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thefanficmonster · 4 years

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You Call It A Mess, We Call It Baking

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Tons of fluff

Summary: A friendly argument via Discord leads to a baking session. Said baking session leads to a kitchen looking like it was the victim of a tornado. The lesson here is: don’t leave Corpse and Y/N in the kitchen together.

Requested by Anon, thank you so much for your request, hope I captured what you wanted well and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Corpse’s POV

I’ve been sitting in a Discord call with Y/N for about three years now, keeping her company as she’s editing some footage Sean sent her earlier. In the meantime, I’m reviewing the recently submitted stories by my viewers, reading some lines I find funny or downright terrifying to her.

“When I went in the kitchen to check on the cake, it was already out of the oven, a sticky note next to it on the counter that read: ‘smells nice’. My blood ran cold.“ I read the eerie sentence that is suggesting one of my most frightening scenarios - a stalker getting inside your house. I get chills just imagining what was probably going on in the sender’s head when they saw that.

“Jeez, it’s been so long since I’ve cooked something other than omelet.“ I hear Y/N reply absentmindedly, completely neglecting the fear factor of what’s going on in the story.

“Good job missing the point.” I chuckle, my eyes continuing to scan the email until my brain actually comprehends what she said, “Wait, you mean to tell me you have baked anything ever?! No offense, Y/N, but I was honestly doubting your ability to make an omelet as well. In all the years we’ve been friends I can’t remember you ever not saying ‘I hade takeout’ when I asked you what you had for dinner.”

The scoff that comes through my headphones is the most adorable thing ever. She’s one to easily take a joke and never get offended by anything, but I know how heated she can get with her sarcasm. If I’m being honest, I’m always here for it.

“There are many things you don’t know about me, Corpsy. A girl’s gotta have some aces up her sleeve.“ I can just imagine the narrowing of here eyes and the tilting of her head as she says that. She has a very specific way of expressing her thoughts. When we first met I accidentally made the comparison to one of those children’s books that have pictures, stories and small buttons for audio. That comparison has stuck with me and I look back at it very often. To fully catch her point, you don’t just listen to her. No, no, no. You focus on every change in her face and body. The way she looks away during certain parts of her speech, the way her voice plays with several different tones at once. Her posture while speaking. Just like those books - you don’t just listen to the audio, you look at the pictures and read the text.

“Well you know how much I like playing poker, why don’t you come over and throw those aces down.“ The last thing you should ever give Y/N is a challenge. She won’t only homerun it, but will never let you forget it either. When we met she was a girl with self esteem in the negatives, so seeing her brag about her achievements to me always brings me joy.

The details I’ve listed are pretty in-depth, aren’t they? That’s because I don’t want to let anything slip when it comes to her. This realization hit me early in our friendship and it was only like two years in that I finally connected the dots - this investment in her of mine was not simple nor platonic. Come to think of it, I reckon it never was.

“No way, I’m not changing out of my pajamas just to come to your house.” She laughs, once again making me picture her full body reaction to her statement.

I smirk, knowing I’m about to bring out my main weapon, “Oh come on, I’ve seen you in pajamas countless times. You can just admit you don’t wanna embarrass yourself. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

I can sense her fuming even though she’s like two miles away. “I’ll be there in 15.”

She hangs up before getting the chance to hear me lose control of the laughter I’ve been suppressing.

Man, I love this girl.

Y/N’s POV

“It’s on.“ I say as soon as the door in front of me swings open to reveal the smug smirking face of my bestfriend. The foundation of my tough, unbothered act is shaken up by the outburst of butterflies in my stomach which occurs every time I see him. I can never look at this man and not turn at least a little red in the cheeks.

It’s been long since I self-diagnosed with the malicious ‘falling for someone who would never reciprocate my feelings’ illness. I’ve been living with it for a while. What medication do I take? Dating other guys. One bad relationship after another, scolding myself that every one of them has been a desperate attempt to get him to change his gaze on me from ‘best friend’ to something more. Hell, I don’t even know how to define that ‘something more’. I once even tried to admit my feelings, but I was so vague and so incoherent that I didn’t understand myself, so how was he supposed to grasp my downright sad excuse of a confession.

“No ‘hello’, no nothing?“ He moves aside to let me in. I walk right past him with a sassy flip of my hair to mask the nervousness of being aware that his eyes were on me, “Rude.“ He murmured with an obvious smile in his tone.

He looks as cute as ever, black sweatpants and a black tee, hair messy as though he has just rolled out of bed. I can say with the upmost certainty that he’s the only one who can pull of that hairstyle.

I hide mine as I throw on the apron that’s hanging by his fridge, ready to take over his kitchen and put those aces of mine to use. I can’t help but furrow my brows when I see him enter the kitchen behind me and lean against the counter. That’s when I notice the counter is lined with all the ingredients I’ll need for the cake I had in mind.

“OK, what do we do first?“ he claps his hands together, straightening his posture as he gives me a expectant look.

It takes all my brain cells to prevent me from freezing up completely. I’m not usually like this, mind you, I’m a lot better at keeping what’s going on inside my head camouflaged. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t have much time to dwell on that. If I do, he’ll pick up on it right away.

“Um, we are not gonna do anything. I will be here baking, and you will remain outside the kitchen until I’m done. If you need something, ask and I’ll bring it to you. I can’t have you sabotaging my project, impostor.” I narrow my eyes at him like he’s the most dangerous of threats. And he is, for my mental sanity.

He fakes a hurt expression, clearly fighting to the best of his ability to hide how much he’s enjoying messing with me. “We’ve known each other for five years, Y/N. Don’t you trust me?”

I lean over the counter to where we’re about two feet apart and whisper, “Not. Even. A. Little. Bit.”

He smiles, “You’re just trying to get away with making this cake by watching a YouTube tutorial. Admit it, you can’t even crack an egg properly.” His eyes are now as narrowed as mine as we stare each other down at a proximity that’s rapidly raising my body temperature and heartbeat. It’s not fair. I’m a mess around him so he automatically has the upper hand.

As expected, I give in, “You better not mess around though.”

After I force him to give me several different oaths, we start. I’m working on the batter, he’s working on the frosting. We decided to decorate it with crimson and dark purple frosting. We’re both really pick about the color shades so he’s currently struggling to get the crimson perfect.

“Let’s make it a layer cake.“ He suggests out of the blue, “Two layers, nothing crazy.“

I think it over for a moment or two before shrugging, “OK, but then you better grab a bowl and help me with the second layer. You know how to make the batter, right?”

He confirms that he does and walks out of my line of sight. I hear him open the fridge as I whisk the eggs I have cracked with the sugar.

“You want something to drink?“ He asks while rummaging through the fridge.

I decline, try to focus on the recipe that I have somehow memorized to the smallest of details. As I’m reciting the it silently to make sure I didn’t skip any steps with the batter, I feel something cold run down my back causing me to scream.

“What the fuck was that?!“ I turn around and glare at him just as the ice cube slips out from under my hoodie and falls to the floor. The fucker’s laughing whole heartedly, not giving a damn that he just gave me a mini heart attack. Mainly cause I thought it was a roach or something, and he know I hate bugs.

“You do realize how boiling red you are, right? You look like a lobster. I thought you needed something to cool you down.“

Instead of being annoyed, I do a full 180 and decide to play his game, “Yeah, I know...” I trail off, reaching my hand back towards the bowl of flour. Grabbing a a handful of the white powder I throw it at him before he can even catch on. Needless, to say, his outfit and hair aren’t so black anymore. “Ah, I knew your hair would look good with snowflakes in it, but you can never be too sure.”

“This means war, Y/N.” His smile is borderline malicious, getting me excited for what’s to come.

Him and I have always had these so called wars, but never like you’d imagine. We are silent, strategic, subtle. Neither of us knows when the other will attack until it’s too late. That’s why instead of going for a counter-attack right away, he heads to complete his mission of making the batter for the second layer.

All is quiet except the noises of the utensils clinking together every now and then. I keep a close watch on him out of the corner of my eye and I notice no sus behavior. That is until I see him take a spoonful of his batter and eat it. I whirl around at the speed of a gust of wind, eyes wide, “Do you want to fuck up your guts.” He ignores me as he takes another spoonful, bringing it close to his mouth. This time, I grab onto his arm causing the contents of the spoon to spill on my hoodie.

I roll my eyes, unbothered by the brown stain that by some miracle missed the apron and fell on my grey hoodie, “Don’t. Eat. The. Batter. Copy?“

“Paste.“ He nods, smirking with pride as he puts the spoon aside.

I sigh and return to my side of the kitchen, focusing on the next task: poring the batter into the circular baking tray which he, for some reason, has two of. He repeats the task soon after me and we put the two trays in the oven. I help him with the frosting, getting the shades close enough to what we had in mind.

After about five minutes of the crusts baking, a wonderful smell spreads throughout the kitchen. At this point, all we have to do is wait for the oven to signal that our cinnamon crust is ready to be taken out, wait for it to cool down and then frost the cake.

“It smells really good.“ He comments, turning his head to look at me.

I’m sitting atop the kitchen counter and Corpse is standing next to me. This is the only time him and I are at approximately the same height. The realization brings a thought to my mind, one that makes me feel like an evil mastermind.

“Hey, remember earlier when you said I couldn’t crack an egg properly?“ He hums affirmatively, “Well...“

The carton of eggs is within arm’s reach. I grab an egg, chip it off the side of the counter and crack it apart above his head, its contents coating his hair. “How’s that for a proper egg crack?” I ask victoriously.

He lets out a surprised sound, something between a gasp and a laugh. Shaking his head to get the yoke to fall down, he says amusedly: “I don’t know...you tell me.”

Too late for me to do anything. There’s milk all over me.

The malicious smile on his face is replicated on mine and now it’s really on. However, as we reach for the items meant to be out weapons, the oven dings.

Frosting the cake goes about as well as you expect: there’s more frosting on us than the cake itself.

“Let’s make amends, please. I’m so not looking forward to taking three showers tonight.“ I say, raising a white napkin and waving it around.

“Fair enough.“ He shrugs and we shake hands.

As I’m about to pull my hand back, he holds onto it, making me look up at him. Our eyes lock and I suddenly regain that same shakiness and vulnerability I always have around him. It never leaves me, I just manage to ignore it. The sound of my panic is muffled by the sound of my heart thumping the loudest it has ever.

Expectedly, he is the bold one who makes the first and final move. The move to end one era of us and start another. His lips touch mine and all fades. It’s just him and I. The friends who were never just friends. The cowards who suck at dealing with emotions. The fearful little kids that are afraid of rejection because we both mean so much to each other, to the point of suffering to prevent the possibility of losing one another.

We embrace who we are, finally admitting that friends is not what we are meant to remain forever.

The kiss might’ve been brief, but the meaning it carries makes it the most valuable moment of my life. One I’ll cherish forever. Something in his eyes tells me he will too. That’s all I need. That’s all we need. No words are necessary.

Suddenly, our bubble bursts as a result of his ringing phone. He lets go of one of my hands and takes his phone from the counter.

“It’s Dave”, he smiles, picking up the call and turning to get me in the camera frame. “Hey Dave, look who’s here with me.“

I wave at the camera and at the baffled face of Dave. “Hi!”

“What, in the name of God, is that mess?“ He raises both his eyebrows as his eyes scan us and the kitchen behind us.

“You call it a mess, we call it baking.“ Corpse and I look at each other and smile, blushing as red as the streak in Dave’s hair.

“Am I missing something here? Did I call at a bad time?“ He asks, still struggling to rationalize what he is seeing.

“Yeah, you actually did. I’ll call you back.“ Corpse dead-ass hangs up on him, putting his phone away before turning to me, “We have more important matters at the moment.“

He kisses me again, this time more confidently. His arms wrap around me and prep me up on the counter, insinuating that this kiss won’t be as short as the last.

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sinisterlyhan · 4 years

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02. bang chan / 3883 words

dom!chan who is both hard and soft, a tinge of fluff, daddy kink, a little size kink + corruption kink, oral (m receiving), the smallest amount of cumplay at the end, female reader

a/n: i am probably going to write a part two for this.

chan stopped seeing you as a younger sibling sometime ago.

you used to just be minho's little sister. the girl who occasionally appeared in the living room when he had sleepovers at the house, the girl he only talked to when it was under minho's presence, the girl he never felt any form of sexual attraction towards.

but then times changed. he grew older, taller, and bigger while you... well, you definitely did grow older. not so much taller, though. it felt as if only him and minho managed to sprout some height after puberty while yours went completely neglected in your genes. and definitely not bigger—actually, yes. some part of you grew bigger, in a very arousing and distracting way if chan could admit. but you were still quite small compared to his much broader shoulders.

chan never thought too much of it. he had made too many petty jokes about you staying as small and weak as a midget for years, his mindset was stuck at that childish thought. it was only until christmas gathering last year when he joined your family for the holiday did he finally realize how much more attractive you have grown.

you have always been pretty. chan would not expect anything less as you are lee minho's little sister, and minho was one hell of a good-looking man. the big doe eyes with the perfect nose bridge, and of course pretty pink lips that makes a pretty smile—you were always pretty. chan never verbally acknowledged it but he never verbally denied it either.

over time, your beauty has matured. you innocent eyes learned how to act tough in front of strangers and your pretty smile knew to come to the rescue in awkward situation. you have grown to learn how to benefit yourself in a society that, unfortunately, ran on a system that relied heavily on appearances.

but chan hasn't seen your tactics be used on him before. when he arrived at your house last year, you looked at him the same way you had always looked at him—a little distant but still with faint fondness, a gaze that screamed friendly and comfortable.

in terms of expressions and attitude, you were small when it came to him. and something about that special treatment (which wasn't exactly special) made his insides churn.

what made it even worse was the night of christmas dinner, when you three decided to sit down in his room to hang out while the adults gathered in the living room to chat the night away.

you had stolen minho's hoodie, that chan knew because it was one size too big on minho and therefore two sizes too big on you. you wore a pair of polyester shorts that only faintly peeked out the hem of the cuddly hoodie, and your tiny feet was covered by a pair of ugly, green fuzzy socks.

but what stung him the most was how careless you acted around him, as if he was your brother as well.

you had been eating chips at that time, happily smacking your lips away as you ate up the family portioned chip bag on your own. and chan could not care less about you never sharing the snacks at that time. he just knew you were sucking on your fingers a little too hard and moaning at the taste a little too loudly for him to concentrate on his phone.

and the way your legs flaunted around on minho's bed as you munched on the food, spreading them in a comfortable position but not spreading enough for him to catch a glimpse into the gaps of your shorts. and you looked so small with your legs thrown over the pile of dirty laundry on the edge of your brother's bed, your back against the mattress and your breasts perking up at the cursed angle.

chan was going insane, he had to snap his head away when minho threw a random pillow at you, scolding you to sit up properly.

he was told—threatened—later by minho to stop having perverted ideas about you. but chan didn't listen, obviously. for the rest of that night, all he had thought about was shoving his fingers down your throat and fucking you in your brother's hoodie. he could imagine all the ways you would whimper and moan under his weight when he's got your legs thrown over his shoulder, and the thought alone made his chest burn.

chan was unable to see you the same, platonic way ever again since that christmas.

"bang chan!"

your irritated voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he quickly looked away from the dark corner he was staring at. you were frowning at him by the television set, your hands rested in a box of movie cds.

chan's eyes casually scanned your figure, as if it wasn't all he thought about after you walked downstairs, drowned that oversized shirt and pajama shorts he took a generous peek at as your shirt rode up your ass upon you reaching upward.

"yeah, what's wrong?" he asked, sitting up from the couch and leaning his elbows on his knees to look at you with an arched brow.

you felt slightly intimidated by his change of stance; he was just sulking at the corner of the sofa looking exhausted and small, how did he manage to change his aura with just a change of position?

and his duality was always so damn hot to you for some reason! the way he could smile at you one second and glare at an uncomfortable stranger the next was none other than seducing.

"are you kidding me–do you want to watch a movie or not, chan?" you asked as you pulled your hands out of the box, preparing to put it back into the shelf and let it gather dust there until the next holiday when minho didn't get called up to spend the night with his girlfriend instead. "i am actually okay with just being on our phones, we don't have to watch a movie."

chan blinked at you, surprised by your fed-up tone even though he had done nothing but sit on the couch after dinner. perhaps you were mad at minho for ditching you both? but why would you be mad about that unless you didn't want to spend alone time with him? maybe you just had an argument with your parents, that was why you felt extra grumpy.

as chan drowned in his thoughts and assumptions, he had not realized you plopping down on the couch across from him. you breathed out a heavy sigh as you unlocked your phone, sliding against the cushion and throwing your extended legs on top of his lap.

oh, there you were with the carelessness again. twisting your legs and only barely brushing across his groin each time you swung your feet his way. and if he saw clearly, you weren't wearing a bra as well, you little brat.

chan glanced down at your bare feet then, and something about your slim ankles in comparison to his much bigger hand fueled the hotness in his abdomen. he could just grab them and pull you to him, spreading your legs wide for him. and what could you do? he was so much stronger than you.

manhandling you would be both an effortless and pleasurable experience.

you huffed out a sigh, distracting him once again. he turned to find you frowning at the ceiling, your arm dangling to the side with your phone gripped tightly in your hand.

chan gulped down his lustful mind and asked, hoping to start a normal conversation. "you've been acting grumpy all day. what happened to you, hmm?"

you peered down at him, your chest heaving and, unbeknownst to you, nipples protruding through the thin fabric of your shirt. "i met this guy on campus last month. he was helping out with some fraternity shit and i was walking past, and then he stopped me to get my number," you said. "we have been texting a lot, and recently he asked me out. we planned to hang out sometime this week, actually, since it is the holiday and all."

chan furrowed his brows. the word fraternity definitely did not stick well with him and he had not taken you for someone who would be obsessed over attractive and irresponsible frat boys. turning to you, he asked, "is it not working out?"

you groaned under your breath. "no, it is for now," you muttered, glancing to the side shyly when you realized what you were about to say. "it's just... i'm not sure if it will be fine after the date."

"why?" he pressed on, finding the reddening of your cheeks very amusing.

"it's just... he said he is going to make a move on me and he told me to prepare for it..." you replied quietly, finding the once arousing words to be sappy and cringey once you repeated them. "but i have never had... i've–i haven't done anything before, like i don't even know the first thing about sucking someone off."

chan clenched his jaw. he was just slightly angered at the idea that some stupid boy would have the privilege of having your mouth wrapped around his useless dick when all he has ever gotten were temptations and imaginations. your big, innocent eyes looking up at him in confirmation and waiting for him to guide you through it all—fuck, he could cum just thinking about it.

"i can teach you," he suddenly suggested, shooting his shot and taking his chances. he looked over at you, eyes burning holes at your head. "if you want to, i can teach you. right here, right now."

his voice went an octave lower, the metallic hotness of it sending shivers down your spine. how would you fend if he whispered next to your ear, just inches apart with his hot breath blowing against your skin? you squeezed your thighs together at the thought, knowing very well he noticed how squirmish you were becoming because his was smirking with a devil laced on his lips.

"h–how?" you stuttered out.

chan poked his tongue to the corner of his lips. what a desperate bitch, you were willing to suck another man's dick to make sure the real deal would be mind-blowing. something about that was thrilling to him, the fact that he was the first one to take it from you instead of that ill-promising boy in your phone.

"on the floor, kneel," he beckoned you to him by pointing at the space before him.

you quickly dropped onto the ground and scurried over to kneel between his legs, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him move his sweats down by a little. his cock sprung out upon release, standing long and thick against his tummy due to how hard he was. you bit back a gasp but your widened eyes told him everything, and your fascination only fueled his dominance impeccably.

fuck, you looked so breakable like this.

"i'm sure you have seen a dick before so i am going to spare you the details," he said as he gave his dick a few pumps. then, he leaned forward slightly and grabbed you by your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

his eyes grew soft for a moment and he rubbed his fingers at your skin comfortingly. "you can stop this anytime you want, okay, (name)?" he said, smiling faintly at you.

you sent him a timid nod, your lips pursed adorably and your eyes sparkling up at him. frankly, you were too occupied with lusting over thing massive thing in front of your face for you to really process your thoughts, but what does it matter?

if you were thinking about it so much then you knew you wanted it.

upon your agreement, chan's eyes switched to something different. they were cold now, hooded with a sea storm of lust, overwhelmingly icy yet he seemed to be melting at the sight of you succumbing to hits authority. it was a gaze that made you feel both inferior but anticipated somehow.

"you're gonna suck me off well, baby girl?" he asked, but it sounded more like a demand. it sounded as if he expects nothing less than worshipping his cock from you, that you will suck him off good because that was all you're here for.

"i... i don't know how..." you muttered.

chan exhaled through his nose, his lips still quirked up. he gripped your chin just a tad bit tighter, causing you to look at him with wide eyes.

"don't worry, you will get to hang of it," he mused before lowering his voice. "but daddy's gonna need you to speak a little louder than that next time, got it?"

a blush crept up your cheeks, the heat in your core magnifying when chan just manifested a guilty pleasure of yours in real life. you have only heard it in porn and read it in fanfiction, perhaps you also did imagine yourself saying it once or twice in a sexual context, but imagination could never be associated with the truth. what if you sounded awkward saying it? that would be horrible.

"baby girl?" chan tugged at your chin, faint impatience laced in his voice as he peered down at your. "were you daydreaming?"

"no, daddy–" you clamped your mouth shut at how easy the word flew out of your lips.

chan held back a groan. how perfect you were, calling him such an endearment that has been tainted with filth. he would not wait to hear you gag around his cock, your voice unable to punch out any words because your mouth was stuffed.

"well? do you want to start now or do i have to tell you to lick?" he gave you a welcoming gesture, leaning back against the couch and waiting.

you gulped down a nervous breath and reached out tentatively to grab his dick in your hands. it was hard, with a surprisingly soft but veiny surface. bringing it over to your lips whilst leaning in, you let the tip stop at the entrance of your mouth and you looked up at chan, as if asking for permission.

"go on," he urged you. "try and make daddy feel good."

he said that like it would be a challenge for you, but he had lost from the start when you agreed to do this. a hiss left his lips when you experimented with licking his tip. and when you realize it was not as rough as you thought it would feel, you continued with it, your tongue pressing flat against the surface as you dragged it down and around the sensitive bub.

this was a different kind of sexy. chan has been used to sloppy and fast blowjobs all his life because the few people he had had sex with were all much more experienced than you were. they were good, he had to admit, they had been good.

but you—oh, you. you were just especially and irresistibly hot. there was something about the way you kneeled in front of him, your careful hands wrapped around the base of his cock like a bottle too big for your hands to hold as your tongue flicked along his tip and his shaft with calculations, aiming to do nothing but pleasure him.

you were slow and sensual with it due to how uncertain you were with what to do. and god, was that painfully seductive. the way you were taking your sweet time giving his cock your undivided attention, forcing him to feel everything and ink down all of your movements in his head—the hotness of your tongue as you curved around his shape, the infuriating fire he felt when your tongue traced up his veins and leave once you were close to his tip, the egoistic dominance you were making him feel when you looked up at him with those big, obedient eyes.

it was like you couldn't live without his validation. and you were willing to sit in front of him for hours with his dick in your mouth, pleasuring him just to get a hint of approval. and it kept reminding him that he was in charge here, that you have to wait for him to tell you what to do and when to do it.

when you were finally getting a bit braver, watching the way chan bit his lips and how his chest heaved, you decided to hollow your cheeks to suck at him for the first time.

and chan groaned—a borderline growl—when you took more of him in your mouth to pull at his dick, your tongue stuck over your bottom lip and flapping against his shaft. as you released him from your mouth, you pressed a tight kiss to his tip and spit your saliva down to make it look like cum, then you lathered his length with the filthy wetness, still sucking on him like you would a popsicle or a lollipop.

and god, he was trying too hard. he was trying so damn hard not to grab you by your hair and just fuck your throat like a fleslight. he still wanted to give you the chance to do whatever felt comes to mind, and so far you have really been doing phenomenal things to him.

"fuck, baby girl," he grumbled through clenched teeth, feeling pleasure override his senses. "that was good, keep doing that."

your eyes lit up at the compliment, a mini giggle falling out your lips and sending vibration down his skin. chan moaned at the feeling as you went just a tad bit faster in your repetition, mixing the rough sucks with baby licks and creating a symphonic contrast that soon pushed him close to the edge.

the knot at his swollen tip was building and chan could not resist anymore. he needed you to go at his pace, something faster and rougher. with a groan, he let his hands move the back of your head before he pushed you down on his cock, a breathy moan leaving him when you squealed in surprise.

you could not breathe, his length was too big for your little mouth. the feeling of his tip touching your throat was overwhelmingly unsatisfactory, but somewhere deep within you, you knew you wanted it. because chan's voice has never sounded better all breathy and feral like this, and it was all because you put your stupid mouth to good use for once.

your hands gripped his flexed thighs in support while chan, for a second, forgot you were a breathing human being and just snapped his hips up at you like you could take it all with no trouble. he was going fast, pushing your head down and thrusting up to meet your throat while he threw his head back at the heavenly vibration you sent him through letting out struggling noises.

fuck, your mouth felt so good. the feeling stuck at the tip of his cock released when a certain suck pushed him over the edge and burst his control. he shot his heavy load down your throat and coating up your inner cheeks before pushing your head away with a pop and slumping against the couch.

his chest was panting, you could see. and when he peered down at you, he arched a brow and smirked at you.

you waited from him to regain his energy. when he did, he leaned forward to your face and hummed in thoughts, as if accessing what other ways he could possibly wreck you up. you widened your eyes when he reached out to touch his thumb to your lips, his fingers tilting your chin up to face him.

"open up," he ordered, and you did with your tongue sticking out slightly for show. he almost laughed; you learned that from watching porn, didn't you?

his cum was still on your tongue, he wondered if you were reluctant to swallow them. he could deal with you not doing that, you have already given him such a mind-blowing blowjob despite it being your first time. however, even then, he still wanted to see something he had always wanted to try.

reaching his thumb into your mouth, he gathered up some of his cum and slowly, plastered them over your lips like he was applying your lipstick. when he was done, he let his thumb stay in your mouth and he gestured to you.

knowing what he was asking for, you first grazed your teeth over his skin before you sucked on it like a binky. his cum smacked together and left trails all over his hand and your lips, messy but so fucking hot at the same time.

and then he pulled out of you, removing his hand and going back to himself. he stared at you for a moment, once again contemplating. and when he reached over for you again, instead of another round of shoving and pulling, his hand moved to the back of your head and he rubbed the spot he just yanked at. then he gave your head a gentle pat.

he smiled at you softly. "you did so great, baby girl."

you wanted to smile at his compliment, but something about him speaking as if this was the end of it made disappointment settle in your chest. chan could sense your dismay through the pout, and his heart jumped slightly at the knowledge that you might want more than just sucking him off.

"why are you pouting, hmm?" he asked then, squeezing your cheek and looking directly at you. "do you want daddy to do something?"

his finger was trailing an alluring line down your cheek and your neck now. he knew what he was doing, and you knew you had to be the one to say it in order for him to keep going down to where you wanted him the most, the heated pool right between your legs.

"yes, please," you said, still shy about doing a minimal amount of dirty talk.

"hmm?" he raised his brows in amusement. "what is it that you want me to do, baby girl?"

oh, there were so many things you wanted him to do to you. but one of which took up the most space in your desires was to have him fuck you raw and open on whatever surface he so pleases. you would give anything to feel him inside of you.

"i..." you sucked in a breath, your cheeks reddening uncontrollably at the thought of having to verbalize your filthy fantasies. "i–i want daddy to make me feel good."

chan smirked, his finger that is was once trailing down your neck finally made its way to the center. his hand palmed over the area of your collarbones before he raised the position of his hand a little. he squeezed the base of your neck, loving the bobbing of the breathy throat.

oh, you pretty, little thing.

he's gonna fuck you so hard you won't even remember the boy who made you do this in the first place.

#skz smut #skz dark hours #stray kids dark hours #stray kids smut #bang chan smut #chan smut

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 3 years

Text

Shadows And Pills - 1

Summary: Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This is not a happy story in any sense, at any point. I could only write this at my lowest places, emotionally and mentally speaking, and I had a hard time coming back from it. This is dark, and it does not at any point get lighter. I relied heavily on my own experiences with mental struggles and took a few pieces here and there from my own experiences with mental health professionals. MY EXPERIENCES ARE MY OWN AND ARE NOT TYPICAL, NOT EVEN FOR ME. If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.

For all the Loki lovers out there, I do not shine him anything like a good or redeeming light here. He is evil incarnate, more or less. I love Loki, I love good Loki and redeemed Loki and misunderstood Loki and just about every incarnation thereof. I needed a villain, and he fit the story.

Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it. If you have any questions, please feel free to message me or send me an ask.

Thank you to @thoughtslikeaminefield and @glassjacket . I would not have made it through this story and would honestly not be here today with the two of you. I will never be able to tell you how much you mean to me.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068

In Case You Missed It: ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

...

Shadows and Pills

Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all.

Alexa comes away with a shadow.

In the weeks following the disaster, the public equally lauds and decries the Avengers, but while their opinions are divided over the heroes, the villain is universally denounced as nothing short of Satan himself, and the city throws an actual celebration the day Thor takes Loki back to Asgard to face the justice of their people.

Alexa, having not turned on her television since the day she got home from the hospital, ignores the boisterous celebrants and goes about her shopping, earbuds firmly in place, frown lines now permanently etched between her eyes and around her pinched lips.

“Routine will help you through some of the worst days,” her therapist tells her during one session. “Something familiar and safe to retreat to when the flashbacks are the worst. Just give it a try,” he adds at her disbelieving grimace.

And so she sets a routine.

Morning Routine: wake up. Ignore alarm, lie in bed an extra thirty minutes or so. Shower. Pretend to eat breakfast. Take meds (this one she never skips or shirks). Find something to wear. Stare at it for another ten minutes. Eventually get dressed. Contemplate keys for another fifteen minutes. Leave the goddamned apartment already.

Her routine has varying results, although she does admit to her therapist that life is marginally more bearable with the routine than without.

“It’s nice to have something to look forward to for the next day.”

Her therapist can’t quite hide his grimace at her flat, deadened tone, but she’s not being sarcastic or rude. She finds that going to bed at night is a trifle easier when she knows what’s going to happen the next day.

“So, who are we up to today?” the doctor asks, switching the subject with awkward abruptness. It’s been six weeks since Hell came to New York, and during their twice-weekly meetings, her therapist suggests going through each of the people she saw die in front of her that day, to get closure...or say goodbye...or something.

Sometimes Alexa wonders whether he just wants to hear the details for his own perverse pleasure.

“Brenda.”

Alexa robotically begins to list the personal details she knows...knew...about her floor manager. Unlike the mail room intern she discussed at their last meeting, the list for Brenda goes on for a while. She’s worked with Brenda since she started at the company, learning most of what she knows about her current job from the woman.

Brenda was kind, sharply intelligent, and mothering to everyone under her supervision, and yet she did it in a way that didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. She balanced work and a family long and well enough to both receive regular promotions within the company and also, very recently, become a new grandmother.

The backs of Alexa’s eyes sting as she remembers the photo Brenda showed her not twenty minutes before part of the building collapsed on top of half the department. Her jaw locks as the scene plays before her eyes again, the explosions and shrieks of metal drowning out the shrieks of the people only five feet away.

She closes her eyes, but there’s no pause button to freeze the scene, no power button to shut the images off as she turns in her memory and runs, making it to the stairwell and slamming the door open, turning back and screaming for Brenda, straining her eyes through the smoke and dust and mountains of falling debris. Brenda is running, reaching for Alexa even though she seems miles away, and then one of the file cabinets is thrown over, propelled faster and harder than should be possible, and...and…

And then Brenda isn’t running anymore. Her outstretched hand, the only part of her that wasn't crushed by office furniture, spasms against the ruined carpet, as if it thinks it’s reached its destination and is grasping at its savior.

Alexa’s hand tingles, and her fingers lock into her palm, nails fitting easily into the little grooves she dug there weeks ago. No blood, she only dug that deep once, but the furrows remain as permanently etched there as the frown lines on her face.

Alexa struggles to take in a labored breath as her therapist watches her with the appropriate amount of professional, clinical sympathy and detachment.

“Do your counting,” he reminds her.

How could she forget? She counts to three once, letting a breath out at the end. She repeats the process twice more, ignoring her therapist’s brief flash of annoyance at her departure from his “system.” But, for once, he doesn’t ask her why she has to deviate from the standard one-to-ten method and just lets her do the goddamned counting in peace.

Small blessings.

“Have you had any flashbacks since our last session?”

She stares at him, letting her gaze rest heavy and disbelieving as she turns his question over. She’s been averaging about five flashbacks a day, triggered by everything from accidentally brushing a stranger on the sidewalk (Jim knocking past her to get down the stairs just as the door on the stairwell behind her explodes inward; more shrieking, then falling, then dark) to lifting a carton of cold milk from the shelf at the grocery (that impossibly cold hand grasping hers, pulling her up from the rubble, bringing her face to face with...something...something in the...shadows, it was so dark there, and…).

“Yeah. I’ve had some flashbacks since our last session.”

“What sort of coping strategies did you use?”

He’s not even meeting her eyes now, just getting notes down on that damned pad. The scratching of his pen grates into her bones, and Alexa grits her teeth as she glares.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

She slowly recites the list of strategies he suggested during a previous session, none of which have proven particularly effective at lessening the frequency of the episodes, but most of which she grudgingly admits provide some slight relief afterwards and allow her to refocus her mind on the present rather than dwelling in the memory.

“And the shadows?”

How can he get this wrong every time when he’s taking all those fucking notes?

“Still just the one.”

“Has it manifested in any other way? Asked you to do anything? Do you feel different in any way when you notice it?”

There’s a distasteful eagerness to his words that always turns Alexa’s stomach, and she has to physically bite into her tongue to keep from asking what kind of bonus he gets for each symptom she shows of different mental illnesses.

“It’s just there sometimes. I..” She hesitates, feeling vaguely nauseated from his questions, but she has to be honest, right? Because, ultimately, it’s his job to help her, and she’s never going to get through this by hiding symptoms. He can’t help fix her if he doesn’t know what’s broken, and he did suggest the routine, so, okay, he gets a pass for this one.

“I still mostly only see it before I’m falling asleep. I’ve started seeing it in the late afternoon, as well, not often, but sometimes. Always in shadows that are already there. It doesn’t talk or anything, doesn’t really have any face or form except for vaguely person-shaped, but it...it watches me. And it’s...denser than it was last week. More...it’s thicker than it was, like when you see wispy clouds kind of...gather and turn into storm clouds?”

He nods, his pen whizzing over the legal pad he records their session notes on. “So, you feel threatened by the shadow? Like it’s storm clouds gathering to...what? It feels menacing?”

But, like most of the questions Alexa fences in this office, this one isn’t easily answered.

“It feels like it’s watching me, waiting for something. I don’t know what. I don’t...I don’t know if it’s menacing, exactly. Like, it feels potentially dangerous, but I can’t tell if it’s for me. I don’t know. It’s just...darker and more there this week, but it doesn’t do anything, and I don’t feel different, and it doesn’t speak to me. I. Don’t. Hear. Voices.”

She clips off each word at the end of her rant separately and precisely, repeating her counting in her head, and she forces her breathing to even out. The doctor is just doing his job, he’s just trying to help, he’s supposed to ask these questions, it’s how he helps-

“Hmm. I’ll have to consider that between now and our next meeting. In the meantime, go ahead and move up to the next dosage step with your meds, keep it on the escalating schedule we set.”

You set, she thinks mutinously for a moment before internally shaking her head. She nods, biting her tongue once more. She’s going to have a permanent indentation there as well, at this rate.

“Any side effects? Itching, swelling, difficulty breathing? Any unreasonable lethargy or detachment?”

“I mean...I don’t really have anything to attach to at this point, so…”

He frowns at her again, and she wonders if he’s going to crank up her dosage two notches instead of one.

“Are you having what you feel are typical emotional responses to everyday stimuli? Have you laughed or smiled at anything yet? How long has it been since you emotionally felt anything besides the frustration and panic?”

And, somehow, this question is difficult, too. She struggles through, trying to find a balance between honesty and not making herself look like a complete failure who can't function in life. She doesn’t help her case when she admits she hasn’t followed many of his suggestions beyond establishing a routine.

“Not even exercising?” he asks, his disappointment palpable.

When she silently shakes her head, her lips pinched tight against his disapproval, he shakes his head with a sigh that sings of ultimate betrayal. Instead of berating her as usual, the doctor frowns and looks down at his notes, considering them silently. He clicks his tongue against his teeth for a moment before switching over to end-session mode, robotically delivering his closing remarks, his typical reminders to keep her meds on a strict schedule at the exact time every day, to avoid all alcohol and unprescribed drugs, to keep her diet as clean and unprocessed as possible, and to get plenty of exercise. Even this last bit is delivered with a sharply clinical detachment, as if she has driven him to the brink of her own psychoses by stubbornly refusing to accept his help.

There is a short, silent moment between them where they refuse to look at each other, the doctor perusing his notes once more while Alexa examines the wrinkles creased into her jeans from lack of folding. The doctor flips pages over in his legal pad and slaps the cover shut sharply, breaking the standoff with one last, dismissive comment.

“Routine, Alexa. Stick to the routine. If it’s what brings you comfort, if that's the one thing you’re taking away from these sessions that actually helps, then stick with it. I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”

….

Her afternoons vary, according to her therapy schedule. Her sessions take roughly an hour and a half, so that’s one block of time she doesn’t have to try and fill. On the days she isn’t having her skull cracked open, she can sometimes force herself to work on the files her company sends her way. Grunt work, brainless stuff that any first-year intern could do, but it keeps her on the payroll and covered by health insurance until the doctor clears her to return to the office.

Not that there’s an office to return to yet.

Grocery shopping for food she’ll pretend to eat later, making excuses to stay out of the apartment a little longer each day, watching the shadows of the buildings grow darker and longer until the sunlight disappears from the streets.

And the other shadow, the darkest of all, thick and solid against the brick and stone, pacing her, keeping track as she wanders through the broken city blocks. Sometimes she walks a little faster, pretends to not notice the black spot. Sometimes she pretends it’s keeping her company. With the most conversation she’s had in weeks taking place in her therapy sessions, she occasionally finds the imaginary company of her shadow stalker to be more pleasant than menacing.

Occasionally.

Eventually, though, she and her chimerical companion head back to the silent, encroaching walls of her apartment to begin the night routine.

…

Night Routine: laundry. Pretend to eat dinner. Shower. Finish laundry. Clean already clean kitchen. Another shower (on the bad days, the ash and debris won’t wash off). Rearrange already arranged closet. Braid hair. Take meds, do not skip, no matter how much they screw up her sleep, because they help. They do. Settle into bed. Stare at the wall. Adjust pillows. Re-settle. Stare at the shadow. Start to drift off, slide into a flashback, scream back to full consciousness. Watch the shadow. Doze. Awaken from a fucked up nightmare she can only partially remember. Repeat ad nauseum.

Really, if Alexa could just skip the nights and go straight into morning, that’d be great. Mornings are tedious but tolerable. Afternoons are blurry and tense, especially therapy days, but nights…

Nights just won't shut down.

The drugs are partially responsible, the doctor has told her multiple times. The medicine can either make sleeping more difficult, or it can act like a sedative, dragging and holding her down. Honestly, she’s getting kind of mixed results. It’s difficult to stay awake, easy to slip under, but then she can’t stay asleep for very long, jerking back to consciousness in something close to full panic, unable to figure out if it’s the drugs or the dreams that’s pushing her to the edge.

Because the fucked up dreams...well, that’s all on her and her broken brain. She stopped bringing up the dreams in therapy after the first couple of weeks of sessions. The doctor seemed hell bent on steering Alexa towards the possibility that she was experiencing waking hallucinations, but there’s no way she could possibly be awake for all this shit. Maybe some of the flashbacks, but not…

Not…

Her brain isn’t that broken.

No. No, she can tell from the way she jerks to consciousness afterwards, she knows she’s asleep. Yeah, she’s unstable and has flashbacks, but she’s not delusional. They’re dreams.

Every night.

About…

Something.

Okay, sometimes she can remember. Sometimes the meds dull her down so much she forgets what day it is, but sometimes she can hold on to a detail or two. Cold, slender fingers, impossibly strong. A flash of bright blue that sends nausea racing through her entire body (who knew your toes could feel nauseated?) or a glimpse of bottle green that, conversely, thrills her to her soul. A smooth, velvet voice that penetrates every layer of her being, down to the deepest recesses. Darkness descending...a sense of dreadful awe…

And sometimes she can remember every unhinged detail with a terrifying clarity that she will never even consider mentioning to the therapist. Not if she likes her jacket sleeves to fit properly.

There’s honesty, and then there’s idiocy.

The shadow is larger tonight. Taller, a little broader, definitely denser. She would say looming, even, but it’s not quite that large.

Not quite.

She stares at it openly, no longer trying to avoid acknowledging its presence. What's the point? The doctor knows about it, and it’s not like she’s talking to it. She’s not that far gone yet. And she hasn't lied to the doctor, either. The shadow does watch her, like it’s waiting, gathering. Convalescing. But it hasn't ever talked to her.

She does not hear voices.

She yawns and rolls her shoulders, left then right, sliding a little lower in bed, searching for a cooler place between the sheets. Movement catches her eye, and she looks up as the shadow shifts, leaning left then right, and seems to…

Grow?

No, it’s never moved before. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen it move, but now it pulses and raises up, stretching-

No. No. Sourceless shadows don’t move. They don’t grow, they don’t shift, they don’t-

The shadow stretches upwards abruptly, definitely looming now, and Alexa hits the wall behind the bed, scrambling backwards in a blind panic as she realizes the shadow isn’t growing.

It’s coming closer.

Her breathing speeds up, but her limbs are heavy and dull with narcotic stupor. The foot of her bed darkens as the shadow creeps even closer, and she opens her mouth to protest, to scream, to say something, but her tongue is numb and stupid with the acrid, coppery tang of fear and pharmaceuticals, and she hates, hates this kind of dream where she can’t speak, can't move and she can barely breathe, and...and…

The shadow reaches out, stretches over her foot and slides up her calf in a clammy, viscous caress that tightens on her knee and pulls her several inches down the bed as her throat closes.

Do not shrink from Me. It is not your fear I crave, but your adoration. Come to Me, allow yourself to move past the fear and embrace what I wish to grant you.

Horror, deep and instinctual, floods her veins. Alexa feels the voice more than hears it, and it awakens an ancient fear that finally, though futilely, awakens her drugged limbs. She claws at her sheets uselessly as the shadow moves over her, a freezing oil slick that oozes against her skin as if her blankets and clothes weren’t even there, sending shivers to the very marrow of her bones as her gorge rises, and she chokes on the bile that singes the back of her throat. She can’t fight, can’t move against this intangible force, but neither will her terror let her sink past the fear to blissful unawareness.

Give over. Let go of your stubborn fear that tethers you to this useless reality. Allow Me entrance, and I will grant you the relief you seek. Release your grip on the world that cares nothing for you, and I shall bestow upon you the peace you so desperately crave.

Her skin raises in gooseflesh everywhere the shadow crosses, and her stomach turns as it squeezes its way up her torso, her chest, her throat, slipping over her lips in a sick parody of a lover’s caress. She opens her mouth - to scream, to breathe, to do something - and the shadow plunges inwards, invading her mouth, her throat, coating her inside and out with a thick, glutinous sensation that leaves her mouth hanging obscenely open, tongue thrashing, while her mind screams useless denials.

Submit to Me what you see I can easily take, give Me My due. Give over, drown in Me, and I will save you from this miserable existence.

And she is drowning, the air pressed from her lungs as a dark heaviness settles solidly over her. Her arms are forced over her head, and she is strung out on her twisted sheets, writhing under the weight of the shadow as it presses over every surface, against every entrance. No matter how she strains, her legs are gradually forced apart. The darkness’s lack of speed is affected, some barely functioning bit of her brain whispers to her; it could take her as swiftly as it cares to and is only moving slowly because it wants her to suffer, wants to taste her anguish. She has no chance against the shadow, she can’t even touch it, really she could just save herself the anxiety and fear and just-

NO.

She twists as hard as she can, but the shadow simply moves with her, flows over her, waits until she takes another breath, and then surges between her thighs, driving her torso off the bed with the force of its thrust. Every cell in her body locks, not in pain, but in complete revulsion. And then again, and again, cruel in the thoroughness of its violation, covering and saturating every crevice of her being, coating and tainting everything it touches.

Wrong, can't...stop, stop, stop, wrong, can’t...God, please…

You cannot rely on yourself, on your own mind for proper guidance. Let Me protect you. Let Me save you from yourself.

How long...minutes...hours...years...just stop, please…please-

The alarm clock shrieks right in her goddamned ear, and she can breathe and move and scream and goddammit, she fucking hates those dreams that send her careening onto the floor, scrambling for cover when she can’t even remember what she's running from.

Her morning routine is already in shambles. There’s no ignoring the alarm clock today. A morning shower maybe, to wash off the sticky aftermath of night sweats, definitely, but no lying about, staring at the walls in a sleep-daze. Definitely washing the sheets tonight, too.

She surveys what she can see of her bed from her crumpled position on the floor in front of the closet and sighs. Must’ve been a hell of a nightmare to tear up the covers that badly. She thinks for a moment of trying a little harder to remember, to recall some piece of the dream, but then her stomach flips over, and she summarily rejects that idea in favor of caffeination and medication.

She allows herself another few minutes on the floor, waiting until her respiratory and heart rates return to a less alarming pace before climbing to her quivering knees. The shadow darkens the far corner of the room, as innocuous as always. Though she doesn’t know why, she can’t help an involuntary flinch when she first sees it. It’s not normally present in the morning, at least, she doesn’t think so...well, she can't remember the shadow being so dark in the mornings, at least. But...

She clears her throat against the thickness that seems to coat it suddenly, and readjusts her plan to include a glass of water before she starts in on the coffee. She realizes after another long moment of staring that her hands are trembling along with her legs. Her jaw clenches, and she knows she’s being ridiculous. It’s a damned shadow. It just sits there. It’s a minor manifestation of a mild psychosis secondary to major psychological trauma. It’s just a damned dark spot; it doesn’t change, doesn't want her to do anything, and it definitely doesn’t fucking talk to her.

She. Does. Not. Hear. Voices.

…

Up Now: 2

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uncloseted · 3 years

Note

Recently I've been seeing some tiktoks from people who are apparently "against adoption". I don't really go into their profiles to see what they mean exactly and what they think we should do with children in foster care. They always say that "no one is entitled to another person's baby". At the risk of sounding insensitive, it looks like most of them were adopted and had a bad experience with it and probably resent their birth parents for "abandoning" them. But I don't really know.

I also know that there are some problems with the adoption system in America, but I'm not extremely familiar with it because I don't live there. Please tell me if you need more information and I'll look for it

Honestly, you have no idea how much I've wanted someone to ask my opinion on this 😂 TikTok has been trying to feed me these videos, too, and I have very strong feelings about them. I've been wondering if the fact that TikTok is a Chinese company has something to do with why anti-adoption TikToks keep getting promoted, since China is one of the most common countries that the US adopts from.

I think you're probably right in your assessment that a lot of the very vocal anti-adoption people on social media are people who were adopted themselves and have unresolved trauma around it. Many of them seem like they're not really in a place emotionally where they can imagine experiences of adoption that aren't like their own, or situations in which adoption might be logistically necessary.

That said, there are some serious problems with how we approach adoption in the US, and those problems are important to talk about. So first let's go over some of the issues that the adoption system in the US has, and then we can talk about some potential solutions to those issues and why being totally anti-adoption doesn't really make sense.

What Does Adoption Look Like in the US?

To start, let's go over what adoption actually looks like in the US. The US has an unusually high rate of adoptions- about 3 adoptions per live birth, in contrast to countries like Sweden and Norway (1.1 per 100 live births) and Australia (0.2 per 100 live births). Approximately 15% of those adoptions are international, 40% are from foster care, and 45% are "other" (including voluntary adoptions through domestic adoption agencies and stepparents or other family members adopting a child directly). Roughly 2-3% of all children under the age of 18 are adopted. Infertility is the most common reason that parents seek to adopt a child they're not related to. Kinship adoptions (children being adopted by family members or close family friends) are typically the first option considered by foster care workers when children are removed from their homes.

Types of Adoption

In the US, we have both open and closed adoptions. Open adoptions allow the biological parent to be in touch with the adoptive parents and the child, and provide the adoptive family with identifying information about their biological parent. In some states, adoptive and biological parents can enter into a legally binding contract that enforces visitation rights and what information can be exchanged about the adoption and about the child.

Closed adoptions seal all identifying information in order to protect the identities of the biological and adoptive parents, as well as to protect the child's identity. This is generally done in cases where the child is adopted as a baby, where the adoptive parents don't want their adopted child to be able to find their biological parents or to know anything about them. An estimated 5% of adoptions in the US are closed.

Disruption

In the US, we also have a process known as "disruption", which is ending an adoption. Sometimes, an adoption is disrupted before the adoption is finalized. Other times, disruptions are a court proceeding after the adoption has been made legal- more like a divorce. Disruptions can happen because the adopted child has psychological, developmental, or health issues the adoptive family can't handle or was not aware of prior to the adoption, or because the parents cannot handle being parents themselves. Disruption seems to be especially common in international adoptions, where children have suffered from spending their first few years in an orphanage. One US Department of Health and Human Services review suggested that 10-25% of adoptions are disrupted or dissolved, but it is unclear how frequently this happens because of the social stigma around disruption. Frequently, post-finalized disruptions (also known as "rehoming") are not regulated, so the child's new housing situation is not investigated to see if it is the best place for the child. As a result of this lack of oversight, rehoming is a target for child and sex traffickers.

What are the Problems With Adoption in the US?

Foster Care

Okay, so now let's dig into some of the big problems that the US adoption system has. The first one I want I want to talk about is issues with the foster care system in the US. There are a lot of issues to do with foster care, but for now I want to focus just on children who are adopted out of the foster care system.

Foster care is when a child is placed into a group home or the home of a state-certified caregiver. The state makes all legal decisions for the child, while the foster parent is responsible for their day to day care. Despite the fact that foster parents go through a licensing process that determines their fitness to be a foster parent and requires foster parents to take parenting classes, one third of foster children in the US report being abused by a foster parent or other adult in the foster home.

The goal of foster care is generally reuniting families when possible; 51% of children who exited foster care in 2010 were reunited with parents or caretakers, 8% went to live with a relative, and 21% were adopted by new parents. The majority of children are placed into foster care due to concerns of neglect (81.2% of cases in California), but those issues are not always resolved once the child enters into the foster care system.

Children who have been in the foster care system are disproportionately likely to have a mental illness, and some studies suggest that as many as 47.9% of foster care youth show signs of serious emotional or behavioral problems. In California, as many as 30% of previous foster children are diagnosed with PTSD. Nearly half of all children in foster care have chronic medical problems. Only 56% of children in foster care graduate from high school (compared to 89.80% of the general population), and 3% graduate from college (compared to about 34.98% of the general population). The emotional trauma that can accompany having been in the foster care system may make children more difficult to adopt and make it more difficult for them to adjust to their adoptive family. About 10% of children placed in foster care stayed in foster care for five years or more.

Further, never being adopted from the foster system comes with negative consequences of its own. After aging out of foster care, 27% of males and 10% of females were incarcerated within 12 to 18 months. 50% were unemployed, 37% had not finished high school, 33% received public assistance, and 19% of females had given birth to children. Before leaving care, 47 percent were receiving some kind of counseling or medication for mental health problems; that number dropped to 21% after leaving care.

There is some data to suggest that because of the way financial incentives are set up in the foster care system, there's a financial incentive for the Department of Children and Family Services to remove children from their parents and keep them in the foster care system. There is also some data to suggest that unfit people become foster parents for the financial benefits.

International and Interracial Adoptions

Now, let's talk about international adoptions. I think when a person uses the word "adoption" this is typically what we think of- an American adopting a baby from a developing country to "give it a better life" in the US. The US is responsible for around 50% of all cases of international adoption. This practice is seen by some to be patronizing or neo-colonialist, particularly since there are children who need adoptive families within the US.

Per the Hauge Adoption Convention, inter-country adoptions should be made in the best interests of the child. Despite this, international adoptions are more likely to be products of adoption fraud than domestic adoptions. Because international adoption is a popular option in the US, instead of being about finding homes for orphaned or abandoned children, international adoption sometimes becomes about finding children for first world parents who are looking to make an international adoption. Infants are particularly "in demand" in the international adoption market, which creates a financial incentive to identify more infants for adoption even though most children available for adoption internationally are school-aged. Because of this demand for international children to adopt that outpaces the supply of international children who need an adoptive family, adoption fraud occurs.

Adoption fraud can take many forms. For example, the birth parents may have not consented to the adoption of their child at all, are under the impression that their child will be returned to them after a period of time, or were paid to relinquish custody of their children. The child may have living relatives who are willing to adopt, they may be represented as being more impoverished than they actually are, or they may be represented as having no siblings even though they do.

International adoptions are also frequently interracial adoptions, which can create some unique difficulties. Adoptees who are POC but whose parents are white still face societal discrimination, particularly if their adoptive parents live in a predominantly white community. Their identities are fundamentally different to those of their parents, and so they may struggle with feeling "different" to their family. Children of interracial adoptions are more likely to report feeling like they don't fit in anywhere, although this can be mitigated by how the adoptive family discusses race and ethnicity, how they encourage their child to engage in socialization with other people of their race/ethnicity, and how they construct a "shared family identity" that does not center race or physical appearance.

Familial or Kinship Adoptions

The last thing I want to talk about in this section is familial or "kinship" adoptions versus non-familial adoptions. As I mentioned above, kinship adoptions are typically the first option when a child is removed from their home or loses their parents. Up to 36% of children who are adopted from foster care are adopted by relatives, and around 50% are reunited with a birth parent. I had difficulty finding the number of children who are directly adopted by relatives without being put into foster care first, but know that it's relatively high. Kinship adoptions are thought to minimize trauma since the caregiver is familiar to them, kinship adoptions are more likely to preserve sibling groups, and the caregiver is more likely to live in the same community (meaning that the adopted child can continue attending the same school and won't have to move).

Proponents of kinship adoptions say that children in the care of relatives experience increased stability, fewer placements, are more likely to express positive feelings about their placements, and have fewer adverse behavioral and mental health outcomes. It is important to note that some of these factors are not directly related to familial ties themselves; for example, the reduction in behavioral and mental health problems may be due in part to spending less time within the foster care system when compared to children without family ties. Kinship adoption also increases the likelihood that the children will be reunited with their biological parents in some capacity.

Detractors of kinship adoption argue that we prioritize kinship adoptions because they are less expensive, entail less vetting and follow ups, and reduce risk of liability. They argue that kinship adoptions encourage people who should not be caring for children to do so, and that the financial incentives involved in the arrangement complicate the situation.

Difficulties Being an Adoptee

There are difficulties that can be associated with being an adopted child, particularly for international adoptees or adoptees who were previously in foster care. Adoption research can be somewhat difficult to parse because researchers do not always differentiate between different types of adoptees when recruiting for their studies. Additionally, researchers are more likely be looking at a clinical population to begin with (adoptees already diagnosed with a mental health disorder), so the data they find may not be generalizable to the entire adoptee population.

As we talked about above, international or interracial adoptees can develop feelings of a lack of acceptance or difficulty understanding their identity. Foster children can struggle to cope with the trauma they experienced before being removed from their environments, the ensuing instability that can occur from being moved within the foster care system, and the trauma from the foster care system itself.

The impact of adoption before birth (when a biological parent agrees they will let a person become the adoptive parent once the child is born) on the adoptee seems to be less clear, since the adoptive parent is the only parent the adoptee has ever known. It seems that having a stable, secure, loving, honest, and supportive family is the best predictor of outcomes, whether the child is adopted or not.

Other concerns that I've seen raised on TikTok specifically relate to the role of an adopted child in the adoptive family. They sometimes raise the belief that children are being adopted with the intention of being "parentified" (to provide physical and emotional support for the parents as opposed to the other way around). I couldn't find any evidence that this happens, but I did find a lot of articles about adoptive parents who are looking to help their adopted child stop exhibiting parental behaviors.

I also see concerns that a child is adopted with the purpose of fixing a marriage or to help the parent feel fulfilled in their life. I couldn't find any data on this claim, either. I imagine it does happen. But it also happens in parents who decide to have a biological child, and I would wager a guess that it's less likely to happen in the case of adoptions because there's an extensive vetting process before a person or couple can legally adopt.

Why Adoption is Sometimes Necessary

I do think there are cases in which adoption is necessary. In childhood development research, there's this concept called "adverse childhood experiences". These are various forms of abuse, neglect, and dysfunction that a child may experience. In the original study, the ACEs were as follows:

Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often... Swear at you, insult you, put you down, or humiliate you? or act in a way that made you afraid that you might be physically hurt?

Did a parent or other adult in the household often or very often... Push, grab, slap, or throw something at you? or Ever hit you so hard that you had marks or were injured?

Did an adult or person at least 5 years older than you ever... Touch or fondle you or have you touch their body in a sexual way? or Attempt or actually have oral, anal, or vaginal intercourse with you?

Did you often or very often feel that ... No one in your family loved you or thought you were important or special? or Your family didn't look out for each other, feel close to each other, or support each other?

Did you often or very often feel that ... You didn't have enough to eat, had to wear dirty clothes, and had no one to protect you? or Your parents were too drunk or high to take care of you or take you to the doctor if you needed it?

Were your parents ever separated or divorced?

Was your parent or caretaker: Often or very often pushed, grabbed, slapped, or had something thrown at her? or Sometimes, often, or very often kicked, bitten, hit with a fist, or hit with something hard? or Ever repeatedly hit over at least a few minutes or threatened with a gun or knife?

Did you live with anyone who was a problem drinker or alcoholic, or who used street drugs?

Was a household member depressed or mentally ill, or did a household member attempt suicide?

Did a household member go to prison?

ACEs are associated with high-risk health behaviors such as smoking, substance abuse, promiscuity, and severe obesity, as well as health conditions such as depression, heart disease, cancer, lung disease, and overall shortened lifespan. Children who had four ACEs had a seven fold (700%) increase in alcoholism, a doubling of risk of being diagnosed with cancer, and a four fold increase in emphysema. An ACE score above 6 was associated with a 30-fold (3000%) increase in attempted suicide. The greater the number of ACEs in a person's childhood, the more likely it is that they will be at risk for negative health and wellness outcomes.

I bring this concept up because adoption is essentially one ACE. It is traumatic to be removed from your primary caregiver, especially if you're old enough to remember it. But being left in a dysfunctional household will typically result in several ACEs over a child's lifetime. When these kind of events occur, it's important to immediately reduce the risk that the child will experience another one, whether that means removing the child from their home or not.

But even if you believe that adopting a child is the equivalent of 10 ACEs, there are some situations in which adoption is unavoidable. If a child loses both their parents, adoption is unavoidable, especially if they have no living relatives. If a child is "safely surrendered" (abandoned at a site such as a hospital or fire station), adoption is unavoidable. If a pregnant person decides they don't want a child, adoption is (and should be) unavoidable. We shouldn't be forcing parents to give up their children, but we also shouldn't be forcing biological parents to raise a child they don't want and aren't ready for. I think people who are fully anti-adoption fail to consider these types situations.

So What Can We do Better?

I am 110% with anti-adoption advocates when they say that there are real problems within our adoption system. But to get rid of adoption entirely is to almost literally throw the baby out with the bathwater. I'm not an expert in this field by any means, but it seems that some things we can do to improve the adoption system might include:

Introducing comprehensive sex education into schools, making access to birth control options inexpensive and easy, increasing access to abortion

Introducing easily accessible options for mental health treatment to anyone who needs it

Offering more support to parents who are struggling to take care of their child, with the goal of reducing the number of children who are removed from their biological parents to begin with

Reducing the prison population by decriminalizing certain victimless crimes

Tightening restrictions around who can be a foster parent or an adoptive parent, regardless of their relationship to the child, and standardizing those requirements across the country

Requiring all adults in a household to be considered "parents" to the adoptive/foster child, meaning that they are also subject to restrictions and foster/adoptive parent training

Putting regulations in place for "rehoming" a child

Encouraging domestic adoptions before international adoptions, if not ending the process of international adoptions entirely

Making rehabilitation of parents and reunification of families the goal except in extenuating circumstances

Ending the practice of completely closed adoptions, and legally protecting post-adoption contracts

Providing better mental health support for adopted children

Providing better resources for parents looking to adopt, including required parenting classes for states that don't already have them and specific training for parents who are adopting from the foster system, adopting interracially, or have other circumstances that may make their situation more emotionally complicated

Realigning financial incentives so that family reunification and adoption are the goals

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valiantarcher · 3 years

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I have random and assorted thoughts on my Constance Savery reads over the past couple of weeks. I’ve categorised them by work (Magic in My Shoes, “The Waswytch Secret”, The Reb and the Redcoats, The Good Ship Red Lily, and Enemy Brothers) so those who haven’t read all of them have the option to (hopefully easily) scroll past the unread ones if they so desire. I have also put them under the cut due to length.

Magic in My Shoes: I enjoyed Sally as the narrator, and the premise was engaging even with me knowing the secret early in the book. I was a little surprised by the accusations of ill-nourishment and neglect against Aunt Persis, but in retrospect, I appreciate that realism - four growing children are not going to flourish off even generous portions for two of them. Which brings me to my main complaint - Tandy and his unwillingness to see gorging himself was selfish and wrong on many levels. Despite the thin excuse that he had been delicate and sickly at times in the past, I really expected Josset (with Laurence’s support) to put his foot down instead of continuing to baby him (after all, as someone remarked, triplets are all of the same age). Tandy didn’t ruin the story for me, but he made certain parts of it very irritating. I did love the plan involving ten-year-old Laurence becoming a schoolteacher and, when Aunt Persis declared that was nonsense, all the children bring up a moral tale with a six-year-old being so studious that she became a teacher as solid proof.

“The Waswytch Secret”: Given that it was in a collection of ghost stories (well, sort of - most had some sort of haunting element, if only a little, but I’m still not sure why “The Red-Headed League” was included), I wasn’t sure what to expect at first. It was thoroughly Savery, though, and an enjoyable read with an element of mystery. It felt slightly different from her novels, and I think that was due to the choice of one of the younger children as narrator.

Reb and Redcoats: This was a reread and I found it a pretty fun one this time around. Randal’s integration into and relationship with the Darringtons was charming. I couldn’t decide whether Tim Wingate’s inaptitude for stealth and secrecy was more irritating or amusing, but I swung towards the latter by the end, especially given his cheerful nature. My main gripe is that I still feel like the Patty switch was kind of cheating.

The Good Ship Red Lily: I struggled with this one a lot even past (or maybe because of) the tense start. Violet was a horrible child, and I loathed Ingram and disliked Sir Timon. Objectively, of course it’s good that there was reconciliation with Ingram and that he repented and asked forgiveness, but I could not make myself invested in it (though the tiny glimpses we had of it from Michael’s perspective helped a little). I enjoyed Toby as primary character a lot and especially appreciated his resolution to deny the pleasures when he felt accepting them would go against his conscience. I wasn’t very pleased with the treatment of Patience, though - Toby said the others didn’t join him in his denial because they were too young to understand; while that certainly makes sense for the younger ones (and Violet is a category in and of herself), Patience is a year older than him and - although not privy to all the knowledge and trust from their father that Toby is - was Toby’s confidant about plans to escape. She showed a lack of wisdom in following Violet up the chimney, but that could partially have been explained by her caregiving to the younger children. Regardless, especially since all knew about Ingram’s betrayal, I think Patience at least should have been given a reason for not seeing the pleasures as a betrayal of their father instead of being pushed to the side and under the general but false umbrella of “too young to understand”.

Enemy Brothers: Especially after The Good Ship Red Lily, I was afraid this one might not live up to the positive recollection I had of it - but it didn’t disappoint. I very much appreciated that, although Dym was the one who had a special connection with Tony, Tony belonged to the entire family and they to him. I know Tony takes it lightly at the end and chalks it up to their keenness for detective work, but James and Porgy cycling 60 miles after him and the German in the car was no small thing. And, while it bugs me a little bit that Ginger doesn’t recgonise Tony despite the marked resemblance to Dym, I’ll let it go with the idea that he thinks he’s familiar but his brain doesn’t provide the correct context while on ship. I have a new appreciation for Dym. On one hand, of course he is gentle and doesn’t take harm easily from Tony - he’s been searching for Tony for years and so he’s been choosing to love Tony for years. And, on the other, you can tell he still hasn’t forgiven Max’s Mutti for stealing Tony and just how much effort it takes for him to choose to tell Tony to still love her and that he will take him to see her after the war. I also appreciate the honesty that Dym had in discussing England’s past and how they were not always on the side of right but that this time, they were. Also, Dym was a bomber pilot! I don’t know the exact statistics, but this was an incredibly dangerous job. I’m sure it varied some between organizations and aircraft, but if you were on the crew of a US B-17 bomber doing runs, the odds were you would only make it halfway through the 25 runs (I believe that’s right for the year it was published?) you were supposed to before being killed, captured, or severely injured. Even if you beat the odds and made it through all those runs (as some did), you would have had multiple crewmembers who did not and so would not have kept your full crew together (Were there rare exceptions to this, crews who made it all together? I hope so, but I don’t know). At any rate, when Euphemia comments to Dym and his friends to leave croquet until the summer when it was warmer and the way they all looked at each other for a moment as if there was no certainty that summer would come hit hard this time. (Oh, I just found someone noting that the RAF flew night missions and had a higher casualty rate than the US bombers, though it did depend on the year, of course - if they weren’t in the worst year yet, they were heading into it.) And the moment when Tony finds Dym and comes up behind him, nervous and afraid, and whispers “Please, George, I’ve come back” is just wonderful. I think there’s an idea of fear and justice vs. love and mercy, along with the hope that the choice of coming back will make a difference, but I haven’t figured out how to put it into words. I’m actually kind of shocked this book has never been made into a movie or a mini-series, especially when WWII stories have been so popular in somewhat recent years. But perhaps the strong Christian threads have put producers off (...not that that’s stopped others from mangling or removing them from other works).

The Good Ship Red Lily and Enemy Brothers: Enemy Brothers feels like a kind of inverse of The Good Ship Red Lily. Both books deal with children meeting and spending time with family members (and because of kidnapping, no less) and making decisions as to where home is and who true family is, but the role of the family is drastically different. In Red Lily, the dapper uncle is the kidnapper. Ingram tries to act like he is filling the kind, wise, but fun adult role and the children do love him for that. However, he is directly and actively responsible for their kidnapping, for previous imprisonment of their father, and for the current attempt to capture their father. In Enemy Brothers, Dym is ostensibly in the enemy role (being English and responsible for Tony’s “imprisonment” in the White Priory), but his actions are kind, loving, and (mostly) wise. Even when Tony is hating him, he can’t deny there’s a magnetism around Dym that all the children, including him, recognise and respond to. It’s not quite that serious, but I am reminded of the exchange in The Fellowship of the Ring about the enemy’s agents seeming fair but feeling foul, while the good may look foul but feel fair. But where an understanding of Ingram’s true nature leads Toby to separate from him and his grandfather, a deeper understanding of Dym and his true character helps Tony to make the hard but right decision about his home and family. In both cases, repentance and returning bring about reconciliation and restoration, but Ingram is the one repenting in Red Lily, confessing and asking forgiveness of his brother. In Enemy Brothers, Tony is the one who comes back, finally seeking the brother who has sought him for so long. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness from his brother in words and indeed doesn’t need to because his actions speak so loudly of it, but is fully received with love and restored.

#Constance Savery #Enemy Brothers #The Good Ship Red Lily #The Reb and the Redcoats #Magic in My Shoes #The Waswytch Secret #books #I'm sure I'm forgetting lots of thoughts but this is so long already #Thanks to past!Valia for having acquired much more knowledge of WWII since the first Enemy Brothers read #No thanks to past!Valia for not having done any research into the RAF #I am also always struck by the reminder Enemy Brothers was written during the war - maybe that's part of why it feels so real #As far-fetched as the premise always seems to me - these things just happened and the timing was such?? But stranger things have happened #Providence after all and I'll forgive it here even though I tend to like a stronger recognition of it #And now to send all the books back to their own libraries *sighs*

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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 3 years

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The Critique of Manners, Part II

~Or~

A Candid Review of ITV's Emma (1997)

Disclaimer: I do know that both this and the Miramax version were released in 1996, but to avoid confusion, I refer to this one as the “1997 Emma” in reference to the US release date.

The bones of this review were written some six years ago after my initial viewing. I’ve watched it three or four times since then, two very recently (Within the past year). I’d started to soften on it in the most recent watch. So many people love it so much I thought surely maybe I’m just crazy or even wrong; until I found this blog post from 2008 (a year before my favorite version was released) that hit on almost EVERY SINGLE thing that skeeved me out about this version when I first watched it.

Like my previous review of Emma. (2020), I’ll be covering the cast and overall handling of the script in comparison with what I know from reading the book. I will also be commenting on my thoughts about the costumes (Whether they are attractive or accurate, or both, or neither) which will be a bit more in depth than it was for the 2020 version, and this will set a pattern for the costumes section going forward.

Directed by Diarmuid Lawrence with screenwriting by Andrew Davies (Or should I say “Written by Andrew Davies with direction by Diarmuid Lawrence”?), this version was a fan-favorite among Janeites for many years for … well, reasons I’ve never been entirely certain of. I’ve read the book twice through and referenced pertinent passages MANY times besides, and really I don’t see what they’re raving about.

Let’s dive in.

Cast & Characterization

I’d known about this adaptation for a while, but I held off on watching it, largely for one reason: my apprehension about Mark Strong playing Mr. Knightley.

I was concerned because when I watched this I had already seen Mark Strong as Sir John Conroy in The Young Victoria and as Lord Blackwood in Sherlock Holmes, both very unpleasant characters. But there have been several occasions when I expressed displeasure with casting choices only to eat my words when I actually watched the movie. So I entered into watching this with an optimistic outlook, sure that Mark and Kate would surprise me with brilliant performances. And I would like to say that they did, but that would be an untruth.

My biggest fear about Mark Strong playing Mr. Knightley was that his rebuking of Emma was going to be a watered down version of ‘RAAAWWWRRR’ that I was familiar with, specifically because of The Young Victoria. It’s very hard for me to see Mark Strong point his finger in Emily Blunt’s face and shout at her, and then watch him do the same thing with Kate Beckinsale (only somewhat less aggressively) and expect to feel all warm and fuzzy about their romance. I expected that to be a tall order. And it was. Whenever he raises his voice, the right side of his face pulls up into a snarl. Now since it does this no matter what role he’s playing I’m guessing that’s just how his face is. It’s not his fault really and it’s almost certainly unintentional, but I’ve seen that snarl before and it does NOT belong on Mr. Knightley’s face.

Don’t ever think I don’t LOVE Kate Beckinsale, and I don’t necessarily think that my problems with this interpretation of Emma are her fault; these things very rarely fall on the shoulders of the actual actors, but those of the screenwriters and directors who guide them. However – and I am aware that this might sound a bit harsh – I would say that at points, Kate Beckinsale’s performance in this movie (In my opinion) barely outstrips community theatre or even very good high school drama club level acting. It seems to me that there’s burden on her here to sound historical or period. This lends to this interpretation of Emma feeling at once both cold and childish (more on that later.)

Her best moments are when she runs into Jane as Jane is leaving Donwell and when she speaks with Robert Martin at the end of the film. I always like scenes where Emma tacitly apologizes to Mr. Martin, and her feeling when she invites him to Donwell is Kate’s finest moment in this movie.

I found Raymond Coulthard’s Frank Churchill insignificant at first, but on repeat viewings I really started to hate him. I don’t think Austen intended Frank’s caddishness (to use more modern vernacular I’d say he’s an utter “Douche”) to be quite this obvious on first glance. He’s a creep in this version and Raymond Coulthard is just not at all attractive to me, from his big nose to his little shark teeth.

Olivia Williams was a good, even great, Jane Fairfax, and in my opinion does a much better job of portraying Jane’s vexation than, say, Polly Walker did (more on that next time), while still quietly looking like she’d like to arm-bar Frank rather than take his vulgar teasing lying down.

She also has the distinction of being the only Jane Fairfax who’s singing REALLY blows Emma’s out of the water, and I like that all of the songs she sings are in languages other than English (primarily Italian I think?). This achieves the double whammy of showing how much more accomplished she is than Emma by emphasizing that not only does Jane sing and play better, but she knows languages too.

Samantha Morton is a superb actress whom I love and I was sort of appalled at how she looks in this movie. Is she dying of a wasting illness? She looks like a gust of wind will carry her away, although since she looked the same in the 1997 Jane Eyre (In which she played the title role under similarly appalling direction) perhaps that was just her look that year?

Dominic Rowan, as Mr. Elton, is… there’s a perfect word to describe it and I just can’t think of it right now. Like every other young man in this movie (other than Robert Martin) he’s got this feeling of skeeviness to me but it’s more than that. It’s a dweebie-ness as well. This is so dissatisfactory to me because Mr. Elton is supposed to have every appearance of charm and agreeableness, with his only obvious fault being his over-eagerness to ingratiate himself to Emma and some rather vulgar locker-room type talk about marrying for fortune. He’s just so… (I’ve hit upon it now after some discussion with my sister) dingy. He looks less like a “very handsome young man” who “knows the value of a good income” and more like the kind of guy that scrubs up okay, but still you can tell from the rumple of his clothes and the pizzaroni odor wafting from him that he lives in his mom’s basement.

The shining star for me in this production was Alistair Petrie as Robert Martin. I love him as an actor and especially after watching him in Cranford, I think he was an excellent choice for Harriet’s Mr. Martin.

Davies wrote the character to be a little more romantic (Actually buying Anne Radcliffe’s The Romance of the Forest, where originally Mr. Martin was supposed to forget to – something Emma uses as a mark against him to prove how he will age into an “gross vulgar old farmer” who is “obsessed with profit and loss”.)

I especially like an inserted scene where Mr. Martin, working in his field, sees a distressed Jane Fairfax from afar as she is walking home (I think from Donwell). I thought it drew an interesting parallel between two emotionally wronged characters that otherwise would have no interaction.

What’s with Mrs. Elton (Lucy Robinson)? I don’t think nearly enough people question this. I’ve seen it explained away as her being from Bristol and trying to make herself sound more hoity-toity to hide the fact that she’s New Money. I’m not positive on what a Bristol accent sounds like (For that is where Augusta Hawkins is from) but… this sounds like an American trying to sound posh. At some points she almost sounds Texan. It’s all very confusing, because the actress is British.

Prunella Scales lists among her achievements being an outstanding actress and comedienne, as well as bringing into the world Samuel West, one of my all time favourite British screen crushes. She's probably best known for her work on Fawlty Towers, so its interesting to see her range as much less inscrutable Miss Bates. Her performance is by the book, but so much more engaging than Constance Chapman's 1972 offering, although i find her perhaps a shade too placid. She lacks a certain nervousness that I associate with the character (for more information, see my previous review.)

As for Bernard Hepton as Mr. Woodhouse, I can only say I. Didn’t. Like. Him. I have every consciousness of this being a personal bias. I have seen him play too many insufferable characters in too many things to like him as Emma’s lovable if tiresome father. This isn’t a knock on him or his performance; his reaction to Mrs. Elton is some great subtle visual comedy, this is just a me thing.

Another one of the better characterizations, though a relatively small role, is John Knightley. Played by Guy Henry, he is shown to be a good father, and an “Gentleman-like man”, with just the right blend of good humor and caustic comments.

Sets & Surroundings

I’d never paid MUCH attention to or questioned the houses and interiors used for estates in Austen adaptations until the 2020 version of Emma used such ridiculously lavish houses for relatively provincial gentry it forced me to sit up and pay attention. I think the houses used in this version are mostly suitable.

The part of Donwell Abbey’s exterior is played by Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire. The Key words for Donwell from the text are “rambling and irregular” and while perhaps not as big as the Former Claremont House (Which, it is believed, was Austen’s inspiration for Donwell Abbey) it definitely is a suitable architectural style and situation and furthermore, having been purchased in the 19th century by a glove manufacturer and having been up to that point left in a little bit of a state of disrepair, fits the “neglect of prospect” Austen describes as well. Its interiors are a cobble-work of the Great Hall at Broughton Castle (Oxfordshire), various rooms at Stanway House (Gloucestershire), and the Strawberry beds at Thame Park (Oxfordshire)

(Top, left – Sudeley Castle; Bottom left – Trafalgar Park; Right – Dorney Court)

Trafalgar Park in Wiltshire and its interiors (a minty sage-green drawing-room fitting in perfectly with the mint-chocolate – primarily chocolate – color palette of the production) played the role of the Woodhouse’s home, Hartfield. A typical Georgian style house in red brick, I believe is consistent with Austen’s description of a “well built, modern house”.

Dorney Court in Buckinghamshire was used for Randalls, Mr. Weston’s recently purchased estate. It’s a Tudor style red brick house and it looks pretty on the mark from the front facade, but I think it’s still too big for a “small estate” with only two guest rooms (Although there’s no panic about the snow in this version – perhaps because it’s already snowing when they set out.)

My biggest problem is the lighting of this movie. I understand natural lighting and I LOVE it when you can even it out – but it is so dark in the evening scenes that it adds to the colorlessness of an already colorless production.

Fashion

Oh Jenny Beavan. You are a well-respected costume designer with good reason. However, I know that most of these costumes are rentals, but why is every-fucking-thing in this movie a shade of brown, beige or green?

As you can see, a rich tapestry of brown and beige. And this isn’t selective. this is (just about) every day-wear outfit in the movie (barring repeats and a few exceptions that I’ll give mention to below.)

Emma’s outerwear is brought to you by Hershey’s Chocolate. Also I’m not certain but I think that her light brown redingote is the same one as Elinor’s in the 1995 Sense and Sensibility? If anyone can confirm, drop it in the comments.

Perhaps the evening wear will be more colorful?

Barely – Mrs. Weston in a brownish orange; Mrs. John Knightley in an orange-ish brown; Emma gets a dark blue? Or is that just the wintery glow from the window on a dark green velvet? Green (either so dark it’s almost black, or washed-out mint) appears to be the only color Emma is allowed to wear other than brown or ivory/white. Even her gown for the Crown Inn Ball (upper right) is an underwhelming and rather dingy ivory. The champagne number she wears for Christmas at Randalls is not only lack-lustre, but also sports what I’m now calling a “Bridgerton Bust” (where the Empire waist comes up too high, with the seam apparently resting across her bust rather than under it.)

The pink frock (seen properly only from the back) on Mrs. Weston is as close to real color as a main character gets in this production, and can be recognized as one of Jane Bennet’s dresses from the previous year’s Pride and Prejudice.

Even Jane Fairfax doesn’t get a break. Rather than putting her in Jane Fairfax Blue ™ (honestly, Jane Fairfax being costumed in blue is so consistent at this point Crayola should just name a crayon in her honor - this is gonna come back in future reviews) she gets a black-green evening number with no trim at all, and a succession of what the Ladies over at Frock Flicks like to call the “Dumpy Regency Little White Dress”, or drab gray-blues.

Some of the background dancers in the Crown Inn Ball scene get to wear pink! Why not put Harriet in a nice pink frock for this scene?! Why is this so difficult?!

Strawberry picking at Donwell is the only time main characters are consistently wearing identifiable colors that aren’t brown or green: Mrs. Weston in pink, Miss Bates in (oddly the most colorful dress of them all) a nice refreshing lavender blue; Jane gets grey/blue and Mrs. Elton, a pastel mint. Harriet is also given a little break in Mrs. Elton’s introduction scene in a (very) pastel blue frock, while Emma sports white (with a trademark green shawl.)

So how about the...

Similarly dull. I almost screamed for joy when I saw that Frank’s jacket was actually blue, and a vibrant blue at that. (The red is too close to brown, I’m sorry.)

So yes, in short the costumes, while perfectly technically accurate (I didn’t get a lot of caps of them but the trousers sufficiently tight, not that I care to look), are drab as a peahen.

As always I’ll outsource any dancing critique by linking Tea With Cassiane on YouTube, since I find her insights on the approach to dancing in Austen adaptations just fascinating and I would like to share such witty and informed reviews.

The Andrew Davies of it All…

*Strong Opinions Ahead*

There are so many reasons why this adaptation isn’t for me. First of all the very idea of making Emma, one of Austen’s most socially complex works (certainly her most vivid) into a sparse 107 minutes is baffling to me. Perhaps I can understand if it’s a Theatrical release but this is a TV production. Why not at least make it a two part special?

And besides the issue that, in order to make this fit the time frame, the story is severely truncated, there’s… the Andrew Davies of it all.

I have some issues with Andrew Davies’ screenwriting for this adaptation particularly. A LOT of issues. Where does one start? I think Knightley is a good place.

It’s not just the casting I don’t like here; but it does say something to me that they chose Mark Strong for this role. It’s a casting decision I discovered with disbelief when I first saw clips from this version in a Period Drama men compilation video on YouTube. I mentioned above that I know Mark Strong as unpleasant characters with man-handling habits. That’s the kind of role Mark Strong is associated with because that’s just what he does well. And I think this played into the casting here, because Davies’ interpretation of Knightley is a bit… fierce. He shouts SO MUCH in this movie and in scenes like the Harriet Smith debacle (where Mr. Knightley of the book even gets a bit angry with Emma) I can understand this, perhaps. But in the book Mr. Knightley takes many pauses to collect and calm himself, because his goal is not to quarrel with Emma but to argue a point. 97 Knightley takes no such pauses and spends the whole scene in what some might call an escalating rage.

Knightley’s cheerful arrival to Hartfield to tell Emma that Robert Martin intended to propose to Harriet is cut out so we start right off with his indignant exclamation of “She refused him?!” and it’s all go from there. To make matters worse, Emma’s own arguments are crippled by Davies’ editing. Many of her more (what might even latterly be considered “feminist”) arguments are cut out. In fact once Knightley gets going, he juggernauts his way through all of his rebukes and speeches from the book, but Emma hardly gets a word in edgewise after arguing that Robert Martin is not Harriet’s equal. What Austen wrote as a heated debate is turned by Davies into a one-sided tirade. (By don’t take my word for it, watch the clip.)

The final cherry on top is having Emma, after Knightley leaves the room with the last word firmly in his grasp, childishly pout “You are wrong Mr. Knightley, and you will see you are wrong and then you will be sorry.” I half expected her to cross her arms and stomp her foot. Worth noting is the fact that Davies adds an additional “It was badly done. Emma,” in this scene where there was none in the book. Rather overkill to my mind. Is this his catchphrase?

At Box Hill, Davies has Knightley begin his climactic rebuke of Emma’s insulting behavior by grabbing her arm and hauling her aside, and concludes by leading her, still holding her arm, to the carriage. Well at least he doesn’t shout at her in this scene; but again, all but one of Emma’s responses are cut out and she stands there, pouting until Mr. Knightley leaves and then she bursts into tears.

When Mr. Knightly proposes to Emma I was feeling good about this scene, until he dropped the “I held you when you were three weeks old” line, and I immediately felt uncomfortable. Maybe you DON’T want mention how you held her when she was a baby after you asked her to MARRY you. But perhaps worse is Emma’s response to the line: “Do you like me as well now as you did then?”

Bringing up holding Emma when she was three weeks old at the proposal (A line which was not in the book) is bad enough but there seems to be a peculiar repeated emphasis on Knightley recalling Emma as a baby. He dragged it up previously when he and Emma make up after the Harriet debacle, as he holds John and Isabella’s baby daughter (whose name, I would mention, is Emma.) In this instance too, the line is a Davies addition.

Let’s talk about Knightley’s strawberry line.

This is delivered in voice-over as a transition to the strawberry picking party at Donwell, and is portrayed as a formal invitation: “Mr. Knightley invites you to taste his strawberries, which are ripening fast.”

At first I was confident that I was reading too much into this (but I think at this point I can safely say that I’m not). I can’t help bursting out laughing every time I hear that line. It was a questionable way to word that if you ask me, especially considering that this is (once again) NOT the line in the book, and it was NOT a formal invitation. It was said to Mrs. Elton and intended to be a joke.

“You had better explore Donwell then,” replied Mr. Knightly “That may be done without horses. Come and eat the strawberries; they’re ripening fast.”

‘ If Mr. Knightly did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so...’

And here I thought Janeites hated adaptations that cut out “Miss Austen’s biting wit.”

To top it all off, we have Frank Churchill (Who I have already pointed out is a bit of a creep in this adaptation and even more detestable than he already was as Austen wrote him) praising Jane: this would be fine, if he wasn’t drooling into Emma’s ear about the turn of Jane’s throat, (He actually utters this line)

and how fine his dead aunt’s jewels will look against her skin. May I just be the first to say “Ehewhegaugh”.

I juxtapose this with the book where Frank's lines are almost exactly as Davies renders them, except Jane Austen never wrote the "have you ever seen such a skin?" Line. The difference i have highlighted in bold:

"... She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is she not an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes as she looks up at my father. --- You will be glad to hear that my uncle intends to give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be new set. I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will it not be beautiful in her dark hair?"

Because talking about how pretty your fiancee's hair is, is normal and marginally less creepy than talking about what a fine skin she has or how lovely your (i cannot stress this part enough) dead aunt's jewels will look against it. Davies' script also makes no mention of having them reset, which makes me think he’s talking about the actual necklaces and bracelets Mrs. Churchill would have worn.

But hey, maybe its just a me thing.

Harriet Smith’s story suffers, primarily, I can with some candor admit, due to the time constraints. After Mr. Elton is married, we never see Harriet in any distress. It’s almost as though she’s forgotten all about it! Emma never has to appeal to her to exert herself or to move on. Perhaps this is better than Doran Godwin’s Emma gaslighting Harriet and manipulating her by constantly chastising her for… well general heartbreak (but that’s a bugaboo for a different review.)

My last complaint of note is that ludicrous harvest feast at the end of the movie. The whole concept of this scene just does not seem at all Janely to me. I was under the impression that I was meant to be watching an Austen. Not some bullshit Thomas Hardy knock-off. This is another Davies touch and I hate it more on the principal that it is one of his numerous, obsessive tweaks made solely to point out the existence of the lower classes.

If Davies wanted to show Mr. Knightley’s being an attentive landlord and gentleman farmer then I don’t see why he couldn’t just show Knightley actually running his farm?

“Okay’, you might say, “but I think the highlighting of the servants is to show how good Knightley is by treating them like real people compared to everyone else”, and I hear you. And in the situations where that is the case, like him greeting the Woodhouse’s butler and asking after his family I think that’s totally fine and in character. But things like the servants moving the knee cushions every time someone moves down the line at strawberry picking, to me, is AS ridiculous as the “servants clipping the lawn on their hands and knees with tiny scissors” trope. Like we get it, people took the lower classes for granted, but I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that it would be easier and more realistic to have Mrs. Elton have to move her own knee cushion. I don’t think Knightley would instruct his servants, who he treats so well, to do that kind of thing, but you could write in Mrs. Elton’s expectation of it if you wanted. It seems like the kind of thing she would expect the landed gentry to do.

Screenwriter for some of the best loved Austen’s (including the sacrosanct 1995 P&P Mini-series and my favorite Sense & Sensibility), I thought of Davies for years as untouchable; until Sanditon happened and left everyone who knows anything about Jane Austen really wondering where this mess came from. I put it to you now that it was there in Davies all along.

Davies admitted, when talking about the drastic “Sexing Up” he did in Sanditon that he felt Austen’s works could have done with a bit more sex appeal. I can hardly disagree and additions like Darcy’s little swim in the pond and Edward Ferrars’ angsty wood-chopping are welcome and beloved. But it seems that what he really wanted all along was what he gave us in Sanditon; and finally, without actual source material to stand in his way, he had a chance let his dirty old man show and gave “Austen” the sexing up he thought it needed.

And it gets more troubling as you look back.

In my opening paragraph to this review I mentioned a 2008 blog post that not only agreed with me that there’s something very off about this screenplay, but gave me some possible insights as to why. It points out numerous things that I have always questioned in this version but have never seen anyone else criticize (though I am informed that more recently it has gained its’ share of critics). In fact the post itself actually points out that almost no one in the Austen Blog-sphere had (at that point) criticized this version’s faults in any meaningful way, but my favorite thing about it is that it points out what you find in Davies’ screenplay if you pay careful attention to it “Rather than sitting there and cataloguing what is “technically faithful and whatnot”.

Many Austen bloggers have kind of been playing Miss Taylor to Davies’ Emma for some two decades and change.

The most troubling thing of all is Davies own comments on Mr. Knightley (and other things, more inferred in his screen play). All of the aspects of this interpretation of Knightley that I mentioned earlier seem to stem from the fact that, as quoted in Sarah Caldwell’s book on his works, Davies thinks there’s “Something odd going on with Knightley.”

Davies clearly reads foul, or at least questionable, intentions in Mr. Knightley but I find it interesting that, rather than cutting out material he may have found troubling about Knightley in the book out of his screenplay, he doubled down by adding MORE troubling lines and situations (that were never in the book at all, and imagined solely by himself) in a romantic story with a happy ending.

Perhaps there’s not so much something odd going on with Knightley, Mr. Davies, but with you.

Final Thoughts

At this point I might ask what it is that everyone sees in this version that makes them think it’s so perfect, but that would be a bit pointless since all I’ve read since I discovered this version is people on elaborating on just that and I don’t care to hear much more.

“The lines are verbatim!” textually, perhaps, but it’s the ones that added that trouble me.

“The leads have so much chemistry!” I’m glad you think so, but I can’t find it.

“The costumes are damn near perfect!” And brown. So, so very brown.

As a 90's TV period drama, this version is pretty standard. It sticks to the book (except in those places where the screenwriter saw fit to dabble with some subtle but troubling suggestions about the characters.) And if it floats your boat, as always I'm glad it gives you what you want from the story.

I know I hold unpopular opinions on Jane Austen adaptations, and perhaps this is one of them, but every time I watch this version I feel the need to read the book as a cleanse. Perhaps Davies’s ferocious Knightley was simply a pendulum swing reaction to Douglas McGrath’s almost too laid back interpretation in the Miramax film from earlier in 1996, but even if that’s the case it’s just uncalled for and is my biggest turn off for this film.

Tone: 3

Ribbon Rating: Badly Done! (40 Ribbons)

Casting: 5

Acting: 6

Scripting: 4

Pacing: 2

Cinematography: 4

Setting: 3

Costumes: 5

Music: 2

Book Accuracy: 6

#jane austen #jane austen emma #costume drama #regency #period drama #emma 1996

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scripttorture · 3 years

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I’m not sure if you’ll be comfortable answering those, but with recent police brutality in the U.S, I want to write about police torture of protestors and protestors’ feelings. I have a wheelchair user Latina girl and a blind Black trans man. They will be arrested together after the trans man tries to talk down a cop (inspired by a real video) and I wanted them both to be tear gassed. I have experience with police brutality, but was not arrested.

Part 2- How do they arrest blind people and wheelchair users? I understand mobility aids are usually taken away. Does this apply to canes for blind people? Also, I was going to have them in holding for 1 day with no treatment for their eyes after being tear gassed. Is this realistic or do you think police should pour water on them? I was going to involve the arrested characters all going on hunger strike, which might cause the police to transport them to booking faster. Does this sound okay?

‘Comfortable’ feels like the wrong word for all of this subject to be honest. I don’t think I could do this if I was comfortable, I am incandescent with rage. I am furious that the world we live in is still infested with this pointless, preventable brutality. Yes I am essentially a ball of rage and ferrets.

And a portion of that is about the fact it only really makes the news when it affects wealthy countries. Seeing the response in Kenya and Nigeria to these movements/events in the West has been… interesting.

Let’s start off with some definitions here because I think that will help as we discuss the story idea.

Realism in the context of these discussions doesn’t necessarily mean ‘this would happen to 100% of people in this situation.’ If we’re talking about torture techniques used and treatment of particular groups in society then it’s less a case of ‘does this happen or not’ and more a case of ‘how often does this happen?’ ‘how likely is this?’

Most modern torture is ‘clean’, which means that it doesn’t leave obvious external marks. But you do still get incidents (including in rich Western countries) where scarring torture occurs. They just a lot rarer.

And, continuing this example, if a writer came to me asking about writing a scarring torture in a modern setting I’d warn them about the implications that can go with that. I’d talk about how survivors of clean tortures are dismissed and belittled. I’d talk about how the harm clean tortures do is downplayed. And I’d say that while there’s nothing wrong with wanting to use a scarring torture in a story, when we do it’s important to be aware of the context: that scarring tortures are rare and that they’re not ‘worse’.

Everything you’ve described for your story is possible and it’s the sort of thing that’s more common in the country and time period you’ve chosen for your story.

I’ve found it difficult to get hold of larger studies focused on the US. A lot of the statistical analysis I’m seeing focuses on mental illness or doesn’t draw a distinction between mental illness and physical disability. That can be pretty common when you’re looking up stuff about disability. It can be a helpful approach in some respects, showing how the disabled population broadly is discriminated against. But it also masks things that affect particular sub sections of the disabled population by lumping everyone in together.

The Prison Policy Initiative has a page here you might find helpful, but most of these articles focus on mental illness and low IQ. Solitary Watch has a frankly horrifying list of cases in a prison where the disabled were routinely denied treatment and left in neglectful conditions that amount to torture. (The list includes a blind man denied a cane for 16 years.)

Based on individual cases I’ve read I’d say that what you have planned is realistic, in the sense that it is possible. Similar things have occurred in America.

In the absence of clear statistics on the number of disabled people in custody in the US, let alone how they’re treated, I’m finding it difficult to say how common this would be.

Part of the problem is a lack of consistent standards or definitions across the country. This is from a Reuters investigative piece on deaths and abuse in US jails: ‘Seventeen states have no rules or oversight mechanisms for local jails, according to Reuters research and a pending study by Michele Deitch, a corrections specialist at the Lyndon B. Johnson School of Public Affairs at the University of Texas. In five other low-population states, all detention facilities are run by state corrections agencies. The other 28 have some form of standards, such as assessing inmates’ health on arrival or checking on suicidal inmates at prescribed intervals. Yet those standards often are minimal, and in at least six of the states, the agencies that write them lack enforcement power or the authority to refer substandard jails for investigation.’ (Emphasis mine, full article series can be found here. It contains video footage of torture (beating), some graphic descriptions of racist abuse and miscarriage.)

What this means for you is that there’s massive variation between jails in the US. The variation affects everything from the structure of the jail itself, to staffing levels, to workplace culture, to oversight, to provision of medical care. Basically some jails are a lot more abusive and dangerous then others.

It’s also difficult to identify problem facilities because, as the Reuters article points out, a lot of the relevant statistics aren’t released to the public. Reuters came up with their statistics by examining jail records and reporting of deaths or abuse in local newspapers over a period of several years.

In some of the accounts from US prisoners I’ve read people were allowed to keep wheelchairs. In others they were taken away.

The cases where wheelchairs were taken were generally reported as part of a wider pattern of torturous neglect. I do not have enough evidence or cases here to say that that’s always the case: I don’t think this proves that prisons or jails which take mobility aids always neglect disabled prisoners. Because I don’t know whether taking a mobility aid, in and of itself, would be reported if it wasn’t happening alongside prisoners being left lying in their cells for days, unable to eat or clean themselves.

I’ve tried my best to read about disability generally over the years. Because I live in the UK most of what I know about disability is based here. I know about attitudes in Saudi, where I grew up and a little about Cyprus where my family is from.

Based on what I know about disability generally I’d say that when mobility aids and canes are taken away neglect and abuse are more likely. And I think that would include being left in a cell, having been tear gassed, with no water.

In terms of physically arresting people with disabilities, well there are problems with abuse of disabled people the world over. I’ve heard stories from a lot of different countries about people being ripped out of wheelchairs, being tackled, being dragged. Unfortunately a lot of people are taught to doubt disability and to treat obviously disabled people with contempt.

But you should remember that I read about the worst case scenarios. My knowledge is focused on abuse and ideas about what encourages or discourages it. Which can skew the perception of how common these things are. (I really wish I could find some decent statistical data here, the absence is maddening.)

I think part of the way to approach this is to break it down and figure out how many groups these characters are being passed between. I don’t actually know how the booking in process in the US works. (I’m sorry but the nature of the blog is that I’ve got a lot of broad knowledge, I’m not an expert on every police system in the world.)

The standard of treatment could easily vary between the people making the arrest and the people actually holding the prisoners.

And all of this means that I think you’ve got a lot of leeway here. There’s a big range of things that are possible here. So there’s scope to choose how bad it’s going to be.

You’re already doing that to some extent with the way you’ve planned this out and thought it through. That’s good, it’s important to work within your limits and focus on the elements you’re interested in.

There will be real cases similar to your story that went a lot worse and there’ll be cases where things went a lot better. No one story can capture everything and that’s OK.

I think these characters will probably be acutely aware that things could go very badly for them. They’ll probably have heard stories about people of their race, disability and gender being abused or even murdered by police. Use that in the story. Try to bring some of that fear and rage and defiance into the story.

I’m not sure what kind of cultural weight hunger strike carries in the US. I can link you to my masterpost on starvation which outlines the physical and psychological effects of hunger.

I also want to leave you my masterpost on solitary confinement, because I’m aware that US jails and prisons often put vulnerable prisoners straight into solitary.

It’s really clear just from your question that you’ve already put a lot of thought into this and done a fair bit of reading. Keep going.

You’re probably going to need sensitivity readers. It’s also probably going to take a lot of time, editing and re-reading to get this story as good as you want it to be.

And it’s going to be hard. Researching this stuff is incredibly exhausting. For the love of gods take breaks. I’ve got a guide to researching difficult topics here. It can be hard to follow the advice there, hell I struggle to sometimes, but you can’t let this stuff poison you.

I hope that helps :)

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#writing advice #tw torture #tw racism #tw police brutality #tw transphobia #tw ableism #disability #clean torture #tear gas #pepper #America #American National Style #jails #abuse of prisoners #prison systems #blind characters #paralysis

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ladyloptr · 4 years

Text

•Merely A Maid•

Request: twt@LOKIBARBZ “idk if ill be able to explain this well enough so apologies for that but what if the reader is a maid/servant of the palace and loki notices her just doing her duties while at a meeting or something and when he stands as shes cleaning up the meeting table he notices how much smaller she is than him physically (cough cough size kink) n requests for her to work on his floor more just to tease her n intimidate her cuz hes mean like that. like maybe...... while shes tidying up his chamber he pulls her onto his lap after having a drink or two n starts praising her for being a good servant.”

Fandom: Thor 1

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Smut, dub-con, size kink, praise kink, master-servant relationship.

{————}

You’ve worked in the palace nearly your entire life. Your mother came to Asgard with you when you were young, escaping a crumbling marriage. She was lucky enough to be recruited by Queen Frigga, and so, she was hired to work in the Queen’s chambers. You grew up with all the other servant’s children, not allowed to mingle with any of the noble or royal children who resided in the palace.

Your mother eventually passed away, succumbing to the stresses of servantry, leaving you to support yourself. Having no other options, you ended up having to apply for a servants job in the palace, and so here you are, refilling the goblets of court members with ale and Æsir wine.

There is a meeting going on, though you’re not quite sure what is being discussed. Something about someone evading taxes and alliances with Vanaheim, but you aren’t sure. You’ve been too focused on your duties to eavesdrop into matters that have nothing to do with you.

So focused that you’ve neglected to notice the pair of sharp emerald eyes watching you. Apparently, you’re not the only one neglecting to pay attention.

The younger prince’s curiosity is piqued when he realizes has never seen you before. His prides himself in knowing something about everyone, and yet for some reason he’s never seen you before. His eyes drift to your pointy ears, allowing him to come to the conclusion that you’re Ljölsafar (Light Elf).

“Allfather, Lord Fjörnd will be most displeased with your decision. He believes that his region-“

“-Well, Lord Fjörnd is not King of Vanaheim. My alliance is with King Freyr.” The Allfather says. “If he wishes to debate the increase in trade taxes, he may speak to Freyr. This meeting has come to a close, you are all dismissed.”

While all of the court members leave, Loki hangs back, remaining seated while watching you clean up the table. You place the goblets on a tray and use a rag to clean up any drink that may have spilled onto the table. You are confused when you notice that Loki is still there.

“My prince...?”

Loki rises from his seat and it’s then that he becomes overtly aware of how short you are, in comparison to him. Æsir and Vanir women are known for their tall stature, while Ljölsafar women are much shorter.

The fact that he towers over you makes him excited. He is vaguely aware of his dominance kinks, but never truly had the opportunity to explore them. Perhaps, if given the chance...

You avert your eyes to the floor, unable to look anywhere near him while he’s staring so intensely at you. “My prince... is there something wrong...?”

“I am reassigning you.”

Reassigning? You think to yourself. Can he even do that?

“My father placed you in your current position as a general custodial servant, am I correct?”

You nod, keeping your eyes downcast.

“I believe your talents will be useful elsewhere. I am in need of a new chambermaid, as my previous one has retired.” Loki allowing his eyes to shamelessly look over your body.

“I-I don’t have many talents, sir.”

“You are a fast cleaner and you listen to directions very well, from what I’ve seen during that dreadful meeting.” Loki says. “Not many servants in this palace are useful for anything more than scrubbing floors. You will be working as my chambermaid starting tomorrow.”

“How will I know what to do, sir? I haven’t the training.”

“Hildegard will tell you everything you need to know. My requests are very simple and few in number.” Loki drawls. “I doubt you need extensive training for something so uncomplicated.”

“I... understand, sir.” You bow, and gather the tray of goblets and cloth. You keep your eyes to the floor even as you exit the room, and you are quite certain you hear Loki chuckle to himself.

A few months later, and you come to realize why they call Loki the God of Mischief.

You had expected being a chambermaid would be hard work, however, it’s just the opposite.

Most of the work you find yourself doing are the mundane things, such as making sure his bed is neat after he’s gotten up in the morning.

There’s barely any actual work for you to do, as Loki’s chambers are always so spotless, he hardly ever leaves you anything to clean, besides the bathroom of course.

Speaking of the bathroom... he has started asking you to bathe him, and you know that he’s only started doing it just to be mean.

He somehow found out that you’re a virgin.

The mischievous thing, ever since he discovered that information, he’s been terrorizing you. Sometimes he’ll act like a complete fool and ask you undress him, as if he’s suddenly forgotten how to do it himself.

And then there are times he’ll just be downright terrifying. A good example being the one time he asked you a question and opted to stand over you and gaze down at you as if you were his prey and he were the predator. It took a while for you to stutter out an appropriate answer.

A feast is currently going on tonight, in celebration of Thor and his friends coming out victorious in a recent battle, and Loki is surprisingly absent from his chambers. He usually doesn’t attend such things, finding the rowdy crowds of people to be quite distasteful.

You busy yourself with making sure the bathroom is clean, his bed is neat, and his bookshelves are in order. You are so engrossed in your work that you don’t hear Loki enter. He slowly closes the door behind himself and watches you dust around the corners of his chambers.

You yelp in surprise when you turn around to see him standing there staring at you. Your ears turn red as you wonder how long he’s been standing there for.

“I-I’m sorry, my prince... I didn’t... I didn’t hear you come in.”

Loki waves his hand dismissively, then walks by you to sit on the edge of his bed. You notice his movements are somewhat sluggish, so you decide to speak up.

“My prince... are you well?”

“I had a few drinks, I am fine, merely tipsy.” Loki motions for you to come towards him, and so you do, albeit with a bit of hesitation.

“Sir...?”

You let out a startled squeak he takes your waist with both of his hands, spins you around and pulls you onto his lap, your back facing him.

“M-my prince?” You squirm in his strong hold, only exciting him more. “What are you doing?”

“You’re such a good servant.” He drawls. “Such a good girl. I’ve wanted you ever since I laid my eyes on you.” He licks your earlobe causing you to jump. “Ljölsafar are such delicate things. Knowing that I could accidentally break you in half excites me.”

You gasp when Loki starts sucking on the spot behind your ear. He undoes the strings on the front of your dress, and then pulls the fabric down enough for your breasts to pop out. He pinched both of your nipples, rolling them in between his fingers as they harden. You start squirming again, and he clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Ah, ah, ah. Don’t do that.” Loki warns in your ear. “Be a good girl for me and stay still.”

Loki slips one of his hands underneath the skirt of your dress, his fingers snaking up your thighs. He stops at your panties and rubs his fingers against the damp material. Without another word he rips the cloth, now leaving you bare for him.

“Such an obedient girl. So well behaved.” He mutters, then pushes two of his fingers into you. “So wet. Is this for me, girl?”

You squeal, bewildered by his actions. “M-my prince, I’m n-not worthy-!”

“To the eyes of the court you may not be, but to me...?” He groans. “I can’t wait to deflower you. To be the first to fill you with my seed.”

He gently pumps his fingers, mindful of the fact that you’re untouched, and you arch your back against him in response.

“You are much too tight, my dear.” He chuckles, darkly. “I am afraid I might rip you in half when I take you.”

Despite the fact that he told you not to do it only moments before, you still can’t help but squirm underneath his attentions. You whine when he pulls his fingers out.

“On your knees, girl.” He orders, pushing you to kneel in front of him. You look away as he undoes the placket of his pants, freeing his erection.

Loki grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. Your ears are red and your face is flushed. “You are so bashful. It only makes me want to break you even more.” He tangles his fingers into your hair and tugs you forward, the swollen head of his cock touching the tip of your nose.

“Suck.”

You look up at him, fearfully. You’ve never given oral to anyone, let alone someone of high authority.

It’s not like you can disobey, though, and the scariest part may be that you sort of want to do this for him.

So, you take his head into your mouth and run your tongue over the slit. A loud groan tells you that you’re doing well so far. Your mouth is small, so you’re only able to fit a small portion of his cock in your mouth. You use your hands to massage the rest of his length.

“Ohhh, your mouth is sin.” He hisses.

After few long minutes of this, he pulls you off of him, and picks you up. He turns and suddenly drops you onto the bed, letting out a mischievous laugh when you yelp in surprise.

With a snap of his fingers, his armor and clothing is gone. He hurriedly pulls your dress down and off of you, absentmindedly throwing it off to the side. Your hands grip his upper arms as he cages you between him and his bed. You can feel the head of his cock nudge your entrance. It feels so big, you’re unsure how that’s going to fit.

“My prince... I don’t think I can...”

“You can.”

You blush heavily as your next words leave your mouth. “I... I don’t think it will fit.”

“I will make it fit.”

He hoists your legs up onto his shoulders and captures your mouth into a kiss. You let his tongue slip past your lips, and you soon come to realize that he has been trying to distract you when you feel a sharp pain followed by a burning sensation. He swallows your cries of pain and proceeds to slowly push in further.

By the time he’s fully sheathed inside of you, you’re shaking and your face is strained with tears. He takes his hand and wipes your tears away.

“I am going to move.” He informs you. “The pain will lessen over time.”

You aren’t sure if he’s telling the truth or if he’s lying out of desperation for some sort of release.

Loki slowly rocks back and forth, slightly shaking from restraining himself. All he truly wants is to fuck you through a wall, but that would have to wait. The last thing he needs is the whole palace thinking that he’s murdering you in his chambers.

“I can’t do this forever.” Loki grits out. He’s slowly losing his patience.

“It’s... it’s okay.” You breathe out. “It’s still there... but it’s starting to go away...”

Loki hums in acknowledgment and starts thrusting harder, speeding up his pace. You moan, the feeling of pleasure finally overcoming the pain you were experiencing earlier. He looks down at you, and the sight of seeing your small cunt being absolutely wrecked by his large cock drives him insane.

“Norns, you’re so tight.” He moans. “I could just sit here inside of you for days.”

You sigh, blissfully. You feel properly filled to the brim, his girth pleasantly stretching you out. A high pitched moan escapes you when he starts thumbing your clit, massaging it in tight circles. Something inside of you starts to knot tightly, and you desperately buck your hips up to meet his.

“My prince-! I-“ He cuts you off with another kiss, his hips now frantically thrusting.

“Cum.” He orders, his voice hoarse. “Cum for me. Cum for your prince.”

Your eyes roll back and your mouth hangs open in a silent scream. The feeling of your muscles squeezing his cock pushes him over the edge right after you. He stills and pulls you as close as possible to his body, ensuring that you take every drop of his cum. He gives one last weak thrust before collapsing on top of you.

“I am keeping you.” Loki mutters, his voice muffled by the pillow. “You will not allow anyone else to touch you. You are mine now, understand?”

“I understand.” You say softly.

He rolls off of you, and you’re mildly surprised when he pulls you up against his chest.

“We... didn’t use a contraceptive elixir.” You mutter, somewhat worried about what that might mean for you.

“I know. I did say you are mine, yes?”

“I could be flogged for laying with you, or even killed if I am found pregnant with your child.”

“And you won’t have to worry about that for very long.” Loki says with a mischievous tone. “I am, in fact, next in line to become king.”

You have no idea what he’s planning, but you don’t ask, instead choosing to stay silent.

Before you know it, you’ve drifted off to sleep.

#loki smut #loki (marvel)#loki odinson #servant #master and slave

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reddogcollar · 3 years

Text

Morning Routine

In which I make Hector have a breakdown. That's it. That's the plot.

Warnings for suicidal tendencies and a panic attack

sorry for weird formatting but its late and idc abt formats anymore <3

The only window in the cell at the top of the Garrison Tree was a small one, eye level with the table in the room so Hector could see the streets below sitting down.

Sometimes he was grateful for that. Sometimes it made him feel bitter. Most times the height made him dizzy.

Every time he wished the window had been carved up higher, or bigger, so that it'd let more light in the room.

As it was, even with the sun rising, the dark felt oppressive.

The dark wood that everything was carved in didn't help.

The dark probably wasn't actually that bad to anyone else, but to him the shadows writhed and whispered. He couldn't tell whether he was imagining the blue glints of light that would be a vile's eyes.

Even with his ties to dark magic severed, he could still see them.

He just couldn't do anything about them anymore.

Not that he really could before, he'd just learned to ignore them instead of banishing them. They'd quickly become one of his least important problems, after his brother came.

Now he was stuck in a tree with little company other than the dark.

And oh, did the dark love to talk. He tried not to feed into it, if he learned to ignore them again they'd probably get bored toying with him, but their favorite choice of topic had quickly become everything Hector had done.

You could only try not to react to your sins being recounted by the dead for so long.

It left him spending most of his time at that table, next to the window where the meager light poured in. Currently there was a tin plate of untouched food keeping him company.

The viles where stuck in the dark. They couldn't get near him in the dark.

He'd take to burning candles where the shadows were thickest, day and night if he could, but the last time he tried to light a candle he'd felt sick. He could practically feel the wax melting, running down his withered hand.

Just thinking about the sensation now made him short of breath.

Even after a year, he hadn't quite recovered from Manfred's antlers in his lung, and the resulting infection after Vincent had neglected to take care of the wound.

Working himself up did nothing to help his weakened lungs.

The viles crowding the room took notice, they noticed everything, and took to taunting him about how it felt to get stabbed, how it felt to stab the queen, how it felt to have his body stolen from under his feet.

"Did it burn?"

"Did it make you feel powerful?"

"Did it make you feel helpless?"

They all talked at once, he had a hard time deciphering what their taunts actually were. Somehow that was worse.

At least the sun was up.

Right on time, like everyday for the past year, the door creaked open and Drew stepped into the dark. The sunlight didn't read all the way across the room.

The sight of the viles crowding around Drew, like sharks to chum in the water, made Hector's stomach turn.

It always did, no matter how many time he saw it.

Drew payed them no mind, he didn't even know they were there, while he lit the candles that had been placed around the room.

Hector had lied when he asked why he couldn't simply do it himself.

He'd said he'd struggled to do it with one hand.

Which wasn't really a lie, he'd struggled. The struggle was just mostly him trying not to vomit.

By now, lighting the candles had become part of Drew's morning routine. He couldn't tell whether Drew minded that or not.

"Morning, Hector." Drew spoke to him first. More routine.

Hector failed to speak until all the candles were lit, no more shadows clawing at Drew, ineffectually trying to cross plains of existence and rip him apart.

"Good morning, Drew." Hector's voice seemed pathetic to his own ears. Thin and uncertain. Drew probably dreaded the sound of it. Hector certainly did.

Drew pulled out the second chair at the table, sitting with Hector.

That was a recent addition to the routine. With no more sightings of the Wyld Wolves, more of Drew's mornings had been freed.

Why he spent them in the Garrison Tree was beyond Hector.

"How were you last night?" Drew asked. The question was a guise, and one he asked every morning.

He wanted to know if Hector was truly alone in the cell anymore, he wasn't stupid enough to pretend anyone would actually care about his well-being anymore.

"I was alright." Hector lied, he always lied. He'd been far from alright, he hadn't even slept.

He was lucky he'd only cried early on in the night, it was less obvious like that. He wasn't in the mood to be pitied.

Drew nodded, accepting the lie whether he believed it or not.

"How'd last night treat you, Drew?" Hector asked, though by now he was sure he knew the answer.

"Better than most nights." Drew said, and Hector couldn't tell whether it was a lie or not.

Drew's answer surprised him, it was rare that he had a decent night. He'd confided in Hector briefly about nightmares, one morning after not getting any sleep three nights in a row.

Nightmares about endless battles and the risen dead.

He never asked whether those dreams about the risen dead took place in Cape Gala or Icegarden. The answer probably would've been both.

Hector nodded, accepting the answer whether it was a lie or not.

"I'm glad."

That was the truth, at least. Out of everything, Drew deserved a good night sleep at the very least.

The silence stretched on after that. Hector had a lot to say to Drew, but he'd said it all before. He couldn't imagine Drew had much to say to him.

The silence wasn't necessarily comfortable, Hector looking out the window and Drew staring at Hector like he could pry something out of him.

Whatever he might want was beyond Hector.

He'd already answered every question that applied to him.

"You haven't eaten in the mornings for the past week." Drew said, surprising Hector again.

It was true he hadn't had much of an appetite all year, especially not recently. Why in Brenn's name Drew would keep an eye on his eating habits though baffled him.

There wasn't anything he could do with that information.

"In truth, Drew, I simply haven't felt the need to eat lately." The last time he'd really felt like he had to eat was after Vincent was truly gone.

His brother hadn't really deigned to take care of the body he'd stolen.

"You do eat at least, don't you?"

Hector turned away from the window to look at Drew, though not directly in his eyes. He couldn't make eye contact with anyone yet.

He was going to ask where this sudden concern was coming from, when one of the candles fizzled out, having burned itself away completely.

He'd been aware that the candles were burning low now, but the sudden lack of light was jarring.

The sunlight didn't even reach all the way across the table, without the candle Drew was again bathed mostly in shadow.

The viles swarmed him immediately, wrapping around his throat and clawing at his face. The only thing they wouldn't touch was the White Fist.

The sight of them stole the air from Hector's weak lungs completely, practically punching it out of him and making him double over, hunched over the table unable to breathe.

He thought of all the times he'd used Vincent to break someone's neck and his stomach rolled.

He was thankful it was empty.

Baffled by Hector's reaction to a candle going out, Drew stood and went around the table. Into the sunlight. It shook the viles off him instantly.

Still, Hector couldn't look at him.

He couldn't look at him without imagining how it'd feel to break his neck with a vile.

He shook, gripping the table edge and hunching lower till he was practically laying on the table top.

The edges of his vision were going dark, he still couldn't breathe.

The room felt distant now, caught up in his mind thinking about how many lives he'd put an end to a year ago, and how many more he was ready to take.

The justification had been easy then, it was war, he was trying to survive, he wanted what was best for the Wolf's Council.

Now it all made him feel ill.

He could hear the viles, gathering in the shadow left by the candle, whispering about he should've let Dutchess Freya kill him in Icegarden.

He couldn't help but agree.

Drew placed his hand on his shoulder, in a way that should be comforting. It always had been.

Now it made him choke and tremble.

His grip on the table became white knuckled and Drew pulled his hand back.

He found himself completely ungrounded without it.

If only he could make up his mind.

About his allegiances, about whether he wanted to live or die, about whether he wanted Drew's help or not. His life would be so much easier.

"Hector."

At first Drew's voice melted in with the shadow's taunts, indecipherable.

"Hector."

Quiet and ready to rip him apart, behind the wall of his own tumultuous thoughts.

"Hector, look at me."

He jolted upright, pushing himself away from the table but not letting go of the edge, and looked at Drew in the sunlight. As intact as the war had left him.

Distantly, Hector noted he'd started crying at some point.

It didn't seem important though, compared to how every breath was being strangled out of him.

"Hector-" Whatever he was going to say was lost when Hector grabbed him by the collar of his greencloak, hauling himself up.

The White Fist wrapped around Hector's comparatively fragile wrist.

"Drew," Hector choked out, finally making up his mind, "I need you to help me."

Drew nodded, talking before Hector was done, "Of course, Hecto-" Only to be interrupted again.

"You need to kill me, Drew." Out of the corner of his eye, Hector could see the shadows. Writhing and laughing. Always writhing and laughing.

Drew seemed appalled at the idea of it. Of course he was. He'd paled at killing Opal, Count Croke, he probably would have had a hard time killing Leopold, given the chance.

Drew wasn't a killer, even after everything. It wasn't smart to ask him to kill him.

"I won't do that, Hector." Drew said, the Whit Fist tightening around Hector's wrist. If he wasn't careful he might break it.

"You don't understand, I can't live like this, in a dark room afraid of the dark!" He wheezed, his lungs burning at the effort of pleading and keeping himself upright at the same time.

"There's nothing to be afraid of up here-"

Hector cut him off with a choked laugh. There was so much to be afraid of, all the time.

"You don't know anything about that." Hector coughed, his grip on Drew's collar the only thing really keeping him standing at the moment. That and the hold the White Fist had on him.

"What do you mean by that?" Drew's face turned from disgusted and worried to skeptical in an instant, shutting Hector right up.

What a way to gain someone's trust, telling them you still viles.

What a way to get killed, on the other hand. Telling your jailer you still see viles.

"Viles, Drew! I mean viles! The dead! I've seen them since I communed the first time and they're still here, so kill me, because it didn't work!" His demands would probably hold more power if he wasn't choking and practically relying on Drew to hold him up.

He was crying consciously now.

"By Brenn Drew," He continued, begging now, "It's horrible, they're everywhere and they don't ever let me rest. Please just let me die, this is torture. I know what I deserve but please just let me rest."

He'd collapsed in earnest now, coughing and wheezing while Drew did all the work of holding him up.

It didn't seem that hard for him.

Carefully, Drew pried Hector's fist from his collar and had him sit back down, human hand on his shoulder. Like he was keeping him there.

"I'm not killing you Hector. Gretchen was right that there's another way." It was obvious there'd be no convincing him. Hector would live and that'd be that.

He kept going anyway.

"This is cruel, Drew. You're supposed to kill murderers, not torture them." He'd stopped crying, and he could breathe again. The episode had left him barely able to whisper.

He was exhausted.

"It's not supposed to be torture." Drew protested, one hand still left on his shoulder.

"It is anyways."

"It'll get better." Drew squeezed his shoulder before letting go.

He pulled the chair out of the dim shadows, the viles scraping at him while they could, and sat in the weak sunlight next to Hector.

They stayed quiet for a measure of time, Drew letting Hector catch his breath until he could speak up again.

"Why do you object to killing me so much?" It was obvious to Hector that his moral compass hadn't changed at all, but he was so ready to behead him on the top of Bone Tower, what changed?

"You're my friend, Hector," Drew said it like it should've been obvious. In a way he almost believed. "Gretchen was right that it wasn't the only way. You can live a life."

"Live a life stuck in a tree full of demons?"

"It doesn't have to be like that. Now enough of this. You're not dying today and that's final." Drew pushed the chair back, standing up. "I need to go. I'll be back tonight."

That was new. He'd never been by at night. Though, he'd given him enough reason to keep a closer eye on him.

Hector could only nod while Drew went to the door, where he stopped.

"I'll have more candles brought by. In the meantime, you should eat."

With that, he left him alone in the room.

All according to the routine.

#is the ending a little rushed? maybe!#its 5 am and I wanna shower! so don't mention it!#are they a little ooc? possibly!#im tired bro!#anyways here's 4000 words of absolute fuckery #wereworld #wereworld hector #wereworld drew

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mamabearcatfanfics · 4 years

Text

This little ficlet doesn’t really have a name. It’s set in the world of The Importance of Ramen and occurs sometime between Chapter One and Two. Not quite angst I don’t think, but not very happy either. Because not everyone gets their happy ending. It was just something I needed to write today. The image below is of Yanaka Cemetery in Tokyo.

“This really cannot continue Higurashi-san”, droned the school Principal’s voice over the phone. “I understand you have concerns about your daughter’s health, but we can no longer accept phone calls and sick notes signed by you for her absences. Unless you start providing medical certificates, signed by a medical professional, we will have to alert the proper authorities. She may even face expulsion over her non-attendance, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

The man’s tone was critical, condescending, his disbelief regarding Kagome’s illnesses barely concealed, and Mama swallowed the sharp retort that wanted to slip past her teeth. Deep breath. She needed to stay calm.

“No, of course not, Yamato-san”, she said, enunciating clearly, her voice dripping with feigned politeness. “Thank you for taking the time to speak to me today. We all have Kagome’s best interests at heart.”

“I hope we will not have to repeat this conversation again, Higurashi-san. Good day.”

Mama placed down the receiver on the phone with a deep sigh. She really couldn’t blame the man for his skepticism though. It had been a mistake on her part to ask ojiichan to provide the excuses for Kagome’s constant absences from school. Varicose veins for a sixteen year old? She had recently taken over, providing much more credible excuses, much to Kagome’s relief. She had to admit though, it was hard to keep up the constant pretense of Kagome’s illness, although she had no problems in playing the role of concerned mother. That wasn’t an act.

She’d bid a cheerful goodbye to Kagome and Inuyasha early this morning after they’d eaten breakfast, waiting for the flash of light that signalled their disappearance down the well to let the fake smile fall from her face.

Every time her daughter left, she had to swallow the panic that rose up, imagining all the gruesome and horrific ways it was possible to die in that time period, even without the addition of battling the supernatural. Every time she said goodbye, she worried it would be the last. She’d taken to reading medical books in the evenings when Kagome was away, just in case the knowledge might be needed someday.

She sometimes wondered if Inuyasha could sense her fear – he’d been looking at with a very serious expression this morning before they departed. But her Toshi had always said that fear was something that should be faced, that it was something that should not stop you living life the way that you wished to, and she was doing her best to support Kagome in what the fates had chosen for her. Her daughter was working so hard to train and learn and keep up with her school work. She was inordinately proud of her. But it was hard.

Eri’s mother had called yesterday, wanting to know if she could assist in any way with Kagome’s health. She had clucked sympathetically over the phone, but Mama had immediately recognised the call for what it was. Questions must be circulating again about Kagome’s continual absences through the parent’s grape vine, and Eri’s mother was fishing for gossip. The line being cast became even more obvious when she’d commented on Kagome’s ‘boyfriend’, a topic Mama refused to either confirm or deny. She’d managed to fob her off this time with a vague excuse saying they were waiting for results from a clinic, but that woman was persistent, the thin edge of a very large wedge of parents who were all ready to judge at the slightest sign of weakness.

After making ojiichan his lunch, she decided the monthly accounts could be put off no longer. She sat at her desk, the hot cup of tea she’d made herself neglected until it turned cold and bitter while she struggled to make the figures stretch as far as she needed them to. The government allowance for keeping the shrine running was not huge. The Sunset Shrine was only small, visited by faithful locals, rather than large crowds of city dwellers and tourists ready to spend money on omamori and fortunes that the more popular shrines attracted. She would have to think about ways to bring in extra money. Ojiichan was getting older, and she wanted to be able to look after him and provide all the comforts he deserved in his old age. And then there was schooling for Kagome and Souta.

She was startled out of her calculations when Souta burst in through the back door like a whirlwind, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag with a thump in the genkan. School was over already?

“Hi Mama! Can’t stay, I’ve got kendo practice! Sensei said last week that my gi is getting too small and I need a new one. And the competition fees for next weekend are overdue! I gotta go get changed or I’ll be late!”

“Souta! Your bag does not belong in the entryway where everyone will trip over it young man!” Mama called out, but he’d already flung himself up the stairs. She looked over the figures again worriedly. Maybe they might have to sell some of the family ‘treasures’ out in the shrine store room. If she could pry them out of ojiichan’s reluctant fingers that is.

Her head was thumping, and the figures seemed to be making even less sense than they did when she’d first sat down more than an hour ago. She finally gave up, shuffling the paperwork back together to file it away in her desk, then reached up to the small box that sat on the top of the fridge filled with more regularly used medications, to get herself some paracetamol. But the box was empty. Kagome had obviously raided it again, taking all the paracetomol and ibruprofen to restock her medical kit. Right. She took a slow deep breath in, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. It wasn’t that she minded Kagome taking them, they were obviously needed, but she could at least inform her that they needed to be replaced.

There was a hollow feeling in her chest. An empty ache. All day long, there had been a nagging feeling that she was forgetting something important. It was dragging at her memory, wanting her to concentrate on it, but everyone seemed to need something different from her, and she’d not been able to concentrate. Maybe it was a shrine anniversary of some sort? She checked the calendar, and her heart dropped into her shoes.

Oh Toshi. It was their wedding anniversary. She’d got through more than half of the day without even thinking about him on a day which had once been so important. Her throat felt thick, and she bit her lip hard, trying to force back the tears that wanted to spring to her eyes. Don’t cry. You can’t cry when Souta is home. She pinched hard on the inside of her wrist, a trick she’d learned over the years to help push back the grief when it surfaced at inappropriate times. Deep breath. She heard Souta’s heavy steps as he thundered back down the steps, wearing his gi and hakama with his kendo gear bag over his shoulder. She was ready to greet her son with a bright smile as he headed out the door.

“Straight back home after practice okay? I’m making curry, seeing Inuyasha-kun isn’t here!”

“Okay Mama. See you later!”

The door slammed as he took off, and Grandpa grumbled as he re-appeared in the kitchen carrying his empty plate, complaining about the noise.

“He’s just young, ojiichan – he didn’t mean any disrespect. How is your back feeling?”

“Not too bad. At least Inuyasha-kun didn’t break anything this time”, he said, rubbing down low on his spine. He’d been taking an inventory yesterday, and had made Inuyasha help him with the heavier boxes.

“He’s actually a very helpful boy you know, when you let him get on with things, and don’t hover over him with sutras”, Mama remarked, teasing him a little. Grandpa snorted.

“That ‘boy’ is probably older than you and me put together”, he huffed. “Plenty of time to have learned the good sense he doesn’t display that often. The kitchen has never been the same since he took a swing at that cockroach with his sword.” He looked carefully at his daughter-in-law, taking in her overly bright smile. “Are you okay Kaori-chan?”

“I’m fine”, she smiled. He gave her a hard stare and her smile faltered. “Alright, I will be fine. But I might go and to the family haka by myself for a little while, if that’s okay ojiichan? I promise I will be back in time to make dinner.”

The old man reached out and took one of his daughter in law’s hands in his, the look on his face sombre but understanding.

“I probably don’t say this enough Kaori-chan, but my son chose well. I could not have asked for a better daughter.”

“Thank you ojiichan”, she smiled, patting his hand. “I feel the same way about you.” She dropped a kiss onto the old man’s balding head, then went to genkan to put on her jacket and shoes., letting her mind wander as she walked down the steep shrine steps to the bus stop, waiting for the familiar bus that would take her to the family plot at the cemetery.

Her own family had turned their back on her when she’d refused a marriage offer by an older, much wealthier man to marry Toshinori, her high school sweetheart. Her parents had not spoken to her since she’d left home, but thankfully Toshi’s family had welcomed her with open arms as the daughter they’d never had.

She loved Toshi’s parents, and had come to think of them as her own. She’d been there for Toshi’s mother Hana, nursing her at home when she was diagnosed with cancer. She’d done her best to ease her growing pain with all the love and care she could until she’d died a year later, surrounded by family. Then Kagome was born, a few weeks after Hana’s death. It had helped to have a baby to focus on, even though it was a hard time. Kagome had been the apple of her grandfather’s eye, she still was, and he had spoilt her rotten.

After years of trying, when Kagome was nearly eight, she’d become pregnant again, a boy this time. Toshi had been overjoyed. They were so happy, so in love. It didn’t seem fair that not everyone could have a life like theirs, and she pitied those whose marriages were not a true meeting of hearts like hers was. They knew each other inside and out. Teased each other constantly, laughed at ridiculous things, loved their baby daughter with all that they had. And now they would have a son too. It felt like the kami were smiling down on their little family. Right up until that night that the police came to the door, to inform her about the car accident.

Toshi had never woken from his coma. She had been the one to make the decision to turn off his life support, with ojiichan’s blessing. Toshi had been a man full of life, full of joy, and she knew that he would not have wanted to continue in the state that he was. She had wept beside him, gripping his hand and repeating ‘I love you’ constantly, as if trying to complete the next forty years of being unable to say it to him in person into the short time left. And then she had left the room, knowing she would never see him again. If it had not been for Kagome waiting for her at home with ojiichan, and their son still growing in her womb, she would have left the hospital and gladly walked straight into the oncoming traffic so she wouldn’t have to live in a world without him in it.

The sound of the bus pulling up alongside her stop startled her out of her thoughts, and the bus driver nodded politely at her when she mounted the steps – he’d been driving this route for many years, and knew where she was going.

“It’s a little later in the day than you usually go Higurashi-san”, he remarked as she tapped her bus pass. “Make sure you don’t miss the last bus back.”

Mama smiled politely. “I’ll remember. Thank you.” She made sure to keep the mask of politeness set on her face as she moved to her seat. Being part of a shrine family meant being recognised on sight by everyone in the area. Expectations must be upheld.

It was a twenty minute trip to the cemetery, which she spent silently, her eyes gazing out the window but focused internally on the many happy memories replaying in her mind. She paused to buy a bunch of rust coloured chrysanthemums from the flower stall at the gate, then followed the path down through the maze of family graves, the tall markers reaching up towards the sky like a well ordered stone forest. Finally she arrived at the Higurashi marker.

Kneeling down, she washed her hands, then arranged the flowers carefully in the vase, straightening bent stalks. She lit the sandalwood incense stick, watching the swirling ribbons of smoke disippate through the crisp breeze, then clapped her hands.

‘Hello Toshi. I’m sorry I’m late dear heart. Happy Anniversary.” She leaned forwards, pulling out a stray weed that had grown up through the pebbles around the marble. “Were you waiting for me? I can’t stay very long this time. I promised Souta I would make curry for dinner this evening; he always works up such an appetite after kendo practice. And he’s a growing boy, your son. His kendo hakama and gi are getting too small for him.”

Her fingers traced over the graceful incisions in the marble that marked her husband’s name, the gold inlay glinting in the afternoon sunlight. The thought of Souta’s hakama sparked a memory.

“Do you remember all those photos we had to sit through, after the ceremony?” she smiled. “We kept giggling, and your mother scolded us, because she wanted some serious photos. You looked so handsome in those traditional striped hakama. Our wedding day was one of the happiest days of my life.”

Without warning, her bottom lip trembled, and the hot tears that she’d put aside earlier in the day returned with a vengeance, falling thick and fast. “Why did you have to go my Toshi? I miss you. I still miss you. You were such a good good man, how could all that disappear in an instant? Why did you have to leave?” she sobbed, her fists clenched in her lap, gripping the fabric of her skirt tightly as she bent forward to rest her forehead against the cool stone. It took her a moment to calm her sobs, breathing deeply, letting the coolness of the stone soothe her aching head.

“I’m sorry for the tears on what should be a happy day”, she whispered, “I’m just so tired Toshi, so very tired. I’m always worried about Kagome. She works so very hard, trying to do her best for everyone. I know Inuyasha is there to protect her, but I’m her mother. I’m always wondering if I’m doing the right thing, letting her do this. Your father was against her going through the well at first, but you always told me to trust what my heart said, and my heart says this is right, even though my head is terrified.” A small breeze swirled around her, lifting the chrysanthemum petals and wafting the incense towards the grave in a steady stream. She smiled a small teary smile. “I’m glad you think so too. I’m still not quite sure what to do about her schooling, but I will figure it out, I’m sure.”

She spent the next half hour sitting silently, listening to the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the muted sounds of Tokyo traffic. It was such a peaceful place. A place where she could sit quietly and regroup, try and regain her strength. She checked her watch, and realised that it was time to leave, if she were to make the next bus.

“Thank you for letting me ramble on koishii. I will come again, as soon as I can. I might bring your father with me next time. I’m sure he would love to visit with you and obaachan.” She got to her feet slowly, hissing a little as the blood rushed back into cramped feet.

It was a slow walk back to the bus stop, then a winding route back, but she didn’t mind. It was nice to be alone with her own thoughts once in a while, without the constant needs of others crowding in. By the time she’d climbed back up the steep stone steps and walked back into the kitchen to cook dinner, she was ready to tackle the world again. For a while at least.

#mama higurashi #mamabearcat fanfics #the importance of ramen #inuyasha fanfic

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phytolacca-a · 4 years

Text

A writeup on my most recent try on ABAXACATABAX charms:

I’m reuploading this with additions. I DO NOT intend this to be a How To post. I’m just wanting to share what I did as well as possible expansions since it’s a pertinent time.

Intended Use: Driving out (and protecting from) all sickness and illness for my immediate family members and I. Particularly to help fight against the virus going around. I feel that this charm can be very versatile in application, so I decided to test how it’d work for this situation.

(From Folk Witchcraft, Roger Horne)

Result Findings/Thoughts, My Procedure, Etc.:

————————————————————————-

TLDR, Current Results/Thoughts:

- 3/18/20: So far the only thing I’ve been told is that last Monday night (the night after I gave the charms to the 3), they each separately noticed they slept much better than usual and the two who wake up super early slept in a longer (healthy) amount. They each noticed this unrelated to each other, and I never mentioned anything about sleeping to them or even when thinking about the effects. My hopeful guess is this: the good-sleeping effect, presumably by the charm, is related to how getting better and restful sleep is associated with strengthening the immune system and helps get rid of sickness. I will see how it goes going forward.

- Edit, 3/21/20: I feel as though the biggest tests of these charms will be in the next week or two. Will be looking out for any hard notice of it working.

- Edit #2, 3/21/20: I believe I’ve noticed the method of which these charms might work through. I made these, or at least started, in the hour of the Sun on a Sunday. It’s occurred to me that the “drive out sickness” aspect is possibly more... prevalent, violent than expected. But although there have been correlations of sickness bubbling up and either dissipating or exiting the body while wearing the charm, that’s all I can say currently- there’s correlations. But I do believe that a main aspect of this charm is turning out to actually physically drive out whatever sickness from the wearer, at least in some capacity. So far, here’s what the others have said: My grandmother has said that she believes it seems to be working as intended, as she’s said “Well I think it must be working as I could have been a lot worse off” (in talking about something that happened, related to my correlation of it possibly helping literally drive out sickness.) My stepfather has told me that he’s felt that the charm has been protecting him from getting sick since wearing it, as he travels most of the week and has not gotten ill from the heightened human contact. But like I said, the true tests I think are in the next coming weeks. Will be on the lookout.

————————————————————————-

Prep:

I did this last Sunday, starting in the hour of the Sun although I didn’t end up finishing within the hour. I gave offerings to the Sun in asking for aid in my magic working. I had Elderberries and Bay Leaves, paper, pen & pencil, felt and thread. I can’t find the pestle to my mortar so I tried using a blunt end of something in a bowl. Spoilers: trying to crush the Elderberries like that did not work very well at all. I also took inspiration in preparation from Gemma Gary’s Traditional Witchcraft for charmmaking.

Working:

I began by trying to cast a circle.

I cut out 4 3x3in pieces of paper. I then began writing the ABAXACATABAX charm out in pencil. On the other side, I wrote down what the charm is to do which is something I neglected to last time I tried this. I then drew the symbol of the Sun above the will.

This is when I began empowering the attributes. I poured dried Elderberries into a bowl and began trying to pound and crush them into a powder. While I did this, I closed my eyes and continuously repeated what I wanted it to do loud as I pounded the berries. This went on for a long time, probably a longer time than I realized.

Even though this crushing didn’t actually work (most of them were mostly whole…) I felt like I managed to do what I was going for anyways even if I didn’t get powder out of it.

After this I began to go over the penciled words in ink, to finalize what I wrote. Because I was just tracing, I was able to start chanting again forcefully. And again I slipped into that sort of state where I could just repeat it without thinking about it. Whenever I became aware of myself saying the words, I would switch up the phrasing and slip back in until I became aware again.

After this, I put some Elderberries in the center of the paper and folded it like how Gemma Gary’s book described. Four corners in, fold, fold, then making the cloth holders for the charm. Before/while I did that though, I put the folded papers on a tray, circled them in Elderberries and sat a candle right in the middle of them to hopefully empower them more. I used what I had to make portable holders for the charms, which was red felt and white thread. I tried to empower a bay leaf as I took it into four pieces to place inside the little pouches as I was almost done stitching the sides. I grabbed a pinchful of Elderberry not-powder and put some in. I then picked up each charm paper and placed them in, ending off with a little bit more Elderberry and stitched it up.

I made little loops in the felt to place cord through to wear.

After they were all sealed up, I lit another candle (the only one I had at the time was a little red one) in wanting them to soak in extra continuous juice. I lit some incense. I passed each charm into and through the smoke from underneath it to seal them. I then left the charms around the second candle for the rest of the night; I kept reading Gemma Gary mention leaving spells and charms to “cook” so I figured I’d try even though I don’t have a proper working altar or anything yet.

Possible Issues:

Other than the fact I said that making these charms might have been the messiest spellworking I’ve done yet, there’s one large thing. The good news, is this is only for me and shouldn’t effect the other charms. When I was folding the first charm paper, one of the Elderberries I had in there popped out and ripped the paper. I made sure not to let that happen to the others, and made sure to give myself the possibly faulty charm as I’m in the least danger. This might render my specific charm bunk. Or at least, maybe not as strong as it should be or would be. But I’m not entirely sure this even negatively affected it at all; which would be cool if it didn’t! If I find out it did, I’ll just end up redoing mine.

The other issue was the timeframe. This goes into the messiness, but I took SO much longer than I thought I would making these. I started at the start of the Sun’s hour, and ended sometime in Mercury’s hour. I don’t know yet how exactly this affected my working, if at all?

I’ve yet to do divination on this working.

Things I’d Like to Consider for Changes/Additions:

I think that there’s worth in a change in planetary approach; I’ve been discussing a little bit of this with someone who utilized Mercury rather than the Sun for the charm which seems to have turned out less seemingly violent in approach and rather more preservative-protective. So, something I think I will consider more are other combos rather than just utilizing the Sun, possibly adjusting for the context of the situation of use. I’d still like to feed the charms semi regularly to continue the usage, so I might utilize the different combos of planets in the way I refuel/feed? Not sure, but I’ll be considering it.

But yeah. I’m hopeful for these charms and I’ll be continuing to monitor them as time goes on!!

#personal text #spell writeup #witchcraft #witchblr #magic #spells #traditional witchcraft #folk magic #folk witchcraft #occult #witchy #abaxacatabax #charms #folk charms #charm spell #tradcraft

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carolyncaves · 4 years

Text

WWX Goes to Gusu: Part 3, in which things get a little out of hand ... aka I was definitely not planning for this to become a full-blown elaborate wedding fic, but here we are. 8501 words, Wangxian, LXC, LQR, vague mental illness, tenderness and devotion, marriage proposal, Lan family feelings, the author trying to thread the needle re: nonheteronormativity vs vaguely gendered wedding & marriage things

part one | part two | also on ao3

Lan Wangji could see the precise moment Xichen realized what he was suggesting – a marriage between himself and Wei Ying. He stood up a little straighter, as if realizing he was going to have to be a sect leader and eldest brother in this conversation even this early in the morning. A bittersweetness appeared in the set of his eyebrows. He believed Lan Wangji was being foolishly lovelorn.

In fact Lan Wangji was terrified and this was the only straw within his desperate reach.

“This seems very sudden,” Xichen said. “I know you harbor a deep affection for Wei-gongzi, have perhaps for years, but in recent times he’s held you harshly at a distance.”

“It’s not like that. Xiongzhang, he is vulnerable to Jin-zongzhu.” He was also vulnerable to himself, and to Jiang Wanyin, and to everybody who came within arm’s reach of him, but Lan Wangji could not say any of that.

“Did he request this of you?” Xichen asked, clear eyes sharp.

“We have not discussed it.”

Xichen sighed. He slowly crossed the hanshi – so similar to the jingshi, in its uncluttered elegance, but so different in that it was Xichen’s and Lan Wangji could not imagine Wei Ying within it – and sat down at the table, which bore tea. It must have been delivered before Lan Wangji arrived – no simple feat, since he had risen carefully from the bed and left the jingshi even before the dawn chime sounded.

He hadn’t slept. He had spent the night absorbing the texture of Wei Ying’s hair, its scent, the tide of his breath and its dampness against his chest. The warmth of him. The bright shine of his drowsy eyes when he couldn’t sleep and the peace on his haggard face when he could. The weight of his arm and the affectionate brush of his thumb against Lan Wangji’s spine, comforting even now when he was the one wounded. The shift of his leg between Lan Wangji’s own – completely idle, totally at ease, the two of them sharing one space. There could be nothing more natural in all the world, and nothing more rare and precious.

Lan Wangji had spent the night planning to marry Wei Ying. Now it was morning, so he could try to do it.

Xichen poured himself a cup. “Do you think he would agree? His brother has just ascended as Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang. It was difficult to convince him to come to Cloud Recesses even temporarily.”

Lan Wangji shook his head. “I would go to Lotus Pier.”

Xichen paused, tea halfway to his mouth. It had likely never occurred to him Lan Wangji might marry out. It hadn’t occurred to Lan Wangji himself until it was nearly too late.

“Wangji,” Xichen said solemnly, “Why don’t you sit?” He retrieved another cup from the tray and placed it across from him.

Lan Wangji obeyed. He sat and drank, and otherwise said nothing and did nothing. He let Xichen think.

At length, Xichen said, “It would not be disadvantageous.” His words were slow, as if draw through deep water, some thick medium which resisted their passing. “Under Jiang Wanyin, the Jiang sect has emerged vibrant from the ashes of their defeat. Wei Wuxian is a formidable figure, weakened only by his instability and Jiang-zongzhu’s youth and insecurity, which Jin Guangshan uses to undermine them both.” He paused. Then, “The Lan sect would benefit from their alliance, and the Jiang sect would benefit from the aura of the Lan sect’s venerable reputation.”

Lan Wangji’s hand clenched involuntarily around the teacup. “You will allow it?”

“Wangji … I sense you are doing this because feel you would be protecting Wei-gongzi, but I must ask you to also consider yourself. You have your own life. This is too much of yourself to give solely on his behalf.”

“No.” Lan Wangji didn’t know how to put what he felt into words. “Xiongzhang. Who else but Wei Ying?”

He worried that wouldn’t be clear enough, didn’t know how to convey that he would not be giving anything, that it was Wei Ying whose hand would be forced and he who would be going with his whole heart – but a very soft expression settled over Xichen’s face. “Ah, Wangji. Please understand it’s hard for me to grapple with the idea of parting from my dear younger brother. If this is what you yourself want, I would never stand in your way.”

Lan Wangji felt so pleased and relieved he might perhaps have smiled.

Xichen certainly smiled back at him, though it was touched with bemusement. “It’s a little early for that, don’t you think? There are a number of other people whose agreement we must secure.”

We. Lan Wangji did not know what he could have done in his past lives to deserve an older brother like Xichen.

“Who will you approach first?” Xichen continued. “Wei-gongzi, or Shufu?”

Wangji had considered that. There had never been any question Lan Wangji would start with Xichen, but having received his blessing: “If Wei Ying is not willing, there is no need to involve Shufu.”

Xichen nodded his agreement. “Additionally, if Shufu is to be convinced, I think Wei-gongzi will need to give an account.” At even the mention of that, Xichen sighed.

Lan Wangji could not argue with his dismay. Shufu would be nearly impossible to sway, considering his opinion of Wei Ying to start and Wei Ying’s new cultivation besides. It did not matter. Lan Wangji would try. Lan Wangji would succeed. If Wei Ying was willing, how could Lan Wangji do anything but marry him?

If Wei Ying was willing.

When Lan Wangji returned to the jingshi after accompanying Xichen during his breakfast, he found Wei Ying awake, sitting bleary and alone at the table, eating breakfast himself. The servants must have come at Lan Wangji’s usual time. For a brief moment he was angry at them, for waking Wei Ying when he’d been sleeping. But that was not fair. He was unhappier with himself, for leaving Wei Ying alone. It had been necessary, to initiate the motion of this necessary thing, but he had not intended for Wei Ying to wake up with the bed empty beside him.

“Have they made you start rising even earlier now?” Wei Ying said, before yawning around his porridge. “The Lan schedule is truly merciless.”

Lan Wangji made himself sit across from him as if nothing were different. In truth, nothing was different. Not yet. “I apologize. There was a matter that could not wait.”

“You know, you can go off and do things even though I’m here, Lan Zhan. I realize I am in quite a pitiful state, but I will be able to survive for brief periods without your kind and tender care. Not that I’m at all complaining.” Wei Ying looked up at him and smiled, playful and warm despite everything. Lan Wangji wanted to marry him.

Instead he served himself his morning meal and ate it in silence. Never before had the rule against speaking during meals felt so constraining. Perhaps he should be grateful. Without it, he might have asked him over tea and congee.

“Will you go back to sleep?” was what Lan Wangji did in fact ask Wei Ying, when they were through. He would not beleaguer Wei Ying due to his own fervor.

Wei Ying sat back with one of his knees canted up. Improper, but lively. “No, no. Maybe this way I’ll be able to sleep better tonight.” His tone held a little skepticism, but he smiled. He was smiling much more now than he had when he’d arrived, just the night before last. It could have been an affectation, but even so it meant he felt comfortable and strong enough to pretend. “What will we do today? Shall we go back and see the bunnies? If you have work in the Library Pavilion, I could come with you and pretend to copy lines.” His smile turned mischievous for an all-too-brief beat.

“We will go to the cold springs.” Lan Wangji felt hot, too hot. Agitated. Perhaps the water would give him clarity. He needed to get this right. This was the most important question he would ever ask.

And that was the place he had wound his headband around Wei Ying’s wrist – where he had first, barely even knowing or comprehending it, declared to the universe they were one another’s. He’d often wondered if that memory stood out to Wei Ying as well.

Wei Ying ran a hand through his hair, smiling in chagrin. “I guess I could use a wash, ah, Lan Zhan?”

That was not what Lan Wangji had meant – Wei Ying was not noticeably unclean – but if it made him comply, Lan Wangji would not argue.

///

Wei Wuxian was hardly in any position to talk, but Lan Zhan was acting strangely.

More strangely than the magnetic closeness and the constant possessive touch. That was actually all very delightful, and Lan Zhan was still doing it – but now he also seemed distracted. It was a little hard to tell with someone who neglected to react to things as often as Lan Zhan, but Wei Wuxian knew him very well. He was needing even longer than normal to think and speak, and he was taking Wei Wuxian’s teasing – ah, Lan Zhan, I’m going to wash my ankles now, don’t look! – with a dazed silence, instead of his more usual pointed unamusement or even the dry-tinder outrage that had been so easy to kindle when they were younger.

Lan Zhan ended up coaxing them to sit very close to each other in the therapeutic cold water, inner robes plastered to their skin. Lan Zhan’s eyes kept flitting between the forest across the pond and Wei Wuxian’s face. Wei Wuxian would to need to go off on his own to wash his hair and scrub his body at some point – preferably soon, before he froze to death – and it didn’t seem as though Lan Zhan was going to give him an opening.

“Do you have something on your mind, Lan Zhan?” He nudged his shoulder. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. If you need to be taking care of some other business, whatever you were doing this morning, just say so. Or if you’re already regretting the two weeks, that’s fine as well. I’m nothing but a humble guest in your home, and you and Zewu Jun have already been unbelievably kind. You’ve helped me a great deal.” And that was true – Wei Wuxian felt better today. Lighter, freer. If he reached for them, he could detect that tension and anguish and despair right around the corner, waiting for him, but as long as he didn’t look directly at them, he was able to pretend they weren’t there.

He would have no choice but to look at them when he went back. But right now he was carefully ignoring the whole snarl. That was a problem for a future Wei Wuxian.

Lan Zhan’s mind was very far away. Then he was right here, and then he was facing Wei Wuxian and clasping both of his pruny hands in his strong, skillful own.

“Wei Ying,” he said, and then he didn’t continue. His expression was a little frantic.

“It’s okay, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said, because whatever it was, it would be – or at least, he’d do his best to make it that way. “You can take your time.”

Lan Zhan did – he took a breath. He took his time. When he spoke, it was quietly, and he said, “Wei Ying, would you let me marry you?”

At first Wei Wuxian couldn’t even make sense of his meaning. Marriage was a concept he had really never applied to himself, if he were honest. He had to go through the sentence word-by-word like a young schoolchild. Once he had and he understood it, his heart dropped into a yawning endless void.

“Lan Zhan,” he said, toneless even to his own ears, “you don’t have to do that.”

“No.” Lan Zhan squeezed his hands like a vice, unyielding when he tried to pull away. “There’s no ‘have to’. I want to marry you. To be married to you.”

“But.” His voice came out tight and cracked, but he couldn’t help it. “How can I let you do that? How can Hanguang Jun marry me?” Demonic cultivator, master of wicked tricks. Tainted with resentment. Without a golden core. Ruined.

“I would ask for nothing more in all my life,” Lan Zhan said, as if that were a reasonable response. “Whatever the form, I would be content if you were. If you would not be, if you are unwilling … I understand. I will find another way.”

“What do you mean, whatever the form?” Wei Wuxian didn’t quite understand what he was talking about, but for some reason he really didn’t like the sound of it. It sounded like deprivation, resignation, sacrifice, and Wei Wuxian would never want that for Lan Zhan. “What do you mean, you’d be content?”

“I understand if you do not feel as I do.”

Wei Wuxian’s ears were ringing. “Feel?” Lan Zhan’s declaration, I would ask for nothing more in all my life, was playing over and over in mind, along with the rabbits in his lap and the tears in Lan Zhan’s eyes when Wei Wuxian asked him to play Cleansing for him, and Lan Zhan’s gentle fingers in his hair last night, and his desperate insistence Wei Wuxian come back to Gusu, and the tender kiss he had planted against Wei Wuxian’s lips when he tried to tell him he didn’t have to help him – all those myriad pieces that actually, when he thought about them for even a fraction of a second, made up one monolithic, all-encompassing whole.

Wei Wuxian gaped, and then he tried to hit him, though his hands were pinned and he was unable to. “Lan Zhan! Did you just say you’d marry me even if I didn’t love you back? That’s terrible. How could I tolerate that?”

“It would not affect my intention. I would do it gladly, if it would protect you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” He tugged at his hands, and Lan Zhan still held them. “How am I supposed to embrace you, Lan Zhan, if you keep me trapped like this?”

His hands were freed instantly, and then he was being dragged close. Wei Wuxian threw his own arms around Lan Zhan’s shoulders, clutching at him tightly – they were a tangle of cold water, wet heavy clothes, and hot skin. Lan Zhan eventually pulled him fully into his lap and held him there. Wei Wuxian gladly held him back, let himself relax in the hold of this ridiculous person.

“I do,” Wei Wuxian said into half-damp hair. “Feel the way you do.” Maybe it was shallow to love someone who’d been so good to him, especially when he’d so often been harsh or annoying in return, but he did. There was no use not saying it. “But I don’t know if I can let us get married.”

Lan Zhan’s grip clenched ever tighter. “Why not?”

Why not? Wei Wuxian was choking on the reason, drowning in it. Was Lan Zhan really going to make him say it? He forced himself to laugh. “How shall I order the list? Lan Zhan, I’m me.”

“And?”

“I’m a demon, for one. And parentless, a hanger-on to the Jiang sect, merely Jiang Cheng’s faithful subordinate. Not to mention my small lack …” He drew one hand almost reflexively down to press against the void of his core. Lan Zhan’s hand was right there to cover it. “And you’re Hanguang Jun.” He gripped that hand instead. “One of the Twin Jades of Lan. The most powerful cultivator alive today, in possession of a sterling reputation. It strikes me as too poor a match.”

“You are more powerful than I, with your tools. The Jiang sect is formidable because you are its head disciple. It may be a poor match, as I am only a second son and can offer no heir or political friendships – but I ask that you give me an opportunity to convince you. My spiritual power would be yours, and my sword, so you could keep yourself from the needless fray. My family’s influence …”

“Your family would never agree to me,” Wei Wuxian said, the words striking him hard in the chest for some reason. “Not even if the sun toppled from the heavens and the sea flooded the earth.”

“Xiongzhang has already given his blessing,” Lan Zhan said.

Wei Wuxian pushed himself away so he could look at him, hardly able to believe it. “Is that what you were doing this morning? Before the curfew was even lifted?”

Lan Zhan nodded.

Wei Wuxian felt tears prickling in his eyes. He curled his hands around Lan Zhan’s damp-robed shoulders.

“Wei Ying, do not deflect. Would like to marry me and have me join you in all things for the rest of your life?”

Wei Wuxian was well on his way to crying now, his breaths hitched and unsteady. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. Of course. But …”

Lan Zhan’s hands squeezed viciously. “No ‘but’. Do not think of the obstacles. We will take them together, always. On the same path, without regret. Will you agree?”

“Lan Zhan … you’re too much, you’re not real.” Wei Wuxian put a shaking hand to Lan Zhan’s cheek. “You can’t want to marry me.”

“I judge for myself, and I do.” Lan Zhan mirrored the gesture, carefully moving a strand of hair out of Wei Wuxian’s eyes. “Wei Ying, will you?”

“Lan Zhan!” Lan Zhan had gone mad – that was the only explanation. But Wei Wuxian was not in the best condition himself, and he had no more will to continue fighting, not when he so desperately wanted to give in. “Yes, I will.”

Then they were hugging again, harder than before. Wei Wuxian could barely feel his arms and legs, and he didn’t know that it had much to do with the cold water.

It seemed impossible to imagine. He and Lan Zhan, married. Lan Zhan, who knew his mind, and his secret, and his dreams, who spoke to him when he spoke to nobody and who was righteous and good and whose company he could never tire of keeping. If they got married, Wei Wuxian would never again be asked to choose against him. They would never be required to keep apart. Lan Zhan seemed too calm, but maybe he’d just had more time to get used to it. Wei Wuxian would himself, before long.

For now, he lay his head on Lan Zhan’s shoulder and wept, because Lan Zhan had been cut by him at his most hostile, and seen him at his most bruised, and felt the hollowed-out edges of his vacated power, and still somehow wanted him anyway.

///

It was barely late morning when Lan Xichen received a note from Wangji. It simply read, He is willing.

In the privacy of his own thoughts, Lan Xichen would admit that a small corner of his heart sank. He had always been in favor of Wangji’s relationship with the lively – if unorthodox – Wei-gongzi, but his recent changes had complicated things; Wei Wuxian’s willingness meant either Wangji would leave their home and face Wei Wuxian’s many challenges, or he would be heartbroken when this unlikely betrothal proved impossible to negotiate.

And despite having given the matter some thought, Lan Xichen really could not imagine how Shufu could be convinced.

Still, they would try, so he went to the jingshi to discuss next steps. He found them sitting on the floor in front of the bed: hair damp, Wangji’s headband wound around both their wrists, fingers tangled together, dressed in white inner robes out of Wangji’s wardrobe – looking in all ways a paired set. Wei Wuxian seemed dazed and had obviously been crying, and the open awe with which he was gazing at Wangji went a long way toward mollifying Lan Xichen’s reservations about his reciprocation. Wangji himself looked more beatifically happy than Lan Xichen had ever seen him.

If only Shufu could see this, perhaps he would relent.

“Can we speak with Shufu after lunch?” Wangji asked. Wei Wuxian winced a little, but otherwise did not protest.

“So soon?” Lan Xichen would think Wangji might want to enjoy this for at least short time. “Have you considered how you will approach the meeting?”

“We will ask him. What else can we do?”

Lan Xichen tried not to let his heart feel heavy. Not yet, when, in all current respects, Wangji had precisely what he wanted.

And if Shufu was to be worn down, Lan Xichen imagined it would be very much like water wearing down a stone, which meant it would be good to start now.

First, though: “Don’t you think your prospective husband should ask me for your hand himself at some point?”

Wei Wuxian startled immediately, scrambling to his knees. He was tethered to Wangji, so Lan Xichen went over to them, allowing Wei Wuxian to address him without requiring them to part. His hair was slightly bedraggled from being wet – apparently they had gone to the springs – but his expressive face was solemn as he clasped his hands in front of himself with great formality and said. “Zewu Jun, this humble cultivator seeks a betrothal with your younger brother, Lan Wangji.”

“The head of my family is my shufu, and you will need to ask his permission. If he gives it, I will agree to the betrothal.”

“Thank you, Zewu Jun,” Wei Wuxian murmured, bowing a lot lower than he needed to, considering Lan Xichen had already acquiesced. “For this and every other thing.”

“For this, you have no need to thank me, Wei-gongzi. There are few things I would not do in service of my brother’s wellbeing. You will certainly remember that?”

Perhaps Lan Xichen was mistaken, but he thought he saw Wei Wuxian’s life flash before his eyes as he nodded. “Of course, Zewu Jun.”

“Xiongzhang,” Wangji said woundedly.

“I will call for lunch,” Lan Xichen said, instead of deigning to justify himself, “and you will both need to get fully dressed. Shufu has no afternoon classes today, so I will set an appointment with him in two hours’ time.

When they met him before the path to Shufu’s residence, they were groomed meticulously; Lan Xichen had expected no less. Wangji now wore an elegant white outer robe, and the headband had been returned to his forehead – almost a shame, but likely a wise choice. Wei Wuxian had redressed in his own attire, black with vibrant flashes of red, hair smooth and high, that dark dizi at his waist. Suibian was nowhere to be seen.

On the one hand, he might have considered at least giving the impression he intended to rejoin the sword path for this meeting’s sake – not that Lan Xichen generally condoned lying. On the other, if even the task of securing a betrothal to Wangji – which Lan Xichen did believe he wanted – would not convince him to carry it, Wangji had been astute to suggest they stop trying.

Wangji knew he was intractable on the matter and wanted this marriage regardless. Lan Xichen would simply have to hope he was making the right decision for the long term.

Shufu kept his eyes on the document in front of him as they entered the residence, but Lan Xichen was not certain he was reading it. He rather seemed to carefully track their movements – Lan Xichen to the side, present primarily to offer visible support, and Wangji and Wei Wuxian to kneel in front of him, one beside the other. Shufu abandoned any pretense of reading, instead staring witheringly at one of them in particular.

“Generally my nephews do not set appointments to see me for casual matters,” Shufu said. “And generally my guests come by invitation.”

An invitation Wei Wuxian had certainly not received in the few days he had been at Cloud Recesses. This was primarily because Shufu had been informed he was recovering from an illness, but Shufu’s point – that Wei Wuxian was certainly not his guest – was difficult to miss.

Wei Wuxian took a visibly took a slow breath. “That’s because this is not a casual matter, Lan-xiansheng.” He clasped his hands and bowed pristinely. “Lan-xiansheng, this humble cultivator seeks a betrothal to your nephew, Lan Wangji.”

“On whose behalf?”

Wei Wuxian’s brows furrowed. Clearly he was not expecting to have been misunderstood. “My own, Xiansheng. I, Wei Wuxian, seek to take Lan Wangji as my husband.”

The silence that occupied the residence seemed to have an energy of its own, washing any potential sound away with the force of its current.

“Get out,” Shufu said, and it was painful to watch Wangji’s downcast face flinch. “The depth of your malintent. Get out.”

“No, Xiansheng,” Wei Wuxian said firmly, still bowed. “My inquiry is serious, and I would state my case.”

“Such inquiry could never be serious.” Shufu’s face quivered with his anger. “You will never wed Wangji. Get out.”

“My parents were Wei Changse, a lifelong friend and servant of Jiang Sect Leader Jiang Fengmian, and Cangse Sanren, a disciple of Baoshan Sanren,” Wei Wuxian recited, undeterred. “After their deaths, I was raised under the care of Jiang-zongzhu and Zi Zhizhu. I am the number one disciple of the Yunmeng Jiang sect, shixiong and right hand to Sect Leader Jiang Wanyin.” He paused, then forged onward. “I am the cultivator who subdued Wen Ruohan’s puppets at Nightless City. With Jiang Wanyin, I brought justice against Wen Chao and the Core-Melting Hand.”

“Are you also the phantom who used wild resentful energy to slaughter the entire complement at Yiling Supervisory Office and every Wen soldier you encountered on your path thereafter?”

“I am,” Wei Wuxian answered immediately, and a shiver ran down Lan Xichen’s spine at the cold light that settled in Wei Wuxian’s eyes. “I am the master of Chenqing and the Yin Tiger Amulet. If your nephew is at my side, he will never need to be afraid of anything.”

Shufu narrowed his eyes. “Except you.”

Wei Wuxian shook his head, venomously slow. “Even if your nephew had his sword at my throat, he would never need to be afraid of me.”

Lan Xichen wondered if that was true. He believed Wei Wuxian believed it was, and prayed he was correct.

More urgently, the hostility in the air had grown as thick as fog. Lan Xichen tried to cut through it. “Undoubtedly Wei-gongzi is a talented and innovative cultivator, irrespective of his methods.”

“His use of resentful energy is a perversion of cultivation, and he is hazardous to everyone around him.”

“Xiongzhang and I would have been killed by Wen Ruohan’s puppets,” Wangji said softly – the first words he’d spoken. His hand landed on Wei Wuxian’s arm in restraint. “Sunshot would have ended in catastrophe.”

Shufu’s bearded mouth turned down, as if when chewing on that thought, he found it against his taste. “Perhaps. That does not mean I will ever allow you to marry him.”

“Shufu.”

“No.”

“Shufu, please. I will be able to help him.”

“No! Have you learned nothing of the lessons of your father’s mistakes? You cannot shield someone from the consequences of their actions!”

“Shufu, with every respect, I do not follow the same path. Please let me go out and stand with Wei Ying, so that we may live all our lives rightly together. To root out evil, help the weak, and live without shame or regrets.”

Wangji and Wei Wuxian knelt side-by-side, heads bowed; so severe, so earnest. Their feelings were true, and the circumstances were reasonably favorable. If it were any other person but Shufu, any other supplicant but Wei Wuxian, there would be little difficulty. As it was …

“Wangji, you will be better off without him,” Shufu intoned.

“Shufu,” Wangji said, so mournfully Lan Xichen had to close his eyes against it.

“Shufu,” he said, so suddenly it surprised even him. But he the next words came to his lips. “I am not so certain.”

He had not come here to argue against Shufu’s judgement. He had intended to let the water wear down the stone. But … but his brother was truly in love, and he truly loved his brother.

Through the silence, eventually that gruff voice came. “Wangji.”

“Shufu?”

“He is rude and irreverent, erratic and unconstrained. His mind crawls with wicked ideas, and his body is brimming with resentful energy. Is this what you wish to tie yourself to, now and forever, before all your ancestors?”

“Yes, shufu.”

“He is stained in the eyes of the cultivation world, through his own doing, and joined to him you might find your own reputation dragged through the same mud. You would have that?”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said quietly.

“Yes, shufu.”

“Among all the people of the world, you somehow prefer him? Do you not see that in time, you could come to prefer another?”

“Among all people, there is only one Wei Ying.”

Shufu let out a long, grumbling sigh. “Very well, then.”

Lan Xichen opened his eyes to look – and the wide shock on Wangji’s and Wei Wuxian’s faces matched his own enough that he couldn’t have been mistaken.

“If being deprived of marrying him would break your heart, Wangji, how could I rip this from you?”

“It would,” Wangji croaked.

“So it would seem,” Shufu said, not bothering to hide his distaste, “as my other nephew has not hesitated to point out.”

Lan Xichen wasn’t certain whether he ought to truly feel abashed, but Shufu managed it regardless.

“Wei Wuxian, for Wangji’s sake alone, I will allow him to be betrothed to you.”

“Shufu,” Wangji said fervently, clasping his hands and bowing. “Thank you.” Wei Wuxian did the same barely a heartbeat behind him.

“If he should come to harm in your care, there isn’t enough resentful energy in the world to shelter you.”

“Of course, of course, it will never come to that,” Wei Wuxian rattled off. “I will protect him and care for him, Xiansheng.”

“And I him,” Wangji vowed.

Shufu looked much less impassioned by that.

“With this agreement sorted out,” Lan Xichen interjected, still a little chagrinned, “we can go to Lotus Pier when the two of you are ready, to negotiate the betrothal with Jiang-zongzhu.”

“We should go tonight, or tomorrow,” Wangji said. Then, as if suddenly possessed by an idea, “We should pour the tea now, and bow at the ancestral shrine. So we will not have to return to Cloud Recesses after securing Jiang-zongzhu’s approval.”

Lan Xichen was obviously going to object, but Wei Wuxian did so even faster. “Lan Zhan, we can’t do that,” he said under his breath – though in the enclosed residence, it was audible to everyone. “This is a real wedding, your wedding, you shouldn’t … We should do it right. It should be good and nice.”

“It will be good for us to be married. The rest is irrelevant. There is no reason to delay.”

“Come on, Lan Zhan, how can we do the ceremony yet? I don’t even have a betrothal gift, or a spouse price.” Wei Wuxian sniffled. “Jiang Cheng … well, he’s going to be furious, but he’d be even more furious that way. Let’s wait, and I’ll convince him to make it nice. You’re worthy. It would be terrible to give them after the wedding’s half done.”

“Give me whatever you like. It doesn’t matter,” Wangji said.

Or perhaps, You gave me Suibian, did you not?

Lan Xichen wondered if that second meaning was a figment of his imagination – but Wei Wuxian’s eyes were shining brightly, so perhaps not. “Lan Zhan … What if he really refuses? What if it doesn’t work out? We’d be stuck half-married.”

“You would not be stuck – it will only be my ancestors before whom we have bowed, my family for whom we have poured tea. If negotiations dissolve it will only be I who is bound to you.”

Wangji’s voice calm and sure, but his meaning was wild with devotion. Lan Xichen didn’t know quite what to say – and exchanging a glance with Shufu, whose eyebrows had risen quite high, he appeared to feel the same way.

Wei Wuxian had covered his mouth with both hands, as if to physically contain whatever thought or emotion wanted to come out, and still he tipped over and spilled down a waterfall of tears. The formidable Wei Wuxian, master of Chenqing and the Yin Tiger Amulet, who had cast a terrifying shadow a mere minute before, disintegrated into emotion – his thin shell splintering to reveal a ravaged terrain underneath. “Lan Zhan. You’re really too much to bear.”

He shuffled around on his knees and bowed all the way to the floor facing Wangji.

Wangji moved instantly, urgently tugging him upright. He held Wei Wuxian by both arms, and Wei Wuxian reflexively mirrored him. Wangji stared firmly into his eyes. “Wei Ying. We will do this together.”

Wei Wuxian was entirely in pieces, trembling, tears dripping down his face. He nodded, and he clung to Wangji so tightly his hands disappeared in his bunched robes.

Shufu was looking at Lan Xichen, brows furrowed, but he said nothing. He was deferring to Lan Xichen to make this judgement. Shufu did not, after all, know the details behind Wei Wuxian’s coming to Cloud Recesses in the first place.

Lan Xichen knew there were layers to this situation beyond his reach, but he understood Wangji was saving Wei Wuxian’s life with this marriage. To hold Wangji’s portion of the ceremony without having solidified the betrothal was very irregular and might give insult to Jiang-zongzhu – but considering the circumstances, he would allow it if they felt it necessary. “I urge you to consider carefully the feelings of Wei-gongzi’s family, and the importance of cherishing this event in both your lives – but if you are determined, we can hold a ceremony this evening.”

“We can call for tea now,” Wangji said stubbornly.

“Wangji, with a few hours we can at least find you both something to wear. You will have an opportunity to prepare your mind, and so will we.”

“Lan Zhan, it’s all right, this evening is more than all right,” Wei Wuxian urged. “Don’t rush your family, really, it’s already bad enough.”

“Indeed,” Shufu said, causing all three of them to tense. “I was expecting you would have several months to reconsider this madness. At least let me retain hope until nightfall.”

Wangji looked nearly petulant, but Wei Wuxian actually laughed – a short, startled sound. Lan Xichen smiled despite himself. “Remember, Wangji, this is Wei-gongzi’s wedding as well as yours. Allow us make it as beautiful as we can in the time available.”

That, unsurprisingly, was what convinced Wangji to relent.

///

It was beyond unorthodox for the two betrothed to help one another prepare, but Lan Wangji savored doing so.

When they got back to the jingshi after the meeting with Shufu, Wei Ying seemed weary and strung tight, so Lan Wangji said, “Let's sleep.” In this way he got Wei Ying to rest for an hour within the circle of his arms. He woke him by gliding his thumb over the skin of his cheek.

After that, Xichen came with an assortment of clothes that were all reasonably suitable to choose from, and a message. “Shufu would like some time alone with you, Wangji.”

This was probably not unreasonable, considering Lan Wangji was going to get married and leave Cloud Recesses. Shufu had raised Lan Wangji, so even though he suspected it would be an attempt to dissuade him, he went.

He was pleasantly surprised. Shufu did not in any seriousness try to convince him to abandon his marriage to Wei Ying. Instead, he lectured and read passages, giving Lan Wangji one final lesson. He told him about patience and honor, and duty, and trust, and unsurprisingly about what is right and wrong, and surprisingly about love. Lan Wangji listened to understand his wisdom, and to receive the care contained in his providing it.

It was not long – maybe three quarters of an hour. Lan Wangji left the residence feeling prepared, and anticipatory, and at peace.

In the jingshi, Wei Ying was at the desk scowling intently at a sheet of paper covered in unorganized crossed-out notes. He looked up when Lan Wangji entered, and after a moment his face smoothed. He lay the brush aside and folded the paper over, certainly smudging any ink that might not yet have been dry.

“You can finish your work,” Lan Wangji told him.

Wei Ying shook his head, taking the paper with him and crossing the jingshi. “I was trying to write something, but I think … it’s not necessary.” He tucked the paper into his robe, and his gaze drifted over to the mound of red fabric on the bed.

“Did you find something you liked?” Lan Wangji asked. He still had to select something himself.

“I thought … since they aren’t personal anyway, maybe we want to match.”

There were two loose wide-sleeved robes laid to one side, crisp red silk with the thinnest glimmering gold embroidery. Lan Wangji felt a smile pull at his lips and Wei Ying’s fingerprints dance over the back of his shoulder blade. “Yes.” He would have done what Wei Ying wanted regardless, but he liked what he’d designed.

They dressed one other, beginning with simple white fitted robes. Lan Wangji’s clothes fit Wei Ying well enough for this purpose, since there would be another layer on the outside. Lan Wangji closed the robe around Wei Ying’s torso and tied the stays, fingers pressed right up against the solid heat of his body. Wei Ying mirrored this procedure. Then they fixed one another’s hair. Lan Wangji combed until Wei Ying’s hair was as soft as silk itself, and then pulled it up and into a gold circular hairpiece. When it was his turn, he lost himself in the steady ministrations of Wei Ying’s hands, until Wei Ying was finished and Lan Wangji’s hair was adorned with arcing gold spires.

They ate dinner – or at least, Lan Wangji made an attempt. He wanted something, to be sure, but it was different and it would be his very soon – just a few short hours and a single pot of tea, one journey to Yunmeng, one conversation with Jiang Wanyin. Maybe a day or so after. What need did he have for food, in the face of that? He forced himself to take bites regardless. He had to maintain his strength.

Wei Ying devoured his meal, and then he had to step outside into the blue dusk to retch.

Lan Wangji soothed his hair back, put supportive hands on his waist and under his arm. He was trembling from it, and still too thin, and his eyes were red and bruised from crying and now this. It hit Lan Wangji very fiercely that he didn’t have the warm golden suspension that ran through his own veins. Wei Ying had already been tired and unwell, and Lan Wangji had already demanded several things of him that day. “Are you ill? We can delay.”

“No!” Wei Ying gripped Lan Wangji’s arm with ferocious strength. Ill or well, Wei Ying would keep fighting on any battlefield until his body gave out beneath him. Wei Ying’s other hand traced the line of his collar, brushed his lip, hovered to his headpiece. “No. Not unless you want to wait. If you want more time to think, or …”

“No.”

“Then no. I’m just nervous. Anxious, I mean, excited. I’m about to marry Hanguang Jun, Lan Wangji, Lan Zhan. Who wouldn’t be?”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer him. The question was rhetorical. Only Wei Ying would ever know. He held him for a moment, slid his arms around the back of his waist to support him and press them together. Wei Ying’s face was tired, but he seemed soft and happy. “It will not take long,” Lan Wangji promised him. “Then we will rest.”

They went back inside. Wei Ying cleaned his mouth and teeth with fennel powder, and ate some orange slices to give himself a pleasant taste. He playfully demanded to feed several to Lan Wangji as well – “after all, we’re trying to match” – and Lan Wangji was emboldened by the knowledge Wei Ying was going to marry him, so instead of ignoring him, which was all he had ever known how to do, he knelt beside him and parted his lips obediently. Wei Ying’s eyes were wide and dark, and there was a rosy flush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with fever or illness when he placed the sweet fruit in Lan Wangji’s mouth.

The acid tingling of the juice spread much farther through Lan Wangji’s body than it should have from just the touch of it on his tongue.

It was nearly time, though. They had to finish their preparations.

Lan Wangji took one of the red robes off the bed. It was light – the silk would fall elegantly. Wei Ying turned his back, and Lan Wangji draped it over his shoulders. Wei Ying turned, lifting one hand to pull his hair out from beneath the robe, and suddenly, between the golden hairpiece and the crimson robe and the light in Wei Ying’s eyes, he looked like he was getting married. He looked like they were getting married.

Lan Wangji grasped Wei Ying by the arms. He felt … something, and he needed … something more.

“Wait, wait, Lan Zhan, let me get you in yours first,” Wei Ying said softly. “It’s not fair otherwise.”

Lan Wangji, very reluctantly, had to admit that was true.

He allowed Wei Ying to pull the robe over his shoulders, and then to carefully smooth and straighten the parallel lines of it down his chest. Lan Wangji used the opportunity to look at him. Wei Ying made a stunning groom in their improvised clothes. He would have in rags. Lan Wangji would never allow that, would face blades and arrows to prevent it.

“Don’t worry, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said, running his hands down his arms, cupping his hands up beneath his jaw. “Jiang Cheng will say yes – I will do whatever it takes to convince him. You will come to Lotus Pier and have a home there, and I will take very good care of you as my husband.” His fingers tightened behind Lan Wangji’s neck, as if to reinforce the oath. “I don’t have quite as much money as the very illustrious Lan sect … in fact, I don’t really have any money of my own … but …”

Lan Wangji had somewhat forgotten he was the one marrying into Wei Ying’s household. “My brother will pay a generous dowry,” he assured him. “And he will continue to give me anything we need.”

“Ah, so will my brother!” Wei Ying objected. “Well, somewhat. And he will certainly be less pleasant about it …”

“I am not concerned,” Lan Wangji said. As long as he was at Wei Ying’s side, further luxuries were optional.

“But I have to keep you in fine robes, Lan Zhan. Rest assured, the Second Jade of Lan will still glow under my keeping.”

Lan Wangji had no doubt of that.

Wei Ying wrapped his arms around Lan Wangji beneath the red outer robe. In this way, pulled close, he brushed a ghost-light kiss to the corner of Lan Wangji’s mouth. He’d pulled away before Lan Wangji could turn to return it. “I will also protect you, like I told your uncle. I will have to cause a little less trouble with the other cultivators, I suppose, and I will let you handle the regular things with your sword. But if anyone should really try to harm you …” A little of that menacing light gleamed in Wei Ying’s eye. “I will not let it stand. You know that, don’t you, Lan Zhan?”

He did, and it was torturous. Lan Wangji did not ever want Wei Ying to hurt himself on his behalf. But it would be hypocritical, he supposed, to try to deny him, when he himself would do the same. Additionally, as a purely academic thought, Wei Ying commanding his dark, wild power for Lan Wangji was not – strictly – unappealing. “Only when truly necessary,” Lan Wangji said. He wondered if Wei Ying knew it was a plea. “Only when there is no other choice.”

“Lan Zhan, I will let you play your guqin for me all night long afterward,” Wei Ying replied, which was not even remotely a direct agreement – but his voice was teasing, and they would be married any minute, any second, so Lan Wangji let it go. He would have a lifetime to prevail in this quarrel. He was about to make the vows to ensure it. Even if Jiang Wanyin refused them, even if the world ended that very night, they could never be wholly unconnected from one another. Lan Wangji would be Wei Ying’s.

There was sound at the door – Xichen had appeared. He wore a formal dark blue robe and there was a smile on his face as he regarded them. “You both look very fine. I’ll be back for you in just a few minutes, Wei-gongzi. Wangji, are you ready?”

He was.

Xichen led him to the hanshi. The doorway had been draped in crimson, as had the perimeter of the central room. Candles burned along the walls. Shufu was there, seated behind the table, dressed in rich misty brocade, a more elaborate garment than Lan Wangji had seen him wear since he’d handed responsibility for inter-sect affairs to Xichen. The table held a beautiful tea set – deep azure porcelain with a pale blue design and silver gilding. Suitable for Yunmeng Jiang and Gusu Lan, for Wei Ying and Lan Wangji. Suitable to form part of Lan Wangji’s dowry. It was perfect. He couldn’t imagine how Xichen had found it at such short notice.

“Wangji,” Xichen said, making him look up, and Xichen had a red ribbon embroidered with gold clouds suspended in his hands.

Lan Wangji reached up and removed his powder blue one. He held still as Xichen tied the red one around his forehead. It had been years since he had needed help to don his ribbon. It was a strange feeling to have someone else do it now, one that lodged him firmly in this moment.

It was done. A servant brought in hot water, lit the candle beneath it, and departed. “Shall I go get him, Wangji?” Xichen asked. “Or would you like a moment?”

Lan Wangji’s heart flew erratic in his chest. “Go on.”

It felt as though Lan Wangji had no time at all before Xichen returned. He came in alone and took his seat beside Shufu, behind the table Lan Wangji knelt in front of. Then Wei Ying appeared in the doorway.

There followed a century in which Lan Wangji beheld him. Framed by the night garden, red garlands, and candlelight, he looked fine indeed – a brilliant flash of white between rich and auspicious red and gold, tall and elegant, hair fine, hairpiece gleaming. He was here for Lan Wangji. He stepped across the threshold into the hanshi.

“Stop,” Shufu said.

Wei Ying stopped short. Lan Wangji turned to Shufu in betrayal.

Shufu cleared his throat. “Wei Wuxian. Are spirits, demons, ghosts, and monsters the same thing?”

It took Lan Wangji a too-long moment to understand. This was the challenge his family would throw up for Wei Ying, which he had to overcome to reach Lan Wangji. A simple question even a junior disciple could answer. He looked back to Wei Ying, who was smiling. “No. Spirits are formed from living non-human beings. Monsters are formed from dead non-human beings. Ghosts are formed from dead humans.” A wry thread touched his voice. “Demons are formed from living humans.”

“Very good,” Shufu said gruffly. As the silence stretched, Wei Ying took another step forward. “Stop,” Shufu commanded again. “What is the order of measures of cultivation?”

Wei Ying let out a breathy laugh. “There are a number of methods. First, liberation. Second, suppression. Third, elimination.” He paused. “I think sometimes of a fourth method, but I will not bother you with it this evening, Xiansheng.”

Lan Wangji could not help but look at Shufu. There was a small tic in his brow, but he could have expected nothing else, asking that question. After a moment, he pronounced, “Very good.”

Wei Ying advanced one more step.

“Stop.” Shufu raised both eyebrows. “What is the thirteenth Lan principle?”

Wei Ying’s grin widened, sharpened, hardened. “Don’t practice crooked ways.”

Shufu stared at Wei Ying and said nothing. Wei Ying stared at Shufu and said nothing further. Eventually, Shufu jerked his chin upward, and Wei Ying advanced the last few steps and took his place at the table.

Lan Wangji exchanged a harried glance with Xichen. Shufu might easily have been more intransigent, Wei Ying more combative. He wondered why Shufu had brought up Wei Ying’s cultivation style again if he didn’t mean to pursue it. Perhaps he was just making clear his enduring disapproval.

Perhaps the challenge was tolerating his open disdain.

The ceremony did not take long. Wei Ying took the red ribbon from Lan Wangji’s forehead and wound the ends around their wrists. Bound together, they prepared the tea. Wei Ying poured the first cup and offered it to Shufu. “Shugong, please accept this from me.”

Shufu looked briefly to the heavens when Wei Ying referred to him as family, and for one final moment Lan Wangji’s breath stilled – but Shufu grimly acknowledged, “Zhixu,” and accepted the cup. Xichen answered Wei Ying’s appeal with a warm ‘Dixu’, and they exchanged bright smiles.

Lan Wangji’s heart could not have been fuller. He was not properly meant to cry until they departed Cloud Recesses, so he restrained himself, but it was difficult. He poured tea for his family with steady hands.

In truth, they would not be finished until they were wed within the Jiang sect, but for the time being it was enough. After they went to the Lan family shrine and bowed side-by-side before Lan Wangji’s ancestors, Lan Wangji took Wei Ying back to the jingshi and lay him down to rest, just as he’d promised. He gathered Wei Ying to him back to front, so they were pressed together along every inch. Wei Ying laced the fingers of both their hands tight. Lan Wangji tugged him a little bit closer.

Wei Ying slept quickly once he was free to let his exhaustion claim him. Lan Wangji intended to plan his petition to Jiang Wanyin, but he must have been weary himself, because before too long he fell unconscious alongside him.

part four

#cql #mdzs #the untamed #wangxian #fanfiction #wangxian shotgun wedding is a sappy plot decision I have no justification for #except lxc is relying on lwj to make a reasonable and well-behaved call and lwj is impaired by love #he wants to be married to wei ying yesterday #so he’ll settle for now #for the double entendre with suibian as the betrothal gift #this is an english fic of a fantasy-chinese setting so please just close your eyes and assume with me #that it’s possible to construct a sentence in fantasy-chinese that could carry either one of those meanings #since suibian means ‘whatever you want/it doesn’t matter’#in real life would this actually be even remotely plausible or subtle? I don’t know #for the relative words i'm trying to take direction from other esteemed fic writers where possible #but my needs are a little specific and I'm also obviously not responsible enough to be left alone with pleco unsupervised #everything else from the wedding and betrothal stuff to the dental hygiene is a hodgepodge #of things I’ve read in fics + facts from like page 1 of google + my own fabrication #aka likely to be either highly simplistic or flat out made up #so please forgive my language-and-culture sins and know that I have no idea what I’m talking about #yes them getting even half-hitched without asking jc first is as terrible an idea as it sounds #lxc obviously bought that tea set years ago #lxc #lqr #my fic

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sage-nebula · 4 years

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Now that I’ve got a moment at home, I want to elaborate a bit on my thoughts on the newest PokéAni episode, and why Pikachu’s behavior wasn’t OoC at all, but rather a demonstration of how he’s finally being treated like a character again, after just about two decades of being reduced to a prop to sit on Ash’s shoulder, look cute, and occasionally win battles. Disclaimer up front, I think this is easily the best episode Pikachu has had since the original series.

Let’s take his behavior piece by piece, shall we?

Jealousy:

Before the episode even aired, I saw people claiming that it was “out of character” for Pikachu to feel jealous over Ash training pokémon other than him, and for the most part I can kind of understand where people are coming from with this one. The fact is, since Pikachu has basically just been a series mascot rather than a character for most of the past twenty years, we haven’t really seen much from him with regards to Ash favoring other pokémon on his team (most notably in cases where the bond between Ash and the other ‘mon was super hyped up, as with Greninja). However, that’s not because it’s not in Pikachu’s character to be jealous, but rather because the writers didn’t want to spend enough time on Pikachu to show him being jealous. It’s a subtle, but key difference. Because Pikachu wasn’t “important” to the story in previous sagas, his thoughts and feelings on the given situation were pretty much ignored. But even then, we still saw flashes of it here and there, the most recent example of which I can think occurred in XY(Z). During the second battle with Alan, Pikachu really wanted to battle Alan’s Metang, only for Ash to call upon Noivern instead. (At least, I believe it was Noivern.) Pikachu got huffy over this, and Ash sheepishly said he’d let Pikachu battle next time. Pikachu’s response was to cross his arms and mutter to himself, pouting about it. It wasn’t followed up on after that (though notably, Pikachu got to battle Alan’s Metagross in the League finals), but nonetheless, we still did see Pikachu get jealous over Ash using another pokémon to battle when he wanted to, even in a saga that ignored his character for the most part.

So to say that it’s out of character for Pikachu to get jealous is just incorrect. I understand why some might think that, but it’s incorrect nonetheless. This isn’t to say that it wouldn’t be nice to see it build and build over multiple episodes, but I think it’s worth it to acknowledge the fact that it’s implied this has been building in the beginning of the episode. When Pikachu asks Ash if he can battle next, Ash tells Pikachu that Riolu’s on a winning streak:

For Riolu to be on a roll, this means that this is not the first battle Pikachu has sat out. It means that he’s sat out multiple battles, perhaps over the span of multiple days, and he’s still been a good sport about it up until this moment—the moment when Ash acknowledges that Pikachu is super pumped up to battle, and yet still tells him that, nah, he has to sit on the sidelines and continue to watch. It’s no wonder Pikachu gets pissed; it’s been days and he still hasn’t had his turn on the Xbox.

So while it would be nice to see an actual arc spanning multiple episodes, we’re still given enough information to know that Pikachu has been stewing for a bit and is finally hitting a breaking point, particularly when Ash continues to brush him off (and even scold him for falling asleep on the bench and not, I guess, being ~excited enough~ that Riolu is training instead, and even saying that Pikachu won’t get to battle at all if he naps, like, Ash, tf is your problem??) as the episode progresses. It’s been shown in previous sagas that Pikachu can get pouty if he isn’t chosen, and being looked over again, and again, and again, and then being scolded for not being excited about being looked over, is bound to wear on his nerves.

But that said, Pikachu has some other issues that should be addressed, too.

Abandonment:

In the OS, there were numerous episodes that implied that Pikachu had a fear of abandonment, which led many (myself included, and I’m still not convinced this didn’t happen between Pikachu leaving Mamaskhan and Oak finding him) to believe that Pikachu had a trainer prior to Ash who both mistreated (hence his hatred of pokéballs) and ultimately abandoned him. The most noticeable episode is “Sparks Fly for Magnemite,” in which Pikachu is so terrified of Ash abandoning him that he leaves the Pokémon Center in a severely weakened, ill state to chase after him. Ash is exasperated, but he agrees that Pikachu can come along so long as he rests and doesn’t push himself. (Ash, Misty, and Brock were actually going to the power plant to restore power to the Pokémon Center, so they really weren’t going to be gone long, but Pikachu’s illness made his insecurities come to the forefront and so he chased after anyway.)

Now, much like all other aspects of Pikachu’s personality, his fear of abandonment really hasn’t been brought up since the OS, at least not in any major way to my recollection. But JN started off with an episode detailing Pikachu’s early childhood, and his feelings surrounding no longer belonging with his family. In that instance, he chose to leave despite how much he still loved them, rather than force Mamaskhan to bid him farewell (which she would never do), or have something else terrible happen. Even though it was Pikachu’s own choice to leave, the fact that he felt he had to leave behind the only family he ever knew no doubt still left a scar on his heart, one that was possibly exacerbated by an awful previous trainer, one that might have been unwittingly reinforced in episodes like “Pikachu’s Goodbye” (where Ash legitimately tried to release him) and “Sparks Fly for Magnemite” (where Pikachu thought he was being abandoned) . . .

. . . and one that came up again in this episode.

Because in this episode, we see that Ash has been neglecting Pikachu for a little while, constantly overlooking him, brushing him off, scolding him for not being happy that he’s being brushed off, et cetera. Pikachu, obviously hurt and dejected, spends the night in Delia’s room . . . only for Delia to leave before Pikachu even wakes up, and almost leave without saying goodbye to him at all. Then he turns back to Ash again, but this time he barely has time to get two words in before Ash tells him “I’ll train with you later,” brushing him off yet again in favor of Riolu.

And that’s when Pikachu breaks, and decides to run away.

Pikachu running away in this instance speaks volumes to me, as someone who also has abandonment issues. Because if you think about it, Pikachu going to Pallet Town was his way of benching himself. After all, provided he hasn’t released them, where do all of the pokémon that Ash isn’t actively training live? Either in Pallet Town with Oak (or in this case Delia), or in Alola. (Or in the Charicific Valley / with the Squirtle Squad etc, but those are special cases.) Pikachu decided, “Okay, I’m not going to wait around for you to bench me. I’m going to do it first so you don’t get the chance.” And that’s something that’s so familiar to me, because I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve decided to stop reaching out to / being around people because I felt like they didn’t want me around / didn’t like me / were silently rejecting me and so I said, you know what, I won’t make you reject me outright, I will just remove myself from your presence so it doesn’t come to that (which, yes, is always the wrong move to make and I try not to make it, but mental illness is a real bitch sometimes). It’s called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, and I think that Pikachu displayed big signs of it in this episode. Ash wasn’t “rejecting” Pikachu from his perspective, but Pikachu felt that he was being rejected and reacted accordingly. Issues from his past flared up to make this a much bigger deal than it might’ve been for other pokémon, and as a result Pikachu turned tail and ran.

So what we saw in this episode was not only Pikachu being jealous / irritated that he was passed over for battle (though he was, and that’s not out of character for him either), but also Pikachu exhibiting Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria that was likely borne from abandonment / displacement / rejection issues that have been building in him since he was a Pichu. Neither Ash nor Delia meant to stoke this in Pikachu, but they still did nonetheless, and so his behavior makes total sense (so long as, again, you consider his history and the implication at the beginning of the episode that he’s been passed over for multiple battles before this).

And finally, one more thing . . .

The attitude:

Man, I was so happy to see his attitude come back!

Here’s the thing about how Pikachu behaved back when he was focused on more as a character: he was a brat. Later sagas often give the implication that Pikachu was only bratty in the first episode, before he came to like Ash, but that is far and away not true. Pikachu got a little skull and crossbones reaction emoji when Delia called him “weird” and shocked the whole crowd. Pikachu got irritated when Ash told him to hush and not blow his cover in Celadon Gym and shocked the disguise right off him. Pikachu would pull out a sleeping bag and pretend to sleep if he didn’t want to do something (such as battle or go into a haunted tower). Pikachu showed open disappointment when Team Rocket, and Meowth especially, didn’t drown to death after a shipwreck:

So the Pikatude that we saw in this episode? 100% IC characterization from start to finish for the first time in what feels like a very long time. Pikachu sulking after getting passed over? IC. Pikachu stubbornly trying to get Mimey to leave him alone because he is leaving Arceus-damn-it and you can’t stop him? IC. Pikachu getting tired and refusing to walk and angrily shoving Mimey off when Mimey tries to drag him because he wants to take a rest? All Pikachu had to do was pull out a literal sleeping bag and it could have been a scene right out of the OS. And that glorious bit at the end when Pikachu shocks the daylights out of Ash (as Ash wonders “why . . . ?”) and then pulls this face?

THE MOST IC THING I HAVE SEEN FROM THIS ANIME IN YEARS. That’s the Pikatude that Pikachu had when the series first started out and he got to be an actual character! That’s the Bratachu I know and love! While Ash has never really had a return to his Sass Ketchum days (and oh, how I miss those), to see Pikachu treated like an actual character again, separate from Ash, allowed to have his own thoughts, feelings, reactions, and arc . . . it’s wonderful. Masterful. Chef’s kiss. The whole episode was amazing, but seeing Pikachu actually be himself again really sold out.

So, TL;DR:

Pikachu has been jealous before, albeit in much smaller instances because the narrative hasn’t wanted to really treat him as his own character in a very long time.

Pikachu had abandonment issues established in OS, reaffirmed that he has issues with not feeling like he belongs / leaving before he can be openly rejected in the first episode of this series, and brought all of that up again in this episode after multiple on-screen “rejections” and implied ones before the episode.

Pikachu always had an attitude until it was smoothed away so he could be a cute mascot and other pokémon could get narrative focus; having it come back in this series/episode is wonderful and no one should begrudge that. Let Pikachu Be Interesting Again 2020

And that’s that on that.

#pokemon #pokeani #pikachu #meta #long post for ts #but seriously that bit at the end was like . . . a little mini love note for OS fans #bc that's SO MUCH of how they acted in OS like #there was a lot of love as well #in fact I've seen some people wish we had Ash's thoughts on this episode & if you feel that way #go watch ''Fit to be Tied'' from the Orange Islands season #in that episode Ash and Pikachu are separated & it flips between both of them #and Ash is running himself ragged trying to find Pikachu again - refuses to rest until he does #Ash cries when Pikachu refuses to be released in ''Pikachu's Goodbye'' too #but even so there was a lot of Pikatude and when you consider that Ash was still Sass Ketchum back then #we got scenes like the above quite a bit #and it was SO GOOD #i loved it so much #anyway this is one of the best episodes we've had in 20 years so #you're free to dislike it ig but if you do you have bad taste and are also wrong #sorry not sorry that's just the law according to the rules

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