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venusjeon · 6 months

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angel in the marble

after you fail to pickpocket him, the famous yet arrogant artist Jeon Jungkook takes you off the streets to make you his servant, and the more you know him, the more you realise he's not as detestable as everyone claims he is.

♔ PAIRING: michelangelo!jungkook x servant!reader

♔ GENRE: high renaissance au, angst, smut, humour

♔ WORD COUNT: 8k

♔ WARNINGS: homelessness, stealing, mild swearing/violence/drinking, 90% of this is bickering lmao, mentions of minor characters' death, jealousy and kinda possessiveness?, referenced unconsensual groping (not by jk), a bit of blasphemy, making out, groping, fingering, rough angry sexxx, choking, slapping

♔ AUTHOR'S NOTE: fun fact this is mostly historically accurate! jk's characterisation, the grocery list doodles, the sack of rome, the beef with his brother, the encounter with his rival (raphael)... are all taken from michelangelo's actual life, even some stuff is quoted from his letters lol. man was fanfic material.

1529, Rome

“How much for that one?”

“No, that one’s sold already.”

It was a lively morning. After days of heavy rainfall, those of high social class were eager to get out and meet under the gentle sun of spring, whose glare reflected on the precious stones of their jewellery; while those of low, out of necessity, couldn’t wait to reopen their businesses or set up their stalls and get back to work. You liked to eye them all as you strolled the streets of Rome.

“To whom?”

“Your friend Taehyung.”

“Agh… How much is that prick paying you?”

The point of the matter was that it was bustling, some colliding if they looked away from where they were going for more than a breath. It worked in your favour for it was then easier to make yourself scarce right after stealing bags of coins, such as those of the three men seemingly bargaining by a workshop’s entrance out of which a large block of marble was being dragged. Perfect.

“Three ducats.”

“Three?! He’s robbing you of two ducats. I’ll pay you the five it’s worth.”

You kept your head low as you approached the pair that seemed wealthier and with those stealthy hands of yours unfastened the bags tied to their belts. After all, pickpocketing was a skill you’d had under your own for some years now, so this was bound to go smoothly.

Because you didn’t realise there was a guardian with them, perhaps you’d grown arrogant.

“I’m sorry, maestro. It’s reserved.”

“But it’ll become a waste in his possession!”

As you slipped away into the crowd, mouth watering at the fresh-baked bread you were going to devour as soon as bought, this brown dog leaped up at you out of nowhere, ignoring your desperate efforts to shake him off. If anything, they caused him to bark.

No, no, no…

The three men turned to the scene playing out not so far, and thinking his dog was bothering you one of them shouted, “Bam, come here, boy!” but as he obediently ran to his owner, you were too slow to hide the bags in your hands. It only took the pair a second to make them out, check whether theirs still hung on their belts, find them not, work out you’d stolen them, look back up, and find you not either.

Of course, you’d made your escape by then, dived into the sea of people and swum through them as quickly as possible, only stopping when you reached an empty vaulted alley to catch your breath.

That was ridiculously close. If you weren’t more careful next–

Your train of thought was interrupted by someone grabbing you by the arm from behind and pushing you against the nearest wall. A grunt accompanied the thud, and a gasp followed at the sight of the two men from before—dog included. Pinned in place, it’d be a bad idea to fight back or attempt to run away again. Fuck’s sake.

“Do you know what happens to thieves?” the one cornering you asked so close that when the cold breeze rustled his hair, some strands grazed your face. You looked away to avoid the tickling rather than out of fear, or so you wanted to believe. “They have a hand cut off. Seems fair, doesn’t it, Jimin?”

By contrast, that Jimin didn’t look intimidating, otherwise still catching his breath from the chase, but he did snatch the coin bags from your hands. “It doesn’t have to be so, maestro. We got our money back. She’s… just a girl.”

“And that exempts her of crime?”

“Please, don’t report me,” you begged, humiliating as though it was.

“Why shouldn’t we?” the maestro scoffed. Maestro… You were being threatened by a damned craftsman, the other one probably his assistant.

“Because I don’t want to lose a hand?”

“Oh, but we wanted to lose money, did we?” You rolled your eyes, and he released his grip only to step away. “Take us to your father, brat. He’ll answer for you.”

It took you a moment to respond, “I don’t have a father, or anyone... Only I can answer for my actions.”

“You’re a beggar?” Jimin asked, taking pity as he studied your appearance for the first time. Dishevelled hair, tattered dress, unpleasant smell… Yes, they should’ve guessed.

“She doesn’t beg, though, does she? She steals.”

“Only from cunts.”

His head snapped to meet your glare, and Jimin laughed, “You seem to not know whom you speak to.” He could be Jesus for all you cared. Uninterested, you petted the dog, Bam, seeing as he’d leapt up at you again. “This is Jeon Jungkook.”

You froze. The Jeon Jungkook? The famous artist who painted and sculpted for the Pope? Whom faraway kings and even emperors commissioned? The one whose genius was said to be changing the world?

At the lack of attention, Bam returned to his master, and that snapped you out of your shock to ask, “Then why do you whine?” The two men frowned, having clearly expected an apology paired with the usual bootlicking. “As if you need that bag more than I!”

“What nerve,” he scoffed again, making you wince by grabbing your arm tighter than before and starting to drag you into the next street. “You’re going straight to the authorities!”

“Wait,” Jimin intervened, thank God. “Weren’t you in need of a servant, maestro?”

“So?”

Jimin pointed at you with his gaze as though it was obvious. “You’re in need of a servant, she’s in need of a roof.”

“I would rather have a hand cut off.”

“I would rather have her hand cut off too.”

Jungkook tried to resume dragging you, but Jimin blocked his way with a soft smile. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N…”

“Do you know how to take care of a household?” Slowly, you nodded, melancholy engulfing you at the memory of cooking or sweeping the floor with your mother once upon a time. Somehow, she always found a way to make chores fun... “Then you qualify for the job. You’ll have three meals a day and a bed to sleep on. And you, maestro, a servant who’ll work her hardest, lest you fire her and she ends up in the streets again.”

Both you and Jungkook reluctantly glanced at each other. Truth be told, you didn’t prefer losing a hand to living with him, you just didn’t like him. Despite being a celebrity, he was a stranger. It just wouldn’t work.

But then, why were you holding your breath, hoping he’d accept?

“We shouldn’t have left Namjoon’s workshop. The marble is about to be delivered,” he said walking away. The air left your lungs in disappointment. It seemed you were to remain a stray cat. Jimin pressed his plump lips apologetically as he gave you enough coins to buy that bread, and you nodded, grateful all the same for his trying. You watched him rush to Jungkook’s side but when this one saw him, he turned around. “Hurry up, brat. If Taehyung gets that block of marble, I’ll not take you in.”

Since the first day, you could attest to Jeon Jungkook’s nature being as rough and uncouth as the rumours claimed, and after living alone with him for two months still believed gossip such as that he’d got the scar on his left cheek in a tavern fight—in which, if you’d chanced to be present, you would’ve rooted for the other individual.

It appeared it wasn’t just others Jungkook was harsh to. However rich his talent had turned him, he behaved like a poor man, consuming food and drink sparingly and out of necessity instead of pleasure, spending only the money required to live decently, sleeping little in order to work on commissions from dawn to midnight…

Why he chose to take little care of himself was a mystery to someone who previously had not been allowed a choice, even if putting work before all was in order to thwart Kim Taehyung’s plans of ruining his career, as he claimed. You doubted his rival was obsessed with him so, but had learned to agree with whatever Jungkook grumbled to avoid disputes. Most times.

Deep down, you had a feeling your boldness amused him. Who else dared get on his nerves?

“I think all you artists fluttering around the Pope are no more than slaves to money,” you let drop once while making his bed. Bam was sleeping peacefully under the window, while Jungkook leaning against the door’s frame behind you, offended to the core. He could help, you thought, or at least loosen my corset a little…

“I, a slave? I’ll be damned… There is an angel inside every block of marble, and I’ll have you know I carve to set it free.”

“Is it the angel that charges the Pope, then, master?” You could feel him barely restraining the urge to throw you out the window, smiled as you finished smoothing out the blankets.

“You missed a wrinkle there.”

Hands on your hips and frown on your brows, you examined the neatly arranged coverings of his bed. “Where?”

“On your face,” he muttered before making his leave.

Not his finest jibe, but the metaphor did stay with you. An angel inside the marble… It perhaps applied to Jungkook himself, though you’d never tell him.

One instance it came to mind was recently, when his assistants and apprentices were invited over for dinner.

Usually, he’d tell you which meals he liked and you’d ask at the marketplace which ingredients to buy, but now that about ten meals were to be cooked a list was needed. So there he sat on his desk in his study, inking said list as you waited in front of him, fiddling with the undershirt that peeked out of your dress’ sleeves. Given that your eyes were fixed on it, you only learned Jungkook was done when the sound of his quill scratching the paper ceased.

“Be back no later than dusk,” he ordered, “I bet there are still Germans and Spaniards lurking about.”

A year had passed since the Sack of Rome, but the mention of it sent a shiver of fear down your spine. Whatever the political reasons for it, you hated everyone involved, for Hell itself would’ve been a more beautiful sight to behold those nine months when the Tiber’s waters remained painted red…

You were lucky to make it through. Your family wasn’t.

“Yes, master.”

“Here,” he said handing you the paper, then picked another letter from a pile of correspondence he’d been going through before your arrival. Jungkook was about to snap its wax seal when he looked up to realise you hadn’t moved an inch. “Why are you here? Away with you!” He saw the reason in the way you avoided eye contact. “You can’t read, can you?” Met with a silence charged with embarrassment, he leaned back in his chair and sighed, “Give me the list.”

Getting hold of the quill again, Jungkook began… doodling?

You tilted your head but couldn’t see well what he was drawing until he finished and returned the list to you. Then, your lips parted. Each item on the list was illustrated next to its name: ten loaves of bread, a jug of wine, tortellini, four anchovies, two fennel soups…

“I’ll teach you to read when I have time. This will do for now.”

“You’d do that?” For me?

Jungkook ignored you, before he went back to reading his letters complimenting the good gesture with an irritated, “Hurry up.”

That night his co-workers arrived one by one, Jimin the first. The sight of him when you opened the door brightened up your mood.

Unlike a certain someone he was always sweet to you, genuinely interested to know how you fared even if you were just a servant. He claimed that mattered not to him, that you were both commoners and thus equals.

“Look at this place, it’s spotless! And you know I’m furtive, so I won’t get in your way,” you told Jimin as you escorted him through a hallway, bright from the torches hung on the walls that you’d lit up earlier.

He laughed, “I cannot make you my servant, Y/N, you’re maestro’s.”

“But he’s going to drive me mad… To tell you one of many examples, he often falls asleep in his clothes, and who but I is to take his boots off so they don’t get the sheets dirty? If the chalk on his fingers or the dust from the chiseling on his hair won’t already. Bam is far cleaner…”

Jungkook had a workshop he barely set foot in, preferred his team made use of it instead to not be bothered by their idiocy. His words. So it was in a chamber on the ground floor of this house he gave way to artistic insanity. In your book, that meant constant cleaning.

Jimin looked at you fondly. “Sounds nightmarish.”

“It truly is!”

As soon as the two of you entered the dining hall, Bam ran from Jungkook’s side by the fireplace to Jimin, who was as excited to see him.

“Good night, maes–”

“Do you think I’m deaf, ungrateful brat?” Jungkook interrupted him to bark at you. “Rome is full of people begging to get a piece of me, so if you don’t like it here, I’ll just get someone else!”

“You say that and yet keep me like a prisoner!”

“As if you don’t have it better here than anywhere you’ve burdened with your presence before!”

“There, there…” Jimin interjected to de-escalate, kneeling to better stroke Bam. “Maestro, I’ve seen your latest sketch of the Virgin and Child. She resembles Y/N.”

Both you and Jungkook failed to fight off the embarrassment, gazes unable to find a place to settle. Sitting down on the large table, he explained, “It was just one time… I had used Yoongi as a model, but the Madonna looked too masculine... and rather than going through the trouble of finding some girl and hiring her, I had Y/N pose for me… So what! Why bring it up out of nowhere…”

“Because maybe you just need a bit of distance from time to time. With permission, I too would have Y/N pose for m–”

“Absolutely not.”

“Now, why the hell not?” you groaned stamping your foot, startling poor Bam. Hope had been born inside you in a second and cruelly crushed in the next.

“Because I say so. And watch your tone with me.” As usual, the mutual glaring would trick anyone into thinking the next step would be murder. Jimin, who knelt there awkwardly, certainly thought so, at least until the bell rang. “Now go answer the door!”

What happened later, though, rendered the fury Jungkook had evoked in your heart nonexistent and instead seized the thing in a clasp of distress.

In the morning, he walked in when you were sweeping the kitchen. At once you forced the sobs to stop and turned around so he wouldn’t see you wipe your tears.

“It’s past nine, where’s breakfast?” he asked in shock that you hadn’t even started making it, the table there empty.

You swore under your breath before leaving the broomstick leaning against the nearest wall, flushed face kept out of Jungkook’s sight, then in a haste fetched a plate, a knife, and a leftover bread loaf. “Apologies, master, I forgot. I’ll be upstairs in a minute.”

Sniffling betrayed you, at which Jungkook frowned. “Are you crying?”

Great, the question just about especially designed to make one well up. Not trusting your voice anymore, you shook your head. Jungkook approached, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from the task at hand, now cutting a few slices of the bread.

“Have you broken something?” You shook your head again, the suppressed sobs making your chin tremble. Jungkook took a deep breath before asking with a surprisingly soothing tone, “Then what’s wrong?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Within an hour, he’d summoned a meeting consisting of all who’d attended dinner the previous night.

A seemingly calm Jungkook was sat at the head of the table, elbows sunk on it and fingers interlocked. You stood behind him, head still low out of shame. A tense silence had fallen in the chamber some time ago, and sick of it, Jimin shattered it.

“Have you anything to tell us, maestro?”

“I was waiting for Biagio to do so.”

The man was one of Jungkook’s favourite assistants who had worked with him for years, even longer than Jimin. And if it was possible for your position to be trickier, he belonged to some noble family.

“Me? But I’ve nothing to say, maestro.”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair. “My servant will, then. Y/N?”

Bastard. If you are going to fire me, why make me go through this?

“Last night, w-when I left this hall to go refill the wine jug… Messer Biagio followed me into the kitchen, and… h-he trapped me from behind, and started t-to touch me…” Your vision soon blurred, hence why you couldn’t see clearly how concerned Jimin was for you, or how Biagio jumped up in outrage. “I managed to push him away, and ran upst–”

“How dare you slander me, wench? Maestro, you do not believe this!”

“Do I not?”

“She’s lying! I caught her stealing sketches from your study, likely to sell them, so she’s trying to get rid of me!”

You almost scoffed. Only an idiot would choose the one occasion guests had come over and her absence would be noticed to carry out a theft.

Jungkook tilted his head. “I thought you had nothing to say. Why would you keep such a thing just now?”

Biagio gulped. “I deemed it best to mention it later, in private... You won’t believe a pickpocket before an old friend, will you?”

Silence returned, your breath still as you saw all the assistants and apprentices visibly take pity on him. The only one who didn’t was Jimin, but even on his face there was a hint of hesitation. Jungkook’s, you couldn’t see from behind, but after an eternity he stood up and walked over only to put a hand on the shoulder of Biagio, who smiled in relief.

A quiet sob broke through your lips, heart sinking. You’d needed Jungkook to believe you in this. Not because of the consequences his protection as your master could save you from, but because, like it or not… he was the closest thing to family you had.

It turned out he did believe you, judging by the punch landed on Biagio’s jaw out of nowhere. And the next one on his cheekbone, and on his nose. Before everyone around the table had barely stood up to stop Jungkook, he’d already thrown Biagio down and straddled him, pulling his doublet’s collar in a close, tight grip as he continued beating him up. Blood was drawn, but for once, you didn’t mind having to scrub it later.

Jungkook’s influence trumped a whole noble house’s, you learned in the course of the months Biagio tried his mightiest and failed most miserably to have him arrested. Perhaps because of the Pope sitting on his shoulder.

That he’d taken your side was still hard to believe, all he’d grumbled with a shrug when you thanked him while tending to his wounds from the fight being, “I’d been waiting for the chance. I always thought Biagio was a weasel.”

With the matter resolved, life returned to normal—well, whatever that meant in Jeon Jungkook’s household. Because calling for you at the top of his lungs like a madman was not normal. The first time he’d done it you’d raced downstairs, afraid something horrible had happened, only for him to have you close a window as it was getting chilly. Devil rot him. You rushed no longer after that, much to his complaints.

Today, he didn’t notice right away when you appeared under the cased opening, and good thing he didn’t, for he was polishing a bust with sandpaper… shirtless.

Product of hours carving stone into his desired shape or occasionally beating someone up, he could brag of having muscles, which the current task had covered in a layer of sweat and dust. The way they flexed with each movement had you compelled, wanting to reach out, feel if his skin was as hot as the blood pumping through your veins faster and faster. Then your gaze moved to the bust and whatever spell you were under broke.

Hardly an angel was that widowed noblewoman, whom you wished had stayed trapped inside a block of marble. Her name was Madonna Maddalena, and she’d come some weeks past to make a commission covered in pearls, gold, and boldness.

“My friends refused to accompany me today. You’re said to be… disagreeable, which I’m sure is untrue. However, all of them do want to know if you’re as fine-looking as is also rumoured, maestro” she told Jungkook within minutes of meeting him, still by the entrance!

Now you can tell them he’s not, you bit your tongue before it remarked, as this wasn’t Jimin but a patron not to be scared away by your bickering. It wouldn’t be true anyway. All your master lacked in manners, he made up for with looks… Which you’d never say out loud. You’d never say either that he looked even better when irked.

“I’ve heard many rumours about myself, most of them nonsense. My appearance was involved in none.”

She smiled seductively. “I suppose I’ll have to be the one to spread them.”

“The weather is pleasant today,” Jungkook changed the subject, flustered beneath the formal demeanour. “Shall we have wine in the garden?” You left to prepare it not before catching Maddalena raise her brow at you in disapproval. She must’ve been able to tell you thought she was a pompous cunt.

The beautiful flowers you cared for tried their best outside, but the air didn’t get any better.

Sat around a small table, Maddalena explained she wanted a bust of herself by his talented hand to decorate the main hall of her palazzo. You served them wine, not really listening until Jungkook started playing hard to get. The hundred times you’d told him it wasn’t a good tactic to make his labour out to be too prestigious had apparently fallen on deaf ears.

“Any other artist could carry this out, Madonna. I am working for the Pope these days…” he subtly scolded her, a mere mortal, for wasting his precious time. And he wondered why he had a reputation for being arrogant.

Maddalena put his thoughts into plain words, “So why should you stoop to taking commissions from an insignificant widow?”

“Correct,” you said under your breath, luckily heard by none from the background, where you stood holding a wine jug until the madonna raised her cup and you approached to refill it.

“It is then fortunate I’m to marry a nephew of the Pope’s.”

Swayed by her future influence, Jungkook smiled back. “So it is.”

“But not for another week. ‘Till then, I belong to no man.” The suggestion in her tone almost drove you to spill wine all over her. No, better yet: order Bam to sic on her. He’d do it.

Just, who did this woman think she was? And why did Jungkook not kick her out right afterwards? It made you wonder whether he’d enjoyed the flirtation. Whether he would’ve been the one to take things further had his inconvenient servant not been present. It was common for men to have affairs and lovers, but it didn’t sit well with you that Jungkook might. Not that you ever imagined him doing any of that, for goodness’ sake–

“What took you so long?”

Jungkook’s voice brought you back to the present, under the cased opening.

“I was lazing about, as always,” you quoted his favourite false reprimand, making him roll his eyes, your own dropping to the floor when he walked closer.

“In that case, prepare a bath for me.”

“Yes, master.”

You sighed at all the work ahead. That being a servant was worlds better than living in the streets didn’t mean you looked forward to collecting gallons of water from a well, carrying them back, heating them, transferring them to a tub, then washing Jungkook—because you did wash him.

Biagio had hurt his left shoulder bad and ever since, he’d needed assistance in certain activities. Curious how he could otherwise chisel a goddamned bust without problem.

Jungkook’s full nudity only made you blush if you stopped scrubbing, so knelt with tucked up sleeves before the wooden tub he was reclined on, scrubbing away the dirt on his skin with lavender-scented soap you were. Maybe all the stupid feelings you’d been suffering lately stemmed from there…

Head resting on the edge, he was exhausted from the long day of work, taking your rubbing as a relaxing massage. You, however, couldn’t ignore the stinging guilt, what with the scar on his shoulder right in front of your face. He probably felt your breathing on it.

“I’m sorry you got hurt…”

Jungkook fought heavy lids only to see you avoid him. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable in front of him was embarrassing, as when he’d caught you crying, but he didn’t take advantage of the fact to humiliate you. Jungkook may be an ogre, but he wasn’t cruel.

“I’ve received worse for less,” he assured you in a calm, low voice. It sounded soothing to your ears.

“That, I don’t doubt,” you scoffed, glancing at his other scar on the cheek. “Did you also get that one in defence of some lady?”

“You’re nowhere close to a lady.” It could be done, you mused. Drowning him. “This was courtesy of my brother.”

“You have a brother?” It dawned on you how little you knew of him. Surely, most had heard it all about the divine Jeon Jungkook, but you’d never cared enough to learn past the shell of gossip, even after months of living with him. In fairness, he’d never asked about you either. You preferred it that way.

“Brothers,” he corrected you. “The one who did this to me was a wayward fool. Had to teach him a lesson.”

“Looks like he taught one to you.”

“I left with a scratch, he with a limp.” The conception of two brothers hurting each other so harshly widened your eyes for a second, and Jungkook noticed, for he added, “He was whoring around, wasting the money I worked hard to send, bullying our other brothers as well.”

Much made sense about Jungkook all of a sudden. Not his personality, that was incomprehensible. But why he killed himself to earn money and yet barely spent it… He had a family to provide for. Once again, you were reminded of his metaphor. Could an angel be in there?

Carrying on washing Jungkook, you dragged the sponge over to his neck. Then his collarbones, his chest, his abs just peaking above the water... They did look like a sculpture’s, especially wet and soaped, reminiscent of polished marble when the light of the torches reflected on them. Swallowing hard, the back of your fingers gingerly graced Jungkook’s muscles, both soft and firm. Slippery. Whatever possessed you to keep feeling them, you lacked the will to expel from your body, and so without realising your grip on the sponge loosened until it fell to float away, fingertips now free to roam over his abs.

You were slowly trailing downwards, past the water’s surface, when your wrist was seized and held in the air in a warning manner, the startle almost making you scream.

Sat upright, Jungkook was glaring at you so fiercely you feared for your life. But he didn’t say anything and instead just breathed hard, jaw clenched… almost as if he was holding back. Your rising heartbeat was deafening in the silence waiting for something to happen, anything, but what did wasn’t what a side of you anticipated with excitement.

Jungkook just let go of your wrist and returned to his previous position, and you got hold of the sponge and finished washing him, albeit holding your breath the entire time.

Days later, you came dangerously close to being fired.

The Pope had summoned Jungkook—something about a portrait commission—and you were to carry his bag filled with sketches for him due to his shoulder injury. As you navigated the ever-busy streets of Rome with him, the cold autumn breeze made you regret not putting on an overgown. The cioppa you’d bought with your own salary and not stolen. It brought a smile to your lips that faded at the realisation your mother would’ve reminded you to put it on before going out.

The sorrow pestering you turned to confusion when Jungkook stopped walking and tsked, telling you loud enough to be heard by all, “Look at him, the chief of police, with such an assemblage.”

A well-dressed man and what appeared to be his entourage walked in your direction, halting near enough. You didn’t have to ask to know this was his rival, the renowned painter Kim Taehyung.

“Whereas you, like an executioner, walk alone,” he mocked Jungkook, then noticed you standing behind him like a timid child. “Not completely, my mistake. Maestro, where in your barren soil did you plant such a flower?” He walked over to you, intentionally bumping Jungkook’s wounded shoulder as he passed, causing him to grunt lowly. From up close one was bound to marvel at how handsome Taehyung was, but you didn’t need proximity to tell he was a prick. Miles away, you would’ve known. “Why don’t you come work for me, flower? I’ll make you my muse.”

Jungkook scoffed again, “What, for your horseshit paintings? She’d be a fool to.”

Taehyung turned around to face him, feigning confusion with a smile. “But, maestro, how could they be so if you were once heard saying that all I have in art, I got from you?”

"You naturally have to resort to plagiarising my master’s genius if all you do is horseshit,” you countered, earning surprised looks from every man present, some laughs too, you were proud to say. Jungkook was certainly smirking. Taehyung opened his mouth, but you walked past him uninterested before a response came out of it.

“Good girl,” Jungkook laughed while leaving the crime scene, and for some reason your cheeks burned hot.

The incident happened once inside the Vatican.

Its grandiose corridors alone made you feel small, too unimportant to walk them, whereas Jungkook did so with determination, knowing he belonged at the top of the world. What with your tempestuous relationship, it was easy to forget he was famous throughout Europe. His feet would still never be kissed by you. Someone had to humble the man, right?

At some point the two of you arrived at a door flanked by guards, and averse, you grabbed the sleeve of Jungkook’s doublet.

“Do I have to go in?”

“Too good for the Pope, are you?” He shook you off. “Come on.”

“Damn you…” you muttered.

“What did you just say to me?”

“After you, master.”

Telling himself he’d be late if he scolded you, Jungkook turned and nodded at the guards, who opened the door of a chamber whose walls were frescoed with angels and saints, likely by Taehyung, giving off the impression one was in Heaven. When you saw him sat on a golden chair, old and grey, enjoying the tune of a lute player, you felt as though you’d just entered Hell.

The audience lasted for ever. While you stood by the door, Jungkook showed the Pope some sketches of the portrait for him to choose his favourite and then they talked and talked of politics. All you could do was fix your gaze somewhere on the floor and sigh.

“Yes, Your Holiness, this is the servant I mentioned…” A frown proceeded your looking up to see Jungkook somewhat embarrassed, scratching his nose as if to hide his face. He talked of you to others? Doubtless to complain…

With a sweet voice as if he was talking to a little girl, the Pope asked you, “What is your name?”

“None of your business, Your Holiness.”

The musician’s tune ceased abruptly, allowing Jungkook’s faint gasp to be heard. Then fell a short silence spent by the Pope blinking, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Jungkook was quick to fake a laugh, though sweat formed at his temples. “A jest! She meant no offence, Your Holiness, but to make you laugh.”

You held the Pope’s glare in defiance, indifferent to the fact he was the most powerful man in the whole of Christendom.

By some miracle, he let it go, and you left that chamber minutes later with your head as yet attached to your body. Your arm wouldn’t be for much longer, though, given Jungkook was forcibly dragging you all the way out to the streets, pushing you into the first alley he saw.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he shouted, towering over you menacingly. Unlike the day you’d met, you weren’t scared, rather furious as him as you stood your ground. “That was the Pope, you fool!”

“So?”

Jungkook was in utter disbelief. “He could’ve ordered your execution– mine too!”

“Well, nothing happened!”

“Nothing?! I’m sure to fall out of favour!” He paced around, anxiety quickening his breath. “Years of pouring my soul into my craft, of grovelling before the right people, all thrown away! Good God, your attitude may cost me everything…”

“And what about me?! Everything lost to me does not matter?!”

Jungkook stopped to frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”

It was now you who walked up to him. “I didn’t have a job, or a reputation, or admirers. I had only a family, and I never wished for anything else! That monster you work for took them from me. When the foreigners’ armies came and everyone rushed to Castel Sant’Angelo, he gave the order to close the gates as soon as he was safe behind them! You must have been there with him, weren’t you? Well, we weren’t. We were left outside to be slaughtered. And I wish I had been, like my parents, so I didn’t have to suffer the likes of you any longer!”

Tears were streaming down your face by the end, Jungkook just staring back at you. It didn’t surprise him that your parents were dead or that they’d been killed during the Sack, but that it was so deep a wound left festering in your heart that you didn’t mind being put out of misery. He surmised your disrespectful behaviour towards him was also fruit of your pain, especially if you deemed him an ally of the one who caused it.

“The few things I own… They’re wasted on me. Throw them away or give them to your next servant,” you sobbed, taking for granted you were fired. Anyone with half a brain would indeed have you dismissed, and part of you knew it was bound to happen, that you would go back to breaking in fucking churches to spend the night.

So you turned around into the main street, set on wandering until your legs became too sore not to collapse. With any luck, a carriage would run over you. But warmth then surrounded your hand, and you looked down to see Jungkook’s holding it tight enough to force you to halt. Though still mad, a hint of compassion sparkled in his eyes.

“Let’s… Let us just go home.”

Home. His house had felt so for a while now, truth be told. Himself too.

After that, you non-verbally agreed on a ceasefire—avoiding quarrels, that is, which was quite the task for both.

Such as now that Jungkook had you inking down a letter in his name. First of all, did you look like a scribe? If you’d known in advance the lazy arse would teach you to read and write for this, you’d have chosen to remain illiterate. And second, this was your short break before making dinner, intended to be spent playing with Bam. The poor thing was also in the study, at least being stroked by his owner, who was sat beside you on the desk.

“… I send you my regards, may God keep you from all harm. Jeon Jungkook in Rome,” he finally finished dictating, and you recording. “Give it to me, I’ll seal it.”

He was melting the wax with which to do so when the bell rang, to his surprise. Sighing, you stood up and went to open the door to whom turned out to be Jimin. The sight of him brightened you up, and yours stretched his lips into a smile.

“Evening, Y/N.”

“Good evening! I didn’t know the master was expecting you.”

“He isn’t…” You welcomed him in, brows joining at how he continuously chewed on his aforementioned lip and breathed deep through his nose as he followed you. Had something happened…? A decision to eavesdrop was made en route to the study.

Though Jimin requested for you to stay once there, and nothing could have prepared you for the reason why.

“This actually concerns Y/N…” You and Jungkook exchanged confused looks, him leaning against the desk and crossing arms as though he didn’t like the sound of that. Jimin fixed his already perfect clothes before addressing him, “I’ve come to ask for her hand in marriage.” Your jaw dropped. “I know it’s sudden at the lack of previous courtship, but I thought I should ask for your permission before engaging in it, maestro. She’s a lovely girl… and I think she’d be happy as my wife. Worry not, I won’t ask for a dowry or for her to stop working… Although on second thought, fewer hours of service would be ideal.”

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be happening.

Jungkook must be thinking the same, for he squinted to ask, “Are you drunk?”

“N-No, of course not.”

“Are you sure? You want to marry a servant with little to her name.” He had a point, so you weren’t offended. If politics weren’t the reason for a union, did this mean… Jimin had feelings for you?

“Maestro, you say it as if I were a lord,” he chuckled. “I don’t care about Y/N’s possessions, I’ll provide for her anyway. I’ve… always been fond of her. And I dare say she shares the sentiment.”

Betrayal hid safely behind a look that asked if there was any truth to that. Obviously not! There was no romance in your own fondness for Jimin. If anything, you had thought he saw you as a younger sister to look after, therefore as a protective older brother you saw him. But so shocked were you still that no words managed to come out, and Jungkook’s gaze shifted back to Jimin.

“I’ll think about it. You may go.”

A curt tone was the norm for Jungkook, it was not being granted his blessing that disappointed Jimin. He knew for a fact he was an honourable man, so why wouldn't he entrust you to him?

“Quite well… I’ll show myself out.” he uttered, before making his leave failing to hide his low spirit by giving you one last shy smile you hadn’t the heart to return.

An awkward silence filled the air that even Bam daren’t break. Only once the front door was heard shutting did you walk closer to Jungkook.

“You won’t agree to this, will you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I have to get rid of you at some point.”

“Rid of me? Like I’m a burden?” you asked, voice rising. How a servant could be so was unknown to you until, like wooden ship toys did when you’d submerge them in a bucket of water as a child, certain guesses surfaced in your thoughts. Trying to pickpocket him, the constant clashing, Biagio, that bath, the Pope… Yes, you may perhaps be described as a burden. But you didn’t want to leave. With a calmer tone, you pleaded, “I’ll behave from now on. I won’t cause any more trouble, I swear.”

Jungkook didn’t deign to look your way as he left, followed by Bam. “You have to marry at some point, Y/N. Otherwise people will gossip.”

Since when did he care about what people said of him? And why should you?

Winter having dropped its anchor, nightfall arrived early. Not early enough, you brooded as you cooked dinner, longing for the day to end once and for all. With any hope, all of this was a nightmare and upon waking up in the morning life would go back to normal. You didn’t even know why you wanted to stay with Jungkook, as the occasions in which you’d begged Jimin to employ you to leave this house were countless. The only certain thing was that you were upset.

Later, after washing all plates and cups, you began to put off all torches lighting the house, finding out in the hall that Jungkook hadn’t moved from the seat he’d dined in. You considered carrying on with your job and leaving him in the dark, but he wouldn’t find it as funny. Instead, you stood before him.

“Will that be all, master?”

The coldness in your expression made him sigh, “Y/N–”

“I shall retire, then.” You turned to leave but were made to stop in your tracks.

“It’s an advantageous proposal for you,” he lectured to whom he must believe an idiot. “Jimin works for me, he’s wealthy. A better match than you could ever aspire to. And he asks for no dowry because he doesn’t want money, he wants you…” His words were tainted with resentment. “He’ll take good care of you.”

Skirt of your dress swirling along, you faked a smile. “If you think so, master, then it must be so.”

He shook his head as he leaned back in defeat. “Suit yourself, but I won’t be the one to reject Jimin. You crush his heart.”

A laugh escaped you. “If you genuinely cared about him, you wouldn’t let him marry a woman in love with–” Oh no. It only hit you as you were saying it.

Jungkook had appeared annoyed, but now he was mad. “Who?” He stood up abruptly—chair’s feet scratching against the floor making you wince—and walked so close you were backed against the wall, face forced to turn to a side. In a low, deep voice, he repeated, less as a question and more as an order this time, “Who.”

There was no way in the nine circles of Hell you’d say it, when you didn’t want to believe it in the first place. For fuck’s sake, why? Jungkook only ever made you want to get away from him. That was the case right now, but then… why were your feet frozen?

Some unreasonable part of you seemed to have prevailed upon the others, casting away all resistance from your body and allowing yourself to indulge in Jungkook’s proximity. You met his eyes without fear, held his dark gaze. It didn’t take him long to work it out, yet he kept close, so close your unsteady breaths mingled, the effect akin to intoxication. He was visibly trying to hold back, telling himself it’d be a bad idea, but you prayed he wouldn’t care.

By God or the Devil, your prayers were heard.

Jungkook finally smashed his lips into yours, devouring them with a hunger you shared and felt growing as he gripped your waist to press you against him. A minute ago, you wouldn’t have imagined his tongue belonged inside your mouth, swirling around your own, and now you wanted it all over your body. As if reading your mind, Jungkook broke the ardent kiss to move down to your neck, which he licked painfully slowly before sucking hard, making you hiss with pleasure. He knew that would leave a mark, the bastard. You wondered if it was meant for Jimin, so he’d see you were Jungkook’s, and in such case you didn’t mind, let your eyelids close to enjoy it.

Steered by the lust possessing you, one hand grabbed his soft hair in a fistful, keeping his head in place where he was sweetly abusing your neck, while the other travelled southwards until it reached his crotch and held it over the trousers, feeling his cock stiffen. Jungkook groaned—a vibration to your skin—in retaliation lifting your skirt. You’d thought he'd take his time, tease you, but after ensuring you were wet enough by gliding his middle finger along your core, he slid it inside and began making beckoning motions.

“Master…” you moaned, legs shaking. Jungkook forsook your neck to pull back, watch how you struggled to keep it together as he added another finger, curling and uncurling them both, hitting all the right places, and unwilling to give him that satisfaction without consequences you groped his erection with the same vigour. Although he was in good control of his expression, his breath quivered against your lips, so he kissed them again, biting hard into your lower one.

He exhaled, “You’re driving me to sin…”

Indeed, the same fingers that held the brushes when he painted religious artwork were buried deep inside your cunt, bringing you the most sinful ecstasy. It made you chuckle. Jungkook took that as the mockery it was and, crossed, pulled his fingers out of you to drag you by the arm to the edge of the table, where he had you sit. Without delay he lifted your skirt again, only this time he also pulled down his trousers to reveal his cock, thick and throbbing, which he pumped as he watched you spread your legs eagerly, ready to take all of him.

With his free hand Jungkook cupped your cheek, thumb caressing your lower lip, coated with saliva and reddened still from when he’d bit it. He could sense your desire, that you craved him inside, had for a while. Desperately. And however much tempted he was to make you beg for it, his own arousal led his cock to your entrance and eased it inside already, another groan hitting the back of his bared teeth. You didn’t have time to gasp, his thrusts so quick they earned only moans, so wonderful did it feel.

Jungkook’s hand on your cheek then wrapped around your neck. “Do you know how often I’ve fantasised strangling you?”

You chuckled again as you slapped him across the face. Jungkook halted his movements in shock, glared at you. “And I slapping you?”

It took him a moment, but he scoffed and pushed you back so that you were lying down, climbing next atop you, confident that the wooden table was sturdy enough to hold both. So legs hooked around his torso and arms around his neck, you welcomed his thrusts, rough enough to make your eyes water. But it felt heavenly, how he ravished you... The mutual irritation and tension building up for over half a year translated into indescribable pleasure.

He kissed you again, flicking his tongue against yours as he pounded into you without mercy. Overwhelmed by the sensation, all you could do to express you were nearing your limit was sink your nails into Jungkook’s biceps at each side of you, moan inside his mouth. He took the hint and fucked you as fast as his body would allow, within mere seconds your walls clenching tight around him. The sight of you collapsing under him, overcome with bliss, made him reach his own highest shortly, spurting his warm seed inside you.

As his movements gradually ceased, so did your panting. Before a complete silence fell, you asked, “Am I still to marry Jimin?”

Jungkook grabbed your face and growled against your pouted lips, “You’re not going anywhere.”

#bts au #jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #bts jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfiction #bts scenarios #bangtan imagine #bts smut #jeon jungkook scenarios #bts fic #jeongguk #bangtan #bts x you

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writingwithcolor · 5 months

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A Careful Balance: Portraying a Black Character's Relationship with their Hair

@writingraccoon said:

My character is black in a dungeons and dragons-like fantasy world. His name is Kazuki Haile (pronounced hay-lee), and his mother is this world's equivalent of Japanese, which is where his first name is from, while his father is this world's equivalent of Ethiopian, which is where his last name is from. He looks much more like his father, and has hair type 4a. I plan to make his character very finnicky about his hair, both enjoying styling it, but also often being unsure how to style it (not in that he doesn't know how to, but has so many options for how to style it, he has trouble choosing). However, I know that there are some very harmful ways to write black hair, especially in regards to how the black character themselves feels about it. Kazuki does not hate his hair, in fact he takes joy in it, and I'm researching black hair and hair styles to be as accurate as possible. But I'm unsure if portraying a black character as occasionally overwhelmed by or vain about his hair is negative. How would you suggest either changing this or making it work? Does it need to be changed in the first place?

Black Character Overwhelmed by Curly Afro Hair

Your Black character wanting his hair to look its best and at times feeling overwhelmed seems reasonable and natural to me. It appears their challenge comes with how to style it. Not so much with struggling how it looks or how hard it is to manage. That is good, as this further helps avoid placing a strong negative focus on Black hair.

Him caring a lot about how it is style should not be deemed vain or frivolous, either. In any case, hair care is self care. There’s nothing wrong with having pride with your hair, especially hair that mainstream society, historically and present, might say is not beautiful. This still matters, even in a fantasy world, since your readers still exist in this reality. It’s empowering and a welcome change to see someone who loves their afro hair, actually.

There are unique factors someone with coily afro hair would experience vs. straight, wavy, or looser curls, but people struggling with their hair (too frizzy, too flat, too limp, too thin, too thick!) is universal.

There is a delicate balance to achieve.

Avoid Writing a Black Hair Journey Experience

An overall negative Afro hair journey might be the reality for many, especially when society deems Afro hair as unacceptable and slaps so many uninvited opinions, laws and policies over its existence and on certain styles (again, historically and very much at present), but that’s the kind of story that is best handled by someone with the background. Someone willing to commit to the research might also be able to pull it off, although it’s truly not the kind of thing an escapism novel needs in my opinion. If the story is not meant to delve into “A Black /Black Hair Experience” then I'd avoid going that route. That is moving a bit towards a struggle narrative, depending on how much it defines your character’s story.

Add positive and neutral hair language and interactions

For your writing, I’d avoid using unchallenged negative language about his hair. Being overwhelmed at times and frustrated is one thing and expected. If his hair is constantly brought up, and is associated with uncontrollable, ugly, or too [insert struggle here], then rethink the direction you’re going.

Add some positive or neutral terms, reactions, and interactions in the narrative towards afro hair, such as describing color and texture.

“His fine coils bounced in the wind.”

“Hair black and shiny”

“She wore her hair in two large, fluffy buns.”

“He admired his fresh, neat braids in the mirror, smiling at his reflection, before turning to leave.”

Another tip: It may have been for research purposes, but leave out any hair number categorizing in the story and rely on description. I’d say this goes for any story, as reading the number would feel off.

“He had coily 4a hair.” Nahh! :P

Also, I would suggest sending all passages that focus on his hair to a Black sensitivity reader for review.

More reading:

~Mod Colette

#asks #black #black hair #hair #afro hair #description #tragedy exploitation #struggle novel #creator responsibility #representation #guides #writeblr

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blumineck · 3 months

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hi! you're great I love your work! I've got a weirdly specific archery question and thought I'd send it to you in case you'd find it fun to have a crack at

say you're an expert archer originally from Vietnam sometime in the late bronze age. say you're a super duper expert archer because it turns out you're immortal, and so you do your archery across Eurasia through the first millennium BCE and the first millennium CE and into the age where gunpowder weapons are evolving into cannons. that's a long time to be alive and you do lots of hunting and fighting with all kinds of bows and shooting styles, especially war archery on horseback. then you're out of the picture for a while, let's say you're peacefully sleeping for a handful of centuries. (this is about Quynh from The Old Guard who alas was not peacefully sleeping)

all of a sudden you blink and you've gone from the era where firearms were just starting to develop and maybe with this new flintlock thing guns could eventually get good enough to rival a bow and arrows— bam, now you're in the 21st century. what kinds of modern archery tech would you be most excited to try out? what would you think of a compound bow? Olympic style archery? plastic fletching?? how about the modern reproductions of what are now considered historical bows and shooting styles? is there anything about 21st century archery that you'd want to rant about at length? other opinions about these newfangled takes on your trusty old bow and arrows you care to share?

This is a phenomenal question, and thank you for asking it! Here’s my 2 cents:

The thing about modern archery is that for the most part, modern bows are designed to make it easier to be accurate, to the stage that modern target accuracy is probably better than it’s ever been historically.

BUT, if we assume Quynh is capable of feats of archery that match the level of melee combat skill that e.g. Andy has, then she doesn’t NEED it to be easier to be accurate.

My guess is that someone like her would actually find most modern archery developments needlessly slow and awkward. Compound bows and Olympic recurves are NOT designed for instinctive, fast shooting, and would probably feel quite restrictive once she got over how easy they made accuracy.

BUT, I imagine she would be blown away by the range and arrow speed that modern bows can generate, and there are some recurves (and at least one compound bow), that have been designed to make use of the efficiency of modern materials and bow design, while still allowing traditional shooting styles, and those, THOSE are something an ancient immortal archer might fall in love with! (FWIW, my own go-to is a horsebow made with carbon-fibre limbs and a modern limb profile, and for impact energy it can match some traditional bows with a draw weight that’s 50% greater. The Oneida eagle compound could trump that).

So yeah, it might take her a bit, but once she gets her hands on the right equipment, she’d be (even more) TERRIFYING!

#archery #bows #arrows #writing ref #the old guard

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lackadaisycats · 1 year

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I tried to answer this succinctly, but it turned into an essay. (Sorry.)

The Princess and the Frog was not accurate, strictly speaking, but dinging it for that would be like criticizing the Lion King for not being a realistic wildlife documentary. Accuracy wasn't really the point. Given the fantastical elements and fictional nations like “Maldonia”, I suppose we're meant to understand this as a bit removed from the real New Orleans. It's more a a jazz-flavored fairy tale than a historical fiction.

But for discussion's sake....

Is it fashion-accurate to its 1926 timeframe? Ehhh, sort of. It pays homage to 20s fashion trends with cloche hats, furs and feathery headpieces, but without fully committing to it. The waistline on almost all of Tiana's clothing is too high for the 20s, and the the shapes of her fancier costumes take a lot of liberties, or deviate wildly from the style of the period.

In the 20s, dresses (including workaday stuff) tended to have a straight up-and-down shape to it - kind of a low-waisted rectangle that de-emphasized curves instead of highlighting them. There are valid reasons to play fast and loose with that, though (something I’m definitely guilty of as well). One of those reasons is communication.

For instance, speculatively, the filmmakers wrote Tiana as a hard-working waitress and wanted her to look the part, so they made the choice to clothe her in something familiar - that gingham dress of mid-century shape that we broadly associate with diner waitresses. Actual waitress uniforms of the 20s had a fair bit of overlap with maid uniforms at the time too, and I can see why they wouldn't want to risk the confusion. It's more important to communicate clearly with the larger audience than to appease a small faction of fashion nerds who'd notice or care about the precision.

I don't think it's a case of the designers failing to do their research - I'm sure they had piles of references, and maybe even consultants - but they also had to have priorities.

With her hat and coat on, she looks a lot more 1920s-shaped.

Pretty consistently, the indication of the characteristic 1920s drop waist is there, but the approach otherwise ignores the 20s silhouette. The clothes hug the body too much. This may be about appealing to a 2000s audience, visually speaking, but also could be an animation thing. Maybe both. For practical reasons, clothes in 2d animation are usually more a sort of second skin than something that wears or behaves like realistic fabric.

These are not in the 1920s ballpark at all. Tiana's blue gown looks like your basic Disney brand invention. Strapless things would have been extremely unusual and the overall shape is far out of step. Excusable, I guess, because it's a costume in context. Charlotte looks like she’s heading for a mimosa brunch in a modern maxi dress.

Charlotte's princess dress did seem to be calling back to the ultra-wide pannier side hoops of the 18th century - something that made a reappearance for part of the 20s, albeit in much milder form called robe de style. I'm not sure if the filmmakers were alluding to that at all, really, but either way, her dress is hilarious.

They only went about halfway with the cloche hats. The 1920s cloche really encapsulated the cranium, almost entirely covered bobbed hair, and obscured much of the face from certain angles, so it's easy to see why they've been somewhat reined in for the film. Still, it ends up looking more 1930s, where the hats started to recede away from the face, evolving in the direction of the pillbox.

Similarly, Tiana's hair is not very reminiscent of the bobbed, close-to-the-cranium style of the period, but I think that could legitimately be written off as characterization. She's not at all the type of person who'd fuss about going à la mode. Not everyone bobbed and finger-waved their hair.

The clothes Prince Naveen is introduced in are very 1920s collegiate in spirit - the wide-leg oxford bags, the sleeveless pullover sweater, the flat cap, and high, stiff collar. The ukulele and banjolele were pretty trendy instruments at the time too.

Definitely some Josephine Baker vibes here. Also, the look of this whole fantasy sequence was reportedly inspired by the works of Aaron Douglas, a luminary painter of the Harlem Renaissance known for his depictions of the lives of African-Americans. (The mural is in Topeka, Kansas.)

They pretty much nailed the Art Deco. It's gorgeous. Looks somewhat inspired by the interiors of some of the Ralph Walker-designed NYC architecture, plus some French Quarter balcony flair for the final manifestation of Tiana's Place. Her dress here does resemble some gauzy mid-1920s looks, too.

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Culturally speaking...

New Orleans is an unusual place. Because some of the colonial Spanish and French laws and conventions that New Orleans evolved under persisted even after its inception into the United States; because it was such a heterogeneous hub of indigenous and immigrant peoples; and because it had a considerable population of free people of color (mostly Creole), it did not function quite like the rest of the South leading up to the Civil War, nor for a while after. Its particular coalescence of cultures made it its own unique sort of culture within the country, within the region, within the state of Louisiana even. By the early 20th century, though, regardless of the not-very-binary nature of New Orleans, Jim Crow laws were enforcing a literal black-and-white distinction, and not an evenhanded one, by far. In that aspect, the city had begun to resemble the rest of the South.

The film nods at the wealth disparity, but goes on to paint a pretty rosy picture of race and class relations at the time. Still it's not unbelievable that some people were exceptions to the rules. You could probably find a few compartments of old New Orleans society that resisted segregation or certain prejudicial norms, preferring to do things their own way. That aside, the film wasn't trying to confront these topics. Not every piece of media should have to. Sometimes breaking away from miserable period piece stereotypes is refreshing. I'm not sure it could have handled that meaningfully given the running time, narrow story focus, and intended audience, anyhow. (But you could perhaps also make a case that family films habitually underestimate younger audiences in this way.)

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Raymond the firefly I guess is the film's Cajun representation. There's not much to say about it, except perhaps to note that Evangeline is a reference to the heroine of a Longfellow poem of the same name. The poem is an epic romance set during the expulsion of the Acadians from the eastern provinces of Canada and the northernmost reaches of the American colonies (now Maine) by the British in the mid-1700s. Many exiled Acadians gradually migrated south to francophone-friendly Louisiana, settling into the prairies and bayous, where 'Acadian' truncated into the pronunciation 'Cajun'. Evangeline - who is only finally reunited with her love when he’s on his deathbed - has become an emblem of the heartbreak, separation and faithful hope of that cultural history, and there are parishes, statues and other landmarks named after the her throughout Louisiana.

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Voodoo does have a very historical presence in New Orleans, having arrived both directly from West Africa and by way of the Haitian diaspora (where it would more properly be called Vodou). While I don't think Disney's treatment of it was especially sensitive or serious, it also wasn't the grotesquely off-base sort of thing that media of the past has been known to do. It was largely whittled down to a magical plot component, but it wasn't so fully repurposed that it didn't resemble Voodoo at all either - and that's mostly owing to the characters, because it does appear the writers pulled from history there.

It’s apparently widely held that Dr. Facilier is a Baron Samedi caricature - and likely that's true, in part - but I have the impression he's also influenced by Doctor John. Not the 20th century funk musician, but the antebellum “Voodoo King” of New Orleans. Doctor John (also called Bayou John, Jean La Ficelle, and other aliases) claimed to be a Senegalese prince. He became well known as a potion man and romance-focused prognosticator to people from all corners of society. Though highly celebrated and financially successful at his peak, he seems ultimately remembered as an exploitative villain.

To my recollection, the film sort of gingerly avoids referring to Facilier as a Voodoo practitioner directly (I think he's more generically called a witch doctor in the script?) but it does seem to imply his 'friends on the other side' are a consortium of loa. It's mostly abbreviated into nebulously evil-seeming special FX, glazing over any specificity or dimensionality, but it does also loop back around as a vehicle of moral justice. Loa are all very individualistic and multi-faceted, but they do have reciprocal rules for asking favors of them.

There's also the benevolent counterpart in Mama Odie's character. Her wearing ritual whites has a definite basis in Voodoo/Vodou practice, and her depiction as a fairy godmother-like figure isn't entirely out of step with how a mambo may have been perceived...in a very general sense. They were/are ceremonial leaders and community bastions who people would seek out for help, advice and spiritual guidance. More than just emanating matronly good vibes, though, some have wielded considerable political and economic power.

(Just my opinions here. I've done a lot of reading on the subject for research but I'm no authority with any special insider understanding of Voodoo, and I really shouldn't be relied upon as an arbiter of who has or hasn't done it justice in fiction.)

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In summary--

Culturally, I think the film is respectably informed but paints a superficially genteel picture. The set pieces are gorgeous, but the story mostly delivers a sort of veneer of New Orleanishness. And as for fashion, well, it’s the 1920s run through a Disney filter. It’s very pretty, but it’s only as proximally accurate as seemed practical.

I don’t know that any of that really matters so much as whether or not it achieved what it intended, though. As a charming yarn and as a tribute to New Orleans and the Jazz age, I think it’s mostly successful. It’s also really beautifully animated!

#princess and the frog #disney #1920s #new orleans #jazz #fashion #voodoo #vodou #history #animation #art deco

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nebbyy · 22 days

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King Baldwin IV x reader - I’ll be waiting for you

A/N: Well, how could I not make another fic for King Baldwin when the other one I made is my most liked post yet, so I decided to write this little pieceee. Sooo I guess I should warn y'all that this one will be a little less historically accurate (not that the first one was that great of a historical piece but you get the idea). Oh and as usual, this fic came into my mind the moment I saw the painting just below (which is "the Reconciliation of the Montagues and Capulets Over the Dead Bodies of Romeo andJuliet" by sir Frederic Leighton)Now enough chatting, more King Baldwin brainrot.

Summary: in a desperate attempt to protect his kingdom after having punished Reynald de Chatillon, the king is exhausted and the long ride has increasingly worsened his already wary condition. Once he’s escorted back to the palace, his loving wife wastes no time to reunite with her beloved husband.

Warnings: kinda angsty (no happy ending tbh), vague descriptions of Baldwin’s illness related wounds. Also, reader specifically described as female.

Word count: 3209

You sat on your throne, high and proud like the royalty you were. But under the facade of your noble confidence, you felt small. Smaller than ever, actually, as the yelling of all the men in front of you filled the air and rose up to the open sky. With a simple, reckless act, Reynald de Chatillon and Guy de Lusignan had just screwed years of efforts that King Baldwin had spent trying to maintain that delicate peace that required so many lives and time to build. All washed away from the raging river that were Reynald and Guy.

While the two men tried to defend their senseless attack, backed by a substantial group of men, another opposing group shouted at them, berating them for the offense they had given not only to Saladin but also to Jerusalem itself.

You sigh, fighting the urge to cover your ears, and curl into your own body; you opt to just turn your head and look at your beloved husband. He looked to be in a similar state as you were: although his face was now fully covered -a means of hiding the decaying state of his leprosy-ridden body- his head was bent with weary alertness, like a hawk watching its prey from a distance. You watched his body, languidly seated on his much larger throne, the only sitting position that brought him no discomfort, though it looked almost more like he was about to lie down.

It broke your heart to see how that disease had ravaged Baldwin's body, in recent years more and more. To see him there, on the same throne on which he once sat tall and proud, while now he barely had the strength to stay upright. And you knew he was thinking the very same thing.

You were about to open your mouth, whisper something to him, anything, in order to shake him out of his thoughts and that chaotic situation, but you were interrupted in your actions by an official, who rushed to the king's side, handing him a scroll. His bandaged hands clumsily opened the scroll, and you found salvation from the noise of the room by concentrating on watching Baldwin read carefully. You watched his eyes, blue as the sky and like the waves of the sea that brought you to the Holy Land, now covered with a pale glassy glaze.

You frowned when you heard Baldwin freeze in place, even his sitting became more erect, as if a cube of ice had slid down his back. With his gaze still fixed on the words written in that letter, he merely raised his hand slightly, a clear sign of his will.

"SILENCE!" his guard's shout resounded through the hall, overpowering the furious shouts of the men who had been barking at each other for hours now. They all turned to look at the king; their faces, a few moments ago darkened and wrinkled with anger, were now smooth and relaxed, their eyebrows raised in astonishment at their king's order. Funny, you thought, how these men because of your husband's condition sometimes simply forget how much power he possessed over them. Before it was as if he wasn't even in the room, and they were all playing at being great leaders, now there they were, staring at him, motionless as statues, submissive as ants. You curled your nose discreetly, your face a mixture of disgust and contempt. Pathetic, you thought.

After what seemed like an eternity, Baldwin finally looked up at the crowd in front of him, finally revealing what it was that had shocked him so much. "Saladin has crossed the Jordan with 200000 men," silence fell, and you felt your body going numb. Your ears seemed muffled, you could barely perceive what was happening around you. At that moment you felt so much fear for your kingdom, and concern for Baldwin and what this impending attack would cost him.

And anger, against those two fools who out of sheer vanity had endangered the lives of all the inhabitants of Jerusalem. They had put Jerusalem itself at risk; they had put Baldwin at risk.

I was brought to attention by Baldwin, who was struggling to pull himself up from his throne, walking toward his most trusted man. "We must meet him before he reaches Kerak. I will lead the army," your husband's voice was hushed and soft, so that only the man in front of him could hear. But it did not escape your ears, the implication those words had: Baldwin wants to stop Saladin, and he wants to do it himself. But this could cost him his life.

You couldn't stop yourself; you jumped up from your seat, eyes wide in an expression somewhere between fear and surprise. Baldwin turned to look at you, the woman who always took his breath away at the mere sight of how beautiful she was. You did not fail to have that effect on him again this time, but not because of your beauty: in your eyes he saw your terror, that this was the last time you would see him alive. They hypnotized him, and begged him in a silent prayer not to leave, to give up this plan, have an ambassador sent, anyone else. Hell, let him send Guy himself to intercept the Saracen, let him be beheaded and his murder settle the account that he himself opened. But the storm of emotion in your eyes contrasted with the gentle stream of emotion flowing from your eyes

But the storm of emotions in your eyes contrasted with the gentle stream of emotions flowing from Baldwin's eyes, barely visible because of the cover concealing his tortured face. He too, through them, was silently pleading with you: but he was asking you to trust, to let go and follow his plan, to try to forget for at least a moment all the warnings the Physicians had given him over the years.

Eventually, you relented, turning your gaze away and opting to stare at a random spot in the corner of the room. Baldwin gave a silent sigh and closed his eyes for a moment, a sign of gratitude, although you could not see it. He turned to the men of his court, and with the little strength his body afforded him, he spoke in a loud, determined voice: "Assemble the army and protect the city."

All this reminded you of the last time Baldwin fought Saladin: he had barely completed his seventeenth year, and young and still full of life, he was ready to ride against the invincible Saracen king. But on that day God had been more merciful. He had granted you, if nothing else, one last night to spend with your husband, had given you the gift of a minimum of time to ensure that you bid Baldwin a proper farewell before he met what could well have been his end. Instead this time, you barely had time to briefly remove the thick veil from his face to give him a fleeting kiss and exchange a handful of words. You fought back the tears as you looked at him, opting instead to bring your hand to his cheek, the flesh of his lip having receded and decayed to such an extent that it had receded down to his cheek, eventually turning into a long scar that protruded down to his cheekbone.

"Let me go with you, I will wait for you at the castle of Reynald de Chatillon-" "No. It is too dangerous. If things go wrong with the negotiations, I don't want you or my sisters anywhere near that man." It was not often that Baldwin interrupted you while you were speaking. He respected you too much to not allow you to finish your sentences, so the fact that he did just now spoke of how important this was to him.

"Then promise me you’ll come back to me. Safe and sound." He snorted softly, giving a hint of smile before copping his face with his hardened hands, "You know I can’t promise it." You know that, but that blatant honesty of his, which you always loved so much, was not what you wanted at the time. No, you wanted reassurance, no matter how truthful, no matter how worthless his promises may be at the end of the day, You need that fleeting distraction that mitigates the fear that’s been eating you from the inside since Baldwin put on his armor. May you risked never seeing him again.

"Please just say it." Your voice came out much softer than you meant, almost less than a whisper, perhaps because of the knot in your throat, which threatened to break free carrying a river of tears. For a moment he remained silent, turning suddenly his face towards the voice of a nobleman who called him from the entrance of his room, but did not even dignify him with an answer. After all, his attention was completely turned to his world. To you. Before I answered you, I drew your head to his with my hands, so that I could place his forehead against yours. Finally, he spoke softly, in that loving tone that he reserved only for you: "Then I promise you that I will return to you in no more than three days, and when I return I will be victorious, and I will be riding."

After that, that moment between the two of you, which so much looked like a heartbreaking farewell, lasted just before Baldwin had to go to his horse to guide his men to the enemy.

And it wasn’t long before the harsh reality became clear to you: he had lied to you. Not maliciously, of course, you were the one who begged him to say those words after all. But the fact is that three days became four, that news of the army of Jerusalem had not come any more, that the last thing you heard of your husband was that only the ride had already tried his weakened body.

Another day passed, then another, and at the dawn of the fourth day since his absence you felt your heart sink. Had something happened to him? Had the negotiations failed? What if his illness had suddenly got the better of him? Or worse, Saladin and his men had shot him, stabbed him, or yet again captured and publicly executed,…

Your mind began to spiral into an ocean of possible reasons behind this delay, and you swore that your breathing had finally stopped once and for all when a messenger on horseback arrived at the palace, frantically dismounting from his steed to rush into the throne room and bring you the message: "The negotiations were successful, but the king is in critical condition! He is returning to Jerusalem on a canopy," you dismissed the man with a slight wave of your hand, so weak that you almost looked numbed; Baldwin's advisors began to chatter, but the background murmur of their murmurs did not seem to reach your ears. No, your attention was elsewhere; it was entirely on your husband.

You took your leave of the court, hurrying to your rooms. There, like a hawk waiting impatiently for prey to feed on, you perched on the balcony overlooking the city below you, on the walls from which not many days ago Baldwin had emerged leading the army.

It was there that you began to think again, this time with a clearer mind as you knew that at least Baldwin was alive and on his way home. On his way to you. Still, this whole situation reminded you of when you were only sixteen years old, and you stood on that balcony as you do now, waiting to see Baldwin return on his horse. And on that day, when he was visible to the naked eye, and your eyes met, you saw all the life and strength of one who had just defeated the greatest enemy of his time. At that moment, he seemed almost immortal to you: he looked like a god riding proudly, leading the thousands of men behind him towards their home.

How unfair fate is, to cut short his life so early. His physicians gave him no more than thirty years, but that time seemed to you to be shortened even more when you finally caught sight of his canopy. There he lay, sprawled and motionless like a dead body, surrounded by the soft cushions and riders on either side of his transport.

Just two years ago such a journey would not have fatigued him in the least; now he was risking his life just by riding a horse. Your eyes threatened to fill with tears thinking about how much he had loved riding a horse, and now he found himself bedridden, unable in his passions. You wasted no time running through the palace corridors, eager to reach your beloved as soon as possible.

One turn to the right, then another, then down the steps, and finally straight to the palace doors, where the finely decorated canopy led the love of your life.

You rushed to his side, gently taking his mutilated hand in yours while the other stroked his masked face. He breathed faintly, his eyes closed as he tried to regain his strength after his disease had dealt him this last bludgeon. Feeling your gentle touch, Baldwin's eyes fluttered open, his glassy eyes the color of heaven meeting yours.

"You've been reckless, my love. Putting your life at risk just to do the job of a messenger!" you scolded him, but Baldwin only smiled fondly at your words. "I promised you I would've come back. And that I did, alive too." Although his voice was so weak that it sounded more like a huff of air rather than a sentence, its tone was still laced with playfulness.

It made you unable to resist the smile that was threatening to form on your lips; you did not grace him with an answer yet, opting instead to move your hand to remove the silver mask from his face. You could see his surprised and relieved expression, as he was now finally able to breathe more freely and to look at you properly. He breathed in the sight of you, almost as if trying to take in as much of you as he could. "I can't tell if it's the travel or the sight of you that takes my breath away."

You just smiled bitterly and shook your head at his silly declarations, "It must be the ride, it has tired you so much that it's making you speak nonsense." he giggled weakly, much more tiredly this time, almost as if he was about to doze off. But he fought the tiredness nonetheless, opting to just shake his head and admire you with a lovestruck look. "Maybe I am hallucinating, I think I'm seeing heaven above me."

It was supposed to be a compliment that would've made you giggle and blush, like the ones that he showered you with daily. But instead, it made your heart clench at the bare idea of it. The idea that this would be his last moments before the energies spent for this expedition would be too much for him to handle, and God will reclaim his most virtuous man. It made your throat tighten, and your lower lip tremble.

You tried to hide your troubled state, moving your hand quickly to the curve of his neck. There, you placed a soft, butterfly-like kiss on the little places of skin that haven't been mutilated and bloodied by the leprosy. You kissed him one more time, then another, and another again..

In the end, you lost count of how many kisses you had given him, in a desperate attempt to mend your premature grief, to ground yourself in the feeling that Baldwin is there. He is alive. Yet the feeling of his skin against yours, of his chest rising up and down and his arms weakly holding your soft body, it wasn't enough to stop the tears to start flowing down your cheeks.

And that didn't go unnoticed to Baldwin, who mustered all his strength left to hold you just a little tighter. "Have my words upset you?" you sniffled, trying to recollect yourself before lifting your head to look into his eyes. "No, my dear, you could never. I just-" you stopped for a second, trying to swallow down the lump that had formed in your throat, "promise me this is the last time. Please, tell me that you will stop this nonsense. Let your trusted men handle these matters, command your man like a king not a general!" your hands had moved to his arms, a gesture to both ground yourself and to accentuate just how desperate you were in that moment, only wanting him to just listen.

"I beg of you, my love, stay here. Where you can rest. We both know that you don't have much more time left to live, so stop doing everything in your power to shorten it anymore." A sob slipped from your mouth at the last part. It truly astonished you how careless he seemed about his own condition, almost as if he forgot that any move could be the death of him.

He frowned and sighed at your words, squeezing your forearms softly before he spoke softly. This time though his tone was clearer, less weakened by the outcomes of the past days. "I already spoke to the physician about this: I have no choice, my angel. I'll be bound to my bed until a miracle will better my condition, or until death will take me."

You shut your eyes in relief, resting your forehead against his and sighing shakily, trying to recompose yourself. "I can't live in a world without you.."

"God will give us more time. I promise I won't leave you as long as I breathe on this earth. And. when my time will be over and there will be no future for us in this life, I'll be waiting for you in heaven, if I'll be granted the blessing of a place next to you there."

Not too long after, the physicians that Saladin had promised him arrived at the palace, and you were assisted as they tended to Baldwin's many wounds caused by his sickness. More than the sight of the gruesome pieces of open flesh, what appalled you was just how numb his body had become, so much so that he did not even feel their hands and tools working into his skin. It made you wonder wether or not he even felt your kisses from before.

And you make yourself that same question months later, when you place one last kiss into his forehead as he slept soundly before going to bed yourself, only to wake up to a cold body beside you. You wonder if he ever got to feel that last gesture of love before God had finally claimed him.

You only found solace in the thought that Baldwin would be resting in the realms of heaven above your head, contrary to what the Saracens believe.

A/N: Wowww this gets more fun by the day!! King Baldwin will probably always be my favorite character to write for. He’s my muse. As always ill be waiting for your feedbacks!!!

Oh and also, be prepared in the future for more fics waiting to be posted, I’ve got about ten that are just waiting for the right time to come to light, and many more will come in the future since I’m really finding it therapeutic to write.

#writers on tumblr #angst #fluff #my fic #king baldwin x reader #kingdom of heaven #king baldwin iv #reynald de chatillon #guy de lusignan #reader insert #f!reader #historical fiction #fanfic #x yn #x reader

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soap-ify · 3 months

Text

AIM AT MY HEART | eros!john 'soap' mactavish x f!reader.

synopsis — while everyone celebrated love, you met a god. [3.5k words]

tw / cw — mdni 18+, lonely!reader, reader is bit of a loser actually, typical misogyny and objectification of women during that time (just briefly mentioned), spoiler alert soap is eros and is bit of a freak, little breast play, reader is said to be a virgin, cunnilingus, p in v. — please let me know if i missed any tags!

notes — after some research and finding like few different names for love festivals in ancient greece, i decided to stick with calling it the festival of love. this isn't going to be historically accurate or anything, just a silly idea i came up with for valentines. unedited.

It looked like the rain was your date for this festival, the cold droplets gently kissing your skin just the way a lover would.

Every street was simply bustling with people today, all trapped in their own little bubbles forged by them. Married couples and young people in love alike. Now was the perfect time to say that love was in the air. It didn’t disgust you by any means, no. You love love — you wonder if it’s just as dreamy as it sounds. To have someone to call yours, to be touched and to be heard. A feeling that your heart pleaded for, ready to pathetically beg for it even. You don’t see much of it on the streets though, so you wonder if it’s naught but a myth.

Loneliness can mess up with anyone. You were still unwed, always met with the disappointed stares of your mother and the unnerving promises of your father stating that he’d find a groom for you. Probably some old man.

So no, you weren’t disgusted by all the couples roaming around in this festival of love. Just envious, sad — even if some of the love they displayed might just be for the show. On top of that, no one was aware of the incoming rain. Though most were now sheltered somewhere or protected by clothed umbrellas, though meant for the rich. So here you were, strolling in these soaked streets uncovered. Hey, at least the rain was willing to give you some company.

Some people looked at you with a pitiful gaze through the distance. Most men walking in groups whistled at you, staring at you with the most vile eyes. Carnivores. All you could do was just sheepishly stare ahead, doing your best to not look down at the ground while walking and looking like some kicked-out puppy. Even though you definitely did feel like one right now. Fresh food for the predators in the open.

Love. Such a familiarly foreign request. What must you do to get it, pray to the gods? Would Aphrodite listen, or Eros? Why hadn’t they blessed you yet? Taking a turn into the alley, you made the mistake of getting distracted by some plants nearby, instantly bumping into someone. “Oh, sorry, I-” Warm hands steadied your almost falling body, interrupting your apologies. You looked up to see blue eyes staring at you, the scrutiny of the stare making you feel as if he was opening you up like a book and reading everything within.

“Dinnae apologise, hen.” He let you go with a soft chuckle, an understanding smile lacing his lips. The slight amusement in his rough voice was enough to make your heart squeeze unintentionally, your throat going dry as you stared at him with wide eyes.

“Okay.” You dumbly replied and walked past him, not giving any of you a chance to make the conversation progress. How impolite. After all, what were you supposed to say to him? That you’re lonely as fuck and that his voice made you feel all funny inside? You mustn’t lust over a stranger. Probably married.

But oh, those blue eyes were now ingrained in your brain. He had looked at you as if he knew you, as if he knew of each of your flaws.

You missed the way he kept looking at your back while you walked away.

Sleep came to you a bit too easily. It was quite the odd occurrence, considering that you’d always be tossing and turning while staring at the ceiling creepily for a good half hour until you’d fall asleep.

A warm hug to your pillow and you were knocked out within seconds, drowning into slumber.

Darkness. That’s all you could see, that’s all what was within reach. You didn’t know if you were dreaming or not. What you did know was that you felt as if you were floating, higher and higher. Wait, were you dead?

You were just about to reach out to the blankness surrounding you when you felt strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you in. When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself in your… bedroom? Bedroom for sure, just more dreamy. As if it wasn’t you who lived here. As if it were the room of the gods. The air seemed lighter, the colours more bright.

You tried to struggle against the strong grip on your waist, your back pressed against something strong. “Quit struggling, hen.” The growl behind you caught you off guard, causing you to go still. That voice. That voice. You remember it all too well, the guy you bumped into in the street earlier.

Once his grip on you loosened, you quickly turned around and faced him, finding him looking at you triumphantly, his body adorned in nothing but a white shawl that covered only one shoulder and his waist. His body was sculpted beautifully, muscles made to be caressed delicately. Perfection, that’s what he was. You caught a small glimpse of the wings on his back — mighty and fluffy. You nervously cowered, mind too overwhelmed to comprehend what was going on here. You were being touched by a stranger. Only tales by some women had warned you about the perverse nature of most men. It terrified you.

Your eyes darted over to the loose blindfold lowered down to his neck, and the set of bow and arrows laid down on your nightstand.

You didn’t know why you were so afraid to look into his eyes. It was as if looking into the eyes of god and being forced to acknowledge all your sins. Was he a god? Or an angel? He reeked of purity, of utter diviness that you couldn’t even dream to look at. Though here you were, being looked at by someone that just seemed so seraphic. It almost made you feel guilty.

“Who are you?” You blurted out, unable to hide the way your hands were trembling. You were forced to look up when you felt something cold gliding against your jaw, soon realising that it was one of his arrows, mapping out your face. Just the way an artist would with his muse.

He was silent for a while, simply observing you. Or maybe just thinking of what to answer you with. What should he tell you? “Ye can call me Johnny.” He finally settled on a name after some contemplation that thankfully went unnoticed by you.

“Johnny…” You tested his name carefully, your hands carefully reaching out to grasp onto his arms, not even realising that you were somehow sitting on your bed now. ”What are you, Johnny?”

“A god.”

And there it was again, that victorious grin. He was proud of the reaction he was getting out of you, the utter confusion and bewilderment etched on your face was nothing short of adorable to him. Poor, poor human.

“Ye looked lonely tonight.” He continued, leaning in closer, his presence seeming even bigger and more imposing than before. “Ye seemed sad. Like a wee lost chick. Made me feel somethin’, ye ken. Sadness f’ye, maybe?” He chuckled and shook his head, gently undoing the blindfold on him. His hands were soft yet rugged, holding yours with great care, gently tying the white silk around your wrists. Not too tightly, just firmly enough.

“Oh…” You weren’t sure why you weren’t struggling against the bindings. Maybe it was due to the fact that your brain had slowly comprehended who he really was. Arrows, playful, love. Eros. You didn’t know what to do, and you definitely didn’t know why you liked it. Gods above, you must be going insane. Wait, he’s a god too. Can he hear your thoughts?

“Yes I can.” He interrupted the raging storm of thoughts in your head with amused nonchalance. You could feel embarrassed heat creeping up on your cheeks, daring you to humiliate yourself further.

“Why is a bonnie lass like ye unwed?” The god cooed, his free hand still holding the arrow and gently tracing your jaw, moving down to the front of your neck, and downward to the neckline of your dress. He didn’t dare to stop there, moving the sharp point of the arrow towards your left breast, grazing against the soft fabric of your clothes. Shove it in, make me find love.

“U-Um…” Your words were caught in your throat, fingernails unknowingly digging hardly into his muscular arms. “I don’t know.” Despite how doltish that answer may have made you look, it was the truth. You didn’t know why you were some lonely maiden staring at the night sky every night, dreaming about the undying devotion you couldn’t reach for.

Johnny didn’t respond to that, satisfied enough to just stare at you. You soon realised that you didn’t feel creeped out by his gaze, you yearned for it. Attention for a god. Even if he viewed you as a lamb of some sorts, temporary affection was making you feel alive.

“I’m not gonna sacrifice ye or anythin’, hen.” He read your mind again, and he was enjoying it way too much. It made you feel a bit frustrated, a bit too desperate.

“Why am I unwed?” You shooted his question back at him, daring to meet his eyes. “My mother hates me and my father, he… Just why can’t I be one of the blessed?” You unintentionally hissed, met with nothing but a mirthful grin plastered on his lips. Would it be a sin to think of a god as some bastard?

“Ain’tcha clever for shootin’ my question right back at me?” He sounded almost proud at you, slowly putting the arrow down and easing you down to lay on your bed properly, putting your tied wrists above your head. You were being so easy for him too, despite the irritation adorning your face. Your body had been starved for this, for some touch.

You didn’t make any effort to stop him as his fingers skillfully undid your garments and teasingly began sliding them off, revealing more and more of you until you were all naked in front of him. A meal for the god. You weren’t worried about being touched like this, especially when you were still not taken. The cool air hitting your skin made your shiver, your legs rubbing against one another.

“I have never been… used before.” You didn’t know how to word it. Well, he probably knew anyway. That’s what was expected from a modest woman. Being innocent and a virgin until she was on her marital bed with her groom.

“Stop thinkin’ so much, hen.” He silenced you by pressing a chaste kiss on your neck, your lips letting out an involuntary whine. Heaven touched you from his lips, and you felt love for the first time.

“Poor ye, so desperate for affection.” You felt his stubble tickle your cheek as he whispered into your ear, the sensation making your body jerk slightly, your wrists lightly tugging against the silk binding. You felt so sensitive, being aware of everything going on while simultaneously being confused by this foreign feeling building up inside you.

“Don’t tease me…” You whimpered almost pathetically, wishing that your hands were free so you could run your fingers through his untamed patch of hair, or just caressed the slightly shaved sides of his head. “It’s not funny.”

“If ye say so.” He snickered, pressing kisses on your cheeks and the side of your neck, making you whine a bit at the ticklish feeling, blood rushing to your face as you squirmed under him. His large hands slowly begin to caress your torso up and down, fingers rubbing against the softness of your softness before sliding up to cup and size your breasts up, thumbs carefully touching your hardened up nipples.

Despite the way he clearly enjoyed teasing you, he handled you with an equal amount of gentleness. It was so considerate, something you hadn’t heard from the tales some of the women would tell you about men.

“How does it feel?” He asked you, his gaze almost warm.

“Good…” You replied weakly, unable to find your voice amidst all the emotions you were feeling. You leaned into his touch, eyes lazily half open, trying to admire his face properly. It felt like a crime to look at such beauty.

He leaned down and started pressing soft kisses along the valley of your breasts, feeling the rise and fall of your chest with every breath you took. Why must he kiss your body as if he was worshiping you? As if you were the god, not him.

His lips traveled down to your naval before finally reaching to between your thighs, his hands moving down to gently part your legs open, feeling them tremble slightly once his eyes settled upon your sweet cunt, already glistening with arousal. "Can I?" He asked, earning a shy nod from you.

"Yes..."

“M’happy my arrows never hit ye before.” He mumbled before pressing a soft kiss against your puffy folds, hearing the way your breath hitched. “Happy that nae one got to touch a bonnie thing like ye yet. All saved for a god, eh?” He sneered, his fingers gently parting your folds so he could properly look at your clit, pressing a kiss right on it.

The sudden sensation made you let out a soft moan, fingers trying to reach for the silk binding on your wrists. Sensitive. Sensitive yet so good. “Johnny…”

His breath alone continued to fan your cunt for a few seconds, his blue eyes looked up at you from in between your thighs before he dived in, his tongue licking a fat stripe. Your hips bucked at that, seeking more of this friction as he hummed at your taste, his tongue making contact with your clit and pressing against it, feeling the soft pulse underneath.

He had to stop himself from biting you, that’d scare you away. Maybe some other day. For now, his hands gripped your plush thighs firmly and kept them apart, feasting onto your cunt hungrily, drool sliding down his chin as he sucked and licked on your twitching clit, feeling it get swollen and all achy with need. You just tasted so good, better than all the things many worshippers would leave at the temple. He wondered if you’d be willing to be his forever, to let him taste you everyday.

It all felt so good and overwhelming, you could feel your eyes tearing up. He went on and on until you felt your orgasm crashing into you suddenly, a bit prolonged as he kept his mouth latched onto your cunt, feeling your hips buck needily, shaky mewls leaving your lips while he eagerly lapped up your release.

You collapsed back breathless, almost in daze, every inch of your skin tingling with the pleasure coursing within you. Your glossy eyes looked over at Johnny who had just finished lapping your cunt up, now proceeding to nip and suckle onto the plush of your thighs, making you writhe. “Next time, m’gonna make ye squirt all over my fingers.”

Next time? Fingers?

Hope bloomed in your otherwise desperate heart as you nodded hazily, soft pants leaving your lips after your orgasm subsided. You felt him climbing on top of you, the soft rustling of clothes making your fingers twitch, your eyes looking over at him through the semi blurry vision. The white piece of cloth he had been wearing slipped off him, falling down to reveal the entirety of him. Big, powerful. He was indeed a god, sculpted better than the statues. You didn’t want to imagine what he could do with all his strength.

Your eyes fell onto his left pec, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart twinge oddly. If you were to stab him with his own arrow, would he love you?

You did your best to not look in between his legs, somehow clinging to the thinning string of modesty.

“Ye’re makin’ me feel unattractive.” That cheeky pout on his lips made you huff softly, your face feeling too warm. Just when you were about to protest, he leaned down to press his lips against yours, silencing you with a kiss.

You felt as if you had sinned, while stepping close to Heaven at the same time.

You let him guide you, his lips parting against yours while you obediently followed him, finding yourself drowning into this kiss. He might as well swallow you whole now, you’d be happy.

One hand reached up to swiftly undo the silk cloth around your wrists, freeing you. You were quick to wrap your arms around his neck, clinging onto him for your dear life, feeling him trying not to chuckle against your lips.

“Look at ye, being so eager. S’cute.” He whispered once he broke the kiss, pressing down into you, making you feel his cock rubbing against your thighs. It felt big, ridiculously enough. You trembled anxiously, finally daring to look down, letting out a soft whimper when your eyes settled onto his cock. You both tried to grind against it and squirm away, your brain melted into nothing but a puddle.

Love — it was threatening to flow out of your chest. Pure, blissful. Your legs lazily hooked themselves around his moving hips, trying to pull him down for another kiss. He was quick to comply, feeling you moan needily into his mouth while he grabbed the base of his girthy cock, lining it perfectly in between your legs. “Fuck… Lemme just-” He knew he had to be extra gentle, he was huge. He carefully eased the the tip of his cock into your cunt, watching you pull away from the kisd and whimper, your warm walls greeding clenching around him, trying to suck him in.

“S’too much!” You whined and bit down onto his shoulder, not caring how hard you might be biting. Your fingernails dug into the firm muscle of his back.

“Ssh, ye can take it.” He hissed under his breath, pulling his face back so he could look down at you properly, one hand gripping the side of your hip while his other reached down to gently fondle your clit in between his fingers. The sudden jolt of pain and pleasure merging together made your eyes roll back, feeling him settle deep within your cunt, some of his cock still not fully in. He wouldn’t dare to anyways, he would never wish to hurt his precious human.

“Such a bonnie lass… Look at how I fit inside ye.” You just looked so perfect underneath him, as if you were made for him, to be filled by him and kissed by him. “Squeezin’ me so tightly, s’too big f’ye, eh?” You shook your head at that, as if you weren’t the one who was moaning about him being too big earlier.

He slowly begin thrusting into you, his heavy cock dragging against the sweet spongy spot inside you, stimulating it. You bit onto your bottom lip, muffled mewls leaving you while his fingers continued to steadily rub your swollen clit, not losing their rhythm. Not even a single halt — the continuous motions caused pressure to build up within you, your legs tightening around his hips.

He eyes moved down to where your body connected with his, aweing at the way his cock was stretching you nice and wide, making him twitch inside you. Fuck. He couldn’t have a mortal holding such an effect over him, but he was far too gone to even think about that anymore.

“Johnny-! Joh-” Your words drowned into your moans once you felt your orgasm hit you even harder than before, your body convulsing underneath him as you clenched hard around him, causing him to grunt. A pretty white ring formed on his base as he continued to thrust into you, The squelching sounds filling the room were obscene, and served nothing but to arouse him more. His grip on your hips tightened just slightly as he felt his own impending orgasm.

“Gonna fill ye up.” He gritted his teeth.

With one final thrust, he released his hot cum inside you, his thrusts not stopping, fully intending to make his cum stay inside you and not drip out. Your fingernails accidentally scratched onto his back at the sensation of being filled up, feeling all warm.

Your legs and arms loosened around him, feeling yourself slump into the soft mattress, all pliable and fuzzy. You panted softly, feeling all sweaty as you stared at him. His hands were quick to craddle your face, pressing a kiss on your temple.

“I might as well just keep ye now for myself, hen.”

You woke up with a jolt, sitting upright on your bed, your breathing laboured. Your inner thighs felt sticky, and your eyes drifted over to your nightstand, catching an arrow alongside a rose laying there.

Would it be possible to be impregnated by a god?

#reader try not to be a hopeless romantic challenge : failed #we love to see it #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish #john soap mactavish #cod x reader #rurufic

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stluciabuns · 6 months

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The Historical Accuracy of Kirsten's Dirndl

Despite its adorableness, I have seen many people complain about Kirsten's Swedish Dirndl outfit.

I would kill a man to have bought this for $22.

She wears this outfit for most of Meet Kirsten, being that she is an impoverished immigrant child who does not own any other clothes, and also for continuity reasons.

Frequently, I have seen it claimed that this outfit is not historically accurate and should not have been included as part of her collection. Conversely, I have also seen many German folk costumes marketed as being made for Kirsten. Both of these pain me a great deal (actually they just annoy me).

Nonetheless, I have decided to further procrastinate doing actual, meaningful work and instead set out on a new mission: figure out what the fuck is up with Kirsten's Dirndl.

In this post, I will lay out the research I have done, the evidence supporting the historical accuracy of this outfit, the challenges to its existence, and ultimately aim to answer the question of whether this outfit is one Kirsten plausibly could have worn on her journey from Sweden to America in 1854.

Let's begin.

First, the name. Pleasant Company/American Girl referred to this outfit as "Kirsten's Swedish Dirndl and Kerchief."

Unfortunately, there is no such thing as a Swedish dirndl. "Dirndl" is a German term, and refers to folk costumes worn by people in German-speaking areas of Europe (the Alps, Bavaria, Austria, and so on).

Kirsten is Swedish, and before Meet Kirsten has never left Sweden before. It is very unlikely she would have acquired, and regularly worn, a German dirndl. See this gorgeous example of a dirndl c. 1840:

Outfit, c. 1840. Munich, Bavaria, Germany. Münchner Stadtmuseum.

This ensemble is beautiful, but tragically, it is not what Kirsten is wearing.

What, then, is Kirsten wearing? What kind of traditional dress does Swedish culture have?

As it turns out, the proper term for what she is wearing is a folkdräkt. This is a Swedish term meaning "folk costume." Here is an illustration depicting multiple examples of Swedish folk costumes. In proper terms, these would be called "Svenska folkdräkter."

Nordisk familjebok (1908), vol. 8, Folkdräkt. Retrieved from runeberg.org.

These outfits are not quite identical to anything we see in Kirsten's collection, but you can observe various elements that have carried over -- the vertical stripes, black woolen skirts with ornate trim, and white dresses and red sashes (hello St. Lucia)!

Let us dive deeper. What do extant Svenska folkdräkter, specially those made c. 1850, look like? Is there anything like Kirsten's outfit among surviving examples?

Johan Sodermark, "Kvinna i dräkt."

In my few hours of research, this example image is the closest thing I have found to Kirsten's dirndl.

This lovely portrait is a watercolor from 1850 painted by Johan Sodermark. It is very creatively titled "Kvinna i dräkt" -- literally, "Woman in costume." The pattern of this woman's apron is incredibly similar to that of the skirt of the Kirsten doll's outfit -- a dark red base with blue and yellow stripes woven throughout.

Here is a closeup from the American Swedish Institute.

Although it is not shown in the doll-sized version of the outfit, the illustrations in Meet Kirsten by Renée Graef show us she also wears a light-colored, striped apron, which is almost surely the one that comes with her meet outfit.

Illustrations from Meet Kirsten, drawn by Renée Graef.

Notice the fabric of the bodice in the third illustration, though: Kirsten's top is made of red plaid fabric, while Sodermark's girl has an outfit full of stripes. Kirsten, bless her heart, spends an entire book outfit-repeating a potential pattern-mixing fail: plaid and two kinds of stripes and a floral scarf. Did Pleasant Rowland just hate her? Is Kirsten on another, elevated fashion plane far beyond my comprehension? Is there a historical basis for this combination of patterns?

I have no answer to the first two questions, but thankfully can speak on the third.

Komplett Vilskedräkt, Västergötlands museum. Some pieces c. 1865.

The top is plaid and laces up, which is not necessarily the most common way of fastening (in most examples, the bodice pins up), but it is a sensible choice considering both Kirsten's age (9) and the fact that Pleasant Company was making toys for little hands.

The model for the outer shell (the lace up top) belonged to Karl Edberg from Hällestad; it is not dated, but at least one piece of this set (the bag, which is not shown) is c. 1865. Additionally, the blouse here is very similar to the one that comes with Kirsten's winter outfit -- look at that keyhole neckline!

So, Kirsten's Dirndl outfit is actually very accurate as far as the clothing itself goes...the name remains the trouble.

I have no idea why they called it a dirndl. Folkdräkt is definitely challenging to pronounce, but why wouldn't PC just translate it as "folk dress" or "Swedish outfit" and call it a day? Why the insistence on referencing a culture that isn't relevant to the doll or her dress at all?

Perhaps this is a mystery to tackle for another day...

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joachimnapoleon · 6 months

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My Napoleon Review

I really wanted to like this movie. When it was first announced, I was one of the people in our little community here with a hopefully-optimistic, wait-and-see approach. I wanted to love it the same way I loved Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven and other historical epics that, despite not being historically accurate, still managed to hook me with good storytelling, excellent casts, and memorable battle scenes and imagery. Ridley Scott's Napoleon has none of the above.

You know what I liked about it? The uniforms. The uniforms looked magnificent and were probably the most accurate aspect of the movie. Almost like Scott had help from historians, but that can't be the case, because Scott says he didn't actually need historians to make Napoleon.

What I was not expecting from this movie was to be bored. Yet that's what I was, for at least the first hour and a half. I'm honestly just perplexed by this even now. I don't know how it's actually possible to make the life of Napoleon Bonaparte so thoroughly uninspiring and dull, but Scott managed to pull it off.

To be fair, he was aided in this superhuman effort by Joaquin Phoenix. I never in my wildest dreams could've seen him doing such a poor job with his interpretation of Napoleon. But honestly, the fact that he's too old for the role actually ended up being the least of what I disliked about this performance, which was basically everything. The early reports coming out when the movie was still being produced about Phoenix putting a lot of effort into understanding Napoleon's psychology gave me what turned out to be a completely misguided hope. When you read descriptions of Napoleon from his contemporaries, you see an energetic, charismatic, vibrant being who exerted an almost inexplicable magnetism that drew people to him and inspired devotion and admiration, even among his critics. There is nothing even remotely inspiring, energetic, charismatic, or vibrant about Phoenix's grim, dour, monotoned Napoleon. He only ceases being grim and dour to become a clown, or to indicate to Josephine in some undignified manner that he is once again in need of sex (at one point he actually oinks repeatedly). In one scene he literally crawls under the dining room table towards her on all fours, while the embarrassed valets watch.

The relationship between Napoleon and Josephine is totally devoid of chemistry. Kirby's acting was fine, but she was given a trash script to work with. At one of their early meetings, Josephine flat-out spreads her legs in front of Napoleon, invites him to look down, and declares that once he sees what's down there, he'll never stop wanting it. It was the cringiest scene imaginable, and frankly an insult to the real Josephine's memory, as were the pathetic sex scenes. The scene of the official divorce is stripped of any dignity by Scott, who decided to have Josephine randomly chuckle at various points while reading her statement, and then made it even worse by having Napoleon actually slap her across the face.

Even the battle scenes were a joke for the most part, and that was the one area where I was certain this movie would shine. It's the usual fare of Side A charges across an open field at Side B, with no discernible tactics whatsoever. Napoleon yells "Send in the infantry!" Shortly after that, "Send in the cavalry!" Corps, regiments etc are just nonexistent; the armies are just big masses hurtling towards each other while the artillery blasts continuously. The Borodino battle scene lasts maybe two minutes and was just disappointing on every level, like damn near everything else in this movie.

Oh, remember that bit from one of the trailers of Napoleon charging headlong, saber drawn? That actually occurs during the Borodino scene. The battle during which real-life Napoleon was uncharacteristically lethargic (and possibly ill) and barely left his tent. And then to top it off, Scott also has Napoleon ride into the fray during the Waterloo scene, and start cutting English soldiers down with his saber like Mel Gibson's William Wallace in Braveheart. I almost fell out of my chair laughing.

The guy they cast to play Wellington appeared to be at least 60 years old. Christopher Plummer he was not. I'm actually planning to watch Waterloo sometime this weekend as a pallet-cleanser.

I imagine the eventual four hour director's cut Scott has spoken of will flesh the narrative out more, but I'm not even sure I'm interested in seeing it after this. I can only hope the rumored Spielberg HBO series on Napoleon will transpire and put in the effort that Scott was not willing to.

Well, the good news is that Rod Steiger is no longer my least favorite Napoleon.

#Napoleon #Napoleon Bonaparte #Ridley Scott #movies

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trupowieszcz-moved · 1 year

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have you ever wondered what people ate in 17th century poland? me neither, but my dad has and since he's a historical reenactor and has reenactor friends, they managed to dig out a cooking book from the period, called Compendium Ferculorum.

this book contains possibly the weirdest recipe i have ever fucking seen, enigmatically called "dish with pancakes", to lull you into a false sense of security. the weirdest thing about it is that it actually tastes really good, and not at all like you would imagine when you initially hear what goes into it.

i understand most of you aren't able to read 17th century polish in a gothic font, so here's the direct transcription:

LXXVI. Potráwá z Naleśnikami Weźmiy Kapłona álbo Cielęćiny, álbo Báránka, porąb, wymocz, ociągniy, odbierz, poley Rosołem, ułoż másłá, pietruszki, soli, warż, á gdy dowiera, wley rosołu, wley Octu winnego, Cukru, pieprzu, Szafránu, Cynamonu, przywarz. Zrob Naleśniki, w materią wsyp trochę Száfranu y Cukru, uwarz Ryżu albo Jaieśnicę usmasz, wsyp Száfranu, Rożenkow drybnych, zawiiay tę máteryą w Naleśniki, w ktorą y Cukru przydasz, zrob z Jáiec máteryą, to iest: rozbiy Jáiec, maczay końce tych Naleśnikow w Jáycách rozbitych, puszczay ná gorące másło, a gdy odrętwiesz, daway te potráwę, a Naleśniki ná wierzch kładź, a zalewáiąc day ciepło.

which, loosely "translated" to modern polish, would be:

76. Potrawa z naleśnikami Weź kurczaka, cielęcinę lub baranka, poćwiartuj, wymocz, oskóruj, odbierz [to nie wiem co mogło oznaczać niestety], zalej rosołem, dołóż masła, pietruszki i soli, gotuj, a gdy zawrze, wlej resztę rosołu, ocet winny, cukier, pieprz, szafran i cynamon, gotuj dalej. Zrób naleśniki, do ciasta dosyp trochę szafranu i cukru, ugotuj ryż lub usmaż jajecznicę, wsyp szafran, drobne rodzynki i zawiń to nadzienie w naleśniki; w rozbełtanych jajkach z dodatkiem cukru zamocz końce naleśników i podsmaż na maśle, a gdy jajko się zetnie, podawaj potrawę z naleśnikami na górze, zalanymi gorącą zupą.

and in english:

76. Pancake dish Take a chicken, veal or lamb, quarter it, soak it, skin it, pick it up [this I don't know what it could mean unfortunately], pour broth over it, add butter, parsley and salt, cook it, and when it boils, pour in the rest of the broth, wine vinegar, sugar, black pepper, saffron and cinnamon, continue cooking. Make pancakes, add a little saffron and sugar to the batter, cook rice or scrambled eggs, add saffron, small raisins and wrap this filling in the pancakes; dip the ends of the pancakes in beaten eggs with added sugar and fry in butter, and when the egg has set, serve the dish with the pancakes on top, drenched in hot soup.

lo and behold, this is what it looks like:

maybe it's not the most appetizing thing in the world, but please trust me when i say that this slaps. this is so fucking good. it has no right of being this good, but it is. why would they eat it back in the day if it wasn't good? this was for high-ranking nobles' kitchens. it had to slap. it had to be over the top and weird.

since the original recipe isn't very descriptive of how much of what you have to add, i'm gonna write it out with as many details as i can for those who aren't as kitchen-savvy and wish to try to make this tasty abomination. unfortunately i forgot to take pictures along the way, so no illustrations, sorry.

Ingredients (for about... 4 servings? I don't know. We had 2 and there was still a lot left):

for the pancakes:

500g of all-purpose flour

4-5 eggs (3 for the batter, 1-2 for later shenanigans)

like a cup of milk

2-3 spoons of sugar (brown sugar would probably be more historically accurate)

saffron (the more the better but watch out, it's expensive as shit)

some water if it turns out too thick

for the broth:

1.5 liters of water

3 stock cubes (if the package says one per 0.5l; otherwise just check what it says)

or you can just make broth from scratch if you want to roleplay a 17th century cook

3-4 chicken drumsticks (or an equivalent amount of veal or lamb)

cinnamon

black pepper

m o r e s a f f r o n

around 120g of butter (half a package if you're polish and know what i'm talking about)

one parsley root

3-4 tablespoons of wine vinegar

a... handful? of sugar. around 2-3 tablespoons, I guess

for the scrambled eggs:

4 eggs (or more; 1 per pancake)

a little bit of milk

1 tablespoon of sugar

e v e n m o r e s a f f r o n if you can afford it

raisins (or dried cranberries or whatever you want that has a similar taste size and texture)

you can also try to make this with rice instead of scrambled eggs. i imagine it can't be that hard.

the steps (there's a lot.):

Sieve the flour and add every other pancake ingredient into it; make sure the saffron is crushed into smaller bits

mix that shit with a hand mixer. it should be the consistency of like, sour cream, so if it's too thick, add a bit of water and check again. it's gotta be generally thick though, make sure it's not too runny (if the consistency is beginning to resemble banana juice, it's too runny already).

heat up the pan, put a little bit of oil on it with a folded paper towel (so you don't burn yourself on accident) and cook the pancakes until they're a bit golden, but not yet brownish in the spots that stick to the pan the most. basically just don't burn them. add a little oil the same way every 2 pancakes.

there's your pancakes, set them aside and move on to other stuff - it's broth time

boil the stock with the parsley root and your meat of choice, but don't add any spices yet, just the fuckton of butter. let it simmer for like an hour. yes, an hour. good soup takes time.

once the time has passed, you can add the spices. notice how i didn't really specify how much of the spices you have to add, and this is because you have to follow your heart and add as much as you can possibly handle eating. no, it's not gonna be too much. add that shit. add 3/4 of a 15g pepper packet. add almost the entire 15 grams of cinnamon. add like a bit of salt, but not a lot this time, just like 2 pinches. ADD THE SAFFRON. add the sugar. add more vinegar than you think would be enough normally. it's gonna boil away anyway.

mix it and let it simmer for even longer. taste it every now and then to see if you can handle it. if a few minutes after doing the dark magic listed above the taste is still very strong, that's good. if it's so strong your throat starts burning, you may be entitled to some more water in there, but if you don't start crying, leave it be. for like another hour.

time for scrambled eggs. rule of the thumb is 1 egg per 1 pancake and 2 pancakes per serving, so if you're cooking for 2, use 4 eggs. easy. add everything that i listed, but if you miss the sugar or the raisins, those can be added after you cook it.

once you have cooked the scrambled eggs, put it on a plate and wash your pan if you don't have another one/don't want to use another one. mix two remaining eggs in a bowl.

put the scrambled eggs with raisins (or whatever you decided to put in there) in your pancakes and roll them as tightly as you can manage. heat up your pan and put some butter on it.

CAREFULLY dip the ends of the pancakes in the mixed eggs and transfer them to the pan with butter. it may be easier to put them on the pan first and pour a little bit of the egg over the ends then, so if you're not sure you can dip them without the entire filling falling out suddenly, do that instead.

fry the pancakes on both sides until the egg is no longer in liquid form.

now, the serving:

pour a ladle of soup into a soup plate

put a piece of your meat in there too if it hasn't disintegrated completely and just started floating around in pieces

put two pancakes in the soup

now you can eat this thing. smacznego :)

I would also like to thank @slavicafire for posting weird old recipes sometimes and inspiring me to take the time to write all of this out :^)

#recipe #history #poland #polish food #historical food #soup #pancakes #eggs

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carionto · 6 months

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Accurate Reenactments Based On Facts

Most cultures across the Galaxy do their utmost to preserve and remember their history, both the great achievements, and the terrible mistakes. Humans go a few dozen steps further.

They introduced us to a concept called "Historical reenactments" - accurate recreations of the situations and conditions of ancient events, usually battles, played out with prop equipment by real people. They also said they sometimes do these just for fun and don't care about being 100% accurate.

This particular reenactment was of a battle called Thermopylae. Using numerous historical records, they recreated the location, printed slightly lighter versions of the armor (well, helmets only for some) they wore, and dull weapons with embedded stun shockers that would create a kinetic "bump" upon contact to prevent actual injury by pushing the person back instead.

Once everyone was geared up the atmosphere changed, both visually as the holographic projectors did their thing, and from the Humans themselves - their demeanor became that of... wilderness. Ferocity. Deadly focus. It was quite fear inducing even from afar.

Then the defenders in red, the "Spartans", created a sort of spiky dome with their shields and spears. Then the attackers in blue, the "Persians" unleashed a terrifying volley of arrows, the sky hologram went darker, then a bright beam of light shone upon the defenders as they swept off arrows stuck to their shields in dramatic fashion before proceeding to charge towards their assaulting foes.

We noticed the "Spartans" were all much larger than the "Persians", and actually were equipped with subtle and very modern exoskeletons. Perplexed by this we asked if these Spartans had a very particular technological advantage for their time:

"Well, not as far as we can tell, but based on the materials we have, Spartans were, like, really buff and super strong compared to the average person of the time. Plus, according to the feats of strength they supposedly displayed, we suspect they became an extinct branch of Humanity at some point, so the exoskeletons are there to mimic what we think they were like. Anyway, look, this is the coolest part."

As they spoke, the artificial gravity was lowered slightly and there was a spike in the power output from the exoskeleton equipped Spartans. Now they were flinging the approaching Persians dozens of feet into the air, a single bare-chested man kicked three of them at once backwards at a whole group, knocking the wind out of them.

This sort of extreme violence continued for several minutes.

Suddenly, an incredibly large Persian man on a throne was carried to what was effectively the center stage. Him and a heavily bearded Spartan exchanged a dramatic dialogue, the Spartan threw his spear at the Persian, who dodged it with a single turn of his head, then proceeded to summon a massive horde of small Persians who quickly began to overrun the Spartans.

There were bodies and shields and spears and pieces of armor flying everywhere, but gradually all the red became engulfed by the blue, and only one remaining Spartan managed to wriggle his way out of the carnage and make a run for it back to their city in the distance.

Seemingly satisfied after plucking out the bearded Spartan from the pile, the giant Persian roared in triumph and this is when the reenactment ended and everyone gathered for a feast.

So this is how ancient Human Battles went, huh.

"Well, not all of them. Usually it's between more equal forces in large open fields, or prolonged sieges, which can be a bit boring to recreate.

You should come back next month, we'll be doing an old naval battle between the British Empire and Independent Pirates Lords. It ends with a really sweet whirlpool showdown. Man, what are the odds of that happening, eh?"

#humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are space australians #humans are deathworlders #humanity fuck yeah #story #carionto #300 #reenactment #pirates of the caribbean #humans like movies #movies are historically accurate if you've gone through several civilization collapses

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youryurigoddess · 22 days

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The biggest Easter egg yet

I’ve been meaning to address this for a while now, but @camdenleisurepirates gave me the final push after reading my piece on Gabriel’s cross. Huge thanks for that morsel of motivation, my ADHD brain loves you.

This is going to be yet another long read, although not as extensive as my bookshop statues meta. Still, better get yourself some hot chocolate or another drink of your choice and make sure you’re comfortable!

Now, remember the X-Ray interview with Peter Anderson on Easter Eggs in the opening animation he created for the second season? Forget red herrings, apparently our fandom has a literal red phone box! I’m convinced that this whole scene is a one big — the biggest, actually — Easter Egg, and I’ll explain why step-by-step.

The red phone box Crowley used to warn Aziraphale about the Antichrist and the following Armageddon in S1, the exact one where he left change for an emergency call, seems important enough in terms of the future S3 plot, but there’s so much more going on in this frame. Not only the lift.

The angels

At the very start of this sequence we can see a fragment of an elaborate bridge guarded by cherubs sitting on two columns, maybe globes, leading to a distant structure built over a literal mountain of trash — all elements of the S1 and S2 openings which were consciously picked out by the animators and put together in a very ominous pile.

Ready for some scavenging?

In the Gabriel’s cross meta, I already mentioned the importance of Ponte Sant’Angelo in relation to the ex-Archangel’s statue. Now it’s time to widen our perspective and focus on the full picture — quite literally. Apparently the bridge from the opening sequence has ten statues of angels, exactly as the Italian historical monument.

First things first though: the two big cherubs guarding the entry to the bridge might seem familiar to some of you. While they’re obviously not copies of the same statue, a very similar pair of brass cherubs is placed in Aziraphale’s bookshop to symbolize Aziraphale and Crowley. And looking at the screenshot above and the way they sleep or sulk with their backs turned on each other, they are most certainly not talking. The addition of more than one set of eyes is a lovely reference to biblically accurate angel memes though.

If we assume the traditional left-right positioning of the characters, Aziraphale is on the left and Crowley is on the right. Directly behind Aziraphale we can see a ship named “Good Traits”, but in reverse — kinda sorta confirmed by the animator Peter Anderson to be connected to the concept of the seven deadly sins on Twitter. Same that was mentioned recently by Neil in one of his asks.

The presence of Gabriel — a renegade Archangel wielding a broken cross — on the right, Crowley’s side, seems to match this theory. It could also support one of the possible interpretations of the very last bookshop shot in the S2 finale.

Out of all ten statues, Angel Carrying the Cross by Ercole Ferrata is considered inferior to the others on the bridge in that it appears to be a two-dimensional relief sculpture rather than an unbounded three-dimensional artwork, which seems to match Gabriel’s first impression as a character.

The inscription on the statue reads, “Dominion rests on his shoulders" — that is the weight of the cross that Christ was forced to carry through Jerusalem before being crucified. Even though Gabriel’s burden partially disappeared, the whole bridge and its environment is covered with crosses. It’s clear that we’re looking at a direct parallel of Via Crucis, the Way of Sorrows.

Towering over the Italian bridge, at the very top of Castel Sant’Angelo, is a statue of Archangel Michael, seen as the golden angel on the top left part of the trash pile. Aziraphale’s side, perhaps as his assistant, perhaps a rival? Legends of the Jews mention Michael as the chief of a band of angels who questioned God's decision to create man on Earth. The entire band of angels, except for Michael, was condemned to Fall — which could explain why they have such a good access to the Grapevine That Obviously Doesn’t Exist. And whatever’s going on between Michael and Dagon, perhaps.

In Roman Catholic teachings, Michael has four main roles or offices. Their first role is the leader of the Army of God and the leader of Heaven's forces in the final triumph over the powers of Hell. Viewed as the angelic model for the virtues of the spiritual warrior, their conflict with evil taken as the battle within. The second and third roles of Michael deal with death. Their second role is that of an angel of death, carrying the souls of Christians to Heaven. Michael descends at the hour of death and gives each soul the chance to redeem itself before passing; thus throwing the devil and his minions into consternation. In their third role, Michael weights souls on perfectly balanced scales they are often depicted with as their attribute. In their fourth role, Michael appears as the guardian of the Church. Might be the reason why they’re the closest to the building on top of the mountain.

It looks like Michael lost their sword though, just like Gabriel lost a part of the cross he was supposed to carry. The sword in question was supposed to be used to slay the dragon — Satan, the Adversary — according to John of Patmos and his Book of Revelations.

Speak of the devil: interestingly, there are two copies of an anonymous variation of the Angel of Light statue appearing twice on both sides of the bridge. Both the title as well as the statue itself seem like obvious references to one (former) angel literally called the Lightbringer, Lucifer. Perhaps one of them is representing his son, the Antichrist, instead, with the both of them helping out the Ineffables on two opposing — or perhaps only parallel — sides of the bridge?

The light carried by Lucifer appears to be green, a color used in the series as a visual representation of Hell, but on the intertextual level might also serve as a reference to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic novel The Great Gatsby and the green light at the end of the Daisy’s dock symbolizing the undying love, desperation, and longing for an unattainable dream. In the story, the color represents the limitations of power and money. Not surprisingly, the novel appears on Jim’s bookshelf and is part of the Good Omens book club — a list of personal recommendations from Neil Gaiman and Douglas Mackinnon for the fans to catch up on before the next series.

Last but not least, the possible connection to Libertas as the inspiration for the Statue of Liberty, shown multiple times in S2 as a foreshadowing of our character’s trip to America in S3. The related quote of Patrick Henry “Give me liberty or give me death” becomes even more relevant if we consider how the motto of the French Revolution was sometimes written as Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort (“Liberty, equality, fraternity or death”). A lesson surely learnt by a certain angel back in 1793, when he was held prisoner for the last time before being forcefully taken Upstairs in the Final Fifteen.

The bridge and the castle

Okay, these are the basic observations. Now a brief historical overview and we will reach the fun bit in a jiffy.

Have you ever wondered about the meaning of this whole complex? It wasn’t always angelic, but named after a Roman noble dynasty. The Aelian bridge was built by the Emperor Hadrian in 134 AD to span River Tiber from the city center to his mausoleum. With time, the remains of more emperors were put to rest in there, until it was plundered and destroyed in a war. Then the remaining structure was transformed into a military fortress and a castle serving as the papal residence in times of war.

The Papal State also used Sant'Angelo as a prison; the Renaissance philosopher Giordano Bruno was imprisoned there for six years. Executions of the inmates were performed in the small inner courtyard, but they weren’t the only deaths in the area. On the other side of the bridge, in the adjoining Piazza del Ponte, under the watchful eyes of the stone likenesses of two saints, the public executions were held, and the heads of the criminals were brought onto the bridge and exposed to public view there.

As a prison, the former mausoleum is also the setting for the third act of Giacomo Puccini's 1900 opera Tosca. Long story short, the eponymous heroine convinces her lover to feign death so that they can flee together. Unfortunately, they are betrayed and the firing squad shoots at him with real bullets instead of blanks. Tosca believes in the quality of his acting performance rather than the truth, and when the realization hits her, she leaps to her death from the Castel’s ramparts.

After Nero’s bridge was destroyed, the travelers were forced to cross this bridge as the only direct route to the Vatican and St Peter’s Basilica, earning it the nickname “the bridge of Saint Peter”. That’s why in the 16th century Pope Clement VII erected statues of Saints Peter and Paul at the ends of the bridge, guarding it as they are supposed to protect the entry to Heaven.

In 1688 the bridge was embellished with ten angel statues, five on each side of the bridge, carrying Arma Christi, the Instruments of the Passion. The Good Omens characters represented by those statues in the opening sequence might be other instruments of Christ’s suffering as parts of the system that needs to be overthrown or replaced.

One angel appears particularly important in the context of both the bridge and the Second Coming — Saint Michael the Archangel.

Legend holds that the Archangel Michael appeared atop Hadrian’s mausoleum, sheathing their sword as a sign of the end of the plague of 590, thus lending the castle its present name. A less charitable yet more apt elaboration of the legend, given the militant disposition of this particular Archangel, was heard by the 15th-century traveler who saw an angel statue on the castle roof. He recounts that during a prolonged season of the plague, Pope Gregory I heard that the populace, even Christians, had begun revering a pagan idol at the church of Santa Agata in Suburra. A vision urged the Pope to lead a procession to the church. Upon arriving, the idol miraculously fell apart with a clap of thunder. Returning to St Peter's by the Aelian Bridge, the Pope had another vision of an angel atop the castle, wiping the blood from his sword on his mantle, and then sheathing it. While the Pope interpreted this as a sign that God was appeased, this did not prevent Gregory from destroying more sites of pagan worship in Rome. In honor of the vision and Michael, the bridge was renamed in their name.

What if the procession from the opening sequence was meant to imitate the procession led by the Pope from the legend? What if Aziraphale, now officially a Supreme Archangel, Commander of the Heavenly Host, is the one actually leading it, with Crowley finally at his side as his partner and second in command, just like it was proposed by him in the Final Fifteen?*

What if by some reason, maybe personal ambition, maybe just a tragic coincidence or situational necessity, there really was an impostor in Heaven, and Metatron — the so called Voice of God who seemingly doesn’t speak up for Herself since Job’s test — has been playing a winged version of the Wizard of Oz all along?

It would make just the perfect sense if not for one tiny detail. The procession we see on the bridge is actually led by Crowley, which doesn’t fit the parallel at all — unless it’s actually a proof of an ongoing body swap, as the mismatched names of the actors could also suggest?

The mountain of trash and the bookshop

The symbolic mountain of trash we can see Aziraphale and Crowley climb is a reference in itself. To an actual mount called Zion, believed to be the place where Yahweh, the God of Israel, dwells (Isaiah 8:18; Psalm 74:2), the place where God is king (Isaiah 24:23) and where God has installed king David on his throne (Psalm 2:6).

In a literal sense, it’s a hill in Jerusalem, although the sources refer to three different locations in different contexts — although for the purpose of this meta the Upper Eastern Hill (Temple Mount) makes the most sense. Its highest part became the site of Solomon's Temple. The same King Solomon the rituals in Freemasonry refer to. Masonic buildings, where lodges and their members meet, are sometimes called "temples" specifically as an allegoric reference to King Solomon's Temple, not actual places of worship. And Aziraphale’s bookshop is built around Solomon’s Magic Circle.

In a metaphysical sense, and especially in the context of the Christian New Testament, it is also believed to be a part of Heaven — the heavenly Jerusalem, God's Holy, eternal city. Christians are said to have “(…) come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, to an innumerable company of angels, to the general assembly and church of the firstborn who are registered in heaven” (Hebrews 12:22-23 cf. Revelation 14:1). Just like the procession were following in the opening sequence.

There’s been some speculation whether the lift on top of the mountain could symbolize Aziraphale’s bookshop, or, more specifically, the oculus in its centre. If you look closely at the enhanced screenshot, you can see that the dome isn’t made of glass and that it looks like a tower (a church’s bell tower, perhaps) more than a whole building.

And there is an actual doorway in there — not like the modern lift doors — opening up towards the source of that white, heavenly light. And what kind of enlightenment can you usually find up in the skies or heavens?

We’re welcomed to crack open the doors to the Heavenly Sanctuary — the Most Holy place, Sanctum Sanctorum, the Holy of Holies — to undraw the final curtain and finally stand eye to eye with God. Who knows, maybe even ask some questions or listen to some answers.

Or, at the very least, to meet one of Her forms known as Jesus Christ. Because that’s precisely where he serves as our (humanity’s) Mediator and the Holy Priest after his Ascension to Heaven. The structure at the top reminds of some temple architecture seen in Antiquity and Christianity.

The Catholic Church considers the Church tabernacle or its location (traditionally at the rear of the sanctuary) as the symbolic equivalent of the Holy of Holies, due to the storage of consecrated hosts in that vessel and their meaning as the Body of Christ. Tabernacle is commonly marked with a red light turned on and off depending on His presence or lack if it.

Looks like He’s already in the area, one way or another, keeping eye on some things.

Are we following a procession of believers happy to embrace their one and true Savior? Or are they actually protesters on their way to dethrone the authority and the system?

Guess we will have to wait and see.

#the good omens crew is unhinged #everything has a meaning #title sequence #angels everywhere #archangel fucking gabriel #gabriel’s statue #bookshop statues #statues update #ponte sant’angelo #let there be light #good omens analysis #good omens meta #bible fanfiction #yuri is doing her thing

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 9 months

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hi! i saw your post about how true the makers of atsv were to real-life brooklyn and i loved it so much that i just had to ask if you'd be willing to make a more in-depth analysis on that? i'm not from america but i adore the movie so it's very interesting to hear firsthand accounts about its authenticity from locals! ofc this is just a humble request and i completely understand if the answer is no <3

I'd LOVE to! The Spiderverse Series is honestly the most accurate movie of New York I've seen in my life - including live-action movies. I say that not just in essence but in everything. And Across the Universe takes it over the top. Like, INSANELY so.

Across The Spiderverse & It's Dedication to Cultural Accuracy [aka ATSV is so goddamn good I can tell you exactly what street Gwen and Miles went to Mumbattan from. It's that accurate.]

I'm a black, afro-latino, and a born and raised 'Brooklynite'. Despite there being thousands of movies of New York, I'd say less than 5 percent of them are in any way accurate or current. (Yellow taxi cabs are no longer a thing here really.)

But Across the Spiderverse defies that in every way - nailing it historically, culturally, and even by replicating exact locations.

Wanna see the Bodega Spot robbed? Cause it's a real, random bodega! And the building he goes into at the end - I can tell you exactly where it is, with 100% assurity. All by street signs.

In the first scene with Spot we see him standing outside on the curb, looking into the store. On the corner there is a street sign that reads Fulton St.

Fulton is an actual street in BedStuy (Bedford Stuyvesant, pronounced Bed-St-eye), literally a stone's throw from my house. And they take it further.

Although it can be hard to see, the other side to the left of it reads Nostrand Ave. Fulton and Nostrand is a very popular intersection in the neighborhood, mainly because there's a subway station for the A line located on one corner.

There's Nostrand and Fulton.

But if you turn to the other corner you see...A Bodega! Looks familar?

That's the bodega Spot robbed.

99% of the people who watch this movie will be from New York. Even less will be from BedStuy. Even less will catch the split second sign on the corner, only on screen for only a few frames.

It took me 3 watches to notice. But I noticed. And my jaw dropped. How much that means is unexplainable. I've been on that corner, and the TacoBell across the street. And so has Miles. That's insane.

It doesn't stop there.

Spot enters the store, as we pass we see a sticker for 'WIC/EBT' on the cashier's counter. I'm not sure how common this is - but WIC and EBT standards for Welfare Benefits and Food Stamps. As you cannot buy warm food with Food Stamps (sadly), lots of bodegas advertise taking EBT for the deli sandwiches.

Nice shout out to the struggling families in the communities, I love a Bodega that takes EBT.

We move towards the back of the store - In the Bodega while Spot messes with the ATM we get a wider shot, and another very insanely specific shout out.

Behind Spot is a sign showing a Beef Patty (which I'll mention in a moment) and a sun logo called 'Sunny Patty'.

This is a direct call out to a specific chain of Beef Patty shops in Brooklyn and Harlem called 'Golden Krust'.

I cannot stress how much of a niche reference this is! Golden Krusts only exist in low income neighborhoods - mainly in Brooklyn, Harlem, and the Bronx. If you're anywhere near Times Square or any place else New York shows choose to portray - you're not finding a Golden Krust.

Golden Krusts are store that is ingrained in Caribbean culture, which Brooklyn is full of - hence the adapted Jamaican flag up front. I grew up eating Golden Krust and I'd eat it more if they didn't close so goddamn early.

But it's there.

Once again, only a few pixels, only a few frames, but someone probably took 6 hours drawing that. For the 0.009% of the people who'll get the reference. Low-income, black New Yorkers - like me.

ATSV is so accurate that you can even find the exact spot in which Miles and Gwen leave through the portal.

But before I tell you where it is - I wanna talk about why it's so important.

It's important because one of the most famous Spider-man scenes in history is just plain WRONG to New Yorkers.

This scene is ENTIRELY incorrect, and I knew it even as a child.

Firstly, based on the skyscrapers everywhere, this is solidly Manhattan. The train says Bay Ridge, which is in South Brooklyn, maybe 40 minutes away by train. So I'm going to assume this is the Q or B train, running through Manhattan. Which, okay they do, but -

There are NO elevated trains in Manhattan. The Q, like every other train, only goes above ground in Brooklyn and Queens. This is very clearly Chicago.

So he couldn't be doing this. It's a simple but HUGE fuck up. Any one born in New York will notice it because Manhattan just looks wrong with elevated trains.

And it would've been fine if they just set it in Brooklyn where Bay Ridge and the elevated trains actually are.

But instead they made generic Manhattan streets - so much so I can't even tell what neighborhood they're in. Do you see how this is such a problem?

Across The Spiderverse is animated. And they still put in the effort.

I can't tell you where Peter Parker is stopping that train - it ain't Manhattan - but I CAN tell you where Miles and Gwen leave for Mumbattan.

So let's go back to where we started. We're on Fulton and Nostrand both in BedStuy.

Throughout the fight, we see Spot and Miles go through a couple streets - most notably a very popular street in the neighborhood - Broadway.

This happens twice, once while fighting Spot, and once when Miles and Gwen grab the hot dogs. They show this twice, cause this will be important for what we're trying to do.

Now this may not make any sense to you, since it's just random streets, but I'm about to tie it together.

Gwen releases the bug near an elevated train. When we see Miles and Gwen swinging, they cling to a train. Now, it's hard to tell what train this is but so far we know.

We're in Brooklyn

We're near Broadway

We're near an elevated train line

There's a station on Broadway called Broadway Junction. It serves the G line and the J,M,Z line.

When we see the train pass by, we get a glimpse of the model. Each train line has a slightly different variation, with some being a lot old. The one that passes is one of the newer ones.

(Once again, very accurate, as those models do run on elevated lines)

And although we can't see the letter on the train, by that alone, I can guess we're by the elevated J,M,Z lines in BedStuy - near Broadway Junction. Easy. Now we just need to know what stop we're at.

Well, they tell us that too. Finally, When Spot heads into the building we get a glimpse of the exact street he's on - Bedford.Ave

So I just threw a LOT of information at you - but look at this map of the J,M,Z line and hopefully it comes together

At the bottom along the green line - we see Bedford/Nostrand Ave. Remember, the robbery starts us off on Nostrand. Let's move up the green line. We get to a part where the green line passes the brown and orange ones - the JMZ trains.

They connect at Broadway (Officially Broadway Junction Station). We see Broadway with the hot dog vendor there.

If we move to left of Broadway we see Marcy Av. - and if we look to the left OF THAT we see a faint white line heading north.

THAT line is Bedford Ave. Where Spot enters the building.

Because we know they're in Brooklyn, and we know they passed Broadway. Plus we know they're now on Bedford by an elevated train that runs newer models.

So from those signs alone we can definitely say that Spot is on Bedford Ave. and Broadway. Next to the JMZ elevated trains, two stops from Broadway Junction in Brooklyn.

100% that's the spot (lol). That's the only place Bedford crosses an elevated train. And as a New Yorker, I got that from this photo.

Trust me when I say - we can tell.

By those short shots of street signs, we know that Miles started in BedStuy, swung north towards Broadway, then took a turn towards Bedford Ave in Williamsburg. And that's where Gwen plants the bug - and the place she returns to before going to Mumbattan.

Is that crazy? That's CRAZY. Percision accuracy that I have never seen in a movie live-action or otherwise.

All throughout the first scenes of ATSV - they are on actual streets, that are reasonably within swinging distance of each other, along actual train lines - with their stations accurately located.

That's INSANE. There was no need for that amount of detail, but they did it anyway.

There's SO many times in Spider-men movies where they'll start swinging in Queens, and then the next scene is like Upper Manhattan. They don't label the neighborhoods, but from buildings alone, I can tell what neighborhood it is.

And I'm supposed to believe Peter just swung 2 and a half boroughs in twenty minutes. I don't notice. But I NOTICE.

Here, Miles and Gwen are truly swinging accurate distances in the right amount of time. That's mental. And refreshing!

In a live action movie - they have NO excuse. Just film in the city, it's not like we're Gotham. And we give film crews huge tax breaks. In an animated movie - completely understandable. But they still said 'No, that's subpar.' and went the extra mile.

They didn't even have to show ANY street signs, they could've left it at the easter egg at the corner store.

But they didn't. Because they're telling a story about a Black kid from Brooklyn, who leaves for someplace completely unfamiliar. BedStuy is Miles' home, and they wanted to make it feel that way. So when he's not there - in the cold polish of Neuva York - you can feel it.

You can feel Miles leaving his warm, rich community when he lacks that community in the Society. In the movie and IRL, BedStuy is so full of color, with so many people doing so many things and sharing so many cultures.

And in the society, everyone is the same. There's no culture. That's dedication.

Because of a train in Spider-man 2, I was immediately taken out of the story. And because of train in ATSV, I was immediately brought in.

For once, it feels like they're swinging around a neighborhood - cause they are.

A Large Detail in ATSV:

So I talked about Trinity Church - the real church that Peter Parker was buried at in ITSV - and how accurate the team got it to the actual building.

In fact, this is the spot where Miles is standing.

Like he's standing maybe 20 feet AT most from this spot, you can see in the windows and spires at the top.

But I also wanna explain why this - and why the fact that Peter was buried there is SO important.

Trinty Church is one of the most famous historical churches in the United States. It was started by the first English settlers in New York. It's extremely famous, and extremely sentimental.

For reference - Alexander Hamilton and his family are also buried at Trinity Church, along with dozens of other important US historical figures - across centuries.

You can't just be buried in Trinity. It's a city landmark. The cemetery is full, small, and you CANNOT pay your way in. The church is extremely choosy with who they will bury there - and honestly, I don't think anyone has been buried there for maybe a century or more.

So for the city to bury Peter Parker's body in the most prominent church in all of the city, if not the country - that speaks VOLUMES.

Like I said in the last post, my father use to work at Trinity Church - and they're the whole deal. Candles burning everywhere, super quiet and devote. The church has catacombs under it, everything.

They didn't just bury him anywhere. The people of New York went out of their way to give Peter Parker the most honorable burial physically possible within the city of New York.

The highest honor for any New Yorker. One reserved only for Spider-man.

Which I think was an amazing touch. Especially since Trinity is in downtown Manhattan - so anyone could come visit and pay respects.

Other Cultural Accuracies

Before we wrap up I wanna breeze through some other cultural accuracies that appear in ATSV.

Miles stops to eat a Jamaican Beef Patty while in the Bodgea. I spoke about these earlier with the Golden Krust sign. Jamaican beef patties are these flaky pastries colored with tumeric, full of spicy meat. And they are very popular with the large Carribean community in Brooklyn - which I'm apart of :)

In the case, we see the Beef Patties labeled with red dots. But Miles seems to go for the only one without it.

I'm guessing the red dots indicate which ones are the spicy Beef Patties and which ones are the mild, and Miles grabbed the last mild one they had.

They draw it really well, especially while Miles is eating it.

"Spider-man seems more Dominican." Genuine question - did anyone laugh at this joke in your theatre?

Because all three times I went, people laughed. The first time people LOVED that joke.

NYC, especially the Bronx has a HUGE Puerto Rican AND Dominican population - many times living side by side

And there's this kinda 'beef' in the same way Yankees fans have beef with the Mets fans (NYC baseball teams)

The best way I can describe the joke is that they're two very strong, very proud Spanish cultures that are often mistaken for each other - but Puerto Ricans and Dominicans can very obviously tell each other apart. Mainly because of the Spanish they speak.

So for him and his mom to have that back and forth, it's kinda an inside joke of Puerto Ricans and Dominicans getting confused for each other - but them being able to tell the difference.

His mom says Spider-man is Puerto Rican, but Miles corrects her - without backing it up with any reason.

It's like they can just TELL.

I don't know how else to explain the joke but its a very New Yorker thing to do - discuss that out like that.

Since a lot of us are the children of immigrants - it's knee-jerk to identify with your parent country and not this one.

If you ask someone in New York 'What are you'. Many young people (me included) would say "Oh I'm *parents nationality*." In my case, I say I'm Bajan and Peruvian. Even though I was born in New York.

Miles would say he's Puerto Rican though he's never been.

So them discussing where Spider-man is 'from' even though he's obviously a New Yorker is the joke.

Like - someone on the writing team HAD to be from New York to add that in cause it's so...oddly New Yorker???

While swinging Miles and Gwen pass the B46 bus. Once again, completely accurate. The scene starts on Nostrand and Fulton. The B46 does indeed stop on Fulton St.

When they're swinging, the movie accurately shows the new World Trade Center (aka The Freedom Tower) - which is the tallest building in the picture.

Also, the bridge to the LEFT is the Brooklyn Bridge, while the tall one on the right is Manhattan Bridge. Many people don't know there's actually two bridges. (There's more but those two are the main ones)

Good on them for showing both Bridges, both accurately placed as well

Fun fact: Trains run over the Manhattan Bridge - the Q, B and a couple others (beautiful - I love it when they do) but trains do not run over the Brooklyn Bridge.

And lastly, when Miles and Spot are on Broadway, the school behind them is actually architecturally accurate for a Brooklyn school. So much so that design is iconic.

______________________ So those are most if not all of the cultural accuracies in Across the Spiderverse!

I cannot stress enough how ridiculously bang on this movie is in terms of everything.

The team put in so much work, and it paid off. To me, at least.

I don't feel like Miles is some kid from a different alternative New York. I feel like he's a real kid in MY New York. From everything down to his Jordans (don't even get me started on how much Jordan's has a CHOKEHOLD on teenagers in New York. Like...it's a status thing. Even since I was a kid, everyone wanted Jordans. Jordans or Nike Air Force 1s. So having Miles wear Jordans is my favorite thing cause yea a kid from BedStuy would think those are flyest shit ever even though they're just regular degular Jordans lol. And you KNOW Miles 42 a sneakerhead. Look at those shoes. He aint creasing those)

This movie, is chef's kiss. It tops all other New York portrays - live-action or otherwise and I stand on that.

If you read this far, thank you SO much. I love sharing New York culture (and the cultures that make it what it is to begin with) and I'm SO happy I can share this stuff and hopefully help people appreciate the movie more too!

If you learned something or have any questions, I'm all ears!

And I usually leave a photo of Hobie here as a send-off but this post hit the photo limit LMAOOOOOO

Bye.

#no proofread as usu #atsv #across the spiderverse #miles morales #gwen stacy #the spot #spiderman #spider man #spidergwen #spider gwen #atsv analysis #marvel #across the spider verse

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