#Guile Sharp

[thedarktowerdames]

Art Credit Guile Sharp

[spawn-universe]

Spawnuary Covers

Covers by Franck Uzan

Covers by George Todorovski

Cover by Guile Sharp

Cover by Jake Goodman

Cover by James Harris

Cover by Jethro Morales

Cover by Jonathan Lau

Cover by Manú Silva

Cover by Mark Marvida

Cover by Michal Ivan

Cover by Ryan G. Browne

Cover by Samal World-McNealy

[jedivoodoochile]

Skeletor.

Art by Guile Sharp.

[femmefataleart]

VANYA THE LOST WARRIOR by Guile Sharpe

[lostintransist]

Seamstress | Part 6

Check out part 1 here. AO3

John texted memes. Something about that surprised you. He presented as such a straight-laced demeanor that the silly text images added a layer of intrigue to the man who already took such care not to share more the bare minimum.

He sent his commentary about his ‘muppets’ as he called the men under his command. The image of a man in suspenders, a tie, and a coffee mug in one hand with the text “If they could just not…” followed by any number of pictures of Jim Hensen’s muppets. It always prompts you to ask for the cleansed version of their nonsense. John had confirmed that the men who had come in asking about him were the men under his command. They were still under orders to leave you and your shop alone. When he mentioned that in the first week of texting you were surprised.

>I can hold my own in my shop John, release them to come by for fixes on anything you haven’t already stolen from their bags.

When he didn’t reply within a few hours you followed it up with.

>Your Scotsman seemed pretty excited about getting a family kilt fixed. Let them come by John. I don’t scare easy.

Halfway across the world, John squints at his phone in the darkness of the safe house he and Johnny are waiting for exfil in.

“What did you say to my girl Soap?” Price questions in the quiet.

Soap jerks from his nodding-off sleep in the corner where he had settled down.

“What’s up boss,” he asks sleepily.

He turned his phone to show Johnny the message from you.

“What did you do to my girl?”

Soap squinted through the brightness blasting his eyes.

“Dinne do nothing Cap. Alls I asked about was a kilt repair. Me granddad’s kilt was given to me when he passed, I want to get it fixed up is all.”

Soap lacked the guile to ever pull off being an undercover agent. John turned the phone back to himself, frowning.

“Fine. You can go visit her. Spread the word, but if I hear any of you gave her a bit of grief?” He let the warning linger unspoken behind his words.

“Got it. Can I go back to sleep now?”

John harrumphs and pulls out a cigar, lighting it up as he contemplates how to reply to you.

<:Rolling eye emoji: Fine, but you let me know if they give you any trouble.

>You reply with a gif of someone giving a salute with the text aye aye captain below it.

Physically rolling his eyes this time John settles in to watch the sky and think of you.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

Christmas had to be the most peaceful one you had ever experienced. Laughing with your aunts and eye contact across the table with your cousins when someone said something wild before taking a sip had never been the norm. Every Christmas season meant spending time with your Mum’s family and her resentful sniffs when Pop would inform you of the times when his sisters might be passing through so you could see them. You think Mum hated that you had real conversations with the other side of your family. Everything on her side sat stilted in past hostiles and clothed in niceness for the sake of Gran who still watched with a sharp eye.

You hadn’t expected any gifts but the highlight had to be the scarf from your favorite cousin. It sat light and delicate on your neck. When you said goodbye to everyone and headed up to the spare room your Nana had set up for you. Settling onto the bed you fired off a text to John.

<Merry Christmas! Did you have a good holiday?

>Decent.

>Merry Christmas.

Attached was a photo of John with what looked like egg nog in his mustache with an arm around a man and woman who also had white streaks along their upper lips. Standing so close together you can see they share the same eye-crinkling smile.

<Aww! You look so cute with your egg-nog mustache! Did someone spike it before cups were passed around?

>But of course, can’t discuss childhood stories without a healthy glug of whiskey. Added enough of a kick that even the scary stories were told with a laugh.

>How has yours gone? You mentioned you would be with extended family up north this year.

<It’s been a blast. Best Christmas I can remember for a long time. I am spending the night with my Nana before driving home tomorrow.

<You have any fun plans between now and New Years?

>Other than deep cleaning the mold from my fridge?

You laugh out loud in the empty room. He probably wasn’t kidding. John had mentioned that he can be called for a job at a moment’s notice and sometimes it leaves him with some nasty surprises when he eventually got home.

<Yes you silly man, other than that.

Those dots went on and off for a long time. When the message finally comes through you are disappointed.

>Nothing crazy, mostly catching up on my shows.

<What like The Golden Bachelor?

You can imagine him fighting down a smile as he contemplates a reply. He isn’t that much older than you, but the way he mothers his men has them calling him ‘Old Man’. John complains about it but always with love.

>The muppets would like to you if you would like to join them for New Years.

>I told them I had plans with you but they insisted and are watching for your response.

Smirking you fired off one last response before starting your bedtime routine.

<Should I wear jeans or a pretty dress?

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

Stepping from the cab you wave your thanks and turn to the building. John is standing at the glass door, waiting for you to get close enough that he can welcome you in. You smile at him, excited for his reaction to your dress. It is mostly visible through the undone buttons of your long coat. You had made it yourself, hands cramping late into the night with the number of times you have had to pleat the skirt to sit exactly right. Ironing the piece flat each time you wanted to pleat it slightly differently had been deeply frustrating work.

The black dress wrapped around, sending one tie through the side piece to stretch across your back and meet the other tie to create a bow. The long sleeves and v of the crossing front gave you an excuse to pull out your push-up bra and put the girls on display. You had chosen a long skirt. Reflective swirls of gold shined in the light from your skirt. It brushed the top of your shoes each time you took a step. Jewelry you kept simple; gold hoops and a single pendant on a long chain. Some light eye makeup and a lip stain are all you did for your face today. You would forget to wipe it off when you got home and refused to deal with the breakouts that overnight in your makeup would provide. Thankfully your hair cooperated and sat neatly in a sleek bun.

Looking John over as you approach you are pleased to see him in a suit. The juxtaposition of his winter beanie will never not make you smile. You hadn’t seen this one from him in all his times of coming by. You would tease him about the belt he needed to keep them up later. Perfect you could poke and prod at him tonight to confirm that you had the right size for his Christmas present. It sat in the back of your shop, waiting for his next visit to confirm the dark blue suit would contrast beautifully with his eyes. Double vested with a double vent, because something about that cute bum being covered just so gave you butterflies. The pants should cling to his thighs barely and give him a nice long silhouette

John took you in from top to bottom and back up again. You thought him unaffected until he took your hand as he opened the door and pulled you directly into a hug. Hugging him fired off a spring-loaded batch of emotions. Between the subtle smell of his cologne and the heat of his hands searing through the back of your coat, you’ve never wanted a New Years kiss more than now.

God. You had to say something. Fuck it all. You opened your mouth to say anything really but John beat you to it.

“You look stunning tonight,” he pulls back, hands still settled on your spine. He looks from your hair to your cleavage and back, a warm smile growing on his face.

“Thanks, you look pretty spiffy yourself,” tugging on the lapels of his jacket you continue, “But this doesn’t fit quite right, and was that a belt I saw? How could you keep something like this from me, John?”

His smile got impossibly wider. Joy spread through you like the first drink of a warm liquor.

“I wondered if you would notice. Gaz mentioned to wear a suit and when I went digging through my closet this was all I could find.”

John released you from the hug, one hand sliding from your back and down your arm to catch your hand. He holds it all the way up the elevator. When the elevator deposits you on the 26th floor you let John lead. Number 2607 he opens without hesitation.

All his muppets are present, some even have dates. Kyle stood at the island, cutting cheese for the board. The woman who you assumed to be Kyle’s girlfriend floated around the room. Charms weaved into her braids and a sleek body con dress matched her beautiful smile as she offered you and John both a drink. You were surprised to see that Gary was a blond. His choice of date made much more sense than his hair color and makes you smile. Sharing a look with John he nodded once; Gary had a thing for goth women. Johnny and Simon sat at a table, deep in discussion. Neither had a date to be seen.

“Simon doesn’t surprise me but why doesn’t Johnny have a date?” You turn to question John, wary of letting your voice travel in the open space.

John takes a sip of his drink, “They would have a date if either of them would buck up and ask the other.”

Your eyes widened as you snapped your gaze back to the men.

“You would not make a good agent,” he chuckled. “Johnny come hold this for me.”

Johnny pops up and out of his chair without question, closing the distance to take the drink John is holding out. John then takes your drink and passes it off to Johnny as well. Shivers assault your body as John’s rough fingers slide the coat from your shoulder and move away to hang it up.

“Miss Seamstress!” Johnny leans in and places a kiss on your cheek as he passes your drink back. “It is good to see you. How is your shop going?”

“Good, almost too good. If my space were any bigger I would bring on another seamstress full time. As it stands I might still hire someone to help with the simpler tasks.”

“What counts as a simpler task in a shop like yours?” Johnny cants his head to one side.

“Mostly ironing, unstitching simpler items, phone calls, running the register, things like that.” John appears at your side, a finger catching your pinky. You curl it tight to acknowledge his presence.

Movement over Johnny’s shoulder shows Simon and Kyle both heading toward you for a greeting. Kyle gives you a kiss much like Johnny did and Simon nods. When Gary sees everyone is saying hello he abandons his date for a rib-crushing hug since both your hands are busy.

The night flows on, laughter and food flowing more freely than the drinks do. You end up chatting with Kyle’s and Gary’s girlfriends about Pilates and how funny it would be to see the men try. They jump from history to space to fashion and beyond. Midnight sees Gary and Kyle kissing their girlfriends. Johnny and Simon stare at each other’s feet in abject longing and John places a kiss on the back of your hand, much to your chagrin.

As John had nursed his single drink all night he drove you home after one, passing through a sobriety checkpoint with ease. The conversation never stopped flowing with John, teasing and jokes kept your spirits lifted until you arrived at your flat. He walked you to your door, hand firmly in yours.

His thumb brushed against your knuckles as you stared up into his eyes, hoping, praying for a kiss.

“Thank you for coming. I left your gift at home since I didn’t want you to have to lug it about. When can I bring it by?”

“You’re gift is at the shop, so tomorrow maybe? About noon?”

“That would work fine. I had a lot of fun tonight and I know my guys like you.”

“They are important to you, it makes sense you would want someone in your life to get along with them.”

“And do you,” he paused here, eyes searching your face, “What to be part of my life?”

Desperately. More than anything. Fuck yes.

None of those words passed your lips. All you could do is nod.

With his free hand, John cradles your face, pressing his lips to yours.

It had to be the best first kiss you ever had because you can’t remember a damn second of it. When you finally blink John is halfway down the hall and turning back to see if you are okay since you haven’t moved.

Sending him a sheepish smile and a nod you fight with your key to get your lock open and fling yourself inside. Once the door finds its home you squeal as quietly as you can and happy dance like a dork.

Part 5 | Part 7

Seamstress Masterlist | Masterlist

[yanderenightmare]

Mahito discovering all the carnal urges he has for you

Mahito

TW: NSFW, yandere, noncon

fem reader

He likes alleyways. 

So private, so intimate, so many different people to pick and choose from. 

It’s where he finds you.

You’re just on your way home – late at night and just a teensy bit tipsy – at least enough not to care about why taking the shortcut through the dark alley is a bad idea, despite being all alone. 

It’s your mistake.

Mahito thought little of you at first – you were another dumb drunken whore to nab. He never got tired of listening to stupid girls like you squeal and scream, so you seemed as good as any when teetering between the brick buildings in your pink pumps.

You’re tied to his wall by your hands a few hours later – club dress in a pool on the floor alongside your kitten heels.

Sure enough, you begged for your life like all humans do with tears and cheers and silly prayers. Calling him mister, as though polite manners would earn you his favor. But he was no stranger to your feminine guiles and wasn’t sweet on them either. 

Yet… there was something about the way you shivered that just seemed different from all his previous victims.

Or maybe he’d just evolved – grown up, as humans like to say – into something that craved to play a little differently.

Either way, he didn’t bother giving it too much thought. All he knew and all he cared to focus on was how delicious you looked hanging there – sweat pilling on your smooth skin, running over slopes and crevices down your body in pretty sparkles. 

He was more attentive to it now than he’d been with the others. Licking his teeth at the sight of you and how your chest reacted to the air, becoming perky in the cold. 

Granted, you were just as dinky as any human in his eyes, but something in his gut possessed him into being gentle when he began touching you – as if in reverence – as if something about you was just too potentially gratifying to waste.

It was the thing between your thighs he gravitated to first. Feeling it with his fingers for the first time and realizing what a tender spot on the body it was.

His dual-colored eyes peeled in curiosity, keenly studying you and how you sucked in a sharp shuddering breath and twisted your soft thighs around his hand, where touching you made you pour out a whole other string of pleas, one more whiney after the other, shaking your head as though to try and make it all go away – or... to deny how he was making you feel.

It made him chuckle, feeling you get warm and wet on his digits.

And ever since then, he’s always laughing when threatening you. Making you feel fun-size – like a playful little pet project he gets to figure out. His smile all crooked when dragging his fingers over your soft flesh, playfully teasing you with how easy it would be to twist your pretty body into an ugly fleshy puppet if you don’t listen and do what he wants.

It keeps you sweet for him – eager to please – hurriedly working your hands up and down his shaft while kneeling before him. His fingers holding your face, digging deep into the chub of your cheeks, keeping you looking up at him. 

You’re too perfect to alter – too cute – all perky tits and plump lips and big doe eyes pleading for your life with his dusty pink cockhead keeping warm on your tongue.

[dycefic]

The Hearthstone God

[The sequel to the God of Prophecy, and the Serpent God of Protection]

---

Fire is out of fashion, in this new age.

Some of my kind have found new homes, new names, in factories or forges, in the hearts of wildfires or crystals or volcanoes.

Most of us are simply forgotten.

I was a fire god, once. A god of gathering, a god of communion, a god of song and story. But there are no hearthstones now. No fires around which families gather to eat and talk and tell stories.

I am lucky. I am tied to a great flat stone near a lake. A lake that has survived all the wild exuberance of men, when they learned to change the world around them. Once, this was a place where travellers stopped to rest. At first they travelled on their feet, or on half-wild horses. Then there were carts, and a road. Much later, cars drove down the road. The road was paved.

But some things do not change. People need clean water to drink, and the spring here is good. They need to rest, when they are weary. And even now, when they come to camp in nylon tents, to fish in the lake, or to hunt the ducks, or drive camper-vans to the flat place, their ancient instincts wake, and they turn to fire once more. They light new fires atop my stone, so flat and safe, from which no log will roll to set the woods afire.

Not so many come now. Camping is less popular these days. But some still come. Some still light their fires, and settle around my stone, and talk, or listen to music, or tell stories. So I survive, just barely, on the edges of belief.

I feel it, when things begin to change. Something is happening. Something is drawing old gods back. Not the great ones, risen beyond mortal understanding, but the oldest gods, the small gods, those who rose when humankind were still learning what they were.

Far to the west of me, a god even more ancient than I wakes, and begins to hunt again. I remember the stories that were once told of that old serpent, and tell them over to myself in the long fireless nights.

A god of prophecy, not of this land, settles south and west, and I remember tales of ancient ravens, their wisdom and their guile and their sharp, sharp eyes. There was a raven clan once, who passed this way in the days of skin garments and stone tools, but I have forgotten their name. I only remember the symbol they wore, the black bird with its spread wings, marked in charcoal or charring on wooden talismans or leather garments.

I wait, to see who will awaken next.

To my great surprise, it is me.

The people who come this time aren’t like the campers. They come at night, a ragged family group with few blood ties between them, with a single tent and few possessions carried on devices I haven’t seen before. Bicycles, they’re called, slung over with bags the way ponies used to be. They come at night, and hide when cars pass on the road.

They light a fire on my stone, with wood scavenged from the forest, and huddle around its warmth. They don’t speak much, not at first, but they say enough. They have no home, I learn. They are travellers of a kind I have not known before, who are allowed to stop nowhere, but have no goal but a place to rest. They are thin, and worn, and so tired. So very tired.

They need a hearth.

I am only a weak shadow of a god, now, who once recorded the songs and stories of a thousand generations in my ancient stone, but I am still a god of fire. Their fire burns slow, their little fuel lasting well. The food they heat over it sustains them better. The water of that spring, my spring, puts a little life back in them. This stone has lain in this place since great monsters walked this world, since before humans spoke words to one another, and I came into being with the first fire that burned on it. I am old, old, and though weak, I am not powerless.

They stay.

I cannot speak to them. I am old, and weak, and they do not believe. But slowly, with the power of the fires they build every night, with the tiny offerings of scraps of food spilled into the flames, with their growing confidence in the safety of this place, I am able to do more. I give them dreams and they find the cave not far away, where they can hide. They dream of fish, and begin to try to catch some. A woman remembers that some of the local plants are safe to eat, when I slowly wake a long-forgotten memory of a camping trip from her childhood.

And then a child, a strange, quiet child who rarely speaks, a child without mother or father, in the care of an older brother who is exhausted to the very edge of death but cannot give up while she needs him… that child begins to hear.

She sits on my stone, sometimes for hours, not moving or speaking. It worries the others, but at least she is quiet, at least she is no trouble, and they are beginning to associate their hearth with safety. So they let her sit.

She is *listening*. She is listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of the forest, to the wind blowing. And because she is listening, where no-one else has listened for so long, I sing to her. I sing to her the songs of thousands of years. From the wordless music of the earliest people, who sang what was in their hearts without words, to the songs I have learned from the fishermen with their radios and bluetooth speakers.

I do not know if she hears me, for some time. But then, one night, while they sit around their fire and eat food the oldest have almost certainly stolen, she sings one of my songs. “In a cavern… on a canyon… excavating for a mine…” she sings in a small voice. The others are startled, confused, for she has not spoken aloud since some bad thing they do not name happened, but one of the older ones knows the song and sings with her.

I have always liked ‘Clementine’. It’s been popular with campers for a long time.

The next day, while she sits on my stone, she sings along to one of the wordless songs the Raven People whose name I no longer remember once sang. It is a lullaby, a soft croon to soothe an infant, passed from mother to mother, and she seems to take pleasure in it.

She can hear me. She can even answer me, as the voice driven away by pain and fear begins to return. And so I grow stronger still. Strong enough to make the raven sign on the stone, one day, in the ashes of the fire of the night before.

She takes a half burned stick, and draws the sign on the stone. Pleased, I show her another sign, a leaping fish. She draws that too.

Soon, I need not shift the ashes. I can show her the pictures in her mind, and she draws them. She draws the wheel of a cart, and into her heart I whisper the stories the travellers in covered wagons once told over my stone. She draws a fish, and I make her laugh silently with the jests of fishermen who boast of fish who escaped them. She draws a horse, and I tell her about the wild horses who once drank at this lake, about the men and women who captured and tamed them and rode them through the forest when it was far greater than it is now. She draws a long-toothed cat, and I show her the great cat that once slept on my stone, and denned in the cave where her new found family sleep.

One night, when all the others are asleep and my fire has burned down to coals, she creeps back to the stone and looks into the coals. “Who are you?” she asks. “Are you real?”

She is afraid that the voice in her mind is the voice of madness, a lie created by a mind that does not work like other minds, that has endured great hardship. I do not want this child to be afraid. To instill fear runs counter to my very nature, save in whoever might threaten those my hearth protects.

I am a god of the hearth. I am a god of food, and communication, and peace, and safety. I am all the things that fire used to mean, before humans learned again to fear the thing they had tamed. I do not often take a form, for fire is my form, but for her I must try.

There was a wise woman once, who knew me, whose clan visited this lake several times every year. I watched her grow up, and grow old. I watched her learn of the god of the fire stone, and I watched her teach others. She slept beside me as a child, and as a woman. She sang her children to sleep beside me, and her grandchildren, and dozed beside me as an old, old woman. To her, I was represented by a sign of a flame in an oval, a fire and a stone.

I build a likeness of her out of the light of the coals and the shadows of smoke, a child with straight dark hair and a simple tunic, and in lines of light I draw the sign of the fire and the stone on the outlined chest. “I am the fire,” I tell her, “and the stone. I am all the fires that have ever burned here, all the stories told, all the songs sung, all the meals eaten. I am the traveler’s hearth, and the rest for the weary, and this is my place.”

“Piedra de fuego,” she says, tracing the symbol with her finger in the air. “The fire stone.”

“Yes. I am the god of this place.”

She frowns at this. “My brother says that God is in the sky.”

“Many gods are in the sky.” I cannot continue to hold the form of the girl, but the coals shift to make my sign. “I am not. I am here. I have always been here, since the first people built a fire on my stone, and warmed themselves.”

She nods slowly. “You are… a small god,” she says thoughtfully. “A place god. Like in movies.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard of movies, which are a new way of telling old, old stories. “Old places, important places, often have gods. And gods who are forgotten return to their old places and wait, until someone believes again.”

“Will you protect us?” she asks. “When the police come, to tell us to move on?”

“I am not strong,” I tell her sadly. “I cannot make men go away from here, if they are dangerous, or even call game here for you as I once did. But what I can do, I will do.”

She sits watching the coals for a long time, thinking. “Can we make you stronger?”

I think too, and she waits patiently. “You have already made me stronger. You listened. You believed. If you can convince the others to believe, that will make me stronger still.”

She sighed. “They don’t believe in anything, anymore. Not good things.”

It is a sad thing, that she knows that. They’ve been trying to hide it from her. “Then,” I tell her, “that means there is a place in their hearts that is ready for me. I am not hope. I am not a happy ending. I am not a god in the sky. I am a stone, and a fire, and a song. I am *real*. They can believe in what is real.”

The next night, she asks for a story, and one of the adults tells her an old fairy-tale from a country far away.

The next night, again, she asks for a story, and another adult tells a funny story about his childhood.

On the third night, she asks her brother to tell her a story. He tries, but he is so tired - not physically, but emotionally - that he runs out of words. So she lays her hand on his arm and offers to tell him a story, instead.

And she tells them all a story about a stone near a lake, flat and strong, that people wearing uncured skins and carrying flint weapons built a fire on. She tells of centuries passing, of people coming to the lake on their feet, on horses, in carts and wagons, in cars and motor-homes. Of thousands of years of fires, of people gathered around them, of the great continuity of humanity, and the Piedra De Fuego that has lain in this place since time began, listening to the stories and the songs and the voices of people long gone. Somewhere in the stone, she says, laying her hand on it, all those stories are remembered. All those songs are still sung. And it will remember us too.

I don’t know if it will work. But I was right. People need to believe in something. They need something to hold onto, when times are hard, when the ties of community and family are broken and they feel alone. And a stone thousands of years old, and a fire endlessly renewed on that stone, always new… that is real. They touch me, and think of those who came before, of thousands of years of history meeting them in this place, and they feel less alone.

It’s not much, not yet. But it is something. My nature, my existence, as explained to them by my small, strange priestess, is a slender lifeline flung to those who are adrift, a tiny certainty in a world they do not trust. And the more they believe in that lifeline, that certainty, then the more they believe in me. I *am* growing stronger.

When the police come, I will not be able to make them leave… but I think I am strong enough now to hide my people from unkind eyes. And if I can do that, then their faith will grow.

Tonight, three more people come. A mother and two children, weary and beaten down with hardship. My people welcome them, give them fish and greens grown by the lake, speak kindly to them. And when they have eaten, my little priestess sits between the two children and tells them a story of a stone, and a fire, and thousands of years of stories and songs, and she sings a wordless lullaby six thousand years forgotten, but living again in a child who draws the sign of the Raven in the dirt while she sings, and the sign of the fire on the stone.

And I grow a little stronger.

[reedsllve]

Sindarin words for fanfic writers

I used parf edhellen and a few other websites all listed at the bottom!

Includes: greetings & goodbyes/ questions/ commands/ terms of endermeant/ compliments/ insults/ family titles/ clothing/ body parts/ years & months/ numbers

Greetings/ goodbyes

Well met - Mae Govannan

Greetings - suilaid

My heart sings to see you. - Guren linna chen cened.

My pleasure to meet you. - Glassen na chen govaded.

Hail - Ai

Welcome - Nathla/Nathlo

A star shines upon/on the hour of our meeting - Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn

You are welcome here - Gi nathlam hí

Farewell. - Navaer.

I hope you have a good journey. - Harthon gerich lend vaer.

I hope useful winds will speed you on. – Harthon huil vaer chen horthatha.

Fair winds! - Suil vain!

I hope you will have kind seas. - Harthon gerithach aeair vilui.

I hope you will have a good hunt. - Harthon gerich rui vaer.

I hope the leaves of your tree of life will not wither. - Harthon i laiss en-Galadh e-Guil chîn ú-belithar.

I hope you will have green paths and a breeze behind your body. - Harthon gerithach raid gelin ar chwest adel thraw chîn.

I hope you will have paths green and golden. - Harthon gerithach raid gelin ar velthin.

Nothing will stop the weeping of my heart until our reunion. - Unad nuithatha i nîr e-guren nalú aderthad vîn.

I hope you will have sweet waters and joyous laughter until our next meeting. - Harthon gerithach nîn velui ar lalaith veren na-lû govaded vîn.

I hope you will have sweet dreams tonight. - Harthon gerithach elei velui nef fuin hen.

I hope to see you there. - Ennas harthon chen cened.

I hope to see you at this time. - Harthon chen cened na lû hen.

Questions

Do you speak elvish? - Pedig/Pedil edhellen?

Where are we? - Mi van me?

What are you doing? - Man ceril?

What did you do? - Man agorel?

When? - Na van?

Which one? - Man pen?

With what? - A van?

Who is leading? - Man tôg

Why? - Am man?

Why? (For what purpose?) - Am man theled?

Why not? - Avo garo am man theled?

Commands

Be gone - Ego

Run - nor-

Halt - Daro

Let’s go - Gwaem

Come near the fire - Tolo anin naur

Come with me - Tolo ar nin

Come, join us - Tolo, govano ven

Release me - Leithio nin

Save me - Edraith enni

Don’t be afraid - Av-'osto

Terms of endermeant

My sweet heart - Guren vell

My love - Meleth nîn, mil nîn, melethen, or milen.

My friend - Mellon nîn or Mellonen

My friends - Mellyn nîn or Mellynen

My Lord - Brannon nîn or Brannonen

My Lady - Brennil nîn or Brennilen

Foe of my foe - Coth o chothen

Friend of my friend - Mellon o mellonen

Little father (dwarf) - Adar dithen

Bearded one (dwarf) - masc. Fangon fem. Fangil

Mighty one - masc. Belegon fem. Belegil

Valiant one - masc. Gornon fem. Gornil

Ancient one - masc. Iauron fem. Iauril

Wise one - masc. Saelon fem. Saelil

Loyal one - masc. Sadron fem. Sadril

My champion - masc. Thalion nîn or Thalionen fem. Thaliel nîn or Thalielen

My beloved - masc. Melethron nîn or Melethronen fem. Melethril nîn or Melethrilen

Love of my life - Meleth e-Guilen

Lovely one - masc. Miluir fem. Miluis

Compliments (literal translations)

It is my joy to see you. - Glassen na chen cenin.

You did well. - Mae carnen

You have a heart like a lion. - Gerich ‘ûr sui raw.

You are a mighty and brave warrior. - Ech maethor veleg ar gornen. (Gornen constructed from the noun gorn “valour”)

You are an archer skilled and sharp-eyed. - Ech pengor vaen ar maecheneb. (Pengor in feminine form is Pengel)

You are as beautiful as a rainbow. - Ech vain sui ninniach.

Your radiance shines like the moon. - ‘Law chîn síla sui Ithil.

Your love glitters in your eyes. - Veleth chîn thilia mi chinech.

Your radiant eyes conquered my heart. - Chin gelair chîn orthernir guren.

Your beauty took my breath away. - Thîr vain chîn darn thulen.

Insults

Your head is empty. - Dhôl chîn nâ cofn or Dhôl chîn nâ lost.

Cowardly dog! - Hû ú-gaun!

Go kiss an orc! - Mítho orch!

I hate you! - Chen ú-vilin!

Listen to my laughter! - Lasto al lalaith nîn!

Much wind pours from your mouth. - Súlon 'wanna nîf chîn.

Son of snakes! - Lýgion!

You disgust me! - Chen fuion!

You’re ugly and your mother dresses you. - Thiach uanui ar naneth chîn chen hamma.

You are stupid. - Ech uchand.

Orc lover! - Orvelethron! Or feminine orvelethril!

You are hideous! - Thiach uanui!

Family titles

Father - Adar

Mother - Naneth/Emel

Parent - odhril

Child - hên

Daughter - sell

Son - ion/iond

Sister - Nîth/ Neth/ Nethel

Sister in law - bethres

Brother - Hanar

Brother in law - bethren

Sibling - hest

Half-brother - perhanar

Half-sister - pernîth/ perneth/ pernethel

Half-sibling - perhest

Pair of twins - Gwanûn

Grandmother - mam

Grandfather - dâd

Kin - rennas

Kinsman - gwanur

Family - nothlir/ nothrim/ nos

Clothing (I couldn’t find much for these)

Jewel - mîr

Jewellery - mîrith

Ring - corf

Necklace - sigil

Ringlet - laus/ loch

Crown - rî

To crown/ coronate - rìnada

Boot - saeb

Shoe - habad

Clothes - hammad

Body parts (also couldn’t find much for these)

Hair - findë

Face - thîr

Eyes - hen

Lips - pemp

Nose - nem

Body- Rhond

Years/Months/days

The month of January - Narwain

The month of February - nínui

The month of March - gwaeron

The month of April - gwirith

The month of may - lothron

The month of June - nórui

The month of July - cerveth

The month of august - urui

The month of September - ivanneth

The month of October - narbeleth

The month of November - hithui

The month of December - girithron

First age - mein andrann

Second age - edwen andrann

Third age - nail/nelui/neil andrann

Monday - orithil

Tuesday - orgaladh/orgaladhad

Wednesday - ormenel

Thursday - oraeron

Friday - orbelain

Saturday - orgilion

Sunday - oranor

Numbers

“There were two different number systems in use in Middle Earth; the duodecimal system (base 12) and the decimal system that we use today. Interestingly Tolkien tells us that although "in Common Eldarin the multiples of three, especially six and twelve, were considered especially important" the decimal system developed first - "and eventually beside the decimal numeration a complete duodecimal system was devised for calculations".

Although he goes on to say that "the special words for 12 (dozen), 18 and 144 (gross) were in general use" we don't have any record of what that special number for 18 might have been in any language. Tolkien further noted that "for general purposes the numeral names were decimal in origin". This is why the numbers for 20, 30 and so on mean 'two tens', 'three tens'.”

The numbers 13-19 are reconstructed from Quenya.

1 - min

2 - tâd

3 - neledh

4 - canad

5 - leben

6 - eneg

7 - odo/odog

8 - tolodh/toloth

9 - neder

10 - cae/caen/pae-

11 - Minib

12 - Ýneg

13 - Neleb

14 - Canab

15 - Leben

16 - Eneph

17 - Odoph

18 - Toloph

19 - Nederph

These then, are the deduced numbers 20 - 90 using Tolkien's later material. I suggest that these are for Sindarin as spoken by the Elves, and the original forms as written in the King's Letter are Gondorian Sindarin

20 - Taphaen

30 - Nelphaen

40 - Cambaen

50 - Lephaen

60 - Enephaen

70 - Odophaen

80 - Tolophaen

90 - Nederphaen

100 - Haran

Numbers like 33, 67, 82 etc. can be formed like this Nelphaen a neledh = Thirty and three (33) or Neledh a nelphaen = Three and thirty

Enephaen a odog = Sixty and seven (67) or Odog a enephaen = Seven and sixty

Tolophaen a dâd = Eighty and two (82) or Tâd a dolophaen = Two and eighty

For any number after 12 you just need to put -ui on the end to form the ordinal, e.g. nederphaenui = 90th

1st - Minui

2nd - Tadui

3rd - Nelui

4th - Canthui

5th- Lefnui

6th - Enchui

7th - Othui

8th - Tollui

9th - Nedrui

10th - Paenui

11th - Minibui

12th - Ýnegui

[jadeshifting]

— THE HOGWARTS LIBRARY ( AND CREEPING INTO THE RESTRICTED SECTION )

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

the library at Hogwarts isn’t just a room with books—it’s a labyrinth of enchanted shelves, shadowy corners, and straight-up chaos hidden in an elaborate Dewey Decimal disguise. it’s got that faint scent of parchment and polished wood, with a hint of ink that never quite fades

the organization system? a Ravenclaw’s fever dream, where books shelve themselves according to moods or relevance, and the enchantments sometimes switch them around just for kicks. find the Charms section in row five today? tomorrow, it might be two aisles over and under a Protection Charm

the librarian, Madam Pince, is a force of nature—like if a hawk wore bifocals and had a no-nonsense streak a mile wide. cross her, and she’ll hit you with a glare so sharp it feels like a spell (and at least two weeks of detention)

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

study groups camp out at the long, candlelit tables, hunched over ancient tomes and half-eaten chocolate frogs. popular picks include “Hogwarts: A History” (to win arguments), “1,001 Potions You’ll Probably Fail to Brew”, and “Unfogging the Future” (mostly to mock Trelawney, though some end up finding it quite riveting). don’t underestimate the less flashy areas—hidden in those dusty archives are one-of-a-kind works, like diaries from the founders and spellbooks that physically hum with power

though, for the more prone to trouble and the less interested in academic integrity, you may find yourself more intrigued by what’s below it all…

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

THE RESTRICTED SECTION

now, the Restricted Section? that’s not a library. that’s a test of nerve, guile, and how much you really want that illegal knowledge. to get in the front door, you either need a signed note (good luck with that) or a serious streak of rebellion. sneaking past Madam Pince? you better bribe Peeves to not rat you out, dodge the patrolling enchanted quills, and avoid the whispering books that tattletale louder than Filch after curfew

★⋆. ࿐࿔ once inside, it’s like stepping into another world. the FIRST LEVEL is dark and moody, with books chained to their shelves—literal restricted access. they’ll hiss at you or snap their covers shut if you’re not worthy—but it doesn’t stop at books. tucked between the stacks, there are pensieve memories, cursed artifacts, and spell components so volatile they’re kept under stasis spells

★⋆. ࿐࿔ moving deeper down, there are staircases (moving, of course) leading to levels few students even know about. the SECOND LEVEL? all about lost history, with maps that redraw themselves, diaries written in blood, and enchanted scrolls that show what could have been if certain spells hadn’t been cast. the THIRD LEVEL? forbidden magics—runes glowing faintly in the dark, ancient wands that whisper when you pass, and spellbooks so intense they emit heat

★⋆. ࿐࿔ the BOTTOM LEVELS? rumor has it they’re practically alive. entire rooms shift and expand like the castle itself, and the air smells of aged magic and danger. there’s talk of unspeakable artifacts: the blueprint of Hogwarts itself, spells to erase memories entirely, and magical experiments left unfinished. if you’re down here, it’s not for homework—it’s because you’re playing with fire, and you know it

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

the Hogwarts library is a breeding ground for wild rumors and absolute madcap tales. if you stay in tune with the grapevine, there’s more drama hidden in those stacks than there is in all of the common rooms combined. whispers float about students concocting elaborate heists to breach the Restricted Section, some involving invisibility cloaks, Polyjuice-fueled disguises, or straight-up bribes to Peeves (pro tip: he accepts dungbombs and chaos as payment)

A (NOT-SO) GREAT HEIST

one infamous story is about Barnaby Crasswell, a Hufflepuff of all people, who tried sneaking in by levitating a decoy version of himself in the main library while he slipped into the Restricted Section cloaked under a Disillusionment Charm. he didn’t account for one crucial detail—his floating double started violently spinning like a top and caused such a scene Madam Pince nearly blew a gasket. he landed a week of detention scrubbing potion stains out of cauldrons, and his real punishment? a lifetime ban on borrowing books from Hogwarts

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

the rumors about what students go looking for? next level. there’s talk of a fifth-year Ravenclaw attempting to track down spells for time travel, thinking he could use it to ace his OWLs by reliving test days (spoiler: he didn’t, but he did live in detention for a month). then there was that Gryffindor who supposedly went digging for a potion to resurrect dead pets after her pygmy puff tragically bit it during a Transfiguration mishap (RIP Buttons). and we’d better not forget about the Slytherin duo who searched for the literal recipe for eternal youth—

then there’s the lore about what’s actually down there. people swear they’ve seen enchanted blueprints of the castle’s hidden passageways, including a map of a supposed 15th dungeon where secret experiments were conducted. others claim there’s a book full of Unforgivable Curses even darker than the standard three, or a locked journal from Salazar Slytherin himself detailing spells that could rewrite magical lineage, and whispers that there’s a potion hidden down there, created centuries ago, that lets you see the face of your true love—but drinking it comes at a price so wild, no one who’s found it has dared

who knows whether any of it’s true? no one—but now that we’ve gotten past what you could find down there, let’s talk about how you could find it…

THE SLYTHERIN’S GUIDE TO BREAKING INTO THE RESTRICTED SECTION: A MASTERCLASS IN CHAOS AND CUNNING

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

— KNOW YOUR TIMING.

timing is everything, babe. the library’s busiest hours? hard pass. aim for the twilight zone—late evening, when most students are snoozing or panicking about half-done essays. Madam Pince might be stalking the shelves like a hawk, but even she has limits, usually around curfew. keep it sleek and under-the-radar

— THE DECOY DANCE.

step one: deploy a Grade-A distraction. have someone (Pansy’s a pro at this) fake a “library emergency”—think exaggerated fainting spells, loud arguments over nonexistent overdue books, or a rogue enchanted quill causing a scene in the Herbology aisle. while the librarian’s losing her marbles over the chaos, you need to be making moves

— GEAR UP.

no one with any success in troublemaking relies on luck alone. you’ll need…

— an invisibility cloak (if someone’s got connections)

— a silencing charm (those creaky floorboards show no mercy)

— Dungbombs or Portable Swamps (for emergency exits)

— a teensy-tiny Lumos charm (nothing screams “i’m up to no good” like tripping over your own robes in the dark)

— GETTING PAST THE GATE.

the Restricted Section is guarded by enchanted chains tighter than a Gringotts vault. you’ve got two main options:

OPTION A … classic Alohomora. works on a good day, but those chains sometimes have extra spells layered in, so be ready to improvise

OPTION B … the Librarian’s Key, if you wanna be really sure. pro tip? Millicent once swiped it by “accidentally” returning a borrowed book laced with a mild Sticking Charm

— NOW THAT YOU’RE INSIDE.

congratulations on getting this far—now stick close to the shadows; those shelves have been known to move

watch out for enchanted books that scream bloody murder when touched (i swear one almost gave me a heart attack)

know your exit plan before you even grab your prize. fire exits aren’t just for Muggles

— GRAB-AND-GO ETIQUETTE.

don’t be greedy. the golden rule? one book at a time. more than that, and you’ll trip some seriously aggressive enchantments. and for Merlin’s sake, do not open the books in there. half of them are hexed, and you don’t want to spend the next week croaking like a toad AND in detention

— THE GETAWAY.

once you’ve snagged your prize, act like nothing happened. the Restricted Section is a no-go for most students, but if you’re caught on the way out? a well-placed lie about being on an urgent Potions errand (“Slughorn sent me!”) could be the thing that saves your ass

— COVER YOUR TRACKS.

any evidence that points to your daring escapade? destroy it. burn the notes, wipe the fingerprints, and for the love of Salazar, don’t blab about it to any Gryffindors

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

SOME FINAL NOTES . this method isn’t some ridiculous (Gryffindor) stunt—no theatrics, no martyrdom, just slick strategy and sharper instincts. with these tips, you’ll be in and out without a trace, leaving everyone wondering how the hell you pulled it off. just pure excellence, darling

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[nihongoseito]

vocab for going to bed at 10 pm on a friday (jst)

nouns:

身（み）バレ = being doxxed

零れ（こぼれ）話（ばなし） = tidbit, sidebar, digression

地獄耳（じごくみみ） = sharp ears

薬品（やくひん） = medicine, chemicals

器具（きぐ） = tool, instrument, utensil

実務（じつむ） = practical business, business affairs

悪知恵（わるぢえ） = cunning, guile

悪意（あくい） = ill will, spite

損得勘定（そんとくかんじょう） = profit-and-loss arithmetic, mercenary point of view

打算（ださん） = self-interest, calculation

隔離（かくり） = isolation, quarantine

道楽（どうらく） = pastime, hobby

境目（さかいめ） = borderline, boundary

経過（けいか） = passage, elapsing (of time); progress, course (of events)

処方せん（しょほうせん） = prescription

接触感染（せっしょくかんせん） = infection through contact

ひた隠し（かくし） = desperate cover-up, hiding at all costs

出頭（しゅっとう） = turning oneself in, surrender (e.g., to police)

八方（はっぽう）塞がり（ふさがり） = blocked in every direction, cornered

親孝行（おやこうこう） = filial piety

余談（よだん） = digression

verbs:

負う（おう） = to be injured, incur (wound, damage)

つつく = to poke, nudge; to pick at (e.g., food); to peck at (e.g., someone’s faults)

委ねる（ゆだねる） = to entrust to; to leave to abandon oneself to (e.g., pleasure); to yield to (e.g., anger)

塞がる（ふさが��） = to be closed, healed (e.g., wound)

感染る／伝染る（うつる） = to be infected, contagious

突き放す（つきはなす） = to push away; to keep away from, abandon; to act coldly

弔う（とむらう） = to mourn for, grieve; to hold a funeral for

引き継ぐ（ひきつぐ） = to take over

生き（いき）ながらえる = to live long, survive

拒む（こばむ） = to refuse, decline; to prevent (from doing), deny (access)

尖る（とがる） = to be pointed, sharp; to be sour, touchy

はぐれる = to stray from, lose sight of (one’s companions)

adjectives:

理不尽（りふじん）な = unreasonable, outrageous, absurd

執拗（しつよう）な = persistent, tenacious, relentless

非現実的（ひげんじつてき）な = unrealistic

世渡り（よわたり）上手（じょうず）な = having worldly wisdom, cosmopolitan

邪悪（じゃあく）な = evil, wicked

有能（ゆうのう）な = able, capable, competent

心細い（こころぼそい） = hopeless, forlorn, discouraging

うやむやな = hazy, vague, undecided

興味本位（きょうみほんい）な = just out of curiosity; sensational

かなわない = unbearable; beyond one’s power

愛情深い（あいじょうぶかい） = loving, devoted

もどかしい = irritating, frustrating, feeling impatient

expressions:

無駄口（むだぐち）を叩く（たたく） = to chatter pointlessly, waste one’s breath

面倒（めんどう）を見る（みる） = to care for/look after someone

路頭（ろとう）に迷う（まよう） = to be down and out, rendered homeless

裏（うら）がある = to have an ulterior motive; to have a catch

天秤（てんびん）にかける = to compare and contrast, weigh (options); to try and have it both ways

[tyrantisterror]

Wife Goals: Ryoko Hakubi

Welcome back, fuckers. Last time on this cry for help poorly disguised as, like, personal essays I guess, I talked entirely too much about Hexadecimal from Reboot. Well, today I'm gonna talk about another homicidal lunatic featured on Toonami and why I love her despite because of her many faults. Let's discuss Ryoko Hakubi from Tenchi Muyo and its various spinoffs!

I kid, there will be no discussion. This is the monologue of a deranged individual and nothing more.

Once you learn about Journey to the West, you'll realize just HOW MUCH of culture has been shaped by it. Like, taking anime as an example, there are... SO MANY characters based on the Monkey King from Journey to the West, a free-spirited ne'er do well who nevertheless proves to be an invaluable ally to the heroes, to the point where many readers of the story point out that he kind of takes focus away from the rest of the cast because he's just so cool and charismatic.

Do you like Dragon Ball Z? Well, did you know one of the names for the Monkey King is SON GOKU? Hmm, and Goku's a big, free-spirited warrior with a MONKEY TAIL and an EXTENDING ROD who beats the shit out of demons and monsters, just like Monkey King! Or hey, what about that free-spirited and indomitable protagonist of One Piece, the one who wants to be King of the Pirates and rebel against authority at every turn? What's his name? Oh, that's right, MONKEY D. Luffy. He's everywhere, man. Dig deep enough and I guarantee at least ONE of your favorite characters is connected to The Monkey King. Just like Kevin Bacon.

I bring all this up because Tenchi Muyo looked at Monkey King for inspiration and, in a moment of divinely ordained horniness, asked the question, "Cool, cool, but what if Monkey King was also a hot babe who loved you?"

The answer to that question is Ryoko Hakubi, ancient demon, space pirate, and weird clone-daughter of a primordial goddess.

I've mentioned this before, but Tenchi Muyo's first episode is perhaps the best Meet Cute of all time. Our protagonist, Tenchi, decides to enter an old shrine his father and grandfather repeatedly warned him not to fuck with, in part because rumor has it that a supremely powerful and wicked demon was trapped inside. Sure enough, he finds a coffin, inside which is a horrifying mummy that springs to life as soon as Tenchi looks upon it. Tenchi runs away to school, only for the monster he awoke to find him there after class lets out.

And while that monster is now a very attractive woman with a mane of silver-blue hair and sharp, yellow eyes, she proves to be every bit as terrifying as her first impression would imply, chasing Tenchi through the halls like a slasher villain while throwing out fireballs like Freeza and at one point just manifesting a lightsaber without a handle through sheer force of will. Luckily, she also proves to be something of a dumbass, falling for some of the easiest tricks in the book (including a "oh look at that!" gag), because Tenchi Muyo is a romantic comedy first and foremost.

Through guile, pluck, and a bit of dumb luck, Tenchi manages to steal one of the gems that gives Ryoko her power, defeating her and allowing him to escape scott-free - at least, until she shows up in his bedroom with a very different angle to conquer him.

...she wants to seduce him, in case I'm not clear.

While the show briefly has Ryoko play it like she just wants her power back, it becomes clear very fast that her infatuation with Tenchi is actually genuine, especially once the rivals for that affection that the series is so famous for arrive (Tenchi Muyo is one of the first "harem comedies" in anime, after all). And it's not really hard to see why - Tenchi, unlike most protagonists of these sorts of stories, is a pretty likable guy. He's humble, compassionate, forgiving, casually funny without meaning to be, surprisingly resourceful and cunning when shit hits the fan, loyal to a fault, and despite what some may say, he's willing to stand up for himself when he needs to.

It's that last part, I think, that is the reason Ryoko falls for him. Tenchi stood up to her, and continues to stand up to her when she lets her worst self show. Despite being a normal human (or at least seeming to be when the show starts), Tenchi will stand up for what's right, even if he has to challenge an ancient demon space pirate with just a mop.

Ryoko herself is primarily defined by her selfishness. Like the Monkey King, she is a hedonist who lives for her own pleasure and acts on whatever whim pops into her head without any regard for how it might affect others. She is rude, crass, violent (but mostly in a slapstick way - this is a COMEDY, remember), and impulsive, a character who acts first and thinks way later if ever at all. If she doesn't start the conflict of an episode, then she'll damn sure make sure it escalates to hilarious extremes.

In pursuing her selfish aims, Ryoko throws every other character she encounters off-balance, whether they're normal humans, space police, alien princesses, or ancient primordial goddesses posing as mad scientists. When Ryoko wants something, no one knows what to expect, only that it will be incredibly chaotic and bizarre. This makes her selfishness fun rather than frustrating - it's a flaw that leads to wacky antics and silliness, and so becomes endearing.

But what really makes Ryoko compelling is that this trait also extends to herself - namely, her pursuit of Tenchi throws Ryoko off balance. There's one episode where Tenchi has to babysit a young relative, and Ryoko, in her continual quest to prove herself as the best of Tenchi's many romantic options, decides that she will take better care of the baby to prove what a great wife she'll be. The problem, of course, is that Ryoko has never taken care of anyone in her life. Her first attempt to show off is to get the baby some food. She looks in the kitchen, finds the powdered formula for the baby's milk, and just fills the baby bottle with powder.

And whether or not you find that amusing (I can understand groaning at the "ohoho this woman doesn't intuitively know how to be a mom like all women should" implications this joke can have), it results in an interesting character moment for her. Because Ryoko wanted to do this right, she wanted to be good at taking care of this kid, and yeah she wanted it for a selfish reason, but dammit now she's realizing how bad she is at nurturing and that hurts her - not just because it won't impress Tenchi, but because nurturing people is something Tenchi is good at, and she loves him because of that. How can she deserve Tenchi's love if she can't care for him the way he cares for her and others?

Which is where Ryoko's selfishness turns from a flaw to a strength. Ryoko will do anything to get what she wants, and if what she wants is the love of a good man, she will do whatever she can to prove worthy of it. If she comes to care for the weird found-family of space alien women said man has accidentally gathered at his home, then dammit, she'll protect them too. Selfishness can become selflessness if you want the right things, and while a manic, unhinged desire to get what you want coupled with unfathomable cosmic power can make you a terrifying villain, it can make you a very endearing hero if what you want is to prove worthy of love.

(Ryoko does manage to get the formula right in the end)

Like, Tenchi Muyo was right - it would fucking rock if Monkey King was a hot lady who loved you. I wonder what other mythic and literary figures would be cool if they were hot ladies who loved you - wait, shit, that's what Fate/Zero is about isn't it.

Anyway, I saw Tenchi Muyo on Toonami when I was, like, twelve or so, which is probably TOO young to watch this series, though to be fair the Toonami version was heavily censored (you had to stay up late to see the less-censored version on Toonami's Midnight Run, and I wouldn't get a personal TV to do stuff like that until a few years later). So, like Hexadecimal, Ryoko ended up being a very formative precocious crush for me, though at least then I was old enough to understand that my fascination was very much romantic. But shit, why shouldn't I have had a crush on Ryoko? She was funny, confident, strong and willing to beat people up for the people she loves, and constantly swept people into wild and wacky adventures. Sure, she was also a selfish, violent, casually destructive wanted criminal, but, well... Hexadecimal already ensured my type is "living collection of romantic Red Flags," so it's not like that was going to stop me.

And to this day I still think Ryoko is one of the best romantic leads in any story ever, with the greatest Meet Cute of all time to boot. Yeah, she's a scumbag, but so are, like, 90% of the male leads in romances. What, we don't deserve a lovable scumbag heroine for once? A lady Han Solo? Fuck you, I love Ryoko Hakubi, we stan. WE STAN, DAMMIT!

[babyrdie]

Ancient Greeks and Romans agreed when it came to describing Atalanta as attractive, yet terrifying. The kind of person you want to get close to, but it takes a lot of courage to do so. And I love that. Their hearts beat fast for Atalanta, both out of fear and desire.

Petrie Papyri (ed. Mahaffy), Pl. III. 3: " . . . of the glorious lord . . . fair Atalanta, swift of foot, the daughter of Schoeneus, who had the beaming eyes of the Graces, though she was ripe for wedlock rejected the company of her equals and sought to avoid marriage with men who eat bread."

Papiri greci e latini, ii. No. 130 (2nd-3rd century) "(ll. 1-7) Then straightway there rose up against him the trim-ankled maiden (Atalanta), peerless in beauty: a great throng stood round about her as she gazed fiercely, and wonder held all men as they looked upon her. As she moved, the breath of the west wind stirred the shining garment about her tender bosom; but Hippomenes stood where he was: and much people was gathered together. All these kept silence; but Schoeneus cried and said: (ll. 8-20) ‘Hear me all, both young and old, while I speak as my spirit within my breast bids me. Hippomenes seeks my coy-eyed daughter to wife; but let him now hear my wholesome speech. He shall not win her without contest; yet, if he be victorious and escape death, and if the deathless gods who dwell on Olympus grant him to win renown, verily he shall return to his dear native land, and I will give him my dear child and strong, swift- footed horses besides which he shall lead home to be cherished possessions; and may he rejoice in heart possessing these, and ever remember with gladness the painful contest. May the father of men and of gods (grant that splendid children may be born to him) ((lacuna)) . . . ’ (ll. 21-27) on the right . . . and he, rushing upon her . . . drawing back slightly towards the left. And on them was laid an unenviable struggle: for she, even fair, swift-footed Atalanta, ran scorning the gifts of golden Aphrodite; but with him the race was for his life, either to find his doom, or to escape it. Therefore with thoughts of guile he said to her: (ll. 28-29) ‘O daughter of Schoeneus, pitiless in heart, receive these glorious gifts of the goddess, golden Aphrodite ((lacuna)) . (ll. 30-36) But he, following lightly on his feet, cast the first apple: and, swiftly as a Harpy, she turned back and snatched it. Then he cast the second to the ground with his hand. And now fair, swift-footed Atalanta had two apples and was near the goal; but Hippomenes cast the third apple to the ground, and therewith escaped death and black fate. And he stood panting and . . . "

Hesiod's Catalogue of Women, frag 14. Translation by H.G. Evelyn-White.

[...] While he regained his feet, the virgin, Atalanta, took her bow and fitting a sharp arrow to the notch, twanged the tight cord. The feathered shaft quivered beneath the monster's ear, the red blood stained his hard bristles. Flushed with her success rejoiced the maid, but not more gladly than the hero Meleager. He it was who first observed the blood, and pointed out the stain to his companions as he cried, “Give honor to the courage of a maid!” Unwilling to be worsted by a maid, the rushing heroes raised a mighty cry and as they shouted in excitement, hurled their weapons in confusion; and so great the multitude their actions interfered.

[...] At length the hero Meleager pressed his conquering foot upon the monster's head and said, “O Atalanta, glorious maid, of Nonacris, to you is yielded spoil, my lawful right, and I rejoice to share the merit of this glorious victory.” And while he spoke, he gave to her the pelt, covered with horrid bristles, and the head frightful with gory tusks: and she rejoiced in Meleager and his royal gift. But all the others, envious, began to murmur; and the sons of Thestius levelled their pointed spears, and shouted out; “Give up the prize! Let not the confidence of your great beauty be a snare to you! A woman should not interfering filch the manly honors of a mighty hunt! Aside! and let your witless lover yield!” So threatened they and took from her the prize; and forcibly despoiled him of his rights. The warlike prince, indignant and enraged,—rowed with resentment, shouted out. “What! Ho! You spoilers of this honor that is ours, brave deeds are different far from craven threats!” And with his cruel sword he pierced the breast of rash Plexippus, taken unawares, and while his brother, Toxeus, struck with fear, stood hesitating whether to avenge or run to safety, Meleager plunged the hot sword, smoking with a brother's blood, in his breast also. And so perished they.

Ovid's Metamorphoses, 8.380-390 and 425-444. Translation by Brookes More.

[...] "Hippomenes had come, a stranger, to the cruel race, with condemnation in his heart against the racing young men for their headstrong love; and said, `Why seek a wife at such a risk?' But when he saw her face, and perfect form disrobed for perfect running, such a form as mine [Aphrodite], Adonis, or as yours—if you were woman—he was so astonished he raised up his hands and said, “Oh pardon me brave men whom I was blaming, I could not then realize the value of the prize you strove for.” And as he is praising her, his own heart leaping with love's fire, he hopes no young man may outstrip her in the race; and, full of envy, fears for the result. `But why,' he cries, `“is my chance in the race untried? Divinity helps those who dare.' But while the hero weighed it in his mind the virgin flew as if her feet had wings. Although she seemed to him in flight as swift as any Scythian arrow, he admired her beauty more; and her swift speed appeared in her most beautiful. The breeze bore back the streamers on her flying ankles, while her hair was tossed back over her white shoulders; the bright trimmed ribbons at her knees were fluttering, and over her white girlish body came a pink flush, just as when a purple awning across a marble hall gives it a wealth of borrowed hues. And while Hippomenes in wonder gazed at her, the goal was reached; and Atalanta crowned victorious with festal wreath.—But all the vanquished youths paid the death-penalty with sighs and groans, according to the stipulated bond.

[...] "While he was speaking, Atalanta's gaze grew softer, in her vacillating hopes to conquer and be conquered; till at last, her heart, unbalanced, argued in this way: `“It must be some god envious of youth, wishing to spoil this one prompts him to seek wedlock with me and risk his own dear life. I am not worth the price, if I may judge. His beauty does not touch me—but I could be moved by it—I must consider he is but a boy. It is not he himself who moves me, but his youth. Sufficient cause for thought are his great courage and his soul fearless of death. What of his high descent;—great grandson of the King of all the seas? What of his love for me that has such great importance, he would perish if his fate denied my marriage to him? O strange boy, go from me while you can; abandon hope of this alliance stained with blood—A match with me is fatal. Other maids will not refuse to wed you, and a wiser girl will gladly seek your love.—But what concern is it of mine, when I but think of those who have already perished! Let him look to it himself; and let him die. Since he is not warned by his knowledge of the fate of many other suitors, he declares quite plainly, he is weary of his life.—Shall he then die, because it must be his one hope to live with me? And suffer death though undeserved, for me because he loves? My victory will not ward off the hate, the odium of the deed! But it is not a fault of mine.—Oh fond, fond man, I would that you had never seen me! But you are so madly set upon it, I could wish you may prove much the swifter! Oh how dear how lovable is his young girlish face! -- ah, doomed Hippomenes, I only wish mischance had never let you see me! You are truly worthy of a life on earth. If I had been more fortunate, and not denied a happy marriage day; I would not share my bed with any man but you.' All this the virgin Atalanta said; and knowing nothing of the power of love, she is so ignorant of what she does, she loves and does not know she is in love.

Ovid's Metamorphoses, 10.575-600 and 609-637. Translation by Brookes More.

[...] Likewise there were many laurels, which being ever verdant were very delightful to the sight; vines also growing thick and full of Bunches before the cave, attested the industry of Atalanta, springs ever running clear and cool to the touch and taste flowed there abundantly. These contributed much benefit to the trees we speak of, watering them and enlivening them continually. In fine, the place was full of beauty and majesty, such as argued the prudence of the virgin.

The skins of beasts were Atalanta's bed, their flesh her food, her drink water. She wore a careless vest, such as Artemis not disdained. For she said that she imitated her as well in this as in determining to live always a virgin. She was exceeding swift of foot, so that not any beast could run away from her, nor any man that layed wait for her, was able (if she would run away) to overtake her. She was beloved, not only of all those who saw her, but also of those who heard the report of her. If therefore it be not tedious we will describe her person. But tedious it cannot be, since hereby we may arrive at some degree of skill in Rhetorick. Whilest she was yet a child, she exceeded in stature those who were women grown; for Beauty she went beyond all other of the Peloponnesian virgins of that time. Her look was masculine and fierce, occasioned partly by eating the flesh of wild beasts, (for she was very couragious) partly by her exercise on the Mountains. She had nothing of an effeminate loose disposition, neither did she come out of the Thalamus [where virgins are educated] nor was one of those who are brought up by mothers or nurses. She was not corpulent; for by hunting and other exercise she preserved herself in a good Constitution. Her hair was yellow, not by any womanish art or dye, but by nature. Her face was of a ruddy Complexion, somewhat tanned by the Sun. What flower is so beautiful as the countenance of a modest virgin? She had two admirable properties, an irresistible Beauty, and an awfulness. No timid person could fall in love with her, for such durst not look upon her, so much did her splendour dazle the beholders. That which caused her to be admired, besides other things, was her reservedness. For she exposed not her self to view, unless accidentally in following the chase, or defending herself from some man; in which action she broke forth like lightning, then immediately hid herself in the thickest of the wood. [...]

Aelian' Varia Historia, 13.1. Translation by Thomas Stanley.

Lycurgus had sons, Ancaeus, Epochus, Amphidamas, and Iasus, by Cleophyle or Eurynome. And Amphidamas had a son Melanion and a daughter Antimache, whom Eurystheus married. And Iasus had a daughter Atalanta by Clymene, daughter of Minyas. This Atalanta was exposed by her father, because he desired male children; and a she bear came often and gave her suck, till hunters found her and brought her up among themselves. Grown to womanhood, Atalanta kept herself a virgin, and hunting in the wilderness she remained always under arms. The centaurs Rhoecus and Hylaeus tried to force her, but were shot down and killed by her. She went moreover with the chiefs to hunt the Calydonian Boar, and at the games held in honor of Pelias she wrestled with Peleus and won. Afterwards she discovered her parents, but when her father would have persuaded her to wed, she went away to a place that might serve as a racecourse, and, having planted a stake three cubits high in the middle of it, she caused her wooers to race before her from there, and ran herself in arms; and if the wooer was caught up, his due was death on the spot, and if he was not caught up, his due was marriage. When many had already perished, Melanion came to run for love of her, bringing golden apples from Aphrodite, and being pursued he threw them down, and she, picking up the dropped fruit, was beaten in the race. So Melanion married her. And once on a time it is said that out hunting they entered into the precinct of Zeus, and there taking their fill of love were changed into lions. But Hesiod and some others have said that Atalanta was not a daughter of Iasus, but of Schoeneus; and Euripides says that she was a daughter of Maenalus, and that her husband was not Melanion but Hippomenes. And by Melanion, or Ares, Atalanta had a son Parthenopaeus, who went to the war against Thebes.

Pseudo-Apollodorus' Library, 3.9.2. Translation by J.G. Frazer.

Among the Greeks there have been two people names Atalanta The first was an Arcadian woman and a hunter, the mother of Parthenopeus. The other was a wrestler and among the fastest runners. Who raced against Peleas in wrestling, After she beats everyone in the speed of her running She loses to Melanion, who threw golden apples, And she, while trying to gather them all, was defeated thusly. The fact made her fall madly in love with her As it happened with Hero and Leander, as Musaeus wrote, And she lost to Hippomedon, which Musaeus says not. As Theocritus writes exactly, So now listen word by word what Theocritus says: "Hippomenes when he was certain he wanted to marry this maiden Taking apples into his hands, he won in running. Atalanta as soon as she saw this, she was enraged, and she fell deeply in love.

Ioannis Tzetzes' Chiliades, 12.56. Translation by Nikolaos Giallousis.

And the way Parthenopaeus is described in the Thebaid is curiously similar to the way his mother, Atalanta, is often described in other sources. While his physical prowess is emphasized as something glorious, so is his beauty. They both have the fact that they're skilled as part of their beauty, and yet they both despise it to some degree. In part, they attract attention because they seem like a challenge. Statius really said "the son is like the mother" in this description.

Then he incites those heroes who are speediest of foot to strive for ample rewards: a contest of agility where prowess is frailest, fit pursuit for peace, when sacred games invite, nor useless in war as a refuge should power of arm fail. Before all the rest Idas leaps to the front, whose temples were lately shaded by Olympian wreaths; the youth of Pisa and the bands of Elis hail him with applause. Alcon of Sicyon follows, and Phaedimus, twice acclaimed the victor of the sands of Isthmus, and Dymas, who once outstripped the flight of wing-footed steeds, but now they outran him by reason of retarding age. Many too, whom the ignorant multitude received in silence, came forward from this side and from that. But for Parthenopaeus the Arcadian they call aloud, and arouse murmurs that roam throughout the close-packed circus. Well know is his parent for speed of foot; who cannot tell of the peerless renown of Atalanta, and of those footprints that no suitor could o'ertake? The son bears all his mother's glory, and he himself, already known to fame, is said to catch on foot the defenceless hinds in the open glades of Mount Lykaion, and, as he runs, to o'ertake the flung javelin. Long expected, at last darts he forward, leaping lightly o'er the companies, and unfastens the twisted golden clasp of his cloak. His limbs shine forth, and all his graceful frame is revealed, his fine shoulders, and breast as smooth and comely ahs his cheeks, and his face was lost in his body's beauty. But he scorns the praise of his fairness, and suffers not admirers to come near him. Then he cunningly sets to work with the draughts of Pallas, and makes his skin tawny with rich oil. Thus do Idas and Dymas and the rest shine sleek and glossy. So when the starlight glitters on a tranquil sea, and the spangled heaven is mirrored tremulous in the deep, brilliant is every star, but more brilliant than the rest does Hesperus shoot his beams, and brightly as he flames in the high heavens, so bright is his reflection in the dark-blue waves. Idas is next in beauty, nor much slower in speed, next older too in years; but for him already has the palaestra's oil brought on the tender growth, and the down is creeping o'er his cheeks, nor yet confesses itself among the cloud of unshorn locks. Then they duly try their speed and sharpen up their paces, and by various arts and feigned excitement stir their languid limbs; now they sink down with bended knees, now smite with loud claps their slippery breasts, now ply their fiery feet in short sprint and sudden stop.

Statius' Thebaid, 6.550-592. Translation by J.H. Mozley.

[wolverineholic]

by Guile Sharp

[shini--chan]

In your opinion, would germany and prussia be very different as yanderes? Because while i think both would be strict and maybe even cruel, i find that germany is more likely to be more naive? On that note... prussia character sheet? 🙏🙏

Oh yes. In any time periode, Germany is simply far more awkward and naive than Prussia. In the beginning he is a lanky, rebellious kid who has a close and complicated relationship with his older brother. He is alike him in all the ways Prussia loves and loathes. But there is also the Bavarian and Austrian influence that makes Gilbert want to put his head through a wall. He is far more lax and openminded and cheeky than Gilbert - spitting on Prussian censorship, fliriting with socialism and Feuerbachian ideology and playing football no matter how much Gilbert scolds him for engaging in "the english sickness". He'd engage in the worst attrocities because he'd be steeped in his own self-rightousness and then drowns in guilt when he is beaten back and his eyes are opened.

Ludwig came from student fraternities and the overthrow of an old order by youngsters that wanted more than the word offered them. Meanwhile Gilbert arose from a knightly order that was smashed because it became too powerful, that became a duchy and then a kingdom and then a military power to be reckoned with. It shows in both their characters and how they would be as yanderes.

Gilbert would be calmer, more patient and more controlling. He is more comfortable with a sword in hand and a field cot to sleep in and hates modern life. He is just bursting with energy nowadays that has become directionless because there are no more heroes and no more pioneers. He is an old general that can never rest, that is sharp and dangerous. Sharp and dangerous things are not suited for modern times and that is his problem.

Meanwhile Ludwig has more passion and is far more likely to crash and burn and then repent with interest. He is an idealist with no charisma, a romantic that dreams of knights and glory and would inpale himself on his enemy's sword if he were to land a hit. Yet he would never let go of his modern life because it is safe and clean and thinking about his own past scares him. Less resiliant, especially next to his elders, and still all the more blood thirsty.

Seems like I have been rambling. I'll have to do a relationship/character study of them on my non-yandere account.

In short:

Prussia: controlling, patient, and realistic. Restless with his excess energy and less likely to indulge in comforts with how he knows (he has experienced firsthand) how it corrupts the character. When bad times come, he'd roll his eyes and roll up his sleeves. Self-aware and prepared to be harsh if you call him out on it.

Germany: idealistic and passionate with no guile or innate charm or charisma. Doesn't think things completely through and still stubborn to boot. Moralising and very likely to fall to delusion. Would scapegoat and belittle and rationalise if you'd point out his misdemeanors.

Yandere Character Sheet I - 1p Prussia 

Trigger warnings: physical, emotional and verbal abuse, torture methods, mind break, murder, inprisonmemt, abuse of power and authority, non-con roleplay, live target practise and human experimentation

Attributes - What sort of Yandere is he/she?

Above all else, Gilbert would be hard. Despite all his years, he had never been good at comforting people, nor did he even deem it necessary most of the time. He tends to view other people as overly soft and chances are high that he would view you in the same light. To him, you would be iron that he would have to hammer so that it hardens, so don't expect him to go easy on you. In fact, he would see it as his job to toughen you up. To him, it wouldn't change if you love him or not, you would still be restricted to two meals a day, cold showers and waking up at the crack of dawn everyday. A day spent idly is a day wasted, in Gilbert Beilschmidt's mind. Also, he would be the sort of person that could take a lot of punishment, so don't expect to be able to beat him down or chastise him into submission. 

Your captor would also be of the energetic sort. Not in the sugar shock way that Alfred would be at times, rather in the restless manner that a tiger pacing its cage is. Constantly there would be work or a project or a strenuous hobby to engage in. Having to tag along with his activities would be a blessing and a curse packed in one. On one hand, it would mean that he would see you as competent enough to not accidentally ruin his work, on the other hand it would mean that he would hold even higher expectations of you. Besides that, he would expect you to work for him, willingly or unwillingly. Gilbert would be constantly searching for ways to bind you more strongly to him and make you spend more time with him. Seeing that his ideal lifestyle would result in only using his living quarters for resting, nourishment and washing, he would want to style your relationship with him so that you’re not some stay-at-home housewife. Oh no, he would very much want to drag you along for the ride. Should you need to be properly tamed, then he would spend more time at home with you. And become bored very fast. Mark my words when I say that a bored Gilbert Beilschmidt is the last thing you would want. 

Additionally, he would be persistent and unlikely to allow himself to be swayed by petty emotions. At first, this would be ironic considering that he would be yandere for you. Upon further inspection however, you might find out he “landed” himself in his obsession with you through a complex series of emotional acrobatics and mental gymnastics. Gilbert could be considered a genius at rationalising his emotional impulses and more unsavoury behaviour. To get back on track - he would be able to resist emotions that suddenly pop up, like boredom and anger and happiness. So don’t expect him to let you free just because of momentary boredom. Bigger emotions would first have to enter the rationalisation stage before he would act on them. And he wouldn’t tire of you easily, or be quick to be put off by any disgusting behaviour on your side. He would view you as work in progress and remind himself that growth isn’t always linear. There would be setbacks that he would have to work through with you and the like. Yet he would still be relentless, because never should you believe that you should be able to outlast or outwait him. 

Gilbert is also the sort that plans ahead. He would have the road to his desired destination mapped out and would consistently follow it. Chasing after vague morals wouldn't be his style, and even with courting you, he would treat his conquest of you in a military manner. Should matters not proceed as he would've foreseen, then he would simply adjust his tactics. He would have contingencies in mind and the power to execute them. If you throw something in his way, then he would have the wits to improvise on the spot. Should he speak of “the foreseeable future”, keep in mind that he is at least speaking of the next five years. 

On top of all that, he would be strict and unyielding. A man that compromises on his morals is a man that has already surrendered to the devil, in his point of view. As such, he wouldn't allow for any exceptions to the rules. No amount of pleading or begging or puppy eyes would prevent you from being punished if you cross the line. Also, you wouldn't be excused from leading a similarly spartan lifestyle. Should you come from money, then he would label you as a brat in need of humbling and be even harsher towards you. Being sugar-addled and spoiled would just mean that you would be in need of a reckoning, in his eyes. Also, too much comfort would ruin a person’s character, according to him (cough* Austria, cough*), so to save you from hell, damnation and all that jazz, he would have to unpack the drill sergeant for you. Mind you, there would be little that would hold him back from bullying you. Despite how many poems he would dedicate to you, how many horses and ships he would name after you and all his declaration of love, it would be easy to think that he’d hate you, with how he would treat you. In many ways, you would be childlike to him, and just like a child, you would be so prone to negative behaviours on the basis of them being “pleasurable”. He would be the one to guide you back on the right track. 

Something you'd also have to account for would be his controlling tendencies. While he would be very aware that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, it wouldn't prevent him from trying to have as much control over any situation as possible. You would be no exception here. Not that he would become anxious if he wouldn't be in control - it is more about ideal and prefered states. If he can't have full power, then he would settle with having the initiative.

Cornering - How would they get you?

Maybe the two of you would come into contact via other people. That could be through work, or club activities or through a shared friend group. Either way, the two of you would be obligated to interact with each other, regardless of your feelings with him. The mandated interaction with one another would give him the perfect excuse to grow closer to you, to even be mean at times, without him having to worry about you disappearing into thin air. You could bet your life on that he would make some off-colour remarks and do one or the other peculiar deed just to see how far he could push you. 

Such a dynamic would also allow him to reveal some of his true colours without you immediately running away. Besides, he would have people around to calm you and vouch for him. After all, at the end of the day, he is a credible, reliable and effective member of the group. People would much prefer to turn a blind eye than to lose him. If he would've a higher role in this little social circle, then he would be sure to use it to his advantage. Perhaps he'd be your trainer in a martial art, and use sparring as an excuse to throw you around. If he'd be harsher than usual, then it'd be due to him using the opportunity to punish you. Or he could be your superior, he would heap work load after work load on you, having to do the best and the worst tasks your occupation lets you. 

Depending on the circumstances, he might rope you into a mentor/mentee relationship with him. It would give him an excuse to grow all the closer with you, without people raising eyebrows due to how he'd enthral you to him. Such a foundation would also make you less suspicious when he'd reel you in. By the time you'd realise the true nature of this relationship, you'd already be in too deep and he would've already slammed the door shut. 

Exploring other ways he could entrap you - a more apparent display of his intentions comes to mind. Perhaps you are a civilian in an area under martial law, and he a captain of a battalion. Or you are a subversive social element, and he the agent tasked with shadowing and subduing you. Of course, you could be a hostage, a political prisoner or a genius that is kept in a gilded cage and he your warden. While there might be the professional barrier, he wouldn't be forced to be cordial with you. He could drag you by the hair where he'd want you to be, he could beat you into submission without any higher ups questioning his actions. Love isn't permitted in this dynamic, yet what he'd feel for you isn't love, strictly speaking. It would be much more twisted, much more violent and in a situation where the scales are tilted in his favour from the get-go, it would be more socially acceptable than sweet romance. The irony wouldn't escape him, and he'd muse about it while the two of you would do your morning exercises.

Expectations - What do they expect of you?

Gilbert would be rather unconventional here, owing to the fact that he'd be an unconventional man himself. At the top of his list of expectations would be honesty. This is not to be mistaken for always telling the truth - a person can tell nothing but the truth and be utterly devious and cunning. What this Beilschmidt would demand, would be honesty - no white lies or fibs or things that are true from a certain point of view. Even saying things that are true but don't pertain to the situation/question would be enough to set him off. Additionally, he wouldn’t take it well at all if you’d lie through permanent omision. Sure, he could be considerate and understand that you might need time and the view of a third party before you confront him, though you’d have to confront him eventually. If you’d keep your silence, if you’d complain about him behind his back, yet only smile sweetly when you’re with him, then he’d go berserk. You’d be allowed to kiss your freedom goodbye and enjoy a few weeks in a cellar, an attic or a cupboard. All in all, he would prefer that you’d be frank with your distaste of him instead of pretending to be enamoured with him. A German saying comes to mind: Wer einmal lügt, dem glaubt man nicht, auch wenn er die Wahrheit spricht. (You don’t believe a person who lies even once, even when he speaks the truth.)

Have some self-respect. Generally, that should be a fundamental requirement when having to interact with one Gilbert Beilschmidt because if you can’t stand your ground then he would simply steamroll over you. He’s the sort of man that would trigger people for fun. When it comes to you, this would apply in interesting ways. Gilbert would be very willing to play the part of drill sergeant and etiquette teacher if you aren’t already there yet. Just remember that you would save yourself a lot of trouble if you keep a good posture at all times, rarely whine or get drunk. Watch out, he would be very unforgiving in his crusade to teach you to be a better person. 

Next to that, you should have some resilience. Gilbert would hate people that break easily. In total, he would also loath sheltered people and hedonists, people who would recklessly chase after pleasure and comfort would disgust him. His idea of a nice date would be a camping trip at subzero temperatures and a fun evening would include some sparring (or a game of Monopoly). Should you be weak, then he would build you up and then call you his masterpiece. You'd continuously be reminded that you owe him, and he would want his debt repaid with interest. 

That being said, he wouldn't mind it if you're a bit rough around the edges. Some of your less vibrant traits might even be what would endear you to him in the first place. You're allowed to be rude, jaded, aggressive and much more and he would still be obsessed with you. Word of warning though - you should be prepared for him to meet you blow by blow. Beilschmidt would be confrontational by nature and wouldn't take anything lying down if he can help it. 

Tying a bit into the aforementioned traits would be a longing for competence. Yes, Gilbert would have a competence kink. If you excel in something, especially something useful and relevant, then he would be down hard. It would also ensure that he'd be softer to you. This would be a side effect of him being proud of you, and it would also cause him to be more likely to be indulgent towards you. Use the opportunity to make matters easier for you, be careful though - he would loath being used. Of course, you could gain more by giving him something in return. Your undying love, perhaps?

Faded - Would they let go of you in any way?

If you’d break, then he would throw you away. What should he do with the shell of the person he “loved”, if not dispose of them? Maybe he would play in the shards of who you once were for a bit, yet that would eventually lose its lustre. Maybe he would try to build you up again, his very own personal project. If it wouldn’t work, then he would kick you out. 

Aside from that, he could be coerced into giving you up in some form of “terms of surrender”. While he can be vile, he would abide by his word. Of course, he wouldn’t be happy with this and do everything in his power to get you back without violating the treaty. Also, this wouldn't prevent him from keeping tabs on you or even stalking you. You'd be absent, yet his obsession would persist. 

On a lighter and slightly crackish note - if you expose him to enough surreal art and actually manage to get him to engage with it, then he might enter a catatonic state and you'd be able to escape. He'd let you be until he'd have everything figured out again. This would be especially ironic since messing with other people's perception of reality would be one of his favourite forms of torture. Here you'd have a guy that would still be stuck in the Classical era - things would have to make sense for him.

Punishment - How would they proceed if you do something they disapprove of?

Oh boy, buckle up for you'd be in for a rodeo. 

If you're being particularly disagreeable, then he would provoke you into fighting him and proceed to wipe the floor with you. He'd throw you against the wall if you wouldn't be quick on your feet. Fighting dirty wouldn't be off limits for him, especially if you'd be very naughty. Sand in your eyes, hits to the throat and groin and ears. If you'd be present enough to remind him of a knight's gentlemanly code, then he might turn the violence down a few notches. A big emphasis on might, though. If it ain't combat, then he just might lay you over his knee and spank you with the flat side of his longsword. 

Another favourite of his would be hanging you by your feet from the rafters or a tree. He would say that you'd need a new perspective of matters, and that you'd then surely see the errors of your ways and the truth to his words and actions. Fainting wouldn't shorten your punishment - he'd just take you down until you wake up again and then put you back up. If anybody would ask, he'd make jokes about hanging you up to dry. 

Speaking of tying you up - another form of chastisement that he would use would be immobilisation. It could be through ropes or chains, or even the good old pillory. Gilbert would keep you there far longer than necessary, just to teach you a lesson. At times he would have you immobilised for durations that would be detrimental to your health. While he would treat you afterwards, he would be very mean while tending to you. On particularly bad days, he'd even go as far as to strap you down to a table to the extent that you'd only be able to move your eyes. If there's a way to induce sleep paralysis in another human being, then Gilbert would find out and inflict it on you. 

He wouldn't be more adverse to showing his more creative side if you'd force his hand. You could be his puppy for the evening, complete with a lead and a muzzle. For the rest of the day he'd force you to go on all fours and you wouldn't be allowed to use your hands (or feet) to eat. Act up, and he will take you to the vet. Or he could be the doctor and you his patient. Vaccinations would have to be updated, your blood analysed and he would be touching you everywhere to make sure everything is working as it should. Humiliation and practicality would go hand-in-hand here; it would also be completely hilarious to him. 

Or he would play the part of teacher and make you write lines on a board. He'd watch you the whole time, and you wouldn't get a break until you'd be finished. For more minor misdemeanours he'd slap you or yell at you for a bit. If he'd be particularly petty, then he'd allow you to sleep on the floor.

Reaction - How would they react to you escaping?

First course of action would be to sit down and put his head in his hands. Don’t panic, because panic causes people to make mistakes. Pen and paper would be whipped out, be it with high quality paper in his office or with a notebook while standing in public transport. His first instinct would be to order his chaotic thoughts by putting them to paper. He would consider what you could have done, where you could have done and which third parties would be involved in this debacle. Depending on the situation, you could be a victim of his wrath or not. If this whole escape happened in the form of a kidnapping, then he would be more lenient with you. During your rescue, he would also be far more desperate, and he would use the whole fiasco as an excuse to be even more controlling of you. 

As for actual escapes - you would be hunted down. The aim of the game would be to capture,consolidate and return you home. The whole operation would be executed with military ruthlessness, and perhaps there would even be a few deaths. If there would be something that can push Gilbert’s buttons, it would be you rebelling against his ordained order. Depending on whether or not you were pretending to love him, your punishment for escaping would vary. Putting up an act would result in you being banished to solitary confinement for weeks, while a petty escape would just result in a few corporal punishments. 

More time between your escape and him finding you again wouldn’t mellow him out. Indeed, he would become more irate, and frantic. Perhaps he would even go as far as to brand you when he would capture you if you haven’t been by his side for a few years. One of few hopes you could have at softening the blow would be to amuse him during your capture, perhaps even make him laugh. 

Should you escape him before the “loving relationship” could be properly established, then he would be even more obsessed and insane. With you removing yourself from the picture, precious few of his desires would have been fulfilled and he would be all the more starved for you and your affection. A thirsty man in the desert chasing after fata morganas would have nothing on him. You would pay an even higher price for tempting him so cruelly and still refusing to sate him. 

Turnabout - Scenario: You have the upper hand? What would be different from their usual MO?

Surprisingly, not much. Having more power than him wouldn’t amount much. Sure, it might make obtaining you trickier, though what does power matter if it isn’t used, or the circumstances dictate that you can’t use it. Besides, the quickest way to turn the tables would be to kidnap you and lay you in chains. While a king that is imprisoned in a dungeon is still a king, he doesn’t have any of his kingly power in such a situation. The same would apply to you. 

However, let’s assume that Gilbert can’t kidnap you for any reason, or that you legitimately have the circumstances firmly under your control. Being more powerful than him wouldn’t mean that he would be powerless. Perhaps he would enlist the help of another person - this would be one of the rare cases where he would be ready to share you for a while. Two can achieve more than one. Other than that, he would be no stranger to deception. Oh no, he wouldn’t lie, he would just play tricks and divert your attention and use subterfuge. Having power of your own wouldn’t mean that you would be immune to his, or have a countermeasure for every blow that he would deliver. 

Vengeance - What would they do in the face of competition?

Drench himself in their blood. Having been a templar and a knight and a pirate and so much more, Beilschmidt would be no stranger to killing. Any inhibitions that a person could have in regards to that would have long been dismantled. Asides, he would always feel most at ease with a gun or a sword in his hand, so he would delight in the opportunity to put his weapons to good use. On top of that - a lot of people just have big mouths and a lot of swagger. When faced with real competition those types would be quick to fold, and it would bring him great joy to be the one that would crush their spirits. Gilbert wouldn’t shy away from being messy about it - instead of law enforcement never finding the body, they would never stop finding the body. He can be petty like that. 

Next to that, he might even kidnap the one or the other obstacle and torture them. Or use them for live target practice. It could even be both on the same person - he would be horrible and bloodthirsty enough to do that. Of course, he could also use them for social experiments or practise brainwashing techniques on them. Here, he also would care much if the person is more powerful than him: Being a king or a priest or a president wouldn’t change that there would be red blood in their veins and that a knife could slit their throat just a well as by anybody else. Perhaps if the repercussions would be severe enough, then he wouldn’t, though there would be ways around that as well - the chaos of battle, challenges to a duel, or accidents. He would even be willing to side with his sworn enemies in order to get rid of such pests 

[loveundrwrld]

oneshot, trying something new. gender neutral reader x male yandere

cws: kidnapping, implied stalking, general yandere creepiness

you get into a relationship with a man you met on a blind date, but you begin to regret not breaking the relationship off sooner . . .

you take a deep breath, and take another sip of your wine. it had to be today. you had your mind set on it. you were on a date with him and you were going to finally bring it up.

today, you were definitely going to break up with your boyfriend.

you had felt bad over wanting to do so. after all, you had liked him so much in the beginning.

the relationship had started out so well.

you two had met on a blind date your coworker had set up. she had a friend, jack, who was looking for a partner and she knew that you were single. to her, the solution was obvious.

you had your reservations, not wanting to get into a relationship too soon after your last one. but eventually, she successfully cajoled you into it, reassuring you that he was nothing like your ex. and it’s only one date, after all. what’s the harm in that?

the first date went surprisingly well. he was a good listener. he had a lot of hobbies in common with you, liked a lot of the same movies, and seemed very into you.

he was flustered, nervously stuttering his words and blushing. you were flattered by how much you affected him.

he was cute, too. tall and long, with soft shaggy hair and big brown eyes. he just had a sweet look to him. it was like he was a big dog- cute, but in an approachable way.

it was all enough to charm you into asking for a second date. and then a third, then a forth.

as the dates went by, you slowly went from feeling charmed to feeling wearied of him. he was sweet, but sickly sweet, like a candy that left a bad taste in your mouth.

he gave you lots of compliments and affection. excessively so. he was always early to dates, no matter how early you tried to get there. he began calling and texting you, all the time, even while you were asleep. he was constantly giving you gifts as a surprise, too.

it was all too much for you. you kept being too cowardly and backed out of it ending things every time you met, but this time you resolved yourself that you would do it for sure.

and then, to your surprise, during your date, he starts to get down on one knee. he brings out a box from his back pocket, and you grimace, knowing now for certain that you have waited too long.

you stand up as a reflex. "jack, don't-" you hiss slightly, nervous.

his wide smile quickly falls.

"what do you mean, don't?"

you suck in a deep breath, and look around you. everyone is looking at the two of you.

"i mean, i'm very flattered, but isn't this relationship moving… a little fast?" you say, keeping your voice quiet. "it's only been a few months and you're proposing."

despite your best efforts not to make it a scene, you can still hear people muttering in hushed tones.

"but i know that you're the one for me," he says in a wobbling voice. "why wait any longer?"

"because! i don't think that you are the one for me."

his face immediately drops, his eyes beginning to shine with tears. still on the floor and looking up at you, he looks rather like a kicked puppy. you instantly regret your sharp tone.

you feel the pressure of everyone's eyes on you. all the guests around you now are giving you dirty looks.

"i'm sorry," you say, in a quiet voice. "i didn't mean to say it like that. but, it's the truth. i can't do this any longer. it's just all moving so fast for me. you should have someone who can move at your pace, but that’s not me.”

"…that's ok." he looks at you with a pleading expression. "if you don't want to get married yet, we can try to take it slow."

"no… actually i think that it's best we end it now. let's just break up."

he keeps looking at you with tears running down his face, silently begging you to change your mind. you smiled at him, tensely, as an apology. he starts to sob a little, and you feel awkward and guilty, aware of how everyone around you is silently judging you.

you turn around to leave, but you feel a hand tugging on your shirt sleeve.

"wait. at least let me drive you back. you've had too much wine today for me to let you drive."

you nod, looking down. you let him lead you into the passenger seat of his car, waiting for him while he pays.

you look around, idly. it was the first time you had been in his car, as he always insisted he’d rather be driven by you anywhere than the other way around. it was a lot less clean than you expected.

there is a mess on the dashboard, tons of paper and receipts. you see that it’s credit card statements after glancing briefly. you see a lot of zeroes and you avert your eyes, feeling some guilt over the questions that pop into your mind.

might have something to do with the ring, too, you think with a sinking feeling in your stomach

he comes back, and you avoid his eyes, looking out the window to the parking lot as he climbs in the driver's side.

"…i'm sorry," you say again, softly.

"but you won't change your mind?"

you shake your head.

you feel his arm tugging you into a half hug, and gives you a small smile. you look up at him, confused. his grip on your arm tightens.

he quickly pulls out a rag, pushing it over your mouth.

you weakly try to scream, muffled by the rag. you quickly start to feel tired, the chemical scent lulling you into darkness.

"shhh… it's ok. just close your eyes."

he holds down the rag firmly, holding you to him with his other arm. when your squirming slows down fully, he leans you down into the car seat.

he was just thankful you hadn't looked closer at the papers on the dashboard before he got in.

after all, those had his real name on them.

[professional-spectator]

Hey there, it's IDK! I usually stick to writing in the third person, but I thought I'd try something a little different this time. If you want to imagine yourself as the reader, go right ahead! Though, fair warning, I've never been the best at those kinds of stories, haha.

I'm a huge Cyno fan and proudly main him in the game, so of course, he's going to be a part of this story!

Okay, here's the little disclaimer and a heads-up: I don't own Hoyoverse, Genshin Impact, or anything related to them.

And a big thank you to @arn9tails for letting me use their Genshin size difference AU as the basis for this fanfic. The idea that Teyvat isn't scaled to Earth but is actually much, much larger really fascinated me—it's a pretty scary thought, isn't it? I also really liked the idea that people from Earth aren't resistant to it, which is what sparked this whole thing.

Also, just a quick heads-up: this story touches on some serious and sensitive subjects. It's inspired by SAGAU (Self-Aware Genshin Impact Alternative Universe), isekai themes, different isekai worlds, creation myths, and fanfiction in general.

Alright, let's dive into chapter 4 and see what adventures await our dear Oc! Sadly our last chapter....

Chapter 4 - The Marketplace

I watched, anticipation bubbling in my chest, as Cyno prepared his disguise. When he finally emerged, the transformation was uncanny. He could have passed for a seasoned Eremite. A flicker of admiration sparked within me if I were a different situation, I might have been swooning.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my arms crossed, a knot of worry tightening in my stomach. Lottie and Jamie… where were they? Had they been brought to? Were they, like me, simply trying to survive? I had a sinking feeling I would find out soon enough.

Cyno's voice, grave and unwavering, cut through my thoughts. "You're not going to like this, Mao…"

"With words like that… you're right," I muttered, my gaze fixed on his. He held out something that made my blood run cold a collar, complete with a jingling bell.

"No," I said, the word a sharp, instinctive rejection.

"It's necessary for this investigation, Mao… We're going somewhere where you might need to… act like a pet, or an animal…" Cyno's bluntness stung. "I need to scope this place out. I need your assistance, and your cooperation, Mao."

"No! This whole week, these days, these hours… I don't even know how long it's been… it's all been so degrading!" I shouted, my voice echoing slightly in the space between us. Being so small, so powerless, only amplified my frustration.

"I will not wear a collar!" I hissed, stubbornly crossing my arms.

But, despite my defiance, I knew I was fighting a losing battle. Cyno's expression was so earnest, so utterly devoid of guile, that a wave of reluctant pity washed over me. How could I refuse him when he looked so… lost?

"Okay, fine…" I snatched the collar from his hand, my fingers curling around the cold leather. "I hate this. I hate this and everything it stands for."

The journey back was mostly spent safely in Cyno's pocket. I could sense when he paused, engaging in hushed conversations, presumably using the password gleaned from the scholar. Then, he carefully extracted me, settling me on his shoulder before descending a narrow, winding staircase.

"Where are we?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"Under the Grand Bazaar..." he replied, a hint of uncertainty coloring his tone. It was a new place to him as well; an area not present in the game.

Nothing could have prepared us for the sight that unfolded before our eyes. It was reminiscent of the Grand Bazaar above, yet bathed in a dim, muted light, casting long, eerie shadows.

Here, a clandestine market thrived, filled with vendors peddling contraband. Goods from faraway lands were on display: saurians from Natlan, Bake-danuki from Inazuma. But it was the sight of miniature humans, earthlings like myself, trapped in cages that truly chilled me. They resembled those I had seen in the crate, their eyes vacant and strangely serene, a state that hinted at something deeply amiss. Was this the "nonverbal" state Cyno had alluded to earlier?

One whimpered softly, like a lost dog, while another pathetically begged for treats. A wave of nausea washed over me. Why were they behaving this way? I remained silent, but I'm sure the horror and disgust I felt were plain on my face.

Balanced precariously on Cyno's shoulders, I murmured, "What's wrong with them?" My question was a fragile whisper, barely audible. Cyno maintained his unwavering pace, a silent protector guiding us through the dangerous terrain. He walked for what seemed like an age, carefully considering his response, ensuring his words wouldn't attract unwanted attention.

At last, he spoke, his tone somber and low. "That's simply their nature now. It's why many scholars consider them indistinguishable from animals. But you... you're different. I refuse to accept that you're abnormal. Something occurred to your people upon their arrival here... it robbed them of their humanity, reducing them to the level of a cat or dog..."

The injustice of his statement threatened to explode within me, a furious eruption of denial. However, I suppressed the scream that fought to escape my throat, forcing myself to remain quiet. We continued deeper into the heart of the chaos, and with each step, the scene became more disturbing. We came across what appeared to be a food court, a frenzied center of brightly lit stalls and deafening noise. Earthlings were dancing wildly, their movements erratic and unnatural. It was a horrifying sight, reminiscent of that unsettling scene from Disney's Pinocchio, where he dances on stage, a puppet manipulated by unseen forces. Then, I spotted her. Lottie—no, Jamie with her.

Her eyes were blank, lacking the intelligence and individuality I knew so well. She was wearing a gaudy outfit resembling a ballet costume, a grotesque parody of grace and artistry.

"Oh my God..." I gasped, my hand instinctively covering my mouth to stifle the rising wave of horror. The sound, however faint, was enough to attract attention. A head turned in my direction, its eyes glazed and vacant. Cyno, ever watchful, remained concealed in the shadows, a silent guardian in a world consumed by madness.

"Sorry... that's my friend Lottie..." I managed to stammer, the words laden with sorrow and disbelief.

Cyno's reply was a simple, "I see." From my perch atop his broad shoulder, I risked a glance around, the swirling chaos of the desert encampment a dizzying sight.

"I need to speak with her..." The words tumbled out, laced with a desperate urgency. "She'll recognize me, won't she? We've been best friends since high school..." The last part trailed off, a silent acknowledgment that the concept of "high school" would be utterly foreign to him.

Hope, fragile yet persistent, fluttered within me. "I'm sure if she sees me, she'll return to normal..."

"Please, let me try..." I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper. Cyno sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken reservations.

"I will try to get you close enough," he conceded, his voice a low rumble. A surge of determination coursed through me. "I'm coming, Lottie," I vowed silently, the promise echoing in the chambers of my heart.

Lottie is, and always will be, my best friend. Our story began during our freshman year of high school. There was no grand introduction, no orchestrated meeting. I was just a somewhat intelligent, mostly geeky kid, and Lottie, with her beautiful hair, was, unfortunately, also on the geeky side. Our paths converged in the hallowed halls of the school library during lunch, where we both sought refuge in the vibrant pages of comic books and manga. Initially, silence reigned between us. Not a single word was exchanged. Then, my stomach betrayed me with a loud rumble, and Lottie, in an act of unexpected kindness, offered to share half of her sandwich. It was a simple gesture, but from that moment on, we were inseparable, bound together as best friends.

Now, my current reality was grim, a stark contrast to the comforting memories of my friendship with Lottie. I was trapped inside my favorite video game, a predicament made infinitely worse by the fact that I was doll-sized. Cyno, a character from the game, held me in his arms. I clung to his forearm, desperately trying not to fall as he walked toward a seated man. Cyno was surprisingly good at acting; his voice was completely different, a nuance I didn't recall from the game. He sat down with a man who was also dressed in the garb of an Eremite.

"Hmmm, what an adorable miniature you have there," the Eremite said, immediately reaching out to pat my head as if I were some kind of animal. I think I played my part well, maintaining my silence, though I'm sure my face conveyed my true thoughts.

"Are you looking for a companion for it?"

Cyno seemed taken aback by the question.

"A companion?" Cyno asked, his voice laced with surprise.

"Yes, it's a good thing they only have one at a time..." the Eremite continued, talking about me as if I were a dog. Was there some sort of puppy mill, but for humans? Cyno, perhaps sensing my discomfort, set me down as he continued his conversation with the man. I seized the opportunity, slipping away to embark on my own quest: to find Lottie.

I moved like a shadow, a tiny spy navigating a treacherous landscape of towering tables, looming chairs, and a sea of oblivious people. My heart hammered against my ribs with each furtive step, until finally, I reached the stage. There it was: the pen. Inside, they were kept, the earthlings. But it wasn't the enclosure itself that sent a shiver down my spine; it was their eyes. Vacant, empty, devoid of any spark.

"Lottie..." I whispered, my voice barely audible above a whisper. Lottie was there, her gaze fixed on some unseen point, her eyes mirroring the same unsettling emptiness as the others.

"Lottie," I repeated, my hand trembling as I reached through the bars, desperate to make a connection. My fingers closed around her arm. She didn't speak, didn't acknowledge me with a word or a glance. Instead, her gaze flickered towards something behind me: the large cube of sugar. Understanding dawned, cold and sharp. I snapped off a piece from the pen's bar, and she snatched it from my hand with a desperate eagerness that chilled me to the bone. In that moment, I felt like I was trapped in that haunting scene from Planet of the Apes, the one where Commander Taylor finds Dodge, only to discover he'd been lobotomized, his humanity stolen.

"Lottie, it's me...." The words caught in my throat. I couldn't even remember my real name, not anymore. But Lottie didn't respond, her vacant eyes offering no flicker of recognition, no hint of the person I once knew.

Traumatized, I stumbled back towards Cyno. Whether he noticed my distress or not, he didn't comment, but he did scoop me up into his arms. Enfolded there, I felt acutely aware of my own smallness, a fragile thing amidst something vast and terrible. I remained silent, clinging to him as we finally left that bizarre, suffocating place behind.

"Mao, are you okay?" Cyno asked, his voice cutting through the fog in my mind, once we'd put some distance between ourselves and the underground market.

"No, I'm not, no..." I exclaimed, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"This is crazy... what the hell did I just witness..." I muttered, more to myself than to him, the images still flashing behind my eyelids.

His voice, when he responded, was grave, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through me. "Crime of the underworld..."

Exhaustion clung to my face as I stared at him, the weight of sleepless nights pressing down. Was he truly serious? Did the man ever think about anything beyond the relentless pursuit of justice? I watched him, a chilling certainty creeping into my mind: he was contemplating it. He was actually considering deploying what amounted to a Matra SWAT team to shut down this illicit underground market. The thought hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

His voice, laced with a gentle curiosity, cut through my swirling thoughts. "Were you able to reach your friend?" he inquired, his embrace still a comforting anchor as I clung to his forearm.

"No..." The word escaped me, a whisper haunted by the memory of Lottie's vacant stare. "It's as if she's lost all sense of her humanity."

A flicker of understanding, tinged with concern, softened his usually stern features. He simply said, "I understand." Back in what I assumed were his personal quarters, he asked me to wait while he assembled a team to dismantle the market. Left alone in the quiet of his room, I found myself drawn to the window, my gaze lost in the distance. My mind, a whirlwind of anxieties, conjured images of my parents, my friends, and the uncertain path that lay before me. I couldn't help but recall a time when I yearned for the world of Genshin to be real, a fantastical escape. Now, it was more real than life itself, a stark and unsettling reality.

Sleep overtook me swiftly, the exact moment of surrender lost within the recesses of my thoughts. I didn't even register Cyno's arrival back. The persistent Sumeru sun, however, was far more insistent, its rays slicing through the window and pulling me back to wakefulness.

"Mao, you're awake..." Cyno's voice, a deep murmur, cut through the mental haze. A wave of mortification washed over me as I realized I was drooling – an embarrassing side effect of sleep I'd hoped to avoid. My only desire was to disappear from this humiliating situation.

"I'm awake..." I mumbled, surreptitiously wiping away the trace of my slumber. I must have looked awful. How long had it been since I'd been thrown into this larger-than-life version of Teyvat? Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I finally managed to focus on Cyno.

"What is it?" I asked, suppressing a yawn.

The morning routine complete, I was met with a breakfast spread fit for a king – a surprising contrast to Cyno's usual stoicism. With a full stomach and a sigh, we embarked on our journey once more. Cyno, true to form, remained a man of few words, and before I knew it, I was hoisted onto his shoulder, feeling rather like a disgruntled parrot.

"Hey!" I finally exclaimed, the novelty of this mode of transport wearing thin. "Where are we going, anyway? I told you I don't appreciate being manhandled–"

My complaints were cut short by another one of his infuriating head pats. I swatted his enormous finger away, earning a low chuckle from the General Mahamatra.

"To see Lord Kusanali," he stated, his voice unusually grave. "I've been telling her everything... and she expressed a desire to meet you."

The weight of his words crashed down on me. He looked so serious, so… official. I wanted to strangle him, to curse the sheer scale of this world and my place within it. Meeting any kind of ruler, a deity no less, was a monumental event, a terrifying prospect I hadn't signed up for.

The Sanctuary of Surasthana. Even back when this was just a game, I'd always loved exploring its hidden corners. Now, it was the stage for my meeting with Nahida, who sat perched upon Cyno's broad shoulder.

She reminded me of the Childlike Empress from "The NeverEnding Story," a figure of immense power cloaked in innocence. A strange mix of excitement and dread churned within me.

"Lord Kusanali, this is Mao..." Cyno's voice, usually so stern, held a hint of formality as he presented me. Of course, I recognized her. Nahida's features were unforgettable: fair skin that seemed to glow, delicately pointed ears, large, intelligent green eyes, and white hair tipped with the vibrant green of Dendro.

"Your Highness, or Queen..." I stammered, feeling like a complete idiot for not knowing the proper form of address. My tongue felt thick and clumsy.

"Hmm, how interesting, you're different?" she observed, her gaze intense. Before I could process her words, Cyno gently set me down on some sort of intricate console.

"May I take a look?" the childlike goddess asked, her voice soft but laced with an undeniable authority. Before I could answer, a wave of energy washed over me, and darkness claimed my consciousness.

When I finally awoke, a sound pierced through the fog in my mind. Crying. Nahida was weeping, her small frame shaking with each sob.

"It's my fault..." she repeated, over and over, her voice thick with anguish. Cyno, standing stiffly beside her, clearly wasn't equipped to handle such raw emotion. And I, well, I've always hated seeing children cry.

"Look, sweetie, it's not your fault..." I managed to say, my voice still thick with sleep and a lingering disorientation.

Nahida's youthful gaze met mine. "Yes it is" she replied, her voice carrying the weight of her ancient responsibility.

"After the Traveler and I faced the corruption together, I put safeguards in place, measures to shield Irminsul from future problems. My intention was to prevent external forces, beings not native to Teyvat, from tainting it with forbidden knowledge. Never did I imagine," she confessed, a hint of regret in her tone, "that those precautions would extend to you… to your people."

I had always suspected Irminsul was akin to a vast, intricate computer. The game's lore painted Nahida's consciousness as inextricably linked to it, the very source of Dendro's power. It wasn't a stretch to see her as a programmer, safeguarding the world's very code.

The realization struck me like a physical blow. "So, if I'm understanding this correctly…" I began, my voice barely a whisper, "the reason people from Earth, myself included, are acting…like animals is is because you're inadvertently using Irminsul to block the spread of forbidden knowledge?" The implications were terrifying.

Nahida's voice, though calm, carried the weight of a grim reality. "It rids them of the forbidden knowledge that's leaking," she explained, her gaze distant, "essentially reverting them to a primal state."

My heart clenched. The humans, these earthlings, like myself, had been hauled here against their will. And now? They were being rebooted, their minds wiped clean, their very essence stripped away.

A wave of fury washed over me, choking the air from my lungs. "Can you fix it?!" I screamed, the question ripped from my throat, far louder than I intended.

Nahida nodded, her expression confirming what felt like an eternity—three weeks, to be exact. Scholars from every corner of the Akademiya were lending their expertise, a flurry of activity that both reassured and frustrated me. Frankly, it astonished me that it had taken them this long to pinpoint the flaw in the earthing process. Then again, I mused, most of them had been blissfully unaware of Nahida's five-century-long confinement, a secret only Alhaitham had pierced through during the archon quest.

Lottie and James were safe, for now, a fragile comfort in the grand scheme of things. Cyno, ever the unwavering General Mahamatra, had finally apprehended Dori. Yet, even with these victories, a shadow lingered. The demand for "mini-Humans," or earthlings, persisted throughout Teyvat, a chilling reminder that this nightmare could easily repeat itself.

"Ready to go home, Mao?" Cyno's voice cut through my thoughts. I was perched on his shoulder, a tiny parrot seeking solace in his presence.

"Yes...more than anything..." I replied, the longing for Earth a physical ache. I yearned to leave this chapter behind, to erase the horrors I had witnessed. Nahida had explained that the return journey would involve a portal, a gateway that would gently erase our memories of Teyvat, if we even retained them. Lottie and Jamie, poor things, were still trapped in that vacant, unresponsive state.

I wished I could have shared a deeper connection with Cyno, a heartfelt goodbye that truly conveyed my gratitude. He was, without a doubt, a good person, someone I genuinely respected.

"Thanks for everything..." I managed, the words feeling inadequate. The idealized image I once held of him had faded, replaced by a more grounded appreciation.

"You're welcome, Mao," he replied, his large hand gently patting my head. I sighed, a wave of frustration washing over me. I desperately wanted to tell him my real name, to leave him with a piece of my true self, but the memory remained elusive, lost in the chaos of my experiences.

The moment to leave arrived, and I didn't dare glance back, hoping that oblivion would claim the memories. Two months had passed since Lottie, James, I, and a handful of others vanished from the anime convention. Then, as abruptly as it began, we reappeared outside the mall. They were… themselves again.

The news spread like wildfire, yet a collective amnesia seemed to grip everyone regarding our whereabouts during that time. Everyone except me. I remained silent. How could I possibly articulate the truth? How could I explain that we had been abducted, essentially sold as pets to giants in a world ripped straight from a popular video game? Perhaps the most crucial thing was that everyone had returned to their normal lives.

I write this now, a record of my account, my experience. Despite the sheer terror of it all, I refuse to let the memories fade. A voice calls out, my dad asking if I'd like to join them for a movie.

"Sure..." I replied.

I closed my laptop, the screen fading to black. I still play Genshin Impact, but most of my merchandise has been packed away, relegated to a box in the attic. However, a Cyno plushie remains on my desk, a constant reminder to appreciate the life I have now. It's not perfect, and there's no magic, but I don't need that anymore. I've had enough adventure to last a lifetime.

As I descended the stairs, I found only my parents on the couch, bathed in the soft glow of the television. It was then that I noticed it – the water pitcher on the coffee table. The water within vibrated, tiny ripples dancing across its surface.

The end?????