#i fear for my life in the hands of conformity

[satosktty]

this is how i imagine satoru in any setting; i need to draw him exactly like this... just imaginging 1st year toru being kind of blank faced but still a shithead until they finally get to deal with him and everyone's like 'wow he's just autistic not a dickhead' yeah... my bipolar autistic rep princess..

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Hallowed

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Toxic relationship dynamics, face sitting, smut. Word count: ~1.3k

Summary: Her Early Medieval Literature essay is due, and Michael has his own cruel way of ensuring she stays focused.

Author's note: Can be read as part two of this fic, but also works as a standalone. Day six of the Smuffmas prompts - "future and face sitting". No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She lounges on Michael’s bed, clad in only knickers and one of his t-shirts, a copy of the Canterbury Tales grasped lightly between her fingers. Her eyes move over the words of Chaucer, but take none of them in, how could they? His long fingers draw lazy circles on her ankle, her legs stretched out up to the pillows where he reclines, the duvet wrapped around his bare midriff while he reads from a textbook called the Book of Proof.

Life feels simpler since Michael has entered it, despite the turbulent beginnings. She has given up her friends, under his advice, and there is now far less pressure to conform. Her only focuses are her studies and pleasing him, the latter of the two she takes great pleasure in.

It is always on his terms; when they see each other, what they do, how they do it, and despite his obvious initial inexperience he is a fast learner. His ability to make her fall apart, to make her relinquish all control is something he does expertly. The slight fear she feels towards him only adds to the excitement; he could destroy her if he wanted to, but if she plays nicely then he won’t, and she is more than happy to play nicely when the rewards for doing so are as satisfying as they are.

She sighs, his fingers upon her flesh making her core throb with want, even from the simple gesture of absentmindedly touching her leg. She lets her book slip from her fingers, raising up on her elbow to look at him.

“Michael…” she whines.

He looks at her impassively, adjusting his glasses. “The first of your three essays is due soon, isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” she responds with a roll of her eyes, flopping back down and stretching her arms above her head. “Early Medieval Literature.”

His hand moves from her ankle, fingertips ghosting over the exposed skin between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of her underwear. “And what have you written?”

She shivers beneath his touch, squirming slightly. “Am I really here to study?”

“I’ve no interest in sleeping with a failing literature student,” he pulls his hand away and she immediately misses his warmth. “So tell me.”

She groans in frustration. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably something about irony in the Merchant’s Tale.”

His textbook thuds closed and she hears the heavy sound of him dropping it onto the bedside table. When she chances to glance up at him she sees he is sitting straighter in the bed, his gaze hardened as he looks at her. “Probably?! You mean you haven’t started it? Have you even thought about your thesis statement, your in-depth analysis or how you’re going to conclude your ideas, if you’ve even had any?”

“Oh, come on,” she says softly, sitting up and reaching for him. “There’s still time. Can’t we just–”

“No,” he cuts her off. “I’ve been spoiling you, and it’s made you stupid.”

“I’m not stupid!” She protests. “If I remember correctly, it was you who called my degree a ‘glorified book club’.”

“You still need to try,” he tells her, frowning.

“You don’t try,” she argues with a shrug,” and marks in your first year don’t count towards the final degree.”

“I don’t have to try, but I still get firsts in everything. Marks this year may not count towards the final degree you get, but they count towards you keeping your scholarship. Think about your future instead of being a fucking brat for once in your life.”

His words are a sharp sting to her already fragile ego, and she lowers her gaze, fighting the sudden urge to cry.

“I’m not touching you again until your essay’s handed in and I’ve seen what your mark is.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide with disbelief as she looks at him, searching his features for any indication that he’s being unserious. She finds none; he really means it.

“And you’re not to touch yourself. I’ll know.”

The next two weeks are torturous for her. On the occasions that Michael does invite her to his room, there is no more casual half dressed lounging on his bed. Instead, he has a study space set up for her at his desk, and won’t allow her to speak or leave until she has at least a thousand words written. 

They meet up in the library during free periods so that he can read through what she’s written, and her skin burns hot with humiliation each time he screws up a page and throws it into the waste paper bin, calling her arguments “lazy” and “uninspired”.

It lights a fire of determination beneath her, but bubbling under the surface is also a heightened state of arousal, driven by the lack of intimacy, and the fact that she finds that she likes it when he is so authoritative over her.

By the time she has finished, she has produced an essay that both her and Michael are satisfied with; it discusses the use of irony in Chaucer’s poem, the Merchant's Tale. She has used a number of excerpts and lines from the poem for analysis, revealing the instances of irony in each, and from this has determined that the irony Chaucer used in the Merchant's Tale is controlled.

Her eyes light up when Professor Ware hands it back, and she sees the 85% that’s circled at the top of it.

A first.

She feels giddy with excitement as she knocks on Michael’s door that evening, brandishing the now dog-eared pages at him as he opens the door.

“A first, I got a first!” She squeals, watching as he takes the essay from her, his eyes moving slowly over the top page.

“Hmmm,” he settles it down on the desk, removing his glasses and placing them on top. “Take off your jeans and underwear.”

“Wha–what?” She stammers, her grin fading.

“You want your reward, don’t you?” He asks, moving to lay back on the bed.

She swallows thickly, excitement fluttering in her lower belly, as she quickly complies, ridding herself of the clothing that covers her lower half.

“Come here,” he commands softly.

She joins him on the bed, a gasp leaving her as he manhandles her until her knees are positioned either side of his head.

“My clever girl,” he whispers. His words could be mistaken for softness, were they not directly juxtaposed by the rapid darkening of his blue eyes, and the way his thumbs drag across the indentations between her thighs and pelvis. “I knew you could do it, you just needed a little…push.”

He drags his tongue from her opening all the way to her pearl, and her jaw goes slack, the wet sensation making her clench as she falls forward, hands clawing at the wall in front of her.

His grip on her thighs tightens and he tugs her flush against his face, the sloppy sounds of him devouring her are lewd combined with the wanton cries of pleasure that tumble from her lips.

She feels her mind go blank as he inserts his tongue inside of her, keeping it rigid as she begins to grind herself in a circular motion, keeping his nose pressed against where she needs it most, desperately chasing the release she’s needed the last couple of weeks.

His hum of appreciation reverberates through her core, and as he withdraws from her, plush lips wrapping around her sensitive bundle of nerves she feels herself fall apart as the growing ache intensifies, completely at his mercy as he laps at her, while white hot waves of pleasure wash over her.

She raises up when it becomes too much, jerking at how oversensitive she feels and gazes down at him through heavy lidded eyes, breathless.

He looks like an utterly different person without his glasses, almost kind, though she knows better. His chin is shiny with her slick as he smirks up at her.

“You’ve worked so hard,” he says quietly, though the edge of malevolence to his voice is unmistakable. “But don’t worry, you can give that pretty little mind of yours a rest while I fuck you stupid again.”

She is powerless to resist as he tugs her back to his face once more, beginning the exquisite torture all over again.

[bettyfrommars]

I need to know what you think about finding a dark siren Eddie Munson. Maybe he got hurt and washed up on the shore? You’re immediately his mate and he loves you very much even though he’s never been near a human. Very much I hate everyone but you vibes for our bloodthirsty friend.

Boyfriend From the Deep

darkSiren!Eddie x Reader

darkSiren!Eddie art here and here

Blurb 1

Blurb 2

18+ONLY, smut, some monsterfuqqing, mention of gore, mention of throwing up, visit from Murray & Hopper, mention of reader's life not going well, AFAB Reader, love at first sight, soulmates, merman!Eddie. wc: 3k

A/N: Another request I was really excited to sink my teeth into. My hope is to continue this eventually, taking inspiration from the 1984 film Splash. Looking forward to what y'all think of darkSiren!Eddie, thank you for indulging me.

---------

Eddie choked and coughed as the wave crashed over him, forcing his eyes open with a gargled gasp.  He was pinned up against a rocky ledge, half of his body on the sand and the other half in the frigid water.  All of a sudden, he felt sick, and began retching clear bile into the sea.  He didn’t like breathing the air, he wasn’t used to it, and it caught in his throat like a feather–tickling—until he coughed and retched again.  The gills on the sides of his neck sputtered, flapping open like vents, drying out, trying to conform to the new way of breathing.

It was then that he became aware of the dull ache at the back of his head, and with trembling fingers, he reached back to test the spot with a cringe and a hiss.  He checked to find that his fingertips were bloody; he must’ve knocked his head on one of the sharp rocks during the transformation.  How badly was he wounded? Would be a shame to survive the journey to human form only to die on the beach and rot like a bloated fish.  

He braced his hand, fingers digging into the sand, and flicked his hips to swish his tail to get him unstuck, but then two legs kicked out from his hips, stuck in a fisherman’s net, and it startled him, making him slam his head into the rock again.  He winced, eyes squeezing shut, whimpering a bit at the sting of the impact as the saltwater splashed up to his knees and misted his face.  

This was Eddie’s first time back to land in over a decade.  Mostly because he loathed humans.  He loved to lure them to their deaths, he loved to watch from under the water as their ships sank so that he could feed on their fear, curling the sound waves of their screams into his belly like sweet nectar. 

He twisted, trying to be free of the rough ropes that cut into his skin, but he was weak, and he wasn’t sure how much blood he’d lost.  He was stuck there now, for 7 days and 7 nights, and he thought maybe he’d just find a way to stay hidden…

….until he saw you.

It was rare for you to be up at the crack of dawn, unless it was due to the fact that you hadn’t slept at all, which was a regular occurrence.  Long, restful sleeps that lasted hours were just a myth to you, ever since you’d watched your life go down the toilet.  A breakup, a death in the family, getting fired from your job; all of it happened all at once, and you were still reeling, teetering at the edge of the abyss.

You were all alone in the world, but for your dog, Louie, and the modest cottage you were renting for a week off the Oregon coast.  The beach house was tucked back in the woods, and it didn’t even have a TV, so flipping it on to watch the early morning broadcast or some cartoons to relax your brain was not an option. The radio would have to do, and the first song that came on when you flipped the dial was Brandy by Looking Glass.  You hummed along to it as you plucked Louie’s leash off the sofa and attached it to his collar.  He was a medium, handsome, mixed-breed boy that you’d rescued from the side of the road as a puppy.  Part corgi, part border collie, part…dalmatian? You weren’t entirely sure.  

“He came on a summer's day

Bringin' gifts from far away

But he made it clear he couldn't stay

No harbor was his home

The sailor said, ‘Brandy, you're a fine girl 

What a good wife you would be 

But my life, my love, and my lady is the sea”

It was exceptionally chilly for an August morning, making you bundle in a hoodie and boots for the trek out to the beach.  Louie was practically foaming at the mouth to get out there for his run, and since your area of the beach was fairly secluded at that time of morning, you unhooked his leash where the dirt path met with the sand, and he bolted into the fog toward the ocean like a shot.  There was a wet mist lingering in the air, like salty, seaweed-scented kisses that made you squint against the bright gray hues turning blue with the rise of the sun.  A few seagulls squawked and swooshed overhead, diving down to perch on a large piece of driftwood, and you waved to them, as if they’d showed up just to say hello to you.

You faced the vast expanse of ocean and crashing waves with a mix of awe and defiance, challenging it silently with a lift of your chin.  Your reverie was rudely interrupted by Louie’s alarm bark, somewhere deep in the mist. 

You followed the sound, walking blind until you caught sight of the jutting rocks at the base of a cliff, and the shrill of Louie’s distress signal was getting further away.  Your feet picked up speed, stumbling for purchase in the soft, wet ground as you called for him, a bit of panic stroking your heart.  Why did it feel like you were about to start crying? An avalanche of unfelt emotions gathered in your throat as you called for your loyal companion.  

But there he was, finally, sitting facing the rocks, tail wagging side to side, making a fan-shape in the sand, basically ignoring you as you collapsed to one knee, cursing, clutching your chest.  

You mumbled a whole conversation to him as you snapped the leash back in place and got to your feet.  You tried to guide him in the other direction, but Louie was transfixed on something a few yards ahead, and it took your eyes a moment to adjust—but then you saw it.  A hand, slightly webbed between the fingers, appeared from around the black rock, digging into the sand, and then another hand gripped the tan earth further along, as if someone were trying to pull themself along by their arm strength alone.  The wrists were covered in jewelry that looked like they were made of shell and bone; the forearms tattooed in dotted, swirling black ink patterns.  

You were too stunned to scream, mouth hanging agape.  You urged Louie back to shield him with your legs.  You saw the long, dark hair next, pooling over bare, tattooed shoulders; it was messy and unkempt, littered in bits of fauna and a few empty clam shells, one side matted with blood.  

Before your brain could throw the alarm that this might be dangerous, you were already speaking.  “A-are you alright? Do you need me to get help?”

That was when his head snapped up, and wide, all-white eyes regarded you with malice, lips curling back to expose a mouth full of pointed teeth.  He growled at you, and Louie growled back, but then, after a second, the monster's face softened.  The milk white eyes behind tendrils of hair shifted to brown, human irises, and he cocked his head a few times at you, as if trying to understand what you had just said.

You should have fainted.

You should have turned and run screaming in the other direction.

But, for some reason, neither one of those even occurred to you.  

You came around to get a better look at him, down along where the water lapped at your boots, and took in the rest of his body; he was tangled up in a crude net from the waist down.  He wore a necklace that appeared to be made of intricate fish bones and coral, and shark tooth earring dangled from his ear.  The tattoo patterns ran all along his chest, stomach, and legs.  You released Louie’s leash, and he sat right where he was told, while you crouched down to meet Eddie’s curious gaze that never strayed from you.

“Will you let me help you?” You asked.

Eddie was in love.

He never believed the stories he’d been told about the imprinting and immediate bonding that happened when you met your mate.  He wasn’t just any Merman, he was a Siren, and as a soldier of the dark forces of the sea, he figured he didn’t have time for frivolous things like romance.

But this took no time at all.

You were meant to be his, and he didn’t care who he had to kill to keep you.  

He studied your face as you worked to free the wet knot of seaweed tangles on the net, freeing his thighs from the heavyweight, gasping and averting your eyes at the way your touch made his cock twitch and swell.  You helped him to sit up, noticing what appeared to be gills on his throat and sides along his ribs.  His flesh was similar to that of a human, but also not.  It had a thick, rippled texture, like the belly of a snake, and it seemed to glow with a soft blue fluorescence.  His muscles were tight and lean, and he didn’t even bother to shiver as a cold wind made your teeth chatter. 

You told him your name as another seagull cawed overhead, and asked what you should call him.  

His eyebrows clenched together, tilting his head a few times, watching your mouth as you spoke.

“Do you speak English?”  You asked it in a cringe way, with a loud voice, as if a higher volume could break any language barrier.  

He brought his webbed hand up to touch your face, and you jerked away at first, but then you let his scaled knuckles graze your cheek, the legs of your jeans soaking wet now as you knelt there with what could only be described as a figment of your imagination. 

He spoke a word in foreign language, his voice a deep whisper.  You remembered how solid white his eyes had been before when he thought you were a threat, but now they were honey brown, almost cat-like in nature as they softly adored you. 

“I-I don’t understand,” you breathed, unable to comprehend the time it took for his mouth to find yours, to plant wholesome kisses, to taste you.

You might’ve been in love with him at that moment too, but your jaded heart refused to let yourself believe it.  

You did, however, feel the arousal blossom at your core as his tongue fluttered against yours, whimpering with a little click in his throat like a sea lion at the way you returned his kiss.

The urge to mate you, to officially make you his, was too strong for Eddie to take into regard any of the formalities of courtship.  Once your hand found his generous girth and began to stroke, encouragingly, that was all it took.

You skittered backwards up onto the semi-dry sand, unzipping your jeans and pushing them down to your ankles as you went, and Eddie followed, bracing himself on top so he wouldn’t crush you, desperate to find your mouth again. His powerful hips bucked against you, and you held him by the neck, begging for more while he spoke to you in that foreign tongue, staring into your eyes, willing you to understand him.  

Wanting you to know that no one would ever love you as much as he did; that he would be your one and only mate until the darkness took you both.  

The position felt awkward, but there was no time to take your boots off as your hole clenched the air, desperate to be filled.  You spun around to get on your hands and knees, and Eddie buried his cock in your wet heat with one swish of his muscular thighs, throwing his head back in a bark of triumph.  

You pushed back against him, needing him to move, to stretch you and own you with each push, your fingers clawing into the sand as you whined.  

Nearby, Louie cocked his head and tried to lift one floppy ear, but then he turned his face to the sea, trying to give you some privacy.

You’d never been fucked by someone as strong as this sea monster, and your whole body jerked and vibrated under the impact of his deep thrusts.  “Yesyesyes…oh fuck!”

It wasn’t long before Eddie clapped his pelvis flush to your ass and spilled inside of you, chanting foreign words, tilting his head to the sky, worshiping you with his offering.  He stayed locked there for a while, working his seed deeper with every stroke.  When he was done, he flipped you over with a feral urgency that sent sand into your eyes and nose, but you didn’t care, because now his mouth was on you.  

Your fingers sank into his matted hair, and that was when you felt the viscous patch and remembered he was bleeding.  His big, strong legs were a bit wobbly, and the thought occurred to you, for whatever reason, that he wasn’t accustomed to using them.  

But then Louie was barking in the other direction, and you both turned your attention to see a figure appearing from out of the mist.   A middle-aged man in a pageboy cap and a trench coat; he was already too close before you knew he was there, and he dropped the walking stick in his hand, his face frozen in shock and terror.  

Eddie smelled the foul human approaching and the familiar bloodlust roared in his veins. The fin on Eddie’s back bristled as he rose to a crouch with a ferocious growl.  You shuffled as far as you could against the rock, trying to pull your jeans up and cover yourself, not sure what to think of Eddie’s reaction.

Eddie bared his mouth full of sharp teeth in a sneer at the man, his eyes going completely white again.  A storm seemed to hit the beach all of a sudden at Eddie’s command, dropping down a gust of wind that rocked the waves and sent the man stumbling off his feet as if the world tilted on its axis, trying to hold his hat on against the force of it.  A low, rumbling wail came from somewhere deep in Eddie’s chest as you tried to shield your face from the whips of sand stabbing like tiny daggers in your flesh.  Eddie appeared to be sucking the life out of the man from his distance; the human’s body lifted up in the air and bent back.  You thought you heard something crack.  

It was only a matter of seconds before the man crumpled to the ground, unresponsive, and then Eddie settled, and so did the air around him.  After a few heartbeats, there were only the crashing waves and the birds once again, and Eddie’s head snapped to you, searching, making sure you were okay.

He held his arms out and you scrambled over, burying your head in the crook of his neck, letting him cage you, letting him have you.

Louie went over to sniff around at the man on the ground, wondering if he had any treats, and then he lifted his leg and let go of a stream of urine onto his shoe.

—-----

Murray Bauman slammed the paper onto Hopper’s desk, forcing a gust of wind into his face and a couple of yellow sticky notes to go flying.

Murray waited, hands on his hips, the door to the office wide open behind him.  Hopper took a deep inhale and flicked a few bored glances from the cover of the Seaside Review back up to Murray’s severe expression.

“Is this your way of telling me you're taking a vacation?” He guessed, shifting back in his squeaky chair.

“This,” Murray jabbed his finger in the direction of the paper.  “Is what I’ve been trying to tell you about.”

In the mood to humor his old friend, Hopper bent forward, furrowing his brow, taking a closer look at the headlines.  

Murray continued, pacing in front of the desk as he did so.  “Merpeople don’t exist? Well then, explain that to me.”

To the right, at the top of a long column and a sketch, was the headline: Reclusive artist survives a Siren attack on the beach and lives to tell: Merfolk exist.

Hopper cleared his throat.  “This is a drawing, Murray.”

Murray stopped his pacing, inclining his head, adopting a sarcastic tone.  “Notice anything familiar about that likeness, Jim? Does any part of it ring a bell? The white eyes, maybe? The teeth?”

“Sure,” Hopper picked the paper up and plopped it down, further away from him.  “It looks like Elvis.  Call The Inquirer.” 

Murray flopped in a chair facing the Chief’s desk with a huff.  He’d keep talking about it even if it fell on deaf ears because he knew he was right.  “The migration of the Sirens.  Enki, Poseidon, Amphitrite, the legend of the skin-shedding Merfolk who can walk on land for 7 days during a blood moon.  Humanoids.  Cannibals of the sea—-”

“Stop,” Hopper put his hand up palm out. “Just, stop. Is any of this supposed to make any sense to me? Why are you here? What have I done to deserve this?”

Murray rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, intertwining his fingers.  “The drawing should look familiar to you, Jim, because it’s just like the one I saw when I was a teenager, and three summers ago when I was on that death-trap Alaskan cruise.  I told you all about it.  I told you that I was—-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hopper interrupted.  “But again, I’ll ask—why are you coming to me with this? You think I’m going to arrest a fish?”

Murray rounded his shoulders.  "I know that Sirens exist, Jim.  There’s more than enough evidence out there, and I’m going to prove it to you, if not the world.” 

[reaper2187]

Cairo sweet x female reader

As the school bell rings, a cacophony of chatter fills the hallways, mingling with the light scent of morning coffee and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Amidst this teeming sea of students, you find yourself drawn to a solitary figure perched on a windowsill near the library.

Her name is Cairo Sweet, and your gaze lingers on her with a curious mix of fascination and trepidation. Her face, framed by a cascade of raven hair, is a canvas of exquisite features: piercing brown eyes that seem to hold a depth beyond her years, a delicate nose, and a mouth that curves into a mysterious smile.

As your eyes connect, you feel an unexpected surge of kinship. She is an enigma, an outsider, like you

 You have always felt like a square peg in a round hole, never quite fitting in with the preppy girls who gossip and giggle in the cafeteria. But in Cairo's gaze, you sense a glimmer of understanding.

With a hesitant step, you approach her. 'Excuse me,' you say softly. 'I'm new here. I couldn't help but overhear that you're Cairo Sweet. My name's [Your Name].'

A faint smile crosses her lips. 'Nice to meet you, [Your Name].'

You sit down beside her, your notebooks open in front of you. The silence between you is comfortable, almost inviting. As the minutes turn into hours, you share stolen glances, whispered secrets, and dreams that have long been buried within.

Cairo tells you about her life before Miller's Creek, her nomadic childhood, and her passion for writing. You, in turn, confide in her about your own struggles and aspirations. For the first time, you feel truly seen and understood.

As the day draws to a close, you and Cairo walk together to your lockers. Your fingers brush against hers, and a spark ignites within you. It is a spark of connection, a desire to be near her, to explore the forbidden realms that lie beyond friendship.

But your burgeoning feelings are met with trepidation. This is high school, after all, and societal norms dictate that girls should only date boys. You fear the repercussions of breaking these unspoken rules.

Undeterred, Cairo leans in and whispers, 'I think you're amazing, [Your Name]. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.'

Her words embolden you. You take her hand and lead her to an empty classroom. The soft glow of the setting sun filters through the windows, casting a warm and intimate light upon the two of you.

With trembling lips, you confess your feelings. To your surprise, Cairo reciprocates. Her kiss is gentle, tentative, and yet filled with an undeniable longing.

In that stolen moment, time stands still. The world outside fades away, leaving only you and Cairo, two hearts entwined in a secret dance of love.

As you reluctantly pull away, Cairo whispers, 'This is against the rules, but it feels so right.'

You smile. 'Maybe we're destined to be rebels.'

Your secret rendezvous becomes a solace amidst the turmoil of high school. You carve out hidden corners in the library, linger in the shadows of the hallways, and steal precious moments together on deserted benches. Your love grows stronger with each stolen kiss, each whispered promise.

But the walls of silence cannot hold indefinitely. Rumors spread like wildfire, and soon you find yourselves at the center of a storm of gossip and condemnation. Some students whisper words of support, but many more cast judgment upon your forbidden love.

As the pressure mounts, you and Cairo face an impossible choice. You could deny your feelings and conform to societal expectations, or you could embrace your love and risk the consequences.

Together, you choose the latter. Hand in hand, you walk through the hallways, ignoring the disapproving stares and hurtful comments. Your love is a beacon of defiance, a testament to the power of the human heart.

In the end, your resilience and unwavering bond silence the critics. Cairo and [Your Name] become a symbol of hope and acceptance for all who dare to love beyond the confines of societal norms.

And as the years go by, your love story becomes a legend whispered among the students of Miller's Creek, a tale of two girls who dared to defy the odds and find happiness in the most unexpected of places.

[suzannahnatters]

Let Your Knights Weep

One of the big things I've had to train myself out of when writing medieval historical fiction?

The stiff upper lip.

This used to really bewilder my editor, who for some time attempted to nudge me away from having my grown men weep and wail and blubber, but for me it's an essential part of the setting. Whether in grief or fear, medieval people did not hold things back.

Here are some of my favourite quotes to explain.

First, a couple from two great 20th century medievalists:

CS Lewis in his Letters put it this way:

“By the way, don't 'weep inwardly' and get a sore throat. If you must weep, weep: a good honest howl! I suspect we - and especially, my sex - don't cry enough now-a-days. Aeneas and Hector and Beowulf, Roland and Lancelot blubbered like schoolgirls, so why shouldn't we?”

Dorothy Sayers, in her fabulous Introduction to her translation of THE SONG OF ROLAND, speaking of Charlemagne discovering Roland's body on the battlefield:

Here too, I think we must not reckon it weakness in him that he is overcome by grief for Roland’s death, that he faints upon the body and has to be raised up by the barons and supported by them while he utters his lament. There are fashions in sensibility as in everything else. The idea that a strong man should react to great personal and national calamities by a slight compression of the lips and by silently throwing his cigarette into the fireplace is of very recent origin. By the standards of feudal epic, Charlemagne’s behaviour is perfectly correct. Fainting, weeping, and lamenting is what the situation calls for. The assembled knights and barons all decorously follow his example. They punctuate his lament with appropriate responses:

By hundred thousand the French for sorrow sigh; There’s none of them but utters grievous cries.

At the end of the next laisse:

He tears his beard that is so white of hue, Tears from his head his white hair by the roots; And of the French an hundred thousand swoon.

We may take this response as being ritual and poetic; grief, like everything else in the Epic, is displayed on the heroic scale. Though men of the eleventh century did, in fact, display their emotions much more openly than we do, there is no reason to suppose that they made a practice of fainting away in chorus. But the gesture had their approval; that was how they liked to think of people behaving. In every age, art holds up to us the standard pattern of exemplary conduct, and real life does its best to conform. From Charlemagne’s weeping and fainting we can draw no conclusions about his character except that the poet has represented him as a perfect model of the “man of feeling” in the taste of the period.

OK, now let's dig into some quotes that I found just in Christopher Tyerman's Chronicles of the First Crusade and Joinville's Life of St Louis:

Truly you would have grieved and sobbed in pity when the Turks killed any of our men....

As for the knights, they stood about in a great state of gloom, wringing their hands because they were so frightened and miserable, not knowing what to do with themselves and their armour, and offering to sell their shields, valuable breastplates and helmets for threepence or fivepence or any price they could get....

When Guy, who was a very honourable knight, had heard these lies, he and all the others began to weep and to make loud lamentation....

They stayed in the houses cowering, some some for hunger and some for fear of the Turks....

Now at vigils, the time of trust in God’s compassion, many gave up hope and hurriedly lowered themselves with ropes from the wall-tops; and in the city soldiers, returning from the encounter, circulated widely a rumour that mass decapitation of the defenders was in store. To add weight to the terror, they too fled…

In the course of that day’s battle there had been many people, and of fine appearance too, who had come very shamefully flying over the little bridge you know of and had fled away so panic-stricken that all our attempts to make them stay with us had been in vain. I could tell you some of their names, but shall refrain from doing so, because they are now dead.

I could go on looking for quotes in all the other medieval literature I've read, but that would be beyond the scope of this Tumblr post.

In the meantime, this leads me to make some comments on how trauma was perceived.

In Jonathan Riley-Smith's The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, the author discusses the mental breakdowns suffered by the first crusaders during the second siege of Antioch, which caused many of them to flee at the moment of direst need:

In these stressful circumstances it is not surprising that the crusaders were often very frightened. At times, indeed, they seem to have been almost paralysed by a terror that they themselves could hardly comprehend. … When the crusade was bottled up in Antioch by Kerbogha's relief force it was gripped by such blind panic that there was the prospect of a mass break-out and on the night of 10 or 11 Juney 1098 Bohemond and Adhemar had the gates of the city closed. It is worth noting that many of those whom later chroniclers, writing after the events in comparative comfort in Europe, vilified for cowardice and desertion seem to have been treated more charitably by their fellow-crusaders, who must have understood what pressures they had been under.

--

In conclusion: the way we feel about things today in the English-speaking isn't necessarily the way people felt about things in the past (and this goes for other cultures, real or imagined, too). I'm continually catching myself writing people with stiff upper lips and emotional reservations, and having to remind myself that the culture was different back them. If a grown man wanted to weep, he could. That's a good thing. (Oh, and my medieval historical fantasy? Check out the Watchers of Outremer series on Amazon or wherever books are sold!)

[serickswrites]

When in Rome

Warnings: capture, public humiliation, torture, restraints, whipping, blood, unconsciousness, bedside vigil, defiant whumpee

"I can be a kind and benevolent ruler," Whumper said as they circled their captives. "I think you will find I am a much better ruler than your former monarch."

Caretaker hated listening to this. Hated that they were all in chains while Whumper and their traitorous band walked free. But worst of all, they hated watching Whumpee struggle in the chains that had been thrown on all of them.

"The only thing you are capable of is evil," Whumpee hissed.

"You could give me a chance, Whumpee. If you give me a chance, if you bow, the others will follow suit. So many subjects have already pledged their loyalty."

"I'd rather die." Whumpee thrust their chin out.

"Whumpee, you were your former ruler's most trusted warrior. If you bend knee, needless violence will be avoided. Surrender and pledge fealty or you shall suffer greatly." Whumper's kind, gentle tone began to fray. Their true nature slowly eating away at the facade that Caretaker knew they were putting up.

"Death first!"

"That can be arranged." Whumper said with a sigh. "Tie them to the pole in front of the castle," they ordered one of their minions. "And take the others with you. I want everyone to see what happens when you do not conform to my law and order. What happens if you defy me."

Whumpee struggled valiantly against the many hands that grabbed them. Caretaker tried on their part, too. But it was to no avail. Whumper had too many followers at hand to fight. The rest of their squad was hauled along with them to the castle square.

"Whumpee, Whumpee, whatever they are planning is far worse than surrendering," Caretaker tried to reason with Whumpee. They could not stand to watch Whumper butcher Whumpee.

Whumpee shook their head, drawing themself up to their full height, head held proud. "If we give in we are complacent with whatever atrocities Whumper commits. The people need to see that some one is willing to stand up in the face of evil."

"You will be killed, Whumpee. Please," Caretaker tried again.

"Then that is the price I pay. I will not bend knee to evil. I will stand strong. Perhaps my death will be what one person needs to realize they must fight. That they can fight."

Caretaker opened their mouth to reply, but Whumpee was pulled away as the group reached the central square. A tall post had been erected in the center atop a tall dais. Whumpee was hauled roughly up the steps and chained with their arms above their head, back to the crowd.

"Citizens, gather round," Whumper said as they climbed the steps of the dais, "and see what it means to refuse me." Whumper held a whip in their hand. Caretaker's mouth went dry.

"I am a benevolent ruler," Whumper said as a hush fell over the crowd, "and I will give you one more chance, Whumpee. Swear fealty and you will be spared."

"I will never bow to you. No matter how much you hurt me, I will never bow before you." Whumpee spat at Whumper, their contempt and intentions clear.

"So be it, then. We will start with ten lashes and see how you feel." Whumper raised their arm and brought the whip down across Whumpee's back. Whumpee's skin split and flowed from the wound.

But they did not cry out.

With each crack of the whip, Caretaker flinched. With each crack of the whip the fearful faces of the crowd became more apparent. And with each crack of the whip, Whumpee's blood flowed, but they did not cry out.

After the tenth crack, Whumper stopped. "Anything you wish to say, Whumpee?"

"Fuck you," Whumpee said weakly.

With a growl, Whumper raised the whip again. "Such insolence shall not be tolerated."

Caretaker lost count of how many times Whumper brought the whip down. They lost count of how long Whumper whipped Whumpee after Whumpee went limp in the chains as they slipped into unconsciousness. They lost count of how many times they begged for Whumpee's life. Because they could only see Whumpee's limp, bloody body slumped over at the whipping post.

"Throw them in the dungeon with the rest of their squad. Offer them no aid. See if that's enough to change their mind," Whumper said when they finally grew tired of whipping Whumpee.

Caretaker didn't fight as they were dragged to the castle's dungeon. They watched in horror as two men grabbed Whumpee by the arms and roughly dragged them along to the dungeon. Whumpee didn't so much as groan or raise their head as they were dragged along.

"Whumpee, please, say something," Caretaker said as they were all tossed in the dungeon.

Whumpee had landed in a heap and hadn't made a sound. "Whumpee, please," Caretaker tried again. They weren't sure where they could touch Whumpee without causing further injury. They lowered themself to the ground next to Whumpee.

Whumpee's eyes were closed, but they were alive. Caretaker could hear their short, pained breaths as they got close to Whumpee. "Someone bring me some water from that bucket." Caretaker ordered. "We need to clean their wounds."

Whumpee didn't wake the whole time the squad cleaned and dressed their wounds. They didn't wake as the squad tried to lay them in a comfortable position gently. And they didn't wake as Caretaker stroked their face and murmured soft words to them.

Caretaker sat in the dark dungeon hoping Whumpee would wake soon. They stroked Whumpee's sweat soaked hair. "Please, Whumpee. Don't do this. Please, just wake up. We can come up with a plan. Please, Whumpee. Don't make us watch you die, too."

But still, Whumpee did not wake.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

[itsabouttimex2]

Drifting in Seafoam

(I don’t have enough ‘rare character’ bots, so I made one of Ao Guang!)

Suffering is easier to swallow when it comes with an excuse.

Ao Guang has long learned the worth of these words. It’s hard to break free from the relief they have brought him. If he can pretend that there was meaning to the loss that he’s suffered, to the grief he’s endured, then he can bear it with less tears.

His son, Ao Bing, slaughtered and burned by a Celestial Prince. His son. His little prince. His pride and joy. His darling child. His baby boy.

Gone. Reduced to dust. Left to drift in the wind until those motes of flaky grey had settled to move slowly across the waves of the placid eastern sea.

Sometimes, Ao Guang was sure he could feel precisely which current was carrying the remains of his beloved son, whose ashes would forever be cradled and adored by the sea in which he was raised.

“You mustn’t stray from me,” the dignified king instructs, one wrinkled hand reaching to trace the keratin of your draconic horns. “You must never leave my side, Y/N.”

He slowly takes your hands into his own, holding them tight. He’s been through so much, and lived for so long- and still hasn’t so much as mildly faltered in his strength.

“You are so very much like coral,” he sighs, holding tight to your hands. “So bright and colorful. And so, so very fragile. Drifting slowly through life as the world rages around you… I shall never allow you to come to harm.”

Still are you awkward with the forked tongue so “graciously bestowed” upon you, so the most graceful response to be mustered is a sloppy: “Yeth- yeess. Yes. Yes, and th-thank you, Your Highness.”

“None of that,” Ao Guang sternly instructs, brushing some of your hair behind one of your newly pointed ears. “I have taken you as my own, haven’t I? It is no longer appropriate to refer to me so formally.”

You don’t miss the slight weakness in his voice- this isn’t something the king “wants”. This is something he needs.

It’s feels like a personal insult to yourself, giving in so easily. But there’s no point in fighting, no point in arguing.

Not when His Highness now commands so much of your life, and in so many ways.

“Yes… yes, Bàba.”

In the bend of his knees, there’s the slightest bit of quivering. Slowly does the dignified dragon kneel to your level, cupping your cheeks in both of his old and worn hands.

Ao Guang is cold to the touch, but there’s an incredible amount of warmth in his baggy eyes.

He’s been crying, clearly. Only late at night, when no one but you is around to hear, only when you’re wrapped in his arms.

Not that you were awake for any of it. Guang had made sure of it.

“Very good, my child. Now…”

And there’s the moment you were fearing. That trailing beat. The slightest of pauses, where the king is either planning or plotting maybe even questioning next his actions… before going through with them in the simplest way possible anyhow.

“Allow me to make you another cup of tea.”

“Baba,” is your prompt little whine, draconic tongue flicking around in trembling worry. “My hornth- my horns still huu-urt. N’my ears.”

Compassion glimmers in the seafoam hue of his eyes, his gaze softening slight.

“…I’ll make it special for you,” he promises, using one worn hand to pat your head, “and mix in something to help with the pain.”

As he once did with Bing, so long ago. Boil something hot and sweet to soothe cramps and headaches and fevers.

Guang firmly takes one of your hands into his own, pulling you slowly along to the palace kitchen.

The polished tiles click under his boots, each step sinking a further feeling of helplessness into your heart. You always end up wishing that the journey would take longer- but the click, click, clicking lasts so woefully short a time-

And soon Ao Guang’s hands are around your waist, boosting until he has you settled on a wooden chair with restrictively snug armrests and a padded back.

This… this chair was brand new. And with how perfectly it conformed to the fit of your build, it was very likely that your “adoptive father” had it commissioned and custom-built for you.

At the notion of being treated like a troublesome or helpless child, your face reddens. “Ah, b-baba? The n-normal chair ith- is fine…”

“Hush, Y/N,” he starts, grinding several dubious ingredients with a pestle. They crumble quickly under his powerful hand, and are swept into a ceramic kettle with a winding draconic design.

Once Guang fills the lot and moves it over a stove, he continues to speak.

“You cannot hold yourself through the process of transformation, can you? I saw fit to provide you with some measure of comfort, little conch.”

The little nickname slips off his tongue with practiced ease- you clearly are not the first person he used it for.

Still, he says it so genuinely and warmly that it.. it manages to soothe you in some small measure- that is, right until you hear a tittering whistle- and the tea is done.

In small ways does the bereft man dote on you, even as you squirm and bite back a gasp at the dreaded squeal of the kettle. He mixes inside the teapot a combination of honey and sugar and some nebulous white powder, stirring the mixture together with a little silver spoon.

He plates the little white cup and brings it before you, taking the golden handle between two of his old fingers. As he did twice before, and was bound to do many times again- Guang lifts the rim to your lips.

“Little Conch… I cannot wait to see how you change next.”

[noirflms]

Can you do Sae x female reader x Rin? The brothers are fighting for her love

LOVE OH LOVE — itoshi brothers

i don’t do love triangles much but this is going to be comedic and not angsty ;) but here is your order‼️ ( i apologise for the later post )

itoshi sae is not blind to the ways his brother looks at you. sae sees the way rin looks at you with such a tender look in his eyes, the sparkle with a emotion that sae too knows well. it twists sae’s heart into a pit of turmoil — because no way in hell he’d ever let his brother up him with the romantics.

“you like [name]?” sae had asked out of the blue. rin is stunned. the younger of the brothers is in pure shock. rin had never once thought that his brother would ever notice such a thing. sae awaits on an answer, with each passing tick of the clock he itches for a conformation about his doubts.

“and what will you do, if i did like her?” rin bites back with the same energy. his eyes cold as he stares into the similar hues of his brothers. sae bites away at the inside of his cheeks as he glares down at his brother. he had been proved right and there is certainly no way rin was getting the upper hand here.

it is the hilarity of the situation that the two brother have been brought into. there stands a similarly too, and that is they like the same person, they like the same girl — that their heart is certain with the feelings towards her, but oh, so, oblivious are you, blinded by the fact that you cover their love for you with the glitter of friendship.

each and every time any of the two brothers had bet of that who would be able to take you on a date first. the bet always ends in vain for it is either of the two together with you, no dates, just sae, you and rin. their attempts are shutdown, their trial and error of unending methods are always blocked some way of the other.

but in the itoshi household, there is war. it is utter chaos. there are screams, there is hair pulling, there is punches and cut throat inner alpha male challenges, there is flying pillows and wwe body slam attack, there is also loud shout matches and choking instances, but none is the victor, for both either way will find their way into the chasm of horrors in love.

love is chaotic. it is hurting sae as much as it is hurting rin. it is like a rope around their neck that constricts them breathing whenever they feel for you. their love is binding in such a way that it has tied them down and not you. you walk unaware — you walk free.

but for love has got a grip on them, they fear that there is no escape and the least they could do is burn in this war. but it is weird to make you choose, of course it would be, you had seen the two since young, you had been together since young and there is no way in hell that you’d ever choose between them.

so they bite a bullet. they are and forever will be at war. but they would never make you choose, but they’ll try their best to forge their very own paths in your life. they will until the end keep trying, so you choose on your own, so you could break a heart and make one just the same. it is better this way.

it is this love, oh, love that makes one feel like a loser. it is love that has such a grip on the poor and fickle heart and it is this love that makes you insane, but for love between three is never lucky. the itoshi brothers will keep trying, until one day — there is one heart broken and one heart made.

NOIRFLMS 2024 ! all rights reserved - plagiarism is a crime , do not translate my works without permission.

[skeletondeerart]

You’re One of Us Now.

Sully Family x GN!Reader (platonic) | Word Count: 1816 Words

Tw: Minor mention of Self Harm.

Written before the release of Avatar: The Way of Water, some facts may be inaccurate. 

Synopsis: Having grown up in the confines of the RDA, you plan to fake your death on a data collection expedition to become one with the Pandoran jungle, yet you stumble across an unlikely family of Na’vi who take you in as one of their own.

The reader is seventeen.

Pandora was all I had ever known, having grown up in the RDA’s base I understood the dangers of the world outside. Yet despite this I yearned for the embrace of the forest, yearned to live as one of the people, to leave humanity behind and forge a new life among the Omaticaya.

But I was a soldier, a weapon of war against my will… and I wanted out.

Yet for now I have to pose as a perfect cog in the machine. I conform to Quaritch’s rules to earn the privilege to be selected for intel expedition. Whist being a soldier, I was exceptional in navigation and botany. I hoped that my skills would put me as a candidate for the upcoming expedition in three days.

Standing at attention on the training grounds Quaritch marched back and forth eyeing us all off. He was more imposing than ever, the towering Navi body he embodied was enough to strike fear into even the toughest of men.

“All right ladies and gentlemen, in light of last expeditions failure in attempting to gather subsequent data of neurotoxins used by the Omaticaya, it has resulted in the loss of five of your fellow soldiers.”

My breath was caught in my throat as Quaritch listed off the names of the next team, that was until the final candidate was called, it was my own. I held in my smile as I knew it was my only chance of getting out of the program.

After being sent back to my room, I lay down on my cot and watch the raindrops dribble down the windowpane, I watch the wind sway the trees and animals call out into the night as the as I finalise my plan to escape under the noses of my squad.

Before I knew it, I was wearing the oxygen mask and prepped with my botany data collection devices. Stepping out of the pressure lock we march single file out of the gates and into the wilderness. My squad and I marched for what felt like hours before we reached a zone reading high levels of toxicity, as the five of us spread around the location collecting data on the flora I call out.

“I’m heading North-west as I see a specimen not yet recorded on the data bank.” My squad not even rearing their heads from their specimens made noises of understanding, one even calling out to “Watch out for the locals”.

Treading carefully, I come to a stop once I was sure I was out of sight before preparing my diversion. Taking my pocket knife out I slashed at the tress nearby mimicking the claw marks of a Thanator and spraying Thanator scents around the area. I then nicked my hands and smeared my blood around the scene, kicking the dirt around to mimic a struggle and my data devices leaving them strewn across the ground.

With a last bitter smile, I took the blade to my uniform and sawing off the crest of the RDA and leaving it as the scene. I then ran off into the unknown leaving my old life behind, blissful tears accumulating in my mask as I free myself from the shackles of humanity and let my mind and soul become one with the forests of Pandora.

I ran until my legs gave in as I collapse into a field of plush grass and I gaze up at my surrounds, trees loom over me shielding me from the light rains that wash over the lands. That’s when I heard a gasp and scampering nearby. My head darts to my left as I watch carefully for movement. That’s when I see her, a young Omaticayian girl crouched and almost invisible against the bioluminescence of the forest she dwells in.

“Hi, I won’t hurt you, I’m not with them.” I call as I see her eyes dilate and ears twitch with recognition of my words.

“Your human.” The Na’vi states yet remains hidden.

“Indeed I am.” I smile gently but I make no indication of moving as not to frighten the girl away.

After a moment of reflection, the Na’vi stands and walks towards me apprehensively, she towers over my sitting form as I gaze upwards. She points to herself.

“I’m Kiri, and you?”

“I’m (Y/n)”

“-(Y/n), what a strange name” Kiri mutters to herself but I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at her words. Her eyes dart back to mine from my sudden noise. Kiri’s wide eyes trail down my figure, as if she was analysing me for any threat.

“KIRI, WHERE DID YOU GO?!” A man’s voice calls in Na’vi tongue from deeper in the forest.

“COMING FATHER!” Kiri calls back as she races towards the forest line, that was until her Father beat her there alongside two young boys trailing close behind, his eyes scan her form for injury as his eyes observe his surroundings… until his gaze lands on me. I sit there petrified of the look in his eyes.

Weariness and protective.

My breath catches in my throat, even if I wanted to run I couldn’t, it was like I was paralysed. He pulled Kiri behind him as the younger boys peeked out from behind their Father.

“Who are you and what are you doing this far in the Omaticaya’s lands” He spoke in fluent English.

“My name is (Y/n) (L/n), I was a soldier and botanist, I’ve abandoned the RDA to dedicate my heart to the forest and everything living within it.” I spoke with complete resolution despite my heart thumping in fear of what he would do to me.

He approached me as I remained sitting in fear that he would strike me down if I moved an inch. I gazed upon his imposing figure as his dreadlocks framed his stern eyes that flickered over my body.

His face contorted in a scowl once he spotted my pocket knife nestled in my boot. My gaze follows it, my gaze widened as I came to this realisation.

“Here.” I spoke curtly as I pulled the knife out and handing it to him keeping it closed. He took it and caught sight my wound on the palm of my hand.

“Your injured.” He spoke his tone softening as he gathered that I wasn’t a threat to his kin.

“Self-inflicted.”

His eyebrows furrowed in what appeared to be a hint of concern. I elaborated.

“I had to fake my death to escape… I used my blood to mimic a Thanator attack.”

“I see.” He said. He mulled over his thoughts for a moment before continuing.

“I’m Jake Sully. These are my some of kids, Kiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak.” He introduced gesturing behind him.

Kiri smiled back at me as she stuck up a little thumbs up in approval.

“So why did you leave the RDA (Y/n).”

I let out a sigh as my mind flashed back to my childhood within the RDA as I spoke carefully.

“I- I was born in the base, confined to its walls for years before being forged into a soldier. Yet despite this I always had a passion for botany – plants – I had yearned to be able to freely explore the forest and grew an appreciation for the Na’vi through the data files… I never thought I fit in… I felt like an outcast.” I took another breath to calm myself, “I understand if you want to kill me due to my affiliation, and I won’t hold any resentment to you or your people if you so decide.”

“Come.” Jake stated and offered me a hand. I accepted it without a second thought, my hand only wrapping around two of his fingers. Jake pulled me to my feet and proceeded to lead me deeper into to forest. Neteyam – I came to learn who was the oldest of the boys – spoke to me in curt English.

“Hello, I am Neteyam. You are short.” He stated, he seemed quite proud of himself for speaking to me. I smiled gently at his attempt of communicating with me.

“Hello Neteyam, I’m (Y/n). Nice to meet you. You are correct I am short.” I replied.

“I’m Lo’ak!” The shorter boy piped up. “I’m great at speaking Sky People language.”

“English Lo’ak. These Human’s speak English.” Jake corrected from his position from the front. Neteyam laughed and gave his younger brother a punch to the arm, which resulted in a yelp from Lo’ak. Jake spun around at the noise and glared at Neteyam as he deducted what happened.

“Apologise Neteyam.” Jake spoke in Na’vi.

“What!” Neteyam exclaimed.

“Now –” Jake growled baring his teeth. With a stutter Neteyam apologised picking at his fingers.

“S-sorryyy Lo’akkkk –” Neteyam apologised as he continued walking.

We soon reached a point where Jake motioned Kiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak to begin their accent up into the trees, they fly up the trunk with ease. Jake looked at me as I gape as how far the climb is. He then bent down and motioned me to climb onto his back. I gently pull myself onto his back careful not to bump his queue. We quickly reach the top and I see an intricately woven home nestled into the trees canopy. Standing on the edge of the home is Kiri, Neteyam, Lo’ak, an older Omaticayian woman I figured was their Mother with a small child in her arms… and a human boy.

“Neytiri, Spider, Tuktiery, I’m home” Jake called as he carefully slid me off his back. I nervously hide behind Jake at the look Neytiri was giving us.

“Jake why is there a human on your back.” She hissed in Na’vi.

“I can explain ‘Tiri.”

“Explain what? that you brought another human into our home.” My eyes widened as I try and quell the tremors of her wrath. The toddler – I assumed was Tuktiery – began to whine in her Mother’s arms as the commotion.

“They are not one of them, I can sense they are good, please trust me!” Jake begged his lover.

Neytiri glared down at me and let out a sigh.

“One chance Jake, one.” Neytiri caved.

“Thank you, my love.” Jake turned to me with a smile.

“You’re one of us now” He smiled his gaze falling down to my wound again. “Let’s get you cleaned up now.” Jake offered as he grabbed some medicinal berries, I had never seen in the data files before. My eyes shone and he crushed them into a paste and applied it before wrapping it in cloth. As he finished tying the knot Jake looked down to me and smiled softly.

“Your safe here, I understand what’s it’s like to not fit in.” He whispered for only me to hear.

“You were from the Avatar program weren’t you.” I stated in a whisper.

Jake could only smile knowingly at my statement.

“Welcome to the family.”

[kingalpharhys]

WHAT REALLY MAKES AN ALPHA MALE 2024

Joy Reid on MSNBC calling out all these crazy conservative men as beta males pretending to be Alpha men reminds me of some of you on here. Check yourselves, guys, because what you believe to be "Alpha 'tude" is actually beta AF.

Alphas are to lead and protect, not conform and put those around them in serious jeopardy. An Alpha Male does what's right, not just what's convenient. Alpha Males are not selfish men.

The modern conservative party are not Alphas.

You can not be an Alpha Male and back fascism.

You can not be an Alpha Male and oppress those around you—women, minorities, immigrants. It's all of us who make America the superpower it is.

You can not be an Alpha Male and vote Red.

By buying into the lying fear mongering of the American Right, you are buying into your own demise. You think they give a shit about you?

You think their rhetoric doesn't affect you?

They will come for all of us eventually, if given the chance. That's a promise I can make to you— if Donald Trump wins, America as we know it is done for. I know the system really well; that's a real guarantee. Vote Red for America's demise.

Voting is a right, and there's a reason they want to limit that right. The people love this country, and when we all vote, the conservatives lose big.

Voting isn't a right to be fucked with. Take this from a lawyer who gives a shit about all of you. I live my life nonpartisan, but by what's correct.

As a lawyer, I'm being so legitimate with you about this. This is a real threat to democracy.

This isn't a personal attack. It's the truth at hand. I just wanna tell you guys the truth.

I want you all to read this and take it to heart.

Do you wanna use your rights? Or lose them?

Trump says vote for him now, never vote again.

Is that really what you want? This isn't a joke.

This isn't fake news, this is what's at stake here.

Is it worth the internet brownie points to lose it all? Is it worth that sexy cumshot to lose your freedom? Is the big "Redpill" actually worth it?

This is still America, and you have that freedom.

You have every right to make these choices.

You have every right to take these actions.

Remember, your actions have consequences.

Playing around with this shit isn't cool, guys. It's not a game, a fetish, or a fantasy. It's real life.

Do you really think you're an Alpha Male for supporting the abuse of your fellow Americans? Are you rights just a fetish to use and abuse?

Again, this isn't a Tumblr kink. It's American Democracy. This is what our troops fight for.

You know, the troops Donald Trump hates.

For most of you, this should be enough food for though. Some of you, though, need it simplified.

So, if you have to, consider this vote to be the ultimate test of your masculinity. Let's be real:

Be a beta, and vote for Trump. Alphas defend democracy. Alphas vote for this country. Alphas vote blue, mo matter what the misguided say.

Alphas don't give a shit about ignorant opinions.

Alphas don't give a shit about outright bigotry.

Alphas don't give a shit about fetishized abuse.

Alphas give a shit about equality and ethics.

Alphas preserve and protect our Democracy.

Alpha Men vote for Harris-Walz. That's it, guys.

Be an actual Alpha Male and do what's correct.

I'm an Alpha Male, and I don't care who this offends. I'm a Patriot, and I'm voting Blue.

If you're the Alpha you claim to be, you'll do the same. If you're not, let's take this to the polls.

We'll see who's really a Patriot on November 5th.

[twistedastrology]

- The most painful Chiron placements -

----------------------------------------------------------

in my opinion-

to preface, all chiron placements are inherently painful, but these to me are the ones i have the most respect for in a way??

everyone knows chiron as the wounded healer, it represents our soul level wound that, once healed, is our greatest superpower.

so here are a handful of the chiron placements that to me are the most intense.

- Chiron in Aries/1st -

chiron in aries is absolutely terrifying to me and i have the utmost respect for people with this placement because this is a core wound of the self.

they go through life forever trying to find who they are and feeling like the world holds no space for them- ive said like a billion times that my biggest fear is losing myself, and that's the wound that chiron in aries has to deal with.

they might struggle with finding what they're willed to do and might feel like a mosaic of everything else around them instead of a real person and that is so scary to me.

once they manage to heal that wound though, they are fucking unstoppable and inspire others to find themselves just as they did.

- Chiron in Sagittarius -

this one is intense to me because it often has a lot of potential to remain unhealed- this is a wound that relates to spirituality entirely-

i dont know many ppl with this placement at all but i imagine they're scared or intimidated by spirituality as a whole to some degree-

these people don't know what the purpose of life is, they don't know what they believe in or If they believe in anything- the subject of belief and purpose in life is very sore for them.

when healed, this chiron placement bestows an intense sense of belonging and meaning in life, and it has a lot of potential to remain unhealed because spirituality at the very least helps you to find a true meaning in life, without adhering to a strict religion that makes one up.

- Chiron in Aquarius/11th -

im a little biased for this one because i have this placement but i can 100% speak from experience because of that.

this placement is easily the most agonizing one in my entire chart- for the longest time i felt like i would never find true friends, and sometimes that feeling will creep up again and it makes me absolutely crumble.

chiron in aries and chiron in aquarius are very similar to some extent because they both feel like the world won't give them somewhere to feel at home, just for different reasons.

chiron in aquarius makes you feel like you will never have anyone who truly understands you and that even if you do, they won't stick around like you want them to.

for some people, this can make them try to conform to somewhere they don't belong. thankfully i don't have that aspect, but it has crossed my mind multiple times in life.

this placement, when it's triggered by something, makes me immediately consider every possibility upon meeting someone new and forces me to give up my hopes until im proven otherwise.

im pretty sure it's the reason i have an avoidant attachment style as well as trust issues 😮‍💨

when healed though, these people have the ability to bring people together without snuffing anyone's individuality. they always respect people for who they are and the friends they do manage to find respect them for who they are.

much shorter post this time but ive been super tired all day and ofc had a chiron trigger so ive been a little cranky to say the least- but i wanted to write something for some reason so i figured what better than what i struggled with today 😮‍💨

if you have any of these chiron placements or just generally know your chiron fucking hurts really bad when it's triggered, i get it- but it won't be like that forever. the more we manage to heal, the more that wound is transformed into the most stable part of our charts.

if in general you're not doing well rn, again, i get it, but it will never be like that forever. that's not how life works. you won't be happy forever either, but if you were, there would be no value to it.

like the song i named this blog after says, "a lonely life where no one understands you, but don't give up because the music do"

- 🖤 -

[pubbamoon]

Destiny Matrix Observations

Hi besties! How are we today? So, I was wondering which type of a post I could make this time and I've got an idea of doing random observations. Since my content related to the Matrix of Destiny goes very well here, I decided to start making the Destiny Matrix observations. I hope you're gonna like it.

If you were born on March 14th, you may notice that these numbers (3 and 14) are placed in purple circle of your chart, representing the Crown chakra. This chakra relates to our life journey, our physical presence and how we are perceived by others. It is placed at the top of our head, representing our mind and wisdom too. Number 17 is also significant for the area of life represented by your Crown chakra.

That might sound weird, but whenever I analyze at least two people's Destiny Matrix chart and they have the same central number, they most likely have the same karmic tail too. For example, I see many people with the number 5 (The Hierophant) at the center of their chart having the "Warrior" karmic tail (12-19-7). Most of these people who have this karmic tail might tend to fight for their belief, to feel that they're superior that others or just get into conflicts. Interestingly enough, number 5 represents the conflict, along with the 5 of Swords and 5 of Wands.

Having number 7 (The Chariot) in Throat chakra likely indicates direct way of communicating. The Chariot is associated with strong will, ambition and taking action. On the other hand, number 18 (The Moon) in Throat chakra might indicate communicating in a more indirect way.

Whenever I see number 5 (The Hierophant) in someone's Root chakra, it's always a confirmation to me that this person grew up in a strict and religious household. The Hierophant is mostly related to conformity, religious beliefs, morality and tradition, while Root chakra might represent upbringing, ancestors and foundation. Lana Del Rey and Bruce Springsteen have number 5 in their Root chakra, for example.

I see many people with the 22-5-10 code in their money line working in entertainment industry at some point. If some of you with this placement don't work in entertainment field, I guess this placement may indicate working in unconventional work environment. Nicki Minaj and Ice Spice come first to my mind. They both have this code in their money line.

The combination of number 9 (The Hermit) and number 18 (The Moon) in someone's Destiny Matrix chart can indicate a shy, private, introverted and reserved person who may find happiness through isolation and being alone. The Hermit represents solitude, introspection and wisdom, while The Moon represents intuition, uncertainty and fears.

That is everything so far! Thank you so much for spending your time to read this observation of mine. I hope you liked it and resonated with the observation if you have any mentioned placements. Bye for now and be well!

Best regards, Paky McGee

[sarielsnowings]

Awoooo ✨🌙

Spooky season is for SELF INDULGENT ART ONLY.

The paragraph that follows goes into my own body image issues around body hair and transitioning so if you don’t feel like reading some personal thoughts you can skip it! ^^ I just felt like sharing a bit of the thought process behind this piece.

I’ve been getting more hairy ever since starting testosterone (to be expected, of course) and I’ve had encountered feelings about it. On one hand it’s exciting to see the changes but on the other, having always been a fairly hairy person (and presenting feminine throughout my teens) I had a lot of self hate and insecurity around my body hair. It’s dark and strong and grows everywhere, but getting rid of it was an immense ordeal since I’d have to shave very often (and took forever to do so) and more long lasting methods like waxing or any other form of pulling hair out would usually just cause injuries. I felt ugly and unlovable because of something my body was just naturally programmed to do in order to keep me safe and protected. I’m glad I could change my mind, slowly dismantling all the fucked up expectations and beauty standards my surroundings (family, friends, society) had implemented so deep in my brain. For me, realising I was non binary was a huge help, as I didn’t feel like I had to conform to the idea of “womanhood” anymore, but most people don’t have the luxury of that first encouraging push! If you’re a woman, or if you’re anyone who’s ever felt pressured to have a particular relationship with your body hair (and your image in general), you should still be able to live your life as comfortably as possible within your body. You shouldn’t have to feel ashamed of the way you look. It should be YOUR decision whether you’d like to shave or not, for aesthetic reasons or comfort or health or otherwise! YOUR choice. Anyway… a few years have gone by, I’m glad I have a much healthier and kinder relationship with my body in that sense. Then I started testosterone treatment (which has made me incredibly happy so far) and I noticed more hair growing, and some of these thought came back to haunt me. The insecurity and fear… but I’m not 13 anymore. I’ve lived through the anxiety and the stress and the insecurity and now I can face this with new, slightly wiser eyes. And it’s alright. It’s ok! I look how I look, it’s cute! It’s affirming. I love seeing the changes, I love discovering the pattern in which my faint beard grows, just like a musketeer’s, I love my happy trail spiralling down into my bellybutton. And if I ever want to change things up, I can always shave, on occasion, but I’m glad I no longer feel like I HAVE TO. This new stage of hair growth made me think of werewolves and their transformation, and you know what? Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m not a ghoul, a vampire or a skeleton this Halloween. Maybe I’m a fluffy wolf howling at the moon. A wild creature baring fangs, eyes shining in the underbrush. A soft, tail-wagging friend happy to receive head-pats... It’s all good. I’m alright.

[alterousuggestion]

how to explain what this is… it’s a bit of everything. it’s none of those things at all. you have to understand that this feeling, this limitless, boundless warmth, doesn’t have a shape. it can’t be held between my hands. rather it holds me. i could step off the cliff into it and rather than falling, i’ll float. i could submerge myself but never drown. it isn’t all consuming— it’s a freer fondness. it’s allowance.

so many times in my life i’ve felt desperation towards someone i thought might complete me. might disprove the many relentless thoughts that all that is out there for me is isolation unless i conform, unless i submit. and that’s not love, it’s a survival instinct. i want to survive, and i am afraid, and so this feeling of attachment was not for them but to quell that anxiety.

there are gentler shapes out there. and they’re not rooted in my selfish desire to survive, to prove everyone wrong. to prove myself wrong. gentle like a cool breeze as i build my life around myself. gentle like the glow of the sun over my skin. gentle like the melody i hear from a few houses down.

i exist. you exist. it exists. together and apart and in all stages of remembrance. what i feel grows in the space between us and around us. selfless and calm. an unshakable, unrefutable truth, that it is there. that you are there, even as the world presses on its survival. that i am here. surviving. not out of fear but out of sweet indulgence, like butterflies that dance in the gilded setting sun.

[sleeplesssmoll]

Reverse 1999 Analysis: Why do people follow Vertin?

There is a common theme among arcanists in the Foundation, Manus Vindictae, and the Timekeeper's department: desperation.

Note: You'll see snippets from my other posts and Asks in here since I used them as the outline. If you have deja vu, its me not you.

Before looking at Vertin, we should take a step back and consider the world of Reverse 1999 as whole. There is a long history of humans associating arcanum with demons, evil, and witches. Humans are the majority in Reverse1999 and consider arcanists dangerous due to their unpredictability and powers. The discrimination against arcanists precedes the Storm, however as Manus Vindictae makes the Storm public, arcanists realize they have yet another enemy in a world that doesn’t want them.

With that established, we can look at each faction.

Both Manus and the Foundation use fear and hysteria to herd arcanists like sheep. The Foundation weaponizes humanity’s paranoia against arcanists while Manus utilizes the Storm for their agenda. Both factions also steal the agency and freedom of their followers. 

The Foundation seeks out children because it's easier to train and indoctrinate them to die as martyrs for mankind. They provide basic necessities but they strip their martyrs of their identities and cultural backgrounds. Conformity is a way to instill control. Diversity introduces too many factors and inspires ideas. The Foundation uses lies and corruption to hide the abuse they put arcanists through in the name of humanity but they also provide “shelter”. To choose the Foundation is to choose to be a dog on a leash (unless you're human), but at least you'll be safe from the Storm and you’ll have a roof over your head. They also capture “rogue” arcanists like Regulus if they deem them dangerous.

While the Foundation parades as an important and noble cause for the peace of mankind, Manus Vindictae plays the role of “savior” for suffering arcanists. However, revenge and violence are at their core. You can even see this in their name. 

Vindictae: ceremonial act claiming as free one contending wrongly enslaved; vengeance 

While players usually see these extremists as evil mustache-twirling villains, it's important to look at the role they play in the bigger story. In Nouvelles et Textes pour rien we can see an example of propaganda where they airdrop resources and pamphlets near the Foundation. This is a common tactic used in real life by rebel/fringe groups. If they only caused destruction, no one would join the cause. Their acts of "kindness" are part of a bigger scheme to recruit people to their cause by playing the part of the hero. “You don’t bite the hand that feeds you," encapsulates this mindset. They must bring people to their side to raise an army and grow support for their war against humanity. They will provide the desperate with food and shelter. In return, the arcanists must fight in the name of revenge. Then they brainwash them to take away their agency. However the fear of the Storm and the discrimination against arcanists make them one of the few viable options for arcanists seeking shelter from a world that despises them.

Finally, we can look at Vertin. Why do people follow her? 

Many of the arcanists Vertin’s recruits are cornered and don’t have many options to begin with. 

Regulus recognized the fact the Foundation would chase her down no matter how much she runs, which isn’t the freedom she wants. Jessica is scared of isolation and rejection from the outside world. Joshua is a troublemaker who doesn’t conform and suffers consequences. These arcanists already have a motive/reason to follow her. Another thing to consider is what would happen if they did not? They would be stuck in their current situations for who knows how long. Vertin gave them a way out.

Another important tidbit is Vertin’s approach. In the most simple terms, Vertin listens to people. Unlike the other factions, Vertin hears people’s concerns and addresses them directly. She isn’t herding them with lies or manipulating them with fear, she finds the source of their troubles. She does not make false claims and outright admits she will do what is in her power.

Examples: She wanted to understand Schneieder’s anger and reason for obeying Forget-Me-Not even while under fire. She appealed to Regulus’s love of freedom and appeased Jessica’s fear of rejection by the world. She recognized Druvis’s grief and tried to show her a glimmer of hope.

It’s important to recognize each character’s decision and situation instead of giving all the credit to Vertin. She should be receiving credit for her empathy and understanding of the situation, but not the final decision the arcanist made.

Unlike Manus and the Foundation, she genuinely wants to save people like the other factions claim to do. She’s proven it from her scheme with Regulus after Sonetto appeared in the Suitcase and when she tried to fulfill people’s wishes in Tender is the Night. In comparison, you had the corrupt Foundation taking bribes in Chicago and Forget-Me-Not blowing up people’s heads. Also, Her allies witnessed her and Schneider sacrifice themselves in order to slow Druvis down so the others could escape. Sotheby, Druvis, Sonetto, and their men all witnessed this sacrifice. If we look back in the story, we can see Vertin's selfless acts are done in the presence of others, meaning they know more than just talk.

Vertin is a girl, not an institution. She still depends on the Foundation. She was an insignificant piece of a larger machine where her only job was to record the end of eras. However, she earned very powerful allies because she cared about their wellbeing. Suddenly, the Foundation gave a damn. They were unsettled by her little army. 

Vertin is only as strong as the people behind her and her crew took that risk. They chose to stay with her and fight for her because she fought for them too. Vertin was trying to keep them under her protection instead of letting the Foundation have their way, which is the conversation she had with Madam Z.

Later, Constatine ordered to have her held hostage in a coma and her legs bruised for good measure to hinder Vertin's efforts. Luckily she had Madam Z and Sonetto to pick up her baton.

Vertin is the hero in the player's eyes but in the larger picture, she’s a girl who dared to care too much in an unforgiving world. This is why I believe the crew needs more credit because they are not only fighting for their freedom, they want to enjoy it with the person who gave it to them. Dare say, they have their own motives and compassion. They made these informed decisions on their own so it's not fair to attribute everything to Vertin being a charismatic cutie pie (but she totally is and I get how it's easy to overlook their contributions since we see most of the story through Vertin’s eyes).

[brumeraven]

🦋: Tombstone Keys || dolls, commoditization, abandonment, conformity, mutilation, transformations, violence, gods?, angels?, curious to know if anyone gets the title since it's fairly obscure and opaque

It's funny, isn't it? What is and isn't fashionable. Changes with the weather sometimes, others times things stick like glue.

There aren't many dolls left anymore. Not much use for them since the gig economy took over.

The doll aesthetic, though?

So hot right now.

Can't go a minute in a sleepy village without seeing a girl with porcelain mask or clockwork gloves or something else "dollcore."

Sometimes a literal doll core, showing oh-so-coyly from a provocatively low neckline, elegant crystal facets nestled in between so much garish flesh.

I grimaced as just such a number went mincing by, sundress all embroidered with primroses, hair coiffed and topped with a canted, raffish arrangement neither quite fascinator nor derby hat. All that kept it from being chintzy was the price tag with more zeros than class.

It might have been a convincing display, if not for her airs.

While a doll might once have been bedecked so by its owner, any would have done all it could to avoid notice, even in such an getup. Certainly, none would have walked with so much...heaving and jiggling of flesh.

I brushed the thoughts away as I followed the girl down the street. There is, of course, no accounting for taste, and yet that saying is so rarely afforded to the more daring of us, those who actually broke norms.

Like it or not, dolls were "in." Or at least their aesthetic was.

Only problem is they weren't made anymore. Hadn't been for decades. On the other hand, given the number produced, it was easy to find old stock to break down for parts.

First, it was just the broken and worthless, of course, but then, well, fashion demands nothing but the best.

Flesh might decay, but dolls never did.

The thought brought with it bitter awareness of the once-taught skin that now sagged and slumped tiredly about my face.

Dolls just...went on existing, no matter what changed, untouched by the passing of the years.

Buyers started scouting estate sales and secondhand stores, desperate to find anywhere a well-maintained family heirloom might have been carelessly tossed out, hungry for the payday such a find could bring, like so many vultures...no, vultures ate carrion; these were predators.

Then, of course, the market caught on, as it always does, and deals became rare as the pickings became slim. There's only so long you can drain an irreplaceable resource before prices skyrocket.

The cheap knock-offs from overseas were simply no match for the real, vintage item.

This girl, well, she clearly had the means to afford it. The parts she wore were pristine, or had been before they'd been scalped. My fingers clenched, not as smoothly as they once had, true, but still with a force than belied their gnarled form.

It was revolting. Sacrilegious. Dolls had been marvels of engineering, masterpieces of ingenuity. Beautiful, yes, but not for porcelain shells and glittering cores. Beautiful because they were a thing made for a purpose, made to last, effective and graceful no matter the task.

The beauty lay in how they'd been made with such care by human hands, the ineffable meeting of the mundane and the sacred.

No, not the mundane...for dolls were not mortal, purposeless things, cursed with free-will and the capacity for sin. Dolls were created, yes, but divine.

Dolls were as angels, wheeled, mechanical things of inerrant purpose and inscrutable construction.

Angels on whom God had turned His back.

Angels now cast from heaven for the sin of having shining wings that pleased the eye, no matter they'd once been used to fly.

She turned to face me, eye vacant, smile vacuous, devoid of everything but life.

I shut my eyes, trying to forgive her sins. It had been her hunger that destroyed, if not her hands.

I didn't fear death as she did. Nonexistence was simply that. This fate, though, how much worse?

That a thing once given purpose might be hacked apart and used as but aesthetic trappings?

I could think of no worse fate.

A pity I couldn't inflict it on her. She'd been made for no reason but a grunting, sweaty collision of flesh, some tepid spurts of what passed for passion.

If anything, well, I'd done her a favor.

The thought amused me as I made the switch, peeled the near-putrid skin off my frame and replaced it with her face and hands.

Some creators found meaning in their creations, whether they wanted to or not.

~🦋