#just a little thing to maybe add to @challenge-ant's collection of

[deberiaestarescribiendo]

Honor him. Younger Mercenary Oberyn Martell x f!reader fanfic. #Writer Wednesday 05/26/2021

Summary: You receive the worst news, Oberyn Martell died, your first lover and the first adventure you lived.

Once when you were younger you ran away from your house escaping an unhappy engagement and the promise of a dull life. But your family hired an elite force of mercenaries to find you not knowing that their leader is a Prince of Dorne.

Word count: 6,5k (ups sorry)

Warning: Blood, violence, Oberyn’s death is mentioned as canon in the book and show, Ophidiophobia(fear of snakes), unhappy arranged marriage, alcohol. +18 SMUT (it means no minors, pls) virgen f!reader, oral sex (f¡ receiving descriptive, male receiving mentioned) p in v sex (unprotected cos there’s no durex in Essos BUT USE PROTECTION IN REAL LIFE PEOPLE) grieving.

A/N: I'M SORRY I'M LATE this is for #Writer Wednesday, the challenge created by @autumnleaves1991-blog

I read the books a long time ago, yep, I’m one of those people that said “I’ll finish them when George publish them all” so I got ASOIAF wiki and run with it, so buckle up for some bad geography from Essos and inaccurate cultural stuff. I think this is the longest thing I’ve written and the smuttiest, so sorry if it’s cringy.

Honor him

“Apparently he won the combat but the wounds were too severe and he died”

You raise your eyes from the book. One of the young servants whispers to another collecting the dead leaves on the ground.

“What is it?”

They rise from the ground nervously expecting that you will scold them for gossiping

“We heard the news from the world. A bard was chanting them on the market, my lady” she approaches the fountain; you’re seated on the ceramic tile, feet inside the water, refreshing from the blazing sun in this part of Essos.

“And what did he say?”

“He said there was a trial in Kingslanding. For the death of king Joffrey, and it was his cousin...”

“His uncle, the imp” clarifies the other and the other girl rolls her eyes

“Yes, his uncle was on trial for his murder. And Prince Oberyn from Dorne was his champion”

“The imp asked for a trial by combat, you see, my lady” adds the other

“He battled the Mountain; he crushed the prince’s skull apparently”

“But! but! His blade had poison on it so the Mountain died too” says the other girl excitedly

“Oberyn died?” you mutter, your hands are limp and you don’t realize that you have drop your book until you hear the “blop” sound in the water and it splashed your tunic

Your mind travels to years past in an instant: A journey through the vast empty lands of this continent and how you loved for the first time.

The pages of your book are getting more and more transparent while the black trickles of ink disappear in the water. You wish to scream, to rip your clothes and your hair out of your scalp but you do nothing.

“Are you alright, my lady?” the girls look at each other when you don’t move or try to retrieve your book from the water.

You always thought the greatest pain he gave you was leaving you at your father’s door many years ago, but now he’s gone forever. You always thought, while looking from your window at night, that you will see him one day, coming back on his dark horse ready to steal you away again, but now that he’s dead that small hope, that tiny flame that you kept in your heart is gone.

Your childish hopes and dreams of reviving your first love are shattered. It’s true that your life has changed, you’re a grown woman now, wiser and experience but you still fantasize over him, seeing his face and his hands on your lovers.

“We should call physician” you heard them whisper, but so far away

“Where is he anyway?”

“At his clinic, you silly girl, run”

“You do not need to call him” you mutter “I’m fine. Excuse me”

Not caring for splashing water all over the house, you run to your chambers and collapse into your bed. Buried in the soft pillows, you cried, muffling your howls with them so nobody could hear. Late in the night the moon and stars shine bright casting bluish shadows in your room.

Your body is tired but restless and in the night shade a timid ray of white light illuminates that small scar in your forearm in the shape of a half-moon. And you kiss it, at least you will always have something of his carved in your skin.

Many years ago. Essos.

“You’re cheating, boy” the big man slams the table, the wooden pieces and the coins that all the players have laid at the center fall down. He points at you spitting from a mouth full of crooked black teeth “Show me your arms, boy, I know you’re lying”

“I’m just lucky, sir” you raise your blouse’s sleeves and your arms up innocently and somehow it makes him angrier

He insults you in whatever language he speaks and slams the table up, the players run and the loud tavern suddenly gets quite, waiting for the next movement. You’re an ant in front of that enormous giant, when he stands tall and walks menacingly towards you, you freeze, he doesn’t listen to you when you apologize, it doesn’t matter anyway, you just did to gain time and look for an exit but the room is too crowded.

“Here, boy, I’ve also many tricks under my sleeve” he has a dirty bag hanging from his belt and takes it and throws it at you. It lands at your feet and for a second you smirk not knowing what a bag could do to you, but then it moves and in a blur you see a green and yellow thing twisting until you feel it pressing and slithering over your body. The snake, a beautiful, shiny creature with vibrant colors faces you hissing and shows its fangs. Everything happens to fast. Out of instinct you protect your face with your arms and the animal understands this as a threat and it bites. The pain rings like a bell all over your body every nerve in your body aflame.

In a second, cold blood wets your face and you gasp when you see the snake’s head slide to the side separated from its body with a clean cut.

“I’m sorry for the demise of your little friend” A tall lean man stands beside the giant. You can’t see his face, since he’s covered with black turban and his body is in full armor. One of his arms still holds a curved sword that has snake blood on it; the other has a dagger pointed to your enemy’s neck.

“That viper was worth more than you or your little friend and you will pay for it”

“I doubt it. You know my little friend here” and he points his sword to you “it’s worth a lot and if I don’t tend to her wound rapidly she will die and that’s a shame. So, decide now, do you want to be a setback or do you want to keep living your stinky life longer?”

By brute force, the giant decides his fate and tries to disarm the man who in a swift movement cuts his throat and his blood and destiny joints that of his pet.

“You’ve been quite difficult to find, child” he opens the fabric covering his face. His eyes are dark, dark beard covers his defined jaw line and an amused smirk graces his handsome face. “Let me see that arm” he lowers his weapons, shamelessly cleaning his dagger on the back of the dead tall man and walks to you until your back is pressed against one of the tavern columns. Sheathing his sword, his hand takes yours and raises your arm, evaluating the wound and he hums deeply “Oh, sweet child”

“Am I going to die?” you cry

“Probably”

“If it’s my father who commands you to find me, I beg you to let me die; I do not wish to go back. Death is better than that dreadful place” you shake your head determined but terrified at the same time. He looks at you with his brow troubled

“Death is never better than anything” and he drags your arm to his face. His dark gaze fix on you while he sucks on the wound so hard that for a moment you think he’s drinking your life away. But then he lets you go and spits to the ground “Let’s hope that’s enough. You will come with me so I can give you the antidote”

“I told you, I have no desire to return to my home”

“It’s a pity, then, that I don’t care about that” he grins.

He gave you so many small jars to drink. Some tasted sweet some bitter and some other made you want to vomit and not drink or eat ever again. But you’re alive. A few hours passed, and then a day, then two, and you’re irrevocably getting back home.

You’ve learnt that your father, in an attempt to find you, has commissioned this elite group of mercenaries to retrieve you; and he’s the leader. It’s a small company but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. All of them seemed to have many different skills, weapons hidden at every corner of their body, they speak languages you don’t know and you ride your horse tied to it watching each one of them with a suspicious look. After two days riding with them you have decided that there’s no way you could escape now. There’s always one of them standing guard and just a small glare your way gets every thought of escaping out of your head. So, even if it’s dramatic, you decided that your best option is to die. A few days in the desert without water and food and your father will receive a corpse.

“Drink, little girl, you’re withering like a flower” the leader, the man that saved you, says handing you the waterskin

“No, thank you” you turn your head, seated under the shadow of a very thin and dry bush. The orange and violet light announces the immanent sunset where you have stopped for the day.

“You’ve been refusing water all day. You have to drink” he says and pushes the waterskin to your face once more.

“No, thank you” you repeat and he sighs. Thinking you’ve won as he throws the waterskin by his side, you smile subtly until he’s close, crouched down, knees over the sand, looking at you.

“Maybe being a spoiled little flower works for your father, but not to me. Drink or I will make you” He takes your chin and raises it to meet his eyes

“I’m not thirsty” you say, your lips are already dry and they hurt, your tongue is thick inside your mouth and your body screams for just one drop.

“Don’t challenge me, child” he lowers his voice and you gulp

“I’m not a child” you protest, he keeps calling you that and honestly you don’t think he’s much older that you

“Then why do you behave like one? Drink, for the last time” His mouth is a fine line now and his grip on your chin is a little bit firmer

When you don’t answer he opens the waterskin and tucking on your lower lip he pours a small trickle of water in your mouth. The liquid taste sweet, your body works on it own and you open your mouth to drink more with desperation.

“So you weren’t thirsty...stubborn girl” he smirks and you want to slap his smug and beautiful face

He stops pouring water and laughs when you rise up drinking the last drops before he puts the cap on it.

“Look at you, not a withering flower anymore” the mercenary brushes his knuckles over you cheek and you feel them burn “What else do you want?” his thumb caress your chin gathering the small drops of water on your skin and spreads it over your lower lip.

You feel your bones burning, a tension in your lower belly that you haven’t feel many times and that makes you ask for something you don’t even know, so you just answer a timid yes and let him guide you to the fire and the rest of the company.

One of the mercenary is skinning some rabbits, methodically pulling the skin off with blood hands and a deathly gaze fix on you “So she decided to join us” she says

“Oberyn can be really persuasive” another, a big bald man with a beard tinted in blue, adds

So his name is Oberyn, where have you heard that name before?

“Remember that her father is paying for the whole of her, untouched he said” a lean blonde woman, with her face full of black and blue tattoos, is lounged over the bags sharpening her knives

“Well, I hope he doesn’t see her arm, that viper left her with a beautiful scar” Oberyn sits down and helps the mercenary skinning the animals and impales them and puts them to roast on the fire

“I’m not talking about that kind of viper...” she says and the company laughs

“I’m right here” they stop laughing looking at you as if you have done something they deem impossible

“So she speaks” the bearded man says

“She does but it may take some convincing” Oberyn smiles at you over the flames that illuminate his striking and sharp features “If you wish to eat, sweet flower, why don’t tell us how did you escape? We love a good story while we camp”

“Your father was convinced some ragged boy had stole you from your palace” adds the blonde woman

You smile, feeling some kind of pride for your plan, that, looking at it from perspective, did not grant you what you wanted but at least you had a good run. You tell them about how you disguised as a ragged boy lurking a few nights prior your escape so that the servants suspected about somebody being guilty of your disappearing. And how you ran away the night of your betrothal and made it look as if somebody had kidnapped you.

“I ran out of money in Lys so I had to beg, or steal, or gamble for a few coins. And then you found me” you finish your tale, sucking on your fingers, the meat is the best you ever tasted but yet again it must be the hunger from this days refusing to eat or drink.

“I’m almost tempted to let you go, young one, you seem a very resourceful girl” the beard man that you now know as Uhlan smiles at you proudly

“Think about the money” the blonde woman, Rikan, chew on a bone and toss it to the fire

“I’m always thinking about it, why do you think I’m a sellsword?” he jests

“Because you were a street rat with a broad back as broad as your stupidity and it’s the only thing you can do” Rikan spits and Uhlan laughs, a deep and low chuckle that resonates as a thunder.

“She’s a little princess, she couldn’t have survived much longer” the other woman, Shifa adds, the rest of the company has changed the way they look at you, but her. She still squints at you

“There’re princes that have survived worse” Uhlan counters and suddenly there’s a heavy and uncomfortable silence over them. You look at all of them trying to understand and you see Oberyn looking at his feet until he claps his hands together “Let’s get some sleep, we have a long way ahead”

It’s surprising what food, water and company can achieve. You’re smiling more, you almost forget that you will be delivered to your father and future husband within days, Uhlan tells you about his many adventures, how he almost die in Yiti, how he rode once with a Khalassar and that he had seen the great shadow in the East. Rikan has gifted you a knife “a girl needs to defend herself” she said and proceed to show you how to kill a man in many different ways “If you want to kill your husband though, you must ask Oberyn, he’s the one that knows about poisons and how to kill somebody without raising suspicions”

“How does he know that?” you ask, leaning to the right so you get close to her horse, Oberyn rides beside Shifa before you; both of them speaking in a language you don’t understand

“He has studied many things; he’s been all over the world. He was almost a Maester once, but preferred to travel, fight and fuck the world before he gets back to his duties”

“Duties?”

“He’s a prince” she whispers a mischievous smile on her lips “he doesn’t want to talk about it, because it makes people treat him differently or underestimate him. So don’t tell him it was me, blame the big rat”

“Did somebody call me?” Uhlan screams at the back

“You do have a sharp ear when you want, my friend”

You arrive to Myr at dusk. The city is still vibrating, the merchants offering everything you could imagine and the streets smell like thousands spices. And you absorb it all with wide eyes and open mouth.

“It’s a beautiful world, my sweet flower, and you wanted to end your life” Oberyn raises his voice over the people chatting and selling stuff

“If only it could always be like this” you answer, your smile dies in your mouth remembering this is a passing thing. The adventure will be over soon.

“Life gives us many opportunities to dwell in its pleasures; you have only to acquire a keen eye to recognize the perfect moment to seize it”

“Are you implying that I will have another chance to escape?” you scoff

“Maybe...if that is what you want or maybe to enjoy your life as a married woman, who knows”

You sigh deeply trying to ignore the thoughts about your future husband, that drunken bastard, boring and dull that your father chose.

“Or you could run away and avoid your responsibilities; you can create your own destiny, my sweet flower”

“And that’s what you are doing? Avoiding your duties?” you stop in your tracks and he watches you for a moment, chewing on his lower lip

“Maybe” he answers finally

“I’m tired of being treated as if I was overreacting being a spoiled child while you are here doing exactly what I did, ran away, from the duties of a noble life. I’m not overreacting; all I want is to decide if I want to live my life bearing children for my fool husband and maybe die giving birth or out of boredom and disappointment or try my luck in the wild world. Isn’t that what you are doing? Travel, fight and fuck the world? What’s the difference between me and you?” The people surround you, the company has already enter the tavern in front of you knowing they shouldn’t meddle

“Travel, fight and fuck the world seem a pretty good title for a book. Maybe when I’m old I will write my adventures under that title” he laughs

“I’m glad I amuse you” you spat with your arms crossed

“I apologize if I made you feel that I was underestimating you. Do not confuse my laughter with mockery, I know how you feel and I understand.” He comes close to you, each hand on your arms, pressing them lightly “Believe me, I wouldn’t have accepted this job if your father didn’t pay so well. I have to get back home and I want to leave my company with enough resources so they can continue on their own” he explains, he bends his neck so you are so close you can smell his scent, leather, horse and the dessert. “But that doesn’t mean we cannot enjoy ourselves while it lasts” Oberyn smiles and passes his arm over your shoulders “Have you tasted the wine from Myr?” you shake your head “It’s the sweetest”

The wine is starting to play with your mind, your smile falls languidly over the corner of your lips and you don’t know why you’re laughing but whatever song Uhlan is singing is the funniest thing you’ve heard. Rikan laughs by your side, her laugh is actually sweet and high making her look less menacing. Shifa is the only one that doesn’t look amused at all and he drinks from her goblet eyeing the tavern, especially you, with hatred.

“C’mon, Shifa, we know you can smile” Uhlan grabs her in a bear hug but she squeezes herself out of it

“Let me alone, you brute”

“You haven’t talked much since we retrieve the little girl over here, tell us what’s going on in that little twisted mind of yours?” the man jokes and the other mercenary glares at him

“I’m going to my chamber” She drinks the rest of her drink and strides to the rooms, pushing the drunken people in her way

“Leave her, Uhlan! She’s just jealous that her prince is not directing his attentions only to her lately” Rikan says winking at you

Oberyn has been absent having a conversation in another table until he comes back with a serious expression

“I’m partially offended that you think our company it’s not worth your time” Uhlan says sliding to give him enough space to seat by his side

“Huh, so I guess Shifa is not the only one jealous” Rikan drinks looking at him over her goblet

“Shut up!”

“Where is she?” Oberyn asks

“She went to her chamber” Uhlan serves him wine “So what was about those ugly bastards that got your attention; I thought you had a very refined taste”

“Those are Westerosi men; I wanted to get news of the world. Some of us still appreciate the pursuit of knowledge, my friend” Oberyn taps on his big shoulder

“I appreciate the pursuit of a good fuck better, my friend. Let’s see if those Westerosi want to share some news with me, Rikan are you coming? I’m always lucky with you around”

“I don’t like Westerosi” she snarls

“I don’t care, I just need you to be there so they take a good look at your ugly face and they get convinced that fucking with me is the good option of the two of us” he jokes with one of those thunder like chuckles

Rikan laughs and she follows him, waddling towards the men’s table.

“I should go to my room” you say, rising too fast and the whole room twists and turns

“You liked the wine, I see” he observes you grab the wooden table for your dear life until you find your balance

“Too sweet, I haven’t noticed it until it was too late”

“Let me guide you then”

Oberyn grabs you by your waist and helps you climb the stairs to the second floor. People gather around the aisle, laughter and moans fill the air and the heat of Oberyn skin over yours and the boldness giving by the alcohol make you pressed your body against his a little tighter than its necessary.

“This is you” he says opening the door for you

“Is it true what you said about creating our own destiny?” you collapse on his firm chest, your hands brushing over his neck

“Yes, sweet flower”

“Sweet flower” you mimic his accent “Say it one more time” your glossy lips, sticky with wine, leave a kiss on the tan uncover skin of his chest. His laugh makes you raise your head

“You need to sleep, child”

“No, no!” you slap his hand away when he tries to push you inside the room “Don’t call me that, I’m not a child. I’m a woman” you try to fix your posture to seem taller but you body stumbles to one side almost falling down

“What you are is a very inebriated girl. Good night, my sweet flower” he says closing the door

“Are you going to Shifa’s room?” the words escape your lips before you can think and he lingers on the door with an eyebrow raised

“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t want you to go to her” again the words are out before you process them

“And what do you want me to do?” Oberyn closes the door behind him. And you breathe deeply a mixture of excitement and fear.

“Stay with me” you mutter

“Believe me I would, but you don’t know what you are asking. It is the wine speaking”

“No it’s not” you pout again falling into his arms, hearing how you sound like a spoiled little girl, you cough “It’s not” you repeat

“Right, let me take you to bed then”

You gasp looking at him with wide eyes. Oberyn hugs your body and walks towards the simple bed at the corner until you both fall down on the soft mattress

“Oberyn” you whisper “I have to tell you something before we...”

“Tell me, sweet flower” He lays beside you, posing his head over his fist

“I’m...I’ve never...” you stutter

“No need to worry” with his free hand he starts to brush his index finger from your brow to the tip of your nose so slowly and softly that you feel your eyes closing down

“Are you trying to make me sleep as if I was a puppy?” you slur

“Shh” he continues until the room goes dark and you cannot open your eyes for much that you try

“Sweet dreams, sweet flower” you hear before you blank out.

The sun pierces your eyes as if its rays were daggers. The company laughs at your expense, but yet again, Shifa hisses and insults you in some language but it’s evident that she said something nasty because Oberyn glares at her.

“No more Myr wine for you, little girl” Uhlan laughs helping you get on your horse

“Never” you murmur

The pain in the back of your head and the unstoppable thirst you have makes you moody, and it doesn’t help that you know you’re one day away from your home. But everything is worse with the hard sting of jealousy. It’s not that Oberyn does much, but he rides along side her, speaking in that stupid language you don’t understand, and she makes him laugh, he watches with attention whatever she points at during the way. He looks at her, talks to her. All you want is to rush your stupid horse and take her place.

It gets worse when Shifa sees you observing them; knowing damn well what you feel, she becomes softer, leaving touches on his skin, whispers things on his ear. And you can see the intimacy, the camaraderie that they share and that you will never have. And she’s a woman not a little girl, fierce, independent, and strong; and you cannot stop comparing yourself to her.

You arrive to a small town in between the domains of the two free cities, just hours away from the gates of Pentos.

“We will spent the night here, we need to be presentable for tomorrow”

The town has a small and humble bath house. The simple exterior made of red brick doesn’t show the beauty it has in its interior. The garden inside is made of brick and ceramic creating beautiful arches that frame the pool in the middle; green vines crept over the walls and the tender murmur of water is the only sound you can hear.

“We have rooms to accommodate you for the night once you’re done with your baths” the lady, owner of the house, announces and snaps her fingers towards the servants so they get everything ready.

“Thank you” Oberyn says bowing his head “Wash away the dust of our journey, my friends. Specially you, Uhlan” he jokes, slapping the big man’s belly

“You’re as stinky as me, my prince, but the Gods didn’t give me a beautiful face”

The company strips shamelessly, you think that they’re so comfortable around each other that they don’t think twice before submerge their naked bodies in the fresh water.

You stay by the side, taking off your shoes and rolling your sleeves so you can wash your feet and face. You avert your eyes when you see that Oberyn’s armor is on the floor. Your eyes fixed on the water and the blue tiles at the bottom, but you cannot stop from raising your eyes just a little.

His magnificent, strong, and tight body, his beautiful golden skin is marked in scars in some parts, you see the muscles on his legs tensing and relaxing as he gets in the pool. Your eyes travel through the room to avoid seeing him in his full grace.

“C’mon child, you don’t want to be stinky when you meet your father” Rikan splash water at you

“I-I”

“Let her be, she’s scare of my big cock” Uhlan laughs

“That thing that you can barely get up? C’mon, child, it is harmless” The blonde mercenary swims towards you and grabs your hand to pull you in

“Rikan, leave her, let’s finish and we will leave her some privacy” Oberyn says under the small waterfall brushing his skin with a small piece of soap

“Your husband’s eyes will be the only ones that will see you naked” Shifa says and she swims towards Oberyn. Her body is toned and muscular. She joints him under the water stream and when she tries to touch him, he moves away.

You don’t want to smile, but you do, until you remember that he refused you the other night and tonight is the last night you’ll spend with them. Shifa will have him for whatever time she wants.

Eventually they leave the pool, putting on some fresh clothes and rubbing some scent oils on their skins and they look different, less mercenary and more like elite warriors with a thousand adventures to tell. You will miss them; they are the only friends you have ever had.

“Thank you” you say stopping their banter over who’s going to take which room, they look at you confused “Thank you for rescuing me” you say with a trembling voice

“It’s nothing, child” Uhlan says and you see his big eyes shine

“We will give you some privacy” Rikan nods

When they are away you take off those stinky clothes you’ve been wearing since you escape. You moan feeling the water soften your muscle and you enjoy the strong cascade of water hitting your back until your bones feel like liquid inside your skin.

“I never expected you to thank us for getting you to your father” his voice gets you out of the trance, and you don’t open your eyes when you hear the soft sound of clothes hitting the ground and the splash of water when he gets inside the pool again.

“I didn’t thank you for that, but for rescuing me” you answer still your eyes closed under the waterfall “And saving my life” you pass your hand over the now healed wound, a moon shape scar where he suck the venom out of you.

Oberyn fingers grab your wrist, raising your arm towards his lips and planting kisses alongside your veins until he arrives to the thicker skin of the scar, sucking again on it.

“Do you still believe that it was better to let you die from the snake’s bite than to be back home?” he whispers against your skin, his beard tickling you over your pulse

“I still can run away” you open one eye. Oberyn looks amused at you

“Will you?” he asks saving the distance between you

“I don’t know. Will you come get me if I do?” You approach him, intertwining your hands on his neck

“The world is big and beautiful; it will be a shame that a sweet flower like you rots in a place like this all her life” he turns his head and leaves a kiss on each of your arms

“So that’s a no” you laugh but the pain in your heart is real

“I have to leave Essos soon, I guess the time for adventures is up” he exhales deeply

“Just the last one then” you’re surprised of your boldness when you rise on your tiptoes to kiss his lips

It is soft at first. Just tasting him, tempting him to show you more, and he does. Oberyn opens his mouth and sucks on your lower lip and when your mouth is open he savors you with his tongue. He holds your face on his large palms guiding you softly until the kiss deepens and your hands leave his neck roaming through his back and he reciprocates. His hand caresses every inch from your neck to your arms. You moan in protest when he breaks the kiss but then his kisses move to your neck nibbling your skin. He pampers every part of you with his attention, soft kisses and bites over the top of you breast.You cry out laughing when he grabs you and rise by the waist so he can access your tits. You circle his waist with your legs and you hold yourself on his shoulders.

Any good sense in you, any coherent thought gets lost one his mouth sucks on your nipples and you kiss his head trying to control your panting. The sounds that come out of you seem so far away, his low grunts and moans over your breast melt you and you feel the heat gathering between your legs.

“My sweet flower, you have the sweetest tits” he moans and he lowers you so he can kiss you one more time. You run your fingers over his dark hair, his impossibly close to you but you need more. You need him like those drops of water he poured in you the first time. The hunger, the jealousy and desire you felt these past days have reached its peak and you think your heart will collapse. You repeat his name on his lips like a plea.

Oberyn carries you to the side of the pool, and you feel your cheeks burning, your body in goose flesh feeling exposed and at his mercy now that the water is not covering you. He takes his time admiring you, his brow eyes eating every pore of your skin. Kissing your legs he parts them grabbing you by the hips he positions you just at the edge of the pool. He palms your breasts one more time, gracing each nipple with a small pinch that makes you moan loudly. You get flustered, gaining a bit of your conscience back

“No need to be shy, my love, let go. I wish to hear every sweet moan, drink every drop of this sweet cunt” he plants a kiss on your navel, before lowering his face. His first lick between your lips makes you marvel of the unknown sensation. His eyes are fixed on you while he licks faster and sucks between your small lips, when you tense, every single fiber of your body burning, he changes his rhythm, lapping languidly all your sex and back again, fast and slow, and never too much. Until you’re gasping for air and pushing him away

“Please, it’s too much”

“Let me show you, trust me” his wet mouth bites you inner thigh before he starts again. This time you reach the point of no return faster. A wide abyss before you where you skin burns and you heart beat faster until you fall, crying his name. And he holds you, planting kisses all over you body, every part he can reach. The gasps lead to laughter

“What happe...how?” you ask

“I have many things to show you my sweet flower” he smiles

Oberyn lets you in his room. The warm night breeze moves the white curtains and the moonshine casts its rays so you can see him get on top of you with the warmest of smiles.

“Do you still want this, my flower?” he asks

You grab him by the neck and let your lips answer for you. Lowering your touch you push his back so he presses his body against you even tighter.

“Please, please” you beg on his ear

He reaches between your bodies and brushes the tip of his cock on your lips coating it in your arousal, before pushing gently. You gasp at the intrusion; it’s not pain what you feel but definitively a bit uncomfortable at first

“Let me in, my sweet, relax for me” Oberyn bends his neck to kiss and bite your tits. The pleasure turns your body into a withering mess until you’re full of him.

He moves lazily at first letting you grow used to his length and width while he observes your face

“Is it alright my love?”

“I need more” you murmur

“More?” He rises, pressing the weight of his body on his knees and opens you wider grabbing the soft skin on your hips “Like this?” he thrusts deep and fast with each word and you nod biting your lip. His pace is unforgiving, and you cannot think, all you can feel is him, and his sweet words and praises combined with the slaps of wet skin and the creaks of this old bed. Your fingers scratch softly on his chest trying to hold into something when you feel that abyss again, but this time you let it go and it hits you harder. Oberyn collapses over you letting your cunt squeeze him even tighter, slowly dragging himself in and out until he sense his release coming and he pushes harder once, twice until he spills his warm seed.

You kiss his brow, wet from exhaustion and the pool, in a way the cage he’s forming with his body pressed against the mattress is the freest you have ever felt.

The dawn wakes you up, many years later, a harrowing pain in your chest remembering how he kissed you a thousand times, how you slept caged in his arms for a few hours and then woke up with his face between your thighs

“Does it hurt?” he asked and you flinched, feeling the swollen and sensitive skin “I will kiss it better” he said. And you made love again, he moved you in the bed showing how to touch your body and how to touch him, how to pleasure him with your mouth as he did to you. Until the sun invaded the room and crashed your safe space between the shadows. You could no longer hide from your destiny, it was time to go.

He left you, a small and decent kiss on your hand and bid you farewell wishing you a happy life.

You remember running, not paying attention to your father’s complaints and your mother’s cries while you soon-to-be husband drank wine unbothered by the whole thing. You ran to the balcony watching his dark horse taking him out of the city.

He never looked back, and with his parting figure you promised you will live your life happy even if you have to run for it. That you will live adventures on your own until life gives you the last drop of its joy and pleasure. In a way you promised to honor him without knowing one day it will come true.

So you woke up, older, wiser, in your own house, after many adventures lived, and after a sleepless night mourning him, you grab paper and ink and write:

“Travel, fight and fuck the world: the Adventures of an Unusual Lady”

[willow-tree-writes]

❀Lay Off❀

Harry Potter x Hufflepuff!Reader

Summary: Y/N often gets mad fun of, just because of the house she belongs to. Harry, her new boyfriend, gets fed up one day and confronts the bully.

Request: N/A

Author’s Note: I don’t mean any Hufflepuff hate for this fic! I am a proud Hufflepuff, and wrote it cause I feel a lot of people really do hate on them. But anyways, I hope you enjoy it! (I don’t think this is my best work, but here it is anyways.)

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: British Cursing, Bullying, Fluff

!I don’t own this gif!

“Miss L/N, have you finished yet?” Snape asked, only interested in finally ending his class. It would have been just about over 10 minutes ago, if you had turned in your paper and didn’t zone out.

You snapped out of your thoughts, blushing with embarrassment. “Yes, of course, Professor.” You grabbed your paper and stood up, walking it over to him.

You could hear a couple Slytherins snickering. They made you want to shrink to the size of an ant. Which is something they probably would love to do to you.

Snape took the paper from you, quite aggressively you might add. “Now that I have all your essays, you may be dismissed.”

You went back to your table, collecting all your papers, books, and quill.

Draco Malfoy’s voice loudly made its way over to you. “Finally. I’m not surprised we had to wait for some Hufflepuff.” His pals laughed along with him.

You just shook your head to yourself and quickly rushed to the hallways.

“Y/N!” A voice called out from behind you. You slowed down to see Harry and Hermione heading your way.

You bit your lip slightly, holding your books close to your chest. “Sorry about keeping up the class.” She muttered, Draco’s words ringing in her head.

Hermione shook her head. “It’s quite alright. Ron would have done it if he could wake up on time for some classes.”

You gave them a small smile, not being able to muster up anything more. “Well, I have to get to Charms. I’ll see you guys later.” You waved a little before turning and walking away. 

You heard two sets of footprints, but only one was getting quieter. The other one landed right next to you. “Hey, Y/N.”

You looked to see Harry walking beside you. “Hi, Harry. Is something a matter?” You tilted your head a little. You knew he was supposed to be going to class with Hermione, so you didn’t understand why he was going with you.

He shook his head. “No, no. I just wanted to know what you were doing after class?”

You thought for a moment. “Well, we have study hall next… And Oscar needs me to help him out with a potion… Oh, and I need to finish my paper for Transfigurations, or else Professor McGonagall will have my head…” She rambled on, tapping her books lightly. “But after all that I should be free.” You didn’t realize you were looking down as you spoke, so you quickly looked up at Harry.

He chuckled a little. He always found your rambling quite cute, which was something you couldn’t figure out. “Well, after you finish all that, I’ll be Hermione and Ron. Come get me, I have something I want to show you.”

You smiled, a genuine soft smile. “I can’t wait.”

Harry and you had been dating for a couple months now. While it was a little awkward at first, you two slowly became more comfortable around one another.

He kissed your cheek before turning around and walking to his class. You watched him for a moment before rushing off to class.

----

You smiled as you finished your paper, slipping it into the cover of one of your books. You then collected your books and stood up.

Oscar sat in the spot that was next to you. “Going to see your Gryffindor?”

You rolled your eyes a little with a giggle. “I’ll see you later, Osc.”

You started to make your way over to the Gryffindor table when your favorite Slytherin stepped right in front of you.

“Going somewhere, L/N?” 

You sigh a little and try to step around him, but his goons basically surround you. “Please just leave me alone, Draco.”

He laughed. “Aren’t Hufflepuffs supposed to be kind and caring?” He asked in a mocking tone.

You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he just cuts you off. “No, sorry. I’m wrong. Hufflepuffs are just the kids who aren’t any special. They’re the house of rejects.”

That hit you kind of hard. Sure, you weren’t the smartest, or bravest, or most cunning, but you were still a good person. At least you tried to be 99% of the time. You didn’t feel like a reject.

“What? Is the little puppy sad?” He laughed. You didn’t realize it until he spoke, but you were on the verge of tears.

Harry came up behind Draco and turned him around. “What do you think you're doing?”

The only thing you heard was him say, “Potter,” before you quickly made your leave. You didn’t want Harry to see how much the Slytherin’s words got to you.

You ducked into the girls bathroom and quickly hid in a stall. You sat on the toilet with your head in your hands, crying.

----

Avoiding Harry was like a child without a cute smile on their face - impossible.

You had a few classes with him, so you made sure for the rest of the day to arrive right before it started and leave as soon as you could. You were surprised at how successful you were. Until now.

It was study hall, again, the time you were dreading. You didn’t know how you were going to avoid him now.

You sat at your house table, keeping your head down and praying with every fiber in your body he didn’t notice you. But what good is praying when you’re up against the Chosen One?

You were reading about a potion you were to do tomorrow in class when a presence sat down beside you. You, at first, thought it might have been Oscar; but when the presence didn’t say anything, you knew he was waiting for you to look at him. Harry was waiting for you to acknowledge his presence.

You just kept reading, pretending like you didn’t know he was there.

“Y/N.” Harry starts, his eyes trained on you.

You shake your head, stopping him. “I don’t want to talk about it, Harry.” You were quiet, but loud enough for just him to hear.

“Well I do.” He sounded as if he was fed up. You didn’t blame him. “How long has he been doing that?”

You shrug. ��I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You mumble, knowing full well that was a lie.

He groaned. “Bloody hell, Y/N. I may not be Ravenclaw, but I’m not stupid.”

The mention of another house made you a little upset. “Sorry I’m not a good judge of character, like one. Or as brave as a Gryffindor to say how I feel. Or as cunning as a Slytherin to hide how I feel. I’m just a bloody Hufflepuff. The only good I do is when something’s wrong with someone else.” You went off. You didn’t mean to go off on Harry, but you couldn’t hold back.

He was completely baffled and caught off guard.

A chuckle was heard from behind, and the two of them turned to see Draco. “Looks like the Snuffleduff finally cracked.”

Harry threw a scold his way. “Shut it, Malfoy.”

You stood and started to gather your books. You couldn’t deal with this again.

He stood up beside you, turning to Draco. “Weren’t you ever raised to hold your tongue?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh please, Potter. At least I was actually raised.”

“Watch it.” 

“Or else what?” Draco pushed. “You’re gonna sick your Hufflepuff girlfriend on me? I’m so scared.”

You took a deep breath, turning to face him. “Just leave us alone, Draco.” You were never one to stand up for yourself. But right now, you felt like you were also standing up for Harry.

He chuckled, crossing his arms. “Turning a bitter, are we?”

Harry took a step forward, pushing Draco back a little. “You’re going to have to deal with a lot more than bitterness if you keep this up. So lay off.”

Draco scoffed, pushing Harry back. “Don’t try to sound like my father. Why would anyone ever even listen to you? Especially when you slum it with Hogwarts’ rejects.”

Harry took out his wand and pointed it at him. “Keep running your mouth, Malfoy. I dare you.”

Draco followed his movements. “You better watch who you challenge.”

It was obvious he was about to cast a spell when Snape came up between the two boys, grabbing their heads. “Cut this nonsense out, before I put you both in detention.” He forcibly made the boys look away from each other before pushing them away and walking away just as quick as he came.

Harry sighed and shook his head, fixing his hair a little.

You took his hand without a word, pulling him out of the room. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, but still followed you.

You took him out into the hall before going out to the courtyard. No one was there at this time, which was a little surprising. You were relieved by it, cause then you didn’t need to go around searching for an empty place.

You sat down on one of the benches, and Harry sat right beside you. He looked at you expectantly, which made you a little nervous suddenly.

Fidgeting with the sleeves of your robes, you looked down at your lap. “Thank you…”

“How long has he been saying those things?” He repeats his question from before.

You sigh and shrug. “I don’t know. Since we became friends, maybe?”

You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell he was kind of upset. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Shrugging was a friend of yours. “Why tattle about something that’s true?”

He shook his head, putting a hand under your chin and making you look at him. “That’s not the truth, okay? Nothing about what he says is even close. You are one of the most brilliant girls I’ve ever met. You're genuine and amazing in your own way.”

You felt yourself start to blush. “You’re just saying that…”

“I’m not.” He shakes his head again, holding your hands. “There is not a single other girl I can imagine spending my time with than you.”

You smile, letting yourself finally listen to his words. “I don’t think Hermione would like you saying that.” You said with a giggle.

Harry smiled, happy he finally got through to you. “Then let’s not tell her.”

He started to lean in, and you followed suit. When your lips met, you relaxed fully. You might have been dating for a little while, but this was the first time you ever kissed.

The bliss and pure joy that erupted from it made it clear to you that you would go to war for this boy, and he would go to war for you.

[smol-and-grumpy]

Dear Dean (Chapter 2)

Re-post

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (Jamie Blum)

WC: 3.4k

Summary: After taking Saint Lo, by sheer dumb luck, Lieutenant Dean Winchester from the 29th Infantry Division, Baker Company, received a truckload of replacements for his platoon that was falling apart. Little did he know, that one recruit would change his life forever.

Chapter Warnings: There’s none, except angst and the fear of what lies ahead.

SERIES MASTERLIST

22nd July, 1944

Letters from home arrived early in the morning and everyone tore them open, reading them out loud while they were sitting at breakfast and weirdly enough, Dean got a letter too. He thought first that it was Sam’s but no, it was from home. Dean ripped it open, not minding that he tore out a little of the letter as well. He was clumsy with his fingers lately, having trouble to keep them from trembling in the most inconvenient of times.

Dear Dean,

I hope this letter reaches you well, like all the other letters I’ve sent you before. I wish that you would write back, but I understand that time must be a real big issue. I miss you and wanted to say that I’m immensely proud of what you’re doing. I hope Sam’s doing great, too. I thought that I should send you a photograph I found while I cleared out my mom’s attic. Remember how you, Sam and me snuck out to go to the fair? This is the picture of then. That night you kissed me. It was my first kiss, too. I miss you guys so much. My mom’s still taking care of your home. Growing flowers and tending to the porch. She too, believes that the both of you will come back. You were always more than the neighbor boy to me. You were more than a brother or a friend. Dean, I love you, and I still do. Come back in one piece, alright?

Love Always,

Anna Milton

Dean threw away the letter pretty soon after he read it. He wouldn’t reply, like the others that he left on a trail from Omaha to here. Dean knew that if he would write back and tell her that he’d never saw anything else than a friend in her, he’d break her heart and sometimes, if you have nothing nice to say in a letter, you shouldn’t be writing one at all. However he kept the photograph. It was a picture of he, Sam, and Anna in the middle. All of them smiling. All of them still hopeful. He folded it and tucked it into his helmet. Now he had picture in there, too.

June, 1944

Just when it felt like it was all too much, like the loneliness would swallow her whole, Jamie received a letter in the mail addressed to Mr. Jamie Blum. She eagerly ripped through the envelope, not caring about the paper cuts that easily sliced through the skin on her fingers. She held the paper in her hands, small droplets of blood sprinkling the words on the page.

Greeting:

Having submitted yourself to a local board composed of your neighbors for the purpose of determining your availability for training and service in the armed forces of the United States, you are hereby notified that you have been selected for training and service in the Army. You will, therefore, report….

She’d been drafted. Jameson put her name in after all.

Jamie stared at the white paper, and the words began to melt together. She didn’t know if she should cry, or rejoice. So, instead, she walked up the stairs, and into the bathroom. She pulled out her brothers razor blade. Jamie stared at her reflection, her eyes were hollow, and her cheek bones protrudes from lack of sleep. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them she ran the blade across her scalp, in one fluid motion, wincing at the tug of protest that her long hair gave. It fell to the ground like new fallen snow, lackadaisical, and languid. It danced past her empty eyes and collected at her bare feet on the bathroom floor.

She ducked her naked head under the sink, letting the cool water run over her irritated scalp. Jamie was going to do this and nothing would stop her. She gripped the edge of the sink and looked at herself in the mirror, she looked alien without hair, but she smiled at her own reflection, water droplets rolling down her face. She looked a little like Jameson, she thought, as she reached out a hand to touch her reflection in the mirror.

Jamie would leave the house, without looking back, like her brothers before her. Anywhere was better than being alone. Always waiting for letters or worse, for someone to tell her that her brothers all had fallen. She needed to stand on the same ground as them. She needed to feel alive again. So she gathered up what she could find of her brothers that fit, and packed her duffle bag, tossing it over her shoulder. She locked the door behind her, fully prepared to never see her childhood home again.

**

Jamie arrived in England a week later for Basic Training. She was careful about her appearance and was really grateful that she didn’t have large boobs. She didn’t have to actually bind them tightly. She waited for the others to shower and slipped in when they were dressing. It worked surprisingly well, maybe because she was so small, and she could really go anywhere almost undetected. Most of the men in her training class were young themselves, and missing home. They didn’t seem to pay close attention to anyone else, let alone her. She adapted the ways of the men around her. She told crude jokes, and ate with her mouth open. They talked about the dolls at home, and she told them that she couldn’t be tied down by just one. Her secret was safe.

Turned out, she was a hell of a shot. Having three brothers worked to her advantage. Jamie knew how to spit, clean a weapon, and she could drink just about any man under the table. She completed only four days of training when they announced that she was shipping off to France. Apparently there was a shortage everywhere. Soldiers moved in and out of camp restlessly, like little ants.

**

22nd July, 1944

On the way to her assignment, she sat in the back of a truck. It was bumping, and uncomfortable. She grunted at every rock the truck rolled over. When they arrive in Saint Lo, and she finally could stand up again, and straighten her back, she felt a stinging pain traveling down her spine, but she wouldn’t let it bring her down.

Even in a war zone, she could admit that France was beautiful. She could see the seaside, and taste the ocean air. Almost like back at Trenton. The other men didn’t seem to notice the sea air, or the clear sky. They gathered their things and were already in step.

Biting on her lip, Jamie secured her webbing, swung her haversack across her back and hung her musette bag around her body, determined to be at the front of the pack. She wouldn’t fall behind. She fetched her rifle from the floor of the truck bed, and jumped off the halting truck, into the bright sun.

They lined up the new arrivals in the front of their respective platoons and were inspected by the platoon leaders. Jamie stood at attention like she was taught, her chest out, next to her training class. Her heartbeat rang in her ears with a woosh, as her eyes landed on the man in front of her. He was tall, about six foot, if she was guessing. His shoulders were broad, and she could see the reflection of their terrified faces in his mossy green eyes.

“Name’s Lieutenant Dean Winchester.” The man announced and Jamie flinched at the deep rolling sound of his voice at first, but at the same time, the bass of it was strangely calming and smooth, as if it was coated with warm and sweet honey.

She pressed her lips together, and tried to ignore the bead of sweat that was on her upper lip.

Lieutenant Winchester stood up straight, puffing up his broad shoulders to intimidate them and for some, it worked, but not with her. She knew these kind of men, all bark, but no bite.  She tightened her jaw, trying not to laugh at her platoon leader’s alpha behavior.

Dean turned on his heels, his eyes narrowing at the small replacement in front of him. Christ, he can’t be older than eighteen? They make them smaller and smaller. “What your name, private?”

“Blum, Sir.” It came shouting out of him like a pistol. He’d been drilled to do it, Dean knew.

“Private Blum, huh?” A lopsided grin started to spread on Dean’s face. “Alright, private Blum. From now on, in my platoon, you’ll be Bambi.” And then he looked up from him to the other replacements. “I like to give nicknames to my privates. You’ll all get one if you’re lucky.” He took a good look at their faces in the line before he stalled before private Blum. “You’re fucking small, Bambi. Tell me, what can you contribute to my platoon?”

“Sir, I’m a mean shooter.” Bambi shouted like he’d been drilled in basic.

“Shooter, huh? Good. I can use that. What else, private?” Dean knew that he shouldn’t be so harsh on the first day but hell, he’s got a platoon to lead and a freaking war to win. Then he adds, “Come on! Humor me.”

“I..uh..”

“That’s what I thought –” Dean snickered but got cut off by the small private with doe eyes.

“I know a little German, Lieutenant. You’re right, I’m small but I’m stronger than I look. I’m pretty good, you just watch.” The privates eyes locked with Deans in a challenge. Almost as if he was saying, challenge me.

Dean nodded at that. He knew that he should maybe shout at him, telling him not to talk to his superior like that, but he was too tired for this shit. He still had a briefing to attend and so he stepped back before he turned to Sergeant Harvelle. “Take over, sergeant.”

And then he walked away, leaving Harvelle to deal with instructions.

There was something about Bambi that made his blood freeze. He couldn’t figure out what it was, but it was something that made him want to protect that little son of a bitch who thought he was a smartass. But Dean also knew that private Blum would probably be trouble, he just couldn’t put a finger on how yet.

The look Bambi gave Dean was all too familiar. It was a look he normally saw on Sam. Sammy could look at him with doe eyes, under long lashes, and he would melt. Now there was someone in his company - no, in his freaking platoon - that gave him the same fucking look and it didn’t really bode well with Dean.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Sam and so Dean decided to fill his remaining 10 minutes before briefing with writing him a letter.

Dear Sam,

I haven’t had a lot of time to write to you lately. I’m sorry for that. Things have been wild, man. I thought you’d be here with us in Saint Lo, but I got words that you stayed behind at Omaha to help clear things out. Sammy, just take good care, alright? Don’t make me abandon my platoon and come save your ass!

I thought Omaha was bad, but shit just got worse from there on out. I lost a kid. A goddamn kid, Sam! Not much older than you are. He tried to tell me a joke and stepped on a landmine. I should have seen it but I was so goddamn distracted by him and now, there’s not even enough of him left to send home to his parents, and I know that it’s on me. It’s all on me. You asked me once how many I need to save, and I answered with “all of them”, do you remember? I think I failed, Sammy. I failed real bad.

I’ve lost half of my platoon before we could take over Saint Lo, Sammy. And hey, we did it without ammo. I hope you’re proud of me. Captain Mills is weird lately, though. He always keeps talking about me taking over. I don’t even know why he does that.. So my job right now is to cheer him the fuck up at keep him alive because, Sam, I don’t wanna lead. I can’t. I will fail, I know that much. I’ll let my platoon down, the whole Baker Company. I’m so fucking screwed if something should happen to Mills.

We’ve got a shitload of new recruits today. More lives that I need to take care of. They arrived this morning and one of them already rubs me the wrong way. And he’s also the reason why I sat myself down to write to you. He reminds me of you. He has the same set of eyes and already tried to undermine me. I should have stripped him the fuck down, but I couldn’t, Sammy. I couldn’t, because I saw you in him. You have the same eyes and fucking hell, remember the screening of Bambi at camp? He’s got Bambi eyes. Big, doe-like and I swear he gave me that dirty diaper look you’ve always been giving me since I can remember.

I’m sorry about the rant, brother. It’s just… I don’t know who I should talk to about this. I hoped you skipped half of the letter because there’s nothing but ranting.

Shit, Sammy, I fucking miss you. I hope you’re ok and this letter will reach you. Take care, alright?

Lieutenant Dean Winchester

Jamie’s fingers twitched at her side. Bambi, huh? Fuck this. Not even here for a minute and the Lieutenant was already pissing on her parade. If Jamie didn’t think that she’d made a mistake by coming, she sure as hell knew now, but there was no going back anymore.

Sergeant Harvelle directed them to their billets before they would go out for a hot meal. The people in the platoon were in good spirits and some of them even joked that they wanted to stay here for the roof over their head and the regular hot meals. It made Jamie think about what they went through to consider this a piece of heaven.

Jamie fetched her tray and lined up and waited on her serving of food. She balanced the tray to the table where her platoon was sitting and sat at the beginning of the bench, next to Sergeant Harvelle and across from Corporal Tran. She poked around in something that looks awful lot like Mac’n’Cheese, but she couldn’t be sure until she would taste it on her tongue, when Tran asked her a question.

“So, you’re Bambi, huh?” He said it with a casual smile on his face, having heard about her interaction with Lieutenant Winchester.

Jamie swallowed what turned out to really be Mac’n’Cheese, only too watery and salty for her taste, but she couldn’t complain now, could she, before she spoke. “Apparently, that’s me.”

“Hey,” Tran said, pointing his fork in her direction, “Better than being called Dopey or Sneezy.”

She grinned at the thought of Lieutenant Winchester naming people in his platoon after the seven dwarfs. “Why, who’s Dopey?”

Tran points to the private at the end of the table. “Private Sands is Dopey, and next to him,” Tran looks back at her, “we have Private Redfield as Sneezy.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Sneezed his freaking way through the fields after Omaha, man.” Tran and Harvelle laughed when they thought back at the way Private Redfields nose and eyes were puffy red and swollen from hayfever.

“And you, Sergeant, Corporal?” She looks at them, wondering what their nicknames were. It would only be fair if everyone has got one, Jamie thought.

“We don’t. Winchester’s only giving them on the go. So, I guess, congrats to you, Bambi!” Harvelle stuffed his mouth with a big fork of food and then Tran leaned in a little, looking around before he whispered so that only Jamie and sergeant Harvelle could hear him.

“We call the Lieutenant Grumpy.” Tran winked and Jamie snorted before throwing her head back into heartfelt laughter. Harvelle and Tran joined in.

“What’s so funny?” Lieutenant Winchester was standing at the foot of the table, a little behind him, was Lieutenant Novak. They both held a tray in their hands and there was a heavy frown on Lieutenant Winchester’s face.

“Nothing, Sir.” Harvelle said hastily and began to shout down the line to scooch together and Jamie did the same, scooching close to Harvelle, to make room for the two Lieutenants.

Lieutenant Winchester sat down his eyebrows still knotted together in the middle of his forehead, as if he didn’t trust that they were laughing about nothing. Lieutenant Novak on the other hand, had his lips spread into a warm smile and he spoke and first she didn’t know that he meant her, but then he asked again. “Private? Hey, Bambi.”

“Yes, Sir!” It came out a little too enthusiastic and she could see at the corner of her eye that Lieutenant Dean Winchester was holding back a laugh.

“I asked you why you are here. What’s your story?” Lieutenant Novak said, his voice warm and kind. Why couldn’t she be in his platoon?

Jamie exhaled loudly, and then she speaks. “I..uh… my brother’s are all in the army. I didn’t want to be left behind.”

She could see that Lieutenant Winchesters face went from grumpy to understanding and she hoped he was warming up to her.

“How many brothers do you have?” It was Tran who asked and he had sympathy painted on his face.

Jamie stopped eating and laid her fork down. “Three. They’re all scattered around here somewhere.” She could feel that everyone in her close proximity were listening to her because they stopped eating, too. She tapped her fork, not liking being the center of attention after all the time she spent in Basic trying to blend in.

“And parents? Must be tough having all their kids out in the field.” Harvelle asked hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to overstep but he was curious and Jamie understood.

“I don’t have any. We’ve only had each other as far as I can remember.” Jamie bit back the tears that stung in her eyes. There was no way that she wanted to cry there in front of everyone. She was a man, dammit.

Harvelle nodded and returned to his food and the others followed. They all kept eating in silence, and she could only hear Lieutenants Winchester and Novak talking to each other in low voices.

When Lieutenant Winchester finished his plate, he looks around his platoon. “Who’s on sentry?” They’d been rotating sentry with the other companies and he knew that Baker always have one or two sentry shifts at night, but he tended to forget who and when.

“We are, Sir!” The shout came from the other end of the table and Lieutenant Dean Winchester craned his neck.

“Dopey and Sneezy? What a team, huh? What time?”

“Oh-three-hundred, Sir!”

Lieutenant Winchester nodded in the direction of Private Sands and Redford. “Alright you two, you are switching with me and Bambi. Take a nap. Rest. I want you all well rested at Oh-six-hundred.”

Jamie looked at Lieutenant Winchester in disbelief. She just arrived for fuck’s sake. She didn’t even know the perimeter. Didn’t even know how what to do. While her mind was working with the endless tasks and what there is to do on sentry duty, Lieutenant Dean looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

“You got a problem with that, Bambi?”

“No, Sir.” She replied, a little less enthusiastic.

Lieutenant Dean stood up from the bench and balanced his tray in one hand. “Good. Report to the meeting point at Oh-two-fifty.”

And before Jamie could even nod, he was already gone with Lieutenant Novak trailing behind.

“Shit, Bambi. What did you do to piss him off?” Tran looked at her stunned. “He never changed sentry rota with a new replacement before.”

Jamie just shrugged in disbelieve. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Look, he’s grumpy and might be harsh, but he’s looking out for his people, alright? We’ve had rough days behind us and he probably just wanted us to get a good nights worth of sleep and it happened that two of us still had to be on sentry so he took it over and I guess, you were just sitting the closet to him.” Harvelle cleaned his plate with his fork, the metal clinking together and it gave Jamie goosebumps.

“Yeah, probably.” Jamie said meekly and with the others, she put the tray back and walked out of the hall. She paused and looked up to the dimming sky, thinking and hoping that her brothers had it better than she did.

Chapter 3

[teamhawkeye]

So I’ve had a while now to reflect after finishing up the Far Cry New Dawn story

WARNING: SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

It...was a mixed bag overall. There were some things i liked - but there was a whole lot i didn’t like

The Good

The landscape. Hope County has always been gorgeous and it was nice to see it post-Collapse blooming and thriving for the most part

The music. Love it or hate it, it fit the Mad Max-esque theme the Highwaymen had going for them, both score and licensed soundtrack

Improvements in gameplay. Specifically with the GFH. I used Boomer almost exclusively in FC5 and two of my biggest complaints were 1.) he was not able to ride in vehicles with me and i felt bad making him run behind me everywhere and 2.) even with a ton of perks, he was very easily incapacitated by enemies. With Timber, they gave him the ability to ride in vehicles so you no longer have to feel bad about making him walk and they buffed him greatly in comparison to Boomer - he was often like a little walking tank and I greatly appreciated that they took those things into consideration and made tweaks there.

New Photo Mode. oh my god, YES. it still wasn’t perfect by any means, but my god, it was soooooo nice to be able to give your Captain life and emotion!

The Outpost system. Escalating difficulty so you could go back and still have a challenge even as you advanced your perks and weapons was a nice touch, so things never got too easy or stale in that area

Expeditions. It was fun being able to leave Hope County for a bit and see new locations and spend some time doing stuff other than milking the Outposts for ethanol

The Not-So Good

Abandoning characters from FC5. They may be dead and gone, but how are John and Faith and Jacob so glossed over? John maybe had the best fortune in nods to him and the last game, having both his ranch and bunker serve as important locations in New Dawn...but what about Faith and Jacob? Why was there no mention whatsoever to Eli, Whitehorse, Pratt, Hudson, or Dutch? And beyond the dead from FC5′s canon story, what about missing Resistance members? Jess Black, Wheaty, Tammy, Tweak...what happened to them? why were we given no closure on their stories at all? There was so little time spent reflecting on the events of the previous game or its characters - it very much felt like “they’re dead, not questions now, move on”...but the characters of the last game were a big part of what made it so great and it felt like a great disservice to the fans to have them swept under the rug like that.

Main story. I mean...what the fuck even was that last third part of the game??? The first third of the game started off on solid footing but it went off the rails well before the end. And there seemed to be a severe lack of cohesion between what we saw and learned in FC5 to what we see and learn in New Dawn. Joseph’s story about his daughter seems far less important knowing he had some bastard son hanging around one of the bunkers the whole time - why was there never any allusion to him whatsoever? He certainly felt shoehorned in as a result. And how is it one of the Big rules of Eden’s Gate was “no fornication” but Joseph can get away with it? That doesn’t line up with the antagonist we faced off with all of FC5. And what was with the magic??? Like, there was a touch of that in FC5 with the Bliss and the scope of just what it could do...but a ton of the Bliss’s power could be argued to be auditory and visual hallucinations. There was just straight up...magic to explain some of the weird things they included in New Dawn and it made that make some of it feel weak and hollow

Disservice to its villains. Mickey and Lou were done dirty, it’s just that plain and simple. Ubisoft didn’t give them much of anything to do and wasted all their potential. One of the main draws of FC5 was just how good the villains were and one of the largest complaints i saw from FC5 was just how much more interaction we all wanted with them. New Dawn gave their villains a backseat to almost everything else going on in the game. Mickey and Lou almost felt detached from the story at times. With the FC5, one of the best things about the Seeds was how connected they felt to everything you did: they met you face to face a number of times, radioed in constantly to taunt and harass you, upped the ante when you put the heat on them...with Mickey and Lou, it never felt like they actually took you seriously. Or didn’t even care, despite saying otherwise. They address you directly maybe once all game aside from when you have cutscenes with them face-to-face. Their strongest moment was in their defeat and it showed what major potential they had as antagonists - and to be sympathetic as well - and Ubisoft really blew it there and that’s one of the biggest shames

Disservice to its new characters. The new Resistance/Survivor characters got shafted too. You could easily go all game without knowing a single thing about any of the new GFH or Specialists for Prosperity - there’s just not the time to really get to know them or even like them all that much. Rush was certainly built up...to only be kidnapped and potentially left untouched for quite some time and when you go to rescue him, he’s sidelined immediately with very little interaction with him thereafter. His death wasn’t nearly as poignant as Eli or Virgil’s from FC5 - those were two characters who were constantly talking in your ear or available to talk to and help progress the story along. Rush was put there simply to die and give the Captain motivation to keep going and it’s a damn shame since he deserved better - don;t get me wrong, I liked him and was affected by his death, but the emotional impact there is just not as strong when Ubisoft gave him so little time or opportunity to really get close to him like previous installments did with characters. 

Expeditions. I know i said this was a good thing - and largely it is - but it was so small and underused, it was such a letdown. They kinda touted Expeditions as being a replacement for Arcade of FC5, which made me think there was going to be a ton of locations to explore and replay...but in reality, you got like 6 maps and that’s all. Maybe they’ll add more, but that seemed like that got hyped up for nothing

Scale. I get that this was a smaller game, reflected in the time it took to crank it out and the lower price, but god does it feel small. You can almost count how many missions there are on two hands. There were so few collectibles or side missions - idk what’s supposed to be the draw after finishing the main story when you have virtually nothing left to do. And beyond the game’s play length, the map was chopped in half and it was bullshit, quite frankly. Why the hell is the Bliss so concentrated now up in Jacob’s region - shouldn’t that have been the Henbane, since that’s where it was focused and created and still polluted the water there even after destroying Faith’s bunker? It felt cheap to carve off chunks of the map under the guise of “oooh, radiation zone! turn back!” We should have been allowed to explore the remains of Faith’s and Jacob’s bunker, of the Wolf’s Den, or finally be allowed inside the Veteran’s Center! Or go back to the chopper crash site on Joseph’s compound, the truck where Hudson, Pratt, and Whitehorse died on Dutch’s Island, or the truck Burke crashed into the river in the Henbane - all were completely gone and that felt super cheap, like they made no lasting impact when they were such huge moments in FC5. I feel like the two things most of us were excited to do when we learned we were returning to Hope County were learning about what happened to the characters of FC5 and seeing references to those who were lost and then to be able to explore and investigate every corner of the map we had in the previous game to see how the landscape how changed in every place we once knew so well.

Replay value. Honestly, aside from a second playthrough to sweep up achievements/trophies i didn’t get the first time around, i’m not all that inclined to keep the game installed on my console’s harddrive and replay it. If anything, playing this game has reminded me of everything i loved so much about FC5 and made me homesick for it - i’m already yearning to return to pre-Collapse Hope County and i haven’t even been done with New Dawn for 24 hours. It’s a shame when i so love the story that spawned this sequel, but it doesn’t possess any of the heart and soul that the original has.

There’s probably more i’m forgetting, but i’ve been typing for a while now and my brain has called it quits. I just know i went in with too high of expectations and was always going to be disappointed when New Dawn didn’t measure up to FC5...but it fell so short and that is the biggest issue i have. It could have been so much more and that’s the real tragedy

[rosheendubh]

S7S8 Draft Rewrite GoT...

—YouTube Game of Thrones film edit/rewrite challenge: —It’s Long, the formatting is terrible, and it’s really more a thread of ideas than a proper outline. But I’m throwing the challenge out there—can some talented YouTube montage editor reel back and mash up GOT Seasons 7 and 8 to match what I’ve drabbled down below?Which is essentially 1 of 1000 other (mostly wonderful) rewrite ideas to help where D&D got a little lost. Honestly, just add some 2 Steps From Hell Soundtrack background, varied clips from the previous S7 and S8 in the order I’ve described below—and ‘voila’!!—our more satisfying conclusion to the last 9 years of fangrrl obsessions... Thanks, I’ll love you forever (and would happily clean this up to be more reader-friendly) if you could do this!!

...or rather, how it should have been written...

There were about a thousand alternative plot lines the GoT authors could have chosen to develop S7 and S8. Basically, they ignored every one of them which would have been better than the drivel they chopped out and spewed Willie-Nillie to hurry up and deliver the blandest tripe to neutralize drama more effectively than a junior-high level theatrical recreation of Shakespeare... —This Post is long, and is also an indulgence of therapy, involving shameless GoTs fangrrling and GeekGrrling... For starters, they was an entirely plausible method to Daenerys’s destruction of King’s Landing, but it would have involved reeling back S7 to only address the Battle for King’s Landing, as the threat of the Night King decended on the North in the background. Keep Jon Snow at Dragon’s Keep/Island Targaryan, mining Dragon Glass, whilst Dany views the motives of the North suspiciously, and rather than battling stupid minor campaigns across Westeros, just concentrates her full force armies+ 3 Dragons on King’sLanding (taking the advice of Olenna earlier than she ought—still as a conqueror, and ruthless, but not psycho...), shattering the Red Keep. Tyrion, somehow, can still wheedle into the city, offering Jamie the chance to get Cersei out despite her refusal to leave...until it’s apparent the RedKeep is about to collapse. Team Cersei (the Mountain, Qyburn) manage to escape through the crypts to that random boat, heading off to CasterlyRock, laying low wisely, beaten and bereft of an army, but not their loyal houses who are leery of the returned Targaryen, trying to regroup allies. Cue—NOW Euron enters with his fleet, to Casterly Rock, offering his undying love to Cersei, and his ships... Meanwhile, collateral damage expected with the RedKeep’s destruction, with some innocent lives, the city overall remains preserved for occupation by Dany’s forces. It’s ambivalence with which the people greet her rather than the gratefulness and joy she anticipated, and she realizes the first truth of governance: a conqueror does not a ruler make...but has little time to ponder this conundrum with Varis and Tyrion as her main advisors, before word is received simultaneously of Cersei and Jamie’s escape—engineered by the only person who could possibly have known out to get them out of the Keep. Her Hand. Cue: Tyrion is arrested. Jon, stranded on Dragon’s Keep, with a skeleton guard only, receives word from the Wall of the Army of the Dead at the Wall. Supposedly, they can’t pass b/c ‘the dead and spells protecting the integrity of the Wall’—but there they stand, just at the boundary of the World of the Living. Jon enacts a daring escape with Team Stark/Snow—killing the men Dany left to hold them in custody, and gets back to his ship, sailing back to Stark holdings in a haste to prepare an unprepared North. Dany, pulled on 2 fronts—between Lannisters and Starks—and holding a city barely in her grip, is forced into a quandary. Jon appeals to her once more (via flying pigeons of course) to come to the aid of the North, in exchange for which he will bend the knee, and promise the submission of the North as well—upping the ante on tension between his loyalty to save the North vs his devotion to serve the North, possibly compromising his own position with his nobles and his family. Bran, by this point, delivered back to Winterfell/Home Stark, learns of Jon’s true heritage, and perhaps informs him then. Or not... Meanwhile, Dany’s dual nature between compassionate queen versus ruthless conqueror asserts itself, and she knows what the right thing, the true thing is to do. You know, like she had shown through the previous 6 seasons of the show. She commits a significant portion of her armies, and her Dragons north, haunted by the carvings Jon had her shown under Dragon Stone (still preserving that scene from S7) the first time in their brief meeting where sparked admiration and attraction between the two—something both were resisting and ignoring at that time. Since D&D evidently left her enough of an army of horsemen and Unsullied in the actual show after the battle of WinterFell, to occupy the cinders of KingsLanding, I’m guessing in my rewrite, Dany has enough of an army to leave behind and maintain her control of King’s Landing, whilst driving her forces North... Concurrently, we have Team Lannister, courtesy of EuronGreyJoy Water Ubers, sailing to Bravos, aquiring  that massive loan from the IronBank, and that absolutely useless GoldenCompany. In this rewrite, they’re more effective, AND BS on elephants. If Hannibal could herd them through the Alps, over the seas from Africa, Drogon’s Balls that they couldn’t also show up in Westeros...Cersei, my villainess supreme vixen, you get your elephants in my version! Scene—Rejuvenated Lannister mercenary army heading back to KingsLanding...S7 concludes... —S8: the battle of the Wall hangs by a thread, but somehow, sans a Dragon this time, the NightKing manages to kill one of the Watchers on the Wall, and wight-over Castle Black, and every other fort along the Wall, with only a few stragglers escaping down to WinterFell, barely ahead of the Zombie Apocolypse. Of course, Thormund is with them—my ginger lover of Brienne the Magnificent. —Jon rallies what meager mortal defenses he might, all collected at WinterFell, fortified as fortified might be thanks to Sansa’s adept hand at administration. We’re still plagued by LittleFinger in this canon, and at some point, Arya arrives back as well, having heard of the victory of the Dragon Queen at KingsLanding, and the advance of Dany’s forces North. Enter: Brothers W/o Banners, with RedPriestess, knowing their destiny is finally upon them. WinterFell is razed, but Dany’s forces arrive at the last minute—we relive that scene where she comes like a flying avenger, rescuing Jon and a small group of determined fighters from imminent death. Or, maybe his comrades die, or scatter in the confusion. Heroic Rhagel, lowers his head and offers his wing to Jon in an oddly sequestered moment, cut off from the dying and destruction abounding. It doesn’t take Jon much prompting from Dany, amid battle chaos, to tell him what to do. And Jon—grown into a less doormat version of himself than what D&D seem to have conceived (ie, awakening his alpha male, to match Dany’s alpha female, rather than the psycho femme-fatal into which mutated her)—mounts Rhagel just at the moment a White Walker is about to skewer Jon. DireWolf style, awesome Ghost makes DireWolf kibble if WhiteWalker, but not before WhiteWalker stabs Ghost fatally. Jon’s anguish is tangible on his perpetually constipated facade, but the symbolism is clear. Kill the Wolf; awaken the Targaryan Dragon... —Night King faces Dany. Drogon roasts Night King unsuccessfully. Night King targets Viserys and launches Ice Javelin at the moment Drogon is trying to roast Night King. *WeepyTearsSerial HeartAttacks* as dying dragon crashes out the sky to ground... All battle pauses for a horrified moment, even the dead. And the Night King, to the shock of the Northern forces, and Dany’s host, even past a Dsny paralyzed for a fateful moment by the frigid gaze of the Night King upon her, resurrects Vicerys. Thus, we avoid the awkward *where in the world did all those chains come from to haul dead dragon out of water at the end of S7*. Dany, reeling from the sudden loss of Vicerys, and rendered lost momentarily, processing the fact her dragons do have vulnerabilities, and seeing the horror around her, the inevitable defeat, draws courage from Jon in that moment, whatever words he speaks, maybe in reprimand for her momentary weakness/no time to grieve/living need us to provide retreat...and off they go, defending the remaining survivors of WinterFell, sacrificing the North, in order to fight another day. The remaining forces of Dany, and Jon, the Starks having escaped, and the rag-tag few of others, including Brienne, the Stark Sisters (Bran?? Ugh, fine...but we’re bringing Meera, thank you very much...), the Hound, Thormund/some Wildings-Black Watch, etc... They arrive at whatever sea-port is closer, Yara’s fleet awaiting their arrival, disheartened and horrified by the remnant few survivors...and 1 less dragon. —Now, of course the Dead are forcing them to the shore’s very edge, but they manage overall, to make-off safe. Back to King’s Landing or Dragon Stone/Drsgons Keep (can’t keep up with the fortress names...)?? Who knows...DragonStone would actually make more sense, allowing for regroup/recoop time, but not time they can really afford to lose. but it does allow for sending communication to KingsLanding, and for Jon to expresshis reservations about Dany’s wish to incinerate the city, CUE: speech about “just becoming one more shit-thing ‘the people’ have always known...”S7. —Somehow, maybe via Jorah and Samuel Tarly re-entering the tale at this juncture, having been to KingsLanding, and discovering it’s under siege by Team Lannister, w/their varied mercenary and allied houses, cutting Dany’s forces off inside, w/Cersei and Co outside, finally breaching the Walls through subterfuge, and retaking the City in a vicious street-to-street encounter between Dany’s occupying garrison, and Cersei’s army, with Euron’s navy blockading the harbor...whatever is Tyrion to do, whilst Messandi, who had been left to administer in Dany’s authority, is taken hostage by Team Cersei...but spared the Mountain. Whatever is Tyrion to do??  Tries to find a cord of sympathy and doubt in Jamie, as Tyrion warns their victory is temporary. Cross the Dragon Queen once, and she may still have an element of mercy. Cross her twice, and ‘show no mercy’ becomes the law... Of course, spliced amid the battles are the quiet moments of character interaction, and dialogue—especially for the interval on the ship. A desperate gambit has been made to Cersei, warning of the Army of the Dead, approaching King’sLanding...by Pigeon Courier again, I suppose?? —At DragonStone-recuperating—Touching and tender character crossings ensue—Jorah with Dany. The Hound with Arya and Sansa. The Hound, finding that unexpected something with this new, tough-as-nails-Sansa (pu’leeze—had they not hinted at this in the books, I wouldn’t go here, but more than Dany and Jon, I was always rooting for a feasible blossoming, hestant, bittersweet romance between these two... but one that endures as the human side of love, promising hope the future, as opposed to Jon and Dany’s epic, Star-crossed doom...). —And, revelations—Dany. Jon. Targaryen. Stark. Dany’s purpose for conquering Westeros seems insignificant, trivial now, compared to the existential threat of the Night King. Consequently, she’s lost and confused, in what her destiny had been, or she thought it had been, and what her new purpose appears to manifest as/seems to imply. There’s still the stage of the Iron Throne; there’s still Cersei, and the Lannister threat, but it’s larger now, than a mere struggle to “take back what is mine”. And Jon, there’s Jon. To whom Rhagel bowed, and allowed Jon to ride. And she knows, even without Bran’s stoner-revelation, what this means. But Bran’s words at least shine clarity over the conflict of her emotions with Jon, and given him a name. Aegon. The realization has left Jon as unmoored as she. —Jon swears his siblings/now cousins to silence despite Sansa’s protest, “I ask as your brother/kinsman, but I command it as your king. You’ll say nothing of this to anyone—vow upon the Wolf of the North/Jon’s Sword—until I’ve spoken to Daenerys Targaryen alone. Nothing,” he repeats, emphasis. —Arya, wary but loving Jon as always, bows her loyalty. Bran remains stoic, and Sansa erupts in vehemence in their duty to the North. Jon, temper breaking in his grief and confusion, rallies/counters in a heated voice, “What North, Sansa? What North? You saw what the Night King did, can do. There’s nothing left of the North, except for those of we who’ve survived.” —Sansa, “who are now at her mercy. How convenient for her grab at power. It ought to be you, Jon. Aegon. You are the—“ His gaze grows cold, silencing her, though her eyes still challenge him. “Don’t say it,” dangerous and low. For love of him, not fear, does Sansa hold her tongue. —Jon asks Bran if he can see the future, lend some direction, but Bran, in that hollow voice, helplessly admits, “It’s only darkness across the kingdoms. The skies of ice and land of snow and night. He marches on KingsLanding. You need to tell her, he’s raised Vicerys. Balefire devours the land from the north to Vales of Europe, on the edge of Passes of ___. Even water will no longer stop him.” — Later, alone in her meeting room, Jon and Danny speak. He tells her the truth, the veracity confirmed by Sam’s own discovery in the Chronicles kept by the WhiteTower. And Danyboiints our the obvious, as he’s the last male heir of House Targaryen, and heir to the Iron Throne. -Jon rejects the words. “I don’t care. I don’t want it. I made a vow to you, a promise as the King of the North, and it is as that King I still speak. You came to us, in our hour of need, when you might have done otherwise. You came, and fought, your men died at our sides. For the North.” -Dany, bitterly interjects, “For what little good it did.” Jon, gratitude and tenderness at once, “There would be none of us left here if you hadn’t. I am sworn to you, and so is the North. As Jon or as...as Aegon,” he stumbles. “As a Stark, and a Targaryen. You’re not the last of your house, Dany.” —(Borrowing from the scene after the feast at Winterfell, where they’re in Jon’s chambers, conversing, about to get it on, *true chemistry there and too bad they didn’t capitalize on that, nor let the characters/actors express that more going from S7*—until she becomes MeanGirl drama, and he gets DoorMat Mopey...which does not happen here in my canon—so out of character for both by this point)... -Dany, staring into the flames, searching, asks seeking, “What do we do now?” “It doesn’t matter anymore. Ice and fire, is what we are, Dany.” His presence is a warmth, solid and strong, as he comes behind her, his hands upon her shoulders, gentle and commanding/impelling, turning her toward him, tipping her chin up so she meets his eyes, she trembles in their strength as she holds herself proud, stiff in her pride, fearful and hoping at once, knowing and not wanting to know how much he wants of her-spirit and Fire, courage and compassion, the sacrifice and losses litters upon their paths, in a journey they’ve traversed from opposite sides of these tortured lands, to build something of hope, from the wreckage others have tried to make of their lives and visions, adversaries unknowingly making them stronger, but that strength, every victory, every triumph come at great cost to ideal and faith. Until, at this crossroads where each find themselves, there’s one certainty as clear as dawn upon a crystal sky, that what they’ve found in each other is home. Refuge and sanctuary, fated and as inevitable as breath to the living, and water to the thirsty. And despite hopeless causes, for Westeros or against the Night King, who closes further south at a dread pace, collecting minions as he festers thorough the territories to KingsLanding, his wight Dragon a thing of terror and near invulnerable destruction, despite family secrets and secret shame—they no longer resist the fate of Ice and Fire. *BombChickaBombBomb* — The same night, Sansa in her hurt at her brother’s...cousin’s...stance, so foreign he seems with this new persona, the half brother, the bastard brother she’s always known, her savior at a time when they didn’t know if any of their family still lived, the victor of WinterFell, the King of the North, Jon Snow—Aegon...a Targaryen. Hardly seemed possible, but there it was, by Bran and in writing. She wanted to weep and rage, claw out his eyes, and beg him in tears, that they would still love him, always love him, and not trust this Dragon Queen. Who, to be fair, she’s exchanged less than two lines of formal greeting since they’d arrived as exiles from the ravaged north, here in the mother isles of the Targaryens. So what if it was Lyanna rather than Ned. He was still a Stark. She wanders aimless, and annoyed, avoiding Baillesh b/c she hasn’t the capacity for quicknrejoinders and subtle ploys to elude his ever stagnant coveting of her body, and her status—the Lady of WinterFell. A WinterFell that’s no more, decimated by an army of wights and corpses brought to motion. Through varied corridors, the rooms lent to the women, the main hall and even the bloody kitchens, out along the palisade, the quest for solitude seems, like everything else that dreary day, to thumb Sansa like a demon shadow spiting the one thing she truly wants right now. To be alone. Finally, she wanders into a thankfully ruined, deserted anteroom that must have been an old armory once, shuttered and closed off by poorly fitted wooden slabs rotting off their nails. She ducks under the barrier of a half hinged door that groans in age and rust, coughing at the dust motes stirred by her skirts. On a pile of shambled furnishings she collapse finally, leaning back to close her eyes, rest against the stones behind her, in the darkness—a peak of setting sun slanting between tattered curtains, the ocean breeze seeepingvaway mold and must, painting shadows across the neglected room. At last, precious, precious silence. “You too, eh, little bird?” Sansa startles upright, eyes casting about fretful, jar to her nerves turning immediately to anger. She bites out in rapid annoyance how impossible it is to find a coffin’s width of space to be alone, asking in the same breath what the Hound is doing in a dank chamber, away from his new found brethren. “I came here to sleep. The Dothraki dontvlike to be where they can see no sky, and those castrates from Essos believe these lower corridors are haunted. Ghosts or rats, anything out of the dark will still be quieter than the shits above who want to drink and mourn all night for their woes at the eve of our doom.” The wryness in her voice seems a trait that’s emerged more fully in the years she’s matured into her true power, trusting her own instincts, and realizing she too, has a penchant for authority and presence. The Lady of Winterfell. “Seeking the impossible.” He lights a lamp, the kind men carry on encampments and the March. “What’s that? A cock and some sweet words in the night?” She would have blushed and choked at such coarse words long ago. But she’s known much worse since the days when she was his little bird. The look she shoots him is ironic, as is her tone. “Silence. It seems at premium right now.” The Hound laughs, “The last thing most men want on the vantage of their deaths. There’s an eternity of silence, after, little bird. It’s why there’s always so much drinking, song, and whoring before battles.” Sansa, “Shouldnt they save that till after the battle is won?” His face darkens. “We won’t win this one, little bird. Even with this Dragon Queen. Even with your brother.” The word, brother, makes her wince. He sees that, peering at her curiously. He passes her the flagon he’d been nursing. “Ah, that’s it, eh? He’s fallen under her spell, and you don’t trust that.” She sips, readying herself for some sort of home brew, that burning liquor said to peel the insides of men with one swig, and shit fire the next day. One swallow and it’s a sweet pungency of grapes and sun, autumn spice on the next. “____wine? This was from our cellars.” Her brow raised, his cheeky look, an almost grin ghosts over his face. “It seemed a shame to sacrifice all of it. Berick salvaged what he could, getting it into one of the wagons in our retreat. Drink up, little bird. It the swansong of your home.” He had that penchant for barbs that can wound and comfort both. She remembers that, but thecway he delivers them now is gentler, spoken in the tone of melancholy. A man who’s known grief, and survived. Who’s dealt death, and now admits his struggles with his own ghosts. That part is new. Something happened to him in the years they’ve been apart. Sansa not sure how to reconcile this as weakeness or a strength for him. “Wine was never our chosen beverage. Ale and beer were marks of Northmen. And women.” He takes the flagon back. “Like your brother, no doubt, little bird. A man of the North. And all those tough as steel fuckers who will follow him to the very edge of the world and beyond.” “My brother is not my brother,” the words spilling past her conflicted mind before she can stop them. “He’s...”, Anger curls her fingers, pinching her spine straight, her eyes furious upon him. Which makes Sander suddenly throw his head back, true deep laughter surging into the darkness, until he’s holding his gut, trying to catch his breath. Her indignation riles him more. “Why is that so funny to you?” “Ah, little bird,” he quiets into a solemnity she almost finds harder to bear than his unpredicated amusement. “Of course he’s not a Stark. He’s a Targaryen.” Her gasp, the struggle to regain her poise before she completely betrays her oath to Jon...Aegon. Jon. He’ll always be Jon, prompts Sandor to handing her the flask again. Something, a sip, the motion to salavage her shattered nerves. “How-“ she coughs on the rich vintage. “How did you know?” “He rode a dragon, Sansa,” he says, laconic as always. “I usually punched or skewered most of my tutors, but even I listened to the old tales sometimes, as a boy. Fire. Fire will never harm him.” His eyes clouded by the memory of his own sadistic brother, his large hand moving up, caught and curled back against his lap, the puckered scars ravage his scalp, half his brow. Out of reconciliation, she returns the flask so he can escape from his own past in that easing warmth of wine. “He’s still a Stark,” she says definable. Possessively. “He was Lyanna’s son, by Rhaeger. It was a love match. They were married in secret to keep him safe from the Baratheons.” His short laugh holds only bitterness. “And everything that’s come from that day to this, every life lost, every mother left weeping, houses ruined, and villages burned, has been based on a lie. Because some fat cunt of a lord couldn’t understand how a Stark girl would find him repulsive compared to the perfection of a silver haired Targaryen. Even when they’re mad as rabid dogs.” She can appreciate his glum, but feels compelled to amend his sour appraisal, perhaps out of mercy for her brother, who she knows was struggling with this revelation in his own confusion. She clears her throat, signaling with a glance at his flask to hand the wine back to her. “They say Robert was actually handsome back then. And Rhaeger wasn’t mad.” “Yet. He didnt have a chance to be. But he was impulsive, and self-serving. He left his lawful wife the moment your aunt crossed his sight, and never considered once, the consequences his act would bring. Only cared to serve the golden dragon between loins, and thought your aunt was the answer to his destiny—Elia, Dorne, and the Kingdom be damned. What is it, about you Stark women, little bird? Makes men think with their cocks, and dream impossible feats.” His eyes shine with wine glaze and ruefulness, and but his words remain unslurred. She recalls the tankards he could drown, and still be sitting upright with a steady strike of his sword, where other men had long before sleptvin the puddles of their own vomit. Her own mind buzzed with just the edge of dizziness and daring, enough to loosen her tongue in the same way it’s made him nostalgic. She has a suspicion when he’s not angered in his wine haze, he euther hets mopey or morose, neither mood does she seek right now in her own tormented heart, shadowed byvwhat the coming days hold. “I’m not your little bird, anymore, Sandor Clegan.” The sadness in his voice almost takes her from this edge of ire to grief. “I know that, lit-Sansa,” hecsays softly. Her name though, how he shapes it. She’s only heard him speak like this once before. That night. That night she should have trusted him, and left KingsLanding. “I knew that when you told me you knew no more songs, and the little bird lost her voice. It took all your courage to look me in the face when you said that. Now...now you don’t even flinch to meet my eyes. Have I grown so less threatening?” Sansa aches for something lost, something of this feeling, a final sorrow or a hope that died with Jon’s true heritage. “My father was a killer. My brothers are killers. The world was made by killers.” His eyes hold hers steady, firm before her judgement, something cold and brittle and hurtful finally surfacing in all the years she’s kept it down. Never soothed, even with Ramsay’s death, never gloried nor indulged b/c she refused to become like the beasts who had made her journey to womanhood a living hell. But she knows what’s been lost, and knows can never be recovered of innocence. Delusions, she knows now, fantasies that her father and brothers doated upon her, thinking they could protect her, did her a favor by sheltering her from the realities of men and the world. None of them, not even her mother, tried to teach her how to be strong. That, she learned on her own. And the price wasn’t her violated body or the trauma of Ramsay’s perversions. Memories that still creep into her nightmares. The cost was the betrayal of her father, her brothers, and her family, for thinking women needed to be sheltered and protected, and never allowed to mature into their independence—to fail or thrive by their own intellect or grace. That seed of resentment fills her words now, and flashes in her eyes, hardening everything about her to steel and ice, b/c Sandor too, felt the same way once. His uncommon chivalry toward her, she sees now, was his own fumbling attempt to shelter her. Little Sansa. Little Bird. “I learned where true monsters lurked, hidden behind the faces of men. And I survived them. But you would have have done me a favor, Sandor, to have finished what those assailants started that day you saved me from the rioters who meant to kill Geoffrey. It would have spared me my continued delusions. Stupid little Sansa, and her stupid little fantasies. You would have shown me much more efficiently what I learned anyway, what the real world was truly rife in, of monsters and traitors and liars.” The words twist out of him in a whisper. “Alas, the she wolf has arrived.” That hasn’t changed, at least, his mockery of her, though it’s more a gentle ribbing. He short rejoinder dies, when he adds, “We aren’t all that way, Sansa. Not all men, even the killers amongst us.” She dares for his touch, reaching toward him, a test worthy of Baillesh, querying in how he might react. Almost laughs, but swallows it down when she sees the terror and surprise pale his face, the half not ruined by fire, she notices now, truly studying him, handsome in its bold lines, the shape of contemplation in deepest eyes and the long jaw. A poet’s mouth, her light touch traces the gouged flesh of old burns. “I know that,” she says. “But I too, have learned to kill. I still don’t think it’s killers who make the world though.” He hand wanders back to her lap. “I would never have hurt you. I protected your sister, as well as I knew how, anyway. I would protect you.” She’s sighs, feeling a smile pass, glinting eyes upon him, her turn to mock, cruel smirk. “I don’t need a champion. I already have one,” the pointed remark stinging his ego enough to break his disconcerting sadness, as he shifts with the uncomfortable reminder of his defeat at the hands of Brienne of Tarth. “And Arya is practically an army to herself.” A condsering look passed between them, of understanding and admiration of her younger sister, whose skills were still something of a puzzlement. Part of her sister’s book of sorrows and secrets, she sees now, and knows Arya may never share those empty years with her. And Sansa has made her peace with that. As she has with Bran and the uneasy aura of power and old magic that hangs about him, despite the illusion of flawless youth molding his fine features. “Still, I would never have harmed you, Sansa. And whatever you think, of men who mistook ignorance to preserve innocence, I never shared that belief. You were the only thing in that rotten court that was sweet and good, pure. And brave. Brace enough to stand up and defend your belief in the world’s goodness, and the honor of men, even in the face of your fear. You don’t know how scared Ivwas of that, how you saw right through me, straight to that cowering, quivering little pissant deep inside. You were gentle tough, even with him. I wanted...that. Wanted you.” “Stop,” she pleads roughly. “I know. I know all of that.” How can one feel so alone and share such proximity with another human, intimacy it’s own bridge and wall. “I dreamt of you, after that night the Blackwater was almost lost. Dreamt you kissed me, and wrapped me your cloak before you took me with you. And I felt so safe. So loved. That dream was where I would go, in the worst moments with...Ramsay. I almost,” she says with a wistful smile, “convinced myself it was real at some point.” “I make him suffer a thousand fold—“ “Shh,” her finger over his lips, Her solemn look quiets him. “His death was mine alone to render, and he died as deserved. By the jaws of the creatures who he thought loved him most.” The grim satisfaction she still feels, hearing his screams as they gradually turned to groans wet with with a gargling of blood, and the snorts and snarls of feeding dogs who feast before their victim is truly dead, terrifies her, the euphoria of power and absolution. Sansa has enough inner counsel to realize the temptation of that road, how easy to become the thing one wishes to destroy. Her burning hatred died with him, but nothing, the nothingness has never rebounded, never found anything to restore whatcwas lost in the months of her torture. He’s patient and tender with this awareness, somehow knowing as he had with her brother. “It’s still too soon, isn’t it. After Bolton’s stench, for you to want another man.” A statement, so blunt it might have been callous, but so very Hound-like. How comfortable, relieving it is, to keep nothing hidden, and not have to explain herself. How perturbing that she can discuss something so vile and recent to her past, and shroud it in a casual shrug, the twitch of revulsion the only betrayal of how close her disgust still hovers. “That. And evading Baillesh’s advances while preserving diplomacy. He would make a nanny goat in heat go cold.” “That little weasel,” he growled. “His own shadow doesn’t trust him.” She glances at him sidelong. “B/c his own shadow knows better,” she says dryly. “Fortunately, he’s still too terrified from WinterFell to remember how to be subtle/crafty and scheming. You can’t buy off a Wight, and you can’t blackmail the Night King. He actually tried to persuade me to spend the night with him by claiming these could be our last ones before we die.” Perhaps it was the lamplight, but Sandor looked like he’d eaten bad oysters, an expression between rage or nausea, like he was fighting down bile stained the muscles of his jaw. “Drink, Clegan. Before you get sick. He claims to love me, and won’t touch me. He’s still too guilty for having been called out selling me off to the Bolton’s. I told him desperation wasn’t becoming in tempting a woman to bed. Besides, I heard him scream when he was about to be overrun by those Zombies. He sounded like a terrified rabbit. Nothing douses passion more than that. I can’t look at him without laughing. I scorn him, and I pity him both. Is that possible?” His eyes brightened, uncanny, lifting her out of her morose. “Pity him, rather. I think the Dornish women found him. The cries coming out of that room...” The suggestion trailing with all manner of fates, but the dread and envy on his face told all. Men spoke warily and yearningly of one night with a Dornish woman. One Dornish woman. A group, all sisters, and a man was left wondering if he’d ever be able to service a woman ever again, let alone piss while standing, or ride a horse. “Good,” she says firmly. “They might even make a man if him, if there’s a man left after they’re done.” A snort under his breath, amusement in his voice. “If there was ever a man to begin with. They like women too. He should serve both roles well, for their tastes.” Silence holds them in the moments following their brief humor/levity, Sansa taking the wine flask, and Sandor reaching for a fresh flagon from his knap-sack. “Another?” She blurts, emptying the remnants of first. “I didn’t think I would go through the first so quickly. I wasn’t expecting company. You’re planning on staying, then—“watching without comment, a little taken aback really, as she frees the flagon from his hands with a giggle, unsteady, and opens the the cork, gulping down the silken drink—“Here, with me, tonight?” She doesnt want to leave, his presence—the bulk of his body, a solid assurance which lent her more calm in these last hours, than she’s had in...years. A settling in her soul that’s been like a restless butterfly flitting with no where to rest, fraught worse since Jon had taken the field against the Boltons, and successively tied the fate of their homeland to the throne Sansa had been trying to free them from. She turns to him slowly, disappointment perhaps, marring the comfort of their camaraderie/familiarity. That he had to take advantage of this blessing he’d begun to uncover with her, only to push a boundary she thought he’d respect, and leave her to reject him gently, b/c it always needed to be done gently. Men were such fragile creatures. For all the tenderness of his eyes upon her, she had thought he understood her reluctance, revulsion in fact, in the act of coupling. She might one day, find a place to let someone touch her thecway she knew people could who desired each other. They way she knew Jon and the Targaryen woman were in these past hours. The thought left her cringing and disturbed. They were both Targaryens. But he was still a Stark. Maybe it was jealousy, a little envy, toward her after all. Jon accused her of that, but said it the Jon always did. Comparing Sansa’s strength and courage and stubbornness, and her beauty, to Daenerys’s own. *She’s your match. Only you can reconcile that, Sansa.* That had stung more than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t jealousy for his affection, at least not in the way of desiring him as a lover. He was her brother, cousin, family. Sansa realized, the very thing Sandor had pointed out in her, that goodness and faith in others’ goodness, she sensed in Jon. He still had that child’s devotion that others would act as honorably as him, even after the wreckage of how he’d been betrayed by his own Watch. He was so like their father. No, his uncle. She wondered if Lyanna had shared that quality. Sandor, off balance, wine coursing in his veins and affecting his motions, rises, arranging his mantle out on the ground. She’s trying to find the right words, shape them coherently through a mind thickened with wine and drear, to tell him she hadn’t meant to lead him on. He grips for his sword, still in its scabbard, a thing of _____steel, as long as the span of his arms, Holt of ivory cast in silver etching, holding it aloft with a crooked grin. She lowers the flask, wiping at the wine dribbling down her chin. “What are you doing?” Her puzzlement breaking the hazeforca moment. He bows, catching himself before falling on his face, burping before he explains his actions. “A gentleman, Lady Stark. S’pposedly I’m a knight. Note the blade between us. My pledge I won’t touch you, nor dishonor you, as much as I wish you’d ask me to.” The relief washing over her, gratitude that brings infuriating tears she blinks back impatiently, makes her knees almost collapse freed of a strain she hadn’t realized till then. A small, choking breath, as she steadies her voice, “I’d thought you...you were going to ask me to sleep with you.” “I have. But not fu—no, with you it wouldn’t be that. Allow me my dignity. I dont need to invite my own rejection, in the way you don’t need to spare the feelings of an ass. The tenderness and sorrow in his eyes leaves her silent, the tears winning out, flowing unimpeded down her cheeks as she tries to keep her breathing calm, thinking she’s about to blubber in a humiliating display of anger and hysteria. “Oh little wolf, hush now. No need for this,” he says gently, wiping at the rivulets. “Too much wine, and too much death in these days of darkness. It makes us fools and philosophers.” “Aren’t they one and the same?” She forces out past a sob, sniffling. His laugh is soft, where he brings her head against his chest. He wears no armor, not even the leather jerkin, and the heat of him, the play of rippled muscle of his chest, where his heart beats, a living surge, and the embrace housing her in a fortress of power and grace. They are exactly as she had dreamt that one haunted night so many years ago. They kneel together, as he slowly, reluctantly frees her. He gave her his mantle, leaving nothing for himself on the cold stone floor. “One day, little wolfling, you’ll conquer this too. One day, you might even learn to want a man, or a woman, again. But trust comes first.” “How do you know that?” She demands, her brief episode/spell making her angry, such silly weakness an indulgence no one has time for. She’s glad he’s the only one who saw it. “How do you have a right to be so gentle, when all those years ago, you tried so hard to be such a brute?” The patience of his humor warms her, and rankles. She’s not so fragile, and he doesn’t need to be so careful. “Because most humans are shits. At least the ones I’ve known. But animals, the gods’ beasts are different. Broken animals, horses, dogs, the like. It’s their trust that needs to be regained, and that’s done through patience. And love,” he adds, voice stalling/stuttering out the word. Shivering b/c of the chill, the despondency in his voice, she gazes hard into the dark ceiling above. On her back, lying on his cloak, his long-sword between them, she feels cast off, alone all over again. “So, you see me like a beaten animal?” she throws thecwords at him, stony gaze above. “Something to be coddled and cozened, until I eat from your hand again, and eventually mount me without being bitten or kicked off?” A whisper of garments, she feels him shift, turning to prop himself on an elbow. She swallows her surprise in a little croak when The shadow of his face draws over hers, a mere finger span abort her mouth. The heat of his breath, sweat, and the wine filling her nostrils, brushing her skin, he’s so close, she reads the clouded storm there—his temptation and his own self-mockery. “Allow a man his fancies, Sansa. I won’t lie and say I’ve not thought of you like that either.” So like her dream, his lips moist and so close. Her pulse leaps, an exhale catching in a shallow gasp, a shaft of longing awakening something delicious deep inside, heat flooding her cheeks. She’s frozen half in terror by this first flavor of desire. Need. Half his face distorted, the other beautiful and bold, the harmony like the halves of his soul, shine from his burning gaze. He never makes a move to close the small gap between them, remaining captured above her like that forca precious breath more, before his groan of frustration and sorrow breaks the spell, and he turns back, collapsing to his side of the blade. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. And any man who tries to break that deserves to die.” Arya said that too. The wine maybe, or the trials of past years, fortifies what’s becoming more frequent, daring she’s more apt to command. And this heady pleasure lighting over her, tingling her mind and flesh. She wants more of this. “How would you think of me, Sandor? Tell me, what was the most stirring thing you envisioned? Did you think of me when you visited one of Baillesh’s whores? On top, or wrapped around you from beneath, moaning your name? It’s hard to read the kind of urges that fire a man like you.” The words are edged, taunting herself as much as cruelty prods her to toy with him, eyes ground into the darkness above, hands crossed over her belly like a corpse prepared for its byre. He draws a rough sigh, his gruff laughter without humor. “Singing. I dreamt of you singing. All those other ways men want to fuck a woman too, but mostly—“ “Singing.” She finishes for him, the word resounding flat into the quiet. Passion, her first awareness of desire lapses into befuddlement. She turns to seek his profile in the dark, her voice soaked in doubt. “All those years you wanted me *in every way a man wants to fuck a woman* and it’s singing?” Across the short distance between them, his gaze falls into hers, locked and full of longing, piercing her heart, and resurrecting a feeling she had buried in these years of pain. “You told me once, when my little bird had first been wounded, she didn’t know any more songs. I dreamt of her singing ever since. She was the sweetness of spring, and the joy of sunlight to a man chilled by rain.” Those stupid tears again, coming out of nowhere, salt upon her tongue, as she tries to moisten her lips for speech. She rolls onto her stomach, thrusting the scabbard down to their feet. Crawling onto her elbows, she leans above him, peering into a face no longer menacing or scowling, only patience and acceptance offered in a sea of doubt. He doesn’t believe she could return such affection. He doesn’t think he’s deserving of such tender grace. Her lips are upon his, tentative at first. Light likecan infant’s touch, and as his open to meet her questing mouth, growing bolder, claiming each other with kisses leechingvthem of breath, deep and leaving them reeling. Her hands clasp his cheeks, grain of his beard wiry, fingers sweeping the strands of his hair back from the thickened scars over his brow, her lips brushing there too, sacrament of sorrow and blessing. Both of them reaching for air, a disbelieving joy escapes her throat in a little laugh, her cheek pressed to his ear. His hands hover like lost swallows, — Euron’s fleet attacks out of the Dark. The dragons even the odds, and the battle is a much more effective modality than the gibberish splashed across the screen in S7, leaving Yara captured, and Theo a drowned kitten. Instead, the Dornish women hold their own this time, but still fall (Olenna Tyrell, who was left behind at a KingsLanding—exceeding Genius at governance that she was, and staying where she would be most useful to her queen, needless to say, met her same fate as she did in S7. See, I’m not reformatting this for happy endings. Just more cohesive, and sophisticated plot lines...). —Ultimately, Euron’s fleet is BBQ, with both Rhagel and Drogon flambeying the enemy GreyJoys, and no defense against the dragons, even with Qyburn’s largely useless ‘ballista/scorpion’ things. The battle is at night afterall, and morning dawns upon ship hulls blown cinders, and corpses ravaged by fire. —The harbor is open to Dany’s fleet and forces, but the Lannister defenses are ready—right, remember those convenient stocks of Witch Fire/Greek Fire. Now, in rewrite, more sensibly deployed as artillary against an invading fleet. Onion Knight remembers this, and with the loss of a few vessels they pull back out of range. Of course, Night King arrives at the walls of a KingsLanding at that time, and everyone’s worst nightmare ensues, with the decimation of the city by the Dead, in full tilt, requiring use of WitchFire against the Wights instead, and allowing a Now very eagerly accepting group of Team Lannister’s to hasten Dany’s and Jon’s forces ashore, as dragons clash and flash in the skies above—the human toll extradinaory with the loss of innocent life, amid the destruction Zombie Vicerys wrecks upon KingsLanding, while Dany and Jon battle a stand-off with Dragon Destructo Immortalis and his Icy Eyed Spiky Crowned Zombie Dragon Rider, which ultimately culminates at the already blasted out Red Keep Throne Room. Dragons are wounded, dragons out of the picture, the dead crawl over every brick, stone, toppled pillar, and yawning crack in the flagstones, held back only by flames of living fire, unable to reach Dany or Jon (who, as a Targaryan, proves as flame resistant as Dany...), protected in a ring of flame surrounding the Iron Throne. Here, resurrect the Dany who picks up a sword for the first time in her life, ready to die by her man’s side, whilst WhiteWalkers gather.  Jon, of course, faces off with said NightKing, sort of like DarthVader vs Luke Skywalker style, keeping Dany from the fray, butvat some point, down for the count, about to be impaled by Night King, when Dany gets her strike in, while not lethal, serves to distract the Night King, who recovers quickly enough, and sends her sprawling. The moment allows Jon the lethal thrust he needs, sword piercing the Night King in the heart (sorry, Arya—your Assassin’s Creed acrobatics were awesome, well-executed, but poorly utilized in the grand scheme of ‘bore’ that followed...).  *added as alternative b/c I adored what Arya did*: ALTERNATIVELY, ARYA REACHES THE RED KEEP, PERFORMS MYSTICAL ASSASSIN’s CREED ACROBATICS, AND SLAYS NIGHT KING EXACTLY AS SHE DOES IN SHOW, BUT WITH JON BATTLING NIGHT KING AS WELL, AND NIGHT KING STILL REMOVING DRAGON GLASS DAGGER FROM HIS OWN CHEST AND BURYING IT IN JON’S HEART...SO JON STILL DIES* / The Night King removes the Dragon Stone dagger from his chest, simultaneously burying it beneath Jon’s heart as they sink down together, both in death. The Night King dissolves into *sparkles* (lol—Ice grains...), blown away by the wind, while the WhiteWalkers explode as they did into ice shards, and the dead—wights and new recruits alike—fall into dust. Poor Viceryon😢 Arya stricken by dying Jon, and Dany crawls to Jon’s side amid the flames and ash, the scorched throne room, cradling him as she sees him turning, fully understanding the remorse in his eyes, his love, and the plea, unspoken, of what she needs to do. What she doesn’t want to do, yanking the dagger out of Jon’s/Aegon’s chest, watching his blood well up, as he gasps last words, last breath, and she cradles him, weeping as he dies, bleeding upon the Iron Throne. You know, like what she did with Jorah, but more sensibly in this alternate canon. Had they not cast Jon as a messianic figure for the last 7 seasons, and Dany as the Savior, I wouldn’t lean so much this way, BUT...as I said, it’s my view, and a more poetic one than what they contrived in that scene in the actual Ep6... Assuming some soldiers/warriors of Dany and Jon’s forces made it up to the Keep, deployed against the White Walkers till they all dissolved into elemental memory (Jorah lives in this mode; Jon dies...), they gather, staggering, around Dany and Jon, where he lays in her arms, all of them exhausted, broken and bloodied. But they live “heroes just for one day...”😜 —Meanwhile, there were those underground caverns/crypts where the rest of the Witch Fire stores had been stocked, and ready to light beneath King’s Landing. Team Lannister, by this point only consisting of a fleeing Jamie and Cersei, have retreated down to those stores, knowing fire will keep them from the fare of the dead, and absolutely willing to ‘light it up, baby’ beneath the city. At the crucial juncture where they’re about to be over-run by the Dead, Cersei about to drop the torch into the fuel, the dead fall to dust. A few seconds to breath, realizing what must have happened w/o knowing how, but relief makes Jamie embrace his sister, the (incestuous, admittedly) love of his life. She still holds the torch over the pool of liquid, phosphorescent WitchFire though, always quicker than Jamie, knowing exactly who has won this victory ultimately. Something along the lines of, “I refuse to let her own this throne...”, or some such line refusing to surrender to Dany (harkening, nay, recalling Cercei’s vehement tirade of, “I would burn this city to the ground before I would see our...”yadayadaYoda—“house fall”, or something like that). Well, that’s EXACTLY what she means to do, and Jamie experiences some awful moments working through his pretty skull, the last monarch he served who meant to do the same thing. He tries, earnestly, to persuade her it’s not necessary, etc etc. Cersei is not having it, and as she’s about to release the torch into Pyrotechnic mode, he does kill her...but, too late. *BIGBIGBIGBIGBIG BOOM*💥💥💥💥 Green smoke clouds erupt through the city streets, already decimated, but beginning to animate with a few survivors, including the inhabitants, but also soldiers of both forces... -Across the winding streets, up at Red Keep Hotel, Dany registers the sounds of explosions, with the remaining crew of her soldiers. We have 2 routes here, Choose Your Own Adventure/GoTs style: Dany flips at that point, of course familiar with her family heritage and the *Burn Them ALL* king who was her father. Not bent on tyranny, not thinking at all, except that she’s as exhausted and beyond endurance as any of the survivors of Team Dany/Team Jon, and grieving Jon’s death, the cost of tragedy and the price of power, she’s convinced it’s Cersei still hiding out in some hidden refuge of the city. So, the Dragon Queen mounts Drogon, and off she goes, decimating what’s left of King’s Landing—*pan out diorama to Yara’s fleet, where they witness the last chapter of destruction*—And know they’ve won. What they’ve won, who knows, as LittleFinger observes, but...if LittleFinger is still living. At some point, even Drogon tires, and Dany’s rage subsides, landing on the summit of the earlier bombed out heap of the Temple of the 7, or whatever Cersei had mushroom clouded back in S6. Reality hits as she observes the destruction left in her wake, and the battle which has just ensued, draining her momentary manic Hell-bender, and restoring her to herself. And the awareness of the power and pathos with which she’s endowed leaves fills her with dread for the first time, and doubt on her journey to reclaim a throne she had always believed was hers by right. Horrified at her own act, she flies off away from King’s Landing, Rhagel, gathering Jon’s body in his claws (since that’s what dragons do, I guess, with their dead riders??), follows, leaving only an echo of mournful dragon cries... -Cue: FINAL episode in the retelling. Okay, maybe penultimate? Dany, somewhere in FarFarAway, in some deserted landscape, a mountain vale maybe, where men can’t reach, stands pale, mourning, silent tears falling down her cheeks as she lights the funeral bier beneath Jon’s body. She holds the dagger of the Night King in her hands, unsure if she should hurl it away, but decides ultimately to keep it, fastening it to her belt. Her dragons crowd around her, communal puppy-dragon love for their mama. She spends the night watching his bier burn, only smoldering bones left by dawn. And knows, with the morning, she has a city, and land calling her back. —Dany returns, with her Dragons—arriving to the heights of the RedKeep, the relief across the faces of her men reassuring in their trust, even as they eye her with a new fear and wariness. How fragile might be her sanity, after all? Who knows how Tyrion gets there, but he’s the master of survival, and there he is—there to greet her as she climbs off Drogon. Some such line does she manage, still lost to her own grief and emptiness, still reeling from the horror of her potential for destruction. There, standing regal despite her haggard appearance as any of her men, amid the wind-swept ashes of The Red Keeps innards, she says something about, “I came once, claiming I would not be Queen of the Ashes. Now, there are only ashes left to rule. I finished what the Night King began. Now it is done. And still, I will not be Queen of the Ashes.” Yadayada, she’s unworthy to rule, afraid of her excesses of anger that can border on insanity, afraid of the power that feeds her ambitions, and tempts destruction over mercy. The men about her are left in confusion, some speechless, some protesting, and some in agreement. When silence finally falls, Dany mentions Jon’s heritage, which, till then hadn’t been revealed (as it so stupidly was in yet another wasted plot device)—the truth that he was “the true heir to the Iron Throne. It’s not mine,” she speaks the words, hearing them to her own amazement, and knowing they are completely true. “It’s not mine. It was never mine, and now, I don’t want it.” It’s Jorah who provides his gentle wisdom amid the astonishment of the other men, who reminds her “the wheel is shattered. And the world is broken, Khaleesi.” It’s that title that reminds her of her earliest days, theclong journey played out to this moment. Loss, love, sacrifice, and dreams. “We need a leader, this land needs a leader. Your people, now of Westeros, need a leader. And it’s now, more than any other moment in your life, when you can decide what kind of ruler you would become. You are more than the blood running your veins. I’ve always believed, or I would not have suffered for you to this hour.” Moment of pondering, the struggle of doubt and a restoring confidence alive in Dany’s eyes, when she looks to the throne, charred but standing despite all the destruction around them. Jon’s blood, dried now, soaked into the cracks between the splinters comprising the seat. NOW, we can have Drogon fry the thing to a melted mass of ore and bone, at her order. And NOW, we can have her, in the best Danearys tone of command as only she can utter, “Now, we shall begin,” her eyes compelling each of the men to beat weapon to stone, announcing her victory, their allegience, as dawn breaks across the harbor to the fleet in the distance. —Cue: some kind of season passage scene, winter, snows falling, the members of various houses returning to their holdings, most time spent on the Starks, taking in the ravaging left by the Army of the Dead. Burying those who died, followed by Gradual returning of people too, into villages, repopulating deserted farms, ships from East to West, as Dany still holds Esteros too, provisionally, gradually filling dockside storehouses, commerce once more bringing life and goods along with repairs mending the capital, and the lands spanning all directions. And Dany, concluding a council, replete with Sansa as the representative of the North, along with the nobles of the other houses, and kingdoms besides, serving the privy council—or, maybe it’s Bran serving on Dany’s council, he’d be a better advisor anyway,  leaving Sansa to actually rule the North, as she deserves (the ladies having found some balance betwen each other, of respect and mutual admiration; though, they’ll never be friends. Sansa still blames Dany for Jon’s death, knowing the blame is without substance...the Hound serves her, devoted to his Little Bird for the rest of his live-long day’s...knowing she’s no longer a little bird, but a grown woman, sharp and fierce as hawk, and fair in her ruling besides...). The Ladies rule the Iron Islands, as well as Dorn (one of the Sandsnakes survives??); thus, the symbolism of the Ladies healing the land, whilst there are still many of the other houses, in other territories retaining the traditional male authorities of the noble classes. But the world is changing, and there too many gone to be fussy on the appropriateness of a woman or man succeeding to a place of authority, in business, in government, or in profession—the Maesters accepting woman amongst their ranks for the first time... And like the great void of population that followed the Plague of the 1300s, an event that had a far greater prescience in heralding the early modern world, and social/economic transitions that reverberated across Europe and Asia in the following centuries of the Renaissance, we see Westeros establishing fertile seeds of cultural change...just hints, nothing that can be explored too fully b/c...last episode. But it’s poignant, and hopeful, and elegiac all at once. Who knows, maybe a couple of years are suggested inthose scenes, up to Dany rising from the council table, concluding the meeting with her advisors of office. Exiting, a servant finds her out in a courtyard, and hands a child off to her, a blonde haired little boy, round about 2 or 3, with dark, somber eyes, bringing a smile, a soft endearment to Dany’s lips, as she kisses her son.  Call him Aegon; call him Jon. Call him whatever you want...I know, it’s a bow to sentimentality, but honestly, it fits better than pyscho-bitch Dany-turn tyrant Dany-turn *look-another woman dies by Jon Snow’s circumstantial inaction*...(bye, Egrit, it was nice knowin’ ya...). They walk up to the Red Keep; Doh, who am I kidding, they fly over, mounted on Drogon. The palace, and that chamber were never restored, but left as a monument to the Old World, and commemoration of great sacrifice for those who died in the battle for Westeros. The melted core of the Iron Throne stands as witness to future, and memorial to the past. Dany pauses with her son, winter still locked about the land, but signs of spring peeking through, a dazzle of ice and falling snow and sun. Green things unfurling hesitantly from cracks in the pavement of stairs and fallen masonry. And upon the melted heap of that once powerful symbol, a blue frost rose buds from the charred rock...Dany’s hand hovering over it, tending it, and Jenny’s Song crooning in the background with the closing scene... There, I feel better now. THIS is how, or something how, justice might have been served to blot our the memory of sophomoric scripting and elementary storytelling, for a series that held our hearts and minds for 8 seasons going. It’s flawed, I know, and undoubtedly *Archive of Our Own* will be thriving with amateur authors who will prove themselves far more de opted to fleshing our pacing, plots, and subplots for far more satisfying conclusions than what last night treated us to... My GeekGrrl/FsnGrrl is done wrung our now, and must return to her regularly scheduled programming of Late 2nd Century Sarmatisns, Artorius Castus, as well as Post-Roman Britain and a Uthyr and Guinevra who become something of social reformers building the way for the AngloSaxon kingdoms ultimately shaping the fragments of Celtic Britain into the powerful kingdoms of Northumbria (the Star of the North as they called it in its heyday through the 7th into the 8th Century), and later Mercia and Wessex...

[beinglibertarian]

Onward, Collectivist Soldiers

As I contemplate where I fit in my current relation to the State and its politically-correct and uptight sycophants, I realize not much has changed since Catholic school. If I benefited at all from the tutelage of nuns, it’s in being able to identify when I’m being indoctrinated or hoodwinked.

The first few years of my scholastic career were spent at a Catholic school in New Jersey. It was there that I, along with other kids with last names like O’Dowd, Vigliotti, Rispoli, and Gomez, were first introduced to the doctrine of original sin.

Sister Nazarene told us a sin was whenever a person did something wrong. God would not like it if we sinned, and if we sinned, he would damn well know all about it. You couldn’t hide from God. Apparently, a really long time ago this guy Adam and this broad Eve did something so bad that we, the first grade class of St. Francis Albert of Hoboken School, were guilty of it too.

As unreasonable as this seemed at the time, we were taught to understand that God was really pissed off. And touchy. 

You see, before the beginning of time, God spent a whole summer making this place called the Garden of Eden for Adam and Eve. Eden was this groovy resort where people could just relax forever and ever, just as long as they behaved. By and by, good ol’ human imperfection had its way, and Adam and Eve goofed up. God was so hurt and insulted that he decided from that moment on that every Vigliotti, O’Dowd and Ferrara, as well as the Changs, Goldbergs and Patels, would be culpable for what those two Biblical miscreants did. Forever and fucking anon. He was God, after all. 

Do you know what the transgression was? What Adam and Eve did that was so damned bad? They ate an apple. Not just any apple, but a super apple that had magic powers. Some wiseguy who looked like a snake called Satan told them to do it. He beguiled them. Sister Nazarene said that to beguile someone was like tricking them. As I recall, many us felt at that moment that we were being beguiled too. But God help ya if you asked any questions, or wanted clarification. You’d get a smack on the knuckles with a ruler faster than you can say Galileo Galilei. 

Anyway, after they ate it — the apple, that is — Adam and Eve became smart. Turns out, God didn’t like smart people. Folks like that might want to find a meaning for things. They might find joy and fulfillment in intellectual pursuits, or in the labor of their discoveries. They might want to build stuff, make tools and what not, and shape the world according to their needs, according to their vision.  

“Bullshit,” said God. “That’s my department. Who in the Hell do you bipedal monkeys think you are, muscling in on my action? From now on, your lives will be hard and mean and your kids will have it hard too. Now get out of here and don’t come back!”

This was called the expulsion from paradise. God did not like competition. When we would grow up, we would find out that most people don’t like competition either.

As we matriculated — that is to say once we got to the second, and then third grade — some of us Catholic kids started to think that all this original sin jazz was nothing but a bunch of malarkey. We looked for a Garden of Eden on the globe in our classroom and found none. We read up on snakes. They can’t talk, let alone beguile. Apples, while having some nutritional value, can’t make you any smarter than a rap on the head with a ball peen hammer. 

Then, somewhere along the way, we were taught that this other guy, Jesus, died for all of our sins, lock, stock and fucking barrel. 

“What gives?” we wondered. “How can there be original sin and Jesus too?” 

We had a lot of trouble wrangling with this paradox. Mrs. Alverone, our third grade teacher, said a paradox was when something didn’t really make sense. And how!

Eventually, due to either boredom or mental exhaustion, all of us kids gave up our pursuit for the truth in favor of more lofty pastimes like dodge ball, smear the queer, and pouring salt on slugs. Halcyon days! 

Still, it bothered me: being guilty of, and then having to atone for, things I didn’t do, couldn’t do, wouldn’t do, and had nothing to do with. A few months later I broached the subject again with my pals.  

“Maybe original sin is just a way to remind us all that people are imperfect beings,” Crazy Dominick said while burning some ants with a magnifying glass.  

“Well, shit,” I said. “You don’t need Biblical scripture to teach you that. Just look at how Fat Arnie swings a whiffle ball bat: just like a girl. And what about Jackie Smith dropping that pass in the end zone during the Super Bowl? And just look at how corny M*A*S*H has gotten since Alan Alda took over.”

Indeed it was a world fraught with imperfection. All we kids could do was observe, contemplate, and avoid the wrath of the nuns by never getting caught doing anything fun.

More and more it began to dawn on me that teaching us that we were all born guilty was just another way for the church to keep folks in line. 

Think about it: if you’re constantly apologizing, you’ll never have time to do much of anything else, especially disobey, think critically, or pursue your life’s ambitions. I guess I was a late bloomer, but by the time I was ten years old I came to the grim realization that people like holding dominion over one another, especially with vague concepts, opaque language, and moral absurdities. And if those methods won’t work, brute force and violence will do the trick just fine. “Miracle, Mystery and Authority,” as Dostoyevsky once put it. 

It goes without saying that aside from those obligatory funerals and weddings that pop up from time to time, I haven’t willingly stepped into a church since Jimmy Carter cured cancer. The way I saw it, you should stay away from people who want you to feel bad. Little did I know, assholes abound.

Now listen: if you think that living in a world that has begun to cast aside archaic concepts from the early Mesozoic era will free you and me from the efforts of dimwits to encroach on your sovereignty through didactic chicanery, think again, tough guy. Plunderers of the spirit will always seek new and improved ways to turn their contempt for joy into a moral crusade. Why? Because people like fucking with other people, and the best way to fuck with someone is to defame them from up on high in the lofty strata reserved for those with a knack for judgment and a lack of self-awareness.

Nowadays, when I observe the world and the myriad discussions, arguments, diatribes, and commentaries that our fancy-pants, interconnected culture is heir to, I see new versions of the old skullduggery popping up all the time. And so do you.

Aren’t terms like “privilege”, “cis-gendered”, “patriarchy”, “carbon footprint”, “intolerance”, “unfairly disadvantaged”, “triggering” and the like, bandied about by people claiming a moral authority steeped in victimhood, just as sanctimonious and illegitimate as that of the church and its so-called divine morality? I’m not saying that all of those terms are inherently bad in and of themselves; a just and fair world is a thing to aspire to, just like a world free of sin and talking snakes is. If annoying, PC bromides help the cause, so be it. They won’t, but hey, don’t progressives need something to do too? 

Where the trouble starts is when an elite class of people, the heads of civic organizations, the clergy, media dolts, or politicians throw condemnatory terms about in an arbitrary and self-serving manner to stifle anyone who disagrees with or challenges them, all in the name of righteousness.  They think that by forcing dissenters into a posture of constant apology and atonement for intangible transgressions they can either alienate or eliminate them without the trouble of firing squads, cattle cars, inquisitions and re-education camps. Meet the new douchebags, same as the old douchebags. They’re just less blood-thirsty and well, kinda, wimpy.

In the world of the collectivist headcase, the collective is the Garden of Eden, and being met with the collective’s disapproval for things he may or may not have done, or advantages that he may or may not have, is akin to the expulsion from Paradise. But who told them we wanted to be part of their world anyway? 

It wasn’t okay when the church thrust upon us their ecclesiastic version of a full nelson and it’s equally offensive when modern-day demagogues do the same with their new-fangled concepts of original sin. But I don’t blame stupid people for using shortcuts to thinking; that’s what dummies do. And I don’t blame connivers for selling snake oil. What pisses me off is when people who know better allow themselves to be pushed around by these turds and their lexicon of defeatism. 

The bottom line: don’t let anybody make you feel guilty for your own life. Especially if the shame being thrust upon you is the last ditch tactic of an inferior mind that wishes to hold sway over you because their own existence is so damn uncompelling to them. That there is some bullshit.   

As writing this article has now become a tedious affair, and in order to avoid being redundant, I have provided below a post-modern to Biblical translator. Those of you with even a modicum of parochial education will find it helpful… but if your parents were jerk-offs and you went to a Montessori school, then not so much. As it is incomplete, feel free to add your own variables and expressions. I hope this helps out. Extrapolate and deduce as you will, big shots.

Privilege = Original Sin

Reduce your carbon footprint = The Ten Commandments

Cis-gendered = Lust

Patriarchy = Sloth

Intolerance = Pride

Non-Vegan = Gluttony

Trigger = Wrath

Global Warming = The Flood

Climate Change = The Rapture

Bruce Jenner = Jesus

Oprah = God

Michael Moore = John the Baptist

Jordon Peterson = Satan

Individualist/Libertarian = Heretic 

Bill Maher = Doubting Thomas

Ron Paul = Nebuchadnezzar

California = The Promised Land

Corey Booker = Moses

Taxes = Acts of Contrition 

This article represents the views of the author, and not those of Being Libertarian LLC.

The post Onward, Collectivist Soldiers appeared first on Being Libertarian.

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[zachsgamejournal]

COMPLETED: Mega Man Legends

Move over Sahelanthropus, I got all the walking mechs I need right here.

This game is great!

I BEAT IT!

I think it took about 8 hours (not counting a few reload/restarts here an there). While a few of the games I’ve played recently also took around the same amount of time, I kept feeling...frustrated about my progress. Mega Man Legends, on the other-hand, was a constant joy to play! I’m so blown away by how great this 1997 game is. I could gush over it all day, but Imma try to be focused...

The Story

This is where the game started off light and unimpressive, but ultimately turned out quite well. The story felt very basic: “The world needs crystal energy (refracters), and I play a ‘Digger’ that looks for them be exploring ancient ruins. But while I’m a well-meaning digger, there are ill-meaning pirates to worry about.” While the story wasn’t much, it did present the story very cinematically. The cutscenes told the story the gameplay couldn’t, but they didn’t overwhelm the player like Metal Gear Solid. 

The player eventually crash-lands on an island with a city and lots of people. The player may speak with these people, even performing sidequests and developing relationships. The characters aren’t super deep, but they all have some personality and story. It helps build the charm of this world. I really appreciated it.

The antagonists are a family of pirate siblings. Tron Bonne is interesting in that she’s a bit of a brat, but has affections for Mega Man. She’s also moved by his heroism and genuineness. She finds herself emotionally conflicted between her older brother who insists on being “bad” and her feelings for Mega Man that shows there’s a better way to live. Though this is mostly used for comedic effect, it also makes her the most interesting and well-rounded character. At one point, Mega Man thinks he may have killed the pirates (including Tron) in a major battle. The heroes treat this as an unintended tragedy, and do not rejoice in their victory (I love it!), then later, Mega Man finds Tron alive is over-the-moon. She’s put off by it, but conflicted. After Mega Man defeats the trio again, the eldest brother, Tiesel, offers his honorable recognition of Mega Man’s superiority and offers to leave in peace. Tron is surprised and touched, but then it turns out to be a ploy.

It’s all pretty silly but still engaging character development.

The game’s story contains quite a bit of mystery. Why are Reaverbots activating? What’s hidden beneath the island? What’s the connection? It’s revealed that these ancient ruins (which are from a more advanced civilization) actually contain a weapon. This weapon feels that humans are over-populating and that it should  purge the island as a population control effort. Mega Man finds this cruel and stops it. In the process, it’s revealed that Mega Man has a deep connection to system that wanted to purge the island. It’s hinted that he may serve some deeper purpose: maybe to act as the moral compass of unfeeling, ant-human protocol? The message I got was that humans destroyed the earth, causing a great flood and societal/technological collapse. So then machines were created to limit human influence, but their purpose is so old and outdated, it’s become an artifact itself.

There’s a fun twist here where Mega Man is captured. But the pirates realize that it’s more important to save the island than defeat Mega Man, so they release him and support his victory against the boss.

It’s still not super deep, but much deeper than I realized. And with all the various characters and personalities, it’s one of the best story experiences I’ve had in a game (though a bit goofy).

The Graphics

Are great! There’s a few issues. I think PS1 games pre-1998 had a different look and feel than post 1998 (and then again, post 2000). It feels like early game artists were still trying to figure out 3D modeling with limited hardware. So a lot of the best known tricks hadn’t been discovered yet. So MML definitely has a few Pre-1997 qualities, but it also has plenty of areas where it really looks great.

The savior is the cartoon-styled graphics. Most characters have solid-color clothes and accessories with few details. Because the art is consistent throughout, it just feels right. And then the facial animations are great. Games like Tomb Raider, Resident Evil, and Metal Gear Solid had in-game cutscenes, but the characters’ faces were unanimated. Sometimes they’d bob their heads to imply speaking--but it was all kinda goofy. MML, on the other hand, included moving mouths and changing face expressions during cutscenes. It really sold the cinematic vibe and is quite impressive for  PS1 game.

So even though technical limitations really prevent this game from looking great, the art-direction and advanced facial animations keep this game looking great!

The Gameplay

1. Controls

Unfortunately, the controls kind of suck. Mega Man controls somewhat like a tank. A tank that can move side ways. While games like Mario 64 had free 3D movement with a camera that tried to keep up--MML has a camera that stays firmly facing forward that only rotates when the player rotates MM.

It’s a little off-putting. If I push “down”, MM runs toward the screen: completely facing the opposite direction of the camera. In most 3D platformers, the camera would try to rotate behind the character. Not MM. It keeps facing the same direction. When I stop moving, MM turns back to face the same direction as the camera.

I think they were trying to make shooting and combat easier. And I think their head was in the right place. But it makes the game hard to learn. Still, once you get used to it, it works ok. This is the worst part of the game, but the difficulty is well balanced that I don’t feel punished by the controls.

2. Combat

The combat isn’t super deep, but that also means it’s not overbearing. The combat feels more like Crash Bandicoot, with each enemy having an attack pattern that must be learned and subverted. But mostly, you just got to know when to shoot it. So it keeps the combat accessible while also interesting and mentally challenging. This is better than a lot of American Shooters that just have you fight a variety of projectile based enemies--run, dodge, shoot...

Adding depth to the combat is a cool customizable Buster (gun). You can collect a variety of parts that boost Attack, Range, Attack Speed, and “Reload”. Some parts affect more than 1 stat, allowing the player to try a variety of combinations to boost their effectiveness and compliment their play-style. You may also change configurations based on the boss or enemy type. It’s a simple, and fun system that adds plenty of depth to what could have been a straightforward action title.

What’s also neat about these parts: they’re often rewards for side-quests. Such quests might be rebuilding a clubhouse, participating in game shows, or finding a lost loved-one. It’s great because it provides a lot of bonus quests for the player that meaningful and rewarding both as an experience and on a material level.

The boss fights are also pretty interesting, assuming you’re properly equipped. They can be a bit challenging or confusing, but they’re quite diverse. Maybe you’re defending the town from bull-dozer bots, or engaged in air-to-air battles, there’s plenty of unique experiences. I was especially impressed with the walking-mech battle. I think there’s another boss just as tall, but this involved a very destructible city block. It reminded me of the Sahelanthropus battle of Metal Gear Solid V...or does that battle remind me of this? Either way--it was just more icing on top of a great experience.

3. Adventure/Pacing

I like to differentiate between action and action-adventure. Action, to me, is very linearity and to the point. Action adventure often asks the player to do more than fight their way to the exit, but to discover the path to the exit. Even better, they allow the player to discover much of the game--allowing for maximized freedom in progress.

Zelda Games are often the best examples of letting the player set their own pace and find their own way. Ocarina of Time is a true stand-out here. The game doesn’t tell you want to do, but pushes you in the right directions. Still, you’re not often limited to one set order of events to proceed and can do some quests in any order. Mega Man Legends does this as well.

Once you get past the first hour or so, the game really opens up. There’s people to talk to, secrets to find, and there’s rarely a rush to complete the next objective. You’re free to grind for resources and buy that gun upgrade, or just push through--relying purely on your skill to overcome challenges. But what really makes the game like this work is the “down time”.

Dark Forces 2, Mysteries of the Sith, and Jedi Outcast are fun action games--but there’s only one thing to do: fight your way to the end. Even if there’s sub-objectives to the over-all level, there’s no freedom. While several Mega Man battles take place in the town, the city is usually a place of no combat. But there’s plenty to do, secrets to find, and characters to interact with. And once a dungeon has been defeated, it’s nice to go back and look for secrets or grind. It makes the game way more diverse and I feel more in control as a player.

This is really important. Because the Star Wars games (and even Thief) are sooo straightforward and 1-dimensional, I get fatigued very quickly. And seeing as I like to beat a game before moving on, I get frustrated. I feel like these games are in the way of me finding happiness. Not a good reason to play games. But MML made me happy to play it. Even if I didn’t feel like taking on the next dungeon, I could do side quests or grind on an easier dungeon and not feel like I’ve wasted time. It all helps me succeed in the future. And that gives me joy.

Mega Man Legends is joy!

I started this game way back in 1997 or 1998, and I restarted it many times since. This was the first time I beat it, and I love it--absolutely. Likely a top 10 game for me. I hope to add this to my rotation of games to replay till the end of my days--but then again, I’m curious if Mega Man Legends 2 will outshine it??

[bunny-wan-kenobi]

Thor Thoughts Pt 2: Golden Boy Comes Down to Earth

Part II of my series of Thor reflections since I love the muscled teddy-bear badass way too much…

Part I: Why I Love Thor 

Golden Boy Comes Down to Earth 

Upon watching Thor Ragnarok, many viewers have labeled the Thor movies as a “coming of age story.” I agree but would add another layer: it’s also a story examining privilege.

Maybe the movies did not necessarily intend to tackle this theme, but I’m firmly of the belief that there is more depth to these movies than people give them credit for. Yup they’re fun, but there’s a lot to mull over beneath the surface. So let’s talk Thor, epitome of Privilege (on soooo many levels).

We first meet Thor when he is most young and brash and reckless. Thor is used to being the Golden Boy–he’s tall, handsome, popular, and proud. Not only that, but within the social context of our world, he’s basically a rich able-bodied white guy positioned on the highest tier of his society. Now put a hammer in his hand that only responds to his call (talk about exclusivity at the top) and you’ve got one powerful man–and a potentially dangerous one. 

Thor’s sheer concentration of privilege is dangerous because he was raised not to question it. His society is founded on the subjugation of other realms, and despite Odin’s call to honor and responsibility (oh Odin), he has this attitude that he and other Asgardians are inherently superior to everyone from the savage monsters outside their borders (the Jotun) and the petty subjects under their rule (humans). And Thor’s not the only one who thinks this way—it’s a symptom of his greater society.  

This is the view of conquerors, the ones who have the power to re-work the collective narrative in their favor so history remembers them as benevolent rulers bringing order to a world at war rather than colonizers forcibly bringing other peoples under their control (Ragnarok did a good job touching on this). So we end up with Thor the spoiled Norse jock with a bludgeoning tool–and Daddy’s a despot (less bloody post-Hela edition). 

King Laufey: Your father is a murderer and a thief! And why have YOU come, to talk of peace? You long for battle, you crave it! You’re nothing more than a boy trying to prove himself a man!

Thor: Be warned, this boy grows tired of your mockery!

Thor (2011)

Let’s be real here: Asgard as portrayed by these movies is an imperialist realm. How do we know this? Look at Loki. Why try to destroy Jotunheim (his birthland)? Why try to take over Midgard? Okay, there are a WHOLE lot of reasons underlying Loki’s motivations, but one thing he tells Odin in TDW is:

I went down to Midgard to rule the people of Earth as a benevolent God, just like you 

Thor: The Dark World (2013)

He says something a long these lines to Thor in Avengers–this is what their people do, they conquer people, keep them in line, and rule them, so what’s the big fuss? That is the way things are in Asgard, that’s what people believe keeps the order and peace. That’s what they want to believe at least…

And the thing is, Thor might’ve agreed with Loki once–before coming to Earth. Remember the Thor who basically reignited war with the Frost Giants because his pride was hurt? The guy went off to Jotun and killed a bunch of them and told his dad that they should destroy them together! (Asgardians have weird ideas of father-son bonding). I wonder where he got the idea that stomping into another realm to teach them a lesson and make them submit under brutal force was a perfectly acceptable way to approach inter-species relations… *coughOdingetyolifetogethercough*

Odin: What action would you take?

Thor: March into Jotunheim as you once did! Teach them a lesson! Break their spirits, so they would never dare try to cross our borders again!

Thor (2011)

Just to hammer in the point (see what I did there?), we see that Odin essentially has a whole MUSEUM vaultful of relics stolen from other realms, tokens of his conquests. Hmmmm that sounds familiar…

So we have a prince raised in the dominant culture, raised with an internalized sense of supremacy and raised not to challenge the status quo because it benefits him. And why would he? He’s used to being on top and throwing his weight around to get what he wants because this is how Asgard itself has stayed on top of all the Nine Realms for centuries. Thor’s point of view is myopic, too narrow to consider the wide-reaching consequences of his actions. It also prevents him from engaging struggles outside of his own, especially those of people without his advantages–a flaw that contributes to the splinters in his relationship with his brother (He calls Loki’s problems “imagined slights.” Yeaaah…not getting any Brother-of-the-Year Awards here Thor). 

Thor has tremendous influence in his position–he’s a prince, a future ruler, but we see him in movie 1 so fixated on his own glory, his own sense of rightness that he ends up trampling people right and left. Thor is like the thunder he commands, loud, powerful, and abrupt. He doesn’t linger for the aftermath but leaves a large echo.   

So what happens then when Thor is stripped of his hammer, his armor, his land, and his godhood status? Thor is literally stripped of his previous (mostly unearned) privileges and banished to Earth. And like anyone facing this kind of loss for the first time, Thor is angry. He’s defensive, desperate to get back to his hammer and restore a sense of normalcy to his life. He’s now stuck in a foreign world that no longer bends to his rules.

But this is why Thor’s time on Earth matters so much. For the first time, Thor’s worldview is exposed for its gaping holes, and he has to respond to the breaking down of tales he’s heard all his life about his people’s superiority. There’s a loss of innocence with that, but it’s replaced with a growing maturity. It’s also important to acknowledge that Thor comes to these realizations by developing relationships with beings different from himself. 

Thor: You know, I had it all backwards. I had it all wrong.

Erik Selvig: It’s not a bad thing finding out that you don’t have all the answers. You start asking the right questions.

Thor: For the first time in my life, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

Erik Selvig: Anyone who’s ever going to find his way in this world, has to start by admitting he doesn’t know…

Thor (2011)

In forming friendships with humans like Jane and Selvig, in living in a human town-even for a little while-Thor’s eyes are opened to the experiences of beings outside of Asgard, and instead of dismissing them for perceived deficiencies, he learns to value them in their complexity. He comes to appreciate humans for their intelligence, their capacity for kindness, their desire to understand the unknown. He observes their ignorance of so many things (he has traveled the cosmos after all and has a magic hammer), and yet…there’s things they can teach him too, maybe precisely because as a race they’re always learning and their lives are short. He may have been born to rule them, but now he is actually seeing them for the first time, and it changes him. 

When Thor sacrifices himself for the town in the first movie, it’s a climatic moment that signifies just how far he’s come in his journey of understanding his own privilege. He not only apologizes to Loki for how he has wronged him, but he also demonstrates his willingness to lay down his life for people that just a few days earlier, he might’ve waved off as inferior. And with that understanding comes not only a restoration of his previous power, but also a new commitment to defend these people with that power.  

This is an interesting development because then Thor returns to Asgard and later admits to Odin that he still has “much to learn.” Humility has begun to reshape Thor’s motivations so he acknowledges his flaws and seeks to learn from his mistakes rather than placating his own pride. He begins to understand that the power he wields and the position he holds can be used to serve others rather than simply dominate them. 

Fast forward and we see Thor protecting humanity in Avengers, and we get this fascinating and underrated exchange with Loki when he confronts him:

Thor: So you take the world I love as recompense for your imagined slights? No, the Earth is under MY protection, Loki! Loki: [laughs] And you’re doing a marvelous job with that! The humans slaughter each other in droves, while you ideally threat. I mean to rule them. And why should I not? Thor: You think yourself above them? Loki: Well, yes. Thor: Then you miss the truth of ruling, brother. A throne would suit you ill.

Avengers (2012)

I really don’t think people give enough credit to Thor’s insight here. He’s basically telling Loki that ruling can’t be reduced to an exercise of privilege where one sees themselves as inherently better than the people they seek to lead. When that happens, a ruler becomes a tyrant and no longer contributes to the welfare of their people–which in Thor’s estimation is what a true leader should do. The boot-and-ant analogy Loki champions falls short of Thor’s re-envisioning of what the throne really means. 

Loki takes the side of the imperialist: they’re better, more advanced than humans, so the humans should serve them and be grateful for it. But Thor introduces a new paradigm counter-cultural to what he has been taught: ruling as a means of stewardship. Not domination, not assimilation, but the recognition of responsibility towards the people directly impacted by your actions. A bloody history may have resulted in Asgard’s rule over Earth, but Thor realizes this does not give his people license to exploit humans’ resources and devalue them. Instead, they should be helping them, contributing to their flourishing and, ultimately, respecting their agency. 

The fruit of Thor’s time on Earth can be seen in TDW where the situation with the Dark Elves forces him to confront the reality of Odin’s past war crimes (and this is BEFORE Ragnarok). He questions Odin’s stance of isolationism and the wisdom of just staying put to destroy your enemy while getting destroyed yourself. There is a cyclical nature to these political conflicts, a generational ill that is poisoning everyone involved, and Thor no longer wants any part of it. 

Odin: Malekith is sure to return, we have what we wants. And when he does, we will defeat him.

Thor: We can not fight an enemy we can not locate! Malekith could be right over us now, and we’d never know! How many Asgardian lives must we sacrifice?

Odin: AS MANY AS IS NEEDED! Till the last Asgardian falls, till the last drop of blood is shed!

Thor: What makes you so different from Malekith, then?

Odin: [mirthless laugh] The difference, my son, is that I will WIN.

Thor: The Dark World (2013)

Remember this: Thor gives up the throne. Not just to be with Jane, and not because he wants to go off and vacation on Midgard like an overgrown fratboy, but because he fears he doesn’t have the ruthlessness to rule in a way that will maintain Asgard’s power like his father has done for centuries. He’s afraid of how that kind of pressure will change him, make him the manifestation of the worst parts of Odin. He’s afraid of how that privilege could consume him and harm countless others. By the end of TDW, Thor lays down the power of kingship given him by birthright because he believes he can do more good as a free agent ensuring the welfare of Midgard and the other realms. 

Odin: You once said there would never be a wiser King than me. You were wrong. The alignment has brought all the realms together. Every one of them saw you offer your life to save them. What can Asgard offer its new King in return? Thor: My life. Father, I cannot be King of Asgard. I will protect Asgard and all the realms with my last and every breath, but I cannot do so from that chair. Loki for all his grave imbalance understood rule as I know I never will. The brutality, the sacrifice, it changes you. I’d rather be a good man than a great King. 

Thor: The Dark World (2013)

By this point, Thor has matured past Odin, past Loki, past the reigning paradigms of his culture. They’ve all remained stagnant, caught in the same patterns of war and conquest and revenge. Once you’ve known privilege, it’s hard to conceive of life without that power–or the labor to preserve it. The cost of losing your advantage seems too painful because it’s woven into the normalization of your day-to-day existence. 

Others in Asgard may not want to consider what the alternatives may be, but Thor has come to realize the damage this attitude has wreaked upon not only the peoples of the Nine Realms, but also the very people who benefit most from the hierarchy as is. He sees the blind spots among his people, in “Humans-are-fleeting-their-lives-are-nothing” Odin, but he cannot force them to see differently if they are not willing to. If he cannot do good from the throne, then he cannot in good conscience sit in it. 

With that choice to loosen his grip on his privilege and recognize the responsibility tied to his positioning in the world, Thor finally emerges as someone worthy to be king. Loki had a point, he would have been a terrible ruler before the changes he’s undergone–he was arrogant and guilty of the same narrow-minded thinking passed down from the generation before. That Thor needed a crash-course to Earth to finally be open to unlearning what he learned and to develop empathy for others once considered lesser than him. 

So what we see in Ragnarok is the culmination of all this development, all these shifts in attitude. Yes, Thor is still bumbling and proud and powerful, but he is also wiser. He doesn’t believe he could be a better king than Odin, but his choices have already proved the opposite. I love that moment when Odin reveals to him that his power was never in Mjonir; instead, the hammer was there to train him to channel his power well. And isn’t that the summation of Thor’s whole journey? 

Thor: Life is about growth and change. But you, my dear god of mischief brother, just want to stay the same.

Thor: Ragnarok (2017)

Throughout 3 movies, Thor has been learning how to wield power wisely, to steward what he has been given to serve others. A hammer is cold and can only press other things down under it, but hands, eyes, feet involve skin-contact, the intimacy and intentionality of one’s body–and these are now the primary extensions of Thor’s power. 

Thor loses his hammer but takes full ownership of his identity, his embodied and social position within his community–and his power. There’s something beautiful in that idea because it’s Thor’s relationships-his experiences in drawing close to people and collaborating with them- that have contributed to his growth. He will not be the ruthless conqueror Odin was. He will be something entirely different that has yet to be seen. 

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the movie that fully exposes the sins of Asgard and Odin’s bloody history is the same one that ends with Thor on the throne after everything he has learned and experienced. Asgard was built on a corrupt foundation, and so maybe in this case the whole structure needed to fall apart so something good and lasting could be built in its place. In the same way, privilege, whether racial, gendered, embodied etc., needs to be challenged and deconstructed if all peoples are to thrive together as true equals. Hela is framed as a relic of the old order; Thor is the burnished symbol of the new. 

Thor: I love what you’ve done with the place. Redecorated and everything.

Hela: It would seem our father’s solution to every problem was to cover it up.

Thor: Or cast it out. I would love for someone else to rule but it can’t be you. You’re just… the worst.

Thor: Ragnarok (2017)

Though he still doesn’t desire the throne, Thor steps up into the role of king because his people need a leader. Not a paternalistic Allfather, but a leader who can support and steer them into the unknown that awaits them after the destruction of Asgard. Thor knows what it’s like to have security, privilege, comfort stripped away, and so he understands how painful and difficult their next steps will be. Like he did years ago, they’re coming down to Earth, and Asgard may be better for it. 

[catherinemay]

Little Corn Island Anecdotes

There are no cars or motorbikes on the island but there are a few bikes. The common way to alert walkers that bikes are coming is to make a ringing sound with the voice. 

A small boat brings people and supplies to the island once a day, sometimes twice and sometimes not at all. The cargo boat comes on Saturday but it hasn't been for 2 weeks due to bad weather conditions so this Saturday, islanders are particularly excited to see it coming in from over the horizon. Big corn gets first pick of the supplies and have also experienced some shortages recently so little corn don't really know how much of their orders will arrive. The wheel barrows arrive from all over and clutter the jetty and the island energy picks up all across. Yesterday the island went down to only fresh food that they themselves have available here - that's spinach, bananas, eggs and of course fish. They were desperate for vegetables especially tomatoes and fruit too especially mangos. The shop shelves, grocers baskets and fruit ladys trays were bare. When the boat arrived, the barrows (1 man) and carts (3-4 men) went into overdrive. The cargo was dispersed across the island as if worker ants had done the training. Some barrows had a mix of things inside probably going to one property, others had a whole load of one thing in, probably doing multiple small drop offs. Vegetables, rice, soft drinks, sanitary towels, flip flops, and and and... we even saw a foosball table. Several hours of the afternoon, into the evening and night they shifted stuff and were still working when we went to bed with the boat being reload too. We don't know what time they worked until but in the morning it was gone and the shops and stalls were piled high.

Pictured below - one of the island's 3 churches from which very loud wailing singing and dodgy keyboard music comes; restocked micro shop; restocked fruit stall; gap-year bar.

One cargo boat brought a pig. Instead of unloading the pig on the dock which would cause carnage, they usually throw it overboard to swim to shore. Unfortubsyely, since bad weather had delayed journey and the boat had arrived after dark and when then a pig was released to the water it decided to make a bid for freedom. Despite attempts by islanders to find it by torch light, it managed to evade the humans until next morning when it was found roaming the other side of the island.

The shack is a kind of, well, a shack and it caught out attention immediately. No happy hour signs, burger offers, wifi promise. Just a shack. It does amazing breakfasts - whole fish, fish scrambled eggs, coconut French bread, lovely coffee and fresh juices. (The shack is pictured below - bottom left).

In the water beneath the shack young children hurl themself into the water, chase each other, shout and holler at each other in deep Creole and entertain themselves with incredible energy. Cook puts two small breakfasts on the bench beach side and a boy and girl come to eat. The boy in particular doesn't want to miss out on play and shouts to his friend to come eat too. "Brin mi nuther food fo dylan", "no, dat your brefast" comes the reply from cook, "Ok brin nuther fork", fork was delivered and the two boys shared the meal at lightening speed. Cook tells us that since their father went on a fishing trip and never came back, he watches over them a bit while they play and gives them a meal here and there to help out. Their older brother, a feet shuffling, baggy shorts wearing teenager is less lively but helps out in the kitchen. We are told the boat just to the side is his.

We talked fishing at the cabin agreeing on a trip. The little boy from the water started chirping and we didn't understand what he said but cook responded back "no, no, nobady go fishin", he then talks to us again in his mellow tone, "he love fishin, he wan know who go fishin, he wan come with we". After a bit of negotiation we booked a trip for the next day with Samir, the teen lad and his inherited boat, Captain Jackie (or at least captain until the lad comes of age) and little 5 year old, junior Papo who wants to be called captain Willie for now like his dad. It was agreed that we were going in HIS panga (boat). "What fish would you like to catch?" We asked Papo. "Any fis, I eat any fis", "cept a poopoo fis", he adds. "What's a poopoo fish?" We ask, genuinely wondering. "Is da one da dog drop off end ov de dock".

On the 'busy' strip of the island with at least 4 bars aimed at transiant traffic and divers (gap-year bar) and another 4 or 5 local eateries, a parakeet travels up and down just for fun. Theres a few parakeets here but one goes up and down the strip repeatedly. He doesnt fly though, he travels by shoulders of whoever's going. 

A man makes simple wristbands with perhaps one bead on by working the knots down a thread connected on one end to a mental raining and the other end to his belt loop on. He sells them in a small table on the side of the walkway covering with a cloth when he goes to lunch. 

Theres loads of fish on menus and we had some lovely lobster too plus some mexican tacos one day and chicken frito another day. The coconut curry was a particular favourite served out of someone's front kitchen in the middle of the island, it was cheap too since it wasn't beach front.

We became familiar to the kids, Papo and his 10 year old sister Dana and after a few days they wanted to know why we didnt swim in their spot. They wanted to know if we could in fact swim and they required proof. We were challenged to swim to the pontoon to which we replied maybe tomorrow. Next day, when we went to the shack for a beer, they came bounding down the beach expectant of our swim. Math was in jeans but I had bikini underneath so off we went. There were a couple of races to and from a boat which I didnt know I was part of but lost. There was a ceremonial diving down to collect sand, some kind of proof we were here ritual like it didnt count unless you picked up sand. There was also diving and jumping from the pontoon and all kinds of challenges. Next day in the midday heat they caught us again. "Too hot for us right now" we said but agreed to go later at the same time as yesterday. "What time yesterday?", "at sunset", "What time sunset?", "about 4 o clock", "what time now"...they went on until certain of the appointment. At 4 o'clock we arrived, met them and swam out. After some frantic swimming from Babo, he dipped his mask in the water for a few moments, popped up again gasping and repeated this several times. He was not drowning he was in awe of Math still walking his way over to the pontoon, at least a quarter way there, he just couldn't believe after all the effort his was making, "he not swimin, he wokin". 

One walk took us across the island to the more secluded, independent digs and then North around the rural side. We walked jungle, scrambled rocks, waded and swam to get around - a really fun mission.

Another walk took us south passing by the infamous Norweegen gardener, a French style irrigated allotment system and pick your own veg business. The locals live around this end with beautiful gardens somewhere ballamced between maintained and natural. During this walk we lost the path for sometime and went a bit rogue but came across two completely secluded beach coves. 

We went snorkelling with Samir and his boat (different Captain borrowed this time). We visited 3 unique and very specific spots carefully picked out by Samir who commanded Captain to go exactly where he wanted. He came out of himself a bit more this trip mocking his Captain's efforts at social media "De older genration, hey and da facebook". 2 nurse sharks, several fat eagle rays, a star fish, sea urchins, a tame parrot fish and a whole load of other tropical fish and beautiful coral. We had strapmarks from the intense sun even though we returned before 10am. 

Fishing trip pictured below. We shared the Dutch guys barracuda but sadly Math's two very big King Fish were ones wot got away.

We realised that our landlady could help with onward travel plans and started to bombarded her with lots of questions anout options. She started to make enquiries on our behalf but she stopped us dead in our questioning and assertively said "look, lemi stir mi gumbo pot an I ge bac to you" after making all kinds of enquiries she produced what was essentially a travel fact sheet for us to use.

24 cows on the island when we arrived, 23 23 when we left. Orders places from across island on slaughter day apparently and it disappears quickly after being butchered.

Gap-Year Bar - definition - has at least 3 of the following 'qualities': wifi, takes card, hanging douchebag quotes, a theme, happy hour, menu in dollars, theme nights.

[danipaxte]

9. Distracting Kiss

Fandom: Satan and Me Ship: Pailix Word Count: 2800 Rating: Nearly R rated for less than subtle sexual allusions Summary: When you are competing, maybe playing video games or something so you press kisses anywhere available; arms, nose, knees, ears, knuckles, temple, just anywhere to distract them. A/N: This was an idea I basically already had so this was just an excuse to finally write it. THANKS ANON

Reliable wasn't always the first word used when describing Pax, but in the case of Laila and Felix’s special relationship with him, it was accurate. Since making things “official” — they were still settling on titles since “dating” was unacceptable to Pax and “sex slave” was unacceptable to Laila and Felix — he'd been excelling at his main role in the relationship, ready and willing for a romp at the drop of a hat. Perhaps it wasn't a difficult feat for someone like Pax, who regularly joked about being at half mast for the last century, but they appreciated his eagerness regardless, constantly reassured that Laila’s sometimes insatiable desires would never be a chore to him.

Pax had become so reliable​ even, that all it took was a particular kiss for him to catch onto intentions, learning the inflections of their breathes, tasting coded messages on their tongues that gave more than enough information for him to take initiative. Sometime he barely needed even that; just a look and Pax knew whether he’d be dragging Laila away for a quickie or slipping beneath the blanket they all cuddled under on the couch to continue their kissing between her legs. On one such occasion, he even held a conversation, during a late night junk food run with Natalie to the local diner, his head rested casually in one hand, and the other under the table, wrist deep up Laila’s skirt.

Yes, it was safe to say that, when it came to sex at least, regardless of the situation, Pax was almost always reliable.

Almost.

There was one exception, one thing that always guaranteed his attention over any sexual situation, making it a sometimes crippling abnormality to the general rule. That one thing, was video games.

Well, to be more exact, it was Pax’s competitive nature, which turned out to be arguably more lively than his sex drive. Perhaps they shouldn’t have been so surprised; when it came to fist fights Pax was generally undefeated, and the need to keep his unofficial title easily leaked over into virtual reality, which meant that agreeing to play a fighting or racing game with him was practically a challenge. Somehow he'd even managed to turn co-op games into a competition, keeping track of kills and arguing over who had offered the most to the completion of the level.

Of course Felix didn't help the matter. Never being one himself to cave to Pax’s cockiness, he fell into the cycle of abuse more often than he'd like to admit, accepting a challenge from the other demon too hastily while exchanging heated jabs, only to be destroyed on screen shortly after and regretting falling for the obvious trap. Then he’d sulk and whine as Pax got a free pass to gloat and another owed pack of cigarettes to add to his already immortal lifetime supply.

Laila didn’t think that the competitiveness would be such a big deal, though. After all, Pax had to have some sort of weakness that could be exploited. A particular game he wasn’t good at or trick he didn’t know how to counter. Certainly the right suggestion in his ear, one that he simply couldn’t refuse, would do the trick. All they had to do was figure out what would distract him. Unfortunately once the competition between the two demons had started to become straining and Laila took it upon herself to try to intervene, to level the playing field a little, she realized quickly that they'd found the one thing that possibly took higher priority than Pax’s dick.

She started subtly enough the first time, not wanting Pax to catch onto the fact that she was trying to tilt the digital battle between the two demons into Felix's favor. Laila cuddled close to him so her body sat flush to his, pushed her chest against him every time she leaned in, she even played with his hair at the back of his neck in the way that always got him popping horns and purring like a satisfied cat.

While in any other situation these tactics would have had her already pinned to the couch and half way to undressed, Pax’s only reaction once he realized what she was doing was a smirk that was all fangs and a simple remark. “You can push your tits against me all you want, Dollface, it's not going to help any if Felix is going to keep playing like a scrub.”

Laila hadn't realized but their competitiveness had started to rub off on her, and his words fanned a flame of rivalry in her belly, unintentionally starting a second competition there on that couch. From that moment, the attempts to make Pax finally lose for once became a team effort, reviving their fervor and determination to beat him. After all, he couldn't possibly continue to triumph over a double assault. He'd have to cave eventually, right?

Laila began to up the ante, pulling out every trick she could think of to try and distract Pax. She'd curl up between them in her pajamas, which were usually little more than underwear, and would lounge purposely across his lap, nibble at his ears and leave hickeys that likely bordered painful across his neck and collar. Meanwhile, Felix was trying to capitalize on even just a brief moment of faltered attention, that unfortunately never seemed to happen.

Getting a little more desperate and frustrated, Laila started tried some unorthodox attempts, eating treats like candy and ice cream in extremely impractical ways to try to be seductive, and suggesting perverse and sometimes disgusting sexual acts if only to see whether she could get some sort of reaction. Eventually she abandoned being coy altogether and instead attempted to keep his lips in a messy kiss while quite literally shoving her hands down his pants. Still, he'd give her little more than a half chub and a wicked grin as the game would announce his victory. To be honest, Laila started to wonder if he had to watch the screen at all, or if he'd still manage to win even if she took it upon herself to sit in his lap and block his view.

Of course, her failings only meant that when Pax won, it was a doubled victory, which did no favors to his already huge ego, and whittled away the last of Felix and Laila’s enthusiasm. After rubbing it in their faces every time, he still somehow managed to seem surprised with their surrender when they'd finally had enough of the game.

“Oh come on, just one round,” he whined when Felix refused to play against him for the first time, knowing that their pride was too hurt to endure any further punishment.

“You're lucky we don't ban video games from this household all together, Pax.” Laila piped up in Felix's defense from her spot snuggling next to him on the couch, practically growling when Pax flipped off the show she was watching and turned on the game console.

Pax grinned wickedly in response to their glares. “Don't be rude. I wouldn't have played Felix in the first place if I knew he was going to be such a sore loser about it.”

Laila scoffed, her hit anger flickering to life, and nearly opened her mouth to argue, but Felix snuffed out her offense with a kiss to her hair that he used to shush her gently. She gave him a curious look, since it was strange in itself that he wasn't reacting to that low blow from Pax, but when she met his eye, Felix had his own smirk playing on his lips that suggested a delicious idea.

That looked turned to Pax lazily as he offered a response. “Ok, fine. One more game, double or nothing.”

Pax’s grin stretched immediately, and he mocked a shiver as he said, “careful. You'll get me excited with that kind of sweet talk.”

Felix gave a playful roll of his eyes before moving to collect the controller when Pax handed it to him, but before settling in for a battle, he added the afterthought that was playing on his features. “One catch.”

The prospect of the bet getting even juicier had Pax eyes shining with his competitiveness. “Hit me.”

Smirking, Felix leaned back into the couch lazily and delivered his ultimatum. “You have to play against Laila this time instead.”

Laila reacted in unison with Pax to the reveal, although their responses were polar opposites. While Pax’s grin only stretched further, Laila sunk down into horror.

“But-. Felix I don't know how to play this game!”

Felix responded over Pax’s laughter. “It's fine. It's easy, I promise.” He moved to put the controller into her hands, wrapping around her from behind to guide her fingers over the buttons and explain what they did in the corresponding fighting game Pax had chosen. When he was finished he gave her another reassuring kiss to her hair, this time breathing a whisper to her ear that Pax wouldn't have heard through his gasping for air. “Just try to dodge him for as long as you can. Trust me. I have an idea.”

“Don't worry, beautiful. It's your first time and you're nervous, so I'll go easy on you.” Pax gave an obnoxiously suggestive wink to go with the innuendo in his words.

Her own competitive nature fired up with his cockiness and Felix's reassurance, Laila answered with a scoff. “Don't. You know how I like it.”

Pax flashed fangs with his chuckle. “Fast and rough it is, then.”

It was Laila’s turn to roll her eyes, leaving his quip uncommented on as she turned her gaze to the screen.

Dodge, Felix had said. That shouldn’t be too hard. She glanced at him for moral support, and he gave her a slow blink of affirmation like a comfy cat, lounging casually in his spot between them. The game counted down the seconds to the first round, of three Laila remembered, and once she was in control of her character she press the directional buttons to duck and retreat.

Pax laughed wickedly. “Aw, don’t be scared. How about this, I’ll even let you kill me the first round so you can get the hang of the controls.” At first Laila thought he was just tricking her and she glared in his direction suspiciously, but he put his control down onto the coffee table and put his hands up in surrender to give her free reign, so she took the opportunity to test out the controls Felix had explained, in true button smashing fashion.

With a K.O and one round in her wins, Pax grabbed his controller again, grinning as it counted down the second round. “Hope you’re warmed up now.”

Just like the last round, Laila ducked and retreated as Felix had suggested, but Pax had decided that was the last bit of his generosity, and quickly finished her off despite her desperate attempts at blocking and dodging his virtual moves.

The second round went to Pax, with not even a single punch landed by Laila, and he beamed with smugness when she glared at him. “You still want to go through with this bet, Fel? Dollface clearly doesn’t know what she’s doing. It’s a shame because she’s so cute, it feels wrong massacring her like this.”

Laila was also feeling hopeless, and looked to Felix for reassurance again, which she got as he sat up a little again and nudged her shoulder with his. “You got this, don’t worry. But this time, don’t dodge.”

She opened her mouth to argue but it was counting down to the third round and Felix directed her eyes to the screen, so with a frustrated groan and panic causing her palms to sweat, she forced herself back into the game.

Don’t dodge. Ok fine, that meant she had to just smash the hell out of the buttons and hope for a miracle. Laila primed her fingers and as the round started she began spamming. And it was… it was actually working. She was getting in hits. So many hits, Pax’s character was already almost dead and… and… it was almost like he wasn’t even fight back at all.

Laila knew better, she should just take this opportunity and capitalize, she really shouldn’t look away in case she fumbled during the split second her eyes were off the television, but she just couldn’t help herself. She had to know what on earth was keeping him from fighting back. With one hit left to kill Pax’s character, she peeked out of the corner of her eye, and then quite literally did a double take when she realized what had him distracted.  

Felix, who she had felt shift away from her and over to Pax just before the round had started, was now locked in a kiss with Pax that he had clearly started as the countdown finished.

As Laila watched, he deepened the kiss, the hand that had obviously snatched Pax’s face away from the screen moving from his jaw to the back of his neck, and it was written all over Pax, with his heavy eyelids and his limp, defeated grip on the controller, which kiss Felix was currently giving him.

This was his novocaine kiss, the one he saved for special occasions, the one that demanded uninterrupted attention and left the receiver hot headed and weak in the knees. Laila was too familiar with that particular kiss. Felix liked to remind her every so often that he could still take her breath away like no one else could, especially since Pax had been in the picture. And it looked like that reaction didn’t just apply to her, either.

She couldn’t have been watching for that long, probably only a couple seconds, but it felt like time slowed a little as Felix teased his tongue across Pax’s lips, and Laila was reminded of how shamefully intriguing it was to her when they kissed as a hot blush bloomed up her collar to her ears like licking flames. She was so enthralled that she didn’t even notice when Felix peeked out of the corner of his eyes to check the television screen, a growl of frustration coming from him while still kissing Pax.

He shoved Laila rough with his knee and pulled away from Pax’s lips for just long enough to mutter, “You’re suppose to finish the game, Laila…” then tried to continue the kiss he’d broken to keep Pax’s attention.

Laila broke from her trance with Felix’s words, but so did Pax. He blinked away the hot fog in his head and got a grip back onto the controller, but Laila was a second quicker coming back to her senses, and before Pax could get an attack off, she managed to finish him off with a last round of wild button smashing.

With two out of three rounds in her favor, the game announced Laila as the winner, and her and Felix managed to share a brief moment of elation before Pax was grabbing at Felix for a scuffle. “That’s not fair. You can’t kiss me like that while I’m playing, how do you expect me to react?”

Felix was cackling as he fought off Pax’s hands. “That was the point, idiot.”

“It was two versus one.” He continued to complain through a growl.

It was Laila’s turn to laugh, discarding her controller and trying to help in the play fighting. “Who’s being the sore loser now?” She pointed out with her fingers squishing his cheeks, causing him to slap her hands away.

Pax continued to tussle with Felix, and under normal circumstances Felix could sometimes overpower him, but the laughter was just too much and Felix ended up pinned down into Laila’s lap. The tone of Pax’s aggression made Laila worried briefly that they were about to literally get into a brawl on top of her, but as quickly as she thought to intervene, Pax descended with his lips instead of a fist, smothering Felix’s breathless laughter.

When Pax had kissed the other demon down to just a grin and turned Laila’s concern into infatuation, he pulled away and offered words that he tried to make pointed but didn’t quite reach as sharp as he intended with his own smirk playing at his lips. “If you going to kiss me like that and make a complete bitch out of me, the least you guys can do is follow through.”

[sbcafe]

Mini-Concepts

So I wanted to show you all some of the games that I started working on while I was also developing Space Shooty 2016.  As with all game creation, there's a gathering of ideas, and sometimes you have to just stop working on the main project for a little while and see what sparks the imagination!

Some of these games might be further developed, some of them have been stalled for quite some time.  But I've had a long run of games just percolating in my brain and each one has its challenges.  Sometimes it's a solution that's so simple that the function is already hard-coded into the program (as I discovered so frequently when making Space Shooty 2016).  Sometimes, though, it just requires a little digging and Googling to find the solution - or at least something relatively similar that you can figure out the rest.

When I first got the Game Maker software, one of the first games I actually wanted to emulate was a game similar to Manic Miner.  I used to play a game on the Commodore 64 called The Dark Tower, and while it shares the same title as a Steven King novel, there is no relation.  In that game, your character is turned into an egg-like creature and is forced to collect gems in a number of stages.  I have never completed more than 10 of these stages as I was never good with the game but I liked the music.

I decided to try my hand at designing something in that vein.  I simply called the game "64Walker" and tried my hand at making a Manic Miner-type game.  I got as far as building a character, controlling him, and creating some unique monsters that simply walked back and forth.  I looked to @davidxn's creatures in Crystal Towers 2 at this time to see how they managed to have so much variety over the varying terrain and yet never walked off the edges.

I built a Crab Race game that I created over the course of a weekend.  Based on an actual Crab Race and created based on the memories of creating a similar program back in the days of the Commodore 64 (and yes, I'm dating myself!) It technically does not rely on any user input, it is a decision maker or friendship-breaker as I define it.  I want to work on this one and offer a one-time purchase so that you can add more crabs and change the names, so that you can go from a 2-crab yes/no decision, all the way up to a 12-crab decision with custom names of who should be picking up the dinner bill.

Firefighter was another design that I just wanted to see how much I could build into a small codeset.  Fires randomly explode on the screen and you tap your finger to spray some water on them.  You can also spray water just onto the ground and puddles would form.  It was a simple collision engine that looked at every object and determined if water touched fire, and if so, both decreased in size.  But, like real fires, they could spread and multiply if they weren’t dealt with quickly...

Munchie Mix was a experimental project.  I wanted it to be a Curiosity piece, where it would not have any instructions but let people discover things along the way.  I built this one in a night when my wife was munching on ...well, Munchies so that's where the sprites (munchies and the bowl) and concept came from.  I don't want to say too much to spoil the discovery of the program :)

I also tried my hand at a little Procedural Generation.  However it's not "perfect" and the code is rather lengthy (and looking at it now, it doesn’t really work at ALL), but what I have is that each block looks to the other blocks immediately to the north/south/east/west and determines if a path is possible.  If I wanted to I could probably remake this one fairly cleanly, but I need a reason to build something procedurally-generated.

Morning Ritual was a game that came from me doing a "Ludum Dare" on a weekend when I was just getting settled into Game Maker.  I stayed at home and focused on making a game around the concept "Ritual", and I went with "making coffee" -- I never entirely finished it but I intended the game to get faster and faster the more cups you played, and it would get more and more jittery as you imbibed the caffeine.  Yes, that was supposed to be a coffee maker.  XD

Robot Rebel was another project I'd like to revisit in the future.  I wanted to create something for my nephews and niece who are enraptured by Space Shooty 2016.  I wanted to make a game where you had to control a robot, LOGO-style ("Forward, Forward, Turn Right, Forward, Pick Up Ball") and therefore had to set up a Programming scheme.  I realize that programming a Programming Language is HARD.  I also make it more complex by introducing a Robot that would willingly ignore steps and you had to work around his self-destructive tendencies!

Shooty Idle is a followup in the Space Shooty universe where the Shooty Ship goes and mines asteroids.  You can use the metals refined from the asteroids to build new components to your home base, which would include additional storage, additional fuel tanks, and even additional spaceships to help you mine more asteroids.  As you can probably tell from the name, it's an "Idle Clicker".  I've run into two roadblocks with this one: How do you test a game like this which is dependant on waiting, and furthermore, how do you handle numbers higher than the 64-bit integer that is restrictive of modern-day computers?  These are questions that I continue to work on during my downtime.

(I also just found a Game Maker extension built for solving the 64-bit question.)

And finally, Wander About came about from an idea that @ravenworks had.  It's an exploration game with no end goal but with a very intricate and detailed environment.  Your character could walk outside into the backyard and just by kneeling, might find a worm, or a trail of ants, or even a dung beetle.  Or they could climb a tree and find a bird's nest.  Or maybe they'd look at the fence and notice that they could peel the old paint.  Stuff like that.  It's hard to build a game that involves every possible possibility, however, but it would be a nice, relaxing exercise to just add more and more things to do based on user suggestions.

My current projects, Race to Sparklepop and Project Apple Basket, are still being made/reworked.  Race to Sparklepop's current challenge is to get multiple mobile phones to see each other (I'm learning the netcode function of Game Maker), and Apple Basket... well, I have a lot of little things going on with that one, and I don't want to speak about it too much until I have something more concrete.  But here's a cute little critter I recently made for the game!  Can you guess his purpose?

[thebethbits]

field trip to the art institute.

I attended the Art Institute of Chicago on a rainy Sunday morning, full of possibility. It had just opened, and the hallways were open wide, some galleries completely empty. It felt like a place for retreat, a place to come and set down my responsibilities, my worries, my to-do list, and just exist, for a little while. To think, compare, and talk to myself, learn about myself – why did I like this piece? What about it draws me to it, what keeps my attention? How would someone go about making it, what is the process like? Learning about myself alongside learning about art, being in a place with artifacts and histories from around the world feels like cumulation of humanity under one roof. It’s beautiful, a little sad, and leaves me with many more questions than my curiosity has answers for.

Some of the pieces that caught my attention the most were of various different sorts, styles, and mediums.

Relief, Charles Green Shaw, 1937. The Art Institute of Chicago.

Relief, by Charles Green Shaw, was on view in one of the American Art galleries, next to other paintings and objects in glass cases. Yet it stuck out, looking like something more fitting towards the abstract galleries, with its shapes and pops of color, as well as the fact that it is made out of wood. Unlike its neighbors, Shaw’s piece is more than just paint on canvas, quite literally jumping out of the frame’s two-dimensional space. It was unlike anything else in the room, in the gallery, and I loved it.

Upon further research, I found that this work was inspired by Shaw’s challenge for himself, to create a piece of art that did not require a specific subject to provoke an aesthetic response from its audience. It is both painting and sculpture, within a frame. It meshes traditionalism with new age abstraction and conceptual efforts, and it amazes me – art that challenges and makes you question your initial reactions to art in general. (Shaw)

I’m including two pictures – one in neutral lighting from the Art Institute’s website, and another that I took in the gallery, where the light shining down onto the piece caused multiple shadows that made it look like the pieces themselves were vibrating. The piece is absolutely stunning, conceptually and visually.

The Landing Place, Hubert Robert, 1787-1788. The Art Institute of Chicago.

 Hubert Robert’s The Landing Place is one piece in a collection of four colossal paintings that were a part of a commission to decorate a salon in the late eighteenth century. The size of it is the first thing you really see when you walk into the gallery – it’s nearly eight and a half feet tall by nearly seven and half feet wide. They take up almost a fourth of an entire gallery wall. Walking towards it, it feels more like a portal than a painting, the details and color so rich that you could step into it, and come out into the scene itself.

Something about the light of the gallery adds a golden-hued touch to the piece. The shadows seem more pronounced in their details, the direct light highlighted brighter. Like a more direct lighting approach that doesn’t quite copy itself to the online version, so I’m putting both pictures in here as well. 

This was also the piece that I sat with for fifteen minutes for the Responsive Time Exercise.

It is the sky that pulls me in first, after looking up from starting my stopwatch. The contrast of light to dark, the clouds beckoning dusk, or daybreak, how people have already gathered together in this space in the early hours of the fabricated day. The canvas is stunning, in both scale and content. If I close my eyes to my surroundings, the painting’s scene feels incredibly real, like I'm there, the warm breeze and insects chirping, the light falling in, shading the structure, full of depth and scale.

I can’t seem to grasp the scale accurately in words – the painting must be twice my height, maybe a little over, how incredibly vast and wonder-filled this piece looks, how the people gathered all around are ants compared to the towering architecture, and how yet it makes them feel as if they are so alive, within their detailing. The boats. The texture of the water, the differences in clothes and colors and ages. It brings so many questions to light: who are they? Why have they come? Who are they meeting, and where are they going to go? Why have they come here, now, or is it then? Where is this place? What smell does the wind bring? How hot is the air?

Or maybe, there isn’t a story here at all. Or there are too many stories to be seen. Who built this place? Where did the materials come from? Why choose these pictures – is it a shrine? A place of knowledge? A place of peace? Why did Robert choose this scene, these types of locations for his patron? Reviving Hellenistic ideals? Is he trying to show calmness through scale? Peace through space and time? Domesticities and how history makes romantics of us all? How even the smallest of activities can be beautiful?

I’m now five minutes into the response, and I’ve come to decide that there are two versions of this painting - one version up close, and one far away. The entire piece is too big to really feel the scale up close, where the gallery’s lights reflect the texture of the brush used and the sky, the clouds, the colors, all disappear beneath the shine of it. Yet from afar, it almost seems like the scale is more striking. The color vibrates. The structure and framing of the scene seem to focus the lighting, the whole of the scene.

Up close, the details are in their full glory. There is nothing you cannot spot; wrinkles, shadows, texture and incredibly minute, small details you may have missed from afar. The woman peeking out behind the column to the right. The groups beyond the right-side gate. How they are together, or separated. The woman below catching the large boat from her own. The effort that Robert put into this piece, as well as his other three in the collection, isn't for even a moment half-hearted, nor half-hazardly detailed, every face has eyes, a nose, a specific look to them and only them. The statue has a dedication written on it. There are faces and further statues on the gates beyond. There is so much attention to lives that don’t even exist, the piece is overflowing with love and care. There is so much beauty in this piece, it strikes and never stops. It feels never ending, beauty upon beauty upon beauty – nature, architecture, humanity, domesticity. Once you see it, you can’t stop.

Ten minutes in, and surprisingly, I'm not yet tired of standing here, nor of this piece. It feels as if every time I look up there is something new to see, and maybe I’m cheating a little bit, choosing such a large piece, but it is everything I admire put in a painting. Parts history, humanity, domesticity, all under a rosy sky. The romanticism of everyday life, how it in itself is art. It leaves me wondering what the other people passing by are seeing. What are they drawn to first? What am I supposed to take away? What am I supposed to see, where am I supposed to look? Is it not subjectively, not entirely up to me? Aspects like shading and lighting can direct my eye, but the pieces that portray love and humanity – how am I to look away?

The detail is too much, now, almost, you feel too powerful, seeing everything. To be able to control this perspective of daily life. It feels unnatural, but real in the same tone. I want to hang it from my wall, peace and power and domesticity. I adore this piece because it feels like a memory, I've decided. Something rose-filmed but true, depending on how you see, where you look. Beauty, everywhere. So blatant, like it has nothing to hide, in everything, afar, close, in every step in-between.

I hadn’t planned out what pieces I was going to pick for the exercises beforehand, deciding on wanting to find them within the museum and being inspired, pulled towards them. I found one for the response exercise in the colossal pieces done by Robert, and found my secondary pick, for the criticism analysis, tucked into the Contemporary galleries on the second floor.

Velocitas – Firmitudo from the Dürer’s Loops series, Sigmar Polke, 1986. The Art Institute of Chicago.

Velocitas – Firmitudo is a graphite, silver oxide and damar resin made piece by Sigmar Polke in 1986. The plaque on the wall had no further background information. It was a mystery within the gallery, and one I wanted to piece apart and see if I could solve by analysis, so I chose it for the analysis exercise. Yet even before that, it stuck out to me, feeling almost like an mounted optical illusion – part topographical map, part three-dimensional treasure map, part story told through script, part picture of the sea taken from space – it felt like everything worldly poured down into one piece, in shades of grey. It looked like sand struck still on the canvas, inked and blown away to create dunes. How did one piece manage to convey so many different perspectives, so many images that I could list and list for what felt like forever? What was Polke thinking when creating this piece, this series? Why does it look like it will change, as soon as I look away?

It’s a fairly large piece – nearly eight feet wide by eight and a half feet tall – and is incredibly striking, for using only black and white for its range of color. It has many different textures on the underlying later, that look like they are overlaying themselves. There are thin ones, thicker edges, like mountain ranges of contrast. It is more sparse in activity around the edges, and then gets more intense the further to the center of the piece you look. Over the center of the piece is a black detailing. It looks to be two lines that intersect towards the center of themselves, and yet diverge greatly. The left is circular for most of it on the right, but on the left diverges into a looping, almost cursive-like detailing that twists and curves along and around itself. On the left it curves off to the opposite right side of the piece, a great curve leading to smaller details, looping in and around itself there as well.

The design elements this piece portrays are space, color, texture, form, and line. The line is the first thing that draws your attention into the piece. The dynamic dark blacks contrast the lighter greys in color, playing against the different textures. Some look to be almost splattered or spray-painted, others traced upon itself over and over until bleeding-edged and dark, others dripped down to look elongated and heavy in form. The space of the entire piece is enthralling, it is heavy in some places and blank entirely in others, a conundrum in itself. The design principles present in the piece are emphasis, balance, variety, and movement. The emphasis of the contrasting colors and textures. The balance in them as well, the whole piece looks equal on both sides, not one heavier than the other. The variety in textures, in shades, in the touch of elegance in the line symbol that adds movement to the piece. Polke has organized his work in almost diagonal quadrants, from range to range, the blurred darkness to the heavy edges to the lighter outlying edges of the entire piece. Your eye follows the line, at first, from left to right to back again, before it really sees beneath, and then gets stuck in the middle range of shading before following the rest of the piece up and counter-clockwise, before starting the whole process again and again.

This piece is stunning in its abstraction. It looks like it could be a list of things, and yet none of them at the same time. It’s chaotic, and yet looks like it has a central concept or meaning, due to the emphasis and contrast of its elements. It looks like it’s meant for you to get lost in. To turn over and over, to follow that line again and again like it will lead to some final message of the piece. I think that that is what Polke wants, this repetition, this losing of oneself in the piece. Every bit of design choice that I could figure leads to this – the variety and yet balance, the constant linearity of perpetual guessing– there is curiosity at the center of this piece, I believe. It’s what makes your eyes go for one last time around the piece, tracing the edges of darkest blacks one last time. Polke wants you to feel the textures, the question, the never-ending curiosity of it, with just your eyes.

Head of A Woman, Pablo Picasso, 1909. The Art Institute of Chicago.

The Institute’s collection loses me, sometimes, within the modern contemporary galleries. I understand that there is incredible technique and thought that goes into the creation of these pieces, and it’s not a technical issue that separates them from my eye. Sometimes, it feels as if there are just too many concepts at play and it overwhelms me, seeing them all crisscrossed across one another. Pieces, for example, like Picasso’s Head of a Woman, are technique-based of interest, but the visual aspect I find lacking. I don’t know if it is the color choices or the style, but overall, it just doesn’t end up appealing to me. I really do love many types of abstract and contemporary pieces, and yet some don’t connect with me. Though, they are easier to walk past in knowing that others love them as I love other pieces.

Water Drop, Mineo Mizuno, 2011. The Art Institute of Chicago.

The piece that affected me the most emotionally I actually stumbled upon, tucked away in the corner of one of the Asian Art galleries: Mineo Mizuno’s 2011 work Water Drop. Personally, I really don’t believe that the online photograph does this piece justice. Seeing it in person, it feels like you’ve just caught it mid-bounce, pressed pause right where it has flattened itself at its lowest point, right before springing back up again. There is weight to this motion, to the curve of it. It’s surface tension that never breaks, forever holding, existing, keeping. It gleams with a lost possibility.

This feeling was emphasized upon reading the wall description – it’s a personal piece. Mizuno dug his hands into the center of the piece, his fingers curving marks into the sides of hollow crater at the piece’s center. The Japanese character Mizuno has written all over the piece represents “zero”, “null”, “void”, or “nothingness”, as well as the title of Japanese World War II fighter planes. Mizuno’s father had died in the war before he was born, addressing that loss in this piece. The emotion of it is nearly tangible, palpable, like you are waiting for the return of motion, the bounce, the breath of life – but it never comes.

Art Cited:

Mizuno, Mineo. Water Drop. 2011. The Art Institute of Chicago. URL.  Picasso, Pablo. Head of A Woman. 1909. The Art Institute of Chicago. URL. Polke, Sigmar. Velocitas – Firmitudo from the Dürer’s Loops series, 1986. The Art Institute of Chicago. URL. Robert, Hubert. The Landing Place. 1787-1788. The Art Institute of Chicago. URL. Shaw, Charles Green. Relief, 1937. The Art Institute of Chicago. URL.

[ennuiae]

It’s that time of the month again!  Today I’ll be sharing how I’m doing with my New Years Resolutions.  I honestly feel a bit reluctant to share my resolution check up for February because I feel like not much has happened but the whole point of this blog set is to keep myself accountable and continue to reach for my goals regardless of setbacks so here we go!

My 2017 New Years Resolutions

Lose 15 Pounds

Do A Running Event

Pass JLPT N3 & Start Studying for N2 –> Change to 30 minutes of daily study for the month of March

Blog at least 3 times a month  –> Change to blog at least 7 times a month

Vlog at Least Once a Month

Make a Few Aronzi Aronzo Plushies from Book  –> Change to make at least 2 new plushies a month with at least one new pattern

Use All Old Beauty Supplies Before Buying New Ones

Re-Pick Up Journalling Daily

Practice Yoga –> Change to 30 Days of Yoga with Adriene

So compared to how much I hustled in January, literally nothing has changed in regards to checking things off my list except one of my monthly goals and actually, I went backwards with with on my goals.  Let me go a bit deeper into how I did with each goal for the month of February.

Weight Loss

I feel like I’m just at a standstill with this goal which is extremely disappointing.  One day I get all pumped to track my food with MyFitnessPal but then that same day I get ravenously hungry and eat everything in sight.  I have a feeling it has to do with the mentality that I’m going on a “diet” or restricting my intake which makes me want to eat more and more.  I know I should re-read “Intuitive Eating” to work with this food issue I have because I KNOW it’ll help but it was just so boring the first time I read it and I couldn’t finish it.  Maybe an audio book would help?

If you’ve been keeping up with my blog, you’ll know I’m in the midst of a 4 Week Shopping Fast and I had hoped that cutting out buying any sort of snack or candy will help me with my eating but so far the restricting of buying snacks has done the opposite!   I’ve literally eaten almost every snack I have stockpiled in my house in aims to “get rid of them so I wont eat them later” but obviously this isn’t doing much for my weight loss and I’m probably just gaining weight!.  Another issue I’m facing is that because I can only eat snacks and treats I’ve made myself…I’m baking and making my snacks all the time! Which sure is a bit healthier but I have already made two batches of brownies and a thousand batches of croutons to snack on and it’s only Day 5 of the shopping fast…! I feel like in terms of my eating habits I’ve barely changed much in February. Or possibly gotten worse?  I know it because I feel incredibly guilty about it and I hate this guilt that I feel collecting at the pit of my stomach.  I know what I need to do to make better changes but I guess I’m afraid of the change and afraid of taking the plunge.  Afraid to move out of this comfortable routine I have with eating.  I may even be afraid of how I’ll look once I actually do lose the weight.  That’s hard to own up to but I think I need to take hold of the fear and learn to be friends with it in order to really tackle this eating issue.   I think the only way to work on my weight loss goal is to make mini goals for myself for the month of March so here are a few I have in mind..

-Try and track but maybe not on MyFitnessPal. Just log in a journal so you can see what food reacts badly with your body so you can make better changes in terms of feeling better (and not bloated / gross).

-Eat more fruit instead of baked goods…get creative with said fruit

-Continue to meal plan and stop being bored with eating the same thing because it only makes me more frustrated. I hate that I get so bored with food..I’m not sure how else to fix this though.

-Make healthy decisions when eating out and stop when you’re full.

Exercise: Running Event & Yoga

Actually with this goal, I’ve made some headway.  Bae, bestie Rachael and I signed up for the Nihondaira Sakura 10k on April 2nd!  I’m super excited but also nervous.  I haven’t been running as consistently as I was last month since I had a bad case of shin splints at the end of January and beginning of February buuut I am trying my best and the last few runs I’ve gone on I felt great so I’m hoping that I’ll be trained up enough to at least finish the 10k (even if it’s not within the time limit haha).  As for other exercise like yoga, I have been going nowhere.  I think it’s because I just am not motivated and extremely lazy right now. ITS SO COLD!  The goal: “Practice Yoga” is also super vague so I think I need to narrow it down a bit and trim off the fat.  So, I’m planning on just trying to do 30 days of yoga straight with the famous Adriene (check out her channel linked above).  I’ve done this challenge before but only made it to 12 days.  I’m hoping to do the full 30 and see where and how I feel from there.  Narrowing this goal down makes me feel like it’ll be easier to accomplish if I’m given a time limit.

(Update: I just realized I set the  goal to do 30 days of yoga with Adriene last month but didn’t end up doing it….so that kinda sucks but it motivates me more to actually do it in March..whoops)

Study

I’ve been keeping it pretty consistent with my  weekly study sessions with my fellow ALTS so I hope to continue to make every session for the month.  I also hope to try and study a bit more at work instead of just reading books, blogging, and doodling around.  I feel like I have so much time to study right now since I don’t plan on taking N2 for another year or so but I know that every minute and hour adds up so I should focus on trying to study a little every day.  So for March I want to log 3o minutes of daily study either on flashcard apps, study books, or maybe just a full conversation in Japanese with my friends.

Creative Endeavors

This is one goal that I’m actually proud to say I’ve done really well on in the month of February.  I’ve gotten so much better from where I was before!  I’ve made three handmade plushies in the month of February and also started on a new pattern.  I’m thinking of making my own pattern and trying out some original designs (possibly making a Pokemon plushie? Cough cough maybe even a Snorlax?) but I also hope to keep working from the book I’ve been using.  Since I’ve been doing so well with this goal, I wanted to up the ante and so I’ve changed my goal from “Make a few Aronzi Aronzo plushies from book” to “Make at least 2 plushies a month with one new pattern (or more)”.   Here are the two plushies I’m most proud of from this past month:

The bear’s mouth piece is a bit crooked but other than that the two look great! I actually made the bunny last night so technically it wasn’t in February but whatevs.

Blogging and Vlogging

Another goal I’ve done quite well on this past month.  I think I made this goal a bit too easy so I’ve changed it to blog at least 7 times a month to make it a bit more challenging.  I think what’s helped me with keeping this goal in track is the fact that I have a journal and calendar just for blogging to write down any ideas I have for future posts and when I want to post them.  In the month of February I’ve posted 9 blog posts which is pretty darn good!  As for vlogging, I didn’t get around to making anything and I feel like part of it is because I don’t really have great lighting at home when I am actually free (after work) and the only day I could possibly vlog with good lighting is on a Sunday and I just haven’t had any good ideas or I’ve just been busy doing something else.

Anything ya’ll want to see in vlog form about Japan or just life in general?  Please leave a comment below. I’m really desperate for ideas.

Journalling & Finishing Beauty Supplies

So I didn’t journal at all in the month of February.  I know the reason and it’s going to sound super stupid but I hate how my journal looks.  I’m really particular about how things look and my journal is uuugly!  I think the only way I’ll be able to journal is to buy a new one or leave my journal at school so I can write when I know I have time. Plus it’ll be within hands reach so I am much more likely to reach for it when I have some free time on my hands.  Since I’m in my shopping fast, there’s no reason to buy a new journal so I think I’ll bring it to school log daily and hope I can just finish it up so I can buy a new one in the next month or so.  As for beauty supplies, I’ve finished up quite a few things (Clinique Moisture Surge, Ros Argan Body Conditioner, Clinique Spot Corrector, hand cream, toothe paste, various sheet masks, Glossier’s Bounce..)  and it feels nice to finally be using up everything before buying new ones.  I ran out of my eyebrow pencil today though, so I may have to cheat on the shopping fast and buy myself a new one because I can’t go a day without my awesome brows.

So I feel like this month’s check up was more about me owning up to the fact that I got REALLY lazy.  I’m honestly proud of myself that I’m actually writing about my failures though.  It’s a step in the right direction.  I’m now motivated more than ever to accomplish the goals I’ve set out for myself in March!   Thanks for reading! <3

Also if you haven’t already check out my new post:  2017 Wish List

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