i was so shocked and thrilled.

i love also how everyone who spoke to hugh came away extremely unsettled but also totally convinced of his humanity. even guinan, which was so fun, because she was even more anti-borg than picard at first and they were bonding over trauma and fantasy racism. that bit where hugh, who had only known about the concept of loneliness for like an hour, immediately pegged her as lonely after like three lines of dialogue. oh my GOD???

i was decently satisfied with the ending - obviously they couldn't send him back with poison nor could they protect him from the borg, but i wish they had informed him of the inevitable memory wipe before he made his choice. (a selfless choice! he loves geordi!!) still i think he mostly walked into it with eyes open. very sad but very proud of him.

my one tiny nitpick with this episode is that for all beverly's genuine and justified concern about hugh, i don't think theyre ever gonna address the fact that she shot and possibly killed some of the borg in the episode where picard got assimilated. i feel like after realizing they are all people, like hugh, she should also realize she's broken the hippocratic oath, and have a little crisis about it. i have no idea why we had the DOCTOR shooting and killing anybody but let alone if we aren't gonna get into that. i don't think anyone cares/cared except me though.

but tbh, for me this is one of the main draws of the borg. they're ALL brainwashed cyber-assassins and they're ALL prisoners and in theory ALL of them could be saved if only they would stop attacking first. sure, yeah, in fights you gotta do what you gotta do because your own life has gotta come first, but the unique scifi horror aspect of all of those guys being perfectly innocent people fucks and they should utilize it a little more!!!

NEXT TIME: "the next phase" and "the inner light."

[sarcasticbeanie]

odysseus! for the send me a character thingy :3

First Impression I read about odysseus first in my Chinese textbook as a wee child of like. 10? Or something? It was the "Nobody" story, and I thought nothing of it because it was. You know. For a class. I did think it was a funny story though, and I suppose my first impression would be "classic main character from mythology", and nothing else.

Impression now He's a war criminal. He's my babygirl. He's cruel and wily. He's my poor little meow meow. He would kill with no hesitation and excels at war. He's a draft dodger and longs for home. He's the Sacker of Cities. He's the Father of Telemachus. He's filled with hubris and had a solid hand in his own downfall. He's paid his price and he just wants to go back home. I don't know man I'm squeezing him and throwing him off a cliff but I'm also tucking him into bed in Ithaca. u get me?

Favorite moment Many... but I love the part where he shot an arrow through the axe heads and did the dramatic reveal. it is I, odysseus. you've taken my home, prepare to die. etc etc. There's a visceral tonal shift when war and bloodshed suddenly seep through the pages after dozens of pages with no active warfare and not much death ... it's good stuff. I liked it.

Idea for a story Concocting a sci-fi fantasy AU for the Iliad and Odyssey in my brain, in which there are spaceships and magic and godly-AI-run companies and cyborgs and impenetrable planets made of metal and firewalls. Demigods are cyborgs whose cybernetic enhancements come from one or more godly-AI-ran companies. Ody's skills now include hacking and programming, and the Greeks finally won by attaching a "trojan horse" to their peace treaty. Calypso is a deathly intelligent and powerful space mob boss whose henchmen are all androids, and she wishes to meet someone who matches her own intellect. Circe runs an exotic space casino with replicas of long-since extinct creatures, with only magic-users as employees. Polyphemus is a heavily guarded surveillance station with hidden company secrets from Poseidon(TM) which Ody and co. stole, leading to tragedy. has this been done? this has probably been done. but I'm basing it off my own OC sci-fi universe so this is. so so niche. and only for me.

Unpopular opinion I don't know why there's a sudden uptick in the need for characters to be morally pure and good, and I think the debate surrounding "whether Ody cheated" is. odd? especially since there's so much vitriol against the guy for cheating? It may just be me but I don't really get it,, I wouldn't have cared even if he cheated. Listen. Listen. There's no moral high ground in Greek myths. They're all war criminals and that's fun for me.

Favourite relationship 10 fics on ao3 and it's odydiopen. i love poly relationships. even if they have no basis in canon at all. but neither did telegony and it's still considered to be part of the epic cycle, now is it? but also: ody & telemachus. your son is grown, and you have never even seen him as a child. your son is grown, and he does not even know your face. are you still a father? is he still your son? you've missed every part of his life and then some, and now he is a man grown, with his mouth twisted in his mother's wry smile - though he has your hair and eyes, you cannot see yourself in the tilt of his head, or the gentle crinkle in his brows. but now there's time to learn of him, now there's time to hold him in your arms - there is time, you are home, and that is what's important.

Favourite headcanon He would've loved the GPS. RIP my guy. All jokes aside I don't think I have one? Feel free to tell me any of yours though. Please.

[squibstress]

HP Rec Fest - Day 14

Prompt: A favorite series @hprecfest

There's little I like more than settling into a good, long series, but I'm picky if I'm going to be spending a lot of time with a story. It needs to have great characterization, a plot and charcters arcs I can invest in, and terrific writing. These have all of those elements and more.

The "Adelaverse" series by @kellychambliss

"My Journal About My Life and Stephen and Miranda” by Adela

2. "Now That I'm Older" by Adela

3. Inamorata

Characters: Minerva McGonagall, Original Character, Severus Snape

Pairing: Minerva/Severus

Rating: K/G - T/PG-13

Summary: Severus and Minerva, disguised as Muggles, are observed by their precocious teen neighbor, who enjoys speculating about the mysterious couple next door.

Why You Should Check It Out:

This series, comprising 3 stories, is a wonderful take on the third-person observer. It throws Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape into Muggle America and the sights of precocious twelve-year-old Adela.

Kelly's Minerva/Severus is always rich and complex, and the original characters, especially Adela, are wonderful.

It's wry, and tender, and funny, and exactly what I'd imagine these characters to be like in this situation. It's a lovely read for those who like happy endings without sappiness or doe-eyed visions of happily-ever-after.

The Minerva Quartet by @eldritcher

Thy Kingdom Come

2. I, Alastor

3. How do you like your blue-eyed boys?

4. O Gentle Faustus

Characters: Alastor Moody, Alice Longbottom, Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Voldemort, Charlus Potter

Pairings: Albus/Minerva, Lucius/Minerva, Abraxas/Voldemort

Rating: M/R

Summary: Thematically related stories about he beautiful and dreadful parts of being humans who love.

Why You Should Check It Out:

Eldritcher's stories cut to the heart of what it is to long for what we know we should not want, and knowing the price, want it just the same.

The main characters are self-aware enough to understand important things about themselves and one another but often helpless to change their course, which is, of course, the most human of failings.

Eldritcher has an excellent sense of the little details that reveal character. The stories have the quality of a particularly lucid dream; they suggest things, but never hit the you over the head with them, allowing the reader to suss out the important bits and the themes that animate them, and there are occasional surprises that shock the reader out of any misplaced complacency regarding what a particular character will and won't do.

Literary and mythological allusions and references are woven deftly through the work, and I adore the way Eldritcher makes Hogwarts castle a character in its own right.

The "Resolving a Misunderstanding" and "Death's Dominion" series by MMADfan

Resolving a Misunderstanding

2. The Unsentimental Arithmancer

3. An Unexpected Shower

4. A Holiday with the Headmaster

5. Malcolm's Tale of Angus Óg

6. Obliging Minerva

7. Invisible Lover

8. A Christmas for Aberforth

9. An Act of Love

10. Death's Dominion

11. Enter, Peacetime

12. A Long Vernal Season (incomplete)

Main Characters: Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Poppy Pomfrey, Hermione Granger and a cast of thousands.

Pairings: Multiple, but the main ones are Albus/Minerva and Poppy/Severus, plus multple pairings with OCs.

Rating: Stories range from K+/PG to MA/NC-17.

Summary: The main focus of the first series, which takes place before the events of the 7 Potter books, is the epic romance between Minerva and Albus, with some shorter pieces that focus on some of MMADfan's fabulous original characters. The Death's Dominion series takes place during the 7 Potter books and later, and focuses Severus's life as a spy for Dumbledore and his attempts to come to terms with life after the war.

Why You Should Check It Out:

If you're looking for total immersion in the wizarding world, thess are the series for you.

This is truly an epic arc, with over a million words total, but the length allows MMADfan the scope to create an incredibly vivid wizarding world, populated with a huge cast of canon and original characters. The wordlbuilding is impressive, and the storytelling vivid, but what stands out to me are the characters. Not only does the author breathe fascinating life into canon characters we see only peripherally in the HP series, but she creates some of the best OCs I've ever encountered, in fanfic or original fic. (Her Gertrude Gamp and Gertrude's son Gareth are two of the best I've ever read.)

The Nox Lumina Series by eudaemonia

Lux Prima

2. Ministry

3. Turn the Light

4. Woman

5. Redeemer

6. Drown

7. Leopard's Tongue

8. Reveries

9. Nox Lumina

Characters: Alastor Moody, Albus Dumbledore, Amelia Bones, Cornelius Fudge, Filius Flitwick, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Harry Potter, Horace Slughorn, Lucius Malfoy, Luna Lovegood, Minerva McGonagall, Pomona Sprout, Severus Snape, Sirius Black

Pairing: Minerva/Severus

Rating: MA/NC-17

Summary: The love story of Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape, framed by the 2019 album Lux Prima by Karen O and Danger Mouse.

Why You Should Check It Out:

I love stories that show us what characters like Minerva and Severus keep hidden—their foibles, their doubts, and their inconsistencies.

These are not comfortable people, and there are no easy answers here. It’s a guilty pleasure to watch two intelligent characters try, and so often fail, to understand their own motivations and needs. They butt heads, rub up against one another (literally and figuratively), and ultimately provide something that neither of them finds elsewhere.

The comfort they find is matched by the pain they cause one another, as I can only imagine it would be, given these characters and their circumstances.

In addition to the delicious, delicious angst, it includes some moments of lightness and humor, which settle perfectly on these two.

The Ways of Minerva series by margaretrevie

The Way It Should Have Been

2. Die in Thy Lap, Be Buried in Thy Eyes

3. The Way It Was After

Characters: Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore, James Potter, Lily Evans, Poppy Pomfrey, Rolanda Hooch, Tom Riddle, lots of canon and original characters

Pairings: Albus/Minerva, Minerva/OC, James/Lily, Poppy/Rolanda

Rating: From M/R to MA/NC-17

Summary: The story of Minerva McGonagall from the start of her Hogwarts career as a student.

Why You Should Check It Out:

This series is a long-arc story that hits—and artfully subverts—many of the usual tropes and expectations for an Albus/Minerva fic.

The first fic focusses on the development of Minerva and Albus's relationship, from her schooldays to her early days as a teacher.

The second is a brief interlude with Poppy and Rolanda, and the latter's dream of an erotic interlude with their friend, Minerva.

The third continues the Albus/Minerv story, with an additional focus on the James/Lily arc that begins near the end of the first story.

The series wins a place alongside some of my favorites because it delivers what I always want but seldom get from fic about this ship: a deep and unflinching exploration of the complexities of a relationship between two powerful, flawed characters. It digs beyond the obvious issues of power dynamics and age differences to get at fundamental differences between their personalities and worldviews which love may or may not overcome.

This Minerva and Albus are each far from perfect, and far from perfect for one another, and author margaretrevie doesn’t shy away from the less attractive aspects of their personalities: Albus’s enormous ego and his desperate need to be admired, and Minerva’s intolerance of what she sees as frailty or moral imperfection. The length of the fic gives the characters room to change and grow over time, which is part of what makes it such a satisfying read.

The story also features some powerful magic of a kind that one encounters in other fics, but rarely are the practical and emotional ramifications for the characters who practice it so thoughtfully and poignantly explored. I won’t spoil it for you with too much detail, but the author takes a trope particularly beloved of AD/MM shippers and gives it a realistic (in the HP realm) treatment that delivers a punch to the gut.

Added to all that, you’ll find satisfying and surprising backstory for several familiar HP characters as icing on this lovely, richly textured cake.

[widowshill]

fuck marry kill: roger, pt roger, and lou role of your choice. <3

kill: pt roger. probably the most fuckable of the bunch: he serves the most cunt, is full of even more wry witticisms than his alternate timeband counterpart, has very nice hands and I believe knows how to use them. nothing about this man is straight or sexually prescriptive so as far as a one night stand goes genuinely would be a fun time other than he'd probably be thinking about rebecca de winter angelique collins the whole evening which i guess is fine. however. on account of [REDACTED UNFORGIVABLE CRIME #1] and [REDACTED EVEN MORE UNFORGIVABLE CRIME #2] I am killing him with hammers repeatedly.

fuck: edward. the best candidate for stable husband material logically, I think: he's the oldest brother so he has the bulk of the fortune and the house, he's a decent father, he's overall pretty normal and not insane as far as being a Collins goes, proactive when it comes to protecting his family from vampires (this is a very real consideration in Collinsport), and he is very sweet (and of course good-looking), if I were a period drama heroine I'd be a fool not to marry him. but. I don't know. there are some pretty significant drawbacks namely I'd have to live with the mustache every day, also both of his kids irritate me, also I'm pretty sure Upton Sinclair's The Jungle has nothing on Edward's management of the cannery & yards et. al. in the late 19th/early 20th century. so. I don't know about that. just fuck Edward; I'd take the privileges of mistress instead of dealing with All That under the header of marriage readily.

marry: roger. tbh marrying roger is almost guaranteed to end poorly for me considering what happened to his other two wives and also both the marriages sucked before they burned to death (I'm not an immortal witch so that would be the end for me) but I have faith. I'll bring a fire extinguisher. I am his type (poor well-read brunette and one-time Manhattanite who gets along well with kids and has daddy issues) and I like drinking brandy, which is probably a necessity. love David, also he's closer to my age than Roger is so I have a built in friend and Fellow Youth to hang out with; and I don't want to have kids of my own so he already has the one, that's enough. he's funny and charming; he's a jetsetter, we would travel often; stable, very nice housing and I wouldn't have to do any cooking or anything like that. and I think the conversations we could have are probably the best attraction about marriage – art, literature, theatre. also he can play the piano! ... maybe roger is just my accomplished debutante that's my ideal bride.

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 3/5

Book blurb: A darkly funny and thoroughly queer mystery thriller with a touch of camp, for fans of Kara Thomas and Kit Frick by way of Only Murders in the Building.

When Gianna “Gigi” Ricci lands in detention again, she doesn’t expect the glorified study hall to be her alibi.

But when she and her friends receive a mysterious email directing them to her favorite teacher, Mr. Ford's, room, they find him lying in a pool of blood. But calling the math teacher’s death an accident doesn’t add up, and Gigi needs all the help she can get to find the truth. Luckily, she’s friends with her high school’s Mystery Club, and so with her best friend, Sean, and longtime crush, Mari, Gigi sets out to solve a murder.

But it turns out that murderers are extremely unwilling to be caught, and the deeper Gigi gets in this mystery, the more dangerous things become. Between fending off a murderer, continual flare-ups of her IBS, and her archnemesis turning flirtatious, making it out of junior year is going to be one killer problem.

With a wry, hilarious voice and a main character who is the walking definition of a disaster bi, this book is an ode to cozy mysteries, queer found families, and fighting for the people you love, no matter what. 

Review:

When you and your friends are part of your high schools's Mystery Club the last thing you expect is to actually be solving a murder... and becoming the next targets as well! Gianna "Gigi" Ricci is part of her high school's mystery club with her friends and when they receive a strange email from their favorite teacher... and then find him dead in a pool of his own blood. Gigi is determined to solve the mystry with her best friend her mystery club, and her longtime crush.... all the while getting help from her nemesis who might not hate her at all. Gigi begins to realize that the closer she gets to solving it the closer she and all those she loves might end up as the next target. Can she solve this before its too late? This was a easy and fast queer ya mystery read, I definitely think it's one to add to your tbr if you like an easy fast read. There is a wide cast of rep and characters, which is always appreciated, and while the mystery felt a bit lackluster, it goes by quickly. It's okay at best for me yet I think its enjoyable enough for younger YA mystery fans!

*Thanks Netgalley and HarperCollins Children's Books | HarperTeen for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

Release Date: June 4,2024

Publication/Blog: Ash and Books (ash-and-books.tumblr.com)

[non-un-topo]

1, 48, 49!

Hello, thank you!!

1. What fic of yours would you recommend to someone who had never read any of your work? (In other words, what do you think is the best introduction to your fics?)

Answered!

48. What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

Oh this is fun! I recently re-read two: Tales of Burning Love by superblackmarket, and The Edges of the World by Sixthlight. Highly recommend both, and the rest of their fics.

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

Answered, but since I have a few I'll pop some lines in here! This is from a future fic (undisclosed year and location), in which Joe and Nicky undergo a particularly gruesome but funny-in-a-fucked-up-way death and come back a little wrong. Or is it right?

Nile called his name.

When he looked at her where she stood across the kitchen island, her fingers were bent as if she’d just snapped them. She lowered her hand.

“Just promise you’ll tell me if you guys need time, okay? I’m so serious.”

“As are we,” Joe assured her.

“What are we talking about?” asked Booker, who had just entered the room sporting a pair of hole-laden sweatpants and no shirt.

Nile offered him a wry up-and-down, then said, “Joe and Nicky’s… ordeal.”

“Ah, immortal soup.”

“It’s not funny, Booker.”

“It’s funny in a morbid kind of way.”

Sensing his gaze, Joe exchanged a glance with Nicky. His restrained smirk matched Joe’s own.

Solemnly, Nile said, “We don’t take bad deaths lightly.”

Joe watched Booker’s face as he reacted to Andy’s words from the time before. There wasn’t much change, just a slight pinch to his features. Then he nodded at the floor as they all cast their gazes down in silence for a moment.

The moment passed naturally, and Booker announced he’d make canned soup for breakfast. Nile threw her slipper at his head.

Questions for fic writers

[mythvoiced]

@theimpalpable | the GBEP

If Samuel could will a hole into existence every time he so desperately needs one to just swallow him whole and drag him to the centre of the Earth, a coffin designed perfectly for the kind of messes he's been creating all around this already doomed planet, he'd have turned said doomed planet into the oddest piece of Swiss Cheese ever come into existence.

Which is either a very funny thought or he's bordering on succumbing to the hysterics curling his lips into that odd smile he can't shake off his lips, no matter how inappropriate it feels to wear.

His hands are pressed into his face, eyes freed still and staring at nothing at all, his fingers buried into the beginnings of his hair, messing what is already pretty messy on its own.

This is a nightmare. He hardly has the mental capacity necessary to recognize the possible and very likely implications and ramifications of the creatures he set out into the world, the slow march of decay swaggering about along the bottom of the ocean; being sat directly next to the direct consequences of his actions isn't any easier to stomach as a result, in fact, he's pretty certain that his desiring this to be a dream is teetering dangerously close to him starting to convince himself it is a dream.

Which, of course, would be violently useful.

A psychotic break in the middle of a bar next to a guy who's life he's ruining.

He groans, hands moving to slide over his face, rub into his eyes until he sees stars and begs them to come down upon him like vengeful angels and strike him off the face of the planet. Maybe that would do it. Maybe his death would kill everything he's created along with him, kind of like... killing the sire of a vampire...

"The Sazerac, please," Samuel manages to interject pathetically, which he assumes is not the tone of voice bartenders prefer out of their clients in terms of who they decide to serve and who they'd rather see out of their establishment in the next few 'immediately please'. Samuel has never been refused service before, never thrown enough back to give any barkeep reason to, never crumbled in public in a way obvious enough that it leaves any impression.

But, then again, he's also never half-assed a plot outline and have it lead to meeting the guy said plot outline had forced into itself, perhaps in a weird attempt on the universe's part to fix what he can't, to finally be the author he should be.

Oh, great, an existential crisis on top of the 'supernatural' crisis.

Samuel looks up when the barkeep returns with a glass and doesn't even have the energy to pretend he's surprised when it turns out to be water. He sighs, curses his existence with the exhausted resignation of someone who's given up on trusting in self-curses, and grabs the glass.

He manages a wry smile, charming and handsome, that the stranger is, which is perhaps part of the reason he'd fit so fucking well into the kind of story Samuel had attempted to emulate. Clichés upon clichés, all he'd managed to scratch together, who doesn't love a good explorer story and a Nathan Drake to charm anyone who'd swoon at the easy smile and easy wit?

If anything, Samuel is slowly becoming self-deprecatingly surprised he hadn't realized the moment the stranger had turned his head his way, that this is who he'd been looking for.

He'd tried to find something new to add, something fresh to add to the genre, something to stand out with, and that's precisely while it's now half-deceased and half-abandoned somewhere in a pile of notes with stories just like it.

He hadn't come up with anything that would have made it worth reading above others just like it.

"No, I... I don't think you'll die," Samuel finds himself uttering back, an open-mouthed drag of his mouth to one side to put emphasis on the word 'die', all while he unconsciously peeks over the stranger's arm to watch his sketch unfold. Oh. He can draw, too, he muses, subconsciously adjusting the glasses he sees reflected on the paper.

Charming, handsome, creative, extroverted, makes easy conversations and commands a scenario without ever making Samuel feel like he's backed into a corner by a personality much louder than his own. A guy, friendly, but not overly so.

Samuel has no idea if the plot chose him because who wouldn't fancy a heartthrob protagonist like that - which is honestly just embarrassing to admit - or because if Samuel could pay money to have any of those qualities...

The usual. Is he hot or do I just really, really wish I were him?

Samuel takes a big sip of his water.

He's loosing his goddamn mind.

He's hoping he won't die. He had briefly considered... perhaps a good way to stand out would be to... just...

He slams his hand onto the stranger's arm, eyes blown wide in a frantic panic to fix something he can't fix and prevent something not even happening yet. "Can I have your number?"

He gives himself a few seconds of sirens blaring in his ears before he connects the dots of how he sounds and recoils, only to lurch forward again, an odd dissonance of pulling away, but not appearing... what? Exactly? Damn the bartender for refusing him that drink.

"Not- not like that, wait- uhm, I'm Samuel, hi, nice to meet you, do you think we could...? As in, I would like to help. I think I might be able to- I think you might need my help- this will sound ridiculous, do--?"

He closes his eyes, counts to ten, hates himself a little more, opens them again with an exhale.

"I think I'm partly or mostly to blame for your situation but the reason why I believe that will make me sound insane. But I... need you to believe me and I think... listen, can we talk somewhere else? Maybe...? Or... some other time? Or...?"

[thefallenangelsgang]

FALLOUT 4 HEADCANON MASTERPOST

two and a half years ago (👀) I posted a list of headcanons right around when I started playing around with the ideas in my fallout WIP

I've decided they ( 1 + 2 ) need to be updated and added to especially after Death Shroud gave me so many great ideas/things I want to steal. Added break to save you dash my loves <3

I will keep adding to this lmao

SECTIONS:

Post #1 Revisions

Post #2 Revisions

Death Shroud Stuff I'm Kidnapping

Misc Stuff From Asks, Mods, and My Brain (AKA THE LONGEST SECTION)

From #1 (Link Here)

We are keeping chair bound Murphy

I may or may not be recanting my gangly tall 'n thin Hancock HC. I oscillate wildly between wanting him to be Eldritch God™ tall and "gimme uppies! :3" short. He may end up being both. His height will be whatever is funniest for the bit.

oh yeah Sarah Lyons got merc-ed B)

We are still kicking with Kellogg in Nicky's skull but with the added angsty-ness brought in by Death Shroud. Oh the plot! Oh how it hurts so good! Kellogg wanting to find someway to punish the SoleSu(s) and Nick for picking through his memories? Ugh! Give me it all.

We are cutting Billy and the Fridge. I don't want to deal with the nightmare plot holes it will bring up and Quincy will already have enough BS. Plus the more I think about it the less I like the whole quest and its placement. Fuck! Maybe he'll be referenced in Publick Occurrences? I don't care! We're loosey goosey bay-be!

- 10. can stay. I have no issues with them and nothing funny to add

From #2 (Link Here)

Now I can bring up my beloved Vault-Tec Rep. Him in the Death Shroud? Perfect. Beautiful. Stunning. I no longer have to call him Paul Eiding as a very direct nod to his VO. Our Beloved David Dwecker is married to Sheffield and they have a house in Sanctuary filled with Nuka-Cola memorabilia (for Sheffield) and collectable plates (the kind grandmothers display for our lovely Rep). They have a little sitting area set up in the carport where they hangout, smoke, and dance together to Diamond City Radio. I need this for my mental health okay?

Shaun being Autistic is something I really want to explore. I truly forget who I first saw say this but it is not an original idea by any means. I also think the poor thing would have some level of trauma from everything so exploring that is gonna be fun! (no it will not oh my god I'm going to dredge up all my childhood issues.)

OHHHH CHRISTMAS. YULETIDE. FEAST OF ST. NICHOLAS. I find the "Seth Patrick" bit SO funny in Death Shroud so that is staying but also I feel like the feast of St. Nicholas got jokingly flipped into a celebration of Nick Valentine (Same with Valentine's Day) and people are beginning to forget the correct version. Nick tolerates it with an eye roll and a wry joke about people needing to read their history books but secretly finds the whole thing funny. Ellie has a santa suit for Nick to don during "his" holiday. Also the school children in Diamond City send Nick "Valentines" on valentines day and he displays them on his corkboard.

Music. My god the Johnny Guitar bit had me by the throat during Death Shroud. Expand those music libraries! Before you know it I'm gonna give Travis a rolling ladder attached to bookcases upon bookcases of records and holotapes. I want to hear people complain about how many Andrews Sisters records survived and God why won't Travis stop playing them!

The Flavor of Goodneighbor needs to be so complex. Like a good pasta sauce. I better be so overcome by the layers and smells and textures. Better Goodneighbor and Better Third Rail are really good starts but I'm expanding the shit out of both of them I think. I want to feel like Goodneighbor truly is dangerous to be in. Being able to cross most of the town in one sprint burst isn't cutting it Bethany Esda! Make it truly baffling how Hancock knows so much about the happenings in his town.

- 8. are about the BoS and I stand by them. You will get to meet my Lone Wanderer and learn about the hierarchies a little better. I redesigned the Orders and added one I think? I have to re-sort those notes lmao. Also the piloting thing is like MAJORLY important to me because the frequency of vertibird crashes in game pissed me off to no end.

From Death Shroud (@chadfallout76podcast THANK YOU)

Danse is just... Like That now. I can't wait to explore his character before and after Blind Betrayal especially because he will not be leaving the Brotherhood and he will still be Like That. [spoiler warning ;) for my story lol] I can't wait for the beautiful moments that will be born of it.

I actually kind of love some of the plot points in Death Shroud like the Mob Family wars? Staying 100%. Same with Ma and Boss Lombardo and some of the other families.

As is Charlie but I refuse to let him die. I got very attached to Charlie and his death was so perfect but this time he gets to stay alive dammit.

Magnolia sending Magnolia flowers with her letters? Genius

Vault-Tec Rep (David my beloved) being the saddest, wettest cat of a man imaginable when he's in Goodneighbor? Also fucking genius.

"Fish-lips" Malone being part of the same family as Skinny has me so excited for more mob family bullshit.

Ruffino's and the Black Rose is being transplanted somewhere and maybe might be near the Combat Zone. New den of sin anyone?

Obviously I'm not going to attempt to pull apart the fabric of reality in-canon but my god Death Shroud was fun <3

Some new Misc HCs

Diamond City is bigger and more populated, kind of in the same vein as the Goodneighbor HC. I haven't found a mod layout I like so I might end up redesigning it (Please kill me)

This is an old one from an ask! Hancock will help work the bar at the Third Rail occasionally. He's a notorious show off and his cocktails are mainly just straight liquor but he entertains the hell out of people when he dives over the bar to take orders and bother Whitechapel Charlie. There are major losses on nights he bartends due to the fact he forgets (sometimes purposefully) to take payment. Regulars know to put the cash in the tip jar so Whitechapel can collect it at the end of the night.

Another thing I'm keeping from an ancient ask, Danse wants kids. Badly. And the crushing blow of being sterile really fucks with him for a while. but he eventually comes to terms with it. He's also still touchy (as in he's always touching his partner) per that ask because I think that's cute.

I'm just going through old asks now lmao. Nick and Ellie dance together like the true father-daughter pair they are

I forgot who drew this but I once saw someone pair Sturges and Ellie together and that is the cutest damn thing so it stays.

MacReady got the Lone Wanderer's Grognak magazine as a gift for letting them into Little Lamplight and it's one of his prized possessions.

Macready and the Lone Wanderer's reunion is very cute my dudes.

More general slice of life stuff like fishing on the mainland and boats, more things to do in general, transportation, cool amputees, and other shit listed in this post I reblogged YEARS ago

OH Travis and Scarlett get married <3

Danny Sullivan skips town after taking the fun way down from the mayor's office and travels with some cross country caravans before coming back to work in Diamond City. YES HE LIVES!

Holy fuck i forgot I had this mod but the Institute projects the sky up on their ugly concrete dome because this mod fucks hard

Just the general vibe of raiders employing children and stringing more dead mutilated bodies about. There are mods for that and let me tell you they make the raider camps horrifying. No I will not be linking them. But they are available on Nexus should you want them.

Okay I'm changing the layout of everything apparently: Including but not limited to the Railroad HQ, The Prydwen, Vault 111, etc. Fuck game design I guess lmao. I like XFreakish's Railroad Redone and NordKitten's A Sensible Prydwen Overhaul for in game and basically plan to build off of them.

The asks: Hancock bartending, Danse wanting kids and being into physical affection, Nick and Ellie Dancing + MacReady and the LW's Grognak (same ask)

[miragecounseling]

thank u friends for indulging my NEEDS. i've been reading gild and it just made me need to see a woman start off taking back her power and it turning into more, something sinister. i wrote a little excerpt of her talking about killing a prince bc he treats women (especially the ones he keeps as "pets") horribly.

i also was inspired by joffrey dying in got. i kept getting edits of that scene pop up on tiktok lmao

///

She breathes a ragged breath in, fighting to maintain a neutral expression. But the joy of seeing the King's closest advisor at her door sends a surge of warmth through her chest.

"I've never seen one of my poisons work so quickly," she murmurs, reliving the moment for a brief second. Her eyes flit to his face; his eyes blank, mouth fighting back a grimace. "Normally they require a bit of time to digest but... it's like it knew they were one in the same. Toxicity meets toxicity, a match made by the Six."

She looks up at the man in the doorway and gives a wry smile, "A young, handsome prince that beheads the women who reject his advances and a handful of berries walk into a tavern, which one walks out alive?"

She lets out a loud laugh and wipes a fake tear from her eye, "Neither! Berries can't walk and neither can dead men!"

"Tsk... Well, I thought it was funny."

She walks over to an open window and looks out wistfully at the lush garden behind her home. Beautiful ferns, blooming flowers, ivy covering every arch and fence that surrounded the garden. And nestled in a corner was a small, innocuous looking plant; green leaves, small red branches holding white berries.

"I do love doll's eye so. The beautiful red branches, splayed out in all directions. So similar to our veins and the blood that courses through," her eyes twinkle as she cast a glance over her shoulder at the man, "And the delicate white berries with their black dotted centers. Where they get their name, of course."

She smooths her skirt and turns around to face him. The man stands completely still, hand on the hilt of his sword. Both of them know it'd be futile to unsheathe, she'd strike him dead before he could reach her. But yet his stance remains unchanged. Perhaps a quick death is more favorable than returning to his King without the missing Prince.

"Have you ever seen someone die, sir? Seen them claw at their throats in a desperate attempt to breathe? Seen their eyes bulge and the centers become pinprick dots as fear courses through their veins? They strike an uncanny resemblance to those same berries that bring about Death's embrace."

I have an urge to create Evil women

[butterbabyflapjack]

ch. 2

༄ Gold Gilded Leash

Derek Goffard x Matt Goffard (The Price of Flesh) x fem!reader

Once upon a time, there lived an unfortunate woman minding her own business, struggling just to get by. Until one lovely, fateful day, when she just so happened to be at the very wrong place at the very wrong time.

Knocked unconscious. Kidnapped. Auctioned off as property. An item for one lucky bidder to do with whatever they pleased. And her life which was stolen, was traded - to one flaxen-haired, gold-blooded monster who paid the top of daddy’s dollars to hunt her down.

It’s funny, looking back.

Right?

It’s funny?

What you’ve been reduced to?

And you thought you had it bad back then.

Tumblr chapter directory

ao3

Derek belongs to @gatobob

Warning tags: explicit sexual content, forced oral sex, Derek owns you, some graphic depictions of violence and bodily harm, obsession, wrath, punishment, yandere, rape/noncon, highly dubious consent, variations of noncon to con, forced orgasm, orgasm denial, kidnapping, escape attempts, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism, knifeplay, bloodplay, rough sex, possessive sex, death threats, dead dove: do not eat, sadism, masochism, angst, depression & wry coping, breathplay, choking, warning: Derek (the price of flesh), Derek might lend you to others, others might steal you for some fun

CHAPTER TWO: Clipped Wings...

Author's Note: If you’ve never seen Derek’s brother and are curious, he was posted on Gato’s pillowfort. And if you’re not 18+, you shouldn’t be going there nor should you be reading this story <3 Everyone else, sorry I barely edited this lets do it ~

___________________________________

“You belong to me.”

“You are property.”

“And I’m going to use you for a long, long time…”

___________________________________

Your chain scrapes across the macassar ebony hardwood of Derek’s sitting room, as you weakly awaken upon the floor. Your lashes barely flutter, stirred into being by the morning’s early light pouring in through the giant skylight carved across the ceiling high above you, its craft like a work of art. And although your body is only just barely clinging to consciousness, like your mind is already fighting being woken in this place, you can’t deny the feel of sun on your skin helps soothe the bruises. 

The bedroom attached doesn’t have windows. It’s like a cave. An extravagantly manicured cave, complete with cove lighting and an artisanally masoned fireplace; the flames of which somehow fail to provide any form of comfort.

Being chained out here, left out here, is a rarity. You hadn't even realized there was a wall mount out here to chain you to.

Sunlight.

After your time wandering the desert, you never thought you’d want to see the sun again. But now you weakly uncurl your limbs from where you're strewn across the floor, basking in its golden spill. Wondering how you even got out here in the first place. You don’t recall Derek dragging you out here. You don't remember seeing him at all last night, actually - not for days - and you feel like you’d remember the torment of it. 

He didn’t have your dog bed brought out for you, apparently. Not that you expect him to see to even your smallest of comforts, but he seems to especially enjoy how much you hate being treated like his pet.

You’re not sure if being forced to sleep directly on the floor is in any way better or worse.

The luxury of silence, of solitude, isn’t long left to you. And suddenly your heart bolts against your ribs as the two-story doors leading from the sitting room’s foyer are shoved open - both of them, despite their heavy weight.

Shit.

You jerk up into something of a slouch, your weight pushed up on your palms, likely looking like some startled, cornered animal readying to flee the length of its leash – and are simultaneously befuddled and relieved to see the estate manager of Derek’s wing of the household –  Emilia Lane, a taut woman with cold eyes – striding brusquely into the room, her sensible heels clacking on the hardwood.

She comes directly toward you, her pace not slowing as you slowly shrink away.

“Get up,” she snaps at you, eyeing you in that same way all the household staff tends to. With a wall behind their eyes rejecting whatever pity or sympathy might lie behind it; ‘ better you than me’.

“Why?” you ask her, and see her thinning frown.

My, you’re feeling bold this morning, aren’t you? Then again, Miss Lane has never struck you. She’s tugged you along with her, sure; digging her manicured claws into your forearms when you try to get away. But she’s not allowed to outright hurt you. No one’s allowed the pleasure of your harm other than the man who’s swiftly become the master of it.

“Get up you filthy ingrate,” Miss Lane clips with more authority, folding her slender arms across her perfectly-pressed, flounce-sleeved blouse. “I’m to have you tended and cleaned before delivered for boarding.”

Part of you wants to continue your dared version of being combative, but you find yourself blinking up at her in confusion instead. “Boarding…?”

She rolls her eyes whilst simultaneously slipping out the key to that iron anklet digging into your skin. “Must I repeat myself? Can you not hear the words coming out of my mouth?” Her eyes slightly narrow as you continue, in confusion, to stare. “Get. Up! I was only given an hour to have you delivered to the jet.” She eyes you, up and down, disdain pinching her pretty features. “And you’re disgusting – I’ll need to have you bathed before anything else, and there’s no time to have anything tailored to whatever shape that is I've been forced into dealing with.”

A maid your don't recognize hurries in through the opened doorway behind her, seemingly belated in her arrival, and Miss Lane turns her narrow gaze from you to the way her feet scuff to a sudden stop. 

“Fetch something for Mr. Goffard’s pet to wear. A gown, short, something slim.” She steals a contemplative glance down at you, at that way you're dressed in nothing but your underwear. “...Champagne or blush hued. And tell Miranda to run a bath in the Lavender Room, I expect it filled and the water scented by the time I arrive.” 

As she carves through the distance which separates you, she stoops to unshackle your leash, pencil skirt rising up her thighs as her legs press together. And some part of you finds satisfaction in the way she grimaces against having to lean down like one of the maids she orders around, with her enduring the task briskly before rising to tower over you once again.

“Up,” she states again, pocketing your key.

You massage your newly freed ankle gingerly, rubbing your chafed skin back to life. Not obeying her immediately, and seeing her eyes flash as a result. “What do you mean, boarding? Boarding what?”

“Whatever does one board,” she drawls instead of answering, sarcasm dripping off her tongue. Already striding out of the room without a second glance, fully expecting you to follow.

You consider bolting instead, because of course you do – somewhere, anywhere other than that path the clacking of her heels leads to. But you’ve tried that before. More than once. You never make it very far before a multitude of personal and premises guards finds you, and you still wear the marks of your repeated punishments. A reminder of how much you've tried and how badly you've failed.

No, it’s best if you just play the good pet and follow her. Plus, it sounds like you’re getting a bath, and a bath without Derek’s hands all over you sounds like it might actually resemble something nice. Even if Miss Lane will likely be lording over you like an authoritarian hawk the entire time.

Your aching muscles throb with longing at just the thought of a nice, steamy soak. Not to mention… you’re undoubtedly curious about why you’re to be primped and prodded and delivered somewhere in the first place… 

Boarding… your mind spins as you shakily lift yourself to stand, hurrying after Miss Lane as best you can so as to avoid any more of her wrath at your tardiness. Boarding a jet? As in… leaving this place…?

There’s no way… Derek wouldn’t let you off Goffard grounds… 

...Would he?

You'd do unspeakable things to slip free of this place. And something suspiciously like hope twists inside your chest, with you doing your best to ignore it. It's better not to get your hopes up about anything, not anymore, not here. Hope is just another thing Derek can steal and tear to shreds in whatever ways allow him the most time in savoring it.

You don’t really know where the Lavender Room is, but you follow the echoed clip of heels on marble, stumble-dashing your way down one hallway and the next. You’ve yet to see a vast majority of the estate – the illustrious ‘Mr. Goffard’ hasn’t exactly provided you with a guided tour – but you’ve seen enough to know that giving rooms distinct titles is a necessity should one hope to traverse this labyrinth without becoming lost and dying of hunger somewhere.

When at last you reach the room the sound of Miss Lane's heels leads you toward, which is of course extravagant and is indeed filled with crystal vases overflowing with freshly cut lavender blooms, you’re too distracted by the magnitude of your surroundings to realize you’re on course to run right into her - not until it’s too late, anyway.

“Auuhnph!” 

You cry out awkwardly as she stumbles, barely catching herself with how you barrel right into her. Before she snatches your startled wrist and tosses you on the path in front of her, toward the marble-carved tub at the foot of a large bay window, warm with the wash-room's sunlight, which two maids are already busying themselves over, scenting the steaming water, lathering shampoo suds between their palms.

You dig your heels in against the way you're flung at them; eying both the maids and the bath with a souring expression.

Lords, they’re not going to bathe you like a dog too, are they…? You’re perfectly capable of washing your own damn hair!

Even when Derek’s not personally available to ensure with every drop of his being that you hate it here, that you're treated as his fucking pet, you absolutely hate it here and are treated as such, regardless.

“In,” Miss Lane orders you – the suddenly-pampered Goffard pet. 

Briefly, you consider wrestling with and tossing her in, instead. She could surely use a bath, and you really don't mind sharing…

With a defeated sigh, your shoulders slump as you eventually force yourself to strip off the scant clothing you wear, uncaring to your own immodesty. If anything, some part of you enjoys forcing those sheepish maids to avert their gazes from the state of your naked form. From those raised notches carved across your stomach, your back, your arms, your legs. The brands, the bruises. Even half-healed, busy as Derek’s been these past few days from continuing your torment – perhaps even for a full week, though you’ve given up in tracking the length of your sentence – you’re still a mess; a tapestry of his cruel amusement with you. 

Though you hate to admit it, as you crawl into the oversized tub, the balmy water is at once soothing, and makes enduring how the maids tug and scrub and untangle a much easier burden to bear. In fact, besides how swiftly they work beneath the watchful, critical eye of Miss Lane, your bath-at-gunpoint is almost enjoyable, and certainly an indulgence you’ve long gone without.

More maids arrive, and you shrink deeper into the water at the sight of their procession; a wary crocodile with only her eyes above the steam, until you’re tugged back up again for more scrubbing. There’s one maid draping a number of mid-thigh dresses over one arm, another toting boxes upon boxes of shoes, and yet another with what can only be described as a torture-chamber’s worth of cosmetics and other styling accessories.

Perhaps you'd rather suffer through whatever torture Derek might subject you to, instead - not that you have a choice.

You’re pulled from the tub, dripping water everywhere. Patted hastily dry by Turkish towels before hands are all about you, holding gowns and shoes up for Miss Lane’s inspection.

“That one,” she points at a champagne-colored, sleeveless gown, with an onyx haltered neckband and thin, empire belt to match; its hem brushing your upper thighs, with what lace makes up the opened back scratching uncomfortably against your shoulder blades. 

Somehow, you feel even more naked paraded in it than you did in just your underwear. And as you catch a glimpse of yourself in the wall of bronze-trimmed mirrors, for a moment you don’t even recognize yourself. Somewhat perplexed with how, even with your legs and shoulders and the curve of your spine on full  display, you still somehow manage to appear within the realm of good taste.

Apparently Miss Lane truly has an eye for such things. And she chooses a pair of black t-strap heels to match your new garment, the intimidating height of which seems more like a weapon than a spindle to somehow walk upon.

You can’t help from wryly grinning, thinking it might be funny to die whilst tripping in those heels than from anything Derek can, has, or will do to you. The fact that such ideas likely shouldn’t amuse you doesn’t even occur; not anymore. After maybe a month of being imprisoned here, this place is warping you into whatever creature might best survive it. And if that, in and of itself, is not also alarming, that fact does not occur to you, either.

Soon, what scars are visible beyond your newest veil are painted over, the maids busying themselves about you as you try not to wince with their pressing and prodding. Your hair dried and styled. Your lashes curled, your cheekbones tinted, your lips plumped with color.

You imagine, under normal circumstances, the lovely peacock they transfigure you into might fill you with an accompanying pride. But now you just stare dully at your own reflection, trying to find yourself inside it. Yet all you see is an immaculate shell with a dying flame where a heart should reside. 

By the time you’re being rushed toward what turns out to be the entrance hall of this wing, it’s clear by Miss Lane’s tension that you’re cutting things close as far as timing is concerned. And as you blink against the waves of fresh air and sunlight that wash over you upon your hurried escort outside, you're forced to give up the desire of begging to walk wherever it is you’re going almost immediately, forced away from your desperate want to spend as much time just walking, just existing outside as humanly possible, even if forced to do so whilst strapped within your death-trap heels. But a polished Rolls-Royce slides up to the curb of the large, circular drive before you’ve even stumbled ten steps outdoors, and you’re swiftly herded inside of it, with Miss Lane ducking in after you. Neither of you speaking as the chauffeur transports you, she, and the gargantuan bodyguard sitting up front to the on-premises hangar.

You merely stare out the window as you're driven there, dragging one fingerpad across the glass. Imagining yourself basking through the flowers, the trees, the grass you see flying by you. Everything outside seems so much brighter, so more inviting when viewed within the confines of a cage, even one as gilded as the one you've been trapped in. 

The car pulls up beside one of several private jets upon a massive runway, and as Miss Lane beckons you to follow her out of the car and toward it, you blink up from its rising shadow with a speeding heart.

You’re really leaving.

You’re actually leaving this awful place.

And you’re not sure if that’s excitement or panic in your lungs. 

Suspicion, doubt, creeps in where any elation slowly bleeds dry of you.

Why is he letting me leave...?

...Where is he taking me to?!

This can't be good. Derek never gives you anything good.

Then... this must be a game. A ploy. Something that will end up hurting you.

Your heels barely get you up the steep boarding steps without resulting in something disastrous for your ankles, and once inside you’re struck by fear into abruptly stopping – that sprinting of your heart seized to a sudden, panicked halt at who you see already onboard.

The realization's as choked as your throat is at the sight of him.

-Derek–!

But… no.

Slowly, your features twist with confusion.

No. That's not Derek.

Your pulse takes at least some solace in that fact.

You don’t know that man staring idly out the window, already sitting with one heel propped up casually across his opposite knee. A drink in crystal balanced in the mitt of one large, upturned hand, some kind of whiskey, despite the sun telling you it’s not even noon yet.

He has Derek’s eyes, though his are more blue. Has Derek’s mouth, though the shape of his lips lacks amusement. And there, the similarities cease. He’s broader. The ridge of his jawline more dense. His dark brows unruly, along with those few honeyed strands of hair spilled across his forehead, rebellious against the way he’s languidly tied the rest of his shoulder-length mane back across his nape.

He looks like a Goffard, and he’s dressed like a Goffard. And he seems to sense you staring; for he turns, a bare pivot, his gaze half-lidded with the boredom and disdain of the rich.

One eyebrow barely lifts at you, and that is his only reaction to your presence and your gawking at him. 

“Has walking become something you’re incapable of? Move you wretched girl!”

Miss Lane is behind where you’ve unwittingly blocked the entrance of the aircraft with your sudden, deer-in-headlights stare, and at her outburst you tear your startled attention away from the dark-haired Goffard now idly watching you. Doing your best to ignore the way his ice-like intensity trails after the awkwardness of you passing by him; his silent interest freckling your skin with goosebumps.

There’s a multitude of plush, empty seats clustered beside each interior window of the jet, and you choose one further back from that man you’d rather hide behind whilst simultaneously keeping your sights on; sitting by a window on the side of the aisle opposite his. 

Your posture stiffens a bit as that giant bodyguard from the car takes the seat right next to yours; boxing you in between himself and the wall, and you can’t help but feel your being cornered is not by accident. 

You hear the mumbling of the pilots up front, already preparing for take-off, as Miss Lane ensures you’re safely tucked in and seated on board with your hulking, silently imposing escort stationed beside you, before she turns as if to leave.

Apparently she's not coming with you.

“Wait,” you say without thinking, just as she starts to turn. “Is Derek not coming…?” You try not to sound too hopeful.

Miss Lane barely conceals a scoff, as she seems to misinterpret your conflicted expression for some impossible version of you missing him. “He’s already attending business dealings in Dubai – you’ll be reunited with him shortly. Now… go to sleep or something. Or at the very least keep your mouth shut. I won’t be blamed for your unspeakable annoyance.”

You blink, biting at your lower lip. “Dubai...?”

She slaps your wrist, and in surprise your teeth stop nipping. “Don’t bite yourself – you’ll ruin your gloss, you insufferable creature!”

With a terse, parting look of supreme disapproval, she spins about and leaves you there. Departing the jet as its engines purr to life.

As the aircraft rolls toward takeoff, you try to stave the alarm slowly creeping over you, ruining any sense of excitement you'd previously had. Your fingernails digging anxiously at the armrests of your seat as you try not to bite at your lower lip again, just in case the bodyguard beside you is also hellbent on you not ruining your makeup.

Why the fuck is he flying me to Dubai?!

Author's Note:

chapter theme

derek goffard , bastard playlist

inspiration behind your dress

[bi-demon-ium]

IF you're doing instinct prompts, "with you" for lizzie and dylan? 🥺

[crying] feeling safe with your friends!

8. "with you" + dylan & lizzie

It was kind of amazing how much Lizzie had come to mean to him in such a short amount of time. They'd immediately clicked. She'd taken well to his slightly abrasive sense of humor, not taking offense where it wasn't meant and then sniping back as good as he gave it, and she'd been... kind. Understanding. Non-judgemental.

He found he trusted her, and had started to rely on her just as much as he did Andy, albeit in a different way. They were partners of another sort, but partners nonetheless. He felt safe with her in a way he did with very few people.

He'd always thought that his past had broken him, in a lot of ways. Made it hard for him to trust anyone. It had taken a while for Andy—beautiful, good-hearted Andy—to work his way into Dylan's heart. He and Julian had bonded mostly over life-or-death situations, although they'd since become closer in other ways as well.

But Lizzie had just slipped past his defenses with a wry smile, easy as could be. He'd thought he could barely trust anyone, and yet she'd earned it in practically the blink of an eye.

He wasn't sure if that was him, or just some quality she had—she'd won over Julian, too, which was no easy feat.

Whatever the case, he could only hope he helped her even a fraction of the amount that she'd helped him.

It wasn't like Lizzie had been entirely alone in that year before Dylan. Charlie was gone, and she had little to no friendly relationships at work anymore as she withdrew into herself, but she had Jas. And the guys at work, well, most of them meant well.

Her sister was really in and out, but not completely absent. She just... had her own shit to deal with.

But Dylan—Dylan had really pulled her out of her funk. She'd loved his book, had read it three times and could quote it from memory, and meeting him was... well, she'd had no idea what to expect, but it wasn't quite this: a goofy, sort of... pleasantly annoying and infuriatingly intelligent professor with a flair for style.

And there was plenty of room for the unexpected under all that tweed—a husband (at least she didn't have to worry about a wandering tongue, since he was apparently gay, although actually, come to think of it, even if he was bisexual she could already tell she wouldn't have had to have worried about it anyway, and not just because he was married—which really said something about the guys at work, unfortunately) and the fact he was apparently a real tough guy (CIA handler? paramilitary? jesus) despite appearances.

But he was also just... funny. Kind. He was willing to poke fun at her but would also listen earnestly and never treat her different for having been vulnerable, no matter how ridiculous she felt crying on the job over something as stupid as a dog.

(Not that Gary was stupid. She would have to apologize later. But just—oh, you know what she meant.)

He made her laugh, and could take jokes in stride without thinking she was actually heartless or a bitch, instead poking back. Or if she needed it, asking what was wrong.

Oh, he could be infuriating, he could say exactly the wrong thing or run off and do something stupid and put himself in danger, but she found she was growing to love him very fast. They were partners, best friends.

This is likely why, in a haze of panic, she called Dylan, of all people.

She hadn't had a nightmare this bad—this vivid, this real—since the weeks after Charlie had died.

She barely remembered the details now, only Charlie dying in her arms and the certainty that it was her fault, vague familiar shadows of old hurts, and then Charlie was Dylan, motionless and pale, and it was all her fault if she'd just been faster if she'd just seen if she'd j—

Lizzie called him.

He seemed worried, and she was sure she sounded far too frantic and incoherent despite how she was trying very hard to keep her voice steady and casual, and then he said (with a quick murmur to Andy, who she could just barely hear sleepily mumble something along the lines of go on, babe, make sure she's alright, and she felt a pang of guilt and deep affection) that he was on his way, in a tone that left no room for argument.

When he arrived, she felt like. a mess. She'd really tried to get herself together because this was frankly ridiculous, they were work partners and she was bothering at him at—fuck, what, three am? But there was no irritation on his face, not a single trace of it, only worry.

He'd pulled her into a tight hug and she'd ended up shaking apart in his arms, crying into his shoulder and feeling stupidly, stupidly vulnerable, but he only ran a gentle hand through her hair and held her tighter.

It was far more comforting than it had any right to be.

(Lizzie had always been fiercely independent, even with Charlie insisting on depending on no one, especially not a man, because she wanted to be taken seriously and it was hard enough in her line of work when she was already dating her partner, no matter how little she regretted that.

But this—didn't feel like giving up anything. She was still a little embarrassed, but even that was mostly overwhelmed with the feeling of relief. She knew, of course, he wouldn't think any less of her for this, and right now it was so very clear that he was warm and alive and here.

(Later, when they hesitantly broach the topic—because, ironically, despite both of them very much having problems with opening up, they'd always been pretty good about communicating with each other—he asks her, sort of soft and uncertain, why she'd called him and not someone else. And she'd said, like it was obvious (because it was), Because I trust you. I feel safe with you. I needed to feel safe.

And he'd looked at her like she'd slapped him. And then a little disbelieving smile touched at his lips—why on earth was he so surprised, was she going to have to get another fucking tragic backstory out of him, because it was getting sad, the absolute clown car of tragic backstories this man had—and said, very quietly but with sincerity, that he felt the same way.

She shifted a little, and said, well. Good.

And that was that.)

[lesbiansforboromir]

If a person wanted to write Boromir fic, do you have any tips on how to capture the Tolkieny tone in writing/best scenes to re-read for characterization?

LET ME SEE if I can’t compile a nice guide for you;

First thing’s first! Boromir does not include his own feelings into his statements unless it’s utterly against his will, such as the ring-controlled scene. In fact his discussion with Frodo is the first and last time he expresses his emotions verbally at all and even then it seems to be squeezed out of him in the midst of his ranting ‘how it ANGERS me’ like he is almost shocked at how angry he actually is in that moment, so much so that he can’t hold it back like normal. 

‘I am’ statements in general don’t come often either. He doesn’t use ‘I’ at all if he can help it. If he is describing the war or some conflicts or battles, he uses ‘us’ or ‘we’ ‘Some said that it could be seen, like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon. Wherever he came a madness filled our foes, but fear fell on our boldest, so that horse and man gave way and fled. Only a remnant of our eastern force came back, destroying the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath. 'I was in the company that held the bridge, until it was cast down behind us. Four only were saved by swimming: my brother and myself and two others.’ Here he mentions himself only as an explanation for the circumstances, and goes quickly back to talking as a collective. (This is the first and last time he mentions Faramir too, and never by name)

The times when Boromir uses ‘I’ statements most is for defining his own actions and intent or when he is offering advice. 'I have let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night.' He is clear to himself and others about what he will and won’t accept. 'I will add a word of advice, if I may,' said Boromir. 'I was born under the shadow of the White Mountains and know something of journeys in the high places. We shall meet bitter cold, if no worse, before we come down on the other side. It will not help us to keep so secret that we are frozen to death. When we leave here, where there are still a few trees and bushes, each of us should carry a faggot of wood, as large as he can bear.' Note here he is also polite but in a confident manner. ‘If I may’ is added to acknowledge that he is not the leader of the company, but he is not shy with offering his advice and assuming it useful. 

When he’s in more familiar and less strict circumstances, and actually sometimes even when he isn’t, Boromir has what I would call a... hint of sarcasm in his tone at all times. He’s always got a little sardonic wit with him,  `Let those call it the wind who will; there are fell voices on the air; and these stones are aimed at us.' See? It’s not... OVERT but it’s definitely a little long suffering/etc. Boromir... talks like an old man I guess is my point. 'What do you say to fire?' asked Boromir suddenly. 'The choice seems near now between fire and death, Gandalf. Doubtless we shall be hidden from all unfriendly eyes when the snow has covered us, but that will not help us.' ESPECIALLY when he’s talking to Gandalf, there’s just a bit of dark humour and ‘cheek’. `I do not know which to hope,' said Boromir grimly: `that Gandalf will find what he seeks, or that coming to the cliff we shall find the gates lost for ever. All choices seem ill, and to be caught between wolves and the wall the likeliest chance. Lead on!' jhadsjd BITCHY... but very funny and he’s right. And here also, ‘wolves and the wall’, he tends towards almost... poetic isn’t quite the word but he likes sayings and flowing dialogue. 

Continuing on from that point, Boromir is also generally... not WARM but he’s got a way of speaking that is comfortable and confident in comradery. Especially with Gimli, actually, he often makes these lighter sighed statements that have a lick of humour to them. Again, it’s never particularly overt, more of a constant underlying note in his wording, even in the latter parts of the fellowship. `Ah, it is as I said,' growled Gimli. 'It was no ordinary storm. It is the ill will of Caradhras. He does not love Elves and Dwarves, and that drift was laid to cut off our escape.' 'But happily your Caradhras has forgotten that you have Men with you,' said Boromir, who came up at that moment. `And doughty Men too, if I may say it; though lesser men with spades might have served you better.’ This is one of my favourite lines of his it’s just like... confident, not over proud, you can hear him grinning and the leetle wry tone he’s speaking in. Even here! In like the very last days of his life, he still has this quality! 

We might labour far upstream and yet miss it in the fog. I fear we must leave the River now, and make for the portage-way as best we can from here.' `That would not be easy, even if we were all Men,' said Boromir.     `Yet such as we are we will try it,' said Aragorn.  'Aye, we will,' said Gimli. `The legs of Men will lag on a rough road, while a Dwarf goes on, be the burden twice his own weight, Master Boromir! ' (later) 'Well, here we are, and here we must pass another night,' said Boromir. `We need sleep, and even if Aragorn had a mind to pass the Gates of Argonath by night, we are all too tired-except, no doubt, our sturdy dwarf.'     Gimli made no reply: he was nodding as he sat.

AND ANOTHER THING. Whilst Boromir CAN be an orator and give long speeches, he tends towards economy of speech. This is especially noticeable, again, between him and Gandalf. Gandalf will go on for three paragraphs about something, patronising him, explaining a lot of unnecessary stuff to sound clever. And then Boromir will just answer with; `We do not know what he expects,' said Boromir. `He may watch all roads, likely and unlikely. In that case to enter Moria would be to walk into a trap, hardly better than knocking at the gates of the Dark Tower itself. The name of Moria is black.' And that’s it! AND HE’S FFUCKIN RIGHT GGSHAHGS

So you’re usually going to be trying to narrow down his speech to it’s bare essentials in order to get the point across and nothing more. Stream lined, impersonal, confident and clear are the hallmarks of Boromir’s speech patterns. NO. SHOUTING. Unless to be heard or in a brief flash of shock, immediately restrained afterwards. Actually if Boromir has any kind of outburst, he tends to walk away from whatever situation caused it rather than allow anything to escalate. Boromir’s verbal tone is almost always neutral, wry or reassuring/comfortable. From experience, I can tell you this is... GRUELLING to write. You want so desperately for him to say what he’s thinking and feeling, what’s important to him, but he’s utterly incapable unless briefly possessed by evil. Not even when he’s literally dying will this change, though that might be because it was Aragorn at his deathside. Which brings me onto my final point.

We actually have no idea how Boromir might interact with people he actually likes and is friends with, let alone his family. I’m inclined to believe that warm comradery element just becomes more overt but little else changes. But you’re entirely at liberty to decide for yourself. Certainly though it is different from how he behaves throughout the fellowship. We never really meet Boromir... is a thought I can hardly bare so we’re STOPPING now.