#she would definately have ebony flesh

[murmel-malt-deactivated]

okay, a concept: Daensa Skyrim!AU

[peachpeachplumb]

Fat Parade Chapter 4

So.

It’d come to this.

6 years since the band broke up and America had gone Floridada. The suburbs may have stopped their sprawl but the septicity had continued to spread. Now they were going to build a wall to keep it all in, trap it in one space and let it fester. They’d lock up all who opposed and blame Benghazi. The White House was down but Olympus had risen; hysteria was everywhere, and Ebony had seen it coming.

Hadn't it been obvious to anyone else? Had nobody but her noticed the corporate creature creeping forth, slowly swallowing up riot grrls and digesting them into girlbosses? The Rainbow had been ingested too, now a brand before a label, a sales tactic plastered on soft drinks and sandwiches for a single month of the year. All had been absorbed, aside from race theory: that was merely sat on, shat on and hidden beneath big business’ monstrous backside. It didn’t suit their narrative, after all.

And so, having folded all opposition into their assets, the suits could now frame themselves as the victims. They were the oppressed ones, they said, mutilated by the wave of wokeness they’d bought upon themselves. It was the immigrants who were stealing your wages, or Obamacare, or the activists: the details didn’t really matter. All that mattered was themselves and the lie that they were all that mattered, and those with the power to spread the truth had already sold out.

Rap was a shell of its former self. Party rock may have left the house but it’d taken rebellion with it. Nobody said “fuck the police” anymore, only “fuck my ex”, and racism didn’t matter to the 20 million other white rappers who’d emerged a decade after Eminem’s prophecy. People didn’t want politics, they wanted Gucci or Versace and, if there was any room left for sticking it to the man, all anyone had to do was seem shocking next to the six or so sanitised celebrities who otherwise dominated the genre. Overextended dicks? Despite the misogyny, they’d do the trick. And pop was no different, literally no different any more, except when it was pasty pre-pubescent acoustic guitarists offending everyone from Galway to Guadalajara, or narcissists refining the emo Ebony knew into fuel for their own egos. The alternative, if there truly was any left, consisted almost entirely of indie landfill from the 2000s getting a second wind out of Spotify payola and teens too starved of genuine counterculture to know better. Or else, it was a paean to unremembered Reaganomics, neon nightmares framing rebellion as bloodless flesh and new-old-wave cock rock incel anthems urging supermen to say their stupid lines.

But then again, she realised grimly, her generation hadn’t been much different. If she’d been Brendon’s bride she'd probably have been a whore too, slamming the goddamn door behind her as she left his misogynistic ass at the altar. Perhaps a decade defined by Funeral, flat whites and Jack White had made everyone stop caring. The world might have been collapsing but people had taken for granted that it had already happened. They’d embraced the Internet aristocrats and worried themselves instead with whether they were losing their edge. They’d made love and listened to Death From Above and sang along with their preppie oppressors as they cried Kwassa Kwassa.

So she couldn’t have stopped it, Ebony knew that now. She’d never been authentic enough to begin with, and now? Now she was a mess. The clock had well and truly ticked out for her voluptuous hourglass figure. In its place was an unrecognisable blob, with a belly like the molten middle of a chocolate pudding. And Ebony would know: she’d eaten enough lately. Her breasts too repulsed her; her breasts were always enormous, sure, but not like this, they never sagged: was it with age, obesity or both? Most horrible of all, however, was her lower half; though it paled in size compared to her stomach, the way it felt was far worse. The way her flabby thighs rubbed themselves sore, the way her massive ass wobbled up and down as if trying to tear itself free from her flesh, the pressure on her pudgy feet: it was enough to make Ebony dread the mere act of walking. So she stayed sedentary, consoling herself with calorie bombs, moving only between the bed, the bathroom and the fridge as she watched the world outside her window burn down through her TV. She was no rebel anymore: merely an overinflated sex doll, blown up to the point of busting, numbing herself with food. A pig, in a cage, on antibiotics.

If this bulky body really was software version 7.0, it was an unwelcome upgrade. Like that time Ebony had been stuck with Bono’s boastful dirges on her iPhone for weeks. That same iPhone had now burrowed into her flesh, into everyone’s, fenced souls to socials that had always looked lame next to MySpace, and she’d just ignored it, as she had everything. All she ever cared about was fame and food.

Maybe things could have gone differently. Maybe the band could’ve singlehandedly saved emo somehow, managed what Nirvana and NWA never could, actually won. Maybe they could’ve been more political back in the day, joined in on Rock Against Bush, screwed the cash and branded themselves buzzkill like Dixie Chicks. Maybe they could’ve reached more people, toured more often, done that dumb Bionicle commercial after all instead of AAR. But that was all egotism, Ebony knew. The truth was her voice had always been noiseless, and whilst that was exceptional she couldn’t help hating herself for this. And for that, she wanted to believe all of this was her fault, and hers alone.

Ebony needed help.

***

“Oh, my…”

“I know.”

Willow had been expected Ebony to have changed a lot in the years since she’d last seen her former bandmate and best friend, but the transformation really was remarkable. Her face was still recognisable, if anything the extra softness served to counteract the ravages of ages on her cheeks, but the rest of Ebony’s body was completely unfamiliar. In place of its old supermodel-skinny waist was a truly titanic tummy, bulging over the hem of her sweats and covering her crotch completely. Even from a distance Willow could tell just how supple it was, as it jiggled with every minor motion; a doughy orb of pure fat. Ebony’s ass had ballooned too: once so pert, it was now so plump as to be visible even from the front. Most shocking of all however, was the chance in her chest: those famously huge tits were bigger than ever before, expanded to truly mammoth sizes, not by silicone, but by soft, squishy adipose. She was massive. She was a mess.

She was even more gorgeous than before.

“Ebony, you look…”

“Disgusting.”

“I was going to say,” Willow smiled, “different.” Her lips trembled.

“Spare me the cliches,” Ebony sighed, “I haven’t the energy.”

“Then why invite me?” It’d been six years after all, and without a word from her bandmate Willow had assumed Ebony simply wasn’t interested in hanging out with the short, mousy drummer anymore. Looking at the state Ebony was in now, Willow was deeply regretting that assumption. Typical Willow, letting egotistical anxiety ruin her life until the chaos became contagious. How had she ever played Wembley?

“I don’t know,” Ebony spluttered, “I don’t know, because… because I was selfish, I guess? Because I wanted a friend.”

“Ebony, when did you last go out?”

“I can’t go out anymore. The Enquirer would have a field day, they could set up tent on my ass it’s so big—”

“Ebony,” Willow repeated sternly, “when did you last leave the house?”

“Fine!” Ebony cried, petulantly. “Lemme see, there was Greece, then Rome which looked basically the same as Greece from where I was sat—”

“Sat?”

“It’s been a while, okay? I…” Willow slumped unto her bed with a plop, her blubbery shoulders bouncing with the motion. “I don’t remember how long.”

“Oh, Ebony…” Willow sat down beside her friend, and clasped her hand.

“I thought it was over, Willow. I told them all that I’d beaten it, that they could beat it too. All fairytales. This isn’t Enchanted, it’s Orwell, and now I’m rambling again like the narcissist I am—”

“Ebony—”

“You know Arcade Fire are doing Disney tracks now? For those shitty live-action remakes…”

“We were never Arcade Fire.”

“No, we were worse, at least they tried to be authentic for a while, we were sell-outs from the start. Monetising mental illness—”

“It was never about that Ebony. Not for any of this.”

“But we still did it, didn’t we? We stood by and let the businessmen suck out our blood, and I’m talking like a Coupland character because beneath it all I’ve never had substantial to say, except that I was sad, not even angry, just sad, and now I’m old and bitter and I’m everything today’s kids should be hating except they aren’t because they take for granted the corporations have already won just like we did and I hate them for that even know I know its hypocrisy and I can’t stop it, I can’t stop anything, I just swell and swell and swell with second-hand self-importance—”

“Ebony, you’re hyperventilating. Please try to relax.”

“That’s what got us into this mess!” The shrillness of the scream surprised Ebony more than Willow. Upon noticing it, Ebony realised too how short of breath she really was, how much she was sweating… She began to cry. “We can’t relax,” she whimpered, quietly. “We shouldn’t have that luxury, and yet we do… I do. I indulge. All the time.”

“But that’s okay,” Willow assured her.

“No it isn’t. I’m an asshole, Willow. I left you for so long.”

“Nah. You wanna see an asshole,” Willow smirked, “check out Raven. Real big with Pitchfork these days, hipster poptimist bitch.”

“Don’t hate her. Sure, she’s part of the problem, but at least she’s oblivious. Us, we know what we did, what we said, we know what… what we have to do….”

Willow didn’t need to hear the rest.

“I don’t think it’s that drastic Ebony. I really don’t.”

“You don’t know jack shit,” spat Ebony, “you don’t know the lies I spewed, and I’m being arrogant again and I’m ignoring you and I need to…”

“No.” Grabbing Ebony’s chubby cheeks, Willow forced her friend to stare into her sunny eyes. “I can’t leave you like this. I’m sorry, I know that’s patronising I really do but I just can’t. I… I care about you too much.”

“I’m only going to make you feel you shit.”

“You can try. And I can try to cheer myself up.” Suddenly, she started giggling slyly. “Remember that time you thought you’d bought coke from Fiddy at the MTV awards?”

“Oh god,” Ebony chuckled through the tears, “why’d you have bring that up?”

“I mean you and Raven looked like you were having fun…”

“I just wanted to try it, okay? We were kids, it’s not like it ever became a habit or anything…”

“I mean it wouldn’t, it was only flour after all, but you two were convinced you were high—”

“We were pretty drunk.”

“Drunk enough to sleep with him—”

“He looked like Fiddy!”

“Well, it was his cousin…”

“25 Cent!”

In the joyous of laughter and tears, it felt as if the last decade had rolled back, and the pair were on top of the world again: not this world, but a world they recognised, a world they could both, for all their angst, find joy in. Eating real ramen street-shop in Tokyo and spilling it over their tops fleeing the paparazzi; crashing a tour bus after whacking a roadie in the head with a Wiimote; pillow fighting with Paramore so hard the cops got called: all those perfect moments seemed to be happening again all once. Not merely feeling happiness, but sharing it… neither of them had known that pleasure for quite some time.

“Come here, Ebony.”

Sighing softly, Ebony shuffled her bulky body along the bed and let Willow envelope her in her arms. Her hands felt so warm and tender as they rubbed Ebony’s chubby back up and down. As their bodies pressed together, Ebony noticed the way the subtle softness of Willow’s stomach yielded so gently to her own pillowy tummy, the way Willow’s breasts nestled so snugly in the crease between her boobs and belly. It wasn’t sexual, merely intimate, intimate yet exhilarating, like they were each other’s most treasured teddy bears.

Maybe, Ebony thought, being big wasn’t so bad after all.

[luminescencefics]

AMY my goodness, Fade 11 absolutely wrecked me.

I’d like to introduce a new Taylor song to the Fade mix : ‘it’s the damn season. Now I know it’s again not a perfect match, but I was listening to the song earlier and some lines came back to me when I was reading this chapter. First there’s the references to LA and “so called friends” which I think really fits because lately Nora has seemed to be surrounded with a few empty friends, or friends from the industry that obviously don’t hold a candle to Niall / Piper / Ebony. And the “only soul who knows which smiles I’m faking”?! Harry can read her expressions like a book and was the one to call out how uncomfortable she was. And then just more generally, I feel like Nora and H have only really had each other for a defined time (or a season if you will) before life gets in the way.

Ok ok but I digress. I feel it’s quite significant that Nora has literally shut the door on parts of her old life, and that her memories and trinkets are collecting dust in Scott’s spare room instead of mixing it up with Scott’s belongings. There’s also the point that she has to remind herself it’s “their house” and defaults to saying “Scott’s house” / “Scott’s countertop”. Even the process of moving her things into Scott’s was more about convenience than actually defining that stage in the relationship (not that it surprises me that much, given how Nora felt after the last 2!)

Oh I was just so happy for Nora to be with the people who actually know her in London. Who take her messy bangs and give her whisky instead of champagne. Who know the significance of the message to Shannon and are there in the theatre with her for that moment when so many others have left. The return of the first time for everything line made my own heart skip a beat, so it’s no wonder it did a number on Harry’s. Oh and Lordy I don’t even have the mental capacity to get into how his dad ducked him over, but truthfully I’m glad Harry stood his ground and walked away from it. It’s devastating to think how differently his life could have been if he’d reached this points years prior, but at least he’s (hopefully) able to start recovering snippets of himself now.

Right, I think that’s about enough of my ramblings. But last thing, my favourite part - Nora’s just willing herself to feel that happiness again and it’s natural for her to feel homesick when she’s surrounded by so much unknown! Did you have a favourite part from 11?

And when her eyes fall back to Niall and Piper, she tries her hardest to allow their happiness to fill her heart. But instead, all it does is cause the thin beating flesh to fissure and break, her heart aching painfully inside of her chest as she yearns for all of the friends she wishes she was surrounded by.

Hi friend!! I love hearing what you have to say about Fade, your insights are always so spot on. I totally see how 'tis the damn season fits into this story, especially the smile line! And when you pick up on how Harry and Nora only have each other for a certain amount of time, that's literally their biggest issue. I loved Nora's return to London as well, and I'm so glad that line made your heart skip a beat. Harry is definitely moving on from his past and ready to embrace a new future, and I think you're right in thinking that he's able to start recovering. I love that line too, but I think my favorite bit from part 11 is Nora waking up on Niall and Piper's couch with Harry, her hand reaching out for his and she isn't even aware that her body did that in the middle of the night. I love writing scenes like that! But if I had to pick a favorite line, it would probably be, "And because one memory simply isn’t enough, he’s suddenly twenty-two, lying on the charcoal sheets of his old Hampstead Heath townhouse that never felt the same after Nora’s scent disappeared from every corner of the space. She’s on top of him and pieces of her fringe are sticking to the smooth skin of her lips, and although he didn’t know it then, he had never felt more in love with another person in his entire existence."

Thank you as always for the kind words, I can't wait to hear what you think about the last part💗

[obutsuwrites]

Gods & Monsters (mirio x reader)

Summary:  Calloused fingers pinched coral cheeks. Hot breath vanished in her chest. Oxygen-starved lungs heaving into the night. “I think for such a divine right… you can offer me your body!” Mirio’s eyes beamed, passion radiating from him.

word count:  3,215 xxx basically, smutty deity!mirio x reader meme i originally posted on ao3

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my ao3 4 more shitposts

She had traveled through this swamp only once before. The bog was foreign; humid musk mixed with flora assaulted her senses. It was exhilarating. Exploring such alien terrain was a mere fantasy. She knew the marsh was off limits.

xx

"Honey, I know you wanna explore, but I need  you here,” Grandpa said, his voice cracking. Even his voice was aging. 

She lowered her head, realizing how absurd it was. Grandpa was steadfast in his faith. The swamp was  dangerous. “Monster’s live in these marshes.”

xx

She knew monsters didn’t exist anymore. No sighting in  decades. No heroic tales of glory. No reason to not explore the marsh. Besides, the swamp offered a shortcut home. The humid bog sat on the brink of their farmland. Coming home meant circling to avoid the swamp like a fool. She had the beating heart of a lion. 

It was autumn, trees had begun to shed their vivid displays of color for the muted palette of autumn. Bog ground had softened. The air was crisp, her breath easily visible. The harsh, muggy marsh was almost scenic, she thought. Maybe a painting. 

A small click quietly echoed through the air. Bringing a camera was a good idea. The frigid evening had produced tranquility in the swamp. Her quiet breath and occasional sounds of nature permeating. 

She relaxed, examining the photo with keen eyes. 

The evening sky had exploded into delicate pastels of purple. Tiny novas. She needed to finish up, she was expected home soon. The swamp gained magic at night, her Grandpa would say. Whatever. The trek home would simply be impossible in such a low light,  old man. Soft feet crunched lifeless leaves, stumbling in weak evening light.  Fuck, fuck fuck. Staying so late was fucking stubborn. Fucking stupid. Monsters didn’t exist, but Grandpa sure as fuck did. The geezer was going to have an absolute  field day. Staying late, fucking around in the monster-infested swamp?  What the fuck were you thinking?

“I don’t know,” she muttered, stopping to catch her breath. Sweat had pooled at her temples. Warmth had spread to her flushed cheeks. Periwinkle orbs. 

In the corner of her eyes was a flash. A flash in the twilight of the bog.  Maybe her Grandpa had found her! 

“Hey! Grandpa, I’m right here!” She called, a rush of oxygen crashing into her starving lungs. Quickly, she scrambled to follow the twinkle in the marsh.  Her salvation. She stopped, her lungs craving air. Any trace of the sun had been eradicated by the moon. The gleam of light was irradient. She knew it wasn’t Grandpa. Why would he search the swamp? The old man could hardly walk now. It was a silly notion, she’d realized. Despite this, she continued to chase the alluring glow. It was attracting her. Calling her. 

“You’re cute like this.” The disembodied voice was bubbly and masculine.

Her breath caught in her throat, dread pitting into her stomach. Adrenaline flooded her anatomy. Goosebumps emerging on supple flesh. “Wh-who are you? Come out!” Her words were rubbery, slipping out in a meek stutter.

The beam was flashing now; alabaster beams radiating. A simple flash. Before her now was no longer a galaxy of glow. Before her now was a man. He stood bare, sun-kissed skin blemished by maimed flesh. A nebula of stars had exploded across his arms. His posture was proud, muscles quivering and contracting in the chill. His flaxen hair shimmered in the moonlight. He was a deity to be worshiped.

A squeal burst from her.  Oh my fucking god. He’s fucking naked!  She had never seen a man like this. Manhood exposed. 

Instinctively, meek hands rushed to cover her eyes. This materialized god was shameless. He made no attempt to cover his nether regions. She felt as if she would implode, steam rising to her rosy cheeks. 

“Aren’t you cold?” 

Tender, calloused hands gingerly gripped her wrists. “Up close, you’re beautiful!” he beamed, his voice reverberating from his athletic chest. Delicately, he removed the hands from her eyes. His embrace was gentle. Almost as if he’d never touched such soft skin before. Sculpted fingertips lingered on her flesh. 

Being this close to a man was unfamiliar. His warm breath was fanning her cheeks in waves. He was too close. The heat from his body deepened her crimson flush. Virgin eyes examined him, a pit of wanting in her chest. He caught her gaze. Perfect orbs of cerulean engulfing her. She was staring. 

“Do you enjoy looking at me?” he asked, his voice carrying innocent verve. “I like looking at  you.” His tone dropped, a lustful undertone hanging. 

Quickly, she snaked out of his grasp. Had this mountain man been following her? Shameful eyes abruptly averted, staring holes into the frozen ground. This Adonis of a man was abnormal. He simply manifested in the lights. The act seemed so commonplace to him. Was… was he a monster from the marsh? 

“W-what are you?” The words tumbled out, anxiety slurring her speech. She felt blood coursing through the irregular beating of her heart. The sound was a constant in the bog. 

A modest smile formed on his handsome features. “I live here.” 

She shifted, the bare man before her obvious to her discomfort. Suddenly, his hands wrapped around her, the sweltering heat from his body consuming her. Flesh marred from battle, fitting against virgin skin. An aroma of mint and earth seeped into her senses. His scent was intoxicating. Her mind muddled by his presence.

He pulled their bodies close, a heated face colliding with his cicatrix chest. “I’m sorry! You guys haven’t seen me for decades, huh?” A hearty chuckle vibrated into her hair. He felt like a fever dream. Sultry and almost intangible. 

“Seen you?”  Monsters live in these marshes.  

Monsters. A defining feature was their grotesque appearance. Their tyrannical, boorish nature. The lack of divinity. This man certainly wasn’t the phantom of monsters. No.  He was a god.  His existence triumphed the sun.  

“Yeah! A swamp spirit? Oh, I know! A naiad?” 

xx

Naiad. Tales of old had started it. Her curiosity into monsters. 

Aged books sat in various positions of disarray around Grandpa’s office. She had raced to the library, her arms carrying ancient texts of gods and monsters. 

“Hey Grandpa! Oh my  gosh, can you  believe  deities used to exist? The same as monsters?!” Her voice had ascended in pitch, a passive squeak escaping. 

Grandpa leaned against the door frame, his posture suffering from age. A brief expression of shock jolted through his commonly stoic features. “Never told you about the naiad. They’re like monsters, little one. But… different. Holy. We used to worship them. Folks would travel  hundreds of miles  simply to leave a gift and pray.” 

The first time Grandpa smiled.

xx

“You’re -- oh my  god  -- you’re a deity?” she questioned in between violent giggle fits. Relief had racked her being. The war drum of her heart was gone. Her cheeks a light dusting of pink. A mortal was still in the deity’s grasp. Soft flesh had tensed against him. The fever of his skin persisted. 

He laughed, a rough hand stroking the crown of her head. “Naiad. Names are still a thing, right? Naiad is too formal, so is ‘swamp spirit.’ Wait! You can call me Mirio-chan.” A smile had manifested on Mirio’s bewitching features. He knew how syrupy his name would sound. 

“Mirio-chan?” she questioned, nectar shrouded in her tone.  Like that.

“I don’t see why not! Consider it… a  privilege.” 

Her eyes lit up, the promise of a privilege from an Adonis was irresistible. “Mirio-chan, my name is--”

“I know who you are. What sort of naiad would I be otherwise?” he mused, breathing into her hair. She was a bouquet of citrus and fir.  She smells soft.

A naiad. A  deity  was leaning onto the crest of her head. Divinity. Air hitched in her rib cage, choked out by her thunderous heartbeat. Meekly, cold hands wrapped around his upper chest.  He’s so warm.  

She curled into him, rouge cheeks squished against calloused skin. The frigid air was assaulting her frame. He provided warmth. A heated embrace that felt like home. Mirio continued to rest his head atop hers, coarse hands brushing through smooth hair.  So soft. So delicate.  

“I don’t have an offering for you,” she mumbled abruptly, palms slapping onto his toned chest. Azure orbs observed her. Mirio’s seraphic face scrunched into a pensive expression, golden brows furrowed in thought. 

Calloused fingers pinched coral cheeks. Hot breath vanished in her chest. Oxygen-starved lungs heaving into the night. “I think for such a divine right… you can offer me your body!” Mirio’s eyes beamed, passion radiating from him. 

“M-my b-body?” she whimpered, her tone meek. She was inexperienced in the ways of pleasing a man. Nothing beyond aching glances between classes. Glances that set her face ablaze.  He’s so beautiful. I’m not worthy.  

Mirio nodded, his eyes darting to her lips. “Can I kiss you?” 

She gulped. Her mind still muddled, core aching for him.  Mirio-chan’s touch.  

“Please…” she pleaded. Satin hands bracing against cicatrix flesh. Mirio’s muscles contracted under her. Crimson heat spread like wildfire from his sun-kissed cheeks, to the peak of his ears. Flustered. Silky hair illuminated against his ruddiness. Soft toe tips melted into the earth, straining to ensnare roseate lips. 

Mirio bent down, his form no longer dwarfing her. Rough hands finding purchase on her shoulders. She braced against him, arms into her chest. It felt almost inappropriate to lean against him bare-handed.  A naiad.  

She closed her eyes, ebony lashes laying atop crimson cheeks. Mirio’s chapped lips met hers, the pillowy sensation inducing a tighter grip on her shoulders. He could break her like this. A runty, naive mortal lying beneath him. No. Her cherubic form was to be savored. Deities deserved offerings. 

He pulled away, the glint of a pink tongue chasing the after taste. Her lips were velvet. Satin. Rose lips that tasted divine. The coiled abyss in Mirio’s center ached for more. 

Innocent eyes opened, the need in her chest growing. Mirio’s bare body overstimulating her. “Can… can you kiss me again?” 

He leaned in, his lips roughly slamming against hers. A muscled arm padding its way to her waist. The warmth his touch provided was euphoric. She responded to his touch, soft flesh mollifying against him. This kiss was starving for affection. Mirio tugged her closer, his fever enveloping her. 

Mirio’s other hand migrated from her shoulder, finding comfort against her balmy cheeks. A large calloused thumb swirling circles them. She had forgotten the duty of offering herself to him. Mirio’s hands were a holy revelation. 

His hands wandered against her side, no longer attached to her waist. Supple skin brushing against maimed flesh. 

Pink lips parted, meek pants forming in the chilly air. Greedy lungs gulping down oxygen.  I fucking want him.

“Touch me more,” she muttered, modesty getting the best of her. The violent pounding of her heart was making it difficult to focus. Mirio had ignited an inferno of desire spreading from her pulsating womanhood. This feeling was foreign to her. Hot longing forming a coil in her stomach. 

Mirio graciously obliged, eager hands roaming. Delicate skin tensed under his touch. He caught her virgin lips again. Mirio’s ravenous tongue demanding entrance. Virgin lips separated for him, her breath sultry against him. The hint of fresh apples danced on her tongue.  Syrupy kisses consuming her. 

Battle-worn hands grasped her bosom, eliciting a soft gasp. Her body was so fragile beneath him. Virgin skin prickling at his touch. Large, gentle hands began to massage her breasts, palming through autumn layers. Her breath hitched, tender arms wrapped around his neck, hoisting herself closer to his lips. Mirio’s curious hands snaked under her layers. Greedy hands desperate for cherubic flesh. 

“You feel so good,” he whined, palming through her sweater. She felt his engorged shame poking against her clothed thigh.  Mirio was impatient for her, his body crushing against her. 

Suddenly, she broke the heavy kiss. “I -- I don’t know if I can be a good offering… I’m a virgin. I don’t know how to please a man.” Her tone melancholy, tears festing under. The hot sensation of Mirio’s rugged hands still atop virgin breasts. Mirio’s hands paused, the ghost of fingertips on her sternum. 

“Do you not want me?” he asked, his tone a prism of raw curiosity and dismay. His posture slumping. A proud body now crestfallen.  Am I not enough?

“N-no,” she stuttered. “Y-you’re  fucking  beautiful. I want to… To feel you!” Using profanity plainly felt exuberant. A virgin mouth now foul. 

“Then feel me,” Mirio said. Coarse, damaged hands crept under her sweater, cupping a brassiere. Her flesh seared from his touch. Flustered skin arched into him. Her body throbbed for him. Mirio’s fingers worked gingerly, exploring her clothed bosom. Delicate skin prickled under him. 

An unruly moan flowed from her lips, the pitch a squeal. His fingers were celestial. Hands only a god could possess.  A naiad.  His divine being needed to be worshipped. Gently, she palmed his chest, virgin hands eager to touch. Deep grooves decorated his chest. Pale raised bumps that encompassed stories. Mirio felt sturdy. A body carved from marble before her.

Greedy digits responded to her moan, kneading her breasts. Worn hands dwarfed her bosom. Mirio’s touch was electric, her veins ablaze. His hands now roughly groping unblemished skin. Mirio was desperate to replicate the whine, his manhood heavy against her thigh. Slowly, delicate hands traveled down his abdomen, savoring his seraphic anatomy. Tender fingers learning every scar. How could a mangled man possess such brilliance?  

She stifled a moan, biting down on her tongue. It was embarrassing to share such intimate, foreign sounds.

“I want to hear you, please,” he begged. The deity’s desire grinding into her thigh, the delicate flesh stimulating him. 

A lustful whimper escaped from her, rampant hot breaths following.  He feels so fucking good. Her inexperienced hands made short work of her bra, the thin garment quickly falling between them. She wanted to feel Mirio’s explicit touch. Rough hands penetrating her core and deflowering her. 

Mirio’s rugged fingers ghosted across pink nipples. She trembled under him, feverishly drinking in his touch. Mewls began to creep from her. Fragile, wet noises that perforated the night. Mirio’s member hardened from the sounds.  So pretty.

Experienced, cicatrix hands playfully clawed the hem of her sweater, pleading to disrobe. She looked up at him, delicate mouth agape. Timid hands halted the memorization of his anatomy and clasped the hands on her sweater. Slowly, she lifted the sweater, revealing a supple abdomen. Mirio’s azure eyes flickered across unclaimed maiden breasts. His cheeks a light shade of pink. Exposed skin shivering from the chill. 

Instantly, Mirio’s wet mouth latched to her bare bosom. A pink tongue swirling around her left nipple, his scarred hands caressing the other. His hands were god. Timid pants of ecstasy hung from her lips, the heat from her core overwhelming. Overstimulated. 

Chaste hands wandered to the manhood grinding against her thigh. Slowly, she began to lightly stroke Mirio’s length. A husky moan burst from him, Mirio’s chest vibrating against her. Adoring hands explored him; inexperienced fingertips finding his leaking head. The stimulation of her thigh and stroking provided too much, causing pre-cum to leak. She brushed over it, using his juices as lube. 

Veins ran alongside his cock, the head uncut. Mirio felt impressive in her hands.  His godhood.  

A pop sounded through her moans, Mirio switching attention to her overstimulated right nipple. The left puffy and slick with saliva. She yelped as he bit down, a muffled moan echoing from him. Pleasure and pain blended as Mirio harshly sucked her nipple, leaving hickies around her arola. The mark of a god. 

Mirio was relentless in his assault of her bosom. She felt the aftershocks of his tongue, licking up her hickies. His hand passed down her stomach and stopped atop the edge of her pants. Cautiously, a damaged hand slid under. The fever of her core radiating. 

“F-fuck me!” she blurted, her words slurring. Mirio’s hands worked miracles upon her maidenform. Her womanhood dripping and wanting. Driven only by pleasure, she pulled down her pants, exposing herself to him.

He obliged, a girthy finger gliding onto her clit. The foreign sensation sending violent shockwaves of pleasure through her frame. He gingerly massaged her clit, her delicate whimpers coaxing him. She was eager for Mirio. A calloused hand soaked in her slick. Delicately, Mirio slipped a finger inside her. Her moist folds contracted against him. Once she was used to him, Mirio began to lightly pump into her. His finger still massaging circles into her clit. 

She quickened her pace, chaste hands now roughly slithering down his manhood. Mirio’s cock now covered in excessive pre-cum. A tremor of loud, unashamed moans pulsating between them. Her womanhood desired him. She  ached  for Mirio to fill her. A crater of lust forming. 

Encouraged, Mirio ghosted a second digit inside her. The girth of his fingers stretching her. Her aching unsatisfied. She yearned for his member. Mirio could fill the pit of lust inside her. 

In a haze of eroticism, she guided Mirio’s cock to her wet entrance. The head of his cock twitched in anticipation. A low growl resounding from him. 

“You’re so  excited  for me, aren’t you?” he mused, pulling out digits soaked in her nectar  So eager.  Holding her gaze, Mirio shoved the fingers into his mouth, sucking on the aftertaste of her. A  pop  resonated when he pulled them out, saliva trailing between. Her sweetness lingered on his tongue. 

Mirio slowly entered her, an animalistic grunt lapsing from him. She pulsated around him, her walls swallowing his cock.  So warm, so fucking wet.

“Fuck,” he cursed, softly pumping into her. A robust whine was forced from her lips, ecstasy flooding her anatomy. Muscular arms locked her in a lover’s embrace, Mirio frantic for her. Her back arched, needy for him. Pent-up warmth finally escaping her core. The swamp ablaze with their combined noises of pleasure. Emboldened, Mirio fastened his pace, bucking into her. Scarred hands finding purchase on her hips. His tempo constantly rising. The sound of maiden flesh mixing with damaged skin. 

Mirio rutted into her, heated breath on her collarbone. Her hands wandered his godly frame, finally resting on his back. A cluster of red lines decorated his toned back as Mirio hammered her womanhood. 

Instinctively, Mirio’s hand reached down, teasing her clit. The sensation sending her into a quivering mess underneath him. Her cheeks ablaze with arousal. 

She moaned against him, pink lips agape with euphoria. The crescendo of her pleasure approaching. She squirmed underneath him. The overstimulation too much. Euphoria trapped in her core, releasing in violent waves through her body. 

Despite her release, Mirio continued to slam into her walls. Her wetness mixed with his pre-cum and cascaded down her bare leg. A second orgasm bubbled from the pit of her stomach. Scarred digits abusing her clit. She felt it, a second cruel orgasm being forced from her. A high-pitched squeal ripped from her lips. Muscles abruptly contracted as an orgasm racked Mirio, a deafening moan rumbling from him. Warm cum drenched her core, slowly leaking. 

[sasorikigai]

Five times kissed + for modern hanzo and liv?

Send "Five Times ______ed" for a Drabble of 5 different times our characters... did that. || @somniaxperdita || selectively accepting!

一. I am driven by emotions. I live to love and this world knows no such language. To sustain, I had to become a stone, but how to kill these feelings, how to kill my heart, such proved to be an impossibility for so long. I will continue to forever harbor the firestorm in the depths of my heart, as long as I continue to claim the fatal sin of reliving through the drowning crimson waterfalls splattering over my being, as the rushing adrenaline of reunification had turned into a downward spiral towards my depression, all the listlessness I could never endure as I vowed to detach myself from loving another. The days are fine, for tasks occupy my mind. It’s the nights that bring it all to become unbearable, and it feels all wrong, now that persisting emptiness and darkness governs my heart and soul. I have been forced to realize my greatest fears curled up in bed. Now, I rest my head against your lap and thankfully, the darkness hides my tears as your comforting chaste kiss coaxes me under the lurking darkness. If this is coping, then this is my accepted hell. Perhaps I was meant to spend most of my days existing within another plane or another time, but alas, sunshine will mix with the dark night sky as long as I close my eyes and reopen them back up again. 

二. Nothing is more powerful or good at getting him as messed up as love; no longer, Hanzo Hasashi’s soul wants to defy this flesh. He is familiar with this visceral sensation, almost brutal and intoxicating at times. He feels his energy resisting the earth and air of the known, for he has been blessed with the world around him, a roof over his head, food on the table, and clothes on his back. He is free to roam the world, and make each day an adventure. Perhaps he was fated to embody the dualism of bliss and wretched pain in its true form, as his unforgiving stoicism and assertiveness carry him almost untouched, but it would be, alas, a life of a lone wolf, lest he leads and commands as a Commander of the squadron known for high-risk and volatile tasks. He thinks he’s so used into numbing this ache. Thinking that this ubiquitous, busy life will encapsulate and protect him. But in the end, it is fragile, for he is nothing more than a traumatized human being with a mortal life. Under the stormy skies, the wind pushes through, cooling his hotter than usual skin, heated both by the sun and the exertion of his training. His heart is the sea that holds undiscovered truths, and upon witnessing her taking a break at the back door of the Jazz Club, Hanzo’s sweeping arm anchors upon the singer, his form still atop his motorcycle, as the strength only rivaled by violence stains her skin with undeserved fervor and passion. 

三. He could feel it in his bones; maybe the marrow, without condoning or condemning, that he will be around tomorrow. The sun will fill his cells with love and life and maybe he would feel it, or maybe he wouldn’t. It would be like three or so days after the end of the world, men surrounding cans on fire, people walking into the night without fear or any coldness; like a warm summer night unfolding, even though the world really had ended. Hanzo Hasashi’s own had been rendered with a rarity that is his consciousness. How his life drains, then recovers, then drains again, each lapse another reason for him to desperately, relentlessly fight as he murmurs incoherent prayers, names, and nonsense. It would be the only time Olivia will see him weep, half-crazed as he is with grief and pain, as if the traumatic event a decade old will feel as if it had just happened yesterday. The cool rag sweeps across his stitched chest, wiping off sweat, tinge of blood, and tear stains. A semblance of comfort, albeit ephemeral, is brought upon the pallid discomforted complexion and quivering muscles; as his broken sobs ease into silent tears, and then stillness. Olivia’s lips comfort him as he slips in and out of consciousness, as he mumbles the familiar name - Harumi - to her that she barely catches, and even makes a feeble joke about propriety when she rubs her rag too close to the defined valley of his lower back and groin. As Olivia finishes bathing him in silence, that she breaks only by humming, softly, until Hanzo’s pained expression has smoothed away, with its tautness melt into a brief peace. 

四. Hanzo Hasashi trusts like a knife; never sure if the blade of belief if best fed, sharpened for protecting himself or undoing himself. He both wears blush and thorn, as his outstretched palms secure against the narrow dip of Olivia’s voluptuous and supple flesh. Sparks of euphoria without hints of nervousness races through his system as he pushes her down the bed. Rays of sunlight peeking out behind him, beads of sweat trickling down his temple. He would stare at her, appreciating the red lace, nondiscreetly exploring the details in front of him, as he casts his hands on her thighs, sending warmth and hot chills throughout her body. How he craves her taste and her sensation, as he closes the distance between them and crashing his lips into hers; rhythms of ecstasy flowing through their bodies and before they would get carried away, he pulls back, smiling, with his hooded dark ebony eyes, delighted by the flavor he just tasted. Instead of kissing her again, Hanzo caresses his hair, not yet removing his gaze from her, as his lightest touch traces the details of her face. He’s as powerful as ever - piercing and penetrating - in that moment. “Kissing you felt like the suppression of time, it was my safe refuge, a home I could go to when the world is being too rough, my haven of comfort and love. Don’t ever stop doubting my love, for my love for you is the only thing in the world I am most sure of ever since I lost my wife and son.” 

五. Under the moonlight, their skin glows. They are ghostly beings in the light, bathing in the steam of shadow. Ephemeral beads line their veins like strings of ethereal jewels, and delicate patterns of their formal clothing flow wet over their outstretched limbs and pool into the crevasses of tendons and sinew - they are dancing art, reflections of the midnight sun, both fragile and resilient marble. Flesh brushes against flesh where a barrier of molecules veil their nerves to touch. Hanzo Hasashi breathes out, and his sigh hangs in the air like a ghost. The cool column against his back of his expanded ribcage frees him from the confined, entrapped heat, and he arches his neck to expose his face to the cooling sky. When he reaches out his hand, the glow from the venue pierces through the fog, and in that moment, he sees an infinitude of shade cast over his eyes. He wears the melancholy like a shawl, and as his ears are filled with laughter, he finds himself slipping away in his mind. How his erect, broad form slouches, as elbows dig further into his knees, causing his impeccable tailored suit to crinkle and lose its grandeur fluidity. Even as the world remains devoid of meaning, this vacuum of emotion just keeping on sucking, Olivia’s tender awakening upon his cheek brings upon the virtue of the implicit secrecy that is their relationship. She is quiet, dangerously and wickedly, even in her stiletto heels and plunging deep V and side-slitted dress in satin. Uncharacteristically sheepish in his demeanor, but the glassy stare of his eyes plunge deep into her colors, as his own lips enfold with such poignant passion and intent. A witness to his fertile and watered love, chasing away the sea of his burdens to stir and spill himself over. 

[nvcl347]

G-man x Female Reader : Toll

When all she had on her mind was the trickling sentiment of eyes at every ridge of her view, the impending false sense of security submerged her room, immersing her with it from head to toe. She was stalking her room for hours in series, anticipating a clandestine company that never arrived at her door. Contrary to her belief, she wasn’t expecting the visitor. The visitor was awaiting her.

Every gait aligned itself to the pulse of a silent clicking pandemonium, fretting every moment for the clock to strike its bell and holler out the final toll. She was so focused on the paragon of her saunter, she omitted the wavering of her breath, shuttering like a plucked acoustic string thawing out a rich, fading octave. There were moments where a clutch of oxygen seemed to persist for minutes apart, striving to savor the last few flutters of life’s air she had.

The sensory feeling of punctured pleasure spiked through her inner evergreen of nerves, jolting her fingertips with energy and rushing her feet with adrenaline. Acclivities of goosebumps rose about her exposed forearms in coalition with the individual, yet myriad threads of hair rising on every edge, twist, and turn of her skin. Each part of her body seemed to have its own sentience with a distinctive scream which beckoned her of nearby danger. The awareness of dread loomed over its appealing touch, sparking the strongest urge to run for her lasting days than she had ever before. Someone had entered the room with her. The one wall holding the inherent multitude of voices back was her head.

Still as stone, stiff as a statue; She refused to move. The one thing that her obstinate, impulsive instinct didn’t know that her head did was the adverse consequence of running. She was better off cultivating a chamber to her head if she had the chance, but there was nothing she could do. Lightweight objects and blissful swaying fabrics rose in the air as anti-gravity relapsed the area around her, and a tall daunting presence approached her from behind through the home of his shadows. A wounded mouse, pricked to an intricate snare, caught red-handed. If there was a hint of sensible mercy to be found, even a morsel of it, she would have felt it. But the feast was swept bare and clean of its dining, and the leftovers were fed to dogs. There was nothing left for her to provide or to be provided. The clock struck the hour, and the bell has rung.

“I would have commended you of your efforts-- Ms. (L/N)-- if you had not made them so dire,” it was the one voice in the world that truly distraught her to the thicket of her bone. It was treacherous and inhuman, yet the words conveyed were distinct and concise. Sharp rests and lingering pauses almost felt like notes he stalled to scrutinize her immediate appearance. The verdict of her survival was held just out of reach. He affirmed no wish in addressing her toll just yet, unclear of whether it was by his executive behalf or of his intimate muse. The air sucked itself out of the room she stood in and emptied into the vacuum of vacant space. Everything around her engulfed into his dark umbra until there was nothing that could be defined in its shade, left to wander the void that was his home. A peculiar miasma of weariness seeped through her head as if she’d traveled infinite miles to the sun and back in the period of only a few seconds.

“The apprehension inside of you seems to... undervalue the adverse circumstances you have spawned for my employers,” the judge of her fate articulated, looming right behind her shoulder and taunting to her ear, speaking towards the left yet hearing… and feeling it through her right. She refused to move even a modest length by her heel. His chest ever so slightly pressed against her shoulder blades, wrenching her guts inside out with a raucous, shuddering wheeze she didn’t realize she let out. An inadvertent rush of alarming rapture jolted through her veins to back away, but she dared not move from where she was. A rasping, malevolent snicker escaped his lips, casually leaning away from her in order to circle forward to where she stood at her front. An act of relishing meaning so little to a predator yet so much to prey.

She found that his footsteps were so consistent with themselves to the extent that he must have attained more value in studying his own rhythmic pace than he found in her character at all. The internal trembling sensation clattered her to the gist and stripped to the outer skin for him to see as distinguished as the illuminating ebony of a harvest moon.

The pale of his facial grimace rooted to the palms of his wrists, gently stroking between each other in the suspense for something he’s been waiting to ascertain this moment for a massive remote age of his time. He paused himself to contain his thoughts as he stopped in front of her line of sight. He has never presented himself in further immediate, direct influence and control over an individual than he has now. 

“They have entrusted of me to, do away of your presence by means without authoritative jurisdiction. Your performance of deviance, although admirable, has dragged you into a pit of... profound consequence I’m afraid I cannot assist in leverage,” her form was laughably dwarfed by his size, forcing her to crook her head almost up to the ceiling to face his gleaming turquoise eyes if she tried with the petty vitality of courage she had. Her teeth chattered like drums in her head at the fleet tremolo of her anxious respiration. A forced retreat of a foot from behind her settled no advanced measure away from him as he stepped forward in his satin Oxfords. The tender pat of his footwear solely was audibly louder than her own panting gasps, forwarding the coercion held inside her chest at a knife on one’s throat. The single act alone was enough to split her emotional cage into two. 

An intangible energy hauled the pitiful martyr to her knees as her legs melted away into the water of her coaxing tears. A trivial act of mourning for empathy, something he’d never undergone from a hire before. The soft gleam in his sea-green optics repulsed attentively, examining the display before him as all but a licensed dismissive, yet intriguing in the slightest. A meager hum encapsulated through his senile throat as he arched himself over her cowering, diminutive form. From her perspective, stating it was too close for her alluring amenities would be an exceeding understatement.

As his profile drew near, the touch of chilling hoarfrost punctured at her skin. His navy executive attire exalted the enigmatic aura which seemed to timelessly encapsulate him like a dense, secluded bubble she’d crossed within. The bitter draft nearly congealed her watering eyes into place, but just enough to steady their progress down her swollen jowls. She scorned to gaze directly at him by her own will, bestowing upon him the scarce sum of rebellion she had left inside her wilted core.

“Such a delicate spirit couldn’t bear the rash opposition of your careless actions,” his head tipped to its side, treating himself the manifestation of sympathy with tenacities as genuine as a puppet show. He leisurely delivered forward his chilling, ivory hand, relaxing the flat edge of his knuckle hinges below her jawline. A maneuver avowed so benevolently, yet the intention concealed beneath its tender surface did anything but console her situation. She seized a rigid swallow lighter than a feather caressing the draft of the area around them. Every hint of muscle movement endeavored to hinder less than a single spark from igniting a harrowing fuse. She nudged his hand away out of mortification to draw herself back, only to be promptly tailgated by the fleeting switch of a fixed, almost painful grip on her chin. He could press the flustered clatter of her teeth against his fingertips, a noticeably venerable appearance of his exposed features formulating a benign yet sinister grin.

“I would consider yourself of good fortune, Ms. (L/N), as my employers are not so tolerant of hires as I am myself... Perhaps this brief exchange between us will formally bestow your place,” as he expressed his honest ambitions towards her, he slowly mounted his hand against her mandible, raising her head up to his for a face-to-face discussion. As a genuine nexus clasped between their two lines of sight, his eyes flashed in tone once again, locking her in a trance that confined her of any moveable suspension. It was as if she was staring into the eyes of a living sleep paralysis demon from her childhood, somehow impossibly more menacing than its form of a dark, slim silhouette; A devil’s advocate, now free of his fiery shackles and roaming autonomous of hell’s cavity.

“I cannot withdraw your line of hire unobstructedly without a form of, well-- discipline, for the mess of work you’ve caused,” the faint graze of his chuckle against her face twirled her locks of hair as it did her sense of sanctuary to smothering extents, choking it dry of whatever was left of it in her prior. Every hint of forthcoming inclination directed towards her was cunning and calculated. No matter how she attempted to crook and tie her path for herself, he knew precisely where and when to take her to reach his desires from each stray she exerted. 

Softly, she clenched her eyelids shut as the indivisible set of nerves she had restraint over in her body, thrusting a tear to escape from her swelling socket. Dripping onto the palm of his hand, he was quick to retract his grip in candid wonder. A heavy, deep breath revoked through her nostrils as she exhibited physical control emancipate through her once again, not daring to move in the state he had left her in before. Inspecting what had made contact with his skin, his sneer dissolved into a twitch of his muzzle as the tiny droplet of emotion flowed about the dead facade of his flesh. A melodious hum escaped his lips in consideration, resonating deep in the back of her mind as if it had emitted from all around her. Tilting his wrist at an angle rippled the water away into a state of vapor, sweeping into air’s fluttering garments around them. Lowering his hand, his attention glimpsed back to her, whose eyes were still closed but had proceeded to quiver after gaining control over herself again. Naive and fragile as a newborn, trapped inside a young woman. The body has grown but the nature has not.

A sharp, pitched breath seeped through him as he fixed himself to his proper posture, leaning away from her frightful profile. His eyebrows furrowed into an unapologetic glare, taking a brief time of himself to study her figure from neck to toe. He allowed for hands to gradually drape at his sides, dulling out of her line of sight as he adjusted his tie into place.

“I am sorry to say that I could not find a more suitable place for you to stay without… excruciating pain involved and endured. As a consequence, however, your time spent here will transpire much, much longer than you may find solace in,” his omniscient voice spoke around her from every which way she could turn her head. He seemed to peek into a snowglobe housing a poor nuisance inside who could not see him through the glass above.

“I assure you, my dear, this will not be the last time we cross paths. But in the meantime, I have others waiting on my watch I must attend to...”

Sensing a change in presence, she finally peered through to what was in her front line of sight with utmost hesitance in her choice. What was a puffed chest of fear suddenly converged into a sensory overload of confusion. He’d disappeared, not a trace of him left except for the memory stapled into her head. A quick glance to her back to check her surroundings found him nowhere at any angle of her position. She was truly alone.

It didn’t take much for her to jolt for her feet, who’d solidified the courage to support her weight once again. Her breath was sparse and fleeting as she tried to keep up with its pace, but it felt as if it had been running miles for hours without a chance of letting her ever catch up. Her hands gripped into twitching fists, swallowing a bite of pride she could snatch from the air. Her teeth nearly snapped like twigs as they clenched together in pure and remote agitation. He was playing with her like a child’s Christmas toy. Choking on her own sob, she stuttered to herself the first words she could manage to voice through her lips to him.

“H-- hey! Where did you go!?” her voice cracked on itself as everything began to disintegrate around her into a fretful weep.

They never reached him.

“Don’t! Please god don’t leave me here!” as her wails left her to dissociate into an empty space, her lips began to tremble. She covered her mouth with the palm of her hands, hiding her disordered lament from a source nowhere to be seen. It was a void hell disguised as her limbo, isolated from all worlds, all dimensions. An empty pocket universe, built as all but a cage that only he had access to. Not even his employers knew of its existence, nor could it ever come of their reach.

The clock struck the hour, and the bell has rung twice. The G-man has woven the toll.

It has been five years since (Y/N)’s verdict.

[afurrybutthememekind]

Lucas ‘Luke’ Greene

Luke was my very first detective I ever played with Wayhaven. I fully threw myself into romancing Adam because he’s my usual emotionally unavailable kinda an asshole leader(See Azuridian from The Shadow Society) but this play-through is actually the one that made me fall so head over heals for Mason that I then proceeded to play 5 Mason routes in a row before moving on to Nate. He, Alix, and Vox are probably my most fleshed out characters but that’s only because Vox was a preexisting OC and Luke and Alix where my first two detectives. 

Develop enough courage so that you can stand up for yourself and then stand up for someone else. 

Luke comes off as a gruff asshole who just likes to poke fun at anyone for anything. In reality he knows just how far you can push a person before they start fighting back, and that’s what he wants. He wants to push people to be able to stand up for and protect themselves. His respect is something hard won and he expects a lot from people. He expects people to be the best they can and will push them to their limits, which often times shows him just how little it takes for most people to snap. Every week he volunteers at a boxing gym where he trains ‘problem’ kids. He’s a firm believer in using pent up energy and anger to defend others that can’t. His kids are some of the only people he likes and have earned his respect. He knows that some of his kids see him more than their own parents and strives to be someone they can look up to. 

Pets:

A stray can he found in an alley in a rainstorm that he named Sweetheart. She comes and goes as she pleases and really only likes Luke and is pretty mean to anyone else.

Stats:

Charming 49% - Intimidating 51%

Impulsive 39% - Cautious 61%

Sarcastic 66% - Genuine 34%

Friendly 45% - Stoic 55%

Easygoing 41% - Stubborn 56%

Traits:

Heart 49% - Mind 51%

Optimist 40% - Pessimist 60%

Team Player 47% - Independent 53%

Skills:

People/Psychology 27%

Combat/Physical 58%

Science/Technology 54%

Deduction/Knowledge 29%

By the Book 46% - Bend the Rules 54%

Professional Relationships:

Mayor Friedman: 1

Police Captain: 0

Personal Relationships:

Rebecca - Not a very close relationship, thought I understand her absences-12%

Bobby - College ex.  But it’s over, and I have little issue. 

Unit Bravo:

Adam-RO

Nate-Teammate

Felix-Teammate

Mason-BFF

Description:

Eyes - light green

Hair - ebony black-very short

Height - 6′1

Age - 37

Facial hair - surprisingly soft full beard that he keeps trimmed neatly.

Tattoos - Entire upper body is covered in tattoos. Almost all of them were designed by either close friends or the kids he’s trained. His sleeves were done first to cover scars. Rook chess piece on his throat since it was really the only place left. 

Clothes - work boots, jeans, waistcoat and decent shirt, aviator sunglasses he stole from Adam

Cologne/Perfume - uses beard oil that smells like cedar wood

Glasses - wear contacts but will wear his glasses if he absolutely has to but would rather go blind

Body type - broad, strong, lots of very defined muscle

Voice - gruff, low, hard

Apartment:

messy

Book 1:

Did shoot Adam.

Joined Wayhaven PD because it was the closest he could get to the military. 

Stayed in and got bugged by Bobby.

Accepting of vampires.

Did not do blood tests.

Did not get bit by Murphy.

Murphy captured.

Inside Luke’s apartment:

Besides being a total mess due to him spending all of his time at work or the gym, everything is pretty basic. 

Luke eats almost exclusively meat off a grill. He doesn’t think too much about it being healthy or not. 

He pretty much just uses his bedroom as a personal boxing gym. The room is just as messy as the rest of the apartment, just with work out equipment. 

Vision for the future:

Luke’s happy where he is. The only thing he wants to do is serve as a cautionary tale for younger people and help them turn their lives around. His only current goal is to try and fall into bed with Adam and desperately hope he doesn’t catch feelings(he already has). 

Past:

Luke’s past is a messy one. He struggled to find himself without a father figure and a mostly absent mother. His short temper led to a lost of suspensions and threats of expulsion. Rebecca was the one who suggested boxing as a way to relieve some of his pent up anger and he took to it as a natural. He didn’t much care for school, only doing the bare minimum to skate by and instead put all of his energy into boxing. Shortly before graduating Luke broke his arm and several ribs in a fight, meaning he couldn’t box for a while while it healed. He quickly became restless and short tempered again before he got into a fist fight despite his injuries, worsening them to the point that some of his doctors were worried he wouldn’t be able to box even after it healed. 

He ended up addicted to the painkillers they prescribed because they made him feel as numb as a good fight did. He barely remembers college despite having a degree in criminal justice. Rebecca and his childhood best friend were the ones to help him get back on track. After getting clean he pushed himself to the point of almost permanently damaging himself until he could box like he used to. He got his arms tattooed to cover the track marks and the self-harm scars, not because he was embarrassed but just because he isn’t that man anymore. 

[storiesofwildfire]

author’s note: as I transition some of Loki’s information to reflect God of War 2018′s canon, I have decided to add Loki’s mother, Laufey ( yes, you read that right, mother. I know Marvel describes Laufey as Loki’s father, but in mythology, Laufey has always been Loki’s mother, which is something I have always kept as part of my own canon ), to my secondary muses. 

Laufey is a mixture of mythology, God of War, and Marvel canon, though this backstory heavily reflects what we know of Laufey from the God of War game and includes her relationship with Kratos.

legal name: Laufey aliases: Faye, Laufey the Just, Last Guardian of the Jötnar age: Upwards of 2,200 Jotun years occupation/title: Protector and Queen/King of Jotunheim gender & pronouns: Gender fluid ;; she/her, they/them, he/him  female faceclaim: Bridget Regan male faceclaim: to be determined aesir appearance: Laufey is right around 6′ tall with long, dark brown hair, green eyes, and a fairly pale complexion. Although she does possess a curvy figure that would likely earn her the praise of being beautiful, she’s also very defined, with strong-yet-lean muscle that speaks for itself in terms of her strength. Although Laufey tends to default to a female visage, she is a talented shape-shifter who may also appear as male at any given time. natural appearance: Laufey’s natural appearance is significantly larger, scaling more than twice the size of her Aesir appearance. Her complexion is a rich cobalt tone with vivid markings that suggest she descends from royal blood and is a powerful magic-user. Like most Jotun, her eyes are entirely crimson with darker sections where the irises and pupils would be. While she does often default to being more feminine and motherly in nature, her Jotun form is much more androgynous than her Aesir form, though she has been known to scale up her masculine features when dealing with politics between realms that seem to favor male superiority ( looking at you, Asgard, looking at you ). sexual/romantic orientation: Pansexual / panromantic  siblings: none children: Loki ( Atreus ) Laufeyson ;; Ulla Laufeydottir ;; Agnar Laufeyson ;; Ragna Laufeydottir ;; Ivar Laufeyson ;; Ulf Laufeyson ;; Olja Laufeydottir ;; Livia Laufeydottir  grandchildren: Fenrir Lokison ;; Jörmungandr Lokison ;; Sleipnir Lokison ;; Hel Lokidottir ;; Saga Lokidottir relationship to loki: Laufey is Loki’s biological mother. In some verses, Loki and Laufey are extremely close. In others, where Loki has been taken from Laufey, Loki may be hostile towards them or unknowing of their relation to Laufey. Regardless of relationship status, however, Laufey is very loving of Loki and wants nothing more than for their child to be happy, safe, and healthy.

Bio: Born in the realm of Jotunheim, Laufey was always destined for greatness. As the future ruler of the realm and no siblings to survive into adulthood, she carried a heavy burden as well as the determination to see her people into a better and brighter future.

Unfortunately, before she had ever taken the throne, war broke out between the Aesir and the Vanir. The Great War, as many came to call it, quickly swept throughout Yggdrasil. Most realms could not hope to go untouched by the carnage that followed and Laufey knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if she did nothing, her people would likely die off early on as well.

The Jotun pushed for her to take up the mantle of their ruler. As Laufey’s mother fell into poor health, they needed a stronger leader who could carry them through the war that threatened to destroy them. Sitting on a throne and sending off her own to battle never sat right with her, though, and as her abilities with foresight matured and developed, a clearer understanding of what was to come greeted her.

She told her people stories of a child she would one day have. Laufey called them Loki and expressed that having Loki would be essential to their survival. A piece that would be needed so Jotunheim could play its proper part in the war, as she also saw them delivering the final blow to Odin that would end the war. They only needed to survive long enough to get to that point.

Needless to say, her people were skeptical. Foresight wasn’t always a surefire thing and the future wasn’t set in stone. Putting all of their faith in the existence of one child that had yet to be born seemed foolish to them and they insisted they take their own precautions. Why trust in something that did not exist when they had someone who could act as their key right in front of them? Many believed Laufey to be that key.

Laufey could hardly disagree. All things considered, it would be years before her visions ever came to fruition, but her people were not violent or malicious. Defending their home was absolutely a priority, but throwing themselves into a war she knew they could not win? At least, one they could not win yet?

Going to war prematurely would mean unnecessary death, destruction, and would likely run the risk of powerful Jotun falling into Odin’s hands. After all, most knew the Hanged God was desperate to gather powerful assets and information about the future. He’d been given the nickname because he literally hanged himself just so he could acquire more knowledge of death and the future in his brief period of experiencing death himself. Collecting one or more individuals gifted with the ability of foresight would have Odin salivating like a starving dog smelling raw meat.

No, they would need to be cleverer about how they approached protecting their realm. They devised a plan, one that would seal Jotunheim from the rest of Yggdrasil so that no one could actually work their way into the realm without promised passage. Laufey knew that her people were capable, but to make Jotunheim completely unreachable, outside help needed to be brought in. The Bifrost constructed by Heimdall ( though, due to Odin’s displeasure in the Vanir and the way he wanted to keep total control over Heimdall in particular, much of the Bifrost’s credit had been given to Tyr ) literally reached every realm. To ensure that its passageway to Jotunheim could not be accessible, Laufey had to turn to individuals far outside of her own.

In truth, she wanted to go to Heimdall. No one knew the Bifrost or Yggdrasil better than the Watcher who saw every soul within all of the realms, but Odin’s grasp on the Vanir God was tight and therefore, Heimdall seemed impossibly unreachable and a dangerous connection to risk. Tyr, though? He always had the Giants’ favor and seemed to favor them in turn, and he had been more than willingly to help them seal off the gateway.

Jotunheim going off the grid certainly set a lot of minds to ease, but three very real problems still existed for the ruler-to-be.

One: Jotunheim couldn’t exist in isolation forever. Eventually, they would have to come out of the woodwork and bring themselves back into favor with the rest of Yggdrasil. To live cut off and alone would eventually result in extinction, especially for people like Laufey’s people, who thrived off of social interaction and cross realm exploration. The Jotun and the Vanir, for example, were quite close. Another point that worked against them, in all truth. In the eyes of Odin, that made them even more of a threat.

Two: Odin didn’t relent in his desire to break into Jotunheim. The resources of the land and the people were enough to make Odin’s desire outweigh any of the dangerous obstacles set before him. Getting his hands on one person with a knack for seeing into the future was worth countless lives.

Three: The Jotun were foreseen to be the force to finally beat back Odin in the final battle of the war. If they excluded themselves completely, hope could very well be lost, but they needed to survive long enough to endure.

A failsafe was set in place. Laufey understood she still had a part to play outside of Jotunheim. Even if her visions did not come true, she had to pursue them and give them a chance to thrive. Outside of Jotunheim, she could keep watch on movement from their enemies and report back or even eliminate threats if need be. It took quite a bit of convincing, but after a while, she came to an agreement with the rest of the realm. She would leave, act as a guardian or protector to her people, and those who survived on their realm would go into hibernation to present an illusion of lost life and a dying realm. If Odin ever managed to break through their barricades, he would find nothing useful to him. He would also not expect them to be the force that finally brought him down.

The ancient magic that thrived on Jotunheim would be safe and the key to unlock that potential could be stored in a single person... With so many unwavering angles and a need for their people to be protected until the end, the remaining Giants agreed.

So Laufey set out, taking the appearance of a mortal woman with soft, ebony hair, brilliant emerald eyes, and pale flesh. Her beauty carried over from her most authentic form, though the small stature, the color muted complexion, and the eyes took a bit of getting used to. Especially the size. Condensing down into a body that barely stretched to six feet for an extended period of time took quite a bit of adjusting, even for a gifted shape-shifter like Laufey.

Still, she managed with little complaint, and eventually made her way to Midgard, the realm at the center of them all. It was there that she could keep an eye on the events of the war and how they unfolded without throwing herself into the battlefield too early. She could hide with the use of protective wards that often took the shape of golden handprints on the sides of trees or structures. She could make connections and seek out people who had already helped her, such as Sindri and Brok, two Dwarves who crafted the Leviathan axe that she carried with her.  

Midgard also served as the inevitable meeting place where she would come across Kratos, a Spartan warrior lost in deep Norse territory. Their first meeting could have gone better, in truth, as Kratos sought the weapon she carried with her and she had been forced to defend herself against him. Killing him would have been easy, seeing as he had already been seriously injured prior to their meeting, but Laufey had always been a kind soul, quick to aid and only resorting to violence if nothing else could be done in its place.

Despite having the excuse to put the man out of his misery, she spared his life and help nurse him back to health. At the time, she did not realize that this was the man who would fulfill the visions she had. The future always revolved around her inevitable child and while she knew details of the man she would likely marry; she could not see him by face or by name. Good, perhaps, so she didn’t go searching for something and force an outcome that did not come naturally. Loki’s birth might have been necessary, but she wanted to ensure that her child was also brought into the world out of love and desire.

Initially, he only stayed with her because he felt indebted to her. Rather than kill him, as would have been her right, she took care of him. He stayed by her side as she traveled, aiding her in what he could so he gave back, determined to pay his debt to her until he no longer needed to. Together, they traveled like that for months. Kratos assisted Laufey in any way he could while also learning from her in the ways of magic and utility in an area that was clearly out of touch with where he came from. She loved to talk, loved to share her stories, and loved to sing. Kratos wasn’t much of a talker at all, but he enjoyed her company, nevertheless. What came as a surprise to the disguised Jotun was that he seemed to hang onto every word she said, even when she thought he wasn’t listening...

One night, lost in the dark, he protected her. It’d been little more than a reflex to defend her from something she could not see, but he’d thrown himself in front of her to take the blow from the Draugr. She likely would have died had he not and just like that, any lasting debt he owed her was gone. It came with surprising heartbreak when she confessed as much, telling him that if he wished to leave, he could. He owed her nothing, but Kratos didn’t go. Instead, he asked her if she wished for him to go, to which she immediately replied no.

Kratos may not have been good with words or expression, but it became rather clear that they both meant something more to the other. She took care of him and in turn, he’d learned to be more loving and gentler. They impacted one another in such a way that lent itself to love and to part seemed not only foolish, but impossible.

She’d even learned the truth somewhere along the way of who and what the man truly was and accepted him regardless of his brutal and bloody past. She often felt the urge to do the same, to let him know the truth of her and where she came from, but to do so would endanger her home. No one could know, not yet, but Kratos would, in time.

Shortly after, they decided to build a home. Laufey set out to protect the woods around the location with her wards so they could build and live in peace. The building had hardly been finished by the time they conceived their first child. She wished to name the child Loki, as she had been referring to her baby as such amongst her own for years. Loki’s story was well known by the Frost Giants, but Kratos wished for a different name. Atreus, a name that once belonged to a Spartan warrior he held very near and dear to his heart, someone he hoped his son could be like.

They decided to give their son both names, though Atreus quickly caught on. In youth, the boy was sickly, often keep the new mother home while her husband ventured out to hunt and gather supplies. As Atreus grew, the ailment came and went, but he at least showed the strength to continue on. She grew more and more concerned as the years ticked on, though. Atreus had no knowledge of the truth behind their origins and the more their gifts in magic tried to manifest, the worse the sickness became.

Her visions of the future altered, showing her that if she lived, both her husband and her child would die. She needed to return to Jotunheim to awaken her kin, but she did not need to be alive to do so. So long as her magic returned to the realm, life would once again thrive.

So she left detailed instructions with Kratos on what to do should she pass, laying out the groundwork to send her family on a quest that would return her ashes to Jotunheim while also revealing to her child the truth that would allow him to thrive.

When death came for her, she greeted it. While it broke her heart to leave her family, she knew what needed to be done to ensure that they survived as well as Jotunheim. Kratos and Atreus burned her body and collected her ashes so they could be taken to the tallest peak within the Nine Realms. It eventually took the father and son to Jotunheim, where they learned the truth of her origins and the truth of Loki’s future.

As they spread her ashes, from the top of the mountain, her magic settled across the land, but it did not come alone. Despite Loki’s young age, his newfound understanding of who he was and his growing connection to his father allowed his own magic to radiate with her. Unbeknownst to the young boy, he set in motion the key to reawakening the realm.

But such magic took time to settle and unfold. Life could not be restored in the blink of an eye. It took years for the Jotun to come out of hibernation and for Laufey to come back to her own with it. She hadn’t expected the spell to revive her, so it came as a shock when she first opened her eyes again.

Much to her dismay, though, she found that years had passed since her death and in that time, an unexpected complication arose. Ragnarök had come far earlier than anyone could have anticipated.

While the Jotun inevitably fulfilled their destiny by facing the Aesir in one last battle, beating them back enough to end the Great War that raged for years, nothing could be done about Ragnarök. Odin’s forces retreated, stealing the Casket of Ancient Winters as they fell back to Asgard. Odin knew that without the Casket, a power source the realm protected and thrived from for years, Jotunheim would be far easier to conquer once Ragnarök settled.

Believing both Loki and Kratos dead with Ragnarök, Laufey had no choice but to finally settle on the throne of Jotunheim and push forward despite all they had lost. Her only focus then became ensuring that her people endured and that she had a family large enough to carry the weight on the realm even after her second death.

[upontheshelfreviews]

If there’s a reason why we’re able to recall the story of Snow White from memory, and why said princess is usually depicted with short hair, a cute bow and surrounded by woodland fauna, look no further than Disney. Their take on the Grimms’ fairy tale is the prime example of pop cultural osmosis. Even if you’ve never watched Disney’s Snow White, it’s easy to recognize when a piece of work is borrowing from it or spoofing it. And I can definitely see why – not only is it going eighty-plus years strong, but its influence on nearly every Disney feature to come after it is a profound one.

The real story of Disney’s Snow White begins in the early 1910’s when a young Walt Disney saw a silent film version of the Grimms’ fairytale starring Marguerite Clark. The movie stuck with him well into adulthood. One night, well after he had established himself as an animation giant the world over, Walt gathered his entire staff of animators and storymen and re-enacted the tale for them in a mesmerizing one-man show. They were enraptured, but what he told them next struck them dumb – they were going to take what he performed and turn it into a full-length film.

In Tony Goldmark’s epic(ally hilarious) retrospective of Epcot, he performs a quick sketch he summed up as “Walt Disney’s entire career in 55 seconds” where Walt presents his career-defining ideas to a myopic businessman capable of only saying “You fool, that’ll never work!”. Considering how animation is everywhere today, it’s easy to forget that an animated film was once seen as an impossible dream. The press hawked Snow White as “Disney’s Folly”, and Hollywood speculated that it would bankrupt the Mouse House. It very nearly did. Miraculously, a private showing of the half-finished feature to a banking firm impressed the investors enough to ensure its completion.

Snow White is touted as the very first animated movie – admittedly something of a lie on Disney’s behalf. Europe and Russia were experimenting with feature-length animation decades before Walt gave it a try. But consider this: most animated films predating Snow White’s conception are either sadly lost to us or barely count as such by just crossing the hour mark. With all the hard work poured into it showing in every scene, with each moment displaying a new breakthrough in the medium, Snow White might as well be the first completely animated movie after all. Hell, it’s the very first movie in the entire history of cinema that was created using STORYBOARDS. A tool used by virtually every single movie put out today. If that’s not groundbreaking enough, I don’t know what is.

But is Snow White really…but why does it…can it…

“You know what? No. I’m not doing this teasing question thing before the review starts proper. OF COURSE Snow White is a masterpiece. OF COURSE most of it holds up. Let’s skip the middleman so I can explain why.”

After the opening credits we get the first of what will be many Disney leather bound books opening themselves to invite us into the world of the story. We’re informed that once upon a time there was a particularly Wicked Queen (nicknamed Grimhilde in promo features and the comics) who had a serious narcissistic personality disorder. Every day she consults her Magic Mirror™ to see who’s the fairest one of all and takes pride in being repeatedly told she holds said title. In the meantime she bullies her younger, prettier stepdaughter, the princess Snow White, and gives her the standard Cinderella treatment in the hopes that endless drudgery will wipe out the competition.

One fateful morning, however, the Mirror informs the Queen that she’s been bumped down to runner-up. She susses out that it’s Snow White who’s taken her place after the Mirror describes the newcomer as having “lips red as the rose, hair black as ebony, [and] skin white as snow”, but maybe the Queen is projecting here due to her extreme jealousy. Going by those three traits the Mirror could be describing almost anyone on the planet.

Care to narrow it down a bit, buddy?

Now if you consider yourself a feminist or at the very least have progressive views regarding women, I know what you’re thinking – just another example of the patriarchy pitting shallow female stereotypes against each other, right? Well in a manner of speaking, yes. There’s plenty of evidence that the Brothers Grimm held some odious misogynistic beliefs that stemmed from a bad combination of the era they lived in, outdated religious teachings, and their own experiences with the opposite sex. It shows in their second fairy tale revisions –  the heroines are naïve bimbos in need of a man’s rescue, and the villains are evil stepmothers and witches who happen to be hideous 99% of the time – and those views have been reinforced in our society thanks to those particular iterations being passed down to today.

Here’s my way of viewing the central conflict: The Mirror’s news is a wake-up call that Snow White is coming into her own as a woman and princess. That means marriage to a prince and the end of the Wicked Queen’s rule. Snow White will have all the power and adulation while the Queen is forced to step down and become another footnote in ancient royal history. Up until now the Queen has gone out of her way put down her pretty young opponent with petty cruelty because there’s nothing stopping her; but when faced with the inevitable, she unflinchingly opts to take more drastic measures so she can keep the throne.

If it weren’t for the fact the Queen’s unofficial moniker is Grimhilde and her transformation scene reveals a head of black hair, I’d suspect her real name was Cersei Lannister.

You also have to remember that the Queen takes the term “fairest” at face value. The Queen is beautiful, sure, but it’s a glacial beauty – cold, unfeeling, and nothing beneath the surface. All she cares about is looks and power. You’d have to be a pure loving soul or Woody Allen find something worthwhile in her. Snow White is beautiful too, though it’s her kindness and fair treatment of everyone that garners her the title of “fairest one of all”, not her appearance.

Speaking of, we follow that scene with Snow White (Adriana Casselotti) dressed in rags cleaning the castle courtyard. She shows her bird friends her wishing well and sings “I’m Wishing”, where she reveals her wish for her one true love to show up.

Confession time: In childhood the title of my favorite Disney princess was neck and neck between Belle from Beauty and the Beast and Snow White. I’ve already discussed at length why I adore Belle, so I suppose I should do the same for Snow.

…turns out it’s more difficult than I thought.

For as long as I could remember, I was surrounded by Snow White paraphernalia – tapes, toys, dolls, music, games, artwork, bed sheets, I can even recall the ice show. Snow White is ingrained into my early years. It more than likely has to do with the timing of its brief return to theaters and first VHS release between 1993 and 1994, right at the peak of the Disney Renaissance, so I experienced Snow White-mania right alongside Lion King-mania, Beauty and the Beast-mania and various other Disneymanias that were rampant at that time.

Even this one, embarrassingly.

As a result, I idolized Snow White as much the other princesses of the time, right down to making her the character I dressed up as the most for Halloween. I suppose what drew me to her was inherent kindness, ability to make friends with everyone, and her voice. Yes, I admit it. I don’t find Snow White’s warbling to be as irritating as everyone says it is. Maybe I’ve listened to it so much that I’ve grown immune. Then again I am that one Disney fan who doesn’t loathe It’s A Small World with every fiber of their being so maybe I should question my own tastes more.

Now as an adult with a critical eye who can put nostalgia behind me when necessary, is there something more to the character of Snow White that’s worth appreciating as much as the more-fleshed out princesses of the Renaissance and current Revival period?

I accept that I’m in the minority on this one, but I firmly say yes.

I know what you’re thinking – all Snow White does is smile and sing while she slaves under the Queen and the dwarfs and dreams of a handsome man to come carry her away, so I should turn in my feminist card for daring to suggest she’s a good character and role model for girls, right? Consider this: like Cinderella after her, Snow White’s happy nature and songs are her ways of coping with her unpleasant situation. It keeps her spirits up and in turn she tries to spread that positivity to others who need it as well. She refuses to let the Queen’s negativity turn her as sour as she is. All the little things Snow White reveals in what she does – her patience, pride in her work, healthy emotional balance, drive to help others, and warmth towards those smaller than her (in both a figurative and literal sense) – are all signs that she is capable of being a far better and beloved ruler and all around person than the Queen is. Plus, her reason for wanting to find love is two-fold: not only is she looking for someone with whom she can share a unique emotional understanding bond – which is something most every human craves – but it’s the also best possible means for her to escape from her stepmother’s abuse. Like I said earlier, once Snow White gets the ring, she gets to rule.

And what’s wrong with having a princess who can run a practical household? One could argue that it’s an example of traditional female roles desired by an oppressive patriarchal society on full display, but you want to know why millennials are called out for being lazy? Because baby boomers have cut out classes that teach things young adults actually need outside of school like how to properly cook and do laundry and pay your taxes since those weren’t seen as “essential enough to education”. So I have to admire a princess who, while not the most “progressive” of the bunch by today’s standards, is willing and able take care of herself and others when it comes to basic everyday needs. I think TheBrutallyHonestMom summed it up best in her post defending Snow White:

When we denigrate what Snow White accomplishes at the dwarfs’ cottage, when we rename her accomplishments to make them sound more impressive, more official, more valuable—management, administration, domestic CEO, sous chef, hospitality specialist—what we are really doing is saying that we don’t value the truly valuable work that she and so many other stay-at-home individuals do. Those words are a microaggression against what have traditionally been feminine roles, an attempt to align them with a patriarchal worldview where only those with the biggest titles and fattest paychecks matter. Snow White is domestic. She is a maid. She is a mother figure. She does take on the womanliest of the womanly roles. To claim that adopting these roles (and being good at them) somehow makes her a poor role model for my daughters is not a failure of Snow White’s imagination. It is a failure of ours.

Then there’s the matter of her actress too, which I can’t stay silent about. A few years ago it was revealed that in order to preserve the illusion of Snow White as a real character (a good many years before the company applied that same logic to their character performers at the theme parks I might add), Disney forced Adriana Casselotti to forego her screen credit and never take on another acting role again, essentially robbing her of a career. She only managed to appear in It’s A Wonderful Life and The Wizard of Oz because hers were uncredited minute parts. Casselotti had no regrets about choosing Snow White over a promising show business vocation, but I still call bull on the matter. If this kind of thing happened today, people would not stand for it, character illusions or not. There’s also crazy double standards since all the actors who played the dwarfs got to keep on acting; Sneezy’s voice actor was in Fun and Fancy Free for crying out loud! I love ya Walt, but that is one dick move. So if you’re a detractor cheering that you never have to hear Casselotti’s voice beyond this movie, keep in mind that’s all because of one man silencing her for the sake of his business.

So, Snow White. She cooks, cleans, delegates, teaches, loves, domestically kicks ass, and her behind the scenes story makes a strong case for the Time’s Up movement. Any questions?

“Yes. You’re over 2000 words in and we haven’t even gotten to the dwarfs yet. Plan on getting off that soapbox sometime this decade?”

Snow’s singing attracts the attention of a handsome Prince (Harry Stockwell) passing by on his horse. But his forwardness startles the shy girl and sends her sprinting up to her room. He charms her out to her balcony by singing his one song in the feature…”One Song”. You gotta love it when the title matches the tune perfectly.

“Wherefore art thou Prince? Deny thy father and refuse thy name!”

“Sure I’ll gladly refuse my name – if I had one, that is.”

All joking aside, I have a soft spot for this scene. Stockwell’s voice has this old-time Broadway/operetta quality I’ve always liked, the lyrics are unironic purple prose that still feel genuine, Snow’s little excited gestures are adorable, and it’s framed beautifully. This is what got it into my heard early on that the most romantic gesture anyone can make is serenading someone from beneath their balcony.

“Too bad you’re technically in a long distance relationship.”

“I know. Propping up a phone beneath your window just doesn’t have the same effect.”

Snow returns his affections with a kiss delivered via a dove and departs the scene with one hell of a pair of bedroom eyes, especially for a Disney character.

Daaaaaamn, girl! You already got him hooked, no need to gild the lily!

Unbeknownst to either of them, the Queen is watching overhead; Snow catching the eye of Prince Charming is what finally pushes her to take further action. She summons her Huntsman –

– to bring Snow White out into the forest and do away with her. Brief as this scene may be, there are two things I really like about it. First, the gravity. The Huntsman reacts with horror on being told what he must do, foreshadowing his eventual turnaround, yet with an icy hiss of “Silence!” and a short reminder of the price of failure, the Queen goads him back into line. We don’t know what the penalty for insubordination is, but it’s implied to be pretty nasty if she’s able to convince him otherwise with just a few words. Second, the Queen’s other demand. In the original fairytale, the Queen requested Snow White’s liver, lungs and heart so she could eat them and inherit her stepdaughter’s comely attributes.

But here in the film, she only wants the heart, and not for lunch. The Queen wants to keep it as a trophy. She even has a disturbingly appropriate box for it at the ready.

Proof that she really puts the ‘grim’ in ‘Grimhilde’.

Snow White, now dressed in her iconic yellow and blue dress, goes out flower picking with the Huntsman waiting not far behind. She spies a lost baby bird, and the moment she turns her back to help it, the Huntsman moves in for the kill. It’s framed like the murderer creeping up to their next victim in a scary movie, slowly building up to the moment he confronts her, with tension you could cut with a – well, you know.

Ultimately the Huntsman is moved by the princess’ humanity and can’t go through with the deed. Instead he reveals the Queen’s plot and pleads her to run, run away, Snow, and never return. Terrified, Snow White flees into the forest where her fears magnify her surroundings. Brambles become gnarled outstretched hands, logs are hungry snapping crocodiles, and there are eyes everywhere, always watching, boring into her every place she turns.

I should note that while developing Snow White, the Disney studio became something of an art college with fine arts and film study classes offered to the staff in order to hone their craft. Some of the movies they studied were horror flicks from the pre-Hays Code era, classics directed by the likes of James Whale and F.W. Murnau. The results speak for themselves. Scenes like this and the Queen’s transformation are why I consider Snow White my very first horror movie. The frightening imagery and darker themes all hide beneath a veneer of Disney childhood innocence. Like a proto-Pan’s Labyrinth, the terror as much psychological as it is fantastical.

A young Sam Raimi watched this and vowed one day he’d make those trees even more terrifying and bad-touchy.

This scene is also the source of one of the most famous stories to come out of the film’s creation. During the planning of the part where Snow falls backwards through an open-mouthed cavern into a lake, one of the animators cried out in terror “Won’t that kill her??” And the whole room fell silent. They reached the point where they no longer thought of Snow White as a cartoon but as an actual person, something that had never happened before. That was the moment where they were officially, as Ben Vereen once put it, on the right track.

Overwhelmed, Snow White collapses in tears. She’s brought back to her senses by the usual cuddly forest inhabitants inexplicably drawn to female royalty in need of assistance. Of course, being the ever-thoughtful soul that she is, Snow apologizes for startling them and making a fuss over how afraid she was, once more putting others before herself. She bonds with the animals through the uplifting “With a Smile and a Song”. Then she spends several minutes talking to them and making plans for the future all in rhyme. I confess it’s one of the weaker moments of the movie, showing that the studio’s transition from the Silly Symphonies to full-fledged filmmaking hasn’t completely been made yet.

The critters lead Snow to a quaint cottage in need of a good cleaning service. Assuming the miniature-sized furniture means the inhabitants are orphaned children, she decides to surprise them by sprucing up the joint, hoping her act of kindness will make them forget her breaking and entering and they’ll let her stay. Said cleanup time is underscored by one of the more upbeat tunes in Disney’s songbook, “Whistle While You Work”. Like Mary Poppin’s “A Spoonful of Sugar” it’s all about finding joy in the little things that make the work go by quicker.

“Here’s the last of the underwear, Bambi. And try not leave any ticks in the laundry this time!”

But as we all know, the cottage belongs not to seven children, but seven little people who work as jewel miners, all the while singing that famous mining song –

“No, the one sung by dwarves.”

“Seriously?!”

All joking aside, Heigh-Ho is the best song in the movie, no contest. Easily the catchiest tune here if not the entire Disney canon. If it can keep a theater full of gremlins occupied, it’s doing something right.

Sure, they whistle while they work for now. But once they find the Arkenstone it’s all downhill from here.

And let’s not kid ourselves, the dwarfs are the real reason why we keep returning to Snow White. Their quirk-matching names and designs make each one memorable, they’re endlessly entertaining, and they’re the characters that come the closest to having some form of arc. The group is a prime example of the illusion of life that is animation, exaggerated to a degree that they’re still believable in their movements and mannerisms. Dopey especially works well in this regard, a wonder considering much of his character was developed by happy accident. When an actor suitable enough couldn’t be found, they made the decision to simply mute him. Like much of Disney’s favorite animal sidekicks, they based his personality around that of a lovable dog, though I’d be lying if I didn’t see some Harpo Marx in there as well. As a result, his childlike playfulness and comic timing is up there with Chaplin’s Little Tramp. His hitch step was also an unexpected boon; after animator Frank Thomas put it in one of his scenes, Walt liked it so much that he insisted all previously animated footage of Dopey be redone to include that step. Incidentally, Frank’s popularity among the animation staff reached all-time lows after that announcement.

Snow White flops down for a quick nap on the beds upstairs just as the dwarfs return home. What follows is them sneaking about their now suspiciously squeaky-clean cottage and further establishing their personas through a series of finely-tuned gags (Walt paid five dollars for every good joke his guys could come up with, and this was when five dollars could take you out to dinner and a show). Dopey is elected to check the bedroom and he comes to the conclusion that Snow’s sleeping form is a monster. The dwarfs work up their courage to go kill the beast themselves only to realize in the nick of time that it’s just a harmless girl. But Grumpy, the clear-cut misogynist in the group, isn’t keen on having a “wicked-wiled” female refugee in their abode and shamelessly yells “Let ‘er wake up, she don’t belong here no-how!”

Snow wakes up and instantly charms over everyone except Grumpy as they introduce each other. The dwarfs are shocked and terrified to learn the Queen has put a hit out on her. Grumpy in particular declares the Queen is a powerful witch skilled in the black arts, which is true, and it raises a potent question. Is her magic common knowledge throughout the kingdom, or is it mere speculation? If it’s the former, how did that come to be? What happened to Snow White’s father the king anyhow? All this could make for a very interesting –

“You know what, never mind, forget I said it -“

“Too late! Jenkins, write that down! Bob’s gonna love it!”

“Very good, sir. Shall I pre-heat your crack pipe in preparation for the first draft writing session?”

“Does the Academy loathe streaming services? Hop to it, my man!”

“Hey, I thought you left that jerk to go work for Don Bluth.”

“Shh! I jumped ship after A Troll in Central Park and came back under a new identity. I couldn’t pass up the bankroll Disney’s been on since 2009.”

“Mum’s the word.”

Grumpy’s certain that they’ll be in the Queen’s crosshairs once she learns they’ve been harboring Snow White and demands they kick her out at once. But Snow White stands up for herself and says she can take care of the house for them if they let her stay. Just like Belle offering herself in her father’s place, no one corners Snow into the position of housekeeper. She’s the one who puts herself out there, listing all her best qualities like she’s on an interview. It’s only when she does so (and also mentions she can bake a mean gooseberry pie) that the dwarfs overrule Grumpy and declare she’s welcome in their home.

Yet even when all is said and done, Snow makes it clear that if she’s the one doing the work, then the dwarfs must play by her rules. Immediately following their acceptance, she goes into full Team Mom mode, insisting they improve their manners and wash themselves before dinner’s ready. Doc attempts to get around it by saying they cleaned up “recently”, but despite her sweet nature, Snow won’t let them walk all over her. She does a cleanliness inspection that makes the dwarfs almost as bashful as Bashful himself, and even gets a good bit of sarcasm in (“Why Doc, I’m surprised.”) The dwarfs washing themselves is another one of those Silly Symphony-esque filler scenes, but at least it gives us more time for their fun shenanigans; though I have to wonder if dog piling Grumpy and half-drowning him takes it too far.

“Where’s the money, Legrumpski? Where’s the fucking money??” “It’s down there somewhere, lemme take another look.”

Back at the castle, the Queen is showing off her newly acquired bodily organ to the Magic Mirror while demanding he validate her preconceptions of who’s fair and who’s not. Alas, the Mirror tattles on Snow White’s location and reveals that heart belonged to a pig, which I’ve got to say I’m glad they didn’t show how the Huntsman got ahold of.

Infuriated, the Queen storms down to her secret lab (and no, there’s no wrong lever scene. I’m disappointed too). She brews up a potion made up of ingredients like scream of fright, a thunderbolt and partially hydrogenated dimethylpolysiloxane which will completely transform her into a disguise nobody could suspect her in, an aged peddler woman.

Was I afraid of this scene way back when? Of course, but it was one of those rare moments where I didn’t want to look away either. Here we have a woman dangerously obsessed with beauty becoming the very thing she loathes in order to sate her implacable desires. Not only that but in this disguise she’s able to set loose the insanity buried deep beneath her frigid calculating exterior, grinning and cackling like the witch that she is. The Queen never smiles once when she’s in her true form. But once she’s the old Hag and it’s all cackling and gap-toothed smiles, it’s extremely unnerving.

Case in point.

“Anyone else miss the creepy fade to black where the villain’s eyes remain for a few seconds? Disney needs to bring that back.”

Major props to Lucille LaVerne, who gives a bone chilling and utterly unrecognizable performance as BOTH the Queen and the Hag. She made the switch from one role to the next by removing her false teeth between recording sessions. In doing so she gave us one of the great Disney villain performances.

The part where she preps the infamous poisoned apple does undercut some of her menace, however. The Hag is supposed to be sharing her scheming with a cowardly raven, but due to how much she stares directly into the camera while monologuing, it comes off as directly addressing the audience, like we’re watching her in a play. It’s not just the Silly Symphony style of storytelling creeping in, it’s melodramatic semi-vaudevillian theatrics that early Hollywood was moving well away from at this point. And again, what’s with the sudden speaking in rhyme?

At the last moment the Hag looks up a possible antidote to the poison and learns that it’s Love’s First Kiss. However she scoffs at the notion that Snow White can be saved because she’s counting on the dwarfs believing the princess is dead and burying her alive.

“For those of you who claim Disney waters down fairy tales into saccharine pap, I point you to Snow White.”

And it doesn’t end there. As the Hag leaves the dungeons, she passes a cell where a skeleton is sprawled out between the bars, reaching for a water pitcher. It’s bad enough to imagine this poor soul dying of thirst, spending their last moments with salvation just out of their grasp, but the Hag openly mocks the skeleton and kicks the pitcher aside. If that’s not a deciding irredeemably evil factor moment, it comes pretty darn close.

This would have also tied into an important but ultimately scrapped sequence where the Queen kidnaps the Prince, locks him in the dungeon to keep him from saving Snow White and torments him by detailing her elaborate scheme.

This sounds vaguely familiar…

Depending on which pitch you’re reading, the Prince refuses the Queen’s offer of marriage, and she enchants the chained-up skeletons of other scorned suitors to dance in an extremely misguided attempt keep him entertained while she’s out, or floods the dungeon to drown him. He makes a daring escape and rides to the rescue on horseback.

Again, vaguely familiar…

Unfortunately we had to wait twenty-plus years for this to happen because the animators weren’t confident in their abilities to create a believable male character. This is why the Prince appears only in the beginning and the end of the movie (and by extension why the Cinderella’s Prince is barely in that feature as well). When it came to making Snow White look realistic, they subtly incorporated some rotoscoping in a few places (I’d call it cheating but it’s difficult to tell where it begins or ends because she looks that good eighty years later). But I guess it just wasn’t worth the effort to do the same for her love interest, who doesn’t even get the dignity of an official name (fans go back and forth between Florian and Ferdinand). He’s reduced to a deus ex machina – which to be fair is exactly how he was treated in the fairytale. The movie has the slight advantage over that, however, by setting him up before he arrives for that wake-up kiss.

“And now it’s time for Silly Songs With Happy, the part of the review where Happy comes out and sings a silly song. Today’s interlude, appropriately titled “The Silly Song”, features choreography which has gone on to inspire many other Disney musical sequences dating as far ahead as the 70’s.”

“Hold it!! It’s just the exact same movements with the Robin Hood cast grafted over them!”

“Is there a problem with that?”

“Well…no…it’s just a bit distracting when you finally notice it. I mean I love Disney’s Robin Hood, but boy did they take the main character’s attitude towards stealing to heart when it came to the animation.”

And yes, “The Silly Song” itself is fun too. It’s one of the less remembered Disney tunes, though I have fond memories of it due to its inclusion in the Sing-Along video lineup. The decision to have it follow the Hag’s unsettling introduction makes perfect sense; I could imagine audiences experiencing it for the first time needed a bit of a breather after that.

I guess I should mention the musical number we could have had instead of this one, though. “Music in Your Soup” was a similarly lighthearted song that was fully recorded and animated before it was ultimately cut. It was expertly animated, featured more dwarf-Snow White interactions, and it also closed up a plot hole involving a bar of soap Dopey swallowed earlier. Still, it didn’t add much to the story overall and it disrupted the flow, and keeping both that and “The Silly Song” would have been superfluous; so as much as I like “Music In Your Soup” I think they made the right call in sticking with “The Silly Song”.

After the dancing, Snow regales the dwarfs with a love story, though they quickly figure out she’s talking about herself and her prince. She dispenses with the self-insert fanfiction and sings the movie’s eleven o’clock number “Someday My Prince Will Come”. Bawl all you want about setting women’s rights back a decade, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a lovely song, even without Casselotti’s vocals. In fact, much of the movie’s soundtrack has been a go-to for jazz artists through the decades ranging from Miles Davis to Dave Brubeck. The pure simplicity of Larry Morey’s lyrics and Frank Churchill’s melodies are ripe for riffing on. Virtually every cover I’ve found succeeds in the impossible task of measuring up to the original in some capacity. The action in the song itself is subtle and restrained, mainly focusing on the dwarfs’ reactions. It’s not only good storytelling, but a clever way to get around showing more of Snow White than the animators could handle; she was already tough enough to animate even with rotoscoping.

Snow realizes how late it’s getting and ushers the dwarfs to bed; however Doc and the others try to behave like gentlemen and allow her to sleep upstairs while they take up whatever space they can fill on the lower floor. It goes to show how much her kindness and politeness has had an influence on them, at least while she’s around. Them taking up whatever sleeping space they can find on the ground floor is an excuse to squeeze more gags in, but I’m fond of how it lets us wind down and take in this cozy atmosphere.

The next morning before they head out the dwarfs warn Snow White to beware of strangers. Even Grumpy can’t help but show concern in his own gruff tsundere way. It’s little touches like this that reveal Snow White’s unwavering compassion is chipping away at his chauvinist attitude and he really does care about her after all –

Hang on, they couldn’t spare ONE dwarf to stick around and keep an eye out in case the Queen does drop by? They’re really think the Queen isn’t going to make another murder attempt as soon as possible? They sadly must, because no sooner do the dwarfs heigh-ho off to work than the Hag creeps up like a meth user turned Jehovah’s Witness.

“Hello, my name is Elder Grim. Would you care to learn more about our lord and savior Chernabog?”

After the animals fail to communicate the obvious danger, they fetch the dwarfs for help. Meanwhile the Hag has convinced Snow White to let her into the cottage and show off her “magic wishing apple”.

Already I can hear the slapping of a thousand facepalms through my screen. I get why, but there’s something about the situation that feels strangely relatable. The Queen is fully aware of Snow White’s gentle, trusting nature and knows how to take full advantage of the girl. Snow isn’t all smiles and open arms though. There’s a split second of regret the moment she divulges she’s by herself, and as the Hag literally corners her into tasting the poison apple her body language gives away how uncomfortable she is. Even the cottage itself grows darker and claustrophobic, mirroring her trapped state. Snow White knows there’s definitely something off about this stranger, but there’s the downside of her kind personality. She can’t bring herself to kick the old lady out no matter how wrong this scenario inherently feels.

“Just keep smiling and slowly reach for the mace.”

Ultimately the Hag coaxes her into tasting the apple. Every breath leading up to it is dramatically intercut with the dwarfs led by Grumpy (further proof Snow White really has gotten through to the old softie) racing back to the cottage.

Do you want to know why the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre is considered one of the scariest movies of all time? Because for all its promise of a gory spectacular, the violence is deliberately kept offscreen. Our imaginations fill in the blanks and come up with even worse terrors than they could possibly show. Snow White’s poisoning works on that logic. All we hear is her gasping and groaning as the Hag gleefully looks on, ending with the most cinematic shot of the film.

If you’re still convinced Snow’s a dunce for biting the big apple, trust me, it’s a vast improvement over the original. The Queen showed up in disguise three times to kill Snow White with varying methods: strangulation by laces, a poisoned comb, and of course the apple. This was cut down to the last one for obvious reasons – not only would the story be repetitive and extremely padded if they remained, but it makes Snow White look like an idiot for falling for the same trap thrice in a row. The only time I’ve ever seen the inclusion of all three murder attempts work is in the anime The Legend of Snow White (which despite the laughably bad English dub is worth checking out). By the time the Queen comes around with the apple in that instance, Snow White is well aware of who she’s dealing with. But she plays along because the Queen has turned the kingdom to stone, and the only way to break the curse is by taking the bait and destroying her staff while she thinks she’s down, thus turning what was once an act of naivete into a heroic sacrifice.

The Hag exits the cottage feeling confident in who’s the fairest now just in time for the dwarfs to show up. They chase her through a thunderstorm up a cliff side. Literally trapped between a rock and a hard place, she attempts to dislodge a boulder and crush her pursuers. But Zeus is having none of that and a lightning bolt strikes the cliff, plummeting the Hag to her doom.

To quote Linkara, “Thus the origin for ‘Rocks fall, everybody dies’.”

And in case you’re still thinking she could have survived that drop, even with that boulder tilting over after her, the vultures that have been tailing her since she left the castle begin circling lower and lower over the place where she now lies. A chilling, subtle way to show they’re getting a meal after all.

We fade to a wake the dwarfs are holding for Snow White, complete with organ music and weeping – LOTS of sad, silent, motionless weeping. Poor Grumpy gets the worst of it. One can only imagine the tsunami of emotion he must have felt coming home to see that she was making a pie just for him. Like “Someday My Prince Will Come” it shows how restraint can be an asset in acting for animation. Considering how it’s very much like a real-life wake and just how much everyone believes Snow White is truly dead, this was a tough scene to get through.

The seasons pass and we’re told through title cards that the dwarfs couldn’t find it in themselves to bury Snow White, so they built a glass coffin and kept constant vigil along with the depressed forest animals.

“Clearly the idea of watching her slowly decompose over time never crossed their little minds.”

The funeral on top of the wake keeps piling on the sadness. We’re used to animated features moving us to tears, but you have to remember for audiences back then this was an entirely new experience because no animation dared to get this heavy. Think about it: Shirley Temple, Charlie Chaplin, the best and the brightest of Hollywood who poo-pooed Walt for his ridiculous idea – all moved to tears over Snow White. I can only imagine the satisfaction Walt must have felt hearing their sobbing at the premiere. Again, going back to that animator who felt genuine fear for her safety, the audience developed an emotional bond with the character just as they would for a real human on screen.

The Prince FINALLY shows up again still singing his One Song. Believing the love he has long searched for to be lost to him forever, he says his final farewell by bestowing her with Love’s First Kiss.

“Ah – “

“If you make ONE necrophilia joke, I swear I’ll take all the Adam Sandler movies off the Shelf.”

“Please, no!! I’ll have nothing to fully snark at!!”

The kiss does its work and Snow White awakens none the worse for wear. And since what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, she’s immune to all poison ingested via deciduous fruit now. That’ll make ruling the kingdom she’s inherited from her stepmother and disappeared father much easier. And for those of you complaining how a magical kiss is a cop out, trust me, it’s better than how the original fairytale resolved it.

“Somewhere my love lies sleeping, and here she is! I’ll pay you dwarfs anything to let me take her back to my castle and keep her there as a memento of our tragic love.”

“This had better be worth it, she weighs a freaking ton!” “OHH, there goes my hernia!” *BANG*

*HACKHACKCOUGHHACK* “Thanks for the Heimlich, guys, damn apple’s been stuck in my throat for a year!”

“Seriously, I’m not making that up. Plus, they invite the Queen to the wedding and force her to dance to death in red-hot iron shoes.”

Everyone rejoices, Snow White says goodbye to the dwarfs, and the Prince leads her on his horse to his shining palace in the clouds. They all live happily ever after, the end.

And that’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, the very first animated Disney movie. Do I believe the American Film Institute’s claims that it’s the best animated film of all time? Well, to be honest, no. The main characters aren’t as developed compared to future Disney protagonists, the animation goes noticeably off model at times, and it’s got one foot stuck in the style of the Silly Symphonies shorts that came before.

Is it the most influential animated film, however? Of course! Without it animation wouldn’t be as mainstream as it is today. While the formula has been updated and subverted through the decades, most animated features follow a similar blueprint – a dastardly villain, fun side characters, memorable music, distinct visual flair, fighting, torture, true love, miracles, you get the picture. We wouldn’t have any of that without Snow White. Once upon a time, this movie was the Star Wars of its era; a groundbreaking, audience-thrilling blockbuster that changed the way people looked at movies. Part of that is because Snow White taps into an emotional simplicity in a manner few films are able to. It relies more on providing an emotional catharsis than logic, inviting us to experience the story as we once did through the eyes of a child, and in doing so captures the essence of a classic fairy tale.

In fact, looking at the ripple effect of how movies can influence one another across the years, Snow White ranks among one of the most influential movies made in general. Apart from Disney you can see its echoes in The Wizard of Oz, Gulliver’s Travels, Citizen Kane, and yes, the original Star Wars. Even Sergei Eisenstein, the man who revolutionized filmmaking with freaking Battleship Potemkin, declared Snow White to be the greatest film ever made.

…So why did Walt Disney come to hate it later on in life?

Every movie that’s met with acclaim and accolades is bound to hit some backlash for one reason or another. Maybe it’s been overhyped, or time hasn’t been that kind to it. For Walt, Snow White leaned into the latter as his artistic prowess grew. No creator likes looking at their past work because it’s easier to notice the flaws when viewing it through a more experienced eye (believe me, I know). That, and no matter what he did, it seemed impossible to escape from Snow White’s shadow. For decades everything he created was inevitably compared to it.

Hmm, the animation and music are an improvement, but what it’s really missing are some dwarfs.

Hmm, the creativity leaps off the charts, but if only the score had lyrics that rhyme with the words “shmeigh shmo”.

Hmm, it’s breathtaking and magical, but it’d be perfect if you could just sit and watch it for eighty minutes without interacting with any of it at all.

Hmm, it’s practically perfect in every way, but…um…uh…more dwarfs, dammit!!

Thankfully Walt’s displeasure mellowed after some time. As for Snow White, she’s still rightfully hailed as the one that started it all. The art is iconic, the characters are unforgettable, and virtually all the songs are Disney gold standards for a reason. Well before Rodgers and Hammerstein changed the face of musical theater by having the score and the book go hand in hand, Snow White did it first in the cinemas. In fact this was the first movie to ever have a commercially released soundtrack, another confounded idea Hollywood wouldn’t understand for quite a while. Though time may temper with modern expectations, Snow White is as much a classic now as it was destined to be eighty years ago, and nothing can touch it. It still is the fairest one of all.

“HA! Try to remake/sequelize THAT, Disney!”

“Excuse me, is it too late to join this review?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Oh, where are my manners? I’m Snow White’s sister, Rose Red.”

“…You sure you’re not just a color-swapped OC clone from Deviantart?”

“Of course I’m not, silly! I’m in the fairytale and everything! Well, not THE fairytale per se, but there is one titled ‘Snow White and Rose Red’ where we’re siblings.”

“Checks out. They’re technically related.”

“Okay, but what are you doing here?”

“I was just wondering when you were going to discuss my upcoming movie!”

“Your…movie?”

“Oh yes! It’s going to be Disney’s Snow White all over again but from MY point of view! Isn’t that exciting?”

“But…but you weren’t even in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

“I know! I was off to the side doing…well, you’ll have to wait and see! The lady who wrote that Gone Girl knockoff that takes place on a train and the Indecent Proposal remake is doing the screenplay and she is just delightful!”

“…Excuse me for one moment.”

“Oh dear. Have I said something wrong?”

“It’s ok. This is just the part of the review where Shelf goes berserk.”

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this review, please consider supporting me on Patreon. Special thanks to Amelia Jones and Gordhan Ranaj for their contributions.

You can vote for what movie you want me to look at next by leaving it in the comments or emailing me at upontheshelfshow@gmail.com. Remember, you can only vote once a month. The list of movies available to vote for are under “What’s On the Shelf”.

Also, Patreon supporters get extra votes among other perks. If I reach the goal of $100, I can get back to reviewing animated series! I’m at the halfway mark right now, so please consider supporting me if you’re able.

Artwork by Charles Moss.

Most screencaps courtesy of animationscreencaps.com.

February Review: Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) If there's a reason why we're able to recall the story of Snow White from memory, and why said princess is usually depicted with short hair, a cute bow and surrounded by woodland fauna, look no further than Disney.

[scarletraven1001]

Faint

38 - “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

A fluffy Vegebul one-shot for prompt #38 on this post, requested by @saraelee. I hope you like it!

Also on Ao3. 

All Fics in this Series:  1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9

Faint

8-8-8-8-8

He was hotter than the desert sun.

Bulma stared, barely able to keep her drool under control as the most delectable member of the male species to have ever walked the planet strode calmly into her small electronic repair shop.

She was quite convinced that he was a god in disguise.

Piercing eyes in the darkest shade of ebony sat above a thin nose and plump lips. His face, punctuated by high, deeply-defined cheekbones, was edged by a sinfully sharp jawline. His riotous black hair held slightly reddish undertones, making the strands seem like flames rising above his head.

His body was narrow but absolutely jacked, and she nearly keened as she watched the thick muscles of his arms flex beneath his tight sleeves.

His thick brows were furrowed, as was seemingly usual for him, and he walked with measured, light-footed steps towards the counter where she stood. She held her breath, hardly daring to move as the man’s eyes roved the shop, a hand in one pocket as the other clutched another broken mobile phone.

He seemed to go through those phones awfully quickly.

He had been in the store more than a few times, bringing phones usually ruined by strong blunt force impact.

By the light sheen of sweat that typically covered him, making his already tight shirts stick deliciously to his well-formed chest, she surmised that he must be in a rather physical line of work that was more than a little harmful to small electronics in his pockets.

She smiled as he approached, pushing her chin-length blue hair away from her face as she willed her stupid heart to stop pounding so hard.

“Hello again, how may we be of service?” she asked, blue eyes wide and bright, and entirely unsurprised by how he refused to meet her gaze.

He seemed to basically ignore her whenever he came in, after all.

“Kakarot. Is he here?”

He was truly, very predictable.

“In the back. Let me just call him,” she said, before she turned, walking into the stock room where she knew that her assistant, Goku, also known as Kakarot, was doing inventory.

“Goku,” she called softly, laughing slightly at the confounded look on his face as he compared stock numbers. “Your friend is here.”

“Oh, Vegeta?” he asked, carefully placing the items down before standing up. He shook his head, drawing the shaggy strands of his dark hair away from his face. “Lemme just go see what he wants.”

“I am pretty sure he broke another phone,” she chuckled.

Goku shook his head. “I’ve known Vegeta since High School. He was never this clumsy.”

“Well, accidents happen,” she answered, watching as Goku headed out to the main store to speak to the handsome man who was not-so-patiently waiting to be served.

Bulma hung back, snickering as she heard Goku give the man a bit of scolding on how bad he was with phones.

However, her interest was piqued when Vegeta answered Goku in a very low, urgent whisper.

Goku’s brows scrunched together, and he answered in a whisper that was not quite as soft and urgent.

“I told you *murmur* just ask her *murmur* coffee shop *murmur*…”

The rest of Goku’s sentence turned inaudible as the phone beside him started ringing, and Bulma walked out to the shop to pick it up.

The two men stopped talking as she spoke to another customer on the line, and as she ended the call, she realized that Goku was watching her, and the flame-haired hunk was, as always, looking anywhere but at her.

The silence was making Bulma uncomfortable, so she forced out a laugh, looking at both men in turn.

“This climate here is something else, isn’t it? It’s so hot! When I moved here from West City, I didn’t realize that the heat was gonna be so bad,” she said.

“Gee, Bulma. The weather? Really? That’s your big ice breaker?” she thought to herself, mentally whacking her head against a wall.

“Bulma, it’s a desert. Of course it’s hot,” Goku answered.

Vegeta just glared at Goku.

Goku looked up at the other man, a bright smile on his face. “Hey Vegeta. I’m totally stumped about what to do with your phone. But Bulma here, she’s a genius, she can probably help you.”

Bulma stared at Goku in surprise, before she glanced at the shorter man who was glaring icy daggers at her employee.

Also… was it her imagination, or had Mr. Hotness Incarnate gone pale?

“Tch,” he spat out, and with neither a glance nor word to her, he spun on his heel, and stomped angrily out of the store, ruined phone still in hand.

She was shocked, but not shocked enough not to take notice of his perfectly rounded bum as he stormed away.

“What was that about?” Bulma blinked.

Goku just laughed. “Oh, he’s just shy, Bulma. He’s a nice guy.”

Bulma watched as Vegeta got into his car that was parked up front, his defined features more than nice even from a distance.

She snickered. “I guess you’re right.”

8-8-8-8-8

When she moved to South City six months ago to start her small electronics business, she had known that it was a desert city, and that it was going to be hot.

Bulma had underestimated just how sweltering it actually would be.

It was aggravated even more by the fact that the shop’s air-conditioning seemed to be stuttering.

At the moment, she was double-checking the items they had on display, and she reached out to grab a stool when she realized that the heat was making her nauseated.

Goku would not be coming in for his shift for two more hours, and Bulma felt her light-headedness worsen as she realized that she was in no condition to work that day.

She tried to stand again, thinking of reaching for her phone that she had placed on the counter, so she could ask him to come in earlier.

She had just made it to her feet, when she heard the store door swing open.

She turned to face the newcomer, but a surge of pure vertigo seized her, making her feel like her head had swollen to twice its size, and she stared in horror as everything seemingly tilted to the right, and rapidly rushed out of focus.

“Are you alright?” a familiar, deep voice asked from right beside her, and she caught a glimpse of plump lips and dark, narrowed eyes as she felt the world slip from beneath her feet.

“Ve- geta…” she managed to whisper right before everything faded to black.

8-8-8-8-8

Consciousness came back to her very slowly, and the first things she felt were the hard appendages wrapped around her torso in an iron-like grip.

She was too dizzy to struggle, not even as she felt the said things tighten, pulling her flush against an unyielding surface lined by firm warmth.

She blinked tired eyes, looking around her slowly as things gradually began to make sense...

She was on the floor, in her shop.

It was hot, but she had a small desk fan beside her, fanning cooler air onto her face.

The cage that surrounded her was of flesh, and she looked up in surprise as she realized that the warmth belonged to a man with thickly-defined muscles on his arms and chest, and a very striking face topped by rebellious flame-like hair.

“Vegeta?” she asked hoarsely, and she watched as his brows furrowed, before he let one of his arms fall away from her.

He had been holding her up, nestled against his chest, and he lifted his hand again, now holding an open bottle of water to her lips.

“Drink,” he said, his voice soft but authoritative, and Bulma gladly took a few gulps of the cold liquid before she closed her eyes against the remaining nausea.

“What… what happened?” she asked.

She felt a rumble shake his chest, and she glanced back at him to see his dark eyes narrow.

“You fainted. I pulled up that fan, then I got water from my car fridge to cool you down. I called Kakarot, he is on his way to pick up your shift.”

“Oh… thank you,” she said, smiling gratefully up at him.

She watched as his lips lifted up into a smirk.

“You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, woman… If you wanted my attention so much, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, indignation pouring out of every pore as she hissed, “Excuse me? I did not faint to get your attention! I can’t believe you, you’re such an asshole! Ow…” she cut herself off as a headache began to pound at the side of her head.

He was still smirking as she continued.

“Asshole. And here I thought you were cute-”

“I think you’re cute, too.”

All of Bulma’s thoughts ran into a screeching halt as she stared dumbly up at him. “Huh?”

She noted with mild amusement that his deeply reddened cheeks and wide eyes made it look like he was even more surprised by his words than she was.

He flushed, stuttering. “I… I… What I meant was-”

“Bulma! Are you ok?” Goku’s voice cut into the moment, and Vegeta looked nearly constipated as they both watched the other man jog up to them.

“Jeez,” he said, kneeling beside Vegeta to look down at her. “You’re so pale! Good thing Vegeta dropped by.”

“Yeah,” she said meekly as she felt some of the dizziness fade away.

It did not escape her notice that she was still in Vegeta’s incredible arms.

“And I guess you finally spoke to each other, then!”

Vegeta suddenly straightened, pulling slightly away from her. “Kakarot, I shall take her home. Woman, you will give me directions.”

She just nodded as he helped her stand up, and she swayed slightly, holding on to the side of her heavy head as Vegeta wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her.

She held onto him as well, and she nearly fainted again at the feel of the amazing muscles around his abdomen.

He helped her take small steps forward, and they were almost at the door when Goku spoke up again.

“Vegeta! This is great! You can finally stop breaking your phones on purpose just to come see her!”

She heard Vegeta choke, before he turned around to face Goku with a snarl on his lips.

“Kakarot would you shut the hell up?!” he yelled.

Bulma just gaped.

He… broke his phones… so he could see her?

Goku was grinning from ear to ear. “Bulma, I told you he was just shy. But don’t worry, he’s an engineer who owns a contracting firm, he can afford the phones.”

Bulma hid her grin behind a hand as she tightened her arm around Vegeta.

She could barely believe it.

The guy she had been crushing on, for weeks, seemed to like her, too.

They made their way to his car, where Vegeta strapped her into the front passenger seat.

He was still completely red in the face, and Bulma smiled as he walked into the driver’s side, and tensely asked for directions to her house.

She began to feel better in the cool air-conditioning of his – rather expensive – car, and she sat back as she pointed him to the right direction.

As they drove, she thought back to the conversation that she had almost overheard between Goku and Vegeta.

“I told you *murmur* her out *murmur* coffee shop *murmur*…”

And she imaginatively filled in the blanks as they approached her place.

“I told you, just ask her out. Take her to the coffee shop nearby.”

By the time they reached the small bungalow that she called home, Bulma had made up her mind.

He got out of the car, helping her down as well, and slowly walked her to her front door.

She fumbled for the keys in her pocket, and as she stuck the key in the lock, she turned to face him again.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asked, brows furrowed in concern.

“Yes. Thank you so much for your help,” she said, smiling up at him as brightly as she can.

He flushed, nodded, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small card.

He handed the card to her. “My number. Call me if you need anything.”

She held the calling card to her chest as she watched him turn to walk away.

“Hey, Vegeta?”

He paused.

“Would you…” she began, feeling heat rush into her cheeks. “Would you like to get coffee sometime?”

He turned back to her, a small grin lifting the sides of his lips even as the deep blush remained on his cheeks.

He nodded. “Just make sure not to faint on me again.”

She grinned back. “Deal.”

8-8-8-8-8

End :)

[nymphgirlsofskyrim]

The Nymph Races

All Nymph races have the following abilities.

Magical Body

The Nymph is a creature of magical being, she is composed of magic just as much as flesh and blood.  As a consequence, weapons whose materials do not contain some magical essence will have little ability to harm her flesh.

This grants a very large resistance to any damage caused by weapons that are made of iron or steel.  This will completely negate the damage caused by weaker enemies with smaller weapons, such as iron arrows or daggers.  A very strong enemy with an iron two-handed weapon will still be able to make a dent in the Nymph, but this damage will be greatly reduced, even without armor.

This includes Riekling weapons, Imperial weapons, and Forsworn weapons.

It does not provide any protection whatsoever against draugr, falmer, elven, dwarven, orcish, nord-steel, glass, dragonbone, daedric, or ebony weapons.

It also does not provide any protection against attacks from animals such as wolves, trolls, or dragons.

This does offer a significant benefit during the Civil War part of the story, since all soldiers use some type of steel, iron, or imperial weaponry.  However, depending on your level, these soldiers already get a very large damage bonus as part of the vanilla game, and your Nymph protection alone will likely not be enough to prevent them from injuring you.

Whimsical Mind

The Nymph is a flighty and carefree creature that, once fully grown, will never grow old nor ever die of natural causes.  She has all the time in the world to do whatever strikes her fancy, and there is little pressure to grow and learn new things. She thus has a harder time focusing her mind in order to improve her skills.  

This results in a 25% penalty on all experience gained.  

Which technically means she requires 33% more experience to increase her skills than normal, since all experience is multiplied by 0.75, and this is how the in-game description reads.

Keep this in mind when spending money on trainers, as they will not grant a full skill level per session.

It will also keep skillbooks from providing a full level, though you will still get the experience.

Even with the relevant Guardian stone, you will still have a 10% penalty (0.75 * 1.2 = 0.9) and require 11.1% more experience to increase your skills.  If you are also well rested, you will gain experience at 99% of normal for the skills boosted by the Guardian stone (0.75 * 1.2 *1.1 = 0.99).  Lover’s comfort instead of well rested, results in a net 3% bonus (0.75 * 1.2 * 1.15 = 1.035).

Thus, this number was both mathematically and thematically chosen to enhance the flavor of the Nymph and her desire to find a mate, by ensuring that Lover’s Comfort combined with a Guardian stone is the only way to negate the penalty using vanilla modifiers.

This might sound like a fairly small penalty in exchange for the great power the Nymph races have to offer, but it will slow down leveling far more than it would seem at first glance, and should have quite a noticeable impact on gameplay.

“Naked Abilities”

Four of the subtype-races possess one or more powers that is only active active while they qualify as naked, according the game definition and the criteria the game uses to determine if NPCs will comment “You’re naked!” upon seeing you.  This means no equipment in the main torso slot, whether armor or clothing.  

The relative strength and diversity of this “naked power” depends on the Nymph subtype-race, and it relates to the background and behavior of that subtype.  

You can think of it as a hierarchy, with the Wood Nymph having the strongest predisposition towards the “natural state,” followed by the Beast Nymph, then the Desert Nymph, and lastly the Night Nymph, who almost always lives discreetly within city environments, and so has the smallest benefit, as it is rather difficult to conceal your true nature if you regularly stroll naked through a city.

*Due to how the game scales damage by difficulty level,  it is strongly recommended that you do not attempt to play a Nymph on any difficulty setting below Adept, unless you are also using another mod which changes combat damage calculations.*

The Blended Nymph

A blended Nymph is a Nymph whose ancestors have mated with enough different species of males that they lack particular distinct characteristics of any nymph subtype, being blessed with a mixture of minor magical traits.  Besides possessing inhuman Nymph beauty, Blend Nymphii are virtually identical to mortal races in appearance, and many live secretly in mortal society.  Some may even be unaware of their true nature and simply believe themselves mortals that are "special" or "gifted" in some way.

They have as their racial trait a mild protection to just about everything: a small resistance to every form of damage, along with a special ability that reduces all damage of every kind, and of course the universal Nymph protection from iron and steel.  

The overall theme here is that they represent the most complete dilution of magical essence that Nymphii obtain from mortal males, looking and acting for the most part just like mortal women.  It is hard to define this subtype as having any particular background or tendencies.  They run the full range of behavior of any of the mortal races, and very often they behave just like the mortal race they most closely resemble.  They are the only Nymph race that has an armor skill as a racial bonus, and unlike just about every other kind of Nymph imaginable, they don't have an instinctual tendency to go prancing around naked wherever they travel.

That's not to suggest they are less sexual creatures than other Nymphii however.  Nearly all Nymph subtypes would be considered "hyper-sexual" by human standards, with the caveat being that they are extremely selective in choosing mates, in order to ensure the most potent magical essences will pass to their offspring.  Blended Nymphii share this same powerful drive, but they do not possess nearly as much selective instinct.  A quirk of the Blended Nymph pedigree means that just about any male she chooses will contribute positively to the magical energy of her offspring and the offspring will not be weakened by any racial or individual essence, there are no wrong choices!  

Add this to the fact that these “Highly Motivated” Nymphii will very often live within human or mer society, sometimes believing they are a human or mer woman, and the results are best left to your imagination.

Though it might sound like the Blended Nymph is an overly-diluted and thus weaker form of Nymph, they possess a unique property borne of variety.  In the Blended Nymph’s case, the whole really is greater than the sum of its parts, for in her being all of these different types of magical essences become woven together like threads in an intricate tapestry, or perhaps like an unbreakable mesh-work layered from thousands of individually fragile fibers.  This property makes her significantly more durable than any other kind of Nymph, and she takes less damage from everything, no matter whether blade or magic.  

As mentioned above, they are one of the only Nymph Race sub-types that does not have a strong instinctual preference for nudity. Think of it as a mental reflection of the intertwining of their many magical essences.  They tend to look at things in terms of layering of different components, armor over skin, metal over cloth, plates, chain-links, and padding, and thus they get more benefit out of armor than almost any Nymph subtype or even mortal race.  They also have a greater proficiency for working materials into weapons or armor, and have a slight bonus to smithing improvements.  

The Blended Nymph has a natural aptitude for both the path of the Warrior or the Mage, though she might be slightly more suited for Combat.  The followers Mystra and Kayellie are both examples of the Blended Nymph, and are a good representation of how diverse this subtype can be.

The Blended Nymph has the following skill bonuses

One-Handed 10

Smithing 10

Light Armor 5

Heavy Armor 5

Alteration 5

Destruction 5

Restoration 5

For a total of 45, the lowest of any Nymph Race, due to the significant number of combat-related skills she starts with.

The Blended Nymph has the following as her racial abilties, in addition to Magical Body and Whimsical Mind

Blend Nymph Poly-Resist

10% resistance to fire

10% resistance to frost

10% resistance to magic

10% resistance to disease

10% resistance to poison

10% resistance to shock

Equipment Mastery

All weapons and armor can be improved 10% more with smithing

All armor provides 15% more armor rating

and finally Woven Magical Threads

a 7% reduction in all damage taken from melee or magic

[deepintoforestwego]

This is  a story they tell in your village.

Every village has story, of course, but yours is isolated and far away in cold mountains and surrounded by dark pine forest, so it has a story. Story for angry and hurt and betrayed, with hurt that feels like stone, words that you spit out like shards of glass lodged in your throat, and looking anywhere feels as if iron veil has been pressed over your eyes.

Step in woods, they say, and step off the path, there where evergreen leaves are as sharp as emerald needles, where shadows and distant sunlight lazily mingle in blanket of illusion, where grass always strains to grow higher and  to reach sky, where wild roses bloom with their wide petals and open yellow hearts for all to see ( they are less elegant and elaborate  then ones your kind bred in their gardens and hothouses, but hardier and more likely to survive alone, but don’t forget that their thorns are shorter and duller then those you bred), into womb of tales, where brave and wise and kind go be changed by darkness to emerge as legends.

There, you must follows paths of stone and cold, of leaves and light, of darkness and dust, slipping through trees and memories until you get to crossroad- for crossroad is always more then one, of paths, of times, of worlds. There you will find them.

They call them many names. Ghosts. Witches. Demons. Saints. Spirits. Madwomen. Changelings. Legends. But once, they were daughters too, and they know the look in your eyes. They stretch out hands, but choice is yours.

Perhaps you step to first, and let her hug you even as she snarls, and more and more it seems as if she is using you to allow herself to stand, her grip iron tight and sharp as icicle. She is dirty, her snow pale bruised, clothed in cheap clothes you would find on urchins and homeless, trainers and jackets and sneakers too thin to keep out cold but she doesn’t flinch at frost covering her skin, her ebony black hair torn and tangled, and yet she is more beautiful then anybody you will ever see, a hollow statue of goddess to kneel before, and you long to eat her heart and kiss her lips, red as blood of her mother’s womb, human born and death touched before she first breathed, blood and  flesh and something more, something else born from mortality, a witch’s daughter, stryzga’s sister, vampire’s mirror, werewolf’s dream. She will hold you, and grumble, and fire will burn in her eyes as she says in her chin, repeats like mantra over and over  never forget, always carry it, never let anybody forget, even if you must cover it all with ice and flame, and press knife or poison or stone in your hand.

Or perhaps you will go to second, who shall hold you lightly as if she is scared of caging you otherwise, half head bald and other braid costier then gold, burning your eyes, skin tanned by desert sun, neck smiling of garden loam and rotting vegetables and fresh, growing things and sun-kissed dunes, and she looks like loon, so mismatched, army  boots and ballet slippers and coat and swimwear,  her voice seems as if it aches to sing, but it would rather scream if she didn’t beat it in being polite, and it’s such clear sound it could have you scouring whole forest to find source, that could get her such record deal, and her golden tears heal skin over your wounds, as you stare at her like at photo, image of woman but missing something, some depth and dimension, bargain child, garden traded, daughter by time and name and cruel choice,womb and nurture, something that was human once but not anymore, changed and twisted, and speaks to you or herself it is past, why linger there, don’t allow it to matter anymore, erase that it ever happened, jump over that memory, run far away and keep from those places, don’t acknowledge it and it will be gone and you will sing better songs, as she lets you drink golden wine, or eat sugar petals, or wrap yourself in diamond shawl.

Or you will go to third, who will wait for your permission, and hug you just right, or not at all, and allow you to cry or scream or joke as you need to, and she will be as powerful and old and soft as you want, need her to be, though her eyes shine white like starlight over lake, or sun through spring clouds, with depth and power and grace of Irij,  older then moon, hidden by her hood of dark and ash, and she wears what you need her to wear, and tears and embroidery of flame, the mortal dust born with eternity as her birthright, demigod nephil cambion halfbreed, child by law and crumbs they fed her and collar they put round her neck, magic flowing alongside blood, and she will speak as loud or quiet as your heart asks her to, I understand, I don’t know because each torment is different but I understand, you are brave and strong and you survived and you will be free, it changed you, it happened but your life is yours, you can grow and change how you want to, it doesn’t define you, you can deal with it and still become more, and she will give you map, she will give you key, she will give you candle as you choose new path once again.

You just need to take step.

[dread-wolf-walking]

The World that Vengeance Knew - Chapter Two

[1]  2 - All Pride No Honour  [3]

Warnings: Angst , Sorrow, Implied Harm,  PTSD-ish, Psychological Warfare/Torture

Word Count: lots

@posttrespasser Finally adding to my FUN ANGST FIC!

Large eyes opened suddenly, reflective in a dark gloom; holding her breath as they adjusted. For what little light there was, it reflected against stone walls, old and damp, a pale fog settled just over the ground. She was laying on her stomach, cheek pressed against the cold surface, body aching from exhaustion. Only her wide eyes moved, first to look at herself, checking for any wounds or bindings; only when she felt no restraint or pain to move, Nevas placed her hand against the stone, pushing herself to sit up before resting against the wall close to her back.

She breathed in deeply, her first thought rising to the forefront. ‘Where am I?’ With her heart beating so rapidly, her senses pushed outwards to find any source of danger. Shadows of small skittering creatures caught her eyes as they darted over the walls and floors, breathing in; sounds of dripping reached her ears, but far away it might have been, breathing out. Nevas sought to find more of her surroundings, another shaky breath in, and a breeze moved over her knees, rattling a cage door making it creek like a dying cry. Breathing out; the palm of her hand touched the stone she sat on, it was cold, though she could feel the subtle sensation that magic had touched this place. In, at the back of her mind, something whispered sweetness and as she focused on it’s song, that tender kiss turned to a devouring lick, willing her to come forward.

Nevas coughed, having held her breath for far too long. The old voices within her scolded her in an ancient tongue with a sharp ‘tut’ to add insult. ‘The red song, you should know better. Strange that a warrior should feel it’s pull so great…….hmmm?’

“All you ever do is scold..” She hissed to herself.

There was a swell of emotion from those of the well, rising up like a parent would stand over a misbehaving child, ‘Because all you do is fumble,’ came in a harsh tone echoing strong as all those consumed by the well agreed with one another. Few more cried out she took far too long to put the pieces of a puzzle together, and Nevas shot back.

“Maybe if you helped rather than mock,” A growl quiet low with venom. Nevas grew wearily of these ancient tones, she was already exhausted from the battle previous and the encounter with Solas. While she could feel the annoyance that seeped from these voices, one small and soft came forward. It told her to breath much slower, for anger would only lead her to feel dizzy and unfocused, in such a tone that could only be described as childlike. As the pace of her heart slowed to something less panicked, yet still alert, a thought crossed her mind like a slap to the face.

“Wait, the battle!” Nevas stood quickly, only to regret it as black spots clung to her eyes, threatening to push her back down before she rested a shoulder against the wall, “What happened? Everyone….”

The voice of the Well groaned suddenly, ‘Well, she finally remembered her reality.’ Few chided, while the rest sought to help her piece her thoughts back together. They had come…’here’ for a confrontation, Nevas and what allies remained after the Inquisition had disbanded, what they had deemed to be the last battle to decide the fate of the world. Leliana had her few spies hurry back to confirm what was uncovered, that Solas had returned to Haven, to the Scar that glistened in the sky with clear intent to tear it open once again. And pull back the Veil.

“I’m….in the ruins of Haven?” Her eyes darted about, she felt as though this could have been a cell similar to the ones that she had been in when the Breach was made, but it was far too small and felt almost lived in as she spied a desk and chair, few books stacked on one another. “No….there wasn’t red Lyrium in Haven….”

She had to move, to see the rest of this place. Her legs burned as she pushed herself to walk, bruised knee caps making her steps less balanced as she clung to the wall, waiting for some strength to return. Nevas needed to know what had happened since her absence from the battle. She growled at herself to move, drawing what she could from her stamina, as that voice from before told her to breath from time to time. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her arm dropped from the wall to find her balance.

With her eyes adjusted to the gloom of his place, a caged door gently swinging in a bull breeze came to view; having been the rattling sound she must of her before. At least she was not locked in, and it pushed open with ease as she moved forward.

Into a large hall she came, a whirling chilling breeze dropping in from the ruined ceiling as snow dusted the floor in patches; most of the roof had collapsed an age ago, rubble laying skittered about the ground below the holes. This place felt like an old meeting place, a ruler may stand in the centre surrounded by all their court to hear their declaration. Large pillars lined the sides though most had crumbled with the ceiling, her fingers extended to touch one as she passed by to step into the main area. Wooden benches were littered and upturned throughout, along with chairs and old cushions but candlelight glinted from around the hall, recently lit. ‘I don’t feel danger.’ She thought to herself, stopping by more of the fallen stone, turning to see more of her surroundings.

Breath in, a temple she stood in, one that held onto the magic that touched it; a place that had not since life for so long, but witnessed death so much not long. Breath out, a tug on her shoulder as though someone had pulled on her hand that once had been there; something familiar but felt like fire, crackling green sparked over head and an eerie green light flooded the hall beneath it. A heavy and slightly choked breath in, Nevas turned her gaze skyward only to feel dread pull the air from her lungs as she realised what it was above.

The Scar of The Breach caught the light of the fading sunlight, glittering rays of green illuminating the entire area as though she was back in The Fade; her stone limb reached out, fingers extending as though the appendage remembered the motion from when it was flesh.

“I’m…” Words caught in her throat, she had too many questions to pace her thoughts.

“Where it all began.” A voice too familiar to Nevas, cloaked in a low and dark tone.

Turning on her heel, her weapon drawn without question in her right while her other stayed stretched out, but defensive rather than clutching for answers. Nevas felt the fire of her Reaver burn around her heart, spreading outwards readying her for battle, her eyes burned a rage that might even make a demon tremble, but only one saw through that facade, like he always had; the quiver of her lip had always been a dead give away to her hesitation. A small thing, very few had ever saw it.

“Solas.”

The Elf who hid his true self from those whom called him friend, Fen’Harel was outfitted for battle; in the light of The Fade he looked like the God whose mantle he had refused to wear, until now. Similar attire he had worn at the elvens ruins where countess Qunari now stood as stone, gold plated armor down his legs and across his arms, but the pattern mimicked the circles of a Foci. Once a Wolf pelt perched on his shoulder, now an ebony fur layered over the top of the golden armor around his shoulders and over his chest, tapered to a point on his back, like a tail. It was as though someone had gone to the trouble of sewing rubies throughout the fur; The Dread Wolf’s gaze could see everything. Over his less favoured shoulder a piece of armor to protect it. All weak points covered.

And the staff on his back, craved to wolf’s head on top, emblazoned with three eyes and a wolf’s jaw as a blade at the tip of the staff.

He watched her silently, standing tall but some paces away, but she could feel the sting of his gaze loom over her. A Wolf calculating his next step, caught in a moment he thought would never come again; peering over His Love. Nevas finally breathed again, however rough, it did not stop the piercing gaze that shot up to him, nor its intensity as the colour within burned brightly. Solas held contact, a stone-like expression defining his sharp features didn’t match the pale sorrow within his eyes. She almost dropped the cold stare. Almost.

He knew His Love. She was the burning heart that tore through her enemies, a force of nature that everyone mistook for a bright-eyed innocent elf. Her soft features had made her hard to read, and she had surprised everyone with her wit, knowledge and the force that she fought with. Life had treated her poorly, but that had not broken her spirit or resolve. It only grew as he watched, The Warrior before him of Great Dragon’s blood, and yet….He had broken her.

“Why…..” She hissed through gritted teeth.

Solas still didn’t drop his eyes - he saw her before him, but in pieces; his doing. All for the restoration of The Empire he had destroyed so many years ago. He should not have indulged that kiss, nor pulled her back for another. Their relationship allowed both of them comfort, one she had never felt, and one he had abandoned to carry the weight of his mistakes. Slowly, he had watched her drop the brooding facade, giving more of herself, and he had loved everything she was. Her nature drew him closer, curious little elf hidden so well behind the walls she had put up. Even after Adamant, he had still been surprised to see her fall to her emotions, distraught that she could not save Alistair from The Fade, and surprised further still when she clung to him, weeping. A crack.

“Tell me why!” Nevas pressed again, her voice dark.

He was so sure she would have let Morrigan drink from the Well of Sorrows, he had been so overwhelmed once she stepped into the pool, it was little wonder he had been hard on her when they finally made it back to Skyhold. The woman he loved and adored bound to Mythal, a cruel twist of fate he had thought, until she thought to change the world with that knowledge and bring the culture back to The Dalish. A Reaver and a Scholar? An unlikely combination. He had been surprised by her, every step of the way; every little thing she did was something he had not expected. Had she really come from a Dalish upbringing, he had wondered so many times, but a spirit such as her’s could not be tamed by them.

“Answer me!” A desperate, and angry cry.

Even in Crestwood, having removed her Vallaslin, he had been in awe. Nevas showed more of herself then, beautifully enraged. She had been hurt, discarded even by the man she loved, but rather than beg for him to return, she had cursed him for leaving her in such a way. That was something he was not ready for. Solas had seen her lunge forth towards her enemies without mercy, bare witness to countless times she judged harshly on those that deserved it, but to have that face, that expression turned on him…. He had almost lost his resolve, A God catching his breath, second guessing himself over the gaze of a hardened elf.

“Stop agonising over the past and answer me!”

And yet, he had still braved forward with his mission. Even after watching her take down The Darkspawn Magister and his Dragon, she was fierce and calculated in battle against him, never stopping, even with deep wounds of her own. Solas had held his breath as she had flung Corypheus into the fade, tearing him apart and healed the sky above them. His orb had not survived the battle - it wasn’t her fault though, the blame rested on his shoulders, but it still stung to see his artifact in pieces. He had expected her to discard it, but instead, even after cursing his shadow of love, she had touched his shoulder, and expressed her sadness at the loss he felt. Like she knew.

“Solas!”

Her furious gaze was just like the one he had seen on the steps of those elven ruins not too long ago, the first time they had seen each other in two years. Even in all his preparation that he might see her again, even with all the knowledge his spies had recorded back to him about The Inquisitor, his resolve almost broke once again. Her innocent face had shaped into something a little more determined, those short curls he used to run his fingers through had been pulled into a long braid, just reaching past the curves of her hips. He wished he could reach down and hold her, whisper to her that nothing was wrong, but that was his mistake in the past. Solas knew she was his weakness, constantly looking out for her, any little bit of information.

But his cause was greater than….love….he was already committed to his plan to restore the world to what once was, and now there was no turning back.

“Because I made a mistake that cost our people everything.” He spoke finally, his eyes never leaving her, “You, of all people should know the burden…”

“What about my people Solas!? Genocide can’t be the only answer!” She begged, however her voice was still dark. “We deserve to live too! I know you see the world in a dark comparison to what it was, but we aren’t tranquil! A dwarf gave me a new arm!” Nevas hoped, eyes showed her determination, that drawing attention to her new limb would at least give him a moment to pause. It was a strange thing, many thought it wouldn’t work, the idea was too outrageous. It had taken Dagna a long time, and many failed attempts previously to get to what Nevas now used. A dull thrum of blue light glittered between the device and the end of her arm, lyrium willed to link flesh and stone together; Dagna had theorized that both still wished to be together, it was then a matter of having raw lyrium so close to her skin that had troubled them for so long. No longer something strapped to her she couldn’t use, Nevas had a fully functioning arm made of stone, and it had made her fighting style even more deadly.

Solas glanced down, eyeing the limb with a hard stare and pursed lips. He could not deny the genius behind such a creation, and she had been right to draw attention to whom had made such a thing. Dagna was clever, a dwarf would carved her own path within the world of magic, and there in front of him was something he didn’t even dream was possible, and while it didn’t mimic her original arm, it still looked like one rather than a piece of stone mined from the earth. Fingers that moved and flexed to her will, a defined wrist and an elbow and clearly someone had put some thought into the design, even sculpted to match the lines of her muscles that had once been there.

He sighed, “And yet, that was only one dwarf.”

“And I was only one Elf!” Nevas growled, getting to her feet to stand and face him.

“And look what happened to you!” Solas howled back to her, his eyes flickering a dark shade of anger within them, his steps brought him closer to Nevas. “You tried to show me this world was worth saving, but in doing so proved the opposite.” Amongst the anger, there was a hint of desperation to his voice, “You saved them from a world of chaos and darkness, and look at how they repaid you. They all, but a few, turned on you! Hunted you like a war criminal and tried to persecute you!” His eyes blazed once more as his hands turned to fists in frustration, “The humans sort to take any sort of authority you had, your own people turned you away because you no longer wore your Vallaslin, you were at war with The Qun, and while Imperium had no real issue with The Inquisition, you are an Elf; a being who should not rise to any authority!” Solas stared her down, challenging her resolve, “The whole world turned its back on you! Can’t you see why I am doing this? I will restore our people to their proper place! You of all people should understand this!”

Nevas could only stand there, blindsided, and the heavy truth that hit her with every word. “I can’t watch so many innocent people die!” Her eyes sparking a blood red as she flung words back at him, “It isn’t right to birth a new world at the suffering of the old!” Her anger matched his own, stepping forward to close the gap between them. She had always picked her battles with honour , what she believed was morally right, it was a little wonder why her and most of her inner circle had fallen from each other. Most of them wanted the world to go back to the way it was, and were happy for that change to never come. Nevas wanted a revolution of change, she wanted a world of peace and some semblance of equality, but, that required more than she could give. Once these choices were easy, but now, she could not bare the thought of more innocent people dying for a cause that might not be seen through; one lonesome elf was not enough to change the world a second time. Friends had gone, and only a few sought the same change.

“After everything they have done to you,” Solas reached out, voice shaking from anger and disbelief, “You still think this world deserves to flourish? There is no honour in this world….” Her hands twitched, he had hit a nerve. “And why would I want to save a world after seeing what they did to you?” While he had a hand or two in making her footing in Thedas unstable, he had not foreseen a witch hunt at the hands of the humans against her, then again, wasn’t this the reason he sought to ruin the world? To wipe out the scum and pave a new Empire for his people? “I will right the wrong I did to the people, I will save the Elves.” Perhaps that was a little reminder for himself, why he had hurt the woman he still loved.

Nevas couldn’t withhold her tears any longer, had she truly loved a man who thought that wiping out the life that stood in his way was the right thing to do? It pained her to feel love for someone who knew such hate and disdain; it tore her very being and shattered her heart, could could she love someone who had little regard for life of others?

“It shouldn’t be up to the will of one person to say who lives and who dies.” She was sobbing, but Solas hit back, “You did, didn’t you? I admired you for being able to make a hard choice, knowing that lives were at stake, you did it with a harden resolve, wars are won like such.” Nevas’ fingers bunched against her eyes, wiping away the tears as they pooled in the corners, her days of Inquisitor were long over, and she had sought to distance herself from such a title that bore the dread of having many under her command. “But now? You don’t want to sacrifice anyone anymore? No matter what, people will die, you cannot change the course of their fate. Not making a choice doesn’t mean it’s the right one.”

She was becoming frustrated, this was going nowhere, and she felt a crushing coldness through the pit of her stomach, she had failed to change his mind, and now anything she could have possibly have said was worthless. Solas had made up his mind and Nevas became infuriated at the revelation.

Her voice was acid, “Of all people, I know what it is like to live with the burden of my choices! You always told me, the more I try to fix my mistakes, the more it hurts when I cannot change the past!”

“I damned the Elves!” Solas lashed out, his expression practically livid, “How could that possibly not shape me!? Do you expect me to forget what I have done, to just cast it aside like it was nothing!?”

Nevas shook her head, “I don’t want you to forget. I want you to accept your mistakes.” Even in the harsh cold of the mountain ruins, Solas couldn’t help the warmth of pride for her grow in his chest, still ever fond of her way to make people think outside their usual perspective, and had he been a weaker man again then perhaps he may have found himself hesitating. However warm her words and his smile, his thoughts on the matter reflected the opposite.

“I accept my mistakes, but I will also right this wrong.” He said firmly, a snarl on his lips as she began to protest him, “Do not claim the moral high ground, Vhenan, there is no honour in what you are doing now!”

He stepped forward to close the gap between them, a distance that seemed like an age as he glided down a small set of stairs, his arms moving behind his back as those icy eyes never left her trembling figure. The sight of him walking towards her in his Godly attire was intimidating, Nevas clutched tightly at her sword as her gaze narrowed in on Solas, and while she was ready to hold her ground, pain across head forced her footing backwards; like a headache only the tension felt like a rope being pulled taut. What felt like her heartbreaking before now turned to a cracking sensation over her chest, her stone hand clenching over it as she breathed heavily. Left without an explanation, she reached for the well but was only given silence.

“You would deny the Elves a chance to return to the world were they were free and well off; a world in the image of equality, never slaves and no ‘Gods’ who demanded they follow?” Closer to her now, his words were like a blade that struck between the shoulder blades extending that shattered feelling around her entire torso, winding her. She was unable to get a word in against his and a panic rose in her as she stepped back, that cold dread started to grow with that cracking sensation and she whimpered, unable to hold her discomfort at bay any longer.

“You would seek to keep them in this world where they would forever remain at the heels of those who trampled you, and you would be unable to be their voice against the world, and you would be consumed by grief, unable to change the world. Either way, Vhenan,” Solas had closed the gap now, catching her as she started to drop to her knees but only to hold her gaze with his own narrowed and piercing stare, an arm around her waist and his thumb and index finger sliding under her jaw to lock her there. His eyes never left hers, even as they fell heavy with tears and her body had started to shake, Nevas begged of The Well for an response, but she was still met with silence.

Such pain couldn’t be the work of magic?

“Innocent people will die. This choice cannot be made off the back of ‘thinking’ we are right, but doing what is right. Not out of Pride, only Duty. If Honour had a place here, you would have killed me instead of hesitating when you had the chance.” His face was mere inches away from her, Nevas could feel his breath pressing against her cheek as she felt the final crack fissure through her being, but even the promise of his affection was not enough to silence her cry of agony as pain burned through her chest and mind, it twisted over and over again; Solas held her in place on her feet, still forcing her to look up at him as he spoke, “That - that pain you are feeling is proof that I am right - Honour; there was a spirit that lived within you, and now it stands shattered, having had its own nature turned against it.”

The Avvar had called her deeds Honourable; saving their tribe and their land, ultimately saving the world once again from a threat only the old spirits knew. After the Inquisition had been disbanded there had been no place for her, everything she knew was gone or changed; Bull had offered to take her within the ranks of The Chargers, but she said no. In the end, she had travelled back to Stone-Bear Hold, and the tribe had welcomed one who fought so bravely before. It was as close to her clan as she could come, being a protector and wiping out the rest of the Hakkonite fanatics; the tribe wondered about her nature, something so unhinged in battle but so silent during dinner. The Augur had been surprised to learn of her ignorance about the spirit who lived within her, though in light of her reaction when they had first come to The Hold it only made him laugh about those who hide themselves away from the world around them. Perhaps this is why so many went mad, he had wondered during mediation, unaware of the entity that resides inside they end up breaking or twisting it against its nature.

Spirits only wish is to join the living, Solas had said once.

“Honour is a fickle spirit, it will always try to do what is right, and that is it’s downfall.” His voice was but a whisper, rattled and clearly pointing to his own deeds so many years ago, but he continued still holding her by her waist with one arm and her jaw in his palm, “You are still you, that never changes, that spirit was more you than you were of it. Honour sought to grow and branch outwards into the word, and your time as Inquisitor nurtured it. Perhaps this was the reason why you were so different from The Dalish.” Solas hummed for a moment, reliving their first moments together, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted now, he was so close, “I admired the will and determination you had to not only bring peace to the world, but try and change it; you were not ready to let the world fall back into comfort, something needed to change.”

Nevas clung to Solas as though he was her next breath. One hand tensed around his upper arm while the other grasped at his shoulder, from there she couldn’t bear the thought of moving, fearing her very being would shatter much like her spirit. She had wanted to make that change, or even just be the start of it; there was nothing for her after the Inquisition, it would have been the right moment to turn and use her strength and witts to create a change. But didn’t. To be fair, she had lost her arm, her lover along with most of her sense of purpose, she had needed her own time to rest, but the world didn’t wait for her to recover.

“Honour was strong, however subjective. It should be bound to someone’s else morals, there by maintaining itself; Honour that which commands it. Mythal’s will, for instance, would have allowed your spirit to flourish.” He spoke softly, as though he was soothing her, Nevas wished she could pull away from such lies, he had been so enraged before, it felt wrong, “However, you are bound to Mythal, and your actions do not speak of her desires.”

“I wanted..” Nevas could only talk through clenched teeth, “I thought I was doing what was right, not everyone in Thedas deserves to die…”

“You drank from The Well, did you not? What you may have wanted for the world no longer mattered if it did not coincide with her vision for the future.” He said as a matter of factly, through kissing her cheek gently with cool lips.

Lavellan could feel her heart flutter at this touch, and she grasped harder on his arm with her real arm. She had wondered what her ‘bond’ to the Well would have meant in terms of her existence - was there a path she had to tread in order to keep her end of the bargain that was made? Ancient beings were sticklers for details, and yet they were deceptive with those details, it was always a game, a chase or something that ended with less favour than before. There had not been any ‘feeling’ pulling her away from certain thoughts, so she had continued on her path; however now it was clear she had gone down the wrong fork. Her heart continued to race, as did the burning across her chest, sharp and splinted like broken glass. It spread up her neck and threatened agony around her mind.

“What is happening….” Nevas begged of the Well as she clutched tighter still at Solas’s arm, he didn’t flinch away from pressure she held, if anything it only made him more composed.

The Well whispered for a moment only one voice answered, one that sought authority and respect from anyone who heard it, “Mythal has passed Judgement upon Honor; found it’s actions corrupt and not apart of her Will. A spirit’s course is rarely swayed, it would have kept upon that road unless it was stopped.”

Nevas gasped, almost whimpered, “But, It was my action’s, not the spirits!”

How could Solas let something like this happen to a spirit?

“Mythal Judges The People, not those who are but a Shadow of what was. The Elves deserve peace and a chance for a proper life, you and that broken spirit have attempted to stop that from coming to pass, and while Mythal could decide your fate, she has chosen to spare your punishment for another.” Spoke the Well Again.

Lavellan’s stone hand reached upto her head, cradling it has her eyes shut tightly to hold back her pained tears as she wept. Everything hurt, her body, her mind and what she even thought to be her soul all cried out in anguish. She didn’t feel whole, a cold and empty shell; the shattered spirit turned on her, feeling as though her very being was being torn from the inside by everything she thought was right. The lashes of the past blinded her with every stab of pain, each reminder bringing to life her ‘misdeeds’ to Mythal.

“Irabelas ma Vhenan.” Solas spoke as a means to soften her pain. It did for a moment, her breathing hitched as raw emotion beat against her head, sending a tingle like feathers breathing down her sides across her chest. Heat erupted from her heart as her ears started to burn and cheeks flushed, but it was a lie, it was always a lie. Her fingers tightened their hold once again, but this time her fingers dug against the furs of his shoulders and arm, her nails threatening penetration the longer she held. Solas mistook this for need; need for closeness and for him, and moved his arm to wrap around her waist to pull her closer to him. Her face would have been buried in the dark furs had his other hand not pulled her chin upwards. He looked over her, a pained expression pulling at his eyes as he saw the remnants of tears down her cheeks and bloodshot eyes, the red misshapen blotches around her face from crying made him bit at his lip briefly; he had not seen the anger in her eyes. Instead, he cradled her cheek fondly before leaning in, kissing her.

Nevas felt her body shiver from the sudden kiss, her lips were dry and cracked, making them burn as she returned the kiss, bewildering herself. For her all anger towards this Elf, for all the curses she had practiced for this moment, she would always fall to such softness. And in her moment of weakness and pain, Nevas felt herself give in. So many years of sorrow, of doubt; along with her old title, she wanted to be given rest. The world had taken so much from her, a lost elf clung to the only thing that could breath life back into her and she greedily kissed him back. There was a spark, a light that brightly shone those memories from the past of their tender embraces. Haven being their first, then the way he had held her from the news of her clan’s decimation; he had turned into her everything then. Tears watered their cheeks and jaws, Nevas was fighting off the bitterness of their last kisses, while Solas pressed closer towards her.

There was a brush of magic that washed over her being, the sign that this moment would soon be over, it only made the warrior throw her arms around The Dread Wolf to stop him from leaving...again. No, she needed something to fill the void that now consumed her soul! Nothing mattered anymore, and in her mind she cried out against the looming emptiness that threatened to consume her. Nevas wanted to move closer, perhaps it was the odd way she was kneeling against the ground that left her unable to move, but it didn’t matter, her hold around his shoulders wasn’t going to let him leave.

“This will be the last time I leave you.” It was strange hearing him speak after moments of silence, and though the words were spoken against her lips, it took a moment for them to sink in. He sounded sombre, almost choked to hold back his tears, but why?

A wave of panic hit Nevas square in the face, no, he couldn’t leave her again! In an effort to pull away from him, she was unable to move her legs at all, having lost all feeling to her toes. As much as she didn’t wish to open her eyes to the world, Nevas forced them open with a hard stare to follow. She was met with the ethereal gray eyes of Fen’Harel, glowing with the magic of a spell.

“Solas?” She questioned him with fear clear in her tone. He didn’t respond, only pulling away as her arms fell from his shoulders. There was as sting of pain as her knuckles hit something hard against her legs, and her eyes followed to see what they may have hit. They widened.

“No……” Nevas could not contain her shock, nor the outrage that followed once she realised the spell he had been casting during their kiss. The anguished howl that pierced the silence was enough to fill anyone with Dread.

From the hips down she was stone, and unlike the Qunari forces that were statues in an instant, magic crept painfully slow up her body, like a plague.

[littlemissnellie]

Day Seven: Snow White

Hair black as ebony, lips red as blood, skin white as snow. That’s what she was known as: Snow White. Snow white, like her crystal clear complexion, like her sneakers that swept across the checked diner floor, like her undying innocence, accompanied by a coy smile and a batting of her eyelashes. She defined perfection...until she didn’t. 

She’d spend day in, day out gliding from table to table in the tumbledown diner, serving the same, stout, seven little men their coffee and pie. She jumped at the chance of new custom, but never made her regulars feel any less welcome. Twirling her gingham skirt and giggling through red lipstick and brilliantly white teeth, she had everyone wrapped around her little finger...except for her step-mother. 

Snow’s father didn’t wait a terribly long time after her mother passed to welcome a new woman into their home and soon their family. There was a lingering animosity surrounding it; Snow still deeply missed her mother, and whilst she was grieving her father was littering a younger woman’s body with tender kisses that should have been reserved for her mother and her alone. And her step-mother was no fonder of her; she was a vain creature that lived for the luxuries Snow’s father’s wage could afford, she didn’t care one bit for the loyalty, affection or step-daughter the marriage brought along with it.

Jealousy festered in her stomach, screaming at her every time she caught a glimpse of her reflection in her beloved mirror. She couldn’t ignore it if she wanted to. Snow’s purity, her kind heart and effortless beauty, inside and out, made her seethe; it was everything she could never be, certainly not with a conscious as poisonous as hers. But she knew the truth. She’d seen this perfect little girl, the apple of her father’s eye, when the lights were dimmed and the moon rose high in the sky. She saw who she became and it filled her with merciless, selfish delight. 

Night would fall and so would Snow’s hair, right out of its little pin curls and down around her shoulders before being scraped back and tied up with a bow, like a little present. In one swipe she’d reapply her lipstick, then pull on her shoes, muddied from forest tracks and blacker than the night sky they ran beneath. And finally came the jacket. Hidden away in the depths of her wardrobe by day, her crimson leather jacket was crying out for attention by the time that evening fell. She slipped it on and felt herself slip away. Snow White disappeared with the sun and in her place was Rose Red. 

Stealing through the night, a flash of scarlet between trees, she felt totally free. Chaste little Snow was no more, she planted kisses on boys’ lips like she was handing out sugar packets to patrons. She toyed with their hearts just as her step-mother did with her father’s. She took rides in their cars along winding country roads, she laid in their arms on their bonnets and gazed at star-filled skies. The simplicity of her days, black and white, each hour of the day crawling by, felt so distant when night blanketed her world and it flooded with colour, lustrous, ruby red. 

But that night everything changed. Snow was too eager to leave the dinner table, her step-mother too desperate for her to stay, too impatient for her to finish her glass of apple juice. How strange, she usually only even had a glass of water with her meals. When every last drop had trickled down her throat, Snow was finally excused. She busied herself in her room until her father came to kiss her goodnight, then once she was certain he was snoring away amidst pillows and duvets, she slipped on her jacket and- 

Her breath was snatched away from her. It felt like a corset had been pulled to snapping point around her ribs, she could barely move her head, let alone climb out of her window. She felt bile rise in her throat and a cold sweat broke across her body. Black spots clouded her vision. She felt like she was going to pass out. 

But the bout of nausea passed as quickly as it appeared. A little shaken from the ordeal, Snow pulled her jacket tighter around her and padded downstairs, lifted the latch and slipped out into the night, slightly more apprehensive than usual. 

Stumbling through thickets of prickly bushes and long grasses, she eventually fell to her knees at the edge of a small clearing. No boys were kissed tonight, no stars were gazed upon, all she could see now was a grubby patch of moss and her trembling hands before her. She had barely been gone ten minutes when the symptoms started to return, slowly but surely they had consumed her until she couldn’t bring herself to take another step. 

She fell to her knees as the nausea clutched her stomach again, writhing throughout her body like a viper. She begged for breath, her chest heaving with each one she managed to hold down. The forest was awash with colour around her, but she couldn’t focus on anything but the black dots, the black dots and the constant security of her red jacket. 

She thought about her job and how she would toss her ebony curls as she poured the customers their morning coffee. The black dots curled around line of vision. She thought of her father and how he was so unsure of himself but so devoted to his family, her father with his kind brown eyes and patchy, sable beard. The black dots were patches of darkness, she had to looks past them. She thought of her mother, ever-smiling and serene with selflessness, even on her deathbed. The black dots danced in her eyes. Her mother always loved to dance. Snow felt her mother’s arms wrap around her, the coldness of the ground beneath her vanished and so did the twisting snake in her stomach. She felt weightless, like a cloud or the sound of a finger running around the edge of a glass. A glass of apple juice.

Her mind finally wandered to her step-mother, leering at her over the rim of the glass tumbler with crazed severity. A tight, merlot grimace beneath wild, pitch eyes. Two black dots staring right through her. She felt the apple juice slipping down her throat again, cool and sweet. The snake lashed out, hungry for more. It tightened within her, constricting her stomach until it burned. It spat venom up into her throat, her eyes watered and tears splashed onto her cheeks as she shivered at the mercy of an icy midnight breeze. Reality sunk in as the snake sunk its fangs into her flesh, flooding horror through her body: poison.

Her step-mothers deep black eyes bore into her for a final time before consuming her completely. She’d always said about how Snow looked like she needed more rest, she had merely just been helping her out. No more sneaking out of the house for her, she’d finally get a good night’s sleep...and she wouldn’t be waking up again.

cas challenge by @smallcowplant

[jesperfilth24]

Keen with Psychopathy | Discarded Chapter

The dusty brink walls weren’t as uncomfortable as Keen had expected. His head leaned back; drowned by the priceless view. Not of the sun that rose across the glass river, but of the famous Greg Gallrantree who struggled his walk. An inevitable, funny attempt of survival.

Particles of dirt and wooden grain floated around Keen’s Velcro suit. From his prey, he was at the perfect distance; the perfect circumstance; the perfect aim. Construction barrels covered his silhouette. The roof’s shade fell on Keen’s blond scalp as he peaked out.

Action would commence, and he’d get a front-row seat. His sniper rifle clicked. Swayed in gloved hands. His trousers’ belt bore the rouge pistol he kept, though, only on important missions, he’d ever used it. He couldn’t hold his smile. And who would to this sight?

Greg dragged his leg. Bullets had been shot in his left. Blood spilled like a bottle without its cap. Grass soaked the hemoglobin, and turned them into a dry, pale red. He gritted his teeth. Mouth deteriorated by Tabaco and Cocaine. Grunts and swears spewed. Keen’s gun unlocked. The Target limped to the dock’s departure.

Every sound of pain exhilarated Keen. Every groan and adult complaint which escaped Greg’s lips. What struggle, even though death was irrefutable! Everything he’d get, he deserved, and perhaps, had it better with him and Dully to execute him. A pair of Occidere, called or by post-mail to kill whoever tramps maliciously on the Land of the Free, and Home of the Brave. That week’s lucky contestant was Greg Gallentree, a cinematic producer of children shows. Fond of them on set, but fonder of them in bed a tad more.

The eighteen year-old assassin, Keen Tuer. He was to kill him, it was set in stone.

He didn’t do all the work, however.

The shots on Greg’s right leg were skilled; surprisingly skilled; Compared to Dully’s complete miss he’d done two weeks ago. His fever had dragged for ages, yet after ailment, Dully still had it. The bullets here were perfect. They pierced Greg’s leathery epidermis. Inside, gold shone, as red hurried out. Keen nodded his head in agreement. Good progress; wonderful progress even. He smiled, one he showed daily, though, the difference was it wasn’t merely derived from torment or pain. He learned from him? Cute.

Greg jingled his array of keys, herded by a single ring. His one-legged limp continued. The door two yards away. He picked through his keys as he limped closer.

Fingers frantic. He rummaged through the collage of noisy metal. Not the silver short one. Nor the long bronze one either. ‘C’mon…c’mon’ he whispered. Or tried to. Keen could hear it from the abandoned fishing house.

Greg twirled his fingers. Twenty-two keys clanked and brushed together. A handicap for he owned too many estates. Then, Greg twitched with joy. His hand fondled a small ebony key. He exhaled, and rested on the threshold of his pearl yacht. He filled the master lock. It squeaked; it turned; it cried, and it was nothing but a signal; a cue.

Keen raised the scope to his eye, finger on the trigger. Ready for the harsh pull, but he held back. He anticipated the man’s relief. To kill him, wasn’t his only priority, though it was a large part of it. It was to see him relax, draw quiet prayers for a God he didn’t believe in, just for Keen to reap the opportunity away from him. That drive . . . it kept him in such a wonderful job. His innocent smile turned schizophrenic, crafted for adaption. He tapped the trigger. Breath moderate. Toes steady. Hand lusted haste. The bullet went amiss. A quiet pop omitted from the gun.

It pierced Greg’s dangling gold necklace. It’d dung rather than bled. He idled; hand on the door knob. His expression pathetic. A dog who did a misdeed. Even a dirty mutt would know his mistakes, and Greg’s karma was in the form of a French teen with a swift murderous instinct.

He aimed. Scope fluctuated between his neck and his brain. Should he do a bullet to the head? But such a death would be so immediate, it’d be bliss. No—it had to be painful.  And news had it that the piranhas were still active.

Reloaded—Keen shot another shell to his intact support. The leg Dully hadn’t shot. The left one. It burst; new, exposed gushes squished, as the bullet took leverage into his thigh. Greg inclined backward. Hands flailed the same rhythm as his scream sang its delightful song. A splash wetted the dock; and now it served a murky red river. Bubbles rose to a surface like the tiny fish that dwelled at his body. And when the blood turned transparent, it mimicked the Kool-aid dear Dully had drunk an hour ago. His body was a sunk raft for little illegal creatures to feed on.

WL Zoo had been at it with their piranha smuggling conflicts. They’d dumped hazardous species in the river after the police—real police—busted them. When will they learn?

But then again, why’d Greg parked his yacht at the hotspot located in infested waters? Was he that stupid? The harbor across had been filled with schooners. Sails cracked and weathered sailors howled. Didn’t have enough room. He’d rather take piranha’s than poor sailors? Imbecile.

The rich just believe to be immortal.

He knelt along the gravel, Greg’s body floated, then struck the river bed. Fish nipped at his drug pumped flesh. Could they get high off that? Probably.

A branch crushed behind him. Tactless and ditzy movement. Keen turned, eyes perked up, his insomnia, three hours of sleep unapparent. It was obvious who it’d been.

Dully bowed, ‘Good morning Master.’ And Keen nodded.

He stepped against the salmon grass and gravel as he came beside him. He stood, out-of-place. His hand rubbed at his bare white shoulder. The only thing exposed in his cat suit.

He swiped short glances at Keen. Cyan—maybe a little more blue—eyes stared. They engrossed himself with the view of Keen.

He’d look back. His neck tense. Dully’s eyes on them, then on the sky. He’d pretended. He’d looked at him. Keen turned away, and he could feel it. His eyes on him. He was looking at him profusely. Though his intention unclear. What did he want?

Keen turned to start the conversation, eyes lay on his skinny figure ‘, The man’s death was quite satisfying don’t you think?’

Not a good conversation topic, but enough for Keen to infer as to why he was anxious.

‘Ah yes Master,’ Dully agreed, he would agree, even though he gagged whenever Keen mentioned killing. But from the way his eyes trailed, and the deep, possibly even deeper glare than what it first had been, this was different. ‘It was very satisfying,’ and Keen faced at the horizon.

Dully stared again, a wave swished along the back of Keen’s hand. The dock a washed brown. Dully opened his mouth. He hanged the words along the edge of his tongue, before he retracted them.

Just say it Dully, just say it!

But he didn’t. Pure silence, pure wave, pure awkwardness.

It wasn’t his responsibility to ask him what was wrong. Dully was fourteen, old enough to say what he needed say, wasn’t he? Keen sighed, warm air rubbed against his veined arm; Dully couldn’t do anything, he needed him, or else he’d die. He couldn’t start a conversation without him. Keen raised, eyes rolled, they kissed the sky—Like always, he must do everything.

He twisted his head, possession looked away at the nick of time. ‘Why’re staring at me so intently? You want me?’ Yes, this was a cringe-inducing one-liner. To break the ice was a good option. It didn’t embarrass him. Dully was a different story.

He blushed, cheeks almost the same color as the splatter of blood beneath his feet.

‘No! I just . . . um…’ he trailed. ‘I just wanted to ask what you think of my shots.’

‘Your shots?’

‘Yes, on Greg, I mean.’ He twiddled his pointers, legs rubbed together. The red on his face defined, bright. What did he want? Like… A compliment?

‘They were okay,’ Keen said. No elaboration, nothing. His heart warmed. He wanted to see how Dully would react. Did he think of Keen as important? He lusted a satisfying reaction. Suzuki, if she was here, she’d do the same.

‘Ah I see . . .’ Dully’s face darkened. Lips pursed, hidden into their thickness. His eyes formed imperceptible water along the tiny crevices between the white orbs and Asian slits. But with a heavy gulp, he seemed to hold it in. Same melodramatic Dully. But he did have somewhat of a reason to be sad.

He had worked hard. No days of sleep, to perfect his gun skills, while Keen had laid on the sofa for a nap. It was hard to sleep at all, much less of a chance with a nitwit shooting a gun. He was handier with a knife. The blade he’d given Dully. A small dagger with a blue line in the middle. He too, would use it only on important missions. Though, compared to his gun, it didn’t mean anything of significance.

Another wave has splashed; a boomed click in his sick brain. It’d hit him; a question which itched him to be answered.

How far does his opinion of me extend? Is it that important to him?

He shouldn’t take it. It’d break him, he was too sensitive—

‘Master…do you think I’m improving?’

The satisfaction was right there for the taking.

He had to grab it.

He had to

‘No,’ Keen lied. ‘I don’t think you are…’

His gulps echoed along Keen’s eardrum. Satisfying. The pain delicious within him, the pain he wished he could monopolized. The pain he had monopolized.

This wasn’t enough, he needed to go the extra mile.

‘I think you should though.’

Dully leaned forward. ‘W-why?’ he stuttered. Eyes blinked as if they’d been peppered. ‘What’ll happen if I don’t improve—Master?’

Keen hid the chuckle behind the sudden seriousness of his voice. ‘Then I guess I have to throw you away.’

To hurt him was a trance. Beyond explanation. To see how his soul fell upward for a brief moment. The sight of his heart getting broken by his measly words were better than every kill he like. He loved his despair.

Keen shot up. ‘Alright, let’s go home, Mister Cooter is probably waiting for us…Dully?…Dully?’

He shook his head, eyes pushed to a heavy close as his navy blue hair flew around him, ‘Ah yes yes Master. Let’s…let’s go.’

He waddled behind him, body shifted as lifeless as Greg’s. And they ventured to the limo.

[idolizerp]

[ LOADING INFORMATION ON CHERRY BOMB!’S MAIN VOCAL AMOR…. ]

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 18 SKILL POINTS: 22 VOCAL | 07 DANCE | 00 RAP | 11 PERFORMANCE

INTERVIEW

Coming in muted tones of ivory and lavender, yet disguising thunder in her enigmatic obsidian stare; she’s a vixen who arises as everyone’s dream girl. Cerulean sky looming above, her cheeks blossom with roseate hues, delightful and innocent, the projection of a seraph in her coffee rondures and the feminine curve of her petite nose. When she speaks, saccharine and sophisticated, sweet words spill from her parted, plump lips, light like a breath, entrancing like the opalescent wings of the fae or a tail of an alluring siren. They believe for a moment that all she appears as is a facade, too good to be true, though it’s evident to those who approach her when the spotlights of her stage are dimming behind, greedy to purloin the virgin heart resting bare behind her ribcage, that she’s real. She’s the embodiment of honeysuckle decadence and an intimidatingly, flawless energy orbiting her pellucid auras. Though, don’t confuse her sweetheart features to be all that delineates her face in melting vibrancies and soft sighs; carnality lurking in the ogling attention of her audience.

A monstrosity hides in her onyx stare, and while it’s true that her charismatic performance before enchanted fans carries offstage, her intent is always narcissistic, calculated in a manner that proves perilous to those who land under her spell or who dare to step onto the path she greedily marks as hers. She’s not a good-hearted person coming from roots of innocent intent, but no one would ever believe such atrocious remarks when her being is infused with perfection and purity, when her elegance dances away from the mic, back to the dorms, to the vacant alleys she sometimes intrudes. All her blinded paramours would utter the same: she’s a darling, charming and polite with a keen eye for detail, no roguery prevailing in sight. Adorning a voice as soft as benevolent, velveteen nights, a melody to her light steps as she twirls with a magma ambiance haunting her gaze, and a glint of a Machiavellian in those chestnut orbs; she’s everything to idolize and more.

BIOGRAPHY

I.

Panning solemnly across the universe in shades of pink and precision, glory borders nebulas and awe kisses the enthroned jewels of the sky in an eerie artistry; stars bask in the meaningless definitions pressed to their rogue outline, and they don’t question the immoral stance of it because they can’t. Though lurking on the opposite end of a systematic spectrum, collocated with demons and gods, rests a young girl in Seoul’s elite crib with caramel auras and winsome laughter, and she’s able of questioning every design heaven’s finest architects have devised. She’s got the ability to inquire it all, the whites of her eyes dimming under shadows as the horizon of dawn’s greeting is pulled by the tar sky, slumber looming over her, yet too entranced by the web of worlds she’s intrinsically strung up to sink into her soul. It’s why despite the passing hours and the contagious lull of sleep, she eases steadily aboard her twilight memories, dragging from their depths the taste of a scorching hell, drawing above her on the oak pillars a consummate design of the fate she desires. Shes of cirrus of smoke, their fashioned design of hell bearing the chance to blossom a disdainful fruit she tastes and grows addicted to. Their name is greed and they engulf all opponents like the effervescent idols painting the screen of her television and delving between the layers of her daydreams. They build a home among the many artifacts she designs, an idea sprouting, fated to come to fruition for all the wrong causes, from the impacts of cupidity that dare to steal all titles.

Giving way for flying galleys to roam her mind while tracing the pattern of constellations with her ebony gaze; her charm is weighted and intoxicated by the glare of midnights exhaustion. Mind so vast, it’s limitless, it’s the actuality she engineers a home in, deriving from the ground a foundation cozy for her momentary stay. Lilith blossoms in an unwelcoming promise, arising with its prosaic entry, the call of a deafening failure familiar to its unruly patrons and weak-minded gems. Decrepit institutes are born of the violent stance of her authority, an evanesced honor defused in the perspicuous instructions from the dark. Time is still young on the life that spans before her, and she’s yet to understand that the fading hue of aureate twinkles is not because she’s succumbing to the inevitable and mundane act of sleeping, but because they’re drawing further away.  

Those dainty dreams leave her in a fit of pique as she nears the age where imagination becomes insanity, tearing through her viscera with countless butterflies; fluttering wings drilling on at a nauseating velocity, making her twin stars see nothing but a grey haze. It was a menial job for fate to conclude due to the faint carvings those hopes had been inscribed upon; passion having barely begun before it tittered away in a maniacal morning, leaving her under twilight forever with no stars to chase. Fingers dizzyingly point to the speckled ceiling above, their ambiance having dulled over the years as the fault lines of her reality continue to threateningly reverberate. An impending destruction is promised, though her barren mind refuses to be incarcerated by its rising fear through the act of pitiful submission. She remains hard-headed despite the obvious decline of destiny’s support in her race to an overtly joyous life, her fingers still curled around the ending tendrils of her childhood fascinations. There are no more prayers to be heard, and in between the sapphire shades of her bedding and the indigo atmosphere peering through her blinds, a thunderous confession sets fire to it all at last. Her mother bore a child of ill fortune that’s cursed to a fate of pride and inundated by faux beauty. The carcass of a doll, a raven in a caged cell, a glimmer of obsidian lurking behind lilac; these are what will define her waking moments, the pressing chill of an end to her spine, the poised perfection of her eternal artistry tainted with the viridian tones of a damning drive. Her mothers made a monster shielded behind ivory, yet she doesn’t even notice.

She’s hardly approached the marmalade dawn of her birthday before chaos invites itself into her heart, and her parent’s facade slips, their agony rushing forth, their infidelity drawing bold in shades of crimson and azure, of ash and salt. The making of a wilted daffodil is set into play. Delicate fault lines shift with the silent shudder of wings and her universe slips through her nimble fingers; lithe figure plunging between the crevices her parent’s finality has created. She falls through their horrors, and nothing but a distant cry is heard by the howling winds of an incoming east wind. This end plucks her from her childhood fantasies and sets the corruption of her innocent beliefs into motion. Greed comes faintly before it sets strong, and envy lights as a horrid enigma in the pit of her bare stomach; her taste for greatness is still the same, but her cravings have dulled into a wicked notion. She’ll do anything to make herself worthy. 

II.

They reside in silence; two ghosts meeting only for the bare necessities of decisive measures, otherwise shifting away in their isolation, a lacking regard for their teenage daughter whose dimmed wishes of settling a spot in the limelight still keep her motivated enough. Her arduous efforts will not disperse themselves into a faltering design of failure, though she’s learned by now to slim her fantasies into mere inches and keep them concise. It’s the fault of her parent’s lascivious habits, their concupiscent minds that yearn after the catering service of other men and women who can please them better than the riveting drama cooking up in their home. It’s the fault of the galactic designs spread countlessly across her bedroom ceiling that made her believe hope was a force no evil could reckon with or penetrate through to spoil. She’s always surmised fallacious fairytales quite easily, and now it taunts her with half-hearted dreams and a soured look curled in the almond orbs of her reflection; harnessing a heated hellfire through the glares of rebellion; blithe disdain towards the realm she resides in. 

Her presentation, the light rubescent facade, remains consistently immaculate in its design through the years, and it’s an astonishing miracle despite the disrupted haven she’d blossomed in. Alabaster soul slowly beginning to be decorated in variegated colours of plum and prune, the advancing devilish corruption fading into her marks as a permanent scar; sins swiftly settling atop her skeleton, shaping her further into a porcelain shell. Something else is born in the seconds of her unfurling hesitations. She turns disgraceful appellations onto herself and lets the foreshadowing of fates planned demise take control of the concluding hours of her virtue. Through the jagged edges of her violent quotes, she finds her negativity fuelling her drive, a dark matter she once swore to never touch now intertwining with the lines on her palm and sinking beneath the smooth flesh. They have yet to discover the toxic tinge adorning her loose posture, or the shine of Persephone resting elegantly in the shadow of her desirable silhouette, painted black, shaped delightfully, swaying in music like wisteria in wind. She’s yet to recognize the difference in her own constellation, still too focused on her languid movements and the need to hone her silver voice into gold to realize the patterns of destruction weaving through her inky mind. She flourishes into the reincarnation of Lady Macbeth, and the entire world rests under the looks of the ill-fortuned king her selfish intents will slay. 

The grip of a stubborn destiny finally sets loose when a few abortive attempts later she’s allotted a position to settle her score with fate’s tenuous war on her piteous dreams. It hardly comes easy, scintillating stares setting her nerves on fire, judging her third audition with the breach of a galaxy swarming above, ready to cave downwards and consume her candor mind once more. They seem to notice, at last, the undying command nestled in her determined ellipses; the former rejections never ceasing her will. It seems like an apology the world has bestowed upon the curve of her heart when she steps forth to be charmed by the Midas touch and turned to gold, rewarded for her passionate pursuit, but adversity always lays mere steps ahead. It’s a familiar companion; singing to her old lullabies, striking her with a toxic comfort she’s grown to embrace, dwelling evermore in its russet tint. Calloused inches of her ignite from the dry bouts of a feverish competition while she makes her mark in a practiced indication, certain to call some impressed remarks. No longer locked in blissful reveries, or losing her attention to their starry essence, she still remains susceptible to the death of her last schemes for success, and it comes in the manifestation of an erstwhile rival. Hypnotic stare and she’s crowned congeniality, her cordial mannerisms, dainty aura and striking vocals taking her far until she’s dragged herself atop the final pedestal after three years of brutality. Nails red and raw, sweat lining her dismayed features.

She debuts in 2016, hardly an ounce of excitement buried in her onyx orbs. The once enigmatic fury burning in her bosom, threatening to burst due to the multitude of desires she couldn’t contain, were now left vacant, lock and key destroyed and all her earnings robbed. The glare of moonlight perches itself through strands of her midnight hair, and she’s left operating clandestine plans in the desperate efforts to maintain what she’s received, to keep the balance of it all steady. The kiss of fate was never meant to strike perilous at all, perhaps through its numerous hurdles, it was devising for her a sign that she could decipher when glancing upon the heavens another faithful night. Perhaps through the numerous turbulences, all it was wishing to promise her was safety from the net of fame and the destructive construction of the fatal industry. In conclusion, all that the world wanted to do was to save her from her own rapturous claws before she plunged too deep into the design of her fairytale fantasies. Give her an awakening where she sought after a truth beyond the stretch of idol enchantment. To gaze into the sordid expressions resting in her childhood bedroom where innocence wasn’t granted security and she shifted from wide orbs of undying curiosity into narrowed gazes of vehement hostility. 

Now pressed to the core of hell, it’s far too late, and her nectarous purity continues to bleed her desolate.