#she must suffer for the greater good

[mrfrogmouth]

Kara

There is a tangible grief in doing something that is right-- to sacrifice, To do something you hate and to do it for someone undeserving, simply and truly because it is right. To hear the options and know you could never have chosen anything else. Because if you do, then a fundamental piece of your soul will shift. Because if you do, then who are you? This space between revenge and kindness, rage and compassion. Duty. The hope born from pain. That is who I believe Kara to be. Someone who, at her core, firmly, deeply believes she is right, and must be right. Someone who does good because if she does not do the right thing then she less than worthless-- someone who does evil for the same reason.

[attractthecrows]

Deep Mushroom, go go go

Deep Mushroom :: What act does your character consider morally foul but practically necessary? Does your character condone morally foul actions for practicality’s or necessity’s sake at all?

MMM I LOVE THIS ONE

Let's bring out Laure Amell again

Morally Foul, Practically Necessary:

oh boy where to begin lmfao

I know I've mentioned elsewhere in her tag but Laure's story is a study in ego death. Over the course of her life she loses more and more of herself, and that started when the templars ripped her from her family home in the night. By the time she gets to Kinloch Circle, she's already damaged, so to speak. She was raised Andrastian in a noble family in Kirkwall, told all her life that the Chantry- the templars- were good and moral protectors. She knows the templars are neither; she's already begun to reject the morality her parents instilled in her.

Life in the Circle was always about survival, ironically. Laure is lucky in that she had a natural talent and was generally quicker than her peers; being Irving's personal apprentice put her in a very safe place, indeed. If she hadn't been as gifted, she would not have hesitated to use more underhanded means of getting ahead of her peers. So by the time Origins begins, she's not exactly the most morally inclined.

She does still have some, though. Demons bad. Blood magic "bad" (practical, but so risky as to be stupid, unacceptable to use on innocent people). Feed the hungry, heal the wounded, treat the sick, help the children, house the cold. Oh, and fuck the Chantry.

Anything else, she looks for the core of the issue and what must be done to solve it, ideally without endangering too many people. Over the course of Origins, her few morals take a few blows out of pure Blight-driven necessity. By the time they get to Warden's Peak, she's more than willing to let Avernus continue his research in exchange for access to his data: if she can use it to end the Blight then it's worth the cost. She spares the Architect, again because he had information that could be worth it. None of these were moral questions to Laure; ending the Blight, saving lives, stopping danger, it's all a numbers game.

So, yeah. She's willing to pick out subpar Wardens from her ranks and give them to Avernus. She's willing to send older Wardens on their Callings in areas that she knows the Architect operates. If the two of them, objectively reprehensible beings both, can manage to cure the Blight. Or manage to make the darkspawn less of a danger. Or make the Joining less deadly. Or make the fight easier. Then sparing their lives will have saved exponentially more lives than the few measly dozen Laure has ended by sending to them.

[heyimkana]

Pads & Conspiracies

AO3 Link

Set in the same AU as Pillow Talk and Come Home to Me, but can be read separately.

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Female Reader

Genre: Marriage AU, Domestic Fluff, Slice of Life, Comedy

Summary: Sung Jinwoo isn’t so much an S-Rank Hunter as he is an S-Rank Husband. Today, he’s dealing with his wife’s period cramps, pad sizes, Beru’s cravings and a tiny domestic conspiracy.

Content Warnings: None—unless you count teeth-rotting fluff, adorable husband-wife moments, and Beru’s constant Shakespearean monologues.

Word Count: 10K (I wrote too many fluffy/silly moments—sorry 😔)

This one's for @satoruandjinwoobrainrot I'm sorry for taking so long to answer your ask, babe 😭 I hope you enjoy it ❤️

Your sweet, loving husband is in the middle of another dungeon raid. A dangerous one, at that—its mana levels place it just below an S-Rank gate. But Jinwoo, as always, enjoys the challenge. High-level dungeons offer greater experience, and he’s always hungry for more, isn’t he?

He steps into the boss room with his chin held high, the sleeves of his fitted black shirt rolled up to his elbows, veins prominent against fair skin.

“I’ll take care of this one myself,” he tells Igris, craving a good fight to keep his skills sharp. He can’t afford to get rusty just standing on the sidelines.

Jinwoo’s thin lips curl into a smirk as the beast looms before him—a colossal snake, three times the size of Kasaka, its fangs longer than his own towering height. The Demon King’s daggers materialize in his hands, gripped tightly between lean fingers as he taunts, “Quite a remarkable aura you’ve got there. Keep me entertained for a bit, will ya?”

The snake hisses, and Jinwoo lunges, aiming for its vitals—but suddenly—

MY LIEGE! MY LIEGE!

Beru’s frantic voice cuts through his mind, breaking his focus. The distraction costs him; he misses the strike.

Jinwoo’s chest tightens with dread. Beru is the shadow soldier assigned to protect you. The former Ant King could take on an S-Rank Hunter without breaking a sweat.

So why is he panicking? What could possibly shake him?

More importantly—are you okay?

If he weren’t mid-fight, he’d swap places with him or share his senses to see for himself. But since Beru can still speak calmly—well, frantically but coherently—Jinwoo knows he’s not in combat.

Still, the distraction nearly proves fatal. The snake whips its tail, and Jinwoo only barely dodges, his reflexes saving him by milliseconds. A direct hit would've pulverized his bones.

“Beru, talk to me!” he shouts, panic bubbling in his throat. “What happened?!”

Mine liege, lo, it hath been naught but an hour since thy wedded dame did informeth me—

“Speak normally!”

A-apologies, my liege! It is… that time of the month again. She told me she is in great pain. There is significant bleeding.

His dagger clashes against the snake’s fang. “She’s having her period?”

Yes, my liege.

Oh, thank God, Jinwoo breathes in relief, dodging yet another attack. It’s not that he’s glad to hear you’re simply suffering from your regular period cramps—but it’s much, much better than the dreadful thought that had emerged in his head a second ago.

Tell her to hang on, he instructs through the link, driving a dagger through the snake’s scales. Blood stains his shirt, but he barely notices. I’ll be there as soon as possible.

I will inform her, my liege. But I must stress—she is in tremendous pain. What if something worse occurs?

Jinwoo clenches his teeth, frustration surging through him. He would've asked his sister Jinah if she was in town, but she'd left on vacation with Jinho two days ago.

I need to get this over with fast, he thinks. Do what you can to help her, Beru. I’ll finish this and return immediately. Tell her to wait for me.

Yes, my liege, I shall assist her in any way I can in your absence. But your presence is sorely needed. I cannot soothe her the way you do.

That, Jinwoo knows—and he’s proud of it. But he still can’t abandon the fight just yet.

The snake is tougher than expected. Jinwoo could end it quickly if he focused, but his mind is elsewhere. You’re all he can think about.

What does my wife need?

She requested medicine and sanitary pads, my liege. But… we appear to be out. Shall I dispatch a high orc to the store?

No. The last thing he needs is to terrify the entire neighborhood. Again.

His tempo falters. For the last two minutes, he’s done nothing but dodge and parry. His chest tightens at the image of you, curled up in bed, hurting and alone. He considers calling Jinho or his sister—but they’re on vacation at the moment.

And then—things get worse.

Dozens of slithering snakes suddenly come into view. Smaller in size, but lethal nonetheless. They bare their fangs at him, hissing—probably fucking pissed off because he hasn’t been taking them seriously.

Jinwoo curses under his breath. Clearing this dungeon just got more complicated. Can she wait twenty… maybe thirty more minutes?

My liege… she is crying.

“IGRIS!” Jinwoo calls out in haste. Debate’s over. “Take my place. I need to leave—now.”

The powerful knight does not hesitate. With a dozen lower-ranked soldiers at his back, Igris rushes into battle, the Demon Monarch’s longsword held tightly in his hands, casting lightning bolts with every swing.

Jinwoo’s eyes flash from icy blue to violet, gleaming in the darkness of the cave. His daggers vanish into thin air as misty black tendrils envelop his frame like smoke.

“Exchange.”

***

Having swapped places with a patrolling shadow soldier, Jinwoo emerges onto the peaceful streets of Seoul. The stark contrast to the dark, suffocating dungeon is jarring. The sun blazes overhead, hot and merciless, causing beads of sweat to form at his temple as he sprints toward the nearest pharmacy.

“H-Hunter Sung Jinwoo!”

A female cashier gasps as he storms through the automatic doors, his combat boots—still slick with monster blood—leaving grotesque red smears across the pristine white marble floor. Her eyes widen in horror. Has a dungeon break occurred nearby? It’s not every day that an S-Rank Hunter bursts into a store with his chest heaving, his shirt soaked in blood, and his dark hair clinging to his forehead.

“A-Are you all right, sir? Is there a problem—?”

“Yes.” His voice is firm. Grave. The kind of tone people expect right before an evacuation order is issued.

The intensity of his gaze wipes the color from her face. Time seems to freeze.

“I need you to get me some pads.”

“…Pardon?”

***

“S-So, um…” the cashier begins awkwardly, spreading an overwhelming selection of pads across the counter. “We have reusable pads, regular pads, ultra-thin pads, maxi pads, overnight pads… These ones are scented, these are not. Oh, these are exceptionally soft, but they’re a bit expensive. And these ones—”

Jinwoo stares blankly at the display, her words blurring together. He’s trying to listen, but nothing is sinking in. The explanation seems endless and he's losing it.

“Why… why are there so many different types?” he asks, genuinely bewildered. “Don’t they all serve the same purpose?”

“Well, yes, sir, but every woman has her own preferences. Some might like scented pads to mask the, um, odor, while others prefer—”

She keeps going. His brain starts turning to mush.

“All right. Which one’s the best?”

“Like I said, sir… it depends.”

“Which one do you use?”

“Eh?!” Her cheeks flush crimson. She wasn’t prepared for that level of personal, and Jinwoo is so out of it right now to notice it. “T-This one, sir.” She gingerly pushes a pack forward, unable to meet his eyes. When she woke up this morning, she hadn’t expected to be discussing her menstrual product choices with Sung Jinwoo, of all people. “They’re cotton-based. Um. More breathable.”

“Okay. I’ll take that one.”

“Right. What size do you—uh, I mean, does your wife usually use?”

He stops and stares. Of course they have sizes.

Seeing his soul leave his body, she gently suggests, “You might want to give her a call?”

“Give me a sec.” He closes his eyes. Beru.

Yes, my liege.

What pad size does my wife usually use?

She prefers the overnight kind. The ones labeled for ‘heavy flow,’ my liege.

Jinwoo opens his eyes. “Overnight pads. Heavy flow.”

“With or without wings?”

He stops and stares. Again. “O-one moment.”

Beru. With or without wings?

She favors the ones with wings, my liege.

“With wings, please.”

“Scented or unscented?”

His head drops back. God, why are there so many choices?

Beru.

The scented ones have caused her skin irritation before, my liege, so I suggest—

“Unscented, thanks.” God, please, no more questions.

“Y-yes, sir.” The cashier quickly bags the selected pack. “Is there anything else?”

Beru?

She has said that her abdominal pains are severe, my liege.

Right. “Yes, some painkillers too, please—for cramps.”

A beat.

A-also, my liege… may I be so bold as to request… candy mints? This humble servant has long been curious about their taste. I-if it’s not too much trouble, of course.

Jinwoo sighs. “And some candy mints. Thank you.”

***

Stepping out of the pharmacy with a plastic bag dangling from one hand, Jinwoo’s mind spins in a dozen directions, each one trying to figure out how he can make you feel even a little bit better. He knows this pain visits you monthly, yet it never sits right with him—just watching you suffer while he does nothing.

Maybe some comfort food will help…

He makes a quick detour into a nearby convenience store, heading straight for the snack aisle. These days, he’s memorized all your favorites—the specific brand, the exact flavor. Unlike the nightmare that was navigating menstrual pads, this is familiar territory.

As he strolls down an aisle, he spots a familiar brand of potato chips—the exact flavor you always reach for first. He smiles. Without hesitation, he grabs a few bags, tossing three in for you and one for himself.

But just as they land in the cart, Beru’s voice buzzes into his mind like a pesky conscience.

My liege, I do not suggest giving these food items to her. They are not suitable for women during menstrual cramps.

Jinwoo freezes mid-step. “What?” he mutters, glancing at the chips. There’s food you’re not supposed to eat during your period? He genuinely didn’t know. He makes a mental note to be better next time.

What should I get for her, then?

Foods that are high in fat and sodium should be avoided, Beru explains smoothly, as if he’s been rehearsing this in the mirror. They can increase bloating and water retention. She needs easily digestible meals—foods that reduce inflammation. Fruits like bananas and berries are good choices. A light vegetable soup, especially with ginger, will ease her cramps. And dark chocolate, my liege. It helps with mood regulation.

Jinwoo blinks, frowning. That’s… oddly specific. How do you even know all this? You’re an ant.

Beru puffs up with pride—even through telepathy, Jinwoo can feel it. I have studied human biology extensively through your interactions and dialogue, my liege. While I am not human, I have amassed considerable knowledge to ensure the safety and comfort of your lady wife. In fact, I have also learned about human sexual reproduction by studying anatomical references and behavioral data. If you wish, I can provide suggestions to improve fertility—

Nope. No need.

But, my liege, it has been several months since you began your attempts to produce an heir, and the results have been less than rewarding. May I suggest altering your coital positioning to improve pelvic angle and sperm—

I will strangle you.

M-m-my apologies, my liege. Please have mercy!

Jinwoo exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was just trying to buy soup ingredients—how did this escalate so quickly?

Right. Soup. He returns to the task. I’ll just get what I need and cook it for her later.

An excellent decision, my liege. She will surely be pleased.

Jinwoo’s hand reaches for the chip bags to return them—only for Beru’s voice to chime in one last time, soft and trembling.

M-my liege… may I also have the potato chi—

No.

He doesn’t need to see him to know—Beru is weeping somewhere in the shadows.

***

The player screen flickers before his eyes:

Cooldown Time Remaining: 2:32:36

Jinwoo swears under his breath. Shadow Exchange won’t work for another two and a half hours. He has no time to waste.

Without hesitation, he leaps into the air and calls, “Kaisel.” The sky darkens instantly as the massive wyvern materializes, letting out a ferocious roar that echoes across the city skyline.

“Take me to my wife,” Jinwoo commands, his voice low, sharp with urgency. “As fast as you can.”

The air whips around him as Kaisel surges upward, wings slicing the clouds like blades, the landscape a blur beneath. He plants his feet on the creature’s back, wind tugging at his shirt, but his eyes are fixed on the horizon, his mind drifting back to you.

How is she now? he asks Beru.

The ant’s voice answers quickly, full of subdued concern. She is still in bed, my liege. Unable to sleep. It has been a very taxing pain—on both her body and her spirit. She has been fighting it for hours.

For hours? Jinwoo's heart tightens, stabbed by guilt. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

I wished to, my liege. But… she forbade me. Beru’s voice dips with guilt. She did not want to worry you, especially knowing you had a raid this morning.

Jinwoo exhales harshly, his eyes narrowing. Of course you did, he thinks of you—not in frustration, but in aching admiration. Always protecting me, even when you're the one in pain.

What about your healing magic?

I have tried it several times, my liege. It dulls the pain, but only slightly. I fear my abilities cannot counteract this form of suffering.

Keep at it, he orders. And heat a water bottle—press it against her lower stomach. It should ease the pain a little. He’s done it for you countless times. It always helps.

At once, my liege.

His heart aches at the thought of you lying curled up in bed, face pale, body trembling, fighting off the ache in silence. This isn’t like the others, he thinks. Isn’t this her sixth day? That’s past the worst of it, usually.

He presses two fingers to his chin, deep in thought. He’s memorized your cycle by now—he knows your usual pain, your patterns. Normally, your cramps hit hard on the first day, then fade within a couple more. Why is it still so bad? Did something change? Whatever the answer is, it doesn’t change the fact that you're still in pain.

And that he's not there to soothe you.

Damn it.

Had he known this would happen, he never would’ve left your side this morning. Just like earlier this week, when he spent the whole day holding you, warming you, stroking your back until sleep claimed you. No raid, no mission, no beast was worth more than your comfort.

Jinwoo clenches his jaw, wind howling around him as Kaisel surges faster. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to comfort you sooner, he thinks, his heart heavy with regret.

The shadows tremble beneath his feet as Kaisel speeds forward, a black streak across the blue sky.

I promise I’ll be there soon.

***

Jumping off Kaisel's back even before the beast sinks its talons into the ground, Jinwoo dashes toward the house, barely registering the startled high orcs tending the garden as he passes. The second he reaches the door, he slows, catching his breath. Carefully, he turns the knob—gentle, quiet—so he doesn’t startle you.

As expected, he finds you lying on the bed, curled up on your side. His heart squeezes at the sight of you, and he feels a mix of sympathy and helplessness for not being able to take the pain away.

He places the plastic bag on the bedside table and eases down beside you. “Hey…” His voice is low, velvety-soft as his fingers comb through your hair. “I’m here.”

Your eyes flutter open at the sound. “Hey… You’re here? I thought you were still on the raid…”

“I was, but Beru told me you were hurting.” His brows pull together as he gazes at you. “I couldn’t stay after that.”

“You shouldn’t have left. I’m fine.” You shift, trying to sit up and brush it off, pretending to be strong as always.

“Don’t,” Jinwoo says quickly, gently guiding you back down. “Lie down, honey. It’s all right.”

“I’m fine, Jin. Honestly.”

He smiles—tender but a little sad. “You always do this, don’t you? Always trying to be strong so I won’t worry. It’s cute when you do, and I love that about you, but...” His hand brushes along your temple. “It’s okay not to be so tough all the time, you know that, right? When you come to me and ask for my help, that makes me happy too. Maybe even the happiest. I love it when you’re being needy—didn’t I tell you that?”

You give him a tired smile. “Still… you didn’t have to leave the raid. I feel bad.”

“Don’t be. I wanted to see you. As soon as Beru told me you were crying in pain, I had to get out of there. I just couldn't stand it.”

“Beru was being dramatic…”

“I wish you’d be a bit dramatic,” he smirks, roguish and seductive. “Crying, whimpering my name, begging me to come home and soothe you.” His voice falls into that low, teasing register. “I’d love that.”

You groan. “I’m too weak to punch you right now, but please try and visualize it for me.”

He laughs quietly, his eyes softening again. How do you still manage to be this adorable while in pain?

He brushes his fingers down your cheek, cupping it tenderly. “I’m here, okay? You don’t have to pretend. It’s just me.”

His heart melts at the sight of you nuzzling your face further into his palm, your contented sigh mollifying his worry. “Okay.”

“Is there anything you need? I brought you some painkillers,” he says, reaching for the bag. “Got new pads too—overnight, unscented, with wings. Also… dark chocolate to help your mood. I wanted to grab your favorite chips, but Be—” He coughs once. “I mean, I read somewhere they’re not great for cramps. Something about water retention.”

“Wow,” you giggle faintly, impressed. “Look at you, doing your homework.”

“Of course,” he says proudly, kissing your forehead. “I care about my wife.” Watching you curl further into yourself, he frowns. “How bad is it?”

You answer with a pained moan, rolling to your side with one hand clutching your stomach. “Bad enough that I want to punch someone in the face.”

“Ah. One of those days.” He tears open the painkiller packet, pours you a glass of water, and helps you sit up. Your hands tremble as you take the meds, and Jinwoo runs a hand up and down your arm to steady you, his touch gentle and reassuring. “I’ll run a warm bath for you, okay? I can give you a back massage too, if you want. It might help relieve the pain a bit—at least until the medicine kicks in.”

You lean forward, your forehead resting on his shoulder as you mumble, “You’re just looking for an excuse to touch me.”

“Is that what you think of me?” He sighs, despite being a little amused, because… well, yeah, he’s probably going to, just for a tiny bit. He puts a small distance between you, gesturing for you to lie down. “Wait here, honey. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He stands, preparing to head to the bathroom, but you catch him by the sleeve, holding onto him tightly. “Don’t go…” Your voice echoes through his ears in a fragile whisper. “I don’t need you to do anything. I just want you to stay here. Just for a bit.”

Watching you act like this, a part of him dies and goes to heaven. You’re more adorable than you’ve ever been.

“Hey…” Jinwoo kneels right beside the bed, bringing himself to your level. He takes your hand in his, giving it a soft squeeze, his sweet smile dripping with affection. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just gonna run the bath, that’s all. Then I’ll come right back.”

He can tell you just want him to be there, to hold you and just breathe in the same air until the pain in your stomach recedes. But a warm bath would certainly help more than just lying around in bed. He decides that the cuddling can wait until you’re all warmed up and relaxed.

You hesitate, lips puckered in a soft pout. “Just five minutes. Please?”

“God, you’re so cute.” He physically has to fight the urge to wrap his arms around you, to hold you close, to kiss your lips and love you until you’re suffocated with it. “Can I be honest?” The sweetness in his smile morphs into something mischievous. “Is it bad that I want you to stay like this forever? So you’ll always be this clingy around me?”

The moment is shattered. “Never mind. Go.”

“No, wait, come on—” He laughs, dodging your half-hearted swat. “Beg me again, baby.”

You flick him on the nose. “Go.”

With a grin still perched on his lips, your husband heads to the bathroom and gets the water running, testing the warmth with his fingers until it’s perfect. When he returns, he doesn’t say a word—just slides his arms beneath you.

“I can walk,” you say, palm against his chest to stop him.

“I know,” he says, landing a small kiss on the tip of your nose. “But I want to. Let me spoil my wife a little. It’s not every day she clings to me like this. I wanna take the opportunity to be the husband she dreams of.”

“But you already are…”

He catches you murmuring under your breath. Your honesty brings a tinge of scarlet to his cheeks. He clears his throat, pretending not to hear.

“…All right,” Jinwoo says after a pause. “Bath first. Cuddles after. Deal?”

You nod, and he kisses your temple with a smile.

***

Hooking one hand beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, Jinwoo carries you to the bathroom, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He takes pride in this—in taking care of you. Although he sympathizes with your pain, he can’t help but feel immense joy from being so needed, from being the person you lean on for support. It fills him with something warm and grounding. Purpose.

He sets you down gently, keeping an arm firm around your waist in case your legs give out. The warm scent of lavender bath salts fills the air.

“I’m going to undress you, okay?” he says, his voice soft, coaxing.

He waits until you give him a little nod before he proceeds.

He pulls your knitted sweater over your head with careful hands, leaning down to kiss the curve of your shoulder like it’s something sacred. “You’ll be all right, Sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

Seeing you turn sheepish under his ministrations causes joy to swell further in his chest. You’re adorable when you’re shy. He lowers himself to his knees, fingers brushing the waistband of your jeans—and that’s when you stop him.

“I—I can do this part myself.”

Jinwoo glances up, a curious smile forming. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m your husband, remember? There’s no need to be shy.”

“No, it’s not that,” you stammer, hands fluttering awkwardly. “I’m wearing a pad, and… I’m bleeding.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “And? Honey, I’ve been waist-deep in dungeon filth and monster guts. A little period blood isn’t going to faze me.”

You shake your head stubbornly, cheeks burning. “No, it’s gross. I don’t want you to see it.”

“It’s not gross,” he insists gently, reaching for your hand. “It’s just you. There’s nothing about you that could ever be—”

“No. Go,” you say more firmly, cutting him off. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

That stops him.

He studies you for a beat, his smile softening into something more thoughtful. There’s a flicker in your expression—too quick for most to catch, but not for him. Jinwoo has seen every version of you. This one is… off.

You’re flustered, yes, but beneath that, there’s something else.

Guilt?

His brows draw together slightly, a faint furrow forming between them. Why would she feel guilty?

“Jinwoo, go.”

He exhales through his nose, standing up slowly. “Always so stubborn,” he mutters, giving your head one last pat. “All right. If you insist. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

As he turns to leave, he steals one last glance at you over his shoulder.

You’re biting your lip.

He closes the door behind him and leans his back against it, arms crossed. Something doesn’t add up.

He’s not mad—he never could be, not with you—but now his thoughts are running. You looked too tense. Too evasive. And he knows you. When the pain is real, you don’t hide it like that. You don’t push him away. Not like this.

So what are you hiding, Sweetheart?

***

Jinwoo returns to the bathroom a moment later, his head peeking inside. “Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

He slips past the door, tugging on his sleeves until they pool around his elbows. He’s pleased to see you sitting comfortably in the tub, back resting against the curved porcelain, your expression blissful as the steaming water cradles you up to the shoulders.

“Feels good?”

You hum in contentment, eyes closed, lips parting in a quiet sigh. The tension you held earlier seems to be melting away with the heat. Your shoulders have softened. Your breathing is even. It’s working.

“That’s good to know,” Jinwoo breathes in relief, setting a fresh towel on the bathroom counter. He closes more of the space between you, settling himself on the edge of the tub right next to you. “I’m glad you feel better,” he says, reaching forward to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. “The meds should kick in soon, too. You’ll feel even more comfortable then. Also, here.” He hands you a chocolate bar, your favorite brand plastered on the package. “For emotional support. And sugar. And serotonin. You know—the holy trinity.”

“Mm. The holy trinity to make me fat.”

He chuckles at your comment. “Just something to munch on as you drown in your own filth.”

“You should join me next time,” you titter, peeling the wrapper. “We can drown in our filth together.”

“Mm. Sexy,” he deadpans. “But I can’t say no to a pretty lady bathing in molten chocolate, so yeah—next time, when you’re not feeling like you’re being stabbed in the stomach.”

“That’s a pretty accurate depiction of period cramps, actually.” You bite into the chocolate, groaning in delight as it melts on your tongue. “God, I forgot how good this is. Want some?”

“Sure.”

Instead of taking a bite, Jinwoo cups your chin gently and leans in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, slow kiss that quickly deepens. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, savoring the blend of chocolate and you—and for a second, he forgets you’re supposed to be hurting. The taste alone threatens to undo him.

When he pulls away, he licks his lips, eyes still fixed on your mouth. “Mm. Not bad at all.”

You roll your eyes despite being flustered. “I knew you’d do something cheesy like that.”

“And yet, I can hear your heart racing.” He smirks, tapping his ear, referring to his acute hunter’s hearing. “Expecting more, Sweetheart?”

“No,” you scoff, though the heat rising in your face says otherwise. “That was so predictable. Step up your game, Husband. You’re at risk of becoming boring.”

He chuckles, low and dangerous. “Careful, love. I’m only behaving because you’re sick. Say that again when you’re better—I’ll prove you wrong.”

He gazes down at you, the curve of his mouth filthy with desire, making sure you understand he’ll keep his word—and all the dirty things he has in store for you. It delights him, seeing you turn so embarrassed, and he wishes you’d stay that way a little longer. But you quickly regain your composure.

“Thank you,” he hears you say. “For doing this for me. Seriously, Jin. You’re the best.”

Jinwoo blinks at the sincere gratitude shimmering in your eyes, not expecting to see it so soon—but it’s a pleasant surprise indeed.

“The best husband in the world?” he fishes, grinning boyishly.

“Oh, absolutely. No competition. Expect your World’s Number One Husband mug to arrive in three to five business days,” you jest, your tiny giggles pulling a laugh from him too—unguarded and warm.

“Just a mug?” He reaches for a nearby washcloth, soaking it in the water. “Surely I deserve something more than that, Angel.” Though his words are playful with a hint of impishness, his heart is filled with the desire to take care of you—to protect you—especially now, seeing how vulnerable you look, all naked and… wet.

“Like what?” you ask, but he misses it—his gaze transfixed on a single bead of water that trails from your chin, sliding down your neck to rest in the hollow of your collarbone.

“Jinwoo?”

“Yeah?” He blinks, breaking free from his stupor. “Sorry. Got a little… distracted.” He clears his throat. “Let me help you.”

Your husband dips the washcloth in the water again before carefully washing your body—starting with your shoulders, then moving down to your arms. His touch is reverent, filled with quiet devotion, mindful of your soreness. He dabs the cloth over your face, softly rubbing it against your skin. As he reaches down to your neck, his gaze lingers a moment too long on the part he usually marks with lips and teeth. It’s been over a week since he last saw a bruise bloom over your veins. The urge to repaint it rises.

“You’re distracted again, honey.”

“Right, yeah.” He gets to work again, moving his hand lower to your chest with painstaking care. It’s even harder than before—but this time, he’s prepared. Trying his best to be respectful, he avoids looking at your intimate parts for too long, keeping his thoughts focused on the task at hand, not the way your body feels under his touch.

Then something flickers in his thoughts.

Wait.

You said you were on your period. That you were in pain. But…

You’re holding yourself differently now. No winces. No tension in your abdomen. You’re relaxed. Too relaxed.

His eyes narrow slightly. Strange. You don’t fake pain—not with him.

He swallows the suspicion for now, smoothing the washcloth across your side in silence. But somewhere in the back of his mind, a theory begins to form.

“So, what is it that you want?” you ask, your voice soft, breath stirring the steam as his fingers trail down your spine. “You never answered my question earlier.”

“Can I ask for something sexual?”

You snort. “Sometimes I’m impressed by how shameless you are. No, like a gift, Jin. An actual gift.”

“An actual gift, huh? Hmm…” He reaches for the bottle of soap, squeezing a dollop into his hands before lathering it between his palms. “How about… you give me some coupons?”

“Coupons?” Your brows knit in confusion. “What, like grocery coupons?”

“No,” he laughs, the sound low and fond. God, you’re cute. “Like special coupons, you know? A set of blank vouchers you give to your partner.” He starts rubbing your shoulders, hands moving in circles, massaging the tension from your muscles. “I’ll write something down on the card—whatever it is I want you to do for me—and when I give it to you, you’ll have to do it. I can use the coupon anytime I want. No exceptions. No complaints. No backsies.”

“You just want an excuse to boss me around,” you murmur, though you’re already melting under his touch.

“Maybe. But mostly”—he leans in closer, his warm breath fanning your shoulder as he reduces his voice to a low, seductive whisper—“I want to see you be a good girl for me.”

You stiffen slightly, goosebumps breaking on your skin. He doesn’t miss it—and neither does he miss the sound of your heartbeat escalating. He wonders if it’s because you’re too shy to uphold the idea… or if you just really, really like being called a good girl.

You gather yourself quickly. “A-and what if I don’t want to?”

His caress, like his voice, turns seductive and teasing, fingers trailing languidly just below your breast. “You don’t want to be a good girl for me?”

“No, I mean—” You hug your knees to your chest, burying your face in them. Oh yeah, it’s definitely the good girl part that flusters you, but more because of the way he said it, not the line itself. “I meant the coupons, you dummy. W-what if I don’t want to do the things you write down?”

He chuckles darkly, sliding his hand up to the nape of your neck, fingers twitching with the urge to grip. “Then that’s an even better gift for me.”

You shiver when he applies a little pressure there. Maybe, just like him, you recall the way he possessively holds you by the back of your neck when he kisses you—or when he takes you from behind. Jinwoo can’t help but succumb to his desire, just for a bit—lean fingers twisting around your damp strands, pulling your head back until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. He smiles down at you, eyes hooded, voice dropping an octave lower.

“Because then, I get to punish you.”

He kisses you—slow and indulgent—letting you feel the shape of his tantalizing smile. When he releases you, he’s greeted by another pout.

“I feel like you’re just going to use those coupons to exploit me sexually.”

“That’s harsh,” he replies, grinning. But is it a denial? Of course not.

“Look, honey, if you don’t trust me, you can write them yourself.” He kneels beside the tub, his hand traveling down to your thigh, rinsing the soap from your skin with careful sweeps of the cloth. “Write down the things you want to do with me. To me,” he corrects, shamelessly. “I’m down for whatever you want to do. Focus on what makes you happy.”

“But this is supposed to be my gift to you. I want to make you happy.”

“Sweetheart,” he lands a soft kiss on your knee. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Jinwoo lifts your other leg, giving it the same amount of care and attention. Your skin is warm and soft, and it takes all his self-control not to touch you sensually. The warm water beads on your skin, and every soft gasp you let out as he works the sore muscles in your ankle tests his restraint. You’re completely naked. Vulnerable. Glowing.

And he’s trying very, very hard to be good.

“Just be creative with it,” he adds, trying to redirect his focus. “Write down something fun.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” His hand glides up your thigh, hovering dangerously close to the part he’s been dying to touch. He leans forward, bringing his lips close to your ear, his smirk grazing your shell. “Putting on a nurse costume and treating me like your patient—”

You splash water in his direction before the words even finish leaving his mouth, not caring if you’re drenching his hair and clothes. He flinches, laughing, water dripping down his face and hair.

“Hey!” Jinwoo grabs your wrist, his laughter bouncing off the bathroom walls. “It was just an example! Unless, y’know… you’re into it.”

You lift your hand again, ready for another splash. He raises both palms in surrender, grinning wide and cheeky.

“Yeah, I’m definitely not giving you blank coupons,” you mutter.

“Fair enough,” he simpers, rinsing off the last traces of soap. “All right, you’re all clean. Can you stand up for me, Angel?”

He snatches the towel from the rack, drying you off and wrapping it around your body as soon as you step down from the tub. The terrycloth doesn’t reveal much—but it doesn’t need to. It hugs your curves, clings to damp skin, and he looks away quickly, jaw tightening.

“So… do you need help with your clothes, or are you still shy?”

“I can do it myself. Thank you.”

He huffs in disappointment but tries not to argue. “All right. Well, I’m gonna go make you some soup, then. Just get back in bed when you’re done. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Can you stop being so perfect?” You sigh. “You’re gonna make me feel bad.”

Though he’s pleased with your praise, your last line leaves him confused. “Why would you feel bad?”

“N-nothing,” you promptly respond, which only tautens his brows even more. “I’m gonna… put on my clothes now, if you don’t mind.”

He narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “…Yeah. Okay.”

He lingers for a second longer than he should, then finally steps out, closing the door behind him and leaving you to your privacy as you requested.

***

You press your ear against the closed bathroom door, listening intently. His footsteps echo, then fade. He’s gone. 

Now that you’re alone, standing in silence, you summon the tiny conspirator lurking beneath your feet.

“Beru,” you whisper. “Come out. He’s gone.”

Your shadow trembles, twisting into a thick fog before forming the floating head of your overly dramatic general. Barely the size of your palm, Beru zips toward you, mirroring your agitation, his antennae twitching with anxiety.

“M-Mine queen…” he croaks, dread thick in his voice.

“Beru, I hate to say this, but…” You let out a breath. "We are so fucked.”

Beru nods gravely, wings vibrating with shared terror. “Hath mine liege discerned that we have been deceitful?”

“No, not yet.” You slump against the door. “But he’s definitely suspicious. I don't think I can lie to him anymore, Beru.” Your shoulder sag, the urge to just give up and come clean threatening to take over you. “I suck at lying.”

“Mine queen, thou hast performed most admirably! Pray, do not abandon the path now!”

“I don’t even know if I want to do this anymore,” you sound whiny, but you don’t care. “He’s been so sweet to me, Beru. So, so sweet. Ugh, I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you. This is all your fault!”

His panic spikes.  “M-mine lady, why dost thou cast this grievous blame upon mine head?”

“You were the one who came up with the plan! I just wanted to see how he’d react, Beru—not create a soap opera! You told him I was crying during a raid, didn't you?! You know he can’t stand it when I cry!”

“I—I but sought to evoke the fullest display of his affection!” Beru stammers, wringing his claws together. “It was all for thy benefit!”

“Yeah, and now he’s gone all out just to comfort me! He’s doting on me like some perfect husband in a drama! He bathed me, Beru. Washed my feet!”

“Aye,” Beru breathes reverently. “tis cometh as no surprise. He ne'er doth cease to leave me in wondrous awe.” He nods to himself, admiring his king still even as his own terror slowly consumes him. “S-shall we then speak unto him the truth, mine queen? Will he findeth it in his heart to pardon us for our grievous sins?”

You chew your nail, pacing, spiraling. “He’s in a good mood right now, so maybe? But he’s done so much for me. If I were him, I’d be pissed.”

“Aye,” Beru nods solemnly. “Thy temper is most volcanic—”

You grab his floating head in your hand and squeeze. “What was that?”

“F-Forgive me! A slip of the tongue!” 

You release him with a heavy sigh. “He’s going to be so angry with me, isn't he?”

“Fret thee not, mine lady. Mine liege shall ne'er possess the heart to chastise thee. He loveth thee, beyond all else.”

“You’re right. He does love me. But what about you? Won’t he punish you? You lied to him too, you know. We’re in this together.”

At that, he pales. “Then, I deem it wise that we continue this charade!”

You seize his face again, your voice low, filled with threats. “If you betray me, Beru, I swear—”

“Nay! I shall carry thy secret unto mine grave!”

“You can’t die, you idiot.”

“...Ah.”

You groan, tossing your head back. “Ugh, fine. I’ll keep pretending to be sick. But it’s so exhausting. I have to act all weak, and I keep forgetting.” You drop your voice in embarrassment. “When I pushed him away so he wouldn’t see I wasn’t wearing a pad anymore, I felt awful. He looked so hurt, Beru.”

“Yea, I comprehend, mine lady. Yet… I do fear he shall be wrathful if he discovers thy deceit.”

“I need to figure out how to keep him from getting too mad…”

Beru taps his chin with a tiny claw. “Thou mayest ever wield thy feminine grace to beguile him, mine lady. The king is powerless before thy charms. Thou knowest well he hath no defense against thy tender touch.”

“…Are you telling me to seduce my husband?”

Beru nods gravely, as if he’s proposing a military strategy.

You stare at him, utterly deadpan. “I can’t believe an ant is telling me to use sex as a distraction.”

“I am loyal to victory, mine queen.”

You roll your eyes, pointing a stern finger. “Fine. But you. You keep your mouth shut.”

Beru salutes, vanishing back into your shadow with the gravity of a warrior going into battle.

You turn to the mirror, steeling yourself.

Lady charm. Lady charm.

You slap your cheeks lightly.

You’ve got this.

***

You have not got this.

Why? Because you’re shit at lying.

You’ve known it from the start—you’ve never been good at it. But this? This is embarrassing. The harder you try to act like you’re suffering through one of the most torturous pains of your life, the more tense and awkward you become.

You sit restlessly on the bed, arms folded on the small, foldable table in front of you. Dinner’s just ended. Jinwoo stands beside you, balancing a tray as he collects the empty plates and bowls.

“Are you okay?” he asks, eyeing you closely, one brow raised. “You’ve been… fidgeting.”

“N-no, I’m fine,” you stammer. “Just a little uncomfortable.”

“Is the medicine working?”

“Yeah, perfectly.” Oh, a golden opportunity! An excuse to tone things down! “In fact, I don’t feel that much pain anymore. Got my spirits back, all thanks to you, lover.” You throw him a smile that’s far too wide to be natural.

“O... kay,” he says, still unconvinced but amused. “So—how was it?”

“How was what?”

“The food, my love.”

“Oh!” You perk up. “It's amazing!” You savor the last bite of the soup he made for you. The savory flavors of the broth, the warm, aromatic kick of the ginger he added—all mixed with the sweetness of the carrots and onions—made it a feast for both your eyes and tongue. “That was the most delicious thing I’ve ever had.” You polish off the last drop of watermelon juice he made for you and hand him the glass. “The juice too. Everything was perfection. My compliments to the handsome chef.”

“So dramatic,” he snorts, though the joy radiating from his face says the opposite.

“I thought you wanted me to be dramatic.”

“True,” he concedes. With a slight laugh, he stacks the chopsticks on the tray and sets everything aside on the nightstand. Your husband climbs into bed beside you and pulls out a pack of mints from his pocket.

“Care for one?”

You look at him, so utterly impressed that he’s prepared everything down to the last detail. You’d just thought how nice it would be to have a mint to freshen your breath, and here he is, offering you one like he read your mind.

You part your lips, letting him slip one past them. You roll it over your tongue, the cool, sweet burst of flavor coating your taste buds. “Marry me.”

“We’re already married,” he chuckles, popping one into his own mouth.

“Marry me again. You’re perfect.”

“I'd marry you a thousand times, you know that.” He sits up, his back against the headboard. “Come here, jagiya.”

His arm slithers around your waist, gently drawing you toward him until your spine is glued to his torso. His body wraps around yours, fitting so naturally it’s like your backs were carved for each other. He adjusts his legs so you’re cradled between them, his arms settled around your waist.

“This feels nice, doesn’t it?” Jinwoo sighs, nuzzling his face against your neck, basking in your scent. “You know what I love about us being married?”

You breathe out in bliss, resting your full weight on him. “Mm, what?”

“We share the same shampoo. So now you smell like me, and I smell like you.”

“Mm. And so do thousands of other people who use that shampoo.”

“You little—” He pinches your side, making you squirm and giggle. “I’m trying to be romantic.”

“Honey, you’re the most romantic when you’re not trying,” you assure him with a kiss on the cheek, giggling. “So, my sweet King of Shadows. Tell me about your day.”

“You already know what I did today. I was taking care of my queen.” Jinwoo, out of habit, slides his hand under your shirt, gliding over your skin in lazy, teasing strokes as he casually speaks. “A princess, actually. A spoiled, demanding one. Just the way I love her.” He catches your heart pounding when his palm skims your stomach, misinterpreting it as pain rather than guilt over your stupid prank.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks softly, worry clouding his voice. He runs his palm gently over your belly, slow and soothing. “Is there anything else I can do to ease the pain?”

God, you want to tell him so badly. He’s too precious for this.

“No, I’m fine now. The medicine helps. And please, you’ve done so much more than I needed you to. Thank you.” You lift his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles, letting your gratitude—and your secret apology—sink into his skin. Another kiss lands on his jaw as you guide his hand back to your belly. “You’re so sweet to me, Jin. You didn’t have to do all that, you know. Just having you here already made me feel better.”

“I know, but I wanted to.” He presses his lips lovingly to the side of your neck, his mouth moving slowly, leaving one featherlight kiss after another. “Making you happy makes me happy.”

You smile softly, leaning your head back to rest against his shoulder. “You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it.”

The need to cover your entire body in kisses is almost unbearable, but he holds back, knowing it might be too much when you’ve only just recovered. He settles for embracing you tightly, arms encircling your waist, lips softly pressed just below your ear.

The pleasant warmth of his body, his intoxicating scent, the huskiness in his voice, and the tenderness of his tone—everything is enough to lull you to sleep. But your nerves keep you awake, buzzing. The guilt clings to you like an anchor, dragging you deeper with every second.

Maybe… maybe it’d be easier to just tell him now?

“You seem distracted,” Jinwoo murmurs against your nape, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. “Am I boring you, Angel?”

“N-no, I was just—” Your breath stutters, your body jerking in pleasure as he takes your earlobe between his lips, nibbling and sucking gently. His large palm slides upward, cupping your breast through your shirt, squeezing just enough to draw a moan from you. “Jin…”

“I won’t do anything,” he murmurs, promising innocence despite the desire dripping from every word. “I just want to feel you, baby. Just for a moment.”

Your eyes flutter shut, your head falling back against his shoulder again as his touch spreads warmth through your body. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, drowning in the sweet sensation. Your hand reaches backward, sliding across his undercut before fisting his strands and guiding him closer to your neck.

His kisses grow deeper, wetter, his teeth teasing your tender skin.

“So…” he breathes, too casual, as his tongue traces the line of your vein. “I heard something new today.”

You sigh, surrendering completely, tipping your head to the side to give him better access. Your mind fogs with heat, guilt evaporating under the burn of his affection.

“Yeah…? What did you—ah—hear?”

“Something silly.” He sucks the skin just below your jaw, hard enough to leave a mark. Then he licks over it, soothing the sting before moving back to your ear, capturing the lobe again with a smirk in his voice. “Something naughty.”

A soft moan escapes you, your stomach tightening. “Something naughty…?”

“Mm.” You feel the curve of his grin against your skin. “Something that Beru just told me.”

You freeze, your heart rate skyrocketing. Warmth drains from your chest, replaced by cold panic.

Did that bitch just betray me? you wonder, heart thrashing.

“W-what?” you stammer, voice thin and high. “What do you mean? What did he tell you?”

He senses your shift immediately, pulling back just enough to see your face.

“Are you all right?”

“No. I mean, yes.” You force a shaky breath. Calm down. Just breathe. “I just… I want to know what Beru told you.”

Jinwoo’s eyes narrow slightly, reading between the lines. Still suspicious, but he lets it slide—for now.

“He said there are… certain positions that help conceive a baby faster.”

You choke, the words catching in your throat. “What?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “That was my exact reaction too.”

“Ah. And, umm—” You clear your throat, forcing a smile. “What advice did he give you?”

“I didn’t ask.” He shrugs with quiet confidence. “I don’t need advice from an ant to get my wife pregnant.”

“R-right…”

“But…” He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, voice dark and smooth. His hand slips beneath your shirt, warm against your skin, hovering just over your bare breast. “I did some reading of my own today.”

He doesn’t knead or grope—just lets his thumb circle lazily over your peak, barely grazing, but it sets your nerves alight. It’s teasing. Intentional. Cruel in the best way.

“And while there’s no guaranteed method, apparently, positions that allow for deeper penetration might give better chances.”

You swallow hard. “A-and… what would that be?”

He reaches up, gently gathering your hair and draping it over one shoulder to bare the other. He tugs your collar down, just enough to reveal a stretch of skin—and then he’s there, kissing softly at first, then harder, until you feel the start of a bruise. His lips curve into a grin against your shoulder.

“You’d be on your hands and knees, Princess,” he murmurs, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “I’d be behind you. And you’d have your pretty little ass in the air…”

He takes your earlobe gently between his teeth, nipping, then whispering low.

“...and I’d be able to go really… really deep… until…”

His palm spreads over your stomach, warm and possessive.

“...you can feel me right…”

Two fingers press just below your navel.

“...here.”

A sharp jolt of heat courses through you as your imagination runs wild. The anticipation, the intimacy, the way his voice wraps around you like silk—it’s almost enough to smother your guilt.

Almost.

But no—Lady charm, you remind yourself. You’re supposed to distract him. Use what you’ve got. Own it.

You shift in his lap, turning just enough to catch his gaze. When you speak, your voice is honey-sweet, edged with daring, soaked in seduction.

“Why don’t we… try something right now?”

Jinwoo goes still, as if your words need time to sink in. Then you feel it—his breath stutters, his grip on your waist tightens, and his hand twitches against your skin like he's holding himself back by sheer force of will.

“…What?” he asks at last, his voice thick with caution and desire. “You mean—?”

“You know what I mean.”

“But… you said you were in pain earlier.”

You slide your legs around him, straddling him slowly, deliberately. Your hands trail up his chest, feeling the tension coiled just beneath his skin. “I told you, the medicine worked. I feel fine now.” You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his in a featherlight tease. “And you’ve been so good to me. Let me return the favor.”

His jaw tightens. You feel it beneath your fingertips—the restraint, the ache, the tenderness. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to.”

You cut him off with a kiss—slow, deep, filled with longing. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just real.

You roll your hips in his lap, letting him feel your warmth, the shape of your desire, the silent promise wrapped in every movement.

“I need you, Jin.”

His breath escapes in a low groan, rough and needy. “You have no idea what you're doing to me.” Jinwoo buries his face in your neck, arms tightening around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll perish into thin air if he didn't hold you tightly enough. “You don’t even have to try, Sweetheart. You’re already driving me crazy.”

“Well…” you whisper, kissing along the line of his jaw, your breath hot against his skin, “What if I do try?”

You begin unbuttoning his shirt, slow and teasing. Each button undone reveals more of him—his sculpted chest, the heat of his skin, the steady thud of his heart under your palm. You push the fabric off his shoulders and trace your fingers down his body, memorizing the contours all over again.

“You’re so beautiful,” you breathe out.

His eyes soften at your words, but the tension in him doesn’t ease—it coils tighter. “And you’re fucking gorgeous,” he replies breathlessly, smashing your mouths together, his kisses ardent, full of hunger.

You reach behind you, tugging off your shirt. His hands rise to help—worshipful and gentle despite the fire inside. He cups your breasts with aching tenderness, his thumbs brushing across your nipples before his mouth follows—hot, slow, adoring.

“Jin,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue plays with you, just enough pressure, just enough tease to send a shiver down your spine.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, gently suckling on your bud. “You always taste so good, Angel. So warm and sweet.”

You lean back slightly, guiding his hands down your sides, then rise off his lap. Slowly, deliberately, you turn and ease forward onto your hands and knees, sinking into the bed in front of him.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the stunned, ravenous look on his face. Desire burns in his eyes like an open flame—and you smirk, tipping your hips just enough to make him lose the last of his composure.

“Was this the position you were talking about?” you ask, your voice laced with honey and wickedness.

He’s behind you before the sentence ends. His hands find your hips, seizing them with veneration and need, like you're the only thing tethering him to this earth.

You push back, pressing yourself against him.

“God, baby…” His voice is hoarse, nearly a groan, breathless with restraint. He leans down, lips grazing along the line of your spine, his breath scalding as it fans over your skin. “You have no idea what you’ve just started.”

“Oh, I think I do,” you purr, rolling your hips back into him with intentional slowness. “Maybe Beru was right. Maybe we should try a few different positions. It’d be fun to get a little… experimental.”

That lights a fire in him. He smirks, lips grazing your shoulder. “Experimental, huh?” His hands travel up your sides, his voice dropping lower. “I’ve held back all this time, thinking my sweet girl liked things tender, gentle. I figured you preferred romance over ruin.”

He presses himself against your clothed core, his arousal throbbing beneath the thin fabric of his pants, grinding into you with intent. The pressure steals your breath, a moan escaping your lips before you can hold it back.

“Mmm,” you whimper, biting your lip to muffle the sound. Your hands fist into the sheets below as you push your hips back toward him again. “I wouldn’t mind something a little different. Something rougher. Maybe something that… hurts a bit.”

He stills behind you, his grip tightening, voice strained with control. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Maybe I should.”

The tension crackles between you like a live wire, aching to snap. You can feel his desire clawing just beneath the surface, threatening to break loose.

He wants to devour you, desperately. Wants to throw restraint to the wind and take you the way you’re begging to be taken.

But then—he stops. His hands fall still.

His voice, when it comes, is softer now, gentling like rain, hesitant. “We can’t. Not right now.” He brushes a thumb over your bare back, rediscovering control. “You’re still bleeding. What if the pain comes back? I don’t want to hurt you.”

You blink, stunned. A pang of guilt slices through you so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of your lungs.

Jinwoo is too sweet. Too good. And you’re just too damn evil if you keep this going.

Ah, screw it. I can’t take this anymore.

“Jinwoo.” You shift back around, pushing him down and straddling his lap. “I have... something to tell you.” There’s a different kind of vulnerability in your gaze now—not desire, but truth. The weight of it presses down on your chest.

He gazes at you with concern, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “What is it?”

“I’m not in pain,” you whisper.

He blinks. “Honey?”

You take a shaky breath, heart hammering. “I haven’t been in pain. Not really. I’m not… I’m not even on my period right now.”

Jinwoo freezes. The change is immediate. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing with disbelief. “What?”

A guilty laugh escapes you—small, shame-tinged. “I’m sorry,” you murmur nervously. “It was stupid. I missed you. I wanted to be close to you. I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just… I wanted to see your reactions—”

“You lied to me?” His tone darkens—not with fury, but with something heavier. Something primal. His presence becomes thunderous, the air thick with power. You flinch.

“I-I didn’t mean to manipulate you,” you rush to say, heart kicking into overdrive. “I just wanted to know how far you’d go for me. I was curious. Stupidly curious.”

“This was a test?”

“No! God, no.” Your hands shoot up defensively. “I would never test you like that. It was just a prank. A stupid, awful prank. I’m so sorry.”

He leans back, sighing through gritted teeth—the kind that makes your skin prickle. His expression is tight with exasperation, but there’s a glint in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something darker. Something deliciously vengeful.

“So,” he drawls, his tone deceptively casual, “I left the raid early. Nearly got swallowed by a giant snake because I was too distracted worrying about you crying.” He draws out that last word, twisting the knife. “Burned through half my mana because my shadows were getting overwhelmed without me there. And then I humiliated myself buying pads in a pharmacy stocked with more options than a potion shop. And that was all… for nothing?”

You nearly fold where you stand. “I didn’t mean to distract you during the raid! I would never want to put you in danger!”

“Then why did you tell Beru to say you were crying?”

“I didn’t! That was all his doing!”

Silence. Then—“What?”

“…Ah.” You wince. The irony hits hard. You thought Beru would be the one to betray you—yet here you are, throwing him under the bus.

“It was his idea?”

Well, it’s too late to retract your words now—not that you want to. “Y-yes, it was his idea. All of it. I—I didn’t even want to do it.”

His expression darkens, like storm clouds gathering over still water. “Put your shirt back on.”

Shit. Now he’s mad.

You scramble to dress yourself, hands shaking, heart pounding. As soon as you finish—hair tousled and skin flushed—Jinwoo’s eyes flash, his usual cobalt hue bleeding into a deep, dangerous violet.

“Beru,” he summons.

The shadow beneath your feet quivers violently. You feel it—a frantic fluttering within the dark. Beru is stalling, clearly panicking in the depths of the shadow realm, desperately finding ways to escape.

But an order is an order, and he knows better than to anger his Monarch further.

The shadow materializes midair, a floating head that trembles like a leaf. “M-mine liege, how art thou this day?” Beru greets with a forced, trembling grin. “Thou doth appear most divine—”

“Was it your plan?”

Beru quivers, flicks his gaze to you in betrayal, pleading for help—but you avert your eyes, lips sealed.

“Yes, it was all his plan,” you say flatly, sealing his fate.

“Mine queen!” Beru gasps in horror. “How couldst thou betrayeth me so—”

Jinwoo grabs his shadowy face with one hand, his fingers engulfing the ant’s skull entirely. His smile is sharp. Unforgiving.

“You lied to your king,” he says lowly through gritted teeth. “And had the audacity to ask me for mints and chips while doing it?”

Beru whimpers. “M-my liege, I doth beg thy forgiveness! Mine heart is heavy with remorse. But the queen is most persuasive! I was beguiled by her honeyed words! Who am I to deny her whims, when even thou—the King—yield to her will?!”

You gasp, jaw dropping. “Beru!”

“A-also… I doth yearn for ye crisps of potato.”

Jinwoo squeezes his hand around him, nearly bursting him into pulp.

“ACK—M-my liege!” Beru chokes. “Mercy! Mercy!”

“Outside. Head on the ground. Now.”

“Y-yes, my liege!” The shadow scrambles, zipping out like a bat fleeing hell. Fleeing death. Literally.

Jinwoo turns to you. “You.”

Your throat goes dry. “Y-yes?”

He unfastens his belt in one smooth, practiced motion. The leather hisses through the loops, loud in the silence. His smirk is ice and fire all at once. “Come here.”

You step toward him, heart hammering.

“Arms out.”

You obey, raising your trembling hands in the air. He seizes your wrists, binding them tight with the belt. The leather bites into your skin, and you flinch.

“Too tight, Sweetheart?”

“A-a little…”

He tightens it.

You hiss softly, and his smirk deepens—cruel and thrilled. He knows your limits. And he knows just how much pain you can take… and crave. You asked for this, didn't you?

“Eyes on me,” he commands.

You meet his gaze.

“What do you say?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Keep going.”

“I am… sorry for lying to you. I’m sorry for pulling a childish prank on you.”

“And?”

You swallow thickly. “I promise I won’t ever make you worry like that again. I swear I won’t ever do something so stupid again.”

His voice rumbles deep and low. “And if you break your promise?”

“I’ll…” Your face twists in a grimace. “…accept whatever punishment you see fit?”

He smiles, slow and wicked. Jinwoo leans in, kissing you softly—tender, gentle, almost jarringly sweet. “Good girl.”

You shiver, your voice crumbling to a whisper. “A-are you going to punish me now?”

“Oh, no. Not tonight,” he purrs, dark and smooth. “Tonight… I’m going to play with you.”

He cups your chin, tilting your face up, his gaze molten. His lips press to yours—deeper this time, more demanding, his hand gripping your chin like you’re something precious and breakable… or something to be devoured. He leaves you breathless. Dazed.

“You said you wanted to be experimental, didn’t you?” he whispers against your lips, voice a silken threat.

Your lips part to answer—but before you can speak, he spins you around, one hand grabbing a fistful of your hair, dragging your head back.

His breath is fire in your ear.

“Then bend over.”

***

[aventurineswife]

🤔 do u have a thought about shrau with amphoreus ?

If I'm not wrong, they just believe in titan as their god right? What about shrau amphoreus with reader as a creator?

Like just Imagine it, when they knew about reader as a creator or aeon reader and how they will react

OKAY OKAY, I MAY NOT BE GOOD AT THIS BUT HEAR ME OUT!

If Amphoreus is a world that reveres Titans as gods, then suddenly discovering the Reader (aka you) as a Creator/Aeon would shake their entire belief system to its core. The Chrysos Heirs, warriors devoted to slaying corrupted Titans and recovering their Coreflames, would have to face the terrifying realization that the entity they’ve been unknowingly serving might be above the very gods they worship.

The Chrysos Heirs—Mydei, Phainon, Castorice—are devoted to prophecy and divine will. If they discovered that the true weaver of fate, the one who oversees their struggles and triumphs, is actually you, their entire worldview would fracture.

Mydei, the Undying Warrior, might react with reverence, but also conflict.

"The Coreflame trials, the prophecy, the Titans... were they mere threads in your tapestry? Have I only been playing my part in a story you have already written?"

He would feel both honored and trapped—knowing that his fate was not his own but also that his suffering had purpose.

Phainon, the Deliverer, might be the first to fully embrace you.

"If you are the one who spins the threads of destiny, then everything we have done… it has been for you, hasn’t it?"

He’d see it as a blessing, a sign that their struggles were leading toward something far greater. He might fully devote himself to you, no longer just as a warrior, but as a disciple.

Castorice, the Daughter of the River Styx, would have an eerie calm about it.

"Death and fate have always danced hand in hand. If you are the one who weaves, then I have been treading upon your strings all my life."

She might not even be surprised—only resigned, knowing that she had always been walking the path you had set.

The people of Amphoreus, especially those who still worship Titans as gods, would be terrified. If they learn that their world is merely a fragment of your design, it could split the faction into two:

Those who believe the Titans are still divine, and you are merely another force in the cosmos.

Those who believe you are the true god—the one above all, the being who even Titans obey.

Some might fall into despair, realizing that their gods are no more than pieces of a larger game board, and that your will can rewrite their fate at any moment. Others might become fanatical, believing that serving you is the only true path.

The Coreflames, remnants of the Titans’ divine power, might now take on an entirely new meaning—if the Titans were once creations under your will, then does that mean their power also stems from you?

If Mydei and Phainon failed the Coreflame Trial, was it because you willed it?

Phainon, who vanished after the trial, might see it as a test from you—a call to prove himself.

Mydei, bound by honor and sacrifice, might struggle with whether his suffering was truly his own choice… or merely an inevitable step in the story you wrote.

The most horrifying realization for them? That every battle, every struggle, every death was something you already knew would happen.

If Mydei has died a thousand times, then you—the Aeon of Fate—must have allowed it each time.

"You… knew? Every strike, every wound, every death I suffered—you saw them all?"

The idea that they were never free, that their victories and failures were written into existence, could be devastating.

Some would see you as salvation rather than as a distant, cosmic force. They’d offer the Coreflames to you as divine tribute, seeing them not as remnants of fallen Titans, but as pieces of a world you once shaped.

The most devout warriors might seek to serve you personally, casting aside their oaths to the Titans and the prophecy.

Mydei, should he fully accept your will, might become your sword of fate, carrying out your judgment across Amphoreus.

Phainon, ever the perfectionist, might strive to prove himself worthy in your eyes, seeking to become your chosen deliverer.

Castorice, attuned to the whispers of death, might become your priestess, ensuring that those who fall in battle meet their end as fate intended.

Once the truth of your existence reaches Amphoreus, the world would never be the same. The Titans' worshippers, the Chrysos Heirs, the Coreflame Trials—everything would shift under the weight of the realization that you have always been watching.

Some will fight for you.

Some will fear you.

Some will desperately seek your favor.

But no matter how they react, one truth remains: they were never beyond your reach.

[inthemoodforblastt]

Buffy is a radical heroine precisely because she refuses to conform neither to the stereotypical femininity imposed on female protagonists nor to the hyper-masculine mold that dominates the classical hero’s journey. Yes, she carries the archetypal weight of a traditionally male-coded role: she’s the Chosen One, the one on whose shoulders rests the fate of the world, the one who must confront the ultimate evil, the one expected to sacrifice her life—repeatedly—for the sake of the greater good. But what makes Buffy subversive is that she inhabits this role on her own terms, and through it, exposes its contradictions.

Unlike the classical male hero —who usually embraces his destiny with stoic detachment or egotistical bravado— Buffy resists it. She doesn’t want to be the Slayer. It’s not a romanticized quest for glory. It’s a burden. And that resistance, that refusal to glorify suffering or noble sacrifice, is profoundly political. Because Buffy doesn’t accept her role out of fatalism or legacy: she accepts it as a conscious ethical position. She chooses, with full awareness of the cost, to save others. Not because it makes her exceptional, but because she refuses to let anyone else carry the pain she knows too intimately.

What’s even more radical is how she does it: without amputating her emotions, without repressing her pain, without adopting the affective coldness that stories have historically rewarded in male heroes. Buffy doesn’t perform strength through detachment. Her power is explicitly emotional. Her vulnerability is not a weakness to overcome: it is a weapon. She continues to love, to feel, to break down, to rage, to mourn and all of that is framed not as a flaw, but as a source of power. She is not strong despite her emotions, she is strong through them.

This is where Buffy directly confronts the patriarchal foundation of the “hero’s journey.” She doesn’t just challenge the damsel-in-distress trope (though she absolutely obliterates it) she also rejects the masculinized “girlboss” fantasy that demands emotional sterility as a precondition for leadership. She is not a woman in a man’s role. She reshapes the role itself. And she does it while never losing sight of what matters: not honor, not destiny, not recognition, but people. Buffy is not guided by ego, nor by duty to abstract ideals. Her compass is rooted in care, in community, in love.

She’s not a knight on a noble quest. She’s not even interested in heroism as a myth. She is a Slayer. A worker. A survivor. And by embracing that, she collapses the romanticized masculinity of the classical hero and rebuilds it from a place of collective responsibility, emotional truth, and moral clarity. That is her revolution.

[bucketbueckers]

I'D RATHER PRETEND

South Carolina was on an undefeated streak in the 2022-2023 season until Tess Kennedy suffered an ACL tear in the third quarter and Iowa upset South Carolina in the Final Four. The tournament loss combined with the fact she may never get to play basketball again (recovery depending) is enough to send Tess into a deep, weeks-long depression spiral. Tess's alcohol dependence, Twitter brawls, and general out-of-control behavior forces the South Carolina women’s basketball staff and counselors to make changes before Tess loses her basketball scholarship – or worse, herself. It will take months of damage control and image repair along with Tess’s counseling and physical therapy, but what better way to fix her tarnished reputation than to match up two basketball dynasties and make Tess fake date Paige Bueckers? This agreement was supposed to be mutually beneficial, but soon enough, it starts feeling a little too real, and Tess and Paige must figure out if their public images are truly worth these complicated emotions.

MASTERLIST

prologue one two three four five six seven eight nine

extra 1 extra 2 extra 3 extra 4 extra 5

PLAYLIST

american wedding - frank ocean 'M-R-S dot kennedy, she signed her name in pen'

transform - daniel caesar, charlotte day wilson 'it's never over until life ends'

i'd rather pretend - bryant barnes, d4vd 'tell me, is this real to you?'

dispose of me - omar apollo 'it don't matter if it's 25 days, it was real love'

feel like home - foushee 'let's bite the bullet, fight this war together'

like real people do - hozier 'why were you digging? what did you bury?'

sierra leone - frank ocean 'this shit feelin' different, shit feelin' too good to me'

delicate - taylor swift 'my reputation's never been worse, so you must like me for me'

halley's comet - billie eilish 'silly me to fall in love with you'

nobody gets me - sza 'how am i supposed to let you go? only like myself when i'm with you'

sorry - halsey 'i failed to see it from the start, and tore you open til the end'

peace - taylor swift 'all these people think love's for show, but i would die for you in secret'

general content warnings: language, injury, mental health, alcohol not really warnings but: angst, trope-typical fake dating miscommunication, tess might be kinda unlikeable for a minute, author makes a mockery of modern medicine, abuse of redshirting rules, time is a concept and i refuse to be restricted by a calendar, journalistic integrity is sacrificed for the greater good

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Fault Lines Ch. 4

request: wanted to know if you could write something where the reader is a ex-winter solider (just like bucky, but maybe she doesn't lose her arm) and how she struggles to accept Joaquin. An overall angst to fluff.

pairing: joaquin torres x ex super soldier!f!reader

contents: canon typical violence, illusions to abuse and torture, ptsd and other mental illness, enemies to lovers, angst, fluff if you squint!!!

wc: 1,463

an: this one definitely broke my heart a little but it’s all for the greater good i promise <33

fault lines masterlist

It had taken a couple weeks and sifting through some painful memories, but with Joaquin and Sam’s help you narrowed down the most likely place that your target was laying low. It was another facility, this time in the desert.

Where you preferred the heat over the freezing cold, you could tell that they were struggling by their water intakes and sweat soaked shirts. You decide not to say anything— heat makes people grumpy, and between you and Sam there’s enough grump. That and you have something much more important to focus on as you approach the building.

Joaquin shifts his weight, scanning the compound through his scope from their vantage point on the ridge. Beside him, you’re unnervingly still, eyes locked on the entrance like you can will your target into existence.

“We go in quiet,” Sam says over comms. “No unnecessary casualties. We take them alive if possible.”

You don’t respond. Joaquin does. “Copy.”

He glances at you, but your expression doesn’t change. The mission has been communicated and is clear, but he can feel the storm rolling inside you. This isn’t just another takedown to you. It’s an ending. The culmination of everything you’ve fought for, suffered for, lost.

It scares him because he knows you would give anything for it. Maybe even your life.

__

Once inside, the air is sterile and stale, filled with the ghosts of past violence never fully faded. The three of you move like shadows, clearing room after room. Hydra’s presence here is weak—their numbers already thinned from previous operations.

Despite the ease, you don’t relax. Not yet.

Joaquin watches the way your grip tightens around your weapon as each room is cleared. The way your breath grows more even and steady as you step over an unconscious body, moving toward the command center. This is what you were made for. The thought unsettles him.

When you finally find him, your target is alone in the dimly lit room, scrambling for a weapon he’ll never reach. You’re moving towards him with swiftness before Sam can give the order, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the console causing his nose to bleed. The sight, the coppery smell makes something inside you burn with satisfaction.

The man is just as you remember him. He doesn’t have a name, not a proper one but you and other soldiers called him The Mire. A twisted scar on his face and shocking blonde hair that you’ve seen in your nightmares.

He laughs through the pain, the haunting sound growing louder when you press the barrel of your gun to his forehead. “You think this ends with me?”

Joaquin steps forward. “You can make this easy, or—”

The man barely spares him a glance. His focus is on you, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Go on, then. You’ve come this far.” His lips curl into something taunting. “I wonder—when you close your eyes at night, do you see their faces?”

Your grip tightens. Joaquin sees it instantly—the slight shift in your stance, the barely-there hitch in your breath. You’re…hesitating?

The man must see it too, because his demented grin widens. “Of course you do.” His voice lowers, smooth, insidious. “It’s the price we pay, isn’t it? Those of us who were made for something greater.”

Joaquin moves closer. “Cállate.”

The man ignores him. His eyes stay on you. “The experiments. The conditioning. It never really leaves, does it? You can pretend all you want, but deep down, you know what you are.” His head tilts. “A weapon. A perfect little instrument of death.”

Joaquin sees the moment the words hit their mark. You don’t flinch, but something in your expression hardens. His words conjure memories that make you want to be at the end of your gun.

The man exhales through his nose, like he’s at peace with whatever happens next. “They made you to destroy, and look at you. Right on script.”

Joaquin steps closer. His voice is quiet, but firm. “Hey.”

You don’t look at him. The barrel of your gun presses more firmly against his forehead. Better him than you, right?

“No eres tú,” Joaquin urges.

Your finger hovers over the trigger. This will fix everything. It’ll save you from your torment and allow you to move forward, right?

The man smirks, eyes flicking between you and Joaquin. “Oh, I see now,” he breathes out a laugh. “You’ve got your own little soldier whispering sweet nothings to you. That’s cute. You’ve thought about it right? What his neck feels like under your hands?”

Joaquin’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Walk away,” he murmurs.

The man keeps going, his grin widening. “It must kill you, doesn’t it? Knowing what you are. Knowing that no matter what, he’ll always be the one looking at you like you’re something more.” His eyes glint with something cruel. “But tell me, what happens when he finally sees you for what you really are?”.

Joaquin shakes his head, stepping even closer, voice just for you now. “You don’t belong to anyone but yourself.”

For the first time, your focus wavers, your gaze meeting his. Despite the daunting situation, Joaquin’s eyes are the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen. That warmth is at the core of who he is, spreading through every cell in his body and radiating off of him. You feel it’s contrast on the rough, cold edges of your makeup.

Joaquin doesn’t look away. “No eres un arma. Nunca lo fuiste. But you pull that trigger, and they win. They still own you.”

Your jaw clenches. Slowly, painfully—you lower the gun.

Your target’s laugh is cut short by Sam knocking him out cold. Joaquin watches you, but your face is unreadable.

It’s over. Hydra’s last head severed.

You thought that knowing he was done would drain the dread from your body, but you don’t feel any relief. There’s nothing but darkness and confusion, hopelessness finding its play in your belly.

—

The ride back to the local safehouse is quiet. Joaquin sits across from you in the Quinjet, waiting.

But you don’t say a word— you have a map out in front of you, developing your next steps. You aren’t sure where to go or what to do but you know you can’t stay with them.

Sam’s the first to speak. “You did good.”

His praise is meant to make you feel good about making the “right” decision but they just make you feel sick.

Softly, the words feeling foreign on your tongue, you say, “I don’t know what to do now.”

Joaquin leans forward, beating down the urge to reach out and grab your hand. “Then maybe that’s the point. You get to figure it out. And we could— I could—“

You hold his gaze, something soft he can’t name in your eyes. But then, just like that, it’s gone. “I’m not staying.”

Sam doesn’t argue. Neither does Joaquin as much as he wants to. You having choices is important him after the life you’ve been forced to live.

They watch you stand and grab what little gear you have before heading for the ramp. The Quinjet hasn’t even landed yet, but you’re already moving forward.

Joaquin stands, stepping closer to you. “No tienes que hacer esto solo.”

You smile— really smile— but even then it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I always have, baby bird. No te preocupes por mí.”

The ramp lowers and the night’s air rushes inside, cold without the beating sun.

You don’t say anything else and before he can try to find something to fill the silence, you surprise him. You step forward—just close enough for your fingers to graze his as you pass. A fleeting touch, barely there, but Joaquin feels it like a brand. Like an electric shock.

His breath catches and then he’s watching you fade into the sand, and soon into the mountains, something heavy settling in his chest.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “You know, for someone who talks a lot, you were pretty damn quiet back there.”

Joaquin sighs, running a hand down his face. “Not the time, man.”

Sam snorts. “Oh, I’m sorry. You want me to pretend I haven’t noticed the whole thing you’ve got going on?”

Joaquin turns to glare at him. Sam grins.

“I mean, come on,” Sam continues. “She gives you one look, and you go all soft. And don’t think I missed the way she touched your hand before leaving.” He raises a brow. “You gonna tell me that meant nothing?”

Joaquin exhales, shaking his head. “I, uh, I don’t know.”

Sam hums, unconvinced. “Well, I’ll say this—you better hope she comes back. I don’t think you’d take it well if she didn’t.”

Joaquin doesn’t know what he could say to make Sam back off but deep down, he knows the man is right.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl

> ch.5

[luvsophen]

The romanced Inquisitor and the Redeem ending (Veilguard spoilers)

I often see misunderstandings and critical comments, especially on Reddit, about the role of the Inquisitor in the redemption ending. I want to explain how I see it from a narrative designer's perspective. I'll approach the topic from a broader angle, so I ask for your patience and understanding. Long read.

To understand the ending and why the Inquisitor is written the way they are, we need to revisit Solas's motivation and psychology as presented in the game. Even in “Inquisition”, it’s clear that Solas clings to the past as if it were the ultimate truth. He asks the Inquisitor to prove him wrong, but that idea feels doomed from the start. Just as I thought ten years ago, I still believe that his primary motivation isn’t solely about his people but rather a deeply complex internal crisis. Solas is a complex and layered character, and his motivation should reflect that complexity according to all the rules of storytelling. It’s incredibly unfortunate that the story arc involving the rebellion and the spirits was cut, as this truly simplified his character and didn’t give players a chance to ponder his beliefs more deeply. But we know that this motivation exists in the background and is alive. We only hear about his motivation related to his people, that is, the spirits, in the final choice with Rook. Naturally, the fact that Bioware put his personal regrets and trauma front and center is psychologically accurate, but the player should have come to this conclusion on their own, discovering it themselves. It’s too obvious, but such are the modern trends in storytelling.

Now, regarding Lavellan. The ending with a romanced Inquisitor suffers from the same issues as the rest of the game — lack of variety and exclusive choices.

I see that some people are disappointed with the ending because the Inquisitor's love and pleas were not enough. I assure you, it was never intended to make it enough. If the Inquisitor’s love/friendship had been enough, Solas's story in “DAtV” wouldn’t have even begun. Solas is as immersed in his past as any millennia-old being could be, leaving no room for anything but his burden, guilt, and despair. Left to his own devices, he will always choose the path of least resistance to his trauma, repeating his mistakes in what he believes is for the greater good until he reaches the point of ultimate self-destruction. He is truly a broken man because of all the terrible things he has done and the horrors he has endured.

The point of the storyline was to showcase the depth of his regrets, the weight of his burden and moral downfall. The Inquisitor (friend/lover) affected him in a way that no mortal ever could. Solas runs from them, and there are objective psychological reasons for this beyond simply not wanting to hurt someone he cares about. Lavellan isn’t wrong when she says she could influence Solas. Yes, if they had years and time for such conversations, but that opportunity doesn’t exist. He doesn't leave her a choice and decides for both of them.

The logic of the ending is that you need to peel back Solas's “layers”. In the finale, Solas is deeply wounded and exhausted, and it’s the perfect moment to play on his emotions while he’s so vulnerable. From a dramaturgical perspective, the focus was correctly placed: the present, future, and past must come together to lift the burden from his shoulders, show him a new path, restore his wisdom, and give him a new purpose. This is how the writers envision his salvation without killing him or distorting his spirit.

Rook represents the present — the modern world and its people. And the modern world asks Solas for mercy, pleading with him not to destroy their lives even more, reminding him that more violence won’t make “the flowers” bloom as Solas wishes. Rook delivers the first logical blow: “Who benefits from tearing down the Veil —you or all of us? You’re lying to yourself and drowning in regrets”. Solas knows this, but knowing and accepting are different things for the psyche. That’s why Rook, as a representative of the world Solas aims to destroy for the “greater good”, steps forward first, asking him to reconsider his true motivations. And Solas does ponder. By this point, he’s already filled with doubts, born long ago, but he’s still not ready to make another choice. The massive burden of the past and a graveyard of sacrifices remain on his shoulders. Solas rejects Rook, rejects the desires and opinions of the present, the modern world, just as he always has. As he must. For now.

Then the Inquisitor steps onto the stage. Whether a friend or a lover, the Inquisitor was the first to show Solas during their time together that he was wrong, cracking his convictions. This is especially clear in the letter to his beloved Lavellan.

Look at how he acts in this scene. How he freezes upon seeing the Inquisitor, how he lowers his head and dagger, the sadness and regret on his face, the tears welling up. In Lavellan’s case, he exhales painfully: “Vhenan”. After all these years of separation and his betrayals — “My love, my heart”. For me it was a emotional moment of vulnerability.

The Inquisitor is here to give Solas two things: forgiveness, which Solas cannot grant himself, and a reminder of who he is, who he dreamed of being, offering him a choice for the future. But even these gifts may not be enough for Solas because a person trapped in the past and overwhelming regrets, committed to self-destruction and mass deaths, sees no reason to choose a different future.

He has lost all hope for it. He believes he deserves neither happiness, love, nor forgiveness. And when Lavellan says she forgives him, Solas doesn’t understand why. What’s the point of forgiveness after all he’s done? Look at his face in that scene. He can’t forgive himself. He tries to prove to himself that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness: “I lied, I betrayed you”. The contrast with his self-justifications in “Trespasser” is stark. And yet, she forgives him. It means a tremendous amount to him, and he turns away from this gift in disbelief. It will take years before he truly forgives himself.

This scene is meant to show how deeply he’s sunk into his past, into his own darkness, unable to step back even for the sake of his beloved or a friend, for another path and future. He’s filled with self-justifications.

Solas explains why Lavellan’ forgiveness isn’t enough: “And then I... and then she died for nothing”. No, not because “she/Mythal” died for nothing. Everything he’s been through, everything he’s done to the world—everything—was for nothing if he keeps the Veil. And how can he live with that? All the suffering must be justified. His millennia of fears, pain, and guilt—these are stronger than his feelings for the Inquisitor. This is realistically portrayed, even if it hurts his beloved, even if it hurts you as a player. He can’t release himself from his burden and guilt. He’s come up with a thousand justifications. You hear this throughout the game from Mythal, Ghilan'nain, Morrigan, and so on. Solas is an unreliable narrator.

The present, the future, the past. Mythal is the catalyst for everything. That’s why she has to deliver the final blow, and she breaks him. For the last time. I won’t touch on the ethics of this moment. His entire tragedy began with her; his downfall started with her. He ties all his burdens to her. She embodies all his past and all his pain. Through her more benevolent version in Morrigan, Mythal shares the burden of their joint crimes with him. She doesn’t apologize or express remorse to him but directly destroys his last justification—that it was all for her. She no longer needs it. He is free. The world has suffered for too long, Solas has suffered for too long. It is time to stop. And in the finale, there’s no time for him to create another reason to justify his “delusions” and mass deaths.

Solas no longer has the strength to fight himself, and he agrees to stop. His past, present, and future simultaneously redefine his purpose. Now he has a new goal. This suits him as a spirit bound to serve his purpose. But he can't forgive himself and that's logical. The romanced Inquisitor is here to demonstrate for him immense wisdom and generosity by mortal standards, a deep understanding of Solas's spirit, and the strength of her love for him. It should break through any rational defense of his psyche. He is seen, heard, forgiven, given hope and purpose, his fear of being alone is shattered, and he is loved so deeply that he can hardly believe it. These are all the needs and desires of Solas that we have learned about from the two games. He desperately needed it and Weekes gives it to him with the help of the Inquisitor, his beloved. This is intentional. Solas is so disoriented and broken that he can't say anything to her except to give her a choice, one last chance to turn away from him, because he himself will no longer turn away from her.

Narratively, the Inquisitor, friend or lover, represents a bridge between Solas’s past and future: a factual happy future and a new purpose if you are his lover and leave with him; or you grant him a new purpose, reminding him of who he is, if you do not leave with him or are his friend. Solas faces dangerous work both on himself and on the Blight; this is not a respite.

The Inquisitor, however, will never be freed from their religious and mythical role. This character will always be tied to that role in the story.

Lavellan here embodies almost a religious myth about the great power of love that surpasses all contradictions, a bond stronger than rational reasons. It’s pointless to rationalize, and you won’t find solace in that process — their relationship is meant to be a deeply emotional romance with an irrational, mystical and mythical connection between two lovers.

Lavellan performs a strictly narrative function here, but out of respect for those players who cannot associate themselves with such an Inquisitor, there should technically have been an option to not go with him into the Fade right in that scene, instead of at the tavern.

Narratively, the writers are concluding the arc involving the story of the Evanuris, Solas, the Blight, and the Veil. Above all, the writers focused more on this overarching narrative than on how to incorporate the player's various choices into the plot. Therefore, the canonical character of the Inquisitor takes precedence here — that's how the writers envision this character.

Canonically, The Inquisitor like the HoF, is a hero with a specific, grand purpose in the plot. This is a character who brings order to a world on the brink of madness. They think on a global scale and resolve global conflicts. They don’t create problems, they solve them. The same approach is shown with Solas. He is both a global and personal problem for Lavellan. Solas forces the Inquisitor (any of them) to endure a lot of pain and unpleasantness, turning their life upside down.

Lavellan’s resentments, wounded pride, and sorrow may later be expressed or dealt with differently, but right now, the fate of not only Solas but the world is being decided (quarrels will not help anyone solve the task on a global scale; Lavellan will not be petty, nor will she be too proud, just as she won't think of herself first when faced with the world's fate; she will only think about it once the world is no longer in danger). Lavellan cannot convince Solas, but will keep trying with the influence she has.

Personally, I believe that this type of love (type of the lover) is exactly what Solas needs for his personal growth.

The Inquisitor offers him forgiveness and understanding because that is their role here — to be above it, to be wiser than Solas, to show more mercy, patience, and understanding toward others’ nature and spirit than Solas ever did toward the modern world and mortals. And this is especially valuable for the narrative. Mortals (Rook, the Inquisitor, Morrigan) give Solas what he couldn’t get in the past: the freedom to be himself, and salvation and/or love. This idea is even repeated in the game’s cut files.

According to interviews, Bioware wanted to level the playing field so that any player with any world state/choices could choose the redemption ending — I'm not a fan of this decision from the perspective of character development, but after all, this is a game, not a book story.

I’m not too critical of the Solavellan ending, even though I’m not a Solasmancer; I just like him as an antagonist and a character. I don't find the ending with his solo redemption psychologically credible. I'm sorry they didn't add at least Cole to the game to help him on this painful journey.

In my opinion, Solavellan ending is the best thing that happened in the game for Solas (and in his whole life). At least somewhere, he was given happiness and something he didn’t even dare to hope for.

The game itself is a big disappointment in terms of narrative, but I don’t want to criticize Bioware too much without knowing the reasons why it turned out this way. And for this reason, you should try to look beyond the execution and focus on the content and context of the story to understand the writer’s intent.

Thank you for reading to the end!

[vancodependent]

I might get dogpiled for this but I have this particular view of Silco that I must share: I think he is fundamentally a pathetic person. I am a certified Silco lover, and this quality of his is actually central to my affection for him, and in this essay I will explain why:

Silco is a twisted and warped person because of a lifetime of abandonment and cruelty. We know that before the bridge, he was already relatively closed off with an acerbic, sarcastic sense of humor. We know that when Vander tried to kill him, a mad scientist at the fringes of society was the one who saved him from dying of infection, most likely through a series of painful experiments. When we saw him in the cannery, his only allies were aforementioned mad scientist and the chembarons that he openly loathed.

All of this to say, we never saw Silco with a genuine friend other than Vander and Felicia. If he had other family or friends at one point, they all abandoned him after the man he called his brother tried to kill him. Can you imagine how he felt, early on after that happened? The only person he’d ever really trusted left him permanently disfigured. And then that person dismantled and crushed every inch of progress Silco had made towards his lifelong dream, Zaun. And THEN this person was embraced by and treated as a beloved pillar of the community for his efforts. Silco could not have been rejected by society in a more literal or total way. The damage that this did to his sense of self worth and trust in others was irreversible.

Sevika was loyal to his cause, and I think there was genuine respect and admiration between them, but it was a business relationship. At that point in his life, I think he was already too emotionally stunted to form any kind of real attachment to another adult.

What we see with Jinx is that he desperately craved a family but was unable to create a healthy one. He absolutely loved Jinx, but he was far too traumatized to effectively parent her. I personally disagree with the characterization of Silco as a cold manipulator that saw Jinx as a weapon, because in his lived experience it was completely rational to assume that no one was trustworthy and everyone would abandon her. The parallel to his falling out with Vander when Vi yelled at her for throwing the hex crystal could not be more on the nose. 

Silco had a tendency to re-open his old wounds again and again until they were so scarred over that he could tell himself nothing hurt anymore. That worked for him because he’d never had anyone he could trust, but it splintered Jinx’s reality because she did grow up with people who loved her. The paranoia that drove her insane was actually pretty sane for his worldview.

Silco, to be clear, absolutely did evil things. He mutated and tortured Deckard, a child who was probably just another undercity castoff (and that in particular kills me, because I think he re-enacted some of his own traumas on Deckard). He also pumped shimmer into the streets of his own community to accelerate his revolutionary plans. He even told a grieving mother that he would have had her child killed in retaliation for her actions. And although he grew to love Jinx, he could only understand her insofar as he saw a mirror of himself. 

Ultimately, he was capable of compartmentalizing the suffering that he caused because he believed it was for the greater good of his nation. There’s a streak of narcissism in that logic; he felt he had the right to sacrifice his own people for his ideals, and he didn’t care if they believed in his mission or not. In fact, he knew in no uncertain terms that the community whose independence he was fighting for by and large did not think that his cause was worth the price he forced them to pay. That makes his actions paternalistic at best, and retributive at worst. Of course, he would never say that he wanted to punish his community for what they did to him, but I think it leaked out subconsciously through his actions.

But what makes him pathetic and not just evil is that underneath those twisted, gnarled feelings, was a broken man who just wanted to be accepted. When Vander tried to kill him and the community rallied behind him, Silco could have easily written the Undercity off as a whole. It would have been much easier for him to join the chembarons in enriching himself with no regard for the people who left him for dead. And if all he wanted was to get back at Piltover, there were much more direct ways to do that as well. But there was something inside of him that refused to give up on Zaun.

Silco’s emotional maturity is stunted, but he has an inherent sense of justice, and I respect him for that because the world did its damndest to beat it out of him. Beyond that, his loyalty to the cause of Zaun speaks to a deep desire to be re-welcomed into his community. He really is the perfect example of the old saying, a child who is cast out from his village will burn it down to feel its warmth.

Something that Arcane really beats us over the head with is that morally grey people with the best of intentions can cause unspeakable evil. Silco is very much a product of his circumstances, and while that doesn’t excuse his actions, it does make him deeply human.

[baconmoop]

No but of course that'd be his solution. It always has been.

He's spent the last 12 years being told that he's boring, that people miss the old him. That he's the boring, sad old man, and that ice king was the fun one.

Can you imagine how that must feel? To be told that the version of you that suffered a thousand years of torment is just.... Better?

During the mushroom war, the only thing that kept him grounded was Marcelline. I imagine he would've succumbed to the crown a lot earlier had they never met. Now, shes her own woman. He needs her, but she doesn't need him anymore. He feels useless.

And so when he sees this girl in danger, what else would he do but to go back to his old ways? He needs the crown to protect her, like he needed it to protect Marcy. Besides, people like him better with the crown, so who cares, right? It's for the greater good. People don't need Simon Petrikov, they need the ice king.

I hope he realises by the end of the show that he does have value. That he doesn't need ice powers, that he's not just a sad old man. I hope he finds peace.

[littlefeltsparrow]

The whole “I’m hurting you to protect you” trope only works well when the harm inflicted is lesser than the harm that would have otherwise occurred had a character not intervened. This is a good guiding principle for examining how well this trope fits into a given story. Because if the harm inflicted fails to meet the condition of being lesser than the harm that would’ve otherwise occurred, then the whole relationship is called into question.

Rhysand’s actions under the mountain are a good example of this trope done wrong, because there are very few points where the threat of harm to Feyre genuinely justifies the harm he inflicts upon her. For example, Feyre could have reasonably stayed in her jail cell and remained safe without Rhysand’s intervention, which ultimately, caused her more harm than was necessary. Many fans try to justify his actions by claiming that he was sparing her from the horrors she might witness UTM, but that simply isn’t substantiated by the evidence we’re given. We’re never given a substantial reason that requires drugging and fondling Feyre for nights on end to save her from greater harm. It is never established what might have happened to Feyre had Rhysand not intervened, and the reader is given no reason to think that Feyre would have suffered more had she remained in her cell.

The most blatant example of this however, is when he uses physical force to coerce her into agreeing to a contract that serves his interests. He did not have to twist her broken arm or frighten her into signing the contract, he could’ve just healed her because Feyre beating Amarantha was ultimately beneficial to everyone. Nobody told him to do that and it is never established why he *needed* to hurt her in order to protect her.

This trope is very broad and can operate on a spectrum of severity, but it must involve an established/implied threat for it to reach its full potential. The fact that Maas overlooks this crucial aspect of the trope is further evidence of her incompetence as a writer.

[hueseok]

( 01. ) EASY MONEY, EASY LOVE.

you and namjoon have been married for five years.

despite being strangers who solely exchanged wedding vows to trick his filthy rich family into giving him his inheritance, being part of this scheme is surprisingly easy. he’s out of the country most of the time, you’re being compensated for being a model wife, and there are only a few things you two have to to do in order to keep up with the whole guise of being a happy married couple.

with less than three months to go until you get divorced, namjoon comes back from a business trip and stays with you at your shared house, waiting until d-day with the aim of sending off your odd friendship with a proper farewell. but it’s weird, because just when things are supposed to be easiest—that’s when everything is suddenly becoming complicated, and the two of you realized once again that there really is no such thing as easy money (or easy love).

pairing: namjoon x reader

word count: 3.3k

rating: NC-17

content: fluff, angst, marriage of convenience au, strangers to friends to lovers au, dash of fake dating au, and they were housemates au???? | ft. chaebol!namjoon + travel photographer!namjoon; office worker!reader

warning/s: swearing, mentions of a sickness, mommy issues, unsupportive family, depictions of loneliness / sadness, character death (no major characters though!), mentions of falling of a cliff bc of clumsiness lmao (nobody dies dw)

[ chaptex index. ]

EPISODE 01. the one with the emergency !

you shouldn’t have been too confident. if only you’ve been more humble and less greedy during your hike earlier with your workmates for the bi-annual team building event, you wouldn’t have literally fallen off the side of the cliff and ended up spraining your ankle pretty bad.

what were you thinking, honestly? you’ve never been an active person ever in your life. you hated cardio, you hated sweating, you hated waking up early in the morning to do exercise — yet for some reason, you were pumped for the activity that was scheduled for today.

it’s the reason why as you were trudging along the trail with your co-workers, yapping and laughing loudly with a close colleague, you didn’t notice that a particularly huge rock on your way set you off balance and caused you to sway to your right, plummeting over the ridge with a loud yelp.

it’s a good thing that there were paramedics stationed at the base of the mountain where all of you were trekking on, perhaps anticipating for an incident like yours to come along that’ll have them doing their duty.

as soon as your team leader used the walkie-talkie given to your group to call them for their help, there were four people with bright orange uniforms aiding you, checking your condition and placing you on a stretcher before carrying you to the monorail where you’ll be transported back down.

haein, your said close colleague, accompanied you as they brought you to the infirmary.

“were you possessed by an athletic ghost?” she asks once the doctor finished treating your sprained ankle, now advising you to get a bit of rest. “what made you think it was smart to walk too fast? you must have been crazy.”

“i must have,” you say, laughing because you rather laugh than complain about the pain that you’re feeling. it’s subsiding at the moment — thankfully — but you can only imagine what the next few days are going to be for you due to the injury. “god, i’m happy though that i didn’t get to roll all the way. if that happened, i would have suffered a greater fall and then i’d be on the news.”

“yeah. you’d be a legend to the company too. we’d make an altar in your cubicle for a good few months.”

“i’d be the story that hiking guides would share to the hikers to scare them into being careful.”

“we’d pay tribute to you at every christmas party. we’d make a slideshow and present that during the whole event.”

“really?”

“of course. i’d be in charge of making the powerpoint even.”

you stare at her, haein staring back, and then the both of you burst out laughing. you’re grateful that she volunteered to be with you when the paramedics declared that they needed to bring you down — although in the back of your head, you do think she’s just being a good friend as an excuse to not walk her way back to the ground with the rest later on after they reach the top and enjoy the magnificent view.

“by the way,” she takes a seat on the chair beside the bed you’re situated in, “someone named kim namjoon is going to pick you up and drive you home.”

the second his name tumbles out of her lips, you’re snapping your head towards her, shocked. “what?”

“when you passed out a bit after the fall, i got your phone and did the thing to make it call your emergency contact. he’s the one who answered.”

“namjoon answered?”

“yup.”

“but i… i don’t remember making him my emergency contact.”

“well, like i said, he’s the one who answered.” she shrugs. “why? is he an ex or something?”

you press your lips together, suddenly panicking at the thought of namjoon arriving here.

there’s nothing wrong with namjoon, really. he’s a pleasing person to have around: genuine, kind, and full of profound thoughts that you can’t help but hang onto every word he says.

however, as haein made evident, no one knows about your relationship with him and true nature of it — and you’ve done everything you can in the past year and a half since joining the company to keep it that way, deeming it unnecessary to disclose the fact that kim namjoon is your husband when the both of you aren’t bound to stay married forever.

to you, he’s just a ridiculously rich man who needed to get married for at least five years in order to get the full amount of his inheritance from his grandmother.

to him, you’re just a middle class woman who needed money to pay for her sister’s leukemia treatments, introduced together by a mutual friend who knew that both of you can benefit from each other’s situations.

in other words, your marriage with him isn’t technically real. and it’s why you rather not let anyone in your workplace know that he’s your husband, especially since you’ve managed to keep a low profile about it all these months. you don’t want to give your officemates a reason to gossip about you in the present time or when you divorce namjoon — the latter frankly scheduled to happen in less than three months from now.

****

namjoon arrives an hour later.

you take notice of him immediately while haein’s babbling about the book she recently read, recognizing him as the tall man who enters the small clinic.

you watch as he goes to the desk to talk to the staff waiting there, following his figure as the latter points to where your bed is. namjoon promptly turns to your direction then, your gazes meeting before his eyes focus on your sprained ankle, expression contorting in a mix of confusion and disappointment.

beside you, haein taps your arm, noticing namjoon’s arrival as well. “is that…?”

you swallow hard. “yeah, that’s him.”

“holy shit.” she takes a dramatic pause. “he’s hot.”

“don’t —” you grit your teeth. “don’t say that. it’s weird.”

“why? i have eyes — i’m just saying what i see.”

“yeah, but —”

“are you weirded out because he’s a relative? like your brother?” haein cuts you off. “wait, you mentioned before that you have a sibling. is that him?”

“he’s not a sibling.”

“then who —”

namjoon stops on the foot of your bed, causing haein to shut up now that he’s within earshot. he’s still staring at your ankle, like it inflated to twice its original size, and you actually don’t know what to say.

although you’ve developed a close friendship over the years of this sham marriage, you always seem to restart whenever he returns from a business trip of his — and it’s only been a couple of days since his return to south korea, having just come back from spain for his latest project.

it’s worth mentioning too that you do feel strange having an audience like haein around that renders you clueless on how to act.

he lets out a slow whistle, crossing his arms. “and you say i’m clumsy.”

you huff out a chuckle, namjoon grinning that releases the charm of his dimples.

“uh, i’m haein,” your friend stands up from her seat and extends a hand out, obviously enthralled by how handsome he is. “i’m the one who called you using ____’s phone. namjoon, isn’t it?”

namjoon shakes her hand. “oh, yes. it’s nice to meet you.”

“wow. you have a very tight grip.”

“haein,” you scold, slapping her wrist that causes their handshake to cease. if it isn’t apparent enough, haein doesn’t have a filter nor cares enough to stop saying the first thing that comes to her mind. “stop being weird.”

she turns to you. “i’m not being weird. i’m complimenting him.”

“how is commenting how tight his grip is a compliment?” you demand.

“it’s a compliment because i’m making it clear that i find him strong,” she explains, focusing on namjoon again. “sorry. do you feel offended by what i said?”

he appears amused. “not really.”

“see?” haein tells you.

you’re about to quip back a reply when she beats you to it.

“anyways,” she says and namjoon stifles a laugh, “if you don’t mind me asking, how are you and ____ related?”

at the question, you send him a signal with your eyes, asking him not to tell the truth, regardless if that’s wrong of you to do so. one of the things you had to keep in mind upon agreeing with this arrangement is that neither of you should ever deny the marriage whatsoever, a precautionary measure because you two were that paranoid that the news might reach namjoon’s parents.

from the looks of it, despite namjoon understanding where you’re getting at as you give him the most bizarre expressions, he does the opposite (perhaps mainly due to what was explained above), resulting into you hanging your head low, waiting how haein will react at the revelation that will be served on her plate.

“i’m her husband actually,” namjoon says casually. 

haein cackles out loud. “husband?” she repeats. “that’s really funny — you’re a funny guy. but seriously, how do you two know each other?”

he raises an eyebrow. “i’m not joking.”

“sure you are. this girl right here isn’t married.” she does a show of holding you in an affectionate headlock. “she doesn’t even have a boyfriend.”

“did she tell you that?” he’s teasing, glancing at you for some sort of confirmation.

haein averts her attention to you. 

you look at them, switching from namjoon to haein to namjoon and back to haein. 

“i mean… you never asked, and i never said i was single,” you tell haein, shrugging and acting as nonchalant as ever.

it’s half the truth, ‘cause as far as you’re concerned, you’ve been diligent in always wearing your wedding and engagement ring. you even make it a point not to appear interested in any offers of blind dates or group dates to ever imply that you’re single as well.

she gawks at you, like she’s waiting for you to take back what you said. “are you being for real right now?”

“i am.”

“if this is some elaborate prank —”

“it’s not a prank,” you say. 

there’s silence, and then she practically screams.

“YOU’RE MARRIED?” haein bellows, attracting everybody’s attention inside the infirmary. “we’ve known each other for more than a year and only now do i discover that you’re married?”

before she can berate you and force you to tell her your entire relationship history, namjoon’s asking for your bag and helping you sit up, aiming to lead you to the car waiting outside.

haein almost stops him, declaring with conviction that she literally can’t wait until the next office day to get the full scoop, but he kindly reiterates what the ER doctor he spoke with earlier said, insisting that he ought to bring you home as soon as possible so you can get the rest that you need after over exerting your body for today’s hike.

“everything. you need to tell me everything on monday,” she says when namjoon goes out for a minute to deliver your bag first to the vehicle. she’s giddy and jumpy and very hyper about what you can guess is because of her latest discovery. “also, i’m sorry about calling your husband hot earlier. i wouldn’t have done so if i knew.”

you grin, appreciating the fact that she felt the need to apologize for that. “it’s no biggie. you didn’t know.”

“yeah, which you really should apologize about.”

“i’m sorry.” your grin only stretches wider. “i’ll buy you a matcha latte on monday to make up for it.”

her face lights up.

you share your farewells as namjoon returns, namjoon saying goodbye to haein too. she leaves first, remembering that she needs to inform the rest of your co-workers that you’re fine and headed home, and once you and your husband are alone, he takes a good look at you again.

“should i carry you?” he asks.

you blink at him. he may be reliable, but he is also extremely clumsy. “you’re not asking the right questions, joon.”

“unbelievable.” he laughs. “you can really be cruel sometimes, you know?”

“i just want to be safe.” you further tease.

“then should i get a wheelchair?”

“no wheelchair please. i think i can walk to the car just fine.” you begin standing up.

“you sure?” he doesn’t even let you answer that, his hand just naturally goes to support your elbow. “you might fall.”

you pause, calculating how many steps it’s going to take until you reach your destination.

you’re fine, really. your good foot is perfectly walkable and you’re convinced it can take the burden of not having its pair in ample condition. however, you might need to hold onto namjoon for you not to fall halfway like he already stated, and you’re not really keen on being that close to him no matter how amazing his cologne smells even a few inches away.

“a wheelchair would be ideal,” you say.

namjoon chuckles, nodding and getting it with the assistance of a staff member. 

in minutes, you’re on the passenger seat and he’s climbing on the other side.

you don’t expect it but you’re relieved at the thought of coming home earlier than planned. though you’ve conditioned yourself to enjoy this team building and take this time to get into camping, you were horrified when you learned that there wouldn’t be any shower rooms or portable toilets at least at the area that you’re heading at after the hike, this retreat meant to give each one of you the raw camping experience.

come to think of it, perhaps it was your subconscious that prompted you to inflict this accident on yourself in order to avoid shitting on the ground in case your stomach hurts.

“comfortable?” namjoon glances at you. “you can recline the chair if you want to sleep.”

“oh, okay. thanks.” you smile. 

he smiles back, starting the engine.

you subtly watch him while he does that, admiring how he seems so adept in driving now compared to when you first met him. you remember his reluctance in the past to drive due to his fear of messing up, yet he managed to drive for approximately two hours in most likely gravelly roads to get where you are.

“thanks too for coming here, joon. i hope i didn’t bother you. honestly, i don’t even remember putting you as my emergency contact,” you sheepishly add.

“no problem, and i think hoseok did,” he says. “i remember him mentioning that i should put you as mine before.”

hoseok is the mutual friend that introduced you both together when namjoon was still trying to find a fake wife to obtain the full amount of his inheritance in five years time. he was aware of namjoon’s ploy and knew that you were in need of money during that year as well — and so putting two and two together, he set up a ‘date slash chemistry test’ between you and namjoon and reckoned that you could be great help to one another regarding your respective needs.

“that makes sense. i just don’t know how he did that without my knowledge.”

“well, nothing’s been impossible for hobi, so…”

you agree with a snort.

“by the way, i should mention this before you doze off,” namjoon abruptly halts just when he was beginning to drive off, “mom’s inviting us to dinner this weekend. she heard that i was back in the country and wanted to see how i am.”

you gradually digest that information, a constipated look already appearing on your face. “okay. is everyone going to be there?”

“yes, based on our last conversation.”

“should i be prepared for anything at all?”

he seems to find the inquiry funny. “no. just the usual.”

“meaning i should block off every passive aggressive comment your mom makes about either my choice of clothes and social status, right?”

“pretty much, yeah.”

you let out a groan.

“i’m sorry.” the dimples make a recurrence. “i would have declined her request but she wouldn’t stop pestering me about it.”

“god, i just really don’t like your mom, joon.” you say. “or your dad. or your older brother. i don’t like everyone, basically — except your pet dog, hiro. no offense.”

“that’s fine. i don’t like them either.” he shrugs, carrying on driving then now that the news have been shared. “plus, you know i’m on your team. i’d defend your honor to death.”

“of course. it’s what makes attending these things tolerable.”

“well, if it makes you feel better, this might be the last family function you’d have to attend.”

you raise your eyebrows, recalling the reason why. “woah, shit, you’re right.”

in less than three months, you’re getting divorced and namjoon’s getting even more money than he already has.

in less than three months, he’s going to share some of the portion of what’s left of his inheritance and it’ll be the last time you’ll receive financial help from him.

it also might be the last time you’ll be with him in general, and though there’s a side of you that’s glad not to be tied down anymore, you can’t say that you’re glad of possibly losing contact with namjoon, having grown fond of his presence in a way.

facing him, you blurt out the first thing that occurs in your mind. “when we get divorced, can i keep my engagement ring?”

namjoon chuckles. “that’s up to you. there’s no reason for me to take it back.”

“but what if you fall in love with a woman someday and think about proposing to her?”

“then i’d buy a new ring.”

“but wouldn’t that be impractical? given that you already have an engagement ring? i mean, this costs so much i could probably buy a lot and a house with it.”

“yeah, but that’s yours. it’d be horrible of me to give her a ring already worn by my first wife.”

“first wife,” you repeat with a dramatic scoff, lips curving upwards regardless. it’s cheesy and tickles your insides. “that trip to spain changed you, joon. you’ve been too flirty since you returned.”

that coaxes out a full laugh from him. “my apologies. it’s a habit at this point.”

“what is?”

“pertaining to you as my wife.” he shrugs. “isn’t it the same for you?”

“pertaining to you as my wife?” you joke.

you don’t see him roll his eyes. “you know what i mean.”

you think about it.

had it been the same for you? there’s not a lot of occasions wherein you have to call namjoon as your husband. your dad isn’t present in your life, your relationship isn’t good with your mother to constantly chat with her (she doesn’t even know you’re married), and as for your little sister who was the root cause of why you got married to namjoon…

well, she’s in a better place right now. far better than this crazy and scary world you’re living in.

“i guess,” you say, but your tone isn’t convincing.

he nods his head in a slow manner. “hm, it does seem that way according to what just happened with haein.”

you wince. “sorry about that.”

“don’t be, i understand. i’ve been gone most of the time since you got hired in your new company — and we are separating in a few weeks.”

“time flies really fast, doesn’t it?”

“yep. we used to think that it’ll take forever before the five years are up.”

“true. we kept on suggesting a backup plan if ever we fight and get sick of each other.”

“yet here we are, still happily married.”

“ugh, there you are again!” you accuse and he laughs out loud once more. “are you enjoying cringing me to death?”

namjoon doesn’t answer, a big grin plastered on his face as he continues laughing, groaning eventually when you start slapping his arm because of how it’s obvious that he truly is enjoying this.

“____,” he complains, laughing still, “stop, i’m driving!”

you follow as he says. “you’re the worst.”

“i forgot how easy you are to tease.”

“shut up.”

he snickers, doing a zipping motion against his mouth.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The Price of Compassion

Here is another part of A Flower Among Stone- about two years have passed since the first part of the story, elves court at a glacial pace since time moves differently for them. Disa is sick of it at this point

Pairing: Elrond x F!Reader

Warnings: None

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tension in Durin’s chambers was thick as stone, the fire in the hearth crackling softly, the only sound breaking the heavy silence. The glow of the flames cast long shadows against the carved stone walls, illuminating the rich tapestries and intricate carvings of Khazad dûm’s proud history. Yet tonight, no amount of warmth could soften the sharp edge in Durin’s voice.

Elrond stood across from him, tall and composed, though a trace of weariness marred his otherwise serene expression. “Durin, I ask this not for myself,” Elrond said, his voice measured, but firm. “The Mithril is necessary—not for greed or wealth, but for survival.”

Durin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He stood tall, his broad shoulders tense, and beside him, Disa rested a steadying hand on his arm. She remained silent, but her presence was a quiet force, a reminder of Durin’s strength and the unity they shared. “Survival for whom?” Durin snapped, his voice a low rumble. “For the elves, aye, but what of us? How deep will you ask us to dig, Peredhel? Until we break stone? Until we break ourselves? My father has forbidden the mining of mithril- and for good reason”

You stood between them, feeling the weight of their words pressing on your heart. You had watched these two slowly rebuild their friendship over the last two years, and to see it falter over this, brought you a great deal of worry. 

“Elrond,” you said softly, drawing his attention. “Durin has reason to be wary. The deeper they mine, the greater the danger. It would be wiser to leave decisions of stone to the dwarves. Surely, you must see this?”

He turned to you, his eyes softening as they met yours. “I do,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret. “But what I ask is not a whim. It is a matter of great need—for all of Middle-earth.”

Durin let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Need or not, you have no right to come here and make demands. This mountain is our home, not a treasure to be plundered.”

You placed a gentle hand on Durin’s arm, feeling the tension beneath your fingers. “Durin,” you said, your voice steady, “Elrond is not your enemy. He does not ask lightly. Perhaps there is a way to balance caution and need.”

Durin sighed as he looked at you, grasping your hand in his, though the frustration remained. “You’ve lived among us long enough to know what mining deeper could mean.”

“I do,” you admitted, glancing between him and Elrond. “And I would never ask you to endanger your people. But I also know that sometimes the greatest strength is found in working together.”

Disa, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, her voice gentle but firm. “She speaks wisely, Durin. We are stronger with allies than without.”

Durin grunted, his expression conflicted, but he did not push her hand away. Instead, he turned his gaze back to Elrond. “And what will you do, Peredhel, if our mountain cracks? If our people suffer for this Mithril?”

Elrond met his gaze evenly, the weight of centuries in his eyes. “Then I will bear the responsibility, as will all my kin. I give you my word, no harm will come without answer.”

Durin narrowed his eyes but finally nodded, a reluctant but significant gesture. “We’ll talk more of this later,” he said gruffly. “But don’t think this is settled. Should I decide to search for more mithril, it will be an act of treason against my father.”

He strode from the room, leaving you and Elrond alone with Disa. She cast you a knowing look, her lips curling into a faint smile. “You’ve always had a way with words,” she said softly, before following Durin out.

When the door closed behind her, Elrond exhaled slowly, his posture relaxing. “You would take the side of the dwarves over your own kind?”

Though Elrond’s acquisition irritated you, you gave him a small smile. “I owe them much. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I spoke on your behalf as well if you recall.”

He studied you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “And that is why your counsel matters so greatly. You have the ear of the Prince of Khazad Dum. Surely you can persuade him-”

You raised your hand, silencing the elf before you “I must stop you there, Elrond. I refuse to be a pawn in your political games. Should you need a friend or an ear to listen, I will always be there. But, I will not put my friendship with Durin and his family at risk.” 

“I owe you an apology,” Elrond said, grasping your hand in his, lightly brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “I should not have drawn you into this conflict. It was wrong of me to ask you to influence Durin. Your loyalty to him and his people is clear, and I had no right to press you.”

You offered him a small smile, stepping closer. “You were desperate. I understand that.” You folded your hands in front of you. “But I won’t choose sides—not when it comes to something that could cost so much.”

Elrond’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “And yet you always find a way to bring calm to the storm.” His voice softened further. “I admire that.”

A silence settled between you, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Then, after a moment, Elrond spoke again, his voice low and inviting. “Come with me to Eregion.”

You looked up sharply, startled by the sudden offer, though it wasn’t unfamiliar. “Elrond…”

He held up a hand, offering a faint smile. “I know. This is not the first time I’ve asked, and I know your answer before you give it. But I still wish for you to see what we are working on. To understand why Mithril is vital.”

You exhaled slowly, your heart tightening at the sincerity in his voice. “I am grateful for your invitation, truly. But my place is here. These halls have been my home for years now. I belong to the mountain, to the people who saved me.”

He took a step closer, his expression unreadable. “And you are happy here?”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “I am.”

A flicker of something—was it disappointment?—crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He inclined his head gracefully. “Then I will not press you further. But if ever you change your mind, know that Eregion’s gates will always be open to you.”

You smiled softly, touched by the sentiment. “And if ever you find yourself weary of the open sky, you know where to find me.”

He chuckled at that, a quiet, warm sound. “I suppose I do.”

The fire crackled again, filling the space between you with its gentle warmth. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, the silence comfortable now, the weight of earlier tensions fully lifted. And as you stood there, watching the flames dance, you couldn’t help but wonder if the bond you had forged, so unexpected and enduring, was a gift from the mountain itself—or something far more fleeting.

Elrond left shortly after your conversation, leaving you standing in the dining room of Durin’s chambers. 

You were about to retreat to your thoughts when the door creaked open, and Disa entered, her expression both curious and amused.

“Well,” she said, folding her arms as she leaned against the doorframe, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do I need to teach you about courting braids yet?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you sank into a chair near the hearth. “Elrond does not see me that way, Disa. And even if he did, he wouldn’t know what a courting braid is.”

Disa strode into the room, her presence as warm and steady as the mountain itself, and settled into the chair across from you. “Oh, is that what you think?” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “You underestimate him—and yourself.”

You tilted your head, a smile playing at your lips. “And what makes you so certain?”

She leaned forward, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Because it’s not Durin’s soft gaze and sweet words that keep drawing the herald of the High King back to Khazad-dûm.”

The laughter that bubbled up from you was genuine, though it carried a hint of embarrassment. “He comes for the Mithril, Disa.”

Disa waved a hand dismissively. “Mithril,” she scoffed. “He can talk all he likes about politics and need, but I see how he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching. And if you’re honest, so do you.”

You felt heat rising to your cheeks, and you turned your gaze toward the dying fire. “He’s an elf of high station. I’m just—”

“A treasure of Khazad-dûm,” Disa interrupted, her voice gentle now. “One who has given him more than you realize. You’ve shown him a world he would never have known without you. That’s more valuable than any Mithril.”

You shook your head, though her words stirred something deep inside you. “He has responsibilities, Disa. A life outside these mountains.”

“And yet he keeps returning.” Disa’s smile softened. “If that’s not worth a courting braid, I don’t know what is.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, though this time, the sound was softer, more thoughtful. “You’re incorrigible.”

She grinned, leaning back in her chair. “I’ve been called worse.”

You stood, patting Disa on her shoulder as you walked towards the door and offering a saccharine smile, “I thank you for your council, princess. I will take it under consideration.”

Disa snorted “Pfft. Princess. You sound more like a politician every day.” 

You laughed as you walked out the door only to hear Disa shout behind you.

“Write to him at least! For Durin’s sake, it’s like watching two snails circle each other!” 

[foundations-of-the-slay]

Okay so the finale of Arcane was great in a lot of ways but I feel I need to voice a little bit of disappointment/resentment for Act III.

First of all, Ekko and Sevika deserved better than the endings they got. Ekko did more in that battle than anyone else, and yet he ends up alone and sad. Sevika is the only Zaunite put on a council that will probably be classist asf to her.

Second, the total neglect of Isha (both her life and her death). Acts I and II built a narrative of found family with Isha, Jinx, and Sevika, only for it to not contribute to the greater narrative at all and to be completely thrown out in Act III.

Third, and probably most controversially, I do not think Caitlyn deserved Vi in the end. For reference, I really really liked CaitVi in the first season. I liked seeing a complex dynamic between two well-done lesbian characters. And then in the second season, Caitlyn takes her trauma and misery out on Vi. She essentially becomes a fascist dictator, floods the undercity with poisonous gas, increases imprisonment of Zaunites, works closely with Ambessa, and nearly kills Isha. And I was willing to hear out a redemption arc if it was good enough. But it wasn’t. There was never a decent apology to Vi, never any form of apology or regret for what she did to Zaun, no remorse over pointing a gun at a child. Just a vague air of “my bad” along with killing Ambessa. After everything she did to Vi and her people, I do not think Caitlyn remotely deserved to be with Vi, who spent the season coping, doing damage control, and tirelessly trying to fix her family. I am a wlw with an amazing girlfriend, and I love that we saw an endgame lesbian relationship, but I don’t like their dynamic or the way Caitlyn treats Vi.

Finally, the lack of any kind of conclusion to the Zaun/Piltover conflict. I understand that they were able to unite to fight Noxus, but aside from that, hardly anything has changed. ONE Zaunite was put on the council, and that’s all. No redistribution of wealth, no reparations, no sovereignty for Zaun, no apology for the decades of suffering Piltover caused Zaun. Ekko must return alone to a desolate undercity while Caitlyn and Vi live in the massive, luxurious Kiramman mansion.

My main issues here can be boiled down to this: Act III felt rushed. Very few stories were fully developed and satisfyingly concluded. The ones we did get (Viktor & Jayce, Mel returning to Noxus) were fantastic, but it left much to be desired for the other characters and storylines.

[dolphin-diaries]

Detrans Women v. Trans Men, Or: The Sanity Of Sex Change

Originally published on the Dolphin Diaries substack.

Be advised: this essay contains misogynistic, transphobic, and ableist language, especially as it pertains to pregnancy, trans men, and mental disability.

Today the court presides over a very special case, poised to answer a question that has plagued the nation since the dreaded sex wars. Several questions, actually. What are transsexuals? Do they deserve to exist? What about women? If a woman could become a man, why wouldn’t she? Do real women like being women? And when all the real women are gone—who, pray tell, will bear our children for us?

The plaintiff is a sight to behold. She is stern and clearly distressed, because she’s not smiling. She’s dressed with a presentable degree of femininity, not like a whore or anything. But there is a certain mannishness about her. Her jaw and her shoulders—must’ve been a surgery. When she speaks, you can hear she’s not really a woman anymore. Well, no, she is, but—you know. You can just tell by looking at her, she is barren inside.

The defendant is… charming. S—I mean, he, of course he looks like a ‘he,’ but of course he’s also short. Kind of too well-dressed. He has small wrists and his cranium is pronouncedly feminine. If the court looks away for a moment, the court will forget his face, but the court will certainly remember the wrists and the height and the cranium. Can you imagine, that thing can get pregnant? That was an aside, don’t record that.

When the plaintiff speaks, it is with great pain. She bears the scars of her transition with tremulous distress and speaks of tragic self-harm in a futile attempt to escape the patriarchy. She’d been hoodwinked by the trans cult and doctors—they sold her an illusion of a cure. Now she has seen there’s no such thing. The woman-ness has awoken within her and cried for the de-mammaried chest and all the babies she will never gestate. Her question is simple: why was she forced to do this; why was she lied to? Why has no one ever stopped her? Why have her doctors and friends entertained her delusion that she could somehow be a man? It is nothing short of a grave injustice that her woman-ness was allowed to be undermined. That it is now broken and impossible to heal.

When the defendant speaks, he too overflows with suffering. He was—in his soul, his mind—a man, but yet his body was not. His distress over this mismatch was profound and incurable; transition alone managed to mercifully relieve it. And he is dearly sorry for the plaintiff’s pain, but—well, it’s hardly his fault she tried to fool the system, isn’t it? Why must the one truly suffering be held accountable for the delusions of liars? Why must he be punished for the deranged ravings of belligerent, hysterical cunts?

Gender Madness

Now that the jury is well and properly annoyed with me for my inflammatory phrasing—we all have our defects; mine is that I’m a rhetorician—I shall transform from a bigoted judge into a two-headed creature, prosecutor and attorney both. A little unorthodox, you might say? But this isn’t really a courtroom. No, this argument only occasionally makes it that far; we stand most often in the court of private and public opinion.

With that in mind, let us go over the details of the case. We shall start from afar, but do stay with me; the context is vital.

Our crime(s) take place in a very particular world, one in which life is earned with labour. A citizen must perform and provide labour up to a somewhat arbitrary standard, for which they are rewarded with normal treatment. Human treatment, not-Other treatment. What exactly that constitutes depends on time, place, circumstance, and other extenuating traits the citizen holds. How that is phrased also depends, but it’s usually something to the tune of an adequate contribution for the good of something greater and more abstract. In a late-capitalist society, for instance, money is a measure of labour and a vehicle for greater social contribution, and it thus reflects the measure of allowed humanity. Even when that money is inherited, and its holder has not worked for a damn penny of it, it must reflect some great labour done in the past, by themself or an ancestor. They must’ve deserved it, because money is a measure of labour, and labour is a measure of deserving.

Capitalist profit-meritocratic logics are only one of many ways earning life with labour manifests. But this is a court case, not a lesson in history or politics or economics, so never mind that.

What happens when one cannot meet the standard of labour? What is someone who cannot contribute enough to be normal? Every human’s capacity is limited, but some limits lie at or above the arbitrary standard of labour—and some below. Failure to meet standard capacity is, quite plainly, disability. I speak specifically—now and henceforth—of the social construct of disability. Just as sex/gender, it encompasses human features which may exist regardless of social order; just as sex/gender, it constructs archetypes and social scripts that serve a purpose.

What is the social purpose of disability? Of the infirm, the crippled, the wretched? Sometimes it is to make a large performance of helping them—only those that truly deserve it, of course; never forget truly deserving, being truly in pain—but much more importantly, across history disability existed to move the disabled to the margins of society, render them vulnerable and reliant on goodwill when they cannot be cured of being insufficient. They cannot adequately contribute, which makes them dead weights on the finite resources earned by other people’s labour. That’s why deserving is so important, you see. Because, you know, all people are constantly trying to shirk their fair share of labour, don’t they? Wouldn’t we all not work if we could choose not-working? If we granted this sort of charity to just anybody; if we kept encouraging this sort of behaviour—think of the finite resources! You and I—real, honest, hard-working people—will be the last Atlas shouldering humanity! Oh, it’s unthinkable. No-no, we have to ensure the disabled demonstrate real, provable pain that renders them utterly and definitely incapable of working as much as we do. Otherwise the world will end.

The function of the social construct of disability is to draw a line as to how much labour must be performed, and how much accommodation a normal citizen requires to do it. Disability then makes it hell to seek more accommodation for less labour—in broad strokes.

But you might say, prosecutor/attorney ma’am, what does this have to do with being trans? Or with women? Or with gender, or sex, or whatever you kids call it these days?

Well, dear jury, I know it is uncouth and uncommon to call it labour, but—by which process do we create new labourers? By what mechanism do we ensure the production of citizens? How do we ascertain that the working bodies are taken care of; that workers’ homes are clean and tended to; that workers are rewarded with something to fuck? Just for now, allow that feminised labour is labour.

Entertain the notion that the organising principle of patriarchy is distribution of feminised labour. Sexing/gendering is then a social mechanism by which labour roles are assigned and maintained—and, within the current and millenia-standing incarnation of the patriarchy, these roles are assigned at birth based on the external appearance of infant genitalia, and therefore expectation of the baby’s future gestational or inseminatory capacity. From there an entire hierarchy blossoms, in which those deemed Men are called to compete for the finite resource of Women—and to split the women among themselves, deciding which women are and are not permissible to possess by which kinds of men—and all those deemed Women are called to negotiate their commodity. If a woman is capable of producing a citizen—because she can bear children, and she is of the right nation and ethnicity and race, and has no defect she can pass down—she may be a wife. A prized personal possession, like a pet that sometimes talks too much. If she cannot produce a citizen, she’s still good for some things. After all, Men are allegedly born lascivious and violent—and also enlightened and important at the same time. So their violent excesses must be tolerated, but if we force the wives to be their drywall and their fuckdoll, it may prove too much for the gentle soul. She may get damaged, and then who’ll bear the children? Naturally, women that cannot adequately contribute to society with their wombs (either because they lack the organ altogether, or for whatever other reason) must provide for men where wives cannot. Their fault, anyway. They’re not sufficiently contributing.

On that note arises a question: what if one fails to meet their birth-destined standard of labour? What if they cannot perform their proper gender adequately? Well, a wife that fails to sufficiently provide for her man is, of course, lazy. And when women utterly refuse to behave as women should, bitches be…

For brevity, let us call that queerness. I will use the word in the broadest of strokes: it is failure or refusal or both to meet the standard of assigned sex; so then, even cishetero women that disobey their husbands are, for the purposes of this courtroom, queer. One way society has tried to grapple with queerness was to seek basis in a physical abnormality, which may then provide justification for the queers’ less-than-human status as well as avenues for cures. Perhaps the foetus was exposed to an excess of the wrong kind of sex hormone in-utero. Perhaps women harbouring lesbian desire hide a secret false penis within. Perhaps it’s the humours. Often though, because queer behaviours do not really have a direct relationship to physical attributes, they are consigned to the realm of mental disability. Of madness.

While it is a kind of disability, it is a peculiar one—so, in terms of social construct, what is the nature and purpose of madness? Dear jury, you likely know the answer, intuitively if not in words. It is to regulate the behaviours and thoughts of normal citizens. When those things breach the line of madness, one is made mad, and to be mad is to be rendered unreliable, unpredictable, and incapable of adequate agency. Once one becomes mad, the sane and the normal are relieved of trying to understand one’s thoughts and needs and desires, for those are made inherently incomprehensible. Once one becomes mad, it is assumed one cannot be trusted to make decisions which the sane make all the time, because the mad are considered consummately and totally incapable of perceiving reality or of making choices that do not harm the self or others. In short, they are a danger to all, including themselves.

What is to be done with the mad? First, they must be removed from society, lest they cause harm. Then we must attempt to make them sane—that is, behaving and thinking in ways that are normal. If that is impossible, we must make them seem as sane as possible, so that their madness is confined to their own head and does not spill over. If even that is impossible, they must be removed from society permanently. Otherwise they will disquiet and disturb the sane, or worse, infect them with madness.

Notably, madness was not made to help those that may suffer from, say, psychoses or hallucinations. The history of psychiatry—and yours truly’s personal experience with it as a transsexual forced to self-inter to access transition—makes it quite clear that its primary purpose is the segregation and normalisation of the mad. At times it happens to address the needs of the mad, but generally only insofar as it can bring about their sanity and make them fit for labour production. If one’s need is irrelevant to that, it is usually neglected. At times doctors are genuinely invested in the well-being of their mad patients, and even respect them as humans—but those doctors are merely individuals acting on compassion. The system itself facilitates the opposite.

So then it becomes abundantly obvious why disobedient women, runaway slaves, homosexuals, and transsexuals either were or are psychiatric diagnoses. Indeed, to return to the court case at hand, in a patriarchal world which constructs sex/gender to be an immutable, unchangeable birth-destiny, to think that it can be changed or that you are not what was destined to you—that is madness. It must be. If it is not, then the entire sex-caste order is thrown into total instability. What if everyone decides they’re trans?! What if the men stop competing to assert manhood; what if the women refuse to be commodity?! Who can we then extract sex from? Who will be forced to take care of our homes? Who will work themselves to the bone and who will serve the nation if we cannot promise they will be rewarded with housemaids and offspring and whores? WHO WILL MAKE THE BABIES?!?!

As you can see, dear jury, obviously all of humanity will die and the world will end. Which is why, although I’m sure not everyone enjoys the patriarchy, we must tolerate it. Just like we tolerate our jobs to survive. At least, like, the core idea. We can jiggle some things around to avoid torches and pitchforks, but the sex-castes must stay. You don’t want to be the last Atlas suffering gender-work while all the kids get surgeries and hormones and don’t want to produce gender anymore, do you? We simply can’t encourage this kind of behaviour.

Within the patriarchal resource distribution system, the trans are sex/gender-disabled, and transition is then akin to an accommodation. Just like any disabled accommodation, it is seen as a resource drain that either must be thoroughly justified—for resources are always limited—or else be deemed a frivolous waste. In an attempt to incorporate trans-ness into the resource distribution system and justify the accommodation, trans-pathology emerges. The key to trans-pathology—whether it is called transsexualism or gender dysphoria or gender incongruence; whether it is considered a matter of biology, psychiatry, or soul—is that transition is justified due to a psychological/psychiatric wound. “I deserve to transition because it is the only thing making me hurt less.” Transition, then, is continuous relief to de facto gender-madness.

But I mean, within such a worldview, wouldn’t a cure always be better than just relief?

Anyway, that is why my defendant has had to prove he really deserves transition. He has suffered greatly for his defect, and although he cannot be made completely normal—that isn’t possible; we’ve tried—he is as normal as he can be. My defendant has managed to prove to the systems built within the patriarchy, beyond the shadow of a reasonable doubt, that he is gender-disabled, gender-mad; that he is wholly incapable of producing sufficient feminised labour due to his condition. He is too pathologically miserable—suicidal, even. But now that he has transitioned, he is happy; he has demonstrated he can participate in the production of the family. Kinda-sorta. Close enough; it looks normal enough. Again: we’ll keep trying, but for now, this is the best we got.

Here’s the problem with my defendant’s case, though. The needs of the sane supersede the needs of the mad. After all, the sane are the ones really working and producing the resources which may then be charitably allotted to take care of the mad. The sane deserve the humanity that the mad can only temporarily, fractionally rent with their pain and the compassion that affords them.

Dear jury, have you ever wondered why it has been so pervasive for trans advocacy to state over and over again the in-born-ness of it, the low numbers of it? Only 1%, no, 5%, no, I don’t know—how are we counting? Who are we counting? Regardless, we must insist it cannot spread; that you the sane will not catch trans cooties. But what if that number rises—why, we must find a justification for why it’s actually not and it’s been counted wrong, or maybe, maybe those people would’ve been trans all along, only now they have the opportunity to pursue their trans-ness, or maybe—

Why is the argument for trans existence so entwined with asserting its rarity?

As we’ve already established, dear jury, if all the world went trans, it would end, and we would all die in a horrible extinction event. We must face the truth of sex/gender austerity. So, if trans people are to be permitted to exist more-or-less normally within a patriarchal society, they must prove beyond the shadow of a doubt: they are not contagious. Relief for the mad may only be entertained if it does not impede the sane from performing their labours.

But here stands my plaintiff. A woman, born rightfully a woman, a healthy woman, that caught the madness. She’d been contaminated by the delusion of the sex change, despite constant assurance that sex cannot be changed, and despite all the ways which we’ve devised to make transsexuals prove they aren’t lying about their stupid, ridiculous disability. And so when presented with proof of the transgender contagion, we must ask ourselves a world-endingly important question:

What If All the Bitches Went Crazy?

I mean, we all don’t want to do what needs to be done. The good of the nation—or our feudal lord, or the communist party, or Amazon Stonks Exchange—asks much of us. Some more than others, but it is what it is. Right?

The place of the woman is not terribly enviable. Sometimes we tell them of the joys of being the hand that rocks the cradle, or how much better it is to be a well-kept pet that has no worries nor responsibilities, or how empowered they are in being actually more capable then the men they must tend to—but at the end of the day, no rational individual would enjoy being treated as less-than-human, as commodity, as property. Luckily for all of us, sex is immutable and natural and we’re all just born this way, pre-destined for certain roles and behaviours. Even if we don’t want to do what needs to be done, there’s not much choice in the matter.

Except, ever-awkwardly, there stands my defendant. Very clearly a man. Very verifiably assigned female at birth.

Um.

Well, no, you see, it’s not like you can really change sex. You can just—approximate it. It’s like a costume. It’s not real, it’s ersatz, and we can always tell.

Except, no we can’t. If you saw my defendant in the streets, would you be able to tell? Would you really? What about the fact that trans men’s health concerns largely mirror those of cis men, such as risks of certain cancers and diseases, so long as those trans men are on HRT? What about the fact that they seem to live as men in society just fine?

Uhhhh.

Any attempt at normalisation of female-to-male transition arrives at two core issues at the heart of the patriarchy. Firstly, the limited resource of Woman: woman who can birth a proper citizen; woman who will clean your room and soothe your tears; woman who can be used and fucked. Secondly: who deserves to be Man? If patriarchal relation is instantiated at birth; if sex is immutable and fundamental to human character, then those born as women must be too categorically different from men to ever even slightly approximate them.

Therefore, in order to be normalised—made less-mad, shifted into the liminal space of not-quite-sane—the trans man must demonstrate and acquiesce to two things. One: he will never be a real man. Indeed, the world will not allow him to be totally interchangeable from cis men; no matter how much he looks and acts the part, at some point something will remind him he is less deserving. He cannot perform all the labour of Man, and he owes society the labour of Woman by dint of birth. To be normalised, he must acquiesce firstly to the caste system itself, and then to his precarious place within it.

But here’s the second thing—for this court case, it is more relevant. He must demonstrate the sorts of women that will become him were never good Woman material anyway. They would not birth a proper citizen anyway. They would not make good housemaids anyway. They would be too ugly to deserve getting fucked anyway. And—crucially—that these reject-women are few and marginal. Because even bad material can be utilised by men who aren’t good enough to deserve the wifely and hot ones, or else used and disposed of by men who just feel like it. Any and all waste of a limited resource must be thoroughly justified.

Unfortunately for the trans man, normalising his existence is incompatible with these dogmas in practice. Normalisation means better access to HRT and masculinising surgeries; it also means being able to exist in public as a man. A lesser man, sure—but many men are lesser men. Such is the nature of an austerity-based resource hierarchy; the place of the beneficiary is competitive.

Scandalously, I myself had a stint in trans manhood, in a place more patriarchal and trans-unaware than most Western countries. Like many trans men, I have found that if you look like a man, talk like a man, act like a man, people can’t help but treat you like a man. Even career transphobes seem to force themselves to misgender trans people at times. Modern medicine enables passing as another sex even for people completely un-androgynous by nature—and historically, even before transition was available, some managed to live as a different sex anyway, discovered only upon burial or autopsy.

And then, when the trans man is normalised, it necessarily entails that female-to-male transition becomes—little by little, however fractionally—less dangerous to access. Less unknown. Which means more people will try to access it.

But listen, my defendant says—look at this graph of left-handed people, at how the number increased once we stopped forcing them to learn writing right-handed! And the patriarchy does not care, because unlike the left-handed, he has stolen a resource owed to its men. It does not matter why the number has increased, only that it did. The trans man’s extreme rarity was part of the deal struck with trans-pathology.

But listen, my defendant says, women don’t want to be men. Women are essentially, fundamentally women. No matter how badly they do or don’t have it, they would never attempt to rid themselves of womanhood—it’s just not their nature. And that means anyone attempting to avail of female-to-male transition was never a woman by dint of trying at all.

Here we arrive at a contradiction. If trans-pathology justifies transition via an incurable ill or an innate quality, then transition cannot be justified by itself. Transition is the action in need of justification; it is not itself proof of anything. Moreover it makes all my defendant’s attempts to argue for either gender-expansiveness or feminism rather laughable. In order to assert that no True Woman would ever attempt to transition to a man, he must either claim that women aren’t really suffering due to their gender all that much, or else that they are too fundamentally different from men to even consider the option. Too incapable of shifting their self-perception of gender, and altogether too committed to having boobs.

Sooner or later in the process of trans-normalisation, no matter how pathologic its framing, it arrives at the simple truth that those born as women can live as men. And the fact women are a patriarchal commodity is hardly news or a secret. Therefore it is possible that someone—arguably—‘gender-sane,’ and thus perfectly suitable for feminised exploitation, would attempt to avail of transition. It only makes rational sense.

And after all, what about my plaintiff? Is she not a woman?

Ah, argues my defendant, but exactly. She’s a woman, and for whatever reason she decided to dabble in real disorders. And now she’s crying about the consequences. Boo-fucking-hoo. She stands here lying she was forced to do it, but he knows better—he knows how difficult transition is to access, how gatekept it is. No one is scouting vulnerable young women to pump them full of testosterone. With that I could only agree—the patriarchy does not simply let go of its resource. My defendant is none too pleased with me, though, perhaps because I have alluded his transition constitutes a kind of ‘escape plan’ for women. But: clearly fucking not. She’s here, isn’t she? Not too escaped, is she? She wasn’t really trans! And anyway, what does that highfalutin stuff matter. She’s brought us all here today because she regrets a choice she made. If she supposedly ‘escaped’ misogyny with transition, why isn’t she still a man? What kind of woman would choose to become a man, only to come crawling back?

A crazy one.

Competitive Sanity

Dear jury, I do confess: my plaintiff is, some might say, full of shit. We all are in this courtroom, but she’s directly lying more than most. Demonstrably, factually, ideologically, there simply isn’t great social incentive to force women to transition to men. On the contrary, there is great incentive to stop them from doing it. In most countries you need permission to legally transition, and that permission is secured with going through a lot of motions to ensure you really really need it. If you’re transitioning outside the legal procedure, it is even harder to argue you were forced to transition or never prevented from doing it. No, there would’ve been a lot of forces hindering the detrans woman’s alleged self-mutilation. This whole story is incredibly easy to poke holes in—and she would know that.

So why is she saying it anyway? What is she trying to get, and why does she think this is how she gets it?

Her plea, as stated, is for cessation of trans accommodation—medical transition firstly, but eventually all of it. Why? Because she bears a psychological wound. She suffers dysphoria from the results of her transition—she’s been rendered sex/gender-disabled by it. So the request is in essence a request for accommodation. Indeed, due to a total lack of detransition procedures and thus state or insurance coverage, the courts are some of the only avenues through which costs of sex-altering detransition procedures may be covered. It is not an unreasonable question: if I received a double mastectomy on insurance/government funding, so why can’t I receive breast reconstruction in the same manner?

And the answer is: because that’s not how trans-pathology works, sweetie. This isn’t a fair exchange sex/gender marketplace. Transition is a barely-granted accommodation—and a crazy thing to do.

Voluntary detransition necessarily arrives at a different issue at the heart of patriarchy: that sex/gender are supposed to be immutable and eternal, and that natural sex is inherently preferable and superior to artificially modified sex. Trans-pathology seeks to frame trans-ness as an essential attribute which causes a psychological wound that must be relieved, thereby violating the immutability dogma as little as possible and assenting to the superiority of natural sex. But to detransition is, truthfully, to transition again at least once; multiple sex changes cannot be justified within this paradigm. And, the nature of transition access ensures that in the overwhelming majority of cases, going through it is a choice made on purpose. Therefore, desiring detransition under the framework of immutable sex/gender means you transitioned by frivolity, delusion—mistake. And not just any mistake; a mistake in which you pilfered a limited-resource accommodation. Willingly destroyed your ability to adequately perform feminised labour. And, according to the naturalistic fallacy, wasted a superior version of your sex for no justifiable reason.

Just like it is insanity to think you can or should change your sex, it is madness to imagine you can just walk back and forth willy-nilly.

So if that’s the case, how does one normalise detransition? What framing is needed? How does my plaintiff place it in the realm of sanity?

Just like the trans man acquiesces to some of the patriarchal claims about him in order to shift others, so does the detrans woman. She agrees that yes, her natural sex is superior and unrecoverable. Yes, it was a mistake. What she can’t acquiesce to is the idea that she transitioned on purpose, willingly. Because if that is so, she violated the caste system in the most grievous of ways, and she stole labour and accommodation. If you know anything about the treatment of the disabled—or the homeless, or any vulnerable category that requires more accommodation than average—you would know that to admit such a thing is to cut yourself off from any further help. If the detrans woman agrees she was a rational agent when she transitioned, she agrees she is a parasite and a resource-eater. Within the patriarchal framework, she cannot argue for the right to change sex again.

If she does not present her transition as an insanity and her detransition as a cure, then that means she is mad and has been the whole time. Mad: meaning, unworthy of autonomy. She must self-denigrate and totally disavow her past self—or else be denied autonomy not only then, but also now.

She makes the claim she was mad. She finds every way in which her agency could’ve been compromised and exaggerates them until her past self appears completely incapable of making choices. All our agencies are always at least somewhat compromised, of course, for we are not totally rational agents and we are not omniscient—but that doesn’t matter, because mad choices will always be simple to present as delusions, and the sane ones will always be assumed perfectly-agented by default. And so, for instance, it may be true that the detrans woman’s doctor had a poor grasp on the mental health of women while knowing how to follow basic transition guidelines. But this is not presented as one of many circumstances which enabled the detrans woman to rethink her gender and consider transition—rather, it becomes a total superimposition of the doctor’s will upon the detrans woman’s, erasing her own decision-making capacity entirely. It becomes brainwashing.

Or let us return to my favourite topic: the patriarchy. While it is absurd to suggest the commodification and dehumanisation inherent to being a woman under patriarchy could never cause anyone to alienate from ‘woman’ altogether, it is likewise absurd to present transition as an ‘escape’ from patriarchy. The only escape there is from an all-encompassing regime is leaving for the woods. Moreover, the sex-essentialism of its caste system ensures trans men’s lives are made especially precarious, their trans status impossible to totally conceal, and any and all reveal of it threatening dehumanisation and womanisation. You can become a man—but only a queer one, and queerness is automatically degendering and unstable.

(Recall our bigoted judge. He is merely a distilled substrate of my own experiences with how trans-ness undoes humanity, disassembles one’s body into parts to be undressed and examined in the town square, and assiduously regendered.)

As is abundantly clear to anyone that’s ever transitioned, transition results in a re-negotiation of one’s status within the patriarchal caste system—with a heavy penalty. It is as silly to say ‘man’ confers no immense advantages over ‘woman’ as it is to say ‘cis’ confers no immense advantages over ‘trans.’ Both claims are brazenly, demonstrably absurd—mad, even.

So why is the trans man stating the former while the detrans woman states the latter? Why are they making absurd claims while poking at the absurdity of the other’s claim?

The fact of the matter is, both transition and detransition are fundamentally incompatible with patriarchal logics. Bioessentialist sex-destiny at birth and the naturalistic fallacy of sex are its foundational building blocks. Ability to perform sex/gender up to an arbitrary labour standard is the measure of one’s place in the hierarchy, and that hierarchy is supposed to have no mobility. Therefore patriarchy is incompatible with providing accommodation for changing sex, at all, ever. Desire for this accommodation is madness, undergoing it is disabling, and both madness and disability are utterly undesirable within resource austerity.

Then it follows that attempting to justify either transition or detransition care within a patriarchal system generates fallacies, omissions, distortions, and outright lies, because true justification—true equity with those that do not change sex/gender—is impossible. Moreover, sex/gender austerity forces accommodation requests of the trans and the detrans to become antagonistic. If the trans deserve accommodation, that makes the detrans lying and crazy resource-eaters. If the detrans deserve accommodation, that makes the trans crazy mutilators of the sane. Therefore the trans and the detrans must compete for the title of least-mad to be granted anything at all. The needs of the more-sane supersede the needs of the less-sane, because the saner you are, the more likely you are to almost-meet the arbitrary standard of labour. You are more worthy of having a finite resource spent on you.

So: poke holes in the inevitable flaws in each other’s reasoning, and whoever pokes best, wins.

And The Winner Is…

In the realm of pure logic, obviously no one. We’re all mad here. But this isn’t pure logic—this is the court of patriarchy, and the logics we’re operating under are patriarchal. Primacy in a hierarchy is won with obedience.

And in that sense, the case was rigged from the start.

You see, dear jury, you were never needed here, and your votes will not be counted. Of our plaintiff and our defendant, there is a self-evident winner in the ‘most obedient to patriarchal logics’ competition. Look how she cries for her lost womb. She’s obviously very sorry for betraying her labour function, and she says she’s been disabled—mutilated!—by those pesky resource-eaters, those burdens. Well, we certainly don’t need to be asked twice to care less! Reduced accommodation approved!

Ah, but what she really wanted was accommodation for her gender and sex. To be a woman again.

Too bad.

It is curious, isn’t it, how rarely you see allegedly pro-detrans conservative pundits advocate for detrans healthcare. No fundraisers for breast reconstruction, no calls to include voice training in subsidised procedures, no requests to incorporate legal detransition into gender marker change pathways. You’d be forgiven for thinking no such thing as ‘detrans healthcare’ even exists. Yes, yes, they’re campaigning for the benevolent extermination of detrans people as a category via extermination of transition—but what of the ones currently living? Even if they’re supposedly irreversibly damaged, don’t they deserve at least relief?

Seems like the only thing detrans women deserve is pity—not accommodation. All their pain buys them is a lack of direct violence. But in order to have that non-violence bought with pain, they must continue to be in pain; they must remain destitute. We can’t keep encouraging this sex-changing behaviour, after all. If detrans women aren’t destitute, who knows what kind of ideas the gender-obedient will get in their as-yet sane heads.

That is, in the end, the issue with trying to earn humane treatment with pain against a system that claims you have not contributed enough to deserve humane treatment in the first place. It is a continuously defensive position, with shifting boundaries you do not get to set or control—because you’re defensive. You don’t get to decide how much pain constitutes enough payment, nor how much your pain is worth.

Consider trans-pathology. Whether we call it transsexualism or gender dysphoria or gender incongruence, transition is presented as a form of relief to a psychiatric or psychological ill—that is, it is an accommodation bought with pain. Then remains a thorny question: what if the source of pain could be eliminated? Conversion therapy is deemed in poor taste chiefly because it does not work. But a total cure is always preferable to a relief. Therefore, under this logic, it must be pursued. So long as gender is what it is, and so long as madness is what it is, the search for working conversion therapy cannot cease. You can spend countless hours proving the ‘true cure’ to trans-ness is impossible, but with enough push, some hack will publish something credible-looking and science-seeming that asserts otherwise—and they’ll be more useful to the system than you.

Just look at the Cass Review.

When Abigail Thorn in her Why I Don’t Like The Word ‘Dysphoria’ essay suggested the basis for the right to transition ought to be her will—that the only justification sex-changing and gender-shifting needs is “because I want to”—she received quite some pushback on the idea. It is a common critique, one I received myself over many years, and it comes in two forms. One is an accusation of pain-ignoring. That we do not recognise the suffering of trans people, perhaps even attempt to override their stories. It’s valid that you’re not hurting, but you have to recognise that I do!

And I ask: why should the freedoms permitted to you depend on how much pain you’re in? Does this not entail that, once you’re not hurting anymore, you no longer deserve them—meaning, your destitution must in some way remain eternal?

The second critique is pragmatic: if we push this weird frivolous agency line, we won’t get what we want fast enough. We’ll die on this hill arguing we deserve autonomy while getting no help at all, when we could have at least some benefit now.

But neither Thorn nor I argue against pragmatism. I lied my way through the masturbation quizzes in the psych ward just fine. The argument made in both this essay and hers is not, as the critique fears, for the rapid dissolution of current trans healthcare and for dying on the vanguard of pipe dreams, but rather for a gradual shift of the patriarchal sex-caste construction—for rethinking sex. And there are pragmatic reasons to argue this; we can observe them right now, as fascism builds its momentum around restricting whatever trans freedoms were won with trans-pathology.

Because, I repeat: transition is fundamentally incompatible with patriarchal logics. It cannot be assimilated. Its normalisation jeopardises the basis on which it is allowed a sliver of assimilation. Thus trans-pathology is locked in a cycle whose only variable is the intensity of its eugenic extermination.

It is also a cycle in which I cannot exist with dignity (not that anyone does.) At the height of trans-pathology, I am a crazy resource-thief; at its nadir, I am a mutilated and fallen woman. So I reject this samsara, not just as an ideological dead end, but also a practical one. I reject the austerity of feminised labour; I reject that a hierarchy of resource-consumption is necessary and that no better world can exist. I reject pathetic flailing in front of impassive juries and judges, trying to prove I’m not really crippled or mad—that I don’t deserve to be treated like them. I reject that some people deserve living more than others, or deserve participation in society more than others. I reject being taxed with pain for failing to be a good-enough resource site. I reject the need for performance of justification.

And I hope you do, too.

Recommended Reading

On mad justice: Micha Frazer-Carroll, Mad World: The Politics of Mental Health.

On the treatment of the disabled as an economic and eugenic burden: Beatrice Adler-Bolton and Artie Verkant, Health Communism: A Surplus Manifesto.

[thewisecheerio]

Elden Ring, Rejection of Authority, and Transcendentalism

Elden Ring rejects authority as a final solution to the ills of the world, and then offers a message of transcendental hope that such lowly creatures as ourselves might be able to effect real change.

Elden Ring's world is locked into a seemingly endless cycle of violence. No one—not the humanoids, nor the many demigods and gods—has been able to come up with a solution that would establish an everlasting peace.

Count Ymir points out one of the roots of the cycle, which repeats in character after character. He tells us that the Golden Order's system as a whole is rooted in evil, unhinged from the start. Marika and the Fingers—the "mothers" of the system—birthed it malformed from the very beginning:

I fear that you have borne witness to the whole of it. The Conceits - the hypocrisy - of the world built upon the Erdtree. The follies of men. Their bitter suffering. Is there no hope for redemption? The answer, sadly, is clear. There never was any hope. They were each of them defective. Unhinged, from the start. Marika herself. And the fingers that guided her. And this is what troubles me. No matter our efforts if the roots are rotten, then we have little recourse.

Ymir also laments a similar situation with his son, in which he takes the blame for his son's malformation:

Forgive me, I failed to birth you whole, I failed to be your mother. For now, my dear, sleep soundly.

In both cases, we see him blaming the parent for the malformation of their children.

Ymir says separately that without a "true mother", how are we to flourish?

We all need a mother, do we not? A new mother, a true mother, who will not give birth to further malady.

So using these dialogue together, we can see that he believes that children can only flourish with good guidance from a mother figure, and that conversely children (and systems) birthed of a rotten mother will only continue to do harm when their creators set them up to be harmful from the start.

We see the same theme repeat with Metyr, daughter of the Greater Will. She is abandoned and left without its guidance, according to the Staff of the Great Beyond:

The Mother received signs from the Greater Will from the beyond of the microcosm. Despite being broken and abandoned, she kept waiting for another message to come.

We know that 1) the Fingers she birthed were rotten from the start (from the first block quote) and 2) Ymir's supposes that all of us are left floundering without a parent's guidance. We can then surmise that Metyr waiting on guidance from the Greater Will and never receiving it—while simultaneously refusing to change course and seek guidance within herself or another source—led to this malformation of her children. She kept doing the same thing she'd been doing since last hearing from the Greater Will, and that refusal to change course in the absence of guidance was her downfall.

We see this same cycle of abandonment and refusal to change course repeat with Messmer. An NPC spirit's dialogue begs Marika to come collect her abandoned child, presumably Messmer, to put an end to the violence he is doing—as if his violence might be ended by intervention from an authority he respects. But originally set on his genocidal course by his mother (see his armor set clothing tags), Messmer refuses to change course even after being abandoned, as he tells us:

My purpose standeth unchanged

and then proceeds to beat the ever-loving daylight out of us so that he can go back to spearing Hornsent. It's important to ask, "Why? Why must your purpose stand unchanged?" After all, he could simply end the genocide himself, disbanding the military forces that so respect him. But it's his refusal to do anything but act on the last command he received from his preferred authority figure—his mother—that ensures that his cycle of violence will continue.

So if all of the authority figures are truly rotten in Elden Ring, and those who rely on them end up making grave and violent mistakes, where then are we to turn?

The Mending Rune of Perfect Order might give us a clue:

A rune of transcendental ideology which will attempt to perfect the Golden Order. The current imperfection of the Golden Order, or instability of ideology, can be blamed upon the fickleness of the gods no better than men. That is the fly in the ointment.

The Rune reminds us not to worship gods—or any authority figures—for they are just as fallible as the men who blindly follow them. It explicitly warns us against relying solely on guidance from authority to decide on what we think the right course is.

And so if we cannot rely on authority, where then do we turn?

I think the gameplay gives us two answers. After all, the only ones who can make actual change within the game world are 1) ourselves, and 2) our community, should we choose to summon other players for help. So instead of worshipping any authority figure, hoping that they will simply tell us what to do, we are forced to make decisions with our own and our community's input alone.

Elden Ring challenges you to think critically about what you and your community think is truly right and effective in any given situation. In this way, Elden Ring gives us a thoroughly transcendental message of hope, that such lowly creatures as ourselves and our community might remake the world to be better.