#and the blood we shed will probably be two differents works

[aobawilliams]

Oh. Saw this from @/allthebooksandcrannies and thought this sounded like a really fun idea.

Rules: Make a 24-hour poll with the names of your WIPS, let it run, then write one sentence for every vote the winner received.

So let's gooo-

I'm not going to tag anyone specifically, but I hope this goes through my circle of mutuals and followers and maybe it will inspire some of them 👀 (I am mostly hoping it will inspire me. gotta hit that block with a stick)

More info on each wip under the cut:

Noisy as the dead (MHA)

On AO3 under the same name. Following the entrance exam, Izuku can see ghosts. He wants a refund.

Who the f- is this (DCMK)

On AO3 under the same name. Following a KID Heist, Conan is thrown into the past. He decides to make it everyone else's problem.

Just Remembered. (MHA)

On AO3 under the same name. Roleswap between Izuku and Rody, in the World Heroes movie.

the flowers have water (MHA)

On AO3 under the same name. Inko is Nana's reincarnation.

Before the coffee gets cold - the headmaster (BSD)

OS. Mild crossover with the book serie Before the coffee gets cold. Atsushi meets the Headmaster for a last talk around a coffee, before/after his death.

Matsuri (BSD)

OS. Oda meets a younger, lost Kyouka and helps her find her parents.

Changing fate by your side (MHA)

I had totally forgotten about this. Eri Time Travel fic.

Dad For All (MHA)

Post-canon Izuku is accidentally thrown into the past, and keep acquiring children. If anyone asks, it is not his fault.

the blood we shed (it never dries) (BSD)

Beast AU. My take on Kyouka and Atsushi's relationship, pre and post Beast canon.

tomorrow I'll be brave (BSD)

After his death in the Beast universe, Dazai wakes up in his body in the canon universe. He adapts.

[ghostaholics]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn medic!Reader (same reader from here, but this is a stand-alone) ➸ SUMMARY: You kiss Simon's very minor injuries. And then some. (Or, alternatively: He's not actually wounded. He just wants to see you.) ➸ WARNING(S): some graphic descriptions of old injuries ➸ A/N: Need to preface that this isn't smut despite how the title and summary sound. Anyways, Jo knows I listened to Hozier's Other Voices 2020 version of "Work Song" for a week straight while writing this. ➸ WC: 2k

❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃, ❞ he admits, low-timbered. It feels intimate, especially coming from him. Simon's sitting on the cot; it sags under his weight. He curls his hands over the edge of it as he leans forward. No casualties post-mission means he's got free rein to pick wherever he wants in the medical tent.

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

"That I should probably do my best to avoid injuries so I don’t keep pestering you. Can always just tell me to fuck off, y’know.”

“You’re gonna break my heart if you stop coming around.

“Mm,” he says in agreement. “Can’t have that can we?”

You nod your head earnestly. “I like your company.”

“Tryin’ to say that you’ll miss me?”

“I would.” More than he knows.

It’s routine now. He gives you just enough room, adjusting his position. You step into the space made between Simon’s splayed knees, his massive legs nearly bracketing yours with how close they are. He’s bigger than you. Well, considerably more mammoth-like in his proportions compared to an overwhelming majority of the soldiers that you’ve encountered, to be quite honest.

Simon acts as though he’s acutely aware of his size. You suspect that he purposefully makes himself smaller in your presence. Like now, how his shoulders are rounded forward, the column of his spine not as straight-arrow in that standard, militaristic posture most servicemen have adopted. As if he doesn’t want to appear too intimidating. Not that Simon could, to you. Hours doing his stitches and idle chitchat on your part have taught you that he’s much less ruthless than people seem to paint him as. But you appreciate the thought anyway.

You conduct the assessment – a typical evaluation normal for combat casualty care, more in-depth than the one you’d done when he initially stopped by and you did a quick once-over for any obvious injuries. Though given the complete vacancy in the medical tent, you find it hard to believe that you’ll come across anything on him since the mission went that smoothly.

The first thing you notice this time: he doesn't smell like spilled blood. It's different. Not that sweet, rusted iron of wet tackiness – the one that reminds you of a generous stack of two pence coins held between a pair of hands cupped together. He comes in that way a lot. Reeks, because war means that he's no stranger to charging through a shower of copper and lead-forged bullets out on the field. Everything else is still there, though. Maybe a dying campfire – crackling logs and blackened earth. Soft dirt excavated from a foxhole for cover while under enemy fire. All gunpowder and Marlboro Lights and diesel-fuel smoke. Fresh rain and a blue-violet sky after a storm. Victory without consequence.

You'd breathe it in if you could, pull the collar of his jacket up to your face. At this proximity, it’d be easy.

He drops the act when he’s in front of you. Lieutenant. Ghost. Battle-hardened, gruff. A natural-born leader. The kind of person to rip this world apart brick by brick – scraped up palms clutching onto broken pieces – to make sure that the plan is executed accordingly, no matter the cost. It’s hard for him to shed that layer. A drop in the bucket of information that you’ve gathered about this man.

You’ve seen him at his best. But you know him at his worst.

The laundry list of injuries over the years: blows to his torso and his back and his limbs that were brighter than technicolor – purples and reds and sickly yellow-green shades – deep, blotchy medals of violence decorating his skin like some kind of fucked-up kaleidoscope that was nothing to be proud of; when some bastard drove a knife right into his upper thigh, that dirty blade wedged through tissue and muscle which was sure as hell going to induce the nastiest infection without serious TLC and a tetanus shot; rib fractures 7-9 because he aborted an exploding heli, seconds to spare before landing on his side wrong from a height that was equivalent to three stories tall; old GSWs dotting his body the same way you’d shove push pins into a paper-flimsy map to mark the places you’ve been to.

And then there’s no contest for the top contender. 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 #𝟏: when he was rushed in on a stretcher, barely clinging to life. Lower abdomen shredded by exploding shrapnel. He was outside of the window of opportunity. Too far beyond that golden hour, so his chances of surviving plummeted to a single-digit percent.

He’s more than just a patchwork of scars. There’s a complex person underneath the surface. A miracle in the flesh to have toughed it out through all of that. Resilient. Perpetual. His callsign makes sense. Ghosts really do live forever.

Several seconds pass before you speak again. It’s a silly comment, teasing – poking fun at him. You don’t have any reservations when it comes to picking on Simon; he’s good about taking these things in stride. Funny, actually. He’s got a dry sense of humor. “I think… you like the idea of someone taking care of you.”

His response isn’t immediate. It’s delayed, said with intention. He doesn’t ever waste words. “Not just anybody.”

You nearly reel back at that. Warmth floods your face. You aren’t quite sure what to say, didn’t expect it. So you let the comment hang in the air between the two of you, busying your hands with slipping off his tac vest, triple-checking for hidden wounds, doing anything to keep yourself occupied while you stand this close to him in the wake of that remark. You’re engrossed in your work, in search of a distraction.

(He’s a distraction, isn’t he?)

And then your eyes stop in their scan. Right there: a small nick on the exposed sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve – open to the direct path of some wayward debris that happened to graze him. So tiny. You’ve seen paper cuts more harrowing than this – wouldn’t have even registered on your radar, especially if it’s being dwarfed by other critical wounds that hold decisive sway over somebody’s fate when it comes to your average life-or-death scenario.

Of course, you take your job very seriously.

You feign a sharp inhale. “Ah,” you say solemnly, guiding his arm up to your face for a closer look. “Found your problem.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he echoes, voice laced with amusement.

“See, you came to the right place. Anybody else would’ve missed it.”

“The verdict, then?”

“So terrible. Earth-shattering, in fact—”

Simon starts pulling away. “Alright, that’s enough of you takin’ the piss outta me,” he gripes.

You chase his arm to recapture it into your grasp. “Wait!” you say, huffing out a laugh. Your mouth sprouts into a wide grin that makes him roll his eyes.

“You gonna treat me or what?”

Your humor bubbles away as you come back to your senses. Those once-loud peals of laughter start to die down when you take his question into consideration. Because there’s really nothing for you to do; he doesn’t need you.

The realization is slow-moving. It washes over you, rolls like waves as you finally begin to sober up.

Simon wants to be here, and he’s looking for any excuse to stay. He just can’t find the courage to own up to it.

“I dunno. Might be unconventional,” you throw out casually, playing along. “Risky, maybe – never been done before.”

But he’s undeterred. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

You pause for a beat, fingers still wrapped around his forearm because you haven’t managed to let go yet. His skin is warm under your palm. You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to do it – emboldened by his encouragement, given complete carte blanche; he’s leaving this to your discretion. So you press your lips to that area where the cut is, right over his pulse point. If you had lingered for longer, you probably would’ve been able to feel it thudding, that solid rhythm and easy strength reminding you he’s alive.

You expected him to withdraw his arm in bewilderment. He should’ve kicked up a fuss about you violating his boundaries, should’ve told you that you overstepped. Something, right?

But he doesn’t do any of that. Simon’s studying you. Dark pupils. So chasm-deep that the ground beneath your feet might slip away. Ocean trenches, midnight-black like the charcoal smudged around his eyes. When they land on you, his gaze goes molasses-soft. He’s fond; there’s little room for doubt. The way he looks at you says everything. None of that usual coldness he harbors during an op. Instead, relaxed and more human than you’re used to seeing – all of his attention focused solely on you.

“Where else, Simon?” you whisper.

He’s thinking – carefully weighing his options – the same expression that he gets when a crossroads lies ahead of him and he knows his make-it-or-break-it decision will invariably affect the outcome of a mission.

After several moments, his hand comes up. Simon’s fingers curl underneath the hem of his mask; he’s been wearing the fabric balaclava more often since you’ve fixed the stitching on it. Then he lifts – not the entire way. Just to reveal the bottom half of his face. There he is. Sandpaper-rough stubble. The sharp cut of his jaw. A mouth that you’re convinced wears a scowl 24/7 behind his mask but is now slightly twitched up.

Even though you’ve seen it before, the sight of him never fails to steal your breath away. Feels like meeting him for the first time again. With how rarely he does this, it might as well be – that slow, heart-melting sensation is steadily filling the cavern of your chest.

And you lean in. Your lips brush against his; it’s a chaste thing – the kiss – if it can be called that. Gentle. Like how you’d stitch up his wounds with a light touch and kind intent. He’s built of sterner stuff, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s capable of breaking just as easily as everyone else. You always handle Simon with care: unequivocal compassion and empathy when there’s so little of those left on this side of war – privileges that he’s never taken for granted.

“Better?” you ask quietly, tipping your head in question.

Simon hums his approval – this pleased, low sound in his throat. His hand slides across your lower back. He tugs you towards him. “Wouldn’t mind some more attention,” he murmurs, before slotting his mouth over yours. And then he kisses you like it might heal him from the outside in.

[gabatronnie]

I feel ya sis, with that said can you do "it" with crush!chaggie(Charlie and Vaggie). Reader and them aren't dating yet.

Reader is a strong overlord but suffer from depression, their insanely strong. (This part is my personal headcanon) reader has no limits shapeshifting, like they could shift into anything, lost an arm? Make a new one. Want different hair style? Just change it, something like that.

This takes place after ep 8. The hotel has been rebuilt and everything has settled down, and reader was still overwhelming stressed.

Reader resides in the hotel in one of the many new rooms, they had a anglic dagger(ordered from Carmine herself) and they just had the urge to do "it", and so they did it. But Charlie and vaggie had went to get them for an activity, and saw them do "it".

Basically i just want them to comfort me🥲

No need to do it if it makes you uncomfortable, and sorry if it's too long just thought you might want some extra details. The rest you can do as you please.

Thanks if you can do it, and no probs if you can't do it

chaggie comforting reader after they relapse (hcs)

this piece includes the following: self harm, blood, depressive (possibly suicidal) thoughts

it was vaggie who initially walked in on you whilst in the act, with charlie following soon after, and it’s safe to say that well… they were shocked.

charlie was confused more than anything, you seemed perfectly happy inside and out, and to say she was shocked was an understatement, and even if you weren’t all those things, she couldn’t understand why someone so amazing would do something so awful, especially if it’s to themselves

vaggie was more so personally upset with herself, as we see throughout the course of the show, vaggie can get hard on herself when she feels as if she didn't fufill some kind of quota on how much she's supposed to do for you

but aside from all that, vaggie will softly but sternly tell you to put the dagger down, as charlie softly mutters “what happened..?”

charlie and vaggie approach you slowly, a bit hesitant to push anything, but vaggie takes the dagger from you and softly places it somewhere safe before the three of you have a conversation

it may seem like your being scolded or lectured by these two, but you’re not, they just want to be safe and happy, that’s really all that matters to them

charlie will probably shed a few tears, she feels awful, and feels like she’s failed you in a way - like she hasn’t properly down her job

you three go over that your girls want you to be safe and happy and they understand life gets hard and people make mistakes, but that this isn’t the way to do it

once you three address the main issues and go over a few ground rules, they just wanna hug you, especially charlie

it’s safe to say that after this, charlie and vaggie both try their best to be more aware of your behaviors and emotions, charlie makes sure to include more mental health themed activities for the hotel residents, and vaggie ensures that you aren’t alone for an extended period of time on a regular basis

a/n: originally this was gonna be a oneshot but it didn’t save so i spent like almost all day writing this but as headcanons 😔 either way i hope it’s still enjoyable

© gabatronnie - don't translate, heavily inspire, feed my work to ai, or repost it on other platforms.

[jup1ter-moon]

just saw someone on reddit talking about how mischa said his favourite story was saw v (in ride the cyclone 2016) and how fatal five trial from saw v actually has some super interesting comparisons to ride the cyclone (in the actual show he recites the plot of saw vi, the movie after. and some shit about a rusty axe idk. but here i'm talking about the actual saw v. ALSO - warning for spoilers for the saw franchise (and ride the cyclone))

there's two (probably more, but i'm only covering two) ways of looking at this but i'm gonna start with the "jane is a test" version: the fatal five wake up after being abducted and have to go through a series of rooms with different tests and a different person dies in each one (because of the nature of the traps it appears as if this is intentional - in the first room, they are all chained together and have to get keys, but if they all run to get the keys one person is decapitated because of the limited length of chain, and in another room there are only three holes in the wall to hide from an explosion.) in the final room, the two survivors (britt and mallick) have to shed a certain amount of blood to get out of the trap. they discover that this final trap was designed for five people, so they would all have been able to give a small amount of blood to contribute to the total. and it turns out that all the previous tests didn't require a death each - in the first room, only one person needed to get a key and then could unlock everyone, and in the explosion room multiple people could fit in the same hiding place. they do eventually survive this trap but it's like a lesson about teamwork and such. anyway. have we ever seen anything about a morally corrupt girl learning a lesson about life & teamwork & other people....

also yeah something about how they all start competing but by the end (at least the ones that r still alive, in terms of saw) realise they needed to work together to survive (this either works in term of reincarnation theory for rtc, or you could see it in a more symbolic way as them being able to pass on peacefully after voting for jane) in this version, jane isn't a real person that died with them, but is a concept created by karnak to test the choir. these damn puppets and their tests, right?

(also yes, i know the tests are john's not billy's, but you get the idea.) the other option isn't a full theory but it's super silly to me that the first girl from the fatal five to die (ashley), who never really gets to interact with the rest of them or figure out what's going on, is a blonde girl who gets decapitated.

anyway i don't think this was intentional but it was just. super interesting to me and i wanted to yap about it.

[cassied03]

Okay so to the two people who said they would listen/read my ideas, this is for you two before i go to sleep and expand on a later date.

•So for galra keith I would definitely think that he had a lot more galra traits then the show gave him.

• For example his nails were typically stronger and grew in a curved shape

• For another example, his hair was naturally a dark/deep purple but his first foster family after his dads death dyed it black thinking keith had dyed it young to the purple color

• Speaking of purple, i would also think that his eyes were a deep dull purple/plum color

• moving to the scene where Krolia suggests the name Yorak, i personally think that Keiths dad would have included that in his name after she left earth

• so Keiths full name is "Keith Yorak Kogane"

•In terms of galra, he'd probably be seen as a late bloomer to the blade of marmora because he hasn't grown in his ears or tail, not knowing that his tail was surgically removed by one of his foster familys (theres a very rare chance of a human being born with a tail, and I think the tail wouldn't have grown much because the human body has evolved to not need a tail and half his biology was against the tail)

Now onto the good stuff, ergo the trans stuff

• i'd say he's transmasc who's known since he was a young boy, but that could also be me projecting, who knows

• my big thing was what about periods? because i know that everyones is different, i'd say his started at 15 give or take a few years, but before he ended up leaving earth

• With his period, because Galra most likely dont have anything quite as similar (based on cats, i suppose. With cats all their internal bleeding is reabsorbed), his periods would probably be very light as half his body (might/) will absorb the blood and the other half will shed it out.

• I'd say for the same reason he uses cloth pads, simply for the reuse ability and his light flow would have made it easy to clean

• i also head cannon that him growing out a mullet is the result of him shaving his hair at some point, and regaining enough confidence to grow his hair out while knowing that he could easily cut his hair if he felt dysphoric

• with the chest situation, it can go two ways. with the episode when keith and lance are going to the pool, Keith is shirtless, so that is a point to small-chested keith

• but we could also just, ignore that and pretend that he was in a compression shirt that was meant for trans people to swim in. because if there was shorts with them then im sure there was something for compression (ignoring how the alteans could shapeshift)

•One of my biggest head cannon when it comes to trans!keith, is that only Shiro knows, and that if they're ever overheard talking about it (like shiro lecturing keith about working out in a binder or something), everyone just completely misunderstands the conversation

Keith: Shiro it's fine (Shiro just said he can't work out safely in his binder)

Shiro: No it's not keith, you can't keep doing this. You know why. We're in space, you can't avoid the consequences anymore than you could on earth. (Shiro is talking about Keiths ribs, and how if Keith breaks a rib or something akin to that, then there is nothing in space that can help him as opposed to earth where at the very least he could have fixed his ribs)

Lance or Coran overhearing and thinking that it's just about keiths little pick pocketing habit (another head cannon): Huh, i didn't know Keiths been a pick pocketer when he was on earth.

Anyways, thats all i can come up with right this second, if i feel like i'm able to i'll expand on a couple of my head cannons / thoughts

[cactusringed]

Can you ramble about the Boogeyman mechanic in particular cuz that was probably my favorite part of Last Life. The constant unrest that it created fhfjfjjfjfjjfdjjf

Franny u always respond to my pleas for asks I love u sm ur the best

The boogeyman mechanic is like one of the biggest answers to third life that last life provides - because the thing with third life is that it was relatively peaceful for a while - there was a lot of unrest caused by scar (and scarian in general) but also a general inability to truly act upon it, to the point ren felt the need to let martyn kill him so that he could enact proper war

The other big trend of third life is that allyships were very, very, very strong, and had no reasons to break. Everyone stayed with the person they found on day 1 and had little to no reason to leave them.

And then of course, there's the lack of balance between very skilled survival players and those who aren't used to play in a setting where their deaths matter. It's surprising that that issue didn't rise up as much in third life tbh, but it did enough to be recognised. There needed a way to balance the skill levels, so that we could just have 2 or 3 players on red whilst the rest was still on green and thriving.

The boogeyman mechanic is meant to help with pretty much all of this. Now the random life mechanics seems like it would be counterintuitive to the issue of balance, except that in that season lives are also made to be currencies, and knowing the players that were in the game, Grian or whoever came up with the mechanics themselves, knew what would happen, because the games at this point are specifically designed for the players themselves. And then, in case it still led to a lack of balance, you got the boogeyman. It means that even if you're in a team of greens, you can't just relax. Even if your allies are remarkably loyal, you may be at risk.

And it WORKED. there were so many heart wrenching betrayals and breaks of alliances over the boogeyman. It offers the players a chance to have fun with the narrative, too - a recognition that the narrative woven through their improv was a big draw to third life. It gives them the chance to crank it up to eleven, and makes greens and yellows able to feel included when the majority of the server is red and they, too, want to be part of the blood shed or just show that they need to be respected and feared. It stops players from remaining stuck and hidden within their alliances, and gives them reasons to branch out.

It's not in double life, because the gimmick of the season already worked to equalize the playing field: by linking random players together, it meant that an incredibly skilled player should, in theory, not be at too much of a advantage because they were still taking damage for two. Furthermore, because their lives were linked, it would be counter intuitive to have a mechanic that would push one to betray the other. It doesn't make sense. And I doubt they expected coupled to be close enough allies with each other for the boogey to make a difference between this kind of alliances. In general every player in double life is incredibly fragile, and it just wouldn't work to have the boogey there.

But then limited life rolls around and has one of the most fascinating gimmick yet - it's not just that it's about time, but that it's about gains and losses. The mechanics of limited life encourage players towards risk taking, because suddenly you're not limited to 3 (or more) lives, and you GAIN by being aggressive. It's also the only series that allows yellow to be aggressive towards greens, too. Limited life banks on players becoming desperate, and on pushing the ones that were passive even in last life to be aggressive at all costs. And it shows in the way people played it. Because if you don't kill as the boogey in last life and become red the next session, well you can still get someone to gift you a life, especially if you have an ally with many more lives than you. It's a relatively painless, and very equal exchange. But in limlife? If you're low on time, you have to take so much more from a player than you're receiving. The person you take time from will always lose double what they're giving you, boogey or otherwise. It makes life (or here, time) exchanges so much more desperate, means they need to be so much more calculated, and pushes boogeys to be so much more aggressive than they were even in last life. Because getting out of red, or just out of running out of time, is so much more difficult in limited life, you can't spit on a free hour even if it causes the victim to suffer. Similarly, it really, really makes the weight of your kill so much heavier.

Its such a fun mechanic to add and has so many effects on the psychology of play bro I love it so much

[dogueteeth]

FOr the WIP ask. Two in particular make me curious. Please tell something about "5 Camels and 10 White Horses" and "vice & vicodin".👀 I am looking forward to all parts of "capsaicin", but I will be patient and let myself be surprised.🙂

Ooh so glad you asked!!! (Also dw you won't have to wait long for most capsaicin bits >:3)

5 Camels and 10 White Horses

Tiny morsel snippet that works as a synopsis teaser:

" he doesn't have the same urges in Ace's body as he does in his own. doesn't feel the needy twitch in his left hand as it fumbles in his pockets for a cigarette, doesn't feel the oncoming headache that grows when he can't find any. it reminds him of darker times, fumbling blind through alleyways, the taste of grime and motor oil burning away behind a plume of smoke. "

This one is a one-shot between Dr. Mortum and Constantine!! I think this is my first fic for Constantine beside a capsaicin WIP between the two. It's a puppetstuck!ending that explores Constantine and his past, and it sheds some insight to him about how he could be different if he decided to change his ways. This fic is a reminder to him that he's not alone anymore. The title is a bit odd so I feel I should explain it— "Camel" and "White Horse" are the names of two cigarette brands! Not many people know of White Horse anymore but it's Constantine's favourite.

vice & vicodin

Long Snippet (WARNING TWs: Mentions of self-harm and drug abuse);

" But she's been bed-bound for weeks and only recently gotten the clear from Mortum's doctor-friend to whirl around in a wheelchair. She's not keen to rebreak her legs before they've even gotten a chance to heal, but it's been hell, trying to keep herself occupied. She feels like one of those ex-military dogs, retired and told to play house. Pent up and out of place. A lion put in a cart, pacing across straw and ten-by-fifteen wooden boards as the circus music plays. Lightning in a bottle.

She's already gone through pile after pile of evidence, cleaned up the lair, and repaired her armor. Downed some Vicodin after hitting her leg against the wall and organized more plans and files. Took another blunt, researched Carter's info, stared at the ceiling and wished it would fall on her, went through evidence piles again, avoided and failed staring at the knives and did it all over again. Twice. Took a bit more Vicodin than she probably should have. That's going to be awkward to explain to Dr. Halabi.

Did it all over again, thrice. Multiple times with more variations. Some involving more blood and bandages. Those ones were often spent reassuring the Rat King that she's okay afterwards. She's not going to die. Not yet. It's just blood. It's just more wounds that will heal. Horizontal. Not vertical. She promises the Rat King she'll give it a break. For now.

Rat King.

Now there's something that she can do. Something to occupy her mind with. "

Oh boy, vice & vicodin is the first part of a new series I have planned called "it's called "freefall" about Isa post-guilty crash, set after Retribution and crossing into Revelations; kind of like my own little continuation of Retri since we don't know what Revelations will be like yet!

Writing-wise, I feel very odd about this series, as I plan to kind of go at it with whatever my mind tosses at me. I have some POVs of other characters (Daniel and Ortega mostly) planned for the series that I will go through my usual process of writing for, but most of it will be from Isa's POV and what I'm trying to accomplish with that is the pacing and sentence structure that you can see a bit of in this snippet.

Her thought process is a bit everywhere, not sure if that reflects in my writing here in comparison to my other works, but it feels starkly different in tone to me at least. Not sure if it makes for a good read, so I do look forward to future feedback on that and deciding if I want to keep this style for this work or if I should comb through it to make it easier to read. But, then again, this series is not planned to be an easy, lighthearted read beyond syntax and grammar, but content-wise as well.

[cuti-romeros]

Carraville + joy for @carraville-adm

I was mulling over this prompt while watching the news about the uk government collapsing, and somehow an AU with running-for-MP!Gary and his-campaign-manager!Jamie was born. Also they talk about their feelings, which might be the bigger AU actually. Thanks for the prompt, hope you enjoy!

-

“Do you think we’ll do it?” Gary asks him, when it’s just the two of them left in the conference room.

All the rumblings are that the final results are due to be announced within the hour, and everyone else—party officials, friends, family—has already left for the main ballroom, waiting to celebrate (or suffer) as a collective group. But Gary, ever the contrarian, is still in here—so Jamie is too.

“I’m your campaign manager. It’s literally in my job description to tell you we will,” Jamie replies, even though he knows Gary won’t accept that as an answer.

Still, he expects Gary to huff and roll his eyes, not fix him with the kind of deadly serious look that pins him right to the spot. A stare worthy of an MP, Jamie thinks with pride, remembering just how much work went into crafting and perfecting this particular expression.

“You were my friend first, James,” Gary says, and Jamie’s glad he’s still sitting because his whole body just sort of melts at the knees—even now, even after all these years—at hearing his name said low and gravelly in that stupid Manc voice. “And as a friend, what do you think?”

He sounds far too forlorn for the night of his ascendancy into political power.

“I said I’d make you Prime Minister, Gary. Wouldn’t have even bothered if I didn’t think you could become a measly MP first.” They are both well aware, having shed thousands of hours of blood and sweat to prove it, that becoming any kind of government official is a difficult and grueling task—but Gary cracks a smile, and that’s all Jamie was aiming for anyway.

“Should I be worried about finding a new campaign manager if it doesn’t go well for us tonight?” Gary stands from his chair, wincing subtly enough that most people wouldn’t even notice.

Jamie notices. Jamie also isn’t most people.

“Should I be worried about finding a new candidate to prop up?” He glances theatrically Gary’s left knee, which has long been the troublemaker, but lets it go when Gary only frowns a little, as though he’s genuinely been wondering whether Jamie would turn traitor and find a different politician to devote every waking minute of his life to. As if he would, as if he even could. “You do know I’d resign if we don’t win. If a team gets relegated they usually bring in a new manager to tackle the promotion campaign.”

“Don’t you dare bring football into this, the last thing I wanna think about tonight is United playing the Europa League,” Gary retorts, then chews at his lip the way he always does when he’s hesitating. Jamie waits him out, knows he’s never been one to hem and haw over his words for long. “What if I didn’t want someone new?” Gary says at last, very quietly. “What if I just wanted—”

Gary trails off and shakes his head, making himself very busy adjusting his already-perfectly-knotted tie (Jamie would know, he tied it), but Jamie can’t unhear what he said.

And it’s—going over in sharpie what they’ve only danced around with pencil before, the idea that maybe they’re more than just college friends turned professional partners, that maybe something deeper has settled down and grown roots when they weren’t looking.

Or it’s just Gary having grown attached to his particular brand of cheerful criticism and surly advice. It’s probably just that.

Probably.

So he tackles that angle first. “Gary, we need politicians like you. And if I can’t get you into Parliament, you have to find yourself someone better who can. You need to do what’s best for you and your career.”

A beat.

“The best thing for me has always been you.”

The “Gaz” that comes out in response is shaky and breathless, punched from deep inside him without any part of his conscious mind actually forming the word.

Are they doing this? Maybe they’re doing this. They might be doing this.

Gary looks him dead in the eye, and there isn’t a single shred of politician in the stare this time. This one is all Gary, sharp and intense and strangely raw.

And then Gary leans forward and hugs him.

Oh. Oh.

He can count on one hand, maybe even one finger, the number of times that’s happened before, and Jamie’s mind—blinks, shutting down for a moment before roaring back at twice the intensity. This close, he can feel the warmth and shape of Gary’s body, can feel every little point where they’re touching from knee to forehead, can feel the rise and fall of Gary’s chest against his own, can feel the tickle of Gary’s exhale against his cheek when runs a hand down his back.

So they’re definitely doing this.

It’s a heady feeling, like the fizzing rush of a strong drink mixed with the gentle warmth of a bowl of soup. He can’t describe it better than that—he’s not the wordsmith of the team, that’s what they have speechwriters for. All he knows is that Gary’s stubborn and obsessive and nit-picky and such a goddamn control freak, and Jamie loves him in a way he doesn’t even have words to explain.

Only emphatic four-letter ones, which he probably shouldn’t be using right as he’s about to become arm candy to an honest-to-god Member of Parliament.

Although really, the results have never mattered less. This moment, this might be all he needs for the rest of forever—this is pure, utter joy.

Plus maybe a kiss. (Another time, perhaps)

They pull apart, and Jamie grins. “Forget the election, I’m handing in my resignation right now.”

“What?” Gary still has a dopey look on his face, like sustained positive human contact might have actually broken him, and he’s never looked more kissable in his entire life.

Jamie pushes that thought away. Somebody could walk in any moment to drag them to the ballroom, maybe even one of the journalists dotted around the place, and that isn’t how he wants to announce this fledgling little thing between them to the world.

“I can’t be your boyfriend if I’m your campaign manager, and I’d much rather be one of those things than the other right now.”

Gary rolls his eyes. “You don’t mean that. This is your career too.”

“I mean every word,” Jamie says, pausing for dramatic effect, but knows it isn’t quite that simple. “No, listen, I’m not resigning, alright? Got the message loud and clear, so stop looking like someone stole your Wheaties.”

(But he would, for this. He would in a heartbeat)

“And boyfriends makes us sound like lovesick teenagers,” Gary adds, but that isn’t his irritated voice, so Jamie doesn’t pay it too much mind.

Besides, he feels just about as giddy as a lovesick teenager right now, so maybe it isn’t the most inaccurate description.

There’s a knock on the door, two sharp bangs one second apart.

“That’ll be Phil,” Gary says, sounding unhappy about it. “Results are probably imminent.”

Jamie tries not let it fuel his ego that Gary seems more interested in staying in his room with him than finding out if he’s achieved the singular goal of his professional life. He tries, and he fails.

Gary notices, because it’s been a long time since they missed anything about each other. “Don’t look so smug, James. I’d only rather be in here because there’s nothing worse than losing in front of a crowd.”

“I think I’ve already won,” Jamie says softly.

It’s stupidly sappy, but he’s stupidly happy, alright? He’s allowed.

[carli-meows]

Thrill Stars - Deranged Myme Crewe

2 in the morning, midnight snack, camera action

whos eating what; thats the big time question

a sound by the window, probably just a stray cat

worse, it's me with red eyes; brandishing a spiked bat

the camera cuts, im somehow in your house

you barely noticed, munching cereal in your mouth

i bump an end table, you turn and im not there

the phone ringing makes you jump, goosebumped your hairs

you're munching and chatting, unaware of your doom

im upstairs crackin windows, tping your washroom

you hear me, you rush up the stairs and fall on your butt

and down them... what the fuck (CUT)

you can't have your victims falling down and dieing before you get to them, dahling

makes you look rubbish, go take 5 we'll film a different scene be hasty, back in 10 ok? ok bye

my turn, take two, no more fuckin around

scary lady silent kayti, killer jyester like a wicked clown

it's a frat party, and lookie a myme with a chainsaw

cheap beer battered minced meat for all of yalls

i go to kick the door down, i think i skipped leg day

oh, it's a pull not a push- fuck it, anyways

revved it up like clowncar hand crank and what do i get

a pile of dead bitches but my bandana not blood soaked yet

im not the killer? the killers locked in here with me

im getting frantic with it, where this scaredy bitch gottsta be

and there i go, getting dissed off again, i get no respect

amateur actor on the WRONG SET

Ah lookit whatcha done did now you gone and fucked up all our shit cmahn gett outta here

some one get this broad off my fuckin set god damn it ray, can you do that for me THANK YOU god lee

i pull up with a double barrel, bottomless ammo

im here to pop bitches, and atomize bone marrow

with my fuck around find out kinda attitude

these are bean ball bullets, you're better off catchin, dude

whose what, and who's where?

in this warehouse ass building? i can smell em in there

my target is some directors and a crew

this bottomless clip gettin this work in too

i kick down the first door that i saw

closed my eyes and stared blastin like Buck BcCaw

when I open my eyes everyone was dead

oh shit the fuck k and süks doin in this big ass shed

we were THIS close to making bank dawg cmon man, i was gonna ace this take

nah mate, ya form was all kinds of crooked, it's a slasher not a thriller, fucko, wouldve been lucky to get a 20 spot, truthly

[charliesinfern0]

i would like to hear about your aus

alright, so you already know about citrus (homestuck but my ocs are in it). very standard for what i normally do, but then i finished reading homestuck and was liek, "..... what if it was good?" (/j i am joking) but i had some ideas of how canon could have gone differently and then homestuck='citrus' was made (originally it was called homestuck='fruit' and...... hm. i mean. yeah??) i also wanted to expand on the trolls' session so hivebent is now called hivebent='blood' because wyllin is a thief of blood. and despite everything........................................ hm wait i dont know if i want to spoil this AAAAUUGGGGGHGHH sometimes i am an open book and i just say whatever but sometimes i think. no i dont want to reveal this bc it would be so cool they wouldnt see it coming. shit. you know what whatever uncle cambell (paul) doesnt get do be an alpha kid because the alpha kid dynamic is already complicated as it is there does not need to be another person in there also hes a thief of doom (he used to be a bard of doom and maybe he still is im not sure actually but hes one of the two) because i had 4 aspects (doom, blood, mind and rage) and 4 classes to pick from (mage, sylph, theif and bard) and i had made page a mage of rage and she COULDVE maybe been a mind player maybe but she wasnt, if she was shed probably be a witch of mind, and wyllin couldve been almost ANY aspect, there are some that i didnt want to touch bc i though they were too important, but i made her a thief of blood despite me now thinking that blood mightve been too important. doom is also a too important aspect but it doesnt matter for paul. (also i came up w other stuff for paul like his chumhandle (cardinalAdrift because fisherman and the cardinal directions and also cardinal as in bird which is like a direct contridiction like what thats not a fish) and his planet (land of vaults and radon (LOVAR)) and his strife specibus (crowbarkind (which is kind of why he died he wouldve broken the session also vaults and crowbars and thief and LOVAR rhymes with crowbar)

anyway i gave page her own classical element (lightning) and associated item (gold) bc im a nerd about that kind of stuff, i came up with a rage denizen for her (marsyas) and her own consorts (chameleons) and also her exile is White King/Writ Keeper because it fits its perfect and he shouldve had more relevance. also that reminds me that on the strife album theres a song for each of the kids (heir conditioning, dance of thorns, time on my side, atomic bonsai) and theres a song on there called Stormspirit and pages whole thing on her planet (land of nod and thunder (LONAT) (nod like sleep because uhhh................. actual spoilers <_< >_> and thunder bc storms)) is that theres a huge storm/tempest thing happening, it just fits.

(and wyllin's planet is the land of pillars and crowns (pillars like the architechture but also like capillaries and crowns because treasure and..... thief. and their denizen is talos)

also its an everybody lives au, i was very much inspired by the crow strider au lol

oh yeah also i wanna do just a bit more with the dancestors' session bc i think it looks cool

also im thinking of changing how the retcon works, like instead of it working like time travel where if you travel back to a time where you exist there will be two versions of you, its more like youre rewinding time from where youre standing, so youre still you but in the past

(also im goiung to do an epilogue because i wanna write everybody living on earth c and just being together and working through things together and being there for eachother and stuff becaus im a sap. yes its called the pumpkin epilogue because i am not original we know this to be true)

[aboutanancientenquiry]

A text on the Elizabethian English poet Edmund Spenser, early modern racism, Herodotus, the Irish, and the Scythians (with some critical remarks of mine)

“Beyond the Pale

  by Dennis Austin Britton and Kimberly Anne Coles

What happens when we think about race in the works of Edmund Spenser? In spite of the growing body of scholarship now devoted to early modern racial formation, few scholars have explored Edmund Spenser’s treatment of race outside of his treatment of the Irish.[1] Of course, Spenser is important to the study of race precisely because he is implicated in the English colonial project in Ireland. Scholarship on The View of the Present State of Ireland has played an important role in inaugurating Spenser as an early modern producer of race thinking; examining Spenser’s Irish project sheds light on the ways in which race in the early modern period was invested in asserting absolute difference between Protestants and Catholics, maintaining the noble quality of English blood and justifying colonial domination. Yet, race has still not been a central focus in studies of his pastoral poems, his lyric poetry and his Faerie Queene.

With this in mind, and inspired by the wonderful Twitter discussion of The Faerie Queene led by Brooke Conti and Jim Marino during the summer of 2015 (#TeamFQ), we set a challenge: to read each book of The Faerie Queene with attention to race during the summer of 2018 (#TeamFQandRace). This challenge was met with some reserve on the Sidney-Spenser listserv: not everyone who might want to contribute to the conversation was on Twitter, and Twitter’s character limit would not allow for a depth of conversation that some might want. We decided to hold the conversation on two different platforms. This discussion with two different audiences—and expectations for engagement—turned out to be informative. The Twitter conversation was mostly populated with people who would not likely consider themselves ‘Spenserians’, and who enthusiastically engaged our questions. The listserv is, of course, full of Spenserians, and some of the first postings seemed to question the validity of our entire enterprise. Dennis’s opening suggestion that Una’s whiteness might be a possible point of discussion was met with immediate rebuttal.

Lexical evidence suggests a limited use of the term ‘white’ in the period for human description, and this was offered as evidence for why Spenser or any other early modern English author would not have used ‘white’ as a racial signifier. Why not read ‘white’ though the lens of Christian typology? What evidence do we have that Spenser or any other late sixteenth-century European understood themselves as white? Alongside resistance to discussing Una’s whiteness as racially charged came the question whether or not we should talk about race in Spenser’s works at all. Spenser’s understanding of human difference can surely be traced back to Herodotus. Early respondents did not deny the fact that there were forms of racism in the early modern period, but they questioned whether Spenser was unique in his formulation of racial difference. How did his racialization diverge from ancient discussions of ethnic difference? These exchanges are worth relating for two reasons: the almost immediate resistance to the exploration of race in The Faerie Queene; and the fact that the posts cite many of the reasons why.

Such posts could have been written by any number of Spenserians, but they also unwittingly make the case for why more attention to Spenser and race is required. This is not to impugn the accurate assessment that it is unlikely that white Europeans in Spenser’s day thought of themselves as ‘white’. (This development was probably a consequence of rationalizing chattel slavery, and so a later seventeenth-century occurrence). Yet, the authors of these posts seemed unaware that scholars within critical race studies have exfoliated the use of the term ‘white’ in the early modern period. Although early modern Europeans may not yet have collectively understood themselves as ‘white’, skin classified as white or fair was almost universally esteemed over black, brown and tawny skin. Additionally, medieval and early modern physiognomies certainly invested skin colors with meaning. The point is that Spenserians can usefully engage critical race studies, and scholars of critical race studies can usefully engage Spenser: the paucity of attention to race by Spenserians, as well as the lack of attention to Spenser by scholars devoted to early modern critical race studies, is exactly why we have only a limited sense whether or not Spenser’s poetry offers anything unique to our understanding of the history of racial formation.

The suggestion that ancient thinkers like Herodotus are the chief architects of Spenser’s rationale for otherness reveals another set of assumptions. As Richard McCabe has observed, Spenser does indeed employ the methodology of Herodotus when taxonomizing the category of human that the Irish are.[2] He insists that the Irish practice of seasonal migration for the purpose of grazing their animals ‘appeareth plaine to be the manner of the Scithians’; their manner of dress, style of hair is a ‘Custome from the Scythyans’; their arms ‘are verye Scythyan’; their battle cries ‘Scithyanlike’; their funeral rites ‘vncivile and Scithianlike’—all which lead Spenser ‘by the same reasone [as Herodotus]’ to ‘Conclude that the Irishe are discended from the Scythyans for that they vse even to this daie some of the same ceremonies which the Scythyans aunciently vsed’.[3] François Hartog has shown how pliant and metaphorical such a method can be when deployed for an ideological purpose.[4] Hartog’s whole thesis is the fiction of the self, created in the systematic differentiation of the other. But using Herodotus as the model for Spenser’s story of a colonial imperative—indeed, as the same mode for all race thinking in the early modern period—assumes that a set of ethnic practices were not also characterized as ‘natural’ to certain groups. It assumes that these ethnic practices did not, in rhetorical terms, calcify as natural facts pertaining to specific bodies.

To assert that Spenser’s race thinking is the descendant of Herodotus is to assert that the differences reinforced by the logic are ethnic practices and not physiological facts. But if, as Spenser declares in his View of the Present State of Ireland, ‘[T]he minde, followethe muche the Temparature of the bodye’, then bodies are deeply implicated in moral messages.[5] We are all well aware of the ways in which the moral encoding in The Faerie Queene can be read in ways that are unattached to real bodies or real people. Indeed this has been our standard reading practice with The Faerie Queene. The question is not whether whiteness or blackness is attached to actual bodies that are white or black: the question is whether this moral encoding attaches at all. And what happens when we entertain the possibility that it might? Allegory is wax-soft to the impress of ideology: do the embodied terms of Spenser’s religious allegory mean anything apart from the allegory itself? Or, might we read Spenser’s allegory as both drawing from and producing understandings of a racialized body?

We know from Bryskett’s A Discovrse of Civill Life that the character of ‘Maister Spenser’ is deeply interested in how the ‘soule being immortall’ can be ‘troubled with Lethargies, Phrensies, Melancholie, drunkennesse, and such other passions, by which we see her ouercome, and to be debarred from her office and function’.[6] He is here questioning precisely whether the soul is immortal because its implication in material matter might throw that status into question. Spenser the character (if not the man) in Bryskett’s Discourse is troubled by the soul’s transactions with the body, and with the possibility that it might therefore be offered corruption from the body, and might proffer corruption to it. If, in this context, we then try to understand the whiteness of Reformed bodies in The Faerie Queene—and the extent to which Catholic figures are negrified—a different kind of religious allegory might come into view. The Sans brothers, for example, might signal Spenser framing race in terms of not just difference but specifically lack: all of the brothers are descendants of Night, and lacking in faith, joy and law. But Redcrosse Knight also lacks: armor that fits, experience, etc. Nonetheless, he is able to grow and develop; the Sans brothers cannot and do not. In other words, there does not seem to be the possibility of conversion for them.[7] The reform of Redcrosse can be effected by Una; but in spite of her representing the one catholic (small c) church, many Catholic (big C) figures in the The Faerie Queene remain obdurate to her influence. Why is conversion impossible for them?

To what extent is Spenser’s allegory enlivened by the particularities of bodies? Ayanna Thompson rightly points out that ‘a racialized epistemology does not have to be based on a semiotically charged interpretation of skin color so much as a semiotically charged interpretation of bodiliness’.[8] Race thinking, then, should not be understood as adhering only to surface markings; it attaches to bodies that are characterized as different in a variety of ways—through blood, temperament, sinfulness. We as Spenserians, trained to consider the relationship between figure and meaning, should examine race in the bodies in Faerieland that are charged with a Christian typology of black and white. The Faerie Queene is overrun with Paynims, Idolaters and Infidels, whose exaggerated physical features invoke Irish, New World, Eastern and African peoples, and whose physical excess shows them committed to the flesh and not the spirit. These moments no doubt reflect the incarnate experience of the Roman Catholic Church. But they also reflect attachment to the law of man that is grounded in the flesh. In St. Paul’s pronouncement, the law that resides in the ritual experience of the flesh is weak precisely because flesh is poor rock on which to build a church.[9] Spenser’s religious allegory dwells on this problem, and persistently returns to the need to reform the flesh, even to its humoral complexion, before a life of the spirit is possible. But for those who live outside of the spirit—Catholics, ‘Saracens’, and savages—their error resides in flesh itself. Race is not only about understandings of ‘actual’ physiological difference. It is also about a construct of power relations naturalized through a fantasy of the body, the supple figure upon which ideology is scored.[10]

Race studies looks at (proto-)colonial relations, theories of embodiment, the politics of representation, religion and conversion, performance practices, custom, gender and misogyny, all of which have been and continue to be of interest to the study of Spenser. Acknowledging that critical race studies and Spenser studies have shared concerns calls us to put Spenser and race in more deliberate and sustained conversation. To that end, we are coediting a special issue of Spenser Studies on ‘Spenser and Race’. Volume 35 (January 2021) intends to provide new avenues into the study of Spenser’s works, using a focus on race to understand more fully the ethnographic impulse across Spenser’s works, and how his works betray an investment in how bodies differ in their very kind. We believe that the expertise of Spenserians can offer much to the current understanding of early modern racial formation—the deep study of literary modes and figures, hermeneutical controversies, early modern politics and court culture, theological controversies, the historical and literary formation of love and desire, the influence of continental texts and traditions on English literature. Spenserians, on the other hand, need to more fully engage the robust conversation that has been occurring in early modern critical race studies for more than thirty years. Attending to race in early modern English literature is not a new area of study; it is only newly brought to the study of Spenser.[11] Even as Spenserians continue to undercover and appreciate the poet’s deep learning, literary dexterity and linguistic ingenuity, we must also grapple with the role that Spenser, as politician and poet, has played in histories of colonial violence and racial oppression.              

Dennis Austin Britton (University of New Hampshire)Kimberly Anne Coles (University of Maryland)

[1] Speaking broadly about Spenser, Gary Waller asserts, ‘race…was starting to acquire some of its modern impact in Spenser’s time, and his career and writings make distinctive contributions to those later developments’ (Edmund Spenser: A Literary Life [New York: Palgrave, 1994], 18). Waller makes this important assertation but does not examine the ‘distinctive contributions.’ Also see Margo Hendricks’s ‘‘Obscured by dreams’: Race, Empire, and Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ Shakespeare Quarterly 47 (1996), 37–60, in which Hendricks examines the racialization of Spenser’s and Shakespeare’s Indian fairies; Kent Lehnhof’s ‘Incest and Empire in the ‘Faerie Queen,’ ELH 73.1 (2006), 215-43, which engages Spenser’s view of the Irish, but offers a reading of incest in Book 3 as relaying Spenser’s fixation on dynastic racial purity; and Dennis Austin Britton’s ‘Ovidian Baptism in Book 2 of The Faerie Queene‘, in Becoming Christian: Race, Reformation, and Early Modern English Romance (New York: Fordham University Press, 2014), 35-58, which examines Spenser’s treatment of ‘Paynim’ racial and religious difference. For a study that shows sensitivity to Spenser’s engagement with the racial difference of none-Irish groups, see Benedict Robinson’s discussion of Spenser’s Saracens, ‘Secret Faith,’ in Islam and Early Modern English Literature: The Politics of Romance from Spenser to Milton (New York, Palgrave, 2007), 27-56.

[2] Richard McCabe, Spenser’s Monstrous Regiment: Elizabethan Ireland and the Poetics of Difference (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 148.

[3] Edmund Spenser, Spenser’s Prose Works, vol. 9. Rudolf Gottfried (ed.) In The Works of Edmund Spenser: A Variorum Edition. 11 vols: 1932-58, (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1949), 97; 99; 106; 103; 105; 107.

[4] François Hartog, The Mirror of Herodotus: the Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, trans. Janet Lloyd (Berkeley and Los Angeles: California University Press, 1988).

[5] Spenser’s Prose Works, 9:119.

[6] Ludowick Bryskett, A Discovrse of Civill Life: Containing the Ethike part of Morall Philosophie. Fit for the instructing of a Gentleman in the course of a vertuous life (STC 3958), 274.

[7] Vanessa Corredera on Twitter, July 19, 2018.

[8] Ayanna Thompson, Performing Race and Torture on the Early Modern Stage (New York: Routledge, 2009), 4.

[9] See Romans 2:28-29, ‘For he is not a Jew, which is one outwardly; neither is that circumcision, which is outward in the flesh: but he is a Jew, which is one inwardly; and circumcision is that of the heart, in the spirit, and not in the letter; whose praise is not of men, but of God’.

[10] Kim F. Hall has rightly underscored: that, ‘[t]he easy association of race with modern science ignores the fact that language itself creates differences within social organization and that race was then (as it is now) a social construct that is fundamentally more about power and culture than biological difference’ (Things of Darkness: Economies of Race and Gender in Early Modern England [Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995], 6).

[11]  Margo Hendricks powerfully asserted in ‘Coloring the Past, Rewriting our Future: RaceB4Race’, a keynote given at the January 2019 ‘Race and Periodization’ conference, why scholars who discuss race in the early modern period must engage those—primarily women of color—who have done prior work in the field: not to do so is akin to white settler colonialism. The lecture is available online through the Folger Shakespeare Library:  https://www.folger.edu/institute/scholarly-programs/race-periodization/margo-hendricks”

Source: https://www.english.cam.ac.uk/spenseronline/review/item/50.1.5/

And now some remarks on the text that I have reproduced above, in which I will explain why Herodotus’ attitude toward the Scythians is radically different from Spenser’s attitude toward the Irish and why Herodotus cannot be seen as some kind of forefather of the early modern racism of Spenser and others.

1/ Herodotus’ account of the Scythians has of course an important aspect of effort to understand “us” (the ancient Greeks) in comparison to the “other” (the Scythians), especially given the very important differences between the ways of life of the Greeks and of the (mostly nomadic) Scythians. However, Herodotus’ Scythians are not just or mainly an invention of the author, aiming at the confirmation of a collective Greek identity: Herodotus’ Scythian logos contains very often accurate and useful information about the real Scythians, as it is proved by comparative ethnology, but also by important findings of the archaeological research. In this sense, Hartog’s influential interpretation of Herodotus’ description of the Scythians as just an invented “mirror” of the Greeks must be seen as outdated and misleading. On the contrary, Spenser’s effort to establish a link between Scythians and Irish and to present the Irish as Scythian-like was just an artifice of political propaganda.

2/ I think that it is beyond doubt that Spenser hated the Irish (or at least the Catholic Irish, who were and are by large the majority of the Irish population) and had taken position essentially for their genocide by famine. So, the approach of Spenser to the Irish problem is colonialist and genocidal. On the other hand, first of all, the Greek-Scythian relationship was not at all comparable to the relationship between English and Irish, as, despite the existence of some Greek colonies near Scythia, the Greeks did not colonize the Scythians, who were a very powerful nation. The result is that the Greeks saw the Scythians as culturally alien, not as the subjugated, disdained, but troublesome population that were the Irish for their English conquerors, and this is an important difference of political and cultural contexts between Herodotus and Spenser in their approaches respectively of the Scythians and the Irish. 

Second and more specifically concerning Herodotus, the truth is that the latter states that he does not approve most of the Scythian customs, despite his relativism and his open-mindedness toward the non-Greek peoples, and this is understandable, because some of the customs of the Scythians were cruel (above all their human sacrifices). This is not exceptional of course, as the sedentary peoples of the Antiquity and the Middle Ages tended to see very unfavorably the nomads, who were perceived as threat and the hostile ‘other’ (often not without reason), with as result that traditions describing the nomads as evil or almost demonical beings were not rare among sedentary nations. In this light, Herodotus’ treatment of the Scythians looks objective and fair and in any case it would be unreasonable to say that Herodotus hated the Scythians, as Spenser hated the Irish. 

Moreover and most importantly, despite his critical attitude toward the Scythian way of life, Herodotus sympathizes with the Scythians’ love of freedom and with their willingness to defend their freedom face to the mighty Pesian Empire, and he describes the Scythian defense of their country as a combination of military valor and cunning. The differences with Spenser are again crucial: Spenser loathes the Irish aspiration to independence and sees the Irish as a worthless, backward, and troublesome people whom the English should exterminate, whereas Herodotus sees with sympathy the Scythians’s defense of their freedom and, despite his criticism of their customs, recognizes to them some important virtues. On the contrary, it seems that Herodotus shares the contempt of the Scythians for the Ionian Greeks who, out of self-interest or servility, facilitated the retreat of the Persian Great King Darius from Scythia...  

[o-craven-canto]

Year in Review

[crappily copypasted because reblogging it directly will just give me an error message]

I posted 559 times in 2022

That's 270 more posts than 2021!

111 posts created (20%)

448 posts reblogged (80%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@cromulentenough

@official-kircheis

@o-craven-canto

@shieldfoss

@fruityyamenrunner

I tagged 553 of my posts in 2022

Only 1% of my posts had no tags

#biology - 85 posts

#speculative biology - 65 posts

#history - 58 posts

#stuff i like - 54 posts

#sorry - 51 posts

#books - 41 posts

#animals - 40 posts

#fucked up - 39 posts

#speculative evolution - 37 posts

#my work - 36 posts

Longest Tag: 115 characters

#would be funny if the oviraptor had in fact died in the act of stealing eggs but from a nest of its own species tho

My Top Posts in 2022: #5

See the full post

95 notes - Posted April 3, 2022

#4

The featherless biped

https://www.deviantart.com/concavenator/art/The-Featherless-Biped-775925572 (2018; text somewhat edited here)

 "... in any case, the possibility of advanced  intelligence among mammals remains extremely speculative. Endothermy and  brain cortex are in their favour, but their neurons are not dense  enough if compared to ours. They would need an enormous head, and a  proportionate blood supply. Which leads to their worst issue,  viviparity. It should be obvious to anyone that egg-laying is a  requisite for cerebral development; can you imagine the  head of a sapient mammal passing through the mother's birth canal? The  problem is insurmountable."  "Let us not overstate; harder problems  have been solved by evolution. Clearly our sapient mammal ought to be a  marsupial, which would complete its cerebral development in the  mother's pouch, relatively unconstrained as it sucks milk."  "Call me a moralist, but the idea of a sapient being feeding on milk keeps repulsing me."  "Our males regurgitate food in our children's mouth; you think that so different?"   "You do not? Food is food, whether pre-digested or not. Milk is a bodily  secretion -- it's like feeding on blood, on mucus, on semen. Mammals are  born as parasites, and frankly I don't believe they are worthy of upper  faculties."  "If you believe so. Myself, I see no reason an  omnivorous marsupial, perhaps tree-dwelling, could not evolve organs of  manipulation and an advanced brain. Tagra's mutable environment would  give it the necessary incentives. A prehensile-tailed tree-dweller could  start using its forelimbs to handle objects, adopting a bipedal gait."   "But having left the trees, it would have to walk on two legs, with its  spine up straight, as a penguin's, lest it falls forward. It's not  just very unseemly, it's also extremely unstable."  "Once the tail  has lost its prehensile function, it could increase its size and balance the  head's weight, giving the marsupial a stance similar to ours. It would  retain the furry coat, analogous to our plumage - there's no reason to  shed it, even in climates warmer than ours. The general result would be something much like an 'ikra, although molded from different material."  "Ah, such an image! Describe, describe us this thinking mammal of yours!"   "Well... our foremost sense is sight, as typical of the feathered  beings of land and air. Not so among mammals -- probably this being  wouldn't even see colours, fundamentally nocturnal creature that it is. It would find its way mostly with hearing and  scent. I would expect a large wet nose proportioned to its brain, to  sample the air with the precision worthy of a superior mind.  We know that mammals can discriminate more scents than we can hues. Communication... the vocal apparatus of mammals is a poor thing, it  allows little more than screeches and bellows. Many communicate with  their bodily stance, or contracting their facial muscles, which are well  developed in furred beasts, and might even supplement the function of  hands in holding tools. Lips, perhaps, nimbler than beaks..."  "What a sight would they be, the cities of the  featherless biped. People croaking and howling, jumping on the spot,  baring their teeth and squinting their eyes. Grunting noses, lips  smacking and spraying spit. But if their eyesight is as poor as you say,  perhaps they would rather trust olfaction in this field as well, and  communicate by rubbing on each other their nether glands, as  astrapotheria do. And to do so they would need to be always sticking to each other."   "I don't think that would disturb them. Mammals appreciate physical  contact; the smallest species are always curled in their burrows. The greater risk of disease might be a price worth paying. They  would have no concept of a respectful distance and, who can say, maybe  they would not envy it to us."  "A use for burrows is dubious, for a species that fears no predators. It's well known that  the metabolic activity of mammals is generally inferior to that of  feathered species. The hypothetical creature would inhabit only a warmer  and moister world, dominated by flower plants. They would leave the  trees to live in a garden of giant flowers..."  "Might be, might  be. But I think they would conserve an instinctual love of enclosed  spaces, moreso as they would spend their earliest infancy in the  maternal pouch."  "Enclosed spaces that would soon be satured with the stench of their secretions. Is this a fancy of yours, that you wish to impose on us?"   "And still you confuse your aesthetic pleasures with iron laws of nature, even in a world of conjecture. I wager, for you even the caravans of Yakak'ratu would be  unsufferably alien. This being has sprouted from another branch altogether of the delta of life. What is pleasurable to us would  probably be disgusting to it, and viceversa; but if the selfsame happiness is  achieved by different means, what makes a form of it inferior to  another? Tagra, even our noble city of Grikaa, is hardly perfection embodied. I have counted  more than enough beggars and cutthroats leaving my house this morning.  Who can say whether the thinking mammal, in her garden-world, isn't  happier than we?"

@cromulentenough​

115 notes - Posted April 26, 2022

#3

Some possible forms of communication for non-human species:

Sound-based communication, but instead of sound quality, stress, or tone, information is encoded into speech loudness or velocity.  (from Justin B. Rye)

Sound-based communication, but the organism repeats external sound with a variation (e.g. tempo change, shifting pitch): information is encoded in the pattern of change from the source. (The Progenitors in Sid Meier’s Alpha Centauri)

Visual communication by raising, bending, or waving limbs, flags, or sticks. (Similar to optical telegraphy, maybe? This can also be perceived through sonar)

Whole-body movement -- pacing, spinning, shaking -- in a way similar to the waggle dance of honey bees (in which the direction and frequency of waggling indicate the direction and distance of nectar sources), but more flexible and generalized.

Communication by pheromones like ants, or possibly through more complex patterns of scents (or maybe tastes, like the Back-lickers from Accidental Space Spy?) This one is tricky because scents will disperse and persist over time, like heavily echoing sound.

Skin full of chromatophores and/or reflective crystals that allow it to change hue, brightness, and/or opacity. The organism can control them, as cuttlefish do, to encode information in color patterns changing over time.

Communicating by vibrations not of the air, but the ground,  like elephants picking up infrasounds through their footpads. (I hear  the uplifted spiders in Children of Time communicate by plucking the strands of a communal web, but I haven’t read it)

An aquatic organism able to generate and perceive electric fields (less effective out of water) can modulate the frequency and intensity of its oscillating electric field to send information, as knifefish and electric eels do.

An organism changes the texture (softness, roughness, &c) of its skin, for example raising bumps or pimples that another individual can read by touch like Braille. (Octopodes and cuttlefish can do this to a degree.)

An aquatic organism ejects clouds of thick mucus that congeal into pseudomorphs; the shape, size, and motion of pseudomorphs encodes information. (Suitable for sonar- and electroception-based communication too!)

Other ideas?

118 notes - Posted November 26, 2022

#2

(source)

122 notes - Posted June 10, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Meet Gauromydas heros, the world’s largest fly. Originary of tropical South America, they grow up to 7 cm in length (about 3 in). They are quite harmless, feeding on flowers.

152 notes - Posted November 18, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[sacramentonewsjournal]

Remembering DJ Gio six months since he was fatally shot

SACRAMENTO, Calif. (KTXL) — Monday marks six months since standard Sacramento-based DJ Giovanni Pizano was shot and killed at his Natomas dwelling.  Family and friends of Pizano, also referred to as DJ Gio, got here collectively Sunday to honor him and spark a dialog about stopping gun violence. The household instructed FOX40 Information they plan to carry one other vigil Monday at 7 p.m. on the website the place he was killed to mild candles and place flowers.  The vigil will probably be close to Amelia Earhart Avenue and Laroche Avenue in Natomas. Since Pizano misplaced his life, here’s what we all know concerning the capturing six months later. A music profession tragically minimize brief On April 10 at 3:25 a.m., Sacramento cops responded to a reported capturing on Amelia Earhart Avenue close to Laroche Avenue within the Natomas Crossing neighborhood. When officers arrived, they discovered two males every with at the very least one gunshot wound and hearth personnel declared each males lifeless.  Family and friends recognized one of many victims as DJ Gio and that capturing was the second prevalence of gun violence within the neighborhood throughout the previous yr. In Might 2021, one individual was killed and one other was injured on Streamline Avenue.  “I came across my son’s physique proper there, the place the flowers are. These stains that you just see there, that’s his blood working to the curb,” stated Pizano’s mom Anita Razo in a earlier FOX40 Information report.  The opposite person who was killed within the deadly capturing of Pizano was recognized by the Sacramento County Coroner’s Workplace as 30-year-old Vernon Mulder III of Vallejo.  Group working to forestall downtown shootings Mural devoted to a beloved DJ A few month after the capturing dying of Pizano, a vigil for the Sacramento-based artist was held at a brand new mural to honor his reminiscence.  The mural is situated in downtown Sacramento on Jazz Alley and incorporates a portrait of Pizano with a halo above his head and textual content studying “Lengthy Dwell DJ Gio.” The mural was painted by Sacramento-based artist Ryan “Pawn” Rhodes.  Native Instagram web page @thepeopleofsacramento posted a photograph of the finished mural together with a message. “Might he perpetually encourage the youth and the group of Sacramento to chase their goals and take their abilities to the largest phases of the world,” learn the web page’s Instagram submit.  ‘A Tragic Bond’: Households left grieving within the wake of shedding kids to gun violence Suspected arrested In June, the Sacramento Police Division introduced the arrest of 22-year-old Nigel Robinson in connection to the deadly capturing of DJ Gio and one different individual.  Robinson was detained in Vallejo after detectives and SWAT officers served search warrants at two properties in reference to the investigation, in keeping with police.  The 22-year-old was booked into the Sacramento County Jail on murder fees.  Shut Modal Counsel a Correction Counsel a Correction Originally published at Sacramento News Journal

[cassandraclare]

The Whispering Room: James’ POV

Here it is finally — James’ POV of the Whispering Room scene from Chain of Gold. I wanted to wait until Chain of Iron was released to give more people a chance to read the book, and also because what we learn in COI does inform the scene. I hope you enjoy!

*art by Cassandra Jean

Cortana wove with her words, underlining each one with steel. She turned as her sword turned, and her body curved and moved like water or fire, like a river under an infinity of stars. It was beautiful—she was beautiful, but it was not a distant beauty. It was a beauty that lived and breathed and reached out with its hands to crush James’s chest and make him breathless. — Chain of Gold

James had felt a strange emotion when Daisy first took the stage at the Hell Ruelle. It was a mix of several feelings...

worry on her behalf, annoyance at Kellington, curiosity, and admiration for her bravery and poise. It was unfair of these Bohemians to force her to caper for them, and, he thought, a bit insulting to Shadowhunters in general. He supposed that Matthew had given them a rather unusual view of what the Nephilim were like in such circumstances.

And then she had begun to dance. And suddenly she was not Daisy, his old friend. She was Cordelia, whose name meant heart, whose every gesture was fire. Every earthly worry he’d had had been swept out of his mind. He was conscious only of Cordelia, whirling back and forth across the small stage. Cortana danced around her, shedding light like embers. The dull glow of the lamps illuminated her body, describing her every movement, her every curve as she danced. Her scarlet hair whipped around her in time to the music, and the golden light of the lamps in the Ruelle slipped across her skin, slow and hot, like beads of honey. The cadences of her voice, rising and falling, seemed to weave a cage of silken thread about her audience, and James was no exception.

Later, James would think it was odd that he had not compared her to Grace. Grace had never entered his mind at all. Cordelia danced, and by the end of her performance, James’s entire life had been disassembled and put back together in a new and different shape. He was conscious of Matthew, beside him, also staring as the crowd cheered, his sharp cheekbones flushed. He looked dazed; James couldn’t blame him.

Cordelia descended the stage and slipped through the crowd to come back to them, blushing at the looks and murmured comments she was drawing from the audience now. James could see the desire in the eyes that followed her. Everyone wanted her. He felt a dull fury. They had no right. They did not know Cordelia. She was more than just that dance.

When she reached them she let out a long breath of relief and smiled. She glowed with the exercise of dancing. Sweat beaded along her collarbones, shimmered between her breasts. Her eyes were bright as Cortana’s blade, strapped to her back.

“Bloody hell,” Matthew exclaimed.  “What was that?”

A look of uncertainty crossed Cordelia’s face. James said, “It was a fairy tale, Math,” and Matthew nodded. His dark green eyes searched Cordelia’s face, as if looking for the key to a locked room he had only just discovered.

Cordelia looked uncertain. James couldn’t bear that. She’d been magnificent; she should know it. But he couldn’t say that, of course. It would only make her self-conscious.

“Well done, Cordelia,” James said instead; when he unfolded his arms; his wrist hurt and he wondered if he’d been clenching his hands.

Cordelia. He hadn’t called her Daisy, and she looked a little surprised. It seemed inappropriate, somehow. Daisy was Lucie’s friend, the Merry Thieves’ compatriot; he found it a smaller name than she deserved. Cordelia, though—she had been a queen, hadn’t she? Queen Cordelia, daughter of Leir, ruler of Britain before the Romans had ever landed on those shores. Like Boadicea, a legendary warrior queen. A blazing white fire behind fathomless black eyes.

“Anna has disappeared with Hypatia,” James said, noting the empty settee, “so I would call your distraction a success.”

Cordelia’s lips twitched into a smile. “How long does a seduction usually last?”

“Depends if you do it properly,” Matthew said, with a wink. James felt it as a spark of relief, a bit of lightness amid the feeling that something heavy was sitting on his chest.

“Well, I hope for Hypatia’s sake Anna does it properly,” James said. He registered, with the reflexes of a parabatai, that Matthew had gone still next to him, and wondered what was wrong. “Yet for our sake, I hope she hurries it up.”

All hint of Matthew’s jocular tone from before was gone. “Both of you,” he said urgently. “Listen.”

Did he mean all the muttering about Shadowhunters? Was he only noticing it now? It had followed them since they came into the place. But when James followed Matthew’s gaze, he found Kellington staring with an expression of vexation, not at them but at the door. All questions were answered as through the door came Charles Fairchild, looking around him with a haughty expression. He looked like was about to raid the place; so much for whatever work Matthew and Anna had done for Downworlder-Shadowhunter relations here.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Charles,” he sighed. “By the Angel, what is he doing here?”

Charles was, James thought, probably looking for them. He was making his way through the crowd and gazing around him. Luckily for them, the crowd was not interested in letting him through, and he was moving very slowly.

“We should go,” James said. “But we can’t leave Anna.”

In one way, at least, Charles’s arrival was helpful; it threw a bucket of cold water on the roiling heat that had gripped James’s heart since Cordelia had begun her dance. Back to the matter at hand: a demon, a Pyxis, a plan.

“You two run and hide yourselves,” Matthew said, still keeping his eyes on his brother. “Charles will go off his head if he sees you here.”

“But what about you?” said Cordelia.

Matthew shrugged, but James could see the tension in his jaw and his shoulders. “He’s used to this kind of thing from me. I’ll deal with Charles.”

Not for the first time, James wished that his parabatai wasn’t in such a hurry to sacrifice his own reputation. He exchanged a long look with Matthew, but Matthew was sure, and determined, and his desire to rush into his own humiliation was an issue that would have to wait. Nodding, he turned and caught Cordelia’s hand with his own. “This way,” he said, and she nodded back in acknowledgement. As he pulled them into the crowd he heard Matthew’s voice calling, “Charles!” in a hearty tone of pleasant, if entirely false, welcome.

James didn’t know his way around the place, and the crowd made orientating himself even more difficult, but after some trial and error he and Cordelia managed to get behind Kellington and slip into a corridor leading away. This wasn’t safe in itself, since from the main chamber one would have a clear view down the entire corridor. In fact, they were temporarily more exposed than before, and James’s hope for the hallway to take a quick turn or to contain large statuary to hide behind was quickly dashed. He continued to hold onto Cordelia’s hand, not that he needed to; she seemed to know her way better than he did.

Partway down the corridor, James caught sight of an open door — its silver plaque labeling it the entrance to THE WHISPERING ROOM. Swiftly he drew Cordelia inside, out of sight. He slammed the door behind them, causing a loud noise, but he thought it couldn’t possibly be heard over the crowd in the main chamber. Only then did he release Cordelia’s hand and take stock of their surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, but not cold: a scented fire burned in the grate, filling the space with the smell of sandalwood and roses. It was a study, he guessed, based on the gigantic walnut desk against the wall and the bookshelves opposite, but it was too richly decorated to be solely a place for studious contemplation. Phoenix feathers and dragon scales danced across the gilded wallpaper; there were no windows, but the walls were hung with patterned tapestries, the floor covered with a rug so thick James felt his boots sink into it as he moved further into the room.

Cordelia had leaned her back against the wall next to the door. Her eyes were closed and she was taking deep, full breaths, calming herself down. Cortana gleamed gold over her shoulder; the firelight gleamed a deeper gold on her skin, which seemed to take and hold its warmth. James curled his fingers in against his palm.

He wanted to touch her. He half-turned away, pretending to study the books on the wall. Any other time, he would have been fascinated by the titles. Now they seemed distant, neither immediate nor imporant. He could have sworn he heard his own heart hammering. He said, “Where did you learn to dance like that?” surprising himself with the roughness of his own voice.

His gaze snapped back to Cordelia as she opened her eyes and gave a little shrug. There was something magical about the dress she wore: it followed the shape of her own body rather than the shape of corsetry or whalebone petticoats. It slid softly against her skin as she moved, just as her dark red hair tickled the bare skin of her throat, her shoulders. “I had a dance instructor in Paris. My mother believed that learning to dance aided in learning grace in battle.”

The word grace pierced James like an icicle. He could not quite picture Grace at the moment, it was true; could not quite envision her face. He had given Grace his heart — that was an immutable fact, something he knew as he knew that two plus two equaled four. But he had to admit that at the moment his heart did not feel given. It felt like a thrumming machine inside his chest, pumping blood and heat.

“That dance,” Cordelia added with a quirk of her soft mouth that struck James like a blow to the stomach, “was forbidden to be taught to unmarried ladies. But my dance instructor did not care.”

“Well,” James said, keeping his voice steady with practiced control, “thank the Angel you were there. Matthew and I could certainly not have pulled off that dance on our own.”

Cordelia turned away from him, the smile still on her face, as though she were keeping it secret from him. She trailed her hand along the top of Hypatia’s desk. At one end was a stack of papers held down by a large copper bowl of fruit, and she brought her hand up to trace its rim.

James may have been distracted beyond the capacity for distraction he’d known before, but he was still a Shadowhunter. “Be careful,” he said warningly. “I suspect that is faerie fruit. It has no effect on warlocks—no magical effect, at least. But on humans…”

Cordelia pulled her hand back as though stung. “Surely it does not harm you if you do not eat it.”

“Oh, it does not. But I have met those who have tasted it. The say the more you have of it, the more you want, and the more you ache when you can…have no more.”

Cordelia was looking at him now, and though it took a great summoning of courage, he returned her gaze. In her dark eyes the silver and blue flames of the fireplace danced. James could not catch his breath. He had never felt this before, this breathlessness. It was like pain, but with a sweet, sharp edge. Like licking honey from a knife. He said, in a low voice, “And yet. I have always thought…is not knowing what it tastes like just another form of torture? The torture of wondering?”

The door shook on his hinges suddenly, making a clatter that made both he and Cordelia jerk their heads around to look at it. The knob was starting to turn.

Cordelia paled. “We’re not meant to be in here —“

James’s world closed down to just this: Cordelia was here, she was with him, and she looked frightened. He would do anything to stop that look on her face. He caught her in his arms, and the relief was incredible — he had not realized how much he wanted to be touching her until he was. Until he was holding her, and her strength and warmth and softness were all pressed against him, and her face was so beautiful it hurt, and her lips were parted in surprise and without another thought he kissed them.

He could feel her sharp intake of breath with his hands, clasped together at her lower back. She gasped, but did not draw back, or away — he thought he would have died if she had — she leaned into him, her full lips opening under his. She was kissing him back. He tasted honey, smelled jasmine and smoke. His hand slid up her warm cheek and into the soft fall of her hair.

Time stopped.

Cordelia’s arms were around his neck. Her lush mouth opened a little against his, and the kiss deepened. He moved his hand to the back of her neck to bring her closer. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, and he couldn’t help it; he moaned, and felt her tremble against him.

Very far away, a voice chuckled and the door closed with a soft click. This whole thing had been intended as a ruse, he knew, for the benefit of whomever was trying to get into the Whispering Room. Probably some Ruelle attendees, Downworlders most likely, who had snuck off for a rendez-vous.

Ruse accomplished, then. With intense regret, James drew back from Cordelia. Her hand, warm and soft and wonderful, was against his neck; her fingers stroked his pale white scar. Her eyes were fixed at the level of his shoulder. He could hear himself say her name — Daisy, my Daisy — instead of responding, she whispered, “I think more people are coming.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t care. He knew what she was saying: that she was asking and giving permission at once. All James’ life, he had struggled for control: control over his sudden falls into shadow, control over the dark world he could see, that was invisible to everyone else. He had worked and fought and trained for control every day, and for the first time in as long as he could remember it deserted him.

The walls he had put up burned to the ground in an instant as he caught Cordelia to him. He groaned against her mouth, his hands slipping over the silk of her dress, the hot satin of her skin. He undid the strap that held Cortana, got rid of it somehow — carefully, he hoped — and let himself fall back into delirium.

He did not ask himself why he had never felt desire like this before. He could not. He was lost in the feel of her, the incline of her waist, the flare of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest as she gasped. They were kissing wildly, uncontrolled; they fetched up against the desk, Cordelia’s back to it.

Her body bent backward in an impossible arch, her hands going behind her to brace herself. Her eyes half-closed, her head fell back, revealing the bare column of her throat. He pressed his lips there, eliciting a gasp of surprised pleasure.

His hands trailed up the sleek material of her dress — he could feel the heat of her skin through it — from her waist to the neckline of her gown. His palms followed her curves until the tips of his fingers were pressing into the bare bronze skin just above the neckline of her dress. She was sleek and soft and hot all at the same time, like nothing else he’d ever touched. He heard her whimper; she was saying his name, and his heart beat in time with her words: James, James, Jamie please.

The please undid him; shrugging off his frock coat, he caught hold of her around the waist, lifting her until she was perched on the edge of the desk. The material of her dress bunched around her knees, her thighs, as she took hold of his shirt by the starched front and kissed him. His mouth drove against hers, hot and demanding, even as he clambered onto the desk after her. She reached up her arms for him and he sank down on top of her, bracing his weight with a hand above her head.

He paused, just for a moment, looking down at her. Her scarlet hair fanned out across the desk, her eyes glazed, her full lips red from kissing. He was cradled by her body, her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt rucked up nearly to her waist. She wrapped her long, bare legs around him and he shuddered. What was in him, what he wanted, was inchoate but insistant, a force he’d never known. A yearning like hot wires in his blood, the pain-pleasurable ache of unbearable wanting that drove him to kiss her again, kiss her harder. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling at it as he kissed her breasts, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin until she gave a low scream and clutched at him with desperate hands.

He sank down against her and kissed her, hot and deep and hard. She arched into the kiss, her breath coming in gasps. He felt her through the thinner material of his shirt: the heat of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest, her hands smoothing over his chest, his sides.

His hands aching to touch her in kind, to find out what she liked, what made her gasp, and do it again and again . . . Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing. He’d known desire before; so he remembered, so he had believed. It turned out he had stepped into a puddle and thought it was the sea. As Cordelia moved in his arms, as her lips, he realized there was a depth to desire he hadn’t even guessed at: that it was more than just desperation, but joy and need and wanting and being wanted back. It was a fever dream, his hands sliding up under the heavy satin of her skirts, the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the soft sounds of her pleasure as she urged him closer, urged him onward, the desk seeming to spin beneath them.

He heard, as if at a great distance, the sound of the door opening. He lifted his head, saw the slim fair-hared figure in the doorway. Ice washed through his veins. Cordelia stiffened, began to scramble to sit up. No, he thought, but he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t blame her. It — whatever it had been — was over.

He slid off the desk. Already the fever was vanishing, that feeling —the glorious freedom from the burden of his own will — receding. Grasping at his control, he drew it around himself,  reaching for his coat, turning to calmly meet the gaze of his parabatai.

“James?” Matthew said.

[yhwhsdaughter]

Eunuch! Bum x Queen! Reader + King! Sangwoo

word count: 4.1k

tw: sangwoo, noncon, abuse of power, misogyny, murder, cheating, degradation, choking, cursing, minors dni

Ongoing…

[Chapter 2] , [Chapter 3]

Upon sliding the doors open, you were welcomed to blood spraying on your face. Droplets kissed your cheeks and if it was a calmer atmosphere, it would give the illusion of a blush. Reality, however, was much horrifying. Shocked by this, you stopped to assess the scene. Everyone was afraid to move a muscle as the king swung his sword, killing the chief state councilor with a stroke. As his body fell, more blood puddled at your feet, staining your slippers. Once the initial horror faded, you sprang forward, hugging Sangwoo’s midriff. “Your Majesty! Please stop this!” It was a brave or perhaps foolish action, interfering with your ruler. Words falling on deaf ears, he pushed you from him. The closest guard caught your form. Despite his absolute authority, killing nobles without reason, especially high ranking officers, was frowned on.

This is madness.

Your king was beauteous and cruel. A month into his ascension to the throne and he was already crumbling the ideals in which this nation was founded. Stray hairs hung around his chiseled face, tiny beads of sweat mixed with blood giving him a sadistic gleam as he grinned. Looking your way for a moment, he lazily waved at guards, “Take the Queen to her room.” Without a choice, the two of them gently nudged you from the scene. “Your Highness, please follow us.” Though their faces remained unmoving, their tone revealed their true feelings on the matter. Palm pressed against your mouth, you threw one last glance at the massacre before you. Blinking any lingering emotions, you walked away.

—

Pants filled the room as Sangwoo thrusted into you relentlessly. He was angry; even though he’d appointed new council members, he wasn’t sure he could trust them. In his mind, everyone was after his crown. You were angry as well, but for an entirely different reason.

You laid bare before your king, the fine robes that adorned your body pushed aside revealed your soft breasts; legs spread showed the path to your royal cunt. It disgusted you, thinking how many women had been in this bed, in your same position. Though the silk sheets were pristine, it could never truly wash away the sin. He grunted, “Stop overthinking. Just focus on—” he was close “—taking my seed, it’s all that matters.” Uncaring about your pleasure, Sangwoo bent you into an uncomfortable position, one that allowed his member to penetrate your walls at a deeper angle.

You allowed it.

The two of you, mostly you, were under incredible pressure to conceive. Not just a child, but a male heir. The fact that you hadn’t produced a son for the king was worrying to your mother. She wrote, often. It’s all she could talk about in her letters nowadays; there was fear in her that you would suffer as she did. Four miscarriages, three stillbirths, and then you. Highly superstitious, your mother believed that her misfortune was the price for the murder of the heirs by concubines in a fit of jealousy.

“Put a baby in me Sangwoo.”

You nearly begged, if only to end this. Making love wasn’t an option, nor your life a fairytale. No. King Sangwoo only fucked, and in the most inconvenient places too. You’ll never forget the embarrassment endured when you had tea with several noblewomen; your gracious king thought it would be appropriate to do it in a room adjacent to theirs. He bent you over a desk, throwing everything else off it, before sheathing himself inside of you. Emerging twenty minutes later, you couldn’t even look the ladies in the eyes. No one said anything, lest they lose their heads, but they knew.

Spurred by your words, Sangwoo thrusted faster and harder. “Fuuuck.” He stayed attached to you, like a dog, making sure your womb swallowed every last bit of his essence before pulling out. “Get pregnant.” Is all he said to you as he dressed again and exited the chambers. Out of breath and without a care, you laid there on the bed.

—

A life of servitude awaited YoonBum the second he was born. His poverty stricken parents sold him to be a household slave. Doomed to this fate, Bum tried his best to follow through and avoid punishments. Unfortunately, his master was a sadist and everyday, he received a beating.

After running errands, Bum stood in line to receive the bags of rice his master had ordered. It was the last thing on his list before readying to go home and continue working. Being close by, he couldn’t help but overhear several gentlemen talking, “Where is that damned village?!”

The village in question, it seems, was Bum’s hometown. Because it was a tiny place full of peasants and criminals, cartographers didn’t bother putting it on a map. Only those that came from there knew the area. Sangwoo caught him staring. Quickly glancing away, Bum only saw the man motioning to his companions from the corner of his eye. In a matter of seconds, he was facing the man. He was dressed in purple robes and a gat, symbolizing his status. “Do you know where this village is?���

Daring not to look him in the eye, Bum was slow to nod. He’d been out long enough; his master was probably marching towards the market to drag him home. “Show me.” As guessed, a heavy man came barreling in their direction. He was red in the face. “Bum!” Master Yoon screamed obscenities. Coming to a stop, he sneered at the men.

“We need your servant.”

Though the statement seemed like a request, Sangwoo’s tone made it clear that it was an order. The balding man huffed, ready to curse him out and refuse when Sangwoo showed his name tag. It was made of a cool stone, Oh Sangwoo engraved with the royal crest. The fact that was once red turned pale in realization. Meek before his ruler, Mister Yoon had no choice but to relent. “We’ll be taking him then.”

Bum felt his humanity slip away as he was given to another man so easily. With his head bowed down, he followed this strange new path forged by the man in purple robes.

—

The Heavens decided to smile on YoonBum when he saved the king’s life.

It was an accident, really. The guards felt no threat to the approaching figure in the form of a frail, old lady who was an assassin in disguise. YoonBum saw the knife before they did, jumping in front of Sangwoo.

Adrenaline in his system, Bum didn’t realize he was stabbed till he felt warmth seeping through his rags. Looking down, red spread around the area. It hurt. Badly. Bum’s legs felt like noodles; the little energy he had left his body as he collapsed onto the dirt. Even breathing was painful. His intervention set things in motion. One of the bodyguards chased down the assassin, two stood by Sangwoo and another leant down to help him. He must’ve asked something important but Bum couldn’t hear him clearly. It’s like he was submerged underwater. The last thing he saw before his vision turned black, was Sangwoo staring at him with interest.

He woke up in the nicest room he’s ever been.

The king didn’t visit him personally but he was sent a letter. Red overtook his face as he was forced to admit he didn’t know how to read. The servant relayed the contents, stating that when he was recovered, he would serve the king closely. From someone of his birth, it was the best he could get. YoonBum suddenly felt immensely grateful; he would no longer sleep in a shed with the pigs but a real mat! The pain on his side reminded him of the price he’d paid for this position, but he was used to being hurt. At least now it served to help him.

As the moment of glee passed, Bum realized he didn’t quite know the etiquette of serving the king. Joy left his body as he wondered how he would figure it out.

Like him, Sangwoo was plagued by this constant state of unhappiness. After the attempt on his life, he would think his subjects would be glad to see him breathing but instead he got murmurs of concern. What if he’d died? Who would’ve taken the throne since there was no heir? It would’ve thrown the palace into chaos.

Their silent pleas did not go unheard. “Maybe I should have them killed. Them and their entire families—” he paused when he saw you in the gardens, smiling at one of your ladies. His heart twisted. Sangwoo couldn’t explain it, but he always got the urge to inflict pain on you. He could say it stemmed from a place of resentment. How hard was it to get pregnant? If you gave him a son, he wouldn’t be pestered by these old fucks. Not to mention, your face contorting in distress was intoxicating—not even the concubines could compete with that.

Beneath his robes, his cock twitched with excitement. Oh, how he was going to enjoy this. Approaching your unsuspecting figure, he threw a dazzling smile to your courtesans. Sangwoo knew how to use his assets advantageously. Despite the suffering he caused, people were rendered speechless by his charm and good-looks.

He was like a snake, slithering towards his prey, waiting to attack. You did not hear him coming till you saw your ladies-in-waiting bowing. Greeting him appropriately, you expressed your relief. “Your Highness, I am glad to see you unharmed.”

It’d been a while since you last saw him; when he arrived, the rumour about the assassin spread like wildfire. “My Queen, you are truly a vision. These flowers have nothing on your beauty. You are proof that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” His honeyed words felt like prodding the bees’ nest. If you weren’t careful, you would be stung.

The only times he was this affectionate was when he wanted something. He played the same lovestruck role with your father to convince him of marrying you. Sending your ladies off, Sangwoo dropped his smile. His expression was replaced with desperation. Pulling on your wrist, the two of you traversed to your quarters since they were closer. “Ah!” Thrown harshly onto the bed, you hardly had time to compose yourself before he was mounting you. “Let’s put your cursed womb to good use.” A gasp escaped your lips as he entered you without warning. Your hands formed to fists, grabbing onto the sheets for dear life. It hurts, it hurts!

“Your Majesty! Please— aaah! Be more gentle..!”

Without seeing his face, you could already picture his cruel smirk. “You were born a disappointment. The least you could do is serve your purpose as my wife and bear me an heir.” His words angered you. Managing to twist away, you tried to escape his iron grip. This only resulted in you being pushed onto your back. Sangwoo pried your legs open and realigned himself.

Slap!

Sangwoo’s eyes widened with disbelief. The stinging in his cheek somehow made his pulse beat faster. Hands wrapping around your throat, he squeezed. “You should treat your king with more reverence. It would be a shame if the nation lost its queen. Especially one who can be easily replaced.” Having been the youngest war general, Sangwoo had strength to spare. Your hands seemed small as they banged on his form, silently begging to release you.

Having your life in his hands gave him the edge he needed to cum. With a low moan, Sangwoo emptied himself inside you. In turn, you couldn’t even focus on anything else other than breathing, choking as you gasped for air that you’d previously been deprived of. Knowing that he was capable of committing the worst, death seemed better than staying by his side.

“Perhaps I am not the problem, Your Majesty.”

Your voice was raspy but it rang clear across his majesty’s mind. Your words struck deep, like a knife embedded in his brain. It created a wound that would eventually fester. “Shut up.”

As if to disprove your point, he visited every concubine, not leaving until none of them were left untouched. He needed a son, one way or another, and if you wouldn’t give it to him, he would seek it elsewhere.

—

YoonBum was mostly healed; if anything, it appeared he’d been forgotten after a week of rest. The medic was currently tending to his wound, “It's healing nicely. A few more days and you should be out of here.”

The two of them turned at the sound of the door sliding open, immediately bowing at Her Highness’ entrance.

“Your Majesty, how can I be of use?” It was a bit surprising to see you there; your medical checkup wasn’t till another month. He wondered if you were feeling ill. Fabric wrapped around your neck; the weather was tepid, even inside the palace. That’s when he noticed the purple marks that peeked from under the material. Aware of his pointed stare, you moved the scarf upwards to conceal it. “I need you to acquire these medicinal herbs for me.” Taking the list, he read it carefully. How odd. Before he could ask what they were for, you added, “Your discretion would be appreciated.”

“Of course.”

Bum sat there silently, head facing the floor when you acknowledged him. “Are you the man that saved my husband?” Snapping upwards, he sputtered before letting out a quick “Yes!” Finally having a chance to gaze at your face, Bum felt himself turning red. Dressed in the finest silks from head to toe, standing with an air of regalness, was you. Unlike the king, there was warmth in you. Being in the presence of such a being felt unreal.

At first glance, the young man seemed no different than the other servants. However, his pink cheeks reminded you of innocence that one so rarely saw in the palace, which was filled with betrayal and resentment. His disposition was kind of endearing. You hoped he would remain like this, untainted by the world. “Then I must thank you.”

At your words, Bum’s figure lowered, forehead touching the wood. “Y-your Highness is too kind!” This position caused him a stab of discomfort, applying pressure to his wound yet he refused to straighten up. Noticing, you motioned at him, “Don’t force yourself.”

With that brief interaction, you were gone.

Entering your chambers, you signaled for the maid. Unwrapping the silk bandages, you stared at the mirror. Your husband’s marks served as a reminder of who held the power in this union. The young woman kneeled before you, taking a round brush and rolling it in powder. Although her ministrations were gentle, you couldn’t help but hiss when it applied pressure to your tender skin. “Forgive this servant, Your Majesty!”

“Don’t mind it. Continue.”

—

The king was anxious.

It was one thing for you to not get pregnant, but he’d been keeping busy and there was still no news of concubines with child. Reminded and bothered by your words, he summoned the royal physician. Sangwoo believed he wasn’t the problem, he just needed confirmation. What did you know? He wanted an expert to say that he was fulfilling his duties as king and it was everybody else that lacked.

“I’m sorry to say this, Your Highness.. but you’re infertile.”

With great effort, Sangwoo stopped himself from strangulating the doctor. It was impossible. A frown etched itself in Sangwoo’s face, his handsome features twisting into something scary. “You’re wrong.” It didn’t make sense; as a healthy male in his prime, Sangwoo shouldn’t have a problem fathering as many children as he could. There were several causes that may have caused his infertility, especially since he was a war general but the fact remained that he could not produce children.

Only an heir of royal blood could be king.

He forced the poor man to do every test available to ensure this. The result was the same. Again. And again. “You must not be doing your job right.” As the guards dragged the pleading man, a piece of paper fell from the medics’ robes during the struggle. Picking it up, Sangwoo recognized your handwriting.

“What’s this?”

There was temporary relief in the man’s face as Sangwoo stopped in front of him. “That.. the Queen requested a few me-medicinal herbs.” It didn’t sit right with Sangwoo. Why on earth would you need this shit? The physician seemed hesitant to answer his question. A rough push finally ushered him to say, “Alone these herbs are fine, but mixed..”

As requested, the herbs were delivered to you by the doctor’s assistant. The timing was perfect too. “Why didn’t your master deliver these himself?” Nervous, the boy stuttered a few excuses before asking for permission to leave. That should’ve raised flags in your head but you wanted the plan to work. You needed it to work.

The king had finally taken time out of his busy schedule to visit you, and not just to copulate. He was kind enough to accept your invitation to have a picnic at the pavilion. It was surrounded by a grand lake and vividly green trees; a true landscape.

Sangwoo arrived with a familiar man at his side. You realized you never asked for his name, though that was easily fixed when Sangwoo made a vague motion towards him. “That’s Bum.” He was dressed in green and Sangwoo in red. In comparison to their bright colors, you wore a soft pastel pink, denoting your sophisticated features.

Sitting down, you signaled the servant to begin pouring the soup. Sangwoo raised a brow, curious, “You’re not going to eat?” Listening to your response, a smile appeared on his face. “I wanted to make a special meal for Your Highness, from the bottom of my heart.” It was unnerving, the way he looked at you. Still, you never lost composure, waiting patiently for him. That is, until he asked Bum to lean down and try it. Obedient, the male did so without question. Eyes widening, you managed to stop Bum from tasting. Your hand held onto his wrist tightly—the spoon hovering centimeters from his lips. A few droplets spilled onto the wooden table. Sangwoo tilted his head to the side, innocent expression in tow. “Something wrong?”

Everything is wrong!

Sangwoo knew. You didn’t know how, but of this, you were sure. Fear is what he wanted and you weren’t going to give it to him. “This meat in this broth was especially prepared for His Royal Highness. It shouldn’t go to waste on someone else.” The tip of Bum’s ears burned from embarrassment. He was under the impression you were a benevolent queen; instead, he was reminded of his lowly status. Of course he couldn’t eat the expensive meat, a peasant like him wouldn’t know how to appreciate the flavor. The hurt on his face was evident but he turned to the king, awaiting further instructions. Sangwoo wasn’t fazed, “Don’t be silly.”

Taking the spoon, Sangwoo offered it to you.

You stared at it, unmoving. Sangwoo poked your lips, “Who else but the Queen would be worthy to try such delicacy?” He was baiting you, daring you to deny or confess. Neither was an option. Grabbing the spoon from him, you slowly opened your mouth and dropped the contents inside. Sangwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly but he said nothing. “Swallow.” Damn him to hell. Before you could do such a thing, a guard interrupted. Apparently there were news concerning Yang Seungbae, a traitor to the crown; he was spotted near a town on the outskirts of the forest.

Sangwoo hated him. More than anyone. That bastard was working hard to rally forces that would conspire against him. While things were peaceful at court, Sangwoo had felt a shift ever since the assassination attempt. His eye twitched in annoyance, though you weren’t entirely positive if it was because of Seungbae or the fact that he’d been interrupted. Sitting completely still, you watched as Sangwoo whispered to Bum before leaving. As soon as he was gone, you grabbed a handkerchief and spit out the soup. This action worries a few servants but you waved them off. “It’s cold.” They couldn’t understand as you ordered them to throw it, seeing as it was perfectly edible. Such a waste, disposing of such good meat.

Bum followed you like a lost puppy. The first night Sangwoo bedded him, YoonBum experienced true love. It wasn’t gentle; the king’s touch harbored no hatred but passion. Bum had never felt like that. It made him feel special; the ruler of the country placed his lips and strong hands on his skinny body. He had a queen, concubines, and still, he went to him. Elated couldn’t begin to describe how Bum felt. His feelings for his king were all-consuming. Since then, he’d made a promise to follow every order Sangwoo asked of him. Bum didn’t have anything against you, truly, but his loyalty laid with his king.

On their way back, they encountered Imperial Concubine Min Jieun. The crowd following her greeted you respectfully, and while she did so too, there was a triumphant smirk on her face. Nodding in acknowledgment, you continued walking, enjoying nature. The sun warmed your skin, making you forget about any worries, if only for a moment. Once the group was out of earshot, you glanced at your companion. “What was that about?” It was no secret how spoiled Min Jieun was; she was a woman of noble birth, groomed to perfection. That’s the facade she chose to wear instead of the power hungry bitch she was. Envy burned in every particle of her body. She wanted you out of the picture—she wanted to be queen and mother of Sangwoo’s children. Still, your position commanded respect. Your lady leaned in, whispering, “There’s rumors that she’s with child.”

“Oh.”

Bum watched your composed reaction with intrigue. He could understand if you held a grudge towards her. He did. You would always be first to the king, so he had to accept that. Bum knew it was the way things ran. However, he couldn’t say the same for the other concubines. They had the chance to bear Sangwoo’s child. Bum only wished he could do so too. Alas, this resentment made him feel guilty because the concubines were amicable women—well, except Min Jieun. He didn’t realize that they were shackled to this restrictive lifestyle; that they had no choice but to make the best of the situation.

“Is there something you want to say?”

Almost jumping at the sudden sound of your voice, Bum gazed around to see who you were talking to. Finding your clear eyes on him, he realized you’d seen through him. “Uh.. n-no, Your Majesty..”

“Say it.”

“How.. how does Your Majesty handle it?”

Though the question itself was vague, you got the gist. “Queens are expected to rise above such earthly emotions.” You had a solemn expression and the grip around your fan tightened, “Jealousy is futile.”

Nodding, Bum felt like he’d swallowed vinegar. This revelation left him in deep thought. Perhaps that was the difference between royals and peasants; possessiveness was quick to overtake him while you had to live with the knowledge that your husband would seek the company of others.

Hm, maybe he was right not to envy you.

—

“The Queen has fallen ill.”

It was so sudden; you were so healthy one day and the next, chills racked your body, fever uncontrollable. The court tried to be positive on the matter but it wasn’t looking good. Sangwoo was advised to refrain from visiting you—if he got sick too, it would affect the entire nation. “I will see my wife as I see fit.”

“Open the door and step aside.”

He was like an angel of death, entering with eerie calmness. Even through the soft curtains he could see your weakened form. You looked thinner, unable to eat. The physicians tried to get you to consume anything but it was just regurgitated in minutes.

The bed dipped under his weight as he sat next to you.

“Did you eat something bad?” He caressed your face, pushing hairs away that stuck due to the sweat. Fingers tightening on the blankets, you managed to open your mouth. “Congratulations.” Lips pale and cracked, you smiled sardonically. Sangwoo wasn’t expecting that reaction. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve heard news that Concubine Jieun is pregnant.”

A dark look crossed his face. “Is that so?” He stood, “Perhaps I should pay her a visit.” Though his tone was mocking, there was something bothering Sangwoo. Fortunately for the king, you were too woozy to think straight. Leaning down, Sangwoo placed a hand behind your neck, lifting you just a bit, enough to kiss your lips.

“Don’t die.”

[merakiui]

Heey saw requests were open so I couldn't help but come check out and ask! Will you be okay if you do a Xiao, Zhongli, Diluc and Childe with a S/O who tries to took a hit for them from getting killed by an enemy?

Xiao, Zhongli, Diluc, and Childe with an S/O who Shields Them From an Attack

☁️ Xiao ☁️

You dragged him along so that he could get some fresh air and help you with your commissions. Xiao would rather stay inside, but you seemed to want to spend time with him so it’s hard to object.

Xiao definitely tried to avoid going with you, but you had kissed his cheek and said it’s more fun if he accompanies you. His weak heart agreed right away.

So not only is he there to provide moral support and company, he’s also there to make sure you’re not going to do anything foolish.

He’s already defeated multiple enemies while you looked through crates for extra materials. If he were mortal, your carelessness probably would’ve shaved a few years off of his life.

He keeps telling you to pay attention and you say you are, but then you turn away and next thing you know an arrow comes whizzing past you.

Xiao’s picking up a damaged mask from the grassy ground, wiping the grime from it, when your shout alerts him. And before he knows it you’re tackling him to the ground.

He’s surprised and a little angry, snapping at you to be more careful. Your grip on his shirt tightens and he wonders what’s gotten into you.

When Xiao places his hand upon your back and finds the arrow sticking out of it, he freezes. You just...shielded him from an attack. And in the process you ended up getting hurt.

Warm blood coats his fingers and you’re doing all that you can to avoid bursting into tears in front of the stern adeptus. He sits up with you, wasting no time in swiftly defeating the archer hilichurl. His anger can be felt in the way he attacks mercilessly, showing no sign of letting up until the hilichurl has fallen to the ground.

Xiao can’t believe you, a mortal, would shield him, an immortal, from an arrow. He knows you love him, but to so readily take a hit for him—it’s surprising.

“You...” He wants to call you stupid, but you were only thinking of his safety. Instead he chooses to pacify you rather than berating you for something that has already happened. “You’re going to be okay. It doesn’t look that bad.”

He tends to your injuries to the best of his ability and then will bring you back to Wangshu for further inspection. Once the arrow is pulled out and your injury is cleaned and bandaged, tears finally spring from your eyes. It really, really hurts and you feel bad for making Xiao worry on your behalf.

He’s just relieved you’ll heal normally. But in the future he doesn’t want you to endanger yourself for his sake. After all, he’ll be perfectly fine if he takes a hit that would be fatal to most.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt,” you admit, placing your hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re an adeptus, but it would’ve hurt me more if I’d just let you get hit.”

Xiao sighs, taking your hand in his. “I guess it’s fine... Just don’t do it again, okay?” Deep inside, he’s truly touched that you would throw yourself in front of danger just to protect him, but he doesn’t want this to become a recurring thing for you. 

🔶 Zhongli 🔶

You had taken Zhongli out to find some Cor Lapis and other ores you were in desperate need of. He suggested buying them from the locals, but he didn’t bring any Mora and you knew of a few abandoned mines where you could get them for free.

With that logic cemented into place, you and Zhongli headed off for the areas you had marked on your map.

It wasn’t a difficult trip; the two of you worked diligently in clearing any enemies that got in your way and eventually you had made it to the first cave.

Zhongli was reciting the history of Liyue caves and their monetary benefits while you climbed over rubble and debris from past accidents. You’d almost tripped once, but he had caught you out of reflex, seemingly unbothered with your clumsiness.

All was going well. You’d mined a lot of ores with Zhongli’s help and the two of you were about to move onto the next cave when the ground above seemed to shake. Briefly, you glanced up, wondering what could be causing such a disturbance.

“We should be careful. There might be a Ruin Hunter around,” you told him as you navigated through the winding tunnel. Zhongli nodded in agreement with that, easily stepping over fallen stones.

Before you knew what was happening, the entire cave was shaking as another loud explosion resonated from above. Debris from above trickled down like snow and you cowered for a moment, expecting a cave-in.

It was silent for a few minutes and you figured the threat must’ve passed. Zhongli waited for a moment as he listened to the silent, musty air.

Just as you breathed your sigh of relief, the ground shook ten times harder than before, and stones larger than the ores you had mined were raining down at once.

The initial shock was more than enough to have you running for the entrance, pulling a very confused Zhongli along. A stone larger than your foot comes falling, and it’s about to hit Zhongli on the head.

To avoid an accident, you shove him to the front and the rock hits you instead of him. Luckily, it wasn’t on the head, but it did hit your ankle hard.

You’re worried you’ve sprained it after you fall to the ground, more stones pelting you. The next thing you know, Zhongli picks you up in his arms and carries you out of the cave before it can collapse entirely on the both of you.

Concerned for your safety, Zhongli observes your injuries. You’re bruised and your ankle does look sprained. He asks if you can stand and when you try he frowns. It looks like you’re going to need to rest up for a few days.

Zhongli will help you the rest of the way back, occasionally stopping so you can give your legs a rest. He expresses his gratitude and is rather surprised that you would go out of your way to take the hits of many stones and rocks.

Despite being thankful, Zhongli hopes you won’t do this again because he doesn’t like to see you in pain. If you’re hurt, he feels hurt and that’s the last thing he wants.  

🔥 Diluc 🔥

A group of slimes were hanging around the winery again and so Diluc went off to deal with the problem. He didn’t expect there to be so many, though.

You had tagged along just in case something like this were to happen. And even though Diluc is strong enough to handle so many enemies, these slimes just kept coming.

It was difficult to deal with all sorts of different slimes: Electro, Anemo, and even Cryo. Despite the fact that he didn’t want you to endanger yourself—he insisted he could handle it—you still did what you could to help.

Once you were certain all the slimes were defeated, Diluc sighed, leaning against his weapon to relax after so much fighting. His back was turned and he didn’t notice the large slime creeping up on him.

You jumped in just in time to prevent the slime from hurting him. It had been a quick reaction, one that you hadn’t thought through entirely.

The Cryo slime is freezing to the touch and as soon as it hits you an icy cold envelops you. You try to look strong in front of Diluc, but it’s just too much and you fall to your knees, shivering while the slime looms over you.

Diluc witnessed the entire thing when he first noticed you jump into action and he’s very surprised to find that last slime. He defeats it at once before dropping down to check your injuries.

You aren’t exactly wounded, but you are very cold. He’s ashamed at himself for not paying closer attention to his surroundings.

While Diluc is grateful that you protected him, he’s disappointed that you’d put yourself in harm’s way. You should’ve just let the slime hit him.

He sheds his coat and drapes it over you, using his own Pyro element to start a fire that’ll have you warm in no time.

“You didn’t have to do that. But...thank you. Next time don’t do anything reckless. You’ll hurt yourself,” he says while checking your body temperature.

“But I wanted to keep you safe, Diluc! You already defeated so many slimes. That last one could’ve done some serious damage.”

He’s touched that you’d worry about him, but he doesn’t want you to do something like that again. It’s upsetting that you got harmed as a result of him and he wants to make sure you’re truly okay.

You drag Diluc under his coat so that his body heat can warm you up faster. And even though he tries to get out of it, he doesn’t complain too much.

It’s hard to be upset at the person he loves so much, especially if they were the one who protected him.

💧 Childe 💧

You and Childe were picking through some ruins, searching for chests and other valuable materials. You were careful to avoid any enemies, as the last thing you wanted to do was fight a bunch of slimes and hilichurls.

Childe fought them in your place, eagerly defeating them while you remained on the sidelines.

Everything was going well until the two of you stumbled upon a Ruin Guard that was slumped over, docile and not yet awake. Childe looked over at you and then at the Ruin Guard and then back at you, grinning madly the entire time.

You could only face palm and shake your head, grabbing his arm and gesturing in another direction. You’d encountered enough monsters today; you definitely didn’t want to waste your energy on a rust bucket. But Childe, who had only been fighting small enemies up until this point, was itching for a bigger opponent.

So he rushed ahead despite your quiet protests. And you were stuck having to watch as he sparred with the Ruin Guard.

You would’ve left it up to him if you hadn’t noticed the second Ruin Guard awakening from its slumber, having been disturbed by the commotion.

One Ruin Guard was already an issue, but now you’ve got to deal with two. You can only sigh as you run in to defeat the second one, hoping it won’t take up too much of your time.

Missiles are everywhere; they’ve nearly destroyed the ground and have cracked the already eroded stone pathways. You’ve nearly fallen victim to them a few times now and if it weren’t for Childe’s quick thinking you would’ve been crushed by their mechanical feet.

The first Ruin Guard falls before the two of you in a heap of exhausted, overheated gears and Childe twirls his bow, a glint of madness of his gaze.

You would’ve called it a day if it weren’t for the other Guard aiming for him, missiles completely locked onto his form.

Without thinking, you jump into action, pushing Childe away before he can be hit. In the process, the missiles slam into the rock formation above you and it comes tumbling down in a dusty rumble.

Now it’s Childe’s turn to save you and he’s quick on his feet, pulling you away before you can be buried under heavy stone. The two of you tumble and you scrape your arms and legs in the fall, doing all that you can to shield your boyfriend before he seriously injures himself.

A particular sharp piece of rubble slices the length of your arm and while Childe recovers to finish off the Ruin Guard you clutch your injured arm to stop the blood flow.

Once the Ruin Guard is defeated, Childe goes over to you, bending down to get a look at your arm. “It’s definitely going to need some work,” he jokes, hoping to put a smile on your face. “Don’t worry. I’ll have it patched up in no time. You can count on it.”

And while he wraps it up, he thanks you for your help. Without it, he would’ve been the one with more injuries than you. And even though he doesn’t mind getting hurt in a battle he doesn’t want you to injure yourself as well. So next time you want to protect him, make sure you won’t hurt yourself in the process!