#as far as I know he identifies as male

[queenoftsage]

Yeo Jin Goo, being Yeo Jin Goo-ish...

... lol... Translate that to 'Beautiful', cause that's what I meant.

[mellomadness]

sometimes I wonder if I should take a gender studies class just so I can bitch every day about how an imaginary boyfriend is often seen as a requirement for a woman to feel safe enough to have fun at a club, or the idea that an imaginary person with a fake “claim” over me has more influence over predatory men than my own voice saying “No, I’m not interested, get lost”

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

There's a viral video circulating from the Fort Worth Zoo, of two keepers who ended up in a habitat at the same time as a silverback gorilla. Spoiler for good news: neither the humans nor the gorilla got hurt. It's a bad situation that ended extremely well, and that's why I want to talk about it.

The audio for this video is mostly someone praying loudly, so if you need to turn the audio off to watch it, you won't miss anything relevant. If you don't want to watch it, here's the summary: it starts with a keeper running around the corner into the main exhibit, pursued by a large male gorilla. She is quickly able to get into a doorway at the back of the exhibit, but does not completely close the door because the gorilla is standing across from her, watching. He eventually moves off to the right hand side of the exhibit, where we can see a keeper is trapped in the corner at the front. She was trying to move towards the exit as he moved to the right, and she stops, standing very still behind a tree, while he stays along the far right wall. They stay like that for a minute, and then the gorilla runs to the front right corner, and the keeper is able to run to the door in the back of the exhibit and get to safety.

Let's start with basic information. Even though it's just going viral now, this video is from October of 2023. It was taken not by a guest, but by the zoo security officer responding to the situation. Hmmm, seems like he maybe should have been doing something else during that situation, instead of than taking a phone video. It's going viral now because the guy (who is no longer employed at the zoo) decided to post it on TikTok for his five minutes of fame. This guy immediately started giving all sorts of media interviews, answering questions like "why no tranquilizers" inappropriately, making memes out of his own video, generally distasteful shit.

Zoo spokesperson Avery Elander gave a public statement that "thankfully, there was no physical contact between keepers and gorilla, and all staff and animals are safe." A comment from the zoo has also indicated that the incident was due to keeper error. (As opposed to, for instance, something in the fencing breaking.) According to the guy who posted the video, a lock was left unsecured and the gorilla was able to open the door to the habitat. I don't know if I buy it, and again, this just... is probably why he doesn't have a job anymore. By sharing that detail - real or not - he places a ton of public scrutiny and blame on that keeper team. (If that's what happened, I can promise you it will have been dealt with internally.) He also was nice enough to say he wouldn't name the women in the video... but verified they're still staffers at the zoo... which means they're eminently identifiable! Excuse me while I ragequit for a second.

So there's two reasons I wanted to talk about this. The first is to make sure it is well known that this guy is purposefully and intentionally exploiting the worst day of someone's life for media attention. Their lives were in danger, and he's using it for fame. His name is in the media articles - I'm not going to share it because he doesn't deserve that attention. The second reason, though, is because this video is a masterclass on how to survive if you end up sharing space with a gorilla. Every zoo person I've spoken to or seen comment on the video is so, so impressed with how the keepers handled themselves.

The gorilla in this video is 34-year-old Elmo. All apes in AZA zoos are managed in protected contact, so keepers are supposed to be separated from them by a barrier at all times. The zookeepers were in the habitat putting out a mid-day meal when he got out. Watching the video, you can see he's not actively being aggressive towards them - he's not making threat displays or trying to approach them. Mostly, Elmo seems like he doesn't know what is going on and he's kinda freaked out about it. (This is confirmed in the zoo's press statement, too). The staff stayed calm, and importantly, watched and waited to see how he'd move and act.

The zoo did say one thing, though, that's a bit misleading. In one article, their press person I quote as saying “In general, gorillas are considered the “gentle giants” of the great ape species.” Just because this may be true in comparison to other great ape species doesn't meant gorilla aren't still incredibly dangerous. This type of messaging always worries me, because I think it leads people to misunderstand the risks of being close to megafauna. Gorilla are extremely strong animals, and their social norms/behaviors are very different from that of humans. That's why it's such a big deal any time people end up in gorilla habitats, and why sometimes in those circumstances lethal measures have to be taken to protect human life.

These keepers are incredibly lucky to be unharmed. These women stayed safe specifically because they're trained professionals who knew how to act around gorilla, they knew this particular animal well, and they'd learned the escapes from the exhibit just in case this ever happened. We should applaud them for their cool heads and quick thinking.

As for the guy who posted the video? As a colleague put it, may he always step on a Lego.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

The Corroded Coffin used to think they'd be the new Metallica or Judas Priest. But where their passion and hard work never lacked, their big break just never came.

What did come, however, was an unexpected change of their career path.

It started innocently enough - they went through yet another failed meeting with recording studios, they'd travelled pretty far and it was for nothing. Instead of going back to Hawkins and risking another one of Eddie's road rages, they decided to break into an abandoned house and drink their sorrows away.

That is, until their empty bottles started collecting themselves, something invisible touched Gareth's shoulder and the dusty floor started showing written messages.

Jeff wanted to flee. Gareth to faint. But Eddie and Freak just shrugged. Eddie gestured towards the approximate ghost location and said "by the power of I don't give a shit anymore, I compel you to sit down and stop it, we'll clean the bottles when we leave tomorrow."

The rattling stopped. There was a moment of silence when the Corroded Coffin actually thought it had worked, but then the ghost overcame its shock and physically threw Eddie, his bandmates and their things out.

They sat on the wet grass for a while and contemplated their whole exitence. Eddie was pretty shaken about the whole thing because he'd just managed to royally piss off a ghost and lived to tell the tale. But apart from absolutely terrifying...it was also fun?

And his friends seemed to think the same. Jeff patted his shoulder and said: "not bad for a first touch with the unknown, huh?"

They stayed in the area and tried again. They decided to tape over their promotional video - not so great, they had to admit after rewatching it - and started documenting their ghostly encounters. And maybe it was just the timing, maybe it was their interactions and personalities, but it worked. They showed some of their tapes to a local TV station and they got a cautious yes, more than they ever had with their music.

They got assigned a small crew, Fred with a camera and Chrissy for sound, wrote their own episodes and did plenty of research. And they got to try quite a lot of different approaches with their ghostly friends. Eddie was amazing at taunting the ghosts, making them appear if there were any present. Gareth had a wonderfully calming presence, managing to save the CC's ass several times. Jeff was the brains, he made sure they'd always know the history of the house and the probable identity of the ghost. And Freak decided to dabble in the occult sciences with a terrifying precision. There could never be enough salt in Eddie's van for all the circles he made.

It all went well until they learned of the Creel House in Hawkins. They went there, did their research and before entering the house, they ordered some pizza for dinner. They assumed it would be over by midnight, thinking it was just another sad story of an unresolved murder, but the ghost of Henry Creel was out for blood.

Oh, and he also controlled the spiders of the house. That was new.

To set the scene: The crew had fled the house about an hour ago. Eddie was crouching behind an old table, blocking Henry's barrage of kitchen knives, shouting "IS THIS THE BEST YOU'VE GOT?!". Gareth was behind the table with Eddie, but he went more into the wailing territory with "I DON'T THINK THIS WILL HELP YOU MOVE ON, HENRY!". Jeff had blocked himself in the pantry and kept trying to identify the triggering moment - "I think he's re-enacting the murder of his mother, guys! Does that help?!" (it doesn't). And Freak gave up on salt circles and was now tossing handfuls of salt around the house with a questionable technique but unwavering determination.

Suddenly, a car horn.

Then, a bitchy male voice: "Are you coming to get your pizza or what? I have other customers to get to!"

Eddie gritted his teeth as Henry added heavy pans to the mix and hit his shoulder. "We're a little busy surviving here! Ask Chrissy to pay you!"

There was a muffled and annoyed "ugh" from behind the door and then: "Is it Henry again?"

Eddie just blinked. Gareth was more ready to answer: "Sure is! He's not a fan of our exorcism!"

And the pizza guy didn't leave. He just huffed and said something that sounded suspiciously like "amateurs".

Eddie wanted to punch him.

But before he could do that, the front door opened. Gareth held his breath, half expecting a sound of knives hitting their target.

Instead, they heard a few more steps and then: "What the fuck, Henry?!"

A faint whispering reached their ears, but they couldn't decipher it. But the pizza guy could.

"I don't care they didn't get your permission, Henry. Yeah, it's annoying, but what are you going to do? If more people die in this house, it's going to get demolished. You know that. Yeah, I know the house is old, but it's great for your spiders, right? They'd be homeless. Do you want to make your spiders homeless, Henry?"

They dared to peek from behind the table, and Eddie had to pinch himself. Because in the middle of the dusty dining room stood one of the prettiest young men Eddie had ever seen, hands on hips and arguing with something invisible.

The man completely ignored them.

"That's what I thought. Now, apologize. No, they can't hear you, so get creative."

All four CC members stared as words formed in the spilled salt: "SORRY".

The pizza guy seemed to be pleased. "Good job, Henry. Now, let me get them out of here and I promise I'll get the Party to bring you some new spiders when they capture them outside, yeah? Three knocks, slide them in a glass behind the door. Got it. Take care, Henry."

Only then did he look at Eddie and the others and frowned. "That's your cue to leave. Get your stuff and go, now." And as they were quickly collecting their scattered notes and recording equipment, he added: "and say goodbye when leaving. Don't be rude."

Four rushed "Bye, Henry!" and "Sorry, Henry"s later, the Corroded Coffin was standing on the grass outside, feeling the setting sun on their skin and smelling fresh pizza. Gareth promptly paid for the delivery, and everyone proceeded to thank their mysterious savior.

"I'm Steve," he said after they'd all expressed their thanks, "and you're stupid. Do you really do this without anyone who sees and hears them? Do you just stumble blindly into haunted houses for a fun and stabby time?"

Eddie had to swallow down a very bitchy response of his own. "Sorry to stroke your ego even more, pretty boy, but a man of your talents is hard to come by."

And Steve, to Eddie's massive shock, just cocked his head and fluffed his hair, probably out of habit, but damn. "Well, consider yourself lucky because I'm open to job offers," he said with a wink that brought Eddie back into his teenage fantasies. "You need someone like me, and I assume you pay better than pizza delivery. Do you?"

Turns out, their producer was willing to get one more person on board, especially when they finished processing the leftover footage from the Creel house.

Steve was an amazing addition. He was snarky, self-confident, easy to look at and most of all, he was fun and compassionate. Watching him communicate with ghosts of kids and help them move on made Eddie's icy heart melt.

But one day they were on a site of an unfortunate teenage death, Steve was chatting with the ghost of a 17 year old girl like they'd known each other for ages, he was laughing, cracking jokes, and then:

"No, he hasn't kissed me yet."

Eddie turned around on his heel and stared at Steve, snickering to himself and talking to a misty figure next to him. And worst of all, they were both staring right at Eddie.

"Hasn't even asked me out, no. You'd think he'd be interested, but I guess I'm doing something wrong."

And Eddie's head short-circuited, and all the repressed fantasies from nights next to Steve in their trailer came back with vengeance. He howled and threw himself at Steve, kissing him right on that bitchy mouth. "Doing something wrong?! Steven Harrington, those shorts of yours are doing everything right, but how about you say something, huh?!"

Steve returned the kiss to the cheering of the CC guys, Chrissy's clapping and Fred's disgusted noise, and shrugged when they broke apart. "I knew you'd get it, eventually. Oh, and Heather?" he turned to the ghost. "You're the best wingwoman ever, in this life and after."

Four good things came from this ghostly encounter:

After the kiss, Gareth finally gathered enough courage to ask Chrissy out. She said yes.

The episode with Heather became the most watched episode of the CC's show.

Steve and Eddie remained in an equally blissful and teasing relationship for the rest of their lives.

And finally...

The TV station decided to design official merch for the CC's show: incredibly short shorts that said on the backside: "DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT".

[cogentranting]

Rating Non-Disney Animated Horse Designs

I’m back by popular demand/well not really but my optimism’s grand

A sequel to my Disney horse Rating post for all the other random non-Disney horses. Dreamworks, Bluesky, random cartoons, anything I could find. Featuring: Altivo, Spirit, some Barbie horses, and a few abominations.

Horse (Sing)

6/10 I don’t hate it and I feel like I should because it’s really hard to anthropomorphize horses that much without making them into the stuff of nightmares.

Shadowfax (The Lord of the Rings) 

5/10 There’s nothing WRONG with him per se, but it’s SHADOWFAX. Lord of all horses. He should wow me, and he doesn’t. Check out Gandalf’s weird sock-boots though. 

Hervé (Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper) 

-6/10 Horses' mouths don’t look like that. Horses’ mouths should not look like that. This thing wants to eat human flesh but can’t because it has two solid curved huge teeth with no physical  relationship with its jaw. Also this horse has the beginnings of male-pattern baldness. 

Princess Brietta (Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus)

1/10 Her eyes are flat like they’ve been painted onto her socketless skull. And there’s something very off-putting about this shade of pink. 

Beauty, Merry Legs, Ginger (Black Beauty) 

4/10 Ginger isn’t ginger. That is not a sorrel horse. There’s ONE requirement. Beauty’s the best of the three which is I guess what counts. 

Hans, Klaus and Greta (Ferdinand) 

2/10 I hate them so much. The core design isn’t that bad but the way they move and pose is. No horse should make that face. The one on the left is stretched putty.

The Grand Chawhee (All Dogs Go to Heaven)

I know what you’re thinking-- “isn’t that a mule or a donkey of some sort?” No. He’s a racehorse. Maybe a thoroughbred. And it’s his birthday so the other horses let him win. 

9/10

Stella (All Dogs Go to Heaven)

1/10 She gets one point for being nice to Chawhee. But she’s clearly some sort of alien giraffe hybrid. 

Odette’s horse (Swan Princess) 

7/10 Just a nice little palomino design.  

That little shaggy pony (The Quest for Camelot)

12/10 Amazing. Look at the determination.

Buck (Barnyard) 

2/10 See this is what that horse from Sing COULD have looked like. 

The Horse in the Back, Not Klaus But I Couldn’t FInd a Better Picture (Klaus)

9/10 He matches his owner and I respect that

Leah (The Star) 

4/10 This is horse is voiced by Kelly Clarkson. That has nothing to do with her rating, I just thought you should know. 

(Starchaser: The Legend of Orin) 

8/10 for both. I have questions but I do not want answers. It’s better this way. 

Fred (Over the Garden Wall)

7/10 don’t love that his head is a different color than his body in a weird way but he looks neurotic and fun. 

The Chariot Horses (Prince of Egypt)

8/10 I’ve just always liked these guys with their square faces and fun hats. 

Altivo (The Road to El Dorado)

7/10 Look at the little curl in his mane. Good personality. A little too much “Dreamworks Face” 

Donkey in Horse Form (Shrek 2? one of the Shreks) 

3/10 Look at his face. I DREAD what he might have to say. 

Esmeralda, Esperanza, Ernestina (Madgascar 3)

2/10 They’re coming for you. Coming to drag you into the Abyss. 

Police Horse (Madagascar)

7/10 I like his face shape. Compare him to the Madgascar 3 horses-- look how much more identifiable as a horse he is. 

Melvin (The Lorax)

10/10 He’s not a horse, but he’s so fluffy I love him. 

Babieca (Puss in Boots)

4/10 This horse has dead eyes. 

Onyx (Rise of the Guardians) 

13/10 She’s the leader of the nightmares and I would fully support her terrorizing the dreams of children. I’m pretty sure she and her mares ate the boogie man. A true Girlboss.

Yi Min (Kung Fu Panda but I think just an online game) 

-20/10 Just from a design perspective there’s far too much going on so it’s hard to even make it all out. Also I would have zero idea that this was a horse if the wiki page didn’t tell me it was. It has split hooves? 

Spirit Jr. (Spirit: Riding Free) 

8/10 Objectively I know the design is good  but my heart rebels against this show’s existence. 

Boomerang Thomas Stone (Spirit: Riding Free) 

8/10 I’m not doing all the horses from this show but I had to throw him in because he’s cute and he has a middle and last name for some reason.

Horse (Centaurworld) 

Why are there two distinctly different designs for her? This one gets a 9/10. The round one is like... a 5. All the other creatures in this show are eldritch abominations that will haunt me in my sleep now. 

Esperanza and all the other horses from this movie (Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron) 

10/10 No notes. Perfect horses. 

Rain (Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron) 

15/10 I don’t have a joke here I just really like the way they differentiated her and made her pretty without too much anthropomorphizing. I like that she has a roman nose.  I like her feather. 

Spirit (Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron)

100/10 He’s everything. He shaped me as a person. No other animated horse can compare. 

[bumblee-stumblee]

The Telegraph

Scores of actresses turn down roles in play critical of JK Rowling’s gender views

Craig Simpson

Thu, June 13, 2024 at 6:49 AM PDT·3 min read

A play that criticises JK Rowling’s views on gender is struggling to cast women with 90 actresses so far rejecting parts.

The stage production, which is set to debut at the Edinburgh Fringe, has already caused outrage over a working title which labelled the gender-critical Harry Potter author a c----.

The production is yet to cast any of the female roles, including that of Rowling herself.

The part of Harry Potter film star Emma Watson has also been repeatedly turned down, and around 90 actresses have refused to take part in the project amid concerns over its critique of Rowling.

The author has become a figure of hate online among some activists, and received death threats after publicly sharing concerns about the encroachment of transgender campaigning on women’s rights.

Actors have been found for male leads, who will portray Harry Potter cast members Rupert Grint and Daniel Radcliffe.

Creative producer Barry Church-Woods told the Telegraph: “This project has met some kind of resistance every step of the way, though I’ve been generally surprised by how difficult it has been for us to recruit the female cast in particular.

“It’s a well-paid gig meeting industry standards and the script is terrific.”

He added: “I think it’s fair to say that a few things are coming into play in casting.”

The play, which was written by queer-identifying Hollywood scriptwriter Joshua Kaplan, tells the story of a fictional intervention staged for Rowling by the stars of the Harry Potter franchise, Watson, Grint and Radcliffe.

The three actors publicly denounced Rowling in 2020 when she first raised concerns about the spread of gender ideology, the belief that gender is unfixed and changes according to how people self-identify.

The work was initially titled TERF C***, with TERF standing for trans-exclusionary radical feminist, a term which has been deployed pejoratively against women who have opposed trans ideology.

It is understood that 30 actresses have turned down the role of Rowling in the play, and 60 have refused the part of Watson, while agencies representing aspiring female stars have been nervous to put their clients forward for the project.

There is some suggestion that the actress may have ideological misgivings about the play, or be concerned about a potential backlash.

It has been suggested by producers that some actresses may not want to appear in a play critiquing Rowling and ruin their chances of appearing in the lucrative new Harry Potter TV series on the Max streaming service.

Rowling is acting as executive producer for the series, and will be involved in key decision-making.

Mr Church-Woods said: “We’ve had agents reluctant to put names forward, I suspect, because they do not want to damage their clients chances of landing roles on the new Potter TV series.”

Writer Mr Kaplan has insisted that his play does not carry a set message, and is more about “relationships and how Rowling’s opinions evolved” rather than a work “interrogating the substance of her opinions”.

TERF plays the Sir Ian McKellen Theatre from August 2 to 25.

But I thought TWAW? Why aren't they looking to hire Transwomen actors to play the women's roles if they truly believe that they are women?

Isn't it funny how they seem to know what a woman is when they want to use them to mock other women?

[phntmeii]

Hil

Im not sure if your taking requests for writing, but if you are I was wondering if you could do a slashers × S/O who is very strong but doesn't look it?

If that makes sense...

Like the S/O is very sweet, short and small, like she looks petite and fragile but it turns out she can easily lift extremely heavy things, or can punch really hard.

Like even harder or stronger than the slasher.

If you could specifically add Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, (NBC) Hannibal and Will, and maybe Thomas Hetwit?

Sorry I don't know if that's too much to ask for, I just love your writing so much!

Being Stronger than Slashers .

[ SFW + Fem Terms]

Pairings: Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Thomas Hewitt x petite!strong!Reader General Warnings: Descriptions of Gore/Blood, Violence, Slightly OOC, Descriptions of panic attack/episode, Manipulative behavior mention

A/N: ty anon for request <33 Back to slashers :) Sad I haven’t posted more of them literally in Halloween month but I’m working on it (last second lol) </33

Bo Sinclair

Absolutely turned on to the fucking max when he sees your strength.

Small, sweet partners was always his type. He just loves fulfilling the typical male stereotype of being a protector over his partner.

When he turned the corner, looking to finish off the last victim of the lot within his abandoned town, only to see something better.

He watched as you effortlessly were carrying the body of the victim over your shoulder like it was nothing. Head completely caved in, more of a mass of flesh and blood than an identifiable person. Your other hand held a bloodied hammer.

Bo was completely still, but not of fear. He was standing there like a man who had completely re-fallen in love again.

His eyes were shining as his grin grew wide. Approaching, he was nothing but prideful.

His voice was light with a chuckle, thumb brushing away the blood on your cheek. “Shit, sweetheart… Never knew a pretty girl like you was so… strong. I love it.”

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent was overprotective a lot of the time. He was insistent you were never near his work nor would you be involved when victims were in town.

He loved you too much to have you a part of him and his brothers’ work.

Vincent was slightly startled, hearing the door of his studio open. He knew both his brothers were out.

Seeing it was you, he approached, silently looking down at you. You could tell there was an air of disappointment at you being in his studio when he didn’t want you to be.

A ragged, strained voice spoke from behind his mask, “Why?”

With a shrug of your shoulders and a smile, you walked past him, further into the studio. “Bo said he needed a box in here.”

Watching you walk past, his eyes were hidden but widened as he watched you easily lift up a heavy table to look under it, scrolling past the items underneath it.

He approached confused but didn’t stop you. “Oh! Here it is!” Your arms held up a filled box of tools and parts.

Vincent followed you around curiously for the rest of the day like a shadow. He was completely fascinated by your strength, wanting to see it again.

Once you returned from helping Bo, Vincent couldn't let go of you. He kept his arms around you, head on your shoulder. His quiet, strained voice simply said, "Show me again... Please?"

Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal always held an air of curiosity about you. Your sweet nature was like an untainted part of his life. A woman so far from himself.

Hannibal’s curiosity was never-ending. He took advantage of his intelligence to learn as much as he could. Stalking, Manipulative behaviors in “therapy”, etc.

You were almost always at his place. He liked it better that way although it provided some maintenance when it came to his extracurricular activities.

Hannibal had been making another of his fancy dinners for the two of you. The presentation had to be precise and perfect. Presentation was half the work for him.

He absentmindedly spoke while you were cutting vegetables beside him, “I have not set the chairs. I will do so in a moment, my love.”

Immediately, you wanted to assist. You always liked helping out. “I’ve got it!”

Watching you walk away, he expected to finish his current task before going off to assist you. Instead, he looked up to the doorway to see you easily walking past with a heavy wooden chair in each hand, easily carrying the two like they were just a stack of papers.

A small smirk curled at his lips as his hands slowed in their work. He whispered to himself, knowing his eager curiosity was not wasted, “You are… a delight, my love. You will make for something truly wonderful.”

Will Graham

Will was someone who was vigilant and aware. His mind always raced a million miles an hour with tiny observations and connections.

There was something about you but he just couldn’t place it.

But, what was there to prove? You were sweet and kind, seeming so far from what he knew. That was part of why he held love for you—You weren’t him.

Will was in his head again, silently panicked by his own mind. It was torturous to live in a prison of his own violent thoughts.

You were someone who always noticed. Always could pick up when these episodes started.

Holding his hands and speaking sweetly to him to draw him back to reality, unfortunately, wasn’t working this time.

His eyes kept darting back and forth while his breath quickened. With him standing still, quivering, you had to make the choice.

With simple ease, you picked Will up bridal style, walking away with him.

It took him a moment to realize what happened, breaking out of being inside his head. His eyes just stared at you when he was placed onto his bed, sweat drenching his forehead.

He broke out into a small smile, absentmindedly licking his lips, as was his habit. "I... didn't know you could do that."

"Is it a bad thing?"

"No. It's... really attractive, actually."

Thomas Hewitt

Tommy was always a protector. Toward his family, it was evident. A given. Toward you, it was an inherent need.

The last thing he'd ever want is for you to be hurt, especially when victims come around.

He would lead you and Luda Mae into a room, having you two barricade it while him and Hoyt took care of the unfortunate victims who made their way to the wrong home.

You waited, albeit anxiously. And it only grew once you heard a loud thud followed by Hoyt's yelling.

"Goddammit, Tommy! The fuck are you doin'?"

Immediately you knew something went wrong. Despite Luda Mae trying to keep you in the room, you ripped away the makeshift barricade on the door and rushed out.

Tommy was on all fours, holding the side of his head. A man, you assumed one of the few victims, held a hammer in his hand. He quivered holding it, as if horrified by his own self-defense.

Without thinking, you grabbed the nearest chair, pulling back and cracking it hard against the man. Aimed for his head, he dropped to the floor unconscious by the impact.

You rushed over to Tommy's side, panicked. "Tommy! Tommy! God- Are you okay?"

His arm just instinctively shot out and held you to his body, protecting you in his mind. He opened his eyes and looked past you to see the victim with broken wooden pieces of the chair on top of him.

With his mask on, his expression was hidden. But inside, his heart warmed at how you were strong enough to protect him too. His own protector.

[n30nwrites]

hiya neon <3

How you been ? ໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১₊˚⊹♡

hope you're having a good day ~ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ

Anyways, can you write something fluffy about poly!141 and male reader

Just...cuddle piles bro...hhfjsjsk

-- 🪸anon

Like Real People Do (Poly!141 x Male Reader)

Sorry this wasn't long, a lot has happened in my life lol.

I've been okay, everything is turning up.

I debated on doing more but if It did it would've turned to angst so.

You were always tired, work didn't have to be stressful and you would still be tired. You think it had to do with interacting people, just talking could make you tired.

The only thing that could make it better, were the people that greeted you at your home.

Gaz is cooking. The smell swallows you and your stomach turns, growling for the food. You can tell its Gaz simply because of the smell of seasoning, something you were still helping the other three boys on. Soap and Ghost either did Microwavable dinners or take out, and Price thought that the only seasoning he should use is salt and pepper.

He's such an old man.

Your knees ached, as did your ankles and back. It was usually hurting, but you never got it checked out, didn't consider it important too.

The solo mission lasted 3 months, you know they had each other for company and some part of you questioned if they really needed you. If they could last without you for 3 months, what's the rest of their life?

Then Soap opens the door and grabs you like his life depends on it, and all that doubt disappears. He holds you, his arms wrapped around tight and your bag of items drops to reciprocate the hug. He feels like home.

They are home.

You attempt to let go and take a step forward but he still holds on, and you kind of just awkwardly shuffle into the door.

Ghost calls out your name and announces you're home. Price comes through the door wearing your favorite pair of sweatpants (that looked so good on him) and a tanktop, Ghost is in similar wear, and you could take a guest that they just stayed home all day.

"Soap you gotta let him go at one point." Soap is buried in your chest, pushing himself further so his words come out mumbled. "What is Gaz cooking?"

"How do you know it's Gaz cooking?" Price asks.

"Cause I can smell how good it is, you left the window open." You tell him which causes Ghost to go over and shut it, locking it as well.

"He's making some rogan josh-"

"Oh god..." You moaned, most of the food you ate was dry crackers (that tasted like cardboard) and some bad lasagna. You had always loved food, that was one downfall to being the governments rat. "God I'm starving."

"Thankfully you're home just in time." Gaz comes in wearing the stupid apron you got him, it's pink and frilly, a stupid gift because that was just the tradition on Christmas. Soap had gotten you a shirt that said 'Don't Bully Me I'll Cum :(' on it, which unironically became your favorite. You got Simon a shirt that said 'I Identify as an American Patriot and this is my Pride Flag' which the Brit hated but everyone else had a great time.

"Tell me you have naan."

He did

----

You ate like you hadn't before, the dinner was delicious and it brought you all to the bedroom to rest like never before.

You laid against the pillows set up on the wall, Gaz was laying in between your legs and on your chest, Price was laying on your right side, his head resting on your shoulder as Ghost laid on the opposite with Soap on top of him, though with the way Soap was laying, he was on top of everyone. Soap was holding your hand as you rested your head on Ghost, the tv is playing a show called The Maid, it was interesting so far, you were going in and out of focus on it, more focus on your boyfriends next to you.

Eventually husbands, hopefully.

You took a glance to the side where the bedtable sat. You each got a drawer for your stuff, and in yours were five rings that took 5 paychecks to get. You were just waiting.

There would be a right time.

Soap's loud snores fill the air, and you laugh a little at how sudden it is, as does Ghost. The bed was crowded but none of you cared, it was perfect.

They were perfect.

"I love you guys." You mumble, and Price leans over to you, causing you to turn your head and kisses you. It's soft, not leading to anything and it's not holding expectations, it's warm and soft and everything to you. And when he stops, you just smile, because this was it.

[lilacsupernova]

*Note: Tumblr might say reblogs have been turned off for this post. They haven't!*

(Also: I have a deeper, updated dive coming soon!)

Some commentary on the Imane Khelif & Lin Yu Ting boxing situation

I read these two as male. Nothing has indicated they are trans-identifying but the image of Imane Khelif as a child might indicate him being raised as a girl due to having a DSD. This is irrelevant to whether he should compete as a woman though. Both athletes have XY chromosomes – which if untrue they could do a simple cheek swab to prove they're women (as if they wouldn't already know from not having periods etc.). This would only need to be done once, and is less invasive than regular doping tests all athletes do! If XY chromosomes are found (as they already have been), they should do as Erik Schinegger did in 1968 and refuse to compete in the women's category anymore.

Claims this is a big conspiracy where the IBA are lying due to corruption are illogical. The claim they only disqualified Khelif and Yu Ting so they couldn't beat Russian boxers is false. While it sounds like they are corrupt due to Russian influence, and they ordered the DNA tests, the tests themselves were performed independently and showed they had XY chromosomes. Based on this info, and their women-have-XX-chromosomes policy the IBA banned them from competing in the women's category. Think about it, how bold (and stupid) would it be to falsely claim these two aren't female, given how easily that claim could be disproved?

Plus, if we're going to throw around corruption claims, how about the IOC? Who we know are happy to allow men to compete in the women's category based on their baffling and nonsensical rules (including no presumption of advantage based on sex)? Who ended sex-verification screening in 2000? Something Independent Council on Women’s Sports (ICONS) co-founder Marshi Smith has condemned, saying it allows the Yu Ting/Khelif issue to even be a thing. The IOC who decided they could compete as women based on passport sex markers? (Which we know can be legal fictions). Who previously allowed Caster Semenya - a man with a DSD, XY chromosomes and undescended testes - to compete as a woman? Who allowed Semenya, Francine Niyonsaba and Margaret Nyairera Wambui to take all three medals at the Rio 2016 women's 800m? I see far more evidence for how corruption is affecting the IOC's view in this matter than the IBA's.

I will also remind everyone (including radfems) that all because a corrupt/'bad'/bad person said something, it does not necessarily mean what they're saying is false! We know the words of radfems/GC people/anyone can be disregarded and derided because they've been branded a 'TERF', but that does not indicate the veracity of their words! The strength of their claims / arguments do. (I wish I could find that meme about a priest saying the sky is blue or something like that). I'm not telling you to believe what I'm saying because I'm saying it; do your own research, think critically, and make up your own minds based on the evidence.

The boxers in question:

Lin Yu Ting is guaranteed a bronze medal at minimum in the Women's 57kg due to making the semifinals (both boxers who lose the semis get bronze, the winners compete in the final for gold). His semi is 7 August at 9.30pm (all times Paris time) against Turkey's Esra Yildiz Kahraman, and the final will be 10 August at 9.30pm (worth watching anyway to support the women!).

Imane Khelif is also guaranteed a bronze minimum in the 66kg Women's category. He plays Janjaem Suwannapheng from Thailand on 6 August at 10.34pm. If he reaches the final, it's 9 August at 10.51pm.

What other boxers have said:

Svetlana Staneva of Bulgaria protested by refusing to shake Lu Ting's hand and making an X symbol after she was defeated by him 5-0.

Angela Carini burst into tears and refused to shake Khelif's hands after choosing to forfeit the match due the fearing for her safety due the strength of his punches. She later issued an apology, which frankly I suspect she was pressured into in order to be allowed to continue to box.

Brianda Tamara from Mexico also alluded to the strength of Khelif's blows, saying "when I fought with her I felt very out of my depth. Her blows hurt me a lot, I don’t think I had ever felt like that in my 13 years as a boxer, nor in my sparring with men. Thank God that day I got out of the ring safely, and it’s good that they finally realized."

Caitlin Parker, the Australian boxing captain says "I don't agree with [Khelif and Yu Ting] being allowed to compete in sport, especially combat sports. It can be incredibly dangerous. It's not like I haven't sparred men before. But you know it can be dangerous for combat sports and it should be seriously looked into. Yes, biologically … genetically they are going to have more advantages. I really hope the organisations get their act together so that boxing can continue to be at the Olympics. It's the oldest Olympic sport. Women's boxing was only introduced in 2012 and I want to see it for the next 100, 200 years to come." (She competes in the 75kg semifinal on 8 August at 10.02pm).

Santiago Nieva, an Australian boxing coach, and Marissa Williamson, who could have met Khelif in the 66kg category disagree. Only the male coach is quoted, however.

Hergie Bacyadan, a female Filipina boxer who identifies as a trans male (but hasn't taken testosterone) on the other hand agrees with Parker, saying through a translator "in sparring it's OK, but if they have XY chromosomes in competition, they should abide by the rules."

Former women's world champion Mária Kovács has wryly remarked that in modern women's boxing "there is a 20 percent chance that one of the athletes will suffer a testicular injury." She also discouraged Hungary's Anna Luca Hámori from competing against Khelif. Hámori posted an AI picture on Instagram of a female boxer fighting a devil and referred to Khelif as a man, for which the Algerian Olympic Committee submitted a complaint to the IOC, and forced her to delete it and apologise to Khelif. She was then defeated by Khelif 5-0 in the quarterfinal, hugging him afterwards. (Similar situation to Carini?)

What others have said:

An open letter calling for the IOC the reverse its decision to allow Yu Ting and Khelif to compete, and to reinstate sex screening has been signed by the likes of: Sharron Davies, Riley Gaines, Martina Navratrilova, Fair Play for Women, Save Women's Sport Australasia, Women's Declaration International, and more.

Dr Emma Hilton, a developmental biologist, has done research which found "a male boxer's punch is 160% more powerful than a woman's". (Unfortunately the article doesn't cite which study, and I don't have access to her articles to determine which one it is). She considers "this decision to include two men (Khelif and Yu-ting) in women's boxing to be extremely worrying, both for the safety and well-being of the female boxers against whom these two men will be competing."

Lastly, the UN's special rapporteur on violence against women and girls Reem Alsalem has said Carini "rightly followed her instincts and prioritised her physical safety, but she and other female athletes should not have been exposed to this physical and psychological violence based on their sex."

Other commentary:

Here is some commentary from IreneBritUSA, Karen Davis of You're Kidding, Right?, Aja the Empress, Marshi Smith (co-founder of ICONS), Jennifer Sieland, Anna Slatz, Dr Colin Wright (an evolutionary biologist), Meghan Murphy and Mary Lou Singleton (upcoming), and Doriane Lambelet Coleman. Note several WoC are speaking out!

[dj-spiderman]

Request: Hey! So Miguel is my new obsession and I would just love to request this: So Miguel x male reader where the male reader reminds miguel of his daughter so he's overprotective and take son a fatherly role. I was thinking either that the reader gets hurt and Miguel accidentally calls him Gabriella so angst, or it's just a second chance for Miguel to be a father for a kid that needs it

ARAÑITO

- Miguel O’Hara & Child!reader

- Genre: Platonic fluff

- Synopsis: Jessica and Miguel decide to take you back to HQ for recovery, but with the slow process, Miguel grows a bit too attached to allow for you to leave his sight. Talk about fatherly instincts.

- A/N: Reader can be depicted as any age, though is written to be relatively in his teenage years. The Spanish used is from google translate, my apologies for any mistakes! If any Spanish users would like to correct anything, please do!

Jessica was the one to find you. Up against a vulture far from your own. Grotesque teeth exposed by an uncanny snarl. A thick substance, that could possibly be identified as saliva, dripping down onto his face as he was pinned beneath heavy talons.

Hushed and rapid wheezes and curses slipping past busted lips. The taste of metal heavy on your tongue as you grasp onto the heavy ankle, desperately trying to remove it from your collapsing chest. Weak pleas being spat, no clue as to whether they were aloud or echoing throughout your thoughts.

Vision spotting and a sense of doom filling your gut, your body gave out and you lied limp. So close to death that you simply accepted it.. until…

A large blur of blue and red tackled the man off of yourself. Leaving you to jolt up wheezing and coughing. Tears welling up in your eyes as the pregnant woman soothed you. “Sh, sh, shh.. we’ve got you now. Gonna be alright.”

Miguel works hard to take down the vulture, pinning him down with large claws and an open jaw. A similar state as to what the creature had you into before, only less patience as he locks his jaw down in a venomous bite.

Of course, by the time he’s finished, you’re unconscious after having the adrenaline wear off. Slack body held in Jessica’s motherly hold as she gives a knowing look towards the larger man.

“You can’t be serious,” he groans, walking past her and opening a portal.

“He’s injured Miguel! We can’t just leave him here.” She argues in turn, scolding the man. “He’s just a kid..”

The man pauses, slouched over and running hands through his hair as he groans. “Fine, but only for recovery.” He mutters, to which Jessica happily carries your unconscious form through the portal.

════════════════

The moment you wake up, you’re disoriented and blinded by bright lights. It’s all overstimulating; the lights, the constant beeping, and the static like touch all over your body.

It takes a moment to gather your surroundings, whining softly as you anxiously look around. Shaky hands lift up to try and remove the nasal cannula, only to be stopped by a much larger and warmer hand.

“I don’t suggest removing that, it’s helping you breathe.” You don’t know who this man is, but his words are gentle and you simply relax back and leave the tube alone, it’s better that way. “You fractured a few ribs in your fight, bruised a lung, but nothing aggressively serious.” The stranger huffs, seemingly checking the bandages that wrapped around your torso.

“W-who…” Your throat is sore and dry, it hurts to speak with the conditions. Your words puffed out with a wheeze and wince.

“Miguel O’Hara, head of the spider-society.” The stranger introduces himself, sitting back with a grunt. “You’re only being kept here because of your injuries. As soon as you’re healed, you’re gone.”

Such manners he had, you thought with a small glare. You didn’t need someone to take care of you, let alone someone who hated you from the start.

This was already the worst thing you’ve ever dealt with.

════════════════

It had been a couple days now, your recovery going slow as you remained bed rested with little movement. Today was Jessica’s day to check on you, but rather the warm woman, you were met with two younger men.

“So you’re the mystery spider!” The smaller of the two cheers, eagerly rushing up to you. “Miguel refuses to let anyone see you!” His energy big, like that of a puppy’s.

The taller, more punk-themed man stepped forwards, tinkering around with some of the many machines. “‘Course, we’re not ‘onna listen to that old bloke.” He mumbles, finally making his way over. “‘m Hobie, Hobie Brown.”

You only watch, eyes drifting over to the former man. “Pavitr Prabhakar!” He cheerfully informs, poking around at your IV’s and breathing support.

Eventually the nimble fingers cause your IV to slip out, causing a wince of pain from yourself. And as scary as it was, Miguel himself appears in the doorway. A nasty scowl on his face as he glares down to the younger men. “Pavitr, Hobie, our.” He practically snarls.

For someone without a spider-sense, he was scarily good at sensing when something was wrong. Perhaps his AI, you thought, glancing towards his watch as though it’s where she was kept.

With the two strangers gone, it’s just you and Miguel. He’s pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose as he goes on about something. “¡Le dije a Jessica, le dije que no los dejara acercarse a ti! ahora estas herido..”

You’re not quite sure what he’s on about, but he seems upset with himself. He spares an apologetic glance your way, walking over and gently caressing the skin from which your IV was pulled.

“This is going to sting, arañita.” He coos in a tone you’ve never heard before, holding down on your arm as he slips the IV back in. Hushing and coddling you as you whine in pain. The flinch you give only causes more pain from your ribs. Tears welling up as a bodily reaction to the pain. “I know, I know.. hurts, doesn’t it, arañito?”

You’ve never seen this side to him. It almost feels like trap. Luring you into a false sense of trust only to tear you apart..

Your small cries cause him to hold you close against his chest, whispering about how brave you were. It felt fatherly, almost. Something bitterly familiar. You never did have a good relationship with your own father.. maybe this was a second chance?

════════════════

Days turned into weeks. Your recovery a slow process, but you were improving. You were allowed to walk within the medical room, though Miguel refused to let you leave his sight. You were only allowed to explore alongside him, told you that he had to “keep you safe”.

You usually obeyed his wishes, but the boredom was just so aggravating.. it wasn’t like he would know either way. So, you left the room, stumbling along halls and bridges in search for something fun to do.

You near scream, as though you could in your condition, as a masked horse mindlessly knocks you to the ground. The cowboy atop seemingly panicked as he begins anxiously apologizing, but it’s not you he’s speaking to.

An all too familiar shadow peers over your small, ‘fragile’ form. Above you, Miguel stands with a menacing glare. He does not at all seem happy about the incident, or your little ‘escape’.

“Get that damn horse under control, cabron.” He practically snarls, immediately pulling you into the comfort of his large arms. It’s no surprise when he begins coddling you and checking for injury. He was always this overprotective of you.

“Are you okay, arañito? He didn’t hurt you did he? Why are you out of your room..? Were you hungry? Cold? Lonely even?” He continues to question you, holding you to his chest. “You know you can just call for papa, I’ll be there as soon as you need me.”

That was another thing, Miguel had taken it upon himself to have you call him papa. He was constantly spoiling you or doting on you. It was.. strange.

You hadn’t even noticed when the man began dragging you back to your bedroom, scolding you softly. “You know better than to leave, you could get hurt.. scared me so bad arañita…” he’s lying you in your bed, tucking you in and taking a seat on the edge.

“You know I’m just trying to protect you… trying to be a good father.” He seems so genuine, it makes you feel guilty.

“Lo lamento, papa…” He seems genuinely shocked to hear you speak, let alone in Spanish. Supposed you had picked up on a few words within your stay.

A small smile plays at his lips, glancing your way as he speaks. “It’s alright arañita, I know you didn’t mean to scare me..” he reaches over, gently stroking your hair back. “Just promise me you won’t leave me… please don’t leave me..” he seems to be upset with the idea, and so you agree to his terms.

Nodding softly as you take hold of his large hand, gently playing with the rough, yet warm, flesh. “Sí.. won’t leave… never..”

And it was true. You didn’t have plans to leave, not when he was such a good father. Not when he gave you reason to trust him. He offered you safety and love, and in turn, you’d be his arañito.

[genderkoolaid]

When photographer and filmmaker Grace Pickering was introduced to the work of trans activist Lou Sullivan, it completely changed their life. Born in 1951, Sullivan is thought of as the world’s first documented gay trans man – though, of course, trans people have likely been around for far, far longer. His collated diaries from 1961 – 1991, We Both Laughed in Pleasure, are a pioneering piece of queer literature, or “a radical testament to trans happiness,” as The New Yorker once put it. “Before learning about Lou, I didn’t really understand my identity,” Grace says over breakfast at the art’otel in Hoxton, East London. “He opened my mind up to the fact that so many of my own thoughts were related to my transness – that you could be a dyke fag, I think is the term. He put everything into perspective for me.” It makes sense, then, for Grace to have named their first solo exhibition after Lou’s seminal work. We Both Laughed in Pleasure, which opened last week at the art’otel, is based around a short film Grace shot of their friends and peers, in a bid to shed light on a lesser known facet of the trans experience: transmasculinity and, crucially, transmasc people whose lives are full – of joy, friendship, professional and romantic success. “I wanted to show the nuanced lives that people have,” Grace continues. “Whenever I see transmasc people represented, it’s in quite a stereotypically male way, which I know sounds quite funny. But I think being transmasc is its own thing – me and my friends identify as gay men, even though out in the world I will more than likely be treated as a woman. It’s a different culture.” Alongside the film, which was produced by Greatcoat Films and commissioned by art’otel, Grace will exhibit a series of images inspired by historical trans and nonbinary figures, such as Joan of Arc, who has often been thought of as gender non-conforming; Schuyler Bailar, the legendary openly trans swimmer; and Gladys Bentley, a Harlem musician who would regularly get thrown into jail for the way they dressed in the 1930s. ​“Gladys would play at jazz clubs and was infamous in that area,” Grace says. ​“The police would routinely raid the place and arrest them. Gladys would spend the night in a cell and come right back the next day, in their three-piece suit and top hat. And yet they’ve been historically written about as a butch lesbian, despite living as a man. I was interested in showing that.”

from Down in the dumps? Laugh in pleasure at this exhibition

[hunn1e-bunn1e]

Hi... can I please get Wriothesely with a seductive secretary male reader? Only if you want to do it though. Also, can I be secretary anon?

Wriothesley - Seductive Secretary Male Reader

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Hey Secretary Anon, I decided to start with your ask first since it was a single-character ask compared to most other emoji'd anons. I did a half-headcanon half-oneshot for this one since I thought it was fitting. Anywho, I hope this lives up to what you had in mind. The lyrics quoted in this one are from the song “Secretary” by Charming Disaster! —Benny🐰

Warnings → Suggestive, Reader Wears Glasses, Reader is Shorter Than Wriothesley

                                                                                                   

✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒

❝𝕾𝖊𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖞 𝕾𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕳𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝕬 𝕸𝖊𝖊𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖞'𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙~❞

. . .

📑  This kind of secretary is both the bane of Wriothesely's existence and a huge help. A huge help because, well, they're his secretary, and he has far less work on his plate than he would have had without them. As for being the bane of his existence; the Duke of Meropide has hardly any free time. Sure, he can relieve his work stress through his fists, but the sexual frustration that's been building since his secretary was hired can't be relieved in that way, making him unfocused and irritable. It's gotten to the point of him having wet dreams of them at least once a week and eyeing up their legs and behind from across the room. Wriothesley has to stop himself and forcefully think about tea and melusines for his mind to stop its descent into the degenerate territory.

📑  It also doesn't help that his secretary knows how they make him feel and think and indulges it. Standing leaned over their desk and displaying their rear to him and ‘absentmindedly’ swaying their hips back and forth instead of just sitting in their chair. Making sure to leave the top four buttons of their silken white shirt open so that Wriothesley can see the expanse of their smooth, unblemished chest. Looking at him with hooded bedroom eyes, whenever they set down documents for him to sign or the tea he requested. The lingering touches that they leave on his shoulders, chest, and arms whenever they leave after a conversation. All things to keep him high-strung, yet they act all coy as if they hadn't done anything at all.

📑  Of course, whenever Sigewinne comes into their shared office, the antics immediately stop, which the Duke is both thankful for and annoyed with. It's good that his secretary has the self-control to stop themselves from doing anything inappropriate in a public space or around unrelated people. But at the same time, the melusine keeps on making comments about how tense the two are and asking if they fought; while his secretary pretends they didn't do all of what caused him to be so tense all the time.

*❅*❆*❅*❆*❅*❆*❅*❆*❅*❆*❅*❆*❅*❆*❅*❆*❅*

Slender hands dropping onto his shoulders and nimble fingers kneading his flesh cause Wriothesley to flinch. Yet he quickly, albeit involuntarily, relaxes under the skilled ministrations as he leans back in his chair with a quiet sigh. The smell of the assailant's cologne, a crisp cinnamon and vanilla fragrance, easily identifies them as his secretary.

“Dear me, Your Grace, you're so tense~ Did the visit with our little archon not go as you wished~?”  

[Name] purred just an inch from Wriothesley's ear, fanning it with his warm breath; pulling a suppressed shiver and a choppy exhale from the man.

The Duke gives the bespectacled man a side glare as his ears flush a barely noticeable pink. The secretary gives an amused chuckle in return; hands still busy at the other's shoulders and fingers practically dissolving every knot they find.

“You know…–”  

[Name] starts as he removes one of his probing hands from Wriothesley's shoulder and trails the other along the man's back as he makes his way in front of him and takes a seat on his desk, crossing one leg over the other and resting a foot on the man's lap.

“–I could always give you a full body massage, your grace. Work all that tightness out~”  

The bespectacled man slyly suggested as he slowly ran his heeled shoe up the duke's thigh and towards his crotch; biting his lip and watching the man's face with hooded eyes.

Wriothesley grits his teeth and quickly grabs onto [Name]’s ankle, pulling upwards off his lap and forcefully uncrossing the other's legs before he stands from his chair. The Duke, towering over his secretary as he stood to his full height and slotted himself between smaller's legs, fixes him with a cold yet heated gaze. His large gloved hand found its way to [Name]’s face and gripped the other's jaw, forcing them to look up at him.

“[Name].–”  

Wriothesley groaned, his throat tight with both annoyance and desire.

“–My patience can only last so much longer. You should move, you're wrinkling my paperwork.”  

The Duke finishes, yet he doesn't move himself til he lets them get down from his desk, and instead grabs the bespectacled man's waist with his unoccupied hand and gives it a firm squeeze; letting the silk-covered skin protrude from the spaces between his thick fingers.

“Oh~? How much longer until your patients run out completely, I wonder. When it's all gone–”  

[Name] pauses as he runs his hands up the tight shirt that hid Wriothesley's muscular chest from his leading eyes and loosely wraps his arms around the man's neck.

“Will you punish me~? Hm? Give me a spanking and set me straight~?”  

. . .

❝𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕯𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝕶𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖄𝖔𝖚'𝖉 𝕯𝖔 𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝕳𝖊𝖗 𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕮𝖆𝖓'𝖙 𝕰𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝕳𝖔𝖜 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝕸𝖊𝖙 𝕳𝖊𝖗 𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝕾𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖚𝖓𝖘 𝖄𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝕷𝖎𝖋𝖊~❞

✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒•♡•✒

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Reblogs are appreciated ~ 𔓘

Wanna see similar content? Check out my Masterlist!

[elaichoi]

SIMPLE-MINDED. choi soobin.

# PAIRING: YANDERE!SOOBIN X FEM! READER! ﹏ 𖤐 ⋆ 𓈒  ভয় আবহ. ❟ SYNOPSIS: ❛ soobin is a simple man with simple thinking. life's not as complicated as one makes it to be—so when you, the object of his affection, find someone else pretty enough. soobin has just the simple idea to change your mind—which is, well obvious by ruining his face! ❜

# CONTENT WARNING! violence, mentions of blood and slashing, manipulation, usage of cannibalistic means to describe desire, knife, yandere!soobin, lovesick!soobin, praise kink! male receiving, enabler!reader, lack of empathy, breast play, dry humping, cunninglingus, sexual intercourse with no protection. WC 3.2K

“messy”

you tched, the corner of your lips perked in a condescending smirk as you assessed the disheveled state of the man who proclaimed to love you, and the badly concealed knife he was trying to hide from your languid gaze.

you made a scene out of it. your eyes deliberately moving from his face to his shaking arms he had hidden behind himself.

“you're so messy soobin” you pouted, inching closer to him. his shakey gasps seemed clear with each step you took towards his trembling body—he was such a hypocrite, acting as though he were an innocent lamb when he had just done something that couldn't be done by someone less than a vile human.

soobin stood there, awaiting your warmth to embrace him—although he knew you wouldn't touch him, you had said so yourself. but he still couldn't help himself but yearn, unable to stop himself from reaching out to you phantom touch, albeit retracting within a second, afraid he'd burn himself in your aura.

“couldn't help it huh?” you teased, the smirk marred with cruel intentions, you put the tip of your index finger below his chin, lifting it to see his inhumane eyes, “you should have at least taken care of the blood on it.”

you reached behind him, grabbing the knife from grasp and he let you without any sort of fight, spilling himself onto the palm of your hands, and the cold handle of the knife was stolen away by you.

“whose blood is it?”

“jaehyun’s.”

you grin at his fast response. you were aware whose blood is it, but you wanted to hear it from himself—despite rolling in the pit whatever hell he had crawled out of, he always made you wonder how further he could crawl back into it for his selfish purpose. perhaps you weren't that much better than him, but you pretended like you were—at least you wouldn't get your hands dirty, unlike the man in front of you.

“you liked his face, didn't you?” soobin didn't wait for you to ask him the questions; rather he seemed too eager to let you know what he had done,“ I'm sure you wouldn't anymore. “

your stomach dropped when you saw soobin grin, the sound of his laughter ringing in your ears like the inevitable call doom, sinking the cold into your bones, etching the shiver on your back.

you smiled back, “what did you do?"

soobin graciously returned the favor back to you, “why don't I show you?”

he pulled his phone out of his back pocket, cheerfully growing through his phone like it's the most casual request you had asked of him—he seemed relaxed all of a sudden, almost too cheerful.

“I didn't fatally wound him, “ soobin reassured you, “just added a little decoration on his face.”

he turned the phone to show you and on it was a blurry picture of someone laying on the ground with blood emanating off their face, although it wasn't easy to identify but you could tell it was jaehyun.

soobin snatched his phone back, “ just a little slash on his cheek, nothing else.” he explained, “called the ambulance too. I didn't want to kill him after all.”

“now, “ he turned his attention to you, the man who stood before you a few moments ago now completely vanished and on his stead, the person standing in front of you was far crueller than you could imagine, “do you like his face?”

or maybe he's just insane.

soobin was threatening you—the thread of jaehyun’s life depending upon the word that itched the tip of your tongue. one word to his displeasure and he wouldn't hesitate to plunge the same knife back into jaehyun’s throat. the man who stood in front of you wasn't afraid—it wasn't the bravado of a lover but the carelessness of a madman, he would go hound his prey no matter how much they try to hide themselves from him, all he required is one motive and that is where you stood.

donning a similar smile, you cock your head to marvel at the blood that was beginning to dry on the blade of the knife in your hands. a truant sound escaping your lips once you picked yo his gaze that was assessing your each gesture, the way your eyelashes fluttered when you looked down, and the color of the rouge on your cheeks that appeared lively in the dead of the night.

“wouldn't they find you?”

a sardonic smirk etched soobin's comely lips, he shook his head in a no, “jaehyun didn't see my face,”

“why?” he pressed—not a line of shame on his face, the blue of his consequences nowhere near catching the fleeting sense of his conscience, rather he seemed exuberant. soobin's eyes shining like the moon as he demanded to know whether the question was meant for him, something out of love for his welfare, “are you worried for me?”

worried for him? you gazed down on the knife in your hands, at least my fingerprints wouldn't matter.

“why did you come to find me?” you ignore him, “did you want compliments for this?”

“yes.”

he is sick, you knew he was sick and you let him get away with it.

“do you like jaehyun’s face now?” he questioned one again, boring his intense gaze into yours, refusing to let go.

you shook your head.

soobin was suffocating, and volatile. you were aware that he wouldn't dare lay a hand on you, twistedly enough it would be akin to something scarring he truly adored and he couldn't accept it. but the nature of your answer rested on the safety of jaehyun. you were partly to blame for his situation right now—despite knowing the man's tendencies, and you let it get this far knowing what could be one of the outcomes once you push him far enough.

he smiled gleefully—it made you retch. but how different were you actually from him?

you both rejoiced in what you could control—the difference lying where he knew how to give up anything that came to you, and you liked controlling the ledge he had been swinging upon—a borderland of truly far gone. you longed to see how far he could go until the path to coming back had been blurred despite knowing what kind of consequence it would bear for you as well.

“could i kiss you?” soobin asks softly. the ravenous intent melting like in the snow in your grasp. his body closer than before, stalking like thanatos’s conquest.

“hmm,” you murmur in affirmation, seconds to compose yourself before his cold hands cradle your face. his palm taking in the gentleness of your flesh as though he had been kept deprived all his life, only getting to touch a piece of heaven after he had proven himself.

you were swaying such a bad expectation for him to grasp on.

perhaps you were the problem; instead of filling your veins with disgust, the warmth of his breath weaned down the cathartic dam that had been keeping all these diabolic—carnal instincts hidden.

soobin's bottom lip touched yours in a prayer of approval, barely grazing the softness with his sinful ones. you let him in, taking the step to put an end to his hesitation; taking the tender flesh of his lip between your teeth, you awaited for the moment to sink in. you put your arms around his neck to bring him closer, the knife still tightly held in your grasp. he finally relented, taking your upper lip and sucking onto it as if it felt like a taste of amaranthine.

the kiss was everything that you both weren't—wearing a mask of desperation that felt too pure to ricochet off your souls that was nothing but layers of filth—home to the scarlet heart beating within the cage of thorns laced with poison. who says monsters are incapable of love?

you two certainly deny the ancient saying. the fervour as he matches his lips to your rhythm was his nothing short of a choir—the taste of your saliva dancing like nectar on his tongue.

“i want you so much,” soobin confesses, a sizzle at the end of his words, with a touch of regret as he holds you closer, and closer to his body. the barrier of clothes between you two tearing into his flesh like barbs. he is burning from within and he holds you like he means it. his hand sliding off your cheeks to your tender neck and then to the small of your back to hold you chest to chest—a futile attempt to consume you.

soobin wants to devour without sinking his teeth in, fearing the droplets of rubies only when it comes to you but he'd gleefully tear the world apart if it meant he'd earn your approval.

the knife falls onto the floor of your living room with clang, setting off the chain reaction that has him backing you on any sort of surface that he could lay you on—which happens to be your couch. he is on top of you, the lips still attached to your as he undoes his hoodie and hugs you closer. his body was molding onto yours—chest pressed up against each with so much pressure, it was slowly getting too hard to breath. he didn't care about that though—you had given him his signal and he was going to show you just how much he wants you.

soobin moves to the corner of your lips, peppering with mindless butterfly kisses as he goes on to remove the top you were airing, you aid him by raising your arms and letting him take off. the separation of mere seconds has been keening for more as he cradles your waist with little gap between two bodies on top of the couch.

he dives into the valley of your breast on top of your bra like a hungry man, nuzzling deep into the warming, burrowing for more with hands snuck deep in his hair controlling his movements. his searing hands roaming around your waist, soaking up the tenuous skin. his fingers stopping on the buttons of your jeans, quickly undoing it. he helped you shimmy it off until the pants were accompanying your blouse on the ground.

soobin kisses your jaw—his fingers rubbing on your nipples from on top of the bra until they were poking out and you sighed, unable to take the teasing. to ease your discontent, he scooped your boobs out from on top of your bra, his fingers playing with the perky nubs. you moaned when his wet, yet hot mouth engulfed one of them. you clenched into the tuft of hair, pulling his head back but your retaliation only ignited his hunger as he swirled his tongue around your nipple while his other fingers were busy pulling onto the other one. you groaned in pleasure as you felt the feeling build up in the pit of your stomach, it was so achingly delicious—your quickening breath was like a melody to his ears.

pressing his hardened crotch on top of your clothed mound, rubbing deliberately slowly to create friction, and just a little bit to drive you crazy.

you pulled onto soobin’s hair, the pleas dying into your throat and only arising as muffled moans. you were wrapped around his rotten trick—you sacrificed yourself to his trap.

soobin pulled back, meeting your fucked out gaze with his half hooded eyes, his tongue still laying flat on top of your nipple, while the other was enclosed in his grasp, “praise me,”

you closed your eyes, taking deep breathings through your nose. your head was pulled back as you tried to control yourself, but that perverted movement of his crotch on your wet pussy was too much to deny, “you feel so good,” you gritted.

“give me more,” soobin demanded, his fingers sneaking where his crotch and your pussy met. his fingers pried open your folds on top of the clothes, which was basically useless now due to your essence. he pressed his index finger on top of your nub, “do i really?”

you nodded, pressing your lips together, your hands coming to his shoulder to slightly push him off. soobin popped your nipples out of his mouth and replaced it with the finger that was in you panties, all while looking at you with those carmine intentions of his—like he wants to eat you. he was like a whiplash, you could never figure him out. never pick up when he was the puppy wagging his tail in your hands, or the monster that conspired to tear the flesh off your bones and consume it raw.

“you make me feel so fucking good, “ you take his name, giving him what he wants. he grin before sliding downwards to face your ruined panties, your essence dripping all over your thigh.

soobin peeks his tongue out, licking onto the juice that was smeared around your womanhood, making sure not to waste a bit of the ambrosia, moaning into your flesh, driving you closer to the edge of the cliff as he inched towards your entrance. sliding the panty aside, he marvelled at the sloppy sight of it. the mess he had created.

you were right, he was messy.

soobin nuzzled his nose into your entrance with no warning, urging you to gasp as the sensations crashed into you at once—his hot tongue licking stripes on your entrance as his nose pressed onto your nub. you scrambled to sit up and take a hold of his head.

“you taste so fucking amazing,” he groaned into your pussy. the waves of his words sending you to another course of insanity. the white heat that had been building up in your stomach was so, so close to bursting. he increased his pace, lapping into your pussy like a hungry beast, taking all of. the nectar he could collect. he could die there, he used his fingers to penetrate you as the tip of his tongue played around with your clit. you warm hole sucking him in as if it was its second nature. he keeps up the pace until. you're writhing into his mouth, trying to get away from his flat tongue that laid on your clit. he had a death grip on your backside, helping you calm down in his mouth so he wouldn't dare waste a single lick.

“please,” you gasped, your hand trying to get away from soobin’s mouth as you calmed down from the high. your chest was heaving from the repercussion. he didn't reply, his gaze was set on top of your pussy that was still in front of his mouth like a prized possession. both of his hands were under your thighs to have you in the closest proximity of his mouth so he could taste your pussy as much as he could. the tip of his tongue despite not meeting your pussy yet, it created a line of his spit from his tongue to your clit, dribbling until your hole. that was still clenching from the earlier orgasm.

“its so cute,“ he murmured to himself. soobin took two of his fingers and brushed it on your clit before pressing onto your hole until it sank inside and you raised your ass without your realising upon his sudden action. he smirked, and looked at your with a curiously morbid look.

“you want something to fill you up?” soobin questioned, pressing his fingers deeper into your pussy, making you chest raise off the couch at the pressure, “something bigger?” he teased.

you wanted it, you wanted something bigger. there was no denying, you were too far gone.

you reply in a meek yes and within a second his fingers were out of your pussy, replaced by the heaviness of his dick that was still wrapped in his boxer, albeit the black material sopping weight with his precum.

soobin ran his hands over the head of his dick on top of the wet boxer, lulling his back with a groan.

“you see what you do to me?” he taunted you, rubbing his dick on top of the boxer, before finally taking both the pants and boxer out. his dick springing out and laying flat on his stomach with it's angry red bulbous head staring right at you. his fingers cupped his balls as he came down and pressed his dick right onto top of your pussy, that he had laid flat on top of the couch, pressing it until it sank inside your lips.

“you want a taste?”

you don't reply, instead stick your tongue out. he bites his lips at your subtle action that his dick stuffed inside your pussy lips. languidly taking his pre cum he smears it on your tongue but instead of taking his fingers out, he pushes his index and middle finger into you tongue until you close your mouth over it, swirling your tongue to get every last bit of the cum from his fingers.

soobin sighs, trying his best not to cum right there. he takes his fingers out and slaps the dick a couple times onto your pussy before pushing the head in.

you gasp out loud at the sudden ruin intrusion but that wouldn't stop him, he barges in, although there was a bit of opposition, he bottoms out soon enough.

“you were made for me,” soobin groans under his breath as he pushes himself out only to slam himself into your pussy, creating a filthy rhythm of his salacious exhibitions. you were holding onto his arms, digging your nails into arms, creating ribbons of red but he did not care; it only added to his pleasure as he swayed you back and forth, taking you along with the ravacious journey. he fell onto your chest once more, taking your nipples into his mouth as he thrusted into you with an unknown urgency. you screamed out his name, sobbing uncontrollably, as he buried himself further into your heat.

he wanted to be inside you forever, aching to burn in the fiery pit but he was being chased by some sort of divine high.

you yelled out his name in futile attempts as you were reaching another one of your highs—his fingers appearing on your clit to let you off the edge first. he continued

his thrusting his he rubbed your clit and within a few more strokes you were whimpering once more, your legs wrapped around his waist to drag him closer to yourself. his thrusts soon began to cease as he heated his own high.

soobin pulled out and started to fisting himself until there were white ropes decorating your pussy. he slapped his softening dick on top your sensitive pussy to make sure he was thoroughly spent before he fell on his knees, breathing heavily as he observed the way your chest heaved, and the artistry of his carnal desire blossoming onto your chest like an artists optimus primus.

“i love you,” soobin breathed out, submerged into the high he had been chasing, and the scent of the madness he had whenever he was in your presence. he longed for you like the moon, and right now the the moonshine was draped onto his body like a dream come true, and his blood underneath the moon’s fingernails. he is happy, he doesn't care about anything else other than this moment with you.

even though you didn't say anything back. to him.

©ELAICHOI 23-24.

[batsarebetterthanpeople]

So because apparently both parties in my country oppose trans healthcare to some extent I want to make it very clear to cis people what healthcare they're opposing.

There's a lot of fearmongering about children undergoing medical transition. So I'm gonna walk you through what might happen to a child who is transgender and wants to go the full medical route. Let's say our hypothetical transgender child, I'll make him a him because I'm a him and I'll call him Rat because he named himself when he was 6.

So Rat would probably, unless he experienced precocious puberty, go on hormone blockers at age 9 or 10, a year or two before he would start experiencing puberty just to make sure he doesn't experience any female puberty symptoms. Then at about 13 or 14 he would have an appointment with his doctor and they would decide that he has been sure that he was a boy for many years now and he's at an appropriate age to start puberty, at which point he would be taken off the hormone blockers and put onto a dosage of testosterone that is typically of what his perisex camab peers produce naturally. Because he never produced estrogen he would not have grown breasts and not need top surgery. He would develop exactly how his camab peers develop.

Now I want to put an interlude here that literally all of this is reversible. At any point Rat could change his name back and go off the testosterone jabs and his ovaries would start functioning again and they would produce the appropriate estrogen to give him breasts and hips. He could take the same vocal training classes that trans women take, he could get laser hair removal on the places where appropriate, and it would be as if he'd never been on the hormones at all.

But he doesn't want to do that. He wants a penis so let's move onto that.

As far as surgery goes, he would not be able to have either metoidioplasty or phalloplasty until he was on hormones long enough to experience the necessary bottom growth to occur, which takes a couple of years. (At least that was what I was told in 2016 please lmk if standards have changed since then). So at this point we're already about 16 years old before surgery even comes up as an option at the doctor's office. And Rat, if he is particularly gung ho about getting a penis and his parents can afford it/insurance will pay for it, probably gets put on a waiting list for a consultation with a specialist in genital reconstruction. Let's say at that consult which probably takes a few months minimum to get into, he opts for the most similar to perisex male genitalia: phalloplasty with testicular implants. Right there we're looking at at least three different surgeries and not all of them are going to happen at the same time. He's 17 before he's ever even on the operation table and he's been consistently identified as male since elementary school. This is the fastest possible bottom surgery route I'm laying out for you here and he still not slanging it until senior prom when he'll give it an ill advised test run in the back of his parents Subaru with Kelly from the anime club. All of that is assuming there's a doctor who will do it for him that can fit him in. Some people wait years for surgery.

Now some people get top surgery younger, but guess what, breast implants both exist and can be removed. If a 14 year old gets a double mastectomy and regrets it when they're 23 they can get implants. If a 16 year old gets breast implants and regrets it when they're 20 they can get those taken out. Top surgery is not complicated and I've heard from guys who truely would not have made it if they hadn't gotten theirs done.

I know this won't convince anyone who opposes trans healthcare but I hope it at least explains transition to cis allies who support trans people getting healthcare but still might think minors not being allowed to have surgery is a moderate position. I invite any trans person to add onto this with a MTF perspective or how their surgeries helped them.

[bloomingdarkgarden]

To Taste Wisteria in Her Lullaby

A contribution to @elriel-month 2024

3,2K | Angst-Pining | Azriel POV | Shameless Garden Metaphors

This one shot is decicated to @tealeaves-and-rosepetals, @wingedblooms and @deathsweetblossoms my verdant darlings. The other day we were discussing our admiration of Elain as a plant lover, and well, I decided that Azriel needs to do the same thing. Low and behold, who does he find also wondering her gardens in the moonlight?

Sleep is a word he no longer remembers.

It was always an elusive hope. 

Now it evades him entirely.

A midsummer moon spilled upon the tranquil terrace of the river manor. How two seasons had come to pass in what felt like a handful of days, Azriel did not know. Solstice was long gone. Starfall came and went.

Both had faded like dreams in the ether.

And here he was, half the year gone by.

An evening breeze sifted through the garden’s verge. Warm, decadent, indigo-rich with the scent of night.

Elain was here, in these gardens.

Not physically. But in every blossom, every delicate unfurling- she was here. Her foresight and planning, her craft in the groundwork and choice of species. Her innate ability to nourish and grow beautiful things from a dark, empty void of soil. 

From a dark, empty void of a male heart, too.

Nights like tonight were… difficult for him. Listening to pleasant banter around the dinner table for hours, contributing to it himself in a false effort to bury his own misery. He thought the need for her might ebb, after so many months had passed, or at the very least, the mourning. That cold loss of what almost was.

But the need lingered instead.

It lingered, and lingered, and lingered, always.

The eden she had cultivated in the river manor was nothing shy of extraordinary. An illustrious, dream-ridden world of wisteria, lavendula, lily and countless flowers Azriel couldn’t wholly identify. Elain tended these courtyards in honor of Rhys and Feyre, with the grandeur of the high court in mind. The blossoms chosen were a range of whisper-blue, lilac and starlight, every possible shade in between. Yet while undeniably lovely, the royal gardens were a far cry from what she chose to grow at the townhouse.

Elain did not know, but Azriel occasionally ambled through that garden, too, in the dead of night. The townhouse felt closer to her heart than this place, somehow. Closer to who she was intrinsically. A little less refined beneath the surface. Etched with softer, wilder blooms far more tangled and lovely.

He strolled silently through the furthest of the terraces, shrouded beneath high walls of ivy. A clock somewhere far off chimed three in the morning and Azriel made an effort not to acknowledge the implication.

Sleep is a word he no longer remembers, after all.

In the quietest hours of the night, not even his shadows could seem to muster the energy to stay awake anymore. They lulled at his shoulders, slumbering for the most part, tracing silent footfalls. 

Which is why, as he rounded a corner lost in thought, the last thing he anticipated was colliding headlong into another person in the dead of night.

But there she was.

“Oh,” Elain murmured with soft surprise, halting her quiet steps.

She was only a half-breath away, just as taken aback as he was. The reflection of a night sky glittering in the sleepless chestnut of her eyes. So close that Azriel could count the stars within them.

They all looked as lost and lonely as those within his own.

She was clad in a soft champagne shift, a semi-transparent shawl wrapped around her slight shoulders. Her hair was-

unbound.

And the whisper of her soft curves could be seen through the moonlight.

Fuck, this was a cruel sort of dream.

His own descent into purgatory always began this way. With her, like this, in his arms. With his lips tracing a tender trail over every inch of her skin. With her being then stolen away from him by some cursed hand of fate he could never again reach.

Loose, natural waves of curl illuminated her silhouette in the dark hush of the garden. The need to run his hands through those curls would be his demise.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained by way of greeting.

Azriel swallowed, understanding all too well.

“I know the feeling,” he offered frankly in return.

Silence abounded.

Elain lowered her gaze momentarily, color blooming across her cheek. Azriel tried not to brand the memory of her this way- unbound, moonlit, and half-dressed- into his hindbrain for the next 700 years.

“I was just admiring your work,” he murmured, glancing to the nearby trellis.

A half-honest truth.

“I myself was doing the opposite,” she softly mused, leaning to study a stunning assortment of moonlily. “There’s much that could be improved, anyway. Though the rosaceae and mints have turned out nicely this year despite the late snow.”

Immediately, he knew Elain was exhausted. He could hear it in the drawn timbre of her voice.

He wanted to take her away.

Far away.

Somewhere he could be allowed to trace the skin of her entire body with the soft petals of her perfect primrose blooms. And whisper, all the while, that she didn’t know how to grow something that wasn’t breathtaking.

Azriel said nothing, ignoring the songs of impossible dreams. 

His shadows were awake now, observing the source of those songs. Curiously peering at her from their swirling perch.

He could hear wisteria in the lullaby of her. He could hear tiredness, and soil-ridden hands, and an ache so deep it put the sea to shame.

The song of her was as siren-dark as it always had been. Deep, haunting, and killing him slowly.

“I can’t say there is anything I would change,” he offered, “about this sanctuary.”

Elain was always most comfortable this way, speaking of plants, when other words could not be found. Or simply remained unspoken. It was a language they both knew well after countless late evenings at the townhouse. Plants were always a reason, or an excuse, they had to stay awake all night together.

That, it seemed, hadn’t changed.

“Are there any that you admire most tonight?” Elain asked quietly, stepping down a long wisteria corridor. He followed, unable to resist the urge. They slowly strolled, side by side, beneath a rippling sea of violet reverie.

Azriel motioned to a cluster of delicate flowers on the corridor’s trellis with notched, pale petals.  “This is one I admire often,” he murmured.

Night Phlox.

He knew as much from the library’s botanical volumes. Rich, detailed diagrams he was fond of combing through now again. He made a point to borrow those books every so often over the course of last winter. Just to know, just to understand the complexity of what exactly Elain was accomplishing that no one in the godsforsaken world seemed to notice.

Gardening was hellish work.

Elain finished her day bent, bleeding, and begrudgingly exhausted more often than not. No one seemed to recognize the toll it had on her. The least he could do was learn why she chose to undertake it all.

What he discovered, in the end, was that she liked the labor. She liked the marks the verdant battles left behind. She wanted to earn the beauty of a bloom, rather than being given it freely.

And Azriel began falling in love with her as a result.

“Phlox,” she offered, eyeing the flower and confirming his suspicion. “It has only just begun its course for summer, but soon you’ll see it everywhere I should think.”

“This, too, is rather taking,” Azriel strolled on, now admiring a pale blue primrose.

Elain nodded in agreement, tucking a curl behind her pointed ear. “Those are some of my favorites,” she admitted softly.

The pair crossed the end of the corridor, entering a secluded grove at the far end of the courtyard, lined with high walls of greenery. Azriel paused before a lush partition of fragrant, ivory flowers rustling in the wind.

“In regards to your question,” he murmured, “this is what captures me most,”

Elain’s gaze settled on the blooms and she swallowed, the moment hesitant.

“Jasmine,” she noted quietly. “Night blooming jasmine. Some call it poisonberry.”

“Lady of the night,” he added gently, looking at her now.

There was nothing in the world that carried a scent so lovely as that which lingered on her skin. This flower was making an honorable effort.

So there was no other choice, really.

He wondered if she knew, truly knew. And had a feeling she did.

Elain’s fingers brushed the soft petals. “What do you admire about it?” she asked carefully.

His throat bobbed.

“It is, of course, far more beautiful than the rest,” he said, brushing scarred knuckles over the jasmine stems. “But moreover it is prone to waking the moment the world stops paying attention. When all the world sleeps, this creature dreams,” he noted. “I find that rather…. alluring.”

“Alluring,” Elain repeated, a soft murmur.

He thought she might shy away, but she did not. He certainly would not. Not with her so near, and so decadent, and so sinfully lovely in the moonlight.

If that made him a self-serving bastard, so be it.

“You know more about plants than you let on, I think,” Elain muttered wryly.

Azriel’s mouth curled upwards. “You know more about most things than you let on.”

She shrugged, a grin now blossoming on her cheek, which might be the end of him. Elain was staring up at him now, openly. More pointedly, at the place just between his ear and his neck.

“You have them too,” she remarked.

Azriel swallowed, tracking her gaze. He realized she was speaking of the curls nipping against his skin, courtesy of the dew-kissed night.

“A gift from my mother,” he murmured back. “When it’s damp, anyway.”

His own eyes lingered on the ends of her long curls, pooled over her breasts, kissing against the small of her waist. Azriel craved every piece of her they could touch and he could not.

“I might also add that the scent of this particular flower is the only which bids me sleep at night,” he murmured, glancing to her beneath hooded eyes.

“Is that so?” she shifted marginally closer.

He nodded in return.

“Perhaps you might take some to bed,” she offered, eyes doe-wide. “I could cut a few stems for you.”

Azriel hesitated, but did not tear his gaze away. “Our High Lord may not approve.”

“Of taking a flower that soothes you to sleep?”

He swallowed.

“Of taking that which does not belong to me.”

Elain’s brow furrowed. She turned away, the rawness of those words having fracturing the fragile thing between them. He was desperate to have it back the moment it was gone.

She again regarded the wall of night-blooming jasmine.

“It’s true, jasmine has flowering patterns that are rather unusual. And if it is planted just days too early or too late in the season, it might wither before ever blooming. The plant is rather… delicate that way.”

“I’m not sure anything could quell the beauty of such a creature.”

Elain exhaled softly, bitterly. “I wish I had your confidence,” she uttered. “A great many enemies oppose the bloom. Disease, insects, unexpected shifts in weather- ” a pause. “I would have thought north of the wall they would be better adapted to the climate, but here, they face the same struggles they did in the human lands.”

Azriel measured the sadness in her eyes and hated himself for being the cause.

“Perhaps there are other foes aside from the usual elements contributing to their suffering,” he countered.

She looked at him keenly. “Such as?”

He swallowed, wondering how direct or indirect to be. And because he was exhausted and half in love with her, his brooding nature won out over reason.

“Invasive species taking root where they do not belong,” he muttered darkly. A terse pause. “Foxglove comes to mind.”

Elain seemed to bite back a laugh despite her own exhaustion.

“Yes invasives can indeed be problematic,” she tried and failed not to grin, “though only if the soil is willing to host them.”

Azriel swallowed, unwilling to muster a response that didn’t sound murderous.

Elain seemed to notice. And carried on gracefully, as she always did.

“I’ve found the soil of the night court rather unforgiving, anyway. When a plant roots here,” she met his eyes, “it is steadfast in its choice, no matter how ill-fated.”

His heart stopped beating for a moment.

Something aching reached for him from within her gaze, and it nearly split him in two. “What truly makes the bloom suffer most of all in the end is a lack of proper nourishment, Azriel,” she said quietly.

They weren’t speaking about jasmine anymore. They weren’t even speaking of jasmine to begin with.

He knew it. She knew it. And both seemed unable to look away.

“Why do you not find sleep?” he asked lowly.

Elain swallowed, lips parting with an answer that seemed stuck in her throat. She looked at him with soft eyes then.

“Why do you not?”

Silence followed. Heavy with sorrow and longing and all the rest.

“Elain,” his gaze shuttered, his voice barely audible.

“Was it-” she took a shaking breath, “-was it truly so wrong? So shameful to you?”

The words tore a true, gaping hole into his already-ruined heart. He stepped towards her instinctively, unable to keep from doing so.

“Nothing could be further from the truth.”

Hope bloomed eternal in her eyes and he needed to touch her again. The need was so arresting he couldn’t seem to move, on the brink of falling into an abyss.

Elain registered that need. And his inability to see it through.

So she took it upon herself to feed the need instead.

The bliss and agony of her touch was his undoing.

A gentle reach of her pale hands up to the base of his neck, resting her arms there as she twined his silk-black curls between her fingers. His hands snaked to her waist and relief coursed through him like nothing else at the warmth of her beneath his hands.

This is where she belonged.

Azriel lowered his head against hers, hazel eyes fluttering closed as that honey-rich, jasmine scent soothed every wrecked piece of him left jagged in her absence.

The silence between them fraught with a thousand lonely starlit nights.

“There it is,” Elain whispered.

Azriel murmured an inarticulate noise in question.

“The quiet,” she said, stroking the skin of his cheek. “How I’ve missed it, with you.”

She was incurably exquisite.

“I can’t,” he began, wondering if he was a fool for saying it aloud. “I can’t seem to share it with anyone else.”

“Nor can I,” she returned, without a moment’s pause.

A handful of words beneath the moonlight and he was already doing everything he swore to the forgotten gods he wouldn’t do again. Inhibition was a ghost on the wind.

Those gods had forsaken him long ago anyway.

He stayed like that for quite some time, with her beneath his hands. Listening to that blissful quiet. She stayed with him, hidden beneath the garden walls. Azriel had no idea how long they spent that way, but it would never be long enough. He opened his eyes again eventually.

And then, in those most endearing moment he had ever witnessed in five centuries of lonely brooding-

Elain yawned.

She haphazardly attempted to rub the sleep gathering in her eyes away before looking up to him softly.

He was ruined.

“I should bid you goodnight,” he murmured politely. His hands were still on her waist and they did not move.

“Should you?” she asked, taking her hand within his own.

This was by far the cruelest thing he had ever deigned to dream.

She pulled away, and every muscle in his body wailed in protest, though her hand was still wrapped in his own. Elain again studied the wall of jasmine with tired eyes.

“You say the scent helps you sleep,” she murmured. “You will not take it with you, so why not stay where it is strongest?”

Azriel knew he ought to contest, make some flimsy excuse, walk away.

“Elain-” he rasped, but the words went nowhere.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Just stay.”

Elain lowered herself to the garden floor, leaning against that wall of jasmine.

Two hours until dawn, and no fight left in him tonight.

Azriel succumbed to the pull of her small hand downwards. He sank to the ground, pressing his back against the wall of jasmine aside her.

Elain wasted no time. In a series of impossibly beautiful events, she curled into his lap- nestling her head against him and murmuring a sigh of relief as if she, too, needed this.

Her shawl was lumped haphazardly around her, so he carefully untangled it, wrapping it neatly before tucking her in close.

She stared up at him, and the stars in her eyes were no longer lost or lonely.

They were bright.

They were beautiful.

They were blooming.

The melody of her was immeasurably lovely, lulling his shadows back to slumber. A few of them began dancing over her skin, murmuring soft lullabies, enveloping them both from sight.

Elain loosened a soft, pleased noise at their sleepful sound.

“Do they always do this for you?” she asked carefully. “Sing you to sleep?”

“Often, yes.”

A quiet pause.

“Alluring,” she quipped.

His mouth quirked upwards and he ran a tender hand down the length of her back. As if this wasn’t a dream. As if she was his, and his alone, tonight.

Elain responded by gently reaching upwards to carefully tuck a single bloom of jasmine into the muss of his curls.

“I’d like to imagine feeling your shadows every night, like this,” she uttered, voice husky with sleep.

Azriel swallowed a low, strangled noise in his throat.

He took a long moment. Maybe two. She nestled closer to him, as if knowing why, finding his hand at her spine and encouraging it to stroke her all the way down once again.

“Do you know how often I’ve dreamt of you, this way?” Azriel’s words were quiet. His other hand now making its way to the base of her neck. He allowed his scent to wrap around her, truly, knowing he’d glamor it away by morning.

He wanted more, he wanted everything, but somehow, this was enough.

“I feel safe in my dreams with you,” is all she said in return. Sleep imminent in her voice. “I feel safer now than I ever have, I think.”

Fuck, that did something to him. Curled something low within him to life. Something male and possessive and needy and long since abandoned.

“You are safer with me than anyone else in this world.”

The words were a vow, carried on a dark wind. A promise that he would level the universe with cold fury to keep her from harm if need be.

His hand slipped to the root of her hair and her lips parted with a sigh as he tenderly rubbed the base of her neck.

“I know it’s impossible. I know the stars are set against it. But maybe we could just pretend,” she murmured softly.

“Pretend?” he echoed, his heart beating slowly now.

Elain looked up to him, eyes dazed with lost dreams.

“That we belong to one another.”

She was asleep in five minutes. Maybe less.

Azriel finally ran scarred fingers through her curls and savored every last moment as if they might be his last. There was nothing but the jasmine-sweet melody of her crooning in his ear. Pale and bright and spilling like moonlight over the darkest nights of his life.

In the last hour before dawn he lowered himself beside her, wrapping her fully into the warmth of his chest. He cradled Elain close, and she cradled him right back, hidden beneath a veil of greenery.

“Azriel,” Elain murmured, as the birds began their luting songs in the nearby trees. He hummed a quiet, deep noise in answer.

“I’m not pretending,” she whispered.

He pulled her close, closer than he knew was possible. And as the soft breath of dawn peeked over a far horizon, he did not let go.

“Neither am I,” Azriel whispered back.

[suzukiblu]

updated/expanded "Kara gets to Earth on-time with baby Kal" AU excerpt:

Kara doesn’t understand the aliens’ language, which is fine. She didn’t expect to. She watches them interact and listens as they speak, familiarizing herself with the cadence and pitch and rhythm of their voices and doing her best to pick out individual sounds and patterns. She likes languages well enough. She did pretty well with Daxamite dialects in school last year, anyway. 

The aliens are kind, at least so far. They found her and Kal curled up in the remains of their smashed-up ships in their ruined field and brought them into their home despite the mess. Kara thinks they’re farmers, probably? So probably Laborer Guild, or whatever this planet has instead of Laborers. The House of El is mostly Thinkers, but Kara isn’t worried about that. She’ll figure something out, as soon as she figures out how to communicate with the aliens. Pantomime has not been all that helpful, at least not so far. 

They gave her a warm, unusually sweet drink that might have some kind of milk in it, with soft white pellets in it that are even sweeter. It’s not quite like anything she’s ever tasted before, but she likes it. Kal really liked it, though the aliens seemed to think he shouldn't have too much and gave her a little cup of just milk alone for him instead. Or she thinks it's milk, anyway. 

It's white. And very thick, and almost creamy? Though it tasted good too, when Kara stole a sip to make sure it wouldn’t upset Kal’s stomach if she gave it to him. 

"Pye," the alien that Kara is assuming is female announces in their weirdly simple-sounding language, putting a round plate with a slice of something on it on the table in front of her. Kal reaches for it from her lap with a burble. Kara peers at it too. The slice is triangular, with a crisp crust and an oozy red filling. She wonders why the plate is round, if the "pye" is meant to be sliced and served triangularly. It seems a little disrespectful to the cook–or baker? Or at least the artisan who made the plate, which was clearly painted with very dedicated care. Painted by hand, even, not a pre-programmed design reproduced by a machine. That’s very luxurious for Laborers to be offering unexpected guests who just destroyed their field, even being the wrong shape for the "pye". 

Maybe they’re overcompensating, Kara thinks. Or maybe the aliens are really just that kind. 

Maybe. 

She thinks they’re little flowers, the designs around the edges of the plate. Or at least they look like they could be flowers. They’re flower-<i>like</i>, if nothing else, and all the weird colors of them might just be a stylistic choice. 

They’re pretty. 

She wishes she could show her mother. 

Kara crushes down the grief for the thousandth time and smiles at the aliens. They smile back. 

It helps, almost. 

Almost. 

The “pye” tastes very good. 

.

.

.

It takes some effort, but Kara learns the aliens’ names after she and Kal finish their “pye” and she cleans up his sticky little face. The possibly female one is “Ma Mar-Tha”, and the possibly male one is “Pa Jona-Than”. So . . . maybe they're both female, actually? Going by their names, anyway. They both identify themselves as “Kent”, too, though she’s not sure if that’s another name and they’re either married or related, or if it’s the local word for “farmer” or “Laborer”. It’s unclear. 

They don’t look related, but she doesn’t really know how “related” this species would look to her eyes anyway. The colors of their skins are close, although their hair, though similarly textured, doesn’t really match–Ma Mar-Tha’s is an oddly neutral brown, and Pa Jona-Than’s is an even more oddly dull blond. Kara’s never seen hair in such faded colors. Her own is as bright as this planet’s strange sun, and Kal’s is as black as the space between stars. And both of their eyes are the El blue, of course. 

Pa Jona-Than’s eyes are blue too, but a washed-out shade of it. And Ma Mar-Tha’s are brown, which is so exotic and unusual that Kara has a little bit of trouble not staring too much. They’re very warm and very soft, though, and she likes how they look. 

They’re both middle-aged, she thinks, or at least strongly resemble the Kryptonian version of it. Their clothes are soft and shapeless, with very little structure or sign of formality to the garments, though Kara supposes they might be some sort of sleepwear? She and Kal did crash very early in this planet’s morning, from what she can tell. 

She tells them her name and Kal’s, though they pronounce them a bit oddly. She’s sure she’s pronouncing theirs oddly too, so it’s not as if it’s an insult. They say their names all at once, though, as if they’re singular words–"Karazorel” and “Kalel”, almost. She manages to get them both down to “Kara” and “Kal”, and they get her down to “Ma” and “Pa”, so she supposes “Mar-Tha” and “Jona-Than” are their surnames, and “Kent” does mean “Laborer”. Kal isn’t verbal enough to get to any of it, of course, but laughs sweetly and claps as he listens to them all exchanging names and sounds back and forth. 

Kara crushes down the grief again and wonders how long it’ll be until he cries for Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor. He’ll miss them soon, she’s sure. He’s a sweet, good-natured little thing, but he’s not even old enough to walk properly yet. And they’re his parents. 

She only hasn’t cried for her own because she doesn’t have the room to. Not until she’s sure they’re somewhere safe, and that Kal is going to be alright. That she can take care of him here, however she has to. 

Who knows, maybe this farm needs some more “Kents” on it. 

.

.

.

Ma gives Kara clothes: a strangely soft knee-length dress patterned with more pretty alien flowers and clunky, heavy boots with actual laces in them and a sturdy blue jacket with a surprising amount of pockets and a thick, warm, fleece-like lining, accented with flat metal studs and an odd metal trim with a tag hanging from one side of it. It takes Kara a moment, but then she realizes the trim actually seems to be some sort of fastener. 

Huh. 

The clothes don't fit quite right–Kara thinks the dress is probably meant to be a little longer, from the cut of it, and the jacket is a bit too big and the boots are a little loose too–but she does appreciate them. She's been in her own clothes since . . . 

Krypton died while she was in these clothes. 

Everyone she's ever loved, everyone she's ever known, everyone she's ever seen . . . 

Kara appreciates the new ones. 

. . . although, do clothes on this planet just not have house crests? Or are Ma and Pa just not from families that have house crests? 

She supposes they might not be. They are Laborers, so . . . maybe. But they also served her on a hand-painted plate, if with strange manners, so she's not sure what to think. 

Maybe she just doesn't understand the specific signifiers in their clothing, or maybe their house signifiers are just in their jewelry. Ma is wearing tiny gold hoops in her(?) ears and a thin gold necklace and Pa is wearing a thick leather bracelet with a glass and metal circle in the center of it, and they're both wearing gold rings on the third fingers of their left hands. Pa's is just a single plain band, but Ma has two–one just plain like his(?), but thinner, and one with a trio of little clear gemstones set in it. Diamonds, maybe? That would make sense, for a Laborer's jewelry. Diamonds are pretty, but they're both reasonably common in nature and simple enough to recreate under laboratory conditions, so they're certainly affordable enough for a farmer to wear even day-to-day. And they're sturdy, too. Gold less so, obviously, but maybe the rings are just gold-plated or an alloy.

It's something to think about besides the end of the world. 

. . . their world, anyway. 

As far as clothes go there's nothing that'll fit Kal at all, so Kara just keeps him wrapped up safe and secure in the bright red El crest blanket Jor and Lara sent him here in. Though she knows he'll need more diapers soon, obviously, and something he can actually crawl around in too. He can't stay in her lap forever. 

She wishes he could, right now. Even letting Ma hold him while she changed was . . . stressful. 

A little too stressful, maybe, but Kara tries not to think about it. Not right now, at least. 

She needs to protect him. Needs to take care of him. Needs to–

Kara exhales. Wraps Kal up in his El crest blanket and her borrowed jacket, and smiles at Ma and Pa. They smile back at her. 

Well, that's a start.