#men must treat women absolutely perfectly

[isekyaaa]

I'm not the well versed with irl romance, but in so many romance manga/manhwa, there's a focus on a male lead that is extremely protective, vengeful for the mc, possessive, etc. He'll fight battles for her, support her, torture people that hurt her, etc. While I do not mind reading such male leads, I can't help but wonder if that's what those authors and fans want in someone. Someone that'll protect, support, and save them. You can also see it in the fics people write on this website. Like is that what romance is supposed to be?

For me, the thought of anyone being protective over me to the point of fighting my battles, standing up to people that hurt me, etc is disgusting. Like applying such a man to real life would disgust me so much. I was always taught to solve problems on my own. It's both my responsibility and my right. I do not want nor need people's protection. I do not want nor need people making my life easier for me. I appreciate support, but any more than that and I'd get so offended if anyone treated me in that way. It'd be the equivalent of saying that I am not adequate nor equipped enough to handle my problems. It's insulting.

But is that the kind of partner the people that write and read these stories want? Are they just reading it for fun and I do or do they deep down desire to be treated like this?

[teez-the-time]

Choi San, Wolf Warrior

Pairing: Warrior! San x Chief's daughter! Fem! Reader

Genre: fantasy, action, romance, angst

Synopsis: Ten years ago, your best friend San promised his eternal love to you. Now, the danger of his oath creeps through the both of you, and he has to bear the weight of his words. No matter what his fate will be, you must remember that he is the Wolf Warrior.

Warnings: Blood, wounds, death (animals die, I'm so sorry), weapons, cursing, San is fucking RIPPED, reader doesn't do much (sorry again), way too much flashbacks and monologuing (sorry x3, but I do not know how to stop), sappy af.

Wc: 7.8k

Taglist: @darkdayelixer

A/N. Well, it's finally here. This is officially my first fanfic posted here. Do I believe this is my best work? No. Do I care? Maybe, but I appreciate any feedback that you might have (please take into account that English is not my first language, so I rely in grammar checkers and that stuff). I'm not sure if I should keep the second person format, but you tell me what you think. Again, I'm open to suggestions and kind criticism. If the story sucks, sorry not sorry.

Once again, I'm eternally gratefull for the support I've received in this platform. Whatever you need, my DMs are always open.

XOXO -May

A little treat for those who liked the story.

Your tribe had a sacred tradition.

The first hunt is the most sacred; dedicated to whom you thank your life for.

The best hunt is the most important; dedicated to whom you’d die for.

That is why you couldn’t help but tremble while looking at San down below.

Even if he had clearly announced his decision to embark on the journey no more than a couple of months ago, nothing could have prepared your heart.

Not even kneeling alongside your father and your mother at a higher ground, far away from where he stood, could you escape the power radiating from his stance. Even his posture was perfect; perfectly still and elegant, like a wolf just like the one he had marked with ink on his chest. His eyes looked up, and you knew your Sanie was long gone.

He was Choi San, the Wolf Warrior.

The drums started beating in an ancestral rhythm; one you had heard in too many unsuccessful attempts. Men and women below hollered and twirled their bodies to the music, almost in a spiritual trance brought by the excitement of the hunt. The sound got louder and louder in your chest, so hard that it felt like a second heart. Your hands were shaking and you couldn’t help the shivers that ran several times through your spine. You just kept praying for it to be over.

And just as they had started, the drums ceased as your father rose as the chief of the village. He, too, didn’t feel like your father anymore, his hierarchical title far outweighed the one of father right now. You couldn’t decipher his expression, no longer familiar to you.

“Choi San”, his voice boomed through the whole village, “why are you here today?”

To you, San didn’t look intimidated one bit. “I’ve returned to fulfill my promise made sixty-two days ago, in this very place.”

This was all part of the ceremony, nothing more than a formality, but your heart fluttered with San’s words. But still, you knew he was wrong. No, he didn’t make that promise sixty-two days prior. He had made it way before that when you both were young kids.

He had promised to marry you ten years ago, at age twelve.

But your father didn’t find it that endearing. “An oath like that can’t be made by anyone. Are you sure you will be able to keep it?”.

San didn’t fall for the taunting. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Are you sure? Do you even know the consequences?”

Everyone knew them, even more San. “Yes, sir. I know them.”

“Are you willing to go through them then? Even if it means your death?”

With that, San let out a grin. “Especially if it means my death…sir.”

Then, the chief let go of the mocking stance he had tried and became solemn again. For the briefest second, you had hoped San stepped down, but you also knew him like the back of your hand. You knew he never backed down from a challenge.

Your father cleared his throat. “Very well, then. Seeing your determination to proceed, I’ll remind you once more of the rules.”

The few whispers and hushed voices that had been going around since the start finally came to a halt. The newfound silence made your head spin and your palms shake even more.

Gods, you prayed, don’t let harm come to my San. Please give him my strength and my will if he needs them.

“Rule number one. You have only one chance. If it’s lost, it’s lost. Gone forever.”

“Rule number two. You will not receive aid from anyone or anything. The village will only intercede if the hunt doesn’t finish with the beast’s death.”

“Rule number three. You will only carry one weapon of your choice and no armor. Any of those will deem the attempt failed, and you will lose your only chance.”

“Rule number four. The hunt only stops after one of you is dead.”

While your father talked, San seemed unfazed. Even if he already knew the rules, it made you uneasy to not know what he was thinking. You felt the urge to run to where he stood, grab his hand, and smooth out the crease on his brow that always popped up when he was thinking hard.

You yearned for nothing more than to be by his side.

“Choi San,” now your father spoke in a warning tone, “dare to break the rules, and you will face consequences bigger than what you can imagine. I will make sure of that.”

Not once had San looked intimidated, and that put your heart at ease (just a tiny bit, if you are being honest).

“I understood perfectly, sir.” San had always respected your father as a chief, so he always tried to keep his composure despite the adrenaline in his veins making him want nothing more than to begin with the hunt. But he had to remain polite, especially now that he was trying to become his successor.

“Good,” the chief stated plainly. “If there’s nothing else to say…let the hunt begin!”

The drums resumed in a frenetic rhythm, making your heart race once more. Nevertheless, below where you sat, San seemed pumped by it. He let the thick fur coat he wore fall to the ground, exposing his naked torso and ripped pants. You knew he did it to prove he wore nothing to protect him, but you couldn’t the blush that crept to your cheeks.

“Holy shit, that was hot” you murmured unintentionally. You looked to your left to see if your parents heard. Your father didn’t appear to have listened to you, concentrated on his duty as referee, but your mother let out a snort. You shot her a glare and she tried to suppress her laughter.

Trying to appear unfazed, you looked back at San. He was now holding a beautiful sword, which you knew like the back of your hand. The hilt was golden and decorated with flowers and power symbols. A short inscription written at the butt.

Choi San, the Wolf Warrior.

It was barely more than his name, but San had spent a fortune having it engraved in the shape of your handwriting. You smiled at the memory of a sixteen-year-old San running to show you his new possession.

“Y/N! Y/N!” you heard your name being shouted from behind you. When you turned, it was San running towards you at full speed, holding a piece of fabric in his hands. He finally reached you, showing his dimpled smile. “Geez, why do you have those ears if you can't even listen when one is shouting at you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, shut it. Not my fault you are so out of breath that I couldn’t understand shit of what you were shouting.”

“I was not-!” He looked like he wanted to bicker, again, with you, but he cut himself short. “It doesn’t matter, look what I got!” He proceeded to remove part of the folded fabric, exposing a shiny object. The blade of a sword. You let out a gasp and he chuckled. “Beautiful, isn’t it? But there’s more.”

He uncovered the rest of the weapon, and your eyes fell on the golden inscription. The letters were masterfully carved on the metal, so much it took you a moment to realize it was written in your handwriting.

“Is this…?” You didn’t even finish your sentence, and San already knew what you were trying to say.

“Yes. Custom-made from the best welder in town. It cost me a fortune, but it’s worth it.” San was grinning like an idiot at what he thought was an accomplishment.

Nevertheless, that didn’t sit right with you (even though you couldn’t deny that your heart was racing like a horse). “Are you dumb?! Why are you spending your money on dumb things like this?”

Your heart broke a little when you saw his smile falter. “What are you saying? Of course, it’s not dumb!”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, it 's not!”

“I said, yes it is!”

He frowned and grabbed your hand. “No, it’s not. Wanna know why? Because every time I wield it and see the hilt, I’ll be reminded of what I have back home. That I have someone waiting for me to come back. My treasure.”

His words from back then still made you feel warm, and after that, you always felt proud seeing him carry that sword.

Your gaze is torn away from the weapon to San himself. He was pacing around the makeshift arena planned for these occasions, warming up his limbs. His eyes seemed to wander through the place, not focusing on anyone, until they fell on you. Despite the seriousness that had ruled his behavior up until that point, he gifted you one of his characteristic smiles, which turned his eyes into two small crescents. Even with the loud music coming from the drums, you heard some girls squeal from his gesture, and you laughed at that.

San always knew how to lighten up the mood of every situation.

He kept walking until his back was turned from you, which you took as a chance to admire his sculptured figure. While he had always made clear to whom his heart belonged, that didn’t keep people from falling in love with his god-like looks. His chiseled torso was littered with tattoos, going around his arms, neck, and ribs, in addition to the big wolf head on his chest he had gotten when he was nineteen (when he had absolutely begged you to come with him for moral support).

His body was also covered in scars, mostly from battle wounds and hunting accidents. Some looked old and faded, while others appeared more recent. You knew each of them fully, seeing that you were the only one San let tend to him during those times. When he lowered his arms, you got a glimpse of his most famous one, which he bore on his left forearm. The one that earned him the title of Wolf Warrior, back when he was just twelve.

You stood waiting, just a few meters from the edge of the forest the boys had gone into a few days prior. Many of them had already returned and were celebrating all around you. But, still, there was no sign of San’s return.

You had accompanied San’s parents to wait for San to return from his ritual first hunt. For your people, this marked the beginning of manhood; a rite of passage from boys to men. It was the first time each of the boys would go hunting on their own, and they wouldn’t be allowed to come back without a prize. This ceremony was reserved for only the closest people in the boy’s life, but San’s parents had asked you to come since you were his best friend (and practically their niece, being their best friends’ daughter).

“It’s getting late, again,” San’s father said, and he was right. The sky was turning red and purple with the last lights of the day. Another day without San. “It’s only been three days, so it might still be early for him to return.”

“But most of the boys have come back,” his mother noted. She bit her lip, looking at the forest. Then, she looked at the grass and let out a sigh. “I guess you are right, we can wait another day.”

They moved to leave but stopped when they saw you hadn’t gone with them. “Y/N, let’s go home.”

You wanted to wait just a bit more. Just to be sure San wouldn’t come back that day. “I want to wait a few more minutes. If you want, you can go ahead and I’ll go back when I’m done. There are plenty of other parents here, so don’t worry about me!”

They didn’t look convinced, but they still let you. “Fine, but come back running to us if something happens.”

You waved them goodbye, but before long had passed, you saw some bushes rustle. You squinted to make sure your vision didn’t betray you, and a large figure emerged from the last line of trees. A scream rose to your throat when you saw the thick fur, but it soon died down when you saw the person carrying the furry mass.

“It’s San! It's San!” you shouted back at the distant figures of San’s parents. Thankfully, they had heard you, and they were sprinting back to your position. You ran behind them but stayed back when you saw them embrace their son.

“My son, my son is alright!” his mother repeated while holding him in her arms. Her husband embraced both of them without saying anything, but his face showed the relief he felt.

He is supposed to have returned a man, you thought while looking at the sweet scene, but they will still treat him like their baby.

“San is back!” you heard another boy say, “San came back from the hunt! But…what did he bring back though?”

That seemed to return San and his parents to reality. The ceremony wasn’t finished, as he still hadn’t presented his prize. They untangled themselves from their son and stepped back, allowing him to regain composure. It was then that you could finally see San clearly for the first time. He was soiled in mud, part of his clothes were tattered, and he had several scratches on his face, neck, and arms, but he didn’t seem bothered by them. He looked exhausted, on the verge of collapse even.

“San, my son,” his dad called out to him, “what have you brought from the hunt?”

San looked back at the big leather bag he had dropped with his parents' hug attacked. From the opening, a lot of fur spilled out without a clear form. “My prey was difficult to catch, that’s why I’m late. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Sanie,” his mother reassured him but, to you, she looked nervous. “It doesn't matter what it is, just that you are here. Have you decided who you will offer it to?”

You smiled at your friend. Even if you had stood back all this time to let the Choi family have their moment, you were overjoyed at seeing your best friend take part in one of the most important challenges in his life, and you would have given anything to run to his arms. Nevertheless, you stood back and contented yourself with giving him your usual reassuring smile (also, you couldn’t deny that you were madly curious to see to whom he would give his hunt, although knowing him, it was probably his parents).

Somehow, when you caught San’s eye, he didn’t relax. On the contrary, he stepped back from his parents' embrace and clutched his bag, never releasing tension. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

Mr. and Mrs. Choi held hands, seeing their now-grown son make an important decision. You also squealed in delight, cheering on your friend as he threw the bag over his shoulder with effort. He walked towards his parents and…ignored them?

Your confusion grew as he walked past his parents in your direction. You looked behind yourself, just to see no one. San kept approaching you until he stood merely two feet away. At that distance, you had a better view of all his injuries, especially the gnarly cut on his left forearm.

“Oh my god, Sanie!” you let out, closing the distance to grab his injured arm. “You need to get that treated immediately. It’s going to scar!”

Tension seemed to lift from his shoulders as San heard your typical nagging. He grabbed your wrist back and unlatched your fingers from his arm. “That’s not important right now!”

“What do you mean-!”

“It’s not,” he cut you off. Stepping back a little, he put the bag back on the ground, letting it fall with a loud thud. “This is what’s important right now”.

He opened it completely, a gray furry mass spilling out partially. San kept grabbing and pulling, freeing the animal from the cramped space. Once it was completely out, you let out a scream.

An enormous wolf was looking back at you.

“San, what the hell!” you stumbled back from the shock. “You brought a whole ass wolf?! Are you allowed to give that thing to someone?”

Sanie beamed his boyish smile. He grabbed the animal by the scruff, not raising from his kneeling position, and offered it to you. “I’m not giving it to ‘someone’. I, Choi San, from the Choi family, present my most sacred achievement to you, whom I most treasure and thank for in life”.

Your memory was shattered by the piercing shriek that resonated through the arena, making you clutch your necklace (made from the wolf’s teeth) in fear. It sounded like straight out of your nightmares.

The rumble of heavy steps only confirmed your worst fears.

San was looking directly at the forest line, where the noises were coming from. He stood his ground as a couple of trees fell and many shook with violence. The shouts of other men could be heard as they came closer and closer. Finally, before the whole tribe appeared a creature that left you nauseous.

Four enormous green and scaly legs carried an even bigger body; as tall as the tallest building in your village. The scales shone under the harsh sunlight and were thick enough to compare to an iron armor. Its talons tore through the hard soil like it was mere sand. Its lack of wings didn’t make it less intimidating; on the contrary, it warned its prey of its prowess on land. But it wasn’t the size, the fangs, the talons of the scales that paralyzed your body.

It was the eyes.

For the briefest moment, your gaze connected with the dragon’s. Its eyes glowed red with a primal fury you had only seen on a cornered animal, waiting to fight back if only to cause damage to its hunter before its ultimate demise. That look raised every hair on your body.

The dragon continued to shriek and thrash against the chains that the men, whom you recognized as San’s best friends, held tightly. They were being overpowered by the creature’s brute force, but they still held on for their friend’s chance at having the best prize the village would ever see.

All for you.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” San had turned to the crowd, “let the best hunt our people have ever witnessed in our long history begin!”

The sound of chains hitting the ground was almost drowned by the roar of your people. Once the beast was free, it lounged at full speed at San, forgetting about his other captors, hissing and letting its venom drip on the floor. An involuntary scream was ripped from your throat as you stood from your kneeling position.

“San, run!” you screamed moving forward, but a heavy hand on your shoulder stopped you from going further. It was your father’s.

“No, you stay here,” he demanded.

“Father, you have to stop this,” you pleaded at him. “This is madness! San can’t fight on his own against that!”

But your father was unmoving. “No, this is the challenge he chose, and he must accept his fate.”

“You don’t believe that,” your tone was dark, “at least not with San. Do you want your best friends’ child to die a stupid death? Do you want my best friend to die a stupid death?! Because I wi-!”

While he had remained emotionless during all the ceremony, now he looked furious. “(Y/N), compose yourself for gods’ sake!”

“But-”

“Your feelings do not matter right now, only San’s. He is down there, risking his life only for you to look at him. He chose this, no one else, and what he needs the most right now is your support. Do you understand?”

You understood, and those were the words you needed to sober up. Regardless of your feelings, whether you thought he was being reckless or not, San was fighting for the acceptance of your love in the eyes of your village. He didn’t need you to doubt him, he needed you to be by his side. Not to mention that he would be upset that you doubted his strength.

Until that moment, San had managed to evade all of the dragon’s attacks, opting for taking a defensive stance. The strength and size difference between them was abysmal, so the fate of either would be reduced to who could endure the chase for the longest. A battle of attrition.

The dragon charged at full speed once more, and San stood his ground, sword in front of him. The beast had almost reached him, when San dodged at the last second, managing to slash the tendon of one of its talons, but his arm brushed against one of its scales. Blood began to gush out of the wound, but he paid no mind to it. The battle was far from over, and he was determined to be the last one standing. He owed it to himself, and you.

For what seemed hours (and probably were), you saw San run around the arena, dodging attacks and inflicting more on his opponent. He was visibly injured, having been hit numerous times by the sharp weapons of the dragon, and caked on blood and mud. Nevertheless, the dragon itself wasn’t in a much better state; San had managed to slash open the tendons of three out of the four legs, and it had trouble moving at a fast speed. The sturdy sword of San had also pierced the thick armor of the beast, leaving big wounds on its sides and belly.

Dragons were magnificent creatures. They were perfectly designed to withstand almost all types of damage, being covered in those solid scales that rivaled metal. Some had enormous wings that they used to soar the skies of their vast territories, some breathed fire and ice. Many explorers even claimed that some races could even understand human language. From those many tales, it was expected to believe these beasts were invincible. However, what not many knew was that dragons did have a weakness, a physical one even. Under the sturdy chunks of armor on the chest, just at the area where the heart would’ve been located, the scales were more fragile, soft enough to let a blade penetrate the skin and kill the creature. Not many knew of this weak spot due to the difficulty of even getting close to a dragon, let alone surviving the encounter. Not many knew of it, except for San.

He could see that the dragon was getting tired from constantly playing the offensive. The blood loss was weighing it down, making its attacks slower and weaker, and San wasn’t easy prey to catch. He had been getting closer and closer to the one spot that would lead him to victory. The plan was to make the dragon bleed as much as possible, before ending it all in one move. He wasn’t much fan of making his prey suffer, but neither he was of getting his head bit off (leaving you practically widowed).

San kneeled for a moment, taking a breather as the dragon hissed at a new wound he made near its tail. His own injuries were also slowing him down, although the adrenaline kept him moving. He knew he couldn’t keep up much longer, and it was time to put an end to the battle while he still had the strength to continue.

It was time for the last act.

You saw San muster up the strength to stand up. You had lost count of how many times he was close to finally hunting down the dragon, so now you prayed that he just kept inflicting cuts on the beast until it finally died from blood loss. However, something was different in San. He seemed more confident this time, and you knew what it meant. San was now playing the offensive.

In half a second, San had banished from where he had been standing. Your eyes found him again a few meters closer to the dragon, sprinting at full speed directly towards him. The animal had taken notice of your friend, and stood firmly on its four legs, waiting to rip his head off his body. When San was directly in front of it, the dragon raised on its hind legs, as if to gather full force to strike down on the man and end the fight. You let out a gasp.

It was a fatal mistake.

Instead of stopping as the dragon had expected, San slid underneath it, raising his sword as the creature threw itself down full force. You blinked. One moment, the dragon had been roaring in victory and, in the next one, it was shuddering as it had impaled itself directly into San’s blade. The last remnants of life escaped in convulsions from the body of the beast, and it collapsed unceremoniously into the ground, a mere carcass of the magnificent animal it had been before. The crowd went quiet for the death of a splendid being.

You couldn’t care less for the animal. You couldn’t see San, so you were beginning to be worried that he had been crushed under the weight of the dragon. Your eyes frantically searched for him, until a figure emerged from beside the dead body. San was drenched in blood and struggled to breathe. He had never let go of the sword.

It was the true sight of a legendary hero.

San raised his hand and tried to wipe away some of the blood off his face, which made you chuckle as it was also covered in blood. Realizing the futility of that, he desisted and, instead, looked down on his weapon. He smiled at the inscription and grabbed it with his two hands. In one swift movement, he stabbed the chest of the dragon once more. You frowned in confusion as he kept stabbing and cutting through the body of the beast, as it was already dead, leaving a carnage behind. Behind you, a couple of old men were discussing the useful properties of all the organs and parts of the dragon and how they would have used them, but you couldn’t care less about that. At last, San seemed to find what he was looking for and dropped the sword. He plunged his hands into the hole he had made (which made you gag a little if you were being honest) and pulled out something. Everyone around you let out a collective gasp.

San was holding a dragon’s heart. A heart made out of pure gold.

Your jaw went slack. The heart was huge, as it belonged to a huge creature, and probably weighed a considerable amount. Nevertheless, San held it with the remaining strength he had. You couldn’t start to fathom the value of such rarity, much less the fact that it was now yours. The crowd cheered as he raised the piece over his head; a sign that declared him the victor.

Having basked in glory long enough, San secured a grip on the golden heart and began the ascent towards where you still kneeled beside your father and mother. It wasn’t that long of a distance, but carrying a heavy object after hours of battle sure was harsh on his body. Despite the ache, he continued to advance.

Your mother reached out for you, smiling as she grabbed your hand affectionately. "He did it! He did it! Finally, you can marry San!"

Finally.

You glanced down at San once more. The grown man that just killed a dragon looked nothing like the kid from ten years ago.

"Marry me". San blurted out of nowhere. The sudden request startled you, making you accidentally press on his wound. "Ouch! Be careful, you idiot!"

You felt offended. "Me? An idiot? You are the dumbass that proposes to someone while they are cleaning your wound. I should let your arm rot for being an idiot and reckless on your first hunt!"

He glared at you. "You wouldn't dare…"

"Try me."

He didn't reply, and you fell into a comfortable silence. San had dragged you away from the banquet his family had prepared on account of his newly acquired "manhood", complaining how his arm hurt from not being properly treated and he needed you to do it for him. Now you sat on a small hut next to his house, illuminated by a small candle, jars of ointments and gauzes lying on the floor beside your forms.

San watched as you applied another cream to his arm. "You didn't answer".

You didn't look at him, focused on treating him. "You didn't ask anything". Before he could hit you with a reply, you added "Besides, we can't get married".

That seemed to upset him. "Why not? We know each other perfectly, and our parents as best friends. I'm sure they would accept it".

You laughed at his naïveness. "It's not about approval. Marriage is for people that love each other".

Now, San just seemed confused. "But we love each other. We say it all the time".

"We love each other," you conceded, "but we aren't in love with each other". San's expression remained confused, so you tried to explain it in another way. "You and I love each other as brother and sister, and we act as such. People that get married treat the other as…well…lovers. They spend time together, they share stuff, they hold hands, they kiss. They swear to be with each other until death. They take care of each other. Forever!"

Your explanation didn't convince San. "But, don't we already do that? Minus the kissing, of course. Wouldn't that mean we are in love?"

The mere thought of being in love with San sent your prepubescent brain into short-circuit. It repulsed you in some way, as you had only looked at him as a brother, but you couldn't deny the butterflies in your stomach.

"No, it doesn't," you exclaimed. "Also, people that get married first become girlfriend and boyfriend! You can't be my boyfriend!"

San also looked repulsed at the sound of that word. "Ew, no! I don't want a girlfriend".

"See, that's why we can't get married".

"I don't want a girlfriend," his eyes burned holes in your head, "but I still think it would be nice if we got married. We already promised to be in each other's life forever and I care for you, so I don't think it'd make much difference".

You briefly looked back at him and rolled your eyes, grabbing a roll of gauze. "Why are you even thinking about that, Sanie? Marriage is an adult thing. We are twelve-year-old kids!"

"Speak for yourself! This proves I'm a grown man", he pointed at the wound, grinning. You shot him an amused look, opting for saying nothing and continuing with your job. It didn't take much time for San to break the silence yet again. "I guess all this new 'adulthood' stuff got me thinking about this new chapter of my life and-"

"Mhm"

"-all the things I can do now. Somehow that ended up in my thinking about marriage and how would it feel to get married to someone you like, you know?"

"Yes, yes".

"Then I thought of who I would marry, and I thought of you. Since all that best friend shit is basically the same shit you described, but if you say it's different, I guess it is. Either way, we should wait a little more before that, to think matters better and decide if-"

Oh, no. San had started rambling. "Sanie! What on gods' sake are you trying to say?!"

"What age do you think is the most appropriate to get married?" He looked dead serious now.

You finished dressing the wound, and threw your tools on the ground, exasperated by San's strange behavior. "I don't know! I already said that marriage is for adults!"

"Well, then at what age did your parents get engaged?"

You loved the story of how your parents go together, so it was an easy question. “Oh, my father proposed to my mother when he was twenty-two and she wa-”

San beamed as he interrupted you once more. “Perfect! Then my proposal will be suspended until then. I will ask you again when I turn twenty-two. That way I’ll give you time to fall in love with me, or whatever it is that you need.”

All the previous conversations had proven fruitless again and again, so it was better to leave things as they were, hoping that soon San would move to other subjects.

“Fine, whatever. We’ll probably have forgotten it by then”.

Except, he did not. And neither did you. On the contrary. With time, you had grown fond of your best friend, leaving behind the innocent affections of childhood to make place for the blossoming feelings of romantic love. Where you were hesitant to express these feelings, he openly did to anyone and anything willing to listen. He wanted you and only you. It wasn’t only the grand moments of expressed admiration that made you fall for him, but the quiet moments of thoughtfulness that instilled your devotion for him.

When he carried your things without a word, even if he knew you were perfectly capable of doing it on your own. When he held your hand as you walked through more deserted parts of the village. When you would silently work on the injuries he would bring home, never asking how he got them. When you would hold each other, letting the other shed their tears, just basking in each other’s comfort.

All those moments paved the way for the unspoken transformation of your relationship. You were neither friends nor lovers. No words could describe the depth of your understanding of each other. So, for you and the rest of the world, you were simply “Y/N and San”.

And you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

As usual in any other important celebration, San had dragged you away from everybody. This time, it was his birthday and, although he loved being with his friends and family, he wanted to spend time alone with you. As you both grew, so did your responsibilities, yours as the daughter of the village chief and San’s as the strongest member, so there were periods where your time together was limited.

As soon as you were decently away from the rest of the party, San had taken you in his arms in a warm embrace. You inhaled his scent. He smelled like home. You didn’t question what was up with the sudden display of affection, you knew he would let you know in time. He was never one to keep quiet for much time.

“Marry me”.

He hadn’t forgotten. San was a man of his word.

“Today I turn twenty-two,” he told you, as if you weren’t currently celebrating that fact, “it’s the day I’m finally asking you to be mine”.

Your heart threatened to escape your ribcage from pure glee. “I’ve always been yours, Sanie. Since the day you first asked.”

You felt his smile as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Thank you, thank you. You know that I belong to you too. I’ll take care of you, so good. Every day, all day. And you won’t be able to get rid of me”.

You chuckled. “I don’t know about that. You can barely take care of yourself”.

“But it’s different since I don't care about myself, only about my treasure”.

For longer, you remained like you were. Many breaths passed before any of you said anything.

“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow,” he announced, shattering the moment, “it won’t be for too long and the guys are coming with me”.

“Leaving? To where?” you asked, confused.

“As much as I’d love to stay with my beautiful fiancée,” you loved how the title sounded coming from him, “I have to bring her a pretty hunting trophy, so she can boast to the whole town about having the strongest boyfriend to ever live”.

You stayed silent. Even if you wanted San to forgo tradition and stay with you, you knew he wasn’t in an easy position. As the chief’s daughter, you didn’t require him to only fulfill the role of the husband. By marrying you, he would automatically become the next in line for the position of chief, as you had no male relatives that could assume it. Thus, he needed to prove himself worthy of you and the whole village.

The very next day, he announced to your community his intentions of marrying you and becoming head of the village. The day after that, he was gone.

Sixty-two days had passed since you last felt his warmth, so when he stood before you, still covered in blood and grime, holding his heart (well, not his in a strict manner), you itched to extend your hand to his cheek and wipe the exhaustion away.

Once more, the ceremonial drums stopped after hours of incessant banging. It was time for your father to speak.

“Choi San,” he called out to your lover, “Ten years ago, when you were barely a man, I bestowed you the title of ‘Wolf Warrior’, which has been reserved for the strongest of our kind, in hopes that you would use it to protect and serve our people. Despite that great honor, you have used that same title and strength to recklessly endanger our home by bringing a dragon for mere spectacle. Had things gone askew, it wouldn’t have been just your life that we would have lost, but many others”.

After the little speech he gave you about trusting San, you were surprised by the harsh scolding your father was giving San in front of other people. Nevertheless, you understood his position as responsible for the village.

“However, on this day you have achieved a feat none of our ancestors could compare to. The tale of the man who single-handedly slew an adult dragon with just a sword will be told by many generations to come, under the title of ‘Choi San, the Dragon Warrior’; title I am to bestow you and will only belong to you. But I’m afraid names and merits would be meaningless if the intent behind them isn’t honored”.

Your father paused briefly before resuming. “Time and time again, you have proven your worth as a man beyond the power of his sword. Your contributions to the safekeeping of our people speak for themselves, and any reward would be in order as compensation for your service. However, I know you seek not money or fame, but something deeper than that.

“Choi San. I’ve seen you and Y/N grow into the splendid adults you are today. I’ve seen your care for each other and your understanding of each other. After today, I do no doubt that there is no better man for my daughter, and no better one to succeed me when I am no longer able. Therefore, I declare successful your attempt and bless the union between the two of you”.

Your heart soared higher than the sky above you. You could have broken your neck with how fast you whipped your head to look back at San, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

San. San. Sanie.

He was on one knee on the ground before you. The golden heart sat on the floor in front of him, displayed as an offering to you. He held his hands open, waiting for you to take them. You did so, standing up and grabbing his fingers, not caring one bit that they were still covered in grime. San looked at you intensely, wanting you to look at him and only him. Now and for the rest of your lives.

“My treasure,” he spoke so softly as if you were going to shatter if he spoke any louder, “from my very first breath, everything I’ve done has been for you and only you. My first thoughts in the morning and my last ones before bed are of you, and even in my sleep I see you next to me. Every beat of my heart is for you, until the last of them. But, even then, there are no words to describe how deeply I love you”.

Your lips quivered, but you broke into a teary smile nonetheless. “Oh, Sanie. If you keep going, I’m afraid I will cry for real”.

“Don’t worry,” he gripped your hands tighter, “I will be here to wipe away all of them”. San planted a kiss on your knuckles before continuing. “Ever since I was a child, I knew it was you who I wanted to be with for the rest of my life, even if you disliked the idea of that. I knew it had to be me who had to be there in your moments of joy, as well as your moments of sadness. It had to be me who cared for you when you weren’t able to care for yourself and be by your side when you didn’t want anyone else. It doesn’t have to be me, but I want it to be me”.

You swore you could hear some girls sigh behind you, and you couldn’t relate more to that.

“Today I, Choi San of the Choi family, offer you the best of me. I present to you this prize as an offering of my heart, my body, and my soul, which from now on are yours to dispose of. If you wish to accept it, and therefore accept me, I’ll belong to you for the rest of eternity. If you let me be by your side, I’ll do my best to care for you, and not even water will touch your hands. These words will be true, whether you accept my offerings or not since it’s only to you I wish to lay my life for”.

With a last kiss to your hands, he brought them up and rested his forehead on them. The tips of his ears appeared slightly red and his own hands trembled. You knew your Sanie enough to recognize he was equally nervous and embarrassed (which he had nothing to feel shame for, as he had said cheesier things under the influence of liquor).

You rubbed your thumbs on the back of his hand, hoping to soothe his nerves. “Rise, my young warrior. A man like you should be kneeling for nobody”.

He didn’t stand up. “But you aren’t ‘nobody’, my love. You are my strength and my will”.

This man will be the death of me, you laughed to yourself.

“And you are the most stubborn man I’ve ever encountered,” you poked at him. You tugged firmly at your intertwined hands, signaling that you needed him to get back on his feet, “and I’m afraid that you won’t be able to hear my words properly from down there”.

That made him look up to you once more, and finally stand up from the ground. This time, you didn’t hold yourself back from letting go of his fingers to remove a piece of hair from San’s eyes. Your own ones lingered a while longer, just to find themselves cupping his cheek. San snuggled up to your palm instinctively, reminding you of a cat.

“My love,” San closed his eyes and sighed at the name, “you have fought so bravely for the both of us. Not just today, but for a very long time. It is me who should be thanking you for brightening my life with just your presence, and for never giving up on me. We’ve had our highs and lows, but there’s no time of my life that I can remember without you being present. You too have had full ownership of my heart since the very beginning, and it is not my desire for you to relinquish your rights to it”.

“I too want to be the one who cares for you when you aren’t able to fend for yourself. I too want to be who you come to when you have wounds to heal. I want to be who you wake up to every morning, and who you sleep next to every night. I want to be the source of your strength and your place of rest; to protect your heart from harm and your mind from turmoil.”

“My Sanie, for as long as you let me, I will be yours, and even further than that if you decide you love me no more. Everything I have, I will share with you. Where you go, I will go. Whom you love I will love, and whom you despise I will despise. There’s nothing that will give me greater joy than to be yours. So I, Y/N, accept this prize as a symbol of my love and the union that will bind us from now on”.

You had barely finished when you found yourself spinning in the air, San’s hands grabbing you firmly by your waist. You finally let out tears of joy and looked down to see that he was crying too. San put you back on the ground, but never let you go. On the contrary, he pulled you towards him in the biggest hug. One of his hands held you by the waist, while the other rested on the back of your head. Your forehead hid on the crook of his neck, and your hands moved restlessly across his broad back. The drums now played a happy beat and people danced for the new couple. From the corner of your eyes, you could see your parents and San’s embracing each other, finally together as a family.

“My love, my love, my love,” San whispered in your ear, unable to stop repeating those words.

“My Sanie,” you whispered back, “I’m sorry I made you wait for so long”.

“Nothing of that matters now,” he reassured you, “I could have waited longer if it meant I’d have you at the end.”

“You always know what to say,” you joked. “Always the hopelessly romantic idiot”

“You are right. But now I’m your idiot”.

“No, you are my husband”.

San stopped all movement before slightly pushing you away from him. He held your gaze for a couple of seconds before grabbing your face with a smirk adorning his lips. “Hell yeah, I am”.

He leaned down and captured your lips in a heart-stopping kiss. Your brain melted to mush and you could only think about him, surrounding every part of you.

San. San. Sanie.

The world could have ended at that very moment, and neither of you would have cared. Not when you had each other in every sense of the word, cause that is all that mattered. You and him.

Y/N and San.

Follow @teez-the-time for more!!!

Do not use without permission from the author.

[autisticalastor]

the privilege of being born to be a man

Pairing: Alastor/Lucifer

Rating: G

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Genderfluid Alastor (his egg is cracking), Demiromantic Asexual Alastor, Colorblind Alastor, snippets of human!Alastor, slight TWs for internalized transphobia

A/N: Honestly, I just wanted to write Alastor trying on a dress and starting to realize he's Not Cis, but then I got Emotional about it. I like to headcanon Lucifer is agender and just plays fast and loose with femininity and mascuilinity, and this is just the perfect catalyst for Alastor's own little gender journey. Anyways, enjoy some snippets from Alastor's life as a human here as well! Title is from I / Me / Myself by Will Wood!

On his more feminine days, Lucifer takes forever to get ready. Alastor's fairly certain most of the time is spent just picking out an outfit, as if he can't just summon the perfect pieces with the wave of a hand. It can be a bit irritating when they have somewhere they need to be, especially since Lucifer never seems to know in advance when he's going to want to spend an hour or two trying to be the prettiest man in Hell. As if he wasn't already.

Today was one of those days, and Alastor was busying himself with some light reading as he waited for Lucifer to be ready. At least they didn't have anywhere important to be for a while.

“Alastor,” Lucifer calls, finally emerging from the bathroom. “What do you think? I haven't tried this style before, but I thought it looked nice in those old catalogues.”

Alastor looks up, and he must say, he's impressed. The dress Lucifer has picked is a vintage 1940s-style dress, mostly white, but patterned with small yellow flowers. It does look rather stunning on him, and as Lucifer gives a little twirl to make the skirt spin out around him, Alastor can't help but think he was made for outfits like this. Some part of him idly wishes, not for the first time, that he had the same freedom Lucifer did in that regard.

“Absolutely stunning, dear,” Alastor responds. “I do so envy your ability to pull off such lovely outfits.”

Lucifer gives him a warm smile. “Y'know, you could always join me. Bet I could whip up the perfect dress for you.”

Alastor looks away, a bit conflicted. In his time, it was rather unheard of for men to dress in women's clothing. Those who did were certainly not treated well. Part of him had always wanted to try it, envying his mother and the ladies from their church in all their pretty dresses and skirts. But he had pushed the feeling down, the shame of how he'd be perceived enough to keep him off the idea.

Now, of course, there isn't really anything stopping him. Except for this odd feeling that it's perfectly fine for someone like Lucifer or Angel Dust to play fast and loose with masculinity and femininity, but not for him to do the same.

“No, I don’t think so!” he replies, voice a bit tight. “I don't doubt your design skills, but I do doubt I'd make quite as pretty a picture as you do.” He's deflecting, and he's certain Lucifer can tell.

“Aw, c'mon! It's really fun! Plus, it can be just for us. You don't have to go out in it if you don't feel comfortable. I just think you might like it if you tried it.”

“I don't know…”

“We can design the dress however you want! I'm sure there's a style out there you'd just die to get your hands on.”

And there is. Alastor can picture the dress he'd ask for perfectly in his head, as if he's already got it in front of him. If nothing else, I could at least keep it as a memento…

“All right,” he agrees with a sigh. “You truly do live up to your reputation as the master of temptation, don't you?”

Keep Reading

[richarlotte]

More on that first part?

Getting fucked over by the narrative absolutely exists in the world of black women, and it’s been proven time and time again that we can do everything right and still lose. If you’re a young black woman trying to succeed in college, corporate America, or American culture in general, you have to be aware that you could be absolutely perfect, but racism could still harm you in ways you wouldn’t even think exist. I’ve had this talk with so many of my friends who have been rejected, not let into clubs, dropped by social groups, treated terribly by their workplaces, or made to feel guilty for existing, and I’ve had to tell them what my best friend’s mom told me: it’s very hard to live your life to your best ability, do everything perfectly and without fail, and still be made to feel like you don’t belong due to the color of your skin. If you’re a young black woman, you MUST be gentle with yourself and treat yourself well. We’re society’s favorite joke, and it’s hard out there in the real world. Black women live in a society where people treat us badly without even bothering to learn our names, women of all races project their insecurities onto us, and men fetishize and chase us without any intentions. Why should we blame ourselves for a cycle we played no part in creating? The narrative is against black women; don’t blame yourself for society’s deeds.

[ventbloglite]

Some of you really need to step back a little bit and acknowledge how ignorant you are towards how misogyny affects trans mascs and how you yourself may be perpetrating said misogyny when speaking ill of trans mascs.

Which is not something you should be doing at all, fyi. You can talk about individual shitty trans mascs and certain community issues you dislike which involve or are perpetrated by trans mascs without just being transphobic towards trans mascs in general.

So many times I've seen the sentient of 'AFAB's have it really easy, everyone accepts AFAB's as trans, everyone loves AFAB trans people, the world caters to you, there is basically no problems for you if you're AFAB unlike AMAB folk' shown in a variety of ways from a variety of people including just outright saying it. Not to mention the belitting of trans masc experiences with transphobia and misogyny + the way those interact because they identify as men even though transphobes still consider them to be women and don't give a shit about their actual gender.

A main crux of transphobia (though many other factors which result in hating us come into play, too many to go into now) is that trans people are seen as and treated as their AGAB and punished for not identifying as it or portraying it 'correctly' by society. So tell me why so many seem to 'forget' about how misogyny impacts trans masculine people. Could it be because you believe that advocating for trans women and trans femmes and fighting transmisogyny somehow must involve being transphobic towards trans men due to that radfem influence you've absorbed? The world will never reach gender equality of any kind if everything is 'men versus women' so can we just fucking not bring that into trans spaces please.

Examples!

I saw recently a post which perfectly pointed out the potential risks associated with someone considered 'male' growing out her hair but OP clearly knew absolutely nothing about the same risks associated with someone deemed 'female' cutting his hair. Instead of not making that post or doing some research, OP thus assumed there weren't really any risks likely due to already believing that AFAB trans people have it easy.

The ignorance! Misogyny heavily impacts the way hair is treated on those perceived as women (including body hair) and women/those perceived as women have no end of people policing what they can and can't do with their bodies often taking things to the absolute extreme to do so. Short hair on woman may seem 'more accepted' but AFAB people of any gender could quickly tell you multiple situations where it's not and results in the same violence, abuse, homo(lesbo/butch)phobia and yes possibly even death depending on the situation even if you still identify as a woman. Pretending this doesn't happen is straight up misogyny btw.

'AFAB's pass easily by doing basically nothing' is another frequent one which makes me laugh. 'Passing' for most trans people is so situational and so dependent on what you do or don't do to strictly conform to gender stereotypes if you're even able to do that at all. To suggest that the world ignores feminine gender markers the moment someone's hair is short and their chest appears mostly flat ignores both the complexity of how humans perceive gender and how misogyny comes into play whenever a woman/perceived woman shows any masculinity let alone maleness. Considering the same misogyny comes into play frequently against trans women you'd think it'd be easy to remember.

This general sentiment of 'Being born with a vagina means your life is easy and everything you do will be loved and supported because society adores you. You don't and will never have any real problems, not like anyone born with a penis.' isn't magically okay and absolutely super different to when misogynists say it about cis women because you're using AGAB language and cite 'because you're men and blah blah patriarchy' as the actual reason you're saying it. It's very clearly same shit different coat of paint. The pool is there, your toes are in, stop preparing to dive for Gods sake.

[verdemoun]

Hey, it's me again! Sorry for being mousey last time.

I know this is a bit recent but if I wait too long I'll either lose the idea or my nerve.

For some reason, I adore the Transfem "Kieran" Duffy HC. It's almost certainly projection, because while I was never held hostage by a roving band of psychotic Irishmen, I am shy, neurodivergent, and paranoid to the point of having escape plans I will never use.

I know you already did one for 1899 Kieran (which may or may not have cursed me with a love of an incredibly niche HC for an already very niche character) but could you maybe do one for Timewarp?

Alternatively, if you would like something different, Sean and his father learn about everything that happened in Ireland after their deaths. The 1916 Easter Rising, The Troubles, or Margaret Thatcher as a whole.

As another alternative, disregard this ask all together, and go get a snack. You probably need one.

A snack would be good rn I'll have a snack with one hand and reply with the other.

Transfem Kieran,,, beloved.

Bessie motherfucking Matthews can smell gender dysphoria like a bloodhound and would notice the second they brought the non-verbal smelly homeless former-O'Driscoll home.

Kieran's been sleeping rough for a month, just like when he was first let off the tree in Horseshoe he desperately needs a bath.

After a slight miscommunication about hot water (and the concept of not needing to share bath water), Kieran is sitting on the couch two hours later shivering in three layers of clean clothes and a blanket with Bessie very gently and patiently brushing the knots and mats out of his hair. The first thing Kieran makes close to a noise is a delighted squeak in the back of his throat as Bessie says what nice hair he has. Bessie immediately ties a little braid in Kieran's hair, to another overjoyed squeak.

Kieran absolutely latches onto Bessie as a safe person. When her husband assures her Kieran had always been around the women in camp and just seemed to prefer their company, Bessie takes note.

Innocently saying that they weren't expecting any more timewarpers for a while so Kieran has to go shopping in her wardrobe for a bit. While Hosea's clothes are in there too he picks out a v-neck and a chunky knitted cardigan and looks very content in women's clothing that still fits loose because of how scrawny he is.

Bessie also offers to help Kieran shave. Getting a close shave was still a fairly rare occasion thing in 1890s so she could easily say it was a treat to make timewarping seem less scary.

Instead Mair gets a moment of seeing herself with her hair perfectly washed and brushed and soft and clean shaven in femme-presenting clothes that didn't even exist in canon era and very quickly goes from 'yay men can be pretty in modern era' to the gender euphoria of 'wait am I a man? or am I a pretty lady? can i,, oh i can be a pretty lady!!'.

Bessie would also be euphoric because a) timewarp actually giving people a chance to explore gender identity in a way they couldn't in canon era and proving all the fear and learning to adapt to modern era is a good thing b) she finally gets a daughter because throughout all the children she has accidentally adopted over her lifetime (Arthur, John, Sean, Lenny) she is yet to actually have a daughter due to dying before the gang picked up Tilly.

Bessie would adore brushing Mair's hair and taking her shopping to get fancy nice smelling soaps and clothes. Mair would still be a hoodie gremlin but the classic oversized paired with a mini skirt but the hoodie's so long it just looks like she's not wearing anything under it.

Exception being first-time she sees a dress she absolutely must have. It very much looks like something from the early 20th century and only modern to the gang, with a bell skirt and petticoat to match.

Processing timewarp honestly takes up so much of the gang's time most would struggle to actually recognise Mair as Kieran except for the OG timewarpers who would respect times change I guess Mair is her name now. 'There's cars now and no one owns horses, and robbing banks and getting away with murder is almost impossible, you have to get an actual paying law-abiding job, also sometimes people change gender'.

Molly would absolutely fall in love with having another girl in the gang who doesn't actively hate her (her and Karen still have some beef to work out) and spend hours doing Mair's make-up with all her fancy products and Mair would adore it. Otherwise she is useless at doing make-up because that shit is hard.

She's somehow an even bigger horsegirl because she really identified with the being a girl part. People thought Kieran was obnoxious with his love of horses? Mair is worse, infinitely, infinitely worse. The few who make the connection Mair was once Kieran Duffy? The way she talks about horses.

My Little Pony backpack that goes everywhere with her.

She makes friendship bracelets for her favourite people, because she would never part with any of her precious horse figurines for any reason. She would still bite Sean for touching any one of them.

Bessie: precious darling daughter would you like to get our nails done together? Mair: yes please!! - after - Mair: yay pretty nails!! pretty!! Bessie: Bessie: it's okay if you want to take them off Mair: oh my god yes please

[ugly-anarchist]

claiming misandry or anti-masculinity exists is the same as saying that heterophobia exists because straight trans people are treated like shit. it’s not heterophobia, it’s transphobia/homophobia. in the same way that masc afab people being treated terribly is misogyny and homophobia, and has literally zero to do with misandry/“anti-masculinity”. if anti-masculinity or misandry existed, even straight cis heterosexual men would suffer from it.

okay so like. as a straight trans person i definitely wouldn't call what we experience "heterophobia" and i don't know anyone who would argue that systemic heterophobia is a thing, but this person seems ignorant of the transhet experience. straight trans people are treated like shit, yes, and a big part of that is transphobia and homophobia, but part of it is also being straight.

i've had cis queers (and sometimes non-cis queers) treat trans heterosexuality as a loss, implying and sometimes outright saying they would prefer it if we'd stayed cis gays/lesbians. terfs mourn how beautiful butch lesbians are transitioning into icky straight men. sapphics have told me that when i was sexually attracted to women as a "lesbian" it was okay, but now that i was sexually attracted to women as a straight man i was creepy and misogynistic.

and being treated like shit within the queer community for being straight isn't exclusive to transhets- aro and ace people get this a lot too. heteroromantic asexuals are invading the queer community and stealing resources. aromantic heterosexuals are just slutty straight women or misogynistic straight men who just use women for their bodies. the wave of arophobia that started last december(?) was explicitly targeted at cishet aro men.

just because systemic heterophobia isn't a thing, that doesn't make it okay to hear trans and/or aspec straight people talking about the ways they are treated badly for being straight and say "shut up, you're not oppressed for being straight." likewise, it's not okay to hear queer people talk the ways they are treated badly for being masculine or perceived as masculine and say "shut up, anti-masculinity isn't a thing."

i'm sorry this is so long i just wanted to rant about this stupid fucking take

You are absolutely 100% correct

The issue here is, I think, that people are only looking at mistreatment through the lens of systemic oppression. That if it's not systemic oppression then it must be perfectly fine and okay to do, but it's not.

Feeling bitter and resentful towards cishet society isn't a bad thing but you shouldn't be taking out that bitterness on fellow queer people who happen to also be straight.

Same with anti-masculinity. Misandry isn't real, but the bitterness and hatred for men that some people have is often unfairly applied to queer people who aren't like non-queer men. People take what awful men have done and then apply it to any and all perceived masculinity and it's hurting queer people.

Just because I have the T levels and body hair of a cis guy doesn't make me predatory or abusive and me calling out the people who have been saying that shit to me and giving it a word doesn't mean I'm saying misandry is real and perisex cisallohet men are oppressed by lesbians. No. People are unfairly treating me and other queer people like shit and I deserve to call it what it is.

[kyli-howard]

The Woman and Her Garden of Statues [A Short Story]

There were many names for the woman in the town nearby.

They would be whispered between friends during coffee. Or shared between families at storytime. Or scribbled on the wall of a public bathroom.

The woman in the mansion. The lonely woman on the hill. The woman who hid from the world.

She had become a folktale for the town, but no one truly knew her name. Or maybe they just never said it.

No one ever saw her, but they all shared this understanding.

She was painfully beautiful. Long hair that was soft to the touch and flowed perfectly in the wind. Kind eyes that held small secrets. A perfect mix of mysterious and inviting. Her skin was flawless. It would feel like silk if touched.

She was everyone's fantasy.

The definition of perfection that could haunt the vision of men and women alike. So many had sworn that they had seen her in their dreams. That she reached out to them, looking for the company that she had been closed off from for so long.

Curiosity was a natural part of living in this small town.

Wondering what sat in the large house at the top of the hill. Behind the iron gate, what would be found? Why would one woman stay there alone by choice? What could one woman do to make such a large home feel less empty?

Lyla was much like the people around her.

She wondered about the woman on the hill.

However, she never wondered why the woman wanted to be alone. She only wondered about how that life has treated her. Was she happy? Was she miserable? Was it lonely?

The questions seemed to circle Lyla's mind whenever she was just on the verge of sleep, tempting her to stay up until the early hours of the morning and come up with theories about how living that way could feel.

One night, everything changed.

The questions had gone beyond the verge of Lyla's tired mind.

Lyla had fallen asleep on her couch, not getting the chance to entertain her thoughts of the woman on the hill.

Her dreams had to pay the price for that crime.

Lyla found herself walking through the doorway of a mansion. She was looking for something, she knew it. She could feel the pulling in her chest and the slight tingle at the end of her fingers. Her body knew better than her mind.

She looked around the room.

Beautiful building. Wood floors and light walls. A staircase reached up near the front door. Gorgeous art lined the walls. Plants and statues took up many of the empty spaces. The light fixtures alone probably cost more than Lyla's car. If this was just the entrance, the rest of the house must have looked like a museum.

Lyla let out a breath. What was she trying to find?

Like answering the question that Lyla had yet to ask, there was the sound of footsteps in the hall upstairs.

"There you are," Lyla looked at the staircase. The air was nearly knocked from her lungs.

She had never seen the woman on the hill before, but she knew in her heart that this was her. Or how Lyla's brain saw her.

Long brown hair and kind brown eyes. A lovely dress that looked like it had been designed for her. Absolutely beautiful.

"Come on," the woman grabbed Lyla's hand and started pulling her through the house.

Why was Lyla here?

"I have some more books for you."

Lyla looked down at the book that she hadn't noticed sitting in her hand.

Yeah, that was right. She had been here to pick up some books.

The pair had made it to the study soon after.

Lyla stood in the doorway to the room, taking a moment to admire it.

A desk was made of dark wood, designed to match the bookshelves that covered almost every part of the walls. The chair at that desk had an emerald cushion with gold details, much like the couch that sat on the free part of the wall and the window seat that was behind the desk. Two more similar chairs sat by a small round table. Perfectly comfortable. Lyla could imagine spending her afternoons here with a book.

The woman had walked ahead of Lyla. She instead grabbed the sliding ladder and climbed up to one of the top shelves. So much grace that if Lyla hadn't seen the ladder, she would think that the woman had floated up.

The woman's hand grasped around a leather-bound book. It had been worn, the silver lettering on the spine had since been mostly scraped off and you could see the marks in the leather from where the book had been dropped or scratched.

Lyla watched the woman come down to meet her with a smile.

"Here it is," she said happily, holding it out to Lyla. Lyla traded books with her.

She gently opened the cover of the new book as the woman moved the ladder so she could put away the book that Lyla had brought back.

Lyla's finger traced the edge of the page as she studied the aged paper.

"Would you like something to drink," the woman asked, going to walk past Lyla.

"Umm," Lyla's brain felt foggy immediately. "I... I'm okay."

"Are you sure," the woman's eyebrows furrowed as she stepped toward Lyla.

Lyla nodded.

There was a tense moment. The woman stood in the doorway. Her gaze at Lyla shifted slightly. Lyla nodded but stepped back.

The woman stepped forward so she could reach out and touch Lyla's hand. Lyla looked down at where their fingers brushed against each other.

As she looked back up, the woman moved closer. Lyla couldn't figure out why she hadn't stepped back. She just didn't want to. Something deep within her chest told her that standing here was the right thing to do.

The woman leaned forward a few more inches. Lyla allowed her eyes to flutter shut.

However, as soon as her eyes shut, Lyla shot up on the couch.

She looked around her living room. The same old couch and coffee table. No gorgeous study with an endless selection of books.

She looked at her clock. It was almost three in the morning.

Lyla reached up and gently touched her lips. She could still feel the woman's breath on them. The idea made a shiver run up Lyla's spine. It was haunting.

That was the day that Lyla knew she could just sit in her room with her running line of questions. She needed to find real answers.

She got out of bed and showered. She pulled on some dark jeans and a slightly faded white shirt. Finally, she pulled on her black boots and a black jacket.

Soon, Lyla found herself in her small, arguably beat-up car, driving up the road that led out of town and into a forest.

She was quick to realize why people very rarely visited the mansion. If she hadn't been looking for it, she would have missed the dirt road leading to it completely.

Each bump in the road made Lyla hold onto her steering wheel a little bit harder. All she could do was hope that she wouldn't end up crashing into a tree. She wasn't a bad driver, but this road was truly dangerous to drive on.

A sense of relief flooded Lyla as the road left the trees and found a clearing.

She could now see the mansion that she had heard so many stories about. It was gorgeous. White stone walls with dark details. An iron gate was part of the large wall surrounding the property.

Mansion didn't feel like a proper way to describe it. It was a few steps away from being a full-blown castle.

Lyla drove up to the gate. She put the car in park just a car's length or so away from the gate.

Her black boots did little to mask her steps as she hesitantly approached the gate. The dirt shifted under each step, sounding like thunder compared to the silence around her.

She reached out for the iron gate, hesitantly wrapping her hand around one of the bars. With a deep breath, Lyla pushed on the bar, shocked to find it unlocked.

The gate made a loud squeak as Lyla pushed it. She decided that anyone who was there was aware of her, so stopping now wouldn't help her in the long run.

Once both sides of the gate were open, Lyla returned to her car. She slowly rolled forward into the driveway. She looked up at the building.

"Wow," she muttered, pressing on the brakes before putting her car into park and taking the keys out of the ignition.

The driveway had changed from just dirt to a layer of gravel. Each rock sounded like a falling bolder as Lyla got out of her car.

She took a moment to look around and admire the garden that was between the house and the wall. She hadn't noticed how far she had truly parked from the house.

The lawn had a variety of statues throughout it.

One was a man with a rake, back hunched over slightly. There was a hat resting on his head and a small grin.

Another was a woman by a line of hedges. She had a bandana tying her hair back while she held the hedge clippers open. There were a few stray branches that had latched onto the statue's arms.

The centerpiece of the yard was more beautiful than anything else.

It was a party. A picnic with all sorts of guests. They were all by some gazebo.

Adults with drinks in their hands. All talking and being friendly.

Children on the ground playing with a ball or wrestling.

There was even a dog by the steps to the gazebo, posed mid-bark.

There was so much detail to all of the statues that it looked like a photograph. A moment that had just been frozen in time. Wrinkles on the faces, veins on some of the hands, and the clothes looked like they were paper thin.

The artist was probably renowned for their work. It was better than anything Lyla had ever seen.

She stared at all of the statues as she walked over to the house. Lyla never thought that she was going to find herself in a Disney fairytale, but now she was thinking that she had stumbled into the newest live-action remake.

Her gaze only left the garden and the statues when she had to walk up the stone steps to the large wooden door.

It felt familiar.

Just like her dream.

There was another pair of statues in front of the house. A man and a woman smiling at each other. The woman's hands were resting on the man's jacket. The man's hands were resting on the woman's back. It was so easy to see the love on both of their faces. So clear. So simple.

She took a moment to look at the door. Golden details on dark wood. It made her smile. So beautiful.

She reached a hand up and grabbed one of the golden knockers. It was heavy and as it hit the door, Lyla flinched slightly. It was so loud that it sounded like she threw a large rock at it.

She let out a sigh and stepped back.

There was a minute of silence.

Just as she went to take a step back and admit defeat, there was a loud creak from the door's hinges.

"Hello," a soft voice called out.

Lyla turned around to face whoever had spoken.

It was her. The woman. The one that people had told stories about. The one that haunted the dreams of many. The dreams of Lyla.

She was just as beautiful as Lyla had been told.

The woman was wearing a white dress that puffed out from her waist to her knees. The sleeves were long and slightly see-through. Her hair was long and dark brown. Her eyes were a dark brown; black holes falling into the pupils. Gorgeous.

"Hello," Lyla responded quietly, studying the woman in front of her.

"Can I help you," the woman asked, voice sweet and smooth like a gentle melody.

"Umm, I- uh," she forgot any reason she had for showing up. She had to come up with something. Quickly. "I'm writing an article about you."

"Oh?"

That was stupid, Lyla thought. Why the hell would you say that?

"Yeah," Lyla said, nodding once. "It would just be about your life. Your history and story. Why you love this house so much. That kind of thing. All kind. If you're comfortable with that?"

The woman leaned on the door and frowned, deep in thought. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she weighed the pros and cons of letting Lyla in.

"You wouldn't share anything that I ask you not to," she asked.

Lyla nodded, "Of course."

The woman let her face relax as a small grin returned to her lips.

Lyla mimicked the woman's smile.

"Come on," the woman stepped back, welcoming Lyla inside. "I'll make us some tea and we can talk."

Lyla nodded and followed the woman inside.

The inside of the house was almost more beautiful than the garden outside.

There were beautiful hardwood floors that matched the shelving. There were deep green walls with paintings all along them. There was a rug on the floor that was a similar green with golden details.

There were more statues too.

There was one right by the door. A man holding out a bouquet. He was dressed sharply. There was a look on his face that looked purely like puppy love. Lyla wondered how someone could show so much emotion in a cut of stone.

She followed the woman through the entrance toward the back of the house. The hardwood flooring turned into white tiles. There was a pair of statues just outside the doorway to the kitchen. They were two girls, excitedly chatting about something. Each detail was clearly defined in their faces. Their clothes looked soft, even though they were carved from stone.

The kitchen looked like a museum.

The white tiles met pale yellow walls and white cabinets. The counters were all marble. The seats were dark wood. The light above the dining table covered everything in a wave of golden light.

There was a statue in the corner of some kind of chef with a baking tray of cookies. Lyla could've sworn that the chocolate chips were melted.

She took a seat on the other side of the island as the woman walked to another counter.

Lyla took out her phone so she could pretend to be writing notes. She had made up a ridiculous story, and she would be damned if she didn't commit to it.

The woman placed the kettle on the stove before grabbing two mugs from one of the cabinets.

"I should start by asking your name," Lyla said as the woman placed two tea bags in their respective mugs.

"Ella," the woman replied, turning her attention to purely focus on Lyla.

Lyla typed the name down. It was a fitting name. Like royalty.

"Do I get to know yours?"

Lyla nodded. There was this pause where her brain didn't seem to catch up with what her body had done.

Once she realized that she had nodded and not answered, she quickly stammered out an answer, "Lyla."

"Nice to meet you, Lyla," Ella grinned.

Something about how she said Lyla's name made Lyla's heart jump a bit. Like she was suddenly realizing that she was actually in the house and this interaction was in fact real.

"What questions do you have," she asked, pulling Lyla from her thoughts yet again.

"Right, right, my questions," Lyla muttered, looking down at her phone like she had them written down somewhere. By the time she had collected her thoughts, Ella was pouring water into the mugs. "Who else lives here? Or are you on your own?"

"Oh, it's just me," Ella replied. "But I have company."

Ella's hand motioned to the statue in the corner.

"I'm never lonely."

"They're beautiful," Lyla complimented. "Almost life-like."

Ella simply hummed, placing a mug in front of Lyla. "I didn't ask how you like your tea-"

"This is fine, thank you," Lyla waved it off.

In all honesty, she had never had tea before. It had simply never appealed to her. She was much happier with her too-sweet coffee and occasional energy drink. And now, as she sipped the tea and fought the urge to scrunch her face up at the taste, she assumes her disinterest was the universe protecting her.

"How long have you been here," Lyla asked.

"As long as I can remember," Ella shrugged.

"So, you inherited it?"

"Something like that."

Lyla paused for a moment. She wondered if she should push more at that answer. She decided against it. She had no desire to pick at a scab that wasn't her own.

Ella tilted her head at Lyla's pause. She took the moment to scan Lyla's features and grin to herself. The chances of someone as intriguing as Lyla showing up on her doorstep were so low that Ella felt the need to study her.

"How do you keep yourself busy," Lyla finally spoke up again. "I know you said you're never lonely, but you must have things that keep you occupied. Hobbies and such."

Ella nodded along with Lyla's statement. "I do a lot of art. A lot of dancing. Mostly reading. I will sometimes spend a whole day curled up in a chair with a good book. We all need an escape."

"What do you like to read?"

"Oh, anything that's interesting," Ella chuckled. "Actually, I just got done with something- let me go get it, I'm sure you'll love it."

Lyla tried to speak up as Ella left the room, "No, no, you don't have to- and she's gone."

Lyla sighed and laughed a little to herself. There was something comforting about seeing someone who had long been a mystery doing something that was so... regular.

When Ella came back, there was a book in her hands. She dragged a finger along the edge of a page she was reading. The smile on her face could stop the heart of any great artist. Nothing they could make would ever compare to the beauty of that smile.

She placed the book on the counter in front of Lyla. "Take it with you when you go."

Lyla was quick to refuse. "I... I can't do that-"

"Nonsense," Ella replied.

"It's your book. You just met me. I am not going to just steal it."

"I'll make you a deal," Ella offered. "Bring me back a book from your shelf. A fair trade."

Lyla paused for a moment, trying to force her mind to comprehend that she had just been invited back to the house after this visit. This woman knew nothing about Lyla. Well, the same could be said about Lyla not knowing Ella.

With a deep breath, she reached out and grabbed the book.

"You have a deal," Lyla decided.

"Good," Ella grinned.

The rest of the interview could be seen in two ways.

There was Lyla's point of view. The point of view that saw the entire visit as the equivalent of a dumpster fire. She stuttered over almost every word. Any time she made eye contact with Ella, all sense left her. She was left looking like a stunned fish until she come back to her senses and rambled out another question that she would make up on the spot.

Then, there was Ella's point of view. The point of view that saw nothing wrong with the event. She hadn't felt nervous around a person for a long time before Lyla found her doorstep. It was almost refreshing to know that such butterflies could still swarm her stomach. If the questions were fake, she never would have guessed. And that wasn't because Lyla was some great actress. It was just because Ella was entirely too distracted.

It felt like an eternity before Lyla finally put herself out of her misery for the day. "I should really get going."

"You'll be back, right," Ella asked, watching the other woman stand from her seat.

"Yes, absolutely," Lyla replied, probably too quickly. "I- I still owe you that book."

Ella nodded. "Maybe tomorrow?"

Lyla decided that she could get away with calling in sick the next day. "Sure."

Ella's smile warmed a part of Lyla's heart that she didn't even know existed.

Ella led the way back to the front door, wishing Lyla safe travels before closing the front door.

Lyla held in all signs of emotion until she made it to her car. She didn't want to risk being spotted acting like anything short of somewhat normal.

When she sat in her driver's seat, a heavy breath escaped her. As if the back of the seat had hit her with enough force to shove the sigh out.

Her eyes fell to the large house again. "Holy shit."

Lyla did come back the next day, a book under her arm.

And she would continue coming back for ages after that. Day after day. Short trips began to span hours of time. There were some days when it felt like she never left.

The two began trading books and stories, just like Lyla's dream had foretold. Lyla would often bring newer books. More modern stories. Ella had a deep love for the classics, often pulling books from her father's collection to offer to Lyla. They had formed a perfect two-person book club.

Lyla was learning more about the woman on the hill than she ever began to imagine. Instead of just history, she knew her favorite foods and drinks and books. She knew about some of the friends that Ella had watched come and go from her life. She knew what Ella had dreamed about when she was little. She knew about Ella's habit to wish on the first star of the evening, which she always seemed able to spot.

It was the best period of Lyla's life. This connection that never once felt forced. It all was so genuine and lovely. Nothing short of perfect in her eyes. After seeing so many friends and family go from her life, she expected to be more hesitant when it came to trusting that people wouldn't leave. With Ella, that trust felt like no question. No major task.

She wasn't alone in this perspective.

Ella's mind had long since decided that she was living her version of a fairytale. Lyla was her knight in shining armor of sorts. Instead of saving her from a dragon or an evil stepmother, she was saving her from her own loneliness. After all, how could one person find true happiness when their only company was that of statues surrounding the house?

Ella knew that she needed to hold onto Lyla. To what Lyla offered her. She couldn't risk losing something that had become as essential to her as breathing.

Her mind was made up while sharing a morning with Lyla in her father's old study.

She had gone far out of her way to keep the area from gathering any dust. She wanted it to be perfect for Lyla and her to enjoy. The deep green fabric was carefully cleaned, the book perfectly organized, the windows were made spotless. It was like the room of a dollhouse. Perfectly preserved to the point that it almost seemed fact. Plastic.

Lyla wouldn't have noticed the mess if there had been one. She was too focused on Ella walking around the room as if she were floating just above the floor.

On that day, Ella had gone out of her way to look especially nice. It was an important day. It required one to dress the part.

Lyla wished that she had tried harder to match Ella's carefully constructed outfit. Ella's fancy dress was facing Lyla's ripped jeans and old shirt that she had placed a jacket over to cover up the garment's age.

Lyla was in the middle of trying to silence her self-conscious thoughts while Ella was running her finger along the spine of the books on one of the shelves. She wanted to choose the perfect story for Lyla to have.

Lyla had never seen her so deep in thought. Her eyebrows furrowed together, almost looking like she was accusing each book of something as she considered them.

It felt like ages before Ella finally pulled herself away from the books, one with a dark cover held in her hand. She flicked through the pages, trying to spark memories of how she had felt while reading that very book.

She nodded before holding it out to Lyla. "I think you'll adore this one."

Lyla accepted it, flicking it through the pages. She caught the sight of a few names. A few lines that stuck out before even knowing their context. She nodded back. It wasn't as if Ella had ever steered her wrong before.

"I'm sure it will be amazing," Lyla smiled a little wider as she complimented it.

Her book had already been offered. It was sitting on her father's desk.

"Thank you," she added.

Ella smiled. There was comfort in seeing Lyla's smile as she looked at a new book. She needed to hold onto this feeling for the rest of her life. The warmth spreading through her chest. The nervous butterflies that twirled around her stomach. The way her face would heat up whenever they spoke.

She took a deep breath, her decision getting locked in her mind.

A truly unstoppable force.

"I feel like I should thank you," Ella said softly. "You've been so kind to me. Spending time with me, listening to me."

Lyla looked down for a moment. "Everyone deserves to be listened to. We all have a story to tell."

Ella nodded. "You have made me feel more accepted and cared about than I have been in a long time."

A silence fell over the pair. Both of them silently studied the other. How each of them stood, the beautiful parts of each of them, the flaws that have taken on such a perfect experience. Eyes and lips and hair were all perfectly arranged. Like they were each studying a piece of art in a gallery.

Ella slowly stepped forward. When Lyla didn't step away, Ella let her smile grow and continued moving forward. The two of them were now close enough to feel the heat and nervous energy radiating off of each other.

Ella reached out and took the book from Lyla's fingertips, tossing it to one of the armchairs so it didn't hinder the moment.

Lyla felt her breath pick up as Ella's lips barely brush against hers. Her eyes fluttered shut, fully letting Ella take the lead.

Ella did.

She pressed her lips to Lyla's gently. Each movement calculated. Each moment falling perfectly into place. Lyla was entranced at the feeling of their lips brushing together. Everything that she could've ever wanted.

Ella's lips were intoxicating, Lyla decided. Soft and careful. Better than coffee in the morning or the sunrise or the sunset. No brilliant view, no good thing could be better than the feeling of Ella kissing her.

Lyla decided that she could spend her entire life like this. She would do so happily if Ella asked. As long as it meant that Ella never stopped kissing her. That's all she would require.

She mumbled out Ella's name, though she didn't know what she had been asking for.

Ella didn't respond or pull away. Instead, she grabbed Lyla's hands and guided them up to hold the sides of Ella's face. Lyla was happy to listen to her. To listen to her beautiful woman in the house on the hill. The girl with her garden of statues.

Ella pulled away slowly, taking a step away from Lyla. Lyla's lips were sitting open, trying to catch her breath through her dazed state. She had never imagined that a kiss could be that way. But she liked it. She really, really liked it.

She tried to voice something. Her feelings, asking her for another kiss, anything. But no words came out.

And her arms wouldn't move.

And her mouth wouldn't close.

And she couldn't blink.

Lyla felt something on her leg. Something slowly crawling up. Not just crawling up her skin, but actually moving in her blood. In her bones.

"Perfect," Ella said. "Don't worry, my dear. It'll all be okay. You won't have to worry about anything."

A small noise escaped Lyla's mouth. But that was it. Ella reached forward and touched her cheek.

"I love you," she continued. "Just like I loved everyone here. I had to preserve them. Keep them safe. I couldn't let the world take you away from me."

Another kiss touched Lyla's palm. But Lyla couldn't feel it. She finally could see what was happening. Gray was crawling down the length of her arm. In her heart, she knew what it was. Stone. She was turning to stone.

"My beautiful girl," Ella smiled. She truly thought this was an act of kindness. Protection. "You'll be so happy here. And I'll get to see you every day. My girl. Now, you can't leave me."

Lyla wanted to cry, but her eyes wouldn't produce any tears.

"I love you," Ella repeated, touching the side of Lyla's face. "I'll come back to see you soon. I'll read you a lovely story."

She walked out of the room a few moments later. At that point, the stone had reached every part of Lyla's body. A perfect, permanent fixture created out of skin and bone.

Ella ran through the house, down the hall, down the stairs, and out to the entrance of the house. Her smile only grew at the sight of her favorite statues. The man and the woman adjusting his jacket.

Ella almost bounced over to them.

"Mom, Dad, I found someone," she explained quickly, a wide smile taking up most of her face. "Oh, you would love her. She's so sweet and smart. She'll fit in perfectly here. And I get to keep her safe. Just like I kept you safe."

She leaned up and pressed a kiss to the cheek of each statue.

"I love you both," she said before standing up and running out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Ella spent her day twirling and dancing with her friends and family, perfectly at peace within the safety of her garden's gates.

A small little world that was perfect for the woman and her garden of statues.

[charliedawn]

Ok, I'll admit I'm curious; how do the Hannibal's choose their victims (or should I say food)? Like is it random or is there a specific criteria for all of them? And what exactly happens to the victim(s) once they are brought to the house(I'm pretty sure they all would treat the victim differently)? Are they still alive at that point and if so, for how long? Is there any chance of actually surviving/escaping??

Chances of survival : 30%

Morgan *chuckles* : "If you want to know..Being a doctor gives you some privileges. You get to meet a lot of people and get a sample of their blood. I hate bad quality.."

Morgan is very gourmet. He refuses to eat anything which hasn't met his standards. The body has to be fresh, well-kept and unspoilt.

This is why he usually settles for patients. But, not always. He can sometimes be unpredictable.

He keeps them alive for several days before disclosing his intentions.

He judges their reaction to the information and then chooses whether or not to keep them alive.

He usually waits for the family hunt where the chosen preys are let loose and given a fair chance to get away, but the odds are very low they'd survive.

However, Morgan can sometimes decide to call dibs on a certain prey he finds particularly interesting.

What they refuse to eat : anyone with addictions. He takes his health very seriously. Anything with nicotine/drugs/alcool...in their system.

Chances of survival : 5%

Hannibal Sr. : "I spot them by the smell."

Once you've met the Hannibal patriarch once, he already knows if you are fit to become his next meal.

A quick once-over and he already has all the information he needs.

I'm not going to lie, being picked by the patriarch is a very bad thing. He almost never lets anyone get away.

He sometimes chooses his victims at random and kills them before bringing them back to the house.

But, he sometimes keeps some alive for the family hunts.

Hannibal Sr.'s choice often depends on his mood and how hungry he is.

But, he usually chooses them on the spot.

He knows the more a choice is planned, the more it is likely you'll get caught.

What they refuse to eat : Like I said, it is very difficult to say. Hannibal Sr. doesn't have big objections. He has a slight preference for women, but wouldn't mind either way.

Chances of survival : 50%

Peter *smiles weakly* : "I can sometimes let emotions overrule my head. Morgan and Kevin often blame me for their lack of food sometimes, but I'm trying my best.."

Don't let the ratings fool you. To survive Peter, you must do absolutely nothing wrong.

You must be very nice to him and accept his every demand. And he can be a brat.

He can and will threaten you. He will also like to see you cry. A lot. It is another reason why the rest of the family calls him Crybaby.

Also, Peter likes to see his victims in pain while being alive, he likes to watch their reactions and collect their expressions by taking photos.

But, Peter is very influençable and could be dissuaded from getting rid of you if you are very agreeable.

But, it is not a 100% rule.

What they refuse to eat : Peter is not a cannibal. But, he doesn't like the thought of the family eating young girls. He worships them and finds the idea particularly unpleasant.

Chances of survival : 15%

Hannibal Jr. : "There's nothing like the thrill of the chase."

Hannibal Jr. has a knack for middle-aged men.

He usually chooses loners who nobody would miss—less problems.

He also prefers to hunt in crowded areas where nobody would be thinking of looking.

Unlike Hannibal Sr., he always plans his hunts in advance. He feels that the planning is part of the fun.

He tries to put himself in the place of his victim and foresee their every move until it is perfectly clear, until they become perfectly predictable.

But, it can sometimes lead to some frustration.

Hannibal Jr. *grits his teeth in frustration* : "...It doesn't make sense. Why would they ask for a tuna sandwich ? They always ask for the chicken one."

Kevin *in the back of the car* : "WHO CARES ?!"

What they refuse to eat : Children. It is a general rule for children not to be taken as food in the manor, but it is most strongly imposed by Hannibal Jr.

Kevin once tried to lure a child in and Hannibal Jr. slapped him so many times that night, he never committed the mistake again.

Chances of survival : 25%

Kevin is very cautious and precise concerning his victims. He usually check video cameras to trace their daily routine and fine the perfect hunting method.

However, he does like the danger and the thrill of meeting his victims first.

He always chooses a time and place where it would be impossible for anyone to recognize him, but he does meet them.

He then chooses whether or not to kidnap them.

He usually chooses women who are around their 40s-50s and who look like his mom, physically-speaking.

Mommy issues.

Considering it was because of his mother he was almost executed, it is understandable.

He also likes to collect their belongings (lipstick, perfume, jewelry..)

What they refuse to eat : He is not much of a picky eater. But, he doesn't like eating old people.

When he was little, old people were the only ones nice to him in his neighborhood. He has fond memories of discussions with old people at bus stations or in parks.

[hopelesslyinlovegirl]

Encapsulating my female rage.

As promised in my last work published in english, today I have the honor to bring to you my post on beauty and body dysmorphia.

I must be sincere with my dearest followers, that have been reading my texts for a while now. This is not the text that I was planning to write.

I was planning more on doing an intent of a philosophical essay. Explaining beauty and body dysmorphia in views of philosophical aestheticism, my own experiences and some statistics that i have recolected.

But honestly, at this point I can´t take it anymore. I must get it out of my chest, because i´m going to explode. Because, today, this writer writes in a feeling that she hasn´t written, ever.

Today, excuse my professionalism exabrupt, i´m fucking mad. And fucking tired, too.

So, that said, this text will be an experiment. I´m going to encapsulate my rage against society, how it treats women and to myself because, in which planet a writer is a writer without hating themselves a little?

And, yes, there will be no beta read. We die on this hill and we move on. Though, I´m probably still doing my essay. But at that point in time, this text will be just another part of the bibliography consulted for my own essay.

Some statistics that i feel i need to throw here for context:

° Argentina is the second country with most diagnosed EDs in the world for women. 1 out of 3 women in my country experiences or will experience an ED.

° For men, we are in the first place of ED. Yes,our mental health is fucked.

But, let me take you real quick from those statistics to reality. I graduated high school last year, in December. In my social studies promotion, there was 21 women. Statistically, in my class there should have been 6 women with eating disorders. I know for sure of about four cases of ED in that class. And one more that I am still not sure.

Is that the worst part? absolutely fucking not. It´s the fact that me, a woman who does not have an ED, still got fucked in terms of eating. I would think how thin I looked and go "what if I dont eat and look skinny and pretty for the rest of the day" "no meal tastes as good as skinny feels". I once even dreamed that I was fat and needed to lose weight, and that in order to do that I stopped eating. And, in my dream I would feel lighter and lighter because I was not eating. And I was pretty.

That´s what the whole thing is about. In Argentina, to be pretty you have to be skinny. A fat woman never in a million years will be considered pretty here, even if your face is stunning. Or, in philosophical terms, a fat woman will never be object of the aesthetics experience.

Now, when you are skinny comes the next thing. Having a pretty face. That´s where I mess up. My nose is big and does not make sense, my eyes are small, my lips are thin and my teeth are not perfectly white and straight.

And writing this I have this powerful thought in the back of my mind. I want a rinoplasthy. I want it so bad, so now. Because I cannot keep looking at other women, at what attentions they get because they are pretty.

I cannot help but feel, each and every time that i see a woman post a picture on twitter that she´s stunning. That I would love to look like that. I would like my tits to be bigger or my ass to have more shape or whatever stupid thing I find in that woman that I don´t have and that I want.

So, naturally, I can´t post a pic on twitter without feeling like I look fat. That my nose is fucking ugly, why it has to be like that? No, i´m insane. Everyone will make fun of me if I do a face reveal. Just keep it like that.

And the other insane thing that happens is that when I´m around with people that are pretty according to beauty standards, they get privilege. People treat them nicer. They speak with them. They gift them things. They get their bus ticket payed if they don´t have money.

I don´t have those attentions by myself. Never, in a million years, I will have them. And I want them.

But, you know what? this isn´t even the worst thing yet. I feel like what i´m doing is just a path of awful things that keep getting worse every time you read more.

No, the worst thing is this. When you understand that in society you are not deemed pretty, and, by that, you are less valued what you do is pursue something that compensates.

And I pursued academic intelligence. Because, that is all at what I´m good at. Getting good grades. And reading academic research when everybody goes to have fun. And learn of a bunch of niche topics because i´m bored and I do it as a hobby, that then I have no one to talk about them.

Sure, probably this will be benefitial for my economy some years from now. But, I don´t care about future. I care about now.

I didn´t go for funny, witty, a PERSONALITY. I chose to have an old academic soul in a body of an eighteen years old girl. Which, for dating and boys is not very useful.

I am not funny, I don´t have a big personality. I´m an introvert, I´m shy and I honestly don´t know how I have friends given those conditions, but hey,good thing at least.

And this is what I am most scared of. Because now that I am being pursued, eventually he will find this out. I am a boring woman to date.

Well, that´s kind of dramatic. Sorry, like I said my feelings are just pouring as I type agressively on my laptop.

I think I´m datable, but in my own standards. Like, I´m not that bad. At all. Sometimes I do have one or two funny outcomes and when I´m in confidence I talk a lot, I can make conversation even about the flooring.

The thing is, that is not the standard of most people. That is mine. And I am pretty sure that, is not the standard of my candidate.

So, I could argue that what I am afraid of is that he will be totally dissapointed if we have a date. And he will ghost me. And, just then, I will have lost a possible boyfriend.

You know what fuck that. If he doesn´t aprecciate it I will have someone who does. I hope he does appreciate me because the least I need now is another romantic dissapointment, but I will not die.

Or yes, maybe I will die if he is dissapointed.

God, I hate craving a man´s validation.

Anyway, that is it. Remember this does not have a beta read, so the grammar and the spelling probably suck. I apologize for that, and for the non classic text that I just made. I know that you are used to my pompous words and phrases. But today rage blinded me. And, as a writer, I could not waste an opportunity to express it. I needed this experiment.

Thank you for being here.

----

May 21st, 2023. 02:10. Buenos Aires, Argentina.

741 words.

[mo-aiki]

One-sided Love Exist... (Yandere Fiancé x F. Reader)

Summary: You have been in love with your fiancé, but all you know is that he isn't in love with you until you do something about it.

Notes: I got this inspiration from @mayulla, their story is here. Also, I might or might not do a part 2 for this story so wait on that

Warning: fake love, forced love, obsession, I don't condone these behaviors, I just write it.

Love.

Something you have always wished for to happen to you. All of the love stories you have read. You wished to be the princess saved by her knight or to be a princess who saves the one she loves. That was all you wanted. A knight or a prince in shining armor. That's where your fiancé came in.

A duke's son. Your fiancé, Alaric de Caius. He had seemed to fit the mold, perfectly. He looked regal and handsome with his black hair and dark blue eyes. You were only 9 when you had met him, but you couldn't help but smile when you first saw him.

Overtime you had absolutely fallen in love with him. He was a man of morals, he believe in the same things as you of what was right and wrong, he was academically talented, he was athletically talented, and he treated people around him the same whether or not they held a title.

A wonderful man.

But the problems arose when you had seen he had never paid attention towards you.

He never looked you way, seemed to say anything towards you, or seem to acknowledge you at all.

"Good morning Alaric!"

He wouldn't look.

You didn't understand why he ignored you. His indifference towards you, hurt. You didn't know if it was your ego that was hurting or it was truly your heart that was hurting, but something was in pain. But you didn't give up! Both of you were bound to get married to each other, one day!

Often talking to him first, soon enough he responded.

Bringing sweets such as cookies or sweet bread from the kitchen. Watching him eat it with no signs of disgust, might have made your day.

But you must also strive hard too! To be worthy of being a Duchess, you must help him by studying, taking up hobbies such as perfecting painting, embroidery and writing poems that have deep meanings. You must also know how to manage a household, so you asked your father if you could learn how to manage the servant's wages and everything going on in the household.

Everything you did was for him.

You did not partake in gossip with your bestest of friends, you didn't spread malicious rumors about someone, and you tried not to do the most selfish thing if there was a selfless option. Your friends, love you but saw you in pain. "Why do you do these stressful things (y/n)?" they would constantly ask.

"Because I am going to be future Duchess one day, I must prepare!" You would say cheerfully.

Alina Thompson.

Her family was new money. Her father was a merchant who was able to strike gold in selling a once thought, rare ore. Opening trades with the east, she has risen to become the daughter or Baron Thompson.

Your friends didn't like her. One of them saying, "There is something off about her..." and another saying, "Why does she look at Duke Caius like that..."

You had brought it up to Alaric one day. He said there was, "Nothing to worry about, she is just an acquaintance.", and at first you didn't worry, heck you even befriended her. She was pretty. Her hair, long and blonde, her eyes a bright green color like emeralds, and her smile the brightest you have ever seen. She often wore pink and you did as well. But she always seemed to not get along with your friends after a few meetings. Or any noble women in fact. She had always stirred the pot with the other women in high society, supposedly acting different as if she had 2 different personalities in front of others. But she had always gotten along with the men. They spoke high praises of her. From her looks to personality. She even had admirers of her own. She was perfect, but most women disliked her. But you didn't think anything of it.

Until the day of the royal ball.

You saw with your very own eyes. Alaric's arm, being held by her's. She had the brightest, most shameless smile that day. All the men looked uncomfortable while the women were shocked. It was no secret that you and Alaric were engaged. And it was definitely no secret that you were in love with him.

They danced together. They wore matching outfits. Even the flowers on both of their corsages were the same. He had smiled at her as they were dancing. He gave her, her first dance of high society at her first ball, a royal one in fact. There was no way he had no idea what he meant by his actions. Your heart shattered as your friends got mad at both of them.

"Why that sly fox! How could she betray your kindness like this?!"

"(y/n)! If you need to I can kill him myself!"

"No!" you had quietly yelled out.

You friends looked at you, worried on their faces. "(b/s/f #1), (b/s/f #2), I need to...go..."

You ran away towards the royal garden, letting your tears to flow down.

Once you got home, you destroyed the books, the gifts he gave you and finally sat down on the floor and cried you heart out.

Your heart had shattered that day, nothing felt like it was going to fix it. It felt like the end of the world.

The next day came, and you holed yourself up in your room.

Your bedroom door would not open. Nothing will work. Your father was worried, your friends, pestered at you, and the servants knock and check up on you as well. But even though you knew all these people cared, you truly only wanted one person to come and see you, Alaric.

You don't know if you were a masochist or not, but you did want answers.

Soon, one of the maids came in. "Leave me alone..." you mumbled in your pillow.

"No. Duke Caius is here to visit you. So I must get you ready, young lady."

You looked up at the maid as she chuckled. "What's so funny?" you asked almost like a pouting child.

"Your eyes are puffy my lady. If you do not want the Duke to notice it, I suggest you get ready, now."

You pouted as you got up.

The next thing you knew, you had seen Alaric. His perfectly combed over hair, his eyes, calm, and the placement of his lapels, in order as followed. You had bowed your head down slightly, as he sat down at the table.

You didn't even bother looking at him. If you did, you didn't think you could bear it. It was an embarrassing night for you. All you did was look at your tea, slowly stirring the sugar cube, looking at it and spacing out in the process.

"(y/n)?"

You looked up. This was the first time he had ever called out your name. He had always referred to you as Lady (l/n), out of formality, but he has never called out your name like you do his.

"Did you hear what I said?"

You took a moment and shook your head. "No, I'm sorry..."

"That's okay, I can say it again."

Why did your heart tug at this? You felt yourself being anxious for what he wanted to say. But first you wanted the answer to why he brought Alina to the royal ball the other night.

"I had brought out Lady Thompson to the ball a few nights ago, because of her father. He had wanted to make sure his daughter secured an escort for her first royal ball. He had insisted I had better escort her, otherwise she wouldn't come."

An excuse.

"I helped her father find the rare ore that had made him Baron. I must help him again."

Lies.

"So that's your excuse..." you mumbled out of your mouth.

He looked at you, his eyes were still. He had no emotion after what you had just said. "(y/n), it's the truth."

"Lies. We are engaged, but my debutant ball and first royal ball, you didn't escort me at all."

You remember it well. He had said he was busy, and you thought nothing of it, because he wouldn't escort or dance with anyone else anyways.

"When we had our first dance, you didn't even look at me."

It broke your heart that night when you both finally had that first dance you had been waiting for, only to be sad when he didn't smile, look or seemed to be enjoying it in any way.

"I had wanted us to get matching outfits, but you held it off saying, 'you hadn't gotten measured yet'."

He would get measured for an outfit for another woman, but not you? His own fiancé?

You felt nothing but anger now towards him. "Was it a waste of my time to devote it all towards you? I know your favorite snacks, colors, meal, drink, what to do as duchess..."

You felt like you were about to cry again, but tried to hold it in. "WAS IT ALL FOR NOTHING?!" your hands slammed the table as you felt your tears coming down your face as you looked at him.

Hoping he would say it wasn't in vain. That all of these things you did for him, would mean something.

"I had never asked you to do these things, (y/n). I am tired of your antics."

You couldn't believe you had ever loved this man.

You immediately went back inside, and into your room to cry once more.

Alaric has never needed anyone close to him.

He never understood you and your stupid antics to get closer towards him. From bringing snacks, to gifting the books he so wanted, to talking to him way to often.

He had an alright childhood. His father was sick and his mother was dead from childbirth, so he needed to become duke heir at a young age. Relying on himself to make the right or wrong decisions while his father's health deteriorated overtime.

His father wanted him to get married to his close friend, Marquis (l/n), so he arranged the engagement before his death, and after his death when he was 15, he kept it on because it was one of his father's final wishes. To see their families united.

But sometimes he couldn't stand (y/n). When he first met her, he had no opinions of her, other than the fact that she was nothing more than a clumsy girl trying to get his attention.

She was trying to live out fairytale romances through him. She had wanted him to be her knight in shining armor. And he didn't care for it.

He ignored her until she kept on pestering him.

Soon, they did their small talks.

He ignored the food she had gave him.

Until he ate it because he was hungry and it was his favorites.

He ignored her all throughout his childhood, because he never needed her as much as he did. He saw her as pathetic, but he couldn't help but fuel her pathetic attempts to get him to love her.

He did didn't need her. He didn't need her at all.

Plus, she was well liked. Both women and men liked her. But sometimes those men that liked her too much got on his nerves to the point of threatening them into silence. She didn't need him, she wanted him. And he didn't need her as well.

But he thought he felt something when he met Alina for the first time. But later, he realized it was nothing more than curiosity. But whenever he was around (y/n), there was always a feeling that he didn't know what it was, but always put it off, until it came creeping onto him whenever he was with Alina.

It was clear she was jealous of (y/n) and her life, so she had tried to mimic her. Her cheery attitude, beautiful smile, and her happy-go-lucky demeanor, even though he could tell that she was nothing more than hollow shell of an impression. She did all these things so that he could pay attention to her. But Alina was worse than (y/n).

Her personality and character are terrible.

She always seemed to get into fights with the other women. Whether petty drama or something a tad bit more serious. She had always seem to never get along with them. Unlike (y/n).

She was terrible at any financial things. Counting money properly, distributing money equally, and figuring out the budget. Unlike (y/n)

She had always seemed to look at others as if she was better than them. Often subtly bragging a new pendant, earrings, bracelet, shoes, dress, or hair accessories. Unlike (y/n)

Her tea was awful to drink. She always stepped on someone's toes for no good reason. Her embroidery was lackluster. Her paintings, a clear imitation. Unlike (y/n).

He remembered a time where (y/n)'s tea was bitter, when she stepped on someone's feet while dancing, when her paintings were dull, and when she had a hard time managing money. It was absolutely a clumsy and nerve-racking time. But slowly, it had shown improvement, unlike Alina's tea.

All of these hobbies that Alina had picked up and all of her personal quirks have cause him to realize one thing.

He would never look her way.

He picked Alina because he thought he could finally drive (y/n) away from her antics and say he is not interested in her at all.

When he went to the royal ball and was dancing with Alina, all he could ever think of was how (y/n) would react in the same situation. Her bright smile, cheerful eyes and glowing aura would all be very lovely. He couldn't help but unconsciously smile during the dance, and it seemed to have fueled Alina's determination to take her down.

But now he wonders why he had those thoughts during the dance with Alina.

She had holed up in her manor ever since that royal ball.

Alaric didn't see her. No letter, no snacks, no anything. Nothing had came. He should be elated. Happy. Excited. Joyful.

But all he felt was a big hole. A big empty hole somewhere in his body.

He had thought he had heard her all over the place. "Alaric. You need to stop overworking yourself to death! You might get sick!"

"It's none of your concerns, Lady (l/n)."

"Huh?"

He looked up from his paperwork, only to see his secretary looking at him, confused? "What did you say, Your Grace?"'

He looked down at his paperwork. "Nothing of note."

It happened again when he was reading through the manor's ledgers. "Can I help you with that Alaric? I'm very good with ledgers!"

"It is fine Lady (l/n)."

"Your Grace?"

Once again, he looked up only to see his butler, looking at him confused.

He felt like he was going insane.

He had developed a high fever one day from overworking. His butler called in the family's doctor, and the doctor said to take a break today.

But his fever kept on running, and the maids didn't know what to do. They gave him water that was too hot, his body kept on sweating, and they gave him food too salty for his condition. They were all incompetent when he was sick all of the sudden. And to top it off, his secretary still needed him to do paperwork for the estate.

During his time with his fever, he unconsciously only thought to see one person. (y/n).

He had wanted her to be by his side when he was sick. To take care of him and to see him recover. He wanted her to scold at him for overworking. He wanted to see her happy after he did recover from this fever. He had wanted to see her, no, he felt like he needed to see her.

He slowly opened his eyes as he was asleep for a bit. He thought he saw her in his groggy state. "...(y/n)..?"

Only to finally see clearly. It was Alina. And she looked pissed, but he was even more pissed. "How dare you! How dare you call out the name of that woman when I'm here?!"

He got up and yelled. "GUARDS!"

She got mad. "Oh, now you're calling the guards?! I came here to help you! And this is what I get?!"

He looked at her with contempt. "How did you know I was sick?"

She looked anxious. "The butler told me! He contacted me with a letter! Look!"

She pulled out a messily handwritten letter as people came up towards his room. His secretary and butler came to his side. "Who is this?" his secretary asked.

Alaric's head was banging, but managed to respond. "Lady Thompson. I do not know how she got here."

Alina looked scarred as the secretary called a maid to call the guards. "How did you get in here Lady Thompson?"

"I got here because the butler told me to come here because His Grace is sick!"

The butler looked confused. "I do not recall writing a letter to anyone."

Alina got mad. "Yes you did! I have the evidence!"

She held her letter as the secretary grabbed it out of her hands. "Butler, is this your handwriting?"

The butler fixed his glasses and shook his head. "I do not write this sloppily, even when writing fast."

Alina got even more mad as the guard got up the stairs. "Your Grace?"

"Take her away, and make sure she never sets foot in the estate again."

"Wha..? HEY!" The guards took Alina while she protested. All the servants went back to work as his secretary looked at him. "I will investigate where that letter came from, Your Grace."

Alaric looked at the ceiling as he started to lay down in his bed. "There is no need. But do investigate how she got in here and how she knew. We might have a stalker on our hands if I'm not careful..."

His secretary nodded. "Yes Your Grace, I hope you recover quickly, soon."

All he could do is stare up to the ceiling. Thinking. If (y/n) had done this, maybe he wouldn't had been as mad as he was back there. Maybe he would had enjoyed her trying to fumble out a response of how she knew he was sick. Maybe he would had enjoyed her antics of trying to cure him of his fever.

He couldn't help but chuckle as he slowly fell back asleep, dreaming.

When he had gotten better after 3 days, he immediately went to the (l/n) estate. He didn't know why, but he needed to go there after his fever.

He was led to the garden as he waited for her to get ready. Then he looked around. The garden was filled with flowers. Pink, white, purple, and blue flowers seemed to be her favorite. The servants brought out her favorite tea set. A pink and white ceramic one. He has only seen it every time she had hosted her friends. She only brought out the other tea sets with him.

She looked different. She looked less lively. Her skin looked pale, her eyes a bit puffy and her hands fiddling with the tea cup, nervously.

He had only brought up his purpose at being in at the royal ball with Alina, when she started talking about his shortcomings in their relationship.

How he didn't accompany her to her first ball, didn't look at her for their first dance, and how he always gave an excuse for not wearing matching outfits.

But something came out of his mouth when talking to her. "I had never asked you to do these things, (y/n). I am tired of your antics."

He felt annoyed at her behavior. She got too clingy and annoying now. Bringing up insignificant things. She got annoying in this very moment.

She soon ran away as he left the (l/n) estate.

He wanted to go home and rid his memories of her immature behavior. Hoping that her behavior won't continue again.

A/N: I should do a part 2. But you'll have to wait a while.

[procrastinatingfeminist]

It's interesting how the culture we grew up in forms our views and subconscious responses, even if you haven't lived in that culture for three quarters of your lived years anymore.

I grew up in a culture where despite proclaimed gender equality there was a very clear gender divide re. performance of gender, expectations of one's role and responsibilities. On one hand, it can be a soothing and helpful framework, because I knew very early on how i needed to present myself in public to be viewed as a woman. I might not have liked the expectations and I might have sucked at actually performing, but I knew how to conform. On the other hand, since we nominally did have gender equality, depending on how seriously your social circle took that equality, it could come either laden with stifling, toxic absolutisms such as "to be viewed as a woman you MUST be good at wearing dresses and applying makeup" or come as a socially acceptable caveat, like, "IF you choose to present yourself as feminine, we will treat you as a woman, but IF you choose to present yourself as dressed for the job, not for the gender, then we will treat you as nebulously gender-ambiguous part of the workforce".

It also influenced me in other, less obvious ways. To this day I automatically distrust anyone who wears suits on a daily basis. (As opposed to being the sunday best). Despite working in administration and being surrounded by men and women who wear office-appropriate clothes, which, you guessed it, usually includes suits. I have had more genuine conversations with the cleaning ladies than with a lot of my actual colleagues (=of a similar rank/position as me) because for one they don't have expectations on me or secondary, maybe nefarious motives (honestly, only office workers have the werewithal to plot more elaborate intrigues than you see royal courts; the backbiting is real), but also because I genuinely view them as my colleagues as well, when a lot of office workers view them as some kind of servants.

My subconcious view of masculine ideal is fucked up as well. I have tried to work on it, and while I have no problem with transgender people and the different gender presentations, I know that I will never be really hundred percent comfortable with men wearing makeup. It will be always something that I will have to make a conscious effort to remind myself that just because it is not something I am used to, it isn't something suspect. It is perfectly okay. But the masculine ideal I grew up with is a grease-stained, undershirt wearing sunburned man working the fields or in the factory who has street smarts and speaks plainly and simply, and on weekends takes his girl dancing (or pursues higher education via telelearning). Someone, who honors his mother, is courteous and polite to women, is a member of a worker union and stands up passionately, but non-violently, for his beliefs.

And some days I wonder how I manage to live in a country which has very much a different idea of everything that was formative for me and still able to find common ground between both cultures and prosper.

[the-daily-dreamer]

Personally, I’m not even mad that Rhanyras kids are bastards, I’m mad that the framing of Rhaenyras attitude “they MUST have the throne and the Velaryon seat” treats all her actions as positive. A black man was beheaded because he challenged the succession of white bastard children and I am supposed to treat it as a Daemon’s malewife moment. Come on

Yes exactly! Despite how it may read I don’t have anything against anyone born a bastard. It’s obviously not their fault, and no child or person should be punished for who their parents are.

However, that being said, I write my thoughts coming from the perspective of the era, which you have to do because everyone in the show is in that mindset. Even those in opposition to the status quo are still thinking with the historical lens on. When analyzing media, you sometimes have to put yourself in mindsets that aren’t your own, especially in historically inspired media.

Rhaenyra is perfectly entitled to have bastards and be sexually liberated. There are plenty of kings who did it, and she has every right to do as she pleases in her personal and sexual life. However, there are certain consequences to those actions she needs to accept. Freedom to make choices does not mean freedom from the consequences of said choices.

Bastards, by law, cannot take the throne. Yes, they can be legitimized by the ruler and then hold power, but that has been a notoriously bad decision. And also, even by royal decree, many will still oppose bastards taking the throne if other legitimate heirs are present.

Rhaenyra knows this. If it were no big deal to parent bastards and push them on the throne without a claim, she would simply admit they are bastards and ask her father to legitimize them publicly by royal decree. But she doesn’t ask that because she knows it would end poorly. That is why she gaslights and refuses to concede they are bastards, even when it’s obvious. That is why she allows torture and murder to keep the secret. She knows they have no claim legally, so she lies and pretends they do.

Rhaenyra pushing Jace on the Iron Throne is painted as her right because he is Targaryen by blood through his mother. But that’s not how succession works in this time period. Relation to the monarch but a second illegitimate parent does not an heir make. It’s not her right to push Jace on the throne, and it’s not Jace’s right to take the throne. And when it comes to Driftmark that’s even more egregious because Luc has absolutely zero claim. He is not related to the family that holds a claim to the lands. He is not the son of Laenor who was the heir. Driftmark should soundly be in the hands of Laena’s daughters because they’re actually Velaryons.

To sum this up, Rhaenyra has every right to make her own choices about her sex life. But, with those choices come consequences, and one of those consequences is that her children will be bastards and illegitimate if they’re not related to her husband. That applies to both men and women, so it’s not a sexism thing. This is part of why she is challenged so harshly and this is why we oppose her. Because she’s in the wrong, and she knows it. But she refuses to accept her shortcomings or failures and will push to have everything she wants. Even if it’s illegal.

[crazycookiecrumbles]

How Parker Met Stark

Pairings/Characters: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader (Andrew Garfield’s Peter)

Warnings: Swearing, graphic depictions of violence, end fluff

A/N: COMMENTS/REBLOGS APPRECIATED/ENCOURAGED: Because, honestly, I don’t know if anyone likes it otherwise so I can continue or not.

Summary:  A prequel to my Hard Enough one-shot, and the second installation of my Crumble!Verse work: The first time you meet Peter Parker, he saw your hot temper and couldn’t help himself.

This is definitely post-college, adult Spider-Man

Something was wrong. Peter could feel it. The air was thick, his throat was dry, and he was certain that the ground beneath his feet may have shook just a tiny bit, but maybe that was his spidey senses toying with him. Perhaps something was happening with the woman he spotted across the hall.

Peter was currently in the MET, taking photos for a high-class, black-tie event that he was afforded, somehow, a press pass to get into so he could catch some of Earth’s mightiest heroes let their hair down. He still wasn’t entirely sure how he was standing here. He wasn’t taking pictures nearly as much as he used to since he was finally working in an actual lab that produced actual results and he made actual money for it. But because he had such a hot streak catching pictures of Spider-Man (and still does, when it’s the holiday season and he wants to treat himself), J. Jonah Jameson reached out to him with a quest.

Get amazing pictures of the Avengers.

He had Tony with an arm wrapped around Pepper, and another arm wrapped around Bruce’s shoulders as he had yanked the man into his side and was kissing his temple while Pepper was watching the scene and laughing at Bruce cringing because Tony was laying a ‘wet one’ on him.

Clint looked bored, but Peter couldn’t resist this photo. The man was literally standing by a window, unbothered by everyone, nearly hiding behind one of the curtains as he shoveled food in his mouth. The man resembled a chipmunk/human hybrid and it was impressive.  Natasha was caught whispering in Wanda’s ear, but both of their eyes were clearly glued to a man’s butt as he bent over to pick up his fallen handkerchief.

Steve, Bucky, and Sam looked like the perfect trio of pals. Steve was in the center, head down, smile on his face, eyes closed as he listened to Sam and Bucky go back and forth roasting each other, with Bucky outright flipping Sam off while said man was using a napkin to mimic an emo, swooping hairstyle. Thor, in typical Thor fashion, was surrounded by women, and even a few men, as he spun tales of Asgard and his conquests, not realizing Steven Strange was behind him and rolling his eyes at the stories.

Then there was you. You were off to the side, a corner that could’ve been hidden to most, but Peter couldn’t help but spot you immediately. After all, you weren’t just an Avenger, you were a very, very pretty Avenger who happened to perfectly fit in the same age bracket as he did. You were absolutely glowing in a floor-length, golden gown moved like water whenever you did.

You were off speaking to someone in a corner, a man he recognized to be your boyfriend, thanks to several magazines and newspapers that couldn’t manage to keep themselves out of your life. However, instead of the usual demeanor they caught you in when together, smiling, laughing, having fun, you looked like you were going to explode. That must have been the feeling that he was having. It really was his spidey senses tingling. 

Confused, Peter slowly started to walk towards you, his senses going off the closer he got. He felt the floor shake ever so slightly and looked around, but not a soul seemed to be bothered by this except for him. Perhaps because of his senses he was more sensitive to it, but he knew what was coming, he was familiar with your powers. He knew what was next for this whole building if things were as bad as he was imagining them to be.

Looking at you, Peter noticed your hand shaking. He then noticed the tips of your fingers start to turn red. Suddenly, he could see the veins bulging on your hand up to the middle of your forearm, and ugly red and purple bruising start to form around them. His eyes widened a little bit, looking up to see your face. Your right eye was twitching and you were gritting your teeth like you were trying to hold back, and what were you trying to hold back? 

By the looks of it, he’d have to guess you were trying not to put your fist through his face. 

Peter watched as you opened your mouth to speak and were immediately shut down by your boyfriend talking over you, hands waving around, voice getting louder by the second. Your eye was still twitching, and the bruising was creeping up your forearm fast and reaching your shoulder, causing you to wince as your other arm grabbed it and held on to it.

Peter could hear the sound of marble cracking and knew he had to intervene. Quick on his feet, he walked over to you and held up his camera the second he saw your injured hand starting to rise, “Ms. Stark, why don’t I take your photo over there? Just yours, of course.”

You saw this as your out, and as much as you wanted to let go of the powers you were holding in and just break your boyfriend’s face in two, you decided that maybe now was not the time to commit manslaughter, against your better judgement. Instead, you exhaled slowly, smiled politely at the photographer, and nodded as he quickly led you away out in the hall, lying to you and saying something about getting the ‘perfect’ night lighting.

“How do you get perfect night lighting at night in a dimly lit hallway? Shouldn’t that be outside?” You asked as the doors shut behind you.

“Nah, doesn’t matter,” Peter turned around and lowered his hands in front of him as he studied you. “I just thought I should stop you from murdering someone during a charity event, as cool as those pictures would look.”

You laughter. You snorted and laughed at him, and while you thought that snort was some kind of combination of unholy and unattractive, Peter grinned watching you shake your head and turn away from him.

“So that’s why you lured me out here? And here I thought you thought I was pretty,” you replied.

Peter grinned, “It can’t be both?”

You blushed, surprised he matched your banter. You scoffed a little and crossed your arms over your chest before remembering the pain one of them was in. You winced slightly and let your arms drop to your sides as you studied him, “What’s your name, hero?”

He smirked, because he was positive you had no idea the double meaning behind that nickname, “Peter Parker. It’s a nice to meet you, Ms. Stark.”

“Yeah, even under these circumstances?” You quipped, stepping backwards to lean under a particularly dim sconce, just to rest your back and get some weight off of those pointy heels you were wearing, “Sounds a little strange, Parker. You’ve got a murder kink or something?”

“Well, if I did, I would’ve let you finish off your boyfriend back there.”

“And watched? Now that’s just a little too voyeuristic of you, Parker.”

Peter laughed as got down to his knees and  angled the camera up to take a photo of you. You tilted your head to the side in confusion and stepped forward to leave but Peter protested quickly as he moved to lay on his stomach.

“No, stay right there. You look amazing like that,” He said as he started to snap photos of you, “Like a real bad ass.”

“I don’t usually let press take photos this easily.”

“I know, I hear you’re a camera breaker,” Peter remarked and glanced up at you from behind the camera, “What’s a guy got to do to get you to spare me?”

You chewed on your bottom lip, “Not sure. You already got down on your knees fairly quickly for me,” You laughed and leaned back again, staring off to the side with your injured arm resting in the shadows, your good arm resting softly on your stomach as you thought about this particular predicament you were in. “How about you don’t release any pictures of the two of us arguing?”

“What makes you think I took any?”

“I’m confident it was your job to get some juicy pics of the Avengers here, since you’re Spider-Man’s personal photographer — well, not so much these days,” You replied, watching as he looked up at you in surprise before standing up. “Yeah, took me a minute, but I remember the name now. I like your photos.”

“Thanks,” Peter nodded as he dusted his pants off and walked towards you. “No pics of you and the boyfriend fighting.”

“Hm, well, not sure how long he’ll have that title anyway. I’ll give you the exclusive in case I do rip his heart out with my bare hands.”

“Hot,” He mumbled, watching you chuckle and shake your head once more. “Should we get that checked out for you? That looks, well, not great,” he told you as he studied your arm.

“It’ll go away in a few days,” You waved your good hand dismissively. “It’s happened before. It’s not a big deal. It’ll recover quick enough. It’s just going to be annoying walking in with this for all to see now. I left my jacket at my seat.”

“Oh,” Peter slipped his jacket off quick enough, “I got you. That’s fine.”

“I can’t —“

“Come on. You can walk in. Get your jacket, and give me mine back. Plus, I had this dry-cleaned.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Recently?”

He blinked twice as he chewed on his bottom lip, “This year. I think.”

Snickering, you thanked him and slipped on the jacket. You took a moment to inhale the scent lingering on the jacket to see if it was as bad as you feared — it wasn’t. It smelled like his cologne, spicy, warm, and left just the right amount of tingle in your nostrils, and you were instantly attracted to it. You cleared your throat, muttered your thanks, and walked into the main hall with Peter hot on your trail.

All you had to do was get to your seat, put on your jacket, and you were good. Hell, you might even try to make an early exit and just go home, but, no, why would things be easy. Your boyfriend was waiting by the door, checking his watch anxiously and looking around. When he spotted you wearing Peter’s coat after you returned, everything he wanted to say flew out of his brain as he started walking towards you.

Peter noticed him and cringed “So, uh, what were you two fighting about?”

“He embarrassed me in front of a bunch of people and got really angry and defensive when I said he was being shitty and condescending. Why?”

“I think he wants to finish the conversation.”

You turned around at his remark and nearly slammed into your oncoming boyfriend. He looked at the jacket you were wearing, then at Peter, who stood there with his lips pursed, eyebrows up, and eyeballs going in very other direction that did not have either of you in it.

“I thought you were just taking pictures. The fuck are you doing with this soy-faced cuck’s jacket on you? The hell did you do out there?” He shouted, garnering too much attention from those surrounding you.

Including your father, Tony Stark, who immediately sobered up and put his drink in Bruce’s chest as he undid his jacket button and started to walk over.

Peter, however, sensed it before he could see it coming. Before he could even react, your hand was up, your boyfriend was on his back having gone through a table and wound up on the ground covered in appetizers, drinks, and a now-soiled white tablecloth.

You exhaled and twisted your wrist a few times, “That feels better. We’re done, by the way.”

“Spawn…” Tony began as he looked between your new ex-boyfriend, Peter, and yourself. “You know, if you held out for twenty more minutes, I would have won a bet.”

“Sorry, dad,” you remarked as you began to slip off Peter’s jacket. “I couldn’t help myself. Really, really tried, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Tony sighed and noticed your arm, “Holy shit that looks horrible.”

“Yep.”

“Okay, time to make an exit,” Tony looked to Peter and furrowed his brow. “What, you think now’s the time for a photo op?”

“He’s my friend, dad,” you turned and handed him the coat. “Thank you, Peter. It was nice meeting you.”

He beamed as he took his jacket, “Nice meeting you too, Y/N.”

“Make sure you give them a good picture,” you joked as Pepper came over to you with your jacket so you guys could leave. “Sorry it wasn’t a real homicide.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll catch it another day,” He joked with you, ignoring the confused looks he was getting from Tony and Pepper. “Maybe I’ll even see you around.”

“Maybe,” you nodded and waved goodbye to him. Charmingly enough, you gave your boyfriend the middle finger and told him to lose your number as you walked out of there with your father and Pepper in tow, while the rest of the Avengers seemed to be playing games of rock, paper, scissors to see who should stay for appearances, and who could run out and leave as well.

~*~

The following day, you made your way over to the kitchen, feet padding against the cold floor as you made a beeline to the coffee. After pouring yourself a cup, you grabbed the Daily Bugle sitting on the counter and unfolded it. You smirked behind the coffee cup as you spotted the photo on the front page.

‘Y/N Stark, Showstopper at MET Charity’

Of course, the story went on to detail some of the drama from the night, but you were enthralled by the photo. You looked ethereal, god-like, powerful. You could faintly see your bruised arm in the background. Hiding in the shadows, it almost looked sinister, but you loved how you looked. 

You looked to see ‘photograph by: Peter Parker’ and smiled. So he did pick a good photo of you, as he should.

Humming to yourself, you leaned over the counter, “Hey, Jarvis.”

“Yes, madam?”

“What do you know about Peter Parker?”

[ms-revived-frogs]

I was tired this week but you know what I went back to this because I saw another version of it from someone I followed and thought I would leave you with something final. Okay!

1. What you are saying is entirely hypocritical. On average, mothers work about 100 hours a week. This was studied, meaning it's not anecdotal like your "all the mothers are so entitled and make me do their work!". This is something that's studied and proven. Of course not every single mother on Earth works this same amount of hours, but this is the average, and also the data that we currently have. I hope you understand what the word "average" means here because otherwise it is very difficult to explain. You treat your work situation like it's the end-all-be-all and neglect the actual studied data that is found. You know how men tend to do the same thing, like finding one piece of "misandry" and going "Ha! See? I am oppressed too!". This is what you look like to me because you are giving me anecdotal evidence where I am giving you something that is fact and studied.

2. Once again, hypocritical. You say "the system is shit, but the individuals can contribute to the already bad situation". Your initial reblog shows that you are not targeting your managers or bosses in charge of making your work life stressful; you're blaming your fellow co-workers who are already stressed and overworked, and naming them entitled and such because they are not fitting perfectly into the system that was not built for mothers to be in the workforce. This is exactly what I said, that childless people (including women) often slip to being unempathetic to mothers.

3. I am literally not a mother so I don't understand what you mean by "thank you for proving that mothers always expect from complete foreign women to have empathy and be feminine if it fits their interest". I am a woman who has no children myself so this is really weird to say in response to what I said to you? But this part is really interesting to me because you are saying that you owe nobody empathy which is your own right but something that is alien to me. I don't know, maybe it's me being Catholic or just a friendly person, but I give empathy to strangers because I care about people and am not a miserable person. The same way I give disabled and elderly people empathy and understand they need accommodations, I too give mothers empathy and understand they need their own unique accommodations.

Also where did you get "be feminine" from? I don't think I mentioned that at all and nothing of what I said was about feminine gender roles nor that I think women should / must follow them. Or is asking for someone to be empathetic and understanding the same as asking someone to be feminine?

And for your last comment, you're right! Having children isn't a need, it's a right that you can choose to pursue. In such, it is also a right that people should receive accommodations for doing it because it is so demanding and yet so important. As I said in my very first reblog, mothers deserve to have things like child support, alimony, available and accessible day care, safe obstetric care, etc. Sadly these are not available to every single women or in every single country. Instead of being mad at these women (as you said in your second reblog, for "not having enough respect to do their own share of work"), maybe you should be mad at how the workplace system is completely designed against women in the chance that they have children. The nuclear family is literally designed to have one dependent at home, and one working to provide. This means that all those mothers you are so mad at, are likely bearing the brunt of their work at home as fathers often don't provide as much, and a day job. You are absolutely fine.

Anyways, I don't know what to expect from someone who proudly says that they "really don't need to be empathetic". It shows infinitely more about your character than anything else you've said so far.

it’s the way so many young women who don’t plan of having children are acting like women with children are the enemy and sure there are plenty of women who act like having children is your lifes purpose and can be extremely rude and patronising to child free women but in reality maybe you should worry more about your male parter who may seem like less of a misogynist for agreeing not to have children but will likely still end up expecting you to be his mom

[wolf-queer-discourse]

Adventures in Aphobia #1

So I was scrolling through Tumblr the other day (a regrettable mistake as always), and I had the great pleasure of seeing this joyous post.

*deep breath*

Not gonna lie, posts like this make me real pissed. Pissed because the person who posted this exists in a space where they feel comfortable enough to post this online. Pissed because these posts are so common and often face little backlash. And pissed because there’s nothing better than allosexuals condescendingly explaining to asexual people why they’re dirty attention whores who invent their own oppression. Ace people deserve to be defended against this horseshit. Young people see these posts, and it’s extremely damaging to have your identity be nothing more than fuel for people in discourse to mock you and demand you bled in order for them to notice your pain.

Anger aside, many people do not see why this post is wrong, so why is it? Let’s unpack this clusterfuck of bigotry:

“would love to see substantive evidence of systematic “aphobia” that isn’t actually just misogyny, toxic masculinity, or rpe culture.”

God damn, we are not mincing our words here XD. A few things: systematic in bold, which tells you if you do not make a blood sacrifice on the altar of queer pain you will not be taken seriously. Potential nitpick, but systemic and systematic are not the same thing. I believe systemic is the word they’re looking for. Systematic implies a lot more intentionality that can be hard to prove. Systemic merely means that systems, in their current state, do aphobic things, which they absolutely do.

“Aphobia” in quotes is absolutely rich. Not only will this person refuse to acknowledge systemic aphobia, which is only one type, but this poster casts clear doubt upon the mere concept of aphobia in and of itself. We love to see it.

There’s a lot to unpack here. The statement, as clearly condescending as intended, is sort of correct, though it doesn’t mean a whole lot. Systemic oppression is about the systems in a society (government, healthcare, etc) discriminating against people. Systemic oppression is not bigotry faced on a person-to-person level. In short, systematic oppression is something a person experiences in their overall life, while personal discrimination is experienced on a personal level by people who are not singularly in control of the systems. This post boils down the negative comments ace people face into being called “weird”, which is an understatement for sure, but calling a gay person weird isn’t systemic oppression either.

It’s still bad and discriminatory.

This is such a snotty way to dismiss aphobia as some mere, insignificant comment with no meaning as if it doesn’t reinforce society’s painful aphobic views in the same way casual homophobic comments reinforce heteronormativity and society’s hostility toward gay people.

Ace people face discrimination in healthcare, most notably, which is systemic discrimination, but the systemic discrimination of asexuals really ought to be its own post if I’m to nosedive into it. Even if ace people faced no systemic discrimination, it wouldn’t make this point anymore correct. Discrimination is a perfectly valid reason to feel disregarded by society, and often only ace people are denied the right to feel this way and are instead gaslit into admitting what they face is no big deal and they’re just making it up for attention.

The experience of being pressured to have sex when you’re allo vs ace is very different. The vast majority of allo people do not plan to be celibate their whole lives. Many ace people do not want to have sex, ever. “Waiting for sex” in much of western society and in Christianity is seen as pure and honorable. Yet being asexual and never wanting sex is seen as a deviant disorder and people are accused of robbing their partner of sex forever.

There’s really a specific flavor of sexual pressure that is unique to ace people. Sex being to “fix” someone or because they “just need to try it”.

In this respect, aphobic sexual pressure is better compared to that faced by gay people and lesbians. Lesbians especially often can face this same struggle, men pressuring them to have sex because they think lesbians just need to “try it” or to “fix them”. I can imagine this poster would have no issue acknowledging lesbophobia being the root of lesbians coerced into sex with men, yet she does not give ace people the same.

Imagine if someone said (and knowing our fucked world, someone probably has): “Lesbophobia doesn’t exist. It’s just misogyny. Straight women are coerced into sex too!”

It’d be pathetic bullshit. Toxic masculinity, misogyny and many other issues can all tangle into combined messes with other forms of bigotry. Lesbophobia is an experience that deserves to be recognized apart from misogyny, even if the two are linked. Please stop erasing ace people’s experiences with this when it’s not the same thing.

Honestly, though, this post, as trashy as it is, if anything, is perhaps, really asking: Is there any type of aphobic experience that’s inherently exclusive to ace people?

I still wager to go say, yes, yes there is, but I must make an important point first:

Most experiences of queer discrimination are not limited to queer people.

Homophobia and transphobia are both experienced by cishets in certain instances. Feminine straight men can be victims of homophobic harassment. This does not disprove the fact that it’s homophobia just because a straight man is the victim of it. A tall cis woman with broad shoulders and a lower voice may be the victim of transphobic remarks or comments. The basis of these comments is rooted in transphobia, however, so the fact that the victim is cis does not erase the transphobia.

People who argue that experiences ace people complain about can be experienced by allosexuals are not poking a legitimate hole in doing this. Certain experiences related to aphobia can and are experienced by allosexuals. If you do not acknowledge this, then homophobia and transphobia aren’t real because cishet people have sometimes experienced them.

Despite cishets sometimes experiencing queerphobia, most of us acknowledge that their experience of that bigotry, however unfortunate, is not the same as that experienced by actual queer people. It’d be quite homophobic for a feminine straight man to claim he knew just as much about the gay experience as an actual gay man. Similarly, when allosexual people relate experiences that were rooted in aphobia, it’s overstepping a line when they claim asexual discrimination isn’t real because they experienced elements of it too.

Cishet (cishet including allosexuals) people do not experience their doctors telling them their sexuality might be a disorder or caused by trauma. Allo queer people can experience this with their sexualities too.

“using sex appeal to sell products is misogyny, it is not engineered to gross sex-repulsed people, it is meant to objectify women.”

This is a strawman thinner than my last nerve. Uh, what? What ace people are you seeing that literally think sex appeal was engineered to gross-out sex-repulsed people?? I don’t think this is a core argument??

Yes, sex-repulsed ace people sometimes complain about sex appeal in media being uncomfortable. But that’s it. Every time an ace person shares a discomfort of theirs doesn’t mean it’s the entire basis of their oppression. For the love of God, let ace people discuss their experiences without being blow-torched over not being oppressed enough with an individual discomfort. 

BONUS ROUND

(This was in the tags)

“Completely vilifies celibate individuals” 

...no…? What…? Huh…? 

The most charitable interpretation of this vague accusation is that the poster means celibate people face aphobia as well, due to not wanting to have sex. I have no idea how this “vilifies” anyone, but that aside, as said before: people who are not queer can face aphobia. Also worth noting that society treats celibate people way better than ace people, which is really another example of aphobia. Celibate people can be told they’re missing out (which could be at very least related to aphobic ideals), but they’re rarely called broken. Celibacy is seen more as a respected, controlled ideal in allo people, but when ace people want to do it, they’re just mentally ill.

Anyway, the post was aphobic trash, and it needs to be debunked more often. Mocking ace people online is not a good look anymore, guys. Don't be ugly.