#language foreign to us and incomprehensible

[ches-nogat]

Me listening to an ASMR video: I'm terrified of death, arent i? Damn

[steddiehyperfixation]

steve harrington's phone number

@steddiebingo prompt: van | 1.7k words | T |

“Stupid- useless piece of shit!” Eddie barely manages to pull his coughing, spluttering van over to the side of the road before it chokes to a stop with a dying wheeze. “Fucking drama queen.” He gets out and gives the side of the van a good kick, chastizing it for its very loud and inconvenient death. 

Just his luck it would decide to break down here, on a nothing stretch of road several miles outside of town. Too far to walk but not all that long of a drive if his stupid car could’ve just toughed it out a little while longer. “You really couldn’t have held on for like ten more minutes?” he grumbles, kicking the van again. The van, of course, does not answer and remains quite dead. Eddie mutters a few more curses and pulls his jacket tighter around himself against the late November chill as he wanders around to the front of the car to pop the hood. 

It’s an entirely useless gesture, popping the hood. Even before he opens it he knows he’s still not going to have a single clue what’s broken or how to fix it. The inner workings of a car are utterly foreign to him, an alien language of metal and grease that he stupidly never cared to learn. He stares blankly at the incomprehensible jumble of machinery before him, cursing himself for all those times he’d evaded and complained his way out of Wayne’s attempts to teach him how to do his own auto repairs. His uncle’s boring handyman lessons would’ve really come in handy right now, if only he’d had the foresight to listen. 

With a huffed out sigh, Eddie slams the hood back down. He’s going to have to call someone.

Thankfully he can see a roadside payphone not too far off in the distance, about half a mile out maybe. He rummages through his pockets and paws around the front seat of the van for any spare change he could use. He’d just blown through most of the money he had on him at a record store in Indy, but he manages to scrounge up enough coins for one call. Just one. So he has to choose wisely. He starts his trudge to the payphone while he runs through a mental list of options, feeling increasingly frustrated and hopeless as he crosses each of them off one by one. 

A tow truck is too expensive. His uncle is at work. Half his friends can’t drive, and not a single one of them knows anything about cars anyways so they wouldn’t be much help beyond a ride home (and he’d really rather not have to just leave his van on the side of the road). He needs someone who’s free, can drive, and has enough of a working knowledge of cars to possibly be able to give his van enough of a second wind to make it home. 

Which is how he finds himself in a dingy little phone booth punching in Steve Harrington’s number - a number he’s never called before yet somehow memorized, recalling it clearly in his mind’s eye in the scrawl of Steve’s handwriting on notebook paper. 

“Harrington residence, Steve speaking,” Steve’s voice comes through the line, automatic and rehearsed.

“Okay, I’ll make fun of that weirdly formal greeting later,” Eddie decides, “but right now, uh- man, I really hate to do this, but do you happen to know anything about fixing cars?”

“Eddie, hey,” Steve sounds almost startled to hear from him. “Um, yeah, I mean, I’m no expert or anything, but I know enough to get by. Why?” 

“My van just broke down on my way back from the city and I was hoping you might be willing to do me a huge huge favor and come out here and see if you can help me get her started again.” Eddie puts all the desperation he can into his voice, which really isn’t hard. His distress is 100% genuine. “Please? I’m desperate here, Harrington. I’d be forever in your debt, I’ll-” 

“Okay,” Steve says before Eddie can start bargaining. So simply, so easily. He really wasn’t expecting it to be that easy.

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll help you. Where are you?”  

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh thank god- thank you. Thank you thank you thank you. I owe you my life, seriously-” 

“Munson,” Steve cuts him off again, repeating his question, “where are you?” 

“Right, yeah.” Eddie gives his best approximation of where he is and Steve promises to be there as soon as he can before hanging up. Feeling a little bit lighter now, Eddie treks back to wait by his van.

The sun has just dipped below the horizon, streaking the sky with pink and gold, when Steve’s BMW pulls up and he steps out of the car bathed in the orange glow of sunset, looking every bit the rescuing angel. A dashing hero straight out of a fairytale; Eddie can almost picture him with a sword in his hands instead of a toolbox, a noble steed behind him instead of a car. 

He expresses only a satirized version of that sentiment, clasping his hands over his heart and gasping theatrically in greeting, “Harrington, my hero!” And he grins as Steve rolls his eyes in response. 

“Hi, Eddie.” Steve approaches, plunks his toolbox on the front of the van and leans against it. “You know, I’m surprised you called me. It didn’t seem like you were ever going to.” 

Eddie shrugs, hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I just- I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d be able to help me. I’m sorry if me calling you, like, freaked you out for a second there.” 

Steve’s eyes narrow and his head tilts like a confused puppy. “Why would you calling freak me out?” 

“Well, I mean, you only gave me your number in case something happened with the kids, right?” Eddie states. “So, I didn’t mean to make you worried at first that there might’ve been, like, a Dustin emergency or something.” 

“Oh…” A number of emotions flicker across Steve’s face as he seems to come to some sort of realization, and his expression ultimately settles on vaguely amused. “Right, yeah. Totally.” 

Now Eddie’s the one who’s confused, feeling like he’s missed a punchline. “Is that…not why you gave me your number?” It’s not like it had actually been explicitly stated, but they’d just been talking about the kids right before Steve had written his number down, so Eddie had just assumed that was the reason. 

“No, it-” Steve shakes his head and smiles, a little bit fond, a little bit like he’s still sharing some kind of inside joke with himself. “It’s not important right now,” he decides. “Let’s just figure out your van first, alright? What was going on with it before it broke down?” 

“Well, I don't actually know,” Eddie says, “but she was being very loud and dramatic about it.” 

“Huh, I’ve heard of pets developing similar personalities to their owners but I’ve never heard of cars doing it.” 

“Oh shut up.” 

Steve grins, pushing himself off the front of the car so he can open the hood and take a look. He immediately starts to tinker around with some stuff. Eddie has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, but he sure looks good doing it. There’s a cold breeze in the air, getting colder by the minute with the slowly darkening sky, but something about watching Steve’s arms as he works a wrench into the machinery has Eddie feeling strangely warm. 

Steve’s talking, probably trying to explain what he’s doing or what’s wrong with the van, though Eddie’s not catching a word of it. He couldn’t pay attention even if he tried, and not just because he’s distracted by Steve’s arms. The other half of his mind is still stubbornly stuck on the whole thing about Steve’s number, racking his brain trying to figure out why the hell else he would’ve given it to him. 

He spends way too long replaying that moment, and all their previous and subsequent interactions, over and over again in his head before his memory finally starts to give notice to all Steve’s lingering glances, subtle once-overs, and suggestive smirks.

“Holy shit, you were flirting with me!” Eddie blurts out the realization as soon as it hits him. “When you gave me your number - you were trying to hit on me!”

Steve, who had been interrupted mid sentence, barks out a laugh. “Now he gets it,” he teases as he glances over at Eddie. “You know, I couldn't figure you out for a while. All this time you never called but would still say hi to me when I picked the kids up from Hellfire, I figured it was some sort of soft rejection. But you really were just completely oblivious, huh?” 

“No yeah, I just have fucking rocks for brains apparently,” Eddie says, shaking his head self-deprecatingly as he rushes to reassure him, “I was definitely not rejecting you. Definitely, definitely not. Believe me, if I’d’ve known- I would’ve called so fast, man. I mean, trust me, your phone would’ve never stopped ringing.” 

“Good to know.” Steve smiles, his eyes so golden and warm in the dusk it almost seems as if the sun is on its way back up. He returns his attention to the van, just for half a second to give the machinery one last tweak, and then he straightens and closes the hood, wiping the car grease from his hands off on his jeans as he announces, “Well, your car should start now, if you wanna test it out and make sure. And then we can, uh, continue this conversation?” 

Eddie nods, hops back in the van, and turns his key in the ignition. It rumbles to life, and he lets out a laugh like a cheer. “You’re a goddamn miracle worker, Stevie!” he shouts.

“Glad I could help,” Steve calls back proudly. 

Eddie revels in the sound of his not-dead van for a moment longer before he takes a deep breath, turns off the engine, and jumps out to stand in front of Steve again. “So.” 

“So.” 

There’s a brief beat of buzzing silence. Eddie finds he doesn’t have all that much left to say, and he’s feeling far too giddy right now to be able to stand through some sappy discussion about how they feel about each other when it’s entirely unnecessary. He suggests instead, “Do you wanna just skip the conversation and go make out in the back of my van?” 

Steve grins at him. “Absolutely.” 

[rad-batson]

I’m like 99% sure the Gotham Elite’s social customs are fucked up because Autism-in-Human-Form Bruce Wayne was just so fucking tired of high society’s weird and incomprehensible (and frankly ableist) social etiquette that he went full Virgin Mary About-to-Invent-a-Major-World-Religion, said “oh haven’t you heard?” and just started making his own random social rules. Like who’s going to stop him? The other elites? The dinosaur CEO’s? He’s richer. He hosts the better parties. He could tank your business in a weekend. So when he says “Weird passive aggressive fork language is out. Having a different utensil for every different food texture is in,” you use a different utensil for every food texture. Now when foreign elites visit Gotham, they have to learn a completely new set of social customs to fit in. It’s like a cult, but the cult is run by the most influential man in the world and Gotham’s personal Jesus. The followers are more likely than not mafia bosses named after a bird. You will be judged. There’s a test. Yes, you do get brownie points for being nice to the servers. For the love of god, stop making so much eye contact. The cloth napkins are folded into little ducks. Welcome to Gotham.

[ckret2]

Do you think Bill Cipher is his real name? The book suggests it is since he used to be called Billy but he also tells Gideon that his true name would drive mortals insane. But maybe he was lying! About which we’ll never know.

I personally think it would be really dumb for

an alien

with bizarre alien biology that involves speaking through some organ that clearly isn't a mouth

because his mouth is also his EYE SOCKET and occupied by an EYEBALL

who's not only from a different planet but from a different UNIVERSE

which is so different from ours that the LAWS OF PHYSICS aren't even compatible

because they don't have a THIRD DIMENSION

and who was named ONE TRILLION YEARS before any humans existed

never mind human languages

never mind "common" human names like Bill

to have a normal human name made with normal human sounds.

So I buy the "my name is unintelligible to your species; Bill Cipher is just a dimensional pen name I use because you can pronounce it" explanation, due to the alternative offending my sci-fi worldbuilder sensibilities. The "if you heard my name you'd explode with an expression of ecstasy and agony on your face" part in the Bill Cipher AMA might be a boast to sound cool, but nevertheless I buy that his name can't be spelled, pronounced, or possibly even heard correctly by humans.

The most common explanation I've heard for why he would claim his REAL name is incomprehensible if his name is actually just "Bill" is that he thinks "Bill" is lame and wants people to think he has a cooler name. But, if that were the case... why wouldn't he just... y'know. Give himself a cooler name? Like, who's gonna call him out on it? Birth certificate's incinerated. Parents aren't gonna call him his deadname in front of his friends. The only reason he'd tell people his name is Bill Cipher would be if he wants to go by "Bill Cipher."

When he goes by "Bill" and refers to himself as a child as "Billy" I'm assuming that that's, like... the dub version of his name. Like how the main character of Pokémon is named サトシ but in the dub it's changed to "Ash" because surely American children can't pronounce that bizarre foreign name!! Bill's real name is [EERIE INCOMPREHENSIBLE SOUND] and as a kid sometimes his mom called him [A SIMILAR BUT SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT EERIE INCOMPREHENSIBLE SOUND THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING TO US BUT TO BILL'S SPECIES SOUNDS LIKE A CUTESY VERSION OF THE FIRST SOUND] and when talking to humans he translates those as "Bill" and "Billy."

[pocket-deer-boy]

i know this has already been said like a billion times but i think some of the white american fussing about how inscrutible their "different american cultures" are to foreigners is so quaint. my country fits like 13 times in texas but if i go anywhere near the german border people will be speaking a borderline different language. if i go too far north people will be speaking frisian which is more incomprehensible to me than german. if i go to the south people will have a whole different dialect with different words n shit that i genuinely have to adjust to. in the US you can drive for 12 hours and people will speak the exact same language, with a nigh indistinguishably different accent. You can drive aaaaaall the way through bumfuck nowhere in canada and people will be speaking the same language with a nigh indistinguishably different accent

[micahrats]

Listen, I know that Christopher hated the movies and it’s a safe bet that Jolkien Rolkien would loathe the shit out of them, probably bemoaning the insufferable state of modern cinema to a willing ear of CS Lewis but!!!

If ever there was a scene that got the very essence of Midde-Earth right, if ever the thin, transparent veil of suspension of disbelief was finally broken through, letting the fresh and foreign air of Arda gush from the screen, allowing you, the viewer, to almost taste, smell, touch, breathe in the unfamiliar, yet strangely recognisable world of Middle-Earth then it is, without a doubt, the first 40 seconds of ‘Three is company’.

It’s in the outskirts of the Shire submerged in cold, glossy dew after a peaceful night, it’s in the darkened silhouettes of Gandalf and two hobbits against the slowly waking sky, in the soft yet brisk clanking of horse’s hooves and Sam’s pots and pans as he tries to keep up, it’s in the crispness of the sound and the freshness of the morning air, glistening with chilly shire mist.

And then the welcoming forest, shrouded in a veil of morning fog, envelopes our travellers, and the gentle murmur of its leaves and the tender sigh of tall weeds and flowers that grow below seem to whisper faintly - to the company and to us - that everything is alive and breathing, everything is alert and flourishing. There’s no need to be afraid, is there?

And here comes my favourite moment that is not talked about enough: Seduction of the ring. Of course, it has everything to do with editing and sound production but oh. my. god.

The choir - no more than a distant echo of voices singing as above so below, the gentle lull of an entrancing yet eerie melody chanting phrases in a language lost to time. And then!! And then, just as Gandalf asks Frodo, for the final time,“Is it safe?”, and the Frodo’s hand flies to his breast pocket in reassurance, you feel, more than hear, a dull, distant but all the more terrifying drop of bass. It’s barely audible yet so jarring, a flash of sudden lightning against the cloudless blue sky, revealing (even for just a moment) a small glimpse of terror and peril that lies - how distant, how incomprehensible, how bizarre it seems right now! - in this very moment in a breast pocket of a clueless hobbit.

Then, just a moment later, another zoom-in on a ring hidden beneath the fabric of a good-quality shire waistcoat, a seemingly temporary abode of the most powerful weapon in all of Arda and the same bass repeats, still dull and distant but more forceful, more louder as the chorus, weaving saccharine melodies out of cruel words, seems to fade away entirely, passing like a dark shadow over a bright, quiet morning.

Im not joking when I say that I rewatch this scene almost weekly, sometimes daily just to breath in the clear air of a place that never was and never will be yet for a moment becomes as real as my reflection in a freshly dusted mirror.

Peter Jackson you need your ass ate every day for the rest of your life just for those 40 seconds alone. I volunteer.

[mariacallous]

If you’re baffled by Skibidi Toilet, you’re not alone.

The bizarre animated YouTube series centers on an alien invasion: a swarm of singing heads, all popping out of toilets, has descended on a Los Angeles–like metropolis and triggered a surreal, cartoonish, apocalyptic war. That’s a more direct and clear explanation than you’ll find in the actual videos, since they’re all almost completely wordless. There’s no language barrier, which is a major reason why the videos have been viewed hundreds of millions of times, becoming a global cultural phenomenon among Gen Z and Gen Alpha.

Surprisingly for something so popular, Skibidi Toilet has garnered a reputation for being incomprehensible to anyone who isn’t a fan. Its impenetrable nature has raised serious concerns around the world. Some call it a moral outrage, foreign propaganda meant to prey on vulnerable young minds, or even a disease. In a cultural climate where it’s harder and harder to understand trends and popularity, people are searching for an explanation for how singing toilets conquered the world. On the May 22 episode of The Late Show, Stephen Colbert punched up a joke about the Biden campaign using Skibidi Toilet to attract the youth vote, saying that if anyone didn’t get the gag, their grandchildren could explain it “and you still won’t understand.”

As random as the videos can seem, their success isn’t. Skibidi Toilet deftly combines modern storytelling trends with nostalgic internet humor in a way that magnifies the outwardly confusing qualities of both. “It was initially appealing to young people for its utter weirdness,” says danah boyd, a partner researcher at Microsoft Research. “Parents (and many other adults) probably reacted with revulsion, as they’ve done many other times. That revulsion from adults makes it even more appealing to young people.”

That’s why the word “skibidi” has become a more general shibboleth for Gen Z and younger, in the same class as “rizz”, “gyat,” and “sigma.” Adults being shocked and confounded at kids having fun creates a feedback loop where kids want to make it even more distressing. The videos certainly have a lot of shock value, featuring surreal, disturbing, and violent imagery. In an interview with Forbes in February, Alexey Gerasimov, who creates the videos and uploads them under the name “DaFuq!?Boom!,” described the videos as being inspired by his own recurring nightmares.

In that light, it can be easy to see why the global success has been met with an equally global panic. Last August, several writers and journalists in Malaysia and Indonesia warned parents about the dangers of a “Skibidi toilet syndrome” that would cause children to refuse to stop imitating the toilet’s songs and dances. Earlier this year, Robbie Collin wrote in the Telegraph that the videos were a sign YouTube needed more strictly enforced age limits.

Other sources are going even farther, calling the surreal meme videos a threat to national security. In February, reporter Olga Sosnina claimed in a Swedish news outlet that Skibidi Toilet was Russian propaganda aimed at indoctrinating children. Russia was just as worried: In January, Moscow officials were called to investigate the videos. In April, Anna Mityanina, St. Petersburg’s Commissioner for Children’s Rights, played the videos to the city’s legislative assembly as part of an annual report on risks to children. “There is no need to pretend that there are no standards of decency,” Mityanina said. “A character in the form of a toilet, to put it mildly, is not cultured enough.”

For all of the worry, there isn’t much to be concerned about within the Skibidi Toilet videos themselves. “I see these media as reflective of our societal obsessions,” says boyd. “As always, young people twist it slightly in a way that makes adults uncomfortable because they don’t want to reckon with their own passions.”

The videos, as uncanny as they can get, don’t contain anything particularly unsuitable for children. The violence is unrelenting and large in scope, but never goes beyond cartoonish explosions and punches. Characters who appear to be killed or turned to the villain’s side regularly return to fight alongside the heroes. The largely wordless storytelling, of course, puts a limit on mature themes. Ultimately, the most “indecent” element of the videos is the toilets themselves, which will always be a hit with the younger generation.

That’s not the only area where Skibidi Toilet follows a long tradition. Gerasimov (who didn’t respond to multiple requests for comment) animates the videos using the Source Filmmaker program, but he’s modified the animation interface to emulate the 2006 game Garry’s Mod. Garry’s Mod, true to its name, was initially a fanmade modification of the game Half-Life 2 that removed any structure or objective, leading to a purely creative sandbox years before Minecraft’s Creative Mode. The game was used to create thousands of machinima videos throughout the late 2000s, and Gerasimov calls these videos a primary inspiration for Skibidi Toilet.

Maddy Buxton, the head of YouTube’s culture and trends team, says this is a major factor in the videos’ success. “One thing we know about Gen Z viewers and creators is they’re interested in nostalgia. It’s hearkening back to this earlier time, even if they didn’t grow up in it themselves,” Buxton says. Skibidi Toilet was one of the top trending topics last year on YouTube, where at one point it garnered 2.8 billion views in 28 days.

Nostalgia and scatological humor can be eye-catching, but to build up the kind of sustained interest and devotion Gerasimov has, there needs to be a story in its own right. The narrative of Skibidi Toilet isn’t communicated directly, but that only adds to its intrigue for many viewers, especially younger ones who are used to having to put in extra work to get the full picture. “We’ve been looking into the role of lore in building these big fan communities,” says Buxton. “The ones that aren’t just passively watching, but digging into the backstory.”

That digging is so popular that it’s transcending traditional structures of fandom. There’s no shortage of ways to be a fan of something online, but Skibidi Toilet’s audience has spent most, if not all, of their lives on the internet, and their work comes out in extremely online forms. Acolytes flood YouTube with breakdown videos and expand on the worldbuilding with Roblox games. Then there’s the comment-section fiction: Wherever the videos are posted, the comments are filled with dozens or hundreds of people providing their own written narratives retelling the events of the video, filling the gap left by the storytelling with their own words. It’s a cross between a liveblogged reaction and fan fiction, creating lore where none existed.

The idea of lore is now fundamental to the way many people consume any fiction, but it started in the world of video games, especially games like Dark Souls that have virtually no direct storytelling. There are hundreds of unofficial Skibidi Toilet games that let players take part in the battles, but the videos themselves invite a similar degree of participation.

“People are coming at it from different entry points,” says Buxton. “Some people are coming in from the gaming world, some are coming just for the action storytelling, some like to unpack lore.” She describes these unusual fan works as “casual creation,” saying that “this idea of being a daily creator makes it much easier to be an active fan than it was five, 10, 15 years ago. Now you can engage in the subject of your fandom by creating it online.”

Of course, Skibidi Toilet itself could be categorized as a fan creation, containing numerous echoes of Garry’s Mod and the Half-Life games. Like many recent works that emerge online, from streetwear trends to unauthorized TikTok musicals, Skibidi Toilet blurs the line between fan work and original work. “Lots of the kids who got into Skibidi Toilet don’t know anything about where these characters and assets are sourced from,” says Phillip Hamilton, an associate editor at Know Your Meme.

Beyond the actual content of the videos, their release schedule is also a factor. “Skibidi Toilet is huge with people (namely kids) who always want more,” says Hamilton. “Each episode is about a minute long and they blast by so fast, with episodes coming out super frequently.”

During the first wave of the videos’ popularity in mid-2023, Gerasimov was uploading at least two videos each week for months, sometimes uploading a video every single day. Social media algorithms have prioritized more frequent uploaders for years, and Gerasimov had been animating in Source Filmmaker for more than a decade, giving him enough experience to crank out the videos fast enough to satisfy YouTube’s algorithm.

This isn’t the first time the algorithm has popularized content that adults find inappropriate for children. In 2017, YouTube faced a public outcry when it was found that the platform was promoting hundreds of disturbing videos, and allowing them to be viewed on its family-friendly YouTube Kids app. The controversy would be known as “Elsagate,” since the offending videos featured popular children’s characters like Elsa, Spider-Man, and Peppa Pig undergoing gory medical procedures, getting kidnapped, and more.

These videos were transparent attempts to game YouTube’s recommendation system for ad revenue. Many of them had hundreds of seemingly inauthentic comments to boost engagement metrics, and a report by the New York Times found one prominent channel was creating videos with a team of roughly 100 people.

YouTube made changes to its algorithm to disincentivize scammers from making these videos. They can’t do the same to flush away Skibidi Toilet, because it wasn’t made to satisfy the algorithm in the same way. It’s a much smaller operation, made with genuine craft and artistic intention. Gerasimov made the videos longer and more ambitious as the series grew in popularity, but that growth happened thanks to people actually enjoying the series, not for associations with popular characters.

Nonetheless, they’ve become even more of a hit among the younger generation, and for parents, this seems to be the real underlying fear. “I think Skibidi Toilet’s ‘negative effects’ on kids are mostly just the obsessive, seemingly addictive aspect,” says Hamilton. “It’s the same reason parents worry about short-form video platforms like TikTok.” The videos took off at the perfect time—after the Covid-19 pandemic accelerated a general shift away from in-person social interaction—for their weirdness to feed into paranoia about what a screen-mediated life might be doing to impressionable young minds.

When it comes to children’s browsing habits, there are many scarier things they might find online than Skibidi Toilet. As strange as the videos are, they wouldn’t do very well as propaganda or even advertising. There’s no agenda, for good or ill, besides the entertainment value. In the Washington Post, Taylor Lorenz compared Skibidi Toilet to “harmless entertainment” like Cocomelon and other children’s videos. Not everyone is happy about the popularity of Cocomelon, but that popularity hasn’t caused the same kind of panic.

[sorceresssundries]

The Farrier's Forge

Pairing: Farrier Blackwall/Female Inquisitor - AU

Warnings: SMUT, sexual intercourse.

Word Count: 5.5k A/N - Set in a AU where Blackwall is a Farrier and Quizzy is the lady of a nearby estate. Still fantasy romance, don't squint too hard at the historical accuracy haha. We like women in corsets and men in sweat-soaked white shirts.

Written for the beautiful and talented @orangekittyenergy, as part of an art exchange <3

Fawn was bold as brass and sharp as steel, a creature of wild heart and heated spirit, much to the dismay of her refined and stubborn family. Restraint had always been of little interest to her, as though it were the foreign language of a distant country she never intended to visit. Why should she? Her thoughts were bright and quick, too vibrant to keep locked away. Unlike the preening lords and lifeless ladies who drifted through life as though politeness were an achievement, she wanted more. They were satisfied to limp where she longed to run, and leave their pointless bluster to cough and choke upon the dust of her. She wished to cut the small-talk she was destined for between her teeth and spit something back that was sharper and of more use. 

How she loathed the monotony. The endless rituals, the light brush of a gloved hand meant to ignite a thrill but achieving nothing but frustration. Every suitor seemed softer than the last, as though plucked straight from a nursery, all wide eyes and milky dispositions. Where was the fire? The challenge? She wanted someone who didn’t wilt under her wit or sear themselves upon her passion.

Her family, of course, could not fathom her dissatisfaction. What more could she possibly want? She was pretty, wealthy—what else mattered? To them, a woman’s hunger for something beyond gentility and soft-hearted men was incomprehensible and improper. But the truth of it was suffocating: Fawn was drowning in softness. She longed for something hard, something real, something that would make her blood burn instead of lull her into an easy and ongoing sleepwalk through an uninspiring life. 

And so she found herself, once again, looking for escape. Another day when she had taken her horse for a charged and desperate gallop across the countryside - to feel the burn in her thighs and her hair whip it’s way out of its careful styling and into the wind she created for it. She rode hard until she was breathless, and cared little for the effect it had upon her countenance. Her happiness was a much more valuable commodity. 

It was one of the few means of escape she had which brought a ruddy flush to her cheeks and a satisfying ache to her muscles. There were times when she could not sneak out, and so she had to leave under the guise of fulfilling errands and paying visits to neighbours, tasks she would happily busy herself with if it meant she got some time in the saddle. 

This time, she had ridden the mare longer than planned, farther than usual, reveling in the crisp bite of winter air softened by the pale warmth of the sun. It was only when the mare faltered beneath her, resisting the squeeze of her thighs, that Fawn’s elation shattered. She dismounted swiftly, her heart sinking as she noticed the telltale signs of lameness in the horse’s back leg.

Her chest tightened with guilt. She had pushed too hard, let her own recklessness cause harm to the poor creature. Stroking the mare’s neck in an attempt to soothe her, Fawn forced herself to think. She knew vaguely where she was—near the edge of the estate, not far from a local farm. Her father had spoken well of the farrier who worked there, Blackwall. Dependable and honest, he had called him. 

With no other choice, she gathered the reins and began leading the mare, boots and hooves crunching on the frosted ground.

The heat of Blackwall’s forge hit her the moment she stepped inside, thick and sticky as it clung to her skin and settled there. She immediately regretted wearing so many stiff layers. Her corset felt tighter, as though the forge fire itself had grabbed the laces and pulled. The skin on her thighs beneath her skirts grew damp, and she could feel the whisper of perspiration forming on her brow. It did not do for a woman to sweat so openly. She immediately removed her riding coat in an attempt for a little respite. 

The farrier was hard at work, his great hammer rising and falling in a steady rhythm, striking the glowing metal bent over his anvil. Each blow was precise, purposeful, sending sparks dancing like fireflies in the dim light of the stable. He paused to lift the work with his tongs, tilting it to inspect every angle with the scrutiny of a craftsman who brooked no imperfection. Unsatisfied, he plunged it back into the roaring flame. The metal glowed brighter, softening under the fire’s heat, ready to yield once more to the force of his hand.

He struck it again, shaping it rhythmically, the clanging heartbeat sending out bursts of sparks and sweat. When the curve was to his liking, he quenched the shoe in the waiting bucket. The water hissed fiercely, as though in relief, and steam coiled upward, catching the light and caressing him with its tendrils.

She lingered in the doorway, unsure whether to speak. Words danced on the edge of her tongue but faltered in the face of his singular focus. He seemed utterly absorbed, each movement precise, each decision deliberate. To interrupt felt almost sacrilegious.

So, she continued to watch.

His white shirt clung to him, damp and nearly translucent from his labour, revealing a broad chest dusted generously with dark hair. It spread over the expanse of his exposed skin and trailed lower, vanishing beneath the fabric, though the shadow of it beneath the damp cloth betrayed its path. The shirt hugged him tighter with each shift of his body, pressing to him like a lover’s kiss, outlining the powerful shape of him in a way that made Fawn’s pulse quicken.

A sturdy belt circled his waist, weighed down with tools—some familiar, others foreign. He was neither small nor particularly lithe, not excessively tall or finely boned. He lacked the porcelain complexion and soft countenance of the men her peers whispered about, those pale gentlemen with delicate hands and powdered airs. This man was rugged and broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of his neck. Much of his face was obscured by a thick, forked beard streaked with grey. What she could see of him was weathered, intense, and undeniably handsome. This man was of earth and flame, rough-hewn and elemental, clad in smoke and sweat.

All she could think of, as her mouth went dry and her skin prickled with the unbearable closeness of the air, was how he might taste if she pressed her tongue to the hollow of his throat. If she dared to touch her lips to his chest, damp with exertion, and trace the path of sweat downwards. The thought made her thighs tense beneath her skirts, her breath hitching despite herself.

She glanced away quickly, pretending to adjust the folds of her dress, but the image burned itself into her mind, leaving her flushed and restless. The rush of a long, hard ride and the oppressive heat must have addled her senses—or at least, that was the lie she told herself.

She did her best impression of a lady who was not completely at the whim of her baser instincts, straightening herself and once more pushing her hair off her face. She hoped the sweat on her skin made her look dewy and youthful rather than flustered, and that the flush in her cheeks was not so red as to make her resemble a ruddy, overworked milkmaid.

“Excuse me, sir, are you Blackwall?” she asked, cursing herself for how light and childlike her voice sounded, as though the heat and her fluster had reached down her throat and stolen her confidence. She was better than this. She could talk to a man without falling to pieces—she was sure of it.

“Aye, my lady. My apologies, I didn’t see you enter.”

His voice was gruff and low, as though overused, perhaps from the heat or the smoke. He stopped his work to look at her.

She fell to pieces.

“I hope you will excuse the intrusion. I was riding nearby, and I’m afraid I may have pushed my poor mare a little harder than intended on the cold ground. She’s struggling to take weight on her back leg. I wondered if you might have a look for me and see if it’s an issue with her shoe? I can pay whatever is needed. I live at the estate not far from—”

“I know who you are, my lady.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

Good lord, his hands. Her eyes were drawn, unbidden, to his hands. They were large, rough, and moved with an unexpected grace as he threw down his tools and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair.

“I can take a look.” Blackwall’s voice was low, steady, as he stepped closer, his eyes dropping briefly to the mare’s foot. “How far have you ridden her?” There was something calm but commanding in his tone, the sort of authority born not from pomp but from understanding. Fawn, still holding the reins tightly, swallowed the nervous lump in her throat.

“Further than I should have, I’m afraid. I rode her hard for a good few miles.”

His eyes flicked back to her, appraising her in the same deliberate way he appraised the mare. She could feel his gaze taking in the tendrils of hair that had escaped their pins, now damp and clinging to her neck. His eyes dropped lower, just for a moment, to where the swell of her breasts heaved in the heat, pushed up by the corset that was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. Finally, he let his gaze settle on hers again, and the blue-grey of his eyes, once like an overcast sky, had darkened into the promise of a storm.

“May I touch?”

Her brain short-circuited, and where once there might have been words or logic, there was now only the image of his hands upon her—tangling in her hair, palming her breast, slipping between her legs to find her...

“My lady?” He furrowed his thick brows in concern at her lack of response, though she could have sworn the corner of his mouth quirked slightly. “May I touch the mare? Is she used to strange men handling her?”

The question surprised her. Most farriers she’d encountered simply dove in, hands and tools at the ready, treating the horse as though it were no more than a machine. She hesitated, caught off guard, his courtesy clashing with the image of him in her head—a vision that lacked any courtesy at all.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

He nodded, reaching into a small leather bag to retrieve a lump of sugar. Slowly, deliberately, he approached the mare, his movements measured and careful. A low, soft sound rumbled from his throat—a kind of chuttering noise Fawn had never heard before. It was soothing, almost melodic, and to her surprise, it calmed both horse and rider alike.

Fawn watched, captivated, unsure whether to feel awed or embarrassed by the peculiar spell he seemed to weave over the mare. The horse, who only moments before had been stamping and fidgeting, now stood still, her head lowering as if to listen.

“She won’t do you any harm,” Fawn said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I can assure you—she’s soft as butter.”

The farrier chuckled, a deep, rolling sound from his chest. “She’s an animal, m’lady,” he said without looking up, his voice warm yet firm. “Same as you or I. She has a mind of her own and a mood that can change. She deserves the same respect.”

Fawn blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his words. Before she could stop herself, she quipped, “Well, you didn’t approach me with such caution when I entered.”

Her words lingered in the charged silence, and her cheeks flamed as she realised what she’d just said. She fidgeted with the folds of her riding skirt, wishing fervently she could take it back.

The farrier paused mid-motion, his rough hand resting lightly against the mare’s shoulder. Slowly, he looked up at her, dark eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. A smile curved his lips, not teasing but knowing, warm and edged with something that made her heart stutter.

“Ah, but I’ve plenty more sugar, should you require calming.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. The heat in her face deepened, and she quickly dropped her gaze, focusing on the ground as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

He didn’t press her further, instead returning his attention to the mare. His deep voice lowered to a private murmur as he spoke to the horse, his words too soft for Fawn to hear. Yet, the mare responded, flicking her ears and occasionally nodding her head as though they were in quiet conversation.

When he reached her flank, he gave it a reassuring pat before kneeling down. His hand trailed along her leg, rough yet gentle, with extraordinary care—like a jeweler inspecting something rare and precious.

The devotion in his touch made Fawn’s chest tighten, a curious ache blooming within her. It wasn’t just the way he handled the mare, but the respect in it. It was disarming, and utterly unexpected.

“She’s sprung her shoe,” he said. “She’ll need a reset, but no lasting harm done.”

Blackwall pulled a small strip of tape from his belt and measured the mare’s hoof with practiced efficiency.

“Wonderful, thank you,” Fawn replied, relieved.

He lowered the mare’s leg gently, giving her a final pat on the neck. Another sugar cube followed, which the horse accepted eagerly, her lips brushing his palm with a soft snuffle of contentment.

Blackwall moved to a nearby basin to wash his hands, his steps unhurried. Fawn’s eyes followed him, lingering on the subtle flex of his shoulders beneath the damp fabric of his shirt. He splashed water over his hands, the droplets catching the warm light of the forge, before drying them with a cloth hanging nearby. With a practiced hand, he stoked the fire, the flames leaping higher and casting a golden glow across his weathered face.

Fawn’s thoughts tangled, her composure slipping further. She had ridden out that morning with a clear purpose—tasks to complete, errands to run, a schedule tightly planned. Yet, standing here now, watching him work, she couldn’t for the life of her recall what had seemed so pressing.

“How long will it take?” she asked, her voice breaking the silence as she perched herself on a relatively clean bale of straw.

He turned, his stormy eyes meeting hers. “Around an hour,” he said, brushing his hands against his trousers. “But it won’t be very interesting to watch, m’lady. Feel free to take a walk around the stables. I’ll come find you when she’s ready.”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking between the mare and the forge before settling on his hands again. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, making no move to rise.

He watched her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, then turned back to his tools. The steady rhythm of hammer on iron and the crackle of the fire filled the silence once more. Despite herself, Fawn stayed where she was, unable to tear her gaze away.

The minutes stretched, but she remained still, captivated by the deliberate flow of his work. At one point, he paused, setting the hammer down to examine the curve of the shoe. His lips, full and slightly chapped, tilted into the faintest smile of satisfaction.

Then his eyes lifted and caught hers.

Fawn froze, her breath hitching as the heat of the forge seemed to crawl into her cheeks. She was caught staring, and her flush deepened under his steady, unyielding gaze.

But Blackwall didn’t look away. His eyes held hers for a long, disarming moment, something unreadable flickering within them. For a heartbeat, she thought he might say something, but instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if daring her to continue watching.

And she did.

She couldn’t help herself.

The heat and the ever-increasing awareness of her corset made it nearly impossible to keep her breath steady. The whalebone gripped her like desperate fingers, digging into her skin, holding her too tightly. She couldn’t breathe the way she needed to.

She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t bear to remain trapped in this furnace of desire and discomfort. Forcing herself to take another shallow breath, she found the tightness in her chest made it impossible to draw in enough air.

“Excuse me, Blackwall,” she gasped, her voice trembling as she struggled to maintain a semblance of composure. “I... I just need some air.”

Her fingers pressed against the cool stone of the doorway, her knuckles white from the effort to steady herself. The heat of the forge licked at her back, as did his gaze against her skin as she turned to leave. But she couldn’t bear to look at him—not like this, so flustered and undone.

“Come and find me when you’re finished,” she said, the tremor in her voice betraying her. She gave a small, almost apologetic glance over her shoulder, but before he could reply, she was out the door, the cool air of the courtyard hitting her face like a balm.

She drew a deep, shaky breath, but even that brought no relief, her corset biting painfully into her ribs. She needed distance, needed time to collect herself, to regain some measure of control.

And as she walked, seeking the coolness of the stable, her mind was a whirlwind of confusion and desire. She didn’t know what to do with the stirring inside her, but one thing was certain: she needed to breathe. More than that, she needed space from the man who, without even trying, had managed to make her feel like she was suffocating.

Sliding down against a post, she perched on a bale of hay, her elbows resting on her knees, her gloved hands pressing against her temples. Each breath came quicker than the last, shallow and ragged, as if her lungs couldn’t find enough air in the stifling space. A faint ringing began in her ears, and the edges of her vision blurred.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, focusing solely on the rhythm of her breath—in and out. For a brief moment, she thought of loosening her corset, but even if she could manage it...

The sound of boots crunching against straw snapped her attention to the doorway. There he was, standing with her mare in hand, his brow furrowed, his gaze sharp as it swept over her.

“She’s all finished,” he began, his voice even. “Although I would ride her gently home to re—” He stopped mid-sentence, the words halting in his throat as he took in the sight of her.

Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing uneven, her hands gripping her skirt tightly, her composure entirely shattered.

“Are you all right, my lady?” he asked, stepping closer.

When she didn’t respond, he was at her side in an instant, dropping the reins without a second thought. His proximity was overwhelming, the scent of leather, smoke, and sweat enveloping her like a cloak.

His free hand came up, his fingers brushing lightly against hers, coaxing her to release the fabric of her skirt. “Focus on me,” he said, leaning closer, his deep voice steady and soothing, his eyes locking with hers. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this.”

“I... I’m fine,” she whispered, but the words trembled, betraying her. The closeness of him now caused her to lose her breath entirely, gasping for air she didn’t have space for. Panic set in, and that only made it worse. All care for propriety aside, her gloved hand reached round to loosen the laces of her corset at her back, but her shaking fingers fumbled uselessly.

He caught her wrist gently but firmly, holding her still. “Let me,” he said gruffly, his voice quieter now, edged with concern.

Before she could protest, he turned her around, his hands moving to the stays of her corset with swift precision. He pulled her upright as he worked. When the fabric resisted, he cursed under his breath, discarding all delicacy. With a sharp tug, he ripped the corset open, the seams protesting loudly before giving way beneath the force of his hands. The ruined garment sagged around her, freeing her at last. She sagged with it, the rush of air knocking her unsteady, and he held her against him to keep her upright, turning her gently so she was pressed to his chest.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have...” she began, but her words were cut off.

“You think I’ve never seen a woman out of a corset before?” he interrupted, though his voice was less mocking and more commanding, as though willing her to let go of her embarrassment.

“I’m sure you have,” she muttered.

“Ridiculous things,” he muttered back. “Hiding all that softness and ability to breathe” His thumb brushed softly against the skin under her now-loose shirt.

The absence of the constriction was a relief, but she felt exposed, vulnerable.

“Can you breathe now, my lady?” he asked, still holding her to him, keeping her steady.

She nodded, though her breath remained uneven, the heat of him too near, too much. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she looked up at him.

Fawn’s chest rose and fell against his, her gloved hands resting on the firm, sweat-dampened planes of his muscles. All thoughts of propriety had burned up in the heat, and she leaned forward, pressing her lips softly against his. She thought he would stop her, perhaps allow her a moment of sweetness before pushing her away, and she could blame the lack of air on her temporary madness.

But he did not stop her.

She felt his response instantly—his mouth gentle at first until his hands found her face, cupping it roughly as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers with a hunger that made her head spin. The world around them ceased to exist—there was nothing but the heat of his body against hers, the sharp press of his lips, the frantic beat of their hearts in unison.

His breath was ragged as he finally pulled back, but only slightly, enough to let his voice roughen the air between them.

“You shouldn’t be dallying with the likes of me, m’lady.”

Her chest was heaving, her pulse a wild drum in her ears. She could still taste him on her lips, feel the imprint of his hands on her skin. With a slow, deliberate motion, she tilted her head, her eyes meeting his with a defiant fire.

“I am tired of being told what I should or should not be doing.”

He chuckled low as he kissed her once, gently.

“I knew you were wild.”

“Good job you seem adept at calming wild things.”

He smirked, his thumb tracing her jawline. “None like you.”

The air grew taut as he lifted one of her hands to his lips, his fingers curling firmly but not unkindly around her wrist. Fawn's breath hitched, her pulse racing beneath the rough pad of his thumb as it brushed against her skin. His eyes locked on hers, dark and intent, before he tilted his head, bringing her gloved hand closer.

Without a word, he caught the tip of her glove between his teeth. Slowly, agonizingly so, he pulled it free, the fabric sliding away to reveal her bare skin. She watched, spellbound, as he let the glove fall to the hay-strewn floor, then repeated the act with her other hand, his grip firm on her wrist.

“You don’t need these,” he murmured, his voice low and rough as his thumb brushed over the newly exposed skin of her palm. His lips, full and slightly chapped, lingered briefly over the curve of her knuckles.

His lips were on hers again. His kiss was fire and earth, and his hands slid over her back and hips with an urgency that made her knees weaken.

Fawn didn’t resist when he guided her back into the corner of the stable, where the scent of hay mingled with the earthy heat of his body. The coarse texture of straw and wood pressed against her through the layers of her clothing. He cupped her face, rough thumbs brushing her cheeks as if trying to memorize the shape of her.

His lips left hers, trailing down the column of her neck to the hollow of her throat, where they lingered. She gasped softly, her fingers tightening against him as the heat of his breath on her skin sent a ripple of sensation coursing through her. Her unrestrained breasts moved under his hands, and he groaned as he pressed a large, calloused palm against them.

Fawn’s hands slid up to tangle in his hair, her fingers threading through the dark, sweat-damp strands as she pulled him closer. She was drowning in him—in the sheer physicality of him, the strength of his hands, the heat of his body. The world outside the stable faded away, replaced only by the crackle of the distant forge, the scent of horses and hay, and the rhythm of their thundering heartbeats.

She arched into him as his lips found her nipple, her body pressing against his in an unspoken plea for more. There was nothing gentle about the way he responded—nothing polite or reserved.

She was soft metal, pliant and bowing under his hands. His large, practiced hands. His tongue was like the lick of forge-fire against her skin, flushing her red and making her insides molten. Her head tipped back, baring her neck to him, and he took the offering with a low growl that rumbled through her like the echo of a hard hammer upon steel. Everywhere his hands roamed felt branded, his touch leaving invisible marks that seared her. She would never be the same again, not after this. How could she possibly be?

His thumb grazed the tender curve of her jaw, tilting her face back toward him for another searing kiss, while his other hand slid down her side, gripping her waist in a way that made her breath catch. He handled her with the confidence of a craftsman who knew the strength of his tools and the fragility of his materials—his movements sure, deliberate.

There was no world beyond the stable walls, no reality but the alchemy he was working upon her, turning her into something she had never been but had always longed to be.

As she melted and molded against the frame of his embrace, the hardness of his erection pushed against her stomach. She had never felt anything like it.

Between them, they pulled the shirt over his shoulders and unfastened his trousers. He did not seem to have the patience to wait or gently undo the layers of skirts that blocked him, hiding her from his view. He hiked them up around her waist as she lay back on the bale, pausing only as she bucked beneath him, using her hand to guide him to the wanting apex, where her pleasure gathered and waited for the farrier’s hammer.

“This may be a little unco—” he groaned low, but she ignored him, using her soft, noble hands to grip and guide him.

“I am no blushing virgin, Blackwall,” she said, guiding him inside her. He was tense above her, his forearms taut, his jaw tight as she smugly watched him try to be gentle, trying to keep control.

It was true, he wasn’t small. The burn and stretch of him as he breached her made her wince, but soon the discomfort gave way to sparks of pleasure—small at first, dancing with the pain, and then overtaking it. He was thick, and there was a delicious pressure against the most sensitive parts of her as he moved at a slow, deliberate pace.

Fawn was no virgin, true. She’d had her share of dalliances—hurried, whispered encounters cloaked in secrecy and shadows. Always rushed, always quiet, always... lacking. Gentle, but forgettable, leaving her wondering if there was anything more to sex than a fleeting sputter and stop.

It turned out there was. There was this.

There was the heat of his eyes on hers as his hands gripped her hips and he buried himself in her. There were rough words of praise that sent her reeling, tangled with other, inarticulate sounds muffled against her skin as his tongue worked tirelessly, savoring her instead of wasting itself on speech.

There was sex unbound by shame, pleasure without compromise. There was sweetness and sweat, and touches so deliberate and searing they set her alight and left a slow burn smoldering beneath her skin. The smudges of soot from his labors clung to her, dark as the bruises she hoped he’d leave where his hands gripped her soft curves.

She closed her eyes as her cry split the air. He shifted, sitting up and pulling her hips against him, his hands strong and certain as he tilted her, sinking deeper, impossibly so.

“Eyes open,” he commanded. “Let me see you.”

There was no ‘My lady’ anymore. Not in this.

His pace quickened, and her hands found his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she anchored herself against the waves of sensation. Each movement built upon the last, the intensity rising, cresting, threatening to pull her under. She could feel his strength in the way he moved, in the way he held her as though nothing could shake him, and yet she could also see the strain in his jaw, the tremor in his muscles. He was as close to unraveling as she was, and it thrilled her.

Her thighs burned, and from where he sat above her, perched on his heels with her thighs wrapped around his thick waist, he slowly dragged his hand down from her neck, sliding over her sweat-slicked skin, until his thumb found her clitoris.

Her back arched, and it only took a few expert strokes of his thumb for her orgasm to hit. A sensation she had previously only known about alone, something she had thought would always be a gift only she could give herself -  never to be unwrapped in front of anyone, never to see the spark in someone’s eyes when it was revealed.

His eyes blazed, and his chest rumbled as she shattered, her legs quaking with the intensity of it. The feeling of this ecstasy being given to her by someone else, a treasure shared, brought her to a height she had never experienced before.

As the wave rippled out, he withdrew himself from her. Her gaze dropped as she saw him gripping his thick length in his hand, stroking himself with rough, desperate precision. His head tipped back, jaw clenched, his body taut with restraint as he teetered on the same edge she had just leapt from.

“Let me see you,” she whispered, breathless, her voice soft yet commanding. That was all it took.

His head snapped down, stormy grey eyes locking with hers, dark and intense like a thundercloud. His movements faltered, and with a guttural groan, he let go. His body pulsed as he spilled himself across her stomach, the heat of him spreading over her soft skin. One hand braced against the wooden beam near her shoulder, steadying himself as his body trembled, the other working himself through the final shudders of pleasure.

He collapsed against her, pressing lazy, messy kisses to each patch of skin his mouth could find. They couldn’t speak, both needing time to catch their breath, to let the tremors fade and the blood return from its fevered rush to their brains. The silence between them wasn’t awkward but warm. He took her hand in his roughened palms, cradling her fingers, and raised her hand to his lips, placing soft kisses along each knuckle, lingering just enough to make her shiver.

The cold air whistled through the cracks in the barn, and he felt the goosebumps rise on her skin. Without a word, he reached for a blanket nearby, draping it carefully over her shoulders and tucking it around her. His hands lingered there, a protective weight that warmed her as much as the wool itself.

“Are you alright, my lady?” he asked softly, tilting her face toward him with the crook of his finger. His eyes, now softened, searched hers.

“Nothing a sugar cube won’t fix,” she teased, her voice light but playful.

He laughed, the sound deep and rich, filling the space around them. The joy in it made her chest ache in the best way. “Stay with me a while,” he said, his tone dipping into something softer - an invitation, a promise.  “And you can have as many as you like.”

She let herself relax against him, her head resting on his chest as the thrum of his heartbeat soothed her. "I'll hold you to that," she murmured, her smile widening as his arms circled her. 

For now, the world outside could wait.

[tamayula-hl]

TAMA IT'S YOUR DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE WE WANT TO SEE!! It's no matter if cultural values are different - because the story you want to write is filtered through YOUR lens, the characters are interpreted through your lens only, a.k.a. you set the philosophical/cultural context of your story regardless of the original context your source material is based on. If you use your SebxOC dynamic (you have already explained her background in your OC posts), the dual cultural values will actually factor in your story in an extremely fitting manner.

I would really, really like to see things your way, or even how you interpet a foreign value system in your story. This is one of the reasons I think you don't need to be writing in English! I know it is discouraging to know people are losing the nuances of your work by putting it through a translator, because there are subtleties to every language which cannot be caught when translated ('male' and 'female' speech, choosing a level of distance/formality, relation of the individual self to the mass public etc.), but please know we will try to catch on as well as we can! Don't dilute your work for us, even if you feel the need to - it's the reader's job to interpret the text, not the author's to explain it!

I'm excited to read everything you write - writing is never useless in a fandom. You never know if what you write is exactly what someone wants to read!! GO TAMA!!

Aww, I'm really grateful and happy to receive such strong words of encouragement. Thank you so much🙇‍ I want to write a novel about the charm of the Wizarding World and HL characters seen through the perspective and values ​​of Sakurako, a typical Japanese person, and the dynamics of how a woman with Japanese values ​​interacts with Sebastian, and as you say, I think that if I were to write a novel in this fandom, I would have to use these differences in values ​​as a weapon.

And it was really encouraging to hear you say that I can just submit the novel in Japanese. However, if I take the time to write and post a novel, I want as many people as possible to read it, and considering that almost no one has read the Japanese novels I have posted in the past, I think I may need to translate the novel into English for my own sake 🥹

And because sentences that maintain the style of a Japanese novel will end up in English that are quite strange and incomprehensible even if I use DeepL or ChatGPT (mainly sentences that are considered more beautiful when omitting the subject, which is unique to Japanese, are a huge hurdle when translating into English), I think I will write Japanese sentences that are easy for machines to read, such as ChatGPT, and that clearly state the subject (and that are very strange and unrefined from a Japanese speaker's perspective).

Sentences that are refined as Japanese while retaining the unique nuances of a Japanese novel and sentences that are easy to translate into machine translation are completely different, and it is a very difficult choice to decide which one to discard. Should I post both the original Japanese version and the English translation? 🤣 Anyway, this language barrier is really bothering and bothering me.

If I had English skills, this problem would be almost solved, but I regret and feel ashamed that I didn't study English as hard as I could for the past two years. First of all, I'm going to start by writing out the lines that appear in HL's main quest line and Seb's quest line in English, reading their meanings, and memorizing them. 🥹 I have to continue studying art, and this is the beginning of days where I will have to cut down on my eating and sleeping time even more. 💪

[herald-divine-hell]

Regarding your posts about qunari and how they're based off middle eastern cultures, is there any specific headcanon u have for your qunari ocs?? 👀

Gosh, this is a really good question. Unfortunately, a lot of my Qunari ocs are very underbaked, and most of them I haven't really explored as characters.

At the same time, I did utilized Amayian (and his Trevelyan family) as a sort of stand-in for Islamic/Middle Eastern Cultures - particularly elements of Iranic (Persian, but particularly Afghan (Pashtun)) culture.

For example, most of Amayian's paternal family members dress in the attire of the 15th-16th centuries Ottoman/Safavid imperial/noble elite.

Though I do admit, the fabrics likely used by the Trevelyans may be of a more thicker material than the ones used in the Ottoman, and certainly the Safavid and, say, Durrani (the 18th century Afghan dynasty that established the percussor state to Afghanistan) imperial courts, the type of of dress they wore are certainly what I imagine Amayian's family are in. Though, I also take elements of - though with a wide stretch of truth giving that most depictions come from 19th century western depictions of Afghans, so there may certainly be elements of Orientalism in their own depictions - of certain notable Afghan dress found in the 19th century, such as the fur-lined jacket/coat found in James Rattray's Afghan Foot Soldiers (1841). In Amayian's family, however, it is a floor-length coat rather than it ending at the waist.

Beyond that (because I can talk endlessly about clothing and architecture, and how that is symbolization of cultural practices and thinking, align with theological belief and environmental circumstances), I also like to imagine that elements of ritualistic faith within Andrastianism are displayed differently, depending on the region. For Amayian's family (and such the Ostwick in his universe), their method of worship is similar to the salat form of prayer Muslims preformed, though I still debate rather they preform the form of salah before a statue of Andraste, given the development of Islam as a more aniconistic faith - that I would also remind anyone interested that the Quran makes no direct banning of images, and even notable prophets such as Prophet Solomon had statues, and God does not critique him for such.

His family also preforms the Pashun attan, particularly in times of celebration or moments of warfare (for example, Amayian's birth was celebrated with an attan by the Trevelyans).

One of the strongest struggles for the Qunari for me, especially as they are related to be the Islamic/Middle Eastern/North African world and its relationship with Andrastian Thedas (Christian Europe), is that, well, in a historical level, Islam was not some foreign, unknowable, incomprehensible religion. Muhammad, his followers, and the Arab people in general were as much the inheritors to the complicated, broad Near Eastern traditions in which the Jewish and Christians faith share from. The Quran utilizes words that were loaned from numerous other languages outside of Arabic - (the word sirat (path) comes from the Latin strata; the word qalam (pen) derives from the Greek kalamos (reed pen); the 'dark-eyed maidens" of Paradise (in which the faulty claim of matyred Muslim men would receive 75 virgin's in Heaven derives from), the hur, can possibly be traced back to the Middle Persian hurust (tentatively translated to "well-grown"), relating to the pre-Avestan reward in which righteous men was given a 'well-grown" women in the afterlife for their good deeds (Hadoxt naxt 2:11); and the Quranic word for "religion" din traces back to the Middle Persian or Parthain word den, which comes from the Avestan daena - 'vision, faith'; whereas the Semitic dīn (judgement, debt) is also used as the Quran, but not as meaning related to faith or a religion.

Meanwhile the Qunari are meant to be culturally, philosophically, and racially distinct from the rest of the races of Thedas (which my problem with BioWare sinks into, because that is clearly just pure racism at that point; regardless if they meant to or not.) For me, I have an easier time to, I suppose, negotiate the Andrastian faith to incorporate that more Islamic characteristics compared to the Qun, because while they are meant to be the Islamic world and faith throughout its histories, it shares so little with it as a theology, its born philosophies, or the greater Near Eastern ancient customs of pluralistic interactions across religious, ethnic, and cultural barriers that I struggle to really incorporate those elements into the Qun.

With the Qun, it's in such an odd place of "This is clearly inspired by Islamic history...but within the context of Christian Europe's perceptive of Islam and its faith throughout the years" and less of an actual inspiration from Islam as a faith, its historical placement in the greater world and its origins, and its relationships and adaptability, as well as conforming within its own theological and legalistic understanding, of the cultures they inherited, interacted, and conquered with. To even headcanon my Qunari ocs, I would need to tear down the whole of the Qun as a philosophical and cultural perspective (and perhaps to an extent racial group), which seems a very daunting task, LMAO.

Ugh. I'm sorry I rambled. Let me think. I hope my rambling about Amayian is a fair compensation!

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Kauderwelsch reden

literally: to talk the foreign (Romance) language of Kauder

to say something incomprehensible

Origin: The expression was reportedly coined by Martin Luther who may have meant "Chur-Welsch", the dialect of the Romansh language spoken around the Swiss city of Chur, which was incomprehensible to him. "Welsch" used to be a collective term for the Romance languages spoken in the regions adjacent to the German-speaking areas.

[fromthevoidd]

I've seen a lot of people talking about the Minecraft movie recently, so I decided to do my input too.

The basic Minecraft prelude is that the main character wakes up completely alone in a world with monsters and has to learn how to survive on their own. Honestly, this is just the perfect scenario for one of the best horror movies that could be produced this year, instead of that terrible scenario with a jumanji ahh atmosphere.

Over the years, many Minecraft fans or just people that had at least a bit of overall knowledge about the game have pointed out how Minecraft would be such a great/is a horror game. Many players have stated that they feel like they're being watched when playing Minecraft alone, and I'm not even talking about Herobrine, just the game's overall atmosphere. Minecraft is known for making you feel alone and vulnerable, in a world you don't know the limits of nor what you can find on said limits.

And don't even get me started on the monsters. Have you seem them?? Like

Obviously, some of the designs could use some improvement, but wouldn't these be horrifying sights to see at night in a place where you are completely alone and vulnerable?

Not only that, but what about the villagers? I like to imagine that in the world of Minecraft, the villagers don't even speak the main character's (aka the player's) language, being only able to make incomprehensible noises that you aren't able to decipher. They live in that universe since they were born, and see all of the absurdity of that place as something completely normal. Zombies? Oh, they're fine, they come here from time to time. Stay at home at night and you'll be fine. Unexistent gravity? Wait, what do you mean by gravity? Pillagers? Stay out of their way and you'll be fine.

All that while the main character questions their own sanity and tries to survive in a new world full of foreign dangers to them, the only fellow humans being people that don't seem to even be able to think for themselves. I can totally see them losing their sanity little by little while sucumbbing to the vile world around them that apparently really doesn't wants them there.

And in case they decided to insert the Herobrine, thinks would get even scarier. Imagine not only living in such a horrifying world, but also knowing there's someone or something watching you at all times, being completely aware of every single one of your movements, every step, every breath you take, and as if that wasn't already bad enough, that creature has your exact appearance, with the exception of its eyes being completely blank and having a white void where its pupils should be.

Do you. Do you see the vision.

(also sorry for any grammar mistakes, English is not my first language)

[argyrocratie]

barbarian:

"The Greeks used the term barbarian for all non-Greek-speaking people, including the Egyptians, Persians, Medes and Phoenicians, emphasizing their otherness. According to Greek writers, this was because the language they spoke sounded to Greeks like gibberish represented by the sounds "bar..bar..;" the alleged root of the word bárbaros, which is an echomimetic or onomatopoeic word."

gringo:

"The word gringo originally referred to any kind of foreigner. It was first recorded in 1787 in the Spanish Diccionario castellano con las voces de Ciencias y Artes:[11][12][a]

GRINGOS, llaman en Málaga a los extranjeros, que tienen cierta especie de acento, que los priva de una locución fácil, y natural Castellana; y en Madrid dan el mismo, y por la misma causa con particularidad a los Irlandeses. Gringos is what, in Malaga, they call foreigners who have a certain type of accent that prevents them from speaking Castilian easily and naturally; and in Madrid they give the same name, and for the same reason, in particular to the Irish.

The most likely theory is that it originates from griego ('Greek'), used in the same way as the English phrase "it's Greek to me". Spanish is known to have used Greek as a stand-in for incomprehensibility, though now less common, such as in the phrase hablar en griego (lit. 'to speak Greek')."

[lovenpeace-pkmn]

They say that you know you are getting old when the language used by the youth starts to seem alien and incomprehensible but the joke is on them because I have felt like a foreigner in my own native culture my entire adult life. Ha.

[unknown171204]

The incomprehension of Les Misérables

Inspired by the novel of Victor Hugo ( a very important writer / poet in the history of French literature ) from which it borrows the plot and the most important characters

Created by three Frenchmen Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil and Jean-Marc Natel, Les Misérables was initially just a simple and unpretentious album :

What caught the audience's attention was probably the vocal presence of three popular French singers

Michel Sardou for Enjolras

Michel Delpech for Feuilly

And Salvatore Adamo as Combeferre

the full original album :

The public particularly liked the album without making it an incredible success, this led to a first stage version directed by Robert Hossein the same year

Presented at the Palais des Sports for only sixteen weeks , this short lifespan will handicap the show which also suffers greatly from the absence of the stars of the album

( Without being a failure, the show will not touch the French public who will lose interest very quickly )

A persistent rumor has been circulating for years that a complete recording of the show might exist (unconfirmed lost media from a supposed VHS sold at the exit of the theater ?!) but at the time of writing no archive has resurfaced ...

However, here's what the very first The Mis looked like :

1:10 and 9:42 for skip interviews ⤵️

The show will be spotted by Cameron Mackintosh who will produce the very first international adaptation of an French musical

The English adaptation will become an interplanetary success performed in 42 countries and translated into 21 languages !

And will also be brought to the cinema in 2013

But while the show is a hit all over the world, what is happening in France ?

Ironically, the show has simply disappeared from collective memory

A new stage attempt was made in 1991 at the Mogador theater with all the songs rewritten to better correspond to the English version of the show, which caused a certain incomprehension or even slight anger among fans of the original album feeling (legitimately) a little betrayed

The show will ultimately be shunned by the public who will lose interest even faster than the first time !!

This injustice took a long time to be repaired, it will only be in 2024 that the show will return to France at the Théâtre du Châtelet

Even though the text was rewritten ( totally unnecessarily ) a third time, the show FINALLY received recognition and success in his home country :

Finally, The Export of Foreign Musicals allowed us to open the creative door to create our own unique, beautiful, creative and ambitious show ! Today some are even played around the world in French or translated into a beautiful multitude of languages

If you are curious enough to discover or learn more about French musicals, I invite you to follow the path to my Masterlist :)

[eksvaized]

18+, MDNI part ONE

[ previous │ next ]

The water sparkles with a glittering shimmer as the golden sunlight playfully dances upon its serene surface. Before dipping your toes in the river and washing your body, your fingers carefully unravel the tangled strands of your hair, allowing it to cascade freely like a waterfall. A soft hum eludes your lips when you massage the blend of lavender and rosemary oil, which you made yourself, into your scalp.

You spent the entire afternoon immersed in the refreshing water, swimming and joyfully playing. The last time you visited this place, the biting cold weather, relentless wind, and freezing water hurried you along. But now, you relish, allowing your body to unwind and relax. However, the sun begins to descend and paints the landscape with a variety of orange hues, creating a breathtaking sight. The gentle sounds of nature accompany the stunning view as if bidding you farewell. Reluctantly, you acknowledge that it’s time to leave this tranquil haven and return home.

You take a long way back. The dress you are wearing is soaked because you didn’t bother wiping the water off your body. Your hair is still damp and the ends of it curl. But the tension, the stiffness of your shoulders is gone, and the river has washed all your troubles away.

Once in a while you come to a halt and pluck a flower, determined to bring home a bouquet of white daisies. You even gather a few herbs and plants, which you later can use to make your fancy-smelling oils and sweet elixirs; you carefully store everything in a small leather pouch, which is tied to your dress and hangs off your hip.

As you kneel, the soft blades of grass tickle your fingertips, leaving a crimson stain on your palm. A wave of confusion engulfs you, but when you examine your palm, you discover it is smeared with blood. Your gaze sweeps the area, and you immediately spot a trail of blood and broken branches. As you venture further, following the trail of blood and leaving the path behind, the forest grows eerily quiet. The birds cease their chirping and singing, and the air becomes still. Your senses sharpen, and you become acutely aware of your surroundings.

You freeze as you hear muted groans. You start walking even more cautiously, trying to avoid fallen branches and crunchy leaves. You don't want to expose your presence until you are certain that the person, who is injured, won't pose a threat to you. You take cover behind a large tree and lean against its trunk.

Your eyes are wide and the daisies slip out of your hand, scattering on the grass, below your feet when you see a man. He is sitting a few feet away from where you are, leaning against another big tree, breathing heavily. His face is veiled, denying a glimpse of his emotions, yet the audible evidence of his suffering is unmistakable. No wounds are evident from afar, but the trail of blood serves as a clear indication that he is in dire need of help.

You are like a skittish cat, hiding and reluctant to reveal yourself. But despite the fear that grips you, you summon the strength to approach the man, taking slow, deliberate steps. He remains unaware of your presence until you lightly brush your finger across his shoulder, causing him to raise his head.

In a weary, low voice, he continues to utter words that remain incomprehensible to you, spoken in a language completely foreign to your ears. Your gaze fixates on his form, and it strikes you that even in his seated position, he stands at almost the same height as you. The mere thought of him towering over you when he rises sends a shiver down your spine, prompting you to take an impulsive step back.

Aura of danger is exuding out of him and you have to fight the urge to jump into the leafy bushes, curl into a tight ball and hide. He looks like someone who could kill you with one swift motion, using only his bare hands and no blade; you realise that he could effortlessly snap your back and to him, it probably would just feel like breaking a small twig into two equal halves.

You circle him, keeping your senses sharp in case he decides to lunge at you. However, to your surprise and relief, he remains remarkably calm and even stops talking. His eyes track your every moment. Slowly blinking, he takes shallow breaths, and you can see that he is struggling to stay awake despite his obvious exhaustion.

Your heart sinks and your face pales. When you see a deep cut on his arm, you fall to your knees, landing next to his side. You carefully inspect the injury, trying not to touch the wound too much, aware that even the slightest contact causes him to flinch and cast a piercing glare in your direction.

“I can help you.” You say as you lift your head, your voice is soft and you speak slowly; you are still holding onto his arm, which is now draped over your lap. “But you have to come with me.”

He doesn’t seem to understand you. No matter how many times you try to rephrase your sentences and use simpler words, he doesn’t reply and continues looking at you with drowsy eyes.

With a sigh of surrender, you place his arm back on the ground and rise to your feet. His gaze follows you when you extend your hand, silently urging him to take it. The hesitation oozing out of him is palpable, but after a moment of stillness, he intertwines his fingers with yours. With him leaning against the sturdy tree for support, you exert all your strength and pull him up.

His frame towers over you and casts a vast black shadow that swallows you. Your hands fall back to your sides, but when he stumbles and almost comes crashing down, you glue yourself to his body and drape his uninjured arm over your shoulders, allowing him to lean and put all his weight onto you.

“Danke*.” His jaw bumps into your head when he mutters the word, and although, you are not sure what he said, you assume it can’t be anything too bad. So you cast a brief glance at him, nod your head and curl your lips into a feeble smile, which vanishes once you look away.

You both walk quietly and slowly. With each step you take, your muscles ache and the soles of your feet hurt. If you felt refreshed after swimming in the river, the feeling of exhaustion has returned. However, you do not dare to stop and take a break because you know that if you do, your legs won’t be able to continue carrying you forward.

The man tries to walk on his own as much as he can. But every time he lets go of you, he only manages to take a few short strides before his body leans back onto yours. He smells like forest, musk and blood, but the scent doesn’t repulse and you even find it strangely intoxicating...

You notice his eyes roaming as you urge him inside your humble house and close the door. You were never ashamed of how you lived, yet you anxiously gnaw your bottom lip, feeling like you're being judged. When you push him towards the bed, his body sinks onto the soft sheets, staining them with blood. You expect him to sit down, but instead, he lays down. 

You leave him for a bit and run to fetch some water, a clean cloth and two small glass jars. After placing a small stool next to the bed and sitting down, you cut off the sleeve of the man’s shirt with a knife, being cautious not to point the blade too close to his flesh. The man mumbles something under his breath, and you sense him shifting, but you pay no attention and focus on your present task.

You open the jar with bright yellow flowers and sprinkle some dried petals into the bowl. Then you wet the white cloth and begin cleaning the wound, wiping off the dried blood. The man grows silent. The cut is quite deep, but thankfully, you don’t need to find a needle to stitch it since you know it will heal on its own. Before you stand up, you coat his skin in balm made from crushed yarrow and tightly wrap a bandage on his forearm.

When he closes his eyes, you let him rest and resist the urge to wake him up. You spend most of the night sitting by the window, watching as the moon creeps across the cloudy sky, unable to sleep because there’s a stranger in your house, in your bed, snoring.

By the time the sun starts to rise and the rain begins to pour, your eyelids feel heavy and it’s difficult to fight the allure of the slumber. You decide to make some tea and have a slice of bread with honey.

You begin to prepare breakfast for yourself, enjoying the quietness of the early morning. But suddenly, you hear the soft snores stop, and you turn around to see a man standing close to you. Your heart races as your eyes lock with his, and it takes you a moment to calm down after being startled; your breakfast for one now turns into a breakfast for two.

You both eat in silence, exchanging curious glances and small smiles. But when he finishes the tea and places the cup, which looks tiny in his hand, back on the table with a soft clink, he dares to speak.

“Ich weiß nicht, warum du mir geholfen hast... aber…*” He raises his arm and his bright eyes settle on the bandage. “Danke. Nochmals.*”

The words he speaks still sound foreign to you, but you can understand by the appreciative tone of his voice that he’s thanking you for taking care of his wound: the bleeding has stopped. While he slept, you changed the bandages and reapplied the balm.

“What’s your name?” You ask, but he shakes his head to indicate that he doesn't understand you. As you sit, feeling overwhelmed, a tired sigh escapes your lips. You rack your brain for a moment, trying to think of what to do next, but then you take a deep breath and place your hand on your chest. “Y/N.”

He watches you with bright eyes. His face is still not visible to you. Last night, you were curious about what was hidden beneath his veil but you stopped yourself from peeking after reminding yourself that it would be wise to stay away from a man like him, as you wouldn't know how he might react if he woke up after you disrespect his privacy.

You repeat your name twice before you press your palm to his chest. His eyes light up with understanding and he enthusiastically nods.

“Du heißt Y/N.” He points to you before directing his index finger to himself. “König. Ich heiße König.”

As soon as he utters your name, a rush of excitement engulfs you, and a wide smile lights up your face. He no longer seems as intimidating as he was before. His voice is smooth and deep, and your name rolls off his tongue beautifully.

*Danke — Thank you.

*Ich weiß nicht, warum du mir geholfen hast... aber… — I don't know why you helped me... but…

*Danke. Nochmals. — Thanks. Again.

*Du heißt Y/N. — You are Y/N.

*Ich heiße König. — I'm König.