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nsewell · 5 months

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tw: brief discussion of religion

North America, 1935. They’ve done a twenty-four kilometer dead sprint circumference of the farmland that borders a desolate inkspot on Nat’s map of the Texas Panhandle, and it’s all rows of cultivated fields and nothing, nothing, nothing. At a copse of cedar elms there’d been a cage lodged into a flaky patch of mud, but that was all that remained of the Trapper caravan that had passed through this area. They’d since moved on, taking their captives with them, and from the tarnishing metal, it seems they’d done so a while ago. Somewhere vaguely westward is all they can gauge.

Ava kicks the cage in frustration, hard enough to crack a bone that mends before the pain can topple her, and then says with mustered control, “We need to be quicker. We need to get back on the trail.”

“We need to rest,” Nat returns patiently and it only takes that for Ava to concede, exhausted with sun and hunger and loathe to deny her.

They slouch in the weeds and the sun burnished grass together and sip from their canteens of blood, replenishing energy expelled in the chase. Nat’s half ration reserve beads down her chin as she drinks with always just a tinge of desperation, and tells Ava about a drought to the north. She talks like this sometimes, just to talk. Relays to Ava current affairs that she’s read in a paper, and does not expect her to answer.

The sky is a yawning chasm above, the heat a brutalizing line on their necks. They’ve kicked up enough muck and dust to coat their bodies entirely, and warrant a thorough washing before reconvening at the inn with the other half of their team for the next leg of their journey. They end up tracing their steps back to a lake that they’d passed, and when they get there Nat says, “Oh,” with a wary eye on the wide waterline and her arms tucked against her sides and Ava understands. As if in a desire to be clean and cool she had forgotten the manner to achieve it.

“I miss the Turkish bathhouses,” Nat sighs. “We’ve traded mint leaves for river reeds.” Ava thinks it a rather meager attempt to cover her trepidation when she can see the way the curve of her wrists are shaking against the fabric of her blouse. Instead, reaches over to grip her shoulder in a reassuring squeeze and lending of strength.

“You philistine. Come to the shore, and I’ll help you.”

Ava wades calf deep to fill her empty canteen with water and returns to Nat who is watching her from the pebbled bank, all willowy grace like a river nymph, or else a specter at the water’s edge. Who will go no further. She directs Nat to kneel low enough so she can douse her face clean, and the younger vampire emits a soft chuckle when Ava presses her thumb into the divot of tender skin behind her ear and hold her gaze to the sky.

“What’s so funny?” Ava asks.

“Just a thought I had. This feels baptismal.” Nat crosses her arms across her chest in an affected, reverent gesture.

Ava lifts a brow. “Were you baptized?” It means nothing to her and she isn't sure why she has a notion to ask. In the swathe of wide topics that have carried them debating through the centuries, religion has never come up.

“Yes, of course. I was born into a self respecting Anglican family of the gentry. Or half of one at least,” Nat recalls, and her accent slips a touch to the cadence of palatial drawing rooms and garden soirees. The one she'd had when they'd first met. “My mother and step-father didn’t want to illegitimize me further, for all the good it did my soul.”

Ava takes a half-step back and carefully watches Nat's face. “You don’t believe that.” They’ve dealt with hauntings, yes. Banshees, ghouls and the like. Things that have slipped through the perilously thin cracks of the Echo World. Never something that was an inclination of the human soul, evidence of a life beyond this one. “After all you’ve learned and seen.”

“In the soul? I’m not sure. I’ve thought a lot about it. Sometimes. Aren’t we as vampires spirits by definition? Left behind imprints of a human that once walked the Earth. If we die do we leave a trace, or has the trace already been left?”

“If you’re going to philosophize you can do this yourself,” Ava tells her wholly fond.

A thread of warm laughter always underscores any teasing that Nat does and this one melts into the dry breath of wind sweeping the north Texas plains. Genial and tender. “There's a very old adage I'm sure you're familiar with, even with all your reclusion, my friend-you started it.”

#my writing #UM idk what this is or where it came from such a random premise. just a dumping ground of prose bc i've been in screenplay format all week #i might take it and turn it into something larger and cleaner at some point we shall see....this feels very abridged

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jozor-johai · 9 months

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Revisiting the Rat Cook, part 3: "Just Eat"

The third part of my ongoing series in which I examine how the themes and symbols present in the "Rat Cook" story, as relayed in ASOS Bran IV, and how those elements reappear throughout ASOAIF.

Part one is here and part two is here, but hopefully these also stand alone as well.

To anyone who is reading this part first, "Revisiting the Rat Cook" is a series that is built on the understanding that GRRM's use of metadiegetic legends provide a "road map" of symbols and meaning, used in their abstract form, which we, as readers, can use to better understand the relationships between symbols, motifs, and themes as they reoccur throughout ASOAIF as a whole. The Rat Cook story is about a rat which eats rats, or a cook who serves kings; The Rat Cook story is about fathers and sons, about cannibalism, about trust, about vengeance, and about damning one's legacy.

"Just Eat"

Last post, I talked about various moments where the flesh of men and the flesh of pigs were compared: times where dead pigs evoked dead sons, where dead sons evoked dead pigs, and where human victims would "become" pork in death. Finally, at the end, I talked about what some part of that transformation said about guest right in particular, a key part of the "Rat Cook" story. I pointed out how guest right is a social construct, necessary to maintain peace in a community, where those feeding and those being fed can both trust that they will come to no harm.

In this part of the series, I'm going to reach a similar conclusion about guest right, approached from a different angle. This part is about the relationship between "hosts" and "guests", and what it means when a character is being forced into the role of the "Andal King" from the Rat Cook story, who was unwittingly fed his own son. What does it mean, in ASOIAF, when a character cannot trust the provenance of their food, especially in the most extreme case: being fed human flesh.

Recognizing the dynamics between the Rat Cook and the Andal King, the inherent trust between those who feed and those who are fed, the host and the guest, and the power dynamics between a liege and a lowly cook, we see that the fear of the unwilling cannibal in the Rat Cook story is also a fear of the betrayal of those dynamics.

The fear of being turned cannibal unwillingly is referenced in AFFC Arya II, when Arya is being hosted—and fed—-by the House of Black and White, and when, after preparing dead bodies, she suddenly considers the similarity between eating human flesh and eating pork:

Once, as she was eating her supper, a terrible suspicion seized hold of her, and she put down her knife and stared suspiciously at a slice of pale white meat. The kindly man saw the horror on her face. "It is pork, child," he told her, "only pork”

This interaction is mirrored with another reassurance that meat is only pork, when Coldhands offers Bran and his party a “sow” in ADWD Bran I. Bran does not make the connection with cannibalism explicit, nor does anyone else present, but the reality of the meat’s provenance is far more clearly suspect:

Meera Reed was turning a chunk of raw red flesh above the flames, letting it char and spit. "Just in time," she said. Bran rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and wriggled backwards against the wall to sit. "You almost slept through supper. The ranger found a sow."

This scene is particularly haunting, perhaps because this is a rare instance of actual cannibalism, rather than imagined cannibalism. Martin creates this moment's unsettling atmosphere by highlighting each of party in turn, using gruesome language to describe them eating:

Behind her, Hodor was tearing eagerly at a chunk of hot charred flesh as blood and grease ran down into his beard. Wisps of smoke rose from between his fingers. "Hodor," he muttered between bites, "hodor, hodor." His sword lay on the earthen floor beside him. Jojen Reed nipped at his own joint with small bites, chewing each chunk of meat a dozen times before swallowing. The ranger killed a pig.

In this instance, the meat is notably never directly called pork—it is “chunks of meat”, it is “hot charred flesh” still running with “blood”, which evokes Victarion’s hot pork-crackling arm as well.

Bran’s internal affirmation that “the ranger killed a pig” is given its own sentence and its own paragraph—it’s a connected idea, but it’s not what’s happening. Still, a man—once butchered—may become a “sow” in the same way that the Rat Cook, too, became as “big as a sow”, just as we saw with the butchered butcher’s boy, Micah.

Bran, for his part, nearly puts the ideas together. Without eating, he drills Coldhands as to what happened to the men chasing them, whose disappearance comes simultaneous to the appearance of the “sow”.

"What happened to the men? The foes behind us?" "They will not trouble you." "Who were they? Wildlings?" Meera turned the meat to cook the other side. Hodor was chewing and swallowing, muttering happily under his breath. Only Jojen seemed aware of what was happening as Coldhands turned his head to stare at Bran. "They were foes." Men of the Night's Watch. "You killed them. You and the ravens. Their faces were all torn, and their eyes were gone." Coldhands did not deny it. "They were your brothers. I saw. The wolves had ripped their clothes up, but I could still tell. Their cloaks were black. Like your hands."

In the midst of the questions about the men, our attention is again drawn each of the party eating in turn, further strengthening the connection between a slain man and a slain sow. These were men of the Night’s Watch, as was Coldhands, we presume, so they are Coldhands’ “brothers”, and so again this is the slaying and serving of family. And again, for the rest of the party, already eating when Bran wakes, it is unwilling, unknowing cannibalism. Coldhands, like the Rat Cook, has offered a meal and called it pork; mimicking the Andal king, the recipients don’t question its origin—for, at this point, they trust the "host" they are with—and instead, they find it delicious, just as Sam feared he would while Bannen burned. After all, turning cannibal is one thing, but as shown in the passage from the last post with Sam and Bannen, it is a sickening thought to come up with on one’s own. To be an unknowing cannibal, though, is always possible, but only so long as there is a stark betrayal of trust.

This scene with Coldhands, especially if we suspect that Coldhands is feeding Bran's friends the flesh of men, is a harsh reminder of that same essential idea from the Rat Cook story: that the sharing of food is always an exchange of trust in its very nature. As I've said before, the notion of “guest right” reflects that—you must trust the person feeding you to eat the food they serve you, and you’ll only feed those whom you trust and want to welcome. The Rat Cook story, of course, is the pinnacle of betraying that trust, and the cook himself is punished for exactly that; the Andal King, for his part, believed he could accept what he was served, which is how the Rat Cook was able to enact his vengeance.

We are also reminded of this relationship between shared food and trust when Quentyn is in Meereen, talking to the Tattered Prince. This exchange notably uses pie as a metaphor, too, doubly prompting the reader to recall the Rat Cook story here.

In ADWD The Dragontamer, Quentyn is faced with a life-or-death moment of trust over the Brazen Beasts’ code word. Quentyn doubts the veratity of this information, wondering whether the Tattered Prince really knows the code words... and he receives this in response:

“But a prince should know better than to pose such questions, Dornish. In Pentos, we have a saying. Never ask the baker what went into the pie. Just eat.”

As Quentyn points out himself:

“There was wisdom in that.”

In this moment, we may be given an insight into the mind of the “Andal king” (even if Quentyn is only a Rhoynar Prince). If this is the Pentoshi version of “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”, then its phrasing is curiously resonant with the Rat Cook story, with pies of unknown provenance. Quentyn is reminded here of the importance of the unspoken rules of trust between allies; the trust is mutual, and he must trust the Tattered Prince if he is to be trusted himself. Similarly, just as the Rat Cook should have been bound by the laws of hospitality, the Andal King was bound by those same laws of trust, and didn’t question what was happening. Did the Andal King ever learn the fate of his son? We don’t hear that side in the version that Old Nan tells Bran.

As for Quentyn, it’s worth noting that this trust turned out to be ill-fated.

Seemingly, the code word did not help, and perhaps Quentyn’s skepticism was worthwhile. Of course, even that isn't the full story—it’s possible that the Tattered Prince was being true, and the plan was only ruined by the machinations of the Shavepate and some rat-masked Brazen Beasts. (I may return to this idea in a later part, but only if I feel confident enough to tackle Dany and Meereen, which really is quite a knot.)

If this scene with the Tattered Prince provides an in-world reminder of how the exchange of food provides a metaphor for the dynamics of a given scene, then when the stakes are possible cannibalism, then the stakes of that metaphorical comparison are heightened as well. Unwilling cannibalism is, in a way, the pinnacle example of betraying that host-guest trust.

It makes us reconsider our scene with Arya:

Arya questioning the origin of the meat in the House of Black and White is just as equally a valid question to ask about her entire wellbeing in that setting—she has no true reason to trust that the House of Black and White wants the best for her, nor that she is safe in their care. This concern is a concept allegorically played out in the serving of the food. Metaphorically, she has doubts as to whether she can trust what the Faceless Men are “feeding” her—are they feeding her lies, or the truth? Are they feeding her pork, or dead men?

The Kindly Man is reassuring, as he always is, but all he can offer is reassurance—like Arya questioning the food she is being served, this moment suggests that she ought to be questioning the hospitality she is receiving in the House of Black and White in its entirety.

Returning to the scene with Bran and Coldhands, we can apply the same thinking, and that context illuminates the direction the conversation takes. First, it is about the meat that Coldhands has served them. Then, it is about the men who Coldhands has killed, whether they were allies or foes, and whether they were brothers. This pairing of ideas links serving the suspicious meat of the alleged “sow” with the question of whether to trust Coldhands; Bran considers the Night’s Watch his allies, and is rightfully suspicious of those who would kill Night’s Watchmen, not knowing that these particular Night’s Watchmen were foes. Finally, though, the conversation turns to Coldhands himself, continuing where we left off in ADWD Bran I:

“Coldhands said nothing. ‘Who are you? Why are your hands black?’”

This, immediately after the prior discussions, continues to link these major ideas of the Rat Cook story—the slaying of family, the unwilling cannibalism, and the trust that is necessary to end up in such a terrible fate. Bran’s party is blindly trusting Coldhands to take them somewhere, as they trust him to feed them pork, not human flesh; as they continue to follow him north, Bran’s party metaphorically does not know what they are being “fed”, in a sense—is it the destination they believe, or is it something else? Further confirming this thought process, linking the unknown meat with the unknown journey, the questions continue to the logical conclusion:

"Show us your face." The ranger made no move to obey. "He's dead." Bran could taste the bile in his throat. “Meera, he's some dead thing. The monsters cannot pass so long as the Wall stands and the men of the Night's Watch stay true, that's what Old Nan used to say. He came to meet us at the Wall, but he could not pass. He sent Sam instead, with that wildling girl." Meera's gloved hand tightened around the shaft of her frog spear. "Who sent you? Who is this three-eyed crow?"

Bran is faced with the same fears that strike Arya in the House of Black and White:

If they cannot trust what they are being fed, can they trust where they are being led?

The notion of finding a sow in the tundra may be as likely as finding a benevolent wizard in the wastes of the far north, but that is what Bran still believes even at this moment.

Coldhands feeding them human meat under false pretenses, and his refusal to be honest or direct about the source of the meat, therefore marks a betrayal of that trust—and possibly portends a betrayal of the other trust as well. The question of their journey’s end, and whether they are being told the full story about their destination, naturally follows the question of whether they are being fed false “pork”.

Did the Andal King have similar misgivings that he similarly ignored, believing instead in the social covenant of guest right that he had entered into? If the Andal king had denied the pork pie, would he have been in the right for his skepticism, or in the wrong, as the Tattered Prince says, for “asking the baker what went into the pie”? Is it, as Quentyn says, wiser to trust? The Rat Cook story that Bran recalls moves on from this question without answering it. We never learn if the Andal King ever learned the truth. "The Rat Cook" instead goes on to focus on the aftermath of the incident, and the fate of the cook, whose punishment, again, was not for forcing cannibalism but for betraying the trust of guest right.

In the next few parts, I'm going to stray away from eating men for a while and focus on eating rats—what I think rats symbolize in ASOIAF, espcially when paired with the action of eating. After all, it's in the story's title: the "Rat Cook", and "rats" are as key a symbol as cannibalism, pork, and pies. Later, though, I'll be returning to this issue of trusting in a social contract, like guest right, so it's good to keep this idea in mind, as well as the power dynamics inherent in eating and being fed, when considering what it means to eat rats, too.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #rat cook #asoiaf analysis #asoiaf meta #arya stark #bran stark #coldhands #quentyn martell #RtRC

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greetingfromthedead · 2 months

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4. Magic

Series: Mermaid!AU Depth of Despair

Pairing: Vash x GN!Reader

Word count: 2.2k

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You sit under the protruding ridge of the cliff by a tide pool. Vash wrapped a heavy cloak around you before carrying you here. The waves keep crashing into the rocky shore, occasionally sending up sprays of saltwater that mist your face. You finally feel a resemblance of peace after days of turmoil, and you've found it under the strangest of circumstances. Vash's voice puts you at ease as he talks about his flower garden and where and how the plants like to grow. Some like sunlight, others prefer shade. Some need loads of water, others very little. He paints a picture of his house in your mind. It's quite small and cozy, with a porch swing that creaks gently in the breeze. Vash hasn't gotten around to oiling it. He has a small boat tied up at the little dock in the river. A path weaves around the forest's trees and leads from the porch to the riverbank. Behind the house is where he grows his flowers. He dug a creek from the river to get water closer to his crops, but sighs heavily when thinking about how often he has to walk with the heavy buckets back and forth in the summer when the water level in the river is too low for the creek.

Your wet hair and the seaweed in it drip water on the thick fabric on your shoulders, but you don't mind the dampness or the cold radiating from it. Part of you does miss Vash's warm touch, but it's an afterthought. Your blood always runs cold, and you're used to it as you've never truly known anything else, just the occasional stroke of sunlight on your skin. He braids the blades of reed into a long cord, and you watch his nimble fingers moving with absolute grace and purpose. You wonder again how it is that he has his left hand. To your knowledge, humans can't regrow limbs, and you have no doubt in your mind that this is the man you saved from that large ship.

"I've been thinking a lot about the tales of mermaids. I'm not sure if I believe in them all, but there must be some truth to the stories, as you do sit next to me. And one thing is undeniable: they are described as the most beautiful creatures you could lay your eyes on." He shifts to look at you with a smile. "And when I see your face, I believe it."

That's because what you see is glamour. You reply to him in your head. It's just magic to lure in people like you. It's not real. Just a veil.

"Are all mermaids this beautiful?" Vash asks with fascination.

To you, they are, as long as you see them out of water. You simply nod as a reply, not quite sure how to relay any of the details to him without using your voice.

"Oh wow. A whole race of such mesmerizing creatures. This is incredible." He seems to be glowing with excitement. He appears to focus on your different features, and you're not sure what he expects to find. Perhaps something fishy?

You are a fool to be this enamored by my kin. It will bring you nothing but trouble, I can promise you that. Everything about me is designed so I can sink my teeth into you.

"And is it true that your singing voices are irresistible? Like in the stories where ships are navigated into hazardous waters because the sailors are captivated by the song of sirens." His comment surprises you. The first instinct is to take his words as an attack, but you see no malice in his expression.

You're close. I don't have to sing; my every word is turned into entangling melodies like you've never heard before. It is all magic. It will ensnare your mind and draw you closer, even if you know better than to do that. You talk to yourself in your head as if he could hear you. In the end, you can only give him another nod as an answer, but he seems satisfied with that.

"Does it have something to do with why you don't talk? I assumed you couldn't talk, but is there more to it?" His voice is gentle as he speaks, and his eyes are filled with curiosity.

You give him another nod, even though it is not quite the full truth, but it is close enough.

"Is there something I could do so you could speak to me?"

Yes. But I cannot tell a human like you. And under the water, you wouldn't want to talk to me. You simply shake your head at him. This seems to put a damper on his mood, and he looks down again at the braid he made. His fingers trace along it before he continues to weave it together into a sturdier cord.

"You are truly captivating. I am glad you came back." He speaks softly with a smile dancing on the corner of his lip. "It's a shame you can only reply with a nod or a shake of your head. Maybe I'll figure something else out. Can you write?"

Not in a language you could understand. You think and give him a shake of your head.

"Alright." He turns his focus back on the twine in his hand. "I hope you aren't putting yourself in danger by coming here. I did hope you would return, but I am sorry if you felt like you needed to. That's not what I meant."

As he speaks, the wind turns in the narrow bay area, and suddenly you are downwind and catch a whiff of something sweet and delicious. Vash keeps speaking, but you can't focus on it. You draw in more air again with a deep breath, trying to catch more of the scent. The wind turns and whirls, making it hard, so you lean more towards Vash's large figure in hopes of hiding from the breeze. You find the aroma again and lean into it, letting your nose guide you. The further you get, the stronger it becomes. You feel your mouth water; the delicious smell is clouding your judgment as you still search for the source.

Vash is taken by surprise as you suddenly seem to come on to him. You sniff the air around him. Every millimeter you come closer, he leans away, confused and concerned for the unexpected shift in your demeanor. He stays silent, eyes wide open, as it looks like you can't even see him. He's about to stutter something out when you lean your face to his neck, your one hand holding on to his shoulder. He lets out a shocked "Eeeep!" and feels his face heating up before he can't lean back any more and instead falls over into the sand. As you lose your support, you too go down with him.

The scent gets even stronger, and you're sure it comes off him. It feels like something primal takes over as you move along his body, taking his right hand to sniff before grabbing the left one and realizing the smell is strongest there, slowly getting weaker as you move towards the shoulder.

"Hey now… What's going on?" Vash finally says this as he keeps his gaze on you. A slight shake in his concerned voice is what snaps you out of your daze. You look up at him while still lying halfway on top of him. For a moment, all you can see are his bright blue eyes. You quickly push away and sit upright again, even leaning away from him. You cover your mouth with a hand and look down at the sand, happy that the whirlwind clears up the scent.

"It's okay!" he chuckles as he watches your reaction and pushes himself up on one elbow. "There is no need to get embarrassed. It's fine."

But the horrified expression on your face doesn't stem from embarrassment. You feel the elongated fangs and sharpened teeth push against your tongue, your mouth filled with saliva as Vash's scent drew you in with a primal force. You smelled magic. Every living being carries magic; everything is capable of storing magic under the right conditions, but this is different. You can't smell it on your own kind, and you've never been so close to another human before. Do all people smell just like that? Fish and marine mammals don't come close to this. Why is this the first time you smell it? Did you always sit upwind? Were your senses dulled by fear? He was bleeding into the water when you first saw him, why did you not sense it then?

"Hey… Are you alright?" He asks, and he sits up even more to put a hand on your shoulder. It's the left one. Why does it smell so strongly compared to his other hand? Is it because he has regrown that limb? Curiosity and hunger mix within you. It's almost like you can taste it. It coats your mouth like oil, stubbornly sticking to you even as you swallow. If that is what humans smell like, with such strong magic coursing through them, you can understand why your kind evolved to hunt them.

You feel his gaze on you as you wait for your racing heart to slow down again. The taste slowly dissipates, and your head clears. Swallowing again helps your fangs to retract and your sharp teeth to turn into what they usually are while out of the water. You feel almost lightheaded as you still sense Vash next to you, his hand touching your shoulder.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks again, and you finally turn towards him. You glance over the confused expression on his face and pick up the gloved hand holding on to you. He doesn't resist you as you turn it between your own hands. It feels strange and rigid—nothing like your own hands. Taking his other hand in yours confirms your suspicion that something feels very different. There is no soft flesh under that glove. You return your attention to it, your fingers running along the leather and the numerous belts and buckles. You gently press your fingers into it, and only about halfway to his shoulders do you feel the softness of meat. It is where you remember his left arm ending.

Just in case you double check again. You take his other arm and feel the warmth radiating from his skin. It isn't hidden under leather, only the white sleeve of his shirt. You see his scarred hand and calloused palm. You hold both his hands for a moment, comparing the difference in feel and temperature. You turn them palm side up and palm side down. As you let go, you compare them to your own hands, and the fingers of both his hands move, mimicking yours.

"Did you figure it out?" he asks with a soft smile, but there is a hint of sadness in it. Now it's his hands taking yours and keeping them palm side up. Vash's fingers run gently over the back of your hands, and he isn't restraining you in any way. With a gentle touch, it is hard to realize there is something wrong with his left hand. "I lost my left arm a few years ago in a shipwreck. It was a horrible storm; it smashed our ship to pieces. It tried to rip us all apart. I don't remember much, just that before I blacked out, some of my closest friends had already lost their lives. Somehow, I woke up on this shore again. To this day, I have no idea how it is possible. I haven't heard of anyone else surviving; I think I might have been the only lucky one. The ship is lost too, together with my left arm. Probably somewhere deep on the ocean floor."

Part of you wishes you could tell him the truth, but a different one knows that it's better he doesn't know what really happened. But is it better for him or for you?

"A skilled friend of mine created this prosthesis for me." He turns the glove covered arm around, his fingers stroking the underside of your wrist. He could have stopped here, and you would have no reason to question him. You barely know what a prosthesis is, so you took it all as being normal. "I have a little secret of my own. I can use magic. We made this arm so that I can use magic to move it like a regular hand. Imaginary muscles and tendons make it so I can trick almost anyone. You're the first one I couldn't fool."

So this is why it smelled so strongly of magic; it's completely imbued by it. I never knew humans could use their magic. You keep looking at his hands, as you can't even tell the difference between them when it comes to movement. They are both graceful and nimble. There is no stutter in the fluency of the fingers. They mesmerize you as they dance across your skin, and out of seemingly nowhere, he pulls out the green cord he made earlier. He ties it around your left wrist, and there is a pink little seashell hanging from it.

"Here. I know the seashell is fragile, but it had the perfect hole in it already; I couldn't resist." Vash smiles at you brightly, with not a single hint towards the anxiousness or awkwardness of before.

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#trigun #fanfiction #fanfic #vash the stampede #humanoid typhoon #plant boi #x reader #writing

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jeanniebug623 · 7 months

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Can you write a snippet of Quaritch following through with his version of “an old school ass whipping”

Nothing too serious because I don’t think he’d abuse Spider but I do think he’d be the type of parent to resort to physical discipline if pushed enough.

In the exchange between him and Spider, Spider does not seemed alarmed with fear and is actually a little cheeky. I think he’s used to adults just letting him get away with things.

I think it’s be interesting to read Spider’s reaction to an adult/authority figure disciplining him (whether physical or some other punishment) for not following instructions rather than just checking to see if he has not been harmed.

It doesn’t have to relate to him running off which is where Quaritch uses the threat. It could be anything.

Oh dear...I can certainly try. SOOOO many times it came close in my Silent As Shadows fanfic but I intentionally diverted it because writing it makes me feel...off? Something like that...not to say I haven't touched on the subject in other stories because it can be a defining piece of a character's personality. For better or worse...

That said I DO NOT condone the actions I am about write...abuse is abuse; my mind will not be changed.

I agree with you, Quaritch does seem like the type who would resort to physical discipline. One of those people who would be like 'I went through it and I turned out fine' when they, in fact, did not turn out fine...

It's also hard for me to write when it's a recom and a human versus a human and a human like an AU scenario. Just really doesn't seem like a fair fight when it's like someone three times as big as the other person...

Please listen to My Heart's Grave by Faouzia if you'd like to know my mindset writing this because I had it on repeat. Now I will sip wine, feel bad about myself, and prepare to write the fluffiest chapter of Weaving the Web to recover... 🥺🥺🥺

TW: Physical Discipline of a Teenager; Corporal Punishment; Please DO NOT read if this is a triggering subject for you.

"Yea, I got him." Quaritch relayed into his comm as he pulled the struggling teenage translator back towards the recom's camp easily by one arm. Spider was a feisty one, the colonel had to give him that. Definitely the son of his genetic predecessor.

"Let me the fuck go!" Spider snarled, trying to pry the tight fingers off his bicep. It was sad the recom's hand could easily engulf his whole upper arm.

"Oh, boy, the mouth on you." Quaritch said with a disappointed shake of his head as he continued through the underbrush, "And don't forget the balls. You actually ran. Where'd you think you were gonna go, kid?"

"Don't fucking care! Anywhere away from you assholes!" Spider answered angrily, growing increasingly frustrated with being dragged like a toddler being taken to their room for a time out.

Quaritch let out some mix of a sigh and a growl, more of the latter, at the boy's foul language and continued resistance as he commented, "My old man would have my ass black and blue if I ever spoke to him like that."

"That's nice..." Spider huffed out with an angry smirk, "I don't have a dad. Because he was a genocidal, sociopath prick who picked a fight with the wrong people!"

Quaritch felt something deep inside burn angrily. Perhaps it was the recovered footage showing the human Miles Quaritch's demise or the deep loyalty to the RDA being insulted by a wild child raised by the enemy, he stopped abruptly and shoved Spider towards a fern with woody, reed-like stalks.

"Pick your switch." Quaritch commanded, crossing his arms and glaring at the boy like he was new recruit about to get a little taste of what offending the commanding officer was like.

"Pick my what?" Spider asked, utter confusion on his face as he looked at the plant he almost face planted in then back to Quaritch.

"My old man used to let me choose how I got it. I'll give you the same courtesy." Quaritch said as he appraised the boy. He wasn't going to let the boy's naivety of how royally he screwed up lessen the blow. The colonel made it very clear if he ran, he would get that old school ass whippin' and Quaritch was a man of his word.

"Ok, I'll do it." Quaritch said after about a minute of just blank stares from the boy and brushed passed the boy. He ripped a decently thick stalk from the ground and clenched it in one hand as he swept his hand back to tear off the leaves to leave onto what Spider could assume was now the 'switch'. He glowered at the boy and ordered quietly, "Turn around."

Spider wasn't familiar with being hit when he was in trouble but he also wasn't stupid. His eyes widened as he stared up at the monster of a man and said almost silently, "You can't be fucking serious..."

"I'll spare you the humiliation of bending you over and literally beating your backside." Quaritch explained like he wasn't about to administer some corporal punishment to someone more than half his size. He'd be careful. He had no intention of putting the kid in the hospital but a lesson needed to be learned. He repeated slowly, "Turn. Around."

"What if I don't?" Spider said with far more courage than he felt. It was clear he couldn't outrun the recoms with the tracker in his mask, clearly that hadn't been a bluff. And he sure as hell couldn't hold his own against a genetically manufactured meathead. He could feel the sweat making his palms slick as his throat dried out.

"Then I will throw you over my knee and, after you've literally been spanked like a brat throwing a tantrum, you go back to Bridgehead and you never see me again. As nice as that might seem, think about who's waitin' for you back at HQ." Quaritch answered, giving his head a little tilt as he narrowed his eyes when he referenced the general. Ardmore hadn't been a fan of Spider joining the recoms but Quaritch had enough loyalty points to be given the chance...he did literally die for the RDA.

Spider stared at Quaritch, knowing full well if he was willing to follow through with this threat then he would with the second option. His humiliation would only start a chain of events of even worse things to come when he was back in the RDA's clutches without Quaritch's protection. He hated to think of it that way. Like he OWED Quaritch anything for pulling strings and getting him out of Bridgehead in the first place.

"So you're gonna hit me...", the teen's eyes darted to the switch then back up to the colonel towering over him as he spoke with a shaky breath, "...how many times?"

Quaritch smirked in a way Spider didn't like, obvious by how he narrowed his eyes suspiciously on the recom. It's not that he wanted to hurt the boy. If anything, he wanted to spare him that type of suffering as evident by stopping the interrogation. But damn! The boy's stubbornness and disrespect was not going to be a liability for the mission if Quaritch could stop it.

"You're sixteen?" Quaritch said thoughtfully.

"...yea..." Spider reluctantly answer.

"One for each year then, tough guy." Quaritch said as he lowered the rod at his side, "Turn around. Might want to brace yourself against somethin'. No shame in it."

"No shame...bullshit..." Spider said as his system flooded with prickles of fear of how bad this was going to hurt. He'd gotten hurt PLENTY of times but it wasn't usually intentional. Maybe his bastard of his foster father had but Spider was too young to remember. And his friends were always overly apologetic if they ever seriously hurt Spider while playing.

The teen let out a slow sigh and turned around, not bothering to use a fallen tree to hold himself up. He clenched his fists at his sides when the colonel let out an impressed whistle. Spider wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of saying he could knock him down...no matter how much Quaritch or anyone else tried.

Spider managed not to physically shutter as a large hand brushed his locs aside to get full access to his back and broad shoulders. He was halfway through taking in a breath to brace for the first hit when the switch lashed across his back with a loud SNAP! It hit below his shoulder blades and caused his breath to hitch as he was not prepared for the hit.

"Fuck...!" Spider breathed out through tight teeth as he felt the quick impact start to burn.

"Yea, hurts...don't it?" Quaritch asked rhetorically as he listened to the boy hiss through his teeth as he breathed. He'd tempered his strength down significantly for the first lash, unsure how easy it would be to leave permanent damage. And that was NOT what he wanted. Spider wanted to paint himself with blue stripes? That was his business...but Quaritch was not going to leave him with stripes he couldn't be rid of.

SNAP!

The second lash had a little more power behind it, creating a thin welt across Spider's upper back without breaking the skin again. And here the colonel thought the boy's thick skin was just metaphorical. Quaritch wound his arm back to the side before striking the bare back of the kid for the third time. SNAP! He wasn't sure if he heard a muffled moan or Na'vi curse words escape the boy but the punishment wasn't over yet.

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

By the tenth lash, Spider couldn't hold back and let out a sharp cry of pain and panted in the suffocating heat of his mask. His eyes were glassy just from his body's natural response to the sharp and consistent pain, but he'd refused to let any tears fall from sheer willpower. He'd tried to stay silent, not even letting out the occasional swear to verbalize how pissed off he was for fear it would come out as pathetic whimper instead.

Spider hissed in through his teeth in pain when a hand gently landed on his shoulder. Was Quaritch taking pity on him...? He wasn't sure what was more humiliating: being punished or not being able to take.

"Lean against the tree." Quaritch said coolly. The boy had started to sway and wasn't able to knock the recom's hand away as he gently pushed him towards a fallen tree covered in brightly lit moss and fungi. Spider tripped on a root, completely unbalanced from the pain pulsating from the lashes through his body but caught himself by planting his hands against the fallen tree like he was told.

"Good boy." Quaritch said, eyes moving over the boy's form as he continued to keep the tears at bay and bear the consequences. He was impressed and proud the boy was taking it as well as he was. But something...else...

Something hidden beneath the admiration for the boy taking the hits felt a lot like guilt. That his actions were wrong...that the boy didn't deserve this. But Quaritch was a man of his word.

SNAP!

Spider had started biting his lower lip and, if he wasn't imaging it, the strikes from the switch felt harder now that they were in the latter half of the sixteen lashes. He couldn't see how red and agitated his back was but goddamn it, he could feel it! He couldn't see the tiny red droplets forming where the welts overlapped when the rod crossed over an already abused strip of skin. As the discipline carried on, it was becoming more and more difficult for the colonel to avoid already punished skin.

SNAP!!!

Spider let out a sharp cry then bit his tongue when he snapped his mouth back shut when the last hit finally came down. The motherfucker did that on purpose. The last lash was much stronger and hurt A LOT more than the others. He'd dropped down to his knees and panted against the stinging in his back and eerily cool feeling in certain spots of his back where enough blood had escaped at the horrendous crossroads of the switch's path.

He clenched tightly at the moss in his hands and rested his forehead against the spongy rotting bark of tree as he tried to slow his panting into something less noticeable. He felt like a nantang had used his back as a scratching post except without the courtesy of the nantang putting him out of his misery for a nice meal of human meat.

"Goddamn good boy." Quaritch said as he reached down to pull Spider's hair back from hiding his face. The boy turned his head away quickly. No surprise. The colonel had a hard time looking his old man in the eye after an old-fashioned whooping. But by supper time, it would be like nothing happened. The boy would get over it...

But something in his mind asked if he would? Quaritch was a man of his word but was it worth it to see Spider barely holding it together like this?

"Fuck you..." Spider spat out as his body trembled against his will. He heard Quaritch sigh, sounding disappointed.

CRACK!

Spider instantly regretted his choice of words as he let out a borderline shriek at the impact of the rod coming down hard on the bottoms of his feet that had become exposed when he dropped to his knees. The pain jolted up his whole body then back down the point of contact in the middles and insteps of his feet. By Eywa, that one was the worst!

"What the fuck was that for?!" Spider snapped as he whipped his head back to Quaritch. He was taken aback by the slightly raised brows and flat ears of the recom. What the hell was this? Why did he look like he felt bad? Like he was sorry...?!

"Either the cussin' or the runnin'...your choice, boy." he said. Clearly neither option was appealing by the glare he got in return.

Quaritch sighed as he stood and tossed the switch into the brush now that its purpose had been served. He stared at the angry, rebellious brown eyes the teenager had inherited from his mother. If he could read minds, Quaritch could only imagine what Spider was saying or thinking of doing to him. He tried to take a hold under the boy's arm to help him stand when he struggled at first.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Spider screamed as he knocked Quaritch's hand away and scrambled to stand on his own now that his poor feet were screaming in agony. Fuck, it hurt to stand. He took his first step away from the recom and stumbled with how badly his feet hurt. A large blue hand attempted to stabilize him, which Spider responded with a cracking voice as he screamed again, "DON'T TOUCH ME!!! DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME EVER AGAIN!"

Quaritch stood back up straight and watched the boy take his first steps. It was clear the boy was in serious pain. He'd gone too far...

Spider felt aching in his ankles, like all the bones had been rattled loose from the strike. He breathed in through his nose and let it out slowly through his mouth as he took the first real step. He closed his eyes tightly, ignoring the trickle of tears that escaped the corners of his eyes and walked on. Spider wouldn't be running again any time soon...but he would get away from Quaritch if it was the last thing he did...

#atwow #atwow spider #recom quaritch #avatar the way of traumatizing spider #ask me anything

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