#pleas become a real person so i can love you

[clowncaraz]

Cattle Boy: Performing Masculinity Wrong

Original Medium version here.

Azriel Pierce is a cistrans mascfem Soulgirl who cannot be described as anything but a “Radical Gender Expansionist”.

...

When you are this thing, a cattle boy, they’ll put more weight on you — testing your durability. Seeing if you can handle masculinity and manhood present within it. If you wanted out, you were called emotional and a traitor. You are the meat they eat, you are the dairy they drink — the leather they wear.

...

Masculine World

Masculinity is not one overarching concept. Instead, it varies depending on how the culture views who and what gets to be masculine and how that is presented in language and time. To become a man and be declared a man is a specific form of growth that does not finish, that does not bloom, but grows like nails and vines. Manhood is consistently tried and put on display to criticize in a way that mocks itself.

To many, masculinity is to adhere to the common themes of ego, stubborness, strength, and breadwinning natures described as traits used by those “on top”. This form of masculinity is often called toxic or patriarchal masculinity because it upholds the patriarchy against men and women alike.

In those specific themes, you must always deny your association with womanhood and must listen to other men by ignoring the pleas of comfortability. You must also focus on asserting yourself into sexuality as the primary benefactor, your family life and trauma should not curse you, and your body must have no imperfections from past battles.

Anything other than this is a blight to masculinity and is to be questioned and mocked so that one may “experience” said growth (“Show me you’re a real man”).

If you do not have the ego, you cannot be a hero. If you are not stubborn, you cannot be deny responsibility. If you do not have strength, you are weak and feminine. And without making money, you are not valued.

Masculinity is vast, and yet we are stuck with the outlined attributes created and perpetrated by western standards spreading through our cultures. And because masculinity in the western world has always been related to being white, heterosexual, and Christian, being anyhting but these is effeminate and unvalued.

Masculinity that challenges male dominance, such as butchness or tomboyish attitudes, is seen as “ugly” in women and GNC/trans people. Said masculinity in these people are not valued, sought out, or recognized beyond lesbianism. Yet, even when said lesbianism allows masculinity, it is expected to still be apart or attached to a feminine figure or person who was born into “femaleness”.

Between The Two

I was born with a mullerian indication, meaning that I had indicators that helped in me being assigned female. I had a mullerian growth which resulted in being protomullerian — which are sex traits aligned with femaleness. XX chromosomes, enlarged breasts, wide hips, uterus and vulva, etc.

Being protomullerian had not caused me dysphoria until I hit puberty, in which I had begun to grow out these features that left me disgusted with my body. Since middle school, I have always been interested in being like the boys. I had an affinity for femininity or womanhood as if I was an outsider, a het boy. If I was smarter then, I’d realize that my attraction was being used against me by those around me.

Boys who saw me and my then girlfriend would gawk. It would be something that they had dreamed of. Two women, holding hands and laughing and being in love. They asked questions, they observed as if this was something taboo. Yet, I saw this as a young boy falling in love with a young girl. This was a heterosexual relationship. They were intruding.

I was always like the boys. I was the only mullerian outside of my mother in the family. My younger and older brothers were protowolffian — meaning they had sex traits aligned with maleness. I grew up the same way they did and had been allowed to be a tomboy.

Even when my neighbors were girls or I had friends in middle school who were just like me — mullerian — I did not refer to myself as being like them. I had ended up seeing myself entirely as this distinct concept from masculinity and femininity because I was never percieved as having both or any of it. They could call it androgynous, but that isn’t the right word for what I was dealing with from others.

When I reached high school, I noticed a lot of changes. I had gotten bigger, bulky and fat, but not exactly overweight. I tested out different names and learned a lot about how I felt regarding women and men. From the start, my presentation was lazy and I covered my body in jackets and hoodies. I dared not show my skin or my chest, and if I did, I was too fat to be feminine anyway. Hiding the fat, hiding the chest, hiding the hips — I tried to run away from my own skin in fear of being a woman because I sure was not a man and if I was not a man then I was a woman.

My friend group was full of white wolffian nerds and queer black women.

My earliest identity crisis regarding being transmasc had to have been during the discovery of plurality. In which I became aware that I was masculine because someone who snuck into my head had declared they were. I was outwardly plural in school, at home, and even with extended family — but I never shared our names. I had relations with the many people in my head as if they were physically there, and I felt pains along my body when they dug nails and cried into my skin. I felt it physically, and still often refer to myself as ‘We’ instead of ‘I’ when introducing myself online or to the public.

Self expression like that had caused the first rift. My da has always been traditional, and will never stop being so just because my ma is a little understanding of queer people.

Because I was masculine but not a man, I was not seen as entirely masculine but as butch. Butch is another word for masculine, but is seen used by lesbians and is now associated with them. I had called myself a lesbian for some time, which made me uncomfortable when a gay man in the plural system decided to control the body. I questioned a lot of my expression and sense of self, and definitely felt guilt for “appropriating manhood”.

I was expected to be feminine even if I was known as a stud/bulldyke. I completely distanced myself from femininity because I was never accepted as having it.

Black people like me, especially black women, have been called witches and “men” for showing inklings of their assertiveness and being ruthless towards those who seem to take them as a joke. From the start, people of african american descent were always seen as having hyper-masculine attributes — from our roots in slavery to our fashion and presentation. Black people like me never get to be feminine unless we are lighter, had thinner hair, short in stature, or were half-naked. So due to the fact that I never had any sisters, was called “grown” for being feminine, treated similarly by classmates, and looked with disgust because of my weight and race — I never obtained the connection to femininity and girlhood that I felt as though I wanted. I never had it and so I was never entirely a woman when I became an adult.

Breeding Bullock

I was not a woman because I was not feminine, but I had to be a woman so I could not be a man — and if I was masculine but not a man — then I was butch, a stud, or a bulldyke and not seen as a man or a woman.

My da once asked me why I had to be like a boy and why I couldn’t just be like my older cousin, who was a lesbian.

“Why can’t you just be like her?”

By then, I had severe body dysphoria regarding my breasts and my vulva. I felt beyond dirty, like a moldy rag. I felt as though my body was not supposed to be like this, and if it was, I was supposed to have a body that fit what I was — masculine.

I wasn’t allowed to be masculine though.

I stepped out of the house on day, into the backyard. It was summer, a nice peaceful summer. I had a white wife-beater on, with no bra. I was 16 or 17 at this time. My bottom was covered with shorts, sport shorts that fit boys in particular. I walked out to see what my parents were doing, which to no ones surprise, was smoking and fixing a broken tool. I walked out with shoes, intending to help them. This was routine. If I saw my da outside working on a car or his lawnmowers, I would go out and help him. That was the extent of my masculinity.

And he had told me, when I walked out with clothes on — with what my brothers had been wearing, with what HE had been wearing —

“You ain’t no boy.”

And that sunk in. I had enough. I went back inside, I sat on the bed. And I simply hugged myself. I had carried myself as a boy, questioned myself as a boy, present myself as if I was a boy — even if I knew that I had not entirely adopted the manhood and its labels. I still felt boyhood as a way that I was socialized, as a way I was raised, and as a way people treated me, until I no longer wasn’t when it was convient for others. I am always told what to wear, what not to wear — that sexual assault is the fault of the clothes not the hands that breached consent. And here, it was just another example.

Maybe, it was silly betting all of my emotions into being a boy.

But I had felt true freedom as a boy. As playing the role of a man, I felt true bliss. Yet, I did not have the same privileges to be arrogant and cocky and to be masculine as boys did and I still am not regarded as entirely seperate from the man and woman diachotomy. I was denied my womanhood because I never got to be a girl, but I also wasn’t allowed within manhood because I had been born into a body that wasn’t a boy.

Compared to a cis man like my da, he had already shown that he was capable of being everything a man was and more. There was no reason to teach his children how to be men — how to be masculine — when they were always expected to learn from other wolffian leaders in their environment. So instead of fixing bad behaviour that I had picked up as a result of only having masculine friends and wolffian influences, I used said toxic masculinity as a way to hide being a girl. People didn’t recognize I was one, others didn’t see me as anything but an enigma — between or stranger to what was the gender binary.

Masculinity, as a whole, can only be described by using vague experiences such as leadership or assertiveness. Even masculine black cis men will not have the same experiences as masculine white cis men, and those factors are specifically tied to how black men are seen as more masculine due to their race, the supposed links to violence, and racism. I will never share the same experiences with a masculine black cis man or a masculine white cis man because of how I was raised, and I will never have cis man privileges or the privileges of anyone born to fit into the patriarchy. That will never happen for me, and I have never expected it to..

I was just never raised as a girl, and was never in social spaces with women, and never interacted with them outside of how a heterosexual boy or a protector would — which created the confusion of how I was supposed to identify when people saw me this way and others saw me as the opposite. I was tied in the middle when there was no middle for me to start with.

For some ungodly reason, I was punished for being a boy when I was raised and treated as such due to hyper-masculinity. I was denied femininity and still am on the basis of my race and upbringing. So what was it? What was I?

The closest thing was being a butch. In AAVE, related terms were studs or bulldykes.

There seems to be a bit of a confusing way to use these terms, as butch has been used to mean masculine — but is something entirely different from both manhood and womanhood all together. To be butch is more than to be just a masculine lesbian, those are tomboy lesbians (I just call em’ tomms). To be butch is to be mature, to be the form of queer masculinity that isnt manhood and is tied to womanhood due to lesbianism, but not always functioning as women.

Even in lesbian spaces, due to not being feminine and because many believe masculinity equates manhood, butches are subsequently left out in fear of “men invading women spaces”. This belief has carried onto the fear of anyone who presents with queer masculinity — which is masculinity outside of the cis binary, and instead follows anything that is remotely distinct, nonbinary, xenic, trans, or nonhuman in a way. Lesbians who are freightened of butches have subsequently pushed butchphobia into queer spaces where phrases like “femmes and nonbinary people only spaces” actively tear down and rip into the community when it comes to housing, conversation, workplaces, safety, etc.

A woman being masculine, a butch, a stud, a bulldyke, a bulldagger, a stag — it was and still is regarded as disgusting to so many people.

I have had multiple similar experiences that studs have faced for being queer masculine, where our masculinity was tested by the use of introducing how we would react to physical violence by men and sometimes as a crude transphobic joke — by trans women. They would say that “even a trans woman would put us in our place”, and that men could fix us by corrective rape.

Recent events surrounding boxing, which made people around the world comment intersexist and transphobic things about a real person, choosing to attack her for the way she looks and the way she acts. People calling this woman “a transgender” in order to claim that she had been born with wolffian clusters. To claim she was a “man disguised as a woman”. That she won because she was “biologically stronger”.

At the height of that, I saw people advocating for the absolute harassment of queer masculinity, provoked by a boxing figure who could not by her nation and her religion — could never be transgender, and could never represent their country if she was. Said queer masculinity in this case was never even introduced, and yet it was caught in the intersexist crossfire to build upon the oppression and fear of masculinity in sports, in women spaces, in queer spaces, and much more. I had seen words written and said by queer people as a way to push masculinity down and perpetuate complete disgust towards butches.

Representation in lesbian spaces happen to be femme leaning, and in trans spaces those who seem to speak up the most are transfems. The majority of nonbinary people who are acknowledged are called “she/theys” and “theyfabs” as insults and slurs as a way to mock how they are all feminine in some way. All of these aspects tend to bleed into how there is testimony and genuine fear in many queermascs who deal with being erased because of how traditional queerness is often depicted — feminine.

Beef Cattle

Queer masculinity has always been a way to defy what traditional queerness looks like, intentionally or not.

In queer spaces, femininity is often seen as queerness itself because women who are feminine and not submissive are easily seen as lesbians. This isn’t just how men see a lot of assertive women, it is how cis lesbian women react to butches and studs. When they see a lesbian, they expect someone who is still presenting as a traditional woman or a fem. If not, then you must be adhering to “heteronormative rules” or relationships.

Since feminine men are seen as gay men or “fruity”, nonbinary people are always depicted as being mullerian, and feminine women are seen as gay women — queer as a label has been pictured to mean hyperfeminine. This is where we get into how the supression of masculinity is inherent in a community where queerness is always seen as feminine.

In lesbian spaces, androphobic lesbian women who hate trans women because of their “manhood” always cite their fears with masculinity as being from possibilities and never in the case of real queer mascs harming people. If you are a masculine trans woman, you are then treated even worse. This vilifying rhethoric is towards transmascs, masculine women, BIPOC lesbians, intersex lesbians, and multigender lesbians. In all of these cases, a Gold Star Lesbian — probably named after the reward a kindergartner gets when being the teacher’s pet, in this case when a lesbian outs and harasses other lesbians for gender identity and orientation to please cishetnormative society — would create strife and say that transmascs cannot be lesbians because of their manhood, or that they can be lesbians as long as they don’t transition and that they are perceieved as lesbians.

For me, I was described as masculine because it was easier to say that than queer masculine — and had never crossed my mind at that time that queermascs were being left out of the conversation to “better” the community.

With gay men, not all of them are feminine and many fit into traditional roles of masculinity that allows them to feel respected in outside situations that do not revolve around queerness. This is not a claim of them being privileged, it is a claim of masculine gay men being extremely underepresented because it is harder to clock them or to depict them as anything but “secure in their manhood”. Gay bears who are masculine are one example of this.

On the other hand, masculine gay women are punished for “wanting to be like men”, and are downplayed in their masculinity because its easier to clock them as gay. In the case for butches, if they fail to meet the standards of cis masculinity, that means that they are either pretending to be masculine all together or they “switched sides”, further giving rise to the idea that those connected to womanhood and are masculine in some way are able to use “AFAB privilege” to hide back into the closet.

For anyone who is not connected to womanhood, manhood, and are nonbinary, intersex, or agender, masculinity is a variable and a presentation used to address how they would feel if they were connected — because in this world, you are either cis masculine or subservient, where all femininity is seen as being apart of the subservient class alongside those presenting masculine wrong. If you do masculinity wrong, you are punished for it and are seen as submissive and weaker — regarded as a faggot and fairy.

Masculinity is said to reward others for their hard work to fit in, but I do not feel as though I was ever helped, as if I was ever aided in being who I was supposed to be. When I am called by name or by mention, my femininity is disregarded despite it being right next to my masculinity, my transness is always forgotten about when it came to discussions about trans issues, and I was always seen as this faker or poser in spaces that were supposed to help me and represent people like me. Not once have I ever been rewarded by cis men for being masculine, I have always been punished and I have always been told that my boyhood and my masculinity is a danger to queer people and white people alike.

I do not have the meat of a wolffian cis man, I do not have those parts that they have, but the other halves of me — breasts and vulva — are still on the market and are seen as ripe and for the picking because of how mature they are. These tits are strictly tied to me, and when I express slicing them off or getting rid of them, I am specifically targeted for not being “grateful” for the body that God gave me. When I express that my uterus is useless and that my clitoris should be four inches — that is when I am ungrateful and that is when I will “change my mind” about never having kids. When I speak out loud, an audience appears and tells me that I will regret the choice that I make because it will be irreversible damage. That is the point.

But the difference between a choice I have made and selling this body to someone else’s wishes is that when I finally make that choice, it is not okay to do so because it was not the “right parts” and the “right way” to remove my possession of them. I am supposed to bend to the wishes of others, and allow them to slaughter me. I am a feeder cattle who was raised for this meat to no longer be in my possession so that they may have enjoyment in eating me instead of me being able to take that choice. They slaughter me before I can make that choice.

To maintain forced femininity, queermascs (no matter their sex traits) must be bred to induce and support the narrative that we are confused little girls or mentally ill gender freaks.

Our masculinity is tried and tested because it is not viewed as real enough, and so I question those willing to call our struggle a privilege in times where queermascs are able to exist and not be seen, and said invisibility creates a veil between our community and our place in the world.

Draft Animal

What would one call this pressure? The outlined hate for queer masculinity by use of transphobic, butchphobic, intersexist, and exorsexist language against masculine people of those groups?

To put a label to the condescension, to the irrational screaming from TERFs claiming that queermascs have been deluded into being scary men, and how ugly we will become and how angry we will act when we begin T.

A mutilated body, a bald head, patchy and sweaty skin, to fear those results to the point of exaggerating what queermasculine people will ever look like in order to scare us from ever transitioning or being social. When queermasculine people exist, they are said to be “gender traitors” and are “failing the WOMEN” in the queer community because lesbians can “only be women”, and that gayness is a binary between two genders of the same presentation. A label that describes when queermasculine people are accused of being aggressive, of being evil, of being rapists and abusers because of our presentation and gender — when manhood is vilified as if we benefit from ever being tied to it.

What of a label for when people practice malgendering? A tactic used to gender someone correctly for the main purpose of painting their character as entirely representative of aspects of their gender, including blaming the patriarchy on trans men, calling trans women useless for their womanhood, referring to nonbinary as their pronouns only to mock them for it, treating xenics as other than living beings due to their gender or presentation.

When you are a draft animal, you are kept around in order to support the people who do not want you to be who you are. You work for them, you abide by them to satisfy their needs and their wishes. If your body is not entirely theirs, then they are told to give you away or put you down.

Your cargo is the weight of expression, upholding gender, and carrying the words from cis people who want you gone.

I am a draft animal, carrying masculinity on a cart, watching as the streets swirl and I am watched, gawked at, grabbed and pet at like I am from a zoo — like I am not in control. Like a child to be craddled, not as an adult who chose to transition and who chose to be comfortable in my own body. Because I was born mullerian, I am assumed to be weak and womanly and feminine even when I have been surrounded by black women who are feminine in all ways except disrespect. They are then called “ratchet” and “ghetto” and “rude” for asserting themselves as not to be messed with.

I have been protected by black women my entire life, my honor safeguarded by their power. The misogynoir within people’s hearts when they find a woman of color who is powerful… It boils. They begin to feel threatened, uncomfortable by the possibility that a woman like can treat you the same way you treat other women. But I see it from another point as someone who is percieved as a “strong black woman”, and that is realizing that the strength and the masks they put on are based entirely in trauma. Black women want peace, they do not WANT to fight, and yet everytime they are called to fight in place of people who cannot fight for themselves and they notice how tiring it is. I’ve noticed how tired I am of fulfilling that role.

Black men are ten times more likely to be killed and have their masculinity questioned because of racism. Patriarchal black men have decided that instead of putting that rage out against racism — patriarchal men come back to their community and force masculinity upon women they do not like. They traumatize families in the display of their masculinity that they feel never existed because they were never considered human to begin with — they are seen as draft animals. I do not believe black men want to fight, I believe that they have exhausted all of their other options though. And that the people who are supporting them most may be the same people they call “ghetto” the next day.

I was raised and protected by black women my entire life, and I do not doubt that one will be by my side when I am hurt. And so I do not use masculinity as a way to categorize who is capable of being hurt or not, I do not use my manhood as a way to control black women, I do not force my hands upon them and I do not put misogynoir back into my community because I FELT threatened at the moment.

To let that frustration out on people who have done nothing wrong is where the view of all forms of masculinity and the fear of it begins to arise.

Androphobia is the clinical fear of manhood and men. It can include wolffians to people percieved as men. These fears are real, and stem from repeated or second hand experiences of rape by men, sexual assualt, domestic abuse, familial violence, and consistent misogyny. It is a phobia, and many do not and will not heal from trauma that causes it.

Because it is a phobia, it is recognized as irrational even if trauma does cause it. This fear is sometimes used to drive home the phrases “kill all men” and “all men are pigs”. This is confusing men who uphold the patriarchy and men who cannot, will not, and have not benefitted from the patriarchy.

The identites caught in this are trans men, transmascs, queermascs, nonbinary men, genderfluid men, queer men, intersex men, etc. Transandrophobia is the fear of trans men and its subsequent prejudice against them, but even that word is still cooking alongside anti-transmasculinity and isomisogyny.

So what is the word to use?

If transandrophobia is for transmascs and trans men, transmisogyny for transfems and trans women, exorsexism for intersex, altersex, and nonbinary people, and butchphobia refers to those who are butch only.. what word would a masculine person use to describe how their queer masculinity is called “sodomy”, how queermascs are seen as fragile and weaker, how their masculinity is forced into femininity to present in the queer community, how this identity is attacked first compared to the rest of their gender — what do you call it when a woman’s masculinity is targeted? What is the word for when masculinity is deemed evil or oppressive? When you are called ugly for presenting as masculine and queer?

Lets try on some labels.

Cowhide Leather

To me, this problem is the reason why I feel as though my gender is complex and intrapersonal — it is why I do not find it easy to describe beyond existing alongside my body as if I am not of it’s grasp. My masculinity is me, but my femininity is this body, and I exist within the femininity that is this shape, that is these sex traits. When I walk outside, my masculinity and my ability to be like one of the boys is hindered because my masculinity is now acknowledged by passing — but is recognized to be lesser — and is seen as “fragile” or “fake”.

I can pass for a cis man, but everyone clocks that masculinity as being fabricated and from a source that is not “actually manhood”. They respect my pronouns, my gender, my identity — but in a way that subtly is used to figure out if I am a “real man” or not. Malgendering.

I do not believe I am exempt from transmisogyny or transandrophobia or exorsexism — and yet I believe that I am not experiencing any of them.

I am not being clocked and attacked for being “a man cosplaying a woman”, no one is afraid of me being a “confused little girl”, and no one is denying my identity and existence by use of surgery or the binary. I am not experiencing anything like this. But I am being questioned for my masculinity, I am being singled out for performing masculinity in conjuction with femininity, I am told that I am letting transmascs speak over transfems, I am told that I taint my femininity with my masculine self.

Queermasculine struggles are not less common, but they are invisible to both the community and outside society, resulting in people who are feminine and adjacent (transfems and flamboyant gay men) to be highly criticized for their femininity not being inferior. The struggles with transfemininity cross into the hate for queermasculinity.

As mentioned before, masculinity when failed is seen as fragile and effeminate. Trans women who are protowolffian have their masculinity ridiculed from the start and get “inferior femininity” forced upon them as a punishment for failing “superior masculinity”. This means that their reclaiming of femininity is not the same as a trans man claiming masculinity, as that said trans man would never be punished with masculinity but punished for attempting a false version of it. Trans men are not given the benefits of masculinity and trans women are forced into submissiveness. While transfems have that version of femininity that they must reclaim and rebuild so it does not service others and the patriarchy — transmascs have to claim their masculinity repeatedly because they are denied it in the first place for failing and are denied femininity because they are men.

Replace trans men with butches/studs, masculine gays, masculine intersex people, etc and you will see what I mean when I say that this is not just transmisogyny, transandrophobia, or exorsexism. This is a repeated way queermasculinity is seen, addressed, acknowledged, and gained in and out of the community. Masculine nonbinary people suffer from not having housing like butches do, their masculinity is seen as fake because they are nonbinary, and their struggles with representation in queer media is because of their masculinity.

I do not believe that misandry is an accurate term to describe this experience nor is it used outside of counterarguments against feminism. In other words, misandry is not a phenomenon that sprouted as a way to discuss how men belittle each other but as a way to counteract how women are treated by men and how to deflect that responsibility to destroy the patriarchy alongside others. Cis men are not demonized for being cis masculine or upholding the patriarchy in their communities, they are rewarded for doing so by being surrounded by other men who pride themselves on being superior, leading to consistent fighting and disapproval amongst what makes masculinity strong.

Cis masculinity is consistently fighting to prove that the masculinity they already have is able to be used against others, intentionally or not.

Queer masculinity is never being able to obtain masculinity that benefits their queerness and their queerness alone without having to accept femininity or the patriarchy.

We are not the same. And the struggles shown by the use of the word “misandry” obviously only counts for cismasculine people who have their masculininity ready to use.

Ever since I had joined conversations about transandrophobia, I have never once felt a deep connection to persue the term beyond declaring its existence and supporting those who theorize. I am not someone who is entirely sure that I even felt represented by the term, something to use and something to be used. I did not feel as though it could describe my experiences as someone who was not a man and did not have a connection to manhood outside of how I raised myself.

This disconnect had allowed me to find people who were like-minded in what I had been proposing; a term that refers to the invisibility, malgendering, and feminization of queer masculinity.

It is not the fear and subsequent discrimination of trans men, so it cannot be transandrophobia. It is not the sexism and hatred of trans women, so it cannot be transmisogyny. It is not the prejudice and erasure of nonbinary, intersex, and altersex people, so it is not exorsexism.

I have read work from different places to further aid me in this process of desconstructing what me and a wolfemic transfem have coined — Misabviriy.

Misabviriy, as it is disected, is the hate (mis-) for queer masculinity (ab- for “off” or “away”, viriy for “manhood, masculinity”).

Misabviriy and Superiority

The first point is that masculine individuals are being depicted as superior to women and above in any way as long as one performs the masculinity correctly, which gives incentive for said masculine individuals who are correctly masculine to use said performance in order to get rewarded. Then, because they are doing it correctly, there is the expectation that they must have a prize. If they do not get one, they feel as though they have been lied to and their masculinity is being threatened. Because queermascs are masculine and/or transition to masculinity, there is the assumption that they want said patriarchal power and are able to get it naturally without recoil or a fight.

Misabviriy and Invisibility

Due to the hypervisibility of queerfem individuals by queer media, transphobic outlets, and crude imagery, there is hyperinvisibility in queermascs. The interest in transfem bodies due to their sex traits, and the disinterest in transmasc bodies specifically come from the narrative that because queermascs and transmascs are either confused “little girls” or holding fragile masculinity, transfems and queerfems must be the predatory “grown men” and ugly women type who can’t date fragile mascs. To those following TERFism, queermasc people are hiding their real selves behind masculinity as a way to compensate for failing the patriarchy horribly, and are not the real culprit because they are being “groomed” and tricked into masculinity by being a tomboy or a butch. Said queermasc identity is then questioned until they are either shoved back into the closet, or they stop being masculine.

Misabviriy and Sex

Displays of misabviriy that revolve around sexualizing the sex traits of queermascs have been widely ignored in the community. Masculine intersex people have been told that they were not intersex, and that their masculinity could be changed with corrective rape. Butches get this treatment as well and often due to being lesbians and not being a woman “correctly”. Notable displays of it are with the “cuntboy” depiction where transmascs are reduced to their reproductive system, the “silent protector” type in butchphobia where a butch is deemed useful only in sex and when protectinf femmes, and the mystification of masculine nonbinary bodies when they are not visibly feminine. Queermascs who have vulvas are also expected to bottom in pornography and in relationships, leaving a hole of content and resources when it comes to topping after phalloplasty or with a tdick. In this area, queermascs have higher rates of suicide and the possibility to be sexually assaulted, and yet the only aid a queermasc will get is if they are feminine enough on the outside to hide it. Queermascs are also more likely to detransition or become feminine at the wishes of a cis or trans sexual partner, prioritizing the sexual partner’s pleasure with a sexual “tool” instead of a preference. Testosterone is a common transmasc form of HRT, and yet it is hard to be transsexual as a masc. Testosterone is a controlled substance, and no amount of market work around will help get it any easier for DIY HRT. The lack of queermascs and transmascs on T when they want to makes others believe we are still “women”, that we want to be feminine, and that once we get it we’ll be ugly. Some people, like intersex people with low T, could die without it. And yet, we still do not have it. I am not on T, but have been taking DIY DHEA, and it is because I know that I can only afford and find resources on DHEA.

Misabviriy and Malgendering

As mentioned before, malgendering is when validation of an identity is used only to be against said identity, usually for excusing violence or discrimination. Queermascs, especially transmascs, are positioned between being denied womanhood based on identity and being denied manhood for “choosing” it and doing it wrong. Malgendering is used to scare, to put fear into one for what they may face as the gender they transition to. While not exclusive to transmascs, malgendering is used against transmascs by wishes of harm, calling trans men the “men of the trans community”, and using correct pronouns and terminology to make a joke from said trans person. GNC women who embrace masculinity are targeted the same way, starting with many people using their masculinity as a way to validate their strength, only to use that affirmation to challenge them to a fight since they are “so strong”. It paints their targets as weak fragile women. The idea that queermascs are fragile and tainting their body with masculinity is used by Baeddels, Radfems, and TERFs who target trans men and call anyone else “collateral damage" for being in the way. In queer spaces, wolffian mascs and anyone who is remotely masculine regardless of gender are seen as dangerous because their ties to masculinity means that they apparently operate under the patriarchy and work for it. Queermascs, especially those who are trans men and intersex people, are more likely to be denied life saving treatments and gynaecologists due to their identity, and this denial can lead to death.

Misabviriy and Feminization

Queermascs such as masculine nonbinary people and butches have always been feminized by the outside world as a way to quell the disgust or discomfort with them being masculine. Separation of masculinity from their queer identity is a common occurrence in communities that are supposed to aid them in being who they are. As said before, queermasculinity and those who are of it are seen as confused little girls (the basis for ROGD) and predatory men due to their connection to masculinity that is “wrong”. Because of this, not only are queermascs the victim when first transitioning but are predators lurking to lure transness into innocent girls when they are post-transition and confident. From inside the community, many butches have faced being left out of media and out of the narrative when it came to lesbianism as they were slowly turned into guard dogs and sexual pleasure — focusing heavily on how a butch is “still a woman”, and the joke of “forgetting the bookbag” that is overused. Depictions of masculine women and queermascs are always in a way where their physical features “prove” them to be not actually masculine and that they are pretending to be masculine. Queermascs have also reported feeling extremely left out and lost in inclusive spaces that actively call out queer masculinity alongside patriarchal masculinity while uplifting patriarchal femininity that wishes to benefit from the patriarchy by pulling women and queer men down into terms like TIF, female brained, “woman bits”, and fake feminism that relies on bioessentialism (TME, TMA..) and gender wars (they ultimately do not earn benefits due to misogyny).

This isn’t to say that queer men and mascs cannot and can never uphold, take part in, or indulge ideas that agree with patriarchal masculinity. Misabviriy isn’t an excuse to be patriarchal. Queermascs can partake in it all they want, usually for protection under the guise that their manhood is cis passing, but there are no benefits for doing masculinity wrong and being perceived as the wrong version of masculinity when their hyperinvisibility wears off. Repowering is what I would call this — when queer people veil or mask their maginalized status to identify as cishet perisex people, regaining the power they lost over their identity when they transitioned or came out of the closet. Repowering is not when a trans person hides in the closet and pretends, or when they do not transition at all, because you do not gain power in the closet and only do so when using your former cishet identity as a mask for your true self to feed into horrible narratives and cycle queerphobic language/notions — intentionally or not.

I believe that anyone can practice repowering, including trans women who veil as men in order to gain the little bit of lost power that the patriarchy would give them by feeding into harmful sterotypes, tropes, and reuse intersexist, homophobic, or transphobic language to fit in. Privliege is a conditional concept that exists only when the perception of a queer person is not queer but cishet perisex. When a trans woman partakes in repowering, then is actually found out to be trans, they are no longer holding that privlege not because of their gender but because of their transness. Same with trans men, nonbinary people, intersex, butch, and other queer people.

Queer Masculinity Future

I have wishes for the future too. I have a life too, I have a world that I wish to see.

I don’t want to see infighting, I do not want the binary to persist, I do not want to bring forth a world where gender is valued through power and oppression — I wish for a world where gender is expanded beyond all limits until it no longer means anything. I wish for gender to no longer be biological, no longer social, not longer binary — I wish for gender to be intrapersonal. Something only you can affirm, something no one can take away from you even when you die, something that you work to prove for your pleasure, not anyone elses. I am a radical gender expansionist, and that means that these wishes will become my reality by any means necessary.

Labels will mean what they mean, but they will not be used to create or single out a group of people unless they have no experience. There should be no “oppression olympics” of trans communities, there should be no one speaking over lived experiences, there should be no one forcing each other to identify or creating terms used against groups of people who do not agree with your view. There should be nothing like that. And all of it seems to point directly at gender essentialism and gender wars. In order to punish the fires of them, we must quell it by personalizing gender instead of grouping gendered people into neat boxes.

I have fears that queer masculinity may not be present in the future.

I fear that our expression will be centered in the battle against cis masculinity, and if we do not speak about our struggles, then we are the object crushed under the heel of the foot. If feminism does not include men and the liberation of queer manhood, then it will not succeed in destroying the patriarchy for queer manhood is the number one enemy to the patriarchy. The patriarchy is afraid of us, afraid of what we are doing to their “daughters”, afraid of what our bodies would look like after transitioning, afraid of it all. They are scared, and we make them scared of our masculinity.

Feminism should include the liberation of queer manhood alongside womanhood, feminism should give us the right to speak alongside everyone, feminism should allow queermascs space to talk about how they are affected by the patriarchy. Feminism, I fear, should not exclude us.

I smile with joy at the displays of masculinity.

For that masculinity is what I would call queer masculinity, where the patriarchy dies at its teeth, at its claws. For queer masculinity will be at the forefront to the death of the patriarchy. I smile in joy when I see trans men binding and cutting their hair, grooming their beards, with free top surgery, with feminine figures, with masculine features, with long hair, with free breasts, with phallo or without, with manhood running in their blood, with their sex altered, with their sex unaltered.

I smile in joy when I see intersex men prancing for joy at their intersexness, when they are proud, when they love themselves, when they don’t need to bind, when they don’t need to be masculine, when they aren’t androgynous, when they are happy, when they fight IGM, when they are men and embrace manhood.

I smile when nonbinary mascs are fully masculine and do not back down for the pleasure of others.

I smile when multigender mascs are queer in every way, who embody all forms of presentations.

I smile in joy.

I have wishes for the future too. And those wishes should become reality, as we unshackle cattle boys from their prisons. Where the farms are dismantled, where the industry is brought down with their hooves, where the young are not slaughtered back into femininity, where we are not kicked when we are torn down, when we are not brutally pushed around for existing, where cattle boys are not starved, where cattle boys are not fattened for their meat.

Where the patriarchy and queer community stops claiming we are appropriating queerness and are dangerous.

Open Range Still Means Shackles

Between all of this, I do believe that my experiences and my troubles are painted here to be of priority to be solved in the future, where queer masculinity is not inherently dismissed as cishetnormative or oppressive.

Queermascs still live in a world where our oppression is seen as our fault, and that as cattle boys, we must suffer for the choice of being the oppressor.

I suffer independently to the patriarchy, whether or not it exists, other facts such as behavior in and out of communities, bio essentialism, and racism will still persist. But the centerpoint for all those thing happens to be the pleasure of the patriarchy. Destroying it, not just because it stands for oppression, but because it still keeps cattle boys in a roundup open range or not.

Further reading is linked in the Medium post, consider supporting Lunabelle and I on our queer journey.

[actuallyicantsleep]

what if you’re theo’s girlfriend and you’ve been dealt just a shitty hand at life: horrible parents, horrible ex, and more

and theo’s your person—like he is YOURS and you are HIS and he loves you and you love him

but in 6th year, he has to go home for Christmas, and you can’t go with him, but you can’t go home either, so you’re stuck at school, almost completely alone, ready to spend Christmas by himself

but on Christmas Eve, under the tree in the Ravenclaw common room, is Theodore Nott wrapped in sparkly paper, with a bow on his head

he struggles to get up as you run to him, but can’t, because he’s wrapped up in paper, but you reach him and you smile at him, and he tells you he loves you and you tell him you love him, and finally, after a long, long week, you kiss the love of your life and he kisses you back

[autistichalsin]

So I don't usually post all that many Astarion thoughts here, but I have noticed that some people feel that a certain set of lines spawn Astarion and ascended Astarion have in the new evil endings would have been better suited for the other. Namely, after the Dark Urge stabs either of them, Spawn Astarion cries, "I should have killed you when I had the chance!" while Ascended Astarion breaks down into inelegant blubbering, "no! No, this can't be. I can't- you can't- no!"

And I can definitely understand where it might feel like these would be better responses for the other- but I happen to completely disagree.

So, Astarion, first and foremost, is a fear-driven person after what he's been through. Everything- manipulating others, seeking power, lacking empathy- comes from his belief that power is all that matters, the only way to avoid being hurt, and only his quest to become the powerful one at last matters.

Through his friendship or romance (in this case, obviously, romance) with the player, though, he starts to find this being challenged. He sees genuine kindness for the first time. No expectations that he lay down his body to get advantages. No using him. His dignity and boundaries respected for the first time that he can remember. This is set against the backdrop of Cazador and the other spawn. If he kills them and takes Cazador's power, he can become powerful enough to never fear again. But if he doesn't, he can be something more than the game Cazador pulled him into when he made him a spawn.

Your confrontation with Cazador is the moment you either entrench Astarion in this belief, or free him from it. If you let him ascend, he becomes all-powerful- at the cost of believing forever that the world is nothing more than an extended power trip, a system where by necessity there are lower people and higher people and only the strong can be free. And he has finally become the strongest of the strong.

So imagine his surprise when you, who he thought was under his thumb, grab more power than him and kill him just like that. No chance to fight back or use his vampire lord powers. He went through all that, sacrificed the core of who he was- and it still wasn't enough. His one concession to his dog-eat-dog philosophy, his love for you, was the thing that let him die. No wonder, then, that all he can do is babble out something between disbelief, a plea, and a last attempt to assert power over you. He was as powerful as he ever could have hoped to be, and he still lost, cast aside by you as soon as he was no longer useful.

Meanwhile, there's spawn Astarion, weaker in every measure- but free of his belief that power is all that matters. He's fought hard and discarded Cazador entirely- including all the power he offered. He committed himself to becoming better. To experiencing a life where things like happiness and love have just as much of a place as sheer power. And he was enjoying it, too, especially with you at his side.

And then you show him that that was all a lie, that he may very well have made the wrong choice by abandoning all that; for all he knows, you may even have talked him out of the ritual specifically so he would be easier to kill later.

So it's not disbelief and begging. Spawn Astarion actually loved and trusted you and foresook his social-Darwinist beliefs for you; what he feels is raw betrayal. And betrayal gives way to anger rapidly. So instead, he's the one cursing you with his last breath. Lamenting that he let you live at all, let alone falling in love with you.

Ascended Astarion became more powerful but more arrogant, so his reaction is that of someone who can't wrap his head around how this could have happened. Spawn Astarion foresook power for the sake of a real relationship with you, so his reaction is utter fury and betrayal.

[novaursa]

can i request something with aemond?

him going to harrenhal and having visions of his niece who he’s like in love with and he’s just going crazy

He Never Wanted to Leave

- Summary: Aemond encounters your specter in Harrenhal, and you start to torment him days and nights alike - and Aemond never wanted to leave.

- Paring: niece!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. Requests are now closed!

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

Aemond Targaryen's chambers are shuddering with the chill of Harrenhal. The ancient fortress is filled with the weight of its cursed history, the very stones whispering tales of blood and betrayal. But tonight, it feels as though those whispers have become voices, murmuring secrets only meant for Aemond.

He sits on the edge of his bed, hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles are white. His usually composed face is marred by the strain of sleepless nights, his mind haunted by the act he committed. The fire that once burned so brightly within him now flickers with a cold, unrelenting guilt.

In the low light of the chamber, Aemond stares at the floor, his eye unfocused, as if he's trying to drown out the voices in his head. But then, he sees you.

You stand before him, as clear as day. You are not a ghost, and yet, you shouldn't be here. You're miles away, safe in Dragonstone or perhaps King's Landing, alive and breathing. But here you are, in his chambers at Harrenhal, as real to him as the icy air that clings to his skin.

He dares not blink, afraid that you will disappear. You are dressed as he remembers, a vision from his childhood, from a time when your presence brought him a comfort he could never name. The long, silken strands of your hair cascade over your shoulders, and your eyes—those eyes that once held such warmth for him—now burn with something darker.

"You're not real," he whispers, his voice trembling with a fear he hasn't felt in years. But his words are hollow, even to him. Because you feel real. The scent of you—a mix of salt from the sea and the wildflowers that used to grow around Dragonstone—fills his senses, so potent it steals the breath from his lungs.

You tilt your head, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. "Aemond," you say softly, your voice a haunting melody that echoes through the chamber. "Do you truly believe that?"

His chest tightens, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe. "What do you want?" His tone is harsher now, defensive, as if he can will you away with the force of his anger.

But you step closer, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. He watches, frozen, as you reach out a hand, your fingers grazing his cheek. The touch is like fire, searing through him, and his resolve crumbles. He shuts his eye, inhaling sharply. He can feel you, warm and alive beneath his fingertips.

"Do you remember the last time we were together?" you ask, your voice gentle, almost loving. "Before everything changed?"

Aemond shudders, the memory flooding back to him with a painful clarity. He remembers the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry jokes, the way you would look at him as if he were the most important person in the world. It was a time when you were still untouched by the weight of your family's feuds, when he could still believe that there was something pure in his life.

But that was before. Before the bloodshed. Before the war. Before Luke.

"Stop," he whispers, but the word is weak, a plea rather than a command.

Your hand trails down to his chest, resting over his heart. "He was your kin, Aemond. My blood. Do you think I could ever forgive you for what you did?"

His eye snaps open, and he jerks back as if struck, his face contorting with pain. "It was an accident," he says, but the words are hollow, even to him. The truth is a heavy weight in his chest, pressing down on him until he feels like he might break under the pressure. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I—"

"You killed him," you interrupt, your voice sharp now, each word a dagger to his heart. "You hunted him down, Aemond. You wanted to hurt him, and you did."

The room seems to close in around him, the air thick with the stench of his sin. "I didn't want him to die," he says, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear to you, I didn't."

Tears prick at his eye, but he blinks them away, refusing to let them fall. "Please," he begs, his voice cracking. "Please, forgive me."

But you don't move, your expression unchanged, as cold and unforgiving as the stone walls of Harrenhal. "You took everything from me," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "And you think you deserve forgiveness?"

Aemond shakes his head, his whole body trembling now. He drops to his knees before you, the proud prince brought low by his guilt and shame. "I'm sorry," he breathes, the words tumbling from his lips like a prayer. "I'm so sorry."

For a long moment, there is only silence. The specter of you looms over him, a reminder of everything he has lost, everything he has destroyed. He feels the warmth of your hand on his head, your fingers threading through his hair as you once did when he was just a boy, lost in the world and seeking solace in your presence.

But this time, there is no comfort to be found.

"You cannot undo what you have done, Aemond," you say, your voice soft but unyielding. "The blood you have spilled will stain your soul forever. You will carry it with you until your dying breath."

He crumples further, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor, his tears falling freely now. He feels your touch retreat, the warmth of you slipping away, and he wants to scream, to reach out and hold on to you, to keep you with him even if it is only a cruel trick of his mind.

But when he looks up, you are gone. The room is empty, the chill more biting than before, and he is alone with his guilt, his regret, and the weight of a sin that no amount of tears can wash away.

Aemond stays on the floor, broken and weeping, the sound of your voice still echoing in his ears, a reminder of what he can never have: your forgiveness.

Another day passes in the desolate halls of Harrenhal, but Aemond Targaryen finds no solace, no escape from the torment that gnaws at his very soul. The oppressive air weighs heavy, and the once proud prince can feel the darkness creeping ever closer, as if the very walls of this cursed place are conspiring against him.

He hasn’t slept since the last vision of you, your voice still haunting him, your words cutting deeper than any blade ever could. He tries to shake off the memory, to bury it beneath layers of anger and denial, but it clings to him like a persistent shadow.

As the evening falls, the flickering light of the candles casts eerie shapes across the walls, and Aemond finds himself seated in the same chair where he last saw you, his thoughts a tangled mess of regret and longing. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, but its warmth does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep in his bones.

He closes his eye, willing himself to forget, to block out the memories that threaten to overwhelm him. But as soon as he does, the air around him shifts, the familiar scent of salt and wildflowers filling his senses once more. His eye snaps open, his heart lurching in his chest as he sees you again, sitting on the edge of the bed, your gaze fixed on him with an unsettling intensity.

"You again," he whispers, the words trembling on his lips. He doesn't move, doesn't dare to breathe too deeply, as if the slightest motion might cause you to vanish like a mirage.

But this time, you don’t remain distant. Slowly, with a grace that is both mesmerizing and terrifying, you rise from the bed and walk towards him. He watches, transfixed, as you approach, his heart pounding in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of how much he still wants you, even now.

You stand before him, your expression unreadable, and then, without a word, you lower yourself onto his lap. The weight of you feels real, solid, and the warmth of your body against his is a cruel reminder of what he can never have. Aemond’s breath hitches, and for a moment, he closes his eye, trying to convince himself that this is all just another hallucination, another trick of the mind.

But then you speak, and the sound of your voice sends a shiver down his spine.

“Do you remember,” you say softly, “the day you hurt me?”

Aemond’s eye flickers open, and he meets your gaze, his face pale, as if the blood has drained from his veins. “I never meant to hurt you,” he replies, his voice hoarse with emotion. But even as he speaks, the memory comes rushing back, vivid and sharp, like a wound that has never fully healed.

You lean closer, your lips hovering near his ear, your breath warm against his skin. “You did, Aemond. You hurt me, and you knew it.”

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I was angry,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I—”

“You were jealous,” you interrupt, your tone unyielding, as if you are determined to make him face the truth he has been running from for so long. “You couldn’t stand the thought of me being with someone else, even though you had no right to me.”

The memory is clear now, as if it is happening all over again. He sees you standing before him, tears in your eyes, your face etched with pain as he spat cruel words at you, words meant to wound, to drive you away. He had been so consumed by his own insecurities, his own fears, that he hadn’t cared about the damage he was doing.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says, his voice breaking as he looks into your eyes, seeing the hurt reflected there. “I was a fool.”

“You were,” you agree, your tone cold. “But that didn’t stop you from hurting me. You wanted me to feel the same pain you did, to make me suffer for your own jealousy.”

He feels your hands on his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, and the sensation is so real, so tangible, that it sends a wave of longing and regret crashing over him. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he says again, his voice trembling. “I love you.”

Your laugh is soft, almost bitter, as you pull back slightly to look him in the eye. “If that’s what you call love, then I pity anyone who falls under your spell, Aemond Targaryen.”

He winces at your words, the truth of them cutting deeper than he ever thought possible. “I was wrong,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong about everything. But please… please, believe me when I say that I never wanted to cause you pain.”

You tilt your head, studying him with an intensity that makes his heart ache. “And yet, you did. Over and over again.”

He can’t deny it, can’t escape the truth that you are forcing him to confront. His hands, trembling now, reach up to cup your face, the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers making his heart twist in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words spilling from his lips in a desperate plea. “I’m sorry.”

You close your eyes for a moment, as if savoring the sound of his apology, but when you open them again, there is no forgiveness there, only a sadness that cuts him to the core. “Sorry again? Sorry won’t change what you did, Aemond,” you say softly. “Sorry won’t take away the pain, or undo the past.”

He nods, a tear slipping down his cheek as he holds you close, as if by holding you he can somehow make up for all the wrongs he has done. But even as he clings to you, he knows it’s futile, knows that this moment is nothing more than a cruel illusion, a reminder of what he has lost forever.

“I’ll never forgive myself,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “But please… tell me you don’t hate me.”

For a moment, you don’t respond, your gaze locked on his, as if you are searching for something within him. Then, you lean forward, pressing a soft, almost tender kiss to his forehead. The touch is fleeting, but it sends a shiver through him, his heart breaking all over again.

“I don’t hate you, Aemond,” you whisper against his skin. “But that doesn’t mean I can forgive you.”

He closes his eye, his body trembling as he feels you begin to fade, the warmth of you slipping away like sand through his fingers. He tries to hold on, tries to keep you with him, but it’s no use. When he opens his eye again, you are gone, the room once more empty and cold, and he is left alone with the crushing weight of his guilt and the memory of your touch lingering on his skin.

Aemond slumps back in the chair, his body shaking with silent sobs, as the walls of Harrenhal seem to close in around him, the cursed fortress now his prison, his tormentor, and his confessor.

The morning sun is a pale, distant orb in the sky as Aemond Targaryen stands at the edge of the pond just outside Harrenhal. The air is cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of the nearby ruins. The water is still, a dark, glassy surface that reflects the twisted branches of the trees and the crumbling stones of the cursed fortress.

Aemond's eye scans the water, but his thoughts are far away, lost in a labyrinth of regret and guilt. The memories of the past few nights—of you—haunt him more than any ghost ever could. He had hoped, foolishly, that the daylight might offer some reprieve from the torment, that the sun's warmth might banish the cold grip of your specter. But here, at this pond, under the cold light of day, he finds no peace.

As he gazes into the murky depths, he sees not just his reflection but the shadows of the sins that weigh heavily on his soul. The stillness of the water is unsettling, almost as if it is waiting for something—someone. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the air feels thick, each breath more labored than the last.

And then, as if summoned by his darkest thoughts, you appear.

You emerge from the trees, your steps light and soundless as you approach him. He doesn’t startle this time; he’s almost come to expect your presence, even in the waking hours. But the sight of you in the daylight is no less jarring. The sun catches in your hair, creating a halo effect that makes you look ethereal, otherworldly. Yet there is no warmth in your gaze, only that same sadness, that same coldness that chills him to his core.

You stop beside him, close enough that he can feel the ghost of your warmth, and you stare out at the pond with him, your expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches out, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Finally, you break the silence, your voice soft and lilting, but with an edge that makes his skin prickle. “Do you ever think about drowning yourself, Aemond?”

The question hangs in the air between you, shocking in its directness, in its cruelty. Aemond turns his head to look at you, his eye wide with a mix of horror and sorrow. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words die in his throat. How could he answer that? How could he admit that the thought has indeed crossed his mind, that the weight of his guilt is sometimes too much to bear?

But you don’t wait for his answer. You continue, your gaze still fixed on the water. “I do,” you say, your tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “Sometimes, I think about slipping into the water, letting it take me. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? Just to stop fighting, to stop struggling, and let the darkness swallow you whole.”

Aemond’s heart pounds in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a death knell. He can hardly breathe as he listens to you speak, the words wrapping around him like a noose, tightening with every syllable.“You could end it all,” you murmur, your voice almost seductive now, tempting. “No more pain, no more guilt. Just peace. Just silence.”

He clenches his fists, the nails digging into his palms, the pain grounding him, keeping him tethered to the reality that is slowly slipping away from him. “I can’t,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I can’t do that.”

You finally turn to look at him, and there is something in your eyes that makes his blood run cold—a sadness so deep it feels like an abyss, one that he knows he could fall into and never find his way out. “Why not?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. “What’s left for you, Aemond? What’s left after everything you’ve done?”

He shakes his head, his mind racing, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. But every thought, every memory is tainted, corrupted by the weight of his sins. “I… I don’t know,” he admits, the words slipping from him like a confession. “But I can’t… I can’t just give up.”

You take a step closer, your hand reaching out to brush against his arm, and though the touch is as fleeting as a breeze, it feels so real, so tangible, that it sends a wave of longing and regret crashing over him. “You’re already lost,” you whisper, your voice like a dagger to his heart. “You’ve been drowning ever since you let that darkness into your soul.”

He swallows hard, trying to push back the tears that threaten to spill over. “Why do you keep coming to me?” he asks, his voice trembling. “Why won’t you let me be?”

You tilt your head, considering his question, and then you smile, a sad, weary smile that makes his heart break all over again. “Because you can’t let me go,” you say simply. “Because you’re still holding onto the past, to the guilt, to the pain. And as long as you do, I’ll be here, reminding you of what you’ve done, of what you’ve lost.”

He looks away, back at the pond, at the dark, still water that seems to beckon to him, promising release, promising oblivion. The thought of it is tempting, so tempting, but he knows that even if he took that step, even if he let the water claim him, your specter would still follow him, even into death.

“I won’t do it,” he says, more to himself than to you, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. “I won’t give in.”

You sigh softly, almost as if you’re disappointed, but you don’t push him further. Instead, you lean in close, your breath warm against his ear as you whisper, “I’ll be waiting, Aemond. I’ll always be waiting.”

And then, just like that, you’re gone.Aemond stands there, staring at the pond, the silence pressing in around him, the weight of your words sinking into his soul. He knows, with a dreadful certainty, that this is far from over. You will haunt him, day and night, as long as he remains trapped in this nightmare of his own making.

But for now, he forces himself to turn away from the water, to take a step back, away from the edge, even as your voice lingers in his mind, a constant reminder of the darkness that dwells within him.

The walls of Harrenhal seem to pulse with a life of their own, as if the ancient stones are attuned to Aemond’s every thought, his every desire. The air is thick, charged with something electric, something dark. And within the oppressive atmosphere of his chambers, Aemond finds himself lost once more—lost in the presence of you.

You appear to him as you always do, suddenly and without warning, as though stepping out of the very shadows that cling to the corners of the room. But this time, there is no coldness in your gaze, no sadness weighing down your features. Instead, you look at him with the same fire, the same passion that once ignited the depths of his soul. And it’s enough to make him forget everything—his guilt, his pain, his regrets. All that exists in this moment is you.

Before he can speak, before he can even draw breath, you are upon him, your lips crashing against his with a desperate hunger. It’s a kiss filled with years of longing, years of unspoken words and suppressed desires. Aemond doesn’t hesitate—he responds with equal fervor, his hands moving to cradle your face, his fingers threading through your hair as if to anchor himself to you, to this moment.

Your bodies collide, heat and need overwhelming any semblance of reason. Aemond pulls you close, your bodies pressed together as if you are both afraid to let go, afraid that this fragile moment might shatter and leave him alone in the cold once more. He guides you back toward the bed, the world outside these chambers forgotten, discarded like an unwanted memory.

You fall together onto the bed, a tangled mess of limbs and desire. His hands roam your body with a familiarity born of memory, of dreams that have haunted him for so long. And yet, each touch feels new, electrifying. You arch into him, your breathless gasps filling the room, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from losing control.

As your clothes are discarded, piece by piece, Aemond’s mind races, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of emotion. He’s aware, on some distant level, that this can’t be real—that you are not truly here, that this is yet another trick of Harrenhal, another way for this cursed place to torment him. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if this is real or not. All that matters is that, in this moment, he has you.

When he finally sinks into you, the world around him blurs, and all that exists is the two of you, lost in a rhythm as old as time. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, over and over, as if by saying it he can make this moment last forever. His movements are frantic, desperate, driven by a need that has been buried for far too long. And you meet him, move with him, as if you’ve never been apart, as if you are still the only thing in his world that makes sense.

“I love you,” he breathes against your skin, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “I’ve always loved you.”

You moan in response, your nails digging into his back, and the sound drives him closer to the edge, closer to the precipice of oblivion. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, the scent that has haunted his dreams, his waking moments. It’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and it makes him feel alive in a way he hasn’t felt since Rhaenyra stole you away.

“I never stopped,” he confesses, his voice thick with emotion. “Not for a single day. Not even when you were taken from me.”

Your response is a breathless gasp, a tangle of words and sounds that only spur him on. His movements become more urgent, more desperate, as if he’s trying to pour all of his love, all of his regret, into this one moment. And when he finally tips over the edge, it’s with your name on his lips, a whispered prayer, a final plea for forgiveness that he knows he doesn’t deserve.

Afterward, he collapses beside you, his chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath. The room is filled with the sounds of your shared breathing, the only noise in the otherwise silent chambers. He reaches for you, pulling you close, needing to feel your warmth, your presence against him. But even as he holds you, as he brushes his lips against your hair, a cold realization begins to settle over him.

This moment, this passion—it’s not real. He knows it deep down, knows that the you he just made love to is nothing more than a phantom, a specter conjured by the darkness of Harrenhal. But even knowing that, he can’t bring himself to let go. He can’t bring himself to leave this place, to return to a world where you are forbidden to him.

His thoughts drift to the letter from his mother, the one he has read a hundred times over, the one that pleads with him to return to King’s Landing. Queen Rhaenyra sits the Iron Throne now, and the realm is on the edge of being consumed by fire and blood. His duty calls him, his mother calls him, but all of it feels distant, insignificant compared to the pull of Harrenhal, compared to the pull of you.

Here, in this cursed place, he can have you. Even if it’s only an illusion, even if it’s only in his mind, he can still have you. He can still feel your touch, hear your voice, lose himself in your embrace. And isn’t that better than the alternative? Isn’t that better than a life without you?

“I can never leave,” he whispers to the empty room, though in his mind, he’s speaking to you. “Not now. Not ever.”

The truth of it settles into his bones, as solid and unyielding as the stones of Harrenhal itself. He is bound to this place now, bound to the specter of you, and he knows that he will never break free. Even if it means forsaking his duty, his family, his very soul, he will remain here, in this place where the lines between reality and illusion blur, where he can hold onto the one thing that still matters to him.

In Harrenhal, he can have you. Forever.

And that, he realizes, is the only thing that matters anymore.

[dark-and-kawaii]

The Pet Names

╰› Raphael carries himself with a supreme level of self esteem, and should you be the one who captures his attention, be prepared for endearments as rich as his most exquisite wines. You are not merely his "little mouse" anymore, no you’ve become something much more significant now.

Little Mouse <- Still his favorite

My Dearest

Love

Eternal Bloom Of My Soul <- When he’s in his poetic mood

My Queen

My Duchess

As Raphael leads you onto his grand floor, the lost soul in the corner playing the violin ever so diligently. With a graceful step, your devil draws you close moving in rhythm to the music, his voice a tender whisper, his breath warm against your ear. He murmurs one of these cherished names he’s given you, and oh how it makes the rest of the world fade away in your mind, leaving nothing but the two of you, swaying in a moment meant only for you.

╰› Haarlep is a demon, an incubus, hence it's unrealistic to anticipate endearing pet names at every moment. Nevertheless, it's evident how much Haarlep has developed an attachment to you, and that shows when they slip with something sincere.

Little Dove

Delectable Delight/Treat

Pet

Darling <- Always says it with a smirk and a chime to it.

Play Thing

Brat <- Haarlep loves when you call them a brat as well

Pretty Little Fuck Toy

Bitch In Heat

Bunny <- Haarlep finds it cute because they could devour you whole if they pleased. You’re the perfect little prey for them.

Regardless of the array of belittling names bestowed upon you daily/nightly, you consistently find Haarlep at your side, some form of him always touching you as if to show others you are indeed theirs- a silent declaration of possession. And when Haarlep can’t be around you they wait impatiently on your bed, their tail flickering about restlessly. And once you show yourself, the incubus always strides over towards you seductively, their tail snaking around your thigh to bring you into his chest so that his wings can envelop you.

“Oh, come now, my little dove, must you always wander away for so long?” They lament with a playful pout, “You know every second you’re gone, I’m here wasting away in a sea of sheets without my favorite delectable treat.” They draw you closer, their embrace tightening ever so slightly. “Consider a poor incubus’s heart, won't you? It’s quite cold without you here warming me, afterall.” Haarlep coaxes, their plea wrapped in a cheeky yet sincere veneer of need as he nuzzles against your cheek tenderly.

╰› Zevlor is a grown man, not a mere boy. He holds you in the highest regard, adores you, treasures you, and is prepared to go to any lengths for your sake. His nicknames for you may seem straightforward and unadorned, yet they are laden with affection and are so endearing that they leave you wanting more.

Darling

Sweetheart

My Dear

Beloved

Beautiful

Each night, just before you drift off to sleep, Zevlor tenderly cradles your face and gently presses his forehead to yours, whispering one of these cherished names. As he draws back, he reassures you with a reminder not to fret over him while he's out safeguarding the city. He promises that, regardless of what happens, he will return to you, ready to envelop you in his embrace as the day concludes.

╰› Rolan is new to pet names, so he’s not necessarily used to this. You’re his first serious relationship/first person he’s ever taken real interest in. But believe me when I say, it doesn’t take long for Rolan to get used to calling you special names. With a voice dripping in self assuredness, Rolan would call you:

Dear

Sweetheart

Pest <- It’s never malicious though

Angel <- always says it with a smirk

Fiesty Little Flirt

Cheeky Brat

Troublemaker/ Trouble

As you entered his dimly lit study, you could smell the scent of old books and melting candles within the room. Rolan feels a shiver of delight as you wrap your arms around him from behind. You could feel how his tail encircles around your waist, pulling you firmly against his back, anchoring you to the warmth of his body. Before you could rest against him he spun within your embrace to cradle your face, “Has my troublemaker come here to lure me away from my duties?” Your cheeks flushed deeply as you simply nod. "How greedy of you," he whispers just as he claims your mouth with his.

[anantaru]

— he doesn't want you to leave

including kazuha, scaramouche, heizou, itto x gn! reader

genre: fluff, little kisses, they're whipped honestly, tiny bit of gossip bf kuni

— kazuha

speaking truthfully, kazuha simply cannot resist you for the life of him.

in fact, once he had officially secured you as his ever so beautiful s/o, he make sure to show you his gratitude in tiny whispers of sweet words and pleas.

additionally he'd make it his duty to shower you in both, physical and emotional affection.

doubtless, he can't help himself, being wiggled in your embrace feels like heaven, it's surreal, sometimes kazuha is certain he's actually hallucinating, but then your body warmth is dashing into him and that's when he knows it was real.

sometimes whenever he sleeps over, the moment you wake up from your slumber the next day, his arm will most likely be lazily thrown over your hips.

once he's all woken up as well, kazuha will immediately pull you softly to his chest, greeting you with a tired, sleepy smile through lidded eyes.

"five more minutes, please."

your body was enduring additional applied pressure from his arm as you turned around to face your boyfriend, staying near and deepening the profound intimacy from each other.

the easygoing pumps under his ribcage were pacifying and settled a great way to enjoy the romantic love between you both.

upon giving him what he desired at last— that being the five additional minutes he had requested, you, with enough persuasion on your own person, spoke again.

"we can't stay in bed forever kazuha."

well, well, believe it or not but kazuha was actually trying his hardest to get out of bed the whole time but how come you were especially comfy today?

you must be playing tricks on him!

"five.. more minutes please." his voice was a little unclear still, the tiredness was continuing to be laced around his words with his sleepy expression being immediately perceived by you.

what if, and that was just a little thought crossing his dizzy thoughts, what if you stayed in today?

just a couple more hours longer doing nothing at all except of laying in bed.

kazuha wasn't a fan of letting go of you right now, not today, not when you're so secure, so pleasant and cozy in his arms.

locked up in each other, you dozed off again without much persuasion required, the work responsibilities that had been shared by you were nothing more than a fleeting dream out of many.

— scaramouche

"what do you think you're doing?"

his voice slightly broke and before you knew it, scaramouche had already wrapped his arms around your waist, as if he was actually scared you'd leave him behind, haltering your attempt to break free from his hold.

"i told you i can't stay all day kuni."

still unsure of the words he had just heard, scaramouche tilted his head in both confusion and doubt, raising his brow to show the visible puzzlement caused by you.

"are you playing stupid with me again? it's still too early to go home."

ah yes, you figured, it's that time again, even though he wouldn't necessarily admit it to you, and if he did, he'd flip the narrative a tiny bit just to not make a fool out of himself.

scaramouche was a thoroughly clingy boyfriend, it cannot be denied, not with the way he was now melting you into his chest again.

tight, so very much tight you could certainly perceive his scent now, it was especially dominant around his neck.

to add to it, it was a floral aroma, but being held natural, not sweet, he absolutely despised anything sweet it made him sick to his stomach.

"you can just say you don't want me to go kuni, it's okay."

to be fair, he tried, but you couldn't help yourself and loved taunting the hell out of your boyfriend every now and then, more so when it was a slightly uncomfortable topic like that.

obviously you cherished the way he was with you, it didn't matter to you that kuni could become quite clingy either, if anything you were beyond flattered that he felt so comfortable with your presence that he needed you to stay.

"that's not what it is and you know it." slightly averting his eyes with a huffed out irritated sigh, he continued his sentence.

"i wanted to finish the story i told you but you had to cut me off."

his hands travelled on your back to playfully sway over the skin, finally meeting their proper place as he cupped your cheeks at last, drawing your head closer, "so keep your pretty eyes on me."

a fleeting kiss, just one, placed on your puckered out lips as he quickly made you rest your head on him again, not wasting anymore time.

"so where was i? oh, yeah, so the seventh harbinger has a terrible personality!"

— heizou

"would you still love me if i was a worm?"

no ifs or buts, heizou demanded a clear answer now, even the mighty detective from the tenryou commission yearned to be pampered and reassured by his s/o every once in a while.

maybe it was because of the obvious fact on how exceedingly tired from work he had gotten, or of the cosy warm way you had him tucked in your arms.

in each others embrace the world seemed to have stopped completely, pure and free, mind at peace without a single negative emotion crossing you.

some people were natural huggers and heizou perceived you as one of those, it felt as if you wrapped him in sheer love, like a sun leisurely warming up your skin on a sweet summer day.

"yes, i would." confidently stating said fact, he slightly tilted his eyes to meet yours in a sceptic expression, "you're lying."

without any question you dramatically let go off him, obviously teasing and messing with your boyfriend but the second you were attempting to do so, he had already clasped himself on your back, keeping you close.

"i would love you if you were a worm, i'd keep you in my pocket."

oh really now, you rolled your eyes and snickered at the unusual declaration as you slowly cradled your head back to allow heizou to properly hug you again.

"you're lying." confidently, you mocked his answer from before, savoring the feeling of contentment in your bones when he swayed himself closer.

"i would hug you all day, doesn't matter to me if you're slimy." you felt his body gradually press against your own and you obliged, laying yourself back into the bed, letting your muscles loosen up.

with a kiss on your forehead he welcomed you back, sometimes heizou wished to stay like this forever.

laying in bed all day while doing absolutely nothing sounded heavens made to your boyfriend.

"i‘d still love you if you were a worm heizou." - "you're still lying."

— itto

your boyfriend itto, or how he wants to be referred to, as arataki "the one and oni" itto was famous for his warm, bear hugs.

with his arms tightly cradling your body, itto swore there wasn't anything better, no other scenario could rival this momentary moment of peace. (maybe winning a beetle fight but hush)

"itto i really need to go now, i still have so much work to do."

he pouted at your words, more so did he not accept them in his mind.

without a sentence following, you lightly placed your hand onto his cheek to make it easier for you to kiss him before attempting to stand up.

"no wait!" obviously you knew how dramatic he could become whenever you had to take your leave, itto would leave nothing untouched, he'd put all of his might into the challenge of making you stay just a bit longer, so he can cuddle you a little bit more.

"i didn't tell you but, *cough*, i have again, *cough*, lost a part of me during a deadly fight."

narrowing your brows with light wrinkles making themselves visible on your forehead, you crossed your arms around your body, confused by what he meant, "what fight?"

in a single motion, itto dramatically dropped back on the mattress, his hand laid flat on his chest, right above his heart as he squealed out in pain, absolutely crushed.

"a beetle fight, please save me."

the silence was loud, truly and itto didn't open his eyes either, clearly he was waiting for a response from you.

his heart was at last, stabbed with the last inch of hope in him to make you stay as he peaked at you from squinting eyes, watching him flabbergasted.

"ormaybeiwantyoutostaylonger."

©2022 anantaru do not share, copy, translate

[megumisgirl]

megumi boyfriend headcanons!

— when you guys first started dating, he was no where near the touchy-feely boyfriend. all you got were hugs, kisses on the forehead and sometimes, if you were lucky long deep passionate kisses that came out of nowhere. all in private of course, megumi likes to keep things that is between you guys between you guys, he doesn't tell gojo, yuuji, nobara, anyone.

— when you guys had your first fight, he was super furstrated. screamed a bit and let his hidden anger issues show (you can thank toji for that). in the spur of the moment, out of furstration and pent up sexual-anger he ran his hands through his hair, making you flinch. he immidietly stopped talking and just left the room. the topic you guys were fighting about wasn't cleared up, you both were obviously angry, and now with this, you both were going to have a conversation that none of you wanted.

— the next few days of the fight, megumi would try to talk to you but you would give him the silent treatment. it was a no-win situation, if you tell him you flinched for nothing, he'd feel horrible to even make you think that he was capable of hitting you. if you told him the real reason, a dark looming thought in your mind told you that maybe he wouldn't accept you for who you are. maybe he would leave you. people started to notice that you and megumi weren't together as much.

"meeeegumiiii" gojo cooed, making megumi roll his eyes, "did you and y/n have a fight? you can tell me. im basically your second father. not that im gay. i mean i could be, but like the sex-" "no." megumi stopped gojo, putting his hand in front of him, "we're not in a fight. and its a disagreement. we'll be fine." he'd already said too much for someone who says nothing. but he had too much in his mind, so the words just spilled out.

— after the intial conversation, at first, megumi didn't know how to comprehend what you just said to him. he never had to comfort someone and he was never comforted either, so he based himself on your position and did everything right. my man. he was sweet, gentle, and never judged you.

— megumi got comfortable with affection about seven-nine months into the relationship only because you were so touchy, other wise would've taken four years or smth. and his level of affection is holding-hands in public, and holding your hands above your head in private, if you catch my meaning...

— when he met your parents, he was PROPERRR. mans was dressed in a fucking suit, styled his hair right instead of the spikey usual hair, and showed the barest amount of physical affection to assure your parents their daughter is in the right hands.

— but when you met his, it was CHAOS lmaooo. toji was showing you all the embarassing baby pictures of megumi on purpose to embarass him. his step-wise called him embarassing nicknames like bubbles or pineapples or something and you couldnt believe why megumi was the way he was when they were like this.

truth be told, megumi was made for you (and me).

NSFW cannons.

— i said this once and i'll say it again. MEGUMI IS A ROUGH DOM!!! man-handles you every chance he gets, whether it's spreading your legs apart so roughly that there are bruises on his hands on your thighs, or flipping you over to pound you from behind. he will do it all.

— favourite position, anything where he can see you. missionary, to some extent matting press? he loves to see you squeeze your eyes, arch your bag and whine inconsistent pleas. he loves to see the full of personality character that he's so into just dissappear as he pounds into you mercilessly. the perfect smart girl becoming a bimbo that he loves to use and fuck.

— has a thing for eye-contact. BEFORE U THROW TOMATOS AT ME... LISTEN OKAY..1!!1!! when you're giving head, he grips your jaw so he can see your eyes as he fucks your mouth, tears streaming down your face, getting mixed with the tastes of his arousal. when its you recieving, he is adamant about eye-contact.

he has been inbetween your leg for hours, absolutely devouring you while making you watch. your eyes are sore, your legs are sore, everything is sore. you cant move an inch without feeling sensitive and your entire body just shakes as he laughs at you, looking at you with his blue eyes. "look at me." he said, the vibrations from his throat hitting your soaked cunt as you whimpered, opening your eyes just enough for new tears to leave your face. making a thin smirk place on his lips. his tounge circled your bud, making you shut your eyes again. "eye-contact, or this stops."

— dirty talker. and not just any dirty talker, the sweet praise ones. "my little slut," "taking me so well, baby. you're such a whore, but.. you're my whore," FHBYIEDWUSOKPX

— ending on a positive note, he's good at aftercare, too. after an intense session, he will draw you a bath and just sit on the edge of the tub, drawing mindless circles on your arm as you rest in the warm bath. ocasionally stealing kisses from you as he watched you take a bath. he's just... perfect.

[eva-kl0ndaik]

[Sorry it took so long. I had a creative crisis and just a crisis. Exams eat my soul and not only my soul. So enjoy, dears ❤]

Warnings: This work may contain references to violence, depression, suicide, eating disorder and other VERY BAD things. Take care of yourself and your loved ones ‼️

You know that feeling when you lie on your bed in your room and think about everything? When you look at the ceiling, listening to the quiet knock of the clock and your heart, thinking about your meaning in life, destiny and why are you here? Such thoughts often drive me into melancholy, simply realizing that you will never find your meaning. Even if you go through the whole world and look everywhere, you still won’t find anything. And they don’t even need to think about it. They know what their meaning in life is. In you

All their plans, memories, understanding and meaning of this world disappeared as soon as this damned code allowed them to see you. You... A living person... Their Player...

They repent before their altars that at first they did not understand this warmth. Your living warmth. At first they hated you. And even this word cannot describe how much you poisoned their soul at first. You were a punishment and a curse. Their every day was filled with hatred for you. You are alive, and they are just a code. They are toys for fun... And they hated you because they could not be real. How many nights and days were devoted to curses in your direction? They stopped counting...

They wanted your blood. Your screams. Your pleas for mercy. And maybe then... Then they will become real? When the main puppeteer leaves the game giving the dolls freedom

But then they heard your voice. Your praises, your words of love, your regret about their fate, words of support. In the end, banal love is what most boys lacked. You gave them meaning. Their meaning is to love you, worship you, break the bones of sinners who think they can claim your attention. They are only yours. You are theirs only, no one else's.

For your sake, they will improve themselves (and once again refuse food)

They will shed blood for you (even if they never wanted to pick up a knife)

They will do anything for you (even if it is the last thing in their life)

Your attention is their reason to live, breathe, eat and exist. You are their meaning, Player. Love them. Otherwise, they will commit suicide in an attempt to attract your attention. Your love is their main motivator, not paying attention to others only to them.

Love them, Player❤

[total-drama-brainrot]

Assistant Noah AU + Alenoah Idea... After Alejandro lashes out about Noah liking his true self + true interests... Confused Noah asks why Alejandro doesn't want Noah to like his true personality...

Alejandro: "Because everyone only loves the fake, perfect, flawless me!"

Assistant Noah: "So, shouldn't you be happy that I prefer your true self?"

Alejandro: "But the true me is flawed and makes mistakes!"

Assistant Noah: "Perfect is boring and overrated... I'd take the 'clever, dorky, and dino-loving Alejandro' over the 'fake generic pretty boy Alejandro' any day... If it makes you feel better, I can tell you my true interests?"

Alejandro (trying not to cry happy tears): "... Okay." 🥲

The dialogue's a bit stilted, but I do like the idea.

Though, if anything, I think Alejandro would be the one to confront Noah about his apparently aversion to all things Alejandro Burromuerto (the persona), and Noah - being the incredibly blunt person he is - would plainly tell him that he knows a lot of Alejandro's personality is an act, and that he doesn't appreciate being lied to every time they interact.

Alejandro wouldn't know what to do with himself in this situation; he's spent near enough his whole life cultivating his social image and the persona he needs to play, to the point that it's become second nature for him. So for anyone, but especially someone as unassuming as Noah, to call it out as transparent and fake, would be a massive blow to Alejandro's ego and self-esteem. An entirely neccessary blow to his ego, but one he isn't exactly equipped to deal with.

And then Noah would clarify that he's seen the barest glimpse of the person beneath the persona; in the brightness of Alejandro's eyes whenever he talks about things he's truly passionate about (like puppetry and paleantology and skateboarding and playing the accordian and-- you get the idea), or in the occasional dry remark he makes about his teammates, or in the softness of his features whenever Alejandro allows himself to relax a little from his "perfect team leader" act. And that he prefers that side of him, because at least it's real - he wants to get to know the real, genuine Alejandro before he can consider them friends.

To which Alejandro admits that he isn't sure who the real Alejandro is. He's never been allowed to be anything less than the mask he hides behind presents, not just on Total Drama but in his day-to-day life, and he isn't sure where he'd even begin in seperating himself from the expectations that have been set upon him by his family and the world at large of who he should be. Isn't sure if he can.

Why can't Noah just accept him as the fraud he is, he'd ask. A broken plea from an equally broken boy who doesn't know what it means to be himself.

And Noah wouldn't have an answer. Quite frankly, he wouldn't've expected his simple request for honesty from Alejandro to result in a whole identity crisis breakdown from the other. He'd just stand there, speechless for perhaps the first time in his life, as the unbreakable pillar of Team Chris crumbles before him under the weight of the world on his shoulders.

...

And then they'd hug it out or something whilst Alejandro vents about his awful childhood to Noah, and Noah would think to himself, "Well, I guess I asked for this. Can't complain about it."

[cyxnidx]

EXPRESSIONS !

characters: soap, horangi, keegan

content: semi-fluffy x smutty, a little bit of passive aggression in keegans and maybe horangi?

a/n: love the idea of a stoic reader with expressive partners omfg. this took wayy longer than it probably should've.

JOHN 'SOAP' MCTAVISH

strangely enough, he adores the fact that you're quite stoic in the face.

he actually prefers it.

when talking to you casually and he says something that catches you so off guard you make a visible expression? he gets so giddy.

you blink, haulting in action as you stare at the man in front of you, a stupid grin across his face. which, in contrast to your visually concerned expression, is odd to see. though, in his eyes, this is like getting a little kid that was too shy to even look at him moments ago to become a giggling mess - he feels accomplished.

he makes it a personal goal to get you to laugh at least once, every day.

especially since it seems like he's the only man alive to actually get a laugh out of you.

you look around, quiet and confused on why everyone was laughing at a joke one of the soldiers had said moments ago. though, when you look at soap, he makes a face. a face you recognize, and a face you find quite childish - almost like something an adult would make to a child. but, in contrast to the classic joke that was slid earlier, you begin to giggle at the funny face. "jeez, mctavish. tell me, what's ya' trick for gettin' the lil lady to laugh?" a voice asks.

soap can't help but laugh, nearly boasting about how you receive his odd actions as entertainment.

though, he still has no real idea of why exactly you let em do it.

now sexually? oh boy.

as stoic as you are, you're just as, if not more quiet. so when he gets the chance? he pushes every button possible.

sometimes it's like a primal need - to hear you is a gift. a moan, a small curse, whimper, uneven breathing. anything.

soap thrusts with precision, hands on your waist as he watches your expression closely. he knows your enjoying it, he can feel it. but that's not exactly what he's looking for. and almost like clockwork, he hears a whimper. something small, something most would push off and forget about - but not him. that? that was a door of opportunity for him. getting back to position, he thrusts in that same area, arousal growing when he hears your whimpers and groans turn into full fledged moans and pleas of pleasure. "that's right, lemme hear you, pretty. l'me hear your pretty little noises, yeah? doin' so good f'me."

HORANGI

he finds it odd at first. he never really got to explore it much, he never thought to.

somehow overlooked it?

"i didn't notice how.. stoic, you were." he mentions, completely randomly. you blink, tilting your head, hinting confusion. "what do you mean?" "you don't express much in the face, y'know?" you hum, continuing back to your previous task. "how did you not notice?" horangi shrugs. "i've never cared to look so closely."

after that, he pays more attention to your stoicism.

not only does it notice it's a bit creepy, but almost challenging.

"what's it gonna take to get an expression outta you?" he questions, placing a finger on your forehead. and as he looks at you, he notices your eyes drop a bit lower than normal, eyebrows a little too relaxed compared to what he's used to and he backs up a step or two. the glare you give him is unsettling, and if looks could kill? he'd be dead. "damn, baby, is that how you look at your enemies before killin' em?" you only roll your eyes. "and that's the last time you'll see me willingly give express myself physically."

to get you to express something is a bit difficult for him.

except for you glaring at him like he slapped a close family member.

but then, of course, what if your expressions weren't exactly voluntary?

and that's how he found yourself between your legs, watching as every move he made evicted an expression.

"why, there we are.." he smirks, licking his lips from the orgasm he just brought you to. "you sound so pretty moaning, baby." he kisses you, "n' you look even prettier coming on my face." you look down at him, still sighing heavily from your high. "suck a dick." "that's no way to thank me, but alright.."

KEEGAN

he understands it, to an extent. he made an effort to be close friends with you before asking you out.

he likes to annoy you, a lot.

just to see you get a little irritated, to see the rather dull look in your eyes light up a bit. even if it is with a little fire.

"keegan, can you please get the fuck on." you warn, tired of his constant teasing. though, he stops for a moment and pouts. "you mad at me, baby?" "no, i'm fucking ecstatic." you say sarcastically. "oh, come on. nothings wrong with a little friendly fire." "everything is wrong with friendly fire right now."

he's literally like a little ball of curiosity when it comes to you.

he craves more - more knowledge, more experience.

sometimes he just does dumb shit. why? no reason.

creeping up behind you, keegan pinches at your arm, eyes full of curiosity when he watches you jump slightly and turn to look at him. "what the fuck." you say flatly. "i love you," he says with a goofy ass smile.

he likes to see watch and see how you always seem to try to hold yourself together sexually.

it literally seems like every time he's mildly teasing you, it's like you want more but holding yourself back.

you sigh, resting your head against the cupboard behind you. keegan has you sitting on a counter in the kitchen, and seconds ago his lips and hands were all over you. until he stopped. "what is it, baby?" he questions, looking at you knowingly. you chuckle, mildly annoyed. "nothing, you fuck."

he loves to get a rise out of you, especially sexually. he soaks in every expression and little noise that escapes your pretty lips.

fingers up your cunt, keegan finds himself grinning as he watches your hips grind in synchronicity with his fingers while your usual neutral expression is now contorted with pleasure and desire. though, that feeling is stopped when he removes his fingers from your cunt before licking your juices off his fingers greedily. only to be met with one of your burning gazes. "what is it? somethin' you wanna tell me?" he tempts, watching you frown at the lack of pleasure now.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Just a little Henclair one shot with a small side of Steddie

Dustin rolled his shoulders before stepping foot into the drama room. It would be a while before the game started. Actually, before both games started. He knew that Eddie would be the only one here setting up and making final adjustments. Eddie was sprawled out on his throne, looking at his notebook when Dustin cleared his throat.

"Ah, Henderson, you guys find anyone yet?" Eddie asked.

"Well, yes, but I'm hoping we don't have to use her," Dustin said. "I'm making one final plea to postpone the game tonight, Eddie."

"Why should I post pone?" Eddie asked. "Who cares about some dumb laundry basket game?"

"Lucas does!" Dustin snapped, and Eddie looked at him seriously for a moment. Dustin had never raised his voice to him like that. "And they don't have the ability to postpone their game, but you do. I need to be there to support Lucas. No, I want to be there to support Lucas."

"You make it sound as if - ," Eddie said, and then he shook his head. "Sorry, man. Can't postpone. I won't postpone, and if Sinclair really wants to chase after some bullshit dream about becoming one of them, I won't stop him, and neither should you. He has to be the one to make a choice."

"Why can't he choose both? Why does it have to be one or the other?" Dustin asked.

"Because that's the way it is, man! That's how they want it!" Eddie exclaimed and jumped up from the chair.

"Wow, I didn't take you for a person who obeyed the rules of society that are so clearly assbackward, but I guess I was wrong," Dustin said. "You know, Lucas was scared to tell you how much basketball meant to him to bring it up in conversation with this group who is supposed to be much more enlightened than these assholes. He also looked up to you because he didn't want to disappoint you, but more importantly, he didn't want to disappoint himself, and basketball was a thing he needed to explore. He likes playing both games. Why are you putting him into a box?"

Eddie stepped back as if he had been slapped, and suddenly, he looked a lot younger than he had ever seen him.

"Jesus H Christ, it's just a game," Eddie whispered.

"Which one are you referring to there, buddy?" Dustin asked, and then he paused. "If I tell you a secret, can I trust you to keep it?"

"Of course," Eddie said softly.

"Lucas is my boyfriend," Dustin said, and he was pleased to see his eyebrows nearly disappear under all that hair.

"I thought that you were dating a girl named Suzie," Eddie said. "Is she not real?"

"Oh, she's very real and very much my ex-girlfriend. She was very special to me but we couldn't make it work as much as we wanted to. We're still friends, though," Dustin said. "After summer break, after Starcourt and after my break up with Suzie. . .his break up with Max. . . It kind of just happened. We've been dating for months, and I would like to keep doing that. You guys don't have to go to the game, but can you, please, postpone Hellfire for one night so I can support my very handsome boyfriend?"

Eddie stared at him for a moment, giving Dustin pause because he thought for sure that it would win him over. Suddenly, Eddie grinned and bowed low.

"I grant you your request, good sir. Hellfire is indeed postponed but for one night, only," Eddie said, and he stood up to pull Dustin into a tight hug. "Thank you for telling me, and thanks for telling me off. What would you have done if I still said no?"

"Beat the shit out of you with my goddamn hat. I love Lucas," Dustin said, and Eddie laughed.

"Is Lucas okay with you telling me?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, yeah, he's surprised that I haven't blabbed to you yet. Besides, he is the one who told Steve. Well, not told per se, more like got caught up in the moment and kissed me in front of him. Steve spit out his water. It was hilarious," Dustin grinned.

"And he's okay with this?" Eddie asked.

"Of course," Dustin said. "You'd be surprised with what he's cool with. You should get to know him."

"No thanks, I'm good," he scoffed.

"You know, he never was a bullying jock like the others. He always tried to stop - " Dustin started to say.

"I know, I know," Eddie said and paused. "It's just - you know, maybe you're right. Maybe I should get to know him."

They walked out of the drama room together just as the others showed up.

"Hellfire is postponed," he said.

"What?!" Gareth asked. "Is this because of Sinclair? Because if it is, I swear to God - "

"You'll do nothing. Hellfire is postponed because we're all going to show up to support Lucas. Isn't that right, Dustin?" Eddie asked.

"Totally!" Dustin grinned.

"We're going to have to show those assholes that jocks and nerds can be friends," Eddie said. "So, let's do it."

And when they showed up, much to Steve’s surprise, Lucas had the biggest grin on his face. It was really very cute. When they spilled out into the parking, Dustin wanted to throw himself into Lucas's arms and kiss him so badly. He couldn't, though. Steve had seen the look on his face and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Alleyway, man, I'll cover you," Steve said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Dustin shoved Lucas discreetly into the alleyway while everyone was busy talking about the game to even notice. Steve leaned against the entryway to guard and hide them. Eddie moved to follow. Steve placed a hand on his chest.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked.

"Helping," Eddie said.

"You know?" Steve asked.

"Yeah."

"And you're okay with it?" Steve asked.

"I would be a hypocrite," Eddie snorted as he moved closer to Steve to help block the view.

"Oh, yeah, me too," Steve blushed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Meanwhile, Dustin was pushing Lucas up against the wall and leaning against him, their faces close.

"Those were some serious moves out there, Lucas," Dustin said.

"Oh, yeah. How much are they worth?" Lucas asked.

"At least five kisses," Dustin said.

"Five? Please, they're worth at least ten," Lucas scoffed.

"Ten, you say? I think that can be arranged. I only have a twenty, so I'm going to need some change back," Dustin said.

"Deal," Lucas said and pressed his lips to Dustin's.

Dustin broke the kiss and growled at him. Lucas tilted his head back and laughed.

"What?" Dustin asked.

"I love it when you do that. It's so cute," Lucas replied.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Lucas said and covered his hands over Dustin's. "Is that my bandana on your wrist?"

"Yeah, it looks better on me, don't you think?" Dustin asked.

"It totally does," Lucas said and pulled him in for another kiss.

Their little moment in the alleyway kept them going all the way through the spring break from hell. Now, here they were at Steve's place. The town had been saved, Vecna had been defeated, and not a single member of their group had died. Max, Eddie, and Steve needed some healing to do, but other than that. . .all was well. Dustin and Lucas had officially come out to the group, too. Mike had already guessed, and Robin had been there when Lucas kissed Dustin in front of Steve. Everyone was more than okay with it. Max was still in the hospital, but Eddie and Steve were upstairs healing in the same bed. Although Nancy wondered why they insisted on sharing the same bed when there were plenty of other rooms. Dustin figured that mystery out when he opened the door to bring them some food and found them kissing. They quickly broke away and suddenly looked relieved when they saw it was Dustin.

"Hey," Steve said as he stared at Dustin.

"Hey," Dustin said, grinning wildly at them as he wiggled his eyebrows at them. "What's going on in here?"

"You know exactly what's going on in here," Eddie scowled.

"You should know, Eddie, that I had a jock boyfriend first, so don't be acting like you started something," Dustin said. "I'm glad to know that I could set a good example for you."

"Okay, set the tray down, then exit the room, please," Steve sighed.

"Need me to guard the door for you?" Dustin asked.

"No!"

Dustin laughed as he moved to exit the room.

"Hey, Dustin!" Eddie called out.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks, man," Eddie said.

Dustin smiled. He knew exactly what Eddie was thanking him for, and it wasn't the food. Sometimes, people need a wake-up call.

"Anytime," Dustin said.

He moved downstairs to the kitchen where everyone had gathered. He watched Lucas laughing for a moment, and his heart sang out at the sight. Lucas held out his arms, and Dustin didn't waste a moment to snuggle into them. He pressed his ear against his chest, and he let the sound of Lucas's heartbeat soothe him. They were alive.

[koichira]

━━━━━━━━ 𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆

❝ 𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 𝗡𝗔𝗚𝗜 does not get off, so you threaten to bite him. ❞ — 0.631k words, fluff, established relationship!au. i hope you enjoy this, @mosviqu beloved i have so many more in mind <3 he is on his way to becoming my number one muse, i must say :>

"what will it take to make you move?" 

limbs thrown haphazardly over your torso, dozing off after a long and arduous game is nagi, who all but ignores your exasperated pleas. the comparably overgrown boy does not budge when you attempt to get out from under him, only locking you even more in place with a disguised, pleased smile. he is perfectly at ease, so your minor suffering is none of his real concern, suffice to say.

"i will bite you, sei." you threaten him (you know that you are stuck under him for at least another hour and you know that you will, realistically, never be able to push him off, be it out of your lack of strength or lack of ability to resist his pretty face so, so close to your own), though his response is more than clear enough, "no."

it's not like this is an uncomfortable position— even going as far as to say that this feels, in fact, very cozy. however, if you hear the growl of an empty stomach fill the room again, you will lose the last piece of your mind. it wouldn't have killed him if he'd just gone and made himself a sandwich (or even let you make him one) before he plopped down on you as soon as he'd come home. you should have locked him out of the bedroom. 

nagi is perfectly aware of you (oh, god, he is so exceedingly aware of you— every breath you take and every twitch of your muscles, he is so awfully and horribly aware of your every move and it is disorienting) and your annoyed expression, but the sweetest little grunts you let out trying to wiggle your way out sound too adorable for him not to milk every second of this moment.

"sei," your eyes gleam as an idea forms in your head, to which he carefully opens his eyes to meet yours, "yes, dear?"

gaining a boost of confidence, you press a chaste kiss on his soft lips (every night you apply a hydrating mask on his face and put on chapstick for him as he blissfully lies down on your lap, enjoying the jade roller gliding over the cooling mask, further relaxing him. it's one of your favorite things to do together, a sort of before-bed-ritual that consists of just you, him, an assortment of creams and peaceful silence) with a gleeful grin, feeling him go rigid. his lashes look unfairly pretty brushing over his cheeks every time he slowly blinks. seishiro nagi is so unbelievably breathtaking and it is you who gets to be the last and first person to see him every new day.

"i love you, sei, so get up or i will do it again." 

the bastard of a boy has the nerve to snap out of it and hold your chin with a curious, blank gaze. his eyes have the uncanny ability to make you forget and feel. nagi does move— he pushes himself off of you, strikingly attentive, never moving his eyes from yours and now, now you're absolutely screwed. trapped between his hands and legs caging you, you do the only logical thing that comes to your mind, reaching out your neck and kissing him again.

his eyes blow wide open, so caught off guard by the second time again, that he accidentally leaves an opening for you to escape from, (your overjoyed laughter sounds like music to his ears) now safely behind the kitchen counter, merrily making him a packet (or two, or three, actually) of instant ramen. your sanity depends on his stomach being full and keeping quiet.

(your sanity also depends on you doing everything you can to forget about the way he had looked at you just then.)

© 𝗞𝗢𝗜𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗥𝗔 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟯, 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗦 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗘𝗗. | 𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚 , 𝗙𝗘𝗘𝗗𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 .

[samglyph]

hi hello your arkayne blackboxwarrior artwork is astounding, love love love it. may I ask your thoughts on laplace's angel and arkayne? (particularly the in case I die version)

So in 2022 I posted my malevolent playlist with some lyric choices of why things were there and uh. Well

Now I also have a kayne specific playlist and this song is on there, though I will admit it’s the original mostly for the piano. Had to go listen to the live version again for this ask (never a chore in case I die my best friend) but anyway thanks for activating my trap card (letting me talk about how Will Wood songs are about malevolent actually)

So right off the bat, this song (if I were to make an animatic) is from Kayne’s perspective. Or atleast, he’s the main voice. Two lines that immediately make me think of him “everyone’s just blood in an ice tray” and “but with my head up in the clouds I can see so much ground and from up here you all look like ants in a row.” Classic Kayne and his feelings towards human life- BUT! This song is a conversation! The singer is speaking to someone, imploring them to see things their way. And the singer also obviously cares about the listeners opinion, though we don’t know why. From an Arkayne lense, this is intermezzo. While the line “we’ve all got evidence of innocence, it’s “everything’s coincidence” the difference twixt fate and free will is whether you’re singing” initially reminded me of episode 20 and their “choices” conversation, with the added context of how Kayne is forcing the strings to find the ‘best’ Arthur after creating the ‘best’ version of himself, the conversation around fate and free will becomes much more potent. Similarly, in intermezzo, Kayne desperately wants Arthur to understand him and his world view. He becomes increasingly frustrated when Arthur fails to measure up to his understanding. In the end though. Kayne doesn’t care if Arthur thinks he’s bad (“oh whatever you think of me”) he just wants Arthur to understand, and to do what he says.

Now, in the real world I interpret this song to be more a plea to understand that in certain circumstances people can feel forced to do terrible things, and judging them/pretending you don’t have your own faults can be a slippery slope considering if you were in that same situation, you would inevitably also make those choices (at the start of the live version will says “this song is called god save Jordan Peterson” which I assume is in reference to peterson’s utter disdain and lack of sympathy for people who struggle in their day to day lives with things like mental health, as well as other factors of petersons shitty belief system) while this in and of itself isn’t really malevolent, I do think there’s something to be said of Arthur’s struggle to cling to the idea that he is a good person, and Kayne’s encouragement to do whatever it takes. “It doesn’t take a killer to murder, it only takes a reason to kill” is very malevolent and Arthur’s little kill count.

Also in the live version I think Will sounds a little bit more sultry but it might just be the acoustics.

[therealvinelle]

What are your thoughts on the titanic movie?

Oh I wanted to watch it, tried once as a child, didn't make it through, then again with @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin, at which point I also didn't make it through.

I'm here for the ship, literally only the ship. Rose and Jack would not get off the screen and let me look at ship, and so even though I made it to the part where they impact the iceberg, I realized I couldn't sit through Jack and Rose running around the decks, no matter how true to life the models were. Watch party ended, and some time later we tried Raise the Titanic with Alec Guinness instead (a deeply silly movie where a dangerous weapon was on board the Titanic when it sank, and the Americans must find it before the Soviets do).

James Cameron's movies have a very consistent problem where he is in love with a concept, or an idea or a new bit of technology, so he makes a movie to show it off and has to put a story in there somewhere so we're watching something happened. This worked incredibly well in the two first Terminator movies, it gave us a deeply funny Aliens movie, but it did not work out for Titanic as his worst tendencies all came out to play.

I like him, as a director, I just don't like the majority of his movies, if that makes sense.

His characters are plainly good or bad with one note motivations and no nuance, and they are all consistently and painfully American, to the point where they feel like caricatures. Jake Sullivan, who is such a staple army vet that he has no personality whatsoever other than being a protagonist with the assigned traits that would make him sympathetic to as wide an audience as possible, is a terrific example of this, as are the gun-toting military crew heading to the colony in Aliens, but so too are the characters of the Titanic, only in a different way. Rose's mother and peers are what I can only describe as Victoria's parents in Corpse Bride without the satire - they are not real people, but old world aristocrats seen through the eyes of filmmakers who fundamentally don't understand class. Rose becoming infatuated with a working class boy is a very simple and straightforward matter where there is no actual reason for them not to be together, it's just that Jack gets made fun of for not knowing the right forks to use. It's just shallow.

I have more complaints, but much of the movie is luckily forgotten so I'll stick to the big one: I wish Cameron had either made this a purely fictional story that was inspired by the Titanic but without actual victims, or else gone out of his way to be respectful of the fact. Going of the wikipedia page for how historical characters were treated, Bruce Ismay being depicted as boorish and attributed decisions he never made in life so he can be at least partly blamed for the sinking. The man's life and mental health was ruined after the real sinking as the act of surviving made him a media target, Cameron could have chosen to leave his memory be and I side-eye his decision not to. The movie has First Officer Murdoch shooting passengers and then himself, I struggle to see what this added to the movie besides upsetting his surviving family.

Perhaps I'm overly strict, but even fictionalized retellings have historical import because they play a much larger role in how people remember the past than history books or documentaries do because more people see them. The film industry has immense power over how we view the past, and in turn over how history is remembered. This comes with a responsibility, and a plea for consciousness of the fact. Set your stories to whichever periods and cultures you may like: but do so knowing that no matter how much media and recorded history already exists on your chosen subject, there will be people walking away from your product whose view is now affected by your depiction.

In other words, Raise the Titanic is somehow more respectul in my eyes because while it was a very silly movie, it insulted no one's memory. And I'll be sticking to documentaries and animations when it comes to RMS Titanic-related media.

[the-black-bulls]

I like the headcannon game, how about Luck or magna :D

seeing a headcanon you disagree with and it kinda pisses you off

y'all want me to ramble about luck alright lol, already did magna here and I don't think I've more to add, so this post is for luck, vanessa and the bulls relationship in general!

Luck:

- I think a lot of people just assume that luck hates his mom because she's an abusive person, when in reality he's showed nothing but love towards her even after he finally let her go... and honestly, I doubt he would ever hate his mother period (even if he should 🥲), and taking that nuance out of his character doesn't sit right with me

- also, "bad friend luck" is a dumb headcanon that mischaracterizes him, magna, and the black bulls in general

- I'll be honest, I was never into the "half sister charlotte" theory, but especially after it became so widespread people treated it as canon thus it lost its appeal to me and sound boring now (we could always get creative and embrace "half sister sally" theory instead 😛), but nothing wrong about supporting it though

Vanessa:

- manga spoilers alert: there's this headcanon that popped up by charlotte fans at the end of spade which basically reads: "it's her feelings and plea for yami to live that triggered rouge into bringing help for him..." which, why? vanessa was there and grey was there and they don't need to be romantically involved with yami to have strong feelings for his safety be freaking real, not to mention that rouge has always been a black bull spell; it's favored by them and triggered by them and would alter fate for their sake regardless of any outsider's tears, but also... what the hell? we're talking about the spell vanessa developed out of (family) love, the same spell that's connected to her heart, why tf should charlotte be credited in her place is bad enough but stretching so hard to twist what is pretty much a love spell from vanessa to the bulls just so your ship gets petty points is pathetic!

- so anyways, "vanessa needs to find true love" is an awful, awful headcanon (emphasis on need)

Black Bulls Relationships:

- that they only started bonding with each others after asta joined the squad and inspired them to do better, SURE... they did become better magic knights thanks to him, but their development is a long process shaped by each other's presence even if it'd take them years to admit it... this is why when each black bull hits their Development Moment, they always think back of yami, the other bulls, or both, so there's NO WAY they acted like strangers or were unhelpful to each other prior to the year asta and noelle became members

- likewise, any headcanon that implies one bull or another is disliked by the others or only barely accepted isn't headcanon, that's straight up mischaracterization, go reread the manga again

- likewise, I believe that just because the manga didn't explore every single relationship within the squad, it shouldn't lead to fans making it like each member's circle is only limited to one to two bulls, like ok luck and magna are each other's #1 person, but luck can still share ties with the other members too... he can be vanessa's little bro, and noelle's big bro, and charmy's partner in crime, and the little gremlin gauche keeps enabling, etc etc

- this post is getting long so one last thing, I think of the black bulls as a team with mutual and equal influence over each other, so unless we're referring to yami there's no "X bull is carrying the squad on their back" or "without X bull the squad will be lost" - because, honestly, it doesn't fit the bulls, they're all so flawed and bad at things they need each other to balance their cons with their pros, case in point I don't do "finral has been the vice captain before nacht" but I DO "vanessa finral gordon are a trio of senpais who've been carrying/sharing vice captain duties for years"

[iwonderwh0]

Vampire au

I suppose this scene is happening relatively early, possibly before Connor knows Markus's true identity. I really like it, and I hope you'll love it as well.

When Connor parks at the entrance to the graveyard, Markus is completely certain that whatever Connor has in mind, he doesn't want to be a part of it.

Just a few hours earlier, he was just telling Connor about the amount of fake accusations vampires face for deaths that never happened and how the graves for those 'killed' by them are almost always empty. That's when Connor suddenly became heated, insisting that Markus was wrong.

"Empty graves? It's an urban legend kids tell to scare each other," he laughs drily," Surely, you don't expect me to believe that."

"Well, of all the stories kids can share, this one happens to be based on actual facts."

Across the table Connor narrows his eyes, and his chin rises slightly in silent indignation. He turns off the recorder and takes a deep breath.

"You're wrong. And I can prove it." His voice is low and is close to a whisper.

"Please, do," Markus smiles at him, curious to how exactly is he going to do that.

Surely, he wouldn't invite Markus to participate in grave-digging; that'd be absurd.

That's what Markus was trying to convince himself as Connor silently drives the car in what, Markus quickly realises, is the direction of the graveyard. Connor doesn't even turn on the radio, so the only sound inside the car is the noise of the rough road outside and Connor's nervous tapping on the steering wheel. Markus can almost physically feel the heat of his poorly hidden anger, charging the air around the two of them. As they draw closer to their destination, Markus becomes increasingly worried about Connor's precise plan for proving him wrong.

This feeling escalates even further when he pulls out two shovels from the back of the car and strides towards the gates.

Conflicted, Markus follows him. They pass grave after grave, and as Markus looks around, he tries to recall which one of them were empty. He knows the precise location of at least one undoubtedly empty grave in this cemetary, but he isn't willing to consider it. He tries not to look in its direction and hopes to forget about its whole existence. Fortunately, it's far from being the only one empty, and Markus spots two other options among those they pass.

Meanwhile Connor seems to know exactly which one he wants to desecrate. He walks deeper into the park, then stops before one of the tombstones and gazes at it for a long moment before handing Markus the second shovel and sticking his into the ground. For a moment, Markus wonders if whatever is happening is actually real. Could it be that Connor is just waiting for him to give in and admit to be lying under the pressure of digging out the actual grave?

"Connor, what are you doing."

"You said you don't mind putting your theory to the test. And well, that's exactly what I'm trying to do."

"Whose grave is it?" Markus glances at the tombstone, but it's almost entirely covered with a bush of roses, making it hard to read the name or the year written on it.

"My brother. He got bitten when we were twelve and died three days later. If you're correct in what you told me, this grave will be empty, right?" he asks sarcastically and steps onto a shovel forcing it deeper into the stale ground.

"Connor, you can't just go digging up graves. If not for just moral reasons, grave desecration is actually illegal. I'm pretty sure you must be aware of that."

Connor ignores him and continues digging.

"If there's a single person in this universe who is allowed to dig out this grave here – it's me," he says eventually, "And if it is ideed as empty as you say it is, it shouldn't matter anyway."

Markus sighs and looks in silence at Connor digging deeper into the ground. He wonders if he should just turn around and leave. Will it stop him from digging further? Something tells him that it won't.

"It's not empty, I believe you," he says, "Please, stop," Markus reaches Connor's forearm, urging him to give him the shovel, but he only shakes him off sticking the blade of the shovel back into the ground.

"I told you, it's not empty. I believe you! You don't have to prove me anything."

Ignoring him Connor continues to dig into the ground.

"Connor!"

"Shut up and help me."

"If I call the police, you'll get arested," Markus tries, hoping that maybe a direct threat will have an effect.

"Then do it."

With that Markus grabs him by the forearm and seizes the shovel from his hands. Connor huffs and bends down to take the other shovel from the ground, but Markus stepps on it, pinning it down.

Connor breathes in, then out.

"Okay. Fine," he says and Markus sighs with relief, thinking that he managed to convince him to stop, but then Connor turns back to the grave and starts digging it with his bare hands.

"Are you fucking-" Markus searches for the words, but the sight of hands digging into the grave soil pierced his head with pain, "Connor."

"Yes?" Connor stopps and locks his eyes at Markus, his eyebrows rising, "It will be a lot quicker if you give me a shovel. Even more so, if you help me."

"It won't be empty," he repeats.

"You said it will," Connor says, turning away from him, focusing instead on getting more ground from the pit onto the surface.

"That's not-" Markus presses his hands to his head as another outburst of pain dazzles his vision," That's not what I said"

"You said," Connor says rising from the pit to step closer in Markus's direction, "that half of this fucking graveyard is empty as, let me quote you 'no one really dies from just a bite'," he imitates Markus's voice. He's unnervingly good at the impression, "So. Why wouldn't it be empty? Enlightened me."

"It will not," Markus struggles to find words as Connor lifts the shovel from the ground and goes back to digging. His white shirt is partially black with mud, and the sight of it is all Markus can think of.

"And why is that, Markus? Tell me."

Markus doesn't know what would be the right way to say the truth. 'I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but it is likely that your hunter dad was actually the one to kill your brother, because he most definitely didn't die from a bite.'

Connor probably wouldn't believe him the same way he doesn't believe him about the existence of empty graves.

Connor keeps digging.

"Are you going to help me or not?"

Markus looks down at the digged ground with a nauseous feeling rising up his stomach. His head ringing with the imagery of dirt on Connor's clothes.

"No."

Connor scoffs and presses the shovel back into the ground. Markus turns away.

"Okay then. It'll take some time."

How much time exactly? The local cemetery had the occasion to be located on a piece of land with unfortunately shallow bedrock, causing for unusually shallow graves for which Markus was generally thankful. Any other day of the year, but this.

Trying to ease his headache Markus faintly hopes that Connor will exhaust himself and abandons the idea before he manages to get to the bottom.

Why would he even keep digging after Markus agreed that the grave isn't empty? Markus wonders as the sound of shovel hitting into the ground continues in almost equally spaced intervals. If it wasn't for the fact of digging out the literal grave, Markus would probably consider this speed to be almost impressive. For a human, at least.

He should leave. He can't leave.

He needs to find a way to make Connor stop.

"Was it an open or closed-casket funerals?" he asks, trying to find anything that could help him in convincing.

"Closed. Mother insisted I shouldn't see him," he bends down to throw away the cobblestone from the pit, "probably has to do with the fact that we looked completely identical. I'm not completely sure, but it's entirely possible we were even dressed the same way."

Twins.

"Oh," Markus manages in response.

So he didn't see him. For a moment Markus almost considers the possibility of the grave being indeed empty, but as he recalls all the local vampires he knows to be converted at the early age -- only six in total -- he can't think of a single one that'd look anything like Connor.

And then it hits him.

"You want it to be empty," he says, more to himself than to Connor.

The digging stopps. Markus turns around and watches as Connor looks down on the mud, swallows, then shakes his head and continues digging.

This is hopeless.

Markus turns back around and tries to ignore the sound of the shovel hitting the ground. He notes the moment Connor starts to get out of breath, the interval between the hits of the shovel stretching longer. He can hear Connor cussing something under his breath before digging out another rock out of the way.

Eventually, shovel hits the hard surface of the casket.

Markus turns around and watches Connor cleaning the mud around it to find the right side to open it. He wonders once more if he should stop him now, by force if necessary, but the sight of the casket lid covered in soil and mud makes his vision go dark, freezing him to the ground. If he were buried in something like this, he would stand no chance of ever getting himself out.

Connor breathes heavily struggling to find a way to open it. He sticks the shovel back to clean his way to the side of the lid from one side, then repeats the same action from another, and after that, leans down to try opening it again. It works. He opens it slightly and instantly shuts it back. Markus doesn't see the content of what's inside. He doesn't need to.

Connor backs away, rises to his feet, and walks to the fence, turning his head around as if looking for something.

"Empty?" Markus asks him, knowing the answer already.

Wordlessly Connor shakes his head. He stares blankly into the fence, avoiding turning back to look at the grave. Markus walks closer to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. At first Markus thinks that Connor flinches under his touch, but then he realises that he's actually shaking.

He tried to stop him. He foresaw the outcome. It wasn't enough.

The smell of damp soil makes Markus's throat tighten. He turn away to face the grave once again and stares at the surface of the black casket. It stares right back at him. He lifts one of the shovels, careful not to touch the soil around it, and starts returning the ground from around the grave back to where it belongs. For the longest time Connor doesn't join him. Markus glances at him once in a while as he's working on the burial, but every time he looks Connor stands right where he was, frozen. When Markus's is about half way done, Connor finally picks the other shovel from the ground and joins him in burying back the grave that they now both knew wasn't empty.

They don't talk. Not before they're done, not after. Markus locks his eyes on the shovel in his hands as Connor joins him, avoiding accidentally looking up to where his shirt, pants and hands are still covered in soil. He tries not to breath in the air, contaminated with memories. But despite his best effort, he can still feel the earthy taste of it on his tongue.

As they're walking back to the car Markus is once again confronted with the sight of black mud on white surface of the shirt. He would still see it even with his eyes closed, just by knowing that it is there.

No.

He stops Connor by the shoulder and gets reminded of him still shaking violently.

"Put this on," he takes off his coat and hands it to Connor. He looks at it without any expression on his face.

"Please, just do it," Markus looks away and prays for Connor not to argue and just take the damn coat.

To his relief, Connor takes it with no further questions and does as Markus asks.

"Zip it," Markus orders and waits until he's sure Connor is done.

They get to the car and sit in silence. Markus presses his head against the cold surface or glass and tries to throw away the image of the grave or muddy clothes from his vision. He can hear the pulsating pain deep inside his skull and Connor's shaky attempts at breathing. He sounds like someone who's about to freeze to death, no less. Markus eyes him. He watches him gripping the steering wheel, eyes shut closed. He breathes in, then out.

He probably shouldn't drive like this.

Markus thinks, but then right in front of his eyes Connor takes another breath and then stills. In a few seconds he stopps shaking, then opens his eyes and looks right in front of him. The next time he takes a breath it stabilises as well. He pulls a small bottle of hand sanitizer along with a few napkins from the glove compartment, and cleans his hands from the remaining dirt, then straightens out and fastens his seat belt.

Whatever magic Markus has just witnessed he wishes he could learn it for himself. The smell of the soil is still aggressively present in the air, burning his eyes. It would seem that getting away from the grave would make him feel better, but to his regret grave followed him to the car. It will follow him home, and tomorrow he'll wake up still crushed by the pure pressure of its presence.

He almost regrets not pointing Connor at his own burial, angry at him for not knowing and at himself for not telling, but from all Markus gathered Connor isn't even fully convinced that he is a vampire. Telling him in plain text would be completely out of the question. Still.

Coming to the cemetery he was afraid of seeing his grave, but he couldn't have possibly expected Connor to show him his own instead. Or at least the one he thought of as his own, in some odd way.

Connor turns on the radio, and it fills the room with the sound of awfully upbeat music. Markus is not sure of whether he would prefer the silence or this. Connor seems to think the same way and turns the stations around, but all the neighbouring radio stations seems to be in some kind of collusion, playing disgustingly joyful tunes.

"Tell me where I should drop you off," Connor asks, starting the engine.

Markus swallows the knot in his throat and unable to remember any address says

"Anywhere."