#She’s clever yet naive

[willowbirds]

The immediate switch when Laudna tells Imogen that she loves her.

She falls back into herself, Delilah stops mimicking her, and her form of dread fades. She tells Imogen she loves her over and over and each time they get more desperate.

She did this for her, to keep her beloved safe, all she can do is give herself up, but the look of sadness and disappointment on Imogen’s face makes her panic.

The way Imogen hesitates sadly when responding to Laudna saying she’s more fun than scary. Laudna being scared and repeating her question with more desperation, praying that Imogen isn’t afraid of her.

“Do you still love me?”

“I’ll always love you. I just don’t know what to do with it.”

Laudna buried herself into Imogen’s hair, the pain and sadness Delilah put her through in that moment making her question if she is even worth Imogen’s love.

But she stays. Imogen stays and she holds her so tight. Never wanting to let her go.

[transthadymacdermot]

Finally figured out a design for aoife I think... my longest yeah boi ever etc

[fated-normal-767]

I knew it ! Didn’t know Miss gardener was Elizabeth but I had a feeling she’d be that eigth boot, what with the way she looked like a worker .

Have to say though, everyone claimed she’d be all fancy but she seems to be trying to pass as a worker . Maybe she didn’t want to be a lawyer . Or maybe it’s part of her union persona . Either way though , she’s not the type to help whatever the hell these men have going on … strange that she would … maybe I’m wrong

I can’t say I like that the hardie boys use violence and threaten to hurt people but they did seem quite dedicated to looking after the town to me, maybe not in the best way or the best at doing so but .

[dolphin-diaries]

Death Of The Woman

Originally posted on the Dolphin Diaries substack.

The following essay is not my usual fare. It’s my personal story as a detrans woman, and as such, it will lack in abstracted theory or argumentation. After this I will be publishing a special interview, and then I’ll return to my usual programming.

For now though, be advised this isn’t quite light reading material. There is some cursory description of sexual violence. If you do not feel like you can engage with that, skip from the paragraph beginning “At one point, …” to the next titled section.

Girl/Flesh

Before there is an adult, there is first a child—a not-so-blank slate, a state of being with an expiration date. Boys must be made men; girls must be made women. To the end of that becoming, childhood is a prelude and adolescence a ritual.

Contemplate for a moment, without any input from me: how is a girl made a woman?

My upbringing was rather feminist, compared to the average for my country. My mother did not take my father’s name; she earned more; they had a whole and loving marriage. A husband-and-kids were expected of me eventually, but ever nebulously and not quite yet; my own family’s example seemed perfectly encouraging. For the time being, the biggest expectation placed on me was intellectual accomplishment. You might think a boy child would be preferable to such an endeavour, but it was quite the opposite. Boys will be boys, after all: rowdy, willful, lascivious, ever in need of someone else’s care. Handed gently from the mother’s hand to a wife’s, they’re basically eternal children. But girls? Girls are born older. Mature faster—biologically, essentially, fundamentally. Girls listen. Girls obey.

By all accounts I was a fantastic foundation for such a purpose. Tallest, strongest, bursting with curly dark hair. You couldn’t possibly mistake me for a fragile doll, no, not like some other, more childish girls; I was obviously ready for responsibility. And not just in superficial appearance. Speech came to me quickly and easily; writing flowed from my fingertips with perfect calligraphy; I made art worthy of fridges and walls; I took to learning with all the energy of an insomniac puppy.

Did other kids like a fat, moustachioed girl that beat them at everything, and after class also won at arm-wrestling? Fuck no! But that was alright. I was born into intelligentsia, and envy was our natural curse, one to be proud of. At any rate, someday puberty would come. A body-shedding into something physically desirable; combined with all this accrued talent, it would ensure I’d have the pick of good men. Though I didn’t yet know men, only the irksome boys from whom they hatched. I lived for the attention of adults and for making other girls laugh—if clever ogres are good for nothing else, it’s humour. There was something transcendent in seeing someone fae-pretty and so unreachable be made happy by my effort. Even if they bullied me after. Of course, that meant I was too rowdy—oh, and too stubborn. Girls are supposed to understand the rules of the world exist for a reason; I didn’t. I needed things explained before I obeyed.

The rule I didn’t understand most of all was touch. I was brutish, and my brutishness marked me for disgust—and yet, I was constantly touched, even as I was told I’d never be touchable. My body burgeoned with entirely too much flesh, and every hand was drawn to grab it, to pinch and assess it in some unannounced Try-Before-You-Buy. Teachers, children, family members. It would not stop and it made my skin crawl, but it was also normal. The adults I liked did it. My peers did it. No one remarked on it.

When womanhood was yet a distant prospect, I dreamt of something ethereal. Power-suited. Someone that looked like mother, or like Barbie. Someone untouchable. Because surely this was all a growing pain. I was a girl, and that meant all the things that made me revolting, naive, and unruly would be purged by shed blood.

That’s not how that goes, though. How is a girl made a woman?

When adolescence finally arrived, it was rather early, eleven or so. I always was an overachiever. And I discovered I was not yet becoming something better. I was just myself, but more. More flesh. More hair, in all the wrong places. Same moustache, same swollen face, same ungainly buffoon demeanour, only now with hips bursting through trousers and a boyish deep voice.

The leering and touching did not cease—they got worse. The older I grew, the older my mother dressed me, dolling me up in heels and arse-hugging skirts with the vicarious glee of someone who got another chance at making a woman, and who was emboldened by the powerlessness of my ‘no.’ The dress-up had a goal in mind, of course. Same as my obligation to intellectual accomplishment; the only difference was, I was now failing, while the prospect of adulthood loomed ever closer. So I had it spelled out to me: it was all to ensure I could return to my family the debt I incurred with the costs of my existence. To birth them a child and uphold their reputation. If I was unfeminine, untouchable, unfuckable, they would not get a return on their investment. If I preferred girls—which, big surprise, I did—that would invite untold humiliation on the family name. That I was given to choose my would-be boyfriends, nudged to enjoy the makeup and skirts, was a just bit of carrot to the whip. If I sneered too much at the carrot, I’d get the whip.

So on I wobbled, a fleshy, moustachioed doll. Every new softness and curve invited a groping hand or a disgusting comment. Every fault of my body was bared as proof I should be happy to get this much at all. In old deformity and in newfangled woman-ness, I was just a girl.

I sought other ways of being. An escape from the barbed chain link of The Family. I had limited recourse in my small town, but the internet is a wide-reaching thing. No lesbian community existed for miles, but I could still read about the ring and the hanky code and whatever else. I could look at pictures.

(Although those were at times alarming, because all these lesbian women I glimpsed looked rather like me—whereas I had hoped that, by the time I grew up, I’d be something better.)

Regardless, I tried the codes and the cargo trousers, as much as I could—which wasn’t much. I stoked fascination in my classmates with giddy and secretive coming-outs. Only some showed me compassion and dignity, but I was even happy enough to be seen as a weirdo monster. At least they saw me. Worse was their dissecting vigilance. Their attention to the way I moved or spoke. The moment I’d do something girly, they’d cry, they knew it! I was just a girl. I did have a boy crush, and I should admit it; I was surely—as they put it—a faggot. Yes, really, literally ‘faggot,’ that word precisely. Even when I flicked my wrist like so while all dolled-up from head to toe, no one seemed to quite stomach believing me a real woman.

Giddiness over coming out doesn’t last. Disobedience brooks punishment. Through the listicles of lesbian identities and vocabulary, you dig through to testimonies. To rape. To abjected and dysphoric butches. To abuse at school, university, work, home. To the loss of all those things. To death. Elsewhere lesbians sometimes got their happily-ever-afters, loving families and the luxury of walking free, but here, we have not earned it. Visa-barred from leaving, doomed to die fighting for a future we would never live—even as far away, someone already got it just for having been born.

When I Saw The TV Glow

2011. A documentary, in all the glory of 480p. I’d heard of trans women before in concept—dear, some men just become women, it happens, okay?—but I’d never heard of trans men before. Never conceived of it.

I watched the screen like it was a revelation. A man in a white tee tucked into light jeans, cut like a Ken doll, strutting down a springtime street in low resolution.

Before then, I’d accepted that the burgeoning breasts and hips was simply something I had to contend with. That the way the boys around me were growing stronger while I was ever-groped was simply nature asserting itself. My body was proof of my place in the world.

I looked at the screen and thought, So that was a big fat lie.

The moment I knew it was possible, I wanted it like nothing else. The broad shoulders, the muscles, the dapper swagger. I wished for my body to take the shape of my being, instead of my being contorting to the body’s mould. Perhaps I could be loved for all the things that made me a deformed monster. Perhaps I didn’t need to watch every step to prove I wasn’t just a girl. Here was a place already in the shape of me, rather than a stifling lot I had to constantly fight against.

How could one go about changing sex? According to the documentary, it started with a psychiatric assessment—and so, my little twelve-year-old self took to studying the DSM. As I scoured it, I learned I could not be described by its standards as a true transsexual. I’d never before thought of myself as a boy nor had wanted to be one. Yet in the same breath, the DSM claimed no girl could ever desire physical masculinity beyond what came naturally to her. It was either transsexualism or some fetish or self-harming disorder. I had neither of the latter. My desire to inhabit masculinity was undeniable and crystal-clear, and the only kind of person that could’ve felt this way was a transsexual man—so that meant I must’ve simply remembered my life wrong. Or interpreted it wrong. If I twisted my memories this way or that, discarded one as an anomaly and repainted another in baby-boy blue, it would all make sense. It had to. Trans people online talked about a sense of mis-belonging, and I did feel like an outsider among the girls—what did it mean to feel like a gender, at any rate? I only knew what I felt like. And I felt like something sorry and misshapen.

Somewhat later, circa 2013, I did hear of weirder gender concepts in the distant West, mostly as just definitions of words. Genderqueer, nonbinary, et cetera. I comprehended them rationally but I did not understand or relate to them. Wherever I read about it, genderqueerness was described in a manner parallel to transsexuality—the sex-changing—or else as an exotic alternative to hormones and scalpels. But I desired body change so desperately, and regardless, I could not envision living as a nonbinary gender in my own country. Maybe in the West that was possible, but here nothing but derision would entail. It just wasn’t for me.

Naturally, trans men’s testimonies of hardship met and rivalled those of cis lesbian women. But the vast majority of them were concentrated on the times before and during transition. After that—sure, all of medicine reviles you and you’re at risk of a heinous hate crime. But the same has been true before; now though, when you walk down the street or meet a new friend, when you live, you’re just some guy. Your life is tinted by your queerness as much as any other sex/gender-deviant, but that constant, unabating struggle against a blistering torrent of humiliation, of being forced into the place of a woman? That seemed to end. Eventually. And then—who knows? Move to a new town, a new country even. No one need ever know who you had once been.

At that time though, I was still very young, and the thing about discovering a solution to a problem you thought inescapable is that it makes the problem itself feel that much more acute. So I did the stupidest thing imaginable: come out.

Dear reader, it wasn’t a good idea.

It is, after all, rather trivial to exact whatever punishment one desires upon one’s queer children, for children are parents’ property. It is true everywhere, but if ‘in some fucking America’ there is something called ‘child-protective services,’ here nothing short of murder, starvation, or exceptionally unsubtle and repeated rape could possibly broker an outside intervention. The debt you incurred to your parents for being born still holds, and you’ve just betrayed its very foundation. A woman still needs to be made of you. And anyway, who are you gonna call? The police? For what, total social isolation? For derision and humiliation? For the hours spent unmaking all your agency, all your desire as nothing more than delusion brought on by that damned internet? For total control over you, over every movement, every manner, every gesture, every word? For what you claim was assault? For what you claim was an attempted murder? I mean, it’s all rather sad, but it’s not a crime; not provably. Not against faggots.

I Win, Bitch

I am first and foremost a problem-solver. Even in total solitude, without access to the internet or to kindred spirits, there are plans to be made. I did not want to die, and I was still in the questionable position of being my family’s pride. Had to be. My parents couldn’t have any more children; they had to get it right with me.

So of course, if I got free admission to a prestigious university many kilometres away, and if I proved I’d learned my lesson enough to be trusted with leaving—who was to gainsay me?

Getting out was a decision I made almost the moment my abuse took on a corrective and violent turn. I knew what I had to do, even if it cost me immeasurably. Overnight I had to call quits on any remnant of childhood and learn to steal money to ensure future independence. Had to play my woman’s part convincingly. Had to look as if I’m enjoying it, convincingly. If I’d found the role stifling before, now it was as razors under my skin. Everything that ‘woman’ encompassed had been weaponised for my constant abuse, and I could not stomach a second of it—but I had to. Until I broke free.

Besides the severance of any familial support, financial or otherwise, my psyche was thoroughly shattered. All the times I’d been told, at length and for hours, that I was suffering a dangerous delusion, that I had to be forced to conform to my true nature—every single time, I knew that it was wrong. Even when I was as young as twelve, I knew I deserved none of it. I knew it was abuse and injustice. All the same it broke me. There was no pride and no resilience strong enough in me to withstand years and years of it. For a while I could barely look at women that whatsoever resembled me; the very concept, the very idea was a trigger. When it came to my own mind, I struggled to tell what was real, what I did and did not feel. Everything laid under panes and panes of ice, and that disassociation was the only way I could maintain a grip—or else everything erupted in screams.

The worst of my C-PTSD would be dealt with in the ensuing years thanks to NGO-sponsored therapy for queer patients. Unpacking pane after pane, unwinding coil after coil of the rage I had to swallow, piecing together shards of abandoned and dissociated memories. But I’d be paying mental dividends on my damage for longer still, and in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

For now though: I won.

Social transition was easy for me. It took little more than cutting my hair and swapping out wardrobes to pass as a man pretty reliably—well, a teenage boy, but I was only seventeen, so it didn’t raise eyebrows. I felt freed. Like I could walk and speak and make friends without chains attached to me. Only the softness of my shape gnawed at me, how it had shifted from despicable womanly maturity to boyish youth. I hated not having my coming adulthood recognised. Hated that other young men got to grow stronger and larger while I was stuck in perpetual pseudo-adolescence. I was free, I was no child, no property of adults; I wanted to be seen.

But it was also the first time I discovered queer spaces in person. Mixed and trans ones—especially trans ones. For the first time, I walked among people who understood. Really understood, the dysphoria and the otherness and the abuse and the whole lot. I’d found my home amongst the gender criminals; we talked feminism and activism; we braved protests despite threats of alt-right retaliation; we stumbled through relationships. Like most trans people, I harbour no nostalgia for my childhood or early youth—but for that time, I do. Not because it didn’t have its share of struggle, but because of my then-partner A. and my friends. Because it was the first time I felt the mutability of sex/gender, and breathed the freedom that entailed.

Things don’t last though, especially not in youth. Relationships fall apart; social circles reshuffle. I was leaving university to pursue a career—after all, I could not afford to be on HRT without income.

Moreover I felt… insecure, you could call it. Most of my social connections were to trans people and/or women. But I was a man. Shouldn’t I—commit? Make an effort? If cisgender men did not accept me as one of theirs, didn’t that make me a kind of impostor? I chafed in the body of an eternal adolescent, and the rift I felt between myself and cis men salted the wound.

Brain/Worms

The first problem was easily addressed with exogenous testosterone. Starting it was a euphoric experience—the rapid swelling of muscle, the spike in energy and hunger and libido. I loved the changes to my body, and I wished all traces of insidious womanhood would wilt from me.

The second issue was more difficult. I’d always felt at an arm’s length from cis heterosexual men, and never got much closer. No matter what, I simply felt other. That made sense, though. Once I re-conceptualised my gender as male, I did not identify as straight. I didn’t feel so sure anymore I was solely attracted to women, and that feeling only solidified the more I transitioned. If gender and sex were uncertain, how could I be so sure? I had no genital preference. What did it mean to be attracted to a ‘man’ or a ‘woman’ anyway? Some men could be as pretty as women. Wouldn’t giving a definitive answer be a little bioessentialist? Aren’t we all, as they say, a little bisexual?

Yes, I thought, it made perfect sense that I, a bisexual man, would find no belonging among cishet men. And the more I thought about the sort of relationships I desired, the more I realised I could not possibly be fulfilled in a straight relationship. I attempted facsimiles of a straight man’s role, and they all left me feeling hollowed. The attraction and relationship calculus of straight women was an arcane language to me. The sorts of women I liked were distinctly dyke-y; sure, some of those happen to be bisexual, but if they were to date me, they’d still be dating a man. I’d hate that as much as I’d hate not having my manhood acknowledged or recognised. And that’s to say nothing of how sleazy and dishonest it felt to intrude on queer women’s dating scene as a man. Now that I lived as a man, what made me so different from cis men? Innate birth-assigned woman-ness? Misogyny-flavoured childhood trauma? The vagina? All excuses felt like pathetic, opportunistic self-humiliation. Debasing myself by appealing to someone else’s cissexism so I could appear like something I wasn’t.

So naturally, I pursued community and companionship with gay men. As any gay trans man will tell you, it is usually a thankless and annoying task; transphobia is insidious and oft-unchallenged in gay male circles. The way they treat trans men ranges from hostile to patronising to weird. But overall I had a better time of it than most, and cultivated a few long-lasting friendships. The gay men around me had more class consciousness than average. They were not shy about liking me, even after apologising for speaking ill of vaginas. It was ego-boosting. But I was still afraid that when we took our shirts off, they’d stop seeing me and find a woman in me. Fuck me like one. Erase me.

A new ghost began to haunt me. It’d coalesced from pieces that already existed within me, but never before had this shape. What were fragments of my desires and thoughts coalesced into a singular fixation that constricted all of my libido, all of my sexual being. Fantasies of being fucked into womanhood invaded my mind and would not let go of it. In them, men were personless and barely corporeal, but the women existed in graphic detail. I myself was either completely disembodied and not present, not even as a voyeur—or else oddly, vaguely within the woman, both me and not-me at once.

I was horrified. Not even by the fantasy itself; its contents were murky and not particularly original. By my singular lust for it. I felt as though I’d discovered a monster within. A violent misogynist puppeteering the woman’s image to quench a fetish for sexist humiliation. A depraved and lowly creature fed on my own abuse.

But it made a kind of sense, I thought, the horror aside. I’d experienced plenty of misogynistic violence, the sexual kind included, and I guessed I’d sublimated it. Except—

There was a problem with that interpretation. That coercive return to womanhood, what I feared men might do to me—it was not the same as what aroused me. In the fantasy, I was not returning or reverting; I was not giving in to transphobic violence, which these scenarios notably lacked; I just was.

Despite all my efforts, this creature within responded to no self-insight, no cross-examination, no rationalisation. Everything I learned from the handbooks of either trauma therapy or kink-positive thinking failed utterly. I could not unlearn shame. I could not arrive at an epiphany. Like a hungry tapeworm, the unnameable thing inside me gnawed and gnawed, and any attempts to understand my desire, to make it less dissociative, only caused it to mutate to something more esoteric. The images morphed from banal patriarchal brutality to anonymous men forcibly feminised via sex by domineering, ultra-feminine women. Once my mind arrived at image, it sank its teeth into it so completely that it began to hollow my waking life, which now paled by comparison to the fantasy. And yet the thing still resisted knowledge even as it drained blood from me. I could not comprehend what pleasure I derived from this, what desire this fulfilled. When looked upon in the light of day, beyond the haze of arousal, the monster within me became only fear, a terrifying and nameless anxiety that liquefied all efforts to understand it.

In any case, the only ‘gay man’ I ended up dating long-term was a severely closeted trans woman. I failed thoroughly at sourcing validity from gay male partners as I realised I never wanted them in the first place; it’d all been a self-delusional charade whose only purpose was to forestall loneliness and to quench the thing within. So I settled on helping a girl find her gender. My perversion remained my little secret. No one in the world could’ve possibly shared it, and if they did, it was probably for the best that I did not know them.

A strange and nameless discontent festered. Past the initial joy in well-sculpted shoulders, the more virilised my body became, the more difficult it was to differentiate myself from the Average Cishetero Man, or even the Average Gay Man (which do not, in the end, look that different)—and it felt existentially important to be differentiated somehow. Looking like that made me feel dead. Whatever ‘that’ was. I found myself confusedly wishing for jewellery and makeup and feminine fashion—things that were once violently forced upon me. So the desire itself made me squirm. At the same time though, it’d been a while since my abuse. Years. Therapy, time, et cetera. I knew it was normal enough for someone later in transition to mellow out on strict gender expression, now that doing it ‘incorrectly’ no longer threatened misgendering. I’d met plenty of people with that exact experience. So, I thought, maybe that was my damage. Desire for gender-nonconformity, which I’d repressed in a bizarre manner.

Of course, experimenting with being a feminine man in public would get my head kicked in; discovering a craving for femininity was very inconvenient for me. I wasn’t pleased to regress back to stifling my gender presentation for social security. But no one could stop me from crossdressing in private—so, bit by bit, I tried.

When I finally built up the courage to order proper womenswear and put it on, I looked in the mirror and saw a man in a dress. I did exactly as I wanted and achieved exactly what I thought I would. Except, instead of relief or joy, a wave of such profound disappointment hit me that I could neither understand nor describe its nature. I could only comprehend it as a compulsion to tear my skin off. As dysphoria.

Well, duh. I was a trans man. Of course dolling up would make me dysphoric. Especially after all that’d happened to me. What did I expect? This had all been a waste of fucking time. There was nothing to discover behind my desires. I abandoned my pursuit, resigned to the daily kaleidoscope of sexual depravity that I couldn’t stop my mind from spinning; I’d given up on understanding the source or goal of any of it; I would simply entertain it in the privacy of my head and carry it to my grave.

Or at least, I’d try.

At one point, a cis woman took an interest in me. That interest was not reciprocated; something about her person was off-putting to me. She acted towards my friends with extreme jealousy, and even though I rejected her advances in no uncertain terms multiple times, she would not stop offering. At the same time though, now that I realised I did not belong among gay men, I felt extremely alone. And revolting. How many women were out there that’d even want to touch me? I really shouldn’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.

We were drunk, and I a complete mess. I’d bristled before when she pointedly asked if I knew she was bisexual—the implication being, she wasn’t afraid of vagina—because there was nothing un-straight about a woman wanting a trans man. But with so much wine in my veins—you know, maybe I wasn’t such a trans man after all? Maybe I was—I dunno. Like a girl—like, only for sex, though. I had stockings and lingerie in my bedside drawers and shit. If you squint and turn off the light.

I remember a shift in her gaze, once it finally sank in. From giggling and alcohol-addled to something sharper. Not quite homicidally disgusted, but still vicious; like I’d been made a thing. I didn’t know what I did wrong; I didn’t tell her about any of the truly despicable things—I was still me! Wasn’t she bisexual? Wasn’t she queer? We don’t have to do it, I said, forget it.

The next thing I remember is a body forcing me down. Vicious, gleeful lust. “Oh, you’ll be a girl, alright.”

My whole body stiffened. I snapped at her to stop, tried to push her away, but she only pressed down harder, fingers sinking into flesh.

When I threw her off me to the floor, blood split her lip. She cried and shrieked. So much for a feminist man! How dared I hit her! She just did as I asked!

I yelled at her to get out, but once the door slammed shut, I thought of the unending parade of rapacious fetish in my head. Of how well I knew this woman didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and how I caved to her anyway. And, well, I couldn’t help feeling like—

Didn’t I ask for it?

Unmoored

A few years later, I found myself abroad. Far from family, and from most friends—except one. Shortly before I moved, I had met my once-partner A. from my university days and felt drawn to her all over again. Our relationship rekindled, and hand in hand, we flew westward. It was a dark time for unrelated reasons, but in a twisted way, it granted me as much of a ‘clean start’ as I could’ve ever hoped for. I was untethered from traces of growing pains I left all over the city I once called home, from the messy parts of transition—it’d been, at that point, well over five years since I started.

No one here needed to know who I’d been.

I’d never doubted it. In fact, I was then in the process of fighting bureaucracy to re-ensure my access to hormones. They were the only way I could ever hope to rid myself of that bodily displacement I’d been feeling. That was how it went with trans men; it helped them, so it should help me.

Only I’d already been on T for a while then. Whatever ‘feminine curves’ I had left, had melted away; a beard had sprouted from my face, which now increasingly resembled my father’s. Even if I stripped naked, I looked more like an intersex man than anything else. That was basically what I’d expected. I’d always been rather cold-blooded about my transition expectations and proud of that fact; I’d sourced my information from many sources and first-hand accounts, and I neither underestimated the changes nor hoped for the impossible. All in all, I got what I sought. The thing I kept waiting for had already happened.

And I felt nothing. The disappearance of features I used to despise evoked naught more than a quiet oh well. My photos seemed oddly unfamiliar. A numbness had subsumed me, as if I’d been encased in wax.

But I had more pressing problems. Relocation, unemployment, the lot. Dealing with a subtle and unnameable depression seemed like a waste of time. Perhaps there was just something broken about me—that much had been clear for a while now. If I just kept a lid on it, I could live a happy enough life. On and on years went.

Lesbians In My Phone

What to do, when you’re hopelessly unemployed and feeling like there’s a black hole inside you threatening to swallow it all? Try to find a Discord to distract yourself, of course.

E.: mostly girlies in here so I hope you won't feel too out of place! we do strive to be an inclusive place

Me: haha i hope i got here thanks to a diversity and inclusion programme

My excuse for entering a transfem-majority space was an invitation thanks to my writing and editing. I’d put out a short story myself, and I was eager to help fellow authors. Of course, I was still a community outsider on the gender side of it, so I didn’t expect to get much out of that space personally. It just felt good to be involved in something, anything.

But, it turned out, many of the women on that server were good and easy company regardless. Unfamiliar subcultures are easily learned when its members are not hostile to you; they seemed to like me.

Most of the server members were transfem lesbians writing and reading sexually explicit fiction—some of which resembled my personal nonsense kaleidoscope, if… unpacked, let’s say. It was rather surreal to see the sorts of things my mind inflicted upon me being discussed in jest or dissected for the purposes of creating more elevated, self-conscious art. When I thought about it from the perspective of a trans woman, escapism via fancies of forced feminisation only made sense. Trans women internalise what society deems to be the place of women as much as anyone else, but also, trans womanhood is violently flagellated for existing in any way whatsoever. The fantasy would then revolve around removing the element of choice from it—so you could not be punished for wanting it.

Intellectually fascinating, but why it appealed to me made no more sense than it ever had. I wasn’t a trans woman—quite the opposite. They just wanted to be women; what the fuck was my problem? Although it calmed me somewhat to see normal people have experiences so similar to mine, I still felt like an intruder, stealing away pieces of someone else’s intimate life for my own shallow pleasure. I spoke nothing of it. No one would take kindly to me skin-walking their innermost desires this way.

As I spent my time in the company of trans lesbians, silent or not, I was still exposed to a stream of art and stories and images. Their depictions of women differed drastically from what I’d seen before. Two metres tall, or tiny as a gnome, or more muscular than a Greek god, or more voluptuous than a fertility idol, or werewolf-hairy, or covered in scales, or made completely of metal. A thousand melodies in fractal variations of flesh, all desired and lauded. I was no stranger to ideas of body positivity or ‘celebrating queerness’, but that all came wrapped in stipulations and activism. Always a statement, a process of battling or quieting shame. Never before have I experienced such utterly shameless, sincere, and carnal fanfare for everyone and anyone who claimed the space of ‘woman,’ in such a way that ‘woman’ meant nothing more and nothing less than simply ‘human.’ Not for statements. Just because it made them happy.

It was as alien as it was beautiful.

It’s not that I felt like I was missing out. Or that I wasn’t sufficiently fanfared. There were other spaces that did the same for men, run chiefly by gay transmasculine people, and they seemed to be having a great time of it. I just didn’t personally care for them one bit. I wanted this.

Naturally, it was all only fantasy. Art and books. That’s great, but that’s not real. In reality I was a twink with a receding hairline. It seemed prudent to know my limits rather than get too hung up on the fact I couldn’t be a two-metre-tall lesbian cyborg.

Except that some of it is real. Not the cyborgs and werewolves, but the diversity of body; the desire for its freedom and customisation. Women discontent with taking simply what they’re given. Through acquaintance and anecdote, I met lesbians with the same ‘unnatural’ desire I’d had. Lesbians on testosterone, desiring embodiments which, according to all I’d ever known, were never meant to be. Lesbians who wished for phalloplasty or for top surgery or both; lesbians that went on T temporarily to drop their voices and grow more muscle and body hair. Lesbians that weren’t women at all. Only there was no DSM attached. No packaged deal of ‘total’ transition, no script, no chain of demands that followed one to another.

No requirement of man.

It felt like anathema—and like a revelation. Whereas before genderqueerness seemed hypothetical and divorced from my reality, now I suddenly understood it. Now that I saw it, I knew it.

And I felt only directionless, ennui-steeped anger. As if someone stole the last ticket to a train that would never again leave my station. I didn’t know—how could I have known? No shit the things that helped trans men didn’t help me. I looked at all the past incongruences I’d revised and sanded over to fit the fucking DSM transsexualism diagnosis, and found only someone groping in the dark for a path they couldn’t even imagine existed. Except this realisation was arriving some fifteen years too late. Had I been younger or born elsewhere, then sure, I could’ve been one of those lesbians middle-fingering gender and microdosing T. But I wasn’t. I was a man. And when I dared think of relinquishing my grip on manhood, memory clawed at me. The assault. The humiliation. The un-personing. What would I be asking for? And what would that even yield? Look in the mirror, idiot. You are a man.

It wasn’t a rational calculus of consequences. It was a buzzing storm inside my head, pitch-black, impenetrable. I’d long stopped seeing women in their totality as my conversion-therapy prison, but even still—to see myself attached to ‘woman’ even slightly, even tangentially, even if I wanted it—this all evoked visceral, horrible fear.

But: knowing that a problem has a solution only makes it that much more impossible to ignore. My off-handed remarks and jokes about my miseries had my transfem friends looking funny at me. As if they recognised something.

T.: do you mind if I ask what you conceptualize your specific gendered deal as, or is that invasive?

Me: great question, i’ll get back to you in 5 to 10 business years.

Although I still loved the early changes I received from my HRT, everything I’d accrued since then was undeniably eating me alive. It was becoming difficult to dismiss dysphoria as mere vanity or body image issues; through all my attempts to make peace with my flesh, nothing helped even slightly. When I stopped binding, that felt better. When I lowered my T dose, that accomplished nothing in particular, but it felt comforting in a placebo sort of way. I tried to schedule laser hair removal—and that was too much. I panicked. Too obvious. What if someone noticed? What if someone asked why? I couldn’t deal with it. What if my partner noticed? She didn’t sign up for this shit. She was dating a man. What if—

No, it couldn’t go that badly. My partner wasn’t like that. Still, I felt paralysed. If I just did nothing, it couldn’t get worse. No one needed to know.

T.: hey, what’s up with the depression beard? do we need to get you laser?

Fuck it. I understood what my friends were seeing in me now. At first I thought myself definitionally far-removed from any transfeminine experience, but now that I’d met trans lesbians in truth, I couldn’t stop noticing patterns. And I wouldn’t have treated a transfem friend with the same denial or nihilistic abjection that I reserved for myself. She would’ve deserved help. A way out.

Didn’t I, too?

Detransition, Lady

The date I mark as the start of my detransition is April 16th, 2024, although I wouldn’t be calling it that for a few months yet. It was the first time I told anyone I was not a man, and that I was a lesbian, even though I didn’t exactly feel like a woman. On the surface it seemed a small thing. I had not yet decided on any particular body modifications (except laser—god, someone flay that thing off my face), and I felt deeply uncomfortable changing my gender presentation too much. So it seemed almost a question of semantics alone. Inside me though, it was a titanic shift: I allowed myself to name that which I’d been avoiding at all cost. To voice a desire I thought would brook only disgust, humiliation, and exile.

It did not.

The reaction of my partner and friends was, across the board, positive—none of my worst fears came to pass. Apparently I’d been far too obviously depressed, despite my best efforts to hide it—and now, I was far too obviously happy and, as some put it, ‘unclenched.’ Nothing in my loved ones’ behaviour should’ve led me to believe they would ridicule and hate me; still, it felt monumentally difficult to stop seeing myself as uniquely undeserving and pathetic.

I pursued my detransition incrementally. I pinpointed sources of dysphoria and addressed them. Laser, first. When my droning bass baritone started getting on my nerves, ensuring as it was that I’d always be gendered male—voice training. Soon I discovered that, despite the kinship I felt with transmasculine lesbians, I did not quite belong with them; whereas they relished the virilisation they’d carved out for themselves, my situation was different. I’d lived as a man for far too long to experience the world the same way they did. Most of them did not share my degree of distaste and distress at getting dude’d and he/him’d; they did not quite match my flavour of alienation from ‘woman.’ They usually strove to distinguish themselves from the category that would have them stifled and consumed—whereas that category now repelled me almost definitionally, whether I liked it or not. When I braved the outside world, there was no amount of social signalling that would make strange cis women see me as akin to them, or at least as not akin to men. Often not even lesbian cis women. Markers of an androgenic puberty singled me out as something categorically Other, and I’d not yet been in detransition long enough to change that.

Only among the transfeminine was I witnessed. Trans women I didn’t know loudly and protectively she/her’d me. The pronouns I actually used at the time were they/them, and my internal gender was nil with a side of ‘dyke,’ yet I found myself unwilling to correct anyone who decided I was a woman. Trans women that did know me playfully teased me for being ‘transfem-coded.’ Beyond initial recognition of repeating patterns, I’d started to realise that of all the people I knew, I belonged with them the most.

It was… confounding. In a way, it made no sense at all. And there were clear lines that delineated us: they would not relate to my visceral hatred of my first puberty, and I would not relate to theirs; I did not share their childhood of a girl trapped among boys. My ever-unchanged legal sex now granted me a degree of protection they could never take for granted. My birth sex gave me leverage to sacrifice trans women for a shred of acceptance—to shriek that I, unlike them, was a real woman. Even when no one but them saw me as one.

But in my daily existence and in much of my psychology, I was indistinguishable from my transfem peers. I’d transitioned a decade ago, right out of school; socially, I’d once been a girl a long time ago, but never a woman. Now I danced a dance I’d only before witnessed as an outsider; longed for and imagined, never performed. I had not the same continuity of belonging that cis women did, and nor did cis women know what it was like to walk among men, a secret alien, slowly realising every step you take is wrong.

I supposed, it made an intuitive kind of sense. Transition works. Not my now-distant history, not my birth, and certainly not my chromosomes or genitals had made me somehow more innately or inexorably woman. As all transsexuals learn sooner or later, lived experiences and hormones trump the rest of sex/gender with ease. So, although I wasn’t a trans woman, when I applied the same logics to myself, it simply worked. Despite the imperfect match, all my current problems had answers from the same solution sheet, from the way I treated myself to the way others treated me.

Well, almost all my problems.

Now that I compared myself to women and not to men, body insecurity cut much deeper and bloodier. I despaired no one would ever believe I was anything woman-shaped; they barely did before I took testosterone. Which I was still taking. I looked at the small dose of T gel I’d been applying, then at the finasteride pills I’d been chasing that with. And I thought, What does this even do? What is this even for anymore?

Stasis. It was for stasis, and a little placebo. I feared that if I stopped T, I’d tumble all the way back into the spiral of dysphoria I felt as a teen and young adult. That my body—for all its flaws still mine, still fought-for, still tailor-made—would dissolve again into an adolescent blob hatefully sculpted by others into the image of a future child-bearer. Only now I hated most of my virilisation and would claw at walls if I received any more of it—and my fear was not exactly rational, was it?

I breathed out. The testosterone wasn’t going to spoil the moment I put it away. I could try, and if it didn’t work out—a short period of a second-and-a-half puberty could not be that extreme. Whatever new changes I’d cause would likely revert fast.

For a while, nothing much happened. Nothing dissolved or melted. But little by little, my skin smoothed; my face softened; my wiry limbs lost their mesh of veins. My hips and breasts, once so maligned, swelled and enveloped muscle. I didn’t look the way I used to—of course not. I was stronger and a decade older; all the things I’d done to build my own self did not vanish, but merely, well—feminised.

I’d never met myself in an adult woman’s body before. In a self-made body. Although this flesh too did not feel mine, but for a different reason; I felt as if the moment I looked away, it’d all be gone. It wasn’t mine because it couldn’t possibly be. I wasn’t allowed this, I was never allowed this—the only shape of woman allowed to me was future-husband’s broodmare, mummy’s doll. I wasn’t allowed this.

But I did want it. And now I knew I could have it. Now, that gnawing monster inside my head had dissolved like it was never there at all. No disassociation, no torment, no total death of all other desire, no compulsion to retreat from the real world into a singular fantasy. Just… me.

At almost midnight I walked into mine and A.’s bedroom rambling. What does it fucking mean to feel like something, like a category; I only ever feel like me; what does it mean when you’re a forever-outsider; what does it mean when it’s been used to fucking hurt you, how can you then feel like anything at all; but what if I want it, what if I want it anyway. What if I want to be a woman anyway, the way my friends are women. The way lesbians are women. What if I want to belong among them? How do I know if I feel it? How do I know I’m real? How do I know I deserve—

In a space where freedom is possible, how is anyone made a woman?

Blearily, A. looked up from her Crusader Kings and said, “Look, uh—it doesn’t have to be that deep. If you want to be a woman, you can just do that.”

Could I?

I knew my transfem friends could. They built new shapes of ‘woman’ to their liking, in spite of all outside insistence they cannot. I had no reason nor unkindness to believe that their efforts amounted to less or more than mine. If they could, so could I. If I saw them, they would see me. They already did.

Perhaps sometimes, what makes a woman is who she calls a sister.

Recommended Reading

On embracing the constructed nature of one’s sex/gender: Susan Stryker, My Words to Victor Frankenstein above the Village of Chamounix: Performing Transgender Rage.

On the asymmetric forces behind patriarchal gender enforcement: Talia Bhatt, Degendering and Regendering.

[shalomniscient]

arlecchino has recieved many nicknames from you over the years. love and dearest are her favourites, though she does sometimes field darling as well. when you’re feeling mischievous, arlie takes the stage. and when you’re feeling especially tender, under the sheets with the warm hearth crackling away opposite the bed, perrie graces her ears as gentle as your embrace.

she thought, perhaps naively, that you’d run out of clever little ideas for yet more nicknames for her. but tonight, as you pick out your necklace from your vanity, you surprise her yet again.

“angel, can you help me with this?”

and arlecchino, fourth of the fatui harbingers, father of the house of the hearth, goes completely and utterly still. her hands, which were busy fixing her cufflinks, pause midair as she looks at you in the mirror with a thoroughly perplexed expression. when she finally finds her voice again, it’s uncharacteristically tentative.

“angel?”

you return her look in the mirror, head tilted at a questioning 45 degrees. “my necklace, i can’t clasp it on my own.”

“no, i—“ she huffs, mildly exasperated, but steps over to help you with the necklace. it’s a delicate gold chain, with an iridescent rainbow rose charm hanging from it. a gift she’d gotten you for your birthday. “what do you mean, ‘angel’?”

“what about it?” you ask with a smile, leaning back into the delicate touch of her warm hands against your nape. “it’s quite cute, no? unless you dislike it?”

“i don’t dislike it,” she corrects, her eyes in the mirror fixed on the way the charm rests delicately above your sternum. “i merely find it… unexpected. i’m afraid i do not see how it fits.”

you hum at that, turning in your seat to face her. you take one of her dark hands, then work on fixing her cufflinks which had previously been forgotten. they’re cast in silver, and encrusted with a single, shining gem. it gleams the same colour as your eyes.

“after you gave the children that… lesson—“ Arlecchino’s expression pinches ever so slightly in something close to guilt at the small bite in your words, “—they’ve all been telling me about those wings of yours that you keep hidden. Angel happened to be one of the many descriptors used.”

You conveniently leave out the part where the children added ‘of death’ behind it. To your uses, it is blissfully unnecessary, despite how accurate it may be.

“I… see.”

You pat her hands once you’ve fixed both cufflinks, intertwining your fingers with hers as you stand from your vanity stool. Arlecchino’s expression is caught between bewilderment, surprise and the barest hint of mirth. You press a gentle kiss to her cheek, then squeeze her hand.

“Well? Shall we go, angel? Our reservation is in twenty minutes.”

Arlecchino clears her throat, then nods. Turns her gaze slightly to the side so she doesn’t have to see what she knows is an abjectly self-satisfied grin on your face at the delicate flush on her pale cheeks, her body betraying her at just how she really feels at this new nickname.

“Yes, of course. Let’s go, dearest.”

And as she walks hand in hand with you on the way to the restaurant, trailing but a few inches behind you with her eyes resting on the way your profile glows in the setting sun, she can’t help but think—if she really is an angel, then her only god would be you.

[snazzynacho]

— Sick Side

Part 1/? Part 2

Emperor Geta x female original character (x Caracalla (one-sided)

Summary: Florentia is betrothed to Geta, but Caracalla is dangerously obsessed with her.

Warnings/tags: 18+ Mentions of STD, mental illness, disease, Forced proximity, forced kissing, referenced/implied past sexual abuse, violent urges, obsessive thoughts, delusions of a disordered mind. No non-con s3x, but it's close. She/her pronouns used. Slight canon divergence. OC is a bit naive and way too nice. Tags may change.

Words: 5k Read on ao3. Masterlist.

A/N: Let’s explore Caracalla’s sick side together (he’s still my babygirl). I initially planned for this to take place in a sort of au/pre-gladiator ii, but then it started making sense to take place during gladiator ii, when Macrinus is being manipulative…so yeah. I've only been able to see the film once so sorry if I get some things wrong. I don't have an editor so sorry if there are typos etc.

Please check the tags before reading.

It is often that Florentia finds herself immersed in the magnificence of the imperial gardens.

She feels it is an honour to walk among the beauty of the statues of the Roman gods and goddesses, and the flowers blooming for all to see. She remembers the Imperial Gardens being talked about with her, before she became wedded to Geta. Everyone has said how wonderful it is, and she can understand why now.

Usually, when she is invited to the palace, Geta’s brother happens to be in the gardens and they walk together when Geta is busy. She likes his company, no more than Geta’s, but he seems sweet. Troubled, but sweet.

Today, they are doing just that.

The air is thick with blooming flowers such as roses and lilies. Caracalla follows a few steps behind her, rambling about nothing in particular, his words spilling out in his usual, disjointed manner.

Caracalla suddenly beams at her, expecting agreement. Having not listened, Florentia does not respond immediately. She does not dislike him, per-sey, but he is so oblivious and his childlike enthusiasm worries her. How is he, Emperor? She knows that his father pleaded with Geta to be Co-Emperors with him, but being in person with the ill emperor is—and she hates to admit it—quite jarring. Her platonic love for him does not diminish, though. Caracalla is going to become her brother-in-law and she will become another one of his carers, as Geta is to him already. Maybe she’s the missing link between them.

“I suppose,” she says, her tone cool, as if she knows what he is talking about.

He nods eagerly, clearly pleased. He believes her lie. “I knew you’d get it. You’re not like the others. You actually understand me.”

Florentia shifts her attention to a butterfly that has fluttered past, its wings reflecting in the sunlight. It lands on a nearby rose, and she absently follows its flight.

“It’s pretty,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him.

“It’s not as pretty as you.” He is serious, his bright blue eyes train on her with an intensity that is both surprising and unsettling.

Florentia blinks, unsure whether to laugh or change the subject in its entirety.

“Yes,” he continues, his gaze softening. “You are like…the sunniest daffodil, the brightest narcissi—though unvain…The smartest rose in the garden. Beautiful, but also clever…A sharp edge to the most elegant sword.”

Florentia is stunned. He is rambling, yet there is an earnestness in his voice, a sweetness beneath. She opens her mouth to respond, but finds herself at a loss.

Caracalla flushes slightly, misinterpreting her silence as disappointment. He feels somewhat dejected. “I…I mean- not that you are weak without a sword, or too harsh like one-”

For the first time, Florentia truly realises that, despite his maddening disease, he is trying. Underneath, there is a sincere man.

Florentia holds his hand carefully. She can feel him trembling. “What you said was beautiful, Caracalla. Don’t go back on your word,”

Caracalla’s eyes widen, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. He has not expected her to respond this way. “You…you think so?” he asks, almost shyly.

“Yes,” she says. “It was…quite sweet.”

His face brightes, a smile grows on his lips. “I knew you’d get it,” he echoed, sounding like a child who had just received praise from a teacher he admired.

Florentia squeezes his hand gently, before letting go carefully. She studies him for a moment, noting the eager light in his eyes, the almost nervous way he was fiddling with the fabric of his toga. Her heart softens. She is so happy to have such a generous brother-in-law already—a new friend.

An orange blur flutters past the corner of her eye. “oh, I think it flew away,” she says sadly.

Caracalla turns to follow her gaze, his expression turning almost boyish. “I’ll catch it!”

He dashes forward, his footsteps heavy on the cobblestones, trying to keep up with the elusive butterfly which seems to take pleasure in taunting him, fluttering away just as he reaches for it, only to settle on a flower just out of his grasp.

“Caracalla!” she giggles as she tries to catch up with him, holding her stola to aid in running.

“I got it! I got it!” he exclaims, lunging forward, arms outstretched. Just as he thinks he has the butterfly cornered, it darts away again, leaving Caracalla grasping at thin air.

Florentia reaches him, catching up with his pursuit. She tries to hold back her laughter, but a chuckle escapes her lips. “You’re scaring it!” she speaks a hint of glee in her voice. “If it wants to fly away, let it. That’s what it does” she calmly says.

Caracalla stands there, slightly out of breath, a dejected expression on his face. “But I wanted to hold it,” he mumbles, his lower lip almost quivering. Florentia cannot help but find him strangely endearing in that moment. He is an emperor, a powerful man, yet he is pouting like a child over a butterfly.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she places a tender hand on his shoulder, gently caressing. “I am sure you will soon,”

His breath hitches at her touch, his eyes widening at the unexpected affection. He leans his weight into her hand, soaking up her comfort like a flower in the sun.

“You think so?” he asks, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. For once, he sounds almost insecure and vulnerable.

“Yes, I believe so,”

He smiles, a small, genuine smile, his earlier disappointment forgotten. For a while, he simply stays there, savouring the touch of her hand on his face. It is such a stark contrast to the usual spoilt swagger and boldness he usually displays, it catches Florentia off guard.

“It can sense a great friend, as I have with you!” she beams.

A tinge of uncertainty occurs at the pit of his stomach, but he smiles nonetheless.

“Look! There it is again!” she spots the butterfly up ahead again. “Wait here, it’ll slowly come back” she interlocks her arm with his gently, so he doesn't run after the butterfly and scare it away.

He obeys, keeping absolutely still, almost holding his breath, as the butterfly returns. Florentia's strategy seems to be working. The tiny insect flutters closer, seemingly unbothered by their presence now, drawn in by her gentle coaxing.

Caracalla gapes, wonder in his eyes, as the butterfly lands delicately on a nearby flower.

It then flies back up in front of their faces and then lands somewhere they do not expect…her nose.

The butterfly perches calmly on the tip of her nose, its wings gently flutter. The moment is almost magical, the world around them fades away as they focus on the tiny creature on Florentia’s nose.

Caracalla’s eyes widen in surprise. Pure glee on his expression. A small gasp escapes his lips. He tenses to move, to try and grab the butterfly, but one look from Florentia holds him in place.

“Don’t move!” she whispers tersely.

She cannot stop grinning as she looks cross eyed, staring down at the butterfly. Caracalla chuckles softly, his eyes are glued to the scene before him. He’s seen Florentia smile and laugh plenty of times—at parties the emperor’s have thrown and dinners they've presented, which is where Geta and her first met—but this is different. There is something nearly childlike in her wide, joyous smile, in the way her eyes sparkle with wonder—like he.

He can't resist marvelling at the sight before him: a beautiful woman, standing in a sunlight garden, a butterfly perched delicately on her nose, making her look for all the world like a nymph straight out of mythology. A true goddess.

He is simply a man, sharing a serene moment with a captivating woman.

“You look positively adorable,” he murmurs, barely able to keep a laugh at bay.

Florentia gulps but blushes deeply, as the implications of his words sink in. The butterfly stays on her nose.

He cannot stop himself from stepping closer, unable to tear his eyes away from her smiling face. She looks so happy, so unguarded in that moment, and all he wants is to be closer to her.

“You are… lovely,” his voice low, reverent. Without thinking, he reaches out, his fingers hovering just above her cheek, as if afraid to touch the fragile moment and shatter it.

The butterfly, seemingly unbothered by Caracalla’s movement, remains perched on Florentia’s nose, oblivious to the tension between them. It continues to flutter softly, its wings a flurry of orange, black and white colours.

Caracalla’s hand hovers a moment longer, the desire to touch her is practically overwhelming, but he hesitates. The reality of their situation crashes back into his mind. She is promised to his brother. There are rules, traditions, duties…

Still, he aches to touch her, to feel the softness of her skin under his fingers.

“Florentia,” he whispers, his voice almost hoarse. “I… I…” He does not know what to say. He wants to confess his feelings, and his growing liking for her. But the words seem to catch in his throat, trapped in the knowledge that he should not feel this way, not towards Geta’s betrothed.

The butterfly suddenly flies away, snapping them out of this trance. Caracalla’s outstretched hand drops to his side, the moment lost. Florentia steps back, clearing her throat.

He blinks, suddenly self-conscious, his heart still pounds in his chest. He wants to say something, to bring the magic back, but what can he say? He almost confessed, almost crossed a line he knew he shouldn’t.

Instead, he clears his throat, attempting to regain his composure. “Ah… that was… quite the experience.”

“I’m sorry Caracalla, I do apologise, but I must go.” she abruptly declares.

“What?” Caracalla’s brows furrow as his eyes widen, a pang of panic hitting him in the stomach. “Go? Where? Why?”

He has not expected her to leave so unexpectedly. Just moments ago, she looked so carefree, so happy, and now she was rushing off, her face tight with tension.

“Florentia, wait,” he calls out, reaching for her, a desperate edge to his voice. He cannot let her go, not now, not when he’s just had the smallest taste of the closeness he’s been yearning for.

“It’s uh— a lady thing!” Florentia blurts as she practically sprints away. It is a lie to her but she does not have time to care.

“A… a Lady thing?” Caracalla stands there, dumbfounded, as he watches her hasty retreat. She is obviously flustered, her cheeks rosy and her steps quick. But a ‘Lady thing’? Caracalla did not know much about the female mind, or their struggles, but he did know a thing or two of something they go through every month…

He frowns at the thought of her being in discomfort. He stands there for what feels like ages, hesitating. He listens to the conflicting voices fight in his head. The more primal voice, the one that cannot forget the way her skin had felt under his fingers, the one that craves her touch again, urges him to follow her, to demand answers. But the other part, the rational voice of imperial duty which understands propriety and etiquette, wills him to remain where he is and tells him to let her go, to forget about her and move on.

He is Emperor. He has a reputation to maintain, an image of absolute power and control. Chasing after a woman, especially his Co-Emperor’s—his brother’s—betrothed, is beneath him. Is it not?

Yet, he cannot unsee her soft and joyful face under the butterfly’s touch, like a painting he can admire but cannot touch, for fear of his hands being scolded.

Finally, with a growl of frustration, he spun on his heel and stalks back towards the palace. He will not follow her, not right now. But he will find her, and he will get answers.

As he walks, his head is a tangled mess of unresolved questions, of unfulfilled desires. He cannot shake the persistent image of her face from his mind, the ghost of his fingers on her skin. He wants to deny his feelings, to bury them under the weight of imperial duties, of concubines. But they remain, stubbornly lodged in his heart. Whether he likes it or not, he has found something he has not experienced: a connection, a longing, for a woman he should not even be thinking about.

Caracalla knows this is dangerous territory—a minefield of political intrigue and familial duty. But he has never been one to heed his own instincts, especially when it comes to women and others he desires. He is an Emperor, and he usually gets what he wants. So why not pursue this forbidden desire?

His ill mind is rapidly regurgitating this greedy sequence of craving, need and want. One minute, he is telling himself he needs to stop thinking about her, and the next, he is already inside the palace, his mind still wrestling with these questions.

Every solution he comes up with raises more obstacles. His duty as an emperor, the politics of the empire, the delicate balance of the imperial family… All of it stands in his way, like unconquerable walls. He scowls, his frustration making his steps heavy as he paces the corridors.

And then, a thought occurs to him. A wild, treacherous thought…

What if he removes Geta from the equation?

The idea is almost shocking in its boldness, its audacity. But the more he thinks about it, the more it begins to carve a twisted sort of sense. Geta, his albeit more stronger brother, the one always better than him... He is a hindrance, a thorn in Caracalla’s side. What if he can eliminate the obstacle, and have Florentia all to himself?

He knows such a thought can be seen as treasonous. but then again, who would dare to accuse the emperor? Geta’s vulnerable, sick, brother? Poor poor Caracalla, to be left with such a weight to bore on his back alone...

The idea continues to take root in his mind, its ugliness blossoming into a twisted plan. Kill Geta, claim Florentia, and secure his line of succession. It is rash, it is dangerous, but it is also thrilling.

Rome’s people are already starting to hate Geta. To turn on them. Macrinus says so himself. So what can be worse?

Caracalla allows himself a small sinister smile, his mind already spinning, devising the first steps of the plan. He makes his way deeper into the imperial residence, nodding curtly at the passing guards and slaves. He will need to keep his growing preoccupation hidden, for now. No one can know his intentions, especially his brother. Geta would certainly know something was askew…he has always been annoyingly perceptive.

He eventually reaches his chambers, closing the door behind him. The room was glorious and luxurious, fit for any majesty. Massive, lavish, and impersonal.

He stalks over to a table, his shaky hand immediately reaches for a bottle of alcohol. He pours himself a goblet of red wine, the quality stuff which is normally reserved for high officials and special occasions, but he thinks this is special enough, right? He needs something stronger for today. The liquid is rich and dark. It doesn't quench his thirst for a particular woman, though.

Drinking deeply from the goblet, savouring the bitter taste, he doesn’t realise he has drunk it all until he’s left slurping air. It was certainly a good drink. He feels the wine spreading through his body, warm and invigorating—a dangerous addition to his already unstable state.

He refills his goblet again and slumps onto a plump chair, swishing the dark red liquid around in the golden goblet, watching the swirls and bubbles forming. He leans back in the chair, his mind is still reeling with his decision. He wants Florentia. He wants her with an intensity so strong, that even he is surprised. And if getting her means doing something as reprehensible as killing his own brother, his own flesh and blood, the one he shared a womb with, then so be it.

He will finally have something of his own, and solely his own. He will have Florentia. One way or another, she will be his.

Caracalla entitles himself to bask in thought. He imagines Florentia by his side, in his bed, under his control. No more coy glances, no more stolen moments. Just her, completely his.

He chuckles darkly, how twisted his mind has become.

He pushes himself up from the chair, pacing across the room. He halts when he walks past his large ornate mirror. He turns to face it, studying his reflection. He looks every bit the Emperor: regal, strong, powerful. More, there is something in his bright blue eyes—a madness that has been festering for a long time. It is a look of a man who has incurably lost all tether to the world, cast to inhumane territories, whether he wants or not.

The enormity of what he is planning to do sinks in. It is not just an act of lust or obsession, it is a betrayal of the highest caliber. Killing his own brother, his blood, just to have his wife.

Yet even as he struggles with the magnitude of what he is about to do, his heart still thuds harder in his chest, his blood grows hotter in his veins. He craves Florentia more than he cares about his own brother.

His gaze never tears from himself. It is the look of a man who is willing to do anything to get what he wants.

“Anything,” he mutters to himself, his voice hoarse with determination. “Anything at all…” He wants Florentia, and he will have her. And nothing, not even familial ties or the wrath of the gods, will stand in his way.

The silence of the room is interrupted by a knock on the door. Caracalla snaps out of his thoughts, his eyes narrow in irritation. Who is foolish enough to disturb him when he is in such a brooding mood?

“What?” he barks out, turning from the mirror. He watches as a slave boy - one of the younger ones - timidly pushes open the door, his eyes lower to the floor and his hands quiver by his sides.

“What is it?” Caracalla repeats, his voice gruff. He can already feel his anger rising. He has no patience for this boy’s cowardice. “Speak up when you’re addressing your Emperor!”

The boy gulps visibly, clearly terrified by the thunderous tone of the emperor's voice. As if the God, Jupiter, has possessed him.

The young servant’s voice comes out in a meek whisper. "The…the Lady Florentia is here, Dominus. She…she says she must speak with you. Urgently,”

Caracalla's eyes widen fractionally in surprise. Florentia is here? In his chambers? It is almost too good to be true. But he quickly composes himself, schooling his features into a neutral expression. "Send her in."

The boy nods quickly before scuttling away, the door closing behind him. Caracalla takes a sudden deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. He is about to be alone, in his room, with Florentia. The very thing he has been craving.

He watches the door expectantly, his hands clenching and unclenching are his sides. Please, he silently prays. Please, come in.

There is a moment of silence, it feels like a century, and then the door swings open. His heart lurches before him. Florentia stands there, silhouetted against the brighter lights of the hallway, her figure in her purple stola, elegant and enticing. Her hair is loose, falling past her shoulders, unbraided unlike it was earlier. Has she arranged it down, especially for him? This enchantress…This Goddess… She might as well be holding his heart in her hands, as that is where it belongs.

Clearly, Caracalla does not see the emotion on her face at first—or rather, unemotion. He's too pre-occupied by the woman he wants in his chambers. Does she feel the same way? Has she heard his plea and come to confess her feelings? Her happy face from earlier is replaced with a tense seriousness he has rarely seen from her.

He stands there transfixed, unsure of what to say.

"Caracalla," Florentia begins softly, her voice cutting through the silence. "May I come in?" Her words come out more like a statement than a question, and Caracalla finds himself nodding “yes” without even thinking, as if under a spell. He watches as she steps fully into the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

This is it. This is the moment…

“What brings you here at this hour, Florentia?" he asks, egging on her feelings for him he thinks she will admit.

He watches as she moves further into the room, her movements graceful but purposeful. She stills, her back to him for a moment, then she turns around. She meets his gaze, her eyes still serious. "We need to talk," she says simply.

Caracalla senses his heart skip a beat at her serious tone. Whatever she has to say, it is clearly important. He tries to keep his features controlled though the urge to reach out and touch her is nearly overwhelming.

“Talk about what?” he questions.

“Please sit with me, Caracalla. I don’t want this to be more difficult than it already is,” she speaks softly, like a parent to a child.

Caracalla frowns, biting his lip, except her soft soothing voice sends shivers down his spine. He feels so conflicted, a mix of dread and anticipation at her request.

Obliging, he settles on a large chaise nearby, gesturing for her to join him. He scrutinises as Florentia settles across from him, sitting straight, her hands tucked in her lap. She is supposed to sit next to me.

For a moment, neither one speaks. The air is thick with tension, each waiting for the other to break the silence first. Finally, Caracalla cannot bear the suspense any longer. “What is it, Florentia?” he asks, his voice gruff. “You say we need to talk. So speak.”

As their eyes lock, he catches a fracture in her serious expression—a flicker of hurt—and it hits him like a punch in the gut.

He tries to steady his features, to keep the turmoil within him at bay. But he can feel his composure slipping. Where is Dondas?

“Flora—” he says, his voice softer now. But she cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

“This is difficult enough, Caracalla,” she lets out, her own voice catching slightly. “Please, let me speak. I need to say this.”

He bites back a retort, falling silent. He has never seen her quite like this before…so serious, so vulnerable. It makes him strangely unsettled. He gestures for her to continue, his gaze never leaves her beautiful face.

Florentia takes a deep breath, clearly gathering her thoughts. When she speaks again, her voice has regained its stoic determination.

“Caracalla, I know you have feelings for me. I’ve seen the way you look at me, the way you act around me. And I…” She pauses, a flicker of indecision passing over her features. “I cannot reciprocate those feelings.”

Caracalla leans back, his back hits the chase, as if physically blown by her words. He feels the color drain from his face, his mouth suddenly bone-dry. Is she saying what he thinks she is? She cannot be. Florentia…she is his. How can she not want him?

He attempts to speak, but the words are lodged in his throat. All he can manage is a strangled, “what?”

“Caracalla, this does not mean I do not love you, nor care about you.” she leans forward to carefully hold his hands “I do deeply. Just…not in the romantic sense.”

Caracalla senses her grip on his hands, but he cannot bring himself to look at her. Her words echo in his ears, each syllable is a fresh spike in his heart. She is rejecting him. She cares for him, but only as a friend. Not as a lover, not as he wants her to. It is worse than any physical blow he has ever received.

“But… why?” he manages to croak out, the sound pathetically pleading. His mind shows him flashes of all the times they have spent together these past few months. All those walks in the garden, the polite smiles in passing, the shared memories of the feasts he and his co-emperor have put on. How can she not love me?

“Why?…I…Well, because. Because the gods have someone else for you. Your true love. They’re out there somewhere, just not…here,” Florentia tries to tread around the topic carefully, as she squeezes his hands gently and lovingly.

Her words only fuel his disbelief, his confusion. “The gods?” he echoes, his voice thick with skepticism. “They’ve decided for me who I should love? After deciding to give me this disease?!” his nostrils flare as his anger grows, his expression quickly turns sinister. He can no longer control his unrest.

He cannot fathom how the whims of the gods can dictate something as personal and primal as love. Let alone gift him a lifelong struggle with his disease, which is increasingly becoming more deteriorating day by day, Florentia fears. It seems arbitrary, cruel even.

What have I done to deserve this?

“What I mean is…That, I am not the one for you, and whoever that is will love you so much, as you so deserve. I cannot do so, I am sorry Caracalla.“

He laughs mirthlessly, a hollow sound that reverberates around the room. Love him, as he deserved? He does not care about any other love. He wants HER, and no one else!

Caracalla leans closer, gripping her hand now. Tightly. The pain of her rejection is beginning to give way to something else. Kill Geta. Take Florentia.

“That’s not good enough,” he says, his voice now low and dangerous. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you, Florentia.”

“Want?” she careens back, looking at him in an unreadable expression.

“Yes, want!” Caracalla snaps, his patience wearing thin. He rose from the chaise, pacing restlessly back and forth in front of her. “You say the gods have decreed that there is someone else out there for me. But what do the gods know of love? Of desire?” He stops, turning, pleading. “They are immortal, unfeeling. They do not understand the concept of yearning for someone, to desire them with every fibre of your being.”

Florentia swallows harshly. Her mouth goes dry, and her chest feels heavy. She stares at where he was sitting only a moment ago. “I have desired you from the moment I first laid eyes on you,” Caracalla admits, though Florentia has quickly pieced that together after earlier’s event. His voice is quiet but intense. “Your laugh. Your intelligence. Your beauty. You have invaded my every thought. I cannot think, I cannot sleep, and when I do you are in my dreams. You are all I want, all I fantasise about.”

Tears are brimming his blue eyes, threatening to fall. He takes a step towards her, leaning over to look into her eyes. His eyes burn with an intensity that makes her involuntarily bend her neck away from him. “How dare some gods decide that I cannot have you?” he concludes his speech. His breath is hot on her face, and his possessive words start to scare her.

Her lip wobbles, but she keeps it steady. Her tears cannot fall. Not yet. His passion shocks her and if she were in different circumstances, she may have swooned, but, she is not. Florentia is betrothed to his brother, the one she loves. She stands tall, glaring at him “I have a say in this too, you do realise? Not the Gods, ME. If you loved me as much you claim, then you would do anything for me to be happy,”

Her firmness and strength stuns him momentarily. He did expect her to back down, to be overwhelmed by the force of his passion. But there she is, standing strong against him, her eyes blazing with a fire to match his own.

He takes a step closer, their bodies almost touching. “I would do anything to make you happy,” he says. His voice is a hoarse whisper. “Anything at all. You know that,” he repeats. His shaking hands want to reach out for her.

“Then let me go.” she whispers as her hand reaches for his trembling ones, as if reading his mind, which only makes his delusion of her secretly loving him thrive. We are so in sync, as lovers become one.

His breath catches in his throat. Let her go? It is the last thing he wants to do. But her words hold him in a peculiar sort of trance, as if he is physically incapable of disobeying. “I cannot,” he manages, his voice rough, cheeks rosy and wet with tears. “You cannot ask me to do that, Florentia, you are…” He trails off, his eyes search hers desperately. “You are the only person who makes me feel alive. You cannot ask me to give that up.”

“I will still be here for you. We will still walk together in the garden, see each other over meals, be friends…and when I am married—”

He cuts her off, shaking his head as his hands grip hers tightly. “That’s not enough. I want more than that! I want more of you!”

He steps even closer, their bodies are now pressed against each other. He can feel the heat of her, smell the sweet scent of her skin. The nearness only intensified his need, his longing, his hunger.

“Please, Caracalla, I do not know what to say—”

“Do not speak, then.” He cuts her off again, his voice harsh. Then, his lips are on hers, bruising, possessive. He kisses her with desperation and a need that borders on feral.

Her stomach drops, plunging into a deep uneasy feeling. Her eyes widen as his lips are pressing against hers. She whimpers, not in pleasure, but in shock and hurt.

He does not notice her whimper, deafened by the pounding of his own heart, the roaring in his ears. He only feels the softness of her plump lips, the heat of her breath. He presses forward, his hands moving to grip her waist, pulling her closer to him.

Florentia finally comes to terms with what is happening and grips his shoulders, pushing him away. The unexpected resistance snaps him out of his haze of desire. He lifts his head slightly, meeting her gaze with a mix of surprise and irritation. “What are you doing?” he demands, his voice strained. “Why are you pushing me away?”

“I am scared,” she voices subconsciously, her thought spills out of her, her voice wobbily. “You are frightening me,” It is not the first time a man has acted this way around her. Disturbed her. It has never occurred to her that Caracalla could be the one to continue that cycle, until now. Perhaps she has been naive…

She has to flee before it twists into a situation she never wants to experience again.

Caracalla’s gaze softens at her admission. The anger that has flared up at her resistance fades, replaced with a mix of confusion and tenderness. “Scared?” he recites incredulously. “Why? It is only me, Florentia. I am not going to hurt you.”

Florentia motions backwards, looking at him stunned. But Caracalla doesn't quite understand why. He follows her stare, his confusion deepening. He glances behind him, but sees nothing there that would possibly unnerve her. “What is it?” he asks, his brows furrowing, and his leg taunts, wanting to stamp it down like an irritable child. His impatience is returning, his desire for her opposing with his bewilderment.

“You…” she shakes her head, holding one hand on her chest as she braces a sob. “You are…different.” she takes a deep breath and blinks, hoping to see the sweet side of him from earlier rather than the sick side when she opens her eyes again.

Caracalla takes a step back, withdrawing slightly. Her words hit him like a cold splash of water, sobering him. “Different? How?” he asks gruffly.

His heart is still pounding with a mixture of desire and frustration, but her apparent fear is giving him room to think.

Florentia opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out before she practically leaps out of the room. Her legs working faster than her thoughts

He watches her go, confusion and anger warring within him. “Wait...” he manages to let out, but she is already gone. Caracalla is frozen in place, left alone with a whirlwind of emotions. Confusion, desire, hurt, anger—he feels them all intensely. But over everything is the caving feeling of rejection. Florentia was so close, the taste of her still on his lips, yet, she pulled back as if horrified of him. Everyone always sees me as a monster.

He ran a trembling hand through his red hair, his breathing ragged. What has just happened? How did everything go so wrong, so fast? He wants to go after her, to force her to explain why she has run away. But he also fears whatever it is about him that has frightened her.

Feeling restless and agitated, he paces his room again. He tries to tell himself that it was her uncertainty that made her react that way, not disgust or fear but the thought refuses to take root. Every time he reaches for it, it slips through his fingers like smoke while her terrified expression flashes in his mind as clear as day. “I am scared,” The scene replays over and over in his head, analysing every moment. It is like a neverending waking nightmare.

Her flowery scent still lingers in his chambers, and instead of calming him down as it usually does, it is starting to give him a headache, taunting him as if she is still in the room with him. He pictures how the scene could have happened—how it should have proceeded…with Florentia kissing him back, with equal desire and passion. Her hands gliding along his body, his chest. The flutters of his stomach when her hands cradle his cheeks, sliding them down to disrobe him before setting him down on his bed. Then, he feistily tosses her over so he is on top, rips her clothes off, and greedily takes her there and then, feeling how tight and wet she is. All for him.

Gods, he cannot even think straight. His cock reacts to his dirty thoughts which leaves him flustered and irate at the situation. No concubine can cure this.

YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS.

A/N: Comments and reblogs are appreciated. <3

Part 2 has been posted!

THIS WAS TENSE ASF. (it gets worse)

[am-i-interrupting]

can i have viktor finding out reader is still drinking even when she agreed to stop (the stress of him wasting away drove them back to drink) :3

Don’t Pour Yet

He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t disappointed. He was just, as he so often was lately, resigned.

You thought perhaps you were being clever but he knew you. He’d known you. He understood your quirks and interests as you did his. He also understood your flaws.

He could not blame you. If the situations were reversed and if he couldn’t be head deep, drowning in work to come up with solutions, he couldn’t say he wouldn’t be reacting the same.

He sat beside you, on a dusted booth. It was just at the beginnings of the Undercity, right there in the crossover.

He grimaced when his hand touched something tacky and slightly wet.

You still hadn’t looked at him.

He grabbed hold of the glass. You let him take it from you. He watched the liquid slosh around as he made circular movements.

“I noticed the distance,” he said, barely heard above the crowd, “but I held onto a perhaps naive hope that is not where I would find you.”

“I—“ you started and then cut yourself off.

You bit the inside of your lip. You could feel were the exterior had gone chapped. Your teeth caught a dried piece of skin. You could feel the small little clumps of tissue as your teeth rolled over them and you were left with a slightly burning piece of exposed flesh.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I believe I already know.”

“I’m sorry,” you said.

You placed your hand over your eyes. Your head tilted away from him. You didn’t deserve to look at him.

“I know.”

You didn’t deserve his kindness.

He placed his hand on your shoulder and squeezed.

He examined the glass as he held it towards the light. His fingers wrapped around the bottom. He twisted it one way and the other. The liquid swished from side to side but there wasn’t enough left to spill.

“I could be an ass,” he said, “and bring up the fact that you promised to stop but already feel bad enough. “

He was quiet for a moment. Then in a moment of understanding, he down the rest of the glass. It clinked softly as he placed it down.

“I can’t ask you to stop. We both know how that ended last time. It wasn’t until you were ready that you were able to get sober but selfishly, I don’t want to spend my last days without you.”

You rested your hand atop his own. Your hair fell in your face as you let your head plop against him.

[threepandas]

Bad End: For Us

My sister is the only one who actually knows me. Who looks at me and... and actually SEES me, for who I am. It's because she suffers too, I think. Is beautiful. In that way that drives men too distraction. Poets too the page, artists too a medium. They look at her like she is art, magnificence and beauty given form.

Not a person.

Living, breathing, with thoughts and feelings of her own.

She is... is just BEAUTY to them. Delicate features and graceful limbs. Refined and splendid. A lovely voice reducing all her brilliant thoughts to mere sound. Who cares? How clever and educated, how wise or dignified, she may be? She is decoration. A pretty thing to look at. A prize to be held and won.

And... and I am a cute little pet.

Eternally the toddler, to be pampered and dressed in bows. Girlish things, no matter how old I grow. Handled instead of spoken too. Because somehow I am a child. Fuckable, yet... a child. Cute, innocent, naive. Not because I AM, but because they SAY so. Because it matches their fantasy of me.

I fear what will happen if I dare break that fantasy, with how much they control my life.

My Sister, alone, is the one who SEES me.

And people try to convince me she is... what? Jealous? Bitter? Because I am somehow "stealing" the lecherous eyes of her unfaithful man? I don't want them. I don't want ANY of them. Reborn, somehow, as a Protagonist in some game amongst countless, I can predict the plot points as they come. Read the troupes.

Bah. I am no spunky little bright eyed thing.

As I lay, draped over my sister's splendid skirts, in her private writing room, she quietly sips her tea and writes return missives. Strokes my hair as I hide, curled up like a child against her legs. If the ridiculous outfit I was shoved in would allow it? I would cram myself under her desk. Hide there instead.

As it is? I sit like some sulking maiden, an exhausted pet, seeking comfort in the only refuge I HAVE.

They will not leave me ALONE.

The Knight. Some brash, meat headed, "I'll take care of you" type, crashing into every quiet moment I try to have. Loud and presumptuous. Disdainful of my academic interests.

The Playboy. All too forward "romantic" gestures and ignoring obvious discomfort. More wrapped up in HIS feelings then considering, for even a moment, my own. Selfish and dramatic.

The Duke. Cliché and terrible. "Kind" to no one but me. Endless expensive gifts, pressuring grand displays, and eyes that linger possessively. Violence at the drop of a hat.

But oh, let us not forget the ASSASSIN! Yes, the LEADER of the ASSASSIN'S Guild! That somehow, someway, decided I was a prize worth possessing. A cutesy little "interesting" doll. That? Gods only knows, what will happen when he grows bored.

Lingering and haunting me. Crawling through windows. Standing too close, to touch my hair and drop cryptic bits of information that always hint at terrible things. Having to watch my words so SO carefully. Lest someone end up DEAD.

And let's not forget the WORST offender! The most clingy of them ALL!

My sister's FIANCÉ.

The Crown PRINCE! Yes, not some average noble, but a ROYAL!! And the man can't CONTROL himself! But does anyone else care? Noooooo! It's ROMANTIC. True loooove~! Aren't we CUTE together? Surely my Sister, his FIANCÉE, is just JEALOUS. How VILE. Disgusting, they scoff!

I should start throwing chairs.

This house is a nightmare.

I curl closer to my sister. Releasing her skirts to slip an arm around her waist. Hugging her, pressing my face close. She puts her cup down with a soft clink. A second hand joining the first to stroke my head. Cup my cheeks.

"My Dearest, you can not hide against my skirts indefinitely. As much as I would love to let you." She says, voice soft and cool like swirling mist, tilting my face up so she can look me in the eyes. "You DO need to eat eventually, as do I. Unfortunately, I can not keep you here forever. Come, help me plan the wedding. We can look at cake styles."

I'd rather be planning a funeral.

"Not until I get a son out of him, I'm afraid."

Wut.

I blink, not sure I heard that right. Look up at my softly smile sister. No. No, I probably didn't. Wishful thinking maybe? Or I've just been around Stabby too much. I scramble to my feet. Fighting my own girlish abomination of a skirt. I hate it. It's cutesy to the point of mocking. I'm in my TWENTIES for God's sake! Not EARLY twenties either!

Why do I have a BOW ON MY ASS?!

Because I am the Protagonist. Baby faced and Pwecious~☆. Fucking INFANTALIZED. I could BITE.

I sigh, take the arm my sister offers me, and tuck myself into her side. Rest my head upon her shoulder. It's a little uncomfortable, with all the jewelry she must wear. But damn it! I want my cuddles!

I bask, as we walk, in the comfort it brings.

She's strong and graceful. Smells like a delicate spring morning, all rare flowers and new growth. A hint of expensive spice. I LOVE being the little sibling. When it's HER that's treating me so. Because she makes it precious. Comfortable. Like we could spend our lives, together like this. The best of friends.

Happy.

If only people would... you know... stop trying to FUCK me. I prefer my hobbies. For God's sake, I'm RICH and a second child. I HAVE basicly no responsibilities except "don't embarrass the family". Or that WOULD be the case? If our parents weren't so intent on... "pushy dating advice".

"Would you like some lovely news, Dearest?" Whispers my sister, as she sweeps us past some upset looking maids, towards the tea room. I nod. "I've made some wonderful headway with some... ambitious gentlemen, about your little cockroach problem. They are quite efficient. I'm likely to recommend them."

I stiffle a snort. Oh my god. My sister sent thugs after a few of the suitors? Holy shit! That's amazing! Is THAT why I haven't seen them around lately? They got scared?

We settle in our seats. Tea and snacks. The maid looks... nervous. Weird. My sister smiles kindly, somehow startling the poor thing, making her flinch. Oh dear. I try to smile reassuringly. No harm no foul, right? Yet the poor girl reacts like I've cast myself into a lion pit for her. Flees.

....I'm beginning to suspect someone is abusing our waitstaff.

It's probably that bastard lech of a fiance.

We need to keep him away from the maids. And me. Women in general honesty. If I had my say, he wouldn't be allowed near my SISTER either. But she insists, and- Oooh! This one's CUTE! Sis, Sis! LOOK at the little details on this one!

"Hmm? Oh that IS lovely! Do you like it? If so, we shall sample it at once. I want the day to be perfect for us, Dearest. You're my world after all. There's NOTHING I wouldn't give you. A shame though, that our parent's will likely be too sick to see me wed."

It really was. I had my differences with them, but... it was their DAUGHTER'S WEDDING you know? Whatever they had caught, during their endless string of parties, was ravaging their health. It seemed agonizing. Slow. Yet even in the midst of planning her WEDDING, all the gossip and backstabbing, my sister dutifully visited them. Brought them tea and kept them company.

I didn't know how she could bear it.

She was a better person then I, I guess.

[savannahsdeath]

MDNI ! haven't posted much bout ellie lately .. but rockstar!ellie makes me go feral . especially when she likes to have secrets, like a cute groupie backstage. a clever groupie, who wants to be more than a secret

❥︎ i hope nobody catch us ,

but i kinda hope they catch us , anyway ...

"you told anyone?" she cooed in a sweet voice. an overly sweet, too sweet, like the calm before the storm. she had you settled on her lap, making you hold the hem of your skirt — cheap fabric scratching your sensitive fingertips and upper thighs, even though it wasn't the friction you desired. you knew you have to, so your body will be on display for ellie, revealing what she wanted. she looked down at her well deserved gift with lust in her eyes, ready to make a move... yet something was holding her back. her head rested in the crook of your neck, leaning on your shoulder. her fingers left your knee, abrading through your thighs, her knuckles chafing your skin in a light touch, barely palpable, nevertheless enough to give you goosebumps.

"what if i did?" you suggested in an innocently naive tone, which ellie found suitable for an illiterate. it wasn't troublesome to use your brain and interpret her intonation — she was not in the mood to quarrel. her hand abruptly landed on your panties, the raw, cold agitation making you freeze. you gritted your teeth, letting out a strangled seethe, followed by a shake of your head. "i didn't."

you studied the area around you, glancing at all of the instruments left by the other band members. what were they doing now? perhaps they were parading around the building, ( whose storage compartment you were in ) giving autographs for rapacious fans. sooner or later, one of them will notice that something's off — not everyone decided to greet their admirers.

"where's ellie williams?"

this question must be asked, moreover the explanation wasn't known yet. ellie's friends will have a difficult time finding an answer. you had the honor to know. to know where she was and what she was doing. the way her eyes closed in pleasure showed she wasn't embarrassed of her actions at all.

the next thing you took note of was the microphone, stuck in a tripod, which fell down right next to you. you stretched your hand and grabbed it, letting your skirt limply cover up your thighs. as you heard ellie hum, your fingertips quickly moved the snap and put the mic back in its place. it noiselessly rolled away, and even though it was still near, you had to squint, creating a cute wrinkle in the corner of your eyes. after you used enough effort, you stopped struggling to notice a green dot. you blinked a few times — your eyelids fell down... and opened again. but you weren't wrong. there was, definitely, a little light, glowing blurry in your vision. its color was outstanding — an significant, tinted part, evident in the plain black handle. and you knew what it means;

mic on !

ellie unknowingly laughed and withdrew four of her fingers, only the middle one remaining pressed to your lingerie, slowly sliding towards your clit. "of course you didn't," she whispered in your ear.

if you were right — if the microphone was connected to all of the speakers in the pub — no one should hear that murmur. but once any of you whimpers, whines or lets any other pornographic moan out ... there will be a clear excuse for williams' absence.

i kinda feel insane rn . too crazy ? yes Ok

i swear you turned the mic off right after that n nothing happened im not insaneeee 😹😹😇😇😇 and not horny AT ALLLL

[physalian]

Fantasy Worldbuilding Without Ignorant Protagonists

A reminder, as we approach Arcane Season 2, that exposition in a fantasy setting can be given sparingly, and yet still tell an enthralling story.

Or, imagine how different Arcane, or Game of Thrones, or Lord of the Rings would have been if they were “stranger in a strange land” type fantasies with ignorant Earth protagonists who needed the whole plot and kitchen sink explained to them?

I dislike audience exposition vectors, not just in fantasy, but usually in a fantastical setting ranging from urban fantasy to superhero stories, because they’re an author crutch, giving the illusion of having to explain every little detail so the audience can keep up when… if this character wasn’t the hero, and you had to pick a character who knew about the world to be your protagonist, they wouldn’t be asking all these obvious questions and you'd still be able to tell the story.

I know why they exist, so they can be the vehicle through which the audience lives vicariously. We share their wonder and amazement as this cool new realm awes and humbles and frightens them.

But what these characters tend to lack is agency, specifically when they’ve been around in this setting for long enough that they really should start to know better. Or, if they’re built up as smart and self-sufficient, and yet don’t ever seek out information about the plot or their new world beyond asking the other characters dumb questions.

Example because I love these books: In The Titan’s Curse (PJO Book 3) Percy complains about not being able to manipulate the Mist, of which his new rival, Thalia, can do easily. This is one of the first things he does in the book. Because he has to remain the butt of the “seaweed brain” joke (and Annabeth must remain The Smart One), Percy hasn’t already learned how to do this very important trick (and he never does).

While it would behoove him to learn, when he’s had 2.5 years to do so, he just… didn’t. He also doesn’t know what the Manticore is to retain the suspense… when he’s had plenty of time and motive to study up on all the things that eagerly want to kill him, and has a nerdy girlfriend who’d be more than happy to lecture him with this information.

Even something as simple as Percy being shocked that he’s right that it’s the Manticore would have given him a little bit more agency. He’s an incredibly clever character, but still has to serve as the audience exposition vehicle, so he has to remain ignorant so the plot can explain things to him. He's as cherry-picked clueless as the story demands sometimes.

So. You want to have a character for the audience to live vicariously? Please give them expository agency.

Meaning–give them means and motives to learn about their new world on their own instead of asking questions as the plot demands. Or even let these characters form their own biases on what they think they know so that the actually knowledgeable characters can go “um actually”.

I once wrote a protagonist who was from her fantasy world, but purposefully ignorant about life beyond her planet. Why? So I could have all my other characters explain things to her that they would not explain to each other. But she was from a world with heavy information policing and manipulation, so she thought she knew plenty (naively, not arrogantly), giving plenty of fodder for conflict as opposed to just exposition.

It wasn’t just A learning about the new planet for the audience’s benefit, it was A realizing she was misled and lied to, and learning what “facts” she has that are wrong. Was it perfect? Heck no, but not only was this part of her character growth, by the second book, she was all studied up and when something unknown came along, the whole team shared in the confusion.

I did the same thing with Elias, my protagonist in Eternal Night of the Northern Sky. He’s very purposefully, literally sheltered, literally grew up under a rock, but his people have incredibly loud biases against vampires. Elias has plenty of knowledge about his world, both that is correct and vastly incorrect, while still lacking basic knowledge of other survival skills because he’s never had the opportunity.

Elias’s biases drive early conflict and conversation. He’s not going “what’s a vampire” so the other characters can stop the plot to explain them to him. He’s going “I know exactly what a vampire is” and the plot is him getting kicked on his ass with the truth.

So you can have that naive amazement factor, but also still have a character underneath. You can also let that character show off their acclimation into their world by not being afraid to stop making them the ignorant exposition machine.

Just thoughts.

[mask131]

What Oz could have been: The Great and Powerful

I first heard about the original script for Disney's "Oz The Great and Powerful" through a fan art of Theodora by the brilliant artist hwilki65 over at DeviantArt. The fan-art in question is gone now, but do not hesitate to go check the artist's gallery over at DeviantArt, he is one of the most thorough Oz artists of the Internet with tons of clever and beautiful takes on the Ozian world.

Everybody remembers Disney's "Oz The Great and Powerful", right? This Disney movie that attempted to be a prequel to the MGM movie, and yet couldn't really because Disney didn't have the rights? This VERY divise 2013 movie which was a big flop in terms of Oz adaptation? You remember, this thing which took a very cool concept of prequel, a lot of beautiful visuals and impressive visual effects and just... drowned it in cliche plot points, wasted opportunities and the most insufferable characters you ever met?

Yeah, this movie.

In his description for his fan-art, hwilki65 evoked the original scenario for the movie. His fan-art was of the "original" Theodora, not the one from the movie - and while the final product might seem like a simple cash-grab attempting at reclaiming the MGM heritage, these early drafts proved that the movie ACTUALLY started out as much more faithful to the Oz books and more sincere in its attempt at reconciliating the various Oz heritages into something new.

Of course, the idea of a better original version of the movie, that eventually was butchered into the story we can see today, was very intriguing. So I checked out the original script for the movie (but not after YEARS of searching it around, because it wasn't disponible online at first). And OH MY! The original scenario is indeed very different from the final movie, and quite better in term of overall quality! I did a full breakdown of this script back at my Oz side-blog (@witchesoz ), but to give you a taste of what we lost, and to encourage you to go seek this original scenario, here are some key points different from the final movie:

Oscar, the Wizard of Oz. In the movie? A selfish, greedy, womanizing jerk who starts out as the villain of the story, and his evolution arc is basically just him learning to be a decent human being. In the original script? He was such a positive character - in fact I will dare say he was a saner and cleaner version of Jack Sparrow. He was this kind-hearted, goofy, extravagant stage magician VERY good at his job (he was also a ventriloquist like in the novel, AND an escape artist/contortionist), but unfortunately unappreciated by the folks of 1900s USA, so he was forced to do snake-oil selling just to survive. He wasn't motived by greed or lust, but by his day-dreaming and ambition at being the greatest magician of all time, acclaimed by the masses - and the reason he played into "Yes I'm the Wizard of the prophecy" wasn't because of some girls or riches, but simply because Oz was the first place where his magic tricks actually impressed someone.

Remember this little winged monkey fella that Oscar saves the life of in Oz, and so the monkey swears a "life debt" to the wizard and becomes his funny sidekick? In the original script it was the reverse situation. Oscar was helped by a winged monkey, and thanked the talking animal for saving his life, swearing he had a "life debt" TO THE WINGED MONKEY, not the reverse.

In the final movie, when Oscar is in the tornado, he just whimpers and begs for his life. In the original script? He underwent a King Lear-like monologue, insulting the winds and defying the storm, insulting the tornado and daring it to kill him.

Theodora... Oh, Theodora! The character was originally designed as the very opposite of what she ended up as. She wasn't a shy, naive, nice girl - she was this strong, confident, majestic witch. Oscar didn't manipulate her like a teenage girl: she was the one who manipulated Oscar like a puppet by pretending to be a good witch and forcing him into the role of The Wizard of Oz. Yes I say "by pretending" to be a good a witch. Because originally, Theodora was a wicked witch FROM the start. She knew and was in league with her sister's evil plan. The only difference between the two is that Theodora, as the younger and less experimented sister, still had some humanity left in her - feelings of kindness and human decency that the wizard managed to "wake up" by just... being nice to her and treating her like a regular human being. There was the whole "I give you the music box" scene, but it was the reverse? In the original draft Oscar didn't lie, he just gave her a random music box as a gift for helping him in Oz, just out of kindness without expecting anything in return ; and that DID touch Theodora because indeed, since she is a wicked witch, she never had such a genuine gift out of pure kindness.

Originally we would have the backstory of the Cowardly Lion. Theodora, wishing to "test" if the Wizard truly had powers or not, secretely turned a rabbit into a lion, and had it attack Oscar while he was alone and presumably defenseless... Only for the Wizard to shoot it with a gun, causing in this rabbit-lion the fear of humanity.

Originally the servants of the Wicked Witches were the various terrible tribes of the novel "The Emerald City of Oz", monstrous outsiders the Witch sisters had Oz invaded with. The Growleywogs, the Whimsies, the Nomes (well rather the Gnomes)...

In the movie Theodora "turn to evil" is literaly just "Oh, a guy cheated on me, I'm heartbroken, let me nomnom on some evil". In the original draft? SO MUCH BETTER! Evanora, noticing Oscar had rekindled the last piece of goodness in her sister, first tries to convince Oscar he should kill Theodora because she is "in league with the wicked witch". When Oscar refuses to commit murder, Evanora tries to convince Theodora Oscar was trying to kill her... But Theodora doesn't buy it and, even though the Wizard knows she is a Wicked Witch, she still helps him escape Evanora in return for the kindness he showed her. And afterward, Evanora spends many, many scenes abusing her sister, at first verbally, psychologically, finally physically, to convince her to give up on the last of her humanity and enter a deeper, more monstrous stage of wickedness. Theodora does end up burning her skin due to the tears - but they're the tears her sisters make her shed with her torture. And Theodora resists' Evanora poisonous words, only to give up when Glinda causes a siege on the Emerald City and the Witches must prepare themselves to directly confront and fight Oscar.

And can we speak about Glinda? She was SO MUCH closer to the Glinda of the books! She was this majestic, beautiful and powerful warlord-witch living in a grand palace in the south, all on her own (because, since she is a witch, she literaly needs no servant). As soon as she saw Oscar, she cut through his bullshit and shoot down his dream of grandeur, because she knows what real magic is (all Witches do, but the Wicked Witches played along to better manipulate Oscar). She gathers an ACTUAL army of thousand of people to besiege the Emerald City ; and during the war she uses so much more her powers, bu unleashing blinding mists and huge snowstorms, and literaly stopping or unleashing the winds. Oh yes, and all possible romance between Oscar and her is also clearly made impossible when it is revealed that Witches cannot kiss humans - else humans DIE (which also puts Theodora's loneliness under a new light).

Oh yes, and in the original draft, Oscar's development was actually him going from this ambitious daydreamer who only wished for a fantasy land to escape to, where he would be a great and acclaimed wizard... to him actually being fed up with Oz where everybody wants to kill or manipulate him, and dreaming to return to Kansas to settle down with those he truly love, and live there a mundane, quiet, normal life, as a regular man... Something he ends up being forced to give up, because he is needed to prevent the Wicked Witches from overtaking Oz, and so he literaly is trapped within his own dream and forced to give up what he realized too lat was what he wanted all along...

Seriously, the original draft for the movie was SO INSANELY COOL. It was still a rough draft and it had pacing problems, and some cheesy stuff that definitively needed to be cut, and also some weird phrasing that made it sound somehow racist sometimes? But outside of that, the characters and plot were truly so much better than what we got!

[dyns33]

Only wastelands 4

Annnnnd here's part 4 !! I will be honest, I will need some time to finish this series. I know where I'm going, but I can't find the time or energy to write it.

Tag : @one-of-thewalkingdead @coolrobloxkid28 @thebumbqueen @rachmari @ilyvia @justme12200 @honeybunhottie @savanahc @gobbodoggo @bisasterbisexual @killingboredom @bonafideyapper @i-simp-for-mha-men @pixelatedprofilepic @ultimatreality @chattersstuff @harmfulb1tch @hellolettuce444 @miketastic25 @darkangel4121 @avidreadee123 @kaitttttttt @nullx1ety

It would have been a lie to say that Y/N hadn't prayed that Janey would be a better traveling companion to Lucy. The vaultie was not bad, but far too naive, talkative, not listening to advices.

Maybe she had been heard, or Cooper had been a great father, but the little girl was a true angel.

Obviously very clever for her age, she didn't need long explanations to see that the world had changed, that it was dangerous, and that it was a good idea to follow Y/N without asking too many questions.

Of course Janey still had some questions. This was perfectly normal. But she waited until they were safe, often before sleeping, to look at Y/N with her big, innocent eyes.

“Are we going to see dad soon ?”

"… Yes. He's not far away." the woman said as she checked her pitboy.

If the information was correct, Lucy was only a few days' walk away, and if Coop was still with her, then he would be reunited with his daughter soon. 219 years without seeing her, without any news, no clue on her location, and the almost evaporated hope of finding her still alive.

Of the things Y/N hadn't yet explained to Janey, the time that had passed since her forced separation from her father was one of the most complicated. The child probably thought she would find the man in the picture, smiling and with pink skin.

She nervously repeated that Cooper had been ill, but couldn't elaborate. Each time, Janey responded that her daddy was strong, and that he would get better soon, especially if they helped him.

Impossible to contradict this adorable child.

If she wanted to lie again, Y/N would have said that she wasn't walking as fast as she could because she wasn't sure what would happen when Janey saw her father. That would probably be a shock. Was she going to scream ? Cry ? Be afraid of him ?

It would break Cooper's heart. And she could repeat that she hated him, that she didn't care at all about his fate, Y/N didn't want to hurt him like that. Anyhow, but not like that.

There was also the possibility that he would react badly to seeing her. Vault Tech was so monstrous, they would have been able to clone Janey, or create a robot that looked like her, or even brainwash her at her mother's request.

He could also think that he had become too monstrous to approach such a pure being without harming her.

Maybe he had abandoned Y/N, thinking only of himself, but he would never do that to his own daughter. She couldn't believe it. The problem was that he would want the best for her, and he might think that was keeping his distance.

Y/N had imagined all these possibilities, but in reality, she knew perfectly well that they would just be happy to have each other again. If she was afraid, it was mainly for herself. For them.

She had been running from him for three years. Not that he seemed to be looking for her, but she had promised herself that their paths would never cross again or it would end badly.

She was not thinking of killing him. First because she had no chance against this cowboy, but above all because Y/N may have hated him for what he had done, she still loved him too much to really want his misfortune.

That was probably why everything was still very painful.

When the Pitboy beeped to indicate that they had arrived at their destination, Y/N observed the ruined building, Janey's hand still holding hers, awaiting orders.

Although fear kept one alive in the wastelands, one should never hesitate. Never.

Cautiously, motioning to the little girl not to make any noise, they approached what was obviously Lucy and the Ghoul's hiding place for the night.

With another gesture, Y/N indicated to Janey to stay at the end of the corridor, while she checked the place, until she found what they were looking for. And if necessary, she should flee.

As none of her reactions were normal, the vaultie seemed happy to see her, greeting her with a huge smile.

Sitting in a corner, hand on his rifle, Cooper didn't look so happy. Surprised, yes, nervous too. With a mixture of sadness and anger. Not really open to a reunion.

But he had celebrated their separation, he had no reason to want to see her again.

Y/N stared at his gun, wondering if he was going to shoot. No movement showed he intended to harm her, but he kept his hand on the trigger. Maybe he thought she was going to try something.

Slowly, so as not to rush him, and ignoring Lucy's long tirades about everything that had happened to them in New Vegas where they had not found her father, Y/N made Janey understand that she could come.

The weapon fell to the floor as she walked through the door. The hatred completely disappeared from Cooper Howard's eyes.

He just sat there, petrified by this vision of his past.

The poor kid shook a little, clinging to Y/N, not understanding what they were doing with these people. So Y/N got down on her level.

"This is Lucy, she was in a shelter like you and me. And… Janey. Janey, here's your father." she whispered with an uncertain voice.

The child looked at her, searching for a lie or joke on her face, before turning back to the Ghoul, who still hadn't moved.

It may have been instinct, the call of blood, or the great intelligence of this kid, but then she found her smile again, finally recognizing the man who was standing there.

"Daddy !"

While he had been stuck since their arrival, Cooper didn't hesitate for a second when Janey ran towards him. He opened his arms to welcome her, lifting her to embrace her tenderly, breathing a sigh of relief that he had been hoping for for two centuries.

Lucy didn't understand everything that was happening, but she placed a hand on her heart in front of this scene, knowing that she had to keep quiet for once. Nothing should spoil this moment.

"Janey… My lil cowgirl…" sobbed Cooper. "You're okay. You're here."

"I missed you, dad. Why didn't you come with me in the car ?"

"He… I told you, there was no more room. I was supposed to join you later, but there were problems. I'm sorry, my angel. I wanted to come."

“Mom said you left me.”

"Your mother… Your mother will have had bad information. I would never have left you. I would always come for you."

The sentence echoed in Y/N’s mind. A broken promise. Without really thinking about it, she touched the picture she always kept in her bag. If it had been of value to Cooper, it hadn't been enough for him to come get her.

Now that he had found Janey, that photo was forgotten. It was long forgotten, like Y/N, who no longer had any value.

At least this story would have a nice ending. Their paths had crossed so that she could bring back his little daughter. He had saved her, she had saved them. They were even now.

Still silent, she left the room, then the building, without attracting attention. Lucy was too busy crying, while Coop obviously only had eyes for his child.

By the time they realized she was gone, Y/N would already be far away.

Maybe the vaultie would want to follow her, thinking about using her pitboy, but there was no reason the cowboy would want the same thing. If his daughter wasn't enough, he would continue to search for the old MacLean, for Barbara, all those responsible for the end of the world.

But not Y/N. Even to thank her. He hadn't looked for her in 3 years, he had no reason to start now.

So it was a surprise when something passed around her at lightning speed, stopping her in her tracks as she was about to advance towards the desert.

It had been a long time, but she remembered that damn lasso and the habit of its owner perfectly.

“Leaving so soon, sweetheart ?”

Why wasn't he with Janey ? Why stop her ? Why not be happy to see her go, like last time ? He already had Lucy to annoy him, and even if he loved her, it wouldn't be easy to survive in this world with a child. Why make her suffer like this ? Why make her believe that she was important ?

She could ask him all these questions and finally get real answers, but Y/N was scared.

No sound came out of her mouth as she turned to face Cooper, who had regained his cold gaze. This blur between despair and hatred. As if he had a reason to be angry with her.

“Think we need to talk.” he said in a slow voice. “A real conversation, sugar.”

And from the man who hated idle chatter, long explanations, and really all human interaction, that was something.

[headspacedad]

The Villainess Flips the Script

This is Luca Winterwald.

He's the hero of the revenge story Master of the Winter Forest. Luca's mother died from a disease when he was very young and he was raised by an aunt that neglected him until one day he was discovered to be the child of a noble. His life didn't get better when he was brought to live in the Winterwald household however where he was looked down upon, tormented and his only support, his uncle, eventually died to save his life. He went into hiding and only returned once he was an adult to eliminate everyone that stood in his way and have his revenge while becoming the next Duke of Winterwald.

He's not who the story is about. The story is about his aunt. Judith.

Or rather, its the story of the modern day woman who ended up transmigrated into Judith's body just before the story in the books really gets started.

Still, our girl is determined not to abuse a nine year old kid.

She's also determined not to meet the grisly end that her character did at the start of the novel.

So her first step is to turn over a new leaf and start taking care of her nephew.

It does not go well.

At all.

Luca is not interested in forming any bonds with the woman that abused him up until this point and he's a desperately clever kid on top of that. Not to mention, before they really have time to work on these new character dynamics the beginning of the novel starts. The noble looking for Luca arrives.

Ruediger Winderwald is the only surviving son of the Duke of Winterwald. Despite that fact, the Duke had never named him as his heir. Instead, Ruediger's brother Jonas was supposed to be heir - until he died. And Jonas' son out of wedlock is none other than Luca. In the novel, Ruediger shows up, pays Judith a large sum of money and takes Luca back to Winterwald with him where he becomes the boy's staunchest guardian, mentor and father-figure. Judith is ready to let the child go on to this better life (without accepting the money for him).

Luca, however, has other ideas.

Well, you can't ask a boy to leave his mother behind and Ruediger is more than willing to bring Judith along as well.

So the story starts - with one extra character involved in its plot now. Judith coming along isn't the only thing that's changed though. Luca, who in the story immediately took to and adored Ruediger - um - doesn't.

Plus he's not the naive, innocent child he was in the story either. This Luca is jaded, he easily masters things he struggled to learn in the novel and he's deeply protective of the aunt that abused him especially when it comes to Ruediger.

And yet he also has so many of Ruediger's habits...

Well, that's a mystery to solve but first they have to survive assassination attempts, the royal court's politics, greedy members of the Winterwald family, long hidden secrets and Judith's love of baseball.

This story though - I am so in love with this story. It's like the coziest soft blanket on a winter day, complete with mug of warm drink and good book. Judith is a quiet heroine but she's so solid and she feels things so strongly that she's far from boring. She's utterly devoted to Luca and yet she's still a character with her own dreams, thoughts and life outside of just being the 'guardian'. She'd an intelligent heroine too and its very rare for her to not pick up on story clues. The only time she's ignorant for the sake of Moving the Story is:

Ruediger. Gosh, I love this guy. He is straight-forward to a pin drop and has no ego to speak of. Which doesn't mean he's not an aristocrat and absolutely confident in himself to the core because he is but when Judith tells him she likes him for his looks - our dude here, instead of being offended, IMMEDIATELY takes up a skin care routine so that he can keep the face she obviously likes at Peak Function. He's determined to be a good uncle to Luca but he's just as interested in being a shield and support to Judith as well. Our guy here does nothing by half-measures. He's not loud about it - he fits Judith's 'quiet' heroine as a 'quiet' hero but he's a hero absolutely and once he makes up his mind there's no turning in him.

As for Luca - Luca breaks your heart. He's trying so hard to be an Adult and yet he's a kid. It's pretty obvious Something Up with him but he loves his aunt so much and he's sensitive behind his jaded attitude. Getting to watch the moments where Judith pulls the child inside him to the front is so healing and when he wishes to be happy you understand entirely where he's coming from. Plus his little shit attitude is a riot and I enjoyed every second of it.

You know me - character interaction is what makes or breaks a story for me and this one is so well written when it comes to that. Every one of the characters has layers to them, the interaction can swing from hysterical to heart-tugging with just about anyone and the core family - Luca, Judith and Ruediger - is so precious as they struggle along to figure out where they all stand with each other (and take turns teaming up together to gang up on the other one). The Duke of Winterwald's approach is absolutely chilling, the villainess is believable and completely understandable and the Grandfather is a riot.

The story's no slouch either though. The plot is tight and appropriately twisty while making it an easy to follow all the way through. Nothing ever drags out too long but you do get to linger on the good parts. When you figure out each point that's going on before the story gives it away, its still fun watching everything fall into place until you get to the reveal point. The art is pretty/funny by trade and the ending is completely satisfactory. Because hey, yeah - this story is complete. This story, while not as loud as some of the stories I've read, is so solid and delicious that its one of my all time top five fav manhwas right now. Highest of recommendations on this one. The epitome of 'found family'.

rating: PG13

warnings: blood, death, murder, child neglect, child endangerment, messed up family dynamics, Judith's terrible fashion sense

finished: YES! at 119 chapters our story is finished (with the promise of a few addendum chapters for fun)

abs: well, he takes off his glove in chapter 12 with his teeth and that's about the same level isn't it?

ps. my all time fav bit character is this girl RIGHT HERE

double pps - have some early clips of why Ruediger is such a wonderful guy

I read it in its entirety over on Kaliscans here but I would not recommend doing so without an ad-blocker and a virus guard running. I find the site impossible to read on my phone and so can only use it on my laptop with my uBlock Origins running.

[katyspersonal]

So like... thoughts on Messmer's crew? Not the man himself, just the guys he hired.

I actually found the remaining two Fire Knights just recently! :D I didn't post about it yet, but I assume this is all of them! ...I hope. Shadow's Keep has too many turns. Who knows.

This is sweet how they all are close with Messmer and stood with him no matter what.... Unlike THESE traitors:

(Sorry I forgot to copy the screenshots so have bad phone images fshhds) Like @heraldofcrow said earlier, it is really stupid how they could accept like genocides and whatever but drew the line at him being a snake sdfhfghds Well, Fire Knights definitely didn't!

Queelign was the first one I've met, and apparently in the wrong order since I missed him in Belurat and had to go back there! And I instantly hated that zealot, even before I had the picture of what exactly Fire Knights were!

^ As if Queelign's dialogue was not enough, he also dropped THIS! The reason I will ALWAYS respect Miyazaki no matter what is that he always finds the way to throw a jab at this particular grudge at human race fsdhfdsh

He is still a terrible person, but since then I warmed up to him when I've found some potential in him! He is not only the most fleshed out from the Fire Knights, but also in JUST the right way! He is very passionate and fanatical, but also very genuine and naive with his feelings. And he not only wants to be like Messmer, but also has very strong fixation on Marika! Like I keep joking, she is such a bad mother that even people who aren't her children have mommy issues over her fhhdsf

But he also, interestingly, reflects that weaker, childish part of Messmer that still wants his mom to love him. Whereas Messmer is at least good at repressing it, with Queelign it is completely loose and earnest, and the guy is probably not aware! He IS like a little version of himself in this way.. Not sure whether Messmer dislikes him, or pities him, or maybe at least several times told him to NOT try to be like him! In any case, it is really cool how there is the guy who gives that interesting insight. You could write headcanons essays on the psychology between Queeling and Messmer, or just Queelign. I wrote an essay on what could transpire if Tarnished healed him instead (I believe he dies when we find him, from deadly wounds since we only access his chamber after beating him twice).

Like, you can work with this character, you see what I mean? I never found a similar rambling potential in, say, Alfred or Lautrec. They're religious fanatics too, yet that was exactly ALL I could tell about them. MEANWHILE I've made like FIVE posts about Queelign already and they are all substancial! And, boy, any writer WANTS a strictly cruel, fanatical, irredeemable, negative character to give something to talk about besides just kicking the topic of them being bad. If you are writer, remember to similarly give the topics of discussion to your villains! I agree with what Izunia said earlier:

+ Correction though: Petrus does NOT belong in the list of fanatics xd He has opposite problem! He is a selfish, opportunistic, corrupt, cowardly parasite that benefits from the religious institution and doesn't actually HAVE any beliefs he will kill and die for. He kills for his benefit, like how he killed Reah after her being rescued clearly so she would not rat him out, ie risk his position as elite cleric! There is a good reason why of all cleric/religious/etc characters he is the only one who has no simps!

This guy kicked my ass a couple of times, but if Fire Knights are Messmer's most important people, that makes him second most important person in his army? ...okay third, after his wife Rellana fsdjhdfhssd Really clever how only the captain wears a helmet fashioned after this creature, since he keeps Messmer's military forces in check here

1) I also assume that the "loneliness" Wego experienced was from having outlived the people he held dear as not only being in the military but also elder! Because why else would he be strictly lonely, if he has friends within the covenant? Like look right here, he had a pupil! :p 2) This implies that disagreeing with Messmer was a huge risk.. but not only Messmer spared him, but also actually listened to his request!

So basically, Salza is okay with burning people and their homes, but he draws the line at destruction of like, culture, knowledge and ancient architecture fshfds And not he alone:

It were Fire Knights who asked Messmer to have the Specimen Storehouse, so there is at least historical remains about the species they destroyed! So as funny as the double standard looks, it makes a lot of sense; like it was mentioned earlier, all Fire Knights were nobles at the Erdtree! Of course they have it internalised to preserve culture and knowledge for the future! They all had to be well-educated and well-cultured people, not sympathising with the type of hatred that aims to erase as much as history! And at the same time, being educated didn't help them to consider not participating in the HoLy cRuSaDe to begin with..

And this is so human. It is very realistic. There is a lingering misconception that it is ignorance, poor quality of living, low class, bad past or all at once that makes people prone to crime, but in reality there are criminals in every class and every demographic. We should not attribute the root of all evil, crimes and harmful prejudices only to concrete group, because this is always just a matter of multiple people gathering and deciding to do something. When it is not mistreatment and despair that drives people to evil, it is power and corruption, because people ARE evil by nature.

_______________

So yeah, I really like what they did with this covenant! They did well with giving the sense of each of them being an individual by naming and distinguishing five characters like this! For Soulsborne games, this is rich x) They have some tweaks to their outfits or weapons, they have characterisation that makes them unlike each other, and THIS is what's wild; how so many people that clearly can and always could think for themselves ended up here! Queelign too! I could speculate that Alfred has been indoctrinated and brainwashed since young age, or that Lautrec lost his marbles after some sort of grasp by Fina, but Queelign apparently was no less of a noble that decided to go like his peers, nor he'd be any more embraced by Marika than everyone else with grace! He is Just Like This fshdfhs

They made the covenant very real an interesting. (Also rich for creating OCs if you like writing awful people and want to be close with Messmer 😔)

[rayclan]

our starting cats! get used to them, you’ll be seeing them a lot :>

individual drawings + extra under the cut

SILVERSTAR

she/her, cis shecat, 46m

- lonesome, natural leader, religious, erratic

- stubborn and hard-headed, she’ll never back down from a fight, often to her own detriment.

HAILCHEST

he/they/she, nonbinary tomcat, 76m

- arrogant, ambitious, perceptive. incredibly intelligent, always seems to be calculating something behind her eyes.

- a clever, trusted advisor to silverstar. thinks he’s better than others because they’re smart.

STEMTUFT

she/her, cis shecat, 111 moons

- cautious with a sharp eye for justice. can come off as cruel or bitter, she just has a hard time getting her words right.

- as a skilled healer, she cares deeply for her patients and her friends. tired most of the time.

STONESHADE

she/her, trans shecat, 99 moons

- vengeful, with an excellent memory, she never forgets a grudge. an eloquent speaker with a silver tongue, stoneshade can talk her way out of anything.

- very compassionate with motherly instincts. she has a tendency to take in stray kits and nurse them back to health (two of which being silverstar and murkwhistle, the rest of her kits left in adulthood, it seems the other two are just momma’s girls)

NETTLEBURN

he/him, cis tomcat, 86m

- an unusually strong fighter, but extremely nervous. he would be a formidable opponent otherwise.

- he is, however, an incredible teacher. he’s quite fond of murkwhistle, his former apprentice.

STORM (the gray one)

he/they, trans tomcat, 92m

- skilled storyteller with a dramatic flair who knows all the tales of old. secretly insecure, but hides it with aloof confidence.

- pair bonded with mask. do not separate.

MASK

she/they, cis shecat, 55 moons

- truly confident in herself, she knows that she knows what she’s doing. seems to know things others don’t, they’re quick to leave any situation that feels off to them.

- quiet, stoic, tends to keep to herself.

MURKWHISTLE

she/her, cis shecat, 24 moons

- compassionate and full of light, usually passed off as being naive, though she’s really not, she’s just had a good life.

- very strong with huge paws for her size and muscles that ripple under her pelt.

???

- we’re not so sure who this is, yet

[otterglimmie]

Cuphead, Mugman And Ms Chalice Headcanon (+ Interpretation)

// This will be a mix of canon information i have with my headcanons and interpretation, it will be about the three main characters of Cuphead, as you can see. This post is going to be longer than the other 2 last headcanons because I'm going to be more specific, sorry.

Cuphead

• Adventurous: He likes to go out and explore the world outside, It may involve some objective like riches or whatever, but still, he enjoys trying new experiences and exploring new places.

• Confidence: He is sure of themelve and his abilities, not in an arrogant way. He belief in their own decisions and actions

• Careless and Cheeky: He prefers to live in the moment and not worry too much about it, he doesn't think much about the consequences of his actions. he doesn't take things too seriously and he can lack respect or politeness, this sometimes, can be quite annoying to deal with.

• Charming yet Troublemaker: He is very brawler, proactive and inpulsive, he tend to causes problems alot, but he can be assertive and charismatic. He can make friends easily due to his friendliness, jokes and social skills.

• Hot Head: he's the type to get into fights without thinking twice, if someone messes with him or his friends he will fight and won't stop (unless somebody make him stop), It doesn't matter who it is.

• Loyal and Kind hearted: He is loyal to his family and friends, He wouldn't think twice before helping someone (his impulsive side can be good sometimes) he is friendly and kind with anyone who is nice.

• Naive but Clever: Being a child, he is innocent and tends to quickly believe in someone. But yet, he's clever, he tends to solve problems in a creative ways of own gain.

• Extras: He's a jokester. Likes seafood, honey and marmalade. His nose glows in the dark if you touch it, like Rudolph (This last one is a joke... almost)

Mugman

• Meek: He is calmer and peaceful compared to his hot headed brother, He doesn't like to get involved in hand to hand fights (only if is necessary... or force to)

• Cautious: He is also more careful about not getting into trouble, contrary to his brother, He prefers to stay out of.

• Observer: He is great at noticing little things, gestures and details that no one else can. (He would make a great detective)

• Reasonable: He has more common sense and is the most sensible brother, Always trying to resolve things calmly and without discussions

• Fun loving: But appearances can be deceiving, despite being a great opposite to his brother, he loves an adventure, for the same reasons as his brother. Exploring and discovering new places, Having fun outside, enjoying nature and playing with friends

• Playful: He doesn't like to be bored and prefers to have fun in some creative way, he is always willing to participate in a variety of arts,sports,activities, whenever he can do.

• Dorky: There are times when he prefers to take a break from adventures and playtime to read a book or finish some schoolwork. He may be seen as a nerd for this but he doesn't care.

• Extra: He likes mint ice cream. Likes to practice planting and botanic. His nose makes a noise, like a clown's nose.

Ms Chalice

• Friendly: She likes to be surrounded by her friends and also likes to make new ones, she much prefers to be accompanied by them than alone in an empty place.

• Extroverted: She is great at socializing and tends to make friends very easily thanks to your kindness and social butterfly attitude, meeting new people is always welcoming for her.

• Curios: Having been a ghost and been trapped in the maloseum for decades, She would be dying (sorry for the pun) to know what's out there in the world. After returning to life, she didn't miss the opportunity to explore and venture outside, but she always get into trouble thanks to his curiosity.

• Plucky and confidence: she is a brave gal, who faced worse things before, she's not afraid to take risks and stand of others. She's self-assured, she's belief in their abilities and has a sense of trust in their own decisions and actions

• Headstrong but Stubborn: (On occasions) Likes to do things her way and the way she understands, She believes in what she believes and rarely changes her mind when contradicted, if she wants to do something (good or bad) she does it and no one is going to make her change her mind

• Troublemaker: Just like Cuphead, she doesn't sit still and gets into trouble thanks to her challenging attitude and stubbornness, She's very vocal about what she thinks, too stubborn to stop and very curious about everything around her, leading her to trouble.

• Clever: She always tends to think or find solutions quickly, She is agile and ingenious to come up with an idea to solve a problem.

• Extras: She likes flowers like daffodil and marigold. She likes music and dancing. She has Kenophobia