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meadowlarkx · 2 years

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I love you all @sparklingdali @imakemywings

1.) finrod dwarf bf

My first silm fic!!! This has been lingering for months at the border of "nearly done" since I wrote most of it in a surge of desperate inspiration. Basically, Finrod romance oneshot-ish with a semi-OC dwarven craftsman who made the Nauglamír. This is actually my saddest finrod fic tbh despite being the one WITHOUT torture and dubcon, because it's canon compliant (imo) and Finrod is hopeful and brilliant and a little vain. :')

Those lit-up eyes softened. "Truly, your craftsmanship impresses me. I have never before been the warden of a thing so fine, nor so beautiful. I will treasure it, wonder-smith, as I have treasured your abode within these walls."

He always found the right words. It was for that open appreciation that the Khazâd so readily labored for him.

dwarf bf really has it bad for this guy

most dubious thing in this fic--i chose a Petty-dwarves narrative before learning about alternate (to me) versions Tolkien had (where Finrod is worse or has direct interaction with Mîm) but this is what I'm probably going to stick to because I like:

It was oddly fitting, Nargothrond, the seat of Felakgundu's power. The caverns' first inhabitants were criminals and outlaws, those Khazâd who had left or been driven forth in the early years. Zirak was a scholar as well as a craftsman, and he knew how those dwarves had met their end—on Elvish arrows in the days before the newcomers had made their way from the Sea. In the months they'd spent in the workshop, the Elf lord had spoken glimmers of the shadow that lay in his own past.

It has a hold on me still, Felakgundu said, after the first and only time Zirak had witnessed a waking dream. If he hadn't known Elves better, he would have thought Felakgundu a little abashed. A moment before, those light eyes had stared at nothing, unseeing and stricken. But I am stronger. And I will build strength in goodness here, no matter how evil the foundation it lies on.

Also they hook up <3

2.) westworld

Well.... having written a fucked up Bohun & Bohun/Helena Westworld AU fic for Ogniem i mieczem... I keep wanting to write a Jan (/OT3) one to keep it company. You know I have plenty of wretched ideas for that boy in this verse. Another villainous Jeremi (I wish I could say I was sorrier). Most of this one is actually in a notebook rn instead of the "westworld"-titled doc:

"What happens with the guests doesn't matter." Jan cocks his head, uncomprehending. The words are blank. Jeremi smiles. "What you do is in my service." Jan glows. "Thank you, my prince." Were there ever sweeter words?

3.) potop ot3 drama

My fav Sienkiewicz WIP at the moment tbh and HOPEFULLY one day I go back to it. This is my attempt at a Kmicic/Wołodyjowski fic because by God, we deserve one. Eventual OT3 with Oleńka I think thus the title. The premise (my beloved silly premise) is this: It's the Kmicic-as-wild-partisan-leader era. Michał is sent a bit earlier to give him his commission. Michał and Kmicic hook up before Michał learns who Kmicic is and that his hot one night stand is the famous, kind of mad partisan leader he's supposed to consider for the officer's commission. Then dramatic shenanigans ensue with Hovansky (the Russian commander who has a price on Kmicic's head) and eventually Oleńka.

“So,” Kmicic echoed, tugging at his collar. Michał had barely met him, and yet the uneasy expression still seemed uncomfortable on that bold, brash face; Kmicic remedied it with a grin that didn’t touch his wild eyes for all its bravery. “The first sabre of the Commonwealth—” “Don’t, God,” Michał mumbled, and Kmicic didn’t. “So you remember. It was a mistake unworthy of either of us. You must know that.”

Kmicic’s eyes flashed and he jumped to his feet, casting the empty glass down so it shattered. “Unworthy—”

Radziwiłł’s commission felt like fire against Michał’s breast, investing him with the strength he needed to respond—to stand in a flash and to grab Kmicic’s forearm over the table as he reached for his sabre, holding hard enough to bruise. He spoke lowly, the words hissed in the sudden closeness. “You must know that.”

Kmicic’s lip curled. His Polish was slightly accented now, as if touched by scorn. Michał could smell the sweet mead on his breath. “Say it again. I’d kill any other man who said that to me. I’d challenge you here and now.” He’d moved to ty.

Well, again.

“You would lose,” Michał said, with as little inflection as a stone. He released him, and Kmicic staggered.

Michał returned to his seat at the bench and picked up a leg of fowl. The tavern girls, flocked to the far corner of the room, visibly exhaled and began to file out towards the kitchen.

Kmicic stood before him, slim chest heaving, eyes the color of steel. He looked as if he were about to strike something.

“Sit down,” Michał said. He’d moved to ty too.

Kmicic sat.

Michał swore softly. “Don’t misunderstand me, sir. But put it out of your mind.”

“You needn’t have any fear on that account!” Kmicic downed another glass and took up the pitcher. Michał looked on with something like concern.

it's not my fault this is MAYBE the most fun Kmicic era

Michał’s mustache twitched. “If there were requisitions, signed orders—”

“May I ask you a question, your grace?” Soroka interrupted, voice low and hard. “What kind of men did your grace expect to find? In Smolensk, there’s none left like you describe. They died, your grace. Thanks be to God, Pan Kmicic hasn’t, and so they flock to him for the blood. For the fires and food, and the hope of jewels off boyars’ caps. Because this ragged part of God’s earth is the only place the courts won’t hound them—for murder and rape and Devil knows what else.”

Michał was silent. Soroka looked away, as if ashamed to speak so freely. Wołodyjowski had never heard the older man say so many words together at once.

“Besides his great boldness, there is no other reason, so if it please your grace, don’t tell my lord how to manage his men until you’ve tried it.”

“I will try it, Soroka,” Michał responded evenly, the leather of his sabre’s hilt warm under his hand. “And I’ll manage your lord too.”

one day. One day. i will finish enough of this to at least post what i've got and contribute my fandom taxes to the Potop tag because god we need more fic with this extremely canon ship

#answered #imakemywings #sparklingdali

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itateverybody-blog · 6 years

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He’s Making a List

In the lead up to Christmas Eve, many of us elves had started to become very concerned with Santa’s behavior. It had grown unpredictable. Erratic. Even, disturbing. It was not the St. Nicholas we had grown to know and love over our many years of spreading Christmas cheer. There was something happening in his mind, something dangerous. Something violent. And the violence brewing in Santa’s mind had started to transform his body as well.

Normally, Santa spent this most wonderful time of the year focusing on the global surveillance system he managed from the North Pole. How else was he supposed to compile his infamous list? He had to keep rigorous tabs on every living person across the planet in order to judge whether they were naughty or nice. That responsibility required him to oversee a massive intelligence-gathering operation, far more invasive and far-reaching than the CIA, NSA, KGB, or any other spying agency in the history of nation-states. The North Pole was merely the headquarters of a planetary network of covert elves accumulating information for the big man back home. What do you think the elves did during the majority of the year? Make the toys? Feed the reindeer? They are wiring your telephone line and hacking your webcam. They’re tracking your daily movements from an unmarked van parked down the street. They’re placing microphones in your house when you’re not home. Gathering intelligence. Watching. Listening. Seeing you when you’re sleeping. Knowing when you’re awake.

In fact, only a small number of elves actually lived at the North Pole and made toys. Most of Santa’s gifts were actually produced by outside companies. In the past several decades, Santa had moved away from toy production, deciding instead to focus on distribution and branding deals with outside marketers. There just wasn’t that much consumer demand anymore for generic label train sets and jacob’s ladders. In other words, I was a dying breed; a true christmas elf that met the piddling production quotas of Santa’s dwindling workshop.

And because of my position as a workshop elf, I am much closer to Santa than most of the elves employed in his operation. I see him everyday. I am a direct aide de camp of the great Kris Kringle. I feel as if I’ve really gotten to know him. Even trust him. And I think he trusted me. I can anticipate his moods. I relied on his surefire commitment to spreading Christmas cheer. His unblemished faithfulness to the spirit of Christmas made me faithful in his strength as a leader.

But, as I said, recently Santa had started to change. He started to grow more detached. He became less and less directly involved with the international covert operations he had always relied on to make his special list. He had stopped attending daily intelligence briefings. He had left memos and status reports unread on his desk. He spoke less and less with his various project leaders; stepping away from the day to day management of his spying empire. He had become withdrawn. Difficult to approach. Guarded.

But even worse than his personality changes, he was physically transforming in a way no one had ever thought possible. Santa was losing weight. Santa was losing weight fast.

We all first started to notice it around midsummer. I don’t think anyone actually said anything, though, till September hit. That’s when I first remember discussing it with some of my colleagues. Right around the time Santa was suppose to start beefing up and reinforcing his girth, the opposite was happening. He was slimming down. He was growing thinner.

This was a troubling prospect for all of us. Whoever heard of a thin Santa Claus? What a serious blow to our brand identity. What a serious blow to our major distribution operations. Santa can only get away with breaking and entering into so many private residences because he looks like Santa Clause. No one was going to believe some thin guy was busting into their house just to give them presents. We wouldn’t make it past the first chimney before he would be arrested and thrown in jail; some frail and confused old man who had somehow gotten lost inside a stranger’s home.

We tried the obvious approaches. We baked him cookies. We offered him milk. We worked tirelessly in the kitchen to cook his favorite Christmas dishes in mass quantities. Figgy pudding. Roast goose. But he only picked at the sumptuous feasts we prepared. Santa had never been a picky eater before, but now he was looking sideways at every morsel of food we placed in front of him.

We tried to talk to him. We tried to express our concerns. We tried to convince him to eat more, to prepare for the coming holiday. He needed to gain weight, we all needed him to gain weight. He wouldn’t listen. He had other things on his mind.

He had adopted strange new habits beyond his poor diet and rapid weight loss. He started watching a lot more television than he ever had before. American television. Mainly Fox News. Yeah that’s right. Santa would spend hours watching and listening to the main propaganda arm of the contemporary right wing. He started his days with Fox and Friends, spent some time with Laura Ingraham during the day, and always caught Sean Hannity live.

If he wasn’t watching Fox News, he would spend hours on his computer, pouring over online forums and absorbing the toxic culture of internet trolls. Studying the manic conspiracy theories of the alt-right. He antagonized liberals on social media websites. He shared memes of Pepe the frog. He started listening to Alex Jones.

Santa had never really been one for partisan politics. Sure, he may have been slightly conservative in regards to social issues, I mean after all, he is a beloved institution of a mainstream, technically Christian holiday: what do you expect? But he had always been a pretty neutral figure when it came to divisive issues. He had long recognized the importance of embracing the social norms expected of Santa Claus, to be open and welcoming to everyone and to respect the dignity of his office.

Over the past year, however, Santa had drifted towards a harsher view of the world. A more hostile attitude towards politics. A more conspiratorial paranoia made its way into his thinking. Suspicion lingered within his thoughts and drove him to believe wild fantasies. He insisted that millions of votes in the American presidential election were cast illegally. He tried to convince me once, that Democrats were managing a pedophile ring somewhere in downtown D.C. There was one occasion where I even heard him use the term, “Libtard.”

It was uncanny how Santa’s weight loss paralleled his growing obsession with right wing media. The more the pounds melted away, the more invested he became in the visions of agitated pundits, as if his body mass was being replaced by their political agenda. Somehow the politics he was consuming was enough to sustain him, keeping him alive somehow.

For the hundreds of years Santa had been delivering presents to boys and girls, no one up at the North Pole had seen anything wrong with the complex spying operations required to separate the nice from the naughty. Santa was such a trustworthy figure, so adored and admired, it didn’t matter how invasive or technologically advanced the surveillance became, it would be okay because Santa was in control of all it. He would make sure that it would not get out of hand. He would make sure that his power would not be abused.

Now that Santa was beginning to see the world through a right wing lens, the feeling of protection most of us had held in the past started to vanish quickly. The loss of a rational, benevolent Santa made us realize how thoroughly dependent we were on the central authority of Good St. Nick. Now that Santa was quickly being lost down a hyper-partisan rabbit hole, the institutions he controlled revealed a certain ugliness, a nasty potential that had always been there to begin with. Now that Santa was becoming a devotee of the hard right, none of the elves could guarantee that he would not use his Christmas magic to advance his political views. Santa had been given so much power over the years, and it had all been built on this unfounded assumption that Santa would always be stable. How wrong we were.

As October became November, Santa only got worse. He was struggling to wear any of his traditional Christmas clothing. His big red pants could barely hold on to his slender waist. His big black gloves slipped off his claw-like fingers. His trademark hat slumped over his eyes, unable to rest firmly on his head.

His sleeping schedule changed. Or rather, he radically cut back on his sleeping entirely, staying up until all hours of the night, his face buried in a screen. The elves out in the field gathering intelligence for Santa’s lists tried to keep their heads down and do their jobs as effectively as they could, but their leader’s deterioration had become difficult to ignore. Despite all the material they compiled, despite all the memos they produced and reports they wrote, the elves were increasingly unsure as to the actual content of the naughty and nice list.

Normally the compilation of the list was a collaborative project, that involved the input of several agency heads and trusted elf advisors based on troves of data and evidence. This Christmas, the elves had been shut out of the list-making process entirely. They supplied Santa with the intelligence but they had no idea how he had used it. The elves began to speculate that Santa’s determinations of who was naughty and nice was quickly conforming to his radical political views. The lists would no longer reflect the moral integrity expected of the North Pole. Instead, it would be used as a weapon - a method of attacking the latte-sipping coastal elites. The list had been politicized.

December rolled around and still Santa continued to get thinner. He didn’t even look like St. Nick anymore. His jolliness had gone. His cheeks were no longer rosy. His long beard had become unkempt and ratty. His eyes had changed from wide beaming harbingers of joy, to a coldly paranoid gaze that viewed everyone around him with suspicion. He had become a miser obsessed with the threat of conspiracy, seeing dangerous plots to takeover his power surfacing from every direction. He saw his elves, his most loyal helpers, as a threat to his power. He no longer trusted us, and we no longer trusted him.

As the big day grew nearer and nearer, I started to notice strange things gathering in Santa’s private workshop. Chemicals with long names that were difficult to pronounce. Sealed containers with bright red labels in various languages warning of terrifyingly lethal capabilities. Strange synthetic smells. The sound of hissing and sizzling. What was Santa building in his workshop? What were those clanging sounds? What was being mixed in those gigantic steel vats? Why did Santa need to wear a face mask and gloves?

What was Santa planning for the people on his naughty list?

And still he lost more weight. More and more of him gone with each passing day. No matter how much we tried to get him to eat, he refused. He insisted he was just fine with his Anthroplex supplements that he ordered online from the Infowars web store. He just kept losing it, like snow melting in spring.

When Christmas Eve finally came, a group of us workshop elves went to go see Santa off. We assembled the reindeer, securing the harness and the reins. We were all very worried, but none of us had the strength to say anything. The mood amongst us was more reminiscent of a funeral party than a holiday celebration. Santa struggled into his sleigh, weak from hunger. His long fingers with overgrown nails gripped the handrails as he stumbled his way into the front seat. I glanced in the back of the sleigh, at the compartment where he was supposed to keep the toys. Instead of plush dolls and erector sets there were unmarked metal canisters. I stepped away from the sleigh and felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.

As I watched Santa lift off into the sky, off towards human civilization, I was struck with the thought that we were somehow all complicit with what was about to happen. And what’s worse, I knew that Santa had always been capable of something like this, a realization that reinforced our complicity. It wasn’t just a madness that developed over a short period of time. It wasn’t an anomaly or a fluke. The frightening potential for unrestrained political terror had always been part of Santa’s identity, living in him like a virus lying dormant for years until he displayed symptoms. He was a strange old man who broke into people’s houses in the night. He spied on children and gave them presents if they pleased him. He ate their cookies and drank their milk. He judged their actions and organized them according to a rigid moral binary. The list-making hadn’t been politicized, it had always-already been a political act. Making a list, checking it twice. Just another power-relation.

We watched him disappear into the sky. The workshop elves stood silently in the cold North Pole night. We all looked at each other in a moment of utter despair. Not knowing what else to do, we went inside to watch the aftermath of whatever Santa had planned live on CNN. It was all we could do.

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