#worldly tool

[nonbinarynow]

Do you ever notice how the majority of nonbinary characters are just straight up not human beings? The majority of our non-binary rep is inhuman, which shows how binary society still views us as a literal societal impossibility despite us being here, real people, on earth with them.

I feel like this feeds into the whole thing of enben being seen as like "eldritch horrors" or "other worldly." Even though it might be claimed to be only in jest, it still displays how we are implicitly seen as a human impossibility because of the pervasiveness of the gender binary in society. It's taught to us as "natural" and how "humans have always functioned" despite our modern bourgeois, patriarchal, white-supremacist gender binary originating as a tool of colonialism. That was very recent in anthropological history. (Also note how capitalism is intertwined with binary supremacy here.)

When you delve into this it's wild. It starts surface level but it reveals the core exorsexism and classism of the capitalist society for one, but how it permeates into jokes ("I can identify as an attack helicopter!" "Nonbinary people are little frogs/eldritch beings!"), representation (most nonbinary representation is of inhuman characters) and our legal status (inexistent, which means no civil rights or legal protection of any kind.)

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter Two: The Lamb And Her Wolves

The next morning Sera could feel a shift in the air as her fathers land came alive with unfamiliar motion. Engines grumbled low like beasts waking from hibernation ready to consume everything in its path. And the winding dirt road leading to the entrance stirred with heavy wheels and the stomp of boots thick with city dust.

From her bedroom window on the second floor, Sera watched them come. One by one, dark cars rolled in all sleek, glossy, and foreign against the humble backdrop of worn fences and cotton fields. Then came the men; strong, sharp-jawed and some with cigarettes tucked between their gold-ringed fingers. She didn’t understand everyone’s fascination with wearing gold in a flashy manner but she secretly loved seeing the contrast of shiny yellow on melanated skin. Her father called it sinful and bodacious behavior that’s blasphemous towards God. She didn’t question him about it. She never questions him. Instead, she just tucked his words into a memory bank of worldly behavior to avoid if she didn’t want to burn for an eternity.

The men moved like monsters dressed in silk with their tailored coats and shoulders wide with beaming confidence. And at the center of it all stood two identical figures dressed in matching suits, one with red details and one with blue details that cut through the morning light like blades.

Even from this distance, she could feel it… the weight of their presence made her skin prickle beneath her modest yellow sun dress. They stood close to the nearby farmhouse, flanked by hired men who unloaded crates and tools with mechanical precision. The preacher’s north field was being transformed and piece by piece it was shifting into something else. A fortress? Maybe? Or a war room? Possibly?

She pressed her fingers into the windowsill, breath catching as her eyes followed the one who stood still. Smoke barely moved, only nodded every now and then while others worked around him. He had the kind of stillness that didn’t come from peace, but from control. She couldn’t see his eyes from here, but she didn’t need to. She knew they were cold and sharp as he watched everything and missed nothing. When she saw his head slightly turn in the direction of her window she looked away quickly, but not before her heart gave a little thud against her ribs.

Downstairs, the front door slammed and Sera quickly made her way to where she assumed her father would be. Pastor Samuel had returned from meeting with his appointed deacons and the meeting didn’t go as planned. Everyone has been warning him against getting involved with the SmokeStack twins, but he believes they are his only option if he’s going to keep his land and scare the Klan away. With his face taut and unreadable he pulled off his hat before briefly looking over to Sera and letting out a disgruntled sigh. “You’ll stay inside,” he said flatly, without preamble.

Sera looked up from where she stood by the stairway and nervously toyed with the fabric of her dress. “Yes, daddy.” She gave no rebuttal, just blind obedience like how her father taught her.

Even though she didn’t question her father, today was the first day Sera ever saw him seem so… frazzled. Like he knew more than what he wanted to know but didn’t know how to put his thoughts into words. Shifting his eyes away from Sera, Pastor Samuel spotted his Bible on the kitchen table and grabbed it before speaking again. “Don’t go getting any ideas. They’re not here for tea and Sunday songs. They’re here to keep your daddy alive and that church from bein’ burned to ash. You won’t speak to them. You won’t look at them. And you’ll keep to your damn chores, understood?”

Sera nodded, quietly. “I understand.”

He didn’t soften. “They ain’t good men, Seraphim. This is your only warning. Stay away and let them work.”

She offered a final, “Yes, sir,” and turned on her heels as she made her way to the kitchen. Being the only woman in the house she knew it would be her responsibility to feed these men after a long day of work. Her father said not to interact with the men that are turning the land into a combat zone ready for war… But he technically didn’t say anything about not keeping their bellies fed.

The verbal warning from Samuel kept Sera in line while she worked on cooking a hearty meal… but… her fathers warning didn’t stop him. It started with a creak on the back porch. A slow, familiar sound that was typically harmless on most days. But today wasn’t one of those days. Then the screen door pushed open and Sera stiffened at the sound before she even looked up.

Stack stood in the doorway and leaned against the frame like he was posing for a photograph. One hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other holding a cigarette he hadn’t bothered to light yet. Today his hat was a rich ruby red and he had it tilted back just enough to show all of his face and that grin. That damn grin. Wide, lazy, full of bad intentions and bold promises.

“Well, now,” he drawled, voice slow and syrup-thick, like molasses simmering over fire. “Ain’t you the picture of Southern hospitality? Whatcha cooking little dove?”

The sound of Stacks' voice made Sera turn too quickly causing the hem of her summer dress to catch on her calf as she spun around. While turning, her elbow nearly knocked the pot of greens from the stovetop.

Her mouth parted to speak but initially no sound came out as she swallowed a nervous lump in her throat and tried again. “You… um… You shouldn’t be back here, Mr. Stack. My daddy said I’m not supposed to speak to you.”

The grin on his face faltered for just a second, letting a flicker of something unknown peak through. Regaining his composure, Stack straightened just slightly and tilted his head at her. “Mr. Stack?”

His voice was quieter now. Still teasing, but edged with genuine curiosity. “You sure ‘bout that, sweetheart?”

Sera nodded, both hands wrapped tightly around the wooden spoon she was using to stir her greens like it might keep her grounded.

Stack pushed off the frame and let the screen door softly shut behind him as he stepped fully inside the kitchen. His boots made almost no sound across the worn floorboards. “Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “You really can tell.”

There was another flicker in his expression. This time it was a flash of disbelief in his eyes as he squinted slightly like he was trying to see straight through her. “We only properly met last night, at dinner,” he said as his iconic smile came back slower and more thoughtful. “Folks we known’ our whole lives still get it wrong. Hell, Stack and Smoke… they say it like it’s one name.”

He let out a breath and a quiet huff of laughter, like he didn’t know what to make of her. “Your daddy tell you which one’s which this mornin’?”

Sera shyly shook her head. “No, sir.” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… knew.”

Not knowing the weight of this revelation, Sera simply stared at Stack with an inquisitive yet cautious expression. Stack said nothing as he blinked once. Then after a few seconds of silence his smirk widened before letting out a low whistle, the sound sliding between his teeth like sin in the dark.

“Well, that’s somethin’, ain’t it?”

He took another step closer. Not threatening. Just… circling. Like a man drawn toward something shiny he didn’t expect to want. “Don’t worry,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I ain’t here to cause trouble. Just came for a drink of water… and maybe…” His eyes raked over her, slow and appreciative, lingering far too long. “…a glimpse of heaven while I’m at it.”

Sera’s face flushed instantly and she could feel her ears ringing. She turned too fast again and began fumbling for a glass in the cabinet. But the tremble in her hands betrayed her, no matter how still she tried to be.

Then she felt the air around her become heavy as she heard him shift behind her. Not too close. But close enough. Close enough for the heat of him to find her back. Close enough for her to breathe in the heady mix of cigarette smoke, worn leather, and sandalwood cologne clinging to his skin.

“You always this obedient, pretty girl?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper now. “Bet you’d let a man do damn near anything if he said please real nice.”

Sera paused her fumbling and scrunched her brows in puzzled expression. “I… I don’t understand what you mean,” she said, her voice so honest and pure it could’ve broken something inside a softer man.

But Stack wasn’t soft. Stack was stone with a smile carved into it and even she managed to make him go quiet. Then he chuckled silently to himself.. Not in a mocking tone towards Sera but more like he’d just been handed a puzzle piece he didn’t know he was missing.

“You really don’t,” he said, almost in awe. “You really… don’t.”

Sera shook her head and wordlessly passed the now filled glass of water back towards him without turning. He took it gently from her hand and made sure his digits brushed against hers.

“I was taught not to entertain wickedness,” she said quietly, like she was reciting it from memory. “Daddy says it creeps in soft. Real sweet-like. But it always leaves stains.”

Stack stared down at the glass of water in his hand but he didn’t bother to drink it. No, right now he was thirsty for something a simple glass of water couldn’t quench. “That why you so stiff right now, pretty girl?” he asked, stepping closer behind her. “’Cause you think I’m wicked?”

He leaned in just enough to let his breath kiss the curve of her neck. “Or is it ‘cause some part of you wonders what wicked tastes like?”

His voice was a combination of dangerous velvety temptation. He let his eyes travel the slope of her back and the tight draw of her waist before biting back a groan. “I’ve tasted it,” he whispered. “And it’s sweeter than a ripe peach on a July morning… but I think you would be sweeter than that.”

Sera froze. Her hands went still against the kitchen counter as the silence wrapped around her shoulders like a heavy shawl. Her eyes stared straight ahead at the sink, unblinking and unfocused with Stack’s words echoing in her ears. A heated riddle laced with something unholy that made her spine prickle. She didn’t understand all of what he meant—not fully. Not with her mind, anyway. But her body… her body heard him loud and clear.

There was something about the way he spoke. The tone of his voice, the bite behind it and the promise that lingered. The air around her suddenly felt heavier and warmer, as if his words had turned to steam and crawled beneath her dress.

Then suddenly an unfamiliar tension coiled low in her belly. Not pain. Not fear. But something that made her thighs press closer together on instinct. And then she felt it. A second heartbeat. Not in her chest where it should be, but pulsing gently and rhythmically between her thighs. It was soft at first but as the seconds ticked by it grew to a loud drumming and her brows furrowed. She didn’t waste any water on herself, it wasn’t time for her monthly, and she definitely didn’t pee on herself.

She was wet.

Not soaked, but wet enough to make her shift uncomfortably. Enough for a warm drip to settle into the cotton of her panties as her cheeks burned with shame. And instead of trying to rationalize what she was feeling, Sera cleared her throat and gently shook her head.

Maybe it’s nothing, she told herself. Maybe I just need to drink a little tea and pray it away.

Yes. That’s what she’d do. She would drink something calming like Chamomile or maybe her grandmother’s old lemon balm blend. A hot cup of tea and a hot bath. That’s what good girls do. That’s what church girls do. That’s what she would do.

Before Stack could say more, she was saved only by the shift of a shadow lingering behind them.

Smoke stepped onto the porch, still as stone and Stack turned at once, glass still in hand and an expression like a kid that almost got caught stealing candy by their father. “She was just givin’ me some water,” Stack said easily.

Smoke said nothing. His eyes didn’t go to his brother. They went to her. And Sera slightly tilted her head to meet his gaze just for a breath. It held her in place like a hand at her throat. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. His stare was unreadable, but it wasn’t cruel. It was curious. Like he was trying to figure her out. A woman so tightly wound in rules, yet soft as sin beneath it all.

He looked away just as quickly and turned without a word before vanishing back down the steps. Stack lingered for a moment longer, the tension between them thick and intimate. Then he tipped his hat. “Thanks for the drink, sweetheart. Don’t let ya Daddy’s rules keep you from livin’.” And just like that, he was gone too.

When he finally left, Sera stood alone in the kitchen with her heart pounding and hands shaking. She didn’t know what they wanted from her. But something about their presence excited her and deep down, under the linen and Bible verses, a small part of her wondered what it would feel like to stop being good. Just once.

Smoke stood alone at the edge of the north field, one boot resting on a stump as he lit a cigarette, slow and steady. He watched his men work without needing to say much since his presence did the talking. All around him hammers struck wood, metal scraped against metal, and the morning air filled with the scent of pine shavings, dirt, and the quiet tension of men preparing for war.

Behind him he could hear footsteps crunch over the dry grass and he didn’t need to look to know it was his other half. Stack walked up with that same rolling gait, loose shoulders, cocky stride, and a grin that hadn’t faded since he left the kitchen. But there was a slight shift in how he walked. A restlessness and a subtle discomfort.

Smoke didn’t bother to turn around. “You took too long to get a fuckin’ glass of water. We came here to work.” he said, his voice gravel-dry.

Stack huffed a laugh and came to stand beside his twin. “It was a realllll tall glass.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs briefly before adjusting himself through the fabric of his slacks with a wince and a satisfied sigh. “Damn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Didn’t think a girl that sweet could make me this hard just by blushin’.”

Smoke exhaled a slow curl of smoke through his nose. “She’s the preacher’s daughter,” he said flatly.

Stack chuckled and looked out onto the field with his brother and sighed, long and dramatic. “So serious already. You sure you ain’t still wound up from last night?”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about! That little redhead preacher girl,” Stack grinned, and elbowed him with a smirk. “You ain’t even touch your chicken, and you damn near crushed your glass just watchin’ her scrape plates last night.”

Smoke’s voice was low and sharp. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss his feelings and he definitely didn’t feel like discussing them with Stack. “Drop it.”

But Stack wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. “C’mon,” he drawled. “You really gonna act like you didn’t get stiff just sittin’ at that table last night?”

Smoke turned his head, slow as a hinge rusted with tension. “Don’t start with me.”

“Don’t start?” Stack scoffed. “Nigga, YOU started it. Stared her down like she was already on her knees beggin’ for mercy.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s twenty-five and a grown ass woman.”

“She’s naïve,” Smoke snapped. “Doesn’t know what men like us are.”

Stack snatched the cigarette away from Smoke's hand and walked away from his brother before leaning against a nearby fence post while flicking ash to the ground and grinning like he’d won a round in a fight they hadn’t even agreed to have. “Maybe that’s what’s so tempting about her.”

Smoke said nothing. He looked back toward the house, where the white curtains fluttered faintly behind the kitchen window.

Stack followed his gaze.

“She was shakin’,” he said quietly, like a confession. “Not ‘cause she was scared. I said a few words and she turned red all the way down to her collarbone. Like she didn’t even know her body could react like that. Can you believe that? Her pretty chocolate ass turned red like a damn tomato.” He paused for a second while biting down on his bottom lip. “I wonder where else she turns red…”

Smoke’s nostrils flared. “That’s exactly why you need to leave her be.”

“You jealous?” Stack’s grin sharpened.

“Careful,” Smoke warned.

Stack gave a lazy shrug, unbothered. “I ain’t touched her… Yet. Just asked her a question.”

Smoke didn’t speak, but the tension in his shoulders said more than words.

Stack smirked wider, then stepped in front of him, real close now, so their eyes locked like gun barrels.

“She got under your skin too, Smoke. Don’t act like she didn’t. You think I ain’t notice how you lit a cigarette the second we stepped outside that house last night? And how you needed to ‘take a piss’ foe’ heading back home? What kind of peein’ you doing that take 15 minutes?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. He had heard enough and didn’t need Stack pointing the truth out to him. “I said drop it.”

“She’s soft,” Stack said, voice lower now, his grin fading into something more dangerous. “Like nothin’ we’ve seen before. You saw her. No rough edges. No lies in her smile. And you—” he poked a finger into Smoke’s muscled chest, “Nigga, you think you’re above wantin’ that?”

Smoke grabbed his baby brother's wrist, hard, but Stack didn’t flinch. He just held that stare full of teeth and defiance.

“I’m not gonna let you ruin her,” Smoke said, voice low and deadly. “She’s not some speakeasy girl you can laugh with and forget by morning.”

“I ain’t forgettin’ her,” Stack said quietly. “That’s the problem.” His devious smirk grew wider as he playfully let his eyes wander down to his slacks and then back up to his twin's serious expression. Smoke held his brother’s wrist a second longer before letting it go, shoving him back just enough to make Stack stumble a half-step.

Stack didn’t retaliate. Just adjusted himself again, another sly grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he muttered, “She makes it hard for a man to walk straight, that’s all I’m sayin’.” He turned away, but his voice floated back like smoke in the breeze. “Tell yourself whatever you need to, Smoke. Just remember this ain’t the kind of girl either of us forgets.”

Smoke said nothing. But as his eyes drifted back to the window where the curtain fluttered again he caught just a glimpse of brown skin, a yellow dress, and gentle movement… and he knew Stack was right. They were both caught.

And neither of them had any goddamn clue how to set themselves free.

The fading sun was starting to bleed across the treetops, painting everything in a golden hue. The muggy air still clung to everyone’s skin, heavy with the scent of churned earth, engine smoke, and hot oil. But now it was overlaid with something richer, something holy: roasted pork, cornbread fresh from the oven, and collards swimming in smoked pork fat.

Dinner tonight was being served on the long porch that wrapped around the back of the preacher’s house. Men who’d worked themselves raw all day from hammering fences, rigging traps and guarding the land with rifles slung across their backs were now lined shoulder to shoulder on picnic benches while waiting with heavy boots and hungrier eyes.

Sera moved among them like a soft breeze through swamp reeds. Quiet, graceful, and oblivious to everything except the task of servitude. She carried a heavy bowl of fresh cornbread to the table and the weight of it made her arms tremble slightly. Her yellow dress had been ruined earlier, stained with oil and butter so she’d changed into the only clean one she had left.

A white cotton-thin dress that was still a little damp when she slipped it on. Sera hadn’t realized it clung until the resting sun hit it. And she definitely didn’t notice how the dress curved over her hips, hugged the round of her thighs, or stretched just enough across her chest to outline what no man had yet touched.

To her, it was just a modest, unwrinkled, and high-necked dress that any obedient church girl would wear. To the men on the porch, it was heavenly temptation. Their conversation thinned to silence when she stepped outside with the bowl. One man muttered something under his breath. Another chuckled. Then one of them leaned forward and whispered just loud enough for the others to hear, “Lord have mercy… if that ain’t a slice of heaven—”

He never got to finish that sentence.

Smoke was on him in a heartbeat, moving so fast the bench scraped across the wood as the other men flinched back. The high roller’s gun swiftly knocked against the man’s nose with little to no effort causing it to bleed. “You think you can say that about her?” Smoke growled, low and venomous. “You open your mouth about her again, and I’ll sew it shut with piano wire. You understand me, nigga?”

The man sputtered, wide-eyed. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” Smoke snapped. “And you’ll regret it.”

Not even five seconds later, Stack was already checking the rest of the porch. His hands were in his pockets, but there was no mistaking the threat in his mischievous smile. He leaned in close to another worker, whispering like a devil on a man’s shoulder. “You want to keep those pretty fingers, don’t ever look at her like that again. You’re here to build fences and fight the klan, not catch feelings.”

Sera, meanwhile, was too focused on not spilling the food to notice any of it. She was humming a hymn from last Sunday service. Her voice was so soft it barely rose above the hum of insects in the trees. She set down the last dish with a content little sigh, brushing flour from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Y’all eat now,” she said kindly, eyes lowered in modest warmth. “I made plenty.”

Stack watched her like she was something sacred draped in cotton, some creature no one deserved to touch. His smile fell into something almost reverent.

Then—

“Seraphim.” Pastor Samuel’s voice cracked like a whip through the air. Sera was startled by the sound of her fathers voice and wondered what she did wrong to be on the receiving end of his anger tonight.

“What are you wearin’?” he demanded, his voice booming through the still evening.

Her hands went to the bottom of her dress instinctively as she started trying to smooth out unseen wrinkles. “It’s just my white dress, Daddy. My yellow one got dirty—”

“You look naked!” he spat. “What man you tryin’ to tempt lookin’ like that?”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

He stormed up, pointing toward the back door to the house. “Go inside and cover yourself up. Now! I won’t have my daughter paradin’ around like some alley girl while men sit down to eat in my home.”

Sera’s cheeks flushed hot. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t—”

“Now, Seraphim.”

She bowed her head and hurried back inside without another word before anyone could see the tears spilling from her eyes.

Silence filled the air and then Stack’s voice, calm and sharp as a butcher knife cut through the tension, “You ever talk to her like that again in front of me… preacher or not… I’ll knock your goddamn teeth down your throat.”

Pastor Samuel’s spine stiffened as he whipped his head around to glare at Stack. “You best watch your tone, boy.”

“I ain’t your boy,” Stack said, smiling without warmth. “And she sure as hell ain’t your property.”

Smoke didn’t speak, but his eyes hadn’t moved from the door. This battle wasn’t just about land anymore. It was about her. And God help anyone who stepped out of line when it came to her.

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Tag list:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0

[shirefantasies]

The Hobbit Characters' Love Languages

Just realized I did this for LoTR but I don't think I ever did it for The Hobbit, so enjoy 😉 The Five Love Languages are: Gifts, Physical Touch, Quality Time, Words of Affirmation, and Acts of Service! Everyone is said to have a primary two 💖

Balin

Words of Affirmation- So many years, wars, songs, evenings spent by the fire with kindred spirits and strangers alike, have granted Balin the gift of words. Situations witnessed and life under the belt. What words offered comfort to Balin he hopes bring some healing to you. To be the one to reassure you is the greatest gift back he can ask for in exchange for those words and experiences. Clearing the clouds of your mind brings forth the shiniest light that is your smile.

Quality Time- All Balin needs from you is the guiding force of your presence, a warm hand and heart to hold. Life's rich experiences are his greatest treasures, and sharing them with you guilds them beyond all worldly value. More than your vast riches or lack thereof Balin is grateful for the constant you are in his life amidst so much strife, a little chip of beauty he could carry over his heart for all his days. Companionship was the most unexpected boon, yet every time you lie beside Balin, he feels more loved than anything!

Dwalin

Acts of Service- Warrior. Provider. These are monikers given to Dwalin again and again. Never were these words empty, though— every day of his life Dwalin rose and fought for himself and others. Those he holds dearest. His actions reveal his love; they are his love, his embodied care in all choices he makes. Not only will he hold you away from harm and jump to your defense in a fight, but Dwalin remembers everything you tell him. Allergic to something? It shall never appear in your sight again. Your favorite flower? Appears in your sight quite frequently, all lined up in a vase!

Physical Touch- Now this is one that tends to shock, but there is a reason Dwalin does not partake in much touch: it holds great meaning for him. Touch is a sign of comfort, of refuge, a feeling he relishes in alongside connection and chooses not to cheapen. Dwarves have no mind showing physical affection to close friends and family, and Dwalin saves much of this until he is certain you’re his One. From that point on, you will frequently notice a protective hand about your waist or rubbing the small of your back. The way he links his arm with yours in crowds or at any sign of competition or threat. You, now, are joined.

Thorin

Words of Affirmation- Stoic of a dwarf as he is, Thorin knows the value of a well-placed word. Does not speak affirmations not well earned. Being his One has earned you praise he thought impossible. Heartbreak just the same when you struggle to see the beauty, the strength that pierces through to his eyes stronger than any sunbeam. Thorin knows no fear in sharing this with you again and again. Even in little moments of frustration, your beloved king seems to have a key to not just your heart, but your mind, which he knows exactly how to put at ease.

Acts of Service- A natural leader, Thorin is constantly surveying his surroundings, persons included. Especially, even. Awareness is never a struggle for him, as he takes note of necessary tasks and does them, often in silence. You feel constantly surprised by his quiet acts of love upon discovering them, like little gifts of ease granted to you and you alone. To be known, they say, is to be loved, and you feel both beneath Thorin’s attentiveness.

Oin

Acts of Service- Oin knows how to take your pain away, yearns to relieve you more than anything. If your back hurts, you might find a little jar of muscle balm waiting for you. After a fight, you're the first one the healer is rushing to to bandage up unless someone's gravely wounded. It's as if Oin can feel the disturbance in the air when something happens to you the way he rushes over to you with any tools to help you, weapons to fight for you, or supplies to heal you. He is well aware how frustrating it can be if his hearing loss impacts your conversations, so if there's a sea he can cross to help you feel his love, then by Mahal, he's crossing it!

Quality Time- All Oin asks for is good music, good company, and maybe a bit of learning! Nothing is more fun than hearing a new story or the latest medical treatment alike. Beyond this, though, your choice to stay by his side through everything is more than fine companionship. It is a conscious move of acceptance despite his flaws, motion he returns wholeheartedly.

Gloin

Gifts- Physical reminders of his love make and preserve their own memories. Gloin loves to be able to decorate you with all the finest things- he knows you're his treasure, but now you look like it! The craftsmanship of his people is well worth celebrating, too, and what better way than to connect you with it in the most literal sense? Dwarven riches have never looked so beautiful. Years have sharpened Gloin's mind, his shrewd senses memorizing every little thing you love. Your favorite flowers make appearances in every bouquet, the dessert you love most ends your special days, your jewelry is always gold or silver, whatever you prefer! To Gloin, frequent gifts are tokens of how often you stroll through his thoughts.

Physical Touch- What better physical reminder of his love than a protective touch? All who witness Gloin by your side will be well aware of his feelings for you! And in private? He can’t keep his hands off you! Every part of you is sacred to him and he shall worship it to the fullest. Your bond is emotional, spiritual, physical— he carries your image in a locket everywhere he goes, gently stroking the painted curve of your cheekbones when he cannot feel the flush of your cheeks for himself, confirm you are real and before him. Much as Gloin must leave for his duties, his people, coming home to you is the highlight of it all and he will hold you in his arms day and night until you both are satisfied.

Bifur

Physical Touch- Language barriers are nothing to Bifur beyond longer strides to remain close to your heart. Physical barriers in your relationship exist only in the form of personal boundaries. The feeling of your hand in his or vice versa not only exerts a grounding force but is your communication- fear as you suddenly reach for his hand, concern as his thumb runs gently over your hand, love when you hold it tight and refuse to let go, and joy when one of you takes the other's suddenly and pulls them closer. Hand contact is everything to you both, the little taps and signs into each other's palms. Beyond that, it's those other small things like the way Bifur grips your hips to signal a steamier mood or the way he teasingly slings an arm over your shoulders that show this quiet dwarf is in his element in your presence.

Acts of Service- Especially if you do not understand Khuzdul, Bifur is unable to speak his love and reassurance to you. Frustrating as it can be, he's been a fighter for years who feels little fear, especially in fighting for you! You can expect not only a dwarf who literally fights for you, but your weapons always clean and sharp as if by magic, notes in Khuzdul that read only the sweetest things, and being given hell if you don't eat! Bifur is anything but silent in the way he loves you.

Bofur

Quality Time- It may not be a secret that Bofur loves attention, but it's a push-and-pull for him. The attention he gets energizes him and amuses others, and at the end of the day smiles are all he wants to see! Your attention fuels him, warms his heart and quiets the voices swirling deep within his mind that question if he truly is making you happy. If you love someone, in Bofur's mind, all you need to do is show them you're with them. Involved. Similarly, you'll see it in the rapt attention he pays you, the light in his eyes and soft sighs of his chest as you pour out your passions with him as your willing and unending vessel. Bofur's favorite memories are of you singing or dancing together or even just that time you laughed yourself to tears over the dumbest thing he'd ever said and he swore he could never be more head over heels.

Physical Touch- Touch with friends is casual; it may seem meaningless or universal from Bofur. Such claims crumble at the base every time his gloved hands surround yours in the cold. Whenever you’re the only lap he throws his legs over even before his brother’s. When he hugs you tightly enough to intertwine your heartbeats and clothing and breath until Bofur becomes a part of you and you him. Upon even the most minute gestures like laying a hand over yours at the fire or slinging an arm over your shoulders while you laugh lies the mantel of your rule of his heart.

Bombur

Quality Time- Good company is valued above all else to the Ur Clan, not gold or a single location or even the finest delicacies. Without loved ones, what meaning does life have? All Bombur needs is time with you, to know you are there by his side. He’s never been a fancy dwarrow. All he desires is a big family, a lot of laughs, and maybe just secretly your undivided attention! The feeling of your eyes on him, of him being the cause of your smile, feels so unreal every time and he can barely get used to it. Doesn’t mean he won’t try, though!

Acts of Service- All his life, Bombur has been a provider. To love someone is to feed them, to keep their home well and inviting, to make a difficult day a bit easier. The relief on your face when you learn he’s drawn you a warm bath, the way your eyes turn up in pleasure at the taste of your hot meal, it all feels like love to him. The warmth of his provisions, Bombur hopes, mirrors the warmth in his heart he holds for you and you alone.

Dori

Quality Time- Chatting with you over tea is Dori’s lifeblood. To see you, to hear you, to catch up on everything be it your worries or the gossip you heard or your favorite fascination for an hour on end! Much as he enjoys the finer things in life, such is nothing to feeling loved as is seeing your eyes locked within his, your reflection in the blue, building a house and a home and a life together. It’s all he wanted to have a companion, a new family outside the one he headed that was just for him. That he chose himself and has the utter privilege of seeing choose him every single day.

Words of Affirmation- Tutting and fretting over you may elicit a laugh or an eyeroll, but as time passes you realize Dori only hovers over those he fears losing. Having lost his parents, he values a vocal presence of guiding; it symbolizes a love powerful enough to drive constant thought as well as action. As much as he voices concerns, he voices his care. He voices his fears and even louder your virtues. Shares as well as he listens over tea or in the kitchen together. Dori wears his heart upon his sleeve and his—surprisingly silver—tongue.

Nori

Physical Touch- Cliché? Corny? Maybe. What else can he say but that he likes the feeling of your skin beneath his? Words were never his strong suit, rather confirmation via his actions, desire and appreciation and sometimes even reverence summoned from his fingertips. In the past, these motions were never drawn out so, but his love for you has Nori relishing in taking his time, in not just enjoying but truly discovering you. Finding the sensations that make you smile, giggle, fluster, or even turn your attention completely to him are joys unmatched. He never thought it possible to so beyond enjoy someone so much before you came along.

Gifts- Ever the sneak, Nori takes great joy in not just presenting you with endless delights, but stowing them cleverly away for you to find throughout your days. Shining as your countenance and presence are, Nori is determined to be the reason that becomes literal, sparing no effort to present you with dwarven metals and gems. Knowing your preferences, if you do not wear jewelry he will not be deterred! You'll be presented with beads or other items for your hair- anything that shows your beloved dwarf has claimed you wholeheartedly. Once Nori finally gives his heart away, he finds himself ready to give everything else away, too, if it goes to you. By his hand on your knee and his family name on your bead, there is to be no doubt of his choice.

Ori

Quality Time- Character exceeds all for Ori, who only wants a kindred soul to enjoy life with. A simple dwarf, he asks not for the greatest skills, only the biggest heart. The fact that you take the time to listen to him, to share, and see him as an equal you choose to spend your time with brings his heart to bursting! That choice makes Ori feel loved more than anything. That you always sit by his side and no one else’s, that it’s him you sit down with for a cuppa and come to first with news, good or bad. Every little moment like that deepens your bond and serves a far greater purpose in Ori’s mind than some others might think.

Gifts- While he may pay little heed to how often you gift him, Ori adores showing his love for you with the many things he makes. Something about creating or finding something that's just perfect for you feels right to him, a way to show that swirling at the back of his mind always is you. Everything you love, everything you need, it is patiently stored by Ori. Your smile, the way you light up upon being surprised, is fuel to the fire of his heart for the whole day and then some!

Fili

Acts of Service- Self-sacrifice is in his nature. Fili is no martyr, his mind simply tunes into the hearts of those around him and bleeds for the many needs he witnesses. You are no different, your every plight falling within Fili’s watchful eyes. Fili has given you the shirt off his back, carried you to safety when injured, even insisted Oin teach him every method to cure your natural aches and pains. Never does he resent your needs, though; no, your needs are his, for your happiness is shared. Difficult tasks for you might be easy for him, so why not bring you joy in the process? What good would he be if he did not make your life better than when he found it? You did the very same to his. Every move he makes reaffirms his conscious decision to make you a part of his life forever.

Words of Affirmation- The glint of the stars, brighter light than the wealth of any mountain, Fili's own heart, and every one of your names shall be all the reason you seek if you question the lengths he goes to for you. Defense of you in any confrontation comes naturally, be it your character, your purpose, or any other unfounded target being aimed upon. Fili voices his thoughts as they rise to his head, uttering wonderfully intrusive praises as he sees how beautiful you look, feels a warm rush of gratitude upon reflecting on how much you mean to him.

Kili

Words of Affirmation- Kili is swift with his words, always armed and ready to unsheathe them for any purpose. They are quick, charming, but with you, romantic. Poetic, even. Statements not just of his love for you, but touting your many qualities as if you hung the stars themselves and tossed them to him as falling meteors glittering down from space. You shine such a light into his life, his eyes, that he simply must reflect it back to you in the form of sharing exactly what he loves about you and why even what you see as your worst qualities deserve redeem. After all, you do the same for him, and you look amazing while you do it! Despite the bravado you may see, Kili gives the love he needs most, and hearing your sweet and heartfelt words has moved him to tears. With you he is no second, he is whole and reminded of your shared claim daily.

Physical Touch- The way Kili’s hands trace your form aligns with his slick words, but the way his body relaxes against yours, his hands seek yours in times of fear, is a sign of something greater. Every touch of his is a silent statement of his complete trust of you, the same trust you see when he lays his forehead against those of his family. Would that you not have provided Kili a shoulder to cry on without judgment, stories unlike none he’d ever heard, laughed at his every joke and made him bellow with his own laughter, he would not feel so safe with you as an extension of himself. A hand resting upon your hip or over yours speaks volumes from Kili.

Bilbo

Quality Time- Silence doesn’t bother Bilbo, at least not with you. From years of awkward attempts to occupy its void comes sweet, sweet relief at the knowledge of your presence with no expectations. He needn’t speak, simply hold you or sit by your side while you both embark on your quiet reading adventures or perhaps do a bit of knitting or crochet. Time has passed such as to ease Bilbo’s worries as to your inner thoughts, your words and actions contradicting any apprehension he has ever held. Unlike most, your presence fuels him rather than exhausting him. How else does he know it’s love?

Acts of Service- Meek as he claims to enjoy his life, Bilbo is a hobbit of action; sitting idly is not his hobby, but his reward. Similarly, in relationships he feels complacency is the enemy and works tirelessly to prove his love and— even as you remind him he needn’t— earn yours. Housekeeping is his everything, so you will soon be used to him sweeping up your dishes into his hands to wash, organizing your things back to the way he knows you like them, repairing torn clothing. After all, neither a Took nor a Baggins leaves their beloved wanting!

Thranduil

Gifts- Lavish is an understatement when describing the Elvenking, the majestic and elegantly adorned figure who had taken you beneath the velvet folds of his affection. The finest clothing is draped over you, gorgeous jewels of your chosen color will rest over your heart, encircle your wrists and fingers. Luxury existing beyond conspicuity, for Thranduil wishes the best in life upon you, especially if you had not been raised with it. His wealth can attain meaning if it improves your life…and marks you as his in the process.

Physical Touch- Thranduil embraces sensuality. The ecstasy of your warmth meeting his. The shivers he feels upon trailing his hands along your hips or spine bring a smile to his lips unfailingly. Beyond that, however, is the physical anchor your contact provides. Tethering him to this plane despite the ephemeral nature of his life, loves prior, connection to his subjects in a time of isolation. You hold him in the more silent moments as well as the loudest moments of love and ravishing, drying tears or simply feeling your joined heartbeats sharing a loving rhythm.

Feren

Acts of Service- Manifestations of this sort come in the form of Feren’s sheer dedication to caring for you. It is his greatest joy to restore your vitality at the end of the day, to gently guide you into a state of relaxation and have a direct hand in your beauty and happiness. Cleaning and taking care of your hair is his favorite; Feren’s hand is nothing but gentle whether he is massaging your scalp and rinsing it or performing any other upkeep like oiling your hair, applying curlers or a bonnet, or braiding or tying it. If anyone knows the feeling of a long day, it is he, and lightening your burden is not just what he would want, it is a weight off his own heart to watch the smile spread across your face.

Gifts- You compare Feren to a crow the way he collects what he sees. Nearly every day your beloved is bringing you some bounty home, be it flowers or chips of crystalline stone he found or even seeds to plant your own garden from the few points of life still glimmering deep in Mirkwood’s heart. Feren’s gifts of nature show you the heart he does not always reveal, the eyes he casts upon not only intruders but the entire woods. He considers every day a promise to you, every token a sign he kept his word to return to you and build your life together piece by beautiful piece.

Bard

Quality Time- He’s lived without money all his life; material possessions are fleeting things with little capacity to craft true joy. Nothing in the world, however, can replace the unique human souls Bard has come to know. Yours beyond included. Bard will sacrifice a few more hours’ work to see the game you’re building with his children, tell others and hold up a hand the moment they interrupt you. When many more years have passed and he goes on to be with his many fathers, Bard will grasp not for any riches, but for your hand before he awaits your joining him.

Acts of Service- It takes a real man to put himself in the place of his words, and Bard will be caught dead before he is a liar to you. Keeping promises is incredibly important to him, so you will have utmost confidence in the things he says he will do being completed. Being with a tradesman means you’ll often find things repaired before you even had a chance to ask Bard about them. Such is his way of showing you never leave his thoughts even amidst work and fatherhood— you are simply your own kind of important!

Beorn

Acts of Service- Words fail him. He speaks directly, spent years alone where words were of little use to him. Sometimes he is rendered silent in your presence, unsure what he could even say or how genuine it would seem. Second nature to him, however, is work. Effort. Effort you are well and beyond worth. A hot drink and breakfast ready for you every morning, flowers left where you'll find them. At the end of a long day, Beorn takes great pleasure in sitting you down, bathing you gently and scrubbing you hair, preparing it for your sleep whatever it needs. Words may fail him, but Beorn's every motion is an ellipse orbiting the sun you've brought to his solitary life.

Quality Time- The more space you occupy in Beorn's life, the more of a fixture you become. Altering his carefully curated routine in the best way, your presence is sheer comfort. Existing side-by-side even in silence returns his energy in a way he never thought possible. Sitting there whittling while you knit, Beorn's heart swells with a warmth of home and family that once felt beyond the realm of possibility. Domesticity is the cornerstone of all he fought and bled for, and despite his former assertions that his cottage was his and his alone, he dreads any day of returning home to it void of your presence.

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[foolish-fran]

Dahlia Hawthorne's name was based on the short story "Rappaccini's Daughter" by Nathaniel Hawthorne, about a young woman who was poisoned by her own family and became poisonous herself as a result. I finally got my hands on the book, so I wanted to read it through the lens of "what does this story say about Dahlia?"

Thoughts:

- Beatrice Rappaccini is a beautiful young woman, the daughter of an affluent scientist and the member of a noble family that has fallen into ruin. She has spent her entire life in an idyllic garden of flowers, which was once prosperous and thriving, but has fallen into decay and disrepair as the years have passed. This reflects how Kurain Village was once prosperous, but the village and Fey Family's reputation has crumbled since DL-6.

-It's clear from her dialogue that Beatrice knows nothing of life outside the garden. She is incredibly sheltered, having never left the garden before and knowing nothing of worldly things outside of her small bubble. Similarly, most spirit mediums in Kurain (Pearl and Iris in particular) have never left Kurain Village, growing up sheltered.

-Beatrice is beautiful, delicate, and virtuous, but anything she touches, whether plant, animal, or human, will decay and die by poison. She doesn't *want* to be this way, but her nature cannot be changed. Even when she attempts to take an antidote to her poisonous breath, it fails.

-The author goes out of his way to depict Beatrice not as a monster but as a product of her environment. Beatrice does not *want* to be dangerous, but she was *made* this way by her father, who kept her confined to his garden and used her as a pawn for his own schemes. Her father Giacomo Rappaccini raised her not as a daughter but as a tool, a pawn, a weapon for his own plans and experiments, and turned her into who she is today. Cough cough Morgan Fey

-There is a beautiful purple flower in the garden that Beatrice considers her "sister”. The two have an almost symbiotic relationship, with the protagonist noting that Beatrice and her “sister” seem as if they could be two sides of the same coin. Sounds like Irissss

-The protagonist of the story, Giovanni Guasconti, is a young man who falls in love with Beatrice despite her lethal nature. Through it all, he is desperate to believe in her, hoping against hope that the relationship can work out and that Beatrice is truly good despite the deaths he’s seen her cause. Hmm, a man who wants desperately to believe in people even at the cost of his own life….Feenie?

-Giovanni’s mentor, Baglioni, holds a longstanding grudge against the senior Rappaccini, and Beatrice by extension. He fears for Giovanni’s safety if he keeps seeing Beatrice, but his main priority is seeing Rappaccini fall for the sake of his own revenge. He's a good person, an intellectual with years of experience in the field of science. But his anger consumes him and leads him to harm both Beatrice and Giovanni, seeing them as tools in his plan rather than anything else. Godot?

-When Beatrice asks her father why he made her poisonous, he responds that the poison can function as a defense mechanism. If Beatrice is poisonous, than nobody can hurt her. It's better to be dangerous yourself than to be vulnerable to danger. It’s just like Dahlia!

-This whole exchange:

“”Wherefore didst thou inflict this miserable doom upon thy child?”

“Miserable! What mean you, foolish girl? Dost though deem it misery to be endowed with marvelous gifts, against which no power nor strength could avail an enemy?” Reminds me of how Morgan and the Feys saw spirit channeling as a gift, but Dahlia and Iris seem to see it as a curse

[angrybubbles]

This has been said by many many people here before but-

We all know Daniel is not the Good Heroic Character, right?

A lot of those traits that could lead to us assigning him that are are because he's the closest to an audience insert and says things we agree with (confirmation bias), rather than because he's a good guy.

He's the Byronic Hero but that doesn't necessarily mean he's "good." It's a Gothic Fiction character role, which means morals are going to sit at a solid grey.

Him pointing out the racism of Louis and Lestat's relationship isn't done to help Louis. He says it belligerently. The tone is off. He's saying it for the audience as much as just... pointing it out in the worst way possible. He's being a dick, even if he's right.

That's the thesis of his character, really. The truth isn't good, it isn't nice, and it can be spat at you like an insult just as easily as a lie can soothe the pain (thematic mirroring with Armand and Daniel here. Delicious).

And there's also the journalism aspect. Journalism isn't a force for good, and it regularly is used for evil. Daniel knows this, and doesn't really give a shit. Once he puts the narrative out there, it's in the readers hands. There's no "good" he's doing here, past sitting on a couch and asking questions to help clarify why Louis wants to tell him all this.The ethics of journalism is a well-worn topic, and Daniel has the career to show he doesn't really care to fit the mold or be "correct" about it.

Daniel is a tool, he's a wedge used to get to the heart of the matter. When he criticizes Louis' idealism, he's not doing it to help Louis find the truth as a friend (not saying they're not friends, but it's not his motivator). He understands this is Louis' narrative, but he has his parallel narrative as well, the "truth" of the matter isn't about truth so much as it's about comparing realities and supporting it with evidence. Daniel being worldly, experienced, and a journalist isn't him saving Louis. He doesn't even want to do that until Armand pisses him off personally, and even then it's not in the "saving" sense as much as the "proving" sense.

As a Leftist reporter who speaks about things people are likely to hide, he's doing it to expose bullshit. To expose lives that no one looks to think about (the Vietnam Vet with his disabled Vietnamese boyfriend, and the single mom working at the titty bar. Even as a kid, he listened to those no one else would think to listen to.) The help is there, but it's a side-effect, not a goal. He's not a white-knight, he's a white guy with a need to stick it to the man (being the "traditional" narrative).

So keep him an asshole. The truth hurts, especially when you dig at it as voraciously as Daniel does.

Also please don't misconstrue this as me saying he's the most truthful character. Again, Gothic character, he's just a force that includes pushing and idealizing truth.

[blind-betrayal]

Paladin Danse, the Brotherhood, Autism, and not being a person

dragging myself back to my forgotten fallout blog to rant abt how people seem to talk abt Danse's whole deal (which means. a lot of things. he has a lot of deals going on), by which I mean the fact he is more of a tool and not a person to the Brotherhood who is largely taking advantage of him, and people talk abt Danse being autistic (which I fully and whole heartedly believe is completely unintentional by Bethesda, but nonetheless very well written and present, so much so I consider it vital to his character) but never how both of these work in combination.

Been getting really into ENA lately, and a lot of ENA Dream BBQ seems to focus on the fact ENA is not so much a person but an entity doomed to toil forever, to LITERALLY die and even give pieces of herself away (her arm to enter the purge event) to complete whatever job she's been assigned, and is functionally more a tool than someone with personhood. So of course I have to make this about my favorite fictional man, an action I realize would get me taken outside and shot but I digress.

Back when I was active I had some semi well received takes on his character (such being largely de-desensitized and much more worldly than he is often depicted by fans-- come the fuck on, bro lived in the CAPITAL WASTELAND. Arguably one of the most inhospitable locales we see in the series, from my understanding) so maybe I've talked about this before but I think Danse's character suffers from being confined to the affinity conversations, particularly in regards to Cutler, who I feel is much more vital to understanding why Danse is the way he is than we're allowed to get info about.

He and Danse ran a junk shop in the CW, Danse-- who is a synth, who came into this world as a full-grown adult, with fake memories of a fake childhood and fake backstory (possibly the Railroad's work?), and as such we know (and later, he knows) Cutler was, most likely, Danse's only relationship (whatever you interpret it as, friend or lover) and thus only tether to the world outside himself. The shop and Cutler was his place(tm), what keeps him from being any other wasteland drifter. Cutler is probably everything to him. Cutler wants to join the Brotherhood, Danse follows, Danse likes the structure and sense of purpose because he's autistic. Then Cutler is gone, and all that's left is the Brotherhood with an environment perfectly suited to his neurology and with no tethers to the outside to ever make him even think of leaving them. There's nowhere and nothing outside of the Brotherhood for him, of course it becomes his life. Of course they're happy to have him, their little soldier who listens to their dear leader and follows directions so so good and follows the rulebook to every minute word and will never ever think of leaving or questioning them. Why would he?

I fully believe Cutler was real, as I feel like if he wasn't, Danse would talk about how he had to beg (beg!!!!!! he had to fucking ASK for them to look for the missing team Cutler was a part of, as if we had any reason to doubt their soldiers are units, not people) to look for Cutler or just mention that missing team at all and would have his fellow soldiers be like what the fuck are you talking about dude that did not that happen. Like he'd totally know. As such, him being gone left Danse in the perfect position to be fully modeled into whatever the Brotherhood wanted of him. Notice how he (which he even later acknowledges!) fully expects you to just...follow in his footsteps and wholeheartedly believe in and follow the BOS's ideology? Like doesn't even question that there could be a reality where these guys are wrong? How he full send believes synths are just machines and struggles even when finding out he is one, and thus forced to face they are in fact people with memories and feelings and personalities and identities and relationships? The BOS is just his objective reality.

He views himself as a tool because they view him as a tool, he is a Paladin, he's his squad's leader, his feelings and wants don't matter, just the mission and keeping his people alive. Not that he doesn't care, if anything we're shown that he cares so SO much. He cares so much about Haylen, about you. If you romance him, he's nearly sick with worry about you getting hurt, you leaving, doing something wrong to you. He just doesn't really know what to do about it or how.

He doesn't even consider having wants or desires for himself, unaware he operates as an extension of the BOS, not as a person who merely sorta agrees with them or just wants 3 meals a day and a place to sleep in exchange for shooting some guys.

Hell, the only time we see him break out of this is once he knows he's a synth, and thus forcibly ejected from the BOS and all he knows and believes in. Only then does he go "wait? what the fuck? I'm a person?". Note his utter offense at Maxson implying he knew he was a synth and was a purposeful spy and traitor, how even worse to him than being sentenced to death is having his faith in them doubted, his usefulness to them doubted. He's happy to let the player kill him, because it would be a continuation of their ideals. But the second his servitude to the Brotherhood, which he values above all else, including his personhood, getting questioned? Now he's upset!

Hell, he's even dehumanized OUTSIDE of the Brotherhood! See this comment from Piper when Maxson reveals him being a synth:

(Girl what the fuck + you are not immune to propaganda + she is sometimes accidentally complacent or even actively participating in the same discrimination she is trying to stop btw and I love that yum yum yum writing so good sometimes)

Dehumanization of autistic people is nothing too, take this really good chunk of an article I found trying to gather my own thoughts together for this post:

"Here’s a classic by Ivar Lovaas, an early pioneer most associated with the current therapy most aggressively recommended for autistic kids, Applied Behavioral Analysis:

You see, you start pretty much from scratch when you work with an autistic child. You have a person in the physical sense—they have hair, a nose and a mouth—but they are not people in the psychological sense […] One way to look at the job of helping an autistic kid is to see it as a matter of constructing a person. You have the raw materials, but you have to build the person."

"You have a person in the physical sense—they have hair, a nose and a mouth—but they are not people in the psychological sense […]"

Hmm...sure sounds like something a commonwealther would say about a synth, huh?

Besides, identity confusion is very much a thing to those with autism: both in regards to themselves as a person, but also about themselves as part of society. Danse is very lost and listless after Blind Betrayal, and furthermore with the knowledge he's a synth, that he's artificial and thus inherently different from many people around him, despite looking and sounding like them. He's just different, a feeling likely not new if we assume him to be autistic, and when we consider the multiple times in canon he describes struggling with interacting with others and understanding their feelings and actions. Being a soldier gave him an easy, simple, digestible answer to this confusion: he's a soldier. A soldier's conduct gave him a playbook to interaction and his own actions, an objective, structured way of life. It was made to appeal to him in every way, and was probably almost therapeutic.

He is, in my opinion, the perfect victim.

My point in vomiting words isn't to like, try to exonerate him btw. Any sort of "hes actually an innocent cinnamon roll who did nothing wrong!!!!" Danse depictions equally piss me off. Regardless of BOS brainwashing (they're a cult to me and always will be) or victimhood or diagnosis, he IS an adult and responsible for his own actions, and his discrimination and violence against non-humans and participation in BOS acts...but I also think it's just as shallow to imply he just, is a normal well adapted adult who agreed with the BOS bc he's a discriminatory ass, and not due to being the exact type of person who is incredibly likely to be victimized by an entity such as the BOS, and what the isolation of a person can do to them. ESPECIALLY considering him being a synth-- he is (whether accidentally or not or both) an active participate in the discrimination of his own kind, of people like him...is that not kind of spectacular, very interesting (and considering it's Bethesda...possibly unintentional?) writing? Especially when I feel we get very few examples of synths who are anything except perfect victims until like, Far Harbor came out. I just think this is a very interesting chunk of his character that barely got explored but exists to at least some extent, and I'm disappointed to seemingly see largely unexplored or under explored in fandom materials.

[littlewonders7]

Arcane isekai ideas for reader pt.3

(Not really a series just rambles of goofy scenarios ideas for mainly gen z reader surviving in the world of arcane and how the characters and world reacts to them)

warning: not good at explaining shit🤡🥲

_______________________

- I just think if a gen z reader were to be brought upon to the world of arcane, they would not have a normal conversation or introduction with any of the characters like you would see with x reader posts

- like I understand if the reader is sooo smart and a bad bitch who can anything for the plot and if it’s done right, HOWEVER I’m just saying it be nice to have the arcane characters being intrigued and curious about the reader for their chaotic and other worldly behavior that differs from and piltover and zaun, the reader being just them awkward, cringe, goofy self and the characters wanting to understand more about them because of it!

- like for example, I am a awkward but polite person, who tends to say sorry more times than I really should, I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed and I do enjoy helping people if I can, however I do have that spark were I will not stand injustice and acts of cruelty towards others so I guess I would clash with zaun’s way of surviving, but also piltover’s brutality towards zaunites if that makes sense(not a good example but I hope that makes sense)

- I think it would be nice to have readers outworldy behavior and understanding of the world and their personality have an effect on those in arcane as their presence slowly or unexpectedly give them viewpoints they never realized or understood until they came along and gave the cast an outsider perspective of their lives.

- like I mentioned a little in my first post, I say to keep our reader alive and add some “magical or advance” they will still have excess to our world/reality technology and can get still buy as well as use those items over in arcane, perhaps they have a home just outside of the land of piltover and zaun and customize their base/home like you see in games idk. As for their abilities it’s kind of like that character from that one anime “campfire cooking in another world” but maybe more to it, they still have to buy and pay to get items or get rewards for doing tasks idk though. (I will note that while having access to the “real world” they cannot access or see any arcane related stuff, only maybe one their phone or when they’re asleep)

- I kind of have the reader have that kind of power mainly because I know my dumb sad anxious ass could not handle being throw into a new world without connection back to home in some way, and I definitely know I would be fuck with my terrible communication skills cause I stutter and worry to fuck up my words due to ✨trauma and overall mental health✨

- another reason I would like the reader to have that power is I thought it would bring more chaos if the cast finds out about readers technology advances they have or use, and reader having the time of their life just vibing and not realizing that them just doing that has fucked up the timeline. Like you see them whipping out their phone playing games(I like puzzle-brain test games and rhythm games like piano tile) walking around town wearing headphones listening to music oblivious to the world while some stop and stare at them.

- maybe that’s how you get introduce to sky( cause I kind of want her and other side characters having some spotlight) and sky trying to help you out living the world of arcane, not realizing the shit she just put herself in, as I did mention maybe the reader time travel or like dream travel to arcane past before being isekai so the characters have some sort connection or something like, that’s why the timeline being change and alter without the readers knowing what they did.

- I’m also debating whether or not to have the cast yandere or the very least possessive for reader to give more bs to deal with understand wtf is happening but eh that’s all I got for now

[bunji-enthusiast]

𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐌𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥

Summary/Excerpt || “Who are you when no one’s watching?” He pauses at the question, as if the query had truly eluded him. But then he answers.

WC: 2.7k

A/N: wasn’t thinking of writing anything for him, but the more I thought about it — the more interesting all the scenarios and drabbles can be. Minor allusions to suicidal tendencies I guess? This was a good way to get the feelings out.

A superpowered society of people was a grievance few could afford, or rather keep up with that is. Missives of machines, clones of the greats, and those who follow in their footsteps. The moment this population was addressed, it was a far-right of undoings that may as well spell their death from the moment one is born this way. In a hastily addressed letter, signed sincerely from the very first known superpowered individual — a whole new world opened up. Those who could take up the mantle, should or could; however, it is up to the individual how you wish to go out [In a blaze of glory?].

It is by the biggest fish possible, or just by mere accident. How one’s death goes will be how people know you, for better or worse. 

For Rudy, it was a fine line he had walked every single year — every single day — and he will continue to do so, which he found [highly] unfortunate. Trying to connect with one’s emotions and desire in the grand hole of the concept was a rudimentary thought, though he found it was worth the effort, in order to necessitate the greatest array of tools possible, just to protect all those he held dear. Even if he was viewed as a malicious person. 

Rudy just wishes you wouldn’t be one of those people, who would view him as such. He garnered valuable memories with you, formed a bond. It was something he dearly would never weaponize. All that he’s done, all that he ever will do. Will have been in the name of something good, he hopes. 

“Robot?”

He hums in response, flickering a light on at his work desk. His mechanic counterpart speaking in tandem, the person once in the dark was illuminated by his unconscious action. Rudy had learned to leave a light on for those who wished to speak to him, though he was far used to working in the shadows, there are those who lived with the light constantly. Something that he envied in a way. He turns, his willing gaze raking over their [worldly] appearance. For a moment he scrutinizes the details momentarily as his eyes adjusted to the light, before a flash of recognition finally lingers in his mind. 

It was you. One of his dear ones, and he had strikingly thought that you held him in the same regard. Rudy is aware that may not be the case of this relationship you share with him however, but he could dream. He’s dreamed of it many times. “You told me you were going to the downtown memorial service?” He says, tapers of confusion evident in his voice as he returns his gaze to what he had been mulling away with. 

“Did. But plans changed.” You replied, a forlorn tone, finding a chair to sit down at. “So I came back here.” 

Rudy arches a brow, but that quickly reverts back to his neutral expression, having gathered why the change had happened. “I understand,” He simply thinks, feeling the incessant swirling that fetters the gut of his stomach. Rudy understands far more than necessary, “Did you want to talk?”

“Not really.” You shrugged, shifting the subject as you leaned back into the chair you found home on. You cross your arms over your chest, shooting him a pointed look. “What’re you working on?”

Another one of his [many] projects, though it’s importance wasn’t high on his list of priorities. He could spare the time, a lot of time. Since it was you in particular, despite the obviously grim and vicarious circumstances, he was truly elated to see you: and hear your voice. Rudy frowns at your deflection, though there was no blame to be placed, the times now were quite difficult to deal with. Both mentally and physically. He rests his working arm on the armrest of his own chair.

Rudy turns on the swivel, laying his foot against the floor to come to a stop. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He subverted the focus —  the silence — and you [could] only sigh, tilting your head as you lean forward. 

His words were carefully considered, as he steps into zones, out of tandem often. Though, Rudy wants to take a careful, comfortable step into a zone where he dared to tread. 

You take the moment to collect your thoughts, scratching at the sleeve rolled up on your arm. “You know, I’ve never taken news of a passing well.” Rudy hears those words so clearly, and his eyes widen. He certainly wasn’t expecting a situation like this to present itself, and not with you. Not at all. But, Rudy maintains a calm posture despite the brewing storm of thoughts that swam in his mind at the speed of a bullet train. He stays silent for the moment, then replies. 

“I highly doubt anyone has.” 

“Right.” You mutter, hanging your head. Far into your hands, “Mourning someone who was alive once was easier.” You admit [a hint of finality, he assumes], and you hang back, same as before. Those gentle hands of yours, more than he cared to admit, scraped down the flesh of your kind face. He thought to himself once, and wondered what the touch of your hands felt like. 

(Rudy had stood aside, standing in his familiar orange mechanical suit. In the genuine flesh as he had watched you take the brunt of many attacks, but he multi-tasked, taking care of the metaphysical obstacles with relative ease. Though he was famously known for; finding ways, information and identities. There was just one thing he couldn’t figure out even beyond the layers of all what he could do, and that was you. 

Not wholly anyway. 

“Two more minutes.” Rudy announces to the group, and it was as if all it once that a slight change of ease assimilated themselves into their bodies, fending off the attackers in order to buy time for the genius. He could hear shouts, comments from heroes who got pissed off [however rightly so], and the enemy who directly engaged the rest of his team. The wires were flimsy in the grasp of his hands, but Rudy worked, familiarity shooting through his veins as the barrage of fire and explosions ticked away the seconds in his head. Red wisps in his vision, and he couldn’t focus, nor direct the energy as to why. 

He briefly felt a glimpse of the scar on his cheek, a fresh reminder from a short skirmish—a fight that should have been quick but somehow stretched on and on, leaving him drained. There were people who had briefly praised him. But in the quiet moments like this [despite the throbbing pulse that reminded him of the situation he was in], when no one was watching, Rudy wondered how much of it was truly his. How much of it was just... obligation.

The mystery of it all hits him again, and he gasps as a beam narrowly hits his side. Rudy’s eyes flit over to whoever deflected the attack, it was Invincible. He sighs in relief, a nod to his brief moment of heroism. Rudy watches as Invincible’s shoulders deflate, tired he guessed, but so were many of the heroes. The black haired hero re-joins the others in the fight, leaving Rudy to return his focus to what was necessary. He lets out a low groan, feeling the weight of the pressure incessantly squeezing the heart in the cavity of his chest. Rudy sometimes wished that he didn’t go through with what he did, taking the measures he had performed early on, just to live longer in a more able body. The years had barred him with no sense of time to take it easy however, so he continued. 

"Why am I doing this?" he thought, eyes narrowing. "Every time I fight, every time I try to save someone, it feels like I'm just going in circles. Nothing ever changes."

A rare moment of exhaustion, especially for someone of his stature. Yet, Rudy tries not to falter. He flexed his fingers, trying to force them to calm, but they clenched involuntarily. 

He exhaled, the air feeling heavier with each breath. The weight of his mission, of his promise, was suffocating. As a genius, Rudy had been told since childhood that he had no choice but to succeed. It was his destiny, and it was theirs for him, too. But no matter how many lives he saved, no matter how many battles he fought, there was always something missing—a sense of true accomplishment, perhaps. Or maybe it was the gnawing feeling that his efforts would never be enough. It was that alone that will continue to remind him of his ability to be human, despite the biological factors. 

Finally, he reaches his small goal. Rudy reaches up into the air with the object, a mass portable object of destruction. Something easy enough to facilitate with just one of his suits. “I'm done! Someone grab it and press the button when they get close.” He shouts, unwavering in his steady devotion to the craft. 

Rudy immediately feels the weight lifted off his hand, and he smiles inwardly to himself. He knew well enough from the memory of the breeze tickling his hand many times over that it was you, with your capable ability to reach speeds unknown to the human body, or even to foreign beings that arrive on Earth; you alone had that special capability, particularly with your quick reaction time. 

Though he’s seen that look on your face, expectant – solemn. As if you were waiting for something to completely turn the tides in the favor of your opponents. Rudy wasn’t able to completely narrow that aspect, so he could only assume. That he could only do, as he watches the device in your bruised hands reach toward its destination. 

Succession was an unfeeling matter, he and you both knew that well. That bond of understanding was something you two had shared with one another. He knew the feeling too well—tight, like the weight of his duty pressing on his chest. His red hair hung in his eyes, messy and unkempt, as if his mind had been too distracted to care.

Rudy wishes he could feel it too – your hands, the weight of probable doom — as he watches and waits for the outcome like the rest of the heroes.)

“Who are you when no one’s watching?”

Your question pulled him back to the moment, this very time. The details rang a story you dared not tell aloud. Red rimmed your eyes, tears both shed and unshed. A giveaway to your darkest layer of the mind you held. You were in a place many had been before, your heart was wounded. You, like him, like so — so many — other heroes had questioned this reality [tearing out your hair, sobbing yourself to sleep, then repeat. Without bearing the shame of being seen]. Symptoms made physical, made real. Indented to crushingly guilty thoughts of why you had survived, why the others didn’t. There was a time that he had felt that way too, so he gave thought. 

Rudy pauses in his movements, resting his chin against the strong force of his hand; It was as if the query truly eluded him. But then he answers —

“Just myself.” He says, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Without going into the nuance, without manacles that hid away the thought. Rudy was, without question, a confusion made an existence. But the answer was appallingly simple that it had shocked you, blinking away the blurriness as you looked around, anywhere but at him. 

The environment was the same, untouched, nonetheless disturbed by the many familiar presences [young, old. They were all the same in the face of combat]. Heroes, even despite their power on the tier listing, so strong and hopeful. Though the years weather anyone down in no time when it comes to this line of work, so the expectant wanting of the experiences were partly to blame. You could feel the compositions of wires radiating from within the walls, all working hard to support the electricity that gives the view of what you wished for. 

You and Rudy wished for two very different things, you didn’t know that though. You wanted to know things, but you respected the impassable boundaries. 

“You say that like it’s easy.” You said, but the look you receive from Rudy makes you question what you had just said. He pressed both hands into the armrests, supporting himself as he stood, then walked over to you — Rudy was just a few steps short of your spot. He crouches down, leveling his gaze with yours. Rudy was making himself smaller against you on purpose, to give you room to breathe. 

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, “It isn’t.” He replies. “However, my belief is easy.”

Your arms drop to your lap, one hand still fiddling with the fabric of your sleeve. Confusion stirs in you, but you let him continue. Out of the corner of your peripheral, something scrawls closer. Just almost daring to touch. 

“My perception of things will present things very differently to me, then it does to you.” He admits, almost a scornful tone. A hindered string of resentment beneath it. “But my belief in you, in our friends. Will tell me it is enough to get through even the worst of things, even if I am sure that we are doomed.” Rudy closes his eyes for a moment, taking short residence in the quiet. His words — the words of a walking man, a walking metal one to sure [He wasn’t completely metal, not always], revered you with a sense of clarity that you had not been endowed with before. Even if the stairs to a light, away from a shadow of a former life had not completely formed. Your sense in what he meant, was both damning, but also relieving. 

Your hand reaches for his, he looks back at you, seeing a lop-sided smile on your face. Rudy wasn’t sure what it was, but something festered in his chest. But he was granted a sense of reprieve, even if his words did little to give you a sense of peace; he was glad that he could grant you a semblance of something similar. 

A windowed beat cracks against the glass, snapping you out of it as your eyes flit over to the windows, which gives anyone a view to the world outside. Rain, and even more thunder. 

“Lighting.” He affirms, “The weather seems to be particularly bad today.”

“Dunno…” You chuckle, tilting your head as you try to get a better look at what so little the view the windows offered. “I kinda like the clouds, they’re pretty, even for looking so grey.” 

Rudy takes a quiet mental note of that comment, “Good for nature, for the grass. Not so much for us, we would’ve gotten sick if we were caught out there.” You only nodded, leaning back as you sighed. Rudy stands up, offering you a hand. 

You take his assistance, almost suddenly startled as you immediately get pulled up into a stand by his hand. “Thanks.” You mumble, taking a moment to collect yourself, suddenly [far too loudly] wincing from the soreness that settled into your bones. Incoherent curses could be barely heard beneath your breath. 

“Today was rough?” Rudy questions, a tone of amusement evident as he walks over to an array of cabinets. The door to one creaks as he opens it, and you could only muster a mock-laugh as you swaggered over to his side, leaning against the counter. 

“No shit sherlock.” You began, crossing your arms, cracking the bones in your fingers. “It was all sorts of things today.”

“Do tell.” He responds, and you eye him as he takes out two packets of tea. You debated on whether or not you should call that out, or against the thought that he remembers that was something you liked in particular. You end up not doing so, instead taking his [not so] subtle request, taking the invitation to launch off into your rant about each and every detail that bothered you. 

Rudy continues to listen, and that was his one easy act of heroism. 

The man made flesh, who once hid behind metal. Learning to listen, it was that in which he remembered how [boisterous] he used to be in his speeches, when he talks: But learning was an experience in life. 

You, one of his dearest ones, are one of the only people he listens to.

[kryptikskove]

4 KEY points in Vedic Astrology

Atmakaraka(AK) = Soul drive, desire, and fulfillment

Amatyakaraka(AMK) = Souls tool & helper, daimon(intuitive shadow tool)

Darakaraka(DK) = Spouse, law of attraction, sustenance of relationships

Arudha Lagna(AL) = Worldly image & success, public perception + public brand, projected illusion from your Ascendant

⭐️The AL is the reflection or mirror of your Chart Ruler/Lagnesh. Majority of the world sees us through illusion and not our actual core existence which would be the Ascendant.

The houses where these planets are positioned within the natal chart are very critical and crucial to your success, life path, and personal alignment.

[nihongoseito]

vocab for going to bed at 10 pm on a friday (jst)

nouns:

身（み）バレ = being doxxed

零れ（こぼれ）話（ばなし） = tidbit, sidebar, digression

地獄耳（じごくみみ） = sharp ears

薬品（やくひん） = medicine, chemicals

器具（きぐ） = tool, instrument, utensil

実務（じつむ） = practical business, business affairs

悪知恵（わるぢえ） = cunning, guile

悪意（あくい） = ill will, spite

損得勘定（そんとくかんじょう） = profit-and-loss arithmetic, mercenary point of view

打算（ださん） = self-interest, calculation

隔離（かくり） = isolation, quarantine

道楽（どうらく） = pastime, hobby

境目（さかいめ） = borderline, boundary

経過（けいか） = passage, elapsing (of time); progress, course (of events)

処方せん（しょほうせん） = prescription

接触感染（せっしょ��かんせん） = infection through contact

ひた隠し（かくし） = desperate cover-up, hiding at all costs

出頭（しゅっとう） = turning oneself in, surrender (e.g., to police)

八方（はっぽう）塞がり（ふさがり） = blocked in every direction, cornered

親孝行（おやこうこう） = filial piety

余談（よだん） = digression

verbs:

負う（おう） = to be injured, incur (wound, damage)

つつく = to poke, nudge; to pick at (e.g., food); to peck at (e.g., someone’s faults)

委ねる（ゆだねる） = to entrust to; to leave to abandon oneself to (e.g., pleasure); to yield to (e.g., anger)

塞がる（ふさがる） = to be closed, healed (e.g., wound)

感染る／伝染る（うつる） = to be infected, contagious

突き放す（つきはなす） = to push away; to keep away from, abandon; to act coldly

弔う（とむらう） = to mourn for, grieve; to hold a funeral for

引き継ぐ（ひきつぐ） = to take over

生き（いき）ながらえる = to live long, survive

拒む（こばむ） = to refuse, decline; to prevent (from doing), deny (access)

尖る（とがる） = to be pointed, sharp; to be sour, touchy

はぐれる = to stray from, lose sight of (one’s companions)

adjectives:

理不尽（りふじん）な = unreasonable, outrageous, absurd

執拗（しつよう）な = persistent, tenacious, relentless

非現実的（ひげんじつてき）な = unrealistic

世渡り（よわたり）上手（じょうず）な = having worldly wisdom, cosmopolitan

邪悪（じゃあく）な = evil, wicked

有能（ゆうのう）な = able, capable, competent

心細い（こころぼそい） = hopeless, forlorn, discouraging

うやむやな = hazy, vague, undecided

興味本位（きょうみほんい）な = just out of curiosity; sensational

かなわない = unbearable; beyond one’s power

愛情深い（あいじょうぶかい） = loving, devoted

もどかしい = irritating, frustrating, feeling impatient

expressions:

無駄口（むだぐち）を叩く（たたく） = to chatter pointlessly, waste one’s breath

面倒（めんどう）を見る（みる） = to care for/look after someone

路頭（ろとう）に迷う（まよう） = to be down and out, rendered homeless

裏（うら）がある = to have an ulterior motive; to have a catch

天秤（てんびん）にかける = to compare and contrast, weigh (options); to try and have it both ways

[talonabraxas]

“Om Sri Maha Kalikayai Namaha”

Maa Kali ॐ

Many people today feel lost or disconnected from their inner strength. They search for ways to overcome obstacles and find a deeper purpose in life. The ancient practice of chanting the Kali mantra is a powerful tool that can help unlock this hidden power within.

Originating from Hinduism, these sacred chants honor Goddess Kali, known for her transformative energy.

The Kali mantra consists of powerful sounds and phrases designed to invoke positive change and spiritual growth. By incorporating this practice into your daily routine, you can experience enhanced clarity, courage, and protection against negative influences.

This article will guide you through the significance of Maa Kali's mantras, how to chant them correctly, and the profound benefits they offer.

Discover empowerment within.

"Om Khargang Chakra-gadeshu-chapa-parighan shulang bhushunding Maa Kali."

By integrating this potent chant into their routine, practitioners experience an enhanced connection with the divine energy that resides in each person. This connection fosters resilience against life's trials and tribulations while promoting a sense of inner calm.

The practice also aligns one with universal energies, facilitating personal growth and transformation beyond mere worldly achievements. Through consistent recitation, blessings flow more abundantly into one’s life, marking every moment with grace bestowed by Maa Kali herself.

[messiahzzz]

thank you sm for the ask!! 💕 i’m glad you enjoy my posts and it is not a strange request by any means!

note: this is merely my read on gale’s sexual preferences/kinks. i don’t want to police anyone on their headcanons or claim they are “incorrect”. since the game doesn’t provide too much detail, many things remain up to interpretation. (and lest we forget fanfiction has always encouraged the exploration of dynamics that may not be present in canon.)

gale is a character who isn’t interested in walking the straight and narrow route. he is all about new experiences, favoring non-traditional means, putting his own spin on things, and the thrill of seeking the forbidden. the sheer romance of the uncharted and the unknown. he is enthusiastic in almost every aspect and possesses an infectious zest for life. in regards to his sexual preferences, this translates into an eagerness to explore, witness new sensations, and reach new heights together. while approaching the topic of sexuality with a generally playful, adventurous attitude.

if you’re looking for harder kinks, however — i don’t believe gale is the character for you. and in case it needs to be said again: there is nothing wrong with being vanilla.

initially, i see gale as a switch, who gravitates more towards assuming a dominant role, due to his ever-present desire to give and to impress. i do think he enjoys giving up control, yet you still have to actively convince him to let himself go and be spoiled for once. his first focus will always be to fulfill his partner's needs and drown them in his all-encompassing love and adoration. i also believe that gale will grow more comfortable with being the center of attention, once their relationship has reached a point of total security (and he had ample opportunities to show in just how many ways he can wow them). gale is not a strict dom, nor a sub. in his ideal relationship roles would be discarded entirely, deeming them too restrictive in his expression of intimacy with a trusted partner. it’s all about variety and ridding oneself of the shackles of the worldly, after all. melting into one perfect whole, not knowing where he ends and his partner begins.

gale: we are all sensual vessels. illusory magic lets us sail farther, and feel more deeply.

gale: [..] i could use the weave to make us feel sensations beyond reckoning.

based on what we know about gale, these could be some of his kinks:

lots of praise (this is non-negotiable), sensation/temperature play (waxplay, electrostimulation/all the many perks magic has to offer), sensory deprivation, light restrictions and bondage, the occasional roleplay, katoptronophilia (self-explanatory), altered mental-states (hypnosis, psychedelics), orgasm control & denial, body worship, olfactophilia and given his propensity towards verbosity: narratophilia and some very inventive dirty talk. as for my own self-indulgent take: due to the recurring emphasis on hands during his romance, as well as his being the main tool in how he shapes and navigates the world: quirofilia.

nodecontext: flustered, standing in front of his romance partner in bondage gear. not necessarily uncomfortable with the bondage aspect, just trying to stay focused.

now, what are gale’s hard-limits?

gale, after the player received loviatar's blessing: your hide, your choice. not quite my cup of tea though.

while projecting your own kinks and fantasies onto fictional characters is fine and well, disregarding and ignoring the source material (and the character's stated boundaries) is another matter entirely. fanon!gale is rather ooc and very different from his canon portrayal, which is something that tends to irk me. although this remains a common fandom phenomenon.

personally, i don’t see gale as someone who enjoys pain of any kind, be it giving or receiving (with the exception of spanking and light choking, if a certain mood strikes. although it is kept mostly playful). contrary to what fandom may claim, having self-worth issues, being loquacious, emotionally expressive, and vulnerability-seeking (as well as being commonly perceived as arrogant and insufferable) doesn't automatically equal having repressed masochistic tendencies. he could be convinced to dip a toe into sadism, but only upon his partner’s insistence. although i doubt he himself would find enjoyment in that.

the same applies to degradation/humiliation. i doubt that a character who is still very much struggling with inherent self-worth issues and a general feeling of being defective/not worthy would derive sexual gratification from being degraded. yes, it can certainly be healing for some, but gale doesn’t strike me as someone who would find particular enjoyment in that. quite the contrary, actually. nor would he like to do the degrading for that matter (he would vehemently refuse. all he wants to do is sing your praises.) gale wouldn’t enjoy being leashed and/or collared in any way either. the prospect of being tied up or restricted is rather intriguing, cause it serves to center one’s vulnerability while also allowing for more intense sensations. anything that taps into the puppy play/slave territory tho? he would find it demeaning… and, quite frankly, silly.

gale is also not a voyeur, nor a cuck. the entire scene with the drow twins leans way too much into dub-con territory for my tastes. the only way you can get him to participate at all is by rolling a persuasion check with DC 25. in every other dialogue option, he immediately (and explicitly) declines. even if you do manage to pass the persuasion check, he is still very hesitant about participating.

gale: i might enjoy watching you tangled up with the drow, as long as i was five paces back.

he then immediately runs from the room, because sending a simulacrum in his place was the only way to somewhat remove himself from the situation while still being able to please tav. because of course he wants to please and clearly this is important to tav so he might just… have to discard his reservations and... just go through with it?!

gale: well i suppose it would do no good to back out now. let us begin this little anthropological study, if we must.

i am aware that fandom uses the fact that his “orb lit up in telltale excitement” as a justification that persuading him was the right choice, as well as confirmation that he was secretly into it and “just needed a little push" to explore his desires/get out of his comfort zone. that implication alone is very suspect and goes straight into the sort of logic abusers often use. you can be physically aroused by certain scenes, images, or sounds, even while being visibly uncomfortable with the presented scenario. it is a natural response that you can’t often control. which is what he is showing throughout the entire scene: discomfort. he was coerced into this situation, without any prior discussion or an opportunity to talk about his boundaries. furthermore, this is what he has to say if you approach him after the threesome:

gale: ahem. i hope you're not here to ask about our recent, erm, activities. i'd rather those were consigned to the footnotes of our romance, if it's all the same with you.

since he is strictly monogamous, any arrangement involving another person is also a no. he made this rather clear when tav sought him out after receiving halsin's proposal. him being monogamous isn't solely rooted in his trauma, it isn't something he has to “overcome” in order to heal, nor does it mean that their relationship is any less fulfilling. call him greedy, stubborn, or old-fashioned, but he cannot comfortably agree to that.

[donjuaninhell]

Are there things you can do as a man to make yourself more attractive to women who are attracted to men? Absolutely, learn how to dress, find a style that works for you, buy clothes that flatter your shape and create nice silhouettes, get a little gay with it. Balance out all the nerd shit and dork ass hobbies with other stuff. I mean, I have seen every pre-Discovery episode of Star Trek at least three times, but I've also read all the Greek tragedies even the ones that suck and yes I have a gaming PC (to be fair I do a lot of other stuff on it too, but it's got lights in it) but I don't spend every waking hour getting mad at free-to-play games. The stemlord shit makes you come off like a tool, go to some art galleries, learn an instrument, try to be a bit worldly, be interested in history beyond the thickness of the Panzer IV's frontal armour (it makes people think you're a Nazi). Read Castiglione, there are some good tips in there if you want to do the whole Italian Renaissance courtier thing. Be personable and kind. Don't fucking talk about internet shit offline, especially the weird crap. Don't fucking suck. Get better music taste, stop listening to the idiots on /mus/. The anime waifu shit creeps the hell out of everyone because it makes them think you want to fuck kids, knock it off. Come to the realization that almost everyone is at least a little bit beautiful in some way. Learn to enjoy being friends with women, they can be pretty damn cool.

I have known so many bald, fat, weird looking, and short guys with girlfriends. Those guys do alright because they're people you actually want to spend time around. It's not hard.

[selineram3421]

*lies awake at night and has an idea*

[Its 4 a.m. by the way.]

Other Worldly

Prologue

Alastor X Shy Reader

(Oneshot turned short story)

Warnings? ⚠

⚠ selectively mute reader, mentions of death-drowning, shaking head = no, signing-ASL ⚠

They were an oddity.

How could such a meek and bashful thing like them end up in this fiery inferno.

Alastor watched from the bar as they bumped into the check-in counter and squeaked before getting off balance and falling.

Clumsy, jumpy, barely making a sound other than some odd squeaks.

Yes, they were quite the wonder.

An entertaining one.

❇

You were somewhat new to Hell. At least two weeks in.

There was an accident where you worked in the aquarium and well..you kinda caused a mass drowning? It sounds impossible but it happened.

It was very challenging to get up after your fall, but you managed and wound up at the hotel.

With the help of the Princess, you were able to figure out what kind of demon you are. It came with pros but it also came with cons. One con being that you couldn't speak unless you wanted to hypnotize someone.

It made you a little sad, but also relieved. You didn't do well around others, too shy to speak up or get involved with anything that put you in the spotlight.

Maybe it was for the best.

There would be one thing you wouldn't give up though.

❇

Alastor was in the hotel's library.

There wasn't a whole lot of demons coming into this room, especially after some guests saw him walk in here a few times.

It didn't matter. At least there were multiple things that could entertain him. A small music room with instruments, projectors in another with film reels and other types of tapes, and the most dazzling room of all was the astronomy room.

The Princess made sure to have this room's dome ceiling painted with an accurate mural of the Earth's night sky.

Deciding to mess with the trinkets on the shelves, the demon in red walked towards the back of the room and glanced at the star charts. Tapping at some of the books and measuring tools on the desk nearby before sitting down on a chair.

No one ventured this far into the library. He was probably the only demon who knew of this room's existence.

And then he heard something.

Someone had entered the room.

Turning around and looking between the shelves, Alastor spots the timid demon that he enjoys flustering so much near the armillary sphere in the middle.

A little spook wouldn't be too bad.

He thought with a small grin, starting to summon up a shadow creature. However both dissipated when there was a note sung into the air.

"Let's go in the garden

You'll find something waiting

Right there where you left it lying upside down

When you finally find it, you'll see how its faded

The underside is lighter when you turn it around "

The Radio Demon sat there, mouth agape as they sang.

"Everything stays right where you left it

Everything stays

But it still changes

Ever so slightly, daily and nightly

In little ways, when everything stays "

Like a siren- a water sprite? A nymph? It was hard to pinpoint what he could compare their voice to.

It was other worldly.

Their voice echoed due to the room's acoustics.

He didn't notice that he had gotten out of the chair, didn't notice he was making his way towards them, didn't notice when they stopped singing until they gasped.

Blinking out of his trance, he found them facing him and covering their mouth with their hands. A panicked look in their eyes.

"You stopped.", Alastor spoke up. "Why not finish?"

They shook their head quickly and backed away.

Before he could say something else, they moved their arms down, one made into a fist on their chest and moving in a circle clockwise. Then they ran out. (Sorry)

He stood there for a while, his smile widening. Maybe there was more to them than he thought.

How interesting~

I'm still on break but I couldn't help myself with this one. 🐚 (Old note)

~Seline, the person.

Part 1

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Alastor ML I🎙 | ChL OW🦀

[cavegirlpoems]

The Beast & The Church in 'Black Death Rising'

I'm writing a religious horror rpg, in which the End Of Days is in full swing in 15th century Europe. I figured it'd be worth it to talk about that game's religious perspective.

So I'm going to do something inadvisable, and talk about religion from a christian perspective. (religious/setting design ramblings under the cut)

Some context. I'm a quaker; for those less invested in minor christian dissenter sects, I'll give a brief summary. Quakers are a sect going back to the 17th century, with a strong focus on egaletarianism and individual conscience. No clergy or heirarchy, no formalised doctrines, and - historically and currently - a lot of focus on social justice issues. Honesty, equality, pacifism and simplicity as core value. So that's the overview.

This is, you will note, a stark contrast to a lot of what Christianity is currently, and has historically been. Which is to say, quite often on the side of the wealthy, the societally entrenched, and the oppressive.

I am also, as it happens, very openly and obviously queer. As you can imagine, this makes me really quite uncomfortable in a lot of 'christian spaces'.

So. Let's turn our attention to the Book of Revelations, as the various ideas in there are a lot of the game's inspiration. Revelations is written extremely abstractly, with dense metaphorical language rather than a direct accounting of events. There are, needless to say, a wide variety of ways to interpret the text, but I will focus on my own.

A key feature of Revelations is the subversion of religion; the idea of a false prophet turning religion away from its moral/spiritual purpose, and making it a tool for politics, leading to the rise of 'the beast' to power. It's made clear that as the beast seizes power, it goes on to use that power to persecute the outgroup (with whom the text's sympathies lie) and that a church controlled by and reverent of the beast becomes evil and totalitarian, leading to widespread suffering.

The parallels to the state of christianity in the modern day are, to my mind, quite apt. A wide faction - 'conservative christianity' to be polite about it, or christian nationalism to be more blunt - aligns itself with the oppresser over the oppressed, concerns itself with worldly wealth and power, and is actively and openly and inexorably tied to dangerous political forces. That mainstream christianity frequently acts in support of fascism is hard to miss.

There is a particular horror, I think, to seeing representations of one's faith hollowed out and distorted, emptied of their spiritual value and instead becoming a tool for evil. The perversion of what should be sacred has a huge potential for horror.

This is, after all, a particular horror one encounters in a regular basis in the real world. I mean, fuck, one simply needs to see Kenneth Copeland speak for 30 seconds to get a sense of something deeply, deeply wrong.

So, this is the horror the game seeks to capture and accentuate. The sense of what should be holy having been emptied out and used for evil. The twisting of faith to become a tool for fascism.

To this end, the game treats aspects of Revelations quite literally. The Beast is, in fact, the leader of a vast and horrible fascist empire that is the cause of misery on a vast scale. Key to this is the total cooption of the church. The 'pope' is a reanimated corpse issueing proclamations at the Beast's direction, and the church is an engine of propaganda and inquisition that serves to enforce the empire's orthodoxy and stoke hatred against the Empire's outgroups.

This is not to say that faith is absent, but those possessing true spiritual conviction (and with it, in some cases, the ability to perform miracles) are definitively outside the church; actual faith is the domain of religious dissenters and heretics. PC clerics are not members of the church, they're actively persecuted by that church for - essentially - their refusal to spiritually sell out.

(Also, critically, miracles are not the sole domain of christianity; the game treats Jewish and Muslim figures as equally capable of performing miracles, and grants relics associated with those religions equal potency to christian ones; what matters is spiritual conviction, not one's specific denomination).

Other aspects of The Beast's Empire followed from this. Inquisitors and paramilitary agents are common enemies, and the 'seven heads and ten horns' are taken to represent The Beasts inner circle of most powerful servants.

In particular, I've given the Beast's empire it's own form of magic, Defixion, with the name taken from old roman curse-tablets. Defixion is, essentially, the magic of spiritually selling out. In exchange for eroding the user's soul, they become bound to The Beast and his empire; this gives him incredible power over them, but also grants them power based on their position within the Empire's heirarchy. Importantly, it's totally, one-hundred-percent off limits to player characters; playing as the fascists simply exists outside the scope of the game. Instead, Defixion is an explanation for why the Empire's agents have scary monster stat-blocks.

The choice of what to make The Mark Of The Beast was surprisingly easy; it's a cross, the same one that is embraced by fascist groups such as Stormfront.

(This also ties in with the use of the inverted cross as a counter-cultural icon; it's historically been a symbol of humility before God, and in the modern age is associated with strongly anti-church sentiments. In a setting where the church has turned away from God and towards hateful political power, those two meanings can go hand in hand.)

In conclusion: "I know writers who use subtext, and they're all cowards."

[coolestork]

Of Rituals and Yearning

Lorgar x Reader

Note: Another Lorgar fic for the religiously traumatized girlies. No NSFW this time either, just flaying and inner dialogue from the primarch. Enjoy :)

Warnings: Heavy Religious themes, Pain as corporal ritual, Implied sexual desires.

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The sanctum was dim, lit only by the pale flicker of candles casting shadows that danced along the cold stone walls. The air was thick with incense, sweet and heavy, its scent mingling with the earthy musk of old parchment and ancient tomes that lined the walls. It was here, in this solemn, secluded space, that the ritual would unfold, one that demanded silence, discipline, and an unbreakable resolve. Lorgar could feel the weight of its purpose as if it was woven into the very stone beneath his feet.

He studied her—a human girl, kneeling before him with an awe that struck him somewhere deep, more than he would have dared to admit. There was a reverence in her gaze that was almost painfully beautiful, and it awakened a conflict within him, a duality that threatened to unravel the sanctity of the moment. But he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, withholding anything that might betray the tumult stirring within.

She bowed her head, her frame dwarfed by the towering figure before her. The holy connection they would establish tonight was not to be trivialized, nor diluted by worldly desires. Lorgar reminded himself of that again, silently reciting words he had memorized from long hours of meditation.

Still, he found his gaze lingering on her fragile form, on the curve of her neck, the softness of her hands clasped tightly in an effort to still their trembling. She had chosen this path willingly, he reminded himself. It was her faith, her devotion, that brought her here to endure.

“Are you prepared?” His voice was low, carrying a resonance that seemed to echo within the hollow chamber.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice that betrayed fear and determination alike. The duality of it resonated with his own internal struggle, intensifying the strange pull he felt towards her.

With a measured hand, Lorgar raised the thin leather cord, a tool not meant for pain, but for purification. He knew he would need to be cautious, painfully so, his strength barely restrained as he let the whip land across her shoulder with a lightness that belied his power. And yet, even that slight touch was enough to make her flinch, a quiet gasp escaping her lips.

The sound sent a ripple through him, tightening something within his chest. He focused on his breathing, willing his mind to remain clear, but the quiet sob that followed forced his eyes to her again, drawn by the shimmer of a tear slipping down her cheek. She was crying—enduring what little pain he had inflicted with a faith that only added to her fragile beauty. There was purity in her suffering, something that both honored and unsettled him. It was the vulnerability he was witnessing, the rawness of her devotion, that made her seem almost too delicate to bear.

The whip fell again, even gentler this time, but she gasped once more, tears tracing new paths down her cheeks. He was meant to find beauty in this, to see it as her sacrifice, her offering to the divine. And he did, yet there was something else—a flicker of attraction, dangerous and alluring in all its wrongness. This wasn’t what the ritual demanded of him; it wasn’t what his purpose dictated. Still, the way her eyes lifted to meet his, the silent plea in their depths…

Is this wrong? The thought struck him like an iron bolt, harsh and undeniable, cutting through his disciplined resolve. His jaw tightened as his mind recoiled, battling against the intensity of his reaction. Anger flared within him—not at her, no. The fault was his own, his weakness a willing betrayal of the ritual’s sacred intent, an affront to the spiritual purity that was supposed to guide him. He was a Primarch, a being molded by divine hands, chosen to uphold purpose and honor. How, then, had he allowed himself to stumble, to let the basest of desires cloud his vision?

The whip dangled loosely from his fingers as he wrestled with the surge of emotions twisting inside him. It should have been easy—simple, in fact. This ritual had been performed countless times by disciples of his Word, a purification through submission, pain as a bridge to the divine. He knew that. Yet, in this moment, he felt like a trespasser, as if he were betraying not only his purpose but her as well. She deserved a leader, a guide, not a man whose thoughts were tainted by something as trivial as lust.

He gathered himself. When the whip came down again, the touch so slight it was barely more than a whisper, and he watched her shoulders shudder, her lips parting in a soft cry that lingered in the air between them. It was pain, yes, but it was hers, a voluntary gift in her quest for something transcendent, something that connected her to his divine purpose. He respected that, and it was perhaps this respect that drove him to continue, to press forward, even as he questioned his own heart.

“Why do you look at me that way?” The question escaped him unbidden, a whisper that betrayed the uncertainty he had so often buried. He hadn’t meant to ask it, hadn’t meant to even let the thought cross his mind. His voice, usually steady and unshaken, faltered.

Her lips parted, though no words came, only a soft breath that left a fragile silence between them. Her eyes shimmered with a mixture of reverence and vulnerability, as if she were seeing beyond the warrior, beyond the Primarch. It was a gaze that unnerved him more than any blade, one that challenged him to confront the man within the mantle he wore.

With renewed force, he forced his gaze back to the ritual, to the rigid purpose he had clung to for so long. Lorgar tightened his grip on the whip, drawing his breath in slow, measured lengths, as if doing so could extinguish the conflict raging inside him.

He could feel it, sharp and undeniable, like a crack splintering across a once-impervious shield. The question remained, coiled in his chest—a slow, searing burn.

Is this wrong?

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Note: Hell yea, I love me when fine shyt is heavily conflicted by the undercurrent of desire. let me know what u weirdos think