#forced servitude: childrens edition | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

himehikoshrine · 4 months

Text

The Central Nation of Kielce - a History

[I/D : Screenshot for Sissia of the Central Nation showing Levi, Adra, and Crowley on the wall. Crowley is saying "Hahaha! How have you been, little wall?! It’s like you’re a part of our origins!"]

Having now read through every route's game script of the Central Nation of Sissia, I figured I'd tried to put together all the Kielce lore across the different routes into one. If you want to read them yourself, you can do so either on the game menu if you've finished the game, or [here]. This will contain details unique to most of the routes, so technically, there are spoilers, but they are discussed entirely within the world of the play. I will edit in a few minor clarifying details with no route plot information from routes as I find them now that I'm going through things with a finer tooth comb. It will spoil some things that are in the stage script only epilogues too, so please read at least one of them before reading this, or you'll be really confused. Two, ideally, especially if the first one you picked was Crowley's.

Don't ask me why a rather big piece of character information, that is kind of a twist, is hidden within epilogues only on the stage script in the menu. We're nearly the full year into Havenna Lore drops, apparently this is just how Neji writes. (And given all the lore hidden in weird bonus material, also how Ishida and Towada write.)

The Nation of Arbine and the Republic of Quatra, which is to its east, were at war for 77 years. Many lives were lost on both sides, and there were plenty of children made orphans in the process. We know little about Quatra before the end of the war, but Levi describes it as having "warmth" and Crowley says it had a very strong culture in the arts, including song and dance. After Arbine wins the war, 20 years before Sissia joins the troupe, Arbine begins calling the 77-year-war the 'War of Joy.'

They force the people of Quatra into servitude, build a wall around the country, and mark them with a tattoo of a horse on their shin. The hostility gets so bad in the upper military ranks of Arbine, that they begin calling Quatra "the nameless country" or "the nameless servant country." The culture of Quatra is stamped out within the nation, possibly beyond simply forcing everyone into labor for the sake of Arbine, and anyone in Arbine who even discusses it with anything but scorn is suspected of treason.

Arbine is ruled by its "commander and king" (always said together like that) who has the surname "Arbine" like the nation he rules. His top advisor, confidant and strategist is Major Azur Hybird. The military elite make up the aristocracy of Arbine, and their positions are expected to be passed down.

Arbine is a strict military state, with border patrols and street patrols in addition to a standing military that citizens are quite acquainted with. They are able to freely interrogate and detain anyone, but murder seems to be considered a crime in Arbine, regardless of the nationality of the person killed, even, seemingly, for low ranking patrol officers. (We only have Crowley's potentially joking word here, though). The high ranks can order and carry out death sentences sans trial of any kind, of course.

The military aristocracy is also the high society of Arbine, and they attend parties and engage with what they consider 'high culture' including national dances - Arbine does have a national dance troupe.

Arbine's language is called "Arbine". It appears to be different than the language of Quatra or at least a different dialect, though one suspects they have some degree of mutual intelligibility. Carlo says the further east one goes in Arbine, the simpler the pronunciation of its language gets. Accents are shared to some extent in the border region, as well as words. Carlo says Arbine has 'a certain roundness' and that the first letter of Carlo is pronounced 'more elegantly' than Sissia's accent usually does.

Carlo illustrates the linguistic drift with the word Kielce - which is the Arbine term for Circus, a word used in Quatra. Carlo says no one but a historian or a suspected traitor would know that word these days, so maybe once it was also used in Arbine, or maybe a historian would merely be more familiar with the arts from Quatra.

So, 20 years ago, the war ends. As for the future members of Kielce at this time, Chance, at least, wasn't born yet.

Levi Caineman, who was born to Arbine parents, was orphaned by the war and was taken in across the then-wall-less border when he traveled there in search of food. Once the war ended, he was taken into an orphanage on the Arbine side of the wall, while his foster mother, a Quatra, was left behind it.

At some point, Levi will meet Crowley. Crowley is, though it's unclear who knows this but him, an illegitimate son of the 'commander and king' of Arbine, so his full name is, in fact, Crowley Arbine. It's never explicitly stated in the play if Crowley creates Kielce as a troupe or not, or the origin of its name "The Central Nation of--" but in the practice dialogue it is confirmed that Crowley and Levi are the founding members of the troupe.

As for when it was founded, Crowley considers the first Border Performance, which takes place ten years before the present of the play, and thus ten years after the end of the war "part of our origins." It is likely the name, too, partially a form of protest. Given the troupe's founders - an openly avowed revolutionary with a personal connection to the throne, and a fascination with Quatran arts, and an Arbine boy raised for a time by a Quatran foster mother, I'm sure this was very much part of their motivations.

Crowley is, after all, enthusiastically a traitor. (He maintains everyone in Kielce knows this, and no ones statements fully discredit that assertion in other routes. No one ever quite says the first performance WASN'T an act of rebellion or treason.)

Crowley says he's the one who brought Levi in and raised him up to be ringleader. At some point, Kielce, including Crowley and Levi, ends up performing at a party for military aristocrats. How this happened or how it went down, we don't know, other than apparently everyone was thoroughly amused. At this point, they aren't suspected of anything treasonous, but are considered 'low' entertainment.

In attendance is Major Azur Hybird's son, Adra Hybird. At this point, Adra has already been dancing for most of his life. It is unclear how old he is. But he decides that this is the kind of dancing he wants to do. He leaves the life of a Military Aristocrats son behind and runs away to join the circus -- Kielce.

(It is not implied Adra is younger than the other two - on Levi's route, Adra remarks that Levi has grown into quite the man, which, if anything, implies Adra may be a bit older than Levi.)

By the time of the first Border Performance, which is ten years before the present, Adra is a well established member of the troupe, enough that he is involved with choosing to do it. He seems to be one of the senior members in the troupe.

Fan Carlo Albus, on the other hand, is a newcomer to the troupe ten years ago. It seems she joined enough after Adra that she's talked about as another sort of 'generation' - when talking about Kielce's style being a talent showcase, Crowley says its more pronounced now that Carlo and Chance have joined.

Carlo watches the border performance from the side, not on the wall. Also watching that day is Isaac Bazmaz, an Arbine child from the border region who lives near the wall. He is watching with a friend of his. On Isaac's route this friend is explicitly Sissia, a girl from Quatra who he met through a crack in the wall. Isaac talks about the wall as having always been near his house, suggesting that he is under 20 years old, or at least, not much older. Chance Orlando, as stated, is under 20. He doesn't watch the border performance, but hears rumors about it as a kid in Arbine that later inspire him to join.

Crowley is one of the leads in the performance, which he also wrote. This is, to him, intentionally an act of rebellion and revolution. The fact that it doesn't overthrow the nation makes it kind of a failure in his book. Adra says his motivation is sort of to stick it to the military aristocracy and their backwards ideas, both about Quatra and discrimination and their authority and control in general. Adra is also quite annoyed at their elitism. Levi doesn't give an explicit reason for it the first time, but when asking to do it again, he mentions love of theater and love of freedom as absolute principles he leads Kielce by. One imagines his foster mother on the other side is a motivation, as well.

The performance is seen as treasonous and puts the entire troupe on a watch list. According to Major Azur, the 'commander and king' of Arbine has pushed to imprison everyone in the troupe since that day. (It is completely unclear if either the Major or even the 'commander and king' himself have any idea who Crowley is.) Every member who was around at the time tells Sissia that it was quite the controversy and ordeal, and caused a lot of trouble.

Isaac makes a promise to his friend to one day stand on the wall with Kielce together. Sissia, watching from the Quatra side, is already being forced into labor, despite seemingly being a child. Sissia dreams of one day standing on that stage, too. Both Isaac and Sissia will eventually follow that dream to Kielce.

It seems that despite the displeasure of the ruling elite, Kielce continues to operate and have many fans. Their popularity is seen both as a threat, and, one assumes, a bit protective, as it's quite clear that Arbine is aware of the precarity of it's absolute control.

Adra notes that even members of the military attend the shows. Not all the fans share their ideals, of course, and will report things to the authorities.

Kielce has a standing theater within Arbine, but their base seems to keep a very 'traveling circus' aesthetic. It is possible they are both a traveling company and one with a home base. It's unclear when this was built.

Chance and Isaac are recruited the same day by Crowley. Isaac says that if it weren't for Kielce, he'd 'still be working at a factory'. They are still considered relative newbies by Carlo by the time Sissia is recruited, but they seem to have been around long enough to be pretty established as staples of the troupe.

#sissia of the central nation #jack jeanne #jack jeanne meta #lore hunting #kielce #i told you i have kielce brain rot #yeah the characters are based on quartz and its a love letter to quartz but its not slacking on the worldbuilding or messaging #like the characters may feel less inspired since they're taken from their actors but damn if this play doesn't have a MESSAGE and LORE #if we get an isaac character poem for sou's next birthday i will be digging a grave #i have so many more thoughts to share but lets get the history down first #so many. thoughts.

10 notes · View notes

cinemacentral666 · 11 months

Text

Manderlay (2005)

Movie #1,052 • Ranking Lars von Trier #13

A direct sequel to Dogville, 2005's Manderlay is easily von Trier's most direct work of sociopolitical messaging to date. If you were wondering about his thoughts on race in America, well, big surprise: he doesn't have a very sunny outlook! Of course, this isn't a unique stance by any means, but through his warped lens we see things from a different perspective (PERHAPS). It's a delicate and touchy subject, to say the least. And while I don't think it ranks anywhere close to his most successful movies, it isn't necessarily the focus of the attention which is the main issue. Featuring many actors from the cast of Dogville (mostly in different roles), minus Nicole Kidman in the lead role of Grace (here replaced by Bryce Dallas Howard) and James Caan as her father (who bowed out over issues with the politics, and was replaced by Willem Dafoe), Manderlay is filmed in the same soundstage style. Howard does her best in an incredibly difficult spot, but she's clearly a step down.

There are two main issues which plague this film. First, this is truly an insane and somewhat unbelievable premise on multiple levels. Unrealistic in a bad way, I feel. Grace goes straight from ordering the soulless murder of an entire town (she made a mother watch her children being executed!) to emancipator of slaves: some 70 years after the Civil War she stumbles upon a plantation where the rouse of slavery is still being subjected on a dozen or so in rural Alabama. Using the might of her father's gangsters, she flips the table, forcing the white family into a life of servitude as she tries to instill the merits of freedom of democracy (albeit with the force of her dad's men, Jean-Marc Barr and Udo Kier reprising roles, among them). Why the dramatic change of heart after how things ended in Dogville? It's a stretch, but the idealism buried within her isn't quite dead yet. New to the production are a slew of fantastic black actors, including Danny Glover and Isaach de Bankolé. There are many twists and turns throughout the movie's 8 chapters as they follow Grace's lead before, in true LVT fashion, everything goes to hell.

The second big issue is that this is just not as good cinematically. There are several weird cuts and editing choices. Overall this is sloppier and not as refined. Though it was filmed with the same cinematographer and basically in the same style, the lovely lighting and precision staging from Dogville is missing. It's still unique and impressive given the constraints, but it lacks the nuance which made its predecessor so striking.

This was a co-production of an outlandish seven countries (Denmark, Sweden, Netherlands, France, Germany, United Kingdom, Italy). There's one notable exception to that list. Can you guess? Far be it from me to declare what stories someone should or shouldn't tell, but it ultimately feels like von Trier is reaching here. Americans know just how fucked the situation is. We don't necessarily need a Danish weirdo to point it out. By the time we get to the end credits, set once again to Bowie's "Young Americans" against an even more disparate series of horrifying photos (what does 9/11 have to do with any of this?), it just feels exhausting.

But I admire his gusto, his never-ending desire to 'go there' without any hesitation or worry about the consequences or reception. But Dogville worked far better because it was better executed, felt fresh and new, and tackled the subject matter in a much more universal way.

SCORE: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️¼

I'll be counting down all of Lars Von Trier's movies right here at @cinemacentral666 every Thursday through September 2023

#lars von trier director #2005 #drama #🇩🇰#7.25 #avant-garde #bryce dallas howard #willem dafoe #danny glover #lauren bacall #jean-marc barr #udo kier #john hurt #isaach de bankolé

0 notes

joshualunacreations · 3 years

Photo

For Fil-Ams and other people of color, the "American Dream" often means toiling away just to obtain a small piece of the spoils that were violently ripped away from your community.

Second-gen Asian Americans like me grow up oblivious about our own histories because the U.S. education system purposely withholds information about it, and our parents try to outrun their trauma by never sharing their experiences, instead pushing their children toward an assimilation sleepwalk.

AsAms realize too late we've inherited a deal with the devil we never agreed to: we can keep our language, but only if we speak it privately. Our food, if we serve it. Our culture, if it upholds the illusion of America as a benevolent melting pot that saved us from ourselves.

But AsAms aren't the only ones ignorant of this history. Few Americans know of the Philippine-American War and the atrocities the US committed. Even fewer understand how the U.S.’s ongoing legacy of war, destruction, and colonization in Asia is a major reason the AsAm diaspora exists.

Americans aren't taught about how centuries of exploitation of the Philippines' resources by Western powers has led to most of its workforce immigrating and becoming a global servant class called Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs). Instead, they're taught that poverty is inherent to Filipinx culture.

Americans aren't taught about how the US installs and props up puppet leaders and dictators—like how Nixon, Ford, Carter, and Reagan fully backed Marcos as he ruled under martial law and committed human rights violations. Instead, they're taught corruption is inherent to Filipinx culture.

Americans aren't taught that colonization is bipartisan and Trump and Biden agree on their view of the Philippines: a de facto colony whose resources and bodies can be exploited with impunity for the US war machine. Instead, they're taught servitude is inherent to Filipinx culture.

Americans aren't taught about one-sided US military agreements used to keep an imperialist foothold: the Mutual Defense Treaty, Mutual Logistics Support Agreement, Visiting Forces Agreement & Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement. Instead, they're told it's for mutual benefit.

American's aren't taught about how many AsAms struggle with poverty, institutional racism, and violence. Instead, they're taught the Model Minority Myth—created by white people and propagated by all races—that says Asians don't suffer race-based oppression.

Americans aren't taught about how Fil-Ams give earnings to family, live in multi-generational households to pool money together, and how the Philippines' economy would collapse without OFW remittances. Instead, they're taught Fil-Ams have a high median household income amongst AsAms.

Americans aren't taught about how AsAm leaders are installed with white backing the same way puppet leaders are, and use their shared race to hurt their own and prevent true progress. Instead, they're taught that privileged, out-of-touch blue-checks are the voice of our community.

So if Americans aren't taught any of this, who will teach them? The ugly truth is that AsAms who try to speak up are often crushed into silence by non-Asians who benefit from the status quo, and by Asian puppet leaders who've been installed to protect their masters' interests.

Overall, being Filipinx and Asian means constantly navigating survival between rotating oppressors.

As an ex-Navy brat who grew up overseas, I've struggled with my concept of home and at one point believed "home" was a US military base. But maybe that's as Fil-Am as it gets.

(Please don’t repost or edit my art. Reblogs are always appreciated.)

If you enjoy my comics, please pledge to my Patreon or donate to my Paypal. I lost my publisher for trying to publish these strips, so your support keeps me going until I can find a new publisher/lit agent

https://twitter.com/Joshua_Luna/status/1134522555744866304 https://patreon.com/joshualuna https://www.paypal.com/paypalme2/JoshuaLunaComics

1K notes · View notes

shipping-kitchen · 3 years

Text

Sweet Burning Pleasure

Kinktober, Day One: Sex Pollen/Aphrodisiacs

Fandom: Resident Evil VIII

Pairing: Lady Dimitrescu/Female Reader

Words: 4,500

Warnings: body horror, really dubious consent/non-consensual, aphrodisiacs, the reader definitely thinks she’s going to die for most of the fic, lots of blood and blood drinking and vampire things, explicit sex, graphic descriptions of cuts and blood

Summary: You are a maid in the Dimitrescu Castle, doing your best to keep your head down and survive. You eventually catch the attention of the Lady of the castle.

Important Note: I’m posting my Kinktober one-shots daily on tumblr, unedited! Eventually I’ll edit them and post them on AO3, but for now this is the first draft, and I hope you enjoy it ^-^

You were well aware that working at the Dimitrescu Castle was tantamount to a death sentence, but when Mother Miranda asked for new women to volunteer… it was an honour to be recognized by her. It would guarantee that your parents would eat well for the coming winter. The years in the village had stretched on, and you knew that your chances of staying on the farm were slim. Too many of your childhood friends had already been ushered away, to experiments and servitude to the Lords that surrounded the town.

You could become a wife in the town, produce more children to continue the cycle, but you couldn’t stomach the idea of marrying one of the men that you had grown up beside. Better to step forward, volunteer as a maid, accept the new dress that was sent your way, pack your scant belongings, and hug your parents goodbye as you began the walk towards the castle that loomed above your village.

You were wearing the dress that had been given to you when you were chosen: a grey dress that gathered at the waist and then flared out around your legs, falling to just below your knees. Paired with the apron that rested overtop, it was more elegant than the clothes you grew up with, but still clearly the clothes of a servant.

Your bag bumped against your shoulder blades as you walked through the gates, leaving your village behind. It was early Spring, and the vineyards were beginning to fill with greenery. The lattices surrounded you, the scent of fresh soil and new growth almost covering the decay of the scarecrows that hung around the path.

It was easier to look at the slowly growing vines than to face forward and the castle doors becoming larger as you drew towards it. Your heart was pounding, anxiety prickling on the back of your neck and the tips of your fingers. No one ever came back from the castle, and you had no idea what was waiting for you inside.

All too soon, your feet were climbing the stone steps towards the main doors. You paused in front of them, fixing the folds of your dress and pressing your hair back into place. Then you took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

It was long seconds before the door opened, revealing another woman in a similar grey dress. It wasn’t someone from the village, which didn’t surprise you. All of the Lords hired foreigners, the village not enough to staff their needs. She was an older woman, her hair beginning to grey.

You curtseyed, a small bobbing movement.

“I’m the new maid, ma’am. Sent from the village.”

“Well, come inside.” The woman stepped back and you obediently stepped inside, trying not to flinch as the huge door was shut behind you. “What’s your name, girl?”

The main hall of the castle was resplendent and golden. A large painting of three women was illuminated across the hall. There were delicate vases and intricate designs everywhere you looked. You told the woman your name, occupied with gazing around the hall in awe. You had never seen such splendor, and it filled you with both fear and anticipation.

“Hmm. Well, I’m the housekeeper, Ms. Matheski. You’ll take your orders from me. Welcome to Castle Dimitrescu.”

You had expected life at the castle to be something out of a horror movie, abstract ideas of dark hallways and boarded up rooms. The truth was much different: life at the castle was hard work.

There were dozens of rooms, and you had to prepare each one on a rotating schedule. There were sheets to wash in the river, fireplaces to clean out, mantels to polish, floors to mop. Every day, you worked hard and collapsed into bed for a deep sleep.

You rarely saw the mistresses of the castle, dressed all in black and cackling as they walked down the halls together. All of the servants knew to get out of the way when their voices came down the hallway. No one discussed the red crusted around the mistresses’ mouths, but everyone knew. The servants cleaned out the goblets, after all.

Sometimes, you encountered Lady Dimitrescu. While her daughters announced themselves with their raucous conversation, the lady of the house moved with an unpredictable silence. Many times, you were on your knees in front of a fireplace, covered in ashes, when you looked up to see Lady Dimitrescu behind you, watching your work.

The first time it had happened, you had scrambled to your feet, dropping to your lowest curtsey. Your eyes on the ground, you waited. Her presence was all-encompassing: she was so large, and in her white dress, unlike anything else in the castle.

Lady Dimistrecu had laughed and told you to continue working. On her way out of the room, she had touched her fingers to the top of your head, and your knees had gone weak from fear. And then she was gone, and you collapsed back in front of the fireplace.

Since then, you had gotten used to the Lady’s presence, and the way she came and went, overseeing everyone’s work. Those who made mistakes were the ones to disappear: you made sure that you listened carefully and double-checked your work.

And so you survived, into the winter.

Winter in the castle was different: the fires were kept blazing, more wood being ordered from the village almost daily. The windows were boarded up, to keep out the cold. Before, the Dimitrescu daughters had come and gone from the castle, but now they remained in their rooms, more sullen and more likely to lash out.

You kept working, you kept your head down. You did your best to avoid the daughters and please the Lady. Ms. Matheski was never displeased with your work, but she wasn’t warm with any of the girls who worked in the castle. You didn’t blame her.

One day, you had been assigned to the main hall. The main hall had to be cleaned daily, unlike the other rooms, and it was a dangerous assignment. Lady Dimitrescu was picky about the banister, and the daughters often came through the main hall on their way from their rooms. The winter was dragging on, and the mistresses were restless. Daniella, especially, had taken to tormenting the maids: tearing their clothes, throwing rats at them while they worked, and occasionally dragging them off to the lower levels, where you had never been asked to work.

You made your way into the main hall cautiously, entering through the servant door. It was empty, and you got down to work. The fireplace was first, cleaned out and then refilled with new wood and lit again. The castle was kept at a warmth that was almost stifling in winter, but you knew better than to complain.

Once the fire was lit, you turned your attention to the dishes that had been left on the table in the hall. The daughters liked to dine here, and often left a mess. It would take you several trips across the castle to the kitchen to clear the table, so it was best to get started.

You gathered up the first stack of dishes and made off, your dress swirling around your legs as you made your way down the familiar hallways. You tried not to let them rattle, cautious of drawing attention to yourself, and breathed a sigh of relief when you reached the kitchen without incident.

“Dishes from the main hall,” you told the maid washing dishes. “More to come.”

She nodded in acknowledgement and you headed back out the door, your soft leather shoes making no noise on the carpeted hallway as you went back to the main hall.

When you entered the hall, you froze. Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters were all in the hall, warming themselves in front of the fire you had recently lit. Bela was reclining against her mother’s chest, her sisters’ heads resting on their mother’s legs. It was a relaxed tableau, and not something you felt that you should be present for.

But Lady Dimistrecu was already looking towards the door as you stepped in, so you dropped into a hasty curtsy and reached behind yourself for the door.

“Please, continue,” the Lady commanded, waving her hand towards you. “The table needs clearing.”

“Yes, my Lady,” you said, hearing your voice come out quiet and hesitant. You clenched your jaw against your own hesitation, and walked towards the table. You could feel the eyes of the daughters upon you. You only hoped that their closeness with their mother would be enough to keep them content.

You gathered the plates and the goblets, trying to keep your hands from shaking. You could do this, despite the eyes on you. You could do this.

Distracted by your fear and the prickling awareness of your watchers, you picked up one of the knives the wrong way, and felt hot pain shoot through your palm.

You inhaled, but made no sound of pain, and forced yourself not to jerk back. Instead, you calmly placed the knife on the stack of plates with the others, and picked up the stack.

When you turned, Cassandra was standing directly in front of you. You had never seen one of the daughters this close, and it was immediately apparent that there was something wrong with her eyes. It looked like there was something moving inside the darkness of her pupils.

You refused to flinch backwards. Fear crawled up your spine, but you stood still. You held the plates steady. Your palm was burning where you had cut it.

Cassandra’s hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist.

Despair grew around you. This was sure to be the end, no matter how careful you had been.

She pulled your hand forward, and there was no resisting her grip. The plates slipped from your grasp and shattered on the floor at your feet.

Your palm was splayed upwards, and you could see how shallow the cut had been. Only a few beads of blood were brought to the surface, tiny droplets along a jagged line where the knife had dug into your skin.

An unnatural whine came from Cassandra’s chest, more like a cicada’s song than a human voice. She leaned towards your palm, and you closed your eyes, unwilling to watch.

There was a growl and then a harsh tug as Cassandra’s hand was pulled off your wrist. You pulled your hand back to your chest, opening your eyes to see Bela tussling with Cassandra on the floor, both of them making a strange growling-whining noise.

“Mine,” Cassandra hissed.

“Mine,” Bela growled back, and slammed her hand through her sister’s head. Insects exploded around her arm, twining up towards Bela’s face, and both of them dissolved into a swarm of struggling insects. As they fought, you took two steps back, and then pelted towards one of the further doors.

You didn’t expect to make it, but somehow, the door was closing behind you and you were still running, following the winding hallways back to your room. You slammed the door to your room and leaned against it, panting.

You could feel your heartbeat drumming against your ribs and your temples, your hand clenched in a fist around the cut that had started the fight. You knew, logically, that you aren’t safe here. This room was just another part of their castle, it would be easy enough to find you.

But you were in your own space. No one had ever come into this room while you’d been here. It was your safety in the castle. A place where you had never felt afraid. The fear was already beginning to fade, even as you struggled to hold onto it. Should you run? Would they forget? Would their mother blame you for their fight?

You unclenched your hand and looked at the cut again. The blood was already beginning to dry. You knew you should clean it, your hands still ashy from the fireplace. There was a washbasin in your room and you moved towards it, dipping your hands into the cold water. It came from the well outside the castle, and while it was boiled for the Lady’s baths and morning toilette, it was still cold for your own basin. It grounded you, washed away the last of the adrenaline. You watched the ashes swirl into the water. There wasn’t enough blood to turn the water pink. Such a small cut.

Surely it would be easily forgotten.

As you dried your hands, there was a knock on your door. One, two, three raps, and then silence.

The fear returned, a lump in your throat as you moved towards the door. There were no windows in your room, no escape from whatever waited on the other side. A disappointed housekeeper, a curious maid, a murderous mistress…

You put your hand on the doorknob, inhaled, and opened the door.

White fabric greeted you, falling in elegant ripples to the ground.

“Hello, my pet,” said Lady Dimitrescu. “May I come in?”

You stumbled back, unable to deny her. She bent to enter your room, her hat brushing the edges of the doorway. Like her daughters, she was pale as moonlight. When she straightened, she was very close to the ceiling. The servant’s quarters lacked the high ceilings of the rest of the house, not made with the Lady of the house in mind.

“I’m sorry, my Lady,” you managed. “I didn’t mean to drop the plates.”

“Mmm. My daughters are impatient. I don’t blame you for the accident.” Lady Dimitrescu reached towards you, and you allowed it. Her hand wrapped around your wrist, just as Cassandra had held you earlier, but the scale was different. Her palm cupped your entire wrist, her fingers wrapping up your arm to the elbow. You had never felt so small, so helpless, so delicate. “I’ve spoken with them.”

“I… thank you.” Your body was thrumming with a mixture of fear, hope, and contact. Her fingertips rested delicately on the inside of your arm, against the veins.

“You are a rare delight,” Lady Dimitrescu murmured. “You caught my daughters off-guard.” Gently, she turned your palm upwards to show the faint line where the knife had cut. Her thumb traced the mark, expression going hazy for a moment. “You surprised me as well.”

“My Lady?” you asked, unsure what to make of her attention. You tried pulling your hand back, and her grip tightened on your arm, sudden enough to make you gasp. Her eyes snapped upwards to meet your gaze, and she looked hungry.

“It’s been a long winter, my dear,” Lady Dimitrescu said, as if it were a confession, as if this were a conversation, as if she were not holding you in place. “The wine is sweet, but you… are almost certainly sweeter.”

That was enough for you to know where this was going. You pushed yourself backwards, trying to wrench your arm from Lady Dimitrescu’s grasp, but it was no use. Her fingers were like marble on your wrist, solid and unbreaking.

“Hush, my pet.”

Her other hand wrapped around the back of your neck, and you heard yourself make a short sound of fear. Instinct made you freeze in place, your nape cradled in her palm. Her fingers rested on your collarbones. She was leaning down above you, and her eyes were so dark and hungry.

“It will not hurt,” Lady Dimitrescu whispered.

And then her lips were on your neck, and she was lying, it hurt, soft lips and sharp teeth and then searing pain up and down your spine. You could hear yourself crying out, you could hear the sound of her licking the blood from the bite mark. It was wet and wrong and you couldn’t free yourself from her grasp, no matter how you squirmed in her arms.

It seemed like forever before the pain began to dull, still radiating along your shoulder and back. The ache drew inwards and became almost unimportant. Lady Dimitrescu’s arms were strong around you. You could let your body relax, and still she held you close to her. Your blood had stained the white satin of the arm she held behind your head, keeping your neck steady as she fed. You could feel her lips and tongue, teasing the ragged holes made by her teeth, keeping the blood flowing. But somehow, it just didn’t hurt. You found yourself eased by her closeness, the certainty of her hold on your body.

Between one breath and the next, Lady Dimitrescu drew back with one last kiss to your wounds. She looked like her daughters now, crimson all around her lips and dripping down her chin, messy and dark. She groaned as she looked down at you, her gaze flickering from your neck to your eyes and back again.

You still felt like unable to move. Lady Dimitrescu was holding you, and there was no need to go anywhere. Your limbs were too heavy, even if you had wanted to. You blinked up at her, dazed by the hunger that still burned in her eyes after her meal.

Gently, Lady Dimitrescu lifted you into her arms like a child, cradling your head and hips. She laid you down on the bed, traced a finger through the ruined skin where she had bit you.

“As sweet as any fruit before Mother’s gift,” the Lady whispered, kneeling beside the bed. “You are exquisite.”

You wanted to touch the blood on her lips, but your hand only lifted slightly when you tried to move it.

She smiled at the movement, took your hand in hers. Again, you felt like a doll between her palms, so all-encompassing.

“Let me give you a gift of my own, my sweet.” You watched Lady Dimitrescu reach up and take off her hat, tossing it carelessly to the other side of the room. Her hair was held in a low coil behind her head, and she pulled the elastics from it, letting the waves fall over her shoulders. From the centre of the coil, she extracted a narrow blade. It was silver, delicate carvings on the blade flashing in the low lights of your room.

The Lady of the castle always wore gloves, but now she took them off and put them on your bedside table. Beneath the leather gloves, her hands were grey and white lines like marble spread beneath her skin. She rolled up one blood-soaked sleeve of her dress, and you saw that the white and grey lines went all the way up her body. Glancing at her face, from so close to her, it was clear that she was wearing some kind of makeup to make her appear pale like her daughters.

Lady Dimitrescu brought the blade down on her own arm, and you watched it cut through her skin. You half-expected the blood to be grey, but it was as red as your own.

She held her arm over your mouth, and you felt the warm droplets drip onto your lips. Soon your lips would look just as scarlet as hers.

“Open up, my pet,” Lady Dimitrescu told you, a smile in her voice.

Obediently, you parted your lips, and the blood met your tongue. It didn’t taste like metal and copper, as it did when you bit your lip. This was rich and full and thick, burning in your throat like whiskey when you swallowed it.

“Good.”

She watched you drink, your blood on her lips and hers on your own. The burning in your throat spread to your stomach and then out to the tips of your toes and your fingers, even your scalp prickling with sudden warmth. The dull ache of your neck went away, and when Lady Dimitrescu passed her fingers over the bitemark again, you felt that the holes are gone, your skin whole and healed. Her fingers still came back red with blood, though, which she licked from her fingertips with clear enjoyment.

Too soon, her arm healed and the blood stopped. You opened your mouth, silently asking for more, and she laughed at you, a low chuckle that made the burning even worse.

Then she leaned down and pressed her lips to yours.

There was the familiar taste of your own blood, thin and metallic. There was the unfamiliar feeling of lips against yours, prompting and playing. Her teeth nipped at your lip, and you returned the favour. She hummed approval, and you brought your hands up to run your fingers through her hair. You hadn’t noticed when the heaviness had left your body, but now every atom of you was screaming that you want to be closer to her.

Your Lady pressed into the kiss, overwhelming you for a moment. There was so much to think about, tongue and teeth and lips and the silken feeling of her hair. Her fingers were cupping your chin, changing the angle of the kiss, trailing down your neck to caress your collarbones.

The light touches were setting your body on fire, pressing up to get more contact. Lady Dimitrescu obliged, curling herself over you. Her knees rested low on the bed, her arms wrapped around you, the bed complaining under your combined weight. She was a solid wall of fabric brushing against your chest, your hips, and you wanted to be closer.

Lady Dimitrescu broke from the kiss and you moved on instinct, pressing your lips to the corner of her jaw. She tilted her head, giving you access, and you kissed down the elegant curve of her neck. When the need for more pressed at you again, you bit down on her neck. She moaned, and it was the most human sound you’d heard from her all night. You kissed and bit down to her shoulder, pushing the fabric of her dress out of the way.

You felt like you were out of your mind with this strange burning that flared through your body, needing something from her, needing everything from her. You tore satin in your quest for her skin, some still-rational part of your brain shocked at your audacity.

Grey skin stretched down her shoulders, marked with those same pale lines. She was warm under your lips, and you scraped her skin with your teeth. Lady Dimitrescu shifted against you, holding you closer, and you could hear her breathing unevenly.

At least you weren’t alone in this wild need. She was hungry for you, and you could taste it when she brought your lips back to hers, with new urgency.

“Please, my Lady,” you managed when she drew back. You didn’t know what you were begging for, and she was a work of art with her dress torn, hanging off one shoulder, blood and lipstick smeared across her chin.

“Yes,” Lady Dimistrescu said, her voice low. She leaned back and you whined at the loss of her warm presence, but then her hands were lifting your dress, effortlessly freeing you from its layers. The rush of air on your bare skin did nothing to cool the fire, and you grabbed for her wrists as she threw your dress carelessly across the room.

Only when Lady Dimitrescu’s hands were back on your bare skin did you relax, arching into the sensation. Her fingers are a little sharp, and she traced them delicately across the lines of your ribs, the soft rolls of your stomach, and then, teasing, across the curve of your breasts. You could feel your breath catch, helpless to stop yourself from pressing into the touch.

She practically purrs at that, leaning down to lick the remaining blood from your neck. Stopping to nibble your collarbone, she mouths down to the top of your breasts, cupping them and tracing their outline. It is a sublime torture as Lady Dimitrescu puts her mouth to you and you feel her tongue tracing around your swiftly hardening nipple.

You hear your voice crying out, hear your Lady humming her pleasure, feel her hands pinning down your hips. The air is cold: the sheets are soft: there is so much sensation racing through your body.

“Please,” you whisper, shuddering against her. “Please, please.”

And her hands run down from your hips, along the line of your outer thighs, and then delicately up the delicate inner thigh, making you squirm. She is close to where you’re soaking through your undergarments, so close and so far.

You’re panting, burning, moaning, and then her hands are finally on you, certain through the fabric. Her tongue, her fingers, you rock between them, overwhelmed.

Lady Dimitrescu slides your undergarments down without lifting her mouth from your breast and then you are bare to her, entirely. You can feel how wet you are when she runs her fingers across you. It’s too much and not enough.

Her touch leaves you for a moment, and you gasp for breath. When she touches you, it feels like the whole world narrows to her fingers and mouth. Without her, there is too much. The room is cold and you are still burning.

Lady Dimitrescu doesn’t make you wait long: she slides back on top of you, her knees caging your legs as she bends down to kiss you. She is too large for the bed, nearly bent in half to reach your mouth, a nightmare of grey skin and streaked blood, and she is everything you desire. She kisses with a demanding pace, and you return it.

Her fingers creep back up your inner thighs and you spread your legs as best you can. Your Lady is quick to return to your centre, starting slowly with her exploration. It brings the fire down for a moment, calm strokes along your folds, teasing brushes across your clit. Then the light touches begin to be too little, and you squirm under her. She draws back from the kiss to laugh again, and strokes you in earnest. Pleasure blooms from her fingers, and you lose track of your body. Your edges are dissolving into something greater, the only concrete part of you the place where her fingers are taking you apart.

She bites down again, this time just above your collarbone, and everything comes apart.

There are waves of awareness and pleasure, Lady Dimitrescu guiding you through them with leisurely movements of her fingers.

Once the shaking has passed, you collapse onto your pillow. Everything feels very distant, echoes of a real world that has stopped existing.

Lady Dimitrescu presses a kiss to the bloody mark that she left on your shoulder, and shifts you closer to her. When she bends her legs, she barely fits onto the bed, and your legs are draped over her thighs, your head pillowed on her arm.

“Sleep, my sweet,” your Lady whispers, running her thumb over the curve of your hip. “Rest and heal. I will be here when you wake.”

You have no choice but to obey, darkness dragging you downwards. The last thing you are aware of is the warmth of her embrace.

#nsft #lemon #kinktober #kinktober 2021 #resident evil #re8 lady dimitrescu #re8 #lady dimitrescu/reader #resident evil village #my writing #tw dubious consent #tw noncon #dubious consent

67 notes · View notes

maevelin · 3 years

Note

I know you didn't enjoy Nesta's book that much. What were the parts you didn't like and were there things you did enjoy?

I found the plot very basic and simplistic. The author has the tendency to overhype certain things and then drop the hints and the foreshadowing or write something totally anticlimactic about it.

An example for the anticlimactic part is how the former books had presented the Blood Rite as such a horrific event. One that in order to survive it Illyrians trained their whole life and then you take a few completely untrained individuals, train them basically for a few months a few hours in the mornings (I mean it is as if they went to the gym) and then they are ready to own the whole thing. It was ridiculous.

You introduce the concept of Valkyries and instead of writing an actual story about it you give a child’s play with some girls basically saying...hey they sound cool, we have no idea past the surface what and who they were or if we are basically appropriating their culture but let’s make a new club about it. I mean...why not just introduce Valkyries in a more grounded way, even the rebirth of their nation and lore, in a more realistic way? Instead you get a lost female tradition and you have males teaching girls about it. Take Thor Ragnarok for example (one movie that has not won me over as much as others). So why not introduce a new character that is a Valkyrie, even the last of her kind, a jaded character that has quit life just as Nesta and then create a story to reignite the myth of the Valkyries into something new that Nesta would accept and embrace.

Although for the life of me I don’t understand why PTSD and healing has to be connected with that sort of training in the first place. Why get a character like Nesta and turn her into a Xena type of character all of the sudden...because that’s the only way to show inner strength or any kind of strength? I just don’t get it.

However I did appreciate Nesta’s journey at certain parts although some felt forced in order to accept the Inner Circle bullshit and when people had predicted that in the end Nesta would how to bow and kneel to the ‘awesomeness’ of the Inner Circle so to be welcomed into the Night Court and be redeemed I am pretty sure no one expected this to literally happen. It gave me such a visceral reaction.

I couldn’t have disliked the IC more in this book even if I tried (and boy there were dubious, problematic and outright offensive and abusive things in their behavior) but what I didn’t like was that Nesta didn’t have an interesting story plot wise. Her journey of healing was okay and it has some interesting and beautiful moments but the story surrounding it was sloppy.

I hated the concept/threat of throwing Nesta in the Court of Nightmares but just from a creative perspective it would have made the book a thousand times more interesting. The dynamic felt off in general and in the end it felt as if the main concept was not resolved but the realization came that there was no main concept.

Say what you will for the first three ACOTAR books but they had a goal, a purpose, a target. Feysand and Feyre’s personal journey were the focus but the their books served far more than that thus making those parts work in a solid (at least as far as these books are concerned) structure. Here we got some treasure hunt but everything was left open ended and it was not even focused entirely on Nesta and Cassian. I felt robbed somehow especially given the dynamic Nesta’s powers had and based on that alone a personal story could have been built upon that potential that got wasted for the most part. We could have gotten an epic storyline and we...did not.

AND YOU KNOW WHAT? Nesta DESERVED a GREAT VILLAIN/ANTAGONIST for her own story and she did not get that (come on Briallyn was such weak sauce and unremarkable) and I am offended on Nesta’s behalf to be honest LOL

Nesta’s voice and the way she was written was reminiscent of Feyre’s at parts but I assume this is because of the writing style of the author but it still felt jarring if not OOC at parts.

And I felt that some behaviors we had seen in previous books (how Cassian avoided her in Acowar and so on) were overlooked and the good things Nesta did along with the bad (how she went after Feyre after Tamlin took her and how she was ready to sacrifice herself to give Feyre a chance and how she was so focused on saving children and so on) were completely ignored all so to ‘excuse’ how she was treated and how she deserved to be treated that way by all others and how she had to redeem herself. And yeah she had to face her wrongdoings because she had been abusive too but I felt there were double standards concerning her which I did not appreciate in the way the book was written.

In the end I found the sacrifice of her powers a beautiful thing for her personal growth but at the same time I also got the intention behind the writing that has nothing to do with Nesta’s journey and that is disappointing.

There was also the usual writing style/editing that has its issues and I got really tired with the phrase “like calls to like”. Like...okay we got it the first hundred times enough already.

All that been said there were things I enjoyed in the book too.

1. The House... which let’s face it it’s Tardis to Nesta’s Doctor.

2. Nesta’s connection with music and dancing was beautiful.

3. Her love of books? Brilliant.

4. The scene with the Kelpie? QUALITY STUFF!

5. As was the description of Nesta entering the Cauldron.

6. The scene with her nightmare engulfed in silver flames was amazing too.

7. Hello Nes and Lady Death!

8. Cassian’s protectiveness over Nesta was also nice especially when he was able to man up (no I won’t go for male up LOL) and stand up against certain bullshit behavior targeted at Nesta.

9. Emerie and Gwyn were cute and their relationship with Nesta beautiful although it did also feel rushed at parts. I would have much preferred that build up to have happened with her sisters but given the fuckery of the IC in general I will take this and savor it!

10. Azriel was a relief and I would have liked more interaction between him and Nesta. Brilliant indeed.

11. I HATED Amren but I loved the parallel of what she had once told Nesta: “When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds” and we got this scene when Nesta. (P.s You unmade her...She had it coming LMAO)

12. The cookie offer in the end made me laugh.

13. Overall Nessian was cute and thankfully Cassian wasn’t the same creep he was in Acofas. Although his low esteem and blind servitude left much to be desired at times.

14. The smut at times was making me cringe but the sexual drive and dynamic of the characters felt appropriate given their personalities.

15. I also liked Feyre’s inner thoughts when Eris asked Nesta’s hand in marriage and the way she was protective of Nesta and wanted to end him LOL.

16. Speaking of which...everyone wanting Nesta as their bride was very funny and after a while it kept happening and I couldn’t stop laughing.

17. Nesta’s first “I love you” was given to Feyre and thank you!

I think that’s about it.

#fel reads acosf #nesta #nessian #nesta archeron #acosf for ts #Anonymous

30 notes · View notes

maybeamiles · 3 years

Text

I'm bored and sick so here's some worldbuildong about the Picori in my Hero of Men AU.

(NOTE: I'm not pulling from specific cultures for this, rather I'm taking what I know of the Picori in Minish Cap and combining it with what I need for the plot to make a culture we don't get a good look at in Hyrule)

The Picori of this era re much more isolated than the Picori in minish cap. Most of them live in one large settlement in the forest, with smaller settlements throughout the forest and only a few small family units outside of it. Hylians know nothing of them.

This isolation has been brought on by two factors. The first is the curse of Demise, manifesting in the form of monsters crushing the world. The second is the superstisousness of Hylians at the time, who fear Picori magic and at one point managed to drive out the Picori from Hyrule town. How this happened I don't exactly know. Probably something to do with cats.

Speaking of family units, Picori towns are like one big family. With populations that rarely rise over a hundred members, it's not uncommon to see community-wide meals, especially in the evenings. Even in large cities a Picori will be close friends with all of their neighbors, if they can.

Picori are all magical creatures, and are some of the only creatures in Hyrule to teach spellcasting to their children. While there is a small spellcasting tradition among the royal family of Hyrule, magic is generally seen as a passive force rather than an active one.

However, Picori spells are almost useless for combat, with the closest thing they have being defensive spells. They are not a warrior people.

Picori are spiritual creatures, but rather than worshipping the gods/goddesses of Hyrule, they see themselves as indirect servants of Hylia. Those with the gift of prophecy (such as Ezle) are highly valued as leaders in their society.

At one point, that servitude to the Godess drove them to care for Hylians. You could find Picori in every Hylian settlement and some Picori were even servants of the royal family. However, as mentioned above, superstition and the darkening of the world drove them out of that role. Now, most Picori are content to live their lives separately from Hylians, though leaders like Ezle believe that they should return to their old ways.

Edit: they also may have metalworking traditions but idk what those are yet

I think I might make a post about Ezle's backstory in a bit because right now I don't see that coming into play too much in the actual story

#loz au #hero of men au #loz #legend of zelda #legend of zelda au #minish cap #minish cap au #worldbuilding

4 notes · View notes

oberlincollegelibraries · 3 years

Text

Weekend Edition: Novels With a Trans or Nonbinary Character(s)

March 31, 2021 marks the 12th annual International Transgender Day of Visibility, so why not pick up novel this weekend that features a trans or nonbinary character (or better yet — characters)? Below are a some titles available at OCL and through SearchOhio.

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin Guin's groundbreaking work of science fiction--winner of the Hugo and Nebula Awards. A lone human ambassador is sent to the icebound planet of Winter, a world without sexual prejudice, where the inhabitants' gender is fluid. His goal is to facilitate Winter's inclusion in a growing intergalactic civilization. But to do so he must bridge the gulf between his own views and those of the strange, intriguing culture he encounters... Embracing the aspects of psychology, society, and human emotion on an alien world, The Left Hand of Darkness stands as a landmark achievement in the annals of intellectual science fiction. Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl’s Confabulous Memoir by Kai Cheng Thom "Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl's Confabulous Memoir is a coming-of-age story about a young Asian trans girl, pathological liar, and kung-fu expert who runs away from her parents' abusive home in a rainy city called Gloom. Striking off on her own, she finds her true family in a group of larger-than-life trans femmes who make their home in a mysterious pleasure district known only as the Street of Miracles. Under the wings of this fierce and fabulous flock, she blossoms into the woman she has always dreamed of being, with a little help from the unscrupulous Doctor Crocodile. When one of their number is brutally murdered, our protagonist joins her sisters in forming a vigilante gang to fight back against the transphobes, violent johns, and cops that stalk the Street of Miracles. But when things go terribly wrong, she must find the truth within herself in order to stop the violence and discover what it really means to grow up and find your family."-- Provided by publisher

The House of Impossible Beauties by Joseph Cassara 1980, New York City. Burned by her traumatic past, Angel is new to the drag world, new to ball culture, and has a yearning inside of her to help create family for those without. When she falls in love with Hector, a beautiful young man who dreams of becoming a professional dancer, the two decide to form the House of Xtravaganza, the first-ever all-Latino house in the Harlem ball circuit. But when Hector dies of AIDS-related complications, Angel must tend to their house alone. She recruits Venus, a whip-fast trans girl who dreams of finding a rich man to take care of her; Juanito, a quiet boy who loves fabrics and design; and Daniel, a butch queen who accidentally saves Venus's life. The Xtravaganzas lean on each other as bulwarks against a world that resists them.

Confessions of the Fox: A Novel by Jordy Rosenberg "Set in the eighteenth century London underworld, this bawdy, genre-bending novel reimagines the life of thief and jailbreaker Jack Sheppard to tell a profound story about gender, love, and liberation. Recently jilted and increasingly unhinged, Dr. Voth throws himself into his work, obsessively researching the life of Jack Sheppard, a legendary eighteenth century thief. No one knows Jack's true story--his confessions have never been found. That is, until Dr. Voth discovers a mysterious stack of papers titled Confessions of the Fox. Dated 1724, the manuscript tells the story of an orphan named P. Sold into servitude at twelve, P struggles for years with her desire to live as "Jack." When P falls dizzyingly in love with Bess, a sex worker looking for freedom of her own, P begins to imagine a different life. Bess brings P into the London underworld where scamps and rogues clash with London's newly established police force, queer subcultures thrive, and ominous threats of an oncoming plague abound. At last, P becomes Jack Sheppard, one of the most notorious--and most wanted--thieves in history. An imaginative retelling of Brecht's Threepenny Opera, Confessions of the Fox blends high-spirited adventure, subversive history, and provocative wit to animate forgotten histories and the extraordinary characters hidden within"-- Provided by publisher

The Black Tides of Heaven by JY Yang The Black Tides of Heaven is one of a pair of unique, standalone introductions to JY Yang's Tensorate Series, which Kate Elliott calls "effortlessly fascinating." For more of the story you can read its twin novella The Red Threads of Fortune , available simultaneously. Mokoya and Akeha, the twin children of the Protector, were sold to the Grand Monastery as infants. While Mokoya developed her strange prophetic gift, Akeha was always the one who could see the strings that moved adults to action. While Mokoya received visions of what would be, Akeha realized what could be. What's more, they saw the sickness at the heart of their mother's Protectorate. A rebellion is growing. The Machinists discover new levers to move the world every day, while the Tensors fight to put them down and preserve the power of the state. Unwilling to continue as a pawn in their mother's twisted schemes, Akeha leaves the Tensorate behind and falls in with the rebels. But every step Akeha takes towards the Machinists is a step away from Mokoya. Can Akeha find peace without shattering the bond they share with their twin? Detransition, Baby: A Novel by Torrey Peters Reese had what previous generations of trans women could only dream of; the only thing missing was a child. Then her girlfriend, Amy, detransitioned and became Ames, and everything fell apart. Ames thought detransitioning to live as a man would make life easier, but that decision cost him his relationship with Reese, and losing her meant losing his only family. Then Ames's boss and lover, Katrina, reveals that she is pregnant with his baby-- and is not sure whether she wants to keep it. Ames wonders: Could the three of them form some kind of unconventional family, and raise the baby together? -- adapted from jacket

A Safe Girl to Love by Casey Plett Eleven unique short stories that stretch from a rural Canadian Mennonite town to a hipster gay bar in Brooklyn, featuring young trans women stumbling through loss, sex, harassment, and love. These stories, shiny with whiskey and prairie sunsets, rattling subways and neglected cats, show growing up as a trans girl can be charming, funny, frustrating, or sad, but never will it be predictable.

#oberlin college libraries #oberlin college #weekend edition #ocl reading challenge #OCLReads #reading challenge #reading bingo #transgender literature #trans characters #nonbinary characters

14 notes · View notes

butiaintgonnaloveem · 4 years

Text

Presents and Prizes and Sweets and Surprises

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader, Jack Kline, Mrs. Butters

Word Count: approx 1600

Warnings: Spoilers for episode “Last Holiday” and language

A/N: This is just my way of venting my frustration with the episode. I was going to do a kind of fix-it fic, but this turned more into a reader insert as concerned spectator kind of thing. No one edited this, so sorry for any errors. This is frustration and crack.

Poking holes, making fun, wishing they were doing better things with the last few episodes - you know, the fangirl business.

“There’s a what living here? And what does it have to do with your underwear?”

Dean rolls his eyes, “A wood nymph. She was folding them for me.”

“Since when do you fold your underwear?”

“Since Mrs. B. started doing it for me,” he shrugs.

Speak of the devil, or nymph - she scurries in from the hall.

Her eyes are wide as she looks you over, a disapproving scowl on her face.

“Dean, we do not bring lady guests into the Men of Letters bunker. Ms. Sands was an exception, but it should not be the rule.”

“Lady guests? I live here,” you glare as you over-enunciate each word.

Clearly caught off-guard, she splutters, unable to reply more than a few cut-off words as she looks helplessly at Dean. “A-a woman? IN the Men of Letters bunker?”

“Times have changed, lady. And I don’t know if you’re aware, but you are also a female.”

“I am a wood nymph,” she says haughtily, “Friend of the goddess Artemis, and not subject to the problems a woman may bring to this bunker.”

You start to move on her, but Dean steps in, gently keeping you back with a hand on your shoulder, “Okay, I think this could be going better. Mrs. B., she does live here. We don’t really subscribe to the whole ‘fairer sex’ thing. I was just getting ready to find you for introductions when you walked in. Now, I think we can all get along, right?”

He looks between you with a shit-eating grin as though he just solved the easiest riddle, even though he didn’t do shit. Mrs. B. stands there wringing her hands and staring at you with trepidation, while you eye her up, looking for any signs of malice.

“I know!” Dean says with all the excitement of a ten year-old, “Mrs. B. how about you bring out some of those butter cookies you whipped up earlier and we kick this off right?”

She turns to fulfill his request just as you answer, “No, thanks. I don’t mind fending for myself. In fact, I prefer it. Dean, can I speak with you? Alone?”

He shakes his head and looks at her apologetically. She just waves him off and leaves.

“What the hell?”

“Yeah!” you throw your hands up, “What the hell?! You need to tell me everything that happened since she showed up.”

Days pass. Once Dean had told you what happened to make Mrs. Doubtfire appear, you went to Sam, hoping for some reason unfortunately, it seemed to be a lost cause. Once she highlighted the monster radar, they were constantly on the run. A quick vampire nest here, a coven there. In between Dean nestled himself in his purple huggy nightgown and drowned himself not in alcohol, but in mashed potatoes and pie. She even had Jack drawn out of his new soul-based depression thanks to her smoothies.

_____

“Won’t you join us, dear?” her sickly sweet voice invites you as the guys line up pumpkins for carving. She wears a forced smile as she clasps her hands in front of her, still uncomfortable with your presence.

“Nope,” you pop with an obnoxious ‘p’ sound, “I’m super right here.” You wave your deli-bought sandwich in the air and look back to your laptop.

“C’mon!” Dean groans. He looks up from the face he’s drawing on the huge, out-of-season monstrosity. “Relax a little, Mrs. B is even gonna roast up some pumpkin seeds - salty and sweet!” He looks at her with an excited and expectant nod.

She looks back like a proud grandmother, “Of course, dear!” As though there were no other option, making your eyes roll into the back of your head.

“Like I said, I’m good. You guys enjoy your...whatever over there.”

They shrug and ignore you, laughing like children and throwing pumpkin goop at each other until she scolds them. Until now, Halloween was despised by Sam, and only an excuse for slutty costumes for Dean. Not that it hadn’t been tried. There were attempts at parties, birthdays, Christmas; Jody invited you all over plenty, especially after the mess with Mary. But no. Suddenly Stepford Granny appears and it’s all hands on deck for celebrations. Something wasn’t right, and for some stupid reason, the guys didn’t notice or care.

_____

Your research on wood nymphs doesn’t offer a whole lot, they are pretty rare. More kindly disposed toward men according to a source, which explains her reaction to you, and summoned to attend the gods on Olympus, which also explains her service kink apparently. Other than that, it was a whole lot of crap.

On occasion you find her in the library, staring wistfully at the photo of the Men of Letters who previously occupied the bunker, but once she notices your presence, she shakes herself from her reverie and starts puttering about, lamenting the state of things around her.

Dean is blissful. Sam had been reluctant, but even he seems to be walking around without his usual dark cloud. You want them to be happy, to have the memories others take for granted, but the way she side-eyes Jack, the way she passive-aggressively speaks about you even when you are in the room, it won’t stop nagging at you.

“What do you miss most about them?” you ask her one day after she sends the boys off with their crustless sandwiches.

“Oh, well, it’s hard to miss them much when they’ve just left,” she laughs, stiff with discomfort.

“Not Sam and Dean, I mean them,” you tip your head in the direction of the photo on the wall.

“Oh.” She takes a half step toward it, but stops. “It’s - they gave me purpose, a home, and a family.”

“What about your real family? The other nymphs?”

She straightens out her stupid, festive apron then, looking at you dead on, “Mr. Sinclair and those gentlemen were no less a real family to me than my natural brethren,” she pauses for a deep breath, then for a moment longer until a tight smile pulls across her lips. “Now, have you eaten? Are you sure I can’t get you...”

“No,” you cut her off for the millionth time she’s asked.

“Well then, I best get back to work,” she mutters and wanders off.

_____

When you finally get the chance to corner Sam, he’s rushing while getting ready for his date and really only half-listening.

“And I just think that it’s really telling that Cuthbert Sinclair was the one to bring her on, I mean, he wasn’t always on the level with his magic and acquisitions and what the hell are you wearing?”

He turns around, smoothing down the brown sweater vest, “What? Mrs. Butters set it out for me. Said it makes me look dashing.” He smiles and shyly tips his head to the side, the way he does before giving his puppy eyes. All lost on you.

“You look like a sitcom dad. You’re just going out with Eileen, right?”

“Nothing wrong with looking your best.”

“Sure,” you agree with uncertainty, “But Sam, didn’t you look into this?”

“She was right about the first vamp case, she’s powered up the radar, and the bunker is on full blast, what’s wrong with that?”

“Because Sam! Magic also comes with a price, and when has a monster ever really been so thrilled to live in servitude? Or anyone for that matter? You think this is all out of the goodness of her heart?”

He looks at you, confused, “Yes?”

You throw your hands up, just as Sam checks his watch and curses under his breath before hastily leaving the room.

“What the fuck. Fine, you guys don’t care? I don’t care. I am fucking out of here.” No one stops you.

_____

Two days later, you’re called back to the bunker and very apologetic Winchesters, and cake.

“So she was a Nazi murder monster who also liked serving milk and cookies? Cool. Cool, cool. And Jack found this out? Jack?! I mean, no offense buddy, but Sam! You’re the lore genius! You’ve got this place set up with your own fucking Sammy decimal system, and you missed this!”

“I mean, if she was doping up all our food, like she was doing to Jack - “

“And you wondered why I didn’t want to eat her turkish delights! She had you guys running around with sack lunches like fricken four year-olds, all dopey smiles and rice krispy treats. I mean, I can’t believe you even knew how to spell ‘happy birthday’ all on your own and didn’t pull a Hagrid with how high you were flying on her nymph edibles!” You throw your hands up, nearly throwing your slice of birthday cake right off the plate, as Sam laughs.

“And you,” you point to him, “Mjolnir! Where did she pull that from? You weren’t thrown off with that? And don’t think I am letting you live down that sweater vest or birthday tiara. If all it took to make you guys so docile were a few parties and home-cooked meals and giving in to some praise kinks you seem to hae, then someone would have locked you both down already, it’s not like they haven’t tried. I cringed, you guys, cringed. My shoulders are still sore from it. In fact, I think you guys really owe me for having to put up with watching all that crap go down. For being so right, right from the start.”

They both roll their eyes, Jack for his part just sits and smiles while eating his own birthday cake. Dean flicks his fingers in a ‘bring it on’ motion while pursing his lips in displeasure.

“I want a party. With drinks and store-bought cake with that really good frosting, and a banner that says ‘you were so right and we were so stupid and we’re sorry and we will do better next tim-’”

“Alright, Veruca we get it,” Dean groans.

“Just do better, and don’t forget my golden goose,” you smirk.

#spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn s15 #spn crack #spn last holiday #dean winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #my writing #in case you can't tell #i hated the episode

25 notes · View notes

monstersandmaw · 5 years

Text

Orctober #3 - male half-orc x male character (nsfw) ‘Bait’

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Orctober stories One and Two are up on Patreon (linked below), and this has been previewed on there too, and has had some truly wonderful comments that just made my day, so there might be a part two in the offing now. We’ll see.

Anyway, it’s a bit different in terms of format - it's not a reader insert, but I hope that doesn't matter.

It's a whopping 6914 words long, and I had an absolute blast writing it, so I really hope you enjoy reading it!! I know that 'Josslyn' is a female sounding name, but it's what this prince wanted to be called, so that's his name. :) I think it suits him anyway.

1. 'Ring' - male orc (Liam) x plus size female reader (very light nsfw) 2. 'Mindless’ - female orc (Khara) x male reader (nsfw)

---

A silver-trimmed banner caught and snagged in the night breeze as the crown prince strode along the battlements of his father’s castle. The old king’s words still rang in his ears and he ground his teeth, breathing hard and fighting the urge to shout, to yell, to cry. Where was the man who had raised him? The man who had played with him, taught him to ride his first pony, and helped him with his tutor’s tasks when he’d struggled? The man who had taught him the meaning of the ideals of justice and loyalty, of servitude to the people? How could old age ravage a man so much in the mind while taking so little from his body?

The king was in his seventies, having had Josslyn later in life than many had expected, after his first queen had died in childbirth, leaving no heir. The king had the body of a man ten years younger, but the mind of a man a decade older. Joss had tried to keep his father’s unpredictable nature hidden from the council and from the people, and so far all that they had suspected was that the long-running war with the orcish peoples in the neighbouring kingdom was taking its toll on him, forcing him to become harder, stricter in a time of strife.

A guard nodded his resepcts at him as he passed and muttered, “Highness,” to which the prince responded with a small smile and a bow of his head as he swept past, his long, night blue cloak swirling behind him, the wind lifting his long black hair off his face.

A shout and commotion from the courtyard below brought two guards hurrying to his side as he peered down from the wall, but he waved them away with a gentle gesture and watched as a tall, rather bedraggled figure was hauled out from the guards’ supply room in the outer bailey and dumped in the freezing mud beside the castle well. Spear-tips were poised at his throat immediately, and as the flickering light of a wrought-iron brazier illuminated his features, Josslyn saw that he looked orcish, though somewhat more delicate than the brutes who currently inhabited the castle dungeons and gladiatorial rings across the country.

Scuttling silently down one of the nearby stone staircases, the prince emerged in time to hear the guards demanding who the creature was and what the hell he was doing sneaking around the royal castle at midnight. Josslyn wanted to know how the hell he’d got into the castle to begin with.

“Please,” the captive choked, his eyes screwed almost shut as a spear point hovered above his Adam’s apple, “Please, I only came looking… for… for work… I thought…”

“You thought we’d hire something like you? The king doesn’t employ beasts, not even to clean the latrines!” one of the guards sneered.

The prince approached at a steady walk, partly cloaked by the shadows of the courtyard and partly by the thick fabric of his heavy robes. “Why did you come here of all places?” he demanded of the orc and the guards startled at his sudden appearance.

“Your Highness, please,” one of them warned, holding out a protective arm between the captive and the crown prince. “We caught this half-breed orc sniffing around our supplies.”

“He managed to find a way past the gates - outwitting all the guards - and he speaks intelligently,” the prince said, staring at him with hard, black eyes, “And yet you still treat him like a cornered granary rat.”

“They’re all vermin,” the guard said, cheeks flushed with humiliation, jabbing the half-orc in the sternum with the butt of his spear and driving the wind from his chest.

“Stop,” Josslyn said in a voice of quiet command that stilled them all instantly. “Take him to the upper cells, and see that he’s fed and given water and a blanket, and some clean, dry clothes. I want to know exactly what he was doing here, but he’s in no condition to be questioned at the moment. Look at him.”

The guards returned their attention to their miserable captive and saw the way he shivered, his clothes sodden - presumably from swimming the moat - with the fabric clinging to his relatively slim body. With orcish blood, he should have been built like a mythical hero from a maiden’s tale, but Josslyn suspected that he saw high elf in the half-breed’s slender ears and delicate bone-structure. No high elf could bulk up, no matter how much meat he ate or how many press-ups he did, and unfortunately for the orc, it seemed he had inherited that trait from his elven parent.

“Highness?” the guard with his spear at the half-orc’s throat whispered. “You… You cannot be serious…?”

Josslyn simply turned his polished jet eyes on the guard and the man nodded once.

“Of course. Forgive me. It will be done as you say.”

The crown prince watched them haul the mysterious half-breed to his feet and lead him away. He stumbled and staggered, shaking violently from the cold as the chill of the mid-autumn night sank into his sodden clothes and skin, but he risked a glance over his shoulder and smiled gratefully at Josslyn. In answer, the prince nodded once and let his eyes fall to the spot in the mud where he’d been lying, his mind working.

An hour later, fighting the prickling tiredness in his eyes as midnight became one in the morning, Joss headed down to the cells and as he peered through the barred opening in the heavy wooden door of the cell, he found that the prisoner had been housed exactly as he’d commanded. He’d wrapped himself in a moth-eaten blanket but beneath it Joss could see the royal blue of a guard’s uniform, and beside the low, rickety bed was an empty wooden plate and set neatly atop it was a wooden beaker.

The prince had the guards unlock it and then he knocked before stepping inside. A guard tried to follow him in, only obeying protocol, but Josslyn asked her to wait outside. Reluctantly, the woman obeyed, and left the crown prince, the sole heir of the entire kingdom alone in a cell with a strange half-orc.

“Are you warmer now?” the prince asked as the orc rose shakily, woken by the rattling key in the lock.

“Yes, thank you, Highness,” he said, bowing low.

“Rise,” he snapped. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“My name is Tamas,” he said in a croaky baritone. Everything about him spoke of submission; the slope of his hunched shoulders, the angle of his head, his down-turned gaze - it was as if he were perpetually awaiting a blow to the back of the head. His hair was a muddy brown, shaved above his pointed ear on the left side of his head and falling loose and long to his shoulder on the right. He had a small, pale scar on his left cheekbone, and his skin was a muddy green, not dissimilar to the colour of the moat in high summer.

“And what are you doing here?” the prince pressed patiently.

Tamas took a deep breath and said, “I… I ran away from… I’ve been travelling for months… I thought…”

“Sit down,” the prince commanded, and the orc dropped heavily onto the bed behind him, knees simply giving way. His exhaustion appeared to be more mental than physical. “You are not full orc, are you?” the prince asked and Tamas shook his head.

“No, Highness. My mother was a woodland elf. Her people left me to die in the way of all unwanted elven children; she set me adrift in a basket on the river and I was picked up by an orcish mother miles downstream. She had lost her own child and thought to raise me. But… orcs are not kind to those of ‘watered down blood’. I…” he turned his gaze up and the prince was surprised to note that his eyes were a dark sapphire blue. In a strange way, he was quite beautiful, he supposed; a thought which surprised him all over again. All this he kept carefully hidden behind his usual mask of calm control.

“So you finally ran away,” the prince supplied. “And you decided to come here? To the enemy of your father’s people? Hardly the safest choice for you, I’d wager…”

Tamas nodded. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Alight,” the prince said, folding his arms across his chest. “What services could you offer the crown?”

The half-orc lowered his head again and stared at his hands. The index finger of his left hand was crooked, as though it had been badly broken in the past and poorly set. He sighed, rubbing the knuckle, and said, “I am good with horses and animals,” he said, “But I can read and write and do arithmetic. I could help wherever is needed.”

“I doubt my father will make you his personal valet,” the prince snorted, amused. “But I will think on where to place you. For now, rest. The guards have been instructed not to bother you, but you understand why I must keep you in here a little longer?”

Again, he nodded. “I do, Highness. And… thank you…”

“I haven’t made you any promises,” he warned him.

“Perhaps not, but you have given me a chance. You’re the first person to treat me… well… not like an animal, since the border.”

“I presume folks thought you were a runaway slave?”

“Yes,” he said and shuddered.

With a final nod, the prince left him and gratefully began to make his way up to his chambers. Undressing alone in the simple finery of his room, he thought about the half-orc and realised he had had no idea how orcs treated their own. For all that they had been at war for nearly six years now, he knew next to nothing about their culture. As he lay down beneath the soft sheets and let the deep pillows cushion his royal head, he mused that it might be wise to use this half-orc to learn about their enemy’s culture. Surely if he’d been treated so abominably that he’d run straight to their enemy’s stronghold for shelter, Tamas would be willing to help him?

Thus a hesitant relationship was forged between prince and captive. Tamas was housed in a room in the servants’ quarters - much to their distaste - and to begin with, for an hour every day, he was released and attended the prince in his own chambers to instruct him in the nature and traditions of the orcish nation.

Josslyn was surprised to learn that Tamas had a wicked sense of humour, and that he was also rather fond of reading. After that, the prince asked him to accompany him to the library, and in a relatively short couple of months, the two had become tentative friends. Josslyn encouraged Tamas to speak out truthfully with his opinions to the prince, though only in private, and the two frequently engaged in lengthy and in-depth discussions late into the night. Josslyn still carried a dagger with him at all times, but he soon forgot about it. In time, the half-orc became something of a legend in the castle - the ‘sentient beast’ and the ‘prince’s pet’ were two of the kinder titles he acquired, but he promised Josslyn that he didn’t mind.

“I’m happy to have a roof over my head and a purpose before me,” he said meekly one afternoon when the prince brought it up again as the two of them sat in comfortable chairs in a side room of the library. It was a rare day off for the prince, and having spent the last week in the infirmary visiting the soldiers who returned from the front with horrific injuries, dealt largely by orcish weapons, he was grateful for the quiet and peace of the ancient hall of learning.

Tamas had offered to accompany him, but the prince had suggested that his might not be a face to show to the recently-returned warriors, and the half-orc had accepted without question, apologising for his insensitivity.

The prince felt those sapphire blue eyes on him again and he glanced up from his book to find his new friend staring at him. “What?” he asked gently.

The half-orc smiled, the gesture stretching around the short, almost slender tusks which protruded from his lower jaw. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed in weeks, that’s all,” he said, a warmth to his tone that struck Joss deeply. “It’s nice.”

He snorted and then drew in a deep breath. “I’m tired, Tam. I’m tired of this war and I’m tired of the toll it’s taking on my people. I want an end to it, but I don’t know how. I don’t know - after all I’ve learned from you and from visiting the front myself - how we can make a bridge with them, make peace with a culture so different.”

Tamas’ face showed obvious surprise and a small amount of shock. He closed the book in his hands and leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze met the prince’s directly. “You’ve visited the front?”

“Of course,” Joss said, a frown playing on his dark brows. “I wouldn’t be much of a leader if I sat at home in my comfortable castle while my people threw themselves at the orcish lines like the sea against the cliffs, would I?”

“Forgive me,” Tam murmured. “I… I didn’t mean to question your integrity. I’m just surprised. I’m sorry.”

Josslyn laughed and set his book down on the table beside his chair. “Come, let’s get a glass of wine. The sun’s going down and we’ve been sat here for hours. I need to stretch my legs.”

Tam stood, still looking a little stunned, as though his every belief had been called into question.

He was slow to follow his friend and the prince paused. “You alight?” Josslyn asked, laying a hand on Tam’s elbow.

The orc swallowed visibly and turned his searing blue gaze to the point where the two of them touched. His eyes then darted up to meet the prince’s and he smiled, though his dark skin still looked a little pallid. “Yes,” he croaked. “I’m sorry. Yes.”

“Come then,” he said again and walked away, leaving Tamas to stare after him for a moment before hurrying to catch up.

One evening, after the Beltane feast that marked the start of summer, Josslyn left the feast early. His father was being truly obnoxious, though mercifully this time he was only trying to get the crown prince to flirt with some visiting duchess or other, but Josslyn was having none of it. Tamas had not been invited to the celebrations, for obvious reasons, and Josslyn found himself aching for the easy rapport the two of them had built over the seven months or so that they had now known each other.

Instead of going to the servants’ quarters and bothering them all like a fox in a chicken coop, the prince headed to the privacy of the royal courtyard garden at the rear of the castle. Only those who tended the plants and members of the royal family were allowed here, and yet, as he sat on a stone bench with his head in his hands, he heard footsteps approaching.

Glancing up, his hand twitching towards the dagger at his hip, he nearly shot to his feet before he realised who it was. “Tamas?” he breathed. “What are you doing in here? You know this place is off limits…”

“Invite me to stay and I won’t be trespassing,” he smiled playfully. “But seriously, I’ll go if you want to be alone.”

“No,” Joss sighed, his spine slackening as he slumped back down on his bench. “Don’t go. How did you know to come here?”

“I was on my way back from the library when I saw you leaving the great hall. You looked thoroughly miserable… May I sit?”

“Of course,” he said, gesturing at the bench beside him. “Did you find anything interesting to read?”

“Mmm,” he hummed quietly, the deep sound somehow going straight through Josslyn. The quiet warmth of Tam’s presence beside him comforted him beyond expressing, and he leaned sideways and rested his body against Tamas’ side, his head falling to lie on Tam’s shoulder.

The half-orc’s hand suddenly slid over his own where it lay in his lap and he squeezed the prince’s fingers gently in his large grip.

“Tam,” Josslyn rasped, tears filling his eyes. “I’m so tired…”

“I know,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes every day. You give so much of yourself to your people. You take no time for yourself.”

There was soft wonder in his tone and Josslyn barked a quiet laugh. “It’s my duty as crown prince, Tam. My father, before he began to change, made me learn my duties young.” He sighed again and added, “I learned the oath I’ll take when I ascend the throne when I was only five. I had no idea what it meant then, but I do now.”

Tam’s arm came round his shoulders then and he held him close. “My people were entirely wrong about you,” he said very quietly.

“How so?”

He didn’t speak immediately, but the silence told Josslyn he was considering his words carefully. Another stereotype shattered, he thought as he realised just how deeply this half-orc cared about the words he spoke and the meaning behind them. “The orcs say you are little more than a spoiled, selfish brat of a princeling who spends his days watching orcs fight in the pits or being tended to by a harem of naked elven women… They did get one thing right about you though,” he added with a wry smile.

“Oh?” Joss asked, too tired to respond to the first comments, ridiculous as they were.

Tam chuckled and said, “They say you’re as beautiful as one of the fae. Apparently because your previous queen died and the kingdom had no heir, your father made a pact with the fae for you.”

Josslyn’s laugh rang around the courtyard, echoing off the statuary. He sat up and regarded Tamas with glittering dark eyes. “And here I thought ‘beauty’ to an orc was brute strength and an unquenchable bloodlust…”

Tamas shrugged. “Good thing I’m not a full orc then.”

The chill evening air had gradually become charged during their conversation, and Josslyn felt his lips parting slightly as he stared up at Tamas. The half-orc wasn’t much taller than the crown prince, but he had a few inches on him; enough to make Josslyn tilt his head back so that his hair fell down to tickle the hand that Tamas still had pressed to his back, though now it rested at the base of his spine.

Slowly, hesitantly, as though he would be shot full of arrows from the rooftops if he dared go through with it, Tamas leaned down and the two brushed their lips together in the briefest of kisses. The fleeting touch sent the blood straight to Joss’ groin and his breath hitched in his chest. “Tam,” he breathed.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, wide-eyed, wrenching himself back and standing, staggering as he half turning to go. “I’m… I shouldn’t…”

“Wait,” Josslyn commanded, standing and drawing himself to his full height. “Wait,” he said again, more gently, stepping over to him. He took his hand and tightened his grip.

The kiss that followed was all fierce, pent-up emotion and passion, and Josslyn found himself backed against the huge marble plinth of a statue of a faun, with Tamas chasing kiss after kiss. The half-orc hooked one of Joss’ legs around his hips and then picked him up, pinning him against the masonry hard enough to knock the breath from him. The prince gasped as Tamas ground his solid length against his own hardening cock through their trousers, and his head rolled back. Tamas shot out a hand to cup the back of the prince’s head before he clonked it on the stonework behind him, and Joss smiled bashfully at him.

They paused then, frozen in place, both breathing hard. “You… You want…?” Tamas asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” the prince whispered.

Kissing him one last time, Tamas backed off, setting the prince back on his feet, and the two of them readjusted themselves sheepishly as best they could before making their way through back stairwells and corridors to his private chambers.

No sooner had the door closed and the latch locked than the two of them were entangled again. They shed their clothes between the door and the bed, and Josslyn ran his palms over Tamas’ slim, lean chest, marvelling at the wiry strength of the half-orc who shuddered and gasped beneath the explorative touches of the prince. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and as his chest heaved, Joss could see the muscles move beneath his green skin, his dark nipples hard and his cock dampening a spot in his underwear.

They fell backwards onto his huge bed in a tangle of limbs, and Joss tugged off the last of Tam’s clothes to free his impressive erection. Hard, the vein along its length full and prominent, his cock wept pre-come freely now, twitching as Josslyn stared openly at him.

“How… How do you want to do this?” the prince asked breathily.

In answer, Tamas parted his legs a little and the prince smiled, reaching across the orc’s prone body to his bedside drawers for a small vial of oil. Somehow he hadn’t expected Tamas to be the one wanting to take it, but he was too worked up to comment or mind.

When he slicked one finger with oil and slid it inside the orc, Tamas grunted and drove his head back into the bed, his legs falling wider apart, his cock bobbing eagerly as his hips bucked upwards into the intrusion. With his free hand, Joss dribbled more oil down the length of Tamas’ cock and then worked him with both hands until Tam was panting and grunting and cursing in orcish.

Josslyn knew only enough of the language to recognise it as orcish, and he leaned forwards, sliding his fingers out of Tam for a moment and earning a keening whine from him at the loss. In his sensitive ear he whispered, “You’re going to have to translate that for me, Tamas.”

“I said…” he gasped, struggling to speak as the prince returned his finger to him and caressed the bundle of sensitive nerves inside him, “I… I need to you fuck me… Highness.” His voice was beautifully unsteady and his eyes were screwed shut. His cock wept pre-come onto his hard abs, and he was squirming, desperate for more.

“You’re not quite ready yet,” Josslyn said, and this time he slid three fingers into the orc, stretching him, working him open until he was growling openly at him to fuck him.

Running his slick palm over his own cock and gasping at the sudden stimulation, Josslyn lined himself up and nudged into the ready heat. Already Tamas’ head lolled to one side. “Please?” he hissed, bucking weakly upwards, eyes opening a little as he half sat up in an attempt to guide Josslyn further inside him.

In one motion, Josslyn seated himself to the hilt inside Tam and the orc yelled with pleasure and immediately began to shake.

“Please, please, please,” he chanted until Joss began to move.

Slowly at first, he savoured the immense tightness of the orc around him, the heat, the shaking muscles desperate for release, but then he changed his angle slightly and Tamas let out another bellow of pleasure. Hitting him repeatedly in that sweet spot, the prince picked up his pace and lowered his head with the effort. His long hair fell forwards and started to stick to the sheen of sweat that had begun to form on Tam’s chest as he got more and more worked up.

The orc’s cock bounced between them, untouched and drooling as he clutched at the sheets beneath him and growled incoherently. “I’m…” he snarled. “Please!” Despite the pleasure of Joss’ cock repeatedly pounding into his prostate, it wasn’t quite enough.

“Are you going to come for me if I touch you?” Joss hissed, breathless and sweaty with exertion and pleasure.

“Yes!” he gasped.

“I’m close,” the prince admitted, the rhythm of his hips faltering.

“Don’t stop,” Tam demanded, but when Joss’ hand wrapped around Tamas’ cock and worked his shaft once, twice, he suddenly went rigid beneath him and spilled over his stomach with a barely stifled scream. His tusks bit deep into the back of his wrist as he fought to keep quiet as he clenched and twitched, and the combination of sound, sight, and sensation tipped the prince over the edge too. He came almost silently, a blinding heat ripping through him as he emptied himself into the half-orc.

Trembling in the aftermath of his orgasm, Josslyn fell forwards onto Tamas’ heaving chest and he whined as he landed on the mess of release smeared over his abs, but he was too tired and too blissed out to care just yet. Tamas’ heartbeat thundered in his ear as he laid his head on his chest and the orc lay there, lax and spent beneath him, breathing hard, eyes closed, one arm on Josslyn’s back, the other palm up and limp on the sheets beside him.

Eventually they grew chilly, and Joss disappeared to clean up in the adjacent bathroom. When he emerged, swathed in a rich black and gold, silk dressing gown, he found that Tamas had fallen asleep exactly where he’d left him, and the prince chuckled fondly. The half-orc was as large as most human warriors, with clearly defined muscles, but the green tone of his skin, the tusks - however small -, the heavy jaw and under-bite, and the tapering of his ears marked him as orcish as clearly as Josslyn’s crown announced his royal blood. The wiry slenderness to Tamas’ body, however, spoke of his elven lineage too. Always an outcast, never belonging, Tamas had nowhere to call home.

Leaning over him, Joss wiped the warm washcloth over the ridges of his abs and over his sharply-defined hips. With a jolt, Tamas woke and sat up and blinked at him for just a heartbeat before he laughed. “You shouldn’t be doing that for me,” he chided groggily, holding out his hand for the cloth.

The prince shook his head, his long hair in disarray.

“Gods, you look so beautiful like that,” Tamas hissed as he stared him up and down.

Josslyn blushed hard and threw the wash cloth at his chest, where it landed with a wet ‘flap’.

Things changed for them after that.

They kept the nature of their relationship a secret, and continued with life in the castle as best they could whilst maintaining their charade. They still held their discussions about orcish culture, though there wasn’t much more for Tamas to teach him by now, though the two had begun studying the language now too. Josslyn had been surprised to learn that it wasn’t the series of simplistic, guttural sounds that he’d always taken it for, and while his grasp of the vocabulary and grammar was solid, Tamas insisted that his accent was appalling.

“I promise not to speak it,” Josslyn murmured one evening as they sat in each other’s arms on the sofa in his private apartment in the castle.

Tamas ran his fingertip over the prince’s lips and whispered, “I wouldn’t want you to sully your beautiful mouth with the language of such brutes,” which earned him a smack on the chest and a playful kiss for his efforts at romance.

As high summer tipped towards autumn again and Tamas remarked that he’d been at the castle for nearly a year, the prince suggested that they go out hunting together. It was customary for there to be a royal hunt as the festival of Mabon approached, and the Royal Guard had just about come to terms with the fact that Tamas wasn’t going to assassinate their beloved prince if left unattended, so the pair of them mounted up amid the baying of hounds and the clatter of hooves on the flagstones of the upper bailey.

The king’s health was not strong enough for him to ride out, but he insisted on being hauled out in his wheeled throne to bless the hunters and wish them success because it was tradition.

The large party of nobles and courtiers and guards all rode out into the woods about a mile from the castle, and the whole thing soon became the usual chaos of bugles and barking, of horses stamping and men shouting.

Tamas guided his large mare expertly up to Josslyn’s side and murmured, “Is this what passes for a hunt amongst humans?”

The prince laughed, knowing it was the large silken tents and the army of servants standing in the field behind waiting to welcome then back to which he was referring. He shrugged. “A royal one, yes.”

“You want to get out of here?”

With a glint in his eye, the prince galloped away with his lover, following old game trails he knew well from adventures as a boy. The two of them soon left the chaos of the hunt well behind, and slowed their mounts to a trot and then an easy walk.

They headed north in companionable silence, enjoying the late summer light beneath the trees, but soon Joss began to notice that Tamas was tense. His horse skittered beneath him, shying at nothing, reacting to the tension and fear in her rider’s posture, snorting and sidestepping.

“Tam?” he asked, his heart rate picking up. “What is it?”

With his heavy jaw set and his eyes fixed on the path ahead, Tamas didn’t reply and Josslyn realised then just how far they had strayed.

“Tamas, we should go back,” he said with more confidence than he felt, reining his horse around. Everything felt wrong. His skin crawled and prickled, and Arrow danced nervously beneath him, the stallion snorting too.

The half-orc held his own mare in place and didn’t follow. He seemed to be warring with himself, his eyes darting back and forth. His chest heaved and his skin had gone deathly pale.

“Tam?” the prince insisted. “What -?”

“Go,” he finally hissed. “Ride. Gallop for home and don’t look back.”

“What?”

“GO!” he roared as the undergrowth erupted behind him and an orcish war horn sounded.

Terror flooded through the prince and he spurred his horse to a flat out gallop as arrows and bolts whistled around them. He heard a scream and a heavy crash from behind him and glanced back to see Tam’s mare go down, throwing him from the saddle.

“No!” he yelled, immediately wheeling Arrow round. The well-trained warhorse obeyed instantly, and as the prince leaned down out of his saddle like a child at a gymkhana, extending his hand to Tam who was sitting up, winded and with an arrow through his shoulder, Joss caught sight of the orcs barrelling towards them through the trees. “Take my hand!” he shouted.

“Go!” Tam gasped.

“I’m not leaving you.”

And with tremendous effort, the half-orc rose and swung himself onto Arrow’s back.

Slowed by the extra weight, the big stallion charged as best he could through the woods. It was a long, painful ride for Tamas, but by the time they erupted out into the meadow, the sounds of pursuit had faded and the orcs appeared to have given up for now. Evening lengthened the shadows as Tamas slumped against Josslyn’s back, breathing hard and holding tight with only one arm.

Once he was sure that they were alone, the prince slowed his sweat-foamed horse to a walk, letting him breathe and stretch out, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Slowly, in a voice laced with fear and trepidation, he asked, “Tamas, what was that?”

“An orcish outpost,” he said dully.

A horrible thought plunged through the prince’s mind and he forced himself to ask, “Did… Did you know it was there?”

Silence stretched between them before he felt Tamas nod. “Yes.”

“Why?” he gasped, fighting off tears as the world spun around him. “Was that the plan all along? You were going to betray me all along?”

Tam’s arm tightened briefly around the prince’s slim waist before it slackened a little and he pressed his cheek against the soft leather of his riding jerkin. His breath wheezed and rattled wetly as he answered, “I was the bait. I…” but before he could continue, a retinue of guards cantered over the nearest grassy rise towards them.

“My prince?” the captain called. “What… What happened?”

“Orc ambush,” the prince said, his tone hard as steel, miraculously revealing nothing of his emotions.

The captain snarled and signalled to his men. “Seize him,” he said, pointing at Tam. “Get him away from the prince.”

“No,” Josslyn said in that eerily calm voice. “No. He saved my life. Escort us to the palace. He needs medical treatment.”

Tamas had gone very still behind him, but the prince suspected that it wasn’t because he’d lost consciousness.

The events of the next few hours passed in a daze for the prince. The news of the attack on the crown prince weakened the king’s condition so severely that the physicians feared he was not long for this world, and Josslyn spent the next two hours at his father’s side, though he didn’t stir once. Still too numb and empty from the shock of Tamas’ actions to feel anything much for his father, he wandered the castle until he found himself in the infirmary.

Tamas was sleeping in a bed at the far end, his shoulder bandaged, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. No one was about, but there had been guards posted at the doors he noted.

Grabbing a chair and silently setting it down beside the bed, the prince stared at the person he’d thought was his friend. His lover. After all they’d shared, Tamas had just been… bait? He couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

After perhaps five minutes, Tamas’ blue eyes fluttered open and he stared at Josslyn.

“Why?” The whispered question fell from the prince’s lips before he could stop himself. “Why didn’t you just stab me in my sleep while we lay together all those nights?” His fury mounted inside him and it was a miracle he kept it in check. “If you wanted me dead, why -” he faltered, choking up.

“I don’t,” Tam hissed back. “I mean… I did… That was why I was sent here, but I-”

“They sent you? So everything you told me about yourself was a lie? You manipulated me… Gods,” he said, lurching to his feet and turning away, fists clenched. “I was so stupid.”

The sheets rustled and Tamas sat up awkwardly, resting his back against the wooden headboard behind him as a wave of dizziness swept through him. He breathed hoarsely for a moment, the pain in his shoulder evident. “I was sent here,” he confirmed. “I was supposed to gather information on the castle and household, and then return. But when you took an interest in me… I couldn’t let that opportunity pass. I…” he paused, trying to catch his breath before going on. Josslyn stood there and glared at him. “I sent word of what had changed, and they told me to earn your trust and bring you to that outpost whenever I could.”

The prince’s vision swam and he bit the inside of his cheeks hard enough to taste the ferrous tang of blood. “Why didn't you go through with it then?” he finally whispered.

“Because… I…” Tamas’ blue eyes dropped to the sheets and he stared blankly at them. “Because I never imagined I’d fall in love with you.”

“No,” he snarled. “You don’t get to say something like that after what you did.”

“I know,” he said evenly. “But you asked me why I didn’t let them do it. I never should have led you away from the hunt, but once I had, I felt like there was no going back. My people were counting on me, but then I saw how afraid you were when… how… how what I had done would hurt you more than being taken by them, and…”

“‘Taken’…”

“They weren’t going to kill you,” Tamas said quietly. “They were going to hold you to ransom.”

“Then why the arrows?” he retorted bitterly as he recalled flashes of that dreadful flight through the trees. His eyes landed on the bandages. “They nearly killed you.”

“You didn’t hear what they were shouting after me. They’d kill me now, for sure. If you let me go, they’ll…”

“It’s no more than you deserve,” he growled, but somehow the words didn’t feel right, even as he spoke them aloud.

Tamas looked up at the prince with his eyes glistening. “May I ask you something?”

The prince made a non-committal shrug.

“Why did you your guards that I saved your life? Why am I not hanging from a gallows right now?”

“Because I loved you,” he said. “And because you did save my life. Admittedly, that was immediately after trying to get me killed…”

“‘Loved’?” Of course he’d fixated upon that word. That tense.

Josslyn’s shoulders dropped and he closed his eyes, head bowing. “Love,” he amended. “You hurt me, but… I think… as insane as it sounds, I think I understand why you did it.”

“What?”

“You remember when I told you that I’m a prince but I serve my people?”

Tamas nodded, looking stunned.

“You came here to do for your people what I would do for mine. It’s not my fault that we’re on opposite sides of a war, Tamas.”

Tamas let out the breath he’d been holding and said in a shaky voice, “Months ago, you said that you wanted to bring an end to this war, and you said that you wished you could talk with my people. You wished you could find a way to end it peacefully…”

“I still do,” he said, his hand gripping the back of the chair to keep himself upright. It was all too much to take in in one go.

Tam’s mind was clearly working well enough though. “Perhaps we can do it together?”

“How? The orcs will kill you on sight for betraying them like that.”

“I’ll find a way to explain it,” he said hopelessly.

“Alright, so I herald you as my saviour, the ‘orc with a conscience’… and then what? You think my father will merrily trot over there and ask to begin a peace conference? Don’t be absurd…”

Tamas laughed softly but cut off with a wince. “We would have to wait until you became king,” he said very quietly. “It would take time, but…” he looked up at him. “I hated humans before I met you. You made me fall in love with you despite everything I tried to tell myself. If anyone can win them round, it’s you.”

“You love me despite your better judgement? Is that it?” Josslyn laughed, feeling his chest lighten somehow. He sank down onto the bed beside Tamas and took up his hand, frowning at the way it trembled.

“I love you despite my former judgement,” he corrected. His eyelids fluttered with exhaustion. He was clearly fighting to stay awake. “There’s a difference. I know I’ve got a lot of work to do to rebuild your trust in me. I don’t know if you’ll ever trust me again, but… still I think we can make this work between our people…”

Josslyn smiled. “I saw the look on your face back there in the trees too,” he said. “You didn’t want to do it. I know regret when I see it, and the expression of fear I saw in you when they came for me was genuine. I understand.”

Tears tracked silently down Tamas’ face from his dark blue eyes.

“Rest,” Josslyn murmured, helping him to lie back down again and sweeping his hair back out of his eyes once he was supine again. “We’ll talk more when you’ve healed.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

The prince smiled softly and leaned down, pressing a kiss into his slackening lips. “I know. Now, get some sleep.”

“Yes, Highness,” he slurred with a smile and slipped into unconsciousness a moment later.

As Josslyn walked away from the infirmary he felt wrung out and weak-kneed, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel now. There was the potential to end the conflict that had ravaged his land for the best part of six years, and he was going to take it.

As if to confirm his new resolve, a low, mournful bell began to toll throughout the castle and his footsteps faltered, knowing it could only mean one thing.

In the morning, there would be a new king.

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier or higher!

#orctober #orc #male orc #half orc #mlm #exophilia #mlm exophilia #monster boyfriend #fantasy #fantasy setting #really hope you like this one #i need to get a proper banner/break thing rather than just '---'

379 notes · View notes

yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy · 4 years

Text

WIP WEDNESDAY

Yet another one where I try desperately to make friends and tag people that don’t like me to read my work. @solas-disapproves @pikapeppa @scharoux @itsalexistrvlyn

Context: Solas ruminating on his relationship with my Lavellan. I just really love writing internal monologues instead of having my characters actually, you know, interact. (/o_o)/

I should also point out that my Lavellan is 24, despite Solas repeatedly referring to her as a child. When you’re 40+, everyone under 25 is a child. “Kids these days”, etc. Plus remember he considers the Dalish to be “children” across the board like an asshole.

Bracketed parts are what I’m personally debating whether to keep, or else contain text that needs to be replaced with a more appropriate equivalent.

------

She kisses with innocence and an earnest desire to please. He quietly damns himself all the while, but his mind cannot help but dredge up the whisper of a memory from long ago, of similarly wide-eyed and precocious young slave girls gifted to him like furniture. In his youth he acted as much of the part of the rakish black sheep that the Evanuris required of him. [The question that still remained unanswered after all this time, however, was whether he became the character in this particularly decadent play, or if such power afforded him to simply allow such tendencies to flourish unrestrained.]

Whatever the case, it had not been an uncommon occurrence for him to offer the comforts of his bed to two, three, four women on any given night. Servants, slaves, merchants' daughters (and wives).. all eager to please, all determined to curry his favor or catch his eye in the hopes that they would receive a blessing, and what ever that implied. They tried to ply him with distractions--music, art, dance; lewd and debauched scenarios to be acted out for his amusement; as the nights wore on and the wine flowed like a river in his veins, he called for them to submit to more embarrassing requests or risk being permanently ousted from his ever-revolving circle of beautiful nymphs.

Even at his most drunk and at the highest peak of ecstasy, he never lost sight of their motives. To them, he was a meal ticket, a refuge from the painful drudgery of everyday living, a shield from yet another night of painful servitude to his more [visceral] colleagues.

He did not begrudge them: Arlathan swallowed up innocence as readily as a debutante would her first cup of red grape wine. Even the youngest and most inexperienced of his partners still possessed an idea of what to expect from him, either from rumors spread among those beyond his abode or through personal demonstration with a captivated audience.

No, no one was innocent, he had long since been taught, but its absence did not necessarily translate to knowledge. And what he instructed those girls was not wisdom as he once proudly thought, but a functioning form of shrewd cynicism. One did not deserve praise for recognizing the follies of a system they continued to benefit from, and hadn't he benefited from their desperate need for acumen? Indeed, it had always been a secret thrill of his to watch the glimmer of recognition sparkle in someone's eyes, the bittersweet understanding that, ultimately, [knowledge] held as many rewards as it did caveats.

[But as he stared down at the fidgeting ingenue beneath him, he found his heart stir alongside his loins. A crude, blasphemous combination was what he originally thought. [[I have no idea what to do here. This sentence throws off the tone of sincere love but what the fuck do I write]]] An unfortunate side effect of being interred in the Fade for countless centuries. To taste precociousness and sincerity on a person’s skin after all this time..

He was surrounded by shades who unknowingly haunted a false world. Its destruction was imminent, he had resolved that to be its ultimate fate, had accepted that his commitment to the lonely path must continue. He would live, in the loosest sense of the word, among these dead souls, but only for a short time. That was what he had told himself, and in his haste, he had extended the time in which he must dwell in this unbearable purgatory and somehow chained himself to a barely-whelped shadow of his People who now wielded a fragment of his power with as much finesse as a young mage with a training wand.

Still, he would endure. Cordiality where it was required and expected, fleeting pleasure in the spirits he could still approach and the sweet desserts that thankfully never vanished from the imagination, temperance in all else. Another trial, another penance to be paid.

But a self-inventory summarily revealed] that his heart now thrummed with a quiet music not unlike the layered echoes resounding from a strummed harp. Sentiments built like a scale. He closed his eyes and listened, and to his surprise he discovered it whispered the name of the Inquisitor, and in the next breath urged him to recall the moments in their involuntary alliance that shook him from hypnotic stoicism.

Pity, pity for this Dalish girl, this innocent who was to have their life drastically torn asunder by yet another one of his mistakes.

Compassion, compassion for an unprepared child to be enlisted in a cause filled with those just as resolute in condemning her as they were in deeming her a necessity. Like a helpless babe tossed to wolves, she did not so much as whimper for fear of reprisal by forces she could barely comprehend.

Uncertainty, uncertainty at how such a skittish, stuttering, nervous da'len would be able to survive the trials set before her. She lacked understanding in the finer points of what moved the hearts of men. Her shyness intensified when in the company of human nobility to the point that her thoughts were rendered unintelligible. She commanded no presence, projected no confidence, [rested no worried hearts ]. When she spoke it was with a habit of editing her own thoughts in a messy and redundant manner.

Fondness, fondness for the way she listened to him like a child engrossed in a yarn regaled by an elder. The questions she asked, the desire to know and understand the foreign, intangible world he had come to call home long before her grandfather's grandfather's grandfather had been born.

Paternity, paternity because she struggled so very hard with her tremendous self-doubt, her [flagging] sense of belonging, her poor intuition in everything but the art of the bow. The others teased her as colleagues were wont to do but they did not see, as he and Cole saw with such painful clarity, that their words were as damaging as a sharpened knife against the bark of a new tree. That her face was in a near-permanent flush not because of the heat or sun damage but [perpetual embarrassment] at the thought that *she was truly a fool made to be mocked and [unloved]*.

But he kisses back. He kisses back and silently wills that these good intentions--Truly, they were good. Truly, he loved her in every sense of the word. Truly, he now cannot imagine a life having never known her--would leave similar indelible fingerprints on her heart as she has done to him.

When they part, his eyes rove over the glassy sheen of gray eyes holding back nervously-happy tears; the disgusting, artfully-inked crow of Dirthamen marring her full flushed cheeks and child-like upturned nose and soft sweep of her constantly furrowed brow, he is struck by the desire to cherish her for all time. Hold her and kiss her and pour all of his devotion into her ears until she was reduced to a quivering mess. It would be better for her, so his fantasy narrated, because she is too pure for this world as it is, too good.

She was, the rational side of him agreed, but ignorance was not the proper path toward true happiness. Balance, balance and understanding and righteous action were.

#tallin lavellan #solas #solavellan #fanfiction #my fanfiction #wip #wip wednesday #DA:I

10 notes · View notes

cthulhubert · 4 years

Text

Thoughts, not even a review, of Terra Ignota

recently finished Will to Battle.

(Book 3 of Terra Ignota, preceded by Too Like the Lightning and Seven Surrenders. The sequel and finale, Perhaps the Stars, is expected in 2021.)

So I wanted to post some thoughts, not even a review, really.

The take away is that despite many of its major, fundamental features leaving me cold or even actively repulsing me, I overall very much enjoyed reading it.

This is perhaps a higher recommendation than unalloyed praise. The more I like something, the more I complain. For one thing, it's a kind of eustress: the perfect thing has no flaws to catch interest; for another, if I just plain dislike something, I wouldn't spare much thought on it to begin with, much less linearize so many of them into words.

So my mostly negative venting (consisting of immediate and thorough spoilers) beneath the cut

So right off the bat: I HATE the genius serial killer trope; and I detest SFF trolley problem analogs.

I was so irritated by the one-two punch of these big reveals in the first book that I actually let my hold on Seven Surrenders and read several other books in the interim. (I knew I'd be back though, I put a new one on both 2 and 3 next.)

Mycroft Canner... one who believes themself "free" merely because they can kill. It reminds me of something that's stuck in my mind for a long time: a guy calling other peoples cucks because they used alarm clocks to wake up. "I can't believe you let a machine boss you around."

Because I otherwise liked the writing so much, I kept trying to dredge up another layer of meaning to the treatment of Mycroft as torturer-rapist-murderer. For instance: "Oh, so many people around him being sympathetic and liking him is actually the narrative sneakily reminding us that the core trait of serial killers like this is a manipulative personality, which his savant abilities would only feed." Carlyle Foster even brings this up specifically in the scene where we first learn the specifics of Canner's crimes, but of course, their portrayal in that scene (which, reminder, is literally by Mycroft) is of one hysterical and unreasonable.

Palmer did achieve one of most author's highest goals in emotionally transporting me to one of their scenes, but it just really made me wish I was in Carlyle's shoes. To react with, rather than panic, the cold disdain merited by a creature so broken it is wrong about the ways in which it is broken. To spit on them and denigrate their feelings of uniqueness and specialness, arising both from the murders and from their oh so pitiable martyrdom and servitude now. "If only we could mercifully lobotomize away your personality and still use the savanthood modules so unfortunately stapled to them."

Mycroft: "Everybody seems to have one murder they thought was the worst. I thought yours would be []" Me instead of Carlyle, snidely: "Is that a fun game for you, that speculation?"

(In another scene, the Major's sympathy to Mycroft and Saladin as "fellow killers" somewhat raised my hackles; my experience is military people expressing exaggerated disgust for "civilian" killers, perhaps as a way of mental separation between their acts. Though the revelation that the Major is Achilles, with an ancient's attitudes, perhaps ameliorates this.)

As for OS... if you've invented prophecy, there will be heaps upon myriads upon multitudes of miraculous ways to reshape the world before you reach a best value intervention of cold-blooded murder. I was, at least, amused by considering the linear combination of this limitation between the author and the characters. Palmer was quite clever in making sure that the mystical demographic math must be facilitated by humans (and the very odd set-set humans at that).

I admit I hold this philosophy a bit more strongly than my time investment in the fields merit, but I see it this way:

In physics, infinite, friction-less planes in perfect vacuums occupied by inelastic, spherical cows are a useful tool. They approximate things that are theoretically possible, absent the various extra forces.

In ethics, and in any system that is so truly complex, everything you remove makes for a completely different system. None of the elements are basically orthogonal to the circumstances the way air resistance is to a bullet.

These philosophical sorts of thought experiments are, at best, emotional exercises. They are not simplified tools to build a foundation for more complex issues, they're figments born of the phantasmal conditions possible only in the interior of the brain, and too much work with them will only foul both logic and intuition with garbage data.

As for what merely fell flat:

While I deeply enjoyed so much of the speculation about cultural changes brought about by technology, and travel technology specifically, the "no proselytizing" law felt quite forced. I can definitely believe such a law would be passed after the Church Wars described, but holding so strong for centuries?

There are all kinds of supernatural thoughts and beliefs people accept, and there simply isn't a neat threshold between those and religion. Even in the counterfactual world where there was one, it would be quite concealed by the sophistry that's metastasized through the entire discussion space around it.

I can think of a dozen questions off the top of my head that they'd have to decide. And while flipping a coin or an attempt at a definitional framework could answer them, it couldn't do it in a way that's strong enough to stand the test of time. Imagine Laurel/Yanny, the Dress, or if a hot dog is a sandwich, but with material-security level of investment in them!

I'm areligious (to put it... mildly) but for personal, psychosocial reasons, when I sit down to eat I spend a moment in mindful gratitude towards the plants and animals that gave their life for mine. Is that religious? Are ghost hunter shows illegal because they're proselytory for any animistic religion? Would acupuncturists be able to work, or is that a daoist superstition? Could my neighbor's still paint the ceiling of their porch haint blue? Are scientists allowed to register trials for psychic powers? Can schools teach the arguments for dualism?

That doesn't even get into the subjects that, in real life, yank out all the stops on linguistic-conceptual inventiveness! Europe has had a pestilential outbreak of sophistry around head scarves! Would the Alliance ban them for being religious garb? If so, would they ban clothing that covers the ankles as Calvinist religious garb? Or that covers the nipples? (Oh wait, showing the nipples is of significance in some religions! can't allow that!) Should they ban clothing that contains unmixed fibers for being a religious display!? They don't seem to do any of these things, but that's just as much a choice about the First Law as doing so.

Someone proposes personhood begins at conception; I claim that this is fundamentally a supernaturalist belief. Is one of us in violation of the first law? If a hive outlaws birth control, how are they investigated for whether this is a cultural or religious condition? What happens when, I dunno, a Cousin run campus has somebody that wants to put Intelligent Design in the biology textbooks? Most people (well including the people pushing it) know that it's religion wrapped in plausibly deniable words. So is that proselytizing, or is someone pointing it out proselytizing atheism?

Speaking of, there's a pretty good correlation of peace and prosperity with movement to non-religioun. It honestly doesn't seem like sensayers should have much work.

But we meet Bridger and his miracles right at the beginning of the book, before we know a thing about the Church Wars etc. And it's obviously a central tension of the story, intended to be coequal with the brewing war, and yet it quite failed to rouse my interest. The book would've been stronger without it.

Perhaps this *is* just a me thing, since my mind has held miraculous intervention as a solved problem for most of my life. If I were convinced of an event's miraculous character, the most parsimonious explanation is in the vein of, "We're in a simulation that's only been running for a week or so, either as a game or as an experiment, and now we're running under different rules than the ones our (artificial) memories imply." The probability of that happening is too low to waste time processing any other ramifications or possibilities ahead of time.

There is another, related layer of enjoyable consideration, which is of course the reliability of the narrator and his evidence. In Will to Battle, our author is revealed as explicitly delusional, suffering regular, presumably PTSD (and/or anti-sleep drug) related hallucinations. I wish I'd had the patience to do a very close read, or to do a second read—especially given the revelation that 9A edited some of the delusions out of the first two books. Diegetic skepticism is a regular part of the narrative. And there are lots of "rhymes" in the text to mundane circumstances. We're told Bridger looks like Apollo and Seine, and shown the artificial, parentless children, Ganymede and Danaë (crafted to be such a degree of hyperstimulus that among other things, Ganymede has an entire school of art dedicated to him). We're shown that perceptions are malleable, with Thisbe's "witchcraft" and Cato's magician like showmanship. We're constantly exposed to griffincloth and know that just its presence at JEDD's assassination spread skepticism. We're told that scientists proclaim Achilles to have Ancient Greek DNA and an adult's bone structure, but we're also constantly shown an incredible variety of artificial animals and related wonders, and told Apollo was a great scientist.

And yet, over and over the narrative rebukes skepticism. 9A endorses most of what Mycroft has written, and if we go so far as considering them (along with, eg, the officialese headings and warnings) as Mycroft's delusions too, we're at the point where we have to step back so far that the unreliable narrator is actually this "Ada Palmer" character, who is writing about things that don't exist in a year we haven't reached yet!

I was bothered that nobody who learned about it seemed ready to express the proper amount of disgust at the extra-incestuous politics of the world leaders, and honestly find it simply hard to accept that their consortium worked so altruistically.

Finally, ultimately, the central themes of the novel, about peace and war and complacency seem awfully poorly considered for the current era, where voting age children have never known a world without an official war, and the just grown generation is the first since the industrial revolution to be poorer and less healthy and more stressed than their parents. Not just this novel, but the world in general seems to be sorely missing the concept of the important qualitative differences between distress and eustress.

#terra ignota #pls share your thoughts if you disagree I'm bored

4 notes · View notes

wanderingspacedragon · 6 years

Text

Rey’s Shadow

Let’s roll out the ol’ crystal ball and see if we can unfog the future for Episode IX.

This time let’s look at what we may expect for Rey and where her arc may go.

Remember this is all speculation and just for fun. If you like speculating and predicting on next Star Wars film, more is below the cut.

Rey has been a bit harder for me to nail down on what might happen for her in the next film, but after some digging and re-reading of some storytelling motifs I think I’ve got a clue on what to expect next.

So a storytelling trope that is very important in Star Wars is Facing and Integrating The Shadow or just the Shadow Archetype. It's the part of the personality that embodies everything a character doesn't like about themselves/fears about themselves. It is the things they, often subconsciously, deny about themselves and project onto others. The more the Shadow has been repressed, the more powerful it becomes. This comes from Carl Jung and his psychological theory, but we are going to use it for its story writing means. Guess who also used these theories? Joseph Campbell.

And George Lucas was heavily inspired by Joseph Campbell’s The Hero Journey. By looking into these we can see the framework of the Star Wars Saga.

Let’s take a look at past Shadow Archetypes in Star Wars. We’ll start with the OT. In this the Shadow has a personification in the form of Darth Vader. He is a powerful force user that, opposite of Luke, is angry, cold, and full of hatred. These are emotions and things that Luke tries to repress in himself because he fears them and can’t accept they are part of himself. In Empire Strikes Back, Luke has a vision in the Dark Side cave on Dagobah that spells this out and also is a bit of warning if he follows through in repressing/killing the Shadow.

The Vision has Luke facing off with Darth Vader and striking him down, only to reveal that under the mask is his own face. In Return of The Jedi, Luke is brought before the Emperor who tries to get Luke to give into his Shadow Self and act out on those feelings, knowing that if he does kill his own father that he would fall to the Dark Side. It symbolizes that trying to kill your dark side will only make it grow larger and eventually eat you whole.

That is what happened to Anakin. In the PT era Anakin’s Shadow took in form of Darth Maul (Rage, Vengeance, and Wrath), Count Dooku (Arrogance and Self-Superiority), and General Grievous (Power-hungry and willingness to sacrifice one's own ‘humanity’ to gain power). They represented all the parts that Anakin tried to repress in himself. It's what the Jedi Order taught him to do and since these shadows were killed off instead of integrated, a larger Shadow emerged in the form of Darth Vader. What is interesting about the Prequels is the Shadow isn’t just Anakin’s, but the Jedi as a whole. This is the imbalance in the Force. The Jedi’s solution to the Sith and the Dark Side was to destroy it, not realizing that by trying to repress and erase they were just making it stronger. It is by Revenge of The Sith that all of these Shadows have been killed that the new one forms in Anakin as he is pushed to extreme decisions all cause no one wants to address the issues of detachment, obsessive love, anger, arrogance, fear, and the hunger for power. Thus a new monster is born. The Shadow will eat you if you do not accept it and properly manage it.

Now I’m going to spoil a movie here, so fair warning I’m going to talk about the movie The Babadook, a horror movie about a single mother and her child with behavioral issues. It’s more than that, but if you don’t want to be spoiled here’s your chance to skip over this part. I’m going to go over the story and how it all relates to dealing with the Shadow Self.

* * * * *

“There’s just NO WAY your OFF the HOOK

If you’re ALL GROWN UP

When you read this book.

And you snub your nose

With a civilized look…

You’ll appeal EVEN MORE

to the BIG BABADOOK.

And this is what he’ll say…

‘I’ll WAGER with YOU

I’LL MAKE you a BET

ThE MORE you DENY me

The STRONGER I GET.

You’ll then be my PUPPET, my plaything, my PET

I’ll MAKE you DO THINGS

You’ll be SURE to REGRET,”

-Limited Edition Mister Babadook pop-up book

Okay so in the Babadook the whole movie is about how this woman is not dealing with her Shadow Self and how it becomes almost a physical monster that terrorizes her and her son. Her husband was tragically killed in a car accident while driving her to the hospital while she was in labor. She does not celebrate her son’s birthday because it reminds her of her husband’s passing. She’s stuck in a job that she doesn’t want to do (she really wants to be a children’s book writer) and she has not be able to move on relationship wise. Her son and everything in her life has trapped her in this loop of the past in a way. When she reads a book called Mister Babadook, to her son before bed, everything in her life becomes worse and a monster seems to be stalking them. The book is scary and as it says in the book, “If it’s in a word, or it’s in a look. You can’t get rid of the Babadook.”

This book is an invitation and brings in the Babadook first by the paranoia of her son and then the mother starts seeing the Babadook. She keeps trying to repress her Shadow Self, which is the grief of losing her husband, the resentment she feels toward her own child, feeling trapped and angry over how her life is going. She keeps trying to deny and repress these feelings and thus trying to hid and get rid the Babadook. It gets so bad that the Babadook actually possesses her and she almost acts out the scenes in the book and nearly kills her own son. But his love for her is what finally snaps her out of it and she is able to control the Babadook. It’s never gone as the end of the movie shows. It now lives in their basement, but she addresses it and feeds it. And thus she can finally live a bit more peaceful and happier life.

“Whether adult or child, best give me a HOME.

Put the welcome mat out, with a room of my OWN.

And accept that I’m here and from YOU

I have grown

Keep me smaller in size,

I might leave you alone.”

-Limited Edition Mister Babadook pop-up book

youtube

* * * * *

You can’t kill the Shadow, but you can control and manage it. That is what integrating the Shadow means. It doesn’t mean giving into your impulses and bad feelings, but acknowledging them so you can control them. The Babadook is seriously a good movie, but it is terrifying. Psychological horror heavily relies on the darkness that resides in ourselves and what we try to deny feeling. These are some of my favorite kind of horror movies because they are the ones that last by lurking in your own psyche. Tragedies and Horror usually has the failing of integrating the Shadow thus the sad/terrifying conclusion. It’s scary even if the monster is defeated because we know that it could come back at any time.

Now to the ST era and what to expect of Rey and dealing with her Shadow. Well what is her shadow? Personified it’s obviously Kylo Ren. Kylo Ren is rage, the feeling of abandonment, self loathing, and feeling like you are the Monster.

These are things Rey fears about herself and has denied herself feeling so far. She was abandoned by her parents, but she lives in denial, hoping they will return for her one day. It’s why she keeps the hairstyle she’s had since she was little, in hopes they would recognize her. Why in The Force Awakens she keeps wanting to go back to Jakku and wait for them. If she was to move on then that would mean she would have to finally accept the truth. That she was sold off and left in indentured servitude to Unkar Plutt.

Now we have seen hints of Rage and maybe even the scary thought of a Monster in her. In The Force Awakens we see this darker side as she fought with Kylo Ren in the snow forest. She got the upper hand and had even knocked him to the ground. While on the ground she approached and seemed ready to strike at him after she already disarmed him, but the earth opened up separating them by a rift.

Wait a minute...this gif is right before the ground breaks apart preventing her from completing that swing.

ooooooohhhhh... *wink wink* Rey’s dark side showing just like Luke’s was.

In The Last Jedi, Rey seeks training from Luke. As she says “Something inside me has always been there...but now it's awake, and I'm afraid. I don't know what it is, or what to do with it, but I need help.” She’s afraid of this power. Why? She also seems to be drawn to the dark side and even spooks Luke because of her power and her willingness to explore the dark side sea cave.

This makes me speculate there is more to Rey’s past and we are going to find it out in Ep IX. And I don’t mean that her parents were anyone we actually know. I think a lot of audience aren’t getting that point. The point is they weren’t special people and they were in fact awful. Sold her off for drinking money and then left...But apparently they are dead in the Jakku desert... Which is strange cause that contradicts the vision Rey had in TFA where we see her as a child screaming “Come Back!” to a ship that is taking off. How can both be true? Well I don’t think Kylo Ren is lying. The thing about the Shadow is that it tells the protagonist what they deny and don’t WANT to be true, but is the truth nonetheless. Remember Vader telling Luke he was his father. There were several audience members after ESB that thought Vader had to be lying because that seemed too awful for Luke. Same for Rey. It’s the Truth she has to hear but does not want to accept.

But the vision? How can both be true? Well I think we’ll find out that Rey as a child may have accidentally killed her own parents. As she said she’s had this inside her that’s always been there but only recently is now awake. What if it woke up before during a time of duress and in an attempt to bring her parents back, accidentally blowing up their ship as it was leaving.

That would both explain the Vision and what Kylo told her. It would explain why she’s afraid of this power she has and why she’s drawn to the Dark Side. The final truth she has to accept about herself and what she will have to face in the next film. This might be what brings her to that Dark Side’s edge and she’ll have to decide if she gives into it or learns to integrate with with Shadow. And remember the lesson in Star Wars, killing the Shadow only means that it will come back in either yourself or someone in your group. So if Rey actually kills Kylo Ren in Episode 9 then she may fall to the Dark side or cause a greater Shadow to emerge.

But I am 99.9% sure they are not going to have a tragedy or a horror movie for the ending of the freakin’ Skywalker Saga. Heck the fact that Vader dies in ROTJ could be the reason another Shadow emerges for the Sequel Trilogy and the purpose of this trilogy is to finally have a true integration of the the Shadow. There has to be a proper integration that gets expanded for the whole story’s universe. Balancing the Force.

So yeah I could go further into other Archetypes and who they are in the ST which would be fascinating, but this is already very long so with that it will have to be another time.

And remember…

“If it’s in a word, or it’s in a look. You can’t get rid of the Babadook.”

#star wars #reylo #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #shadow self #dark side #shadow archetype #ep ix #ep ix speculations #ep ix prediction #spoilers #babadook spoilers #babadook #horror movies #sorry for all the spooky stuff but I love horror movies #meta

135 notes · View notes

facelessxchurch · 6 years

Text

Church of the Faceless (Canon Info)

Here is all information I could find only skipping through the books, so I’ve probably missed something. If you notice something missing feel free to DM me and I’ll gladly add it!

Under the cut you’ll find all info I could find, plus quotes to proof my statements. Disappointingly enough I couldn’t find much information that wasn’t already widely known.

>>Click here for my headcanons on the Church of the Faceless<<

They believe the Faceless Ones will cleanse the world and their followers will be spared and live as their servants in this new world.

“Like his master before him, he believes some of our darker myths, our more disturbing legends. He believes the world was a better place when the Faceless Ones were in charge. They didn’t exactly approve of humanity, you see, and they demand worship.”

-Skulduggery about Serpine and the Facless Ones, “SP: The Sceptre of Ancients”, p.82ff

“How my lords and masters will reward me for my servitude is up to them. I would never presume to guess.“

“I get to be by their side when they raze this world, when they expunge the stain of humanity. And when it’s over, I get to bask in their terrible glory.“

-Serpine about the Faceless Ones, “SP: The Sceptre of Ancients”, p.218ff

“The creature on this table will open the gateway for its brethren and this world will be cleansed. The unworthy will be decimated and we will usher in a new paradise [..]“

-Vengeous to Valkyrie, “SP: Playing with Fire”, p.193

“When the Faceless Ones return I will rule by their side.“

-Vengeous, “SP: Playing with Fire”, p.324

“Maybe they will rule, maybe they will scorch, maybe they will obliterate, or maybe they will just simply be. It is not our place to question them. A long time ago you told me that. You told me this world belongs to them. We’ve overseen it for millennia and now it’s time to give it back.”

-Gallow to China, ”SP: The Faceless Ones”, p.297

“Our Gods will reward our faith when they return and whipe the heretics from the face of the world”

-Prave about the Faceless Ones, ”SP: Dark Days”, p.299

“If the Faceless Ones deemed those disciples unworthy, so be it. We’ll just have to make sure that the rest of us are worthy of their love the next time they return“

-Eliza about Krav and Rose’s death,”SP: Death Bringer” p.71

“I’m pretty sure Eliza views herself as some kind of pope figure, things she can lead the faithful into a world where the strong are rewarded and the weak are discarded.”

-Gallow about Eliza,”SP: Death Bringer” p.206

They are searching for a ritual to allow the Facless Ones to return to the main Dimension (the Darklands).

“He has committed untold atrocities in order to uncover obscure rituals, searching for the one ritual that he, and religious fanatics like him, have been seeking for generations.”

-Skulduggery about Serpine, “SP: The Sceptre of Ancients”, p.79

They have to vow their servidude to the Faceless Ones. Most likely during some sort of baptism.

“You have sworn your allegiance to the dark gods. You cannot simply change your mind.”

-Baron Vengeous to China, “SP: Playing with Fire” p.74

“You are their servant, [...] If you will not uphold the vow you made on your own then I will do it for you. You will be there when the Faceless Ones return, even if it is just so you can be the first traitor they kill.”

-Vengeous talking to China, “SP: Playing with Fire” ,p.74

The Diablerie were a group of zealots, founded and led by China Sorrows that only stood below Mevolent. Though, it appears it was possible for the generals to request help from that group.

“The Diablerie was a group of the sickest fanatics Mevolent had at his disposal. A group that China founded and led. [...] When China left and became, to use her own word, neutral, Baron Vengeous took over, but it’s been 120 years since they’ve been considered a real threat. It’s been over 80 years since they were actually heard of.“

-Skulduggery about the Diablerie, ”SP: The Faceless Ones”, p.114ff

The Faceless symbol is a small circle 'barely intersecting' with a much larger circle. representing how the Faceless ones are essentially everything and we, humans are dirt and are not worthy of our gods.

“The big one represents the Faceless Ones. All- encompassing, all-knowing. The little one is us. floating around the edge, barely intersecting. It means we’re little more than fleas, unable to even comprehend the full majesty of existance. It’s very patronising, as far as religious symbols go, and somewhat self-pitying“

-Other Dimension, Skulduggery about the Faceless symbol, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.441

“Like the others, her family crest had been carved into the lid a scorpion atop three circles. The circles were said to represent the blank features of the Faceless Ones, while the scorpions stood for the indomitable will and immutable nature of China’s bloodline.”

-about China’s family crest, “SP: Last Stand of Dead Men”, p.203

The sacred text of the church is the Gospel of the Faceless.

“China asked, flicking through the book on the altar. It was a particulary battered edition of the Gospel of the Faceless, a moronic book written by a moron in an attempt to rationalise the behavior of his ilk.”

-how China view on the sacred text, ”SP: Dark Days”, p.297

The Faceless Church does not have religious holidays. (Tho this information may be outdated by now also Landy doesn’t know how religions/culture work apparently) [Source]

Batu/Paddy believed allowing a Faceless One to posses him would grant him magical powers, while China’s family believed they could control a Faceless One and harness its power should one posses them. It is possible that other disciples/families have similiar believes they kept secret from the other followers.

““You’re going to let a Faceceless One take you over.” “And then I’ll be brimming with magic that ordinary sorcers would never even dream about. They’re not gods, Valkyrie. They are as pathetic as the people you left behind in your old life. But me? I’ll be a true god.” “But it won’t be you. Your personality will be wiped clean. Even your body will be changed. You’re not ever going to know what’s it like to use magic.” “I’ll know,” said Bato softly. “There will be some part of me that stays, some part of me that joins with the Faceless One. I know it. I’m strong, you see? I was born without magic. I’ve had to be strong. My will is iron. I’m not going to be simply erased - not like the others.”“

-Batu talking with Valkyrie, ”SP: The Faceless Ones”, p.359

“The arrogance of it all. China’s grandmother, a mere thirty years older than China’s mother, but two hundred years older than China, had taken it upon herself to school the children of the family in the ways of worship. The majority of those teachings were nothing if not standart - the Faceless Ones are the true rulers of the world, the mortals must be extingguished, sorcerers only exist to serve these wonderfully insane gods - the same rhetoric instilled in the minds of all disciples’ children. But China’s grandmother, who had in turn been taught by her grandmother, also passed down a particular addendum that was never spoken of to outsiders. The evenings China had spend with her brother Bliss, sitting by the fire while their grandmother explained the true realities of the Faceless Ones, that they were insane and that they were unpredictable, and according to legend they could take over a sorcerer’s body to use as they saw fit. Other sorcerers, China and her brother were told, were mere fodder for their gods - vessels waiting to be steered. But China’s family believed to be special. They believed the were different. They believed they were so strong and so clever that when the Faceless Ones took them over, they would retain control.”

- “SP: Last Stand of Dead Men”, p.203ff

The disciples seem to have at least some awareness of the true nature of their gods, since they know they require vessels as well as merely looking at them will drive you mad.

“Vakyrie frowned. “You’re offering up the rest of the Diablerie as vessels too.” “I didn’t want the Dark Gods wasting their time by seeking out suitable candidates. I just decided to make it easy for them.”“

-Batu talking with Valkyrie, ”SP: The Faceless Ones”, p.359

““I looked into the face of a god,” she whispered, her eyes following Skulduggery. “And we all know what that does to you,” said Serpine.”

-”SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.484

Description of the Irish Chapel

“The walls were decorated with the paintings and iconography of the Dark Gods, and the main room contained an altar and a well worn carpet, where a handful of desperate disciples had kneeled and worshipped and prayed for the end of humanity.”

-description of the Faceless Church owned by Jajo Prave, ”SP: Dark Days”, p.297

Eliza as an example for a Faceless martyr/saint

“Vengeous’ wife wore a grey shapeless dress made of sackcloth and her bare feet were chained were chained at the ankles, forcing her to take small, quick steps. There was a small piece of wood hanging from a cord around her neck, into which were carved the two circles. With her hair shaved off and not a trace of make-up on her pale, drawn face, it took Valkyrie a moment to regonize her as Eliza Scorn.”“

-Other Dimension, Eliza’s attire, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.363

“My wife wears thos chains in penance for us all, to show the Faceless Ones that we are ready to be punished for what was done to them. She is a true believer. Her soul is righteous and pure, unlike yours.”

-Other Dimension, Baron about Eliza’s attire, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.365

“They used to do that in our dimension as well. There’d always be one fervent believer who took it upon themselves to suffer for our sins. It was meant to be altrustic and selfless, but I generally found those people to be nothing more than attention-seeking martyrs.”

-Other Dimension, Skulduggery about faceless martyrs, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.441

It seems that only heathens aren’t allowed to look at high ranking spiritual members of the faceless church, or even talk to them, unless spoken to.

““You are not to look the master in the eye,” he said. “Mevolent is the voice of the Faceless Ones on this earth and as such you have neither the right nor the honour to look upon his face. Any attempt to meet his gaze will be met with punishment. Do you understand?”“

-Other Dimension, Baron about Mevolent, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.370ff

““Stop the filthy creature from speaking to me!” “Oh, for God’s sake...” Scorn pushed her away. “God? God? You know not what a true god looks like! You are a blasphemer! You may not gaze upon me!” [...] She frowned over at Serpine. “And how come she’ll let you gaze upon her but not me?” “Because I’m not a blasphemer,” Serpine replied, as Scorn rose to her knees and clapsed her hands in a muttered prayer.”

-Other Dimension, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.485

They believe the Faceless Ones will judge them in Death.

“Life was nothing and nothing meant anything and everything was meaningless and she should just lie down and die. Just die, for God’s sake, and let the Faceless Ones judge her in death. Just lie down here and stop fighting and accept the end. But she didn’t worship the Faceless Ones. She didn’t believe they straddled life and death. She didn’t believe they would judge her. These weren’t her beliefs. These were the beliefs of the Sense-Wardens, the men and women surrounding her and forcing these rthoughts into her head.”

-Other Dimension, the Sense-Wardens attacking Darquesse, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.567

The Church is split into different sub-groups. The American branches’ puritan faction, Mevolent’s faction that hates mortals yet still wants to use them as servants, Creed’s side that wants to kill off all mortals and another one that tolerates mortals since apparently there is no mention in the Gospel of the Faceless that mortals should not be allowed to worship the Dark Gods as well. There appears to be another sub-fraction that worships the Half-Breeds, like the Unnamed, though this group may have been killed off entirely by Mevolent when he murdered the Unnamed and his family.

“Granted, Nocturnal’s people were a notoriously conservative bunch of prim and proper puritans who sought to drain the fun out of living, but their hearts were in the right place, all things considered.“

-Eliza’s thought about the American bracnch, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.148ff

The Faceless Church advocates human sacrifices. In this case the sacrifices were meant to serve as vessels for the Faceless Ones once they return.

-Temper talking to Creed, “SP: Midnight” p.251

Quote on some of the churches clothing. (Clergy & Cathedral Guards)

Other quotes I thought were relevant

“If my enemy is weakened then my enemy will be destroyed. Such is the way of the dark gods.“

-Vengeous, “SP: Playing with Fire” ,p.324

“What’s wrong is that you are barely dressed. True believers pride modesty and humility above all other attributes save obedience. We do not try to overshadow or outshine our lords and masters by wearing tight or revealing clothing.”

-Nocturnal about Tanith’s outfit, “SP: Kingdom of the Wicked” p.170

“[...] It was the Faceless Ones who mined the crystal in the first place, this is true, but the Ancients made themselves invisible to its senses and thus immune to its power.“

-Echo Gordon about the Faceless Ones and the black crystals, ”SP: The Faceless Ones”, p.205

#skulduggery pleasant #faceless church #meta #ref #long post

31 notes · View notes

sabrinalikestoread · 6 years

Text

Movie edition: I am not an easy man

On a quiet Sunday evening I settled down in my slightly uncomfortable couch to watch a French movie (available on Netflix) called “I am not an easy man”. The plot is extremely simple: a chauvinist man wakes up from a head-on collision with a pole into a matriarchal world, where the red-mouthed assistant he tried to seduce in the “real” world becomes Alexandra Lamour, his leering boss, a world in which women gawk at men, harass men, dominate men, abandon men, use men. A sex-swap “Freaky Friday” if you may.

Upon watching the first half-hour of the movie, it feels obvious that the premise of the show is to grossly exaggerate the characteristics that supposedly differentiate men and women; the caricatural sex drive of women, to mimic the fabled uncontrollable lust of men in the real world, the relentless spew of questions from the protagonist’s father beseeching his son about the importance of getting married and having children before it’s too late, the mother and daughter slouching on the couch with their legs spread out, yelling and thrusting their arms at a rugby match on the telly while the father sheepishly peels vegetables on the kitchen counter and his sons struts away to his ballet class…

As an audience, we laugh when the men on-screen are reduced to positions of servitude because it seems so absurd. It seems absurd that the men are “complimented” by random women on the street, that the protagonist is forced to shave his chest hair after being chastised by a one-night stand, that the husband of a prominent woman is presented a such, as her husband solely with no name or not other denominator. It seems absurd (I must admit, I took a savage pleasure in seeing those men subdued and dominated and hovered over by the jeering women, precisely because it was absurd…)

Yet, when the movie ends, the leering woman boss, Alexandra Lamour, is knocked into a patriarchal world, our world, and, stumbles across a women’s march, to the beat of chants and slogans calling for equality, calling for an end to patriarchy and systemic violence against women. Our world. Our suspension of disbelief is brought to a brutal stop with this reality check. As I straightened my slouched back off the slightly uncomfortable couch, all I could think was: Fuck. This is real. This is not a movie. This is my life.

I sincerely did not need a movie to remind me of how much it sucks to be a woman, even in a western, occidental, liberal society. Inequality and feminism are high up my agenda of things I worry about and read about and talk about on a daily basis. But the mirror effect between the patriarchal, matriarchal and back to our patriarchal society was scorching. It left me longing for a place where those marches would be unnecessary, and where I could sit on a bench in park and munch on a sandwich without being catcalled or bothered by wandering men. The funny thing is that the glimpse I had into the virtual matriarchal world was far from appealing to me; if anything, it made me detest and resent our sadly real and embedded patriarchal one even more.

#netflix #i am not an easy man #feminism #movies #movie review #freaky friday #to watch

33 notes · View notes

ericfruits · 4 years

Text

Segregation still blights the lives of African-Americans

Jul 9th 2020

WASHINGTON, DC

“IF SOMETHING isn’t done, and done in a hurry, to bring the coloured peoples of the world out of their long years of poverty, their long years of hurt and neglect, the whole world is doomed,” Martin Luther King Jr told striking workers the day before he was shot dead in Memphis, Tennessee. In 1968 black Americans had only just realised formal legal equality after two centuries of slavery and one of Jim Crow, indentured servitude, lynchings and enforced residential segregation. They had been deliberately excluded from economic supports such as Social Security, mortgage guarantees and subsidised college for veterans. As a result, black American households earned around 60% of what white households did, and the typical black family had less than 10% of the assets of a typical white family.

The past half century has seen visible progress. The ceiling white society once imposed on black opportunity and ambition has started to lift. Barack Obama became president. Yet systemic prejudice persists. Unarmed citizens killed by American police forces are disproportionately black. That most brutal of injustices explains much of the power, the extent and the focus of the protests spurred by the killing of George Floyd, protests that have drawn a level of attention to race relations unseen since the 1970s.

The criminal-justice system is a baleful presence in black lives. The incarceration rate for black men and women more than tripled from 1960 to 2010. One in three African-American men born in 2001 can expect to be imprisoned at some point in his life, compared with one in 17 white boys. The sons of black families in the top 1% of America’s income distribution are as likely to go to prison as white sons from the bottom third. If today’s protests achieve real reform in the criminal-justice system, it will be welcome.

But those are not the only reforms needed to put right the hurt and neglect Dr King spoke of. The economic disadvantage that black America labours under is, in many ways, as stark now as it was 50 years ago. The household income gap is the same as it was in 1968. So is the wealth gap (see chart 1). Crime and the criminal justice system are part of that story of stagnation, as is persistent, if lessened, racism. Changes in individual behaviour and in the economy at large have also played a role. The most important factor is the degree to which the concentrated poverty in largely segregated black communities shuts their members off from opportunity.

“We got rid of ‘whites only’ signs and legal segregation is no longer possible. But why are we at this moment? There’s a lot of things that didn’t change and probably won’t change with only focus on police brutality and reforming the police,” says Clayborne Carson, a historian at Stanford who edited Dr King’s letters and papers. “Yes, that should be done. But don’t expect that to have any impact on the race problem. It’s the tip of the iceberg. You can have polite police—that would be wonderful. You can have social workers. But unless people have the ability to basically change the opportunity structure, the changes are not going to be apparent.”

Children who grow up poor—as 32% of African-American children do, a rate nearly three times that of white children—all tend to do badly by various measures. But children who do so in communities where over 20% of the population is poor do very badly indeed. Whatever their race, such children face increased risks of dropping out of school, getting pregnant while still teenagers, being incarcerated, experiencing poverty in adulthood and dying early.

And for black children in America, as for Native American children, concentrated poverty has been the norm. Only 6% of white children born between 1985 and 2000 spent part of their childhood in neighbourhoods with at least a 20% poverty rate. For black children the figure was 66%, according to Patrick Sharkey, a sociologist at Princeton; experience of such neighbourhoods was normal for middle-class black families. Today’s generation is in a similar position. 26% of black children currently live in neighbourhoods where the poverty rate is higher than 30%. Only 4% of white children do.

Jammed in

Poor neighbourhoods impose environmental costs, as well as social ones. Black families are 70% likelier than the rest of the population to live in substandard housing, and black children are nearly three times as likely to have high levels of lead in their blood, which stunts intelligence and leads to greater violence in adulthood. Compared with white children they are almost one and a half times as likely to have asthma—and five times likelier to die from it. Greater exposure to fine particulate matter—the sort of pollution which most damages lungs—and delays in treatment brought on by a lack of good health insurance may explain why covid-19 now seems to be killing African-Americans at twice the rate of it does white Americans.

This concentrated poverty is the legacy of enforced segregation. When, in the Great Migration of the early and mid 20th century, millions of African-Americans moved to the cities of the north, a mixture of law and prejudice required that they live in neighbourhoods that became almost exclusively black. In 1970 American cities were almost completely segregated, in that 93% of black residents would have needed to move to ensure complete integration. At the time of the most recent census, in 2010, this number was 70%, an improvement that is hardly worth cheering (see chart 2 ).

Zoning rules which keep the cost of housing high by restricting supply make it very hard for poor black families to move to better neighbourhoods. As income inequality has risen, well-to-do families have bid up the price of homes near good schools, further concentrating poverty. Public-housing programmes, which could break up these patterns, do little. Continuing discrimination makes matters worse. A recent investigation into rentals in Boston showed that in situations where a white applicant secured a viewing 80% of the time a black applicant with identical financial credentials would get a viewing just 48% of the time.

In the absence of integrated neighbourhoods, it might be possible at least to try to integrate education—a cornerstone of the civil-rights movement since racial segregation in schools was deemed unconstitutional in 1954. Attempts to reduce school segregation by busing black students into white neighbourhoods began in the 1960s and were extended in the early 1970s. By the mid-1970s, though, such efforts had fizzled in the face of massive resistance from white parents. School segregation has not changed since the 1980s.

Rucker Johnson, an economist at the University of California, Berkeley, studied the outcomes of black children who attended integrated schools during the peak of efforts to end educational segregation. He found they had enormous effects on adult life. Integrated schooling increased wages by 30% and reduced the chance of incarceration by 22 percentage points. Other studies estimate a 68% increase in the chance of attending a four-year college. “There’s nothing magic about sitting next to white children,” says Francis Pearman, a professor of education at Stanford. “But one thing that’s consistent in the history of American schooling is that resources follow white children.”

The racial achievement gap on test scores between black and white students has narrowed in the past four decades, but remains at roughly two to four years of learning. Mr Pearman’s research has documented that poor neighbourhoods adversely affect students’ maths scores even if their schools are good. Black students who get to college are less likely than others to complete their courses; black men have an especially poor chance of making it to graduation. In 2016 only 29% of black adults above the age of 25 had an associate degree or higher, compared with 44% of white adults. At a time when the premium that a degree adds to lifetime earnings has increased a lot, this disparity is a big economic disadvantage.

There are aspects of black American private life that exacerbate these gaps. Well-intentioned, left-leaning commentators in America shy away from discussing the role that the increasingly unstable families play in passing black disadvantage down the generations. Seven in 10 African-American babies are born out of wedlock; their parents are overwhelmingly likely to have broken up five years after birth. Those rates are significantly higher than for other ethnic groups, even after controlling for education and income.

Spreading out

The rate of joblessness and the number of out-of-wedlock births in black communities both increased after the 1960s, notes William Julius Wilson, a sociologist at Harvard. The ravages urban deindustrialisation and mass incarceration inflicted on black men permanently reduced the pool of eligible partners for black women, he argues. Kathryn Edin, of Princeton, and Maria Kefalas, of St Joseph’s University in Philadelphia, two sociologists, note the sense of self-worth poor women with little social capital get from early child-rearing, whether in the presence of a father or not

Behaviour, policy, present-day discrimination and the unfair initial conditions seeded by centuries of historical discrimination are tied together in a complicated knot of pathology. Some of the tangled factors—persistent racism, or family breakdown—make it easy to develop a narrative which apportions blame. Looking at it in the whole, though, the threads which will yield the most if tugged at are fairly obvious. The priorities are segregation, education and childhood poverty.

Addressing segregation is paramount. Most of the other problems—exposure to violence, a paucity of public services, segregated schooling and the persistence of stereotyping—can be traced back to it. The most obvious starting-point is stripping away the zoning rules that ban apartments in high-cost cities. They deny opportunity to poor families of all colours even as they drag down economic productivity.

Rental assistance from the federal government could help more than it does. Currently it is, quite literally, a lottery. Winners get most of their housing costs paid for; losers whose claim may be equally sound—and who outnumber the winners three to one—get nothing at all. And most of the poor households lucky enough to receive subsidised housing still live in places of concentrated poverty; the typical recipient lives in an area with a poverty rate of 26.3%.

A promising randomised experiment in Seattle recently showed how this might be changed, at least in some cases. A modest amount of help in terms of finding properties and dealing with prospective landlords increased the share of families with rental vouchers living in high-opportunity areas (those with a history of greater upwards mobility for children born into poverty) from 15% to 53%.

Obviously not everyone can move to the most promising places. But the Seattle experiment strongly suggests that today’s government spending could get better results, thus strengthening the case for more tomorrow. Abolishing the mortgage-interest tax deduction, which subsidises the home-buying of the already wealthy and well-capitalised, would allow the federal government to double the size of its housing-assistance programmes for the poor.

Increasing integration of neighbourhoods will in time produce more integrated schools. Until that happens, however, there are more immediate solutions to present-day educational disparities. Higher spending helps performance. An influential study by Kirabo Jackson, Rucker Johnson and Claudia Persico, three economists, found that boosting schools’ spending per pupil by 10% reduced poor children’s chances of poverty in adulthood by 6.8 percentage points.

Schools in poor neighbourhoods need particularly good teachers. But the schools that require the greatest talent often receive the most inexperienced instructors, in part because there is little financial encouragement for the best to work in them. Care in recruitment and the pairing of new instructors with experienced ones goes some way to explaining why charter schools often deliver enormous educational returns for poor black and brown children stuck in otherwise-failing urban schools. For all that teachers’ unions and many on the left dislike them, charter schools that prove to be engines of opportunity should be expanded. Those that do not should have their charters revoked.

Keeping students in college is also an area where a little money can do a lot if applied with good sense. In New York a system that gives students access to an adviser, subway tickets and modest cash grants has been shown to double graduation rates from community college, and to have particularly beneficial effects on black and Hispanic students.

Investing early

Then there is child poverty. Expanding the earned-income tax credit (EITC), which tops up the wages of working low-income adults, and a universal child tax credit could drastically reduce child poverty—and reduce the tremendous costs to be incurred decades from now in lower tax revenues and higher expenses on incarceration, homelessness services and health care. A programme combining a $2,700 annual child allowance and a 40% expansion of the EITC would reduce child poverty by half, and cost $110bn a year, according to a report by the National Academies. Canada’s implementation of a similar programme in 2016 took just two years to reduce child poverty by a third.

Integration was never easy

A more radical idea is that all children should get government-funded trust accounts—“baby bonds”—with the funding for children born into poverty more generous than for the rest. A scheme in which the bonds were worth $50,000 by the time a child born into poverty turned 18 would reduce the wealth disparity between young white and black Americans from 16:1 to 1.4:1 even if it were strictly race neutral, according to calculations by Naomi Zewde of the City University of New York.

This proposal has a price tag close of about $80bn a year. This means that enacting a child tax credit, EITC expansion and baby-bond programme would still cost less than the $207bn the government will forgo this year by taxing dividends and long-term capital gains at lower levels than income. The idea of paying reparations to the descendants of slaves—a bill that might cost upwards of $4trn to settle—would be much costlier. Nor are they obvious cause for a white backlash, since unlike reparations—or, for that matter, affirmative-action policies at universities and elsewhere—they would be based purely on economic criteria, not racial ones.

Unfortunately, the fact that the benefits of such programmes would accrue disproportionately to African-Americans might make it hard to build broad political support. Safety-net programmes such as cash welfare or the expansion of health coverage for the poor, part of Mr Obama’s health-care reform, have been unpopular with some white Americans. That could make it politically expedient to concentrate on universal programmes. Social Security, which provides pensions, and Medicare, which provides health insurance for the elderly, have become close to politically untouchable in part because they are universal. Child tax allowances and baby bonds might aspire to similar standing.

“My parents literally had to get a white couple to pose as us in order to buy a home in an affluent area of suburban New Jersey with great public schools,” remembers Cory Booker, now a senator from that state. As well as promoting a bipartisan bill on criminal-justice reform, Mr Booker has also pushed a programme to remove lead pipes in schools; baby bonds formed a major plank in his run for the Democratic nomination.

“[Dr King] eloquently said that we have to repent in our day and age, not just for the vitriolic words and violent actions of the bad people, but the appalling silence and inaction of the good people,” Mr Booker says. “Well, I fear that we will have to repent in our generation, if more of us who are good people—and that is the overwhelming majority of Americans—let another generation go by where we don’t correct these persistent injustices.”■

This article appeared in the Briefing section of the print edition under the headline "Staying apart"

https://ift.tt/2Draw0L

#IFTTT #Feedly

0 notes