#body hair is such a symbol of strength for men and women

[vvolkulja]

its a sin for a hairy man to hide his chest hair under a high collar it really is

#body hair is such a symbol of strength for men and women #moje

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

To Hunt a Silver Stag (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.6k

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, talks of childbirth, traditional views of women & men in medieval times, talks of war, death, heavy religious imagery/symbolism, blood, gore, sword wounds, stitches, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The wedding was fast approaching. 

Your nightly conversations had now taken the tone of urgency—a newfound anxiety that perpetuated every inch of the courtyard. Discussion of all manner of flight; boats and horses, magic, and the simple act of dashing away in the small hours. Gaz would not be able to come with you, but he would give you all the time and distraction you would need when the time was right. The best option right now was the horses in the stable—cloak yourself as your knight made a commotion about an intruder on the opposite end of the castle. It was coming together, day after day. Until tonight. 

Until you’d been summoned to have supper with the King and his court. 

You sit now at the very opposite of the table from your betrothed, many eyes darting from the sides of sockets for even a glance at your face. Your crown is still present, along with your belt; your dress is of your collection, and you had seen the looks of disdain when you proudly wore it in—Gaz trailing behind through the main doors of the dining hall.

No one has called in the food yet. Now is the time for talk.

“I imagine you’ve had time to settle in, My Lady?” The King smiles like a snake, and your silver eyes miss nothing as the lines of his face contort; harsh leather and the dunes of sand. “Has my castle become a home to you?” In the corner of your vision, Gaz stands with his hands behind his back at the side of the room along with many other knights. A show of strength? Maybe. 

But you don’t feel nervous about your confidant, though. The time for hesitation between the two of you has passed—it was all or nothing. 

You speak slowly and clearly, face the picture of calm.

“It is a great thing to be able to see the works of mortal hands. It is an achievement, to be sure.” Your lashes move in a slow blink. “Yet, nothing can be a home such as the one I came from.”

“Ah,” Michael takes it in stride, nodding as the men at the sides of the table glance at one another, sneering. As if saying that you were homesick was a sin of some sort. Brown eyes continue to be locked on your measured body—sitting straight and your hands in your lap. “Yes. I understand. Many have heard of the splendor of your homeland.” 

The sconces on the walls flicker. This feels like more of an interrogation than a supper. 

“It is a place very few see,” you speak slowly, thinking what this game might entail. “Those that do are left changed. Such is how it has always been.”

“My children will have equal claim, then?” Michael smiles, and the court’s eyes glint. “To the lands?”

Your body stills, gaze unwavering as your piercing orbs level across the table. The very air shifts in an instant.

“Repeat yourself,” you order slowly. 

The court blinks quickly, some even straighten in their chairs. Gaz’s feet shift near the window—his lips flattening on his face as he takes a low breath down his nose. Your tone made the hairs on his arms raise by themselves, something primal in the way you articulate. 

Yet, the King seems to not know that there’s a line not to be crossed with you. He can’t understand the nearly inextinguishable loyalty to your own—to your people. No rat-like mortal man would ever amount. No kingdom made of stone and iron. 

Your fingers tighten under the table, sharpness breeding in your skin.

Any further insinuation on his part was suddenly very detrimental to his survival rate. Your magic flows through you, and the sparse, and nearly dead, potted plants near the corners of the room quiver. Gaz notices immediately, his jaw subtly clenching. 

Not here, he wants to tell you, his feet shifting with anticipation. Fucking hell, not here, Stag.

But he served a King that he could never love—you served a kingdom that you would give your immortal life for in an instant. 

His Highness tilts his head, eyes glinting as your silver hue sparks up like a candle’s flames. 

“It’s an honest question, is it not?” Michael huffs, moving one of his hands to call the servants to bring in supper. Your senses go into overdrive as the large doors open, blinking quickly at the humming in the air that only increases as the staff moves closer. 

Your mouth opens and closes for a moment, eyes lightly flinching as a headache begins to form. You can’t even answer the King, and your magic halts itself immediately as your head snaps to the side in horror. 

Iron. 

You can’t see the King’s slow smirk as the iron platters are carried in, placed on the table in great heaps of glorious spoils. Large pigs and birds stuffed with vegetables—on the very material that makes your hands begin to shake as the tops are taken off with great showmanship. As if this was an achievement. 

A platter is dropped ahead of you with a clink of metal to wood, but your eyes only stare at the dead ones that smugly look right back as your heart constricts. 

Gaz’s wide expression is frozen on his face, body immobile at the cruel display so openly perpetuated by the court. His hands tighten into fists, eyes darting back and forth from you to the iron and the death on the table. He can see the way your muscles tense, the way your fingers twitch and flinch. 

“So,” the King motions again. “I ask, will my Heir have a claim to the Fae thrown?”

“Not in a million years,” you say slowly at first, your mind addled and skin beginning to sweat. The King stills—just like everyone else in the room. A shiver of rage filters behind those rat eyes as you continue. “Not in the seasons of the Mothers, not in an hour of contemplation, a day of rage, or even the seconds it would take for a Basilisk to devour your wretched corpse.”

It was a wonder you kept your composure as your hands rose from under the table—heart palpitating as a low growl raised from the table. Yet, everyone is shocked at what you do next. 

Your hands grasp the ironware and Gaz has already set a firm step forward in a mute panic of wide eyes and a sucked-in breath—but he’s too late.

You ignore the burn; the agony that rips through your hands and your bones, killing your soul and making your skin itch like it was on fire. Maybe it was. The iron is heavy in your hands as you glare at the King with every ounce of hate a creature as old as you can hold. 

You stab at a piece of food, hold the fork aloft, and hiss on a tight, strained breath. 

“Not even if the cold iron in my palm turns to pure gold will I see any child of yours growing in my womb.” Your hand moves forward, and with a slow bite, you take down a piece of the greasy and roasted corpse; holding back a gag as your skin boils and blisters under the iron’s hold. 

The food slams into your stomach as if a rock.

It’s a curse you level with no magic besides your hatred, and that in and of itself is far more potent. 

The King’s shocked nature turns to confusion, and then to a swift and all-consuming rage.

“Chain her,” he whispers at first, a quiet murmur above the horror of the faces of the court. Then he screams and stands up, slamming his hands to the table with actions half his age. A petulant child. A greedy little boy. “Chain her!”

A hand grasps yours and rips the fork from your grasp, hurling it halfway up the table by the time you can register above your blackening gaze that Gaz is forcing a ripped strip of his cape into the weeping flesh. 

“Christ,” he gasps, quickly glancing at your face as your crown dips and moves as your head does. Everything is buzzing—even being close to this much iron leaves you weak. 

You suck down large breaths, but there’s no time for this.

“Chain her!” King Michael screeches. “I want her in the dungeons!”

Your arm is taken up, your feet sliding over the floor as Gaz drags you up, shoving you behind him. The sound of a sword being drawn is enough to momentarily snap you out of your agony, your hand shaking violently as you breathe hard and bend your spine forward slightly. 

You blink wildly, gasping at the scene ahead of you.

Your knight stands firm ahead of you, his back wide and shielding you from the risen court and the King. The other knights in the room watch with wide eyes, hands on their weapons in utter confusion. 

“I’d stay back if you knew what was best for you,” Gaz eases out, casual in his delivery but you can hear the rapid pound of his heart. He’s nervous. Incredibly so—adrenaline striking through his veins just as it does yours. 

This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t right; he wasn’t supposed to be involved. 

“Gaz,” you stutter, so strange to hear yourself in a state of anxiety after so many years of calm and elegance. There’s nothing elegant about you now. “Do not.”

He was throwing away everything he’d worked for. 

“Stay behind me,” the knight mutters, his dark eyes searching the room for anyone to move forward and attack—none do. “Don’t move until I tell you to, yeah?” He had a reputation for being a skilled swordsman; no one here would risk rushing without more weapons at the ready.

Gaz’s sword rests easily in his right hand, the left going to unsheathe his dagger and let it rest at his side, fingers twitching around the hilt as he takes a slow breath, eyes traveling the room.

They land on the King, face contorted into the picture of wrath, wrinkled, and old body shaking. 

“Step aside, boy,” Michael says lowly. “And I’ll let you walk with your head.”

“Wouldn’t be much good to me if I allowed this to happen, would it,” Gaz tilts his skull, a flicker of a smirk on his lips. Seriousness slips back in on the backs of knife edges. “Cut your losses. Let her leave, she doesn’t want this.” 

“I don’t care what this creature wants,” the King shouts, moving out from the table and taking firm steps forward, his knight flanking him as the court goers, back up quickly; panic in their eyes. “It’s going to give me power.” 

A greedy gaze finds yours behind the swell of Gaz’s back—hearing your Knight’s growl at the next words to enter the tense dining hall. 

“Whether she agrees to it or not.”

Your face twists, a sliver of fear making your legs back up a step. Magic, you needed your magic. But the iron—there’s so much of it here; it’s infecting your mind like a bug in the back of your brain. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. 

You shake your head, uninjured hand coming up to dig your fingers into your temple.

Gaz spits, “Not fucking happening, you old bastard.” His silver sword raises, and with a twirl of his wrist, sending the blade in an arch, the tip is leveled into the air. “You’ll have to get through me first, won’t you?”

“I will not—!” The King stumbles for a moment, body shaking and legs loose. One of his hands snaps to his chest and he blinks to himself, cape dragging across the floor. A ragged cough moves out of his mouth. 

You move forward sluggishly, hand resting itself on the back of Gaz’s armored spine as he startles and looks over his shoulder at you. 

“Stag,” he warns in an accented mutter, but your eyes are not gazing at him. They’re on the King.

On his failing heart and its broken beating. 

The man’s breath is in a gasp, his orbs snapping to and fro like a rabbit as he reaches out a hand, a swift cry from the other men making the knights dash. They grab at him just before he slams to the ground, but one of the court’s men shouts out fearfully, “It’s her—she’s done something!”

“Grab her!”

“Cast her into the irons!”

“She’s killing out King!”

Gaz dashes on his heels, hooking an arm around your waist as you pant, unbelieving as to what is happening. Killing? No, you hadn’t even done anything—this wasn’t your fault!

“Run,” the knight barks, shoving you out of the door and into the hallway. “Damnit, Stag, you need to bloody go. Now!” His browns lock with your silver eyes, stiff until they soften at your blatant shocked fear. A beat of nothingness comes back to the both of you—memories of a courtyard and a cape around your shoulders. You stare, fingers shaking and blood pooling into the makeshift bandage of your palm.

“No, no! What about you?” He shakes his head, and in a swift moment, his gaze goes back to the clamor of commotion—of horrible cries of ‘the King is dead! The King is dead!’

A thin smirk makes your face burn with panic.

“I need to give you an exit, remember?” A tiny wink. “Thank me later, Princess, when you’re safe. Go home.”

He nods pushing on your shoulder delicately. Backing up and twirling his sword again as he licks his lips. You watch, crown more heavy than it had ever been before.  

Gaz looks at you as if you’re the only person to ever exist—just as he had when you’d restored the courtyard to glory he’d never seen it in before. He glances down your face, down your body, in all of the time those few seconds were before the yells from the other knights start up—angry, furious, from behind.

He calls firmly, bluntly, but the words are more layered than even you can know. Gaz whispers, his eyes so light and open it leaves you breathless like all of the air has turned to water. You’re drowning in it. 

“You don’t belong here.”

You try to step forward, desperate in a way you’d never been to grapple for this mortal man, but the door has already shut right in your face with a heavy boom. An iron bolt is locked in place.

—

The trees try to pull their branches aside as you rush through them, but your fast feet are too quick. Sharp wood slaps your cheeks, pulling at the long strands of your dress and the broken straps of your corset. 

You run over rocks, and feel the earth guide you along deep in your soul, not once do you stumble, not once do you falter besides once—to turn and glance. To cast your wide eyes on the fading fire-light of the castle; the sounds of bells ringing out.

Gaz.

He was still back there—fighting. When you had to rip yourself away from the door and rush down the stone corridors, you’d heard the clash of iron and silver against one another; shouts. Like battling wolves, all rabid teeth and a flurry of slitted eyes. Such violence here—such baseless malice. 

A King was going to put you in chains, and by whatever deity is truly out there, his heart had given out just in time. And your knight. Your sacrificial knight was left behind. 

He can take care of himself, you try to ease, bare feet jumping a stream as your injured palm burns with a thousand suns. I have to place my trust in him. I have to.

He had told you to go home—flee. Back to your castle that touches the sky, back to magic and trees older than any man, woman, or child. Sliding along the ground, you halt. 

Atop your head, your crown is crooked, and some of the gems have fallen off, glinting behind you in the upturned earth. Panting, you twist on your feet, moving them like a deer and unable to properly think. This had never happened to you before—this…this pain. Not just the one in your hand but the one that emanates from your heart. 

Gaz. 

In such a short time, day, weeks, he’d grabbed your immortality and made it stop. You had become mortal with him, and a part of you is mortal yet. He’d touched you—he’d grappled into the place between your ribs and made you care about him. His wonder; his awe for no other reason than he was kind. Hand coming up to grasp at your neck, you fight the burn in your eyes, something that had not happened in decades, trying to drag you back into tears. 

You cover your mouth, eyes shut tight. 

No, no.

“This cannot be happening,” you gasp in a whisper that moves the trees; eyes watch from bushes. “No, no this isn’t true, do not speak of it,” you whimper to the branches, to their hidden words that pierce your heaving lungs. “I need to go home, I must see the ages pass with no bias—I can not grow attached to a knight. Not to one that death can touch so easily! Do you not understand?!”

Shouts ring into the trees, and your head snaps up, face tight. 

Why can’t you go any farther? No curse holds you here! No spell, no enchantment! You are a God to them! You make the world grow with only a word, you carry life and death as if it is a suggestion! This is not probable—it isn't logical. 

And then you think about the man who had freely given up everything for you in chains, and your sob echoes over the woods like a brand.

Fleeing once more, you go not in the direction of home, a place so very far away, but in the direction of a large mound of stone—speaking to them through bitter tears and making you lick at the sides of your mouth. Torchlight moves through the trunks of silent sentinels as the rock itself splinters and breaks, your body slipping inside a cage of your own making before you collapse. 

The stone groans and breaks and it is like you were never there as the ground shifts—moving the tracks you’d left behind in newly tilled earth. Countless horses rush past, their knight riders with iron bindings swinging from their fists, oblivious. 

But the stone you panic inside of is no worthy prison. Even you knew: there was no greater cage for a Fae than love.

—

Gaz stumbled through the woods, his right leg dragging behind as he gritted his teeth harder, panting through the drops of blood that slipped over his lips. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, collapsing against one of the tree’s trunks and resting the side of his head against it. “Fuck.”

He’d barely made it out. 

The castle was overrun with knights, guards, the people, and the court—all of them. The King was dead. Dead, and they were blaming it on you.

“Serves him right,” Gaz pushes on, eyes fluttering shut as blood slides over his armor. He doesn’t know where the wounds start and where they end, but he does know that he has to keep walking. There’s a trail to follow, and the earth is showing it to him.

The man can’t stop until he knows you’re alright.

Panting, the gems on the ground are one by one plucked and pocketed, kept safe in the same pouch that once held his sigil ring; an achievement he’d been proud of himself for. 

A knight, he’d told his family—his friends. It was a station of the highest honor.

Look what that had gotten him. Serving a bastard who called himself a God. Who pushed judgments and demanded utter loyalty to them. 

Gaz would rather hang. 

Coughing, blood splatters to the ground, and on the bank of a small river, his dragging feet fail him. Falling forward, the tattered remains of Gaz’s cape fluttered around him as his hands splattered through the water. A chilled breeze rushes through the trees, waking them.

He restrains himself from crying out, eyes clenched shut as his forehead skates the water. The clear liquid goes crimson with every wave, like the remnants of a fresh kill. 

Body too weak to move, Gaz growls in defiance, slamming a fist into the mud and shoving forward.

He had to find you. He had to make sure you were making your way back home safely—he…he had to fix the wrongs that he hadn’t even been a part of. Even by association, the knight was layered with a horrible guilt. Gaz can’t forget your eyes—your silver tint and the way your head moved; the way you spoke. 

A stag. A deer. A hart. A creature that needed to be set free from the confines of stone and iron. He’d do it all over, but that was just his nature. Gaz was just—he was good. Kind. 

Even the trees knew that. 

Raising his head, vision blurry, brown eyes lock onto the tiny body of a white dove. 

Staring, Gaz’s face slackens, blinking through the water and the blood until the image in front of him becomes clearer. 

“L,” he stutters, voice failing before he clears his throat and forces himself further upwards as his arms scream at him. “Lysander?” 

The bird has its head cocked to the side, a black obsidian orb stuck on him. It doesn't coo or flap its wings—it watches. Waits. Without anything, it takes to the air and flutters over to a large stump, body hopping until it rests once more with tapping feet.

Again, it stares.

Gaz gapes at it, moonlight over his armor, making it glint and shine even with the dents and long cuts. A flicker of hope beats in his breast, and with a deep breath and a broken groan of pain, his failing body is once more on its two feet. 

“Take me to her,” he pleads in a breathy exhale.

Gaz may not be able to stalk like a wolf, or even walk like a human now, but if there was a sliver of a chance that a Fae princess was waiting for him, he’d follow even if he had to drag himself there on busted legs.

Lysander’s beak clicks and the bird flies from one landmark to another, following the trail of gems and leading the broken knight behind him. 

On and on Gaz walks, not able to stop for fear he may not be able to get back up again. His pouch becomes heavy, his body likely to give out any second, when Lysander flutters atop a large stone face and finally stops. Collapsing to the ground, the knight coughs up blood to the ground, body a heap on the ground earth as he rests his head and pants like an animal. 

“Christ,” he gasps, eyes fluttering as darkness begins to swallow him; a maw of a dragon right over his form, waiting to chomp down. “Where…” Gaz begins to ask, flesh shivering even through all of the layers of sweat he carries.

Where are you?

Brown eyes move from the bird to the trees, through the gaps between the trunks and the spilling moonlight. You were nowhere—nothing to be seen except the eyes of animals and the wind moving the branches of the silent watchers of this place. The trees here move, trying to tell him something. Ever since he’d met you, everything had taken on new meaning.

Gaz tried to focus on breathing, but it was getting harder and harder to keep conscious. 

Lysander was doing something at the rock face—tapping his beak against the surface in steady intervals, only pausing to look down at him and tilt his head as if to ask, ‘Still alive down there?”

The knight glares at the bird, body losing strength until his chest connects down to the ground, eyes gazing off into the trees as the wind caresses his cheeks.

It was calm here. Gaz’s ears twitched at the sound of rock and stone, but the rapid hands on his cheeks captured his attention more than anything. His body is forced onto his back, a wide, terrified face blurred in front of him. 

But that voice…

“Gaz!”

Oh, he could fall into this abyss happily if the last words he heard were you calling his name.

—

You rip the last of the hem of your dress to use as bandages and see your hands quiver in all of their blood-stained glory. Along the cuts in Gaz’s skin, you had threaded through the gold that had once belonged to your antlered crown—the needle, a fragment of the very same bone you had broken along a rock. You’d raced to the river and asked the water for help, and it had followed swiftly with the help of the wind to clean wounds and aches. 

Now, you were wrapping what was left, the night beginning to slink back into the morning as you kept the break in the cliff face open to the air. The grass was awash with blood. 

You both can’t stay here if you want to live by tomorrow.

Lysander had brought Gaz to you, and now, he lays on the ground with his cape under his head—your hands healing him the best you can. You poured your magic tirelessly, hour after hour, but you had to focus on the worst wounds first. 

The slit on his stomach, namely—from an axe or some larger weapon, you know not, but it had left most of the carnage that needed to be attended to. If you were anything less than Fae, Gaz would be dead.

The thought ravaged your mind like a boar through undergrowth.

“You were not supposed to do that,” you mutter, fingers running the length of his tunic and grasping it, pulling the article down to hide the large scar that now moves up his stomach. Your head is light from the power it took. Plants and animals were so much easier; less to work with than human flesh. “Damn you, Knight. I would damn your name as well if I had the horrific pleasure of knowing it. Damn you.” 

Such words were below you, but you can’t help how they come out.

You stare at his face, the light of morning barely giving it illumination. He breathes softly, and it is your only relief to watch his chest rise and fall—broken armor discarded to the side by your panicked fingers. His heartbeat.

Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.

Your eyes flutter to it, trying to ease yourself as you take a deep breath and think.

You’re still too close to the castle for your liking. But he’s far too broken to move so soon.

Finger reaching out, your tips trail the raised skin of your glinting stitches, gold stuck between the flesh, peeling it back together along the forearm. All of it will scar. Violently so.

Your chest constricts, and you glare at his face.

“Why would you do that,” you hiss, growling in a tone that is foreign to you even if it still sounds elegant. A Fae’s wrath is one to behold. “Why? You owe me nothing, do you not understand that? You’re supposed to be a beast—a little man who…who…” you trail, teeth snapping as your head raises and whips away, nose to the air.

Yet, your crown had been broken just to save this human’s life. Willingly.

Mortals were supposed to be selfish. They were supposed to be like King Michael—that was what you’d been taught; that was what you knew. 

But everything Gaz did was the opposite of that. 

Love is a cage, you tell yourself again, and keep your face to the side. Unwilling to look down at the body that had been so eager to defend you.

You don’t like the wild feeling it makes breed like rodents in your heart, little claws moving up your throat and scratching at your teeth. 

“...Gonna finish that sentence, Love?” 

Your body startles, head snapping down to meet half-closed browns in an instant—you hiss. “Don’t speak, fool.” 

“Fool?” A weak chuckle wafts out, a hoarse voice as a head tries to shift on numb bone. “That’s not very nice, then.”

“I should make your lungs turn to dirt,” your sentence makes his brow flinch upwards, amused despite it all. “Change the very fabric of your muscle into oak wood.”

“Moody, are you?” 

Your eyes flash, and the grass around you shudders in answer as Lysander cleans his feathers a short distance away. Gaz tries a low smirk, softening his voice as his mind tries to focus above the noise in his head. “Joking.” 

Your face is troubled, jaw clenching. You can’t admit to yourself how much at ease his open eyes put you. You sigh, blinking away the sharp edge of your expression—it shifts back to the perfect calm it always wears. 

Gaz watches, your clothes torn and your palm still hidden away behind his cape’s cloth. He grunts suddenly, and the pain comes back in sharp pins as his face tightens. 

You can only watch, mind trying to come up with a solution that you know you don’t have. Magic can only do so much...but you have to try. He’s earned that much from you, at the very least. Your hand goes and hovers over the man’s cheek, pulling back only once before it captures the swell of it. 

Gaz swallows hard, and his eyes shift back through the haze of his shaking agony.

A kiss is leveled on his forehead, and it’s like the wounds cease to exist. He sags back onto the ground after a moment, skin tingling as magic runs its course through him like a stream of fire. It burns away the bad bits—keeping only the sensation of a princess pushing away his ails with a willing gift of her lips. 

A small noise is made in the back of his throat before Gaz takes a long and steady breath. His eyelids flutter. 

You pull back and place a hand on your head, grunting as the strength drains from you one wisp of magic at a time. Your skull pulses, and you know you’ve reached your limit. There was nothing more you could do. 

A calloused hand runs up to grasp at your wrist, and you let Gaz pull it back, his fingers twitching with healing nerves as he takes the limb and levels it at his lips. He holds it there until you open your eyes and look at him, a line of sweat running your temple. The knight watches it fall, skin hot.

“Thank you,” he whispers into your hand, only letting it move away when he knows you understand his words. Gaz whispers even as his eyes fight sleep. “Are you hurt, My Lady?”

“Right now,” your injured hand still burns—it always will. You restrain a flinch because of it. “You must focus on yourself, Knight. Such concerns are not needed. You almost gave your life for me.”

The last sentence is uttered no more than a squeak of a mouse in an open field. The thought…troubles you. It…it makes you want to run. 

Gaz smiles slowly, body mostly still. 

“Well, I can’t let a beauty like you get hurt now, can I? That would just be bloody wrong of me.” A pause. You don’t seem to find his jokes very funny. Gaz’s heart skips beats when you look at him like that. He softens, and your hand once more runs the length of his bandages, making him shiver. It was addicting: touching him. Feeling the heat of his flesh. 

“I’d do it again,” Gaz mutters. “I took an oath.”

“An oath to a King that was worth less than a rock on the bottom of the ocean,” you whisper. “It means nothing now.”

“It was never nothing to me.” Gaz’s eyes don’t leave yours. “Fighting for you will never be nothing.” 

You shake slightly, face heating up. All of this is wrong to you—foreign. But why does it make you feel like everything will be okay?

“I didn’t ask for your protection, Gaz,” you try once more. One final attempt to keep your slipping self-control. Weak fingers skate your chin, usually such a high and mighty thing, now stooped low and bent just to gaze upon the feeble body of a broken mortal man.

A man who will die in a blink. A man that should never have made a dent in your unbreakable mind; your knowledge of lives innumerable. A man that you can’t look away from as he smiles at you like that. Softy. Openly. 

Kindly.

Love is a cage.

“You never had to ask me, Stag…I would give my name to you, even if it was the last thing I had left of me.” 

Your eyes widen; your breath hitches as if you’d been stabbed in the heart. You nearly reel back, horror and something more trapped in every vein in your body. Ludicrous. That…that was absurd. Laughable!

His name? No, no never. That was a lie; a trick. Something so powerful, just to be uttered away like that by a bloodless mind. No. 

But not a single part of him is lying. Your jaw is slack in pure wonder. Struck dumb.

He wasn’t lying.

A low breeze goes through the trees—it slips past tattered clothes and the crimson grass. Whispering; talking in tongues you can’t understand at the moment above the noise from Gaz’s eyes. He’s still smiling at you, a knowing glint in his orbs as his fingers squeeze your chin. You catch his hand before it falls, grasping it without looking away. His pulse sings, and his throat releases a hum.

If love is a cage, you’d never wanted to be a prisoner more.

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#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #cod mw22 #call of duty x you #mw2 #mw2 2022 #gaz mw2 #gaz cod #gaz call of duty #gaz x female reader #gaz x reader #gaz garrick #kyle garrick #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #cod x female reader #female reader

[vmpiires]

﹆₊吸血鬼‧₊˚ TOLD HER BABY I EAT HUMANS, KAMO CHOSO

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ﹆₊ 概要 ‧₊˚ you encountered the famous vampire hunter. wc, 2.27K. dark mode recommended.

␥ note. got this idea from a fanart i saw on twitter. MY LORD HE WAS FINE..erm anyway,, JOIN THE DISCORD AND THANKS AGAIN FOR 400 FOLLOWERS. hope ya enjoyyyy. reblog to support meee

␥ tags. vampire AU, half-vampire vampire hunter!choso, female anatomy, blood, light smut (?), etc. lmk if i missed anything

␥ misc. masterlist AO3

the cathedral stood tall and imposing, its intricate stone façade glimmering in the moonlight. each stained-glass window depicted a different biblical scene, casting colorful patterns on the ground below. inside, the soft murmur of hushed prayers from the townspeople reverberated through the halls, creating a serene ambiance. but choso's purpose for being there was not to pray.

his heavy footsteps echoed through the cavernous halls as he made his way through the dimly lit crypt, guided only by flickering candlelight. the musty smell of ancient bones and earth filled his nostrils, sending shivers down his spine.

choso cut an imposing figure, his tall frame draped in a black cassock that nearly fell to his ankles with black pants underneath. a matching mozzetta hung from his shoulders, fluttering in the air as he walked, adding a sense of solemnity in his presence.

his black boots were sturdy and well-worn, a testament to the countless hunts he'd been on over the years since the church recruited him. his black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, letting his bangs hang just above his eyes, revealing his pale skin. and his violet eyes were piercing, they seemed to glow with an inner fire.

across the bridge of his nose, a blood mark stood out, a stark reminder of his vampiric nature. a battle he waged within himself. around his neck hung his rosary, a symbol of his faith, which he wielded as fearlessly as any weapon.

the hunter's struggle with his vampiric nature was a constant battle. despite his determination to suppress his undying thirst for human blood, he could still feel the deep-seated urges simmering beneath the surface. he likened it to a constant humming in the back of his mind, a temptation that was always there, no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

it took every ounce of willpower to resist the pull of his instincts. choso had finally developed several coping mechanisms over the years, from meditation and prayer to sheer force of will. but still, the thirst lingered, his mouth suddenly going dry at the sight of a human and the distinct smell of their blood, imagining the flavor.

as choso continued to make his way through the crypt, his senses remained on high alert. he could feel the weight of silence, the chill of the stone walls, and the oppressive air of the tomb. but what captivated his attention was the scent of human blood.

his steps faltered as a sudden wave of hunger washed over him. his fangs ached to sink into soft flesh, his body craved the sweet taste of blood. he closed his eyes, willing the thirst to subside. he couldn't afford to lose control, not here.

the hunter's body was tense, his breaths shallow and controlled as he focused on calming himself. he reached for his rosary, the smooth beads cool against his skin, a symbol of strength and protection. in his mind, he conjured the faces of those he had sworn to defend - innocent men, women, and children who relied on him for their safety. with each bead he passed through his fingers, the hunger that threatened to overtake him slowly began to subside, leaving behind a hollow ache in its wake.

choso's eyes snapped open as he sensed movement in the shadows once again. he whirled around, his hand instinctively reaching for the blessed dagger made from his own blood at his hip. that's when he saw you, the human he had been sensing, huddled in the corner of the crypt.

for a moment, he was struck by your vulnerability, your fragile humanity. but then his gaze was drawn to the pulse beating in your neck, the blood flowing beneath your skin. he felt the thirst rising again, stronger this time, harder to resist.

choso took a step towards you, his eyes locked on yours. he could see the fear in them, the knowledge of what he was. he felt a sudden shame, a revulsion at his own nature. but still, the hunger gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the character he tried to suppress.

he stopped a few feet away from you, his body trembling with the effort of resisting the urge to feed. "what are you doing here?" he growled, his voice low and threatening. "it's not safe down here...not for someone like you."

the man's gaze flickered around the crypt, taking in the dusty tombs and the eerie silence. choso's mind was racing, trying to piece together how you had ended up in such a place. had you been lured here by another vampire? or did you sneak in?

he took a deep breath, trying to center himself. "you need to go," he said, his tone firm. "now, before you get into some trouble." even as he spoke, he could feel the thirst rising again, reminding him of the danger he posed.

silently, without another word passing between you and the hunter, you swiftly exited the cold and dusty crypt, choso’s mozzetta fluttering behind him as a draft flew by him. your footsteps echoed through the dark tunnels as you made your way back to the main floor of the church, leaving the solitary hunter behind in his thoughts.

the smell of damp stone and old incense filled your nostrils as you ascended the stairs, anxious to escape the unsettling atmosphere of the crypt. finally, you emerged into the warm light of the cathedral, relieved to be once again surrounded by familiar surroundings.

choso watched you go, his body tense and coiled like a spring. he didn't relax until he heard the soft click of the crypt door closing behind you. only then did he let out a ragged breath, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion.

he sank to his knees, his head in his hands. he felt drained, both physically and emotionally. he had come so close to losing control and biting you, to becoming the thing he had sworn to fight against.

the male stayed like that for a long time, until the muffled sounds of footsteps in the church above finally spurred him into action. he stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. he knew he had a job to do, and he couldn't let his own weaknesses get in the way.

choso looked like a fallen angel, his pale skin glowing in the light streaming through the stained glass windows the following morning. the nuns fussed around him, their adoration plain to see. but his mind was elsewhere, lost in thought.

he sat in the pews, his gaze fixed on the ornate ceiling above him. his white collared shirt open, revealing a hint of his toned chest. his hair was tied back as usual, but a few stray strands had escaped, framing his face.

his thoughts kept returning to the events of the night before, to you, the human he saved. he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something different about you, something that set you apart from the others.

he closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. he needed to focus on his mission, on his duty as a vampire hunter. but your face kept intruding on his thoughts, your fear and vulnerability etched into his memory.

choso's thoughts were interrupted by movement at the sound of the church doors opening. he turned his head, his gaze instantly drawn to you as you walked down the aisle in his direction.

his eyes widened in surprise, and he felt a jolt of something he couldn't quite identify. you looked different in the daylight, your features softened by the warm sunlight streaming through the windows.

as you drew closer to choso, your steps faltered, and your eyes showed a mixture of uncertainty and genuine gratitude. but he could also see the fear in your gaze, knowing the potential danger he posed to you with his presence. his sharp features were set in a stern expression, adding to the tension between you both. as you stood before him, the air seemed to crackle with an unspoken understanding of the risks involved in this encounter.

with a deep inhale, he attempted to steady his racing heart and regain control of his emotions. "i distinctly remember warning you to stay away from this place," he started in a rough, gravelly voice. his eyes narrowed as he scanned the intruder standing before him. "what are you doing here?" the air seemed to crackle with tension as his words hung heavy in the stillness of the abandoned building.

you instinctively took a step back, feeling the weight of choso's presence and the depth of their emotions. "i needed to see you," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "i wanted to say thank you for what you did last night."

the words hung between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. the air was thick with tension as you waited for his response, uncertain of how he would react to your thanks. despite the distance between you, the intensity of your feelings bridged the gap and connected you in that moment.

you leaned in, your voice still barely above a whisper. "but i wanted to ask you something," you prompted. "in private." your words hung in the air, creating a sense of mystery and intrigue. the soft glow of the sun peering through the window illuminated the faint outlines of your face as you waited for their response.

choso looked at you, his expression unreadable. "no, there's no time for that," he said firmly. "you need to go before something happens and you need to stay away."

with your chin held high, you stood your ground. "no," your voice was shaking but determined. "i need to talk to you. it's important."

the hunter hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. he knew he needed to protect you, but he also couldn't ignore the urgency of the situation. "fine," he said finally, his voice tight. "but make it quick."

with a firm grip, he snatched you by the hand and urgently led you into an empty room, away from the curious eyes of the parishioners flooding in. as soon as the door slammed shut, choso wasted no time in closing the distance between you. his breath was hot against your skin as he leaned in close, his dark eyes burning with intensity.

choso’s voice was filled with urgency as he spoke. it echoed off the stone walls and reverberated through the dark room. "what is it?" he questioned, his eyes searching yours for answers. "what could possibly be so important that you would risk your life to come here and tell me?" the tension in the air was palpable as you hesitated before revealing your question. every word was like a fragile thread that could unravel at any moment.

the question had been nagging at you since the moment you left the cathedral. "how come you didn't bite me when you saw me?" the words escaped your lips before you could even think about it. choso turned to look at you, his widening with surprise at your query. "why did you decide to let me go instead?"

your tone was curious, almost amused. you couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind, what made him spare your life when he could have easily ended it right then and there. the air around you felt heavy as you stood before the hunter, awaiting his response.

choso hadn't expected you to be so direct with him, so perceptive. but before he could answer, he felt his mouth go dry with thirst rising within him, more powerful than it had ever been. he took a step towards you, his violet eyes glowing with desire. he knew he shouldn't, aware that it was dangerous, but he couldn't resist.

"because..." he whispered, his voice strained. "i couldn't."

without thinking, he closed the distance between you and pressed his lips to yours. the kiss was hungry, desperate, fueled by his desire for blood and something else he couldn't quite identify.

your body stiffened in surprise, but then you found yourself melting against him, returning the kiss with equal fervor. for only a moment, choso had forgotten about everything except for the taste of your lips and the thirst welling up inside him.

choso lifted you with ease and gently placed you onto the cleared desk in the room. his lips traveled from yours to your neck, pressing soft kisses against your skin and occasionally nibbling on it, leaving a trail of marks behind. each touch sent shivers down your spine and your pulse quickened as you let out quiet moans, struggling to contain your growing desire.

the sensation of his warm breath on your neck only added to the intensity of the moment. the room was filled with the scent of passion and anticipation, as bodies pressed together in a dance of pleasure. choso's hands roamed over your body, igniting every nerve with his touch.

the sensation of his warm breath on your neck only added to the moment’s intensity. the room was filled with the scent of passion and anticipation, as bodies pressed together in a dance of pleasure. choso's hands roamed over your body, igniting every nerve with his touch.

while his lips pressed against your neck, you felt a sharp pinch on your skin, followed by a faint slurping sound. choso's mouth and shirt were now stained with your blood, causing your eyes to widen in shock. before you could even process what had happened, he pulled away and kissed you again with an urgent hunger, his actions more desperate and forceful than before.

you could feel the warmth of your own blood mingling with his saliva as the taste of iron filled your mouth. the intensity of the moment sent shivers down your spine, both from fear and a strange sense of pleasure that you couldn't quite explain.

⠀© vmpiires | like, reblog & follow.

#𝐾𝑂𝑇𝐴 𝑊𝑅𝐼𝑇𝐸𝑆 書く #jujutsu kaisen #anime #choso kamo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen choso #jjk x reader #choso x reader #jjk choso #choso x black!reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu hakari #jjk smut #jujutsu geto #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu choso #jjk nanami #nanami kento #jjk geto #jjk gojo #jjk x you #jjk hakari #hakari x reader #hakari kinji #writeblr #writers on tumblr

[lostinthesasuke]

I just saw your Sasuke as Joan of Arc art and first of all I LOVE IT second of all I think it gave me a new kind of brain worms. Begging you to elaborate on what you mean by Sasuke would understand how Joan of arc felt, please I feel insane.

first of all thank you so much, that means a lot to me. <3

second of all, not sure if you know the can of (brain)worms u just opened. this is long so buckle up.

joan of arc was born into a century long war between france and england, and saw her home destroyed.

sasuke was born into a military state where children are primed to be perfect soldiers the moment they are old enough to hold a kunai. the state groomed his brother into a murderer, stripped his home and family from him.

throughout her life, joan of arc saw visions of saint michael, telling her she would be the one to lead france to salvation. joan vowed to avenge her country, and petitioned the king. at seventeen, joan was sent to war. at seventeen, she was victorious. when france was triumphant, she was beloved. when the tide of battle turned, she was blamed. she was burned at the stake.

sasuke was plagued by visions too, images of his family eviscerated at the hands of the most important person in his world. burned into his eyes like a brand, forced to watch on repeat.

with that, he resolved to wage his own war.

joan, who was once revered as a pure maiden and was made a symbol rather than a girl, became despised; villainized, and accused of demonic possession.

sasuke was made a symbol, too. the last of his clan, a powerful asset. an uchiha, a holder of a desired kekkei genkai, not a boy. he fled. like joan, he sought a powerful entity to gain strength, to forge his path in battle.

at seventeen, he learned the truth about his clan's state-sanctioned genocide. at seventeen, they called for his execution, too. discarded once he no longer served konoha's purpose, had abandoned the so-called 'will of fire'. the illustrious uchiha name tainted by blood, by a farcical "curse".

his opponent used the very power stolen from his kin, their doujutsu embedded in his arms. joan's detractors still benefited from her name long after her demise, too.

joan's emergence was prophesied, a legend of a virgin who would bring peace to france and end the war.

a virgin, pure. 

sasuke's ideological purity is a topic that has been debated at length by both his supporters and critics, both in the text and real life (and kishimoto himself.)

sasuke's "purity" and the morality of his actions are always under scrutiny. which follows since his clan name has been "dirtied". 

joan was also forced to defend her purity. a maiden and a virgin, she was put on trial for her supposed lack of virtue with her life hanging on the verdict. they labeled her a heretic crossdresser perverted by satan because she kept her hair cropped short and wore only men's clothing. they killed her for it.

sasuke and joan both blur the lines of gender. sasuke is portrayed as a heroine and a femme fatale, and objectified for his looks and his body (whether for power or other nefarious reasons). he is more scantily clad than any of the women characters, and cast in a lascivious light.

joan rebuffed suitors and refused marriage all her life. similarly, sasuke rejected all advances from women throughout the manga (post 700 doesn't exist to me) despite the intensity with which he was pursued.

joan's righteous fury at the british, at the wars that claimed her childhood, are all reflected in sasuke's motivations. in his quest for justice, in his resolution to bring peace to a war torn world, to make those in power pay for the suffering that they are complicit in and dismantle the very framework that allows it.

at seventeen, sasuke decided to become a martyr for the world's hatred. he decided he would be the one to shoulder it all, to purify the world of conflict by taking all of the animosity onto himself. like joan who believed she was sent by g-d to end war, sasuke resolved to become a savior.

a martyr like joan (like itachi), whose guilty verdict was only overturned long after her death. who was canonized as a saint long after mobs raged against her. who became a symbol of freedom and revolution enduring hundreds of years, her name a rallying cry despite the vitriol that claimed her life. 

sometimes when you're seventeen, the voices in your head tell you to start a revolution. sometimes, they're right. sometimes the institutions upheld by those in power need to be cleansed by holy fire, and maybe sometimes something better can rise from the ashes.

#sorry this got so fucking long #txt #sasuke uchiha #naruto meta #this is my first time putting meta in any tags ... #ask

[sideshowkaz]

Hart shaped things.

I have this odd mild loathing of heart shaped things. It’s the twee side of it and how cute they can be. That single heart shaped pretty necklace thats supposed to signal love to everyone around feels like there’s horrible under tones to me.

I got to see little girls like me wear those lovely little pendants as the only decoration they were allowed because too much was too much and the church didn’t like over doing it. Little girls with their hearts overflowing with innocent love.

Children at eight years old being made to make a covenant when they still hadn’t grown out of that cute stage. Boys and girls both not knowing what they got into.

They grew to twelve years old and boys got the kind of power in the church where they had more power in their little finger than their grandmothers will ever have or have had.

Lessons with undertones of punishment though teens that men are men and women are women. Each needing to act accordingly and dress accordingly. Those heart shaped pendants for the ones that noticed became like weights around our necks dragging us down. We had to appear feminine enough and cute and unthreatening enough. God didn’t want women acting like men. I didn’t want ether. Into my teen years I was being told I had to wear makeup and stylish clothing. Women needed to look just nice enough to be interesting to men but not to interesting. You have to be feminine enough to attract a good man but also men are the huge monsters in ally ways and car parks. Men were the enemy you had to let into your life and run it because god said so. It wasn’t who I was. Hearts began to signify that forever innocence women were supposed to have. They were worn like shields against gods wrath just in case a woman were to show a bit of strength or stand up for themselves. But they were never worn much only just enough. Women had to be modest and cover enough of themselves that their bodies felt foreign to them and didn’t belong to them but show enough to show they were still ladies.

And then I got to see adult women after years of having men run their lives tired and sick. All being told they aren’t bringing enough children into the world wile they had so many they didn’t keep track of the ones they had. They worried they couldn’t do enough with ‘populating the earth’ which terrified me. All that modesty enforced with garments so now the church dictates and mandates under clothes.

Then much older women beaten down and unable to fight back every time a man spoke or communicate what they want because men run things to them. Some were obviously abused and some were willing submissive.

But wile all this was going on I was told I was a special spirit and I’d never find a man anyway unless he was the bottom of the pile. The meat market of young single adults never interested me. I wasn’t the best looking, I was disabled to the point I couldn’t just try to be better and somehow look normal to the right guy. Men and women were forced into roles that made them interchangeable in so many ways. Faith in god was supposedly all you needed for a good marriage. What was left as far as characteristics went for anyone to pick what they wanted from? Appearance. Ugly girls got treated with pity. Ugly girls like me. I was told I could fix it if I basically wasn’t me.

It all started with a heart symbol that even people out of the church wear but to me I can’t separate it off from outdated hairstyles, being made to keep my ‘natural’ hair colour, no other subjects being ok but bitching about the unfaithful, skirts you can’t run in but you have to wear them anyway, not being allowed to wear certain colours because they are too bright or give the wrong message, white T-shirts under anything that showed of shoulders or collarbones, lace up to the neck to the point of being choking, not being able to stand up for myself when I need to, being told I couldn’t stand out in any way in my own community but to outsiders I had to look a certain type of strange, being told I had to keep pure but if a priesthood holder said something I better listen even if it wasn’t a good idea, not being allowed to be me but having to be some image of a woman that everyone else wanted me to be, seeing men as both saviours i needed to get into heaven and the demons we were meant to fear and if we showed off our knees men would go from one straight to the other.

The overly cuteness of the little heart symbol jewellery was a part of femininity I never resonated with and for a long time because of that I felt like I was nothing. Now I know there’s just nothing for me in a church that only allowed me one way to express myself and kept telling me what myself was when it wasn’t that at all.

#exmo #exmormon

[gglitch1dd]

4. Back to You (Midoriya x Reader Week)

Reader is genderneutral in this one.

Viking AU

Long ago, when you were still but a little one, you were friends with a little boy in your village. But after an attack, you never saw him again. Years later he comes back to return the village back to how it once was, with the body of a warrior, the heart of gold and the lightning of Thor in his eyes.

Warning: Norse Mythology and Norse gods, Mentions of fighting and blood (once again, not the sexy kind), but cute at the end.

You gathered sticks in your arms, one by one. Your clammy small hands were a contrast to the feeling of the rough wood in your hands. You kept one arm around the bundle of sticks you were collecting for firewood. You counted under your breath, placing them one at a time in your arms. Your mother looked up at you ever so often, as she picked apples from a tree closer to your home.

“Y/N.” You paused for a moment, at the familiar whisper of your name. You turned your head around to look for the origin of the sound. You furrowed your eyebrows confused. “Psst! Y/N.” Another whispered call of your name. You then saw him behind a big tree. His wide green eyes darting between you and your mother.

You scrunched up your face. “Izuku?” You asked quietly. “What are you doing here?” You asked him, moving closer to where he was.

The little boy stepped out just a bit for you to see more of him. He waved his hand, beckoning you to come closer to him. “Come on, you have to see this.” He whispered with an excited smile on his face.

You smiled as you took a step closer but then you withdrew. That action made the boy frown, confused. “Izuku, you know I have chores to do.” You whispered upset. “My mother doesn’t like it when we always go off and play.”

He extended his hand towards you, not that much bigger than yours. You looked back at his freckled face, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “I promise, it’ll be quick.” He whispered to you. You knew it was a lie. It wouldn’t be quick. It wouldn’t be fast enough for your mother’s liking. However, you wouldn’t care. Even if Odin told you otherwise, Midoriya always found a way to pull at your heart and reasoning into fallowing him like a lost sheep.

You dropped your bundle of sticks and took his hand. The two of you, giggling loudly ran away from your home. Woollen lined leather boots running and crunching under dry leaves and twigs. Your mother saw you and she frowned. “Y/N!” She seethed in anger. She turned to get back into your family home to shout to your father. “It’s the Midoriya boy again!”

The two of you couldn’t seem to care as you both giggled and ran through the leaves and on the soft ground. Midoriya held your hand with a bright smile on his face as he pulled you closer to the centre of the village. The two of you ran past other villagers who would chuckle at the both of you, not surprised to see you both giggling and running along together, causing mischief in some form or another. Midoriya pulled you behind a fence that separated the path and the training place.

The both of you watched with wide eyes and open mouths in awe as big burly men and agile trained women fought and worked. Their muscles sweaty and their training abilities precise. Amongst them, in the middle, defeating anyone and everyone who dared to go against him was Jarl All Might. He was the chieftain of the village. His long blond hair was behind him, tied back with multiple braids. His sharp blue eyes saw everything and coordinated with his large frame that swung his axe. His axe was legendary and was said to be only held by a person who could equal his strength and power. Its double headed steel had ruins and symbols on it that almost seemed to shine as he swung it into shields and other weapons.

“Whoa…” You let out.

Midoriya nodded his head. “Mhm” He turned to you with bright eyes. “One day, I’m going to be just as big and strong as All Might.” He proclaimed, putting his hands on his hips. “I’ll be an unbeatable warrior just like him.”

You turned to him with a raised eyebrow. You placed a hand on his arm. “But you’re so skinny.” You pointed out.

The boy grew a small pink blush on his face as he fiddled with his hands. “I-I’ll grow bigger.” He mumbled, making you giggle. He felt his face grow with more heat and glow red. He cleared his throat and nodded trying to act tougher. “I’ll grow bigger and protect you.”

“Protect me?” You asked with a scrunched-up face. “Why would you need to protect me?”

“Cause I’m going to marry you, so we’ll always be together.” He said with a blush on his face, but he was clearly sure about what he was saying. “And one of us has to be a warrior.” He stated almost as though it was a requirement. “Or both of us could be.”

You shook your head. “Why can’t we just be farmers?” You stated. “Or blacksmiths?”

Midoriya hummed in distaste. “That sounds boring, don’t you think.” He lifted his nose a bit. “It’s fine, but I don’t think I could do that.”

Before the two of you could discuss more, you felt a pair of hands grab you both by the ears. Inko Midoriya dragged you both away from the training you were spectating. “Izuku! What did I tell you about dragging Y/N away from her chores!” She scolded him as she pulled you both down the dirt road to head back to your home. “You’re such a good boy and yet you are always getting Y/N and I into trouble.” She stated factually. Both you and Midoriya hissed in pain at her harsh grip as she dragged you both along, villagers chuckling once again at the familiar sight.

The two of you were one half to another. It was odd but it was a beautiful odd. Even though Inko was forced to apologize tens of times for her son always distracting you, it never stopped the both of you. Until one night, the village was burning. There was an attack and everything seemed like it was falling to the ground. You never saw Izuku, you never understood what had happened to him, because in the chaos and all the violence and bloodshed, he was gone.

You and your family stood in front of the new Jarl, All Might surprisingly defeated leaving all of you at the mercy of Tomura Shigaraki. It never made sense to any of you. All Might was unstoppable. A force to be reckoned with and the strongest of all men known or heard off and yet, Tomura Shigaraki, a man more than two times younger than All Might in experience and age, defeated him with the help his leader and mentor All for One.

He sat on his cushioned chair lounging, as he spectated the crowd. “The era of peace is dead.” He announced into a silent crowd. He smirked at himself. “Now we have a new dawn upon us. Any and all mentions of All Might shall be viewed as treason and therefore, punishable by death.” He had an announced. Suddenly like a wave, all was washed away.

You never did know what happened to Midoriya. He was your everything growing up and you were both such close friends. You just prayed to Thor to protect him and if he had made it to Valhalla, you hoped that the Valkyries guided him safely there.

The village was not like how it used to be. With high taxes from a Jarl that already took everything.

You pulled your bucket up from the well, your arms pulling the heavy bucket with little difficulty onto the wall of the well. You had been sent to get fresh water from the well in town, despite it being so dark already. You breathed out a breath into the cold air. Grabbing the rope handle of the bucket you heaved it off the wall and started to waddle your way back home.

You made your way through the dark streets, being careful of the few other villagers that were still out and about. Ever since Shigaraki became Jarl, there were no longer big dinners in the Great Hall. The only gatherings were that for informative reasons.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t little Y/N…” You heard him before you saw him. You tried to stop your limbs from tensing uncomfortably as you kept on going. He settled at a walk next to you an amused smirk on his face. “What are you doing out so late into the evening?” He asked.

You grunted as you kept on moving forward. “Hello to you too, Dabi.” You spoke, trying not to sound annoyed. Shigaraki’s people had swiftly taken over the village using fear as a way to force people into doing whatever they wanted. Dabi had infamous tales of him burning people’s homes and their food supply for not complying wit him. “I’m just getting water.”

“Well, I should accompany you. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt now, would we?” He asked rhetorically. You knew you had no say in the matter and so continued next to the man with burn marks and piercing chilled blue eyes. You both walked in a tense silence. Him watching you carry the heavy wooden bucket to the best of your ability as you made your way back home. “Any plans for the evening?”

“Sleep.”

He chuckled at your blatant answer. “You know sweetheart, you could always spend the night at my place.” He suggested. You felt your heartrate pick up its pace as you tried to increase the pace of your walking. You tried not to think of the implications of his statement. He had his hands in his pockets as he walked at a leisurable pace. “It’s warm, I have riches galore, and I’m sure you could keep my bed warm for me, for the night.”

You offered him a tense smile. “I would like to but I have chores, Dabi.” You told him nodding your head up at him. “My parents… their getting old. I should take care of them.” You stated. The door of your house in sight.

“Hm really?” He asked. You hummed with a nod of your head. Next thing you know you were being pushed against the wall of another house. You winced in pain at the force he used. You looked down noticing that your bucket had fallen over and all the water was escaping out into the dirt road. Dabi harshly grabbed your chin and forced you to focus on him in front of you with a soft smile on his face. His smiles always unnerved you. They made you feel uncomfortable and almost as though he was watching you like a wolf watched a rabbit. “Well, you are single, aren’t you? You should be focusing on finding yourself a husband.” He told you.

You shakily opened your mouth but the voice that came out wasn’t your own.

“Dabi!”

Dabi scowled as he turned his head back to look at Toga. “What Toga?” He asked with a sneer.

The blond woman looked frantic as she held two daggers in her hands. “It’s a raid!” She reported to him.

Dabi dropped you, allowing you to fall to your feet. You rubbed your chin, trying to ease the lingering pain of his grip on you. Dabi was scowling at Toga, her having interrupted his plans. “Who is it?”

“We don’t know but-” Suddenly you started hearing the increased sound of battle cries. The shouts of people fighting in the decreasing light of day. She looked over to the direction of the origin of the sound. “But your brother is part of them! Shoto!”

Dabi released a growl in annoyance. He thought he got rid of all the other Todoroki’s so he could finally move on. He wasn’t surprised it was his youngest brother out of all of them, who was still alive or at least made his presence known. You thought he was going to rush off and join the fight but Dabi turned to you quickly and grasped your jaw in his warm grip once more. He pointed a finger down at you. “We aren’t finished here. Stay out of the fight.” He told you, seriously. He pushed you back onto the ground following Toga.

You waited a moment before scrambling to get up off the floor. You tried to find a place to hide, the growing sounds of metal against metal and the sounds of a fight increasing in volume. You hoped that whoever had come, would hopefully kill Shigaraki and restore the village. You hoped. Or in any case, whoever it was wouldn’t make it worse than it had turned out to be. You pushed yourself forward and slid to hide behind a pig shed. You tilted your head to look at the fighting away from you.

Your eyes widened as you realized you knew some of the people fighting. It was an odd thing because they were all much bigger and grown than when you had last saw them. You saw a tall man with a slender figure but with flexible muscles fight with a sword. The burn mark over his left eye told you who he was. Shoto Todoroki, with his white and red hair that cascaded down his back and moved gracefully alongside him. There were others you knew too, Iida Tenya, Uraraka Ochaco and Asui Tsuyu. Others you had thought had all perished or had disappeared when Shigaraki and his warriors had taken over.

But there was one that particularly caught your eye. He was huge. Big thick muscles sculpted onto his body with pristine deity likeness. He had curly dark hair, and in the light of fire that started to spread you saw it wasn’t black but of a darkest green. His body had battle scars littered over his body. The way his body moved wasn’t clumsy but coordinated, every step and swing having purpose. Then you saw his face, green jade eyed with a freckled face with four prominent ones on each cheek. He growled down at the man he was fighting, swing his axe down onto him with a vendetta.

Your eyes widened. “Izuku…” You whispered in shock. He looked so different from the boy you once knew all those years ago.

You watched as him and Shigaraki caught each other’s eyes. The both of them having a silent agreement to go up against each other. The green haired man took his loose dark cape with wolf fur lining off his shoulders. He rolled his shoulders as he kept his gaze on Shigaraki. Shigaraki’s red eyes glanced down at the axe in his own hand, dark in colour and then over to the weapon Midoriya was holding. It’s sharp bright metal self, with its two heads and symbols drawn was undoubtedly All Might’s axe.

The two paused for a moment before the two men ran at each other’s, axes ready at the swing. Their axes clashed and a huge rumble came from the sky. You looked up at the sky worried. With every clash and eyes filled with murderous intent, the sky and weather seemed to grow reckless. You watched with others who chose to want to see how the fight would end up. Just as Midoriya swiped his axe, aiming to hit Shigaraki in the torso, Shigaraki kicked his wrist. His axe went flying. You watched as it went flying in your direction, landing in the ground just in front of you.

You looked between Midoriya and the axe. He was on his back grunting as he gripped the arm of Shigaraki’s axe pushing him away as best as you could. You frowned. You got up from your place hidden and wretched the axe out from the ground. You held it up as best as you could. “Izuku!” You shouted his name loud and clear.

Midoriya glanced your way, his eyes wide and for a moment he almost forgot where he was. He glanced down to your hands holding the axe. He turned his attention back up to Shigaraki. He lifted his knees closer to his chest and kicked Shigaraki off of him. Just as Midoriya got up, you used all your strength to throw his axe up into the air. Midoriya caught his axe high in the air and that’s when you saw it. Lighting danced the sky and his eyes seemed electrified and glowed with power. You watched with your mouth open in awe, seeing Thor and Vali in his eyes. With all his strength Midoriya swung his axe down.

There was clapping throughout the great hall as Midoriya and his warriors walked in. The morning light shown down on them before entering the shelter that was the great hall. He walked in front of all, holding his axe trustily in one hand. Midoriya openly accepted with a bashful smile all their praises and gratitude. The warriors all made it to the end of the great hall. Sitting in front of them, on a higher platform was a throne covered in soft pelts, untouched and waiting for a new Jarl.

Iida and Todoroki along with everyone else in the room looked to Midoriya. Midoriya looked to Todoroki and Iida. “So… who’s supposed to be there?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

Iida’s face fell at Midoriya’s question. He motioned to the platform with a both hands. “You, Izuku.”

Midoriya’s eyes widened in surprise. “Me?” He asked motioning to himself in shock. His face bloomed red as he started to grow nervous. “W-why me?”

“You defeated Shigaraki.” Todoroki stated simply.

Iida nodded in agreement. “The law states that whoever defeats the Jarl takes up his position.”

Midoriya let out a shaky breath as he gulped. He walked up the throne carefully, eyeing it in wonder. It was the same place he used to watch All Might sit on when he was younger. The place he would look up in wonder. His fingers traced one of the arm rests wondering if this was really it? Was this all it took. It was a hard and long journey but it was one that was needed. He carefully turned around and sat down, his large frame fitting the throne nicely.

But he was tense. His body upright and rigid making the other villagers laugh. It was no surprise from memories of how Midoriya used to be. He cleared his mouth trying to say something but found words hard to formulate. He felt like he was under an immense amount of pressure. He opened his mouth to speak but then his eyes caught onto you. You stood in front of the crowd, your hands joined together looking at him with wide eyes that gleamed in hope and wonder. You looked up at him so proud, a small smile on your face. You nodded your head motioning to him.

Midoriya couldn’t stop the smile that went up to his face, just at the look of you. He eased up, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned back against the spine of the chair. He smiled over to everyone. “This village is under new management.” He stated factually. “My name is Izuku Midoriya. I am a man with no sire to my name but nonetheless grew up in this village amongst all of you. I swear by Odin’s good name, that I will do all that I can to the best of my ability to lead justly and fair.” His eyes glanced over to you. “I promise.” He cleared his throat. “All affairs will be settled soon enough.” He looked to Iida who nodded his head understandingly. “But till those are announced…” A huge grin was pulled onto his face. “We shall feast!” He shouted into the air.  The group of people cheered happily. “In this very hall tonight, we shall dine like we once did, as families, neighbours, lovers and friends. Together. Till then…” He hesitated not knowing what else to say. He waved his hands. “You can leave if you want.”

The hall erupted into joyous chatter and smiles. People mingling once more, plans of the feast of tonight already being made. You looked around happy, already feeling the village air being lighter than it has been in years. You felt a tap on your shoulder, and you turned around to see who it was. Immediately your hand was taken as you were pulled away from everyone else. You let out a laugh at the action. “Izuku!” You let out in a giggle as he pulled you out of the hall away from everyone. His hands were no longer soft as they used to be but they were still so gentle and caring with you.

Once you both had privacy, he stopped, now turning to face you. You opened your mouth to speak but immediately all breath was sucked out of your lungs as he took your face in his hands and kissed you so deeply and earnestly you were surprised it was even happening. Immediately your body softened and relaxed causing one of his arms to wrap around you, keeping you up on your feet. You let out a stuttered sigh leaning forward into the heat of his body.

Midoriya moved back, placing his forehead against yours. His eyes were closed as he just wanted to hold you for a moment. “I’ve missed you.” He whispered quietly to you.

You smiled as you placed your hand over his, the one that cupped your cheek so sweetly. “I prayed every day to the gods, for them to reunite us.” You told him honestly.

He smiled at that, his other hand rubbing your side softly with his thumb. “Seems like the gods smile down on you.”

You hummed as you moved a bit away from him looking him up and down. “And it seems they have been kind to you as well. Hm?” You pinched his bicep making him flush a little. Even as an adult, he was still the same. “You have muscle now. What happened to that skinny boy I knew?” You asked with a raised eyebrow and a cheeky smile.

He roughly pulled you against his chest once more, your bodies against each other as his face was so close to yours. He focused down on you like you were the only thing in his world. “He grew stronger…” Your hand on his arm tightened around his warm muscle. “Bigger and greater so that he could hold you like this.” His hands settled on your waist; he bent his head down closer to yours. You closed your eyes, your lips brushing against his. Your heart was beating out of your chest. Everything between the two of you seemed so magnetic. So much pulling and pushing that you didn’t know what to do with it. Your breaths became laboured as you wanted more of him, you wanted him to kiss you again and make your mind blank. “Marry me.” He whispered against your lips. “Marry me. I want you at my side forever. I want to build a home together.” He placed his forehead against yours. “I want to safely know that in front of everyone, in front of all the gods, that you are mine and I am yours.”

You chuckled. “So many things you want, Izuku.”

“I…” He let out a scoff. “I am a greedy man.”

“What if I want to be a farmer? Or a blacksmith?”

He let out a low groan in annoyance rolling his eyes. You laughed at his reaction. He rubbed his eyes. “I thought you would have grown out of that by now.” He stated in hope.

You chuckled shaking your head. You hooked one hand behind his neck and pulled his head closer. “Well, answer me this first, before I give you my answer.” You told him, looking up at him through hooded eyes of lust. He hummed licking his lips and focusing on yours. “Will you ever leave again?” You asked him serious.

He shook his head. “Not if I can help it. Not even the Valkyries would be able to take me away from you.”

You smiled. “Right answer.”

“So… will you?”

You hummed. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” You whispered, pulling his head down to yours and kissing him deeply. He hummed and let out a shaky breath. He pulled you closer, one arm wrapped around you and the other cupping the back of your head.

He never wanted to let go.

-Glitch1d

<Next Day>

#izuku midoriya #mha x y/n #mha #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku x reader #deku x reader #bnha viking au #viking deku #viking izuku #viking izuku midoriya #viking izuku x reader #deku x y/n #deku x gender neutral reader #izuku x you #izuku fluff

[writing-sideblog-behind-books]

it wasn't as bad as it could be. despite the many failures of her body it wasn't as bad as it could be.

she was constantly wracked with sickness and had the wrong parts but she was skinny and tiny and some weekends when they had the money bucky would take her out to another city and she'd wear a dress and they'd go dancing.

still, she needed to join the military. bucky was drafted and her father died for it.

the serum gave her strength and speed and health and a big body that towered over even most men and bulging arms. no one would look at her like this and see her as a women.

the uso tours presented her as a symbol of american strength and masculinity. soft and beautiful girls dancing at her back. it took a while but in the year they traveled together they became close. once, she got to borrow a skirt but it didn't fit. after that they sometimes did her makeup and nails and taught her how to do their hair even if she wasn't allowed to grow hers.

bucky, to her relief, also still calls her stevie. a female name that in the context of her can be seen as a childish nickname of boys or a cutesy version that the dancing girls tease him with.

#steve rogers #mcu #trans steve rogers #because i've been recently obsessed with the mcu and had really bad body dysphoria at not having the body of all these big dudes and though #what if we reverse that and have these big dudes suffer because of their bodies and who better than steve (i had a drastic #change in body) rogers for that

[genuinerio]

YOUNG, WILD AND FREE ↠ 「 Outer Banks 」

Prologue and first chapter will be coming soon!

NOTE: I named my OC in honor of my favorite actor, River Phoenix, he will be dearly missed and beloved. May he rest peacefully. Also, decided to make her John B’s love interest.

Profile of River Maxine Maybank.

ABOUT ↴

FULL NAME: RIVER MAXINE MAYBANK ROUTLEDGE.

NICKNAMES: RIO, STARSHINE. (first jj, now kie, john b, pope and sarah), RIVER MAXINE. (everyone), RIO, RIV, KID, KIDDO, SUNFLOWER, MINI ME. (jj), SOUL SISTER. (kiara), SUNSHINE, ANGEL. (john b).

PLACE OF BIRTH: THE CUT, OUTER BANKS.

DATE OF BIRTH: UNKNOWN.

AGE: SIXTEEN.

GENDER: FEMALE.

EYE COLOR: BLUE.

HAIR COLOR: BLONDE.

HEIGHT: 5’8.

STATUS: ALIVE.

EDUCATION: KILDARE COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL. (currently).

ORGIN: OUTER BANKS.

RESIDENCE: THE CUT, OUTER BANKS.

SKILLS: ART, CREATIVITY, WRITING.

STRENGTHS: SURVIVING ABUSE, BEING ARTISTIC, HIGH PAIN TOLERANCE, CONFIDENT AND BRAVE.

WEAKNESSES: LETTING HERSELF BE ABUSED, PROMISCUITY WITH FEARING COMMITMENT AMONG BEING REBELLIOUS, FEARING TO LET ANYONE BE TRULY CLOSE BESIDES HER BROTHER AND BEING SELF DESTRUCTIVE.

HOBBIES: HANGING OUT WITH HER FRIENDS AND BROTHER, DRINKING ALCOHOL, PLAYING GUITAR, PAINTING, SKETCHING, SMOKING WEED AND CIGARETTES AMONG PARTYING, SURFING.

GOALS: GETTING HER AND JJ TO LEAVE THEIR ABUSIVE HOUSEHOLD AND TAKE VENGEANCE AMONG THEIR FATHER, NOT BEING AFRAID OF COMMITMENT AS WELL AS BECOMING A PROFESSIONAL ARTIST.

PERSONALITY TYPE: ENFP.

FAMILY: LUKE MAYBANK. (father), UNKNOWN MOTHER. (estranged), JJ MAYBANK. (twin brother), RICKY. (cousin).

FRIENDS: JJ MAYBANK. (brother, best friend), KIARA CARRERA. (best friend, like a sister), JOHN B ROUTLEDGE, best friend, eventual love interest), POPE HEYWARD. (best friend, like a brother), SARAH CAMERON. (best friend), CLEO. (friend).

ENEMIES: LUKE MAYBANK. (currently), RAFE CAMERON. (currently), TOPPER THORNTON. (formerly), WARD CAMERON. (currently).

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: PANSEXUAL.

LOVE INTERESTS: JOHN B ROUTLEDGE. (eventual husband, not legally), VARIOUS MEN AND WOMEN. (hookups, flings).

AFFILIATION: POGUES. (currently).

FIRST APPEARANCE: PILOT.

LATEST APPEARANCE: SECRET TO THE GNOMON.

FACE CLAIM: KATHRYN NEWTON.

FACTS ABOUT RIVER:

1. River is named after famous actor and namesake, River Phoenix who is also the older brother of Joaquin Phoenix. The name has various meanings, in a general aspect it means a flowing body of water and in a symbolic meaning, it means flowing freely, being connected to nature and having depth.

2. JJ frequently refers to her as his “mini me,” despite the fact that they’re twins and she is only younger than him by ten minutes for the reason given above. Another thing is that if he had to choose, he’d pick River as he sees his sister as the female version of himself like others see him as hers which annoys her constantly.

3. Like my other Outer Banks OC and Kiara, she is known to have a hippie soul, vibe and personality to her as she loves nature and is spiritual.

4. Because of the clear similarity and resemblance especially in looks to her mother, this causes River problems with Luke.

5. River is considered and viewed to be the female version of twin brother, JJ with the two sharing blue eyes and blonde hair along with other characteristics. One in particular is the protectiveness and defending for one another and their friends. However, unlike JJ, she is not as quick tempered as him but rather, likes to keep her anger and sorrows to herself.

6. Despite their extremely close bond and protectiveness of each other, River is oftentimes annoyed by JJ’s overprotective behaviour towards her with her feeling that he views her as a baby and acts like her father rather than her actual brother who’s the same age as her. At first, she understood it as a young child but she no longer is a child nor the little girl she once was.

7. Growing up, River was very shy and only really would talk and open up to JJ in spite of having other friends, it would just take her time to get comfortable with interacting with others and in gaining the confidence to trust them.

8. Because of the abusive and toxic environment, her and JJ were raised in, she feels that it had caused her major issues when it comes to relationships among other issues. People consider River to have major daddy and trust issues.

9. Regardless of them both being best friends with the pogues, River considers JJ to be her bestest friend of them all with Kiara, John B and Pope following suit and vice versa.

10. It’s pointed out that JJ clearly cares more about River’s wellbeing than his own and loves her a lot, JJ would do whatever for her. He also sees her as having great potential in anything that she’d like to pursue as he views her as very intelligent and is willing to support her through it all. In favour of this, River appreciates this but feels awful that JJ doesn’t see himself as having much potential or others not seeing him as so either when she believes he could have potential if he worked hard for it.

11. Despite how close they are as a whole, River and Pope are always considered to be each other’s “partner in crime” when it comes to important matters as they are both very smart for being pogues and are typically the ones to be the most reasonable in difficult situations.

12. It’s clear that River tries her best in trying to see other people’s perspectives especially JJ with his crazy antics. She doesn’t want it to make it seem like her brother is alone in his ideas even if they’re not the best ones or that she agrees with them.

13. River always saw JJ as the closest thing she had to a father since despite the two being the same age given that they’re twins, he always cared for her in a way that she once hoped that Luke would have and in a way that a loving father would care for their daughter.

14. The female Maybank is an old soul as she is very empathetic and compassionate to those that she cares deeply for. She has been noticed to be very wise beyond her years as well as caring more about her inner self than her outer self.

15. When they were children, JJ had taught River to surf once he learned himself and ever since then, it was a hobby that the two shared. JJ has said a few times that he believes River is a better surfer than he is, however; River disagrees and explains that she is good but JJ is in fact better.

16. Besides his other two nicknames for her, JJ calls her “sunflower,” as he says that River is someone who can brighten up their day, everyone adores her and is her favorite type of flower.

17. Before she and JJ became friends and grew to know John B and Pope, she’d cling to JJ as a child. Thus possibly hinting to a case of abandonment issues.

#outer banks #outer banks imagine #outer banks fanfic #outer banks fanfiction #jj maybank #jj maybank x oc! #jj maybank x sister!reader #jj maybank x sister!oc #john b routledge #john b routledge x maybank!reader #john b routledge x maybank!oc #pope heyward #pope heyward x maybank!oc #pope heyward x maybank!reader #kiara carrera #kiara carrera x maybank!reader #kiara carrera x maybank!oc #outer banks x oc! #outer banks x maybank!oc #outer banks x maybank!reader #oc: river maybank #oc: river maxine #oc: river maxine maybank #character profile #river maybank #river maxine #kathryn newton #john b routledge imagine #my writing

[despairforme]

"Actually! Long hair has historically been a symbol of freedom and masculinity when long styles are worn by men, as opposed to femininity when worn by women. It's an expression of strength and honoring those who came before you by not cutting the hair you inherited, which is consistent in many different cultures, too. Also in general, in our current society with a fear of male-pattern baldness, men shave and cut their hair often to hide their thinning hairlines, and longer styles on men coming back into style. So..."

Okay, WHAT THE FUCK? Had he strolled right into a fucking history class or what? Tesla, his neighbour was going off on this subject. Nnoitra was almost spacing out because it was just too much information. It took him a moment, but then he understood that he wasn't being lectured, and instead he was receiving support for his decision to keep his hair long. He didn't think he NEEDED support but, mah, it was nice to get it? It didn't help HIM that long hair was ' historically ' a symbol for something. If someone called his hair girly, what the fuck was he supposed to do? Tell them that HISTORICALLY it wasn't so? WHO GAVE A SHIT? Yeah, historically you'd execute someone for stealing, but you didn't demand that shit anymore, right? History meant jack shit.

The only relevant thing here was the ' longer styles for men coming back into style '. Not that Nnoitra gave a shit about being trendy. He'd dressed and looked the same for a decade. All he wanted was to have long hair not be associated with femininity. But society was going into the exact opposite of his dreams. It probably was only a matter of time before people started dropping they/them pronouns on him for having long hair. If they did? He'd fucking break every bone in their body.

❝ Ya could'a just said I look manly as hell or whatever, yanno? I feel like I'm back in fuckin' school. ❞ His expression had been stuck in a frown, but he spoke in a somewhat jokingly tone.

#cinghialefedele #[ TESLA SUPPORTING HIM ] #[ CUTE ] #[ tesla is right and he should say it !! ] #[ human!nnoitra has more of a problem with this than canon nnoitra ] #[ because human culture /=/ arrancar culture ] #[ so canon nnoitra doesn't see why long hair would be considered feminine ] #[ meanwhile for human!nnoitra.. it's a struggle ] #[ thank you for sending dulo <5 ] #despair for me. ╱ in character. #talking shit. ╱ answers. #burn the city. ╱ main verse.

[gobboguy]

Orc Biology

Orc Biology - Narrated by David Attenborough 

[Camera fades in, revealing a vast, icy landscape stretching to the horizon. The narrator, in the style of David Attenborough, begins speaking.]

Narrator: "Welcome to the frozen expanse of Orc Island, on the world of Sidhedark,  a land veiled in mist and snow, where the elements carve a harsh existence for its inhabitants. Here, on a remote island in the icy north, resides a remarkable species—Orcs. Despite their bestial appearance, these creatures offer an intriguing perspective on the intricacies of evolution and adaptation to extreme environments."

[Cut to footage of Orcs foraging in the snow, their robust frames adapted for cold climates. The camera zooms in on a group of Orcs, showcasing their massive frames and distinctive features. Their greyish-green skin glistens in the icy light.]

Narrator: "The Orcs, while often deemed primitive, have evolved features perfectly suited to their surroundings. Their broad, muscular bodies are insulated against the biting cold, enabling them to endure the harshest of winters. Thick patches of wiry black hair covers their extremities, armpits and pubic areas as they do in humans, acting as a natural barrier against the icy winds that sweep across the landscape."

Narrator: "Orcs, ranging from 9 to 10 feet tall and weighing between 300 to 400 pounds, are imposing figures. Their bodies, a blend of raw muscle and insulating fat, are a testament to the challenges of their environment. Muscles ripple beneath their skin, powering them through the deep snow and treacherous terrain. Yet, it is their proud bellies, layered with fat, that provide the key to their survival in the frosty lands they call home."

[Cut to a close-up of an Orc's belly, showcasing its layers of fat and muscle.]

Narrator: "Their physical appearance, a combination of copious muscle, fat, and scars earned in countless battles, is a testament to their resilience. Orcs possess immense strength, honed through generations of survival in this unforgiving wilderness."

Narrator: "In the icy embrace of Orc Island, a layer of fat is not just a symbol of prosperity but a necessity. Orcs have learned that a thicker layer of fat insulates them against the biting cold, allowing them to endure the freezing temperatures that would cripple other creatures. To the Orcs, a robust belly is a sign of strength and attractiveness, a feature that ensures their survival amidst the frosty winds."

[The camera shifts to a male and a female Orc, highlighting their physical differences.]

Narrator: "Male Orcs, the larger of the species, stand taller and heavier. Their chests, arms, and legs are densely covered in coarse black hair, a natural armor against the cold. Their heads sport varying lengths of black hair, adding to their imposing presence and often styled in various ways according to custom. In contrast, female Orcs exhibit wider and rounder hips, a feature that aids in childbirth while at the same time retaining almost the same amount of muscle mass. Their hair, too, is by a rule coal black and grows in various lengths, framing their faces with a wild, untamed beauty."

[Cut to a group of Orcs gathered around a fire, engaging in a conversation. Several of the Orc’s are in various states of dress, with none of the awkward morality of the human race.]

Narrator: "Modesty has no place in Orcish society. Both males and females embrace their nudity with a natural ease, their bodies unburdened by the constraints of modesty. Armpit and pubic hair, left untouched, are symbols of their connection to the primal wilderness that surrounds them. As a tradition, men and women shave their legs; an ancient tradition said to ward off bad spirits"

[Camera pans out to show Orcs moving gracefully through the snow during the hunt, their bodies a testament to the perfection of their adaptation. The men are beardless while the women’s leg’s shine in the light]

Narrator: "As we observe these creatures in their frosty domain, it becomes clear that every aspect of their appearance is finely tuned for survival. In the face of nature's harshest challenges, Orcs stand as living proof of the wonders of evolution. Stay tuned as we delve deeper into the lives of these remarkable beings, exploring their mating rituals, social structures, and the intelligence that allows them to thrive in the frozen embrace of Orc Island."

[The screen fades to black, leaving the audience eager for more insights into the Orcs' way of life.]

[The screen comes to life, displaying the rugged terrain of Orc Island, where the struggle for survival plays out every day. David Attenborough's voice, steady and captivating, narrates over the scenes of Orcs navigating their challenging environment.]

Narrator: "In the heart of Orc Island, where death lurks at every corner, a remarkable tale of adaptation unfolds. Orcs, the inhabitants of this unforgiving land, face mortality at a staggering rate. One in every five Orcs succumbs each month, a harsh reality that has shaped their very existence. As such, their island never seems to grow in population from around one thousand Orcs. A blessing as anymore and their island’s capability to support life would surely collapse"

[Camera pans to a group of Orcs huddled together in a freezing storm, their weathered faces reflecting the challenges they endure.]

Narrator: "Exposure, starvation, and violence are the top adversaries in the Orcs' battle for survival. These adversaries claim many lives, demanding that the Orcs evolve strategies to cope with this relentless onslaught."

Narrator: "But in the heart of Orc Island, Orc’s have found a way to survive. Orcs, with their advanced musculature capable of lifting many times their own weight, pointed ears perfect for hunting, and distinctive pig's nose for sniffing out food, are perfectly adapted to this harsh environment."

[Camera zooms in on an Orc, showcasing their unique features—their tough, leather-like skin, sturdy tusks, pig like nose, and pointed ears.]

Narrator: "Orc biology is a testament to nature's ingenuity. Their skin, as hard and tough as leather, acts as a natural armor, shielding them from the icy winds and the jagged rocks of their homeland. Their organs are exceptionally durable, capable of enduring great punishment in their relentless quest for survival."

[Camera captures Orcs hunting, their keen senses and pig's noses helping them track prey through the dense forests. Harsh snorts punctuate the silence.]

Narrator: "The Orc's unique features are not just for show. Their pig's nose, remarkably sensitive, allows them to sniff out food amidst the vast wilderness. Combined with their pointed ears, tuned to the subtlest sounds, Orcs have become masterful hunters in this unforgiving landscape."

[Cut to an Orc devouring raw meat, showcasing their hearty digestive system.]

Narrator: "Their digestive system is equally robust. Orcs can digest food in almost any state, a skill crucial in a land where resources are scarce and culinary choices limited. Their internal organs operate at peak efficiency, allowing them to extract every ounce of nutrition from their meals."

[Camera captures Orcs engaged in physical activities, demonstrating their resilience.]

Narrator: "Remarkably, Orcs know no disease. Their bodies, finely tuned by evolution, ward off sickness and ensure their continued survival. In good health, an Orc can expect to live until at least 40, a testament to the efficiency of their biology."

[Cut to a close-up of an Orc mother huddled in a filthy teepee, her belly swollen with pregnancy, and her determined eyes revealing her resilience.]

Narrator: "Life on Orc Island is one of extremes and nature, in its wisdom, has bestowed Orcs with a remarkable solution—fecundity. Orc females exhibit an astonishing impregnation rate of nearly 100%, while Orc spermatozoa boast near-perfect potency. As such, when Orc’s copulate, there is almost a 100% chance that their coupling will end in conception.

[Camera captures Orc mothers, nursing their young.]

Orc mothers, resilient in the face of adversity, bear their young in a mere five months, often giving birth to litters of 4-6 Orc-Whelps. Their overfull, sagging breasts, capable of dispensing liters of milk a day, provide sustenance to their young. This highly nutritious fluid is perfect for young Orcs, causing them to grow and be weaned in only a matter of months."

[Camera captures Orc-Whelps playing in the snow, showcasing their robustness and vitality.]

Narrator: "These Orc-Whelps, born into the harsh reality of Orc Island, grow at an accelerated rate, reaching full sexual maturity by the age of three. This rapid development ensures that they are equipped to face the challenges of their environment at an early age."

[Camera captures Orc families, highlighting the resilience and unity within their communities.]

Narrator: "The Orcs' ability to reproduce rapidly has become a vital mechanism, ensuring that their species endures despite the relentless toll of nature. As such, the Orcs are constantly replenishing their numbers, keeping their population in almost perfect synchrony. Each Orc-Whelp born into this world carries with it the legacy of adaptation, a testament to the Orcs' remarkable ability to evolve in the face of adversity."

[The screen fades to black, leaving viewers with a profound respect for the Orcs' tenacity and the intricacies of nature's responses to the challenges it presents.]

[The screen comes to life, displaying the untamed beauty of Orc Island. David Attenborough's voice, filled with intrigue, narrates over scenes of Orcs engaging in their complex mating rituals.]

Narrator: "In the wilds of Orc Island, where survival is a daily struggle, Orc mating rituals have evolved into intricate dances of desire and primal instinct. Their existence, marked by constant battles and challenges, has left them with a unique perspective on relationships and intimacy."

[Camera captures a nude male Orc, his muscles flexing as he performs the mating dance, snorting and grunting, grunting and slapping his belly as an act of approval.]

Narrator: "For Orc males, the mating ritual is a display of strength and dominance. Through a dance that involves flexing muscles, snorting, grunting, and a rhythmic slapping of the belly, they communicate their readiness to mate. This ritual, a spectacle of raw power, is a testament to the primal nature of Orc relationships."

[Cut to a female Orc, confidently approaching, her body unburdened by modesty. She performs an Orcish dance, signaling her willingness to mate.]

Narrator: "The scent of an Orc female's essence can be quite pungent, a powerful pheromone that Orc males can detect from miles away. With no sense of modesty, they approach the selected mates in the nude, the stench of their essence emanating from their mon pubus pervading the air. Accompanied by an Orcish dance, they communicate their readiness, embracing their sexuality without inhibition."

[Cut to scenes of Orcs in various combinations, their relationships fluid and unrestricted, showcasing their lack of exclusivity.]

Narrator: "Exclusivity holds no place in Orc relationships. Fueled by the necessity of survival, Orcs share their partners willingly, fostering a sense of unity within their tribes. Their bonds are not confined by traditional boundaries, but rather, they are forged through shared experiences and the understanding of the impermanence of life."

[Camera captures Orc families, their dynamics diverse and ever-changing, illustrating their adaptability.]

Narrator: "In the tumultuous existence of Orc Island, relationships are as resilient and adaptable as the Orcs themselves. Their open approach to intimacy and partnership reflects their pragmatic view of life—a view shaped by the challenges of their environment. Stay tuned as we delve deeper into the intricacies of Orc society, exploring their social structures and the wisdom that guides their way of life."

[The screen fades to black, leaving viewers intrigued by the complex and pragmatic nature of Orc relationships in the wild.]

[The screen comes to life, showcasing the sprawling landscapes of Orc Island. David Attenborough's voice, resonant and filled with curiosity, narrates over scenes of Orcs engaging in their intricate marriage rituals.]

Narrator: "In the vibrant tapestry of Orc society, where survival and connection intertwine, the concept of marriage takes on a nuanced form. Despite their open attitudes towards sexual relations, Orcs have developed distinct marriage rituals, giving structure to their complex social fabric."

[Camera captures Orcs in conversation, their robust figures and distinctive features defining their identity.]

Narrator: "Orcs, masters of adaptation, have two types of partners: Bloodmaaves in Orcish or in English: Bloodmates, their sexual companions, and Soulmaaves in Orcish or Soulmates in English, their bound partners. Bloodmaaves are those with whom Orcs regularly engage in mating, a natural expression of their primal desires. Soulmaaves, however, hold a deeper significance. They are Orcs with whom they share a unique bond, partners through which their lineage flows. Bloodmaaves do not tie treaties or bonds tribes together as Soulmaaves do, but Bloodmaaves can still hold a rank of honor in their partner eyes."

[Cut to a pair of Orcs, their gazes locked in a moment of profound connection. The narrator continues,]

Narrator: "Soulmaaves, the bound partners, form the foundation of Orc lineage. Despite the fluidity of Orc relationships, these Soulmaaves serve as the carriers of traditions, knowledge, and the legacy of their tribe. Remarkably, a Soulmaave might also be a Bloodmaave to another Orc, or engage in sexual relations with multiple partners. The Orc society places no restrictions on relationships but emphasizes a formal acknowledgment of certain conditions, particularly concerning the raising and bearing of children."

[Camera pans to an Orc couple, their bodies intertwined in a display of intimacy and trust.]

Narrator: "In the hearts of Orcs, the concept of marriage transcends mere exclusivity. It becomes a covenant, a commitment to their tribe and lineage. Through the interweaving and sometimes confusing bonds of Bloodmaaves and Soulmaaves, Orcs forge a resilient society, where love, trust, and cooperation prevail amidst the challenges of Orc Island."

[The screen fades to a scene of Orc families, their interactions reflecting the strength of their bonds.]

Narrator: "As we delve deeper into the heart of Orc society, we discover a world where love knows no boundaries and connection thrives in myriad forms. Stay tuned as we explore the intricate dynamics of Orc relationships, shedding light on the wisdom that guides their social structure and the fascinating rituals that shape their vibrant communities."

[The screen fades to black, leaving viewers eager to learn more about the complexities of Orc relationships in the wild.]

[The screen comes to life, displaying the majestic peaks of Orc Island, shrouded in mist and mystery. David Attenborough's voice, rich with awe, narrates over scenes of Orcs engaging in their sacred marriage ritual.]

Narrator: "High amidst the peaks of Orc Island, where the heavens seem within reach, Orcs partake in a solemn ritual that binds souls and tribes together. While either male or female may initiate this sacred ritual, the Orc marriage ritual unfolds with a profound reverence for the Orc God MOG, ensuring their unions are sanctified and blessed."

[Camera captures an Orc couple standing atop the mountain, their figures silhouetted against the vast expanse of the sky.]

Narrator: "In this sacred ceremony, the requesting partner, their heart filled with devotion, brings their potential Soulmaave to the highest mountain peak. Here, amidst the whispers of the wind and the touch of the clouds, they disrobe, allowing the divine gaze of MOG to embrace them fully."

[Cut to a male Orc, his nude muscular form illuminated by the ethereal light of the setting sun. He flexes his muscles, emitting a series of resonant snorts, his palm occasionally slapping his belly in a thunderous echo.]

Narrator: "For the Orc males, the intricate dance begins. They flex their muscles, a testament to their strength, and emit loud snorts that resonate through the mountains. The occasional slap of their belly creates an echo, a sound said to reach the heavens, carrying their devotion to MOG."

[Camera shifts to a female Orc, her movements graceful and mesmerizing. She showcases the fullness of her belly, the shapeliness of her hips and buttocks and the gentle sway of her breasts, her dance a celebration of life and fertility.]

Narrator: "The female Orcs, in their dance, showcase the ampleness of their bellies, a symbol of abundance and prosperity. Their breasts sway with each rhythmic movement, signifying the fullness of life they carry within. It is a dance that speaks of fertility, grace, and the eternal cycle of nature."

[Camera zooms in on the partner being asked, wrapped in a cloak, their eyes fixed on the mesmerizing display before them.]

Narrator: "The partner being asked for marriage, shrouded in a cloak, observes this spectacle of love and devotion. As the dance unfolds, they witness the raw, unbridled essence of their potential Soulmaave, understanding the depths of their connection."

[The partner being asked slowly removes the cloak, their eyes meeting their partner's with a profound understanding. They slap their belly, an act of Orc approval, and the dance continues amidst the sacred silence of the mountains.]

Narrator: "With a silent understanding, the partner being asked removes the cloak, baring their soul and essence. A resounding slap of their belly echoes their approval, signaling their willingness to embrace this sacred union. Thus, amidst the silent witness of the mountains, the dance continues, weaving the threads of love and devotion into the very fabric of Orc society."

[The screen fades to black, leaving viewers in awe of the profound ritual that binds Orcs in a bond sanctified by the heavens.]

[The screen comes to life, revealing the vast snow-covered expanse of Orc Island. David Attenborough's voice, filled with reverence, narrates over scenes of Orcs engaging in the profound second part of their mating ritual.]

Narrator: "In the pristine embrace of Orc Island's icy wilderness, the second chapter of the Orc mating ritual unfolds—a ritual steeped in ancient traditions and deep devotion. The proposing orc sings of the legendary Orc Lovers, Grak and Lok, their guttural Orcish language resonating with a primal fervor that echoes through the frozen landscape."

[Camera captures the orc, their faces alight with devotion, as they sing in unison, their voices weaving a melody that seems to reach the very heart of the heavens.]

Narrator: "The Orcs' song is a testament to their unwavering dedication. Through their harmonious chants, they communicate their profound love and commitment, invoking the presence of the mighty Orc God MOG. It is a song that carries the echoes of generations, a melody that speaks of unity and eternal connection."

[Cut to the end of the dance, where the Orcs, their faces etched with determination, urinate on the snow, creating intricate ancestral designs that glisten under the sunlight.]

Narrator: "At the culmination of the dance, the Orcs, in a symbolic act of marking their intentions, urinate on the snow-covered ground. Their ancestral designs, etched in the glistening snow, serve as a mark—a sign to the God MOG that they intend to invite their chosen partner into their tribe. It is a gesture of profound significance, one that harkens back to the roots of Orcish lineage."

[The screen captures the poignant moment as the partner being asked for marriage stands before the intricate yellow snow design. Their eyes, a reflection of deep emotions, survey the pattern created by their potential Soulmaave. With a sense of solemn acceptance, they lower their face towards the yellow snow, their breath visible in the cold air.]

Narrator: "In a gesture of profound acceptance, the partner being asked for marriage leans down, their breath forming delicate puffs in the frosty air. Their face, touched by a mixture of reverence and determination, meets the glistening yellow snow. With a gentle press, they meld their skin with the vibrant hue, symbolizing their acceptance of the Orcish union."

[Camera captures the partner's face pressed into the snow, their silhouette framed against the pristine white landscape. The moment hangs in the air, heavy with significance.]

Narrator: "With this simple yet powerful act, they become one with the ancestral design, marking the beginning of a lifelong commitment. The vibrant yellow against the pristine white symbolizes the blend of their souls, forging a connection as enduring as the ancient mountains that surround them. It is a moment of unity, acceptance, and the promise of a shared future."

[The screen fades, leaving viewers with the image of the partner's face imprinted on the yellow snow—a testament to the depth of their commitment and the enduring strength of Orcish traditions.]

Narrator: "From this union, a unique bond emerges. All children born to the Soulmaave, regardless of their biological parentage, belong to both partners' tribes. This unity ensures the continuation of the Orcish line, even amidst the unforgiving challenges of their environment. In the face of survival, love and devotion stand as the pillars that sustain the Orcs, allowing them to thrive and flourish."

[The screen fades to a panoramic view of Orc Island, leaving viewers in awe of the timeless traditions and profound connections that define Orcish society.]

In the intricate tapestry of Orcish relationships, complexity intertwines with their warlike nature, shaping their interactions in distinctive ways. Among Orc males and females, physical aggression is not merely an expression of violence but a peculiar bond ritual. Prior to moments of intimacy or even during intimacy or before facing a significant battle, many Orc couples engage in feats of strength, a ritualistic display of power that signifies their deep connection. It is not uncommon for Orc lovemaking to end in several injuries which the Orc’s show off with pride.

To the Orcs, this physical interaction stands as a testament to their shared strength, an integral aspect of their relationship dynamics. Unlike human societies, Orcs do not perceive such acts as abuse; instead, they view them as a reaffirmation of their mutual power and resilience. In Orcish culture, the concept of abuse is fundamentally different from the human understanding, reflecting their unique values and traditions.

In the eyes of Orcs, what they perceive as "weak human morals" holds no sway over their own robust customs. Their perspective, rooted in their warlike nature and strong communal bonds, shapes a society where strength, both physical and emotional, forms the cornerstone of their relationships, guiding them through the challenges of their intense and passionate lives.

[The screen displays the vast Orcish landscapes, where the simplicity of their social structures contrasts sharply with the intricate tapestry of human society. David Attenborough's voice, tinged with admiration, narrates over scenes of Orcs engaged in their straightforward and honest way of life.]

Narrator: "In the heart of Orcish society, simplicity reigns supreme. Unlike the convoluted webs of human interactions, Orcs thrive in a world marked by honesty, integrity, and unshakable honor. They boast a social structure devoid of the complexities that often plague human societies, where deceit and subterfuge are foreign concepts."

[Camera captures a tribe of Orcs, their faces marked by rugged determination and a genuine sense of camaraderie, as they work together harmoniously.]

Narrator: "Orcs hold themselves to a strict code of conduct, rooted in honesty and openness. They consider it their duty to act in a straightforward manner, a principle that permeates every aspect of their lives. There are no shadows of dishonesty in Orcish interactions, no room for cheating, swindling, or gambling. Theirs is a world where trust is sacred, forged through honorable actions and genuine intentions."

[Camera captures Orcs in conversation, drinking and eating together.]

For the Orcs there are only four great pastimes to occupy their mind. These past times are such that the Orcs never need to progress their intelligence beyond the basest level. For an Orc, their hierarchy are such that, if they are not eating they are drinking; if they are not eating or drinking they are fighting or hunting; if they are not eating, drinking or fight, they are fornicating. As one crude researcher put it they “Eat, Drink, Fight, Fuck.”

[Cut to a local chieftain, their imposing figure commanding respect among the tribe, as they address their fellow Orcs in a gathering.]

Narrator: "Orcish social structures find their essence in tribes, where local chieftains preside over communities of 100-200 Orcs. These tribes serve as the bedrock of Orcish society, fostering a sense of belonging and unity among its members. The chieftain, a figure of authority and wisdom, leads with a firm yet fair hand, ensuring that the principles of honesty and openness are upheld."

[Camera zooms in on the faces of Orcs, their expressions reflecting the genuine bond they share, devoid of hidden agendas or ulterior motives.]

Narrator: "Within these tribes, Orcs find solace and strength, their lives intertwined in a tapestry of trust and mutual respect. It is a testament to the beauty of simplicity, where the absence of duplicity fosters genuine connections and enduring relationships. In the world of Orcs, honor is not just a concept but a way of life, shaping their interactions and guiding them towards a harmonious existence."

[The screen fades, leaving viewers with a profound sense of admiration for the Orcs' straightforward approach to life, unburdened by the complexities that often plague human societies.]

In the depths of Orcish society, a myriad of peculiar customs shape their unique way of life. Among these intriguing practices is their distinctive form of approval, demonstrated through a resounding slap upon their bellies. This curious tradition, often heard in times of great triumph, has led to Orcs developing remarkably tough bellies, a testament to their enduring strength. In the heat of battle or after winning a duel, the staccato slaps echo like thunder, symbolizing their victorious spirit.

Orcs, practical and unreserved, approach the matter of waste disposal with a candid demeanor. While they dispose of their waste responsibly, Orcs make no effort to conceal the natural act of relieving themselves. Surprisingly, this communal activity fosters bonds among them, and many alliances are forged in the shared moments of the communal latrine. In the midst of such openness, Orcish unity flourishes.

Intriguingly, certain Orcish rituals delve into the realm of the unusual, incorporating a mixture of urine and excrement as a sacred oil. To the Orcs, this act represents a communal gesture of sacrifice for the betterment of their tribe. Rooted in their deep sense of unity, these rituals underscore the Orcs' unwavering dedication to their community, showcasing a fascinating facet of their complex culture.

[The screen shows the Orcs in their natural habitat, a primitive world where simplicity and instinct guide their every action. David Attenborough's voice, filled with curiosity, narrates over scenes of Orcs engaging in their basic, yet intriguing, forms of communication.]

Narrator: "In the heart of Orcish society, intelligence takes a back seat to primal instinct, as these remarkable beings navigate their world with a simplicity that is both fascinating and endearing. Their language, if one could call it that, is a coarse and guttural symphony of grunts, snorts, and incomprehensible noises—a curious amalgamation that defies conventional linguistic understanding."

[Camera focuses on a group of Orcs, their faces contorted in various expressions as they attempt to communicate through a series of guttural sounds and gestures.]

Narrator: "What sets the Orcish language apart is its heavy reliance on body language—an intricate dance of movements that adds depth and nuance to their otherwise primitive vocabulary. For the Orcs, a mere belly slap can transform the meaning of a sentence. A simple phrase like 'You owe me food,' when accompanied by a specific belly slap, can convey a different message—perhaps, 'That food was good.' It is a form of communication deeply rooted in instinct, where gestures and grunts carry the weight of meaning."

[Camera captures an Orc, their brow furrowed in concentration, attempting to convey a message through a combination of grunts, snorts, and subtle body movements.]

Narrator: "Despite their limited vocabulary, Orcs possess an uncanny ability to convey their intentions and emotions through these primal sounds and gestures. Their communication, while basic, serves as a testament to the power of simplicity, highlighting the intricate dance between body language and spoken expression."

[Cut to an Orc, their eyes sharp with intelligence, engaging in a series of gestures and grunts to convey a message to their fellow Orcs, who respond with nods of understanding.]

Narrator: "In the absence of complex language, Orcs have honed their instincts, relying on subtle cues and nuanced movements to bridge the gap between thought and expression. It is a unique form of communication that, while primitive, showcases the ingenuity of these beings in navigating their world. In the realm of Orcs, simplicity is not a limitation but a remarkable adaptation, allowing them to thrive in their semi-primitive state with a grace that is truly awe-inspiring."

[The screen fades, leaving viewers with a newfound appreciation for the intricate dance of gestures and sounds that define Orcish communication, a testament to the adaptability of life in the wild.]

[The screen comes to life, revealing the mystical atmosphere of the Orcish sacred grounds. A solitary Orc priestess, her body adorned with thick red paint in intricate tribal patterns, stands before a blazing fire. David Attenborough's voice, filled with fascination and respect, narrates over the captivating scene.]

Narrator: "Amidst the flickering dance of flames and the haunting chants in the guttural language of the Orcs, we find ourselves in the heart of the Cult of MOG. Here, the priestess, her form naked save for the thick red paint that weaves elaborate tribal patterns across her skin, conducts a mesmerizing fire ritual—a display of faith that transcends the boundaries of the ordinary."

[Camera captures the priestess, her eyes ablaze with devotion, as she raises her hands towards the roaring fire, invoking ancient incantations in Orcish.]

Narrator: "In this ritual, the priestess prays fervently in Orcish, her words echoing through the night as if reaching out to the very gods they worship. The fire, a symbol of MOG's wrath and power, illuminates her figure in a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow. Every movement, every chant, is an offering to the vengeful deity they hold in such reverence."

[Close-up of the priestess's face, illuminated by the fiery glow, revealing the intensity of her devotion.]

Narrator: "Stripped of all inhibitions, the priestess channels the essence of the Orcish faith, embodying the unyielding spirit of her people. The thick red paint, meticulously applied, signifies her connection to the divine, transforming her into a living canvas of religious significance."

[Camera pans to the patterns on the priestess's body, showcasing the intricate details of the tribal paint, depicting scenes of battle, gods, and ancient symbols.]

Narrator: "This fervent display, this sacred dance amidst the flames, serves as a testament to the depth of Orcish belief. The gods, in their primal majesty, are invoked through rituals such as these, reminding us of the enigmatic ways in which faith and devotion shape the lives of even the most primal beings."

Narrator: "Yet, amidst the devotion and fervor, the Cult of MOG harbors a curious belief—a belief that MOG, the vengeful deity, takes an active hand in the lives of the Orcs. This assertion, though met with skepticism by scholars, adds a layer of complexity to the Orcish faith. While gods are often perceived as fickle and reluctant to grant miracles, the Orcs hold steadfast in their conviction."

[Cut to an Orc priestess, her eyes ablaze with faith, as she recites a prayer, invoking the name of MOG.]

Narrator: "Thankfully, the boundaries of the Cult of MOG remain confined to the shores of Orc Island, where their rituals and beliefs echo through the icy winds. In the vast expanse of Sidhedark, the minor god MOG may wield influence over the Orcs, but his presence remains contained, ensuring a delicate balance in the realm of faith and belief."

In delving into the depths of Orc culture, one encounters a complex ideology deeply rooted in notions of supremacy and survival. For the Orcs, physical prowess and their harsh environment have shaped a society where strength is paramount. In a world where 2 out of 5 Orcs face annual mortality due to exposure or violence, their warlike culture has not only survived but thrived, fostering a fierce cultural bias against what they perceive as "weaker" races.

This ideology of Orc supremacy finds expression in their perception of all things "Orky" as strong and everything else as weak. To the Orcs, ideas, inventions, food, music, art, and language that do not align with their own are dismissed as feeble. Their resolute adherence to this ideal, even in the face of adversity, reflects their unwavering cultural conviction.

Crucially, Orcs view themselves through an unwaveringly positive lens. Conquest, gluttony, lust, and greed are virtues in their eyes, for they consider themselves a superior race. Weaker races, according to Orc belief, exist to satisfy their appetite and serve their needs. This perspective, deeply ingrained in their cultural fabric, shapes their interactions with the world around them.

Thankfully, Orcs remain confined to their island, safeguarding other lands from what might otherwise be a formidable challenge. Understanding the complexities of Orc culture sheds light on the survival mechanisms and beliefs that have propelled this unique society forward, in spite of the adversities they face.

The enigmatic phenomenon of Orcish cultural memory stands as a testament to the intricacies of their heritage. Despite lacking an advanced society, Orcs possess an innate ability to discern what is "Orky." This peculiar shared memory transcends generations and encompasses diverse aspects of their culture, from architecture to weaponry, and even individual appearances.

Inexplicably, this collective memory unites all Orcs, granting them a universal understanding of their cultural norms. It is as if their very essence resonates with an ancient knowledge, guiding them in recognizing the traits that define their identity. This intuitive sense of what is authentically "Orky" shapes their preferences, decisions, and interactions with the world.

The origins and mechanics of this cultural memory remain shrouded in mystery, leaving scholars and outsiders intrigued and baffled. How this shared understanding has persisted, despite the lack of a formal education system or written records, continues to perplex researchers. Perhaps it is a manifestation of their deep-rooted connection to their heritage, an inherent instinct passed down through generations, ensuring the preservation of what it means to be an Orc.

This mysterious phenomenon adds another layer of fascination to the already complex tapestry of Orcish culture, highlighting the depth of their shared identity and the enduring power of their traditions.

[The screen fades, leaving viewers with a profound sense of awe at the raw, unfiltered faith exhibited by the Orcish priestess, a living embodiment of the spiritual connection between the Orcs and their vengeful god, MOG.]

[The screen shows the expansive, icy landscapes of Orc Island, where the Orcs, formidable and primal, move with an innate grace. David Attenborough's voice, tinged with a mix of fascination and relief, narrates over scenes of Orcs engaging in their natural behaviors.]

Narrator: "The Orcs, with their unmatched ferocity and raw physical power, are a force of nature. Yet, their potential for reproduction has stirred concerns among scholars and observers. If these creatures, with their insatiable lust for violence, were to escape the confines of Orc Island and venture into the wider world of Sidhedark, the consequences could be catastrophic."

[Camera captures a group of Orcs, their bodies adorned with tribal markings, engaged in a fierce but calculated combat, showcasing their combat prowess.]

Narrator: "Their fighting capabilities, honed by millennia of survival in the harsh northern lands, are unparalleled. Their robust constitution, combined with an almost insatiable appetite for conflict, raises the specter of an uncontrolled population explosion. The very thought of Orcs, driven by their primitive instincts, overwhelming the world with their sheer numbers is a chilling prospect."

[Cut to scenes of Orcs engaging in violent skirmishes, their grunts and roars echoing across the frozen terrain.]

Narrator: "However, nature, in its infinite wisdom, has placed a barrier—a safeguard against this potential cataclysm. The Orcs' low intelligence, coupled with their inherently violent nature, ensures that they remain confined to their icy domain. The harsh, unforgiving environment of Orc Island, where survival is a daily battle, serves as a natural barrier, containing these primal beings within the northern reaches of Sidhedark."

[Camera zooms in on an Orc, their eyes glinting with a fierce intelligence, as they survey their surroundings, ever-watchful for potential threats.]

Narrator: "As we observe these remarkable creatures from a safe distance, we are reminded of the delicate balance that exists in the natural world. The Orcs, despite their terrifying potential, are bound by the constraints of their environment, a testament to the intricate interplay between nature and its creations. For now, we can be thankful that the Orcs, with their limited intellect and wild hearts, remain confined to the isolated corners of the world, their primal essence contained within the icy expanse of Orc Island."

[The screen fades, leaving viewers with a sense of awe at the intricate dance between nature's checks and balances, ensuring that even the most formidable creatures are kept in check by the delicate harmony of the natural world.]

[The screen displays a map of the vast, mysterious Orc Island, shrouded in enigma and intrigue. David Attenborough's voice resonates with curiosity as the viewers embark on a journey to unravel the secrets of the Orcs' origins.]

Narrator: "Deep within the heart of Orc Island, amidst the rugged terrain and ancient mysteries, lies a peculiar enigma that has baffled researchers and scholars across the realm of Sidhedark. The Orcs, despite their striking resemblance to humans, have an origin veiled in profound mystery."

[Images of Orcs, their robust figures moving with purpose, flash across the screen, showcasing their distinct human-like features.]

Narrator: "Scientists on the mainland have long pondered the peculiar evolution of these beings. How could a species so closely resembling humanity emerge in the isolation of Orc Island? It's a question that has stirred the minds of many and led to a myriad of theories."

[The screen transitions to a wizard’s laboratory where Orcbane flowers bloom in magical flowepots, their vibrant petals contrasting sharply with moldy walls around.]

Narrator: "Here, within the confines of this hallowed chamber, Orcbane flowers bloom not in the wild but in carefully tended pots, nurtured by the skilled hands of arcane practitioners. These blooms, delicate and vibrant, find their existence intertwined with the wizard's craft, flourishing under the watchful eyes of knowledge and mastery."

[The camera zooms in on the magic pots, the Orcbane flowers swaying gently as if dancing to the rhythm of unseen enchantments.]

Narrator: "These magical pots, brimming with potent energies and ancient wisdom, foster the growth of Orcbane flowers—a delicate creation amidst the intricate tapestry of magic. In this room, the balance of nature and spellcraft finds a harmonious union, allowing Orcbane flowers to flourish under the careful stewardship of wizards steeped in the art of the arcane."

[Close-up of an Orcbane flower, its petals shimmering with ethereal energy, emphasizing its connection to the magical aura of the room.]

Narrator: "One intriguing clue lies in the Orcbane flower, a peculiar plant that Orcs instinctively repel against. What makes this flower particularly fascinating is its controlled growth, a phenomenon orchestrated by skilled wizards in controlled environments. Orcs, robust and mighty, find their formidable nature thwarted by this seemingly delicate creation."

[Cut to an Orc, observing the Orcbane flower with a mix of curiosity and caution, emphasizing the contrast between their strength and the flower's fragility.]

Narrator: "The irony lies in the potency of nature—a resilient species, the Orcs, countered by the subtlety of botanical mastery. The controlled presence of the Orcbane flower hints at the possibility of external influence, raising the question: were the Orcs naturally evolved, or were they, perhaps, introduced to Orc Island by an enigmatic force?"

[The screen fades, leaving viewers with a sense of wonder, contemplating the intricate bond between magic, nature, and the Orcbane flowers—an enigmatic link that adds yet another layer to the compelling tale of Orc Island.]

Narrator: "As we conclude our journey into the enigmatic world of Orcs, a curious question still looms—what about the potential for hybridization between Orcs and humans, given their close genetic ties? A question both intriguing and unsettling, but one that can be laid to rest for several compelling reasons."

[Images of the world of Sidhedark, a diverse tapestry of races and cultures, flash across the screen. A shadowy council of leaders representing various nations convenes, their faces etched with concern and determination.]

Narrator: "In the annals of Sidhedark's history, a consensus emerged among the world's governing bodies—a unanimous decision to prohibit the intermingling between racial bloodlines. Fearful of the mythical hybrid children, whose very existence could tip the balance of power, nations united in their resolve to preserve the delicate equilibrium of their societies."

[The screen transitions to a surreal portrayal of a hybrid child, their eyes glowing with arcane power, surrounded by a mystical aura.]

Narrator: But, luckily for us, we have more than one barrier to any such calamity befalling Sidhedark.

[The camera pans to a secluded Orc village, capturing the essence of their isolated existence.]

Narrator: "First and foremost, the Orcs dwell in isolation. Their island, a fortress of jagged cliffs and turbulent seas, stands as an impenetrable barrier, ensuring that these near-human beings remain untouched by the outside world. What’s more is that the international ban on all ship travelling anywhere near Orc island.

[Images of Orcs engaged in their daily activities flicker across the screen, emphasizing their distinct appearance and unique way of life.]

Narrator: "Second, the Orc society steadfastly adheres to unconventional beauty standards. Their distinctive features, once shared by humans, have diverged significantly over time, rendering encounters with humans highly improbable. There’s no doubt that if a human and an Orc were to meet, they would be immediately repulsed by each other like opposites of a magnent"

[The screen displays an animated comparison between Orc and human reproductive cells, illustrating the marked differences in size and structure.]

Narrator: "A crucial factor lies within their reproductive biology. The Orc spermatozoa, on many levels significantly larger than a human male and possessing a dagger-like head, would annihilate a human egg upon contact, making fertilization impossible."

[The scene unfolds with an aura of mystique, showcasing the intricate details of Orc and human reproductive cells. The camera zooms in on the Orc female egg, its surface appearing remarkably robust and impenetrable, a testament to nature's intricate defense mechanisms.]

Narrator: "Nature, in its infinite wisdom, has bestowed upon Orc females a remarkable gift—a uniquely resilient egg. Like the Orc’s themselves, its surface appears remarkably robust and impenetrable, a testament to nature's intricate defense mechanisms. Its surface, as hard as ancient stone, forms an impervious shield, would no doubt ward off any attempts at foreign infiltration, especially from the comparatively delicate human spermatozoa."

[The screen transitions to a captivating visualization, depicting the Orc island shrouded in mystery and the distant mainland where humans dwell, emphasizing the unyielding chasm between them.]

Narrator: "Thus, the tale of Orc and human remains one of separation, an unwavering divide ordained by nature and enforced by human wisdom. In the secluded sanctum of Orc Island, the robustness of Orc biology and the collective decisions of Sidhedark's guardians stand guard, ensuring that the fabled hybrid offspring remain naught but a whisper in the winds of possibility."

[An image of a renowned researcher, Thran Sapo of Dan, appears on the screen, emphasizing the depth of scientific inquiry into this topic.]

One researcher, Thran Sapo, of Dan argues that given the perfect conditions such as a some hitherto unknown ritual and summon with the ability to control their physical body's too a high degree could induce a pregnancy in species not capable of breeding, but this can be outright dismissed as the only being capable of that are the Swordmasters of Farfield or the Hanged Men of the Theocracy and neither of those society have any business going near Orc Island nor would ever sully themselves as such.

Narrator: "While speculative theories abound, the truth remains elusive, thus leaving such notions in the realm of fantasy."

[The screen fades into darkness, leaving viewers with a profound sense of the Orcs' isolated existence and the impossibility of their mingling with the world beyond their secluded shores.]

#fantasy #goblins #orcs #literature #gobboguy #sidhedark

[modorama]

fashion |  DES CHEVEUX ET DES POILS at MAD Paris

   Following the success of the exhibitions La mécanique des dessous (2013), Tenue correcte exigée ! (2017) and Marche et démarche (2019), the Musée des Arts Décoratifs continues its exploration of the relationship between the body and fashion with an exhibition on hair styles and body hair grooming. Des cheveux et des poils (Hair & Hairs) exhibition, which runs from April 5 to September 17, 2023, demonstrates how hairstyles and the grooming of human hair have contributed to the construction of appearances for centuries. Hair is an essential aspect of one’s identity and has often been used as a means of expressing our adherence to a fashion, a conviction, or a protest while invoking much deeper meanings such as femininity, virility, and negligence, to name just a few.

The exhibition explores through 600 works, from the 15th century to nowadays, the themes inherent in the history of hairstyles, but also the questions related to facial and bodily hair. The trades and skills of yesterday and today are highlighted with their iconic figures: Léonard Autier (favorite hairdresser of Marie- Antoinette), Monsieur Antoine, the Carita sisters, Alexandre de Paris, and more recently studio hairdressers. Great names in contemporary fashion such as Alexander McQueen, Martin Margiela, or Josephus Thimister are present with their spectacular creations made from this unique material that is hair.

The exhibition is presented in the Christine & Stephen A. Schwarzman’s fashion galleries of the Musée des Arts Décoratifs. The scenography will be created by David Lebreton of the Designers Unit agency.

In an atmosphere where shades of blond, brown and red evoke the main hair colors, the course, divided into five themes, questions what makes hair, in Greek- Roman and Judeo-Christian cultures, an attribute of the animal and wildness and explains why hair had to be constantly tamed to remove the woman or man from the beast.

FASHION AND EXTRAVAGANCE

The first part of the exhibition opens with the study of the evolution of feminine hairstyles, a real social indicator and marker of identity. In the Middle Ages, obeying the command of Saint Paul, the wearing of the veil imposes itself on women until the 15th century. Gradually, they abandon it in favor of extravagant hairstyles that are constantly renewed. In the 17th century, the hairstyle “to the Hurluberlu” (dear to Madame de Sévigné) and “to the Fontange” (after the name of Louis XIV’s mistress) are emblematic of real fashion phenomena.

Around 1770, the high hairstyles known as Poufs are undoubtedly the most extraordinary of Western hair modes. Finally, in the 19th century, women’s hairstyles − whether inspired by ancient Greece, or known as “the giraffe,” in curls or “the Pompadour” − are just as convoluted.

TO BEARD OR NOT TO BEARD

After the hairless faces of the Middle Ages, a turning point occurred around 1520 with the appearance of the beard, symbol of courage and strength. In the early 16th century, the three great Western monarchs: Francis I, Henry VIII, and Charles V were young and wore beards, which were then associated with the virile and warrior spirit. From the 1630s until the end of the 18th century, the hairless face and the wig were the hallmarks of courtiers. Facial hair did not reappear until the early 19th century with the mustache, sideburns, and beard: this century was by far the hairiest in the history of men’s fashion. A multitude of small objects used (mustache wax, brushes, curling irons, wax, etc.) testify to this enthusiasm for mustaches and beards.

During the 20th century, the rhythm of bearded, mustached, and smooth faces continued, until the return of the beard among Hipsters in the late 1990s. The maintenance of hairiness among these young urbanites has given rise to the profession of barber, which had disappeared since the 1950s. Today, the thick beards tend to give way to the mustache that had deserted faces since the 1970s.

The choice of keeping, eliminating, hiding, or displaying hair on other parts of the body is also a subject of history that the exhibition addresses through the representation of nude bodies in visual arts and written testimonials. Hairiness is rare, or even absent from ancient painting. The hairless body is synonymous with the antique and idealized body, while the hairy body is associated with virility, or even triviality. Only enthusiasts of virile sports such as boxing and rugby, as well as erotic illustrations or medical engravings, show individuals covered in hair.

Around 1910-1920, when women’s bodies were exposed, advertisements in magazines touted the benefits of hair removal creams and more efficient razors to eliminate them.

In 1972, actor Burt Reynolds posed naked, hairy body for Cosmopolitan magazine, but fifty years later, an abundance of hair is no longer in fashion. Since 2001, sportsmen being photographed naked for calendars like Les dieux du stade (The Gods of the Stadium) have had rigorously controlled hairiness.

BETWEEN TRUE AND FALSE

Hair styling is an intimate act. Moreover, a well-born lady could not show herself in public with her hair down. A painting by Franz-Xaver Winterhalter, dated 1864, depicting Empress Sissi in a robe and with her hair untied, was strictly reserved for Franz Joseph’s private cabinet. Louis XIV, who became bald at a very young age, adopted the so-called “bright hair” wig, which he then imposed on the court.

In the 20th century, Andy Warhol had the same misfortune: the wig he wore to hide his baldness became an icon of the artist. Nowadays, hairpieces and wigs are used in high fashion, during fashion shows or, of course, to compensate for hair loss.

The natural hair colors and their symbolism are studied along with what they convey. Blonde is said to be the color of women and childhood. Red hair is attributed to sultry women, witches and some famous stage women. As for black hair, it would betray the temperament of brown and brunettes. From the experimental colorations of the 19th century to the more certain dyes from the 1920s: artificial colors are not forgotten. The work of the hairdresser Alexis Ferrer who makes digital prints on real hair is also presented.

TRADES AND SKILLS

The exhibition reveals the different hair professions: barbers, barber-surgeons, hair stylists, wigmakers, ladies’ hairdressers, etc., through archival documents and a host of small objects: signs, tools, various products, and the astonishing perming machines and dryers of the 1920s.

In 1945, the creation of haute coiffure elevated the profession to the rank of an artistic discipline and a French savoir-faire. 20th century hairdressing is marked by Guillaume, Antoine, Rosy and Maria Carita, Alexandre de Paris styling princesses and celebrities. Nowadays, great hairstyling is mainly expressed during the fashion shows of prestigious fashion houses. Sam McKnight, Nicolas Jurnjack and Charlie Le Mindu were invited to the exhibition to create extraordinary hairstyles for top models and show business personalities.

A HAIRY CENTURY

Finally, a special focus will allow us to evoke the iconic hairstyles of the 20th and 21st centuries: the 1900 chignon, the 1920s garçonne haircut, the 1930s permed and notched hair, the 1960s pixie and sauerkraut, the 1970s long hair, the 1980s voluminous hairstyles, the 1990s gradations and blond streaks, not to mention afro-textured hair.

The arrangement of hair in a particular form can reveal the belonging to a group and manifest a political and cultural expression in opposition to society and the established order. More ideological than aesthetic, the Iroquois crest of the punks, the neglected hair of the grunges or the shaved heads of the skinheads are strong moments of hair creativities.

Wearing the hair of another, known or unknown, has an eerie dimension, and this superstition seems well-entrenched. Despite these apprehensions, some creators choose to transcend this familiar material into fashion objects. This is the case of contemporary designers such as Martin Margiela, Josephus Thimister and Jeanne Vicerial. The question of identity, treated lightly or more deeply, is often at the heart of the reasoning, whether the hair is real or fake.

The Musée des Arts Décoratifs has benefited from exceptional loans from the Château de Versailles, the Musée des Beaux-Arts d’Orléans, the Musée du Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. till 17 sept. 2023 madparis.fr Andrei S.

[hairtransplantbirmingham]

Crowning Glory: Empowering Women Through Understanding and Managing Hair Loss

Introduction

For many women, hair is more than just strands on their heads—it is a symbol of femininity, identity, and self-expression. However, the experience of women hair loss can be emotionally challenging and impact one's confidence and well-being. In this comprehensive exploration, we delve into the complexities of women's hair loss, understanding its various causes, and empowering women with effective strategies for managing and overcoming this common concern.

Understanding Women's Hair Loss

Genetic Predisposition: While often associated with men, genetic factors play a significant role in women's hair loss as well. Female-pattern hair loss, or androgenetic alopecia, is characterized by a gradual thinning of the hair, primarily on the crown of the head. Understanding the genetic component is crucial for tailoring effective solutions to address this inherited condition.

Hormonal Changes: Hormonal fluctuations throughout a woman's life can contribute to hair loss. Pregnancy, childbirth, menopause, and other hormonal changes can affect the hair growth cycle. In some cases, conditions like polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) may lead to an overproduction of androgens, contributing to hair thinning.

Nutritional Deficiencies: Adequate nutrition is essential for maintaining healthy hair. Deficiencies in vitamins and minerals, such as iron, vitamin D, and B-vitamins, can compromise the strength and vitality of hair. A balanced diet that supports hair health is crucial for preventing and addressing hair loss in women.

Stress and Emotional Factors: Women often juggle multiple roles, and stress can take a toll on their overall health, including hair. Telogen effluvium, a condition triggered by stress, can lead to increased shedding. Emotional factors, such as grief, depression, or anxiety, may also contribute to hair loss.

Managing Women's Hair Loss

Topical Treatments: Topical treatments, such as minoxidil, are commonly used to promote hair regrowth in women. Minoxidil is an over-the-counter medication that stimulates blood flow to the hair follicles, encouraging new hair growth. Other topical solutions containing ingredients like ketoconazole or caffeine can also be beneficial.

Hormone Therapy: Hormone therapy, particularly for women experiencing hormonal imbalances, may be recommended. Oral contraceptives or hormone replacement therapy (HRT) can help regulate hormonal levels, preventing excessive hair shedding associated with hormonal fluctuations.

Nutritional Supplements: Addressing nutritional deficiencies through supplements is a crucial aspect of managing women's hair loss. Biotin, iron, zinc, and omega-3 fatty acids are commonly recommended to support hair health. A healthcare professional can assess individual needs and recommend appropriate supplements.

Platelet-Rich Plasma (PRP) Therapy: PRP therapy involves extracting a small amount of the patient's blood, processing it to concentrate platelets, and injecting the platelet-rich plasma into the scalp. The growth factors in PRP stimulate hair follicles, promoting hair regrowth. This non-invasive option shows promise in managing women's hair loss.

Laser Therapy: Low-level laser therapy (LLLT) devices, such as laser caps or helmets, can be used at home to stimulate hair follicles. The low-level lasers enhance cellular activity, promoting hair regrowth. Consistent use of LLLT devices can contribute to the management of women's hair loss.

Empowering Women Through Knowledge

Cultivating Body Positivity: Understanding that hair loss is a common concern among women helps foster body positivity. It is crucial to recognize that beauty goes beyond external appearances and that every woman is unique and valuable, irrespective of her hair density.

Open Communication: Breaking the stigma surrounding women's hair loss involves open communication. Women should feel empowered to discuss their concerns with healthcare professionals, family, and friends. This facilitates early diagnosis and the implementation of effective management strategies.

Educational Initiatives: Educational initiatives that provide information about the various causes of women's hair loss, available treatments, and self-care practices can empower women to take charge of their hair health. Accessible resources contribute to informed decision-making and proactive management.

Benefits of Understanding and Managing Women's Hair Loss

Improved Self-Esteem: Understanding and effectively managing women's hair loss can lead to improved self-esteem and body confidence. As women witness positive changes in their hair, they are likely to feel more empowered and comfortable in their own skin.

Enhanced Emotional Well-being: Managing hair loss contributes to enhanced emotional well-being. As women take proactive steps to address the issue, they often experience reduced stress and anxiety, leading to overall improved mental health.

Social Confidence: Feeling confident in one's appearance positively impacts social interactions. Women who effectively manage hair loss often find increased social confidence and a greater willingness to engage in various activities.

Empowerment Through Knowledge: Knowledge is a powerful tool for empowerment. Women who understand the causes of hair loss and the available management strategies are better equipped to make informed decisions about their hair care, contributing to a sense of control and empowerment.

Long-Term Hair Health: The strategies adopted for managing women's hair loss contribute to long-term hair health. Beyond addressing the immediate concerns, these approaches promote ongoing maintenance and vitality of the hair.

Conclusion

Women's hair loss is a multifaceted concern that extends beyond aesthetics, impacting emotional well-being and confidence. Understanding the various causes, from genetic predisposition to hormonal fluctuations, allows women to adopt targeted strategies for effective management. By embracing a holistic approach that includes topical treatments, hormonal therapy, nutritional supplementation, and innovative therapies like PRP or laser therapy, women can take charge of their hair health.

Empowering women through knowledge, open communication, and educational initiatives is integral to breaking the stigma surrounding women's hair loss. The benefits of understanding and managing women's hair loss are far-reaching, encompassing improved self-esteem, emotional well-being, social confidence, and long-term hair health. Ultimately, empowering women in their journey toward healthy and vibrant hair contributes to a positive and inclusive perception of beauty.

[mi6021miakillackey]

Character Design - what can be said?

As I have my own personal interest in character design and potential desire to work within this field, I want to look deeper into this area of animation/ pre production aspect of film, game and thing making.

I have had some thought on what character designs, concepts and representations convey to a wider audience and how it can be used to shift a perception of a gender, race, culture etc of real people outside of media. One of these I wanted to look upon in this final project was the designs of female characters in juxtaposition to male characters - why there seems to be less range with designs of girls and women than there is with men and boys - for example how small the margin is for what is "acceptable" or "desirable" of a feminine concept of a character, with majority of them having a slim figure and a "pretty face".

The elements that make them seem to fit a very niche, westernised view of what a woman should look, talk, move and behave like - and we have a lot of characters, old and new that support this.

A good example would be Daphne and Velma from the children's television cartoon Scooby Doo - we have Velma, an intelligent, rigid character whose design has embodied her whit as well as a lack of concern with male attention by making her look "less attractive' by giving her freckles, squared man-like glasses, a frumpy sweater that conceals her less defined figure and no makeup.

Then Daphne who we know to have a romantic interest in Fred, a handsome dimwit. Her design is polar opposite to that of Velma's, she is slim and curvaceous, she wears heels and adorns makeup, a stylish vibrant head of curled locks and feminine aspects to her outfit like a headband and classy scarf. This is a deliberate choice of designs and representation for these two women - but also ingrains into viewers what a woman who is smart and self focused looks like, compared to what a woman who is more self centred and concerned with looks and romantic interest looks like.

Then we have a figure like Jessica Rabbit from the movie Who Framed Rodger Rabbit - all of the characters express their disbelief towards her marriage with Rodger, a significantly "less attractive" character than Jessica, depicted as a sultry, sensual woman much like that of Marilyn Monroe - the picture of sexual desire and lust - a teeny waist, long toned legs and small heeled feet, plump red lips, big prominent breasts, low and seductive "bedroom eyes", and a head of luxurious curled red hair. she is an icon of sex within everything she does, and knows it "I'm just drawn that way"

But why is the focus mostly pinned upon the woman figure to uphold these impossible body and beauty standards as well as how they should behind and present themselves?

In the gaming world - the same patten is presented.

Lara Croft has always been another sex symbol used for male satisfaction in the games - with her wildly inappropriate outfits for the life and environments she is placed in and her strangely unscarred skin on a swimsuit model body - it would make sense for her to be more clothed and covered in action and to have a muscular, perhaps less "feminine" body type indicating her great strength.

A character from a much more recent game, 2020, would be Abby Anderson from the game The Last Of Us part 2 - a strong, deeply complex character who while beautiful and feminine in her own way (as all women are) is designed to suit her environment and willingness to survive in the harsh reality in which there is no escape to. This design was rejected and criticised by a lot of fans and players of the game upon release and to this day nearly four years on - majority of these rejections came from male players who found her design "disgusting" and some going as far to call it an abomination.

But here we have two very strong female characters in all aspects of themselves and yet their designs couldn't be more different.

I have looked at a few studies done on this matter that I will be including in my dissertation to support my question and argument, but I want to use this to question if I fall into this category also, am I representing women in a diverse progressive way? what can I change about my approach to designs if not? does there need to be a change? why is it important to show a variety of forms and details within characters?

I decided to do a little sketch of a concept of Cordelia - thinking of more range with body proportions and colour palettes that could work. I will stick with my previous design of her however I think because I like how she looks and her shape/clothing is easier for me to keep consistent I would say.

but I like exploring more designs and coming up with a wider range of ideas for characters. representing different body types and styles really matters to me personally.

[oneonetwoseven]

Symbolism and faith go hand in hand...

Whether it be the Christian cross, the Islamic crescent moon, the Hindu Om, or the Jewish Star of David,  the major religions of our world provide universally acknowledged symbols to be revered as emblems of their strength and devotion… Ones that faith-based individuals can wear proud. Think of all the people you’ve seen wear a cross on a necklace, or the New Age philosophies inspiring the young people these days to buy rocks and step out in jewelry made of distinct gemstones that cannot be found at any store… crystals that are worn for a purpose and that have roots with early Eastern philosophies.

What counts as a religious symbol?

To wear something symbolically out of faith, of course, is not only about wearing sacred stones or a symbol that’s been drawn out… There are many things religious people to do symbolize their faith, and that’s why the term “religious symbol” is so vast — lighting a candle, posturing yourself in prayer a certain way, or singing “Om” in meditation are all technically just as religiously symbolic, as religious symbolism ultimately extends far beyond jewellery and drawings.

When it comes to Sikhism…

Sikhism has grown into a global community of millions since its founding in 15th century Punjab and at its core are a set of symbols and practices which serve a testament to its depth. The history of Sikh symbolism can be traced back to 1699, when it’s said that the tenth and final living Sikh guru, Guru Gobind Singh, instructed his first initiates to adopt the “Five Ks”. These are are five physical articles or symbols that embody and guide the Sikh way of life, and while the "Five Ks" in Sikhism might not be as globally recognized, the impact they have within the faith withstands the test of its time.

So what are the “5 Ks”? And why are they called that?

Well for starters, all five of the Sikh religious emblems begin with the letter "K" in Punjabi, hence why they’re known as the "Five Ks." The Five Ks that Sikhs are required to wear or carry as part of their identity are as follows:

Kesh: Uncut Hair

In Sikh traditions, uncut hair, which is referred to as Kesh, symbolizes a level of holiness and devotion to God. Sikh men and women alike are encouraged to grow out their hair unrestrained as it serves an embodiment of the divine through one’s refusal to alter their natural physically state ultimately bestowed by God. Oftentimes with turbans or head coverings, Sikhs will cover their grown out hair as a visible sign of their religious commitment.

Kanga: Comb

Associated with Kesh and used for the same reasons, the Kanga is a word for a small wooden comb which Sikhs use to upkeep their hair and ensure it remains tidied. It is to be worn under the turban.

Kachh: Cotton breeches

The Kachh represents loose-fitting white boxer shorts.  Sikhs wear these cotton undergarments to represent their sexual restraint, and it serves as a symbol of modesty, purity, and ultimate self-control against sin… The Kaach is meant to remind Sikhs of the need to control one’s physical desires.

Kirpan: Wooden sword

Kirpan is a ceremonial stylized representation of a sword that represents the Sikh's duty to protect the oppressed and stand up against injustice. It serves as a reminder for Sikhs to be ready to defend their faith and values, while those who choose to carry the Kirpan are advised to do so responsibly. For wearers, it must be sheathed, wrapped in a cloth belt, and worn next to the body.

Kara: Bracelet

The Kara is an iron or steel bracelet that’s typically worn on the wrist, and it represents several important aspects of Sikhism. The bracelet’s unbroken circle signifies the eternity of God and the notion to use one’s hands to benefit humanity, and ultimately, it represents the unbreakable connection between the individual and their Guru.

An embodiment of the faith’s principles

The “Five Ks” in Sikhism aren’t mere symbols, but rather emblems of the Sikh way of life.  Each "K" ultimately represents a distinct aspect of this faith as the sacred articles represent the foundations of its identity. And while they may not garner the same level of global recognition as other religious symbols,  they go a long way in establishing a common ground for Sikh identity.

[ferallfemmesa]

The Nora sees braids and dreadlocks are highly valued among the culture of their people. While it’s highly useful as a means to keep hair out of the face during fights and battles, it’s far more spiritual than just for that matter.

It has three valuable meanings, just as braids typically have three threads crossing and interweaving. It is the value of patience, the power of strength, and the spiritual unity binding them all.

As they start the braids, it often takes some time to complete the braids. The smaller they are, the longer it will take. And when doing dreadlocks, it may take even longer. By learning to sit down while a Nora mother, grandmother, or any other Nora personnel (as men are required just as much as women to know how to do a different kind of braids) they are learning the value of patience. Patience is more than just sitting there while the braid is done. There is patience in the hunt, while waiting for the perfect moment to shoot a boar to bring dinner to the tribe. Patience during a battle, learning that sometimes being fast and headstrong is not the best option and may grant a Nora death instead of a successful hit. Patience in wooing a woman who one might be interested in and more. Patience is a daily concept among the Nora and learning to value its importance brings success to a Nora’s life and the Nora tribe.

The second part is the importance of strength. This is more than just physical prowess, though that is one of the important parts of life (as you must have the muscular ability to fight if you are a brave). But it’s the strength to see a day through, to continue on day in and out if there is a struggle. To have the strength of will to stand for what a Nora believes in. The way they taught this is that a single strand of hair is weak. It can be broken off, damaged, so easily just with a single finger. However, when that strand is connected to more strands, and put together. No matter how hard one pulls on the hair, it will not break. There is strength together that creates power. This is why the strength of the tribe depends on the strength of their braves and war chief.

The last one is the spiritual bonds of unity. Each braid intertwine together is a symbolic view of their unity to their mothers, their family, and their goddess, the All Mother. By Weaving the body, mind, and soul together, they are weaving themselves into the all mother.

Braids are a vital part of the Nora tribe, and to not have a least one braid in the hair is seemed as a sign of insult and demeaning the importance of such values. The more one does for the tribe, the more braids they usually have.

#[muse] aloy — headcanons.

[miajolensdevotion]

1 Corinthians 11:2-34

Instruction for Public Worship

What is Paul’s instruction about covering one’s head for man and woman? [vs 2-10] Answer: Paul’s instruction about covering one’s head for man & woman is remembering him in everything & for holding to the teaching, just as he passed them on to you. Now I want you to realize that the head of every man is Christ & the head of the woman is man & the head of Christ is God. Every man who prays or prophesies with his head covered dishonord his head & every woman who prays or prophe sies with her head uncovered dishonors her head, it is just as though her head were shaved. If a woman does not cover her head, she should have her hair cut off & if it is disgrace for a woman to have her hair cut or shaved off, she should cover her head. A man ought not to cover his head, since he is the image & glory of God; but the woman is the glory of man. For a man did not come from woman, but woman from man; neither was man created fro woman, but woman for man. For this reason & because of the angels, the woman ought to have a sign of authorit on her head

What can you say about this in our culture today, where there are some men with long hair, women with short hair? Answer: I can say about this in our culture today, there are many man wearing long hair, in my opinion, its not “bagay” to a man to wear long hair, for he is the symbol of authority and strength in the family, he should lead and provide for his wife and children.

Order at the Lord’s Supper

Paul says that it sounds as if more harm than good is done when they meet together for the Lord’s Supper, what are the reasons? [vs 17-22] Answer: Paul says that it sounds as if more harm than good is done, when they meet together for the Lord’s supper, the reasons are ~In the following directives I have no praise for you, for your meetings do more harm than good ~In the first place, I hear that when you come together as a church, there are divisions among you & to some extent I believe it ~No doubt there have to be differences among you to show which of you have God’s approval ~When you come together, it is not the Lord’s supper you eat ~For as you eat, each of you goes ahead without waiting for anybody else. One remains hungry, another gets drunk ~Do not you have homes to eat & drink in? Or do you despise the church of God & humiliate thosr who have nothing? What shall I say to you? Shall I praise you for this? Certainly not!

Why is it important to examine ourselves for partaking in the Lord’s Supper? [vs 27-32] Answer: It is important to examine ourselves for partaking in the Lord’s supper because he will be guilty of sinning against the body & blood of the Lord. For anyone who eats & drinks without recognizing the body of the Lord eats & drinks judgement on himself. That is why many among you are weak & sick & a number of you have fallen asleep. But if we judged ourselves, we would not come under judgement. When we are judged by the Lord, we are being disciplined so that we will not condemned with the world

What did Paul recommend them to do when they gather for the Lord’s Supper? [vs 33-34] Answer: Paul recomment them to do when they gather for the Lord’s supper is to wait for each other. If anyone is hungry, he shoulf eat at home, so that when you meet together it may not result in judgement & when I come I will give further directions

What is the lesson you can learn for today? Answer: The lesson that I learn for today is God is more concern about our inner attitude than our physical appearance