#the one thing that defines your existence is......

[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER TEN

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash, competition??

playlist: spotify

You were going to die.

Like, actually, literally, cease to exist because your heart was beating so violently that it was probably about to explode, and your lungs had decided they no longer wanted to participate in the act of breathing.

The girls were staring at you. Correction: three-fourths of the girls were staring at you. Ji-Yeong was standing on the couch, one foot on the armrest, holding a half-empty iced coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, looking like she was about to deliver a TED Talk.

"You guys," she said, eyes wide, voice hushed. "I need everyone to remain calm."

Se-Mi was already grinning, vibrating with suppressed excitement. "Oh, absolutely not."

No-Eul, who was seated cross-legged on the floor, barely looked up from her book. "Just say it, Ji. Before you combust."

Ji-Yeong took a deep breath, dramatically swiped to refresh the Twitter feed on her phone, and then—

"WE GOT NOMINATED FOR A GRAMMY!"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Se-Mi shrieked, launching herself across the couch to grab Ji-Yeong’s phone. No-Eul blinked once, twice, and then set her book down with an exhale like she was finally accepting reality.

Sae-Byeok, who had been leaning against the counter, arms crossed in her usual unimpressed stance, went still.

You? You just stood there, gripping your clipboard like it was the last tether to reality, trying to process the words that had just been spoken into existence.

"Wait. Wait. Wait." You snapped out of your trance, reaching for the phone that Se-Mi was now aggressively shaking in front of your face. "Are you serious?"

Ji-Yeong let out a borderline manic laugh, pointing at the screen. "Does this LOOK like I’m joking?! We just got nominated for Best Rock Album and Best Rock Performance for ‘ROCKSTAR.’"

Se-Mi was already pacing, hands on her head. "Holy shit. Holy shit. We’re actually going to the Grammys?"

Ji-Yeong dramatically flung herself onto the couch, arms outstretched. "We’re actually going to the Grammys."

No-Eul, who had been quietly typing on her phone, finally lifted her gaze. "The official Recording Academy account just posted the list." She turned her screen toward you. "It’s real."

Your brain short-circuited.

Because this? This wasn’t just big. This was huge. This was career-defining.

This was the moment you had dreamed of for them.

Sae-Byeok, still eerily silent, finally moved. She walked over to Ji-Yeong’s abandoned coffee on the table, picked it up, and took a long sip.

"Guess we need to buy dresses," she said, completely deadpan.

Se-Mi screamed.

No-Eul actually laughed. Ji-Yeong started yelling something about how she was going to fight Harry Styles for best-dressed on the red carpet.

And you?

You just smiled, heart pounding, because somehow—someway—this was only just the beginning.

A little while after the excitement died down to a normal level, the girls (as in Ji-yeong and Se-mi) decided that it would be a good idea to start shopping.

And the boutique was insane.

Racks of designer gowns stretched wall-to-wall, the air smelled like expensive perfume and wealth, and Se-Mi was already trying on sunglasses that she absolutely did not need.

"We are literally shopping for the Grammys," Ji-Yeong announced dramatically, twirling in front of a mirror. "Do you understand how unhinged that is?"

Se-Mi, now wearing a pair of oversized Gucci shades, nodded solemnly. "I think I blacked out the second we walked in here."

No-Eul was flipping through a rack of sleek suits, completely unfazed. "Try not to pass out before we actually get to the red carpet."

You chuckled, trailing your fingers along the fabric of an elegant dress before moving toward the accessories section, letting the others lose themselves in their respective fashion meltdowns.

And that’s when you saw them.

A pair of heels—sleek, timeless, perfect. They weren’t too flashy, just the right mix of elegance and edge, and something about them just called to you.

You picked one up, checking the size.

Too small.

You frowned, scanning the display, but every single one was either too big or too small.

Figures.

With a sigh, you set the shoe back down and turned away, pushing it from your mind. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

But No-Eul had seen.

She had been flipping through a rack of blazers when she caught the way your face fell—the tiny frown, the way your fingers lingered on the shoe before you walked away.

At first, she assumed it was the price. This place was ridiculously expensive, after all. But when she subtly checked the tag, she realized—

It wasn’t the price.

It was the size.

No-Eul, being the quiet observer that she was, didn’t say anything. She just turned on her heel, scanned the boutique, and sought out the store owner like it was a mission.

"Do you have these in another size?" she asked, holding up the shoe. "This size, specifically?"

The boutique owner, a well-dressed woman with an expert eye, nodded. "Let me check in the back."

Minutes later, No-Eul had them. The perfect pair. The right size.

She paid for them without hesitation, taking the sleek designer bag and tucking it behind the counter for later. No grand gestures, no need for attention—just a quiet, simple act of kindness.

Sae-Byeok had seen the whole thing.

She had been pretending to browse scarves (which she did not need) when she caught No-Eul’s little mission. The subtle way she checked the price, the quick decision to buy them, the way she didn’t even tell you.

And it annoyed her.

Not because she didn’t want you to have the shoes—no, that was actually kind of sweet.

But because why hadn’t she thought of doing something first?

Sae-Byeok had spent so much time watching you—watching you be there for them, watching you take care of everything, watching you never ask for anything in return.

And now No-Eul was out here being thoughtful and sneaky, and Sae-Byeok was just standing there like an idiot.

Unacceptable.

So, naturally, she decided that if No-Eul got the shoes—she was going to find you the perfect dress.

"Hey." She appeared beside you, hands in her pockets, her usual unreadable expression in place.

You blinked up at her. "Hey?"

"You found a dress yet?"

You sighed, gesturing at the endless racks. "I have no idea what I’m doing. This is, like, next-level fashion, and I am but a mere mortal."

Sae-Byeok smirked. "Come on. Let’s find something."

And just like that, she took over.

Before you knew it, Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi had joined the search, the three of them pulling dresses from racks like it was their sole purpose in life.

"This one," Ji-Yeong said, holding up something dramatic and covered in sequins.

"No," Sae-Byeok and Se-Mi said in unison.

Se-Mi held up a sleek, elegant gown with a thigh-high slit. "This is hot."

Sae-Byeok gave her a look. "She needs classy, not ‘I’m about to murder my rich husband for his inheritance.’"

Ji-Yeong gasped. "That’s a great aesthetic, though."

You just stood there, watching them bicker, warmth blooming in your chest.

Because, for the first time in a long time, they weren’t just dragging you along for the ride.

They were taking care of you.

And for once—you let them.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25@monroesturnns @laurenkens @yenyu1s @idontliketoread2137 @bitchybananaflower @lyuuw

[fallouthomestaedau]

fallout and the "tribal" problem

I've been working on this for a while and I finally feel content enough with my thoughts to talk about it, now for reference I'm mixed first nations and Ukrainian and believe that i am at least somewhat qualified to to talk on the topic

Firstly I will break down what I'm talking about through different paragraphs, primarily based on which game the tribe originates from, and secondly, I'm not an anthropologist or historian, but simply a fan disgruntled with representation of peoples in media

I also wont be speaking on Fallout 76 as I know precious little about it, and due to its shift in gameplay and narrative elements from the rest of the games

one thing of importance though, what is a tribal, and what constitutes a tribe?

now for reference, this will be in the context of the fallout universe, as within most tribes or tribals are too broad or vague to categorize within proper definition

within the games, tribals are mentioned many times, often denoting someone who isn't from or doesn't practice the (often) majority culture of the speaker, usually these people are part of or practice a culture or tradition specific to themselves and their community, that being said, the word tribal or its plural tribals, is often used as a stand-in for "savage" or "primitive", often used insultingly, that being said this broad definition really relies on assumption and stereotypes, as there are many groups who would otherwise be classed as a tribe, such as the new Vegas brotherhood of steel, yet due to being "advanced they are classed as more than a tribe

with that in mind, the definition of tribe is quite loosely defined, a tribe could be a raider gang, a small eccentric community, a religious order or an actual unique culture. this can lead to some reinforcement of stereotypes and harmful depictions however

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fallout 1

despite its age, Fallout has precious little in the way of harmful representation of tribes, there is some discourse on whether the people of shady sand would count as a tribe, or as "tribals", mostly due to Fallout's broad categorization of what counts as a tribe. otherwise, there's not much in the game, if anything in regards to tribals or tribes, at this point the Khans are still just a raider group, though they do take notions and snippets of historic Mongolian culture and tradition in their daily life.

fallout 2

its in 2 we begin to finally see tribes and tribals, with the protagonist specifically being from one of these tribes, the arroyo tribe, specifically descended from vault dwellers, they seem to have lost a great deal of modern ideals and information, though this does make some sense, they had to focus on survival in a harsh environment, you'll teach your children how to hunt and grow crops before small motor repair in a society without motors, that being said certain tropes can be somewhat outdated, such as the tribe building the whole temple section in regards to seemingly being an entirely sedentary culture who are also tent dwelling, which ties in with how seemingly primitive the tribe is as a whole, while some knowledge being lost makes sense, what would take generations of isolation and ack of any unique discovery to really achieve, along with some of the more mystical elements, the second part however can be somewhat forgiven as psychers and other "mystical" people do exist in canon, the mysticism plays heavily into the "indigenous people have magic" type trope. even Moreso they specifically chose to give up their culture in the end to join the ncr instead

there is also mentions of the unnamed "primitive tribe", a coastal tribe with many beliefs in regards to death and spirits throughout the world, while much of their story is cut you still meet one named tribe member and several random tribals, they are however not great examples of an actual culture, having a very cartoonish depiction and belief system, along with speaking broken English but no proper explanation of a tribe specific first language, there is however some redeeming facts as they are still looked at as people, poorly represented people

least unoffensive example however are the cave dwelling cannibal tribals, the name alone is already a mash of offensive stereotypes and depictions of indigenous people, which other tribes within the game are specifically designed to resemble, they are very unintelligent, lacking proper speech, yet are also quite strong and fast, they are every depiction of which "enemy natives" have been depicted as, making the arroyo come across as the "noble savages" in place

second to last we have the vipers, referred to as raiders, a tribe and a cult, within this iteration they worshiped mutant cave dwelling snakes, sacrificing passers by to them and welcoming in the survivors, they however did develop unique traditions and a culture surrounding the snakes before being chased from new california. its heavily unclear what a proper definition of what they are would be

lastly that brings us to the new khans, while not yet a tribe, they have changed much, keeping little in regards to khan tradition with a single leader, along with his personal guard and dog, leading to less loyalty and cohesion. at this time however the khans were fractured into many raiding bands, its actually the death of Darion that unites them once again

within 2 we also begin seeing other groups such as the shi and the yakuza, who represent real world cultures but more specifically the descendants of those cultures, which i am not knowledgeable enough to talk on

fallout 3

in 3, we don't see nearly any tribals in the base game, the treeminders are often referred to as a tribe yet they are in my opinion closer to a religious order with cultural elements, the specific titles and worship of bob and Harold are two of their defining traits at a glance, and are more reminiscent to religion in place of culture, they devote their lives to a "living god" responsible for regrowing nature in a secluded oasis, in truth the group is a cult (a mostly harmless one) and not really a tribe

another halfway example is the unnamed tribe in which the merchant crow was born to, they are specifically referred to as a tribe and have unique cultural beliefs, such as revering eyebots as wind spirits and that is all we know of them. there is literally nothing else to really say about them

finally we get to the point lookout tribals, a "tribe" of people who are sent out to find a seed pod that produces a hallucinogenic gas, to which the initiate is taken back to the tribe to be lobotomized, and in said state may be left unable to care for themselves properly, or worse, dead and those who aren't left vegetative are under the control and influence of a brain in a jar feuding with a ghoul while attempting global domination via telekinesis, as they believe he has ascended his material form and is guiding them to do so as well

not even counting the swampfolk who are somewhere between local cultists to a mutated subspecies of human, there is precious little in the way of positive tribal peoples, with an actual culture, instead getting vague and sometimes offensive examples

fallout 4

plain and simple there aren't any tribes or tribals, a fact which would ordinarily leave this section mostly blank, but i have a nitpick on that fact. my ancestors were originally from the region, the Abenaki, who were allied to other local tribes, and putting modern day tribal identity issues aside, the region had many native peoples, and there could have been an attempt at a positive depiction of a tribe, yet there's nothing, nothing throughout the base game, and all the DLC's, not even an attempt. and that frustrates me somewhat, as they could've shown indigenous people surviving and keeping their culture despite everything but instead did away with anything tribal related

fallout new Vegas

the tribes in new Vegas have such a wide array of representation, from good allegory to horrible caricatures, for instance, the tribe with the longest history in the series, the great khans, who were once the new khans, who originated from the khans. they have finally developed into a unique culture with a focus on personal freedom and and individual strength and yet also a people who believe in unity and cooperation, and they have even been given compelling motives, they are a raiding culture, people who take what they cannot find or make, similar to many real world cultures, they have a history of ethnobotany, something that was enough for the followers of the apocalypse to take notice, they had tradition and honours, and their plight is somewhat reflective of the real world, their non combatants and innocents, gunned down, and the survivors left to pick up the pieces, trying to handle their trauma from the experience, and turning to the substances they sell in order to numb the pain. the great khans aren't necessarily good people, but they are displayed as a genuine people, suffering from the actions of a colonizing power, and that is some of the best representation of native history in recent history.

the boomers are a tribe dedicated to personal security, taking the belief of right to bear arms as a cultural motto, thy originate from an armory vault, and completely shun the outside world. they refer to themselves as a tribe and have unique customs that have formed from their unique lifestyle, all things considered they make a good bit of logical sense in universe and in their formation. there isn't however much more to say on their existence as a tribe.

we even meet several new California raider tribes, the remnants of the vipers, pushed into the Mojave by ncr expansion, they've lost much of their culture, turning to chems and raiding, along with the jackals, they have been reduced to cannibalistic chem addicts, and in all honesty canon fodder, which does bother me slightly less, as theyre not the sole "tribes" within the game, i personally believe there couldve been some more done to show some of their history but they do fit the niche they were designed for

Honest hearts tribes are, rough to say the least, one descended of indigenous people with a unique culture and traditions, and another descended of children who may have been going to a residential school type institution (the lore is vague) who are origionally from a country who has been under the thumb of imperious countries for centuries, such as spain and the us, and yet what little culture they get is a mixture of hodgepodge words from several languages and just oddly spoken English (something historically done to mock native languages), the tribes don't have any real leadership outside of two Mormon missionaries, the two people, who could give us an example of the culture and values are devout followers of these Mormons, one who is being shown to be following in the footsteps of his hated enemy, this being Joshua graham, who is clearly a parallel to Caesar, making a peaceful people into his warriors, to deal a blow to the man who betrayed him, or Moreso a tribe who wish to follow Caesar, not for the safety and peace of the canyon system these people inhabit, but from vengeful hatred, using religion as an excuse to commit bloody war and Daniel, who spends his days infantilizing a culture and treating them as uninformed children, going as far as to hide the death of certain tribes members who had been evacuated from the area from their families and claiming a group of adults, who survive and thrive, being incapable of making their own decisions, as well as all that nonsense, the "good endings" involve fleeing their native lands and worshiping a Mormon missionary as a god, all that being said, the tribes are far from a good depiction. the khans are a much better example of native people than the tribes implied to be actual native peoples

the sorrows, a fitting name for the tribe, originating from a group of stranded children, they are a culture of pacifists who also hunt the largest mammalian carnivores in the region and are deemed "too innocent". the main member we meet near idolizes Daniel, the resident missionary, though this is somewhat understandable as he saved her life while in labour. this presents as a moral dilemma however as we are tasked with withholding the information of her murdered husband and her traumatized children from her, for the benefit of Daniel himself. the other major tribe member we meet is the shaman, who speaks next to nothing, sends us on a "vision quest" via hallucinogens where we fight a great evil being, and receive a marker of tribal status, the tribes primary defining symbol, a Yao guai gauntlet. the whole quest has bad vibes of white saviorism's, especially as if you rush through, you may not learn any actual meanings behind it. you may not even learn that the sorrows have domesticated gecko's. there is the basis for such a unique culture but everything is left so barebones, the tribe doesn't even have actual homes, the entire tribes clothing looks identical, and they have no clear leader, social hierarchy or even defined equality or individualism. there's no sense that they are anything more than a dozen people existing in the same place while ignoring one another. and the endings they get are either to leave, to stay and maybe learn mercy or become aggressive and warlike, all based on the actions of one person, who in their "naive" "innocent"z minds taught them their first act of violence, making them crave more

the dead horses irk me, they are implied to be descended of the Navajo, but aside from language hold no real ties. failed chances to represent native people as surviving cultures theres many things that irk me, they are named for the area in which they live, but hold precious little in regards to horses as a whole, an animal that had become important in their ancestors day to day, they are hunters and foragers, keeping an eye on local environments and the animals within, but have no cultural inclination to herding, something that was their ancestors lifeline, they have a language based on Navajo but next to no cultural identifiers, instead they are shown to tattoo themselves to mark special occasions and important moments in ones life, they have coming of age ceremonies and traditional weapons, personal and cultural taboo's and that's it, its not clear what their homes are like, what their day to day is, if they're agrarian or semi nomadic, they are designed to be the "brave warriors" to the sorrows "peaceful savage" trope, and the main warriors against the "evil tribe", its all face value

the white legs, the evil tribe who don't know how to craft, to farm, to build, a tribe whose sole survival supposedly hinges on the availability of raiding and killing, who are presented as too dimwitted and are offering themselves up to Caesar on a platter, they are the stereotypical enemy tribe, they are canon fodder for the courier to valiantly kill, and either doom them to death right away, or leave them to the mercy of another tribe, either way ending in death. their whole point was to be a culture wiped from the face of the earth

the 80's are a territorial tribe who we know nothing of, outside of their location near the salt flats of salt lake city, their whole existence was to destroy the last of the white legs. there is nothing else to them

in new vegas, we hear the names of many dead tribes, the hang dogs, the twisted hairs, the twin mothers, cultures wiped out and assimilated by the legion, as well as tribes pushed to extinction via people like prospectors, and land owners, killed for the local resources. these two examples are both instances id like to talk about in greater detail in their own post

new vegas tribes, the 4 tribes of new vegas themselves, the three families of the strip, and the kings, each group shedding tribal identity to relive old world "glory", the kings, worshipping a misunderstood depiction of elvis, and living by the rules of an impersonation school, which they turned into a "gang" identity, keeping order of the rabble and the unwanted. the white glove society, the omertas and the chairmen, all under the thumb of mr house, coerced or convinced to become the three families. we know very little of their original cultures, aside from a few names, they have wholly embraced a new identity, disposing of those who would otherwise choose the old ways

there are also cultural groups, such as the new Canaanites who aren't technically a tribe but still a different culture group to the majority culture

afterthoughts:

all in all, I find fallout has so far, had such few positive examples purposefully creating a tribal group or Indigenous allegory, the sole example is the Khans and much of the historical symbolism is lost to so many under the guise of moral vs immoral and general lack of knowledge

it is disheartening, in a world so chock full of symbolism and satire and synchronicity, that there's so little reference to how truly multicultural the world really is, of the hundreds of pre-war tribes and isolated settlements with unique traditions, there's so little within the games to acknowledge any of it

the majority of the tribes we meet are or can be canon fodder for the sole fact of padding enemy numbers, instead of deepening the narrative of old-world concepts returning to harm the present

[tmasc-confessions]

I'm kind of an egg/questioning if I'm tmasc or not rn, so sorry if I don't fit, but I need advice 😭

---

I've been thinking about what it would be like to be a guy since I were like 14 or so, but I've heard stories about transgender people since I were like 7-8 at best. And in the process of questioning, I've met a few signs that I might be, but at the same time not?

I dreaded at the concept of periods and breasts. I remember feeling like dying when I got both of them. Back when I was younger than that, I used to go well with male classmates and when wandering around transformation tropes (I had... unrestricted internet access), I sometimes asked to myself "how come there's TFs of man to woman but never woman to man?" I also used to wonder WHY there was barely any guys in certain communities like fandoms or artists (Not in a "eh men better" way but moreso because I was curious as of the why), as well as being more curious about male puberty and surprisingly close to my dad as a kid compared to my mom. Is all weird, probably they're signs or not. I don't care.

---

Part of me fears that I'm not trans because I didn't found out about tomboys/FtMs until pre pandemic (2017-2019), via youtube videos explaining it (most of the trans media I used to watch was either MtF-centric or just "man in a dress" jokes). And also because I used to like a LOT of commonly "feminine" and cutesy interests in my childhood, probably a few masc ones but mostly fem. And how do I know if I'm genuinelly trans or just a "generic puberty thing"? I mean, obviously all girls hates being girls and sometimes wishes they were boys, right? Do all people sometimes think about what it would like to be another gender?

I mean... I think I would be better if I had a flatter chest, or maybe a deeper voice along with shorter hair and a less defined waist. But hey maybe is just normal. I'm still not an adult yet (despite that I'll be turning into one this year). Maybe they'll go away once I'm 20 or something

I want to talk about it with my psychologist but I'm also scared of opening up about them. I've repressed them so badly that maybe is actual dysphoria or just a mess of feelings.

No no, people who are questioning are absolutely welcome to submit asks!!

From personal experience I myself can tell you I had a very similar experience - only difference is I did assume trans men existed pre-pandemic but I'd never actually heard of one. And especially never thought I could be one myself.

I mean, obviously all girls hates being girls and sometimes wishes they were boys, right? Do all people sometimes think about what it would like to be another gender?

Sweetie... oh... no they don't. We were the ones who did that.

I can't speak for 100% certain because I don't know the inner aspects of your life, but... it kind of sounds like you know the answer and just kinda can't admit it to yourself.

We all went through that. It takes a little time. But you'll come to terms with it. I'd be more than happy if you ever came back and wanted to talk more. We're here with open arms :D

[doodle-pops]

Curufin With A Smitten Reader Would Include…

A/N: Wanted to do a little surprise today and treat all the Curufin lovers to a nice piece about him. Also based on a conversation I had over here ➽ ASK. And, Valentine’s Day was just two days ago, so it made sense for him to have so much attention lol

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• Curufin was used to admiration—whether it was for his craft, his skill in battle, or simply being the son of Fëanor, there was never a shortage of people who either respected or feared him. But you? You were something else entirely. You didn’t just admire him—you practically worshipped the ground he walked on, and he was absolutely thriving off it.

• It started off amusing to him. He caught you watching him a little too intently while he worked on some intricate piece of metalwork, and when he looked up, instead of feigning indifference like a normal person, you just sighed dreamily and muttered, “Your hands are wasted on mere steel.” He had to pause his work entirely, torn between laughter and sheer delight at the audacity of it.

• “Oh? And what, pray tell, should they be doing instead?” He leaned forward slightly, intrigued, half expecting you to get embarrassed. You didn’t. You simply said, “Holding me.” The arrogance. The sheer confidence. He decided right then and there that he was keeping you.

• If he ever needed an ego boost (not that he would ever admit to such a thing), he would simply go to you. It was guaranteed that whatever he was doing, you would find it spectacular. Sharpening a blade? “You make it look so elegant.” Giving orders? “Your voice could command the stars.” Even just existing? “I swear the air is sweeter when you’re near.” It didn’t matter if he was being ruthless or sarcastic—your response was always adoration, and he drank it in like fine wine.

• He loved seeing how effortlessly you prioritised him in everything. If he was speaking, you were listening, hanging on every word like it was a revelation from Eru himself. If he had an idea, you supported it without question, often embellishing it with some flowery praise about his brilliance. And if anyone dared speak against him in your presence? Oh, you would defend him with the fervour of a zealot.

• “You’re ridiculous,” he told you once, watching as you argued on his behalf with a stubborn Noldo who dared question his methods. You turned to him, all righteous fury, and said, “No, they are ridiculous for doubting you.” He stared at you for a moment, then simply pulled you close and kissed you, because what else could he do?

• He found it endlessly entertaining how you always managed to spin his worst traits into something admirable. He was ruthless? No, he was determined. He was sharp-tongued? No, he was eloquent. He was arrogant? No, he simply knew his worth. You once told him, with complete sincerity, “You’re not arrogant—you’re just burdened with accuracy.” He defined had to sit down after that one.

• You became something of a menace to his brothers as well. Celegorm was used to people flattering Curufin, but he wasn’t used to it being this relentless. One time, after a particularly long string of your praises, Celegorm just groaned and said, “Do you even hear yourself? You sound like a lovesick bard.” Without missing a beat, you replied, “At least bards have taste.”

• You were, to put it simply, a devoted enabler. If Curufin had an idea, no matter how outrageous, you supported it wholeheartedly. If he wanted to make an impossibly intricate piece of jewellery, you encouraged him. If he suggested an elaborate strategy, you were already making plans. Even when he was scheming, you didn’t bat an eye.

• “Are you truly alright with this?” he asked once, watching you as he detailed some cunning plan. Most people would have hesitated, but you just smiled and said, “I trust you.” There was something almost terrifying about your blind faith in him, but he wasn’t about to complain.

• You had a habit of watching him like he was the most fascinating thing in Arda. Whether he was crafting, strategising, or just standing there, you always looked at him as if he personally hung the stars in the sky. It was a gaze he never quite got used to, but he never wanted it to stop.

• “What are you staring at?” he asked once, half-amused, half-smug, as he caught you watching him work. You just sighed and said, “Perfection.” He nearly ruined the piece he was working on.

• It didn’t matter how long you were together—your admiration for him never wavered. Even when he was at his worst, when others turned away in fear or doubt, you remained steadfast. If anything, you admired him even more when he was sharp and unyielding.

• “You should be careful,” someone warned you once. “Curufin is not an easy man.” You just smiled and said, “Then it’s a good thing I don’t want easy.” When Curufin heard about it later, he just shook his head and muttered, “You are utterly impossible.” But the way he kissed you after said otherwise.

• Your devotion was so unwavering that even Fëanor, for all his pride, had to take note. He once watched as you waxed poetry about Curufin’s skill and said dryly, “Are you certain you are not one of mine?” Curufin, to his credit, simply smirked and pulled you closer. “Too late, father,” he said. “They’re mine.”

• Even in battle, you were a force of nature, not because you were the strongest, but because you fought like someone with something to prove. If Curufin was on the battlefield, you were by his side, defending him with a passion that even his own kin couldn’t match. It was both impressive and slightly alarming.

• “You fight like a mad thing,” he told you once, after you had quite literally thrown yourself into danger for him. You just grinned and said, “Well, if I die, I’ll haunt you, so you’re stuck with me either way.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh.

• You had a habit of collecting things he made, as if they were holy relics. If he so much as discarded a half-finished design, you were there, scooping it up like it was a lost Silmaril. “You do realise that’s flawed, don’t you?” he said once, watching you examine a ring he had deemed unworthy. You just smiled and said, “Everything you touch is gold to me.” He scoffed, but he didn’t take it away from you.

• Your presence became something he relied on more than he cared to admit. For all his confidence, for all his cunning, there was something grounding about having you there, endlessly loyal, endlessly devoted. Others might have called you a fool for it, but he knew better. He knew that kind of loyalty was rare, and he would never take it for granted.

• “You’re dangerous,” he murmured one night, watching as you curled up beside him, looking at him as if he was your entire world. You smiled and said, “Only for you.” And for once, he had no clever reply—only the quiet, undeniable realisation that he had never been more adored in his life.

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @ladyenchanted @aconstructofamind @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @addaigio @hermaeuswhora @elficially-done-with-life @feanorynz @6esi @eunoiaastralwings @lamemaster @will-0-wsps

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[optimisticgrey]

Well well well, if this isn't the consequence of my own actions, haunting me

Tumblr has voted.

So, here it is. Follow along for one hell of a weird story.

✨In another life, Chapter 2✨

masterlist | requests? | ao3 | kink encyclopedia |

summary: You wake at the beach after attending your friends birthday party last night and realize, you have a tadpole in your head. Welcome to Faerûn!

author's note: Drastic rewrite of Chapter One to fit the Tumblr voted narrative.

darling tags @waterdeepwife @worfs-glorious-hair @dekariosclan @astarioffsimpmain @swordsbardkat @sweetgemberry @jeneralmischief (Let me know if you want to be on/off this list)

content warning: Spoilers. All of them.

word count: 2,4k

Song recommandation: Asking Alexandria - Nothing Left

AO3 Link

divider by @sweetmelodygraphics

“I…” You start but your voice trails off. Your mouth is too dry, your tongue too heavy and sitting up so quickly has made your head somewhat dizzy.

You blink several times, trying to steady your vision, but the sand beneath your shoes remains hazy.

Shoes. You glance down, only now registering that you're wearing your Doc Martens, paired with black skinny jeans.

Huh. You could have sworn to have undressed last night, before dropping into bed.

“I am not sure,” you manage at last, lifting your gaze again. You blink rapidly, opening and closing your eyes in quick succession.

Nope. Nobody is glitching or moving or hovering or any other strange thing they could be doing.

They are not dropping out of existence; your bedroom does not materialize around you in some surreal twist of logic.

They are just standing there, eyeing you.

And they are more stunning than you could have ever imagined. Not the pixelated versions of imaginary people – videogame characters -  you have come to care, fantasize about.

They are real. Alive. Breathing. Staring.

Your eyes dart back to the man who introduced himself as Gale.

He might be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen in your life.

Admittedly, you have read your fair share of smut written about him. About all of them. It’s your masturbation company and inspiration after all.

Thank fuck for AO3.

You’ve pored over screenshots, watched animations, dissected every subtle shift in their expressions through content creators’ videos. But none of it has ever come close to the sheer presence of him crouching before you now.

He frowns, a crease forming between his brows. You remember reading about that line, the one that deepens when he’s lost in thought or troubled and you nearly break into laughter, as you notice it.

His eyes aren’t as dark as you had imagined. They are a warm, gentle brown, lacking the deep, unreadable mystery you had expected. The lines curling up his neck and toward his eye are more gray than blue. The orb at his chest, less concealed than you remember.

Huh. Interesting.

Your mind spins, but you push through the haze, focusing on what’s in front of you. Ir rather, who is in front of you.

They are stunning and achingly familiar. The creeping, suffocating sense of recognition claws at the edges of your mind, fighting against the impossibility of it all.

The toned muscles of Lae’zel’s arms nearly make you afraid. She is breathtaking, in her own, harsh way.

Wyll’s scars are softer than you expected, less defined, more a quiet accent to his already striking face. His red eye catches the light. The sending stone looks more like a piece of polished wood than anything arcane. His smile, is warm and sincere.

Shadowheart is…. She is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women you have ever seen. That first impression does not falter. If anything, it solidifies the longer you look at her.

Astarion clears his throat, his arms crossed, and when your gaze finally flicks to him, there is a faint glow behind his crimson eyes that is both unnerving and oddly familiar. The smile playing on his lips is somewhere between amusement and disdain, and you know — you know — that if you let him, he will tear you apart with words sharper than his fangs.

And Gale.

He’s beautiful. Nearly too beautiful, if such a thing exists in Faerûn. Not the pixel-perfect Gale you have seen through your monitor, but something far more real.

You realize they are waiting for you to speak.

“But I am a little dizzy. And my head hurts,” you mumble.

The words feel slow, syrupy as they leave your mouth.

“As presumed, yes. Do you feel a sharp pain at the back of your neck?”

Wyll taps a bottle against Gale’s arm, he takes it with a nod and removes the cork, before offering it to you.

“I do,” you manage as you take the bottle. “Thank you.”

“Sadly, it is to be expected result after the insertion of a mind flayer tadpole. You can drink this; it is not poisoned.”

You had started to lift the bottle to your mouth but let it sink again.

“Nice of you to point that out before I drink,” you mutter way harder than intended and Astarion snorts.

You grin at him before you take a sip. The water is cold and tastes vaguely off metal. It seems to be clear enough though.

It helps. At least a little.

The world remains a mess of sound and light and confusion, but your thoughts begin to steady.

While you drink in slow sips, you look around.

It’s all here. The burning nautiloid. The dead man lying under one nautiloid tendrils, curled over two broken rocks.

The Chionthar to your right.

Why are they all here, though? If Wyll is recruited, have they already been to the Grove?

You decide not to care for the moment.

One step at a time.

Headache. Water. Standing up.

Handing the bottle back to Gale with a quick thanks, you stand up. He rises with you, steadying your arm when you knees wobble.

Your body finally reacts to the shock of all this; the overwhelming impossibility, the absurdity of standing among them. Your stomach churns, your throat tightens, and before you can stop it, you throw up.

It hits Gale’s robe and boots in an unforgiving spray of bile.

You stagger, coughing, bracing your hands on your knees, utterly mortified.

“I am… sorry,” you manage, voice hoarse.

Gale takes a startled step back, then calmly casts a cantrip, cleaning himself with a flick of his wrist.

The spell catches your eye, despite still retching. You can see the air rippling around him. For the fraction of a second, he is glowing.

“Happens to the best of us,” he offers gracefully. “We have a camp set up nearby. Would you care to accompany us?"

You turn around, still coughing, wiping your mouth, wildly gesturing at him.

“Do that again,” you order while you try to steady yourself. Your knees are still weak and your stomach hurts from cramping. “Please.”

His head tilts slightly. “You are speaking of the cleaning cantrip, I presume.”

You only nod, shifting your feet to regain solid grounding as you try to stand up. Your head still threatens to burst but you cannot deny the fascination.

"This is all terribly quaint and cozy, truly. But might we head back? The sun is setting, and we really ought to start considering... dinner."

You ignore him, focussing on Gale. He is amused and somewhat charmed by your interest.

He flicks his wrist again and there it is. A faint glow around him, a halo, the way you always thought an actual aura would look like. Cloaking him in a soft glow, not purple, not blue, something in between, clinging to his silhouette. It only stays for a brief moment but you are certain, you have been sensing, for the first time in your life, what magic looks like.

“Can you do it again?”

He chuckles. “Although it comes to a surprise even for myself, I agree with Astarion. Accompany us. You do not… quite offer the impression of someone stable enough to travel alone.”

“I will be fine.” You blink as you carefully rise. You are still afraid your head might explode but that might be due to the tadpole. There is something in your head that is not supposed to be there, after all.

Or possibly the travel through time and space. Have you travelled through time though? There is no way of knowing, really.

Or the fact that you could turn into a mindflayer.

Or the fact that Gale fucking Dekarios just cleaned your vomit of his robe with an actual cantrip.

How the hell did you – of all people - end up in Faerûn?

You follow them to their camp. The fire is lit with a firebolt casually cast by Gale and you watch him attentively.

Once again, you notice the glow when he performs the spell, something you are pretty sure is what they call the Weave here.

Lae’zel snorts, unimpressed, while the others manage to set up an additional tent for you. You barely have the energy to acknowledge it, slumping down near the fire as Gale hands you a cup of thin broth.

It’s more of a battered tin mug than a proper cup, the metal dented and worn, but you don’t mind.

The warmth of the broth is soothing, the salt and whatever faint seasoning lingers in it doing wonders to settle your nausea. You assume it has electrolytes. You’d kill for an Ibuprofen, you think to yourself.

The broth doesn’t fix the headache entirely, but at least the pain is no longer blinding.

You feel less half-dead.

You are grateful they took you in. In your weird clothes with literally no useful skills and with exactly nothing to offer, they might as well have left you there.

When Lae’zel realized you have never held a sword or any form of weapon in your life, her disdain had become quite obvious. The fact that you might be able to see magic but have no clue how to wield it, was not helpful.

Shadowheart offered you a spare robe, simple gray wool. It is quite itchy, so you decided to keep your top and bra but at least you are look like you belong here.

As everyone settles around the fire, it becomes painfully clear that they are still strangers to one another. The conversation moves slowly, awkwardly, filled with hesitant exchanges and too long pauses. This is their first night together.

At some point, breaking the silence, Gale speaks. “I never asked your name.”

You have noticed Astarion was gone the moment the sun had set. You are painfully aware the others have no clue he is a vampire. Or vampire spawn. You forgot the difference.

Lae’zel went after dinner, briskly thanking Gale for cooking.

“Tav,” your lips say and you freeze, fingers tightening around your mug. Your eyes dart onto the fire as you concentrate.

“Tav,” you say again.

That is not your name.

Why the fuck are you not able to say your own name?

“Tav,” you attempt once more, but confusion builds in your mind.

Gale watches you with growing interest.

Shadowheart chuckles. “We heard you the first time.”

Wyll shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat before looking away.

“It’s not my name. I cannot tell you my name. Why can I not say my name? When I say it, all that comes out is-“

“Tav,” Gale concludes. He moves a little closer on the log, eyes darting in on you.

"You are not of this world," Gale deduces, his gaze sweeping over you with measured curiosity. "Your attire alone marks you as an anomaly. The way you speak, the way you move… it all serves to further solidify the notion. You bear no visible sigils of deity or profession, no markers of allegiance nor craft. And then, of course, there was your fascination with a mere cantrip—a spell so rudimentary that even the most hesitant of apprentices would scarcely spare it a second thought. You have never truly seen magic before, have you? And yet, most curiously of all—you cannot even speak your own name."

His lips move into a grin, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Now that, I daresay, is a mystery most worthy of unravelling."

„I am glad my misery is able to intrigue you,” you snap before you can stop yourself and Shadowheart chuckles again.

“You will get along just well. As agreed, we move to the Grove at first light? We need a healer.”

You only nod, as she rises.

“Good night,” she murmurs with an underlying tone of hidden feeling and descends to her tent. Somehow, you know she will be praying before sleep.

You are feeling a little uneasy under Gale’s most delighted stare. He notices and averts his gaze but you are sure, this is a discussion that cannot be delayed.

After all, your survival might depend on it.

“I am not….from this world, as you put it. I do not know how I ended up here. Or why.”

“What world are you from?”

You shrug. “I do not know what you call this. My reality is different. Really really different.”

"Can you name the planet? A galaxy? Offer a time frame? Anything that might indicate how it aligns with our world?” Gale asked curiously. His eyes start to wander while his mind is racing. You are not sure how you know but you are certain. "Surely, there must be something—some point of reference, however small—that might bridge the chasm between where you were and where you are now."

“The galaxy is called Milky way and the planet is called-“

"Earth," he nods, briskly rising to his feet. He starts to pace, gesturing mostly to himself. "I have read about it. A world beyond our own, spoken of in rare tomes and whispered theories. Few, very few—only the most powerful of Archwizards—have mastered the advanced techniques required to glimpse its distant shores, let alone set foot upon them. And yet, here you are. Curious, most curious indeed."

When he catches the confusion on your face, he smiles. As if his curiosity alone might somehow fix everything.

How the fuck is that supposed to help? You don’t even have a clean set of underwear.

Or a toothbrush.

"We shall find out," Gale assures you. "Tomorrow, we shall make our way to the Grove—to seek a healer, first and foremost. They may be able to assess our condition. And their library—if fortune favours us—may house rare tomes that grant us our first true insights." He offers a small, thoughtful smile. "A mystery such as this deserves a careful unravelling, after all. Good night, Tav. Wyll."

With that, he dips into a small bow before retreating to his tent. Wyll raises his cup in acknowledgment and follows, pausing for a brief moment as if to say something but then deciding against it.

You empty the cup and drink two additional cups of water, just to be sure. To shit in nature will be a challenge you realize, as you crouch behind a bush.

You have always hated camping and your dislike has not improved since you turned thirty. The insects crawling everywhere, the constant dampness creeping into every pore, the moldy smell of used tents and the fact that you are sleeping on the actual floor – why would anyone do this for fun, when smart people invented hotels?

Sadly, the advantages of modern life will be missing here.

With a resigned sigh, you shed the scratchy robe and use it as an extra blanket, bitterly acknowledging, one point to capitalism.

[maxdibert]

I agree with a previous ask here that said James fans aren’t fans of the white, straight, sadistic guy that is canon James but rather the one who's brown, bisexual and (omg I hate this phrase) "with an ego the size of a lake but a heart to match it", sunshine of the group, a bit arrogant or entitled yes but still kind and selfless, always wants to help everyone etc. etc. They potray Snape as the one who's the villan so it's easy to justify some of James's "retaliations". I don't know if we can even call this guy James Potter anymore. I know there are many Au's of a character and it is kind of James, but idk...it's more like an AU "fake" James than the real one. I know people like different potrayals of a character based on their personal fantasies, but idk.

One thing is me thinking James would’ve never worked and someone else believing he would. A completely different thing is me basing my opinion on book!James while the other person bases theirs on some OC they made up, slapped the name "James Potter" on, and gave exactly zero traits in common with the actual James.

I think a lot of people in this fandom don’t understand that characters do have a real personality, a real foundation in the lore. They exist in the actual books, and they’re defined well enough for us to get a solid idea of who they were. Throwing all that out the window and claiming you can do whatever you want isn’t “fanon”—it’s just straight-up disregarding the character, making up your own, and slapping their name on it.

It’s a joke. It’s childish as hell. And honestly, I find it incredibly disrespectful to anyone who—whether they’re a fan or not—wants to read about the character from the books, not some cheap, wannabe, discount-store horror show version.

[premiumbitch]

♡ MOONLIT THRONE: A FATE WRITTEN IN BLOOD ♡ ZHEN HUAN MANIFESTATION PACK

This is for the lovely person who requested this (@fallencrystal) basically this is a pack that includes things people might want to manifest about themselves! this is a zhen huan themed pack ! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ enjoy! also forgive me If I got anything wrong as I haven't watched the show and just made this based on my research for this post.

✧ 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 ✧ 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑦, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑠.

They mistook your softness for weakness, your grace for submission. But like the moon, you shine in darkness, growing ever brighter in shadows they cast upon you. You are no mere beauty—you are a force, an enigma wrapped in silk and wisdom.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 ✧ 𝑆𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑒, 𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒.

Your beauty is not loud, yet it captivates. It lingers in the mind, haunting and mesmerizing. With a single glance, you command the room; with a soft smile, you conquer hearts. The world tries to define beauty, but you are the very embodiment of it—timeless, mysterious, and unattainable.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 ✧ 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚.

They underestimated you, mistaking your patience for naivety. But you see all, understand all, and move with the precision of a master strategist. Every word you speak is deliberate, every step a calculated move. Knowledge is your greatest weapon, and you wield it with effortless grace.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 ✧ 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑡.

Your presence is felt before you even enter a room. The way you carry yourself—poised yet unyielding—demands attention. They gravitate toward you, entranced by the way you exist so effortlessly between elegance and power. Some admire you, others envy you, but none can ignore you.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬 ✧ 𝑇𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑏𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒’𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓.

He swore he wouldn’t fall, but he did. He thought he could possess you, but you are a love that cannot be caged. Long after you have left, your touch lingers, your name echoes. You are the woman he will never forget, the one who taught him what devotion truly means.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 ✧ 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡.

You move through the world with a grace that is both untouchable and commanding. You are refined yet deadly, poised yet impossible to subdue. Where others fight with swords, you fight with intelligence and charm. And in the end, it is always you who stands victorious.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧—𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 ✧ 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑑𝑒; 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙.

Even when you are gone, your name is whispered in admiration, in envy, in awe. You have rewritten history in your own image. You have been tested, but you remained unbroken. And now, you reign—whether from the shadows or from the throne.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 ✧ 𝑁𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛, 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟.

They were warned, yet they fell. You were never meant to be a fleeting love—you are an obsession, a memory that lingers like the scent of blooming jasmine in the night. They drank of you, knowing it would destroy them, but oh, how sweet the ruin was.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲 ✧ 𝑁𝑜 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑜, 𝑦���𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑏𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑.

They tried to silence you, but you never fade. Every room you enter, every mind you captivate—there is no forgetting you, for you are the embodiment of strength and grace.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ✧ 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑦 𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟

You do not ask for permission; you write your own narrative. They may try to dictate your worth, but you’ve already shown them that your story is one of legend. They whisper of your power, but you know it’s the story you choose to tell that shapes their world. You are the author, the heroine, and the world follows your lead.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐣𝐚𝐝𝐞 ✧ 𝑆𝑜𝑓𝑡, 𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑡, 𝑢𝑛𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

They whisper of your beauty in hushed tones, comparing you to the moon’s luminous glow, to the rarest pearl hidden within the depths of the sea. But beauty alone is not what makes you untouchable—it is the fire beneath the porcelain, the sharp mind behind the painted lips.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 ✧ 𝑅𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑤𝑜𝑜𝑑, 𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟, 𝑎 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡-𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑗𝑎𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒.

Even when you are gone, your essence lingers. They close their eyes and remember the faint trace of osmanthus on silk, the delicate perfume of peony in the air. You are a dream they cannot wake from, a temptation they can never forget.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ✧ 𝑆𝑙𝑖𝑘, 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑, 𝑎 𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑡 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠.

Braided with pearls, adorned with golden hairpins shaped like phoenixes, your hair is a crown in itself—an emblem of silent power. With a single tilt of your head, you command devotion, set hearts racing, and bring the mighty to their knees.

✧ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐤 ✧ 𝑆𝑜𝑓𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝 𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑠.

Your words are poetry woven with steel, sweet as honey yet deadly as venom. Each syllable is measured, each phrase deliberate—like a well-placed stroke of calligraphy upon pristine parchment. They listen, they tremble, they obey.

[bagheerita]

A lot of people have reblogged this saying "x character has child(ren)" which wasn't really my point. Having children isn't "family," having children is procreation. Family and procreation can overlap, but they are not the same thing. My question is really: are there any bonds valued in Cardassian society other than the parent-child bond?

Do you form relationships with your siblings? Do those relationships last into adulthood? Do you care about your parents' siblings? Your parents' siblings' children? Your spouse's siblings? Your spouse's parents? How does this culture define what it means to be "family"? What are the roles in a family: how is culture transmitted through generations?

It just feels like a flaw in the world building, for a culture that claims to value family so strongly, that we don't see ANY examples of familial relationships outside of parental ones. Maybe this is an issue personally specific to me, because I learned more about my own family history from my aunts than I ever learned from my parents/grandparents, but when a culture says that family is important, I'm expecting a few aunts hanging around.

I don't need a lot. (For an example: Worf has a brother; they have a complicated relationship. Martok's wife gets to judge women who enter their house. I mean we get a lot more about Klingon culture and history, but that's all I need really. I feel like this culture is sufficiently "real" that I believe it exists and it functions.) In the books there's a bit more as far as relationships: Tolan and Mila are siblings who seem to care about each other. Penelya has an uncle and cousins she feels indebted to. Alon seems really proud of/concerned about his uncle. Just these little notes are things I would have liked to see in the show.

Anyway I mostly made the original post bc i thought I remembered Pa'Dar saying that he was going to introduce Rugal to his cousins, but on a rewatch I realized i had editorialized that, and i was frankly a little annoyed with all the "respect your father" juice DS9 wants me to drink. A few people have mentioned that beta canon describes ongoing fertility issues on Cardassia Prime, and after reading The Never-Ending Sacrifice i discovered there is a very specific reason that Pa'Dar doesn't have siblings, so i retract my original complaint.

For all that Cardassians go on about the importance of "family," is there a single character in all of canon who has siblings and/or multiple children?

[mochayoubi]

a fellow japanese learning friend told me there's 2 major "weed-out" learning curves to japanese, and that's 1) learning hiragana and katakana and the 2) learning kanji.

but I propose that there's a 3rd difficult learning curve and that's when you're in what I've called The Intermediate Soup where you don't have any specific thing to work on anymore but you know that you aren't There Yet

[lovesickeros]

☆ de fontaine

{☆} characters furina {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings angst, suicidal thoughts, hurt / no comfort {☆} word count 1.4k

This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair!

She thought, for one moment, she could put the mask down and breathe – for one moment of daydreaming, she thought she could just be Furina. She thought she would finally get to live the live she should've had in the first place, the life she threw away to play God to an audience who saw her as nothing but a circus animal, dancing to their whims. Furina just wanted to be selfish for one brief and fleeting moment..and it was gone before she could even grasp it in her hand. A comet soaring past far out of her reach.

She can barely keep her hands from violently shaking as she looks down at them – broken and bloody and more a corpse then a person – and she feels so numb she can't even feel the rain pelting against her back. None of this is fair, she wants to scream, why is it always me? But her voice is silent beneath the torrent of rain. She wonders if the ocean would take her if she sank into it's depths – just for a moment, she wonders how it would feel to finally be able to sleep at ease.

Furina is tired.

But Furina is nothing if not useful, isn't she?

So she forces her feet to move, dragging against the stone beneath her heels, and drags their bloodied body into the nearest empty building, letting the rain do the work of washing away the smeared blood following her path. The smell makes her feel sick, the feeling of it sticking to her hands and gloves makes her lightheaded, but she persists. Because Furina is useful, because Furina won't let them die out in the rain, because Furina won't stand by and just let them rot on the streets like some..pest.

Furina wants to go home. She wants to sleep and she isn't she if she wants to wake up, this time. But she keeps going anyway.

Because it's all she's ever done, and the habit sticks.

An Archon she may not be, not anymore, but the expectations of five hundred years still linger like eyes on the inside of her skull. They watch her, pry and prod at her thoughts, mocking laughter and judging eyes following her as she forces herself to dance to the song they weave with glee. Furina never stepped off that stage – she's still there, she thinks, watching the crowd stare at her in disdain as the curtain call looms above her like a guillotine. She still hears Neuvillette deliver her damnation and salvation with a trembling voice, still feels her hair stand on end when electro crackled like the crack of the whip, Clorinde's blade aimed at her like a loaded gun.

She's trapped on that stage and she never left, not really.

She hates it. She thinks she hates them, but it's not their fault. They didn't ask for this, didn't ask for everyone to turn against them, didn't ask for her to save them. Neither did she..yet here they are, she thinks.

She tries to tell herself she's in control this time, though. She can stop performing her part in this horrible, bloody play any time she wants. It makes her feel better, just for a little while, if she convinces herself she's still Furina, painfully human.

And Furina has always been good at lying.

It's the believing that's the hard part.

There isn't time for her to wallow in her own self pity, though. They're still bleeding out onto the dusty, creaky floorboards of some random, broken down house and she's just standing there as the blood stains the wood. She can fix it – she's good at fixing things. She's done nothing but fix things – try to, anyway – for five hundred years. She can fix a little wound, how hard could it be? Her hands are clenched so tight they ache as she kneels down, wincing at the creak of the floorboards beneath her heels– she hesitates just long enough to wonder if she's making a mistake before she peels away just enough of the outer layer of their clothes to see the deep, bloody gash across their chest. She tries not to think about it – it's deep, too deep, and she feels dizzy just looking at it, but she's handled worse, right?

Furina can fix it. That's what she's good at.

She doesn't feel so confident when she tries to wrack her brain for..something. Five hundred years, and a little wound stumps her? No, she had to have learned something, right? She's decidedly not trying to buy time because she's panicking, parsing through hundreds of years of memories like flipping through a book. Furina isn't made for this, not really – she's running on nothing but adrenaline and she's really not sure what she's doing, but she's trying. And just like before, it won't be enough, will it?

She'll fall short again – she'll be too late to fix it before she's alone again.

Furina was an Archon..used to be. What use would she have for that sort of knowledge? Which makes her predicament all the more harrowing and bleak. What was she supposed to do?

Furina had heard it first hand, that vitriol in Neuvillette's voice. She isn't sure she's ever heard him that..angry before. She's not sure he would listen to her if she tried, either. And that scares her more then anything. All of Fontaine was up in arms about this..imposter, yet here she was, staring down at them bleeding out in front of her, and she was trying to save them.

Why? Why is she throwing away her only chance at normalcy for a fraud? Why didn't she just turn them in?

They were dying – that should've been a good thing, shouldn't it? So why didn't it feel like it?

"Why you?" Her voice breaks as she speaks in harsh tones, grabbing the front of their shirt in trembling, bloodied hands. "Why now?" She wants to scream, to demand answers they can't give, to claw back the reprieve she was promised after five hundred years of agony..and all she can do is sob into their chest, pleading for an answer that will not come. "Why me?"

Silence is their answer, and it hangs heavy on her trembling shoulders as she cries.

Of course they don't, she thinks bitterly, no one has ever answered her pleas spoken in hushed sobs. Not her other self and certainly not them.

Furina has always been alone. Furina will always be alone.

Because Furina never left that stage, never left that moment when she looked at herself in the mirror and took up a mantle too heavy for her to bear. She always finds her way back eventually. There's no one on the other side anymore – she stands alone on a stage, waiting for an inevitable end she isn't sure will come.

"Please," She pleads through tears and choked sobs, clinging to them like they are all that keeps her from sinking. "Please don't leave me, too." The words burn on her tongue – how pathetic is she that she craves companionship from the bloodied body of the imposter? Perhaps she's truly lost her mind after all these years..perhaps she's finally gone mad. She must have.

But their presence is like the first feeling of gentle warmth upon her skin as the sun crests the horizon, like the gentle lap of tides along her heels, the sway of branches and leaves as the wind blows through them like an instrument all it's own. They are the soothing sound of rain against the window as she watches the dreary skies in fond longing, the first bloom of spring as color blooms upon the landscape like paint had been spilled across the hills and valleys.

They are like the faint spark she carefully nurtures and stokes, so fragile even the smallest wind could blow it out like a candle. She cradles it within her palms, pleads with whoever will listen – prays that someone finally listens, because if not for her, then for them.

She's failed to protect too much already, let too many people with so much trust in her fall between the cracks of her fingers like grains of sand. She won't let them go – she can't.

If nothing else, if she couldn't be saved when she begged for salvation from that five hundred year long agony, even if she never got that chance..

Furina will make sure they do.

[gingermintpepper]

I've seen so many interesting and fun greek myth ships over the years both divine and mortal supported by text and just for fun, and yet I fear tonight, I will be throwing my hat into the ring as a propagator of niche greek myth ships because like, no seriously how is Aristaeus/Dionysus not already thing.

[suolainensilakka]

Mortifying ordeal of being perceived vs the burning itching need to talk about the lingering will. Woe, tag ramble upon ye

[hybbat]

You know a world where your ability to carry something is determined by quantity rather than size or weight is very easy to accept in a video game, because of mechanical convenience, but would probably be so strange in a story in any other medium, and I think a few more books and shows could stand to get a little funkier with the fundamentals of their reality like that.

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Guizhong (don't mind me re-dropping this with the fixed ones, shh)

[stinkbeck]

nothing more relaxing than like acting out a play in my room alone

[paeinovis]

I am constantly impressed with SpongeBob (show) for being able to make iconic lines and gags that don't feel overplayed even if they're repeated