#i love resonable men who think before speaking

[whileurmine]

@th-angelical liked this for starters with dramatic brazilian lyrics

"You don't answer my messages, you treat me like fucking trash, you wouldn't fucking know if I was fucking dead for like a week." He counted it out on his fingers, too drunk to know better than not to say his thoughts out loud. "You know what? If you don't want me, I don't even want to fuck you anymore. I give the fuck up." Hands thrown in the air in surrender. Santiago grabbed the bottle this time instead of his glass. "You fucking suck, no one is your fucking friend. Loneliness is gonna be your reward for all this shit actually."

[nothorses]

You've made a lot of really great posts about transmasc experiences and struggles, and they really resonate with me! So I guess I want to in complete earnest ask: why the push for 'transandrophobia' when anti-transmasculinity as a term has been around for longer and faces little friction by comparison? I don't really *dislike* transandrophobia, but its meaning gets muddied everywhere from different directions, while ATM is pretty direct and succinct I feel. It's very clear that it's about TRANSmasculine oppression. I'm not against having a dedicated term at all, but the content of our struggles gets lost in the weeds of attaching kind of understandably divisive terms like misandry and androphobia in an attempt to mirror a phenomenon very specifically about misogyny; it seems more trouble than it's worth considering ATM is right there

I'll be honest, this ask is confusing to me for a few reasons.

When I started talking about transandrophobia around the summer of 2020, the conversations I was encountering were very much, like, a handful of people across Twitter and Tumblr (literally, a handfull!). I picked up "transandrophobia" because it was one of two words I saw in use, and the other- "transmisandry"- felt much less clear and much more contentious. It seemed super obvious to me that people would draw a line from "men's rights activists" trying to push this idea that "misandry", as a systemic oppression of men by women, to "transmisandry", and assume some ill intent where there was none. It's confusing!

"Transandrophobia" was the better of two options being floated at the time, at least in any conversation I saw. "Anti-transmasculinity" was not really a term I'd been made aware of, if anyone at all was talking about it at the time.

I have seen people pick up "anti-transmasculinity" more recently (maybe in the last year?), and this is definitely the first I've seen someone shorten it to "ATM". The people I've seen use that term have been mostly people who seem really new to the conversation, and the vibe I've gotten has been very, like, "we're the Good Transmascs, our word isn't dirty and gross like those other Bad Transmascs everyone hates. you'll listen to us now that our word is Good and Pure, right?"

Which is like... kind of frustrating, and kind of sad, honestly. I think these people honestly believe that if they just choose the right word, all the people who've been dragging me and every other transmasc talking about these issues through the mud for the last 4 years or so will really just stop & listen. If they can just say it right, these people- who have been relentlessly harassing and spreading lies about every single transmasc who came before them for years now- will care what they have to say, and will be willing to engage with them in earnest, compassionate dialogue.

If you just find the right word, all of these people will care about your hurt, your pain, and the suffering of your community.

It kind of breaks my heart. It's an incredibly hopeful, kind, loving way to view the world. It's compassion and patience and forgiveness that these folks are not being given, but that they so badly want to offer to others.

And at the same time, it sucks to be the Bad Transmasc. It sucks to have fought so hard for so long, and for the people I've been fighting for all this time to turn around and say, "you're gross, and dirty, and evil, and everything you've done is a mistake." It sucks to see the people I've been fighting for agree with the people I've been fighting against, and shove me under the bus in an effort to appeal to the people running me over with it. Knowing that the bus is going to aim for them once it's done with me just makes it sadder, yknow?

@saint-speaks wasn't the first person to ever speak the word "transandrophobia", but he is the one who coined and popularized it in its current form. And then he was dragged through the mud so hard and so brutally that some people think I coined it, just because when I defended him (too little and too late, imo) I withstood the mud-dragging better than he did (and gee, I wonder white.)

And now people take for granted that everything everyone said about hymn to justify that frankly fucking evil harassment campaign was true, actually, and we should abandon the word he coined and find one with purer origins.

If you honestly think "anti-transmasculinity" is just a more practical word, that's fine. I don't care what word we use. But they're going to cover it in mud, too. They're going to cover every one of you in mud.

Will you keep fighting for "ATM" once they make it the new dirty, gross, bad, evil word? Will you keep fighting when they drag you and everyone else through the mud for using it? Or will you agree with them, make up a new word, and never look back?

Please don't let us drown in the mud. We've been fighting for you, and we want to fight with you. Please.

[sunni-stuff]

I came, I saw, I liked.

—★! NSFW, MDNI, AFAB! Reader is in too deep.

part 3 here!!

Just one stream was enough to captivate you, leaving your panties soaked and craving for more. The man on the screen was unlike anyone you had ever seen before, and the promise of seeing more was constantly flashing and tempting you.

Without a second thought, you stumble out of bed and rush to your purse, desperate to grab your credit card before the man's performance ends. Your hands frantically search through the velvet lining of your purse until you finally grasp onto the plastic key that will unlock GD's show for you.

You rush back to your laptop, snatching it up and quickly typing in your credit card information with a sense of desperation that surprises you. It's crazy how one man can make you act like such a hornball. But he's not like other men; there's something about him that draws you in, and it's not just his impressive size. It was the way he spoke so few words that left you dripping wet like a leaky faucet. By the time your payment goes through and the paywall disappears, the live stream is over and he's already gone. You can't believe you missed it.

Although you were disappointed, his profile was now open for your viewing pleasure. There were only a few videos available, and the dates between them were inconsistent. Some had been posted months apart, while others had nearly a year in between. He didn't upload content frequently, which left his fans eager for more and made his live streams a special treat for those who managed to catch them before he disappeared again.

You crave to hear his voice a little more, so you click on one of his latest videos. Once again, GD's face is not shown, only the lower half of his body and a long-sleeved shirt. He leans forward with a closed hand, examining a pair of delicate red panties. You can tell by the way he holds them up that he is inspecting them closely. A dark chuckle escapes him as he shakes his head in disbelief. "When I said I didn't mind receiving gifts, this was not what I had in mind, love." His words are directed towards whoever sent him their lingerie. He speaks politely, his gravelly accent resonating in the dimly lit room where he sits.

"You didn't have to, but I do appreciate it," he says with a teasing tone as he lays the fabric across his lap. His fingers playfully trail along the material, revealing a hint of desire in his actions. "Were you thinking about me when you wore these? That's not very good, getting such a beautiful pair all wet." He chuckles at the idea, and soon there is a visible bulge in his pants. GD showed no hesitation, he pulls out his thick shaft from his sweatpants, the glistening drop of precum on the tip a clear indication of how turned on he is.

In a matter of seconds, he wrapped the garments around his member, the beads of precum coating them in his sticky fluids. The lace was now stained with a darker shade of red from his essence. GD's moans and groans escaped freely from his lips, not caring who heard and knowing it only added to the enjoyment for his audience. "You naughty little thing, sending me these. Is it a turn on for you to see my cum all over them?" His words were pure filth, nothing compared to what you experienced on his livestream.

Ring, Ring, Ring.

Your phone alarm startles you, and you see that it's already 10:30 PM. You know you should be asleep by now; tomorrow morning will be a nightmare if you don't get enough rest. You quickly turn off your alarm and shut down your laptop, getting ready for bed even though you feel the dampness between your legs.

Days had passed since everything happened, but the memory of GD still left you reeling. It was difficult to concentrate at work, as your mind would often drift to those videos. They seemed to constantly invade your thoughts, playing over and over again. You could almost hear his voice, whispering vulgar words that would make even a nun blush.

By the sixth day, you couldn't contain it any longer. After a long day of work, you quickly took off your pants, desperate for some sort of release from the mental torment that man had caused. Lying in bed with your laptop by your side, you clicked on a random video - anything would do, as long as he was in it.

The video was dimly lit and he wasn't in his usual spot. Instead, the camera angle was from above. On the bed lay a sex doll, only showing its waist down with visible hips, vagina, and ass. Its skin tone was similar to yours, but much more artificial and obviously made of plastic.

GD appears, and for once he was shirtless. His muscular arms are covered in intricate tattoos, and he even has a slight belly despite being in good shape. The broad expanse of his chest is proof of his fitness. The blur on his face only added to the mystery of the man who had captured your attention. You couldn't help but wonder what he looked like underneath.

He hovers over the toy, one hand engulfing his already hard cock. His fingers trace the curves and ridges of the doll's form, like a sculptor admiring his creation. "Such a pretty little pussy," he taunts devilishly, as if speaking to an invisible audience. But you know his words are meant for you, the doll a mere stand-in for your physical form in this fantasy.

What is he doing to you? You can't believe how quickly your body has responded; your hand slips under the waistband of your panties, eager to explore. Your fingers tease and caress your slick folds, already wet from anticipation. It's embarrassing how easily you get aroused, but you can't resist the urge to pleasure yourself while watching him on the screen.

He grits his teeth as the tip of his cock brushes against the entrance of the toy, letting out a sharp breath before plunging in with one forceful thrust. His hips collide with the toy's, causing his legs to tremble momentarily before he regains his balance. With both hands gripping the sides of the toy tightly, his fingers leave indentations on its surface as he moves forward relentlessly.

He's no longer gentle or teasing, but instead unleashes his hunger with unrestrained force. The man you saw on the live stream days ago is a far cry from the one in front of you now. His heavy breathing devours your thoughts, leaving you helpless. Your hand movements become more frantic, mirroring his fervent intensity. A shudder courses through you as he speaks through ragged breaths, "Fuck…you're squeezin' me so tight, dirty slag."

GD thrust ruthlessly into the toy, causing a slight bulge to swell in its plastic material. His impressive size stretched the toy to its limits, leaving a gaping hole each time he pulled back before slamming back in with a wet squelch. It was the kind of rough pleasure that could leave one sore and unable to walk the next day. GD slows down, letting out a frustrated grunt as he crawls onto the bed, his knees sinking into the soft mattress. He needs more pressure and better leverage to reach his peak. His large hands squeeze the toy firmly, as if trying to squeeze every last bit of pleasure from it.

His body stirs once more, this time with a slower and deeper thrust that hits at the core. If it were you the tip of his manhood would press against your cervix, it makes you wonder what it would feel like to have him inside you. You can see his expertise as he handles the toy, using his body like a skilled tool. A pleasurable tingle travels up your spine and you instinctively lift your hips to meet your fingers, which are now swirling delicious circles on your eager pearl.

GD's movements are precise and well-practiced, a result of countless experiences. He knows exactly what he's doing and how to bring himself to climax. If the toy in his hand were a real person, If it was you he would have you writhing under him within just three thrusts.

But you are not like him; your endurance is weak compared to his, like a small pool trying to withstand crashing waves. As your legs shake with the strain and a shattered gasp escapes your lips, you continue to stimulate yourself with determined fingers. Finally, your orgasm hits like a flood breaking through a dam, causing your walls to clench and release around nothing. Sweat beads on your skin as you take deep breaths, trying to calm down from the intense pleasure.

You take a moment to close your eyes and savor the intense pleasure coursing through your body. It was the most satisfying orgasm you’ve ever experienced, all thanks to a man whose face you’ve never seen, but whose dick is the only thing on your mind. A deep growl from the screen catches your attention and you open your eyes to watch. GD is still going strong, his stamina seemingly endless. His movements become erratic and uncoordinated as he nears his own climax. He no longer holds onto the toy, instead using his hands to support himself on the bed while he reaches orgasm. His moans are loud and intense, sending shivers down your spine as you feel them reverberate inside of you.

With a sudden burst of energy, he reaches his peak and releases thick ropes of cum inside the doll. The warm liquid fills it to the brim, and he can feel it pulsating against his skin. He pulls out, but the sensation lingers, and he continues to paint the outer skin with his spunk. The doll's previously pristine exterior is now marked by his seed and a pool of semen slowly seeping from the abused holes. His breaths come in ragged gasps as he finishes, though not quite completely spent from his intense encounter with the doll.

You couldn't look away, even as he continued with renewed energy after his earlier release. The arousing feeling in your gut resurfaced, but you were already drained, giving everything you had. You sit up and reach for the screen to close it for the night when a message from the community page catches your eye, posted by GD.

“Top Donator next stream gets a private show.”

♡! Thank you so much for all the love on my very first post! It really means alot and I couldn't be more grateful!

♡! Sorry if it seemed like Ghost wasn't talking much, I kind of see him as a more actions than words person for stuff like this! ૮₍ >﹏< ₎ა

˚ ✦ . Taglist (People who commented): @forgotten-lego-piece @lamebuddy @emmalandry

[bookshelf-in-progress]

For a Song: A Retelling of "The Lute Player"

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge hosted by @inklings-challenge, here is a retelling of a fairy tale known as "The Lute Player" (also drawing from similar tales within the subgenre of "The Faithful Wife", like "The Tsaritsa Harpist" and "Conrad van Tannenberg").

Alexander

The world wants me to forget my wife. In the enemy's dungeons, I am not a man—I am a prisoner and a slave, with no past and no future. At dawn, I wake and am driven to the fields, whipped and worked like a beast. After dark, I collapse onto a pile of straw in a damp stone cell, too tired to think or dream.

Yet I try to remember. My Tatyana is a queen, regal and poised. She has hair as red as autumn, eyes the deep blue of a mountain lake. Her hands are elegant, with long, slender fingers. Her lips… Her lips…she has two of them, I know, but whether they are full or thin, rounded or tapered…I must…I will remember.

Even when the details of her face fade, her voice is clear in my memory. Rich and low, as sweet and resonant as a clarinet. I can hear her making speeches, reading poems, speaking words of love. Most of all, I can hear her sing. Her voice is a priceless instrument that she can tune to sound like a nightingale, an angel, a church organ, an orchestra. Her voice was the first thing I fell in love with, and it seems to call to me across the miles, across the years, giving me hope that she still lives, that she loves me, that she is waiting…

I left my kingdom in her care when I went to war. She is a queen who can wield her power well. She is intelligent, decisive, clever, compassionate. She can keep my ministers in check, guide my people, and guard my throne. But how long can she wait? How long can they go without word from me before they presume I died in the battle at that mountain pass? Before the woman I love consigns me to memory and gives her living heart to another?

These thoughts torment me on a stormy morning when I lay trapped in my cell. The weather is too wet for even King Vulric to send his slaves into the fields, but without the crushing labor to distract me, my fears are free to run wild. What if my wife has forgotten me? What if she prefers to rule alone? An unattached woman, with beauty, talent, power—what use would she have for a wretch like me?

I fight the thoughts as fiercely as I once fought enemy soldiers. Tatyana is good and true. I love her with all my heart and soul, and she loves me in return. If I get word to her, she will come instantly, with armies, caravans, banners. She will pay any price to redeem me. I must never doubt. Never forget.

I drift into a restless slumber, tossing and turning on my straw, wincing from the pain in my sores. I am woken by a shout, and I look up into the face, not of the usual witless brute of a guard, but a sharp-eyed man in silken robes—a messenger to the king.

It seems the messenger has remembered that I am no ordinary prisoner, even if his king has forgotten. He offers me pen and paper and urges me to write a letter to my wife. I know he hopes for a rich reward, and I promise he will receive one when the letter is delivered.

I take up the pen and write desperately, urgently, eagerly, pouring out years of pent-up love and desperation, at last calling back to the voice that has called me for so long.

Remember me.

Save me.

Come.

Come.

Come.

Tatyana

The world wants me to forget my husband. Three long years have passed with no word from him. My advisors urge me to give the crown and my heart to another. Men of rank and ambition offer me rich presents, whisper words of devotion, urge me to strengthen the throne with a masculine presence. Yet I am faithful. My heart is wholly Alexander’s. If my husband is alive, I keep his throne for him. If he is dead, I honor his memory.

His face is before me always—his dark hair, his thick brows, his crooked nose, his deep blue eyes. I first fell in love with his hands—strong enough to swing a sword, soft enough to soothe a child. He is strong and gentle, just and merciful. When he heard of how King Vulric oppressed his people, he could do nothing but go to war, and he went with my blessing. I never thought I would be alone this long.

Every day, I wait for word. Every day, I pray that he lives.

The prayer is answered on a hot, still evening, when I sit alone in my council chamber. Just as I consider returning to my private rooms, a guard comes rushing in.

“Majesty!” he cries. “A messenger! From foreign lands!”

I rise from my seat. My heart sits in my throat. My life hinges on this message. In a moment I will know if I am a wife or a widow.

A messenger enters, dusty and travel-worn—he places a letter in my palm. It is written in Alexander’s hand. Sealed with Alexander’s ring.

I laugh for joy, and soon, I find I am singing. My lost husband is found. He has risen from the dead. My heart is full to bursting.

I open the letter and drink in his writing. He lives. He loves me. He is prisoner in King Vulric's dungeons, put to work like a slave, but he is alive—and he can be redeemed.

Alexander urges me to sell all I can for the ransom. Jewels, horses, palaces, land—I am given authority to sell it all, if only it means he can come home to me.

I consider the problem through the long summer night. I would gladly give all I own to have my husband again, but who could I trust to deliver the bounty? The ministers loyal to Alexander are not shrewd enough to arrange favorable terms; those shrewd enough to trade I do not trust to serve my husband loyally. I cannot go myself—King Vulric would simply claim me as another of his wives.

But what if I were a man?

By dawn, I have my plan. I will not travel with armies, with caravans, or even companions. They will only slow me down. I will cut my hair, dress in a man's clothing, take on the disguise of a traveling minstrel. My voice is a treasure beyond all the gold in the world; it will be enough to redeem my husband.

In the morning, I leave the kingdom in the hands of my most trusted advisor. By afternoon, I have clothes, food, and money enough for a long journey. At midnight, I cut my hair, and save the red tresses in a trunk for Alexander to admire upon his return. At dawn, I leave the palace, with a pack on my back, a lute in my hands, and a song in my heart.

I’m coming

I’m coming.

I’m coming.

Alexander

Somewhere in the world beyond my dungeon, my wife is waiting. This truth keeps me strong through the long days of suffering. My heart is with the letter, following its path. Now, it is on its way to her. Now, it is in her hands. Today, perhaps, she is on the road, coming to ransom me.

I imagine her coming in full royal glory, showing the strength of the throne to this barbarian king. She will be radiant in queenly regalia, backed by a full company of soldiers. Her love for me will let her do no less.

My strength means that the overseers work harder to break me. I work for hours in the fields, forced to pull a plow through the dry earth. I am lashed for the slightest infractions. I suffer sunstroke and starvation.

One day, when I stop my work to help an injured slave, I am beaten by the overseer and left overnight in the fields, too weak to run away. Once, this might have driven me to despair, but in the freezing moonlight, I nearly laugh for joy. What does it matter if I cannot move? My Tatyana is coming.

At dawn, a hired worker finds me and leads me back to the dungeon. I am cast onto my pile of straw, shaking and burning up with fever. I see Tatyana’s face in a thousand waking dreams. She is dancing. She is crying. She is tending to my wounds. She is traveling to find me. She is entertaining suitors. She is laughing at my belief that she would leave her palace to rescue me.

At last, I fall into restless sleep. Shadows and sounds move around me. Strange hands tend my wounds, give me water, force me to swallow horrid concoctions.

After who knows how many days, I wake into cold reality. My muscles are withered. My limbs are weak. A fellow prisoner bathes my head with precious water. I am awake enough to know my danger. The delirium has passed, but my body lingers near the brink of death.

Will Tatyana come in time?

Tatyana

Somewhere in the dungeons below this palace, my husband is waiting. I have traveled for weeks, across plains, rivers, and deserts. I have slept on the hard ground. I have foraged for food, bargained for water.

Now, I stand in the palace of the cruelest, richest king on Earth. The walls are made of marble, every fixture made of gold. Precious jewels are inlaid in every tile of every floor. Golden tables sag under the weight of a feast that offers meat, bread, fruit, cakes, and vegetables from every corner of the world.

At the top of the room, King Vulric sits in a throne of pure gold, swathed in brightly colored robes. Despite the feast that surrounds him, he looks less satisfied than some of the beggars I have met in my travels.

His dark eyes glitter as I approach. My travel-worn red cloak and lute proclaim me a minstrel.

“Name yourself,” King Vulric demands. “From where do you hail?”

I have always been an able mimic. I answer in the tenor of a young man. “I call myself Karol, and I have no home save the one the music brings me to.”

“They tell me that you play the lute.”

“I have played for kings,” I say. I played for my husband nearly every night of our marriage.

One corner of King Vulric's mouth lifts in a cruel smile. “You have not played for me. I am a lover of music, yet there is little anymore that can please me. If your song satisfies me, I shall count you greater than any of the treasures in my palace. If it does not, you shall be whipped and left for the vultures.”

In answer, I smile softly, and take the lute off my back.

I sing in a voice that matches the tones of Karol’s. The notes flow sweet as honey on my tongue, ring around the room as though carried by angels. The guests at the feast, who had paid little heed to the ragged minstrel, fall silent after the first notes. By the end of the song, tears stream down King Vulric's face.

When the last notes fade, I bow solemnly. “If my music pleases you, majesty, I will take a bit of food and be on my way.”

“No!” King Vulric cries, but it is not a refusal. It is desperation—a child begging for the treasure of its heart. “No, you must not go!" He rises from his throne. "Stay and play for me, and when you leave, I will give you anything you ask, even unto half my kingdom.”

For the next three days, I am King Vulric’s honored guest. When food and wine and luxury fail to satisfy, music helps him to forget the sins that weigh upon his soul. I play whenever the king desires, which means I sing nearly without ceasing. Each song pleases him more than the last, until I begin to believe he would gladly give his entire kingdom for the gift of one more song.

At last, I take my chance. As the king reclines in his chambers, I sing a song of the open road, of a voice that calls the traveler to find the true desire of his heart. The king gazes out his crystalline windows, as if he would leave behind this palace to follow the road I sing of.

“Your majesty,” I say, when I finish the song. “I have been happy to serve you, but the road is calling to my wanderer’s soul.”

The king begins to protest, but I stand firm, and he—helped by the song—seems to understand.

I say, “You vowed that, when I left, you would give me my heart’s desire.”

“I did," he says, "and I will keep my word."

“I want a companion as I travel through these lands. Let me have one of your prisoners. Someone who speaks my native tongue."

King Vulric says, “It shall be done.”

*

Where is my husband? I have circled these dungeons three times, but I do not see Alexander. In this dark, damp hell, every man is a near-identical portrait of misery. How will I find my husband while maintaining my own disguise?

At last, I decide to stop at every cell and ask a question in my native tongue. Most of the men stare blankly, or reply in unfamiliar languages.

At last, in the dampest, darkest corner of the dungeon, I stop at a door and ask, “Are there any here who speak the Northern tongue?”

Two men turn and look at me, their eyes bright, but wary. In a mound of straw, a pile of rags stirs. A head rises, showing shaggy dark hair. Torchlight flashes in a pair of deep blue eyes.

“You have word from the North?” he asks, his voice weak and husky.

I gasp. My stomach drops. I barely recognize my husband. His strong limbs have wasted away until they are no thicker than my arm. His face is sunken—almost skeletal. His face and limbs are wounded and scarred so I can barely see any unblemished skin. How has King Vulric reduced my husband, the warrior king, to this?

I want to weep, to collapse, to gather Alexander in my arms, but in this moment, I am supposed to be a man who has no home or family. I let my face show only the concern that any good-hearted human would show for a suffering stranger.

In Alexander’s tenor, I say, “I desire a companion who speaks the language of my people. King Vulric tells me I may take any prisoner I choose. You speak like an intelligent man.”

Alexander raises himself up on his arms. “I am no common prisoner.”

I nod quickly and tell the guard, “I will take this one.”

As the guard moves to open the door of the cell, Alexander says, “Wait!”

The guard stops. Alexander meets my eye. “You travel to the North?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

He gestures to the other men in the cell. “Take us all. These men are all my s—” I don’t know if he tries to say “subjects” or “soldiers”, but he amends, “They are my countrymen. I will not leave without them.”

This is not part of my plan. I came only for Alexander. I do not have food, clothing, money to care for them all. If we travel with strangers, I will not dare to reveal my true identity. I will not disgrace the crown by letting these men know their queen has dressed like a man.

“I only came for one. I don’t know if the king—”

Some passionate emotion sparks in Alexander’s eye—beneath his wasted form, my husband’s soul is still alive. “Ask. Either you take us all, or I will not go.”

My plan is falling to pieces, but I know that Alexander is right. I can not leave these men behind.

I send word to the king that the slave I want will only come with two other men; to get my heart’s desire, I will need to take all three. An hour later, I get my answer—my request is granted.

*

At daybreak, I lead my husband and his fellows out of prison. Alexander can barely walk, but he rebuffs me when I offer him my shoulder to lean upon.

Even in daylight, he does not recognize me. He has not seen me in three years. I have cut my hair so short its color can barely be seen. I dress and walk and speak like a man. He has no reason to expect that I would come to him in such a guise. Yet to have my husband so close to me, and looking at me with a stranger’s eyes, pierces me to the heart.

I dare not reveal the truth to him. In these lands, women never travel far from home, and no merchant will bargain with one. I must remain a man if I am to keep our group safe and fed. Alexander is never far from the other prisoners, and I will not risk my secret being overheard. Alexander will not be able to protect me should any of his fellow soldiers prove untrustworthy.

The other soldiers are stronger than Alexander. Sometimes I wonder if they will run away in the night. Yet I have food, I am taking them closer to home, and there is safety in numbers. More than that, they are loyal to Alexander. They care for him as they would a beloved father—helping him to walk, allowing him to rest, helping him to eat and bathe. I understand why Alexander wished them to bring them out of of that dungeon.

Eventually, we join a larger caravan traveling toward the frontier of our kingdom, and it becomes even more important to guard my secret. Alexander grows stronger, but he still refuses to look at me; I never see a spark of recognition in his eyes.

Alexander

Where is my wife? I received no reply to my letter. Though time enough had passed for an emissary to reach King Vulric’s palace, I saw no sign of her. I hoped perhaps we would pass her on the road, but I have seen no royal caravans.

Has she forgotten me?

I fight against the suspicion, but it seems more sensible as time goes on. There are many women who would prefer to rule a kingdom rather than ransom a husband they have not seen for three years. I do not believe Tatyana is one of them.

Yet...she did not come.

Because of her delay, I have been sold as a common slave.

My new master puzzles me. For a man who claims he wanted companions to talk to, Karol speaks very little. He has the red hair common in my kingdom, eyes nearly as blue as my wife’s. He is built like a minstrel, not a warrior. In full health, I could have overpowered him with one arm and escaped to freedom. In my wasted state, I can only meekly follow and wait for my next meal.

Yet Karol seems to be a kind youth. He is generous with meals, respectful with words. He is mindful of our weakness, walking slowly and giving us ample rest. He tends our wound with his own hands.

At night, sometimes, he sings for us. His voice makes me forget there ever was such a thing as war. He sings of peace, of safety, of home. Sometimes, as I drift on the edge of sleep, I can almost believe I am safe at home with Tatyana, that all my suffering has been only a dream.

Karol travels always closer to the border of my kingdom, traveling on whichever road and with whichever caravan will take us there more quickly. Sometimes, I dare to hope that his purchase of us was only an excuse to get us out of King Vulric’s clutches, and that once we return to my kingdom, he will set us free.

Yet day after day, week after week, he makes no mention of it.

One late summer night, we cross the border into my domain. I remember this road from when we first traveled to war. It looks different now—empty, isolated, quiet. Not a road to glory, but a road to a wife who ignored me in my imprisonment.

As much as it pains me, I can no longer deny the truth. We traveled for weeks through the countryside between my palace and King Vulric’s, and we've heard not a word of my wife. We have spoken to hundreds of travelers; no one knows anything about a foreign queen come to redeem her husband. If Tatyana had come, if she had sent an emissary, someone would know. Such news does not stay secret in this land.

I can not stay near my companions when I am suffering such pain. I wander away from the fire and find myself, for the first time, alone with my master.

Karol stands on a hilltop, looking over a vast plain. He is as mysterious and silent as always. Who is this lonely, wandering youth who buys slaves with a song?

I do not ask for his story. I have not told him mine.

Perhaps I should. Though I’ve no true home to go to, we are standing in my realm.

“Minstrel,” I say, “I am king of this land. Set me and my soldiers free, and I will see that you are well-rewarded.”

I do not think that Karol truly wants slaves. A minstrel has no work for us to do.

The full moon rises, huge, above him. He does not speak.

For a moment, I wonder if I have misjudged him. Perhaps he only seemed kind compared to my previous master. Perhaps he intends to sell us.

Karol turns, and his face softens. “Do not speak of reward. Go with God.”

With those simple words, I am free. No chain, no law, no obligation binds me to any man. My name and life have been restored to me.

I owe it all to this wandering stranger.

Suddenly, I find myself unable to abandon him on this hillside. I take his hand in mine—surprisingly slender, smooth save for the calluses of his craft. “Come with me,” I say. “You have been good to me. I will have you as a guest and see that you are honored as you deserve.”

A new light dances in his eyes. A smile tugs one corner of his mouth. Perhaps he does not believe me.

“I must take my own road,” Karol says. “When the time comes, I will be at your palace.”

He bows, takes his pack, slings his lute across his back, and disappears into the night.

I wonder when I will see him again.

Tatyana

I travel quickly. I take short routes, sleep little, move with great speed. Alexander is much stronger than he was. He will be safe with his fellow soldiers. I must return before him and make sure his palace is ready to welcome him home.

I could not tell him the truth in that final moment. We traveled together so long as strangers that it seemed cruel to reveal he had been mistaken all this time. Better to let him see me first as the wife he has longed for.

After only three days, I begin to recognize the countryside. Joy bubbles in my heart as I see the river, the city, the palace. Before I approach the gate, I buy myself a gown from a dressmaker, cover my shorn hair with a veil. I do not look like a queen, but I look like a woman. For the first time in months, I move and speak as myself.

I am welcomed back with joy and with confusion. I am asked where I have been, what I have done. I only say, “The king is coming. We must be ready.”

I check with my ministers and learn the kingdom is running well. I order the palace cleaned, fine foods prepared. When the guards inform us the king has been seen at the city gates, I run to my room and dress myself in my finest gown. I dress my hair with diamonds, wear gold necklaces, earrings, rings. I want Alexander to see me first as a queen and his bride.

Though I saw him only days ago, it feels as though I have been waiting years. I have traveled with a stranger who did not know me. Only when Alexander comes through the palace gates will I be reunited with my husband.

I wonder when I will see him again.

Alexander

I travel quickly. My men and I have regained much of our health, and we are in familiar country. I must hurry home. I have been away for nearly four years. Even if my queen has not been waiting for me, my country has.

The people rejoice as I enter the city. I accept their praise, but do not linger. I hurry toward the palace, a new thought giving me hope. Perhaps Tatyana is not there. Perhaps she is still on the road, still searching for me.

When I step inside my gates, a woman runs down the steps of the palace. She wears a gleaming green gown, an elaborate beaded headdress. She is laden with gold and jewels.

Tatyana.

She never stirred from the palace. She lived in luxury while I rotted in a foreign prison.

Tatyana throws her arms around my neck and weeps for joy. The lie disgusts me.

Coldly, I lift her arms off of my shoulders. I hold her away from me and look her in the face. Her expression is a frozen mask—sorrow, heartbreak, fear.

She was always an excellent actress.

I turn her around so she faces the assembled crowd. “Behold a faithless wife!” I cry. “She throws her arms around me now, but when I wrote a letter begging for her help, she did not lift a finger!”

I release her, and she falls to the ground. I stride toward the palace, fury giving me strength to stand as tall as I ever did.

“Alexander!” she cries.

I do not look at her.

Tatyana

My husband does not look at me. I rush after him, calling his name, but he never turns his head. He disappears into his chambers and closes the door in my face—further from me now than he ever was in a foreign prison.

After so many months of deception, I was overjoyed to face him as myself. All the tears—all the sorrow, terror, fear and joy—of the past years poured out in a tidal wave of honest emotion. I was so glad to—at long last—have his shoulder to cry on.

I had built up this moment into a beautiful story, the glorious end of all our troubles. Now I know it is a fantasy—my castle in the air has fallen and shattered into nothing.

Because Alexander has built his own story. He is a man of action, honest and forthright in all his dealings. He expected to be openly redeemed, to be brought into his kingdom in glory. He does not understand trickery. His expectations have blinded him to reality—even when he stared me in the face, he did not see the truth.

I have a share in the blame. I told myself I kept my secret for my safety, for the sake of the crown, but there is part of me that only wanted to save my pride. I feared the shame I would face if it was known that I'd spent these months dressed as a man. I had hoped to delay the moment when Alexander knew of what I had done.

I have delayed far too long.

I rush to my own chambers. I throw off my gown, my jewels, my veil. I put on my traveling cloak and once more pick up my lute.

It is time to put an end to all deception.

Alexander

I never knew that any man could suffer such sorrow. After war, captivity, slavery, starvation, illness and near-death, I had hoped that homecoming would be the joyful end of all my trials. Instead, I have learned that betrayal—the lost love of a beloved wife—is the worst suffering a man can endure.

I had imagined her waiting for me. Weeping for me. Selling all we had to bring me home. Instead, I found her in silks and jewels, as comfortable as if she has never left the palace, as if I had never been away. There is no sign that she spent a single coin for my sake.

I could have come home as a king, dressed in royal robes with a queen at my side. Instead, I returned alone, on foot, no better than a common beggar. The shame of it overwhelmed me the moment I saw my wife in royal finery. She did not even mourn for me. All these months, I drew strength from the thought of the love waiting for me. It crushes me to know how wholly I was deceived.

I bathe and wash away the grime of travel. I shave my face, cut my hair, dress in royal robes. Then, for the first time in nearly four years, I see my reflection in a mirror. The man looking back at me is a stranger. No longer the warrior king and beloved husband, he is weak, wasted, heartbroken.

In my council room, I gather my ministers. I learn that they, at least, have been faithful. The kingdom has been well-stewarded in my absence.

I wish I could bring myself to care.

“Sire,” my steward says. “The servants say you have not spoken to your wife.”

I scowl. “I will not see that woman.”

“But sire, you judge too harshly—”

I laugh in cynical disbelief. “I am too harsh? How ought I judge a woman who left me to rot in a foreign prison?”

My steward says, “The day she received your letter, she left the palace. She only returned yesterday. No one knows where she went.”

My anger erupts. “She did not come in search of me! I was freed by a minstrel! A stranger showed me more compassion than my own wife! He I will remember with gratitude all my days, but my wife, I will not speak of.”

My ministers murmur, troubled by my outburst.

I storm out of the council chamber. I have no heart for politics today.

In the hall, I hear music. The sound of a lute, playing a very familiar tune. Suddenly, I am not standing in my palace, mourning a faithless wife. I am sitting by a campfire in foreign lands, safe among friends.

Despite everything, I smile. The minstrel kept his word.

Karol emerges from around the corner, looking just as he did on the road. His cloak is brightly-colored and travel-worn. His lute is now tucked under his arm. Under his breath, he hums the song he often sang as we traveled on sunny days.

I take his hand heartily. "Karol! You came!"

He gives a characteristically enigmatic smile. "I told you I would come to your palace at the proper time."

Here, at least, is one who I can honor. I take his hand and lead him into the council chambers.

“This,” I tell my ministers, “is truly a faithful friend. He released me and my men from prison and helped us all get safely home.”

While my minsters make polite greeting, I turn to Karol.

“My friend,” I say. “I said that I would reward you, and I will keep my word. Ask me for anything, even unto half my kingdom, and I will grant it to you.”

Karol bows his head. “Your majesty,” he says, “I want only the reward that I asked of King Vulric.”

I frown. “I keep no slaves,” I say.

Karol shakes his head and smiles. He places his lute on the floor, unlatches his cloak, and lets it fall to the floor.

I witness a transformation. The minstrel’s stance, face, voice, all shift. His aloof eyes light up with emotion. The stiff lines of his face soften into curves. The cloak reveals a woman’s gown, and the voice, when he speaks, is the well-remembered voice of my wife.

“I want only you,” Tatyana says.

Her words are like light breaking through clouds. The sorrow, terror, heartbreak of the last years fades away, thrown off like her minstrel’s cloak. All the time I thought myself abandoned, Tatyana was at my side. Not a faithless wife—the most faithful wife who ever lived.

Never, never, never have I been so glad to find that I have been a fool.

I laugh as I have not laughed in years. The sound of it rings through the chambers like a song. I throw my arms around my wife and press her to my heart.

“You shall have me,” I say, sealing the promise with a kiss. “For as long as we both shall live.”

Tatyana

I never knew that any woman could know so much joy. Alexander is radiant, singing my praises to all the world. For seven days we feast, celebrating his return and my heroism in saving him. Alexander begs my forgiveness over and over—for how he shamed me, for how he rushed to judgment, for ever doubting my faithfulness. I take joy in forgiving him, and, when we are alone in my chambers, I ask him to pardon me for keeping him ignorant of my true identity.

“You did what you must,” he says. “Do not apologize for being wiser than I am. I would have had you sell our kingdom to redeem me, and instead you bought me for a song.”

I laugh, then kiss him tenderly. “You are worth much more than that.”

He caresses my faces, strokes my shorn hair. The kiss he gives me tells me I am the greatest treasure he could have. I return the kiss to say the same about him.

Our love is priceless.

Never again will I let him doubt it.

[foxx-queen]

thinking about the fragment of mythal's spirit finding flemeth. 'she was betrayed as I was betrayed'. morrigan confirming the version of flemeth's history that saw her living in poverty, sold by her husband to a lord who desired her. the parallels to the warden city elf origin. morrigan telling us it's easy to imagine how flemeth and mythal related to one another. 'betrayed by those sworn to love her'. mythals murder at the hands of her fellow gods, the figures that were her husband and children in dalish legends. 'mens hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature'. mythal being a fragment of who she was, split from herself, lost, and she 'clawed and crawled her way through the ages' to a woman betrayed and wounded and left for dead locked in the dark.

thinking about what that moment might've been like for both of them. flemeth lifting her head to a spirit reaching out to her. the fragment of mythal finding a place to rest in a soul that resonated with her. 'your grief must come later... in the dark shadows before you take vengeance, as my mother once said'. did flemeth mean mythal, when she spoke of her mother? was that something mythal said to flemeth in the moments before they became one? 'duty must come now'. duty to the world? flemeth carried mythal through the ages, nudging history when required, aiding and preparing the world for a reckoning she knew would come. 'considering what the world has done to me, I have already done more than it deserves'. the moments in history that could be read as mythal attempting to mend a world she helped to break, and wanting to protect the world that formed from what was broken from being destroyed all over again. she couldn't have done that without flemeth, who had no hand in breaking the world to begin with.

'i am but an old woman, whom the world has largely forgotten'. thedas as we know it wouldn't be there without flemeth. she was murdered, and solas painted her as an elf because he saw her as no more than a vessel for his oldest friend, and refused to acknowledge that he was murdering her too, because she was just a fragment. they'd lived for centuries as one person. kieran mentions that he feels lonely without the old god soul. it must've been lonely, watching and guiding the world as she did. maybe she doesn't hide that shes an old woman because of how the years might've weighed on her. 'regret is something I know well'. mythals regrets are never spoken of, because we never get the chance to hear them. would one of them have been burdening a mortal in such a way? or is that not something she could regret, because of how she came to her in the first place?

'regret that she would never see me again'. maybe it is a little jarring for players to hear morrigan speak of flemeth without all the vitriol we've come to expect. to hear something like sadness when we know what their relationship is like. but we saw flemeth's face when morrigan told her that she would not be like her, in her instant defence of kieran. it's been ten years since morrigan absorbed flemeth and mythals combined memories. she knows everything she's done and everything she's suffered, and how she might've felt about it all. all those regrets. sometimes we don't have to forgive the people who've hurt us to understand them. sometimes we love them despite it all.

[shysuccubusstuff]

day 20: Corruption kink + Corruption kink+ Virgin! Couple + Praise kink + (slight) Face fucking + Squirting + Exhibitionism + Praising – Foreseer! Zayne

Content: Religious topics (This is heavily influenced by what I know about the Catholic church (like how the ceremonies work and stuff) but they are not related, as this is only focused on Astra as God. Just to let you all know.) + Corruption kink + Virgin! Zayne + Face fucking + Foul language + Praising + Exhibitionism – Foreseer! Zayne. Non proof-reader.

Summary: Just Foreseer! Zayne but instead of being isolated and being a demigod, he is the head of the Church who worships Astra.

Word count: 2390 words.

Note: Can you imagine I finished all my essays less than a week ago and I already have a lot of stuff to do? So sad… Btw, I just love pretty men crying with their puffy lips and slightly reddened eyes, specially when the reason is that they love too much a certain person.

You had been going to the same church for several months, always one of the first who arrived, with your sweet smile as you helped the elders to climb the stairs to get to the church. You sometimes even actively participated in the mass, reading the fragments of what was said about Astra with your soft voice resonating all around the believers.

It all went downhill when you finally met the head of the Church.

A young man with black hair and green eyes, quite tall, slim, with slender hands a cold exterior. He always seemed busy, either by preparing the ceremony or by helping different activities promoted by the church. He was always kind with the rest of believers, but you always felt as if something was always between him and the rest of the believers. That’s why you tried to approach him; Didn’t he feel lonely? Always rushing around the corridors with his robe fluttering behind him, his hands completely filled with many heavy books as he looked exhausted.

So, one night, you decided to go to the church alone in order to confess. You knew that he would be inside the confessional as the old ladies had been gossiping about “a deep and rich voiced priest”. You held your breath before entering inside, pressing the small medal that you always held close to you. The church was completely silent as you entered, your steps resonating all around the empty hall. You sat down inside the small cubicle, your voice trembled as you tried to speak:

“I… I want to become someone close to you, Foreseer.” Your voice left you as a small whisper, barely audible even for the man that was next door. The silence was all that answered… You waited a few minutes, your heart pounding like crazy inside your chest making you feel way too conscious. “…Foreseer?” The man audible gasped, coughing for a moment before finally answering.

“What do you mean by that, dear one?” He tried to keep his cold exterior as his heart began to race.

“I mean I want to become friends, being friends is more than enough. I… I feel that you are always alone, and if I could grant you even a single moment of comfort, that would be enough for me.” Zayne’s face flushed, his mouth attempting to form the most charming smile you would ever be able to see.

“I do not think that this is the place nor the time to say something like that, I hope you are aware of my position, as well as my responsibilities to the Church.” Zayne got up, just about to leave the confessionary, but your warm hand stopped him on his tracks.

“Please! I know I may be acting as a child, but I truly desire the happiness of all of the members, that includes you, Foreseer. I just can’t turn my head and pretend that everyone is doing fine when I always see you exhausted around the church! You may think that you’re being sneaky, but I have seen your eyebags as you give the sermon. Please, just---” Zayne got free of your grip, leaving the cubicle in a rush, and just as you were about to leave, his hand pulled you out. What you encountered was not what you expected. It was Zayne, but he looked so different. His face was slightly flushed, with warm tears running down his cheeks. You looked at him completely baffled, did you hurt him that much? Your hands run to his face, not caring about the great difference between your status, you wiped his tears with your sleeves, but this just caused him to cry even more.

“Do you even know what you are doing? Since you started to come here, everything in my life is going wrong. Astra has been acting completely spoiled, always giving me even greater tasks while reducing the time I have to do it, my brothers have suddenly been sent to different churches, my… my head is unable to focus, even my chest has been strange, and all of this started since you came here with your pretty face, and that cute smile and with your kindness and---” Zayne stopped himself before feeling even more embarrassed, his hands trembling as he got his hand closer to yours. “Were you sent by Astra to tempt me?...” His eyes were crystallised, his nose slightly red as he tried to stop himself from crying.

“Zayne! What’s wrong? Did I hurt you that much with my selfish request?” You took his hand, embracing him as his whole body trembled.

“I’ve been trying… I even avoided you after the mass, I just couldn't, I kept thinking about you all the time, even while I kept myself secluded inside that cold room, a single thought about you was enough to set my heart ablaze. I can’t keep on denying it, please, I need you, I will do whatever for you to accept this impure me. Just---” Zayne’s knees fell to the ground, warm tears falling down his cheeks while his hands kept grabbing yours.

“Zayne, please look at me.” You took his face with both of your hands, moving his head so he could look at you. “I love you, you are not impure, you are simply a human being, it is impossible for us to live without feeling anything at all. You don’t have to punish yourself by secluding yourself, I’m sure Astra would never want that.” You kissed his forehead, as he buried his face against your stomach.

“I love you… I love you so much… I love your smile when you help others, I love the fact that you come here every single week to pray and help me with all the children… I love you.” Zayne got up, taking your face between his cold hands and kissing you, a single and cast kiss, just enough for him to deliver his true feelings for you. Suddenly, his kisses started to get faster, leaving little to no time for you to breath.

“Zayne… We shouldn’t---”

“I’ve been restraining myself for far too long… Please.” You leaned your hands on Zayne’s chest, allowing him to keep on kissing your lips. His breath soon quickened, his face blushing till the tip of his ears. Zayne was about to speak when you suddenly heard the heavy door of the church being opened, rushing, you pushed Zayne back into the small confessionary, covering his mouth as you tried to keep as still as possible.

“Dear father? I came for guidance regards a certain topic…” The voice of a man echoed around the four walls, his steps moving closer towards the confessionary. Zayne took your hand off his mouth, whispering for you to let him do his duty.

“Enter the confessionary, dear one.” His voice went back to his usual tone, almost fooling you if it wasn’t because of the hard feeling that kept rubbing against  your  stomach.

“I fear I may have committed a grave sin… These past weeks I have become quite infatuated with a certain sister… She is always so kind with all of us that I can’t help but be charmed by her…” The man that entered kept rambling about that great woman inside the community, suddenly, a bold idea struck you. With great care, you moved the heavy clothing concealing Zayne’s body, not stopping even if Zayne darted you a hard glance and his hands took yours.

“What are you doing…? Be careful with those sinful hands---” His sentence was cut short, as your hands crawled over his stomach, gradually making your way into his undergarments. Zayne coughed, his body tensing as he tried to keep his mouth completely shut.

“Are you ok, father? Do you need---?”

“No need, you can proceed, I am listening.” Zayne’s hands pushed you down, trying to keep you still. Of course, that would not work for him, as you lost no time, taking his length out of his underwear and starting to kiss the tip of his length. His breath quickened, as his hands clasped your head, trying his best not to push your head to take his full length.

The man’s blabbering kept on going as you slowly took most of Zayne’s member, using one of your hands to masturbate what was left out. You used your tongue to play with his tip, while changing the force of your sucking.

“So, I believe I have explained to you the whole situation, what do you think I should do, father?” Zayne opened his eyes, his jaw clenching as he cursed under his breath as his grip on your hair strengthened.

“I… I would advise you to avoid her, after all, she does not seem as interested in you. Nevertheless, do not lose confidence, as you will find your chosen one without failure.” The man thanked him, leaving the cubicle and closing the door of the church for the night.

“Did you have fun?” Zayne looked down at you, his brows slightly furrowed. “Well, you are probably far too busy to answer.” Zayne grabbed your head, suddenly pushing it against his stomach, forcing his whole length inside your mouth. You gagged as a few tears formed in your eyes, your mouth suddenly being filled to the brim, forcing you to try your best not to choke on his heavy load. “Oh… you did so good, dear. It is now my turn to satisfy you, am I wrong?” Zayne clothed himself, then lifting you in a bridal style and letting you sit on the central table in the church.

“Zayne! Wait, this is a sacred---” Zayne cut you down, smiling as he spoke with a playful tone.

“Oh, sure a confessionary is not, right?”  Your face flushed, allowing him to spread your legs open as he kneeled down, his face getting closer and his lips leaving soft kisses against your panties. His hands kept rubbing the inner part of your thigs while his mouth started to make a slow trace towards your clit, giving it a few licks before moving away, his hands finally getting rid of your pantyhose together with your underwear, tossing them to one of the chairs close to it.

“Let me pleasure you, my love.” Zayne kneeled again, moving your whole body closer to the edge, his warm breath hitting against your entrance. His tongue started to lick all over your lower half, the pace being painfully slow, not rushing even as your fingers pulled slightly from his hair, giving you a warning look before going back to his own duty. Your legs twitched a bit as Zayne’s tongue kept torturing your poor clit, but this had only started, as his mouth suddenly started to suck on your clit, making your eyes roll back and your legs clasp against his head.

“Wait! I… I feel really weird right now Zayne, maybe we should stop before---” Zayne sucked harder on your clit, making you bite your hand as a poor attempt of keeping your mouth shut.

“Just let me pay your act of kindness, then I will let you go, understood?” His voiced sounded demanding, so you complied, allowing him to make a mess out of you. His tongue went back to that special place, warming you up again by making simple motions with his tongue, then starting to suck on your clit again.

As you slowly got used to the immense pleasure, one of his hands made his way to your entrance, one of his digits slowly entering yourself. At the same time, his other hand started to create a bit of pressure on your lower stomach as his fingertip kept rubbing against your G-spot.

“Zayne, Zayne, I can’t do it anymore, I feel really weird...!” Instead of slowing down, Zayne’s movements only hastened causing that knot in your lower half to finally break. Before you were able to think, some warm and clear liquid were expelled as you reached your first orgasm. You felt completely ashamed, trying your best to get Zayne’s hands away so you could try and make a run for it. This did not work, as he quickly comforted you.

“Dear, that is not what you think it is, calm down.” He kissed your forehead, while his clean hand caressed your hair. “It’s ok, my love. I should have warned you about this type of thing, I focused too much on pleasuring you, I do apologise. Have I angered you?” He looked at you like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your lap as if trying to make himself look smaller.

“How… how did you even know about this? Aren’t you supposed to be pure?”

“Despite what one might think, our religion does not forbid this type of… physical encounter, as long as we do plan on sharing a romantic bond.” He started to kiss your stomach, peppering it with kisses and suddenly lifting you up. “I shall prepare a bath for the both of us, there is no need to rush our current relationship.” He kissed your forehead once again before taking you his private place, letting you catch a glimpse of the extremely cared garden filled with jasmine flowers. He walked until he reached a wooden door, opening it and letting you sit on his bed. “Give me a second.” You could hear the water running as he filled the bathtub, your mind slowly drifting to sleep as you felt completely relaxed on his company.

[rhiaghostriley]

MDNI - Ghost × reader - toxic relationship

The loud thud resonating in the mess hall draws all the attention on it, including yours. As you turn your head toward the noise to see what caused it, you freeze on the spot : Lieutenant Simon Riley, looking at you with furious eyes, his hand deeply buried in the plywood next to his head. Looking at you, and the guy you are openly flirting with.

Dammit.

Before you can even think about moving, he’s gone. But you know you will hear about him soon enough.

Fuck it, after all. You were doing nothing wrong. You were not together anymore. And it was his call, this time. This hundredth time… You don’t even remember how it started, to be honest. In the beginning, he was the stern, cold, forever masked Lieutenant of Task Force 141, and you were nothing more than one of the new recruits. But you made a joke during a meeting, and it made him smile, a rare occurrence for him. He got intrigued, wanted to know more about you. And from a few drinks at the nearest bar with the team, to asking him his opinion about the outfit you should wear, you’ve grown closer. And you’ve grown to know the man under the mask. With all his good and his bad sides. A lot of bad sides. But red flags are just flags when you look at it through pink glasses, right ? And you would have managed to stay away from him if the man wasn’t able to make you cum just by looking at you. But God, in his infinite cruelty, gave him the power over your body and your feelings. So here you are, wondering whether you should go after him or not, even when you know it will end badly. And remembering the first kiss…

“Ya gonna be late for meeting.” A husky voice behind you, one which can belong to only one person, especially with that thick British accent.

You smiled, blowing out some smoke from your cigarette. “Gonna report me, Lt ?”

“Don’t give a fucking shit.” He sat beside you on the bench. “Ya too young to smoke that much.”

You giggled, looking at the cigarette between your fingers, then held it out to him. “Just have to ask, if you want one.”

He chuckled, taking the cigarette from your hand. “Ya know me, I don’t ask. I take.”

“The only right way to live.” You chuckled back.

You stayed a few minutes silent, until his gravely voice speaks again. “Gonna tell me what’s wrong, or I’ll have to get it out of ya ?”

You sighed. No need to pretend, he knew. He always knew. You gave a sad smile, and trying to sound playful you said “Been dumped. Again.”

He chuckled. “Ya gonna have to stop dating boys, and try men, little one. Ya’re too much to handle for these kids. Ya need someone who can handle himself. And you.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you chuckled. “Like you ?”

These two words. The words you should never have said. The words that made your life heaven on earth and a living hell at the same time. Because next thing you knew, you were sitting on his lap, kissing him ravenously, his lips demanding, his hands wandering, making your skin tingle and your insides clench. He was proving you that indeed, he was the kind of man taking without asking, and you let him.

From then, it all went spiraling. Addicted to his touch, repulsed by his toxic demeanor, when he was pulling, you were pushing. And when he was the one pushing, you were crawling back to him like a lost puppy. He hated that he needed you, loved that you needed him. You hated that he made you lose all common sense, and loved every second spent naked against him. The damn man did know how to get under your skin as much as under your sheets.

Without realizing, you are walking around base, trying to spot him everywhere you look. Not that you feel bad for what you did, but you’d rather find him than run into him at the least expected moment and let him have the upper hand. The hole in the wall of the mess hall was enough of a proof that he was pissed, and he was like a bottle of coke that you shook too much. You would never know when it would explode, but it would. But he was nowhere to be found, and as your steps start to lead you back to your quarters, you feel your eyes water in apprehension. First for you, and then for him. For all you know he could be either in his quarters, letting out some steam on video games, or in a bar, trying to put up a fight with any bloke who would look at him in a way he wouldn’t find acceptable.

But there is also sadness in your heart. Because as much as you want to keep him away from you, you can’t. And you dread the day your ways will split for good. But this day hasn’t come yet…

As you enter your room, slamming the door shut behind you, before you have time to turn the light switch on, you feel a hand wrap on your throat and pin you against the wall. In a matter of seconds you try to comprehend what is happening, and not to freak out. But then, things get crystal clear. From the gloved hand around your throat, to the smell of Bourbon and tobacco hitting your nostrils, now you know.

“Think ya can replace me so easily, little one ?” The grip on your throat is not tight, barely uncomfortable, just strong enough to keep you still. It’s not meant to hurt you, just to remind you who is in charge.

“Ghost, let me go.” Your breath is a little uneven, your voice trembling.

“Now why would I ?” He grunts. He is still angry. “We have a few things to talk about before. Who is he ?”

“No one.” You sigh. You know it won’t be enough. “Name’s James. I don’t know more about him. It was the first time we talked.”

His grip loosens a bit, but not completely. He presses his forehead against your temple and inhale deeply, taking in your scent. “Why would you talk to him ?”

Your breath shortens a bit, because you know that whatever your answer might be, it wouldn’t be good enough for him. And the worst part is that there was no answer, you were just making small talk while lining up at the mess hall for lunch. But still you have to answer something. “We are planned on a mission together next week. We were just trying to get to know each other better. That’s it.”

“That’s it ?” He growled, then chuckle. “That’s it.”

After a few more seconds he finally lets go of you, and turns around, walking toward the nightstand where a half-empty bottle of whiskey is waiting. He takes a long swig, then shakes his head. “It’s the first time I see you talking to another guy. I don’t like it.”

You stand against the wall, not wanting to come closer, your arms crossed over your chest. “Yeah, I got the hint when you punched the wall.”

He scowls. “Don’t go there. It was the wall or his face. Better the wall, right ?” He takes another swig.

You look away, shaking your head. “I don’t understand. You left. Why do you mind ?”

He chuckles bitterly and sit on the edge of the bed, taking a sip of whiskey again. “That’s a hell of a good question.” He rubs his face with one hand, the bottle dangling from his other hand as his elbow rests on his knee. “I have no fucking clue. Ya’re my fucking Kryptonite.”

You sigh, feeling your eyes well up. “No, not Kryptonite. You’re like heroin. You feel like heaven when you’re inside me, but when you’re not I miss you as much as I hate you.”

He growls. “Then find a damn cure. Your own version of methadone, I don’t give a fuck. Stay. Away. From me.”

You let out a bitter chuckle without looking at him. “I tried. You punched a wall, remember ?”

He scowls, his voice raising. “Not a cure that means making fun of me in front of the whole goddamn base !”

You raise your voice to match his. Not something you’re used to do, but today you’re too angry. Today, it reached a new level of toxicity. And you, as well, can play dirty. “Oh, so you’re okay with me being fucked, but not by another soldier ?”

He yells even louder. He needs to have the upper hand, to show that he is more, in every way. “Ya want to play the base’s slut ? Get laid by every fuckin’ soldier around ? Fine, be my guest ! I won’t stop ya ! But don’t come back crying like you always do !”

That stings. More than it should. Because that’s not what you want. But god are you able to, even if just to piss him off a little bit more. “And what, you’re going to punch another wall ? Plus, I wouldn’t come back if you were strong enough to say no, for once !”

You knew. You knew it wasn’t a good idea to use the words “not strong enough” when talking to him. And as the bottle of whiskey crashes on the wall right next to your head, you could only think that you should have known better…

You’re both frozen. Him in anger, you in shock. Your body starts to tremble as more tears runs down your cheeks, and you stare at him, through him, eyes wide and face strained.

He, on the other side, stares back at you, chest heaving with every ragged breath he takes, anger creeping in his mind like poison as he tries to convince himself that it is your fault and not his. As he tries to persuade his scarred mind that he is not a violent guy, that he is not like his father, that it was an accident.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, taking a shy step closer to you. Then another. Then a third one, closing the distance between you two. Slowly, like dealing with a scared animal, he raises a hand to your face, putting it on your cheek, tilting his head as he whispers “I am sorry.”

And as you burst into tears, his other hand reaches for your other cheek, cradling your head in his hands, burying your face in his chest. “Ya know I would never hurt ya.”

But the truth is that he does. Every goddamn day. When he looks at you, when he touches you, when he ignores you. It hurts. But the brain is a wicked machine, and you like it rough.

He presses his lips against your forehead, whispering sweet nothings as he tries to calm you down. How beautiful you are, how soft you feel against him, like a snake trying to convince you to bite the apple, he sneaks into your brain, telling you what you need to hear.

His lips leave a trail of soft kisses from your forehead to your temple, then down to your cheek. Your jaw clenches, knowing what comes next, trying to gather the strength to say no. Not because you don’t want to. Quite the opposite.

When his mouth finds yours, awaking the familiar warmth in your chest, you try. You really try. But it comes out barely above a whisper. “Ghost, no, don’t.”

But he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t ask, he takes. He shuts you up with a kiss, his lips soft and tender at first, but quickly turning more demanding, more hungry. More desperate. And you can’t help but give it back.

With a sharp intake of breath, he buries his hands in your hair, grabbing a fistful of it to hold you still as his tongue presses against your lips, demanding entrance. Your lips part and your tongue reaches his, addicted to the bittersweet taste of bourbon and the lingering scent of smoke.

His body pins you against the wall, giving you no other choice than to put your hands on his waist, his chest pressed against yours, his hips pushing. You can feel how turned on he is, the bulge in his pants rubbing on your lower stomach, making you gasp. And he takes it as a green light.

His hands move from your hair to your chest, his touch rough when he grabs your breasts through the thin fabric of your top, eliciting a small whimper from you. It doesn’t stop him though. He knows you like it that way, despite you trying to pretend otherwise the first time. That is certainly why you and him were a match made in hell. You like when it hurts and he doesn’t know how to be soft.

Before you have time to say anything, his hands are under your top, tugging at your bra to try and move it down. His lips haven’t left yours still, his tongue fighting yours for dominance in your mouth, even if you know he will win.

His fingers find your nipples, pinching them hardly, sending a jolt from your breasts to your cunt. When you moan softly, you can’t feel him grin against your lips. “That’s it, baby girl. Let yourself go.”

As one of his hands keep working on your breast, the other moves down toward the buckle of your belt, calloused fingers grazing the soft skin of your belly, making you shiver. You know what comes next, and the heat between your thighs forbid you to act like you don’t want it.

He works fast on your belt and the buttons of your jeans, his hand already slipping in your panties, eager to touch you. He is neither slow, nor soft, but you don’t mind. All the pent-up tension from the last hours needs to be released, for you as much as for him.

When his fingers reach your pussy, tracing your slit to find your entrance, he stops kissing you, keeping his lips glued to yours, and groan. “Fuck, so fucking wet already. You like me angry, angel. Good to know.”

Inside, you want to scream, the wave of feelings coming at his words overwhelming. Anger. Pain. Self-loathing. Because he is right. He might be a walking red flag, but your red flag is that you like it. But as overwhelmed as you feel, it’s not enough to mutter the craving you feel for more of his touch. And all you can do in response is to let out a soft moan as he slides a finger into you, his thumb rubbing your already throbbing clit in expert circles.

His voice rings in your ear like poisoned honey, dripping from his lips right into your brain. “Come on little one, talk to me, use your words. Ya want more ?”

All you can do is nod, and whimper a small “yes”, because of course you want more.

He chuckles, nibbling at your earlobe as he slips a second finger into you, shutting your brain out. You find yourself grinding your pussy in his palm, feeling the too well known sensation of your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach. Damn him for knowing so well how to play your body like a violin.

He is all over you. His lips kissing the supple skin of your neck where it meets your shoulder because he knows it is your favorite spot. His left hand still pinching and rolling your nipple because he knows it helps the tension building faster. And his right hand in your panties, fingers pulling in and out of your pussy at the rhythm of your moans flattering his ears. He loves it. He needs it. He picks up the pace of his fingers, going harder and deeper, with only purpose to make you cum. And it works.

You keep grinding against his palm, your moans getting louder by the second. “Fuck, Ghost… Don’t stop.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice as he whispers in your ear “I don’t intend to, baby girl. Do me a favor, make it loud.”

And you comply. Not that you could help it, anyway. When your pussy starts to clench around his fingers and you keep moaning his name louder, he moans as well, still rubbing his cock on your lower stomach, needing the friction to help him holding back. He revels in the feeling of making you break so easily, feels powerful when you moan his name without being able to stop, relishes knowing that you still want more. “That’s my good girl.”, he praises softly.

But the softness doesn’t last long, and before you have time to get back from your high, the hand that was delightfully torturing your nipples is now unbuckling his own belt and buttons, letting his jeans fall down to his ankles. He steps out of the pile of clothes, and the same treatment is given to yours. In one swift motion, he picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, pinning you against the wall, rubbing his cock against your slit like his life depends on it. He doesn’t care that you just cummed and that your body is too sensitive still. He is starving. And you’re the only meal he wants.

With a growl coming from deep inside his chest, still carrying you, he takes a few steps back and sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands let go of you, just enough time to remove your top and his. He needs to feel your skin against his.

Without warning, he grips your hips and moves you down on him, just enough to let the first inches of his cock slide inside you. And you don’t even try to protest, because you want it too. You need him to fill you up, to stretch you out. You need him deep inside you so you can feel that for a few minutes you two make one.

When your eyes roll back in your head he lets out a groan. “Easy, little one. Ya’re going to take it all like the good fucking girl you are, but I don’t want to hurt ya. I told ya, I’d never.”

Still, he bites down on his lip, the effort of holding back from pounding into you already taking a lot from him. He starts to move slowly, giving you a few more inches of his dick with each thrust, letting you adjust and at the same time craving for more. His grip tight on your hips, dirty reminder of who is in control, he keeps moving, nice and slow, until he is buried into you to the hilt. “Fuck baby girl, you feel too good for my own sake.”

There it is, the hint of desperation in his voice, the only sign he would give you that he needs you as much as you need him. Only when he is deep inside you, body and soul.

When he feels you relax a little around him, his left hand wraps around your waist, his right hand reaches for your throat. Not too tight, just enough to control you. He uses it to settle the pace, his face buried in your hair as he takes in your scent. Your moans are like music to his ears, he is not far from cumming already. “Come on, little one. Ride me. Ride me hard.”

Your grip is tight on his shoulders, holding on for dear life as you move your hips up and down. Every move you make makes you whimper and moan, your eyes closed tight in pleasure, a thin veil of sweat covering your skin.

His grip on your throat tightens a little. “Look at me. Don’t you dare close your eyes. Look at me when I fuck you senseless.”

His grip not loosening, he uses it to make you move faster, making you take him deeper, seeking for both your and his release. He needs to make you cum again, it’s the proof that he has a total control over your body.

Your jaw hangs open in a silent gasp and you open your eyes to look at him, your moans turning into cries of pleasure as he keeps pounding into you faster. His gaze never wavers from yours when he starts to groan with each erratic breath he takes. “Come on, angel. Cum for me. I know your close. Cum for me again.”

And as if your body was listening to him more than to you, a second orgasm hits you like a freight train, making you squirm and writhe in his grip.

“That’s it, baby girl. Let it out, I want to hear ya fucking scream my name.” He keeps pounding, milking you out of your pleasure, and cumming right after you. “Fuck, you’re going to be the death of me, ya know that. I. Fucking. Hate ya.” That’s the last words you hear before he slams into you one last time with a loud groan, and stops moving.

His grip on your throat loosens, his hand moving to the back of your head, bringing you close to him and burying your face in his neck. He stays silent a few minutes, his hand stroking his hair. And your eyes fill with tears, knowing damn well what’s coming.

He has sobered up. Still stroking your hair, he whispers in your hear. “We have to stop it, love. We’re just hurting each other, and I hate hurting you.”

His body tenses as he feels your tears in his neck. He takes a deep, steadying breath. Not out of anger this time. Out of desperation and pain. He keeps whispering. “You deserve the world, and I leave nothing but chaos in my wake.”

He pulls you away, just enough to look into your eyes. He lays on the bed, keeping you in his lap, his arms around you like a vice as you rest your head on his chest. “You were right earlier. I am not strong enough to say no. You will have to be strong for us.”

He pauses as he feels his voice trembling. He hates being weak, but he knows that if there is one person in the world he can allow himself to be weak with, it’s you. “I hate that I have to ask you that, but you have to stay away from me. I love you too much to keep destroying you.”

And your grip on him tightens as tears keep straining your face. Because you know damn well that you will never be able to stop coming back.

[jjkamochoso]

hello hellooo my love 🤩✨️

can i request a match up with jjk men please? 🥹🙏

ok so im an infp. im very quiet and reserved and speak only when necessary. im pretty stoic and often come off as relaxed and nonchalant despite the raging storm inside me bc anxiety hehe :) but once you get to know me deeply, you'll get to meet the whimsical/fun side of me. im really closed off tho it will be so hard to break down my walls. i might come off as cold, but deep down im pretty affectionate and romantic. im very sensitive to my surroundings, people's behavior etc. and notice the smallest changes in them and may get upset over things that many people don't even notice. im super into philosophy and psychology, always analyzing everything and never letting things go easily. im all about being both rational and emotional and maintaining a balance between the two. i also love art, cinema and literature. they're basically my life lol... so... yeah ig that's about it :)

love you and appreciate you so much take care babe byeee👋🫶❤️‍🔥

JJK Matchup for @cntloup

Hello!! Thank you for sending this in!! I hope you like it :) <3 also, thank you for always being so very sweet!!!

There were a few JJK guys that you definitely could be a good fit with but ultimately I'd match you with...

Nanami Kento!

Nanami certainly doesn't mind your quiet demeanor; in fact, he welcomes it with open arms! I could envision you two enjoying an evening in, no words necessary, watching television or engaging in your separate hobbies (him reading while you do whatever it is you like!) while sitting next to each other or cuddling.

As a couple, your stoicism confuses anyone who knows either of you, but only in the sense that they're surprised you both happened to find someone who was so extremely similar to yourselves! With you being an INFP and interested in philosophy and psychology, Nanami loves the way he can talk with you about those types of intellectual topics since he's never had anyone in his life capable or willing to hold a conversation like that with him. Your INFP traits of being loyal and compassionate also resonate with him as those are characteristics he embodies as well and desires in a partner.

His calm and collected personality comes in handy whenever you feel overwhelmed by your anxiety. He encourages you to speak openly with him about how you're feeling so you two can work through whatever problems you might have and lead you to overcome any bad thoughts. Breaking down your walls is a challenge that Nanami understands well as you're most likely doing the same thing with him. With enough patience and understanding, you two slowly but surely unravel each other's fears and uncertainties, uncovering the whimsical and fun side of you, and exposing the romantic, softhearted side of him.

Nanami often shows his irritation on his face so you don't have to put your keen senses to work to see if he's frustrated. I could see how his aptitude for bluntness can lead to friction in your relationship because of the way you might interpret that as him being upset with you, but as long as you two don't revert to your cold exteriors when talking over the issue, you can quickly work it out with proper communication and reassurance. Your balance of rationality and emotion is helpful in these situations!

Ending on a positive note, I think you and Nanami would go on dates to museums, art galleries, theaters, operas, libraries, anything in the realm of sophistication. Before or after the activity you would enjoy romantic candlelit dinners, whether at home or at a high caliber restaurant, and Nanami would never hesitate to offer you his jacket if you were cold! And, of course, as you two head home, you would be analyzing everything you saw or experienced, holding a fantastically cultured conversation.

[avenger-concerto]

Major Rune Factory ramble and rant to get it off my system before 2024 ends.

This is just me airing out some dirty Rune Factory laundry before the year ends so I can get it off my chest and start a new, as Rune Factory Guardians of Azuma comes up. It'll be one big tl;dr so if you don't wanna read then you are far from obliged to do so but if you want, then sure thing.

I wanted to write something sincere and honest that isn't just a jab meme with a predictable punchline.

Really, this is just me speaking aloud not just about Rune Factory but about the nature of writing in farm sims. I dunno. It's the last day of 2024. I've done my New Years cleaning and I'm bored.

So, RF fans and by extension, Bokujo fans keeping saying "We need Rromanceable MILFs" but I think they just mean more bachelorettes in Rune Factory that visibly not just look but also behave like adults.

I'm aware short / young looking / petite adults exist too (Xiao Pai in 4 looks visibly young but she constantly makes it a point to Lest that she's their senior while they're dating) and that younger players may also get into the series for the first time but let's not forget the series' history so we can learn and observe how it can evolve and progress in the future. It's easy to forget that Rune Factory used to pander to otaku in Japan long before they realized it had a huge market with female players and an international audience.

Granted, RF1-RF2 were very tame and the latter game I remember attracting a lot of fanart of the male characters and it sowed the seeds for an interest in potential bachelors. Which is a sharp contrast to Rune Factory Frontier, which up its tropes like a trashy 2000s harem romcom anime with features that wouldn't fly well today e.g. choosing to "accidentally" walk in or peep on the bachelorettes' changing room by the beachside or the discourse surrounding Eunice's story arc but that's another can of worms unrelated to this post. The Rune Factory 4 manga that was published in Dengeki Maoh back in 2012 had a lot of skeevy fanservice that would not align well with the series image nowadays.

"But it's in anime style, so female characters will look young by default" It's true. Especially with Minako Iwasaki as the artist, as much as I love her art. But that's not always the case. Fire Emblem mainlines or Hoyoverse gacha games (Genshin, Honkai Impact 3rd, Honkai Star Rail, Zenless Zone Zero) can and have designed adult female characters who visibly look and act like adults. (just posting Ruan Mei from HSR and Shamir from FE:3H as examples) And not just their designs or mannerisms either, I mean like... more heavier, hard hitting and mature storylines. I feel like 5 lacked it in that department compared to the feels coasters that were the marriage candidate sub events in RF4. But then again, it's probably weird to be asking for a revenge story or a tale of redemption and loss in a fantasy farm life sim but this is just me rambling on.

I don't want to say I've "outgrown" Rune Factory or anything. Cozy life sim games are such a comfort to me and I'm well aware a meme I posted then deleted yesterday resonated a misleading message but knowing 5 gave men likers Murakumo but kept Misasagi or Elsje off limits was weird.

I know 5 was just one entry in the series. I know bachelor and bachelorette rosters are variable depending on the game. Tides had a wide variety of designs while its bachelors fell flat because they were last minute. I personally felt like 5 had far more better designed bachelors than 4 did and 4's bachelorettes felt more balanced compared to 5.RF GoA and RF6 could turn out differently with their own sets of marriage candidates but the problem with RF5 was that they designed and wrote bachelorettes as if it was a game released in the late 2000s and early 2010s in 2021-2022.

RF Guardians of Azuma releases next year and RF6 will presumably align with the series' 20th anniversary window in 2026 so we'll see how the series. I know romance and marriage aren't the only things that define Rune Factory games but I feel people should be more open to discussing what makes them uncomfortable with the series instead of handwaving it because of X or Y.

I go on benders like this because I grew up with Rune Factory as the title that introduced me to cozy life sims. It has a special place in my heart. I was in high school when I first got into the series but even then I could tell that the candidates looking young may have had nothing to do with my age, probably due to a combination of artstyle and who Marvelous/Neverland were pandering to at the time.

Granted, my experience getting into the series won't be 1:1 with others so I can't speak for them and hell, maybe I'm wrong too but I do feel like "hey, maybe put more effort into the series' female characters" shouldn't be a hot take that can be dismissed with it being a cozy life sim or that kids play these games too.

That being said, I still haven't and will never forgive the garbage writing they gave Xiao Pai in her main marriage proposal event. RF4 treats her pretty horribly and it's always kinda weird when I read people going on about how "we should have married Lin Fa and adopted Xiao Pai instead" when in her romantic dialogue, she's brought up how she's older than Lest (in the JP script, she specifies by two years) which brings me to my next point....

I think ultimately it also has to do with the fact that the characters we play as in Rune Factory are pretty young themselves. In games like Potion Permit, the My Time At games, Fields of Mistria, Sun Haven, and Stardew Valley, we are blank slates we can easily customize to our liking with our headcanons and whatnot.

Rune Factory... the self inserting begins and ends once we choose a name for our protagonists. RF protagonists are usually their own characters and any dialogue choice prompt we are given with them aligns with their base personality.

Raguna was pretty "vanilla" in RF1 but had shades of 2000s harem romcom protag vibes in Frontier. Kyle in RF2 was more or less similar to RF1 Raguna imho. Aaron and Aria played the role of precarious and rowdy kids seeking to go save their father. Micah in RF3 comes off as a mild-mannered but somewhat deadpan snarker in the face of Sharance and the Univir Settlement's antics. RF4's Lest and Frey are defined by their devotion, trust, and loyalty to their friends. RF5's Alice and Ares have this air of skepticism and caution that I haven't really seen with Lest or Frey. Aden is the reckless, hotheaded shonen hero with his childhood friend, Sonja, as the fussy but well-intentional voice of reason in Tides/Oceans. A lot of male protags in RF are written to be "boyish" and "inexperienced" hence why older adults in these towns don't seem like immediate options but Ares can also marry Murakumo and Lucas so really, at this point I probably shouldn't think too hard about it.

I don't really have anything else to say aside that I like cozy life sims a bit too much and Fields of Mistria is a blast so far. I think Celine, Reina, and Valen are my favorite bachelorettes so far but I like all the bachelors and bachelorettes really. I really do think Olric will be added as a post-release bachelor in an update or patch after the full thing comes out.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk. Here's to 2025 and more Rune Factory games to come.

[meekoftheweek]

**SPOILER WARNING FOR "SLAY THE PRINCESS"**

I know I said in my post from earlier that I didn't want to put anything out there that might be spoilers but I'm going more in depth because I can't just let these thoughts go away

the thing that resonated with me about this game and its characters and themes was the portrayal of gender roles and the way that they manifest in heterosexual relationships

now, I know that seems like weird connection to make and a bit out of left field but let me explain

we can start with a quick summary

you play as "The Long Quiet", who is told by his inner consciousness to seek out a princess, who we eventually discover is "The Shifting Mound"

Now, we have a man being told his only purpose has to come through a woman by his inner conscience, a predisposed expectation thrust upon our main character. Even worse, when attempting to leave this incredibly confined chain of events, the world collapses, unable to function without this key part of his destiny.

If we look at just the names of our two main characters, we can see that they fit nicely into the old fashioned problematic gender roles of men and women in a heterosexual relationship.

"The Long Quiet" never speaks a word throughout the game, his only form of communication is text based or inner monologue and although this may just be a tactic by the developers to make him more relatable to a wider audience I have trouble seeing this as non deliberate.

Although great progress has been made, men still struggle with talking openly and honestly about their feelings, dealing with the inner conflict of trying to tough things out and deal with their problems on their own and with their own experiences and wisdom instead of speaking up and asking for help. This is why the voices are such an important part of the story, they each represent a branch of possible advice for Quiet, a different perspective - commenting on what should happen next.

It is only through the use of the mirror that these inner voices dissapate, leaving us room to think about ourselves and the decisions we have made free of expectation and worry. It shows our true self and the consequences of our action, no good or bad biases.

Next, we get to "The Shifting Mound" dummed down and objectified as simply "The Princess" - already indicitve of the themes of pre assigned gender roles and ideas. We, as Quiet, in our very first run are encouraged to make a choice - kill or save the princess. It is through following the path of blind devotion and saving her without a second thought that we arrive at the path of The Smitten, a new voice that emerges within us that wants nothing more than to blindly love the princess for all of eternity. This kind of unhealthy attachment is directly addressed by the other voices and when we interact with the princess, she is shown to both physically and mentally simplify before our very eyes. In the mind of The Smitten, the princess is nothing more than a cardboard cutout, a vaugely womanly shaped being without an ounce of depth or meaning, and this is exactly what she becomes, through the conversation with her, she slowly begins to lose all of her meaning, loudly proclaiming after every question you ask that all she wants to do is make you happy - this eventually reaches a breaking point in which this is all she can say. becoming truly emotionless and void of any possible sign of humanity in order to fill our selfish idea of love.

this ties into her name and her role in the game - she's labelled as "The Shifting Mound" and depending on our choices - In another word "us", she will change her form and personailty in order to fit our expectations. This ties into the problematic old fashioned expectations of women to change themselves to fit the wants and needs of men, which cruelly removes them of the ability to genuinely express and be themselves. It is only through repeatedly exploring the different versions and facets of the princess that we eventually learn to truly love her, all of these parts must be accepted - the key to a healthy relationship being a mutual acceptance and understanding of both people involved - free of the societal expectations that bind the way we think and percieve one another.

this is why this game resonated so much with me. these beautiful themes of being more than your label and breaking free from the monotonous loop of holding yourself back in the case of Quiet or changing yourself in the case of Mound for the sake of your significant other I feel is a really important and valuable message, no mattter who you are.

anyway rant aside go play this game it's really good!

[jellybeanium124]

I try to avoid queer identity discourse because it pisses me off, and so much of it (not all but a lot) stops affecting you the second you shut your screen off. I've heard of "bisexual lesbian" discourse and when I first heard that term I took the usual radical inclusionist approach of "well that don't quite make sense to me but it ain't my business." but as I've gotten a bit older, come into my own more as a queer woman, a bi ace woman specifically, I've started to understand that term in a specific way that makes it make perfect sense to me. idk if this is how other people are using it, of course, but I came up with an definition that makes sense, a definition I relate to a lot.

to start, there is no centuries old bisexual culture. not in the way there's gay and lesbian culture. before stonewall, your paths were as such:

not even realize you're not straight because of course everyone else feels affection for both sexes, you're perfectly straight though

realize and understand you're bisexual (granted, you might not have had the word) and stay in the closet to live a safe, heterosexual life and remain totally disconnected from queer culture

realize and understand you're bisexual and decide to exit heterosexual society to go be a part of gay and lesbian society

bisexual people, could, theoretically, live a very happy straight life and be in a happy, loving straight marriage and never feel a need to connect with other queer people. that's my dad. my dad's been happily married to my mom for over 25 years, and his bisexuality is effectively irrelevant to him because... he's married to my mom and they're gonna stay that way. what does it matter?

and so, now, in the 21st century, speaking as someone who grew up somewhere pretty accepting, you have a wider queer culture that encapsulates all queer identities, and within that you have the long-standing gay and lesbian cultures. there is like, idk, bisexual... things...?? cuffed pants or something, but like, the long-standing traditions and histories with my fellow queer women is the lesbian community. there is no separate subcommunity for bisexual women or asexual women. back in the day there was much less separation between these things. why didn't this woman get married? why did she become a nun? some nuns quite famously had a lot of lesbian sex and exploits. other nuns, I imagine, were there to be freed from the need for romance and sex at all, because the idea of either of those things repulsed them. they were just strange women. they were queer. the specifics were unimportant.

so, of course, I have a very strong affinity for the lesbian community. it makes me happy to see other women like me. I see pictures of middle aged butches and see what I want my future to be. if I want to go hang out with fellow queer women, I have to go find the lesbians. I want to be a part of that. I want to be a part of lesbian culture. lesbians writing about their experiences speak to me, they sing to me, it's a place where I belong.

I just like dating boys too.

some people think that's horrible, it's a betrayal, if I want to be a lesbian I have to swear off men forever. and it's like, well, ok, I dunno, I don't really resonate with the lesbian label if we strictly define it as a woman who only loves women. but other people on this site have talked about how the lines aren't so defined, how trans men will often find themselves coming and going and sometimes sticking around, and it's just fine. it's literally not a big deal. you're never gonna make clear cut boxes. in some ways, 8 billion people means 8 billion different sexualities. everything's fuzzy, it's annoying, I know.

so a bisexual lesbian? a bisexual woman who finds herself a part of lesbian culture, the lesbian community, the lesbian identity? it makes perfect sense to me. the way I like men has never been the same as straight women. even from a young age, long before I knew I was queer, I always knew I was into more feminine men. I've had a soft spot for boys with long hair since elementary school. other bisexuals have talked about this too. liking the opposite gender in a gay way. I don't want heteronormativity. I don't want that kind of relationship. I find myself wondering if I could even be happy dating a cishet man, because he wouldn't understand what I even want from a relationship. and he might be too scared to learn.

so a bisexual lesbian? a queer woman who wants to be around other queer women? it makes perfect sense. the details aren't that important.

this has all just been my personal thoughts and exploration and opinions. other people might have very different ones from me. maybe you resonated with me here, maybe you didn't. that's ok. I don't expect every single person who reads this post to agree with and completely understand my personal worldview and experiences lol, I just wanted to throw my thoughts out there!

[satansapostle6]

Lovers and Liars | Draco Malfoy

Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, both determined and resourceful from reputable houses, find themselves at odds in the name of love.

Warning: Mature themes/language. Violence. Sexual content.

Chapter One

Chapter Two: Power

At eleven years old, when she had first met Pansy, Lorelei had always believed she would pale in comparison. Pansy held all the power in their dynamic and in their social circle, and therefore all the notoriety, and beauty, and respect. But Lorelei had learned from her father that power, unlike beauty and strength, was something crafted by men. Power would only lie where men believed it to be.

It didn’t take much longer for her to realize that Pansy Parkinson was a paragon of this crucial fact. She was not more powerful than Lorelei because she was more beautiful, or more courageous, or more intelligent. She was simply more powerful than everyone else because she had convinced them of such. Slowly, Lorelei had begun to realize that, if she truly wanted to, all of the power that Pansy currently held could simply be transferred over, with the right timing, and the right motivation.

Lorelei felt she currently had neither, so she decided she would simply wait in the meantime. For now, Pansy served her as a more high profile shield, someone to take the attention off of her so that she could do as she pleased in the shadows. Lorelei found that Theodore Nott’s limited relationship with Draco Malfoy worked similarly, if not in the exact same way.

Despite her usual indifference to boys and their attempts at getting close to her, Lorelei had actually grown to like Theo. He was different than the other boys who had tried to talk to her before, mainly because he was actually entertaining. He was entirely different from the other boys in their year; he was different, and he had a certain darkness to him that she found resonated with her.

Lorelei found she was almost taking pleasure in humoring Theo. She felt as if the only time she got to speak to a conscious person was when she talked to Theo. As of late, they had been taking calm strolls about the castle and its grounds together, something many different people within Slytherin house were noticing.

“Strange,” Lorelei Morrigan remarked as they walked out to the courtyard together. “Not as many people are out these days.”

“It’s getting colder,” Theodore remarked, taking note of the crisp fall air.

He had politely linked her arm with his, walking arm in arm with her.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

She smiled. She was only wearing her school uniform, a white long sleeved shirt with a green skirt and long charcoal grey socks. She could have survived, but decided she’d take advantage of Theo’s offer.

“A little,” she said softly.

“Would you like my coat?” he asked.

She nodded. “Sure.”

He automatically took his warm black coat off, leaving him in his dark grey sweater. He gently wrapped the coat around her shoulders, allowing her to put her arms through and wear the coat as they walked.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Theo smiled warmly.

He really was rather cute, Lorelei had to admit, with neat brown curls and jade colored eyes that made all the girls blush. Theo, it seemed, was more impressed somehow by the girls who didn’t blush, the girls who seemed to have their own scheme in mind. Theo, Lorelei was beginning to realize, didn’t talk to many people, girls especially, because he was easily bored. Not necessarily from toying with people, but just from talking to them.

Then again, this was normally what led to Theo Nott deciding to toy with people. Or at least try to. He seemed to recognize that he most likely couldn’t get away with that sort of thing when it came to Lorelei.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said after a moment of peaceful, comfortable silence.

Theo looked down at her, eager to hear her question. “Of course.”

“Do you think the Dark Lord has any chance of returning?” she wondered aloud.

This was of course a question she wouldn’t dare ask anyone else.

“He’s said to have been lost for over a decade,” Theo supplied.

Theo often did this thing where, when faced with a difficult question, he would automatically supply Lorelei with the expected and typical response, although not necessarily because it was the answer he held to be the most truthful to him. She knew he was testing her, in his own way.

“He’s been trying to return for years,” Lorelei reasoned. “He’s bound to succeed sooner or later, wouldn’t you say?”

Theo went quiet for a moment.

“Many of his followers are looking for him,” she added.

“Have your parents been looking for him?” Theodore inquired.

Lorelei didn’t say anything, knowing it was the safer choice.

“My father isn’t bold enough to actually seek him out,” he shared, prompting her to do the same.

“My parents have been looking ever since he disappeared,” she confided, “Along with Lucius Malfoy.”

Theodore Nott looked at her curiously, admiring her sharpness.

“That’s right, your parents are rather close with the Malfoys.”

“He and my father often discuss work,” Lorelei explained.

“Your family values powerful friends, then?” Theo asked bluntly.

Lorelei smiled. “Shouldn’t everyone?”

“They should,” he agreed.

This made her chuckle softly.

“What was your family’s motto again?” he thought aloud. “‘Ta mort est ma vie’? ‘Your death is my life’?” he recalled.

She nodded.

“Let me ask you something, Lorelei,” Theo said, piquing her interest. “What do you value, in this life?”

“In this life?” Lorelei only considered the question for a moment. “Greatness.”

“‘Greatness’?” Theo asked to clarify, intrigued by her answer.

“Talent. Success. Notoriety. In that order,” she thought.

“Hmm,” Theo remarked with satisfaction. “What do you think of the idea of a legacy, Lorelei?” he inquired.

She looked up at him, speaking rather matter-of-factly. “I hope to leave behind one of my own,” she answered, “Even standing out from my family’s.”

“That’s a tough act to follow,” Theo commented. “The Morrigans have a history going back millennia… But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”

“I’ll make my own way,” she assured him.

“I’m sure you will,” he agreed. “Have you given any thought to what you want your own family to look like?”

“I have,” she nodded, thinking for a moment. “I’ll marry someone impressive.”

Theo chuckled. “‘Impressive’?”

“Someone who impresses me.”

This made him genuinely laugh. “A smart goal. And what about children?”

“What about them?” Lorelei scoffed.

“Do you intend on having any of your own?” he wondered. “If you’ve given it any thought, of course.”

“Children are irrelevant,” she replied simply.

“‘Irrelevant’? To a legacy?”

“In this day and age, a legacy isn’t who you leave behind after you die. It’s what,” she stated. “If I don’t have children, I don’t have children. If I do, then I do. It makes no difference to me overall. As long as it’s what I choose.”

“We think similarly,” Theo recognized.

“Do we?” Lorelei wondered.

“All I want is to build my own empire of sorts. Alongside someone who brings out the best in me,” he thought. “A strong ally.”

“I have a sense for strong allies,” Lorelei told him.

“So do I,” he agreed. “Tell me, Lorelei…”

They stopped as she waited expectantly.

“Can I consider you my ally?” he asked.

She had to think about his question.

“The current social and political climate is… troubling, to say the least,” he explained himself. “Many others from families like ours are, shall we say, not particularly ideal,” he offered diplomatically.

“That I can agree with,” Lorelei said finally.

“You and I both know… Something big is going to happen. Soon. And regardless of whether or not the Dark Lord returns.”

She paused as she considered his logic, face stone cold. Except for her eyes, which widened just enough to allow him a small window into her mind.

“I… I’ll admit, I’ve heard… rumors,” she confessed.

“What kind of rumors?” Theo asked.

“Rumors… About the Triwizard Tournament. I don't have much to go off of at all, but… I think Harry Potter was supposed to be a Champion,” Lorelei said. “But I don’t think he’s supposed to survive.”

“Clever girl,” Theo grinned, a mischievous expression gracing his features. “Would you like to know what I know?”

“Depends on what you know,” she responded.

Her answer was, of course, the most entertaining option he could have foreseen.

“I’ll tell you what,” Theo Nott began. “You accept me as your ally, and I will be the strongest ally you could possibly ask for.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” Lorelei said cheekily.

“No. Of course not,” he promised. “But, if things progress and we eventually reach a mutual agreement, years from now, that could only be a convenience to the both of us.”

Lorelei’s striking blue eyes pierced his, searching for the truth.

“You’re smart, Lorelei. And powerful… And I would do anything to keep such an asset satisfied,” Theo murmured, “As a friend, or otherwise. Whatever it takes… Things are about to get very confusing around here, and I need to know that someone is in my corner.”

“Alright. I’ll bite,” Lorelei decided, a look of determination on her face. “What do you know?”

Theo grinned, looking around carefully before he began.

*****

Lorelei accompanied Theodore Nott to the very first task of the Triwizard Tournament, which was held on what was typically the Quidditch pitch. They walked arm in arm up into the stands with the other ‘influential’ Slytherin students, as Pansy and Daphne eyed them curiously.

Fred and George Weasley were running up and down the stands collecting bets from students all over. They eventually reached the Slytherin students, boxes in hand. Lorelei and Theo both looked as they passed, accepting bets on either Cedric Diggory, Harry Potter, Viktor Krum, or Fleur Delacour. Most students were voting by passion, choosing the Champion they liked the most without much regard for talent or skill.

Lorelei thought the people placing bets were ludicrous, only to find that Theo calmly pulled a small black bag from his coat pocket. She watched as he coolly dropped a sizable gamble of fifeen Galleons into Fred Weasley’s collection box.

“Harry Potter,” Theo said clearly, earning a suspicious nod from Fred as he waited to see if anyone else had bets to place.

“You’re betting?” she inquired.

“Remember what I told you?” Theo asked.

Lorelei froze, her expression calm and calculated. Fred and George exchanged glances as she remembered what Theo had shared with her a few days prior. He leaned in, a clever smirk on his face.

“You’re going to want to bet on Potter,” he whispered in her ear. “Trust me.”

Lorelei looked the twins up and down before retrieving her own money. She dropped a relatively safe eight galleons into the box, ultimately testing her friend’s intel.

“I trust you,” she concluded as the twins disappeared with the money.

Theo smiled warmly. “You won’t regret it.”

“Betting on Potter, are we?”

Theo and Lorelei looked up as a loud voice interrupted from the row above them. Draco Malfoy was sitting with his yes men, Crabbe and Goyle, along with a few others.

“I bet smart, Malfoy,” Theodore assured him, “Not ideal.”

Draco Malfoy scoffed, sneering at the idea of Harry Potter winning the task. “It’s a shame you’ve roped Lorelei into betting with you. I bet on Krum!”

Draco turned to Lorelei, staring down at her with a grin.

“Your money would be safer with me, Morrigan,” Draco remarked, saying the word ‘money’ as if he really meant something else.

“I can think for myself, thanks,” she said calmly, smiling up at him.

Draco scowled, finding her cool demeanor infuriating. Pansy also seemed livid, albeit for a slightly different reason as she whispered viciously in Daphne’s ear about Lorelei. Lorelei ignored them all, facing forward in her seat beside Theo.

They both watched with blank faces, applauding politely at appropriate intervals like miniature versions of their revered parents. Lorelei turned to watch Theo as Viktor Krum faced his dragon, a vicious Chinese Fireball. His expression was calm and collected as Krum fought the dragon. Smiling, she sneakily laced her fingers with his. He never turned to face her, although there was an appreciative smile that spread across his face as he faced forward.

Eventually, Krum managed to defeat his dragon and capture its golden egg, as the stadium erupted with cheers for his victory. Draco seemed especially excited, looking smugly down at Theo. But Theo didn’t react, waiting calmly as the rest of the challenge played out. Harry Potter went last. So far, Viktor Krum was in first place. Cedric Diggory was in second, and Fleur Delacour was last.

“Something tells me Delacour’s staying dead last,” Theo remarked.

Lorelei chuckled as Potter eventually came out to face his dragon, a fearsome Hungarian Horntail. It was rather touch and go at first; he seemed as if he was struggling just to survive.

“Do you think he’ll win like he’s supposed to?” Lorelei asked while everyone around them was too busy yelling.

“He has to,” Theo assured her. “Whoever our inside man is has made it so. He’d be stupid to fail.”

“But, he is stupid,” Lorelei reminded him.

Theo just chuckled, patting her hand as he encouraged her to be patient. Eventually, Harry Potter found a way to overcome his lack of confidence. Thinking outside the box, he used a Summoning Charm and brought his Firebolt out to the pitch, as Lorelei and Theo just looked at one another.

It was eventually announced that Harry Potter and Viktor Krum would be tied for first place. Lorelei was more than entertained as Theo looked up at Draco, who just gave him an amused smirk. Knowledge, it seemed, was power.

-

Chapter Three

[luminouslumity]

Speaking of Bridgerton—and again, I say this as someone who's read the books and really liked WHWW—I really feel like the hate has been overblown.

The only thing I can kinda agree with is feeling like Francesca already being attracted to Michaela invalidates her feelings for John, especially when she just got married, so if anyone had to be tongue-tied, I honestly would've preferred it if it had been Michaela. On the other hand, obvious outcome aside, it is important to acknowledge that attraction doesn't always necessarily equate to love and we're also still talking about an introverted eighteen year old Regency woman who not only got married after knowing her charming husband for what had to have been only a month or two at most, but also just got introduced to his equally charming cousin.

I don't know, I guess I'm just looking at this scene with a kinda "it is what it is" approach if that makes any sense, but I do hope it gets addressed in one way or another. I absolutely love John, and even though I'm very excited to see Michaela again and see how the show further adapts her story, I still want him and Francesca to be happy together, for however long they have.

As for the rest, I'll be delving into book spoiler territory (yes, even more so than the above), but basically the whole point I'm trying to make here is that I think it's far too early to judge, especially since Michaela has only had a few seconds of screentime, so I'm willing to wait, but my overall opinion will really all depend on the execution.

Okay, so in WHWW, we know that Francesca suffers from infertility issues, and if losing John wasn't bad enough, she also miscarries. This is, of course, an important plot point and one that resonated with many and I think that's beautiful. What confuses me, however, is why some people think they'll get rid of this plotline now that the two leads are the same gender, as though those in queer relationships don't have these same problems as well. And maybe it's just me, but I really think there's a lot you can do with a story about a young woman who suddenly loses both her husband and the child she'd so longed for, tries to look for a new husband years later for the sake of wanting to try for a baby again, only to end up falling in love with her husband's female cousin, therefore causing both internal conflict on the woman's wants (a child of her own), as well as external conflict in terms of what would and wouldn't be considered socially acceptable for the time (being in a same-sex relationship).

And as for the inheritance, how can Michaela inherit Kilmartin if she's a woman? After all, inheritance laws at this time strictly favored men, right? Well, not necessarily. Noblewomen gaining their own lands and titles isn't exactly a new concept per se—though it is obviously a rare one—and this especially applies to Scotland, where Kilmartin is located. For example, during the 18th and 19th Centuries, Mary Hay succeeded her brother and became the Countess of Errol after his death, while the Earldom of Orkney had three consecutive generations of countesses: Anne Hamilton, Mary O'Brian, and Mary FitzMaurice.

Furthermore, we know that PoC being ennobled is still a pretty new thing in this universe, and as we see in Queen Charlotte, there was a genuine concern for what would happen next, especially in terms of succession. It's why Danbury interacts with Sophia Augusta at all! So, either there's going to be an entirely new character to inherit the Earldom, Michaela has to get married before the title can go to her, or the Earldom of Kilmartin was created "with remainder to the heirs whatsoever of [the first ennobled Stirling's] body" so as to prevent a potential crisis, thus leading to Michaela to inherit the title in her own right, with or without a husband (maybe give or take some artistic liberties). That said, I certainly won't be surprised if there's a lavender wedding anyway, or at least a Gretna one.

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Whursday: Katabasis

Tagged by the lovely @dirty-bosmer and @tallmatcha this week! Unfortunately I didn't have much time to get anything together for Wednesday, so here's my belated WIP. I think most of my mutuals have their acts together more than me and so already posted, so I'm tagging @gilgamish

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (blood and violence) Category: Gen Genre(s): Action/Adventure Main characters: Khemor gro-Skaven (Male Orc LDB), Calder, Gregor

Summary: A prequel for Nostos, detailing how Khemor went from a senior magus in the College of Whispers to becoming the Last Dragonborn, Thane of Windhelm and the Pale, confidant of Ulfric Stormcloak and traitor to the Empire. =================================

“If I may make my thoughts known, Jarl Ulfric,” Khemor’s resonant voice cut through the chatter around the map table.

“Please, Dragonborn. Speak.” Ulfric’s words were mild but his tone was stern. Calder wanted to fade into the stone of the palace walls.

“I would urge a...less sweeping approach. It was one of your Altmer residents who brought you word of the spy, after all. Others might be less inclined to pass on valuable intelligence in the future if the result is increased hardship for themselves and their families.”

Thorygg snorted. “So one has given us valuable information, once. But what incentive would any Elf have to work against their own kinsmen?”

Khemor straightened and fixed Thorygg with a piercing stare. “Surely that cannot be a serious question?”

“But it is. Why wouldn’t they wish to be ruled over by their own kind instead of by lowly men, let alone Nords?”

“Because the Thalmor do not consider most Altmer living peaceably in Skyrim to be their own kind. Have you not once asked yourself why so many Altmer and Bosmer have made Skyrim their home? Why they have been moving to holds not controlled by the Empire in droves since the Thalmor have been given free rein?”

The puzzled faces around the table told Calder that none of them had.

After a pause Khemor continued. “I lived in Skaven during the Dominion occupation. As a crippled Orsimer child, the soldiers often found tormenting me an amusing diversion. But that was all I was; all the humans, Khajiit, and Argonians were to them. Amusing diversions. The Bosmer and Dunmer were annoyances. The Altmer of the city were an insult. An insult that had to be answered.” Khemor’s voice lowered, but the council chamber was now dead silent, and his words were clear. “Being a center for scholarship and magecraft in Hammerfell, many refugees from the Night of Green Fire in Sentinel had settled in Skaven, thinking themselves safe. There were shops and businesses run by Altmer on every street and in every market before the Dominion came. Skaven fell in Sun’s Dawn. By Heartfire none were left.”

“The Dominion killed them all?”

“Not all. Many fled before the city fell, with what belongings they could carry. The ones that waited had to flee in the night with the clothes on their backs. Others...we never knew what happened to them. We hoped they had escaped. But many were taken by the Thalmor and publicly executed, and their children sent back to Alinor if they were full-blooded Altmer. Any who weren’t...in the killing fields the Dominion left behind we found the bones of children and infants.” Khemor turned back to Jarl Ulfric, who was staring down at the map covered with small red and blue markers, stroking his beard in thought. “You asked what the Altmer of the city have to lose if Windhelm falls, my Jarl. They stand to lose everything.”

[lothli]

Greetings o feathered one!

The greatest of fights are those done out of a desperate need for survival. A fight that they wish never had to happen. A fight they have no chance to win, but no choice except to try.

A fight against nature itself is my favorite to write. How does one land a blow against the ground beneath their feet? How does one evade the sky?

In essence, I suppose my prompt is this: an impossible battle for survival against the world itself. Predator and helpless prey. A hunter and a fly.

A mote of time may have passed me by, but I have not forgotten. An Unmaking will release a chapter by the end of the weekend, but for now, here is a smattering of words. -------

I stared up at the sun, the pale disk hazy through a layer of cloud. On days like this, bitterly cold yet not snowing, it resonated with the power carried within me—of a wounded star, of an entity from beyond our world.

It was but a shadow of a greater being, yet I was but a shadow of it. A shadow's shadow, yet a part of that thing was mine to control.

The ones who made me did not truly understand the power they were giving me. They had a shallow understanding, one shaped by their need for a weapon. One that looked upon this being as a mere battery, a store of energy to be siphoned, its complexities ignored. Its potential.

The being whose power I stole was beyond things such as violence. It was a beautiful and somber reminder. It would be foolish to accept this into me and simply think of it as 'a power.'

It was nothing so grand.

It was the tears of a child mourning their father at their grave.

It was the emptiness that comes from the end of a long, long love.

It was a sunset over a quiet battlefield, red and gold and bloody.

It was a grim reminder of the end, and it was beautiful.

It was the noose around my neck, the beautiful reminder that even my immortal existence was but transient in the scope of the cosmos.

The men that made me, they saw me simply as an avatar of endings. But that wasn't quite correct. I wasn't so grand, so poetic.

I was a shadow of a shadow. Nothing more, nothing less.

But even a shadow's shadow attracts company. I lowered my gaze, contemplating. There were two coming for me, and I doubted they would appreciate my musings.

I was going to have to kill them.

-------

I stood alone in the long-abandoned courtyard of the forgotten town I had wandered into, the rough stone cold under my bare feet. The winter's breeze tugged at the hem of the dress I wore, a simple garment of coarse brown fabric that reached down to my ankles.

The cold didn't bother me. Its bitterness was lost on me. My flesh was numb to all but the fiercest of fires, the sharpest of blades, the most brutal of impacts. I was impervious to the elements.

The two people before me were not. The man had a broadsword, a brass blade, and a heavy fur cloak draped about his shoulders. A hint of linked steel rings glinted beneath his furs, but it would not protect him from me.

The woman had a crossbow, and a similar cloak. She was dressed in mere leathers, prioritizing her dexterity over raw protective strength.

She had raised the weapon to point it at me, her expression determined. The man had not raised his, yet his stance was tense, ready to burst into motion at a moment's notice. His face was grim.

They had introduced themselves as Alain and Bianca, and they told me why they were here, that they were here to stop me.

I had no way to respond. My voice had been lost to me, torn from me by those who had made me. And yet, I did not find myself wishing to speak, either.

The silence was comfortable. It was right. I was a creature of the ending, of quiet things. The silence was where I belonged.

"Are you going to do anything, or are you just going to stand there?" Bianca's voice was sharp, her tone impatient.

She had a point, I admitted. I would have to deal with them. I honestly had no preference for if they retreated or died, but if they were to attack me, I would not simply let them kill me.

I took a single step towards them, the stone underfoot scraping at the sole of my foot. It was a slow and deliberate movement, one designed to provoke.

Alain's fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword, his cloak shifting on his shoulders. He moved forward, matching my step, his own pace slow and deliberate. Bianca remained where she was, her crossbow fixed on me.

I smiled.

Their ends, too, would be beautiful.

-------

The man was the first to strike, a slash at me with his heavy blade. The mundane would not truly hurt me, but I scarred easily. Perhaps it was because the source of my powers, too, was deeply wounded.

A cut from his weapon would not kill me, but the injury would stay. It would be another mark upon my flesh, one of the many I wore. Each mark against skin a reminder of what I was, what I had become. Each a reminder of the battle I fought, the war I waged. Each a memorial to the fallen, a tombstone for the dead.

His blade swung towards my shoulder, a diagonal cut aimed to slice across my collarbone and down onto my chest. This time, I stepped forward instead of back, stepping into his guard. His weapon was useless so long as I remained within the reach of his arms.

He was not. A fist, heavy and calloused, slammed into the side of my head. The force of it jarred me, made me stumble. But there was no pain. I would not bruise from such a blow.

A bolt whizzed past me, missing me by inches. My eyes flickered to Bianca, who was standing there, her crossbow pointed at me, a frown on her face. A fresh bolt was already fitted to the string.

The man backstepped and swung again, this time an overhead strike. I stepped back, and his weapon passed in front of me, a handful of inches between it and my flesh.

It was time to stop playing around.

I retreated further, off the cobblestones and into the freshly fallen snow, my bare feet leaving prints in it. It crunched under my feet, a sound like crackling fire, like snapping bones.

Alain did not follow. Some sort of instinct, perhaps, stayed his hand, stopped him from stepping forward. His blade was in a guard position, and his eyes were locked on me. He knew that something was coming.

I reached for the wellspring of power within me, and I drew on the power of the wounded star.

Something would end, right here and right now. Even I did not have full control of it, but I had some. I had enough. I reached out with the energy, and I felt the cosmos, felt the weight of it, felt the crushing pressure of the infinite. I searched for something that could be used, something that could end.

Alain's blade, the weapon a fusion of brass and steel, was a strong weapon, one that had seen him through countless battles, one that had survived the test of time and combat. It would survive no longer.

I commanded it, and it ended.

The blade, the fusion of two materials, came undone. It was as though I had undone a knot, and the two halves of the blade separated, shearing away from each other. Brass peeled itself from steel, and his blade fell into pieces, chunks of metal falling into the snow. The pieces were still for a moment, then began to sink, the cold metal melting into the frozen white flakes.

It was beautiful, as all endings were.

He stared at the hilt of his weapon, now devoid of its blade. Then he looked at me, and his expression was one of shock. His mouth moved, forming words, but the sounds were lost to me, drowned in the silence of the winter's day. The silence of my mind.

Bianca fired again. Her aim was true, and her bolt slammed into my shoulder. It bit into me, and I felt the sensation of impact, the cold tip of the metal bolt biting into my flesh. It would not slow me down, but it would leave a scar, a lasting reminder of her, of her struggle.

I pulled it out of my shoulder, tossing it to the side, where it clattered to the stone floor of the courtyard. I still bled red, bright against the white.

Alain's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, and he sprinted at me. He had made his decision. He would fight to the death, here and now. But that determination would be his downfall, for his commitment meant his fate would be oh-so-easy to spin.

I smiled as I reached for the wellspring of power within me, letting the energy pool in the palm of my hand. A mote of light, no larger than an apple, appeared in my hand, a dim red dwarf.

It was a shadow of me. A shadow of a shadow of a shadow. A reminder of death. I held it up to him, a warning of what was to come.

He did not stop, his sprint bringing him within reach. I tossed the orb, the mote, the star, to him.

He ducked, tucking his body low, trying to dodge it. The orb of light passed inches from the top of his head. He caught the edge of it, a sliver of that wounded star brushing against his scalp.

Alas, it was enough. In that moment, silently, without any sort of fanfare or flash of light, he died. His momentum carried him forward, where I caught him in my embrace. His eyes were cold and glassy, staring up at that cold, baleful sun.

I sank down to the ground, lowering him down to it. Tears fell from my eyes. It was a beautiful thing, to see an ending of such a enduring mortal soul.

Bianca was running. I had expected her to be angry. To fly into a rage, to charge me and try to kill me in vengeance. I had been prepared for that.

It seemed I did not understand the human spirit as well as I thought. She was running, sprinting through the snow, her crossbow clutched tightly in her hands. She was making for the woods, trying to flee—

No. My eyes narrowed. She wasn't running away from me. She was running to the woods, to the thick cover of trees and shadows. She was trying to buy herself time, time to find a spot where her weapon would be most effective, where she could hide and pick me off at range.

I could admire that, the sheer determination. Alain had fallen, but she was not going to let herself go down with him. Not without trying everything to kill me, not without exhausting every avenue available to her.

I had no stake in whether or not she lived. It made no difference to me. But since I had the opportunity, I would affix to her an ending.

She had left a scar upon me, after all. Only fair that I return the favor.

I made my way towards her. It was a slow, measured pace, one designed to make it clear to her that I would follow, yet not one of any great hurry. I had no need to rush this ending.

She was already among the trees, her crossbow slung across her back, her arms and legs pumping as she sprinted. Her cloak was flapping in the breeze behind her, a heavy thing that should have slowed her down, but her movements were quick and agile, the bulky garment not hindering her at all.

I watched her as she vanished into the foliage, disappearing from sight. I reached for my wellspring of power, drawing on it. It was deep and wide, an endless lake of energy, one I could not fully harness.

It was not truly meant for this kind of thing. It was not meant to be a weapon, but simply a reminder, a remembrance, a memorial to death and to endings.

It was not truly meant for killing.

I was not a truly meant for killing.

But there was a place and time for everything, and we had to make do with what we had.

I closed my eyes, and I reached for my misbegotten power. I gathered it in, pulling as much of it as I could. It was difficult to simply declare someone dead; usually, they'd have to accept their fate, as Alain did. Otherwise, I would have to force an end into reality, and it would not necessarily be the end of the person's life. It would simply be an ending.

I let the power go, and I declared an end.

Bianca's cloak came undone. The furs, the fabric, the stitching, it all came apart, falling off her and collapsing into a heap.

It must have been important to her. It would not have been beautiful if it wasn't. She hesitated for a split second as she ran, her body tensing up, and I knew that the loss of her cloak had affected her.

She was a survivor. She would not dwell on it. But some small part of her soul ached.

Her next bolt slammed into me, hitting my stomach, the impact sending a shudder through me. I stumbled a single step back, then quickly regained my balance, moving forward.

Another bolt, this one striking me in the side of my hip, the tip of the projectile tearing through me. A numbness spread through me, the impact and the sensation of the bolt's cold head tearing through me, but I was able to keep moving, to keep up my steady pace as I pursued her.

I had to hand it to her. Even now, she was trying to bring me down. As soon as she reached the limits of her range, she'd stopped and fired. She'd started moving again, but that had given me valuable time to catch up. If I had been a mortal adversary, each shot would have slowed me, allowing her to take more and more shots.

Alas, her weaponry lacked that kind of punch, but the thought was there. The ingenuity. I admired her, even if her attempts at harming me were ultimately futile.

Minutes stretched into hours. She was growing tired. Even though I was merely walking, the snow hindered her far more than I. The winter was her enemy, and I was slowly gaining on her.

I smiled, and I drew on the power of the wounded star, letting the energy of it flow through me. This time, perhaps, I could get her. Perhaps this time, I'd be able to declare a true end.

It was not to be. She stumbled, her exhaustion finally catching up to her. The toe of her boot caught on the root of a tree, and she sprawled forward, crashing to the forest floor. The end I had chosen was no longer applicable. She was no longer running.

I let the power I had gathered dissipate. This would be a personal ending, one I did not have to borrow power to achieve.

I walked up to her, my footsteps slow and deliberate. She struggled to her feet, turning to face me.

Her hands went to her belt, her fingers gripping a knife. It was a short knife, a simple blade, one that looked like it was meant more for cutting meat or trimming a stick than actually fighting.

She held it up in front of her, a tremble in her hands as she pointed the tip of it at me. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes wide and her pupils dilated. She looked terrified, and yet she still stood, her feet planted firmly in the ground, her body tensing as she prepared to fight.

"You killed Alain." Her voice was soft, and yet it carried. "I will kill you for that."

I nodded. I didn't know why. In agreement? In solidarity? Or simply in acknowledgment of the fact that yes, she would try?

She lunged at me, the knife in her hand flashing in the sunlight as she thrust it at me. I stepped to the side, dodging her attack, and she spun around, her body twisting as she tried to slash at me with the knife.

I caught her arm, my fingers wrapping around her wrist, holding her tight. My other hand reached up, and I touched her chest, right over her heart. I was not going to let go of her. I would finish this.

I reached for my wellspring of energy, drawing on it. But I would not use it. This time, I simply pushed it out of me, letting it flow from my fingers and into her. It would touch her heart, and it would bring about an end.

Her heart stopped beating.

And I smiled, the tears coming to my eyes. It was a beautiful ending.

-------

In the eyes of these two hunters, and many more, I had been a part of something that should not be. I had been a part of something evil, and they had sought to destroy me.

They were not wrong. But they were not right either. Those that made me were indeed cruel, with their own selfish goals. They were not the kindest of people, and their intentions were less than pure.

In that way, I, too, was an evil thing. Their cruelty had shaped me. Their selfish desires had created me.

If I was still a moral being, I may have rebelled. Either fled or turned on them, seeking revenge or some sort of justice. Perhaps the mortal I used to be would have done that, if she was still alive.

She was not. She was as dead as Alain and Bianca. All that was left of her was the corpse I had taken, the flesh I now wore, and a vague memory of who she was.

I was not her. I was not the weapon my masters wished for me to be, either. I would not rebel, for rebellion was not in my nature. I would not flee, for there was no purpose to my flight.

I would exist, and I would continue to be. I would wander the world, and I would bear silent witness to its beauty. I would receive my orders, and I would carry out their meaningless tasks.

The sun set, the pale red disk vanishing below the horizon, demarcating the end of another day.

It was beautiful.

[chromotps]

If you're still up to doing the ask game... 7, 14, 18! 😊

yes!!! thank you for enabling the brainrot in yet another avenue 😂😂

7. Who are the maids of honor and/or best men? Why and how were they chosen?

On Shanks' side, his crew first and foremost, right? It just feels right to have Benn as best man... Outside of him, Yasopp seems like he'd be part of the party for sure, as one of the oldest RH members. Then, it might depend on the AU? I like picturing a timeline where Shanks and Mihawk and Buggy have all had a chance to get reacquainted, although it might be a bit much to ask any of them to be part of the ceremony, I guess... ;v; Would also be very cute to have Uta included in the wedding party!!! Yeah, if this were some "everything-is-fine-and-perfect" AU, I can see her fussing over her dad's outfit and helping style his hair because, "really, you're going out there like this? Not even a bit of mousse?"

gdfkjhjg poor Ace might have some trouble. He's got Luffy and Deuce both seeming like strong best man candidates, and Sabo might be in the running too depending on the circumstances... I can see Deuce getting it, being particularly long-suffering in this whole journey (and Ace could never choose between Luffy and Sabo)... Maybe Ace just goes with all 3. 😂 Then, it's like, he's got all the WBP to contend with, and his original Spade pirate crew... It's not like he can have all his brothers up there during the ceremony!! But I'm sure he chooses well—Thatch and Marco, Izou... the entire 2nd division..........

14. Do they follow any familiar, cultural, and/or religious traditions at any point of the wedding?

hhhhh this makes me wish I knew more about different traditions, I bet there are some that would be really fitting!! It's also hard to say what might be traditional in OP, but I like the idea of there being something that was commonplace on Roger's ship that carried over. Like............ going off of that post you made about Shanks maybe being Irish 😂😅 I could see handfasting being cute... Maybe young-Shanks heard about it from one of the Roger Pirates and always thought the idea resonated with him somehow. :')

My friend also told me about a Chinese tradition, I think called door games? Where a groom/groomsmen have to complete little challenges set by the bridesmaids (like performing bits of love songs or eating spicy food) before seeing the bride 😂😂😂 and low key I can kind of see the Whitebeard pirates putting Shanks through a bit of a ringer as a tradition before the big day, that would be hilarious. Ace is watching from somewhere far off, laughing, but also so smitten while Shanks and the RHs bob for apples or something ashgljdfg

and ahh, I guess the candle thing from the other answer resembles the idea of a Unity Candle. gosh. thinking about Shanks and Ace lighting the candle together, and then having that "you may now kiss" moment and the flame flares up like a torch 😂

18. Did anyone oppose the marriage? Did they speak then, or did they just forever hold their peace?

LAUGHS. laughs. ok so again circumstances pending:

I can see Buggy grumbling a lot if he's in attendance but not actually being so opposed

I want!!! Dadan to be present!!! And to grill the hell out of Shanks!!! But she's also just being a hardass haha and thinks Shanks is a standup guy, 100%

GARP opens his mouth to oppose and Luffy, Sabo, & Dadan all converge at once to deck him. from across the aisle, Whitebeard cheerfully motions for Rayleigh to go on