#and i told them folk treatments

[anqaspond]

western spiritual bitches will be like "ahh i love folk treatments and potions" bitch the elixirs my mom gives me taste like spicy garbage and whenever she thinks im particularly posessed she drugged a 17 yr old me with a herbal sedative and whenever im sick she burns each one of my fingers with a lit piece of twine and my parents parents before them burned their skin with iron till they had permanent scars and my grandfather who suffered a stroke has bleeding burn blisters all over his body because they genuinely think burning him with hot steel can heal him and cancer patients are being given camel piss instead of chemotherapy because its supposed to be a cure all and grown men are dipping flies into their tea because they have "the cure for all known diseases in one wing" i PROMISE you spiritual folk medicine is a terrifying thing you should not be glorifying because you like the aesthetic of outcast witches talking to the moon you should NOT be this into "mysterious mysticism" when it comes to fucking medical treatments and healing

[darkestwings-hellishsoul]

Love finding out who at my job is a closet racist

(so i can be rude to them of course)

[kiame-sama]

Warnings; yandere, yandere relationship, yandere behavior, possessive behavior, somnophilia flavored, dirty talk, objectification, obsessed yandere, slight corruption kink, small spoilers for Astarion's worst kept secret, blood, biting kink, mention of Astarion's past, gender neutral reader, neutral good reader (folk-hero type), opposites attract, spoilers for game opening, slight spoilers for possible non-combatant followers, owl-bear cub named Hootsie (if you know what this name is from, I like your taste in media), adult themes, mention of nsfw topics,

~~~~~~~~

How could this have happened to him? Of all people, Astarion was no chivalrous rube unlike the odd being he found himself following the command of. Truly, he didn't understand just how he wound up a follower to someone who put others before themselves. The damned tadpole in his brain being the only reason he would stand to be near someone so annoyingly virtuous... or so he tells himself.

Truth was, though he didn't like the mundane and menial tasks he found himself doing for the betterment of others, he did actually like the goody-two-shoes he followed the lead of. They were... hells, how to describe them?

Almost every choice was made to help someone against unfair treatment or wrongful accusations. Each decision was weighed carefully on the moral scale and done with well-being in mind in almost every way. They were one of those folk-hero types who stood up for the little guy and extended help to those in honest need.

They were infuriating and annoyingly righteous. ...They were enchanting.

Astarion found himself practically crooning over them, especially during fights. Someone able to so ruthlessly kill and command others was truly an impressive character. From the strategy and careful thinking to the quick and merciless endings, Astarion barely kept himself from swooning.

Even beyond the battlefield, he noticed little things they did that made him practically melt. Those small habits and unconscious behaviors that they had making him smile ever so slightly whenever he noticed them. He wasn't staring or obsessing, mind you, just... observing.

What truly surprised him was what happened when he decided to push his luck and try to feed on them and their delectable blood. Despite how quietly he had approached them, they woke up right as he was going to sink his fangs into their neck. Even though he knew he was likely about to be slain, he still tried to stand up for himself and justify his actions. Much to his surprise and genuine delight, the defacto leader did not stake him in the heart, choosing instead to speak with that same calm timbre and hear him out.

It was then they did something he swore would have made his heart flutter if it still had a beat. They told him that he was welcome to feed on their blood- within reason- and asked him to feed from them whenever he felt the thirst coming on too strongly. It was a kindness he had never expected from someone, and he agreed that feeding on (y/n) was better than trying to feed on any of the other companions they traveled with.

Since then, Astarion would feed on animals or enemies mostly, but always kept enough room in his stomach to feed on (y/n) at night. Something about their blood made him shiver in delight and the taste drove him to crave more and more. It was as if his dear (y/n)'s blood called to him and crooned sweet nothings into his mind.

He would never take more than offered, of course, but there were evenings where he was quite tempted to take more. Not more blood, but more of (y/n).

Sex was a good way to burn off steam and was good enough with almost anyone, but the thought of passionate sex with (y/n)... oh, it was simply delicious. He had propositioned once or twice, but the subtlety in how he asked seemed to make the true meaning of his words go right past them. They either didn't reciprocate or truly did not understand the delicate way he approached the matter and so thought he was talking about something else. He knew he would have to be more straightforward with them in the future about his desire for their blood and body, but for now he would satisfy himself however he could.

It was late in the evening and the others were fast asleep as he approached his beloved on silent feet. Their faithful dog- Scratch- and the aptly named owl-bear cub Hootsie were snoozing back to back on the other side of the camp, so they shouldn't interrupt him.

As Astarion leaned over the kindly ally, he couldn't help but reach up to slowly trail his fingers over their soft cheek. They looked absolutely scrumptious laying there with an unbothered expression, their breathing soft and quiet. Though he was thirsty and quite ready for a drink, he held himself back in favor of marveling over his precious little hero.

To think, some morally-righteous nobody had entangled his unbeating heart and enamored him so much he even considered charity. Charity for Hells sakes!

A soft whine escapes their lips as he slowly turned their head to the side, feeling a sense of pride when he saw the two puncture marks on the side of their neck where he fed from them regularly. Their blood was so pure and sweet, he could barely get by with the few tastes he would take every evening. Perhaps he had their heroic tendencies to thank for the extremely pure blood that he enjoyed feasting on.

He found himself so protective of their blood that any time they got hurt in battle, he could feel the rage pull at his mind and begin to consume him. As far as Astarion was concerned, all of (Y/n)'s blood belonged to him. Even one drop wasted was a drop he could have had, and the thought of their blood being so casually wasted like that... it set a fury in him.

Of course, after the battle he always offered to lick their wounds, but they seemed to think he was joking and laughed it off. What he wouldn't give to have them say 'yes' to his proposition and simply let him love on their wounds while going down on them.

Even at that moment, the warm scent of their body made bliss run through him as he decided to risk getting caught. He slowly moved their clothing so he could marvel at the exposed flesh of their stomach. With a light touch, he made sure to gently drag his tongue over their front, groaning to himself in response to their appetizing taste. All he wanted was to ravage them as they lay there and take it from him, but he still had plenty of self restraint.

"What I wouldn't give to cover you up in bites, Darling."

Astarion decided to stop pushing his luck when his thirst tugged at his self-control impatiently. He could always go back to helping himself after he got a drink from his favorite source.

Even though he had bitten them countless times over, he still felt a certain chill run through him at being able to sink his fangs in once more. The warm splash of blood against his tongue made an almost pathetic whimper escape his throat, greedily drinking down the flavorful ambrosia. All too soon, he had to pull away and staunch his desire for more until the next time he got to feed on his beloved.

"Don't worry, Dearest. I will make damn sure you can never get away from me no matter what. Then we can embrace as long as we wish. I'll rip the others to shreds for you, love. You'll never get to leave me."

[thefanficmonster]

Piss off your parents pt.1

PART 2

PART 3

Colby Brock x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Drinking, Swearing

Genre: FLUFF, Friends to Lovers, Fake Dating, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: You just wanted to rebel a little, how did it get to this?

"Y/N, you're fucking insane." Colby grumbles, struggling as he unbuckles one of his best friends out of the backseat of his car. She, however, seems completely unbothered by him maneuvering her into an upright position. She's giggling, actually, a direct contrast to her mascara streaked cheeks. She's drunk, wasted. Three sheets to the wind, if you will.

He already had to put two other drunk messes to bed tonight, Y/N's his third. He should be getting paid per person and per difficulty. Nate was the easiest to subdue, followed by Sam who put up a brief 'I'm not even drunk, dudeeee' kind of fight. And now her.

The party was at Sam's house so the previous two didn't require any special treatment other than being dunked into Sam's bed. Y/N however...

She'd pleaded with Colby, the most sober one of the bunch, to just let her be. Let loose, get drunk, flirt around a bit. That being said, four hours later - two hours past her curfew - when he tried prying her away from the drink table she put up one hell of a fight.

"You have the balance of a newborn giraffe! You're done! I'm cutting you off!" He'd yelled over the music, hearing his own parents' scolding in his tone but he ignored it. He had to take on the parenting role with his friends, it was his turn after all. He knows they'd do the same - they've done the same - when he was plastered. He owed them the same curtesy. Especially Y/N.

She's usually on parenting duty, not really on the heavy drinker side. But after the fight with her parents she told him about earlier, he can't blame her for wanting to drown it out with a few extra shots.

A few too many extra shots.

He was planning on just safely storing her in one of the guestrooms for the night and playing nurse the following morning when all three would undoubtedly have a hangover. But that's when Y/N's cognitive thought kicked in.

"My parents are gonna kill me if I don't make it home tonight! I can't sleep here!" She was - and still is - heavily slurring her words but the thought of further pissing off her folks drove her into an almost sobering panic. "Call me an Uber while I find my shoes. What time is it?"

Colby had carefully dodged around answering that question, knowing it would send her into a full blown heart attack knowing she was running so late. He tried telling her on time but she'd blown him off, saying she didn't care about the stupid curfew or at least that's how much he'd caught from her string of slurred rambles.

"You're not getting an Uber at this hour. Come on, I'll drive you." He'd said reassuringly as he picked up one of her stray shoes.

They soon found the second one and her missing purse and within fifteen minutes they'd gotten in his car and were gliding down the road with the speed of a tortoise. At this point in time Colby was neither drunk nor tipsy but that didn't stop him from sweating bullets as he operated the vehicle.

"I don't wanna go to Barton!" He'd believed she was asleep after the long stretch of silence following their departure so her sudden exclamation was quite startling.

"You won't, Y/N. You're coming with us to LA, remember?" He believed in that lie as much as she did, but he needed to soothe her somehow.

"Not according to mom! I'm gonna be stuck here in Kansas all my life!" Her anger was now engulfed by sobs Colby gently offered tissues for.

He stayed quiet and let her ramble, only partially listening to the words spilling directly from her heart. He especially tried drowning out the part where she went on a whole rant abut her massive crush on Nate.

But, alas, he wasn't successful, seeing as how he was white-knuckle-gripping the steering wheel more than half the way to her house.

That's how they've ended up here - one a giggly and mascara stained drunken mess and the other a bitter and regretfully sober babysitter. Well, babysitter, Uber driver and therapist all in one. He really should start charging for his services.

He wraps one of Y/N's arms around his shoulders, securing it there by holding her hand while his other arm fixates itself around her waist to keep her upright and at least semi steady on her feet.

With a silent prayer, he tries pushing the front door open with zero luck. It's locked.

He's cycling through all the stages of grief as he comes to terms with the fact that he will, unfortunately, have to ring the bell and alert Y/N's parents of their arrival.

He does just that, although quite begrudgingly, sighing heavily when he sees a light turn on through one of the windows. The sound of oncoming footsteps follows.

His eyes are soon met with the unpleasant glare of Y/N's mom who - as he's picked up on from their handful of interactions - already isn't very fond of him.

Just him!

She's lovely to Sam and Nate, but he's not extended the same curtesy. You can visibly see the air around her get colder when she approaches him whereas she's always been so kind and welcoming to the other two people in their friend group. He hasn't been able to figure out why. Bringing it up to Y/N proved futile as she just shrugged and shook her head.

"No clue, Colbs. But don't take it personally. She's just like that." She had said, but it didn't sit right with Colby. It made no sense. And it continues to bother him.

And unnerve him, specifically now as he's being stared down by her icy gaze.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Y/L/N....just bringing Y/N home. She had a little too much to drink." There's no way in hell he could've concealed her drunkenness. She's hanging off of him with her head bowed, her hair forming a curtain over her face. He wouldn't be surprised if he were to find her already asleep.

"You know where her room is." There's an edge to her scoff that could slit a man's throat, but Colby chooses not to dwell on it. Truly, he can't, seeing as how she's already moving away from the doorway and down the hall into the living room, leaving him to deal with the mess she thinks he caused.

He can't find it in himself to be offended right now, although he probably will be later. He has bigger fish to fry.

And so, with his options limited, he opts to pick her up bridal style so he can easily carry her up the stairs. He hopes to God her parents don't see this and get the wrong idea.

Oh if he only knew what's to come...

As carefully as he can, he settles his unconscious best friend on her bed, tucking her in. He's murmuring reassuring words under his breath as he does so, not sure if they're meant for her or him but in the end it all works out.

"Night, Y/N." With that whispered in the darkness of the room and a gentle kiss on her temple, he makes his exit, briefly stopping at the bottom of the stairs to peek into the living room, "Good night, Mrs. Y/L/N."

"It's almost morning." Her reply is on-par with most of their interactions so he just pushes past it, shaking his head slightly before leaving out the front door.

As he does so, he notices the sky has taken on a brighter shade of blue, signaling Y/N's mom really wasn't exaggerating. With a sigh, he gets back behind the wheel, heading to Sam's house to check on his other two patients.

* * * * *

Her head is pounding but you'd never be able to tell from the giant grin on her face as she sprints through the neighborhood, skipping through backyards and hopping the occasional fence to cut the trip short. The strap of a duffle bag is slung over her shoulder, she's clutching onto it tightly. It has all her belongings in it, after all. It's of upmost importance she doesn't lose it.

That's be rather unfortunate right after spontaneously moving out, wouldn't it?

She wouldn't say she got kicked out of the house per-se. That would indicate that she was thrown out against her will. Quite the contrary actually. She was more than happy to leave. Had she known those were the magic words, she would've said them so much sooner.

She catches herself before she can make a face-first collision with Sam's front door, stopping to catch her breath and knock a couple of times. And a couple more times. And a few more times.

It's safe to say she's impatient. But with the news she has, you can't blame her.

"Stop! Stop!" A disheveled Sam finally opens the door, one hand partially covering his pale face, "Too loud..."

Y/N gives herself a moment to feel guilty and hug him apologetically before dashing inside. "Colby's here, right?"

"Yeah!" She hears his voice coming from the kitchen and immediately makes a beeline in his direction, dropping her bag in the foyer.

Upon entry, she finds Colby and Nate sitting by the kitchen island, both in different stages of 'the morning after'. Despite the crippling headache, however, the latter finds it in him to give her a genuine smile, sliding off the stool to envelop her in a hug.

"Aww, is someone hungover?" She mocks Nate, sneaking a sip from his Gatorade.

"Hey!" He complains, reaching over to snatch the bottle from her, "Give it back! I need it way more than you do."

Colby, unable to stomach their interaction - for reasons he doesn't want to get into right now - busies himself by looking down at his phone.

He's known of Y/N's little crush on Nate for months now. At first it was only speculation based off her demeanor around him. And then it was more like a punch to the gut when she tipsily confirmed it one night.

"Colbs?" Her voice snaps him out of his brief bitter spiral, forcing him to look up, "Can I borrow you outside for a sec?"

He's struggled with saying 'no' to her since the day they met. Not that he wants to turn her down, he just wishes he could.

And wishes she didn't. Without even knowing it. Turn him down, that is.

With a nod, he follows her out to the patio where the sun isn't kind to either of them, adding gasoline to the fire of their raging hangovers.

"Sup?" Try as he might, he has never been good at feigning nonchalance around her.

It's surprising to see her nervous. For once, he believes their playing field to be even. "So...I've got good news wrapped up in bad news."

Her words would panic him a lot more had she not come in like a force of nature with a gleaming smile adorning her face. Still, it's not at the top of the list of things he wants to hear on a Saturday morning. So, with an exaggerated sigh, he signals for her to continue, "I'm all ears. The last twenty four hours can't get much worse."

He watches her face twist as she cringes, well aware she's about to prove him wrong, "Well...." With a deep breath, she finally spits it out, "The good news is, I'm coming with you guys to LA."

Colby doesn't spare a second, momentarily forgetting the bad news she'd mentioned as he scoops her up in a hug, "No fucking way! Hell yeah! I fucking told you!" He can't describe the immense joy and relief he's feeling right now. "Kiss that Barton College shit goodbye!"

Giggling, Y/N kicks her feet, looking for solid ground beneath them. Not that she's in a rush to be set back down. In fact, for a split second, she wishes this moment could last forever.

But, she's aware it's impossible.

Suddenly, she feels guilt creeping in for even letting that thought run loose in her head. She doesn't even know how or why it popped up.

She just knows she's about to ruin it all.

"One problem..." It's actually far more than one, but they'll dissect that later on. She just has to get the main one out the way, "You see, how that came to be...."

"You have no shame! You get wasted at parties, break rules, come home past curfew." Mrs. Y/L/N's voice is shaking the house, echoing twice as loudly in Y/N's head as she's just trying to eat a bowl of cereal. "Random people are bringing you home at dawn!"

She has the gull to argue back, "Colby is not just some random person, mom!"

"Oh yeah, he of all people was the one bringing you home! What the hell, Y/N?!"

Her mom has never liked Colby. The problem is, no one knows why. Y/N isn't sure if her mom even knows why. She tried asking once, it didn't go over so well.

But that's when two and two click together into a four in her head - a bright idea. Actually, 'dim' would be better. Nothing bright is welcome within her proximity with the splitting headache she's nursing.

Without a second thought, she blurts out: "What's so wrong with having my boyfriend take me home after a party?"

Her words ring out like a gunshot in the quiet house. Yet they are nothing in comparison to the explosion of her mother's anger in response.

Colby's mouth is hanging open, his gaze piercing through more so than focusing on his friend.

She, on the other hand, is sweating bullets, anxiously waiting for him to say something and break the long silence that has fallen upon them. When he doesn't, she wills herself to whisper a mousy little "I'm sorry."

Finally, a voice leaves his parted lips: "Y/N, you're fucking insane."

[thehmn]

I made a post some time ago (LINK) about how trolls are more nuanced creatures in Scandinavian folklore than in modern English speaking pop culture and are often used as sympathetic allegories for people who just can’t fit in with mainstream society, be it because of their disability, gender or sexuality.

I realized I forgot about the Danish 1856 ballet A Folk Tale (you can watch it on YouTube here LINK) despite it being an excellent example because in modern times it has been reinterpreted to fit this new view of trolls. (Because it’s an older ballet it has less dancing and more miming and acting than you’re probably expecting)

The story to help you better understand the ballet: The human girl Hilda and the troll girl Birthe are swapped as infants.

Many years later during a picnic Birthe is flirting with the nobleman Sir Mogens even though her fiancé Junker Ove is present. She enjoys toying with both of them, much to Ove’s dismay and Mogens’ delight. It all ends in Ove and Birthe having a fight resulting in Birthe leaving with Mogens and Ove staying in the forest past sundown to collect his thoughts.

Suddenly a nearby hill opens and reveals the troll sorceress Muri and her adopted daughter Hilda. Muri tells Hilda to lure Ove closer and get him to drink from an enchanted cup but he refuses, spills the drink and won’t give the cup back. As revenge Muri summons the elves who dance him into madness and leave him scared, confused and half naked in the dark forest (if you only know fantasy elves this is a perfect example of what the original elves are like in Scandinavian folklore)

In the underworld we learn that Hilda has been told she’s an elf girl but she senses something is off. Both of Muri’s sons, Diderik and Viderik, are in love with her but Muri has decided that Diderik should marry her because he’s the oldest. During the engagement party Hilda and Viderik get the guests drunk and run away.

They end up near a sacred spring where they see a priest feed the healing water to sick people. They try to cheer the sick and poor people up with music and dance but suddenly Ove shows up. He still has the elf madness and scares everyone. Mogens happens to walk by and thinks Ove is attacking people so he runs to get help, secretly plotting to get Ove out of the way so he can marry Birthe. Meanwhile Hilda feeds some of the sacred spring water to Ove and dance him back to sanity. Mogens returns with soldiers, hunters and farmers and trap Ove. Viderik helps him escape using his magic music and sends Mogens and his men on a wild goose chase.

Back at the mansion Birthe is terrorizing her servants and even goes as far as to threaten to throw her mother out of the house. Hilda who had been running from Mogens’ men makes her way into the mansion where she is recognized as the true heir to the estate. Because of her horrible treatment of the household Birthe is immediately thrown out onto the street and runs to Mogens for help only to find him under a troll spell. Instead of being horrified she’s delighted. Viderik realize she’s his real sister and while they talk it out other supernatural creatures come out and trap Mogens. Muri and Diderik have been looking for Hilda and Viderik and arrive just as Birthe is starting to come around to the idea that she might be a troll. Muri sees an opportunity and asks Mogens if he wants to marry her daughter Birthe. He’s too terrified and refuses until Muri offer him treasure. When Birthe realizes her troll family is even richer than her human family she immediately accepts that she’s a troll and together Birthe and Mogens follow the trolls into the underworld.

Back at the mansion Hilda and Ove have been reunited and are celebrating their wedding. Mogens and Birthe arrives which at first scares people but they’ve come in peace and to show their good will they’ve bought a dance troupe and preform for the newly weds. The ballet ends on a freeze frame of Hilda and Ove standing in the light, looking towards the human world, and Birthe and Mogens in the dark, raising their arms towards the supernatural world, both couples getting their happiest possible ending.

Now, the original version took place during the renaissance and had a strong Christian theme. Hilda wanted to return to the human world because she longed for Christian values and Ove was like a beacon of purity for her to follow. At the end all trolls left Denmark, symbolizing Christianity finally taking hold of the country.

The updated version takes place in the time it was written and the Christian themes have been severely downplayed. Trolls and all supernatural creatures are still very much present, even watching the wedding from a distance. It is now a personal story about people feeling misplaced and longing for a community that understands and accepts them.

Birthe is aggressive, even cruel at times, but this version also implies her behavior is part nature and part nurture. She is described as spoiled meaning her parents had a huge hand in how she turned out, unable or perhaps unwilling to handle her condition and now her mother despise what she has become. This is evident in how Birthe behaves around her mother. She LOVES her wet nurse who took on the emotional parenting role but recoils at her mother’s touch. She also directs most of her abuse at the housekeeper because she most openly mocks Birthe’s clumsiness and inability to act refined. There’s a heartbreaking scene where Birthe gets so frustrated with her inability to dance and fit in that she screams at her own reflection until the wet nurse calms her down.

Only two people are able to calm Birthe down, her wet nurse who cuddles her when she gets upset and Mogens who is seen directing Birthe’s attention to himself which softens her demeanor because she likes him and doesn’t want to cause him more harm than he can handle.

Both her and Mogens are also more queer coded in this version. Birthe wants to be a dancer and gets very up and close with the female dancers. In the first scene Mogens can be seen flirting with the female staff and in the last scene he feels comfortable openly flirting with the male dancers. It’s worth noting neither acts jealous when they see their partner flirt, again shining a light on their alternative relationship.

And who could forget when Birthe tricks Mogens into kissing Ove. In the taped version he kiss Ove’s hand but in the version I watched live they kissed on the mouth which better explained why Mogens grabs Ove’s face later as if to mockingly say “You think I’m disgusting? Look at what you’ve become”

And you’d think Mogens had more reason to be mad than Ove but no, he’s flustered but gets over it almost immediately while Ove is so angry he rips his jacket off like the good pure boy he is.

And something that really stands out is Mogens’ worship of Birthe. The first time Birthe appears all the other characters run to the opposite end of the stage but Mogens doesn’t even flinch. He just bathes in her presence. When she asks him to push her on the swing he unprompted gets her whip.

In a later scene she’s seen using a bell to bully her servants and the final thing that makes her realize she has lost all power is when they ignore it, which makes it very symbolic that Mogens gives her the bell back in the final scene and holds her up high while she rings it. Boy loves his Dom GF so very very much.

It also says something about Mogens that he randomly appears in the bad part of town. He’s very good at playing the upper class game and seems to be quite respected but also seeks escape in the outskirts of society. When Birthe really gets going you can see Mogens acting shocked followed by pure joy at such a free and wild woman. The Danish translation of Shakespeare’s Taming of The Shrew is Troll can be Tamed and this ballet almost feels like a response to that. Trolls/wild women should not be tamed! They should be free around people who love them for their wildness!

Their behavior is perfectly in line with what we see in the underworld. Muri is played by a male dancer to give her the proper imposing height and it’s left up for interpretation if older female trolls are just bigger than the males or if she’s a trans mommy. The engagement party is risqué from the start and quickly turns into a drunken sex orgy (Good luck to Mogens when he is engaged to Birthe. All I’m saying is as a human he’s going to be very popular with the other creatures) It might seem like an evil world but this version of the ballet really tries to make it clear that this is normal and expected behavior in the underworld. They act like that because they like it and are all happy with the way their society works. Even the more gentle troll Viderik prefer the underworld to the human world. It’s not bad just different.

Birthe and Mongens almost come of as lower level money-happy Disney villains, deserving of a fitting punishment for their treatment of the people around them, but certainly not death and the story is overall sympathetic to them as people who have been mangled by a society that mistreated and punished them for something that was out of their control which is why they get a happy ending. Definitely worth a watch.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Complaints Procedure

MASTERLIST

Roy Kent x F!Reader

Literally just 1.5k of pure filth. Sorry, not sorry?! 😅Taken from this prompt.

Inspired by this image:

~~~~~

You knew to avoid the locker room immediately before and after matches. The less than stellar performance of the team during the season had seemingly made everyone angry - even Sam was down. Jamie Tartt continued to annoy and degrade everyone who so much as glanced at him, and the so-called Captain looked about ready to throw in the towel. Getting rid of George Cartrick may have been a wise decision, but his replacement was certainly unorthodox. You had your work cut out for you in HR, it was like babysitting 2 year olds - they all still bit, kicked, and scratched. Seeing you always gave them the initiative to put complaints in, complaints that you had to be seen to legitimately deal with, even if dealing with it meant sitting the idiots involved down and giving them a telling off. You had never told off Roy Kent, though. The man terrified and turned you on in equal measure.

Just the low timbre of his voice made your heart pound and flooded your body with want. Training was long over, so you figured you were safe to take some paperwork down to Ted Lasso's office. Your heels clicked on the concrete as you made your way through the maze of rooms. Wage slips for the folks in the ticket office, holiday forms for the staff in the medical and treatment areas, and the weekly update on player relations that Ted had asked you to draft. Who was fighting with who, who had you had to threaten with suspension, and who you'd just had to give an arse kicking to. As you turn to leave Ted’s office, Roy is coming back in from the showers. With just a towel gripped in his hand. You look literally anywhere else. The ceiling tiles become particularly interesting. 

"Oi, what you doing in here?"

"Just dropping some paperwork off, no need to be rude."

"Sorry, just… thought I was alone, that's all." You drag your eyes from the ceiling to his, drawing an invisible line across his nose so you do not look any lower. "See something you like?" He teases, as if he knows it's taking all your will to not look at his chest or the towel. 

"Definitely not. I'm done now, I'll leave you to it." 

 

You're sure you must hold your breath on the walk from the locker room to your office because as soon as you shut the door, it all comes out in a whoooosh. As good-looking as he is, you can't stand his arrogance, dominance, and anger issues. You knew it was nothing new in football or in work at all, really. You'd seen every layer of the food chain, and it was always the top of the tree who thought they were gods gift. You knew he could be kind and thoughtful. You'd seen it for yourself with the younger, less experienced players and with fans too. It was definitely a certain calibre of person who set him off - the Jamie Tartts and George Cartricks of the world. You're still leaning against your office door when you feel and hear it knock. When it begins to open against your back, you have to jump out of the way so it can swing open. Fully clothed, Roy is on the other side. 

"Do I scare you?" He asked, frowning. 

"Course you don't scare me, I'm not a sodding child." You roll your eyes. "Did you need something?" 

"I might need to put in a complaint." You arch an eyebrow at him, 

"Really? Go on?" He took a step closer to you, so you take a step back. 

"I saw the way you looked at me downstairs -" you scoffed, 

"I did not look at you at all. I actively didn't look at you," you start, angry until you see the smirk. "Oh fuck off, did you come up here just for a laugh? I've got enough to deal with picking up 

after Jamie Tartt since he can't stop making everyone miserable." He holds up his hands in surrender. 

"Alright, alright, just a joke," he laughs a little. "You wanted to look though." 

"You are just like the other idiots. So full of your own self importance, you all think everyone wants you." He narrows his eyes and takes another step towards you.

"At the risk of sounding like any of those pricks, tell me you don't?"

"What makes you think-"

"Humour me." He looks at you like he might devour you at any moment, his eyes dark with just a hint of mirth. He knows what you think about when you see him. You feel your breath quicken, and the urge to press your thighs together is desperate, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction of being right. Before he can catch you in a lie, he forces you to take one final step back against your desk and leans down to capture your mouth in a messy, obscene kiss. 

 

The shock of it makes you gasp, giving him access to deepen the kiss. Your hands grip at his shoulders to keep him close, trying to get him even closer if it's possible. He leans you back against your desk, the edge of it digging into the back of your thighs while his hands are trying to touch as much of you as possible. By leaning back on the desk, he can kiss along your jawline. It would be impossible now to make out that you don't want him, your greedy hands roam up his arms and into his hair and the sighs and moans he's pulling from you with just a kiss are insane. The length of his body presses against the length of yours and you feel him hard against your hip. Feeling how much he wants you only makes you need him more. Your hand brushes across the front of his jeans, making him jerk to meet it. He breaks the kiss and watches you breathlessly as you move to undo the button in the waistband. You can tell he's about to ask if you're sure, so you place a soft kiss to his lips,

"I want you to fuck me," you tell him quietly. There is still just a hint of hesitation in your voice, but it's more a fear that he'll reject you than anything else. 

"Fucking hell." He sighs into you. He grips your hips and turns you to face the desk, you rest on your forearms. He has your skirt rucked up around your waist in no time at all and nudges your feet a little further apart. You don't have the time or inclination to feel embarrassed or to consider something more meaningful. The singular thought in your mind is having him inside you. You hear the tear of a condom wrapper and feel him at your core. His hand cups you first, wanting to check that you're ready. "You're so fucking wet," he mutters almost proudly. He gives your hip a little squeeze of warning and pushes inside you. 

"God, Roy yesss," you hiss as he fills you completely. Fully seated, he pauses just a minute to reach down and sweep your hair to one side so he can kiss your neck, "please, Roy-" you push back against him, desperate for more. He takes the hint and pounds into you over and over. He’s hitting exactly where you need him with each thrust, and it's enough to have you believing in some sort of deity. You can feel the pressure building and you're so close to the edge it's overwhelming. "I'm so close, please daddy-" the words tumble from you, unfiltered and unexpectedly - that is a brand new one for you, and when you feel his pace slow just slightly, you're terrified that you've repelled him. He moans low in his chest and redoubles his efforts, unyielding, until you come hard, crying out his name. 

"Say it again," he whispers against your ear, his body draped over your back. His hand reaches around to rub circles over your clit and you're so sensitive that the payback is almost immediate and you can feel another orgasm building. 

"Fuck, make me come again daddy," you beg. He does exactly that within seconds of you asking, his own release coming at the same time. He holds your hips while your legs shake, his forehead resting on the center of your back. He slips out of you and disposes of the condom before turning you gently to rest you back against the desk. You keep your head down, chin to chest, mortified at what's just happened until his nose nudges against yours and he kisses you softly. 

"Holy fucking shit, I should threaten to complain again, that was insane," he breathes, still holding your hips and trying to get you to look up at him. 

"I shouldn’t ha-"

"No, don't do that. You're definitely going to say it again," he chuckles against you, "I fucking promise you'll say it again." 

 

FIN

[general-cyno]

it's dressrosa time for more zolu rambles. there were some really good and funny bits like zoro being (unsurprisingly) on board with luffy's idea of fighting the emperors

luffy charging right after zoro when he gets his sword stolen bc it looks fun (though he ends up in the tournament instead)

zoro getting absolutely sidetracked from his very important mission of going back to the sunny to help the others bc he saw luffy participating in the tournament, then again when he saw luffy in person (he wanted to be invited too!)

luffy happily and without hesitation agreeing to zoro's crazy plan for the lift

cheers to luffy's casual, unwavering faith in zoro!

zoro just letting luffy do whatever he wants and manhandle him around with a simple "yeah sure where we going" compared to law who is decidedly Not Even Remotely Used to this kind of treatment

their gremlin braincell once again shining through as they both laugh at pica (much to law's continuous exasperation)

I also liked how confidently luffy decided and told zoro he'd continue ahead while zoro chose to stay behind and deal with pica, yet again demonstrating luffy's casual but firm trust that zoro can handle things and protect others in his stead, while he takes care of the biggest threats. zoro's own taunting and smug "our captain wants nothing to do with a pebble like you, so you have to make do with me" at pica was good too lol.

when zoro finally defeats pica and side characters, in awe of his strength, are baffled that someone so powerful is luffy's "henchman"? also peak.

two other things I enjoyed, albeit not necessarily involving zoro and luffy directly, were:

- zoro taking the lead, attempting to stop doflamingo's birdcage by force and doing so by asking for ppl's help (showcasing his willingness to guide as much as rely on others when it's needed) which drove folks to actively follow him in a similar fashion to how they tend to do with luffy. in a way, zoro's determination uplifted ppl's spirits + the whole thing helped keep civilians and others safe while luffy recuperated enough to finish off doflamingo. it's no wonder zoro was one of the few straw hats to stay behind in dressrosa, since that's the kind of feat someone like him (as luffy's first mate/second in command) can accomplish. really highlights zoro's role in the crew and why luffy's belief in zoro's reliability, of him being able to handle dire situations and protect ppl on his own without luffy having to worry abt/over him is a recurring and important part of their overall relationship. usopp desperately asking zoro to save him back during the pica ordeal and hugging him afterwards in relief as other characters thanked him too, was a funny and sweet way to acknowledge this as well.

- this interaction between luffy and rebecca:

can't say whether it was intentional or not, (probably not since these chapters are wildly apart from each other) but it made me think of luffy and zoro's first meeting, and how luffy ultimately decided to make zoro part of his crew after he asked to be fed the stomped riceballs and for luffy to tell rika they were delicious. these two are so very similar on a fundamental level, even if they still retain certain differences and distinct approaches depending on the situation, and it was nice to see another reminder of it. both luffy and zoro are, at their core, strong and kind characters (though in a curiously selfish manner) who don't hesitate to acknowledge and repay the kindness they're offered in turn. imo it's cool how these shared traits have allowed them to understand and stay alongside each other to this point.

edit: forgot to mention but sabo entrusting the crew with luffy's safety and giving them luffy's vivre card (handing it to zoro specifically) as zoro fondly remarks how he resembled ace back in alabasta was just. really really good as well. esp when you consider how much the crew loves luffy, and what zoro himself has done to protect him.

[theblogwithoutfear]

watching daredevil s3 and i found it odd in the flashback scene that karen, who had an experience with addiction in the past, couldn't approach matt's vigilantism with a bit more empathy. idk it just feels kinda out of character they made her react that way, saying "you certainly sound like an addict' with a judgemental tone. they really made karen and foggy hit the audience over the head with their treatment of matt like an addict and it just feels icky.

especially when compared to how karen reacts to anything frank does with softness and compassion even when frank repeatedly pushes her away like matt does, isn't that a bit unfair?

Get ready for another long post folks

I understand what you're saying here, and honestly I think you're right in some ways. I think it goes back to what I was saying earlier about Karen being flawed. She's not perfect. Like Matt, she can be a hypocrite at times. She can also lash out in anger and judgement. That's just a very human thing—and also, something that Matt does consistently through the series. They're all people, they're all flawed, they're all blind (no pun intended) to their own hypocrisies and faults.

Also, and this is just my personal opinion, but I think she's also reacting that way because she's an addict. She has experience with what it's like; she knows how damaging and difficult it can be. And with Karen, when she finds out that Matt's Daredevil, she's already poised to see it as a bad thing. He gets beaten to shit on the daily, has countless near-death experiences, and literally puts his personal life on hold and lets everything fall apart in service of his alter ego. Which, to be clear, is definitely something that Matt needs to do—he has to be Daredevil. He can't hear the things he hears and not suit up. So it makes sense that he has to sacrifice so much of his personal life.

But at the time that Karen finds out about Matt being Daredevil, Matt has not yet learned how to balance his work and personal life. They even make a joke about that at the end of season 3. (Karen: "You're going to move back into Matt Murdock's apartment?" Matt: "Yeah, yeah. I just figured he has a healthier life-work balance.") At the time Karen learns the truth, DD has taken over Matt's life and screwed everything up. Not to mention everything that happened with Elektra and the terrible position that put Karen in. He literally had an emotional affair with her, and Karen sees her in his bed and never gets an explanation. For all she knows, Matt fully cheated on her while in his DD persona.

And then there's the fact that Matt literally told Karen "I don't need him to be a part of me anymore. And I don't want him to be." Matt himself, at the time of The Defenders, is trying to let go of Daredevil. We as the audience know that it's a terrible idea, but Matt mistakenly believes that giving up DD will fix his life. The way The Defenders is written, it seems as though Matt has asked for Karen and Foggy's help in giving up DD. So of course they're both frustrated when Matt takes up the suit again; not because they think it's bad, but because Matt himself has framed DD as an addiction and has told them he wants to give it up. They're frustrated at Matt for his flip flopping, his "relapsing" if you will. Sure, they should be more compassionate. That's absolutely true. But Karen and Foggy are only human; and after seeing the way that DD has torn Matt's life to shreds (and their lives too!), it makes sense that they're frustrated with him.

The other thing is, the show itself is absolutely framing the DD persona as an addiction, from the very beginning of season 1. By the end of season 3 (and probably in the scrapped seasons 4 and 5, we'll see what Born Again will do) Matt has learned to balance the lawyer and the vigilante; his violence becomes something he can control. He's learned to walk that tightrope. However, at the very beginning of the show, it's clear that Matt's violence controls him. In that first monologue in the confessional, when Matt talks about "letting the Devil out," he's talking about the addictive power of violence. You also see it in episode 2 when he's torturing that Russian and he says "It's not just the boy. I'm doing this because I enjoy it."

All of this really comes to a head in season 2; Frank Castle points it out. He says "I think you and me are the same" and he says "You're one bad day away from being me." Because one of the core struggles of Daredevil, both as a show and as a character, is between the use of violence to prevent harm, and the use of violence as vengeance/emotional release. And despite Matt's moral grandstanding, he consistently veers into the latter. He never crosses the line into murder, but his violence is Matt's way of releasing the anger inside him—of "letting the Devil out." And that, frankly, is addictive for him. It's why it is so difficult for him to refrain from killing Fisk at the end of season 3. The emotional release of extreme violence, especially under ethically and morally justifiable circumstances, is very difficult for him to resist. It's in that last episode of season 3 that he really overcomes this, and realizes he can control the Devil inside him, rather than the other way around.

All this is to say, the show frames Matt's violence/DD persona as an addiction, and his arc is focused on overcoming this and finding a balance. So for Karen, who has a canon background of addiction, it makes sense that she reacts the way she does. She has little patience for him because a) she's human and flawed, and b) she knows what addiction did to her and her family, and she's scared what it will do for Matt (and Foggy and herself), and it causes her to lash out at him.

As for your point about the way she treats Frank Castle, I think it comes down to the fact that Frank is usually honest with her. Karen very vocally disapproves of what Frank does and all his methods, but she knows that he's honest with her, so she can meet him where he's at and they can go from there. Matt, meanwhile, has spent their whole relationship being deceptive and hiding things constantly (and yes, obviously he had good reasons for that, but it doesn't change the fact that it's very shitty for Karen to have to deal with). Frank doesn't have the same problem with work/life balance; he doesn't have two different identities. He doesn't hide and he doesn't lie in the same ways that Matt does. So I think it's fair for Karen to be mad at Matt for a while. After everything that went down—after Matt spent their entire relationship lying, tanked the law firm, destroyed his own life, and not to mention the whole Elektra debacle, all of this while they were dating—no wonder Karen's upset. She'd have to be a literal saint not to be!

There's also a lot to be said about Matt/Elektra and Karen/Frank being parallels to each other in the way that those relationships play out, but that's a topic for another day.

Anyway, I don't know how I've become the Karen Page Defense blog, but I'm not complaining lol.

[apomaro-mellow]

Runaway Royalty 4

Part 3

Since the hunt was on, the camp stopped sooner than they had planned, setting up so that they could hunker down and figure out just where to find the lost royals. Eddie was pacing around while the older members knocked around a few ideas. That if all three had truly been kidnapped, it might be by someone with designs on them. But there was also the idea that they simply ran away from their duties.

“If they ran, I bet they went west”, Gareth said. “They’d have enough coin to charter a boat and head off the continent.”

“You think they’d actually go that far?”, Harold questioned. “They’d get tired before reaching the coast.”

Steve was about to take offense to that when he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be one of the lost princes. So he kept his mouth shut. The less he said the better.

“Why are we even bothering with them?!”, Eddie threw his hands up. “Did it ever occur to you lot that once we have them, we’d have to transport them back to their castles? Is that what you want? To play escort to a bunch of pampered pups?”

“We can handle some uppity folk, right Jeff?”, Gareth turned the question to him.

“Oh, yeah, sure”, Jeff rolled his eyes. “They can’t be any worse than our Bandit Prince. You can give them the royal treatment.”

Eddie scoffed, arms crossed as he started to pace again, more furious this time. “I don’t want anything to do with them. Have you heard what they say about Prince Stephen? Spoiled rotten to the core. No thank you.”

Steve stood up straight at that. “I’m sure Prince Edwin is no prize either. If the rumors about him are to be believed.”

Robin kicked his leg. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“Let’s get our ears to the ground”, Greenley said. “Someone has to know something about them.”

There was a bit more talk, names thrown around - contacts, Steve surmised when someone told him to go to the river to fetch some water. He frowned.

“Why do I-ow!” He glared at Robin when she kicked him again. The problem was she wasn’t subtle at all. And his ankle was beginning to suffer from it.

“You got away not helping with camp last time”, Gareth said. “Everyone here has tasks to do. And yours right now is to get water.”

Steve frowned. But he remembered Eddie’s words about spoiled Prince Stephen. Someone had to get water for them. And he wasn’t doing anything else. So while he knew nothing about fetching water from a river, he was given a couple buckets and sent off. He got a good distance away from the camp when he heard someone approaching from behind. When he turned, he saw Eddie. The other man barely got out a ‘hey-’ before Steve turned his nose up and walked on, the river not too far ahead.

He could hear Eddie behind him, calling out and trying to catch up. Steve ignored him and stopped at the river’s edge. It ambled along calmly for now. It could probably turn to a raging current after rain.

“Hey, did you hear me calling you? What’s your problem?”, Eddie asked once he got to Steve’s side.

Steve’s head whipped to him. “My problem is-” His mouth hung open and then he snapped it shut. Because how ridiculous would it be for him to be offended on Prince Stephen’s behalf? So he had to switch gears as Eddie looked at him questioningly.

“I’m not looking forward to playing host to Prince Edwin is all”, he said as he approached the river to start filling the buckets.

“Oh. Are you not a fan of His Highness?”, Eddie asked.

“I haven’t really heard anything good about him.” Steve knelt down and let the current fill the first bucket. “I heard he’s always talking over others despite never having anything interesting to say. That he’s notoriously dim-witted too.”

“Well that’s something he and Prince Stephen would have in common”, Eddie said. “If the rumor mill is to be believed, he’s often slow on the uptake.”

Steve slammed the bucket down on the ground, sloshing some of the water and making it spill over the top. He knew that’s what people thought of him. And he knew that he wasn’t as academic as his brilliant sister. But it was still a sore spot that people equated that to being completely brainless. 

“Well then he and Prince Edwin would be a perfect match, wouldn’t they?”

Eddie was scowling now. “I don’t wanna have to deal with them any more than you do. But the pack has spoken.”

“Why did you follow me out here?”, Steve asked, exasperated. 

“Because I know you and your sister aren’t common travelers”, Eddie said, noticing the way Steve tensed up. “I don’t know what you’re running from, but it’s obvious you come from money. And I thought you might appreciate some help.”

“I’m fully capable of putting water in a bucket”, Steve said, going ahead and doing so with the second bucket. Then he stood up, grabbing both by their handles and lifted, hoping the alpha couldn’t see the way his arms shook.

“More hands make for a lighter load”, Eddie said, taking one of the buckets from him. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re incapable.” This close, he could tell how Steve’s scent went from something sour to something light. It was something buttery and sweet.

“Do you think there’s a true chance of finding them?”, Steve asked.

Knowing his determined crew, they’d make a dogged attempt. There was a good chance they found at least two of the nobles. But Eddie wasn’t about to say something so specific that would get Steve asking about the third.

“I think the royal guard will find their lost wards first. What are they good for otherwise?”

They walked back to the camp and Eddie handed one of the buckets off to someone whose name Steve hadn’t learned yet. He also took Steve’s and Steve felt a bit miffed that the other man carried both off with ease. The sounds of laughter caught his attention and it was none other than his sister in the middle of it.

“Didn’t know your sister was such a fan of Princess Robin”, Harold said through tears of laughter.

Robin beamed while Steve glared. 

“I just think the kingdom is in good hands with her”, Robin said. 

“Is it just because she’s your namesake?”, Eddie asked.

“Now how would that work? She and I are like the same age”, Robin said, squeaking when Steve pinched her side.

“Yes, she’s your name sake”, Steve said through gritted teeth. “Because you were born a few months after her.”

“Does that mean you were named for the princess’ brother then?”, Jeff asked.

“No, Steve here was named for our mother’s previous lover”, Robin joked.

This time when Steve pinched her, he did it openly. His ears burned at the laughs at his expense but it was better than anyone catching on. He hadn’t thought about coming up with a fake identity. His nickname would have been enough of a cover. It became a little less inconspicuous when he was traveling with his sister who hadn’t gone with an alias at all. They really should have spent more time thinking of fake names for themselves.

“Excuse me while I speak with my sister in private”, he said before grabbing her by the arm.

Once they were a good distance from everyone, she pulled her arm away from him and glared. “What’s going on with you?”

“We need to keep a low profile. And you’re chatting yourself up with these people?”, he hissed.

“They’re the ones who brought up Princess Robin. And I’m not going to lie about myself.”

“When you run away from home it’s kind of a package deal”, Steve said.

Robin crossed her arms and cocked her hips. “So I can’t like a royal because people will suspect I’m her? Don’t be silly, Steve.”

“Someone’s going to start making connections if you keep singing your own praises.”

“And you badmouthing Prince Edwin is any different? Keep doing that and people are going to start wondering why you’re so biased against him. Almost like a scorned lover.”

“I can’t be a scorned lover when we were never lovers.”

“Look, they’re not gonna put their greenest members on such a grand scheme”, Robin said, her posture relaxing. “We’ll probably be given chores around the camp. And they can’t find us out there if we’re always here.”

Steve’s tensed up posture began to relax as well and he let out a sigh. “You might be right…”

“Might be? I’m as bright as Princess Robin. And as we all know, her intellect rivals the greatest minds in history.”

“You’re also as insufferable as the princess, whose own brother has described her like a buzzing gnat”, Steve said, turning to walk back to camp.

“And how would you know what the prince thinks, hm? Suspicious~”, Robin teased as they came upon the others. “What’d we miss?”

Eddie held out a cup of sticks. “We’re all drawing straws to see who gets to go into town with Rick to meet up with his contact.”

“They don’t like big groups”, Rick said, his long hair graying on both his head and his beard. “So I can only take two with me.”

They all drew without looking and most opened their hands without much fuss. But there were stakes involved for three of them. So when Steve caught a glimpse of color on Robin’s, he knocked into her, causing her to drop her stick.

“Sorry, clumsy me”, he said, pretending to drop his as well. He picked them both up, switching in the process.

Most didn’t pay attention but Robin could tell what he did. Her face pinched and he stared at her hard, hoping she didn’t say anything.

“Looks like it’s me”, Steve said, announcing his draw.

“And me”, Eddie added, showing his own. 

“Well get ready young buck”, Rick said to Eddie, then looked Steve up and down. “And doe. The next town is a few miles away. We need to get there before sundown.”

Steve nodded and this time Robin pulled him off to the side. “Why did you do that?”, she whispered harshly.

“Because between the two of us, I’ll draw less attention.” Robin had changed neither her appearance nor her name. And they were sure to draw up posters searching for them soon.

“I can’t let you go alone with two alphas!” Robin’s eyes held a very real fear for him and Steve remembered that he had wanted to go alone. He didn’t know how he could have been so cruel as to leave her without a word.

“I’ll be fine. You’ve seen Eddie, he moves like a fish out of water. And Rick looks like a gentle shove would knock him out.”

“Still”, Robin took her dagger from her side and handed it to Steve. “Should they or anyone else have any ideas.”

Steve took it and within the hour, he, Eddie, and Rick were all making the trek to the nearby village. Rick did most of the talking, telling him about his contact. Said he was a real piece of work but also knew more about anything than anyone he’d ever known. Steve didn’t absorb most of it. He reminded himself that Robin was safer in the camp than she was roaming about town. Prince Edwin’s disappearance also weighed on him.

Not that he cared for a man who hadn’t even kept up regular missives with his betrothed. But what had happened to him. He and Robin had run away, but was it possible that the prince had been taken? If so, by whom? He knew it didn’t concern him anymore. Still, if there was someone out to get the royals, that was all the more reason for him and his sister to keep their heads down until they settled somewhere safe.

Part 5

[idyllcy]

sincerely, never yours

word count: 4.8k

warnings: Inspired by TBOSAS, non explicit smut, master/pet theme

summary: in a room full of birds, there is something visibly off about you.

In the beginning of your life, if you were told that you'd get your life ripped to shreds by a boy from the richest area in the country, you would have laughed in their face. If someone told Tim that he would get his heart marred by some insignificant girl in the world, he would have sent them to the catacombs.

There is no such thing as fate.

You spend your days weaving your friends' hair, fingers working as you weave intricate patterns, voice soothing to their ears as you hum the folk songs passed on to you by your family, performers through and through. You keep your voice quiet as you sing, and you lower it further as a guard from the capitol strolls by, eyes narrowing at you as you avoid his eyes. He stares harder, brows furrowing, and eventually, you are grabbed by the chin as he laughs.

There is no one in the world who does not know the voice of a songbird.

Your family is known for their voices, yet no one lives past their youth. Fate plays the cruel trick of selection for the capitol to be sold as an entertainer, and fate plays the cruel trick of never protecting them from the diseases presented at every moment. You are not lucky. You will never be lucky. In this world, you will never be able to break the bonds of fate no matter how you try. The strings on your body will be pulled and you will be forced to perform for the rest of your days.

You are bound by the strings of fate.

And just by opening your mouth to sing, you will be tied up until there is no way out.

"The daughter of the songbird himself." He sneers. "What are you doing in the slums singing to the poor? You should be in a cage performing for the capitol just like your daddy."

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir. I'm an orphan." You flinch as he throws your head to the side, delivering a slap on your face. You can not let him take you. For if he does, you will never know the illusion of peace ever again.

"Hah. Lies." He sneers. "I'd recognize that poisonous voice at any point in time. Be thankful I didn't just take you like they did with your father. You can make this easy for you, or I can take you forcibly just like they did with your daddy."

"Sir. I really do not—"

He spits on your face. "Hard way it is."

You are yanked by the arm as a chain is clasped to your neck, and you are tazed, electricity shooting down your spine as your jaw drops in shock, the veins in your neck becoming prominent as you hold back a yell. You land on the ground as he holds you down by the head, and you grimace as the dust fills your lungs and grime digs into your hair, and you feel yourself get pulled back up, with another chain around your wrists, and you grimace as he shoves you with the tip of his gun into the car he arrived in, and you watch as your friend yells for you as you leave.

You mouth at her to stop, and you watch as she stays standing in place, even as the car rolls away, and you keep staring at her, even as her figure becomes nothing more than a spec of dust in your vision. You can not stop staring back at the past.

You arrive at the train station, and your chains are unlocked, stripped, washed, dolled up and dressed up. The maids ask you how you want to be dressed, and you ask if you are able to dress yourself. You do as they watch you, eyes on every movement of yours, and you watch as they rush over to help you lace up the corset to support your back. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and your lips are curled into a wretched grin.

An idea strikes your mind as you take notice of the treatment you are receiving.

They take you to the stage, and you cough twice as the judges step in, and you meet eyes with him.

Timothy Jackson Drake.

Ocean blue eyes and pitch-black hair, Tim is the embodiment of the elites in the capitol. Born of money, born of status, Tim Drake has everything the children on the street desire. You wonder if you could take advantage of him in some way. After all, it does make you excited to see if you could do what your father failed to do. Well, no point in crying over spoiled milk. It was only you now. It didn't matter if you had to seduce him with your body. You would pick a youngster over an old man any day of the year. Anything is better than the men in their seventies who bring home songbirds for the sole purpose of sexual release. Maybe Tim is naive enough to even love you. Though, it doesn't have to be him.

The thought of it alone makes your lips curl into a sweet smile, flashing it at him before you listen to their words.

You are to sing, and not stop singing until you are told that you can stop.

So you open your mouth, voice warm as honey, sweet to the ears, and you watch as your listeners descend into that same mania that everyone who listens to your voice does, and you stare into Tim's eyes as you sing, watching as that same sick of obsession that twisted onto the face of guard when he heard his voice mirror on Tim's face, and your lips curl into a sickening smile as you catch his attention. Your voice pulls your listeners underwater as they feel free, bubbling in the blue with their happiness, your voice there for their service.

There is no such thing as fate.

Yet, as fate pulls on you and drags you down to hell, you can try and fight it all you want.

You finally stop after one of the judges break free from your voice, and something is clasped around your neck as you land on the ground with a thud. You don't struggle, holding your head down as you listen to the judges whisper amongst themselves to see who should take you home, and you wonder if Tim likes you enough to fight against the elders. You wonder if he would win against those grimy old men who had seen your chest and decided that you would be a great bedwarmer. Well, if that were to happen, you would just have to sing a little harder. It isn't too hard to b—

Tim walks up to you when the judges leave him to take you home, and you blink up at him, doe-eyed, innocence leaking out every single pore of yours just so he can buy the act. You pray he trusts you. He brushes the hair from your face, cupping your cheek, eyes oddly gentle, and you recognize the psychotic glint in his eyes as one that used to rest in the eyes of your mother while growing up. So, you lean into his palm, eyes closing, pretending to enjoy his touch while it disgusts you to no end. You suppose he works.

The way Tim's thumb brushes your cheek convinces you that he's fallen for it.

"You'll be my songbird from now on." He explains, lips curling into a smile. "I'll treat you well as long as you obey, hm?"

You blink at him, lashes full, eyes convincing. "Alright."

Even your voice sounds like sin when you speak.

"My first order... do not speak unless permitted to." He smiles, showing all his teeth.

You nod.

Oh, such power

Tim adores it.

"Then," He whispers, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, "when I am receiving guests in twos or threes, you are never to sing to your full potential."

You bat your lashes at him in understanding.

"Finally, you have to keep the chain around your ankle at all times, hm?"

On the first night he brings you back, he has you in his bed at his mercy, listening to your voice as you mewl his name and chant it like a prayer, breathless whimpers and moans slipping past your lips as he uses you. His touches are gentle, and the words he whispers into your ear almost make you sure that he loves you, but he does not. It is painfully obvious he does not when you wake in an empty bed, but it makes no difference to you. You are his pet— to be abused, used, discarded. You are nothing but an object he holds temporary possession over, an object he will inevitably grow tired of one day, and the reminder is carved into your skin, a remembrance of your father who was used by your mother.

You are a lowlife half-blood.

That is all you ever will be.

But, you don't complain about Tim's treatment of you. Your fingers stay still as the maids apply a new set of press-ons to your nails, and you tilt your head for the maid to powder your face, and you sit on a silk-wrapped couch in Tim's study room, locked inside a human-sized glass cage as you sketch and sketch and sing and sing. You are not permitted to consume books out of a fear that you would learn rebellion, so you dabble in the arts, oil paint on your face, watercolors spilled all over the couch you sit on, fingers always busy with something. The chain on your ankle is barely noticeable.

You paint portraits of the servants that go in and out of Tim's study.

You paint portraits of your friends out of a fear that you will forget what they look like.

You paint portraits of the mysterious figure known as your father out of a wretched longing.

Your paintings are hung up around the mansion, pictures of people staring lifelessly staining the walls, but Tim pays no mind, asking if you would ever paint him one day. You do not answer him, blinking innocently instead. Tim finds it bothers him slightly, but not as much as he believes it does, and not as little as you think it does. You do not have much of an effect on him, and Tim believes that you never quite will. After all, the two of you are simply master-servant, servant-master.

However, you do find it strange that Tim never has you sing.

When he does, it is only when guests are over, and you are offered dinner in exchange. You almost fool yourself into believing he might have even taken a liking to you. You know that's not true, of course, and you find it funny that you would even entertain the thought. Though, that is not your problem— especially not when Tim has you dolled up for the first time since your arrival, telling you to sing nice and pretty for the elites of the capitol at Bruce Wayne's mansion. You have to prove that he has the best bird. It was simple.

You're paraded around to the rich of the capitol, and you perform in Bruce Wayne's manor as Tim's songbird, lips curled into a teasing smile as you play the act of a bird, voice ringing in everyone's ears as you smile sinfully at them. The song sends everyone to the waves, floating on the sea on a sunny day, the sand between their toes, the salt in their hair. The world spins in your palm slowly as your voice dances in the air, and you watch as Tim brags about you like one would about their pet, and you snicker. He is no idiot.

He knows you're acting, and you know he is.

It's really just a matter of who breaks first.

Tim tucks the loose strands of hair behind your ear as you bat your lashes prettily at him, lips pulled into a sweet smile. Even when you thank him and he tells you to save your voice for singing, the two of you are separated by a thinly clean web made of lies, two spiders on the string, waiting for the other to attack first for a reason to betray the other. The two of you dance on the strings, two, four, six, eight. And on the web of lies, the two of you hunt prey separately.

Tim is more than aware as to why you beg him to bring guests over, lips pulled into a gorgeous smile, and he brushes the hair from your face, pulling the feathers of decoration in your hair, agreeing happily— you are a symbol of his accomplishments, why wouldn't he show you off to all those men who can't have you? After all, even if they were to put their pretty hands on you like he does, their hands would only find themselves cut off. No one in the capitol has the time to arrest Tim. Not when his family was so powerful. Ah, what a symbol of status in such a corrupt world.

You stay next to his side the whole night, giggling and smiling as the men vie for your attention, kissing your hand and asking you for a dance as Tim keeps you securely by his side. You're sure he's just bubbling over with happiness over this display of power. Well, not that Tim particularly cares that you're the one attached to him. You suppose he's simply territorial over what belongs to him. You find no reason to answer any of the noblemen, especially not when Tim's first and only command for you was to not speak unless ordered to, and he had made no indication, so there was no reason for you to do so. Well, it didn't matter that much to you anyway.

You would prefer not to talk to them anyway.

At the end of the night, Tim whisks you away in the night, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, to the palm of your hand, and then up your arm to your neck, down your chest to your legs, and the rest of the night is spent much like the first night you returned to his mansion. You wonder if having you all vulnerable before him gets him off. You wonder if he is so desperate for recognition that he will do anything for it. Maybe he is. Maybe he isn't. You most certainly don't know. Neither do you care. You are simply waiting for something to happen to you. Maybe that will give you the freedom you so desperately crave. Besides, what point is there in escaping now? You have everything in the mansion, and neither are you beat up like you were in the street.

No.

You should escape first and then figure it out.

You listen to everything Tim says, and eventually, the lock on your cage doesn't get locked, and you are no longer watched by every servant in the house, and you breathe a little better. But those are all simple things. You need to prove that you would be loyal to Tim for the rest of your days. You didn't know how to, but you were sure the occasion would arise.

After all, Tim had plenty of enemies.

The season changes as you spend more time in Tim's mansion, and you are extremely docile, staying still and listening to everything he says, obeying his every word. You sing when commanded, and you stay quiet at all other times. Even when Tim has the servants test you for your loyalty, you do not open your mouth or speak. That earns you the unlocking of the chain around your ankle in the cage on top of the open entrance. You suppose it's great that he is giving you so much more freedom now— even if it wasn't really true freedom. It's a start, you surmise.

Tim takes you to one final gala before you hear what you want to hear.

You are dressed simply, silk hugging your skin, lips curled upward in a gentle smile as Tim helps you onto the stage. He insists on helping you do everything. The room is slightly empty save for the few noblemen who have arrived, and Tim had scheduled you early purposefully to avoid singing in front of larger crowds. You were his diamond in the rough.

So, you open your mouth and sing, eyes stuck on Tim's as your voice swims in the air.

Then, in a twist of classic capitol fashion, someone rushes toward Tim, and you yell, voice ringing in the air as Tim catches your warning, stepping to the side as they are sent to eat shit. Your voice returns to normal as soon as Tim is safe, lips curled into a stunning smile as you wrap up the song with a bow. It was so simple. It was so easy.

Tim thanks you by telling you it was alright to sing as prettily as you can in front of his guests now.

You suppose he's proud to have you as a bird now.

You listen to Tim from your cage as he talks to the ministers in the room, sketching with the pencil and paper, eavesdropping on their conversation. Your cage door is wide open, and you stay on the divan lazily, smudging the graphite on your paper as your wrist brushes over it, and you frown. In the background, Tim discusses classic politics with his companions, and you do not pay too much attention to it. After all, it was not what you wanted to hear. You were waiting for one specific point of information.

"The seventh competition is being hosted soon." One of the men speaks up. "Will you have your bird participate?"

You turn your head at the word bird.

January is approaching, and the yearly bird competition is coming up. You wonder if Tim is too protective of you to let you join. Maybe if you ask him, he will let you. You are illiterate to him, so you will have to find another way to convince him. But you stare at Tim anyway, blinking, eyes wide, almost as if asking whether or not he was talking about you. You wonder if Tim would ever think about letting you join the competition. It would be too much, but it could also be not enough. It didn't matter. You wanted to join. If you won, you would be displayed as a trophy for Tim, and you're sure Tim is just dying to have that kind of title to his name.

"Not you, pretty bird." Tim smiles. "Songbirds in general."

You nod, going back to your sketch, the graphite staining your skin as you stare at Tim, eyes darting to his face and then the paper, tilting your head as you both listen and sketch. His brows are furrowed, you assume because you've been selected for competition, and you blink at Tim as he stares at you, his lips curled into a gentle smile. You wonder if he'll give in to the greed and send you on the stage. Maybe he will. He's always been the type to give you up in the bigger picture.

"Pretty bird." He calls, and you pause in sketching, looking up.

You tilt your head to have him continue.

"What are you sketching?"

You flip the paper up, showing Tim, and he throws his head back in laughter, manic, almost.

"M-mister Drake?"

Tim steps off of his seat, holding his hand out as you hand him the drawing, and he takes your lead-stained hand, pressing his lips to the back. "Thank you, pretty bird. I look dashing."

You smile, lips curled upward gently.

"Whistle for me, birdie." Tim hums.

You oblige, notes teasing as you do, and Tim observes the looks on the men's faces.

"My bird will be participating." He smiles.

Diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires, you are adorned from head to toe with the prettiest of colors and finest of silks. You wear the prettiest of colors and the softest of clothes, and thorough check-ups on your body day and night. Your tongue is shoved out as they check the condition of your throat, and you are fed warm soups and liquids all day, making sure your hydration is proper, and you stare at yourself as you wince at the way the corset is tightened. Not too tight. Your instructor tells you. She's not a songbird.

The lights backstage make you dizzy, and you exhale in your dress, the corset a little too tight yet too loose. You despise the way you are dressed like some doll, lips curled into a genuine smile as the door opens behind you. It didn't matter. You were going to win this stupid competition and break out of this hell. You would be the first to break character, but you would drag Tim into hell with you before you'd let him have the last laugh. After all, you spent so long building up a relationship with him.

"Pretty bird." Tim hums, bringing you lunch. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, I'm a little anxious..." You bat your lashes slowly. "But I think I will do well."

"Of course you will." He smiles, holding the spoon to your mouth. "You always do. Just remember to come home, alright? You don't need to emerge victorious."

You offer him a smile in return.

He doesn't even care if you speak now.

Then, Tim says goodbye to you as you are sent to the backstage with the rest of the birds. It's really simple. You make small talk with some of them, and some of them don't even look healthy enough to perform, but you suppose it isn't something you should concern yourself with. There's something else that is going to come out as an issue. You can only hope no one notices it as quickly as you had.

In a room of birds, it becomes painfully obvious that there is something off about you.

The songbirds sing and spin in the air, voices dancing with the breeze in a field of grass, mouths open as they sing to the sky, hands thrown up with their body. The sky opens up as the sun shines on them, and you watch from backstage as everyone sounds the same. The songbirds are a dime in a dozen, the same sort of singing everyone has, their voices worshipping the sky as their wings are clipped by their masters, looking up into the light as they sing towards it. Their voices are the wind in the field and the breeze in the grass. Their voices are the farmer's companion, and Midas' secret that the barber had tried to hide in the wheat. Their voices are everywhere at all times.

When you sing, everyone is pulled downward, floating in a vast expanse of blue, clouds nowhere to be seen, your voice grounding them into the depths of the world, animals soaring above and below their vision. The moisture sticks to their skin, their hearts racing as they sink further and further into your voice, something so sickeningly sweet, something so saccharinely sinful. Your voice becomes very apparent when put against the other songbirds, and you wonder if anyone could catch you. Though, it wasn't as if the predator could be hunted by the prey in their natural habitat. You were used to singing like this. It was what made you stand out to begin with. It was what helped you seduce Tim from the start. It was painfully obvious.

When you emerge victorious, you glance at Tim, and you seem to understand something.

He had received the wrong script for the play.

Then, you're presented on a stage with the rest of the winning songbirds at a gala at the beginning of the year, the crows betting more and more money on who would out-sing the others, and you blink at Tim innocently, feigning confusion as you watch as he is told that you were selected for freedom, stuck with the rest of the contestants, a confused smile on your lips as you are dragged off and dressed in rags again, promptly tossed into a puzzle room with the other winning songbirds.

"Fellow birds! Welcome to your only chance at survival! Seven of you are selected, and only one of you will emerge victorious and leave your masters' homes as a free man! You know you want it, songbirds. Will you live in a cage forever?"

You suppose your cage is less of a cage and more... glass.

Right. Not that it matters anymore.

You are placed in a room with the rest of the winning songbirds, and you blink at the screen as notes are played and the birds sing. No one can mess this up. It was a fundamental of being a songbird, so there would have been no result. However, no one in the capitol really cares if their bird dies. So, when a false chord is displayed on the screen and the bird selected sings, the sound of a gun renders everyone stupid.

You watch as the first songbird is killed when they are unable to sing a note on command.

Their body drops to the floor lifelessly, and the other songbirds scream. Instead, you step closer to the body, craning your neck as you squat down to take a look at the wound. Then, you stare at the cameras in the corner of the room, get up, and lean into some random songbird, lips curled into a teasing smile.

"How trusting of me are you right now?" Your voice is but a whisper.

The songbird tells you nothing.

Then, you stare at the camera, smiling.

You hide your mouth. "The second door at the second trial of the game leads to a bottomless pit."

Tim watches you from the cameras, eyes sharp as he tries to read what you are mouthing— but it is to no avail. he is stuck sitting back in his seat instead, quietly praying that the trust you had placed in him was not for no reason. He had slipped you the correct answer for each trial, so there was no reason for you to pick the wrong answer in any of them if you valued your life. Though, it's not like he told you that both doors were the correct answer in the last trial. People often fought in order to enter the slide marked as the correct answer, and nine times out of ten, someone was killed in the last trial at the hands of a songbird. That was what made an elite in the capitol— the blood on your hands.

You lean away, and surely enough, when the second door emerges and everyone rushes into it, only you and the other songbird remain. You open the first door and then step through it, inviting them to follow you once you make sure it is safe, and the two of you are left with picking a slide. You nudge him to the wrong slide, and you step in front of the slide, turning to stare at him. There's a silence that hangs in the air, and for a second, the songbird thinks that you only let them survive because they were selected by you.

Which isn't true, obviously.

Since when have you chosen someone anyway?

Tim watches you from the screen, fingers relaxing, lips curled into a gentle smile.

See? He has no reason to worry.

You stare at the two doors before you, lips curled into a menacing smile, and you tell your partner to take the safe slide out of the game to take the crown of victor. You step to the wrong answer instead, and the elites in the room murmur amongst themselves at your act of disobedience. You stand behind the other songbird in the room as he sits in the seat at the only seat on the slide, checking to see if there are any mechanisms that could kill him. It was an act of compassion to one, but it was an act of betrayal to another. Tim supposes that he was the one who was fooled the whole time.

Tim's voice rings in the command room, his comrades holding him from the mic on the desk as you send your partner down the safe slide, watching as the latch closes for the safe door and you step before the wrong one, blinking slowly, lips curled into a cruel smile, turning your head for the camera, baring all your teeth.

And suddenly, Tim is reminded of the first time he met you.

"I had never picked you."

And you disappear.

It's a shame though. You never said you were a songbird.

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 1 EPISODE 14 || THE SEARCH ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

Traveling openly—and slowly—along the main roads, we stopped at every croft and village and hamlet we came to. There he would make a quick survey of the local populace, round up anyone suffering from illness or injury, and bring them to me for treatment. Physicians being few and far between in these parts, there was always someone ailing to attend to. While I was occupied with my tonics and salves, he would chat idly with the friends and relatives of the afflicted, taking care to describe the path of our journey toward Beauly. If by chance there were no patients to be seen in a place, we would pause nonetheless for the night, seeking shelter at a cottage or tavern. In these places, Murtagh would sing to entertain our hosts and earn our supper, stubbornly insisting that I preserve all the money I had with me, in case it should be needed when we found Jamie. Not naturally inclined toward conversation, he taught me some of his songs, to pass the time as we plodded on from place to place. “Ye’ve a decent voice,” he observed, one day, after a moderately successful attempt at “The Dowie Dens of Yarrow.” “Not well-trained, but strong and true enough. Try it once more and ye’ll sing it wi’ me tonight. There’s a wee tavern at Limraigh.” “Do you really think this will work?” I asked. “What we’re doing, I mean?” He shifted about in the saddle before answering. No natural horseman, he always looked like a monkey trained to ride a horse, but still managed to dismount fresh as a daisy at day’s end, while I could barely manage to hobble my horse before staggering off to collapse. “Oh, aye,” he said, at last. “Sooner or later. You’re seein’ more sick folk these days, no?” This was true, and I admitted as much. “Well, then,” he said, proving his point, “that means word o’ your skill is spreading. And that’s what we want. But we could maybe do better. That’s why you’ll sing tonight. And perhaps …” He hesitated, as though reluctant to suggest something. “Perhaps what?” “Know anything about fortune-telling, do ye?” he asked warily. I understood the reason for his hesitancy; he had seen the frenzy of the witch-hunt at Cranesmuir. I smiled. “A bit. You want me to try it?” “Aye. The more we can offer, the more folk will come to see us—and go back to tell others. And word will spread about us, ’til the lad hears of us. And that’s when we’ll find him. Game to try, are ye?” I shrugged. “If it will help, why not?”

I made my debut as singer and fortune-teller that night at Limraigh, with considerable success. I found that Mrs. Graham had been right in what she had told me—it was the faces, not the hands, that gave you the necessary clues. Our fame spread, little by little, until by the next week, people were running out of their cottages to greet us as we rode into a village, and showering us with pennies and small gifts as we rode away.

“You know, we could really make something of this,” I remarked one evening, stowing the night’s takings away. “Too bad there’s no theater anywhere near—we could do a proper music-hall turn: Magical Murtagh and His Glamorous Assistant, Gladys.”

Cap 34 ~outlander

[mythicalcoolkid]

Okay actually making this bullet points because I have a lot of feelings about it and don't want to be misunderstood. More TL;DR version here

"I wish I was visibly disabled/had X disability instead because my invisible disability isn't taken seriously"

Visible disabilities ALSO aren't taken seriously! No, you would not automatically be taken more seriously, get better care, or have your needs more respected if you were in a wheelchair. Or had cancer. Or couldn't mask. Or had a limb difference. People will still think you're lazy or lying or incompetent

"If I was more severe I'd get the support I need"

Healthcare neglect and lack of resources also affect people who are more severe, even in cases where it's obvious someone needs assistance. Severe people also cannot afford their treatment, cannot travel to places they need to go, do not qualify for charities or disability, experience shortages of medical necessities, are rejected by bad doctors, and cannot access resources they need, just like "less severe" folks. Not to mention severe folks may also be at the mercy of carers, group homes, legal guardians, etc. Severe people get rejected by charities, clinics, and more BECAUSE they're severe - I've had doctors reject me more than once for being too complex. No referrals out, no better qualified specialist, just rejected with a "good luck." The same way that less severe people are rejected for not being "bad enough" to access the service. Resources open up to you at a certain level of severity; resources ALSO close

"If I was more severe, I would have gotten early intervention"

That's not necessarily true. Would you have been diagnosed with the chronic condition you have, or would you have been labeled as a liar or exaggerating, or told you'd grow out of it? And some people are very obviously not abled as kids and still do not get help, whether because parents veto it or because the resources just plain don't exist there

If you did get early intervention, was it accurate and helpful? Would you be diagnosed correctly and given helpful treatment? Would you have been put in programs that severely dehumanized you and caused harm? Would you have to endure the stigma of being visibly different, instead of the stigma of being invisibly different? You would have had a name for what was wrong with you, but it also would become a slur and an easy way to exclude you. You'd still be told you're using it as an excuse, you'd still be bullied and feel broken. You'd still have trauma from growing up disabled

"I wish I'd never been able to mask"

I want you to really, genuinely ask yourself then: why did you mask? Was it beaten or bullied into you? Would there have been consequences for being obviously different? Now consider that there are people who endured the same thing and couldn't mask. They still got abused and traumatized in the same way and kept being abused and got all the negative consequences that come from being inescapably different. People didn't see them continue to be weird and go "oh man I think this kid can't help it, we should stop bullying them"

Masking is traumatic for many, many people! But not being ABLE to mask is not better or easier in any way

"Visibly disabled people and people with common conditions are less acceptable targets for discrimination/have more accommodations"

No. They just aren't. People with disabilities are discriminated against, period. And people are still fully willing to mock visibly disabled people

People in wheelchairs still can't access buildings, get told to drop out of school, and are told their needs are too complex or told they just shouldn't exist in public spaces. Blind people are still told there's no good accommodation for them or that their accommodations are unfair. Having a common or visible disability doesn't change these things. Invisibly disabled people have to fight for their accommodations at their job because they don't "look disabled" and jobs don't want to accommodate them. Visibly disabled people often don't get the job in general - because jobs don't want to accommodate them. The problem is not whether your disability is visible, it's that jobs don't want to accommodate for disability

"People treat me like I'm fully abled and then get upset when I can't handle it"

Visibly/severely disabled people also deal with assumptions. We're assumed to be bitter (or perpetually cheerful), incompetent and helpless, lazy, weak, or any other number of stereotypes, and people get angry when you don't fit that. We face violence for not being appropriately grateful to abled people, get denied jobs because it's assumed we can't do them (and are assumed to be a charity hire if we DO get them), get approached at random to ask why we haven't killed ourselves yet, and all sorts of mistreatment because our disability is obvious. Disabled people who are unable to work aren't treated kindly by anyone, still have to struggle to get by, and often struggle with getting on disability no matter their severity. The struggles are different, but not easier

In short: visible and invisible disabilities have unique traumas and struggles, but being more obviously disabled is not easier than having a hidden disability. Please stop saying you wish you were visibly or more severely disabled

[rotationalsymmetry]

I'm not a huge fan of the "suicide jokes are worse for your health" jokes going around.

Folks. I have never once joked about wanting to kill myself in my entire life. There was a period of I want to say nine years -- it might not have been quite that long, but it was close -- between first having my suicidal thoughts and first daring to tell another human being. By which time I'd gone ahead and figured out a plan and set a date. I had a therapist I never told. Not being willing to express the slightest hint to another human being that I might conceivably be struggling with this, was not good for my mental health.

I am sure there are some people for whom part of recovery involves deliberately switching out those jokes for something else. (Goodness knows it's likely to make other people more comfortable, and what is mental health treatment for if not to make other people more comfortable?) That's cool. I'm all for people having and sharing the tools they need for their own recovery. I do have issues with it being expressed as a universal.

And for the love of fuck, if someone in your social circle makes a suicide joke, don't respond by lecturing them on how they shouldn't. I know a lot of young people are used to just everyone being super transparent about their mental illnesses. But not everyone is. For some people it's a deep dark secret that they've kept safe for years, and if the first time they're brave enough to vaguely gesture in the direction of their secret someone else shuts them down, they might never get up the courage to do it a second time.

Sometimes it takes less courage to actually die.

[bonefall]

Better Bones AU Masterpost

Last Update: 8/23/23, Version 1.0

"What is the Better Bones AU?"

I'm so glad you asked, convenient question-speaker!

Better Bones (BB) is a full-series rewrite project that seeks to have a more conclusive stance on anti-authoritarianism, revamp the bonds and beliefs of individual characters to make more interesting drama and politics, and overhaul the progression of morality and history throughout the timeline to make the society of the Clans into a living, changing culture.

To do that, we've got 5 goals;

Fix the tangled family tree and give it clearer rules, expanding on kinship between cats while not neglecting friendships

Make the environment accurate to northwestern England, including education on how different biomes are managed and lists of local flora and fauna, to understand how environment has impacted Clan culture.

Build out technology by giving the Clans tool use and food preparation, additional traditions and customs, their own language, and medicinal treatment guides from sniffles up to HRT.

Change the themes of canon by addressing its problematic elements, giving the cats consistent politics and making the narrative conclusively anti-authoritarian.

Be cool as fuck, with wilder deaths, more clanborn villains, bloodier battles, and even MORE complicated innerClan drama

BB is told in notes and outlines, with the "end point" being a full skeleton for the entire series complete with chapter-by-chapter notes, which anyone would be able to write out fully, just as if they were a ghostwriter being handed a draft.

This project is open-source. I encourage you to take any inspiration from this AU that you'd like, or use the Clan culture expansions for your own projects. They don't HAVE to be warriors-related, we have a few folks who like to apply parts of this project to Rainworld! Go bananas.

I only ask that you don't steal any drawn art (as seen in the fanart, character summaries, and culture expansions) to pass it off as your own. Please respect the contributions of these artists.

"Boy howdy! Where do I start?"

WOWZERS another perfectly timed question I'm proud of you

HISTORY LESSON. This is a "brief" summary of the ENTIRE history of BB, breaking down each block of history into Periods, divided into Eras. It sprawls from the founding to the most recently completed arc. NOTE: BB does not cover arcs until they are complete. ASC has not been completed at the time of this post.

Character Summaries Every character gets a redesign and a summary, covering who they are, their role in the story, and their connections to everyone around them. NOTE: You are encouraged to put your own spin on the designs if you'd like! I do not design with genetic accuracy or MAP-friendliness in mind, so you have my blessing to alter them or request a modification for an animation.

Clan Culture Expansions Crafts, Herb Guides, the flora and fauna they encounter on a regular basis, and the Clanmew conlanguage is all in here.

Family Tree Overhauls This is almost done i swear

Fragment Bin This is where I'm going to eventually be putting everything still "WIP" material. I call these "fragments" because the full story isn't planned yet, but I talk about the little 'pieces' that I want to shuffle around. If you're new around here, basically I just sorta babble about a wishlist and then work through it with ask/reply suggestions.

FAQ I'll need this too at some point im sure

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Can I request recovery 🛌 or lonely/touch starved 🥺 for Cloe? I know you said they were one of your OCs that you didn’t really feel creative about so if you don’t have any inspiration, don’t worry!

Prompts from Nonhuman Whump Emoji Prompts

Aww thank you!! Mostly I don't have a solid plotline in mind for Cloe, he's more just a concept I thought up but didn't do much with. But I'd like to write more of him so I'm going to try!

About Cloe: he's a winged character. In his world there are a few different species of winged folk whose evolution diverged to suit different environments. Cloe's species are short, slender, lightweight, they're quick and nimble but fragile. They have small feathery wings that are only good for low gliding over short distances. They live in grassy and sparsely forested areas, are generally mild-mannered, peaceful, and are vegetarian.

There's another species that evolved to live up in the mountains. These ones are tall and strong with huge wings, they can soar really high and far. They're predatory and aggressive as a species and don't think much of Cloe's species, sometimes going so far as to capture them to keep as pets or slaves or just to torment. Many of their captives die from poor treatment.

Oops this got long

Content Warnings: winged whumpee, captivity, mentions of pet whump, enslavement, torture, and death, broken bones, bruises, blood, stabbed, painful restraints, passing out, starvation, exhaustion, rescue, female caretaker, reluctant caretaker, 'it' as a pronoun

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"I'm getting a new one tomorrow. This one is no fun anymore."

"What are you going to do with it?"

Omeron snorts. "Dunno. Don't care. You want it?"

Galea makes a face at the suggestion. "Me?"

"Why not? They're easy to care for. Don't eat a lot, don't take up a lot of space."

"I just don't see the point."

It's true, she never has. The smaller winged folk are too weak for hard labor, too timid to make good companions, and can't even fly properly. Galea has no use for one, and lacks the sadistic streak to want one just to push around.

"How about this. You take it for a day. See if you like it. If you don't, I'll toss it."

He means, quite literally, to throw it from the mountain, the fate of many a discarded pet.

"Fine," she concedes, just to get Omeron to leave her to eat lunch in peace. "I'll pick it up later. Now shut up."

-

That afternoon Omeron is out hunting. True to her word, Galea goes on her own to his home for her secondhand small-wing. He told her it would be out back, and sure enough there it is.

Unsurprisingly, the creature is in awful condition. It is pinned to the back wall of the hut by daggers through its little wings, which are mangled and bloodstained. It is malnourished, sunburned, coated in dark bruises, a broken arm hanging limp at its side.

Broken is the wrong word. Crushed is more like it.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" she grumbles.

The creature startles awake at the sound of her voice. It whines softly and cradles its arm but doesn't attempt to move beyond that. By now it must be used to this.

Big, sorrowful gray eyes stare back at Galea, only at eye level with the much taller winged woman because it is pinned up on the wall. Galea stares back, taking in its weak breaths and red-rimmed eyes. Only then does she realize she has never seen one of these up close.

Curious, she reaches a hand out. The small-wing flinches and squeezes its eyes shut, expecting a blow or tight grip. But Galea just wants to feel its silky hair. She pets it a few times and the creature gradually relaxes. It even nuzzles at her hand.

Omeron definitely doesn't pet it, she thinks. That isn't his style. The hand-shaped bruises around the creature's wrists and neck...that's more what she expects. The qualities that make him a formidable hunter and warrior don't exactly make him a doting pet owner.

"Can you speak?" she asks.

It flinches again at her firm tone and averts its gaze.

"Yes," it whispers.

"Do you have a name?"

It hesitates.

"...Cloe," it replies softly.

"Looks like you're mine now, Cloe," Galea says. She is still reluctant about all of this but she never says anything she does not mean, and she said she would take in this battered little thing for a day, so she will.

Galea removes the knives from its wings, neither cruel nor gentle, just quick and efficient. Cloe gives a feeble cry and faints into her waiting arms.

It - he - is even lighter than she imagined; she cradles his broken body effortlessly. She can feel every little quiver and hitched breath he makes, troubled even in unconsciousness. His skin is hot - whether from sunburn or swelling, bruises or fever, or all of the above, she can't tell.

Poor thing...

-

Galea takes care of her things. Her home is well kept, her wings well groomed, her weapons sharpened.

Now Cloe is hers too, if only for a short time.

She lies him on a large cushion in the corner. Against the dark fabric he seems even paler, scrawnier, more pitiful. Feathers fall from his damaged wings, the surest sign of poor health for their kind.

Uncharacteristically, Galea didn't plan this far ahead. She sort of hoped Omeron might change his mind and decide to keep his pet a little longer. But now the small-wing is here and she has to decide what to do with him.

He is in no shape to work and she has the feeling that was never why Omeron kept him in the first place. Still out cold, he isn't much good as a companion, either. And she has no desire to harm him.

Instead Galea finds herself examining the wounded creature more thoroughly.

Beyond the most obvious injuries there are many other, subtler signs of his mistreatment. His hands and feet, once soft from a life spent on grass and dirt, are scraped, calloused and blistered from the stone and wood surfaces of mountain living. Bones in his right ankle, left hip, and sternum feel at least fractured if not worse. His breaths are thin and labored, suggesting internal damage. On his back there is a barely healed scar that she recognizes as caused by a spear. That must be how Omeron caught him.

And then there are his wings.

Cloe's brittle wings are broken in more places than she can count. They are punctured clear through in several places, leaving the white feathers stained red. When she runs her fingers through them they shed easily.

Galea pulls her hand away with a shudder and shakes off the feathers. She tucks her own large, powerful wings closer to her back, fearfully imagining them as ruined as Cloe's. It would be a fate worse than death.

-

Galea continues the rest of her evening like normal - dinner in the hall, her evening patrol, sparring as the sun sets, a bath in the spring and grooming her wings. By the time she returns home she has nearly forgotten about her new 'pet'.

Cloe's eyes are closed, but when Galea shuts and locks the front door he jolts awake. Immediately he groans and cradles his shattered arm again.

He watches Galea approach with bleary eyes, labored breaths, little quivers. He knows as well as she does that he is completely at her mercy.

The pitiful sight should repulse her, a warrior who wouldn't dream of looking so helpless, who would die fighting rather than submit to the whim of a captor.

But instead it presses on something inside her like a thumb on a bruise. It comes with the overwhelming urge to soothe the frightened little thing rather than punish or mock him. Unsettled by the feeling, she clenches and unclenches her fists a few times and breathes slowly, grounding herself.

Mere minutes later she is sitting cross-legged beside the cushion with her medical kit, smoothing a numbing salve over his broken arm. Cloe bites down on his lip to keep quiet despite what must be excruciating pain as she maneuvers the limb around. She efficiently splints and bandages it.

Galea silently treats every break, bruise, and cut to the best of her ability. Even at her gentlest, Galea's grasp is firm; she isn't used to handling something so fragile. Cloe winces and whimpers but never complains. Gradually the medicine dulls his sharpest pains and tension eases from his body. Soon he can barely keep his eyes open.

"Don't sleep yet," she instructs him.

Cloe nods, visibly forcing himself to stay awake. Galea pours a cup of juice. Then she cups Cloe's head with one hand and easily sits him up. She holds the cups to his lips and waits until he drinks the whole thing.

"More?" she asks.

"I can have more?" Cloe whispers.

Galea answers by pouring another cup. She indulges herself by indulging him - allowing him to drink to his heart's content. When he's finished his head lolls to one side and he gazes up at her with reverence.

"Thank you."

"Don't," Galea insists.

And she means it. For now there is a sense of ownership. She agreed to have Cloe for a day and leaving him in that state was unacceptable. Tomorrow, who knows.

Cloe is asleep the moment Galea settles him back onto the cushion. She covers him with her cloak and prepares for bed.

As she falls asleep she can't help but picture Cloe thrown from the mountain, disappearing into the fog below as he falls to his certain death. The image follows her into her dreams and makes a home at the back of her mind.

[teamdilf]

In Which Solas Learns Rook's First Name

“If you are done intruding upon my private time with my girlfriend, may I ask you a personal question?” 

“If it’s about Davrin's dick, absolutely. If it’s about anything else, maybe.”

He walked right into that, he supposes. “What is your first name? You’ve told me that you took your last name from your late mentor, but I do not know your first name, despite our mental connection and I find that strange.” 

“Can we not talk about Davrin's dick instead?” Ah. A sensitive spot, then.

“You need not tell me what it is if you would prefer to keep it to yourself.”

“It’s not exactly that. More… I don’t want you to call me by it and if you know it, you might because I, like, don’t exactly always call you by your, um… preferred name, which is your actual name.” 

“If it genuinely bothered me you would not do so.” In truth, he finds it charming and there’s something refreshing about being treated as a man, even though she’s been aware of his identity from the moment they first encountered one another. Whenever he’s made his own sore spots clear, she’s prodded at them with a sensitivity she lacks in all other areas of communication or avoided them entirely if the topic at hand is irrelevant to their mission.

“You got annoyed that one time Lucanis called you ‘wolfy’.”

“He is not you.”

Rook smiles at this; a soft sort of smile lacking any hint of mischief. “Aww, do I get special treatment, wolfy?”

“If you would consider calling me by a childish nickname special treatment, then yes.”

“It’s ‘Melody’,” Rook says, staring down at her joined hands in her lap. “I don’t remember much about my parents - just that my mom sang a lot. I was six when I came into my magic and found myself dragged away, but she sang, and I think maybe she might have liked it if I could sing too, but joke’s on her: I can’t sing for shit. Not like your sweetheart - she’s a pretty fucking bird. I can’t even talk pretty; I’ve got this pretty fucking name and it’s just not me, y’know? Some folks called me ‘Mel’ in the circle and I guess I can tolerate that but Marcel called me ‘Rook’, and I figure he knew me better than my mother ever could, so he knew how to name me proper.”