#tell your old folks who use it to do this

[joy-haver]

It’s like this in Louisiana too. I grew up working with guys from the prison on peoples farms and stuff. It was 25cents an hour per prisoner, which I think 20cents went to the prisoner (which is not much). People working in restaurants were often from the prison, people working at the schools. I garuntee you thag if you are in the US some of your food has been grown by prison slaves.

The prison itself is an old plantation. And plantation owners still rent out prisoners for their plantation gardens. A lot of folks in the prison are descendants of the folks who were enslaved at those same plantations.

And I’ll tell you this. I will never believe it when someone says one of those guys escaped. They say one of ‘em escaped and you know that means they forgot to pick them up from a work detail. Cause most of the time that’s what happened. Get 5 or 10 years added cause you missed the bus back to the prison from being rented out as a slave.

I’ll never forget the day they sent one of the higher ups from the prison to come talk to my class in middle school. One of the kids asked him something about “how do you know you always got the right guy?” The prison official said “well, ya know, even if we don’t got the right guy it’s important to keep ‘em locked up. Cause that’s where all the work comes from. Y’all be glad when you hear we have someone a few more years or locked up somebody, cause that’s a lot of work we gon make em do”

[sapphia]

ancestry mexico is the cheapest. reblog to save a wallet

[front-facing-pokemon]

[great-and-small]

When I was in vet school I went to this one lecture that I will never forget. Various clubs would have different guest lecturers come in to talk about relevant topics and since I was in the Wildlife Disease Association club I naturally attended all the wildlife and conservation discussions. Well on this particular occasion, the speakers started off telling us they had been working on a project involving the conservation of lemurs in Madagascar. Lemurs exist only in Madagascar, and they are in real trouble; they’re considered the most endangered group of mammals on Earth. This team of veterinarians was initially assembled to address threats to lemur health and work on conservation solutions to try and save as many lemur species from extinction as possible. As they explored the most present dangers to lemurs they found that although habitat loss was the primary problem for these vulnerable animals, predation by humans was a significant cause of losses as well. The vets realized it was crucial for the hunting of lemurs by native people to stop, but of course this is not so simple a problem.

The local Malagasy people are dealing with extreme poverty and food insecurity, with nearly half of children under five years old suffering from chronic malnutrition. The local people have always subsisted on hunting wildlife for food, and as Madagascar’s wildlife population declines, the people who rely on so-called bushmeat to survive are struggling more and more. People are literally starving.

Our conservation team thought about this a lot. They had initially intended to focus efforts on education but came to understand that this is not an issue arising from a lack of knowledge. For these people it is a question of survival. It doesn’t matter how many times a foreigner tells you not to eat an animal you’ve hunted your entire life, if your child is starving you are going to do everything in your power to keep your family alive.

So the vets changed course. Rather than focus efforts on simply teaching people about lemurs, they decided to try and use veterinary medicine to reduce the underlying issue of food insecurity. They supposed that if a reliable protein source could be introduced for the people who needed it, the dependence on meat from wildlife would greatly decrease. So they got to work establishing new flocks of chickens in the most at-risk communities, and also initiated an aggressive vaccination program for Newcastle disease (an infectious illness of poultry that is of particular concern in this area). They worked with over 600 households to ensure appropriate husbandry and vaccination for every flock, and soon found these communities were being transformed by the introduction of a steady protein source. Families with a healthy flock of chickens were far less likely to hunt wild animals like lemurs, and fewer kids went hungry. Thats what we call a win-win situation.

This chicken vaccine program became just one small part of an amazing conservation outreach initiative in Madagascar that puts local people at the center of everything they do. Helping these vulnerable communities of people helps similarly vulnerable wildlife, always. If we go into a country guns-blazing with that fire for conservation in our hearts and a plan to save native animals, we simply cannot ignore the humans who live around them. Doing so is counterintuitive to creating an effective plan because whether we recognize it or not, humans and animals are inextricably linked in many ways. A true conservation success story is one that doesn’t leave needy humans in its wake, and that is why I think this particular story has stuck with me for so long.

(Source 1)

(Source 2- cool video exploring this initiative from some folks involved)

(Source 3)

[thelawfulchaotic]

Being a jerk to someone part of a different group (especially a morally judged group) is a grand old human tradition.

If violence is infliction of harm, the words you use to inflict harm on people are violent words.

Honestly, folks, consider removing the judgment words from your vocabulary. Not only are they violent, but they’re nonspecific and counterproductive — they invoke defensiveness and hurt.

“Cis guys suck”

vs

“I feel anger towards cis men, *because of* specific behavior x and y”

“Down with cis”

vs

“The people I work with have difficulty understanding gender identity and it often frustrates me because i want to be accepted/I want it just ignored/I find it triggering”

Okay these sentences are a lot longer, yes, much less efficient, but they put the attention where it needs to be: on SPECIFICS. If your friend bro hears you talking about how guys keep manspreading on the bus and hitting on you while you’re listening to music, he won’t be like “wow this is unpleasant for me”, he’ll be like “ah these are things I do not do because I am not an asshole and I know I am still accepted here.”

It also places emphasis on what you’re actually feeling and why you’re actually feeling it. Name! That! Emotion! Many people have trauma and issues recognizing what emotion they are feeling and practice helps; besides that, you’ll be able to focus on what the problem actually is, and maybe think up something specific for a solution. Want Kyle at work to stop making a big deal out of every pronoun? This is not the same problem as Steve now refusing to be in the same room alone with you now that you’ve come out.

And notice in none of these have I said judgment words like “unacceptable behavior” or “being the worst” or other ways to judge. This is not because I have no opinions. It’s because judgment interferes with communication. It’s a tactically nonviolent choice. If you come in thinking of someone as More Bad than you, you will behave in ways that show that judgment, on purpose or not. Even people who do bad things are people and usually have some way they’re reachable. It takes a toolbox that very few of us are taught.

It feels real good to judge people. Judgment and social punishment are reinforcing — to the punisher. You feel good while doing it, so you do it again. It becomes a habit. It becomes a dogma. It’s a trap. Punishment never works, and if it briefly accomplishes its intended purpose, it always comes with a thousand more negative effects down the line. Alienation of your non-in-group friends. Entrenchment in your social groups. Echo chambers. And the inability to make anyone listen to you about anything important.

However, if someone is not engaging with you in good faith, tell them what they’re doing that makes you feel that way, tell them how it makes you feel, and tell them you will not engage further until they come to the table for real. Not punishment, just ending the discussion without any uncertainty.

Hot take but I really do think that some of y’all need to consider how/why/when/how often you’re making fun of straight people for being straight

I do it too, I’m not going to pretend I don’t make jokes about the hets, or the down with cis bus, or whatever

But I recently befriended a cis, straight dude and I have watched him be dismissed, degraded, and unambiguously insulted for the perceived “crime” of being straight — all in queer environments where he is allegedly “completely welcome” and surrounded by “friends”

This guy is not a toxic person! But I have seen him be made to feel so small and like his comfort and safety in those spaces are conditional on his silence and acceptance of being treated like a human dunk zone, and I think that some of y’all have had so much shit from straight/cis people that the second you feel like you’ve got an inch, you want to luxuriate in the perceived catharsis of bullying someone who— actually —doesn’t deserve it

And until he very, very carefully mentioned to me in private that it makes him feel bad, I didn’t even clock that I was involved in doing that, that it had become so instinctive for me to make casual jokes like that, and that— well meaning or otherwise —I had been contributing to an environment that made someone I really really like feel like shit

So, I dunno, I think maybe some of y’all should think about that too

[drchucktingle]

the curve

somehow ive found myself in a position where folks come to chuck in times of strife for encouragement. lets get the big part of this conversation out of the way LOVE IS STILL REAL and that is the thing to remember. that north star remains. today there is more to talk about though

existence pushes towards love community and freedom, because CREATION is what we were built to do and creation thrives with these things as fuel. IT GETS BETTER. LOVE IS REAL. however this change comes in up and down waves. its not a straight line and should not be expected to be

some of these waves are short and small, and some of the slopes are years or decades long. there is no mincing words here, we are entering a massive downward wave. the implications are huge and it is okay to mourn that. FEEL THOSE FEELINGS. it is an important part of the ride

the most telling sign post on our slope is this: tromp won the popular vote (or likely will when the votes are done). we can talk POLITICAL STRATEGY all day about electoral college or who should court the center or the left and on and on but ultimately THIS is the real story

to me it signals a TRUE cultural shift. likely conservatives will have presidency, senate, house, and supreme court. WHAT A GIANT SLOPE. HOLD THE HECK ON because we will be riding it for a while, deep into the pit of the void. hold your buds tight, prove love at the local level

but heres the thing, MASSIVE waves have happened before. theyll happen again. mind numbing slopes into the abyss and great soaring leaps into the sky. in fact the inertia almost ALWAYS causes them to happen right after each other. hippies or punks back in the day, buckaroos now

politically we were trapped in a basically fifty fifty trot for a long time, but it was not always like this (just look at old election maps what the heck). to be honest, tromps map looks like one of those old maps right now. and DANG did COUNTER MOVEMENTS blooms from those times

in other words, THERE WILL BE A COUNTER CULTURE MOVEMENT THAT WE HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE IN OUR LIFETIMES. you are now a rebel for the resistance and the wave that will swing back towards love will awe us in ways we cannot even imagine yet.

but for now, feel those feelings, mourn, prove love, stay safe. do not let the hope i am espousing feel like a distraction from the very real, even deadly consequences of the terrible pit we are plummeting into. it is a horrible day, and FUTURE HOPE does not diminish that, BUT

get ready because that counter culture wave is coming and YOU are a part of it. if you want to shout HECK OFF DEVILS then shout it LOUD, if you want to cry then cry HARD, if you want to love then love with your WHOLE HEART. thats the start of the movement that we dont know yet

when that movement takes shape we will feel the inertia of the curve and it may make us sick from the rollercoaster turn, and that pressure will be uncomfortable and scary, but THEN buckaroo, we will soar, and ill be so dang glad to be holding on tight with you when we do

[malcolmschmitz]

So, there's a dirty little secret in indie publishing a lot of people won't tell you, and if you aren't aware of it, self-publishing feels even scarier than it actually is.

There's a subset of self-published indie authors who write a ludicrous number of books a year, we're talking double digit releases of full novels, and these folks make a lot of money telling you how you can do the same thing. A lot of them feature in breathless puff pieces about how "competitive" self-publishing is as an industry now.

A lot of these authors aren't being completely honest with you, though. They'll give you secrets for time management and plotting and outlining and marketing and what have you. But the way they're able to write, edit, and publish 10+ books a year, by and large, is that they're hiring ghostwriters.

They're using upwork or fiverr to find people to outline, draft, edit, and market their books. Most of them, presumably, do write some of their own stuff! But many "prolific" indie writers are absolutely using ghostwriters to speed up their process, get higher Amazon best-seller ratings, and, bluntly, make more money faster.

When you see some godawful puff piece floating around about how some indie writer is thinking about having to start using AI to "stay competitive in self-publishing", the part the journalist isn't telling you is that the 'indie writer' in question is planning to use AI instead of paying some guy on Upwork to do the drafting.

If you are writing your books the old fashioned way and are trying to build a readerbase who cares about your work, you don't need to use AI to 'stay competitive', because you're not competing with these people. You're playing an entirely different game.

[deciduouswaves]

I think it's also important to note what it means that this is so prevalent in online venues where it's impossible to verify who people are and almost disappears completely in meat space:

This is almost certainly the result of sockpuppet campaigns by TERFs and other strains of fascists trying to insert wedges and split the queer community against itself.

It's the same thing they tried to do against the asexual spectrum folks (of which I am one, demi to be specific). It's the same thing they tried to do against bisexuals and other multispectrum folks (of which I am one). It's the same thing they tried to do against transgender folks (of which I am one) from the rest of the queer community.

And it's what they are doing now by trying to split intersex and trans from each other as well as trans masc and trans femme from each other, trans women from nonbinary from trans men.

They are trying to split the larger queer community which is strong and large and can get real progress made... Into a bunch of warring factions which can't effectively defend themselves. That's also why they are trying to inspire queer people to reject the umbrella term of queer, the most effective collective activist label we've ever had, the term we matched with on banners as a proud community to fight for lives stricken by AIDs and apathy, which we marched with on banners to protest our lack of rights and the criminalization of our love and the criminalization of every kind of sex which isn't that of straight cis perisex people.

Please don't believe there is any kind of widespread rejection within the queer community of any of the categories I mention above. In physical queer communities there may be pockets of such among the terminally online who are reacting to things said online about their groups, but... It is not widespread.

My in-person queer communities are the most life-giving parts of my existence. They are where I see love and solidarity and activism and mutual aid on a scale I see nowhere else.

Don't cut yourself of from all of that because of what you see in online spaces where TERFs have proudly bragged about how effective their sockpuppet campaigns are. Don't help them isolate you. Please.

My own immediate friend group includes half a dozen nonbinary folks at this point: I helped two of them move house recently and one other move some months back. One of my transmasc friends (they/them) who is the strongest person I've ever met comes over and opens jars for me and my wife when we are unable to open them, and I help them with trimming the trees in their backyard because I'm taller than they are. I have a weekly craft night which includes three non binary folks, three transfemmes, two transmascs, a sapphic bisexual cis woman, and a bisexual cis man (and a partridge in a pear tree, sorry, couldn't resist). Several of us are somewhere on the ace spectrum. We arrange labour trading, body doubling, transportation, one time I drove a bicycle an hour from one of my queer friends to another because the former is no longer in a situation where they can commute by bike and was happy to donate their old bike and the other needed a bike to commute (not that transporting the bike was a hardship for me, I was meeting up with both of them anyway, the only difficult thing was figuring out how to put the bike rack on my car).

The point being: we have historically had each other's backs and we still do when it comes to in-person queer communities. Just please, go offline and beyond the bars and the clubs and form friend groups, find or form activist groups, find queer coffee shops and books stores, find your queer elders in your communities.

Please, don't let yourself be isolated and cut off from the lovely support and community which is yours to contribute to and benefit from as queer people. And also, there will be people who tell you that only people with your label will understand you and will stick by you. It's not true. If I had cut myself off from everybody who isn't a trans woman, everyone who isn't demisexual or bisexual or or or... I would be so much the poorer for it in my friends and my community.

Take care out there my queer family:

We may not know each other, but I wish the best for you 💜

I’ve been feeling really sad lately bc after this latest rise in anti transmasc sentiment I’ve had to unfollow some trans women I’ve been following for literal years bc they started reblogging and posting really nasty and very uncharitable things abt transmascs on my feed. And like. These are women whose voices I very much respected and listened to, and to hear them basically say they consider me an enemy who can’t be trusted bc I want to talk about my experiences, but all of our issues are really just splash damage from bigotry directed at them and talking abt my own experiences without acknowlefing that it’s not really meant for me is wrong. It’s like. So hurtful. And it makes me feel really hopeless about the future of the trans community.

How do I fight back against that hopelessness?

it really sucks and i'm sorry you're also being affected by this. i hear people talk about this every single day and i really don't like that this is just becoming a default in the trans community in general. it seems like the default mode of most online queers is hating transmascs and trans men as if that will somehow make cishet society accept them more. it's selfish behavior.

i'm an intersex trans woman and it's hard for me to interact with the online transfem and trans woman communities, because we're seeing a new experience in the form of transradfeminism, where trans women proudly adopt the anti-man ideals from rad feminism and spread it like it's the truth. it's a sad and painful thing to say, but these trans women are doing this because they believe rad fems and women who hate men are the only "Real" women and desperately want to be seen as "real" women. it stems from their personal dysphoria rooted in manhood, how they take out their own dysphoria in being seen as men on men and mascs. it comes from a place of pain, and it is misguided. instead of directing their hatred toward transmisogyny, they keep it inside the community. it's vile.

it's really sad but trans women and transfems are not immune to being indoctrinated by rad fems and terfs. applying those ideals to being trans isn't progressive. dictating who is and isn't trans is an act of policing. feeling as though one has the right to sit there and claim to know every trans experience, claiming to be the authority on transness... it's fascism.

i'm just plain tired of hearing people make fun of afab trans people and trans men and to talk about them like they're a blight on the community. im tired of people saying things like "do we really need more men?" i'm really sick and tired of chronically online people saying that trans men "aren't real trans people". this one really pisses me off. implying that trans womanhood and transfemininity are the only "real" ways to be trans is also identity policing. what is "unreal" about trans men? i'm tired of trans men being treated like they're unreliable. i'm tired of people wearing their misogyny on their sleeve to constantly treat trans men like they are not reliable narrators. i'm tired of people thinking somehow the instant you begin identifying as a man, you benefit from patriarchy.

i'm tired that people seriously think trans men and mascs can't coin terms for their own experiences. why the hell not? they happen, just because you don't see them personally doesn't mean they don't happen. i have met and lived with so many transmascs over the years, and we've all shared very similar stories about the discrimination we face. it's not spitting in the face of anyone to coin terms like transandrophobia and antimasculism. they happen just as often as transmisogyny does, and happily participating in it only increases trans violence

these talking points are old and it sucks to see more and more trans women get indoctrinated into literal rad feminism. hating trans men will not make dysphoria around being seen as a man go away. hating trans men does not dismantle the patriarchy. hating afab people isn't progressive, it's misogynistic. hating intersex trans men isn't progressive, it's transphobic -and- intersexist. trans men deserve so much better than this. trans men are trans. trans men are people. trans men are not evil by virtue of existing

i say try to do your best to connect with and appreciate the other trans men and mascs in your life. we have to stick together. if you have transfem friends who are on your side, make sure to be there for them, too. not every trans woman is like this fortunately, most trans women are very chill about trans manhood. this is a vocal minority of people who want to be fascists and want to control and police other trans people. transradfeminism isn't progressive, it's just as bad as regular rad feminism, if not worse, because now there's an even bigger focus on hating trans people.

hating other trans people will never get you ahead in cisheteronormative society. try to take care of yourself as best as you can. really relish trans joy when you experience it. take time to affirm your gender. know that manhood is a blessing. manhood is beautiful. it is varied, nuanced, and complex. it is a wonderful thing to experience. men are not evil. men are not bad. we should never remove the accountability from individuals.

hating trans men makes you transphobic. there's just no other way to it. whether or not you accept that it's called transandrophobia, it is still transphobia, and you really should care. the trans community isn't here for just 1 type of trans person. it's here for all of us. good luck, stay safe out there. be good to yourself

[jadevine]

Preindustrial travel, and long explanations on why different distances are like that

Update March 1, 2024: Hey there folks, here's yet another update! I reposted Part 2a (the "medieval warhorses" tangent) to my writing blog, and I went down MORE of the horse-knowledge rabbit hole! https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/741423906984951808/my-post-got-cut-off-so-i-added-the-rest-of-it Update Jan 30, 2024: Hey folks, I've posted the updated version of this post on my blog, so I don't have to keep frantically telling everyone "hey, that's the old version of this post!" https://thebalangay.wordpress.com/2024/01/29/preindustrial-travel-times-part-1/

I should get the posts about army travel times and camp followers reformatted and posted to my blog around the end of the week, so I'll filter through my extremely tangled thread for them.

Part 2 - Preindustrial ARMY travel times: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask

Part 2a - How realistic warhorses look and act, because the myth of "all knights were mounted on huge clunky draft horses" just refuses to die: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/732043691180605440/helpful-things-for-action-writers-to-remember

Part 3 - Additional note about camp followers being regular workers AND sex-workers: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/740604203134828544/reblogging-the-time-looped-version-of-my

--

I saw a post on my main blog about how hiking groups need to keep pace with their slowest member, but many hikers mistakenly think that the point of hiking is "get from Point A to Point B as fast as possible" instead of "spending time outdoors in nature with friends," and then they complain that a new/less-experienced/sick/disabled hiker is spoiling their time-frame by constantly needing breaks, or huffing and puffing to catch up.

I run into a related question of "how long does it take to travel from Point A to Point B on horseback?" a lot, as a fantasy writer who wants to be SEMI-realistic; in the Western world at least, our post-industrial minds have largely forgotten what it's like to travel, both on our own feet and in groups.

People ask the new writer, "well, who in your cast is traveling? Is getting to Point B an emergency or not? What time of year is it?", and the newbies often get confused as to why they need so much information for "travel times." Maybe new writers see lists of "preindustrial travel times" like a primitive version of Google Maps, where all you need to do is plug in Point A and Point B.

But see, Google Maps DOES account for traveling delays, like different routes, constructions, accidents, and weather; you as the person will also need to figure in whether you're driving a car versus taking a bus/train, and so you'll need to figure out parking time or waiting time for the bus/train to actually GET THERE.

The difference between us and preindustrial travelers is that 1) we can outsource the calculations now, 2) we often travel for FUN instead of necessity.

The general rule of thumb for preindustrial times is that a healthy and prime-aged adult on foot, or a rider/horse pair of fit and prime-aged adults, can usually make 20-30 miles per day, in fair weather and on good terrain.

Why is this so specific? Because not everyone in preindustrial times was fit, not everyone was healthy, not everyone was between the ages of 20-35ish, and not everyone had nice clear skies and good terrain to travel on.

If you are too far below 18 years old or too far past 40, at best you will need either a slower pace or more frequent breaks to cover the same distance, and at worst you'll cut the travel distance in half to 10 or so miles. Too much walking is VERY BAD on too-young/old knees, and teenagers or very short adults may just have short legs even if they're fine with 8-10 hours of actual walking. Young children may get sick of walking and pitch a fit because THEY'RE TIREDDDDDDDDDD, and then you might need to stay put while they cry it out, or an adult may sigh and haul them over their shoulder (and therefore be weighed down by about 50lbs of Angry Child).

Heavy forests, wetlands and rocky hills/mountains are also going to be a much shorter "distance" per day. For forests or wetlands, you have to account for a lot of villagers going "who's gonna cut down acres of trees for one road? NOT ME," or "who's gonna drain acres of swamp for one road? NOT ME." Mountainous regions have their traveling time eaten by going UP, or finding a safer path that goes AROUND, so by the time you're done slogging through drier patches of wetlands or squeezing through trees, a deceptively short 10-15 miles in rough terrain might take you a whole day to walk instead of the usual half-day.

If you are traveling in freezing winters or during a rainstorm (and this inherently means you HAVE NO CHOICE, because nobody in preindustrial times would travel in bad weather if they could help it), you run the high risk of losing your way and then dying of exposure or slipping and breaking your neck, just a few miles out of the town/village.

Traveling in TOO-HOT weather is just as bad, because pushing yourself too hard and getting dehydrated at noon in the tropics will literally kill you. It's called heat-STROKE, not "heat-PARTY."

And now for the upper range of "traveling on horseback!"

Fully mounted groups can usually make 30-40 miles per day between Point A and Point B, but I find there are two unspoken requirements: "Point B must have enough food for all those people and horses," and "the mounted party DOESN'T need to keep pace with foot soldiers, camp followers, or supply wagons."

This means your mounted party would be traveling to 1) a rendezvous point like an ally's camp or a noble's castle, or 2) a town/city with plenty of inns. Maybe they're not literally going 30-40 miles in one trip, but they're scouting the area for 15-20 miles and then returning to their main group. Perhaps they'd be going to an allied village, but even a relatively small group of 10-20 warhorses will need 10-20 pounds of grain EACH and 20-30 pounds of hay EACH. 100-400 pounds of grain and 200-600 pounds of hay for the horses alone means that you need to stash supplies at the village beforehand, or the village needs to be a very large/prosperous one to have a guaranteed large surplus of food.

A dead sprint of 50-60 miles per day is possible for a preindustrial mounted pair, IF YOU REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO. Moreover, that is for ONE day. Many articles agree that 40 miles per day is already a hard ride, so 50-60 miles is REALLY pushing the envelope on horse and rider limits.

NOTE: While modern-day endurance rides routinely go for 50-100 miles in one day, remember that a preindustrial rider will not have the medical/logistical support that a modern endurance rider and their horse does.

If you say "they went fifty miles in a day" in most preindustrial times, the horse and rider's bodies will get wrecked. Either the person, their horse, or both, risk dying of exhaustion or getting disabled from the strain.

Whether you and your horse are fit enough to handle it and "only" have several days of defenselessness from severe pain/fatigue (and thus rely on family/friends to help you out), or you die as a heroic sacrifice, or you aren't QUITE fit enough and become disabled, or you get flat-out saved by magic or another rider who volunteers to go the other half, going past 40 miles in a day is a "Gondor Calls For Aid" level of emergency.

As a writer, I feel this kind of feat should be placed VERY carefully in a story: Either at the beginning to kick the plot off, at the climax to turn the tide, or at the end.

Preindustrial people were people--some treated their horses as tools/vehicles, and didn't care if they were killed or disabled by pushing them to their limits, but others very much cared for their horses. They needed to keep them in working condition for about 15-20 years, and they would not dream of doing this without a VERY good reason.

—

UPDATE January 13: Several people have gotten curious and looked at maps, to find out how a lot of cities are indeed spread out at a nice distance of 20-30 miles apart! I love getting people interested in my hyperfixations, lol.

But remember that this is the space between CITIES AND TOWNS. There should never be a 20-mile stretch of empty wilderness between City A and Town B, unless your world explains why folks are able to build a city in the middle of nowhere, or if something has specifically gone wrong to wipe out its supporting villages!

Period pieces often portray a shining city rising from a sea of picturesque empty land, without a single grain field or cow pasture in sight, but that city would starve to death very quickly in preindustrial times.

Why? Because as Bret Devereaux mentions in his “Lonely Cities” article (https://acoup.blog/2019/07/12/collections-the-lonely-city-part-i-the-ideal-city/), preindustrial cities and towns must have nearby villages (and even smaller towns, if large and prosperous enough!) to grow their food for them.

The settlements around a city will usually be scattered a few miles apart from each other, usually clustered along the roads to the city gates. Those villages and towns at the halfway point between cities (say 10-15 miles) are going to be essential stops for older/sick folks, merchants with cargo, and large groups like noble’s retinues and army forces.

Preindustrial armies and large noble retinues usually can’t make it far past 10-12 miles per day, as denoted in my addition to this post. (https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask )

[pedroscurls]

runaway bride (one-shot)

summary: on the day of your wedding, you find out that your maid of honor and husband-to-be has been hooking up behind your back... and you run directly into the arms of a stranger to help you cope with the sudden betrayal. pairing: old man!logan x fem!reader content warnings: smut (18+, mdni), oral - f receiving, dirty talk, manhandling, light choking, unprotected p in v sex (be safe folks!), doggy style, cowgirl, public sex in his limo, creampie but logan just keeps going, mentions of cheating (but not from logan), toxic relationship / friendship, implied age gap (but no mention of how old reader is), no use of y/n. word count: 3.6k a/n: ok, this is complete filth. i'm not even sure how this story came about or how it even came to mind, but here it is... i wanted to write old man logan so badly so what better way to do that is to write a smutty one-shot???

“Are you fucking serious?!” you exclaim, having opened the door to see your fiancé and your maid of honor in a heated kiss, hands exploring each other’s bodies. They both pull away from each other abruptly, eyes widening as the sudden realization of getting caught now settling in.

“Baby, it’s not–”

“Fucking save it.” You remove your engagement ring and toss it in his general direction, tears trickling the corners of your eyes. 

Your best friend tries to step forward, but you raise your hand in the air and glare at her. “Don’t fucking get near me or I will lay you on your ass.”

“I’m sorry–” your fiancé begins to say.

“We’re done.” you interrupt, anger fuming in your veins. “You can go out there and tell everyone that the wedding’s canceled because fuck you,” you tell him and then point to your maid of honor, your best friend of over fifteen years. “And fuck you.” 

You don’t even bother to hear their protests, already having turned on your heel and left the building without telling anyone. You see two limos parked out front, knowing that one belonged to your bridal party and the other belonging to your fiancé and his groomsmen. You don’t have time to think which one was the limo you rode in, already wanting to leave far, far away from here. 

Pulling open the door, you slide inside and then finally allow yourself to let the tears fall. You bury your face in your hands, your breaths coming in pants. 

“Just– Just take me anywhere else but here,” you tell the driver, looking up and expecting to see the same driver from this morning. When you realize it’s someone else entirely, you bite your lower lip and shake your head. Of fucking course you chose the limo that your fiancé had been in.

“A bit early to be leaving your own wedding, isn’t it?” he says, looking at you from the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, well, the wedding is off. Can you just take me away from here?” 

Logan clears his throat. It doesn’t take a genius to know what might have happened, but he also knows that you’re not the one who he’s meant to drive and he’s certainly aware that you aren’t the one who’s going to be paying him either. 

“Listen, darlin’, I’m supposed to be driving the groom and–”

“Well, he can go fuck himself. Can you please just drive?”

“Last I checked, he’s paying me and you ain’t.”

“Oh, he’s gonna still pay you. Now, drive.” you tell him, holding his gaze. “Please.”

Logan stares at you. He isn’t sure what exactly happened, but based on the conversations he heard the groom and groomsmen having earlier that morning, he has some idea that it had to do with the groom cheating on you. He just lets out a grunt and then starts the engine, pulling away from the curb and driving away from the venue.

He doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go or where you want to go, so he just drives. Logan continuously looks at you from the rearview mirror, now fully taking in your features. Logan wasn’t a man who ever cheated on a woman he was with; he’s always been so loyal, especially to the ones he cares about the most. He never understood why men (and women) cheat, why they just couldn’t end the relationship if they were no longer happy. 

He hears you sniffling from the backseat and Logan slowly comes to a stop at a red light. He turns his head to look at you from over his shoulder. “Bub, you gotta tell me where you wanna go or else I’m just gonna keep charging him.”

“Good. Let’s take a trip to fucking Mexico and make him pay for it,” you say through gritted teeth. 

Logan lets out an amused chuckle and then presses lightly on the gas once the light turns green. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel as he uses his free hand to enter Mexico on his phone and–

“Wait, I wasn’t serious.”

“No? Then, where do you wanna go, darlin’?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Anywhere but here.” you mumble to yourself.

Logan nods to himself and then sets his focus on the road ahead of him. He doesn’t know where to go, but he does find that he doesn’t want this ride to end. Even in the silence, he finds your presence soothing, comforting. He knows you’re having a shitty day – after all, you probably had woken up this morning expecting to be married by the end of today. 

He does keep stealing glances at you, finding you completely captivating. Even when your eyes meet his from the rearview mirror, Logan feels like he had been caught staring and a blush slowly blooms across the side of his neck. He’s too old to be feeling like this, like some kind of a teenager with a crush on the most beautiful girl who’s out of his league.

“How about some food?” Logan asks after driving for about twenty minutes. “Are you hungry?” 

“No.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “Wanna go to a bar? Drink your problems away?”

“No.”

Logan tightens his jaw and then pulls into a gas station, putting the car in park as he turns around to look at you. You bite your lower lip, getting a good view of just how handsome your driver is. He’s definitely older than you, gray in his beard and hair, crow’s feet at his eyes, but you can’t help the attraction you feel towards him. Suddenly, you’re well aware that you’re staring too long at him because when you finally meet his eyes, he’s smirking. 

“Why’d we stop?” you ask.

“Gotta fill up, especially if I don’t know how long I’ll be driving you around,” Logan replies. “You want anything from inside?” 

Just as the question leaves his lips, you climb out from the backseat and walk inside. Logan sighs and steps out of the limo as he follows you into the small store. He towers over you and he can’t help but get a good look at the dress you’re wearing. You look so angelic, so beautiful and serene – how could anyone think that there’s better than you? 

“Get whatever you want,” Logan calls out and you suddenly turn around to look up at him. He watches your lower lip pull itself between your teeth, sees your eyes take in his frame from top to bottom, and suddenly, he feels very shy under your gaze. Logan clears his throat, eyes narrowing. “What?” 

“Nothing,” you say, tilting your head up at him. “Just didn’t think… Well, not all limo drivers look like you.” 

“Not all limo drivers are like me either,” he mutters to himself. “Right. I’ll be up at the front. Just meet me there once you’re ready.” Then, Logan turns on his heel and slowly limps his way to the front, only glancing over his shoulder to briefly look at you. Your back’s already turned as you reach for a few items in the freezer section. 

After a few minutes, you meet Logan at the front of the store and drop two bottles of water and a cherry-flavored popsicle. Logan eyes you suspiciously, but you keep your eyes trained on your feet. He has to wonder if your mind is drifting to your fiancé. Once Logan pays the cashier, he motions for you to walk ahead of him with a slight nod and then he follows you outside. Logan quickly limps to the door and opens it for you, staring down at you. 

“Here,” you tell him, handing him one of the bottle of waters. 

Logan arches a brow. “Thanks,” he mumbles, the close proximity almost making him weak in the knees. His eyes deviate to your cleavage, clearing his throat when his mind begins to drift. All Logan can think about is seeing you come undone underneath him, trembling and moaning because of him. He has to take a step back, has to create some distance between your bodies. 

You then remove the wrapping of the popsicle and then wrap your lips around it, the deep red popsicle now coloring your lips. You keep your eyes locked on his and smile mischievously before you climb back inside. Logan shuts the door once you’re inside, the image of your lips around the popsicle giving him a clear image of your lips wrapping around his–

He hears the window roll itself down and Logan quickly walks around to the other side to fill up the tank, not bothering to look into the backseat as he feels the center of his black pants begin to tighten with each passing second. 

Logan hasn’t been intimate in a very long time, his main concern being Charles and his own health, but you… Well, you’re stirring something in Logan that he thought lay dormant. He craves you and he knows that you’re also very vulnerable, having just ran away from your own wedding after finding out your fiancé was cheating on you. Logan doesn’t want to take advantage of you, despite sensing that you might want him too. 

Once the tank is filled up, Logan then walks back to the driver’s seat and climbs in, starting the car. He looks at you from the rearview mirror, still sucking on the fucking popsicle with a dark gaze in your eyes. 

“Where to?” he says, not realizing how quiet his voice comes out.

“Anywhere.”

“Making it real difficult for me, bub.”

You pull the popsicle away from your mouth a quiet pop! and then lets a small smile line your lips, deeply red from your cherry-flavored popsicle. Logan’s hands grip the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white and his claws threatening to come out as a result. 

“Fine. How about your place?” 

Logan lets out a quiet cough, not thinking that you’d be so forward and straight to the point. He shakes his head and then looks over at you from over his shoulder. “Don’t think that’s a good idea, darlin’. You’re only going to regret it and–”

“Listen, I just found out my fiancé and maid of honor were screwing around behind my back. The only regret I have right now is saying yes to marry that man and being friends with that woman. I don’t think I’m going to regret fucking you, though.”

Logan isn’t used to women saying what they want as bluntly as you do and it excites him. He doesn’t answer, just begins driving away from the gas station. He’s so hard beneath his pants, glancing over at you and seeing your eyes locked completely on his. He pulls up into an abandoned parking lot and parks the car, thankful that the windows on his limo are tinted. Logan climbs out from the driver’s seat and then opens the door to the backseat, gently reaching out to take the popsicle from your hands and tossing it over his shoulder. 

“Let’s have you suck something else, huh, darlin’?” 

You grin and then gently tug on the lapel of his jacket, pulling him inside with you as you shut the door behind him. You’re glad that the backseat of his limo is actually rather spacious because now that he’s hovering above you, he seems so much bigger than you, so much more broad. Your hands immediately move across his chest, feeling the chiseled muscles underneath your fingertips.

“I don’t normally do this,” Logan groans, feeling your lips move along the side of his neck, teeth grazing his skin.

“And what’s that? Fuck your passengers?” 

He growls lowly, moving his strong hands to your hips and pressing himself firmly against your lower half as he settles himself between your legs. “You always got a mouth on you?” 

You smirk and pull the ends of your dress higher up your legs until you bunch it at your hips, your white lace panties in full view for him. “Only when I want something.”

“Yeah, and what do you want?” Logan asks, hands moving to play with the waistband of your panties. 

“A distraction,” you grip the lapels of his jacket and bring him down to press your lips against his. He growls against your lips and tugs down your panties, hand moving quickly to your folds and running the length of his finger across your wet heat. 

Logan slides two fingers into you, not giving you time to get used to his thick digits. You let out a quiet gasp, pulling away from his lips to toss your head back at the intrusion. Logan moves you to sit back against the seat as he lies on his abdomen, lowering himself until his head settles between your legs. 

Your eyes widen at the sight of him between your legs, your fiancé having never done this for you. When you feel his mouth latch onto your clit, his tongue flicking against your bundle of nerves repeatedly as his fingers thrust in and out you, you have to let out a loud moan. Your hands move to his hair, gripping it tightly as your arousal drips onto the leather seat. 

Logan pulls his fingers out of you and laps at your juices. He stares up at you, watching as you toss your head back in ecstasy, your mouth agape as continuous moans escape your lips, and he can feel your walls begin to tremble, begin to tighten around his tongue. Logan knows his joints and muscles are going to ache after this, but he knows it’s going to be worth it. Knows that he’s going to want to do this again with you. 

With his free hand, Logan undoes the buckle on his belt, followed by undoing the zipper and button on his pants. He pushes his slacks and boxers down his legs to relieve the pressure against his manhood. He pulls back to look up at you, his chin and beard dripping wet from your slickness. 

“Gonna fuck you now,” he growls. 

“About fucking time.” 

Logan narrows his eyes and moves up your body, hand coming up to rest on your throat. He leans down and gently nips at your jawline until his forehead rests against yours, eyes staring deeply into your own. 

“You like this, don’t you, bub?” Logan whispers huskily, the grip around your throat tightening to add a bit of pressure. You gasp, eyes staring up at him as you feel the tip of his length brush against you repeatedly. The grip around your throat only makes you wetter and you lift your hips impatiently, chasing his hardened length to slide down onto him.

“So impatient,” he grins. Logan releases his grip around your throat and then grabs your hips, turning you over onto your stomach. He grabs you roughly, pulling you back into him as he grips the fabric of your dress. He pulls you to prop yourself on your hands on knees as he kneels behind you, gripping the base of his manhood as he rubs his tip along the length of your sex. 

“Please!” you say impatiently, trying to push back against him. 

Logan smirks and then pushes himself into your tight heat, not wasting any time in filling you to the hilt. He groans at your wetness, at the warmthness of your walls, the tight hold it has around his girth. He pulls back to his tip, only to slam back into you. Logan was telling the truth that he’s never done this before. Driving had only been a way for him to get extra cash, to keep his mind busy, and he certainly didn’t have time for this, but now he can’t even imagine parting ways with you after this. 

His thrusts continue, your walls sliding along his manhood and milking him with every movement. Logan moves to rest his chest firmly against your back, his lips hovering near your ear as you moan continuously with each thrust he delivers. 

“This what you wanted, huh, bub?” Logan growls, gently nipping at you earlobe. “Wanted me to fuck you like this?” He thrusts roughly into you, his skin slapping against yours. 

“Y–Yes!” you exclaim, slowly pushing your own hips back into his. Logan groans, leaning away from you and briefly pausing his movements to watch you move along him. He grunts to himself, lightly slapping your backside as he watches you push back against him. 

Logan watches himself disappear within your depths, only to reappear when you pull back, his entire length glistening with your arousal. He groans to himself and gently pulls out of you. You’re about to protest when he sits against the backseat and grabs you by the hips, placing you to sit on his lap. He grips your dress and rips it in half, causing a loud gasp of surprise to leave your lips. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Fuck the dress,” you reassure him. “I didn’t pay for it anyway.” 

Logan smirks and then feels you lower yourself down onto him, groaning at your tight walls wrapping itself once more around him. He reaches around and undoes your white lace bra, watching it fall from your body as you now sit firmly on his lap, completely naked and exposed for him. 

“Fuck me,” he grunts, watching your breasts bounce with your movements. He feels your hands begin to undo the buttons on his white button down shirt, removing it from his body. Today, he opted to forgo his usual white tank top, so when you lean in to press your chest against his, he can’t help but groan at the sensation of your erect nipples pressing firmly against him.

Logan feels your walls begin to tremble with each movement and he leans in to press his lips against yours, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. With one hand, he moves to grip your throat lightly, sliding his tongue past your lips when you let out a loud moan. He stares up at you, thrusting his hips upwards when your body begins to shake and the grip around your throat only tightens a smidge to cause pressure. 

Your eyes shut tightly and you reach down to grip his shoulders, slamming yourself firmly onto his lap as he feels you to the hilt. Logan doesn’t falter his movements though, chasing his own release. It comes out of nowhere there, hand dropping from the grip around your throat to grab his base, thrusting upwards once, twice, before he pulls out to see his release trickle out of you. 

You’re breathing heavily and you’re looking at him with a small smile and hooded eyes. When he looks down between your legs, his come continuing to trickle down your leg, it only ignites a fire inside of him and he suddenly feels hard again. 

“One more, bub,” Logan growls. “One more.” He thrusts his tip inside of you, grunting lowly before he slides back into you, hands gripping the meat of flesh on your thighs as he feels the stickiness of your arousal mixed in with his come against the base of his lower half. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging them down his arms as your walls are already overly sensitive. Logan doesn’t falter, but his thrusts do become more erratic. “Oh god,” you whimper, trying to pull yourself away from him, but Logan holds you firm on his lap, making you take his assault on you. 

You wanted a distraction and you were certainly getting it. 

Logan leans up and gently nips at your jawline as he plants his feet on the floor of his limo, driving his hips further upwards. He does this a few more times before he holds you against him, releasing into you a second time as he paints your walls with his thick spend. He’s breathing heavily, forehead resting against your chest as his hands on your thighs move to rest on your hips. 

“I uh, fuck,” he mumbles. “I should have asked first and–”

“Stop,” you interrupt. “I like that I can still feel you inside of me,” you smile, feeling him slowly pull out. Even though you miss his girth, his release remains and fills you up. You reach down to wipe the trickle of his come off your inner leg and capture it on the pads of your fingertips. You stare into his eyes and then bring your fingers to your lips, wrapping your lips around it and sucking his release off of it. “Mmm, yum.”

Logan growls, feeling his length stir awake once more. “That want you wanted?” he asks again. “A distraction?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “But I think I’m gonna want more distractions from you.”

Logan smirks. “That so, bub?”

“Oh yeah, I need someone to help me through this breakup,” you say honestly. “As long as that’s okay with you…”

Logan nods and then looks down at your exposed front, hand coming up to slowly knead your breast into the pit of his palm. “Yeah, baby. That’s more than okay with me.”

You grin excitedly, letting out a quiet whimper. “So… Your place then?”

“My place,” he confirms. “But how about you ride up front with me?” 

“Yes, please. I do want a taste of you,” you bite your lower lip, hand moving to gently run your fingertip along the length of his manhood. “And I want to do it while you’re driving.”

Logan groans. “Oh, you’re fucking naughty, aren’t you?” 

You nod shyly, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’ve been suppressed,” you admit. “My sex life has been… boring, to say the least.” 

“Blessing in disguise,” Logan points out. “Thank god you’re not getting married to a man who doesn’t take care of your needs.” He leans in and then pecks your lips. “Don’t worry, though, bub. I’m happy to take care of you until then.” 

---

forever taglist: @haytchee @wolverigrl

[honeykaes]

futile cure

mara-struck!jing yuan x reader II 4.5k

warning: smut, 18+ content, minors do not interact, afab!reader with no pronouns, heavy angst, multiple major character deaths, can be read as yandere, monsterfucking, handjob, blowjob, deep throating, creampie, rough sex, info might be wrong because i haven’t completed 2.4 story quest yet, unedited

synopsis: with jing yuan’s blessing, you left the xianzhou’s luofu to join the astral express crew and follow the trailblaze. one hundred years later, the newly appointed general, yanqing reached out to you in desperation. Your former boyfriend is now mara-stricken

The air around the Express was lively as folks chimed with champagne, laughter, and music. Another world was saved, and another Stellaron crisis was averted. 

You sat at a table with two others who had been on the Express for the longest time, Dan Heng, the incarnation of the once-feared Dan Feng, and the living Stellaron himself, Caelus.

The three of you were focused on the 3 young crew members that recently joined, bickering and teasing one another in the corner of the train car. The corner’s of Dan Heng’s lips curved up, admiring the young group. His olive eyes drifted down to his cup, swishing the liquid side to side in thought.

“Y’know they’re bickering the same way you and March used to,” Dan Heng murmured. Caelus chuckled, leaning his elbow against the table. He rested his hand against his cheek in amusement.

“Kinda weird, we're the old ones now. Does that make me Mr. Yang and you Miss Himeko?” Caelus joked. You rolled your eyes at his response.

“Yeah, you wish. You still act as goofy and immature as ever, Caelus,” you retorted. Dan Heng sighed, looking off at the group of young travelers again.

“...I miss them. Miss Himeko, Mr. Yang, March…” he trailed off. The three of you remained silent as music played out, along with whatever the other group was talking about. Seeing them so happy after completing their second mission brought nostalgia. It seemed just yesterday that you all were in their positions.

Your gaze softened, looking at Pom Pom reprimanding them for being too loud. 

”I do too. Sometimes I wish all lifeforms had the same lifespan.” you murmured, looking at your own reflection in your drink. Caelus' face momentarily lit up, as an idea popped into the eccentric's head.

“Y'know what. Why don’t we go back to one of the worlds we used to like old times! Penacony! Jarilo-IV! Oh! Even your hometowns in Xianzhou Alliance’s Luofu!” Caelus suggested. Your heart churned hearing him say the Luofu. It had been decades since the crisis there where you had left to join the Astral Express, leaving your former boyfriend behind with his blessing.

You could still remember his soft gaze and sad smile, holding his hand with your own:

“The heart of a gentleman cares not about his own selfish desires, but of all that it encompasses from his breadth of heart.”

You hadn’t seen Jing Yuan in ages. You had heard he had retired and his apprentice—now grown—took the mantle of his position but you were too busy saving a world to attend the ceremony.

”...Personally, I prefer not to. However, (Y/n), I think it might be beneficial for you. Catch up on your old friends and see him again might do you some good. Although we are trailblazers, some of us with homes can get homesick. These opportunities are rare,” Dan Heng suggested.

Caelus quickly grabbed his drink, shooting it back and slamming it back down to the table. 

”Exactly! So, are we in agreement to go to the Luofu?” Caelus murmured, nudging you. You opened your mouth to retort to the drunken human stellaron but your phone buzzed in your back pocket. Your elbow nudged his stomach as he groaned before you lifted your phone up to see the message.

Your eyes widened, lips parted seeing the message on your phone. It was from Yanqing. You hadn’t spoken to him in years.

As the general, he rarely reached out to you. Even prior to his promotion, you could tell he held some animosity towards you for choosing the path of the Trailblaze and leaving his master, Jing Yuan. 

You couldn’t blame the child, just bore his unapproving gaze with a sad smile.

”Please come to the Luofu when you can. It’s important and I need your help. Only you can help him.”

Your heart sank as your grip on your device tightened. Out of all scenarios, there was one you could think of that Yanqing would bite his pride and reach out to you. But part of you didn’t want to believe it. It would make it real.

”What are you so focused on all of a sudden?” Caelus murmured, looking over your shoulder before getting quiet. You pulled your phone back and placed it on the table. Caelus peered at you with sympathetic eyes as Dan Heng’s narrowed in confusion.

“(Y/n)?” he asked, confused about your sudden somber and worried expression. You get up from your seat, the joy of the celebration completely gone leaving nothing but fear, longing, regret, and worry.

”Pom Pom,” you called out. The group of young travelers looked at you, noticing the change of your tone.  The small conductor turned to you, leaning his head to the side in confusion.

“Yes, Mx (Y/n)?”

“Please set a course to head to the Xianzhou's Luofu.”

Docking at the Luofu ship you could feel your heart beating a mile per minute. You felt light-hearted, stomach churning from the amount of anxiety bubbling throughout your body. Yanqing would only reach out to you for something serious.

Had something happened to him? He seemed fine when you last visited, but that was decades ago…

”Jing Yuan…” you muttered, looking down on the ground. Dan Heng had convinced the group to stay on the Express for the time being. The boys you had known for so long knew you wanted to handle this alone. You’d have to thank him later.

Disembarking alone onto the ship, you could barely focus on the hustle and bustle of the square. Your pace was fast, gaze scanning and looking for someone familiar.

You finally focused on the tall young man with arms. His hair was long and tight in a low ponytail. When he opened his eyes, the familiar amber greeted you back. Your eyes softened as you approached him.

“Yanqing! you grew up. Oh! Wait, I guess I should call you General Yanqing now,” you chuckled awkwardly. Yanqing forced a smile, his brow furrowed from stress. You could see the bags under his eyes, from countless restless nights. Whatever this was, it was truly getting to the newly appointed general. 

“Yanqing, what’s wrong…” you asked. The Cloud Knights adjacent to him looked to the General as he sighed.

”Let’s speak in my office, away from noisy ears and gazes,” he replied. You were caught off guard, by how deep his voice was. He had changed so much that the young apprentice who used to always come to you about stories of Jing Yuan.

As the two of you reached his office, you noticed a woman sitting on his desk. Your eyes narrowed trying to pinpoint where you recognized her, before a small smile appeared on your face.

”Yunli? Is that you?” you asked. Her eyes lit up as she gave you a polite smile..

 “(Y/n), it’s nice to see you. I hope this blockhead hasn’t been too rude to you,” she replied. Yanqing grunted at her response.

”Not the time, Yunli!: he barked. She rolled her eyes, unamused at the blond.

”I don’t care!” she seethed. “The idiot is still prideful but I was hoping he, at least, bit his pride and contacted you.”

She strummed her hand along the wooden desk in irritation. You could see a silver band on her finger. Once again, it seems you missed a lot in your time Trailblazing. You turned to look at Yanqing once more.

“Yanqing, what’s going on?” you asked again. Yanqing massaged his brow, lips parting as he tried to find the right words.

”Master, he…” he struggled. “You know about Jingliu, his master, right?” 

Your eyebrow furrowed. You could recall his somber face as he told you stories about her. She was an accomplished warrior who was a part of the High Cloud Quintet. Dan Feng's sin led him to his next incarnation, Baiheng died, a newly immortal Yingxing became the barely quelled mara-stricken Stelleron Hunter Blade, and Jingliu got mara-struck as well and went mad…

Leaving Jing Yuan by himself. 

But it was not as though you could judge, you ended up leaving him too.

”Yes…”

”...Jing Yuan is mara-struck.”

Time seemed to pause as those words continued to ring out. Mara-struck? Mara-struck? Haha no. He couldn’t…could he really? This is what you feared when you got that message from Yanqing.

”What do you mean by that,” you whispered, struggling to process the information. Yanqing looked at Yunli and sighed.

“When Jing Yuan retired, it was because the mara was getting to him and affecting his cognitive abilities,” he responded. “To not cause panic with the public, I and a few others said he had retired before I was promoted as the new General.”

You balled your fists, nails digging into the flesh of your palms.

”...He had been suffering for that long and you didn’t tell me Yanqing!” you out. Yanqing tightened his jaw, Adam's Apple bobbing as he tried quelling his dry throat in shame.

“You were so busy going off and traveling! I didn’t think you cared or had the time to care!” he shouted back.

”You should have told me! I would have come back to the Luofu for him!” you barked back. Yanqing’s nostrils flared as he took a step forward.

”Yet you still left the Luofu despite Master!” he shouted back. The two of you stared each other down. Your chests were heaving, ready to yell, shout, and bicker; whatever insult and claims that came next but neither one retorted. Soon, the anger in both of your eyes subsided back into pain and shame. Both of your gazes shifted away.

”...Where is he” you whispered, eyes fluttering to stop any tears threatening to drip down.

”.Held in a secure solitary confinement. The knights I have patrolling that area have said he has been getting more aggressive. We don’t think we have much time before he tries to escape,” Yanqing admitted.

It was beginning to get harder to bat away the tears as you shook your head at the new information. You always thought you would greet Jing Yuan with that lazy smile of his again. Not…a monster, an abomination of Yaoshi’s. 

”.What do you want me to do then?” you asked. Yanqing paused as Yunli sighed and got up from her seat, walking next to him. 

”Those soldiers have heard him call your name at night. For some reason, your name has a soothing effect on him. Makes him…almost normal again. As normal as you can get being mara-struck, I guess,” Yunli revealed.

Her hands weaved with Yanqing who struggled to come up with words. Yunli clicked her tongue gazing at him before turning back to you.

”.Yanqing, thought it was best for you to come. As a last effort to try to quell the mara within him. If this doesn’t work, he will be forced to subdue his master to protect the Luofu and Xianzhou Alliance,” she murmured. Yanqing's eyes closed at Yunli’s blunt words. 

You looked down on the ground. 

Jing Yuan. Jing Yuan who always pulled you back in bed, lazily cuddling with you whenever it was time for you two to get up. Jing Yuan who would tease you with Tanghulu, stealing the last fruit without you realizing it. Jing Yuan who got you to hand the sparrows that seemingly always loved to land on him. 

Jing Yuan whose lips dragged across your ear, whispering how much he admired you.

Jing Yuan who was the first person to tell you they loved you.

“Mx (Y/n)?” Yunli called out. You snapped out of your thoughts, quickly wiping away the tears that managed to spill out.

“Yes! Sorry, Yunli. Continue…. “ you replied. Although Yunli’s mouth opened to respond the next words were not heard but Yanqing

”Will you go and see him, please…” Yanqing begged in a broken whisper. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes.

”Yes, but with stipulations…”

Out of the places of the Luofu, you had explored and aventured, this was the first place you had never gone.

The secret unit had over five levels of security clearance and four levels underground. There was specialized personal guarding the only entry point. You and Yanqing walked in silence until you finally reached the final floor, where there was a single cell.

In the corner, Jing Yuan curled himself into a ball on the bed. His hair was wild and unkempt, but pieces of glowing ginkgo leaves seemed to be growing from it.

Yaoshi’s curse was claiming another.

Yanqing looked at you, eyes worried.

”Are you sure about this…” he murmured. You try to give him an encouraging smile to subside his fears.

”I’m positive…” you murmured.

Yanqing silently nodded as he opened the door to the former general’s cell. Jing Yuan didn’t move or react. You walked into the cell before the door was shut behind you.

”12 hrs. Remember, no one is allowed in here until then. Okay?” you called out behind the iron bars. Yanqing hesitated but nodded.

“Knights, clear out this level and guard the one before it,” Yanqing yelled out. 

“Yes, General!” they all shouted in unison. The Cloud Knights in the area stood rigid and saluted before making their way up the stairs with him, leaving you and Jing Yuan alone.

You turned to him as he slowly uncurled himself, laying on his bed. His head had leaned against the concrete wall, a collar on his neck, wrist, and ankles. 

You had heard in some cases, Luofu technology for high-risk prisoners would include these mechanics to induce an electrical shock but knowing Jing Yuan and his extreme power, it probably didn’t work on him.

His eyes finally met yours, narrowed and calculative—not the lazily warm way he used to. The biggest shock was how red they were, like freshly spilled blood than the warm golden light of the sun they used to be.

“You, why do you seem familiar? Who are you,” he grunted. You forced yourself to smile, gaze softening.

“Jing Yuan. It’s me. I know it’s been awhile. My hair might’ve changed a bit, but it’s me…” you whispered. You reached your hand and placed it on his cheek. As he recoiled back about to plant a counter attack on you, you could see him pause. He cautiously leaned back into your touch, eyes gazing up in your searching.

”...(Y/n)? You stayed. You didn’t leave after all!” he murmured. You could feel your heart shattered, as he grinned, wrapping his arms around you. His head leaned into the nape of your neck. 

”I’m so happy you decided to stay after all. I didn’t want to be selfish and prevent your dream from seeing other worlds in an attempt to find a solution to Yaoshi’s curse…” he whispered, hugging you tighter. “But I wanted nothing more for you to just be by my side…”

He leaned away, eyes now an orange hue, mind, and body fighting against the mara in his system. He leaned away, grabbing your waist. His once usual lazy grin on his pale face.

”Marry me…”

”Jing Yuan...”

”Marry me…please. I’ll find you the best ring I can tomorrow, so forgive me for being so forward. I want to spend these centuries with you, and you being here in front of my eyes proves we are meant to be with each other,” he murmured.

You couldn’t stop yourself from breaking down in tears hearing his confession. You had left wanting to find a cure, to fight against an Aeon, to see Jing Yuan happy that no one else in Xianzhou would have to fear being mara-struck, but you found yourself here.

The one person you feared most getting it, without anything to show for your travels. How did you think you could compete against an Aeon? Perhaps this was Yaoshi’s personal punishment to you.

Jing Yuan sighed, getting up. His chapped lips kissed the salty stream of tears from your cheeks.

”Shhh, qīnàide. Why are you crying, my love? This should be a happy moment,” he cooed. You shook your head, lips quivering as you hiccuped and struggled to stammer words out.

”Jing Yuan, I love you too. Of course, I would marry you but…”

”No but’s. You said yes…” he teased. You placed your hands on his cheeks, pleading with him. You pressed your forehead against his, hoping your touch would ground him.

“Jing Yuan, I did end up leaving. I still haven’t found a cure for mara…for you, for everyone suffering on the Xianzhou. It’s been over 100 years since I left and joined the Astral Express.”

”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” Your blurry vision looked up to see Jing Yuan. His eyes were red again, but they gazed softly against yours. He brought his hand down, gently caressing your soft hair.

”I know. I’m sorry for being confused at first. I’m sorry you’re seeing me in this state, but I still meant what I said,” Jing Yuan sighed as he brought your crying form on his chest, lying beneath the uncomfortably small bed.

”...I’m not going to be able to stop this, am I?” you asked the now fluid Jing Yuan. He flashed a somber smile. 

“...No.”

“Yanqing…”

“I know…”

You paused not knowing what to say.

“...I do have a favor to ask you though. However long we have to be together…” he murmured 

“Marry me. Be mine for an hour, a day, anything. I’m just happy to have you in my arms once more.” he murmured. Lifting his hand to wipe more tears. His nails were sharpened and black.

”...Anything for you, Jing Yuan.”

His lips reached over and kissed you. Hand gliding up your sides as if to remember the feel of your skin beneath his touch. His large palms found a way beneath your shirt, guiding the fabric over your head and onto the ground. 

He grabbed a handful of your chest. Lips moving away from your lips and trailing on your jaw and neck. You could feel his teeth were sharper than before, the tip of his canines grazing the sensitive subtle areas of your neck.

Jing Yuan easily ripped through his thin shirt, revealing areas where the mara could be physically seen, botches of his skin beginning to blacken and glow in golden hue.

Your hands gently glide down his large pectorals and abdomen, resting at the waist of his loose pants. Your hand darted beneath his pants, feeling his heavy cock beginning to rise from your touch.

Jing Yuan’s whole body shuttered before letting a grunt out. You tightly gripped his length, pulling it in a rhythmic motion as his breaths got heavier and heavier. Precum budded at his tip, as his cock quivered from your jerks.

You shimmied his pants down, as his cock slapped against his abdomen. You leaned down, poking your tongue out to lick the slit of its head. Jing Yuan grunted, eyebrows furrowed. His nails buried in the thin mattress of the bed, desperately trying to control himself.

Kissing his tip, you opened your mouth engulfing his length to your mouth. Salty yet sweet precum was already leaking down to your tongue. His grip was getting tighter, as an almost unhuman growl came from him.

“F-Fuck, darling!” Jing Yuan choked out with his head hung back to the wall. He desperately tried to quell his desires, wanting nothing more than to pull your head all the way down till he felt the back of your warm, wet throat. 

You bobbled your head up and down, fingers drifting down your pants. Noticing this, Jing Yuan easily ripped the fabric—exposing your slit, drooling and waiting for him. As your tongue hit a prominent vein at the back of his cock, his body became more rigid— gingko beginning to glow more. 

His large fingers swiped a finger between your folds and let it nudge against your throbbing clit with every stroke. Feeling your slick dripping down your inner thighs and his finger, he pushed past your puffy folds and slid it inside your dripping pussy. You bit your lip, barely muffling a moan feeling him pump. His eyes lapped up every shiver and moan from your lips. Memories of the times he had claimed you coming back to him. 

He could feel your cunt fluttered down on his fingers drilling inside of you. 

He wanted more. 

He wanted to make up for these hundreds of years of not being beside you.

“...(Y/n)!!” Jing Yuan grunted. He let his desires finally get to him as his hand went down to your head, pushing you deeper against his cock surprising you, as you slightly choked. His hips slightly bucked, as you grabbed onto his thighs nostrils flaring to try and breathe.

His hips jolted as ropes of thick cum shot to the back of your throat. You tried swallowing, but it felt like a never-ending stream. Eventually, you lifted your head coughing as his essence streamed down your lips. His pace continued to be brutal, letting his thumb rub tight circles against your clit as your thighs squeezed together.

“That’s how I remember you. Come now, let me be reminded of that cute expression of yours,” he cooed. Your body shivered as your back arched, finally reaching your high with his name echoed from your lips. Jing Yuan smiled, sliding out of your pulsating cunt.

Jing Yuan repositions themselves, hovering on top of his still-hardened cock. It was still twitching as the veins wrapped around it throbbed in excitement.

Cock teased against your slit, nudging the top against your needy clit repeatedly as it burned in stimulation. 

Catching your breath and looking down, you noticed his cock was unusual. In the darkness, you couldn’t tell much difference but observing it now, you could. You recalled him being long, and thick, with a few moles decorated near the base. It had a gradient now, his pale skin turning into an obsidian hue. His veins were golden, with every pulsate the light would brighten and dim. 

“I finally get to have you again…” he whispered out almost in ecstasy, moving on top of you.

The head of his cock pressed into your entrance back and forth. Your body jolted as he slowly entered inside of you. You sucked a breath in, feeling him stretch you out wider and wider as he plunged deeper. 

Jing Yuan hummed,  letting his fingers swirl against your clit once more trying to distract you from the dull pain. A moan escaped your lips as he eventually bottomed out, tip hitting against your cervix.

Not even giving you time to get used to him, Jing Yuan began thrusting hard inside of you. Your hands gripped the sheets tightly, fingers digging into the cheap sheets. The bed squeaked and moaned, wood hitting against the concrete wall with the rapid pace he had set.

His lips connected with your neck, sucking and nibbling the skin. His canines, poke you every so often. A groan escaped Jing Yuan’s lips, addicted to the feeling of having your cunt squeeze him, trying to milk every drop from him. His balls smacked against your ass as your legs wrapped around his waist. 

Lost in the pleasure, Jing Yuan let one of his hands go from your hips, noting the crescent moons from his sharp nails already developing there before grabbing onto your chin. He was drinking up your expressions. The way your lips curled and shouted his name. The light sheen of sweat on your skin. The smell of your perfume mixed with sex in the air.

He drank up one hundred years' worth like a man starving.

“I love you…I love you…I love you...I love you…” he grunted. His groans were becoming more and more unnatural and inhumane, as you desperately clung onto him.  

Your velvety walls squeezed tight feeling the ridges of his cock rub against that mouth-watering spot inside of you. Your legs wrapped around his waist in a futile attempt for him to get even deeper. 

His cock twitched inside of you as he propelled his cock inside of you faster. With his continued ministrations on your clit, it wasn’t long until you reached your second climax wrapping your arms around him.

He snapped his eyes shut, hips flattering letting ropes of his thick cum shoot inside of it. He slowly thrust, pushing it deeper, trying to nurse his body down from his high. A trail of his essence managed to leak out, and travel to your inner thighs despite his cock still plugged inside of you.

You caught your breath as Jing Yuan’s gaze shifted to the side, seemingly colder before meeting yours once more and warming up again. You brushed your hand against his white hair clinging to his forehead.

“...Will you be leaving again soon? I’m sure you can’t stay in my cell forever. 12 hours right?” he asked, placing his palms on top of yours that were on his cheeks. You could feel his cock still pulsating inside of you, his lazily bucking into you every so often.

“...Yes, but then in 24 hours I’ll see you again. I’m staying, this time. I promise. I’m going to make you better and make up for all that time,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around him. Jing Yuan merely stared at the wall, crimson mara-struck eyes narrowing before turning to you and smiling.

“As long as you remain in the Luofu, by my side, I will be happy…” he replied.

The world seemed almost grey, your mind as foggy as a cloud. You don’t know how long you have been crying for. You just knew your eyes were puffy and stung from how much you had. 

A few days after you saw him, Jing Yuan went to the point of no return. Many soldiers were lost in the chaos of it all. 

Despite your visits, and him acting…mostly normal with you. Whenever you would leave, you’d hear reports the next day on how aggressive he had gotten. It only took three days for him to try to escape.

Reports read that he was set on leaving with you, no matter what it took. Yelling how he had to make it to the Express to see you. Or how you were waiting for him in your old shared apartment together. How you had promised you would come back to him. 

Seeing you in the flesh and leaving again and again, even for short periods, left Jing Yuan’s mara-struck form desperate to get you back again and feel “normal”. His sanity finally had gone, leaving nothing but the mara to control your once beloved boyfriend.

Yanqing gave the last blow last night in a hard fought battle.

There wouldn’t be any more visits and the hope of finding a cure. He is gone, for good now.

Yunli had given you a key to his old place, insisting to get anything before the Cloud Knights removed everything.

Yet you found yourself curled into his old apartment and bed gazing at the unsent letters hidden in his desk drawer. Stacks of them for years. You could hear his voice telling you about his day, what he was working on, how Yanqing was improving, how he missed Jingliu

…How he missed you.

How he wished he actually proposed.

How he wished he started a family with you.

But most of all, how he wished to see you happy.

“It’s okay though. As much longing in my heart I have, I feel pride knowing you are saving other words and looking to help the Xianshou people. Whenever I look to the stars, I think of you. I love you. I wish I could see your smile right now.”

[steveseddie]

my cards are on the table

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt: family dinner and @steddiebingo prompt: matchmaker | rating: t | cw: 999 | tags: different first meeting, pre season 4, matchmaker wayne munson, soft boys

read on ao3

Christmas at the Munson’s consists of early dinner on Christmas Eve and opening presents on Christmas morning once Wayne comes back from work.

It’s been that way since Eddie moved in so when Wayne opens Eddie’s door to tell him to wash up before dinner and casually says he invited someone, Eddie is puzzled.

“You– what?”

“Kid, you gotta stop listening to your music so loud,” Wayne says gruffly, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“And you need to explain why you invited someone to dinner!” Eddie demands, narrowing his eyes. “Is it a woman? Are you seeing someone, old man?”

“Not a woman, son, just a kid who does deliveries to the plant sometimes. His folks ain’t gonna be around for Christmas so I invited him over.”

Eddie’s lips press into a thin line. He’s known his uncle is a good man since he took him in. He loves him for it. He just wishes it didn’t mean he has to spend Christmas with a stranger.

“Fine, but I’m not dressing up just because someone is coming over!”

“Suit yourself, son, but I think you might wanna.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Why?” Wayne just shrugs and leaves. “Why?” He repeats but gets no response.

Thirty minutes later there’s a knock on the door, and after whining about how this is Wayne’s guest so he should be the one to get the door, Eddie sighs and opens it to reveal–

“Steve Harrington?” Eddie shakes off the shock and flashes him a mocking grin. “Well, well, well, what are you doing on the wrong side of town, Your Highness? Did you get lost?”

The title makes Steve’s nose wrinkle but he lets it slide. “Actually, your uncle invited me.”

Eddie’s jaw drops. “You’re our guest?”

With a shrug, Steve makes a ta-da! gesture. Eddie stares blankly at him.

“Um, are you gonna let me in, Munson, or–” he trails off, hanging a hand from his neck.

“Ed? Is that the Harrington boy?” Wayne asks, snapping Eddie out of it.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, come in, man.”

Steve gives him an awkward smile and steps inside.

After shaking Wayne’s hand, he politely asks if he can help and Wayne instructs him to fill three glasses with water. The sight of King Steve with his fancy green sweater and his perfect hair rummaging around their kitchen is so shocking that Eddie wonders if he fell into some alternate dimension. He’s glad that, despite his claim, he put on a red flannel and decent jeans instead of just sweatpants and a shirt with holes in it like he planned.

Still, Wayne could’ve done a better job warning him.

Not that Eddie wants to look good for Harrington or anything.

“Ed, get a chair for Steve,” Wayne says and Eddie dutifully brings the chair they almost never use to the table.

“Thanks,” Steve says, smiling softly.

Eddie isn’t used to pretty boys being nice to him so that’s the only reason why he falters, mumbling a you’re welcome and grabbing the seat furthest from Steve. Considering their table is small, it’s not far enough.

Dinner goes- surprisingly well, actually. Steve and Wayne talk about sports while Eddie rolls his eyes and makes comments about sport culture and conformity. He expects Steve to act annoyed like jocks do when he starts ranting, but he smiles amusedly instead.

And no, that doesn’t make Eddie’s stomach flutter.

After the sports talk, Wayne asks Eddie about his band. He expects Steve to tune him out since he probably doesn’t care what a freak like him does in his free time but he perks up, eyes going wide.

“A band? That’s cool, man!” He says and then starts throwing questions at him about the band’s name and the type of music they play. He even says he’d love to see them play someday.

Wayne’s knowing smile when Eddie blushes thankfully goes unnoticed by Steve.

When they’re done eating, Steve goes to his car to grab something while Wayne and Eddie clean up.

“Really? You couldn’t mention that our guest was Steve?”

“So you could lock yourself in your room? You’re the reason I invited him, boy.”

Eddie gasps. “This was a set up!”

“About time you brought a boy home.”

“Except I didn’t!” Eddie sputters. “You did.”

“You’re welcome.”

Steve comes back then, clearing his throat. “I know you do presents in the morning, but I still wanted to bring something.”

He gives Wayne a bottle of whiskey that probably costs more than his van and a small bag to Eddie. Inside, there’s a Beholder miniature.

“How did you–”

Steve starts rambling. “I know that you run that nerd club and this kid I know is obsessed with that game so I asked him what would be a nice gift for someone like you. He probably thought I was getting it for him and might be disappointed but–”

“Thanks, Steve,” Eddie interrupts once he finally finds his words.

Steve gives him a shy smile. And maybe this one makes his heart stutter.

When all they do is stare at each other, Wayne clears his throat.

Flustered, Steve announces he’s heading out. “Thanks for inviting me. I haven’t had a Christmas dinner in years.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” Wayne says. “Ed, will you see him out? Gotta get ready for my shift.”

“Sure, old man.”

At the door, Steve hesitates. “Sorry I crashed your Christmas dinner. Your uncle wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Eddie snorts, fiddling with the figurine. “He’s a stubborn old man.”

“Not that I didn’t have fun,” he quickly adds, “I did.”

“Yeah, uh, me too.”

Steve’s pink tongue darts out along his bottom lip.

“Like, enough fun that I could do it again.”

Eddie stops fidgeting and blinks at him. “Hang out with me and my uncle?”

“Or just you,” Steve says and he looks– almost nervous.

Oh.

There’s no denying the butterflies in his stomach this time. “Yeah,” Eddie says, watching Steve start to smile. “I’d like that.”

[talaok]

Like a Virgin

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader

summary: It's been a really long time since Joel has felt the feel of anything else besides his own fist, and once you remind him how good the real thing is... let's just say it's hard for him to live up to his full potential.

warnings: smut| unprotected p in v sex, premature ejaculation, very touch-starved Joel, and allusion to oral sex (f receiving)

a/n: I don't know what to say lmao this is a thing for me ok, don't judge (and also you can't tell me this isn't accurate, like this man hasn't gotten laid since the moon landing probably, and you expect him to last? no way babe). Also I'm sorry about the title it's funny to me lol

Now this wasn't like him.

He hadn't done this in a long time.

The last time he had sex with a woman he'd just met (or any woman to be completely honest) he was 25 years younger and the world hadn't gone to shit yet... so yeah, a long time indeed.

But you were so fucking beautiful, such a pretty face with such pretty eyes, and god but that mouth of yours-

And plus you were new to Jackson, you didn't know yet about all the scary stories folks liked to tell about him, and you were kind and funny, and... did he mention hot already?

Just one night of letting loose, that's what he'd told himself, and then he was gonna go back to his old closed-off self, but for now... for now, he was too busy throwing you on his bed to think about anything else.

You were getting rid of your clothes and he followed your lead more than willingly, almost ripping the buttons off his flannel in the rush.

He bent down to kiss your neck as his hands hurried to your tits.

God, he'd forgotten how good it felt to touch a woman.

And when you let out a little whimper, he swore he had ascended to another universe.

"Joel please"

Fuck him, but he wasn't inside of you yet, and he was already feeling far too close to coming.

Guess fucking his own fist for two decades really does something to a man.

"need something?"

He was acting wayy too smug for someone who was feeling like a virgin all over again.

"Please- I need you inside me, Joel"

fucking damnit- he shouldn't have asked that, his dick was now really suffering the consequences.

He didn't risk saying anything else as he got rid of his boxers, but of course, you just had to come out and say:

"oh wow, you're big" with the sexiest fucking voice he'd ever heard.

"want me to stop?"

For some reason, those words elicited a criminally hot smirk on your lips  

"Definitely not"

You were looking at him like a starving woman and he had to look down to where he was moving his tip to your entrance to get away from you and your dangerous, dangerous gaze

He pushed into you slowly and god fucking damnit but the sounds that you made... those sweet little moans and whines you let out as your warm pussy stretched around him and hugged him better than anything he'd felt in years... he had no words for it- no coherent sounds could make it out of his mouth except for a few groans coming deep from his chest.

"Good christ"

that's the only thing he managed to murmur as he bottomed out and had to take a break to try not to bust his load right there.

"fuck you feel so good" you moaned, as your hands gripped his sheets "please move" you begged, your voice breathy and pleading, and godfuck he should have really thought about it before doing this.

"Joel please-"

"I just need a moment darlin'" he explained, closing his eyes to try and remember how he used to manage to last and coming up completely empty.

He could feel your expectant eyes on him so even if he sure as hell didn't feel ready, he did as you asked and started to move.

The regret reached him extraordinarily fast as he felt your walls tightening around him and as you cried out for him like an angel sent straight from heaven.

"fuck-" you moaned, looking up at him with doe eyes that made him wonder if you really just knew what you were doing, if you actually enjoyed torturing him like this

"god you're so deep"

Yeah, you definitely knew

"and so big-" you cried

He gripped your waist to try and ground himself as he thrusted into your fucking perfect cunt.

"oh my god-yes!" you moaned, your back arching from the bed as his thrust got harsher in the hopes that that would make you talk less.

"just like that Joel- oh-" 

And Joel was tough in a lot of ways and he wasn't one to give up easily, but shit you were making it hard for him.

"Please don't stop- fuckfuckfuck" you begged, shutting your eyes close at the feeling.

And that was it, he couldn't do it anymore

"please stop talking" he breathed, his eyes resuming their tour of your eyes, mouth, and bouncing tits.

"why?" 

"nothing it's just-"

And before he could answer you had grabbed his shoulder and forced him to bend down to meet your mouth with his.

Goddamnit.

"you just feel too good Joel" 

"fuck." he groaned, not able to stop his hips from moving no matter how much he wanted to "shit"

"what is it?"

"Jesus Christ I-"

"is there something wrong?"

"n-no just- fuck I'm sorry sweetheart"

And that's all he could say as he abruptly pulled out of you, his spend covering your stomach not even a second after as he growled so loud his neighbors probably thought he was getting killed.

"shit" again, he sighed, his forehead falling to your shoulder.

"oh" you couldn't help but smile as everything came together

"I'm sorry darlin'" he breathed, leaning away and standing up as shame filled every inch of him.

"It's just- It's been a long time since I've done... this"

You sat up, your legs still dangling off the bed, as you admired his handy work on your belly.

"And you... you're just real fucking pretty" he huffed a half-laugh "I'm sorry"

You looked up at him then, meeting his mortified expression.

"No hey" you smiled, placing a hand on his torso "It's fine, I understand"

"god this is embarrassing, I feel like a sixteen-year-old all over again" he shook his head

"stop" you cooed, gently caressing his skin, as a mischievous spark lighted in your irides "It's fine, really" you promised, "and besides..." you bit your bottom lip as you slowly spread your legs "you could still make it up to me, y'know?"

He groaned again, falling to his knees between your thighs

"that I can do"

[the-witchhunter]

You know, if Spider Punk gets people interested in punk, good. We all have to start somewhere and Hobie is a damn good representation. If he is what makes a person go “hey, this seems cool, I should check it out.” good. That’s one more person interested in punk and wanting to get into it. 

That being said, if you are new to punk(hi baby punks!) some things to keep in mind

1. Punk philosophy is largely anti-authoritarian. Individual and even punk communities differ on specifics, and some are more political than others, but the core themes tend to be resisting those who would control and oppress us, and supporting and including people in your community

2. Punk fashion SHOULD NOT BE EXPENSIVE. A lot of fashion companies will try and sell you jackets for a couple hundred bucks, but that’s just corporations trying to cash in on a subculture. A big part of Punk and its history is DIY because Punk should be open to everyone and putting that behind a fashion paywall is just not punk. You don’t even need to be dressing punk to BE punk, but thrift your clothes. Make stencils and use spray paint or bleach to give it a pattern. Use old jeans to make patches. Buy your spikes and studs in bulk and go wild. Turn your old t shirt that doesn't fit anymore into a back patch. Go crazy with some safety pins. You can make more with $30 than you can buy from a designer for $300. And skill is not needed, frankly if it looks a little wonky it makes it look more punk

3. Dental floss makes for good thread for sewing on patches. It’s good for thick, stylistic stitches and is both cheap and durable. Don’t know why I made this its own point but it’s one of the most common tricks for punk DIY besides taking paint to scraps of fabric to make a patch. Honestly, if you want to know how to do more, just ask other punks how they made their vests and jackets, they’ll probably be happy enough to tell you

4. Punk philosophy and music is closely related. The communities evolved around the music scene so it is closely linked. Give some punk bands a try if you haven't already. There’s a bunch of subgenres so you’ll probably find something you like. From OG “proto punk” where the sound was still developing into what we call punk, to pop punk, anarco punk, and folk punk. There are people who say you can’t be punk if you don’t listen to the music, and there’s a whole conversation to be had about all that, but it’s just a good idea to try listening to some punk music

5, Nazis fuck off

6. Seriously, nazis fuck off. There’s a whole history behind it and why we associate skinhead punks with neo nazis. Largely we’ve made it clear we don’t want nazis in our community and the street punk music scene that nazi punks became associated with has made strides to separate themselves from that.

7. Be cool and respectful of people regardless of religion, ethnicity, race, sexuality, gender, background, etc. Solidarity with our community is important and all sorts are welcome. Gatekeeping isn’t cool and frankly women and minorities have done a lot for punk as a whole. Respect for everyone

[theoxenfree]

IMPOSTER

possessed scholar!husband x reader |3.9k| 18+

In an unforeseen act of self-preservation, your family marries you off into an exorbitantly wealthy family, to a reclusive and reticent scholar who provides you little affection. He is suddenly called away for the handling of his late uncle's final will wishes and estate. He returns to you not himself, and with unquenchable lust.

warnings; dead dove do not eat; extreme dubon, explicit sexual content, mentions of (not explored, not described): orgies, heatplay, robbing a mortuary & drug use, masturbation w/ metal dildo, mirror sex & masturbation, hypnotism, power imbalance, murder, body horror, gruesome imagery, classism, detail & prose heavy, roughly proofread.

this is a concept piece, possibly preluding a full story! if you have any interest in having me build a larger piece out of this concept, PLEASE reblog + interact and let me know! I'm only going to go forward with it if folks express interest!

read to the end for author's notes!

In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under covers was not your husband. Once he had been, but now he no longer was.

The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, certain stiffness which seemed more alike to rigor in a days old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.

His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parent’s patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.

You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.

He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whomever was trying to speak to him.

Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.

At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared together. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.

“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused from tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will, therefore it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, letting you help him into his heavy, wool coat he left on a hook near the front door. At his side was a hulking suitcase; one he often used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”

You expected nothing less from him. This man who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate scripted vows he committed to memory, hold your hands, and kiss you at the altar for more than two seconds but less than five, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.

Right after, now as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, that he wouldn't have had at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.

At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk and ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.

“Write to me every once and a while,” was all you could think to say at present, managing your composure well enough as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing. If you find anything interesting. When you'll be coming home. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.

“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”

Once again, he left you behind without remorse.

Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of winter and a shimmering white-blue landscape outside your windows.

In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace coveting self-pleasure.

You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.

Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.

Sometimes, you were found the next morning by a maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You only needed to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.

It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped neatly over a bent arm, along with a warm and soapy rag in her hand, which she used to lightly clean you of dried fluids. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.

“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”

“No! No, that's alright.” You took the long, pale envelope from her once she revealed it to you, realizing that she was right. There was nothing to it. Light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.

You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.

She looked to be just as thrown.

“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”

“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I made a comment about it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”

You had found a letter opener on the desk nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.

“Almost? What does that mean here?” you raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual tracks of wax from the paper so that they fell to the hardwood below like pebbles shaken out of a shoe after a stroll through the yard. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”

The maid tried to subdue her intrigue of the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”

“What?”

You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.

The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the slither of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:

“Father Marius DuMonde.”

Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to magically flip something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection like he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.

Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.

“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”

The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although, I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”

“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”

That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.

You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed shape while leaning a cheek flush to frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.

Seldomly, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servants responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.

It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.

“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”

You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.

A while later, you entered the foyer to see most of the staff had already dispersed and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.

So, the rumor was true. There was something discomforting in that.

Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—

“Oh my… there you are, my sweet!” his voice was exactly the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But, all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”

Could this man really be your husband?

He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well to appear normal.

But, you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.

“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face up with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You startled from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”

As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.

He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue and teeth hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squeal like a sow.

He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them.

Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.

“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass, overall sounding very husky. There was something of wheeze that trailed the end of his every word, like he’d been patched for a long time. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”

Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and who you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed like you'd had several.

His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, cumming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.

The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstacy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely unprobable, unknowable to you.

You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and disgusting and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.

He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…

The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing that could happen with fabric.

“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on, his sallow complexion keeping a weird, waxy sheen to it. A mask that fits, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”

You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.

Everything else, you'd wanted to believe, was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.

Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.

“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and handed her a generous bag of coins from your own safe.

She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”

“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”

It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”

The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into cover of tree tops and then nothing else.

But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.

A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she or the old pony had made it out of the woods. The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them.

But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.

That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton, whereas a hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall.

The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.

He was faced the other way, his clothes back to you, completely unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for the thin breathing of sleep, the automatic rise and fall of his body, and yet he could've been mistaken as one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.

“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”

“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating to have your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me. Such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”

Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.

Your whimpers of pains were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.

a/n; this is heavily inspired from me reading the exorcist, recently. the section with the maid's head swiveled around was a nod to the scene with director having "fallen" from a height and dying similarly. a lot of my most recent reads have been extremely graphic, so my writing has been reflecting that and it's been interesting!

quick q&a!

is father marius dumonde the same father marius from your vampire priest fic? yup! if I go forward with writing the longer story, father marius will be a central character later on, and father shaw will make a reappearance as well.

what would the main differences be in a full story vs just this piece?

a) the husband would be given a more solid identity, appearance, and name. he'd have more depth to build an emotional rapport with his character.

b) existing scenes would be expanded, smut scenes grittier and more graphic, more development between mc and the husband, the maid would have a more important part and given an identity. essentially, most elements from this price would be fleshed out and expanded.

c) I intend to add a "mystery" element to this where mc tries to unveil what happened during the husband's stay at his uncle's estate.

d) I would open up multiple polls to help influence different aspects of the story such as the husband's name, appearance, overall disposition, whether the majority would vote for a happy ending with the husband vs the ending with the demon.

if you're interested in seeing a full story, make sure to reblog and share your thoughts with me!! I'd love to hear feedback on this to know what you'd like to see in the future!

[genderqueerdykes]

holy shit wait…your 32???

I…im gonna cry

I didn’t know we can live this long…

not just trans mass but…

alterhuman…and plurals..and…

I can’t…

so happy

gonna cry……..

yes i am! i was born in 1992 :)

that's exactly why i have my age in my bio- i've wanted to show people that you don't "outgrow" fundamental parts of your identity. it's natural to adopt and shed identities as we age, but i've been out as genderqueer since 19! nothing has changed, i'm still the same genderqueer person i was all those years ago!

and if anything- life has gotten better in my 30s. as a word of advice to most people out there: your teen years and your twenties FUCKING SUCK!!!!!!!! they tell you those are the "best years of your life" but they're NOT- you're growing into a world that is terrifying and doesn't understand you. you're scared. your brain and body are still developing and you're constantly facing new challenges. those are honestly i think the HARDEST years of your life, hands down

when i was a teenager, i would think to myself "phht there's literally no way i'm making it past 25 lmao" and figure that life ends after 25. well, that day came where i turned 25... and nothing changed.

and then i turned 30. still, nothing changed

now i'm 32 and... nothing has changed. maturation happens with age, yes, but it doesn't mean that you're suddenly a completely different person. people have such a shitty view on 30 year olds, like it's somehow "embarrassing" to be above the age of 25 years old. people in their 30s are constantly picked on, we're constantly told to "act our age" when... we are. i'm happier than ever realizing that I made it to my 30s, still trans, still nonhuman, still plural

i've been in treatment for DID since 2017, and while i've healed a lot, i have not integrated with my alters, and i never will. i don't want to. this is how my brain functions. the dissociation can be a nightmare for me, but my brain needs different people inside of it in order to be able to function properly. we tried to force ourselves to live as a singlet for 3 years and what ended up happening was that host at that time cracked from being under the constant pressure and still has never returned. the amount of stress it placed on us to try to live as a singlet was not worth it. at all

there hasn't been a singular moment in my adult life where i stopped being nonhuman, either. that was something that i never even tried to force myself out of. i never viewed it as weird or something that i should "outgrow"- i told my own mother that i did not identify as human as a child and that never left me. even now, i still wear dog collars, ears, tails, and take nature walks and do things to make myself feel more like my nonhuman selves. i'm still a furry, too!

i might not be a queer "elder" yet, but i'm happy as can be to be able to be an older queer person who can use their experience to help younger folks. thanks for sending this message! trust me, there really is a life after your 20s. your teens and 20s suck massively. but after i passed 30 i became more down to earth about my age. it's not a bad thing to live past 20- in fact, it's a badge of honor. i made it. i'm still breathing, i'm still here, still queer, despite all attempts to prevent me from still being here.

i'm going to continue be here for a long, long time, and you can be here with me, too.

take care of yourself! thanks for stopping by!