#again i could talk at length about her husband and sham-marriage

[invinciblerodent]

I know it's not really a popular interpretation that's gonna win me a bunch of brownie points (from what I've seen many seem to like him more as a tortured romantic or a "crouching grouch, hidden softie"), but I personally am growing to really like characterizing Astarion as a... a weird, selfish, jealous little chaos gremlin that, while he of course has his reasons, is just kind of a crappy person, even when he's in love.

Like I can fully see him as someone who, as time passes between the first proposition and the commitment scene (and you're still not throwing yourself at his feet, blubbering and sobbing about how much you love him????? the audacity??????), starts to get annoyed at you every time you talk to someone a bit too long for his liking. Like I have a veritable plethora of shots of the amazing stankfaces and unimpressed scowls he makes over my girl's shoulder (I know it's probably because he's the second in the party lineup, but in-fiction it's still funny), and some of the stills I grabbed from his comment on fixing -and hugging- Karlach are... actually kind of incredible.

Like, if I presented to you with this screenshot:

and told you this is one of the faces he makes when he says "So, the untouchable Karlach is untouchable no more"? You'd probably assume that he's furious about it for some reason.

And there is a part of me kind of thinks he is, at least in a way, furious, because it takes him a few frames to compose himself, and put his pleasant smile back on:

-which is something I saw him do before. Making a very obviously blank/angry/sad face, taking a moment, and putting on a charming face right away. It's not new, really.

These three shots above were taken over the course of like 2 seconds, tops. It's a very subtle, "blink and you miss it" type of thing, but that's.... honestly all I need to think that Karlach suddenly being an actual option to you (in his weird, at this point in time very "physicality first" POV) is pissing him the fuck off. Like you doing that for her, collecting and lugging scrap metal around, and seeking out Dammon, means that you care for Karlach in some way. Which, then, makes her an opponent in his vying to be the sole recipient of your attention, and he won't suffer even an unknowing adversary. (And in my case, the object of his slowly blooming affections even hugged Karlach! Like right in front of his face!! What arrogance!!!!!! That's just rude, frankly!!!!!!)

I totally can imagine him being the type of person who, before starting a relationship, would use his lack of a need for rest to snoop through your belongings.

As someone who would casually violate your (and others') privacy in little ways, while holding his own sacred.

As someone who'd spy on your interactions with all the other companions from a crack in his tent's opening, and grip his bedroll in anger watching you dance with Wyll ("don't kiss him, don't kiss him, please don't kiss him, if you kiss him I'm fucked"), or steal your journal and get actually mad at you and be unreasonably acerbic to you the next day if it's in a language he doesn't understand.

This kind of also extends to me kind of imagining him as a boyfriend who, once he gets a bit more comfortable with physical affection, will just casually step up to you, and drape an arm around your waist or shoulders while you're talking to someone, to signal almost a sort of ownership. Someone who will make goading faces at anyone who dares look at you too long, or pull you against him in a brazen display if he catches someone checking you out. Like he'd piss on your leg to mark his territory if he could, but he'll settle for leaving a very obvious, crusted over bite mark on your neck if he must.

And yeah, that would get very annoying to any real person, but like I said about Gale before.... I think your character has got to be at least slightly not normal about them, just to match how profoundly not normal they are about you.

... Anyway, do carry on, I just like this edgy dumbass, I like him being both edgy and a dumbass, and him trying to slowly be better about this whole "~~relationship~~" thing is making my little heart happy

(yes, there's the Halsin thing. I have thoughts. But I won't kick the hornet's nest lol.)

[cake-writes]

A Dutiful Disaster (Part Seven)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Story Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Royalty, Pre-Thor (2011), Smut, Angst, Drama, Slow Burn, Odin’s A+ Parenting, Cis Female Reader (she/her), No Y/N Usage, Second Person POV, POC-inclusive descriptors, Toxic Relationship (lil bit of abuse from both parties - mostly screaming matches with the occasional physical thing but he never like slaps her or anything), Smut, Slut-Shaming, Mommy Issues, Reader has anxiety, 18+

Chapter Warnings: anxiety, reader is super bitchy in this chapter, and so is her letter, oh my gosh you guys they actually talk shit out like MATURE ADULTS

Word Count: 3.8k

Snippet: “I do not wish to be kissed. It’s too great an intimacy for our,” you pause to consider the word, tapping your finger to your chin, “unique situation, wouldn’t you say? We are the furthest thing from lovers.”

“Oh?” Loki sounds amused by your answer – and then he drops his feet back to the floor with purpose, taking advantage of your startled jump to pull you further into his lap where you can feel the hardening length of him against your clothed core. “If not lovers, then what are we?”

“Married,” you gasp, arms clutching around his neck for fear of being dropped – or so you tell yourself.

Master List / Spotify Playlist / Part Six

A/N: And we’re back! This chapter finally ties us in to the prequel one-shot, as well as the argument between Loki and his father in part two. You may need to read them again for a refresher because it’s been a fair few months (in real life) since those were posted. Enjoy :)

You study your husband from above the gold rim of your teacup. It’s suspicious, the certain ease to his demeanour as he discusses today’s breakfast offerings with his servant.

Loki is manipulating you. He must be. It's the only conclusion you can come to.

You haven’t forgotten the nasty things he said about you to his father the day after your wedding. Loki made it crystal clear that he can't stand you, that he finds this sham of a marriage as torturous as you do, to the point that he'd even referred to it as a life sentence – much like your own thoughts on the matter. Yet, it bothers you in a way you can’t quite explain.

What’s worse is that the Allfather thinks you disloyal to the Crown, and you still haven’t been able to figure out why. You’ve been nothing but loyal, the events of last night notwithstanding. It makes you feel uneasy, knowing that the King has tasked Loki with ensuring your loyalty to Asgard, like he actually expects you could ever be a traitor—a proper one, that is.

Even so, you find yourself begrudgingly admiring the way your husband’s dark, glossy hair perfectly accentuates his sharp cheekbones – during which he turns his attention to you. 

“Is that acceptable?” Loki questions, just as you take another sip of chrysanthemum tea—your favourite, and all you can think is that it can't be just a coincidence.

You hate how infuriatingly attractive he is. Even now. Especially now, with his pretty green eyes so focused on you, like he actually cares what you have to say. 

“That would be lovely,” you answer amicably as you set down your teacup, even though you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to. Something about smoked salmon and capers.

Loki seems to accept your answer, and when he engages once more with his servant, you lose yourself in your thoughts. Two ragged, albeit manicured fingernails tap an anxious rhythm against the side of the porcelain cup in its saucer, each fingertip sounding its own melody.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

It worries you how easily Loki plays the part the perfect husband. Sitting here in his chambers is unnerving; you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he seems perfectly content, like he isn’t at all bothered by the contents of your letter. Nor does he seem to hold any opinion of the events that transpired last night. 

For now.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

The daylight streaming in through the open windows offers a glimpse of the fine lines near his eyes and the dark circles just beneath. While he always appears as though he’s never been able to get enough sleep, courtesy of his fair skin, you’re starting to think that Loki might have slept about as well as you did last night—in other words, scarcely at all.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

You conceal a yawn with your free hand as the servant bows and makes his way to the exit, and then you’re alone with your husband again. That knowledge should set you on edge, but you’re more focused on the rich accoutrements of his sitting room. It’s the first time you’ve been here since that awful argument following the attack; no sign of shattered glass in sight, but then, it has been a week since then.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

A vase full of fresh flowers sits upon the entry table. You’d bruised your hip against it that self-same night. How suspicious that the blooms are the colour of plum wine, a deep reddish-purple that makes your heart sing: your colour.

Tink, tink—

You stop tapping the instant you notice him watching you, and snatch up your teacup as if you meant to do so all along. Then you take a larger sip than you intend. The hot tea scalds your tongue, and his lips twitch in silent laughter as you try and fail to pretend it doesn’t.

“What?” you snap irritably.

“How did you sleep?”

“Why act as though you care?”

Visibly amused by your bristly demeanour, Loki retrieves his own tea, his slim fingers pinching the gilded handle with more finesse than you could ever hope to achieve. “I cannot help but wonder, petal, if you haven’t slept a wink. Were you worrying about how this conversation would go?”

You set your teacup down in its saucer with force, the loud clink of fine china resounding through the room. “Considering the events that transpired during our previous one, I’d be a fool not to worry. I expect that you will have me imprisoned the very moment you manage to lull me into a false sense of security.”

He doesn’t bat an eyelash at your vitriol, instead opting to take a sip of his tea. You can scarcely tell what kind of tea it is anymore, what with how he's drowned it in cream and sugar. Some things never change. It’s comforting, in a way.

Your husband savours the too-sweet taste for a moment before he speaks. “I will not have you imprisoned. You have my word.”

You scoff. “I threatened you.”

“Indeed.”

“With a knife.”

“A dagger, actually,” Loki corrects, and when you cut him a withering look, he gives you a shit-eating grin. You hate how stupidly reassuring it is that he’s just as insufferable as ever. Then his expression shifts to something a little more serious, his eyes softening at the corners. “You felt that I posed a threat to your safety, and you acted in self-defence. A sleepless night is punishment enough.”

You don’t buy it. “And my letter?”

“I suspect that you would never have sent it, had your fear not driven you to do so. No one in their right mind would call me—what was it, an animal?—among so many other insults that I cannot even begin to fathom them all, in a letter signed with one’s personal seal. That alone could have landed you in the dungeons, yet you did so with little regard for the consequences.” A puff of laughter escapes him. “You have always had an impulsive streak, darling, but never to that extent.”

He sees right through you. You despise it. “Yes, well—”

“If you truly think me an animal, then I can only imagine that you would indeed feel safer in another part of the palace.” He mentions the request you’d made in your letter so nonchalantly, like the two of you are merely discussing the weather. “Where did you have in mind?”

That does it.

“How—How can you be so calm about all of this?” you sputter. “Forgive me, husband, but I do not trust how willingly you would turn a blind eye to my transgressions!”

The precise manner in how Loki returns his teacup to its saucer betrays him. “Don’t you?”

You glare at him. Something is simmering beneath the surface of his suspiciously mellow exterior, but you can’t quite discern what it is. Not yet.

“If you think that I am calm, darling, then you couldn’t be more wrong—unless, of course, you honestly believe that I have any penchant for forgiveness.” His tone may be cordial, but every single one of his movements is calculated to the nth degree. The tactician.

No, he isn’t calm at all. He’s plotting. You should have known.

“Or is there another reason that you would arm me with more than enough ammunition to have you imprisoned?”

With that single question, the conversation becomes an interrogation. Your palms turn cold and clammy at the knowledge that he very well still could, and when you start to fidget with the white napkin in your lap, the cloth sticks unpleasantly to your skin.

“Is that what you want me to do? Arrest you for a rash, impulsive decision? A crime of passion?”

You can feel your blood pressure rise under his rapid fire, your anxiety and sleep deprivation giving way to anger. “No,” you bite out. 

While part of you feels that a life in the dungeons would be infinitely better than one bound to him, your more reckless side likes to push boundaries – to your own detriment. And Loki knows it as well as you do. His mouth sets in a firm line, his expression unreadable.

“Then you do trust me,” he says, tone neutral. “And that, dear girl, is the worst transgression of all.”

You stare at him, disbelieving, before you let out a loud peal of laughter – like he’s just told the funniest joke you’ve ever heard. It just might be. “I trust you, do I? No, husband,” you spit the word like it’s a curse. “I loathe you. If you have mistaken that for trust, then I pity you.”

If your venomous tirade affects him at all, Loki does well to hide it. A prolonged silence falls over the room as he rests his elbows on the table and laces his fingers before him, no less patient with you than he has been for the rest of the morning. He studies you – studies your reaction – studies every single flaw you try so hard to hide, and he says nothing.

You look away first. You always do, when your temper gets the better of you.

Only then does he finally grace you with a response. “I am amenable to your request. Choose whichever chambers you’d like.”

Your eyes snap back to him in shock, only to watch as he procures a small envelope from beneath his place setting. Your letter.

Casually, he extends it out to you between two slim fingers. “I wish to return this to you as well. I refuse to hold something so incriminating over your head. It is neither fair to you, nor to our marriage.”

You stare at it, then at him, stunned into silence by his magnanimity. The Loki you know would never do such a thing. He’d hold onto it for leverage.

Your husband rolls his eyes, almost like he knows what you’re thinking. “If you do not take it, then I will destroy it in a similar manner to the gift you so graciously decided to bestow upon me, after…” he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, then, “after what I did to you that morning.”

He means his own letter – the one you’d returned to him, torn to shreds after he’d all but thrown you into the entry table. The very same entry table upon which those lovely flowers now rest.

You sit up straighter at the memory. It sets you on edge, and though you’re tempted to cower, instead you overcompensate. “Oh? Go on, then.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It is incredibly cathartic, you know,” you drawl, delicately picking up a biscuit between your thumb and forefinger to examine its intricate design. The sugar granules glimmer in the light. “To destroy one’s heartfelt letter in a fit of anger. Though I must confess,” you hold your head high, smug as can be, “I did not read what you’d written before doing so.”

That doesn’t seem to faze him either. “You say that as if you expect it to surprise me.”

You scrunch your nose at him in annoyance. “Well? Go on. Or will you not follow through on your promises?”

His promise not to harm you. His promise not to touch you. His promise not to lock you away.

Maintaining eye contact, you use your teeth to break off a piece of the biscuit with a crunch.

Your challenge isn't lost on him. “Very well,” Loki sighs. He swiftly opens the letter to pull out the fine stationery upon which you’d so hastily scrawled all manner of insults, after which he makes a point to show it to you, front and back, to prove its authenticity. “I’ll not have you thinking I’ve stowed it away to use against you later on.”

You bat your eyelashes at him. “I see you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“Charming,” Loki comments dryly, but you don’t miss the humour in his tone – nor in his eyes as he skims them down the page. “I must say, darling, you have quite the talent for castigation. It would be a waste not to read such a heartfelt letter aloud.” His eyes flick back up to yours, then, and you know for a fact that he’s taunting you. “For posterity. You understand.”

Posterity. There is no doubt in your mind that he knows you only wrote it yesterday. You’d even sealed the envelope with the ink still wet, as evidenced by the dark smudges littering the page.

“Stars above,” you grouse. “Get on with it, then, seeing as you are positively chomping at the bit to humiliate me.”

“Humiliate you? No.” Loki holds your gaze, resolute, and for once, you’re inclined to believe him. “I want you to acknowledge exactly what you’ve said of me before we put all of this to rest.”

Of course he does. Gracelessly, you wave a hand at him as if to say go ahead.

Loki clears his throat before he begins to read your letter verbatim, surprisingly in a manner that befits its serious nature. His voice holds not a single shred of mockery.

“To my dear, despicable husband,” he arches an eyebrow at you, “I fear I cannot stand this any longer. My chambers are in such close proximity to yours that I’d sooner return home than sleep here for another night, knowing that a wolf in sheep’s clothing rests his weary head so near to mine.”

Whether he intends it to be or not, it is humiliating to hear what you’ve written become spoken word. All too soon, you feel your face start to flush.

“I find myself ill with the knowledge that the Einherjar would allow such a predator to prowl these halls while I remain entirely defenceless. Nay, it is hardly reassuring to know that not a single soul shall protect me from the animal who would bring me harm, either in his own chambers or in our marital bed.”

When Loki pauses, you immediately recognise the real reason behind this exercise. Though you’d written the letter to be purposefully harsh in order to invoke a reaction, in the light of day, your spiteful words seem to imply something else.

You haven’t just told him of your fears in a general sense, using your marital bed as an example. You’ve alluded to a significantly more heinous act.

“You will not see me become your prey, thrilling though the chase may be to a brutish man with little regard for others. I refuse to become the spoils of a war you’ve so savagely waged upon me and my body for no other reason than your own entertainment.”

No wonder he’d been so angry with you last night. The implication that he would assault you in such a way is bad enough on its own, but there is another layer.

For centuries, the two of you have harboured a forever unspoken secret. Neither of you have acknowledged it outright, but it’s there. You’ve seen each other at the den – the covert, invitation-only club which caters to the niche sexual preferences that both you and Loki seem to share. Namely those that are, and have always been, less than socially acceptable.

“One cannot expect an animal to behave in any way but his basest nature. As a scholar of grey morals, you have always preferred books to people, but a snake, however erudite, is still a snake.”

There, on multiple occasions, your rooms have been next door to each other—through no fault of your own, though you suspect Loki has done it intentionally. After all, what he’s seen of you through the window in between are things that you’d never tell another soul, and you’re sure he relishes in holding that over your head, if not your letter.

But then, you’ve also seen similar of him. His proclivity for consensual non-consent is just one of the great many things you’ve witnessed, time and time again, and you realise, now, that Loki thinks you’ve used that forbidden knowledge against him. He thinks you’ve used it to hurt him in a way that most others could never.

“No ruffian should ever be permitted to walk freely as you do. Until such a time that you do not, for my continued health and wellbeing I have made arrangements to return to my family’s manor.”

Of course he’s bothered by what you’ve implied – albeit unintentionally. And he has every right to be.

“I will only be persuaded to stay if you grant me a new set of chambers as far from yours as possible, for I have no desire to encounter any manner of beast in the wild.” Loki snorts derisively and drops the letter down onto the table between the two of you. “Disrespectfully yours, your dutiful wife.”

There is no laughter to be elicited, now, nor anger, but something else entirely. Loki hides it well, but the implication has clearly gotten under his skin. You can see it in his eyes, and in his posture, how guarded he is as he looks to you for a response.

Thoroughly humbled, you swallow the lump in your throat and focus upon your lap. “I… I did not mean what you’ve understood my words to mean.” 

When you glance back up at him, you immediately have to look away again in shame when you find him watching you, jaw set, waiting for a proper apology. 

“Of course, that does not matter when they have made such an impact,” you rush to add. “I sincerely apologise for my thoughtlessness. I did not mean to imply that you would do something terrible.”

Silence stretches uncomfortably between the two of you as you begin to pick at the skin around your nails. At the very least, you should have reread your own letter before you sent it. Perhaps then you wouldn’t feel so guilty.

After a prolonged few moments, he asks quietly, “What else could you have possibly meant?”

“I meant to paint a picture of my fears.” You accidentally draw blood from a hangnail, and it stings. “My intent in mentioning our marital bed was to offer an example of one such fear—not that sort of fear, mind, but I fully understand how it could have sounded like an accusation.”

“I see.”

Finally, you muster the courage to look at him again, impassioned because you would never, ever use what you know against him. “You’ve been nothing but a gentleman in that regard, Loki. You respected my wishes on our wedding night. You have asked for my consent during every one of our trysts. Please know that I would never accuse you of anything untoward.”

His eyes search yours for a long time, trying to discern the lie, but there isn’t one. Then he exhales a long, weary sigh and leans back in his chair, the tension visibly lifting from his shoulders. “Norns,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Yes, I suppose not even you would stoop so low.”

A jab.

You respond with the opposite: a jest. “Ah, but how could you know for certain? What with our—” you clear your throat, nearing ever closer to openly acknowledging the forbidden secret that you both share, “our history?”

It’s the closest either of you have come to doing so. You and Loki have been playing this game for centuries, trying to see who will cave first, but you continue to tiptoe around it.

Just as you predicted, the layered meaning instantly captures his attention. “Our history?” he repeats, as if he doesn't quite believe he's heard you properly, before his lips curl up into that same insufferable grin you so adore. “Oh, do go on, sweet. I’m all ears. What about our history?”

You try to give him a deadpan look, but find it impossible to keep the smile off of your face. “Only that we have never enjoyed each other’s company, you and I. You know that as well as I do.”

It isn't at all the history you’d originally mentioned, and you’re well-aware he recognises that when his voice takes on a note of smooth, persuasive silk. “In what way do you intend for me to take that, darling? Because I suspect that there are many things for a husband and wife to... enjoy.”

His insinuation is absolutely not what you meant, and he knows it, but your heartbeat quickens all the same.

Just in the knick of time, two rapid knocks resound on the door. 

“Enter,” Loki calls out, never taking his eyes off of you. Something about the heat within them, however slight, makes you think he isn’t done with you just yet.

You find yourself silently thanking whoever has chosen to interrupt.

The door opens, and another servant pushes a small gold cart into the room, two shelves stacked high with breakfast delights. The spread is much more elaborate than your typical morning meal, and your mouth waters.

“Now, I believe you said I would find this cathartic?”

You glance back over at your husband, only to watch him deftly pluck your letter up from the table. Before you can get a word in edgewise, however, you watch as your stationery sets aflame in the palm of his hand.

It’s an impossible sort of fire, for it doesn't seem to burn his skin. 

Magic.

You’ve always loved his magic, even now, loathe as you’d ever be to admit that you find Loki’s mastery of it in any way appealing. He wields his seidr like one might a paintbrush, creating masterful works of art from intricate spells and enchantments.

As the flames burn away your spiteful letter, your eyes follow the curling wisps of smoke as it drifts up, up, up towards the intricately-painted ceiling. Instead of the colourful collection of wildflowers you expect to see upon it, however, you find a field of white daffodils in their place.

A symbol of forgiveness.

In that moment, as you stare at the illusion he’s cast, you realise that your husband will forever be an enigma to you. Perhaps he’s changed in the great many years you've known him, or maybe you've never really known him at all.

Then Loki lazily waves his hand, and the illusion dissipates—as do the singed remains of your letter.

He’s manipulating you. He must be. It’s the only conclusion you can come to, but when you meet his eyes once more – when you see the mischief shining within them, and the softness hidden just beneath – you desperately wish that he wasn’t.

Part Eight

And because I’m a clown, here’s my ko-fi / patreon if you’ve got a buck or two to spare so I can buy a new laptop! Otherwise reblogs and keysmashing in my ask box are more than welcome 🤡🤡🤡 Thanks so much for reading!!!

[thereader-radhika]

Pazhuvettarayar . . .   reached Nandini's wing. At the entrance, he heard the sound of laughter. For some reason he felt irritated. Nandini had never laughed like this in the Thanjavur palace. What had made her laugh so much? Who was with her?

Entering the room he saw that her companion was Manimekalai. He felt more at ease. Manimekalai tried to smother her laughter with both hands when she saw him, but could not control herself. She rushed out of the room, laughing.

Nandini stopped laughing, regained her usual composure and said. "Ayya! Come in! Are the talks over?"

Pazhuvettarayar asked her, "Nandini, why was that girl laughing like that? Why did she run away?"

"Must I tell you that? I will. Manimekalai was in the next room and some of the conversation in the main hall fell on her cars. She was laughing at the way Prince Aditha Karikalar spoke so derisively of paattas and paattis."

🤯

Laughing about Karikalan calling her grandmother? Kinky Nandini!

Pazhu was the husband of eight other women and old enough to be Nandini's grandfather. From the beginning, he suspected if she is waiting for someone else like the women in stories. He also heard rumours that Karikalan distanced himself from his family because they didn't let him marry a poor bhattar's daughter. By the time he left Kadambur, he put two and two together. No one specifically told him that it was Nandini, but he knew when he saw the change in her.

Aditha Karikalan might be a ruffian, might be disrespectful to his elders. But he is a scion of the Chozha clan . . . As for Karikalan himself, he would never wrong a woman . . . But what about Nandini? Was he right to have trusted her implicitly, to have acted according to her wishes? How could anyone be sure her conduct was totally blameless? . . . Aha! Did treacherous women like those one heard about in stories really exist? Could Nandini be one of them?

Lol, Seriously Pazhu should stop reading these corny romance stories and get a treatise on economics or something.

As Pazhu's inner voice often reminded him, Nandini was only a stranger he picked up from the roadside. Though they weren't on good terms, he knew Karikalan from his birth and Chola family for generations. Old Pazhu pinned all his hopes on the boy's 'good' character.

Karikalan: Nandini! Don't tell me that story over and over again. In the eyes of the world, you may be the Pazhuvoor Ilaya Rani. But you didn't actually marry him.

Nandini: Here, cut open my heart and look! Use Veerapandyan's sword to tear it open. You will find nothing except your revered image in it. This is the truth! The truth! The truth!

Nibba-nibbi are on it again! 🙄

But his priorities changed by then. He realised that his sham marriage was just another drama. Nandini's love or lack of thereof was not a matter of concern anymore. For a man who ordered the death of Kandan Maran for calling Nandini his daughter, he showed great restraint that night. Vanthiyathevan sensed his presence in the room only when he was strangled.

That's why Nandini couldn't figure out that he knew her love story and birth story. She didn't know about Pazhuvettaraiyar bench-pressing a whole temple roof, fighting Pandyas and travelling the length and breadth of the country wearing a thin temple curtain. Above all, he failed in his duties. She panicked misunderstanding that old Pazhu remained in half-dead state for 3 days because he was 'shocked' to see her with another man. Probably he had a mini heart attack seeing dead Karikalan.

But by this point he was no longer interested in even talking about her personal life. The only thing he wanted to know was how was she planning to kill the prince. Still Pazhu felt some happiness when she consoled him that they will be a couple in the next birth. Finally he apologised for everything he said. Luckily Nandini never let him 'do' anything 💀

Give me at least some water with your hand, to let me know you've forgiven me and forgotten everything I said. Then you can leave me!

He doesn't forget to give a glowing conduct certificate to Adithan too before commiting suicide.

. . . I realised that Aditha Karikalar's conduct had been blameless.

except for the fact that he was telling inappropriate things to my wife, his grandma 💀

What would have happened if Karikalan didn't die then? Would he have kicked Nandini out and asked her to go away with anyone she liked? He was so determined to not act like an idiot after leaving Kadambur.

[snelbz]

Lost Time {18}

Summary: It’s been four years since Azriel ran away from Velaris and left behind everyone he ever loved  — including the girl left standing at the altar. Now, he’s back home, but can he try and pick up the broken pieces of his life, or has there been too much lost time?

@snelbz​ / @tacmc​ collab

Lost Time Masterlist

Fanfiction Masterlist

My Ask Box

Azriel sat in silence in Cassian’s living room, both he and Rhysand staring at him, unblinking. Azriel was doing nothing, just letting them take in the information as he slowly sipped his steaming cup of black coffee.

It was a pleasant morning, sunny and cloud-free, warm. Azriel was exhausted, though. He hadn’t slept a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could think about was Ianthe and the texts she had sent, the words haunting him.

She was in town.

In his hometown.

And she wasn’t leaving him alone.

After he woke up that morning, he got Novan ready to go and brought him over to Cassian’s after Elain had left for work.

After his second cup of coffee, he had told his brothers the entire story of Ianthe, the parts they hadn’t already known, then confessed about her texts, and the fact that Elain knew absolutely nothing about it.

Which he both felt equally confident and guilty about.

“So, let me get this straight,” Cassian said, at last. “Your ex, who is a model, and a little bit of a stalker, is in town, and hasn’t stopped texting you since last night…and you haven’t mentioned any of this to Elain. Your wife.”

Azriel nodded, watching as Novan chased the kitten up the stairs.

“And this Ianthe also got into it with you when you were in New York getting your stuff,” Rhysand followed. “Which Elain also doesn’t know about.”

Azriel gave them both an exasperated, pointed look. “Obviously you have all the facts, alright? Now, what do I do? Elain’s pregnant, tired, and sick. I don’t want to tell her about it if it’s nothing, she has enough going on, but I can never tell with Ianthe, I never know what she’ll do. She’s not the type that exactly takes no for an answer.”

“Clearly,” Cassian muttered, reaching for his coffee, and Azriel glowered.

“No, no,” Rhys said, stopping Az from giving Cassian a smartass remark. “That’s his thinking voice.”

Azriel glanced at Rhys and then at Cass and found him still holding his coffee cup. They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound Novan’s feet chasing the small ball of fur through the house.

“Just the texts and calls so far?” He finally asked, looking up at Az. He nodded in confirmation. Cassian shrugged. “I can’t do anything until she makes a physical unwanted advance on you or Elain in Velaris. And back in New York, did anything…happen? Did you make her a promise or anything?”

“Like, the last time I saw her?” Az asked. “Or before that?”

He had to admit, Azriel didn’t like the way Cassian’s eyebrows rose at that question. “Let’s start with last time and then explain before that.” With a sigh, Azriel ran through that last night one more time, remembering the rage in Ianthe’s bright eyes well. “Okay,” Cass continued. “Now…before that?”

Azriel sighed and hung his head. “I may have told her on a few, drunk occasions that I thought marriage was a sham and that with enough persuasion, I’d …” He groaned and dragged his hands down his face.”I’d always be down for a quick ride.”

Both of his brothers stared at him, and then Cassian asked, quietly for the sake of little ears, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Azriel set down his mug before rubbing his temples. “Look, marriage wasn’t really my favorite topic throughout the years, alright? So, excuse me if in my miserable drunken state that I said bitter shit I didn’t mean.”

“That miserable shit is going to be what gets you in trouble,” Cassian said, staring his younger brother down. “You need to talk to Elain.”

Azriel scoffed. “And tell her that? No, I don’t think so.”

“Az,” Rhysand began, shaking his head, slowly. “I get the drunken shit, okay? But, that’s going to be what she uses to get her way.”

“I know, I know,” Azriel groaned.

“Ianthe seems like a piece of work,” Cassian said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

A little head peeked over the railing of the banister and they heard “Uncle Cass?”

They all glanced up as Cassian asked “Yeah, buddy?”

“How do I get power rangers on the tv?”

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, jogging up the stairs.

Azriel sighed and took a drink of his coffee. “I need something stronger than this.”

“Apparently you don’t,” Rhys mumbled, taking a sip of his own. He set the mug back on the side table beside him. “Especially if you make stupid, fucking promises when you’re drunk.”

Az glowered at him, not saying anything, just throwing his brother a vulgar gesture. He finally sighed and said, “Things were pretty bad for me for a while. Didn’t really feel anything. Just took pictures and lived my life. It’s probably why my shots were so good.” He laughed, but Rhysand could tell there was no humor in the sound. “I could only see and feel emotion through my camera lens. I was numb to my own, so I…captured other people’s. And just continued to ignore my own.”

It took Rhysand a moment to say anything else, but when he did, his voice was soft. “I get it. Try not to worry about it, yeah? Just…talk to Elain when she gets home so that she’s aware, and prepared, but don’t stress out about it until something happens. And hopefully nothing will happen.”

Azriel nibbled on his lip for a second before nodding. “No, yeah, you’re right.”

And yet, he felt a heavy sense of dread in the pit of his stomach as each word left his mouth.

* * * * * *

Working the day after she got married wasn't exactly how Elain had planned things, but things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan for most of her life.

Not that she was complaining, she loved her complicated life and wouldn’t trade it for anything.

She smiled at the couple who’d brought a family heirloom in, an old dresser that belonged to his grandmother. She hesitated before saying, “I can handle the refurbishment, but I’ll let you know now, my turn around is a little slower than it used to be.” She tucked a hand under her small bump and explained, “I’m a few days shy of three months pregnant, and my husband is looking for a well-ventilated workshop for me-.”

“It’s no rush,” the woman - Claire, she’d written on her order form - smiled, and looked up at her husband. “It’s actually for our baby’s nursery. I’m fourteen weeks.”

Elain’s smile was genuine as she said, “Congratulations! Okay, that gives me a little bit of time.”

After finishing up with the sweet couple and with some help, Elain had moved the dresser by the door to have Az load up and take home after work. Leaning against her desk, Elain stared at her reflection in one of the elegant full length mirrors that she’d salvaged from an old manor house and wrapped a hand under her belly again. She dialed Nesta’s number and waited as it rang.

“Hello?” Nesta asked.

“Do twins run in our family?” Elain asked, not even replying to her sister’s greeting.

“I- What?”

“Do we have the twin gene?” She asked again. “It’s not like we can trace Az back, so do you know if we have twins anywhere in our family?”

The other line was quiet for a suspicious amount of time. “Why?”

“Because I just had a customer who’s fourteen weeks pregnant, which is only a couple weeks farther than me, and I look drastically bigger than her.”

Nesta was quiet for a minute, then she said, “After Miryam and I were joking about it, I decided to do some digging into our family history. It turns out that Mom’s brothers are twins. They live down south, if I remember right. They and Mom never got along. I think the last time we saw them, you were just a baby-.”

“Nesta,” Elain interrupted, recalling she and Azriel’s previous conversation about twins. Elain had been joking, too, for the most part, then. They hadn’t been too close to their mother’s family, but she figured Nesta would have known. “What if I’m having twins?”

“What if you are?” Nesta repeated, and Elain rolled her eyes.

“If I am, Azriel will surely freak the hell out,” Elain mumbled, plopping down in an old wooden chair.

“Just means my baby gets two besties instead of one,” Nesta chuckled and Elain knew she was doing the exact same thing she was, rubbing soothing circles into her belly.

She smiled and changed the subject, asking, “When are you going to tell us what you’re having?”

The sigh that left Nesta would have made a soap star proud. “Whenever I find out, you’ll find out. Cassian is looking for the perfect gender reveal. He takes the damn envelope with him everywhere he goes because he knows I’ll look otherwise.”

Elain paused. “Has he looked? I can have Donovan ask, you know he’d tell-.”

“No, it’s still sealed,” she sighed. “I told him he has until next week to find something or I’m taking it to Viv’s bakery.”

The bell above the door jingled, alerting Elain of a new customer and she said, “I’ve got someone coming in, but let me know and I can drop it off on my way into work, okay?”

“Okay, I love you,” Nesta said, and Elain could hear her getting back up to go back to work as well. “Call Yrene. See if she can set up another scan. Find me another niece in there.”

Elain was laughing as she tried to see out of the back office. “And how do you know it’s a girl in the first place?”

“I have a hunch,” she replied, simply, then hung up.

With a roll of her eyes, and a small smile, Elain was up on her feet.

There was a tall, slender woman with long, blonde hair and some of the most beautiful eyes Elain had ever seen. She was eyeing an old, vintage floor length mirror that Elain had already refinished. She had been hoping that no one bought it because she was so in love with it that she wanted it in the corner of her bedroom.

“Hi,” Elain said, once she had approached, her smile bright. “Can I help you with anything?”

The woman met Elain’s eye with a smile. “Yes, actually. I’m looking for a gift.”

“I can certainly help with that,” she smiled. “Are we looking for something in particular?”

The woman glanced around the store. “Not really. It’s- it’s sort of complicated.”

“Okay,” Elain said, confused by the hesitation in the girl’s words. “Who’s it for?”

“The love of my life.” There was no hesitation this time and Elain smiled at her. “He’s an old soul. And I just got into town, I don’t know the area. So I just…ended up here.”

She nodded, knowing she hadn’t seen the beauty around before. It was a small town. “Who is he?” She saw the hesitation on her face and realized that just because she was in a small town, she might not be used to how nosy small town folks could be. “I’m sorry, that was rude. Follow me,” Elain said, blushing.

She led her over to an old workbench she’d finished the week before. She’d been debating on taking it home for Azriel to store his spare lenses and bodies for his cameras.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” the woman said, and then she blushed. “I have an odd request.”

Elain blinked. “Okay?”

“May I...sit on it?” She asked.

“Sit on it?” Elain repeated.

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’d like to have some pictures taken with it.”

Elain blinked but said, “That shouldn’t be a problem. It’s quite sturdy.” The woman hopped up, pulling a foot up and planted it on the surface. Clearing her throat and looking away, Elain asked, “Are you a model?”

The woman’s eyes snapped to Elain’s. “Why?”

“You’re very pretty,” she laughed, meaning her words. “That and the pictures.”

“Ah,” the woman smiled. “Yes, I am. And thank you, that’s kind of you to say. You’re very pretty, too.”

Elain’s cheeks turned pink. “Thank you.”

“You’re pregnant, I see?” she asked, glancing down at Elain’s hand that rested on her stomach.

“I am,” Elain said, nodding.

“Congrats,” she said, her smile radiant. “And the father? He loves you?”

Elain’s heart softened. “Very much so. He’s….well, he’s my soulmate.”

“Soulmate,” the woman repeated. “I want to know what that’s like.” She looked back down at the bench. After a moment, she fished her phone out of her leather satchel and held it out to Elain. “A picture? Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” Elain said, taking the phone from the model’s hand and snapping a few pictures as she posed. Elain nearly felt awkward. It wasn’t everyday that she photographed models on her refinished antique furniture.

Azriel would get a kick out of it when she told him after work.

The girl hopped down and took her phone from Elain’s outstretched hand. She looked down at her phone, smiling and approving of the pictures. “Thank you, do you mind if I look around for a minute? Everything is so beautiful.”

“Of course not, please,” Elain said, smiling. She gestured towards the back of the store. “I’ll be in my office, but my name is Elain. Just holler if you need me.”

The girl smiled, slipping her phone back in her pocket and said nothing else. Something in her gaze though, it suddenly unnerved Elain and she turned and was nearly back to her office when she heard, “Thank you, Elain.”

A moment later, Elain heard the bell above the door announce her exit.

* * * * * *

Azriel had just dropped Novan off with Miryam. She was going to bring him to the zoo for a grandparent’s day, which Azriel was pretty bitter that he couldn’t go with.

It’s a Meme/Novan thing, Miryam had explained.

Azriel wasn’t going to argue by saying how much he loved seeing the giraffes.

Even though it was true.

He thought he’d try to scope out some landmarks, though, see what he could photograph in the little town of Velaris, before he went home and edited some stuff he had to send in.

But then, his phone chimed.

It was Ianthe, of course, but that wasn’t what had him slamming on his brakes.

Ianthe was sitting on an antique bench that had been refinished in a shop that Azriel knew all too well.

After pulling a very dangerous u-turn, resulting in a vulgar gesture from the minivan he’d accidentally cut off, he turned around and sped back into town, toward Elain’s shop. He cursed every time he got stopped at a redlight, which was far too often.

He didn’t see any cars in the small lot and knew that Elain parked in the back, but it didn’t stop him from pulling crookedly into the first spot he reached and rushing inside. Azriel hurried straight to Elain’s office and found her sitting at her desk, a forkful of salad in her mouth. Her eyes were wide in surprise, a bit of green hanging between her lips.

“Are you okay?” Azriel asked, breathless.

Elain’s eyebrows raised and she covered her mouth as she chewed, her other hand instinctively covering her stomach. “Yes? I mean, I think so,” she said, once she had chewed and swallowed her lunch. “What are you doing here, baby?”

Azriel glanced over his shoulder and saw that no one was in the shop. He hurried back to the door, flipping the open sign to closed, and locked the door.

“What are you doing?” She asked, voice slightly panicked as she left the back office.

He didn’t answer, just walked towards her and rested his hands on her hips, one of his thumbs gently brushing over her belly. “We need to talk.”

Elain blinked, staring at him as if he had gone mad. “Okay…”

“There was a woman in here today,” he began, trying to slow his words, realizing how panicked he sounded. “Blonde, tall-.”

“What, the model?” she asked.

So they had a conversation, Azriel thought, as he closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes. She’s… She’s my ex, El. She’s here from New York, and I don’t know why.”

Elain continued to stare at him for a minute, trying to register his confession. “What?”

“She’s my ex. The…one I had been with, after you.” His words were soft, ashamed. “She…texted me last night, saying she was in town.”

Elain was blinking, shaking her head, trying to process what he was telling her. “How do you even—. She said she was here to—.” Her eyes widened and she smacked him in the chest. “Oh, my god, those pictures were for you!”

He raised his hands in surrender, but could tell she wasn’t angry with him, thank the Cauldron, just taken off guard. “Apparently, so. But I didn’t ask for them.” He took her hands in his, turning her wedding band over as he spoke. “This is what I said I wanted to talk about earlier.”

Elain’s eyes slipped closed and she nodded, recalling his text from that morning. Reopening her eyes, she said, “I understand why you wanted to have this talk in person now.”

He smiled, but she could tell he was worried. “And until Donovan was in bed.”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around him. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?”

Azriel looked away from her, at the floor, at his shoes. At first, he didn’t know what to say. There was no real excuse, no real reason to keep something from his wife. “I was ashamed. Embarrassed. Lainy, the years we spent apart… I’m not proud of them, you know? A lot went on, and I hate it all. Unfortunately, Ianthe was a part of that time we spent apart, and now it’s coming back to haunt me.”

Elain nodded, although she nibbled on her lip.

“You’re thinking of something,” he whispered. “What are you thinking?”

“That my husband has some creepish girl that’s in love with him following him around,” she whispered, her words rushed. “And… I don’t know. She’s here. Around you. Me. Our son, our family, Azriel.”

“I know,” he said, shaking his head. “She won’t hurt us though, okay? She’s harmless.”

“Is that why you hurried here once you found out she came to the shop?” Elain asked, exasperated. He could see the fear in her eyes, how shaken this had her.

He was still shaking his head, but he dropped his forehead to hers. “I rushed here because I fucked up in not telling you last night and she’s manipulative enough to say something.”

Elain scoffed and said, “She’s got some pretty big balls if she came in here and had your wife take pictures to send to you.”

Azriel chuckled and said, “You’re right. But just—.” He sighed. “Promise me you’ll be careful, okay? Keep an eye on your surroundings.” As her eyes widened, he added, “I don’t think she would do anything, but I’m going to worry until she leaves town. I can keep Novan with me, I can keep an eye on him. But you two,” his eyes softened as he gently caressed her belly. “I can’t always be with you. And I need both of you safe.”

Elain’s eyes lined with silver and she said, “I love you. It doesn’t matter that she’s here. What matters is that we have each other.”

“Exactly,” he breathed, leaning down to kiss her softly. He leaned back and gazed down at her. “Gods, you’re beautiful. Didn’t you say there was something you needed to talk to me about, too?”

Elain was beaming up at him, but she blinked, registering what he’d said. “Yes, sorry. You distracted me and made me cry.”

With a chuckle, Azriel kissed her forehead and walked them back to her office. He sat down in her chair, and pulled her into his lap. “Here, eat and talk. I’m not turning that sign back around until you’ve eaten and are full.”

With an eyebrow raised, Elain asked, “Of your cock?”

Azriel choked on air and when he glanced at her, he found her cheeks red. “I know what’s on your mind today. I’ll remember that later,” he said, squeezing her ass softly. “Now what were you going to talk to me about?”

Elain could feel how hard he’d become, but she did as she was told and resumed her lunch. Before taking a bite, she said, “I’m going back to see Yrene tomorrow at nine.”

Azriel tensed. “Why?”

Elain shrugged. “Just another ultrasound.”

Azriel nodded. “Should I go with you?”

“You can, if you want,” she said, softly. “But, it’s just to be sure…”

There was a moment of silence before Azriel asked, “Sure of?”

“To be sure of how many babies are in here,” Elain said, quietly, holding onto her stomach.

Azriel stared at her, blinking. “You really think it’s twins? I thought you were joking.”

“I feel like I’m so much bigger than I should be, Az,” she breathed. “I’m not saying it’s for sure, but… It’s a possibility.”

Azriel took a deep breath and nodded. “And, if it is twins?”

Elain looked up at him. “If it is?”

Azriel laughed, quietly. “Elain, any child I can have with you is a blessing,” he whispered. “One baby, two, three… I just want to grow our family.”

Elain’s eyes were tearing up. “Three though? That’s a little much.”

Azriel chuckled. “I’m just saying… However many babies are in there, Lainy, I’m going to be so grateful.” She started to cry again, but ate her salad, and Azriel laughed. He kissed her shoulder and said, “I love you, you emotional, basket case.”

She stabbed another bite and muttered, “I love you, too.”

* * * * * *

The scene was so sweet, that even from the coffee shop in the square, Ianthe could see the couple lovingly embrace, and her pale eyebrow arched.

She hadn’t lied earlier, Azriel’s wife was very pretty. She was also very much pregnant. She hadn’t expected that. But she hadn’t thought that Azriel was serious when he’d said he’d had a son, until she took to social media and discovered she was blocked on every platform she had. After creating bogus account after bogus account, he finally accepted one of her follow requests and she came face to face with a picture of a little boy, who was the spitting image of him all over his personal Instagram, his Facebook, everything.

So he apparently had another on the way, it changed nothing. She came here for one reason and that was to bring Azriel back home. Clearly, he had no issue leaving who ever this Elain was while she was pregnant once before. She’d just have to convince him to do it again. Her lips curved upwards slightly as she took a drink from the white mug.

Azriel kissed his wife, softly, as they snuggled into his chair as she sipped her coffee.

He had confessed to her years ago that marriage meant little to nothing to him. In fact, he had proven his devotion to Ianthe over and over again throughout the years. Late at night, early in the morning, between shoots. They had seen each other naked too many times throughout the years for him to just disappear without a trace, saying he was married with kids.

It was bullshit.

Where did this woman even come from? Azriel had said very little about his past through the years, about the women he had dated before. All she knew was that he hadn’t seen anyone, at least not seriously, throughout the time she’d known him. Then, he comes home for a funeral, is gone for hardly any time at all, and comes back to New York, rejects her, and has a wife, a kid, and another on the way?

Something didn’t seem right.

She had come here for a job, that much was true. The modeling shoot had lasted less than a day and when the agency asked when to book her flight back, she told them she’d pay for her own flight, as she didn’t intend to return yet.

Because she wouldn’t be returning alone.

[transamorousnetwork]

Letters@The Transamorous Network

Editor’s note: In this series, we’ll highlight conversations with our readers/viewers. We think folks will benefit from these conversations. All names are made up to protect everyone’s privacy. This particular exchange we are sharing because we strongly believe the narrative expressed by the writer has value for trans-attracted men, as well as transgender women who are capable of being compassionate towards women impacted by men struggling with their trans attraction. Trans attraction is serious business and is NOT A FETISH. It has long-term impacts for everyone involved. We at The Transamorous Network understand this and have compassion not only for the men, but for the women (both trans and cis) impacted by their short- and long-term decisions.

SECOND WARNING: This exchange contains material that may be highly offensive and triggering for transgender people. We strongly suggest that if you are triggered by content that may be perceived by you as invalidating or erasure, you should NOT read the following.

"My wife never measured up because she couldn’t. She wasn’t trans."

How fucking sad this statement is. Do you have any idea how much this destroys the woman who tries to measure up? To the man dressed as a woman and her husband who cannot admit his sexuality.

Forgive me, but I resent these men who want to call themselves women. Maybe my resentment is displaced for my husband whose attraction to these men dressed as women has utterly destroyed my self-esteem.

I’m not sure where to place my anger – for these men who are GAY and dress/transform into women so they can be with men OR for these men who are GAY who enjoy being with men who dress/transform as women but are confused by their sexuality and attempt to live a “straight” life.

My husband and his denial have utterly ruined my self-esteem as a woman and wasted a good amount of my life to be in a genuine relationship. I am angry, hurt and frankly bitter towards the porn industry that introduced him to these men. My life is destroyed and my heart is broken.

Meena

Hi Meena

I understand your resentment, your anger and frustration. I also understand your unacceptance of the people for whom your husband is attracted to.

How did you come to this website? What were you searching for? If you’ve looked around our content, you’ll notice something (although this may be extremely hard to hear from where you currently are): your self-esteem isn’t ruined, although I know to you it feels that way. At the same time, since you believe that it is, it is true for you: your self-esteem is ruined.

But it’s also not.

Just because you believe it is ruined doesn’t mean that truth is objectively real, like separate from your thoughts. You can have a quite-intact self esteem AND, believe it or not, still love your husband, even though you two may no longer be together.

I get though how that feels so out of reach right now.

There’s another reality in which you both have gone on your individual way, and along those paths both of you are happy. No resentment, no bitterness. Everyone happy.

Someday that will be your truth. But I get that right now, it’s not.

TTN

Dear TTN

Thank you for your thoughtful response. Forgive me but I think it is easy for you to respond in this way because you are living on the other side of the coin. While you talk about your wife in this article, do you really know how deeply this affected her?

Is it easier to brush it away as incompatibility or just both parties are happy now. I really think this is a delusion to help men (like you and my husband) to feel ok about the choice you have made. After nearly 20 years of marriage, I am devastated. I truly believe that my entire marriage has been a sham and that i must not be pretty enough, feminine enough or good enough. Your response makes you feel better for the choices you have made. I believe my husband is a COWARD who destroyed my life and self-esteem in order to live a facade of a life he thought he should.

So, I’m supposed to be ok because now he has found himself and can be in an authentic relationship. I think this is what you guys tell yourselves to make yourselves feel better for the TRUE women that you destroy. We are left in your aftermath to pick up the pieces and try to put our lives back together and find some sense of worth again.

I found your site after searching up the issue in a desperate attempt to find understanding and comfort at the sham of my last 20 years.

My only response to both you and my husband is I hope it was worth it. I hope denying your attraction at the expense of another human being and destroying that person so you could be with your transsexual [SIC] was worth it. I hope it was worth it that i became suicidal. I hope it was worth it that are children now live in a broken home. I hope it was worth it that I now require anti-anxiety and antidepressant medications in order to function. God, I hope my peace of mind and life were worth it.

Meena

Hi again Meena,

Rather than replying at length here, I would like to offer this: let’s talk on the phone or via Skype or Zoom where we can see one another or at least hear one another. I know that were we to talk in real time, you might find enormous relief from these feelings you’re experiencing and the actual physically real experiences you’re having.

It’s not an attempt to silence you here in the comments section. As you see, I’ve posted your comments verbatim, immediately and unedited. It’s more that, despite what you’re claiming here, I really do understand what’s happening with you and with my ex-wife and with your former husband. And, it could be helpful for you if we shared that knowledge together in real time.

This is a fee offer Meena. And I’m willing to talk with you as long as or as many times as needed.

Perry

Hi Perry,

Thank you for responding to my comment and the offer to talk with me via phone/skype/etc. I apologize for posting my comments on your site and appreciate your thoughtful and compassionate responses.

I don't wish to talk with you at this time as I am under the care of an AASECT (American Association of Sexuality Educators, Counselors, and Therapists) and am currently working on keeping myself safe. I am fearful that talking with you may push me further towards my self-destructive behaviors. At this time, I am working under a contract with her so I don't need to be hospitalized for my suicidal ideation. Please forgive me, but I believe talking to you would only further my desire to find quiet and peace in my mind.

My husband's lies and betrayal have frankly devestated me and sense of safety and security. I may find forgiveness for him eventually but right now I am simply working on surviving for myself and my children each day. I fear talking to you about this issue will only validate my feelings of worthlessness - as you are like my husband and have given up your marriage for someone you found better and more attractive.

I don't see where you could bring me any comfort. I wish you and your dating network all the best and hope you find success - hopefully not at the expense of other human beings.

Meena

Hi Meena,

I think you’re presuming what my intentions are, and that’s ok. I only know that I could help you find peace and calm, mental and emotional clarity and then empowerment pretty much immediately. That’s why I was offering. Conversing with me wouldn’t “push you towards more destructive behaviors”, instead, it could quite quickly reconnect you with your feelings of empowerment, security and knowing; the exact opposite of what you have expressed as a fear.

But I understand where you are, not because I’m trans-attracted and divorced, but because I understand other things you and I (and everyone else) shares.

Just so you know, I didn’t leave my wife because I found a trans woman. My wife divorced me because she found other men she preferred. It was a great move on her part and I don’t blame her or vilify her for her choices. And no, I currently am not with a trans woman. I prefer to focus on my growing enterprises.

Hopefully this provides the clarity it was meant to offer. The offer I made earlier still stands should you ever choose to act on it.

As for your comments on The Transamorous Network, you don’t have to apologize at all because your comments, as painful as they may have been to share, will help more people than you know as they seek their own understanding and freedom in the new reality we all find ourselves in.

Be well Meena.

Perry

Dear Perry,

Thank you for your kind and compassionate response. I feel that you are a very caring and empathetic person who is trying to help me.

I'm not sure I am in a place to find empowerment.  I have an 18 year marriage that is a sham.  I have been married to a man who was sexually attracted to something other than what I can offer.  We have struggled with sex for 18 years  - he always claimed a lower libido that me - and I am so stupid that I tried for so long to try to be what he said he wanted and liked.  I discovered his transattraction early in our marriage and I allowed him to convince me that it was just a fetish and that his primary attraction was to cis-gender women.  After all this time and recently discovering some sexting activity on his part (while recovering from breast cancer none the less - but who needs real breasts when your husband prefers the implants attached to a body with a penis), I realize I have been in denial because I love him and he is the father of my children. He wants to be with a tranny - though he says he never has had sex with one - but at different times in his life he has met ones he found attractive.  

Never the less, as a cisgender woman, I can tell you that transsexual women maintain a certain masculinity that is extremely obvious to real women (because they are NOT real women) - no matter how much surgery or hormones they have had.  As a result of being married to a man who is transattracted, I have begun to worry as a CISGENDER FEMALE - are my features masculine?  Do I look like a tranny? Is that why he was attracted to me?  Do other people think I look like a man dressed as a woman? I have lost all sense of self-confidence and esteem as a woman as well as my sense of safety and security.

I think it is easy for you to chalk this up to well, both parties can now be happy.  He can be with a transsexual and I can be - I don't know - because I can't imagine that another human being would want to be with me - (i must look like a tranny and my husband of 18 years is attracted to MEN  - albeit dressed like women with breast implants and a shit ton of make-up).  Right now, I see no happy solution to this.  I am so glad you can find the sunshine and rainbows in this.  I'm sorry but after 18 years of marriage, this is destruction of another human being because he is too macho to admit to himself, his friends or family that he likes men who dress as women!  I found your site in a desparate attempt to understand and frankly, reassure me that he actually does just have a fetish and truly is into REAL women.  Your site only confirmed my worst nightmare. I am lost and devastated.  

You can keep your site going and kid yourself that all will be well for men who are into trannies and destroy their marriages in order to indulge in this sexual fetish.  And frankly, it will - despite all the women it destroys and leaves in the aftermath.    How could you really make a difference?  Save two lives? You should focus your efforts on younger men who are struggling to understand themselves - before they enter into a heterosexual relationship - and help them enter into relationships for their TRUE nature.  This would save so much destruction and possibly some lives.  You see, the only people who come out on top in this scenario are the men you help to find their TRUE authentic nature and marry, date or have sex with trannies all the while destroying those women who have committed to them and thought they had a husband who loved them.  

I apologize for my hostility and anger - I am still searching for peace and answers - and your site has provided me with a horrible ugly truth that is very hard for me to accept.  I kept searching for answers that lead down a different path - one that confirmed my marriage, confirmed that I hadn't married a man who preferred to be with MEN, confirmed that I am an attractive, desirable and worth while woman deserving of a relationship and not some pathetic hideous woman who can serve as as a facade/sham for a man who truly is into MEN.

I thank you again for your compassionate response to me - as I know my thoughts and ideas are very attacking of your entire endeavor.  

My only hope is that my pain might help save someone from this horrible experience and ultimately save their life.

Meena

We offered Meena a free live engagement to help her. To date, she has not responded.

This exchange shows how serious this is for everyone involved. If you're trans attracted and feel shame and embarrassment about this natural part of you, we encourage you to consider this: the sooner you come into owning who you are, the better off everyone will be.

That being said, stories people tell create their reality. Often "stories people tell" blind them to their own intuition, which is always accurate. As you can see in Meena's experience, several times her intuition led her to evidence in response to her questions, which came in the form of suspicion. Instead of listening to her knowing, she told stories which caused her to ignore her knowing.

Everyone is a match to the partner they are with. In other words, it always takes two.

Whenever a person ignores answers they receive, and everyone always receives answers they seek, such answers will get bigger – more intense, harder to ignore – until the person "gets it". By then, a lot of cleaning up may be required.

It's possible to avoid all this. If you're in a long-term relationship or marriage, or you're contemplating marrying a cis-woman, but you are trans attracted, we urge you to consider the significance of your choices.

And, at the same time, it takes two. Meena's struggle reflects her husband's struggle as both create one another through stories they tell.

Find out more. We are available to everyone.

[exalok]

Prince!Daud AU, part 3 (repost)

How long has it been since an assassination attempt made it all the way to our Empress? the Spymaster had asked him a month before the marriage. He had been bitter about Jessamine refusing his suggestion, that they send Corvo with the diplomatic corps as the ultimate sign of goodwill.

There was one just a few weeks ago, Corvo had answered. He remembered frowning, or maybe narrowing his eyes, unsure where the conversation was going – but Burrows hadn't looked much more self-satisfied than usual, so maybe Corvo had kept appropriately stoic.

Which did not reach beyond my office, Burrows had reminded him. All three assassins had disappeared just as quick into the bowels of Burrows' interrogation cells, yielding nothing more than a rich patron careful enough to avoid being seen or named by his hired killers. Corvo still considered it a failure. Whoever had ordered the hit was free to try again.

None of that had made it easier to hear the rest of what Burrows had to say.

Face it, Corvo. His name in Burrows' mouth was always something sour, unpleasant. You are unnecessary. A holdover from the past. With the security measures Sokolov and the rest of the philosophers are developing, and my grasp of the Empire's political web, soon your position will be hardly more than ceremonial.

A glorified bouncer. He'd heard that one before. Still, the memory of it stung, overlayed with the knowledge that even this grand, perplexing marriage had been a sham. Now he was the Empress's ex-Royal Protector, pretending to be the Serkonan Prince's lawfully wedded husband, all to cover up his being hired as that same man's personal bodyguard. Not a particularly soothing thought.

Even less so when Daud was being difficult about it. Why poach him as the most effective bodyguard in the Empire if the Prince was just going to send Corvo off to mingle with the hordes of socialites attending his functions? Corvo gave the noblewoman touching his elbow a stiff smile and tucked the hand not gripping a champagne glass like a saving grace tighter against his back. He hadn't touched the drink, but holding it kept the hovering servants from offering him more.

The Prince was making the rounds, captivating in fine fitted boots and a high white collar, his long coat – dark and murky this time, almost sinister – flicking at the backs of his legs. His vest was blood red. The empty, sallow faces surrounding him leaned into his line of sight like moths to spitting fire.

His smile was easy, practiced. Impersonable and lifeless. It appeared only briefly at first, like a favor bestowed, then more often as the evening advanced, no softer, no stronger, but sharp as the alcohol draining from Daud's glass. At no point in the event did he let anyone actually touch him. The way the Prince skimmed past reaching hands and dodged the brush of a hip or shoulder could have been attributed to a haughty disregard for his subjects, if it hadn't been for the impeccable timing and consistency of his avoidance. From a distance, it looked almost like a dance – a very peculiar one, constantly slipping away from his dancing partner. Impressive.

The Prince separated from the most recent would-be hanger-on and, snagging a tall flute of champagne on the way, headed for a small curtained room off to the side.

Corvo immediately tuned out the ruffle-collared man trying to wheedle the juicy details of the hitch-up out of him, head snapping around to follow the Prince's trajectory. He couldn't be thinking– Was he really–

He offered the intrusive gossiper his champagne glass and the most dismissive of his smiles and made his way as fast and discreetly as possible to the alcove the Prince was disappearing into.

The curtains were heavy, brocaded things, thickly tasselled at the edges; they had been untied to obscure the whole of the door behind. If anyone were to be murdered behind that covering, nobody in the reception just outside would know.

Corvo swept the curtain aside. Put his hand on the handle. Erupted into the room.

It was a sitting room, one of those small, secluded spots rife in noble houses – the kind of place Corvo had caught suspicious sneakers-about snogging in countless times. The Prince was alone. Staring at the champagne swirling in his glass. Corvo clicked the door shut behind himself.

“Do you usually retire in the middle of your own parties?” Corvo asked after a thick, brooding silence. The Prince finally looked at him – a glance from the corner of his eye, his face impenetrable.

“Yes. I like having a moment to myself.” His lip twisted slightly, a twitch of a sneer. “Their... talking makes my head ache.”

“That might be the liquor,” Corvo retorted, and Daud snorted, mouth pursing into a moue.

“I actually hold my alcohol rather well.” Making his point with a wide arc of his glass-holding hand, just barely avoiding spilling the contents all over the expensive carpet. Corvo clamped down on the urge to roll his eyes. He'd faced the same and worse when Jessamine had been eighteen and disdainfully pigheaded. It was only slightly disappointing that the same attitude was now coming from a thirty-year-old man.

“Isolating yourself is the best way to let an assassin reach you,” Corvo said patiently. “This is why you should keep me nearby –”

“I told you, they want the new face to introduce himself,” the Prince answered, disinterested and sipping at his champagne.

“And like I said,” Corvo replied, the swallowed-back sigh like a bubble high in his throat, “We're just married; it's expected we stick together a while.”

Daud smiled: sardonic, dry, his gray eyes glittering hard as faceted stone. “Was the nobility of the great city of Dunwall so understanding?”

Corvo said nothing, his silence more eloquent than any words he might think of. Daud watched him from the other side of the room, not hunched but closed off somehow, observing him like a dangerous animal from behind the bars of a cage. Assessing. Hungry. Held back. It left him feeling out of place. Those gray eyes trailed down from his face, down the length of his newly-tailored clothes, and came to rest on the tight grip of his hand around the pommel of his sword.

“Did anyone see you follow me?” asked the Prince, his voice a faraway thing, as though his mind was elsewhere.

Corvo shrugged uncomfortably. “Probably. It's not important.”

The Prince took a step towards him – then another, smooth, striding, viciously controlled in that familiar edge-of-unsteady way, until he was chest-to-chest with him, a quivering inch of space between them, face tilted, eyes hooded, mouth barely open, like a challenge – an invitation? – and murmuring, “Isn't it?”

Corvo didn't answer – could hardly speak, his space suddenly invaded, the Prince's breath heavy and overwhelming with the smell of wine, and the last time he'd been approached like this it had been Jessamine in all her bold defiance and she had leaned forward then, her lips on his, that one time, and hadn't the Prince said that wasn't the point or something close enough –

The sound of the door opening behind Corvo struck the breathlessness from him. He whirled around, arm pushing the Prince back, facing the intruder –

One of the Prince's four servants – four bodyguards, really – stepped through, froze when he saw Corvo standing tense and ready – Corvo with his sword half-drawn – the bodyguard's hand darting to the back of his pants (concealed weapons, small, maybe dagger, probably wire, said the ever-vigilant part of Corvo's mind) – and immediately relaxed as he met the Prince's eyes over Corvo's shoulder.

“It's five to midnight, sir,” said the servant, now ignoring Corvo entirely. “They're waiting for you to speak.”

Corvo edged aside and caught the tail end of a hand waving airily, the Prince disgruntled and frowning as he swept forward.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, shoving back through the door. The bodyguard – Corvo didn't know this one's name – glanced at Corvo, and with a light jerk of his head towards the reception bid him follow.

They trailed after the Prince, joining the rest of his little retinue at the edge of the crowd that had gathered around the dais. Dodge was there, of course, fingers tapping the cigarette case always tucked in his pocket. He and Corvo exchanged nods and turned back to the Prince, who was already speaking, his voice clear and carrying across the room.

Dodge glanced at him, then again a moment later, and Corvo met his eyes with a frank look.

“... Shouldn't you be up there?” Dodge eventually asked as the Prince segued into the subject of their marriage, and Corvo almost startled as he realized the man was entirely right. Dodge smirked. “You're not very good at this.”

“Shut up,” Corvo muttered, embarrassed rather than angry. He really wasn't good at this. Two years in the Grand Serkonan Guard and eleven as the Empress's Royal Protector hadn't prepared him for being the trophy husband of a Void-damned Prince.

A Prince who had turned, hand outreached, to look Corvo in the eye.

He steeled himself, grasped the offered hand firmly, and faced the rich vultures of Karnaca with all the social poise he could muster.

[bodizwonder]

Is intercourse the reply to your relationship woes? | Life and magnificence

Michele Weiner-Davis, the marriage-guidance counsellor, explains why she thinks having intercourse – even in case you don’t really feel prefer it – is the muse of a cheerful relationship

‘Just Do It. Your partner will be grateful, happier and therefore nicer, too,’ says Michele Weiner-Davis. Illustration: Andrea De Santis/Observer

How does it make you are feeling when your accomplice is chilly and distant? Or after they’re essential and prickly? Does it make you wish to rip their garments off, order in a vat of whipped cream and set up a chandelier to swing from?

No? Well there’s your drawback – in accordance, not less than, to Michele Weiner-Davis, the marriage-guidance counsellor whose Ted talk explaining her unconventional recommendation to warring has been considered nearly 3.5 million occasions on-line.

Her recommendation couldn’t be easier: shag. Do it even in case you don’t wish to, do it particularly in case you don’t wish to and, most necessary of all, do it ceaselessly whether or not you wish to or not. To make it even clearer, she’s borrowed one of the vital well-known promoting slogans of latest occasions: Just Do It. “Your partner will be grateful, happier and therefore nicer, too,” she explains from her clinic in Colorado. “It’s a win-win situation for both of you!”

Weiner-Davis’s self-confessed “zealotry” for marriage has its roots within the second her mom blew her teenage world aside by saying that her seemingly good marriage had been a sham for its 23-year length. She was 16 on the time, and says she wasn’t the one 1 who didn’t get better from the bombshell: her mom by no means remarried and her 2 sons not often converse to her.

If put the work in, they'll fall again in love

The expertise, says Weiner-Davis – who states that her biggest achievement is her personal 40-year marriage – was transformative. She grew to become a staunch believer in the truth that most divorces could be prevented; that the aid of a post-divorce life is short-term however the ache of divorce is everlasting; and that if put sufficient work into staying collectively, they'll fall again in love and reside fortunately ever after.

Over the years, Weiner-Davis has honed her message. She’s now stripped it again to what she believes is the essence of a profitable marriage. Gone is any therapeutic consideration of a pair’s historical past; of their emotional travails; of trigger and consequence. Now she is totally one-track minded: irrespective of how appalling the state of a wedding, she believes that sort, beneficiant and frequent intercourse can convey it again from the teetering fringe of collapse.

Her realisation was hard-won. “For decades, I was in the trenches with warring couples,” she says. “But there were times when I was not too effective. I realised that there was a pattern to the times I’d failed. There was always one spouse desperately hoping for more touch and because that was not happening, they were not investing themselves in the relationship in other ways.”

Weiner-Davis stopped focussing on the ’ difficulties from an emotional angle and addressed them completely as sexual issues. that when the so-called “low-desire” accomplice – who's, she is at pains to emphasize, simply as more likely to be a person or a lady – was inspired to have intercourse they didn’t significantly need, not solely did they find yourself having fun with themselves however the high-desire accomplice grew to become a a lot nicer particular person to be round.

There is all the time 1 partner desperately hoping for extra contact

“I heard the same story from my clients so often that I did some research,” she stated, “and found several different sex researchers who confirmed what I was finding: that for millions of people, they have to be physically stimulated before they feel desire.”

Armed with this new concept, Weiner-Davis started encouraging her low-desire purchasers to be receptive to the sexual advances of their high-desire partner, even when they weren’t feeling up for it. “I found that unless there was something a lot more complicated going on,” she insists, “there were usually substantial relationship benefits to making love with your high-desire partner.”

She rejects any suggestion that she’s advocating a sexually subservient, anti-feminist, “lie back and think of England” strategy. In reality, she says that is the embodiment of feminine empowerment.

“It’s not just telling women to spread their legs,” she insists. “This is not just about sex. For a high-desire spouse, sex isn’t usually about the orgasm: it’s about someone wanting to feel that their partner desires and wants them. I’m hoping that women will feel empowered that they are getting their own needs met through understanding their partner.”

No nonetheless means no, she says. “But it helps to not just say no. Instead, explain why you don’t want to make love, suggest a later date and ask whether there’s something you can do for your spouse right now instead. “But here’s the deal,” she provides: “There had better be a whole more Yes’s or Later’s than No’s because if the No’s win, it leads to the problems I have been talking about.”

Weiner-Davis factors out that whereas it’s generally accepted that ought to make all their necessary household choices collectively, in terms of intercourse, who ever has the decrease intercourse drive makes a unilateral alternative for them each. And, simply to rub salt within the wound, she provides, the disenfranchised, high-desire 1 is anticipated to remain monogamous. No surprise, she says, they get cross.

I point out Weiner-Davis’s concept to some feminine associates of mine. The overriding response is: “Oh God, not another thing for my To Do list!” Weiner-Davis is fast to sentence this response. “Imagine if, when a woman said she wanted to have more intimate conversations or a date night, her husband said: “It’s just one more thing on my To Do list!” For a high-desire partner who experiences love by contact as an alternative of high quality time, it’s precisely the identical impression. I’ve had grown males crying in my workplace, crying in regards to the sense of rejection they really feel from their low-desire wives.”

I then regale her with the expertise of a good friend whose husband had began his personal enterprise which rapidly went catastrophically flawed. The household funds had been in peril and he couldn’t cope. His spouse stepped in. Alongside her personal job and whereas juggling the childcare, she labored late into the night time for weeks to stabilise their safety. During this time, she was scrupulous in not blaming her husband, both explicitly or implicitly.

With disaster narrowly averted, the harassed and sleep-deprived spouse realised her husband was being snippy and sulky. When she requested what was flawed, he exclaimed: “We haven’t had sex for weeks!” Surely, I ask Weiner-Davis, this reveals that not all calls for for intercourse ought to be met along with her Just Do It ethos.

Not in any respect, she says. “This woman knew his ego needed to be protected and tried to do that by not blaming him for his mistakes. But it sounds like the bigger statement for him was: ‘Am I still a man and do you still desire me?’”

But it’s the egocentric, uncontrolled behaviour of a spoilt baby, I insist. Weiner-Davis doesn’t disagree. “Women often say that they feel they have three children instead of two children and a husband,” she admits. “But the truth that this husband was telling his spouse what he was feeling unhappy about is a very good signal: some individuals throw within the towel.

Is the deal express, I ask, does the low-desire 1 say: “OK, we’ll make love extra typically, however then you must flip your iPhone off each infrequently so we are able to truly speak”?

Yes and no, Weiner-Davis says. “This isn’t about conserving rating. Relationships should not 50:50. They’re 100:100. We must take duty for doing all the pieces that it takes to place the connection on monitor – even in case you’re not getting the response you need initially. That’s actually onerous.

“It’s about asking your self,” she says, “when he or she speaks and acts badly, whether it’s because you have not had sex for four weeks. Is their anger actually about feeling hurt and rejected? If it is, the low-desire spouse needs to be more sexy – even though they will not want to do this. And the other one needs to ask themselves when the last time the couple spent quality time together.”

On the opposite hand, Weiner-Davis admits there's a restrict. “I’d say that after several weeks, if nothing has changed in terms of reciprocity, then the couple do need to sit down and identify what’s missing in their relationship for each of them and what they would like to have.”

Michele Weiner-Davis’s remedy for a sex-starved marriage

If you might have a low intercourse drive attempt to undertake the Nike philosophy – and ‘Just Do It!’, even in case you really feel impartial in the direction of having intercourse at that second.

If you’re the 1 with a excessive intercourse drive, attempt to uncover the way in which your accomplice desires to obtain love. It’s usually by high quality time, phrases of affirmation, considerate, sensible acts of caring and materials presents.

If you don’t need intercourse at a specific second, clarify why and recommend one other particular time - and ask whether or not you are able to do one thing else bodily at that second in your accomplice as an alternative.

If you might have the next intercourse drive than your accomplice, attempt to empathise with them and settle for they may by no means need wild or inventive intercourse, however see the elevated degree of intercourse as a present displaying their love.

Remember there’s no day by day or weekly minimal to make sure a wholesome intercourse life. As a pair you want to work out collectively what works for you.

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Amelia Hill from theguardian.com

Source: Bodiz Wonder