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vihattu-thethoroughbredofsin · 2 years ago

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Sorry if I'm bothering you. I came across your blog and it's rare for me to find someone critical of idw (I feel the same). Can you tell some of the problems you have with them? It's okay if you don't want to. Just happy to know I'm not the only one (My friends are huge fans of idw).

Hello, kindred spirit! I'm sorry that I'm not answering the question so quickly!

Well, it's nice to know that someone is also unhappy with IDW and wants to know more about it! Get ready, this will be the opening of Pandora's Box.

Out of a million of my claims, I will try to build a constructive list.

1. IDW does not build lore of the universe. They didn't have enough for this for 17 years or whatever they wrote comics. What kind of innovations, adequately embedded in lore, do we have? What lore did we get? No, we don't really know anything, neither the origin of transformers, nor what's going on in the universe, the rules change at the click of your fingers.

A couple of egregious examples.

Explanation of female transformers. Experienced IDW authors for 3 or about as many retcons could not explain it all, which is why the whole fandom got mad, tired and asks not to explain anything at all, so as not to see idiocy anymore. That is, they give the authors the right to be lazy, but more on that later.

You can say that it's really "everything is complicated and explanations are not needed, female characters have the right to exist!". They have, that's not the point.

This problem is solved simply — there is no need to explain the female characters, you need to explain why Cybertronians, in principle, have a humanoid form. That's all, any explanation from this point justifies both female and male, and androgynous, and any other, as well as all kinds of genders. As an example, Primus has seen enough of the variety of organics and made his creations roughly similar. All. I had to sit for 10 minutes to come up with this, and this is not the most brilliant idea. The IDW authors had 17 years, they didn't come up with anything.

Another example is Conjunx Endura. I understand perfectly well that the authors of the comics wanted to appeal to the fan base writing fanfiction. But you need to be able to do it correctly. You can't just take a phenomenon invented by fans and shove it into an official work without any explanation of this phenomenon inside the lore. Especially since many fanfiction writers do it! You can find works with such beautiful and logical explanations that it seems ingenious. But the IDW authors are above any explanation. And yes, there are not always explanations in fanfiction, but we compare non-professional writers who post their works on the Internet for free with experienced authors of an official work that is sold for money. Who should put more effort into their work?

I'll just explain. For us humans, romantic love seems obvious, but it's not a particularly common evolutionary invention. If an intelligent species evolved from some elephants or killer whales, then the priority would not be a pair, but a kinship relationship. There are a bunch of animal species that don't create pairs at all. So how and for what purposes does such a phenomenon as Conjunx Endura exist in the society of transformers? They do not breed in pairs, they do not have any very harsh living conditions where a partner can help with survival. Something from Primus? Some kind of "power of love"? Who knows, the authors don't care, the fans of couples are happy and draw tons of art and write tons of fanfiction, and they don't need more. And I understand that in the original very first cartoon we were shown that Cybertronians know how to love. But this is a cartoon for children, of course there will be no details, these comics are designed for an older audience who can understand complex explanations.

Age-related burnout is something like a disease ending the life of a transformer. What do we know about it? After what time does it come? For what reason? What is it like? And why should the reader know this, it is there and that's it.

Similarly, for all IDW's love of violent scenes and cutting transformers into pieces, we don't really have a single image that normally shows the anatomical structure of a Cybertronian. They didn't even bother to come up with names for body parts. When I needed to find names for the most basic body parts, I found about 10 fan interpretations for each and 0 official ones! I'll repeat it. THEY HAD 17 YEARS TO DO IT!

About changing bodies and genders to more suitable ones. Again, it is too directly written off from humans, although we are talking about alien robots. Humans have biological and socio-cultural reasons for this. How does it work for transformers? Different types of sparks were canceled by the retcon, so it is impossible to talk about some kind of accordance. Just fashion or aesthetic preferences? Well, that's something. But why, according to this logic, we were not shown examples where transformers change their alt-mod, because they felt that it would be right? No, it's too difficult, because the reader is too stupid and will not understand the allegories or signs of alien psychology of another intelligent species. Again, I'm not against it, but while it's clear how it works for humans, everything here works on the principle of "because".

And these are the biggest examples, but with the little things and everything else, it's about the same. These comics don't build the world, you don't want to dive into it, because almost nothing is known about it, except for a short period before and during the war. It's unclear how it works.

2. The authors obviously like Decepticons and don't particularly like Autobots. And they try very hard to hide it behind the so-called "gray morality". The authors tried so hard to suggest that the Decepticons are not so bad, but at the same time, because of the rule of coolness, they left their actions far beyond the point of no return, when the arch of redemption can no longer work in the work.

I will explain this with the most striking examples.

Megatron. How the authors protected him with all their might. The fact is that the authors adored Megatron so much that they tried to give him everything at once. Megatron must be a cool destroyer who staged genocide on Cybertron and on other planets. But at the same time, he should personify a "misunderstood hero who fought for a just cause." Megatron throws from extreme to extreme. Then he orders to kill all living beings in the universe, and then he changes on the move and decides not to kill anyone at all, doing absolutely nothing to save his comrades. (Time of MTMTE and Lost Light events). He defected to the Autobots only out of self-hatred, and not because of regrets about his actions. He never says that he feels sorry for the murdered Cybertronians or the inhabitants of other planets.

And the authors are trying to emphasize this, then through Rodimus, who almost licked him and promoted the point of view that Megatron (the leader of the Decepticons) is not responsible for everything that has happened in the last 4 million years. Or through Whirl, who began to blame himself that it was because of him that Megatron started all this, as if Megatron could not think on his own.

But apparently the authors didn't have enough of that, so they introduced a Functionist Universe to show how bad it would be for Cybertronians without a revolution. After all, screens instead of heads are much worse than the genocide of their own kind and the deaths of countless living beings on other planets.

I am sure that even the authors introduced Holomatter technology to draw a hot humanization of Megatron. You just compare his drawing and the drawing of others.

The authors had 2 options — not to make Megatron a monster so that it all worked, or not to follow the path of his justification. For such an image that turned out, the only redemption is death, any textbook of screenwriting skill will say that. What did we get? An inarticulate, unsatisfying ending where we don't even know if he was executed or not for all his crimes that he didn't really atone for. In general, it is very interesting to send a galactic criminal essentially on a cruise initially instead of a normal punishment. The inhabitants of the affected worlds especially liked it, I'm sure.

Starscream. Of course, they could not ignore the audience's favorite. How not to give your beloved Starscream the crown and the status of ruler. Despite the fact that before that we were shown him as an incompetent leader who brought the Decepticons to an incomprehensible extent in the absence of Megatron, but no one on the planet remembered this when he became ruler. No one in the galaxy was unhappy that the second in command and accomplice of the intergalactic genocide became the ruler. Because the authors wanted a Starscream in the crown, which in the end did nothing but argue with Windblade, and then in the end unexpectedly committed a heroic act during the fight with Unicron. What led to this? Nothing really, it's just that the authors love Starscream, why explain.

It's about the same with Soundwave.

Thundercracker. The kindest Decepticon. Who was not happy with Megatron's actions, but still obeyed them, whined to himself, and only at some point the authors remembered that they needed to make him good. And one act was enough to declare him so. And even humans accepted his residence on Earth, which should not be, since his one act is not enough for everyone to take and forget who he served and what he did before. But add a dog, and everyone will stop paying attention to it, because it's all so cute.

Well, just look at all the "positive decepticons" who still hate organics, who do not particularly repent for their actions, but the authors present them to us as "good guys".

And what about the Autobots? And now they are partly defenders of an unfair regime.

About what was done with Prowl and Star Saber (here is my post about it) I can only keep silent. As far as I know, the comic book author at least hated Star Saber, so he made him like this.

It would seem that here it is grayness, there are no good and bad. But, as we have seen, the "good" Decepticons are not as gray and good as they are presented. But they showed us good Autobots, right? We'll see.

Tailgate is at first a good autobot, who, because of his strength, has become some kind of hysterical, driven by momentary inadequate emotions.

Rewind is a good one, we won't pay attention to the fact that he used Chromedome as a tool, in fact he didn't love him, chasing after his previous partner, but we will perceive these two as a good couple. Yes, by the way, the beloved fan couple and the representation proudly called by the authors do not really demonstrate a bit of a good relationship, only use and disrespect for the feelings of the partner.

Rodimus is a good one, although he is an infantile egoist who, after a moment of enlightenment, returned to his previous behavior, and treated everyone badly except our beloved Megatron.

And really good characters like Skids can be killed and forget about their existence.

But we have a bad Getaway, which could be an excellent example of gray morality, since he was initially right, but the authors could not allow this, so they turned him into a caricature villain and killed him.

I really can't think of a single character that was enjoyable. Not necessarily morally clean, but at least not disgusted. Maybe this is just my opinion, but I hate almost everyone in this line of comics.

3. Authors hate human characters. It's simple, the whole storyline is on the Earth. Humans are stupid and evil bastards who thoughtlessly fell for the Decepticons' trick, fought against the Autobots and tortured them. Yes, humans can do terrible things and most likely would have done something about it, but it feels like there was no place for humans in the vaunted "gray morality". Even if the authors have a teenager's brain with all this "humans suck!", they could try to make a good story. What did Spike do to deserve such a character portrayal? By being annoying in a cartoon? That's not an excuse.

4. Terribly boring MTMTE and Lost Light, a soap opera at its worst. Most of this sprawling plot could be spent on really interesting things.

5. The ending. No comments. The only plus is that it's finally over.

6. Reboot is just boring.

7. Shattered Glass — thanks them for remembering, but it doesn't even match the original, either in the image of the characters or in the plot. The plot is so-so.

8. Last Bot Standing is just some nonsense with an incomprehensible morality, an incomprehensible premise and some crazy image of random characters.

And all this is only a small part of my claims, which I was able to quickly recall.

You can say, and many will say, that this is unfair, because other works on transformers are no better and suffer from the same problems. And I will agree. But there is one detail.

Most fans do not put other works on the pedestal of the best media on transformers. Therefore, I have no complaints about other comics from Marvel or Dreamwave, because they are treated adequately. But there is such a rush around IDW that I'm tired of seeing endless proposing to put every character and every solution from these comics into new comics/cartoons/movies/games. I understand that compared to other works, these comics seem cool, but they have a lot of problems that should not be repeated. You need to come to something new, and not take the most popular and think that this is the key to success. Earthspark is going down this path, and it doesn't look good anymore. But if everything is covered with a sad Megatron and blue flowers, then everything is fine. And this is not so.

Perhaps not everything was bad, the beginning was promising and even interesting, but all this quickly turned into some kind of nonsense, fanservice and fulfillment of the wishes of the authors. In the end, I'm glad that their license was taken away from them, and I hope that the following authors will not rely on these comics in the future.

I don't like IDW for the reasons outlined above, but I hate these comics for the way the fandom treats them.

Thank you for wanting to hear me and perhaps listening to what I would like to convey.

#transformers #maccadam #idw tf #transformers idw #IDW #Megatron #idw megatron #Earthspark #answered ask #IDW sucks and I won't back down from my opinion #Please stop proposing to repeat everything after IDW #I do not know try to read other comics #Other comics had better ideas just demanded better execution

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commander-orca · 2 years ago

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I have newssss :)

I completely forgot to buy the latest children of the whales manga because I was busy but it's been released a month ago in my country!!!! So I'll go get it on Monday and start posting spoilers, but since I'm late I don't think anyone will mind.

2. I'm transferring most of my fanfictions to a new account on Ao3. If anyone wants to find me on there, this is my username.

MissVioletNightshadeOfBoudreauxCastle | Archive of Our Own

#cotw #children of the whales #kujira no kora wa sajou ni utau

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atlaculture · 2 years ago

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A really interesting post and the discussion in the notes is worth perusing through as well.

I think it all depends on your target audience and the medium you’re working in. For example, if ATLA had started off as a fantasy book series à la Harry Potter, I would probably use a lot of pleonasmic translations (at first) to firmly establish the setting and style of the world, since the visual component would be scarce. Being a new fantasy series, people would be coming in with a completely blank slate as to what kind universe this is--- if my initial audience is English-speaking children, their default idea of fantasy will probably be “vaguely medieval Europe”.

In that sort of scenario, I would make a conscious effort to make my cultural influences clear. “The two siblings drifted aimlessly in their umiak boat” and “The sea ice made quick work of crushing the walrus-seal skins and whale-dolphin bones that made up their umiak”. Especially in the age of smartphones, it might prompt the kiddos to do a quick internet search on “umiak” and spark an interest in the culture being written about.

It could also help to avoid confusion. “The masked figure wielded two broadswords“ might bring to mind this:

Rather than this:

Saying “The masked figure wielded two niuweidao swords” may not be as clear to people unfamiliar with Chinese weapons, but they will at least know they aren’t western-style swords. Curiosity can easily be sated by Google nowadays.

Now in the context of the real ATLA franchise and fanfiction, I think pleonasms are much less necessary. We were introduced to their world visually so it’s not as important to call a Southern Water Tribe boat an umiak or Zuko’s sword a dao. Of course, if you’re introducing new foods and tools into the story, then initial pleonasms will be very helpful.

Or maybe you just want to flex your knowledge to your audience! I’m the last person to give anyone crap for that. 😂

Like what I’m doing? Tips always appreciated, never expected. ^_^

The Problem With "Dao Swords": My love-hate relationship with pleonasmic translations

An essay that no one asked for.

A lot of fanfics call Zuko’s broadswords “dao swords.” As a Chinese to English translator, this phrase makes me pause every time. Here is my humble opinion on “dao swords” and other pleonasmic translations:

What the heck is a pleonasmic translation?

I’m so glad you asked! “Pleonasm” is a fancy term for a redundant phrase, like “black darkness” or “burning fire.”

A pleonasmic translation is a phrase that puts the source language and the translation back-to-back. A common example is “chai tea” which literally means “tea tea.”

“Dao swords” is a pleonasmic translation. “Dao” 刀 is the Chinese blanket term for blade. The phrase basically means “sword swords.” Sounds pretty silly, right?

Pleonasmic translations are bad?

I think it depends on your audience, the text purpose, and how special the word is.

In advertising, pleonasmic translations can help increase a product’s searchability. Ex: “Longjing Dragonwell tea” would appear in a Google search for either “longjing” or “dragonwell.”

Tourist destinations often use pleonasmic translations to help foreigners navigate. Ex: “Nanzhan South Station” on a map helps foreigners know what the place is, but also gives them the Chinese pronunciation so that they can communicate with their taxi driver.

In literature, a pleonasmic translation is a succinct way to introduce a culturally significant term without a footnote or distracting tangent. A lot of translators will sneak in a pleonasmic translation the first time the word appears in a text, and then use the untranslated term alone every time after. Ex: "He slouched on the kang bed-stove. His grandmother sighed and took a seat on the kang too.”

Is "dao" a culturally significant word?

No.

Dao is a super mundane word used to describe any kind of blade, from butter knives to ice skates. It feels weird to keep such a normal word untranslated. Using the Chinese word emphasizes its foreignness. They’re not just swords, they’re special, Chinese swords.

Yes, words take on different meanings as they pass from culture to culture. That’s how language works. But English is also a unique case. Because of imperialism. I think English speakers have an obligation to avoid exotifying every-day words.

Also, English is a global language. Chinese speakers are reading your translation, and…I dunno...“sword swords” feels off putting. Disruptive.

But I want to acknowledge the real-life culture behind the swords

Giving credit to the cultures that you're borrowing from is an A+ idea.

...I don't know how to do this in a fantasy setting.

Zuko’s swords and fighting style is based on oxtail sabers (牛尾刀）and Shaolin dual broadswords (少林双刀). @atlaculture has a very cool post on oxtail sabers. But calling his swords "oxtail sabers" doesn't work because cows don't exist in atla. Shaolin is a type of martial arts that originates from Shaolin temple in Henan, China (Shaolin itself literally means “young forest”). But you can’t call them “Shaolin broadswords," since Shaolin does not exist in the Fire Nation.

It’s quite a pickle.

Maybe just use a footnote?

So what should I call Zuko’s swords?

I don’t know.

I think you can just call them broadswords. That’s what the TV show calls them.

To end on a happier note, here is a video of Chang Zhizhao busting some sweet moves.

youtube

#also thank you tuktukpodfics for the shoutout #and teaching me a new word #outside content #Thinking about it #I’ve even used some pleonasms on this blog as well. In my earlier posts #I made country of origin very clear #“This outfit takes inspiration from China’s Tang Dynasty...” As I built more of an audience #I began trusting that my readers already know that “Tang Dynasty” is a period of Chinese history from my previous posts.

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hualianisms · 8 months ago

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15, 18, 26

thanks for the ask!

15. What’s the weirdest fandom you’ve ever written for?

warrior cats fanfiction when i was a child

18. Wildest fic you’ve ever written?

i don't usually write things that i consider extremely wild tbh

26. Is there anything you’ve wanted to write, but you’ve been too scared to try?

i've had the idea forever for a whole multichapter dr who AU of hualian (just consider it an AU where hualian travel together across the galaxy visiting different planets). xl is the doctor, a time god who is very old and very kind and the very last of his kind, while san lang is a mysterious "human" boy who becomes his companion but is actually a ghost king who also can travel through space and time. 800 years ago they met as teens when xl broke the rules of time to save young hc and young hc fell for xl and even promised to build a city of flowers (aka a hua cheng) for them.

i even had an oc of a lesbian supreme ghost who was once hc's protege and wanted to learn how to become strong to avenge her beloved. and xl's past companions included ban yue and they have a conversation with the doctor who quote "I'm not a hero. i really am just mad man in a box" but rewritten to parallel the scene where xl told hc in the canon novel "san lang, I'm not the person you think i am". and xl saves a dying star whale and hc tells him the dr who quote "if you were that old and that kind, you couldn't just stand there and watch children cry. sound familiar?" and looks at xl like a time god while xl looks away bc xl believes he's just an old fool who caused the fall of his kingdom and deserves to repent forever. and i wrote scenes of hc flirting with xl and hc telling xl about the story behind a constellation in the sky that immortalizes a boy who became a demon king to protect and avenge his beloved and xl doesn't realize it's about hc and him and...

i have pages and pages of plot and scene ideas for this au, i've only posted the first chapter so far bc multichapters take me a lot of energy to write and finalize the details of and fantasy/action are especially hard for me to write, idk how to write all the action scenes 😭 some day when im done with my other wips I'll slowly figure it out

(send number(s) from the 35 questions for fanfiction writers ask game)

#anonymous #answered #ask game

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mama-m1na · 5 years ago

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Diamond Days: Prologue

~~~0~~~

Diamonds are a very valuable gem made from carbon. They form by being put under intense heat as well as tons and tons of pressure for about three billion years.

Due to their scarcity, luster, and hardness diamonds became very valuable amongst humans; however, there was another reason why diamonds were valuable to humans.

When certain cuts of the gem were able to resonate with the souls of certain humans, the organic beings were able to undergo a temporary transformation that enhanced their physical and magical abilities.

With this new discovery, many scoured the earth for the precious gem and many succeeded; however, not all of them had the purest of intentions.

Finding that their siblings were being abused, four diamonds rose to hunt and destroy the others, afterall the only thing capable of shattering a diamond is another diamond.

Red Diamond had the power to enhance their own body as well as those of others which was used to increase the attack power of their armies.

Blue Diamond had the power to tear holes in the fabric of reality. They created portals at their disposal during the war.

Green Diamond had the power to manipulate which was used to manipulate the battlefield to their favor and in some cases they could even manipulate the enemy directly.

The final diamond in this power trio was Purple Diamond. The largest and oldest of the three had a unique power. While all diamonds had the power to destroy, Purple Diamond was gifted with the power of creation, which they used to create gems that could resonate with the souls of their allies; however, they could never create a diamond. That power was beyond the ggem.

Soon enough this class of elite gems fell until only the four diamonds remained. New diamonds would be created in the future; however, none would possess any power like those of the Four Deities of Rebellion.

As the human holders of the gems passed on, they were passed down through history, guarded so no one could receive such powers again.

Until the diamonds were being transported across the Sea of Thieves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~An old man stood in the Captain’s Quarters of a large, heavily guarded, ship. It was armed with hundreds of soldiers all guarding four precious gems.

“Captain, something’s been spotted off the port bow!” exclaimed a man as the door burst open.

“Was it a ship from that damned empire?! Or from Amonlogia?” the captain asked as he stood in a panic, “Is it pirates?!”

“Uh no, Sir, we aren’t sure what it is,” the man replied earning a glare from the captain as he walked out the door to see with his own eyes.

As he made it to the bow, the group of people gathered had made a path for the captain as one man said, “It’s a child, Sir.”

Floating face up in the sand was an unconscious little girl with the whiteness of her nightgown making her stand out from the tan sand around her.

The eyes of the captain softened as he said, “Well, fish her out of there! What are you just standing around for?”

“Yes, Sir!” many said as they worked to get the child out of the sea and on the ship where they were all relieved to find the child was alive.

It took a few hours but soon enough the child woke up and when this happened the captain walked over immediately.

“Hello, Child,” he greeted as the child smiled up at him.

She had long, silky hair the color of a raven, golden brown skin and bright brown irises littered with golden flecks.

“Hello!” she chirped before looking around in confusion, “Where am I, Sir?”

“You’re on the Xilan, My Dear,” the man chuckled as the girl’s eyes lit up.

“That’s Reubian, right?” she asked, cheering as the captain nodded.

“Sir, why is there so many people with guns here?” she asked after a few minutes as her smile became slightly smaller.

“Well, we are guarding something very precious.”

“Oh, like treasure and jewels?” beamed the girl as she sprang up.

“Ye-” “Like four diamonds?” the ravenette asked as the male’s expression hardened.

“How did you know that?” he asked, reaching for his hip as the child’s smile turned into a knowing smirk.

“I have my ways… Captain.”

Just then a male burst through the door as an explosion was heard from the outside; however, within split second both he and the captain were on the ground, wide eyed, and unable to move as the child stood before them.

“You’re a monster!” spat the captain as he spotted the tattoo on the child.

In black ink on the girl’s middle finger was a diamond split by an even cross, the mark of one of the many pirate gangs.

“I’m from Nushistan so you’re not far off, but remember, Captain, you’re the one that decided to sail on the Sea of Thieves,” she replied, letting out a laugh as she exited the room.

As she ran past fire, and bodies of soldiers the child made her way up to the Captain’s Quarters to find a woman with white hair stuffing a box into a white sack with a smirk on her face, a rip on her shirt revealing the tattoo of a rival pirate gang.

“Wow, Lisa, I knew I didn’t like you for a reason,” the ravenette chirped with crazed eyes, “But for you to be a spy fills me with joy in the fact I can openly end your life without punishment now.”

“Same goes for you, Brat,” spat the woman as she pulled out a flint lock pistol and aimed at the child, “But I know for a fact you’re the one who’s going to be dying.”

“Really? Fof, you keally ake xupzek htan I houvth.”

Bang! Thud!

A streak of blood dripped down the child’s cheek as she looked down at the body of the woman which had iron needles sticking out of her head and neck.

With a bright smile she picked up the box and opened it to see four, glimmering diamonds.

~~~Fin. Prologue~~~

#Diamond Days #Children of the Whales #Fanfiction #Prologue

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listamaestrafanfictionderay · 5 years ago

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Fanfic: Children of the Whales // Liontari/Lykos (non con), menciones de Liontari/Chakuro (también, non con) // Rating M.

Link a ff.net : Una de sangre, el otro de arena

Fragmento: "¿Crees que eres independiente? Te van a violar en Faláina. Todo lo que yo te hice, sin duda lo extrañarás. Eso será el infierno..."

N/A: Historia relacionada con Acciones pertinentes.

#kujira no kora wa sajou ni utau #children of the whales #liontari x lykos #liontari x chakuro #yaoi #fanfiction #fanfic #spanish fanfiction #spanish fanfic

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seoness · 2 years ago

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(18+) Day 4 of Kinktober - Cheating

Smut | (Book!)Sandor Clegane x Female | Romance & established friendship Background: You are the third child of Tywin and Joanna Lannister and wed to Tybolt Crakehall, heir to Lord Crakehall. The events occur years before the Game of Thrones, and Jon Arryn is still alive and well, serving as Hand of the King.

Reader: Confident, a bit unrefined/wild (think Lyanna Stark), and ambivalent when it comes to having children.

Simplification of birth-line: (Cersei and Jaime, then you, and lastly Tyrion)

This fanfiction is best enjoyed using a browser add-on like InteractiveFics.

The wheelhouse was immense. From the outside, it was a monstrosity of carved oak and gilded metal. Swallowed up by the beast you sat in its world of crimson. Crimson cushions, crimson tapestries, and a crimson-painted ceiling. The only light that wasn't afforded by the dimly lit golden lanterns was by the door left open, allowing a shard of daylight inside. The Hound, ever faithful, stood guard by the entrance to the lions' den. And how very packed it was.

Tyrion sat busy entertaining your nephew, while Jaime watched, leaning against one of the wooden pillars. Your sister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, rested on one of the mountains of cushions, her belly swollen. Yet Cersei looked like no beached whale, graceful even so close to the birthing bed. It was a strange thing. Your older brother and sister had eyes that looked the same, the same emerald green befitting twins, yet meeting Cersei's gaze was nothing like looking into the eyes of Jaime.

"You are yet with child," Cersei noted.

"Am I to act surprised by that statement?"

Your sister was unamused as you slapped your own stomach. "No clever tongue will shield you from the whispers of being barren."

Tyrion's attention had left Joffrey, and from the corner of your eye, you could see the pained smile. Great, even he pitied you. Ride all the way to King's Landing to be a guest at one of the King's many royal hunts only for it to turn into a pity party.

Snatching off the flagon of Dornish red from the table you refilled your cup, taking a hearty sip.

"Do you know how many bastards my Lord Husband has produced?" you asked your sister, but the only bashful in that wheelhouse were the men. "Not the one, and not from a lack of trying mind you." You looked up at Jaime, a smile came to his lips though it seemed more a habit than anything else. "Does the look of spurned wife suit me, brother?"

But Jaime didn't answer, and when the silence began to stretch Tyrion took up the duty, "Better than others, sweet sister."

So that is why Cersei wanted you to come to her. Father did enough grumbling about your lack of children without her help.

"Well, I shall not make a babe here." With a groan, you took to your feet. "Does a Kingsguard have time to go for a ride?"

Jaime glanced down at Cersei, it was enough for you to know the answer before he said it, "As the Queen's protector, I must remain by her side."

"I thought you were her protector, Clegane?" you called out, turning towards the door.

"Seems her dog is becoming Joff's," Tyrion said, jutting back his head as your hand came down and the slap to his head barely missed its target.

"Don't be rude, it is an ugly trait."

"Think he calls me his sweetling?" Tyrion said.

No longer under the watchful eye of his uncle, Joffrey filled his small fist with one of the pages from the book that Tyrion had been reading aloud. It would have been kinder mercy for the boy to have hit his uncle in the groin. A slew of curses left Tyrion's lips as he ripped the book out of the boy's hand.

"Perhaps the match isn't so poor after all. This one will take after you Dog!"

Unwise. Not something a prince, let alone a boy of four would stand for.

His bright wail made you grit your teeth, "I want it! I want it!"

The inside of the wheelhouse grew darker as the light from the door disappeared. The Hound leaned inside the lion's den, the scowl setting deeper as they landed on his prince.

"Has your watch already begun?" Tyrion asked dryly.

Clegane's gaze traveled, locking on the book in your brother's hands. "Dragons? Give him the book, not like it do anyone any good."

"So he reads," your brother gasped. "I'm not your squire, the book is mine. Step aside."

"I heed His Grace's wish, not yours, little lord."

Screw the book. This screaming continued and you'd leave the wheelhouse deaf. Was this what you were missing out on? Having some banshee crawl out of you? Joffrey's scream grew louder still as you picked him up and walked to his mother.

"Do something," you said, seating the banshee down beside her.

Cersei's arm laid themself around her son's shoulders, pulling him to her breast, cooing. The Hound stepped to the side as you jumped out of the wheelhouse.

Cersei's voice rang out behind you, "See to my sister's safety, Clegane."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Some good news. He wouldn't give you condolences, well wishes, or offer for some maester or the other to brew you some queer concoction. It had been years since last, and unlike you, he had not changed.

Tyrion jumped out after you, his book still safely tucked under his arm.

"Are you to be with us, brother?"

His mismatched eyes squinted up at the man beside you. "I fear with your newfound pet, it will be little fun."

Tyrion Lannister marched away, disappearing among the pavillions of the camp. Everywhere banners flew, the stag of Baratheon, the roaring lion of Lannister, and countless more. When the King wanted to go for a hunt, the court followed.

"What do you call him?" you asked.

"Nothing he hasn't heard before, my lady."

"My lady?" you repeated, frowning up at him. "Don't tell me court managed to ruin even you?"

Clegane's lips pressed into a thin line. It was a mistake. The door of the wheelhouse was still open and you doubted years as Queen had made your sister less insistent on titles.

Walking away, he took to you as a shadow.

"Are you treated well?" you asked, keeping your voice low so no one else but him could hear.

Clegane only shrugged in response. He had changed. Even him. Of course, he had. It was a silly dream, to think he'd be like before. Talk with you the same.

"I would have written but it..." you couldn't finish the excuse.

What good was there to apologize for something that never even was? Another silly dream, an old dream, one you had always known would never be fulfilled. No daughter of a High Lord could ever wed the second son of a landed knight. You had longed all the same and had you been stronger, you would have kept your distance and not made him a friend. It was selfish. Cruel.

Shaking your head, you willed a smile to your lips. "Do you still have that stallion?"

Clegane kept his silence, nodding.

Steering your steps to the hitching posts at the edge of camp there it was. The black destrier had been tied far away from the others, nibbling away at the grass. If Clegane had told you that he had found Stranger at one of the gates to the Seven Hells, you would have been inclined to believe him. The horse perked up, hooves stomping as it caught the scent of its master.

"Looks a bit slow," you said and the smile required less will to keep as Clegane cocked his brow.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, the sand steed nimble between your legs, taking to the forest path like a flow of silk. Behind, thunder rolled, the Hound appearing by the last bend as you took to the next. Right. Left. Right. You urged the mare on as the path began to straighten.

You could have gone on forever. Ride until the sea greeted you, to feel truly alive for just a bit longer... Your mount came to a halt. Trees gave way to a clearing and patches of forget-me-knots dotted the grass. The quiet peace abruptly ended as the Hound joined your side, the plate of his armor clammering and mail chirring.

Leaning in your saddle, a huff left him as you knocked at his steel-clad chest. "Blame the plate, it slows you down."

But there was no quip in return.

You stomached the silence to the edge of the clearing. "You know, I am having this growing suspicion that the only reason my loving sister invited me to King's Landing was to see two people that hate one another more than her and her husband."

But if he didn't want to banter with you, he'd want far less of your complaints. Him, then?

"So sworn sword to our Crown Prince, our future King. Not a poor position," you tried.

"Good gold," he said.

No further attempts were made to break the silence. At least the Hound's stubbornness hadn't changed.

The sound of drums and hollering of men traveled through the forest. Hunting parties had been sent out by King Robert Baratheon to drive the game out from hiding. It felt rude. Disrupting the silence of the forest for the sake of having a boar on a spit.

"Best ride around them," Clegane said.

You allowed him to lead, always taking the fork in the road that drove you further away from the beating of pans and drums.

Being mistaken for a boar would have been preferred.

You heard them before you saw them. Light giggles and laughter. Drunk laughter, one which you recognized far too well. A large tarp had been stretched from tree to tree in one of the clearings. All around, destriers and palfreys stood tied to trees. Chairs and cushions were strewn across the grass.

A woman sat in your husband's lap, her left hand raking through the dark hair. Not that he much cared, eyes fixed on her bare breast. King Robert was not one for being frugal, seating one woman on each leg, his face all but gone in the bosom of the largest. There were more. All tended to.

"Best turn back," the word's left Clegane like a curse.

"Why? I have nothing to be ashamed for," you replied and pressed your heels at the sides of your mount.

Finally, Tybolt took note. There was no surprise in the eyes of your Husband. With a pat on her back, the woman left his lap, and your beloved Lord Husband had at least the decency to pull down his tunic to spare you from the sight of where his breeches pulled taut. Joining you at the edge of the clearing, only glancing to the Hound at your side, his nose scrounging

"You miss me, dear Lady Wife?"

"Where is the hunt taking you?" you asked.

"North it seems."

More had begun to take note of you. More decent men, or at least those still pretending, drifted away from the women in their arms. King Robert had yet lifted his head, too busy in his exploration. A staleness began to grow on your tongue.

You looked down at your husband, his hand had found your thigh, stroking as if any touch of his was soothing.

"Then I wish you good fortune, Lord Husband, but my venture takes me south."

Another voice rang, "I fear our company is my work, Lady y/n."

Lord Renly had made his way through the crowd, the only man there yet fully dressed.

"Do not bother yourself with making some excuse, Lord Renly. My Lord Husband would not," you replied cooly and returned your attention to Tybolt. "May at least your hunt be fruitful, my love."

The hunter's camp had long gone, sooner or later you would need to turn around, but there was always an excuse. An oak ahead you needed to see up close, a farm to stop and water the horses, and orchards rich in fruit so ripe it made the air sweet.

Clegane's snort made you jolt, for hours he had only been a shadow, "Wed to a fool."

You glanced over your shoulder, his jaw clenched and brow low but the grey eyes did not meet yours.

"Then I would rather hear about the man that is not," you said, pulling at the reigns so he could join at your side. "Go on ... you could at least look at me."

He heeded your wish, the eyes so fierce it even made you shrink in the saddle. "I'm a sworn sword, not a mummer," he muttered.

Fine, you could pry as long as he answered.

"Have you wed?" you tried, making a chuckle leave him. "It is a serious question."

"Not been bothered by Lady Tanda Stokeworth and she's invited all but smallfolk to try and wed her daughter."

"Then we are both cursed with the company of fools," you said. "Don't dare say I am like them."

"Few are."

"I wouldn't say that. You are a rarer breed," you replied. "Honest."

"Turned liar?" he asked, but there was a strangeness to his voice you couldn't place.

"I lie anytime I greet my Lord Husband and don't kick out his teeth. All he and his brothers care about is having songs made after them," you laughed. "Gods, if I had your strength I doubt I would be as kind as you."

Rubbing your face, you tried to rid the anger but it only made you chuckle again, "I think my sister is plotting to kill my husband. She was rather unimpressed by the dinner last night."

"Think I'll weep for the bugger's death?" Clegane replied.

"I would only be expected to wed his brother."

"Another fool?"

"Less so, but it would not matter," you said. "No man can will himself into becoming another."

Your mount whinnied out as the Hound pulled Stranger to the front, blocking your path ahead. "Clegane?"

He swung off the back of his horse and walked up to the side of your sand steed. Clegane held his hand up to you and you felt it now, the tension you had kept back. It washed over you, filling you up, and for a brief moment, tears pushed.

"Wait," you piped but it was your hand that was drifting to his, it was you that had hinted. That had laid the crumbs.

"I've bloody waited," Clegane spat, his hand catching yours, ready to pull you down. "And for what? Content withering away in that fucking castle? One thing if it pleased you - if he pleased you - could have waited a long time then. So go on, tell me you're pleased y/n. Tell me those smiles of yours are true. Tell me."

"You're not being fair," but those words weren't for him.

"Not fair?" he repeated, making the burnt side of his face twitch. "Think the world some just place? Bugger that. Bugger them. Take what you bloody well please."

But you didn't want to be like them, like the man you wed or that of your sister. How many handmaidens hadn't you sent away? A lucky few had loved your Lord Husband and you were nothing more than a cold shrew of a wife in their eyes, and there were those who had done their duty. Some had come to you before anything had happened, who gladly took service in another house. All in all, why your husband found comfort in them did not matter. He tossed them all aside, you never needed to press much. Clegane... Sandor wasn't that. You couldn't make him into that.

"If this... if we are found it will not be my head that is taken," you pleaded.

"Could die for worse," his attempt at comfort made a pained sigh leave you.

How utterly typical him, not even now he cooed some lie. Sold you some dream.

"Your life is not a price I am willing to pay," you said, your throat tightening. "A Lannister always pays their debt, to others that might be a brag but to us, it is a reminder. We do not tally up debts we cannot return."

"You'd be more than enough."

Around you rose trees of apples and pears, and not far from the orchard the forest emerged like a green wall. Anyone could be there. A guard, a servant that had wandered.

You squeezed his hand but he'd not feel it through the plate. "Not here. If you are to risk your head on my account, I'll certainly not make it easy for them to claim it."

The royal procession was like a snake, slithering its way back from the Kingswood. It had been a morning of luck, Cersei didn't offer you stay at the wheelhouse and made no protest when you requested for Sandor Clegane to be your sworn sword for the remainder of your stay. You had both waited for so long, but the last two days had been torture.

No one had questioned why the Hound hadn't worn his armor that morn or why you had donned your simplest dress. One in which only a single lace needed to be undone to make the cloth part.

The cart was small, and the screens had been pulled up to block the windows, but the sounds from outside seeped in. The talk, the laughter. Your heart raced as a curse left Sandor's lips. Keeping at his tip, your tongue swirled around it, making the legs around you tense. You kept at it, kissing along his length until his eyes met yours. Burning. The hands, gripping the sides of the seat, tightened as you allowed more of him into your mouth.

You heard Tybolt call out to one of his riders. Your Lord Husband, just outside the walls of your cart... the throb in your lower had been there since the orchard, but now it steered you. Made your hand drift up and close around Sandor's cock.

"Come here," he grunted, you bit your lip so as not to giggle when he lifted you up, seating you in his lap.

Your breath turned sharp as his hand found you, but Sandor didn't stay long.

"Never had a woman in heat," he whispered, his hand in full view of you both, the fingers glistening.

Rolling your hips, you felt him graze against you. It wasn't pretty, and you had too little patience for modesty. Grinding your hips, until his cock found you, his tip catching, and Sandor buried his grunt against your shoulder as you jerked down.

"Quiet," he hissed, the wood creaking around him as you did it a second time.

"The whisper in his ear made the whole body beneath you turn as rigid as stone. "Fuck me."

The cart shook, and one of the horses whinnied out. A cry left your lips as Clegane drove deep inside. His arms locked around your waist to keep you from falling off.

"My lady, is everything alright? The road ahead is quite rough," the voice of Tybolt could have made your heart stop.

He was speaking to you. Speaking while the one you have been dreaming of all these years filled you up in a way he'd never be able.

"Yes, no need to worry. I was only startled," you replied.

Gods, you were alive. This thrill, wasn't it wrong? Sandor's hips began to move and you saw it in his eyes too. Just as you knew something else to be true. You were his now. Fully his. Sandor's hands hooked onto your legs, spreading them so he could see all of you as he continued to slowly thrust in and out. Was Tybolt still on the other side of the screen?

"Your hunt? Was it as fruitful as you wish, Lord Husband?" you asked.

"It was, the King wishes to see the Crakehall lands. Though I believe he does not want too many lions present for the hunt," while Tybolt spoke you pulled Sandor to you, his lips locking with yours and you spared no time making your kiss deepen. "You made the lords present nervous when you rode up to us in the forest, but I told them of your agreeableness. They were quite impressed."

He truly was a fool. Since when was not caring a sign of devotion? You stifled the moan as Sandor's head lowered, his mouth catching the peak of your left breast. Sucking until the nipple was hard and aching against his tongue.

"What preparations would we need for a royal hunt?" you asked, struggling to keep your voice steady.

And so Tybolt Crakehall talked. He talked while Sandor's mouth tended your right breast just the same. Talked while you rested against your seat and suffocated the moans against the cushions while the Hound lived true to his name.

The smell of sewage was enough to tell that King's Landing was near. Your dress retied, and thrice you had reexamined Sandor's clothes for signs of what you had done.

The cart came to a halt, and the Hound opened the door. Helping you outside into the blinding light.

"A comfortable ride, my lady?" Tybolt asked and if it wasn't for his usual routine of being extra polite when caught with a women you would have thought the man knew.

You patted the side of his arm, smiling. "Truly," you replied, placing a light kiss on his cheek before walking towards the rest of your family.

The Hound followed you, his rasp low, "How loving of you."

You couldn't turn back, couldn't take his hand, or kiss him to show the difference.

Keeping your face still as if the two of you were talking of the most mundane things you answered him, "If you offer farewell kisses with me still on your lips, I wouldn't complain."

Thanks for reading!

#sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #game of thrones

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allegrabanner · 4 years ago

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Character study of Neri and Áima, pre canon

#aima cotw #neri cotw #cotw #children of the whales #kujira no kora #kujira no kora wa sajou ni utau #knkwsnu #falaina #mud whale #nous #ao3 link #ao3 #fanfiction

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piece-of-cheese · 1 month ago

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Chapter three of the Reverse AU is done.

It turned out a bit longer than I thought it would be.

#cotw #children of the whales #kujira no kora wa sajou ni utau #cotw fanfiction

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fridaybyday · 7 years ago

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Okay, so the OVAs that are planned to ship with the Blu-ray/DVD boxes are apparently an alternate universe school comedy.

Source

#children of the whales #kujira no kora wa sajou ni utau #kujisuna #also they're advertising it as a au where no one dies #they're writing the fanfiction for us

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mostly-mundane-atla · 4 years ago

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Hi, I’m writing a fanfiction and from your posts on marriage it’s clear that Yue might actually have a lot of choices and agency for marriage specifically but I was wondering how much power does a wife have? I mean this in two ways, how much power does she have in the family and how much would a leader’s wife have in a community? Like, as wife of the chief (or daughter of the chief) would she ever make decisions for the community/lead or is it more an advisor thing or none of the above?

This is exactly my shit omg

So, a lot of people will say that among the Inuit, men dominate. This is not exactly true, and for the Inupiat specifically, it's been said that these preconceptions of men dominating or being seen as inherently superior or more valued are unfounded and based in misunderstandings and stereotypes. Men go out and bring food home to share with the village, but they understood that they would be foolish to think their wives had nothing to do with their success. Who was making their clothes and keeping them warm with mending so they could go out and bring home food? Who gave them a warm meal before? Whose forethought gave them peace of mind enough to sleep? Husbands and wives were interdependent and respected that. It's not a case of "yeah men are more valued, but women do the important work" but rather men and women both acknowledged that they each contributed things of equal importance. A wife wasn't obedient, she served her husband as her husband served her. The dynamic was built on trust and reciprocity.

There's also some stuff to be said about sexuality, because that's a big part in the perception of marriage and gender roles. The long periods of breastfeeding required to nourish children under the age of six years in such a harsh environment acted as a natural contraceptive. This gave women (and especially wives) a bit more wiggle room than there was to be found in cultures where contraceptives were tabooed. Sex wasn't something that had to be kept in a marriage. It wasn't something you were supposed to prioritize, but it wasn't something you had to save either. It was understood that most liked it because it felt good. There was no virginity requirement for marrying, and simply wanting or being curious about it was not considered morally wrong. Extramarital affairs were only looked down upon if there was dishonesty involved. Therefore, the whole concept of a husband's right to his wife? Not a thing among us. If any man wanted to sleep with any woman, she said yes or she said no and not always with words. (A lot of our communication is nonverbal, due to what could be described as a shy demeanor.) If she said no, maybe she'll change her mind, but a no for now is still a no, and the man in question was expected to respect that, and vice versa.

Men were often away tracking, hunting, whaling, doing what it took to bring the food in while women typically kept up the other duties. These were often outside the home in the warmer months, things like food prep and clothing and childcare, in social settings. The husband and father was given special consideration, as his work was more physically demanding, and the wife and mother would keep a store of food specifically for him that neither she nor the children they had would take from. In fact, the planning of food being stored, prepared, and distributed within the household was the wife/mother's responsibility. Such women, even those with arrogant or unthoughtful husbands, being smart with food can save entire villages from starvation. One story where this happens has the woman's husband fall to his knees and kiss her hands, full of both gratitude that she was among them and pride that someone like her chose to marry him.

This sort of power the women had over food manifested even in a young man's rite of passage. The first animal a boy ever successfully hunted was to be gifted to his mother or aunt. This first catch was typically something small like a bird or rabbit that the matriarch in question would make into a soup that could feed the whole family. And though it's true that men brought in the big game, women also provided through trapping, fishing, and bird hunting.

Due to men specializing in work that required long hours of attentive silence away from home, the more social aspects were handled by women. If you were arranged to be married to someone, it was more likely a discussion between your and your betrothed's mothers rather than fathers. This may have been why a young man who had never been married before needed to be deemed ready by his mother or other family member, while a young woman who had never been married before was trusted to know for herself.

So for the record: wives in general

-could have relationships with men who weren't their husbands

-didn't owe their husbands sex just because they were married

-had complete control over food distribution within the household, regardless of who brought it home

-were more involved with social things, like rites of passage and marriage arrangements.

Now when it comes to the Umialik, his wife (or "main wife" as it must be remembered: we were not a strictly monogamous people before the Christians showed up and decided they knew better than us) could lead in his name, but there's something that should be cleared up. The writers decided that it best suited the universe they created and the story they wanted to tell to treat the chief of the Northern Water Tribe as a monarch. This is not reflective of the way an Inupiaq Umialik was treated. While the image one might have based on Chief Arnook is one of higher quality clothes and a big beautiful house and delegating the grunt work to his subordinates, among the Inupiaq, leading the people meant putting more work into it. It was less about power and more about responsibility, and this responsibility was shared with his wife.

Among the Umialik's wife's responsibilities were sewing warm clothes for the whalers (she could recruit women of the village to help her), distributing food at a potlatch, and some important ceremonial roles to do with the whaling season. Like her husband, she was expected to remain chaste just before and during the whaling season. She was also expected to remain in the home while the whalers were away (a sort of pact with the whale, if that makes any sense), and when the whale was brought home, as with any other marine mammal catch, she was the one to pour water down its throat so it wouldn't die thirsty.

An Umialik likely did seek his wife's councel, but that would be true of any husband. Only an idiot would treat his wife like she has nothing of value to offer and a man ought to be humble enough to listen if he wants to marry. The Umialik was the man with the biggest family, likely because they would support his claim and it was hard to defy someone so connected to the village, but another reason could be that, with the largest family, he'd likely be exposed to the most states a person can find themself in, granting him more experience. As mentioned before, women were more in-tune with the social aspects than men usually were, so any wife but especially that of the Umialik would have an important perspective that her husband might not.

As for the Umialik's children in general, primogeniture was not the hard and fast rule among Inupiat as it wass with many cultures we're used to. An Umialik's daughter had no more rights than the average woman and his son had no more rights than the average man. They might find themselves on the receiving end of exceptional kindness to win their father's favor, but there was no guarantee either would inherit

#response #eskimo on main #i had to connect a lot of dots for this one so I hope you liked it

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stockholmdolly · 3 years ago

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EASY PREY (BEWARE OF THE LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD) 10

Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x reader

Warnings: swearing. mentions of vomit and a picture of it, too hahaha

Word count: 2,367

Author’s note: Hello fanfiction world, it is me! Stockholm Dolly. Chapter 10, She’s ready and playing her part. This is a filler chapter. Happy reading...😈

CHAPTER 10/26 DAY 32 IN CAPTIVITY

These blank days, of nothing and empty skies Behold, closer, beyond the void A comfort comes When everything goes mercifully white –S. Kirk

Two days post Kitchen People. Two days post ditch. And all I wanted was a bath. A nice lavender-salt bath, the kind where the water encases me in a hot quicksand. The kind I’d take in Mother’s custom jet, extra-deep tub, with a view of the television she had mounted in her female-only, white marble bathroom. The kind where when my skin got too wrinkly and my core too heated, I’d slosh onto her fluffy, white bathmat, cocoon into her thick white robe from the Ritz, and enter her adjoining walk-in closet to parade naked on a fictitious runway in her Jimmy Choos, her Manolos, and her strappy Valentinos, the pair with the crystals. Wishing for this white comfort, I looked around my dusty, brown jail cell and at my grimy skin and wished for the end. Plus, I was pretty exhausted from the double acting load I’d taken on since Day 30. I had started to perform amazing monologues of wailing fits, adding a chorus of incoherent pleas for the weak-ego’d Steve to free me—and my baby.

He needed to feel powerful.

I gave him what he needed so he’d stick safely to our practiced routine.

And although I craved a bath like a lawyer craves coffee, I wasn’t about to deviate from practice and interrupt our choreographed days with any new requests. I could have used the comforter as a cloth, dipping a corner into my cups of water so as to sponge bathe some critical body parts, but I’d wrestle a viper before I’d waste a single drop of liquid. I’d never squander an asset.

After a lunch of shepherd’s pie on Day 32, I waited for him to collect my tray. I stood and shook, repulsed with my own body, the film on my legs, the grease in my hair. My efforts to cloth wash myself with a dirty, dirty washcloth in the bathroom each day, really were not good enough—frankly, given how used that cloth was, I think I made matters worse.

Day 32 blossomed warm under the brightness of the sun against the cloudless sky. My room, with the pine-lined walls, became a sauna, even hotter than the days when the Kitchen People came and their scents and oven steam rose like fire smoke into my cell.

Here came the rattle of the floor, announcing psycho on his way to snatch my empty tray. I sat on the bed, counting the number of pine boards from my feet to the door and from there, crawled my eyes up the white plaster wall and counted the cracks that veined out from the doorway. I already knew the answers, but I counted anyway, as I always did, as a way to memorize every pattern everywhere in every one of those days: 12 boards of varying width; 14 cracks, including the small tributaries.

Keys clanged against the metal outside my door, and I toggled my head in boredom at this whole routine. Sniffing the thick vapor of unmasked sweat from my armpits, I fought back exhaling in disgust. I sat up straighter when at last he opened the door and stepped to his regular spot on Floorboard #3.

- Give me your tray. Bathroom?

- Yes, please.

- Hurry up then. I haven’t got all day.

You haven’t got all day? What the hell do you do all day? Oh yeah, playing hero and dad of the year, with kidnapped babies.

But I didn’t shoot any smart looks, no evil eye, like I might have before. I lowered my gaze, handed forth the tray gingerly, and squirmed, nervously, to the bathroom, as he moved to block the stairwell down, as he always did.

Inside the bathroom, leaning against the door, I stopped to marvel at how big I’d become. Babies moved within, but slow, like an unhurried whale breaching the ocean with his hump. At full size then, my children folded onto themselves in his cramped quarters. Although, I don’t know how they could have been cramped: my torso was as large as a Weber barbecue.

I pat the babies and scanned the room. I haven’t described the bathroom yet, have I? It must have been a former closet, since the square footage matched, well, a large closet: a wedge of space, crammed within an eave. The ceiling slanted over a claw-foot tub that took up nearly the entire floor space. You had to shimmy sideways past the tub and sit perfectly straight to use the white toilet. Sitting so, you might pontificate life by resting your bent elbow on the white pedestal sink beside the toilet. A cheap square of mirror hung slightly crooked, literally glued to the wall above. Crammed between toilet and sink was a one-foot-high, white trashcan, in which were two white plastic bags: the active one for trash, and one under the one in use. I had left both bags in place, for I hadn’t come up with a use for them. They were those flimsy, annoying things they give you at the grocery store. The variety in which the bagboy inexplicably places one item per bag: ketchup bottle in one, milk in another, bread in another, and so on. You end up with fifty million bags. I hate these bags. I really, really hate these bags.

But, I digress.

The bathroom floor was made out of the same pine boards as in my bedroom. I’d scanned this white room so many times for assets, but everything visible was either bolted or glued in place or not terribly useful. I might carry the trashcan, but what was I going to do with a tiny wastebasket? The dirty washcloth on the sink was just a 6” × 6” piece of filth. Beyond these items, the bathroom had been cleared of any regular items that might have been assets. No evident cleaning chemicals, no nail clippers, no tweezers, hell, even floss would have been a great weapon.

Despite my acceptance that the bathroom was void of any useful items, after clicking the door shut, I scoured the small space once again and again found nothing. I shimmied sideways to the toilet—and, if you really must know, emptied my bladder. My babies belly touched the rounded rim of the bathtub, and my left elbow rested upon the sink. When complete with my afternoon relief, I stood and bent to place my face under the sink faucet to swallow as much water as my dry mouth could take. With the skanked washcloth I’d used for weeks, I quickly wiped my pits and elsewhere.

I twirled on my feet as I worked, ogling the tub with an animalistic desire. Oh, but to twist the “hot” knob and slip in, soak in heated liquid, and burn the stench from my body. I placed my left foot on the toilet seat, balancing on my right, and stretched to scratch my hairy leg, struggling with my girth in the packed quarters to reach the area above my ankle.

In this struggle, when my head was cocked downwards and sideways just so, I noticed something that had been waiting for me all along. So hidden, so coy. But very much, very literally, under my nose the whole time.

A bottle of bleach.

Right there. A one-gallon bottle. The label was missing, and because it was tucked so tight in the inward groove of the back of the toilet, the bottle was quite camouflaged. And don’t you know, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, when I squatted to extract my new find, sure enough, I found that glorious albino chameleon ¾ full. Sodium Hypochlorite, welcome to the party. Asset #36.

My plan did not require this bonus Asset. Yet, even in these final hours, I thought of a perfect use for Clorox: an extra flourish of pain, something I hadn’t realized I needed until I set eyes on that magnificent white vessel. I allowed a frivolous and unhinged moment of psychosis in thinking I might fall in love with bleach. Perhaps I did dabble in a couple of seconds of insanity when I hugged the plastic body to my engorged breasts and kissed the blue lid.

At the bottom of the trashcan was the extra plastic bag. I grabbed it and placed it in my pants: Plastic Bag, Asset #37.

I replaced the bottle. I wouldn’t be able to extricate the bleach on this trip, but with the whole hot afternoon ahead, I thought I’d map out a plan.

- Get the fuck out, he yelled, while predictably banging his fat fist on the door. The wood bounced. Every time he did this, I feared the antique paneling would crack and cave.

- Yes, Captain. Here I come. Sorry, not feeling well. Which wasn’t true, but, in the quick interim of returning the bottle and watching the door bend to his pounding, I figured out how to safely extract the bottle. I didn’t really need the afternoon to think on a plan.

- So sorry, I’m hurrying, just feeling queasy.

- I don’t give a shit. Get the fuck out.

I opened the door, rounded my shoulders in the posture of the inferior and submissive, and scampered quick to my cell.

He locked me in with his stupid ring of keys.

What are the other keys for? Who cares.

For the next hour, I conjured sick and disgusting visions. I spun myself dizzy, and then quickly stopped to drop on all fours, dipping my head to balance a quick second on the crown of my skull, repeating and repeating. The sickest and most grotesque thought was, of course, the real memory of the girl’s torso in the ditch. So I thought of that. Over and over. Then, I invented a mini-movie of myself licking Steve’s twin’s feet. Sure, Ransom, his feet had to be hairy, so I imagined dragging my tongue through his dirty feet, all while he’d be licking a plate of blood-oozing veal. With this awful imagery firmly in my mind, I spun again, kept licking, kept popping, the veal bloodier each time, feet covered in pus, thicker, embedding in the hair I licked, and twirling, and twirling, and when so dizzy and so disturbed, I jammed my finger down my throat and finally, finally, vomited. It’s harder than you think to make yourself throw up. And it’s not something I’ve done since, nor do I recommend self-purging as an appropriate act for practice. Sometimes, however, these vile acts must be done on a one-time basis for the greater good.

The blob splashed well away from the doorway, exactly where I aimed, and nowhere near where he’d step. I didn’t want him to ever have any hesitations in entering my room and stepping in the exact same footpath he always followed.

Should I sit until dinner with this acidic odor, steaming in this heat? Or, should I call out to him, like I sometimes did when a bathroom emergency seized my physical self. I was sure he went to spend time with his army of kidnapped babies when he wasn’t with me. Perhaps he sat in some room below, I could picture them, playing house with the babies, teaching them all about their parents and “uncles”. Eight out of the twelve times I had banged on the door and requested a special bathroom trip, in-between the regular mealtime bathroom visits, he had barged up the stairs, playing the annoyed prison guard. Thus, his stats on responding were high, eight out of twelve times. And I figured that was because he didn’t want a mess to clean up. So, with the likelihood he’d respond again, and because eight out of twelve times made it safely part of the routine, I chose to call him to my room.

Plus, the awful odor of decay, which seemed accelerated in my fire-pit room, invaded my nose and pierced my brain, and reinforced my decision.

Oh hell no, I’m not smelling this all afternoon.

Rubbing my hands together, I waltzed to the door. I pictured myself a master healer, heating holistic hands to massage broken muscles for an absolute cure. With hot palms, I banged upon the door.

- Excuse me, Captain. Excuse me. I got sick, I yelled.

Sure enough, movement began in some pocket of the building below me. Then a pause, which I presume came because he questioned whether he heard anything.

- Excuse me, I continued to bang and yell. “Sir, I’m sick. I’m so sorry,” I said.

- Mother of all fuck, son of a damn bitch, he shouted, as he stomped up the stairs.

I backed away from the door, and in he came.

- Holy What, he said, pinching his nose, while finding the source on the floor.

- I’ll clean it, sir. I’m so sorry. Please, please. I saw some bleach in the bathroom. Can I use it? Should I use it? I fell to his feet, begging him, “I’m so sorry.”

Still squirming in the smell, he backed up, took his position at the top of the stairs to indicate I should enter the bathroom, and said, “Well, go on. Clean this shit up. And hurry the fuck up.”

Still on hands and knees, I crawled to the bathroom, grabbed the trashcan, the washcloth, the bleach, and crawled back. Quickly, I scooped the mess into the trash and poured two caps of cleaning chemical on the washcloth to rub the boards. Setting the bottle aside after scrubbing the spot, I took up the trash and cloth, returned to the bathroom, dumped everything in the toilet, rinsed the trashcan in the tub, wrung the cloth under running water, and returned to my room.

- Thank you, Captain. I’m so sorry.

- Don’t fucking puke again. I’m spending time with my kids, he said, while once again locking my door.

So that’s what you do all day. How predictable.

I guess we’re back to a safe routine. All snug and comfy, aren’t we now?

Bleach, Asset #36. Right on time. Tomorrow we go.

Taglist: @cjand10

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