#gratuitous use of hamlet

[ornii]

I don't know if you have a romance planned for My Bitter Half but I really hope it's Enid.

Hear me out: Y/N Addams is crushing hardcore in Enid but, like his sister, does not really speak from his mind or his heart. So all he can do is be happy as Enid chases after Ajax even though it's painful to paint a smile on his face because she's his best friend and he has to he happy for her regardless of how he feels.

I did plan on Enid ending up being the hall of sunshine in (Y/n)’s dark world, but yes much like his sister his ability to speak his feelings is, lacking.

My Better Bitter half, Part 4

“So, you two have aspirations correct? An author? And actor?” She says, Wednesdays novel seems to be fast growing, and (Y/n)‘a infamous career of acting has head him to be a prodigy of the stage.

“I understand you've written three novels about a teen girl detective, Viper De La Muerte.” Kinbott says

“Can you tell me about her?”

“Viper is smart, perceptive, chronically misunderstood.” Wednesday said.

“Any luck getting your work published?”

“Editors are short-sighted, fear-based life forms. One once described my writing as gratuitously morbid, and suggested I seek psychiatric help.”

“Hmm.” Kinbott notes the info and jots it down.

“Ironic, isn't it?” You say.

“How did you take that?” Kinbott said.

“I sent her a "thank you." I've always been open to constructive criticism.” Wednesday said, only god knows what fate had ended for the citric.

“I'm glad to hear that.” Kinbott said, “And (Y/n), your performance as the star actor of “Hamlet” and “Death of a Salesman.” Were amazingly well received.” Kinbott says, “But your… Performances We’re always a bit, overwhelming in energy.”

“I see that as an absolute win.” You say.

“Good Because I was sent manuscripts and videos as part of both of your psych evaluations.

The relationship I found most intriguing was that of Viper and her Brother, Asriel.” Kinbott Said, you slowly turn to Wednesday, who’s eyes quickly divert from your gaze. “And (Y/n), I watched a Stellar performance of yours in “The Piano Lesson.” Which tells the story of a Brother trying to convince his sister of selling a piano, and it seems your performance was, very impactful.” She says, the siblings grow uncomfortably quiet.

“Why don't we dig into that? Part of this journey requires us going to uncomfortable places emotionally.”

“I don't travel well.” Wednesday begins.

“I get car sick.” You say.

“Would you mind if I use the powder room first?” Wednesday says, and Kinbott nods, Wednesday leaves to the room and he and the therapist are alone.

“Now, (Y/n), I noticed that the play was heavily impacted by your performance. Perhaps you and Boy Willie have more in common?”

“He’s a character I play, nothing more.”

“Are you sure? You both might be older brothers trying to create a better future for your siblings, but fail short, and feel that you have to be perfect in every way, to feel that you’re worthy to be called a “Brother.” She says, (Y/n) stares coldly at her, trying not to show any emotion. He quickly stands up.

“A question, does that Bathroom have a window?” He asks.

“Yes?” Kinbott replies and (Y/n) growls a bit, he storms over to the door and grabs the handle.

“Uh.. (Y/n), your sister is—“

“No, she isn’t.” (Y/n) opens the door to show Kinbott that his sister has escaped, (Y/n) storms off to the door without another word. Exiting the building (Y/n)’s eyes search like an owl, his head twists around to search. The only thing he notices was a coffee place, and saw a shadowy figure enter the facility.

“You little—“ (Y/n) angrily walks over, after sharply bursting into the cafe his eyes quickly lock into his sister, who sits calmly at a booth. The two stare each other down and he slowly slithers over and sits across from her. They say absolutely nothing to each other for what seems to be an eternity.

“(Y/n)—“

“Silence.” He said, “i told you what I said at the entrance, your attempts to escape end here. If I have to watch you while you sleep so be it, but you will not step out of this school.”

“As amusing as it would be for you to try and stop me, I have more important things to do than Argue with an impudent child. It is my decision that you cannot make for me.”

The tension between the two grows more and more intense.

“Take one step out of Nevermore and I will Drag you back.”

“I’d loathe to see you try.”

The two are ready to burn Jericho to the ground in their squabble, luckily a trio of teenagers, dressed as pilgrims decide to draw the ire of the twins.

“Hey, boys, check it out.” One says, they finish their argument and turn to the three.

“What's a pair of Nevermore freaks doing out in the wild?” One says, “ This is our booth.” Another chimes in, rather take them seriously the duo do what they do best.

“Why are you dressed like religious fanatics?” Wednesday asks.

“We're pilgrims.”

“Same thing, murderous crusaders.” You say and Wednesday chimes in.

“Potato, Po-ta-to.” She says.

“We work at Pilgrim World.” One boy says. Annoyed.

“It takes a special kind of stupid to devote an entire theme park to zealots responsible for mass genocide.” Wednesday hardly jabs at them.

“My dad owns Pilgrim World.” One says.

“Wow. Making a theme part based off of Genocidal egomaniacs, that’s just stupid.” You say.,

“Are you calling is stupid?” One said.

“We’re you Not here for the first part of this conversation?” You respond. The trio slowly turn to you and you rise out of your booth.

“So tell me, freak... your sister ever been with a normie? Or is she all yours like all weirdos?” They laugh and (Y/n) folds his arms.

“Sorry i don’t participate in the same chromosome adding rituals that your parents did. Not my forte.” (Y/n) responds, and one boy has finally had enough. He swings with a punch which was caught effortlessly by (Y/n), who twists his arms. He kicks another halfway across the room. He slides along the ground and he hurls the other away. One leaps and puts him in the choke hold, (Y/n) hits him with an elbow straight im the rib cage, he begins to elbow him over and over, he lurches over, gasping for air and (Y/n) calmly slams his head into the table where Wednesday said, slightly enjoying the carnage. The three lie on the ground, spiraled.

“Good Talk everyone.” You say and sit back down across from Wednesday. “As I was saying, I will drag you back to Nevermore if you won’t go willingly.” (Y/n) says, before the doors open and is greeted by a middle aged man, the sheriff of these parts possibly.

“Dad!” The barista working there rushes over, and the sheriff turns to him.

“Tyler, the hell's going on in here?”

“They were harassing a customer, and he put them in their place.” Tyler says.

“This scrawny thing took down three boys?” The sheriff said.

“I don’t need help.” You say as you turn to The sheriff, suddenly Weems enters as well, seeing the mess.

“Apologies, Sheriff. These two slipped away from me.

Come on, Addams, time to go.” She says and the twins rise to leave.

“Wait a minute, hang on. You're both Addams? Don't tell me Gomez Addams is your father? That man belongs behind bars for murder. Guessin' the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I'm gonna keep my eye on you two.” He says, the twins seem unbothered by this and leave with Weems. The drive back to Nevermore was a bit, colder.

“Your first day and you're already on Sheriff Galpin's radar. Wish I could say I was surprised.” Weems says.

“What did he mean about my father?” Wednesday asks.

“A Murderer, dear sister. It seems Nevermore has more hidden, wouldn’t you agree Principal Weems?” You say, and she seemingly acts oblivious.

“I have no idea, but a word of advice. Stop making enemies and start making a few friends. You're going to need them.” Weems said, their drive was halted by an accident further up, a crashed truck.

“Looks like an accident. I hope the driver's okay.” Weems said, peering further ahead, but an ominous energy radiates though the truck.

“He's dead. Broke his neck.” Wednesday said, almost sure of it, they finally drive by, seeing how scarily right she was. (Y/n) turned to his sister.

“How did you know? It wasn’t a lucky guess.” You say, and Wednesday simply turns her head back forward.

“There is Something i must Tell you, Brother.”

[aaronstveit]

ugh i love deep end she really is That Fic (in my head). she's got everything like actually. complete mess enjolras. almost functional grantaire. marius bisexual awakening when he realizes he's attracted to women. gratuitous depictions of grief. law student cosette. grantaire & marius friendship b-plot. childhood trauma. karaoke. extremely self-indulgent discussions of hamlet and the first saw movie. Enjolras Was a Charming Young Man Who Was Capable of Being Terrible and boy oh boy is he terrible tonight. this fic even has a MOTIF like when i actually get around to writing this it's over for us all......

[subzeroparade]

Hey hey I just read through Litanies, which was bloody phenomenal by the by, and had a lore ask I was wondering about. Since in your headcanon the Healing Church begins to introduce blood healing after the events of the fishing hamlet, thus inducing all the fun blood shenaniganery in Yharnam such would entail, would you then theorise that Cainhurst would only have gotten their 'cursed' blood after the fact? Or would it be a case of a rogue prospector making off with forbidden blood in the early days of Byrgenwerth? I'm only speculating, largely due to the description of the Rakuyo implying that the use of blood weapons within Cainhurst predates Maria, alongside the fact that if we take her boss fight to be Maria "in her prime," inferring that she was also trained in utilising her blood. I'm genuinely curious as to your thoughts on the matter, as I'm currently rethinking my own interpretations and thoughts on the lore of Bloodborne due to both your fic and posts here!

Thank you, glad you enjoyed Litanies! I had a great time writing it. 

Tbh this is something I’m thinking about now because I’m writing a Healing Church-era work that touches on the Executioner’s attack on Cainhurst, so in all likelihood this will eventually make its way into a fic. The thing with my writing - which affects my interpretation of lore - is this: I don’t get stuck on particular footnotes or sometimes contradictory points if I want to tell a story. I don’t actively try to break canon, but I always prioritise storytelling over lore. I do my homework, but the last thing I want is for my storytelling to unravel into some kind of gratuitous lore dump without any kind of compelling interpretation, or risk letting the minutiae of lore dictate how well I can weave a narrative (I am also a trained historian, so I can say that some of the hyperspecific lore interpretations I’ve heard make me both laugh and cringe, so I’d rather let actual human history guide some of my lore interpretations, rather than the description of one item. But that’s just me).  

For Cainhurst specifically, I am sticking with the idea that the so-called massacre ordered by the Healing Church and carried out by the Executioners happens early in Church history, as a result of the blood ~somehow~ making its way there (via a Byrgenwerth scholar if you are so inclined to take the game at face value, but unreliable sources are one of the fun parts of historical analysis). But that animosity towards Cainhurst is longstanding - as in, 1000-year++ English/French style skirmishing (my interpretation of Cainhurst is heavily inspired by the Norman Conquest). 

So for my own narrative purposes, Cainhurst acquires the blood early in the Church timeline (post Fishing Hamlet). But the hatred of Cainhurst folk, the vileness of their blood, so to speak, is a longstanding sentiment of Yharnamites - for outsiders, and especially for a once-powerful nation like Cainhurst who may claim Pthumerian ancestry (and thus potent blood in the eyes of the Great Ones) and have always been a threat to Yharnam’s independence. Vileblood here is just another way for Yharnamites to be aggressively xenophobic to outsiders (in the same way that Central/Northern Europeans, for example, have longstanding hatred of Southern Europeans trying to establish themselves in their countries, and see them as lesser or a threat). The thing that sets off the actual massacre is Cainhurst’s acquisition of the Healing Blood, thus justifying the Church’s holy war/crusade (led by Logarius and the Executioners, who we know are religious fanatics). 

Don’t know if that answered your question, but again, I’m pretty liberal with my interpretations and I’m more interested in the Healing Church’s hold on Yharnamite society, their religious propaganda, and how their political need for a scapegoat (some kind of Other) to blame is what eventually tipped the scales into modern open conflict with Cainhurst. Because this is literally out of a history textbook.  TLDR thanks for your patronage, here is an old Maria sketch -

[voiceless-terror]

Perchance to Dream

@aspecarchivesweek Day Three: Drinks

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Jon comes out to Martin. Twice.

(Ft. Kiss-Averse Jonathan Sims and Hamlet References)

__________

“Ugh, no thank you.”

Martin pauses. Sasha and Tim titter behind their hands.

And Jon, well. He’s got a look of vehement disgust written across his features, not unlike when he’s laying into what he claims is a fabricated statement. Martin can feel his face turning red at the words.

Getting Jon to come out for drinks had been the hard part. It’s one month into his tenure as Head Archivist, and everyone’s starting to feel the scope of the task ahead of them. Tim thought a ‘monthiversary’ drink was in order, and the only way to get Jon to come out was to threaten him with some sort of ill begotten information, the likes of which Martin couldn’t hear behind the closed door. Ten minutes later, Jon emerged, looking grumpier than usual (and very dashing) with a scarf around his neck. And now he sat next to him in the cozy pub booth, Martin trying very hard to remain stock-still because Jon’s leaning into his side. Perhaps he’s cold? Either way, Martin isn’t going to discourage it. 

But then he’d had a few drinks and they all loosened up; even Jon’s laugh came easier. And Martin- well, Martin’s opening up a bit more than usual, chattering about his time in the library and bolstered by the smiles he receives in turn. Tim changed track to the personal, regaling them with his latest outdoor adventure while Sasha and Jon gave witty, sarcastic commentary. But then Tim directed the conversation towards him, and they seemed relatively interested in his poetry. He even felt comfortable enough to rattle out a few lines from his phone in a desperate hope to impress, and he stupidly chose one that referenced ‘lips like a rosebud’ and Jon reacts like he’s read a particularly saucy bit of a smut novel aloud. How embarrassing. 

“Whew,” Tim whistles lowly, folding his arms behind his neck with an exaggerated wince. “Harsh, boss.”

“No, that’s not it,” Jon says, shaking his head and putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand on Martin’s arm. Putting a hand- “Martin, your poetry is fine, if a bit derivative.” Jon thinks his poetry is fine and he’s got his small, fine-boned hand on Martin’s arm and god, he’s got a poem about that too, somewhere in his phone-

Tim guffaws, slamming a hand on the table and startling Sasha. “What a compliment!”

“It’s just…kissing. Lips. Ugh.” Jon smashes his fork rather violently into a dumpling, sending bits of food flying across the table, one of which hit Tim directly above his eye. “I eat with my mouth.”

“Wise observation.”

“Very astute of you.”

Martin would join in on the banter but Jon’s hand is still on his arm and his warm weight is pressing into his side. Honestly, what’s Jon playing at? He could rip the poetry to shreds in front of him but as long as that hand remains on his arm he’d just sit there, not saying a word. Hell, he’d probably even agree.

“So the bossman doesn’t like kisses,” Tim says, taking an obnoxiously loud sip of whatever fruity beverage he’d decided on. “Is that why you ripped down all of my mistletoe back in research?”

Jon. Mistletoe. Hand still on arm.

“I don’t like any of it,” Jon says, removing his hand from Martin’s arm to make a decisive gesture across the table which nearly sent his drink flying. He instantly misses the pressure but the warmth is still there, burning through his sleeve. Jon looks incredibly drunk, now that Martin’s got a better angle to view his flushed cheeks and bright eyes and lips- “All that touching. I don’t understand why everyone’s so hung up on it. No thank you, not for me.”

A brief flash of understanding lights Sasha’s eyes but Martin’s not in a place to decipher it. He’s not sure if it’s the drink or the Jon-of-it-all that’s impeding him. He’s never seen him so relaxed, so animated about something that’s not work. He can’t even focus on the words coming out of Jon’s mouth at the moment.

But Sasha leans forward- once she’s got an idea in her head, she won’t let go until she’s seen it through. Martin recognizes that look. “You’re asexual, then?”

“Mm,” Jon mumbles, his head tilting back dangerously as he puts on an affected, exaggerated voice. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither.”

And then Martin’s gone, suddenly struck by a vision of teenage Jon, silhouetted on a stage by a dramatic spotlight, reciting Shakespeare like a born thespian- look, Martin despises theater, but even he’s not immune to Hamlet. In a dream world he’d be Ophelia, no, not Ophelia, idiot- maybe he’s a stage hand, or no, he helps Jon with his quick changes, that’s a job, right? So caught up is he in this pseudo-high school fantasy that the words being said don’t actually dawn on him until a full minute later, when Tim’s laughter reaches a crescendo.

“Boss, did you seriously just come out via Shakespeare?”

Jon’s not even denying it, giving a lazy, good-natured smile in response. Fuck. Here he is, having some stupid fantasy over his boss who is very much right next to him and very much not interested. God, is he taking advantage? He jumps to the side, trying desperately to put a few more inches of space between them for Jon’s comfort when that small hand comes back to his arm, the sudden and strong grip stopping him in his tracks. 

“No!” Jon’s voice is low, those dark eyes so intense. Martin can feel his face go scarlet from his gaze alone. “This is nice. I like it.”

Tim and Sasha share an evil little smile and Martin’s out of commission, the night’s revelations and Jon’s insistent snuggling having taken their toll. He couldn’t tell you what happened after that, how many drinks were shared or how he got home. All he remembers is the feel of Jon’s hand on his arm, his insistent closeness, and the sound of his laugh whenever Tim teased him.

The next day Jon comes in late, looking about as bad as the rest of them felt. From the way he interacts with them, it’s likely that he doesn’t even remember last night, what he did or what he said. Martin tries not to let it sting, and goes back to work, knowing there’s a side of Jon that he’ll likely never see again.

__________

“Martin, we have to...talk, if that’s alright.” 

Martin pauses, a lump building in his throat. “Okay.”

He settles in on Daisy’s lumpy couch, trying not to let his apprehension show. It’s been a week since Jon got him out of the Lonely and they’re still adjusting, but Martin likes to think they’re settling into a nice routine. There’s such a natural ease to their domesticity; they had their differences, sure, but he’s never seen the man so soft and unguarded, puttering around the cottage, making sure everything’s nice and comfortable for the two of them. And of course, there’s the bed situation. Only one, like in all the cliché fanfiction Martin had taken to reading back when he lived in the Archives and his biggest problem was worms. Maybe Jon doesn’t want to share anymore? He’s been strangely distant the past day, keeping space between them and hovering about in a nervous manner. He goes back through their interactions, trying to think of what he could’ve done wrong.

Jon sits down next to him, his face showing his own apprehension. “I know we’ve been getting...close, this past week. But if we’re going to ah, have an, er- well, you know, relationship- there’s some things you need to know.” Relationship. Jon thinks they're in a relationship. Martin didn’t want to put a label to it, too afraid it would shatter the fragile trust they built. But to be in a relationship with Jon, well, that’s something he’s always dreamed of, right?

So he relaxes minutely, tries not to show the utter joy he feels at the words. “Alright. What’s up?”

Jon takes a steadying breath, looking so oddly grave that Martin immediately wants to take him into his arms. “I don’t...well, I’m asexual. So I’m not really interested…” he makes a vague gesture down towards Martin’s crotch and then freezes, clearly embarrassed by the crudeness of the action. “I’m not interested in all of...that. Or kissing, for that matter. It’s just a personal boundary for me, if that’s alright.”

Oh. Martin blinks, taking in Jon’s serious countenance and hopeful eyes and while he wants to match it, he can’t control the laughter that bubbles out of his throat. “Oh-oh Jon-”

Jon immediately blanches, his brow furrowing in confusion and probably hurt. “W-What? What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry! Fuck-it’s, it’s not that, that’s fine, it’s just-” Martin tries desperately to keep his laughter under control and fails. Christ, he can’t breathe. “Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither!” 

“Why are you quoting Shakespeare?” Jon’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has.

“Because you did, you daft thing!” Martin’s shoulders shake with the effort of containing himself, and he wipes a tear from his eye. He immediately puts a hand on Jon’s arm, a mirror’s reflection of that night at the bar and yet it’s still his hand that burns. “Jon, it’s fine. I already know. You told us over drinks my first month in the Archives.”

Jon’s face takes on that peculiar look of confusion and concentration that Martin loves, as if he’s searching his mind or maybe even the Eye for information. “I-oh. Oh!” He puts his head in his hands with a groan, ignoring Martin’s comforting pats to the back. “How embarrassing.”

“It was adorable.”

“No it wasn’t,” Jon whines into his hands even as he leans into Martin’s touch.

“It was,” Martin assures him, drawing him close to his side and letting him lean his head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I laughed- you were just so serious, I couldn’t help it-”

“Yes, well,” Jon sighed, settling into his arms, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “It’s fine. As long you’re alright with…”

“More than alright.” It’s Jon, of course it’s alright. Being here with him, in their little shabby oasis- well, it’s more than enough. They sit there in silence for some time, Martin enjoying the closeness of the man he’d fought so hard to protect finally in his arms. He’s starting to think they just might be alright. He smiles to himself, perching his chin on top of Jon’s head.

“To be or not to be-”

“Shut up, Martin.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741983

[thats-entirely-too-much-tuna]

stede bonnet is literally the biggest drama gay of them all. he brought a black turtleneck and the complete works of william shakespeare with him onto his pirate ship. he got stabbed in the gut and the first thing he did when he woke up was go play in the costume room. he could’ve easily staged his death using only the horse-drawn carriage and grand piano but he decided to add a gratuitous leopard attack scene simply for flair. you just know he played hamlet in high school and didn’t shut up about it for years. he was put on this earth to be an ostentatious showboat and we are giving him a standing ovation.

[ao3feed-mash]

checkmate, exeunt, and other useful vocabulary terms

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/bDPCIlt

by jokerswilds

“Do you think he knows he's in a tragedy?”

Hawkeye has a habit of walking into BJ’s classroom mid-rant and expecting him to keep up. BJ got used to it by the second week of September. Now, he doesn’t even look up from the paper he’s grading.

“Who?”

“Hamlet!” Hawkeye scoffs, waving his arms. “Hamlet! Who else?"

-

a beejhawk teacher au

Words: 5899, Chapters: 2/6, Language: English

Fandoms: MASH (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan, Peg Hunnicutt, Radar O'Reilly, Maxwell Klinger

Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, hawk & marg besties, bj & peg fag4dyke coparenting, gratuitous references to hamlet & poetry (hawkeye's an english teacher it's not his fault), B. J. Hunnicutt's "Trapper" John McIntyre Complex, chess lessons as flirtation

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/bDPCIlt

[lcdrarry]

LCDrarry Round-Up Post | Week 4

This is our last round-up post for LCDrarry 2021 ;D You have time to catch up on the works that posted during the week and hopefully leave lovely comments for our creators. Reveals are on 15 June! Wheeeee!

Happy reading, commenting and sharing! ;)

~Your LCDrarry Mods

PS: Please have a look at the author notes and tags on AO3 for additional information and more detailed warnings. Thank you!

PPS: Here are all round-up posts of LCDrarry 2021:

Round-up Post Week #1 

Round-up Post Week #2 

Round-up Post Week #3 

Round-up Post Week #4 (you're here ;))

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Art

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In the Shadow of Your Heart

Prompt: Howl's Moving Castle, 2004, Hayao Miyazaki Prompted by: the artist Author: Anonymous Art Medium: Digital Art Rating: General Warnings: sectumsempra scars, memory loss

Summary: When the recluded ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy finds Harry Potter wandering around the hills, with no memory whatsoever of who he once was, he and Teddy decide to welcome him into their little family.

View "In the Shadow of Your Heart" on AO3.

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Fic

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Sesame Seeds and the Entire Spectrum of Human Emotion

Prompt: "The Proposal", 2009, Anne Fletcher Prompted by: @prolix- Author: Anonymous Word Count: 9,530 words Rating: Mature Warnings: Nudity, Boat Incident, references to past abuse/neglect

Summary: Faced with exile, Draco pretends to be engaged to Harry Potter, who agrees to play along for Narcissa's sake. When they're forced to spend a weekend together celebrating the engagement with the Weasleys, they might try to kill each other, or... they might just fall in love. . Based on the movie The Proposal (2009), though you don't have to have seen the movie to understand the fic!

Read "Sesame Seeds and the Entire Spectrum of Human Emotion" on AO3.

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My Fair Gentleman

Prompt: "My Fair Lady", 1964, George Cukor Prompted by: @ziezie13 Author: Anonymous Word Count: 20,766 words Rating: Teen and up Warnings: light alcohol use and mentions of child neglect by Dursleys

Summary: After an extended stay at Charlie's Dragon Reserve in Romania, Harry returns to London and makes a fool of himself at his first Ministry Gala. Minister Shacklebolt orders Harry to seven months of etiquette lessons with Draco Malfoy. Will Harry pull through and become an expert in PR? Will Draco manage to make over the biggest PR disaster the wizarding world has seen in years? Wouldn't it be loverly?

Read "My Fair Gentleman" on AO3.

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saying yes (instead of no)

Prompt: "Schitt's Creek", 2015, Series Prompted by: the author Author: Anonymous Word Count: 21,022 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: canon typical alcohol and drug use, marijuana use, explicit smut

Summary: “It’s a general store that’s also a very specific store,” Draco grumbled. “Most people won’t realise this, but I want to market Muggle goods to the Wizarding world as well. I want something that will help boost the economy of the Hamlet and Muggles have so many amazing things we don’t have.” . Draco sighed again. “I think it would benefit everyone.” He glared at Emily. “But there’s not a single witch, wizard, or wix who will shop at a place owned by Draco Malfoy.” . “What if it’s owned by Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy?” Potter asked. . “That would be preposterous,” Draco mumbled. “Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy would kill each other before the store opened.” . “What if you didn’t?” Emily asked. Draco opened his mouth to let her know, they would indeed kill each other, but before he could say anything, she continued, “What if it turned into a lovely business?” . “There’s only one way to know,” Potter said. “I really think this is a good idea, Draco."

Read "saying yes (instead of no)" on AO3.

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A First Look Into Resurrecting Mummies With the Aid Of the Chosen One, and Why It Should Be Advised Against (an Essay by Draco Malfoy, Assistant Archaeologist)

Prompt: "The Mummy", 1999, Stephen Sommers Prompted by: the author Author: Anonymous Word Count: 21,948 words Rating: Mature Warnings: minor violence elements

Summary: Draco hopes to find an ancient spell book rumoured to be in Hamunaptra after Astoria found a map to the lost city. If he makes this discovery, maybe the Magical British Museum will finally look at his application, and his annoying colleague will finally leave him alone. It’s a good plan, until Draco is reunited with Harry Potter for the first time in ten years, as the man is about to be hanged.

Read "A First Look Into Resurrecting Mummies With the Aid Of the Chosen One, and Why It Should Be Advised Against (an Essay by Draco Malfoy, Assistant Archaeologist)" on AO3.

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Wicked Game

Prompt: "Jumanji", 1995 or 2017 Prompted by: @MysticKitten42 Author: Anonymous Word Count: 22,044 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: Sexual Content, Implied PTSD

Summary: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy crossed a line during one of their late-night Astronomy Tower Bonding Sessions and neither are sure what that means. Not that they got particularly far, considering they were caught and assigned detention for their antics. And, now, they've been sucked into a boardgame. That's just fantastic...

Read "Wicked Game" on AO3.

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Love in Three Parts

Prompt: "Bridgerton", 2020, Series Prompted by: Anonymous Author: Anonymous Word Count: 24,172 words Rating: Mature Warnings: Canon-typical content

Notes: Thanks so much to my beta, L, for all her help and her encouragement as I wrote this fic. Thanks to the mods for hosting this fest and to the Anonymous prompter who inspired this fic.

Summary: Draco has everything needed to be the diamond of the season. He has the looks, the pedigree, and if he should be short on the money end, well, it isn't up to him to convince anyone they want to marry him. And yet, he finds himself with no prospects and no suitable matches until Harry James Potter, Wizarding Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor, makes his first appearance in proper Wizarding society for the first time in five years. Together, they hatch a plan to secure Draco a husband and keep the debutantes' mothers away from Harry. And if someone should develop feelings along the way, well, the course of true love never did run smooth.

Read "Love in Three Parts" on AO3.

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Outwit, Outlast, Outplay

Prompt: "Survivor", 2000-ongoing, Series Prompted by: @eletriptan Author: Anonymous Word Count: 30,976 words Rating: Mature Warnings: Brief homophobia, mentions of past health issues

Summary: Draco loves Survivor. Loves it. So when his job at the Dept. of Mysteries offers him the opportunity to go on as a contestant, he can't think of anything that could go wrong. He is sorely mistaken, but a little chaos turns out to not be such a bad thing. Featuring gratuitous descriptions of Survivor game-play, really jargon-y magical theory I got way too excited about, and Draco's best friend Isabelle being an absolute QUEEN.

Read "Outwit, Outlast, Outplay" on AO3.

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Advantage Rule

Prompt: "The Queen's Gambit", 2020, Series Prompted by: @prolix- Author: Anonymous Word Count: 42,738 words Rating: Mature Warnings: Character death, Parental neglect, Brief references to eugenics, Sexual content, Mild homophobia, Alcoholism, Drug abuse

Summary: Draco's life has been struggle after struggle. He was exiled as a baby, his mother died, he was forced to live with muggles... Need I go on? Quidditch was supposed to be his escape, but how is he supposed to beat Victor Krum and take the world title if he can't even beat Harry Potter? ~No knowledge of The Queen's Gambit required~

Read "Advantage Rule" on AO3.

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Please help promote the fest by sharing your favourite submissions, so more people can enjoy all the amazing new Drarry works of LCDrarry. Thank you!

Author and artist reveals are on 15 June.

[contraststudies]

“Angel, help me out,” Crowley groaned.

“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale laid down the first edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray he had been re-reading for most of the morning and moved his cup of tea away from where it was balanced precariously on the edge of his desk. He leaned over and plucked the small black book from Crowley’s knee. “Classifications of contracts according to cause,” he read aloud.

“Mm.” Crowley held up three fingers. “Onerous, remunerative, and gratuitous.”

“Explain each and give an example.”

“In onerous contracts, there’s a promise of a service or a thing by one person to another,” Crowley said. “Like when we were still actively abiding by the Arrangement. I did blessings for you, and you did temptations for me.” His lips curved into a smirk. “You tempted for me.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale glared at Crowley. “That was indeed onerous, I suppose.”

“That’s the easy one.” Crowley stretched out on the sofa, looking for all the world like the satisfied snake that he was, basking in the morning sun. “Next is remunerative contracts, where one party rewards a service previously rendered by the other.”

“For example?” Aziraphale prompted.

“I want to say when I blessed Hamlet, but no,” Crowley said thoughtfully. “That was my treat.”

“Yes, you did mention that.” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley gratefully as he scowled. The dear boy could be so ridiculous about his own kindness sometimes. “Give me a different one then.”

“When you, erm.” 

To Aziraphale’s surprise, there was an unmistakable flush creeping up Crowley’s face. “What is it?” 

Crowley faltered, then plunged on. “1967. When you – you brought me the holy water.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “What in the world do you mean by that?”

A deluge of spluttered consonants flooded from Crowley’s lips before he recovered himself. “Well. I got you out of the church, didn’t I? Your books, too. And I drove you back here afterwards.”

“So?” 

“So the holy water was – not to be crass, Aziraphale, I’m just using the language of the law – to reward me for a service I previously rendered for you.”

Oh, dear. Something had been egregiously misunderstood here. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What’re you on about?” Crowley sat up from where he had been lounging on the sofa, looking puzzled. 

Aziraphale shut the little book he held. “Crowley, is that what you’ve thought all this time? That I gave you the holy water because you saved my books?”

“Well. Yeah.” Crowley looked up at him, a pleading expression in his eyes. “Only explanation that makes sense.”

“Oh, my dear boy. When I gave you the holy water, that was… gratuitous. Define that for me, while we’re on the topic.”

“Gratuitous contracts,” Crowley recited, still looking confused. “Designed solely to procure the welfare… of the beneficiary.”

“Keep going.”

“Without any intent of producing any – any sssatisfaction for the donor,” Crowley continued, the flush on his face growing steadily darker as a hiss slipped from his tongue involuntarily. “Self-interest is totally absent on the part of the donor.” 

“Do you understand?”

“Angel,” Crowley muttered. “You’re killing me here.”

“I gave you the holy water because I wanted to.” Aziraphale hesitated. “I suppose that’s not quite entirely true. I didn’t want to. But I wouldn’t have you risking your life with your ridiculous plans of robbing churches and whatnot. You know this. I’ve told you this before.”

Crowley scrubbed a hand over his face, now nearly as red as his hair, and shrugged. “Yeah, alright.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I do,” Crowley objected, perhaps too quickly. “Really. I do. Nothing to worry about, angel.”

“The demon doth protest too much, methinks.”

A strangled noise left Crowley’s throat, and he threw himself back on the sofa in a huff, curling in on himself with his back turned toward Aziraphale. A smile twitched on Aziraphale’s lips as he got to his feet and gently ran his fingers through the red curls that Crowley took such pride in growing – they were nearly shoulder-length now, and softer than silk in Aziraphale’s hand.

“My dear, I know I haven’t made it easy for you to believe me, and that is entirely my fault.” 

Crowley made a muffled sound into the paisley blanket.

“But I mean it with all my heart when I say that I did that for you. Solely and exclusively for your welfare. No other reason.”

At last, Crowley’s face emerged from hiding as he turned toward Aziraphale, though he wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “Okay. I just, er –” He grimaced in frustration. “Just remind me sometimes, alright?” 

Aziraphale dropped a kiss lightly on the crown of red hair, the black tattoo, the corner of Crowley’s mouth, one after another until Crowley turned toward him, tilting his face up. “As often as you like,” Aziraphale said, as he bent down and pressed his lips softly against Crowley’s.

--

Read the other ficlets on Tumblr:

novation / innominate contracts / knowledge of acceptance / vices of consent  / elements of an actionable conduct

Read them on AO3 here! 

[theotherwesley]

tagged by @skyeventide! BRO THANK YOU <3

Rules: Choose your favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

1) Right at the beginning of 2020 (*can we even count the January-February Era as part of 2020? It feels like a separate timeline lol)  I designed a homebrew D&D campaign around an extended-universe Watership Down world, where all player characters are rabbits. :3 I designed it over the winter and DM’d my first test game with my family! It was so, so fun, and I had high hopes of continuing to playtest it and refine the rules this year.... ah, the best laid schemes o’ Buns and Men gang aft agley. U_U

Some samples: 

2) I got a truly awesome commission from a client on FR to do some stained glass window designs for their D&D campaign’s pantheon of gods. I got 4/6 done with them before my computer staged a revolution amongst our household electronics and went into a coma, taking BF’s laptop, a backup disk, and for some reason the toaster, with it. Then after that, the 2020 vibe got really uhhhhhh, shall we say, intense, and even after I found solution for my computer trouble I basically had zero creative fluid in the tank, so this was the last serious art I did for most of the year. :(

 But! I do really like these pieces, and I will eventually get to the remaining two...... sometime. I don’t want to jinx it. >>;

3) Got into a SUPER JUICY and EXTREMELY DENSE long-form RP with @salmaganto​ over on the Tolkien Blog. It involves so much research into historical and logistical minutiae about running a Big Evil Fortress, surviving sieges, uh... managing thrall labor, transitioning between war and peace... It is absolutely my favorite shit lol, just,,, 100% gratuitous worldbuilding nonsense, with my favorite micro-rarepair ship (or rather, its platonic counterpart). Again, this level of creative output, especially dealing with some controversial topics and in-depth analysis of like, authoritarian regimes, lost a looooooooooootttttttt of its um, escapist appeal. I desperately want to pick it back up, but man, this year was a lot, and I’m still recovering.  _( :’| 」∠)＿ We’re all still recovering.

4) Did some nerdy fanart for two of my favorite actual-play shows:

5) Attended a Zoom life-drawing session hosted in Perth, and it was a blast! 

6) Okay so this is a weird one, but, I edited a font??? I’m disproportionately pleased with this niche accomplishment. I had ZERO working knowledge of font design programs, and I went with a free, super nuts-and-bolts shareware application, taught myself how to use the basic functions, and then muddled my way through editing one of my favorite fonts, HamletOrNot:

“Well, this font isn't really Blackletter, but it has a certain historical touch, so it is welcome on these pages. The typeface Hamlet was designed by Edward Johnston for a Shakespeare edition, Cranach Press, 1929. The award winning book Hamlet was considered “the most beautiful book of the year 1930”. HamletOrNot – digitized by Manfred Klein & CybaPee.“ 

If you hunt down the mysterious user “CybaPee”, you find typographer Petra Heidorn and her many, many preserved, historical fonts, which have been painstakingly digitized and made available for free on... well, pretty much every free font website ever, which made it a real pain to source. 

I love this font with my whole heart, and I very much wanted to use it for parts of my comic (you know, the one) but HamletOrNot has a couple of readability failings that made it a bad match for small dialogue, and worse for ME, SPECIFICALLY: it does not include most diacritic marks.  *cries in Tôlkíën* 

So I embarked on this fool’s quest to do some touchups and add the diacritics and special characters I’d need to spell all the crazy bullshit for the comic, because HOW HARD COULD IT BE, HAHA, TO ADD A FEW MARKS AND CLEAN UP A FEW TANGENTS?  HAHAHA. HAHA. .....Anyway, I think I actually started this process sometime in like, 2019, but I FINISHED IT IN 2020, and I’m proud of myself. 

I’m calling the modified font ArdaOrNot, and it looks something like this: 

7)  Oh yeah, about that comic (you know, the one): 

‘Ey, would you look at that! Progress! :D  Slow, agonizing, unoptimized progress! I was hoping I’d have the first six full color pages ready with lettering and everything by the end of 2020, but.... well, here we are. Wow, I am SO TIRED OF BEING SICK, I HAVE THINGS I WANT TO DO SO BAD HAHAHAA FUCK 

8) Another minor accomplishment that I’m disproportionately proud of, I made some new baller playlists and polished up a few old ones to a fine gleam.

Anyway-- I don’t know who has and hasn’t been tagged, but consider this an invitation to anyone who has the energy to post your highlights from the last year. It was actually pretty therapeutic to see some things I DID manage to accomplish, because so much of this damn year felt empty and lonely and barren. But there they stand: the weird little triumphs that were sprinkled throughout the months, somehow improbably blooming in the wasteland. :’)

[phoukanamedpookie]

Princess or witch: how Anthy and Azula are framed by their narratives

“A girl who cannot become a princess is doomed to become a witch.”

Revolutionary Girl Utena is probably my favorite anime. It scratches all my English major itches for symbolism, motifs, complex characters, and layered narratives. If you haven’t seen it before, be forewarned that it does depict intimate partner violence, rape and sexual abuse. It’s not gratuitous or titillating in any way (*glares at Game of Thrones*), but the series doesn’t hide from it.

One of my favorite things about Revolutionary Girl Utena is the way it comments on how we interpret characters and stories. The series does a phenomenal job of peeling back the layers of the stories and characters, so we see the truth behind them. These truths are usually a lot harder to fit into the neat categories we assign to the characters. To make it even more awesome, the narrative explicitly addresses the role of gender in all this.

No other character embodies these complexities more than Anthy Himemiya. At first, we’re encouraged to see Anthy as a damsel in distress, a walking doormat who seems to attract people who bully and abuse her. Later on, we find out that Anthy’s a lot more powerful than she lets on, and there’s more going on behind those eyeglasses than we assumed. Knowing this, we’re more inclined to vilify her. By the end, we find out what really makes her tick and the trauma she’s dealing with, and it smashes those simplistic notions of who she is.

By contrast, Western animation seems allergic to embracing the nuance and complexity within the stories and characters it creates. Perhaps it’s hamstrung by being “for kids,” so it pulls back from anything that veers too far from the black-and-white morality mold.

Consider Avatar: The Last Airbender. 

I make no bones about being an Azula fangirl. She’s my favorite, bar none. You could say that I love the character Azula more than AtLA, and you’d be right. I wouldn’t have much interest in the show without her. It’s not a quality thing. The simple fact of the matter is the show came out after I was already grown, after my tastes and standards have been set by animated narratives that, in my opinion, surpass ATLA in story and character.

Then there’s Azula. Complex, layered Azula who has so much going on,. There’s a reason why I compared her to Hamlet’s Ophelia, and there’s a reason why I’m comparing her to Revolutionary Girl Utena’s Anthy right now.

Anthy and Azula couldn’t be more dissimilar in temperament. But the big thing they have in common is that they are bound to the wills of older male relatives who are supposed to love and protect them but instead manipulate and exploit them, and they bear the brunt of the hatred for the things they do in service to these men.

The difference is that Revolutionary Girl Utena explicitly challenges a one-dimensional interpretation of Anthy’s character. When you look at Anthy, if you only see a princess or a witch, you’re not seeing the real Anthy. You’re seeing what you’ve been taught to see in female characters (and women and girls in general).

ATLA, on the other hand, doesn’t have that commentary running through it. We’re not discouraged from reading Azula as just crazy or just evil. We constantly remind ourselves and each other that Azula is bad, bad, bad, and the narrative doesn’t ask us to resist that impulse or ask where it comes from.

Which is a shame because there’s so much going on with her that has yet to be explored.

[shardminds]

silver for monsters (1/?)

pairing: emma swan/killian jones rated: e for extra (in later chapters) wc: almost 5k ish

No matter the truth, he carries the weight of her corpse like a shadow. 

also available on ao3! ♠

it's my cssns submission!

firstly, a thank you to the wonderful mods for organising and facilitating the event! where would we be without you? and also the cssns discord — you lovely humans are just fantastic.

secondly, i owe my wonderful partner-in-crime, beta and artist (this fic has art, people! coming soon!) my life. she deserves more than i could ever give her. love you, salem! give killy a cuddle from me!

now, a note about the fic. this is a witcher au, using inspiration from the witcher games, books and TV show. i have pulled inspiration from all 3. just a fair warning, considering the nature of the witcher universe, there will be gratuitous violence in some scenes. i will be adding characters and tags as they appear in the work to abstain from spoilers but i will let you know in advance that there is no major character death.

happy reading!

“Fuck!”

The cockatrice rears up, flapping its enormous wings and lunging straight for him, talons poised for attack. At full height, it’s almost three times his size—an intimidating sight, but not an unfamiliar one. Killian dodges at the last second, rolling beneath the dirt-encrusted claws and narrowly avoiding the beak that follows to impale him. If he hadn’t thrown out his palm to cast Quen in time, he’d have been thrown across the sewer, probably landing in one of the many questionable pools littering the place. The beast rights itself, elongating its sinuous throat to prepare for its next attack but Killian is faster, springing to action in its short reprieve. His blade strikes true, the sharpened silver slicing from neck to navel through leathery flesh. A choked shriek pierces the cavernous echo around them but it does nothing to hinder his attack. Killian twists his weapon deeper, severing the thick sinew in its throat with a precision only gained from decades of practice.

The draconid oil he’d prepared had done well to weaken the monster, each touch of his sword against tough hide was met with a harrowing screech, each one emanating from its maw with a sickening gurgle as Killian’s coated sword seared its innards. Good. At least the ergot seeds used in its creation hadn’t gone to waste. The common weeds don’t grow this far east of Misthaven.

One final twist is all it takes, tearing out the creature’s windpipe in all its bloody glory, falling to the filth below, darkening the murk beneath its claws. It shudders, struggling for breath, but continues to advance. The guttural gurgle of its demise falling hollow in the dank expanse. Power simmers in Killian’s fingertips as he throws out his palm to cast Aard, shunting the beast backwards and knocking it off balance.

With a heavy thud, the cockatrice falls—

Right into a puddle of shit.

“Oh, that’s bloody lovely.” He grits out, wiping the sludge from where it splattered on his trousers. He’d been planning to start the ride back west, to the familiar place he was reluctant to call anything but that. He’d been planning to take rest between contracts, among the hamlets of Velen, stopping only to deliver the head of the beast and collect his bounty before taking to the path at full speed.

Now he’d have to fork out for an inn.

And a stable.

And a drink.

Bloody lovely, indeed.

Slipping the dagger from his boot to take his trophy—evidence of a job well done—Killian kneels next to the beast’s shredded neck and begins to cut. It takes a couple of minutes, the toughened hide of the beast proving more difficult than expected, but Killian manages to decapitate the thing without too much protest. Despite being smothered in excrement, both human and ornithosaur in origin, Killian wraps up the head in a linen sheet he’d acquired from the last inn he’d visited, slinging the thing over his shoulder to attach to Smee’s saddlebag for the ride into town. It’s hefty, already seeping dark ichor through the fabric, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Nothing he hasn’t handled a thousand times before.

Shit-stained or not, there’s little people love more than dead monsters.

In his periphery, there’s a shimmer of something long and thin and sharp beneath the ooze of the dead heap.

Feathers. Golden Feathers.

They’d sell for a fair price at any market but, with a wry smile, someone else comes to Killian’s mind. He plucks the protruding tail feathers with a delicate hand and slides them in his scabbard for later. Robin will be pleased.

Smee lingers by the sewer’s decaying entrance, chomping on the greenery of a shallow blackberry thicket without care. Seeing him brings ease to Killian’s bones. The walk to Camelot would be a lot more arduous without him. The dimming sunlight brings out the russet in his hide and he snorts as if to acknowledge the presence of his master. Smee has seen him through so much, his steed for over a decade now, and even as a colt he had stayed true to his commands. He rears his head, giving a soft huff in greeting as Killian reaches out to rub his muscular neck.

“Hello to you too, lad.” He soothes, securing the trophy with thick leather straps to Smee’s saddlebags. It thuds against his hind leg as he shifts to accommodate for the extra weight but Killian talks him through it. “You can rest tonight. We deserve it.”

Smee, ever the conversationalist, responds with a snort. Something Killian would translate as about damn time.

The hunt for the cockatrice had taken longer than he'd anticipated, the cursed beast leading them astray for days before finally returning to roost in the sewers of all places. The sorcerer in these parts—Merlin, he’d said his name was—had informed him it would. They’d sent hunters, knights, even mages to deal with their pest, but none had returned; either fleeing from the beast or succumbing to it.

With the head of the monster firmly attached, Killian steps up into the stirrup and mounts his steed, heels tapping against his belly to spur him forward, back towards the city. With a reluctant snort and a slow start, Smee carries both the Witcher and his cargo to their destination.

It’s long past nightfall by the time they reach the oaken gates and marble paved roads leading to Camelot. It’s a damn sight better than the gravel paths back in Misthaven. The approach to the city is announced with sconces attached to grand flags bearing the sigil of the king, inlaid with gold detailing. A gaudy display of wealth if ever there was one.

Up ahead, before the city entrance, Killian can just about make out the silhouette of a man in robes of purple and gold. Power radiates off him and it trembles in the wolf head pendant resting atop Killian’s chest, even from over 100 yards away. Smee trots closer, almost lazy in his approach. He doesn’t halt until they’re stood before the man who greets them warmly, with a kind face and a gentle smile. Merlin, the sorcerer.

Killian doesn’t trust it.

“I see you’ve dealt with the beast, my friend.” Merlin starts.

“I see you don’t intend to let me in.”

The sorcerer nods at the assumption, as if reluctant to do so and holds out the pouch of coin. Killian lets it thud into his palm. It weighs about right so he doesn’t bother to question it before tucking the payment into Smee’s saddlebag. It’s more than any common contract would afford him.

“The King has requested—”

“The King can go fuck himself.” With a flick of his knife, Killian cuts free his cargo, letting the head of the beast slip to the floor. It cracks on impact, spilling the crimson gore inside, smelling only of death and decay. Iron and rot. Merlin doesn’t recoil, instead choosing to step around and inspect the shattered mass. Mages like him, in positions of power beside volatile Kings, tend to be more accustomed to such displays.

If the stories of King Arthur’s conquests are true, it’s no surprise.

“With your reputation, Witcher,” He starts, prodding the bloodied heap with his foot. It lols to the side, mottled beak clacking against the path. “Do you really think Arthur would take such a risk?”

Killian could not give less of a shit about the opinion of Kings. Especially not ones of lands that dictated their monarchy based on whoever could yank a sword from the sodden shit coated earth. If that were the universal basis for royalty, he’d be King three times over. Merlin waves his hand over the mess of brains and bone, vanishing the mound into nothing and leaving only pristine stone behind. Smee stiffens, sensing the otherness of the man so close to his rear.

With unnatural grace, Merlin steps back to his place between them and the gate, unwavering in his resolution.

“Rumours of the Golden Bride have spread further than you think.”

Of course. Ravens travel faster than horses these days. What happened back in Kovir—

People tend to trust Kings over Mutants, no matter the truth. Killian grunts, the only sign of the tension in his bones in the way he grips the worn leather reins, knuckles taught and surely white beneath his gloves.

“Next time,” He grunts, not flinching at the mention of his past. “Pay upfront. Spare me the journey back.”

Merlin opens his mouth to respond but it’s too late. With probably more force than necessary, Killian kicks Smee into action, turning him to ride away from the white brick barrier that separates him from a good night's sleep before the sorcerer can protest. His work here is done. His contract ended. If they won’t let him into the city, he has no reason to stay. Bath and a bed be damned.

There’s nothing for him here.

They ride onwards.

Killian slows his steed to a gentle trot as soon as they cross the border into Temeria, a silent apology in the calm stroke of his palm behind Smee’s ears.

Moonlight bathes the vast fields of wheat in an ethereal glow. Nekkers peer through the tall sheaves to watch him pass, following him as far as they dare. His medallion thrums with their proximity, the pendant rattling against his mail. If it were any other day, he’d have torn through the harvest, taking down the bastards with broad swoops of his blade. Not today, though. The cockatrice had drained more from him than he initially thought. There’d been no time to brew potions to remedy his weariness, and his supply of dwarven spirit was alarmingly low. The next apothecary along the path would take a beating from his coin purse, that much is certain.

Midnight comes and goes before the path widens into the well trodden roads of more populated areas and more hours pass before they even stumble across an inn shrouded in forest. It’s decrepit and musky, but an inn all the same. It’ll have to do. Killian can tell by the bray of his travelling companion that he won’t last until the next one. There’s water and hay in the mossy overhang out front, its ancient wood almost rotted through but still secure enough to attach Smee’s reins to the post. An old silver mare secured closest to the inn takes one sniff at Killian and sneezes.

“That bad?”

Smee nudges him in response. That bad.

The inside of the inn is as ancient and forgotten as the exterior; thick stone walls, cobwebbed beams, a bar made of mottled oak with ring stains of old ale covering its surface. Upon Killian’s entry, the landlord nods, his pallid skin as thin as paper. The sickness he holds will kill him, it lingers in the shadows beneath his eyes and the pale flesh of his gums as he smiles, with too much joviality.

“Room for the night, is it?”

He will not see the summer.

Killian drops fifteen crowns on the bar, watching the old man’s eyes widen at their shine. “Along with a bath and a bottle of your strongest.”

“Right away, my friend!” He shuffles along, reaching for a slender greying glass bottle that he places on the bar top, before disappearing altogether. The other bar patrons stay quiet, lulled to the edge of listless sleep by the fire crackling in the hearth and the ale in their bellies—gwent games unfinished, tankards half full. Not wanting to follow their lead in sleeping on the hard benches, Killian waits at the bar. He takes a swig, letting the liquid coat his throat in its familiar fire. There are better ways to cope. There are better ways to fend off the dark that threatens to swallow him whole but nothing works quite as well as the burn alcohol leaves behind. Well, usually that’s the case.

Minutes pass and his thoughts, however reluctantly, stray back to Merlin’s earlier words.

The Golden Bride.

Killian had killed her. Killed her, raped her, tortured her, ate her liver, stole the unborn child from her stomach as a payment to the eternally damned gods of old, used her blood for his mutations—the stories change depending on where you are. Nilfgaardians prefer the gory stuff whereas, up in Kovir, they favour the lighter tales. She was their Queen, after all.

The one he couldn’t save.

Each burning gulp helps less and less.

When the dying barkeep waves him over, brandishing a rusted key and an armful of tattered blankets, the burn has gone and only Killian’s thoughts remain.

No matter the truth, he carries the weight of her corpse like a shadow.

The room is barely bigger than a broom closet and the old man has the courtesy to look ashamed of his meagre offerings. It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, a bed is a bed. Along the way, Killian has learnt not to make attachments to the materialistic.

In the centre of the narrow room, manoeuvred between the end of the dusty four-poster bed and the fireplace, stands a solid wooden bath. The water, lukewarm to the touch and stagnant, comes to life with a flick of his palm and a whisper of “Igni”. Killian doesn’t even bother to be neat, letting his weapons, armour, potions, and coin fall to what little floor space there is available before letting himself sink naked into the warmth. The agitated boil helps to shift the stubborn muck customary of weeks on the path.

How long had it been since his last? A few days, maybe? A week? He’d taken a brief dip in the river just outside Camelot before embarking on his quest— had it really been that long? No wonder the mare had turned her nose up. No wonder Merlin had regarded him with such polite distance.

He’d been wandering around smelling like a Necrophage’s anal gland and no one had bothered to tell him. Not that anyone could tell him. That’s the thing with always being on the path—the only things to talk to are your horse or your hunt.

Monsters aren’t always the best conversationalists.

The waters lap away the aches set deep in his bones, settling each worn muscle with its tender embrace. It’s a luxury he can nary afford, but it’s worth it when he can. When he exits, smelling of old soap and lavender, there is only black silt left behind. A dark mirror on the liquid’s surface. He won’t be able to use it again. He takes his underclothes to the small basin by the bedside to soak instead, too tired to even consider spending any more time away from the clutches of sleep.

For the first time in a long time, he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow. The exhaustion of the weeks passed weighing his bones like lead, as if they’d sink straight through the mattress and into the nether below. He wishes they would.

“Killian.”

He jerks awake—no, not awake. Further into the embrace of a dream. Oppressive darkness and silence surround him, his keenest senses rendered useless in their wake. Beneath him, a plush leather armchair. It’s painfully familiar. Precious, somewhat. Worn and comfortable and moulded to him as if he’d spent a century sat only here. This dreamscape. This void.

Oneiromancy. Perfect.

“Killian.”

A woman’s voice— her voice.

“Emma.”

“And I thought you’d forgotten about me.” She smiles, suddenly appearing in his lap, hips straddling his thighs as if it hadn’t been almost five years since they’d last parted. Five long, arduous years.

“Impossible, love. You’re not so easy to forget.” Killian can feel the steady beat of her heart as his hands take her waist. Soft, so soft.

And centuries old.

“You never thought to stop by on your travels then?”

“The path is—”

“Don’t lecture me. I know,” Pouting, she brings her arms around Killian’s neck. The thin swath of lace she’s wearing does nothing to hide her figure but its intricacies marr the details he wants very much to focus on; the blush of her breasts, the swell of her arse, what lies between those slender legs. Each time he tries to take her in, see past the veil of fabric, it shifts, obscuring his gaze once more. Fucking magic. “But I have missed you terribly.”

“Emma Swan, legendary sorceress and advisor to the throne of Misthaven, missing but a lowly Witcher?” The pale expanse of her neck calls for his kiss, so close and yet so far. “People will talk.”

With a violet flash, Emma winks. “Noise complaints, hopefully.”

His eyes slip shut, trying to maintain what little composure he has left. As disconcerting as dream magic is, he doesn’t want the spell to end. The feel of her so close is maddening. Waking to an empty bed will be torture.

Words he can’t possibly say nor mean jump to his throat, aching to be whispered against her mouth, passed to her tongue by his own as they had longed to so many times in the past. They burn.

“Come see me.”

“Emma—”

“I need you. I can’t tell you why—not here—but I need you.” There’s a silent plea hidden in her words, behind the typical bravado she always favours. He almost doesn’t catch it. She adjusts herself slightly, sitting back on his knees and letting her hands reverently trace the scars across his shoulders and chest. Ones she’s seen before and ones she hasn’t, long healed but still raw to her touch. It’s been too long. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and it takes every modicum of restraint he has not to kiss her there and then. “Come to King David’s court in Misthaven. There’s a tourney one week from now.”

“I’m sensing I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice. It’s in your best interests to make the right one.”

Killian sighs, letting his palms slide from her middle to her thighs, taking in the phantom warmth he’s missed so greatly. Emma Swan is an enigma. She’s centuries of power wrapped in mystery and untold sorrows and it lingers beneath her skin. She’s the first kiss of morning sun, the dark chill of winter, the wild lilacs that grow along the dirt roads of Misthaven. She’s true love’s first kiss and the denial of destiny. She’s nothing and everything, the beginning and the end.

And, occasionally, his.

“One week?” He muses, hyper focused on the way her nails feel against his skin, as if she were there, as if it were real. Her eyes, green as woodland moss, captivate him in the way they always used to, but they’re not the same. A mere mimicry. Beneath his fingers, the dream begins to fall away.

There’s no depth, just a glimmer of magic below the surface.

Everything’s hollow and when he finally presses his lips to her fading visage, all he tastes is ash, dirt and the absence of all things.

“One week.”

It echoes around the cramped room, a whisper in the darkness not yet reached by morning’s soft first touches. A reminder.

Killian almost missed it. Misthaven. It’s rolling hills and wildflower meadows, deep green forests free of ill fated fiends. Well, mostly free—wraiths and rotfiends are everywhere these days, especially after the war. If they weren’t, he’d be out of a job.

In the five days on the path, across the forgotten poppy-filled battlefields and open plains of Temeria, Killian didn’t encounter much trouble. The first two days were monotonous, non-stop riding through the day and night, brief pauses for food, water and rest.

The day after that saw a kikimora rear its ugly maw as Smee cantered past its roadside hovel, swiping out with its blade-like limbs in an attempt to take out the horse’s legs — it took three swipes of his blade to take it down, the starving queen letting out a defeated whine as glinting silver pierced through her armour and into her brain. Killian left a bomb in his wake, making sure none of her spawn would see the light of day.

Day four drove him closer to the ruins of Vizima, it’s grand stone walls now bleak and crumbled. Killian had been around when it fell, only a few years beneath his belt on the path as the Nilfgaardians withdrew their tyranny. They razed the city, with fire and blood, so that the North would remember what the clutches of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. The self-proclaimed white flame dancing on the graves of his enemies sputtered and faded just like everyone else on this mortal coil. The flames had kept him warm one night, decades ago, as the fallen city smouldered.

Misthaven greets the horizon on day five. It’s unperturbed woodland gracing his path with an archway formed of two entwined enchanted oaks, their magic forms the base of the wards that surround the city and the sheer power of it is a familiar thrum of energy that has his medallion singing as Smee trots over the border. In the thick bramble bushes beside the sheltered road, fairies shield themselves from view, their sugar plum scent hangs on the air as heavy as horse shit. There’s something he hasn’t missed. After half a mile or so, the rattle of his medallion becomes barely noticeable, a gentle simmer rather than a raucous boil.

Instead of taking the northern road at Lake Nostos towards the bustling city and the castle of King David, they turn to the east, along a too familiar, although far less trodden, path.

Smee huffs at his choices, resisting the tug of his reins.

Killian rolls his eyes. “Don’t you start.”

The Rabbit Hole is, in Killian’s eyes, better than most. Being just outside the city, tucked up against the eastern entrance’s vine smothered portcullis, not many people stumble through its doors by accident. However, with its vast stone hearth, sturdy oak beams and a half decent cellar, the place could weather the harshest Skellige storm with nary but a draught. Ale, food, music and good company. It’s… nice, for lack of a better word.

And, despite the nature of his work, it’s somewhere Killian keeps coming back to. Regardless of the years between his visits.

Smee, ever the dramatic, saunters over to the water-filled trough cemented to the tavern's stable, eagerly eyeing up the hay-filled feedbag beside it. At least, he’ll get a chance to rest as Killian gets his own fill. Haphazardly, he knots Smee’s reins to the hitching post, leaving just enough slack for him to be able to reach his amenities and socialise with the unsaddled gelding tied up on the other side of the post.

Killian pulls his coin purse from his steed’s saddlebags, knowing full well he’ll spend it one way or another. The door swings open before he can even tap the shit off his boots.

“You took your time, Captain.” Will Scarlet, with his signature troublesome smirk, is upon him in an instant, arms thrown around Killian’s shoulders, squeezing tightly as his skinny arms allow. He’d never been one for heavy lifting, more interested in wielding a lyre than a sword, and it shows in the way he greets his old friend as if it hasn’t been almost five years since Killian left him in Toussaint in the bed of a baroness whose husband had not been best pleased to find him there. The stench of Mahakaman mead on the bard’s breath permeates the air. The half-decade has barely touched him.

It hasn’t touched Killian either but, then again, mutations will do that to a man.

“Is that what they’re calling me now?”

Will peels himself away, stumbling back into the oak door frame that knocks the air right out of him with an oof. His brow furrows ever so slightly and someone from the other side of the dimly lit pub chortles at his discomfort. Will throws an obscene gesture his way before coming to Killian’s side instead.

“Just roll with it mate, you wouldn’t like the alternative.”

Killian shrugs. Murderer, Mutant, Devil— “I have been called worse.”

The bard nods in agreement, letting Killian step over the threshold and into the dark innards of the inn. They both have. Back when they travelled together, there was nary a day that insults weren’t hurled their way. Killian never had the chance to apologise back then, and it doesn’t seem right to bring it up now.

Will looks… happy.

“Anyway,” He starts, falling back on his chipper tone and catching Killian off guard as he hops over the bar top with ease, grabbing a tankard on his way. “To what do I owe the pleasure?

“I’m not too sure of that myself.”

Will places the tankard before him, full of a sweet smelling dark ale. “No contract?”

Killian knocks back the mug in one, letting the slightly soured brew flavour his tongue. It’s better than the pig swill he’s settled for along the Path. Then again, Will always was one with good taste; always the finest inns, the grandest company, lining his pockets with the gold of diplomats and dukes alike. Despite all that, The Rabbit Hole suits him, dust and dirt be damned. He hum’s, considering how to answer, before settling for the simplest one. “No.”

“No valiant quest?”

Killian shrugs.

“Ah,” Eyeing him knowingly while taking a sip from his own cup with a smug smile, Will hums. They’ve known each other long enough now for him to be able to read between the lines. “A summons then.”

“Can’t I just stop by and visit an old friend?”

“Theoretically, yes. But that’s not in your nature is it, mate.” There’s a pause. Someone laughs from the other side of the room, lit only by a handful of candles to fend off the dark even in the daylight. Will doesn’t even blink, drumming out a rhythm on the countertop, wearing an ever present smile. “Especially knowing that there’s a certain sorceress within the city walls.”

Killian had no idea what he was here for, not really. One dream and he’d come running like a well trained dog, a pet. He can’t even feel shame about it. Emma could’ve asked him to pick daisies in the grand gardens of King David and he’d have come running, a prisoner to his emotions. His mutations should have rid him of them decades ago and yet—

He lets himself be seen, letting his posture slip to a slouch. The ride was harder on him than he’d anticipated and his limbs call for sleep, the ache of it weighing him down. Will is, above all else, his oldest friend. If he can trust anyone, it's him.

“What’s going on, Killian?”

Lilac and gooseberries, touched with cinnamon and the undeniable scar of power. It singes the air with its grace and sets Killian’s medallion ablaze with activity before he can even register the draught behind him hadn’t come from the door. Will looks up, eyes rapidly widening in a mix of familiarity and surprise, but Killian doesn’t have to. He knows. She must have sensed him when he passed the kingdom's wards, followed the sing of his own power to find him, greet him.

Killian turns and lets a smirk tug at his lips as silence hangs like a criminal, the whole inn rendered mute by her entrance. In awe. In fear.

Emma.

Time hasn’t dared touch her. It hasn’t in aeons. In the years Killian has known her, she has always looked this radiant. Hair curled loosely over her shoulders and a dress of lace laid over silk, bright and beautiful and absolutely incredible. An aura of light surrounds her, bringing illumination to the dim room. From her very core, she is beautiful.

Killian has missed her.

She smiles, knowingly.

"I haven't told him yet."

[septiembrre]

3 9 16 26 for book asks pls!

3. Genres I won’t read

There isn’t a hard no anywhere but I honestly don’t read a lot of the popular niche genres.

As an adult, I’ve stopped gravitating to sci-fi or fantasy which used to be my nerdy jam as a kid (the notable exception being Octavia Butler’s work). LeVar Burton does this amazing podcast where he reads short stories. It used to skew sci-fi and it helped me start to get back into speculative fiction.

I also have very rarely intentionally read a mystery. But, every time I do -- I LOVE THEM.

Ha, this isn’t a genre but I’ve generally stopped reading things written by white men. 

9. Are you for or against multiple narrators in your book? 

No strong opinions. I’ve read some truly fantastic books with multiple narrators, but I do love a strong unreliable single narrator. 

16. What’s your favorite of Shakespeare’s plays?

Definitely Hamlet. I was part of a Literary Criticism academic team in high school (oh god) and my senior year we were assigned Hamlet as the text we would be repeatedly tested on throughout the year. I read it a million times that year and I loved it. I could recite it.  

Then my first year of college, I was invited on a class trip to Beijing where I got to see it performed live for the first time in Mandarin. I don’t speak Mandarin, but I know the play like the back of my hand -- especially then -- and it was a fun experience to watch it performed without hearing Shakespeare’s words and still get so much of the emotion of the play. It stands out as a truly pleasurable theater moment to be in the audience and watch everyone react to it line by line -- the collective gasp of the audience when Ophelia died!!! 

But, when it comes to the text itself, Hamlet is... such a man, but I have such a fond spot for his soliloquies and all gratuitous death. I know I keep going on and on about how much I don’t like angst. It’s really not true in other contexts. 

26. A book you studied in school and ended up loving?

So many!!!! I’m a huge Literature nerd and these were always my favorite classes growing up. 

In college, I focused on Women and Gender Studies and Latin-American studies (lol, humanities majors that cover truly enormous swaths of material). There were so many notable texts but I really appreciated being able to read Zami by Audre Lorde and A Bridge Called My Back (especially as required reads for my class on Queer Theory). These texts should be required reading for people in the US, but I feel so blessed that I found my way to them so early in life, they make me weep and I return to them every year. 

[deliciousmeta]

Princess or witch: how Anthy and Azula are framed by their narratives

“A girl who cannot become a princess is doomed to become a witch.”

Revolutionary Girl Utena is probably my favorite anime. It scratches all my English major itches for symbolism, motifs, complex characters, and layered narratives. If you haven’t seen it before, be forewarned that it does depict intimate partner violence, rape and sexual abuse. It’s not gratuitous or titillating in any way (*glares at Game of Thrones*), but the series doesn’t hide from it.

One of my favorite things about Revolutionary Girl Utena is the way it comments on how we interpret characters and stories. The series does a phenomenal job of peeling back the layers of the stories and characters, so we see the truth behind them. These truths are usually a lot harder to fit into the neat categories we assign to the characters. To make it even more awesome, the narrative explicitly addresses the role of gender in all this.

No other character embodies these complexities more than Anthy Himemiya. At first, we’re encouraged to see Anthy as a damsel in distress, a walking doormat who seems to attract people who bully and abuse her. Later on, we find out that Anthy’s a lot more powerful than she lets on, and there’s more going on behind those eyeglasses than we assumed. Knowing this, we’re more inclined to vilify her. By the end, we find out what really makes her tick and the trauma she’s dealing with, and it smashes those simplistic notions of who she is.

By contrast, Western animation seems allergic to embracing the nuance and complexity within the stories and characters it creates. Perhaps it’s hamstrung by being “for kids,” so it pulls back from anything that veers too far from the black-and-white morality mold.

Consider Avatar: The Last Airbender.

I make no bones about being an Azula fangirl. She’s my favorite, bar none. You could say that I love the character Azula more than AtLA, and you’d be right. I wouldn’t have much interest in the show without her. It’s not a quality thing. The simple fact of the matter is the show came out after I was already grown, after my tastes and standards have been set by animated narratives that, in my opinion, surpass ATLA in story and character.

Then there’s Azula. Complex, layered Azula who has so much going on,. There’s a reason why I compared her to Hamlet’s Ophelia, and there’s a reason why I’m comparing her to Revolutionary Girl Utena’s Anthy right now.

Anthy and Azula couldn’t be more dissimilar in temperament. But the big thing they have in common is that they are bound to the wills of older male relatives who are supposed to love and protect them but instead manipulate and exploit them, and they bear the brunt of the hatred for the things they do in service to these men.

The difference is that Revolutionary Girl Utena explicitly challenges a one-dimensional interpretation of Anthy’s character. When you look at Anthy, if you only see a princess or a witch, you’re not seeing the real Anthy. You’re seeing what you’ve been taught to see in female characters (and women and girls in general).

ATLA, on the other hand, doesn’t have that commentary running through it. We’re not discouraged from reading Azula as just crazy or just evil. We constantly remind ourselves and each other that Azula is bad, bad, bad, and the narrative doesn’t ask us to resist that impulse or ask where it comes from.

Which is a shame because there’s so much going on with her that has yet to be explored.

[spamzineglasgow]

Bon Iver’s hauntological i,i (William Fleming)

Image Copyright: Bon Iver / Jagjaguwar 

In this essay, William Fleming takes a detailed look at bon iver’s new album, i,i: through acid communist hauntology to oedipal melancholia and the future’s cybernetic fracture. 

> This week I’ve been reading Mark Fisher and listening to Bon Iver’s new album on repeat so I combined the two.

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> Mark Fisher, in his Ghosts of My Life (2014), laments the dearth of creativity in popular music after the turn of the century, the loss of experimentation and of hearing something New and Radical, and the persistent replication of past methods, sounds and images. Fisher was no Adorno though (I don’t think anyway?). His essays are emotive and developed from a deep desire for a compassionate politics; Ghosts evokes the pathos of his seminal Capitalist Realism (2009). One of the key themes associated with his work on pop culture, is the use of the Derridean term ‘Hauntology’: the haunted ontology of futures that never came to be, the spectral disturbance of time and place as the possibility of political becoming dissipates. As he details in Ghosts, Fisher initially used hauntology as a genre-defining term for music. He identified artists which were 'suffused with an overwhelming melancholy; and they were preoccupied with the way in which technology materialised memory', this results in us being made 'conscious of the playback systems’ and of ‘the difference between analogue and digital’, 'hovering' out of reach behind the media’. Fisher uses this conceptual framework to analyse a raft of musicians and their work but there is a consistent emphasis on the political narratives of class and race which shape these cultural offshoots.

> Despite being one of the biggest records of this summer – and thus perhaps a bit bait for me to discuss? – Bon Iver’s i,i bares all the hallmarks of the hauntological genre: melancholia, the clash of digital and analogue, anachronism, the suggestion of political solidarity, artistic experimentation.

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> First a confession: I first listened to Bon Iver because, in 2011, there was a girl on twitter I fancied who posted a video to Birdy’s Skinny Love. Birdy’s rendition is a wisp of a song, sad and grasping and completely lost on a shallow sixteen-year old and probably rightfully so. Failing to select the next song, I’m guessing Bon Iver’s original version played. For the first time I felt I’d discovered adult Sad Music. None of the ghd straightened, dip-died, angst-ridden emo tunes I’d gotten into a few years prior to impress my first girlfriend; or the one ballad acting as the penultimate track on one of the indie-rock albums from my older brother’s excessive collection. (- Does anyone know how to recycle these properly?). I would wallow in performative sadness playing immediately gratuitous and instantly gratifying XBOX games, quickly repeating the heartbeating guitar of Lump Sum on For Emma, Forever Ago or the wails of Holocene from Bon Iver, Bon Iver as I pined for my yet-to-be second girlfriend.

> I went off Bon Iver for a few years: these days, the quiet acoustic melancholia of these first two albums doesn’t fit with any aspirational sense of masculinity of mine. Being a man and being non-toxically emotional isn’t about listening to acoustic guitars and barely audible snares whilst you lie sulking in your room or on the drizzled walk to the library or job you hate. Instead it’s about communication, solidarity and empathy – ‘I’d be happy as hell, if you stayed for tea’. And so, when 22, A Million came out I was into it. Everyone thought it was a bit shit the first time few times they listened to it but this gave me cover to pretentiously purvey that they just didn’t get it and listen to it over and over. It was still the same anguished voice of Justin Vernon – but it was finally coming to life. Revived through stretched synthesizers, neologisms which made you question the contributors on A-Z Lyrics, and deconstructed bass. The piano riff on 33 “God” interrupted by alien helium-infused voices and the stammering, looping saxophone of 45 are still highlights. Listening now, 22, A Million initiated the hauntology of Bon Iver.

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> At times, i,i feels like Bon Iver’s latest album is a playback of their first album, but one done through a signal sent by an analogue walkie-talkie found on the abandoned spaceship from Alien: Isolation – itself maybe the most harrowing video-game I’ve ever played, one which is played in constant anticipation of being found. Listen to the intermittent signal of Holyfields,: the bleeps and radio fuzz a beacon we sent out into space, only for it to sporadically and hauntingly talk back at us – a cultural SOS signal.  

> i,i is the same guitar riffs from albums one and two but cybernetically fractured through time. The same syncopated kick drum but ripped out from the mid noughties and dumped in a Iain M. Banks novel or an episode in Love, Death + Robots. Fisher, quoting Derrida, quoting Hamlet: ‘the time is out of joint’. In these time fractures, it’s not just the music’s original location which is torn into the future, but also objective fragments of past culture: the sax (Sh’Diah) and violin strings (Faith) torn from eras when politics and music were still intertwined.

> The first track on the album, Yi, is garbage. But it is orbital astro-garbage – a notable anthropocenic feedback loop! – sitting uncomfortably at the stratosphere of an album which explicitly reflects on ecological destruction. Yi’s inaudible conversation and the ‘Are you recording, Trevor?’ set it up as a soundcheck for the album too. Including a soundcheck evokes Vernon’s emphasis on the album as a performance piece in the accompanying mini-documentary Autumn. In the doc, Vernon mentions the problem of ‘How is it going to be played live?’. Immediately, we are forced to imagine i,i as more than just another album on Spotify.

> Yi bleeds into iMi, a psychedelic echo of a track built from interspersing a melancholic vocals/arpeggio combo and an encroaching synth/dub beat combo. We is similarly eclectic, digitalised vocals juxtaposing with endearing, major-key sax. Following is Holyfields,, perhaps the most alien but most beautiful song on the album.

-

> Hey, Ma is the headline single from the album. An ode to Vernon’s mother and a sense of the sunrise walk home after the summer party (I’ll try and avoid further seasonal references: the four albums are set up to represent the four seasons, i,i being autumn, but IMO this is pretty naff).

> There is a sense of time passing in Hey, Ma, a nostalgia for the yet to be – ‘Well you wanted it your whole life’ – but with this passing is a sense of desire – ‘I wanted all that mind, sugar / I want it all mine’ – and of becoming or evolving – ‘You’re back and forth with light’. Becoming is the famous Deleuzean postmodern motif; i.e. being is constantly flowing and reforming. Bon Iver’s becoming, however, is not a flow, but a hauntological wrench into the future state. The entire album feels as though you’re experiencing the tech-enhanced evolution of Bon Iver’s music. That skipping between soft indie and futuristic synth reminiscent of the OG Pokemon games when your Pokemon was evolving and it would flicker between its past and future states. But becoming is never complete. As Fisher highlights, ‘futuristic’ no longer refers to a time/space but is now merely an adjective. We’ll never hear the Bon Iver made entirely on digital tech.

> For Fisher, melancholia is a productive force of political resistance. He distances his ‘hauntological melancholia’ from that of Wendy Brown’s ‘left melancholia’ which ‘seems to exemplify the transition from desire (which in Lacanian terms is the desire to desire) to drive (an enjoyment of failure)’. Fisher’s melancholia, ‘by contrast, consists not in giving up on desire but in refusing to yield'. Under scrutiny, Bon Iver’s first two albums fail this melan-test – they are a spectacular, self-pitying self-indulgence. Self-pity as a common form of masochism. For Deleuze, thinking through Jung, thinking through Bergson (yeap, I know), masochism is always regressive, flipping the Oedipal on its head as a form of un-becoming.

> Is Vernon’s song to his mother a masochistic form of melancholia; a self-pitying reversal of the Oedipal? ‘I wanted a bath / “Tell the story or he goes”’; ‘Tall time to call your Ma / Hey Ma, hey Ma’. The type captured by Maggie Nelson in The Argonauts (2015) when reflecting on Ginsberg’s poem Kaddish, which is dripping in, in Nelson’s words, ‘misogynistic repulsion’. Or is Bon Iver’s a hauntological melancholia? One of stubborn resistance. The type of mother-son relationship photographed by Donald Weber in his response to Alison Sperling and Anna Volkmar’s conversation on the post-atomic (Kuntslicht, 39: 3/4). Weber’s photographs were taken over two years in Chernobyl. The, now fetishised, explosion in Chernobyl perhaps the example of the nuclear, a hauntological theme post-WWII, made material. The bursting of a political, biological and biopolitical reality which was never meant to be. Weber’s photo of a middle-aged man and his elderly mother is captioned: ‘Mothers sought to be photographed sitting close to their sons, in domestic scenes of proud companionability. Their eyes signal an unalterable communion. And more – elevation. A man’s mother transcends the material order, and rises easily above even the most squalid circumstances. It is the frank declaration of her biological supremacy: This is my child’. If it is this relationship captured in Hey, Ma, it may promise a spectre which can be made material. An artefact which can continue its evolution, its becoming. ‘Let me talk to em / Let me talk to ‘em all’.

> Finally, that Hey, Ma’s nostalgia is a culturally productive one is suggested by one of its more memorable lines: ‘I waited outside / I was tokin’ on dope / I hoped it all won’t go in a minute’. In Fisher’s posthumously published Unfinished Introduction to Acid Communism, he, when imagining the process of resistance and a new politics whilst citing Jefferson Cowie, writes 'these new kinds of workers – who “smoked dope, socialised interracially, and dreamed of a world in which work had some meaning” – wanted democratic control of both their workplace and their trade unions’. The curious, outdated use of ‘dope' in Vernon’s lyrics then mirrors Cowie’s use of 'dope', echoing Cowie’s nostalgia for a lost working-class culture of 1970s America. Fisher uses Cowie’s argument to piece together an acid communism, which I will return to, but this, surely consequential, similarity further constructs i,i as a contemporary hauntological album.  

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> Following Hey, Ma comes the Sunday-school piano of U (Man Like). Raising an image of a crisply ironed, white America, like that depicted in Robert Putnam’s Bowling Alone (2000), which acts as a reminder that nostalgia isn’t always productive. However, the nostalgia is continued with Naeem ‘Oh, my mind, our kids got bigger/ … / You take me out to pasture now’. Fisher asks ‘is hauntology, as many of its critics have maintained, simply a name for nostalgia?’. However, he argues that it is not a ‘formal nostalgia’ but one of solidarity and of a longing for the process of social improvement. Naeem, despite its nostalgia, continues the flickering between hope and despair. The joyful ‘More love / More love / More love’ and ‘I can hear, I can hear’; the anguished ‘I can hear crying’ and ‘What’s there to pontificate on now? / There’s someone in my head’. The latent and angelic child-like choir on Naeem another hauntological theme. As Fisher declares, ‘no doubt there comes a point when every generation starts pining for the artefacts of its childhood’. However, Vernon’s evoking of childhood is one perhaps linked to the, at times damaging, trope of ‘future generations’ in environmentalism. It is still a political longing though – ‘I’d Occupy that’. Occupy: that great post-2008 political uprising which dissipated into a mere exemplar in an undergraduate geography textbook.

> Next, Faith brings back the aliens from 33 “God” but this time, for attention, they’ve brought their clean guitar and slowly morph into the catholic choir we began to hear on Naeem. God died and, despite the sexy, liquidity of our modernity, we miss him.

> Marion momentarily brings us back from the cybernetically fractured semi-future. Back to the £3-coffee coffee-shop where you’re telling your friend that you think you and that girl will probably get back together but you need the time to be right. The hope is sucked back out; we’re back in capitalist realism and Arctic Monkey’s fourth (fifth?) album. Luckily, Salem restarts the signal to bring us back from our self-pity, dragging us to the obfuscation we were enjoying. Salem’s witches are still here and they’re pretty good at Ableton.

> Next, Sh’Diah grows from an autotuned prayer – ‘Just calm down (calm down) / And she’ll find time for the Lord’ - into a yearning saxophone riff/rift. But, alas, RABi, the album’s final song, returns us to a blues guitar and Vernon’s vocals. If the oscillation between past and future throughout i,i was a dialectic, the depressing outcome is ‘consumer capitalism’s model of ordinariness' (Fisher) of the neoliberal present. As in Fisher’s hauntology, the technologically-infused creativity of i,i is a lost future. Watching Vernon being interviewed feels like this. He’s got the Pacific-North-West hipster look: vegan but drives a V6 truck. Goes to the craft brewer’s bar and talks about that latest public health campaign to encourage men to talk about mental health over a pint but refrains from actually talking about depression. (Maybe serving beer in 2/3rd schooners means you never end up getting to the important part of the conversation?)

-

> But why does it matter? Because it’s about political and cultural (and creative) imagination. Fisher’s last big, and tragically but appropriately unfinished, philosophy is that of Acid Communism. Maybe there is a future !

> Fisher mourned not only the flattening of pop music, but also the ‘culture constellated around music (fashion, discourse, cover art)’. In contrast to a digital album which you never perceive in any physical manner, Bon Iver have emphasised various forms of art in their work, ensuring a communal creativity. There are multiple iterations of the album cover art on public posters and on social media. More excitingly though, is the collaboration with WHITEvoid, a Berlin-based sculpture group/company, which is discussed on Autumn. Prepared for live performances, WHITEvoid have constructed an ensemble of floating mirrors and kinetic lighting made from ‘space-age metal’ and motion tracking sensors. An artistic contribution as ethereal and tech-enhanced as the accompanying music and one which aestheticises our material sciences. The lighting provided by WHITEvoid in collaboration with the experimentation in sound system, similarly shown on Autumn, constructs the performance of i,i as an ongoing innovation and experimentation. The effort put into the upcoming live performances of i,i ensure that it is a music to be experienced not merely consumed. In another discussion on Autumn, Michael Brown, Bon Iver’s Artistic Director, says ‘you have to be in the moment with other people, you have to be able to know that the person next to you is having the same communal experience’.

> In Krisis (2018:2), Matt Colquhoun sees acid communism as a “project beyond the pleasure principle” (2) and of an “experimental” politics. If the sounds of i,i are hauntological, then the spectre it suggests is one of acid communism. The acid is provided by its accompanying artistic experimentation and the communism is its emphasis on the political and the communal.

~

Text: William Fleming

Published 30/8/19

[honeylikewords]

That disco scene where he sticks his butt out is hilarious.

OH MY GOD YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THAT SCENE

SO

Here’s. Like. A stream of consciousness ramble about how fucking goddamn wild the Ex Machina dance scene is. I am haunted, eternally and perpetually, by the Ex Machina dance scene.

First, we gotta talk about what Ex Machina is.

Ex Machina is an Alex Garland (director of Annihilation, another Oscar film) written and directed film which is 100% an existentialist drama centered around the axis of identity in artificial intelligence. However, artificial intelligence is more of a metaphor about other aspects of human life; the way we perceive gender, race, sexuality, and personal identity as seen through the lens of what we define as human-- specifically, the question of “is this robot a human person” and “if so, what rights does this robot have”? The film is rooted very heavily in the male perceptions around beauty and femininity; how attraction to a female-percieved image biases the perception of its goodness or worth, and how abuse can stem from that.

It’s a very deep and very thoughtful film that pushes at a lot of the boundaries we associate with robot and AI stories; we all know the question of “what makes a human mind human”, but this one also incorporates concepts of othering, self image, the concept of beauty, attraction, supremacist ideals, et cetera. It’s well worth watching just for the questions it probes and the performances it delivers, so don’t read any further if you don’t wanna get spoiled. Anyway, TL;DR: it’s a really intellectually challenging and existentially probing film that’s clearly a work of drama and seriousness.

Which is why it’s so fucking wild that there’s this entirely gratuitous scene of Oscar Isaac, as his character says IN THE FILM, “tearing up the fucking dance floor”.

I have so, so many thoughts.

So, in order to contextualize some of why this is so weird, we also need to know who Oscar is playing in this movie. Because that’s part of what makes it so god damn WILD.

Oscar’s character is Nathan Hamlet Bateman, CEO of the tech company BlueBook. He’s a famous recluse who is secretly developing self-sentient AI robots (all women-modeled) in his distant, secluded home. Nathan is a heavy drinker with an insane narcissistic streak the size of the Grand Canyon and a God complex to rival Frankenstein himself. He’s self-indulgent, manic, calculated, and a fantastic character to watch within the confines of the film. He’s also openly (and rather aggressively) sexual with one of the robots in his house, Kyoko, who cannot speak and follows orders without question. Kyoko is the woman seen dancing with him in that scene.

What’s wild is that the particular dance he does with her? Is nearly, if not entirely, nonsexual.

In that scene, Nathan just intruded on Caleb (the main character) trying to turn down Kyoko as she sexually offered herself to him. Caleb is panicking, trying to re-button Kyoko’s blouse as she approaches him when Nathan tells him it’s a waste of time for him to try and stop her, but “you wouldn’t be wasting your time if you were DANCING.”

The sexual overtone of the scene is totally apparent.

Which is why it’s so completely batshit that the dance he does with her is some synced up, choreographed, boy-band ass dancing that never involves them touching or even really looking at each other! It’s not a bump ‘n grind, not a salacious, sensual, body-to-body tango; it’s... disco. And they’re, like, three feet apart.

I have so many questions.

Why would Nathan program her to do such an UNSEXY DANCE? Why would HE PRACTICE SUCH AN UNSEXY DANCE? He’s clearly made the robots to be as sexually gratifying to him as possible, so WHY WOULD HE SPECIFICALLY PREP HER FOR D I S C O?! WHY?! 

I know that outside the movie, it was basically just to show off how talented Oscar is; he loves to dance and is very, very good, so I know Alex Garland just kinda wanted to flex that a little, give us fans some fanservice with him dancing around in sweats with an unzipped, no-shirt-underneath hoodie look, but...

STILL.

IT’S SO WEIRD!

lowkeykindahot but SO WEIRD!

Still, not gonna turn my nose up at gratuitous Oscar dances, so... go Ex Machina?

[wargwhatisitgoodfor]

GRRM’s Much Ado about Mirrors - An Introduction

NOTE: The following is entirely speculation. Also in the latter portion of this meta, I will be introducing the possibility that a specific character has been tortured and sexually assaulted since season seven.  

Within a story’s framework, mirrors can draw connections amongst characters and events and can convey conscious/subconscious thoughts, truth vs lies, etc.  In a reference to the practice of hydromancy, The Lord of the Rings contains a basin of water, Galadriel’s mirror, that provides visions of the past, present, and possible future. Inspired by Tolkien’s device, GRRM uses mirrors not only in an allegorical manner in his series A Song of Ice and Fire (e.g. Sansa Stark as the positive mirror image to Cersei Lannister) but also to consistently foreshadow major events with water as well as to allude to previous scenes that haven’t yet been revealed to the reader (this will later compare to Melisandre’s pyromancy).

Of particular note, both Arya Stark’s confrontation with Joffrey Lannister alongside the waters of the Trident and Dæny’s clash with her brother Viserys in the midst of the “Dothraki Sea” serve to FORESHADOW THE CLIMAX OF THE ENTIRE SERIES.

GRRM successfully misdirects his readers and builds suspense though by also utilizing inversions, parallels, and consistently and purposefully leaving out scenes. Just as GRRM emulates and references multiple primary sources in his narrative, the show writers have looked at the most successful adaptations of the material that inspired him in their creation of the television show.  In fact, this upcoming season will be tying together narrative threads in a major plot point that was seemingly inspired by Peter Jackson’s adaptation of LoTR.

Examining GRRM’s narrative techniques within the text itself and to his literary/historical sources reveals a great deal about Game of Thrones Season Eight, such as “The Kidnapping Plot”, “The Parentage Reveal”, “Will Dæny get her house with the red door?”

MIRRORS:

1. In the Series - Lady Crane is to Bianca as Sansa is to Cersei… AKA “THE KIDNAPPING PLOT”: 

Jaquen H’ghar assigning Arya to rewatch her father’s death is certainly a reference to Hamlet testing Claudius; however it is also a mirror of the threats that Sansa and the Stark siblings/cousins will face in season eight. On stage, Bianca’s feelings and murderous plans for Lady Crane foreshadow Cersei’s targeting of Sansa. When the action moves back-stage as the actors remove costumes and wigs in front of mirrors, most of the doubles change but Lady Crane remains the stand-in for Sansa (e.g. the other actors’ comments that the crowd loves Lady Crane references book!Sansa’s pledge in A Clash of Kings: “... IF I AM EVER A QUEEN, I WILL MAKE THEM LOVE ME”). 

The writers make this point irrefutable when they both acknowledge the criticism levied against them (Lady Crane: “The writing’s no good”) at the same time as they foreshadow how they plan on elevating the series from everything else that has come before it with Arya’s response: “(this story) would all just be (more of the same) without (Sansa the subversive heroine).”

Just as the threats to Lady Crane shifts, Sansa/the Starks will be targeted by a different force mid-way through the season when ALL of the Stark siblings/cousins will be involved in a violent stand-off, which will center on the FATE OF THE NEXT GENERATION OF STARKS.

2. To a Primary Source - Howland Reed and Petyr Baelish are the reconstruction/deconstruction of a trope and historical character: 

Yes, just as Petyr Baelish has been ushered out of the action, the show will finally deliver Howland Reed!  

Early on in season eight, Jon Snow will meet Howland Reed after trouble has ensued in the North.

(Leo Woodruff was cast as Howland as he had been on set for several years and wouldn’t attract any attention with his presence on set.) The show, as well as the book series, has quietly but consistently foreshadowed the ironic “event” in which Howland will enter the present narrative beginning with several comments from Robert Baratheon in season one and continuing on through Jaime and Cersei’s last argument in season seven. In fact just as some fans have noted that “The Spoils of War” mirrors “Hardhome”, Howland’s arrival should flip another notable scene (and reference an important moment in Westerosi history).

Given the nature and atmosphere of his appearance, Howland will not only privately discuss Jon’s parentage (the show’s opportunity to do a weirwood tree vision/flashback of the Tournament of Harrenhal) but will also reveal Ned Stark’s contingency plans

(the means by which this story will starts to conclude its theme of the futility of war… for more details, see the section on parallels between Ned and Doran Martell). NOTE: This meta on Howland Reed and Petyr Baelish will be part one in this series. 

INVERSION:

1. In Show/Series - Jon Snow and Jaime Lannister:

There are many metas on the connections between the two; however I haven’t seen one yet explore the respective secrets that both characters have NEVER disclosed to anyone; it is those secrets that have largely dictated their individual characters arcs and are the main reason the show has the two having a conversation with each other in season one.  To be sure, Cersei’s line about Jaime being the “stupidest Lannister” in the last episode of season seven will in retrospect be ironic. These narrative threads should be exposed with all the action and fallout surrounding “SANSA’S GIFTS” early on in season eight. 

2. To a Source - Dæny and her character’s main inspiration:

Dæny was not only partially inspired by a Shakespearean MALE CHARACTER (there are very few, if any, one-to-one correlations) but her narrative will ultimately contain elements from one of the most well-known and subversive adaptations of that particular character. Coincidentally, as Dæny is the inverse of the main male character, Jon Snow is the positive mirror of one of the main supporting characters in the same play. GRRM’s purposeful lack of additional POVs in Essos can make it difficult to recognize that her narrative arc not only takes her full-circle but has her regress; however it should be irrefutable upon her final conflict, which has her face the same question as many of her predecessors: “What do you do with the children of those who threaten your power?”

 Dæny’s clash with the Starks over this question is the MOST VISUALLY REFERENCED SCENE in the whole tv series. 

(THE COLOR OF THE EGG IS IMPORTANT.)

PARALLELS:

1. In the Show/Series - The Plans of Ned Stark and Those of Doran Martell:

Due to the trauma that they both experienced during Robert’s Rebellion and their steadfast love for their sisters, both Ned Stark and Doran Martell worked steadily and inconspicuously towards shoring up separate plans for their respective families.  Besides recruiting their younger brothers’ help and their focus on strengthening political alliances in their respective regions,

THE CORE OF EACH OF THEIR PLANS RESTS ON A SECRET MARRIAGE BETROTHAL. 

Unfortunately, their differences (Ned is for protection/reactionary and Doran is about vengeance/aggression) may lead to entirely different ends for their houses (I’m still holding out hope regarding Sarella’s future collaborative efforts with Samwell Tarly and Marwyn and her eventual governance of Dorne).  Ned’s contingency plans should not only hint at an ironic ending but at the theme of the futility of war.

2. To a Source - Varys and his character’s inspiration:

Despite the substantial differences between show!Varys’s plot and his counterpart in the book series, his ties to his character’s main inspiration remain intact - his secret identity and his visits to political prisoners.  These core characteristics will lead him to be an active participant in his death, similar to his narrative source; in an ironic twist, Varys will end up aligning with the Starks and will save the life of one of their most important allies with the help of Melisandre. Varys is another testament to GRRM’s belief that anyone can make the choice to be heroic.  

MISSING SCENES -

GRRM intentionally leaves out critical scenes throughout his series as it enables him to surprise his reader. Because it would be too obvious to leave out the most important scenes, GRRM does it in MANY instances. “Why don’t we have more insight on Sansa’s female relationships?” “Why don’t we have a chapter with Catelyn saying goodbye to all of her children?”  “Why don’t we have a Dothraki POV?”  The writers for the show have successfully used this device since season one. It isn’t until season seven though that the show makes it evident that some of the most important scenes are not always shown to the audience.

It may seem like the writers are cheating the audience with leaving out scenes, but they have always provided us with ALTERNATE VERSIONS OF WHAT IS MISSING.

1. In Show/Series - Ramsey is to Theon as Yara is to Euron:

Once Yara is taken captive and paraded through King’s Landing, the audience doesn’t get to view another scene with her nor learn second-hand what is happening to her. Theon does express two beliefs about his sister’s fate: 1.) Yara is still alive, and 2.) Euron is holding her captive rather than Cersei. However, Euron’s comment to Yara in season seven about the King’s Landing crowd (“... THIS IS MAKING ME HARD”) along with book!Aeron’s terrifying memories of Euron visiting his bedroom at night (”No mortal man could frighten him, no more than the darkness could... nor memories, the honest of the soul. The sound of a door opening, the scream of a rusted iron hings. Euron has come again.” A Feast for Crows, “The Prophet”) indicate that

Euron not only commits gratuitous violence against his ship’s captives but that he enjoys sexually assaulting his family members.  

Is that enough foreshadowing for the tv show’s general audience? Perhaps it isn’t, which may be part of the reason why the show writers decided to repeatedly show graphic scenes of Ramsey torturing Theon... those scenes also serve as a stand-in to what Euron is doing to Yara.  

What would be the purpose of delaying this revelation about Yara? The most obvious answer lies in a conversation that Theon has with Ramsey about his father during season three: “Those men, they said that my father knew what they were doing to me.” As the audience knows, Balon Greyjoy does learn what is happening to his son and still refuses to him him. 

If Ramsey and Theon are a stand-in for Euron and Yara, then the audience can extrapolate that THEON IS AWARE OF WHAT EURON DOES TO FEMALE CAPTIVES (EVEN THOSE RELATED TO HIM) AND EXPLAINS TO DAENY WHAT YARA IS EXPERIENCING. We also know from the Dragon pit meeting that Dæny does not ask for Yara to be returned. 

This possible narrative may lead the audience to unexpected topics: Will an abortion be part of the plot in season eight of Game of Thrones? If Yara has been the subject of Euron’s heinous, violent acts, what does this mean for the other familial pairing - Jon and Dæny? Jon’s arrival at Dragonstone and his departure for Winterfell does roughly correspond to the same time frame as Euron taking Yara hostage and Theon heading off to rescue her.

Thus, are Jon and Dæny a MIRROR of Yara and Euron, or are they the INVERSE of one another? Was Jon summoned to Dæny‘s room? Or did he come of his accord? Is the show exploring the topic of “submission vs consent” with two of its most popular characters?

2. To a Source - “Sansa’s Gifts” and Peter Jackson’s The  Lord of the Rings Trilogy:

Similar to Dæny and Cersei respectively in seasons five and seven, Sansa will receive “gifts” from someone who is trying to convince her of his/her loyalty towards the end of episode one or towards the beginning of episode two. Not only will this complete the “rule of three” for all of the queens in the last season, but this plot point was inspired by a narrative device that Peter Jackson created in adapting The Lord of the Rings.

To maintain the surprise of this plot twist, the show left out TWO CRITICAL SCENES that happened early on in the series.  Just as Theon and Ramsey are a stand-in for Yara/Euron, there are two scenes that serve as a double for the ones that the audience will never see; however those scenes have been alluded to, and the audience has witnessed evidence that they occurred. 

This show’s writers have been planning this since the beginning, and “Sansa’s gifts” actually fits ALL of the narrative devices mentioned in this meta: 

Mirror (In Show AND Source Material)

Inversion (In Show AND Source Material) 

Parallel (In Show AND Source Material)

It also INSPIRED ALL OF THE “GIFTS” THAT WERE CREATED SPECIFICALLY FOR THE SHOW, including the thimble Sam gave Gilly, Ellyria sending Myrcella’s necklace to Cersei, Davos giving his carvings to Shireen, Littlefinger bringing a falcon to Robyn Arryn, etc.

Truly, the narrative impact that this will have on the outcome of the entire series cannot be overstated. Just as Ned’s death overturned the audience’s expectations as it also impacted the trajectory of the entire narrative, so will “Sansa’s gifts”.