The Ending Of Francesca Mirroring The Feeling Of A Storm To Play On The Motif Of Punishment For The Lustful

Arsonist’s lullaby by Hozier is Eris Vanserra’s song. No one can persuade me otherwise! 🔥😍

Hoi I love your works and stories. I would love to write boba fett but have no idea how. Any tips for first time boba fett writers ?

ksjflfjfdksujslfj anon thank you so much 💖🥹😭

I am but an untrained, babey writer myself but I can tell you how I crafted my approach to writing Boba!

Step 1, be obsessed with Boba Fett since childhood, grow up, rediscover your love for him and Temuera Morrison as a slightly unhinged adult.

What hopefully is not just pure rambling below the cut

I watched The Mandalorian (specifically Boba's episodes in season 2) and TBOBF a concerning amount of times, and scoured Tumblr/AO3 for fics of our fav green tin can man. Got comfy with the character, figured out what drives him, what his motivations are, what his worldview and outlook are like. Essentially, my process boiled down to the following:

Immerse myself in the source content

Read, read, read & comment, comment, comment

Talking to the authors who inspired me (like you're doing now!)

Just started writing any and everything that came to me

Read some more, commented some more

Kept writing, saved everything

Got feedback

Now obviously everyone will have their own interpretations of a character, but to me, much of Boba's outlook and personality are defined by the death of his father. He is an intelligent boy raised with love by one of the galaxy's best bounty hunters, who teaches him not only about survival but also honor, respect, and personal responsibility. Jango was far from perfect (as we all are) but he did genuinely love his son and didn't hide that from Boba.

Besides the obvious trauma of seeing his father beheaded in front of him, Boba experienced a lifetime of further trauma that would have easily made him go back on what his father instilled in him. He was angry and he was alone during this time, his motivations being centered in anger and inexorable control (as seen in his drive to keep his reputation as a hunter stellar). To him, others were a liability, caring about anyone would only lead to pain. Boba burned bright and hot, but ultimately this path was not sustainable.

After the sarlacc and his time with the Tuskens, Boba was able to grow past the shadow of his father's death--there were different ways to honor his father than just being the best. He could heal himself, lead with respect and principles that harken back to his grandfather's code (whether he knows that or not), live a life that didn't have to end on some pointless job for the galaxy's scum. Boba relearned the importance of clan, that one cannot face this existence alone. Daimyo Boba now burns strong and even, fed by hearty logs rather than dry kindling.

Some posts I found helpful in characterizing Boba:

Boba's love language is acts of service by @thefact0rygirl

The spectrum of dom/general sexual behavior in Star Wars men by @rexxdjarin

Me and @rexxdjarin's comments on her Afflictions fic

Post

Post

Boba is funny send tweet

Boba's got a way with (written) words

Boba and words 2

Post

Boba is the sun

Post

Boba's relationship with being Mandalorian by @deewithani

There's obvs many more but these are the ones I could find again

I hope this was what you were looking for (and coherent lmao) and best of luck with your writing! We all can't wait to see what you come up with for our beloved Boba 💚

No pressure tags if some of these other Boba writers (and anyone else!) want to add anything to this: @rexxdjarin @thefact0rygirl @saradika @acatalystrising @thirsty-boba-fett-posts @bobathirstaccount @deewithani @writingwintermoon

Always feel bad when I see someone say something like "I don't have a disability but I have [something that is a disability but society doesn't treat like one]"

Migraines. Food allergies. GERD. Vision problems. Skin problems. For people that menstruate, conditions that cause irregular and painful cycles. Those are all disabling. Anything that impairs you from functioning or completing a basic life task without accommodation is a disability. Anything that makes you spend days in bed during a flare up is a disability! Not everyone experiences your symptoms and you're not being weak or whiny.

Mental illnesses that people treat as "mainstream" these days like anxiety, depression, or ADHD are still disabilities. Overcoming a massive struggle just to get out of bed, slow down your thoughts, or focus on what you need/want to do is disabling. Starting the day with less mental energy than most people is disabling.

For the migraine people: yes, everyone gets headaches, but no not everyone gets migraines. It's a condition that can be inherited in which our nerves are literally wired differently and more sensitive than someone who doesn't get migraines.

For the food allergy and digestive disorder people: if you eat something your body can't tolerate, you become sick. Doesn't matter if it's a trip to the ER or skin irritation for a few hours, that's a negative response in your body. Going hungry at social events because you can't eat anything, that's not something you just have to grin and bear. Prohibitively expensive or hard-to-find accessible food. Most people have the privilege of not worrying about eating.

For people with abnormal menstrual cycles: you don't have to suck it up because "lots of people get periods, no one likes them, but they all deal with it." Majority of people who get periods don't spend days in bed with debilitating pain or nausea. Your heightened struggle is real. Going months between cycles can increase your risk of health conditions down the line, and it's good to speak to a gynecologist if you have access to one.

If you are feeling discomfort on a regular basis in any part of your body, or if you usually feel unwell after eating, that isn't normal and you deserve medical attention and support

Edit to reiterate this list is not exhaustive!

if you’re comfortable with getting suuppeeerrrr up close and personal:

if it’s a person with a dick, grab them by the balls, dig your nails in (or just fingers if you’re like me and your nails are too short), twist your wrist, and yank as hard as you can. leaves them in agony. 

or if you’re not:

also, if you can, cup both of your hands and slam them over their ears. if you do it hard enough, it’ll rupture their eardrums, but if it doesn’t, it’ll at least make them lose their balance. 

i had to use these on my assailant at my freshman homecoming. i did the ears first, then the dick. worked perfectly, even though it was traumatizing and I still don’t trust men outside of my family and very close inner circle. 

last thing:

i don’t remember the source that this tip is from, and i’m paraphrasing, but if a guy (or anyone) puts their hands on you in a way that you’re not comfortable with, tell them, and if they don’t listen, tell them that you’ll break their fingers if they don’t, and if they still don’t listen, grab their middle finger and yank it back as hard as you can. you told them not to, and they didn’t listen. you warned them about exactly what you would do, and they didn’t listen, so you are absolutely at no fault whatsoever for breaking their bones, especially if you have witnesses to the entire thing. 

Throne of Glass Rant - chapter 34 is actually so vile

This might be early since I haven't finished the book yet but

SJM is a misogynistic mastermind, like to the point that her work should be studied to understand it

This last chapter so perfectly encapsulated the hierarchy of misogyny and white supremacy

500 black freedom fighters are murdered by the oppressive colonial regime

The black Princess of that kingdom comes to her white friend, the FMC, crying and seeking comfort

This is summed up in two paragraphs, saying the Princess cried then went back to being a Strong Black Woman™ "tears dried and shoulders squared once more."

The narrative then shifts completely to the white FMC but instead of sitting with what has happened and resolving to kill the head of the regime.

The focus is on the fact that she's having her period and it's particularly painful. Already her personal pain eclipses the horror of the systemic oppression of black people and the grief of her friend.

The Male Lead #2 comes along and tries to talk about his own disillusionment with his country after the horrific event but FMC vomits to shift the audience's attention once again. It's played off a little humourous, what a dopey guy - he realises she's on her period, blushes and leaves.

Enter Male Lead #1 : first, he must flirt correctly by ignoring her discomfort and downplaying her pain, staying when she asks him to leave.

Then when she has snapped and become the bad guy for reacting to him, her guilt eases the way for her to ignore her pain to accommodate him.

She is on the back foot but he saves her by reaching out a hand to put them on a more equal and intimate ground - "don't call me by my title, call me by my name"

(The narrative will ignore that he is in her bedroom while she's on her period and therefore it has been quite the intimate setting all along because that's not sexy, it's just an invasion of personal space)

Now that they've slipped into this intimacy he reaches for the go to "you probably hate me🥺" knowing damn well she has every right to not like him. In this case his father invaded and conquered her country only 10 years ago, she was enslaved in a mine only 3 months ago and now she's forced to fight to earn her own freedom

Still though, the guilt of her earlier outburst and his sudden vulnerability will soften her

He carries on about how he's ashamed of his father and afraid to act out against him.

"I have no choice 😔" says the prince to the prisoner

And she eats it up - look how soft and lonely he is in this palace, thinks the girl with whip scars on her back, guards outside her door and no family left living. She forgets her cramps and suddenly it's her heart not her vagina that's bleeding

a white man's emotional pain >

a white woman's physical pain >

the murder and grief of black people >

The perfect hierarchy of misogyny + racism

FUCK THIS FUCKING CHAPTER AND FUCK SJM FOR REAL

does existence ever make you just... ache? 

i see and hear and know about so many atrocities and it’s just so overwhelming. how can people stand by as these things happen? how can people do these things? and i’m not just talking about things on the national, or global scale. how can people cheat on their partners? how can they stand to hurt someone like that? how can people be abusive? how do people rape and beat and murder others in cold blood? how do leaders turn a blind eye to the suffering of their people? how can a parent manipulate and abuse their child? 

how can anyone do anything horrible and not feel as if their brain is being ripped apart? how do their hearts not feel as if they’re being stretched to a snapping point and crushed all at the same time, when they hurt someone?

and at the same time,

i see and hear and know of such boundless love, such all-encompassing, unconditional adoration, and i know how i feel it for others, but i can’t possibly imagine someone feeling that way for me. and for this, i feel so arrogant. so self-absorbed. i’m ashamed at how sometimes i feel as if no one, never in the expanse of human existence, could ever feel these things as raw as i can. how only i bear the weight of the world, how only i feel as if all the suffering and weeping of the world is projected onto, into, my heart, and how my heart so often feels as if it’s combusting from all this.

i just... ache. i don’t know if i’m alone in this pain (i hope i’m not), but even the knowledge that those who experience emotions the way i do exist as well would not ease this burden, i think. 

Via twaniimals

Me rn

Tradition and Blood

Chaos.

Tarquin took a long drink from the goblet in his hand as he leaned against the balcony railing and watched his palace erupted into bedlam.

He’d thought to have a drink after dinner, even thought to invite Lady F—

No, the Cursebreaker.

He’d even thought to invite the Cursebreaker. She looked so wound up during the day and at dinner, there was no question sleep would’ve eluded her tonight. With their impending return to the Night Court, he’d foolishly allowed himself to believe that the rumors were true. That she was stolen from Spring, that she hated Rhysand, that she dreaded having to return with him. Maybe even that she found solace here, in his court, in his palace.

In him.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Tarquin slowly leaned further onto and over the railing, watching the seas below. Turbulent, choppy, angry, where just a few hours before they’d been calm. He sipped from his cup, ignoring the shouts, ignoring the footsteps. And when they came to his door, he’d ignore the knocking too. He already knew what they were coming to tell him. He’d felt it as it happened, too slow and powerless against its magic to stop it.

He drained the last of his wine in a single gulp and turned to the small table on his left. Two empty bottles, and a third half-finished. The wine was disappearing at an alarming rate, but no amount of drink could cover this feeling of shame. The other High Lords looked down on him, he knew. Many in his Court did as well. Too green, they all said. Not enough experience. Too young, too naive, too trusting. A few years and he’d make a fool of himself, they said. It hadn’t even been one since Prythian was freed from Under the Mountain and he proved them all right.

And for what? Some lofty ideals? A chance to prove himself? Friends? He wanted to laugh. Laugh like Cresseida laughed when he told her his hopes and dreams. Not to be cruel, never to be cruel. Cresseida was just a realist.

Change is slow, she’d said more than once.

It doesn’t have to be that slow, he’d replied every time.

And while he still believed that, still believed the phrase was used by many to defend and justify lack of action, maybe...maybe there was a grain of truth in the thing. Maybe if he'd taken his time, gathered more intel, built a solid foundation and started slowly within his own court, he wouldn't have been humiliated tonight.

A small breeze that carried a fresh scent of the sea blew past him from his left. He reached out the hand holding the cup. Wordlessly, Varian picked up the half-empty bottle of wine and poured him a drink before taking his own straight from the bottle.

"It's gone."

His words fell from a hollow throat, needing no confirmation from his cousin. They felt heavy yet meaningless. Varian, he knew, would never throw it in his face, but maybe Tarquin would feel better if he had. If his cousin reminded him that he'd tried to tell Tarquin not to trust the Night Court or anyone that came with them, that he tried to get him to listen when Cresseida said the same, maybe he would have felt better, or at least different. Anything other than what he was feeling now.

There was a reason Rhysand had no allies. There was a reason he was welcome in no Courts. And those reasons started before Amarantha. It made him wonder what he could've done, what Tamlin could've done, to turn the Cursebreaker into another one of them. Another Night Court monster.

And how he'd hoped that wasn't the case. Felt it was his personal mission to prove that the Night Court wasn't full of monsters. Those who'd lie, steal, hurt, and betray for their own cause, for their own benefit. After Brutius, he'd hoped. He banked on that hope.

This was the price he paid for hoping.

He wouldn't make this mistake again.

Tarquin pushed off of the balcony, decades of thoughts in his head. He looked over at Varian, who was watching him silently as he drank. He must've read the question in Tarquin's eyes because he said, "No one's dead."

He scoffed. Small mercies. He could hear Rhysand now, as clearly as he heard the knocking at his door. Yes, we stole your greatest treasure, but at least we didn't kill anybody. He'd say it as if Tarquin should be grateful. Maybe he should be.

"And Cresseida?"

Varian hesitated, as if he knew his next words would only make him feel worse. "Trying to work through the magic left lingering in her mind."

Of course. The picture was getting clearer and bloodier by the second. Came into his home under the guise of peace, dangled Prythian's hero in front of his face (not unlike how he dangled her in front of those Under the Mountain), distracted and deceived him while they schemed for his treasure, destroyed his temple, harmed his people, and on top of it all, messed with his mind to ensure their success.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage like the seas below him.

"I always thought tradition was for fools," Tarquin said quietly.

Varian looked to the sea. "Fools do cling to their traditions," he admitted. "Never wanting to see anything new, try anything new. That's why you want to change things, no?"

"Mm," Tarquin hummed. "Indeed. But then what? Do I want transient gratification? Do I change things only for them to change again in another few decades, and then another few decades again?"

"I would hope not, cousin," Varian said.

Of course he didn't. He wanted his change to last. A thought he'd been having since the call of his land upended his night spilled forth from his lips. "The truth is I don't hate tradition. My arrogance demanded that I create my own and discard the ones that came before me."

"A new revelation?"

"Mere minutes old." And with that, he left the balcony.

Tarquin walked into his room and past his bed to the far western wall, grabbing three bottles of wine as he passed. A hand swept over an inconspicuous stone opened the way to a secret passage, a portion of the alabaster white wall shimmering blue. He let Varian step through the wall first, then followed closely after. His cousin took two of the bottles out of his hand, freeing him to open his and take a long drink.

They made their way through the secret corridors of the palace, a place known only to Adriata's royal family and the High Lord of Summer. After Amarantha, Cresseida and Varian showed him, and he was forever amazed at the twisting, turning tunnels that wove through the palace and led to the sea. Even now, the sight filled him with awe.

They continued on their way, only stopping briefly at a certain spot for Varian to pull Cresseida through another wall before continuing on. He shoved a bottle at his sister, and together the three of them drank in silence as they neared their destination. No words had to be said. They all knew what was to come next.

When they finally stood in the middle of the treasure chamber, Tarquin almost faltered. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe she'd gotten too curious of a ruin and set off the alarm by accident. Maybe she got scared, and immediately knew they'd think the worst of her because of the company she kept, and so fled.

But if that were the case, his guards wouldn't have been injured. And she'd have tried to send a note to explain, no?

Her guilty eyes haunted his mind. She'd reeked of guilt the entire trip. Now he knew why.

"Cresseida," he said.

She moved, and within a few minutes came back with a box. Inside, the three rubies she'd chosen were shining. The size of chicken's eggs, he knew they were three of the largest they owned. Fitting.

Tarquin set his bottle down on the floor and gently took the box from her. No reprimand passed her lips either, for which he figured he'd be grateful. Enough of that would come from his advisors and courtiers with the morning.

"It feels like this night has gone on forever," he said, not sure if he was speaking to himself or his cousins or no one at all. "It has been hours, and yet I've lived a lifetime in this one night."

He picked up the ruby in the middle, turning it over and over. The first time he'd heard of the blood rubies, he laughed himself hoarse. The thought of being so beside oneself with anger that you...send valuable jewels to the offending parties? For years, he thought it was a joke his cousins were playing on him. But now that he held it, he felt it. The depths of darkness and malevolence radiating from the jewel called to him, as they could only call to one whose soul mirrored their own.

Like calls to like.

"Are you sure?" Cresseida asked.

"Are you not?" he answered, still staring at the gem.

"There will be no going back," Varian said.

"That was true before I held this," he answered. He never thought he'd be here, get to a place where he'd send one of these, let alone three. A thought that could have driven him to madness. He remembered sailing summers long past, laughing to the point of tears.

"Even if I were High Lord, I'd never send one out!" He'd been ready to swear it, but Varian stopped him, warning him against making a vow he might one day have to break. It was painful to think of how he was then and where he was now.

As he looked at the gem, he thought of his predecessors. They probably all had a point in their lives where they thought the same.

"I see now," he said to the ruby, "why you lived as we now live. Why you did what we now do. I didn't before. Forgive me for my blindness." He lowered it back into its place. "Will you share in this with me, cousins? Will you take part in my revenge?"

"Your revenge is ours," said Cresseida. Varian simply nodded.

Tarquin sighed, then held up his hand. Slowly, his skin shifted from smooth to rough. Razor sharp scales formed on his skin, glowing blue as the oceans beyond them. With his other hand, he took hold of Varian and Cresseida. For a minute, the three of them stood, holding hands at the precipice of magic, just like they often did as children.

"Tonight, I've learned valuable lessons. Many traditions are adhered to for a reason. They are not things to spit on, but things to understand and respect, even should we not necessarily agree with them. And we won't always; they were established during different times than the one we live in. My predecessors were not barbarians who simply didn't know any better, they were complex beings leading complex lives. I see now how they could be pushed to drastic action."

As he spoke, the rubies began to glow.

"On this neverending night, our court has been weakened. I cannot even say that we were blindsided. We—no, I invited the blight in this time, just as my predecessor did half a century ago. Only this time, I knew what evil I was inviting in. I simply convinced myself that everyone in Prythian other than me was mistaken. My arrogance has died tonight. To tell the truth, it was killed."

The rubies pulsed, and in return he began to warm. Without having to see his cousins' faces, he knew he'd begun to glow himself. Shining with the power of Summer.

"This night may feel endless, but the sun will rise. Here in Summer, but also in Night. Our sun will rise in the Night Court. Let it blot out the stars they hold so dear."

And with one swipe, Tarquin slashed across all three hands. Deep gouges formed and blood spilled, intermingling with one another until they were one. The blood and magic fell upon the rubies, who desperately sucked it all up. This was a curse, one born from only the darkest of desires. What Cresseida and Varian desired, he couldn't know. But for him? He only wished upon them all exactly what they'd wrought on him. For them to trust someone wholeheartedly, despite every point of logic telling them not to, only to be violated in the way he had been. Not being able to trust his own mind in his own home, having things placed under his care stolen from him, using his hospitality in a time where such things were hard enough to come by, preying on his good nature and harming those he was meant to protect. He wished it all on them.

And then, once they experienced it all, he wished them dead.

Such desires were deep, and the stones drank until they had their fill. Once they shone with murderous promise, the three Summer fae unclasped their hands, now sticky and stained. Tarquin closed the box and handed it to Varian carefully. His scales were still out, and they refused to go back in for now. Being High Lord was so different than anything else he'd known. The land heard his desires and imbued him with power, but he was aware that in some ways, he was just a vessel, a conduit. They were tied inextricably, he and his Court, and what angered him enraged his Court. His beast roiled underneath his skin in response. It would be a while before he could rein it back in.

He wasn't even sure if he would want to when he could.

He hesitated handing these to Varian. The curse would take root once the recipients laid eyes on them. He thought of her, looking at the rubies. Rhysand would be there to explain what they meant. Would she feel devastated? Would she want to apologize? Would her heart sink to her feet and through the floor as his did when he heard the land scream and found her room empty? Would she shake in disbelief as he had when he found the other rooms vacant as well and realized what they'd done?

He thought of her and how easily she charmed him just to get to his Book. Is that what she did, seducing High Lords to get what she wanted? She seduced Tamlin, didn't she? He read between the lines and connected the timeline. She seduced Tamlin and her family regained their wealth. She seduced Rhysand and became feared throughout Prythian. And in this short time, she'd seduced him and made off with something that could neutralize the Cauldron. Next, he'd hear of her with Helion, leaving him with empty libraries.

The thought pissed him off. He shoved the box at Varian rougher than he meant to.

"These are in the Hewn City by morning."

“As an older sister I will never forgive Nesta-“

To every Rhysand stan that can’t leave Nesta fans alone for even five minutes:

Rhysand rules over an apartheid state, literally enforcing segregation and gender discrimination to the point of physical mutilation.

Rhysand neglects two thirds of his court and not even then is the one third free of slums while he’s drowning in wealth.

Rhysand is a sexual abuser that doesn’t give a fuck about women he’s not in love with or that are not of use to him in any way besides cannon fodder.

Women under his rule are violently abused, se****** assaulted, mutilated, killed, oppressed, poor, discriminated against.

THAT is forgivable to you?

Or has it only ever been about the man, about self-inserting yourself into the story? If yes, don’t talk about morals.