#my dreams are often unpleasant but often only to the extent of like. i made a mistake at work at now i feel bad

[miffy-junot]

Felix Yusupov on Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich

During 1912 and 1913 I saw a great deal of the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, who had just joined the Horse Guards. The Tsar and Tsarina both loved him and looked upon him as a son; he lived at the Alexander Palace and went everywhere with the Tsar. He spent all his free time with me; I saw him almost every day and we took long walks and rides together. Dmitri was extremely attractive: tall, elegant, well-bred, with deep thoughtful eyes, he recalled the portraits of his ancestors. He was all impulses and contradictions; he was both romantic and mystical, and his mind was far from shallow. At the same time, he was very gay and always ready for the wildest escapades. His charm won the hearts of all, but the weakness of his character made him dangerously easy to influence. As I was a few years his senior, I had a certain prestige in his eyes. He was to a certain extent familiar with my "scandalous" life* and considered me interesting and a trifle mysterious. He trusted me and valued my opinion, and be not only confided his inner-most thoughts to me but used to tell me about everything that was happening around him. I thus heard about many grave and even sad events that took place in the Alexander Palace. The Tsar's preference for him aroused a good deal of jealousy and led to some intrigues. For a time, Dmitri's head was turned by success and he became terribly vain. As his senior, I had a good deal of influence over him and sometimes took advantage of this to express my opinion very bluntly. He bore me no grudge and continued to visit my little attic where we used to talk for hours in the friendliest way. Almost every night we took a car and drove to St. Petersburg to have a gay time at restaurants and night clubs and with the gypsies. We would invite artists and musicians to supper with us in a private room; the well-known ballerina Anna Pavlova was often our guest. These wonderful evenings slipped by like dreams and we never went home until dawn. [...] My relations with Dmitri underwent a temporary eclipse. The Tsar and Tsarina, who were aware of the scandalous rumors about my mode of living,* disapproved of our friendship, They ended by forbidding the Grand Duke to see me, and I myself became the object of the most unpleasant supervision. Inspectors of the secret police prowled around our house and followed me like a shadow when I went to St. Petersburg. But Dmitri soon got back his independence. He left the Alexander Palace, went to live in his own palace in St. Petersburg, and asked me to help him with the redecoration of his new home.

*as a young man, Felix Yusupov had many romantic relationships with men and would often attend parties while dressed as a woman. this is presumably what he is referring to here.

source: Lost Splendour by Felix Yusupov, chapter 10

[nightmare-catguy]

Johnny’s sexual escapade chapters (1) are a bit grating, however, Johnny isn’t really a super reliable narrator here. There’s some stuff he says I believe, and other things I don’t. He fucks every girl he comes into contact with, to the point where a woman entering the story, it’s pretty predictable what happens next. But then again, I don’t know. If he lies about sex, wouldn’t he lie about Thumper? Is she so Godly to him, he can’t even imagine being on her level? But thats not true really, he’s had dreams about her that are the usual flair of Johnny Horny. I guess what I find is that, there is no sanctuary for Truant.

Johnny Truant openly tells us a few times he’s a liar though, he does so very casually, opening up about his fantastical stories. At the same time he can be very honest, but only to an extent. I think to protect himself. The story of his chipped tooth is dark, and yes in some ways detailed, but not as detailed as Johnny can get. (2)

Sex is something that can take your mind off of things, especially if your stress response is “I need to get laid.” Sex is a comfort (3), even if its momentary. Pleasure, women, drugs— He burried himself in this shit. To the point of access. To the point where I question his point of view.

________________________________________

1. I don’t think they’re chapters, but I don’t know what else to call them.

2. Garry Callough, “The Truth of Truant,” The New York Times, August 13th, 2003, section 23.

3. Personally I try to use sex as a way to evade my fears as well. But funnily enough I find myself often in Johnny’s shoes. I don’t think I’m as bad as he is though. I’m reading through House of Leaves at a stupid speed (i’m around 400 pages in) It’s been around 3 days since I started, I didn’t expect it to hook me so well. So needless to say I’ve kinda been lost on the sauce. A quiet treck down the stairs at night has my hair standing on end. The Navidson Record is a super cool story, but it sure does sneak up on you. It’s creepiness. Kind of like how I felt about Skinamarink, which is why I wanted to read this book. But despite trying to slip into the comfort of my boyfriend’s face. His body, especially the fantasy of it. Loose myself in a bit, so I could take comfort in the idea of his presence. I glanced over my shoulder to the black closet that stood behind me. I had a dim lamp on, I guess its light only punctured the closet’s entrance but the rest of it. Just pitch black, no wonder people think monsters live in places like that.

It had such a presence to me.

I looked away, I’m not really scared of the dark. I often feel through it in the night for a glass of water, my house is familiar to me y’know? But what if it suddenly wasn’t? I mean in some ways its changed quite a bit since I came back from college. My closet especially, mom renovated it. It looks nice but it smelled foreign for awhile. It had a unpleasant sort of sour scent. The wood was stained and hadn’t really properly dried yet, so the smell just stuck to everything including my clothes. I think my mom found the scent pleasant but it made my closet supremely more alien. So now there it is, my sour smelling closet giving me the stink eye.

No not really, it’s more akin to a hollowed out eye socket when it gets that dark.

[bluedashboard]

The Night Manager interview

As the title character on Fox’s long-running medical drama “House,” Hugh Laurie managed to find empathy in the grumpy, sarcastic diagnostician. Now he’s taking on an even more challenging task: starring as the so-called “worst man in the world” in AMC’s miniseries “The Night Manager” (premiering April 19).

In this modern-day adaptation of the John le Carre spy novel, Richard Roper presents himself to the world as a successful businessman — but behind the scenes, he’s exchanging in illegal arms deals.

Here, Laurie tells Variety how he went from playing the hero to the villain in a project that was twenty years in the making.

Why did you decide to sign on for the role?

I was, first of all, immensely flattered to be approached by the actual, the Cornwell family themselves, Cornwell being John le Carre’s real name. I had loved this book since I first read it when it was published in 1993. As a teenager, having devoured all of le Carre’s wonderful Cold war novels, I was a little nervous, as I’m sure a lot of people were, that the end of the Cold War would mean not only would spies be out of work, but spy writers would be out of work. I didn’t know what le Carre was going to write about, if he could find another subject worthy of his talents. I was about three chapters into “The Night Manager,” and I actually put the book down and tried to option the book. I’m still not entirely sure what that means. I’m not a natural born producer. I’ve heard the phrase bandied about.

And what happened?

Sydney Pollack already had it. He sat on it for, I’m not sure how long. Possibly until he passed away. Then, for one reason or another, it reverted to the Cornwell family and they decided to revive it and I was just so excited that this thing that I dreamed of, that I’ve been in love with for so long, nearly 23 years, was finally coming to life. Of course, back when I first read it, I imagined myself in the role of Jonathan Pine, the hero, the night manager. Time moves on, hair falls out, knees get creaky, and I had to move up to the veterans, older 50s division, and move into the role of the villain. It was still an honor to be involved. I would have done anything. I would have played any role or done anything to be involved in it.

The producers decide to put a modern twist on it, and set it in the modern day. How did you feel about that?

I was nervous, honestly to begin with. I think that as a general rule, the attempt to modernize something, to keep up with the times, you’re often chasing your own tail, really because modern times, by definition, are unpredictable. For example, no one saw the Arab Spring coming when it happened. For all the NSA spy satellites circling the globe, no one saw that one coming. No news organization saw that coming. I thought it would be just as likely that we would change the story to accommodate the new set of global events and in between us making it and the show coming out, maybe the Colombian drug cartels would hit the headlines again, which is where the story was originally set.

Under the sure hand of the director, Susanne Bier, I think it’s turned out really well. It seems to be just getting more and more topical with every week that goes by. There have been stories in the press recently about ISIS getting ahold of chemical weapons and no one knows where they got them from. Who’s been selling them these weapons. This is a trade and it’s a pretty unpleasant one. For better or worse, well probably worse, the British and the Americans are involved in it. There’s a great deal of money to be made. To some extent, we are actually dependent on it. In the end, it just feels it was a very smart decision. I don’t know who made it, but whoever made the decision really needs to take some credit for it.

I’d imagine taking on the role of Richard Roper, who’s described as “the worst man in the world” was a bit ominous. How did you find your way into it?

In my own deluded imagination, I felt like I knew this character the instant he appeared on the page when I first read the book. I just thought, “God, I could believe this guy, I could see the way he moves.” Le Carre was so specific about the rhythms of his speech, and his body language, his manner. I just felt like I knew him incredibly well, which is useful because when it comes to actually researching the role of the worst man in the world, it’s rather difficult. You can’t call someone up and say, “I’m playing the worst man in the world and I’d like to base him on you. Can we have lunch?” That doesn’t go terribly well.

I think Tom Hiddleston had a much easier job because he’s only got to say, “I’m playing the hero.” Everyone, of course, they fall all over themselves to unlock the vault and let him have the run of the place. The worst man in the world, it’s a little more difficult. Fortunately, I just I felt like I’ve known this guy for 20-odd years. He’s stayed in my mind and my memory so vividly.

Is there any good in Roper at all?

I don’t know if it’s good, exactly. There are things that I like about him even though he’s probably irredeemable. One of them is, I think that he at least has the guts to know he’s terrible. He knows that he’s going to hell. In fact, I even wonder whether he’s hoping to go to hell. He knows he’s a damned soul and he wants to be caught. I think it’s one of the interesting dynamics of the whole thing is that I have this feeling that Roper wants to be betrayed. There’s a strange sort of Christ allegory here. You know when you read about these crazy serial killers, these psychopaths, the police eventually come knocking on the door and the guy says, “What took you so long?” They’re almost relieved to be caught. They know that something in them has gone wrong. They know they’re going to hell and they want it to be over. I think there is an element of that in Roper. As psychopathic as he is, I don’t think he’s not someone who would whine about being treated unfairly. I think he knows what he’s done and he knows what he deserves. That I thought in a strange sort of way, I slightly admire. I try not to, but I do slightly.

What did Susanne Bier, the director, bring to the project?

Everything. I mean, absolutely everything. If there’s any credit to be had for this entire adventure, it’s all hers because she was just remarkable. What’s she’s managed to achieve here, making effectively, three feature films back to back, or six movies, in half a dozen countries with 200 actors and a crew of God knows how many, thinking and working, operating in a second, sometimes a third and fourth language, controlling all these elements, doing it with such grace and good humor, intelligence, and taste and skill is just remarkable. I can’t say enough about her. She’s been absolutely remarkable.

She was a surprising choice, I think. I mean, she obviously is an immensely well regarded film maker. She’s won an Oscar, and she’s done an enormous amount of really terrific films, but first of all, she’s not English. She is, I think as far as I know, has no sort of connection to this world, either the world of intelligence gathering or even the more general description of this particular tribe of Englishmen. Either Pine’s tribe or Roper’s tribe.

But as soon as I met her, I thought, this is going to be absolutely great. I know we’re going to disagree, and we did. We disagreed a lot, but in the best kind of way. It’s great to be made to justify why you think something and be forced to think things through. If you agree with everyone around you, I think it tends to not make for good results. It’s certainly true in music, isn’t it? You always hear the bands that fought a lot actually made much better records than the ones that were just a band of brothers. Their records always sound a bit dull because of it. I think the disagreement is healthy and good. I really enjoyed it. I hope she did, too. I hope she didn’t think I was a pain in the ass for disagreeing. It was really thrilling to engage with some of that intelligence and taste.

Talk about working with Tom Hiddleston. How was he as a scene partner?

I couldn’t imagine myself doing the role. That’s how instantly he inhabited it. I’d thought I’d be going into this thing going, “That could have been me 20 years ago. I’d have done it differently.” Actually, I saw him do this thing and instantly he became the character of Jonathan Pine, he filled it to the brim. He’s an incredibly committed and conscientious guy who will never walk away from something if he’s got anything left in the tank. He’s immensely intelligent. When he thinks things through, they really get thought. They stay thought. He throws himself into things physically and emotionally with such absolute commitment. He’s never trying to protect himself or hold anything back. A lot of actors do, I think. They feel they got to protect themselves. They go, they mustn’t risk anything here. I’ve got to make sure I don’t come out of this badly. I’ve got to look out for myself. Once he’s in, he’s in. He’s in all the way. It was a glorious experience. We got along really, really well. Probably too well for the sake of the story. Maybe we should have had a little bit more friction, but we couldn’t generate any.

And Elizabeth Debicki, who plays Jed, your love interest.

She was just magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. She’s very tall, as you know. That’s good for everybody’s posture on the set. We all got taller, I think working around Elizabeth. Some of the characters, Roper and Pine, particularly, I suppose one could argue that they treat Jed as a token to be moved around the chess board. It would be easy, I suppose, for her to just passably allow that to happen without actually creating something real and meaningful. \She was so fiercely intelligent and funny, and just determined not to be that chess piece.

[aqenn]

oooOo nightmares only tonight. sexy (/j)

[irrealisms]

c!Tommy is annoying (and that’s important)

I have... a lot of feelings about c!Tommy in s2, from the start of the exile conflict through the Green Festival. I also think the fandom tends to mischaracterize him--I know I’m guilty of this, and as a c!Tommy lover I’ll be mostly addressing a thing that I and other people who love his character don’t focus on as much--which makes me sad because the aspects of his character that tend to get glossed over are also some of the ones that are most personally meaningful to me. (rest of the post is /rp, because “c!” gets annoying to type.)

Specifically: Tommy is loud. He’s abrasive. He’s annoying. He threatens, he griefs, he steals. He lies, blatantly, all the time. He tends to be self-centered (despite being deeply selfless). He lashes out at people who are trying to help him.

He is, in short, a bad victim.

And this is precisely what makes him vulnerable. 

Some people on the server were opposed to and sad about exile, sure. But a lot of people? Thought it was funny, that it was natural consequences, that it was deserved. Sapnap came and laughed, Technoblade came and laughed, Lazar came and laughed, Quackity came and laughed. Now, we don’t know what would have happened if Ranboo was the one being isolated and abused; maybe it would be the same. But I don’t think it would have been. A lot of characters have issues with Tommy or simply find him unpleasant to be around, and I would imagine that a significant number of them were probably, on some level, kind of relieved that he wasn’t their problem anymore. To be clear, I don’t entirely blame them for this! Tommy is... a lot, and they (mostly) didn’t know the full extent of what Tommy was going through. Even those of them that tried to visit with good intentions often got their gifts burned and called “pity gifts”, got insulted or yelled at by Tommy, etc.--or in Jack Manifold’s case, actually killed! The first time I watched the leadup to exile arc, I found Tommy difficult to sympathize with at first--he lied to L’Manberg before his trial; he refused to cooperate with probation while he was on it, even though Tubbo was pushing for it as an alternative to exile; at the beginning of exile, he would sometimes log on to visitors, drive them away, and then complain that he was lonely. As much as it’s obviously ultimately Dream’s fault, it’s easy to look at Tommy and not feel much sympathy for his position or feel that it’s partially self-made. It’s easy for outsiders to look at a Tommy who isn’t stealing, isn’t griefing, who is comparatively quieter, who isn’t their problem anymore, and be relieved rather than concerned. 

Exile arc makes it obvious that they’re wrong.

(Incidentally, I have a lot of sympathy for what Dream’s going through in the prison.)

And not only are they wrong, but exile makes the consequences of this painfully, horrifyingly clear: the abuse gets worse, Tommy gets more and more depressed, and at the climax of it all Tommy attempts suicide. 

(Although notably to me, he’s not the stereotypical victim during exile arc, either--he doesn’t cry on stream, he’s still trying to make dumb jokes, he’s not strategic, he refuses to listen to people, he switches wildly between fight and fawn responses without much correlation with who he’s talking to or how he’s being treated.)

Tommy’s recovery arc, after all of this, starts with him stealing valuables from Technoblade, building a secret basement underneath the existing basements, and then loudly asserting that it’s his house and Technoblade is trespassing.

I could talk about how these things are rooted in trauma. I could talk about how his constant eating of golden apples comes after a period of food insecurity, appetite/disordered eating problems, and physical abuse. I could talk about how he’s regained some of his energy after a period of depression but has nowhere to let it out in a small basement room. I could talk about how he repeatedly annoys Technoblade--quite probably the best PVPer on the server--perhaps in part as a test of how far he can go before he gets abused again, and in part as a sign that he feels safe enough to be annoying without being abused.

But that’s... not the heart of it, at least not to me. The heart of it is that before exile, Tommy would have stolen from Technoblade without a second’s thought, and during exile, Tommy didn’t steal from Technoblade because “Dream wouldn’t like it”, and afterwards, he steals from Technoblade again. 

Sure, he’s being annoying. But more importantly, he’s being himself again. Before exile, I might have rolled my eyes, because Technoblade worked for those potions and golden apples and armor and so on, and Tommy’s totally ruining his chest organization system. After exile? I cheered. Tommy’s being Tommy again. And, yeah, that means that he’s being annoying, he’s stealing, he’s ruining dramatic moments. So what? None of that stuff is actually all that bad, in the grand scheme of things. He’s not depressed, he’s not suicidal, he’s not being abused. He’s a teenager and he’s having fun. Technoblade will tease him for it, but he won’t hit Tommy, won’t take his stuff, won’t threaten him, won’t isolate him any further. That’s what a proportionate response to finding Tommy annoying looks like: teasing. 

I’d also like to address one more thing, which... I couldn’t figure out how to fit in the rest of the post, but it felt incomplete without it. Right before the meeting that ends with Tommy pulling out Spirit, Tommy asks everyone what the plan is, and is basically told that the plan is for him to be quiet. He says “you guys, please, for the love of God, you know I’ve watched for this long, I’m not going to be quiet.” He reiterates this throughout the conversation: he can try to be quiet, but it is not, ultimately, as easy for him as “be quiet”. This is also the source of Tubbo’s anger at him-- Tommy can’t do “one simple thing” for him. I’m not claiming Tommy is neurodivergent, but... as a neurodivergent person, Tommy repeatedly saying “I cannot do this thing that is simple for you, I can’t, empirically every time we have tried this in the past it has failed, if you make more plans based on that then they will also fail, have you met me” and having this seen as evidence of me not caring or trying... resonated with me. Which isn’t to say it’s not a flaw--almost all character traits can be flaws in the right (or, well, wrong) situations--but it does show that Tommy has some level of self-awareness about his flaws, which is something I appreciate about him, and it frustrates me when that goes unacknowledged. Tommy knows he’s annoying. He jokes about it. But he can’t actually... turn it off. Whether or not he should (and I would argue that he shouldn’t have to) isn’t even in question: he can’t. This is who he is. The only time we see him less loud and more capable of being obedient is exile, when he’s severely depressed and being abused. That’s fascinating to me, as a character trait!

In my experience, there’s a specific archetype of abuse victims in fiction that is... overrepresented. I can’t quite find the words to talk about it in a way that doesn’t technically include Tommy, but... the ways Tommy is important to me is the ways that (a) he doesn’t fit that archetype (b) not fitting that archetype makes him more vulnerable to abuse. He’s not always easy for other characters to talk to or sympathize with... which makes him uniquely easy to isolate and victim blame. That’s important. I think I tend to downplay Tommy’s annoying tendencies because I want to emphasize his sympathetic traits, and that’s fine, but it’s important to me that... Tommy’s a victim, and he’s annoying. Annoying people can be victims just as much as shy rule-followers can. Not only that: Tommy’s a victim in part because he’s annoying. Him being annoying is a risk factor for abuse, not an excuse for it.

[scrawnytreedemon]

Zelink for the ship bingo? :0 any game!

OH GOD, THIS IS?? Gonna be a doozy. Buckle in.

SkSw:

WW-PH: Link/Tetra:

Spirit Tracks(in theory! I haven't seen the game yet, can't speak personally):

Nearly all other instances:

RIGHT! getting onto individual analysis,

1, SkSw: By far my favourite of the bunch, and a longtime delight. Whether you construe their relationship as romantic or not, doesn't matter-- They've got such a wonderful arc of trust and unbreakable love. Zelda starts off incredibly worried for Link, constantly fretting and deeply unsure of his abilities. She steps in to defend him, willing to go up against Big Boys like Groose to do so. As the game progresses, however, and Link grows, in strength and in character, Zelda, and everyone else for the matter, put more trust in him-- By the end of the game, they're on equal footing, and, oh god, oh man, I'm gonna crybhfgjfhdgkjdjd--

2, WW-PH: Nothing to say except, tough girl, sweet boy? Phuck yeah!

Jokes aside, Link and Tetra's arc is also one of trust and vulnerability, but from a different angle. Tetra's a hard-as-nails, independent, morally dubious young girl who's landed herself as captain of a ship full of Big Boys, and sees Link as little more than a useful, if rather weak coincidence she can use to her advantage. However, as the pair grow,(really as Link grows and Tetra is thrown out onto the sidelines as her royal heritage is revealed and she's forced to take on a 'princess' role, one that notably feminises her and lightens her skin), again there's that theme of growth of trust! They take down Ganondorf together, build a new Hyrule together, and isn't that just what dreams are made of?

3, Spirit Tracks: Nothing much to say, other than the dynamic looks super sweet, and there's an interesting play with gender and presentation on Zelda's end? Love it to bits, 12/10.

Now... Onto the potatoes of this, I think. Get your gravy.

This... There's going to be more objective analysis and criticism, obviously, but alot of this is also going to be deeply coloured by my own personal experiences of heteronormativity and alienation. This isn't a commentary on anyone else's enjoyment of the dynamic-- I hope I've made that clear --But, just... I guess I should get to it.

Link and Zelda,

Zelink.

As one anon put it, the vanilla icecream of shipping.

Mild, sweet,

And incredibly heteronormative.

The Golden Relationship; the one toted by fans and Nintendo alike as "the ship".

Everything else, anyone else, is a deviation. It slots neatly into the expected hero-damsel dynamic that we've had, since, well, the beginning of time, almost. It's almost as dust of the earth as it gets. The issue for me being... They don't spend time much, really. Link is barely characterised half the time as little more than a slightly lackadaisical vessel for the player, and Zelda is a sort of guiding light; a dignified keeper of the plot, Righteous Guardian of Hyrule--

The culmination of all Hyrule presents itself as: wise, smart, beautiful, dainty but compitent, ready to lead a charge should need be... but rarely unruly. Rarely ever. Always right.

Obviously, it goes without saying how Breath of the Wild's iteration of this duo changes it up immensely. Zelda is a far more flawed, and in her attempt to put on a strong face, a far more emotionally vulnerable character than any of her gentle predecessors could ever hope to be. While this pairing and her character fail to hit that particular sweet spot in me, it's deeply intriguing, and I hope, perhaps vainly, that they'll develop her and her relationship with Link even more in the sequel-- Honestly, when it comes to this? An equality between her and Link is, I think, what would be best. A mutual understanding; vulnerability.

I think that's what puts me off from Zelink, on the whole. Link is bound to her, by destiny, by guidance, ever-performing his knightly duties, and Zelda is bound to him for strength, for protection. There's little emotional substance, half the time, save for small, precious moments, many with another face, because it's a dynamic inherently dependent on the war-- On danger.

It's all impartial, situational. There's nothing personal here.

And if that were it, if this were truly explored from that angle(as it is, to an extent, in BotW), then I think I'd like that-- Especially if it weren't romantic, I feel.

But that's not the vibe we're told to get: not from the fans... not from Nintendo.

Nintendo tends to be largely neutral on certain matters, such as pairings-- Honest to god, for the best, in my opinion-- But Zelink is that one blind spot where that ethos falls away. Here, Nintendo expects us to see it as some grand, destiny-bound romance, I feel,

And the pre-Skyward Sword manga, from what I know, cements this best.

It's why, quite frankly, I don't care for the idea of it being canon. Genuinely.

It undermines what little weight Ganondorf via Demise had on all of this, this horrific cycle of blood, pain and despair, always bracing for the next wave, of the sisyphian climb of this civilisation, and turns it all into a grand goddess' love for a boy bound to her by fate and destiny manifest.

I hate that.

For something like this, something where no one has any choice, where greatness is thrusted upon them, this endless state of being used that Skyward Sword even condemned, to be seen as good.

To get onto personal experience, before this blog, and this "persona," as it were, I used to have an art account where I largely posted TLoZ, frequented by my family. My very Christian, somewhat socially-conservative family. I would perform straightness, in the form of either pushing aside or pursuing M/F romance, because I was extremely uneasy about the types of conversations anything otherwise would arouse.

This was at a time where I wasn't even sure if I was bisexual, let alone divergent in my gender, so I felt a constant pressure to tamp it down and keep it out of the spotlight, relegating my explorations via art to DMs with the friends I'd make.

Here, on Tumblr, where peppy-queerness is the status quo, there's this tendency to gloss over unpleasant things and make them soft; sweet.

I think I've talked enough at length why that alienates me.

So, yeah... I guess, Zelink on a wider scale kinda just, sums up my unease about the often hegemonic status-quo of shipping, and on the whole I'm just kinda eh about it all.

Again, I think it should be very clear that this is not a reflection on my opinions of people who create Zelink content, who are attached to these characters. That sort of weirdly-tribalistic thinking is awful, and only brings about needless conflict-- Early 2000s-2010s kinda shit, y'feel me?

I hope this all made sense, kinda. I've just got... alot of feelings.

[bthump]

I know this is very nitpicky, but what do you think is the level of awareness Griffith has during the stairwell scene? For a very calculated and rational guy like him, it's hard to imagine that he hasn't even tried to decipher where these strong reckless reactions come from. I mean... even king of denial Guts has reflected a bit on it. Enough to ask Griffith about it. I know yoy mentioned in a recent answer to an ask, that you don't headcanon Griffith as pining, so would you say that you (cont)

Would you say that you imagine that he compartimentalizes his thougts and represses to the point that he doesn't aknowledge at least to a certain extent, that his feeling for Guts are more passionate, than what he feels for other comerades. The fact that he fully realises the depth of those feelings once Guts leaves is clear. But Idk the stairwell scene makes me think that he is at least aware, that he has a bit of a crush, but choses to not give it much importance. Curious about your thoughts 

hmmm. okay first off I just want to say that I can see multiple possibilities, from full on repression and denial, to recognizing his attraction but not acting on it, to knowing he cares for Guts and wants him as a True Friend(TM) but often downplaying that because he believes Guts sees him mainly as a superior officer. But yeah I do prefer the denial and compartmentalization explanation and I want to go into why, because I think it’s fun to talk about lol.

So the big reason I read Griffith as refusing to acknowledge his feelings to himself is because that’s how he deals with all his other inconvenient feelings, like his guilt and fear and the fact that he cares about the Hawks. Like eg when he tells Gennon that he doesn’t feel a single emotion about him whatsoever, or when he tells Casca that he doesn’t feel guilty over the deaths of the Hawks, I don’t think he’s just lying to them, I think he’s convincing himself too, to the point where he really believes it.

It’s sort of hard to explain how I see this working in Griffith’s head bc it feels v intuitive to me but I know that’s not the case for everyone. So yk it’s not that I think he like, eg makes himself forget that he nearly had a breakdown in a river, but I think he doesn’t ask himself why he nearly had a breakdown beyond maybe a shallow ‘sex with gennon was unpleasant and made me uncomfortable for a couple hours but i’m completely fine now’ and doesn’t think about it afterwards if he can help it.

And when he tells Charlotte he doesn’t have any friends and tells Guts he belongs to him during the second duel, I think he’s telling himself lies/rationalizations he genuinely believes there too. In fact, I think his denial of his own feelings is straight up meant to be his tragic flaw, which is why he’s only able to finally acknowledge them in the torture chamber, after it’s caused his downfall.

In the torture chamber we see him remember the face-off with Zodd and acknowledge that it was an irrational thing to do and wonder why Guts is so important to him, and I think part of the reason the monologue works so well is because it’s the first time we see that kind of self-reflection sans lofty rationalization from him, because before he ended up trapped in his own brain for a year with nothing to distract himself in between bouts of torture he didn’t really ask himself these kinds of questions. If he had, things probably would’ve gone better for everyone.

And like, I don’t think this makes Griffith less intelligent, or negates his rationality in other areas of life. I don’t see a contradiction in someone being able to analyze a battlefield or read other people well but avoiding genuine soul searching whenever possible and lying to himself a lot. I think it’s actually pretty realistic - I don’t think very many people fully understand themselves or their feelings, even really self-reflective people, and it’s very easy to rationalize away inconvenient cognitive dissonance. and I include myself in that lol.

Griffith’s life is kind of a contradiction that would really fuck him up to untangle (he sends people to their deaths to achieve a dream for the sake of assuaging his guilt for sending people to their deaths to achieve a dream), so he doesn’t try to untangle it, he avoids the question and hides behind a philosophical ideal. And his feelings for Guts add to that cognitive dissonance because if he values Guts over the dream, that kind of proves his entire defensive life philosophy is bullshit and his whole life plan is built on a precarious house of cards, so it makes sense to me that he’d avoid examining those feelings closely too.

And you can look at Guts too, who does navelgaze a lot and tries to analyze his own feelings and motivations - when he’s faced with a contradiction (I want to become independent of Griffith and do my own thing solely to gain Griffith’s approval) he actually notices it and briefly questions himself... and then he still puts it out of his mind and continues pursuing his contradictory goal anyway, and manages to stay in denial for 3 days even after learning that Griffith ended up in a torture chamber because he left.

Along those same lines, Guts eg realizes that he kills things because it makes him feel better but he doesn’t make the connection between his irrational urge to fight powerful enemies and his childhood trauma the way the readers can, the King didn’t acknowledge his incesty feelings til Griffith shoved them in his face, Count Slug kept denying having human feelings til Puck went on a tirade against him and he couldn’t sacrifice his daughter, Casca lies to herself about her feelings for Griffith for a long time before finally acknowledging she’s in love and then doubles down on her Griffith feelings when her newer feelings for Guts threaten them until she has a breakdown and admits some things to herself (I mean I find that last one disappointing lol, but it’s also a really straightforward example of someone living in denial of romantic feelings and therefore a good comparison point to show that Miura does this on purpose), etc. So I think this interpretation of Griffith is also consistent with how Miura just like, tends to write people.

Like imo Griffith has moments where he comes close to self awareness and could’ve started potentially reflecting on his feelings and coming to better, more accurate conclusions, and those moments definitely include the Zodd conversation (as well as the river scene with Casca, and “do you think I’m cruel?”) but none of those scenes lead to useful self-reflection because they all go wrong. Casca tries but fails to reassure him bc she’s out of her depth, Guts reminds him of his dream, the King interrupts their conversation and Charlotte reorients Griffith towards his goal so he can move on from that moment of irrationality and refrain from thinking about it further for a while. Even after the duel Griffith tries to avoid self-reflection by fucking Charlotte imo (”take all the sad and frightening things and cast them into the fire” ie hey girl wanna repress some shit w/ me?), and imo his previous ability to do that makes it all the more impactful when it doesn’t work this time and he breaks down.

BUT YEAH all that said I don’t think this is the only reasonable reading of Griffith’s awareness of his feelings lol, it’s just the one I like best and consider the most satisfying and interesting and fun to think about. And honestly that’s partly because I love dramatic irony and have a real thing for characters who lie to themselves, so I’m biased in favour of it too. Nothing about Griffith being good at denial contradicts the idea that he could still be aware of an attraction to Guts (in that case he’d probably just write it off as irrelevant and deny the associated internalized-homophobia-related self-loathing lol until it all pours out while he’s projecting at the King), and he could eg be aware that he irrationally cares about Guts above and beyond anyone else and just doesn’t even try to reconcile that with his dream, ie compartmentalization in another way.

But I think the idea that he only fully admits it to himself in the torture chamber is just very narratively satisfying.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Silver Mist - part 2/3 - ao3  or tumblr pt 1

warning: adult content, read the ao3 tags

From then on, Nie Huaisang made a habit of going to his brother’s room every evening to unbraid his hair, which his brother permitted with more outward grumbling than actual resistance. It helped that Nie Mingjue had very obviously missed Nie Huaisang just as much – well, maybe not as much – as Nie Huaisang had missed him in return; he was happy, now that the war was over, to find reasons to spend more time together.

“Would da-ge like me to come by in the morning, too?” Nie Huaisang asked one evening. “I could do your hair then, too – better and prettier than you ever do!”

“Do you think you even can wake up that early?” Nie Mingjue asked, grunting as Nie Huaisang worked his hand up and down his cock. His da-ge’s hands were bound behind his back to keep him from interfering – Nie Huaisang had introduced that just a few days back, another small modification, and his brother had acceded to it beautifully, all those Nie sect lessons about self-control and fearsome tempers working wonders to dupe his mind into seeing it as a reasonable precaution rather than purely an instrument for Nie Huaisang’s pleasure. “I get up every morning to train, don’t forget.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Nie Huaisang said, mentally resigning himself to a few irritating days or even weeks of getting up early to cross the hallway to his brother’s room. In time, of course, he would suggest that it would be easier for him to simply stay overnight, and the morning braids could be turned into morning delight – patience, Huaisang, he scolded himself, have patience.

It was difficult, though. His brother was so good to him.

He waited until Nie Mingjue was just on the edge of coming, then hummed that very particular stanza – his brother cried out, pleasure flooding through him, and sank into the quiet all at once, the post-orgasm languor seamlessly merging with the artificial relaxation of Nie Huaisang’s spell. It was important in these early days to reinforce the trance state as much as possible, to make it seem welcoming and relaxing, to associate it with good feelings. After all, if he were going to start playing more dangerous games, he would need to be able to pull his da-ge back into that state quickly and cleanly, to avoid any disruption to his brother’s mental state.

Any lasting disruption, anyway.

“You’ve been doing so good, da-ge,” he said encouragingly, petting his brother’s hair. His brother’s eyes were so beautiful like this, blank and accepting. “I think we’re just about ready to take the next step, don’t you? Get on your knees. Huaisang will show you what you need to do.”

He ended up needing to resort to the command sooner than he’d expected.

It was his own fault, really. He’d been so busy thinking about all the wonderful things he could do in the future when his da-ge was properly his that he’d forgotten that his da-ge had some very annoying habits, especially early in the morning.

“Since you’re already awake, you can join me for morning training,” Nie Mingjue said, his hair already fully braided – he must have gotten up especially early – with a broad grin; he twirled Nie Huaisang’s saber pointedly at Nie Huaisang, who scowled in return, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He preferred to sleep late whenever possible, had forced himself to make the sacrifice of getting up early, and now this?

It wasn’t that he minded his da-ge’s pestering, not really. He knew it was one of the way his da-ge showed him that he loved him, all that scolding really just a mask for his concern for Nie Huaisang’s well-being, and unlike that incipient interpersonal disaster brewing over in the Jiang sect he, at least, knew how accept a bit of sour with his sweet. But on the very first day?

Nie Huaisang was a Nie, too, you know. He also had a temper.

He hummed.

Nie Mingjue’s movement stuttered, and he paused, his eyes slowly starting to blank out, but Nie Huaisang didn’t finish the stanza, not in full. “On your knees,” he ordered.

“Huaisang?” his da-ge asked, looking confused, but his body obeyed, dropping down onto the floor, just as Nie Huaisang had taught him, his hands locking onto his wrists behind his back. “Huaisang, what…? What are you doing?”

“Getting undressed, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said. “You’re not going to be able to suck my cock through my clothing, are you?”

“Your – what?!”

Nie Huaisang’s canines were sometimes a little sharper than most people, and he bared them at his disobedient da-ge now with a fox’s smile. “It’s not very nice of you to ambush me like that,” he said, pushing aside his clothing and leaving himself bare and hard in front of his da-ge. “Scolding me about my saber training first thing in the morning? You should put your mouth to better use.”

“Huaisang! You can’t – we can’t –”

“I want to see you choke yourself on my cock,” Nie Huaisang said conversationally, and Nie Mingjue leaned forward and took him into his mouth, his eyes wide and round. He was bad at it, quite frankly: other than the brief teaching lesson the day before, it was fairly obvious that he’d never sucked cock before. He went too fast, hitting his gag reflex and sending tears to his eyes, but Nie Huaisang never claimed to be anything other than petty and vindictive when crossed. “Do you like that, da-ge? You like sucking your didi’s cock?”

Nie Mingjue made a noise of protest.

“No? Are you sure? Look at how eager you are. Look at how you use your tongue on me, how you try to take more than you can handle, like you’d die if you didn’t pleasure me.” Nie Mingjue was visibly struggling now, unable to stop his mouth from moving or release his hands from behind his back no matter how much he tried. “I bet you’re hard. Do you like being hard for me?”

Of course Nie Mingjue was hard. Nie Huaisang had put it in the instructions the day before – had painstakingly taken the time to associate the feeling of Nie Mingjue touching himself just the way he liked it with the feeling of Nie Huaisang’s cock on his tongue, so that one sensation would instantly recall the other.

“You can touch yourself,” he added, and Nie Mingjue’s hands finally released from behind his back at last – but they went to do Nie Huaisang’s bidding, not to push him away the way Nie Mingjue had clearly intended. “Don’t come until I say you can.”

He put his hands on his brother’s head, the gesture far from a massage this time, and started fucking his brother’s face. “Maybe this’ll teach you to be nicer to me,” he scolded – but gently, most of his irritation already abated in the wake of his excitement and pleasure. It didn’t take long for him to reach his peak, spilling into his brother’s mouth with a grunt and watching with pleasure as his brother obediently swallowed all that he could and licked up what he couldn’t. “Good boy, da-ge. Well done.”

“Huaisang,” his brother rasped, looking up at him with pleading eyes, one hand still working himself hard and fast, the other tucked down to cup his balls. “Huaisang, what did I do…? What have I done to you…?”

“Oh, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, his heart growing warm. Even now, after this, his brother blamed himself before he blamed Nie Huaisang – if that wasn’t love, what was? “Don’t worry. I’ll make it all better.”

He hummed the rest of the stanza, watching the remaining threads of awareness fade away.

“You can come,” he said, and smiled when it only took a few more strokes for his brother to finish. “Forget everything that happened this morning. It was just a bad dream you had, the details of which are unimportant and already gone – except maybe for a slight unpleasant association with surprising me with morning saber training. When you wake up, it’ll be just as it was before I first walked in.”

He walked out of the door and broke the connection, firmed up his resolve, and went back in to get dragged outside for morning saber training, which was the worst.

Still, all things considered, Nie Huaisang felt that he’d gotten out ahead.

Sniggering at his own pun, he lifted up his saber and dragged himself through all the old routines, watching with an indulgent smile as his brother enthusiastically jumped around, barking out suggestions for improvement and correcting his form.

Yes, he thought happily to himself. This is good.

And it’s going to get even better.

-

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, and his brother looked at him in question. “Are you a virgin?”

“What type of stupid question is that?” Nie Mingjue asked with a glare, and Nie Huaisang held up his hands in a protestation of innocence.

They were at the private baths today, the little grotto with its own hot spring that was reserved for the exclusive use of the Nie clan. Just as the Lan sect had its much-prized Cold Spring, the Nie sect had an entire network of hot springs, with various locations scattered throughout the Unclean Realm. The temperatures of the springs varied from warm to near-boiling, and the water in each one was rich with minerals that cultivators required to strengthen themselves; unlike the Lan sect, the Nie sect believed in rewards as well as discipline, and each spring was stocked full with all sorts of soaps and creams to help ease sore muscles, toughen bone and sinew, or even enhance mental fortitude. They were excellent places to cultivate as well as bathe, and were accordingly extremely popular with the disciples, whether Nie sect disciples or guest disciples who had earned an invitation.

Naturally, the one reserved for the Nie clan was the finest of the lot, and Nie Huaisang loved it dearly. As a member of the Nie clan, he was allowed in as often as he liked and he took full advantage of the privilege, ignoring his brother’s occasional complaints that the baths were meant to supplement cultivation, not replace it. He knew his brother didn’t mean it, that he was happy with anything that would help Nie Huaisang improve – indeed, that he’d been very happy with the extent of Nie Huaisang’s recent improvement, which Nie Huaisang had ascribed to a sudden bout of enlightenment in connection to one of his meditation techniques.

There had been no such enlightenment, of course, but he wasn’t about to tell Nie Mingjue that the improvement in his cultivation came from all of cock-sucking he’d been doing – and receiving – lately, his da-ge’s vigorous yang energy strengthening him much more than he’d anticipated.

(It was because he held his brother’s heart in his hand, he realized, and belatedly understood why his mother’s voice had taught him all those tricks to get people to fall in love. The stories said that the nine-tailed fox spirits enticed men to be their lovers until they lost their souls, and only then devoured them – Nie Huaisang could see why, if the yield was so much greater.)

And that was all just from hands and mouths so far! He was sure that the results would be even more impressive once they started dual cultivation in earnest.

Which was the plan today, in fact, except right before they’d been about to begin he’d thought of the question he had asked, interrupting the flow of things.

Even now, Nie Mingjue was crouched in front of him on the ledge near the pool, his large legs splayed apart and Nie Huaisang’s cock nudging at his well-stretched entrance – he’d had him fingering himself for the last ten minutes straight, convincing Nie Mingjue that it was a natural and normal thing to be doing in the bath with his brother, who was clearly far too busy chattering about nonsense to notice; he had wanted the first time he entered his brother to be with his cock, and anyway he loved a good show.

“I’m just curious, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said, pouting exaggeratedly until his brother rolled his eyes in amusement. “Won’t you tell me? I thought you told me that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It isn’t,” Nie Mingjue said crossly – he was often cross, these days, even though Nie Huaisang was doing such a good job of helping him work out his anger through the regular and routine application of pleasure. “It’s a stupid idea, that’s what it is. Experience is experience, inexperience, inexperience; there’s nothing more to it than that. And yet people assign value to it, even condemnation in the case of women –”

“Yes, yes,” Nie Huaisang said, interrupting before his brother could get carried away on yet another rant about the foibles of the cultivation world and how it treated the female victims that had survived the Wen sect with lives but not chastity intact. It was one of the many subjects his brother was taking issue with against Jin Guangshan, who wanted to be Chief Cultivator – as far as Nie Huaisang was concerned, the odious man could do as he liked with the title, but he understood why his brother was so upset about some of his policy decisions. Certainly a slut like Jin Guangshan had no business telling any woman that they couldn’t marry because they’d been involuntarily despoiled. “I know, you’ve told me already. But that doesn’t answer the question, da-ge. Are you a virgin?”

His fingers slid causally in the form of a hand seal, encouraging complaisance – he couldn’t always be humming his brother into a trance, after all! Sometimes one needed to be a bit more subtle.

“If I tell you, can I sit down already?” his brother asked, long-suffering. “I’ve had enough of your games.”

“You can never have enough of my games,” Nie Huaisang said, smiling his fox’s smile. “But yes, da-ge, it’s a deal – just remember to go slow. Now, tell me.”

“Fine. Whatever,” his da-ge said, and grunted a little as he started lowering himself down on Nie Huisang’s cock. “Yes, I’m a virgin. As it happens.”

“Really?” Nie Huaisang said, swallowing and wetting his lips, resisting the stimulation. “But da-ge is so handsome. You really haven’t taken a woman to bed before?”

“Too much trouble,” Nie Mingjue said. “All the fuss and bother of finding a suitable female cultivator who wouldn’t feel pressured by my position, or ambitious for a place as my wife, and then there’s the risk of pregnancy… it didn’t seem worth it.”

“What about men, then?” Nie Huaisang asked. He watched as his cock slowly disappeared, bit by bit, into his brother’s body. “No risk of pregnancy there, and most of them wouldn’t think of marriage.”

“No,” Nie Mingjue said, panting a little. “Huaisang, do we really have to sit here? It’s a little uncomfortable –”

“We’re just sitting in the baths, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang reminded him, reinforcing the message with a hand seal and a bit of spiritual energy. “It’s not like we’re doing anything strange. Just sitting and relaxing, that’s all. Nothing else. Any discomfort you have will pass once you’ve adjusted.”

“Right,” his da-ge said, and pushed himself the rest of the way down with a grunt. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Nie Huaisang’s lips twitched. “It’s just the heat, I’m sure,” he said ironically, and put his hands on his da-ge’s hips. The sensation of penetration wasn’t new to him, of course, but there was a thrill of pleasure to be had in being balls-deep inside his own brother while he told him how much of a virgin he thought he still was. “You train so much; I bet you have all sorts of muscle cramps that are just now finally relaxing. If you feel any more discomfort, it’s probably just that.”

It was important, he felt, to guide his brother into these things slowly – the enchantment he’d cast was strong, especially with how often he’d repeated it and how open and trusting his brother was towards him, but in the end it was still only an enchantment; his brother could still break free and recover himself if there was something he found too strange, too sudden, too much. Far better to gradually accustom Nie Mingjue to the sensation of having a cock inside of him – or getting his own cock inside of someone else, for that matter – before Nie Huaisang started taking him to his bed on the regular.

“So, why not men?” he asked, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. “It seems to avoid most of the issues you raised, and I know you like men, too.”

“Not the issue about finding a proper partner,” Nie Mingjue said with a sigh. “I’m Sect Leader Nie before I’m anything else – the men in the Nie sect are loyal to me, required to obey me, and after I took the mantle of general in the Sunshot Campaign, many of the other sects feel the same. Who’s to say that someone wouldn’t feel obligated to say yes, even if they didn’t actually want to…? I couldn’t do that.”

You’re a better man than me, Nie Huaisang thought. I want my ‘yes’ no matter how I have to get it.

“Did you ever like any of them?” he asked, and his brother scowled at him. “You did! Was it san-ge? You liked him so much when he was with us.”

“It was,” his brother reluctantly admitted. “Don’t get any ideas, though; that was in the past! Anyway, in his case, it would have been even worse, wouldn’t it? There were already so many rumors about his background. Imagine what people would say if they thought we were lovers!”

“People already thought you were lovers,” Nie Huaisang said dryly.

“All the more reason not to encourage them, then.”

“Mm, I suppose da-ge has a point,” Nie Huaisang said. “You’ll have no choice but to stay with me forever.”

Nie Mingjue huffed and ruffled his hair, making a face when the movement changed the angle a little. “Whatever you say, didi,” he said, indulgent as he was only towards Nie Huaisang. “Now, do you want to meditate a little?”

Nie Huaisang considered it. “Yes,” he finally said. “That’s a good idea. I’ll meditate, and you’ll warm my cock.”

“What was that?” Nie Mingjue said, lips twisting into a scowl. “I didn’t quite hear that last part.”

“I’m agreeing to meditate,” Nie Huaisang said innocently. Instructing his da-ge to immediately forget anything that drew his attention to their current situation had clearly been the right choice; it made this all the more fun. “Just like you suggested.”

“You’re being remarkably cooperative these days,” Nie Mingjue said. “It makes me think you’re up to something.”

“Me? No way, da-ge. I’m far too lazy to scheme.”

“Not if it’s something you really want, you aren’t.”

Nie Huaisang, seen, smiled. “I suppose so. How do you feel right now, da-ge? Physically.”

Nie Mingjue considered the question with the seriousness of a man with a great deal of concern for his health, and many people asking him about it. “Good,” he finally said.

“Full?” Nie Huaisang asked, moving his hips a little to fuck up a bit into Nie Mingjue, who let out a small, involuntary moan.

“Yeah,” Nie Mingjue said, biting his lip a little. “Yeah, full. Kind of – stretched? Not in a bad way. Like when you’re cultivating and you draw in too much qi all at once, but a bit more… physical.”

“If you want to get yourself off, I wouldn’t mind,” Nie Huaisang said comfortingly. “I’m going to meditate, after all. It’ll be as if I’m not paying any attention to you at all.”

“Maybe I will,” Nie Mingjue said, his cheeks flushing red – even after all that work to convince him that this was something he could do without shame, something he should do, he still got all embarrassed when they talked about it. He was so cute! “You meditate. I want to see a noticeable improvement in your strength by the end of the week, you hear me?”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Nie Huaisang said honestly, and settled in to watch his da-ge touch himself, jerking himself off in that casual and efficient manner he had when he thought he was all alone. He could feel the effect of it already, spiritual energy flowing through his meridians and condensing in his core – dual cultivation was going to be amazing, he just knew it.

“You like the feeling, the one you can’t quite put your finger on right now,” he murmured, letting his words flow right into his brother’s head while he was distracted by pleasure. “It feels good to you, makes you feel secure, happy. Gets you feeling hot. One day, I’m going to make you need it, crave it, beg me for it – I’ll come into your office where you do all the work and you’ll be shifting around anxiously, unsure of what it is that you need, and that’s when I’ll give it to you. I won’t even make you beg me. I’ll fuck you over your own desk, come inside you, plug you up and leave you like that.”

Nie Mingjue might not pay any attention to his words, but he sure noticed it when Nie Huaisang bucked his hips up, fucking up into him; he gasped, leaned forward, and braced himself on Nie Huaisang’s shoulders.

“I’ll have you in the main hall on the throne,” Nie Huaisang said dreamily. “I’ll ride you until you’re weak at the knees and then have you suck me off, and then we’ll invite in our guests, no one the wiser that you’ve got my come in your mouth and yours in my ass. I’ll grow strong, da-ge, until you don’t need to worry about me so much – until I can hold you down. Until I can make you need me.”

“Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue muttered, his eyes hazy as he worked himself. “Shut up. You’re supposed to be meditating.”

Nie Huaisang pressed his lips together and smiled, watching his brother finish in his hand, instinctively fucking himself down on Nie Huaisang’s cock to get more of what felt so good.

“Actually, da-ge, I think I found something that I think will help my cultivation even more,” he said conversationally once his brother had somewhat recovered, and as expected his brother turned bright eyes to him. “Here, put your hand on my belly – aren’t I stronger already?”

“You are,” Nie Mingjue said, surprised. “Even compared to this morning! Not much, but definitely something – you must be very compatible with this new cultivation technique you’ve found.”

“I heard it was one that my mother used to use,” Nie Huaisang said, and it wasn’t even a lie. His mother had always liked Nie Mingjue, from the stories he’d heard; he was perhaps the only one of all the people in the Unclean Realm that she actually liked, and Nie Mingjue paid back her affection by loyally ignoring all of the speculation and whispers about her – he didn’t question it. “I’m having some trouble picking up the technique fully, though; you know how I am. Could I ask you to help me with it?”

“Certainly,” his brother said, reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you making progress.”

“It needs a lot of practice, though,” Nie Huaisang said, widening his eyes and pouting. “Lots and lots of practice – will da-ge help keep me on track?”

“Like I do your saber training?” Nie Mingjue said dryly.

“Well, I’m more compatible with this one,” Nie Huaisang said, ducking his head to hide his grin. “If da-ge agrees to help, I promise I’ll do my best to practice as often as da-ge recommends.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Nie Mingjue remarked with – admittedly justified cynicism. “All right. What’s the cultivation technique? I’ll help however I can.”

“Let me show you,” Nie Huaisang said, and rolled them both over. “Put your hands on the beam there above your head – yes, perfect – spread your legs a bit more, tilt your hips up…”

He pulled out and thrust in hard, punching out a fucked-out little exhale from his da-ge that he rather liked the sound of, so he did it again, and again, and again, until he was really getting into it.

“Look at that, da-ge,” he said sweetly. “I’m working up a real sweat. Isn’t that good?”

His brother didn’t respond, of course. Fucking him like this, after he’d just come, was overstimulating him to the extreme, reducing him down to little mewls and whimpers and breathy punched-out sighs as he spread his legs wider and tried so very sweetly to encourage him to keep up the good work.

Somehow, Nie Huaisang thought he’d be able to defy his brother’s expectations and actually stick to whatever training regime his brother put together for him this time.

Somehow.

Clearly, all he’d ever needed was the right incentive.

[jadelotusflower]

Roundup: August 2021

This month: Jane Eyre, Wide Sargasso Sea, Don’t Call it a Cult, The Secret Garden, Showbiz Kids, Masters of the Universe: Revelation, Lucifer.

Reading Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte) - I’ve been meaning to read the Wide Sargasso Sea for a long, long time, but first I thought I’d revisit the source material. I find my opinion hasn’t much changed - I still love the prose, still love Jane as a character, and still find Rochester extremely unappealing. The section with Jane at school is the most engaging for me, and her early time as a governess at Thornfield, but as soon as Rochester shows up I just find him so irritating I have no idea why Jane loves him so much (other than he was the first man to ever show her a scrap of attention). I mean, I know to an extent - I've read the Takes, and part of fiction is accepting what you want for the character as a reader and what they want for themselves can be two different things, and that's not the fault of the text. I can be satisfied by the ending because Jane gets what she wants, I just can’t help but wonder about a Jane who was found by John Eyre before she went to Thornfield, or who took her inheritance and made her own way after Moor House. Byronic heroes just aren't my thing I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Wide Sargasso Sea (Jean Rhys) - The first Mrs Rochester of Jane Eyre strikes an uneasy tone to a modern reader; she does not utter a word in the novel, is depicted as animalistic and almost demonic, her story only told in a self-serving manner by Rochester, and conveniently disposed of so Jane can return to claim him. Rhys reimagines Bertha as Antoinette, a “white Creole” of Jamaica in a postcolonial take on the racial/social prejudices and hierarchy only hinted at in Eyre, where Bertha being Creole primarily an aspect of her Otherness, and in which Rochester describes himself as being desired as a husband because he was "of good race" . In Sea, although Antoinette is white (passing, perhaps), he sees her "not English or European either" and this contributes to his rejection of her (and perhaps his willingness to believe she is mad). The novel is surprisingly short - it skips over the meeting and courtship of Antoinette and Rochester (tellingly unnamed in the novel) entirely, jumping directly from her childhood/coming of age to the couple already married, and over much of Bertha's (renamed by Rochester) sad life in the attic. Still, there's a density to the writing, much is implied beyond the sparse use of words and recurring imagery - subjugation, reflection, and of course, fire - when freed slaves (Rhys changes the timeframe to after the passing of the Emancipation Act of 1833) set fire to Antoinette's family plantation, a pet parrot whose wings have been clipped by her English step-father Mason, cannot flee and falls to a fiery doom, in a grim omen of Bertha's fate. It did, however, leave me wanting more - I understand Rhys' stylistic choices and restraint, but in her effort to give voice to the voiceless, Antoinette/Bertha remains somewhat an enigma. Don’t Call it a Cult: Keith Raniere and the women of NXIVM (Sarah Berman) - I continue to be disturbed but intrigued by the NXIVM case, not only because of my abhorrence of MLMs/pyramid schemes, but my bafflement as to how this thoroughly unremarkable man was able to hold sway over so many women. My mild criticism of the two documentaries on this subject was that they tended to jump around in time so you never really got a good idea of what happened when. This book provides a well researched, detailed summary of events and linear chronology of Raniere’s perverse pathology reaching all the way back to childhood, and so is both an excellent supplement to the already informed, and broad overview to those new to the case. Berman is a Vancouver-based journalist who was present at Raniere’s trial and gives insight into witness testimony, supported by her own interviews and extensive research. There's less of a focus on the sensationalised celebrity members, with greater emphasis on the lesser known victims - including the three Mexican sisters who were all abused by Raniere, one of whom was kept confined to a room for years. It's difficult reading, consolation being the

knowledge that Raniere is rotting in prison and that his crimes finally caught up with him. Watching The Secret Garden (dir. Marc Munden) - Spoilers, if one needs a spoiler warning for a 110 year old novel. One of those stories that is adapted every generation, and generally I have no problem with this, since new adaptations can often bring something new or be a different take on old material (see Little Women 2019). But a part of me can’t help feel why bother with this when the perfect 1993 version exists. There is an Attempt at something new with this film, moving the setting forward to 1947 (Mary’s parents having died during the Partition), and turning the garden from a small walled secret to a mystical, huge wonderland full of ferns and flowers and endless sun. But in doing so, the central metaphor is lost - rather than Mary discovering something abandoned and run wild, gently bringing it back to life with love and care, she merely discovers a magical place that requires no effort on her part. There’s also less of a character arc for Mary, remaining unpleasant far into the proceedings, forcing Colin to visit the garden instead of it being his true wish, and generally succeeding by imposing her will on everyone else. In many ways she’s more like Burnett's other child heroine Sarah Crewe - the film opens I’m with her telling stories to her doll including Ramayana, which is eerily reminiscent of Alfonso Cuaron's (also perfect) 1995 adaptation of A Little Princess. But I suppose a sliver of credit where it's due - Julie Walters' Mrs Medlock is less of an antagonist, with Colin Firth's Lord Craven being Mary's primary obstacle. There's also a subplot with Mary's mother's depression following the death of her sister being the reason for her neglect (and Merlin alum Rupert Young shows up briefly as Mary's father) but like shifting the time period, there just doesn't seem to be a point to it. The climax of the film involves the Manor burning down (writer Jack Thorne stealing from Rebecca too, lol), with Mary and Craven have a very calm conversation as fire and smoke surrounds them. It’s all very bizarre, but also…rather dull? Don't bother with this, just watch the 1993 film again. Showbiz Kids (dir. Alex Winter) - a really interesting documentary on the titular subject - Winter was himself a child actor on Broadway before his film career kicked off in The Lost Boys and Bill and Ted, and has been able to assemble a broad range of interview subjects - Mara Wilson, Evan Rachel Wood, Wil Wheaton, Jada Pinkett Smith among others - former child actors, those still in the business, and some up and comers like Disney star Cameron Boyce (who I was sad to see in the coda has passed away). We also follow two young hopefuls - Marc, attending acting classes and auditioning in pilot season, yet to book a job but his parents are invested in "his" dream, and Demi, already established on Broadway but having to start to make choices between a career and a childhood. There's no voiceover, no expert opinions in this, letting the actors speak for themselves, but there is a telling juxtaposition of Marc returning home, jobless but having fun in the pool with his friends, while Demi has to cancel the summer camp she had been so looking forward to because she has booked a new role. The film is fairly even handed, but ultimately I took away that there just seems to be more harm than not in this industry, and abuses of many kinds. It does make you wonder about the ethics of child acting, at least in the current system where the cautionary tales are plentiful. Masters of the Universe: Revelation (episodes 1-5) - Mild spoilers I guess? I was never really into He-Man as a kid, other than the Secret of the Sword movie, so most of the in jokes and references in this went over my head. I have to admit, it was actually seeing all the outrage that made me want to check this out and see what all the complaining was about. I actually…really enjoyed it?!? I’m sympathetic to the complaints of a bait and switch (creators really need to learn to say

“just wait and see”), but other than that in my view the rest seemed completely unfounded. Adam/He-Man being killed in the first episode and the impact that has on Eternia and those left behind is actually a really interesting premise. This isn’t a TLJ situation; in contrast everyone (except Evil-Lyn) is always going on about how much they miss Adam, and the whole point of the first arc is him coming back. There’s also a nice little detail of Adam in Preternia (heroes heaven) choosing to remain as he is rather than as He-Man where all his predecessors have chosen their “ultimate” forms. I love him and his Magical Girl transformation. As for Teela - female characters can’t win, it seems. If they are perfect, they’re Mary Sues, if they have flaws, they’re unlikeable. Teela is Going Through things and is on a journey, but I often feel (and it seems the case here) that people confuse a character arc with author intent. No! Just because a character says/does something it doesn't mean you're supposed to agree with them! Some of Teela's actions may be petty and her demeanor less than sweet, but people make bad choices as a response to grief, and I actually thought her anger over Adam never telling her his secret and how that manifested was a pretty interesting take. I'll be interested to see the next half of the season, and ignore the ragebait youtube commentary. One more thing - Evil-Lyn (perfectly voiced by Lena Headey) was an absolute delight. Lucifer (season 5 part 2): They’ve basically given up on the procedural side of things by now and are leaning heavily into the mythology, which works for me since the case of the week is always the least interesting part of any show. It also struck me this season that there’s gender parity in the main cast (Lucifer, Amenadiel, Dan and then Chloe, Maze, Ella, Linda) - and actually, that’s more women than men. How often does that happen?!? I can’t say I’m particularly engaged with the Lucifer/Chloe pairing, but am happy to go along with it since that’s where the whole plot revolves. The best scenes for me this season were with God’s Dysfunctional Family, even if the lead up to the finale felt rushed (I understand the need to wrap things up in case of cancellation but still). I would have liked to see more of the sibling dynamics between the angels and less romantic drama, but hey. The character death got me, as well. I didn't see it coming and I didn't realise how much I had enjoyed that character until they were gone and well...it got me. I see the last season is coming soon, I'm not exactly sure where they can go from here, but looking forward to it nonetheless. Writing I was actually quite sick this month with a throat infection, so wasn't in the best frame of mind to get anything finished like I had planned to. I'm going to hold off posting the word count this month and roll it over to September when hopefully I've actually posted things.

[anboringday]

A Date With Lenny | Part 3

Pairing: Lenny Summers x F!reader/OC

Summary: Lenny and his lover spends some quality time together in Valentine. Head over heels for one another, things get heated between the two rather quickly ;) 

Word Count: 3.9k

Rating: NSFW/Explicit

Read on ao3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Arms linked, Lenny and I sauntered out of the crowded saloon. It was a lively night in Valentine, a constant stream of interested visitors trotted through on horseback. Fellers loitered outside the stores, laughing and chatting boisterously. Penned pigs squealed, stray dogs panted in the heat, and chimes rung as doors opened. The noise and activity of the teeming little town was disorderly and loud, but not unpleasant. In fact, it was quaint. The people here were unfettered, spirited, and unapologetically free.  

Normally, I felt rather small and out of place in the company of strangers, but with Lenny beside me, all my silly fears and insecurities melted away. He escorted me through town in his black brushed cotton vest and matching trousers, his shirt and neckerchief both a pristine white. And god, he looked damn fine too, putting every other man in attendance to shame. Ever so often, the women that crossed our path would stare, sometimes tripping over their own feet as they took in his remarkably handsome face.

But he was all mine, and I made it known to the world by keeping my arm hooked possessively around his. Occasionally rubbing his strong shoulders. Stroking his toned biceps. He’d return the affection by showering my cheeks with tiny, playful kisses as we strolled aimlessly along Valentine’s dirt road. We had no destination in mind, no grand plans, or schedules to keep. We were simply enjoying each other’s company, and I couldn’t have been happier.

Cradling a flask of whiskey to his chest, Lenny took a swig. “See, the saloon wasn’t so bad, right? We ate a full course, top-notch quality meal in absolute peace, undisturbed—no bar fights, and only a few drunken bastards got rowdy and ruined the mood. Usually it’s much worse.”

“We have to keep a low profile,” I muttered. “We’re lucky no one recognized you.”

“Have you forgotten that I am the living embodiment of luck—” He tripped over a rock and tumbled clumsily, landing on his backside with a rough thud.

My heart skipped a beat. “Lenny!” I hovered over him. “Are you okay?”

With the cutest, goofy grin plastered to his face, he patted himself down for injuries. “No broken bones…I’ll live, I reckon.”  

His wide, bright smile was contagious. Holding the hem of my flowy skirt, I crouched to his level and surveyed him briefly. Besides being stricken with a bad case of the giggles, he seemed fine. “Of course, you’ll live. You have an obligation to keep breathing, Mr. Summers, ‘cause I wouldn’t last a day without you.”

“Is that so? I guess you’re stuck with me then…forever!” His arms enclosed around my waist, he tugged me to the ground playfully.

“Get off, you silly man!” With a hastily suppressed snicker, I squirmed about in his warm embrace. “Release me!”

“Nooo, you can’t get rid of me—not ever! You’re all mine. Just submit already, woman!” He attacked my cheeks with a frantic rush of kisses.

I smothered a chuckle from the sensation of his beard stubble brushing against my skin, but once he started tickling my sides, my voice rang up a scale and crackled hysterically. Whenever I tried to pull away, he’d draw me right back in, fragrantly fun, carefree, and mischievous despite the dozens of onlookers in our midst.

I tickled him back, and Lenny’s laughter was so jubilant, pure as the Heavens above, childish even despite his adulthood and masculinity. His mirth was like the summer sun and the stars at the peak of dawn. Whenever I heard it, no matter the time of day or weather, the world brightened.

Breathing in his tantalizing, uniquely familiar scent, I nuzzled my nose against his. “I love you.”

Stiffening abruptly, a rush of red stained his cheeks. His voice lowered, quiet and shy. “Hey, you’re making me feel all fuzzy and warm inside. There’s folks around—I’m not blushing, am I?”

“You are. It’s adorable.” I stood and extended a hand to him. “Now get up outta that dirt, silly.”

“C’mere, Sugar.” With a captivating smile, he lured me down to his level once again. He tipped his chin toward the sky. “Look at the stars, ain’t they pretty?”

Pinpoints of silver peeped in and out of the masses of gray clouds overhead. It was going to rain soon. I wiped the dust from my skirt. “You’re ruining my outfit, handsome.”

“What does it matter? I���m just gonna take it off you anyway.” He took another sip of his whiskey.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink, cowboy.”

Music blared from the nearby saloon, a live performance it sounded like. There was clapping and cheering, a soulful feminine voice filled the air, blending in elegantly with the strum of stringed instruments.

Lenny’s brows shot up. “You hear that?”

I nodded. “It sounds lovely.”

He tossed his whiskey aside and rose, lifting me along with him. Taking my hand in his, he preformed a courtly bow, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “My lady, may I have this dance?”

“Dance?” My face heated at the proposal. “H-here?”

“Right here, right now.”

Filled with embarrassed discomfort, I lowered my head. “There’s an awful lot of people around, Lenny.”

“Don’t be scared. We’re in this together. Just focus on me, okay?”

Arms encircling my waist, he anchored me against him, swaying to the music. I was tense and on edge at first, I’ve never danced in public. Let alone in the center of town where just about every neighboring feller, woman, loyal steed, and child could take a gander.

But once his hazel gaze found mine, our bustling surroundings melted away. Hypnotized by the shimmering sparks of gold in the depths of his eyes, all I could see was him. The way his lean body glided with effortless rhythm and fluidity. How his muscles flexed and rippled with every slight movement beneath his shirt. Following his gentle motion, my arms slid around his neck. He was my world, and the moment was ours.

“We coulda done this in the saloon, you know,” I said.

“Maybe,” he mumbled. “I know going to that saloon in particular was my idea, but uh, honestly…I didn’t feel comfortable in there.”

“Why? Did one of those drunkards do something? Say something? I swear, if there are any inbred yokels around here, you just point me in their direction—”

“No, it wasn’t that.” He gave a shaky laugh. “Every fella in there was eyeballing you. It ain’t no crime to look but…” His voice trailed off.

I frowned. “I didn’t notice anyone was staring, I’m sorry—”

“Hey, don’t apologize for being the prettiest girl in town. You got all the women in the West green with envy and the fellas? They salivate over you like a pack of rabid dogs after a bone. And regardless of all that, you chose me. Feels like a dream. The best damn dream.” He dipped me back and kissed my temple. I held onto him as his full lips drifted to my neck, brushing over my sensitive skin. I closed my eyes on a moan when he caught the lobe of my ear between his teeth, the spontaneity of it all warmed my heart, and awakened a fierce ache between my legs.

With he straightened me, I was near breathless and dizzy. There was an applause, and whistling coming from over my shoulder. Lenny’s grasp on me was strong and clinging, as if I could slip through his fingers at any given moment. “You’re mine, I’m yours, and now everybody knows it.”

I flushed, perversely flattered and delighted by his possessiveness. “You know, this isn’t exactly what I’d call ‘keeping a low profile’,” I whispered.

“So, about that…” He grinned sheepishly, a boyish smile so cutely at odds with the wiry, solid sexuality of his body. “I ain’t the best at laying low, never have been. Everywhere I go, something or somebody starts kickin’ up a fuss and I get dragged into it. For example, some fool gets robbed—by no fault of mine, might I add—then that same fool gets brave and winds up with a bullet in his gut. And of course, being the law-abiding citizen that I very much am, I got no choice but to intervene.”

I smiled. “So, all this time you’ve been playing the hero? Everything the lawmen said about you was a lie?”

“The law ain’t never been fair or smart.”

“That much is true.” The sky rumbled, and the clouds began to shed some heavy droplets of rain. Folks began to retreat indoors, while a select few preferred to take shelter under the general store awnings.

“Well, there goes our audience,” Lenny said. “A real shame, too. I was getting used to the limelight.” He took off his brown leather cowboy hat and gave it to me. “Here, Sugar. For your hair.”

“Thank you.” I nuzzled my face to his chest. “We should go. The storm is only going to get worse.”

Seemingly unbothered by the rain, he tilted my chin up and settled his mouth on mine. A rush of warmth flowed through me, the soft sweetness of his kiss weakened my knees. Gradually, the pressure of his lips increased, and I surrendered myself to him. His tongue stroked slow and tenderly over mine. Our connection was wildly passionate and undeniable. I was so absorbed by him, possessed by his sweet love, I hardly noticed the drizzle running down our faces to where our lips connected. The cold rain mingled with the uniquely wonderful taste of him.

The working of his mouth against mine made me hot. Restless. I pushed a hand into his gloriously damp hair and sucked on the bottom of his lip, tracing my tongue over its perfect fullness, nibbling, gently pulling…

The sound of his groan was so satisfyingly deep and erotic, my core throbbed, uncomfortably wet. Lenny broke the kiss, his chest heaving. “Damn…what are you doing to me?”

I smiled innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Gripping my hips, he crushed me to him, the impressive package between his legs brushed my thigh. “I…I-I need to be inside you,” he confessed with some difficulty. “I’m aching.”

Moved by the extent of his longing, I stood on the tip of my toes and reclaimed his lips, my palms sliding all over his lethally sexy body. We were drenched in the chilly, pouring rain, but not even the forces of nature could keep my hands off him. “There’s a hotel next door,” I said between kisses.

Lenny nodded an assent and lifted me off my feet, my legs hooked around his waist. He carried me across the road and through the hotel’s swinging doors. The lobby was empty.

“I’ll be just a minute!” a voice I presumed to be the receptionist called out from down the hall.

Still holding me in his powerful arms, Lenny leaned against the front desk as we made out with reckless abandon. The soul-reaching massage of his lips sent shivers rippling up my spine. Raising my skirt a fraction, his hips started moving, the hard length of his cock grinding sinfully against me through the confides of his pants. Oh, god…a deep hunger stirred inside me. I had to have him—all of him—and it had to be soon. Or else I’d go crazy.

I held onto him for dear life, trembling from the hot, delicious friction. I didn’t care who was watching. I was way past the point of shyness, the primal desire to be fucked by this beautiful outlaw was at the forefront of my mind. It was all that mattered.

My skin burning hot and flustered, I whimpered. “I want you, Lenny.”

Muscles tense and visibly shaking with lust, he uttered huskily, “Fuck, I want—I need you.”

I buried my face in the crook of his corded neck, ravaging his skin with love bites and licks. “How bad do you need me?”

“Real bad. More than anything. I’ll beg if I got to. I’ll plead. I’ll get on my damn knees right now.” He swallowed deep, his expression tight and eyes smoldering. “If we don’t get a key soon, I might just bend you over this desk and fuck you right here.”

I trembled. It sounded like a threat as much as a promise, the scorching intensity of his words so unlike him. He was losing his composure, the desire stripping away his inhibitions and calm, sweet-tempered mannerisms. Only I could do this to him. It was a major turn-on and confidence boost.

“Here I am!” the receptionist finally arrived, scrambling into his rightful place behind the desk. His presence was a blur, I was too preoccupied enjoying the softness of Lenny’s lips. I could probably come like this, just by kissing him if we went at it long enough.

“Good Lord Almighty!” the receptionist gaped at us. “You kids need a room immediately! Luckily for you, we have one available. Just one. It’s been a big night for tourism, with that band of fancy folk from Saint Denis parading through town, playing their music and causing a ruckus. I don’t understand how anyone can get anything done with all that darn noise and commotion—”

Lenny shoved a hand into his satchel and flung a couple dollars at the chatty receptionist. It stopped his ranting, thank goodness.

“Second floor, first room on your right.” Once he passed over the key, Lenny whisked me upstairs. Heedless of everything and everyone, our hot, lingering kisses didn’t break as he fumbled with the lock. A moment later, the door opened, and we were inside a dimly lit room bathed in candlelight, rain softly drummed against the windowpanes.

Lenny dropped me on the bed. I reached for his vest and ripped it open, the buttons scattered across the hardwood floor. “Get naked, cowboy.”

He laughed, shrugging out of his shirt and suspenders, and then unbuckling his gun belt. I ran my hand down his chest in awe. His deep brown skin illuminated by the warm, flickering light, he glowed like flames piercing the darkness, radiant with transcendental beauty and mystery. I wanted him so bad, it hurt.

I nuzzled my face against the solid ridges of his damp, god-like abdomen. “Christ, why are you so perfect?”

“Perfect?” He pinched my cheek playfully. “Aw, you really think so? Arthur told me the same thing once, but he was drunk and vomiting in a pig pen outside the saloon when he said it—”

“Lenny…” Grinning, I swatted his hand off my cheek. “You’re ruining the mood.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Flashing an apologetic smile, he tossed aside the wet hat on my head and helped me out my clothes with gentle finesse. I went for his zipper, freeing his thick cock. My mouth watered. He was rock-hard, and throbbing. I traced the flat of my tongue along the heavy veins coursing his length, slow and worshipfully.  

He fisted my hair, restraining me just before I took him into my mouth. “Nuh-uh, Sugar. That can wait. Lay down.”

My brows raised. Apparently, Lenny was in charge tonight. I obeyed, curious of what he had in store.

The heat and clean, woodsy scent of his body took my breath away once he came down on me. “You’re beautiful.” He plumped one breast in his hand, kissing my neck, his lips grazing back and forth over my tender, flustered skin. I squirmed from the heady sensation. My legs locked around his hips, silently urging him to make love to me already. Near mindless with need, I struggled to find my voice, to formulate words. All that slipped from my throat was tiny, helpless whimpering.

He took himself in his hand and stroked my slick entrance, the soft nudges of his cock head agonizingly teasing. I arched my hips, my body straining toward him, desperate for a connection. He was making me wait, avoiding my clit and somehow resisting the temptation of fucking me despite my pleading.

“Lenny, please. What are you waiting for?”

“Hush now,” he said. “You’ll be ready for me soon.”

“I’ve been ready for you for the longest. Since this morning.”

He nipped my neck, sucking feverishly. Surely leaving a mark behind. Inflamed and trembling in distress, I rolled my hips against the rigid column of flesh he so cruelly teased me with. Patiently, he coaxed me to the brink of insanity. I was soaked in my own wetness, creaming madly for the feel of him inside me.

Raking my nails across his back, I pulled him closer. I needed him to fuck me more than I needed my next breath. “Now,” I gasped. “Need you now.”

With an expert shift of his hips, he pushed into me hard, and so pleasantly deep.

“Oh, God, yes,” I moaned, shuddering, clenching around him. Finally. Warmth struck my heart. I’ve been waiting for this for so long, too long—

“Don’t come,” he murmured, his palms slipped under my hips and cupped my behind, squeezing.

“Excuse me?” I was so close to the edge already. How the hell did he expect me not to go off?

“Good things come to those who wait. It feels so much better in the end.” Lenny started to move, his thrusts lazy and tortuously slow. “Can you do that for me, Sugar? Can you make it last?”

The cadence of his soft-spoken, drawling words sounded so sweet in my ears, so delicate. A fierce ache struck my chest. I was hopelessly in love with him, and more than willing to submit to his every need and request.

“It’s not fair,” I mumbled, my vision blurred with tears. “You have no idea how good you feel inside me.”

“Trust me, I-I do.” Lenny’s leisurely rhythm came to an abrupt halt, his body shivered violently. Jaw clenched, a groan slipped through his lips, tension contorted the gorgeous features of his face. Holding back seemed to be affecting him as well.

Quickly regaining his poise, he resumed screwing me. Lenny knew my body so well, all the tender spots that demanded attention and how precisely to stroke them. It was all muscle memory to him at this point. Over and over, his cock rubbed the bundle of quivering nerves clenching, aching for his touch.

Gripping the sheets with white-knuckled force, I smothered an upsurge of sobs, thrashing against the overwhelming need to climax. I was burning from the inside out, our bodies sticky with sweat. Trembling uncontrollably, I couldn’t hold back for much longer…

“Don’t come,” Lenny repeated. “Make this last. Just hold on.”

“I c-can’t. It feels amazing. Jesus, Lenny…” Tears escaped my eyes. I was falling apart, utterly and irreversibly lost in him. “I love you. I-I love you so, so much…”

He kissed away the tear tracks on my face. “Hold me. Don’t you let go.”

I released the covers and clung to him. His heavy-lidded gaze snagged with mine, searing into me. He sighed heavily, from pleasure, tension, or both—I couldn’t tell. His hips still surging at a moderate, deliberately restrained tempo that was driving senseless, I blurted, “Slow down. Please. I’ll come if you don’t slow down.”

“Will you now?” A wicked smile pulled at his lips. “I thought you wanted to come, Sugar. Why the change of heart?”

My back arched as his hold on my behind grew bruising. He lifted my hips into his thrusts, and I cried out, my core boiling and tightening with a pressure so severe, I feared I’d snap in two if I didn’t give into my bodily cravings soon.

“I won’t come,” I panted. “Not—not until y-you say so.”

His hazel eyes softened, sympathetic almost as he watched me quiver helplessly beneath him. One hand clasping the side of my face, he kissed me with a heartrending tenderness, his tongue caressing mine. Yes.

“Come for me,” he fucked me harder, dominating my body, although his voice was honeysweet against my lips. “I need to feel you…”

With his permission, an orgasm erupted inside me like a volcano, molten pleasure spreading from my core and overcoming the entirety of my body in a scorching wave. It was remarkable. Explosive. Unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I let out a shrill cry, writhing under Lenny’s sweat-slick muscles. His name spewed repeatedly from my lips as he fucked me into blissful oblivion.

The climax surged on and on. I was melting, drowning in the immense ecstasy of being loved by him, pleased by him. He was my everything, and without him I was empty and hollow. I could die in his arms right now and regret not a thing, because I’ve never truly lived a day until I met him.  

The connection we shared was incredibly intense, inside and outside the bedroom. But when we were making love like this, intimately linked, giving and receiving pleasure from one another like our lives depended on it…our bond felt unbreakable. It was frightening how deeply I adored him—an outlaw. A man the law wanted strung up by a noose…

A muscle twitching in his jaw, he rode out my climax until the clenches faded; then he slowed down his pace, burying himself inside me languidly. He sucked in a harsh breath, eyes dark and dilated, his strong body convulsed furiously. He was teetering on the edge of an orgasm, still denying himself the pleasure he’s been working toward all night long. The glaring self-control and perseverance Lenny emanated was something to be envied.

I gathered his hair in my hands, kissing the side of his damp throat. “You’re shaking, handsome. Do I feel that good?”

“Yes,” he rasped, pounding into me erratically, his balls slapping against the curve of my behind. “Oh shit, yes.”

A bead of sweat dripped from his chin onto the corner of my lip. I slid my tongue along his sculpted jawline, collecting the saltiness with a soft murmur of satisfaction. He tasted so good, and the scent of his lust smelled even better.

“Why don’t you come inside me, cowboy?” I teased, my voice husky. “You know you want to.”

He clasped the nape of my neck, his gaze burned into mine. “Do you want me to?”

I had just as much control over his body as he did mine and I couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, Lenny. Come.”

With a serrated groan, his beautiful cock jerked, spurting hotly, flooding me with his heat. His hips ground against mine, he emptied his load as deeply as he could inside me. I don’t know how long we laid there holding each other, spent and panting. Eventually, our breathing steadied and our bodies cooled.

“Leonard Summers!” a rugged voice shouted from outside, piercing the calm serenity of the rain. “We know you’re in here! Give yourself up, boy, there ain’t nowhere left to run!”

Lenny shot up from the bed.

Still wrapped up in a sex-induced daze, my brain struggled to comprehend what the hell was happening. Lazily, I sat up, covering my exposed breasts with the sheets. “What’s going on?”

Lenny inched to the window and glanced furtively though the blinds. “Lawmen,” he winced. “A lot of ‘em.”

I shivered, my heartbeat sped up. “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was, Sugar. Maybe you were right—coming ‘round here was, in fact, a real bad idea.” His teeth gleamed in a lopsided smile, confident and reassuring despite our unfortunate circumstances. “So, uh…you know how to handle a gun, right?”

My eyes widened. Oh no…

[arianaofimladris]

My contribution to @tolkiengenweek, day 6 - group dynamic. I returned to an old idea of exploring the dynamics between the elves coming from Valinor for the War of Wrath and the remaining Feanorians. The first chapter was published some time ago, now I’m adding the second, focusing on Maedhros and Finarfin relationship and cooperation in war times.

The whole story is available here, though as it is a set of images, it is not necessary to read the first glimpse: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352907/chapters/30573915

The land of fallen dreams, chapter 2

"That wasn't necessary," Maglor muttered quietly as his brother leaned heavily on him, no longer quite able to hold himself upright.

"Leave it, Kano."

Maglor sighed. The council had lasted too long. His brother could mask himself well, but even he had his limits. The majority of the Vanyar officers, he knew, had not even been aware that something was wrong. Their uncle had seen right through Maedhros's pretence, of course he had. But Finarfin had said nothing and had let the council go on as if everything was fine. A part of Maglor was grateful for that, for sparing Maedhros pity and attention on his wounds when there were important matters to discuss and decisions to be made at once.

The other was furious at the sheer stupidity of this farce, yet he knew better than to argue with his stubborn brother. Not when he was this close to collapsing in the middle of the encampment. They had left the King's tent as soon as the council was over, Maedhros first, straight as usual and perfectly calm, as if he had been at their grandfather’s court. Maglor followed, he always did. But half-way through, his brother swayed and it became obvious he needed help.

They somehow made it to their tent and as soon as they came inside, Maedhros sank down with a muffled grunt, not even bothering to reach his bed. His eyes were shut, his white face covered with sweat as he shivered and heaved, even though his stomach had been long since empty. He sucked air in pained gasps and almost cried out when Maglor gently put his hand on his shoulder to steady him, lest he lost balance.

"Let me see, or shall I just fetch Alcarino?" Maglor asked, though he already knew the answer. There was no point in trying to fix the problem himself, when they had the luxury of calling a healer, one that he knew would come no matter what.

"Give. me. A. Moment," Maedhros managed to hiss through his gritted teeth.

"Not here." Careful not to touch his back again, Maglor grasped his brother by the arms and lifted him. "Come on, Nelyo. Just a few more steps."

"No, wai-" Maedhros bit back a cry, but managed to get up. Hand locked in a crushing grasp on Maglor's arm, he made a few wobbly steps and nearly fell face flat on his bed. It was as usual Maedhros's will that had kept him collect through the meeting, but now gone was that composure, leaving him shaking and exhausted.

"Alright. Just lie down, I'll be back in a moment." Maglor slipped through the half open entrance to the fire before the tent, where Dinessel had been repairing a torn jacket. Having heard them, she was already waiting in alarm. Without further delay, he sent her to bring Alcarino as soon as possible, not having believed for a moment that this was something to deal between the two of them.

Maedhros had not moved, still lying the way he had slumped. The fresh jacket he had put on when he had returned from the patrol masked the extent of the injuries well enough, but Maglor had seen what was left of the old one, as well as the bloodied rugs of his brother's shirt. Now he wondered just how wrong he had been not insisting to have someone take a look before leaving for the council.

"Sit up for a moment, would you?" Maglor sat at the edge of the bed. "I'll help you undress."

Maedhros tried to push himself up. He bit back another cry and after a few raspy breaths, managed to hiss, "I've had enough skin ripped and torn today, you don't need to worsen it."

Maglor froze, concern gnawing on him. "I haven't touched your back yet. It's only your jacket I'm trying to get off. Unless you want me to cut it?"

Maedhros flinched. "I ruined one today already." Hissing, he shifted his arms behind and with his brother's help slipped the garment from his back. “My head’s spinning,” he muttered and shut his eyes.

"You've soaked through," Maglor sighed as he brushed his fingers against the sorry remains of Maedhros's shirt. “Alcarino will be here in a moment, it’s best we wait for him.”

***

Alcarino was not thrilled to learn that he was being summoned only after Maedhros almost collapsed from blood loss. He was even less pleased when, after the painful process of removing the soaked bandages, he uncovered long gashes crossing on his back, running from the right shoulder blade down to the waist. The wounds were deep and the skin around them puffy and swollen after long hours of being tightly covered with damp clothes. Some of the cuts were still oozing, while others started bleeding again once the clots had been torn with the bandages.

“Wargs?” Maglor growled more than asked.

“Mmmhm.” Maedhros tensed, his fingers gripping the side of the bed, while the healer gently wiped the blood, then pressed a clean cloth to dry his back.

“How much did you take?” There was no reproach in Alcarino’s voice. He placed his free hand on Maedhros’s shoulder to keep him steady as he worked on a particularly deep gash.

“Enough,” the reply came as a moan and the wounded buried his face in his pillow, shaking. “But. It’s. Not. Working. Anymore.”

Maglor didn’t even comment. He knew of course that his brother carried with him very strong pain relieving herbs to use in emergencies like this, just so he could be tended to without any unwanted incidents or return to a safer place. The medicine could make wonders, but once the effects had worn off, it left the wounded even more drained and exhausted. Alcarino was always reluctant to use them at all, but in Maedhros’s case, they were sometimes necessary.

“I know.” Alcarino sighed and touched his forehead. “But you know well that if you are bad enough to take it, you need to come to me as soon as possible.”

“There were more important matters." Maedhros muttered into his pillow, not even bothering to turn towards the healer. "The wargs were too near the camp, we needed to come back and warn the oth- Argh!"

Maglor didn't comment that either. He shared Maedhros's opinion when it came to the usefulness of the Vanyar soldiers in the matters of assessing the danger and choosing the right course of action. Still, he wished he hadn't had to watch his brother being stitched and patched up while lying and shaking, hadn't had to see the water in the basin turn red with the blood of his only remaining kin.

Alcarino closed some of the wounds with neat lines of stitches after giving Maedhros a generous portion of herbs mixed with mulled wine. This proved to be troublesome as the wounded was drained and dizzy and objected to any suggestion of moving. In the end Maglor made him drink through a straw and held him steady during the whole unpleasant process.

Finally Alcarino put some ointment on the wounds and left them uncovered to let them dry and breathe. He urged Maedhros to try and eat something before retiring for the night, but didn't push him, allowing him to rest first. The wounded muttered incoherently in agreement. Seeing Alcarino's meaningful look, Maglor only nodded. He would send for him if necessary.

The healer left, but the heavy scent of blood and herbs remained. Maglor considered letting some air in, but Maedhros shook occasionally, so there was little point in inviting the evening chill inside. He laid unmoving, not yet asleep, but too worn to sit and fill his stomach. He seemed to calm, though, so Maglor didn't welcome a motion outside by the entrance.

“What is it now?” he snapped. Seeing that it was only Dinessel, his expression softened. “Come in.”

“The king wishes to speak with you, my lord,” she said formally after slipping inside, though she often skipped the titles when they were alone.

“Whoever is asking, send him back with reply that it is currently impossible,” Maglor waved her off. His hands were still bearing trails of his brother’s blood; he was not going anywhere.

But Dinessel shook her head and whispered, “He’s here.”

That explained her nervousness. “Very well,” Maglor sighed and rose. “Go get some warm food for my brother,” he told her and followed her outside.

Finarfin was indeed there, waiting by their fire with two guards nearby. He regarded with polite interest whatever else Dinessel had been doing by the fire, whereas his companions kept their expressions completely blank. Had they been alone, there would have been scorn instead of indifference on their features.

"Sire," Maglor inclined his head stiffly, careful to let the curtain slip behind him.

"I wished to have a word with you and your brother in private," clearly no longer at duty, Finarfin wore much simpler clothes. Gone was the heavy robe he had been wearing earlier at the council, yet his garments still looked overly decorative and absurdly improper in a war encampment.

It was a detail that still amused Maglor. Once they too had cared more about the looks at the official meetings and during councils. In Himring Maedhros would wear a copper circlet, one made by their grandfather Mahtan, and the robes of a lord. But now? They were long since past caring about such trivia in the world where surviving was a struggle.

Which could not be said about the army of Valinor.

"Kanafinwe?" Finarfin’s voice broke his trail of thoughts.

"Pardon me. Now is not the best time."

"Do come in," Maedhros called from the inside before his brother evaluated his decline.

"As you wish." Maglor shrugged and flipped the curtain to the side, letting Finarfin in. He half expected that Maedhros had used the time he was given to sit and make himself a little bit more presentable, or at least cover himself with a sheet, but as he turned, he found that his brother had not moved.

Finarfin followed, only to halt as the stench of blood and herbs hit him. Eyes widened in alarm, he looked around the tent and gasped as he saw Maedhros lying flat on the bed, his mutilated back uncovered.

"Forgive me if I do not rise," Maedhros said dryly.

"Sweet stars, Nelyafinwe!” Finarfin didn’t quite manage to hide his horror. He stared openly and made a move as if to retreat.

“I warned you,” Maglor pointed his uncle a seat. Perplexed, Finarfin sank down, still at loss of words.

“That’s what warg claws can do to an elf,” Maedhros explained, turning his head towards their guest. Exhaling, he added, “If you wish to know when I could be of service to you, Alcarino said a week."

"A week off from any duties," Maglor muttered under his breath. His brother all but ignored him.

"I should be able to mount a horse by then, though I'm afraid I will not be in my best fighting abilities," he added matter-of-factly, his expression blank.

Finarfin shook his head and sighed, having recovered from the initial shock. "That was not why I came here. I felt something was amiss and simply wanted to inquire about your health, as a kinsman would," he said and the concern in his voice seemed genuine. Had the time not taught Maglor to be wary and suspicious, he would have thought it was really their uncle and not the High King of the Noldor from Valinor sitting there.

Maedhros made a move as if to shrug, then thought better of it. "I've had worse," he simply answered. Seeing the look Finarfin gave him, he evaluated, "Do not think I underestimate the enemy, or overestimate my strength, I am far from that. But trust me to know my limits. I should be fine soon, unless the wounds get inflamed. Or, as my brother so nicely put it, unless I let myself bleed to the point of collapsing."

Finarfin didn’t look convinced and kept glancing at the wounds. His grey eyes were clouded, as if some disturbing thoughts or memories burdened his thoughts. Maglor found himself too irritated by his presence to bother asking.

But Maedhros noticed it as well. “My looks bother you, I can see."

“It saddens me to see you like this, yes,” admitted Finarfin. “I wish not to see you suffer and I wish you said something earlier.”

"I passed all the information about the numbers and the place of the ambush, and the suggested course of action. Now you have a full view and, I hope, can act accordingly. And,” the eldest son of Feanor glanced sideways at his brother, “I can get some rest.”

"I would have got that from my men too," Finarfin pointed out.

Maedhros huffed. "They lack experience. You have the numbers, uncle, but your people need to learn and quickly if we want to stand a chance against Morgoth.”

Maglor dearly wished his brother would think before speaking so bluntly, but he knew that the herbs he had taken were to be blamed for the loosening of his tongue. There was little he could do to now.

Dinessel chose that moment to slip into the tent unannounced, a bowl in her hand. Seeing the king, she tried to back off and glanced helplessly at Maedhros.

"Do not be alarmed by my presence," Finarfin offered her a kind smile. "Tend to your lord."

Maglor realised what she was seeing. Him, wearing his normal, practical clothes, with a Feanorian brooch at his chest as an only visible jewel, and Maedhros - lying half naked, still in his bloodied pants he hadn’t had the strength to take off. And then there was Finarfin - a foreign king from the land from stories, in all his fairness and glory, in bejewelled clothes befitting a hero from stories - sitting in their tent on a storage box they sometimes used as a stool.

“Just leave it there,” Maglor waved at the narrow table. “Thank you.”

There was hardly any space there, but Dinessel piled up the documents on one side. She left the bowl and all but fled, taking the basin with bloodied water with her. With her gone, Finarfin turned back to Maedhros. "I inquired about your state. None would speak a word about you. Not to me, nor to any of of my men. But what I heard was disturbing, hence I came to get the whole picture," his eyes wandered to Maedhros's back and he flinched at the wording.

"You have us followed?" Maglor wasn’t overly surprised, but neither was he pleased.

"I have the situation watched at all times, to avoid... Incidents." Finarfin held his gaze. Maglor nodded slightly in acknowledgement. The last thing any of them needed now was some disagreement between the elves from Valinor and the Feanorians.

Maedhros pushed himself to sit. "My men will answer to me only and you have agreed to that. Do not expect them to reveal anything about me or my brother. Even at your direct order," he said coldly, then groaned and swayed, eyes shut. He managed to support himself before he fell forwards, but couldn't hide pain tightening his features. "I'm fine, Kano," he rasped, the king momentarily forgotten.

Maglor put a steadying hand on his shoulder while Maedhros tried to regain composure. Though neither of the brothers said a word, Finarfin needed none. "l shall not disturb you any further. Rest, Nelyafinwe," he rose and motioned Maglor to remain by his brother. "We will talk tomorrow if your state allows it."

***

The following day was a busy one, with messengers flying back and forth, bringing news from scouting parties. New patrols were arranged, the guards around the camp reinforced and before Finarfin knew it, it was already past midday when he finally found some time to return to his tent and catch up with the most recent letters he had received two days ago and hadn’t had a chance to read.

Wrapped up in his work, Finarfin snapped mid-sentence from the letter at hearing something falling outside. Since he didn't hear any of his guards reacting, he rose from his chair to check what had happened.

"What is the meaning of this?!" exclaimed Finarfin as he noticed the familiar silhouette of his older nephew lying motionless in dust, and the two Noldor whom he kept close at his disposal leaning over him, but otherwise not helping.

"He just fell, my king," one of them replied, not even bothering to check on the unconscious elf.

Finarfin rushed past him. He knelt by Maedhros and rolled him to the side, searching for traces of blood on his back; luckily he found none. Placing his hand at his neck, he felt unhealthy warmness, but the pulse was steady.

"Don't trouble yourself with the kinslayer, my king. I will fetch a healer if that is your request," offered the guard stiffly, not even hiding his displeasure at the thought.

"Nonsense," Finarfin snapped, his irritation growing. "Help me get him inside." He knew he shouldn't expect much of them. Those who served him had little love for the sons of Feanor. Yet Finarfin couldn't help the anger at their unintended cruelty. Not when he had seen his nephew the previous evening.

Before they moved him, though, Maedhros stirred and moaned. "No need," he muttered, his eyes blinking. Having noticed Finarfin kneeling by his side and the two other elves standing awkwardly over them, his expression went blank and he pushed himself to a sitting position. A muffled hiss was the only indication that something was amiss.

"Easy," Finarfin warned him, then looked up. "Help him get off the sun. My tent."

"But Sire..."

"Now." Finarfin stood up to make them some space.

The guards dared not question him, but they were far from gentle. Grabbing Maedhros by the arms, they pulled him up and steadied. The motion was too much and the son of Feanor swayed, so the guards held him firmly as they followed Finarfin inside and led him to the chair the king pointed.

“Fetch him some water,” said Finarfin, but seeing the guards’ reluctance as they looked around in search of a cup, he grasped his own goblet from his desk, still half full, and passed it to his nephew. “There.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros rasped and took a generous sip. Then he realised someone was still holding him and tensed. For a glimpse, there was a flash of something wild in his eyes before he locked his gaze with his uncle.

“Bring more,” Finarfin ordered and motioned the guards to leave. “For me and for my guest,” he added pointedly. He didn’t like their look of contempt at Maedhros drinking from his goblet. But more importantly, he did not like the madness and terror lurking from under the calm pretence of his nephew. He hoped he was the only one who had seen it.

Sensing the warning in his voice, the guards let go of Maedhros’s arms and left. Finarfin followed them and sent one for water and for some refreshments, appointing the other to stay close by, lest there was a need of a healer after all. Setting his mind to talk with both of them later, he slipped back inside.

As he entered, Maedhros rose carefully. His face was no longer so ashen grey, only pale, but the unhealthy flush did not leave his cheeks. Two upper buttons, now unfastened, were the only liberty he had allowed himself.

"I thought I said we would talk when you are well enough?" Finarfin looked pointedly at his nephew. “For goodness sake, sit down before you fall,” he couldn’t quite hide exasperation. "I didn't expect to see you today nor in the next few days."

"I can walk, so I am well enough to talk to you" Maedhros shrugged it off. He crooked his head and a shadow of grim smile appeared on his thin lips. "Unless you keep me up and waiting all day," he snorted. He took the offer and very slowly lowered himself on the chair. His shoulders slumped a bit and he leaned forwards to place his elbows on his knees.

Finarfin frowned. "I have not been informed of your presence here."

"This is partly the reason I came to speak with you," Maedhros sighed.

"I shall be at your disposal in a moment," Finarfin went to his desk and bent to pick a sheet of paper that fell, tossed by the breeze coming from the outside. Turning back again to his guest and sitting, he added quietly, "Take off that coat if it is bothering you." He didn't miss that the long jacket Maedhros wore seemed a little tight on him, doubtless because of the dressings hidden underneath. He was surprised to see him at all, let alone fully dressed in formal clothes. But perhaps he shouldn't have.

When he was among his people only, Maedhros bore himself more casually, always armed and ready. But when he attended councils or other meetings with Finarfin or Ingwion, he retreated to the protocols of old Finarfin remembered from his father's court. He had thought he had in time abandoned some of the formalities as he rebuilt his own court, but seeing how his nephews acted around their people, he had to revise that view.

Maedhros didn't move. "I won't be able to take it off on my own," he admitted dryly. "Nor will I put it back on later, for that matter."

Finarfin winced inwardly, but didn’t press on, since Maedhros clearly wished him to drop it. Before he could say anything, the guard returned with requested refreshments. He left them on the desk and retreated outside.

“Your guards would not bat an eyelid if I died at their feet, so I doubt they deemed it necessary to notify you immediately of my presence." There was no contempt in Maedhros's voice as he returned to Finarfin’s earlier statement. He used the same even tone like when he offered his counsel at the meetings.

Finarfin hesitated. He didn't like the image emerging from the offhand remarks. “What happened yesterday?” he asked carefully, his voice low. There was little he could do to keep a conversation truly private in a tent with walls of thick fabric and little else providing that privacy, since osanwe was out of options.

Maedhros rubbed his forehead in a tired gesture and reached for water. “My patience is thin today and I believe we can save ourselves needless talk, uncle,” he said and straightened.

It was the first time since their arrival that Maedhros called Finarfin that way. It was also the first time they met alone, save for the brief talk the previous evening. He knew there would be displeasure among his councillors, but as the king he needed to get information from all sides.

“Before you ask, no, I do not come to accuse anyone of anything, for I experienced no ill will. If they wished me dead, they would have left without us.”`

That was an idea Finarfin liked even less and hoped it was but a theoretical example. He waited until Maedhros emptied his glass and continued.

"You asked about yesterday. I’m not going to repeat myself, since we discussed it already at the council,” Maedhros started. “Eccesindo is a skillful and promising captain. But when the attack came, there were two parties and two leaders instead of one, for he would not heed my advice at once. I can be a guide and despite what you may think, I can bear following orders, but I will not stand by and see ill commandment cost my people their lives. And sometimes a second of hesitation is all that it takes for things to go awry. We got separated for long enough to allow the wargs to attack both groups and it cost us needless blood to get back together."

"I see." Finarfin wasn’t really surprised. He expected trouble and clashes, but if they were to pay for them with blood or life, some actions had to be taken. “You seem to have come to me with some ideas formed already,” Finarfin leaned back on his chair. “I would like to hear them.” Only a fool would ignore Maedhros’s experience.

But the eldest son of Feanor shook his head. “I am not as blind as to think that I am in a position to make demands,” he answered with brutal honesty. “I gave up the crown once to ensure that our people would stand as one. But you have that already and I have nothing to offer you save for my sword and my hatred towards the enemy." The burning eyes of his nephew lit up with passion despite his weariness. "For the first time in decades I look around, I see an army and I have hope, more hope than ever, that we stand a chance against Morgoth. And I will anything to see him destroyed, even if it takes the very last drop of my blood, for all the pain he has caused us all."

For a briefest moment Finarfin saw his eldest brother and he realised that had Maedhros not been so destroyed already by his oath and by his wrongdoings, he could have swayed the people and convinced them to follow his lead, like Feanor had. His spirit burned just as brightly, but the inner fire was tamed and channelled with determination and steadiness that could only come from Nerdanel. Yet his deeds cast a long shadow and no skill could cover them.

“I doubt not your hatred,” Finarfin answered finally. In these lands, the grief in his heart for his fallen family awakened again. “Nor your desire for revenge. Yet I cannot leave you in charge, if that is what you suggest.”

Maedhros only nodded. “I know. Your people have little cause to love any of us and my people are a mere drop in your army. But what I said yesterday is no less true, even though you may find my words harsh. And if you would hear me, perhaps it would be wiser for us to take patrols that go farthest north, with a few of your men to show them what we know. When it is possible to move in smaller groups, of course.”

“I will consider it,” replied Finarfin. What Maedhros proposed would give him much more liberty, but also could dissolve the problem of two larger groups in one party, who would follow their leaders in dire situations. If it was to work, he would have to pick soldiers willing to accompany the Feanorians with them as the commanders. But this was something to be discussed with Ingwion and their counsellors in the nearest future.

Maedhros nodded and stood up slowly, retreating back to his formal bearing. “Thank you. I will not take more of your time.”

“We will talk about it on the next meeting,” Finarfin rose as well. Though the air of familiarity was gone, he allowed himself one last remark. “I expect you to be back on duty only when you are fully healed, Nelyafinwe.”

There was a hint of amusement in Maedhros’s eyes as he nodded again and left.

A/N: Good or bad, please let me know what you think :) There is still much to explore.

[wolveria]

The Jedi’s Gambit - Ch. 2

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Cad Bane

Summary: The day Cad Bane turned himself in caused quite a stir at the Jedi Temple.

The way Luminara told it, he simply walked up the steps, approached the nearest Temple Guard, and said, “I surrender.” Toothy smirk and all.

Yes, Obi-Wan definitely had a bad feeling about this.

Prompt: Enemies to Lovers (for my writing challenge at @trashmenofmarvel​)

Word Count: 3k

AO3

The Council agreed that a Sith artifact and information revealing who had wanted to destroy the future of the Order through the abduction of Force-sensitive younglings was worth its weight in ingots.

Bu apparently, it wasn’t worth a full pardon.

Obi-Wan was stretched to his limits. He knew Bane had done unforgiveable things (killing Jedi amongst them), but they were losing the war. It wasn’t obvious at first glance, but like a glacier falling into the sea the Republic was slowly and inevitably sliding toward defeat. Information from someone like Bane, who worked in many elusive circles and had been in the game longer than most, was invaluable.

Plus, Bane could finally confirm the Council’s suspicions that the Sith Lord they had been searching for was responsible for the abduction of the Force-sensitive younglings, putting the entire future of the Order at risk.

Obi-Wan saw Bane’s demands as entirely within their power. The Council didn’t see it that way. They didn’t want to take the risk of pardoning the bounty hunter.

It was not the first time the Council had made a decision that struck Obi-Wan as unwise. Sometimes, he wondered if they prioritized purity over practicality. Of course, it was not unheard of that the Masters would deal with elements of the underworld, but apparently this was too much for their honor to accept.

Obi-Wan wanted to crack through his reserved composure and tell them their honor was ceded the moment they became the frontline soldiers in an intergalactic war.

He nearly shocked himself with the extent of his own unhappiness with the Council. Obi-Wan hadn’t always thought this way, but he couldn’t deny his faith had been shaken after his stint as the infamous Rako Hardeen.

He had voiced his doubts to no one. Who would he have told? Anakin? The boy’s faith in the Council was shaken enough—he didn’t need Obi-Wan to add to it.

Luminara? Hardly. She adhered to the Code even more stringently than Obi-Wan did, and that was saying something. She might try to be sympathetic to his new, unbidden feelings of conflict, but she wouldn’t understand them.

Mace? The wise Jedi might have understood. He had done things that weren’t exactly pristine during his tenure as a Jedi Master, and he might commiserate with Obi-Wan’s doubts now, but he couldn’t risk Mace losing faith in him either. If anyone looked at him too closely, stared just a little too long, they might sense his unfaltering trust in the Code had begun to…

Well, falter.

So, Obi-Wan kept his mouth shut, jaw clenched tightly as he listened to Mace, Ki-Adi-Mundi, and Yoda deliberate on Bane’s fate. In the end, they decided they needed to meditate on it, and Obi-Wan left the Council Chambers with a pulsating headache between his eyes. He’d told them about Bane’s condition, how he had suffered abuse at the hands of someone, and they’d made vague promises to look into the matter and then moved on to the next topic.

As if the idea of a Republic prisoner being tortured in their custody wasn’t something that needed serious attention.

He went to bed distressed that night. Even meditation couldn’t unburden his concerns and lingering sense of dread. Cad Bane never ceased to make matters more complicated, even when he was supposedly trying to cooperate. From his capture to his demands, nothing was simple and the Force hummed with an undercurrent of something larger at play. Obi-Wan just wished he wasn’t the only one who seemed to feel it.

And then there was the matter of Obi-Wan and his own complicated feelings in regards to the bounty hunter. He continued to push the memories of what happened on the Delano to the furthest reaches of his mind.

He hadn’t been the first Jedi to break the Code, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last, but Obi-Wan was quite sure none of his predecessors had broken their oath quite like he had. There had been many Jedi in the past that had “gotten in bed with the enemy” and joined the dark side. Obi-Wan had literally gotten into bed with the enemy, but still maintained he was on the side of the Light.

It was hypocritical, and dangerous, and it was why Obi-Wan had shut out all thoughts of Bane. It was why he had to do so now, and remain objective and fair when it came to Bane’s fate. The gnawing pit in his stomach had everything to do with getting the Sith artifact into safekeeping and nothing to do with any kind of concern for the reckless bounty hunter.

And yet… he couldn’t forget the look on Bane’s face as Obi-Wan had drawn near. Couldn’t ignore the way his chest hurt when he first saw Bane’s bruised face, and how he had pretended everything was typical and that he hadn’t been terribly abused by his captors.

Well, to hell with waiting around. Obi-Wan would investigate the matter himself. He didn’t need to wait for the Council’s approval for that. With that thought in mind, Obi-Wan finally shut his eyes to sleep.

When he opened them, he was no longer in his bedroom. Grey, glittering, uneven walls rose around him. He realized he was in a mineral quarry, surrounded by broken bits of blue gemstone that were strangely familiar.

“…die… my feet… like a man.”

“You’re not… piece of trash… disposed of as such…”

Obi-Wan turned to the sound of voices, catching their words in confused snippets of dialogue. He narrowed his vision and shaded his eyes from the lights above his head. Lights he realized belonged to a ship.

A Republic prisoner transport.

Finally, he saw them, figures gathered underneath the hull of the large vessel. Someone was on the ground, their hands bound behind their back.

Obi-Wan moved closer, his heart beginning to race in his chest. Something was very wrong here, and he realized why as he got close enough to make out the figures. Clone troopers surrounded the kneeling form, and Obi-Wan felt an unpleasant jolt go up his spine when he recognized the last figure.

Bane looked up at his captors as they said something else to him, the clone’s words oddly muffled, and then he seemed to sigh as he closed his eyes. His bony shoulders, normally pulled slightly back in confidence (and often arrogance), were now slumped in defeat.

But the look on his face was the most disturbing thing to Obi-Wan. It was unequivocally a look of relief.

The trooper held out his hand and another soldier gave him a handheld blaster. He aimed the weapon at the back of the bounty hunter’s bowed head.

“No!” Obi-Wan cried out, reaching his hand out as if he could stop the execution from this distance. But no one seemed to hear him or even know he was there, and he was forced to watch as the trooper pulled the trigger.

Bane fell forward, crumpling to the ground in a broken heap. The only movement after that was the wisp of steam rising from the barrel of the blaster.

Obi-Wan bolted upright with a cry on his lips, his throat tight as he looked around the room in panic.

No troopers. No lifeless Bane, either. Just his dimly lit, sparsely-decorated room. He shuddered and rubbed the sweat-slicked hair off of his forehead, trying to catch his breath. His chest heaved up and down beneath his thin shirt which clung to him like a second skin.

It hadn’t been the first time Obi-Wan had woken up screaming after dreaming of an execution he couldn’t stop. He’d been plagued by nightmares for weeks since Satine’s murder.

This was the first night he hadn’t dreamed about her, but about someone else.

No. Not a dream. It had felt too real to be a dream. The tangy, sharp scent of the air, the cool night breeze against his skin. No… it hadn’t been a dream. It had been a vision, revealed to him through the Force.

Obi-Wan hurried out of bed and got dressed in his robes at record speed. The sun was just beginning to peek through the columns of skyscrapers through his window, and he ran through his mind who would be awake at this hour.

Master Yoda, probably. Perhaps Mace. Kit would still be sound asleep, as he had arrived a day earlier fresh from the battlefield. Or perhaps fresh wasn’t the best word to describe him or any of the Jedi Masters. They were all running on fumes at that point, which was probably why he shouldn’t have been surprised when Luminara was the only one there when he arrived in the Temple communications center. She was slightly bent forward, studying a map of a system under siege by the Separatists.

There truly was never a time for them to rest.

“Good morning, Master Kenobi,” she greeted politely, turning away from the holomap as she appraised him. “You’re up early.”

“Yes, well, there’s a reason for that,” he said while running a hand through his unkempt hair. Damn, he’d forgotten to even groom himself. “I need to…”

He trailed off, caught off-guard trying to explain exactly what had just happened. Force visions were complicated things at the best of times, and led one down a path fraught with danger at worst. They were often unreliable, but what was more important than that, they usually centered on people or events that were important to a Jedi. Things that were at the forefront of their mind.

How would he explain to the Council that he was having visions of Cad Bane?

“Yes, Obi-Wan?” She watched him patiently, but he didn’t miss the glint of curiosity in her eyes. It wasn’t often someone caught Obi-Wan at a loss for words, looking so ruffled in the early hours of the morning.

“I need to speak with Cad Bane,” Obi-Wan finally admitted after rubbing the back of his neck. If he could figure out why a squad of troopers would execute a Republic prisoner, perhaps he could prevent it without having to confide in his fellow Jedi. The thought should have filled him with guilt, but his sense of urgency left no room for it. He couldn’t get the image of Bane collapsing, his body limp and unmoving, out of his mind.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she responded evenly.

His throat tightened so fast he nearly choked.

“What? Why?”

“The trooper escort has already left,” Luminara informed him as she pulled up an official document on the holoscreen. “He’s been transferred to the prison planet, Worath.”

“Transferred?” Thank the Force that the shock running through him made his tone void of emotion, calm, because Obi-Wan was the farthest thing from it. “On whose authority?”

Luminara peered closer at the document, a thoughtful finger tapping against her chin as she read, “It has the Senate Seal of Approval. It either came from the Senate or the Chancellor himself. I am unsure as to which.”

It was impossible. Bane had only been in their custody for less than a day. The Jedi hadn’t decided on the matter, and the Senate certainly never decided on anything so quickly. That left the Chancellor’s office as the responsible party who gave the order.

“But… we were in the middle of working out the terms for Bane’s deal!” Now a little color came back into Obi-Wan’s tone, causing Luminara to raise an elegant brow at him.

“If I must hazard a guess…” she observed while looking back up at the screen, “I would say the Chancellor did not wish to form an official agreement with a known criminal. Especially one as notorious as Cad Bane. Perhaps he felt consigning the bounty hunter to Worath would send a message to others who would try a similar tactic. That no clemency would be granted to those who profit from the suffering of others.”

If that’s the message the Chancellor wished to portray, then he could not have picked a more perfect punishment. Worath was one of the most brutal incarceration worlds that existed in the galaxy, and all of its occupants were permanent “residents.” No one who was sent to Worath ever left. At least, not while they still drew breath.

As much as her words made sense, Obi-Wan didn’t entirely subscribe to Luminara’s explanation. Something hadn’t felt right from the beginning, and for the Chancellor to issue an order to have the bounty hunter sent away so quickly? Obi-Wan was beginning to suspect it was the Chancellor himself who had remanded Bane out of Jedi custody and secreted him away into the military base.

He would have to figure it out later. For now, he had to move. And quickly.

“Thank you, Luminara. Tell the Council I will be off-world for the rest of the day. I have some business to attend to.”

Luminara gave him another eyebrow quirk but didn’t question him further, instead slightly bowing her head in acknowledgement and farewell. Obi-Wan had left the room before she’d straightened her posture.

If it had been a Force vision about anyone else, Obi-Wan would have taken a Jedi diplomatic ship and explained his actions later. This particular situation, however, was fraught with pitfalls and traps.

His past… interactions… with the bounty hunter complicated things. The fact Bane was going to be executed by GAR personnel complicated things further. He had no idea what would happen if—when—he got to his designation, but at least he knew where he was going. He’d recognized those glittering grey walls and blue gemstones from a place in his youth, long, long ago.

The problem left was how to get there. If he took a Republic vessel, it would have navigation logs and records. There would be a clear trail for where he went and what he did. It was protocol, and typically, Obi-Wan was glad to have it there, but not this time. This time, he would be going into unknown territory and he was unsure who was friend or foe.

Obi-Wan needed a ship that wouldn’t be tracked. And in order to do that, he would need to visit an old friend.

“Obi-Wan!” yelled a boisterous voice once the Jedi entered the diner.

So much for subtle entrances.

“Hello, Dex,” he answered back, smiling despite himself. “It’s been a while, my friend.”

“That it has!” the old Besalisk responded with a deep, belly-laugh, grabbing the Jedi around the middle and embracing him tightly.

Obi-Wan struggled to breathe until he let go, but honestly, he didn’t mind Dex’s enthusiasm. It was a breath of fresh air after the polite-but-distant personal interactions in the Temple.

“Stars above, haven’t you aged since I last saw ya. I mean that as a compliment,” Dex added with a wink. “Very distinguished.”

“It’s all in the beard,” Obi-Wan answered, bringing forth another deep laugh from the diner owner as he stroked said beard. Then he lowered his voice into something more serious. “I don’t mean to be impolite, Dex, but I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”

“Ooh,” Dex vocalized with clear interest. “Got more Jedi business for me to help with?”

Obi-Wan hesitated a fraction of a second, and then answered, “I need to borrow a ship.”

Dex narrowed his eyes in a way that was far too observant, and his grin turned sharp. “Unofficial Jedi business, then. You in some kind of trouble?”

“Not exactly,” Obi-Wan answered, pulling his robes tighter around himself as Dex led him toward the back of the diner.

“Someone else in trouble?” Dex asked while looking over his shoulder at him. “Someone you don’t want on your people’s scopes?”

Obi-Wan couldn’t stop the smile under his beard and said, “You don’t miss a thing, Dex,” which caused the Besalisk to chuckle.

“A dull-eyed prospector is a starving prospector. Now what kinda ship are you lookin’ for?” They were standing outside now, behind the diner for some privacy, though Obi-Wan much preferred the kitchen. The smell was more tolerable, anyway.

“Something reliable and inconspicuous.”

“Hmmm,” Dex hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his own facial hairs with his fingers. “I normally wouldn’t do this, but seeing as how yer an old friend, I suppose I can part with my personal starship.”

And having a Jedi in your debt doesn’t hurt either, Obi-Wan internally mused, but he couldn’t fault Dex for working the deal into his favor. Dex was sharp enough to see Obi-Wan was desperate, but he was also kind enough to not take advantage of the situation unfairly.

“Dexter, you are a saint,” Obi-Wan said with a grin. And he meant it. This was the first break Obi-Wan had caught since this whole business had begun.

“Oh, you talker,” Dex responded with a chuckle. “You know you can ask anything of ol’ Dex, even if you can’t talk about your mysterious Jedi missions. Just bring my ship back in one piece. She’s probably older than you at this point.”

“I will,” Obi-Wan responded with a smile, embracing the Basilisk one more time. “Thank you, my friend.”

Dex told him the location of the spaceport where he stored his ship, a part of town Obi-Wan knew would was cheap and discreet. He doubted anyone would recognize him there, which was all the better.

“Obi-Wan, before you go…”

“Yes?” the Jedi asked, pausing as he turned to leave.

“I gotta ask. Just for curiosity’s sake…”

Dex met his eye, a look there that was entirely too shrewd to be just mere curiosity.

“Is this business… or personal?”

Obi-Wan’s smile began to fade as he thought back over his history with Bane in its complicated entirety. From the theft of Force-sensitive younglings, to holding the Senate Building hostage, to saving Obi-Wan’s life in the Box, and finally to the night on the Delano that left him confused and conflicted.

Obi-Wan’s answer was given with a grim firmness that bespoke the heavy weight of his responsibility, duty and his own complicated thoughts.

“Both.”

[marginalgloss]

a dream of north

I don’t recall exactly when I first read Northern Lights by Philip Pullman. It must have been in the late 1990s, since I’m fairly sure it was after the release of the sequel, but definitely before The Amber Spyglass came out. (I was very excited for that one.) I would guess I was no more than twelve or thirteen. It seems a little odd now to think that initially these were promoted as books for young people. My edition was published by Point, the Scholastic imprint best known for pulpy teen horror fiction; in a bookshop today you are more likely to find a new edition of one of Pullman’s novels dressed up in handsome pastel colours, with a more ‘artisanal’ cover style. Which is fine, and well-deserved. But my copy is the same one I read more than twenty years ago; I know this because it is missing the top-right corner of the last thirty pages or so, having once been lovingly chewed by a late lamented family dog.

Northern Lights is not a long book, and in many ways it feels like a quick sketch of a fast-moving story, one which is touches lightly on the world in which it depicts. By the standards of genre fantasy or science fiction, there isn’t a lot of detail here. We follow Lyra, a young girl growing up in an alternate Oxford — it might be some time in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, by our standards. Through a combination of accident and concealed design, Lyra is drawn into a conspiracy that involves two aspects: an expedition to the distant arctic in search of a mysterious particle called ‘Dust’, and a conspiracy to kidnap children and transport them to this same far northern region. What follows is an adventure in pursuit of Lord Asriel, a man Lyra believes to be her uncle, while alternately monitored and pursued by a sinister rich woman called Mrs Coulter. This race to the frozen North forms pretty much all of the main body of the book.

For the most part it rolls along at a storytelling pace: one thing happens, then the next, then the next. It really does have the rhythm of a story one might tell out loud to children, over many bedtimes. (Consider the frequent asides about what Lyra must eat, and where she sleeps — so often a chapter will end with her curling up to sleep in some sheltered corner of a forsaken place.) It doesn’t come across as overly considered. With a few exceptions, the book doesn’t often slow down to explain itself. If a reader were so inclined I’m sure it would be possible to poke holes all kinds of holes in the plot. Even by the end of the novel I didn’t feel entirely sure what Dust was, nor did I really understand what the antagonists were trying to do with it. Are they trying to destroy it, or to control it? And some of it seems whimsical, in the best possible sense. Want a Texan cowboy with his own gas-powered balloon and a talking bear for a best friend? Why not? It’s fun. It may be whimsical but that isn’t to suggest it’s frivolous; the author’s imagination comes from a place of experience, from deep reading. It’s a world that fascinates, even as it seems to resist scrutiny. 

Something else which surprised me on returning to this book was the near absence of any explicit references to organised religion. There are mentions of something called the Magisterium, but it’s far from clear what their role is in the story, while a passing mention of ‘Pope John Calvin’ seems like a sort of gentle joke for older readers. This seems significant because at a certain point after the final book in this series was released, public discussion of Philip Pullman’s work became centred around his attitude to organised religion. By then a new populist atheism was having a kind of resurgence — people were talking about ‘the New Humanism’ or ‘New Atheism’ as if it were something to be excited about. Pullman would be loosely associated with this movement, insofar as his books could be championed by people who might proactively define themselves as atheists. 

But to the best of my knowledge, his statements on these matters have been altogether more measured, and less definitive. I’m curious now to revisit the later novels and consider the extent to which they really have much to do with atheism at all. It’s been a while, but it always seemed to me that the atheist reading was worth unpicking from the anti-religious impulse in these novels. There is a certain amount of what you might call ‘fantasy spectacle through hard science’ in Northern Lights — the many-worlds theory, the vague invocations of particle physics, all of which was so excitedly summarised by the New Atheism as the ‘wonder’ of the universe — and yet I’m not sure the novels are altogether so content to settle on a purely materialistic view of reality.

The big idea of Northern Lights is in the daemons. They are a beautiful idea, and the book’s story could easily be read as one long pursuit of this idea. What if every person was born with an animal companion which represented — no, which actually was — an indivisible part of their being? As if we all had another organ of personality, like a second brain or a second ‘heart’, linked to our bodies by an invisible thread. The notion has the genius quality of immediate appeal to all ages. Children (and many adults) love the idea of a permanent animal companion, while older readers may appreciate the associated philosophical concepts: the shadow self, or psychological anima; or just the little angel/devil on our shoulder. 

Perhaps the existence of the daemons a kind of heresy, as much as it implies that each person’s soul (for want of a better word) belongs essentially to themselves. There are no refunds, and a daemon is not subject to exchange; a daemon is not the property of some other high power, gifted at birth and reclaimed at death; they might not even be properly said to belong to their ‘owner’, any more than their person-companion belongs to them. Still, in spiritual terms this might be characterised as a problem of accounting rather than of blasphemy. There is a lovely image presented early on of the crypts under one of the Oxford colleges, where great people are buried alongside precious tokens depicting the forms of their daemons. Even in death they belong to one another, though the account into which they have been deposited remains a mystery.

After the reader is introduced to the associated rituals and taboos, it is the pain of separation from one’s daemon that becomes a sort of leitmotif in this book. All this is expressed incredibly well — the sense of separation anxiety is perhaps the most memorable aspect of the whole story. It is unpleasant for one’s daemon to be handled by another person, and it is literal agony to be separated from it by more than a very short distance, and so when the reader discovers that children are being severed from their daemons it seems like an uniquely agonising kind of cruelty. 

The allegories for this ‘cut’ are more explicit than I remember. At times it is directly compared to castration or genital mutilation. Lobotomy might be another comparison. The procedure seems to have a uniquely devastating effect on children — it seems that adults have undergone it without such dramatic effects — but as with much in this book, that much is never explained. Again, it’s unclear why the procedure is happening at all. Nobody seems to be gaining anything by it. It is like one of those pointless bleak cruelties we find in Roald Dahl. It’s something to do with Dust, we’re told, and it is dependent on the unique relationship that children have with their daemons before they reach puberty. But that it is hard to rationalise is, I think, part of the point. 

Hanging over it all is the horror of institutionalised abuse. It is the kind of abuse that needs no justification, any more than senseless vivisection does. It is merely the pulling apart of a thing to see how it works – for the cutter, the gratuity is its own reward. Perhaps in so far as we can find any meaning in it, it’s in the idea that growing up needn’t involve a sort of deliberate caustic severing of whatever it was that made us childlike in the first place. We may not need to put away childish things, and we certainly don’t need them to be torn from us. Perhaps growing up should be less like a departure from ourselves and more like a process of reification, in which something that was latent all along only becomes settled and manifest with the passing of time. 

[gascon-en-exil]

Joining the Game Late: S3E9 “The Rains of Castamere”

Synopsis

Walder Frey hangs a lampshade on Robb’s love life. Prime UST in Dany’s camp, leading up to a classic FE chapter. Sam is like a wizard because he’s literate. Arya and the Hound swap moral opinions and death threats, but he’s there to save her in the end. Bran learns he can possess humans which isn’t creepy in the slightest as Jon blows his cover and his love interests are sad. Rickon almost has a recognizable character before he leaves for another plot with Osha. It’s the Red Wedding - everybody’s dead, even the direwolf! Catelyn and Robb take an extra minute to go out dramatically. (But what happened to the bride and groom? That’s rhetorical, I already know.)

Commentary

Except for two points, everything’s about the Starks tonight. Sam and Gilly get one inconsequential scene that does not follow up on how Sam just one-shotted an ice zombie, and Dany’s siege of Yunkai plays out exactly like a chapter in Fire Emblem where three men (one of whom seemingly has no common language with the other two, how does that work?) infiltrate and capture a city all on their own. Yeah, yeah, the plan is for them to sneak in and open the main gate for the army, but with the number of soldiers they’re shown fighting once inside it’s all rather silly. I find that my threshold for suspension of disbelief is higher in video games than it is for other media; is it the immersion factor? Other than that, though, when the show’s not at the Twins it’s setting up future plotlines for Bran and Jon and maybe even Rickon while also maneuvering Arya into position to add an entire house to her hit list that I know will have a huge payoff a few seasons down the line. I’d actually not picked up from spoilers that Arya was just on the fringe of the Red Wedding, but it makes a lot of sense. The only Stark not in this episode is Sansa, who sits it out along with everyone else at King’s Landing.

The Wedding itself is incredibly well-crafted, not least because the scenes leading up to it are so relatively mundane that even if you know what’s coming it can be easy to be fooled into believing that this isn’t going to end in a bloody massacre. Walder Frey is still the same asshole he was back in Season 1, but he’s a funny asshole and he heralds Robb’s arrival at the Twins by stumbling over the names of his numerous daughters and granddaughters and making lewd remarks about Talisa. Unpleasant old lecher as he is, I feel like he’s very briefly being used as an audience surrogate in that moment, poking fun at how quickly Robb/Talisa went from serious philosophical discussions on the cost of war and the traits of a good ruler to gratuitous sex and clandestine marriage. The show invented Talisa and her romance with Robb all on its own, so it’s good to see that at least in this the showrunners were able to have some fun at their own expense. The rest of these scenes do the work of establishing traditions of hospitality as well as Westerosi marriage customs, and I liked seeing them pull bits from both the Robb/Talisa and Tyrion/Sansa weddings for that as this is probably the most we’ve ever seen from the show about what being a participant in the faith of the Seven actually entails. The decision to use Catelyn as the primary PoV character for the last tense moments before everyone starts dying pays off well, especially since the final scene - and death - of the episode is hers. As much as I had wanted Robb to be a favorite before starting this liveblog I found Cat’s anguish at seeing her son killed seconds before she slits Frey’s wife’s throat and then dies herself to be the single most moving piece of the Wedding, in large part because she’s so often been the PoV character for the Starks’ storyline. So yeah: great character, strong way to go out, glad she’s not resurrected into an evil version of herself which is apparently what happens in the books.

When people compare this series to FE the Red Wedding is inevitably brought up as a point of comparison, specifically to Genealogy of the Holy War’s Battle of Belhalla. Both events are shocking midpoint twists that exploit a violation of hospitality to kill off a sizable amount of the established cast, and both are tied in some way to the primary male victim marrying a woman he shouldn’t have. Sigurd may share more personality traits with Ned Stark than with Robb, including the bumbling sense of honor that leads both of them to their deaths, but I think in this comparison one may read the common character flaw of the Starks: they expect the world to be a certain way, whether that’s wanting to marry a charming prince and become queen, see justice delivered upon evil men, or attend a wedding and not be violently murdered. That in turn calls attention to the snowballing list of poor decisions made by the Starks that have culminated in this moment, which again is very reminiscent of the equivalent in FE. Sigurd sets out on his quest to rescue his kidnapped childhood friend, but on the way he stumbles into conquering two countries without realizing it and setting up the pieces for men far more politically savvy than he could ever hope to be to take control of the entire continent. So it has been with Ned and his wife and children; it’s telling that the most successful of them at the moment are the two who’ve been working outside the conventions of their world, whether that’s traveling the countryside in drag and learning how to kill from a procession of very dangerous men or following prophetic dreams into a realm of barely-understood magical abilities. The jury’s out on Jon and Sansa at the moment.

One nitpick though - Roose Bolton’s role in the Wedding is not set up very well. I can piece together that he’s there to betray the Starks for the Lannisters because of his arrangement with Jaime, but that’s more me thinking back to what he was saying two episodes ago. It’s not established that he did any planning with the Freys beforehand, and I read that the line he says when stabbing Robb was changed from the book so that he doesn’t mention Jaime specifically which is weird. The Boltons are like the Seven to me; I know they’re there and they’re important to the plot, but the show so far hasn’t done much to establish them to the extent to which they ought to be. A lot of that is them continuing to play coy with Ramsey’s identity, granted, but prior to the Wedding Roose was a mildly sinister figure at most - not someone whose betrayal firmly hit home as the cherry on top of Walder Frey’s bloody sundae.

[rhotano-rose]

The Lines I’ll Cross

The Great Gubal Library of old, crumbling Sharlayan was certainly a place to be feared. It attracted both foolhardy adventurers and those with the well-earned title of 'hero' alike. And no matter who dared step inside its halls, no matter their experience or lack thereof, the cursed repository confronted them all with creatures beyond the norm of imagining, beings hailing from twisted dimensions of depravity.

Despite the terrors and dangers housed within, the promise of nigh-infinite knowledge was ever an attractive one. Rare were the reckless few who managed to smuggle out anything truly worth all the trouble. As was often the case with any reputable archive, the quality material was always to be found in the back. In the safety of the shadows, easily overlooked by the clumsy, half-witted masses.

Yet Rosa walked with purpose through the dark; she did not fear it, not anymore. Though the thick dust and musty scent of aging leather and parchment did a number on her eyes and airways. As she traversed the marble halls and long stairways, the dying sputter of oil lamps barely provided enough of a glow to light her path. More often than not, she was simply following the weak, muddled rays from towering windows upon the walls and overhead, betwixt innumerable shelves of long-forgotten texts.

From the blackness came the wretches of the void to deter her, and from the crystalline focus of her staff came blinding, scouring light to cast them back. Wild, deafeningly shrill cries echoed, echoed, and faded.. Yet she could feel them watching. So very many eyes hungered after the White Mage, as the purity she wielded steadily carved a pristine path through the gloom.

A previous escapade through the expansive corridors - many moons past - served to help in leading her to the section she sought. A dark, unassuming chamber. Yet the moment Rosa passed beyond the threshold, the air within shifted, seemed to thicken, a shawl of invisible weight borne upon her shoulders. As foreboding as the rest of the place had felt, the room she had entered easily tipped the scale.

Reality and awareness as she knew them seemed to waver here. Akin to stepping into a lucid dream, she stood within a corporeal vision where her surroundings could easily dissipate if she dared to question their existence. It was as real as she could grasp it to be-- and if it meant she could acquire what she came for, she was content to dream. Thus, taking a breath and focusing upon her goal, she proceeded further in.

The high-reaching shelves against the back wall were host to a myriad of various tomes, scrolls, stray pages separated from their bindings. Rosa caught the writing upon a few of them, and odd, illegible passages met her gaze, symbols crammed together in chaotic scribblings. They were not what she was looking for, thankfully; she didn't envy anyone tasked with transcribing that mess.

With a loft of her hand, motes of light arose into being, floating about like fireflies to illuminate - as well as offer warning to anything that may approach from behind. She could still feel their eyes, and the imposing statues that flanked the room were no exception. For better or worse, she was being watched-- though for the time being, they kept their distance, likely for fear of getting burned.

Titles shifted and blurred upon the spines. Faint whispers of indistinguishable words tried to cling to her hand as it traversed the rows. Whole tomes flickered in and out of being, the thread connecting them to the physical plane frayed to the verge of snapping. All the while Rosa's brow furrowed in her search, not a hint of surprise to be seen upon her features for all the peculiarity. She already understood the purpose of this room, after all.

These texts did not belong, did not originate upon Hydaelyn. The Mother Crystal was not the only world to be; the existence of the void suggested that much. But between late night mirror scryings, and aetherical readings from a certain makeshift altar, the fact of more was only further confirmed. To what extent these other worlds or realms stretched, Rosa didn't know. All too likely she would lose herself in the search for knowledge of them all if she tried. But she only needed one.

Words rung endlessly within her mind, words that challenged her, and ultimately led her to seek the truth. 'You will not find my name in the books or parchments scattered in the lands of Eorzea or this plane.' And it was true. No matter where she looked, no matter what scraps she had scoured for and salvaged.. the Jackal remained a most infuriating enigma she had the misfortune to barely begin to understand, let alone keep in check.

But here, maybe here..

She felt it, more than saw it. A sickly familiarity, like a nightmare she dreaded to remember. The tome her fingers paused before held an unfortunately similar aura, of the wretched creature she had glimpsed upon the first summoning, before it took on the face of its chosen vessel. Her fingers clasped the spine and pulled, unpleasant prickles sent up her arm as she drew it free. Clad in a thick, dark cover made of material she didn't recognize, the front bore no title, no emblem, nothing.. save for a faded name handwritten on the inside. ‘E. Felo'melorn.’

She could only surmise it to be the author’s-- though in truth, the book had the look of a journal or other manner of written account rather than a published work. The pages were yellowed and stiff with age, and Rosa took care in turning them. When she came across a loose one, she gently settled it back against the binding, ensuring it fit with its fellows as she moved on to the next.

She read, and read.. and nearly forgot exactly where she was as names and events slowly came to light. The Land of the Drifting Sands. The prophecy of the Great Maw. The last Pharoah. The Wishmaster. The Jackal.

With great reluctance, Rosa closed the book, and tucked it close, as much as her body protested the presence of it. She did not receive the same sense within the rest of the collection left sitting within the shelves.. at least not for now. She needed to ensure this one clung to the physical realm.. and letting it stay within this space, where the lines of dimensions blurred, could easily jeopardize that.

She turned her back upon the rest, the evidence of the beyond, of knowledge unknown.. and walked her way out of the dream. The book went into her bag the moment she crossed the rift, and swiftly she departed the way she came, with sacred light to guide and protect her as she fled.

And the curious book stayed with her, solid and real; she checked, double and triple-checked to confirm it. She dared not risk taking it with her through the aethernet. The good, old-fashioned way of chocobo-drawn carriage served well enough to ensure her find would not slip elsewhere. But she had to admit, the trip from the cold, rocky mountains of Dravania to the lush forests of the Black Shroud was a lengthy one indeed.

By the time she reached the Lavender Beds, the blanket of night had long-since settled over the land - but it was far from quiet, at least for Rosa's ears. The elementals thoroughly disapproved of the book she bore back to their domain, and made sure she knew it. ‘A blight! A stain! Be rid of it, seal it away!’ "I will, I will," came her weary response to the angry, swirling whispers. She would need to contain the thing properly, and make offering for her transgressions no doubt.. But she would do it on the morrow. She was simply too exhausted now.

A reassuring transmission over her linkpearl to Ajax promised her return before dawnbreak; she had another stop to make first. A quaint cottage upon a hill was her destination, a place she had recently secured to conduct her research without toting the more dangerous acquisitions - such as the one in her bag - to the apartment she shared with her beloved.

Once inside, she drew the tome back out and planted it upon the desk sat nearby, already covered in scattered papers, texts, a long-cold coffee mug.. and an unfamiliar bit of parchment - tattered and incredibly ancient. It had been faced away from her seat on the other side, like a note left by another hand for her to find upon her return. Puzzled, she took it up, eyes scanning the lettering upon it.

Abstract imagery met her gaze, what she could only take to be protective seals. Intricate engravings and symbols she could only barely understand with her rudimentary knowledge of runes and ritualistic circles.. but somehow they were familiar at the same time, tickling at her memory. If she could only remember.. but her tired mind provided little assistance. But the text that accompanied the curious markings did clue her in as to the sender.

Iados was always watching, after all. From the day he had protected her from harm, stood sentinel outside her recovery room, and continued to aid her efforts whenever she needed. Like a silent guardian, she knew he was often in her shadow, and held no doubt he already knew what she was doing. Why he was helping her this time, considering the man's own experience with the traumatizing influence of 'Jack', was a question she couldn't begin to solve.

Perhaps a proper meeting was in order. But again, another matter for a later time. Adrenaline had carried Rosa throughout her journey - along with a fair dash of stubbornness, perhaps. She could feel herself wearing down, and admittedly longed to crawl into bed for what few bells she could before Ajax's own workday began.

With the acquired texts secured within a substantially thick safe behind her desk - and no mirrors for any riddle-tongued demons to peep through - she took her leave of the cottage with the door equally locked behind her. As tired as she was, she expected a long, long rest.

But after that, she had a lot more reading to do.

(mentions: @elibraddock)

[dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt]

Interesting story, you say? Let's hear it!

oof okay friendo buckle up bc it’s a bumpyass ride!!

So, the first thing y’all need to know is that poltergeists aren’t actually ghosts/spirits, per say. They’re energy, created by people, and they most often linger in houses. You know how some places feel really good when you step inside?? That’s good energy. It means not a lot of bad stuff has happened in that place, and the owners/the house are happy. Poltergeists are what happen when a lot of negative shit is going on. It might be because of hard times/a dysfunctional family/an abusive or unhealthy relationship/etc. If something unpleasant is going on, especially for an extended amount of time, a poltergeist will start to form. It’s inevitable. And it is important to note, if there is a person who is sensitive to energy/emotions/spirits, they will A) be able to add more to the poltergeist than anyone else (with or without knowing it), and B) will be more sensitive to the affects.

Now that all that’s out of the way:

our old house has one fuck of a poltergeist, mates.

My granddad (my Dad’s dad) is very sick, so we had to stop our happy caravan travels around Australia and buy a (very cheap and old) house in the middle of a literal desert to be closer to him (and did so immediately, of course.) It was a whiplash from having the time of our lives to being stuck in the little worse situation (for us.)

Everybody was worried about my granddad, we got little to no rain ever, there were a lot of thunder storms (which our dogs hate) and high winds, it got to 50 degrees Celsius in summer, we had animals to take care of (3 dogs, 3 chickens and 2 ducks) and in winter we didn’t even have to light the fire often, we were isolated from all our family and friends, and so poor from the sudden unexpected stop of our trip that sometimes we couldn’t afford food.

To put it simply: hard times.

Signs of a poltergeist:

A general uncomfortable/nervous/depressed feeling whenever you walk into the house, even if nothing is technically ‘wrong’

Things mysteriously vanishing/cupboard doors opening/strange noises/unsettled animals

Nightmares (especially ones that seem specifically targeted at things that you fear most or that upset you the most)

Odd red marks on your body (insect bites/scratches/dots)

The sensation of being watched

Drafts where there weren’t any drafts before

General feeling of not being alone/safe even when you are

Sudden mood swings (especially to extreme anger or extreme sadness)

More of a tendency to argue than usual

Catastrophic thoughts

Intrusive/bad thoughts

Depression/lethargy

Bad luck (everything that should go right always seems to go wrong)

Never seeming to be able to be truly happy in the house

you get the gist, bad shit

[note: if any of these things are happening, I strongly advise you go to your doctor and psychologist before anything else]

It started off small at first. About a year in to our stay in the house. I started feeling drafts on the back of my neck when I tried to sleep. As I said, we’d lived here for a year, so I kind of knew what to expect from the house by now. I knew which boards creaked/etc. But it was not one of the many windy days, and the draft wasn’t sporadic. It was like a rhythum. Almost like somebody was literally leaning over the bed and breathing on the back of my neck. It got so bad and so regular I could feel it moving my hairs (back when  I had long hair) and tickling my face. But when I turned over to look, I couldn’t see anything. It didn’t happen all the time, even on the windy days. It was just some nights, which made it even weirder. (Note: I checked my window was shut and even slept with my door closed a few nights to see. It still happened.)

More small things started happening. Pens would go missing. The dogs were unsettled a lot. Any plants we tried to keep in the house died. We all started to feel edgy for no reason, started to have more arguments than we’ve ever had before. Everybody started to feel uneasy. It got to the point where I was scared to shut my eyes. Once, I had a run of almost a week of horrific nightmares, one after the other, every single night I had the same type of dream, where my dog was in agony and the only thing I could do to help her was to kill her with my bare hands. Again, I was terrified to go to sleep. I dreaded it. My Mum and Dad started to feel the exact same way.

My Mum started getting weird insect bite marks every single night. Two red dots, like a spider bite. She washed all the sheets, even tried sleeping in different rooms. Still woke up with them every morning, all over her body. My Dad and I took turns sharing the bed with her, but we never had the same bites. Though one morning I did wake up to my leg stinging, and it turned out there were two long, raw scratches down the inside of my thigh (there was nobody/nothing in the bed with me that could have done it, it was fresh, and I bite my fingernails to stubs out of anxiety so I couldn’t have made such a defined, clear scratch myself.) In our last few weeks in the house, my Dad actually got bitten by something while in bed, his finger bled and everything, but nothing was there, he stayed up for an hour on a work night just to find evidence of a mouse or something to please his skeptic mind, couldn’t find anything.

Worth noting is that my Mum and I both believe in the paranormal (and are sensitive to it), but my Dad doesn’t. And even he started mentioning the fact that he “felt like he was being watched” and that he was having a lot of bad dreams. And, here’s the kicker: he was having intrusive thoughts. Not ‘I’m gonna kill my family’ or anything like that, but things like “Dad’s not going to get better. I’m a failure. What’s the point? I’m worthless. Everybody hates me.” And you should all know, my Dad is THE most chipper, happiest, most positive peanut on the planet. He’s the only mentally healthy one in our little family and he NEVER thinks things like that. Not even when he is under intense stress. One night he even said he heard something in the room with him, clear as day, he was absolutely 100% sure one of the dogs had somehow gotten into the room, but when he looked, there was nothing there.

At that point, my Mum and I started to rethink the steep decline of our mental health. Because we’d always had problems, but not to this extent. We were having the exact same bad thoughts, but hadn’t really thought twice about it, since we’re The Mentally Unhealthy y’know. We started to rethink things: how instantly we’d feel better when we stepped out of the house, all the weird marks, all the weird dreams and drafts and noises and disappearing objects and everything else. I was also having a lot of headaches/stomach aches/nose bleeds at this point. It was honestly like you’d fall into a trance whenever you stepped into the house; it honest to god felt like you had the life slowly drained out of you. Even our goddamn neighbours noted it when they came over to visit.

The only way to get rid of a poltergeist is a crap-ton of sage and white light, and by starving it - getting rid of all the negative energy in your own lives and forcing yourself to be more positive. At this point though, we were already planning on moving out, so we didn’t really have time… and our situation wasn’t improving, either, so hard to be positive. Long story short, we toughed it out, and moved.

I should tell you, even though technically these last few months in this new house have probably been the most stressful and depressing few months we’ve ever had - we’ve all been sleeping like babies, we’ve had no more of the weird thoughts or depression, no more nightmares, no more weird drafts, all our animals have been perfectly content, and we’ve had no more red marks. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I think my Dad may not be quite so skeptical anymore, tbh.