I'm the wife in my marriage.
It's funny to me anyway. Funny to me because my wife is the very picture of femininity, loving, caring, sexy, pretty, beautiful wife, loving and adored by all her children. And a satisfied and hot for her husband.
But to me she is beautiful and terrible as the Dawn! Treacherous as the Seas! Stronger than the foundations of the Earth! All shall love her and despair!
And yet she chose me.
So to all the hella ladies who rejected my advances? Y'all missed out. Because she saw in me what way too many people couldn't. And sometimes still can't.
And she wants to run my life. And the lives of our whole family. And we all kinda love it. Mostly. But it ain't worth the headache or heartache of fighting her on anything. She's Daddy's little princess and her mother is the loving matron and queen bitch of the family and we all stay in line. Mostly. I love to do my own thing too much for my own good. But it keeps our fights about stupid stuff instead of my weed use again.
(I'm dead ass functional and present from 6am on till I finally get my insomniac ass too sleep while high just to escape the constant anxiety about my sick daughter's upcoming surgery, my dying suegro, my mourning wife, disturbed autistic son, special needs princess Daddy's girl I'm spoiling her to death to make her just as powerful and ungovernable mother and it's working too well already. Have you ever negotiated with a hostile bitchy entitled as fuck child? )
Anyway, you wouldn't know it looking at me or talking normal chitchat, but I'm pretty fucking manly. In the way my culture defines manliness. I'm not very masculine. But I'm very manly.
I'm feminine as fuck in my household. I mother the kids, help their emotional development, work on my wife's emotional and mental well-being, and I'm the one never in the mood for sex. And I do every single thing she says. And then she does the discipline and management of the family's affairs. And she's the one who has to seduce me. Did I mention she was sexy as fuck? (While I'm awkward as fuck every time we even roleplay.) And a horny Latina. (That's why these horny sexy, nice, Latinos are taking over. It's natural selection. The Whites just can't compete and as usual are getting their panties in a twist over not being able to compete even with everything in their favor to out reproduce them all but it was too many kids for a nuclear family to handle Whites.) So beautiful hot queen sexy as fuck Latina seduces me every night. #blessed. So fuck yeah I don't wanna fuck up this arrangement. So I do everything she tells me to and treat her real good and let her win every argument and over apologize. Except when I make a rare exception to make a stand in something important or just to make some trouble and have some fun.
Oh yeah. She's a clean freak 😮💨 But she's an impatient Latina housewife perfectionist clean freak. So she gets mad at my perfectly good job when company isn't ever coming job and tells me to stop even trying to clean. Go play Minecraft with your daughter to keep her occupied.🤣
I have the best living situation ever. I'll be your bitch my bitchy highness. Just please keep playing with my hair on your lap. Oh, and that sucking my dick the way you do and being right 95% of the time on judgement calls.
So yeah I'm the wife.
And I got a pretty good life.
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And with kindness leads to greatness
Patroclus is a kind man, written in between his words of doubt and low self esteem. The way he treats women he encounters with care and empathy speaks volumes then the words he utters.
His mother, everly so writtenly as meek and homely seemed to shine in his eyes as the sandy beaches of his home. As though, supposedly to dispise her from his father's lament. He remembers her simpleness like the warmth of the fading sky. Drifting and disappearing. But as the strings of her lyre, she is there only existing.
When Deidameia got pregnant with Achilles and learned that he will never ever love her, she was angry, disappointed and thrown away. She was promised of the boy and so she gave. And out of sheer destruction of a heart break, she agonizingly seeked comfort from Patroclus and demanded to lay with her so she could even by a small margin feel the soul of Achilles mending her broken heart. Cause as Patroclus quoted he is half of Achilles soul.
She's a victim in all of this as much as she tries to stand between the two lovers. And Patroclus understands this. Bedding her too but out of sympathy and kindness that she wanted to feel.
He was so human that when Briseis was turned into a prize of war, he urged his lover to take her and save her from being soiled by Agamemnon. He befriended her, clothed her, and taught her the way of the greeks. And as more prizes come, if by means possible, he wished for Achilles to take them from the humiliation to come.
In return for his selflessness, he was loved by the girl. Even offering him a child she could bare, knowing full well that she wont be the apple of his eye. But Patroclus could not dirty her like that. He knew she deserved better.
Thetis, on the other hand, had loathed him since the beginning. Yet she unknowingly seeked comfort from his memories of her lost child. Never to truly knowing the boy she had given birth to but only from the words of his lover. Patroclus was at her mercy, begging to reunite with his lover and yet instead of hating her even until death, he sang her Achilles' song.
And with the last hymns of his memory, she obliged writing his name beside her child's. The only motherly thing she had ever done.
Patroclus was the best of the Myrmidons for his sheer kindness alone. The cowardice that was bestowed by his true father was a lie but the name 'Patroclus' that meant glory of the father was true. Chiron is proud of his child. He honored him, using the knowledge he had bestowed and saved dozens of lives of hardened greek soldiers. Memorizing their names and each of their stories like his father did. Although, unlike them, he did not fight with swords and spears, he fought with his empathy in hand.
And the boy he had accidentally killed as a prince? It was not an act of cowardice of his confession, it was atonement. Acceptance of what he had done. Unlike those other kings and princes, he took the punishment as one should supposed to.
And that is why Achilles loved him. And that's why Achilles died when he did. Because he is the mortal half of his supposed to be godhood.
He is his other half, as the poet say.
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Thinking about Celann and his ever present grief at the life he could have had, he and his wife and (he always hoped) their daughter. A life where he was a father--he'd hardly ever wanted anything more than that. So full of love he was ready to burst and needed somewhere to put it, wanted a life with his favorite girls.
Thinking about how the ever present desire haunts him no matter how deep he buried it. It keeps coming back, relentlessly, this anguish that he threw it all away. He could have had exactly what he wanted and he was stupid enough to abandon it all, and for what? Because he was upset? But then he always remembers how hollow he felt after the incident, like if you rapped him with a knuckle you'd hear he was just a shell. He forgives himself, then, remembers how wrong everything felt, and he thinks about all the time he spent desperately trying to make everything feel right again.
Remembers when he realized he was the problem, what needed to be fixed. Removed.
He abandoned the life he had and every dream he'd ever held close because he wasn't him anymore. Celann would never have killed anyone, would never have done... that. He was some other Celann, different, trying to make himself fit in the life of a man that no longer existed. And so he left.
And he has no right to ache so badly at the thought of what he gave up, no right to ache at the loss of a family (of two families, but he starts thinking that and breaks every time, so he's gotten good at simply skipping over the thought) when he was a killer--an adept one, a practiced one--that could mangle and maul and kill and do it again and again. What right does he have to still want that happy little dream?
But the dream is a ghost and it haunts him, is there every time he's out on a supply run and sees kids playing around the marketplace, sees women cradling infants and fathers carrying sons on their shoulders. (He reminds himself of the blood on his hands, is scared he might stain them with it if he reaches out to touch them.) It's there when he has a bag and his axe hanging from his hips and finds a girl crying for her mother, lost and separated, jostled by the crowd.
It's there as he calms her, kneeling on wet and gritty stone, hovering between her and the flow of the crowd so they give her space. He lifts her and holds her against his side with one arm and something in him weeps, feels something soft in him as her tiny weight settles and she starts chattering at him about the groceries she and her mother came to buy.
They weave their way through the marketplace as they help each other--she tells him where he can find what he needs, and he silently curses the nords and their height as he tries to peer over shoulders to catch a glimpse of the woman she described--and that cold weight that's usually settled in his chest, his grief and remorse, lightens with every step. She's warm through his sweater and splutters indignantly every time the ever changing wind blows her brown hair into her mouth and he laughs, quiet and warm.
They check places she's already been, in case her mother doubled back looking for her, and take detours so Celann can fumble to place newly acquired groceries in the bag beneath her, unwilling to hold her over the side with his axe and equally unwilling to put her down, awkwardly shifting her weight as she laughs at him. He's silly for buying such expensive things, she tells him, and he light heartedly tells her Skyrim is silly for not having the things he used to use in High Rock. The revelation he hasn't always lived in Skyrim excites her to no end, and the rest of the trip is a Q&A of the sort only a small child can provide.
He feels warm inside, in his chest, where usually he feels vaguely cold at best, and for a moment he's reluctant to relinquish her when they finally find her mother, guided by the sounds of panicked calls of her name. There's a fond sadness as he sets her down on the stones again, and the woman looks at him oddly for a moment before the look turns knowing, though he's sure the conclusion she reached is slightly off.
She quietly asks if her daughter reminds him of her. He stands there silently for a moment, looking down at the little girl as she rifles through the things her mother's found.
He tells her yes.
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