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babbles-and-drabbles · 11 months ago

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The Demon Lord has accomplished a great many things in his life. He's tried to obliterate the entire mortal realm three times. (So very nearly succeeded that last time too! He's going to get it right one of these days.) He's conquered and destroyed too many mortal civilizations to count. That last one was a particularly good bit of fun. After the conquering and destruction, he tossed that civilization's most revered Demon King in an eternal and endless abyss of screeching demonic eels. Shows that guy for calling himself "Demon" anything. And, he's well on his way to figuring out a spell that would make sure no knot stays tied for more than a few seconds. Oh, when he finally irons out the kinks in that one...

What he hasn't gotten around to do yet, in his life spanning eons and eons in mortal years, is take a lover. And judging by the face of the woman he's been courting the past two millennia, he isn't going to be taking a lover any time soon.

"You thought I liked you?!" The woman screeches, spittle flying from her mouth in all directions.

The Demon Lord scrunches his face. "...Yes?" He manages with a shrug and two upturned palms.

"Is that why you kept wearing those tight outfits?"

"I mean," The Demon Lord raises an eyebrow and looks down at his clothing, "this is the traditional garb that all Demon Lords have worn since time immemorial. But now that you mention it, it is a little tight around the nether regions..."

"And, and what was with all that tilting my chin up with your sword and doing that villainous murmur thing in my ear??" The mortal woman is beside herself, shrieking at the Demon Lord in a voice he hasn't heard her use before. He couldn't help but wonder about what other sounds he hasn't heard her make.

"Is that not," The Demon Lord blinks at the woman, "is that not what women are into? Maybe I misread something in those magazines..."

"What the hell are you going on about? What women are into?" She is frothing at the mouth with barely contained rage. "I am trying to kill you!!

"That much has been obvious from the start," The Demon Lord huffs, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to one foot, "Why are you making such a big fuss about it now?"

"A big fuss? You burned down my entire village! You killed my entire clan! I am the last surviving member of my people, and I will have to live with that weight and that loneliness for all eternity! My only salvation is the thought of driving my sword through your body and finally ridding the universe of your cursed existence."

They had been doing the cat-and-mouse dance for the last couple of centuries. He captures her, but she escapes. She kills him, but he revives himself again. And on and on it went for decades at a time, and the Demon Lord was beginning to worry that she was just leading him on. Last century, though, she took up as a fighter-cleric of some obscure holy order to learn ancient spells to vanquish him. That got his hopes up that maybe something real was finally happening. So...he decided to spice things up.

"Look, I am just as serious about all of this as you are. I just thought it was time to take our relationship to the next level."

"What relationship!? Did you hear nothing of what I just said? You are my most hated enemy--"

"--to lover!"

The woman goes slack jawed, frozen still in confusion.

"Enemies to lovers!" The Demon Lord tries again, waving both hands at the woman in what he's learned is the universal mortal sign for "ta-da!"

No response.

"Oh, come on now. I love our verbal spats as much as you do, but we've finally come to it after all this time. We've been doing this enemies-to-lovers thing for more than two millennia. Don't play coy now."

The woman shakes her head vigorously, as if trying to deflect the Demon Lord's last words. "I tire of your twisted words, you vile fiend," she draws her sword from its hilt. Glowing Holy symbols and scriptures decorate the blade. "I am going to end you once and for all."

"Oh, you can certainly try--" The Demon Lord stops abruptly as the blade of the woman's sword sinks into his chest. He sighs, giving the woman an annoyed look as blood oozes from the wound, staining his shirt.

"Really? I just had this cleaned--" He is cut off again when the woman shoots a blindingly blast of holy energy at his face.

"I can see--" He takes another blinding blast of holy energy to the face.

"--that you are upset--" Another blast.

"--can we talk about--" And another.

"--please stop--" And another.

Relenting, the Demon Lord dissolves into a cloud of dark smoke and rematerializes a few feet away from the woman. "I get it, I get it," he says, raising one palm at her as he heals his chest wound with a casual flick of his other hand. "I'm moving too fast, and you aren't ready."

"Enough!" The woman shouts, taking another attack stance, "I will not fall for whatever sick game you are playing! Prepare to die!"

"Enemies-to-lovers is not a sick game!" The Dark Lord retorts, affronted, "In the romance genre, it is a common and beloved trope-" The woman's blade sinks into his torso again.

Sighing audibly, the Dark Lord drags one hand down his face. This is going to be a long fight.

From [WP] "You thought I liked you?! Is that why you kept wearing those tight outfits and tilting my chin up with your sword and doing that villainous murmur thing in my ear?? Are you crazy?! What the hell do you mean enemies to lovers?! You burnt down my entire village, I'm trying to kill you!!"

#drabble #flash fiction #writeblr #writing prompts #micro fiction #writing #enemies to lovers #demon lord #clueless couple

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ittybxttykxttytxtty · 13 days ago

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I DID NOT IN FACT REBLOG THIS THE FIRST TIME. OMG, SHE AND I....WE'VE COMMITTED SINS.

Pspspspspspsps @ittybxttykxttytxtty

Hehehehehehe, I'm here!

“I'm just… curious.”

And this is where it all begins, the fucking parallels between the Eve and her. It's making me giggle.

“All of these books- they portray Eve’s curiosity as disobedience, she’s a symbol of temptation, the reason for all sin- words written by men with an agenda to further, that women are weak, easily tempted, eager to sin.”

Catch me giggling the entire fucking chapter. This is so good.

“Don’t apologise sweetheart,” He says, interrupting any words about to leave your mouth, “I want to hear what you have to say.”

I just know Frank was ready to pounce at her. I just know it. My guy is ready to bite 😌✨

“I assume he must have needled at that curiosity you mentioned, used it to sow doubt in her mind.”

I AM FROTHING IN THE MOUTH. THE ANTICIPATION IS KILLING ME.

There's something incredible about imagining that Frank is Lucifer himself, a great evil, with his fingers drawing pleasure out of you, tasting the tears that slip from your eyes, urging you into a precipice that you're ashamedly familiar with.

Lol, in her mind she's in the middle of a LARP session. It's kinda funny. 😭😂

Frank shushes you, reaching down, he kisses the corner of your eyes.

Babes, career wise... it's only gonna get worse from here. But personally, you got like 3 men at your feet....priorities, bebe.

I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS...

Where's the two priests in all of these debacles?

Who's the woman who saw them? I bet she's gonna die

Why was Frank mad he was called "My Morningstar".....it doesnt make sense because she called him "Lucifer" and his cock grew three times bigger. So what was the difference? (I have speculations about this)

Angel of Small Death

Part 9 of my mini series.

Dark! Frank Castle, Dark Priest! Billy Russo, Dark Priest! Matt Murdock.

Warnings: Blasphemy, smut, fingering, spitting, mild choking, death.

This part is mostly Frank

Pspspspspspsps @ittybxttykxttytxtty

Sister Margaret bursts into your office after mass on Sunday and you turn in surprise to watch her double over, panting.

Fear sinks into your stomach, heart freezing as you move toward her.

You place a calming hand on her back, rubbing circles to soothe her into catching her breath.

��What is it?” You ask, growing impatient.

She looks at you with terrified eyes.

“Another…body…”

You don't let her finish before you're running out the door.

Two people had been found dead within the last week, Father Heath, and most recently, Sister Deidre.

She’d only been a year or two younger, and her body had been found lying face down in the shallow creek nearby.

The very same one that Billy and you frequented as children, now tainted with the imagery of her corpse.

The doctor had speculated that she’d simply slipped, fallen headfirst into the water and hit her head, drowned peacefully while incapacitated.

Nothing had sounded peaceful about it.

Putting her into the ground had left a sour taste in your mouth, that you should have found a way to keep her safe, though, for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out how you could have prevented her death.

The fact that both the deceased had somehow just slipped, also filled you with dread. You felt like the people under your care were being punished, and that it was all your fault.

You’d sinned, and this was how God was taking it out on you.

It didn’t make much sense, that two accidental deaths in a short space of time could be a form of punishment for you, except that your guilt was searching for punishment, for absolution in your grief.

Were you a bad person now? Had you tainted the very space that was used to worship God? You know what Billy would say- no, that you were still pure, still holy in the eyes of the Lord.

But if you really were, why did you feel this way?

You needed more information, and you hadn’t feel like burdening anyone with your troubles, so you'd been pouring over old books in the library, searching for scripture that would ease your guilt and help you come to terms with your grief.

Temptation was heavy on your mind, and what better story could compare to Eve’s?

Made out of Adam, with the intention of being a companion for him, scripture doesn’t describe her much, and it makes you wonder more and more about her.

You close a musty book, one that had just emphasized the role of the Devil in The Fall, frowning, unsure of what you were really hoping to achieve from reading these old books.

In the dark of the library, with only your lone candle lighting the space around the table, you hear the door push open.

You straighten confidently, despite the fear striking through your body, eyes searching for movement in the darkness.

Heavy footsteps, and you know who it is before the light even graces his face.

Frank, steps into your field of vision, no lamp in hand guiding him, dressed warmly for the frigid night.

“I saw the light flickering from outside,” he starts in explanation, “Just making sure it wasn't unattended.”

You smile up at him as he approaches.

“No, Mister Castle, not unattended.” You answer politely.

“I see that.” He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching the table, skimming over the titles of the books before you.

“Interpretations of The Fall?” He asks, reading one such title aloud.

You swallow, nodding, glancing at the book in question.

“I'm just… curious.”

A smile pulls onto his mouth.

“About?”

You suck in a slow breath, unsure of whether to confide your self-doubt in him. Your eyes drift down to his mouth, the memory of them pressed to yours clawing its way to the forefront of your mind.

And there it was again- temptation, the carnal desire sparking within you, begging you to submit yourself to him so that he might ease the ache inside of you.

“Eve.” You answer finally, “I’m curious about Eve.”

His eyebrows raise in amusement.

“What about Eve?”

You swallow.

“I don’t know- there’s just something about the events- some information that these interpretations lack.”

You tap your chin, deep in thought, stepping away from the table, moving back and forth in an attempt to gather your thoughts.

You exhale, impassioned by the way your thoughts spin, finally finding just the right conduit to center your thoughts.

“What if it wasn’t like that at all?” You ask finally, stopping your contemplative steps to look at Frank.

He seems intrigued by your words, where someone else might scold you for thinking this way, Frank seems to be willing to listen to you.

“What are you suggesting?” Frank finally asks, still at ease, and seemingly unaffected by your unconventional ideas.

You reach beside him, for a book you’d been digging through before.

“She was made with someone else’s ribs. I can’t help thinking that the role she was cast in might have led her to feel lesser, that maybe she wanted a path of her own.”

You try to imagine being Eve, the first woman, constantly being reminded that there was only one role for you to fill, in service to someone else, unable to figure out who you could be outside of these confines.

“What if she was just curious? As all of us are? Wondering about the mysteries of the universe, dizzy with the thirst for knowledge? Her only crime being exactly the way God made her?”

You pause, gasping, realising what you’ve just implied, glancing up at Frank to offer profuse apologies for your blasphemy.

“Don’t apologise sweetheart,” He says, interrupting any words about to leave your mouth, “I want to hear what you have to say.”

“I’m sorry,” You mutter anyway, “I didn’t mean to question the Lord. I’m only trying to understand.”

You blink, staring at the words written in the book, trying not to ask another question, but like Eve, the thirst for knowledge is too much.

“What do you think he must have said to her, to convince her to disobey God?” You ask aloud next, almost wishing that Frank would scold you and not give you an answer.

Frank looks away, smiling to himself.

“I assume he must have needled at that curiosity you mentioned, used it to sow doubt in her mind.”

“Right,” you say eagerly, “because maybe she wanted more. Maybe she wanted to see what she was truly capable of.”

You don't realise how close you are to Frank until he's cupping your cheek softly. You suck in a slow breath at the rough feel of his palm sending tingles down your spine.

“Maybe she did want more. Maybe the devil showed her more.”

You exhale, looking up into his eyes, seeing the candlelight reflected in them.

“Pleasure, you mean.” You say softly, studying his handsome face, finally realising why you've been so taken with Eve's story.

His thumb drags across your bottom lip. He smiles instead of answering you.

“If the devil came to you, and showed you all the good things that have been kept from you, do you think you could resist him?”

Your lips part in surprise at his question, already knowing the answer but too ashamed to say it out loud.

“Good? You think carnal desire is good?”

“Doesn't it feel good?” He asks, stepping behind you, his hand reaching around to angle your jaw so that your neck is exposed to him.

Your eyes shut when you feel his nose, trailing along your neck.

“To be touched like this?” His voice rumbling in your ear, his lips dragging along your neck, the heat of his kisses as he places them.

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Let's play a game, I'll be the devil, and you, Eve, and let's see if you can resist temptation.”

You suck in a little breath, intrigued by his suggestion, thinking about what to say.

“I- shouldn't be here with you. I should be serving the Lord.”

Frank chuckles.

“Oh definitely,” he whispers, reaching down to tug your skirts up, bunching them in his hands, the simple sensation of having him pressed to your back making you writhe against him eagerly.

“You can leave whenever you want, sweetheart.” He finishes, slipping his warm hand down to cup your cunt. His digits press into the small layer of fabric protecting you from his bare touch, rolling his fingers over your panties, making your head tilt back with the need to be handled by him.

You gasp, hearing him chuckle, his hand glides up, this time sliding under your fine undergarment. That warm, coarse hand of his moving over your mound and you feel two dexterous fingers press against your clit. You’re breaths grow sharp, trying your hardest to fathom the pure want going through you,

“My my, how eager that cunt is to play.”

You whimper, shaking your head.

His other hand raises, palming your breast over your clothing, his thumb worrying the fabric until he can feel your nipple poking through.

“Lucifer,” You moan, trying to uphold the boundaries of your play.

“That's it,” he says, fingers circling your slippery bundle of nerves, “Say my name, sweetheart.”

He pinches your nipple over your clothes, huffing into your neck in amusement when he feels you shudder.

“God made you so sensitive to touch, and yet you seek to deny yourself of the pleasures your body so easily craves."

You shake your head in denial of his words, gasping as he traps your bud between his fingers.

“I can resist,” You pant against his lips, “My desire is simply a test of wills.”

He grins sharply.

“Even when you know the outcome of the story, you still can't stop yourself from the damnation of rubbing that little cunt on my hand.”

You whine, your head falling onto his shoulder, losing yourself in the gentle ministrations of his fingers.

“Lucifer, please.” You gasp.

“Begging the devil now? God made you perfectly for me, didn't he?”

You feel a low twist in your stomach, your body agreeing with his words before your mind can catch up.

His fingers glide smoothly over that spot between your legs, effortlessly, better than you've ever been able to do before, he grips your jaw to bring your mouth to his.

You mewl into his mouth, his tongue sweeping in, pressing against the inside of your cheek in a manner that feels like you're being claimed wholly.

Your eyes roll back in your head when the pleasure grows too much for you to handle, a low cry leaves your mouth as his fingers make one more perfectly decisive swipe that has you trembling uncontrollably.

The pleasure allows you to feel like you're existing outside of your body, and yet you can feel every touch tenfold, every breath Frank makes that caresses your skin, the way his fingers trace your cheek, the way that spot between your legs continue to throb in bliss.

You draw back just a fraction, so that you can look into his eyes, beg him quietly to keep going, finding that you would do anything, say anything for him to not stop.

“That’s it, my perfect girl, show me who you belong to.”

Your mouth opens, but your cry of bliss is silent, shuddering violently as pleasure overtakes you in large, crashing waves, leaving you breathless, your knees wobbling dangerously, threatening to give way to your rapture.

He waits only a moment, before you feel his fingers press to your entrance.

You gasp- opening your eyes, looking at him as he feels the very insides of you for the first time.

A single finger presses in, moving easily in your arousal, dipping in as far as can be reached, before pausing.

You pant, eyes fluttering senselessly, trying to comprehend the feelings within you.

“Why would God ask you to deny this part of you? To shun desire when it feels so good?”

You swallow, remembering the game being played.

“A test.” You gasp, feeling his finger curl for a brief moment, catching on something… something glorious.

“Only the worthy shall find absolution.” You finish.

He kisses your neck, his tongue tasting the defiance of your mouth before he answers.

“You were made to be more than that. You were made to be mine.”

You cry out as you feel him guide another thick finger into you.

He pumps them slowly, fingers delving into you at a slow and even pace, his other hand palming at your sensitive breasts over your clothes.

“My Morningstar,” You whisper softly into his mouth.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and then he withdraws, before turning you.

You open your mouth in shock at the speed of his motions, ready to apologise for going too far, when you feel his hand wrap firmly around your throat.

Fear fills your head while arousal sparks through your body, a heady and confusing concoction that only worsens when he pushes you back, not stopping until you’re pressed against the table.

You reach up to grip his wrist, squirming unhappily under his grip as the books beneath you dig into your spine.

Your breathing stutters as you look up into his eyes, a sinister glint, almost angry, his grip on your throat tightening.

“Frank?” You struggle to gasp, a fear so potent that you can barely move overtaking you.

You watch him blink, his grip eases. His thumb stretches up to press to your mouth, dragging across your lips in a possessive way that makes you feel even smaller beneath him.

He leans in.

“Open your mouth.” He orders, tugging your jaw open before your head can catch up to comply.

His spit coats your tongue in the next moment, and you accept it greedily, his hands cupping your face as his mouth descends on you, kissing you in a manner that you never even knew existed.

Your body wants it too much, the discomforts of the books beneath you only add to the euphoria, the knowledge that he has to have you now, despite any obstacles in his way.

He guides your knees upward, till your toes are on the edge of the table, legs spread wide as those two fingers of his press into you again.

Deeper this time, your back arches, your body trembles, his warm mouth traverses your neck, tugging your collar down to kiss as much skin as possible, making you wish you were bare as his fingers bring you to new heights.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Frank reminds you, observing the way the pleasure stalls your rational thought.

You let out a little sound, eyes rolling back, turning your head so that you can look into his obsidian eyes as you fall apart.

How are his fingers so skilled? How can he make you feel this way so easily? What have you truly been denying yourself of?

These questions pour into your head just as you hit your peak, the mastery of his fingers drawing a pleasure out of you that makes you keen in bliss. The little sounds of insanity overtaking you and he seeks to swallow them greedily with his next kiss.

You gasp when you break apart, reaching up with trembling fingers to smooth your hands over his face, to feel the man that is responsible for your bliss.

“Frank.” You murmur, gasping as he tugs his fingers from between your thighs, reaching into his pocket for a small bit of cloth to clean himself.

You struggle to sit up as well, leaning into him as he pulls you into an embrace, his arm around you to steady you, he kisses the top of your head.

You have no idea what to say to him, turning your head away to avoid having to speak when you feel so vulnerable, open, exposed, and yet somehow enjoying his attentions in the aftermath.

You almost don’t see the person standing at the window, the candlelight from inside creating a glare, yet you catch the white of her veil, watching as she moves when she realises that you’ve seen her.

You gasp, the fear burns like fire as it goes through your body. You push away from Frank, rising to a stand.

“Someone is out there.” You explain quickly before you’re out the door.

You push through the large church doors in front, gripping your skirts, chest heaving as you try to search the area. All you can hear is the retreating echo of her footsteps as the mysterious woman races through the darkness, carrying your secrets. You can’t figure out which way to go, you feel your throat tighten with the fear of consequence.

Frank steps out of the church behind you, just as you fall to your knees in despair.

His arms wrap around you, trying to soothe you, but your panic refuses to subside.

“Someone has seen us, Frank, a woman- I saw a veil- one of my sisters.” You let out a shaky breath, trying to find any semblance of composure, but the consequences of your actions had begun running through your mind.

“They will strip me of my title, excommunicate me, they will erase any mention of me. I will be cast out, from my family, my friends-” You look up at him, his hands cupping your face as tears spill from your eyes.

“It is over, I am finished.”

Frank shushes you, reaching down, he kisses the corner of your eyes.

“No!” You hiss, drawing back, “You- you have damned me to a life of isolation with your games-”

You stumble away, shaking your head as he says your name softly.

Turning, you run from him, your lungs burning as you leave him behind.

A/N: Tell me you've figured out a little bit of what's going on.

My girl is living her best life she got eaten out in a confessional booth by one priest while she sucked another priest's cock and now she's role playing Eve while the Devil takes advantage? How to be her 😫

#billy russo x reader #frank castle x reader #matt murdock x reader #dark!billy russo #dark!frank castle #dark!matt murdock

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ophelia-jones · 2 years ago

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Thorns part two

As she lay in the bed in the infirmary, Lacey couldn't help but wonder what was happening at Sanctuary. Negan must've worked himself up until he was frothing at the mouth. He would feel like she had made a fool of him; that she had gotten him to trust her and then ran off to work with an enemy. Even if he hadn't assumed she was giving away his secrets, he would be mad at her disappearance. Hell, Simon had probably taken something and said she stole it to guarantee they would kill her. He wanted her out of the picture, and he had found the perfect way. Stripping her to her underwear and sending her out unarmed was just cruel icing on the murderous cake for that bastard.

She lay with her feet up; Denise had put in some stitches and bandaged them. Lacey wouldn't be walking for a few days at least and that made her nervous. She didn't want to put these people in danger - and her presence did just that.

She rested her hands on her belly and tried not to think about how she had hoped to make things better at Sanctuary. How she had seen something in Negan he didn't let anyone else see. She had fallen into the same trap so many women had fallen into - trying to change a man. To fix what is broken.

She had declined every time he had asked her to be one of his wives. She wasn't one of his sex dolls, desperate for a man who would protect them. She would be considered his equal, or at least as close as anyone ever got in his estimation. She was capable of fighting, providing and strategizing. Although she had not wanted to be his toy, she had spent more than a few nights in his bed. She was not stupid, she knew the power of pillow talk in reaching a man. Not that she regretted bedding him in and of itself - they had been well matched lovers and she had never been left unsatisfied.

It was complicated.

But there was no point in wishing things had gone differently, it was what it was and there was no going back. She had known she was putting herself in mortal danger getting entangled with him - her stomach had turned at first, trying to play nice with a murderous madman. But, and maybe this was just his charisma and confidence, she understood where he was coming from. Ruling with fear and violence was as old as the earth itself. It seemed to be the default setting for mankind.

The thing was, eventually, the people always rose up from under the boot of these kind of rulers. That too was hardwired into human nature.

"Hey." She heard a gruff voice in the doorway, drawing her out of her thoughts. She turned and smiled at the tall, muscular silhouette of Daryl Dixon.

"Hey." She greeted him.

"You good?" He asked in his short and simple way.

"Much better than I was. Thanks to you." She told him sincerely.

"Good." He shifted from one foot to the other and then crossed and uncrossed his arms awkwardly. "Rick said you should stay as long as you need. Carol already has a place to hide you if the Saviors come knocking." He told her.

"I can't thank you guys enough, but as soon as I can walk again, I'm going to move on. I figure I can head further south. I mean, I already made it down from Michigan mostly on my own." She told him, shifting to try and get comfortable. Although the scrapes and cuts all over her body have been cleaned and bandaged she is sore all over still.

"Michigan?" Daryl asked, scowling down at her. "You traveled here from Michigan? After the outbreak?"

"Mmm-hmm. I spent the first year up there, but the winter was brutal. The walkers froze, but a lot of the survivors did too." She told him earnestly.

"Holy shit. Winter is hard here, I never really considered what it must be like up north where it last so much longer." He said, his eyes growing distant as he considered it.

"I think thats more words than I have ever heard you speak." Lacey joked. Daryl flashed her a shy smile and chuckled at himself, looking down at his feet.

"I talk." He said "I just don't run my mouth unless there's something worth saying." He shrugged.

"That's fair. And it's a welcome change, actually." She admitted. Negan liked few things better than the sound of his own voice.

"So, how exactly did you end up there?" Daryl asked. "You don't seem like… well, them."

"Once I was in there was no getting out. At least not so far as I could see. And I hate what they do, how they terrorize everyone - the thing is, even before the dead started walking, people were shitty. At least now, in this world, people just cut through the bullshit and show their true colors right off the bat. Every fucker out there will rape, rob and murder you for all sorts of reasons. The people who didn't already know that are the ones who didn't make it this far."

Daryl grunted slightly in agreement, leaning against the wall now, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. Lacey couldn't help but let her gaze lingered on the impressive width of his shoulders. There was something both reassuring and unsettling about his presence.

"Not everybody." He grumbled.

"What?" She asked, her eyebrows drawing in as she frowned at him.

"Not everybody is like that. I used to think so too - and yeah, most people probably are. But the people running this place? They're the best people I ever met. Rick showed me it doesn't always have to be like that."

Lacey paused and considered his words carefully. Daryl was a survivor - even before the outbreak. It wasn't hard for her to tell. She was too, her life had never been easy. She had learned how to do whatever it took to survive way before the outbreak.

"I hope so. And I hope Negan doesn't manage to destroy that - but, I hope you know he is going to do everything he can. He doesn't believe there is any other way."

"Yeah, I got a first hand look at who that bastard is. He'll get whats coming to him sooner or later." Daryl grumbled, looking at his feet once more. Lacey smiled wearily, but had the strangest feeling spark inside - one she struggled, at first, to recognize.

Hope.

**************************************

After laying in bed a few days, Lacey couldn't take it anymore. She had been given some fresh clothing, and she wrapped her feet in two pairs of socks and a surprisingly good pair of shoes. Her jeans fit loosely, but otherwise she was more comfortable than she had been in ages. Against Denise's advice, she was determined to be on her feet and moving. She stepped gingerly out the door and stretched, grateful to be up and about.

She began to wander, slowly, around the community and admire what they had built. It was peaceful here; that was something she had not experienced often in her life, and it made her regret the fact that she couldn't stay. She wanted this for herself - but maybe, she thought, she didn't deserve it. It was always out of her reach, peace and love and all that fairy tale stuff. It wasn't meant for people like herself.

But, whether it was real or not, Lacey was moving on once she had made sure she was strong enough to carry on by herself again. She wasn't going to take away what these people had just because she couldn't have it for herself.

Suddenly, almost as if summoned by her thoughts, there was a commotion outside the walls. Engines. Gun shots.

Then his voice.

"Open sesame ricky-dickie-doo-dah!" He called, striking the gate with Lucille to get everyone's attention, as if he hadn't done that already. "Time for a surprise inspection!"

"Fuck." Lacey muttered, her stomach turning sour with fear. She looked around and saw the same fear on the faces of everyone else who could hear. Her heart was racing - if she turned herself over, would he be merciful to these people? She already knew damned well that he wouldn't.

"It's an old storm cellar, we closed it off from outside, this is the only way in." She explained. "Once you are down there, the boards will be covered up with a rug and the chair again." Lacey could barely breathe at the thought of being more or less buried alive with no way out until someone let her out, but there were no options. She lowered herself gently into the small, damp hole in the ground and nodded to Carol that she was ready. When she recovered the hole with the floorboards and the rug, there was nothing but darkness and the smell of old, musty earth.

******************************

Meanwhile at the gate, Negan grinned at Rick.

"What's the long face for, Rick? Aren't you happy to see me?" He teased. Rick didn't respond but simply stared at the tall, slender man with as neutral of a face as he could manage.

"You said you wouldn't be back for the tributes until the end of the month." He replied dryly.

"Well consider this a test, Ricky boy. We're going to take a little look around to be sure you're not hiding anything from us. You aren't trying to keep anything that is rightfully mine, are you?" He leaned in so close to Rick's face that Rick could feel Negan's breath on his cheek.

"Hiding what?" Rick replied with a scowl. "You took half of our supplies and haven't given us time to gather more."

Negan chuckled and walked in a tight circle around Alexandria's leader, sizing him up carefully. He looked for any sign that Rick knew about his runaway. He narrowed his eyes and gave him a soul shaking staredown but Rick kept his blank face despite the intense scrutiny.

Negan's face switched from that terrifying scowl to a bright beaming grin once again.

"Well, see, this is what you might call a trust building exercise. You didn't have time to hide anything from me, so if you have any secrets, we'll find them. If you're playing by my rules, then there is nothing to be afraid of!" He gestured with one gloved hand for his saviors to move in and begin searching the town.

"If you find her, bring her to me in one piece!" He ordered them. "I want to take her apart myself."

"Her who?" Rick demanded.

"Well you see, we have a deserter. I don't know if she was inspired by your useless attempt to deny me my share of your spoils or not, but for some reason one of my people decided to skip out on us." Negan told him, striding confidently down the street to survey the damage his men were doing as they tore the town up looking for Lacey.

"And while most survivors are free to go die out here on their own if they want to, this woman was a resource I cannot spare. If you got it in that tiny little peckerhead of yours to try and 'rescue' her, think twice. She's my property, Rick. And you don't steal from Daddy Negan without punishment."

"We haven't let anyone in. We can barely feed ourselves." Rick informed the man, frowning at him.

"Well, you could kick the fat girl out and feen three or four people with what she sneaks from the pantry when no ones watching." Negan suggested, his head tilted back as he looked down his nose at Rick, his tongue between his teeth - he amused himself greatly. Rick didn't dignify the man's criticism of Olivia with a response.

*************************************

Lacey sat in the dark, her knees drawn up to her chest with her arms holding them tight. She shivered, though whether that was due to the cold and damp or because she knew what was happening overhead was hard to say.

She heard the door open and the floorboards begin to squeak overhead.

"Olly olly oxenfree! Come out come out wherever you are Lacey girl!" She heard Negan calling. There were several other pairs of feet, and she heard furniture being moved, things clattering loudly to the floor. She squeezed herself against the corner of the cellar farthest from the loose floorboards and held her breath.

She closed her eyes tightly and focused on being silent.

"She's not here." She heard Simon's voice directly above and bile rose in her throat. That bastard. She wanted to live long enough to see him get what was coming to him. "We've searched everywhere. Maybe they found her at hilltop."

"Alright, Rick! Looks like you passed your pop quiz. I knew you had it in you to be a good student!" Negan declared gleefully.

"If we do find our runaround sue at hilltop, or at the kingdom with zeke? They will pay dearly. And if I find out you and yours had anything to do with it, so will you. Do. You. Understand?"

Lacey couldn't hear a response, but a moment later Negan's voice boomed out, "I can't hear you, Rick! Do you understand the consequences of aiding or harboring a runaway from Sanctuary? This will be considered stealing from me, and I will not tolerate that!"

"I understand!" Rick raised his voice this time. Lacey could imagine Negan's devilish smile. He loved making people cower.

Their footsteps faded away, and Lacey sat in the damp darkness, still and silent for over an hour before she heard the chair and rug moving. When the floorboards were lifted, Daryl was looking down at her.

"C'mon out. They're gone." He told her with a nod of his head. He offered her a hand up and she took it, climbing out of what she had feared might become her grave.

"We need to talk." Rick told her soberly, and Lacey nodded her head. It was time to spill some state secrets and earn her keep.

0 notes

twopoppies · 3 years ago

Note

Hi Gina!

I haven’t seen much discussion about mermaids & queer mythology but I haven’t been around that long so apologies if this is well covered! But there’s a UK charity called Mermaids that’s pretty high profile, it’s all about supporting trans, non-binary and gender diverse children and young people since the early 90’s. And every time I am reminded of H’s mermaid tattoo, and him saying he’s a mermaid, I think of that charity. Anyway I finally got round to researching why they named it Mermaids, and came across this ArtUK article (linked below). I know we all know The Little Mermaid but I found the depth of queer history touched on in this article so interesting, and then the second story about trans-women and The Little Mermaid really made me think about H’s photo shoot and the way he talks about/portrays gender. I just thought those parallels were so interesting. (I’m not trying to make any claims about how H identifies in terms of gender but I think it’s clear he’s fluid in his approach if nothing else!) Sorry that was such a ramble but I just wondered if you think there’s more to the mermaid thing with H? Or maybe I’m just drawing on coincidences lol!

https://artuk.org/discover/stories/mermaids-a-queer-twist-in-the-tail#

https://www.allure.com/story/trans-women-mermaid-trend-meaning

Hi sugar. The mermaid connection has been talked about a bit here. And here's a little bit about the tattoo itself.

Here's a terrific article that discusses Hans Christian Andersen's original version of The Little Mermaid and its connection to the LGBT+ community

The Andersen tale is much darker, befitting not only from the black Danish seas from which its heroine originates but also from the fact that many believe Andersen was inspired to write this story because of his unrequited love for Edvard Collin, a member of the Copenhagen elite, who did not return Andersen's love. There is no happy ending for the mermaid in Andersen's version; for her, a devouring infatuation with a handsome, indifferent prince leads to her exile from her family and birthplace, and the decision to sell her voice—her soul—in order for a chance at love. After suffering excruciating pain—the Little Mermaid's newly formed legs are cursed; each step feels like she's walking on upturned knives—she is rejected by the prince in favor of another, normal woman, and the nameless creature is returned to the troubled sea from which she came, dispersed into the water as effervescent froth, cresting each wave in turn.

That the Little Mermaid would become an icon of queer culture as early as the 19th century is no surprise, really; she is emblematic of every young boy or girl who felt different from the family and place in which he or she was raised, who suffered in silence while loving someone they knew wouldn't—or couldn't—love them back, who died without ever realizing the versions of themselves they most wanted to be. More than just the Little Mermaid, though, the mythological perception of mermaids as being shape-shifting temptresses, whose sole purpose was to ruin the lives of men, trapping them with their siren calls, tricking them to succumb to their basest, carnal natures, is not so dissimilar to how queer people have been cast as duplicitous; there's a virulent aspect of homophobia which maintains that the LGBT community is trying to "lure" straight men and women into their clutches through deception and trickery.

Thank you for the articles you linked, too!

Mermaids: a queer twist in the tail

Beauty Beyond Binaries: The Mermaid Trend Has an Extra-Special Meaning for Many Trans Women

#mermaid tattoo #mermaid harry #little mermaid #harry's gender #harry and gender #mermaid symbolism

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ohheyitsokay · 4 years ago

Text

classic

pairing: Jack Daniels (Agent Whiskey) x reader

wordcount: 3k

warnings: none, tropes on tropes on tropes, weird descriptions of things

summary: good, old fashioned fan fiction chaos

notes: there’s no getting around it - everything I write with Jack is inevitably influenced and inspired by @scribbledghost s version of him, particularly her neighbor!whiskey. I tried not to, but I still feel I should give credit!

It was the kind of razor your grandfather would have used – more of a knife than anything, because of course it was.

Of course this would be edge that your housemate used to slide along his jaw and chin and cheeks to make that perfect mustache before work in the mornings. He was the type to love old fashioned, traditional, dangerous things - it made sense. After all, that was why you were staying in the guestroom of his ranch home while your apartment was being renovated. Old fashioned courtesy between friends, of course.

Dangerous.

Jack had caught you watching him, impressed in spite of yourself as the sharp blade scraped over his neck, neatly slicing the hairs on his throat, and pushing your heart into yours. It was unnecessarily intense, dramatic, the touch of risk for the sake of vanity. It made you swallow, awed that he wasn’t covered in little cuts, and almost aroused at how casually he used something so akin to a weapon. And that alone made him smirk, cocky, as though he had been waiting for you to notice, hoping to impress you.

A few days later he’d coaxed you to him, settled in a chair with his legs spread wide with confidence as he handed you the tool, smug with confidence – almost a challenge. He had gotten wrecked at work – he actually had, and it was the perfect excuse to draw you close, make you bend to his will. Schoolyard tactics, really, but all of this was, and it was worth it to have your eyes on him alone, face a breath away from his.

It was about trust more than anything. Not that you would ever hurt him, but the power of being over him was heightened by the intimacy as you lathered the cream over his skin.

His deep eyes bore into you, not flickering to the blade as you tried to focus on your task. If he had asked you a different time, another day, you maybe could have refused, but somehow his wanting your steady hand felt heavy with implication.

Ignoring the quickening steps of your heart, your fingers grasped his chin, shaving away the stubble he’d let grow just for this. Each slice of smooth skin revealed left a thick line of froth and hairs on the blade, and you got to breathe as your turned away to wipe it off. You could feel his gaze, still, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it. Hovering over him while he was seated, touching his jaw, leaning close, and meeting those brown eyes would have been too much.

Your denial was as a solid as a wall with half sunk into the ground with cement – almost rooted in your fear of rejection.

It was a challenge to ignore the shots of adrenaline that filled you when he’d reach around you to grab something in the fridge, his chest against your back, hand on your hip. Already you had shoved down the butterflies in your stomach when he’d offered you a place to stay, carried your boxes, and called you sweetheart. You had spent far to long ignoring the way he hadn’t brought a single girl home since you’d been there to fold now and admit anything. Because if you did, there was a chance you would lose your friend forever, and that was out of the question.

You kept your eyes down to keep your hands steady.

For his part, Jack’s plan was only half working. He liked your attention, liked the way your breath hitched as you wiped him clean. But you were closer than you had ever been, patting in the aftershave and you wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t open the door for him to push the tools and towels aside and kiss you. All he wanted was to grab hold of you and pull you into his lap and make you melt against him but there wasn’t a moment.

You’d been friends for a long time, been there for each other countless times and he had yearned for you almost as long. At first, he tried to deny it too, grabbing at random women and hating himself when he imagined they were you as he pulled them into his room.

Then he’d given that up, stopped pretending anyone could replace you, that anyone else occupied his dreams, anyone else could be as good a fit for him, and went after you full speed. It had honestly been innocent to invite you to stay, instinct instilled in him from his childhood. Still, he had begun to see the opportunities for the two of you to enjoy intimate domesticity right away, when he’d cooked you dinner and you’d talked at his table for hours, finally not worried about having to drive home. He ached for that – not ever really having to leave you, and he spent more nights than he’d like to admit thinking of knocking on your door.

Only… you were still in your denial phase. Not sleeping around just pretending it was normal to sink into his arms after a bad day, to let your friend play with your hair until you fell asleep, to watch his lips as you gently helped him shave.

It was too vulnerable, to high of a risk to go after you with the chance that you weren't ready. The last thing he wanted was to scare you away.

“What, really?” you said, genuinely surprised. When you’d accepted to stay, he’d promised you there would be no problems, but now you felt guilty.

His mama was coming to town, and would more than likely be staying with him.

“I’ll find somewhere else!”

Jack was already shaking his head at you, like you were missing the joke, but he looked… almost nervous? You couldn’t tell, it wasn’t something you saw on his face often.

“Actually, sweetheart, I was hoping you could do me a favor,” he was asking, but it’s not like you could actually say no you him, when he shot that winning smile your way. It was like not petting a puppy – and you were the opposite of allergic to cowboy secret agents.

“You know Mama Daniels,” he said and you smiled, having spent many a summer helping her in her garden, and being thanked with dinners heavy with butter and love. “She’ll like you here, she’ll be over the damn moon.” And you conceded. It would be more than nice, to spend time with such a wonderful woman, an Jack had invested in a very comfortable couch. For a week you enjoyed a hopeful bliss, that she would help remind you Jack was just your friend.

The sun was shining through the windows, the winding almost singing a quiet, breathy song, and everything was as spotless as you could manage. Well worn quilts were clean, and you had set up a little station for yourself in the living room determined to make it your home for the week.

Then she came with a jacket that matched her slacks and shoes with little buckles and a paisley suitcase full of presents for her son, who she insisted wasn’t really grown. She hugged you and scolded you for being at work instead of coming to pick her up, and finally settled at the kitchen table, her intentions clear. You were to sit and catch up - Jack was already pulling the sweet tea you’d made from the fridge and a reused sewing tin filled with butter cookies appeared out of her purse.

Meekly, you sat, knowing if you didn’t eat the cookies in quantity, she would pout her whole visit. You could feel Jack settle at your side as she talked, warm and solid, a comfort, despite the heat of the day.

The cookies disintegrated on your tongue, melting with a burst of sweet before the bite was gone. They were full of love and maternal affection and things that you hated to spend money on and made all bad thoughts disappear. You were thankful your mouth was full of one when she mentioned, offhandedly, how plum delighted she was when she found out the two of you were finally dating. Abruptly, you remembered just how wrong your previous hope was.

The sweet lady had been hinting for you to marry her son since before he’d mastered his first lasso, and apparently, she was sure that moment was well on its way.

“And living together, no less!” she was beaming with pride, tradition apparently irrelevant as she chatted happily about it.

Turning to the man by your side, you found him choking, trying to breathe through the cookie he’d accidentally inhaled. There was a white ring around his irises as he stared at you, panicking and aptly confused. Sure your face matched his, you jerked your head at his mother, a silent argument ensuing.

Did you do this?

No!

What do we do?

We can’t break her heart!

It went unnoticed. You felt helpless, drinking your tea and trying not to have a small meltdown in front of a very misinformed lady who had brought you cookies.

He was your friend! And sure, you liked the weight of his arm around your shoulders or could get lost in the drawl of his voice but that was normal! It was normal to be so comfortable with him as the beginning, end, and highlight to each of your days.

Sounding weak even to yourself, a crack, solid and formidable, formed in the wall you created to protect yourself and the friendship you had built.

“Ma’am, I’ll be back in a moment,” you whispered, grabbing your phone as you grasped at air, hoping beyond logic that you could pretend it was an important call.

You didn’t exactly run away, but you walked very quickly outside, mourning the loss of your little guestroom, and the privacy it offered.

Jack would never, ever smack his mama but he did want to say some choice words. Nothing could have prepared him for the last two minutes of his life, first the embarrassment of the misunderstanding and then… the fear in your eyes.

He hated it, hated it so much more than he ever thought he could, hated that it was probably his fault it was there. And he hated that it shrouded the longing he had begun to see there, these past few weeks. Long strides carried him after you, hearing his own voice distantly saying words, explaining maybe, as he left the table.

There was a tree, trunk too wide to wrap your arms around, thicket of leaves creating bean-shaped shadow on the ground, by one corner of his home.

You were behind it, almost like a child, letting the bark press lines into your forehead. The dappled lighting did wonders for you – you looked the perfect picture of a storybook wanderer in distress.

Jack slowed, overwhelmed with the desire to encompass you in his arms, slay your dragons, and whisk you away. Now was not the time.

He kept his voice soft, reaching for you in place of his hands, trying hopelessly to find the root of your panic.

You were just as quiet, telling him it was fine, you would pretend, as long as you’d talk tonight, after she went to sleep. His heart was creating dramatic movie scenes where you would float into his room, declaring your love for him, before settling in his arms, but he shook them away, agreeing.

Smile over-bright, you touched his smooth cheek a moment too long, before pushing past him back towards the house.

He allowed the afterglow of his daydream to wash over him only a moment before he jogged go catch up with you.

The quilt on Jack’s bed had chickens on it, of all things. It was one of those that had clearly been homemade, years and years ago, taken care of, but worn at the edges with memories and use. One pillow had a dent for his head, the other was squashed into an unrecognizable shape

You didn’t know that it wasn’t like that, before. That his arms had only started searching for something to hold onto since you had been around.

All of his room was new to you – it made you feel strange, realizing that for weeks you’d been in his home but not this part of his space.

The afternoon his mother came, he’d been called into the field. You had never quite seen the look on his face as he reasoning fell on deaf ears – desperation and frustration like ants ruining honey on a picnic. The flannel across his back bunched as his shoulders had filled with tension before he stripped it off to change into his work clothes. Jack kissed his mothers cheek and spewed instructions for the both of you, some apologies spilling out and others kept just behind his eyes as he grasped your hand.

His final command was for your ears alone - that you take his room, and you’d been too panicked to refuse. The last three days, the smell of him and the memorabilia scattered around the space kept you company when his mother went to sleep and you slept in his bed for the first time, alone.

It was surprising how sentimental he was. His hooks had another cowboy hat on them, a little wider, brown, and considerably more worn. There was a stack of printed photos in a little box by his bed – it was open, and some of the photos had oil-worn fingerprints along the edges. You found ones of you, and your heart flipped inside your chest.

You should have realized it was impossible to deny yourself, your feelings, with him surrounding you like this. Each thing you learned, each reminder of him practically reached off of the walls, as if he were there, coaxing your heart into his hands. It felt silly, almost, that you even tried to ignore it - you had missed him the moment his hand left yours. Now you had all the time to process, surrounded by his neatly folded shirts and the line of his favorite boots.

The idealized illusion of your relationship had only lasted half a day of living with his mother. Her warm brown eyes were too much like her son’s – you couldn’t lie to them. It was good though, for her to hold your hand a listen to you talk as the birds gossiped outside the window and steam seeped out of the pie you helped her bake. Miraculously, she wasn’t disappointed with you, commending your honestly, and explaining that if she was patient until now, then she could certainly continue to do so.

The more you talked to her, the more you suspected that she was right, all along. She helped you dig up the walls, her kind determination the shovel you needed for those concrete roots.

You would work and talk and tuck yourself into his chicken-clad blanket at night and finally, finally let yourself think of him, allow yourself to be in love with him. You didn’t know he had started actually living in his room again, when he’d started letting himself love you. That he thought of your smile when he’d found his old quilt. Still, the more you thought, the more you could admit to yourself that maybe, just maybe, he loved you too.

That was how Jack found you - absorbed in your thoughts - the whiskey in his hand as forgotten as the mission and the agent he’d played for the past seventy eight hours and twenty one minutes.

He watched through the half open door, words failing him as you sat up, startled and the way your eyes searched for injuries made him want to eat you alive.

There was nothing that could’ve prepared him for the sight of you in his bed, even though he had told you to be there and three days to daydream about it. It was intensely intoxicating, having someone care for you so intimately.

With his sheets sliding down around your waist, you looked as good as the pie on the counter, as if a single snapshot could encompass everything he wanted home to be.

You were wearing a shirt he’d given you, years ago, and he swallowed, hard.

“Are you up for that talk?” his voice was rough. It would have been nice, to relish in the feeling of you checking him over, attention on him as he unwound, but he couldn’t wait. This moment was three days overdue.

“I told your mom we aren’t dating,” you blurted and he smiled, having guessed as much. Smoothing the blanket, your hand patted the spot next to you, your legs crossing.

In that, Jack knew something had changed since he left you. The flickering fear had fled your eyes, and you seemed settled into your skin more than ever before.

He sat next to you, having played over how this talk would go a million times, and still not finding the right words. Confidence was easier to find when he was flirting, poking at you, but seemed foreign in the din lights of his bedroom. Instead he shifted trying to lean back with his arm along the headboard, hoping he didn’t seem like a teenager trying to buy himself time.

You began to talk, saving him, and all the things you’d processed with his mama tumbled out of you before you were realizing that you were confessing how much he truly meant you. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been strange how comfortable you felt, but in the moment, you were in awe.

Jack was as handsome as always, if a little roughed up, like he’d worn the same clothes a few days in a row. You wanted to run your fingers over the short, patchy beard he had going, and without a second thought, you did, feeling his cheeks move as he smiled crookedly and leaned into the touch.

There was only a moment of quiet, crickets outside, before he said, “I missed you, too.” And then, “Will you stay, sweetheart?”

When you whispered, “Where else would I go?” he kissed you.

It was late, and there were still words unsaid, questions to be answered, but you both let yourselves get lost, exploring each other. Long moments passed, letting all the pent up yearning overflow like cool water after a long, hot day. Then the next steps came out, whispered between kisses and as he moved over you, shucking the final walls between you, you found yourselves actually dating, and maybe even actually living together.

Old fairy tales and historic romances played in the back of your mind, inserting their logic into your life like had never quite made sense before.

And you wondered if you had time in the morning, and his mama didn’t give you too much grief, if he would let you help him shave, and eat pie for breakfast. Because for the life of you, you couldn’t think of a single reason why not.

Taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @0celestialbitch0 @beautyagegoodnesssize

#this got away from me #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #kingsman #maybe i don't know people

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nanomooselet · 11 months ago

Note

Oh man, camels is RIGHT; when I saw the ask I did start sketching it out, and then tripped and fell into realising I… might be out of my depth. The Biblical stuff alone is insane.

Like okay, sample I came up with, here we go.

Rem told Vash not to eat the geranium. Thus the geranium is the Fruit of Knowledge, the forbidden fruit. The geranium also represents Tesla. Nai goads Vash into seeking Tesla out despite Rem's instructions. Therefore Nai tempted Vash to seek the forbidden. Nai then brought about the Fall, condemning everyone to struggle to survive instead of remaining in paradise, then turned around and told Vash he was the one responsible, because he gave Nai the access code as they were seeking Tesla. Vash is thus the one who's considered to bear responsibility, to be more spiritually weak and corruptible than anyone else involved.

Vash is the one who bears the original sin. Therefore Vash must be Eve. So: he's gotta be baptised. At least, Knives seems to think so. (And Knives kinda does this a lot? He seems to pick Biblical stories to stick Vash more or less at random.)

And to explain a scene more specifically and technically: The way Vash turns around and looks at Wolfwood to say "I see it in his eyes." Everybody says it's so frigging gay because Vash is flirting. Lowering his eyelids, very slightly raising his chin, turning to look WW in the eye; it's a gentle invitation. Vash has long eyelashes (and very pretty drooping eyes, plus his mole). Now, I'm not exactly familiar with the way men flirt with men but that's certainly a way women flirt, AND Vash's facial features are centred in the frame. The camera adores Vash's pretty face, he gets so many more close-ups than anyone else. And not only does poor Nick (abducted by an apocalypse cult no older than maybe ten and forced to speedrun puberty, and I doubt they bothered educating him) look like he just took a blow to the head, a bit later he whips out the Punisher in the most absurdly over-the-top show-offy way he possibly can (I've also seen it described as "needlessly horny") to kill the Worm and help rescue Vash's reporter buddies whom he was previously trying to kill.

Dude's developed a crush. This ridiculous boy is showing off for a pretty face. Zazie noticed and thinks it's adorable.

Despite all that, I personally wouldn't read it as romantic - the yearning Vash awakens in WW is much more likely to be the realisation that he'd prefer to be a good man. But there's metaphors for a spiritual awakening that make it sound like falling in love, I know that for a fact.

Also, you know, say what you want about Roberto but after informing Vash of his concerns, and even though he clearly thinks Nick's untrustworthy, he does respect Vash's choice to bring WW along. Less careful writing would have had Roberto pull the "overprotective dad threatens the disreputable boyfriend" thing right there, which would be really awful considering what Knives's relationship with Vash is like, not to mention more than a little homophobic and/or stereotypical.

But nope! Roberto's not that guy, it just doesn't happen. He figures Vash knows his own mind and can take care of himself. Nick stealing his cigarettes is what actually pisses him off. (Meanwhile Meryl works herself up into a bit of a froth over it and Vash defuses it by drawing attention to the Worm-cloud against the night sky; I think it’s the third time in that ep he defuses a confrontation, but that's the most Disney Princess way he ever does it.)

And that's about as far as I got before I had to go lie down.

I seem to remember you mentioning something about the feminine imagery surrounding Stampede Vash, although for the life of me I can’t find the post. Something like how the camera frames him and all that. Are you planning to go into more depth at some point?

I’ve considered it but after thinking about it, it's unfortunately not something I feel confident discussing without a much firmer grasp of the terminology involved. Maybe someday!

#trigun stampede #mini meta #and that's one half of one episode for one relationship through one lens #like even if i was sure i could tackle it i'd still LOVE to hear what a professional academic would find in this #stampede Is That Deep

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piduai · 4 years ago

Text

Q&A corner from the DVD bundle of the 15th volume of Golden Kamuy

this one is also questions from the seiyuus. sharing anyone is fine, but please credit me.

Shiraishi Haruka (Asirpa)

Q1: What does Asirpa have in the bag she's always carrying on her back?

Noda: Condiments such as dried Alpine leeks and soft windflower, cooking oil, winter clothes, tableware, a small pot, deer whistle, punishment rod, etcetera, etcetera.

Q2: What happened to her precious crusty fish cake she thought was what's left of Dick-sensei?

Noda: It's in her bag as well.

Q3: I love the mix of the serious and the humorous in Golden Kamuy. Does the humor come out naturally as you draw? Do you enjoy comedy?

Noda: When there's a stranded serious atmosphere I just feel like destroying it. (crotch shines)

Kobayashi Chikahiro (Sugimoto Saichi)

Q1: If you were to voice someone in the series, whom would you choose?

Noda: Henmi Kazuo.

Q2: Is there a reason to why Sugimoto won't take off his cap even when going into the ocean or an onsen?

Noda: I just thought that keeping the cap on while naked is sexy.

Q3: What was the most impactful thing that you encountered while doing research?

Noda: I talked about deer hunting here and there before so I'll leave it out, other than that, encountering a bear and its cub at Daisetsuzan and being chased by a group of stray dogs in Sakhalin. There are stray dogs the size of German shepherds in there. I got to do a lot during my research and gained many good experiences.

Nakata Jouji (Hijikata Toshizou)

Q1: Do you already know how you're going to end the story?

Noda: I know how I want to end it, and there's not that much left. I want the landing to be akin to one of a gymnastics gold medalist, but I refuse to rush through things and make it ugly just to reach the conclusion, out of both pride as a professional mangaka and responsibility towards my readers.

Q2: Even the villains have their dedicated spotlight and are overflowing with charm. What makes a villain attractive in your eyes?

Noda: Doing their best. No matter how repulsive their deeds, as long as they're showing earnest dedication, I just want to aid them. However, when it comes to ethics, every reader has their own boundaries, so it's hard to know where to stop. I'm sure a lot of readers think that I've already crossed the line.

Itou Kentarou (Shiraishi Yoshitake)

Q: I think there's a lot of other characters who, like Shiraishi, were based off someone. There's a Nihei in both your previous work, Supinamarada!, and this one. Is he based off someone too? Is it possible that they are blood related?

Noda: There's a lot of factors to it, but Nihei's philosophy of the winner being decided in one shot was taken from a real life high school hockey team supervisor who is said to be a big deal. What he meant by that is that there is one decisive moment during a match, and if you play thinking of second chances you're going to miss it. Isn't it mesmerizing? I was told by staff from that school that Nihei looks exactly like that supervisor. It wasn't my intention at all, how curious. And yes, I think the two Niheis are blood related.

Ootsuka Houchuu (Tsurumi Tokushirou)

Q: Tsurumi is so unique and enigmatic, I became a big fan of him upon acting as him. I'm very interested what historical or movie figures served as his models.

Noda: I made the resemblance to Hannibal Lecter and Gary Oldman's character from Leon quite deliberate. There's also Hitler's mannerisms, I used it for misleading, but they're there. I've also been channeling Hans Landa from Inglourious Basterds through him. Tsurumi is supposed to be this elegant, intellectual kind of freak. Like Gomez Addams.

Nomura Kenji (Ushiyama Tatsuma)

Q1: Ushiyama seems to have been dragged into the race of gold for the gold itself, but does he have any other goals? Or does he act on instinct? Don't tell me... He's only in there for the women...

Noda: Maybe it will become clear later. I wouldn't call Ushiyama particularly calculating, though. Maybe he really is in only for the women, after all.

Q2: I'm curious about Ushiyama's personality. He doesn't seem to be doubting the people around him much. Does he judge others going by intuition?

Noda: He is very strong, so he assumes that he can just kill the ones who betray him whenever he wants. I think that the stronger someone is, the more lenient. He can get along just fine with someone and then just instantly strike them down if they cross the line, scary guy.

Tsuda Kenjirou (Ogata Hyakunosuke)

Q: Golden Kamuy is a crazy story full of crazy characters. Do you ever happen to think, "wow, that's not okay" about yourself? Or got told this by anyone?

Noda: When I was in Sakhalin, a Nivkh family took me in and let me have a few traditional dishes. There was a high school girl in that family. She seemed to be into Japanese anime, and asked us what work we're researching for. So I kindly told her that it's One Piece. She got so excited. Like, frothing at the mouth level excited. "One Piece really is something, huh", I thought to myself.

#golden kamuy #noda satoru #translation

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stillbandofbrothersthirsty · 4 years ago

Text

Girl Crush

Chuck Grant x OC (not exactly a happy ending, Floyd Talbert & Luz fluff tho)

She was absolutely beautiful. She drew the attention of everyone in the room, and rightfully so. She was radiant with confidence and charm. Her long, blonde hair quite literally looked like a halo and those perfect cupid bow lips were painted a sumptuous red. She was even wearing real, silky stockings. Where in the hell did she get those, Virginia thought. And of out of all the guys in the room why was she sitting with Chuck?

Sure, Chuck was handsome in that sturdy all-American way. But Virginia had a realistic view of her best friend; he wasn’t the most charming, nor the most outgoing or flirtatious. He was quiet, polite, and thoughtful. Those were some of the many wonderful things about him and reasons why Virginia knew she was falling in love with him. However, they weren’t traits that she thought a bombshell like Adrienne would have picked out of a crowd of dashing young soldiers.

Adrienne was the type of girl that George Luz or Skinny Sisk drooled over, the type of girl Floyd Talbert would sneak away to a corner of the bar.

Of course any guy would have love to have her on his arm, she was perfect. But Chuck was not the obvious choice.

Adrienne was like all the girls Virginia and Chuck had grown up around; California beauties that had never seemed to tempt Chuck before. Chuck wasn’t one to ogle girls on the beach or take them out in his car every weekend. Whenever he had had free time between school or work, he just hung out with Virginia and their other friends.

Their friend Mary got engaged the same month Chuck and the other guys enlisted. There was nothing in California for Virginia once all her friends left so she decided to join the Women’s Army Corp. as a switchboard operator.

Chuck had been so proud of her when she finally qualified. She had walked over to his house only days before he was due to ship out to show him her letter of certification. Right there in his yard, he had picked her up and spun her around.

“I’m so proud of you, Ginny! And now you’ll be able to come with me!”

Butterflies fluttered around her stomach, he wanted her to be with him. “We don’t know where I’ll be stationed or where you’ll be!”

“They have to put us together, I just know they will. I have a feeling.”

He had been wrong, then he had been right. Virginia worked her way up the eastern seaboard while Chuck trained in Georgia. Their letters were constant exchanges between good friends sharing the stresses and challenges of their burgeoning military careers.

Where do you think they’ll send you next?

North Carolina.

I’ve been in New York for a while now.

Big city girl.

Definitely not California.

Where will you go after the war?

California.

Me too.

What will you do after the war?

Wouldn’t it be nice to have a house by the beach?

Very.

We could get houses by each other.

Maybe.

I’ll get a good job, a nice wife, and you’ll find a nice guy.

I’ve already met lots of nice guys.

Not a husband though.

Virginia and Chuck had always been especially close, but Virginia had fallen in love with him through those letters. He was her home and her adventure all in one.

Eventually, he had been right. They were reunited on a troopship destined for England. They had been on the ship for a week before they realized.

I’m on a boat destined for England.

So am I!

The moment she received the letter with his shipment details she had run into the soldiers bunk room to whoops and hollers and shouts of “nurse!”.

“Charles Grant? Officer Grant?” she asked as she forced her way past men throwing baseballs and stretching. They all pointed her in the same direction until she reached his bunk.

“Ginny?” he dropped his cards in shock as she threw herself on his bunk.

“I can’t believe we’re on the same ship!” she squealed. He wrapped his arms around her in a warm hug.

A voice cleared above where they lay unceremoniously embracing, “who’s your friend there Grant?”

A handsome young man with dark brown eyes propped his arm against the steel pole of the bunk.

Virginia quickly got up from Chuck’s cot, smoothing her skirt. Chuck swung his legs around so he sat to face the new arrival.

“Floyd Talbert, meet Virginia Wilson.”

Floyd offered his hand, “nice to meet you.”

Floyd Talbert was a flirt and everyone knew it. But Virginia liked him a lot, they clicked from the very start, which made sense since he was a good friend of Chuck’s. Just like Chuck, Floyd was very polite, and always made a point of introducing his girlfriends to Virginia - at least the girls he would see more than once.

He would sneak down to the switchboard room to say hi or to the officers building where they would rendezvous for a cup of coffee. So would Chuck, and Virginia always looked forward to those surprise chats. Occasionally, Chuck and Virginia would find themselves on breaks at the same time and would go for walks around the base. The rolling English hills made them both homesick and it was nice to have each other to reminisce with.

Adrienne worked as an officers secretary and they would pass her every time they left the officers building. It didn’t occur to Virginia until later that every time Chuck came to see her, he would have passed Adrienne too.

On one autumn evening out, Chuck invited Virginia out to get drinks with him and some of his friends. She knew it wasn’t a date but she let herself get more excited than she should have. She gave herself extra time to bathe, to pin up her hair, and even took the time to apply red lipstick and to draw thin brown lines down the back of her legs. She had the army regulation stockings but the dark line down the back of her calves gave them a more alluring look.

“So who you dressing up for?” Floyd asked over his beer. He and Virginia were the only ones remaining at their table after Chuck got pulled into a game of darts.

Virginia flushed, “who say’s I’m dressing up for anyone?”

Floyd just looked at her, waiting for her to cave.

“I just wanted to look nice, I haven’t been out in a while.”

Floyd just nodded, his eyes searching hers before she broke eye contact.

“Ya know,” Floyd cleared his throat, “he’s been seeing Adrienne.”

The blood ran cold in Virginia’s veins. She knew exactly who he was talking about, but technically he hadn’t said who so maybe it wasn’t Chuck. She did her best to sound nonchalant, “who’s seeing Adrienne?”

“Your boy,” Floyd nodded his head at Chuck, “Chuckie.”

Virginia swallowed hard to keep the lump from growing in her throat, “that’s exciting!” and she did her best to sound excited.

Floyd shrugged, “sure.” He paused, “exciting for him I guess,” Floyd sighed.

If Virginia said anything else she would’ve broke, so she stayed silent. She took a sip of her beer to keep her eyes from welling up with tears.

Suddenly, Adrienne was thrust into her life. Adrienne was sweet and said hi to her every time they passed at work. She was out with them every time that Virginia joined the soldiers for drinks. All the guys loved her because there was nothing not to love! Adrienne was like their own personal movie star; a kind and busty blonde always dressed in a neat suit working for the officers.

At the bars it took all of Virginia’s power not to stare at Adrienne. Her fingers were long and thin, like a porcelain dolls. Somehow, her finger nails were always perfectly manicured with cherry red paint. Was that even regulation? Maybe the secretaries didn’t have to follow WAC standards. Virginia hadn’t painted her nails any color since she left California. The red looked so beautiful curled around the olive drab of Chuck’s arm. Every now and then Virginia would catch Chuck and Adrienne leaving the bar alone together. It was a punch to the stomach just imaging what they might be doing or where they might be going alone like that.

“I don’t know how I got so lucky,” Chuck confessed to her once on one of their walks. He wasn’t one to talk about his feelings too much, he was always so mellow. Virginia knew that this confession was the rawest, most surface level expression of what he may actually be feeling.

“How long have you known her though, Chuck?” she asked gently.

“I know, not very long, I’m not rushing into anything,” he smiled his little half smile at her, “trust me.”

For the first time ever she didn’t trust him, not regarding Adrienne.

“Hey, drink,” Floyd placed a full beer in front of Virginia, breaking her out of her trance. He took a long drink of his own beer, surveying the room. He had yet to date any of the women in the bar at the moment, which was huge for him. This was his night to find someone new without breaking any hearts.

“Where’s Lucy?” Floyd asked.

“She’s up at the bar.” Virginia gestured to where her friend and co-worker was chatting with Buck Compton.

“Will you be good on your own here? If I socialize?” Floyd asked right as George Luz sat down.   “All good with George here!” Virginia reassured him.

“Good, ol’ dependable George,” George slurred slightly. However, things were not all good with George Luz, depending on who you asked, because the night quickly took another turn. While the company was divided between the dart board and flocking around Adrienne, George Luz bought Virginia shots of gin.

“Fuckin’ disgusting,” George shuddered as he threw down his third shot.

“I don’t know how they drink it,” Virginia added, recovering from her second.

“Okay, something to wash it down,” George gestured to the bartender.

They drank their beers at the bar and Virginia felt the warm, creeping feeling of the liquor start to take hold on her body.

George finished his beer, leaving only the froth at the bottom, “another?” he asked, his eyes only slightly crossed. Virginia nodded solemnly.

“No more of that gin shit. Two whiskeys neat barkeep!” The bartender raised a suspicious eyebrow at Luz but served them anyways.

“Much better,” Luz smacked his lips. Virginia’s head was spinning now.

“How we feelin’?” Luz asked her. Virginia allowed a wide grin to spread across her face.   “Feelin’ good, George.”  

She linked arms with George and they traipsed around the bar sloppily greeting friends. They interrupted a game of darts before slumping into a corner booth with Joe Liebgott, Popeye, and Lucy. But George and Virginia were in their own world. They sat cozied up chatting, dumb to the jovial world around them. That’s when Virginia found herself revealing everything to a very sympathetic George.

“I gotta girl like that too,” George sighed.

“Like what? Like Adrienne?”

“I wish,” George slumped in the booth, resting his cheek on Virginia’s shoulder, “nah I gotta girl who doesn’t notice me.”

“Chuck notices me,” Virginia pouted.

“Does he know you like him? Like love him like him?” George slurred.

Virginia considered this, “I don’t think I told him.”  “Ever?”  Virginia shook her head. That was a mistake, the world began to spin slightly. She sat up abruptly, trying to steady herself, and consequentially knocked George off her shoulder. Joe and Lucy eyed them cautiously.

The world settled again and Virginia leaned back into the worn leather of the booth. George shifted so that his legs were up on her lap and his head knocked against the corner of the booth.

“I think you should tell him.”

“I don’t know…”

“Just in case,” George encouraged her.

Virginia glanced over to where Adrienne sat next to Chuck, her hand on his thigh. The alcohol had made her weak. Virginia felt the tears begin to prick at her eyes.

“No, no no,” George caught her face in his hands, “no crying! Don’t cry, not unless you’re alone with the guy!”

Virginia sniffed and blinked her eyes rapidly, “okay, yeah, maybe I will say something to him.”

“Okay, yeah, I’ll come with you.” George swung his legs off of her lap and they scooted out of the booth.

“Where are you guys goin’?” Joe called after them. George just waived his hand dismissively as he followed Virginia into the crowd towards Chuck.

Virginia reached Chuck with her heart thumping in her ears, this was it. She was going to tell him. But maybe she should do it in private? Would he come with her if she asked him for a private word? Or would he leave her standing there? Panic rose up in her just as Chuck noticed her presence.

“Hey, Ginny,” he smiled sweetly up at her. Virginia tried to focus on him but she was distracted by the redness of Adrienne’s full lips. The woman’s face swam in perfect lines of red and black and blonde in Virginia’s intoxicated vision.

“Chuck - I, could I -“ she stammered. She lost all focus at the sight of Adrienne.

“Are you drunk, Ginny?” Chuck chuckled good naturedly.

“No, kinda, maybe- but actually I wanted-“

“Hey Virginia, I need ya over here.” Virginia hadn’t even noticed Floyd arrive at her side until suddenly he had an arm wrapped around her waist. “Sorry Chuck, just gonna steal her real quick.” Floyd whisked her away, and Chuck didn’t even seem to notice that anything was off. He turned right back to talking to Adrienne.

“Hey sweetheart,” Floyd murmured, “come over here with me.” Floyd sat her down at the back of the bar next to a disgruntled looking young woman. He reappeared in seconds with a large glass of water which he made Virginia drink.

“Let’s get you home,” Floyd said. He helped Virginia into her coat and led her outdoors. The cool air and water helped to sober her up.

“Shouldn’t have left ya alone with Luz should I?” Floyd teased half-heartedly.

Virginia smiled, but the tears were coming again, “I’m sorry for ruining your night, Floyd.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” he put a comforting arm around her shoulders, “you don’t need to be sorry.”

“I just- with Chuck -“

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

Floyd was quiet, the sound of gravel crunching beneath their feet filled their silence.

“I think you’re going to have to get over him, Virginia.”

Virginia let one tear drop down her cheek. It ran all the way down her face to the edge of her jaw, where it hung for a moment, before she wiped it away with a gloved hand. She nodded.

“You’re right.”

“I know it won’t be easy, but you’re tough. And you’ve got friends, including Chuck. He’ll always be your friend, and so will I. You’ve got me here until, and when, things are normal between you and Chuck again.”

Virginia smiled and the tears flowed hot down her cheeks. The tears were no longer sad, they were bittersweet. She slung her arm around Floyd’s waist and they continued down the quiet, dark English road back to base.

#hbowar #band of brothers #hbo band of brothers #fanfiction #charles grant #chuck grant x oc #getting drunk with george luz #george luz #floyd talbert #not just a man ho but a good friend too #one shot

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explosionshark · 5 years ago

Note

Thanks for recommending Gideon the Ninth! It was so good! Do you have a book rec tag I could check out? :)

honestly i should, huh? i’ve read more books than probably ever before this year and i’ve talked about ‘em intermittently, but not with a consistent tag. i’ll recommend some right now, though, with a healthy dose of recency bias!

sf/f

the priory of the orange tree by samantha shannon - a truly epic fantasy novel with one of the most beautiful, satisfying f/f romances i’ve ever read. the novel takes account nearly everything i hate about fantasy as a genre (overwhelmingly straight, white, and male centric, bland medieval European settings, tired tropes) and subverts them. incredible world-building, diverse fantasy cultures, really cool arthrurian legend influence. one of my favorite books i’ve ever read tbh.

gideon the ninth by tamsyn muir - which you’ve read, obviously, but for posterity’s sake i’m keeping it here! sci-fi + murder mystery + gothic horror. genuinely funny while still having a super strong emotional core and more than enough gnarly necromantic to satisfy the horror nerd in me. makes use of some of my favorite tropes in fiction, namely the slowburn childhood enemies to reluctant allies to friends to ??? progression between gideon and harrow. absolutely frothing at the mouth for a sequel.

the broken earth trilogy by nk jemisin - really the first book that helped me realize i don’t hate fantasy, i just hate the mainstream ‘medieval europe but with magic’ version of fantasy that dominates the genre. EXTREMELY cool worldbuilding. i’ve definitely described it as like, a GOOD version of what the mage-vs-templar conflict in dragon age could have been, with a storyline particularly reminiscent of “what if someone got Anders right?”

this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone - i’m not usually big on epistolary novels, but this one really worked for me. spy vs spy but it’s gay and takes place between time traveling agents of two opposing sides of a war. the letter writing format really plays to el-mohtar’s strengths as a poet, the unfolding love story is weird and beautiful. it’s a really quick read, too, if you’re short on time or attention.

empress of forever by max gladstone - i just finished this one this week! if you’re in the mood for a space opera, look no further. imagine if steve jobs was an asian lesbian and also like not a shitty person. this is where you start with vivian liao. you get the classic putting-the-band-together arc with beings from all across the universe, your romances and enemies-turned-friends and uneasy alliances all over the place. really satisfying character development and some extremely cool twists along the way. it’s just a fun good time.

the luminous dead by caitlin starling - this one rides the line of horror so it’s closest to that part of the list. it reminds me of the most inventive low budget horror/sci-fi films i’ve loved in the best way possible because it makes use of the barest narrative resources. it’s a book that takes place in one primary setting, featuring interactions between two characters that only meet each other face-to-face for the briefest period. the tension between the two characters is the most compelling part of the story, with competing and increasingly unreliable narratives and an eerie backdrop to ratchet things up even higher. the author described it as “queer trust kink” at one point which is, uh, super apt actually and totally my jam. the relationship at the center of the book is complicated to say the least, outright combative at points, but super compelling. plus there’s lost of gnarly sci-fi spelunking if you like stories about people wandering around in caves.

horror

the ballad of black tom by victor lavalle - we all agree that while lovecraft introduced/popularized some cool elements into horror and kind of defined what cosmic horror would come to mean, he was a racist sack of shit. which is why my favorite type of ‘lovecraftian horror’ is the type that openly challenges his abhorrent views. the ballad of black tom is a retelling of the horror at redhook that flips the narrative by centering the action around a black protagonist.

lovecraft country by matt ruff - more of what i just described. again, lovecraftian themes centered around black protagonists. this one’s especially cool because it’s a series of interconnected short stories following related characters. it’s getting a tv adaptation i believe, but the book is definitely not to be missed

rolling in the deep / into the drowning deep by mira grant - mermaids are real and they’re the ultimate deep sea predators! that’s really the whole premise. if for some reason that’s not enough for you, let me add this: diverse cast, a romance between a bi woman who’s not afraid to use the word and an autistic lesbian, really cool speculative science tangents about mermaid biology and myth.

the haunting of hill house by shirley jackson - it’s halloween month so i’m thinking about hill house again. one of the greatest american ghost stories ever written. especially worth the read if you follow it up w the 1964 film adaptation (the haunting) and then the 2018 netflix series.

the hunger by alma katsu - i’ve always been fascinated by the donner party even though we now know the popular narrative is largely falsehoods. still, this highly fictionalized version of events scratched an itch for me and ended up surprising me with its resistance from the most expected and toxic racist tropes associated with donner party myth.

wounds / north american lake monsters by nathan ballingrud - nathan ballingrud is my favorite horror writer of all time. one of my favorite writers period regardless of genre. in ballingrud’s work the horror is right in front of you. you can look directly at it, it’s right there. but what permeates it, what draws your attention instead, what makes it hurt is the brutally honest emotional core of everything surrounding the horror. the human tragedy that’s’ reflected by the more fantastic horror elements is the heart of his work. it’s always deeply, profoundly moving for me. both of these collections are technically short stories, but they’re in the horror section of the recs because delineations are totally arbitrary and made solely at my discretion.

short stories

her body and other parties by carmen maria machado - tbh i almost put this in w horror but there’s enough weird fiction here for me to be willing to straddle the line. it was really refreshing to read horror that centered queer women’s perspectives. the stories in this collection are really diverse and super powerful. there’s an incredible weird fiction piece that’s like prompt-based law and order svu micro fiction (go with me here) that ends up going to some incredible places. there’s the husband stitch, a story that devastated me in ways i’m still unraveling. the final story reminded me of a more contemporary haunting of hill house in the best way possible. machado is a writer i’m really excited about.

vampires in the lemon grove by karen russell - my friend zach recommended this to me when we were swapping book recs earlier this year and i went wild for it! mostly weird fiction, but i’m not really interested in getting hung up on genres. i don’t know what to say about this really other than i really loved it and it got me excited about reading in a way i haven’t been in a while.

the tenth of december by george saunders - i really like saunders’ work and i feel like the tenth of december is a great place to start reading him. quirky without being cloying, weird without being unrelatable.

misc

the seven husbands of evelyn hugo by taylor jenkins reid - there’s something really compelling to me about the glamour of old hollywood. this story is framed as a young journalist interviewing a famously reclusive former starlet at the end of her life. the story of how evelyn hugo goes from being the dirt-poor daughter of cuban immigrants to one of the biggest names in hollywood to an old woman facing the end of her life alone is by turns beautiful, inspiring, infuriating and desperately sad. by far the heart of the book is in evelyn finally coming out as bisexual, detailing her decades-long on/off relationship with celia st. james, another actress. evelyn’s life was turbulent, fraught with abuse and the kind of exploitation you can expect from the hollywood machine, but the story is compelling and engaging and i loved reading it.

smoke gets in your eyes by caitlin doughty - a memoir by caitlin doughty, the woman behind the popular ‘ask a mortician’ youtube series. it was a super insightful look into the american death industry and its many flaws as well as an interesting, often moving look at the human relationship with death through the eyes of someone touched by it early and deeply.

love and rockets by los bros hernandez (jaime and gilbert and mario) - this was a big alt comic in the 80s with some series within running on and off through the present. i’m not current, but this book was so important for me as a kid. in particular the locas series, which centered around two queer latina girls coming up in the punk scene in a fictional california town. the beginning starts of a little sci-fi-ish but over time becomes more concerned with slice-of-life personal dramas.

#book recs #long post #SORRY IF THIS IS MORE THAN YOU WANTED #obviouslyending #book tag

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rotzaprachim · 5 years ago

Text

in secret, between the shadow and the soul 1/2

Kanej, Inej-centric. Teen ish, marriage of convenience, 3000 words

(About 6 years post Crooked Kingdom)

Read here on ao3

The apothecary asks her how long it’s been since she’s been intimate with her husband, and Inej almost chokes, says no, she hasn’t been in a very long time. Honesty is always difficult in her carse- dealing with her own past, own demons is hard enough without having to watch other people attempt proper emotional responses on her behalf, and maybe the apothecary senses that because she doesn’t ask more.

----

“It’s legal more than anything. A question of economics,” Kaz said, and Inej nodded, because it's kerch and how could it be anything but? Certainly nothing as tawdry as emotion or desire, let alone love, could interfere with so large a life decision.

Only Kerch citizens can hold berths in the water, and its significantly easier to manage bank accounts and conduct major financial decisions of the kind Inej needs to make on the near daily when restocking her ships. There's one route faster than all the others to becoming a Kerch citizen.

Inej suggested it before Kaz did.

She isn’t ready for marriage, she said. She isn’t ready to be tied to a man, to be anything more or less than herself alone. The Kerch made the whole business easy by never referring to this thing they’re doing as a marriage, all the paperwork is about Economic Units, Civil Unions. There’s so many pages of jargon it made Inej’s eyes bleed. Future children held less inches of fine grey type than agreements on pigs and shipping company stocks, and were described in the same economic language.

Kaz went through the whole thing line by line until the shore she was going to call for an annulment before they’d even gotten the damned thing notarized, or else make herself a tastefully rich and very young widow.

“It’s a contract,” he said. “You should know all the details before you sign your life away.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Inej said, irritated by the last several pages about Property Division in the Event of Medium Sized or Larger Storms, Grisha Attacks, and General Flooding, “I’m not signing my life away.”

“When you get married, it might be difficult to annul if you’ve still got a legal Kerch-”

“When I get married?” she shoots back challengingly. “To who?”

“I don’t know. That fire-tongued revolutionary who writes you poetry and will make you a new world. The Kaelish tavern maid who always pours you a free beer in her bar while you sing about the plight of the repressed. Someone hopelessly moon-eyed and optimistic, who thinks the world shits rainbows and knows what you’re worth.”

“You, Kaz Brekker,” she finally sighed, “are a hell of a lot dumber than they say you are.”

---

She doesn’t tell her parents. She’s not ready for that conversation.

---

She doesn’t tell Nina. She’s not ready for that conversation either.

---

The whole thing was finished in a notary’s office in ten minutes.

Kaz’s gloves were off, more because they both need to be fingerprinted than anything else.

He swore a short, official oath of his loyalty to both her and the Kerch market, promising not to cheat in foreign ports and to provide for and any hypothetical children. She thought of the paid-off indenture and the ship and the found parents and berth twenty-two and and her room in the house in bought on the Zelverstraat and thought that maybe he’s better at doing that than he thinks he is.

She swore a shorter official oath about fidelity and staying true and all her children being her husband’s, because to do otherwise would be bad economics and make her a poor investment, a value-destroyer, on the family line. Because it’s Kerch and of course it is.

---

“What are you thinking about?” he asked her afterward in an attempt at being casual. They’d been sipping at warm lukewarm flagons of beer in one of the harbour’s more reputable establishments and looking out at the water for twenty minutes.

“I’m thinking,” she said slowly, tasting her words, “that Alys Van Eyck is a very, very lucky woman that we came around when we did.” She’s still thinking about the various punishments for women who pollute the family line, which even if motivated by economics over faith as such things would be in Fjerda, are not dissimilar in practice. She’s realising more and more the Kerch neuroticism over bastardry probably comes from having so many of the young men gone for half the year at sea.

Kaz guffawed, which was not a sound she was really used to him making. “You never fail to surprise me, Wraith.”

“How is the Vrouw Dazi”

Kaz shrugged. “Not useful to my purposes anymore. Wylan’s got her an Bajan set up in a little cottage outside Pijl with a tidy sum tied to not making too much noise.”

Sometimes she fantasized about breaking into that cottage and putting on a performance similar to the one that sent Pekka Rollins screaming from Ketterdam. She didn’t, because she didn’t subscribe to the idea of the sins of the father and thought Saartje Kazanja deserved a da with his mental pieces mostly intact. But saints take all, she wanted too.

“How’s Saartje?”

“I don’t know. Kid? Looks more like she could be ours than Jan Van Eyck’s, that’s for sure.

The tips of Kaz’s ears went red before he finished that sentence and he stared into the foam at the bottom of his glass, head turned decisively away from her.

“Fine, I think. In school now. No reason to keep tabs.”

They toasted her new Kerch citizenship. Inej swore she saw his hand shaking.

----

Her citizenship documents, stamped with a wax seal of three flying fish and a small Kerch flag came three days later, expedited by Kaz in ways she cannot begin to fathom. It’s only then she realised that they’re for the new Vrouw Rietveld, that she made her vows to Kasper Rietveld. It’s only logical- Rietveld can be the upstanding businessman who only exists on paper in a way Kaz Brekker cannot, all the better for her dowings, but it still feels like a piece of himself gifted to her.

She could forge Rietveld’s name for her own purposes too; they practiced on old betting slips that she then threw into the fire. Kerch women can legally make almost every kind of financial decision and dealing, less due to the Merchers’ Council’s upstanding opinion of the female gender than the portion of the year the men are at sea, the incredible odds they won’t come back.

(They’ve rather flipped that scenario.

“How much cross-stitch will you do do fill up the void of my absences, she chided him. “They say the old sailor’s wives used to knit lace from the white froth of the sea.” Nowadays Wealthy Kerch women waiting for their husbands to come home tended to stick to knitting hats and scarves for orphans. So saints-damned many hats and socks, and yet you could still scarcely move for the number of bare-headed, barefoot orphans come winter. It was one of Ketterdam’s greatest mysteries.

“Inej,” Kaz sayid, eyes closed, genuine concern cutting his voice. Ever more she was picking up a sailor’s sense of gallows humour.)

---

They exchanged rings at the registry. Inej’s was a simple band, no gemstones but she suspected it was solid gold. Inside was etched a wave pattern, an endless strip of open sea.

Wearing it on her finger meant something, soo she looped it onto a sturdy chain that she hid between her shirt and her beating heart. That seemed appropriate, doable. Young sailors often took the bracelets and handkerchiefs of their sweethearts out to sea as good luck tokens; Inej had a gold wedding band.

Kaz’s fingers brushed the chain in the warm dip between neck and collar as he said goodbye to her on the docks, and after she nodded infinitesimally, telling him to go on, finish this chapter of the story, he slowly pulled up the rest of the chain and found the band.

“I thought-” he said, but she looked him in the eyes, square as she could, and he halted. She doesn’t know what he thought.

“There was not and is not and will probably me a different man for me than you, Kaz Brekker.

He swallowed thickly and then slowly lifted her skin-warmed band to his lips, even though he did not believe in luck, had said he believed in nothing but her.

---

The Kerch don’t have seperate words for “husband’ and “man.”

---

“Mijn mann,” she says in response to the curious looks her crew gives her after the band slips free during repair work, and it doesn’t feel like anything more or less than the truth.

“Mijn mann,” she says tacitly when border authorities raise their eyebrows in suspicion at her Kerch passport.

“Mijn mann,” she begins her letters back to him. “Dearest Inej,” his come back, sometimes even “Loveliest Inej,” but he never uses a possessive pronoun form.

---

Having any kind of passport, official documentation, feels alien and strange. She comes from a people without a land, and for her entire childhood they Suli were denied any official documentation of Ravkan citizenship. That’s changing now, but many are still wary, and with very good reason to be.

---

The quick bureaucratic sketch to mark Vrouw Inej Rietveld as a Seetsen Van Det Kerchrepublik, looked absolutely nothing like the drawings on the three individual sets of national wanted posters that keep cropping up in seedy port cities. Absolutely none of the above get her nose right.

“I look white in this one,” she said, holding a particularly egregious example up to Aigerim, who commiserate mightily. “Look how fucking straight this nose is. No eyebrows.”

Hitting the nose furnishes very fun target practice for when her fingers itch to throw knives.

Inej wins a lot of games of darts in a lot of seamy seaside pubs tucked into a lot of different gritty port cities.

---

They dock in Pijl before Ketterdam to catch their breath and do repairs. Ketterdam’s a good place for business and to look for secrets and plan strategy but a shite location to re-sew a sail or patch up a wall, unless you like replacing your supplies every time they’re stolen. The prices of grain and barrels of water and apples are lower are lower closer to the fields as well, even if that involves bartering loudly in a Centraalmarket that smells like spilled cider and pig shit, straw crunching underfoot, rather than the hallowed halls of the Exchange.

It takes her three days to come down with the evil hybrid chest cold-stomache flu of her fucking life. Ameera shoves her back into bed with ginger tea and another blanket. The thing they don’t tell you about awesome pirate ships with awesome international crews is that you also get the full spectrum of awesome international germs.

By the fourth day, she’s putting on all three of her coats and stuffing a wad of kruge and her passport into a pocket to visit the clinic in town.

---

Other people seem to register this whole being-married business than Inej ever does. She just prefers the expedited customs lines.

The splotchy faced, matronly woman at the clinic sits her on a paper-covered table and reads through a list of questions on a clipboard. Nian loves the lab smell of pure alcohol, would probably dab it on as perfume if she could, but Inej only associates it with injury, with being patched and stitched up after a bad scrape, with the white-coated doctor who came in every two weeks to swab Tante Heleen’s girls for disease, with the brown bottle of the stuff she uses to clean blood and worse off of her knives.

“Family history of pulmonary infections?” the woman asks her. “Smoking, alcohol, jurda use?” Every question makes her squirm slightly, as if in the historyof her wheezing lunghs is some sin she’s committed and will only now find out about. Nejn, nejn, nejn. Inej forgot how much she hated being looked at.

No grisha in her family that she knows of- scribble scribble scribble- but a lot of bad eyesight.

“When was the last time you had intimate relations with your husband?” the woman asks bluntly, and that’s the question that knocks the air out from her. The woman’s thin yellow eyebrow quirks up, but Inej manages to disguise her gasp as a particularly bad fit of hacking. She knows its nothing but a bit of intrusive medical questioning, but words can have many meanings and the answers to questions can be both yes and no at the same time and a certain turn of phrase can punch like a fist and cut like a knife. So she just says “six months ago,” and gives the woman her answer for the write-up.

“Long time.”

“He’s a sailor. I cry as I wait for him to return to me.”

“Ghezen’s speed that he does.”

---

She isn’t quite sure the Kerch even believe in Ghezen as anything beyond a bit of window-dressing to their financial affairs and the punchlien to jokes. Not like she honours her saints, the small painted icon of Sankta Inej she also keeps next to her heart, her daily prayers in the dark comfort her her room. She stands with Merjan, one of her crewmates, at the grave of Sankta Mahari, Queen of Mercy and Patroness of the Lost as they read the ancient prayers together, their voices settling into the steadiness of bees. Our queen, protector of our people, give us mercy, pray for peace, pray for us, pray to bring light to the shadows of the things we have done.

Sankta Anastasia, Sankt Dmitri, Sankta Mahari, she whispers into her knuckles, her fingers moving along the prayer rope with the decisive snapping of wooden beats, pray for our safety in the storm and bring us to the shore.

---

If Inej has found her own name, written with a familar jagged hand, among the prayer-knots tied to the Zentzbridge in a plea of mercy from the sea, she will not mention it.

---

Ketterdam is ugly and bright and familiear. You can smell the rotting flesh and beer smell before you see the smoky smudge of the city on the horizon. The crew makes quick work of unfolding the grishaworked official three-flying-fish flag that gives them clearance to enter the harbour without having their decks searched by the council of tides and carefully docks at Berth 22. Considering that the berths are now being numbered out into the two-hundereds, its a plum location, but its also damn close to the action, meaning that she can already see the glimmer of plastic beads floating on the water, the dark smudges of drunkards bobbing along. A few of the crew memebrs are going to get their pockets picked right off the bat. Inej already has a slush fund tucked away for precisily this reason. She’s getting better at this, she hopes, being a leader. Predicting what will happena dn why and when. Being someone that other people- many younger and more vulnerable than her- can rely on.

“AIGERIM,” she screams as she buttons up her city coat, “only two of thsoe pink trinks with the paper umbrellas MAXIMUM. You hear me?”

“Yeah, boss.”

She sighs. She doesn’t want to be anyone’s boss. “If there’s anything like what happened with the canal and the Stadwatch last time happens again, I think I’ll find the decks need a good scrubbing.”

Aigerim gestures wildly. “Course, boss..”

She tries to take deep rbeaths to calm her nerves. Maybe she’s becoming a worried old crone forty years early, but she’s the one who survived this hellhole of a city. She’s the one who survived this far. In this world, twenty-three is a badge of honour.

---

He cuts a familar figure on the docks. THey each have their own webs now, know of each other’s doings three or four times removed, like recognising a faovrite drinking song on it’s third round of translation. The recognition of a familiar trick, hand, murder method. Kaz will read in a news paper of a mysterious storm that’s tripled the price of indigo and sweet-wood fans after a whole line of ships went missing off the Southern Pelagic Reefs and Inej will hear in a greasy Kaelish bar about the shocking downfall of an old Kerch trading family and they will each smile, privately, and admire the other’s handiwork.

But seeing him in person is something altogether different, and she still rushes over the slats of the quay, coat streaming behind her, stopping abruptly when she comes to him. They pause there for a second and then he lifts his arms and they wrap themselves together around each other, hesitantly but then warmly, firmly, sturdy as a sailor’s knot and with all the inevitability of the sea wearing stone to sand.

“I’ve missed you, Wraith,” he says into her hair and she shrugs into him, her head level with his chest. His chin rests neatly on her head now, if he leans down slighlty, and she swears that wasnt the case the first time they embraced, the first time she left Ketterdam. He denies that the Ice Court, Van Eyck, all that happened while he was a boy not finished with growing. Yet she herself’s tried on that first Wraith outfit- a costume of sorts, really, how different was it from the Scarab Queen’s glass-bead veil in the third act of the Komedie Brute- to find it no longer fit, that she couldn’t easily do up the buttons on the front. She has more of a woman’s set of curves to her hips and long, hard-earned muscles on her legs and thighs, and even if she is creating some new kind of legend it is under her own name now.

Sometimes, Ketterdam feels like that too-small jacket; it cannot fit the woman she’s becoming. So she sews herself a new coat from the fabric of the world.

“Mijn mann,” she says, because she likes the way his body flinches and then stills under her fingers with those words, sharp and unexpected as any knife. “I’ve missed you too.”

#my writings #kanej #i'm surreee there's spelling mistakes #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #kaz x inej #kaz brekker x inej ghafa #kanej fic #six of crows fic #grishaverse fic

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vampyr-bite · 5 years ago

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hI! can you take a picture of that Sounds article and post it? i kinda want to read it lol

Hey! The archive I’m using at the moment is text only (thanks corona) but I’ve pasted the article below. Hope that’s good and u enjoy and u have a lovely day!

Pete Makowski, ‘Def Leppard: The Leppard Doesn't Sleep Tonight’, Sounds, 6 February 1982

ROUGH NOTES/ROUGH NOTES (Prelude)

THE SOUND of Ross Halfin's bouts of self induced vomiting...Steve Clarke smashing his guitar in a Blackmoresque frenzy...The black dude with a gold tooth who offers out cocaine in a packed McDonalds at eight o'clock in the morning...Sleepless nights, trying to get some shuteye on the tour bus which due to the lack of any form of suspension feels like a plane in the state of permanent turbulence...Waking up fully clothed feeling like an over abused cocktail shaker...Nights spent paralytic in bowling alleys and truck stops willing the hours away – If the rednecks with arms the size of those slabs of meat that adorn butcher shop windows don't kill you, the infra red fried chilli will...This is life on the road!

LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT TEXAS RADIO AND THE BIG BEAT!

The Lone Star State is a place one could easily write volumes about and still nobody would believe half the stories you told them. It's a proverbial utopia and lunatic asylum rolled into one. Plenty of sunshine and healthy-looking women; in fact every form of debauchery is available at your beck and call.

This was the perfect location for Def Leppard to close their tour which had proved to be a long and arduous trek. The merciless blows endured during the six months of gigging are cushioned by the fact that the Leppard entourage are basically a closely knit family-like affair. Tour manager Robert Alan (brother of drummer, Richard) also doubles as sound engineer, and token Irish lunatic lighting man 'Famous' is a typically stocky, cheerful chap who spends half his time dreaming about his homeland where he dreams his days away with fishing rod in one hand and a proverbial pint of the dark velvet brew in the other. The band and crew eat, sleep and defecate together giving the whole thing a warm congenial atmosphere.

As I've mentioned in a previous feature the group and entourage are all so young it makes one want to retch with envy. And they are all far from being as blasé (as one might expect) in fact surprisingly enough they still come over as avid fans, although their attitude to work is surprisingly professional and they put every iota of energy they've got into their stage performances, giving headlining act Blackfoot a good run for their money.

After all these months of hard graft Leppard are beginning to reap their just rewards, meeting with ecstatic audiences at almost every show. In fact their performances are met with nothing less than fanmania from a crowd that is not short of wholesome looking nubiles who squeal in frenzied approval at everyone of Leppard's moves.

While the average Blackfoot fan can be seen lumbering around the auditorium wearing the almost uniform check shirt, hiking up his baggy denim pants, clutching some obscene piece of junk food in one hand and the obligatory doobie aka spliffette in the other, The Leppard-ites in contrast are a new breed of fresh faced kids out looking for a whole new brand of kicks.

Although Texas is supposed to be a stronghold for Blackfoot (who to be fair are a hardworking road band with no shortage of talent and energy and as people are very amiable, good time folk from Jacksonville who really enjoy their crazed life style – these dudes do walk it like they talk it) there's no doubt that this time round the lil' ol' band from Sheffield made a big impression on the locals and will be guaranteed a headlining spot the next time round.

Their best shows on the tour were undoubtedly at the tropical seaside resort town of Corpus Christi and in Houston – which is undoubtedly one of their biggest strongholds in Texas shitkickin' territory.

"Home Of The Encores" is the sign emblazoned outside the Ritz, which in reality from the inside comes over more like a pokey old cinema that should have been condemned many moons ago.

The backstage area resemble a derelict bombsite and the roadcrew were apprehensive about the voltage system, the main concern being whether the place had enough juice to feed the vast backline Leppard had put together for this tour.

At first a feeling of despondency hung thick, like an onimous cloud, in the air and people were beginning to draw straws to decide who was going to lynch the promoter. Feelings didn't improve after they saw the bathroom facilities, that resembled something that harked from the dark ages. But once they took to the stage Joe Elliot and crew demonstrated where their real commitment lay and amidst the sweat arid sawdust blasted their way through a set that had the audience frothing at the gills.

Powered along by Rick Allen's tireless drum work that gelled with Rick Savage's fluid and thunderous basslines, the frontline barrage guitar attack of Pete Willis and Steve Clarke projected the excitement and innovative soloing that was ever present with Lizzy in their Live And Dangerous days.

Elliot becomes a more proficient frontman as the days go by. With one foot on the monitor he beckons the punters on, working them into a state of euphoric frenzy while belting out the lyrics to such epics as 'Let It Roll' and 'Lady Strange' with effortless ease.

He had the people totally on his side during 'High And Dry' and rafters shook as the auditorium burst into a chorus of "Saturday night, high and dry". It was this night that convinced me without a shadow of a doubt that Leppard are going to be a giant force to be reckoned with in the next couple of years.

NEXT DAY

AS THE bus jerked its way into Houston the local radio station seemed to continually plug the evening's show touting Leppard as one of the Eighties' brightest hopes. Meanwhile, back in the sleeping area Joe Elliot sat leaning against his bunk perusing his evergrowing collection of cut out and bootleg records, proudly announcing that he almost owned the entire Matt The Hoople catalogue. The rest of the group attempted to catch up with the strain of non-stop touring by getting as much sleep as they could in between the bumps on the road that shook the road-battered vehicle with the effect of a series of land mines.

Like the rest of Texas, Houston is overwhelming and unlimited in size and possibilities. The general atmosphere seems to be warm and welcoming throughout the State although this place as it turned out seems to be that much crazier.

The first chore of the day was to attend an instore signing, a common on the road practice which involved the group going to a local record store where they meet their fans, converse and sign autographs. The ritual was performed at the gargantuan Texas Record And Tapes Store, which can only be described as a proverbial Santa Claus grotto for vinyl freaks, featuring a dazzling array of parapheranalia and owned by the very amiable and over generous Geoff Hamer, otherwise known as 'General Doo Dah' – who is without a doubt a true gonzo at heart.

As it happened the band drew a record amount of people, in fact there were more fans here than at the previous day's concert (which by the way was sold out) and that evening the group performed like troupers proving they had Houston like the rest of the US, so it seems, in the palm of their sweaty paws.

The rest of the night was spent celebrating with an end of the tour party that included an Awards Ceremony hosted by yours truly The Grand Toastmaster who presented prizes to members of this deranged crew for various offences some too obscene and illegal to mention in this respectable organ. This was followed by a totally incoherent and over the top night of debauchery, courtesy of 'General Doo Dah' which took myself, Rick Savage and Steve Clarke into the land of Never Never, making any episode of Fear And Loathing look like the teddy bears picnic. A champion finale to a fine tour.

THE INTERVIEW/A MORE SERIOUS FINALE

"We don't worry about England anymore, we're just trying to put across the point that everybody's missed out and that is that we've been shit on and people have said things about us that are a lot of bullshit." – Joe Elliot

"I always look forward to playing England 'cause that's where we're from like, but I don't think that it will do us any good at the moment because the kids, the kids meaning people like me, I'm not sure whether they want to listen to us at the moment...which is a bit of a shame because they're missing out on a good thing." – Rick Savage

WHILE LEPPARD continue to 'wow out' crowds in the US, they still seem to be at the butt of abuse as far as certain British media and fans are concerned. While groups like Saxon and Iron Maiden seem to be able to travel the world and lead a grandiose lifestyle and still retain that dubious street credibility factor, anything that Leppard do is regarded as being pompous and the general consensus of opinion from the average anglophile headbanger seems to be that they are egotistical popstars who sold their souls to the American rock and roll machine.

Which couldn't be further from the truth. It's hardly surprising that Leppard feel jaded and bitter with their audiences back home. I personally believe that they are producing some of the finest high quality heavy rock sounds around today.

They write songs, not just riffs with words loosely attached to them, with a sophistication and flair that puts some of their elder statesmen to shame and they knock the average so called NWOBHM ('scuse me while I wash my mouth out) into a cocked hat and it's unfortunate that they have to travel across the water to get an audience that actually appreciates this fact.

When we conducted this interview, the band were beginning to recover from the lunacy of an American tour which began earlier last year with Ozzy Osbourne, and the strain of the roadlife was beginning to make itself apparent. This nomadic way of life can be as strenuous as it is exciting and it may sound crazy when you hear a band yearning for the simple things in life like a good old English breakfast and a copy of the Daily Mirror, but it all makes sense once you get caught up in the insanity they've endured since the release of High'n'Dry which is already winning them Stateside acclaim.

Leppard are undoubtedly on the threshold of breaking America: everywhere they play the audience reaction is frenzied almost to the point of being rabid, but as it became obviously apparent on this drunken night Def Leppard still miss their home and feel slightly more than sore about the lack of respect they get from the press and punters alike, and seem to be constantly trying to find a reason for this unexplainable feeling of malice.

"As far as England is concerned people have got something against Def Leppard for purely non musical reasons," explained Joe Elliot, amidst a background noise of chinking glasses and people yelling for more beverage, "40,000 people bought our first album, but only 20,000 people bought High'n'Dry, you're not telling me the other 20,000 didn't buy it because they didn't like the album. I believe they didn't buy it because they read the article in Sounds saying that Leppard had changed their spots. They followed fads."

"American people don't follow fads", announced guitarist Pete Willis, "They go for what they like while England seems to follow trends. Foreigner and Fleetwood Mac are good, they write good songs while bands like Motorhead are a load of shit...don't say that because I don't want Lemmy to beat me up."

While I don't agree with the last part of this statement, I do feel that the GB is basically puppeteered by fashions which ultimately dictate taste and the majority of which come over as nothing more than a grand parade of lifeless packaging, including the new league of HM groups who I personally feel have a very limited lifespan with their generally dated and usually moronic stance.

Elliott: "There's two things you can do when you're in a band. You can go out and do what you wanna do, that's not trying to be pretentious to anybody and that's just satisfying your artistic temperament or whatever you want to call it for the want of a better saying. Or you can do things like Saxon...I don't believe anybody but Biff Byford would want lyrics like that on an album! I mean you're not telling me that he's writing those words so that everybody from people out of a mental institution to people with 'A' levels can understand them?"

"I could write lyrics like 'Denim And Leather', that's the kind of stuff a drummer could write. I write lyrics that are on a street level and that everybody can understand but they're on a different line. I'm not afraid to hide the influences that I've got."

It's a well known fact that Leppard were the first band of its genre to actually stick its collective neck out, undertake major headlining tours, sign a major record deal and venture across the water. Other bands as they pointed out followed after learning from their mistakes and generally avoiding the pitfalls somebody had to make as a kick off. They're also a rarity when you consider they haven't had any line up changes since they established themselves.

At this moment in time the group are preparing material for an album which will again be produced by 'Mutt' Lange. I wondered if they were at all perturbed by the comparisons drawn between them and AC/DC.

"I don't even think AC/DC are that hot!", exclaimed Rick Savage.

Elliot: "The only comparison is that we've got the same producer and because of that you're likely to get the same sound. We didn't use him because he produced a big album and in turn we thought we'd get a big album, we just think he's the best producer around. Anyhow, no way could AC/DC write a song like 'Bringing On The Heartbreak' or 'Switch 625'."

Savage: "We'd have been a big band in England if Mutt had produced On Through The Night because it wouldn't have got the slagging it did. It was still a better album than people made out for all its supposed commercialism for the USA. We were on the crest of a wave when that album came out and the reviews that album got, particularly in Sounds, were so bad and so anti the attitude bands like Saxon and Motorhead and their fans have got, that we totally lost it.

"If England had accepted us like they should have accepted us, things might be a bit different. I think we're a lot better than bands that are accepted more freely than us."

Here, here! C'mon you pommy bastards here's your chance to rectify...And JOIN THE ROCK BRIGADE!!!

#this is very long sjkfhs #asks #Anonymous #Def Leppard

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witchyrem-ains · 5 years ago

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Reader x Beetlejuice: Body Positivity

“Babe babe babe, I am in a big ol bad mood and I’m in need of some Beej/plus size!reader shit. Like, I’m talkin a badass, confident plus size reader who’s getting bullied in public and Beej thinks he’s gonna have to step in and teach those punks some manners and she’s just like “nah. I got this” and LAYS INTO THEM and Beej gets kinda (REALLY) turned on by it and then 👀👀👀 pls and thank I love you v much”

This prompt was originally sent to @sapphic-florals from @beetlebitchywitch.

My interest was piqued and I decided to write a “Reader x Beetlejuice: Body Positivity” fic for myself. It’s inspired by personal experience.

---

(Cursing, Li’l Shits saying Immature Bullshit, Gender Neutral)

You’d always been self-conscious about your body. Making avid efforts to avoid your reflection in mirrors and windows, buying clothing that wouldn’t draw too much attention to your “problem areas”, trying to hide who you were under paper-thin armor that would have been easily shattered if the right person made the wrong comment about your body.

Lately, though, you hadn’t been feeling quite as meek and vulnerable as you used to. You’d met someone, someone particularly special: Beetlejuice. “The Ghost with the Most” as he called himself; he wasn’t particularly tall, rather stout, had patches of moss growing across him, bright green hair that shifted in color with his mood, and was most certainly dead.

Even if he couldn’t remember how he died (or if he died at all) death didn’t seem to slow him down. Beetlejuice was vibrant, bursting with bravado and vigor with all that he set out to do. Even if he failed he bounced back with a smile and with you on his hip his smile had only grown brighter.

Being dead meant that not everyone could see him, you could, and some of his friends in Connecticut could as well, but not many others. This made you feel special as Beetlejuice was yours and you were free to indulge in his undivided attention and adoration at a moment's notice.

You’d been pumping yourself up to walk into the department store.

“Babe, it’s easy,” he sat beside you in the car, “You walk in, you walk out,” He rolled his wrist, opening his hand and presenting you with his bright gold eyes in his palm, “Eyes on the prize hot stuff.”

“Beej!” You laughed, nudging his shoulder. With a “pop” his eyes rolled back into their sockets.

“I know it’s quick. It’s just… the clothing section. I have to walk past all those mirrors to get what I need.”

Beetlejuice sighed, “Yeah I know they make you nervous… but we’ve been working on this,” he gestured to his problem areas and yours, “Together. You’ve been feelin’ better, I’ve been feelin’ better. Y’know? You just make a quick dash in and we’re home in 15 minutes tops banging it out.”

You laughed again, “All you think about is sex… a toaster could make you horny.”

“Only if I saw my reflection on it.” He slicked backed his hair and shot you the double-guns, his cheesy smile winning you over and you felt like you had gathered the courage to go into the store.

Walking towards the store your ghostly boyfriend floated behind you, setting off a few car alarms, popping all four tires of a Maserati, and stealing a license plate that read “MMM BBQ” all in all; a pretty normal day out with Beetlejuice.

You’d gone through the entrance with your head low to avoid your reflection and proceeded directly through the clothing section, eyes forward.

What you didn’t count on was a young man stomping his feet behind you in sync with every step you took. You hardly noticed him, kids being kids, or whatever.

Beetlejuice wasn’t so fond of this kid’s behavior and with a snap of his fingers, a mannequin fell in front of the young man, preventing him from following either of you two any further.

You marched further into the back of the store, Beetlejuice meandering behind you as he stopped to ogle the treasures in the jewelry department.

Again, the young man appeared, this time with an entourage of his equally obnoxious peers. You paid them no mind, continuing forward, but noticed that they were making a mess of things and making snide comments about women in the store.

You retrieved your prize, exactly what you wanted. Clutching it close to your chest, you were elated, just one left and it was all yours.

“Oh, shit guys! It’s pulling me in!” The young men were back, and one of them walking backwards towards you. You raised a brow, What the Hell?

“This fatass got me in their orbit! I can’t escape!”

The entire world stopped on a dime.

It finally dawned on your what had been happening, the stomping behind you was the young man creating a mock-earthquake, the snide comments were about your body, and now these little bastards had teamed up to target you personally.

“Want a twinkie, bitch? They’re on aisle 12!”

“This pig fell off the farmer’s truck!”

“I didn’t know the Pillsbury DoughBoy was in town!”

The group cackled amongst one another; unbeknownst to them that a raging demon was frothing at the mouth behind them. Beetlejuice’s hair was red and threatening to burst into flames with the sheer rage he felt towards these little bastards. Looking up you noticed cracks appearing in the roof, Beetlejuice was going to crush these young men alive and as remotely satisfying it would have been to let them die you raised your hand, signaling Beetlejuice to calm down.

“You know what you little shits?” You turned to them, “I am plus size! I am overweight! And I’m fine with that!”

The young men looked cluelessly amongst each other.

“I am fat! But you’re all worthless, brainless little fucks! Targeting people in a god damn department store? Ran out of people to bully on the playground?” You stalked towards them, “You think you can talk to me like shit and get away with it? No. This isn’t some stupid little fantasy where you fuckers get to walk away scot-free. This is the real world and I’m in control of my world and my space, and you don’t get to tell me how to feel!”

Looming over them and stalking after them, each young man peeled away opting to hide in the aisles and racks, “I am loved! I am happy! I am in control and you hopeless, worthless, useless little fucks will rot for the rest of your lives knowing that you will get called out on your shit!”

The last young man stood alone, cowering just a few feet from you, “And now it looks like you’re all alone. You were strong when you had your little friends and now you have nothing left to say?”

He was silent.

“That’s what I thought. I am fat. But you’re absolutely nothing.”

You took your intended purchase and stormed off, leaving the young men shattered in your wake and your demon boyfriend’s hair glowing bright green.

“Babe!” He swept you off your feet the second you were outside the store, “That was amazing!” Beaming ear to ear he kissed your face, “I can’t fucking believe it! You destroyed them! I mean seriously! They were shaking! I’ve scared some shitty Breathers in my day but Hell you didn’t even need to rip your face off to do it! You just… did it! I’m so proud!”

You chuckled and hugged him back, “Well, I thought… ‘What would Beetlejuice do?’ and I knew you’d be angry… so I took all my anger and made it into something constructive; to defend myself. I deserve to feel good about myself even if those little fuckers don’t think I deserve to.”

“You’re absolutely right Babe.”

You went to the car while Beetlejuice stood behind for a moment, watching the young men awkwardly shuffle out of the store toward their bikes. With a snap of his fingers, he vanished, and their bikes were instantly compressed into a tangled, lumpy cube and ball.

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice x reader #betelgeuse #bj fic

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ophelia-jones · 2 years ago

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As she lay in bed in the infirmary, Lacey couldn't help but wonder what was happening at Sanctuary. Negan must've worked himself up until he was frothing at the mouth. He would feel like she had made a fool of him; that she had gotten him to trust her and then ran off to work with an enemy. Even if he hadn't assumed she was giving away his secrets, he would be mad at her disappearance. There were things he wanted from her, and Negan got what he wanted.

Hell, Simon had probably taken something and said she stole it to guarantee they would kill her. He wanted her out of the picture, and he had found the perfect way. Stripping her to her underwear and sending her out unarmed was just cruel icing on the murderous cake for that bastard. He didn't know, however, that if Lacey had half a chance to talk to Negan, the death warrant would be Simons.

This had made him want her all the more. He was a complicated man, and Laceys feelings for him were just as complicated. But there was no point in wishing things had gone differently, it was what it was and there was no going back. She had known she was putting herself in mortal danger getting entangled with him - her stomach had turned at first, trying to play nice with a murderous madman. But, and maybe this was just his charisma and confidence, she understood where he was coming from. Ruling with fear and violence was as old as the earth itself. It seemed to be the default setting for mankind.

The thing was, eventually, the people always rose up from under the boot of these kind of rulers. That too was hardwired into human nature.

"Hey." She heard a gruff voice in the doorway, drawing her out of her thoughts. She turned and smiled at the tall, muscular silhouette of Daryl Dixon.

"Hey." She greeted him.

"You good?" He asked in his short and simple way.

"Much better than I was. Thanks to you." She told him sincerely. "Good." He shifted from one foot to the other and then crossed and uncrossed his arms awkwardly. "Rick said you should stay as long as you need. Carol already has a place to hide you if the Saviors come knocking." He told her.

"Michigan?" Daryl asked, scowling down at her. "You traveled here from Michigan? After the outbreak?"

"Mmm-hmm. I spent the first year up there, but the winter was brutal. The walkers froze, but a lot of the survivors did too." She told him earnestly.

"Holy shit. Winter is hard here, I never really considered what it must be like up north where it last so much longer. The walkers actually froze?" He said, his eyes growing distant as he considered it.

"I think thats more words than I have ever heard you speak." Lacey joked. Daryl flashed her a shy smile and chuckled at himself, looking down at his feet.

"I talk." He said "I just don't run my mouth unless there's something worth saying." He shrugged.

"That's fair. And it's a welcome change, actually." She admitted. Negan liked few things better than the sound of his own voice.

"So, how exactly did you end up there?" Daryl asked. "You don't seem like… well, them."

"Yeah. Well, I was in a pretty bad state when they found me. Negan promised food, shelter… I knew deep down it was too good to be true, but like I said, I was in a very bad way." She sighed and paused before continuing. "Once I was in there was no getting out. At least not so far as I could see. And I hate what they do, how they terrorize everyone - the thing is, even before the dead started walking, people were shitty. At least now, in this world, people just cut through the bullshit and show their true colors right off the bat. Every fucker out there will rape, rob and murder you for all sorts of reasons. The people who didn't already know that are the ones who didn't make it this far."

Daryl grunted slightly in agreement, leaning against the wall now, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. Lacey couldn't help but let her gaze linger on the impressive span of his shoulders. There was something both reassuring and unsettling about his presence.

"Not everybody." He grumbled.

"What?" She asked, her eyebrows drawing in as she frowned at him.

"I hope so. And I hope Negan doesn't manage to destroy that - but, I hope you know he is going to do everything he can. He doesn't believe there is any other way."

Hope.

*******************************

It was peaceful here; that was something she had not experienced often in her life, and it made her regret the fact that she couldn't stay. She wanted this for herself - but maybe, she thought, she didn't deserve it. It was always out of her reach, peace and love and all that fairy tale stuff. It wasn't meant for people like herself.

Suddenly, almost as if summoned by her thoughts, there was a commotion outside the walls.

Engines.

Gun shots. Then his voice.

"Open sesame ricky-dickie-doo-dah!" He called, striking the gate with Lucille to get everyone's attention, as if he hadn't done that already. "Time for a surprise inspection!"

"Lacey! Come with me." Carol came up behind her and grabbed her elbow, dragging her along toward the gate. For a terrifying moment she thought she was going to turn her over in the hopes it would earn them favor. Then they came to a house near the gate and Carol led her inside, pushed aside an armchair and pulled up three loose floorboards. "It's an old storm cellar, we closed it off from outside, this is the only way in." She explained. "Once you are down there, the boards will be covered up with a rug and the chair again." Lacey could barely breathe at the thought of being more or less buried alive with no way out until someone let her out, but there were no options. She lowered herself gently into the small, damp hole in the ground and nodded to Carol that she was ready. When she recovered the hole with the floorboards and the rug, there was nothing but darkness and the smell of old, musty earth.

Meanwhile at the gate, Negan grinned at Rick.

"What's the long face for, Rick? Aren't you happy to see me?" He teased. Rick didn't respond but simply stared at the tall, slender man with as neutral of a face as he could manage.

"You said you wouldn't be back for the tributes until the end of the month." He replied dryly.

"Hiding what?" Rick replied with a scowl. "You took half of our supplies and haven't given us time to gather more."

Negan's face switched from that terrifying scowl to a bright beaming grin once again.

"If you find her, bring her to me in one piece!" He ordered them. "I want to take her apart myself."

"Her who?" Rick demanded. "Well you see, we have a deserter. I don't know if she was inspired by your useless attempt to deny me my share of your spoils or not, but for some reason one of my people decided to skip out on us." Negan told him, striding confidently down the street to survey the damage his men were doing as they tore the town up looking for Lacey.

"We haven't let anyone in. We can barely feed ourselves." Rick informed the man, frowning at him.

"Well, you could kick the fat girl out and feed three or four people with what she sneaks from the pantry when no ones watching." Negan suggested, his head tilted back as he looked down his nose at Rick, his tongue between his teeth - he amused himself greatly. Rick didn't dignify the man's criticism of Olivia with a response.

She heard the door open and the floorboards begin to squeak overhead. "Olly olly oxenfree! Come out come out wherever you are Lacey girl!" She heard Negan calling.

There were several other pairs of feet, and she heard furniture being moved, things clattering loudly to the floor. She squeezed herself against the corner of the cellar farthest from the loose floorboards and held her breath. She closed her eyes tightly and focused on being silent. "She's not here." She heard Simon's voice directly above and bile rose in her throat. That bastard. She wanted to live long enough to see him get what was coming to him. "We've searched everywhere. Maybe they found her at hilltop."

"Alright, Rick! Looks like you passed your pop quiz. I knew you had it in you to be a good student!" Negan declared gleefully.

"If we do find our runaround sue at hilltop, or at the kingdom with zeke? They will pay dearly. And if I find out you and yours had anything to do with it, so will you. Do. You. Understand?"

"I understand!" Rick raised his voice this time. Lacey could imagine Negan's devilish smile. He loved making people cower. Their footsteps faded away, and Lacey sat in the damp darkness, still and silent for over an hour before she heard the chair and rug moving. When the floorboards were lifted, Daryl was looking down at her.

"C'mon out. They're gone." He told her with a nod of his head. He offered her a hand up and she took it, climbing out of what she had feared might become her grave.

"We need to talk." Rick told her soberly, and Lacey nodded her head. It was time to spill some state secrets and earn her keep.

#daryl dixon #original female character #negan smith #the walking dead fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfiction

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