#so needless to say I’m dubious as to what he could possibly want

[icterid-rubus]

I need to know if you called the alumni guy or not!

I have not, he said he’d call tonight. Although, I’ve got my phone in a death grip and am mentally wrestling with myself to not text him that I’ve like been hospitalized or something and can’t talk lmao

[recurring-polynya]

Once again, I am thinking about the dubious claim that people make from time to time that Renji would have gotten better character development in the TYBW arc if Byakuya had died. The thing is, though, that Renji did get excellent character development in this arc, particularly with respect to his relationship to Byakuya, it was just very subtle and I want to talk about it.

So, the first thing I want to point out is that the captain-lieutenant relationships is one of the major themes of the TYBW. A lot of this is sort of weird and awkward, but this is perfect, actually, because captain-lieutenant relationships are, for the most part, weird and clunky and awkward. Take for example, the part that I always make fun of, where the captains are told not to go to bankai, and Hitsugaya, Komamura, Byakuya and Soi Fon immediately go to bankai-- but they all do this on the assumption that they are luring their opponent into a trap to see how this works, and that their lieutenant will somehow ??defeat them anyway?? (well, except Soi Fon who seems to think she can one-shot her Quincy). There’s Sasakibe’s funeral, where we find out that Yamamoto cared far more for him than we ever imagined. Kyouraku returns Nanao’s zanpakutou to her and stands behind her as she defeats an opponent he can't. Iba carries Komamura’s body off of the battlefield as he loses the last of his humanity. Isane struggles to keep her head above her grief because that’s the burden Unohana left her with. Rose avenging Kira. Hitsugaya and Matsumoto fighting and (sort of) dying together. The Zaraki-Yachiru thing. The Mayuri-Nemu thing. Momo and Shinji actually got to have a relatively normal one, which they each deserved, but at least they got to have normal one together. Anyway, that could be an entire essay, but as usual, I only want to talk about Renji and Byakuya.

Renji’s introduction as a character happens in stages. Initially, he sort of appears to be Byakuya’s sidekick-- he's here to do the dirty work during Rukia’s arrest, while Byakuya stands by and calls the shots, but even early on, it’s clear that Renji’s a little hung up on Byakuya. He’s trying to impress him, and gets more embarrassed and self-conscious as things go progressively pear-shaped. When Byakuya finally enters the action, Renji’s thought bubbles reveal that he’s watched Byakuya for a long time, that he knows all his moves. When we get the Renji backstory reveal a few issues later, we learn that Renji’s goal is to defeat Byakuya, which he seems to feel is necessary to seeing Rukia again, even though there has never been any sort of causal link revealed between these two things. Don’t get me wrong, if Young Academy Renji had tried to continue to be friends with Rukia, I think Byakuya would have kicked him out on his ass, but it’s clear that a lot of Renji’s hang-ups are internal-- he doesn’t want to face Rukia again until he can stand against Byakuya. I think the origin of this is that he simply wants what’s best for Rukia, and he can’t stomach the idea of asking her to leave her rich, noble family for him, unless, of course, he’s somehow better than Byakuya in some dimension, and the only thing Renji’s ever considered himself good at is fighting.

Even more interesting is that he’s chosen to go about this by... studying the man’s every move and becoming his lieutenant. But for as much energy as Renji has put into learning Byakuya’s favorite combat moves, he doesn’t actually know anything about him as a person. He’s shocked when Rukia predicts that Byakuya won’t lift a finger to help her, and then horrified when this actually comes to pass. A few chapters later, as he’s running Hinamori through, Aizen comments that “Adoration is the state furthest from understanding.” I would probably classify Renji’s feelings towards Byakuya more as admiration or idolization, rather than adoration, but I think this statement is also very true of Renji and Byakuya’s relationship. Unlike poor Momo, Renji gets a little more time and opportunity to do something with this information. With a little Ichigo-forced soul searching, he realizes that he’s not going to come out the hero of this story no matter what, but if he doesn’t do something, Rukia’s not going to come out of this story at all, and even if he’s not really ready, he’s spent 40 years trying to figure out how to beat Kuchiki Byakuya, let’s hope all that was good for something.

The Byakuya-Renji fight has no direct impact on the events of the Soul Society Arc. It makes Byakuya show up to Rukia’s execution 5 minutes late and without his scarf. Renji gets healed, so it really doesn’t matter all that much to him, either. You could argue that they both wasted a bunch of energy (that they could have used to fight Aizen later) but it’s primarily a character-driven moment of them both drawing lines in the sand about where they stand, vis a vis Rukia. Byakuya wins this fight, and he wins it handily, but he’s wrong, as he comes to realize a few issues later, when Ichigo kicks his ass and tells him he’s a bad brother, a lesson that Byakuya will take to heart for the rest of the manga. Byakuya claims that the difference between Renji and himself is class, but the real difference between is the heart, and in the long run, Renji is the real victor of this fight.

The hospital scene is an interesting footnote to this. Byakuya defeated Renji, but Byakuya was the asshole and everyone knows it. There’s an expectation that perhaps Renji will quit or perhaps Renji will give him an earful and perhaps even Rukia will choose to leave the family, either to go to the Living World or to be with Renji (and Byakuya would deserve this), but instead, both Renji and Rukia give Byakuya another chance, which is not, I think, a place Renji ever expected to be.

Rukia and Byakuya building up a sibling relationship after this is fairly straightforward (although I’m sure it had its weird moments), but Byakuya and Renji now have this profoundly awkward relationship where Byakuya is obviously in charge, but he sort of depends on Renji as a personal compass because he’s shit at dealing with people and he doesn’t want to screw stuff up with Rukia again. Take for example, the part of the Hueco Mundo arc where Orihime is kidnapped and Rukia and Renji desert their posts to come help rescue her. Kubo takes to the panel-space to tell us that Byakuya has tacitly approved this. As a clan head and a captain, a person who is entrenched in the hierarchy of Soul Society, Byakuya couldn’t possibly go to Hueco Mundo-- but he can turn a blind eye while his sister and lieutenant scurry out through the Kuchiki family senkaimon. Renji, for his part, tried to go to Hueco Mundo through official channels and got shot down. We don’t know what Renji would have done if Byakuya had explicitly forbidden him from going, but it doesn’t matter-- Byakuya enabled Renji to follow his heart here, because Byakuya can’t. Rukia would have gone to Hueco Mundo regardless. She cares about Byakuya, but she doesn’t depend on him for validation the way Renji does.

I said this was going to be about the TYBW, so let’s get to that. Early in the arc, we’re shown several scenes where it’s clear that Byakuya respects and values Renji as a lieutenant, but he’s also pretty damn patronizing to him. Renji is the first one to engage As Nodt, and when Byakuya shows up, he acts surprised that Renji hasn’t taken him out yet, but then proceeds to take over the fight (real, “stand back, fives, an eleven has arrived” energy). After Byakuya then loses his bankai like a doofus, Renji wants to take point so that Byakuya can figure out As Nodt’s attack and Byakuya won’t let him... and then proceeds to get thrashed.

This has to be one of the most emotionally charged fights in Bleach. Byakuya is losing, and Renji jumps in, absolutely incensed that As Nodt would use Senbonzakura against Byakuya. Renji isn’t doing great, but he’s not doing terrible when Byakuya gets up and tries to help Renji, even though he’s a big bloody mess. As Nodt reacts by shredding Byakuya into chunks, and Renji just loses it, and if Mask de Masculine hadn’t shown up and kicked him halfway across the Seireitei, I daresay Renji would have killed himself trying to take down As Nodt.

This is where I usually make the point that if Byakuya had died to here, it would have broken Renji into little pieces, but that’s not today’s essay. Instead, everyone goes to the Royal Realm, and by virtue of the fact that Byakuya is injured worse than everyone else, Renji has to go forward without him or his approval.

In typical Renji fashion, the thing that motivates Renji here is not glory or heroism, but the desire to accompany Ichigo, the need to be with his friends in their times of trial. In fact his companionship here is absolutely essential-- at Hikifune’s, Ichigo expresses deep doubts that he’s doing the right thing, and Renji reminds himself that if he wants to protect others, he has to take care of himself first.

At Nimaiya’s however, Renji and Ichigo are split up because they must follow their own paths. The other extremely interesting thing that happens here is that Renji’s sword is reforged. Byakuya shattered one of Hihio Zabimaru’s joints the very first time Renji used them in combat. Renji brushed it off at the time, saying that he could get by without it. Even though Byakuya has long been his motivating force and his mentor, he’s also been held back by his connection to him. And at this point, it’s gone.

I really wish we got to see where Renji and Rukia meet up again, but we don’t. Unlike with Ichigo, though, Rukia doesn’t seem to need anything from Renji. They travel together, fight together as equals, wear matching outfits, like you do. Oh. Wait. After all this time, in the 493 chapters between Needless Emotions and Blue Stripes, Renji can finally see himself as an equal to Rukia. They get. bankai. Together.

I want to emphasize that it’s not really anything about Rukia herself that allowed Renji to make bankai, it’s the fact that he’s finally managed to move past the feeling that he’s not enough. Defeating Byakuya would not actually have solved this problem, and having Byakuya dying in front of him wouldn’t have either. Renji gets criticized for losing a lot of his fights, but that’s such a key to his character. He’s not always the strongest, he doesn’t always win, but he keeps fighting for what he cares about. He struggles with his need for approval, for external validation, but Renji is at his best when he doesn’t have time to think about that, when he’s just fighting by his friends’ sides against impossible odds, doing what he knows in his heart is right.

I think people tend to make a little more than is strictly necessary of the line where he tells Mask that he’s “a villain”, I think he’s most just making fun of Mask’s own self-aggrandizement. On another level, though, this is just Renji being at ease with himself. Byakuya typically enters a fight bloviating about the honor of Soul Society and “how dare you raise your sword against me, the 28th Head of the Kuchiki” and even Ikkaku had the whole deal about telling people your name before you kill them, but Renji is more like “you beat up my friends, so I’m gonna break your face,” like there’s no ego in it, just you’re there, and he’s there, and then you’re lying on the ground and he’s taking a nap somewhere. This is so different than the insecure, posturing young man he was at the start of this series and I love this growth for him.

Even after he eventually meets up with Byakuya again, something has changed about their dynamic. The group gets split up and rejoined two or three times, and Renji and Rukia always stay together while Byakuya ends up fighting alongside others, Hisagi and later Hitsugaya and Zaraki. This is cemented in their last scene together, where Rukia and Renji try to stay with Byakuya and he sends them off to fight with Ichigo by saying “your help is not needed here.” In some ways, it’s an echo of Byakuya sending them off to Hueco Mundo, but in other ways, it’s acknowledging that they are their own people, not just an extension of him.

Hitsugaya follows it up with this:

There’s more here than meets the eye, though-- Byakuya and Renji have maintained a pretty strict superior-subordinate relationship, because that’s the easiest way for them to make sense of the world, but the fact is, they do care about each other and are important to one another.

I know there would be a certain narrative satisfaction in seeing Renji make captain at the end-- he’s one of the hardest working people in Bleach, and it frankly seems weird to see Iba get the haori when he doesn’t. But Renji has never wanted to be a captain. Renji becoming captain would, in some ways, be a failure. He spends years pre-canon chasing rank and prestige because that’s what he thinks will make him worthy, and it didn’t. Instead, he found worth in being himself, in loving his friends and being there for them, in learning things from Byakuya and teaching him things in return. Renji doesn’t need to be Byakuya’s lieutenant anymore, he just does it because he likes it. It makes him happy. What better character development is there than that?

[ithebookhoarder]

Chapter 19: In Sickness and in Health (The Gangster’s Daughter)

Description: Life for Tommy Shelby was pretty ordinary; all he ever had to worry about were his family, their business and the Blinders. Nothing more, nothing less. Well, that was until his ‘daughter’, a twelve-year-old girl called Evelyn Westmore, was thrown into his life, dredging up feelings and things from the past he’d done very well to forget.

Also available on AO3:

Warnings: Original Character(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Explicit Language, Gangsters, Period Typical Attitudes, Parent Tommy Shelby, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent.

Masterlist:

----

The next morning was when Evie finally learned the definition of a hangover. A real hangover. Like, Arthur after a night at the Garrison hangover.

She had barely been conscious a minute before she realised her head was pounding. It was as if someone was driving a hammer into her skull over and over again.

She didn’t dare open her eyes, knowing instantly the pain was going to be too much.

“Fuck,” she whined, pushing her face into her pillow, wondering if by some miracle she could go back to sleep. Of course, it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. Not when she also currently felt like she was suffering from the worst case of sea sickness known to human kind. It made her stomach churn uneasily, and she could feel her whole body shaking.

Evie groaned, weakly turning over to try and sit up in bed. She knew for a fact that her hair was most likely a hell of mess, and the fact her breath felt like acid left her heavily confused.

She honestly had no idea what the hell had happened to her, or why the hell she felt the way she did. It was as if someone had scrubbed her mind so clean it was raw. There was a huge chunk of time missing from her mind from the night before.

What the hell happened?

With a sigh, she peeled back the covers and began to brave her way down to the kitchen below.

Tommy, needless to say, was waiting in the main room, a paper spread out in front of him and a cup of tea in hand. John was also in the kitchen, Arthur beside him as they scoffed their way through the food in front of them - courtesy of Polly.

The woman truly was an angel.

Her father glanced up as he heard Evie enter, only to start laughing at her miserable face. He was enjoying this; she could tell. If she’d had any strength she’d probably have tried to wipe that smile off his face. But she didn’t. She merely shuffled in, sat in the nearest chair and let out a small moan at the fresh smell of food in the air.

“Why do I have bulls stamping on my brain?”

“Because you thought it was a smart idea to challenge Johnny boy here, to a pissing contest,” Tommy remarked calmly, hiding his grin behind his paper. It was clear from his windswept hair and the smell of soot about him he’d been up sometime, already venturing out into the city. How he got the resilience, Evie could never explain.

“What?”

“Which I won, by the way,” John protested, looking unfairly healthy as he helped himself to his breakfast. The smell alone was enough to make Evie want to empty her stomach everywhere.

“But she gave an admirable attempt,” Arthur heckled. “Worthy of the Shelby name I’d say. Almost drank a bottle of her own before she keeled over. Not bad for a slip of a thing.”

Evie groaned, dropping her face down into her hands. “I hate you all.”

“So you don’t want some hot coffee then?” Polly chuckled, placing the cup down in front of her. “Drink that. It’ll help.”

Evie took her at her word, all but downing the steaming drink, praying it helped in some way. “Why do you all drink so much if this how you feel afterwards?”

“You learn your limits,” her father chided. “You build up an immunity too.”

“Clearly I didn’t inherit your Shelby skill.”

“No, but you have determination,” Tommy chuckled. “Clearly you’ve had good teachers.”

“Or bad influences,” Polly countered, turning to glare at her nephews.

“One day, she’ll look back on this and laugh.”

“Not anytime soon, by the looks of her.”

Evie groaned all over again. “I’m right here. You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not - actually, better yet, why doesn’t everyone whisper?”

“PARDON?”

Evie was half way out of her seat and ready to murder Arthur in a heartbeat. It was only Polly’s warning glare that stopped her. That, and the sudden nausea caused by moving so fast.

“Sit down,” her aunt scoffed, placing a plain piece of buttered toast in front of her. “Eat that and then go back to bed. You’ll feel better. I promise. This lot will be gone soon.”

“Sooner the better,” Evie grumbled half heartedly, even though she didn’t mean it. Still, John clearly got the hint and took that as his cue to excuse himself from the meal.

“Right,” John grinned, donning his cap. “I’m off to the garage. Be back in a bit, yeah? Meeting Lizzie so she can cook.” The others nodded, murmuring various acknowledgements as he slipped out into the street.

“I have business too,” Arthur grinned, rising from his seat and patting Evie’s shoulder as he did so. “Just sleep it off, ey? And don’t drink anything Polly gives you. You’d rather die on your own terms than have one of her miracle cures.”

“Oi!”

Arthur sniggered, leaping out of the doorway as Polly rose to slap the smile off of his face. Still, Evie took his word for it. She loved her aunt but she had a suspicion Arthur knew what he was on about. Especially judging by the slightly queazy look on her father’s face.

“The bloody cheek.”

“Leave him, Pol,” Tommy soothed. “He isn’t worth it."

“I wish I’d let Evie rip his throat out now.”

“Oh, there’s still time. Maybe later.”

Evie chuckled under breath. She’d hold him to that. For now, though, she was content to simply make her way through the plate of buttered toast and endless mugs of coffee Polly put before her. “Thank you,” she beamed, watching as Polly kissed her head before helping herself to her own breakfast.

That was how they stayed for the next half hour or so. Once they’d finished, Evie took the plates and went to wash up as a gesture of her gratitude. It also left her father and Polly alone, both of whom had been shooting odd looks at one another to the point where Evie almost wanted to call them out on it.

If they had something to say, they should just say it… unless they didn’t want her to hear?

So, she gave them space, washing dishes and listening to their soft voices echoing through the open doorway.

Evie didn’t need to hear more than the words ‘talk’ and ‘Lizzie’ to know what this was about. It had only been days since John had told her he was thinking of asking Lizzie to marry him. Evie still didn’t know how she felt about it, even though she wanted John happy and she liked Lizzie well enough. However, by the sounds of it, she didn’t have to worry about it any longer.

“Fuck,” Pol muttered. “You gonna tell him? Or am I?”

“I will.”

“Tell him what?” Evie asked slowly.

She couldn’t help it any longer. Her curiosity was greater than her fear of being scolded for eavesdropping. Besides, it was hardly like this conversation was that private. Else, they’d have taken it to the offices on the other side of the shop floor if they hadn’t want to be overheard.

She simply stepped into the doorway and waited for an answer.

Tommy sighed. He blew out a thin stream of smoke and looked at Pol. The look between them was enough for them to understand one another.

Polly blinked. “That leopards never change their spots.”

Just like that, Evie felt even sicker - something she hadn’t thought possible. It didn’t take a genius to work out what Polly was referring to. Part of her hoped she was wrong though, that her father and aunt hadn’t conspired to break John’s heart.

She watched her father go and turned back towards the stairs. All she wanted now was to crawl into bed and sleep the remainder of the headache away. “Fuck.”

It appeared she wasn’t the only one who would be suffering that day.

--------

Thankfully, after a hot bath, plenty of coffee and a long sleep, Evie felt almost as good as new. She didn’t even mind the fact her father decided to wake her the following morning, ripping open the curtains and letting the morning sunshine burst into the room.

“Rise and shine, Evelyn.”

Evie groaned, pulling the pillow over her head in a vain attempt to block his voice out. “What’s the smile for?”

“Get dressed and you’ll find out.”

As if the shock of seeing her father in her room wasn’t enough to peak her interest, his proposition definitely did the trick. Evie was alert instantly. She couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d woken her up, let alone in such an odd mood.

She tried not to laugh as he tugged the covers off of her, doing his best as she clung on for dear life. Playful Tommy was rare. She half expected a cold bucket of water over the head or for him to be banging pans together instead.

“Dad,” Evie whined, surrendering and sitting upright. “What the hell is going on?”

“As I say, get dressed and come downstairs. We’ve got somewhere to be,” her father explained, gesturing to the dresser in the corner of the room.

To her utter surprise, a dress was already laid out and waiting for her - a beautiful sky blue dress, but one she’d never seen before.

Had he bought it for her?

“Polly picked it our for you so don’t keep her waiting,” he continued, as if sensing her questions. However, he gave her no more opportunities to ask them as he turned and left her to get ready for the absurd day ahead of them.

Evie couldn’t even begin to process it all. What had just happened? Was she still dreaming?

She managed to pry herself from her bed and wander over towards the dress. A single touch of the silky fabric was enough to prove this wasn’t a dream. This was very very real… and very expensive.

“Damn it, Pol,” she sniggered, reminding herself to talk to her aunt about wasting money on her like this. Whilst she absolutely adored the garment in front of her, she also knew they couldn’t really afford it.

Nevertheless, she’d learned a long time ago when to pick a battle with the Shelby family and when to simply go along with their wishes. This was definitely one of those times to go with the latter option. So, she stripped herself of her nightclothes and began to get ready for the day, washing away the sleep from her eyes in the washbasin and tidying her hair as best she could.

A few minutes more and she was ready. One final look in the mirror confirmed as much.

She slipped on her shoes and grabbed her coat, hurrying downstairs as fast as she was able. If her father was as excited as he’d seemed about today then she knew better than to keep him waiting. Even if she was nervous about what lay ahead, Evie couldn’t help but be a little excited too. However, as she hurried into the parlour, she was surprised to see it empty.

Her father was no where to be seen.

“What the hell?” she whispered.

That was when the door opened. That was when the last two people she’d expected to come strolling through together, did just that, grinning ear to ear.

“Polly what on earth is going o-” Evie began. She stopped, however, the moment she laid eyes on the woman next to her. “Ada?”

Like that, she was upon her, hurling herself at her aunt in disbelief. The heavily pregnant woman didn’t mind though, laughing as she cradled her back, peppering kisses to her cheeks.

“Oh my god. I’m glad to see you.”

“I missed you too,” Ada whispered. “It’s been too long.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Tommy invited her,” Polly smirked, visibly touched by the scene. “Family should be together on days like this one. We have a one day truce, thank god. I love a good wedding.”

“A wedding?”

She wasn’t the only one confused. Ada looked as bewildered as she felt. However, Evie finally took a moment to properly examine the moment. It was then she realised they were all dressed impeccably, with fine dresses and coats. Polly even had a hat on, something she saved for church or special occasions. How Evie had missed it was beyond her. Clearly, she was getting rusty.

“Apparently.”

“Whose?”

“I thought it was obvious,” Polly chuckled. “So, shall we go? Otherwise we’ll miss the bloody thing�� I never thought I’d see the day John Shelby re-married. To a Lee of all things.”

Wait.

John.

This was John’s wedding?

To a Lee girl?

Not Lizzie?

Evie blinked. She froze and stared at the woman in disbelief. “You’re fucking joking? Right?”

Both Ada and Polly shook their heads. “It was your father’s idea,” Polly explained, adjusting her hat in the mirror before opening the door and ushering them towards the car. “It was a deal proposed by the Lees. Tommy agreed on John’s behalf. Kill two birds with one stone.”

Evie had a suspicion someone would be killed if that really was the case. “Does John know?”

“They’ll have told him by now.”

“Fuck. Now I see why they all left together.”

It took an army to make a Shelby do something they didn’t want to do. John especially. Evie felt bad at the thought. What if he didn’t want this? Why was her family forcing him into this? Was it too late to stop it?

Then again, her father loved his family more than life itself. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t have John’s approval or hadn’t meticulously thought this whole thing out. Had he even met the bride to be?

Evie sighed. Why were Shelby weddings always so complicated? At least this one wasn’t in secret, a fact she was grateful for as she turned to her aunt and took her hand. The fact she was here beside her already made her feel ten times better.

“Freddie not with you?”

Ada shook her head. “No, but it’s alright. I’m… I’m glad to see everyone.”

“We’re glad to see you too,” Polly hummed, kissing both Ada and Evie’s cheeks. “Now. Stop nattering and get in. We have a wedding to get to and I don’t want to miss this for the world.”

The girls didn’t need to be told twice. They knew an order when they heard it. They had a wedding to get to after all. John’s wedding… God help them all.

---------

The ceremony was brief but pleasant. Even her father and Ada seemed to be getting on, grinning and teasing one another as Jonny completed the ritual, standing in front of the crowd gathered in the shipping yard the Lees currently called home.

Evie had never been to a gypsy wedding before. Not one like this, with so much colour and excitement for what was usually quite a somber ceremony according to the church she was used to. Yes, Esme - her newest relative - was wearing white as she made her way down the aisle, but that was pretty much where the resemblance ended. After all, when had church ever involved the use of a knife before? … or real blood?

Evie had clearly been going to the wrong services.

“That’s the mingling of the two bloods. Where two families become one family,” Jonny explained, grinning ear to ear as Esme and John clasped hands together. The look on their faces said it all. “I now pronounce you, man and wife! Go on John, kiss the bride, will you?”

The cheer was instantaneous, as were the celebrations that followed.

Evie was quick to hug and congratulate John and his new bride. To her relief, he seemed happy - excited even, and who could blame him? Esme was gorgeous. After a few moments of talking, Evie had also deduced that she was wild and almost as much of a true gypsy as Polly. She was also kind, witty and clever - she had to be if Tommy had accepted her to join their family, their side of this now resolved conflict. He wouldn’t have accepted just anyone and yet again, they were all forced to have faith he knew what he was doing.

That didn’t mean Evie had to hold it against Esme. No matter how she’d joined the Shelby clan, she was a Shelby nonetheless and Evie knew better than most how daunting it was to join such a clan as this.

“Congratulations,” she smiled once more, kissing John’s cheek and nodding at his bride. “Be good to one another.”

“We will be.”

“And welcome to the family, Esme.”

“Thank you,” she nodded, grinning as John slid his arm about her waist and held her close.

Evie took that as her cue to leave the newly weds to it. As it was, one of the younger Lee boys had decided to take advantage of the fact she was currently by herself, lingering by the now raging dance floor.  

He was quick to stand beside her, taking her hand and shoot her a teasing grin. “Fancy a dance?”

Evie automatically went to decline, but changed her mind. He was handsome and the night was young. “Why not?” she shrugged. It was a night of peace and celebration after all. “Just don’t blame me if I stand on your toes.”

With that, she let him grab her other hand and spin her into the crowd. She didn’t know the steps, if there even were any, nor did she know the song the band were singing. All she knew, was that she felt weightless, skipping about with her partner.

“I’m Antony,” he grinned, bellowing to be heard over the violin and drumbeats.

“Evelyn!”

“Pleasure to meet you, Evelyn Shelby!”

Give it five more minutes, and several broken toes, and she’d see if he still felt that way after all.

------

Just because the light soon disappeared, didn’t mean the celebrations did. In fact, as candles and lanterns were lit, so too were everyones spirits; There were drinks being poured, games of cards being won, and at one point - gunshots and fireworks.

It was official, Evie loved weddings. Particularly, Shelby weddings.

She also liked dancing and was not looking to stop anytime soon. She’d danced with multiple partners, making her way around the floor before finally ending up beside her aunt. For a pregnant woman, Ada was doing rather well at keeping up.

To be honest, if Evie was having fun, then Ada was on a whole other level. It was almost hysterical watching as her aunt spun and cheered and staggered about the place. After weeks, months even, without her, she was glad to have her back and making mischief with her.

“Fuck. I missed dancing!”

“That’s not dancing!”

“It is!” she protested, snagging Evie’s arm and spinning her around and around. “I should know. I taught you, didn’t I?”

Evie erupted into laughter at the memory. “I think we broke Polly’s vase when you tried to dip me!”

“And her clock with that lift!”

Both girls erupted into further laughter, tears trickling down their cheeks. All Evie could see was the memory of her aunt Polly’s face as she’d come into the kitchen to find Ada lifting Evie over her head, surrounded by broken china and glass.

“God! I’ve missed you,” Evie whined, hugging Ada close as her emotions over took her for a second. Her aunt didn’t seem to mind though as she hugged her back tightly.

“I’ve missed you too. We should never go this long without speaking ever again.”

“Fine by me. After the baby’s born, we should go dancing together.”

“Fuck yes!”

As if proving her enthusiasm for the idea, Ada began to twirl all over again, faster and more manically than before. Apparently it was enough to worry her family. Arthur was by their side in an instant.

“Come on, Ada. Enough now. Enough,” he tried, to no avail. He went to reach for her, only for her to spin away faster. “Ada.”

Even Tommy was coming over from his seat, sighing as he approached. That was enough to knock the smile from Evie’s face, especially as she noticed Polly’s concerned expression. What did they expect? Ada had always enjoyed living vicariously and she’d been locked away for weeks.

“Ada,” her father coaxed, addressing her like some spooked animal. “Come on, have a rest. Sit down now.”

“Come and look, Esme! Look at the family you’ve joined!” Ada bellowed in reply. “Come look at the man who runs it, who picks his brother’s wives for them!”

Evie turned, an apology already on her lips as John and Esme were startled from their own celebrations. She could see John was about to say something less than nice to his drunk, pregnant sister.  

“He hunts his own sister down like a rat, and tried to kill his own brother-in-law!”

“Ada, that’s enough!” Arthur urged, as both Polly and Tommy closed in.

“Now, he won’t even let me have a fucking dance!-”

“Ada!”

“-Not even at a fucking wedding,” she seethed, glaring at Tommy whilst Polly tried to wrap her arms around her niece and guide her to a chair.

“Sit her down,” John pleaded.

Jesus. Every Shelby was involved now. Only Finn appeared to be missing and he was too busy playing with the Lee children to care. Else, he’d have found it hilarious.

“Calm down, Ada. Calm down.”

However, Ada’s face was anything but calm. In fact, it looked horrified. Polly only had to glance down to know why.

“Holy shit.” She sighed. “Water. Right.”

“Bloody hell Ada,” Arthur groaned. “You do pick your times.”

“Her water’s broke!”

“I didn’t plan this!”

“Right we need to move.”

“Get off me, Tom.”

Everyone erupted into chaos. Evie lost track of who was talking or even in charge of the scene. She simply followed, excitement and panic coursing through her as she took Ada’s hand and squeezed.

“Evie?”

“I’m right here,” she promised, helping towards the waiting car. “I swore it at the beginning and I meant it. You’ll always have me. I’m not going anywhere. Not until we have a screaming baby in your arms.”

-----------

Screaming.

So much screaming.

It was official - Evie was never having a baby.

“It hurts!”

“I know,” Polly cooed, manoeuvring the sheets about as she peered up from her position between Ada’s parted legs. “If it didn’t it wouldn’t be called labour.”

“I want Freddie!”

“Ada-”

“Please!” she sobbed, laying her sweaty head back against Evie’s chest. Despite Polly’s warning Evie had chosen to stay. She wasn’t going anywhere. Even if she knew nothing about delivering a baby, she knew all about loving and supporting her family. She and Ada had been there for each other time and time again.

Nothing had changed, just because Ada was married.

“You can do this,” Evie whispered, kissing her aunt’s damp brow. “Freddie’s on his way. You heard Polly. Dad’s given his word. Freddie can come. He’ll be here any second.”

“So will this little one,” Polly urged as Ada yelped again, a contraction cutting off the conversation.  “Keep going. That’s right. Push.”

And to her credit, she did. Ada pushed, screaming and crushing Evie’s hand in the process. Yet, Evie wouldn’t have had it any other way. Her heart was racing as within the span of mere minutes she heard the soft cries of a baby.

Ada’s baby.

“Oh my god,” she whimpered, hugging Ada tightly as she tried to catch her breath. Polly and Esme were doing their part, cleaning and tidying everything below before presenting the baby to its mother. “You did it, Ada. You did it.” “I did,” she giggled, almost deliriously. She looked like she could have slept for weeks.

“Ada. Congratulations, darling. It’s a boy.” Polly’s voice broke them from their celebration as they turned their eyes downward to the cloth wrapped bundle now being passed their way. Soft, tiny fingers poking out were all Evie could see as she gaped at her new cousin.

She wanted to cry. Damn it, Ada and Polly actually were crying, as was the baby. It was a room of crying people. All shedding happy tears though.

“A baby boy,” Ada whispered, staring at the bundle in her arms.

Then they heard it.

The door banging below.

“Ada! Come on! Open up!”

“Freddie,” Ada whimpered, exhausted eyes turning to the hall. She didn’t even have to ask. Polly was already half way down the stairs. The already perfect moment would now be complete, as would their family now that the father had arrived. Just in time too.

He would get to meet his son.

Evie couldn’t have been happier for Ada, grinning as she heard Freddie’s frantic footsteps approaching. The look on his face as he burst into the room was awestruck.

Then again, seeing his wife, beaming ear to ear, cradling their newborn in her arms tended to have that affect on a person.

“It’s a boy, Freddie,” Ada whispered.

Freddie simply blinked. His smile grew as he took the invitation, approaching slowly before perching on the stool next to them. Evie was quick to move aside, allowing him to take her place as he reached over and took the bundle for himself.

One look was all it took.

He was in love.

“It’s a beautiful baby boy,” he gaped, much to everyone’s amusement. Polly even wiped her eyes hastily, as if trying to hide her tears of joy. “There you go. Welcome to the world, son. Welcome to the world.”

His tone was of wonder and of euphoria as he stared down at the boy in his arms. Who knew what he was thinking.

Was that how her father would have looked, had he been there for her birth? Would he have stared at her like she was his entire world? Evie gulped at the thought. It was stupid to think of such things, but she couldn’t help it. A small part was jealous as she witnessed the tender tableau before her.

The truth was, her mother had probably been alone. Who had she had as a friend to hold her hand or assist with the birth? Maybe their neighbours? They were always kind to them, looking out for the small family. Still, it wouldn’t have been like this, that much Evie was sure of. Not full of love and support.

Her mother had had her reasons, Evie knew that. It just didn’t make witnessing what they could have had any less painful.

“What are you going to call him?”

“Karl,” Ada grinned, answering Esme’s question. “After Karl Marx.”

“Who?”

“Bloody hell,” Polly sniggered. “Karl’s a lovely name, Ada.”

A lovely name for a lovely boy. Evie was about to say as much when there was yet another knock at the door. Well, knock probably wasn’t the right word, not when the door rattled under the weight of their visitor’s fist.

“Police! Open up!”

Everyone froze. No one knew what to do.

The Police? The Police were here? Why? How?

“Oh god,” Evie choked, reaching instinctively for Ada and taking her hand. She also watched as Polly was quick to snatch Karl out of his father’s arms and placed him securely back with his mother.

That was all they had time for as the door burst open down below. Everything that followed for the next five minutes was pure pandemonium. Evie didn’t even know where to look. She lost track with the sudden surge of bodies in the house, all arguing and brawling, dragging Freddie outside with them.

Esme was vicious in her attempts to defend her new family. Polly too, was screaming blue murder as she tried and failed to stop them. She was also gone, storming out mere moments after the Police had left.

No one needed to ask to know where she was headed, or whom she intended to see. “I’m gonna set this right,” she’d rambled, kissing a now hysterical Ada as she left.

How? How could anyone make this right? Evie didn’t know how it could have gone wrong. No one knew Freddie was here. Her father had given his word. He wouldn’t have lied to them… not today… not even he was that callous.

Right?

Evie wished she could be sure. However, she had bigger concerns than her father’s integrity to worry about; Ada was already pushing herself up, onto her feet, and trying to reach for her forgotten coat and shoes.

“I need to go home.”

“No,” Esme pleaded, trying to force her to sit back down by the fire. “You just gave birth. You need to rest.”

“What I need is my husband,” Ada sobbed. “I need to be out of this house!”

Evie took that as her cue to intervene, before her aunt did any damage to herself or anyone else in the room. “I’ll take you home, ok?” she offered, reaching for her arm. “We’ll take the car. Save you walking.”

“But-”

Whilst well intentioned, the look Evie passed Esme told her it was hopeless. She’d soon learn Shelby women did only what they wanted, when they wanted. Everyone else could be damned. Right now, Ada cared about one thing and one thing only: keeping herself and her baby safe. That meant getting as far from Shelby territory as possible.

“Tell Polly where we’ve gone if she comes back, ok?” Evie stated, nodding at Esme.

To her credit, Esme didn’t argue. She hurried to gather Ada’s things, helping Evie to assist her aunt and new-born cousin into the back of the waiting car. She even offered to accompany them.

“I know about babies and what needs doing now,” she explained, hopping into the passenger’s seat. “I’ll be more use to you there than sitting on my ass here.”

Evie and Ada were visibly grateful for her company; They were going to need all the help they could get.

-------------

It was hours before either Evie or Esme returned. In fact, the sun was already beginning to rise as Evie rounded the corner of Watery Lane, the engine humming as it bounced across the cobbles. Whilst she much preferred riding to driving, she’d learned all the same during the war. When there hadn’t been any men to drive anywhere.

Like riding, she loved the solitude and freedom driving offered. She only wished she could turn the car around and drive away from it all… anywhere else… anywhere but here would have been good enough for her.

Her rage had been steadily building with every moment that had passed since Freddie had been taken. By now, she was shaking as she controlled the urge to march inside her house and shoot the lot of them.

Instead, she ground to a halt, slamming the car door harder than necessary and barging her way into Watery Lane.

She’d hardly made it in the door before Polly was upon her, wide eyed and panicked.

“Is she-?”

“She’s alright, Pol,” Evie soothed, glad to see the immediate relief in Polly’s eyes. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t be hurrying back to Ada the moment she could, to check on her for herself. “She’s sleeping. I made sure she ate and kept an eye on her. Esme did too. She’s there to help with feeding and stuff when the baby wakes. Ada just needs sleep.”

Her aunt’s face relaxed at the news, but her skin was still too pale. “She shouldn’t be alone. Not now.”

“She didn’t have much choice,” Evie spat, her eyes following to the guilty party. The one who had made this divide. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”

She hadn’t even acknowledged the others in the room until that point, but now her stare was ice cold as she focused on them.

She snapped.

She grabbed the nearest item - a teapot of all things - and hurled it at his head. Luckily, Tommy dodged, meaning it shattered harmlessly against the wall. But the look of disbelief on his face was accurate enough.

“Oi!” he warned, hurrying to reach her before she could throw something else. Had John not wrapped his arms around her, she probably would have. There were several teacups she had always hated in particular, lying within reach in an open invitation. “Listen to me! I didn’t do this.”

“Then who did?” Evie bellowed.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t-? Bullshit.”

Evie spat at him, breaking free of John and pushing him off of her.

“Pack it in!” he begged, rolling his eyes. “Tommy wouldn’t do this.”

Whether they believed him or not didn’t matter. Evie knew in her heart they’d been betrayed. If not by her father then who was it? Who was she supposed to believe had this kind of information, other than family?

“First you dictated John’s life. Now theirs? Is there anyone you won’t control?”

“Evie-”

“Don’t,” she seethed, panting from the exertion. “Don’t touch me. If you had anything to do with this,” she warned, “then I’ll never speak to you again. Ever.”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Promise?”

“Promise! On your mother’s life.”

A stray tear escaped Evie’s eye as she turned and stormed back across to Polly. Such an oath had to be honoured until it was proven otherwise. But that didn’t mean Evie had to like it. So, she choose to leave her father where he stood: on shaky ground.

[misssophiachase]

All You Never Say - Part 3

I’m back! Thank you for all the awesome comments and notes, it means a lot! Here is part 3, and you can read it all from the beginning on AO3 HERE. Also, I referenced the word torch a few times last chapter, to those who asked it means flashlight hehe. I changed it so it wasn’t confusing lol. 

Synopsis: One wedding and a confused maid of honour and best man with years of pent up feelings and unresolved tension.

Mrs Florence Mikaelson and Mr James and Mrs Audrey Pierce request your presence at:

The Rehearsal Dinner

On the twenty-second of June, twenty twenty-one at 1830h at Poets House Restaurant, Ely Cambridgeshire

Dress: Semi Formal

1 day before the nuptials - Poets House, Ely, Cambridgeshire - 7:29pm

“I love your grandparents, Kat, but why did they insist on a venue with such a cramped ladies bathroom?” Bonnie muttered, attempting to nudge Rebekah away from the only mirror.

“Hey, you’ll make me smudge my lipstick,” she growled, standing her ground. No one messed with Rebekah’s primping and preening time and got away with it.

“Oh maybe because my grandparents didn’t choose the venue,” Kat responded, the frustration evident in her voice. Clearly, the wedding festivities and all the protocols were wearing on her last nerve.

“It’s okay, you can say it,” Rebekah said. “My grandmother is even more overbearing than my mother. Which you didn’t think was remotely possible, but it is. Trust me, I’ve lived with it for long enough. I’m already dreading my own wedding.”

“Well, I’m sure if anyone can handle it, it’s Enzo, you two have grown up together after all,” Bonnie offered, Rebekah froze, that shocked expression on her face allowing the brunette to push in and free up some space to touch up her make-up.

“Funny joke, Bennett,” she hissed, attempting to push back. “Kol is related to over-bearing Florence too, you know just saying.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean, Mikaelson?”

“Hey, hey, break it up you two,” Katherine intervened, attempting to keep the peace but in such a small space it was proving difficult. “Caroline? Maid of honour? Some help please?” 

Even with all of the bickering, Caroline was somewhere else. She’d been largely silent most of the dinner because all she could think about was what transpired earlier that morning with the best man.

Mikaelson Manor, Ely Cambridgeshire - 18.5 hours earlier (12:05am)

“So, what you’re telling me is that you think the ring box flew into the garden while you were shaking out the picnic rug?” He was still standing there and he was still partially naked.

Unfortunately for Caroline.

“That’s exactly what I am saying,” she muttered, trying to pretend she wasn’t affected by his seemingly toned chest.

“I’m just checking, you said there were a few wines consumed.”

“Oh, I get what this is,” she growled. “You think I’m a bad maid of honour because I had a bit too much to drink?”

“I never said…”

“Yes you did,” she shot back. “And even if you didn’t, it’s all there in that judgmental gaze. I really should know that look by now.”

“Excuse me, what’s that supposed to mean? If anything, judgmental looks are your thing, love, not mine. I seem to recall more than a few reaching me during school.”

“I’m surprised you noticed given you were usually too busy with your tongue down some girl’s throat.”

“I’m surprised you were keeping such close tabs on me,” he said. “I thought you would have been too busy with that guy with the hair.”

Sure, she dated Stefan for a year during school but she doubted he even noticed, let alone cared given he was too busy dating most of her class.

“Yes, he had hair,” she bit back, unable to help herself.

“You know what I mean, Salvatore couldn’t last an entire class without having to rush to the bathroom to check on his hero hair. I’d take a guess that he took a lot longer in front of the mirror than you ever did.”

“Maybe,” she offered, a smile tugging at her lips, unable to help herself. He even knew his name? “But if we’re going to compare love interests then…”

“Okay, I surrender,” he interrupted, holding up his hands defeatedly. “Let’s not open that pandora’s box, especially standing in the garden in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, we may never get out of here,” she teased. “But yes, I think the ring box went in that direction.” She gestured to the green hedge before them.

“Well, I think for starters I need to get a better flashlight than that.”

“What’s wrong with this?” She asked. While Rebekah had been showering, Caroline had snuck into her childhood bedroom and found it in her bedside drawer.

“That is my sister’s Hello Kitty flashlight and, I don’t know about you, but I can barely see you let alone a small, black, ring box in that hedge.”

“Fine, what do you suggest?”

“Well, the sane person in me would suggest waiting until the morning but given that defiant glare and stance I know you’ll try to press on with or without me and who knows what could happen without my supervision?”

“You are so…”

“It was a joke, Caroline.” A low, throaty laugh pierced the air and Caroline didn’t think she’d ever heard anything so arousing. She decided to blame it on the whole no shirt thing. “I’ll go and get a heavy duty flashlight from the shed, stay here and try to not to get into any trouble.”

Before she could ask him what that meant, he was gone. What kind of creatures did they have on the loose in rural England? Caroline realised she probably should have done some more research before the trip.

Although, if she was being honest, it was probably just one kind of enticing but annoying creature that she was afraid of. A Klaus Mikaelson. Why did she always have to turn into a rambling fool when he was around? At least she only had a couple more days and this and him would be behind her.

Caroline shivered, rubbing her arms over the goosebumps that had recently gathered. Why she wasn’t too sure, it was either him or the climate. Caroline hoped it was the latter. What she wasn’t expecting was for him to return five minutes later with two impressive flashlights and a white top slung over his bare shoulder.

“I thought you might be cold so brought you something to cover up,” he handed it to her and Caroline couldn’t miss the heady aroma of his aftershave on it as he did.

“And you’re not?” She asked, hoping he’d cover up too and not because she was worried he’d catch a cold. Far from it.

“Oh no I’m fine, love, I did grow up in these parts so am used to the weather, tonight has nothing on an English winter,” he smirked knowingly before making his way toward the hedge in question. “Now let’s find this ring, shall we?”

He didn’t cover up on purpose. Bastard. Caroline wanted to play him at his own game but could feel the cold seeping into her bones and had no choice. Although, once she’d slipped on the henley, Caroline knew she was a goner.

It felt too good.

Too familiar.

It felt like home.

But at the same time, Hayley’s face came to mind and Caroline knew a heartbreak was on the cards. Hers.

Present Day

“Hello, Caroline?” Kat asked, nudging her in the ribs.

“Present,” she offered by way of response, like she’d been caught out by a teacher during roll call at school and not in a tiny bathroom by her friends.

“What is wrong with you?"

“I’m just thinking about everything I need to do before the wedding tomorrow,” she offered, albeit weakly. Although, in truth one of the things on her to-do list was to fall out of love with Klaus Mikaelson. Easy, right?

“Caroline, I love you and everything you’ve done to make this week perfect, but you need to learn to relax a bit too,” Katherine smiled, squeezing her shoulders affectionately.

“Well, that’s a bit difficult when…” Rebekah said before Caroline immediately interrupted.

“The bride and groom have to make a speech in five minutes. So, I think you and Elijah need to make sure everything is set.” Kat gave them dubious glances before eventually shrugging her shoulders and leaving.

“Okay, what the hell is going on here?” Bonnie asked. “And before you try to give me some bogus excuse to leave I’d like an answer. What’s up with you two? You are acting weirder than usual and that's saying something.” Of course, Bonnie would cotton on and demand an explanation.

“Well, Caroline we’re waiting,” Rebekah added, her devious smile not lost on Caroline.

“For the last time, there is nothing going on, Rebekah,” Caroline hissed, trying to keep her voice down and glad no one had decided to use the facilities. “And I’d prefer you don’t fill Kat’s head with gossip and hearsay the night before her wedding. She does have a lot more going on right now.”

“Gossip and hearsay?” Trust Bonnie to only focus on that part of her sentence.

“You were wearing his henley, what do you expect me to think?”

“Henley? Oh my god, you and Klaus!” Bonnie exclaimed, albeit too loudly for her liking.

It really was a dead giveaway. Why did Henleys have to be his signature style? Caroline didn’t mean to leave it on, but it was so comforting and warm and it smelled so heavenly. Then the next thing she knew she fell asleep, only to have Rebekah jump on her bed in the morning before she’d had a chance to both wake up and remove it. Needless to say her discovery had been all she could talk about the whole day. Trying to water down speculation hadn’t worked because once Rebekah had an idea in her head it was difficult to remove.

“Shhhh,” she muttered. “How about a little discretion?”

“How about you just fess up, Care,” Rebekah insisted.

“Fine, I might have been wearing his shirt, yes,” she whispered. “But it’s not what you think.”

“So, pray tell what was it?” Clearly Bonnie wasn’t going to let this go either.

That’s when Caroline decided not to revisit the fact that while she was wearing his henley, he was shirtless. No good could come out of telling her friends that particular fact. So, she decided to skip over it and get straight to the point.

“I sort of lost the wedding ring…”

“You lost the ring?” Now it was Rebekah’s turn to be a little too loud for her liking.

“What did I say about discretion?” She chided. “Look, I found it so crisis averted.”

“And you just happened to fall into Niklaus’ top in the meantime?” Again, the volume didn’t seem to be a factor with either of her friends.

“I didn’t fall into anything,” she shot back tersely. “Okay, I was outside in the garden trying to find the ring and your brother happened upon me. The ring must have fallen into the garden when I was shaking out the picnic rug.”

“And he gave you his shirt?” Bonnie asked, a dimple in her left cheek giving away her untoward thoughts. Damn, that whole thing about not drawing attention to Klaus being shirtless.

“Only because it was cold and then I must have forgotten to take it off before I fell asleep, I mean it was a stressful night all things considered, “ she rambled.

“So, let me get this straight,” Bonnie said in sudden realisation. “He was naked. Did you two?”

“Ew, no. I think we’re losing track of the point here.”

“Even I’m with Caroline on that point,” Rebekah drawled. “So, my brother gave you his shirt because you were cold? Now, that does not sound like him at all unless….” The silence that hung in the air was thick as each girl processed exactly what that could mean.

“He likes you,” both Bonnie and Rebekah deduced.

Caroline immediately blushed, not because she thought he returned her feelings but because this wasn’t how she saw things going. Klaus Mikaelson and her feelings for him were Caroline’s secret and didn’t belong to anyone else, especially her nosy friends.

“Ah, no,” she mumbled. “He has a girlfriend and, not just that, you know I can’t stand him. I mean do you remember school?”

“Oh come on, Care,” Bonnie acknowledged. At least her voice had gone down a few decibels. “We always thought you two had a bit of a crush on one another.”

They did? Clearly she didn’t hide things as well as she thought. Although, she never sensed Klaus returned her crush, not for one moment.

“More than a crush,” Rebekah intervened. “It was this lingering sexual tension bubbling below the surface.”

“Yes, tension which played out in the form of hostile insults and banter. Katherine used to say she wasn’t sure if you two were going to have sex or kill each other.”

“I’m glad you three had private jokes about me,” she muttered, feeling incredibly stupid.

“Only because we knew it would make you even more determined to avoid him and we secretly hoped you two would move past all the bluster and get together.”

“Clearly we underestimated both of your powers to hold a grudge,” Rebekah noted. “You know if you like my brother, it’s okay right?”

She wanted to cry. It was as if the emotions she’d tried so hard to contain were threatening to spill out. Unlike her friends seem to think, it wasn’t just about admitting her feelings. It was so much more than that. It was whether he even reciprocated them, not to mention his girlfriend and his family and the money and status she didn’t have. It was too many things and now wasn’t the time to visit them.

Caroline had no intention of losing it, especially at the rehearsal dinner for her best friend. She was Caroline Forbes, maid of honour and it wasn’t the done thing.

“Speech!” They heard the incessant tapping of glasses and all Caroline felt was relief.

“Saved by the bell,” she heard Bonnie mumble, but Caroline was out the door as she did making sure she plastered on a smile.

Mikaelson Manor, Ely Cambridgeshire - 5.5 hours later (12:30am)

Klaus couldn’t sleep and it wouldn’t be the first time either.

Given his previous night’s adventures with Caroline in the garden, he assumed sleep would be easy to come by tonight but no such luck. He pushed away the bed covers, careful not to wake Hayley. Klaus was glad for once that she was a heavy sleeper. He doubted he would have gotten away with his disappearing act last night if she wasn’t.

She was clearly tired from all the complaining. Apparently the bed sheets didn’t have a high enough thread count, the bathroom facilities were outdated, the food at the rehearsal dinner was mediocre and Kol was annoying her. On the last one he could concur but the fact she felt the need to share was frustrating. He was allowed to say his younger brother was annoying and no one else.

Well, except for when Caroline made a joke about little Kol finally growing into his suit but she had known him since he was sixteen so had the right. Plus, when it came to Caroline, she could pretty much do or say anything and it didn’t change his feelings for her.

He grabbed the leather notebook and pen on his bedside table and found a stray, grey t-shirt to put over his boxers hoping it would suffice given the late hour and made his way from the room. Klaus figured he might as well use his time productively and work on his half-finished best man speech. To be honest, it had been playing on his mind ever since Elijah asked him to be the best man. What did he know about love? Let alone how to articulate it in front of his family and friends. If this was a joke on Elijah’s part he was certainly getting his revenge even if he didn’t realise just how cruel it was.

Klaus walked to the kitchen. As a boy, it was always his favourite room and not just because he liked to eat. There was a certain warmth and comfort it afforded and Klaus figured what better place to make a sandwich and finish his speech. As he raided the contents of the refrigerator and busied himself with slathering mayonnaise onto the bread slices his mind wandered.

After he’d endured the suit fitting and all of their remarks about Caroline in school, Klaus had really started to evaluate their time together. Yes, he’d dated most of her class but Klaus could still remember that when he was with anyone his attention was most definitely not focused on them, more so on the blonde in the corner of the room and secretly hoping she’d lift her eyes from her book and see him. It was juvenile in hindsight, but he was a teenager and clearly he thought trying to make her jealous was a sure fire way to make her notice him. How mature.

Then when they were trying to find the ring last night she mentioned his wayward tongue that would apparently be busy stuck down some girl’s throat. So, clearly she did notice him. Given his hasty response about Stefan Salvatore, it was clear he noticed her too. Something he seemed to have blocked out, until now.

Could he have loved Caroline Forbes since high school? Klaus knew his feelings had taken a sharp turn two years earlier when they’d run into each other in Los Angeles. But he didn’t realise it spanned so many more years. The big question now was, had she loved him too or was it just his imagination?

When he came across her skulking in the garden, Klaus had never felt so pleased to be awoken. She looked stunning too and seemed caught off guard by his bare chest. Klaus would be lying if her long legs and delicious curves weren’t distracting him too. So much so that he decided to give her his top.

Two birds, one stone and all of that.

Unfortunately, their moments together playing poker, opening champagne bottles and searching for wedding rings seemed to be fleeting. The worst part was that he’d barely spoken two words to her at the rehearsal dinner. Sure, she was busy but there was clearly something else happening. He did notice she seemed a little upset after returning from the bathroom with the girls, even with that fake smile she was wearing. Klaus immediately wanted to know why she was upset and, more importantly, if he could help make it better.

“We need to stop running into each other like this,” a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

His eyes flickered across to the girl who’d been incessantly on his mind for the better part of a week. At the rehearsal dinner he thought she couldn’t look any more beautiful than in the blue dress that perfectly matched her eyes. But here she was in plaid, pyjama pants and a white tank, her face free of make-up, her hair piled into a messy ponytail and looking absolutely breathtaking.

“Are you following me, love?” He couldn’t help it, she brought it out in him.

“Says the guy who followed me into the garden last night,” she scoffed, swiping half of his sandwich and taking a bite.

“I’d offer you some of my sandwich but clearly you prefer to help yourself.”

“I figure you owe me,” she offered, opening the refrigerator and extracting the orange juice.

“For what exactly?”

“Well, for starters, forcing me to endure a full hour with that shameless display of nakedness. I mean, that kind of thing is going to scar me for life, Mikaelson.”

Klaus couldn’t miss the way her cheeks turned a light shade of pink at the mention. Scarred. Yeah right. Clearly, it was all she could focus on and he decided it was genius to make her cover up and for him to stay shirtless.

Klaus 1. Caroline 0

“Last time I checked, I prevented a monumental wedding disaster by finding that ring and let’s not forget about the whole champagne incident.”

“I could have found it on my own.”

“Yeah with that Hello Kitty flashlight,” he snorted. “Also, I can’t see how I owe you when you fleeced me at poker.”

“You totally deserved that,” she countered, pouring a glass of juice and turning around to put the carton back in the fridge. The perfect opportunity for Klaus to swipe her drink and take a large gulp.

“Hey!”

“You snooze, you lose, sweetheart,” he replied lazily. “So, what brings you here this late? You know, besides stealing half my sandwich.”

“I couldn’t sleep, too many things to think about and do before the wedding,” she groaned, taking a seat at the bench by his side.

“I think you’ve done pretty well so far, love, well, besides that whole episode with the ring last night,” the thunderous look she gave him was a clear sign it was too soon to joke about it. “Which I am taking to my grave, never to be mentioned to anyone ever.”

He noticed her face soften, a hint of a smile telling Klaus she was relaxing, albeit slightly. “So, what are you doing here besides stealing my juice? If I wasn’t so tired, I’d say something about yucky boy germs,” she teased, pulling the glass back towards her and taking a sip.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he admitted. “I haven’t told anyone this but my best man speech isn’t finished, not even close.” He noticed her eyebrows shoot up knowing exactly where this was going. Crazy Caroline, pseudo wedding planner had returned with a vengeance. “Relax, Caroline, it will be done in time. I’m, uh, just fine tuning it.”

“Liar,” she shot back. “Relax, Klaus, I’m not going to go into crazy, organised, Caroline mode on you." It was like she could read his mind. “Would it help if I listened to what you have so far?”

No, it most certainly wouldn’t given he was trying to write about love and emotions and feelings and doing it with Caroline present was nothing short of awkward, not to mention private.

“Okay, how about this,” she pressed, clearly noting his unease. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”

In a clothes-shedding context that last sentence definitely held much more appeal. But if he was going to do this, Klaus needed to allow himself to be vulnerable and doing it in front of the woman he loved wasn’t exactly how he saw things going.

A/N What exactly happened two years ago? And in the kitchen? Stay tuned...oh and there’s a wedding too.

[bjy-on-ao3]

Omg, i just read your dionysus fic, over indulgence, and holy shit, it was amazing! I really liked how you characterised him, and reader too, i just dont know what to say other than i absolutely loved it! I'd love to see more hades content! Maybe with Ares this time? He is always so smug, and somehow can be both very intimidating while staying super polite.... Im howwible with prompts, but maybe one where reader is a priestess of athena and somehow catches ares's attention?

I hope you don’t mind stuff rough.  I hope this satisfies your want for Ares, Anon!

In the game, Athena and Ares don’t seem to really like each other all that much, so I figured any priest/priestesses or disciples of her would have been warned about him. It also made sense for me that many of those people would double as great warriors/soldiers skilled at defense, but also in battle overall.If you’re looking for something warm and soft, please turn back. I really can’t see Ares in a gentle light, and this fic will contain blood/bloodplay, biting, bruising, and Ares getting a kick of out it all. Dubcon only because Reader agrees to the conditions of Ares being able to take what he wants if they lose. (As usual, you can find the AO3 version of all my uploads [and some things I don’t post here to tumblr] via my Masterlist blog page.)

Tags/Warnings Biting, Blood, Bloodplay, Combat, Creampie, Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader Insert, Sadism, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Sex, Violent Sex

Summary Reader - priestess and champion of Athena and fresh off becoming victor of a tournament held in honor of the gods - has an encounter with the most bloodthirsty god of them all: Impressed, Ares offers them a boon should they best him in combat - though if they lose, Ares may take what he sees fit.

Fic Friday

Shieldmaiden (F! Reader/Ares)

The day had been a long and arduous one, filled to bursting with adrenaline and quick-thinking. Oft enough, your days were composed of training or ceremonies, or helping those who sought aid from the temple to Athena you served. But dawn that morning had heralded the start of a tournament lasting till Helios drove the sun beneath the horizon once more. In a way, those who fell quickly were rewarded with a reprieve from the constant bouts, as even though the humiliation of defeat burdened them.

Even on the heels of victory, by the time the battles had concluded, you were tired and sore, marred with minor bruises and a few nicks and scrapes. It was nothing that a good night’s sleep and some poultices wouldn’t solve, though. ‘All worth the honor of winning such a tournament’ you told yourself. Unlike some combatants, you hadn’t killed an opponent, seeking to shed the least blood possible. Your efficiency had no room for excess. But no amount of hard-won praise and self-satisfaction could change that you were looking forward to curling up and resting until the sun rose on a new day.

Traipsing back to the temple in the glowing purple and red twilight, however, a voice caught your attention. “I must say, your performance today was quite impressive.”

To your credit, you didn’t jump or flinch away, becoming stock still and turning slowly toward the source of the voice. “Who’s there? Whom do I have privilege of impressing?” You asked cautiously, unable to strip all the irritation from your tone. You had patience remaining, though you were loath to chat with someone over your victory when you would much rather be in your bed.

Your eyes landed on a tall figure you somehow hadn’t noticed before - a man - stance regal and straight. Something about the posture gave off a sense of nonchalance as well. Clad in armor of ivory and gold, accented with long shards of black and the eerie glaring face of a beast on the chest plate, he radiated an aura of menace, accompanied by a bloodlust so tangible you could almost taste it on your tongue, hot and bitter. Eyes like smoldering coals plucked from a roaring hearth stared at you intently.. Combined with the simper spread over his lips, you couldn’t suppress the chill that raced up your spine.

Something in your gut twisted uncomfortably, and you resisted the urge to put a few more paces between the two of you. Even if it hadn’t been for the myriad weapons crossed over his back, or the impressive armor, the man would have seemed someone to be cautious around, someone you shouldn’t trust. Everything put together set you on high alert instantly, the instinct of fight or flight rising in your chest like a bird taking wing. Something primal shrieked at you that, for once, flight might be the preferred choice.

“You fight rather viciously for one under my dear sister’s wing,” the man mused, his tone light, but formal.

“I asked before - who are you?” you pressed again, not interested in mincing words. You didn’t like how easily he spoke to you or offhandedly disparaged your goddess.

“Oh, no hesitation to be found. Perhaps Athena neglected to impart all of her wisdom to you after all.” you bristled at the insult, taking a deep breath and trying to relieve some of the tension coursing through you. “I am Ares, and I desired to see the prowess of my sister’s little owl before my own eyes.”

‘Little owl?’ the nickname distracted you at first, thinking to the tiny owls often depicted accompanying your Lady, but you shook your head and dismissed the thought. You hadn’t the time to concern yourself with foolish nicknames. “Lord Ares? Well, I have no desire to see you, my Lord,” you said. With the revelation of his identity, you felt even more uneasy. Ares, god of war and death, who was said to bask in the bloodshed and chaos of man. Athena had been certain her followers knew well of her violent half-brother. “I may not have all of my Lady’s knowledge, but I am wise enough to keep my distance from you and the needless death that follows in your wake.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, wary of each word and wondering if he might take offense from your rejection. From the tales told, the Olympians never took well to being ignored or spurned, but to indulge in the company of a god like Ares was no more appealing a choice. The look on Ares’ face remained pleasant, the corners of his lips set in a smug smile, and he let out a quick puff of laughter that would have been pleasant, had it not come from him.

“What a pity. Although I do not believe that choice is yours to make, little owl,” he began, closing some distance between you. You followed his movements intently, concerned he might draw one of the swords from his back and set upon you with every step closer. “Surely you do not think yourself beyond the bidding of one god solely because you serve another?”

Your hands clenched and unclenched nervously at your sides as you considered his words. Ares was right, of course. Being a priestess of Athena did not grant you any protection from other gods - not unless she interfered directly. And that kind of divine intervention was a rarity. You avoided his question and changed the subject, though you doubted he would be redirected so easily. The God of War was no fool.

“What do you really want? I’ve little time for games, my Lord.”

“I wish to see your technique for myself. Show me how that passion and diligence fares against a foe more than mortal,” he elaborated.

The blood in your veins ran cold upon his admission and your heart thudded so hard you wondered if it was audible from where he stood. Battling a god was firmly on the side of things you wished never to do. “If you think I’m dull enough that I would willingly engage the God of War, then you insult me, my Lord,” you said stiffly, trying to suppress your trepidation from worming into your voice and failing.

“What is it I hear beneath your bold tone? I trust one of my dear sister’s bold little priestesses, one of her champions, even, is not afraid of all things?” Ares taunted smoothly. From the way his self-assured smile twitched upward, barely, you knew he was enjoying your reaction.

“Fear and caution are not the same thing,” you denied fiercely.

“True enough, but it is not caution what gives you pause. If it puts you at ease, little owl, I will not take your life.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you scrutinized him intensely, finding no sign of whether he was lying or being genuine. All you found in those bloody eyes and stony face was cold calculation and an insatiable lust for violence. “Why should I believe you?” you asked, face twisting suspiciously.

“Because, beloved by my sister or not, if I so desired to kill you, I would have done so the instant you denied my invitation and spoke to me so disrespectfully.” He talked of ending you so casually it made you shudder, and you cursed yourself for it immediately.

It seemed you had little choice but to indulge Ares in whatever game he had in mind. “And if I agree - what is the benefit to me?” Ares had promised he wouldn’t kill you, but you saw no other purpose to fight him. You still weren’t sure he wouldn’t just kill you, despite his promise.

“Is serving one of the gods not benefit enough for you? What a greedy little owl my sister has found.” Again, Ares taunted you. You wondered if he was trying to make you angry enough to divest your caution and sabotage your battle prowess.

“That’s not an answer,” you spat back. God or not, you were tiring of whatever he was doing.

Fortunately, Ares cut to the chase. “Very well, best me and you shall have whatever boon of me you wish.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then, I shall take from you what I decide most fitting.:

“But not my life,” you added, still skeptical.

“You have my word,” Ares insisted. “Besides, would it not be such a waste to douse a promising ember when it could kindled and made to burn all around it?” he added in afterthought and once again the implications of his words unsettled you. “Now, I trust we are done with these tedious negotiations, hm?” he prompted.

Steeling yourself and willing away the stiffness and fear bubbling in your chest, you nodded. Ares had decided what the outcome of the discussion would be before he first spoke. There was nothing more to be said - at least not with words. Eyes trained on the intimidating figure of the God of War, you retrieved the shield and blade slung over your shoulders. You brandished them both, falling into the stance you were trained to use.

Across from you - hardly half a dozen feet off - Ares drew a weapon of his own. The sight of the curved blade incited your fear once more. The black blade was a ghastly thing, wickedly sharp and emanating a thick, billowing red haze the color of viscera. It was unmistakably a weapon befitting a god, and it made something deep inside you want to turn tail and run. But you knew running would be fruitless - all it would earn you was a head-sized loss of weight between your shoulders.

 At once, the both of you moved slowly, following a wide circle, two shadowy beasts in the fading dusk searching for weaknesses and flaws. All of your training and wisdom told you to wait, let Ares come to you and make the first move. But you weren’t sure your reactive way of fighting would hold up against someone of his calibre. As Ares had implied, he was no mortal, and you could only imagine the horrible strength and skill behind his blade.

Ares shattered the heavy stillness abruptly, darting forward and making a low arcing swing up toward you. There was no hesitation behind the blow and you had the feeling if you hadn’t stopped it with your blade, his falcata would have carved a clean line into your torso. Ares may have promised not to kill you, but he wasn’t above grievously injuring you. He gave you little time to think on his intentions, however, another strike quickly following when you knocked his sword aside.

You caught that swing as well, on your shield this time, and your arm stung from the force that rang through it. Blow after blow rained down on you, forcing you on the defensive almost constantly, and even then, many near misses made you tense and wide-eyed. Eventually, you found some rhythm to his assault, and Ares even paused, granting you a scant few seconds to breathe and think. Still, you needed to analyze what you learned quickly - your enduring method of fighting wouldn’t suit well against his relentless onslaught. You had fought aggressive attackers in the past, but their strength and ferocity paled compared to Ares.

Eyes flashing to and fro, following the tuck and arc of his weapon, at the same time searching for openings, you readied to strike. You would need to be swift, perfect in your timing, and hold back nothing if you wanted any hope of breaching his flurry of blows. You took your chance when his fuming blade glanced off your shield at just the right angle to slide away, instead of adding more to the numbness in your shield arm. Dipping down, you swept your own blade under his arm and up. The metal scraped past one of his pauldrons and up, and your eyes shot wider when the tip of the blade reached out towards Ares’ face.

A swift kick pushed you back, leaving you winded, and you looked back up quickly. Ares was standing in place, a small distance away, but close enough to observe small details. His blade upheld in one hand, smoking menacingly, he lifted his free hand to his cheek, brushing away the slick of blood oozing from a diagonal cut across his cheek.Your heart fell at the sight of how little damage you had done. After all that time, you had given him what was barely more than what a mortal mine might suffer from a shaving accident. It was an ill omen when you were so used to your blade striking true and dispatching opponents in only a few strokes.

“Oh, what a splendid surprise.” Your blood may as well have turned to ice. Not at Ares’ words, but his tone.

Beneath the refined and formal speech, something almost excited could be heard. You had the sudden dreadful feeling that indulging the God of War’s little game had been a terrible mistake - even if  there was no other choice. Excitement was a chilling thing to hear from a being who adored violence and death. You had expected anger, perhaps, or bitterness that a mortal had drawn blood against him. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a shock he liked to bleed as much as he liked to bleed others.

“Perhaps I underestimated you, little owl. Such skill seems wasted protecting others, do you not think so?” Ares asked, the hint of excitement vanished.

An indignation bubbled up beneath your dread, understanding Ares had meant your talents better suited to bloody slaughter and resenting that notion. You bristled, snapping back at him. “If I agreed, I would have served from the start, wouldn’t I?”

Ares ignored your response, as if he hadn’t heard. “I have seen more than enough, little owl. Our duel shall come to an end now,” he declared confidently. Again resentment and terror warred with one another within you.

When Ares bolted forward again, you barely thrust out your sword in time and turned his strike aside. The eerie cloud emanating from the blade seemed to have increased, tendrils of it whipping about, framing Ares ominously and obscuring your vision here and there.  He didn’t stop at a single blow, striking out again and again as before, but with much more strength behind the attacks. The thought that your weapon and shield or arms might shatter from the force if things kept up flitted through your mind, distracting you for the barest moment.

Ares’ blade flashed forward, and your shield was thrust away, spinning through the air before crashing down and clattering to the ground. In a lightning quick motion, before you could bring your blade in to force his falcata away, the edge was leveled to your throat. You fell deathly still, the icy blade faintly touching your skin. One false move or a twitch of Ares’ wrist and all would be done.

The war god moved closer, grabbing your sword hand cruelly and twisting your blade from your fist. The hand that had disarmed you snapped to your head, grabbing a fistful of hair at the root and making you hiss. He drew your head back and the painful pinch of his blade scarcely cutting your skin made your pulse quicken. A warm trickle crept down your skin. Held between Ares’ hand and his blade, you dared not even breathe too deeply, so close were you to both.

Burning crimson watched you keenly, blazing with triumph and thet still unquenchable lust for blood. The blood you seeping from the shallow cut on your throat encouraged that bloodlust to greater heights rather than sate it. The thought made the space between you and the god feel heavy, airless.

“You fought magnificently, little owl. A far greater challenge even than I had foreseen,” Ares praised, not bothering to draw his weapon back. The tension hanging in the air, in fact, seemed thoroughly amusing to him, alluring even. You gathered all the resolve you possessed, fighting to glare defiantly at him. There was no room to show weakness. “How lovely that look suits you. Fearful, yet masked in defiance, even in the very face of death,” he drawled. You wondered if the god enjoyed his own voice as much as he enjoyed bloodshedl. “Do you believe me a liar?” Ares asked coolly after a moment of unsettling silence.

“I-” you opened your mouth intending to disagree, to ensure him you believed him - even if you didn’t trust him in the slightest -, but something stopped you. “Yes.” As the word escaped, you cursed yourself.

To your surprise, Ares’ proud smile grew. “Such an unwise thing to say,” he mused, “Are you trying to provoke me, now, little owl?” he asked nonchalantly, applying the scantest amount more pressure to his haze billowing blade. You winced, but quickly corrected your expression until your focus was on Ares once more. “No matter, our duel is over. Now comes time to take what I deem ample compensation for my victory.” At last, Ares drew back and took his falcata with him, and you could breathe again.

The start of a cold sweat broke out on your skin, and you felt clammy, except for the hot, sticky trickle drying on your neck. You swallowed thickly, willing your tongue to obey you, and spoke again after a moment of recovery. “So, what do you want? Out with it.” you pressed, perhaps too demandingly for one whom had been in your previous position. Yet with the blade no longer threatening to carve your throat open, you couldn’t help the annoyance and unease that crept into you.

“Tread carefully, little owl. I spared you before,” Ares reminded you casually, though the sharp warning edge suffused his words. He would take your insolence only so far. “Continue to disrespect me and I shall take your words as invitation to grant you a most painful end.” He paused, slipping his dark blade back where it belonged, before turning to you. “As the spoils of my victory, this ought to suffice.”

In an instant, so quick you had no time to wonder what had come over him, Ares was upon you again. His hand, having previously disengaged when he took his weapon away, returned, entangling itself in your hair again and forcing you to remain still. Before you knew it, Ares stepped uncomfortably close, bowing his head and slashing his lips across yours in a kiss that was neither delicate nor considerate. It was a kiss fueled by strength, full of teeth and heat that left you in a stupor.

Ares didn’t bother with the tedious task of coaxing your lips open with his tongue, choosing to bite down viciously, and blood oozed out to meet him. It slicked his teeth and tongue and your mouth fell open in a gasp of pain, and Ares thrust his tongue into your mouth.  It swept along your teeth for a moment, before wrapping around your own and fighting it into submission. A heady metallic taste washed over you as you futilely tried to win the war of flesh. Blood. Your blood. Mixed with the coppery flavor was something more subtle, spicy and earthy at once.

When Ares relented and pulled away, you strove for breath, the taste of him and your blood lingering in your mouth. But he had only begun, giving you little time to recover. You had long enough to question why you had kissed him back - or had you been trying to fight him off? - before he jerked your head back and inclined his faced further. His lips, hot and the barest bit sticky, met the curve of your throat. He swept down your skin, leaving angry bite marks and blotches in his wake, until he was nestled against the juncture of your neck and shoulder, unprotected by armor and bared by your tunic.

He bit down again. Harder than before, and his teeth sank into you, another rush of blood welling up.You couldn’t control the pained cry that burst from your lips. You were used to injuries from training or battle, yet hardly in such sensitive places, and almost never from someone’s teeth. It burned when Ares lapped greedily at the wound and you hissed. His free hand had curled behind you at some time you hadn’t noticed, pressing you forward, the unyielding planes of his chest plate and pauldrons digging into you uncomfortable.

A new sensation was blossoming beneath the pain, one that should have been utterly foreign and unthinkable, given the brutality Ares was treating you with. Maybe it was the burning, hungry expression in Ares' eyes as he looked up from your skin, lips tinged red. Or maybe it was the crushing embrace he held you trapped in. Or maybe the way he held you utterly compliant and vulnerable in his grasp. Or maybe it was all of those things combined that made heat fill you from your core and pool between your legs. A dangerous, confused lust was rising - one it would have been wiser to reject.

“Such splendid sounds, little owl,” Ares said, his voice lower, a wild delight tinging it. “I desire to hear more. Do not disappoint me.”

With a rough push, your feet left the ground, and you tumbled backward away from Ares’ grip, too startled and dazed from the confounding feeling brewing in your belly and the painful throbbing in your lip and shoulder to catch yourself in time. You grimaced when you met the ground, making to prop yourself up. But Ares followed you, shoving you down completely and pinning you there. Again, his armor prodded uncomfortably at you. Past the pleated leather folds attached to the armor torso, something still distinctly hard, but much warmer prodded at you as well.

When large hands groped at your tunic -  somehow both callous and perfect - some degree of sense insisted you stop him. But others argued with it. They insisted there was no point, this was the spoils Ares chose to claim. You wouldn’t be able to stop him if you tried. One devilish voice even craved more. Your internal debate crashed to a halt when Ares jerked your tunic down, the faint sound of fabric ripping lost to you. His lips fell upon your skin again where the fabric fell away, biting and sucking like he was trying to devour you. Many of them stung, not all as harsh as the bite to your shoulder, but several more drawing blood or leaving the areas soon to bruise, painting your skin in garish colors.

More pained sounds left your lips, gasps and whimpers and groans, though mixing more steadily into them were noises that belied some twisted pleasure. A hiss that became a moan. A gasp that turned into something breathy and thick. Something was stirring more and more hotly within you, transforming pain into a muted pleasure and adding fuel to the embers smoldering between your legs and in your belly.

Ares’ hands were as greedy as his lips, groping and kneading unmarred skin, roughly grabbing at your chest, pinching your nipples and making you cry out pitifully. Before long, he had covered your torso, shoulders, and neck in darkening bruises and blood, teeth marks and scrapes. Pulling away until he was looming over you like an ominous shadow, you could still make out the satisfied look languidly spread across his lips. His eyes seemed even more fiery, near crazed, as if he were high on your blood and pain.

“Such a careful, focused beast in the heat of battle. Now look at you, little owl, stained and trembling,” he purred, and his tongue trailed over his lips, cleaning the crimson staining them. “How beautiful a sight. The color suits you well.” He grabbed at your tunic some more, gathering the bottom around your waist, meeting the neckline he had pushed down. “As fragile and easy to see through as glass. Ought I shatter you like it, then?” Ares asked, greedily taking in the even larger expanse of flesh revealed to him. You wondered if he meant to litter the rest of you in similar marks.

Your lips parted, and you didn’t speak for a second, waiting for the mental gears to  turn. Your only choice was the illusion of it, so you may as well as pretend your answer meant something. “Break me as you please, Lord Ares,” you told him, surprised to hear how your voice sounded. Strain and breathy, and the realization strengthened the heat and wetness at your center you couldn’t deny, likely plain to Ares’ eyes with your tunic no longer guarding it.

“How bold a choice of words, little owl.” Ares sounded pleased, possibly having expected you to retort defiantly, or have no words at all. Yet you had indulged his words instead. He trailed a thick finger gingerly over your throat, tracing over your racing pulse. “It would thrill me so to watch the life bleed from you.” You believed him completely. There was no denying in different circumstances Ares would revel in your death. “Alas, I shall have to make do sheathing a different blade within your supple flesh.”

A hint of excited impatience shone through as Ares sat back on his knees, leaving you to lie waiting in the dirt for what he would do next. With an iron grip, he grabbed your thighs, lifting them both off the ground and splaying them over his pauldrons, on either side of the crossed blades on his back. The cold touch of his armor on your overheated, abused skin made you shudder, and you watched as he lifted the lappets of the armor.  

Your eyes lingered on what had thrust against you from behind layers of leather before, and you swallowed nervously. Ares was endowed impressively and in the embrace of a gentle lover that might promise a minor discomfort, but pleasure overall. Ares had shown no intention to treat you gently though - the ache and throb from the aftermath of his attention reinforced that - and you were under no illusion he was going to change that.

The new hesitation must have shown in your expression, a dangerous thrill creeping onto Ares’ own face as he brought the head of his cock to your folds. You thanked the stars that his brutal attentions had somehow elicited a perverse hunger from you, soaking your core. Though you imagined he would have fucked you raw whether or not you were wet. In fact, he might have enjoyed it more that way. Fortunately, his dick slipped slickly between your lips, gathering some of your wetness and pushing against your slit.

Ares didn’t take his time entering you, nor savor the moment, bucking his hips forward and splitting your cunt wide. You arched your back stiffly and hissed, both at the awful burn from the way his cock stretched you and the surprising satisfaction from the overwhelming fullness. You drew deep breaths, trying to adjust to the thick intrusion, fighting the pathetic whines that threatened to spill out.

Ares didn’t give you time to adjust to his size, rutting harshly against you, calloused hands digging roughly into your thighs. He leaned forward, bending you nearly in half, far enough a tendril of his silvery white hair brushed against your stomach, making your skin jump. The stretch ached to be sure - it would have even if Ares had been more thoughtful - but caught up in whatever perverse mood electrified the moment, there was pleasure bleeding into the pain.

Pleasure from the way he filled you so completely, creating a delicious friction that made your gut heat and tense. Pleasure from the rough slant of his hips against yours and his balls slapping your ass. Pleasure from the renewed vigor and sting of his lips and teeth attacking your neglected skin once more. It was agonizing and mindnumbing and enjoyable in a way you couldn’t have had any hope of explaining, at least not in a right sense of mind.

Each hard rock of his hips and searing puff of breath against your skin wore away at what little pride you retained, if you could claim to have any scrap left, looking such a mess. You might regret the memory later, but in the heat of the moment, there was no time for regrets or second thoughts. There was only room to try and enjoy what Ares had claimed as his reward.

As your dignity shattered and disintegrated like dust, the heat of your body and between your thighs grew, until you cried out into the air, the pleasure finally rising high enough to meet the pain and break loose from your throat between whines and winces. One loud cry that twisted and broke from another especially vicious bite must have gotten to Ares, eliciting an answering sound that was deep and primal.

Continuing to pound into your cunt, Ares looked up from his savagery of your skin, eyes glittering with amsement and lust of multiple kinds. His hot breath rolled over your bruised chest and his silky words rumbled over you. “You ought to thank me for my mercy,” he growled, and amidst the pain and pleasure you laughed to yourself. Mercy for a war god amounted simply to not killing you it seemed, even if the alternative was marking your body viciously and claiming it for himself. “Go on, then, little owl,” he compelled you, puncutating his words with a harder buck of his hips that left made you shout.

You opened your mouth, at first only pants and huffs and whimpers broke away. You gathered the words on your tongue he demanded of you. “Th-thank...aah...thank you, Lord Ares!” you cried out, surprisingly yourself. “Thank you f-for sparing me.”

He seemed satisfied with you pitiful answer, shaky and broken as it was, though he remained close to your skin. His pace grew stronger, faster, and he drew his tongue over some of the more bloody marks he’d left behind, coating his tongue again in your essence. His eyes swept hotly over his handiwork, bordering on frenzied. “Is it not such a wondrous feeling, to break bleed so, little owl?”

The smooth, husky tone of his voice, though it spoke such sick words - words you would have rejected in another setting - drove your own fervor higher, the molten spring of tension in your abdomen coming to the edge of its breaking point. You responded without hesitation, mind bent only on the promised releasen. “Yes, yes, my Lord!”

No more words fell between the two of you then, only the primal symphony of moans, grunts, groans, and gasps, enough to be heard by any soul unfortunate enough to be passing nearby. You hadn’t thought Ares’ thrusts could become any crueler, but as he chased and neared his own release, they did, until each thrust stung, hurting almost more than they pleased. His hands still clenched around your thighs and you could only imagine the intensity of the bruises that would be left behind - perhaps even worse than the many peppering your neck and chest and torso.

Despite the pain, your cunt squeezed around him, fluttering erratically as you danced on that edge so, so close. Until at last, it burst. But not before Ares finished with a sound so dark and heavy and alluring it could be called inhuman. Your walls embraced him even tighter as his cum filled you to overflowing, hot and wet, and you screamed and cried into the darkness of evening that had taken over.

When all was still at last, youtruly began to feel the extent of the damage Ares had done. He didn’t remain atop you much longer, not seeming to need to catch his breath, and when he pulled out of you, you shuddered, feeling sore and empty. Already tired before Ares had sought you out, and even more so after your combat, you were completely and utterly exhausted. Lying there, each pound of your heart making the bites and bruises pound along with it, you wondered if passing out in the dirt was a viable option.

Ares didn’t concern himself with your thoughts, however, or whatever it was you intended to do now that he was finished with you - for now at least. He just looked down at you, tucking himself back beneath the lappets of his armor and looking no worse for the wear. “Farewell, little owl. Do take care. And consider what I have said,” he began. “Your talents ought be used for something far more satisfying.”

You didn’t answer, letting your eyelids slide closed for a minute. When you opened them again, you were alone and the air was still and silent. You begrudgingly sat up, preparing to tackle the ordeal of standing and making the rest of your way home and to your bed. You wondered how you were going to explain your state to your fellows the following day.

[swan--writes]

The Deetz went on vacation, the Maitlands are taking care of something in the Neatherworld and reader has to babysit Beetlejuice

I have no idea if this is what you wanted, but this is what my brain cranked out. Really hope you enjoy!

Words: ~2,160

“C’mon kid, ya can’t do this to me! What’ll I do without you? I’ve never been alone with Y/N before!”

“Beetlejuice, come on. I have to leave.” Lydia’s words were drowned out by a pathetic wail from the demon clinging to her suitcase. You watched from where you stood beside Charles’s car. Lydia was attempting to drag her suitcase down the front steps of the Deetz-Maitland house.

Beetlejuice had spent the previous twenty-four hours trying to stop the Deetzes from leaving him. The family had hidden their vacation plans from him for as long as they could, using code words, deleting internet histories, delaying packing for as long as possible. But Delia had let slip on Thursday night that the family was going away for Lydia’s February vacation. Beetlejuice did not take the news of their imminent departure well.

Rather than deal with a bored, hyperactive demon for the week, the Maitlands had opted to spend some time in the Netherworld. Miss Argentina was missing some paperwork for them anyway. Charles had explained all of this to you the day before the Deetzes were to leave. You had been tutoring Lydia for a few months, and had hardly batted an eye the first time you met the demon. Once it became clear that Beetlejuice had no intention of leaving the house while everyone was gone, Charles knew you were just the person to ask for a very special favor.

“Thank you for watching him. I know this isn’t what we hired you for.” Without waiting for a reply, Charles scooped up Lydia’s large black suitcase and tossed it into the trunk of the family car, shaking off the demon as he did. Beetlejuice fell in a heap on the dirt drive. If it added any stains to his jacket, you couldn’t tell. “You know what to do if he gets to be too much?” Charles was already rounding to the driver’s side.

“Yes, I have all of Lydia’s instructions memorized,” you said.

“And you know about–”

“All of the plants, the stray cats, and the cleaning instructions.”

“What about–”

“The trick stair, third from the bottom.” You smiled down at Delia. She had told you this from over Charles’s shoulder the day before, practically yelling into the phone over the sounds of the raging demon just outside their bedroom. “Don’t worry, the house will be fine. Just go and have fun in London.” To your left, Lydia was helping Beetlejuice pick himself up from the ground. She dusted off his shoulders. Lydia rolled her eyes when Beetlejuice presented her his cheek and, rather than give him the kiss he was after, she pushed his face away, wiping the slime from his skin on his jacket as she went. Beetlejuice feigned insult. Lydia ignored him and climbed into the car.

“Bye, Y/N.”

“See you in eight days, Lydia.”

“Thank you again for doing this, Y/N.” Charles was halfway in the car when he thanked you. You knew why he was in a hurry – you yourself were watching Beetlejuice warily from the corner of your eye.

“It’s not a problem, Mr. Deetz.”

Beetlejuice watched the Deetzes drive away. You watched Beetlejuice. He waved enthusiastically, calling after them that London really wasn’t so great, and that he didn’t need them, and that it was only a matter of time before the London Eye went on a rampage, and you got the sense he was warming up to some very descriptive language before he took a step too far from the house.

Before your eyes, Beetlejuice’s front foot contacted an invisible barrier. “Hey, whoa. Whoa-no! Whoa!” Green sparks shot up from the ground and he was swept into the air, swirling and spinning and shrieking his way back into the house. The front door slammed shut behind him.

This might be a problem, Mr. Deetz.

You smiled in amusement before walking up the front steps and through the front door.

The first three days were quiet. Far too quiet. Beetlejuice floated through the halls at about your eye level, groaning, his hair a dull green. As long as he could still move, you decided not to worry. You refused to leave the house just in case. On day four, however, you realized you were out of snacks. You closed the cupboard and all but snuck upstairs, skipping the third step as you went. You got dressed in the guest room, where you had been sleeping, and washed your face quietly. When you went back downstairs, Beetlejuice was floating from the kitchen and into the living room. You stepped in front of him to stop him.

“Beej.” He came to a halt before you.

“Oh, you’re still here,” he said solemnly. You gave him a look, but ignored the remark. You had spent the last three days cleaning up the messes that Beetlejuice somehow managed to leave behind; water on the floor of the bathroom he didn’t need to use, dishes from the dubious meals he didn’t need to eat, the dirt he seemed to trail behind him.

“I have to run to the store,” you explained carefully. “I will be back in thirty minutes. Don’t do anything weird, don’t set anything on fire, don’t leave any messes that I can’t fix within the week.” Beetlejuice’s feet dropped to the floor.

“C’mon, you know me babes. I’d never give you anything you couldn’t handle.” A mischievous glint sparkled in his eye.

You shook your head. “I’ll be back.”

Needless to say, your heart was racing the entire time you were gone.

When you returned to the house, you only managed one step up to the front door before thinking better of it. Looking around, up to the roof, behind you, and through every window, you didn’t see Beetlejuice anywhere. As subtly as possible, you crept around the house to the back door and entered the house as quietly as possible. The back door brought you into the laundry room, and once you had tiptoed out of it, what you saw only confirmed your suspicions.

The front door was covered in green webbing. One strand of webbing led to what looked like a black flame thrower, off to the side. Would Beetlejuice really set you on fire? You didn’t think so, but regardless, you didn’t want to find out what that contraption did.

When you turned to your left, you were met with Beetlejuice’s face hovering upside-down, mere inches from your own. His feet were lost in the ceiling, and his filthy jacket was hanging over his head. He was grinning.

You gasped, but recovered quickly. “Nice try, Beej, but I’ve been seeing ghosts since I was like, three. You don’t get to me.”

Rather than reply, Beetlejuice leaned forward. Before you could stop him, the demon pressed a wet, sloppy kiss to your cheek. “Smart breather,” he growled before the ceiling sucked him up and out of sight.

“What the hell?” you cried after him. You made a disgusted noise and wiped what seemed to be ectoplasm off your face with your coat sleeve. Then, hearing sizzling, you rushed to get out of the thick coat and threw it to the floor. Maybe you should use the flame thrower-looking contraption on it.

You opted not to leave the house again after that. It only got worse. There was the swirling vortex in the guest room closet that you had to leap back to avoid. There was the slimy…thing among the cleaning supplies that you had to chase all over the house and subdue with a bucket before dragging it outside. Even on day six, when you had a movie night and Beetlejuice was sitting right at your feet eating popcorn, he somehow made all the condiments in the fridge fight a battle to the death with the cutlery. The cutlery won. Finally, day seven came. It was uneventful – a dead rat here, a bloody knife there. You wondered if Beetlejuice was starting to settle down.

Even at the time, the thought seemed naïve, but you let it go.

In the middle of the night, you were awoken by all the screens in the house lighting to static and the sound of chanting. Butts and brains. Sorrow and pain! Nooses and snakes, bottomless lakes, corpses with weights…

“Beetlejuice!” You had no idea where he was, so you just yelled into the darkness of your room, barely illuminated by the moonlight. “Cut it out, I’m trying to sleep!” But the chanting continued. Grumbling, you stepped out of bed. In retrospect, you should have known better.

As soon as your foot made contact with the cold floor, something that felt an awful lot like a tentacle wrapped around your ankle, latching on and pulling hard. As you fell to the floor, you let out a high-pitched shriek. Reaching out blindly, your hand found the thick hardcover you had been reading before you went to sleep. Though you managed to grab it, you couldn’t break your fall and your elbow smashed into the floor. The tentacle started to drag you under the bed. You turned and started whacking at it with the book. It took a few tries for you to connect, but finally you felt the grip on your ankle loosen. Scrambling away, you pulled your legs out from under your bed, ran across the room, and hit the light switch. When you whirled around again, wide-eyed, you saw him.

“Beetlejuice,” you wheezed, trying to catch your breath.

Beetlejuice emerged, limping from under your bed. “Jeez, babes, what did you hit me with? The Necronomicon?”

“Beetlejuice,” you growled. You threw the book aside and stalked up to the demon. Your voice was low. “I get that you are bored. I get that you miss everyone. But what do you mean to accomplish by torturing me?”

“Aw, I was just havin’ some fun, baby. It’s no harm–”

You kept the same deadly tone, but now your voice was rising. “Are you kidding? I have barely gotten any sleep this week, I have bruises everywhere, the house is a mess, and I can’t even walk down the hall without being assaulted by a dead guy.” You jabbed an accusing finger at his chest. “That sounds harmful to me!”

Now Beetlejuice was staring at you. Some of the humor was wearing away from his expression. “Y/N…”

You shook your head, then sighed through your nose and turned away. “Whatever. Whatever!” you repeated, throwing your hands up. You climbed back into bed gingerly, the small injuries of the past week all choosing that moment to remind you of where they were. “Just go do whatever it is you do when you’re not screwing with me. I’ll be gone soon anyway, everyone will be back in the morning.”

When you looked up at Beetlejuice again, he almost seemed not to know what to do with himself. Faintly, you noticed that his hair had turned purple. Without speaking, he nodded and walked to the door, head downturned all the while. When he got there, he hesitated. Slowly, Beetlejuice reached down and picked up your book. He brought it back over to the nightstand and, ignoring how you tensed up more and more the closer he drew, he set it down. Then he walked back to the door and left, shutting it softly behind him.

The next morning, you came downstairs fully dressed and expecting to have to battle some new eldritch creature. You had your book at the ready. But when you walked into the living room, it was spotless. All the webbing on the front door was gone, the scuff marks from where you had dragged the thing through the house were erased. Every dent in the furniture, every chipped spot on the walls, every ketchup stain was gone, as though nothing had ever happened. You wandered into the kitchen and found your ectoplasm-free winter coat draped over the back of a chair – the one you always sat in when you came to tutor Lydia. When you returned to the living room, Beetlejuice was sitting on the stairs. He watched you with a sheepish look on his pale face.

You walked up to him and ruffled his hair. It changed from purple to green under your hand. “Thank you,” you said. He gave you a sharp-toothed grin.

At that moment, the front door opened and Lydia Deetz tumbled through. In the time it took you to blink, Beetlejuice had lifted her off her feet and was, according to her muffled complaints, suffocating her. Charles and Delia walked in after the teenager and set their luggage down. Delia walked over to Lydia and Beetlejuice to try to intervene. To your right, Barbara and Adam were bouncing down the stairs and announcing that they were home. Charles leaned on the door and looked down at you.

“So, how was he?”

You gave Charles a weathered smile. “Oh, he was easy,” you said.

Buy Me a Coffee?

[thefloatingstone]

Last time I made a playlist of recommended youtube channels to enjoy while in lockdown or self quarantine, I focused on individual videos while also recommending other videos from the same channel.

I thought I’d make another list only this time I’m going to be recommending playlists or series on youtuber instead of just individual videos.

This is gonna go exactly like last time, so check out any of these that might seem interesting to you, and hopefully I can give you something to look into if you want something to watch but don’t feel like watching a Netflix or Crunchyroll show.

Last time I tried to put this under a read more break but it didn’t work and I ended up posting this long-ass post on everyone’s dash. Well I decided to do so again here. hit J to skip to the bottom of the post if you don’t feel like reading this whole thing. If you’re on tumblr mobile; why?

In no particular order;

Cinemassacre movie reviews and topics

All of you already know James Rolfe as the AVGN. I started watching him before Youtube was even a thing, before he was even signed on with Screwattack. Back when his videos could only be seen on his own website (or for some reason included on the free DVD you got with the local video game magazines). However, I eventually outgrew the outrage style humour of the AVGN episodes... but then James started doing Monster Madness where he would talk about his love for horror movies, and this where I learned about his vast knowledge about movie history and even films I had never even heard mention of before! I think it’s safe to say, he got me to be interested in movie history just as much as movie production and film as a viewing experience.

I recommend this playlist which is a hodgepodge of James talking about old horror movie franchises, talking about his first experience with Power Rangers as someone who didn’t grow up with it, or how Bob Ross is a childhood hero of his. It’s an excellent play list that’s really laid back but you learn a lot of stuff from it. James is very informed for the most part and it leads you to wanting to check out a lot of these things too, just because he’s so passionate about it.

If I ever get over my weird hang up about speaking out loud, these are the kinds of videos I’d like to make.

Vinesauce Vinny: The Neverhood

Vinny is by no means a new Let’s Player, having been on Youtube for over 10 years now, but I only started watching him a few months ago. I started with this playlist when I saw he was doing The Neverhood, a game I had heard about but never seen played before. The Neverhood is a bizarre game, as a point and click PC game from the 90s where the entirety of the video game was made with stop motion and clay. Something that sounds so insane you would say it’s impossible if not for the fact that it exists. The claymation itself is extremely well done, and the game has a really weird and absurd sense of humour. Just the strangest things happen in this thing. Now couple that with Vinny’s very dry and straightforward delivery and you have probably one of the funniest Let’s Plays I’ve watched in a long time.

This is also “short” for a Let’s Play series. With only 4 parts to it, the longest video only being a bit under and hour and 30 minutes. It’ll still take up a good chunk of your time, but it’s not as daunting as some of the other Let’s Plays I’ll mention on this list.

Team Four Star: Pokemon Shield Nuzlocke

Exactly what it says on the tin. The guys from Team Four Star play Pokemon Shield with Nuzlocke rules. They’ve done several Nuzlocke runs in the past, but I find the Pokemon Shield is the best one they’ve done. Especially since a lot of the needless fluff and grinding has been edited out. So unlike some of their previous series you don’t see a lot of Kieran and Grant running in a circle for an hour trying to catch a specific pokemon or trying to get to a certain level.

It’s also hilarious as they have a lot of “house rules” for the Nuzlocke often involving the exercise bike they.... have..... for some reason.

It’s very good and the gym battles become SUPER hype with the Nuzlocke rules and the music.

Baywatching

Having been going to a few years now, watch Allison try her very best to go through and do a video series where she talks about summarises every episode of Baywatch.

.... Ever. Single. Episode.

She’s not even close to done yet (and now she’s introduced Baywatch Nights AS WELL) but her trying to explain the batshit insanity of this show, it’s over the top characters, it’s insane plots and behind the scenes weirdness with all the enthusiasm and love for this slice of 90s is amazing. Please enjoy a good thick chunk of inside jokes, silly character voices, and a whole lot of ?????

Brutal Moose: Shenmue

Probably one of the most chill channels on all of Youtube, Brutal Moose aka Ian, prefers playing games you wouldn’t think would make for good Let’s Plays. And maybe they don’t, objectively. A collection of playlists covering Truck Simulator, Nancy Drew, Hidden Object games etc etc, spliced in with old commercials from drive in theaters from the 50s,60s and 70s. Ian’s Let’s Play channel is great for just putting on and letting play for company while you’re drawing or grinding in a video game or playing Stardew or something.

I recommend his Shenmue playthrough as Ian completely fell in love with the game and went on to play both the sequel and the newly released third game. Ian genuinely adores the weird voice acting and all the menial tasks and mini-games you can do. I watched this a lot in 2018 when I was going through a rough time, and it really helped me in a strange way to just put Ian on and listen to him talk to the chat and drive a forklift around for like 4 hours straight before going to Tomato Mart or wasting all his money on the gacha machines.

A Measured Response to “In Defense of Dark Souls 2″

At some point, big name youtuber Hbomberguy made a video called “In Defense of Dark Souls II”. I’m not subscribed to Hbomberguy but I enjoyed his video on why Sherlock (the BBC show) is trash. (come to think of it I should have added that to the first list). And it seems the video on Sherlock was really good and well argued.... and it seems his “In Defense of Dark Souls 2″ video... was not.

Using subjective language, bad representation of facts, or simply outright getting certain information wrong, Hbomberguy′s video on Dark Souls II is, at best, a man trying to argue that he likes Dark Souls II because it is “Objectively good”, rather than simply accept he likes it... because he likes it.

MauLer is kind of an asshole, but I have learned more about dissecting someone’s argument and deconstructing what they have said watching his response series than I have in any english or debate class I have ever had.

The response is over 10 hours long, but this is because MauLer takes time with each and every statement he takes umbrage with, discussing what is being said, discusses why it is false or dubious, and then compares with actual facts and research.

If you ever want to know how to to distinguish subjective opinion from objective fact in someone else’s argument regarding... ANYTHING really, I highly recommend this series.

I may not like MauLer as a person, but DAMN if he doesn’t know how to deconstruct an argument in a logic, emotionless way.

John Wolfe: Maize

Maize is a stupid game. a Stupid stupid game.

It involves sentient corn, and underground secret genetics lab, a Russian bootleg teddy bear that hates everyone, sentient corn, and a crumpet.

This game IMMEDIATELY went on my wishlist after watching this playthrough. Please watch John try and figure what the actual fuck is going on in this Monty Python-eque weird black comedy. It’s stupid, it’s weird, it’s bizarre and it’s honestly one of the funniest games I’ve seen streamed.

Hollywood: a Celebration of the Silent Era

This is not a youtube playlist. I mean it IS, but what this actually is, is a TV series released in the UK in 1980 covering the Silent Film era. As it was made in 1980, it includes interviews with many of the silent film stars who were often still alive during this documentary’s production. Each episode covers a specific theme of the silent movie era. One episode is about comedies, one is about WWI, one is about Westerns etc etc.

It’s a fascinating series, because it focuses on the silent era which, in modern day, I think many people unfairly think of as “those first few years of movies before movies really became a thing.” And that’s such a shame and really not true. The artistry, camera tricks, and raw nature of this early era of film making is so important and produced films which can still be watched today easily, possibly even easier than a few modern movies as often the very fact that the films are silent means they are universal, regardless of what language you speak.

I think an episode or two might have been turned to private or copyright claimed in this playlist, but I know if you do a search on youtube you can find the episode uploaded by someone else.

Diamanda Hagan: Bonekickers

Bonekickers is the show Mathew Graham made before he went on to work on the new Dr. Who. It is about archaeologists and it is God-fucking-Awful.

It is.... look. Ok. I like Archaeology a lot. But this isn’t a show that’s bad “if you like history” or “if you know things about archaeology”. This show is bad because it doesn’t make a single fucking lick of sense, all the characters are awful and terrible, and even if you understand what’s going on in the story you’re still going to be screaming “WHY????” at the screen as each new baffling stupid piece of the puzzle slots into place.

Diamanda Hagan has 0 time for this garbage and she’s going to walk you through each episode to show you how truly horrible this piece of garbage is.

Cry Plays: Ori and the Blind Forest

With Ori and the Will of the Wisps releasing recently, now is a great time to go and watch Cry playthrough the first Ori game. an absolutely gorgeous piece of work with a beautiful soundtrack and really likeable character designs and a sweet story, Ori is a great game to put on, sit back, and just let it wash over you. Cry’s playthrough is also great because although its a Metroidvania game, Cry fast forwards the parts where he backtracks for a long period of time, so you don’t get stuck watching him run back and forth as he tries to figure out where to go next or anything like that.

Cry also recently started playing the sequel as well!

If you enjoyed this list at all, please consider tipping me for a coffee

☕️ Ko-fi ☕️

[montagnarde1793]

Ribbons of Scarlet: A predictably terrible novel on the French Revolution (part 4)

Parts 1, 2, 3 and 5.

Inaccuracies: the minor, the inconsistent, the fuck no and the unintentionally hilarious

I have no intention of detailing every historical inaccuracy in this book. I’d say we’d be here all day, but we’ve already been here all day, so maybe all week?

The book is riddled with minor errors, oversimplifications and dubious interpretations — some of which could be chalked up in theory to writing from a limited POV, but this is not a book that allows for that kind of complexity. Opinions may be those of the characters, but explanations for events and who belongs to what group and so on tend to be those of the authors regardless of which character is speaking.

Given the level of detail of this book, I would count things like Condorcet’s being made a member of the Constituent Assembly or the Revolutionary Tribunal being founded by September 1792 minor errors. They might even have been deliberate (combining the Constituent and the Legislative Assemblies or the Tribunal of 27 August and the Revolutionary Tribunal, for “simplicity”’s sake).

“Les Enragés” is also an official group and that’s their official self-designation in the world of this novel. Um. Ok.

Also things like the complete lack of self-awareness revealed by the assumption that because 21st century Americans consider omelettes a breakfast food this must be a universal constant.

Anyway, I find that kind of thing irritating but pretty inevitable. Errare humanum est and all that.

Other minor errors are forgivable in and of themselves, I suppose, but indicative of a larger lack of understanding, similar to some of the implausible scenarios the authors set up (cf. Manon Roland’s random trip to Caen).

There’s a moment, for example, when one of the figures on trial for “conspiracy” in the red shirt affair appeals to the crowd by saying “I am suspected merely because I am an émigré.” (p. 490) which is hilarious when you realize the fact of being an émigré and returning to France after the cut-off date was already punishable by execution — a law pushed among others by our friends the reasonable, moderate “Girondins.” And I say this not to condemn them (on this point, at least) — there were actual, serious arguments in support of such a law — but to highlight a trend. The authors have decided that certain figures are reasonable, so they give them what they consider to be reasonable opinions, whether or not those opinions line up with those they actually held and, as we’ll see, they’ve decided others are dangerous extremists, so likewise they only get to do things the authors consider extreme, or at best hypocritical.

Usually there’s at least some consistency to the errors — too much in fact, as noted. But the fanciful claim that the guillotine was painted red and that everyone who was executed was dressed in red to hide the blood is repeated more than once, before being replaced with the accurate assertion that dressing the condemned in red was reserved for assassins (also arsonists and poisoners, in accordance with the penal code of 1791).

More serious are the “errors” that serve a certain narrative, like the repeated assertion that Louis XVI abolished torture and notably execution by breaking on the wheel. Er… no he didn’t. I’m going to charitably assume that the authors just confused torture for the purposes of obtaining a confession with torture as a punishment. Louis XVI abolished the former, not the latter. That may seem like a nitpick, but they make a very big fuss about it.

People were still being broken on the wheel until the implementation of the Constituent Assembly’s penal code which provided that all executions should be equal and as quick and painless as possible — ultimately leading to the adoption of the guillotine. The first execution by guillotine is apparently such a crucial event that we have to implausibly have Louis XVI’s sister sneak out and witness it, but we’ll just ignore the fact that the “hero” La Fayette’s cousin bloodily repressed the mutiny of Swiss soldiers in Nancy resulting in a number of hangings and one man being broken on the wheel — repression that La Fayette applauded — in 1790, because 1790 is a year in which nothing happened.

Besides, as is well known, La Fayette never did anything wrong (Sophie de Grouchy forgives him for firing on her when she was petitioning for a republic in 1791 (p. 509-510) so you should too, I guess. Though while we’re here, her signing the Champ de Mars petition is a pretty unlikely scenario, actually, given that only the Cordeliers petition remained after the Assembly’s 15 July decree and that even before that Condorcet didn’t dare to sign his articles in favor of a much less democratic republic than the Cordeliers were advocating for Le Républicain (which prudently stopped publication after 15 July).)

The abolition of torture thing is merely one of a number of errors or exaggeratedly charitable interpretations of Louis XVI’s actions to fit the myth of the fundamentally well-meaning, soft-hearted reformer who was just in over his head. Mme Élisabeth’s violence, while I commend it for its accuracy, serves to highlight her brother’s pacifism. We’re meant to believe that of course it was nothing but revolutionary slander/conspiracy theories to think he was actually intending to use foreign troops to restore himself to absolute power, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Mme Élisabeth asserts that she would like that to happen but her brother would never and Manon Roland confirms it from her point of view too.

On a similar note, Condorcet gets his usual “consensual figure” treatment. We’re unsurprisingly fed the myth of Condorcet as the paragon of democracy and feminism, with nary a touch of ambiguity. Even Pauline Léon can only reproach him with being ineffectual. That’s par for the course, as is framing the people’s fears of grain speculation as a conspiracy theory at least from Sophie de Grouchy’s point of view, though nothing in the text contradicts her at any point (p. 61), but framing Condorcet’s pre-revolutionary math lectures at the Lycée as him and his wife opening a school for popular education and Sophie de Grouchy personally teaching Reine Audu to read at her husband’s invitation… That’s pretty disingenuous.

On the other hand, nothing is too awful to be believed without question of the “radical” revolutionaries, whether it comes from dubious sources (as regards the myths about Lamballe being stripped naked and/or raped before or — depending on the “source” — after being massacred, or about Charlotte Corday’s head being slapped by the executioner and her body examined for evidence of virginity, or Robespierre’s lusting over Émilie de Sainte-Amaranthe and personally participating in Catherine Théot’s rituals) or is just made up. Surely the September Massacres were bad enough without imagining that random bystanders — including children — were being raped and massacred in the streets? Since calling for the execution of adult royals based on their actual actions doesn’t sound sinister enough, let’s have Pauline Léon demand the massacre of Louis XVI’s underage children too!

On that note, I have to wonder whether part of the problem is that we’re so used to hearing about atrocities on a scale that dwarfs anything that happened in the 1790s that what the sources suggest — which could still be pretty ugly, don’t get me wrong — doesn’t live up to the hype. The French Revolution is built up in reactionary propaganda like it’s one of the periods of the worst violence in history. I suspect that it’s like with a scary movie: your imagination will conjure up something far scarier than what they could show you on screen. So, expecting to find horrors, you readily believe whichever sources (or “sources”) have the most of them and fill in the blanks when the sources don’t match up to your image of what terror, chaos and violence look like.

It’s basically just deductive reasoning: they say there was horrific violence, so I’m going to depict what must have happened according to my mental image of horrific violence. It’s no different really from deciding a character is reasonable and therefore giving them the opinions you find reasonable. But not only is this poor methodology (which perhaps you don’t care about, as a novelist), it sucks out everything that’s nuanced or complicated or surprising about history for the sake of flattering your own prejudices. And that’s a shame.

Anyway, as for the red shirt affair, it’s generally believed by historians to be a cynical maneuver on the part of the Committee of General Security* to make Robespierre look like a tyrant by executing a large group of supposed co-conspirators with would-be assassins Ladmirat/Ladmiral and Cécile Renault but needless to say — and following G. Lenotre’s lead — that’s not at all how it’s portrayed here. Robespierre is of course personally involved for his own (necessarily hypocritical) reasons. He wants Émilie de Sainte-Amaranthe but in this telling she and her family have reason to believe he’s cozying up to royalists like them for personal political gain too. Oh, also, Saint-Just and Fouquier-Tinville are lusting over Émilie de Sainte-Amaranthe too, because why the fuck not?

*To use the misleading standard translation (sûreté ≠ sécurité)

Particularly ludicrous is the insinuation that not only did the Convention abolish slavery entirely as an expedient — which, to be fair, some historians argue, though there’s ample evidence that proves there was more to it than that — but that they had to because otherwise the British and Spanish would come to the slaves’ aid first. As if the plantation owners were not doing their level best to deliver their colonies over to the British precisely to preserve slavery. That bit was just insulting.

But you know, why let a little thing like reality interfere with dividing the world into reasonable people and hypocritical demagogues and the mobs that they incite, am I right?

And it’s often the absence of certain realities that poses the greatest problem. Like, counterrevolutionaries aren’t a real threat, that’s all a figment of the revolutionaries’ imagination... but as usual this idea coexists uncomfortably with the existence of actual counterrevolutionaries in the narrative.

The war, which dominated everyone’s reality from 1792 onward, is barely mentioned. Manon Roland is made to treat the idea that the Prussians were well positioned to march on Paris after the surrender of Verdun as an absurd rumor (p. 268-269) and we’re meant to agree. (This was very much not an imaginary threat, if you didn’t know.)

Also! Get ready because I’m going to cite Serna favorably for once:

Il est frappant de noter combien l’historiographie s’est de suite intéressée aux massacres de Paris et aux prisonniers d’Orléans, sans vraiment porter son intérêt sur les morts civils sur le front et la mise à sac des villes et villages à la frontière, deux poids deux mesures qui ne peuvent qu’interroger.

–      Pierre Serna, « « La France est république » : Comment est né le Nouveau Régime dans le Patriote français de Brissot » dans Michel Biard, Philippe Bourdin, Hervé Leuwers et Pierre Serna, dir., 1792. Entrer en République, Paris, A. Colin, 2013, NP, note 37.

(Translation: “It’s striking to note how the historiography took an immediate interest in the massacres in Paris and the prisoners of Orléans, without really getting interested in the civilian deaths at the front and the sacking of cities and towns along the border, a double standard that we can’t help but question.”)

I mean, we know why: military violence, up to and including every kind of war crime, is normal and expected as long as it’s a proper war conducted between two foreign powers (though the various foyers of civil war also don’t really come up in this book). But yeah, that is a pretty big fucking hypocritical double standard, isn’t it? And one that this particular novel reflects rather than invents (as is also true of many of its other flaws, to be entirely fair).

It’s also particularly ironic, for a book that touts itself as feminist, that the real gains made by women regarding inheritance, marriage redefined as a contract between equal partners dissolvable by divorce, the rights of single mothers and illegitimate children and so on — even if the periods of Reaction that followed reversed them — are nowhere to be seen. Nor do we see women voting on the constitution of 1793 or fighting in the army or any of a number of things real women did. I concede that no one novel can be expected to show everything, but given the things they bent over backward to include, would it have been so difficult to include things that are thematically relevant?

This wouldn’t even piss me off so much except for the way Pauline Léon’s storyline ends. Her arc consists of her being convinced of the folly of those of her beliefs that the author doesn’t approve of so that she can be used as a mouthpiece for the moral the author wants us to take from all this and then being forced into marriage because she gets pregnant. And I cite (p. 433):

They would silence us all.

One woman at a time.

First the Angel of Assassination. Then Widow Capet, who had once been queen. Olympe de Gouges five days ago. Now proud Manon Roland.

A professed Girondin, Manon was still against tyranny and had been an advocate for the republic since the dawn of the Terror. Once, I wouldn’t have been able to admit that, but I could admit it now. Now that it’s too late.

And, when she tells Théophile Leclerc he got her pregnant, he replies (p. 435):

“‘We must marry. You’ve no other choice,’” he continued when I didn’t respond. […]

We had wanted liberty in France. But what freedom was there now? I had none. Théo would possess me utterly. I knew it, because the look her gave me had me wanting to crumble to the ground. All the choices I’d fought years for had been stripped away.

And now, I was nothing.

If there’s one point in history before the last 50 years or so that that’s not true it’s in 1793, when this scene is set. Will she be more comfortably off if she marries? Yes, and that would unfortunately be true pregnant or not. But there’s nothing forcing her to marry him if she doesn’t want to and even if she does he doesn’t own or control her under revolutionary marriage law. Were things perfect for women in 1793? Of course not, but given that they were a lot worse both before and especially after, I’m more than a little sick of 1793 being portrayed as the most misogynist of all the misogynist eras.

Ironically though, they omit Amar’s report and the closing of women’s political societies* which is a far more relevant and accurate point if you’re trying to make the case for revolutionary misogyny. Not to mention, it’s kind of baffling to leave it out of Pauline Léon’s storyline as it was targeted against the society she led in particular. (Her section ends instead with Manon Roland’s execution.) But I guess that would require introducing Amar and we can’t have people believing that Robespierre, Danton and Marat weren’t the only Montagnards; they might get confused otherwise. Maybe at this point I should just be glad they didn’t give Robespierre Amar’s speech in the name of consolidation of characters?

*NB, mixed societies were never closed (until the Thermidorian Reaction shut down all political clubs), so the result is a bit more ambiguous than is often claimed.

Anyway. We’ll finally conclude this mess in the next part…

[multifandom--imagine]

LAST NIGHT || ALEXEI (SMUT)

warning: I've never written smut and so don't expect anything explicit or 50 shades of gray lmao. Also English is not my mother language so I might have done something grammatically wrong.

Your life surely was definitely not the correct definition of normal, indeed to be honest since you moved to Hawkings your life had definitely taken an abnormal turn.

The day before you were simply Sheriff Hopper's assistant, you can tell his apprentice and your days were limited to making fines on the street and delivering donuts to your boss. And now here you are in a bunker together with your boss, his "lover" or anyway partner in crime Joyce, a crazy communist named Murray and a Russian scientist named Alexei, or so he called himself, sitting at a table and plotting on a possible Russian invasion inside a village forgotten by God in Indiana. How did you end up in all this? Simple, this strange Russian base has gathered a lot of energy, for some kind of absurd plan, making Joyce and your boss go crazy that as far as they could seem to you, completely mad, they still caught your attention and so, as a good assistant you followed them in this crazy adventure risking your life several times.

This evening at the bunker it was quite challenging, your cronies seem to have found a great plan to put the word "end" to this macabre chapter, the only thing you are 100% certain of is the fact that nothing will be easy at the end. inside of this plan and the chances of any of you losing your skin are very high. Therefore in that hovel a strange silence had been created, it appears for Joyce and Hopper which seemed to have taken a taste for us to quarrel like two children. Murray was reading and repeatedly reading the plan he had made with being too neurotic, while Alexei ... well he turned out to be a real puppet, he had been watching TV all afternoon, he would have seen more or less 50 Looney Toons episodes. If you had remained even just 3 seconds inside that bunker you would have gone mad, so observing Alexei I gave him a slight blow to the shoulder.

"Murray, can you ask him if he's hungry?" You asked the old grumpy man who answered you:

"You stop treating me like a fucking translator" he commented sourly and then recalled the Russian boy's attention “Вы голодны?”

“один” the boy answered immediately.

"He said yes" Murray replied quickly before returning to his work.

"Perfect then, come on" you said, taking Alexei's arm "Smirnoff and I are going to eat something" you announced as you started toward the exit, before being blocked by a furious Hopper.

"Excuse me? Are you crazy? If you go out they'll find out! "

"I'm not stupid, boss. There is a service station a few meters from here, we eat one thing and then come back here, they won't catch us, promise” The sheriff grunted annoyed and then reluctantly gave you the keys.

"Hurry up" and without saying anything else he let you out of the bunker.

*  *  *

A grave silence reigned in the car, perhaps you should also have brought Murray with you, at least you could have exchanged a few words with some living being. But that young Russian scientist had caught your attention, among all he seemed the most gentle and probably both you and he shared the same position, you felt lost and trapped in a trouble surely bigger than you.

"Hey..." you said drawing his attention "Do you want something to eat in particular? Chicken? Beef?" You asked in a somewhat dubious tone, probably Alexei hadn't understood anything you had told him.

"Slurpee" he said, earning you a slightly perplexed look.

"You can't just eat granite...okay let’s do this, I'll take you to a nice place and you choose what you want, okay?" you observed his expression a little dazed and for this you raised your eyes to the sky. "Good God, is it possible that you don't understand a shit what I tell you? You can't just speak Russian in America" you said, snorting. This Russian didn't just tell you, he had to understand something English!

Anyway, you arrived at the service station, which had a fast-food next to you and you and Alexei got out of the car by getting out of the car. Arriving at the counter you indicated to the scientist the sandwiches they were selling in the station and strangely he seemed to understand, and holy god, he ordered two Big Macs, a large portion of chips and nine nuggets. You limited yourself to a medium toast and a coca-cola. You decided to buy Alexei ache his beloved Slurpee cherry and parking your hidden car shortly after the station you sat on the hood and consumed your dinner.

You looked at the sky, reflected, your head was a tangle of thoughts, questions and concerns. The feeling of not being able to see tomorrow or not being able to taste a fucking Mac Donalds toast really made you feel disgusted, as if everything no longer had a meaning, an importance, as if the rules had been banned, it was all a passing of seconds that crumbled waiting to be lived as it was right. You took a deep breath and looking at Alexei in the eyes you took a few seconds to contemplate that childish face. His cheeks were round and slightly red, his lips were thin and wet from the liquid of his cherry granita, his curly golden hair was untidy, his glasses framed those lively, innocent little eyes. That continuous observance had given birth to a strange sensation in you, as if a burning fire had been created in your stomach and certainly could not be nervous gastritis.

"Listen to me Smirnoff" you said in a tone that was perhaps too tense, enough to earn you a puzzled look on the part of the scientist "Probably tomorrow we'll all die and I barely finished college, I didn't live long enough to say that my life is less shitty than now. You probably think the same thing" you admitted getting closer to him "So before some crazy communist finds us and kills us, please let me do a fantastic fuck" I said feeling a little warmth on your cheeks.

Alexei's eyes almost popped out of their sockets as your lips touched his.

You thought he would repel you with enough disgust, but when one of his hands touched one of your cheeks to bring your face closer, you all started galloping with emotion. His lips were so sweet and sugary, it seemed you were eating a sweet cherry. You walked away a few centimeters just to take a second breath and, observing the young Russian's eyes, you could notice a strange spark in them, as if an animalistic instinct had awakened in him, but in any case there remained a tender, helpless puppy for you.He came down with a small leap (even a little awkward lol) from the car and making his way between your legs tried to get close to your body again. Your faces were still very close and biting your lower lip you looked him in the eyes with a mischievous smile, while your hands wandered lightly on his shirt, then grabbing the collar so as to push the boy into a new kiss more wild and passionate this time, the tip of your tongue tapped gently on Alexei's lips, inviting him to investigate this sinful act. It didn't take long before he opened his mouth making your tongues meet in a lusty dance.

His hands timidly rested on your hips, squeezing them slightly, when he felt your fingers unbutton his shirt, while your lips left a damp trail of kisses and bites from his jaw, to his Adam's apple where you left a small mark reddish, making a shy grunt escape from Alexei's lips but he seemed very pleased with all those attentions.

When you got to the last button the scientist caught you off guard by quickly taking off the t-shirt you were wearing, leaving you wearing only your bra, he also took off his own shirt, leaving somewhere on the ground, then letting you lie on the hood car, bringing your skin into contact with cold metal.

Alexei took the opportunity to steal another sweet kiss from you, slowly bringing a hand to your breast, squeezing it over your bra cup and when you saw him blush as soon as he listened to your light moans, you couldn't hold back. So raising your torso a little you unhook your bra, leaving your breast and the prey of the young Russian's lips in plain sight, and he grabbed the fabric of your shorts, starting to unbutton them with great enthusiasm.

None of you had the patience to engage in the preliminaries, you both knew already what you wanted and there was no need for words or translations to understand it. After getting rid of your panties too Alexei took you by the hips, bringing your lower belly even closer to his and the first thing you could hear was his obvious erection, hidden in the fabric of his pants.

“Вы сделали хороший беспорядок, котенок” he whispered in your ear in a very deep tone, leaving you an absurd curiosity about what that phrase could have meant, but little did you care at that moment you just wanted to feel pleasure and be satisfied.

"Stop talking and unbutton those pants" you commented with a slight laugh, while the boy seemed to have guessed your request and performed it without blinking.

As soon as his member was free from the fabric of the boxers, Alexei invited you with a small gesture to lie down on the cold bonnet of that car and when you could feel your intimacy going into contact with that of the Russian let slip a sweet moan from your wet lips . Needless to say, when the young scientist decided to get inside you with a slow push you couldn't help arching your back for pleasure, letting that silent and forgotten place of God begin to fill up with your languid moans as the pushes were getting faster and deeper.

Your eyes were glued to each other, lost in your irises, the only moments when the contact was interrupted was when your eyelids came together for a few moments and then reopened, you knew that that relationship was the most absurd and unusual in the world but surely, nothing you were doing was remorseful.

With your slightly trembling hands you took Alexei's face in your hands and before you both reached the apex of that relationship, you joined his lips to yours in a last and passionate kiss.

* * *

"Yo boss, we are back..." you said entering the bunker with a very tired face and throwing the keys next to Hopper's hands "I'm going...I'm going to take a shower" you announced stretching before locking yourself in the bathroom.

Meanwhile Alexei sat down on the couch, pulling a long sigh and trying to calm the blush that colored his chubby cheeks, but he had to pull himself to attention when Murray sat down next to him and drank a glass of vodka.

[this conversation between murray and alexei is in Russian, but I decided to translate it lol]

"Where have you been, my friend?" He asked, giving him a winking look. "Just to know, do you know? It was an hour and a half that we were missing" the man said ironically. Alexei cleared his throat and then adjusted his glasses.

"We ate at one of your American fast foods" he tried to mislead by looking elsewhere, at the TV screen on.

"Really? And what did you make that little girl eat? Your cock?” He asked ironically to let out a fat laugh, finally giving the Russian friend a heavy pat on the back, leaving him alone and with a face as red as a tomato.

[b4civility]

Chapter 5: James

  I know that not a lot of people that were also taking Visual Arts were going to be there, but I wasn’t too desperate about it either. Some to who I’ve talked to during the first week were nice but most of them were those edgy, cold, Clock Orange and Tarantino worshippers that just had their heads too far up their own butts to have a real conversation with. I think Betty was the only freshman that didn’t annoyed me at some level this past few days.Hope I get a chance to talk to her better. Is she thinking the same? Did she have a nice first week? Did she think of me at any point this past week? ‘Cause I had. I saw her twice on campus from afar, but she was always in a heated discussion with a group of people. This Political majors won’t miss a discussion, apparently. I hope she can take a joke, too. I think I remember her smiling at me the last time I was around, that gives me hope. 

  I skate there, only me with a bottle of champagne that I had smuggled from my mother’s hidden bar on the attic. Didn’t blame the people for staring, I was a Kid Cuts His Face While Riding a Skateboard With A Glass Bottle In Hand accident waiting to happen. I toss my board on the grass and get in, make myself home. I have been here for the same reason more times than it’s legal, but never felt uncomfortable enough to never come back again. It always started with some dubious glances and “who’s brother is this” muffled comments, and when we were all ready to call it a night lots of hugs and cheek kisses and “hope I see you next time, man!” were delivered at me as goodbye. Thus, I always came back. 

 “Sup Jaaames” Zoe greeted me. “ Nice! we were almost running out of this one, saved the party bro” she was pouring the champagne on her cup letting it leak a bit. She wasn’t sober. 

“Yeah, I see you enjoyed some of if”

“ You don’t miss a thing, do you?” she took a sip. “ I was going to say this party is going to be good for you to mingle, but you already know most of our friends. I didn’t invite many people from your class but I hope you get to know them better, it’s good to be friends with people you study with, don’t underestimate that” She handled her tipsiness with grace, I bet she could give me a well-thought speech out of the tip of her tongue if I keep winding her up. 

“ I talked to some, but they weren’t exactly my type of people, but I guess if I’m nice to them, they’ll be nice to me” 

“Probably. But I suppose they were no Betty, am I right?” she said, stretching her name.Had I say something? 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Rumors fly,boy. A little bird told me that you and her had a pretty agressive locked-eyes-situation last time you were here”. Inez couldn’t keep her words neither her imagination to herself, which was worse. 

“ Yeah, I guess,but whatever…”

“Speechless,all of the sudden? hehehe”  she leaned her arm on my shoulder,trying to catch her breath to talk  “well, it’s not like it’s a surprise for anyone here. In any case, you know were the porch izzzzz” 

  I sat her down on the kitchen top, handled her a glass of water and told her I would say hello to some people. As I walked around, I saw some boys that would be in my grade if I was still in high school, Trevor and Nate. Fucking idiots. They were always the ones to start a fight on a party or to make out with girls that were just too drunk to persist to refuse. I didn’t engage in the first one, but had already started some myself for the second reason. But, right now, in front of all this people they were new to, they seemed like two nice puppies. I nodded at them and went to the backyard. Needless to say, I wanted to get to Betty as fast as I could so I just waved to a lot of people, grabbed a beer and looked around trying to appear as casual as possible. And there she was, talking to a friend. She was much more relaxed than when we had met and her eyes gleamed a bit when she smiled. I feel like I could come up to her and just ask “what’s up?” and we would spend the entire evening talking, as if we had done it a million times before. The scenario in my head didn’t worry me anymore, I wasn’t revising all my pick up lines trying to decide which one would work with her, I wasn’t forming a backup plan if she told me off. I just wanted to switch places with the girl in front of her. If only I had arrived earlier, if only that girl was talking to some other friend, if only I… was touching her tight. That girl was touching Betty’s tight. How close could you get over introduction week? Well. I guess I wouldn’t be the one to know. 

  I noticed that I had my eyes glued on the two for way too long so I went back inside. I wouldn’t say that I was crushed, but definitely disappointed.What was up with me? I misled my own self; it’s not like we had have any significant communication before, and it’s not like I was short on options of who to end the night up with. I wasn’t the one to fall like this;I had never been in love before.I sat on the couch for a bit drinking my beer until I heard from behind the other couch, that was in front of me: 

  “ You good, James? Another girl dumped you again? Uni girls don’t need your help when I’m around, do they? “Trevor said, giving Nate a high five for the extremely mature - almost academic, I would say-  line that intended to get on my nerves. His goal was to either get me to fight him or to kiss him. But I guess I was still too sober for his taste. I always nod it off, never engaged the other twenty times he has ever tried to get me out of my cool. 

But I could use the distraction.

 Deep breath, fake smile and ask: “Beer pong. Me and someone against you two. What do you say?” I ask him. If life gives you two brats, you make a beer pong match. 

  “ Never saw you so engaged in making a clown out of yourself, James. I’m in. What’s in for it?” 

  “ Shit, isn’t the whole point to just get drunk? That’s what’s in”

  “ I could be getting drunk with any hot bitch on this party, I’m not wasting that on you.Don’t be a pussy and bet something already” 

  “Whoever loses has to strip to the entire length of a song in front of everyone, in the kitchen counter.” Nate said.Trevor’s shadow could talk and knew the word ‘lenght’? Really underestimated that dude. 

  “Deal.”

  It’s not that I was a good beer pong player. Neither was feeling especially lucky that evening. But I did have Ashley going for me, she made an excellent partner when it came to this game. However, I managed to balance her out and we lost. 

  “Okay! This is finally the night that we’ll know what is the color of James’ panties!” Trevor high fived Nate again. 

  “ Dreamed about it much, Trevor?” I answered. 

  “ Doesn’t matter. It’s not me who’s getting naked. I’ll let you choose the music” 

  I hesitated a bit.

 “U can’t touch this”,I said. 

 He looked at me, a bit confused . “ Don’t get me wrong, James, I’ll definitely blast this but you’re digging your own grave” 

Trevor laughed.

  But a newbie is a newbie- since it was the first time they were ever in a college party, they weren’t aware that this was the song that played in every one of them and everyone had to dance to it. It was tradition. My brother, who was here before me, two years ago, warned me of it and taught me some smooth steps to this song. That’s when I discovered that I wasn’t too bad of a dancer and, long story short, everyone knew I could dance. So, when the song started and everyone got up and I stood on the counter, their heads bounced side to side, wondering what kind of code had been passed to everyone but them. And as I did the choreo, people started blasting my name, encouraging me. Damn, U can’t! touch! this! I was having a great time being the center of attention and the fact that I had to strip just hitted me by the middle of the song, so I started doing so. I took my shoes off, kicking them away on the beat of the song, and just as I had taken my shirt off- what led some girls to scream louder- the song ended. 

“LET’S GET THIS YEAR STARTEEEED!!!!!” I screamed at the end. The crowd shouted my words back at me. 

Yeah, I guess I’m starting big.

[nymphl]

In the General’s Bed - Regency!Hux x Reader - Ch. 6 - To resent a General

A/N - Hello, sweethearts! Here’s chapter 6 of ITGB. This chapter has a lemony scene, a bit more detailed then the others in this story xD I hope you like this chapter, it’s one of my fav, even more because it entails a bit of shift in this story and what I’m planning for future chapters xD Anyways, thanks for leaving notes and reblogging. I appreciate your feedback very much. 

Story Summary: The General is cornered… Upon returning from a successful campaign in Battle of Waterloo, Armitage Hux knows he has no excuses left; he must produce the much-needed heir. The problem is, when the two of you parted five years ago, it was not in the best of terms. Now, he may not find his wife, you, so willing as he first expected, nor keen on taking part in any of his political games. [Hux x Reader – Hux x You – Regency AU].

Warnings for the entire story: Will contain at times; graphic violence, sex, drugs and manipulation, coarse language and OOCness.

AO3 Tags: Regency Era; Alternate Universe; Alternate Story; Alternate Universe - Historical; Arranged Marriage; Politics; War; Napoleonic Wars; England - 1815; Married Couple; OOCness; Smut

Wordcount: 7898

PREVIOUS CHAPTER 

“THREE… TWO… ONE… THERE YOU GO, LITTLE LORD.”

You smiled as Lux positioned his chubby hands over the piano keys and played the brief song you had just taught him. He was a smart kid and learned fast. Part of you would rather if he did not catch onto things so quickly, as to delay his imminent parting as much as possible.    

“Well done,” you said, before pressing your lips lightly to his forehead. You knew Rae Sloane was watching everything with her attentive eyes as she read a book in the nearby ottoman. “Well done.”

As he continued to play, you let yourself think of Hux’s words. Of his whispered confession last night.

My damned father made sure I will only have access to the total sum of my inheritance only when I have an heir of my own. 

You remembered you reacted with a loud What? and that you told yourself there was nothing to be surprised about. Brendol Hux would do anything in his power to undermine his own son — flesh, blood… those were notions the previous General did not give a damn about. If he could jeopardize Armitage’s standing, he certainly would.

The very thought made you bit your bottom lip in anger. You did not know which father was worse, if yours — with his prejudice and blatant disregard of women — or Brendol — with his dubious character and… well, you could also say blatant disregard of women and his own flesh and blood.

There were days in which you were grateful for having barely interacted with the man himself. And in most of them, you pitied Hux for having had to put up with him for almost three decades.

Bad character aside, Brendol’s actions posed a problem for both of you. Armitage had the money, he just could not use it until…

You sighed.   

And recalled Rae’s own words to you.

…give him a damned heir…

Well, it seemed now you had no other choice. It was either give him a damned heir or watch him making a deal with Lady Carise — the devil herself. Borrowing money from a banker was completely out of the picture.  

“Mama… Mama!”

You were startled as Lux’s voice reached you. He had placed both of his tiny hands on your face, directing your attention to him. The piano keys — his recent fixation — completely forgotten.

“I am terribly sorry, Little Lord. I am…” You stopped yourself before you could lie. Rae cast a glance at you from her book, eyes narrowed. “Very much distracted today.”

He nodded, but his face hid nothing of his disappointment. You chewed your bottom lip; overcome with guilty, but feeling your mind racing with possibilities all the same. You had to find a way to get you out of this situation — to repay for his… understanding. To name it as kindness would be a bit too much.

The fact is… Hux had a meeting with his investors today — one in which he would be accompanied by Lord Mitaka — and only God could know what their reaction would be as soon as they knew how little profit the Arkanis Brewery would give them in the next few months — it is, if Hux found a way to pay for his debts. You admitted that in such devastating scenario, the was the fastest and safest way to get out of this predicament, without leading him to compromise his candidacy for Prime Minister, would be to accept Lady Carise’s money.  

Nevertheless, you would have no way out if you did not get pregnant soon. Well, needless to say you were trying, but there had to be something else — something faster and precise — that could be done.

With a defeated sigh, you messed his ginger hair. He ran his fingers through his tresses and stared at you with a scowl — to which you did your best to muffle your laughter. He was just too adorable when he was mad!

“Mama! And Lord Hux?”

“What about Lord Hux, Little Lord?” You pressed a lovingly kiss to his cherub cheeks and watched with amusement as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. He was indeed mad at you. 

Rae Sloane cast a glance at you; one that showed that in spite of her disapproval of Lux’s inappropriate behavior, she was still at least a bit amused with his frustration. 

“The violin, Mama!”

Ah yes…

He had been talking excitedly for a good few minutes — a few days now — about Hux’s violin — you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact Lux had actually seen his uncle playing the instrument. It had been years since you last saw him near it — and you barely heard anything he said.

You sighed.

“I know you want to play violin, but listen to me, I myself don’t know how to play it and I’m not sure Lord Hux has the time to teach you.” 

His face fell.

It was obvious he had developed some sense of… admiration to your husband. He worshiped him — honestly, Lux was a very lonely child and he had the tendency of looking up to anyone who paid him a measly few minutes of attention.

You left the bench and kneeled in front of him, adjusting his clothes and bringing him closer to you by his waistcoat.   

“But I can keep teaching you how to play the piano.”

He smiled. Begrudgingly, but he did.

“Now?”

You were ready to answer the both of you should get ready to have lunch and later — after you got some well needed time to send a message to your contact in The Times — you could teach him a thing or two about the piano, but you were interrupted by the sound of someone opening the door of the drawing room.

Looking up, you were surprised to see your husband crossing the threshold. The boy beamed up as he saw Hux and he quickly left your embrace to run towards his new idol.

You rolled your eyes.

“I want your violin.”

“Lux Dameron!” Rae admonished him; her voice was harsh and hid nothing of her disapproval. “That’s no proper way to ask for anything.”

He lowered his head, ashamed and muttering a small, feeble apology. You could barely hear him saying I’m sorry, Lord Hux.

Armitage, however, did not seem to mind the boy’s lack of etiquette. Blue eyes focused on you — and the intensity of his stare made you shiver; it felt as if he could read your thoughts and what you were planning… or thinking about planning… —, he dismissed Lux’s apology, “I’ll teach you how to play it one of these days.”

Lux looked up at him with adoration in his chestnut eyes. Your husband was doing a hell of good job of turning the boy against you and Rae. Firstly, he promised to teach him how to ride a horse and now… he promised violin lessons.

With a sharp intake of breath, Rae fixed her dark eyes on him, making Lux hide behind Hux’s long legs.

“Really?”

Hux nodded, dismissing Rae’s stare as if it meant nothing. You wondered how many times she terrorized him in his childhood — and how many times she did not act on those stares, if Hux treated it so lightly.  “Now, you must go with Lady Rae and get ready for lunch.”

“Yes!”

He was so excited at the prospect of spending more time with Hux, he paid Rae little to no attention — a fatal mistake if your memory did not fail you; Rae would probably ground him for the entire week and only you knew how terrible Lux’s mood got whenever he was banned from visiting the stables and his beloved friend horses, but at the moment, he did not seem to even remember how devilish Lady Sloane could be.

Accepting her hand, he followed her out of the drawing room humming to a childish song. You were ready to trail after them, when you felt your husband’s hand enclosing around your wrist.

“I never allowed you to leave, Lady Hux.”

A happy sigh left you as he brought your body closer to his and his lips fell upon yours in a slow, seductive kiss. He entangled his fingers in your hair — and if he did not know how to drive you mad with want, you would have scolded him for undoing your perfect hairdo — and angled your head for his better pleasure; his tongue running enticingly over the rim of your lips.

Placing your hands on his shoulders, and then slowly sliding them into his ginger locks — you almost expected him to trap your hands between his, but this time he did not seem to mind a disheveled appearance —, you gladly let him in, stroking your own tongue boldly against his.

He let you go after what seemed a good few minutes and pressed a kiss to your temples. You fought to reign in your breathing as he lowered his forehead to yours.

“I know what you’re thinking…” You wetted your lips nervously. “He isn’t a Dameron and you dislike seeing him being addressed as such.”

There was a minute of silence as you caressed his face.

“No. He isn’t,” he replied as he put some space between the two of you.

A tired sigh left your lips.

You could have pointed out he could never be a Hux — not if he wanted to become Prime Minister in the near future — and that he once hated his family name, but you understood what he meant. After Brendol passed away, the name Hux gained a new face: his — and later on yours —, and with it a new blank chapter; one he was willing to write differently, for the sake of his new family. And Lux is family.

Part of you wondered if the desire to recognize Lux as family came from the desire to right his father’s — and yours too — wrongs. If not for you and Rae, his fate would be… probably worse than Hux’s.   

However, you both knew that if anyone just dreamed about Lux being his nephew and your little brother it would be the end of his aspirations. Your standing in the town would be compromised and no sane King would approve of him as the Head of the Parliament. And that position meant a great deal to Hux.

You walked to him, until you invaded his personal space.

“Would you rather if he were your son?” you whispered against his lips, but as soon as the words were out, you realized how stupid that question was.

He chose silence.

You swallowed.

“How did it go?” you said, trying to change the topic and get some control over the situation. “What did the board say?”

It was all it took for him to break apart. Again.

You pursed your lips, trying not to let his actions get to you so easily. It was obvious he did not like to be further inquired on his meeting with his investors. It must have gone horribly if he was so against talking about it. That… or he did not like to talk about business at all.

Part of you understood where he came from. Most husbands did not talk to their wives about… Well, they simply did not talk. Most wives were there just for the show. Very few of them ran their estates and even fewer understood about business and politics. Even if they were interested in such topics, it was expected of them to shy away from them. Except for the Ton politics, noble ladies… Wealthy families, it is… they did not — should not — waste their precious time with the intricacies of business and income… They just… spent money as if there was no tomorrow and in case they lost it, well… they simply gained it back through marriages.

An accomplished lady knew about dancing, playing the piano, embroidery… but never about income and basic taxation. And the few men who understood the intricacies of the business world, probably came from the lower classes, working class, as Armitage’s family did. Your father, for one, knew nothing of business. He ran his estate with the same regard he showed your mother: which is to say, almost none. When he realized he spent all his wealth on courtesans back in London, he decided to regain it at the gambling table.

But you were no trophy wife. You refused to be. You would not back down. Sitting beside him on the setee, you took his hand between yours. Slowly, you traced the gold band on his finger.

“What did they say, Armitage?”

He narrowed his eyes at you; a clear warning. You should tread carefully when looking for answers, pressing him would not do. You rolled your eyes. You were not scared in the least.

“We’re not having this conversation, Lady Hux.”  

You snorted.

“Well then, Lord Hux, perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’ll tell Lady Sindian.”

He inhaled sharply at your words.

“Or you’re not having this conversation with me either?”

“Careful, Lady Hux.”

You knew you were playing with fire, but you were not about to back down. Not now. Not ever. You told him you were in this for real — you told him that if he wanted to be Prime Minister, he would need you and you stood by that. If he wanted to get out of this debt, he would have to start trusting you.

If he thought you would not understand about his business, the least he could do is to tell you about how he would approach Lady Sindian. He would have to be smarter than her with his excuses — a simply refusal would not do.

You knew and he knew Lady Carise was dying to get back at your family — at you — for years now. If not having you pressing your father to let you marry Armitage, she probably would be your stepmother now… A Marquise. Having Lord Hux owing her a large sum of money seemed the right way to go. It did not seem to you she would let such matter go that easily. Unless… Unless she had something else in mind to use against the two of you. Something bigger. Something better.

That’s why he would have to be smooth. Lady Carise was not just any woman. Just like you, she did not bow to other men — she did not take no for answer.

You were ready to inquire him further, when you felt him bringing your wrist to his mouth. Your heart quickened as got a brief taste of your skin. A gasp left you as he pulled you to him, forcing you to straddle his hips. His lips quickly found yours in a searing kiss. You knew what he was doing and even though you thoroughly disliked it, you would let him have his secrets.

For now.   

You woke up later with a strong headache.

There was no need to look for Hux’s watch-pocket to know it was late afternoon — he had left you spent, and you slept more than you usually did whenever you took an afternoon nap — and that you had gone by without lunch once more. No wonder your head felt like exploding, yet you felt no hungrier than before. To your surprise, he was still by your side. But, this time, instead of relief, you were disappointed.

You left the comfort of his arms and rolled on your back.

“Ugh… Why is it so clear? And who’s playing Schubert?”

As expected, there was no reply from his part. There was no need to. In spite of Rae’s misgivings about the piano, she was quite proficient at it. She put many of the accomplished ladies of the Ton to shame with her skills — after five years living with you and seeing you practice, she became quite fond of the instrument, even though she would not admit it.

Since the two of you disappeared to your chambers before lunch, you imagined she would take it upon herself to keep Lux busy and out of your hair. By now, you thought the poor boy was probably sleeping in the setee, while Rae played to her heart’s content.

You closed your eyes — as if it could relieve the pain and ease the guilt —, but they quickly snapped open when Armitage moved over you, his nose touching yours and his breath caressing your face.

He kissed you.

Slowly.

Sweetly.

A mere brush of lips.

“You worry too much.”

With a gasp, you let him in, stroking your own tongue against his. He let you dominate it — dominate him —, not caring once more that you had slid your hands between his ginger locks. His fingers traveled the extension of your legs lightly, prying them open, so he could slide between them. He did not stop until he reached your hips, applying the slightest of pressures.

The kiss did not last long. He let go of your lips and moved downwards, placing open-mouthed kisses on every inch of exposed skin. Your breath grew heavier as he paid thorough attention to your throat at the same time his hands traveled upwards, in a quest for your breasts.

“We’ll be late for dinner.”

He paid little no regard to what you said. And in spite of what you said, you, too, could not care less about your lateness. Even the melancholic sound of the piano downstairs did not deter you from your quest for the astounding heights of pleasure you could reach together. A moan left you as you tried to move your hips, seeking the much-needed friction. He was so hard, and you were… so ready to take him, you moved your hand from his shoulders and tried to reach his cock… Just to have your wrists trapped. You grunted in disappointment, but he merely lowered his head to your chest and pressed light kisses to the undersides of your breasts. Quite but never touching you were you needed most.

“I won’t beg.”

His lips tilted in the shadow of a knowing smirk.

A gasp escaped you as he placed a small kiss over your nipples. First, on the right breast and then the left. He did not take his time to worship them, however. He kept on lowering his kisses, going past your ribcages, your belly, your navel, till he reached your hipbone.

You pressed your lids together, waiting anxiously for what was to come. For a man who did not enjoy small talk, he surely knew how to put his mouth to better uses than to those of meaningless discourse.

Squirming in his hold, you tried to get your hands free — to fist the sheets, to grab onto his hair —, but he did not allow you to. His lips ghosted over the insides of your thighs — it was so light you could barely feel it. You arched your back, lifting your hips — offering yourself to him. He ran the tip of his tongue over your clit.

“Yes! Gods, yes!”

With a smirk, he drew away. His lips glistening with your wetness. You bit your own bottom lip, frustrated beyond measure.

“You won’t have me begging.”  

He ran his lips over your left calf, letting go of your wrists — to which you checked for marks and thanked the old-fashioned use of gloves; the General had a penchant for leaving you marked. With his left hand he held your leg close to his mouth and lazily pumped himself with his right hand.

You inhaled sharply at the sight. It was indeed a feast to the eyes. Armitage knew how to please your every sense — vision, hearing, smell, taste, touch… none was left unattended for too long.

“Touch yourself.”

You bit your bottom lip, unsure. It is not to say that in the five years you were apart, you never sought to pleasure yourself — but to have him watching you was completely different. The intensity in his eyes made you warm all over. Your lids fluttered closed as you reached down, tracing your own thighs, approaching your center very slowly… outlining your lips… testing your wetness… quite but not entering yourself, as you knew he wanted.

“Look at me,” he whispered against your calf; his lips were almost on your knees, kissing the underside of it. “Keep your eyes open. I want to see them when you come.”

His words had you breathing deeply through your nose.

You opened your eyes, looking at his face and then sliding down… to the path of ginger hair leading to his engorged, beautiful shaft… Your mouth watered — you moaned — at the sight of precum oozing from his head.

Under his attentive gaze, you slid one finger inside of you and then a second; the heel of your hand applied a sweet pleasure to your clit. More than once, you thought about closing your eyes — the intensity in his blue orbs too much for you —, but as you lost yourself to the growing pleasure, you realized you could not shift your attention from how he stroked his shaft, timing it to the rhythm of the music. The feel of his lips, inching closer and closer to your center forced you to keep your eyes wide open and focused on him.

As the piece of music reached a crescendo — and you could swear you would never be able to play or listen to Schubert without reliving this very afternoon —, so did his movements — and yours too. Your breath grew heavier, beads of sweat pooled in the valley of your breasts, sliding down your skin. You were close and he knew it.

Armitage lowered himself on the bed and placed one of your legs over his shoulders; your hands were put aside. His heavenly mouth ghosted over your clit, his warm breath making you clench around nothing. This time, the thought of not begging flew off your mind as you uttered a broken please.

With a smug smirk, he took your clit between his lips, sliding two of his fingers inside you. Losing no time, he looked for that sweet spot that would have you singing for him as he worked you towards an earth-shattering orgasm.

As it hit you — just a marvelous, indescribable feeling that had you arching your back off the bed and your eyes filling with unshed tears —, you sought his hair — to keep him in place or to pull him apart; you were so sensitive you thought you could not take any more stimulation —, instead, you felt the fingers of his left hand entwining with yours as he continued to lap at you; allowing you to ride your orgasm fully.

The piece came to a diminuendo and so did the movement of his fingers and his tongue against you, until they completely stopped. A deep, contented sigh left you as you looked at him through half lidded eyes. Your legs were trembling; you were so weak you thought that if not for being laid over the mattress you would fall on your knees — exactly like last time when he ate you out against the door of his study. The mere remembrance made your face hot.

With the final notes, he entered you without warning.

Both of you gasped.

He took the opportunity to slide his tongue inside your mouth — letting you taste yourself. Part of you expected him to give you a moment to adjust to his size or at least to recuperate from the last orgasm. Instead, he set a punishing rhythm against your hips.

It did not hurt — and even if it did, you learned how to find pleasure in a bit of pain — but you were so sensible, the second wave of pleasure found you without voice. Your nails punctured his flesh as he sought his own release.

He was so worked up, it did not take him long to abandon the timed strokes. His mouth was against your throat, and broken moans and grunts escaped through his opened lips. You brought his hand to your breasts and he kneaded the pearls between his fingers, with his right hand he stroked your clit in a circular movement, to the point you were sobbing.

As your second orgasm came to an end, his own started. He pressed a kiss to your breasts, and you pulled onto his hair till a grimace of pain took over his features — exactly like he enjoyed. He grunted your name; his eyes fell closed as his hips jerked forward one last time.

It felt like ages had gone by as he emptied himself inside you. His lips worshipped the column of your throat and his hand travelled over your thighs in a slow, sensual caress as you both tried to recover.

His breath became normal before yours. He kept on placing small open-mouthed kisses to your glistening skin, whispering words you could not understand — or care less. Your eyes were heavy, and you were so tired all you wanted was to doze off at least a bit. He softened still inside of you, but you were so comfortable in such position, you did not want him to move an inch.

He did not.

“You should get ready.” He captured your lips lightly. You sighed happily. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Thank you, my love,” you whispered against his mouth. You pressed a light kiss to his lips, but he did not kiss you back. Your words had him drawing apart — it was impossible not to be aware that it was all because you addressed him in a novelettish manner.

Armitage slid out of you and sat on his side of the bed.

You bit your bottom lip.

He stared ahead. His mind, however, was distant. You closed your eyes, running your hands over your face, as if it would just erase what you just said; you heavily regretted your form of endearment.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

His impossibly blue eyes snapped back to you. He breathed deeply through his nose.

“Think not of it. My mind is just busy.”

His words — so detached — coupled with his facial expression — so perfectly schooled —, made you flinch. You bit your bottom lip, realizing what you did not want to acknowledge before: whenever the two of you made love, his heart was not into it. He enjoyed the physical act to its fullest — he ensured you did too —, but like he said… his mind — and heart — was elsewhere.

You chewed the inside of your cheek and sat on the bed, wrapping the sheets wrapped around your body. You seized the moment to introduce a topic you were dying to discuss with him a while ago.

“We should sell the estate in Southampton.”

His answer came quicker than you expected; his voice firm — not loud or authoritative, “Absolutely not.”

Coupled with how still his body went, you quickly understood he did not want to talk further about the topic. It did not mean you would concede defeat so easily, though.

“Please.”

You sought his fingers. He caught your wrist, running his thumb over your palm. He brought it to his lips, bestowing upon your knuckles a small kiss.

Biting your bottom lip, you focused your attention on his face. The slight tilt of his lips indicated he knew what he was doing to you and what exactly were your thoughts concerning it.

You snatched your hand away, focusing on the present issue. You spent a great deal of the afternoon being distracted — fooled — by him. You dismissed it before, letting him have his way with you, but now, you could not avoid the politics and the sensitive topics concerning his imminent bankruptcy.

“Hear me out.”

“My answer is final, Lady Hux.”

The fact that he did not call you by your name indicated he really did not — and would not — want to discuss such topic any further. Your shoulders slumped, but you did not concede defeat. Not so quickly. 

“That’s my house and therefore my decision to make.”

He pursed his lips into a thin line. It was obvious he was getting tired of it. Getting tired of your insistence — it was clear he was not in the least inclined to share a few things with you. His business was one of them.

And honestly, he was not wrong. Actually, he was — but not legally speaking. According to British law, you were his property to do as he pleased and talking or not about business as his decision to make. Selling your house was his decision to make — not yours.

How you hated being a woman most of times!

“Armitage.”

“(Y/N)”.

You rolled your eyes. He was going to make this hard for you — he could be very difficult when he wanted to. Displeased, you watched as he rose from the bed and slipped inside his robe. Shoulders down, your mind raced with possible arguments as you waited for him to go fetch his cigar and a glass of brandy.

It was needless to ask for him to pour some for yourself. As you were trying to conceive, anything alcoholic was out of the picture. And yet, you could feel your mouth watering at the mere thought of the amber liquid running down your throat.

After a few minutes went by, it became strikingly obvious he chose not to return to the bedroom. You slipped inside your robe, already sure he would admonish you for leaving the bed — the family’s physician had recommended for you to lie down after the two of you engaged in sexual relations; according to him, it would increase the chances of fertilization. Rae had rolled her eyes at the suggestion, but you were not one to disobey doctor’s orders that easily when there was so much at stake.

However…

This was an entirely different situation.

You were no expert when it came to finances, but after managing your father’s estate for five years, it was crystal clear the situation at the brewery was quite complicated — and it was you putting it mildly. He needed money — a large sum of it — and although a pregnancy and an heir would solve the problem easier than making a deal with Lady Carise, you were not so naïve as to think you would get pregnant that quick.

For that, you would have to count on luck and that was not something either could afford right now. That’s why you should convince him to sell your summer manor. That was the fastest way to solve the money problem without recurring to Lady Carise and her… less than adequate intentions towards your husband.

The mere thought of the woman made your entire body shudder.

You did not trust the her. You never did. Not even when she was to marry your father and become your stepmother. Something about her smelled fishy. And, God, it was in no way jealousy.

There was just something about her… that simply did not sit well with you.

And when your guts told you to stay away from something or someone... You would rather pay attention to it.   

You dismissed such thoughts as you tightened the knot at your waist and ran your fingers through your messed hair — in case you met a servant in your way. Nevertheless, there was no need to go that far, for he was in the anteroom. Back turned to you, he exhaled the smoke, before bringing the cigar back to his lips.

Carefully, you approached him, encircling your arms around his waist. He stilled in your embrace but did not move away from you. With a relieved sigh, you tightened your hold and leaned your forehead against his back.

For a moment, all you could hear was the cadenced beating of his heart. It was calm and so very comforting. He placed his cigar in the cinder-box and entwined his hand with yours. It did not take him long to turn around in your embrace and face you.

“We’re not selling the Southampton manor, (Y/N).”

You could have asked why, but you were too tired for that. Suddenly, all you wanted as to get some sleep and forget that disastrous afternoon — dinner be damned. Aside the fact he could tell you he had a monetary problem — more likely he did not have a choice to begin with — it was obvious he did not want you having a part in solving it.

“I refuse to be the kind of husband that relies on his wife’s heritage to solve his problems.”

You snorted, ready to pretend you did not hear that. Or ready to ask him how it could be so different to borrow Lady Carise’s money, but not yours. After five years living only with Rae Sloane — a remarkably independent woman — and Lux — and a few servants, of course, but they would not meddle in how you decided to run the house or your life — it was easy to forget how men behaved and how societal expectations weighed heavily on their shoulders. Truth is, Rae taught how much free a woman can be making her own decisions and you were not ready to give up on that.

Instead, you settled on, “I don’t want that heritage. It has brought me nothing but pain.” You realized your mistake as soon as he broke away from you, but now… Now you could not back down. You looked at him, at his impossibly blue eyes as you continued, “The happiest moments I have in that house are related to Lux.” And Rae, of course. But that was a given. Honestly, even if there were happier memories from the house, it was not something you could so selfishly hold onto in times of need. And this very situation configured as such, in your opinion. You just had to make Hux see that.

He nodded…

…and you breathed slowly…

…relieved…

He was finally seeing things your way.

“The manor in Southampton is not to be sold. That’s final.” 

Oh, dear God!

With that, he brought the cigar back to his lips, his eyes focused on the quickly darkening sky outside. “Now, go get ready. I’ll wait you downstairs.”

Seething with anger, you bit your bottom lip, but decided not to give him the answer you desperately wanted. He was right, you should get ready. You should leave his presence and stay alone for a while, least you wanted to end up killing him.

“Like this, Mama?”

You pressed a small kiss to Lux’s forehead and nodded. You were a bit distracted, but more focused on him than that morning.

“Yes, exactly like this, Little Lord.” A small smile blossomed on your lips as you ran your fingers through his ginger hair. He was very enthusiastic about you having dinner with him and later keeping him company as he played the piano. You dismissed his tutoress, giving her an earlier respite.

Part of you — the childish part — was dying to know how Hux reacted to your absence. Even though the Lady of the House could indulge in the luxury of having breakfast in her chambers, dinner was an entirely different story. And part of you — the part that was trying to behave like the grown woman you were — just wanted some peace and the opportunity to sort your thoughts.

Spending some time with Lux gave you exactly what you were looking for. Not to mention, you felt bad for neglecting him during a great deal of the last few days.

“Promise me that if you ever get married, you will listen to your partner.”

He stopped playing and removed his chubby hands from the keys. He looked at you with a confused face, as if he had no idea what you were talking about — and how could he? Lux was just four — sometimes it was easy to forget. 

“Never mind.” You placed both of his hands back on the keys and instructed, “Keep going, you’re doing great!”

Lux beamed up at your words — a genuine smile curving his lips and highlighting his dimples. You felt tempted to pinch his cheeks, but you knew he would get mad at you. And he was doing so well, you did not want to distract him right now.

“Rae is no fun,” he commented when he got bored of the melody you were teaching him.

You smiled once more.

Yes.

He was right.

Rae is no fun.

“Adults are no fun,” you commented, placing both hands on the piano and inventing another melody just so he could copy you and thus you could extend your time together — even though it was way past his bedtime.

“No! You are fun, Mama!” His vehemence made you laugh a little.

“Lord Hux would probably say I’m no adult at all.”

And with your recent behavior, you could say he was right. And as soon as he knew what you did, he would be even sure of it. You bit your bottom lip, expecting him to chew you alive next day when he read the newspaper tomorrow morning.

No.

You did the right thing.

If he was not willing to see things your way, you just had to force him to. You had done it before, and it worked. There was no way it would not work now.

“You should not speak for myself.”

Both you and Lux looked up to see the figure of your husband leaning against the threshold. He unfolded his arms and approached you in a few, firm strides.

“Lord Hux!” Lux exclaimed, shifting on his seat. He moved closer to you, giving space for Armitage to sit beside him.

“Lord Hux,” you acknowledged his presence with pursed lips. Not keen on talking to him in front of a small child — you still resented him for his behavior earlier —, you moved your fingers over the keys.

He seemed to think of it as an offer, for he, too, accompanied you in the music. After years of watching him playing his violin, you almost forgot how proficient he was at playing the piano.

Biting your bottom lip, you removed your fingers from the keys and rose to your feet. Still playing, Armitage looked at you with could almost pass as a surprised expression. You knew better.

“Let’s go, Lux,” you said, outstretching your hand. “It’s way past your bedtime.”

“But Mama—

“Lux!” You did not let him finish his plea. At some point, you knew you would give in. “Come.”

“But I don’t wanna go,” he pleaded again, his intense chestnut eyes shining with unshed tears. He looked at Armitage, trying to get him on his side.

You sighed. 

“Leave him be,” Hux said in an even tone, even if firmly. “I’ll get him to bed later.”

“No.”

If he was not willing to share things with you, you would not share your authority over Lux. Besides your unwillingness to do as your husband said, it was very late, and Lux was tired. If he was irritated at the mere possibility of going to bed, it was because it was way past his time to sleep.

Rubbing his eyes, Lux climbed down the seat and walked to you, not taking your hand, but not completely dismissing it either. As soon as you opened the door, you spotted the governess walking down the corridor.

She stopped as she saw you and subconsciously adjusted her clothes. If you were not so mad at Hux, you would probably have smiled at her gesture.

“May I help you, Your Ladyship?”

You shook your head, but your husband was behind you, a hand on your shoulder as he forced you to step back to his arms. His hand over yours prevented you from breaking apart.

“Take Lux to his room.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she replied, offering Lux a hand. The boy quickly took it, casting a final glance at both of you. “Come, Lord Lux.”

As the two of them disappeared in the dim lighted corridor, you stepped away from Hux’s embrace.

“If you kindly excuse me.”

Before you could even leave the room, he had closed the door and pressed you against it. You inhaled sharply but refused to look at him over your shoulder.   

“Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

His imperative tone made you snap. You shifted in his embrace and raised your chin, “Why should I talk to you when you don’t show the same consideration to me?”

He did not reply, not immediately. With the back of his hand, he traced your jawline and with his thumb he traced your bottom lip.

“I hate you.”

“I thought we were past that,” he replied lowering his face to yours. As soon as you felt his breath so close to your mouth, you turned your face away from him, letting his lips brush your cheeks.

“We have never been past that.” You moved from under his arms and put some distance between the two of you. He was ready to follow you when you said, “Don’t touch me without my permission.”

He stopped immediately, his hands falling to his sides.

You looked away, your eyes full of unshed tears.

“I thought we were on talking terms now, but it seems I was mistaken.” You drew in a sharp breath. Pressing your fingers firmly against the fabric of your dress, you raised your chin again, “A word of advice, Lord Hux, if you want to convince the King to appoint you as Prime Minister—

His snort made you stop momentarily. However, there were a few things to be said, and be damned his unwillingness to hear them. 

“If you want to be Prime Minister,” you repeated; your eyes narrowed at him. “You should start talking to your wife. Your opponents will constantly do their best to put us against each other and I can’t simply take your side every time if I don’t know what’s going on through your head.”

He approached in purposeful strides. He forced you to release the fabric of your dress and placed both of your hands on his shoulders.

“They will undoubtedly do that,” he said, running his thumb over your cheeks. “And for your and Lux’s sake, you should be ready to turn on me if the time comes.”

You furrowed your brows.

What was he talking about?

“A word of advice, Lady Hux.” He mimicked you, running his thumb over your bottom lip to prevent you from biting it. “Perhaps you should watch whom you make alliances with. Perhaps siding with His Highness won’t bring the expected results.”

Your eyed widened.

“It’s treason.”

He broke apart.

“It’s only treason if I get caught.”

You followed him, your mouth agape. That was a dangerous game — this one he was playing. When you reached him, you put your hand on his face, forcing him to look at you.

“Armitage, hear me out, if you get caught—” You shook your head and lowered your voice. “No. When you get caught, you’ll be hanged.”

He kissed the inside of your hand.

“That’s why you’ll have to make them believe you knew nothing.”

You shook your head.

He was not listening to you.

He was not fucking listening to you.

“There was no meeting this morning with the board, right? You met with the Prince.”

He shrugged.

“The Kings is dying.”

“He isn’t dead yet,” you retorted. “Your personal interests should not interfere with those of the Crown. Listen, I know you want to become Prime Minister, but betraying your King will nev—

He snorted.

…and pulled your head back by your hair, exposing your throat to his lips.

“You don’t fool me, Lady Hux.” He brought his lips to yours. “You pretend your loyalty lies with the King, but I know you want this as much as I do.”

“Yes.” You replied breathless. “I want it, but I am being reasonable here while you are not. You’re loyal to no one, but yourself!”

Placing both hands on his shoulders, you tried to force him to break apart. His hand wrapped around your neck, applying the slightest of pressures to your windpipe.

“Yes… You’re right. I’m loyal only to myself.” He kissed the corner of your lips. “But what about you, Lady Hux? Where your loyalty lies?”

“With—

“Think carefully about your answer.” Your answer had his fingers tightening around your throat — not to the point of hurting you.  

You wetted your lips.

“With the Crown, obviously.”

“Why?”

He pried his fingers open a little bit, allowing you to draw in a breath and reply — you were not so sure he would not like to hear it, “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

You bit your bottom lip, relieved that he seemed pleased with your answer. You thought about going on differently about it, but you knew he was talking hypothetically — just in case he was caught in his own game, something he did not plan on happening.

“Exactly, Lady Hux.” He kissed your throat softly. Next, his lips were upon yours in a brief — so very sweet — kiss. After it was over, he pressed his forehead to yours. 

“You shouldn’t have to ask it. You know my loyalty lies with you. Because I lo—” You closed your eyes and drew in a breath. It was time you were honest, not only with him, but with yourself. “Because without you I can’t get what I want.”

“And what do you want, Lady Hux?”

Looking into his eyes, you replied, “Power.”

You loved Hux — you really did —, but you also loved the many possibilities a relationship with him represented. Knowing that he coveted — and could possibly be chosen — the position of Prime Minister opened a lot of those possibilities for you. You knew that without him, you would never reach a position of power — at least, not one like this.

“I want power.”

This time, his lips fell upon yours passionately. His hands slithered to your waist as he brought your body closer to his. You gasped, giving him the chance to slide his tongue over yours and deepen the kiss. He walked you back, till you met with the piano bench. He made you sit down, kneeling before you.

Biting your bottom lip, you drew in a sharp breath. He kissed your throat, his hand slithering under your dress to caress your thighs. You watched in awe as he removed your shoes and then your stockings. You knew that as soon as he touched your undergarments, he would find them dripping wet.

“Tell me what you want, Lady Hux.”

You allowed him to remove the offending article of clothing that kept his glorious fingers from you. Arching your back, you offered more of yourself to him.

“You. I want you.”

He removed his lips from your throat and shook his head. His fingers — oh, so close — stopped their caress over your sensible, burning skin. 

That was not the answer he wanted to hear.

You drew in a breath…

���and wetted your lips.

“I want power.”

It was all it took to have his fingers caressing you in the way he knew you needed it and to have his lips falling upon yours in an overpowering kiss.

“And you shall have it. Power suits you.”

A/N - And that’s all for today. I’m still working on my stories. I hope you forgive me for taking so much time between updates. 

[johnroycomic]

Entirely Free Comedy Class - Revised Edition

Hey all, my Entirely Free Comedy Class is now over five years old, and looking back, it could be clearer and better, and more detailed.  So I’m revising it.  And the first week is ready.  Here it is!

WEEK ONE

In every major city, someone is teaching a stand-up comedy class, often charging hundreds of dollars for the effort. While I know some professional comics who have benefited from these classes, the majority consensus among my fellow comedians is that they are of dubious value.

They may help a little to build courage and comfort on stage, but they will not replace any of the many hours you will have to spend in Open Mics if you want to tell jokes for a living.

There is only one way to get good at stand-up comedy, and that is to do stand-up comedy. There is no short cut.  There is no homework.  You can practice your jokes in your room until they are tight and polished.  You can practice them on the very stage you are going to tell them on.  You still won't know if they are funny they are until they encounter a live audience.  You can't know anything about a joke until an audience of everyday people, who expect to laugh, reacts to it.  

A comedy class is an artificially supportive environment.  You can't get the honest reactions you need to build an act from fellow students and a teacher who wants a good Yelp review.  Only performing stand-up in real “game time” conditions will do.  Not only do you need to learn on the job, you can only learn on the job.  For the comedy beginner, there is no substitute for the open mic.

I am not saying stand-up instruction is impossible.  I'm not saying all you can tell a new  comic is to go out, plow through their sets with no game plan, and hope for the best.  I did that.  It was a nightmare.

I would love to have had some kind of road map to help me know what to focus on.  I got important advice later in my career that I would have loved to have had access to at the start.  Many aspects of this art form took me years of wrong turns to figure out.  I would love to spare the next generation some of that confusion.  They might get better quicker if I could tell them what they needed to know right when they needed know it.

This is my twelve week class on stand-up comedy.  It's everything I've learned about writing and performing comedy. This book is the textbook.  Your city's open mics are the classroom. And through the magic of Youtube, the best comedians of all time will be your guest speakers.  

Read one chapter a week.  Watch the featured video clips and answer the study questions.  Then put the instructions into practice at your local Open Mics.  After you have gone up at least three times practicing the lessons of that week, read the next chapter. Repeat for twelve weeks.

There are two goals of the class. One is for you to have a five minute set you can do at any comedy showcase with confidence.  The second, more important goal is give you an effective process for improving your act that you can use as long as you do stand-up comedy.  It's the  

process I use every week to this day.

I focus on basic fundamentals. I don’t tell you what to write or talk about. Previous books about stand-up presented a “right way” to write jokes.  As the sheer variety of modern comedians shows, there isn't one.  My process can help you with any style you might choose. As long as the essential elements of comedy are present, you can make people laugh any way you like.  

Assignment One:

Find out where the comedy open mics in your area are.  Maybe they are on a web site that lists all the comedy shows in your city.  Maybe they are listed with the music shows of the week.  Maybe you can find them listed among the offerings of local theater companies.  Googling your city's name and “comedy open mic” is as good a way to start as any.  Find out how many you can go to this week.  

Find out what you need to do to perform on them.  Sign up if necessary.

If at all possible, go to open mics that are listed as specifically for comedy.  This class was designed with those in mind.  

It may be hard to find comedy open mics in some areas.  If this is the case, all is not lost.  Many music open mics will let you do stand-up as well, but you'll want to check with the host and venue first.  If you don't know who to talk to at a venue, ask the bartender.  They always know.  

Music open mics will be a tougher audience to crack.  You will have the added challenge of getting the audience to stop talking and focus. Music acts generally do not require an audience's undivided attention the way comedians do.  That will be something you have to earn.  If you can grab them and make them laugh on a night that's not conducive to comedy, that's a win you can be proud of.

Assignment Two:

Write five minutes of material.  

What sort of material? This is up to you.

I know this is a vague assignment that doesn't give the student much guidance.  Even the word “material” is vague.  It seems specifically chosen to describe as little as possible.  It just means “something that exists.”  It doesn't get any clearer when you look at the other words comedians use to describe what

makes up their act.  “Stuff.” “Chunks.” “Bits.”  Bits of what?

Well, bits of whatever you can think of that might make someone laugh. You'll need all of it.  Those skewed insights on life you've had over the years?  Those things in the world everyone thinks are normal but you can prove are actually insane? Remember your analogy that made your  friend say “I never thought of it that way”    You finally have a place for all that stuff.   And they give you a microphone!  

As a famous comedian once said, “You should write whatever you can't stop thinking about.”

Still stuck?  Don't worry.  It's understandable.  You haven't had any practice.  Somehow, for all the millions of different writing assignments you get in school, “Write something funny” never comes up.

Try this.

  Think of something you said that made your friends laugh. What additional information would strangers need to have to laugh at that?  What words could quickly explain the situation and context just enough that the funny part made sense?  Add those words in before the part you said to your friends.  Your punch line now has a setup line.  You now have a joke.

I've written many jokes this way.

Once a brutish guy came up to me after my act and said “it’s weird you’re hanging out after the show. Most comedians won't hang out after the show.”   He said “comedians” like a snotty kid would if they were going, “Ooh... look at the big comedian.”

I didn't respond to the tone in his voice.  I was nice. “That’s weird, we always hang out after the show,”  I said. We do.

The guy ignores it.  He says, “Fucking queers don’t want to drink with me.”  Oh, he's a bigoted asshole, I thought.  No wonder no one wants to drink with him.

I whispered to my friend Adam, under my breath, “Now I get it.”   He laughed.

In real life, I only said “Now I get it,” and Adam laughed.  I didn't need to describe the guy.  Adam was looking right at him.  I didn't need to tell Adam we were at a comedy show.  He was with me the whole time.  All Adam needed was “Now I get it,” and it was funny.  An audience of strangers needs more.

When I related the story in my act, I began, “I go all over doing comedy. Sometimes you meet cool people. Sometimes you don’t.” I described the guy's initial question, and how I was confused because comedians always hang out after the show.  Then I did his asshole voice going “Fucking queers don't want to drink with me,” followed by, “and I was like, “Now I get it.”   I got a laugh in the same place as I got it from Adam that night.  

With those modifications, something I said that made my friend laugh became a joke I could do on stage.

Incidentally, Adam doesn't appear in the joke at all.  His presence at the scene is not essential to why it's funny.  The joke is about me and the guy, not Adam.  That night, Adam was the audience.  In a comedy show, I have a real audience.  Telling them that Adam was there is just needless words that don't serve my purpose, which is to get a laugh when I say, “Now I get it.”  You only need to include what the crowd absolutely needs to know to get the joke.  Everything else should go.  

Don’t spend more than five hours writing your material.

It's not a novel, it's five minutes of comedy.  

The important thing is to get up on that stage as soon as possible. Don’t put off that first performance.   I know it can be scary.  It may be nerve-wracking when you picture yourself up there, but prolonging the wait only makes it scarier.  Best to rip the band-aid off as quickly as possible.  Your fear will diminish once the experience is no longer a scary unknown.

Some people wait months and months trying to hone the perfect material before they do their first set.  This is pointless.  There is no way to anticipate the reaction your jokes will get before you tell them. Further hours of editing are a waste of time.  Get your ideas in front of an audience as soon as possible.  You will have all the time in the world to re-write it later, when you actually know what worked.

Some of you may be asking, “Wait! What if I don’t want to write ‘jokes?’ What if I want to do characters or tell stories or just talk to the crowd? Why can’t I get laughs that way?”

You can! You can do anything you want as long as you can get them to laugh after you do it.

Stories and character monologues work a lot like “jokes.”  If one of these is your thing, for every sentence in this book that mentions “jokes,” just replace “joke” with “character monologue line” or “story beat” and the principles are the same.  

Keep in mind that a stand-up story has to have laughs peppered throughout the entire piece.  It can’t just pay off at the end. No matter what approach you take, you are still going to have to make the audience laugh at the rate they are accustomed to, which is roughly between two and four laughs a minute.  You can make them wait longer here and there to build tension, but the longer they have to wait, the bigger that payoff is going to need to be as well.  Stand-up is both the widest and the most narrow form of performance there is. You can do anything you want…. as long as the audience does one specific thing over and over again.  

Improv and talking to the crowd are a little tougher to teach than jokes. They rely on you being funny in the moment. They are a product of your pure comedy instincts and the amount of practice you’ve had expressing them.  The only way to improve is to start racking up stage time doing improv and crowd work,the way an athlete must practice being in the moment to perform better in those moments. Week Nine of this class is devoted to doing just that.

For now, follow the joke writing exercises and develop written material anyway. It is the best way to learn what makes a series of words funny. Think of it as practicing improv in slow motion.  Besides, improvisers and crowd workers like Rory Scovel and Jeff Ross still need something to do on TV sets where they don’t let you wing it.  Even in your live act, it can help to have some surefire lines.  While improv can light up a crowd like nothing else in comedy, it misses sometimes.  It's unavoidable.  You will appreciate having tested jokes to fall back on when the riffing doesn't work.

Write your new five minutes in a dedicated space for this class.  It can be a notebook.  It can be a computer file.  But it should have no other writing in it.  I find a small notebook is the best because you can carry it anywhere.  If you prefer to just type your bits into your phone that works too, but I feel that writing words out long-hand helps commit them to memory.  

I advise writing your jokes out in full sentences, but if you can remember:

“I gotta get healthier. I can’t have one more day go by where the BEST thing I can say about myself is that the pot I smoked made me too lazy to eat Carl’s Jr. TWICE.”

from:

“Gotta Get healthier/best thing I can say/too lazy from pot to eat Carl’s Jr. 2x”

…then I am not going to make you write it all out just because I think you should. But the MINUTE you find yourself staring at “Candy Crush/Slot Machine guy WTF?” in your own handwriting with no idea what it means, it's complete sentences from now on. A forgotten bit could be the Netflix Special closer that now you’ll never have.

Assignment Three

Once your five minutes is written down, it's time to memorize it. Don't freak out from the “m” word.  You don't necessarily have to know it word for word.  But some level of memorization is necessary.  You don’t want to be in actual danger of forgetting the point of what you’re talking about.

Some people like the certainty of knowing the words by heart. It's one less thing to worry about, and besides, they’re proud of that wording so why not make sure to show it off?

Others find memorization a source of stress and would rather not have another thing hanging over their head they have to remember not to screw up. For them, a loose idea they can sort of “jam on” is better.

Whichever sounds best to you is how you should do it, as starting out in stand-up is all about increasing your comfort level as you do something that provokes intense anxiety.

However you choose, I have found that whether a joke was written out verbatim the minute the idea appeared or whether it took ten tries through informal riffing, a “right way” based on brevity and the strongest, most colorful word choices begins to suggest itself. By the time a joke is ready to be recorded, even the “jazziest” comics tell it pretty similarly from night to night.

There are advantages and drawbacks to both approaches. A memorized joke sounds polished and can be delivered with confidence, each syllable emphasized for maximum

power. You may discover interesting language sitting down and writing that your onstage riffing brain would never have landed on in the moment.

On the flip side, there is a directness and energy to an improvised wording that a memorized bit can lack. It sounds like you're just hanging out with the audience and that's powerful.  

When you script a bit out verbatim, there can be a tendency to think of it as “set in stone.”  You deliver the lines like an actor and only those lines.  You can forget that there is always room to add things because you are not talking “in the moment.”

Personally, I go up with at least one written-out punchline for each new bit that I intend to work on. On a fresh page, I write down all the punchlines and premises in a list before I go up. The Carl’s Jr. bit from above might be listed as “Lazy/Pot/Carl’s Jr.”

My set list might look like this:

Lazy/Pot/Carl's Jr.

Comedians don't hang out/Now I get it

40/Green Day

40/Close Bar/Bulls

Favorite Gay Bar/Ke$ha

After it's all written out, I take the list up with me and riff.  No matter what, I always make sure I hit at least one prepared punchline for each subject I bring up.  That way, bomb or crush, the audience will know I had a purpose to each bit. You will test their patience if they feel you are just meandering around with no payoff.  They will check out.  I feel I owe it to them to reward their attention with at least one thought-out comedic idea for each of my premises.  They should know I respected them enough to at least have a point to each of my ramblings, even if the jokes don't all land.

If they happen to really like one of those punchlines, I will keep talking, in case I find something else funny. They seem to like where this is going, so let’s find out what else is there.  This has lead to great stuff, but if it’s a dead end, at least they got a solid joke they liked before I went exploring.

Over time, as the repetition and trial and error process continues, I find my jokes inevitably find their way into a series of words that changes little from night to night.  It's the best way I have found to get that idea out, and I know it by heart.

Assignment Four

Do your five new minutes at an open mic.  Then do this same five minutes at two more open mics.  Write down what worked and what didn't, but don't adjust anything yet.  Perform the same jokes in the same order.

With the amount of people trying to do comedy now, some open mics give you just four, three, and sometimes even two and a half minutes to do your act.  If this happens, do as much of your material as you are able to get out in the time allotted, but don't rush.  Tell your jokes the way you think they work best.  Don't try to jam them all in just to say you did it. Get to what you can and give those jokes the best chance they have to succeed.

Assignment Five

After your week of performances, or however long it takes to do a set at three open mics, look over your notes.

Write down your answers to the following questions.   In the back of this book, you can find them on the easy to copy “Set Questions” Worksheet.

Set Questions

Which of your jokes got a laugh?

Which jokes didn’t?

Why do you think the jokes that did work worked?

Why do you think the jokes that didn’t work didn’t?

What could you change about the ones that didn’t work to maybe make them work?

Could changing jokes that worked make them work even better?

Keep this info handy for next week.  We will get into it in depth.

Assignment Six:

When you've done your three performances, and you've written down your initial thoughts about your jokes, search the internet for the late, great Greg Giraldo's special “Midlife Vices.”  It is currently view-able on Youtube.

Watch the special.

Answer the following questions.  They are also printed out on an easy-to-copy Worksheet in the back of this book.  It's the one that says “Video Questions.”  Every week there will be comedians to watch and you will answer these same questions every time, so making a bunch of copies of this one might be a good idea.

Video Questions

How would you describe the comic's stage character, that is to say, the personality they present in their act?

Were the jokes presented as true stories from life?  Or clearly false “jokes?”

What made you laugh in their act? Why?

What didn’t work for you? Why? Why do you think it may have worked for others?

How did the comic use their body to get laughs?

How did the comic use their face to get laughs?

How did the comic use their voice to get laughs?

What did you notice that made their act unique?

How did the comic structure the jokes that they wrote?

You will find answers at the beginning of next week's lesson.

That's it!  That’s week one. Get started and I'll see you again next week. Kill 'em!

[preserving-ferretbrain]

Sarah Monette, the Victim Dilemma, the Aesthetic of Suffering and the Uncanny Valley of Arse Rape

by Wardog

Monday, 27 April 2009

Wardog fails to finish Sarah Monette's Corambis.~

Massive massive massive massive spoilers for about 1/3 of the book. Also, as the title suggests, this article is about nasty things so don’t read if you’re likely to be upset

Preramble (like a preamble but … d’you see?)

This is a bleak day indeed. I just got my hands on a copy of Corambis, the much-anticipated (by me at least) concluding part to Sarah Monette’s Doctrine of Labyrinths quartet and the truth of it is, I don’t think I can finish it.

Oh, Sarah, what happened? I do still love you, I just don’t think it’s working out.

I think it’s partially problems associated with reading through a series over a lengthy period of time. When I read Melusine, The Virtu was already out in hardback and I tore through at them enthusiastically, so drawn into the world and the characters that I barely noticed they were so heavily saturated in angst and woe that one could drown in it by simply opening the book a little recklessly. There was a bit of a wait for The Mirador – which I seem to recall I felt slightly less positively about but still adored – and I fell upon Mehitabel Parr’s I’m sure welcoming bosom to save me from the tidal waves of A&W. As much as I love Felix and Mildmay, it was Mehitabel’s narrative voice that made The Mirador bearable for me. It was such a necessary contrast to the boys: someone with some redeeming sense of self-irony, hurrah!

Of course, Mehitabel isn’t in Corambis. And, God, I miss her. There is a new viewpoint character, Kay Brightmore, blinded and imprisoned and weighed down by the terrible military failure that kicks off the book. He’s basically lost everything that ever mattered to him, can no longer fight on account of being blind and, needless to say, he has angst out the wazoo about it. I was broken and crying by Chapter three.

And, quite frankly, I just can’t take it. I know there is redemption in the future of these characters (characters I really care about, having spent three books with them), I know there is self-actualisation and the potential for happiness, I know because I cheated and looked, but I’ve really really struggled with Corambis. The worst of it is, I’m sure it will be a triumphant and satisfying conclusion to the quartet. Sarah Monette is an excellent writer, I love her world, I love the way she uses language, I love her characters, I love everything about her but I think I’m going to have to accept the fact I simply can’t read her.

Oh, Sarah, what happened? I do still love you, it’s not you, it’s me.

Maybe in a couple of years we’ll be able to work something out.

I think circumstances might be playing into this unhappy state of affairs as well. When I read the early books, there wasn’t a cloud in my sky. But having emerged from a rather bleak year, there’s something a little too close in all that guilt and grief and self-loathing and despair, and I can’t distance myself enough from it to enjoy it. There is a systematic aestheticisation of suffering to be found in all of Monette’s books. I’m not going to try and argue that as either a positive or negative quality in her work. I think it’s probably neutral: it’s

something

art

does

sometimes

. I acknowledge the difference between literary suffering and real suffering, in that there can be a romance in the former which is impossible in the latter. Also literary suffering exists in a wider, symbolic and allegorical sphere than that of an individual having shitty things done to them by life or others, mainly, I suspect, because it’s not real. Take madness – there is something deeply attractive and romantic about the artistic representation of madness (like Felix’s madness in Melusine) and it’s perfectly possible to appreciate that, and to find in it a kind of beauty, without ignoring the genuine distress suffered by the mentally ill. In short, Ophelia is not my friend who killed herself last year.

But the boundaries between the fictional and the real are not comprehensively signposted. There isn’t a traceable spectrum between Lavinia, daughter of Titus Andronicus, and Elizabeth Short. And ultimately I think there comes an impossible point when the literary and the real collide, corrupt each other and prove they are utterly irreconcilable and yet simultaneously inseparable. Yes, they must be understood as different things operating in a different way – a painting of St Sebastian is not the same as footage of the prisoners at Guantanamo bay – but there comes a point when it is necessary to remember what it is that’s being aestheticised and ask yourself why.

Page 152

Okay, so, there’s a gang-rape scene in Corambis.

Felix – former prostitute, broken gay wizard with ex-cruel master and traumatic past - ends up subjecting himself a thaumaturgic orgy in order to earn money to pay for his ailing brother’s medicine.

It’s awful.

It’s not that it’s explicit, just awful.

And I’m no wuss, okay. I’ve read Last Exit to Brooklyn. I’ve read The Wasp Factory. I’ve read American Psycho.

But something about this scene in this book bought me a first class ticket on the ARGH! Train and whizzed me straight out of my comfort zone.

It’s strange to say that something is “outside your comfort zone” in that it feels like a confession of personal failure (also something that’s outside my comfort zone). And then I thought about it more, and I thought: hey, so what, gang-rape is outside my comfort zone. Surely that’s normal. Gang-rape is absolutely something that should be outside all our comfort zones. But here’s where it gets complicated: in fact, fictional gang-rape is not outside my comfort zone. I play H-games, for God’s sake, where they’re ten a penny. You can’t take two steps in an H-game without stubbing your toe on a gang rape. So it’s something more specific than that. It was something about this particular portrayal of it.

It’s not shock value. Felix gets himself sexually abused on a pretty regular basis, so much so, in fact, that it’s kind of part of the fun, and it’s very much tied into Monette’s aesthetic of suffering.

I could not see, and I could barely hear, save for my own harsh breathing. But I could feel. I could Malkar’s hands like silk, running up and down my back, tracing the scars, the old palimpsest of pain. I could feel his body arching against me, his bulk, his heat. I felt his hands slide under my hips, stroking, exciting, felt the stiffness of him against my thigh. Pain, then, but not too much. Pain … and arousal all woven together like a tapestry. I was moaning, gasping; the only word I could form were “Please, Malkar, please, lease,” and I didn’ tknow if I was begging him to stop or continue. Not that it would made the slightest difference either way.

Let’s pin our colours to the mast here. That’s beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful and absolutely literary in its unrealness. It’s also about as accurate a portrayal of sexual abuse than St Sebastian up there is of martyrdom. Perhaps I’m just an irredeemable sicko but I’m pretty sure it’s there, to an extent, to be enjoyed, partially as spectacle (straight women do not generally write about beautiful gay boys sexing each other manipulatively because it’s a Serious Social Issue) and, also, partially as vindication for all the crappy things that have been done to innumerable female characters in a seventy years of fantasy fiction. I’m not, of course, advocating backlash (more manrape!) but there is something compelling and, even perhaps comforting, in characters like Felix, Alec and friends, these beautiful men, who are as sexually vulnerable as women, suffer and fear the sort of things women suffer and fear, and are very much created to be subjects of an extra-textual female gaze and the intra-textual male gaze. I’m not saying that men don’t get raped and looked at, but the sheer saturation is demonstrably less. I am not trying to say that what happens to Felix at the start of Melusine isn’t dreadful. It is. But it’s a literary violation, and it reduces him to a literary madness that is as terrible and as beautiful as the horror that creates it.

But let’s talk about gang rape. Now there’s something you don’t say everyday.

The scene itself written in a very similar style – opulent, not too explicit although more explicit than above, and contains the same awkward issues of dubious consent. In Melusine, Felix chooses to go to Malkar in a fit of self loathing. In Corambis he agrees theoretically to an orgy in order to raise money for Mildmay’s medical treatment. In both cases what ends up happening to him is far more devastating than what he originally signed up for but, equally, there’s an element of complicity to it. If you return to your abusive master, expect to get abused. If you agree to be the centerpiece of an orgy, expect to get fucked. This abject stupidity is granted a psychological plausibility because Felix is a messed up little bunny, with a supposedly tragic conviction of his own profound worthlessness.

Obviously I don’t want to get into real issues here, but I think the reason the dubious consent became one of the bothering aspects of the scene in Corambis is that the sex abuse came plot-approved. I mean, if Felix was walking down the street and happened to get jumped and gang raped by a bunch of guys I think many a reader might rightly cry “Sarah Monette, what the fuck?” as there are very few occasions in which it is either appropriate or necessary to get one of your characters gang raped. But this way he has a “real” reason to put himself voluntarily into a position where he might be. It’s even, perhaps, meant to be on some level noble – in a hopelessly fucked up way, of course. So what you end up with is a deeply uncomfortable situation in which everything conspires, including (conveniently) Felix himself, to create a scenario in which a horrible but beautifully written gang rape is, to an extent, okay. And this is where the aesthetic of suffering starts to come apart at the seams.

Essentially this scene falls right into the uncanny valley. If it was purely designed for titillation I wouldn’t have a problem with it, but as it is there are elements are titillation and elements of horror. We are meant to be shocked and appalled – and it is shocking and appalling – but it’s framed in such a way that we are simultaneously liberated to relish the aesthetic. And quite frankly that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I think there’s something profoundly hypocritical and, indeed, deeply disturbing in the idea of enjoying both moral outrage and illicit sexual excitement (see Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse). The scene bears all the hallmarks of erotic non-con (there are elements of psychological exposure as well as physical, the victim is physically aroused throughout, the abusers are appreciative of his beauty and his apparent eagerness, and so on and so forth) but worked through a guilt-appeasing filter of “oh gosh, isn’t this terrible.”

My ankles were still chained and somebody had me scruffed like a kitten; I was keening in protest, but I was dragged upright, forced to straddle someone’s thighs, while he continued fucking me with the same relentless steadiness. I was displayed for all of them, my arousal jutting out shamelessly, the tear tracks on my face attesting to my weakness.

Now, I know that, unlike erotic non-con, Felix is not secretly into what’s being done to him and that he’s breaking and being broken here but you still have a scene that’s running in two directions simultaneously and trying to have its cake and eat it. It goes out of its way to tick the non-con wink-wink boxes but then slaps you face in the face with its insistence that this a terrible and traumatic event. Essentially you can’t have a gorgeously written gang rape that positions itself within a carefully constructed aesthetic framework and a psychologically accurate and traumatic portrait of a terrible ordeal.

And, ultimately, I guess you have to ask yourself if it’s okay to have an aesthetic gang rape scene full stop. The idea bothers me less as pornography but here, I would argue, that it gains an added erotic piquancy from the fact it really is annihilating Felix, which, again is troublesome. Essentially it’s why raping Clarissa is so much more interesting than raping Justine, and why it’s all right to get off on the latter and not the former.

The more I’ve thought about this and tried to articulate my issues with it, the more complex and convoluted it has become. There is, of course, an element of the purely personal about – I didn’t like it and it upset me – as well as these more abstract, intellectualizations of it. I dug around on Monette’s Livejournal – on which is usually charming and sensible – to see what I could find and, lo and behold, she has written quite comprehensively on the subject, which I shall now quote pretty much in its entirety:

I knew from very early on that Felix was going to turn back to prostitution to get the money for a doctor for someone he loved (I knew this was going to happen before I knew Mildmay existed), and I knew that he was going to end up in a situation that was completely out of his control and that hurt him badly. Because Felix is reckless and self-destructive and because under all his vanity, he doesn't think he's worth protecting. And because it is a kind of answering horror to his being raped by Malkar at the beginning of Mélusine. And because he needed something that would force him to confront these issues--force him to see that he doesn't deserve to be abused--and it had to be something superlatively unbearable if it was going to get through to him, because Felix has way too much experience at ignoring his own pain.

Say what? So it’s redemptive gang rape, the sort makes you a stronger and better person? What … the … fuck? It’s like those Hollywood amnesia plotlines (one blow to the head gives you amnesia, another blow cures it) except with sexual abuse. I know, again, we’re operating in a fictional sphere but this is so made of wrong that I’ll just content myself with linking to Dan’s article on

the victim dilemma

and throw my hands up in despair.

I quite enjoy Monette’s aestheticisation of suffering, I could probably navigate the uncanny valley if I really had to but I am sick to death of male fantasy writers using sexual abuse as a textual shortcut for character development and I’m damned if I’m going to deal with women doing the same thing. Sarah Monette, you are better than this.

Sexual abuse is not good for you. It happens and people react. Constantly depicting characters who react to it in courageous and life-enhancing ways is not empowering, it’s fucking demeaning to people who struggle along every day as best they can.

I’m sure in a different time in a different mood I’ll pick up Corambis again and I’ll get to page 152 and I’ll shrug and go “gang rape, meh” and read right on.

But not today.Themes:

Damage Report

,

Books

,

Sarah Monette

,

Sci-fi / Fantasy

~

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~Comments (

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Arthur B

at 14:44 on 2009-04-27It's depressing when series go south like this. It's especially annoying when they burn down the virtues of the earlier volumes. I was looking at your first Monette review and you were saying how you were impressed by the fact that Felix was gay, but it kind of wasn't a big deal; I'm getting the impression that as the series goes on that becomes less true, since that LJ extract makes it sounds like Monette intended all along to reduce Felix to a weepy gay man being abused by angry gay men. (If I'm interpreting that right - if Felix pimping himself out predates the existence of Mildmay, that means that Monette was planning to make this happen since before the first book, right?)

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Wardog

at 15:11 on 2009-04-27Mmm, that's part of the problem though. I don't actually think it's "gone south" - despite the Xtreme angst I was quite absorbed until page 152. It was merely that scene that tripped me out. I'm sure if I could put it behind me and just get on with the book, I'd probably really like it.

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Rude Cyrus

at 20:32 on 2009-04-27Great, now I need a shower.

While I suppose rape can be presented as being aesthetically pleasing, like in erotic non-con, I still don't like it. I've always found consenting sex between happy, willing partners infinitely more pleasurable -- don't ask me why. This sort of stuff just makes my skin crawl.

What's funny is that I can make it through The 120 Days of Sodom without blinking, but I think that's because De Sade insisted on using the driest, most tortured language possible.

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Wardog

at 21:15 on 2009-04-27Sorry Cyrus. I'm not sure but I think it's probably easier to be into erotic non-con / rape fantasy if you're a woman than a man, either because you're more likely to imagine yourself as the rapee rather than the rapist which is slightly easier to deal with morally speaking or because the world seems generally reluctant to admit that women can rape people too. Whereas if you're a man who fantasies about forcing women to have sex with him ... well ... hostility many ensue from quarters unwilling to concede the very real difference between fantasy, reality and simulated non-con.

Hmm, I think the thing about 120 Days of Sodom is that, as you say, it's incredibly dull. And de Sade is a terrible writer. There's only one thing worse than a rape scene and that's a badly written rape scene!

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Arthur B

at 21:18 on 2009-04-27I do wonder sometimes whether deSade was an early pen-and-paper troll. Most of his books seem to be the literary equivalent of telling someone a particular link goes to an interesting and thought-provoking philosophy website when actually it points to goatse or 2girls1cup.

I mean, he went to jail for it, but you have to make sacrifices for "the lulz", as I believe the young people call it these days.

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http://roisindubh211.livejournal.com/

at 02:43 on 2009-04-28"Constantly depicting characters who react to it in courageous and life-enhancing ways is not empowering, it’s fucking demeaning to people who struggle along every day as best they can."

I have to disagree here- not with the point you make, but with the accusation being levelled at Monette. Felix has spent three books getting abused and every reaction to it has been, basically, "I was right all along, I am worthless. Hmmm, should I hurt myself again or just re-alienate everyone who cares about me tonight?" The enormity of the gang-rape is something he's not prepared to consider his just desserts, and it isn't the only influence on his growth as a person. A lot has to do with having Mildmay -who has been developing his own self-confidence, on his own, without the help of shitty things happening to him- be there for him and push and push to get him (Felix) not to hurt himself any more.

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Wardog

at 09:13 on 2009-04-28

The enormity of the gang-rape is something he's not prepared to consider his just desserts, and it isn't the only influence on his growth as a person.

I do see your point and I wasn't really dissing Monette, who I actually adore. There was just something about this scene, or the way it was presented, or *something* that was a bridge too far for me. And at first I was inclined to just ignore it and tell myself to stop being a wuss and then I got interested in *why* this scene was so problematic and, secondarily, I realised that, on a wider level, it should probably be okay to stand up and say "for me, this gang rape is not okay."

I will at some point finish Corambis, because I have *hugely* enjoyed the Doctrine of Labyrinths quartet (I have some reviews knocking around here in which I give much sweet sweet love), I think I just need some time to get away from the gang rape.

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Wardog

at 09:29 on 2009-04-28

I do wonder sometimes whether deSade was an early pen-and-paper troll

Dan and I like the idea of historical trolls, and also explains the Marquis far more than most of pop-psych nonsense I've read does =P

Lucifer, of course, would be the first troll - complaining about the mods.

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http://miss-morland.livejournal.com/

at 11:54 on 2009-04-28*giggles at the thought of de Sade and Lucifer as trolls*

I haven't read Monette's books, but I still found this post very interesting - it articulates my issues with non-con and dub-con in fiction very well. (I do wonder, though, if ambiguous portrayals of rape scenes are sometimes meant to make the readers think and question their own attitudes, instead of jumping to the safe reaction of 'OMG so horrible'?)

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Dan H

at 14:25 on 2009-04-28

I do wonder, though, if ambiguous portrayals of rape scenes are sometimes meant to make the readers think and question their own attitudes, instead of jumping to the safe reaction of 'OMG so horrible'?)

You might well be right, but even if that is the intent, it's a deeply flawed one.

Perhaps I'm just an arrogant shit, but I really hate it when people try to make me think about stuff unless it's in a medium *specifically designed* for that.

If you want to challenge my preconceptions about rape, write a book that is *about* challenging my preconcieved notions about rape. Don't try to do it in the middle of a fantasy series that is mostly about hot gay wizards gettin' it on.

If I want to have my ideas about absuse challenged, I'll read Lolita, or possibly I'll track down some abuse-survivors' weblogs. I won't read an otherwise ordinary fantasy novel or, for that matter, watch

Dollhouse

.

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Dan H

at 16:05 on 2009-04-28

The enormity of the gang-rape is something he's not prepared to consider his just desserts

I can't speak for Kyra, but the problem I have with this is that it suggests, falsely, that the more traumatic an experience is the less likely you are to blame yourself for it. I'm by no means an expert on the subject of abuse survival but from my limited experience people's tendency to self-blame for things is wholly unrelated to the severity of the abuse suffered. For that matter, the whole idea of rating abuse experiences in order of severity is a bit of a dodgy precedent.

Essentially I think there's an important, and worrying, difference between "Felix has experienced things like this before but, because he has grown as a person, and because of the influence of Mildmay, he does not blame himself for this experience" and "Felix has experienced things like this before but, because this experience is so much worse than the others, he cannot blame himself for it".

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http://sistermagpie.livejournal.com/

at 21:38 on 2009-05-01I haven't read this last book yet, but I'm glad for the heads-up. Having read the other 3 I can definitely see how this kind of thing would play, and I'm not surprised that she'd planned something like this from the beginning. It does make you think thought, about the idea that this character is constantly going through situations like this, and it's finally when he acheives the kind of abuse he might have always thought would be what he deserved, that he realizes he didn't deserve it. Even if Mildmay and other experiences are also part of his turnaround, I don't know whether that kind of catalyst will click for me the way another one might.

Like, rather than having him be in a situatio that's the same as before, but with one clear difference that makes him see it clearly, it's almost like Helen Keller at the well. Repeated fingerspelling over and over and finally he gets it.

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Wardog

at 15:28 on 2009-05-11I lost this temporarily in the deluge of comments about other things.

It is possible I've over-reacted to the gang rape; I suppose responses to these sort of motifs are always going to be extremely personal. I feel almost hypocritical because, as you say, there's plenty of indication previously that we were on the Sex Abuse Superhighway and something like this was probably bound to happen. But the way it's framed and written, combinated with its narrative function as a catalyst for change really really squicked me out. I know it's not necessarily meant to be psychologically plausible but there's something deeply worrying in the idea that there is a scale of sexual abuse, the extreme end of which teaches you self respect.

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valse de la lune

at 14:04 on 2011-07-12I tracked down

this interview

and I'm now extremely, thoroughly grossed out with Sarah Monette:

I think this does happen to gay male protagonists (the most obvious example is Mercedes Lackey's Last Herald-Mage books). And I think Felix does fall into this trap to a certain extent, although in my defense I will say that the reason he gets raped is because I was interested in the tension inherent in a character who could be both rapist and victim. Which could have been a woman, or a heterosexual man, but it was most obvious and easiest to mobilize with a gay man. I also chose a gay male protagonist because my abiding interest is in the power dynamics of human relationships, especially sexual relationships, and it is VERY VERY HARD to write about that with a heterosexual female protagonist without pigeon-holing her and yourself into either a re-inscription of patriarchal gender roles (male dominant, female submissive) or a simple gender reversal (female dominant, male submissive) (which I did work with some in my novella, "A Gift of Wings," in The Queen in Winter). A lesbian relationship is also a possibility, but it's far more interesting and attention-grabbing to take power away from a man than it is to give power to a woman. [...] Also, because we live in a patriarchal society and have for several thousand years, there's nothing new or shocking about the idea that women are victims. (I'm not saying this is a good thing, mind you.) You can get more narrative charge out of victimizing a man and you aren't reinscribing the same old gender role patterns into that ever deeper groove of men act and women suffer.

What the fuck, Monette? My word, lesbian relationships aren't just ~hawt~ enough unlike slender

yaoi stereotypes

wizards sexing it up and... female empowerment is just too boring? Female victimization is just too

banal

to write about so gay men being degraded (and in this case, often raped by women) has more "narrative charge"? There's also something toward the end that basically goes "well, if you are writing about male rape it's super

titillating

shocking so people will recognize RAPE IS HORRIBLE whereas women being raped is just so

every day

so... hey, manpain! That'll get people

thinking

, right? Right!"

I don't know, all of this reads like the slash fangirl's justification why she's not interested in writing girls but wants to write hot boys instead, all disguised under a pretend layer of ~*soshul justeese*~.

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Wardog

at 23:33 on 2011-07-12Oh dear. I'm actually really annoyed with myself that it took me to Book IV to unpack what was going on with the, err, sexay mainpain and all the arse rape. I did quite like Monette initially - I think partially because when I first read Melusine I was still under the impression that gay characters were pretty rare in fantasy. To give Monette credit, when she actually bothers to be interested in them, she does write interesting female characters - I mean I *loved* Mehitabel from this series.

I think what freaks me out the most is that, as you observe, it's blatant titillation under the label of trangression. I have no problems with people getting their kicks from whatever they get their kicks from, as long as it's a carefully demarcated fantasy space, but pretending it's anything else is deeply toxic.

Also that interview was just awful :(

Maybe it's just because it doesn't apply to me but I don't understand why so many women find two dudes so unbelievably hawt but two women apparently tedious. Ho hum.

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valse de la lune

at 05:06 on 2011-07-13I think gay characters are still pretty rare in fantasy, but the gay dudes all seem to come from the same wellspring of fanfic tropes. I've read all the arguments as to why dudeslash is a female-positive space that enables women to explore their sexuality and I do get some of it, but I can't shake the feeling that so much of that is hot air; no matter how hard a slash fan argues I can't really see how spamming rape at gay dudes is particularly, y'know, feminist. Maybe it plays with power dynamics and whatnot but, on the other hand,

rape culture

.

I don't get the thing with YAY HAWT BOYS EWW GIRLS ARE BORING either, though it's been explained to me that most female characters aren't decently written so people'd sooner generate fanfic about boys instead. But that doesn't fly because fandom churns out great volumes of fanfic dedicated to minor male characters, even though some of them barely have a presence in the book/show/movie--see Figwit of the LOTR movies fame--whereas women, primary or tertiary, still get written out or villified. There are even

bingo cards

. Somewhere in that

is

a valid clause regarding how we're trained to look at media through male gateways thanks to patriarchy and we internalize that. Still don't get it on a personal level because I've always preferred female characters over male, but there it goes.

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Melissa G.

at 06:30 on 2011-07-13

Maybe it's just because it doesn't apply to me but I don't understand why so many women find two dudes so unbelievably hawt but two women apparently tedious. Ho hum.

Speaking as a straight woman who gets paid to translate yaoi, I can understand that pretty well. :-) It's not that I find girls boring as characters, but as someone who isn't sexually attracted to women, I find myself gravitating toward situations where I can look at/write about two sexy boys instead if I'm looking for smexy times. (Though I'm very, very picky these days about yaoi because of tropes I'm sure I've mentioned before.)

I feel some sympathy for Monette because I do have a hard time verbalizing my tastes without resorting to those same basic arguments about power play or feeling the need to judge the female character and how she is portrayed specifically because she's female (which I wish I didn't, but I do so...). What I find odd is the fact that everyone insists on asking me *why* I find male-on-male romance so appealing, and then I'm stuck in this hem-hawing, putting-on-airs defense because I'm too embarrassed to just go, "Two guys doing stuff to each other is hot?"

(Uh-oh, now I'm having Dorian Gray flashbacks. Oh, Ben Barnes, you scamp, you!!)

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Steve Stirling at 07:07 on 2011-07-13

I don't get the thing with YAY HAWT BOYS EWW GIRLS ARE BORING either

-- you get exactly the same in reverse from male writers a lot, so I don't see that there's any mystery about it.

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valse de la lune

at 07:20 on 2011-07-13I don't think Kyra's asking "why male-on-male?" but more "why do people find women inexplicably boring?"

but as someone who isn't sexually attracted to women, I find myself gravitating toward situations where I can look at/write about two sexy boys instead if I'm looking for smexy times.

That doesn't make sense to me because, even outside of sexual context, a lot of slashers just don't want to write women period and I'm sure we don't always only write about what's sexually/romantically attractive to us (or no straight man would ever write male characters).

It also doesn't really answer why women are so villified and hated by fandom at large: why people like Monette believe "it's more interesting to take power away from a man than to give power to a woman," or why slash is passed off as some wonderful female-positive space when it involves a lot of female-negative things, including but not limited to slut-shaming and othering women. Ogle hot boys, whatever (but even so, why so much fucking rape all the fucking time? Why the infantilizing tropes?). But I think you can do that without contributing to misogyny and rape culture.

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Steve Stirling at 07:24 on 2011-07-13

I don't think Kyra's asking "why male-on-male?" but more "why do people find women inexplicably boring?"

-- I don't. I actually had to start flipping coins at one point to make sure my characters weren't predominantly female.

Maybe it's because I was in single-sex schools for a lot of my adolescence, but I just find women more interesting than men. More complex and variable, on average.

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Steve Stirling at 07:38 on 2011-07-13

Ogle hot boys, whatever (but even so, why so much fucking rape all the fucking time? Why the infantilizing tropes?). But I think you can do that without contributing to misogyny and rape culture.

-- I don't read much (any, really) slash, but the actually-published equivalents like the book described here don't seem particularly misogynist to me. Just obsessed with Hot Boys in Chains.

As for the rape and stuff, a lot of people get off on that. Trying to tell people that the sexual fantasies which ring their chimes aren't permissible is roughly equivalent to trying to scold water until it voluntarily runs uphill. Much effort, little result.

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valse de la lune

at 07:45 on 2011-07-13

I don't. I actually had to start flipping coins at one point to make sure my characters weren't predominantly female.

Thank you, Minority Warrior, but if you are a bloke that's not exactly addressed to you.

I don't read much (any, really) slash, but the actually-published equivalents like the book described here don't seem particularly misogynist to me. Just obsessed with Hot Boys in Chains.

I've only read the first book and the gang-rape scene in the fourth, but a lot of the women in this series like to rape gay men for some strange reason.

Melusine

opens with an anecdote about the pure, true love between men. Two women get between it; one proceeds to rape one of the men repeatedly until he wants to kill himself. So, yes, both fandom slash and published slash perpetuate a lot of the same crap. Then there's Monette's interview and strange leaps of illogic which read sexist as hell to me.

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Melissa G.

at 08:48 on 2011-07-13

That doesn't make sense to me because, even outside of sexual context, a lot of slashers just don't want to write women period and I'm sure we don't always only write about what's sexually/romantically attractive to us (or no straight man would ever write male characters).

I can't speak to that. I don't know why so many writers are so anti-female characters, and it would take me pages of musing to try and come to a conclusion. I was referring specifically to sexual situations (by which I mean stories centering on sex) because the comment I was particularly responding to was "why do so many women find two dudes so unbelievably hot but two women apparently tedious". Which I read as "why do so many women love writing about two guys (sexually) but find writing about two women so boring (sexually)". Perhaps I misinterpreted what Kyra was saying. I stated clearly that I don't find women boring as characters to read and write about, but that I understand why many women gravitate toward male homosexual relationships and why they might find it arousing when they are writing merely to titillate themselves/others.

I haven't read the series in question so I take everyone's word for it that the rape isn't handled well and misogyny abounds. And trust me, I'm the first person to get fed up with the kind of tropes male-on-male stuff tends to come with - especially when written by someone who's probably never even spoken to a gay man before. I got fed up with one author in particular because her protagonists kept falling for their rapists, yuck. But just because a lot of it sucks and perpetuates some seriously shitty stuff doesn't mean that it's not okay to find guy-on-guy stuff hot. And I really don't appreciate being made to feel like because I like it, I am somehow in danger of losing my feminist card.

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valse de la lune

at 09:57 on 2011-07-13I don't think I have been suggesting that if you like slash, you're in danger of losing your feminist cred; being a feminist doesn't exactly mean everything you consume must be feminist, after all, and we all enjoy things that are problematic to some degree. I just don't like how it's put forward as a YAY WOMEN field when it's not really. Likewise, I've been shouted down in fandom spaces for calling out misogyny in slash, something along the line of

you will find it is you who is misogyny

.

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valse de la lune

at 10:06 on 2011-07-13(Sorry that I'm coming down harshly such that you feel you're being discredited as a feminist, though.)

One more thing--I've been told over and over that there is a strong presence of queer women in slash circles, so for some it's not so much a matter of "I'm straight so more cocks yay!!!" In fact, with so many queer women around--so many lesbians even--you'd think there would be more F/F fanfic. But there isn't, so...

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Melissa G.

at 10:23 on 2011-07-13

I don't think I have been suggesting that if you like slash, you're in danger of losing your feminist cred

I think I was responding defensively to this comment:

Ogle hot boys, whatever (but even so, why so much fucking rape all the fucking time? Why the infantilizing tropes?). But I think you can do that without contributing to misogyny and rape culture.

It basically felt to me like my entire sexual preference/fetish/whatever was being boiled down to "ogling hot boys". It’s those kinds of dismissive, judgmental comments that make me feel like I need to somehow justify what I find arousing. That’s why you have people arguing that it’s pro-women or empowering or whatever to write and read man-on-man love stories. When an attraction is called into question, I think often women in particular feel the need to base that attraction in something intellectual and philosophical. Because it would be wrong for a woman to just find something titillating or arousing. Because women aren’t supposed to like sex just for sex.

I think there are ways that it can be empowering (I wouldn't go so far as to say 'feminist'), but most of it fails in this regard. For me, when I read a story with a male bottom that I can relate to as far as sexual behavior, it makes me feel less weird. There's something freeing about the behavior being related to the position and not the gender, for me anyway. I think that also relates to why an author might find it more interesting (and by interesting I mean because they find it hot) to take power away from men. For some women who are attracted to men, there is something very fascinating and seductive about a man submitting (either sexually or emotionally), probably because it's something so commonly associated with female behavior. So again, it becomes less of a gender thing and more of a relationship role thing. If that makes any sense....

I just don't like how it's put forward as a YAY WOMEN field when it's not really.

I totally understand that. I actually avoid fan written slash like the plague because most of it is just not good. Most of it is (I think) influenced by yaoi, which oh dear god, has such problems. There is so much rape and questionable consent and a lot of "I'm only gay for that guy" and such overly traditional female behavior (even though one of them is male, go figure). And the kind of people you've probably argued with are likely the kind of people who make me afraid to admit I'm part of the yaoi subculture.

But there is good stuff out there. I promise. :-)

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Melissa G.

at 10:26 on 2011-07-13

One more thing--I've been told over and over that there is a strong presence of queer women in slash circles, so for some it's not so much a matter of "I'm straight so more cocks yay!!!" In fact, with so many queer women around--so many lesbians even--you'd think there would be more F/F fanfic. But there isn't, so...

Sorry, I made my long post before I saw this! That is odd. Why don't they focus on yuri? Yuri is slowly becoming a more female dominated genre. It's kind of cool actually that the female authors are slowly co-opting a genre that was once basically male-written lesbian porn for men. To each their own, I guess?

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valse de la lune

at 10:59 on 2011-07-13

It basically felt to me like my entire sexual preference/fetish/whatever was being boiled down to "ogling hot boys".

But... I said that because I think it's pretty dandy if you're just in it for the ogling of hot boys, or balls being cupped gently, or even self-lubing anuses. I don't think you, or anyone else, need to justify it any further than that. Think it's hot? Go for it! That's excellent. Objectifying

men

in and of itself, separate from the concern over straight people fetishizing homosexuality, doesn't really bother me. I'm not questioning the appeal of slash: I'm questioning some of the tropes, the homophobia, the misogyny. Which certainly aren't universal, but there sure is a lot of them to go around. Hell, gay male characters written by straight men also get raped an awful lot (hi Richard Morgan, thank you for that graphic schoolboy gang rape).

Disclosure: I think lesbians are awesome. I'd like to read more stuff with lesbian representation. Being homoromantic does have something to do with it, though.

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Melissa G.

at 11:11 on 2011-07-13

But... I said that because I think it's pretty dandy if you're just in it for the ogling of hot boys, or balls being cupped gently, or even self-lubing anuses. I don't think you, or anyone else, need to justify it any further than that.

:-) I think it just came off as hostile because of the swearing, lol. To be honest, I was probably overly defensive because it's kind of a touchy thing for me.

I'm not questioning the appeal of slash: I'm questioning some of the tropes, the homophobia, the misogyny.

Yes, I'm with you here. I have a lot of trouble with a lot of boy/boy stuff that's out there.

Re: Lesbians

If you're looking to try out some yuri, I can lead you to some scanlation sites. I haven't read much yuri so I can't totally vouch for the content, but these are sites that I know of:

Lililicious

Payapaya

Just be sure to check for ratings and such. There was one on Lilicious I read years ago that I was enjoying.

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valse de la lune

at 11:14 on 2011-07-13OMG yay :D :D :D Thanks for the links. My friend's been sending me some too. I'm also quite pleased to see that a lot of yuri writers are female. Awesome.

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Cammalot

at 15:23 on 2011-07-13I JUST WANNA WATCH DUDES EMOTE. ;-)

I actually got into yaoi (not slash for whatever reason) because I was attracted to what I thought was the innate equality in such a a relationship. There are a variety of reasons I don't really seek out much fanfic anymore (one of which is the decade-plus that has gone by) but one of them is that I don't really see that equality getting embraced. (I'm necessarily truncating this, I have to imitate being a productive employee at the moment.)

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Melissa G.

at 19:40 on 2011-07-13

I JUST WANNA WATCH DUDES EMOTE. ;-)

Ooh, yes, good observation. I like that too.

I actually got into yaoi (not slash for whatever reason) because I was attracted to what I thought was the innate equality in such a a relationship.

Ditto. That's what I really like about it too, which is why I hate when they skew the power dynamic too far in one direction without somehow compensating for it in another way. I've never been into fanfic, but I do love doujinshi.

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Cammalot

at 19:48 on 2011-07-13I wrote up this whole long comment yesterday, but today with you guys' further conversation I realized I was addressing something that Pyro was not talking about, so I'm tweaking, but I don't think I'll have a chance to get to it today.

The extremely short version is that there's a very definite blockage that some women seem to have about writing women, and I had it myself for some time (and that some more extreme versions of it outright baffle me), and have spent a lot of time trying to process, discuss, and debate what the fuck that is about. With theories. I have theories.

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Melissa G.

at 19:53 on 2011-07-13

The extremely short version is that there's a very definite blockage that some women seem to have about writing women,

Definitely noticed this myself at times. I gravitate toward writing male characters, or at least I used to. I'm very interested to hear your theories whenever you find the time to write them up. :-)

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Sister Magpie

at 20:07 on 2011-07-13

Sorry, I made my long post before I saw this! That is odd. Why don't they focus on yuri? Yuri is slowly becoming a more female dominated genre. It's kind of cool actually that the female authors are slowly co-opting a genre that was once basically male-written lesbian porn for men. To each their own, I guess?

I would guess that that's probably not all that related to the whole "that's my kink" thing, only not all kinks are sexual. That is, expecting them to explain it would probably be similar to having anybody explain why they find one thing more hot than another.

For instance, I like het and I like slash, but there are certain kinds of stories that could definitely be considered non-sexual kinks that I am more likely to read about in a m/m pairing than a f/m pairing or f/f pairing. I suppose I could try to relate it to power issues with gender IRL, but it's probably more just a kink if it's something I've pretty much always been drawn to.

I don't find that rape or "I'm only gay for that guy" seems to dominate most of the slash I come across, but I think that might often come down to different pairings leaning towards different dynamics. Or else also some authors being better than most.

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Steve Stirling at 22:44 on 2011-07-13Pyrofennec:

-of the women in this series like to rape gay men for some strange reason.Melusine opens with an anecdote about the pure, true love between men. Two women get between it; one proceeds to rape one of the men repeatedly until he wants to kill himself.

-- that is odd. I'd say it was evidence of misogyny if a guy wrote it, but I have trouble -imagining- a guy writing it, even a gay man. You'd need a very strange set of quirks to do so.

[ironhaust-tinkerer-blog]

EXCERPTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF WULF DRAIG-LÛTH

day 1

Arrived in Allmeera. 

I must confess, the city is intimidating. It’s larger than Ironhaust, much larger, but it is not the noise and the crowd that makes me wary. Since the day I was born, I was told stories of the Men of Anderos: the people that took our ancient lands and ruined the ecosystem with their greed and ignorance, then hunted us down and stole Freymire too. I was raised on stories of evil, men with grasping claws and hollow eyes -- the fire they brought that turned us into what we are today, forged hard as steel and twice as battle-scarred.

But these people don’t know those stories. Or, at the very least, they don’t recognize a Freymirran on sight, not like Ironhaust does. They are removed from their own history, and I am allowed to walk in Allmeera as... just another person. I am not stared at, I am not sneered at. It is strange.

On a brighter note: I met the other members of this quest!

Some of them are like something out of a storybook. Elves and wizards, hobbits and noble warriors. I fear I am hardly fit to be in their company.

I cannot yet remember all their names off-hand, but I will write them here to keep a note and imprint them in my memory.

day 2

The party, in no particular order:

Faunalyn Amaranthae, whose name I had to ask for the spelling of three times. She’s an elf, and Bigs is absolutely entranced by her. Admittedly I’ve been a bit too nervous to speak to her much as of yet, as she is beautiful and composed and likely older than I could possibly imagine.

Yaphier, a wizard. A WIZARD!!!

Rosalyn Greenwood, a hobbit. I hadn’t thought that hobbits were even real! I had heard stories, but I scarcely believed them until I met her -- and even then, I immediately thought she was a child. But she is an adult, with a wild mass of red hair and bright eyes, cheerful and curious. I feel I will get on very well with her.

Kieran Argent, an elf?? Perhaps half-elf? I have not asked, and I’m loathe to do so. For all that Kieran is tall and willowy and graceful, he is very shy. Perhaps even more nervous than me, haha! 

Théodore, our leader, though you would not think it to look at him -- he does not have the seasoned look of a warrior that I expected, more the bearing of nobility, a face that seems far more suited for smiling than shouting orders. I am petrified that he will decide I am of no use in this quest. He seems cordial, though, so I am doing everything I can to prove to him that I can be useful.

Harlowe Reed, a fellow human. I hardly need to write about Harlowe here, as he is mentioned frequently in my journals back home, haha! He has been my best friend since we were very young, and his presence on his journey gives me great comfort.

Brego Fastredson, another half-elf, and every inch of him a warrior. He reminds me of the hardier fighters of my clan, and I have no doubt that with him by our side, this quest will be a success.

Prince Elas Eilrieth of Ironhaust. Needless to say, it is... somewhat surprising that he is on this trip. When I met him, I was barely able to communicate. No doubt he thinks me an idiot.

Allyria Vennel, an elf and a healer. There is something very melancholy about her, and I am not quite sure what, yet.

Arion Xyrrie, an elf. Reserved and quiet, I have not had a chance to speak with him yet, though I hope to in the future. He is possessed of what looks like a beautiful bow, and seems very handy with it!

day 6

I SAW YAPHIER DO MAGIC. SHE FLICKED HER HAND AND A MAN’S HAT TWISTED AROUND!

IT WAS INCREDIBLE!!

She suggested that we do some sort of show together, her magic and my card tricks, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever felt more honored in my life. She is amazing and I very much look forward to spending more time with her. 

day 8

Brief conversation with Kieran. Suspicions confirmed: he is exceedingly shy, and very wary about personal space. I accidentally got too close when Bigs ran at him, and he retreated very quickly.

I wonder why he is so defensive? It did not seem an angry sort of defense, more a cautious one -- a defense born of negative experience. I showed him how to pat Bigs in the way Bigs likes best, and Kieran seemed thrilled. I will have to teach Kieran Bigs’ signals, because I anticipate that Bigs will be following him around quite a lot.

day 10

I’ve invented an amazing idea!!!

With the combination of various punctuation marks like brackets and commas, one can make rudimentary faces with writing! Like so!

:)

Tipped sideways, a smiling face! :( is a sad face! >:( is an angry face!

I am calling them emograms (emotion + pictograms).

day 14

The herbs and spices sold in the markets of Allmeera are completely inferior and I’ve a mind to write some sort of letter of complaint.

day 20

We’re due to leave tomorrow. I am nervous, to say the least.

I spoke briefly with Théodore. He was lifting heavy packs onto his horse, and in haste, I snatched one from him to put it on Donkey. My logic was as follows: he is the leader, therefore he should have the ability to travel swiftly without his horse getting overly tired, and as Donkey is a draft horse bred for hauling heavy cargo, I wanted to make myself (and Donkey!) useful.

I fear that I came off like a thief, though. Théodore did not immediately evict me from the group, though, like I halfway expected him to. 

day 21

Today, the journey begun. We set out from Allmeera, and I was glad to see the city slowly grow smaller behind us. Though the people did not treat me any differently there, my people’s stories kept circling the forefront of my mind. I know that the people of today’s Allmeera had nothing to do with the persecution of my ancestors, but I was still happy to leave. Is that uncharitable of me?

I put my foot in my mouth and asked Allyria if she was afraid of humans. I had noticed that she sort of... hunches up around myself, Harlowe and Elas, but not the others. 

She confirmed my curiosity, but she did not expand on why. I suspect that humans have treated her very badly in the past, though for what reasons, I do not know. I want to make her something to help. I know that I cannot solve her fear by myself, but perhaps if I make her an entertaining trinket of some sort, she might be able to use it to distract herself from the fear?

It would have to be a toy dragon. Alas, any other animal I attempt to carve comes out quite lumpy.

day 22

Something I did not think would ever happen: I spoke candidly with Prince Elas!

He is hopeful for Ironhaust in a way I did not think he would be. The tales of him are frequent but dubious, as stories passed through many ears tend to twist and warp with repeated tellings. 

But he is... how do I put this. For one thing, he actually seemed amenable to holding a conversation with me. He spoke passionately and hopefully, though he avoided speaking too much of his father. I have decided that I shall do my best to look out for his welfare. No doubt he is a more capable warrior than I, but he is far more important than me.

(continued)

I saw Allyria and Elas having what looked like an interesting conversation -- I could not make out the words, but there was some very intense staring going on! And Allyria did not look quite as wary around him!

I wonder if this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship :)

day 23

Though Brego and Rosa could not be two more different people, I had two equally enjoyable conversations with them today.

I took it upon myself to cook dinner for everyone, and Rosa helped me pick herbs. She is delightful; cheerful and eager to help, and I am told that hobbits are great lovers of food. No doubt we will be trading recipes soon enough!

I also made Brego laugh tonight, which was unexpected, but entirely welcome. I fretted that I might have accidentally given him meat when he might be a vegetarian, but he reassured me that was not the case. He is kinder than expected. His face is so stern, but he smiles easily, though perhaps he was just amused at my worry. He

[the rest of this entry is an unreadable smear of ink, marked by a large pawprint]

day 25

I have taken to writing during the evenings, normally, but we have stopped for a meal at noon, so I have a quick opportunity to write!

Bigs has been sniffing the ground all day today and growling. I am not sure why, but he seems very on edge?

Perhaps he, like me, is just cautious of being in a strange land. So far the journey has been peaceful, and quite beautiful.

[officialleehadan]

First Negotiation

“Better,” Helena said, pleased, when Owen emerged from her bathroom, clean, bandaged, and walking under his own power. She kept a small collection of clothing for her Coven tucked away in case of emergencies, and that included suits in several sizes. As she suspected, he had the shoulders to wear one well, even if the sleeves and legs were somewhat short on him. “Much better. You rally well.”

“I have to,” Owen said tiredly. His short brown hair was wet, and the scruff on his cheeks now looked intentional, rather than messy. “Josef will figure out I survived pretty soon. If I don’t have my shit in gear by the time he does, I’m toast.”

“He did not stay to assure himself of your fate?” That was just sloppy. These days it was rare that Helena had to deal with a problem in her coven, but when she did, she made sure it was done properly and with finality.

“He might be crazy, but he knows most of the Hunters in the city will listen to me. I had to vanish, and he had to be seen in public when I did.”

Ah. Deniability. That did make sense. Helena nodded and gestured to the entry. “My driver is waiting. The Elders of the city will hear you out, and respect that, until I decide otherwise, you are under my protection.”

“Thanks for that,” he said, and Helena was surprised to hear that he meant it. When he saw her giving him the side-eye, he cracked a weary smile. “Look, I’m a Hunter who’s about to walk into the middle of a Vamp meeting. I’ll take any help I can get, and you didn’t eat me when you had the chance.”

“I like my prey clean and well dressed,” she replied dryly as they walked out of the office. She had called her driver and the other Elders while the Hunter got cleaned up. “At the moment, you are barely either.”

The limo pulled up and Helena spared a nod for her driver as she slid in, followed by her errant hunter. He was quiet, and moved well, for all that he had a number of weapons concealed on his person. That was alright. If she was in his place, she would wish to be armed as well.

If he made a move against her or the other Elders, she would rip his throat out herself.

“What should I expect?” Owen asked after long minutes of quiet. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unused to the luxury that now surrounded him. Helena debated with herself for a moment, and pressed a button on her armrest. A panel slid open and revealed a small tablet. She pulled it out and turned it on.

“A great deal of our usual formality will be set aside in favor of urgency,” she explained, and pulled up the most recent photo of all the Elders, herself included, so that he could see them. “Believe it or not, this isn’t terribly uncommon, although the threat usually isn’t city-wide.”

Owen took the tablet and looked over the faces. Some vampires could read minds, but Helena wasn’t one of them, and wondered what he was thinking.

“I knew about most of them,” he decided at last. “And the ones I didn’t know about aren’t a surprise. Will they listen to me?”

“Some won’t,” Helena admitted. “Some members of the Council are old-fashioned. Many are wary about any alliance with the other factions in the city, especially Hunters, and you are not unknown to us.”

“That’s what I get for killing Henri, huh?”

Henri hadn’t been especially popular on the Elder Council, but killing an Elder got attention, and not the good kind. Owen had put a stake through the Elder’s heart, killed nearly a dozen of his top-ranked Coven, and lit their coven-hold on fire.

Needless to say, there weren’t many vampires in the city who were inclined to look kindly on such a notorious Hunter.

“You killed an Elder,” Helena said frankly and not without faint annoyance. “And burned a Coven. The power-vacuum that left made a lot of trouble for all of us, me included.”

“Hope you don’t expect an apology.”

“I don’t, although an explanation might help your case. You Hunters don’t usually go after Elders.” She hadn’t especially liked Henri, and his death did make room for her rise in power. All the same, he was an Elder, and his death made it difficult to believe anything Owen had to say.

 “Usually you Elders keep a tight grip on your people,” Owen told her uncomfortably. “I don’t like vamps, but I can admit that. Unlimited killing is bad for everyone. I found out that he was arranging massacres for his favorites. Lots of dead. Some turned and left to figure things out on their own. It was a mess.”

“And you killed him for it?”

“No. I killed him because my best friend was one of the dead. He told me who turned him, and then we watched the sunrise.”

Owen’s voice was bitter and pained, and Helena considered his angry, but steady, heartbeat. Older vampires could stand sunlight. Oh, it always burned, but by the time a vampire reached their first century, their healing factor was usually fast enough to hide the damage from human eyes.  Fledgling would have burned in minutes. Not a good death, and not a painless one.

“A lawful vendetta,” she concluded after considering the factors. The other Elders hadn’t been unaware of that particular habit of Henri’s, and had been in the process of deciding what to do about it when Owen quite literally burned everything to the ground. “That will help. We take vengeance seriously.”

“If it helps, it helps,” Owen told her, and stared out the darkened windows. Helena wasn’t concerned about him memorizing the route. The Council changed their meeting place every month. “I’m serious about Josef. He’s going to kill us all if he can.”

“I believe you,” Helena murmured, and turned the new problem over in her mind even as they drew near to the appointed meeting place. “Do not pull a weapon in this place. No matter how they threaten, or what they do, none of them may lawfully touch you while you are under my protection. If they do, it is for me do deal with them.”

“Are you fast enough to keep them from taking my throat out if I say the wrong thing?”

He was dubious. Helena smiled coldly.

“I forget,” she said, deceptively mild but with a very smug edge. Plenty of challengers took her pristine white suit and sky-high designer heels as a sign that her power was purely political. “That we have never fought, you and I. Yes, I am fast enough to keep you from harm if they attack you, but if you break our laws at an Elder Council, you will die, and possibly so will I.”

“Vampires and your laws,” he grumbled, but relented. “Can I go in armed?”

“I would rather you did not.”

“You’re asking a lot of me to walk into a vamp lair without a stake.”

“You asked much of me when you showed up half-dead in my office.”

He winced, but began pulling weapons off his person with remarkable efficiency. Helena gestured to one bench of the limo. They would be leaving together. He could pick them up after the meeting.

“Is that everything?” she asked when he seemed to be done. He hesitated and looked her in the eye.

“Are you sure?” he asked slowly, callused hands clenched. “We met less than an hour ago. How do I know I’m not going to get eaten the moment I walk through those doors?”

“You don’t,” Helena told him flatly, and sat back as the limo came to a stop. “You will have to trust that I will protect our alliance and the information you represent.”

“Is it weird that I’m comforted by being too valuable to kill?” he joked, and finally pulled out the gun that Helena could smell and hadn’t wanted to take off him unless she had to. It joined the rest of his weapons in the pile. “Okay. Let’s get this done. Josef is gonna be looking for me by sundown.”

+++

Blood and Passion:

White Marble

+++

Support me on Patreon!

[earlyandoftenpodcast]

(Left: Governor Samuel Ward. Right: Governor Stephen Hopkins.)

As Rhode Island develops and grows throughout the 18th century, it becomes divided by a struggle for dominance between the two largest cities in the colony, leading to the creation of an early two-party system with many features that would be emulated in the early American republic.

>>>Direct audio link<<<

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Transcript and Sources:

Hello, and welcome to Early and Often: The History of Elections in America. Episode 29: The Ward-Hopkins Controversy.

Last time, we talked about the political history of Massachusetts from the 1710s to the 1750s. In particular, we focused on how the introduction of paper money in order to pay for the wars against Quebec led to periodic economic crises and a divide within the colony between opponents and supporters of increasing the money supply. Eventually, thanks to considerable pressure from the British government, the experiment in paper money was ended altogether.

Today, we’re going to look at the political history of Rhode Island over roughly the same time period.

Now, let me give you a quick summary of the events we’ll be talking about today, just so you’ll know what to look out for. I’m covering a lot this episode, and I don’t want things to get too confusing. Okay, so a few years after the Dominion of New England fell, a man named Samuel Cranston became governor of Rhode Island. He served for almost 30 years straight, until 1727. Needless to say, this was a time of considerable stability. But after his death, Rhode Island spent the 1730s divided over concerns about paper money, just like in Massachusetts.

Then an alliance of two men, Richard Ward and William Greene, dominated politics for about 15 years. There were still some divisions, but mostly things were stable. But in the 1750s a new political faction arose, led by Stephen Hopkins. While the old faction was based out of the town of Newport, this new faction was based out of Providence, a rising city which wanted to dethrone Newport and become the leading town in the colony. These two groups battled it out for the next decade and a half, forming what were basically political parties, in what’s known as the Ward-Hopkins controversy. That’ll be the main subject for this episode.

Right, so that’s the basics, let’s dive in.

Rhode Island, you’ll recall, was founded by a bunch of outcasts from Massachusetts, religious and political dissidents like Roger Williams and Anne Hutchinson who had been forced into exile one way or another. There hadn’t originally been a single colony of Rhode Island, just a small number of towns scattered about. But eventually the towns were joined together into a single unit, which remained a haven for non-conformists, and was looked down upon by the Puritans in the rest of New England. But despite the derision of their neighbors, they managed to keep their independence -- at least until the Dominion of New England, anyway. But after the Dominion was overthrown they emerged with their charter fully restored, like Connecticut.

Both Rhode Island and Connecticut were still small and vulnerable, though. They were both rural and poor, with much smaller populations than Massachusetts, and in principle their charters could come under attack at any moment. So they both adopted a policy of appeasing England as much as possible, while strongly pushing back against any attempt to weaken their charters.

So when the governor of Massachusetts was given instructions to take over Rhode Island’s militia, the Rhode Islanders resisted strongly. But that didn’t mean that Rhode Island was unwilling to help with the British war efforts. Quite the contrary. They wanted to keep the king happy, to show him that Rhode Island would be cooperative, so that there would be no need to raise challenges against their charter in the first place. This strategy proved pretty successful, in that they kept their charter.

However, just like in the other New England colonies, there were still those in Rhode Island who were pushing for greater royal control, sometimes just out of a personal grievance against the government or something like that, rather than for any ideological reasons.

In any case, one of the issues these royalists used to attack the current government was piracy and privateering. (If you’re not familiar with the term, privateering is when piracy is authorized by a state. So the English government could give pirates a license to legally raid French shipping in time of war. That would be privateering. It was a common tactic back in the day.)

Well, Rhode Island had been intimately involved with pirates and privateers for a while now. Even more so than the other New England colonies, Rhode Island had a maritime focus. Their main contribution to the wars against Quebec was authorizing privateers to plunder French vessels. The royalists, however, said that Rhode Island had gone too far, that the colony had given pirates licenses to privateer under dubious pretexts, and even turned a blind eye to full-on piracy.

And honestly, the accusations were probably somewhat true. After all, lots of other colonies were guilty of the same thing. Why would the colonies do something like that? Well, money mostly. Piracy could bring in a lot of cash, and that was extremely useful in a poor colony like Rhode Island. Without that cash they would’ve had trouble paying for needed imports. So you can think of piracy as an alternative to the land bank or other schemes for printing money. And just like the land bank, piracy was strongly opposed by the English government.

Anyway, the piracy issue indirectly led to the resignation of the governor, Walter Clarke, in 1698. His replacement, Samuel Cranston, who happened to be his nephew, would go on to be elected as governor for the next 29 years straight, longer than any other governor of any colony or state in American history.

Cranston had been a sea captain and he was married to the granddaughter of Roger Williams, one of the founders of Rhode Island. He had also been kidnapped by pirates himself when he was a young man.

Now that he was governor, Cranston came under immediate pressure from English officials to get his colony in order. He did what he could to placate them, taking stronger actions against pirates and so on. He also made sure that Rhode Island did its fair share for the war effort.

So with Cranston in power, Rhode Island settled down into a long period of stable development.

Its government became more centralized. The law code was rewritten, organized and expanded, a process which took the better part of two decades, given how confused and haphazard the legal system had been.

The economy kept growing. Slaves were imported in considerable numbers, by New England standards. Paper money was introduced in 1710 and industries like shipbuilding started to take off, which helped the colony become more of a trading center. A small economic elite formed, although they were less elite than the elite elsewhere.

Massachusetts had done these things much earlier, but Rhode Island was a laggard thanks to its small size. Anyway, like the rest of New England, Rhode Island was finally becoming a normal member of the British Empire, as its cultural distinctiveness slowly eroded. They even started showing plays, although that was quite controversial.

And as the economy grew, so did the population. From 1700 to 1750 the number of settlers in Rhode Island jumped from 7,000 to 36,000. A quarter of the population lived in towns, which was high for the time.

Like in Massachusetts, this growth meant that the towns themselves changed. For instance, most of the common land was sold off or divided, so town governments became less concerned with land use per se, and more concerned with regulations and building roads, that kind of thing.

Also like in Massachusetts, the number of officials elected in each town shot up dramatically. Sydney V. James gives the example of Portsmouth, which in 1738 elected 52 officers, including “three overseers of the poor, three assessors, six field drivers (to capture stray livestock), a pound-keeper, three viewers of hemp and flax, two corders of wood, two cullers of clapboards and shingles, a sealer of weights and measures, a sealer of leather, a packer, an auctioneer, a town attorney, and a committee of auditors.”

The town meetings were also more closely regulated by the General Assembly. Elections had to be held at certain times, the meetings had to be held four times a year, there were limits on which items could be put on the meeting’s agenda, the requirements for what constituted a quorum were specified, and so on.

And whereas before the towns had been free to choose who could move into their town, the General Assembly now mandated that they had to allow in anyone, as long as they owned £50 worth of land within the town’s borders. So just like in Massachusetts, the era of the independent town was already ending, thanks to the growth and economic changes within New England.

The growing population also meant that it was time for Rhode Island to finally split its legislature into an upper and lower house. That happened in 1696. Both the upper and lower house were elected. Connecticut also made its legislature bicameral in 1698. That meant that all of the colonies now had bicameral assemblies, although Pennsylvania wound up switching back to a unicameral assembly later.

And the legislature became more professional over time as well, as delegates accumulated experience in governing.

Rhode Island remained religiously pluralistic. There were no town churches like in the rest of New England, and there was no formal religious discipline. No way to force people into conformity. Nor were there many trained ministers in the colony, for that matter.

The result of this freedom was a rapid shift away from anything resembling traditional Puritanism. All sorts of heresies flourished, and Quaker missionaries had considerable success in converting the settlers. In fact, the Quakers had such success in organization that they rather dominated the government by the late 1600s.

The other main religious group was the Baptists. Baptists in this case meaning those who rejected infant baptism while accepting adult baptism. That’s a common belief among many Protestant groups today, but at the time it was very controversial. These Baptists were the sort to take the Bible very literally, and they tended to have regular schisms over Biblical interpretation, even over minor issues like whether the Sabbath should be on Saturday or Sunday.

This was a preview of America’s religious future: different denominations endlessly fracturing and struggling with each other to gain converts. I guess it’s not surprising that this would happen in the first colony to really embrace tolerance. One way in which Rhode Island was surprisingly modern, despite its late start.

So that was what Rhode Island was like under Governor Cranston. I don’t think there’s any need to get into the elections during that period. The same man remained governor for three decades, after all, so it’s not like there were any big turnovers of power. There were no big issues to contest, and in general people were happy to see Rhode Island slowly develop. Or if there were big issues, they were kept in check for the time being.

But Cranston died in 1727. And after his death, it didn’t take long for Rhode Island to become divided by factions. One of the main divisions was over the currency. For instance, in 1732 the hard money governor lost reelection thanks to voters who wanted looser money and more inflation.

But that initial burst of factionalism had died down by the end of the 1730s. The 1740s saw the ascendance of the Ward-Greene alliance, based out of Newport. It was led by Richard Ward and William Greene, who together controlled the governorship for 13 of the next 15 years.

It seemed like Rhode Island might be returning to normal, after the moderate strife of the last decade, but alas, the 1740s were also the decade of King George’s War, the next big war with Quebec. The war caused fiscal problems for Rhode Island, just like in Massachusetts. The government tried to stay on top of its debts, but the treasury and the courts were both inefficient and overworked. The government simply didn’t have the administrative capacity to handle it. Nor did it have the money to pay its debts without further depreciating its currency.

These money problems led to unhappiness in the colony, which led to another burst of factionalism. Presumably Rhode Island was divided along familiar lines, with rural farmers vs. urban merchants and so on.

In 1745, in the middle of the war, the current governor, William Greene, was thrown out of office and replaced by one of his opponents, a Quaker with the excellent name of Gideon Wanton. Wanton was a proponent of paper money. Not only that, there was massive turnover in both the upper and lower houses of the General Assembly as well. However, the year after that, things were reversed, and former Governor Greene managed to take back his office, before losing to Wanton again the next year, only to win again the year after that.

So there was some back and forth, but this was a brief war which only lasted four years, and it didn’t take long for politics to calm back down. The Ward-Greene faction returned to its position of dominance and the factionalism over paper money evaporated as the immediate crisis ended.

So with the end of the war had things finally calmed down for real this time? No, of course not. There’s always another fight just around the corner. Paper money wasn’t an issue at the moment, so what was the issue? Well, now the issue was a growing rivalry between the two largest cities in Rhode Island, Newport and Providence.

Newport, which was on the coast, was the largest city and the most important port in the colony. Actually, it wasn’t just important by Rhode Island standards. Newport had become one of the five largest ports in the colonies. And it became a center of economic activity in general. Naturally, the city was politically dominant as well. The Ward-Greene faction was from Newport.

Providence, on the other hand, was further inland up the Narragansett Bay, which actually made it a better spot for a port. However, Providence had gotten a later start than Newport and so it remained smaller and less important. That was slowly starting to change. Thanks to its superior location, Providence slowly gained ground relative to Newport and by the 1750s Providence was strong enough to challenge Newport, both economically and politically.

If you’re familiar with ancient Greek history, this may remind you just a bit of the rivalry between Athens and Sparta which led to the Peloponnesian War in the 5th century BC. According to the Greek historian Thucidydes, “What made war inevitable was the growth of Athenian power and the fear which this caused in Sparta”. Well, I wouldn’t take the analogy too far -- no one in colonial America was particularly Spartan -- but the basic setup is similar. Two cities, one rising relative to the other, and only one of them can reign supreme. It’s a natural recipe for conflict.

Partly it was a question of patronage. Who would get government jobs? Who would be given approval to become a privateer in times of war? In which city would the new college get built? Who would get the money to improve infrastructure or build schools? Who would gain from new taxes and who would lose? Who would be granted a monopoly in a given industry? There was a lot riding on such questions, and sometimes only one group could come out on top.

But mainly, it was that the merchants of Providence would make more money the faster Providence grew, while the merchants of Newport would lose money if their city were eclipsed. Not only that, the farmers living near Providence would make more money the faster Providence grew, and vice versa for the farmers living near Newport. So this wasn’t just a fight between two groups of merchants. The whole colony had a stake in the rivalry. Farmers and merchants from the north joined together, as did farmers and merchants from the south, although both factions were led by men from the merchant class, not farmers.

The Ward-Greene faction, which was based out of Newport, had been running Rhode Island for the last fifteen years. They were still in power, but Richard Ward had been replaced by his son, Samuel Ward. Samuel Ward was in his 30s, likeable and smart, and generally a good politician. He had already served a few terms as a deputy in the legislature.

In Providence, however, a new faction was forming around Stephen Hopkins. Hopkins was from rural Rhode Island, but he had moved to Providence to better himself. Eighteen years older than Ward, Hopkins was also smart and well-read. He had risen up through the political ranks, for a time serving as a member of the colony’s Supreme Court.

By the early 1750s, Hopkins and his group were about ready to take power.  William Greene was still serving as governor, as he had for most of the last decade.

I should mention that in 1754, a new war with Quebec broke out, just 6 years after the last one had ended. This conflict was known as the Seven Years’ War, or as the French and Indian War in America. I’m not going to talk about the details of the war just yet. I’ll save that for later. For now, the important thing to know is that the English were finally successful in conquering Quebec, and that they managed to force the French off of the continent altogether.  

But the important thing to know for Rhode Island is the government once again started piling up debt. So not only was there the rivalry between Providence and Newport, there were disagreements about money as well.

Anyway, in 1755, the year after the war started, Stephen Hopkins won the governorship, narrowly defeating Governor Greene. Hopkins won reelection the next year, but his second reelection campaign against Greene didn’t go so well.

Samuel Ward, the son of Richard Ward, was naturally backing Greene against Hopkins. Ward wrote a pamphlet accusing Hopkins of corruption and arrogance. Hopkins was outraged and he sued Ward for libel, demanding a ridiculous 20,000 pounds in damages. However, he not only lost the court case, he lost the election. Greene was back in office yet again, thanks to Hopkins’ overreaction. But, Greene died after less than a year in office. The Assembly chose Hopkins to replace him for the rest of the term, so he was right back where he was before.

With Greene dead, the young -- well, 43 year old --  Samuel Ward was left in charge of the Ward-Greene faction, which was really just the Ward faction at this point. But now, the stage was set for a much bigger escalation between the two factions. So far, the fight between the two had been pretty tame. They were just doing politics in the normal New England way, which is to say, it was very low key and disorganized. But with the personal rivalry of Ward and Hopkins plus the regional rivalry between Newport and Providence becoming more and more acute, both sides began to organize.

Both Ward and Hopkins created what were essentially political parties in order to fight the other. All of a sudden Rhode Island politics took on a completely different character as both factions rapidly figured out how to compete in a democracy. Much of this was carried out by people with a direct stake in the elections. Men who stood to win big should their faction win. That was the driving force behind polarization: patronage.

They handpicked candidates to run for office. They literally carried the elderly and the sick to the polls in order to vote. In the words of Sydney V. James, “The opposing parties waged their campaigns with vigor and cash to pile up the vital majorities in elections. Candidates and their backers made speeches, printed broadside appeals, and inspired useful items in the newspapers. The Hopkins side helped launch the Providence Gazette to gain an outlet for its views. The political managers treated voters with food and drink. They hired men either to earn their gratitude when the ballots... were cast or to keep them busy when the voting was in progress. They rigged spurious land transactions to get poor men admitted to the suffrage. They paid the undecided to vote for their own slate and paid the dedicated opponents not to vote at all.”

The factions also provided their own preprinted ballots. Now, normally in New England at this time ballots were just blank slips of paper. You would write the names of the candidates you supported on it and then hand it over to be counted. There were no preprinted ballots with all the candidates listed, as today. That made voting more inconvenient and it also provided an opportunity for the factions to compete.

Each faction would print out their own ballots with only their own candidates listed. So the Hopkins ballot would have Hopkins and his men on it, but not Ward or Ward’s men. That made it much easier for voters to support just one side or the other. You could simply hand a preprinted ballot in without having to write anything down. You didn’t have to do that, but you could, and it was oh so much easier. Naturally, many voters wound up voting entirely for one faction or the other. Some two-thirds of voters consistently sided with one faction or the other over the course of the Ward-Hopkins controversy. In some towns almost no one changed their votes year-to-year. That was unusual behavior for the time. Back then people often changed their votes with each election, rarely supporting the same set of candidates.

But not only did the parties print out their own ballots, they even went so far as to print deceptive ballots. For instance, the Hopkins faction might print out a ballot with Ward at the top of it, but Hopkins men for all the other offices, and then distribute that ballot in areas which supported the Ward faction, in the hope that supporters of Ward would just notice the name “Ward” at the top and assume that the rest of the ballot was full of Ward faction men without bothering to check. Then they would hand in their ballot not knowing they were mostly voting for Hopkins men.

So we’re talking some pretty sophisticated trickery here. It didn’t take the Rhode Islanders very long at all to figure out how to work the system, once enough of them were determined to do so. And many of these practices, such as each party printing out its own ballots, would become standard practice in America for like a century to come. So in Rhode Island here, we’re definitely seeing a preview of American democracy after independence. It wasn’t necessarily the case that future generations were copying from Rhode Island, but the pressures of mass democracy were similar. There were only so many ways to get people to vote after all.

And these methods did prove pretty effective. Before the start of the controversy, turnout had been in the standard 25% range, but during the controversy, turnout for the gubernatorial elections remained above 40% for a full decade. And after the controversy ended, turnout dropped to under 20%. So clearly a lot more people were voting. Not incredible numbers, but consistent. Other contests elsewhere in New England had higher turnouts, but only once in a while. Maybe the fact that there were no grand principles at stake hurt. After all, the Ward-Hopkins feud was pretty unexciting if you didn’t have an economic stake in the outcome. I don’t think you could say that the whole colony was gripped by election fever.

Anyway, all of the elections were close. Neither Hopkins nor Ward ever got more than 55% of the vote. And remember, there were only like 3 or 4000 voters in a given election, so a narrow margin of victory meant that the winner won by hundreds if not mere dozens of votes. In two separate elections Hopkins won by just 66 votes. In another election he won by just 24 votes.

Unsurprisingly, the main divide was geographic. Two-thirds of voters in the north supported Hopkins and two-thirds in the south supported Ward. Not exactly unanimous, but still striking. Voters in the middle of the colony could go either way, and that was where both factions directed much of their efforts.

Neither wealth nor occupation mattered much. Artisans and farmers and wealthy merchants all tended to vote the same way depending on location. So it really does seem to have been a regional struggle above all else, even though there were sometimes other issues at play.

Now, the struggle between Ward and Hopkins took over a decade, with votes held each year, so I’m not going to get into the specifics of every election. In any case, the specifics aren’t as important as the broader picture, in terms of helping us understand elections in America.

Power went back and forth between the two factions, although Hopkins usually came out on top. He was elected for nine out of thirteen years, and Providence got as much patronage as he could throw at it. For example, while the colony was at war, Governor Hopkins made sure that it was men from Providence who got permission to become privateers. And he also made sure that the colony’s new college, which would later become Brown University, was established in Providence and not Newport. His faction even blocked an attempt by the Ward faction to set up a second college in Newport.

There were still other issues beyond mere patronage though. Most especially the currency, of course, and related debates over taxation. The Ward faction didn’t really have a plan to deal with the currency, apparently. They were split between two groups of their supporters, the merchant elite of Newport and rural farmers, each of whom had seriously divergent economic interests. Like with any other party in a two party system, the Ward faction wasn’t a coherent thing. It was composed of different smaller groups, who only shared some interests. So it was difficult to come up with a plan that would win the approval of all or even most of their supporters.

The Hopkins faction, on the other hand, despite similar difficulties, did manage to come up with a plan, which would standardize all of the old currencies floating around into a single currency backed by silver. And that’s what happened. During one of the times while it was in power, the Hopkins faction managed to get this plan passed into law.

The problem with this plan however was that the government had to buy enough silver to back the new currency, which was expensive, which meant that taxes would have to go up, which raised its own set of issues. What should be taxed? Or rather, who should be taxed? Both factions cooperated to come up with a bipartisan plan, but the supposedly bipartisan plan actually placed heavier burdens on Newport than on Providence. So a few years later, when the Ward faction was in total control of the government, they repealed the old plan and passed a new one which heavily favored their constituency in the south.

But apparently Ward didn’t do a great job while in office. He managed to alienate some of his own supporters, and so he lost his second bid for reelection in 1767. Hopkins was back in power and he reversed Ward’s new tax plan, going back to the previous “bipartisan” arrangement. As it turned out, that was pretty much the end of the Ward-Hopkins controversy. Hopkins was able to pass most of his desired legislation and Ward was no longer able to compete. Basically, Hopkins won, partly just because he was a somewhat better politician.

And in the end, Providence completely eclipsed Newport. Today, Providence is both the capital and the largest city in Rhode Island, while Newport is a small town with only some 24,000 residents.

So that’s the end of the Ward-Hopkins controversy. Probably both Ward and Hopkins were happy to see it end. Actually, both of them had been quite displeased with the factionalism that was being carried out in their names. The political norms of the day said that factions and parties were a bad thing, that parties were just the result of men abusing the government for their personal gain. So both men felt like they had inadvertently created a monster. Neither of them had wanted to be in that position, but neither of them saw a good way to back down either. The logic of party had a life of its own, as the Founding Fathers would discover a generation later.

But really, this was a minor dispute. It pushed Rhode Island into a state of anxiety, but it left no lasting scars. Once these factions went away, they went away for good.

You may have noticed that the end of the Ward-Hopkins controversy came only a decade before the War of Independence. The minor dispute between two minor cities was fast eclipsed by much bigger issues. And as it turned out, almost everyone in the colony wound up supporting independence, regardless of which faction they had belonged to. They may have clashed over local issues, but ultimately they had similar economic and political interests, and so they responded to British provocations in the same way. The fights of the past were soon forgotten. In fact, both Hopkins and Ward were delegates to the First Continental Congress in 1774.

But although neither of these factions survived, many of the techniques they pioneered would live on in the fierce electioneering of the early American Republic. No more the stately, patrician-led quasi-oligarchy of the past. Well, the stateliness was gone at any rate, replaced with lively mass appeals to the public. And with the offer of patronage for supporters. That style of politics won’t take hold in the rest of the United States for decades to come, but Rhode Island gives us a sneak peak of what it’ll be like.

The old model of a fairly closed elite making decisions on its own with relatively little public input was dying. It makes sense that it would die first in Rhode Island, the most populist of the New England colonies. All it took was a spark to set things off.

Okay, so last episode, we saw factions in Massachusetts arise because of disputes over paper money. This episode we saw factions in Rhode Island arise because of a rivalry between two towns for dominance. Next episode, we’ll see factions in Connecticut arise because of a religious divide within the colony, over the first big American revival movement, the Great Awakening. So join me next time on Early and Often: The History of Elections in America.

If you like the podcast, please rate it on iTunes. You can also keep track of Early and Often on Twitter, at earlyoftenpod, or read transcripts of every episode at the blog, at earlyandoftenpodcast.wordpress.com. Thanks for listening.

Sources:

Revolutionary New England, 1691-1776 by James Truslow Adams

The History of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, Volume 3 by Thomas Williams Bicknell

A Land of Liberty?: England, 1689–1727 by Julian Hoppit

Colonial Rhode Island -- A History by Sydney V. James

Adjustment to Empire: The New England Colonies 1675-1715 by Richard R. Johnson

Colonial Massachusetts -- A History by Benjamin W. Labaree

A Polite and Commercial People: England 1727-1783 by Paul Langford

The American Colonies in the Eighteenth Century, Volume I by Herbert L. Osgood

The American Colonies in the Eighteenth Century, Volume II by Herbert L. Osgood

History of New England, Volume IV by John Gorham Palfrey

Black Yankees: The Development of an Afro-American Subculture in Eighteenth-Century New England by William Dillon Piersen

Colonial Connecticut -- A History by Robert J. Taylor

The Ward-Hopkins Controversy and the American Revolution in Rhode Island: An Interpretation by Mack E. Thompson

A history of the Episcopal church in Narragansett, Rhode Island, including a history of other Episcopal churches in the state by Wilkins Updike