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corazondebeskar-reads · 1 month

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of rage and ruin - chapter one

of rage and ruin series

chapter one

series masterlist | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, torture, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, gore, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), death, murder of innocent people, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, no y/n, reader is able-bodied and afab with no specific descriptions, viewer discretion is advised

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

This is a werewolf omegaverse fic that uses traditional and non-traditional elements of the genres. It largely ignores TLOU canon.

DISCLAIMER: A plotline of this story involves unethical medical care and human experimentation re: vaccines. It may give anti-vax vibes. This is NOT an anti-vax story and I do not want any related discourse please and thank you. This is about FEDRA being the absolute worst, not about the real world in any way.

In a rare moment of lucidity, he thinks he used to be human, once.

He’s partially transformed more often than not. Almost never fully, unless he’s under the sway of the moon. His real keeper.

These raiders may think they own him, but he knows the truth.

But lucidity is rare, and most of the time, Joel Miller is more beast than man.

Most of the time, he doesn’t even know he’s Joel Miller.

No matter what, though, he’s a nearly uncontrollable force of nature.

That’s why they keep a shock collar around his neck and tasers at their waists. That’s why they never turn their backs or leave him unrestrained. He fought like hell for a long time until he broke.

No shame in it, he knows. Everyone breaks eventually.

As the years have gone on, though, he’s been getting restless and snippy, less cooperative. And the pain doesn’t really matter anymore.

Nothin’ really does when you’ve given up.

On the last new moon, when the wolf was quiet and the man was loud, he’d tried to refuse. He sat, buck-ass naked, on the gritty wood floor of the house they were raiding.

He did not sniff out treasure like some fucking metal detector. He did not tear the humans limb from limb. He did not feast.

He paid for that night and had the receipts to prove it, laid into his back from the silver-tipped whip.

He should have tried harder to die at the start.

He hadn’t understood right away, when they took him. It, frankly, didn’t even cross his mind that they’d know. Laura, the woman in the woods, had been so sure it was secret.

He got it when they shot him in the leg with a BB gun, though, and the silver shrapnel burned. They were prepared. Silver-coated chains and cuffs, silver-tipped batons and whips and knives. Cattle prods and electric collars.

They’d been hunting him.

They tried to break him easy, first. They were looking for a wolf; didn’t know they’d find Joel Miller. They left him chained in an abandoned suburb, giving him just the minimum food and water to keep him alive.

It worked to weaken him, but they didn’t want him weak forever. Not a very good guard dog or weapon if he can’t lift his head. So when that didn’t work, when he didn’t beg and plead or bend the knee, they gave up and bulked him back up slowly.

So they tried pain next.

He came to know the healing as a curse. They avoided the silver, at least at first, since it’d leave damage. But when they found out they could break his bones over and over and over?

That’s when he started to wish he was dead. What was the point, anyway? He couldn’t go back to Boston. Couldn’t risk himself around Tommy and Tess.

Couldn’t kill himself if he tried, but they could, with their arsenal.

Didn’t matter what he wanted in the end; his brain wouldn’t give in. It overrode his silent pleas, and it fought and fought and fought.

So they took him on a raid. Starving, chained under the full moon, and they waited. He couldn’t go far, but he didn’t have to.

They brought the food to him.

“You’ve no control over it, huh?” Cheryl said after, leering into his “room.” They send her to play nice, but he knows she’s the worst of them all. They just think he’ll smell pussy and roll over. “We didn’t need you to kill them. You just need to scare them and help us find what we’re lookin’ for.”

They had him. He knows, he knows, he knows. He’d have done anything to stop it from happening again. From devouring tied-up families who dared to say “no” to Jim and his crew. From throwing up blood and bones and bows.

He can’t kill himself. They won’t kill him. He had no choice.

He broke.

This new moon, they don’t take him out to scavenge. No, instead, they drag him outside and spray him down with the hose. This, in itself, is not unusual. But when they force the muzzle over his snapping teeth to scrub at his skin with precious lye soap and a rag, he starts to get concerned.

His suspicions are confirmed when they take him back inside.

The only time he’s left unbound is here, in his room. Well. It meets the vague requirements for a room, but it’s also reinforced with silver-plated steel and concrete. Cheaply so, but enough to mute his senses and hopes.

Usually, they wait until the grate is shut to unclip the lead. They wait until he kneels and offers his hands to unlock the shackles. When he’s been good, of course.

But not today. Today, they chain him tight to the wall at the far end of the room.

They’ve had this theory that he hates to admit is not without merit. Looking for another way to control him, they’ve tried to find him an omega.

The first few times, they just forced him on them out wherever they’ve raided. Usually, he’s too out of control, and they don’t survive the encounter.

The most recent time, they dumped one in his cell. But the poor thing still smelled of his alpha, having only lost them hours earlier.

Joel didn’t react well.

They’re trying something new, now.

That he’s here while they clean his room is deliberate. He knows this. They’re purging all his scent from it, and they want him to watch, want him unsettled.

He growls when they remove his mattress completely. It’s a pathetically small, thin, hole-ridden thing, but it’s his.

Before they drag in a new one, a flat pack of grated metal is tossed in the corner. Two of his captors go to work on assembling the contraption, and another leaves for a while, only to return with a sawed-off portion of his mattress.

It fits neatly inside the cage. For that’s what they’ve constructed. It’s silver-coated, of course, but pathetically weak otherwise. If he truly desired, he could snap the bars as easily as bone.

He’s not keen on having burnt hands, though.

Just inside the front of the cage, they clip up a bit of cloth. He doesn’t need to be told what it is, knowing immediately after it’s extracted from the airtight glass Tupperware.

They tell him anyway. “Got a new toy for you to try, if you’re good. For now, this is all you get.”

The heady scent of omega soaked into the panties permeates his room.

He’s salivating a little by the time they finally release him, but he waits until the heavy footfalls echo from down the hall to give in.

They smell divine. He can’t resist tasting, lapping at the tiniest hint of musk and omega under his elongated tongue.

“Told ya he would have shredded her,” Jim says to Cheryl when they come in the morning with his breakfast. Joel’s in his mind enough to feel a little shame, back of his neck burning, when they see the tattered fabric.

It’s clear they anticipated it because, along with his tray, he’s given a new pair.

They’re not so appealing this time. The sweet scent is cut by acidic fear like vinegar through molasses. He ignores them in favor of his meal.

He eats better here than he ever did out there. He’s worth more rations to the raiders than to FEDRA. Robust meals full of meat and eggs and potatoes.

They need him strong, after all.

It’s not until a few hours later that he’s drawn back in by the underwear. It’s not so acrid anymore. Or maybe it is, and he’s just in the mood. Either way, he buries his face in them while he strokes his cock and uses them to catch his cum when he finishes.

There. That’s better. The mix of him with… whoever you are.

When they bring him lunch, they make him put the panties on his old tray before pushing it out to them. He doesn’t burn with shame this time; no, he almost feels proud. Like a peacock fluffing out its feathers. They know now. They must.

Whoever you are, you’re his.

The next day, they bring back the same pair. He wolfs out a little at the fresh layer of you over his cum. It’s all fear and tears and disgust, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, not to him, not to the wolf.

All that matters is how his head fills with static when he licks across the gusset and howls.

Cheryl’s looking pretty smug on the other side of the door, but for all that she’s pleased with the results; they still threaten to turn on the collar if he doesn’t eat quickly.

He’s nearly fully wolf, gobbling down the food and returning to his treasure. He snarls as he strokes his cock, the head angry and purple as he tugs. He doesn’t spill onto the panties this time, not wanting to cover up the perfect combination of your scents. In the end, they’re shredded anyway, as his fingers stretch and break into claws.

In his full glory, his senses are even sharper. Sharp enough that he can hear a faint sobbing across the building and Cheryl’s sharp laughter.

“I don’t know,” she’s drawling when he tunes in. “He sounds pretty excited to meet you.”

The soft sobbing turns raw and cracked. He can smell the salt and phlegm, can practically taste it in the air. He’s aware of Cheryl, but nothing is louder than the way your heart is tripping over itself.

When Cheryl’s words sink in, when he realizes he might actually get to have whatever delicious creature they’ve gotten him, he howls again, a long, aching sound that creeps down your bones like frost.

Later, when he’s a little more present, he realizes they didn’t shock him either time he howled. It’s usually a guarantee.

Whatever game they’re playing, it doesn’t bode well for you.

Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He wasn’t even worried when it happened. They’d been heading back to the QZ, him and Tommy and Tess, when a wild dog attacked them.

Or, well. A wolf.

Tommy had gotten a bullet in its head, but it had Joel’s arm in its jaw at the time. Its teeth had rent through his jacket like a spoon in a banana split.

FEDRA would shoot him without a second thought, so they doubled back to the little cabin and hunkered down. Figured they’d lay low long enough for it to be hideable before sneaking back in.

Tommy went out at daybreak for the carcass—it’d be leagues better than what they had in their bags. When he came back, he was faint and empty-handed.

“...don’t make any sense,” he kept muttering, pacing the tiny kitchenette.

Joel and Tess exchanged a glance.

“Probably a bear took it,” she suggested.

Tommy ran his hand through his hair, shook his head, and did it again. When he looked up at them, it was through wild, unpredictable eyes. “Wasn’t a wolf. It was a man.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Joel said.

“C’mon.”

They followed him through the thicket, and sure as shit, in the same place the wolf’s corpse had lain was a man with a bullet through his skull. He was completely nude.

“Gotta be a coincidence,” Joel muttered.

Tommy turned to him, eyes wide and hands shaking. “What kind of fucking coincidence is this?”

There was a rustle, and they all turned, guns raised, as a woman peeked from behind a tree.

She put her hands up and waited. Tess jerked her head to one side, and they lowered but did not stow their weapons.

The woman was in a ratty cotton dress with no shoes; autumn leaves crunching underfoot.

“That’s, um. That’s my husband,” she said softly.

“Apologies, ma’am,” Tommy said, his face soft and sad. “But—I think he attacked us.”

Her green eyes grew wide, pupils dilating and breath catching in her chest. “Did you get bit?”

Tommy and Tess instinctually looked at Joel.

“What’s it to ya?” he said.

“Did you get bit?” she repeated.

“Was he Infected?”

“Not with cordyceps, no,” she says. She avoids looking at the body but flinches when she brushes a foot against a blood-soaked leaf.

“What does that mean?” Tommy said.

“I think it’s best we go someplace and talk.”

Against better judgment, they follow her through the words to her home. She claims to have two kids alone there, four years and six months.

It turns out to be true. She gets them both down for a nap and serves hot stew. They try to refuse, but she insists.

Tommy feels a little sick eating the food of a man he killed. They all listen, rapt, as she begins to speak.

“It happened a year ago. But it wasn’t an accident.”

When the full moon is two days away, Joel is nearing the furthest from himself. Same shit, different month, but his reactions to your scent are getting, well, feral.

They’re bringing him strips of cloth, now. He gets a new one with each meal. He doesn’t destroy them anymore. Oh, no. When he’s clearer, he wishes he did.

But no. He smells and licks and then jerks off with them. If only that were the worst of it. He’ll come to be mortified during the waning, but he starts to add them to the cage. It’s fairly saturated with the smell of him from his old mattress, but it pleases the beast within to line it with the sweet mixture soaked into the torn sheets.

You’ll understand, then, the wolf thinks. You’ll know it’s safe for you. Somewhere he’s made, a den all your own where he can keep you.

But you won’t know, because what you know is very little.

When FEDRA started asking for volunteers to test vaccines, you didn’t hesitate. You knew the risks. And the rewards—room and rations for the length of the observation period, anywhere up to a year in length. You knew there would be a catch—probably many, but given that you rarely had a room or rations, it wasn’t a hard choice.

But this was the end of the world, and “informed consent” was not something that survived the outbreak.

They worked in batches. A truckload of live bodies at a time. Sterilizing showers with the barest trace of privacy, dressed in stiff starchy scrubs, and led into little cubicles where nurses with needles sat in wait.

A quick jab to the upper arm, and then you were off. The hospital was an old correctional facility, but again, for someone who hadn’t had a bed on a reliable basis, you felt only relief.

Until the deaths started.

They didn’t even try to hide it. Within 24 hours of arrival, a fourth of your group was gone. Carted out in black bags marked with β and nothing more said. You watched through your window like everyone else.

Someone came around the next day and drew blood from every remaining subject, and the tagging began after that. You could see the symbols on other’s doors, but not your own. α or Ω. What they meant, you couldn’t begin to guess.

It started not long after.

The changes.

At first it was so subtle, you may not have noticed, but a nurse came by each day to ask you a series of increasingly embarrassing questions.

What do you smell? What do I smell like? What does your sweat smell like? How sensitive are your breasts? Describe your vaginal discharge. How aroused are you on a scale of 1-10?

They began weekly tests. Blood draws once a week and daily urine samples, of course, but also hearing and vision. They made you run on a treadmill hooked up to wires.

And then, one day, after six months of intensive observation, they moved you.

Or. They tried to.

You were exhibiting a specific set of side effects, they said. You were to be transferred to another facility for subjects with the same side effects for further observation.

Raiders took out the truck halfway through the ten-hour journey. It was… it was a bloodbath, actually. For the FEDRA officers, anyway.

When they had you all lined up, grippy socks soaking in the ankle-deep mud, well, that was when you all learned which symbol was on your door. They couldn’t keep the word out of their mouths. Omega.

Not that it fucking explained anything.

One by one, a short blonde with a bob went down the line of you and shoved something up to each omega’s face. That’s it. It seemed to have no greater purpose.

But for some reason, when she pressed the cloth against your nose and mouth, she smiled. And they separated you.

Whatever that was had a deep, oaky musk, like the illicit brewery operating out of the warehouse you often slept in before the trials.

They tell you nothing.

They make you sleep on strips of cloth, so you roll around in the pile as you toss and turn, rubbing your sweat and slick and pheromones all over.

They don’t bring you anything of his, but you catch faint whiffs of him (him, always him, they never call him by a name), of those aged, liquor-soaked barrels, but all it does is make you nauseous. You don’t understand how you know it’s him; you still don’t understand any of it.

You learn very quickly not to ask questions.

They take him out on the night the moon is full and bloated, hanging over him like a searchlight. See, it whispers, I can find you anywhere. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter. If it didn’t, the wolf would find it anyway.

He is not himself.

He is his truest self.

He is two or one; neither yet both. A monster movie mashup of fur and teeth and roughshod science experiments conducted by a doctor who wasn’t a doctor at all. He’s the monster’s victim. He’s the monsters’ monster.

He’s the wolf and the wolf is him.

He’s The Wolf and he’s swallowed Joel down.

He’s the man, the weak link, buried so deep he can’t see the light of his celestial mistress

He’s Joel Miller. Sometimes, sometimes.

Tonight, he is gone. There is only the Wolf.

And the Wolf knows. As soon as they cross the threshold, he knows.

Dawn is rising, the hunt is over, but he’ll be the wolf for a while longer. And he knows that fuckin’ smell.

It’s the saccharine sour mix of you. Heavy on your sweet apple undertones, and oh, he knows.

You’re in the cage.

next chapter

*title from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

😬 I've been working on this baby for a long, long time, so I will be drinking your likes and comments desperately. thank you for reading and i love you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #alpha!joel miller #werewolf joel miller #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #dark fic #dead dove fic #a/b/o verse #fic: of rage and ruin #a/b/o au

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incomingalbatross · 3 months

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I have a Theory that good writers drawing from their own childhoods have a tendency to accidentally create fans who dislike their fictionalized siblings. I have a further theory that this comes from A) portraying their own childhood feelings too immersively and B) forgetting their audience doesn't automatically love their sibling just from meeting them.

My biggest example is Gravity Falls, because I really feel like this is what happened there. Alex Hirsch is good at making us buy into Dipper's angst and weird twelve-year-old problems like they're actually serious. At the same time, crucially, he assumed his audience didn't need to be convinced that Mabel was a treasure and a delight in the same way that they needed to be convinced Dipper was a good kid. Is it not obvious from meeting Mabel that you should love her??

I also have a suspicion that this is going on in the early Little House books (I had to get old enough to read the later books before I stopped disliking Mary) and in Little Women (I remember how viscerally relatable Jo's feelings are in the book-burning scene and with the Europe trip, even though she's not in the right in either case). In both cases, we get various sibling hurts portrayed - and portrayed well - through the lens of the person who feels unjustly afflicted. Childhood and teen injustice hurts, and it's easy for the reader to enter into those perceived grievances with a lasting bias. But I don't think Laura or Louisa intended that! They loved their sisters! They knew their own younger selves were brats sometimes! They just forgot their readers (especially as kids) might not automatically share these ideas.

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vs120shound · 3 months

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And a little bit of this and a little bit of that! Well, when you add it all up together, you kind of have something grand on its own. Below is a compilation of recent SF photographs that caught our eye and fell betwixt and between of being in our standard posts. They shine here!

ODDS & SODS, BETWIXT & BETWEEN | GREAT PHOTOS WITHOUT IDEAL HOMES

February Photo Extravaganza!

Who better than Brytanny Leahann Dodge (Justnitnee2) with one of her "secondary" Misty 120s Menthols to lead off a post featuring a collection of great photos who -- although each is outstanding within its own nature -- just cannot quite join the parade into posts that use pictures to support video-centric posts. These are freestanding treasures that we are assembling together without any real or imagined theme . . . just remarkably gorgeous BHYSWs (Beautiful Hot, Young Smoking Women) showing their love for their sexy and wonderful cigarette-smoking habits. Light 'em-up, Honeys!

Dual-Media 31-Pack Megapost!

Let the roll of sensational photographs begin . . . with Anchor Photographs at the very end of the post, saving the Best for Last!

A Quartet of Kriss H.!

Beautiful Ukrainian blonde living in Prague, Czech Republic . . .

From urkamamil of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 24, 2024

From george123 of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 20, 2024

A Twin-Killing of Klassi Katti!

Gorgeous Ukrainian model living in France . . .

From urkamamil of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 24, 2024

Solo of @smokingfetishgirl11!

New to the SF game!

From urkamamil of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 24, 2024

Colorful Candy (IG@smokingredxx)!

A Social Media Smoking Darling and SF Entrepreneur from Bethlehem, Pennyslvania (U.S.A.)

Top photo from urkamamil of SFK on February 21, 2024; bottom photo from Instagram@smokingredxx on February 14, 2024

SKIPPING AROUND . . .

Unidentified One-and-Done'r!

From Jackson105 of SFK on February 22, 2024

Sugar_Linchen from Germany!

From urkamamil of SFK on February 21, 2024

Lola Montez (Megan/@thesmokingwitchh)!

SF Entrepreneur and mother from Georgia (U.S.A.)!

From user0726 of SFK on February 17, 2024

@ale_smoke21!

A young fashion model from somewhere in Europe!

From Instagram@ale_smoke21 on January 27, 2024

Madelyn Sultri (Smokingprincessof/ Riverprincess) of California!

Loves her Marlboro 100s, playing to the camera and heading in a NSFW direction nearly at all times

From Jackson105 of SFK on February 22, 2024

Anka ("Anna") Zapala!

She's just stopping by on her way to greatness. At 27 y. o., has done SF modeling/acting work for Nicotine Ladies, Smoking-Models (U.K.), SmokingModels (Florida, U.S.A.) and Smoking Sweeties (Spain); has her own SF website (www.annasmoking.com); plans to open her own line of lingerie as her long-term goal. Half-Spanish/half-Polish!

From slavek999 of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 3, 2024

Hot, New Social Media Clip!

From Instagram@ciggietime10 on February 25, 2024 . . .

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Modulus (@ciggietime10)

instagram

ANCHOR VIDEO!

Victoria of USA Smokers from lobo68 of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 22, 2024! . . .

ANCHOR PHOTOGRAPHS!

Josee (Real-Smoking-Girl)

Laura A. (R.S. of Australia)!

Maddy (Australia)!

Skittlez Cano (Ariel/Arielle)!

#SF #Hot women who love smoking cigarettes #Smoking cigarettes #Smoking #February Photo Extravaganza!

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ancientcharm · 27 days

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Another treasure of the suburban villas of Pompeii.

This ring was found together with bracelets, necklaces and precious objects between 1984 and 1991 in the Villa of Lucius Crassius Tertius in Torre Annunziata. Here a group of fifty-four people sought refuge during the most tragic moments of the eruption of Vesuvius.

Text by Laura Noviello /Anima Vesuviana

the famous two-headed snake

#roman jewelry #roman ring #archaeology #pompeii #pompeii relic #ancient rome

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autumnmobile12 · 1 year

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The Vampires in Castlevania

Vlad III Dracula Ţepeș (Impaler) was a real person. He was a Wallachian voivode who was born sometime between 1429 and 1431, and he died in 1476. The exact manner of his death has been lost to history, but the common belief is he was beheaded in battle and his head was sent to Sultan Mehmed II in Constantinople as proof of his death.

As for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, some historians are starting to doubt the prince was the actual inspiration for the famous vampire. One of the reasons for this is Stoker was a very thorough note-taker, but none of his notes for writing Dracula mention Vlad III or any of his lifetime achievements/atrocities. So it’s possible Stoker only chose the name ‘Dracula’ because he knew it translated as ‘son of the Devil.’ Further reading - Dracula: Sense and Nonsense by Elizabeth Miller.

Carmilla is the name of a lady vampire in the novella Carmilla by Sheridan le Fanu, a story that is actually older than Stoker’s novel. It features a lesbian relationship between Carmilla and the protagonist, Laura, and was written as a criticism of the Victorian view of women, specifically repressed sexuality.

Varney also comes from a book. Varney the Vampire or The Feast of Blood was a penny dreadful written by James Malcolm Rymer and Thomas Peckett Prest. (I haven’t read this one all the way through, but there is a scene where Varney is struggling to get over a garden wall, and I think that’s hilarious. Not exactly apex predator material.)

Varney: You think you have me stymied, don’t you.

Trevor: No, I think a garden wall has you stymied.

Lenore is the name of a German poem written by Gottfried August Bürger. It’s about a woman named Lenore who curses God because her beloved did not come back from war, so Death kidnaps her to reunite them, effectively condemning her soul for eternity. It’s not about a vampire, but the poem has had a hand in influencing vampire literature.

Anyway, does anyone else really want to see Lenore cheering Trevor on in the last battle? Or stealing the knife and ending Death herself. Cause I do now.

The closest thing to a vampire in Viking folklore is the draugr, although this creature is more of a restless ghost than what we think of as a vampire. They haunt the graves of the dead and guard the treasures they acquired in life by driving humans insane, drinking their blood, eating their flesh, and other nasty things.

Side note: I’m really curious as to what led Godbrand to becoming a vampire. Immortality didn’t really play a huge factor in Old Norse culture since the Vikings believed a glorious death in battle was the one and only way to go to Valhalla. Other deaths that were deemed shameful or unworthy landed you in Helheim, which I really need to address further in a separate post.

Japan also doesn’t have an exact vampire equivalent, but they do have some yokai spirits that have vampire-like characteristics, including but not limited to:

Nukekubi: A flying head that detaches from its human body at night and attacks people to drink their blood.

Rokurokubi: A similar creature to nukekubi except the head doesn’t detach but rather travels from the body via an elongated neck.

Nure-Onna: The ‘drenched woman’ is a large serpent with the head of a woman that drinks blood.

Personally, I would have loved to see Cho’s head fly off to attack someone simply to see Sypha, Alucard, and Trevor briefly panic.

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setaripendragon · 4 months

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Okay, now I'm kinda interested in what the Kingsman "The King's Whores" wip is about...

=D I am so glad you asked!

Basically, it's a post!Secret Service (not Golden Circle or King's Man compliant) fic where Harry gets found alive and comes back to take the position of Arthur, and the first thing he has to do is replace a bunch of agents who died because of the four minutes of murder.

Eggsy decides that his own appointment wasn't scandalous enough, and not only does Kingsman have a classism problem, it also has a sexism problem, and goes trawling the east end's street hookers for his candidates for the trials.

The story is told from the PoV of a street hooker called Emma who is Massively Confused about this rich-ass chav who's paying her and a bunch of other girls a lot of money for the privilege of... taking them to dinner at the Ritz?

The plan is to have Eggsy run a couple of 'tests' to check for general comatibility (the ritz), physical ability (free running? laser tag? adult-sized jungle gym? I haven't decided yet), and some sort of puzzle-solving/detectiving skills (city wide treasure hunt? some sort of pin the tail on the asshole rich guy??? still a bit vague on this one, ngl) and Emma eventually gets bonus points for pretty much figuring out what Eggsy's looking for and possibly catching him bugging them all and such.

And the grand finale is going to be Eggsy presenting these three to Merlin as his candidates, and ALL of the other agents and candidates pulling faces as the girls fly through the Kingsman tests in a little epilogue montage and, like, two out of three of them getting the job or something.

(Harry thinks it's delightful, and fist-bumps Eggsy when Emma's knighted, much to the agony of all the other stuffed-up inbred aristocrats in Kingsman)

Have an excerpt:

“If you want us to get in your car, you’re gonna have to tell us where the hell you’re taking us.” Emma informed him with a grimace. So far, he’d been remarkably polite and respectful, but she knew full well just how quickly that could change once a bloke didn’t need to be. And sure, there were more of them than there were of him, but she couldn’t guarantee on it staying that way.

Eggsy thought about it for a moment, then nodded in a ‘that’s fair’ sort of way. “Dinner at at the Ritz.” He informed them blandly, and then grinned with mischief.

“Bullshit.” Emma snapped.

Eggsy sobered up at that, but he didn’t look angry to be called out, or even irritated. He just looked sombre. “I give you my word, that’s all. Dinner, two hours, and I’ll drop you all back here in exactly the same condition you’re in now, only better fed, and maybe a little bit tipsy. They got good wine there.” He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “And you don’t have to come. The money’s yours whether you do or don’t, but hey, when else’re you gonna get to make all the waiters at the Ritz uncomfortable as hell?”

That was tempting, Emma had to admit, but she also had her kids to think about, and if she got abducted, who the hell would look after them? “Your word?” Laura challenged, unimpressed.

“A true gentleman never breaks his word.” Eggsy replied sincerely, and it was an odd thing to hear in such a common accent, but Emma was pretty good at reading people, and she was pretty damn sure he meant it.

#Kingsman #my wips

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Preserving Leaf Paintings in an Anglo-Indian Commonplace Book, 1822-1825

Hello, I’m Alexa Machnik, a third-year graduate student at the Conservation Center, Institute of Fine Arts, NYU. I first came to the Barbara Goldsmith Preservation & Conservation Department in Fall 2022 as a student in the graduate course, Conservation in Context, taught by Laura McCann, Director of Preservation. During this course, we delved into the world of library conservation, exploring the value systems that guide preservation decision-making and treatment action in academic research libraries. One of my class projects involved rehousing delicate leaf paintings from an early 19th-century commonplace book, or friendship album, part of the Fales Library holdings in the Special Collections at NYU Libraries (figs. 1-2) [1]. In honor of Preservation Week, I will share the intriguing history of the book and discuss the decisions that were made to preserve the leaves.

Figure 1 [left]: Front cover of the commonplace book, bound in gold-tooled red morocco leather. Figure 2 [right]: Ownership label of “Jane Harriet [Blechynden]” on front marbled pastedown.

The book in question was compiled by Jane Harriet Blechynden (1806-1827) in England between 1822 and 1825. It holds her personal collection of handwritten and acquired materials, with contributions from her sisters, Emma and Sarah, who wrote original poems about sisterhood, separation, and their Anglo-Indian ancestry. The three women were the daughters of a British merchant residing in Calcutta, and while born in India, they were educated in England [2]. There is not a great deal known about Jane Harriet’s life in England, but her impending return to India in 1825 is documented in an emotional verse by Emma (fig. 3):

“Thus in parting my sister we’re breaking a link / Which may ne’er be united again / And firm as that chain was ‘tis painful to think / That absence may send it twain.”

Figure 3: Excerpt from the original poem, “Parting and a Meeting,” signed by Emma.

Jane Harriet’s book offers insights into her personhood, social connections, and sensibilities as an artist and collector. In addition to written entries, she inserted a compendium of acquired materials–pressed flowers, her own original drawings, and numerous paintings–between pages of the book (figs. 4-6).

Figures 4-6 [left to right]: A small sampling of the ephemeral treasures found in the book, including a dried pressed flower, a drawing on pith possibly by Jane Harriet, and a cut-paper silhouette.

Notably, six of these paintings are executed on the dried leaves of the Bodhi tree, a sacred plant indigenous to Asia with distinct spade-shaped, long-tipped leaves (fig. 7) [3]. Although leaf painting has origins in Buddhist traditions, by the time Jane Harriet collected her leaf paintings, it had already evolved into a form of Chinese export art in Europe. Her leaves depict secular scenes of contemporary life in China and botanical subjects, which are typical of the export genre (fig. 8). Their inclusion in the book implies that Jane was among the many people who partook in the avid collecting of China trade goods during the first few decades of the 19th century, a time when European fascination for Chinese culture and art was at its peak.

Figure 7: A leaf painting, as found loose in the book and partially lifted to show the thin, translucent nature of the leaf support.

Figure 8: Another leaf painting from the book, oriented with the leaf tip at the bottom of the image, depicting flowers and a butterfly.

The initial rush of excitement that I felt at finding the leaf paintings soon turned to concern as I gave thought to their long-term preservation at NYU Libraries, where researchers are expected to handle the book. The leaf paintings were loose in between the pages, which raised a series of “what ifs” about the potential dangers they could encounter. What if the leaves slip from the book? What if they bend or break as the pages are turned? What if the painted surfaces become abraded? The paintings were made with opaque pigment-based watercolors on exceptionally delicate, skeletonized leaves that have been primed with a thin organic coating. Despite being intact, their inherent fragility means that they are vulnerable to even the slightest touch. After considerable discussion, the Conservation Unit decided that in order for the leaf paintings to be preserved and safely accessed by researchers, they should be housed separately from the book.

I thoroughly examined the condition of the leaves and the painted surfaces in order to make a housing recommendation. Despite some minor damage, all were in stable condition. Thus, the ideal housing would provide support to prevent any further damage, such as paint loss and leaf breakage, and at the same time allow the leaves to maintain their translucency. To achieve this, I opted to mount them in double-sided window mats with a support made from clear polyester film, or Mylar® [4]. The addition of the Mylar® would not only create a stable surface for the leaf paintings but also enable the viewing of both sides (fig. 9).

Figure 9: View of the double-sided window mat with a Mylar® support.

My next challenge was to figure out how to mount the leaves onto the Mylar® support without the use of adhesive [5]. After consulting with conservation staff and creating mock-ups, short, discreet Mylar® tabs were selected as the best option to secure them into place (figs. 10-11). For this process, I positioned a single leaf painting onto the support and selectively placed the tabs around its perimeter, making sure the tabs did not overlap any areas of paint. I then used a handheld spot-welding pen to fuse the tabs to the support. Since this process was done in-situ, near the leaf, it required lots of precision practice and encouragement from colleagues before I felt confident enough for the task.

Figure 10: Detail of a mounted leaf painting. Notice that the Mylar® tabs are welded just outside the leaf and extend minimally over the edges, holding it in place with gentle pressure.

Figure 11: The backside of a mounted leaf painting viewed through the Mylar® support. This gives researchers access to the painting’s verso, where an underdrawing and other signs of artistic process can be discerned.

At the time of writing this post, I successfully housed the six leaf paintings in their double-sided window mats (figs. 12-13). This housing project, while complete, is just one part of the ongoing effort to preserve the commonplace book, and the Conservation Unit is continuing work on other elements of the book to ensure its safe return to Special Collections.

Figure 12: Example of the completed housing, showing the front of a leaf painting.

Figure 13: Back of a leaf painting.

Though my involvement in the project has come to an end, I have gained a very special appreciation for the commonplace book and the preservation challenges it presents. The experience of learning directly from NYU Libraries Special Collections was especially invaluable, providing me with opportunities to participate in complex decision-making processes unique to large research libraries driven by user needs. Before signing off, I’d like to extend my gratitude to my supervisors, Laura McCann, Director, and Lindsey Tyne, Conservation Librarian, and the entire team at the Barbara Goldsmith Conservation Lab for their unwavering support and enthusiasm throughout this project. Thank you all very much!

Notes:

[1] A commonplace book is a centralized place for an individual to record information, whether it be their personal thoughts or quotes from outside literary sources. Friendship albums, by contrast, contain handwritten entries from the family, friends, or acquaintances of the owner (often female). Both forms of commonplacing sustained popularity in Europe and America throughout the 19th century. To learn more about this fascinating literary genre, see Jenifer Blouin, “Eternal Perspectives in Nineteenth-Century Friendship Albums,” The Hilltop Review, Vol. 9, Issue 1 (2016) and Victoria E. Burke, “Recent Studies in Commonplace Books,” English Literary Renaissance, Vol. 43, No. 1 (2013), 153-177.

[2] Much of what is known about Jane Harriet (also known in her family as Harriet) comes from the Blechynden papers in the British Library (Add. Mss. 45578-663). This large holding contains the diaries of her father, Richard (Add. Mss. 45581-653), and older brother, Arthur (Add. Mss. 45654-61). For a secondary account of the Blechynden household, see Peter Robb, Sentiment and Self: Richard Blechynden’s Calcutta Diaries, 1791-1822 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2011).

[3] Michele Matteini, “Written on a Bodhi tree leaf,” Anthropology and Aesthetics, Vol. 75-76 (2021), 45-58.

[4] The design of the double-sided mats is based on an instructional guide made available by the Library of Congress. “Double-Sided Mat,” Library of Congress, accessed 1 February 2023.

[5] We chose not to use adhesives or traditional paper-hinging techniques to mount the leaf paintings for several reasons. As noted, the paintings are on fragile, non-paper-based supports that have an organic coating, which may be derived from plant gum. The leaf supports are thin, translucent, and highly vulnerable to breakage, so applying hinges directly with adhesive might permanently alter their appearance or risk further damage to the leaves over time, especially if they need to be removed from the housing in the future.

Photographs: Alexa Machnik

#NYULibraries #NYUSpecialCollections #FalesLibrary #nyuifa #nyuart #librarypreservation #libraryconservation #collectionscare #artconservation #paperconservation #bookconservation #artpreservation #preservingthepast #PreservationWeek #preservationweek2023

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