#i need to talk about the characters from my manuscript and have someone understand what the fuck i'm talking about!!!!!

[kazz-brekker]

i genuinely do not think this was my professor’s intent but unfortunately by structuring my advanced creative writing class to be 99% quiet work time and 1% check-in where you go around and say like 1 sentence about how your writing progress is going this week they seem to have landed upon the exact combination of factors to make me feel both wildly isolated from the other writers in my class despite the fact that the main reason i wanted to take the course was to have a community of writers around me to talk to and also to make me have a semester-long imposter syndrome breakdown about how my book is awful and none of the revisions are working and no one will ever want to read or critique it

[em-dash-press]

Tips for Writing a Scene

Whether you’ve been writing for a long time or want to start, everyone begins in the same place—with a scene.

Not an entire chapter.

A scene.

Here’s how you can make it happen on the page.

Step 1: Have Characters In Mind

Scenes can’t happen without characters. Sometimes you might have a place in mind for a scene, but no characters. Sometimes, it’s the opposite. 

Pick at least two characters if you’ll have external conflict (more on that in step 4). One character can carry a scene with internal conflict, but things still have to happen around them to influence their thoughts/emotions.

Step 2: Give Them Goals

Short stories combine mini scenes into one plot with a beginning/middle/end. Longform manuscripts combine chapters to do the same thing, but with more detail and subplots.

You don’t need to know which form you’re writing to get started.

All you need are goals.

What should your scene do? What does your character(s) want? It will either use the moment to advance the plot or present a problem that the character solves in the same scene/short story.

Step 3: Include the Senses

If you’re recounting an experience to someone, you don’t say, “I had the worst day. My shoes got wet and I couldn’t get home for 10 hours.”

You’d probably say, “I had the worst day. I stepped in a puddle so my shoes got soaked, which made my socks and feet wet all day. Then I had to wait 10 hours to get home. It was miserable! And now my feet smell terrible.”

Okay, you might not use all of those descriptors, but you get the picture. The story is much more engaging if you’re talking about the feeling of wet socks, soaked shoes, and the smell of stinky feet. The other person in your conversation would probably go ugh, that’s horrible!

Your scene should accomplish the same thing. Use the five senses to make the moment real for the reader.

As a reminder, those senses are: touch, taste, smell, sight, and hearing.

You don’t need to use all of them at once, but include at least two of them to make your stories shine. You also don’t have to constantly use environmental or sensory descriptors. Once you establish the scene for your reader, they’ll place your characters and want to keep the plot moving.

Step 4: Identify the Conflict

Speaking of plot, scenes and stories can’t move forward without conflict. There are two types:

Internal conflict: happens within a single character (may or may not affect their decisions at any given time; it can also be the reasoning for their goals and dreams)

External conflict: happens outside of a character or between two characters (may or may not have to do with their internal conflict or personal goals; it always advances their character growth, relationship development, or plot development)

A scene could touch on either of these types of conflict or both! It depends on your story/plot/what you want your scene to accomplish.

Step 5: Pick a Point of View (POV)

Sometimes you’ll know you want to write a specific POV because you’ll have a character/plot in mind that requires it. Other times, you might not know.

It’s often easier to pick a POV after thinking through the previous steps. You’ll better understand how much time you want to spend in a character’s head (1st Person) or if you want to touch on multiple characters’ minds through 3rd Person.

Example of Setting a Scene

Step 1, Have Characters in Mind: Two sisters arrive back home from their first fall semester in different colleges.

Step 2, Give Them Goals: Sister A wants to ask for dating advice, but the sisters have never been that close. Sister B knows that Sister A wants a deeper conversation, but is doing anything to avoid it.

Step 3, Include the Senses: They’re in a living room with shag navy carpet and the worn leather couches have butt-shaped shadows on the cushions. The house smells of vanilla bean, the only scent their dads can agree on. Christmas lights hang on a fake tree that sheds plastic fir leaves on the floor. Their family cat purrs from within the metal branches.

Step 4, Identify the Conflict: Sister B will do anything to avoid talking about feelings. That includes trying to get the cat out of the tree (shaking the branches and reaching into them doesn’t work), checking to make sure the windows are closed against the winter air, and faking an obviously unreal phone call. This makes Sister A go from passively hoping for advice to chasing her through the house. 

Step 5, Pick a POV: 3rd Person, so internal thoughts and feelings from both sisters are obvious to the reader and emphasize the scene’s comedy.

-----

These are also useful ways to rethink a scene you’ve already written. If something about it doesn’t seem to be working, consider if it’s missing one or more of these points. You don’t need to include all of them all the time, but weaving more sensory details or conflict into a short story/chapter could solve your problem.

Best of luck with your writing, as always 💛

[mjjune]

How to be a Good Beta Reader (or: the difference between critique and beta)

This post is a follow-up to my ORIGINAL POST HERE "How to Have a Good Beta Reading Experience" [link embedded] so I recommend reading that one first for more info.

But I wanted to follow up because I've gotten some questions about it and I figured there was enough to make another post.

WARNING: this is SUPER LONG LOL

DISCLAIMER: Again, I want to clarify that this is based on my own experiences and what I personally look for in alpha/beta reading. Other writers/readers may disagree or have different tastes!

Topics Covered Below:

Critique vs. (Alpha &) Beta Reading

The Purpose of Beta Reading: Mindset

What Comments Should Look Like

How Much Should You Talk to the Writer About It? (Spoiler: it depends)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Critique vs. Alpha/Beta Reading

I want to start with this because so many times (as a writer) I have asked for beta readers, and basically gotten a critique (or "crit" as it will be called from here on). A crit can look a lot like many different things depending on the reader, but in general, here's the difference:

Critique: grammar, style, clarity, often line-by-line

Alpha/Beta: story structure, character arcs/development, plot, and overarching themes and ideas

And I say this because some writers might want both. Some want all these separately, and some want them all at once.

Generally, crits are harsher, and can resemble "tearing apart" a manuscript. They can certainly offer great feedback, but it depends on the writer and their needs.

Some writers, especially for those who have had critique partners in the past and this isn't their first story, may not want these comments at all. I generally prefer not to have them (unless it's something stark that draws you out of the immersive reading experience) because when it comes to grammar, style, and flow, these are things I can edit myself. I have had enough good critique partners in the past that I can handle that and don't need betas to do it for me.

However, some writers might not feel that way! But I definitely know I'm not alone here. Especially when manuscripts have already been critiqued and you specifically ask for a beta, it can be disheartening to receive this style of feedback (especially in large quantities).

Examples of critique-style comments:

Word choice and/or grammar edits

Line- or scene-specific comments like breaking down or giving advice on dialogue, action sequences, worldbuilding, and the writing itself

E.g. "this needs more visual description" or "this description is too long/drawn out" or "action sequences require faster pacing" etc.

Examples of alpha/beta style comments:

Character arcs/dev: "I liked this character's journey, but I didn't feel connected to them during XYZ parts of the book." or "I don't understand why this character chose to do this."

Plot: "This scene is what I consider to be the part where the plot really begins" or "I don't understand how ABC scene connects to XYZ scene."

So what's wrong with that? Nothing!

But you can see where if someone asked for an alpha/beta but the reader's comments are 90% crit-style, the writer might feel like the reader didn't like or connect with their work. If a reader is crit-style commenting x5+ per page, then they likely weren't engaged with the story so much as analyzing the writing style. And for alpha/betas, you want to be as immersed in the story as possible and analyzing the story.

Particularly if the manuscript has already been critted in depth, and is a polished draft (which, is certainly debatable, but that's a topic for another day) ready for betas, it can be frustrating to receive crit comments when that's not what you asked for. A lot of the times, for well-edited and mostly-polished drafts, these crit-style comments come down to personal preference with the reader editing your work to fit their personal taste. Which is not making the story better, just different.

But, to emphasize: if you were unclear in your expectations and the reader doesn't know that manuscript is already critted/polished going in, they might think you want these comments!

Also, some readers might be awesome critique partners, but terrible betas—and vice versa.

This is why I'm going to drive home my Big Takeaway from my first post: communication is key! Both writers and readers need to be clear on the type of feedback that's desired.

Of course, most readers probably do a mixture of both of these styles of comments, and this is fine! The important thing is to keep what the writer wants in the back on your mind. If you know the writer asked for a beta, then try to keep crit-style to <50% (or maybe even <25%) of your total comments. And vice versa, etc. etc.

TL;DR: A critique analyzes the writing. An alpha/beta analyzes the story. Many readers will look at BOTH, so it's important to discuss this beforehand and provide the feedback desired!

The Purpose of Alphas & Betas: MINDSET

So this piggybacks off of what I just discussed: if someone has asked for an alpha/beta, you should keep the GOAL of being an alpha/beta in the back of your mind. Especially if you're prone to crit-style comments, this will help you.

The goal of BOTH alpha and beta readers is to SUPPORT and ENCOURAGE the writer. I know that's obvious, but so many times I have gotten comments or questions about why some readers' comments seem rude/inconsiderate or not constructive. And, at least in my experience, it's because the readers went in with the wrong mindset—a mindset more appropriate for crit, rather than alpha/beta.

So what is the goal? To me, the goal should be to figure out what the story is the writer is trying to tell. Maybe in some cases the writer is upfront about that, or maybe you're going in blind. But when I go into a book as alpha/beta, this is the question I try to remind myself throughout the journey:

What is this story trying to tell me, and how could it be stronger?

But MJ, what does that mean??

Because no, I don't mean the genre, or the plot, or even the character arcs or writing style. I mean:

What theme is this writer exploring / what is the message they're sending to readers?

And from there: what about the narrative/writing/plot/etc. interfered with my connection with this message?

Side story: let me use avof as an example. This is an urban fantasy with vampires and werewolves and shifters (oh my!). I had some shitty "betas" for this book years ago which really threw off my groove as I was editing because I didn't know they were bad betas. But the truth is they weren't betas at all. They were critiquing it, and from the mindset of "this is vampire romance book." They went in critiquing my book for something that it wasn't. They completely disregarded that it more aligned with adventure, not romance, and the themes explored were self-discovery, self-acceptance, the impact of immortality on psyche, and gender & sexuality & identity - and because of that, they critiqued the book without engaging with the book. If they had asked themselves "what themes are being explored?" they (hopefully) would've seen it wasn't romance, and likely would've engaged better.

So, to continue on with this main goal, there are other things to consider—what kinds of mindsets you should avoid!

Whenever I have gotten insensitive (and sometimes, full-on offensive) comments, these were contributing factors. Regardless of critique, alpha, or beta, these are true:

You are not the only reader. There are going to be multiple people giving comments, and your comments are all of equal weight. You may be the only person who can't visualize that fight scene. You might be the only one who thought a plot point was too predictable. In most cases you will never know if other readers agree/disagreed with you, which is why it is the writer's decision whether to take action on your comments are not.

You are not an expert. I don't care how long you've been reading, writing, or beta reading. I don't care if you've read 100 published books in this genre before. You are not the expert on this book. The writer is. You do not know what is better for the story than the writer does.

You are not here to decide whether the writer is a good writer or not. You should not be making statements that imply that the writer is inexperienced or new to writing. You should not go into reading a manuscript with the mindset of "I have more experience than this writer and I should share my knowledge & teach them something." (But if the writer has expressed this, then it might be okay in some instances to give advice.)

If a specific minority group is being repped on the page that is not ownvoices and you are part of that community, you could offer insight that can be helpful, but should ask the writer if they want that kind of feedback prior to giving it. If you are not part of the community, you should not comment unless the writer has requested it (unless ofc you're complimenting it lol)

When betas go in without these ideals, it can lead to at best, unhelpful comments, and at worst, condescending and hurtful comments. These are the comments that make writers feel like failures, or like their book is bad, or that they are bad writers. Or, for experienced writers who know you went in with these (toxic, imo) mindsets, it can hurt relationships, break trust, and/or make a writer roll their eyes and disregard all of your comments.

That isn't to say that you should only compliment and not have any negative feedback or ignore flaws you see in the writing, narrative, character development, etc... but it is best to go in with the mindset that you are here to give them insight so they can make their story stronger, not to teach/give advice or change the story.

A note on sensitivity, authenticity, and expert readers: In my opinion this is one of the only cases where direct education/advice should be given. I also recommend having at least 2 sensitivity readers per any group that's repped that's not ownvoices, because even two people from the same group may interpret your story differently or see different weaknesses/strengths. That said, it is important for readers who are not of the repped groups to hold their tongue. It doesn't matter if your partner or sibling or parents are part of a group repped on the page. If you are not a member of that group, you are not an expert. If you have an inkling that the writer has not had sensitivity readers yet, you can politely suggest it. But it could also be a case of you having different life views, ideals, and/or opinions than the writer and the group being repped, and that is why you are not a sensitivity reader. I can't tell you how many times I had cis/het betas say my representation of an identity or repping gender as fluid was inaccurate/offensive when it was ownvoices, or when I'd already had 3+ sensitivity readers for the group(s).

Basically, as an alpha/beta reader, you are here to offer insight and immerse yourself in the story. It's also good to remind yourself throughout reading that "this might rub me wrong, but another reader might like it." Framing your ideas and comments this way will help you be more objective and less "this is wrong/right" because there is no such thing in writing.

TL;DR: The goal of alphas/betas is to engage with and understand the STORY, give the writer insight into how you interpret it, and help the writer figure out how to make their story stronger. It is not to give advice or teach. The writer decides what changes to make and is the expert on their story.

Ok, now I got the Beta Mindset™. So how do I comment?

Well, really this will depend on the person. Everyone is different and will notice different weaknesses and strengths in any given manuscript. And, as I said above, most people naturally will provide some crit-style comments, it's just in our nature to point out when a writing style doesn't mesh with our preferences.

From a writer's perspective, at least for me, these are the kind of comments that are the most helpful for me:

"I..." statements. For example: "I am struggling to visualize this fight scene." Instead of rewriting it or pointing out that the descriptions or actions are weak or explaining how to fix it—this is an open statement that leaves the decision up to the writer.

Immediate emotional reactions are awesome for writers to know. For example, if a line made you laugh out loud, say so! If you get to the end of a chapter and were so immersed that you forgot to comment, say so!

And on the other end, if you were immersed but then something happens that snaps you out of it, say so! But without "because..." or "you should..." advice. Just say "hey I was super immersed, but in this paragraph you lost me."

I also recommend holding comments until the end of a chapter/section (minus immediate reactions as above). Look at scenes, chapters, acts, as a whole rather than individual pieces. This will help you focus on the story, rather than the writing.

I would also recommend this post!! Excellent, and I agree 100%!!

Other critical examples: "this is my favorite character but this decision is frustrating/confusing me"; "I was bored and skimming through this chapter"; "I'm not sure what [insert worldbuilding feature] means"; "I didn't know that the magic system could do this and I feel blindsided"

Other complimentary examples: "This line of dialogue really resonates with me"; "this has been my favorite description so far"; "I didn't see this coming but it makes perfect sense!"

And here are comments I suggest you avoid:

Anything that implies that the story is unfinished, too long, too short, etc. This might be ok for crits or alphas or if the writer has said that it's unfinished, but probably not for most betas. If the writer is at the beta stage, then likely they consider their manuscript finished (minus any changes they make based on beta feedback). If you feel the need, you might say something like "this genre is usually 80-100k and yours is 150k" but avoid wording like "the story is overwritten/underwritten", which can be hurtful. (Once, a story of mine was on draft 8 and had been called polished and ready to publish by various other people, and then one beta said, "this is a good attempt at a draft of an opening scene." So yeah, avoid stuff like that.)

Wording things in a way that make them seem like Facts. As a reader, everything you say is subjective. Regardless of what you are commenting on, what you are providing are opinions. Especially for writers who tell unconventional stories/structures, comments like "this isn't the way this is done" are just annoying and are not even true half the time.

Unless you can provide sensitivity feedback personally, do not criticize the representation of a group you are not a part of. If you see something overtly harmful toward a group on the page, you can politely suggest sensitivity readers, and leave it at that.

Try your best to not give reasons or "because" statements. "This action scene felt slow because-" "I didn't feel connected to this character because-" Nope. Stop right there, unless/until the writer asks to elaborate.

Side Story: My Favorite Comment One of the single best comments I've ever received in a beta was when they noticed a character making a decision that didn't seem right. They pointed it out and basically said, "This feels out of character to me because I don't think this character would do this. They have done XYZ in the past, and I thought their motivation was ABC, but this decision directly conflicts with that." Why was this the best comment? Because 1) they didn't tell me how to fix it, 2) it was objective with evidence and nonjudgmental, and 3) they were 100% right. What they had actually found was a plot device I had used to push the character in the direction the story required. But because they pointed this out, I was able to see the source of the issue and rework the scene so that the character's motivation was consistent and they still ended up in the direction of the plot.

Since I foresee questions, allow me to elaborate on the last point: so often, a reader will say "this isn't working for me because of this reason" but actually, they're wrong about the reason. Like the comment above, this beta could have easily said, "this feels out of character because you messed up their motivation." But the problem wasn't motivation, it was me using a half-assed character decision to move the plot in the right direction! The issue was the scene, not the character development. The advice to "fix the character's motivation" wouldn't have fixed anything and might've even made the problem worse.

This isn't to say that advice should never happen in an alpha/beta, but I personally believe that the best comments are not those that say "you should change/fix this" but instead say "this is working for me/this isn't working for me." It leaves it open for the writer to figure out how to solve the problem, if a problem even exists.

I shall paste in a quote from the writing god himself, Neil Gaiman:

TL;DR: Basically, you aren't here to give advice, or fix anything, or change the story in any way. You are here to show the writer how their story impacts you, what you connected with, what you didn't, how their writing style works for you. Keep your comments open-ended and use specifics to show the writer what you connected with and what you didn't. You are giving the writer insight into how readers will interpret and understand their work, and it is the writer's duty to then grow their work.

And that leads directly into our final section...

How Much Should You Talk to the Writer About It?

This depends on the writer. Sometimes, writers will do 5+ betas at once (even on the same document) in which case they might not talk individually with the readers about any of the comments. Some writers (not me lol) will have an alpha as they write the first draft so it's not even complete yet, so they would probably talk a lot.

Personally, some betas I talk to for hours trying to brainstorm fixes (see: @jamieanovels and @wildswrites lmao tysm 🙏), and some betas I will just say "thanks for reading <3" and that's about it. It depends on how much you commented, the types of comments, and if I felt like you genuinely connected with the story (or not).

Side Note: I do want to clarify that by "misinterpret" below I don't mean that the readers are wrong, I just mean that they interpreted differently than what the writer had in mind. There is no misinterpretation when it comes to any form of art. But if a writer intended for the Main Takeaway of their story to be one thing, but the majority of readers took away another—that's important for the writer to learn in the beta stage. (Also, some stories are vague or open to multiple interpretations on purpose.)

For me, I talk in-depth with alphas, and maybe some betas, but there are also a lot of betas I barely talk to. I don't think there is a right or wrong here. Because as stated above, alphas/betas are here to provide insight into how readers interpret, relate to, and understand the story.

So once the writer gets that, there may not be anything else to talk about. Or, maybe the writer has questions about something you commented, and will want to follow up. For me, especially if you interpreted something way differently than I intended, I might want to follow up to see what in the narrative made you go that direction. Or, if you interpreted exactly as I intended, I may want more insight into which parts stood out the most to you, or what your favorite parts were. Or... I might not feel the need to follow up at all, for either.

In general, in my opinion, writers should be leading these interactions. Unless the writer has welcomed it, readers shouldn't be reaching out to writers to further discuss the comments they left.

(Note: this is not the same as hype/fangirling. Please come to my dms unsolicited and go hype about my book)

You have agreed to read it and leave comments, but the writer has not agreed to have full discussions with you about their own work. The writer doesn't owe you follow-up on the comments you leave, and whether they liked or disliked, agreed or disagreed with your comments doesn't really matter.

You may leave comments that are totally out of line with what the writer wanted, and that's fine. You might leave comments that make the writer uncomfortable, and that's fine too. We can't control these things, and there is no way to know how someone will interpret a story or what comments they might leave.

That said, If a writer doesn't follow up with you on anything, that doesn't mean your comments were bad. It might just be the writer's style to process and make changes alone. Even if you "misinterpret" their work, or even dislike it, all perspectives bring something to the table. Giving the writer insight into how one might "misinterpret" and/or dislike what they've written can be just as valuable as the betas who loved it.

Regardless, it's important to comment in a respectful way—respectful to the writer and what types of feedback they request, the story itself, and yourself as a reader. We are all growing and learning together, and miscommunication or writers and betas who have misaligned goals can lead to hurt on both sides. Hopefully this longass post gave you some insight into how/why that happens, and how to avoid it in the future.

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ANYWAY that was a lot. I hope you got something out of this, because it took a week to write this up lmao

–mj

P.S. I am considering doing another in this series focusing on writers and how to handle comments (good and bad). If you'd be intersted in that let me know <3

P.P.S. if you'd like to be tagged in this series, message me or comment below!

[serpentsapple]

(This post will contain mild spoilers for Yellowface. There will also be brief mentions of racism.)

Yellowface was a breath of fresh air!

Hello, welcome, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I honestly thought this blog would be abandoned to inactivity until now when I received renewed vigour to write for it. The cause is simple, really. I finally found another book I thought was worth talking about regarding its portrayal of women.

Now this may surprise you but we don’t particularly enjoy expelling negative energy on books. We started this blog out of a naïve hope that perhaps we would be put in touch with like minds and find books that speak to us. Fast-forward a few years on and that hope was dashed. My co-partner had grown busy with other pursuits and equally had few words to speak on anything literary, and we packed up this blog prepared never to update it again.

That is, until, my saving grace came in the form of a most unexpected source.

I had heard whispers of Yellowface prior to its publication but I admit after reading its premise and a few advanced reviews, it didn’t seem like anything I would be interested in. How it pleases me to be wrong in this instance! And to have taken a chance after having seen a few friends speak its praises. The premise to Yellowface is a simple one: set in a contemporary America, Juniper Hayward steals the manuscript of her deceased Asian female friend and passes it off as her own, and this callous act of self-serving ego rockets her to stardom.

Juniper Hayward is one of the best female protagonists I’ve read in quite a long time.

Before I continue, I want to make a few things clear: Juniper Hayward is no feminist icon. She is racist. She is egocentric, prideful, catty, self-interested. She is, in all respects, the villain of the story and the orchestrator of her own misery. And yet… and yet… she compelled me. She reflected an ugly side of being an artist I longed to see portrayed by a woman. While she is the furthest thing from an aspirational and awe-inspiring individual she was so startlingly human, so flawed, so hungry, that I couldn’t get enough of her. I devoured Yellowface in the span of two days and afterwards I was left utterly enthralled by Juniper and Athena both and their parasitic, competitive friendship. 

Deep down, I’ve always suspected Athena likes my company precisely because I can’t rival her. I understand her world, but I’m not a threat, and her achievements are so far out of my reach that she doesn’t feel bad squealing to my face about her wins. Don’t we all want a friend who won’t ever challenge our superiority, because they already know it’s a lost cause? Don’t we all need someone we can treat as a punching bag?

This is the sort of representation I was looking for! Women who are deeply driven by their own want and ambition, compelled to succeed until it takes them to unprecedented heights (or leads to an almighty fall). I truly commend Kuang for bringing these women to life, setting them in a book filled with equally dimensional and awful female side characters, with nary a prominent male presence to be found unless they serve the narrative. It was a genuine pleasure to read about Juniper and her desire to be recognised for her writing accomplishments, to create and leave something behind that was bigger than herself:

A musician needs to be heard; a writer needs to be read. I want to move people’s hearts. I want my books in stores all over the world. I couldn’t stand to be like Mom and Rory, living their little and self-contained lives, with no great projects or prospects to propel them from one chapter to the next. I want the world to wait with bated breath for what I will say next. I want my words to last forever. I want to be eternal, permanent; when I’m gone, I want to leave behind a mountain of pages that scream, Juniper Song was here, and she told us what was on her mind.

Juniper Hayward is a protagonist on par with Humbert Humbert. A loathsome figure full of pitiful self-excuses and delusional rationalisations for the wrongs they commit. You feel disgust with them, you feel for them, you yearn to understand them, but what you can never do is ignore them.

Plagiarism is an easy way out, the way you cheat when you can’t string words together on your own. But what I did was not easy. I did rewrite most of the book. Athena’s early drafts are chaotic, primordial, with half-finished sentences littered all over the place. Sometimes I couldn’t even tell where she was going with a paragraph, so I excised it completely. It’s not like I took a painting and passed it off as my own. I inherited a sketch, with colors added only in uneven patches, and finished it according to the style of the original. Imagine if Michelangelo left huge chunks of the Sistine Chapel unfinished. Imagine if Raphael had to step in and do the rest.

And what I love most is that, penned by an Asian woman like Kuang, there is no chance for Juniper to escape accountability for her vile misdeeds. The author holds her up in all her contemptible glory, with no veneer of justification to be found, and invites you to observe and cast your judgement. She tapped into the gnawing resentment that eats away at every writer in the publishing industry, each of us all clawing for the scraps of recognition those at the table see fit to toss our way until we all turn on each other. Why her? Why not me? Is it because I am not pretty enough? Not charismatic enough? Am I simply too blandly white and heterosexual? Am I simply too unpalatable for the masses? On and on it goes, the gears turning, powering the engine of jealousy until it churns out a monster like Juniper. 

The attacks on the publishing industry and how it commodifies and weaponises identity to serve capitalist interests were particularly salient and incisive from Kuang, I like how she tackled both sides of an argument, exposing both of their respective shortcomings, and left no one unscathed.

She’s done this in all her other novels. Her fans praise such tactics as brilliant and authentic—a diaspora writer’s necessary intervention against the whiteness of English. But it’s not good craft. It makes the prose frustrating and inaccessible. I am convinced it is all in service of making Athena, and her readers, feel smarter than they are.

But best of all, I loved how much the story was so singularly focused on Juniper’s ambitions. There was no looming romance in the background threatening to infringe on the narrative. Juniper never took the chance to lament her lack of a traditional lifestyle, if anything, she scorns it. 

I couldn’t stand to be like Mom and Rory, living their little and self-contained lives, with no great projects or prospects to propel them from one chapter to the next. I want the world to wait with bated breath for what I will say next.

However, like all books, there are shortcomings. I won’t detail them here as they are not relevant to the nature of this particular post and don’t detract enough from the positives to bear mentioning. All in all, Yellowface was a pleasant and welcome surprise and I heartily encourage people to pick it up if you’re interested in reading about women wallowing freely in their dark sides.

[starry-snippets]

Hi! I was hoping I could get a matchup! I've only seen the first 3 episodes of JJBA part 1 so far so I need a character that I can look forward to rooting for no matter what happens. I don't mind what part they come from.

Name: Eren

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Straight

Zodiac Sign: Gemini

MBTI: INFJ

Personality: I'm pretty quiet in social settings but if someone talks to me first, I can keep a conversation going. I will occasionally go up to someone to initial a conversation but not very often.

With people that I'm close with, I'm very open and sarcastic. And I make a lot of self-depreciating jokes (even though I have a high self worth).

Likes: Reading, writing, anime, video games, Marvel, and listening to music (stuff like Hamilton, Panic! at the Disco and Offspring).

Dislikes: Spiders (deathly afraid of those), being forgotten when I'm gone, and disappointing those who I care about.

Looks: I'm 164cm (5'4") and have an average build (not too curvy but definitely not straight up and down). I have green eyes that everyone thinks are brown and curly/frizzy dark brown hair that is just below my shoulders.

Extra Info: I'm at university and am majoring in English and Writing. I regularly get distinctions and high distinctions with my assignments and have very high expectations for myself. I want to be a published author and have written several manuscripts.

Hopefully I've put a good amount of the right information and I hope the rest of your day goes well for you!

sorry for the delay here! i hope you've enjoyed jjba so far and this matchup!! @justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms also feel free to tell me if you like these characters when you've gotten to their parts! (pt 2 and pt 4)

MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS CAESAR!

☆ caesar would love talking to you! the way you don't talk over him and how you really listen to the deeper things he has to say, as many people stop listening once the bold flirting has concluded. he wouldn't force you to talk either, despite his own extroverted nature, caesar knows how to respect your wishes to be in silence if that's what you want! ☆ you two make a lot of jokes when you chat, and he really likes how you have a witty comment to all his snips. it's like he's met his equal when it comes to clever commentary and it's unfortunate for joseph whenever you two decide to include him in the banter. caesar likes that you're sarcastic and despite making depreciating jokes (which worried him at first) he knows you actually don't believe what you're saying (he does take the time to make sure you know those jokes aren't true) ☆ caesar LOVES that you appreciate music! listen to mamma mia! with him he's so enthralled. isn't ashamed at all to reenact scenes from musicals, especially the ones that involve him getting to be a gentleman. he'd sing along with you after minimal coaxing since he wants you to have to ask, but won't make you beg ☆ if you'd let him, caesar would read to you. it doesn't matter if it's text about how hummingbirds fly or the most eccentric young adult novel, he'd like to share the story with you by reading it to you. his voice is smooth and calming, and he loves the intimacy of sitting besides you while you read together (he's not there for the book, he's there for you) ☆ caesar isn't a fan of bugs but he doesn't actively hate them. he'd rather not deal with them, but he will purely so he can tease you a bit for being scared. he'll play it up, act like he's a hero saving you from a beast, when really he's just trapping it in a bubble before luring it outside

☆ your fears (besides bugs) line up too. caesar understands the fear of being forgotten - the fear of letting people down - too much. if you ever have nightmares about it or just need his reassurance he is there for you. he doesn't just understand, he feels it immensely. it hurts him that you hold the same fears, as it's an intense pain imagining it for himself and he knows it hurts you too. caesar wants to help in anyway he can ☆ he thinks your eyes are the most captivating, priceless, and mystical green eyes he's ever seen. he loves the way that depending on what you wear they look more brown, but caesar always finds himself lost in the shades of emerald, jade, and jasper that always twinkle at him. his favorite body part is likely your eyes, as he loves the expressions that you show him whenever you're together ☆ caesar LOVES your hair. he loves to play with your hair, loves to style it if you let him. you remind him of italy and of nature, with your green eyes and curly hair. caesar loves whenever you cuddle because you're shorter, as he can successfully be the big spoon and whenever he holds you close he can feel the softness of your pretty curls ☆ caesar loves to listen to you read your own stories to him. the way your voice becomes animated, how you may even change your voice when there's dialogue. he views it as you opening up part of your heart to him and he'll be damned if he doesn't take care of it ☆ in conclusion, caesar enjoys how you two differ in interests and behavior but have reached an understanding. you bring out the best in each other, and you accept the worst. it's like your best friends first, lovers second; perhaps evenly split

MY SECOND THOUGHT IS ROHAN!

☆ he's a shit and he's evil and he LOVES you. loves that he can get a rise out of you but you have something to say back. rohan is so intrigued by your calculated comebacks within seconds. he feels like he's finally met someone who can challenge him ☆ if you make a self depreciating joke he's playing it up most likely. he will do things like agree, or say stuff like "you're being too nice to yourself!" but only once you've gotten closer. close enough where you both know you can throw it at each other, where you both understand you have self worth that isn't impacted by the stupid comments of a smartassy friend ☆ rohan can't stand when you put on musicals and says he'll rather listen to nails on a chalkboard. but you know he's lying and he knows it too. rohan listens to your favorite musicals while he works out since running on a treadmill is a mindless activity for him. it's true he's not into it, but a smile comes on his face whenever he listens to "guns and ships" and he imagines you missing the timing during the rapid rapping ☆ really appreciates your eyes. the color, the shape, the emotion. rohan would convince you to let him do eye studies with them as a reference. likely when he's falling in love with you or when you've begun dating, either way he wants an excuse to sketch every single detail and bring it to life so he'll always be able to appreciate this part of you, even when he's gone (rohan hangs it up because he's "just proud of the drawing") ☆ pokes fun at you being scared of spiders. he doesn't mind them as we've seen, but he'll act like it's a big deal to take care of one that's bothering you. it'd be better off not to tell him in all honesty. with your other fears though, rohan understands and reassures you that no matter what he could never forget you. he tells you often that if you die before him (he just about prays you won't) he'll make the most beautiful art out of your ashes, and rohan truly means that ☆ rohan also loves drawing you, all of you, because of your hair. he likes to try new things and drawing your curls was originally difficult but after sketches upon sketches he's mastered inking your hair texture. you better not doubt if they look as beautiful as they're drawn, because he doesn't lie in his art ☆ makes fun of your height! despite making fun of it, he does love how the difference comes in handy when you're cuddling or when he's trying to annoy you a bit. he's immature, but he does know how to respect whenever you've had enough or how to console you if he goes too far ☆ he loves that you love to read and write. if you're a fan of his he'll be even more elated and have such an ego boost. don't even tell him his head is already inflated so big it's in the clouds. but also do tell him, because he'll sign all your copies and actually leave heartfelt messages (and a few stupid remarks) ☆ cares so much about your manuscripts. if you show him any of them he'll treasure it. he may act like it's not a big deal, but you can tell in the way he listens and provides feedback that he truly does care, and your happiness about it is why he's happy while you read. secretly loves when you give him feedback too, even when he acts like he won't possibly need it ☆ in conclusion, you two make each other better creators. you also keep each other in check, rohan needing it more than you... but still. rohan would go through so much for you and he may be a bit of a smarmy jerk, but he's more of a lovesick artist who's finally found his muse more than anything else

[kaylapocalypse]

The scenes in “strain” and “foam” in Icarus have changed things for me a lot and I’d like to thank you. That was the first time I’ve really had to evaluate a belief I didn’t know I had, which is that I can’t be strong and be cared for back in a lot of ways. I have EDS too and all the things Helios offered I’ve offered to other people but it never even occurred to me I guess that no one had ever offered them to me. Reading him say those things felt so visceral and strange and like he was pulling those things from my throat and my muscles and I had to take a break to cry. I realized that I believed that that wasn’t something anyone would ever offer me, and further that I couldn’t be offered it as I am. That in the role I always step into in everything in my life I prioritize my own competence over needs and that my responsibility to the other people requires me to be strong and unmoved by whatever is happening to me and do what the other person wants and needs (which I’ve known is not good and have been working on and the wicker king was normal for me or whatever people say to imply a life changing experience lmao, Ty for that too! I read it coming out of a friend breakup and after discovering I have terrible codependency issues and it was a terrifying mirror that I’ve used to put a lot of my behavior into context when I notice destructive and codependent things I’m doing. Been raised in a family that loves horror and was like huh this is the scariest thing I’ve read actually, other thrillers take note). I fully didn’t realize I could be the one climbing walls and also be physically cared for with my disabilities and that someone could let me be strong around them and for them and also let me be hurt and have needs and offer help. I’ve never even imagined that someone would notice those things about me, I always figured that if I needed help I would have to communicate it which I think is likely but like. I notice things about others and it never occurred to me that I could find someone who wanted to care about me in those ways too. Life changing, now I’m like hey dude btw did you know that you can be loved and someone could let you love them in the ways you need and let you help them and be solid and strong for them and also let you be fragile and support you and could see you and I’m always like [crying] what are you talking about but!!! I think it’s very true I just had never thought about it and why I believe otherwise bc I didn’t even know I didn’t think I could have an experience like that. But yeah, Icarus and Helios and you showed me that I held a very unhealthy belief and have given me so much more hope and also so gently explained to my soul it’s okay to be weak and strong and let me relax and work on changing things for myself and while I’ve known about a lot of stuff in this vein of myself and have gotten so much better I wasn’t aware of this and now I am and I’m changing and healing. Seeing a character offered what I need and it being explained to him his life could include rest and care and him having a disability in common with me was so cathartic and Helios just. Noticing him. Understanding he’s in agony AND he’s still navigating through it. Icarus not having to try to convince him at any point that he’s in pain, Helios just understanding. It really gave me a different understanding of how I want my life to be and healed things in me and taught me a lot and I don’t know how to thank you or even explain what it’s given me. Thank you so much

I’m in the middle of a really rough manuscript and this gave me so much strength to finish it. Thank you for taking the time to share this with me.

Im so happy that you read Icarus and that those chapters meant so much to you. I really hope that you are given the opportunity to meet people who want to give these things to you and understand that you deserve to be loved with generosity.

[mademoiselle-red]

I finally finished As Luck Would Have It, the Ralph/Laurie fic I’ve long wanted to write. It is the reason I started writing TC fanfic in the first place, I think. Going into this, I wanted to accomplish two things.

I wanted to write a “Laurie reunites with Andrew years after canon” fic that features a Laurie who has completely moved past his infatuation. I don’t believe I’ve seen this particular interpretation of his character in previous Andrew-reunion fics. The rather popular idea in fics of this genre, that after years of domestic contentment with Ralph, an older Laurie would still be hung up on and intensely wistful about a romantic friendship he had with a teenager for 8-10 weeks while convalescing at the hospital when he was 23 never rang true for me. I especially wanted to write against the “if not for Dave I’d have been with you” trope. I don’t buy that excuse. Laurie has agency. He’d have stayed to talk to Andrew if he —in his heart of hearts —wanted to. And I personally don’t believe the “taking Ralph on out of pity” interpretation. It contradicts everything Laurie has demonstrated about his true feelings for Ralph. He wants to be with Ralph, has always wanted to be with Ralph. His problem was believing that wanting was not a good enough reason, that his desires needed moral justification, that they had to serve a higher purpose in order to be ethically acceptable and dignified. In Ralph’s final letter, he finally finds the higher purpose he needed to sanction his desire.

So my story is about a man who runs into an old love he hasn’t seen in years and happily realizes that his heart has completely moved on. A man who can now remember and interpret the past with the wisdom and maturity of experience. He has a life, he has a partner, he has friends. His emotional needs are met. He is safely out of his quarter-life crisis era and has at least a decade to go before hitting a mid-life one. He’s in a good place. He doesn’t need Andrew in order to feel mature. And although Andrew still has a lot to figure out, Laurie is no longer interested in being a participant in Andrew’s personal journey. It doesn’t matter anymore, what Andrew thinks of his queerness, of Laurie, of Laurie’s partner.

But they are pleased to see each other, and it is nice to catch up with an old friend. They no longer fit into each other’s lives, but that’s ok. They get closure, and they end things on a good note. Andrew is a good man. Just not the right one for Laurie, and vice versa.

And then, Laurie moves on with his day: he had plans. He has a dinner date an old friend from Oxford, and receives a manuscript he’d been looking forward to reading. Meeting Andrew was an interesting interlude in his Friday afternoon, something he tells his partner about later in the evening as they rest in their armchairs at home. He and Ralph both know that this meeting with Andrew does not jeopardize their relationship in any way. They’ve long moved past that sort of jealousy and insecurity.

And this brings me to my second goal. I wanted to write a Ralph who feels secure in his relationship with Laurie after years of commitment. I don’t like to imagine Ralph as living for years (or decades!) in perpetual anxiety and feeling like he is on infinite probation with Laurie, ready to be abandoned at a moment’s notice. Thats understandable in the beginning of their relationship, when Laurie was still undecided and torn. I don’t like to imagine that persisting in the long-run. It sounds like a stressful and unhappy marriage. Not the future I imagine for Ralph and Laurie. They’d still squabble, as couples do, but not about commitment.

So in my story, Ralph is interested in how Laurie feels after meeting someone he loved during a difficult time in his life, but he is secure in their love and in the life they’ve build together. He knows Laurie is not going to leave him for Andrew. They both have always known that, deep down.

[astrovian]

So I was curious about the picture of the Geneva book with a blurb from AJ Finn, which is so prominent in that cover? I had never heard of him and like why wouldn’t they go with the blurb from Coben? Which led me to reading THE WILDEST story about Finn in the New Yorker. And Finn and RA follow each other on insta and now I’m very confused/intrigued. I don’t think they share a publisher (although who owns what imprints is very confusing to me) so why did Finn give the blurb? Do they know each other ? Does RA know Finn is (a con artist of sorts?) Anyway just needed to share this with someone lol

answer under the cut because, frankly, I always write answers that are way too long

(if you make it to the end - well done, and you also have my condolences on reading a bunch of rambling nonsense)

I presume you're referencing this article? I won't lie, I didn't read all of it because it's quite long & you get enough of an overview of his character/what they're talking about by the time you're a third of the way through

but like... yikes my friend

also, I assume you're talking about the paperback cover?

the thing to keep in mind with this white UK paperback cover is that it may not be the final copy but an early draft that was put together for the press event - the person who attended Faber & Faber's publishing event & took the photo admitted on Twitter that as far as they knew, it is probably an early proof (and therefore not the final design)

so that screams to me that they just needed a quick temporary cover for the event done up, and slapped a long quote on to fill up space, regardless of the source

that being said, perhaps it is the final cover - no one knows for sure at this stage, and I certainly won't pretend like I know anything about publishing or the publishing world

both hardcovers (US version on the left, UK version on the right) feature Coben instead of A.J. Finn which, as you say, makes a lot more sense

in regards to never hearing about him beforehand & therefore why did they make that choice over Coben: In all fairness, I hadn't heard of him either BUT I have heard the name of his book before in passing, The Woman in the Window. So even though it doesn't seem like he has a great personal reputation, his book is well-enough known in the genre so it's not a huge surprise to me he would have a quote there

idk maybe Faber & Faber thought he might have more name/brand recognition in the UK than Coben (who, from my understanding, is very US-centric in basically all his works)

I'd also say that most readers don't really follow the personal lives of writers as intensely as we do with other categories of celebrity - only if the writer is very openly just an extraordinarily shitty person to others online (*cough*J.K.Rowling*cough*). so it kinda sounds like Finn has a reputation within his industry... but I doubt that translates to most readers/the general public (e.g. the target audience of the quote)

it is, I do have to say (despite his questionable personal life), a good 'entice the person into picking up the book' quote though - much more attention-grabbing to a passer-by than Coben's "Outstanding" on the hardcovers

re: why Finn would have been passed the manuscript... idk either. though tbh I always kinda assume all companies are inter-related somehow - kinda like how there are basically a tiny handful of mega corporations who own most other companies in the world

yikes.

I obviously know nothing about the publishing industry, but I do vaguely recall reading that there was a lawsuit in the US in recent years trying to prevent this sort of monopoly happening in the publishing world (and failing)

tbh even if they aren't under the same publishing house, my non-publishing-knowledgeable brain assumes that RA's publishers probably just sent the story out to all the prominent publishers with the equivalent of a sticky note on it saying 'reviews by any of your authors in the thriller genre pls'

who knows - there may even be a link between them at Audible. idk, I haven't looked into it at all & I'm sure you could prove me wrong easily, but it's a possibility?

as to them following each other on social media... who knows. I will say, the only real connection between them that I see (in terms of them knowing each other in real life) is that they both live in NYC and/or were possibly introduced in passing at a publishing house/Audible etc.

tbh this is what I assume happened:

Faber & Faber (maybe Audible?) send out the manuscript to all major publishing houses asking for a generic review from a medium-to-well-known thriller author that they can use in the book's press -> Finn is handed it by his publisher, writes a short review, possibly gets paid for this -> RA gets shown said reviews, follows Finn on social media as a result (because hey, he just said something nice about your book, maybe DM him to say thanks?) -> Finn maybe messages him back to say "hey, no problem, congrats on the book" and follows RA back because... why not?

alternatively you could play through a bunch of different scenarios re: how they exactly know each other, but if I had to put money on it, I would assume that the reason they follow each other is exactly the same as in the scenario above no matter how they met/haven't met. RA's extremely polite & reaching out online to say 'thanks for the review' is 100% him

as to RA's knowledge about Finn's poor reputation... my guess is that he doesn't know (but does it really matter that he knows in this context?) and even if he does, if the man wants to publicly throw his weight behind a good review of Geneva... well, he's shitty, sure, but it's not like Finn's an equivalent to JKR

OR who knows - they may be best mates going back decades. no way to tell for sure.

but tbh I don't think it really matters... I doubt they know each other except on a purely passing-ships-in-the-night-purely-profressional basis

[abbatoirablaze]

TM Tragedy, Season 2, Chapter 17

Word Count:  2.7k

Warnings:  mentions of sexual assault, mentions of betrayal/mutiny amongst bikers, violence, aggression, dubcon smut, mentions of character death, mentions of gun violence, manipulation, regret. 

Jax’s POV

Tara and I drove back to my place. She was in her car, and I was on my bike. I couldn't shake the feeling of being lied to though. It seemed like she had known what was going on with my mom and Mandy but she never told me.

Truth be told, it was starting to piss me off.

First, she has those meetings with Alicia behind my back.  Then it turns out this whole time she'd been hiding that secret from me.

What else was I missing?

When I got back to the house, I parked next to my truck. Mikey's car was at the house.

"What are you doing here?"

"Dad..." she said, tears leaving her cheeks. She ran up to me and wrapped her arms around me, "please don't leave me..."

I pulled away from her and looked into her eyes, "what are you talking about?"

"I know mom's dying," she admitted, some more tears staining her cheeks, "please don't go nomad. I know I have Chibs...but he's not you. Both of my parents can't leave me."

I pulled her back to my body and began smoothing out her hair, "I'm not goin’ anywhere darlin. It's okay."

She continued to cry into my chest for a few minutes. When I had gotten her calmed down enough to get her inside, she had told me that they were releasing Alicia from the hospital tomorrow. She signed papers letting her leave, because as the doctor's had said, ‘there is nothing more they can do for her.’

I sat Mikey down at the table and took off my kutte. I was gonna sew my patches back on. Mikey looked surprised, "you aren't leaving?"

I shook my head, "no. Something happened to Mandy and your grandma...I can't leave til this shit is taken care of."

She smiled. Then she processed what I'd said, "something is wrong with Mandy and grandma?"

Then it was my turn to shake my head, "back when Bobby got out, there was an accident. Someone attacked them. I'm gonna level with you. As of right now, I don't want you going anywhere alone. Shit's gonna get messy. They raped Gemma and Mandy, and I ain't letting them do the same to you. Understand?"

She nodded, not questioning any of it. When I grabbed some thread and sat back down, she'd already pinned the patches where they needed to go. She took the needle and thread form me and began to sew it back on my kutte.

"I wanted to tell you," Tara said, bursting through the door after a few minutes, “I-“

"I get it," I said, only half lying, "you did the right thing. Keeping her secret. You didn't have a choice."

She gave me a soft smile and took a few steps into the kitchen. Mikey stopped sewing, "is this about what happened to Mandy and grandma?"

I nodded.

Tara looked at me, "she knows?"

"I had to explain it to her."

Tara held the comment I know she wanted to make in, "are you going after Zobelle?"

"Yeah," I nodded, "I'd do the same for you."

"You already did," she said eyeing Mikey, "I can't help but wondering. Your dad's manuscript. Would that be his solution? More violence?"

"If Gemma had gotten raped on John's watch, he'd have written a whole different book."

"Grandpa JT wanted to run away," Mikey said without a thought, "Page 449...he stayed though because he wanted to protect grandma and dad."

I turned to Mikey, "what?"

"Grandpa JT," she said, putting my kutte down, "he wanted to leave the sons. He was gonna have a vote to go nomad...but he didn't want grandpa Clay to be president. He wanted to make sure you and grandma were safe. He knew grandma wouldn't leave the club."

"How do you know this?"

"Mom."

Before I could respond Abel broke the awkward silence in the room. He began to cry. She ran to get him. As Tara and I went towards Abel's room there was a knock on the door. I pulled out my gun.

"It's alright," I said, looking at Tara, "it's okay."

It did little to sooth her. She looked nervous as all hell.  I opened the door to see Clay.

"Sorry," he grumbled, "I know it's late."

"I'll go check on Mikey and Abel," Tara said, trying to excuse herself, “Clay…”

I shook my head and put a hand on her waist, "I got him. Come on, Clay."

I handed Tara my gun and we both headed to Abels' room. Mikey was standing by the crib, rocking him. I smiled, "you remind me of your mom, holding a baby that young. You even look like her too."

She smiled and handed Abel off to me. I handed him off to Clay who sat down in the rocking chair and began to coo at him. He looked at me, "I'm sorry son."

"So am I."

"What they did to your mother and sist-"

"I know," I said cutting him off, “I know…”

"Charges pending," he sighed, "feds in town. This retaliation needs to be smart. You know I can't do it without you, Jax."

I took a second and looked at him. He was serious. I shrugged, "I'm not going anywhere after tonight."

He stood up and handed Abel back to me. I kissed him before handing him off to Mikey, "can you take him to the living room with Tara?"

"So how do you wanna handle it?" Clay asked.

I sucked in my cheeks. As much as I didn't want to react rash, things had gone too far, "we kill em all."

Clay nodded and hugged me, "we do it together, alright son?"

I nodded.

Clay’s POV

"Guessing this has to do with those patches being on your kutte?" Bobby said, referring to how Jax sat at the table when we called for church.

Jax nodded, "Yeah, I'm not going nomad."

"That's good news Jackie boy."

"Just listen up," Jax said, looking at me, "we have to talk."

"Night of Bobby's party," I said, trying to keep a level voice, "Gemma and Mandy never drove into no barricade. They were jumped on 18. They uh...took them to the utility house. Three of Zobelle's men. They gave Gemma a message to deliver to me. Stop selling guns. They raped our girls."

Chibs looked at me, eyes wide, "oh god."

I could hear collective gasps and 'sorry brother' from the guys.

"We know they were Zobelle's men," I sighed, looking at Jax, "Gemma got a good ID on Weston."

"What do we do?" Opie asked, looking at me.

"We get god damn bloody," Chibs roared, "and then we chop their goddamn heads off."

"That's it!"

"YES!"

"NO!" I said. The guys looked at me. The shock was palpable.

"We ain't ever seen an assault like this," Jax said, taking their attention off me, "as much as I would like to cut their hearts out, a show of force would just land us all back in jail. We gotta do what they've been doing. You know. Find a weakness. Unravel then."

"And until then," I added, "nobody reacts. You see Zobelle, you see Weston, you see any of the crew you—you swallow every urge to kill em and you walk on. Understood?"

Chibs and Tig were biting their cheeks as they agreed.

Bobby looked at me, "we gotta get our hands on some guns. Cupboards are bare."

"Chinese gun source is laying low since the immigration snafu," I admitted, "It's gonna be weeks before we see any of that shit."

"We gotta tap our personal stock," Jax admitted, "I have Mandy, Gemma, and Alicia collecting from your old ladies and the CaraCara connections right now. Everyone bring in what you have."

The guys agreed and we broke off.

"Juice, stay."

Tig, Chibs, and Jax stared at us, but I waved them off. He sat back down in his chair. Tig closed the door behind him.

"What'd ya need Clay?"

"I want you workin close with me on this," I admitted, "Those assholes hurt our girls...and they're gonna pay."

"I know."

"I'm glad that Amanda has you," I said, looking up from the table. He looked completely confused. I began to shake my head, "not just because of this situation...but for everything. You understand her, and you've helped her more than you know."

"Clay I-"

"Shut up," I said, cutting him off, "I want to be pissed off at you. I wanna murder you for knocking my little girl up...but last night I was thinking about what kinda boat she'd be in if you hadn't...she's not on any birth control or anything...I know what Oswald's daughter had been going through because Mandy talked to her, but to think about what would've happened...if they stole her virginity and knocked her up...I don't think she would have been strong enough to handle that...I don't know, maybe it's a god send that you two did end up together...or maybe it's just the musings of an old man going crazy."

"It's not crazy," he said, releasing the words I'd hoped he would say, "Amanda and I talked about that...a lot. We didn't intend on me knocking her up...but we're both glad it happened. And I just want you to know, Clay, I'm not going to fuck it up with her. I love Amanda."

I stood up. Every paternal instinct in me wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and tell him that he wasn't good enough for my baby girl...but I couldn't. I know that he cared about her. I know that he loved her.

He stood up and walked in front of me so that we stood eye to eye, "I'll kill anyone that hurts her, or the baby. Even Rizario. I want you to know that, Clay. I want to marry Mandy one day. I want her to have my crow."

"You don't care about the attack?"

"Mandy and I have been through a lot," he admitted. I could see the tears forming in his eyes, "when I found out what happened, I was devastated. But that doesn't change how I feel about her, Clay."

I looked the little Rican up and down.  Even I had to admit, the kid had some balls.  I put a hand on his shoulder, and he nodded to me. I wrapped my arm around him and started leading him into the clubhouse, "come on kid. I'm sure your old lady's gonna think something's up if I hold you up for too long."

He smiled at me and nodded, and we headed into the clubhouse.

"Everything okay boss?" 

I nodded at Tig, "yeah.  Do me a favor.  I'm gonna get with Bobby, and we're gonna tap our stocks from what we have here.  Gemma should be at the house, getting our stock together.  See if she needs any help." 

Tig nodded, and he was off.  I looked at Bobby.  He was nursing a cold one at the bar, "come on, Elvis.  We've got a long day ahead of us."  

Tig’s POV

Clay had sent me over to get the guns, but that wasn't what I'd done.

No, I'd done something much worse.

After he'd told us in church what had happened, I tried to feign surprise. I tried to pretend that I didn't know...but I was just another guy filling a room. It was a god send that Clay didn't see through my charade.

When I got to the house, Gemma was there in nothing but a paper-thin robe.

I wanted to be respectful.

But everything felt tense.

I couldn't shake this feeling that she wanted me, for some unknown reason.

It wasn't until she kissed me, I knew I wasn't dreaming.

It was primal.

The need to be wanted. I pushed her up against the wall, but she flipped around. I undid my pants and slid into her. A few thrusts in, and I made the damn mistake of looking down.

A shattered picture of Jax and Thomas.

My thrusts stopped, and she must have realized what I was looking at. She ran off, and I did the same, forgetting entirely about the guns.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why did I do that?

I tried to put my mind in a different spot by the time I got back to TM. Ope was working on a bike he'd been restoring for a while.

"Wow," I admitted, "looks sweet Ope. You've done a great job restoring that bad boy."

"Yeah."

Damn it, give me something to work with.

"Need a hand?"

"Nope," he said, "I'm all good."

I stood there for a moment, and my mind went from Gemma to that night...with Donna. FUCK

"All right," I replied. There was a pause, and I went with the first thing on my mind, "Awful thing...Gemma."

"Yeah," he said, finally paying attention to me. He got a look on his face, "you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lied, "can I ask you a question, Ope?"

"What's that?" He asked, raising a brow.

"The night that Donna was killed...why was she driving the truck?"

SHIT!

You fucking asshole, why would you ask?

"I was taking the kids home," he said with a shrug, "needed the back seat. Why are you asking me that?"

"She wasn't supposed to be in the truck, Ope."

He stood up and looked me in the eyes.  My heart raced.  I had to get this shit off my chest. Fuck secrets and lies.

Clay's right.

I can't fucking do this kind of bull shit.

The calm, peaceful Ope evaporated before me, and he grabbed me, slamming me into the tow truck, "YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

I felt the punches land. 2 or 3 to the face and I felt dizzy, sliding down the truck.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" he screamed as he pulled me up again, "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"It was Stahl, Ope," I said with a sniffle, unsure if it was blood or snot from my crying, "she made you a rat. She's the one that killed Donna...me and Clay...we didn't want to believe it."

"I came clean," he growled, "Clay and I were good."

"We found wire taps in your truck, brother," I replied, "In your phone. The feds put money into your accounts. Stahl-she wanted to make us think you had turned. It was supposed to be you in the truck, not Donna."

"OPIE!"

"I'm sorry, Opie," I cried, "I'm so sorry!"

"CLAY!"

The guys ran over to us, staring at my bloody mess, Clay knew.

"What the hell did you say to him?" He all but yelled, "Tell us!"

"I don't even know who I am anymore, man."

"What are you talking about?"

"I had to tell him, Clay."

"Tell him what?"

"That I killed Donna," I cried, "I had to."

"Jesus Christ," I heard one of the guys gasp.

"It was Stahl's fault," I cried, "Opie knows."

"Opie knows what?" Jax asked.

"It was Stahl's fault," I said as Opie rushed out of the TM lot, "Opie knows."

"Opie knows that?"

"Sthal's the one who really killed Donna."

"Shit," Jax growled, "he's going after Stahl. SHIT!"

Piney and Bobby looked at Clay, before looking at me. They shook their heads walking away from us.

"You fucking ass."

"I had to tell him, brother," I cried, wiping more tears away. He shook his head at me, walking off. When everyone cleared, I saw her standing there, “I’m so sorry.”

Mandy.

My best friend.

She looked upset...but there was no judgement. She walked up to me, and put out a hand, "come on. We gotta get you cleaned up."

I nodded, and used her arm to help support me, "thank you."

"You've never judged me," she whispered, helping me back to the dorms. By the time she sat me down on the bed, Tara was coming through the door, “and I’m not gonna judge you.”

"What the hell?"

"I told Sack to get her when the fight broke out," she sighed. I nodded, and Tara checked for signs of a concussion. Apparently, my head hit the truck pretty hard during the third punch.

Chapter 18

Tag List:  @lohnes16 @evyiione

[dottielovegood]

ASMR - Chapter 6

Elriel fanfiction

About this fic:

Azriel can’t sleep Elain has an ASMR channel Match made in heaven (or you know, on youtube..)

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You can find chapter 1 here, chapter 2 here, chapter 3 here, chapter 4 here and chapter 5 here.

Read this fic on AO3

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When Friday was just around the corner, Azriel was a nervous mess.

He had cleaned his apartment twice, which he understood was a weird thing to do since she wasn’t even coming to his house. He had tried on every item of clothing in his wardrobe. He had googled ‘conversation topics first date’ and written a few down on his phone. He had even gotten a haircut.

He hadn’t been able to sleep at all that week. It felt weird to look at her videos when he had met her and talked to her. It felt like an invasion of privacy, even though it wasn’t. The videos were on the internet for everyone to see, yet Azriel couldn’t bring himself to watch her videos. So he didn’t sleep.

The day before the date, Azriel had decided to get her flowers. But when he stood in a flower shop and the person behind the register asked what kind of flowers he wanted, he just walked out of there. He had no idea what kind of flowers to give to a florist. He knew that certain flowers had certain meanings, and even though he had no idea what any flower meant, a florist probably knew. What if he bought flowers that said ‘I hate you’ or ‘happy funeral’?

Azriel couldn’t risk it, so he bought some chocolate instead. All women like chocolate, right?

But when he came home, his mind did that thing it always did when he was sleep-deprived: it questioned his every decision. What if Elain is lactose intolerant? What if she’s vegan? What if she is the only person on planet earth who hates chocolate? What if the different flavors of chocolate have meaning, just like flowers? Maybe you bought some sort of ‘happy funeral-chocolate’?

In an attempt to get these intrusive thoughts out of his mind, he went to the gym. He worked out for two hours, which was a bit excessive. The gym played shitty gym-music and every single person made weird sounds. It was the perfect distraction. For now.

Azriel hoped that his workout would help with his insomnia, too. He hoped that if he lifted enough weights and ran a few more miles than usual, perhaps he would be able to sleep. It had never worked before, but, as his mother used to say; “hope is the last thing that leaves you.”

However, after tossing and turning for three hours, he could safely say that the workout had done nothing to help him sleep. He couldn’t understand how a person could be so fucking tired, but still unable to sleep. He was almost going a bit crazy at this point. For the past weeks, Azriel had gotten used to falling asleep to Flower Girl ASMR’s videos. He had gotten used to her sweet voice rocking him to sleep. The insomnia was almost worse now that he knew how good it felt to have a decent night’s sleep.

Azriel looked at his phone. It was almost 02.30 in the morning. Fuck, he muttered to himself. He really didn’t want to be a tired mess on the date tomorrow. He had to put his best foot forward, and he knew he couldn’t do that if he hadn’t slept well for almost a week.

Maybe he should just watch one of her videos? She would obviously never know.

After debating with himself for a few minutes, he decided that Elain deserved to meet a well-rested Azriel, so he opened the YouTube app and found her latest video.

Azriel held his breath as her face filled his screen. God, she was lovely. Her smile could light up the darkest of nights, and her sweet voice was like a calming balm for his soul.

He put the phone in his chest and just listened. Slowly and gently, her whispers lulled him to sleep.

Azriel woke up relaxed, but nervous. He only had a half-day at work because Rhys had decided to send everyone home early today to celebrate that Feyre was pregnant. He was taking her on a spa weekend. She was only a few weeks pregnant, but Azriel knew that she would be the most pampered woman in the world during this pregnancy. This weekend was just the beginning. If she suddenly got a craving for pickle smoothies with whipped cream and sprinkles, Rhys would 100% make her one every day. And that is saying something since this man almost threw up every time someone opened a pickle jar in his vicinity.

“Any cool plans tonight, Az?” Cassian asked as he started to pack up his belongings.

Azriel wanted to tell him about the date. He wanted to share the nervousness with someone - anyone. But he couldn’t. Cass knew who she was. Nesta had known her since college. If this didn’t go well, Azriel would never hear the end of it. So he lied.

“No, nothing special. You?”

“I was going to take Nesta out for a date to celebrate that it has been four years since she agreed to go on a date with me…”

Azriel laughed. “After you had panted after her for like two years you mean?”

“Exactly!” He smiled. Cassian sure seemed like a big brute the first time you met him, but he was actually a soft teddy bear. He was never ashamed when people mentioned that he had been trying to win Nesta over for years before she agreed to date him. He just felt like he had won a prize. It was very sweet.

“However,” he continued. “She has to work late. Apparently, one of her authors had plagiarized fanfiction, which Nesta found out about like a week before the book went to print. So obviously, Nesta is livid and I do not want to be close to her until this is resolved.”

Nesta owned a publishing company that focused on publishing romance novels, which didn’t surprise anyone. Nesta had always loved romance books. In her words; the smuttier, the better. Azriel always found them a bit cringy. It was like reading porn. But truth be told, he had read a few books that Nesta had recommended, and they had taught him a thing or two.

“What the hell is fanfiction?” he asked Cassian.

Cassian shrugged. “I’m not completely sure, but apparently this author had just copied something from the internet and changed the names of the characters and sent it in as a manuscript.”

“Weird. I understand that Nesta is pissed.”

“Yeah. So, you wanna do something? Take out and a game?”

“No, I can’t,” Azriel lied.

“You just said that you didn’t have any plans.”

Fuck.

“Yeah, well. I said that I didn’t have any special plans, not that I didn’t have any plans.”

Implying that his date with Elain was “not special” made him feel like shit.

Cassian eyed him suspiciously. “You’re going on a date.”

“What? no.”

Cassian laughed and slapped Azriel’s back. “Yes, you are. You have that date-look all over your face.”

“What the hell is a date-look?” he asked, but Cassian didn’t answer.

“Who are you going out with? Do I know her? Is she hot?”

Azriel held up a hand to stop the onslaught of questions. “You don’t know her,” he lied.

Cassian grinned. “So, you are going on a date?”

“You just said that I had a date-face?”

“Yeah, that was a lucky guess. So, what’s her name?”

“None of your business, Cass.”

“Wow, what a beautiful name,” Cassian teased. “But I get it. You like being secretive. Can you at least tell me how you met?”

“The internet.”

Cassian let out a fake gasp. “Stop the presses and hold your horses. Azriel downloaded a dating app? Can pigs fly now, too?” He made a point of looking out the window.

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Azriel slung his bag over his shoulder and started walking towards the elevator. Cassian was just behind him.

“So, can I see a photo?”

“No.”

“What if you’re getting catfished?”

“I’m not.”

“Well, you can never be sure. One time, this girl, or actually, it was an old man…”

“Cass, please. Just let it go,” Azriel interrupted. “There’s a reason why I never tell you guys when I go on dates.”

“Dates? You’ve been going on multiple dates without telling me? I’m wounded, Azriel.”

Azriel rolled his eyes and stepped into the elevator. When the elevator reached the ground floor, Azriel got out. Cassian had his car in the underground parking garage. Just before the doors closed, Cassian called out for Azriel. “You might need this.” He threw something at Azriel, and Azriel didn’t see what it was until he caught it.

It was a condom.

With a grin, Cassian disappeared behind the big, metal elevator doors.

Azriel shook his head and looked down at the small foil packet in his hand. Cassian really was the worst.

A few hours later, Azriel was almost ready to leave for the date. He was wearing black trousers and a dark grey knitted sweater. And blue socks. Cobalt blue, to be exact. Azriel had a thing about colorful socks. He mostly dressed in black, but he didn’t own a single pair of black socks. These blue socks were his favorites, though. He loved cobalt blue.

Azriel was checking the route to the bar when an incoming phone call made his phone vibrate (he had put his phone on mute and deleted Barbie Girl from his phone, thank god!).

It was Elain calling.

Azriel felt his heart drop. Nobody called just before a date unless they wanted to cancel.

With a sigh, he answered the phone. He tried to sound cheery. “Hello, Elain.”

“Azriel! I’m so happy you picked up.” She sounded out of breath.

“Anything wrong?” Azriel asked.

“Well. Kind of… have you left your apartment yet?”

“No, not yet. Why?”

There was a short pause, and Azriel could have sworn that he heard her swear under her breath.

“Well, I won’t be able to make it. I’m so sorry. And I’m so sorry for calling this late. I was really looking forward to our date, I promise.” She really did sound apologetic.

“Has anything happened?” Azriel asked, suddenly a bit worried.

“No… Or actually, yes. I fell when I got out of the shower earlier. I thought that I just needed to rest, but I can’t walk,” she let out a pained laugh. “I’m such a clutz.”

Azriel hated that she was trying to make light of the situation. He hated that she was hurt. “Elain. If you can’t walk, you should probably go to the ER,” Azriel said.

“Oh, no. I called my neighbor. Madja. She’s a doctor. She said that I had just sprained my ankle.”

“Okay…” Azriel didn’t know what else to say.

“Can we reschedule?” Elain asked. “I really wanted to see you tonight.”

Azriel was used to being rejected. He was used to not trusting new people. But somehow, he trusted Elain when she said that she wanted to see him.

“Of course we can reschedule. I was really looking forward to meeting you too.”

“Really?” He could hear the smile in her voice. It made him smile.

“Yes. I’m av…”

Azriel was interrupted by a hiss from Elain.

“Are you okay?” he asked, ready to steal a car, drive over her to her place, and get her to the hospital. Maybe it was a good thing that he didn’t know her address.

“Mhm, I’m fine. I just.. moved.”

“Elain. Do you have a friend or family member coming over to help you?”

There was a stretch of silence. “No, I’m fine. I don’t need help.” Her tone was too positive and cheery. Azriel didn’t believe her one bit.

“Have you had dinner?”

“I was planning on making some instant ramen.”

Azriel frowned. “And how are you going to do that when you can barely move? Also, that’s not good enough for dinner.”

She didn’t answer for a while. “I’m fine. I promise.” He could hear her voice break on the last syllable. She was not fine.

“Elain. Please, will you let me get you some food? I don’t have to come in if you don’t want me to. Just, let me get you something to eat.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to. If you’re willing to give me your address, I’ll be there in just a bit.”

She hesitated. “You probably have something better to do.”

“I don’t. Now please, let me get you some food.”

He didn’t just want to get her some food. He wanted to make sure that she was alright. He didn’t want her to sit all alone in her apartment when she couldn’t walk.

He wanted to take care of her.

After a small eternity, he could hear her whisper “Okay.”

45 minutes later, he was outside her building with sushi (she had said that she liked it) and a bag full of snacks. He didn’t know what she liked, so he had bought a little bit of everything.

A short, old lady walked out the door, and Azriel caught it with one hand. He didn’t want to call her and make her come to the door right now, so he snuck in.

Elain had told him that she lived on the sixth floor, so he quickly made his way up the stairs. He couldn’t risk being caught in an elevator right now.

He found the door with her name on it and raised his hand to knock. And then he froze.

What am I doing? he thought to himself. He had basically asked her for her address and then invited himself to bring her food. He knew that she had a bad history when it came to men. What if she just didn’t want to say no because she thought that it would hurt his feelings?

Azriel contemplated leaving the food outside the door and text her when he was a safe distance away.

“Azriel, is that you?” someone called from the apartment. Elain.

Azriel had to swallow the lump in his throat. “Yes,” he called back. “Do you want me to leave the food outside the door?”

“No, come in. The door is open.”

With a deep breath, Azriel gathered his courage and reached for the doorknob.

He walked into a small hallway that opened up to a quaint kitchen. Elain was nowhere in sight. The kitchen was bright and welcoming. The walls were painted light green and the cabinets were white. Azriel could see a few cookbooks on her windowsill, which made him smile. Most people didn’t own cookbooks nowadays - they just found recipes online.

“In here,” Elain called. Azriel made his way through the kitchen and into the living room. His first thought was that the room really seemed to fit Elain. The dark wooden floor was a nice contrast to the white walls. Not that you saw much of the walls since they were covered by a built-in bookshelf and a gallery wall full of botanical prints. And there were plants in every nook and cranny. There was a dark green velvet couch in the middle of the room, and on it sat Elain. Or actually, she was half-seated, half laying down. Her foot was propped up with a few pillows. There was a coffee mug on the table in front of her, and beside the couch, he could see a worn leather chair.

Elain was smiling at him as he entered the room. When he smiled back, she put the back of her hand against her forehead, which made her look like a damsel in distress from one of those old Hollywood movies. “You came for me,” she exclaimed in an awful fake southern accent. “My hero!”

Azriel couldn’t help but laugh. Elain was wearing black leggings and an oversized shirt. Her hair was gathered into a ponytail. She was beautiful, Azriel thought to himself as he sat down in the leather chair, giving her all the space she needed on the couch.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Madja said that it seems to be a mild ankle sprain, and I should be up and running in like one to two weeks. Honestly, I feel more stupid than anything else.”

“Why?” Azriel asked.

“Well, I didn’t want to cancel our date. And who falls out of the shower? I really am the clumsiest person in Velaris,” she joked. “Yesterday, I dropped a full cup of coffee over my new, white shirt. And the day before that, I poked my friend Nuala in the eye with a flower.”

“You… poked her in the eye with a flower?”

Elain laughed. “Yes. Her eye was red for hours.”

Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Azriel thought that he could drown in those eyes. He wanted her to look at him forever.

But he didn’t want to intrude. “Do you want me to leave? I could just leave the food here with you.”

Elain bit her inner cheek, suddenly looking very nervous. “Would you...Didn’t you buy food for yourself?”

“I did. But I don’t have to eat with you if you want to be alone.”

“I…” she took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be alone.” It was barely a whisper.

“So, you want me to stay?”

Elain nodded, a lovely pink color spreading across her cheeks.

“Okay.” Azriel unpacked the sushi from the bag and offered her a choice of drinks. “We have lemon, elderflower, and regular coke. I didn’t know what you preferred.”

“Elderflower, please.”

She was still blushing. Azriel couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable or just nervous.

Azriel handed her the drink and opened the coke for himself.

Elain sat up slowly and reached for her chopsticks. Since she had to sit with her leg raised, she couldn’t exactly lean over the coffee table, so Azriel placed the sushi on a pillow in her lap.

“Thank you,” she said and put a few pillows behind her back. From where he sat, he could only see the back of Elain’s head now. He wanted to move the chair so he could look at her, but he didn’t want to come off as creepy.

And he was actually quite happy that they couldn’t see each other when she took a bite of her food and let out a sigh. It was just a sigh, but somehow it was the most erotic sound Azriel had ever heard. He blushed and made a point of looking at his food.

“God, this is so good, Azriel. Thank you. I was really hungry.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Lunch,” she said under her breath and took another bite of sushi. Azriel looked at his watch. She hadn’t eaten in more than seven hours. And she was going to make instant ramen if he hadn’t shown up. Suddenly, he felt a bit better about the situation.

When Azriel looked up from his food, Elain was looking at him over her shoulder.

“Is this weird?” she asked. “Is it weird that I asked you to stay? I know it isn’t fun…”

“I kind of remember that I was the one who asked for your address, and then showed up at your doorstep with food. I promise that I wouldn't have done that if I didn’t want to. If anything, I’m weird for showing up like this.”

She laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “No, you’re not weird. You’re kind. I’m just not used to this.”

Azriel frowned. “Not used to what? Kindness?”

Elain looked away, but Azriel didn’t miss the slight nod. “My ex never came over when I was sick. He said that I was boring and that he had better things to do…”

Azriel felt his hands curl into fists. “Is this the same ex that cheated on you and now leaves hate on your videos?” he gritted out.

Another nod. “Yes. But there has been almost no hate since you helped me block those words.” She smiled at him, and he could tell that she wanted to change the subject.

“That’s good to hear.”

Azriel wanted nothing more than to ask where this asshole lived so he could go and kick his ass, but he tried to act civil for Elain’s sake.

“I’m sorry for talking about him,” she said. “You should never talk about exes on dates and…” Her eyes grew wide when she realized what she said. “Not that this is a date or anything,” she corrected herself. “I mean, it would be a pretty shitty date.”

She was flustered, and Azriel couldn’t hide the big grin on his face. She was so cute.

“Elain. Do you want this to be a date?”

“Do you?”

He knew that she needed to hear him say it. “Yes.”

A shy smile played on her face. “Me too.”

“Then it’s settled. This is our first date,” Azriel declared.

Elain’s smile grew. “So there’s a chance for more dates?”

“Don’t be greedy,” Azriel teased. Elain stuck out her tongue and turned around again, facing her food.

I want to taste that tongue, Azriel thought.

Damn those intrusive thoughts.

“I can’t believe that I’m wearing leggings on our first date.”

Azriel didn’t say anything to that. He could complain about anything that tight.

God, what was wrong with his brain tonight?

“You look so good, and I look like this,” she pointed at her hair. “I had even bought a new dress for tonight.”

This piqued Azriel’s interest. “Really? Tell me what it looks like and I can imagine you in it.”

Or out of it.

Stupid fucking brain.

Elain pointed somewhere behind Azriel. “Well, it’s right there.”

On a door that Azriel assumed led to her bedroom, hung a blue dress.

Cobalt blue.

His favorite color.

He grinned and pulled up one pant leg and showed her his sock “We would have matched.”

Elain let out a heartfelt laugh, which made Azriel all warm inside. He loved seeing her happy. He liked knowing that he was the reason for said happiness.

“I didn’t take you for a man that wears colorful socks,” she said, still laughing. “First Barbie Girl, and now colorful socks. I’m starting to think that there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises.”

There was a stretch of silence again. It wasn’t uncomfortable though. Even though they didn’t know each other well yet, Azriel could already tell that Elain was one of those people that he just instantly could relax around.

“Elain, this might be a weird request. But can I move this chair so I’m not staring at the back of your head?”

Elain turned around, cheeks pink again. “Yes,” she answered quickly, almost as if she had thought about the same thing.

He picked up the chair and quickly moved it to the other side of the couch. When he met Elain’s gaze, she was staring at him, mouth agape.

“What?”

“You’re strong.”

Azriel scratched his neck and laughed nervously, feeling a bit self-conscious. “Yeah, I work out.”

Wow, what a stupid fucking answer.

But Elain didn’t seem to mind. No, she was looking at him more intently now, and her eyes were not focusing on his face anymore. No, they were most definitely looking at his chest. “I can tell,” she said playfully. This felt very much like flirting,

Azriel wondered what she would think of the tattoos covering his skin underneath the shirt.

Azriel tried to remember the conversation topics he had written down on his phone, and after a few minutes, they were talking as if they had known each other for years. Azriel was surprised that she was so easy to talk to. Most of the time, he struggled with social situations. But with Elain, he felt comfortable. At ease.

“You’re very easy to talk to,” he told Elain. She rewarded him with a smile.

“So are you. It feels like we have known each other forever. I never thought that someone that slid into my DM’s would ever be this nice.”

At those words, Nesta’s face popped into Azriel’s mind. He should tell Elain that he knows Nesta. If it wasn’t for her, he would never have known that Elain lived in Velaris. If it wasn’t for Nesta, he wouldn’t have happened to run past her store that morning.

“I have a confession to make,” he said before he could change his mind.

Elain raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Please don’t tell me you’re trying to get me to join a cult.”

“Has that happened before?”

Elain shrugged. “More often than you think.”

“I’m not trying to get you to join a cult. I just… I wanted to tell you that I think that we have some mutual friends.”

She didn’t look surprised, but she didn’t say anything either, so Azriel continued.

“You know Nesta, right? I think you went to college together…”

Elain nodded.

“Well, she’s getting married to my best friend Cassian. I didn’t know that you knew them when I wrote to you, I promise. But it felt weird pretending like we don’t have people in common when we do. I’m sorry for not telling you earlier. I found out last week when Nesta saw one of your videos on my phone and asked me if I was a stalker.”

Azriel was blushing now. He was expecting silence, or maybe questions. But instead, he was met with laughter.

“She thought you were a stalker?”

Azriel shrugged, unable to find any good words.

“Well, I might also have a confession to make,” Elain announced. “I actually knew that you were friends with Nesta. That’s why I even answered your DM in the first place.”

“What?” Azriel couldn’t find better words than that.

“Yeah, when I scrolled through your Instagram I saw a photo from Rhysand’s and Feyre’s wedding, so I kind of figured out who you were then. Nesta had mentioned you once or twice before, so I knew you weren’t a creep. And then I saw that selfie when you were carrying a lasagna, and you looked so good, so I answered your DM.” Her blush had almost turned a deep red.

Azriel couldn’t help but grin. “You answered because I looked hot? You said that the lasagna looked tasty…”

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Want to hear another confession?”

Azriel nodded.

“Well, I kind of understood how to block words from the link you sent me, but I really wanted to talk to you more.”

Azriel’s mouth fell open in pretend shock. “Sneaky girl.”

“I’m sorry for not telling you earlier. I just…”

“No, no. It’s okay,” Azriel interrupted. “Do you want to hear another of my confessions?”

“Yes, please.”

Azriel put his elbows in his knees and leaned forward. He could tell that her eyes went to his biceps. Good.

“Well, when I first saw one of your videos, I thought that you might be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Elain blushed even more, the color spreading to her chest. Not that Azriel was looking there.

“Really?”

“Yes. And when we talked on the phone, you know, that time when you lied about needing my help,” Azriel winked at her. “I hadn’t laughed that much in ages. I was so bummed because I thought that you lived on the other side of the country or something.”

“But I didn’t.” She smiled.

“You didn’t.” He smiled back.

They spent the entire night in Elain’s living room, just talking. Without even noticing it, a few hours went by. When they finished the sushi, Azriel made a snack buffet on the coffee table, which made Elain laugh.

“We are going to be so sick if we eat all of this.”

“Well, someone told me that she might be bedridden for more than a week, so maybe you could save some for the upcoming days of rest and relaxation.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said and reached for the popcorn.

They continued flirting for the rest of the evening, but nothing explicit happened. They didn’t touch. Didn’t kiss. They just talked. It was all Azriel could have dreamt of. He had never felt so comfortable so quickly with anyone before. When it was close to midnight, he could tell that Elain was getting tired. After her fifth yawn, Azriel told her that he should probably get going.

She protested and then yawned again.

“Okay, I admit defeat,” she said and stretched. Azriel could see her stomach when her shirt rode up from the motion. It looked so wonderful and soft and…

He didn’t even have time to finish his thought, because Elain was trying to stand up by herself. Trying, and failing miserably.

“Could you help me to the bathroom?” she whispered and nodded to a white door just by the kitchen.

“Of course,” Azriel put his arm around her waist and supported her. She didn’t complain, but he could see the pain on her face. It hurt him to see her like this.

“I’m just gonna brush my teeth. Don’t go just yet.” She closed the door. Azriel leaned against the wall next to the door and dragged his hands through his hair.

He looked around the room, not quite believing that he was here. In Elain’s home.

This date had been even better than he could ever have imagined. He was actually quite happy that they hadn’t gone out, but he obviously didn’t like that the reason for staying home was that she was hurt.

The door opened again, and Elain looked at Azriel with a pale face. She was so obviously in pain. Azriel grabbed her around the waist again and held her up.

“Do you have any painkillers?”

She nodded. “By the bed. Could you help me? Just to the door.”

Azriel started leading the way, but after two steps Elain winced.

Azriel couldn’t take it anymore. “Hold on,” he warned her, and then he picked her up. She gasped and flung her arms around his neck. This was the closest they had ever been. One of his fingers graced the hem of her shirt. He could feel her skin there. He had to take a deep breath. “Is this okay?”

“Mhm,” she breathed, and he walked her to her room. He stopped at the door. It was a cozy bedroom. The walls were painted a dark blue and above her bed hung a giant painting with a floral motif in a gold frame.

“Nice room,” he said. He didn’t put her down. She had said that she only needed help to the door, but he couldn’t see her walking to her bed all by herself,

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to...” he started, but he was interrupted when Elain said his name.

“Azriel,” she repeated.

He looked at her then, her face just inches from his. He could see every freckle on her skin. He could count every eyelash. His eyes went to her plush lips, and then back to her eyes.

Had she noticed?

She had his attention now.

“Azriel,” she whispered. “Are you going to kiss me?”

Azriel was taken aback. He hadn’t expected that question. He didn’t mind, of course not. he was just surprised. She could probably see that in his eyes, because she quickly tried to smooth over it. “I mean, we don’t have to. I completely understand if you don’t want to, and I..”

Azriel kissed her temple to make her quiet. It worked very well. “You’re hurt.”

“Just my ankle,” Elain pouted. “Also, haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘kiss it better’?”

Azriel rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure that it means that you should kiss the place that hurts,” he teased.

“Eh, semantics. I think a kiss on the lips might do wonders.”

Azriel leaned in, almost touching his lips to her. Almost. “Oh, is that what you think?” he teased.

“Mhm,” she breathed.

Azriel stayed like that for a while, his lips just out of reach. He wanted her to beg. He wanted her to go crazy with want. With need.

But that was for another time. Right now, he just needed to kiss her.

Elain was tilting her head to get closer to him. Her mouth was slightly parted and her eyes scanned his before fluttering shut.

Offer and permission.

Azriel leaned in slowly and brushed his lips to hers. It was a feathery light touch. He could feel Elain shiver in his arms, and he held her closer. Tighter. He touched her lips with his again, and he knew he needed more. He tasted her lips once more, his tongue teasing her lower lip. Elain opened up for him, letting him in. She moaned when he deepened the kiss. When he pressed his lips more firmly to hers. When her tongue joined his. They were both panting, unable to stop. Elain’s hands went to Azriel’s hair, gently scraping his scalp while her tongue tangled with his. The sensation made Azriel crazy, and if she hadn’t been injured he would have lowered her to the bed and continued his kisses down her body until she was writhing underneath him, begging for more.

But she was hurt. And it was late.

Unwillingly, Azriel slowed down before breaking the kiss.

“More,” Elain panted and kissed his jaw.

Azriel chuckled. “Don’t be greedy.”

She pouted when he walked over to her bed, and it was the cutest pout Azriel had ever seen. It was so cute in fact, that he had to lean in again and kiss her lower lip. He didn’t know how it happened, but he was suddenly sitting on Elain’s bed with her in his lap. He was still holding her tight, her fingers still in his hair. Their lips were locked in another kiss. This one was even hotter. Even deeper. Azriel thought to himself that he didn’t need air if he could just taste these lips for the rest of his life.

After a small eternity, they did have to break apart though. Turns out the human body needs air. Stupid body.

Elain leaned her forehead against his.

“I should go,” Azriel said, even though every fiber of his being protested that statement.

She nodded. “Okay.” She was still out of breath. So was he.

Elain kissed his forehead, which made him feel oddly safe. “So, can I have a second date?”

Azriel chuckled and nuzzled her neck. She smelled divine. He wanted nothing more than to taste her there; just below her ear.

“You can have as many dates as you want.”

“Good to know.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

After a few minutes of catching their breaths, Azriel helped Elain into bed. He fetched her a glass of water for the painkillers and made sure that all her windows were closed.

He leaned against her doorframe, trying to memorize the sight of her in bed. She looked so cute. So vulnerable.

“Could you lock the door when you leave? My keys are on the kitchen counter. You can just put them in the mailbox.”

“Of course.” Azriel walked into her room again and leaned over her. He kissed the top of her head and caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Sleep well, Elain.”

“You too, Azriel.”

She was already drifting off.

Azriel walked quietly through the apartment and made sure that the door was locked behind him.

Azriel was walking home on clouds that evening.

In his bones, he could feel that this was the start of something wonderful.

When he climbed into bed that night, he saw a new message from Elain. She must have sent it just after he left her place. He opened the message, and there was no text. Just an audio file.

He pressed play and was immediately met with her heavenly voice.

“I thought that this might help you sleep,” Elain whispered, and Azriel could feel tingles up and down his spine. “Thank you for a wonderful date, Azriel.”

And then she repeated his name. For five minutes, she was whispering “Azriel, Azriel, Azriel,” over and over again, and it made Azriel both sleepy and aroused.

It was actually a very pleasant feeling, he thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep.

That night, he dreamt about brown eyes, golden hair, and the sweetest lips he had ever tasted. Azriel had never felt better.

[holycow99]

石田お寿司 12/9/21 stream translation Part 1

This is not the full translation of the stream. I only translated the parts I could understand & interpret or parts I found interesting/important. I’m still a beginner in Japanese, so the translations may not be accurate. If you want to repost, please repost at your own risk.

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I: Hello. Can you hear me? Good night. (t/n: He’s replying to a comment.) You can hear me? Hello. Welcome.

I: My tone sounds great today, ***-kun? (t/n: OP commented that his tone sounds great.) Of course I’ll be excited in the beginning of the stream. But only in the beginning.

C: Your voice somehow sounds young.

I: It’s because I just slept.

*Typing on twitter

I: I finally did it. This is a simultaneous worldwide stream. Do you understand it? Ah, I’m so tired. I’m tired of sleeping.

I: I’ll be drinking my coffee. Itadakimasu.

I: It was a long vacation, wasn’t it? When was the last time you guys heard from me? On September…Well, it doesn’t matter.

I: I don’t have anything particular to do for this stream. I just felt like it.

C: I’ve been listening to your streams repeatedly during holiday.

I: Thank you.

C: We last heard from you at the end of August.

I: I see. Thanks.

C: Thank you for your hard work on the manuscript!

I: I did the rough sketches first. I was brainstorming.

*Someone commented on Animal Rap.

I: Animal rap? I actually wanna try this. Actually, I’ve done recording for one video, but won’t it be scary if suddenly in the middle of the stream, animal rap video is uploaded. Without saying anything, suddenly there’s a new animal rap video being uploaded. Won’t it be scary stream?

(t/n: I’m not sure if the translations for this part is correct. He said something more but I haven’t reached this level of Japanese understanding skill. Forgive me.)

C: Animal rap itself is scary, so it’s okay.

I: What a hilarious thing to say. Are you actually afraid of animal then?

C: Have you got vaccinated?

I: Nope, since I’ve been locked up in my house. I want to though. I want to get injected a lot. Around 10 times.

C: Sensei, did you read Berserk chapter 364?

I: Is it the final chapter?

Y****: Let’s inject the head.

I: Nice one, Y****. Well, since Y**** is an introvert at school, he must be a non-popular kid. Because he doesn’t have any friends, he can’t wait to meet me. Is it like that? Hahahaha.

I: I’m not even aware of the things happening around me. I don’t even know when the exhibition in Osaka will open. I want you guys to tell me about me.

C: I’m aiming to be a mangaka, but having someone that can be a mentor for me to learn from is better, as expected?

I: I don’t think so. It depends. In some degree, it’s better to do it by yourself. If you really wanna write a manga and you wanna create an environment that allows you to do so, if there’s a chance to be an assistant, I think it’s better for you to grab it. Because you’re still not familiar with how these things work. I think it’s better to be an assistant first. You don’t have to be one for a long time though.

C: I want to diet. Where should I start?

I: Record your weight. Measure your weight and record it in calendar. Doing that makes you feel conscious about your weight. You’ll probably can lose weight that way.

C: Are you still eating oatmeal?

I: I’ve been eating Onigiri only. 

C: I wanna change job, but I’m anxious to because of the economic situation. Please encourage me!

I: It’s better for you to change job, since you said you wanted to. I think everyone is anxious. There’s no one who isn’t.

C: I’m happy that the JJ illustration that you posted on twitter will be made into goods!

I: Yeah, without my permission. Hahaha. When the illustration was made into goods without my permission, I was like “Eh? This is…”. I’ll stop talking about this. Hahaha. I won’t talk about this.

*Someone commented about Kingdom exhibition.

I: I wanna go to the Kingdom exhibition.

I: What I said just now (about JJ illustration) was a lie. Please forget about it. Are there companies like that? Of course not. I was just joking. If that’s the case, then anybody can freely turn my illustrations into goods. Though there’s a person who sent me the PugMax t-shirt.

C: I wanted to be a mangaka when I was small. As I got older, I only immersed myself in the real world. I’ll be a civil servant starting from next year. I don’t have the courage to challenge myself, so I want to give my unconditional support to those who are.

I: I don’t know how old you are, but you can still draw even if you become a civil servant. Just draw one if you really want to.

C: You have to collect royalty.

I: I do get royalty. I get 5 yen in total.

C: How old will you be this year?

I: 250,000 years old.

C: How are you?

I: Like usual. But I made progress on the manuscript, so I’m relieved. I kinda forgot how to draw it.

C: I thought you were in your 30s.

I: Nope, I’m far older.

C: You haven’t started game streaming?

I: I’m haven’t decided yet for today.

*People were discussing about his age.

I: Doesn’t matter how old I am.

C: Do you prefer women with long hair or short hair?

I: Short hair.

*People commented about Heavy Rain.

I: Oh, you want to see me playing Heavy Rain? I’m okay with that. I’m okay with playing games or anything. I’ll be a yes-man for today. Everyone’s yes-man & toy, Ishida Osushi.

*Someone commented about Animal Rap again.

I: I wanted to say something about this. I’ve done the animal rap video. I only upload videos I’ve received from the animal themselves, not me. But I was afraid to upload it, so I refrained from doing so. I wanna try uploading the video while streaming. That’s what I wanted to say. Well, it doesn’t really matter. I just upload it after I finish streaming. I don’t understand the need to upload the video and streaming at the same time.

(t/n: He said something more, but again, info on Animal rap is hard for me to decipher. I’m really sorry.)

C: What did you watch recently?

I: Movies.

C: There were people who got scared by the fact that Ishida Sui raps.

I: No, you’re wrong. Ishida Sui doesn’t rap. Ishida Sui doesn’t do streaming as well.

C: Do mangakas have the chance to meet women?

I: It depends on the person. The ones who’re locked up in the house won’t. But…That’s right. You might if the workplace has mixed genders. You also have the chance to meet people during party or some sort. I’ll always be at the corner every time I go to parties. It’d be nice if the party was fun and the staffs could enjoy themselves. I also said that I went to parties to take a break, but I hated it.

C: You’re not going to parties?

I: Nope, I won’t. The company doesn’t hold them as well because of the current situation.  Even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do. I don’t really eat the food, and introducing myself to people is tiresome.

I: S****** is here.

S******: Ishida Osushi can become a pro mangaka.

I: I’m aiming for it.

C: Fukuoka suits you, sensei.

I: Somehow, I feel grateful. It’s like you’re telling me that it’s okay for me to live in Kyushu.

(t/n: Kyushu is an island where Fukuoka is located.)

C: Sir Osushi, what do you think of Sir Sui?

I: I have a murderous intent towards him.

C: Does the thumbnail hold any meaning?

I: It does. Look forward to it.

C: Being a streamer suits you (Osushi) better than being a mangaka.

I: Hahaha.

C: The drawings of Neji (JJ character) by Ms. Towada were wonderful!

I: That’s right. Neji drawn by Ms. Towada. I want you guys to tell me something like this. I want you guys to tell me about my current situation. Things like, “would you retweet this?”, “This is JJ’s…”, “The CD’s also…”. Let me change my twitter account. First is Ms. Towada, right? Let’s retweet Ms. Towada’s tweets. I thought of drawing something like this. She drew quite a lot. She drew him more than me. I feel bad having her to draw it. I feel grateful rather than feeling bad. She drew a lot of them. Yonaga’s illustration looks nice. I see… There’s like an incomplete rough drawing. I thought of copying and drawing that illustration. I’ll just retweet this. Tell me what should I retweet next.

C: Is Ms.Towada doing well as well?

I: I talked to her a few days ago.

I: Do read Fool Night.

C: Do you like Aespa? (t/n: Aespa is a kpop girl group. Ishida had drawn one of the members.)

I: The girl caught my attention. I thought she was beautiful.

*Someone commented about his illustration of Ano-chan. (t/n: Ano-chan is a Japanese singer. Ishida had come to her radio programme once, and he did the album cover for her latest album.)

I: Ano-chan! What happened to that? Have you seen the album cover? It’s already out?

*Someone commented about Fool Night.

I: The world in Fool Night is super amazing. It was quite a while ago, the person in charge of the Superior magazine watched one of my streams and asked me if I could write some comments. I was like “Don’t tell me that!” (referring to watching his stream). I hate being seen. But then, I was like “whatever.” I usually turned it down, but I just wrote for this one.

*Someone commented about Wooma (t/n: an illustrator.)

I: Who’s Wooma? Let me check it.

C: Sensei, I’m a good child. So, is it okay for me to sleep?

I: Yes, of course.

C: Sensei, do you smoke?

I: No.

I: Ah, Wooma is the illustrator for the song ‘Usseewa’. Sorry for the lack of knowledge.

C: Do you watch Christopher Nolan’s works?

I: I’m not that familiar with movies, but I may or may not watch it. I’ve been getting into movies lately. I searched for the movies Takahashi Kunimitsu told me about. You tend to watch anything when you’re obsessed with movies, right? I was also obsessed with history for a while after I learned how fun it was from Takahashi Kunimitsu. I’ve been reading 2-3 books on history a day lately.

C: Until what time are you gonna stream?

I: Today is infinite as well. We have another 12 minutes left. Haha. I’ll keep on streaming today. I won’t end the stream today. It may end tomorrow. (t/n: He definitely kept his words.)

C: Sensei, do you like itzy? (t/n: Itzy is another kpop girl group, and Ishida had also drawn one of the members.)

I: Yes.

I: Tomorrow is a holiday? There are people who are not working tomorrow.

C: What are you drinking?

I: Coffee.

C: You only need another 800 people to reach 30,000 subscribers.

I: Yeah. It’s gonna reach 30,000. I have to make an appreciation stream or video for 30,000 subscribers. A lot of youtubers are doing this, so I have to do it too. I wanna do it. Feels like a youtuber. Isn’t it fun? I wonder what should I do for it? What would be fun? Let’s go with this concern first. I get lost if I don’t go one-by-one. It’s one of my bad habits.

*They’re planning on what Ishida should do when he reaches 30,000 subscribers.

C: Show your nails.

I: I don’t do manicure.

C: Heavy Rain.

I: Wanna play Heavy Rain as well.

C: Please let us hear your sneeze.

I: There is such person sometimes. Creepy.

C: Why don’t you play Ghosts n Goblins for now?

I: After the stream, I felt like playing the game. They had something like magical clock, though I forgot the name. The one that double the speed of the game. I really wanted to play that, honestly. Though, it wasn’t suitable for streaming. I thought of playing it in my own time. I really like that kind of games.

C: Will you sing when you reach 30,000?

I: During the previous silent stream, Queen Bee’s song was playing. Those who watched may know. I thought of appearing for a moment and sing and then end the stream. I wouldn’t do it, but I just thought about it. At that time, I wanted to try having just an illustration stream.

C: I’m waiting for an autograph session after the Corona ends.

I: The pandemic probably won’t end for at least 2-3 years.

*Someone wanted him to sing Gaston’s song.

I: Gaston. Singing, huh? Hahaha, why am I having second thoughts? I thought I’m okay with anything.

C: how about a karaoke battle?

I: Karaoke battle, huh?

C: Do you have any piercings?

I: I’m not wearing one right now, but I do have it. (t/n: I didn’t expect him to have a piercing. He’s really different than what I imagined a mangaka to be. XD)

C: I’m hoping for JJ’s song covers!

I: JJ? JJ’s songs are difficult. It was super hard during the time I did the covers. Seriously, when I heard it back…The cover for the opening theme was scary. I thought my singing ability had increased since I recorded this one the last. A few months ago, I listened to it after a long time, it was…what should I call it? A sutra, no, a curse. Me and JJ’s opening theme. I forgot the title of the song. Jack and something. There were parts in the songs where the female and male characters had to harmonise. To convey that part, I had to cover the song multiple times. I multiplied into 7 people, since I had to record as Kisa as well. When I was recording Kisa’s part, the other version of me at the back, probably Kai, was harmonising with me. I was told to deepen my voice by Mr.Kasama. So embarrassing. The voice was really low. I was drawn by Mr. Kasama’s voice. His voice was really good when he said ‘Broccoli’ for the cm.

*Ishida imitating Mr. Kasama.

I: It’s cooler than this.

*Imitating him once again.

I: I was like “So cool!”

C: Invite the animals that appeared in Animal rap as guests.

I: That’s a good idea. But what would the guests be doing? It’s absolutely hard to do that. It’s hard to invite the animals because of corona.

C: The title is “Jack & Jeanne of Quartz”.

I: Right. Thank you.

C: Won’t you invite Hanae?

I: I won’t. That’s impossible. (t/n: I want to see him playing horror games with Hanae Natsuki.)

Part 2

[em-dash-press]

-Short version. I need help with chapter specific plotting, structure, composistion(?) and general problem solving help? Any help will be much appreciated!

-Long version. Ok so I have been stuck on this chapter for a couple of months now if not longer. I have written, rewritten, tried outlining but what makes sense in outline does not fit whats on the page, and am just stuck and don't know how to solve it. Every time i think i have a break through, i end up at square one again but with a thousand extra words in a jumbled mess.

I know where my charater is coming from, I know where hes going and I have plenty of barriers. Probably verging on too many. Its an interigation scene with high stakes and conflict and reaching a point where my charater is resisting but also breaking down a misbelief. There are also a lot of other things going on with other characters that although not included in this chapter, may affect the eventual outcome and following scenes/ chapters.

I am at a point where I don't know what I am missing or need to cut out. I feel like the interigation is a nessisary but its just not quite right. I might break it in to 2 interigations as it feels like too much for 1 chapter.

Again, any help appreciated.

Hey there! First: I think talking about being stuck in your manuscript is always helpful. Putting your creative struggles to words can help your brain sift through them. So thanks for reaching out and I hope this process helps you!

Second: The best way to help yourself with the challenges presented in the first version of your question is probably to scroll through writeblr blogs and use the search bar on their blog or their tags to find posts specific to what you’re working through.

You can always use the search bar to find posts on my blog about developing plot, characters, and general troubleshooting! You could also do deep dives on any blogs that I reblog from. If you want a place to start, I especially love Fix Your Writing Habits (they have a “Tags” section that has great resources) and The 960 Writers (she also has awesome tags and regularly reblogs super helpful posts).

Third: I love the details you gave about your story! It sounds incredible. It doesn’t seem like the misbelief is the issue. Breaking down the structure of the scene could definitely help. Interrogations often have follow-ups if the police don’t get the information they need (or want). You could have the scene end with everyone in the room struggling to communicate, especially if your characters are confused.

People also get called back in for interviews when new information about the case comes to light. Further evidence of the potentially committed crime could become known to the police or become public knowledge and require another conversation.

You could also free-write a different type of scene to flex your creative muscles before returning to your WIP. Write a different character interrogating your protagonist or change the setting. Change the interrogator’s motivation or see what happens if your protagonist takes their struggles/question to a confidant. 

I also like brainstorming a random plot point after the place where I’m stuck. Let’s say your protagonist leaves that interrogation confused. Maybe your current plot outline has them going home to confront someone possibly involved in the crime/main event. Instead of having them do that, you could write a scene where your character goes to the local news station because they double-down on their understanding of the misbelief/want to draw public attention to their case so they don’t get interrogated again without the world watching.

Ultimately, you may still feel stuck. That’s okay too! You could try restructuring your outline or writing without it to see where your story naturally takes you.

Looking up resources from helpful blogs is also great because the various posts may put words to something you’re feeling or struggling with that’s hard to get specific about.

Good luck pushing through this point in your story’s journey and learning from the experience! 

[capsized-heart]

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this. 

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​ 

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy. 

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child. 

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother. 

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed. 

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.   

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English. 

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland. 

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin. 

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre. 

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king. 

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to. 

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland. 

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk. 

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey. 

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates. 

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you. 

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey. 

A lick of fire coils up your throat. 

God save the king. 

**

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand. 

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling. 

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose. 

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly. 

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing. 

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other. 

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.  

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels. 

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. 

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance. 

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy. 

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear. 

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal. 

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation. 

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

**

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own. 

You see it all. After all, you are a woman. 

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror. 

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.” 

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”      

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact. 

King Henry IV.     

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly. 

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.     

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air. 

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride. 

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.  

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.  

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you. 

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light. 

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you. 

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”  

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law? 

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls. 

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile. 

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more. 

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue. 

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor. 

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.  

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light. 

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.   

“I thank you, sire.” 

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear. 

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”  

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced. 

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests. 

You leave him burning. 

**

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting. 

 The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria. 

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup. 

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans. 

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor. 

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted. 

Even if it is all a charade. 

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.      

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.  

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.   

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes. 

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs. 

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers. 

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.   

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.     

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek. 

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers. 

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic. 

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip. 

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.  

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat. 

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink. 

**

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily. 

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly. 

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time. 

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

**

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife. 

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil. 

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.  

“King Henry!”

**

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.  

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry. 

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood. 

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker. 

A ball for the boy king.   

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture. 

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm. 

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.    

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise. 

**

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.  

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk. 

You feign surprise and turn.     

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.  

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.  

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize. 

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection. 

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno. 

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear. 

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum. 

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs. 

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming. 

“I thank you, my lord.” 

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?” 

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response. 

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar. 

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

**

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you. 

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game. 

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands. 

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father. 

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.   

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce. 

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely. 

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game. 

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding. 

You are to let him touch you. 

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire. 

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself. 

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.  

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure. 

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth. 

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman. 

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

**

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows. 

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move. 

You only burn brighter.  

**

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase. 

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest. 

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil. 

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval? 

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago. 

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

**

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment. 

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.  

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns. 

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself. 

**

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return. 

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession. 

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England. 

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song. 

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together. 

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room. 

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.” 

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear. 

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.  

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.” 

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis. 

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely. 

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually. 

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening. 

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it. 

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm. 

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...” 

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss. 

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder. 

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed. 

You have the king’s word. 

**

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool. 

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.” 

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries. 

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly. 

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer. 

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.  

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming. 

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races. 

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.” 

**

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger. 

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this. 

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood. 

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

**

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill. 

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling. 

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

**

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have. 

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest. 

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl. 

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos. 

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world. 

 The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone. 

 You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world. 

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below. 

[neverdoingmuch]

now hear me out,,, an au where lan wangji is an editor who works for an erotica publisher and wei wuxian is essentially chuck tingle. (also lwj writes romance novels on the side)

wei wuxian didn’t plan to write erotica he wants to make that really clear, he was actually studying like biomed or something equally “oh wow my parents can brag to the other parents about this”

but, as frequently happens in wwx’s life, he got drunk with nhs, like really drunk and they woke up the next morning with a laptop on the floor beside them and loose paper strewn everywhere

they don’t really remember what they were doing or thinking last night but they’ve both drawn a bunch of really shitty and weird porn (the less said about the anthropomorphic version of wen chao’s pet turtle the better) and wei wuxian has like 20,000 words of an erotica story on his laptop

when he starts reading it, at first he’s like haha what the fuck this is so weird but then it turned out to be really good??? and nhs blushed at some of the ~sexy~ scenes so that’s how wwx knew he was writing the good stuff

anyway they’re sitting there, eating their hangover food and wei wuxian goes so uh my story was good right? and nhs is like yeah it was, top stuff i would buy it and wei wuxian goes what if i actually wrote it,,, haha just kidding,,,,, unless?

and in his defence he doesn’t actually write anything for the story for another like three months but then he finds himself in the middle of exam season and he’s like fuck it stress relief let’s write some erotica

he finishes the book and his exams (which he does well in but whatever) and then spends his summer holidays editing the book

when he comes back, he slaps down a paper copy on nhs’ desk and is like i finished it. nhs, thinking he meant his latest lab write up, opens it up to a random page and starts reading it out loud which was a Mistake

he trails off mid-sentence, and whips around to glare at wwx with all the wrath he can muster. it’s raunchy nhs says and just read it wwx tells him so nhs does

like 2 hours later nhs turns to him and says if it wasnt for you and the librarian staring at me the whole time i definitely would’ve felt something and wwx is like so it’s good? and nhs is like fuck yeah it is but i dont get what you want from me?

pretty much wwx passed out after exams, slept for like 20 hours and then woke up and went i should publish this and decided that nhs should draw the cover art.

nhs agrees of course and a month later wwx self-publishes bc there’s no way he can walk into a publishing house with his porn and not just combust on the spot and he decides to go by the name yiling patriarch

wwx clicks the final button to upload the fic and nhs just toasts him and goes yknow what,, this is the closest you’ve ever gotten to having sex and i’m proud of you

wei wuxian is the man who guarded his first kiss for the first twenty years of his life for someone special,,,, wwx definitely wants his first time to be special and there’s no way he’s putting out for someone he doesn’t think is important & despite having dated before, he’s never gotten close enough to someone to go yeah let’s do it so our boy is still a virgin

so wwx’s entire erotica writing inspiration comes from porn, nhs’ way too in-depth answers as to how his latest date went and uh more porn

wwx blusters about a bit bc how is he meant to respond to that and nhs is like maybe you’ll finally move on from reading those trashy romance novels and read something more exciting and wwx is like how dare you call them trashy!! hanguang-jun is a master of the romance novels!! he understands the heart in a way that no other person has ever!! 

and nhs just chugs a bunch of wine and is like yeah hon okay, do you still blush when the main characters hold hands? and wwx is like no! of course not! (it’s a lie, he blushes a lot)

so nothing really happens with the book at first and wwx forgets about it for the most part but then he wakes up one morning and he’s got an extra like RMB 1000 (i dont actually know much about currency so it’s roughly $200 if my quick interneting is legit)

wwx is like wtf? and once he finds out it’s from his novel he’s doubly like wtf? but then he finds out that someone had purchased his book and did a dramatic reading on youtube bc wwx decided that regular erotica was boring and decided to make it satirical or whatever and people loved it??

he’s got nothing better to do so he just goes hm yeah remember that Author i dated who had an “incredible idea that would absolutely amaze The Critics and helped explore his own convoluted mind” let’s make something of that and he writes another book kinda mocking that idea in a very horny way.

he publishes it and someone writes a review of his two books on their blog and now he’s actually starting to get popular - he’s got more money from those two books than he did by working at the local cafe for the whole week

wwx is poor and broke and semi-disowned anyway by this point so he goes fuck it and spends every moment he’s not studying writing erotica. 

he publishes another like five books by the time the year is out (i know the maths isnt working here but this is a book world where wwx can just do that via the power of loneliness and friends who egg you on)

also?? he varies his books. some of them are porn parody things a la chuck tingle and some of them are genuine porn and one book was just him writing a recipe book but making it sound as horny as possible

by the time he’s published his like 8th book or so he starts getting reviews that are critiquing his book and most of them boil down to the fact that he needs an editor or something 

he ends up asking nhs for help and he’s like oh sweet my brother’s boyfriend works for a publisher who does that sort of thing

cloud recesses actually specialises in erotica and i hate the idea that lqr has spent years reading and editing erotica but sacrifices must be made

(side note that i know nothing about the writing or publishing process so pls don’t judge me too harshly)

wwx goes in with his latest manuscript and ends up arriving like ten minutes late, he rushes into the room sweaty and hot, takes one look at the guy sitting on the other side of the desk, flushes an even brighter red and runs back out of the room. he checks the plaque on the door and walks back in slowly and goes hm i didnt expect you to be so hot

cue lan wangji

lwj has always enjoyed being an editor. what do editor do specifically? idk? edit? regardless, he enjoys it. 

while most of the time he’s happy working from this side of things he also likes writing

lwj fucks. he deserves it tbh. but, while he’s had a tonne of one night stands and fuckbuddies, he’s never actually dated someone. so the fact that he’s writing romance novels under the pseudonym hanguang-jun makes his friend jzx laugh a lot

he tried writing porn once and he just couldn’t do it. it was always too clinical or vague and lacked any actual passion bc he was always going oh okay mc sucks a dick but the guy i slept with last week was like a 6.4/10 when it came to sucking dick so maybe mc should also be bad at it or whatever and it just ends up falling apart,,,, but romance he can do

as an editor lwj has pretty high standards for good erotica but he’s really found himself enjoying yiling patriarch’s work even though he’s clearly just been editing himself so when the guy sent cloud recesses an email asking whether they’d be interested in his latest book lwj was ecstatic. 

he also didnt expect wwx to be so hot

anyway,,, we now get to enjoy a week of lwj thinking that wwx is super hot but even more annoying and then him deciding that annoying is hot and now wwx is just absolutely amazing and wwx is just panicking the entire time 

i want my publisher to rail me so hard wwx texts nhs and nhs just responds has he read the bdsm scene with the alien who has a tentacle dick and a knot yet? and wwx is like no??? nhs just goes shame, it will give him so ideas for if you ever grow a backbone and just ask him out

they publish one book together and nothing happened between them the entire time other than yearning and horniness,, of the heart and body. 

when wwx realises this means that he won’t get to see lwj again he immediately writes a new book and like a month later he’s back in lwj’s office, lying on his couch while whining about the cafeteria prices at university

lwj is very enamoured by the fact that wwx is writing erotica and studying biomed bc wow

they do this for like another three books and wwx’s eroticas evolve from here’s a dinosaur man fucking a politician while a mary sue watches on to be like here’s a dinosaur man with black hair and golden eyes and a stern look to his face fucking a politician while a mary sue watches on

and hanguang-jun’s latest book?? i dont want to say that this au’s version of wangxian is hanguang-jun finally finding inspiration to write porn (his muse is wwx of course) and writing the most amazing porn with feelings and plot novel ever,, but it is. 

wwx read it five times in the first week and when nhs finally tried to read it he was like uhhh wwx are you a narcissist, the love interest is exactly like you? and wwx is like ??? no???? he’s nothing like me??

anyway one day wwx gets called into lxc’s office and lxc is like so i’ve read your latest book (not the dinosaur man, a serious one with like normal people and not overly humorous thank fuck but still full of lwj yearning) and wwx is like okay? and lxc goes yes, see i was worried that you didn’t care very much for my brother but after reading your book i’m not so sure and wwx gets the weirdest shovel talk ever which is interspersed with like compliments for his porn writing skills

anyway lxc accidentally mentions that lwj writes books too and before he can take it back wwx is like who??? and lxc is like are you fucking stupid?? you told lwj to his face that you loved his books,,, he broke his theme of tender romance to write kinky sex with a character that’s a lot like you and wwx is like .,,,,,,,,, hanguang-jun??? HANGUANG-JUN???!!

lxc barely manages to confirm it before wwx is sprinting out of his office and across to find lwj.

regretfully for everyone else, lwj is in the lobby so thirty people get to hear it when wwx comes in and shouts LAN ZHAN!! back then, i really wanted write porn about you! ... i think i have actually? but i want to write porn about you and i want to be able to do the research to make it accurate! and i also want to go on dates and hold hands and feed each other food! and i love you a lot! 

lwj is dying inside bc his brother’s bf is there, his uncle is currently waiting for the elevators and a whole bunch of staff are also there but also wwx likes him??? dinosaur man was lwj??

he goes over and they make out for a really long time right there in the middle of the lobby but no one wants to get between them when they’ve been pining for so long

after that they start dating and they do all the romantic stuff but also,, let’s just say that the next book wwx publishes is a lot more creative than all of his previous books

and they become some writing power couple with horniness of the heart and body and sometimes wwx will be like hey lwj i don’t really know how the logistics of this sex scene will work and lwj will be like we could try it out ourselves? and wwx just pats him on the head and is like im sorry but you dont have enough dicks for it to work ),: better luck next time

[solo-23]

I'd debated about whether or not to post this because it's definitely a rant and there is definitely a lot of negativity, but I need to vent after last night's episode (with some leftover issues from earlier this season, too). If Betty is your favorite and you don't like to read anything negative about her, you will not like this post.

1. The way the voicemail has been blown completely out of proportion by the writers, reviewers, and some shippers is ridiculous. We keep hearing about how it was terrible, emotionally abusive, toxic, and something that Jughead definitely needed to apologize for, but nothing he said was actually out of line. There is absolutely nothing in that voicemail that Betty should have been surprised about, let alone treating it like it somehow turns her into the victim in the fall of Bughead.

It's not surprising that Jughead has now apologized twice for the voicemail, even if he doesn't actually remember all of it, because he knows that it hurt Betty. He can also probably guess what he said because he knows what he feels and how it can be exaggerated when he's feeling depressed or under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Generally if you actually admit what you're thinking or feeling when you know it would hurt someone, you feel bad about it. It doesn't matter if it's true or not, or if you're under the influence. A good person apologizes if they know they hurt someone. Jughead is a good person.

Just a note here, I've seen other people saying that Betty's actions while high should be excused just like people have said Jughead's voicemail should be excused because he was under the influence. Being under the influence DOES NOT excuse the voicemail.

The fact that Betty cheated on Jughead, did continue to sneak around with Archie while debating whether or not she wanted to "officially" pursue him, hid the whole affair until Jughead actually caught on and she had to make up a direct lie to his face or confess, never actually explained anything to Jughead (things like she was the one who stopped the affair, she wanted to stay with Jughead, etc.) even after he asked if they could talk about it, stood him up at Pop's a year later, and then stood him up again at the book release party justify Jughead's voicemail. And he has apologized for it twice.

2. That is why it was so intensely frustrating for Betty to just brush off his apology (again) and then turn the conversation to her, but without actually apologizing for anything. When Jughead mentioned not really being able to remember the voicemail, she could have brought up what bothered her in it so (a) he would know and (b) they could actually discuss the issues, which could have led into Betty actually explaining what happened with the cheating, including how the affair ended, and she could have apologized for that. It still wouldn't have been fully satisfying because Betty never apologizes first for her actions, but it would've been better than nothing. She also could have apologized for standing him up, although at least she explained why she didn't make it to the book release party.

3. However, she still didn't admit to or apologize for giving away Jughead's manuscript. The entire reason Jughead relapsed into drinking and almost plagiarized Cora is because Betty gave Jessica his manuscript. No, Betty does not get credit for "saving" Jughead because she was present when he got a phone call from Samm and admitted that he wasn't the author. She's the reason he was in that position in the first place. Yes, she had been drugged. Yes, Tabitha was present and didn't stop her. No, neither of those things excuse it. It also doesn't excuse her from sharing the voicemail with Tabitha and Jessica.

Why not? She and Tabitha were still shown as functional when all of this happened. Jessica admitted that she drugged them to try to get the manuscript. They were both capable of thinking and arguing. Betty chose to give the manuscript to Jessica. It wasn't until afterward that Betty and Tabitha started being really impacted by the drugs. Jughead's manuscript wasn't Betty's (or Tabitha's) to give away and doing so completely screwed Jughead over.

There are some questions here--did he switch over to his typewriter and that's why there was no backup? did he forget to save a copy on his laptop? did his laptop crash or get lost? who knows, but in the story it doesn't matter. There was one copy and Betty gave it away, placing Jughead in the position of losing his agent or plagiarizing another author.

Also, for playing the voicemail, Jessica had just brought the drugged fries to the table. No one is shown as having felt the effects of the drugs until Tabitha made a comment about being warm after the voicemail is over. Betty had been reluctant to help from the beginning, before Tabitha mentioned the "don't be a Betty" line, and made fairly rude comments about Jughead throughout the episode. I don't think she needs to apologize to Jughead for sharing it, but I also thought that playing the victim and having some people blame it on "being high" was ridiculous.

4. You cannot convince me that Betty cares about Jughead in the slightest when he was telling her he was an alcoholic and he's trying to get better and he's clearly drinking alcohol right in front of her and her response is "I'm an addict, too. I'm addicted to serial killers." She's struggling, yes, and it's good that she's opening up, but if she cared about Jughead at all an appropriate response here would be "So, why are you drinking?" or "are you okay?" Show some sort of concern for someone who is relapsing in front of your face. Jughead does it for Betty when he suggests she should take a break, even though he's in a moral quandary caused by Betty, depressed, and drunk.

Also, no, chasing serial killers is not an addiction in the same way as drugs or alcohol and it's insulting to say they're the same. Chasing serial killers could be described as a compulsion for Betty, or a hyperfixation, but it's not the same. It's difficult, but you can choose to not follow a compulsion without experiencing the often severe physical side effects experienced by actual addicts. I'm glad Betty recognized that she has a problem, but no, that is not an addiction.

5. The entire conversation is extremely awkward. It's clear that it isn't what Jughead had in mind, but his life that he had just been starting to get back together fell apart. He sank to new (or at least different) lows. Betty seemed like she wanted to leave as soon as she got there (understandable given how awkward it was, even secondhand) and disappeared once Jughead was distracted by a phone call. It's understandable, but disappointing. The part that was really frustrating, though, was that after talking to Jughead about how unhealthy her serial killer obsession is and how she's worried about her mom, she still goes out. Alice was passed out on the couch, which Betty paused to acknowledge. That should have been a turning point for Betty and it just wasn't. Screw these writers.

6. I loved that Tabitha and Jughead had mutual apologies, discussed their issues, and genuinely seemed to care about each other. I also loved that Jughead still cares and worries about Betty (frustrating as it is when it seems unreciprocated) because it's so true to Jughead's character.

7. It is absolutely fine and understandable if Betty has moved on from Jughead. She seemed to believe that if he found out about the cheating in their senior year, it would be the end of their relationship. She started shutting him out and trying to move on the next day.

However, as a Jughead fan, it's intensely annoying to see him still struggling with the lack of closure and continuing to have feelings for Betty after all of that. I would have preferred to see either both of them move on, then rediscover each other later (or not, depending on where the show is going), or have Betty be the one who still clearly has feelings for Jughead and have her regret blowing up the relationship.

8. Overall, I hate a lot of what the writers have done this season. I don't particularly like any of the backstories for the characters during the time jump, I don't like each character following a separate plot line(s), the lack of interaction between characters, and how disjointed everything feels.

The mothman plot was interesting, but seems destined for a disappointing end. There have been a lot of missed opportunities to bring storylines together (Jughead went missing while Archie was looking for escaped prisoners, he could have found Jughead; Jughead hitchhiked with a random trucker, even without the trucker attacking him he could have seen clues or found Polly; Sweet Pea or Fangs could have seen Betty playing hooker and organized an intervention instead of having the weird cult plot line; I'm sure there's more). Maybe it'll be better with a binge watch, but I'm having trouble maintaining interest in the final three episodes, let alone rewatching this mess of a season.

BONUS: I was relieved that the Bughead talk did not go with my worst case scenario. Based on the possible B/A return, I was a little bit worried that Jughead would apologize for the voicemail and remember what he said, then talk about how he always knew Betty had feelings for Archie. Betty, who said she'd been "wanting this since high school," would then nod along and say she was sorry for hurting him, but acknowledge those feelings. Then Jughead would ask why they never acted on those feelings after the breakup, Betty would talk about the FWB, and Jughead would go full B/A cheerleader and tell her to give it a chance (like the Pacey and Joey chat about Dawson at Mitch's funeral in Dawson's Creek). I was dreading that possibility and I'm so glad the show didn't go there. I'm sorry if I've given anyone nightmares.

[tcm]

Island in the Sun: ‘One Drop’ in the Ocean By Theresa Brown

Let’s face it – America was not ready for Dorothy Dandridge.

Her beauty is undeniable. And, as Janet Jackson notes in her TCM tribute to Dandridge, Dorothy was a ‘triple threat’ with singing, dancing and acting in her repertoire. She just needed a chance to shine. Daughter of character actress Ruby Dandridge, Dorothy appeared in soundies and small uncredited parts throughout the 1940s. In BRIGHT ROAD (‘53) she plays a schoolteacher offering G-rated maternal love and understanding to her students in a rural school district. She really comes into prominence with Otto Preminger’s 1954 film CARMEN JONES. Sexy, sassy, fiery...dangerous, Dandridge swaggers like a gunslinger and sets the screen ablaze as the tempestuous Carmen. Her BRIGHT ROAD co-star, Harry Belafonte, is the hapless handsome soldier who tragically tangles with her. Dandridge was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actress in a Leading Role for her performance.

I rather enjoyed her next movie coming three years after CARMEN JONES, ISLAND IN THE SUN (’57). It’s sort of a PEYTON PLACE in the Caribbean with different storylines of politics, family secrets, murder and miscegenation weaving and wending their way around coconut trees and sugar cane plantations. May I offer one sticky wicket of a caveat? You’ll probably have to leave your 21st century racial perspective at home when you visit. The movie is 63 years old and does give a nod to all those antiquated racial tropes. My jaw dropped a coupla times.

Let me map out the scorecard for you. A Caribbean country is about to undergo the changeover from colony to independence. Pivotal in that change is union leader Harry Belafonte. Pre-dating Malcolm and Martin and today’s ‘social justice’ warriors, Belafonte’s character is interested in uplifting his people on the island. He has a casual relationship with Dandridge that doesn’t have enough fire to toast a marshmallow. What’s wrong with THAT picture? In the movie, he has history on the island with Joan Fontaine. There’s a tentative attempt to explore where they can go, but class and color are a bumpy road for them to hurdle (perhaps the script’s “convenient” way to keep them apart?). He’s more interested in power than romance. Gee, all that handsomeness gone to waste. I don’t know that Belafonte quite has any chemistry with Fontaine once you see Dandridge on his arm – or am I the only one blinded here? But Belafonte steps up his acting game opposite Academy Award-winner Fontaine.

Also in the cast, we have Stephen Boyd, ripe for the picking as the current governor’s son whose return to the island after months stationed in Egypt—without a woman in sight—is pointedly noted. He’s back on the island until he jets off to London. It’s said of him:

“A male, young, white, unmarried, titled and comparatively rich. Good heavens, what else do you think the girls would talk about.”

Boyd spots virginal-in-white Joan Collins at the Governor’s ball. Yes, you read that right – I said virginal and Joan Collins in the same sentence, and he’s interested. So is she. They start a slow-building romance. They don’t make themselves part of the island’s life. They’re into each other. Don’t worry, a freak-out lays ahead for them. Her brother is played by James Mason. They are heirs to the largest sugar cane plantation on the island and Mason’s a weakling. You know the type: the second son...ever second best...insecure...lots to prove. He has contempt for the islanders; suspects his wife of having an affair with the dashing, accomplished Michael Rennie; and decides to run as a political opponent to the popular Belafonte. Belafonte’s response:

“Wouldn’t it be fair to say the only reason you seek election is to revenge yourself upon the whites whom you now think despise you?”

Mason’s got a lot on his plate. (And it ain’t conch chowder).

When Dandridge first appears in the movie, she and Belafonte make a stunning couple entering the governor’s party. She immediately lets Belafonte know she has a mind of her own. She’s confident, truthful, tries to do herself some good pitching for a job in the governor’s office. She fits right into the tony setting with no apology...and wearing no maid’s uniform. She carries herself with quiet sophistication. She just is. She’s noticed by the governor’s military attaché (John Justin), and he immediately falls head over heels. I like Justin and Dandridge together. He’s not trying to keep their relationship secret. He might have one twinge of jealousy or discomfort, but all in all they’re fine together. You might think this interracial romance would be problematic as well but it’s not, compared to Belafonte and Fontaine. What’s the difference? Food for thought. But I think we all know why.

Justin: “Somewhere someone once said there’s always a point in the beginning of a love affair where a man can draw back. Where he’s still safe.”

Dandridge: “Is that what you want, to be safe?” 

Justin: “I’ve been in love. Funny, I don’t know anything about you.” Dandridge: “What would you like to know?” 

Justin: “All about you. Everything.” 

There is a moment with this couple I really like; it’s provocative in a non-provocative way. (No Spoiler!) Dandridge is lying fully clothed on Justin’s bed, reading his manuscript...with no shoes on. Big deal, right? I think it speaks tremendously to their level of intimacy. She’s at home in his space. When have you ever seen THAT in movies of the 50s...or 40s or 30s for that matter?

I like this Daryl Zanuck-production. It’s a colorful, lush, melodramatic production with racial and sexual tension, sexual restraint and good-looking people. Dorothy Dandridge is very easy to watch on film. Yes, she’s easy on the eyes, but she’s also not chewing the scenery and has a very natural presence on screen. You never see her act. I wish she’d done more. She’s not exotic. She’s just a woman...a human. She had many facets she could tap into to express different characters. I’m so glad TCM, with the guidance of acclaimed author Donald Bogle, spotlighted her career. This gets a wider audience to get to know her. No, America was not ready for Dorothy Dandridge.

But she wasn’t going to spend her time waiting for us.