DIVORCE BEGIN *STARTS CRYING*

Ai yah, I really have to respond to this post again, huh?

Well, for starters, I apologize for a mistake I made in my original post. In the OP, I insinuated that the Princess Zeldas we see in the series could have possibly had a role in the atrocities committed by the royal family. This is incorrect, and it was poor wording on my part. I should have clarified my intentions when writing that particular passage; however, I felt it was unimportant, given that the point wasn’t solely about Princess Zelda, but how the addition of the Goddess Hylia and the Demon King Demise not only invalidates Ganondorf’s character up to that point, but adds much greater weight to the terrible actions committed by the royal family, especially towards the Sheikah.

Given that tumblr user lorelylantana is the third person to make a reply by discussing the reincarnation cycle, rather than the actual point of my post, perhaps I should have proofread and double checked my post before sending it out into the world to cause problems on purpose.

With that said, after I read lorelylantana’s response, I felt it necessary to make a proper reply of my own. It’s going to be a rather lengthy reply, as I have many things to say and many images to post.

However, I’m going to do all that I can to avoid discussing fanon or fan theories. I don’t mind them, but adding fanon wasn’t the point of my original post, and it shouldn’t have been the focus of the responses I received. I want to stay as close to the canon Nintendo laid out as possible. Thusly, my sources will strictly be drawn from the games, game manuals, Creating a Champion, Hyrule Historia, and Hyrule Encyclopedia. Despite the latter two being dubiously canon, they were approved by Nintendo, so they’re worth mentioning.

So, without further delay, let us begin.

-       “The original post seems to be based on the idea that Zelda and the royal family of Hyrule are synonymous, which is questionable for reasons I’ll get into later.”

For all intents and purposes, yes. Zelda and the royal family are synonymous, as she is the face of the royal family in almost every Zelda game featuring her. Even if she isn’t the ruler of Hyrule in that particular moment, she is our figurehead for the monarchy, by all means.

-       “The games don’t hand wave the actions of Hyrule’s royal family, they just don’t go out of their way to hold a young girl personally responsible for the actions of kings […]”

While the actions of the royal family are briefly acknowledged, as is the case with the Shadow Temple and the Arbiter’s Grounds, the monarchy has never had to answer for their actions. Even in the case of the Sheikah’s massive exile 10,000 years ago, the royal family never answers for this, nor are they ever portrayed being in the wrong. In fact, the event in question is only mentioned by a single member of the Sheikah in Breath of the Wild, Cado.

Image credit goes to YouTube user Macintyre.

The royal family’s actions are never directly described as “these were horrible things that happened.” Instead, it’s simply, “yeah, it happened.” There is no acknowledgement that the Yiga was created by the royal family’s own hands, nor is there any emphasis placed on the impact any of these acts have.

For example, the exile of the Sheikah wasn’t even the first instance of the royal family of Hyrule mass-exiling a group of people and displacing them from their original homes.

After the events of Ocarina of Time, Ganondorf is captured and executed for his crimes leading up to the events of the game and presumably the events of the Adult Timeline, given Young Link’s testimony. (I’ll get into why the King of Hyrule believes Link over Zelda later.) After Ganondorf was executed, the Gerudo were forced out of Gerudo Valley and banished from the Haunted Wasteland. Even during the events of Twilight Princess, the Gerudo Desert is completely abandoned. Once again, there is no discussion concerning the royal family’s actions, with the narrative instead being that the Gerudo, some of whom were actively against Ganondorf’s actions and many of whom were hypnotized during the events of OoT, are entirely at fault and have to atone for their sin of… having Ganondorf for a leader, I suppose.

Source: Creating a Champion, p. 405

Source: Hyrule Encyclopedia, p. 46

The royal family gets to punish an entire people for the actions of one man. Rather than the act being portrayed as negative or even discussed, it’s hardly even mentioned.

While I’m aware Encyclopedia’s canonicity is dubious at best, its material was still approved for publication by Nintendo. Thusly, I feel it worthy to discuss.

To summate, the royal family did bad things, and very select few acknowledge it.

Next point.

-       “I think that the Zelda/Hylia = good Ganon = bad situation serves a narrative purpose that justifies the black and white nature of the games because it highlights the shades of gray in between installments…”

The Legend of Zelda is almost thirty-five years old. This series should have long evolved beyond the black-and-white-morality narrative, especially when the side we’re supposed to sympathize with literally used the Sheikah to commit war crimes. You don’t have to have stark white and pitch black in order to see shades of gray.

-       “… And trying to assign Zelda a dark side is kind of missing the point, especially when no one seems to question Link’s morality even though he’s constantly stealing people’s stuff.”

Examples of Consequences to Link Stealing People’s Stuff

1.     In Twilight Princess, stealing from Trill will result in the bird branding you a thief and pecking you every time you come near him, which will only cease when you finally pay up.

2.     In Link’s Awakening, stealing from the old man’s shop will result in instant death the next time you enter his shop. If you steal, your name is changed to THIEF for the rest of the game.

Furthermore, Link is controlled by the player; thusly, his actions have no consequence to the story or Link’s character. Zelda, on the other hand, is an active participant in the story, whose actions and whose family’s actions weigh heavily on the games. That’s not to say Zelda is ever evil. However, as much as she is a victim of her own family’s history, she still has just as much power to change it.

-       “If the games wanted to gloss over the sins committed by the royal family[,] they wouldn’t have designed entire dungeons around them.”

I reiterate: the sins of the royal family were mentioned once, and then immediately dropped shortly thereafter. It’s not there for you to dwell upon, merely window dressing as if to say, “Yeah, that happened.”

-       “I believe The Legend of Zelda series is a critique of the Divine Right of Kings”

Until the events of Skyward Sword, the Hylian Royal Family wasn’t a divine lineage. A thirty-five-year-old series can’t be a critique of a concept that it barely even acknowledges. The only emphasis placed on the “goddess blood” part of the royal family is in Breath of the Wild, in relation to Zelda having to unlock her sealing powers. Despite the massive repercussions the revelation of the royal family’s lineage tying back to divinity should have, it’s barely even mentioned,let alone discussed.

As a side note, the divine right of kings specifically denotes that the monarch is chosen by God to rule. In contrast, the Hylian Royal Family continues to rule by, presumably, claiming lineage to the Goddess Hylia, which is closer to traditional practice in feudal Japan.

-       “If the Divine Right of Queens is indeed present, does that justify a hereditary monarchy? As far as the Legend of Zelda is concerned[,] the answer is no.”

The Legend of Zelda series never questions the validity of the royal family’s rule.

-       “Isn’t it funny that the Kingdom of Hyrule seems to be perpetually stuck in the dark ages?”

Ocarina of Time has neon lights, jukeboxes, and canned goods. The lakeside doctor’s chemistry is advanced enough that he is able to synthesize eyedrops. Given the newspaper articles strewn about shops, Hyrule also has pictoboxes in OoT.

By Wind Waker, pictoboxes have evolved to print in color. In Phantom Hourglass, Linebeck’s ship is steam-powered.

In Twilight Princess, pictoboxes now print higher quality images. In addition, with the introduction of Malo Mart’s Castle Town branch, TP is confirmed to have fully functional electrical lighting in some places. Cannons are so safe, you can get launched out of one for fun. Pyrotechnics have grown advanced enough that explosives can function underwater, and Death Mountain has become a functioning, refined mining facility stable enough for Hylians to safely walk in. Also, Auru has a bazooka.

SPIRIT TRACKS HAS TRAINS. THEIR AESTHETIC DIRECTLY REFLECTS THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION.

Hyrule is hardly stuck in the dark ages. It’s high fantasy.

Next point.

“For starters, I want to establish that I don’t agree with the assumption that what the Hyrulean Royal Family does = Zelda/Hylia would do. I don’t think it’s a mistake that almost every text in the OP explicitly mentions that it was a King that committed those acts, not Zelda herself.”

Once again, that was an error on my part. It wasn’t my intention to imply Zelda had any part in such actions. However, Zelda learns how to rule from her father, or her mother, or whomever holds the throne in that particular moment. These acts are never questioned in canon beyond “Yeah, that happened,” and the most conflict we have is the issues between Zelda and her father in Breath of the Wild boiling down to how to confront the Calamity—science vs. sealing magic— rather than anything else.

It’s a personal issue, and Rhoam treats Zelda terribly, essentially alienating himself from his own daughter and treating her as little more than a pawn. I agree that it’s absolutely terrible. However, that’s merely a personal issue. She’s complicit in how Rhoam addresses the Sheikah, possibly even fully aware of the anti-aging rune Purah was developing to force retired soldiers into battle against the Calamity, and from what we’ve seen in Age of Calamity, she doesn’t have an understanding of the Yiga Clan other than the snide remark Urbosa gives:

Image credit goes to YouTube user BeardBear.

It’s up to Zelda to develop a deeper understanding of her country’s history; not to take personal responsibility, but to understand where those who are suffering are coming from.

That said, acting with the Hylians’ best interests at heart is exactly something Hylia would do.

In the prologue to Skyward Sword, the Demon King and his army attack the Hylians, slaying many and throwing the world into despair. Thus, the Goddess Hylia saves the Hylians by sending a chunk of land up into the heavens, sparing them from the war to follow while she gathers every other race to fight alongside her.

So… How come Hylia only saved the Hylians?

I understand many were wiped out by demons, but if Hylia was fully prepared to spare people from violence, why not also send small numbers of every other race? Why only save the Hylians, her chosen people, while essentially dragging everyone else into battle with her? Furthermore, when Hylia’s immortal body suffered grave injuries, she opted to take advantage of this by choosing to be reborn as a person. Not only is it explicitly stated that Hylia reincarnated in order to utilize the Triforce’s power, as she could not do so as divinity, but she knowingly chose to be reborn as someone who would become close with her chosen hero, in order to influence him to follow her plan without hesitation.

Hylia used Link.

That much is certain, and it’s laid out clearly by Zelda shortly before she takes Hyrule’s longest beauty nap.

It must be noted that while Zelda states she is Hylia reborn, and has regained Hylia’s memories by this point, she still sees herself as a separate entity from Hylia. While she herself is immensely guilty and apologizing over and over for what she’d done in her previous life, we have no way of knowing if Hylia herself would react the same way.

In fact, according to a fan-translation by ZeldaUniverse user Yamikawa, Demise goes as far as to describe Hylia as “brave and so-prideful,” hinting that even a being who loved her chosen people so much to save them still saw them as beneath her, if being reborn as human is seen as such a drastic extreme contradictory to her supposed character. Now, this is merely reflection on the inner workings of the Demon King, so his word can’t be taken as gospel. But, like all things, I find it interesting.

From what I can gather, however, Hylia certainly cared more about the Hylians than any other being in the land of Hylia, not dissimilarly to the royal family.

-       “I also don’t think that every princess Zelda is a Princess of Destiny or Representative of Hylia, I think that she reincarnates just about as often as Link and Ganon(dorf) do, because the logistics don’t really work out otherwise. This leaves hundreds, if not thousands of years where Zelda/Hylia isn’t on the throne.”

This is merely speculation. Moving on.

-       “There’s a notable trend of the King of Hyrule getting in the way of Zelda’s attempts to save the kingdom. First[,] he doesn’t take Zelda seriously [in] Ocarina of Time, forcing her to rely on Link […] I don’t know why the King of Hyrule was willing to listen to a random boy claiming to have been from the future over his own daughter but whatever I guess.”

The King of Hyrule believed Young Link because he came back to the Child Timeline with the Triforce of Courage. Up to that point, the whole Triforce was supposed to be safely locked away in the Sacred Realm, which was supposed to be completely inaccessible without the spiritual stones and the ocarina of time, neither of which Link had. I’d listen to the kid’s story too if he came back with a God Dorito on the back of his hand.

-       “And then again in Breath of the Wild when Rhoam bans Zelda from ancient tech research despite the fact that he has absolutely no reason to believe his pray the incompetence away method is the right one.”

The tapestry showcasing the events from 10,000 years ago depicts a princess possessing the blood of the goddess using her sealing magic in order to seal away Calamity Ganon. Link can swing the Master Sword at Ganon or whack him with ancient arrows or light arrows all he wants. Without the ability to seal away the darkness, as shown at the end of Ocarina of Time, all of this preparation and planning would have been for naught. That is why Rhoam is so harsh on Zelda. That’s why so much emphasis is placed on unlocking her power. Without it, defeating Ganon would be impossible.

On that note, Rhoam also had no idea what he was doing. Zelda’s mother was the one with the sealing magic, not him. She was supposed to be the one to train Zelda, but she passed away before she got the chance to even start. He puts so much emphasis on prayer rather than ancient technology because he genuinely doesn’t know what else to do.

I can’t believe this post forced me to defend Rhoam of all people I’m gonna have a stroke—

-       “Also, this is purely speculation, but [I’m] pretty sure there’s an implication that King Daphnes Nohansen caused the flooding of Hyrule in Wind Waker […] This sounds like a wish on the Triforce that backfired[,] but I digress.”

Daphnes couldn’t have made a wish on the Triforce before Wind Waker because, when the Hero of Time left the Adult Timeline, that timeline’s Triforce of Courage shattered into eight pieces and scattered throughout the land—er, ocean. Even if he had Wisdom on him, Ganondorf still possessed the Triforce of Power when he was sealed away, and he wasn’t going to let go of it when he broke free.

Besides, if Daphnes did wish on the whole Triforce, it would have disappeared. There would have been no Wind Waker.

-       “When she saves Hyrule in spite of interference…”

I’m not even going to finish the quote because the entire paragraph is too much for me to unpack. I’m assuming they’re saying that Zelda is never the one truly in power, and the royal family takes advantage of one Zelda’s good deeds to get brownie points.

However, concerning the first line…

In Ocarina of Time, Zelda going behind her dad’s back to try to “save Hyrule” leads Ganondorf straight to the Sacred Realm. Even though a time paradox leads to everything turning out okay in the end, the bleak future was created because Zelda wanted to play hero and pulled Link along with her. Even if Ganondorf managed to wrench the spiritual stones away from the Zora and Gorons, he wouldn’t have been able to access the Sacred Realm if Zelda didn’t send Link there to pull out the Master Sword, which Ganondorf would have never been able to touch. By all means, Ocarina of Timehappened because a little girl was in over her head and tried to take matters into her own hands when her dad didn’t believe her.

Aside from Breath of the Wild, there’s no other “interference” from the royal family that Zelda has to face.

-       “Zelda is the representation of a deity, so it makes sense that people would worship her to some extent, and having a goddess on the throne [probably] blesses the land. So[,] while the kings of Hyrule have a tendency to screw things over, [it makes sense] for Hyrule to be a monarchy because Zelda’s power as the goddess incarnate is needed to defend against Ganon and other threats, [r]ight?”

I acknowledge the author is attempting to portray the royal family’s possible justification for their rule. However, until I reached the succeeding passage, I believed it was the author making this justification, given how the entire paragraph preceding this was pure speculation. Once again, this passage is speculative, as nobody in Hyrule has ever explicitly given any notable opinion concerning the royal family. Why try to justify your rule when nobody’s criticizing it?

Since the author brings up Zelda being a representation of Hylia, however, it does bring to mind a particular problem I have with the royal family suddenly being goddess-blood.

It completely recontextualizes the relationship between the royal family and the Sheikah.

According to Creating a Champion, the Sheikah have a deep devotion to the Goddess Hylia. Since the royal family is descended from the goddess reborn, the Sheikah thusly are deeply devoted to the goddess Hylia.

Source: Creating a Champion, p. 372

Now, the royal government using a minority group of people to do your dirty work is already scummy enough when you’re just a normal royal. In this case, however, the Sheikah are so devoted to their goddess that they will do anything for you. Whether it’s because certain monarchs are a “representation of a deity” remains to be seen, but the point is that they’ll do anything for you.

And the royal family takes complete advantage of a group of people unconditionally loyal to them, bidding them to do unspeakable things in the name of their religion, which for all intents and purposes is the royal family.

That’s absolutely deplorable, and it’s a wonder nobody’s brought attention to it yet, whether in-canon or in-fandom. What’s more, given how Impa is always Zelda’s attendant, this relationship is never questioned or criticized, whether it be by the Sheikah or Zelda herself.

And that’s terrifying.

-       “The reason Ganon is always an antagonist is because he’s the vessel for the curse of Demise.”

Demise was introduced in Skyward Sword. Demise is the root of all evil, the creator of monsters and conjuror of demons. He is pure evil in every sense from the word, the Zelda series’ version of Satan. Naturally, he’s as simple as you can get in terms of character. Barebones characterization, providing only just enough to tell the player exactly what they need to know:

He’s evil, he’s powerful, and he wants the Triforce. You have to stop him.

Ganondorf existed before Demise. Ganon had over twenty years of development before Demise brought his progress to a permanent flatline.

Who was Ganon before Demise?

Allow me to remind you.

In The Legend of Zelda, first released on February 21st, 1986, Ganon is simply described as “the Prince of Darkness,” and steals the Triforce of Power when he invades Hyrule. After the Triforce of Wisdom is shattered, he kidnaps Zelda.

He’s evil, he’s powerful, and he wants the Triforce. You have to stop him.

Although Ganon doesn’t physically appear in Zelda II: The Adventure of Link, released in 1987, his presence is still felt as his minions pursue Link in order to revive the Prince of Darkness. In fact, the game over screen is the successful revival of Ganon.

Now, given that these are the first two games in the series, it’s perfectly alright for Ganon to be as barebones as he was. After all, many villains at the time were the same way, with the most notable of Ganon’s counterparts being Bowser from the Super Mario Bros. franchise.

However, with innovation of technology comes innovation of narrative, and it’s with the release of A Link to the Past in 1993 on the SNES that we begin to see Ganon develop as a character. In the prologue to ALttP, Ganon is revealed to have once been human; he is given the name Mandrag Ganon—or Ganondorf Dragmire, as we now know him—and he was once the leader of a band of thieves who sieged the Sacred Realm and took control of the Triforce after murdering his own followers.

Source: A Link to the Past SNES game manual

Ganon is still irrevocably evil, but in this case, we begin to learn more about him. We begin to see a character starting to form. One who isn’t just mindlessly evil, but who has the charm and wit to infiltrate Hyrule Castle and earn the King of Hyrule’s trust in the guise of Agahnim. Ganon was also a very capable leader, having successfully led his band of thieves straight to the Triforce. Even after wishing upon the Triforce and corrupting the Sacred Realm, Ganon’s power attracted followers in the form of greedy, power-seeking people. He’s powerful not by brute force alone, but through his cunning use of intellect.

Ocarina of Time served to further develop Ganon in little ways. For example, this is the first game wherein, for the majority of the game, Ganon is seen and referred to by his human form: Ganondorf. Ganondorf is shown to be powerful enough and stealthy enough to infiltrate the homes of the Zora, the Gorons, and the Kokiri, and send dangerous hazards their way in an effort to seize the Spiritual Stones. At the same time, he is first seen at an audience with the King of Hyrule, as if there for diplomatic reasons.

Although Zelda sees Ganondorf as evil because of her prophetic dream, the King of Hyrule doesn’t believe her. Because of this, we can infer that Ganondorf has enough charm and charisma to, if not win over the King of Hyrule, not be seen as suspicious despite the horrible acts he’d committed, not just in the past, but at that very moment. He’s also shown to be highly cultured, shown at the end of Link’s ascent up Ganon’s Tower. Not only is Ganondorf playing his own theme, but he’s doing so on the pipe organ, which is notoriously one of, if not the most difficult musical instrument to master.

Once Ganondorf seizes the Triforce of Power, the kingdom of Hyrule is subjected to seven long years of his rule. During this time, normal people such as Ingo succumb to their greed and follow Ganondorf’s influence in pursuit of power and riches. Although Malon is naïve enough to believe Ingo was somehow under Ganondorf’s control, it’s clear to players that he was completely in control of his actions, and that Ganondorf’s rule brings out the worst in seemingly average people.

Image credit goes to YouTube user ZorZelda.

Even a Hylian knight can fall under this influence, with it highly inferred that the knight who once guarded a room of pots for Link to smash is now a twisted poe collector, the man even stating that he likes it better this way.

In Wind Waker, we finally see a more introspective side to Ganondorf. While he’s just as ruthless and fully ready to murder a child in the name of accomplishing his goal, he reveals the reason that started him on his path of darkness:

His people were suffering, and he wanted for his people what Hyrule had. He believed that taking Hyrule and taking the Triforce meant that his people could finally live freely, away from the harsh desert.

Now, I’ve seen this challenged time and time again. Was Ganondorf lying to distract or manipulate Link? Was he telling the truth? Is this what Ganondorf has convinced himself to believe, after so much time sealed away and in isolation? We will never know, and that’s part of what makes the game so interesting. Ganondorf’s portrayal is a large part of why so many people love Wind Waker, and it’s not hard to see why.

Perhaps the darkest the Zelda series has ever gone in terms of the Triforce’s power was in Twilight Princess. After freeing Lanayru, the Light Spirit warns Link of the dark power he seeks, the Fused Shadow. In order to do this, she explains the history of the Triforce, and the bloodshed brought by its allure to the darkness in the hearts of men. Before the construction of the Temple of Time, many battles were fought, and one of them was the “Interloper War” that inevitably resulted in the creation of, not only the Light Spirits, but the Twili and the Twilight Realm.

It’s important to note that Lanayru’s cautionary tale highlights that Link, the hero of the story, could succumb to the allure of the Triforce and dark magic just as easily as any other person. In this particular case, anyone could have fallen down the same path as Ganondorf. If anything, this tale is one of the most important bits of lore to take into consideration when discussing the series.

Anyone could have been in Ganondorf’s shoes. It could have happened to anyone.

Then, in one fell swoop, Skyward Sword ruined it.

In a single game, every bit of progress on Ganondorf is lost. Once again, we’re dragged down to the baseline characterization from the original game.

He’s evil, he’s powerful, and he wants the Triforce. You have to stop him.

Suddenly, everything the previous games had built up no longer matters. There’s no longer a need to question whether what Ganondorf did was solely out of greed, but also out of what he felt was necessity. There’s no need to wonder if Ganondorf was once a rational man, who succumbed to the irresistible pull of the Triforce like so many before him.

Ganondorf is, purely and simply, the reincarnation of Satan, so there’s no need to go any deeper than that.

And that’s why I hate this “vessel of Demise” thing. It completely undermines everything Ganondorf once was and reduces him to a single, cardboard cutout of a villain.

Moving on, before I get sad.

-       “This curse is specifically tied to Hylia’s bloodline and the Link’s soul, which is pretty specific…”

Demise’s curse is essentially dooming the earth with a never-ending rebirth of his hatred; his malice, if you would. The wording of his curse is specifically “people like you,” which could mean that it isn’t Link and Zelda’s exact souls that are tied to his hatred. Rather, people possessing the blood of the goddess and a heroic, courageous soul are doomed to deal with this curse.

However, my thoughts on this matter are pure speculation.

Also, Demise specifically targets his curse at people like Link and Zelda because they were the ones to kill him in the first place. That much is obvious.

-       “… [So] why do the clashes with Ganon always throw the fate of Hyrule into disarray? Because Zelda’s bloodline runs the country.”

Ganon would attack Hyrule even without Zelda’s family in charge. His pursuit of power and domination of the Triforce/Hyrule is therefore closely tied with the fate of Hyrule. Goddess blood on the throne has nothing to do with it.

-       “If Zelda came from a small town the curse would probably manifest in peril for that one region which isn’t great but it’s better than an apocalypse.”

Firstly, this is a run-on sentence. Secondly, I reiterate: Ganon would attack Hyrule as a whole, regardless if Zelda’s bloodline was on the throne. It wouldn’t matter if Zelda’s whole family suddenly moved to the countryside. When Ganon inevitably comes back, he’s still gonna go straight for the Triforce or to conquer all of Hyrule. Goddess blood isn’t even part of the equation for Ganon. And if goddess blood isn’t there to stop him, then that’s even better.

Alright, so I’m not even going to bother gratifying the last two paragraphs of the response with an answer, because it’s all rambling that has nothing to do with the original argument. Relinquishing the throne would do nothing to right any wrongs dealt to the many people who were hurt, and evil doesn’t care about a single princess with goddess blood or a boy with a pointy stick.

In conclusion, the addition of Hylia made it so that the royal family’s power dynamic with the Sheikah is even more critically imbalanced than it originally was, making the exile of the Sheikah 10,000 years ago even more heinous than it originally was. Yet, because Hylia is portrayed as wholly good and incapable of doing wrong, despite in-game evidence to the contrary, the royal family, and Zelda by extension, will never be criticized for any wrongdoing. In fact, doing so may well be heresy, if the responses to my original post are anything to go by.

By comparison, the addition of Demise diminishes Ganondorf’s character, rendering him down from the makings of a complex, human character—where anyone could have easily been in his place and had the same greed and ambition for power—into simply the reincarnation of the literal devil, where of course he’s evil, and you don’t have to do any digging beneath the surface. Ganondorf is the reincarnation of Demise, or his hate, or his vessel, so he’s pure evil and nothing more.

And that’s the greatest disservice Nintendo has ever dealt to The Legend of Zelda.

Anyway, here’s info about my MCs for @shepherds-of-haven​​. I think I dropped enough hints in my Lovelace Day fic to connect who's who.

Name: Erigeron Keernyth / Nickname: E / Callsign: Rimefrost

Gender and Pronouns: Male, he/him / Sexuality: Pansexual

Age: 26 / Heritage: Elf / High Stat: Nerves of Steel / Low Stat: Bright Mind

Weapon: Dagger / Specialization: Elementalist / Education: Circle trained

Tarot: The Emperor / Wreath Day: Ashar 17

Description: A tenacious, self-assured Mage who desires nothing more than vengeance against evil. Tall and muscular, he wears a sardonic face until there’s word of an Endarkened. Then, his green gaze fills with delighted bloodlust before his silver-crowned head disappears out the door.

Fragments from the past:

Climbing up to the treehouse in Vale, letting his legs dangle over the side and kick out at nothing in particular

Bedding down for the night in a dense part of the woods, huddled with his clanmates for warmth and safety

The aftermath: a vow made on the blood he angrily spit through his teeth

Sharpening his dagger in a leaky tent and counting down the days to the end of this job, while the bigoted noble he was escorting snored incessantly in a cushy wagon

The first time he killed an imp, how easy it was to render the limbs apart, and the frustration that it wasn’t enough to make him feel better, that he needed to be even stronger

Art: Picrew

***

Name: Zoegea Keernyth / Callsign: Diamond

Gender and Pronouns: Female, she/her / Sexuality: Straight

Age: 24 / Heritage: Elf / High Stat: Razor Wits / Low Stat: Nerves of Steel

Weapon: Gun / Specialization: Shifter / Education: Circle trained

Tarot: The Lovers reversed / Flower Day: Loa 22

Description: A withdrawn, evasive Mage who is fixated on a dangerous pursuit. Svelte and poised, she has a calculating hazel gaze. Curling ashen tresses are drawn into a high ponytail, nearly to her waist, and out of the way when she’s experimenting with substances beyond her control.

Fragments from the past:

A quiet glade, on a detour the caravan took one summer, but she’s never been able to find it since

Eavesdropping on Elvish conversations, picking up tidbits of gossip and information, mostly for her own amusement

The aftermath: the last time she allowed herself to be horrified, grasping for logic and finding none

Her familiar dorm room in the Circle, the drawers filled with scribbled notes in a cipher of her own devising, desiccated roses, and the wrought leftovers of one project after another

The cold gaze of that smith whose doorstep she haunted for a few weeks, warning her never to get too close as metal scraps were tossed her way

Art: Picrew

***

Name: Kalmia Metella / Callsign: Serenity

Gender and Pronouns: Female, she/her / Sexuality: Demisexual

Age: 21 / Heritage: Hunter / High Stat: Razor Wits / Low Stat: Silver Tongue

Weapon: Bow / Specialization: Healer / Education: Self-taught

Tarot: The Lovers / Flower Day: Ysk 10

Description: A gentle, sensitive Mage who struggles with a definitive place in the world. Waves of dark hair, except for a streak of pure white, cascade down her back and contrast with intense violet eyes. Despite a soft-spoken exterior, she demonstrates a surprising willpower under pressure.

Fragments from the past:

Her childhood bedroom, only adorned with some bundled flowers and herbs that her mother taught her how to dry

After the funeral, Father explained she’d be alive for so much longer than everyone else in Maj would, and his face blurred in a flood of anguished tears

The aftermath: uncontrollable shivering in despair, fearful stumbling in the darkness, wondering if she was going mad

His sticky voice and stickier touch, but at least, all that’s left are memories and those can’t hurt anyone else

The Sweetleaf Shop in Leore, the kind voices of the women living there, the earthy scents of freshly made tinctures, words of comfort and perseverance

Art: Picrew

***

Name: Linaria Enris / Nicknames: Lin, Lina (I recognize the irony and I’m so sorry, if it helps it’s with a short i) / Callsign: Insight

Gender and Pronouns: Female, she/her / Sexuality: Straight

Age: 21 / Heritage: Ket / High Stat: Bright Mind / Low Stat: Razor Wits

Weapon: Sword / Specialization: Enchanter / Education: Self-taught

Tarot: Justice / Flower Day: Leph 40

Description: A sincere, empathetic Mage who yearns for a greater purpose. Her plain brown hair is fluffed around her ears and over almond-shaped eyes the color of chocolate. An earnest worker, she usually has a thoughtful, polite expression, but her laughter can be heard easily too.

Fragments from the past:

Lighting candles by the windows and reading quietly, keeping vigil for Dad until his rough palm awkwardly patted her head

Trying to do chores the way Mom used to, hoping to prove she can take care of the house on her own, no need to worry

The aftermath: essentially catatonic, until dawn came and she realized how cold she was

A bookseller’s stall, of incense and a sour voice complaining about his arthritis and insisting she keep the books he’s stolen, until he abruptly fired her for reasons she still doesn’t know

Scribe jobs in later years, her hands cramped and smeared with ink, her smile fixed on even as she received only a fraction of what she was owed

Art: Picrew

***

Name: Gentian Arke / Callsign: Messenger

Gender and Pronouns: Male, he/him / Sexuality: Demisexual

Age: 27 / Heritage: Ket / High Stat: Silver Tongue / Low Stat: Razor Wits

Weapon: Sword / Specialization: Binder / Education: Self-taught

Tarot: The Hermit / Wreath Day: Kthili 24

Description: A reserved, considerate Mage who hides deep-seated guilt behind a soft smile. His long locks are mistaken for black unless in full sunlight, where it reveals its bluish sheen. The sea is reflected in his kind gaze, and his agile build has been wracked with battle scars over the years.

Fragments from the past:

Running along the shoreline, feet splashing in the retreating waves and a salty breeze in his face, without a care in the world

Joking around with his cousins, winning gonen games, and fishing for the best catch

The aftermath: broken and hollow and worthless

That one time he had to crossdress in a ploy to retrieve his captain’s long-lost trinket from a gambling tournament and his alias became known as a devastatingly infamous heartbreaker, much to his eternal embarrassment

Fighting corsairs on rain-slick decks or bandits on the mail routes, numbly pondering over just giving up someday, but never managing to do it

Art: Picrew

***

Name: Alcea Keernyth / Nicknames: Als, Alci / Callsign: Lacewing

Gender and Pronouns: Female, she/her / Sexuality: Bisexual

Age: 22 / Heritage: Elf / High Stat: Bright Mind / Low Stat: Nerves of Steel

Weapon: Dagger / Specialization: Conjurer / Education: Circle trained

Tarot: Wheel of Fortune / Flower Day: Camoa 35

Description: A bubbly, affectionate Mage who has an appetite for anything interesting. She often dashes to her current destination, wherever that may be, leaving the impression of flying golden chin-length curls. Her gray eyes sparkle with curiosity and enthusiasm, never entirely quenched.

Fragments from the past:

Coaxing vividly colored butterflies into her hands, pretending to wear them as if they were jewels

Peeking her head out to take in every sight they passed by, her parents humming traveling songs, lulling her to sleep

The aftermath: immediate denial, it’s all a terrible dream

The library in Capra, thumbing through so many books and cursing that she wasn’t an inch taller to reach some of the higher shelves, eventually stacking the fattest tomes she’d already gone through as makeshift stairs

A trio of ragtag burglars, barely into their teens, rummaging through some noble’s room, while she kept an eye out for anyone who’d throw them back into jail

Art: Picrew

***

Name: Valeriana Stiln / Nickname: Valia (only if you earn it) / Callsign: Exacter

Gender and Pronouns: Female, she/her / Sexuality: Bisexual

Age: 23 / Heritage: Norm / High Stat: Nerves of Steel / Low Stat: Silver Tongue

Weapon: Bow / Specialization: Battle-Mage / Education: Journeyman

Tarot: Death / Flower Day: Zellea 38

Description: A fearless, practical Mage who nurses a jaded outlook on life. Dark red hair is gathered into a hefty bun more often than not, and long-lashed onyx eyes critically survey everything. She walks with a brisk stride full of intent, her capable hands bearing calluses from labor and old fights.

Fragments from the past:

Mother combing her hair in their morning ritual, “I love this color so much, Valia, you should keep it long”

The poison-dripping fangs of a snake the Westwood kids found in a trough, then its scales spattered with blood as she lifted the nearest axe and chopped it to pieces

The aftermath: repeating no’s, louder and louder, building to a drawn-out scream, until her throat was raw

After so many years, finding some bottles of the cologne Father wore and spending a half year’s worth of her mercenary’s pay, always dabbing a few drops on her wrists and neck

White-blond hair and a tattooed insignia, any tendrils of affection withered by that crystal clear scene of betrayal

Art: Picrew

***

Name: Senna Tulward / Callsign: Guardian

Gender and Pronouns: Female, she/her / Sexuality: Pansexual

Age: 23 / Heritage: Norm / High Stat: Silver Tongue / Low Stat: Bright Mind

Weapon: Gun / Specialization: Diviner / Education: Journeyman

Tarot: Temperance / Flower Day: Coppersun 6

Description: A congenial, faithful Mage who searches for a new place to call home. She has wavy chestnut hair falling a little past her shoulders, and an amiable amber gaze. She typically sports a pleasant, carefree smile, and her statuesque frame is actually very sturdy and athletic.

Fragments from the past:

Singing hymns she knew by heart and clasping her mother’s soft hands in the neighborhood’s temple

Cinnamon and warm honey on her birthday breakfast toast, Father sneaking her an extra slice when no one else was looking

The aftermath: confusion and failed searches, calling out the names of people who would never answer

Magic lessons under a starry sky, her teacher’s careful voice over the melody of crickets, the smell of campfire smoke, her warm sleeping bag

A dry ruin, whirling gritty sands, the sniffling lost little girl and a bleating goat she’s taking cover with, villagers hurling accusations and bullets at her upon their emergence from the storm

Art: Picrew

***

Now that She Ra is over, what are your thoughts on it? What about that Catradora kiss?

Hi Anon! Thank you for the Ask!

ヽ(*⌒∇⌒*)ﾉ Where to start?

I have so many thoughts on the show, and I’ve had so many thoughts since season 1. I’ve not written much of anything about She-Ra because I keep coming back to this problem of ‘where to start,’ or how to structure my thoughts beyond a +1000 item list. I can’t even pick one or two thoughts to dive into, because they all end up connecting to everything else —> honestly, that’s the mark of a tight narrative, even the big pieces that can fully stand on their own are still leading through to another piece. I fail at every attempt to write something brief.

Section I: Short answer first.

I have a very short and subjective list of media where I not only love (for different reasons) nearly every character (main, secondary, background), but where I also feel that their individual places or moments or arcs concluded in a way that felt right from start to finish. It’s a short list of media where connections and conflict between characters never felt forced, out-of-place, out-of-context, or done for shock value. She-Ra and the Princesses of Power makes that very short and subjective list.

It’s not often that a story hits all the right notes with me, and it’s much more often that a story starts off strong like that, and then turns me off ½-⅔ of the way through. I’ve quit video games during the final boss fight because the story lost me in the lead-up and I wasn’t going to waste 10-20 minutes of my time for something that turned out to be ‘meh’. It ain’t got to be deep, or anything either.

I really loved the voice acting. Everyone is great. A post for another time.

I love the aesthetics, which I wasn’t sure of at first teasers, but won me over in less than 3 minutes of the first episode (season 1) because I love bright pastels, the character designs are fun (can I still gush over variety of body types? YES), so many opportunities to explore stylish takes on the characters, and those Moebius-inspired scenery/background designs are a special interest delight. Season 5 delivered a visual ‘end game’ for the aesthetics in many ways, Section III further down will get into that a bit.

Section II: “What about that Catradora kiss?”

I gotta preface this with, shipping is not my go-to for how I enjoy creative works. It’s not a hobby for me. Sure there’s a few I dig more than others, but I’m otherwise agnostic about ships, unless there is a really bad story-fit (and that’s usually a subjective thing), or involves tropes that are a deal-breaker for me (and those typically relate a lot to the story fit).

With that said, I’m really happy to see Catradora be pulled off so brilliantly, and I think the kiss is a bold and beautiful big deal in a way that might not be obvious when considered in a vacuum. I see it as passionate and heart-felt, but also, it’s achieving(?) a relatable outcome (for me at least) that’s hard to describe. It’s an outcome yielded by a story in which two women—a hero and a villain—are divided and fight bitterly and then reconcile through love, while fighting a purity cult whose founder-prophet-god-king forces subservience through a conversion designed to strip someone of their identity (e.g. names they’ve chosen for themselves), memories-and-motivations, and love for others.

Despite these conversions, love still remains, it can’t just be baptized or therapy-ed away. Controlling puritans and authoritarians wielding religion or peace-panaceas as a weapon have been the villains in the lives of countless women and LGBTQIA people for a very long time. So yeah, I’ve got some feels about that. The last time I felt anything similarly relatable, or as strongly, was the Utena and Anthy relationship in Revolutionary Girl Utena (and really, their kiss during the surreal sequence at the end of the film adaptation).

Section III: Thoughts on Cult Aesthetics and Clones (the rough cut)

(1) In the future scenes at the end, Adora’s white dress with gold tiara and accents have this kind of goddess-like or Pallas Athena feel to it, which is a great mirror of the design choices for the god-like Horde Prime, his Purity Space Cult, mechanics/ship, and flagship interior scenery. Not saying that was the intention, but that’s how it came across to me.

Of course, those colors would be used because She-Ra already wears white and gold with a bit of red accent, which complement how the princesses are bright and colorful (pastels and jewel tones). The bold and bright colors helps signify that Etheria is full of life. Etheria is verdant and magical, and that sets up a contrast to the Fright Zone and the darker colors found in Horde characters (Hordak, Shadow Weaver, Scorpia, Catra, Entrapta, etc).

So the first kind of contrast was with the Fright Zone standing out as a poisoned/toxic against the bright, lively colors of Etheria and the princesses. Season 5 introduces another take on that contrast as Horde Prime is the opposite, or antithesis of Etheria’s colorful life. He’s like anti-life with his shades of light-and-dark grays on white, and only glow-green as an accent. In some cultures and religious traditions, white is associated with purity, and in others it is associated with death.

When Horde Prime ‘purifies’ Hordak for the sins of individuality and emotion (emotion for others, for his own sake), Hordak is drained of the colors he chose for himself during exile. In addition to being a contrast to Horde Prime (and informed by the 80s cartoon design), Hordak’s dark blue (or blue-black) and red color palette reflects the traditional use of red as a color for evil (especially vampirism) from back when diabolism was a stand-in for ‘the Devil’ in many forms of visual media (comics, live-action, animation, etc). In place of diabolic red, Horde Prime has toxic glow-green.

I absolutely love the use of the glow-green accents. Color trends for villains and significations of evil come and go, and I’m glad to see the color green be used again, and used so well. The last time I saw that shade of glow-green used so well was in Sleeping Beauty (re: Maleficent’s magic and the orb on her staff) and as the Loc-Nar in Heavy Metal. In both films, there are connotations of evil as a poisonous and corrupting influence. Green, in the context of evil, almost always signifies poison (and sometimes envy). I also like that the glow-green color is used in ways that aren’t immediately saying ‘this is evil’, such as the green baptismal waters and flames from the purification scene, or the green amniotic protein fluid. The language of piety and trappings of the sacred can cloak a sinister purpose.

I don’t know if any of that was intentional, but Horde Prime feels like the perfect synergy of purity and death (which has additional connotations, but that’s a very personal interpretation).

(2) Horde Prime immediately gave me subtle cult vibes in his first cameo (Season 3), and the follow-through on that was perfect and exactly what I was hoping to see. The background music throughout the scenes aboard the flagship fits well (love the soundtrack), and has the quality of Ecstatic Experience without pulling directly from any specific religion. Horde Prime’s dialogue is a delightful bit of narcissism veiled with the language of piety.

A purity cult comprised of clone-brother-worshippers of the cult’s founder-prophet-god-king reinforces that narcissism and has all the fun-dark feels of shiny-techno-future-dystopias. It is also an interesting use of clones, especially in a story format that usually never has the time to really dive into the complexities of cloning. This is the sort of thing that you’d be more likely to see in a one-off episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, rather than the basis for a greater scope villain, or multi-season nemesis. (and yes, Star Trek: TNG had an interesting clone episode)

Clones in science-fiction tend to fall into just a few tropes, and I generally dislike seeing clones show up in a story because the execution nearly always feels sloppy (in small ways or big ways). I did not get that feeling from She-Ra, where, the clones occupy the “cog in the machine” trope, but it is not their existence as clones that make them that way, it is the Will of Horde Prime that does. They are simultaneously expendable and sacred in their unity. It’s a nice flip on “stronger by working together” that Adora and the others have to learn (and struggle) to do.

It seems like, despite their religious programming, the clones have a little bit of their own personalities until Horde Prime ‘inhabits’ them to exert his Will. I’m trying not to read too much into it, b/c what comes across as ‘inhabits’ to me (especially with the religious/cult context), was probably meant more literal like described in the dialogue as a hive-mind control kind of thing. The first time it happens—to post-wipe/death Hordak—felt to me like a possession scene from The Exorcist, but without the kind of horror visuals that would scare both adults and children. The quick-and-subtle amount of body contortion and sound is still gross and creepy (because it should be), but it also reminds me of Ecstatic Experience in the form of speaking in tongues, or snake handling, or being a medium for a spirit. Again, I’m not saying any of that is intentional, but that’s how I see it.

(3) Finally, there is Entrapta, Hordak, and Wrong Hordak. Clones rarely get to be ‘humanized’ through friendship or romance arcs. I can think of a dozen or more robots that get to be humanized in that way, but can’t recall any clones that have (excluding doomed clones whose friendship/romance only existed for the sake of selling the tragedy of their death). Hordak gets death, renewal, and romance in a way that worked really well, and the totality of it is unique. I was a bit surprised that they could work in another clone—and I love Wrong Hordak—who pulls triple-duty as (1) comedy; (2) relevant to moving various pieces of the story along; and (3) more humanizing of the clones, which, again rarely happens as most stories take the easy low road when it comes to clones.

For Entrapta’s part, she’s never put in the position of giving up who she is (‘weird’ by many standards) for a romance. Her passion for technology is both an amusing double entendre at times, and integral to who she is. A romance for Entrapta does not replace her passion for technology, she can have both. Dating myself but, I came up in a time where most media (for children or adults) would rob a woman of her agency or passions during the resolution of a romance arc. Maybe times have changed, but it’s still nice to see none of that nonsense happening here.

sick of nothing (carol danvers x reader)

summary: Shitty, shitty bars can still have pretty, pretty bartenders. 

Carol’s got a night off and you work as a bartender while you study to become a statistician. A one-night stand situation.

pairing: Carol Danvers x Reader

words: 2,592

trigger warnings: one-night stands, daddy kink, light choking, strap ons, angst if you really squint

notes: this was written for @shay-iamiam ‘s 800 follower writing challenge. my prompt was “i have a name, and it’s not sweetheart” and has been bolded within the fic !!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

The walk is about three and a half blocks, the hood of her AIR FORCE hoodie pulled up the whole time as if to dare any pick pocket and low life in the city to test her self-defense abilities. Nobody she passes looks at her for more than half a second, just how she wants it.

In front of her destination is a neon sign that’s nearly dulled - as if too old to support its own brightness anymore. It’s almost hidden among the other, flashier billboards and car lights and God knows what else the civilians in this town use to be seen these days. Regardless, it catches Carol’s eye.

The stairs to the entrance are lit by a green similar to the color outside, the deep shade barely masking the multiple women making out against the wall. Carol makes eye contact with one of them who’s got two attached to each side of her neck. The unnamed woman smirks at Carol, who nods back.

When she gets to the bottom of the stairs, the heavy door she has to use all her might to push in order to get through the threshold. There aren’t a lot of people in the run-down bar, it’s much too early for the regulars to be partying. She counts maybe six people, max, along with the three exits.  

Carol spots you across the bar. Across the dirty, grimy bar she flags you down and orders scotch. She doesn’t know exactly what it is, but it was what her papa drank when he was lonely, so it’s what she’ll drink now.

Your pour the dark liquid into a glass with fluid movements, and you push it down the bar to her with equal ease.

“Enjoy,” you tell her, and she nods once before downing it. She watches you intently, tracks your wide grin and fast hands.

You notice her staring but don’t say anything, too busy stuffing your bra with the single dollar bills and wiping down the wettened wood as each patron becomes drunk enough to leave. It’s near the end of your shift, when you’ve got ten minutes left and the next girl comes to pull back her hair and change into her own t-shirt printed with the bar’s logo, that you finally make contact.

“It’s kinda rude to stare,” you tell her without meeting her eyes.

“Oh, but you’re so nice to look at,” the woman, with her shockingly neat blank olive long-sleeved shirt. She’s got blonde hair pulled back tight into a bun at the top of her neck, posture that rivals that of a Renaissance-era French noble.

Military. You note. Most of them don’t bother with the bar you have the misfortune of working at, especially with it being as seedy as it is; filled with degenerates as it is. There are better places to drink, better places to pick up hookers, better places to forget the fact they joined was just to pay for college.

The woman speaks again when you lean against the bar – the first time your feet stopped moving since your shift started. “When are you done here, sweetheart?”

You smile, the shine in your eyes especially evident in the low light. “I have a name, and it’s not sweetheart,” you tell her with a voice playful and light.

“And what is this mysterious name of yours?” she downs the last of her drink as she waits for your reply.

There’s a hesitancy in your voice, an uncertainty that isn’t scared but most definitely is noticeable. “Why don’t you take me on a date and find out?” Another pause. “I’m done here in five. You can meet me out back if you want.”

Carol smiles wide and dope, and tips you a crisp twenty-dollar bill, which she places over the wet ring her empty glass left on the dark, stained wood. “See ya then, darling,” just as she tucks her stool back out of the path of travel for the other customers, she turns back around. “My name’s Carol, by the way.”

As you tap out and grab your bag from the back room, you can’t tell which weighs heavier on your conscience: the biggest tip you’ve ever received (in proportion to the tab) or the fact that you’re about to have sex with a stranger.

Said woman is right where you told you to be, leaning against the brick wall with her hands stuffed in her pockets. Silently, you nod, and she follows you on the route to your apartment. For awhile it’s silent, almost uncomfortably so.

About halfway through the walk, Carol’s the first one to speak. “What are you doing here? In this shitty town?” A pause. “You seem way too smart to be stuck here.”

You shrug your bag closer to you, as if it’ll protect her from whatever hypercritical commentary she’s about to give. “I’m studying to be a statistician, working on saving money so I can start working on my PhD soon.”

Carol laughs a little, and for a moment you prepare to recite the speech you gave your dad when you left home four years ago, your freshman year professor who told you that women can’t do math, it’ll interfere with their natural role as caregivers to the family, your sophomore year boyfriend who you broke up with not only because you figured out you only like women, but also because he was a piece of shit who told you that if a woman wasn’t a stay at home mom she wasn’t worth shit.

But Carol doesn’t mock you, doesn’t chuckle like it’s the strangest thing she’s ever heard.

Still, you’re concerned. “What’re you laughing about?”

“Just never expected anyone so smart would allow someone like me to take them home,” she tells you, honest and sincere. For a moment her cool façade breaks and your heart along with it, but after a few seconds she’s back with that killer smile.

Your conversation remains light the rest of the walk, at one point your fingers intertwining as the silence of the night settles upon you. The action is cute, innocent, directly contrasting what happened the second you reach the inside of your apartment.

Carol’s got you pushed against the inside of your bedroom door, and you can feel each groove and nick in the old wood as she pulls off the horrendous black shirt your boss requires you to wear. The day it was handed to you, you promised yourself you’d burn it the minute you didn’t have to work at that shithole anymore. But, as Carol kisses your collar bone and bites at each square inch of sensitive skin, you wonder how bad it could be if you managed to catch her while wearing it. On impulse your nose wrinkles, thinking about the putrid scent wafting from the fabric, the piss of a thousand racoons settling over the hottest woman you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Luckily, Carol doesn’t notice, because she’s too busy pulling it off of you and catching a glimpse of the tattoos that litter your body. Her lips stop, then, and she takes a moment to look – really look – at them. She traces the normal model – located on your ribs – lightly. “Is that the mathy shit you were talking about?”

You laugh, pulling her in for a kiss. “These are equations that can determine things you only dream of knowing. You know, in World War I-“ You’re cut off with a sharp bite to your breast opposite the ink and one of her hands snaking itself down your pants. “Oh fuck.”

Carol smiles into your skin before throwing you onto the bed, her hair barely moving as she tosses you as if you were pillow rather than a person. You hit the bed with a loud thump, and in the second you take to move your thick blankets that have gathered over you off of your body she’s removed her shirt and is working on unhooking her simple, sweat-stained bra.

Her movements are fevered, her eyes ablaze. It’s the kind of fire you’ve seen in the climax of cheesy animated movies, when the pretty, hopeless protagonist is cornered against some thick free as the big, bad wolf towers over her as spit falls from its jowls. With wide eyes, the careless woman watches and whimpers as what is likely her death-bringer rips the top of her bodice open with a simple swipe of its dirt-coated claws.

The only difference between you and her appears to be her terror, because as Carol crawls over you and sinks her teeth into your jugular all you can do is moan and grab at her back.

“You’re so cute,” she growls into your ear. “Maybe I should fuck you like I’ll break you…” An evil, hungry grin spreads across her face as you shake your head, your nails dragging angry red lines down her muscular back.  “Or, maybe not.”

As she removes her thick, black pants, you notice she’s wearing a worn leather harness she claims she’s had since she first enlisted fit tight to her waist and thighs. The material is soft as your palms occasionally run over the buckles as you reach for her ass. “Please, Carol, please god,” you beg, gasping at she bites at your nipple. “Please just fuck me.”

Carol moves on down your stomach, leaving a trail of bruises in her wake. You can feel her lips spread into a smile into your skin, nipping at your heated flesh as she looks up at you. “Mm, kinda wanna have you ride me instead. You okay with that, baby girl?”

You’re breathless as you respond. “Yes.”

Somehow, in all of your breathless splendor, Carol finds a way you coax you – no, manhandle you so that you’re hovering just above the bright blue cock kept in place by the harness.

“I don’t think that’s military-issue,” you quip. The smirk on your face, though, subsides quickly when she aligns herself with your entrance and bottoms out in a single thrust. All you can do is moan, bracing yourself with one hand on the wall and one on her chest. It’s embarrassing, almost, how good it feels.

The ends of Carol’s mouth slowly spread upward as she watches you fall apart, watches your eyes roll to the back of your head, watches your jaw go slack.

“You like that?” she asks, voice thick with the arousal that comes with pleasing a partner. “You like it when I fuck your pussy this hard?”

All you can do is give her a small squeak and a nod, unable to form such a complicated thing as speech. Carol’s got one hand on your hip to keep you moving, to keep your hips grinding on her cock, while the other rests on your throat with her thumb moving just past your lips.

It doesn’t take any exchange of words for you to understand what she wants from you, and as you take the ridge between the two phalanges you flatten your tongue against the digit.

You soak the calloused skin with your spit, tracing every small detail with your tongue and basking in the glow of giving and receiving pleasure. Soon, though, Carol pulls her thumb away with a loud pop!

You pout, worrying you had done something wrong. But as you feel Carol circling your clit you forget all about your own insecurities.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, almost falling if it weren’t for Carol’s painful grip on your hip. “Oh my God!”

“You gonna come for me baby?” She hisses, voice husky and laced with godly confidence. “You gonna come on daddy’s cock?”

Her saying that word, that title, sends another flood of arousal to your center. “Yes, daddy, I love your cock,” you moan, desperate throw yourself into the pleasure you’re so close to reaching. “Please, please let me come! I wanna come on your thick dick, daddy!”

Carol doesn’t say anything at first, caught stroking her ego with a cocky smirk that somehow makes you even wetter.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” Carol nearly purrs. “Come for Daddy.”

She’s got one thumb rubbing at your clit, the other hand palming at your breast. Soon it’s too much, the tight, heated coil in your abdomen gives one last tightening before it unravels – pleasure flooding your blood. As the explosive pleasure begins to subside, Carol carefully flips you onto your back and pulls out of your hypersensitive pussy. As she pulls the toy out of you achingly slow you whimper from sensitivity and the empty feeling inside of you.

Carol moves off of the bed to pull the harness off of you, and in the absence of her body heat you shiver and whine for her to join you back in bed. She gives you a small, pitiful smile before leaning forward to a place a light kiss on your sweaty forehead. “Just give me a second, baby, you need some water.” You mmph, and point her in the direction of your shitty kitchenette.

When she comes back you’re on the precipice of sleep – eyes heavy as she props you up to drink from of the cold tap water. As you empty the glass, she places it onto your bedside table and wraps herself around you – puling the heavy, sex-thick blankets over the two of you. With the warmth of the fabric and her skin, sleep soon claims your consciousness.

It feels like a mere few seconds later when your pupils begin to move behind your eyelids, sparked by something deep in your foolhardy dreams telling you that you feel someone stirring in your room. When your eyes finally crack open, you can see the woman who fucked you into another consciousness last night pulling on her clothes in the dark.

When you click on the lamp, her movements stop like a cockroach freezes under a flashlight. A long, heavy silence ensues.

Carol’s the one to break it. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

More silence.

“I’m sorry,” she says – voice small.

The corners of your lips turn up in a similar manner. “It’s okay.”

Another beat passes before the both of you move. Carol continues to dress, and you move to write your landline number and, after a bit of hesitation, your name and address.

The silence continues as she makes her way around your room and collects her things – namely the harness, which she tucks back under her pants, just as before. As she turns around to pull her pants over the leather strap, you move behind her to tuck the old receipt into a back pocket.

When Carol notices your hands on her ass she freezes, but soon welcomes the embrace as you whisper in her ear. “Just…don’t be a stranger, alright?”

She intertwines your fingers and kisses where her skin meets yours. “I’ll try.”

You sigh as Carol steps out of your apartment complex into the pink-covered city. Dawn is just bringing itself upon the horizon, as if the sun is trying to bide you more time together. There are a few moments where your eyes meet, and she gives you a small, sad smile.

“Goodbye,” she says quietly.

You nod, once. Wrapping your robe tighter around you to keep the chills tighter to keep the chills at bay, you wonder why it would be so cool in the thick of summer. As you turn back inside to get ready for class, you try not to think about how it might not be the cold that make you shake.

The Old Ways of the Gods - Chapter 1

While we’re all trapped inside, I thought I might post the first chapter of an original novel I’ve been working on. Because it suddenly became thematically relevant. This is a first draft.  Summary:  Life in the temple is all that Malta has ever known, priestesses his only family. But as he approaches adulthood after years of seclusion from the outside world, Malta cannot help but wonder what lies beyond the temple walls.

Amber is new to the priesthood, and full of the same curiosity that has begun to plague Malta's mind. Together, they hatch a plan to sneak outside the temple's grounds. A glimpse at the world beyond is all they seek, enough to quench the thirst for knowledge. 

But like a drug, one glimpse is never enough.

-----

Rain pattered softly against the window panes. Malta watched the drops draw rivulets of shadow and light on the fogged glass, finding pictures and shapes in them the same way he did clouds. Beyond, the world was grey from sky to ground. Dark clouds hung heavy over the lonely gardens, bereft of people in this weather. The rain had turned the earthen paths between the trees to dark mud, branches hung heavy under the weight dipping down to the floor as though the whole tree were attempting to lay down to rest. 

The misty air was almost enough to obscure the high walls that bordered Malta's life. Grey stone, dyed black by water, looming above the tops of the garden's demurely manicured trees. 

"The weather has dulled your mood today.” The woman at his side spoke softly. "You are distracted."

Heaving a sigh, Malta turned his gaze away from the window and to the book laid open on his knees. In stark contrast to the gloom of the outside world, his room was warm and bright. A fire burned contentedly in the fireplace on the far wall and half a dozen orbs of magelight hovered at the ceiling to light the space as brightly as though the sun was shining. An effort to keep him cheerful on such a dour day. 

“Your ears give you away,” the woman said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, when he did not immediately reply.

“Oh,” Malta gasped, cheeks warming. On instinct, his hands moved up to cover the length of them, but then he stopped himself. Only children covered their ears to hide their emotions, and he was not a child. Not any longer. No, he would turn 50 this autumn, and be officially recognized as an adult. He needed to learn to better control his tells. "I suppose I am not in the mood for reading today.” Besides, he had read this book at least three times before, as he had read every other book in the temple library.

 "Is there some other entertainment I might provide?" the woman asked. His attendant for today was a young woman scarcely older than himself, with almond eyes and pale skin. Like all of her order she wore a plain linen shift with a high collar and wide sleeves, and a cloth tied about her hair. A single ebony curl had escaped beside her left ear, betraying her newness and tying it. Malta did not point it out.

"You are newly sworn, are you not?" he asked out of curiosity. “We were introduced only a few days ago."

“Yes,” the woman confirmed.

“It is so unusual for me to meet anyone new,” Malta mused. 

“Have you lived in the temple long?” he asked, then realized he might be overstepping his bounds, “If you are comfortable speaking of such things, of course.”

After an uncertain pause, she answered, “Since I was a child. It is all I can recall.”

“Then we are alike,” Malta declared, smiling. “To have known only this place our whole lives.” But his smile faded soon. "But now you will be able to see the outside, just like all of the others," he said, turning his gaze once more to the view beyond his window panes. "I confess that I am jealous."

The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. An unusual color - golden brown. That would be her name, in his mind, Amber. "Whatever would you have to be jealous of?" Amber asked. "You are the Mother's Chosen Son. That is an incredible blessing."

"I know," Malta sighed. Or so he had been told his entire life. "And I am not ungrateful, but I have known nothing but the inside of this temple for my whole life. At times it grows mundane, and I wonder how such a life can truly be worthwhile."

"Are you doubting your Choosing?" Amber asked, voice dipping so that they could not be overheard by anyone passing through the hall outside.

"No, not at all," Malta was quick to assure her. "I only wonder... " he paused to collect his thoughts. "I meet no one other than the Devoted, and I know nothing of the world outside the temple. I sit here in comfort and leisure while the rest of you go out and do her work, but I know almost nothing of what that entails."

Amber's considered his words. He had never dared to voice this particular doubt to any of the other Devoted. They had ensured, when he was a stir-crazy child, that he knew his place well, and knew better than to question. But he had never before met a Devoted close to his own age. He had never met someone who shared his ignorance about the world. Maybe that was why he dared open up to her. 

After a long moment of thought Amber sighed. The headscarf slipped back from her forehead and this time she noticed, hurrying to pull it back into place before more of her dark hair was revealed to her charge. "I believe I understand your meaning," she said carefully as she tucked each stray lock back beneath its covering. "You wish to bring the Mother's teachings to the world by helping those in need, but you do not know what they might need."

"Precisely," Malta breathed a sigh of relief that she understood and did not grow angry with him for any sign of doubt, the way some others did.

"But I do not believe you are meant to help people in any physical way," Amber explained.

That was a new revelation for Malta. All his life he had been told that he was Chosen to embody the teachings of the Mother, her compassion, her mercy, her innocence, and her willingness to care equally for all people and creatures of the world, regardless of their circumstances.

"What I was taught," Amber continued in the face of Malta’s shock and confusion, "Since my training began, is that you are a symbol. The Chosen Children of the Mother embody her essence. They are the purest form of the Mother's love, and they exist to show us all the purity of heart and spirit that we strive for."

Malta frowned and looked down again at the book in his lap, long forgotten during this conversation. "No, that cannot be correct," he said, voice barely a whisper.

"I apologize," Amber said quickly. She reached out a hand toward Malta, but stopped before touching him as though not certain it would be welcomed. "I spoke out of turn and I have distressed you. Forgive me."

"No," Malta shook his head. "I mean... Do not apologize," he corrected himself. "You have done nothing but what I asked of you. If you spoke out of turn it was my fault, and I should be the one apologizing."

"Well," Amber said with uncertainty, and then a very shy smile crossed her face. "I suppose we forgive each other, then."

"Yes," Malta smiled in agreement. "And let us talk of more pleasant things. Perhaps you were correct, that the weather has dulled my mood, to be asking you such silly questions about the outside world." He spoke, but found the words tasted like ash on his tongue. It was impossible for him to not be curious about what was beyond the temple grounds, and yet he was not permitted to ask. He was told to love and care for all beings of the world, but permitted to know nothing about them. And now this revelation, surely something that was meant to be kept from him.

All his life, Malta had thought that when he was old enough, when the Matriarch deemed him ready and worthy, he would venture beyond the walls of the temple to bring the Mother's light to the people of the world. Had he thought wrong?

He knew that his isolation in the temple was to keep his mind unsullied by the evils of the world. He was not to develop prejudices against anyone or be influenced by any teachings other than the Mother's. He knew only vaguely of the other gods. He could name them, and their purposes in the world, but knew nothing of their specific teachings. This had never mattered to him before. 

Again Malta turned his gaze out the window and looked down into the garden. It was still raining, still grey. The clouds that weighed heavy in the sky seemed to have taken up residence in his mind as well.

What was beyond those walls? How cruel was the world that he need be protected from it so entirely?

"Are you hungry?" Amber asked, pulling Malta back out of his thoughts. She must have caught him staring out the window again. At his age, his teachings were over, and it was the Devoted's task only to see to his needs and entertain him through his monotonous days. Entertain him so thoughts such as this did not plague his mind.

"I suppose it is nearly time for noon meal, is it not?" Malta asked. He flipped shut the book he had long since stopped reading without bothering to mark the page. Then he swung his legs off the window seat and stood, stretching slightly and tucking a stray lock of hair behind a pointed ear. "Shall we see what today's cooks have for us?"

"A fine thought," Amber replied, relieved. 

He had caused her trouble today, on her first day minding him. For that he felt some small amount of guilt. It was never his intention to give his caretakers trouble, but it was impossible for him not to occasionally seek something new in his life. The day-to-day of the temple grew boring after so long. The Devoted rotated their tasks, but for Malta there was no such relief. Each day was the same, differentiated only by the face of his companion, the weather outside his window, and the day's meals. And by now even that small change had grown dull and predictable. 

With easy strides Malta crossed the room to place his book back in its place on the shelf. The library's shelves were high and filled with tomes, but they were all the same. Tales of the Mother's deeds, explorations of Her teachings, histories of their society and the workings of the natural world. There were no tales of people outside this temple's walls, of the unpledged members of society. There were no tales of people who lacked the virtues that the Mother embodied. But he was certain that such people must exist. He had been told so, by his teachers. It was those that he was meant to save.

"I hope Rosie is working in the kitchen today," Malta commented absently. "She always makes my favorites."

"Who?" Amber asked, uncomprehending.

Malta flushed in embarrassment as he realized his slip up. "Forgive me," he said sheepishly. "I know you are not allowed names after you become Devoted, but I needed some way to differentiate you in my own mind. Rosie is an older woman whose cheeks are always red, so that is how I think of her. I know it is improper of me, please do not inform the Matriarch."

Amber looked as though she was not certain whether to be amused or scandalized. Then, she turned her face away from him, looking down to the ground somewhat sheepishly. "I confess the same thing has troubled me in the past," she admitted quietly. "I think your solution is not against the teachings, although I am certain the Matriarch would say you should not define us by our physical appearance. I will not tell, I swear."

Malta breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," he said earnestly.

"If I may be so bold as to ask, for what trait have you identified me?" Amber asked shyly. "Or have you not decided yet?"

She would be the first person he ever gave a name to aloud. Although she was the first one to know that this habit of his had not been broken in childhood. "Your eyes," he told her. "They are an unusual color. Amber."

"Amber," the Devoted woman repeated. Then a small smile crossed her lips. "I like it."

Your Type

Genre: drama, romance Rating: PG-13 Group: Monsta X

Summary: Hyungwon’s girlfriend becomes wary and jealous of Hae-rang, who is baffled by the negative attention on her. It puts her in a tough spot, when she’s forced to reveal her type by her real love interest.

Disclaimer: This is 100% fictional and my own story. It is unrelated to the actual events and real people of Monsta X and Starship. Hae-rang Lee (이해랑) is an original character created for this fanfic. Parts will be written in Korean with English translations. I did not major/study in English/Korean, nor was I ever strong in English/Korean grammar, so there will be grammatical mistakes. This fanfic is written in third person and past-tense for ease of writing.

“저도 취향이라는 게 있거든요?!” (Translation: “I have something called my ideal type, okay?!”)

Eyes shut tightly, hands thrown into the air, hair looking frazzled, Hae-rang blurted out those words she would later regret. However, at the moment, she could only pay attention to the snide remarks and the side glares she had been receiving from Jiyoon.

Jiyoon huffed, “아니, 우리 오빠가 왜??” (Translation: “What’s wrong with my honey??”)

Everyone rolled their eyes at Jiyoon. Even her boyfriend, Hyungwon, seemed to find the situation awkward. He tried to calm his girlfriend down, patting her back, before whispering loudly, “자기야… 쫌!” (Translation: “Babe… stop it!”)

With one eyebrow raised, Hae-rang shook her head with disapproval. She never liked Hyungwon’s girlfriend, but it was her last straw to constantly take the beating of the younger girl. With a sigh, Hae-rang sarcastically said, “저기… 지윤씨? 그쪽 ‘옵ㅃㅏ’ 한테 관심 없으니까 걱정말라고.” (Translation: “Um… Jiyoon[-ssi]? I’m not interested in your ‘ho n e y’ so don’t worry about it.”)

“거짓말 거짓말!” (Translation: “Lies, lies!”) Jiyoon wailed, “계속 우리 오빠 쳐다보는거 봤다구! 그런 눈빛으로 우리 오빠 쳐다보지 말라고!! 우리 오빠 좋아하는거 다 티 난다고!” (Translation: “I know you’ve been staring at my honey! Stop staring at him like that!! It’s so obvious you like my honey!”)

Instantly, Hae-rang deadpanned. Her eyes met with Hyungwon’s, who looked back apologetically and almost embarrassed. She knew her eyes were looking similar to that of dead fish eyes. That didn’t mean she wanted his help though.

“지윤아, 진짜 걱정할것 없어 -- 해랑이 이상형은 나와 정반대 거든. 지금 좋아하는 사람도--” (Translation: “Jiyoon, you really don’t have to worry -- Hae-rang’s ideal type is the complete opposite of me. Even the person she likes right now--”)

Hae-rang’s eyes snapped open and if it was a sci-fi movie, her eyes would have shot lasers straight through Hyungwon’s pea-sized brain. He seemed to realize his stupidity, since he stopped himself in time… or so he thought, despite the mistake he already made.

She was just about done with the pair, both being ridiculous -- one claiming that Hae-rang was trying to steal her boyfriend, while the other almost revealing her one-sided crush in front of her damn crush. The embarrassment crept up on her, since

the other members were also present,

they were at their favorite pub, one they go to often, and

her crush had been staring intently at her ever since she blurted out about her so-called ideal type.

“그래서… 해랑이 이상형은 뭔데?” (Translation: “So… what’s Hae-rang’s ideal type?”)

She squinted with her lips pursed into a thin line. ‘아… 채형원…’ (Translation: ‘Ugh… Chae Hyungwon…’) If only she could pull Hyungwon to the side and punch him.

The light melodic voice contrasted with the heavy body leaning forward. She held her breath every so slightly, as his thick arms rocked the table. Hae-rang’s eyes moved from his bare arms that flexed to his broad shoulders that were barely covered by the muscle tank, all the way up to his pink lips, heart shaped nostrils to his twinkling eyes. Everything about Wonho made her heart flutter, but not like she could reveal that in front of everyone in a public setting, right?

She couldn’t even register the weird look on his face. Turning away and staring at Hyungwon, she stuttered, “ㅇ-어… 이상형이… 그니까… 형원이랑 반대인데… 어…” (Translation: “U-uh… my type… so like… the opposite of Hyungwon… but uh…”)

“그럼 뭐, 셔누형 타입? 아님 원호형 타입?” (Translation: “Then what, like Shownu’s type? Or Wonho?”) Jooheon cackled, his dimples sinking in. His eyes had an evil glint in them, and Hae-rang wanted to sew his eyes together. After all, Jooheon was the first to know. How he trusted Hyungwon enough to tell him as well, Hae-rang never got to hear the real answer. Granted she beat him everywhere except his face, by his manager’s request.

Poking her tongue against her cheek, she stayed quiet for a second, her mind racing to come up with an ideal type that wouldn’t be too obvious but would throw the others off her scent. Before she could speak, however, Wonho beat her to it. “진짜인가보네? 그럼 둘중에 누구…?” (Translation: “For real? Then between the two of us, who is it…?”)

“아-아니야! 음..” (Translation: “N-no it’s not! Um…”) Hae-rang continued to stare at Hyungwon and explained, “그니까… 형원이는 너무 가늘고, 어깨는 넓지만 튼튼하지 않고… 어… 운동하면 좋고… 힘이 있어도 어떤면에서 애기같이 귀여우면 좋고....” (Translation: “So… Hyungwon is too thin, and even though his shoulders are wide, they’re not very sturdy… uh… exercising is good… and it’s good if he’s strong but has some childish cute traits….”)

*Tap* Snapping out of her dreams, she looked up to see Wonho’s wide smile. ‘헉--! 너무 티나게 말했나? 아 놔��’ (Translation: ‘Gah--! Did I make it sound too obvious? Shit…’) Hae-rang glanced at Jooheon, who seemed to have a hard time containing his laughter, and spit out, “주헌이같이 보조개 있음 좋지. 주헌이같이 복근도 없는걸 좋고.” (Translation: “I like guys with dimples like Jooheon’s. I’m also good with guys who don’t have abs, like Jooheon.”)

“뭐라고?!!” (Translation: “WHAT DID YOU SAY?!!”) Jooheon yelped. The other boys laughed hard, and with that Jiyoon finally seemed pacified. Forcing a smile, Hae-rang didn’t catch Wonho’s disappointed pout and his eyes searching for the truth in her expression.

Somehow the night ended with Shownu telling Wonho to take Hae-rang home safely, while he took care of the other boys who were too drunk. Hyungwon also parted ways with Jiyoon, so Hae-rang really had no choice but to walk home with Wonho. Her house was the closest to the pub that she never had to take the bus or taxi whenever they met. He always walked her home, but this time it felt different.

They walked in silence, and the awkward mood from before settled between the two of them again. As she gripped the strap of her bag, she peered over at Wonho. For some reason, he seemed disheartened. Even though everyone likened Minhyuk to a puppy, for once, Wonho seemed like a dejected puppy. He hid his brightly colored hair with the hood of his jacket, but she could still almost see the ears and tail droop.

Mustering up her courage, Hae-rang lifted her arm and tugged at the sleeve of his cotton hoodie. “괜찮아? 무슨 일 있어?” (Translation: “Are you okay? Is there something wrong?”)

At that, Wonho stopped walking. When he looked down at her hand pinching his sleeve, he sighed.

Flinching at the sound of his sigh, she quickly let go. Guess he was really uncomfortable with that. Hae-rang eyed him again before taking a step forward, hoping to quickly get home and forget about the night. And yet… a hand grasped her wrist firmly.

“솔직히 우리 7명중 누가 제일 가까워? 이상형이랑.” (Translation: “Honestly, who’s the closest to your idea type amongst the seven of us?”)

‘...!!’ Though she already felt electrified by his touch, she was even more stunned by his question. As she slowly turned around, Hae-rang’s eyes moved slowly from the unfamiliar grip on her wrist to the face that stared at her with intent. It was as if the heat from the touch was amplified the moment their eyes met.

She stammered, “므-뭐라고? 그...그게 무슨…?” (Translation: “W-what? Wh-what… do you mean?”)

Wonho took a step closer. “나야? 아니면… 셔누야? 아님… 주헌이?” (Translation: “Is it me? Or… is it Shownu? Or… Jooheon?”)

Eyes full of heat, Hae-rang could no longer see the dejected puppy in him. She couldn’t even turn away from his gaze. She stood still, frozen in her spot, even as he took another step closer, closing the distance between them.

“주헌이야? 진짜? 그럼…” (Translation: “Is it Jooheon? Really?”) He asked, with the words coming out rushed. And without thinking, she mumbled, “으응.” (Translation: “Yeeah.”)

‘잠깐. 내가 지금 뭐라고 했어??’ (Translation: ‘Wait, what the hell did I just say??’) Her eyes widened, as she watched Wonho’s eyes widen as well. Before she could correct herself, he stepped closer and lifted his hand to cup her cheek.

She stiffened on contact and held her breath. Knowing fully how red she must have turned, Hae-rang squirmed under his gaze. Yet, she couldn’t move. His eyes stared her down, filled with something so warm but dark. When he spoke again, it was only a whisper, but she could hear it so well.

“나보다 잘생겼다고 생각해?” (Translation: “Is he more good looking than me?”)

He started to lean forward, and Hae-rang’s mind combusted at that moment. Of course, it was probably because she held her breath for too long, but also, his words were coated with prickling jealousy. Not to mention, his lips looked so soft up close.

Hae-rang yelped, “아니, 원호가 더 잘생겼어! 내 이상형이 원호이니까.” (Translation: “No, Wonho looks better! Since my ideal type is Wonho.”) Her mind was wired in all the wrong ways, and she couldn’t help but blurt out the truth. His behavior, his words, they all seemed to be pointing at an emotion she knew all too well.

“--어?” (Translation: “--What?”) His surprised voice made her heart sink. Maybe she was wrong after all. She tried to rack her brain, to come up with a lame excuse to cover her tracks. However, a strong pair of arms wrapped around her frame and she heard the familiar chuckle.

Pulling back, Hae-rang stared at him in confusion. Between his chuckles, Wonho exclaimed, “그렇지? 순간 식겁했다, 내가 잘못 찍은 줄 알았잖아!” (Translation: “I’m right, right? You scared me for a second, I thought I was wrong!”)

Not fully understanding him, she tried to pull herself out of his hold. He must have seen her bewildered expression, since he hugged her tighter. “너도 내 이상형이야. 나도. 너. 좋아해.” (Translation: “You’re also my ideal type. I. Like. You too.”)

It came like waves of relief and bliss. Hae-rang never imagined hearing those words from him, but she did, and she could feel herself floating to cloud nine. Her face broke out into smiles, matching the smile on Wonho’s face, and they giggled in each other’s arms. His forehead leaned in against hers, while her hands rested on his broad shoulders. Her eyes traced his breathtaking features and when her eyes swept over the sight of his heart-shaped nostrils, Hae-rang couldn’t help but chuckle. In turn, her laughter was music to Wonho’s ears, and he loved every moment of her smiles. They were the perfect piece for each other.

.

.

.

THE END 

A/N: sorry I couldn’t give DIHM first... ㅜㅜ hope this is enjoyable! trying to get back into writing now that all the busy stuff is (hopefully) over at work...  

The Devoted One, Afieroménos, servant of Hecate, the Goddess of Crossroads

Dressed in ornamental dark gray robes, with features obscured by paint and decorative etching, The Devoted One may at a glance not be recognized as one of the warforged. They are a tall figure, with shoulders broader than their hip, their flowing robes and hood revealing a clear outline of a slender and agile body.

The Devoted One wears a smoothened face plate, painted black with paint that has started to wear thin, with the underlying copper faintly shining through. Thick and oily face-paint draws a skull layered on top of the black face plate, filled in and heavily detailed on the right side, whereas the left side remains simplistic. The Devoted One’s eyes are the same as all warforged, bright sky blue and vibrantly shining, though an occasional flicker can be seen.

Content Table

Appearance Detail

Background and Motivation

Gender and Pronouns

Function, Skill and Structural Integrity

Personality and Values

Faith and Rites

Summary

Appearance Detail

Though usually hidden by the hood, each side of The Devoted One’s head has yet another skull depicted, making for three faces. This is to honor Hecate, effectively making herself a Hekataion; a religious idol that depicts Hecate with three bodies, each facing a different direction, symbolizing her many divine gifts as well as her role as a Goddess of crossroads.

Under her robes, The Devoted One wears her religious symbol hung around her neck. It is in the shape of a key, symbolizing the Goddess Hecate’s divinity as a deity of the home, of the city, of borders and gates, offering divine guidance for those who come and go, for those who pass through from this world to the next.

In her left hand, The Devoted One carries a light wooden staff that has freshly been picked clean. A crude inscription reads Hekate Lampadephoros, denoting the Goddess Hecate as the goddess of light, the moon, and her role as a guide to those who are lost, who search for knowledge, or for those who wander the dark of the night.

On her right arm, The Devoted One has an inscription reading Hekate Enodia, denoting the goddess Hecate as the goddess of crossroads, of journeys, of the transitive state, of the living, the dead, and the undead.

The colorful paint on the faceplate is not permanent, but is rather cleaned off before rest and fitted once more afterwards. It is akin to makeup, and The Devoted One has many different variations of the base motive, and may choose different colors, styles or different levels of detail depending on mood and circumstances. Because of the constant washing and painting the black permanent paint that covers the copper of the face plate has started to fade.

The Devoted One is fascinated with the hair many humanoids posses, and may mimic the appearance of hair by wearing wreaths of leaved branches for ceremonial or recreational purposes. The hems of The Devoted One’s robes are ornate with muted colors. Red, purple and yellow threads have been embroidered into the fabric, creating a strangely vivid pattern, matching some of the usual colors of their face paint.

Background and Motivation

Originally from south of Faerûn, The Devoted One recently arrived to the Sword Coast, landing by boat after a long journey.

As a warforged, The Devoted One was built for war, though they are reluctant to speak of the past and the circumstances of their creation. The Devoted One considers their life as an instrument of war a past life; she was reborn as a servant of Hekate, her earliest memory being that of the moonlight bathing her form in a moment of peaceful serenity, guiding her to Hecate’s side.

After her religious awakening she searched far and wide for a temple she considered suitable. As an acolyte, The Devoted One trained in a temple dedicated to Hecate for a number of years. The head cleric of that Temple is a person The Devoted One respects greatly despite their somewhat complex relationship. He, a human named Stelios, was the one who gave The Devoted One her name, Afieroménos. The name is a product of many years’ discussion and bargaining, as The Devoted One wanted a good and suitable name, and was quick to scrutinize most suggestions. The name means “devoted” in an old and obscure dialect native to the temple’s founder. Though The Devoted One answers to Afieroménos, they may do so reluctantly. However, they are not opposed to the idea of a conventional name.

Having left the temple, The Devoted One searches for ways to honor Hecate and learn of the world. Her main motivation lays as a devotee of Hecate, but as Hecate is a versatile Goddess, by definition all-encompassing, she may find joy in many simple things and she has a natural sense of curiosity.

The Devoted One is older than 10 years of age, but younger than 20.

Gender and Pronouns

The Devoted One understands gender as something not defined by form or associated with appearance. As a warforged, they were created without gender or pronouns in mind. However, since meeting with Hecate, The Devoted One feels a connection to womanhood in her role as her servant and devotee. Since she started modeling herself as a Hekataion this became all the more profound. The Devoted One will therefore refer to herself using she/her pronouns when speaking in regards of her role in relation to Hecate or when speaking of herself as an individual of faith. However, on a personal level, they may use they/them to speak of their own thoughts, ideas and doings outside of their relationship with Hecate.

Though The Devoted One appreciates when others follow the same convention, they will regardless accept both she/her and they/them interchangeably without any issue in casual conversation. However, they take offense at being called “it” or “that”, though such emotional responses tend to be internalized.

Function, Skill and Structural Integrity

Over the years, The Devoted One has had a number of body modifications done. Some are cosmetic and others relate to function. The Devoted one is quite dexterous compared to a standard model. Their build is also lighter and leaner than the average standard model warforged, however, they retain a tall stature and though vaguely, some of the visually intimidating properties of a classic, standard model warforged remain.

The Devoted One has a number of different schools of magic represented in their repertoire. They are drawn towards magic that uses light, as they associate light with Hecate. For the same reason, they are also fond of necromancy, though their thoughts on such practices are unconventional.

Inexplicably, they may go into recovery mode, regardless of circumstance. Using their Sentry’s Rest ability, they may be able to remain conscious while resting and recharging.

Personality and Values

The Devoted One has a fairly withdrawn and collected personality. Despite this, they are quite curious, and generally enjoy meeting new people. They feel the most at home on the road, and in rural communities. A big city can bring many new and interesting sights, but they prefer to not stay for too long.

They are generally critical of people in authority. As they see it, the role of a leader is to server their people, not the other way around. They may have some opinions other may consider extreme, opposing the existence of kings and rulers who hold large domains. Though they themselves exist within a clerical hierarchy, they oppose many components of the system they themselves are part of and they are critical of organized religion as it gives some individuals too much power. This criticism can get in the way of things and cause conflict, hence why they had a complicated relationship with their mentor as well as with many of their fellow acolytes. In their temple, The Devoted One gained a reputation of being a stubborn contrarian prone to questioning everyone and everything. This was largely because the matter of faith and the servitude to Hecate are matters of great deal to The Devoted One. She feels strongly that it should be the gods, deities, and other divine beings that command those of the faith, not those within the cult.

In general, The Devoted One is amicable and unassuming. They admire the other races, as well as the flora and fauna found in nature. They do however, feel a stronger connection to the undead than to that of the living. That is because, like the undead, they were created, not born. The Devoted One does not see necromancy as a sacrilege. To them, it is merely yet another type of being in this world, and they see the world as richer and more plentiful with undead beings in it.

Though they are critical of people in authority, they see teacher and student relationships and master and servant relationship as natural dynamics that are just another type of bond, comparable to that of family or friendship bonds. If the people in those relationships care for one another and respect one another, there is no problem. In their own interpersonal relationships, The Devoted One tends to be somewhat naive, as they are still quite young. They are curious of people and may thus ignore difference in opinion or goal to sate the curiosity and see their companionship with others as an opportunity to learn of the world and the different folk that live in it.

The Devoted One is largely uninterested in concepts of good and evil, but they do care about intent and effect. Integrity and freedom are very important to them, and they are important in practice rather than in rhetoric alone; they are concepts that touch every aspect of life.

They are aware of their existence and opinions as controversial, and they understand that other people may not agree with them. They are generally not hurt when people reject their thoughts and ideas, but will in contrast become very happy to meet people who share their opinions or who are swayed by their ideals.

Faith and Rites

The Devoted One celebrates Hecate’s Deipnon each month at the night of the new moon. These nights when the moon does not shine, are nights of repentance, of purification, and of giving. The Devoted One may go through her belongings one by one, clean her robes, and burn incense as the robes are left to dry. She may perform rites to soothe the restless dead, and dedicate prayers to the living in need. A sacrifice may be made to Hecate. A donation of food, money and other resources that have accumulated under the course of the month may be made to the local community.

On the nights of Deipnon, The Devoted One is generally preoccupied, and in a good, if solemn, mood. They may be more open and honest about their feelings than usual, and may become emotional and more easily swayed to speak of the past and of personal matters. She will be more inclined to help and guide others in whatever way she can, but may also be more judgmental and irrational. Deipnon is a holy night for The Devoted One, and though she does not require others to participate, she wishes strongly that people be respectful.

As snakes and dogs, in particular black female dogs, are associated with Hecate, The Devoted One may be reluctant or unwilling to harm such creatures or desecrate imagery depicting them. In the event that she’s forced due to circumstances to harm, or worse, kill a snake or dog, she will be subjected to a fair amount of emotional turmoil. This is not because she believes such creatures necessarily embody or represent Hecate, rather the symbolic representation alone of such creatures are of great significance to her.

Summary

The Devoted One is an avid devotee of the Goddess Hecate. They are a warforged, though their appearance can be misleading. They practice necromancy, but far from exclusively. They are reluctant to speak of the times before they became a cleric, seeing it more as “a past life” than “a past”.

With many unconventional thoughts and opinions, they are regardless quite accepting and open-minded. They are neutral, but highly value the freedom and integrity of others, making them critical of authority. They are relatively impersonal and serious. However, because of their youth they can be naive, but also curious, making them amicable towards and interested in meeting many different types of people.

Bound by Fear

As darkness gave way to light with the morning sun peeking over the hill to bless the Tournament Grounds with its glow and warmth a single line of light slipped through the gently swaying door-flap of the faded gray tent with intent on resting its glare directly on Elevandra's eyes. Dark lashes fluttered in response to defend against nature's attempt at raising her from sleep only to give up as she went to turn away from the front of the tent. Slender hands crept up a broad chest, slowly expanding and collapsing in slumber, of a man resting on his side next to her. Thae'vin he had called himself upon introducing himself after several jousting bouts with most of them landing Elevandra flat on her holy rear. After effectively winning against her with a 4 out of 5 score he'd helped her up from her last fall and the two had spent their experiences, good and the bad, they'd gained from their time on the Tourney Grounds. She had learned of his skill behind mending through the conversations prior to her departure with the order. His offer of mending services per her need was one reason she'd sought him out after her return with the others. Inhaling deeply she savored the smell of leather that lingered about him and as she nuzzled her head right below his chin a sleepy groan escaped Thae'vin, slumber held him tight, along with pressing a cheek cozily against his chest, the heat of his skin a hard contrast against the cool of her flesh. Inhaling once more to enjoy his scent one last time she'd notice something amiss. Thae'vin's skin grew cold in one swift motion. Elevandra was left feeling as though she was nestled against a solid wall of ice. Shock taking over she opened her eyes to see what had happened only to be met with his skin growing black beneath her touch and stretching to cover the entirety of his form. Yanking her hands from his chest Elevandra pushed herself away from him but it was too late. Whatever darkness had slithered its way along his flesh had begun eating away at the tips of her fingers, hungrily feasting its way up her arms. Absolute fear engulfed her, her attempting at cleansing herself only multiplied that fear a hundred fold. Frantic, she whimpered and quivered as she watched helplessly as this unknown entity of plague stripped away at her body, replacing all that was once warm and inviting with a cold darkness and a rivaling unending black to match. As the ink like entity slipped above her shoulders she gave one last look towards Thae'vin with hope of somehow him freeing himself of whatever atrocity that has visited them on such a pleasant morning. His features unrecognizable by even the smallest means as facial flesh twisted and churned to fabricate a mash up of scarred flesh that graduated to bubbling and blistering until slivers of flesh ripped and peeled to expose a new face beneath. Faylun's face. The body of her dearly departed friend twitched in small movements as he became to inch towards Elevandra, who herself was almost entirely cocooned in swiveling darkness. Elevandra's fight or flight response failed to display her true nature which was to fight -- she was frozen. Amidst the cold that sucked the warmth from her body, from her very core and the dangerously proximity of someone she was no where near ready to face she could not bring herself to move. Emaciated fingers came up to caress her blackened cheek, stealing her whimpers as her breath left her lungs, only to harshly clasp around her throat with a squeeze so tightly she croaked in response for air. A grin of pure evil spread across his lips, lips that edged in close to her ear to whisper as she continued to gasp for air, "The Aspect of Fear already has you my dear," and with a swift thrust he sent her over the edge of the bed. Springing upright in a defensive motion her gaze flicked about frantically in search of Faylun once more. Everything had reset. Her hands and body no longer plagued with a darkness of unknown origin. Fearful eyes scanned the room once more, daylight peering through the front just like she had experienced only to be caught in Thae'vin's who had finished gearing up for the morning and was about to venture out towards the grounds. Grey-blue eyes studied her, he could easily tell by the signs she'd endured a nightmare that would never be forgotten but as his lips parted to provide comfort Elevandra shook her head to cut him off, she would have no comment to speak of such horrors. With an understanding nod, he departed the tent leaving her to her own. Inhaling deeply she exhaled at a matching pace. Sweat had beaded along her body, blood left her face pale and miserable. Blowing a tuft of air from her sight she weakly pulled herself from the comforts of bed and dressed fully to soon follow Thae'vin outside with intent of departing back towards her own to check on the young lady that she'd offered her tent to. Aurynn she believed the name was. Out of the corner of her eyes, she'd noticed something odd wedged beneath the snow along the bottom lining of the tent, she assumed it was a rock until noted it wiggling in strain. Immediately realizing what it was her temper flared and she did well not to Holy-stomp Alexander into absolute oblivion. "You pesky little weasel!" she sputtered in anger as she pulled him from his trapped spot. "You foul little cretin! Have you no respect for one's privacy!?" she bellowed, her anger bringing color back to her face. Alexander's haunting cackle filled the air followed by comments of how he could've out performed Thae'vin in many different ways through the night. Through the Tournament Grounds the sound of Alexander hissing could be heard as he plummets through the air while enveloped in an orb of light. Elevandra had flung him like a Holy-Baseball.

the banality of my evil passions enslaved by ancient tenderness

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle Summary: Villanelle washes Eve’s hair. Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff if you squint, Dark!Eve, Soft!Villanelle, Nudity, Aftermath of Violence

Set after 2x07, possible spoilers for 2x08. (AO3 link)

The night she kills Raymond, Eve washes her body like a rape victim would.

With trembling fingers and uncharacteristic franticness, she scrubs away red and guilt stuck along the smooth expanse of skin grown pink - from the roughness of the sponge or the diluted blood, she isn’t sure -  and thinks of his, surely cooled by now, nothing but blueish flesh to be consumed eventually, when sticky maggots, shiny like oyster pearls but not as beautiful, feast on necrotic swell.

She imagines eyes that would resemble overripe plums in a matter of weeks as she closes hers for a moment, times her breathing with the water that laps at the side of her bath, and opens them again. Something unnerving simmering below her breastbone, she looks at the stubborn smudges of dried blood dyeing her cuticles burgundy until her vision slides out of focus, the image before her flowing seamlessly from hands into a lazy waltz of colors merging together with no discernible features.

It’s very possible that she is crying but it could be steamy water beating against her that’s blurring her vision. There’s the suggestion of a laugh bubbling on the tip of her tongue.

—

Villanelle finds her with her forehead resting on drawn up knees, arms tightly wrapped around them.

“Eve,” she says from the doorway, careful not to startle her. “I knocked twice but you did not answer.”

When she looks up at her, both eyebrows raised like she doesn’t understand, the corner lamp and lavender moonlight spilling through the windows hits pale skin, and it’s hard for Villanelle to associate this Eve to the one whose eyes had adopted an animalistic glint not two hours ago. This is more like the tenderly horrified version of Eve, the one that said Hold on, it’s okay, I got you after she had stuck a knife in her in Paris.

“He would’ve killed you,” Eve is saying quietly, like she no idea why she’s saying it at all.

He wouldn’t have, but she understands the importance of lies when the truth is keen on destruction, so she lets her believe that all the same.

“Yes. He would have.”

Fingertips traveling to the sensitive spots on her neck Raymond’s hands had branded, her mind works through the events of the previous hours, the memory of it all preserved in a box inside her head, a treasured jewel.

She recalls the feel of her hyoid bone being forcefully pushed down under the V of his rear naked choke, adrenaline dense as quicksand travelling in twisted forms through her bloodstream to fight back the fading of her vision, the manic laugh that had been simmering inside her chest for too long eventually making it’s way up her throat because she enjoys it more when her victims think they have the upper hand until the very last moment, and then-- just as she was starting to lose her patience, fingers tightly wrapped around the knife at her waist, ready-- the wet gurgling sound of an axe going through flesh like butter.

When his body collapsed and she turned around, being greeted with wild hair and equally wild eyes had just been icing on the cake. Thrill, there was no other word for it, was lurking behind brown orbs. She could read intention in them from every single angle, even through the haze, so perfect a negative of what should’ve been there instead.

Trust Eve to always exceed her expectations.

—

“You’ve been in here for nearly an hour.” She hears Villanelle say. “Are you okay? May I come in?”

She nods to one of her questions. “Yeah.”

She feels only a little foolish for thinking she would walk in and kneel to be at eye-level. Instead, she sees bare feet sliding into the room, hears the swish of silk robe caressing skin to make its way to the floor. Against white tiles, the fabric forms a pool the color of sangria sunsets, of Dom Perignon Oenotheque Rosé, of life spilled onto a rug.

She clears her throat, tries her best not to look up.

Her gaze flies up to Villanelle’s face all the same. There are no traces of blood anymore. Right after it was over, she had averted her eyes from Villanelles as though the exhilaration would rub off on her but she did wipe some of it herself. Her fingertips had danced across her cheeks, something protective in her not bearing the sight of gore splattered out like freckles on her face.

She takes in the honey-colored eyes, the carefully arranged emotions filling up such depths. She lets herself revel in everything she finds staring back. Longing, softness, and the ever-present hunger that surely must be a reflection of her own hidden desires.

It’s the proud gleam she eventually recognizes there that eventually makes her look away.

Some emotion she didn’t care to name stirring in his chest, she watches her nakedness like you watch a chemical reaction. Cautious, wary. Fascinated. She commits to memory the contradiction that is Villanelle— the softness of the rosy nipples and supple breasts, of the full hips and thighs; and then the tightness of lean muscles underneath creamy skin, the strength of long fingers clenching at her sides, waiting, letting herself be seen.

She reminds herself to breathe as her eyes fall and linger on the scar of her creation, a thing she made. It’s smaller, now, but still, it protrudes proudly pink on ivory canvas. A flashback threatens to destroy her composure, her breathing shaking like the delicate stutter of wounded butterfly wings. She’s been here before. Under different circumstances, yes, but still. There’s something to be said about finding oneself in the same situation twice, but she blinks that thought away when Villanelle moves to sit behind her.  

“The water is cold,” she remarks like a child would, water splashing out onto the floor as it welcomes the new weight.

Eve only notices it then, the temperature contrasting against Villanelle’s naked body, solid around hers.

She smiles a weak smile out of reflex. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Let me, Eve,” Villanelle offers evenly.

It pricks at her, the way Villanelle, who is not in the least afraid of anything, uses that careful tone of voice with her, the one whispered to alert your friend about a bear in the clear. She thinks of role reversals but doesn’t dwell on this because that would make her the threat, and because Villanelle is moving to twist the drain stopper open and turn the spray on once again. She finds herself relaxing under the new soothing warmth, lets her body melt deeper into her.

When Villanelle tentatively says, “You didn’t wash your hair yet,” she guesses the intention behind her words, precariously hidden behind strong phonemes of someone who speaks a foreign language.

This time, she thinks of belonging and vulnerability and bruised hearts, and the guilt seared inside her turns into the good kind of pull, something like longing sitting in her stomach like lead. If this is what they are now, so be it.

Relief deeper than consolation curling the muscles around her mouth into a genuine smile, she says,

“Would you do it for me?”

—

Time seems to be slowed tonight, liquescent. Boundless fascination igniting unfamiliar fluttering in her breast, pulsing through the weak confines of her system, Villanelle feels most alive in the small moments Eve offers herself to her.

Pouring a dollop of expensive shampoo into her palm, she conceals the metallic smell of blood and fear with floral notes and musky herbs purchased in Tuscany, working the cream from her scalp to the ends, her intention to soften Eve’s thoughts, her heart squeezing when she feels more than hears Eve exhaling a noise of pleasure.

She imagines half-lidded eyes and slightly parted lips as she traces the thick mass of hair cascading through her fingers. Almost dizzy, she runs her hands over impossibly onyx like it’s a sacred thing, enraptured by the ghastly shimmer that every droplet reflects, bright white and indigo hues where light falls.

Amorphous like the water flowing between them, her curls are lost because of the weight, but they are soft all the same on fingers weaving through strands, slippery silks tickling nerve endings, hair runny like good ink. Villanelle drinks in its heaviness-- buoyant, generous, luscious. Obscene.She feels the tingling previously narrowed down to pinpricks at her fingertips expand, propelling to meet the newfound buzzing rising in her lower belly right at the middle of her chest, where sinews taut like violin strings seem to snap, spreading stark explosions of amber everywhere.

Before she has the chance to voice her admiration,

“I have killed someone.” Eve breathes it out like a revelation, a little hysterical.

Villanelle inhales sharply, hands frozen in place. She waits.

“Don’t stop now, Oksana,” Eve admonishes softly, and encourages her to resume her movements by nuzzling against her palms the way cats do.

—

Outside the windows, the buzz and hiss of streetlamps remind Eve of her own inconsistency reverberating inside her core, flaring, barely kept at bay. Inside, Villanelle unhooks the shower head to rinse her clean. With practiced skill, fingers surprisingly delicate for someone as strong as her, she gathers her hair and lets it fall, once, twice, a delicious number of times.

Her knuckles graze the base of her neck in whirls and lines and streaks, a brush connecting twinkling dots scattered in the sky to form constellations. Cygnus, Ophiuchus, Orion cross her mind.

Always in synchrony with each other, they both sigh.

If she were anyone else, or if Villanelle were, she would’ve been more wary. Because she is not, and Villanelle isn’t, so she closes her eyes and lowers her guard and herself into sultry warmth.

Underwater, she listens carefully to the sound of blood thrumming in her ears and the vicious beat of her living heart. Darkness. For a while, that’s all there is. Then, the same deep quiet that soothes helps filter out with deafening clarity Villanelle’s Why did you do that, Eve? inside her mind, an echo from some other time when she thought she would become a corpse in her kitchen. Only this time, the crime scene hadn’t been her kitchen and the corpse hadn’t been hers.

She breaks the surface gasping for air just as the sob trapped inside her throat makes its way out.

—

She turns Eve around easily, drawing her closer and burying her head in her chest. She traces endless circles on her back, tenderly where skin was rubbed raw, trying to offer Eve any measure of comfort. She imagines what she must be feeling right now and waits, unsure of what to make of Eve’s reactions.

Villanelle is still so stunned by her very existence, by the very presence of this woman in her life. Eve, who had left everything she knew in the past to follow her into an uncertain future. Eve, who is a force of nature, untamed and undeterred. Eve, whose hot breath tickles where she tries to muffle her sobs.

To a certain extent, she had experienced enjoyment in the situation, not sure she’s ever felt so flattered. The realization of what Eve has done for her had blossomed inside her chest like flowers turning its heads to the sun. She’s used to taking lives, but she’s not used to people taking them in order to save hers. It had been a gift, and that is much more familiar.

She knows a thing or two about returning favors, and maybe because she doesn’t care about faceless men and consequences and guilt this is not a selfless act, but deep down, she knows she does what she does out of love for her, and that she means every promise she makes.

And so she grabs her hand, if only so that an axe wasn’t the last thing she’s held, and says in hushed words, a quiet breath in the space between them,

“No one has to know it was you who did it.”

—

Eve tenses. She thinks, Would you? For me? and Shut up, shut up, shut up in the same millisecond.

She can see that going one of two ways: Villanelle takes the fall for her, if it comes to that, because one more victim wouldn’t make a difference to anyone. Except her. She’s free. Probably. She’s free, without Villanelle. Her breath hitches. Or, Villanelle doesn’t:  She takes responsibility for what she’s done and accepts her fate, whatever that might be. Her breath hitches.

An unreasonable line of thought sprouts in her mind. If we go down, we down together. She almost lets out a laugh, loud and importunate, at the absurdity of that part of her that longs for the idealized end. Almost.

She will make sure it doesn’t go any of those ways at all. She has no intention of negotiating. You are not doing that, Villanelle.

She must have said that last part out loud, because Villanelle lifts her chin to meet her eyes.

“I don’t care about adding one more name to my list,” she says, matter-of-factly. Then she makes a face, adds: “I’m only worried about people thinking I’m sloppy.”

It wasn’t meant to be a joke. Her eyebrows are raised, forehead slightly scrunched up, eyes open and honest. It’s that innate innocence of hers that makes her let out the laugh she was holding— something dry, like it was forced out her lungs. She fights the impulse to press her lips to hers, to kiss her just for the sake of making her stop talking for the rest of the night.

If she is honest, the only reason she doesn’t is because if they ever kiss, she doesn’t want it to be like this. If she is completely honest, she prefers not being on the brink of a nervous breakdown when they do.

Firmly, because she is so tired: “You are not doing that.”

As consolation, the back of her fingers brushes against her high cheeks with the same tenderness they had caressed her that night in her kitchen, a barely-there touch.

Time stifled into stillness, they make this moment theirs. In the confines of these seconds, they breathe in and out steadily, the crucible of their intimacy finding a rhythm when their hearts beat the same quiet symphony.

Villanelle is looking at her the way she has looked at her from the first moment they met. The way no one else has— Her, in her line of vision, and then everything else.

Eve thinks that if this were happening in an alternate universe, she would be whispering three words at her like a confession.

Best not to think of what could have been, she blinks then to escape the intensity of Villanelles eyes, probably close to guessing her thoughts.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, slightly breathless, not sure she means the tub or something else.

Villanelle decides for her. Standing up, she gently extends a hand.

She holds it, filled with a calm contentment so otherworldly that she feels both light-headed and heavy at the same time, as if she were so relaxed her seemingly weightless body could float and drift away towards night sky if it weren’t for the honey thick feel of drowsiness running through her veins and Villanelle’s hand sliding against hers, twining their fingers together, anchoring her.

Othello - race and ethnicity

DEFINITIONS AND CONTEXT The play written by Shakespeare in the XVII century is the very first whose black protagonist is portrayed in a positive way, allowing the text to acquire a vital role in the history of drama. Yet the clarity regarding Othello’s race has not always been so unquestioned. As the play has been reproduced on stage thousands of times over the past centuries, so has the perception of Othello’s skin colour. Starting from the publishing of the play in 1622 the characters dark skin remained intact, up to the 1820’s when a scholar by the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge published a paper in which he states - ,,Can we imagine him [Shakespeare] so utterly ignorant as to make a barbarous negro plead royal birth? […] It is a common error to mistake epithets applied by dramatis personae to each other as truly descriptive of what the audience out to see or know.” (Coleridge, 385). Following the release of this essay Othello was depicted as light-skinned or bronzed until the 1870’s. The problematic approach to the protagonist’s skin colour has been evident throughout history, as well as discussed in the play itself. The term moor refers to somebody from the region of Arabia, Palestine or North Africa, generally speaking - Muslims. These people had the possibility to receive high ranks and gather large fortunes (just like our protagonist did) OTHELLO VIEWED FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF SOCIETY At the time, England’s population consisted almost entirely of white Europeans, and the few black people that lived in the area were heavily associated with negative traits such as dishonestly and hostility. Thus most of the literature created before the publishing of the Shakespearean drama, rarely incorporated characters of colour, and if they did, they were presented as evil, cruel villains, with the sole purpose of causing chaos and pain. Shakespeare’s play acknowledges societies perception of black people, but does not support it. Othello is consistently judged for his race, called racial slurs and undermined by people of lower rank, that nonetheless, feel entitled to insult the man. This is most visibly conveyed in Act I Scene I of the play, before Othello is even introduced. The reader/viewer witness a conversation between Iago and Roderigo during which they discuss the ‘unlawful, socially unacceptable’ marriage of Desdemona and Othello. In fact most of the racially charged vocabulary comes from those two characters and Brabantio, who later joins the scene as well. However, it is evident that Othello has managed to gather respect in his position, as the Duke of Venice, when praising him to Brabantio claims - ,, your son in law is far more fair than black” ( 1.3.291). Said as a compliment, but still undermining the man for his blackness, this is an ideal example of what Othello was usually faced with. Common pre-existing stereotypes in the culture of XVII century England regarding black men, state that they tend to be overly jealous; are exaggeratingly passionate (hence unreasonable) and gullible. All these mentioned traits have been portrayed by Othello in his behaviour, and used by Iago to manipulate him. Fundamental concepts – • Othello is generally respected as a military man. • The Duke of Venice, a person of a very high rank, respects Othello’s opinions, treating him more seriously than his own senators, which is presented in the act 1 scene 3, where the dynamics between Othello, the Duke, and Brabantio are shown. One of the symbols of respect is that Othello was greeted first, before the senator. • Although he is positively perceived, characters do not ignore his race, which makes him an outsider despite his behavior and status. How other characters refer to Othello? Starting from Iago, the characters name derives from Santiago, which is a symbolic title for people who fight against moors ( or moor-slayers ), meaning that he is by nature supposed to be opposed to Othello. Iago, being the villain he is, insults everybody around him, but he has a designated vocabulary reserved primarily to either describe or infuriate Othello, as he refers to him as an old black ram contrasting him with Desdemona represented by an ewe. Desdemona on the other hand deeply admires her husband. Unlike what the people in her surroundings think, she is infatuated in Othello. Portrayed as one of the strongest feminine characters in Shakespeare, Desdemona opposes to her fathers will, falls in love with a man her when socially it would have been unthinkable to do so, and even follows him to war to Cyprus. Her defiant personality has led some to believe that her love for Othello was kindled by his race. Othello’s skin colour, symbolises his exoticism, creates an atmosphere of mystery and ambiguity around the man, and this is what attracts Desdemona the most. She is fascinated by him. Their love is also illustrated by the imagery of the night, representing Othello, adoring the day, symbolising Desdemona. Nonetheless, their romance will be testified against her, as Iago presents her rebellious personality as a reason for her to cheat on him, creating dramatic irony. Emilia as well as Iago directly correlate Othello’s dark skin colour with his evilness. Most characters believe a black ‘outside’, meaning physical appearance, must be related with a dark ‘inside’, accusing him of malicious intents and cruelness, solely based on his exterior appearance. Fundamental concepts - • Most of the characters in the play refer to Othello using race- and ethnicity-centered epithets, i.e. “the Moor”, “the thicklips”. • Characters that aim to present him in a negative way, like Iago, often use various animals with negative connotations, for instance “Barbary horse”, or “an old black ram”. • The dark color of Othello’s skin is used to symbolize sin and evil. For example, Iago uses the term “blackest sin”, and Emilia “blacker devil”. How does Othello refer to himself? In the face of constant judgment based on his physical appearance, it is inevitable for Othello to not think poorly of himself. In Act I Scene III, the character attributes his problems in expressing his language in a courteous manner to his years spent in the military, but as the play progresses, his insecurities start surfacing. By the time the reader reaches Act III Scene III, he states – ,,Haply (perhaps), for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That clamberers have” – thus blaming his racial identity for the qualities he lacks. The phrase above reflects how self-doubting the character must have been of himself, if in the moment when he is presented the biggest doubt of his life, he immediately turns to his ethnicity seeking for a part of him to blame, to point out what he was most afraid would happen. Othello, indeed, numerous times wonders why Desdemona fell in love with him, and even feels anxious about having such a lovely wife. The low self-confidence of the character ignited by years of racial marginalizing, has made him an easy target for manipulation, as Iago manages to smoothly slide into Othello’s mind, pull out his biggest doubts, and without providing an explanation leave him to his thoughts. The final monologue of Othello is also crucial in understanding his perception of himself. As he prepares the knife that will later lead to his death, he lays down his principles. He asks the witnesses to ‘’Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate/ Nor set down in malice” a final plead to be remembered by his service for the state, behavior and human, instead of skin color. Othello also makes reference to his race by including exotic metaphors, and his final sentances are as follows – ,,And say besides that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took bt th’ throat the circumcised dog And smote him – thus!” As Othello retells the sotry of one of his many victories while serving for the state, he indicates that he, himself, has become an enemy of Venice. By degrading himself to the level of those he despised most, which is visible in the vocabulary he used to describe the enemy nation, he presents himself as equally worthless as those who he killed, and subsequently stabs himself in a deadly lunge. At his moment of death he identifies himself as a foreigner that despite their biggest efforts, never managed to become part of the society that so deeply rejected him. Fundamental concepts - • Othello often acknowledges his ethnicity, often combing it with some stereotype, like saying that he is a bad speaker because of his race: ”Haply, for I am black/ And have not those soft parts of conversation” • He is conscious of the fact that he is an outsider, but he also knows that his service to Venice is important and that he is a trusted and successful soldier. • In his final monologue he uses many exotic metaphors (dropping tears as fast as Arabian trees, Indian throwing a pearl away), a reference to his background. OTHER LOCATIONS REPRESENTED o Venice - a very well prospering place due to international trade. Its location by the sea not only enabled business connections but also allowed many cultures and races mix in the city. Venetians were considered very open minded at the time, as they emphasised work and their interests rather than religious values imposed by the church. As they liked to point out – “we are Venetians first, and Christians second”. The city was a place of ambiguous morals, perhaps the only city at the current time in which an interracial marriage, such as that of Desdemona and Othello’s, would be somewhat eligible. o Florence - in Shakespeare’s time the city was considered to be the center of education. Cassio, a Florentine, speaks in a very elegant manner, which confirms this perception of Florence. A Florentine was also used to describe homosexuals, and other males with high femininity levels. o Cyprus - a place very different from Venice, as it is a fortified outpost. The island plays a very important role in the play, as the actions starts unfolding once the characters arrive. The size of the area is smaller and the political situation is uncertain enhacing the atmosphere of the island being a dangerous outpost unlawful territory, making it the perfect place for Iago to carry out his evil plan. Cyprus was also the birth place of Aphrodite, a mythological goddess of love, which ties in with the themes of love and jealous.

|Nightly encounter| Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary; Being one of earth mightiest doesn't excuse someone from nightmares. The reader is struggling to find ease after a night terror. In her search for answers, she comes across someone else, who knows just how it feels. It's a pretty dry little story, nothing too exciting, but just alil romantic. Usually, people just go to the story, I do so myself, so I'll say now ;

Italics are a person's thoughts. example; 'sample.' (f/n) , (l/n) = Reader's First Name, Last Name. (e/c) = eye color (h/c) = hair color Timeskips and/ or changes in scenery are both identified by the little periods I put to separate them. While I do love filling space with a description about just every little thing, it can get tedious, forgive me. I, of course, own nothing but the story itself. The characters mentioned and used are not property of me of course. Ok, here we go.

       She sat restlessly in the middle of the now uncomfortable bed with a rapidly pounding heartbeat. With a small hand tightly pressed on top of the accelerated muscle, she began to try and find a steady rhythm for her breath to take.

But it was a fruitless task…

The Darkness that surrounded the (h/c) haired young woman made her growing illusive mind play tricks on her, and soon enough her eyes dashed left and right in complete paranoia. Every inch of the room seemed to be infested by evil demons, all of which begged to dig their sharp, monstrous teeth into fresh human flesh. From across the room, she could almost swear upon everything holy in this land that evil eyes stared dead at her...eagerly waiting for her to near it and fall into a trap. “For god sakes, I'm an avenger damn it !” she said through gritted teeth, but as her eyes stared at the furthest corner, even more evil shapes began to swirl, manifesting into lanky creatures.

‘Nope, nope, nope’ she chanted in her head, trying to keep those maddening thoughts from overcoming her.

     With haste she jumped from her bed, and quickly made a path outside of the room, deciding to not let her eyes fall anywhere but that path to freedom and in a few long strides she reached the outside of the room.

Standing motionlessly, she craned her neck back to glare at the closed door that lead to her room, and with that final glance back at the cursed room, she grimaced, not feeling too keen on returning so soon. She felt a chill run up her spine at the thought of returning and going back. Rigidly she turned back towards the direction of the kitchen, walking briskly.

Not too slow, but not too suspiciously quick...

‘ Maybe a bit of honey and milk will ease me, or some tea perhaps?’ she pondered rubbing her warm hands over her goose-bump riddled arms. ‘Or fuck it a drink? Can't really stay awake when you're completely sauced, can you?’ She contemplated, trying to smile, though it was pretty much another failed attempt at comforting herself.

‘A drink… yeah,’ she decided. Anything to keep her at ease at this point. At her age, it felt ridiculous to have these nightmares. And at her status? it was just foolish.

“Earth’s mightiest," she grumbled, dejectedly.

“I'm still the same wuss, ”

…..................................................................................................

  There was not a soul in sight, which in a way didn't help the dark feeling of loneliness to fade. However, it was slightly to her taste, a way better deal. The last thing she needed was someone asking too many questions. She’d spill the beans and then the whole team would make her a laughing stock. She could already imagine all the jabs they’d take at her.

Though she had good relationships with the rest of the team, she knew it was something they wouldn't let drop so easily, and to think, all because She was having stupid little nightmares…

Like some silly little 6 year old...

“There's no reason to be scared (f/n),” she said chuckling to herself, once again hoping to sedate the alarm she felt.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

   Finally reaching the kitchen the (h/c) haired woman stopped dead in her track, her hand coming up to her face, slapping over her quivering lips to stifle A would-be scream.

A lone figure sat at the bar, slouched and almost unmoving. Long hair seemed to hide The person's face, along with the dimmed lighting and at first, her mind played back to the shadows in her room, making panic rise in her gut.

But there was no way…

‘No freaking way.’ She thought.

       Within a few moments of wide-eyed staring,  her eyes began to adjust to the new lighting that was in contrast to the darkness she had weaved through to get there. It had taken her a while, but soon the dreaded figure took a more humane form and a small, barely audible sigh let her. By process of elimination, it could only be one person.

Long, dark hair, big,  strong body? Yeah...

That was Bucky...

Bucky Barnes, A.K.A The Winter soldier, as so many knew him by previously.

‘Sweet, innocent, harmless, human, won't-turn-into-the-devil Bucky,’  She thought with a shaky smile.

      The anxiety caused by fear and untimely doom died away, being replaced with a lesser, more innocent concern. A soft color bloomed onto her face, and she formed a subtle, sweet smile. The tremors in her body caused by terror now became shivers of excitement caused by invisible butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Hesitantly, she stepped towards him, awkwardly rubbing her left arm with her hand as an act of tremulousness.

Before she could come in close proximity to him, she found his gaze already set on her. His gunmetal blue eyes had connected with her, asking her questions, more along the lines of  “why are you here?" and better yet, "What do you want?” Truth be told, he didn’t seem too welcoming.

“Hi,” she said softly, forcing a smile onto her previously trembling lips, giving a small wave as well, trying to show hospitality and openness, hoping he’d take it well.

    Without a word, he looked back to where he had faced, taking in a view of the outside world and the dark sky instead of her, like she had just vanished to thin air and gone away. The hand that had been raised slowly died back down to her side and she bit her inner cheek with annoyance and grimace. ‘I wish you'd just speak to me,' she thought with a sigh. ‘I wish you'd say something to me, just once and not glare.���  

Not knowing whether or not to turn away or stay in hopes of a delayed and decent hello, she stood awkwardly, looking every bit of uncomfortable that she felt.

‘I'd rather take my chances and be eaten,’ she thought shrinking down and swallowing hard she turned back to leave him be, but was halted by the sound of his voice.

“Can't sleep?” he asked, tilting his head down to his drink and taking a swing.

     For a moment she had stayed quiet, being unsure if he had actually said a word to her, seeing as he was such a somber man, never once opening his mouth to anyone but his longtime friend. “So what is it?” he asked, this time a little louder, assuming she had missed his previous question. He still had no intentions of looking her way, but at the very least he acknowledged her, making her smile subtly. Abiet still a dry interaction, but she could note the effort in his part. Now that she was certain he was making conversation with her, the discomfort gnawing at her mellowed down and instead happiness burst through her chest as she saw his efforts. “No,” she answered breathlessly, realizing his voice was actually lovely, something she wouldn't get tired of hearing.

     He gave a dry chuckle, introducing her to a new sound. “What's keeping you up?” He asked genuinely curious, seeing as he has stayed up late before, a lot more than he cared to elaborate on and it was the first time ever seeing her out that late.

So What kept such a person awake at night? Someone who seemed to have never committed a crime, much more an atrocity as he had in his past? What could she possibly harbor dark in her heart to make her meet him at this time?

     He heard her shift in her spot before she spoke, shakily voicing her distress. “I - I had a nightmare, “ she confessed, not thrilled enough to admit it and with obvious embarrassment.

Through the dark strands shielding his face from her’s he gave her a side glance, observing the way she bowed her head down and stared at her bare feet in shame.

‘Is she embarrassed about it?’ he wondered seeing the clear signs of unease at the confession.

She came clean to him on her distress, and so he decided to comfort her in knowing she wasn't alone.

And he too wasn't proud of it either...

"Same here." he murmured, still eyeing her, finding it hard to tear his gaze from her. His eyes were glued to her, watching every move she made because she had something different that made his eyes draw to her, even if at the moment she looked rather dull.

     The large shirt she wore draped over her body was a wrinkled mess, probably from tossing and turning so much. It barely reached passed her mid-thigh, making it seem more like a dress than an actual shirt and she seemed to look somewhat tinier in the old, worn garb.

Her hair was loose, falling in messy waves and her bangs lay sticking to her forehead with a light sheen of sweat.

The more his eyes traveled over her body, the odder the sensation rising at the pit of his stomach felt, and he just couldn't place why.

“ can I sit with you?” She asked, the undertone of her words practically begging him for companionship. Her voice had cut through his thinking, and he was relieved about it, not knowing where else his mind would wonder about her.

   He gave her a brief nod, with a single word accepting the request. “Sure,” he said, and at his consent, she seated herself next to him, placing both her hands onto her knees, all while nervously glancing down at the empty counter spot before her, not knowing what to say.

She heard him shift in position, as well as the sound of a falling river of liquid. Not soon after there was another sound, something scraping over the counter and going towards her.

He had slid a cup of half-filled glass in front of her, making the instant smell of liquor hit her nose like a harsh awakening. Scrunching up her nose she made a small displeased noise.

“ Ugh.” She couldn't help it escape her.

“ Not a drinker?” He questioned her with amusement, watching her face scrunch up.

“Never been one,” She confessed, glaring down at the bronze colored liquid, contemplating on what to do with it.

“ Hand it here then,” He said, opening his hand up for the drink to go back to.

“ No… No, I actually came to have a drink…” she confessed, sounding unsure about the decision.

He gave her a questioning look at her response and shook his head. “ You just said you don't like to drink,” He said flatly, pointing out an obvious fact.

She brought her index up to nibble on its nail, knowing full well how contradictory she seemed, saying one thing and going on about another a second later… She felt silly.

“Yeah, but I just thought that...Well...” She started, unsure of how to explain her prior thinking well.

Catching on to what she had been trying to explain, he shook his head, “It doesn't really help.” He said simply. “It doesn't?” she asked forming a crease between her brows as they tilted down into a frown. “ At least that's how it is for me. I end up staying awake all night. For the most part, it just gives me something to do,” he said plainly. “ A pastime I guess, having a drink, ” he added.

“I'm sorry to hear,” she said, deciding to take the glass within her hands. After all, at least it gave her a reason to stay. “It's alright. It's not your fault, “ he said giving her a strained smile.

     She noticed the way his body had started shifting towards hers, facing her now, and keeping his attention focused on her. He hadn't realized he did it until he got trapped in a close, deep connection with her eyes. Blue-grey color stared deeply into (e/c) colored eyes, each of the two people taking on every detail of their companion.

The room became eerily silent, with only the sound of balanced breathing being heard. For her it felt like being on a roller coaster, just barely reaching the peak of the highest point, feeling a serious rush push forth inside her. As for him, it was unclear, it all was. He could only describe it as a feeling unknown to him.

If there had ever been a feeling to come close to what he felt now in his past, it was far gone and nowhere in comparison.  “This is the most we've spoken,” She said suddenly, batting her eyes, blinking way the focus she had on him. Her gaze then reluctantly dropped down to her drink as she brought it up for a first taste. “Yeah,” He said agreeing, holding his drink in his hand, also taking a sip, but focused more on the expression she had swallowing up the bitter drink. It was obvious she didn't enjoy it, but none the less drowned it down in three separate attempts.

“I…I feel that's a little sad.” she admitted, “ I’d like to ... to speak to you more. Talk more.” She admitted with struggle. He stared at her dumbfounded then snickered at her. “ Really?” He asked, entertained by her hesitance, and even more about the idea that she wanted to get to know him more.

    Nodding furiously she extended her arm out with the glass in hand. Refilling the cup he offered her a smile, his best attempt at one at least. It had been an almost instantaneous reaction, but her face lifted and beamed, giving him a greater one in return and it was hard for him to look away from her now.  His mind blanked at her sweet expression and he felt a wall go down, slowly unwinding a burden in his heart.

“I haven't slept all week,” he confessed. “ It's like every time I blink, I see things I don't want to… I can only imagine what closing them longer would do…” He murmured, biting his tongue afterward for confessing that bit about himself. ‘ She didn't need to know that.'  He thought gnawing at the pink muscle, cursing at himself for being so uncharacteristically chummy. She had both her hands on her small glass, but upon hearing him say that, took one off and instead placed it over his own. The action had taken him back and had his eyes snap down to the connection between the two. Her smaller hand covered his for a few short seconds, and he could feel the slight cooling wetness from her own glass’s condensation, but that small detail didn't matter to him.

     He found that the hand that touched him felt in a short description; right. It felt just right and not much more. His shoulders melted down, and he took yet another sip of his drink when she released him.

She didn't offer any opinion of her own afterward, and waited for him to say more instead, and that he did. An hour went by as he spoke, somehow switching from his dark thoughts and sleepless nights to the good memories he could recall, many of which were silly stories about his childhood. He stumbled with certain details, but she listened with attentiveness, never once ceasing the smile that had formed on her face. However, there came a point to where she found herself drifting, swaying slightly, and to not fall forward she put a hand under her chin and propped her elbow on the table to support it.

     At the sound of his deep, murmuring voice, she found that with every blink she gave, her eyelids became heavier. His voice was soothing, and comforting, making the world brighter for her to let her guard down. She hadn't even thought about the nightmares that awoken her in the time she was with him. With a subtle side glance, he looked towards the now sleeping woman, giving her a halfhearted glare.

“Some talk,” He mused, not particularly bothered she had fallen asleep on him. He was already finding himself opening up too much anyways, more than he cared to do and he was sure she could write at least two chapters on the history books about him.

    He hadn't planned on that, never even occurred to let so much slip out, but she was making him unwind in a single night as if he were some open book out on display. He was partially hoping she didn't remember a wink of the night, forgetting he had let go of so many intimate thoughts, so many hidden ideas he had just found on his own as he opened up to her.

      He could see from the window the way the full moon shined with excited-ness and taking the last sip of harsh liquor, he stood up. ‘Guess I should turn over too...’ he thought, with the intentions of sleep in mind, but with the full knowledge that he'd only stay awake another night. With heavy steps, he walked towards the doorway but stopped abruptly.

Turning his attention towards (f/n) yet again he noticed the way that the hand holding the side of her head slowly began to slide upwards as her head made its way down to an upcoming crash. He sighed and quickly ran over to her side, placing his flesh hand above the surface just as her head slipped from her hand.

“That would have woken her up for sure,” He said to himself, looking down at the peaceful look on her face. She coddled her cheek to his warm hand, making him stiffen, and glare down at her, taken back by the mindless little action.

He had let her touch him one time too many already... ‘Stop doing that’ he thought, feeling a bothersome churn in response to her affection, but not voicing his commands at her, or daring to give her a rude awakening. He wasn't inconsiderate...

   Making a final decision, he slowly lifted her head up and pushed her back onto his other waiting arm. Once she was inclined back onto his arm, he gingerly placed his fleshed arm beneath her knees while the metal one supported her upper body, pressed her to himself as he began to carry her. And while he found the closeness almost queasy, she was more than welcome to the contact. Once again, she coddled towards him, this time hiding close to his chest. ‘You really shouldn't do that.’ he thought, once again keeping his opinions to himself, not finding it right to bother her, or wake her. At Least one of them should enjoy some sleep.

Making a final decision, he decided to take her back to her room, then crawl back into his to lay awake again yet another night.

..................................................................................................

Tinie Winnie time skip to the reader’s room.

(still the same p.o.v.)

    He laid her down and brought the covers up to her neck, watching her curl up within seconds. “I wish I could fall asleep so easily,” he mused. Gently, his fingers ran through her (h/c) colored hair, finding it soft, despite the few knots he found himself coming in contact with.

Something about the way her face was set looked so peaceful and innocent bringing him a gentle comfort. While his fingers weaved through her hair, it felt almost soothing, like a destresser. The moment lasted a minute before her eyes fluttered open, showing him hazy and glossy (e/c) colored eyes. He froze, caught in such an embarrassing and compelling action and immediately his arm snapped to his side as, and he readied himself for an excuse, that or for her questioning.

   However, she didn't allow time for that, because as she opened her eyes and saw him, she smiled. She barely addressed him, just hardly whispering his name in a sweet tone, and with the same soft smile,  she closed her eyes again, turning over in the opposite direction.  She left him with the sight of the back of her head, immediately falling back into her deep sleep and leaving him stunned.

“What the hell am I doing,” he grumbled taking the same hand that had been touching her and instead running it through his own head of hair. His head leaned back as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Just what is going on?” He said quietly, whispering to himself in a complete loss. ‘I need to get out of here,’ He thought clenching his fists, realizing the sweet, warm scent that had covered every inch of the room and herself had become intoxicating. While it surrounded him, he felt even stranger than before, something he wasn’t minding, which was the alarming part. It made him feel dizzy with lingering thoughts rising in his head, dangerously intimate ones. As he moved to leave, he found himself staring back, glued to the spot just inches from the door.

     She seemed motionless, aside from the breathing, making the little lump on the bed rise and fall. What if she had another one of her nightmares? 'What then?' He had asked himself what would happen in such a case and took a risky decision. Looking to the opposite side of her bed, adjacent to it was a small sofa pushed against the wall.

“ Really, what am I thinking…” He said softly, going towards the double seater.

‘ She’ll think I’m some creep.’ He thought while sitting on one of the ends of the sofa, letting his arm rest on the surface of its side. From his seat, he kept his eyes on her, watching the way she curled and turned every once in a while, making sure there wasn't distress. After a short while, he rubbed his eyes, feeling them grow heavier as he stared at her.

He's never taken the time to stare at someone sleep, and he supposed that had its effects on him, and quicker than he had assumed, he fell into the sweet embrace of slumber.

...................................................................................................

   Her eyes opened up to see nothing but her cushiony pillows in her face, as well as being surrounded by nothing but warmth and comfort. She was about to question it all, speaking aloud to herself, “ But I thought-” she started, but cut herself off, quieting down as she noticed Bucky sitting down on the sofa facing her. His lovely eyes were now hidden beneath his eyelids, and his chest rose and fell ever so softly. His head was inclined to the side as he sat sitting up with his arms crossed over his chest. If she didn't know any better, she would have assumed that he had mindlessly fallen to sleep, and that was just the case...

‘He slept here… ?’ She thought, unable to hold down the smile pulling at her face.

‘He brought me here too…’ She concluded.

It could only have been him to do such a sweet thing, and yet still look so impassive about it, even while in his sleep. 'He probably planned to leave afterward but stayed,' She gripped her sheets tightly, contemplating on her next move. ‘Should I wake him up?’ She thought uncertain. ‘No, that'd be wrong.’ She argued, remembering that he too had stayed awake half the night, unable to sleep, and had a much harder week. She couldn't just kick him out like that.

‘He must be freezing though…’ She thought gazing at him sympathetically. The room was cold, and he seemed lonely and probably freezing over there without protection from the cool air.

    As quietly as she could she stepped off of her bed, cringing at the squeak of the mattress. Making sure her feet touched the ground as silently as possible, she moved one foot then the other in slow, careful motions. Having found herself now standing she took a quick glance back at him. making sure he didn't stir and smiled triumphantly. He stayed unmoving, save for the rhythmic breathing, much to her delight. Bundling up the fluffy comforter in her arms, she walked over to him, spreading it over his body, not letting an inch of him (except his head) be uncovered. It was the least she could do after going through the trouble of bringing her there and even staying a bit longer afterward. After she covered him up, she took a second to truly admire him, the stubley mess that he had as facial hair, the long locks threatening to fall forward onto his sleeping face, even the pretty dark lashes fanned over his cheeks.

He was really handsome, that much was true and now she could add sweet to that growing lists of traits she had discovered and had liked. Swallowing hard she felt her heart race as her eyes dropped to his lips, biting her own. They were very inviting, causing her own to feel lonesome for a touch at them.

‘ God, I need to sleep.’ she thought grazing her fingers over her own lips, shaking her head and scolding herself. With the same careful silence, she moved back to her mattress, climbing onto it and hiding beneath the rest of the sheets on her bed. She faced him with a smile, finding the image of him being the last thing before she sleeps to be comforting, as equal in warmth to a lit fireplace on a winter night. She didn't know it was something she needed until then. Easily lulled by the sight of him there, she once again fell into slumber within seconds. After that, she doesn't remember what she dreamed about, or what had lied beyond the world she slipped into after hours, but all she knew we that he played a role. He was there talking to her like he had that night, and he made her feel safer.

...................................................................................................

      When he woke up, he found himself covered by her comforter, the one he had put her to sleep in the night before. Her smiling face was facing him as she slept, looking completely at bliss. Without a word, he walked out, but not before folding the cover neatly. When he finished he left it in the place where he had been sleeping. He wouldn't say anything to her as he walked away, and silently thanked her instead, finding that to be one of the only things he could do. He felt more recharged, filled with new energy. With a mellowed excitement, he thought about what he would do after such a night of sleep. For one he’d have to take up Sam and Steve’s offer on that run now. It seemed like a good option... Once he stood outside her door he pulled up a gentle smile and he hoped it wasn't the last time they'd have a nightly encounter. He could only anticipate spending another night beside her, with just her and him alone.

Othello in the context of race and ethnicity

DEFINITIONS AND CONTEXT

The play written by Shakespeare in the XVII century is the very first whose black protagonist is portrayed in a positive way, allowing the text to acquire a vital role in the history of drama. Yet the clarity regarding Othello’s race has not always been so unquestioned. As the play has been reproduced on stage thousands of times over the past centuries, so has the perception of Othello’s skin colour. Starting from the publishing of the play in 1622 the characters dark skin remained intact, up to the 1820’s when a scholar by the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge published a paper in which he states -  ,,Can we imagine him [Shakespeare] so utterly ignorant as to make a barbarous negro plead royal birth? […] It is a common error to mistake epithets applied by dramatis personae to each other as truly descriptive of what the audience out to see or know.” (Coleridge, 385). Following the release of this essay, Othello was depicted as light-skinned or bronzed until the 1870s. The problematic approach to the protagonist’s skin colour has been evident throughout history, as well as discussed in the play itself.

The term moor refers to somebody from the region of Arabia, Palestine or North Africa, generally speaking -  Muslims. These people had the possibility to receive high ranks and gather large fortunes (just like our protagonist did)

OTHELLO’S RACE VIEWED FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF SOCIETY

At the time, England’s population consisted almost entirely of white Europeans, and the few black people that lived in the area were heavily associated with negative traits such as dishonesty and hostility. Thus most of the literature created before the publishing of the Shakespearean drama, rarely incorporated characters of colour, and if they did, they were presented as evil, cruel villains, with the sole purpose of causing chaos and pain. Shakespeare’s play acknowledges society's perception of black people, but does not support it. Othello is consistently judged for his race, called racial slurs and undermined by people of lower rank, that nonetheless, feel entitled to insult the man. This is most visibly conveyed in Act I Scene I of the play before Othello is even introduced. The reader/viewer witness a conversation between Iago and Roderigo during which they discuss the ‘unlawful, socially unacceptable’ marriage of Desdemona and Othello. In fact, most of the racially charged vocabulary comes from those two characters and Brabantio, who later joins the scene as well. However, it is evident that Othello has managed to gather respect in his position, as the Duke of Venice when praising him to Brabantio claims - ,, your son in law is far more fair than black” ( 1.3.291). Said as a compliment, but still undermining the man for his blackness, this is an ideal example of what Othello was usually faced with. Common pre-existing stereotypes in the culture of XVII century England regarding black men, state that they tend to be overly jealous; are exaggeratingly passionate (hence unreasonable) and gullible.  All these mentioned traits have been portrayed by Othello in his behaviour and used by Iago to manipulate him.

Fundamental concepts – • Othello is generally respected as a military man. • The Duke of Venice, a person of a very high rank, respects Othello’s opinions, treating him more seriously than his own senators, which is presented in the act 1 scene 3, where the dynamics between Othello, the Duke, and Brabantio are shown. One of the symbols of respect is that Othello was greeted first, before the senator. • Although he is positively perceived, characters do not ignore his race, which makes him an outsider despite his behavior and status.

OTHELLO’S RACE REFERRED TO BY OTHER CHARACTERS

Starting from Iago, the character's name derives from Santiago, which is a symbolic title for people who fight against moors ( or moor-slayers ), meaning that he is by nature supposed to be opposed to Othello. Iago, being the villain he is, insults everybody around him, but he has a designated vocabulary reserved primarily to either describe or infuriate Othello, as he refers to him as an old black ram contrasting him with Desdemona represented by an ewe.

Desdemona on the other hand deeply admires her husband. Unlike what the people in her surroundings think, she is infatuated in Othello. Portrayed as one of the strongest feminine characters in Shakespeare, Desdemona opposes to her father's will, falls in love with a man her when socially it would have been unthinkable to do so and even follows him to war to Cyprus. Her defiant personality has led some to believe that her love for Othello was kindled by his race. Othello’s skin colour symbolizes his exoticism, creates an atmosphere of mystery and ambiguity around the man, and this is what attracts Desdemona the most. She is fascinated by him. Their love is also illustrated by the imagery of the night, representing Othello, adoring the day, symbolising Desdemona. Nonetheless, their romance will be testified against her, as Iago presents her rebellious personality as a reason for her to cheat on him, creating dramatic irony.

Emilia, as well as Iago, directly correlates Othello’s dark skin colour with his evilness. Most characters believe a black ‘outside’, meaning physical appearance, must be related to a dark ‘inside’, accusing him of malicious intents and cruelness, solely based on his exterior appearance.

Fundamental concepts -

• Most of the characters in the play refer to Othello using race- and ethnicity-centered epithets, i.e. “the Moor”, “the thicklips”. • Characters that aim to present him in a negative way, like Iago, often use various animals with negative connotations, for instance, “Barbary horse”, or “an old black ram”. • The dark color of Othello’s skin is used to symbolize sin and evil. For example,  Iago uses the term “blackest sin”, and Emilia “blacker devil”.

OTHELLO’S RACE FROM HIS OWN PERSPECTIVE

In the face of constant judgment based on his physical appearance, it is inevitable for Othello to not think poorly of himself. In Act I Scene III, the character attributes his problems in expressing his language in a courteous manner to his years spent in the military, but as the play progresses, his insecurities start surfacing. By the time the reader reaches Act III Scene III, he states – ,,Haply (perhaps), for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That clamberers have” – thus blaming his racial identity for the qualities he lacks.

The phrase above reflects how self-doubting the character must have been of himself if at the moment when he is presented the biggest doubt of his life, he immediately turns to his ethnicity seeking for a part of him to blame, to point out what he was most afraid would happen. Othello, indeed, numerous times wonders why Desdemona fell in love with him, and even feels anxious about having such a lovely wife. The low self-confidence of the character ignited by years of racial marginalizing has made him an easy target for manipulation, as Iago manages to smoothly slide into Othello’s mind, pull out his biggest doubts, and without providing an explanation leave him to his thoughts.

The final monologue of Othello is also crucial in understanding his perception of himself. As he prepares the knife that will later lead to his death, he lays down his principles. He asks the witnesses to ‘’Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate/ Nor set down in malice” a final plead to be remembered by his service for the state, behavior and human, instead of skin color. Othello also makes reference to his race by including exotic metaphors, and his final sentances are as follows – ,,And say besides that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took bt th’ throat the circumcised dog And smote him – thus!” As Othello retells the sotry of one of his many victories while serving for the state, he indicates that he, himself, has become an enemy of Venice. By degrading himself to the level of those he despised most, which is visible in the vocabulary he used to describe the enemy nation, he presents himself as equally worthless as those who he killed, and subsequently stabs himself in a deadly lunge. At his moment of death he identifies himself as a foreigner that despite their biggest efforts, never managed to become part of the society that so deeply rejected him.

Fundamental concepts - • Othello often acknowledges his ethnicity, often combing it with some stereotype, like saying that he is a bad speaker because of his race: ”Haply, for I am black/ And have not those soft parts of conversation” • He is conscious of the fact that he is an outsider, but he also knows that his service to Venice is important and that he is a trusted and successful soldier. • In his final monologue he uses many exotic metaphors (dropping tears as fast as Arabian trees, Indian throwing a pearl away), a reference to his background.

OTHER LOCATIONS REPRESENTED

o Venice - a very well prospering place due to international trade. Its location by the sea not only enabled business connections but also allowed many cultures and races mix in the city. Venetians were considered very open minded at the time, as they emphasised work and their interests rather than religious values imposed by the church. As they liked to point out – “we are Venetians first, and Christians second”. The city was a place of ambiguous morals, perhaps the only city at the current time in which an interracial marriage, such as that of Desdemona and Othello’s, would be somewhat eligible. o Florence - in Shakespeare’s time the city was considered to be the center of education. Cassio, a Florentine, speaks in a very elegant manner, which confirms this perception of Florence. A Florentine was also used to describe homosexuals and other males with high femininity levels. o Cyprus - a place very different from Venice, as it is a fortified outpost. The island plays a very important role in the play, as the actions starts unfolding once the characters arrive. The size of the area is smaller and the political situation is uncertain enhancing the atmosphere of the island being a dangerous outpost unlawful territory, making it the perfect place for Iago to carry out his evil plan. Cyprus was also the birthplace of Aphrodite, a mythological goddess of love, which ties in with the themes of love and jealousy.

Revisiting Buffy the Vampire Slayer : Intersectional Feminism in 2019

By Allison Hoag

Over twenty years after the series first premiered, Buffy the Vampire Slayer remains not only as a popular show in the public consciousness, but also as a hotly debated text in the academic sphere. What exactly is it about this demon-fighting, vampire-slaying, teenage girl that has captivated audiences for so long, and why has Buffy spawned so much controversy both publicly and academically? Most importantly, how should Buffy and its various implications about gender, race, and “otherness” be read in 2019?

It is undeniable that Buffy is a somewhat exclusionary narrative that directs our sympathies solely towards its overwhelmingly white and privileged characters. Any feminist inclinations this series espouses are emblematic of the equally exclusionary white feminism. However, even within these constraints—focusing only on feminism impactful to socioeconomically privileged white women—Buffy scholarship continually debates the extent of feminist messaging in the series. In 2019, surface-level white feminism alone is often not seen as enough to define a text as feminist. More and more, people are embracing Kimberle Crenshaw’s notions of intersectionality as a lens through which to evaluate texts. Crenshaw suggested that both feminist and anti-racist movements exclude black women, who face the most discrimination because of the intersection of their race and gender, arguing that “feminism must include an analysis of race if it hopes to express the aspirations of non-white women” (166). This term has since expanded to include class, ability, gender identity, and sexuality in feminist critiques.

Recently, the feminist debate over Buffy has been revisited after a somewhat shocking blog post by Buffy creator Joss Whedon’s ex-wife, Kai Cole, that suggested Whedon is not the “loveable geek-feminist” he presents himself as (Cole). Despite the flaws of its creator, is there still a way for Buffy to be viewed as a feminist show? Is this a matter of separating the artist from the art, or, because his intentions while making this art are being called into question, are the two inextricably linked? In light of these revelations, I intend to reexamine Buffy through Crenshaw’s intersectional lens, focusing less on surface-level feminist readings of this series, but instead shifting the focus onto specific storylines to explore how Whedon addresses topics of gender, race, love, and rape.

***

It is not without reason that critics and fans alike have showered Buffy with feminist praise since its debut in 1997. Not only does this series make Buffy the “subject of traditionally masculine storytelling tropes…, [but] she does it all as a tiny, blonde former cheerleader…the embodiment of the girl her genre usually kills first” (Grady). Buffy takes the idea of a “strong” woman quite literally and manifests a teenage girl with superhuman strength who “must stand against the vampires, demons, and forces of darkness,” as the introduction to each episode reminds us (Whedon). Buffy seems to be a show rife with positive female role models for the impressionable teen and pre-teen girls that make up its audience: Buffy is selfless and strong (physically and emotionally); Willow is kind, intelligent, and stands up for what she believes is right; Cordelia is bold and unafraid to go after what she wants; Tara is loving and is constantly helping and caring for her friends.

Buffy often addresses topics that many members of this teen audience may face, largely through its (sometimes heavy handed) metaphorical use of vampires and demons, as well as online predators (“I Robot…You, Jane”), drinking at parties (“Beer Bad”), and drug addiction (“Wrecked”). Seemingly less metaphorical, however, is its feminism. Throughout the series, Buffy repeatedly defends the whole of humanity against vampires, demons, and the like, maintains positive relationships with the other women in her life, is independent, and has (mostly) healthy romantic relationships. The overt “girl-power” theme of this show is quite clear. However, in its final season, Buffy “raises the explicit feminist stakes of the series considerably” (Pender). While in previous seasons, the metaphorical misogyny of the villains Buffy faces could be debated, season seven’s “big bad” is, “of all the show’s myriad manifestations of evil, the most recognizably misogynist” (Pender). Dubbed “Reverend-I-Hate-Women” by Xander (“Touched”), Caleb can only be defeated if Buffy teams up with and shares her power with all potential Slayers across the globe, an act that takes “female empowerment” quite literally in the series finale.

But how did Buffy get to this point? Buffy wasn’t even initially intended for the pre-teen and teenage girl demographic who would become its main audience. Knowing that this show was originally aimed at a male demographic, “it seems evident that producers did not intend to market a feminist show” (Riordan 292). Not only do some of the feminist statements in Buffy feel painfully forced, but upon deeper exploration, much of this show’s “feminism” is only surface-level and disregards Crenshaw’s notions of intersectionality.

Mary Magoulick, a folklorist and Professor of English, Interdisciplinary Studies, and Women’s Studies at Georgia College (“Mary Magoulick”), explores some of the downfalls of “feminist” shows that were primarily created by men for predominantly male audiences in her article, “Frustrating Female Heroism: Mixed Messages in Xena, Nikita, and Buffy.” Magoulick argues that female heroes like Buffy that are “conceived of and written mostly by men in a still male-dominated world…project the status quo more than they fulfill feminist hopes” (729). An integral part of Magoulick’s argument is the idea that “Buffy [is] less concerned with building or celebrating a world than surviving a hostile one” (745). Although Magoulick acknowledges that recognizing the hostility women face in the world is an important part of feminist conversations, Buffy is widely praised for its progressive presentation of women, not for “presenting the troubling reality women live in” (750). Buffy continually expresses her desire to escape from her responsibilities as the Slayer and lead an average life; yet, she continues fighting vampires and demons, largely due to the pressure from her Watcher, Giles. The idea that Buffy cannot escape her situation because of a social institution—the Watcher’s Council, dominated by men and put in place to control women—provides strong textual support for Magoulick’s claim that Buffy is “reflective of current social inequities and gender roles” (750).

Ultimately Buffy escapes her duties as Slayer, sacrificing herself in the season five finale, only for her friends to later resurrect her, bringing her back from what they believe to be a hell dimension. However, Buffy confesses to Spike, “I think I was in heaven. And now I'm not…this is hell” (“After Life”), making him promise to never tell her friends. After coming back to life, Buffy almost immediately returns to her predetermined social position and initially deals with being brought back into her personal version of hell alone, wanting to protect her friends from the truth. Not only does this arc present the feminist concept of emotional labor as something inherently expected of women, but it also more directly begs the question Magoulick poses regarding the entirety of the series: “Is survival in hell, albeit with occasional victories and humor, the best [women] can imagine?” (748).

***

Magoulick promotes an argument first raised by Elyce Rae Helford that “[Buffy] is laudable for allowing women unusual space to voice and act out anger” while also sending strong implications about what kind of women are allowed to express anger (733). Of the Slayers introduced throughout the series, Buffy is the only one who is allowed to act upon her anger, and most of the time this anger is expressed towards the vampires and demons she fights, not people in her personal life. However, Kendra—a Slayer who is also a woman of color—has her anger framed in a much more negative way. Despite the lack of people of color in Buffy—or possibly because of the show’s few characters played by people of color—race and racism have become prominent topics in Buffy scholarship. A closer examination of direct and indirect racist implications in Buffy reinforces the idea that any feminist tendencies in Buffy fall strictly into the category of white feminism, and the show cannot be considered an example of the intersectional feminism pushed for in 2019.

The intersectional failings of Buffy are further explored by Kent A. Ono, a Professor and former Chair of the Department of Communication at the University of Utah who researches representations of race, gender, sexuality, class, and nation in print, film, and television media (“Kent A. Ono”). In his article, “To Be a Vampire on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Race and (‘Other’) Socially Marginalizing Positions on Horror TV,” Ono argues that Buffy “conveys debilitating images of and ideas about people of color” (163), claiming that “the valorization and heroification [sic] of a white feminist protagonist is constructed through an associated villainization and demonization of people of color” (164). Here, Ono quite literally means demonization. Most of the vampires and demons that appear on this show are played by white actors, so it is not necessarily a question of casting people of color as villains, so much as it is a question of who these villains are intended to be.

As previously established, the writers of Buffy can be somewhat aggressive with their use of metaphor; therefore, it is inarguable that, on Buffy, a vampire isn’t just a vampire. Ono argues that “the marginalization of vampires on the show takes the place of racial marginalization in the world outside the show” (172). In contrast, Magoulick presents a non-racial reading of the teenage vampires as “representative of gangs” (745). Considering the show’s overarching plot, especially the first few seasons Magoulick references when Buffy is still in high school, both of these interpretations are equally valid, and both can be supported by textual evidence. Given the history of representation of people of color on television, it is particularly disturbing that two of the major metaphorical interpretations of vampires on this show are as people of color and as gang members. It is not unreasonable to believe that Whedon and his writers were familiar with racist representations on television that were prominent in the 60s and early 70s, especially because some of these representations still exist twenty years after the show was created. With this understanding, it could be argued that vampires were equally intended to represent people who were racially marginalized and gangs. Ono argues that because the villains of Buffy were the ones chosen to represent people of color, “Buffy…indirectly and directly shows violence by primarily white vigilante youths against people of color in the name of civilization” (168), evoking images of violent white supremacy that are present throughout American history and to the present day.

However, there is a reason Ono describes the “vigilante youths” as only primarily white (168). Kendra, the previously mentioned second Slayer portrayed by Bianca Lawson who is featured in three episodes over the course of Buffy’s second season, is a black woman. Although only appearing in three episodes, Kendra is credited as “offer[ing] the most complex development of a black female character in Buffy” (Edwards 95). While this is technically true, it is important to note that her arc was fairly straightforward, and any character development is as a result of a somewhat racist narrative of acceptance only after assimilation. However, because she is one of the few examples of a prominent character who is a person of color and essentially the only person of color who works with Buffy, I will be examining her in some detail.

Ono argues that because she takes the responsibility of being the Slayer far more seriously, Kendra is a threat to Buffy, causing Buffy’s own racism to emerge. Ono specifically cites “[Buffy’s] discomfort with Kendra’s language…When Buffy uses the word wiggy and Kendra asks what that means, Buffy responds with a racist comment…‘You know, no kicko, no fighto’” (174). However, Buffy’s comment is indicative of a much larger issue in the show’s production team. “By casting Bianca Lawson, a black actress, in the role of Kendra, the second Slayer, [Whedon] makes character a sign imbued with cultural meanings about gender, race, and race relations” (Edwards 87). Kendra is marked as other not only by her skin color, but also by her heavy Jamaican accent, and she is not accepted by Buffy and her friends until she begins to assimilate, sending the message that people of color are responsible for changing themselves if they want to be accepted by white America.

It is important to note that Bianca Lawson’s casting wasn’t accidental. The script specifically delineates Kendra as an “ethnic young woman” (Edwards 91). Whedon has admitted that he did not make any efforts to hire people of color behind the scenes (Busis), so there is a possibility that the overwhelmingly white writers’ room and crew did not detect the racist treatment of Kendra. However, that in itself poses a major issue, not only socially, but also with how we’re supposed to understand the treatment of the few people of color and the metaphorical “people of color”/vampires throughout the series. The absence of people of color behind the scenes could also at least partially account for the Ono’s observation that “no person of color acknowledged as such on the series has been able to remain a significant character. All characters of color…have either died or have failed to reappear” (177).

Although she was killed off after only three episodes, as a black woman, Kendra represents the black women facing discrimination based on both race and gender that Crenshaw advocated for in developing her theory of intersectional feminism. Kendra’s treatment in Buffy is indicative of both the white feminism that will often ignore racist representations in a text because of its slight feminist messaging, and the necessity of including intersectionality in the evaluation and creation of feminist texts.

***

Buffy is filled with incredibly disturbing scenes. We watch Willow get skinned alive by a demon (“Same Time, Same Place”), Buffy’s own mother attempt to burn her at the stake (“Gingerbread”), and a demon stalk and murder sickly children in their hospital beds (“Killed by Death”). However, “Seeing Red” (2002) remains one of Buffy’s most upsetting episodes. Spike corners an injured Buffy in her bathroom and violently attempts to rape her until she is finally able to fight him off. In a recent interview, James Marsters (Spike) described his opposition to the scene, inadvertently pinpointing the reason this scene is so difficult to watch: “My argument was that, actually, when anyone is watching Buffy, they are Buffy…the audience, especially the female audience, they are not superheroes, but they are Buffy” (Marsters). This scene is particularly upsetting not only because of the content, but also because it presents many women’s worst fears—if an injured Buffy, who is still exponentially stronger than an average woman, can barely fight off Spike, what hope do they have of fighting off their attacker? Additionally, Spike is not presented as a violent vampire here: he is presented as human, making this scene more realistic and horrifying.

Wendy Fall, a doctoral candidate at Marquette University and editor of Marquette’s Gothic Archive (“Graduate Research”), discusses this scene at length in her article “Spike Is Forgiven: The Sympathetic Vampire's Resonance with Rape Culture.” She suggests that because James Malcolm Rymer’s Varney the Vampire (1845) is the first English-language vampire narrative that conflates an attack and rape scene, it established a “three-part strategy [gaslighting, silencing the victim, and emphasizing the assailant’s goodness] which encouraged readers to overlook Varney’s sexual violence, and thereby increased their sympathy for him” (Fall 76). She argues that although Spike’s attempted rape technically avoids Rymer’s narrative because he does not attempt to bite Buffy and is never even seen as a vampire, “The more problematic nature of this attack…is in what happens next, when the show adopts similar narrative schemes to Rymer’s to reinforce sympathy for Spike after his attempted sexual assault” (Fall 76).

Fall points out that there are only three more episodes in season six following Spike’s attempted rape, followed by a four-month gap between seasons, prompting the audience to forget how violent and serious it was (77). Not only are Spike and Buffy not seen together for the rest of the season, but they are separated because attempting to rape Buffy acts as a catalyst for Spike’s quest to get his soul back. This gives the audience time to develop sympathy for Spike as they watch him go through painful trials as he tries to recover his soul, while diminishing the severity of the attempted rape in their minds—because, surely, someone willing to go to this extent to obtain their soul and be a better person would never have acted as violently as he did.

Fall argues that Buffy also follows Varney’s narrative strategy of silencing the victim because “the show’s writers seem unwilling to allow the characters to have further discussion on the topic; Buffy never tells anyone the full story, and after this scene, she rarely mentions it again” (78). Fall further claims that “they had access to a strong female character and the opportunity to address her experience of trauma, but they opt not to pursue it” (78). Surely, at least part of the reason we never see Buffy attempting to deal with the emotional aftermath of someone she trusted trying to rape her is because the larger narrative suggests a degree of victim blaming that cannot coexist with holding Spike accountable for his actions. Prior to this scene, Buffy and Spike had been having a consensual sexual relationship, and Buffy attributes the start of this relationship to her “bad kissing decisions” (“Smashed”), so “when Spike attempts to rape her, it seems like an inevitable consequence of her poor decisions” (Nichol).

Finally, Fall suggests that Buffy completes this pattern when it “adopts a narrative strategy that redirects attention away from sexual violence by emphasizing the assailant’s positive contributions” (80). Not only does the rest of season six focus on Spike’s attempt to regain a soul, but the early episodes of season seven also show Spike as psychologically damaged as he comes to terms with the harm he caused as a vampire, putting Buffy and the audience in a position to want to pity Spike when we next see Spike and Buffy interact. Fall suggests that this plotline goes further than simply asking the audience to excuse the fact that this character tried to rape someone. She argues that “the vampire narrative’s memory-altering strategies are also deployed to reinforce rape culture, mostly in the cases of assailants who have sufficient financial power to reframe their own narratives to emphasize their better deeds” (Fall 83). This narrative is everywhere, especially after it became widely acceptable, even expected, to report on the #MeToo movement. It’s unfortunate that this supposedly feminist show perpetuates and validates this narrative that has successfully allowed so many rapists to escape legal scrutiny; Brock Turner’s swimming career comes to mind as a relatively recent example. While Fall ends her article on a relatively hopeful note, providing research stating that articles—like hers—that challenge rape myths can make people more likely to believe survivors than assailants (83), arguments for forgiving Spike still abound.

In 2017, Alyssa Rosenberg, an opinion writer for the Washington Post who covers culture and politics (“Alyssa Rosenberg”), made a case for why both Buffy and the audience should have a more forgiving view of Spike. In her article, “On ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” we fell for the Slayer along with Angel, Riley and Spike," Rosenberg specifically addresses this scene as a “horrifying…illustration that Spike’s gestures are not the same as moral reform” (Rosenberg); however, she identifies it as “the catalyst for a quest that ends with Spike…earning back his soul and sacrificing himself to save the world” (Rosenberg). Rosenberg’s argument falls flat in a way many rapist-apology narratives do. She directly acknowledges the horror of the narrative, both literally in the scene and also in the audience’s minds as they grapple with the fact that this character who is supposedly trying to reform himself can still do something this violent; yet, she quickly glosses over it. Rosenberg immediately dives into how trying to rape Buffy influenced Spike to become a better person, without addressing how it affected Buffy—the actual victim. She highlights that Whedon’s integration of the narrative tactics Rymer introduced to get the audience to want to forgive Spike were effective.

Rosenberg argues that although Spike “commits some of the show’s cruelest acts…he sacrifices the most in an attempt to atone for his sins” (Rosenberg). She additionally characterizes his arc following his attempted rape of Buffy as “a journey that encourages us to think about the conditions under which even someone guilty of heinous acts can perform genuine penance and achieve real redemption” (Rosenberg). Interestingly, her choice of the word “penance” invokes a religious underscoring that implies that once he has performed this penance, Buffy, and by extension, the audience who identifies with her, have no choice but to forgive him. Additionally, none of the “penance” Rosenberg describes is directed towards Buffy. Spike undoubtedly goes through physically and emotionally painful trials as he attempts to regain his soul; however, this is not so much penance as it is a self-centered act. Spike believes that getting a soul might make Buffy finally love him, eventually “becom[ing] a legitimate romantic interest after the near-rape incident” (Nichol).

Rosenberg claims that Buffy “explored where evil and misogyny come from and urged us to fight them,” while simultaneously “ask[ing] those of us who loved Buffy and identified with her to contemplate grace and forgiveness” (Rosenberg). She technically is not wrong here, Whedon absolutely positions us to want to forgive Spike. However, I would venture to argue that the question up for debate is not so much the question Rosenberg poses of are we put in a position to forgive him, as it is, should we be put in a position to forgive him. Buffy is intended to be a role model for the pre-teen and teenage girls who watch the series. Yet, here, it sends a very damaging message: if you have a consensual sexual relationship with someone without loving them, you’re responsible if they attempt to rape you; but even if someone tries to rape you, you should easily forgive them and possibly begin a romantic relationship with them because they may change.

***

In the past few years, the public feminist conversation has shifted towards embracing Crenshaw’s idea of intersectionality. This has therefore influenced the ways we read all texts, even texts such as Buffy that were created after Crenshaw’s paper was first published but before intersectionality was a major concern of the feminist movement. Additionally, the #MeToo movement has revealed the prevalence of the abuse of power by men in all sectors, but notably in Hollywood. Joss Whedon admittedly “didn’t make a point of hiring female directors…[or] people of color’” (Busis); explicitly equated a woman unable to have children with the Hulk—yes, that Hulk (Yang); and, as recently as 2015, refused to call himself a feminist (Busis). The combination of these two public paradigm shifts, closer examinations of Whedon both personally and as a creator, as well as Kai Cole’s disturbing essay about her ex-husband has many people questioning what Whedon’s work can add to the cultural conversation surrounding feminism in 2019. Is the problematic nature of Joss Whedon a matter of separating the artist from the art, or, because his intentions while making this art are being called into question, are the two inextricably linked?

Joss Whedon has made his name creating and writing shows featuring strong female characters. However, he does not seem to understand that “having a girl beat up guys is not equivalent to a strong female character when they always, constantly depend on men” (Simons). Yet, he has still managed to create a career and profit off of television’s lack of actual strong female characters, catering to a largely underserved audience who hoped to see any sort of feminist ideas in fictional television. “Whedon’s openly feminist agenda, frequently mentioned in interviews, has provided an interpretive framework for much Buffy scholarship” (Berridge 478). Whedon pushes this narrative and the public’s perception of him as a well-meaning feminist, while refusing to be labeled as such “because suddenly that’s the litmus test for everything you do…if you don’t live up to the litmus test of feminism in this one instance, then you’re a misogynist” (Busis). It’s upsetting for fans of Buffy to realize that its creator feels that unless he is overtly espousing feminist ideas, his writing will be seen as misogynistic—which, it has been, he’s been criticized for both his Avengers: Age of Ultron script (Yang) and his rejected Wonder Woman script (White).

Although his public persona is that of a feminist, a closer look at his work and his personal life tells a very different story. In a commentary DVD extra for the second season of Buffy, Whedon discusses writing the script for the initial confrontation between Buffy and Angelus, saying “It felt icky that I could make him say these things. It felt icky and kind of powerful. It was very uncomfortable and very exciting for me to do it” (Nichol). This short piece of commentary is a perfect metaphor for Whedon’s career. He’s trying to be seen as “more” of a feminist by claiming he had no idea how he could write a scene where his heroine is eviscerated by her (newly-evil) boyfriend after having sex with him. However, he’s actually taking what could’ve been a moment to discuss the prevalence of slut shaming in our culture and refocusing it on himself.

Not only has his work contained misogynistic and offensive language toward women, but according to his ex-wife, Kai Cole’s, guest blog on The Wrap, he has also had several inappropriate affairs “with his actresses, co-workers, fans, and friends” (Cole). Aside from cheating on his wife, as creator and producer of several prominent series—at least in terms of his actresses, co-workers, and fans—it could be argued that he objectively had more power in these situations. This begs the question of exactly how consensual these affairs were and how much, if any, (possibly unintentional) coercion may have been involved. Furthermore, Cole says he wrote her a letter trying to excuse these affairs, explaining that he “was surrounded by beautiful, needy, aggressive young women” (Cole), and blaming them, rather than taking responsibility for his actions. This pattern of blame is unsettlingly close to the blame Buffy endures for her relationship with Spike.

***

Despite the shortcomings of both this show and its creator, Buffy was, and remains, a prominent series in the lives of many of the pre-teen and teenage girls who have watched and grown with Buffy and her friends since its 1997 premiere—this author included. However, as we become more educated on certain cultural topics, we—especially those of us in positions of power and privilege—are often forced to reconcile our love of certain texts with their more problematic aspects.

I began this essay with a very different conception of Buffy than I have now. Admittedly, I bought into the allure of this series’ surface-level feminism and girl power when I was watching it for the first time. Sure, it was sometimes overtly problematic, but the positive aspects seemed to outweigh the negatives. I thought that this essay would reveal the surface-level feminism of Buffy ran much deeper than I originally realized—not the opposite. A closer examination of Buffy has revealed that the issues with this series are far more serious than its creator’s personal failings. Reading Buffy as a cultural text exposes a series of disturbing messages. Moreover, even when it does put forth feminist ideas, they often fall under the more exclusionary sect of white feminism, completely ignoring Crenshaw’s proposed intersectionality, which had been published nearly a decade before Buffy’s premiere.

The question of how Buffy should be read in 2019 is a question that has been repeated a lot recently: Can the Harvey Weinstein’s films still be appreciated? What about The Cosby Show? Or shows affiliated with Fox Broadcasting, and, therefore, Roger Ailes? While some argue that these men and any texts or media associated with them should be “cancelled,” others call for a separation between the artist and the art. However, I would argue that, at least for Buffy, it is not so much about separating the artist from the art as it is about recognizing the art for what it is—its limits included.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my mom for proofreading all 4,500-odd words of this and catching the many mistakes I missed. I would also like to profusely thank Mary Kovaleski Byrnes for her support, guidance, and the much-needed periodic confidence boosts.

Works Cited

“After Life.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 6, episode 3, UPN, 9 Oct. 2001. Hulu, www.hulu.com/watch/70c15619-2955-499f-b1ca-48bb650ad68f.

"Alyssa Rosenberg." The Washington Post, The Washington Post, www.washingtonpost.com/people/alyssa-rosenberg/?utm_term=.29211618cb7b. Accessed 30 Mar. 2019.

“Beer Bad.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 4, episode 5, The WB, 2 Nov. 1999. Hulu,www.hulu.com/watch/6ce16885-24ba-48b0-b729-b01c3b52213d.

Berridge, Susan. "Teen heroine TV: narrative complexity and sexual violence in female-fronted teen drama series." New Review of Film & Television Studies, vol. 11, no. 4, Dec. 2013, pp. 477-96. ESCOhost, doi:10.1080/17400309.2013.809565.

“Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 2, episode 16, The WB, 10 Feb. 1998. Hulu, www.hulu.com/watch/4569c5ed-aebc-4cea-86ce-8e05f2fbef4f.

Busis, Hillary. "Joss Whedon Declares Himself a "Woke Bae"." Vanity Fair, 10 Mar. 2017, www.vanityfair.com/style/2017/03/joss-whedon-woke-bae-feminism-buffy-the-vampire-slayer.

Crenshaw, Kimberle. "Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist

Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics." University of Chicago Legal Forum, vol. 1989, no. 1, 1989, pp. 139-67, chicagounbound.uchicago.edu/uclf/vol1989/iss1/8.

Cole, Kai. "Joss Whedon Is a ‘Hypocrite Preaching Feminist Ideals,’ Ex-Wife Kai Cole Says (Guest Blog)." The Wrap, Aug. 2017, www.thewrap.com/joss-whedon-feminist-hypocrite-infidelity-affairs-ex-wife-kai-cole-says/.

Edwards, Lynne. “Slaying in Black and White: Kendra as Tragic Mulatta in Buffy.” Fighting the Forces: What's at Stake in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, edited by Rhonda V. Wilcox and

David Lavery, Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2002, pp. 85���97.

Elison, Meg. "The Non-Toxic Masculinity of Rupert Giles." Syfy Wire, 17 June 2018, www.syfy.com/syfywire/the-non-toxic-masculinity-of-rupert-giles.

Fall, Wendy. "Spike Is Forgiven: The Sympathetic Vampire's Resonance with Rape Culture." Slayage, vol. 48, Summer/Fall 2018, pp. 68-86. EBSCOhost, proxy.emerson.edu/login?url=search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f3h&AN=133526410&site=eds-live.

“Gingerbread.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 3, episode 11, The WB, 12 Jan. 1999. Hulu,www.hulu.com/watch/666ff3b9-c7d6-4f5f-adaf-3483ce8add76.

"Graduate Research." Marquette University, Marquette University, 2018, www.marquette.edu/english/research-graduate.php. Accessed 30 Mar. 2019.

Grady, Constane. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer's feminism is still subversive, 20 years later." Vox, 10 Mar. 2017, www.vox.com/culture/2017/3/10/14868588/buffy-the-vampire-slayer-feminism-20th-anniversary.

“I Robot…You, Jane.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 1, episode 8, The WB, 28 Apr. 1997. Hulu, www.hulu.com/watch/6232c153-896e-4d99-b152-9feed2f99fd1.

"Kent A. Ono." University of Utah Profiles, University of Utah, faculty.utah.edu/u0849982-Kent_A._Ono/hm/index.hml.

“Killed by Death.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 2, episode 18, The WB, 3 Mar. 1998. Hulu, www.hulu.com/watch/75cb8a45-13ec-4b44-91a3-920d85cc6908.

Luria, Rachel. “Nothing Left but Skin and Cartilage: The Body and Toxic Masculinity.” Sexual Rhetoric in the Works of Joss Whedon: New Essays, edited by Erin B. Waggoner,

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2010, pp. 185-193.

Magoulick, Mary. "Frustrating female heroism: Mixed messages in Xena. Nikita, and Buffy." Journal of Popular Culture, vol. 39, no. 5, Oct. 2006, pp. 729-55. EBSCOhost, proxy.emerson.edu/login?url=search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=edsgao& AN=edsgcl.153778141&site=eds-live.

Marsters, James. “Buffy’s James Marsters on the hardest day of his professional life.” The A.V. Club, 9 Mar. 2017, https://tv.avclub.com/buffy-s-james-marsters-on-the-hardest-day-of-his-profes-1798258915.

"Mary Macgoulick." Folklore Connections, Georgia College & State University, 1 Apr. 2001, faculty.gcsu.edu/custom-website/mary-magoulick/.

Nicol, Rhonda. “When You Kiss Me, I Want to Die”: Arrested Feminism in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the Twilight Series. Gale, Cengage Learning. EBSCOhost, proxy.emerson.edu/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=e dsglr&AN=edsgcl.H1100110197&site=eds-live.

Ono, Kent A. “To Be a Vampire on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Race and (‘Other’) Socially Marginalizing Positions on Horror TV.” Fantasy Girls: Gender in the New Universe of Science Fiction and Fantasy Television, edited by Elyce Rae Helford, Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2000, pp. 163–186.

Pender, Patricia. "Buffy Summers: Third-Wave Feminist Icon." The Atlantic, 31 July 2016, www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2016/07/how-buffy-became-a-third-wave-feminist-icon/493154/.

Riordan, Ellen. "Commodified agents and empowered girls: consuming and producing feminism." Journal of Communication Inquiry, vol. 25, no. 3, July 2001, pp. 279-97. EBSCOhost, proxy.emerson.edu/login?url=search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx direct=true&db=edsgao&AN=edsgcl.78260548&site=eds-live.

Rosenberg, Alyssa. "On ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer,’ we fell for the Slayer along with Angel,Riley and Spike." Editorial. The Washington Post, 10 Mar. 2017, www.washingtonpost.com/news/act-four/wp/2017/03/10/on-buffy-the-vampire-slayer-we-fell-for-the-slayer-along-with-angel-riley-and-spike/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.90b458f0de94.

“Same Time, Same Place.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 7, episode 3, UPN, 8 Oct. 2002. Hulu, www.hulu.com/watch/f9a3b884-b72b-4bef-81e4-bcd95b002608.

Simons, Natasha. "Reconsidering the Feminism of Joss Whedon." The Mary Sue, edited by Kaila

Hale-Stern and Dan Van Winkle, Dan Abrams, 10 Apr. 2011, www.themarysue.com/ reconsidering-the-feminism-of-joss-whedon/.

“Smashed.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 6, episode 9, UPN, 20 Nov. 2001. Hulu, www.hulu.com/watch/7728e9d5-e05d-4be3-ac93-d8792a018e54.

“Touched.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 7, episode 20, UPN, 6 May 2003. Hulu,www.hulu.com/watch/ba2c6e7c-b015-47d2-8c62-4f16be64c579.

Whedon, Joss. Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The WB and UPN, 1997-2003.

White, Adam. "Five time Joss Whedon, self-proclaimed 'woke bae', blew his feminist credentials." The Telegraph, edited by Martin Chilton, The Daily Telegraph, 21 Aug. 2017, www.telegraph.co.uk/tv/0/joss-whedon-5-times-blew-feminist-credentials/.

“Wrecked.” Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 6, episode 10, UPN, 27 Nov. 2001. Hulu, www.hulu.com/watch/661f80ab-5cdc-426f-a494-283b03cf2ca6.

Yang, Jeff. "Is Joss Whedon a feminist?" Editorial. CNN Wire, 8 May 2015. EBSCOhost, www.cnn.com/2015/05/08/opinions/yang-joss-whedon-feminism/index.html.

Lair Review for Kaial

@pumpkin-bread (No payment necessary, I tend to get carried away)

Okay, so in general, your “The Wanderers/Refugees” tab is already my aesthetic~ I’m going to try and not make this all about them and choose my favorite out of each clan, so just know that I adore each of them! (Adariana is especially gorgeous! And Idylla’s WINGS oMG!!!)

Okay, so I love everything about this dude. His colors remind me of a sunset or like... warm firelight glowing against the night sky. A knowledge seeker, a trinket collector, and ... potentially unhappily betrothed???? Excuse me, more please! Have you ever seen the anime Snow White with Red Hair? It isn’t super similar, but he gives me the same feel as the main character. Someone who just wants to learn things and meet people but keeps getting sucked into marriages and court drama. But Moon’s theme is Andromeda so... he kinda just wins.

Dis boi deserves it all BI All of it. Keep an eye out for an upcoming message from Clan Safe Haven. He bootiful. He precious. He’s got fae lore and I loves me some fae lore. I can’t wait to see the theme you choose for him. Tortured artists are the best kind of artist.

I find that female imps are kind of difficult to dress without looking a bit too cluttered, so I almost passed this one up... but then I checked out her bio. Seeing the art really helped me focus on the dragon itself. I really like the starmap on this and even the facet with the accented edges... but let’s be honest... the lore is the main course. Celestial shapeshifter who harms those she gets close to? Hell yes. Has it become obvious that I love whimsy with a touch of suffering? And Astral Gardener is one of the best titles ever.

Okay, so originally I was going to leave the Beach House Dragons to honorable mentions because none of them are visually my kind of thing (Though Dram nails that Surfer boy look in every way!) but I knew Kismet especially was a special dragon for you. I just wanted to say that it’s really amazing how you made some really awesome lore out of a really heartbreaking ordeal. 10/10 Would vacation at this lovely’s beach house.

This gal is so purdy. I’m not partial to guardians, but I do think they wear glimmer the best out of any of the dragon breeds, and this girl is no exception. The light blues play well off of the white and orange body, and then you get the same effect on the wings with the dark blues against the black and orange. She has a lot of small parts that are nice to look at, that makes a really great whole picture. Which is furthered by her counterpart curse and her Black/Purple/Yellow contrasting image. Being a good witch brought in to bring balance is also interesting lore and I just love how the look of the dragons really sell that point. I kind of wonder how she would react and handle a witch who toes the line between good and evil, who could fall to either side at any moment.

I saved Amberspire for last because just... so... many... dragons. I don’t look at every one, but I have trouble picking only a few, and more dragons means more choices. However, I think I picked a good one. I think a couple times now I’ve made references to anime or wanting to see things as a cartoon, but I really do wish I could see this princess’s story in moving picture form! She’s pleasing to look at in both dragon and anthromorphic form and I’ve just sat here imagining a Tangled Series-esque adventure of this traveling princess dragging a Pallbearer around on crazy adventures. The black to red, semi-transparent smoke from her candle apparel along with the same look on the sylvan dress make a nice image. The reds on the whole play well with the light purples and then brilliant golden yellows. 

I very nearly did not chose this buddy because I thought he was kind of plain looking from afar, but I’m glad I gave him a closer look. I really love all the touches of blue, but then I scrolled down and saw him naked... and ho boi those wings add such a cool dimension! I wish I could see more of them. I really like how he’s a quiet, softspoken guy... who also is the most prone to throwing himself into danger. It isn’t often you see that combo and have the danger be an intentional thing they walk into xD

Honorable Mentions:

Cassis: Ooooooh~ Fallen, powerful fae lord? Tell me more!

Tronada: He’s got a really interesting look. Mostly the wings, but the lightning colored accents are a great touch. The bio blurb intrigues me.

The Beach House: Okay, so while Dram, in particular, struck my interest in both looks and the inverting surfer boy trope, this whole gang makes me want a cartoon about them. A cartoon simply because I think it needs those amazing saturated colors for a style.

Cavalier: My unicorn knight Nico (Who is also entirely devoted to his love) finds this one very interesting. He would like to meet Cav and maybe have a friendly sparring match one day. Cavalier’s current life is pretty much Goals for him.

Enrialla: PREEEEEETYYYYYY~! I love how the accent works on her.

Zerid: Also really awesome accent. I didn’t even notice at first, I thought it was just the dragon’s natural colors/genes and apparel giving him that look. The effect is subtle and eye catching at the same time. I had her and Lytra open in different tabs at the same time and the contrast between them was interesting. Like Lytra was early fall sort of colors and then Zerid reminded me of the very end of fall in contrast. 

Ivol and Ushi: I’d love to see some human art of them just being loud hippy minstrels in the middle of a mess hall.

Leviahna: Purple is my favorite color, and this gal does purple soooo right. If we could code our own pages I’d be really interested to see what environment you’d have her presented in because everything else is working so well together.

Archibald: Has anyone made it past Archibald? He seems like a magnet for some really scatterbrained, persistent sort of character to pester... setting off a zany adventure of him trying to keep them away and them somehow finding their way past him.

Ylva: Nearly chose her instead of Trina. I love her colors and lore! And the different bird species based skydancer is a neat look.

Asimov: Puuuuuuurdy!!

Magni: This guy looks really cool and I like how his familiar kind of matches.

I know this is a Pot calling Kettle situation, but dammit. MOAR LORE!

Tigerlily

Her mother hired her a driver and a bodyguard, though Laura didn't want it, said she'd be fine on her own, Talia didn't care, their family was in a precarious situation right now, and she'd be doing the same for Derek and the twins; Peter was only exempt because he was an adult who could take care of himself (and by that, Laura privately thought, what she meant to say was that Peter would totally emasculate and shred any ego and/or confidence the paparazzi/protesters had with his vicious words, if they were in public, and, if not, well. No one would miss them, he'd say, they must be vile people in their private lives to do such vile things in their public ones), and Philip because he was in Ireland with their father. Grouchy, Laura admitted defeat and accepted the burden of whomever her mother had hired, despite being two whole states away from the center of the chaos.

When she leaves her apartment, the first day she's being picked up by this person, she's taken utterly by surprise to see a buxom woman with honey-blonde hair in loose pig-tails tied up with big, sleek ribbons, a steampunk captain's hat atop her head, eyes like crushed nutmeg sprinkled with cigarette-ash flecks, wearing a white shirt and oil-slick black leather pants, her clothes clinging, like she chose them with the specific intention of showing off, standing in front of a pastel, antique Volkswagen beetle, looking for all the world expectant, bored, and vaguely amused in that same way Uncle Peter sometimes gets, like the whole world is a joke that only they're in on.

"You must be Laura," the woman- or, more accurately, girl, at least comparatively- says.

Laura laughs a little, nervous and slightly incredulous, "And you're my ride?"

Blondie flashes a grin, full-up of too many teeth, plumb-red tinted lips parting dangerously around too-sharp bone, an expression as seductive as it is terrifying. "That's right," she opens the backseat door and bows with a flourish, waving Laura inside the vehicle, "my name's Erica; our chariot tigerlily and I will be providing you all of your escorting and personal protection needs, as per your mother's- and therefore my paycheck's- request."

"Uh-mm," Laura laughs again, walking down the concrete steps and away from her apartment complex's entryway, stopping short when she gets to sidewalk proper, biting her lip and wringing her hands a little. Erica remains bowed, though she does turn her head to narrow her smokey eyes, the silken waterfall of her sunlight hair tangling with her neck, the black bow holding the pig-tail in place falling just under the girl's ear, contrasting the brilliant neon-chain piercings that decorate- nearly overwhelm- it. "Are you... old enough to be doing this?"

An explosive sigh as she rights herself, leans an elbow on top of the door and rests her cheek on her hand, its' opposite going to her hip with a half-resigned, half-sass sort of attitude. "Do you want to see my credentials? I've got about a dozen boxing medals, three belts, a nikyu rank in judo, and-" she does an asymmetrical kind of jazz-hands, underwhelming and seeming almost bored, like she's explained this thousands of times, before returning to her original position- "surprise surprise, a driver's license. I'm qualified, does my age really matter?"

"I... suppose not?"

"You don't sound too sure about that, princess."

Laura shakes her head with a little hiccup-squeak- a sound she will never admit to having made, and will quietly freak out about later, thank you- "Nope, I'm sure. I'm sure," and with that she skedaddles on into the car- as elegantly as she can manage, after everything- ignoring her driver's growing smirk with an awkward, embarrassed kind of desperation. She hears Erica huff out something of a laugh before the car door's shut gently behind her, the girl moving to the driver's seat and clambering in.

"So: where to?"

"Belle Grove Kindergarten," Laura answers promptly, mildly relieved to be done with the social niceties of it all.

"Oh, that's right, your mom did say something about you being a teacher." Laura hums affirmatively. "I hate kids, personally, but, you know-" she turns the key, starting the car and pulling away from the curb- "kudos to you for bringing knowledge to the next generation of assholes, or something like that."

Laura chokes on her own spit, and it takes a lot longer than she'd like for her to become composed enough to dignify that with a response, and all she ends up managing is a very high, very unsure, haphazardly chagrined and slightly sarcastic, "Thanks?"

She glimpses, from the rearview mirror, Erica's eyes crinkling with the mirth and width of her smile.

It's odd to learn about someone so extensively over such a short period of time, but, at the same time, it seems almost natural. There's awkwardness and blundering, but Erica and Laura just kind of click.

The wind-swept wild maiden, and the tamer, tranquil, motherly type of woman, both of them very, very different, but uniquely complementary to each other.

Erica, Laura finds, became a bodyguard straight out of highschool, her epilepsy- which she avoids talking about like the plague, so long as she can get away with it- made it difficult to become a driver in any capacity, but, her episodes winding down as she got older, along with finding meds to manage it that managed it well, or, at least, better than the others before, did seem help in that vein. Still, if she has even one seizure, it could revoke her license, which, while Erica understands, the safety of others and all that, she's also vaguely bitter about.

The girl's overtly sexual, voraciously flirtatious, with a mask of lethal confidence born from deep-rooted insecurities. She's very explorative of her identity at this point in her life because her identity always used to be her illness, and now that she has the chance to discover herself outside of that, she's diving in headfirst, reckless and urgent. She's a very in your face with both my middle-fingers in the air type of person, but there's a depth, a complexity to it, and a frugal kindness saturated in cynicism riding just underneath.

Her style, too, is fascinating, from her clothes to her car to the way she utilizes her language, and, despite mostly being a pacifist herself, if Laura's being honest the way Erica fights is... mouth-watering. Would be a vulgar thing to think. Which is why Laura isn't thinking it.

At all.

Erica taps the metal curl of her sunglasses against her teeth, glaring at the door that leads into Laura's apartment complex, impatient. She knows that the school-year is over, but she also knows that Laura isn't the type to have with staying inside or being idle. The woman likes fresh air and sunlight the same way flowers do, in that she needs it like breathing, could only wilt without it.

Which is why Erica ended up outside her place, figuring she'd still need a ride... somewhere.

Sighing explosively, she gets up off of her car, rubs the sun-scorched metal feeling out of her skin with a small grimace, and decidedly presses Laura's buzzer. No response. She clicks the button over and over again, irritating-persistent, pestering, until she hears a crash and an undeniably familiar voice shouting, "Cora, I swear to god—"

The aggrieved words halt, stutter, caught like fluttering-fragile butterfly wings in her long, pale throat, heterochromatic eyes startled-wide when they light on Erica—who'd backtracked down the small set of stairs, back to the sidewalk, to look up at the sight of her boss' daughter, her client, her friend, standing sleep-soft messy on her balcony. ink-silk curls in a loose-tumble bun, a slightly revealing preppy-pink satin slip under an unzipped hoodie, baggy sleeves sliding adorably over her bony hands, dream-like cotton-candy designs on it.

"Sorry to disappoint, princess," Erica smirks, watching as Laura's barefoot toes flex against charcoal grey floorboards.

Laura blushes furiously, rosy hue dusting her from her prominent collarbone all the way to her crown, getting ripe-strawberry dark just at the tip of her ears, and erica's helpless to the way her smirk widens into a genuine grin. "Not disappointed," Laura says, breezily, turning her eyes away and smoothing her hands down her skirt with all the air of recomposed royalty—the act betrayed entirely by her coloring and the high-pitch, embarrassed crackle of her tone. Erica bites back a laugh, scuffs the heel of her boot on the crack-crumble cement.

"You gonna grant me entry into your tower? Or am I gonna have to beg you to let down your hair?"

Laura's eyes flutter closed, tonguing the back of her teeth even as an indulgently mirthful smile overwhelms her. "You know... I shouldn't," she points out with a look, exasperatedly shaking her head even as she retreats back inside to buzz Erica in, fatalistic, calling over her shoulder: "You’re likely a dragon, come to kidnap me and burn me alive."

Erica rolls her eyes, jogs back up the little street-stairway, opens the door when it unlocks for her at Laura's bidding, before running up the three flights it takes to get to Laura's apartment, only the barest hints of breathless when she gets to the woman's door and sweeps inside. "No way am I a dragon. I'm more like... Excalibur," she leans into the woman's space, sultry-purr, "silver and sharp."

Laura backs away with a sound split between a groan and a sigh, "And just as dangerous."

"Not exactly," Erica hums, shutting Laura's door carelessly and meandering to the dining table, snatching an apple from the wicker-weave basket in the middle of its’ wax-shine mahogany expanse and biting into it. "The dragon kills you, princess, because it's hungry, driven by instinct, whatever. I, on the other hand, am wielded in your defence-" she shrugs- "or not. Maybe your evil step-mother picks me up and beheads you with me. My point is, as a weapon, I have no intent, good or bad." 

She looks up from her fingers, picking restlessly at blood-rich apple-skin to find Laura staring at her, expression indecipherable.

Silence reigns- vaguely uncomfortable- for a second too long. Erica blinks, knits her brows.

"... What?"

Laura shakes her head, "I— Nothing. Nothing, nevermind." She clears her throat, shuffles things around that don't really need to be shuffled, restless. "Um, so. What're you doing here?"

"My job, unless I was fired while I wasn't paying attention."

Laura huffs a little, glittering starlight returning to her eyes, "No; I'll have need of you for a while yet. But..." She shrugs, "I don't really have anywhere to go."

"Bullshit," Erica scoffs, narrows her eyes when laura's only response is a deadpanned glare. "Seriously? No... friends? social gatherings? nothing?"

*"Nothing,"* Laura sighs, nearly a pout, flopping lethargically onto her white-cotton plush couch. "Just the kids—work."

Erica blanks for a moment, fidgets, eats her goddamn apple.

"Okay," she shatters the vaguely somber air after a moment, annoyed, tossing her apple-core into the trash-can on her way to the couch before lifting Laura bodily off of it, hauling her into a bridal-carry easy as anything, and ignoring her yelp of utterly indignant shock. "Fuck this. We're going out."

Laura sputters for a moment, hands flapping a little wildly as Erica straight-up carries her past the threshold and- since the stairs don't seem like a good or practical idea- to the elevator, before she resignedly, almost begrudgingly, gives in, wrapping her willowy arms around Erica's neck and melting into her with a huff. "I suppose it wouldn't do to leave tigerlily all by their lonesome, anyway, would it?"

“No,” Erica agrees victoriously. “No, it would not.”

They spend the day driving around, avoiding paparazzi, getting frozen yogurt, a whole trunkload- literally- of books, two records, a record player, and a moment saturated in the floaty-fluff memory of dancing with Erica in the middle of the street, both of them a study in awkward clumsiness and both of them devolving into hysterical fits of laughter.

The image of Erica with her head thrown back, their bodies spinning, dizzying, her laughter throaty and reckless and breathless-wild, is replaying in Laura’s head on a loop when Erica walks her back up to her apartment, the sight of the girl's teeth, tongue, the roof of her mouth, unexplored places that Laura suddenly, yearningly, viscerally, wants to map out, discover, taste, know. Which is probably why, when Erica grins a, "G'night, Lulu," with every intention of leaving, Laura ropes her in- knuckles fisted in the collar of her shirt- and kisses her soundly.

Erica freezes for just the barest hints of a frantically eternal, terrifying moment, before she's all motion, folding Laura into her body with all the ease of a sculptor molding clay, fingertips, sharp nails, pressing into her shoulder blades as she dives into her in turn, greedy, with a gasping moan, wavering somewhere deep, all animalistic, ferine need.

When they part enough to allow air back into their lungs, lips bruised and spit-slick, Erica rasps, teased lovely, so fucking lovely at the edges, "That was-" a swallow, dry, clicking- "unexpected."

"No, it wasn't. It was a kiss. That's what you're supposed to do at the end of a date, isn't it? Kiss?"

Erica snorts, dissolves into giggles, lets her head fall to rest on Laura's shoulder, button-nose pressed into Laura’s pulse-point. "Yeah," she agrees, every muscle easing down to supple, pliant, and Laura hadn't even realized how tightly Erica was holding herself until now. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

"Come inside?" She asks, maybe begs, and Erica lifts her head, raising an eyebrow, which has Laura rolling her eyes. "To cuddle. Watch Netflix? Eat p—" she halts herself- because she knows, she knows how much Erica hates popcorn- squints her eyes at the ceiling for a second as she thinks, both arms wrapped around Erica's back, one hand absently playing with her puppy-soft hair. "Poptarts," she decides, finally, looking back down into Erica's eyes, only to be knocked entirely breathless by how much of the girl's naked heart is beating in them, joyous, honeycomb sweet, and glittering with something new, transcendent, something that, maybe, hopes to be love.

Erica catches whatever expression of besotted surprise Laura must be wearing with a kiss, like fireflies in a mason jar, says, "Sure. Poptarts sound good."

And Laura realizes, mostly accidentally, that she's now dating her best friend, and her whole world glows.

(When the political turbulence gets tied up, and the reason for Erica being hired concisely ends, she moves on to a new job, another client, but her relationship with Laura remains, grows, develops. The two women explore each other, their identities together, and, when Laura decides to bring the girl home to introduce her to her family- them road-tripping to BH in tigerlily- Erica brings a fruit-basket, which she bequeaths Talia, for essentially introducing them.)