#subc

[iridl]

New ECCC GEPS version 8 SubC forecast now available real-time here

[ahatintime-oc-competition]

Season 2 Round 3

Jasper the Painter Fox ( @jestlingnest ) VS Jasper/Sub-Con Artist ( @malfunctioning-mantis )

Read about Jasper the Painter Fox here

Read about Jasper/Sub-Con Artist here

[reloaderror]

4 hour exams are so draining literally what the fuck. im out of practice

[the-actual-ocean]

For me, I can't think of any current, strong-standing obsessions or fixations.

I do have one that, whilst still happening, has quieted down recently, being Deltarune. I've enjoyed the series since 2020, and I really can't get enough of its characters, stories and theories. Toby Fox is a madman whom I adore and look up to.

Oh, and FNaF. As such, the lore, up until about Help Wanted 2 I think, and only what I can remember (expect mistakes):

•Funny man  "William Afton" starts animatronic pizzeria with less funny man "Heny Emily."

•Pizzeria consists of pair of gold bunny and bear animatronic performers that operated as both robots and wearable suits through the use of what is essentially a stabby-stabby mechanism. That won't go badly at all.

•A beta-puppet animatronic was also used, to make sure children stayed within the pizzeria and not cause any mistakes, like going into ongoing traffic or filing their taxes backwards.

•What's this? Henry Emily has performed mini-mitosis and has a daughter named Charlie, whom he brings with him to work! What fun!

•The other children don't seem to like Charlie very much, so they decided the only rational thing to do is to lock her outside (because apparently 6 year olds can do that) and keep the puppet preoccupatied by blocking their box, which they would stay in to watch the children.

•Henry, not knowing it was infact William who cancelled his daughter-warranty, is overwhelmed with grief, to the point that he's almost isolated himself entirely from the company and his work, practically letting William do whatever he wants.

•Luckily, funny man William finds her outside, and helps her inside, where he scolds the children and brings her to Henry. He kills her.

•What's this, again? William has also performed mini-mitosis, but more successfully! He has 3 children: the oldest being Michael, the youngest being Chris, Evan a child who cries a lot, and a daughter named Elizabeth.

•William's youngest son is very scared of the animatronics that his father makes, something that Michael taunts and teases him on constantly, to the point of tears.

•Knowing this, his father decides to bring him to the one place his youngest child truly desired for their birthday, Disney World! The animatronic restaurant of which he is terrified of.

•Surprise, surprise, the child doesn't really enjoy the birthday celebration, and his brother decides to rub it in with a harmless prank, where he and his friends held him up to the mechanical jaws of the golden bear that was performing! What harmless fun!

•The child dies, right there. Their frontal lobe was crushed by the bear mid-song.

•Understandably, no one found this funny.

•William now has to mourn the loss of his child, and move shop, because everyone knows a public child beheading is bad for business!

•He makes a new restaurant, where the bear and rabbit have been replaced by a blue bunny, a yellow chicken, a red fox, and a brown bear. This seems familiar.

•William goes a bit coo-coo from his son's death, on top of the sudden assassination that he did on Charlie Emily, and starts killing children and stuffing them in suits using the golden bunny suit as a disguise to lure them in a backroom: 5 children were killed in total, most stuffed into their own animatronic. People never find them, because why would they look on the suits? Only a weird person would hide them in the suits.

•But what's this? There's only 4 in the animatronic cast? That's wrong, actually, and you should bring it up with the person who told you, because the 5th child, named Cassidy, was killed aswell. She was done very dirty, to the point where she was killed to death so badly that she became her own spirit in the form of a golden bear.

•Yada yada yada, these 5 ghosts and 4 robots kill a bunch of night guards and stuff them in suits because they're scared / confusing them for William / silly.

•Way too many night guards go missing, and people start questioning the safety of the pizzeria, so it ultimately shuts down and is left abandoned.

•Good news: new pizzeria opens! This time, Henry is back in charge as well, and there are new and improved animatronics with better security! You can tell they're better because they looked like candy. There's also some older animatronics, most likely planned to be used back in the first restaurant, but now just sit in a random room and do nothing, similar to a League of Legends player.

•In the meanwhile of when Henry was gone, he messed around with some robots to create a clone of his daughter, or something, but that's from the books and all FNaF fans are illiterate, so it doesn't matter.

•The new animatronics seem to have some issues, particularly with identifying employees of the pizzeria from criminals. At one point, one of them reenacts the Birthday Bite incident that happened to that one kid and bites into a person named Jeremy. No one knows who bit him, though, so your geuss is as good as mine.

•Turns out this and the handful of other missing children at that location wasn't very good for business either, and the restaurant shuts down again.

•Because of the bad business, William splits off a bit from Henry and makes his own new company where the main focus is to rent out animatronics for birthday parties (and secretly kill the children, but that was in the fine print, so it doesn't matter). This time, the cast consists of a clown, a ballerina, a fox and a bear.

•William's daughter, Elizabeth, decides she likes the clown animatronic very much, so much that she wanted to get really close to it, which is when she was killed by the animatronic, in front of many people.

•This business also gets shut down (who would've guessed?)

•William eventually goes back to the old pizzeria to destroy the older animatronics, probably for closure or he just wanted to it for the lolz. Whilst destroying them, the souls of the children inside essentially bully him into a backroom, where he tries to wear his old golden bunny suit for protection. Surprise, surprise, the building is extremely worn down, and water leaks from the ceiling and onto the suit, activating the stabby-stabby mechanism inside.

•William's entire body is now riddled with holes and torn apart, leaving him in unbearable pain, but still conscious, all whilst stuck within the suit and the pizzeria.

•30 years later, the Fazbear Pizzeria brand is almost entirely forgotten, until some people convert the old pizzeria into the Chuck E Cheese equivalent of a haunted house.

•William, now a riddled body fused to the suit, is found within the building and kept, because he looked very spooky, and they assumed the guts and stained blood was fake.

•Soon after opening, a lot of silly and goofy things start happening, such as the people going through the building becoming extremely frightened and terrified of the attractions inside, and very bad odours coming from the suit.

•Whilst all of this is happening, Michael feels extreme guilt for causing his brother's death, and finds out about his father's silly actions. He begins working the night shift at each location to set free the children souls from each animatronic, up until he reaches the Fazbear Frights location that his father is trapped in.

•After five nights of working and hiding from him, Michael eventually burns down the building, along with William. I'm sure that's the last of him.

•Michael also learns that his sister, Elizabeth, was killed by the clown animatronic at the other location, and begins working there aswell.

•After a few days of boring work in which he almost dies 50 times, Michael is lured into a scooping room by the clown animatronic through the voice of his sister, and his chest compartment is entirely emptied by a large spoon.

•In place of his organs, an amalgamation of all the animatronics at the location combine and make themselves at home within him. They decide to roleplay as him, and are carried outside of the location, where they then leave his body once it began to show signs of decomposition.

•Surprisingly, Michael seems to be a-okay with all this, and is somehow still alive after all this, assumedly from pure spite.

•Turns out that funny man William Afton survived the fire, and is now just wandering Utah, minding his own business, along with the spaghetti of metal that Michael threw up after he was possessed by it. I'm sure people don't mind.

•Somewhere along the way, the clown animatronic splits off from the metal spaghetti, most likely due to time management issues.

•A new pizzeria is built, and this one seems to actually be good! The animatronics are all fun, safe and work well! The only thing is that they're expensive as hell, which is why they need to take whatever they can find from alleyways to start off.

•Michael begins working here, and the owner doesn't seem all too worried about the fact that he has neither any good work history or organs, or even the fact that his skin is now purple.

•It seems that William, the spaghett, and the clown seemed to very much like the idea of being included in the new pizzeria, and decide to hide out in alleys behind the pizzeria, waiting for Michael to take them in like small orphan children or small orphan cats. Michael does, for some reason. That, or they break in.

•You know who else showed up? The puppet themselves, Charlie Emily! They've been following along the journey all along.

•During the night shifts, you guessed it, the animatronics got a bit quirky, and try to kill Michael. However, instead of it being the main cast of the restaurant, it was now William, the clown, spaghett and the puppet (in the form of a very affordable $5 robot) that were trying to kill him.

•Eventually, Michael manages to survives five nights, and a mechanism is activated that starts a speech by the owner - Henry Emily (the speech is extremely long, so I won't include it here, but I can try paraphrase. "Lot dead, not good, end now, go hell, die."). The entire building is set on fire, William, Michael, Henry, Charlie, Elizabeth, and all. This is where the story ends.

•...until a few years later, when the people who took over Fazbear's decided the brand was too hurt by the literal baker's dozens of deaths, and tried to redeem their name through the use of a VR game, made to reenact the average Fazbear experience.

•It's just a shame that the game designers seemed to not listen to the company at all, and just made a full FNaF game, in the FNaF universe. To do this, they used old motherboards and hard drives from old computers that they salvaged from the last locations, including a motherboard from the robot bunny suit that William's Silly String can of a corpse was contained in. I can't imagine what could go wrong.

•Unsurprisingly, turns out that the board had traces of William on it, including a copy of his entire consciousness, which they accidentally added to the game that they're meant to be selling. Great.

•After a few game testers go insane and comit the self die, William decides to settle on a beta tester named Vanny, and basically brainwashes her to be funny. And also do murder.

•A few years later, the (seemingly) final location is built, an extremely large and elaborate Mega Pizzaplex, containing cutting edge technology, endless fun, amazing safety, yada yada yada. The place is huge. They have, like, at least 2 ball pits. This time, the main cast is a robot bear (who shall be referred to as GF, for Glamrock Freddy and not Gamer Florida), a wolf named Roxanne who you should not look up, an alligator named Monty, and a chicken named Chica. Really original.

•One night, a kid named Gregory gets stuck in the Pizzaplex and tries to escape as he's chased around by all the animatronics (except GF, who took the honorary role of father figure) and a mysterious woman in a bunny suit named Vanny, who seems quite keen on carrying a knife.

•Throughout the night, Gregory must hide and run from each threat he sees, including a night guard named Vanessa. Who could that possibly be?

•Gregory finally manages to escape the Pizzaplex after 6 hours of running around, and leaves! He apparently does this 6 times, as there's 6 separate endings, including one where William's beaten up kidneys and bean bags of a liver had been put into ANOTHER old bunny suit inside the last pizzeria which the Pizzaplex was built on, and another where Vanny is revealed to be Vannessa (woah) and she overcomes William's funny business. This is now the end.

•Ope, nevermind!

•A girl named Cassie breaks into the Pizzeria around a year after Gregory's night, in which a massive earthquake left the Pizzaplex in Ruin, after hearing news of Gregory trapping himself within it again. Upon entry, she is given a bunny mask, similar to Vannessa's, that injects Fazbear's Employee Program into her consciousness, connecting her to the Pizzaplex's WiFi network.

•Cassie has to fight off the main cast until she manages to reach Gregory, try run from an evil rabbit figure, blah blah blah. Same case, different kid. On the way down, it's shown that Cassie has some relation to Roxanne, which is cute.

•It's revealed that Gregory had in fact not been trapped in the Pizzaplex, and Cassie was instead being lured to the old FNaF 6 location underneath the building to be able to release a murderous AI, named the Mimic. Gregory had managed to leave the Pizzappex, along with Vanessa and GF the last time he had been there. Surprise! The Princess Quest ending was cannon.

•The Mimic's story mostly takes place in the books, but since we all know FNaF fans froth at the mouth at the mention of the books' lore, I'll only explain the main stuff. Someone (probably Henry, since he's Silly) made an AI to adapt and learn on how the pizzerias are run and work on dismantling endoskeletons. Unfortunately, since Chat GPT must not exist in this universe, the Mimic confuses workers for endoskeletons and rip off their limbs. Unfortunate.

•Even then, it was still used as the main Pizzaplex AI to run stuff. Anyway, they apparently were trained with a lot of William stuff, which is no bueno.

•Cassie manages to escape the Mimic, but is trapped in the Pizzaplex by Gregory, fearing the Mimic might escape. At least she has Roxanne with her, though.

•Unfortunately, we find out that, though Vannessa no longer had any funny traces of William in her mind, he was still a part of the Fazbear system, and was downloaded - at least partially - into Cassie's head when she had first worn the mask. Can't wait to see how that turns out!

200 notes post:

Most recently sharks. You'll get infodumps about those over time though. I have also hyperfixated on Greek mythology so here, have my Hephaestus summary.

Hephaestus is the son of Hera, just Hera. She got jealous after Zeus gave birth to Athena through his leg without a mother so grew Hephaestus from her head, however he was born deformed and crippled. That then made her angry and disturbed so she threw him off of mount Olympus into the sea. Hephaestus was found and raised by sea nymphs who taught him the skill of blacksmithing, he grew up to be a very skilled and powerful blacksmith, so skilled that his weapons had magic properties and his forging was valued by the gods. This gained him his place in mount Olympus. He crafted the thrones of the gods, each uniquely designed for each god. Aphrodite was forced to marry Hephaestus, this ended in divorce. After this he married Aglaea; the grace of radiance and messenger of Aphrodite.

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

[callistocalavarni]

Your account is so beautiful and so poetic, the way you write when you respond to anons sound like handwritten letters for some reason 😭💕 maybe it's because I read them with a soft poetic voice in my head idk but I'm wondering.. When you shift to so many different realities for such long periods of time to escape this current reality, there have been many shifters that said that you could feel big detachment or even more misery when you come back here. I wonder though, when you come back from a shift, especially when you've been in your DR for years.. Does it affect how you experience relationships in the current reality? Have you ever felt detached, or distant from friends, family members, or probably just distant relatives, classmates / co-workers, and etc. ?

And could it be because you outgrown them, (because your soul must definitely feel aged when you have immortality living thousands of lives in the realities in your mind, right?) or could it be that some relationships become unfulfilling? Orr..?

Or have you ever experienced the opposite? And end up being happy seeing close people either because you've missed them or have scripted them into your realities? I'm really curious, as someone who tried to shift just last night as a fun act of self-love and fun place to spend a vacation on another planet 😭😭😭

You are the sweetest, I can't describe how happy your words make me. Thank you so much!!

Whenever I come back It's a feeling of relaxation, or the feeling of being awake in the middle of the night when no one else is. I feel alone but it doesn't bother me. Usually in the moment I’m recounting what happened in my head so I don’t forget about it. I definitely feel more mature, I try to help my mom out as much as I can, force her to do certain things that will help her mental health; I didn't used to do this but now I feel like I can teach her things I didn't know before. She’s a very pessimistic person, it seems like everything that she says is negative and I’ve found that it's hard to relate since I’ve come back. Sometimes I feel out of place but it’s never gotten to the point of misery. I’ve grown up with a lot of anxiety and now that I have experienced what I have I realized I should never feel shame about leaving here. 

I shift to experience a different life, I personally don’t script it to be perfect and happy all the time. I want to experience all of it. I‘ve suffered in every reality I’ve been in, including this one and I don’t see it as a bad or good thing. I just see it as something to learn from, so detachment from here is not a problem for me. I do get sad sometimes that I can’t relay what I’ve been through to my family. Sure, I can shift to a reality where they understand the concept and would console me, but a part of me doesn't want to.

I had a child in my Kirasia dr and that's the reason I ended up leaving there. Though I was happy, I didn’t think I was ready. I was sitting on my bed and kind of dissociating in that moment because the thought of raising a whole entire human being scared me. I will go back, maybe re-live my life there and continue on instead of leaving but I don’t know when that moment will come. A couple of months ago In this reality I was sitting on the couch with my mom and baby sister and was so overcome with emotions when I looked at her. I just started to cry, I said it was because she was being cute, a part of it was, but In that moment I was reminded of my own child. Here I’m a couple months from graduating, and there I am a mother.    

My relationship with my family has gotten better here though. My step dad apologized to me and I was finally mature enough to have an actual conversation with him. My mom wants me to live with her for a while and tells me I shouldn't have to work myself to death. And I finally cut someone off who I didn’t need anymore; so yes I have outgrown people. I don’t know if these things would have happened if I never shifted. I think after shifting my subconscious reworked itself and that's why those moments happened. 

The only detachment I really feel is noticing how immature people are. Before I shifted I tolerated it but now I don’t put any energy into it. I can’t believe I didn’t notice how many grown adults are fucking insane, sorry for the bluntness it’s just crazy seeing how stupid people are. I’m mostly talking about how weird relationships are here, and how some people will find any excuse to be abusive. Not even physically but just mentally. Some of these people aren't even aware of their own actions either - I’m ranting… but I think you get the idea.

When I come back here It's like I've learned a whole new outlook on life and I feel happy to view the world through that lens here. I’ve never felt regret about shifting, someday I’m going to choose not to come back here and I’m fine with that. 

These were such good questions and because of your ask you gave me a new idea on what to write about! I’ve been trying to think about what to write about that isn't a storytime so I’m happy I finally have a small Idea.

[lxndonorris]

moments like these - Charlos

Charles Leclerc x Carlos Sainz Jr Theme: smutish, teasing, touching, angsty (a mess) Charles and Carlos are getting ready for the British GP and Charles gets sentimental thinking about next year x word count: 1870+ taglist: @game-set-canet open for requests, pairings or reader is fine ;)

It is a crisp Friday morning at Silverstone, the air tinged with anticipation as F1 teams prepare for the first practice session of the British Grand Prix. In the heart of the paddock, amidst the bustling activity, stands Charles' motorhome. Inside, the two Ferrari pilots are getting all geared up and ready for a hopefully good start to the race weekend.

Charles glances out the window, his eyes scanning the bustling Silverstone paddock. It is a typical British summer day, gray clouds hanging low and the air charged with excitement. 

He is already wearing his racing suit, looking just as good as always. The suit accentuates his frame perfectly, and the tailored fit highlights his athletic build. 

To tease Carlos a little, he keeps the upper half of his suit hanging down around his waist, exposing his tight, red fireproofs. The fabric clings to his taut muscles, hugging him like a second skin.

Charles relishes the feeling of his racing gear against his skin. There is something uniquely exhilarating about the snug fit of his fireproofs and the protective weight of his racing suit.

Every time he pulls it on, he feels a surge of adrenaline, a reminder of the incredible power and speed that await him on the track.

He firmly runs a hand across his chest, subconsciously feeling his muscles underneath his shirt. The fabric is cool and smooth, designed to offer both comfort and protection. It is part of his identity as a driver, a uniform that transforms him into a force to be reckoned with on the track.

Charles catches his reflection in the window, satisfied with what he sees. The racing suit fits him perfectly, tight in all the right places, especially around the waist. His groomed beard and messy hair add to his rugged charm, and he knows his accent is the final touch that makes the whole package irresistible.

Running two fingers along his jawline, a smirk tugs at his lips when his focus shifts to his teammates reflection, standing a few meters behind him.

"Like what you see?" He hears Carlos voice echo through the motorhome, and right away, he licks his lips in excitement. 

Like a child caught in the act of mischief, Charles turns away from the window, and his gaze settles on Carlos, who is just putting on the lower half of his racing suit. He catches sight of Carlos's fireproof undergarments, the tight fabric clinging to his body in a way that makes Charles's heart race even faster.

"Oh, yeah." He nods with his eyes wandering all over Carlos's form. "

He is thrilled to watch his boyfriend dress up, a private moment that feels intimate and special amid the chaos of the race weekends. 

They have been teammates for years now, a partnership that grew from professional camaraderie to something deeper and more intimate. They managed to keep their relationship a secret, a feat not easily accomplished in the high-octane, gossip-driven world of Formula 1.

But somehow, they've made it work thus far, even though it's going to be much harder when Carlos leaves the team at the end of the season. News, that broke Charles's heart the most, and he is reminded of this week after week.

Charles pushes these thoughts away, his focus shifting to the man he loves stretching right in front of him.

"Need a hand with that?" Charles offers with a light chuckle, his voice playful.

Carlos looks at him, a grin spreading across his face. "Enjoying the show, are we?"

"Always," Charles replies, his eyes twinkling with affection. "You make it hard to look away."

And he means it.

Carlos looks equally stunning in his racing suit, the red fabric flattering his complexion and accentuating his well-formed body. Charles, unble to take his eyes off him, subconsciously strokes his own chest while watching Carlos, who catches the gesture and smirks, clearly enjoying the attention.

He, in turn, smoothes the fabric of his suit with the palm of his hand, using it as an excuse to touch himself, drawing Charles's gaze to the way the suit clings to his physique. The way his muscles flex as he moves, the determination in his eyes, and the natural confidence he exudes are captivating. 

The air is charged with a mixture of affection and unspoken desire, a silent understanding passing between them.

Charles loves these stolen moments, where they can be themselves, free from prying eyes of the public and the pressure of their roles as Ferrari drivers. 

"You look amazing," Charles said softly, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

Carlos chuckles, his eyes twinkling brightly. "Coming from you, that means a lot."

Charles steps closer, his hand still lingering on his chest. "It's true. The suit suits you so well."

Carlos's smile widens, and he takes a step forward, closing the distance between them.

"You don't look too bad yourself, Leclerc." He teases, knowing very well what buttons to push to make Charles lose himself in the moment.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, they forget about the race weekend, the team and focus on just each other.

Charles's hand moves from his own chest to Carlos's, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric. "I will miss this," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos places his hand over Charles's, squeezing it gently. "Oh, Charles." 

His expression softens, and he takes a step closer, his other hand coming up to cup Charles's cheek. "I know," he says gently. "It's going to be different, but it doesn't change what we have."

Charles looks into Carlos's eyes, searching for reassurance. "But it won't be the same." We won't have these moments, this closeness."

Carlos smiles, a comforting warmth in his gaze. "We will find new ways to be together. Just because we won't be on the same team doesn't mean we won't see each other. We'll make it work."

Charles nods, feeling a bit of the weight lift from his shoulders. "You're right. It's just hard to think about."

Carlos leans in, his forehead resting against Charles's. "I know, but we have now, and we'll make the most of it. And when the time comes, we'll face that change together, just like we face everything else."

Charles closes his eyes, savoring the closeness the comfort of Carlos's presence. "Thank you," he whispers. "I needed to hear that."

Carlos pulls back slightly, his smile widening. "Anytime, mon cher. Now, let's focus on today. We've got a whole weekend in front of us."

Charles chuckles, feeling his spirit lift. "Right."

Some thoughts still linger, however, and he is unable to push them aside. 

"Hey, can you help me with my suit? The upper half is always a bit tricky." Carlos smiles shyly, his big brown eyes shining brightly.

Charles immediately knows what he is doing, but he doesn't mind. He appreciates the small gesture that shows how well Carlos understands him. "Of course," he replies, stepping closer once more.

Carlos slips his arms into the sleeves of his racing suit with practiced ease; his movements fluid and confident. Charles reaches out, his hands straightening the fabric, smoothing it over Carlos's chest.

His fingers trace the contours of Carlos's muscular arms, up to his broad shoulders, and finally to his neck. The intimacy of the gesture—the familiar touch—sends a shiver down Charles's spine.

Carlos closes his eyes, a contented hum escaping his lips as he savors the feeling. "You always know how to make everything better," he murmurs.

Charles swallows hard, his heart pounding in his chest. The way Carlos responds to his touch, the quiet joy in his eyes make it difficult to resist the pull of emotions.

He hesitates for a moment, the weight of their surroundings and the reality of their situation pressing down on him. But then he sees the trust and love in Carlos's gaze, and it gives him the courage he needs.

Without another word, Charles leans in and kisses Carlos, a gentle yet passionate expression of his feelings. It is a kiss that holds all the emotions he can't put into words—the love, the gratitude, the sadness, and the hope for their future.

Carlos responds in an instant, his arms wrapping around Charles, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, a silent promise that no matter what changes lay ahead, their bond would remain unbroken.

When they finally pull apart, both of them are breathless, their foreheads resting against each other. "Thank you," Charles whispers, his voice filled with emotion. "For everything."

Carlos smiles, his eyes shining with affection, as Charles slowly zips up his suit, his hands moving with a gentle, deliberate care. When he finishes, he pets Carlos lovingly, his fingers lingering on his chest. 

A sly smirk plays on his lips as he glances down at Charles's chest, noting how the cold British weather has a visible effect on his boyfriend, the tight fireproofs clinging to his skin, and the nipples imprinting through them.

"Need some help with yours?" Carlos offers, his voice tinged with playful concern.

Charles nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Sure, I'd like that."

Carlos's touch is gentle yet slightly possessive as he begins helping his boyfriend with the upper half of his suit. His fingers deftly guide the fabric over Charles's shoulders, smoothing it down in one swift motion.

But just before he zips up the suit, his hand slides inside, stroking Charles's tummy with a tenderness that gives him goosebumps.

Charles can't help but let out a guttural growl; the sensation both comforting and electrifying. The feel of Carlos's hand on his chest, the warmth and familiarity of his touch, is something he cherishes deeply.

"Now, this feels better, eh?" He teases, his hand continuing its gentle caress.

Charles closes his eyes, relishing this moment. "You know it does." He murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

Carlos's hand lingers for a moment longer, his touch both reassuring and grounding. Then, with a final, loving stroke, he zips up Charles's suit, sealing them both in their racing armor.

"There," Carlos says softly, his eyes meeting Charles's. "Ready to take on the other's?"

He nods and grabs their Ferrari caps from the counter, slipping his on with ease, and watches as Carlos takes his cap and puts it on backwards, a playful grin spreading across his face. 

The gesture is quintessentially Carlos—casual, confident, and full of charm.

"Looking good," Charles remarks, unable to suppress a smile. The backward cap adds a touch of roguishness to his already striking appearance.

"Carlos chuckles, adjusting the cap slightly. "Just trying to keep up with you."

Charles shakes his head, the weight of the earlier conversation lifting. The simple act of putting on their caps, a routine they shared countless times, brings a sense of normalcy and comfort—a reminder that despite the looming changes, some things will always stay the same.

They head out of the motorhome, their caps firmly in place. The chilly British air greets them, but the warmth of their connection keeps the cold at bay.

As they walk toward the garage, they fall into step side by side, ready to face the day's challenges with renewed determination.

-

EN: I needed this after last week's fiasco....

[runaaaxoxo]

day two of shiftmas ; gingerbread house

answering this as my goddess of sugar, pleasure, hedonism and thoughts dr <3

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

the 'house' i live in is more like a section of heaven, accessible through knowledge and pleasure. im typically roaming around my temples and blessing people altars, though, so not usually home. most of my appliances and seats/beds are made of clouds, and i have numerous children who dont all live there, but are welcome any time.

all my mirrors in my house are made of water, and the flowers typically contain sugar or psychedelics (i scripted they were non-lethal). there is a library there that is open to anyone, mortals and immortals (the mortals prooooobably will have some trouble finding it lmfao) which basically contains all you need to know! its manipulative to what i like, and thats basically all i scripted about it! most of my descriptions will be short, as i hate hate hate scripting and just leave the details to my subc

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[avantguardbitch]

Been making Skin Bibles of our Blorbos with @trench-coats-in-a-trench-coat !!!

We got (from top-left to bottom-right)

- Subc

- Drake

- Selvester

- Pocketcat

- C1RCU1TRY

- Kendrick Lamar

- Shuichi Siahara

- All-Mer

- The Wendigo

- Eigol

- The God of Ballin'

- Jreg

[smallnico]

Number 19 for the Tav Ask List?

thank u for asking!!!

19. What's your Tav's personality like at the start of the game? Does it change as the game goes on?

before they were tadpoled and lost their memories, esper was a cold and ruthless overachiever with a penchant for mindgames, political games, and artfully ruining people's lives before killing them. they were wholly emotionally broken by the relentless tragedy of their life as a puppet of the lord of murder and devoted themself wholly to bhaal just so it hurt less that they had no ability to resist. they closed themself off completely from others and just lived in the tar pits of loneliness forever, numb to their own suffering and the suffering of others.

esper starts the game a lot more... hollow than they end up. they're a lot more inclined to blindly follow their violent impulses, but they learn quickly not to do that by sensing and observing the people around them, what they approve and disapprove of, what scares them and what makes them happy. it takes esper a couple of in-game days to really learn what they like and dislike, and it's bizarre and uncanny for everyone around them the entire time they're learning, since most of what they do to begin with is listen to the others' feelings using their magic and just. adjust their presentation to be more appealing to whoever they're talking to.

but once they have a better sense of how they Like to act, they end up being a reserved and practical, fairly thoughtful person with a debilitating taste for mischief and a pretty sadistic imagination when it comes to finding socially acceptable alternatives to murder (think like the "non-lethal" dishonored kills. old esper is still in there, lmao). they're also a lot more willing to open their heart to people, since they lost the memories that made it traumatizing for them to do -- esper has a deep well of hurt and loneliness and guilt that they struggle to fill without dosing on Murder Dad's Death Euphoria, but they do really love their friends and they feel a strong need to protect and care for the people in their life who have been nice to them.

no such consideration for people who have hurt or disrespected them or their loved ones, though. those guys can and will die :)

[bardic-perdita]

Aoough I have too many questions I wanna ask. 4, 29, 41, 91 for all your guys?

Thank you for the asks once again lovely! I am incapable of writing short answers for these asks, so hopefully this is still interesting to read.

I'm still answering the other asks in my inbox, but they're taking a tad longer than I'd expected ^v^;

Answers under the cut

4. Is there a reason why your Tav starts out as Level 1?

Shrike is a durge, so they start out at level 1 due to Orin.

Zeke’s powers come from his fiendish patron, but when he is infected by an illithid tadpole, his ‘father’ temporarily limits his power until he can figure out what’s happened. The presence of the Emperor also disrupts the usually strong connection between the two. 

Breoch was a relatively powerful sorcerer (level 14 or so) before he was killed by his ex lover. When he was resurrected 100 years later (by the same ex), he was resurrected with a new body and therefore it takes some time for Breoch to confidently wield his innate magic once again. 

29. What does your Tav do about the Goblin camp? Do they free Halsin or side with Minthara? What's their opinion of them?

Shrike is fully embodying their oath as a paladin at this point, so is determined to avenge the tieflings by destroying every single goblin and Absolute cultist that dare get in their way. The goblins were no real match for them and they reveled in the massacre. As a fellow paladin, they respected Minthara’s skill, though found her taste in company abhorrent. They had a kind of kinship with Halsin and they shared in his drive to fulfil a duty to protect his land and people.

Zeke also wished to help the tieflings as he is caring by nature. He was less willing to fight the goblins, although he felt an indescribable pleasure from satiating his bloodlust. Destroying enemies of his father was a regular pastime when he lived in Maladomini. Fighting enemies of his own choosing is a little more difficult for him to comprehend. The only reason he sides with Halsin over Minthara is because he met the tieflings first. If Minthara and the Absolute had captured him before he met the refugees, then his story would have gone very differently. 

Breoch had a lot of mixed feelings about the goblin camp. On the one hand, he found the goblins disgusting– not even fit to take as slaves in the usual Lolth-Sworn fashion. On the other hand, having swathes of creatures calling him ‘Master’ and treating him like the drow nobility he is did stroke his ego significantly. He instructed Astarion to poison half of the goblins, and threatened those goblins that tried to avoid their fate with a more excruciating death. He immediately identified Minthara as being from House Baenre, and took great pleasure in denying her the information about the tiefling camp that she so desperately sought. Being both a male drow and from one of the lowest ranking noble houses in Menzoberranzan, the flipping of the power dynamic is too enticing an opportunity to pass up. Breoch was less interested in helping Halsin or the tieflings; choosing only to help out as a means to freeing himself from the tadpole. It didn’t take long for him to notice that Halsin was drawn to him, even if he didn't know the reason why until much later, and he exploited that obvious attraction to keep the archdruid around. 

41. Which way did they take? Did they run into Elminster? What was their opinion of his news for Gale?

(in game I did both paths, but for the sake of this I’ll explain which would have been their preference XD)

Shrike would have chosen the Mountain Pass to appease Lae’zel. They felt strangely at home within the Crèche due to their military background that they had forgotten about. Despite not being particularly close to Gale, they empathised with his devotion to his goddess and supported his choice to decide which path was best. They made no secret that they would rather he chose to live, but respected his choice to follow Mystra’s wishes. 

Unsurprisingly Breoch chose to go through the Underdark. He’s a city dweller, so has no idea how to actually survive in the Underdark but he found the constant darkness and familiar fauna comforting. He didn’t realise how much he’d missed the Underdark until he returned. He was never particularly close to Gale; the sorcerer and wizard rivalry was too strong. Breoch did express feeling a little smug that the supposedly 'good' goddess of magic was capable of demanding such a sacrifice from her former chosen, after Gale had lectured Breoch on the evils committed in his goddess Lolth's name. Despite his bluster, Breoch is not entirely heartless and would only consider using the orb as a last resort. Not that he'd tell Gale that he actually sort of cares...not yet, at least.

Zeke also went via the Mountain Pass. There was an immediate attraction between Zeke and Gale (because purple I guess), so Elminster’s news was devastating for them both. Growing up in the Hells raised by two devils, Zeke holds no fealty to the Gods and has no qualms fist-fighting with Mystra. His soul and subsequent afterlife has already been promised to his father, so he doesn’t fear death nor the wrath of deities. He doesn't really know all that much about gods anyway. Despite not having known Gale for very long, he fell fast and hard; there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his beloved wizard.

91. Does your Tav get a happily ever after?

I still love the idea of all my Tavs and Durges living in camp at the same time, so that’s the ending I’ll explain for this particular question because I'm just cringe like that. 

Context: Shrike and Breoch would be in a four-person poly with Astarion and Halsin. It started as Astarion trying to play both ends against the middle, but realised too late that he didn’t want to have to choose between them…so he didn’t. Shrike was the one who brought Halsin into the relationship, and it takes some time for both Breoch and Astarion to be open to physical intimacy as a poly of four. 

After the events of the game, Shrike moves between helping Breoch and Astarion in the Underdark and helping Halsin with his rebuilding efforts. They never fully recover their memories, but they work hard to rekindle their paladin oath and support their elf boyfriends to create safe communities for those that need it most. Eventually they can spend more time as a poly in the Underdark: adventuring, relaxing, and generally enjoying the life they have made for themselves. 

Breoch would go back to the Underdark with Spawn Astarion and 7006 vampire spawn. He would draw upon all of his former connections in Menzoberranzan, as well as reconnecting with his family, to build a 'city of immortals' where the vampire spawn could live in relative peace. All of his energies would go into making the city a success, and it would often fall to Astarion and Shrike to get him to stop and breathe every once in a while. Despite the gargantuan task, Breoch could not be happier: he’d be using all his negotiation skills (minus the sex) for a meaningful cause whilst surrounded by his family and the three people he loves more than anything in all the realms. 

Zeke would move to Waterdeep with Gale. The wedding would be an interesting affair as Gale has to explain to poor Morena Dekarios that her future son-in-law’s parents are a devil and his erinye consort, and they insist on attending the wedding. Caedes (Zeke’s father and Patron) and Solaris (Caedes’s partner and @critical-goat ’s OC) would surprisingly get along rather well with Mrs Dekarios as they share tales of their sons’ childhood mishaps. For the most part, the purple husbands would live in peaceful marital bliss. However, the ‘permission for Caedes to treat Zeke as his own flesh and blood’ clause of his pact is never far from Gale’s mind. One day, Caedes could theoretically choose to control Zeke’s whole body and mind, thoroughly destroying their happiness and every memory of their life together. Caedes said that he wouldn’t, but he could. And that alone terrifies Gale. 

[subciptvuk]

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[justinspoliticalcorner]

Rebecca Traister at NY Mag's Intelligencer:

Can you provide a definition for the word woman?” Tennessee senator Marsha Blackburn lobbed this query at Ketanji Brown Jackson during her 2022 Supreme Court confirmation hearings. Blackburn was doing her bit for her party’s effort to enforce transphobic gender conformity, positioning herself as a defender of womanhood as something fixed and narrow. When Jackson declined to provide Blackburn with a definition, noting that she was not a biologist, the senator took the opportunity to dial it up a notch. “The fact that you can’t give me a straight answer about something as fundamental as what a woman is underscores the dangers of the kind of progressive education that we are hearing about,” Blackburn said with lip-smacking satisfaction.

Two years later, Republicans remain cruelly closed to the realities of gender fluidity and trans existence. But how the party understands — and represents — womanhood more broadly? Well … that’s getting weird. As we cruise toward November with two ancient white men on the presidential ticket and the rights of millions of people who are not white men in the balance, the public performance of Republican womanhood has become fractured, frenzied, and far less coherent than ever.

“A true conservative woman,” Valentina Gomez, one of several Republican candidates vying to be Missouri’s next secretary of state, told me in an email this spring, “speaks the truth, works hard, loves and knows how to use guns of multiple calibers, cares for the wellbeing of children and her family, doesn’t sleep with multiple men and most important, does not murder babies.” The 25-year-old Gomez made a viral ad in February in which she took a flamethrower to a pile of sex-education and LGBTQ+ books from the public library. In May, she filmed herself running through St. Louis wearing a weighted vest and advising, “Don’t be weak and gay; stay fucking hard.” The day before, she had embraced her softer side, posting a photo of herself on X in a pale-pink pantsuit and pumps, with a winning smile and her eyes cast heavenward, under a caption restating Blackburn’s question: “What is a woman?” Gomez told me feminists “have made men the enemy,” adding, “they end up alone with three dogs at the age of 50 with no kids or husband” — a time-honored Republican sentiment that liberal women, unlike conservatives, are sexless, unmarriageable spinsters. But even that rusty rhetorical frame is wobbly: In April, 31-year-old far-right activist Laura Loomer, standing outside Donald Trump’s criminal trial in New York, told the New York Times, “You think I have a dating life? You think I’m married? You think I have kids? Do you think I go out and do fun things? No. Because I’m always putting every extra bit of time that I have into supporting President Trump.” Loomer told the paper she would not be at the courthouse the next week because she had to return home to Florida to take care of her dogs.

Contradictions abound among conservative women in Washington. In response to Jackson’s testimony, Georgia representative Marjorie Taylor Greene attempted to be authoritative on the matter. “I’m going to tell you right now what is a woman,” she said. “We came from Adam’s rib. God created us with his hands. We may be the weaker sex — we are the weaker sex — but we are our partner’s, our husband’s, wife.” But Greene, who has since divorced, regularly refers to men, including Speaker Mike Johnson and President Biden, as “weak” and is not shy about showing off her own brawn. In May, in the wake of a dustup with Democratic Texas representative Jasmine Crockett in which the two traded barbs about each other’s appearance, Greene posted a video of herself lifting heavy weights to a song by Sia: “I’m unstoppable / I’m a Porsche with no brakes / I’m invincible / Yeah, I win every single game.”

“Under the surface, subcutaneously, there is a tug-of-war,” said Nancy Mace, a 46-year-old second-term Republican congresswoman from South Carolina. Mace was reflecting on the tension between presenting as traditionally feminine and deploying emasculating language that can make her sound more like Andrew Tate and his overheated manosphere buddies than Republican foremothers such as Margaret Chase Smith or even Michele Bachmann. Mace regularly declares that her male enemies, including former House Speaker Kevin McCarthy, with whom she has a bitter rivalry, and Hunter Biden, the president’s son, have “no balls.”

“There are the traditional roles of women in society, some biological. We’re meant to nurture; we’re meant to breastfeed our kids,” Mace told me over Zoom. “But my mom worked. I’ve worked my entire life since I was 15. It’s a balance between what’s your feminine side and your Main Character Energy.” Mace was explicit: “I do have Main Character Energy. I am an alpha dog, and so is my little six-pound dog, Libby.”

The Republican women seeking to steer their party into the future are finding themselves in a series of constrictive binds: between upholding a conservative white patriarchy that has outlawed abortion and asserting their value as women; between projecting traditional notions of compliant, cheerful femininity and channeling the testosterone-driven rage of the conservative infotainment complex; and, above all, between trying to build independent political identities and slavishly following Donald Trump. That devotion has come at the cost of alienating suburban white women, who have been crucial to Republicans for decades but, since 2016, have been peeling away in response to Trump’s pussy-grabbing malevolence and his party’s ruthless campaign against reproductive rights.

It’s surely a nasty tangle for them, but for those of us watching at home, Republican women’s efforts to bridge these impossible chasms have a stupefying quality: What to make of these women? As the Alabama political columnist Kyle Whitmire wrote after Katie Britt, his state’s U.S. senator, delivered the response to Joe Biden’s State of the Union address from her kitchen in a demonic whisper, “Katie Britt glitched out on national television and left millions of Americans asking what the heck they just watched.” Weeks later, South Dakota governor Kristi Noem’s strenuous efforts to show off her casually cruel streak to Trump derailed her own vice-presidential audition when it emerged that her book contained a story about how she once shot her puppy and left the body to rot in a gravel pit.

Then there are the duck-lipped, smoky-eyed stylings of Donald Trump Jr.’s fiancée, Kimberly Guilfoyle, who danced to “Gloria” shortly before insurrectionists tore through the Capitol on January 6, 2021, and this spring announced a children’s book called The Princess & Her Pup. The former president’s daughter-in-law, RNC co-chair Lara Trump, recently promised “four years of scorched earth when Donald Trump retakes the White House” and posted a video of herself in sequined pants and stilettos as she played “Let It Be” on piano. The gun-toting congresswoman Lauren Boebert has railed against “teaching kids how to have and enjoy sex, even same-sex sex, how to pleasure themselves,” yet last fall was ejected from a theater for lewd behavior that included grabbing her date’s crotch during the performance. Mace made headlines in 2023 for joking about her sex life to a roomful of Christian conservatives at a prayer breakfast.

Some of this is surely just old-fashioned political hypocrisy, particularly unpleasant coming from a right that has for generations sought to police all sorts of things that it itself engages in: Do as I legislate, not as I do. But in a post-Dobbs political climate in which Republicans have grown only more aggressive on issues of gender identity, contraception, and sex education, the ways in which the party’s women have been comporting themselves loom large.

On the cusp of an election season that could further reshape this democracy and women’s place within it, the questions facing the women of the American right are tricky. Are they supposed to be cutthroat or cute? Cold enough to kill a dog or warm enough to bake an apple pie? To whom is their devotion chiefly addressed: country, husband, God, or Trump? And how might their womanhood complicate their responses to the closing of obstetrics wards or the fact that their party’s leader was convicted of falsifying business records to cover up an extramarital affair with an adult-film actress? The challenge of navigating these thorny questions has left many of them caroming from high-pitched rancor, to contorted eroticism, to the seemingly snug comforts of trad-wife chic. The spectacle can provoke amusement, fury, and a frisson of horror-movie unease. For if the women of today’s Republican Party are upending gender conventions in unprecedented fashion, they’re doing it in service of a party that has never been more openly hostile to women and their rights.

In both parties, women have never had it easy; this is a business that remains, 235 years in, overwhelmingly run by men. And for a time, it was Democratic women who encountered the gnarlier complexities. As members of the party that at least theoretically represented the gains of the women’s movement that were so disruptive to the old gendered order, they could not themselves present as too aggressive for fear of being seen as radical, nor could they be too vulnerable, feminine, or even conventionally beautiful lest they be dismissed as unserious. Jennifer Granholm, a former pageant contestant and the first woman to govern Michigan, has described cutting her hair short and trying to add gray streaks when she ran her first campaign in 1998. “You had to look completely asexual,” she once said. “The first thing they think about is how you are shaped, what you are wearing. You have to be as neutral as possible so that people will pay attention to the words coming out of your mouth.”

Meeting ridiculous gendered expectations could mean ridiculous micro-humiliations: When Hillary Clinton told reporters in 1992 that she had chosen to pursue a paid profession rather than stay home to bake cookies, she was pressured to participate in a “First-Lady Bake-Off” to prove her wifely chops. Fifteen years later, during her first presidential run, the presence of a body that was not male was such an anomaly on the campaign trail that the Washington Post published a fashion feature about how she was choosing to handle her cleavage. Clinton was perhaps the most acute example of an assertive Democratic woman whose efforts to satisfy a ravening press and public intolerant of female complexity left her so twisted and poll-tested that she became largely illegible as human, let alone female.

Meanwhile, Republican women faced limitations of their own but for a long time appeared at ease with them. Many came off as maternal and content, conservatively coiffed and shoulder-padded, a comfortable match for a party that wanted to offer reassurance to a nation jittery about women’s liberation. Think Elizabeth Dole, a Reagan Cabinet member, future senator, and presidential candidate whose chatty, Oprah-style stroll through the crowd on the night of her husband’s 1996 presidential nomination was the (sole) highlight of that convention. But they could also be tough and mean — Barbara Bush once called Geraldine Ferraro a bitch!

The Republican Party, through the 1990s and into the new millennium, included quite a few “moderate” women, such as Kay Bailey Hutchison of Texas and Olympia Snowe and Susan Collins of Maine, who believed in fiscal conservatism but also held positions on so-called social issues that were comparatively liberal. They were, like many in their party before its sharp anti-abortion turn, “pro-choice.” They worked with Democrats to reach compromises, and the women on both sides of the aisle appeared to be friendly with one another: Collins partnered with Kirsten Gillibrand on the repeal of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” and Gillibrand helped then-Senator Clinton throw Collins a bridal shower.

A turning point in the evolution of conservative womanhood came when John McCain selected a little-known governor of Alaska to be his running mate in his presidential race against Barack Obama in 2008. Sarah Palin was in her mid-40s, young enough not to be collared by the pearls and propriety that inhibited many of her forerunners in both parties. She was charismatic and uninterested in conforming to outdated gender stereotypes. Or rather, she conformed to a bunch of them simultaneously: She had a sexy-librarian beauty and no qualms about playing it up; a macho snow-machine-racing husband who had taken a leave from his job on the oil fields to be the primary parent to their five kids; and she used her youngest child, Trig, born with Down syndrome, as proof of her hard-core anti-abortion bona fides. She had white-nationalist instincts that led her to counter Obama with language about “real Americans,” and she pioneered a Mama Grizzly persona that was both sporty and menacing (fuck your dead puppy; this lady wanted wolves to be shot from helicopters). She was unafraid to stake her own claim to women’s equality, advocating for a “new, conservative feminism.”

[...] There is surely a perverse pride in emerging victorious near the top of a power structure built to exclude you. These are the dynamics that have long rewarded white women for acting as foot soldiers within a white patriarchy, willing to take one another out to get closer to power, their positions adjacent to the brutes at the top a signal of their uncommon tenacity. But there is a difference between the status granted those willing to do whatever unhinged thing it takes to get ahead in contemporary right-wing politics and the political autonomy these women might yearn for just as much as the classical feminists they wage war against. [...]

In the past, it was easier for Republican women to get away with inconsistency and self-contradiction. Phyllis Schlafly, the brilliant, diabolical political strategist, could inveigh against the masculinized ambitions of women working outside the home from pulpits well outside her own home because her professional efforts paid lip service to restoring certain comforting hierarchical expectations about men’s and women’s spheres. That paradigm has been subverted. What Schlafly and her generation feared most — that the expanded opportunities and protections for women would become their own kind of traditional expectation — has come to pass. This is why the overturn of Roe was not greeted as some welcome restoration of a bygone order but as a threatening attack on the protections that plenty of American women, especially white middle-class women of all political persuasions, had come to count on as an established norm during the 49 years Roe stood. Every one of these Republican women relies on the gains of women’s liberation, and well they should. This was, in fact, what the women’s movement was for: not just so those who agreed with it might enjoy more opportunities but so those who did not agree with it also could. As an early political ballbuster, former New York congresswoman Bella Abzug famously said, “We don’t want so much to see a female Einstein become an assistant professor. We want a woman schlemielto get promoted as quickly as a male schlemiel.” Welcome, ladies.

Remarkably, these dark years have seen women on the left conduct themselves with new ease and assuredness. Democratic women at both the center and the left edge of their party now communicate in a range of styles that appear more authentic and less stilted than those of previous generations of female politicians. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is fluent on social media; Elizabeth Warren lets her professorial freak flag fly; Ayanna Pressley is bald and beautiful. They tell stories of abortion, of assault, of pregnancy and childbirth, of their gay and trans offspring, of their disabilities and military service, weaving the facts of their lives into arguments for civil rights, health-care access, and housing.

Whitmer is perhaps the most prominent Democratic woman to experiment with mixing a traditional white femininity and historically masculine cadences. Though her politics could not be more different, she is perhaps the closest we have yet seen to a natural echo of Palin’s swashbuckling cheek. In May, Whitmer wore a fuchsia wrap dress to pick up an award for a campaign she undertook as “Governor Barbie.” Her five-word acceptance speech was “Wear pink; get shit done.” In the days after Noem’s disastrous book tour, Whitmer took a break from posting about the NFL draft to put up a photograph of her with her two dogs, Kevin and Doug, with the caption, “Post a picture with your dog that doesn’t involve shooting them and throwing them in a gravel pit.” It’s certainly all performed in its own way. But for the first time, it’s the Democratic women who can articulate the mix of football and Barbie and health care and labor without tripping over themselves, who seem more comfortable in their own bodies. The women on the right appear in perpetual confusion and find themselves, like some negative image of Clinton, twisting into something unrecognizable.

[...] But there is no way to understand these varied approaches to gender expression outside the context of their own political aims. These are politicians who regularly refer to gender-affirming health care as “castration” and “mutilation.” Boebert famously campaigned against drag story hours, while Noem wrote to South Dakota’s college board asking it to ban campus drag shows. Republican women longing to attach themselves to the feminist brand leverage transphobia to do it, a riff on the TERF movement currently flourishing in the U.K. Mace has argued that conservatives laboring to keep trans women out of athletic competitions are “the feminists of today,” and Haley has cast anti-trans policymaking as the “women’s issue of our time.” Yet these women express themselves via a dizzying mash-up of gendered conventions: They augment their smiles, bedazzle their pantsuits, and broadcast their bench presses. In their fevered performances of hyperfemininity and hypermasculinity, so many of the GOP’s most visible women are themselves engaging in a form of drag.

Of course, drag in its queer context offers the chance to slip from and send up the constricting bounds of gender norms, to encourage empathy and celebrate diverse forms of identity. The show these Republican politicians are putting on is its cold opposite: asphyxiated, distended, nasty. Theirs is surely drag’s gothic inverse. Still, it is possible to catch a glimpse of pathos beneath the performance because the show covers for something awful and real: The identities of those women are no more valued or recognized by the party for which they labor than gay or trans or feminist identities are. Women fundamentally cannot lead a party that wants to oppress women; they cannot, in fact, even be fully human within it.

This NY Mag piece on Trump-era Republican Womanhood and the tug-of-war between expressing traditional femininity and asserting their value in womanhood, such as opportunistically branding themselves as “feminists” when they stand opposed to trans rights.

Read the full story at NY Mag.

[illogarithmil]

Rotes as Revision: Byzantine Kingship Rituals

So I am very TTRPG-brained and have a bad habit of letting it distract me from uni-work - as in "ah, the essay's due in tomorrow, I have time to make a 60x60 hexmap and populate it with encounters!" However, I'm also very 'tism-brained and so if I don't think about my beloved special interest I will simply Cease Being Productive Entirely.

A way I have recently been testing of getting around this is making TTRPG content based on whatever I'm studying at the time! One significant example, a mage game set in Northern Ireland about a plot by gnostic paramilitaries to create a new Celtic realm by utilizing the awakened spirit of a long-dead Pharoah, is a WIP at the moment, but whilst I put down my dissertation on Loyalist groups in the Troubles to focus on some essays about the Late Antique middle east for a bit, I thought I'd knock out something quick for that.

I therefore present: a Mage rote inspired by the artistic and cultural displays of dominion made use of by Eastern Roman and Sasanian emperors in their interactions with each other, though definitely applicable to circumstances outside of that! This is all heavily inspired by Matthew P. Canepa's The Two Eyes of the Earth: Art and Ritual Kingship between Rome and Sasanian Iran, an excellent book you should read if you're remotely interested in the pre-Islamic Middle East, early Iranian or early Byzantine history from either a political or cultural perspective. There are two more I have ideas for (Ritual Humiliation [Entropy 5, with optional Prime 4/Time 4] and Prestige-Garnering Warfare [Prime 3 with optional Mind 2]), but also this post has been sitting in my drafts for three weeks with only the first written so I may never get to them. Alas, the fickle butterfly of inspiration settles but briefly!

Paradigms:

Iconographic Authority (Mind 5 [crude form] or Prime 4/Mind 2+ and 10+ points of Quintessence [standard form])

The representation of the ruler, given as a gift, seems to take on the aspect and dignity of the ruler themself, carrying the sense of their presence far beyond them. Though this might conjure images of paranoia-wracked cults of personality to some, its effects can also be highly desirable - for example, the sense that a neighbouring ruler is literally present in one's court projects an image of one's power and of mutual respect without the expense or stress of continuous visits.

Common Practices: Art of Desire, Craftwork, Dominion*, Faith*, Reality Hacking Common Instruments: As part of the crafting process: Artwork*, Management and HR*; As the object itself: Artwork*, Books and Periodicals, Cups and Vessels*, Gems and Stones, Money and Wealth, Sacred Iconography, Symbols*, Weapons; As part of the gifting ceremony: Blessings and curses*, Dances and movement, Drugs and poisons, Eye contact, Fashion*, Food and drink*, Group rites*, Money and wealth*, Music*, Offerings and sacrifices, Prayers and invocations*, Sacred iconography, Social domination*, True names (titles)*, Voice and vocalizations* * appropriate for the inspiring period of Byzantine-Sasanian interactions

The mage themselves or, more likely, some of their servants craft an item representing them - usually but not necessarily a literal depiction (if it is more abstract then the difficulty should increase by +1 to +3 depending on how directly and specifically the symbols used refer to the Mage). It is then handed over in a special ceremony to another individual, as part of which they are likely showered with other gifts and luxuries. This ceremony will usually be protracted, allowing for ritual casting, though of course extremely long castings risk wearing the target's patience thin.

For the crude form, four+ successes are required, with additional successes being used to extend duration (which means that in reality, 8 are probably the minimum to make the rote useful - see the Duration chart in the M20 core book). For the duration, the target's subconscious mind is altered so that they constantly feel as though the giver of the gift is physically present with them and behave appropriately - for example, avoiding acting against them in any way that would be obvious to somebody stood in the room alongside them.

In the standard form, the item is instead a Wonder - see the rules for crafting wonders - with Arete 2 (or more if more Quintessence is invested during crafting), imbued with a Mind 2 effect which it uses on every creature that observes it, beginning with the creature gifted it. This effect projects the mental impression of the presence of the giver quite directly - it is, for targets, as if the item were literally the giver. It will first roll arete after a minute of observation, then ten minutes, then once per hour a target is in its presence, beginning by accumulating nine successes against the target (at which point its effect on them is indefinite and automatic, taking effect whenever they are in its presence until the Wonder is destroyed) and then targeting other creatures, giving one creature the impression for one scene per three successes. It does not suffer the penalty for juggling multiple effects, being very specifically designed to do so.

The effect (and the effect of the Wonder in the standard case) is only vulgar in regions without a tradition of representative artwork, or at least without one of ruler-representation as a means of projecting authority. Both forms are somewhat difficult to detect as being alien impositions rather than natural reactions, requiring at least Mind 2 or (in the standard case) a Prime-based examination of the object itself.

[psychicsinmichigan3]

Our dream interpreter has a profound understanding of the symbolic language of dreams, having spent years linking the conscious and subconscious realms. Oakland county psychic helps to solve the secrets of the subconscious mind by helping clients analyze their dreams, which promotes emotional health and self-awareness.

[bewitchedfaeyrie]

The French Mistake; Chapter 3.

Sam Winchester scrolled through the internet, scouring the various news websites, looking for a case for them. At first, nothing out of the ordinary popped out to him. Until he noticed a headline for the Daily Manistee News. Sam clicked on the headline, which said:

'35 YEAR OLD CASE STRIKES AGAIN!'

Skimming over the article, it was clear some signs lead to a case for the brothers, but Sam wasn't too sure, until he read the whole article. He looked over at Dean who was devouring his second burger and glanced at Rose who was staring at him in disbelief. Sam chuckled.

"What?" Dean asked his baby brother.

Sam looked over at Freya, who looked away, "Someone can't believe you're devouring that burger."

Dean glanced over at Freya and smiled, his mouth full of chewed burger and some lettuce.

Freya covered her line of sight with her hand and looked at Sam, "You got something?"

Sam smiled, "I think I do actually."

Dean swallowed the bite down and took a swig of his beer, "Tell us Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes briefly at Dean's comment and said, "A group of hikers has gone missing in Manistee National Forest. Apparently it has been 35 years since the previous attack."

Freya frowned, "Manistee? Where's that located?"

"Michigan," Sam responded to her.

Dean shook his head, "I'm not driving to Michigan for a couple of hikers."

"Get this, though." Sam continued, "When they went to go look for the hikers, they couldn't find anything but their gear that was left behind at their camp."

Dean, in the middle of taking another bit, froze.

Sam continued, "Aside from the gear, the local town's people have been leaving raw meet for the last 34 years. Ranging from kills after a hunt to buying half pig carcasses at the local butcher's shop, who has been doing major business."

Freya whistled, "Sounds suspicious to me, maybe the butcher is some kind of ritualistic killer?"

Dean shook his head, pointed at Sam and asked, "What do you think it sounds like? Werewolves?"

Sam shook his head, "Only the gear was left behind and when they did find traces of the meat, it was only bones."

"Evil sorcerer?" Freya suggested.

Again Dean shook his head, "Might be a god though, although. It sounds an awful lot like a Wendigo."

Sam nodded in agreement, "But it leaves its kills behind so-to-speak. So… a broken one?"

"You mean one of these monsters grew a conscience?" Dean asked, followed by a snort, "The day they grow a conscience, is the day we can hang up our jackets and permanently park the Impala somewhere."

Sam leaned back in his chair, "The lore says nothing about the Wendigo having a conscience."

"Maybe the creature is broken? Maybe something deep within makes the creature hold on to its humanity." Freya said.

Sam looked at her, "Could be, but that would be a first."

Dean nodded and walked to the kitchen with his plate. When he returned he said, "Go pack, Sam. We'll figure it out." He walked past Freya and Sam.

Sam turned around in his chair, clearing his throat, "We can't just leave Rose in the bunker."

Dean sighed, "Go pack, Rose."

Freya stood up and went to pack. Dean turned around and looked at Sam.

"One excuse, Sammy. One. She fucks up and I'll put a bullet in her brain." Dean warned.

Sam put his hands in his jeans' pockets, "Look, I don't trust her either. But we can't leave her here with all the lore and Men of Letters secrets."

Dean sighed, "You're right. Go pack."

* * *

The car ride to Michigan had been one filled with fast food, rock music and the two brothers forgetting about Freya in the back seat.

Freya had been staring outside, watching as the road and trees they passed by, were nothing but a blur.

Not once had she been thinking about Macie or Hollie. Until she heard Sam and Dean talk, realizing that she had been in a similar situation one summer.

That summer, Macie, Hollie and Freya had decided to go to the beach for a few days to a week. Freya had felt isolated, alone the whole entire time. Macie had made it her job, subconsciously or not that Freya had to be left out of all the activities. Hollie tried to include her, but Macie always made up excuses. It was then that Freya heard Hollie and Macie fight for the first time. She had to come in between them to make sure the neighbors wouldn't call the police. It was also that very summer, that Freya told herself to look back on all the times they had gone on a trip, just the three of them.

But, back then… Freya had to tell herself it was just Macie being Macie. It was later, on the ride back when she had woken up from a nap, that she heard Macie say: "I can't believe you invited her, Hollie. It was meant to be our holiday as best friends."

Hollie had responded, saying: "I can't believe you're making her life miserable for no reason. I'm not just your friend, I'm Freya's friend as well. You have to learn to stop behaving like this and treat her nicely."

Macie had scoffed in response and had been silent the rest of the ride back home.

This ride to Michigan felt exactly the same way.

Only now, it was two brothers forgetting she was there and not her best friends. Maybe ex-best friends.

Freya cleared her throat and Sam nearly dropped his laptop on the floor.

He looked over his shoulder, "I'm sorry Rose."

Freya grimaced, "Sure, Sam."

Sam frowned, "Look, we're not used to having someone around … that barely talks. Even Cas talks."

Freya shrugged, "You can leave me behind in Michigan if you want."

Dean looked at her from the rear view mirror, "No one is being left behind anywhere. We'll solve this case and help you get home."

Dean's voice didn't sound stern when he said the last part, as if he didn't want her to go home.

Maybe he didn't. Maybe he did. Freya wasn't too sure, she hadn't been exactly acing the dating game and it was mostly due to her lack of reading guys. Even platonically.

Freya smiled apologetically at Sam, "I'm sorry, Sam. I shouldn't have reacted that way."

Sam smiled, "Don't worry about it. We'll get you home soon, I promise."

Freya smiled and looked back out of the window, Sam turned back to face Dean, who was glancing at him before focusing back on the road.

The brothers shared a knowing look and Sam shook his head in response, "Don't even think about it Dean."

Once they arrived in Michigan, Dean parked the Impala near a motel and watched as Sam and Freya both sat down at a table in the brothers' room, to find out anything about the recent case with the missing hikers.

Dean walked up to Freya and cleared his throat, "Look, uh… Being on the road like we are, you kind of make some enemies along the way."

He took out his gun and watched as Freya moved away, creating as much space between her and the gun in Dean's hand.

Dean put the gun on the table and slid it over to Freya, "Rose, I want you to be able to protect yourself."

Freya hesitantly took the gun in her hand and looked at it, "Point, aim and shoot. Right?"

Dean nodded, "Yup." He looked at Sam and asked, "Anything new?"

Sam shook his head and closed the laptop, "Nothing. I think they're trying to solve it on their own before the press gets wind of it."

Freya thought about it for a little bit, "Maybe they want to keep it to one article. Although, I would talk to the locals. They usually know more about these things."

Dean and Sam looked at her, surprised.

Freya smiled, "Or you can talk to the local police."

Sam looked at his brother, "She kind of has a point."

Dean rolled his eyes, "I know, it's how we work. But how does Rose even know that?"

Freya's eyes widened, "Uh… lucky guess?"

Sam chuckled, "Don't worry about it." 

* * *

The Winchesters and Freya left the motel room to go find some witnesses around the small town. Dean drove to a house, with a white wooden exterior that yearned for a new coating of paint and a red door that wasn’t too dark or too bright. The dark wooden porch and the bench seemed almost too nice for the house. 

Dean, Sam and Freya got out of the car and walked up to the house. The door swung open and a blonde woman looked at them, stunned. 

“Mom! Reporters are here.” She yelled over her shoulder. 

Freya held up her hands, “I can assure you we’re not affiliated with the press.” 

Sam briefly glanced at her and looked back at the woman, “We’re here to talk about the case?” 

The blonde took a step back, “The missing hikers? Well, come on in. I was about to head to my hotel room but this day just got interesting.” She stepped aside and let them in, softly grabbing Freya’s hand, “You don’t seem fashion forward.” 

Freya looked at her, trying to stay calm as she looked in the woman’s eyes, “I uh…” 

“Madeline!” A voice sounded. 

The blonde, Madeline, Freya assumed, looked at the darker blonde that joined them. Wiping her hands on a towel. 

“Sorry mom, I couldn't help it. She looks like she came from god knows where.” Madeline responded. 

Freya smiled faintly, “That obvious huh?” Perhaps too obvious. 

Madeline let Freya’s wrist go and closed the front door behind her.

As Freya took in the house’s interior, it was obvious that Madeline didn’t quite fit in either. Her fashion screamed ‘modern’ with a splash of fashionista. 

Madeline kept an eye on Freya as she took in the interior of her home, trying to figure Freya out. Neither of them quite fit into the town or the time. But that didn't stop them or their fate.