#but i know they really meant it's because all the leads were women and god forbid women ever do anything

[fellthemarvelous]

I remember seeing dudebros complain about there not being enough men in the Ahsoka series but David Tennant was in every single episode so I don't know what the big deal is!

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

One user asked me if the reason for the “push back” against Robert Eggers intention in his 2024 “Nosferatu” adaptation (especially Ellen Hutter relationship with Count Orlok) is because 1922 Ellen Hutter is meant to be a pure-hearted and virtuous woman, like her book counterpart Mina Harker from “Dracula” (a model of purity and modesty of the Victorian woman), and I decided to write a post about this.

I think many are missing Eggers intention with this film for several reasons:

1) Going Mainstream

First, this film is being a success at the box office, and while that’s amazing because I want more films like this getting made, this also means many who aren’t the “target audience” are seeing it, and completely missing the mark because they aren’t familiar with the Gothic Horror or Gothic Romance genre. Nor with Robert Eggers work.

Not liking this film is completely valid, not every piece of media and art is meant for us. Great, move on.

And there’s nothing wrong with folks not being familiar with the Gothic genre if they are interested in learning and understanding it. The problem is when people are hellbent in misunderstanding it and stuck on their own narrow views to the point they sound brainwashed, without an ounce of critical thinking and behave like a hivemind: “if many are saying this is probably true” type of thinking. And we are in the “social media era” where everyone thinks their own opinions are valid, so there’s that too.

Also I would add many are probably used to the “Marvel formula” of “over exposition”: having the entire story spelled out on screen instead of classic storytelling with an actual build-up and narrative devices (foreshadowing, red herrings, Chekhov's Gun, etc.). This causes misunderstanding, as well, because folks used to this type of storytelling won’t understand what they are seeing because they are used to be fed everything (“exposition”) and taking everything literally. This is also a film that requires analysis; this is clearly for the “film buffs” because Eggers wants to become a “cult director” too.

Eggers probably knew this was going to happen and he probably doesn’t care either. As Von Franz so interestingly says in the film: “Neque mittatis margaritas vestra ante porcos!” And ancient Latin saying which means “Nor cast your pearls before swine!”

Directors with strict artistic views (like Eggers) rarely care if the audience understands it or not. “The VVitch” was a feminist success when it was released in 2015, apparently now some are saying it’s problematic, because “oh my God, the Devil is a deceiver! Who knew???”. “The VVitch” and this version of “Nosferatu” are also pretty much the same story with a different framing.

2) Lack of Knowledge concerning the story and the time period

Many don’t seem to know that “Nosferatu” and “Dracula” are the same thing. Count Orlok is Count Dracula.

This story takes places in the Victorian era, and Eggers transports his audience to the time period his films are set in. Which means, we can’t look at this story through contemporary lenses, nor with our current sensibilities because that’s missing the point of Eggers work.

This movie deals with female sexuality, especially its repression and containment, which was the case in the Victorian era. Women weren’t supposed to be sexual, at all. If women displayed sexuality they were considered “hysterics” and could be institutionalized by their fathers and husbands (which is what happened to 2024 Ellen, as she tells Von Franz). Really, women could be institutionalized just by talking back to her husbands in this time period. And even within marriage, female sexuality should be modest and restrained, women weren’t suppose to know sexual pleasure, and it’s the husband who took the lead, always.

Men could sleep with whoever they wanted and even go to brothels every night, but this wasn’t the case for “decent Christian women”, at all. Sex for women in the Victorian era was supposed to be a painful task they had to go through to have children. There was even the famous saying “think of England” when wives were having sex with their husbands (“think of England” as in “think of something nice” other than what’s happening).

Ellen having astral sex with Orlok and getting pleasure from it was highly scandalous for this time period. Of course this a freaking horror movie and he’s a demon, but if they were actual people, doing this, unmarried, in the Victorian era, this would be a scandal and she would be ruined socially. Which is kind of what happens, and why the whole thing causes her great shame and guilt. It has nothing to do with “abuse” or “grooming” or whatever.

And, I don’t know why many are saying this happened during Ellen’s childhood? Because what she had since childhood are her supernatural abilities, as she tells Von Franz: she knew what her Christmas presents were before opening them and had a premonition of her mother’s death. She wasn’t talking about getting that demonic D, that was during her teenage years as a metaphor for her sexual awakening/puberty. Obviously.

3) Confirmation Bias

While seeing this movie without any previous knowledge (like “Nosferatu” = “Dracula”; or the historical context where this story takes place) the opposite is also true.

I think this is more true for fans of the previous adaptations of “Nosferatu”. They are misunderstanding the story Eggers is telling in his own adaptation because their perception is shaped by the 1922 film (mostly) and the 1979. And so, they will interpret what they are seeing as a “rehash” of the previous story (which isn’t the case here, this is an entirely different story).

And so, they see 2024 Ellen as the pure-hearted and virginal 1922 Ellen who selflessly sacrifices herself to save everyone, even though that’s not the story Eggers is telling and the script contradicts this. Eggers added plots that aren’t a a part of previous adaptations (Orlok and Ellen psychosexual connection; their covenant; occult meaning) and Ellen character being completely different from the 1922 and 1979 films (she’s a antithesis to them).

And how on earth someone sees these three adaptations (1922, 1979 and 2024) and thinks they are equal and this “sacrifice” has the same meaning is beyond me, honestly.

4) The “Sexy Vampire” Trope

Last but not least, we have to talk about the “Twilight”, “Vampire Diaries”, “True Blood”, etc. generation. Some probably heard “vampire” and “Bill Skarsgård” alongside with “obsession” and a female character involved, and were probably expecting something like this:

(That’s 2024 Count Orlok beneath the prosthetics, when he played another vampire)

Eggers truly catfished his audience into watching this film by not revealing how is his Orlok truly looked like. They did warn us Bill was covered in prosthetics and completely unrecognizable, but that flew over some people’s heads?

Personally, I loved the historical and folklore accurate Orlok Eggers created, but, indeed, many didn’t felt the same. I’m still hearing folks complaining about the freaking mustache when Gary Oldman as Dracula, in “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992) also had one, but yeah, he was hot when he was with Mina (not his usual monstrous self, we also see in that movie) so the problem isn’t the mustache is it?

Of course not, it’s because he’s a freaking rotten corpse and he won’t make the list of the “sexiest vampires ever” in cinematic history. Because that’s not what Eggers was going for. We are suppose to see Orlok was handsome in life, but he’s still a walking corpse, because, shocker, that’s what vampires are.

And Eggers is forcing the audience to confront their own bias with all the necrophilia going on in this film: “you like vampire love stories? This is what you actually like.” Many didn’t like to be confronted with that. Which probably has Eggers laughing diabolically because that was his intention, which is why he brings “Twilight” in his interviews.

And then we have the magnificent love triangle “Twilight” style, too; Ellen is Bella, Thomas is Jacob and Orlok is freaking Edward Cullen. Someone said Eggers has balls of steel, and he truly does. And it’s actually amazing he didn’t cast Robert Pattinson in Count Orlok role (they already worked together in “The Lighthouse“, 2019). But Bill Skarsgård’s imposing height and previous cinematic experience (Pennywise in “It”) was probably more in line with what he wanted, and he absolutely nailed this role.

Although we could still see Bill’s face as Pennywise in “It” (beneath all that make-up), which isn’t the case as his Count Orlok, as he’s in full prosthetics.

This also means many will latch on to the “hot guy” in this demonic love triangle: Thomas, played masterfully by Nicholas Hoult.

Many didn’t see any love story between Ellen and Orlok because they were also expecting a Disney fairytale in a freaking horror film about demons and walking corpses, but I would argue that’s not Eggers fault nor an execution flaw. Ellen and Orlok are a demonic love story, they aren’t suppose to be rainbows and unicorns. Duh? Although, yeah, if the audience could actually see Bill Skarsgård, I have no doubt more would recognize this wicked/evil love story going between these two characters.

[nichuuu]

Lemon.

Word count: 13k+

You decide that you don’t quite like Balls (get your head out of the gutter).

Music: odd. Yes, it’s a fancy mansion—5 floors, the works… But you don’t know how to feel about the sole pianist in the centre of the foyer, the one that’s playing some classical piece that has the people around you murmuring about his technique and sound (whatever the hell either of those meant).

People: you don’t know a good half of them. Scratch that—it’s a sea of strangers

Drinks: strong, way too fucking strong for your liking. The drinks are free of charge, and the bartender clearly didn’t shake this Pina Colada well, but you have to drink it if you want to even try and get into the mood of the party. Around you, men in posh suits and women in flamboyant dresses skirt each other, talk to each other with placid smiles—hoodwinking each other with their highfalutin laughs and smiles to establish connections that probably won’t matter in a couple of days. The only person you’ve talked to tonight is the bartender, and that was just to order your drink. 

This whole place stinks of capitalism, and you feel out of place in your cheaper suit and dress shoes. On your right, some guy is talking about how bitcoin and blockchain will make a grand return, some lady is gossiping about the latest Gucci handbag on your left. In front of you, a man and a woman are clearly flirting with each other, bashful grins on their faces as they hold their fancy drinks in their hands and talk about god knows what. You’re wondering if you should ask for a straw from the bartender just to dip your toes in social interaction.

Wonder why Cinderella was so hot on attending a Ball, thing seems pretty bland to me, you’re thinking, watching the tip of the ice that was shaped like an iceberg melt away and sink beneath the surface of your margarita. Some guy in a tux comes by, orders two glasses of Prosecco—one for him, one for the woman next to him. He’s talking loudly, disrupting your peace and quiet. Your solution: move seats.

From a distance—two chairs away from your original seat—you watch as he takes the two glasses from the hands of the bartender, hands one to the woman, then clinks his glass with hers. He’s preternaturally genteel, and you’d know because you recognised him as the guy that got slapped at the start of this whole thing because he grabbed the ass of someone’s wife. Impropriety, but it’s the behaviour of the newfangled rich. 

Now he’s bragging about his car. Nissan GTR fitted with this engine, this ventilation, blah, blah… Whatever it is he’s saying, the woman’s having none of it. You’re no psychologist, but you can tell that she wants to get out of a conversation; her smile is awfully sweet, but you can see that she’s silently importuring him to shut his trap—her eyes give it all away. You pity her, silently sending her your best wishes as the man grabs her by the arm and leads her back into the sea of people. Personally, you’d be screaming if you were in her shoes.

(Off to your left, just at the edge of your vision, you see your boss talking to a woman. She’s getting touchy, really touchy and really flirty; her hand’s on his thigh, fuck me eyes out to play and on full display—A trite tactic used by these types of women to get lucky with a rich man at these type of events. Luckily for her, your boss is quick to bite on to such bait. God bless them both.)

For the record: you’ve never really enjoyed Balls or anything of the ilk, because quite frankly speaking, you’d much rather burrow up in your bed at home and binge Kimini ni Todoke till you were giggling and squealing like a little schoolgirl. Maybe I’m still young, I’ll learn to like these types of events later on, you tell yourself, I’ll need connections at some point, maybe I should start—

A sickly sweet fragrance crawls up your nostrils, truncating all thought. Perfume, you’re quick to identify, and then you’re aware of the presence of someone on your right. Your grip on your glass grows tighter in the slightest; you’re praying—Please just be ordering a drink, please be ordering a drink.

Frankly, you don’t know why you’d ever think anyone would talk to you, an unimportant cog that just tagged along with his boss because he had nothing better to do. Irrational fears are really a funny thing.

Sharp, clear, resonant—three words that came to mind when you heard the voice of the person next to you, the voice that delivered the simplest of orders: Yamazaki. I want it neat. 

Your first thought is, Damn… Neat Whisky? Someone’s having a horrible night, as you turn your face away from her (if you couldn’t see her, she wouldn’t be able to see you, right?). And just as you’re wondering if she’s gonna take her drink and leave, your question is answered by the soft creak and even softer rustle of shifting fabric from your right. You bristle.

The glass makes a sound against the wood as it’s gently placed down on the table.

(Now would be an excellent time for a subtitle to come in, one that states in square brackets: Awkward silence.)

You can hear her swirling the liquid around in her glass. Fuck, now this is awkward… You’re thinking, and then you’re wondering if you should just get up and leave, absquatulate, skedaddle—any word that can convey the act of disappearing in an instant—right out of there. But as you start to slide your butt off the chair, that voice rings out once more.

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

She doesn’t know how her simple sentence has caged you in the most challenging position (to you at least). Now you’re sliding your ass back into the bar stool and you turn and face her—

(Now that you’re looking at her, your second thought about her comes in: God, she’s beautiful. Dark brown hair that falls just past her shoulders like velvet curtains, soft yet somehow piercing eyes, a smile that makes you feel fuzzy all over—probably one of the most attractive women you’ll ever meet. She’s the woman from earlier, the woman that you saw smiling and nodding placidly to that guy who got her the Prosecco. She must’ve found a way to slip away, and she has your full respect for that.)

—and you find that you’re drumming your nails against the base of your glass.

“Shy, huh?” she’s throwing out a guess, watching as the Whisky in her glass slowly swirls to a stop inside the chilled glass. “It’s been a while since I met a shy man. You’re a breath of fresh air.”

You shift in the stool, and your first instinct is to ask her if you two had met before. It’s only after that last syllable leaves your mouth that you realise how stupid of a question it is. You don’t know her, and judging by the fact that she hasn’t called you by your name: she doesn’t know you either. You let her decide whether to oust you as a fool as she scans you up and down.

(Update on your boss and that woman: She’s kissing him now, full on making out. It’s an unsettling sight to behold, and you attribute your queasiness to the fact that they’ve somehow found they’re way behind the woman you're talking to. Your boss doesn't see you; you choose not to see him. God bless them both.)

“Well… Considering that you don’t look the least bit familiar,” she sets the glass down, “and that you haven’t been introduced to me like some product by a crusty, old man… I think it’s safe to say that we’re.”

Now her eyes are on your drink. What are you drinking this fine night? She’s asking, using her chin to gesture towards your Pina Colada. You tell her exactly what it is, and she cringes slightly. They say Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, I say it doesn’t belong fucking anywhere. Oust it as a fruit! she’s telling you, making sure to add a little more emphasis on the word “oust” as she couches her firm belief, something you find rather hilarious considering that it’s your first meeting with her. She sips the Whisky, grimaces a bit, then sets the glass back down to say, we skipped past a lot of formalities, didn’t we?

And here comes the part of talking to strangers that you’re the most comfortable with—Introductions. You think that it is safe to assume that just about anyone would find saying hello and telling someone your occupation much easier than holding up a conversation, what more with a beautiful woman like her. You give her your name, tell her what you do for a living, the usual stuff. She listens, the gleam in her eyes that comes when you’re done talking ever so enigmatic and cryptic. 

“Lawyer huh?” She’s playing with her glass again, “considering were we are right now, I really shouldn’t be this surprised… Yet I am. Little shy for a guy dealing clients on the daily, no?”

Somehow, by the grace of some supernatural force (you call it alcohol), you crack your first joke of the night—I know. The most I ever talked is in court—and you’re relieved that she’s kind enough to humour you (or maybe she really does find it funny. You’ll never know), and gives you an elegant chortle, one that makes your hair stand at their ends as your third thought about her goes through your mind: even her laugh is attractive. Is there anything wrong with this woman? 

And when she tells you her name, you realise why she seems to be exuding this inexplicable aura; Minatozaki Sana, pleasure to meet you, she introduces herself with a generous amount of pizzaz. You’re scanning her up and down at this point, and only now do you take in the expensive dress that dons her slender frame, the same dress that’s accompanied by a glimmering necklace and earrings, 3 rings on her middle, index and ring finger respectively.

“You’re…” you begin.

“The host’s daughter? Yes.”

Now you’re at a loss for words. Well uh… It’s an honour to meet you, is what you plan on saying, but it comes out as a simple, more blunt manner: Oh damn. Sana’s giggling to herself, swirling her Whisky as she watches you struggle to find things to say to her.

“I take it that you don’t come around here often?” she asks. When you raise an eyebrow, she explains how her father hosts a Ball like this every other month to try and find her a “suitor”. Apparently, 27 years old is “too old”  to still be single, so my Dad just gets a bunch of men together and parades me around, she’s carping. The glimmering chandeliers, the array of drinks and food, the vanity of all these people; the dazzling marble floor, the glass sculptures, the embroidered tablecloths; this event, in all its glory and prestige, is all about her. 

Christ, you’re thinking to yourself, money really gets you to places, huh? 

Now she’s explaining how some of the people here are frequent visitors. Mothers and their sons, fathers and their sons, young business men, old business men, middle aged businessman; whoever can afford to come to this lavish Ball—all of them frequent this mansion like moths to a flame, all looking for a chance to ingratiate with the Minatozakis so that maybe, just maybe, they get a chance to get Sana’s hand in marriage. It’s a glorified yet obsolete form of Tinder really.

(Your boss is nowhere in sight now, and you’re pretty sure that the two of them have gone off somewhere to get it on. Maybe this event isn’t just about Sana, it’s about finding a rich person that can spoil you for the rest of your life too. God bless everyone here.)

“So what brings a man like yourself here this fine night?” She seems oddly interested in you (and also very hot on using this fine night as well apparently). You give her the truth that carries your watered down emotions in your tone—My boss asked me to tag along. Apparently all attendees were to bring a male plus one.

Sana chuckles, but it’s one of bitterness.

“So Dad’s reverted to these tactics huh?” you hear her whisper before taking an alarming large gulp of Whisky. She swallows, then sighs, “wonder what he’ll do next… Maybe an arranged marriage?”

Past the frustration and utter disappointment, there’s amusement in her voice. It tells you: if I could, I’d kill my Dad. It’s more of an inference from your end than a message that you’re sure that she’s trying to imply. You always had a bad habit of reading between the lines—probably picked it up from your job.

Sana downs the rest of the Whisky in a flash, wincing as the alcohol burns her throat. She scratches her nose, then turns to you and asks, “say, you don’t look like you want to be here, and neither do I.”

Behind you, you can hear the voice of a man approaching. He’s talking to someone—my daughter should like you very much, you seem like a man that suits her taste—and Sana bristles. Her father, you deduce, noting the way that the woman before you is searching around for an exit. Then you blink, and in that split second, she grabs your hand.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Just like that, you’re running through a crowd of people, spewing a million-and-one apologies as you jostle your way through the crowd, in tow behind a woman you've known for a grand total of 5 minutes. 

A very unlikely start to a romance really.

*

Now the gears in your head are whirring, your stomach’s churning—there’s no other way to describe how you feel when Sana’s looking at you like that from across the table: small smile, a slight gleam behind those eyes, hand under her chin and fingers tapping against her cheek… She’s got you in perdition just with a look. You’re a guy of relatively taciturn nature, and the last time you went on a date was in university. That date went horribly, and now you’re wondering if this one was gonna go up in flames as well. Your brain urges you to say something to her, but your mouth seems to be sewn shut. 

On the other hand, Sana’s poised as ever. “What’s wrong?” she’s cocking her head and pouting slightly, “nervous?”

You're not ashamed to admit that you indeed are, and that you’ve never really gone out on dates in a long time. Sana seems tickled by this—It’s been a while since I’ve seen a shy man. I like it, she tells you—and assures you that she won’t bite. In fact, she’s glad that you’re quiet and not rambling off about some business venture. She tells you, I don’t recall the last time I’ve been with a guy like you, though I’d appreciate it if you assist me in starting some conversation, and you’re slightly ashamed of your reticence. 

There’s a gleam in her eyes when you start asking her some questions on her personal life, and she finds it congenial to gesticulate in a moderate manner as she answers your questions. Her outgoing nature leaves you flummoxed, and there’s barely enough space in your brain to remember everything she tells you about herself. Born in Osaka, likes yoghurt smoothies, likes to take walks in the park, likes this, likes that… You vaguely remember her telling you this on the night that the two of you escaped that event.

(To jog your own memory: She took you to the garden, where the two of you spent the rest of the night strolling amongst shrubs and other greenery that thrived in Spring. The Pina Colada in your system allowed you to hold a conversation, one that lasted long enough for her to take a liking to you. At the end of it all, she gets your number, you get her’s, and a date’s been settled in some french restaurant she patronises.)

“Now, I don’t expect you to remember all of this,” she’s watching the wine leave streaks against the glass, “but if you do, I believe you're entitled to some extra points.” 

“Points?” you’re keen on inquiring, “we’re keeping a scoreboard?”

Sana simply smiles. For asking that question, minus 2 from you, is her answer—not a very good one if you were to be blunt. You can’t suppress a chuckle as you take a sip from your own wine.

Unwittingly, Sana has eased you into her presence. It suddenly feels like you’ve known her forever (if forever meant 2 weeks that is).

A smooth start to a relationship if you do say so yourself.

*

“Sana, there’s people out there.”

“I know.”

“They might hear us.”

“I know.”

“We could get caught.”

“We won’t.”

It’s the confidence in her voice that irks you really. The lack of hesitance combined with the sheer lack of shame towards the fact that anyone outside the changing room in this damn Prada store could easily raise a phone over the door and start recording. It’s not that she’s not cognizant of this, but more of the fact that she doesn’t give two shits if someone captures a video of her blowing you in this dressing room. Shameless, aplomb, obstinate, are the three words that come to mind when dealing with Sana at the given moment, but there’s no energy in you to convey this to her, not when she wraps her lips around your cock. The outfits that she chose remain untouched behind her, fabrics still in light while the person that chose them remains active on her knees. 

(Almost a year. Almost a year the two of you have been dating. You thought you’d learned all there is to know about her, yet she’s hitting you with new facts and surprises every day, left, right, and centre. There are probably many more things that you have yet to figure out, but they’ll all come to light in due time.)

Really, it’s on you for not exercising due diligence upon entering the store; you should’ve known better from the moment you saw that look in her eyes while she was looking at a dress. But there’s nothing you can do about it now, not when she’s already enraptured you with that damn gaze—the one that exudes want and lust, the one that’s the leaven to your morality in her eyes. She knows that she’s got you wrapped around her finger when your hand rests itself atop of her head as she slowly bobs her head over your crotch. She’s taking her time despite the situation that she’s placed the both of you in. 

“This has always been on my bucket list,” she’s letting her hand run along your shaft, spreading her saliva with each stroke of her palm. Her nails, freshly done just over 2 hours ago, glisten under the light—partially because of her spit and partly because of the gloss. “Everything about this is just so… Eroctic, isn’t it?”

Christ, she’s really into this thrill-seeking thing, you note as you choke out a reply: Not particularly, but whatever floats your boat Sana (obviously, it doesn’t come out as smooth as it should. No one would be able to get out a full sentence with phonics properly strung together if they too were getting blown in a changing room). She’s got a glint in her eye, but it’s covered by your shaft as she slides her tongue down your cock, nose brushing against the base of your cock, just behind her tongue. She knows what she’s doing, she’s given you head before; she’s building up the suspense and waiting for you to beg for more. You really don’t want to indulge her, you really don’t, but there’s not much you can do when she starts placing kisses on your shaft—base to tip in a fervently slow fashion. How far is she gonna go with this, you can’t help but wonder, but you quickly have your question answered in the next second or so.

“Unenthusiastic?” she quips, “minus four”.

She wraps her lips around you and pushes her head forward, and you almost let the people in the store know that something’s going down in here.

You figure that the feeling of her lips wrapped around your shaft will never get old, not when it sends electricity up your spine and makes your hand ball into a fist in her hair. Her eyes seem to glint as you let out a sharp gasp. Yes, you could be caught by an employee at any second. Yes, you could very well be caught on camera by a customer at any second. There were a lot of things to consider when assessing the dangers of the circumstances that Sana has put the both of you in. Yet, none of them take anything away from the pleasure she’s bringing you, not as she starts to bob her head in beat to the metronome in her head. There’s no point in trying to figure out her pace. 

“Jesus… Fuck… Sana I…” Your voice is—somehow—hushed as you struggle to convey how weak she’s making you, but it’s not like you need to anyway—she knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s loving every second of the havoc she’s wreacking upon your senses. The slight tug in the corner of her lips is the suggestion of a smirk, and the muffled noise that rises from her throat is the implication of a giggle. 

There's a knock on the door and you bristle; Sana slows down, but she doesn’t stop. Past the door, the voice of the staff that led you to this very room asks if everything is alright in there, and you’re praying that her eyes aren’t set on the floor. Sana locks eyes with you, then darts her eyes to the door to tell you—Answer it goddamnit. Of course, she doesn’t make it easy for you as you open your mouth, applying light suction to your tip as you find the strength to say: Yep, just give us a few more minutes please, making you choke on that last word and sending alarms blaring in your head. Thankfully, the store assistant is kind enough to leave you with a take your time sir, and the shadow of her feet disappear from the gap beneath the door. It’s then that Sana pops your glistening cock out of her mouth.

“A few more minutes, huh?” She’s got drool on the corner of her lips as she rises to her feet. “Better make this quick then. You gotta keep your word as a lawyer, don’t you?”

Her wit is certainly better than most of your colleagues.

(There are customers outside now, you can hear them talking to the store assistant. They sound vaguely familiar… Maybe you heard them at the restaurant? Or maybe they’re colleagues… No, that can’t be it, at least you hope so).

Now for the record: you’ve seen Sana naked on multiple occasions, be it voluntarily or not. The shower, the bedroom, even a public shower at the pool… You could name a lot more places where she’d shamelessly flaunted her nude body before you off the top of your head. “A body to die for” is a fitting expression for Sana; you’ve always wondered if you’d find her on the top of the Google image search if you were to look up “dream bodies”, and you figure that you can probably get her there if you could somehow take pictures with your eyes as she undresses before you. She’s more methodical than anything, straying away from her usual teasing nature for the sake of being quick (that’s what you infer from her behaviour, but really, she could just be extremely horny and desperate. There’s never a solid answer to Sana’s behaviour). Mini skirt, then top, then bra; she’s going through the motions that she’d usually drag out just to get a reaction out of you preternaturally quickly.

Why is she getting naked in a changing room? You have no clue. Your best guess: she’s doing it for the thrill of it. The thought of getting caught completely nude with her boyfriend speared inside of her must be sending lethal doses of adrenaline through her veins. A pretty solid guess if you do say so yourself. No time for anymore guesses anyway—she’s already brought your hand up to her right breast, and she’s closing her eyes to enjoy the feel of your fingers closing around the semi-firm flesh. Her top lip’s furling behind her front teeth, she’s letting her other hand rest on your arm. She’s telling you where she wants it—did you cum in my ass yesterday? Or was it the day before? Ah, whatever… Give me a fucking creampie—in this soft, low voice that sends a velvet chill down your spine. Then she's kissing you softly, sweetly, nibbling on your top lip as usual, all while pushing you to the corner of the room where your feet aren't visible to those outside, flushing your back against the wall. It’s an uncomfortable fit, but that quickly changes when she grips the middle of your shaft and lines you tip up with her slit. The hand on her tit is guided to that slim waist, your other hand quickly finding its place on that symmetrical, slim figure. 

“I don’t care if I cum or not,” she drawls, trailing a finger down your chest, “I just want your load inside me, right here, right now. Just focus on that, nothing else.”

(Half request, half demand—give her an award for being so damn ambiguous. Subtitles that could translate what she truly means would be really, really handy right now. Alas, such a system doesn’t exist.)

Describing how Sana’s pussy felt would be doing her injustice. The feeling was ineffable. From entering her to hilting yourself inside of her, there was never a second of that process where you had an easy time breathing or thinking. You’ve never been so reliant on your senses to keep you grounded in reality, nor have you ever been so glad that Sana’s nails are digging into your shoulder. This position—facing each other, standing and fucking against the wall of (all places) a changing room—is a stranger to the both of you, but the sheer tightness of her cunt working hand in hand with the intimacy of it all has you welcoming it with open arms.

Your hips are moving on their own, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you start thrusting into Sana. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into Sana in a mindless, slow fashion, relishing the  feel of her skin in your palms, the look on her face, the soft moans that are slowly slipping from her ever so slightly opened lips. Then your ability to think slowly returns, and you’re thinking like a damn neanderthal—tight, wet, hot, so fucking good—as your grip on her waist tightens. Your shaft glistens in the light of the changing room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her slick, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weak. Sana cups your cheek, lifts your head, and it’s now that you see how her eyes have been completely glazed over with lust and want. Her face, her figure down to the sounds she’s making; everything about her, about this, is the phantasmagoria of a wet dream.

If you were being completely true to yourself right now: You couldn’t care less if you got caught. 

And as if on cue, the voices approach as soon as you finish that train of thought. 

“Do you provide altercation services?” It’s the voice of a man, closely followed by that of the store assistant: Of course sir. After you try on the suit, you can note how you’d like it to be altered to your liking. 

A shadow of feet appears at the base of the door. Sana cups a hand over her mouth as the door rattles—the customer trying to open it. You stop your movements, breath caught in your throat as the store assistant tells him to use the other fitting room. Sana’s breath is loud in your ears as a second set of footsteps approach, followed by a female voice that asks, “Is my husband in there?” 

Yes ma’am, is the assistant’s reply. Of course, this is hardly the end of it.

Now, as the woman engages the store assistant in conversation right outside your door, Sana lets the hand on her mouth drop. She flushes herself against you as the store assistant answers, and she whispers, “Keep going”.

Endlessly seeking thrill. Classic Sana.

The logical part of you warns you against doing as she says. Sadly, there’s not much room for logic in your head in the given circumstances, not when your balls-deep inside your girlfriend in a changing room. There’s barely enough room for dilemma to occur; Sana’s the sole occupant of your mind, rent-free, free-hold, and really: she’s the only thing that matters right now. 

She almost, just almost, lets out a cry when you spear yourself back inside her. You didn't expect to start so soon, and neither did she. However, catching her by surprise is a novelty to you, and you relish in that brief rush of smugness before you restart your movements. Her mouth is frozen in a silent scream, but her eyes say all that she wants to: smug asshole, I’ll kill you later. You reply by letting your index and forefinger slip into her still-open mouth. 

“Personally, I enjoy the Italian selection more…” The store assistant’s voice is barely audible to you over Sana’s small, muffled moans that manage to skirt your fingers and Sana’s closed lips, and as the lady starts talking about trench coats, Sana coats your fingers with a fresh layer of saliva, turning your fingers slick and slimy with her tongue as she looks you dead in the eye, as if challenging you: Is this the best you can do? Is this the riskiest you can be?

Every question from her deserves an answer, and your’s is to remove your saliva-slicked fingers out of her mouth, draw a circle with her spit just above her collarbone, then whisper right into her ear: I’m gonna mark you right there. The involuntary gasp that she lets out tugs the corner of your lips up into a perverse smile. Slowly your lips drift down to the glistening spot, and you wait just a moment to build up that sweet-sweet suspense. It’s a split second, but it’s a second too much for her to bear—the way her body tenses when you finally make contact is the clearest indication you will ever receive. And when you start sucking, God does she almost drive you over the edge: she tightens, she gasps, she starts twitching; she loves it, every second your lips stay locked around that sweet spot of skin is bliss to her.

You can hear the door to the other fitting room unlock, and you hear the man’s heavy footsteps as he walks out, no doubt in that suit he had earlier. The compulsory question comes: how do I look?

There’s a brief moment of silence, and you’re almost fearful of the fact that maybe, just maybe, their ears are picking up on the ragged breathing and slightly audible squelching coming from the other fitting room. All consternation dissipates when the woman starts to comment on how she looks, but Sana seems to have an answer to his question as well: So good. So fucking good. Harder, let me feel all of you, fuck me harder. Oh fuck, you’re so fucking deep. 

You look dashing honey. The pitch of the woman’s reply harmonises with Sana’s soft whine as your lips leave her skin, the same patch where you’ve left your purple artwork on. I think we can afford to alter the pants—

Sana crushes your lips against hers, hot breath filling your mouth as you feel her lift her leg. You hold the back of her knee (like the gentleman you are), bring it to your side, hold it there. She bites your lower lip, hard enough for her to pull and tug it as you start losing yourself in her: her scent, her breath, her skin—all of it’s so deliciously addicting. You can’t get enough.

Then she’s going straight to moaning into your mouth, letting those muffled cries permeate in the small space and hopefully not outside the fitting room. She’s wet, she’s tight, she’s everything you need right now. You want, so badly, to pull her apart, ruin her till you can’t put her back together, get her begging at the top of her lungs for you to fuck her harder and harder. 

And you’re almost on the verge of calling her a slut. There’s no need for that though, she knows what she’s made of herself.

—so that they’re a little shorter. I think we could also try—

Sana’s figured out the best way to moan: straight into your ear. She’s not letting up with them, and she’s giving you one hell of an array of sounds. There’s the common ah, the not so common, oh, and the very common shit, fuck, fuck me and so good. Her phonics are so loosely strung together that they’re just a jumbled mess, and you're perfectly ensconced with that; you love hearing those lazy, sloppy cries, and they only seem even more melodic at this volume, at this moment. Fuck, record them and play them as white noise as you sleep.

—changing the colours of the buttons? Ooh! Maybe we could even change the stitching around—

She tilts her head back, and you’re peppering her neck with kisses. She loves it, you know she loves it; all this attention, all this adrenaline, all this carnality she’s invoking—all of it for her. Each time you grunt, she knows that she’s the damn reason for it. Every time your fingers dig into her thigh a little more, she knows it’s because of her. Every kiss on her neck, every inch of her pussy you fill with your rock-hard meat, all of it’s for her. She isn’t vain, nor is she a pick me girl, but she sure as hell knows how to make you treat her like she’s the only girl in the fucking world, and you’re more than happy to give her what she wants.

Because it’s always like this with Sana: if she wants it badly enough, she’ll formulate a stratagem to get it, nip her cravings in the bud before they turn into desires that she can’t control. Mind you, she’s not dissolute; she’s just “riding the highs of life” as she calls it. Pretty bullshit and circumlocutory, but you always let her off the hook.

—the pocket area? That’s my two cents. What do you think darling?

Another moment of silence follows, and Sana seizes the opportunity to nibble on your earlobe. Her leg’s sweaty, slowly slipping from your grasp and trembling from the pleasure that’s giving her voice this lilt when she says: Carry me. Fuck me. Cum in me. Please. Pleasure, coursing through your veins, makes you comply in an almost servile manner. It’s precipitous, even fatuous to pull such a stunt in a fitting room of all places, but when your hands are supporting her by her ass and her legs lock around your waist, there’s no turning back.

And as the man starts going off on his own preferences, Sana’s wrapping her arms around your neck, letting you get a look at those bouncing breasts as you reach new depths inside of those slick, warm walls. If she could cry out, she would, but those damn customers outside are placing her in a box here, and it’s clearly frustrating her. If you were at your place, her hands gripping your sheets and her juices messing up your quilt, she could moan, mewl, cry and cuss however loud she wanted. In a way, it was funny to watch her hold back, but at the same time: you so badly want to make her scream, undo her right here and now and make her a mess in your arms, but you’ll settle for what you have right now. What the two of you have created is controlled chaos, and should it be released past that damn changing room door, God knows what will happen.

Now it’s the store assistant’s turn to speak, and she’s giving them a rundown of the pricings. Outside, they’re talking about the possibility of a discount; inside, Sana’s talking about how deep you feel inside of. Outside, the man’s trying to guilt-trip the store assistant by saying how exorbitant the price is; inside, Sana’s exclaiming and pleading in a hushed voice—Own me. For the love of God, fucking o-own me!—as each thrust you make into her pussy sends her further and further down this rabbit hole of pleasure. It takes guts to fuck in a fitting room, but it takes the guts of Minatozaki Sana to be this needy while fucking in a fitting room. The risks of being caught are high, the risk of being heard even higher, but neither of those affect her ardour. At a controlled volume, she’s pleading for you to fuck her harder, faster, unravel every single bit of her being while she tries to keep herself together. It’s one hell of a show, and it’s one hell of an experience too. 

(The sight of her perfect body flushed against yours as she’s fucked in the air, the smell of her sickly sweet perfume, the feeling of that divinely tight pussy wrapped snugly around your shaft like a damned glove, the way those sonorously soft moans filter into your ears. Add these together with the fact that the people outside could hear you at any second, and you’ve got one hell of a recipe for a voyeurist’s wet dream. You’re no voyeurist, but everything about this moment is making you feel like one.

Right now, this is everything to Sana. Having you this close to her, feeling that cool Prada air conditioning against her bare body, listening to you grunt and sigh as you piston yourself in and out of that slick, wet slit… All her needs are being fulfilled, all of her senses heightened and primed, aware of every movement you make inside of her pussy. Sometimes, you feel so good and oh fuck, or maybe even oh god isn’t enough to convey how she feels, so she just opts to let out this strained, strangled gasps that tells you everything you need to know—a maelstrom of emotions and expressions compressed and compacted into one simple “hngh” is enough for you to know that you’re doing something right.)

“You like this Sana?” you find yourself whispering. “You like being fucked like a damn slut with people just outside, don’t you? You like everything about this, don’t you?”

Right now, she doesn’t have that capacity to reply. Of course, you know this, which makes you feel all the more smug as you watch, watching as she slips into a state of complete, utter bliss: her mouth hangs open, her eyes are unfocused, she’s barely holding on to you. The purple mark that your lips have left on her neck sears itself into your sight, and it’s joined by the breathtaking view of her breasts loosely bouncing each time you drive yourself into her. Loose strands of hair are flying, neither of you have any hands free to fix them. Her legs are quaking around your waist, neither of you want to stop just so that she can be back down on the floor. Her eyes are closing, you can feel her heartbeat in her pussy, she’s begging, pleading, fucking imploring you to keep going. 

Christ. You want her to moan as loud as she can for you.

It’s hard not to get turned on by the sight of it, and it’s even harder to keep yourself controlled under the rapidly tightening grip of her cunt. Her breaths are shallow, her head is almost completely limp. She may not seem to be aware of it, but you sure as hell are more than cognizant of the fact that the both of you are about to hit that peak that you’ve been chasing for the past God-knows-how-many minutes.

“Sana.” Uttering her name is all that’s needed to bring her back to the real world. When you have her attention, you give her the sentence that she’s been waiting to hear for so damn long: I’m gonna fucking fill you, and It’s like the air gets heavier when she softly whispers, pleads for you to fulfill her new desire; cum with me. I need it so bad. 

Controlled orgasm would take strength to pull off, and you silently pray that you have that strength as you send one final thrust between her shaking legs. Your cock twitches, spasms and the first rope of your warm seed that’s sent into her waiting walls is enough to send her over the edge. She bites down on your shoulder, quick enough to muffle the cry that escapes her throat. The tightening of her walls seem to coordinate with each spasm of your cock, and they sync up, working together to get every last drop of cum out of you and into her. She lets a soft moan escape her lips with each spurt, as though welcoming it, as though each one were something she long wanted and needed. You let out a single, soft grunt, as though thanking her, as though every twitch of her walls that sends a shock down your cock is a treasure to be relished.

So the scarf that she brought in to try is no longer just an ornament like the rest of the outfits. Even after adjusting her outfit, the fabric still can't seem to cover that hickey you left on her collarbone. The simple solution: Sana waits there, you buy the scarf, hand it to her, she puts it on and the both of you walk out of the store like nothing happened, like the both of you really were in there to try on some clothes, then leave. 

It’s unsuspecting, it’s smooth. The store assistant wishes you a good day, and Sana smiles and waves to her, looking exactly like she did when she entered, plus a scarf. The only difference in Sana’s entrance and exit from the Prada store is the load between her legs.

But that’s a secret for the two of you.

*

“Hey. Could I talk to you about something?”

In your two years of dating Sana, never have you heard her this nervous in your life. The fact that your client isn’t responding to you a day before his trial plagues you no more, and your laptop is shut before she can close the door. 

Your posture—arms crossed atop the desk and back straight—is all she needs. The message is implicit: I’m here, all ears, and she smiles softly as she walks over to the bed. The frame creaks a little as she settles down.

“My uh… My Dad is organising another one of those damned Balls again.” The way she intonates her words tells you that the Ball is the least of her concerns at the moment. “It’s gonna be at the usual time.. Usual place… Not like we can move it anyway.”

You offer her a chuckle to assuage her, diffuse the tension a little. She manages a half-forced giggle at her own joke. Is this a transitional opening? Or is this legitimately the subject of her conversation? you’re thinking, and as you sip from your cup, that subtle shift in her posture is shifting the atmosphere of the room. 

She’s scared, but of what?

“I was wondering,” she drums her nails against her knees, “could I… Introduce you to him tomorrow? M-My Dad I mean.”

And now you suddenly understand why she’s on edge. She’s not scared for herself; she’s scared for you. The head of the Minatozaki clan, Sana’s father—you heard much about him, partly because of the stories that Sana tells you and partly from the things you heard through the grapevine at work. In your firm, there’s a whole box dedicated to storing suits that have been opened by him on the intern’s table (it’s a hilariously off-putting thing to say out loud), and from what you’ve heard: there’s another two in the storage room. Personally, you’ve assisted a colleague in one of his lawsuits, and the emails you billed weren’t pretty. You’d be throwing out a fib if you ever couched that you never once thought: It’s a pretty bad first impression of the man, could he maybe… You know… Stop suing people? Please? but you’re not going to let a mere few boxes and one night of reading through emails determine your perception of Sana’s father. 

And hopefully, he won’t judge a book by its cover too.

“I have a trial tomorrow Sha,” you remind her, but it’s not like you actually expected her to remember this; you whispered it to her while cuddling on the couch a solid week ago. “I don’t know when I’ll end. It might be a little tight for me.”

It's undeniable that she sighs in relief. The blush that follows the breath is a clear indication. She’s glad, too glad. You can't help but ask: What’s up? Think I’ll flub everything when I meet him?

Sana does that thing where she wants to answer, but doesn’t know how to: her mouth opens, closes, opens again—longer this time, then closes again. It isn’t an easy thing to talk about; what your father will think of your partner is never not a touchy matter. All touchy matters should be discussed in comfort (Sana knows that you strongly believe in this, that’s why she’s situated herself on the bed), and you join her on the mattress. 

“WIll he feel that I’m not enough for you?” You’re prodding, all while you gently reach for her hand and grasp it in your own. It’s cold, really cold. You’ll warm it up with your palms, keep them there while she replies, “it’s not that… I know that you’re more than enough for me, that’s what matters to him… At least I think so.”

She’s staring down at her hand, the one that’s slowly heating up via the warmth of your hand. Then what’s making you so worried? you’re asking. She folds her bottom in, past her front teeth. You rub her knuckle with your thumb.

“Yea I… I don’t know what’s making me so worried either,” she finally muses. “Guess I’m just… New to this practice. Never had to do it before...”

Because all the men that have tried to win you over have never lasted for more than a week, you complete in your head, smiling as she lays her other hand over yours. It’s cold too—that won’t do.

And as you set another hand atop hers, she’s asking you for a kiss. Luckily for her, obliging her wants is your specialty, and your lips are quickly travelling that small gap between the two of you. Connection is made, and you physically feel her relax. You know. You know that she belides a truth that she’s not ready to divulge. It’s in her kiss, it’s in her hands, and that’s fine with you. You can infer that it’s not something that’s going to be detrimental to your relationship, and whenever she’s ready to speak about it, you’ll always be available.

Now the kiss is done, she’s asking for fried chicken. You counter-ask if the kiss was to soften you up so that she could ask for her Famichiki. Of course, you get a classic Sana reply: a “maybe”, followed by that mischievous grin. You rise from the bed to grab your coat. 

You're glad that the Konbini is just next to your apartment. Sana’s glad that she gets to be close to you as you walk through the snowy street.

“You know,” she’s whispering, “I really won’t mind if you propose to me one of these days.”

You laugh it off, kiss her on her forehead. 

In your head: you note to start looking for a nice ring.

*

Money can get you to places, but it can also get you a private soundproof karaoke room in a club. Three and a half years of dating—that’s all you need to know: you can bet your left kidney that Sana is taking full advantage of that room.

The bottle of Whisky that she opened to get the room is hardly the main event; Sana, slowly slipping out of that tight black dress she’s wearing, foreground to the default music that’s on the TV, has your unwavering attention. The smile on her face could've been mistaken for a sweet one if it weren’t for the fact that she’s getting naked, and the lack of a bra really doesn’t help with her case either.

“There isn’t a time limit to the use of this room, right?” You know the answer to that is no, the lady at the counter told you so. The question is more of a gauge, an instrument that’s helping you assess her plans for the night.

“If you’re trying to know how long we’ll be here for,” she slings her dress onto the couch next to you, and in her stockings and panties, saunters over with a sultry sway in her hips, “my answer is a secret.”

“I have work tomorrow, Sana.”

“Too bad. Call in sick.”

She picks up the glass of Whisky, raises it to her lips. When she drinks, she lets some of that amber liquid trickle out past her lips, down past her chin and onto her tits. In the light, her wet skin glistens and shimmers, and you once again find yourself in absolute awe with the woman before you. And as she straddles you, glass in hand, the way she uses her fingers to tilt your face up to the light tells you that she’s in control. She takes a sip of the amber liquid, swallows it, then brings it to your lips.

“Be a good boy,” she’s tipping the glass as she speaks, a strong way to convey that there’s no room for disobedience, “say ‘ahh’ for me baby.” 

The glass is cold against your lips, the liquor even colder on your tongue as it flows into your mouth at a manageable rate. When she stops pouring, you take the cue, and you swallow all of it in one gulp. The burn in your throat is oddly rewarding, probably because Sana’s smiling down at you, stroking your hair and telling you how obedient you are as you swallow. Then she makes you open your mouth again, pours another portion down the hatch. 

How does it taste, she’s asking, cupping your right cheek as she swirls the glass. You give her a short honest review of it: It’s good. The answer pleases her, and she sets down the glass in her hand to pick up the bottle from the table next to you. 

“Yamazaki, 12 year old single Malt.” She’s letting you see the bottle under the light, though you have to admit that her tits right next to the bottle are a horrible distraction. “My personal favourite.”

She unscrews the cap and takes a swig straight from the bottle, swallows it without even flinching. She’s always been able to hold her alcohol well, and you know for a fact that she can probably outdrink 5 of your colleagues and maybe, just maybe, your boss too. But you’ll never have a fair gauge on how well she can drink in comparison to your peers; she only drinks around you. 

Your face is back in her hand, and she’s got some more things to say—Drink it neat, on the rocks, add it to another drink, it tastes great no matter what—as she starts to lightly grind herself over your throbbing shaft in your pants. But you know what the best way to drink it is, she asks you. She’s not looking for an answer from you, just finding a way to transition from the Whisky to whatever it is she has in mind—you can tell because she leans down to capture lips right after she throws out the inquiry, kissing you deeply, her tongue playing aggressively on your lips before searching your mouth for its counterpart. The smell of Whisky is so damn strong on her breath, and the only thing hotter than the burning sensation in your throat is the fact that she’s using one hand to play with herself, the bottle of Whisky in the other. You can hear it slosh next to your ear as she raises it. 

And as she breaks the kiss, the thin strand of saliva connecting the two of you doesn’t stop her from providing the answer to her question—it tastes the best when you drink it right off my body—as she straightens herself. The next second, still playing with herself, she’s bringing the bottle to her lips, tipping it just before it touches those red-tinted lips to let the golden liquid flow down her chest and breasts. There's no time to admire; you reach out and catch the rapidly falling liquid, your tongue pressed tightly to her skin to lap up as much of the bitter liquor as you could. Her skin glistens with the Whisky on it. It looks like gold in the snow. She smells like lavender and lust.

Your tongue, saturated with Whisky, finds and captures her left nipple. You close your lips around it, suckling deeply from her chest, enjoying the taste of her body and the liquor that made it spicy and bitter. Sana gasps and moans as you have your way with her chest, fondling her small mounds, suckling both of her taut nipples—roughly, hungrily. You could say that she’s wasted some perfectly good Whisky, but you say that she’s added complex flavours to an already exquisite meal. The blend of alcohol and Sana’s skin is not something you never knew you needed, but now you do. The novelty of it, the sheer lust she’s emanating, all of it makes her tits taste better than ever, and you find yourself leaving marks on her cleavage, the right side of her left breast, the left side of her right breast; every centimetre of skin that can be reached is marked and tasted—your attempt at dipping your toes in a little control in this karaoke room that is Sana’s domain.

Maybe you’re a little over-indulgent in her, maybe you’re just unaware, but you certainly can’t feel her slipping your tie off your neck. By the time you’re aware of the sudden feeling of freedom at your throat, she’s already wrapping your wrists, securing them together with an intricate knot. You know damn well that even the boy scouts couldn’t untie this one, even if they sent their best member. The theory is only enforced when Sana asks you to try pulling your wrists apart, and it feels like they’ve been superglued together. Satisfied, she feeds you some more Whisky off her body, then it’s time for her fun.

Palm flat against your chest, eyes flaring, wicked smile; Sana pushed you back against the couch with graceful authority—something that only she is capable of. Then it’s onto your shirt, and he’s unbuttoning it with practised dexterity: unfastening, pulling—motions so fast that she has your reverence for mastering the art. She takes a moment, parts the fabric covering your chest and runs a fingernail down the centre of your torso. The nail—painted black with little Sakura flowers adorning it—stops at your belt. It isn’t hesitance that keeps her finger there; it’s the innate cheekiness that makes her linger there a little longer, that makes her smile softly as the other hand joins in and starts undoing the clasp of your belt. Not a word is uttered as she pulls apart your belt, then goes straight for the buckle of your belt. 

Then it’s back to kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing. Sloppy, passionate kissing as she runs her fingers through your hair. The Whisky on both of your breaths mingle. Admittedly, you’re feeling a little floaty, engendering a pleasant tingle on your skin as she starts placing kisses on your cheek, then on your jaw. Next thing you know, she’s sucking hard at the nape of your neck, marking you with those lovely lips, as if she’s placing a wax seal on you, declaring: you are mine and mine alone. And when she successfully sears the shape of her lips onto your skin, she traces the slick outline with a finger, whispers softly, You have no idea how much I want to own you right now. 

The excitement is palpable, the tension even more so. She’s whispering all sorts of things to you—most of them entailing what she’s about to do with your cock—all while she starts to slip your briefs off of your legs. Your cock springs out of your pants, slaps against her ass and twitches on the rotund flesh. The smile grows wider, devilish dimples appear. And for the record: no, she’s not gonna blow you. She’s gonna make herself cum before anything else happens, and she’s going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before. 

She slides off you, gets back up on her feet. With her back turned to you, she bends forward at the waist, shaking her ass while she uses her thumbs to hook onto the waistband of her panties. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. She looks over her shoulder, eyes locked on yours. With a little hop, she pushes the fabric down and off her hips, kicking it to the side. Her pussy glistens in the light, flushed pink and folds tantalising as ever puffy and swollen with excitement.

She bends her knees, getting down on all fours.

She wiggles her ass at you, looking back at you over her shoulder.

“Bet you wished,” she gets on her back, spreads her legs to get the spotlight on her slit, “that you could absolutely own me like this right now, don’t you?”

She’s so cocksure. It’s driving you crazy. You swallow, your voice barely audible as you utter her name. She crawls to you, sits up, her face in front of yours, so close, so hot. Her hand touches the back of your head, her voice barely a whisper as she grips the base of your cock—but you can’t, and it’s so damn frustrating, isn’t it?—and rubs your tip between her dripping folds, lathering her juices all over your head and smiling all the way through. 

And when you least expect it, she turns and sinks down on your cock.

You throw your head back, groan, the sound of her wetness as she takes your cock into her pussy loud and clear over the music. Your head falls forward again, watching her sink further and further, taking more and more of your cock inside her with every passing moment as she lets a long, drawn-out moan float through the air. When her crotch meets yours and you are fully embedded inside her, a soft, wordless cry of pleasure that leaves open lips. You meet it with a sigh of your own, somehow tearing open your own shut eyes to watch the expression on her beautiful face as you fill her. 

Christ, fuck and god—just some of the words that you want to cry out as she starts to slowly grind herself against you. The ride she’s about to take is one that’s of perverse nature; it’s not going to be a slow, pleasant ride. Naturally, her habit of jumping straight into things leaves her unprepared for what she’s about to experience, so now she has to slowly slowly adjust to your size, like striking the flint over and over next to the fireplace as you hope to get a flame going. Usually, this would be a time where you’d caress that beautiful body, run your hands over that unblemished white skin and pepper kisses all over the places that she loves to be kissed. But she’s not in the mood for that, not when she has this room and you at her disposal. 

Then the fire ignites, and it is merciless, a force of nature—untameable, unrelenting. In your bonds you are unable to resist. You never would’ve in the first place. She begins to move, her pussy tight and slick around your cock. She rides you like she was made to do this, like a pro. She rides you fiercely, roughly, taking you in and out of her tight wet heat, caring little for your comfort or much of anything aside from stuffing herself over and over with thick, hard meat. Throughout it all she is digging into your thigh, crying out like her life depends on it as she goes up, down, up, down—a lewd seat on a merry go round.

Yes, yes, yes—she throws her head back, auburn hair flying like streamers in the wind as she has her way with you—o-oh fuck I need this! I need this so fucking bad! The rhythmic, repetitive motion, her unbridled desire to be filled, it sends you reeling. The pressure on your leg is forgotten, the slight discomfort in your arms pushed out of the way. You can do nothing but watch her ride you. You can do nothing but marvel at how good you feel inside her, how the tightness of her pussy massages your shaft, how the way she takes you so completely into her folds, how you stretch her and make her quiver and quake.

A part of you wishes the mirror were visible from your current position, so that you could watch as Sana impales herself over and over on your cock. You want to watch the expression of pleasure wrangle her cute features, want to watch her full, round breasts bounce up and down, want to watch every muscle of her long, perfectly shaped legs work to throw her body again and again against your cock. But you’ll have to content yourself with the almost equally alluring view of her sweaty back (not that it was a particularly difficult position to enjoy. How could you call it “bad” with the view of her round, full ass as she slams it down against your crotch?). It’s not like you can change anything about this anyway. No—the only thing you can do is sit back, watch, and savour how her ass jiggles as it crashes against your crotch.

Oh fuck, oh yes! I’m so fucking full! I’m so stuffed with this cock!

You lose yourself to the sound of her voice, the feeling of her pussy as it swallows up your cock, the sight of her back arching and her hands shaking. As much as you try, you find yourself unable to move, as though your own pleasure has been drained out of your body, and you are just an observer. You watch as she pushes herself down further on your cock, impaling herself with every thrust of her hips, her voice growing louder and louder as she gets into that dangerous rhythm, the rhythm that makes you think she’s on Acid. Well-formed breasts bounce, you see them past her slender figure. Her shapely, luscious ass ripples. Long legs work overtime, cooperating with the stamina of the girl who is using them to drive herself over the edge like it’s her be-all and end-all. It’s exhilarating. It’s thrilling. 

It’s so fucking hot. 

Oh god. You’re stretching me out so good. This cock feels so damn good!

Two things are getting you at the moment: (1) The sweat glistening that’s building up on her back. (2) The fact that she’s pushing your thighs apart to get more of you inside her. The former sight is a breathtaking process really: beady moisture on that well built back, pooling at all the best places and making her skin glow as some of it slowly trickles down her spine. The latter’s no grain of sand either mind you, maybe even hotter than Sana’s sweaty back if you dare say. Freshly done nails sit just outside the insides of your thighs, the palms that they’re connected to pushing down against the flesh beneath them. They’re indenting the muscles of your thighs, it’s uncomfortable, but only for a second at a time. 

I don’t wanna stop. I don’t wanna fucking stop!

In your restraints, your hands grasp at the flesh that’s so close yet so far, the skin that’s rippling and slapping against yours. Her ass taunts you, tempts you, teases you. It’s so frustrating yet so erotic; you aren’t sure if you should welcome this mix of emotions or reject it before it folds its wings and nestles itself in your chest. The mix of desire and vexation, exasperation and ecstasy—any two emotions that shouldn’t go together are mixing, blending, forming these bubbles in your chest that you can’t explain. 

One woman; innumerable sensations.

You need more. More of everything. More of her.

You wish you could touch her.

You wish you could fuck her.

But all you can do is watch, watch as she starts going down harder, crying out even louder. 

Her body, so flawlessly feminine, is in deadly motion, working you over from the inside like you’ve never experienced. The air is filled with the wet, lewd sounds of her pussy sucking you in your hips slapping against her ass, her moans and groans, her curses that seem to go on perennially, blending in perfectly with that shitty synth in the background.

And you’re just along for the ride.

You have no idea… How good this is.. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And she wants you to see it, she wants you to watch her—it is exactly that kind of attention that she is basking in. So you watch. You watch her, the way she looks back at you, the way her eyes flare as she takes you in, the way her hands claw at your leg. The way she's moaning with that lilt back in her voice. Everything about this spectacle seems like it’s been scripted for some porno, and her body is certainly making you feel like you’re in one. The only grasp on reality that this situation offers is… Well, nothing. And it’s not that there really isn’t anything for you to root yourself in this real world, rather you’re choosing not to make that mental effort to do so; every little corner of your mind is being bled with whatever colour the image of Sana bouncing on your cock is. There’s no room for reality, and it's addicting, enthralling.

Fuck. You can't get enough of her, and you probably never will.

So deep! So fucking… Oh my god!

Your breath is ragged, and it takes every bit of control you have left in you to not cum right then and there. It takes every ounce of focus not to simply give in to her, not to simply melt into the couch, not to lose your mind to the sensation of her tight, wet slick as it swallows you in, pushes you out; fucking itself over and over and over again on your rock hard shaft. You don't know how much longer you can hold out for, and as if she can tell, Sana starts to move faster, her movements getting even more aggressive. The slaps of her ass against your crotch are louder now, and the wet smacking sound of her pussy's getting faster and faster. Her fingers are digging into your leg, her moans more frequent and more desperate. You can feel her tightening around you, the way her walls clamp down, the way her legs are trembling, the way her voice is going up in pitch. 

(It’s the moments of privacy that really get her going; the moments where she can scream and cuss and moan like there’s no tomorrow are everything to her. 

Yes, she likes fucking in public spaces for the thrill of it, but she likes it better when she can hold you freely as you fill her, not having to care for the fact that the way her body’s positioned engenders any discomfort or risk of being heard.

Yes, she likes it when there’s the chance that someone can walk in on the two of you, but the prospect of being able to own your cock, uninterrupted and unheard, thrills her like nothing else in the damn world.

Yes, she likes to see if she can hold in her cries while you’re rearranging her insides in a bathroom stall, but she prefers it much more when she can slam herself down on your cock—be loud and be proud of the fact that she loves every inch of meat that fills her till she can barely breathe. 

Bottom line: she likes chasing that thrill of being caught, but she loves those moments where she’s alone with you in private even more. Now is one of those times, and God… She’s barely herself anymore.

She is a storm of pure, unfiltered lust. And you must say: it’s fucking sublime.)

Then the game changing sentence comes from her, and it's beautiful. 

"I'm fucking cumming!"

The words ring out, clear and loud. And she doesn't stop; she keeps riding you, taking you into her wet hole and milking your cock, using you to bring herself off. It's not until the final second that she slows down, her back arching as she lets out the most satisfying scream that you have ever heard in your entire life. It is all that you can do to watch as she slumps forward, breaths ragged and body twitching as you hold yourself back. It takes everything—every fibre, every cell and every last bit of will—to not cum in her right there and then. And when the final spasm has passed and the shuddering has subsided, when Sana has collapsed against you, your cock still buried inside her, she turns to you.

There are no words spoken, just a mutual understanding of what comes next. She slips off the couch, takes your slick shaft in her hands. A few pumps are delivered, and they’re considerate and slow; she’s good at building tension.

“You’ve already marked my tits. Might as well cum on them.” She’s still got some cheekiness left in her, and that smile is really doing everything for you. 

“Fuck, Sana, I—” “Do it. Paint me.”

You feel the semen gather in your balls before coursing up your shaft and erupting from its tip, landing in thick, wet, warm ropes upon Sana’s creamy skin. Your tip is directed between her cleavage, and the first spurt of cum shoots itself between those wonderful mounds. It’s quickly followed by a second rope, and the third lands on her upper chest. With grace, she manages to direct your spurting cock by the base so the fourth and fifth ropes cover the front of her tits, then the rest don’t matter anymore.

The last ropes of thick, warm semen land upon her face, staining her soft, blushing features with creamy white cum. Some of it lands on her cheeks, on her forehead and onto her open mouth and the thirsty tongue within it. When you finally open eyes you hadn’t known had closed, the picture of Minatozaki Sana, face and chest painted with your warm, thick cum, is one you never want to forget. And as she scoops up your seed with her fingers, she’s got a thing or two to say.

“Excellent load,” she whispers, watching as the cum slithers down her palm. “Plus two to you.”

Just two? Is your reply of false bewilderment. Sana chortles. 

Maybe if you can give me a load up my ass, I’ll consider adding another three points.

*

Now the ring’s oddly heavy in your pocket. 

Sana’s father seems more imposing than he should for a man his size, and looking at the Yamazaki bottle on the desk, you can tell that Sana gets her liking for Whisky from him. 

“I’ve never met you in my life,” he begins, “and now you come here like a friend, asking for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Sana’s head is bowed. In the corner of the office she sits, hands clasped over one another as she listens in silently. No amount of trials or oral submissions could ever prepare you for this tension.

“Mr Minatozaki… I understand that all of this is sudden,” you begin, but you’re interrupted by a raised hand.

“You know boy… You sure do talk like you know everything about the situation.” His voice is nowhere near threatening as he speaks, and it’s absolutely terrifying. “For a lawyer, you sure do sound quite the fool. Guess I shouldn’t have been expecting much considering your background.”

And it’s that very statement that has you on tenterhooks. You’ve never met him, never even seen his face, yet he knows your occupation which you never even touched on, and from the sound of it, knows what went down in your family. Sana’s head snaps up, her eyes wide as she watches her father produce a file from under his desk. 

“It’s not the suddenness,” the air quotations he uses hold more weight than they really should, “that doesn’t sit well with me dear boy. No, no… It’s more than that.”

The broad leather chair in his office grows constricting. As he rises from his seat, the foam that holds your butt up seems to depress. And as he begins—if you sauntered in here as just a lawyer, I would’ve let you take my daughter in a heartbeat!—his explanation of what’s grinding his gears, you start feeling uneasy. For context on the severity of this feeling: the last time you felt like this was when you first met his daughter.

But you’re not just a lawyer—he’s opening the file in his hands, flipping through its contents—you’re a disgrace to this very world. You shouldn’t even be in this damn house right now. 

Into the file his hand reaches, and out from it: two mugshots. You bristle; Sana gasps (and it’s not that she didn’t know, rather because she was shocked that her father knew.)

So it’s the next sentence that seals your fate. Frankly, you kind of expected it, but it still doesn’t take away from the sheer bedlam that goes down in your head when Mr Minatozaki waves the mugshots of your parents before your face and shrieks at the top of his lungs. 

This isn’t the way you pictured this going. 

Honestly, you never pictured this happening at all.

 “Do you seriously think for a second that I’d let the son of two druggies—two disgraceful, repugnant, filthy, druggies—marry my daughter?”

*

It’s hard to forget what she told you over the phone after your talk with her father (if you can even call it that): we’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out. 

Money can get you a nice fancy Ball, some nice Whisky and a private Karaoke room. Naturally, it can grant you a means to keep the son of two convicted drug abusers that hung themselves in their cells away from your daughter. 

So not even 12 hours after that fate-sealing conversation did you get a phone call from your boss. Next thing you know, you’re uprooted from your workplace in Osaka, transferred to the branch in Nagoya; Sana’s number mysteriously changes itself, none of your letters ever reach her. 

It’s over the payphone, months after all of this, that Sana finally reaches you, and she’s ugly crying over the phone. 

We can fix this, we’ll figure something out. We’ll figure this out. I promise you, we’ll figure this out. 

In a way, she ended up being right. 

And in your suit, you smile as you watch her walk down the aisle. She’s beautiful as ever, and you feel like that white veil over her face is doing her the biggest disservice ever. The little boy carrying the wedding rings seems a little confused, but it only adds to his adorable aura as he stumbles behind Sana. The flower petals are being scattered, the crowd’s on their feet. They’re clapping; you’re crying. Have you mentioned that she looks beautiful?

Oh? You have? Odd…

But just in case it slips your mind, you tell her how beautiful she is in your head, all while she walks right past you and continues to the stage. It feels like the ring boy’s acting stupid to taunt you for being the fool here. 

In a way, she ended up being right. If “We” referred to Sana’s father and that man on the stage, “We” did indeed end up figuring things out. The invite broke you, and this wedding is breaking you even more. You know that this invite wasn’t sent by Sana—she isn’t cruel. This has the fingerprints of her father all over it: the seat close to the aisle, your wristband to authorise your access to the venue holding the same serial code as your father’s prisoner ID… All of it is him. 

But there’s not much you can do about it is there? You chose to come, you chose this for yourself. There was the option to not come, to tear the invite up and go cry in your apartment in Nagoya, but you bought the Shinkansen ticket here, didn’t you? You walked through the doors of this damn place and took your seat, didn’t you?

And the Yamazaki doesn’t taste as good as it should, and the Spring air is sharper than it should be at the afterparty. They’re over there, congratulating the newly weds and wishing them all the best; you’re over here, sipping on your neat Whisky behind a bush as the music roars on.

It really shouldn’t be a question on how she finds you; she knows you too well to know where you’d go at a place like this. And in her wedding gown, she stands where she is, this look of a god-knows-what mix of emotions simmering on her face. You rub your nose with a thumb, sip on the bitter Whisky as your remedy. No words are spoken, not even a “hey” or “how have you been”—both of you know that there’s no use in starting a conversation here. It’ll go sob, fast, and this isn’t the place for it.

There will never be a place for it.

So why not substitute words with actions? 

So in her bare feet, she hikes up her gown, runs over to you, lunges to close those years of separation between you two to hug you like she used to. The Whisky is knocked out of your hands; you’re knocked off your feet. And in the grass, she buries her head into your shoulder and weeps. 

You always thought that only death would make you cry, but now as you hold her for what may very well be the last time, you realise: you're not as tough as you think.

Like a Lemon, the realisation that comes is bitter, and it has you bawling.

Cause maybe in a world that wasn’t so cruel, you could’ve been the one on that stage.

(Then the two of you could be in love, happier than ever.)

[lxdymoon0357]

Hi, Navi! May I request some headcanons for Felix Chamberlain from I have become the hero’s rival with a transmigrator!reader who just wants her favs to be happy and to have a peaceful life too, but somehow gets the magician’s attention anyway? It would be interesting if one of the original male leads had interest in the transmigrator!reader, though it’s all up to you! :)

Felix Chamberlain X Transmigrator! Reader HCs

▼ You were ECSTATIC to be a transmigrator and that to your special manhwa!! You were definitely gonna help Irene, Claudia and Felix and you really wanted to see Irene and Felix's love bloom in front of your eyes and luckily you were a middle-class person and you applied to be Claudia's playmate or something...

▼ You quickly got close with her and Irene and you three were the ICONIC trio!! and you quickly became friends with Felix as well, you'd help Claudia escape the male leads as much as you could by remembering the manhwa!

▼ And you slowly started developing feelings, before it was for him like a fictional character, but now for real....But you were afraid that after this finished, you'd be thrown back into your real world, so you didn't act on your feelings...

▼ You became very close with them and eventually told them about you being from another world, Irene was VERY happy to learn someone was from her world, and you couldn't bother to explain to her how she was also a part of the manhwa, so you went along with it!

▼ Also Irene was mean to end up with Felix, right? Yeah, it's not like the manhwas you read where you might end up with the character when their love interest is RIGHT THERE! But he seemingly never got close with Irene in a romantic path and neither did Irene...and this confused you...

▼ Felix would love to bond with you by asking you how you used to live, what you used to eat, where you lived, what you looked like...and whom you dated, yes he's jealous of them...don't worry...

▼ And soon you confessed and you started dating, it was such a big thing for Irene and Claudia who had been shipping you two since day 1 and Lerase himself was quite happy as he seemed to have taken a liking to you as well...

▼ He would love to hear stories about how you lived, how things are different in your world and whom you hated and loved and liked or some random stories from childhood...He wanted to know what you are like before you came into his arms in this world.

▼ He would have a portrait of you painted on what you looked like before, and he gets a smaller copy on a page and he sleeps with the smaller portrait beside his bed! He can not get over the fact you looked so cute!

▼ Irene and you would often reminisce on how life was before you came here and how much you miss things from back then, but you both are so utterly grateful to be here and be in love with the Chamberlains...Yes, Irene liked Claudia...

▼ Oh btw, Benjamin took a weird liking for you and Lerase apparently didn't like that....and crushed his skull in his bare hands, of-course you didn't see him crush his skull, but you were there during the aftermath and god in your eyes does Felix look hot covered in blood...

▼ Oh you got Irene and Felix and told them how in the original story, Irene and Felix were meant to be together and how they both....yeah...of-course those two looked a bit grossed out and a felt a bit weird, because first, they don't like each other, they like Claudia and you respectively and they can't honestly see themselves together, no matter what you say or do...and you honestly find it funny and bring it to make the two cringe up and look grossed out...

▼ Claudia loves to hear about the pretty dresses and what women can do and can't do in the modern world and how much people wanted her and Irene to get together and sh's happy to hear that

▼ In all honesty, it's a adventure everyday with the trio and you being with them! Double dates, double couples and quadrouple trouble~

[necromancer-at-abattoir]

Hi, it’s “Rick really shot himself in the foot when he tried to differentiate Greek and Roman mythology and failed” anon again, and I just learned that apparently Rick is not only misrepresenting the gods and Greek culture, but actual Ancient Greek philosophers, and that really pisses me off as someone with a degree in philosophy.

I haven’t been a part of this fandom in a long time. I never finished HoO (I dropped it before the series was even finished), but I saw something upsetting the other day. I’ve seen a few posts talking about this one passage from HoO (Or, at least, I think it was from HoO. If I read that part, I don’t remember because It was a long time ago.) talking about “a story by Plato about how male and female were created because they used to be the same being that was split in half, and now they’re two halves of a whole looking for their soulmate or whatever” and this was supposed to create angst or something because then Nico didn’t know how he was supposed to fit into that equation.

Again, I don’t exactly know the context (I tried Googling it, but I couldn’t find anything), but I do know that it’s referencing The Symposium. The Symposium just so happens to be one of my favorite pieces of philosophical writing, and once had to write over 20 pages on this bad boy for an academic paper, so believe me when I tell you - that story is a load of BS, and I will not tolerate Plato slander.

First of all, that wasn’t even Plato that said that. It was Aristophanes. Yes, The Symposium was written by Plato, but he was essentially just documenting stuff that was said at a dinner where a bunch of dudes got together and decided to philosophize about what love is (there are 6 speakers in total, that all lead up to Socrates, and Aristophanes is just one of them). People debate about whether all the people and situations Plato wrote about were even real, or if they’re just a device to bounce ideas off of each other, and there’s even this whole theory that Socrates wasn’t a real person - but I’m not going to get into all of that. What’s important is that we DO know that Aristophanes was a real person, and it’s important to note that Aristophanes was NOT a philosopher. He was a playwright and basically the Ancient Greek equivalent of a comedian. I have seen a lot of people act like it was some profound theory of how humans came to be, but it was never meant to be taken seriously.

Now, I have seen that story be taken out of context many times, and it always annoys me, but this might be the most egregious one yet. The Symposium is not heteronormative in the slightest. In fact, it is VERY queer, which is what drew me to it in the first place.

The ACTUAL story that this is trying to reference is when Aristophanes tells a story where originally humans had 2 heads, 4 arms, and 4 legs, and there were 3 genders - male, female, and androgynous (which represented the sun, earth, and moon, respectively). The gods were intimidated by the humans, so they split them in half. The ones that were originally male became men who were attracted to men, the ones that were female became women attracted to women, and the ones that were androgynous became men and women attracted to the opposite sex. That is the very short version, but needless to say, very inclusive of homosexuality.

I see how what Rick was trying to do could’ve worked for asexuality or aromanticism, however, this is only just one small part of The Symposium, and there is actually a lot of stuff in The Symposium that I would argue are very ace and aro coded, but I’m not going to get into all of that, though, because this would be very long and that’s beside the point.

(Just one thing, though, because I can't resist. It’s not relevant to this, but it’s cool, and it relates to my previous ask. At one point, one of the speakers, Pausanias, tries to define love as a complex being and says that Aphrodite is the personification of love. He acknowledges that there are two different versions of Aphrodite that the Ancient Greeks believed in, from different parts of Greece (again, this is pre-Roman), and instead of trying to determine which is the “true” Aphrodite, he embraces both of them and says they are the personifications of two different kinds of love, which eventually results in him basically figuring out the split attraction model 2000+ years before it was called that, and I love it so much.) Anyway, everyone should read The Symposium, it’s public domain.

All that to say, this means one of two things. Either Rick knew this story and intentionally changed it to be heteronormative to create angst, or he read some other version of the story, that was not a primary resource, where someone else had already changed to be heteronormative - and that really freaking bothers me, because it could not be farther from the truth.

As a queer person who found a lot of comfort in The Symposium, I find it disgusting that it was twisted for the sake of making a queer character feel bad about themself for extra angst (and don’t even get me started on how Nico’s character was handled, that is a whole other thing I can go off about, but I won’t because this is about Plato). Shame on you, Richard.

Again, I haven���t touched HoO since I was in high school and it was still being released, and I honestly don’t remember reading that part. So, if I am taking this out of context and later in the book they say “Wait, but that’s not actually how the story goes!” then I will be pleasantly surprised for once, and you can disregard all of this.

You are wonderful, anon, and I love you and this message that you've sent so much. I will definitely check out Plato's Symposium sometime soon.

Don't worry-you're not taking this out of context. What you're talking about is, unfortunately, written in either HOH or BOO-I clearly remember that.

Rick Riordan does tend to misrepresent cultures in his stories-especially Greek culture, so I wouldn't be surprised if this was true. His views on Hellenistic Paganism and Greek Gods when he was writing PJO and HOO were unfortunately very derogatory and it's clearly reflected in his writing.

The fact that he changed a story to fit his version does not surprise me at all, though it's painful to learn that he has committed yet another infraction regarding Greek Mythology.

It's terribly discouraging to me when I see how many people think that what Rick Riordan writes is true and urge them to read up on real sources regarding Greek Mythology. This twisted version of Plato's Symposium is only one of many examples in Percy Jackson.

Knowing Rick Riordan, he either read the full version and twisted it to form his own terrible version, which he has done before (Hephaestus' attempted rape of Athena) and is quite good at or he read a version that wasn't the primary resource and just took it to be the real thing (like he did when researching for Piper Mclean).

Nico's moment there was pretty poignant, very relatable for many LGBTQ readers wondering how they would fit in to heteronormative society...........

But unfortunately, a lot of nice moments in PJO come at the cost of incorrectly interpreting Ancient Greek Gods and culture. It's pretty sad, honestly. Rick really likes to slander Greece in his works. First with the flame of the West, then with slandering all the gods and all those mythological inaccuracies, now with this twisted Symposium version of his.

Rick Riordan doesn't even do his research properly, so of course he said that Plato said it and not that Plato wrote down what Aristophanes said out loud. I wonder if it would actually kill him to do some more research. Is he really that bad at it?

Anyway, I will read the Symposium to gain more insight onto how Rick could have handled it better. I really like aro-ace coded stuff, too, so I'll love this one.

[alpaca-clouds]

Let's quickly talk about the Vows of Chastity

Another thing I have been asked about is the entire thing with the Vows of Chastity, given that a lot of the American Christian sects do not have that, while for the Catholics it is a really big deal.

So, generally speaking pretty much anyone who wants to really join the institution of the church (with a few rare exceptions) will swear at least three vows:

The Vow of Chastity

The Vow of Poverty

The Vow of Obedience

Details may vary depending on what order you join. After all, the Catholic church is basically divided into a variety of different orders, and some of them have additional rules. (Some orders have also stuff like a Vow of Servitude, or a Vow of Hospitality, and other specific vows. Though in Mizrak's case the Order of St. John had only those same three Vows, with them being fairly well known to not fully enforce the vow of Poverty a whole lot.)

If you now wonder, why the Catholics have this and so many other Christian groups do not: St. Paul.

If you are not really firm with your bible, there is the following thing you need to know. Generally speaking a lot of the bigoted stuff in the bible shows up in the old testament. Then Jesus comes around and is like: "Yeah, no, forget about that. We make new rules." Then Jesus dies, and then a guy named Paul shows up, establishes a lot of the basics for the church and he is like: "Yeah, actually, fuck other religions, women and gays specifically." And he also basically made rules for apostles, that then were turned into the rules for priests and monks. And from those writings come the three vows as above.

The Vow of Chastity originated with a Vow of Celebacy, which sounds like the same, but was not quite. See, the Vow of Celebacy was originally about priests and monks not marrying, because they are basically married to God. Of course, because back in the day you are not supposed to have sex outside of marriage, this meant automatically that you were not supposed to have sex. But of course this needed to be made a bit more... clear.

Now, as Maria so rightfully says in season 1: It is rather well known that priests cannot keep it in their pants.

I have grown up Catholic, with my mother being very, very active within the church. I mean, heck, I privately met one of the popes in my childhood, just for reference how much I got roped into the entire thing.

And what I can tell you from that is: There is a lot of stuff happening within Catholic organizations based on this. "Oh, this priest has had a lover." And: "Oh, did you know Priest XY is actually in a committed relationship with his housekeeper?" And: "Bishop XY has a child out of wedlock!" And of course the classic: "When those bishops went to the Vatican there was a gay sex party!!!!"

And that is without going into the entire thing with the rape happening under Catholic organisations.

Now, at the time when both Castlevania and Castlevania: Nocturne take place, it happened that adults joined monestaries and such, but for the most part people joined in their childhood or youth. The high positions in the Church were often taken by the third or forth child of some nobles (the first one has to marry well, the second one will be kept as a backup - given high mortality - but then, because nobility and clergy were very connected, the third son usually would become a bishop or something). And lower ranking positions within the church were often filled with both orphans, and the later surviving kids of poorer families that could not afford anything else.

Today, of course, things are different. Usually people - at least in western countries - joining the clergy actively decide to do so. Which leads to a very strong overhang of queer clergy. It makes sense if you look at doctrine: Being queer is a sin. But we know of course that it simply is something you are. So you never are able to live out your sexuality without sinning. You do not want to marry a woman, because you are not attracted to women. So, why not join the clergy? Then you do not have to force yourself to have sex with a woman. Though of course, you realize soon enough - as you visit priest school - that you are not the only person with that idea. And so you sit there in the secluded school, surrounded by a bunch of self-hating homosexual men. Welp.

Mind you: Within the Catholic Church it is a constantly discussed topic. Because while Paul definitely suggests those things in his letters, Paul technically is not a prophet (he never claims he has a message from God), and neither Jesus nor the actual prophets say that those vows need to happen. This is the reason why so many other flavors of Christianity allow marriage for priests and even open homosexuality. Not to mention that the church in general with all those riches is doing very well on the Vow of Poverty. Same goes with the question of women as priests. This is also fully based on the Paulus letters. There is absolutely a chance at some point a Pope will come around to say: "Yeah, actually priests can have sex now and also hooray for female priests!"

Of course - at the time of this show... Yeah, that had not happened. xD

[toasttt11]

adopting

July 7, 2022

Vera walked down the hallway towards the Devils room in the Arena where she was was meeting back up with Nico, having joined Nico for the weekend for the 2022 NHL Draft.

She walked through the door in the Devils suite that she knew some of the people drafted were here and some of their families, anyone from the devils team that was here and she knew Nico was inside.

Suddenly a body fell right into making her stumble back quickly catching her self from falling to the floor, she couldn’t tell who it was but that they were quite tall, “Oh my god! I’m so sorry, that was totally my fault.”

Vera looked up seeing the first pick of the New Jersey Devils this year, Simon Nemec rambling looking incredibly nervous and worried, “Kid, your all good i promise. No worries.”

“Are you sure?” Simon still looked incredibly nervous especially since he knew exactly who she was. Vera Hischer one of the best skaters ever, and an eight time olympic gold medalist.

“I promise.” Vera gave him a soft smile, “Oh! are you in rush?” Vera quickly moved to the side of the door thinking that’s why he fell into her was because he was rushing.

Simon cheeks got red, “No i wasn’t trying to leave i was trying to throw my trash away and i tripped.”

Vera smiled nodding, “Makes sense.”

Nico walked over to his sister, “There you are Schwöschterli!” Nico kissed the top of her head, “Oh Hello Simon i see you’ve met my little sister.”

Simon shyly nodded.

“Hi Neeks.” Vera smiled at her older brother, “Congratulations by the way Simon.”

“Oh! Thank you.” Simon smiled softly feeling like Vera was one of the few people who truly meant that.

“Here.” Vera pulled out her phone pulling up her contacts handing her phone to Simon, “Why don’t you put your phone number in, If you need anything don’t hesitate to text, i’m around Jersey a lot.”

Simon eyes widened looking at her shocked she just smiled and nodded towards her phone, he quickly typed in his phone number and handing it back to her, “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem kiddo.” Vera smiled enjoying meeting him, she quickly sent a text to the number so Simon had her number before putting her phone away, “Now have you eaten yet?”

Simon shook his head feeling his stomach growling having not been able to eat before the draft and the day is almost over.

Vera sent a nod to her brother before walking closer to Simon holding her hand close to his arm looking at him for contest, Simon nodded and Vera gently put her hand onto his arm gently leading him to the long table of food, “The Devil always have the best food at their events especially the Draft.”

Simon looked at the older women curiously, “Have you been to a lot of NHL Drafts?”

Vera hummed grabbing two plates and handing one to Simon, “Yes this is my third one!”

Simon grabbed all the same foods he was watching Vera put on her plate before following her like a puppy to a table Nico was already sitting at talking to someone who was standing next to the table.

Vera patted the chair next to her and Simon quickly sat next to her and took a bite of her taco’s he grabbed, his eyes widen and a delighted sound came from him.

Vera laughed softly smiling handing Simon a napkin knowing the tacos can be very messy, “Good right! I’ve found where they get these from and they have a location right by the Devils arena.”

Simon shyly smiled whipping his face, “Really?”

“Mhm! I’ll have to show you when you come out there.” Vera smiled starting to eat her food, missing the touched look on Simon face before he continued to eat.

The two talking for the rest of the night and Nico who was sitting near them knew Vera just took Simon her under her wing, and wouldn’t be surprised to be seeing Simon around a lot more.

[jaegersolstice]

where you lead, I will follow (i'll be there)

nanami kento x fem!reader. fluff, unedited, lots of lovey dovey poop, you are married congrats, reader is in the hospital idrk why LMFAO

Counting the ceiling tiles makes this more reasonable, you think. A cool fabric beneath your back, and the smell of antiseptic filling your nostrils, there really isn’t anything wrong with you. Except, an aching pit in your stomach, a sinking feeling that something isn’t right. That something that isn’t meant to happen, something you don’t want to happen, is on the brink of explosion.

Not to mention, the only person who could soothe you with a simple look is halfway across the country on some fancy business trip with some fancy people, eating some fancy food that you can’t even pronounce.

You’ve resisted the urge to call Kento these past few days because you know he’s much too good, much too caring to not answer. He loves you, much to your surprise, the once-emo high schooler who was afraid of women, loves you. So, even as you wait for the doctor, you ignore his nagging voice in the back of your head telling you to “Call [me] no matter what, okay?” Besides, your intuition has been wrong before…

Last Friday. Date Night. When you refused to bring a jacket because “There’s no way it would rain!” Kento simply gave you a small smile and guided you out the door with a hand on the small of your back; he knows that you’re much too stubborn to listen to him when he gently urges you to bring a jacket. A breathtaking candlelit dinner by the water — you were stuffed with pasta and bread when, much to your dismay, you noticed the rain coming down hard and fast.

Whining, pouting, groaning – Kento simply chuckled, handing you his blazer wordlessly. He could give you anything wordlessly, and you would understand. His love. His comfort. His encouragement. His passion.

So, in this moment, you try to feel his love and comfort – from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, letting the darkness overtake you.

—

“How long has she been here? Why did no one call me?” The corners of your mouth lift because, God, you must be dreaming well, that sounds just like Kento. A caress of a hand against your cheek, and he feels just like–

“Kento?” A peak of a tired eye, and in all of his glory, your husband is there, clad in his typical black suit white undershirt combo, hair slightly disheveled. Kento has always been an objectively handsome man: tall, polite, sharp lines and straight edges – he was always approached, started at, smiled at.

But he had chosen you. He was in love with you.

“Sorry Shoko, you can go. I’ll call you tomorrow, kay?” You say drowsily, waving a hand towards your best friend.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she waves you off, marching out the door. “Just call him next time.” You will.

So, you let his comfort, his love, overtake you. You let him stroke your hair as you lay your head in your lap. You let him kiss your forehead as you drift to sleep, entering a new universe.

Because you know whatever path you find, Kento will be there.

[triptychgrip]

Post-canon, Akito-centric fic recs

I'm back with 2 more Akito-centric fic recs because over the weekend, I had an incredibly vivid dream about her and immediately had to hunt down some fanfic, lol.

These two one-shots are the kinds of stories that are so beautifully written, it almost hurts. The prose and imagery used in each is so evocative and moving, and I was in tears by the end of them both.

The first is the hope i want to share with you by ao3 user warsfeil (I tried looking them up on Tumblr and couldn't find a blog, but if you know them under a different username, please let me know, as I would obviously love to tag them for credit!).

It's a 13K story told through vignettes, and MY GOD. It's actually a bit difficult for me to convey how reading it made me feel, but I've included an excerpt below that I really loved. For context, this takes place after Akito has a dream in which she and Shigure are getting married, and Ren is present at the wedding, taunting her:

Akito can’t speak, for a moment: she grips onto Shigure so tightly he hisses, her nails leaving crescent moons of red welling in their wake, and she buries her face into his chest and squeezes her eyes shut like it will help subside the fear that permeates her entire body.

“I’m here,” Shigure says, which is the exact right thing to say but also the wrong thing entirely because it makes that fear bubble back up into Akito’s chest until she can’t help but cry. “What were you dreaming about?”

Akito can’t manage the words, at first, so she just stays there. It’s familiar, to cry against Shigure, to let him wrap his arms around her and stroke her hair until she sleeps -- but she doesn’t think she’ll be going back to sleep, this time.

“I don’t want a wedding,” Akito says, and she feels Shigure pause. “I don’t mean I don’t want to get married. I don’t -- I don’t want a wedding. I don’t want anything to go wrong”

“Then we won’t have one,” Shigure says, “but even if we did, I wouldn’t let her touch it.”

Akito knows, she knows the kind of things Shigure thinks about -- he talks about revenge with his fingers trailing around his sake cup, he reads records and papers and forms plans and ideas that Akito can barely follow, much less follow through on -- but something in her heart still aches at the idea of it all. Relief that he’d fight for her; sadness that he has to; guilt that she could ever think of allowing anyone to get revenge on her behalf when she’s left so many broken on her own.

----

The second is worthy, by @renywrites (Renegade_Reaper on ao3). I think I'd read anything you write, Reny!!

Just like their story 'I can barely breathe', worthy is so, so gorgeously written, and is a 6K fic exploring Akito's mental state after the curse break. Have you ever read prose so beautiful it's like a wallop to the face? Lol, that's how it felt reading this, in a good way!!

I've included an excerpt from it as well, and for context, this scene takes place in a Catholic church, during a trip that Shigure and Akito take to San Francisco. Note that Akito uses they/them pronouns:

Shigure leads them into the large building, into a huge room with stained glass windows depicting men and women and children. Akito was sure they meant something, but to them, it was just pretty imagery.

They’re left by the altar as Shigure goes to track someone down, likely to interrogate for his book. They watch him go, left to take in their surroundings and hope that nobody tried to speak to them. Akito looks up at the wall above the altar, and wonders if this religion had any truth to it, too.

They had been a god, once. They had been revered, feared, respected, obeyed. They had been worshipped, too. But being a god had been such a horribly lonely existence. Everything had been so dark, so crushing, so significant. The slightest act of defiance had sent them into a rage, and in their attempts to draw everyone closer, they had only succeeded in driving them away.

Akito lowers their dark gaze to the altar, and wonders if sacrifice had ever been necessary in this religion. They wonder if it would matter if they had sacrificed themself, bled out on a stone cold slab for their own glory.

----

The Fruits Basket fandom is full of such talent, I'm so grateful for incredible writers sharing their work!! If anyone wants to reblog with their own Akito fic recs (post-canon or otherwise, including ones they've written themselves), it would make my day!!

[musclesandhammering]

Spn Opinions That’ll Have Me Burned at the Stake Pt. 2: Electric Boogaloo

I’m back and bitchier than ever. For reference, here’s part 1.

• Season 5 wasn’t that great.

• D*stiel isn’t real, it’s a sucky ship, and that confession scene was just the writers pandering to the rabid deancas fans cause they knew they were the only ones still watching the show lol. And they left it ambiguous enough that they could still say it was meant platonically if they needed to.

• I hate how they watered down both angels and demons post-season 5ish.

• I liked Ruby 1.0 better than Ruby 2.0.

• I hate Honey!Cas. They just did that cause they didn’t know where to take his story from there, needed him out of the way, and thought it would be funny. It was insulting.

• Jack should’ve been played by an actual child so everyone’s abuse of him would resonate with the audience for what it was (casual fans are brain dead and need to be spoon fed).

• Victor Henrikson deserved more time on the show.

• I said it in the last post, but Alex is way more interesting than Claire and should’ve been given the lead role in the wayward sisters storyline instead.

• Dean is canonically straight and for Christ sake if you guys wanted bi rep, there’s about a thousand other characters that are strongly coded or implied to be bisexual (including Sam!) but y’all didn’t focus on them because it wasn’t actually about representation, it was about making it more plausible for your dumb fetishised gay ship to actually happen (spoiler: it didn’t).

• Season 3 and Season 6 were some of the best ones, you guys just don’t have any taste.

• Claire is not Castiel’s daughter and saying she is erases Jimmy and insults her, and even Cas himself acknowledged that on the show.

• Castiel is canonically NOT gay and Misha constantly saying he is is annoying and airheaded. He’s been attracted to women IN THE SHOW and he’s not even really male, so calling him a Gay Man is reductive and just plain wrong. Also, it’s veeery sus that- given how bi/pan folks are even more underrepresented than gay people- that one of the rare times where the bi/pan label actually fits a character BETTER in CANON……. the allies and monosexuals adamantly reject it. Hm.

• “Curing” vampires or werewolves or demons shouldn’t have been a thing.

• The Winchesters cause most of the bad shit that happens and then they just force supernatural beings to fix it for them- tell me again how they’re Super Special Heroes.

• It shouldn’t be possible to make angels human by removing their grace, because (unlike demons, werewolves, etc) they were never human to start with. If you drained me of all my blood, I wouldn’t magically transform into another species, I’d fucking die.

• Making Billie go crazy was dumb.

• Rowena was one of the most interesting and charismatic characters on the whole show- they just didn’t know what to do with her character.

• The archangels, Lilith, and Azazel should’ve been the biggest threats on the show. No other knights of hell, no god and his sister, no Cain, nothing like that. Having every villain just get progressively more overpowered made the show unbelievable and repetitive and annoying.

• The kernel sanders king of hell guy was hot.

• Dean is misogynistic as HELL, homophobic, likes racist porn, is a narcissist, pervs on teen girls, & thinks all non-human people should be exterminated… and that is all CANON.

• Most of John Winchester’s abuse is fanon.

• Fans portraying Cas as a smol bby who colours in colouring books and has a bee plushie is so fucking annoying.

• Instead of having so many gigantic cosmic storylines with god and his sister and alternate dimensions and even the angel and demon tablets, they should’ve just scrapped those and made the stein family and the bmol and the alpha vampire storylines way bigger than they were. Less cosmic stuff, more earth-based stuff.

• They ruined Lucifer’s character post-season 5. Before that, he was more sympathetic and reasonable than Michael. After, he was a spoiled child hurting people for fun.

• Everything from season 7 on is garbage. All of it. There’s bits of goodness here and there but overall seasons 7-15 are trash.

• How the fuck are there actual people who are deangirls and hate Sam?? The space where your brain should be is empty, I swear to god.

• If there was gonna be any lgbt rep in the Wayward Sisters group, it should’ve been Jody and Donna instead of Claire and Kaia. Those two were boring as hell and had zero chemistry or build-up, but Jody/Donna had plenty of chemistry and was very believable.

• Meg has the best and most realistic redemption arc of anyone on the show.

• Chuck was not likeable or charismatic enough to carry off as big of a villain arc as they gave him. Also that whole thing was stupid and WAY too Out There.

• All the angels should’ve been aroace. All the demons should’ve been pan.

• I stanned Cole so hard up until he changed his mind about hating Dean. That was disappointing.

• Sam went through the same shitty childhood Dean did (plus Bonus Abuse on top of it) and he didn’t turn out Like That.

• I cannot think of a single person that was asking for a spin-off about the Winchester family, like that has to be the most boring thing.

[talisidekick]

Thanks for being so compassionate! As someone who's had to defend himself from assault pre transition and assault and attempted trafficking during transition which has contributed to some agoraphobia centered on thoughts like "damn, wasn't safe off T not safe on it", it's been rlly scary seeing ppl shrug off how transmascs are endangered in real life in service of discrediting transandro discourse. Cool seeing who's really real I guess????? anyways hope you're well and warm. Srry about my run on sentence lmao

There is absolutely nothing to apologize for. We only get to see one side publically, and that's pretty much just trans women issues. Media likes to cover just us. I rarely see news stories about just trans men. We don't see the stories about trans men getting stalked or followed around in stores by total strangers, getting attacked in public, rarely a mention if a trans man gets killed. It's happening but you don't see it. You don't see a flood of forum posts about the constant dismissal of, unique brand of hatred around, or the types of dangers faced by trans men.

My introduction to questioning my gender was actually FROM transandrophobia. The reason for this is I've had more of a curvy figure since ... well forever, even though my body was producing T on it's own. I got A LOT of compliments on it by pretty much all my friends (which were mostly girls, and yes that probably should have been a sign but I'm a bit thick sometimes, okay?) because I was "unconventionally sexy" because of it. I'm now remembering I do have a shirtless picture somewhere from before I was on HRT ... I'll work up the nerve to show that at some point to prove that point. Anywho, because of this, a random ass stranger had been following me as I went to grab a few things from a walmart after my shift. It was weird as fuck. Uncomfortably close, constantly looking at me but not what they were pretending to, and I kind of knew this dick was waiting until there was no one in the aisle before pulling something. I'd been mugged before at 14 and 15 so at 24 I was kind of like "I'm not getting stabbed in a damn Walmart" and just made sure to be quick. I got out of the store and met up with some old work friends and just let them know someone was following me and I wanted to wait them out. Props to my friends at the time, they bullseyed the dude (to be fair he wasn't being stealthy) and called him out. And he yelled back "You'll never be a real man" to me. My friends laughed at him because as far as we all knew, I was cis. But this would happen two more times in the same week. A lady would tell me I shouldn't be doing "this" to myself with a full body gesture, and that god "loves" me; and a college colleague flat out dismissed my concerns on something because "only a real man would need to worry about that". It got me wondering if this was a new fad, to hate on someones manliness, and upon looking that up I learned about what exactly transgender meant, the experiences of trans men and women (just a bit on women, my concern was on trans men at the time), and thought it was kind of cool there were people who'd know two sides to the gender spectrum. But it must SUCK to have to go through the bullshit I did and actually be affected by it. Like, no one has any right to tell another man they're less of one.

This whole situation would actually come back to help me 2 years later in finding myself. I'd only really looked up trans men and curiosity mid covid lock down would lead me to look up non-binary and then trans women. However, transandrophobia is how I, a trans woman, got her start. So it boils my blood when I see people talk about T being toxic or trans men having it easier. It shows a complete lack of understanding and a lack of acceptance and willingness to empathize. Trans men and trans mascs have different issues, that doesn't make them lesser, and while those issues may not affect me, it doesn't make it less of my problem to help deal with where I can. I know certain issues I'll have no experience on, no idea how to help, but that doesn't mean I can't still offer to be support. Everyone should be doing the same, and shame on those who aren't.

You deserve equal treatment and support in your fight for it, not dismissal. Those that dismiss the issues of trans men aren't allies, they're transphobes. And fuck transphobes.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Ello! It's me again I want to thank you again for doing my Hantengu request, I wanted to come by again to request the ror x akaza reader

Where Akaza reader is fighting against an god and they give off a good fight so it makes reader get excited for this fight giving everything that she's got, ending it in an tie since they have big wounds and they end up getting romantical with each other possibly leading to something

You can choose the pairing :>

Akaza Reader

-When offered, you took the chance to enter Ragnarok, hearing that you could fight some strong opponents. That’s all you wanted, you wanted a fight- a real one.

-You enjoyed watching the fights, seeing all of the strong opponents in both gods and humans that came before you, a grin on your face as your eyes seemed to sparkle, hoping your fight was going to be just as intense!

-You nearly sprinted to the field when you were told it was your turn, you felt almost like a kid again, antsy and vibrating with anticipated excitement!

-Your opponent looked strong, but you had faced so many in your past that looked strong and you beat them within moments, so you held back in your excitement for a fight, just until he was able to prove himself.

-He was able to take your punches and kicks with no real problems, blocking them pretty easily and when you blocked his first return blow, one that had you skidding back in the field, a bright grin appeared on your face, “So you are strong! Let’s have the best fight ever!!”

-Your opponent seemed amused by your enthusiasm and you both treated the crowds to one of the most exciting fights of the tournament, trading blows back and forth, you had gotten pretty badly injured, and so did he, but a little bit of pain did little to deter your joy.

-Your opponent had never seen someone so excited to fight before, especially a woman, but he didn’t see you as a woman in that moment, he saw you as a warrior.

-You awoke in the infirmary, not really remembering what had happened, confused as you mumbled out, “Did I lose?” a chuckle to the bed next to you had you looking over, seeing (Love) there, “It was a tie, we knocked each other out with that last attack.”

-You pouted lightly, your gaze returning to the roof before you sighed softly before turning to him with a grin, “Wanna have a rematch?”

-Raiden- He boomed with laughter, finding your enthusiasm to fight refreshing, flexing the one arm you didn’t break, “Sure thing! But let’s get healed up first and get some food first. My treat!” you were surprised before grinning yourself, “Is that how you ask all women out, fighting them then asking them to dinner?” he laughed again, giving you a boyish grin, “Only the ones who can kick my ass, which so far is only you.” You then flirted back, chuckling, “Good, then I’ll keep you all to myself then! I’m not losing the one person that I can go all out on.” The two of you went back and forth and by the time you were both discharged you were already holding hands and discussing battle techniques.

-Buddha- He grinned warmly, removing the lollipop from his mouth, “Never met someone so hungry for a fight before.” You sent him a grin, your eyes sparkling, “It’s hard to find people that I can go all out on and they can face me with equal strength.” Buddha smiled over at you, tossing you a lollipop of your own which surprised you, but you didn’t eat it, instead asking him about his prayer wheel weapon, curious about how it worked, because the way he made it seem was that it was almost sentient, and you wanted to know more so you have an even better battle. Buddha smirked over at you, “So is this how you flirt with men, by talking about fighting?” you froze and he couldn’t help but grin, watching your whole face flush red, as you hadn’t meant it in a flirting way, but he was quickly laughing, telling you that he was teasing you. Your cheeks puffed up in a pout which made you look even cuter before he grinned, sending you a wink, “Don’t stop now, Y/N, you’re making me fall for you.” He laughed even harder when you whole head seemed to be bright red, but you were opposed to the idea.

-Hajun- He immediately agreed, “Once we’re both out of here we can go and have as many rematches as you want, little demon.” You pouted at the nickname, but he saw your elation at his agreement to fighting again, “Maybe I’ll win this time, big demon.” He flinched lightly at your sass before snorting softly with laughter, realizing what you had done, “Careful now, beautiful one, I might have to discipline you.” You stuck your tongue out at him, giving him a playful wink, “Is that a threat or a promise~” he was stunned at your flirting, you were so bold and confident, but he couldn’t help but like it, chuckling as his voice seemed to drop, eyes piercing into your own, “I can assure you- it’s a promise.” Brunnhilde whacked you both on the head, leaving steaming lumps, telling you to stop flirting and there was to be no fighting until you were both completely healed.

[docholligay]

Yellowjackets 2.7: Bullet Points

Hello! This is about up to Season 2, Episode 7 of Yellowjackets, and ONLY that of Yellowjackets. I have not seen beyond this spot, at all, and know NOTHING about this show. Please do not spoil it for me.  Things that are spoilery in nature, for me, include: saying things like  “Just wait!!” confirming or denying anything I put forward, outside information about the cast interviews or creator statements, leading questions like “Do you think “blank moment” means anything?” etc. Remember  that Y’ALL HAVE SEEN THE SHOW AND I HAVE NOT. This informs the way you  talk about things relating to the show. Just be really careful is all  I’m asking. Also: If there is LITERALLY any stance I  could take on this show or character that would make you upset, please  just fucking block the tag

If you WOULD like to discuss the show and my takes on it, the Discord is right here! I don’t go there, so it’s a great place to get every emotion out.

Please thank @sailorsunspot and @moonlight-frittata for backing this odd way of doing a liveblog, and remember my tip jar is always open

Not that I expect them to know this, but that snow is good insulation and they should pile it all against the sides of the cabin. 

Obviously the music in the opener changing so dramatically (I’ve been wondering if it’s changing, it seems I was right) means something about the fact that our leads are getting closer and closer to the wild thing they were in the forest--I can’t help but wonder how this is going to sustain itself over what I think are meant to be three more seasons. 

Obsessed with Ben’s psychosis and falling apart. How he is basically kicked out of his own reverie and forced to come back to the real world, and how he has this moment of immense despair. But even then, he can’t kill himself, he ends up asking Misty to do it for him. But! Misty’s full application of her manipulative powers here is so interesting, because for once it is not SHAME that guides Ben from doing what he wants to do, it is consideration. It is kindness. Whether Misty is actually distraught over the baby or not is pretty much irrelevant--Ben THINKS she is, and that’s what makes him decide to live. Ben decides to do something else for the good of another person, instead of to protect himself. 

I’m interested in Lotties assertion that the wilderness is not transactional, and then following that up with, “It gave us what we wanted” when they were worshipping it. Don’tr get me wrong, I am full on to a non-transational God figure, but it seems sort of transactional? Given that I think that, I wonder what the whole thing with Lottie allowing her ass to get beat is supposed to do. 

LOVE that Crystal is gone, and there’s no blood! If we’re gonna go full on with the ‘wilderness is real’ thing, which I remain a bit disappointed by, at least I want to see some truly fucked up paranormal shit. 

There’s a thing I think might be developing that I sort of…don’t want to discuss on main? Part of the problem is when you bring up a wrinkle in anything, there’s no room for nuance. Something is either a racist piece of shit or a tragically misujnderstood narrative. Something is either misogynistic or a deep understanding of women. This is homophobic or it must be life affirming. You’re a terf or no trans person is ever wrong, etc. So I guess I won’t bring it up, but god I find the internet’s inability to discuss anything in a nuanced manner annoying. ANYWAY. 

I don’t care that much about it, but it is minorly distracting--the snow and the breath in the cold are so fake ahaha. 

So the therapist has never been real! Has been the wilderness the whole time. I should have picked up on that so much earlier I feel like, i figured it right before they showed it, like, midsentence ahahah. “Does a hunt with no violence feed anyone?” is an interesting line. Not sure how I feel about it, I think it’s one of those things that sounds deep but doesn’t quite stand up to scrutiny. At least as an actual guideline for life--I could believe the wilderness saying this, because it craves blood. But the question is, “do you actually need this violence anymore, or are you falling into because it’s easier than living with the echoes of the past?” I mean to an extent, I think they convinced themselves of the necessity of their own violence, though admittedly I haven’t seen the actual hunts start yet. 

Is nat gonna die? Is this why her inner glow turn or whatever? 

So at the end it seems to suggest that the group is not necessarily aware of what they did, at least entirely. I am…interested to see where this goes. I feel a lot of ways about it at once, and I could coime out liking it a lot, or not at all, but it’s far far too early to say. I was taking it for granted that they knew what they were hiding, but I suppose now I’m not sure that’s true. Also lightly suggested that Misty perhaps remembers more, maybe owing to her being somewhat less destroyed by the whole overwhelming truth of what happened.

[sniigura-archive]

I just read your Eve post and I have so many emotions.

Lilith: She was made to be man’s equal. The first woman, made from the same dust that created Adam. They were equals, they were supposed to be partners. And yet he wanted her to submit. He wanted her subservient, not as an equal but lesser. How frustrating and shocking it must’ve been to realize your equal didn’t see you as equal. How shocking that your partner wasn’t a partner at all, but simply a leader who didn’t wish for you to lead as well. Compared to the first man, how could she ever resist the sweet angel who comforted her tears?

Eve: sweet Eve, humanity’s mother, Adam’s second chance. Made from his rib, made FOR him, she was supposed to be perfect. It’s such a shame she was created only to be gifted to a broken man who was still hurting and dealing with the betrayal of his first wife and his former friend. It had made him bitter, and just being created, Eve didn’t know how to help him, and he didn’t let her help him. She grew unsatisfied with her husband. So when she lamented, and Lucifer came with an Apple saying it would make her wise, would give her knowledge, how could she not be tempted? The knowledge to learn how to be more. How to be better. She couldn’t have known that it opened the way to damnation. To disloyalty and betrayal.

Then there’s Adam:

The first man, created from dust, the one who named the animals, father of humanity. And the one who was never good enough. His first wife left him because he wasn’t a good enough partner. His second wife left him as well. And they both left him for the same Angel. The woman meant to be his equal, and the woman literally made from him, for him. He wasn’t good enough to keep either of them. How much a blow to the ego that must’ve been. How scary that must’ve been. To be suddenly left alone in a world that strange and young. To have no one when you’ve always had someone.

——————————

To add in Reader;

The original three humans for sure were old enough to make even your bones hurt, the idea that they’ve been around so long was near incomprehensible to your brain.

To suddenly find yourself swept up in the storm that was Adam. The first man who, for some reason, had grown to love you. A normal person. Not someone made to be his equal, not someone who was literally made For him. You, just a normal, flawed, mortal soul that bumped into things for most of your life and called it that; a life.

But he loved you, and despite your better judgement considering his Ego, and his Temper, his Pride, his Misogyny and his Selfishness… You loved him to. He was larger than life and he was always loyal.

He was a bit clingy but really… could you blame him?

You aren’t sure how he wooed you, but you find yourself unable to imagine a world without him in it.

You felt bad for the first two Women, understanding that they were young and confused as well. That they were still learning, so they had a choice to make their own decisions and make their own paths.

But You also feel bad for Lilith and Eve, they couldn’t look past the flaws, they couldn’t see the loyal partner, the dependable provider he was always meant to be. They couldn’t tame him. Or, better put, they couldn’t put Adam in a position of comfort and satisfaction and security where he’d allow himself to be tamed.

They instead turned to the Angel, the silly Angel with laughter and light who made things easy. Perhaps too easy… too boring given their own ambitions.

Their loss, because you loved Adam, and god willing, you were never letting him go. And neither was he with you.

SOOO MANY DIMENSIONS TO CONSIDWR!!!!!!

i love your writing fr. pls condsider writing something even if it’s just a oneshot i am begging 🥲🥲 AAAAAAAA

i love angst!!!!! one of my fave things

[heylavellan]

happy friday! "I can’t even whisper their name, my heart would burst out of my chest." for zevwarden?

so i have this warden who lost alistair to the final sacrifice. it's all very sad. so this works really well for exploring their post-da:o feelings. @dadrunkwriting

fierce cub

rating: m

words: 755

additional notes: this piece deals with grief after losing a lover. pre-zevwarden. some of my own avvar headcanons. he/him for lonan!

It was a rowdy night in the Ice Bear Hold. The skalds were singing the tales of great victories and magnificent hunts. Sharing a meal in the Great Hall like this should be wonderful. It should be exciting and safe. This was his home, where some of his gods rested and others watched over them trapped in the Beyond.

It should be fine, but he wasn't there. The man Ferelden venerated as a war hero, as someone who should have been their king. If only they knew he died to save an elven mage. Someone who stood against good Ferelden values. That man should be attending countless feasts and parties in his honour, regretting the love they shared but moving on with his new wife.

Now he had to sort out what living meant. At the moment, the noise in the Grand Hall was too loud, so Lonan discreetly left and made his way to the Painted Caves. The Clan's ancestors had marked the walls, preserving stories that the skalds no longer sang. When he was first escorted to the hold, the augur frequently found him there, staring at the stories, the preserved history. And more often than not, the Augur would tell them that the godling Felagi followed him, that it wished to know him. Each time, he politely declined.

Now when he entered the caves, he felt the gods presence as it wrapped around him. "You still greet me after all this time," Surana whispered, staring at one of the paintings. He sighed, when he realised he was in front of the Shield-brothers painting. Two men, sworn to each other with blood. Took no women, spent their lives defending each other. One fell in battle and flew into such a rage that he won the battle. But he had to keep living.

"You're not very funny you know," he said dryly, but wouldn't move from the spot. It was easier to stare, to know exactly why Felagi brought him here. It was all because of the warden who took his heart. Mountain-Father's axe, why did everything lead to him?

Lonan felt tears filling his eyes, so he did his best to blink them away. "The augur said I might find you here," called a warm voice with a stark Antivan accent. The warden forced out a laugh, doing his best to seem casual. It was unconvincing at best, he knew.

Instead, Lonan beckoned him over, to sit beside him. When the assassin sat down, he tucked himself into Zevran's side and sighed. He avoided talking about him by telling the story of the Shield-brothers. Zevran rubbed his shoulders as he shared the story.

"It's a lot like you and him, no?" Zev asked, once Lonan had exhausted every detail he could imagine. He wanted to scream, to sob. "At least Asmund had a purpose. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm the last Ferelden Grey Warden. I'm alone."

Lonan tucked his face further into Zevran's neck. He smelled like wet leather and honeyed mead. Like his homes. "You know I will remain at your side until you ask me to leave," the assassin quietly reminded him.

"I love you so much for staying by my side because without you I'd be worse off than I am. I can't even whisper his name, my heart would leap out of my chest and I'd want to wither and die all over again," Lonan growled, trying to dig his fingers into Zevran's skin. Instead he grabbed fistfuls of flowy black fabric and the fur lining of his wool cape.

He felt twenty times warmer and knew that Felagi was pressing close. Knew that the godling loved the interactions between people. Zevran just held him, pressing a soothing kiss to their temple. "You're tired and stressed. You spent the better part of last year saving the world. I'd be more surprised if you had everything together," he murmured, stroking their curly black hair. "I have purpose now at your side. I would expect if you told me to stop tomorrow, I would be just as lost as you are now."

"My heart breaks every time I remember him. He'd want me to be happy. Move on. But how can I? I loved him," Lonan asked, searching for Zevran's hand to hold.

"We're with some of your family, yes? They haven't seen the person you've become. You're no longer their Fierce Cub. Show them who you've become," he suggested.

Lonan nodded a few times. It was a start.

[jackoshadows]

Ngl I do feel kinda bad when Jon calls Myrcella insipid. I know where he is coming from because he was treated so badly by Catelyn and high born women plus he's like 14 years old and not super mature yet but I hope he overcomes this particular feeling. I like that he prefers independent women that goes against gender norms of his time but it does feel kind of unfair to judge girls for following what they were taught. Anyway, he is nice to Shireen and I'm sure if he met Myrcella or Margaery or whoever he would like them because really what matters to him is wether people are good or not. I just hope that he realizes someday that is not really their fault that society expects something from them.

I mean, Jon Snow only comes off better as a man in Westeros because the other guys in this world are awful. It's all relative.

He has contempt for ladies conforming to the status quo, propriety and rules, which is probably a result of the way Catelyn and Sansa treated him as a bastard growing up in WF. He uses 'looking like a girl' as a way to insult Joffrey. He thinks Myrcella is insipid. This quote here is dripping with disdain for girls like Sansa:

A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. - Jon, ADwD

Sansa had favored her mother’s gods over her father’s. She loved the statues, the pictures in leaded glass, the fragrance of burning incense, the septons with their robes and crystals, the magical play of the rainbows over altars inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli. Yet she could not deny that the godswood had a certain power too. Especially by night. Help me, she prayed, send me a friend, a true knight to champion me . . . - Sansa, ACoK

He mocks the Septa and Selyse Baratheon's appearance because they have body hair. He thinks Shireen is homely and ugly because of the greyscale.

So Jon Snow does prejudge women and girls and throws out these unfair labels like 'insipid' without actually getting to know them. The difference is that while Westeros is typically sexist against nonconforming girls like Arya and Brienne, Jon has sexist opinions about the traditional ladies of high society - Myrcella, Sansa, the Septa, Selyse etc. - who adhere to the patriarchal status quo.

Again, this is no doubt shaped and colored by Jon's childhood because bastardy is also a byproduct of Northern patriarchy and Jon bore the brunt of Cat's hate and anger.

It would have been interesting to see what Jon thought personally of Catelyn in this regard considering how active and involved she was in the running of Winterfell - Ned left her in charge when he left for KL - and she was definitely no damsel in distress 'waiting for a knight to rescue her'. However, his memories of Cat seem more centered around the loathing she had for him and he seems to have connected her to other ladies simply by the way she was forcing Arya to become a mini Sansa.

I do agree with you that if Jon gets to know some of these girls, he does tend to not be as rigid in his opinions. His sexist insults for the Septa and Selyse are because they are unpleasant and rigid in their orthodoxy. On the other had when he meets Alys Karstark, he admires her bravery and the proactive way she takes charge of her future and destiny.

I also suspect that some of GRRM's own sexist humor is peeking through Jon's POV chapters - like the Septa having to shave her legs? That sounds like the humor a middle aged man in the nineties would write about. Or descriptions like ugly and fat. Though, again I suspect GRRM's love for overweight characters and the many, many descriptions of them being fat with their many chins is about him being chubby and it's not meant as an insult. He just loves fat characters!!

So yeah, while Jon does come off as far better than like 99% of the men of Westeros, at the end of the day he can also be that reddit dudebro throwing out sexist insults.