#amber writes something

[amberarmedheart]

In Defense of John Watson and the Importance of the Besotted Narrator

Every couple of years, the world as a collective likes to ruminate and come up with a new adaptation of the stories of Sherlock Holmes, every single new one promising to be either "The Ultimate Adaptation" or "Holmes for the New Era", there is no in-between. And it is understandable, this amazement and awe we hold for the beloved mysteries, they are classics for a reason.

And despite that, time and again I see creators of tv shows, pastiches, and movies, neglect the most important aspect in every single Sherlock Holmes' story: the immovable presence of John Watson. Some even going as far as turning Watson into a villain, a caricature of himself, or even erasing him completely from the narrative. "After all, the important one is Holmes, isn't he? He is the genius, and Watson is there just his biographer."

That is the capital omission to me when it comes to any of the adaptations, because it ignores the vital part that Watson plays in Holmes' life. Watson is the companion, he is the bridge between the "normal" world and the genius that is Holmes' deductive brain. He is, for a lack of a better descriptor, the translator between what jumps in judgement and reasoning Holmes' brilliant mind comes up with, and the layman's language.

There is a reason why we as readers come up with the idea that Holmes is smart beyond his quirks and his drug addiction, beyond his ignorance of anything and everything that in his opinion doesn't help him solve the cases that distract him from the boredom of normal life... and that reason is that John Watson is the person narrating the whole thing. We are not introduced to Holmes through an omnipresent, anonymous narrator which is the case with other books. We are thrown in the middle of a mystery from the start the same way that Watson is unexpectedly thrown in 221b.

What we think of Holmes, what we feel for him, it is all because Watson wishes us to experience. The stories themselves carry with them one of the best storytelling devices graciously blended into the narrative, which is the fact that Watson is an incredibly good writer, so much that the public gazes into the spotlight where Holmes is and in most cases ignores that the one shining it down is Watson himself.

Creators who like to ignore Watson and his function in the narrative tend to see Holmes as their own self-insert: a super smart man whose genius cannot compare with the mediocre world population and who can barely tolerate their stupidity, basically a gift to men from god and who has to be worshipped for it... When the reality is that every single thing we perceive from Holmes is because of how Watson sees him.

Watson is our unreliable narrator, his descriptions and impressions of Holmes are the ones that are weaved into the story; even goes as far as giving us a glimpse of Holmes' opinion about it through the way the consultant detective sometimes accuses Watson of adding too many embellishments to his narrations. If we see Holmes as an incredible genius, as someone whose intelligence is above the rest of the world, it is because Watson says so. With every passing story, we come across different characters that every once in a while whose first impression of Holmes has been influenced by what they themselves read in Watson's stories... All in all, the in-universe characters falling under the same influence we, as readers, are.

John Watson's love for Holmes is one of the main plot points in the story, we see its evolution the same way as one normally goes through different stages of falling in love. We see Watson's first infatuation, his interest in what makes Holmes what he is, first in a superficial way and later on with every new story. We see them have misunderstandings, which most of the time end up in a deeper appreciation of Holmes as a person.

All culminating in the incredible rendition of The Final Problem, which could easily be seen, without little effort, as Holmes' planning his own death. By what means we are never completely sure, to be honest, since we can only see it through Watson's deep grief. It is true that Arthur Conan Doyle's plans were to end Holmes' adventures with the short story, but even with the author's motivations being the main recourse behind its inception, there is no doubt when reading the story that the focus of the narrative is Holmes' spending his last moments with Watson.

The subsequent creation of The Empty House and further adventures after that, diluted partially the importance of the whole ordeal, but gave us a different insight of Holmes and Watson's relationship. Through that lens, we as readers witness the evolution of it, the toll that Holmes' fake death had in both his biographer and his own author, adding depth through the strain put by the facade.

E. W. Hornung made one of my favorite homages to Holmes and Watson through his stories of The Gentleman Thief, and put a greater emphasis on the strained relationship between the two characters after the fake death. He gave his besotted narrator another source of turmoil: the fact that while Raffles (our stand-in Holmes) was away living life and even having a romantic interest, Bunny (his Watson) ends up falling in disgrace after being sent to jail.

A.J. Raffles' stories lean on the importance of the unreliable, uselessly enamored narrator, to the point that Hornung didn't shy away from having Bunny refer to Raffles as handsome and attractive in many different instances. He understood how there is no Holmes without a Watson to appreciate him, how their dynamic is the fuel behind the success of the whole series.

And ultimately, that it is impossible to have a good story without a good storyteller.

[ashen-char]

i say that i hate you with a smile on my face 🔞

my masterlist, to check out my other works, is here

ship: amber freeman (scream) x gender neutral reader

warnings: explicit smut so minors get out. hate sex, sex while driving

summary: amber is furious after seeing you with another girl at a party. the only way to deal with her jealousy is to fuck it out of her.

word count: 2700+

By the time the party ends, it's almost 3am. Early hours have always felt so strange to you, so mysterious that liminal time past midnight and before the sun rises. Everything feels slower. Less alive, almost. There aren't any other cars on the street, aren't any lights on in the houses you pass as you make your way back to Amber's.

The radio is off and the streets are quiet. You almost wish that Amber would go right back to yelling at you because at least it wouldn't be this mind-numbing silence. You're so tense, shoulders stiff and defensive, your grip a vice on the wheel.

You had danced with another girl, sure.

Chad had introduced you to some new girl that Liv had befriended and told to come. You can't even remember what her name was. When Liv got roped into a night shift and couldn't go, she'd told her friend to stick to a familiar face.

Really, you think that Chad just wanted to ditch her on you so that Liv wouldn't tear him a new one for leaving her friend while he got wasted. You owed Chad a solid for helping you score a reservation at some fancy restaurant for you and Amber's anniversary after you forgot it, and you didn't see the harm. That was your first mistake.

Amber's expression is unreadable, her grip white-knuckled on her knee as she stares out the window of your car. Speaking first would feel like you lost—you still don't think you did anything wrong, feel that Amber's reaction went way too far. And you're stubborn. But Amber is even more so. And your relationship is more valuable than winning... whatever this is, so

"I didn't do anything," you say for what feels like the hundredth time that night.

"You hear how you sound right now?" Amber snarls, her own shoulders tensing up. "That's what everyone says when they're caught. I didn't do anything," she imitates your voice in a whine.

Mocking you? How mature.

Letting go of her knee, Amber folds her arms over her chest, looking away from you again. You can see her roll her eyes and scoff a “whatever” under her breath.

You grit your teeth. Possible responses whir through your brain—a joke, an apology, something to diffuse the situation. You know what you should do, know that Amber’s only jealous because she’s desperate for reassurance from you. But God is it exhausting navigating Amber's complex emotions when she doesn't even care if she hurts yours.

Tonight was supposed to be fun for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to go to a party and have a blast, not get into another stupid argument.

Amber hasn't apologised a single time since you two started dating. She hasn't once promised she'd be better like you always do for her. She had yelled at you the second you two left the party, fighting from the porch all the way to the car. She wouldn’t hear you out even once as you were vehemently denying her accusations. You truly believe that you shouldn’t be the one to apologise. Not this time.

So this time, you don't do that. Your hand reaches out, sliding over to the passenger seat until you're grazing Amber's thigh. "What did you think you saw me do, huh?" you say.

“What are you—"

"You think I touched her?" Your fingers trail their way up. The fabric of her leggings is thin, so you can feel the heat of Amber’s skin as you caress her inner thigh. It’s a tease, a war of nerves, wondering when the other will give in. "Like this?"

Amber's still worked up, blood still pumping; the adrenaline from the argument is rushing through her veins. But you know that no matter how pissed off she is at you, there’s no way she’d push you away. You swear she actually moves closer.

“You would,” Amber challenges. “You know, if I knew you were gonna be another unfaithful piece of shit, I wouldn’t have agreed to go out with you.”

You can tell from her tone that she’s trying to rile you up on purpose. Like she’s enjoying getting under your skin. She wants you as heated as she is so it becomes a level playing field. Amber does this whenever you two have a fight, like she's just waiting for you to blow up at her so you feel as insane as she does about you. You know it's all coming from the same place as the jealousy does. She feels so fucking much about you that she's begging for more. Needs retribution so bad. Needs to feel something.

"Sometimes I swear you start fights out of nowhere on purpose," you say. On her upper inner thigh now, your hand squeezes, almost hard enough to bruise. Your thumb runs up down, up down, never quite getting close enough to where she wants it. "Because you like when I touch you while you pretend to hate my guts."

"You're an idiot. Why would I want you to touch me?" Amber clenches her thighs, holding your hand in place, preventing it from slipping back down. You can hear how her breathing gets laboured. She's too stubborn to admit that she wants you to keep going, but you both know it. She can't help the mix of hatred and lust that fuels her veins right now. "I do hate you. I hate you so goddamn much."

A red light. You breathe out in relief.

Finally, your attention doesn't need to be split between the road and this argument. You can see the smile on her face as she swears that she hates you. Good. That wild look in her eyes tells you that you can be more aggressive with her. Amber loves that. 

Your hand slips up right where she wants it, until you're cupping at her center. Only a thin scrap of fabric separate your fingers from the cunt you love so much. You could do it. You could tear through her leggings and fuck the shit out of her. Amber's legs part for you and you swear you hear her whimper.

"What would you do if I did flirt with her, huh?" you say. "Would you break up with me?"

"Fuck you," she spits, though with her shortness of breath it sounds more like a plead. "I bet you wanted to get her to some spare room. You're desperate enough. Were you hoping to get your fingers wet with some other bitch even when you went there with your girlfriend?"

Her mouth is so filthy. You should do something about that. Amber shouldn't be allowed to talk right now. "What's your fucking problem? I was with you all night!"

God, this is fun. Amber's grinning and her eyes shine, the golden light coming in from the streetlights and making everything glow. You squeeze. The meat of your palm is grinding up against her clit but it isn't enough. Not with all that clothing between you. She moans, clenching her legs once more, needing more pressure there.

"You're my problem!" Amber shrieks.

Fuck.

The second you're about to leap in and devour Amber in a kiss, the light you're stopped at turns green. The car behind you honks and you're forced to turn your attention back to the road. Amber lets out a frustrated groan at that, that stupid honking throwing the moment entirely.

"You know what, screw this," she says. You hear Amber unclick her seatbelt, and before you can tell her to strap back in she grabs your hand.

"What are you—" You barely get the words out before your hand is shoved down into her leggings.

Amber's soaked. She's as sticky and warm as the last time you touched her, and you know just how good she'd taste right now too. It isn't your dominant hand—that one is busy on the wheel—so you actually haven't touched her with this one before. It's unfamiliar territory and the same all at once. She pushes her panties to the side with her own hand but it'll be yours that she makes do all the work.

"Shut up. I need this." A low guttural sound escapes her lips as she finally, finally feels your hand where she wants it. Her head tilts back and you feel her thighs squeeze at that first sharp sensation of pleasure. "Shut your mouth and drive," she practically hisses.

You have to focus on the road. The guy behind you is already pissed from how slow you were to keep driving after the green light, and how Amber had given him the middle finger. He's driving so close behind you know that a single slip up could mean a crash. You're so fucked. Especially your fingers, which Amber is sliding her slit up and down on, collecting her wetness with a satisfying shlick.

"Amber," you try to warn. As hot as this is, you do not want to get into an accident because your girlfriend was just so horny during a fight.

Her mouth hangs open in pleasure as she rubs her clit against your palm. It's so much better when you can feel her. You wish you could turn to look. But you can feel Amber's eyes on you, probably still glaring at you with the same hateful glare she had earlier.

"She wouldn't be this wet for you," she tells you.

The girl at the party could not be further from your mind right now. "I don't give a shit about her," you admit. "God, you're so wet, baby." You can feel your own excitement between your legs, can see how your windows are starting to fog up as both of your breaths heat the air.

She lets out a moan, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. "That's right. Because you're mine." Her nails dig into the flesh of your forearm, a threat to scratch you up if you so much as attempt to move away. 

Your fingers slip inside. Two at once. Amber normally likes to play the long game and build up to more, letting you tease her with one sliding in and out until she screams at you for more. But the thrill of the danger and anger and jealousy is getting to both of you. Her hips grind and wind as she rides your fingers, while your other hand desperately grips onto the wheel as you will yourself to concentrate on the road.

"Say it," Amber breathes out. "You're only mine."

A part of you thinks that'd be no fun. "You should've trusted me," you say instead. It's so much more fun when she's seething. It's like her anger is heating up her insides. She feels different. You curve your fingers inside her and she cries out.

"Fuck!"

"Yeah? You loving my fingers in your pussy?" You wriggle the two until you're pressing at the spot that always drives Amber crazy. But it's clumsy. You never use this hand and eventually it'll cramp up and get tired. You know you're doing your job well when she digs her nails in even harder and her hips thrust. Neither of you give a shit when the car behind you honks and overtakes you.

She's too wound up right now, too far gone. Her mouth twists into a vicious smile that you can't see, but you can hear it in her voice. "Y-you wish," Amber struggles out. "You think you're so good. I'm using you here, not the other way around."

She rides your fingers like that for a few minutes. As you had suspected, the lack of practice means that your forearm is already getting tired. As hot as this is, you can't pump as easily as you could if you were on a bed, not worrying about driving. You can tell that Amber is getting frustrated. Maybe that's making it better.

Everything is a blur of rage and lust until you realise you've driven right past her house. Whatever. You're dying to stop the goddamn car and set Amber right. You slam the brakes now that there's no car behind you to hit, sending the car lurching to a stop. Your fingers slide deeper into her cunt with the movement and it makes her scream.

You pull into a residential side street, one even quieter than the rest. Finding a spot to turn off the engine and throw the car into park is easy enough when your brain is putting I need to fuck her right now over safety.

The second that ignition goes off, Amber is already on you. You slip your tired hand away, the other going to her leggings and slipping them off. Her expression is still twisted in that rage that never quite goes away—she hates you, she hates you, she hates you—but she loves you so much when you shove three fingers into her.

You feel her tongue invading your mouth, probing and searching, while her hands continue to grip and claw at your clothes. It's like she's trying to claim you; she wants to take away all evidence of you being your own person, to take away your control.

"Is this what you wanted?" Amber whispers against your mouth. "Why do you make me feel like? You want to see me like this? Huh?"

It's reckless and out of control and perfect. You don't even care that any second you could get caught. You could lose yourself in this moment, in this golden haze that illuminates your fogged up windshield. The car's starting to sway with your movements.

"How do I make you feel, baby?" Her pussy feels so good as you surge your fingers in deeper. "Tell me."

"Like I'm going crazy," she whispers, her voice breaking a little with emotion. It's too much. It was too much then at the party, when she saw you dancing with some other girl, too much when you started touching her. 

Everything about what you're doing to her is bringing Amber closer and closer to that point of no return. "Like you're making me crave you." Her hips rock against you again, her breasts soft as they rub against you too.

This is Amber making you feel the way you make her feel. When you dance with other girls, when you don't text back for hours, when you forget your anniversary. Every time you brushed off an insult and didn't let a fight escalate, this is what she wanted. How pent up she must have been, swallowing down the rage and accepting your apologies.

Amber whines when your thumb grazes against her clit. Every bit of her feels like it's tingling and she's practically soaking your lap at this point. "I hate you but I can't live without you." Amber sounds like she's on the verge of tears. "It scares and excites me at the same time. I—I've never cared this much."

You keep pumping right back into her, never stopping, only growing more and more intense. Her body trembles but you're holding her. Amber's hands grasp at your forearm again, like she can't decide whether to push you away or pull you in. You don't know what to say. She was enjoying the fight earlier, instigated it even, but she's so vulnerable now.

"You're the only one I want," is what you end up settling on. Your thumb stops those teasing grazes now, rubbing against her clit proper. Her wetness makes it so easy. "And I am yours."

This is what makes Amber shudder and dissolve in your arms. The tension finally breaks and she starts squirming against you, fingers lodged so deep into her body it's like you're grazing at something deeper, body shaking violently. She's so close, so impossibly close, a moment of pure ecstasy that lasts seconds before falling apart in a burst of heat and pleasure.

"You're mine!" This she shouts so loud you'd be surprised if the entire neighbourhood didn't wake up.

You two fall silent for a moment, both taking slow, shuddering breaths. Amber can feel her brain is still short circuiting, trying to calm down; it's like her stomach has been replaced with a ball of fire.

"Still hate me?" you whisper, leaning in to kiss Amber.

"Just shut up, okay," she murmurs, kissing back happily now, her voice still raw from the edge of tears and the intense orgasm that had wracked her body. "Don't ever do that again."

[ishizzle]

I want to write Amber outside of any angry black girl stereotypes and write her more in depth because she’s much more than a reactionary emotion.

Amber is smart and she's dealing with a lot. Ok work from there, Amber is at a great point in life as a young black woman where “ok everything ive done has cultivated to this much. Playtime is over time to get serious. Wait did even get to play during play time? Focus! They all look like they know something you don’t so you need to know more. You need to know everything! Before it happens! So it doesn’t happen again! Did I eat today?”

I want to see Amber burying herself in her studies and taking the opportunities allowed to her in that big ass white school.

I want to see her parallel Mark (whose she's still with in my au i do not care) where he’s getting beaten down by an enemy and Amber is getting covered in assignments and they both get back up because that's real hot girl shit

[moons-among-distant-stars]

you know what’d be sad?

if once when chloe’s older, she dreams of rachel as she was in life, not cold and scared and alone. and for once she is in her own body, as it now, older, bearing new scars and some more weight on her bones, hair a faded green. and she sees how young rachel is. how terribly child-like her face looks. it glows like the sun but it looks much too young. and she just sits there for a while, chloe and rachel, on a train to nowhere, nothing wrong. and when she wakes she is crying, and max is there, and chloe says to her “she was so young, max we were so young” and max knows, chloe doesn’t have to explain anything, she holds her close, lets her cry. and later in the morning, when the feeling passed and she’s drinking coffee and looking out the window. chloe price sees a deer outside, a doe. not a faun stumbling along but a doe, calm and happy in the morning sun. “hi rach” chloe says and the doe looks up at all, stars in her eyes. They stand there for a moment, just chloe and the doe. in the morning sun, going nowhere. but after a while the doe turns and bounds off into the forest. and chloe price lets her go

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

You paced the room, straightening the few items in your cage.

Curtis just had enough furniture to function. Nothing really was comfterable beyond the nest.

You glanced at it and rolled your eyes. Of course, that would be the one thing the Alpha would allow himself to have the best of the best. Fucking one-tracked beasts, all of them.

But you dusted everything there was, straightened, refolded and lounged around as much as you could. You even took a peek at his extensive library, the only other thing you found he allowed himself. But it was full of banned books, a death sentence if you were found owning them on the train.

How he even had them, you had no clue.

The omega wasn't satisfied right now and no matter how much you avoided the messy nest, it was at the back of your mind, a sideways glance towards it making you sigh. There was no way you were going to leave it looking like that.

With a sigh, you yanked all the bedding off and stripped off the sheets. Pulling out fresh bedding, you got to work getting it made once more.

When Curtis returned he found you meticulously working on the nest, making him hide a small smile before the hard look returned. You were humming your little Omega content sound. Looking at him for a moment before circling the nest and plumping a pillow.

He didn't dare say anything to disrupt his Omega, not when you didn't seem upset or distressed, fear and anxiety wasn't scenting the room sour. He approached the nest and lowered to a sit on the floor to admire you.

Now and then you would reach over the nest, where he would hand you another blanket or pillow. Some you would discard, deeming them not worthy, he was sure to note the material so he wouldn't be bringing you anymore of them, others you trilled happily, making his heart a little lighter.

Finally, you seemed to stop, sitting in the middle to look around and then crawl out to stand before him. "It wasn't right." You sighed as you lowered to sit in front of him, curling your arms around your knees and hugging them to your chest.

"Is it better now?" Curtis asked as he moved in closer, tilting his head while he sensed your sadness coming back. Easily he scooped you into his lap, tightening a bit when you struggled a moment and then settled in against his chest, feeling his purr start to fill the room once again.

"Yeah, it's better now."

"Then why are you feeling sadness Songbird?" His hands were warm against your skin, reaching under your clothes to your bare skin and the change in you started to ease, not turn so bitter.

"While I was rearranging our nest..." You started and he chose not to mention you said our. "I was thinking about all the others in the other cars. How can I have all these comforts while they are starving and scared?"

Curtis's purr changed to a warning growl, tightening his hold on you. "You want to save something so evil and corrupt as the people on this train. They are beyond saving Y/N."

"Not all of them." You turned towards him, grabbing his face to make him really look at you. "You don't believe that."

"I do, I've seen it."

[knightforflowers]

What a terrible thing it is, to be the only one spared by a curse.

pleased to remind everyone that I write sometimes whenever the demons (unmedicated adhd) let me, anyone interested in Zoox Anthellae in the torment nexus for 10k words (I think abt him waiting in that hospital room for Amber and Devo to recover from the sallow So Much.)

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

now & forever

cw. olnf week 2024, pre!release, step 2, day 3, pre!relationship, slight angst with a healthy dose of comfort

pairing. qiu lin/hash browns (ft. sparkling leaves)

notes. day 3 of @olnfweek2024. me? writing for qiu lin? i know, check and see if it is hailing in summer i can't believe this is happening either. my good friend @hash-slinging-slasher-trash recently got done with their final exams for their summer semester so this is a treat for them. surprise! (even if i am sure this was obvious considering my questions from yesterday lmao)

“You can roll your neck and stomp your feet but this black girl you sure won’t beat!” Nyla and Serenity chant in audible unison from across campus, moving in accordance to the words. From where they sit, Hash can see Tamarack giggling at the antics. Black Kid Solidarity, Nyla calls it. She finds it where she can. While not a member of that particular duo, Hash’s lips curl into an instinctive smile. The energy is contagious.

Dark raspberry eyes catch blue eyes observing the scene.

“Hi,” Tamarack mouths, her smile small but courteous as she waves.

Hash waves back with a small smile of her own, balancing her tray carefully with one hand. “Hey,” they mouthed back.

Hash remembers Tamarack’s squeals as they climbed atop the tire swing her grandfather set up. The cool autumn wind scratching their cheeks and lifting their laughs and giggles to the heavens.

When was it those times playing in that tire became infrequent? Hash can’t recall; four years is four centuries in teenage years.

Tamarack shuffles to the side on the grass with a hopeful expression, thin eyebrows knit carefully. When did Tamarack start plucking them again? When did I start noticing in the first place? Hash wonders what it says about her that she can’t remember that either when a long time ago it felt like her and Tamarack’s friendship was tighter than gorilla glue. Slowly but surely, that bond had been weathered by the rain.

There were no storms that attacked their friendship. No trials.

Just the passage of time.

Hash sees the spread of trays on the grass, like it’s a picnic. “Sorry,” Hash mouths and Tamarack nods in unsurprised understanding.

Hash and Tamarack were friends; they’re still friends. Standing across a ways from one another during lunch hour, however, the physical distance feels representative of their state of affairs.

Hash, Nyla, Tamarackー The new kids.

Four years ago, it felt like the three of them against the world as fellow newcomers to Acorn Rd. Golden Grove, Oregon.

“You ever stop to think how we’re like a reverse oreo?” Nyla, age 11, noted from where she lazily laid back against the Browns porch step. Summer was the worst season in Golden Grove and not even the chilled watermelon pieces in the bowl split between them could completely fight the heat. “Y’all are the vanilla whites, I’m the chocolate filling.”

Hash choked on their piece, “Nyla, shut up!”

“Hey I’m the one who said it, y’all can laugh,” Nyla stuck out her tongue with a snicker. “Quit smiling if you don’t think it’s funny, Lord Hashington!”

Tamarack’s small hands covered her face, unable to contain her laughter. There hadn’t been an attempt to stop it in the first place. The two of them were always the blunt new kid trio members, saying most anything that came to their mind.

Four years later, the world has split a world with the three of them distinctly in different sects. Friends… but not best friends.

Four years in the past, the kids of the cul-de-sac were a quartet.

Four years in the present, there’s a line. A distinct one.

We’re all still friends, Hash tells themself. Most of us. 

Qiu and Tamarack’s relationship had fallen off compared to the rest. The two of them aside, things aren’t the same anymore and Hash has come to accept that. Tamarack is going to leave one day, tugged down a path by her parents. Qiu sinks more and more into themselves, outsiders unable to penetrate their newfound icy fortress. Nyla’s problems are harder to look into when she keeps them hidden behind bad jokes and laidback nonchalance.

Of their original friend group, everyone has a favorite.

Nyla and Tamarack’s eyes have always been reserved for each other.

Qiu has Hash and Hash has Qiu.

Nyla’s lunch hour is reserved for Tamarack and Hash’s hour has always been reserved for Qiu. Speaking of Qiu, Hash knew they were waiting for them in Mr. Murray’s class. “See you,” they wave one last time before turning towards the building the professor’s class is located in.

Things might have changed with Nyla and Tamarack, simultaneously grand and minute the changes have been, but things have never and will never change with Mx. Qiu Lin.

Hash finds them as they always do, draped over a desk lazily with their brown hair spread across their shoulders haphazardly. “Qiulet,” Hash calls playfully and a brown eye opens unamused. “I’ve finally returned from the battlefield. Looks like you don’t need to come down from your balcony, after all.”

“It was never a balcony in the first place, you weirdo,” Qiu murmurs, leaning back to sit properly in their chair as Hash placed their tray between them.

“Not-so-secret hideout, Juliet’s balcony,” Hash rolls their eyes in mock irritation. “What’s the difference?”

Qiu smirks, resting their chin on their palm, “sounds like plenty to me.”

Hash sits down with their nose in the air pointedly smug, “well it’s a good thing you’re not the one in charge of my allusions.” Qiu’s response is to take one of Hash’s fries. For someone who said they weren’t hungry, that never stops Qiu from suddenly desiring food when someone else provides it. Regardless, there’s little that isn’t shared between them now. Hash feels no reason to make a fuss. “You gonna go to ballet practice for once?”

“That depends, who’s asking?” Qiu raises a brow lazily.

Your mother, technically. Mrs. Lin knew it’d be a pointless endeavor in bringing it up herself, however, so she relied on you, the Qiu Whisperer. “Me,” Hash replies smoothly. “I wanna have a post-lunch show after school. I haven’t seen you practice in a while, so I guess I felt like going. Only if you want though.”

Qiu shrugs, taking another fry thoughtfully before eventually relenting, “I guess.”

That’s as much of a ‘yes’ as one will get in the language of apathetic Qiu Lin.

“Good because I have your leotard in my backpack,” Hash grins giggling when Qiu flicks her forehead lightly. “What? I had to be prepared just in case you said ‘yeah’, otherwise we’d be late!”

“Yeah, yeah, if you say so,” Qiu rolls their eyes but Hash can see amusement swimming in them. Sees their lips quirk into a playful smirk and how light and airy their movements are. It’s a shame people like Vianca and Serenity don’t get to see this side of them but you can’t help relishing in how you’re one of the coveted few that do. “You’re not slick.”

Hash bats their eyelashes adoringly, “I know not to what you are referring.”

“Mhmm,” Qiu hums in disbelief but unbothered as they are, they let it go. If they truly hated it, after all, Qiu would have let you know expeditiously. Pretty as a rose Qiu may be, they have their thorns. They never seem to brandish them against Hash, however. Any pushback they have are small pricks, soft. This isn’t anything that has them pressed. “But the next time you decide to beat me into going to ballet practice, I demand compensation.”

“Is my charming personality not enough?” Hash gasps, clutching their chest in imagined pain.

“It is most of the time, but I like to shake things up from time to time,” Qiu chuckles.

Hash isn’t sure if it’s the joy they got them to smile that has them flushed or the comment. Probably both. It’s just them joking around, Hash reminds themself. Just a joke. Nothing serious. “Well what will satisfy you, Mx. Qiu Lin? Your humble servant will provide the goods tomorrow.”

“Mom’s making dumplings tomorrow and is forcing me and Dad to help,” Qiu sighs painfully. Hash’s mouth waters at just the thought of it. Dumplings are a long but rewarding affair in the Lin household. “You’re suffering with me.”

“That isn’t even a punishment,” Hash smirks, moving a stray lock of dirty blonde hair from their vision.

Qiu smirks in return, closing their eyes in satisfaction, “glad to know you’ll be there then.”

i was really trying to keep in mind the hash lore they developed from their playthrough of the ol2 demo and our discord chats fjnfkjsdnf. things get a bit angsty TmT. still homies with tamarack but because tam might be leaving, there's a bit of distance between them and they've gotten real close to qiu because of the insurance their not going anywhere. i wanted to play with that concept with a mixture of the day 3 prompts with crossing our verses together and hash looking back on the memories

[astraphone]

if you give it a name, then it’s already won

1.5k, blackwall/cadash. after the breach is sealed, the man who calls himself blackwall shares a moment and a dance with the herald of andraste.

Hours before it is lost, there is dancing in Haven.

Blackwall isn’t with the Herald as she and the mages close the Breach, but even down in the village it’s obvious the moment she succeeds. With a blaze of light and energy, the sky stitches itself back together before his very eyes. For the first time in months, the green, angry menace above settles. Scarred, still, a reminder of what happened here, but quiet at last.

The villagers have already begun drinking by the time the Herald returns from the temple. A wild cheer erupts at her approach, and though Blackwall intends to congratulate her, he quickly loses sight of her in a gaggle of admirers. Probably for the best, that. Tonight is for her, and she hardly needs him interrupting her festivities.

That thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he hurries to find himself a drink before he can dwell too much on things that aren’t for him. Today was a victory, for the Inquisition and for the world. He’ll focus on that, not on the way he’s itching to find the Herald in the crowd, to see her grin up at him when their eyes meet, to run his hands over her and—

Well. So much for not dwelling on it.

The fact of the matter is, they’ve been... flirting. He’s almost certain she isn’t serious; she flirts with him like it’s a light-hearted reflex, just part of her charm, and he should know better than to respond in kind. Easier said than done, though, when their banter comes so easily, when she smirks when she catches him watching her, when he hears her laugh as they take down demons together, all exhilarated adrenaline.

He’s not courting her. He hardly knows her, really, and he does know full-well how unworthy he is of even attempting such a thing. But it’s a pleasant fantasy to indulge in from time to time, that a woman like her might see something in him, of all people. 

“There you are.”

Blackwall just about jumps out of his skin. As if summoned by his thoughts of her, the Herald of Andraste herself stands at his side. She’s changed out of her armor into casual clothes, carrying a drink in one hand and a half-eaten plate of food in the other. Her face is still smudged with what must be soot from the Temple, and he pushes down the urge to reach out and wipe it off for her. She looks tired, he thinks.

“I haven’t seen you all night,” she says. “Was starting to think you’re avoiding me.”

“Never, my lady,” he manages once he finds his tongue. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Sure, as long as they keep the ale flowing.”

The mug in her hand looks nearly untouched, but he decides against pointing that out.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” he says instead. “You did a great thing tonight.”

She smiles, but there's something almost sad about it—and when did he become so good at reading her expressions? “My hand did, you mean. And the mages.” She seems to catch herself, looking inexplicably annoyed for a moment before continuing. “But—you’re right. We did good.” 

“Are you alright?” He ventures.

“Sure as stone. Why?”

“I suppose I expected you to be celebrating. You did, after all, just accomplish what we’ve all been hoping for.”

“I know that,” she snaps, then sighs. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“You don’t have to talk to me," he says slowly. "But I will listen, if you do.” 

She looks at him for a moment, as if deciding whether she wants to say anything, then seems to come to a decision. “I’m fine. Just thinking about what happens next, now that I’ve done my part.”

“I’m no expert, but I don’t get the impression that this whole mess is over. Do you?”

“No. But they brought me in to close the Breach. Half the Chantry still wants me in chains, and I’m fairly certain the Carta will tell me to sod right off if I go crawling back, so…” She grimaces. "It's Inquisition or dust for me, I think. I just hope I still have a job now my bit's done."

"The Inquisition would be mad to let the Herald of Andraste go. And regardless, surely you realize you're far more to these people that just your mark."

She glances down at the mark in question, still sparking with light underneath the leather glove she wears. "Still hard to believe sometimes. All this for someone like me." "Breach or no, the people still need you. The Inquisition still needs you." And then, because he's been drinking and he's feeling rather bold, he adds, "And, for what it's worth, I still want you. Here, I mean. I still want you here, helping."

She raises one scarred eyebrow at him, pointedly enough that he feels himself blush. "Right."

He'll gladly put his foot in his mouth a thousand times, if it brings back that little half-grin of hers. Seeing a ghost of it now, he gestures out towards the gathered crowd of dancers. “Come on. Tonight is for you; it would be a shame if you didn't enjoy it."

The Herald snorts, a surprised and undignified thing that makes him grin. “What, you want to dance? I've been told I have two left feet, you know."

"I'll be the judge of that, my lady. If you'll allow me."

"Oh, fuck it." She tips her mug back and downs her drink with impressive speed for someone her size.  "Lead the way."

He extends a hand to her and she takes it with a smirk. This is foolish, he knows; just about all of Haven is out here tonight, and people will talk. She hardly needs that kind of rumor on her plate. But once her hand is in his, he’ll be damned if he lets go.

With a half-bow towards her, he leads her into a dance. He’s never danced with a dwarf before, and has to adjust a bit for her height, but it’s easy to get used to her. As though all that time spent twirling around ridiculous Orlesian ballrooms a lifetime ago was merely a lead-up to her.   

Despite her initial protests, the Herald is a fast learner, and soon she’s laughing breathlessly as he spins her. He finds that he doesn’t care about the people watching, the whispers that will surely come, the voice in the back of his head telling him he doesn't deserve this; in this moment, she's the only thing that matters.

The dance is over too soon, and as they come to a halt they're both smiling like a pair of fools.

"How'd I do?" The melancholy of a few moments earlier is vanished from her face now, her eyes bright and shining with mirth.

"You're a natural, Lady Cadash." Caught up in the moment, acting more on instinct than anything else, he catches one of her hands in his and presses it to his lips.

Too far. He knows it instantly, as her eyes snap up to meet his, open wide with surprise. He drops her hand and takes a hasty step backwards, but she follows, so close they’re nearly pressed against each other. It would be damnably easy to do something unwise in this moment. She’s closed most of the distance herself; all he has to do is lean down and brush his lips against hers.

No. He shakes his head to help clear it, although he can't quite bring himself to move away again. “I—I forget myself.”

The Herald's voice is low, meant just for him. “I think I like it when you forget yourself, Warden Blackwall.”

The moment is broken with the sound of that name. He’s long-since gotten used to it, thinks of it more than he thinks of the name he was born with, and on most days hearing it reminds him of the sort of man he wants to be. Tonight, it’s a reminder of why he shouldn’t be doing this. The Herald of Andraste, this remarkable woman with the world at her feet, deserves far better than a lying, murderous fraud.

He takes another step back, and this time she doesn't follow. "I'm sorry,” he mutters.

He thinks he might see disappointment flash briefly on her face, but she only shrugs. “Don’t apologize. This was the best part of my night.”

“Given what you’ve accomplished tonight, perhaps you need to reevaluate your priorities, my lady.”

He means to say it lightheartedly, but he must have struck a nerve, judging by the way her eyes narrow. "Perhaps you need to figure out what you want, Warden," she says sharply. "Come find me if you do."

She stalks off, and he watches her go. She's joined by Cassandra a moment later, and he turns away.

Maker, he’d wanted to kiss her. He almost had kissed her, and she’d looked at him like she’d wanted him to. She's wrong; he knows exactly what he wants, he's just desperately fighting a losing battle against it. 

When the alarm bell starts ringing, it's almost a relief.

[bigassbowlingballhead]

WIP Wednesday 4/10/2024

whoa buddy this is coming late today, words have been coming very slow lately. Something's noodling with the untitled brunch project and Buck's recent discovery.

Buck crosses his arms and leans across the table “hey, can I ask you something?,” he asks. His head is slightly cocked and the sun catches his blue eyes and makes them sparkle, Alex can’t help but play along. He leans across the table and looks directly into Buck’s sparkling blue eyes. “Shoot, sweetheart,” Alex says with a wink, Buck’s cheeks flush and his eyes dart away from his gaze.  Buck lowers his voice almost to a whisper, “you’re bisexual, right?”  “It ain’t a bad word, you don’t gotta whisper it,” Alex sits up and leans back in his seat. “So, what about it?” Buck picks up his fork and pushes some unfinished eggs around his plate before looking back at Alex, “how–” he pauses, “how did you know?” “I guess, things didn’t really click for me until Henry kissed me on New Year’s Eve. It took awhile, but things just started to make sense. Like I finally felt–” “Free?” his voice cracks.

sooo many lovely tags today @duchessdepolignaca03 @firenati0n (roop my love this is doubling as your last line tag) @onthewaytosomewhere @getmehighonmagic @nocoastposts @eusuntgratie @wordsofhoneydew @captainjunglegym @sunnysideprince @cha-melodius @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @heysweetheart-writes @anincompletelist @sheepywritesfics @oxfordslutphase @taste-thewaste @sparklepocalypse

seeing as wednesday is damn near over i'll leave this tag open for anyone who's still yet to post.

[thessence]

cont. from here.

nathan prescott is a certified yapper. inebriated or not , rachel hasn't met another person who yips as much as he does. sometimes , she's left wondering if that's all he amounts to , behind the flash of expensive camera shutters & his kingly duties as blackwell's resident money menace. regardless of his vulgarity , nathan prescott's mouth moves mountains in most circles , even if the backlash recieved is negative. publicity is publicity — this is an ideology rachel has come to fathom , her research into her dreams of acting & modeling have afforded her knowledge of an industry that most students here at blackwell dream of , but will never know its golden touch. 

on another hit of the blunt , she presses her tongue back to blow rings of misty smoke. he gives a lot. he gets a lot. she attempts to add another query , something buzzing in the back of her mind , but he finishes his rant with the expectation of a return answer from her. lazy hazel sight draws from the ceiling of the truck to settle into @pavlovianpanic's own. she might never admit it aloud , but his eyes transport her back to long beach sometimes — the splash of sparkling waves darkening flaxen sand , the sound of them crashing against rock formations , perfect for exploring & pretending that you aren't a part of this world. 

the latter bit of his words startle her , though she gives no external reaction. nathan has always known to be harsh , never one to back down from spewing vitriol , but to believe he was born without a soul? she takes that phrase with a grain of salt. she's observed his interactions with victoria ; a man without a conscious doesn't know how to smile with that sort of warmth. will he regret what he's told her later , when the effects of their session wear off?

' what about me? ' she hums , amusement flowing from the tone. ' . . . my passion , i think. i'm intense. i know that. that just means i put my all into something. i'm authentic — i can only ever be me. ' neatly sculpted brows start to furrow , the bridge of her nose crinkling. ' it's hard to find people who are real. mean what they say & say what they mean. ' has she ever been guilty of this? has she always been genuine , to herself & to others? rachel would like to think so. she hopes so. 

[amberarmedheart]

The Color Of Makeup

It had always been difficult for me to find the proper color of foundation that goes with my skin color. Whenever I used to go to the stores, back in the early 2000s when i started high school and I had learned the hard way how cruel the world can be, they never ever had my shade. One store after another, one counter after another, and I simply couldn't find them... in the usual markets, that is.

If I wanted more affordable, regular brands, they never carried my shade. But if I really, really wanted to match it, I had to go to an expensive department store to actually get the exact shade that didn't make me look ashy or weird.

And from the very first moment, I was fine with it. Why? Well, it is quite simple: I am pale as an uncooked flour tortillas and I am a Mexican living in Mexico.

It was obvious to me that the usual supermarkets didn't carry my shade, the percentage of the population that has my exact skin color is quite small, so of course it would be difficult for me to find it. My grandparents, after all, were a wild mix: Mexican, Spanish, Chinese, and French. Why the hell did the genetic lottery decide I was to be born with a white pale butt, I will never know. Yes, my dad was white, but my mother has brown skin, and so did two of my grandparents, and then there was my grandmother with a French last name and green eyes and platinum blonde hair.

What bothered me since I was a kid was the fact that I looked around and most people around me had brown skin and yet, whenever I looked at a magazine, an ad, a movie or a tv show, everyone there was white, nine times out of ten. It bothered me whenever some of my aunts would start describing someone as "oh she is so pretty, you know, she is white and blonde and..." and how some of my uncles would say "of course you wouldn't want your daughter to date a black man"... and every single time, those aunts and uncles with the most racist views ended up having dark skin themselves.

I don't know how, in the middle of such a harmful environment, both of my parents managed to have an entirely different perception of the world, but I am grateful for it. And yet, I know that a lot of the hate and anger that my extended family expressed towards other people due to the color of their skin had a lot to do with the messages that the media taught them since they were children. How difficult it must be for a child to grow loving the way they look when the tv and movies always say that dark skinned people are the bad ones and even the church will portrait angels as blonde.

And yet, the idea that "the others" are "scary, different, dangerous" is always perpetuated by major pieces of media: the most recent one, at least in my sphere of interests, is Genshin Impact, which recently released a teaser trailer for a new region called Natlan. This region has been mentioned as one that draws inspiration from Latin America and Africa... and the darkest skinned character in it looks like me after ten minutes under the desert sun.

"It is a fantasy game, why should it be accurate?" some person who knows exactly why asks in bad faith in social media, to which you and I both know that if there is a damned playable dog boy, they can add at least three more drops of brown to their palette.

"Why can't you empathize with characters that don't have the same skin color as you?" asks someone else with an ai generated profile picture and a cross and a flag emojis following their nickname, to which I say: why can't you? 99% of the characters portrayed in the media you consume are the exact same ethnicity as you, and every single time someone slightly different appears, you will scream "DEI! Woke! They are ruining everything!" The rest of the world has had to swallow every single "white savior" piece of media up to this day, why can't you stop spitting for once, there's half a child there you know, I thought you were against abortions.

"It is only being inspired!" someone else screams, red faced, into the void, to which I say that if you are taking name and surname from a deity to represent said deity and the color motifs and tattoos and even reference their powers but the only thing you don't take from them is their skin color, that's colorism.

Next thing I know, Hoyoverse will try to copyright the Mayans, you know, like Disney tried to copyright Dia De Muertos back before it released Coco.

I am old and exhausted about life as it is, I am tired of the constant cycle of fear that politicians and multinational companies use everywhere to divide the people, draw targets on each others' backs and then point and scream "they are the reason you are suffering, not me, never me!". I am tired of people swallowing it up because it is way easier to punch someone "different" to a pulp than recognize that both of us have the same enemy and the same source of suffering and that what we should do to fix this mess requires of a lot more effort than picking one color in a ballot every four years.

[maudlin-scribbler]

honestly i don't know if you could get me to write a happy relationship, not even at gunpoint probably in the mood that i am in rn

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The sudden urge to intro an oc you've never written about

[strange-destinations]

neck-deep in Ethersea again as I relisten to it, but not entirely sure how long the fixation is going to last, which means I have a long list of fic ideas that greatly interest me but I'm not prepared to commit to (including but not limited to):

character/relationship study for Finneas Cawl and the Boyar Hermine, because holy shit those two

something that might be an Amnesty AU but also might just be a mundane modern human!AU, which is just newly-escaped-from-the-local-cult Devo annoying the shit out of Amber as he repeatedly sticks his foot in his god damn mouth

the weirdest possible roleswap au where Benevolence = Devo, Cambria = Zoox and Coda = Amber, because I think Amber deserves to possess a big fuckin battleship, Zoox is basically already a primordial god as it is, and Devo would be a terrifying deity. the hand of benevolence, recently departed from the church of devotion, is known to his friends as benny. i wish i knew what to do with this beyond broad strokes

fic that's just zoox mindmelding with weirder and weirder things as devo and amber become increasingly less concerned about it. i mean this is basically just canon but you get what i mean. zoox trying to befriend the biggest baby.

devo's post-canon cross-timeline acid trip reality heist to find amber in the shark dimension. i can't remember the exact details of the final arc so this one's very vague.

actually there are no post-canon fixit fics at all (which is a crime), and i don't think i'm the one to write one either. but i have the perfect mental image of devo finally managing to somehow rip a hole through to the shark dimension only to walk in on amber and kodeira getting deeply sensual and quite frankly nasty. he is very relieved to find they're all right, but did NOT need to see this. maybe he'll come back later.

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

So I saw the video of ending an argument with boobs… which I fully admit to doing on petty/silly arguments with my bf.

But I have to ask Honey and Little One? How well would it work? Do Steve or Curtis try to keep the argument going? Are they instantly derailed? Do they keep it playful as their respective women laugh and giggle at their reactions?

I love these two stories and appreciate you sharing them with us!!

Oh I saw a video similar to this and laughed at the reactions so much. And thank you so much for reading both of their stories. It means so much to me that you do, these two have been my comfort characters for so long now. Getting asks like this really means so much to me.

"We don't book shame in this house!" Curtis stood with his hands on his hips, a dark brow arched in challenge as you flipped through the most boring book on his shelf.

A How-To guide to setting up a stero system. From 1960's. Obviously this had to be his grandparents, but you couldn't help but poke a little bit of fun at it. "Do you even have this stereo system?" You asked, making a point of glancing around the livingroom.

He shrugged, hiding a bit of a grin to make himself go stone faced once more, narrowing his sharp blue eyes at you, playing at being mad. "So what if I did? Maybe its in the upstairs in Ella's old room."

He was bluffing, you knew he was cause the two of you were just in that room the other day, debating about what he wanted to keep.

"Funny, I don't remember seeing it up there." You shrugged while flipping to a random page and squinting at the page. You tossed the book on the nearby couch. Waiting to see what he was gonna do, he opened his mouth to retort when you suddenly tug your shirt up.

Curtis snapped his mouth shut as his eyes went wide staring at your breasts. No bra since technically you were already wearing his stretched out tee shirt and shorts for bed. "What was that Curtis, I didn't hear you." You teased, one of your hands dropping to cup your breast, giving it a squeeze.

You could already see whatever thought he had was fizzled away as he honed in on you, giving a deep rumbling groan of appreciation. "You're playing dirty Pretty Girl."

You let the shirt pull off over your head and fall to the floor. "You want me to put the shirt back on?" you giggled, making like you were gonna bend down to pick it back up but Curtis was faster, sweeping down to snatch it away, tucking it in his back pocket.

"Hell no." He rumbled, his large hard body crowding against yours, making you back up till your bareback pressed against the old built in book shelves and his arm shot out to brace near your head, blocking you in. Now you really were giggling, heat building till you could feel it all over, wetness pooling between your legs, making your thighs squeeze even tighter together. "You wanna play dirty, I can too."

His hand traced down your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp heatedly and then down your sternum. Somehow this turned against you, your head going empty as you stared pleading up into Curtis's intense gaze.

It was a stare down between the two of you, his hands on his hips in a stance you've seen many times. This was his Alpha stance, the one where he was taking charge.

As if, your Little Wolf yipped excitedly, zooming through your mind as you mimicked his stance, smirking. "You know it doesn't work on me Steve."

He huffed out, his head dropping for a moment to stare at the floor for a moment, but you saw the glitter in his gaze, looking up at you. Your lips twitched, hiding a smile.

But Steve doubled down, his head tilting in that way that always made you distracted, his hair flopping just a bit that made you want to run your fingers through it, sweep it back in place, or perhaps tug on it and bring your Alpha to his knees to worship you in that way he does oh so good.

<Don't get distracted!>

I'm not, much... okay a little. Your mind buzzed with the need to do something, anything to tip the scales in your favor. Then a wicked smile curved your lips as Steve started to stalk closer to you, making you back up a step. "Little One, you can't just-"

Your hands yanked up your shirt, making your Alpha pause his stalking, his gaze flowing down your face and to your breasts, his tongue darting out to trace his bottom lip. His nostrils flared, dragging in your warm scent while his eyes so intimately traced you. A growl rose from him and if you didn't know that was your Alpha loosing some control over his desires, you would be running. In fact, that felt like a good idea.

Twisting on your toes, you go to bolt, racing down the hallway to try to get into the bedroom, but a muscled forearm captured you, pulling you back into a firm chest and making you giggle and squeal at the sensation. Steve twisted you to put you over his shoulder, keeping you tightly in place with a palm coming down on your ass. "Think you're cute, huh?"

"I think Im fucking adorable." You taunted, squealing when you felt his bite on your ass cheek, knowing his mark would be there for a few days, making you chirp happily at your Alpha. He finished bringing you to the bedroom, easing you into the nest and quickly following in it to pin you in place to keep you from running off again.

"Mmhh you are Little One and all mine." His large hands captured yours above your head while his head dipped to tease a nipple into his mouth, teasing you with his flicking tongue, making you buck.

The problem with your plan, Steve knew your weaknesses just as much as you knew his. You bucked your hips under him as he continued his sweet torture on your breasts. "Steeve" You whined, trying to twist your hands free, starting to pant with desire. "Need more."

"More Little Wild One? I thought you wanted to go down to the lake... for a late autumnal swim in the freezing cold water?" He teased, blowing cool air across your sensitive nipples, making them harden even more.

You arched up once more, pushing hard against him till he rolled so you straddled him, looming over him with your now free hands tugging at his shirt. "Changed my mind..." He helped you get it off him till you could run your hands down your Alpha's chest, grinding against him. "There is always tomorrow to convince you."

[ambersky0319]

I'm starting to read The Illiad (translated by Robert Fagles) and I kinda respect the 60 page introduction/history lesson