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#it’s just very apt

inkskinned · 1 year

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something bad happened to you, and you died, and you came back wrong.

not wrong all the way. the little ways. you forget important dates, stopped going out with friends. it's harder to make you smile. you're apathetic towards things you used to love, afraid of places you used to go to cheer up. quieter. flinching. different.

you came back for love. you're still here for love. what pulled you back was a brightness so loud that even death couldn't outshout it. death heard the call and smiled at you and said okay. go home. somebody is waiting for you.

but you came back different. like lot's wife; you've turned into salt. you used to chirp through life in hops and skips; but now you lose skin just standing up. you have to move slower, skimming across this world without-touching-it. most things feel dull - until they're suddenly all-too-much. life, and being alive just rushes up and over you and you get hopelessly crushed.

you try to explain it to them: it is ugly, but this is what you are, now. the huge golden hoop of your halo now a little bronze ring. you are still watering your plants and wearing the same clothes. after all, you worked hard to come home. this life; so odd and off-color, now that you are wrong.

but they waited for you - it's just that they wanted the "you" that happened before this. the "you" that could sing in the show and hug people tight and look at a blade without breaking down to cry. the you with a smile in pictures. god, holyshit, it's like looking at a completely different person, isn't it. that other-you; the one they actually wanted.

you are the consolation prize. you are the body that forgot the ghost. you are the memory of the bad thing, and the death after; like you are wearing that memory as a banner. you are a fragment, an assembly. simulacrum. you don't make eye contact in mirrors, afraid the light will glance off and your true nature will flash back at you.

you hear them talk about it in their hushed, desperate whispers. sometimes they even admit it to your face; harsh and violent, acid thrown at christmas dinner. god, can you just fucking be normal again. you do not remember what normal is. you had to climb so far to get back here; you are far too exhausted. you want to open the glass door of your heart and show all the gears. can you help resolve whatever got messed up?

you try so, so hard. you came back for them. because you believed they would love you, even when you were so horribly broken. because you believed they would be patient. because you believed unconditional meant "without exception." you cannot do things the same way. you just get tired too quickly these days.

you want to put them on a couch and pour them the tea with hands that shake more than they remember. you want to line them up and draw them a map of where you have had to wander. you want to show every bruise in a backsplash; the little helpless ant of your soul carrying all that weight, over and over. you want to say: yes! it is different! but i did it for love!

you want to say: "i'm not the same, but i'm yours and i'm here. can that be enough?"

#this is very obviously about my battle with #ptsd #but i think it's also like a pretty apt metaphor for a lot of things like setting boundaries or going to therapy or choosing recovery #i was thinking about the 'comes back wrong' trope and i was like. oh no i have feelings about this bc i have mental illness #and once i stopped masking - i was WRONG. i was different #here's the good news: i am now INNUNDATED with love. fucking swimming in it. excelling at it. the people who stayed #learned my new self. my new different body and how i am different but i am trying. they have held me so tightly #and my life no longer feels quiet. it is not based in my suffering. it feels like i have been growing a tree in my chest #and now it is flowering.#it is so lovely to be surrounded by people who have said - oh! you cut off so many branches i was worried you weren't the same. but now...#... this is just a new you. and i love you. and i love that you're different and happy.#(but yeah also im nb so i was absolutely influenced by Trans things)

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liecanthrope · 9 months

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wait because seriously being an adult therian fucking rips, especially when you start being independent.

dog with a blog? nah. dog with a JOB. i come into work with my tail and my theta delta necklace and the building implodes from my sheer swag. weirdo teenagers love me. also having your own paycheck means you can get whatever gear/treats you want (once bills are paid, of course - bet youve never heard a dog say that!)

living in your own apartment? well the pet limit is 2 but if i include myself im going over the limit. whoops! good thing i love lying to landlords (fuck landlords). living alone (no roomie) is even better bc theres no one to judge you for your animal habits. i can make a huge den in the living room and who is going to stop me?

i even have my own health insurance. bro. imagine being a dog with medicaid. im climbing the walls and howling and barking. i love being a dog filling out government paperwork.

having your own vehicle? THIS DOG CAN DRIVE! if i feel like going to the lake i can just go to the lake! nobody is stopping me! midnight ride with the windows down to howl at the moon? yes please!!

you can literally just go wherever bro. i moved 11 hours from my hometown to the mountains to feel more at home. i lived in the great plains and now i can just go out for a hike in the rockies and howl at the sky.

being an adult therian slaps so fucking hard i cant wait for the youth to grow up and experience the joy of freedom. yes being an adult is incredibly stressful but if youve been stifled living with family, you get a real chance to develop who you truly are. adult therians i love you im rubbing against your neck and mixing our scents. mwah.

#no shame of course if you do not or cannot have these things #but i wasnt granted much independence as a youth so im very happy now #sorry for the ramble im just feeling rlly accomplished today #still settling into the new apt but i finally got my books and some of my trinkets unpacked and set up :)#feeling a little more homey and im enjoying the weather quite a bit. we're having a rainy week #angel barks #therian #therianthropy #dog therian #wolf therian #feline therian #otherkin

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extra-somethin-somethin · 2 months

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ik ppl hate fictional deadbeat moms but im an avid enjoyer. my feminism knows no bounds truly/j

like i get it she did a bad job. but shit she still did a job that's for sure!! like. she did it do you understand. 14 year old girl is pregnant. it's disgraceful. a shameful stain on her family. yusuke doesn't seem to have grandparents or anything so besides yusuke's bio dad she's got no one. and then when yusuke is a toddler the father disappears and considering who he is and what he's like that's probably for the best. gonna go out a limb and say that yusuke was maybe 4 or 5 when his dad cleared out so. at 18 and entirely alone. atsuko looked down at this little thing. this baby because he's still a baby to her this is a baby who only has her. Not even 4 feet tall with the biggest brown eyes looking to her for everything because he quite literally has no one else.

he doesn't know she's a failure yet. he doesn't know people will look down on them just because he exists as he is. he doesn't know how hard this is going to be from now on. all he knows is he loves his momma

so she doesn't cry. she just meets his big innocent eyes and goes "it's just you and me kid" and yusuke doesn't know that that's a sad thing.

so she takes care of him the best she can and it still sucks but yusuke doesn't know what the standard she should be held to is yet. for a small time she is the greatest and best person in his world and he's the only one who thinks so

then he meets keiko and her parents and finds out that his normal is actually dysfunctional and that his mom actually isn't all that great. that living day to day in the bottom of a bottle isn't healthy. so she's no longer praiseworthy but this person he's responsible for. just like that the roles reverse. because while she was all yusuke had yusuke is also all atsuko has. he doesn't respect her but he still punched the motherfucker in the mouth that called her a tramp. she taught him how to do it.

atsuko comes to terms with the fact that Yusuke doesn't really need her anymore, probably never did so she doesn't bother to care when he skips school or beats whoever he wants to a pulp or gambles because at 14 she was expecting so what the fuck can she really say about him. he sneers at her as he makes her coffee. atsuko lights another cigarette

it feels like betrayal when her son dies. at 14 she had him so how can he die at a sorry age like that. i wasted my teenage years on you for what? so you can die and leave me here? you fucking brat. how can she recover from this? yusuke was all she had. he hadn't looked up at her with an admiring gaze since he was 7 and stopped hugging her goodbye soon after but still he was hers he was hers and then he was gone

but then he comes back. and she doesn't get much better as a mom or as a person really. she tries harder than before maybe (keeping him in school) but yusuke never expected her to. he's made up of her bad habits and uncaring attitude but he's so much better than her. became something good something strong despite how shitty of a job she did raising him.

she's not proud because she has no right to be but something like it tugs in her chest when she sees him feeding the people he cares about at his little ramen cart looking as happy as the first time she'd taken him out to park.

yusuke's dad suggests taking another crack at the whole family thing and she wants to laugh in his face. the only family she'll ever have is that little boy who's stronger and braver than she'll ever be.

she doesn't want to see him laying cold in a casket ever again. he's meant for life, a soul as bright and durable as his. atsuko hopes he lives to see the sun explode

#atsuko urameshi #yusuke urameshi #yu yu hakusho #atsuko means warm child and i wonder if she was.#your son is sleeping and you're worried he won't wake up because you've seen him laying dead before #it takes her back to when he was small enough to cradle. she'd stay up all night just watching him breathe #because he was just so small and she'd heard about that infant death syndrome thing #and what if he just stopped breathing and she was alone #she's not a good mom but she's still his mom and he loves her even though she fuckin sucks!#also the fact that atsuko has connections to the Yakuza which is how she keeps yusuke in school #And pays their expenses is so crazy to me and also apt lmaoo #the Infamous Urameshis #people fear the very name 😤#atsuko taught him how to fight you can't convince me otherwise

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recitedemise · 5 months

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𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿. This lengthy headcanon will refer to canon dialogue from mostly Gale, sometimes others. Reader's discretion is very much advised. There will be in depth explorations into grooming, emotional abuse, heavy manipulation, and suicide.

First, let it be said that Gale, a mortal man, will always be the powerless one in his dynamic with Mystra. Of course, nearing forty years of age, he remains entirely responsible for his own actions, his own foul blunders and every hurt he'll cause, but it's important to remember who formed much of who he is: his goddess, his deity, and egregiously, his lover.

Mystra is power. Mystra is possibility. She knows what sway she holds over her Ioyal, vulnerable, and entirely mortal followers. In all ways that matter, they are but lambs she can steer and herd as she sees fit. She knows they can't deny her, and knows they'll never want to. Gale's sheer servitude and complete devotion; to the very quick of his bones, she lapped them up.

Gale: I was just... practising an incantation. Player Character: No, there's more to it than that. I know devotion when I see it. Gale: What can I say? She's—she's Mystra. I can't describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence... Mystra is all magic. And as far as I'm concerned, she is all creation. Player Character: I didn't realize the depth of your devotion. Gale: Magic is... my life. I've been touched with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it.

Gale, orb in his chest, doomed to be eaten by the very thing he loves the most, still speaks so reverently of the goddess, of his lover that has left him to die. He conjures images of her memory—and she is all the while forgetting about his.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rasheman. While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it born of caution after some catastrophe of wizardly men-folk of old. Now, I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

Tales of Mystra's treachery spreads far, leaving those familiar waters surrounding Gale's tower in Waterdeep. They whisper her name, afraid to utter it one time too many, suspecting, perhaps, that she'll show in their mirror like some Faerûnian Bloody Mary.

Talent rouses Mystra. She can see who uses the gift of the Weave and feel them, sampling whatever delight sings their veins as they pull from her domain. Not unlike a spider, she'll follows every tremor that strikes her as just a sliver more profound; and Gale, a prodigy, plucked the Weave's web to so garner her focus. And like some black widow scurrying, she surged down that ripple to prey on a boy. There, Gale, so impressionable, was just a mite older than twelve whole summers. He sat so stunned, beholding Mystra as she lured him into the cradle of her Astral domain. Bathed in her magic, pleasantly coddled within that glittering cosmos, Gale felt blessed in a way he'll struggle always to recount, no word, no language, fit to describe it. He felt chosen. He felt seen. And potently, to a child, he felt loved. Now, imagine a child experiencing something like that. Imagine what they'd think, how brilliant they must be when stood beside the rest. She told him he was gifted, made his heart swell not unlike a child's appetite for praise. She knew what she was doing by offering these morsels, by preying on a child's most delicate mind, and Gale, child prodigy, was already so awash in the idea that his value was in magic. Unfortunately, Gale, susceptible, had no way of squirming out of his goddess' grasp.

Reality: She's laid down the seeds to creep into his heart. When he's just old enough—seventeen's sufficient, she thinks—she stakes her claim and makes him hers.

Gale: My virtuosic talent once caught the eye of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra, who named me her chosen and her lover.

Gale is stunned when she takes him to bed the first time. (Is this really happening?) Mystra claims his mouth in a kiss, taking everything she knows he offers so willingly. Mystra, of course, is not so stunned.

Dream Visitor: An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals. Gale, tasked with Mystra's missive to sacrifice himself: This is it... I must do as Mystra commands.

Gale has worryingly low self-esteem beyond his magic. As already explored, his entire worth as a man hinged on and was built entirely off his talent as a wizard. He fought tooth and nail for any crumb of affection Mystra would offer his way, something she only gave him at all seeing his gift as a child. He wants her forgiveness. He desires it genuinely. He believes so firmly that he has wronged his goddess, buying into the idea that sacrificing himself will right his wrong. She holds such dominion over him, making him reduce his confidence in himself into a mere, trifling pittance; after all, she wasn't just his lover, but the patron deity he prays to. And regardless, Gale is a people pleaser, his initial acceptance of her missive coming as no surprise.

After all, Gale, at times, goes to incredible lengths to appease his audience. This habit, compulsion, impulse, whatever you want to call it, is a quality that was relentlessly exacerbated in his relationship with his immortal paramour. He wanted to content her, felt all he did was never enough, for as a matter of principle, he was oceans, leagues, and entire galaxies beneath her. Gale figures: well, how can a short-lived dalliance satisfy a god? He had to make her happy. Indeed, he'd done everything she'd ask. He'd bedded her how she liked, kissed her how she wanted, and of course, even said those words she'd said tasted best. She was his lover, a lover that never tended to his own needs and pleasures, and he fooled himself into thinking that's enough. He won't bend backwards for everyone, mind you, but if you're of the ones he would, he would stop at nothing to make you happy. After all, people pleasing is a way to keep oneself safe, a trauma response to sidestep discomfort, and though it achieves only a direly tentative peace, when that is all you've been fed, you will pursue it.

Gale did not want to lose Mystra; he couldn't bare the sting of it. And so, when Elminster visited him, Mystra's call for his death offered oh so callously, Gale, heartbroken, felt that part of him kick up. He couldn't endure the guilt, was so hungry for a chance to let his weighty heart breathe, even if it meant dying in the process.

At least this way, he'll finally do something right. At least this way, Mystra will forgive him, and all his friends will survive.

Gale: After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself.

As a byproduct of people pleasing, Gale, too, is all too quick to accept all guilt. He self-deprecates, gaslights himself to a venomous degree, and twists his reality in so cruel a way as to make him the villain Mystra'd led him to believe. He self-flagellates himself, the first one in the world who will throw Gale of Waterdeep a mental punishment. Mystra's a goddess, after all, seen as utterly faultless, and twined so tightly with a being so mighty in esteem, Gale slipped into the role of the guilty often. When tied with anyone with grandeur like this, so immeasurable in their own self worth, it's important to keep in mind this: you are nothing but a prop in which to fulfill their ego. Gale was not Mystra's, not by a long shot. Rather, Gale was a tool, simply her mortal extension.

And he took every blow meant for her... a common and terrible habit for many people in imbalanced, ego-fueled relationships.

Gale's life beyond her wasn't something that interested her. She took most of Gale's devotion, manipulated his life to be her sole mantle of attention, for Mystra is not a goddess that shares very happily.

Indeed, long before his self-imposed isolation, this jealous deity did well at keeping him isolated.

Player Character: Picture kissing him. With tenderness. Then, with passion. Gale: I... I didn't think— Narrator: You perceive quick-fire embarrassment, trepidation, and finally... elation.

And so, cheated out of love, so reduced in his value as a man and lover both, suffice to say, Gale's slow to believe he can ever be loved. That's what happens when you're with someone so cold, consistent only in their infinite lack of respect. Gale looks at fondness, and he feels—confounded, to be sure. He thinks, is this truly mine to have? He doesn't know what to do, is nearly forty in game, and despite having lived decades devoted to one relationship, he feels, at the same time, entirely out of depth. To be frank, he greets it with embarrassment, like he's been caught red handed with something not his at all. He's like a child caught rummaging with his hand in a cookie jar, all this isn't mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in, but he thinks, startled, but god, do I want. He wars with disbelief, uncertainty, and need, and in so many ways feeling utterly starved, with just a glimmer of affection, he falls fast into love.

Scenario: (And if properly romanced, it changes his world.)

Gale: In her (Mystra's) likeness, I used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes. But now... it is hard to see any redeeming qualities in a lover who condemned you to death. I'd much rather gaze into your eyes than hers. Yours are capable of tenderness and feeling... No god could ever compare.

He says it with sincerity. There is such wonder, such love, and such awe in his eyes. He makes the act of kissing him feel like you've just reached into the trenches to but pluck him soundly from his ruin and despair. You think, Gale Dekarios, how unloved have you been all this time?

Gale: To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before.

The answer is: entirely.

For so long, Gale thought love was simply being chosen. He knew nothing of being favored for the quality of his character, to be cherished and accepted even in those ways he fumbles and lacks. Again, his needs were seldom met, often treated with utter indifference by Mystra herself, and to meet someone so eager to treasure him, dote on him in a way his heart, his body is somberly new to, raptures his spirit and captures his soul. He's seen for who he is. He's... loved, desired for his silly quips, his easy smiles, and his growing affections. He bares himself to them, and in turn, they cradle his heart like something entirely precious. Gale thinks this has to be dream. He says, at times, you are more than I deserve.

Scenario: (But sometimes, he hopes too strongly and loves too greatly. As it always does, then, like he's once more wanted too much, he watches something beautiful slip right through his fingers. Of course, Gale Dekarios. Of course it does.)

Player Character: I didn't know you felt so strongly, Gale. Gale: Perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach... but I was only myself, and sometimes that isn't enough.

They don't love him anymore. It breaks his heart. He hurts so much, so profoundly and deeply, and he doesn't realize that he breaks their heart in turn.

Unable to ever voice his feelings with Mystra in any way that amounted to much, Gale's a tendency to wallow, expressions coming off as potentially 'guilt-tripping' and even, on occasion, passive aggressive. Firstly: Gale NEVER means to manipulate emotions, and he's no intention of twisting anyone's arm, either. Fact is, Gale, never taken seriously when he'd bared his vulnerabilities to the Mother of the Weave, can end up saying just a little too much. He feels very deeply, and for most his life, seldom had an outlet for these weeping sentiments. He sometimes lets slip raw words and oftentimes heart-wrenching expressions; all the same, it's not so pitiful as to shepherd an outcome, but rather, is a gesture taken by a man so desperate to be heard. It may feel like scheming, but the truth is far, far greyer: feeling as though he's no right to share the depth of his heart, Gale simply lets it geyser out in a way he can't cork up. In ways he doesn't realize, he's adapted to this ache, passively reacting so his feelings can at least be seen and recognized—no matter how pitifully unwhole. With someone who values so little his thoughts... well, when he slips into these moods, one can hardly feign shock.

Situation: (And if no one shows him trust and tenderness, any true care in his character or worth, Gale gets swallowed up by how wronged he was.

He thinks: Let me be a god. Let no one hurt like me anymore.)

Gale: They only want us to serve them, pray to them...and ultimately, to die for them. But what if we didn't need them? What if we wielded their power instead and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen.

Gale is not above anger, and as stated, he is not above pettiness; however, more than that, he is not above righting himself whatever wound he was struck. Gale, if not offered much by ways of affection, understanding, is made to believe that one idea that's lived growing in his mind: Gale Dekarios is far from sufficient; he has to be more. He has to be better. Gale, in such an unkind ending for himself, sips too desperately—and perhaps greedily, too, but desperately serves as a far better word—at that idea that he needs power. And so, wresting the Crown of Karsus for himself, he spites Mystra in his own way, becoming a god he feels is leagues better than she will ever be. Damn her thoroughly. Damn her ego, her power, and her endless indifference. He will serve the people, protect them, and in ways Mystra never could, better the world.

Situation: But as a god, he loses all sense of his kindness. Humanity. All who loved him leave him, and even Tara spurns the image he's become. With power, he's gained the respect he thought he always wanted... but in turn, he lost in even greater measure all the love he's known.

Endnote: But healing, knowing to forgive himself and knowing he's deserving of care simply for being Gale Dekarios will remain, always, the best path for him.

#HEADCANON.#Oh... anyway. This. Was. A lot.#And it was a lot for me mentally and emotionally to write.#So much of this hit home.#Gale isn't perfect. He can be petty and immature—a byproduct of not being all too good at venting his frustrations when #it gets to a point. He has very bad self esteem. He is not forgiving of himself and is too forgiving of Mystra.#He endured FOR DECADES the cold indifference of a goddess he called his lover.#I know people dog on him because he's a grown man with these hurts and traumas and responses #but just because his trauma manifested in ways you don't find palatable or hot or sexy #doesn't mean they aren't scars left by trauma buddy!!!#And quite frankly that bit about God Gale sounding vindictive and angry #yeah! SOMETIMES people who have so cold and uncaring and belittling a partner #end up angry. You shoved someone into a corner and hounded them for SO LONG. Don't start crying when they rear back on you and bite #I have a deep connection with godhood Gale. But obviously a healed Gale that finds love and acceptance in himself is so much healthier.#I'm rooting for you Gale (always).#So much of this was typed up with a lot of first hand experience so... to say this was a Gale exploration #as much as a way to navigate my own trauma is an apt one.#No two tales of abuse are alike of course. Gale's experience isn't my experience. But I can sympathize a great deal.#TL;DR: This meta post means a lot to me. K. Thanks.

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uncanny-tranny · 8 months

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I think another aspect of conservative thought people need to understand is the idea that it's all about dominance.

The reason why sayings like "we don't want to trans your kids, we want trans kids to live" is because, in the conservative mind, you are replacing their dominance with your own. It can never be about what is best for others, it is always about expressing absolute power and control.

Natural selection, at its ideal, will weed out the people who "shouldn't live." If their existence is a threat to the already-established hierarchy, then it's obvious that they shouldn't exist in order to challenge hierarchy.

While this certainly isn't a "conservative-only" mindset, it's a trend I have noticed more in conservative spaces. This is why I don't always think it's helpful to go on about how, "Oh, we don't want to threaten your worldview. We just want people to live 😊". You will fundamentally be threatening their power in their minds. Therefore, nothing you say can truly take away from the anxiety, fear, and anger at losing control that may be instilled.

#politics #transphobia #transphobia tw #used the whole 'we want trans kids to live' because i personally think it's a good example..#...but isn't the sole example of such...#...take for instance the gay marriage debates from the early 2010s...#...'if we legalize gay marriage it's ONE STEP CLOSER to them taking OVER america and legalizing [horrible thing]!'...#...that is the anxiety of Losing Control and Losing The Divine Hierarchical Power Bestowed To You Personally By Gd Himself...#...i'm not saying all of this to dissuade people from educating people. but i want people to be aware of this dynamic...#...and to decide if they can (or should) personally go up to bat for others to educate people...#...i don't think you will go very far if you try to educate people without understanding on SOME level how their thought process will be...#...because it is likely that you are educating somebody who is going to see the world VERY differently...#...and they will often interpret what you are saying VERY differently than how you intended it to be interpreted...#...again while this isn't solely a conservative issue (believe me i KNOW) i notice it much more in those spaces...#...and since i am in spaces that WANT to educate people about this i think it is apt...#...it isn't a bad thing to want to educate. but again it's not helpful to just assume others are going to interpret you the way you want...#...it's definitely why i stopped making so many posts about educating others. i just don't think i can do it well...#...or at least in a way that doesn't Feel Threatening (even if it Isn't A Threat)

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3lostyears · 4 months

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i’ve seen a lot of criticism about rose in turn left and i understand why to an extent, but i just reread the script and the way RTD describes rose coming up to donna at the end is “solemn and kind” and i love that.

like, the episode literally compares the parallel universe to being a dream, hence why donna can’t remember it. the doctor says “[that woman] never existed now” when donna is first trying to remember rose. by the doctor’s own words rose probably could have just agreed with what donna said about the world blinking out of existence.

but she doesn’t, because presumably she knows that donna - this donna - is going to have to sacrifice herself, either because the readings say so or because she knows that sometimes in a bad dream you have to kill yourself to wake yourself up. she doesn’t just use donna as a means to an end, she doesn’t even truly manipulate her into killing herself - she warns her pretty early on that this will end in her death. but rose respects this version of donna enough to treat her death seriously, with the same weight a “true” death would warrant. she cares that this donna is going to get hit by a car, feel that pain and terror, before she blinks out of existence.

#there’s definitely stuff to critique with how she’s written but the bones of it i like #and i think comparisons to nine are very apt #imagine if i could write fic and not just text posts but alas #rose tyler #turn left #doctor who #dw meta

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raptureshots · 20 days

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FRANK FONTAINE'S APARTMENT

its fucking weird!!!!

big. long rant/analysis thing cuz uhh my brain works in weird ways!

FIRSTLY. THE WEIRD SHIT. He has no closet or shower (its just. a Tub. no shower head), 16 boxes of cigars on a shelf, no kitchen sink, a fucking fireplace???? in his bedroom, his bed is literally on a platform, 5 separate sets of stairs, 17 Bookshelves, a fucking ZEN GARDEN???? three separate taxidermy animals, 9 random carpets, three whole fridges and no tvs.???

His bedroom as a whole is LARGE but not decorated at all, like theres so much empty space. literally three pieces of furniture in the whole room??? One is his bed, then a COUCH. A WHOLE COUCH right in front of said bed, and a random chair?? just on the other side of the room???

ALSO. the fucking pool table?? its just in a dark corner of a room?? with no pool balls or ANY pool equipment at all anywhere near it

His apartment in general doesn't seem LIVED in. Like its decorated and artificial in a way. but it also FITS him and his character? He's a business and conman, bro probably doesn't have much time to be at home in general but needs to pass as just. a Normal Guy so he makes it appear lived in.

Okay. Now I wanna talk about the fucking. VITA CHAMBER. i know it is literally just there for convince and game reasons, but looking at it as if this was real, WHY DOES HE HAVE ONE. WHY. Ryan distributed them around Rapture, yes, but they were never advertised as being able to revive people. Only that they could rejuvenate you. AND. FONTAINE "DIED" AROUND THE SAME TIME THEY STARTED BEING PRODUCED SO. WHY IS IT THERE!!!!!! Did Ryan put it there as a precaution??? Which also makes me wonder, What exactly happened to Fontaine's apartment after his death?? I know the timeline for BioShock is kinda fucky so..??

( Just know I'm basing. Parts of this off the Book and the Wiki . Take this with like a fuckton of Salt )

Overall, I do think his apartment is designed well and fits his character!!! I love just. the whole scenery of BioShock as a whole and I do think its cool that we get to see both his apartment AND Fontaine Futurists... Maybe one day I'll analyze/talk about his office :-)!! ty for reading this all

#bioshock #frank fontaine #Jack Rambles ‼️#ty Booker for telling me to post this!!! and that Frank's APT seems decorated to fit his persona.. shoutout!!!!!#theres some other stuff i wanted to talk abt but couldnt. figure out how to piece it in #and i needa. fact check it as well.#some of this stuff could VERY MUCH be wrong!!! this is just. what I made of his apartment #I wrote this thing like. a month ago.. maybe I should take another look around soon #frank nibbles fontaine ily

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thevikingwoman · 2 months

Text

Saw a post on Finish your WIPs February and I was not going to do any of that, except Solas and Iwyn insisted. It was fun writing them again.

Originally started in 2021, for a kinky bingo prompt of "infidelity", here's Solas and Iwyn enjoying some art, and each other - acting on their attraction to each other after Iwyn's husband leaves.

Fandom: Dragon Age | Words: 4114 | Read on Ao3

Iwyn Lavellan x Solas | Modern AU | smut Rating: Explicit. Infidelity, smut, fluff, angst, Iwyn is lonely, her husband is a bit boring, Solas is lonely too, nothing new here though, oral, piv sex, safe sex, casual relationship

Casual Fun

There is a surprising amount of rich, beautiful people at the museum. Solas knows many donors are more interested in getting their name in the brochures – or even better, in brass on the entrance pillar –but they still attend events to mingle and make sure everyone else knows they are there.

It’s still more crowded than he anticipated. The foyer is busy, a string quartet plays, and the trays of canapes and sparkling wine are quickly refilled.

The patrons of the arts, all dressed up. It doesn’t matter why people are here – the museum is free Wednesdays and Sundays, and hands out scholarships to young artists and that matters. Solas doesn’t much care about making connections or socializing, but he does care that there is money for the arts, and this is why he donates himself, of course.

It’s the opening of the A. Brenhan exhibition – a renown Orzammar artist who rarely allows his works to be shown on the surface. Solas had hoped to see the collection relatively undisturbed, and initially the throng of people had dashed his hopes. When he makes his way to the special exhibit on the second floor, he realizes he was wrong. Very few people wander the exhibit. It seems everyone is more interested in the spectacle that is themselves.

He spends some time on the charcoal sketches. It’s mostly architecture. Forgotten Thaigs and empty corridors and old houses. The story behind them is more interesting than the sketches themselves.

Most people actively browsing the gallery are in pairs or small groups. Like himself, they might have a more serious interest in the art, or simply worry about missing out. While he appreciates the peace and quiet here, he does wish he had someone to discuss the art with.

Solas moves to the next part of the exhibit, what Brenhan is most known for. Oil paintings on large canvasses, larger than Solas is tall. The kind of work you hang in museums, or maybe in mansions of some of the very rich. No matter, the artist’s fame is well deserved. Most of the paintings feature Dwarven architecture, ancient and modern both, but above them an impossible sky. Brenhan is a traditionalist, and has never left Orzammar, and doesn’t truly know what the sky looks like. The effect is eerie and unsettling, and meant to be so.

“I can’t decide if I love it, hate it, or just find it odd.”

Solas is startled by the woman next to him. He’d not noticed her, or assumed she was part of the group that moved on.

“It’s captivating nonetheless,” he offers.

“I agree. It’s one of the more interesting exhibits recently.”

He turns to her, and she is captivating too. Her dress is a shimmery white, contrasting with her tan skin and red hair piled on top of her head. Diamonds drip from her pointed ears and her green eyes sparkle. As she moves, his eyes are drawn to the high slit in her dress and her tall heels.

He quickly looks back at her face, and she smirks at him.

“Do you often attend the openings?” he asks, and realizes this is almost as cliche as do you come here often? He wanted someone to talk to, and now he wants to sink into the floor.

“Most of them, if I can.” She smiles and holds out her hand. “I’m Iwyn.”

He takes it, and she gives a firm handshake.

“Solas.”

“So, Solas, are you familiar with Brenhan’s work?”

“Some. I have not seen such an extensive collection before. From what I understand it is the most comprehensive exhibition of his works. Outside Orzammar, of course.”

“Yes, I’ve heard so too. I did see some of his work in the Museum of Modern Art in Denerim, but it was only a few. I do find his work intriguing, and a lot more impressive in person.”

“It’s the scale of it. It doesn’t translate well to a catalogue.”

Iwyn agrees and they talk more about the paintings, moving from one room to the next in the exhibit. He learns that her interest in art is recent, and he has plenty of knowledge he can share with her. Her own insights are unique and interesting still, seeing the soul and emotion of the pictures without the baggage of art study. The conversation is invigorating and easy.

Sometime later, an elven man joins them. He’s a little shorter than Solas, with a square jaw and long dark hair gathered in a bun at his neck. He leans over and kisses Iwyn on the cheek.

“Hello, dear.”

“Solas, this is my husband Halier. Halier, Solas is an art enthusiast and he’s been sharing interesting thoughts on the exhibit.”

Solas heart drops in chest and he instinctively puts space between him and Iwyn. He’s enjoyed their conversation immensely, and working to steer the conversation away from the art and towards leaving for drinks. Like a fool, he’d ignored the large diamond ring on her finger. It went with her earrings and bracelet.

Halier grunts and thrusts out his hand, and Solas can do nothing else but take it.

“Solas. I’m sure I’ve seen you before – where do you work?”

“I’m a partner at Evanuris Wealth Management.”

“Of course. I must have seen your picture in your office. I’m a partner with Lavellan, Lavellan & Sabrae Law Firm.”

“Very nice.”

Solas isn’t here to discuss business. Most days, he doesn’t hate his job, or the family business, and he’s glad it allows him to support the arts like this, but he also doesn’t want it to consume his life. He isn’t here to discuss business.

“Are you done here?” Halier directs his question at Iwyn, but does not wait for her response. “I’d like to get out of here, I have that early flight tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer. Take the car, I’ll grab a cab.” Iwyn fishes a valet ticket out of her clutch, and lightly kisses Halier’s cheek. “Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t. I have to be at the airport at 6am. Goodnight, dear.” He takes the ticket, and nods at Solas. “Solas, nice to meet you. We can discuss business at some other time, perhaps. Thank you for entertaining my wife.”

“A pleasure.”

Solas watches as Halier leaves, but his attention is soon back on Iwyn.

"My husband finds these things terribly boring,” she says. “We're donors, and he likes his name on something cultured along with the tax deduction, but that's it."

"And you don’t find these things boring?"

“I like the events, and the art. Especially with interesting company.”

He doesn’t know how to interpret that, with her sly smile and sparkling eyes and husband retreating down the stairs.

“The art is certainly better with good company.”

He closes a little of the space between them, and he wants her to forget her husband existed. Fuck.

“I’d love to look at the final part of the exhibit. Do you want to join me, Solas?”

She brushes past him, her fingers skimming his arm as she gestures towards the last room they have not explored. He’s no idea if it’s deliberate, but the heat of her sears him through his jacket.

They spend another thirty minutes, at least, taking in the final room. The art is interesting, but more and more he finds himself staring at Iwyn. She catches him, at one point, causing him to quickly avert his eyes and stumble over his words.

Iwyn puts a hand on his arm.

“How about getting some drinks? It seems you’ve lost interest in the art.”

“I’m looking at a different type of art, even more interesting and beautiful.”

It slips out before he can stop himself, but she just gives him a crooked smile.

“Let’s get out of there, Solas.”

Iwyn takes Solas to a nearby bar. There’s a risk someone would know her and her husband, of course, but she’s willing to take it. Halier already knows she was talking with him, and they’re just here to talk a little more. Maybe, she admits, she wants to more than talk. She likes his eyes on her, the intensity in them when he looks at her. She likes his voice, and the way he called her beautiful just earlier. Brazen and rebellious.

The bar is nice enough, a regular upscale bar matching the surrounding office buildings, galleries, art museum, restaurants, and symphony hall. She thinks it was featured recently in the nightlife section of the local newspaper, but she isn’t sure. Iwyn orders the featured drink, The Divine’s Night Off, with crystal grace infused gin, brown sugar syrup and Navarran orange liqueur. Solas orders a fruity pink grapefruit vodka concoction.

They make careful small talk, at first. About art, and the museum and the ballet (Solas is a fan, Iwyn isn’t) and other arts that the city offers. They carefully avoid talking about work or what Solas does for a living. It’s clear that his company and her husband’s do some business, and she doesn’t want to think about that.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at the donor evenings before. We – I try to go to most of them.”

“I have been a donor for a while now, but the last two years I’ve been in Kirkwall. For work.”

Solas makes a face, and she grins. No one really likes Kirkwall, not even the people from there.

“Happy to be back in Wycome?”

“Most certainly. Kirkland is boring at best, and polluted and prejudiced at its worst. It is a relief to be back. Though I must say that I did not expect the event to be that enticing.”

His voice sends shivers down her spine.

“I’m very glad you’re here, Solas. It made my evening a lot more exciting so far.”

“So far?”

“It could become more exciting.”

“How so?”

“I’m sure you can figure it out.”

She’s bored and lonely most of the time, if she’s honest, and Solas offers something new and different. She wants his hands all over her. She wants to fuck him. There are many reasons she’s still married to Halier, but mediocre sex isn’t one of them. She never thought of meeting someone like this, flirting like this. The thrill of it is lightning in her veins, and the fact that Solas knows about her husband intensifies it.

Solas takes a sip of his drink, and traces the edge of his glass. His fingers are long and elegant.

“I would very much like to. Figure it out, I mean.”

She’s made up her mind, and she doesn’t want to wait anymore. Iwyn is out of her comfort zone, but there is something about Solas that draws her to him. She needs to know if he feels the same, and she’s no reason to hide her intentions.

“Sweet talker.”

“Iwyn, I…” He pauses, and looks serious. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Solas,” she says, as she reaches across the table and places her hand on top of his. “I know a hotel, nearby.”

“Yes,” he replies, to the question she didn’t ask.

They pay for their drinks and slip out into the cool night. It has rained while they were at the bar, the wet sidewalk reflecting the lights from the street. Boldly, Iwyn pulls Solas close and kisses him, soft and quick. He freezes, and she’s about to apologize when he pulls her close again and kisses her back. This time there is nothing soft or gentle about it.

“We should probably find that hotel,” she mumbles when they pull apart. As much as she wants to keep him close, she also wants him naked. Solas seems to agree, nodding and taking her hand. It’s only two blocks to the hotel, and they manage without too many stops for kisses. The entrance is well lit, gold handles in the glass doors.

She hesitates in the lobby, but only briefly. She is certain. Solas hand is at the small of her back, as if it belongs there. As if they’d checked into a hotel together a million times before.

“Can I help you?”

The human behind the counter looks very bored. It’s quite late, and the lobby is empty.

“We need a room for a night. We don’t have a reservation.”

Solas is close and she draws on the confidence in his presence. He wants to be here. She wants to be here. What they’re doing is no one else’s business.

“Sure.” The girl taps on her computer. “Nightly rate 399. Credit card and Id, please?”

“Let me,” Solas says smoothly, and she supposes he right. It’s not that she can’t pay, but it’s better it’s not her name. Some part of her doesn’t care, craves the danger of it. But she’s not quite ready to self-destruct her life.

Solas hands over his cards, and the girl dutifully enters his information into her system. She hands them two keycards. She looks too tired and underpaid to ask about their lack of luggage.

“Room 906, elevators are down and on your right. Checkout is at 11am tomorrow.”

Solas thanks her, hands Iwyn one card, and starts down the hallway. Iwyn grabs his hand.

“One moment.”

She heads to the hotel convenience store, determined and casual all at once. She looks at the little stand of toiletries – deodorants, cotton buds, razors.

“Do you have any condoms?”

The dwarf behind counter grunts, and pulls out a silver cardboard box from a cabinet behind the counter.

“19.99.”

She hands him her credit card, and puts the box in the purse when the transaction is complete. The dwarf grunts again, and fiddles with his phone.

Iwyn hurries after Solas, and puts her hand in his when she catches up.

They slip inside the room, and the door closes with a soft thud behind them. Iwyn pushes him against the wall, and catches his lips in an eager kiss. He slips his hand through the tall slit in her dress, caressing her skin, like he’d been wanting to all night. He kisses her neck, she gasps.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. He pulls back and really looks at her. A thought occurs to him. “Does your husband know you’re here?”

He isn’t really certain why a beautiful woman wants with him, and her husband is certainly handsome enough. If he’s part of someone’s kink he’d like to know.

“No. Does that bother you?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

Iwyn walks to the bed, and drops her dress on the floor. It pools around her feet, leaving her nude except her lace panties and tall heels. She twists off her diamond ring and drops it on the bedside table.

“He won’t know anything,” she states.

She is breathtaking. He tentatively touches her arm, her shoulder. Runs his fingers across her collar bone, and down her chest. She gasps when he cups her breast briefly, before skimming over her ribs, resting his hand on her hip. He follows with kisses, all the way down the body until he kneels before her. He frees her legs from the dress, folds it, and toss it on a chair.

“If he did know – your husband – would you be in danger?”

She laughs at this, and cuts herself off. She looks at him earnestly.

“Thank you, Solas, for asking. I wouldn’t be. He would be severely disappointed, I suppose. Just like he severely disappoints me.”

He kisses her knee.

“I will endeavor not to, in that case.”

“Very good.”

The way her voice drops when she praises him sends a bolt of arousal straight to his dick. So does the fact that she’s here, with him, while her husband has gone home alone.

He runs his hands up her legs, and kisses her lace covered sex. She gasps, a low involuntary sound, completely lovely.

“Sit down, please?”

She does, sitting herself on the bed behind her. Before he can lean in closer, she lifts one foot, pressing her heel against his chest.

“You’re overdressed, Solas.”

“Of course.”

He takes off his jacket, and unbuttons his shirt. Iwyn crosses her legs, and follows every move with hooded eyes. He hopes he measures up. With his chest bared he leans over her and kisses her, deep and hungry.

“Everything, Solas,” she says.

He complies, taking off his shoes and dresspants and socks and boxers. There’s no elegant way to go about it, but Iwyn is just sitting on the bed, leaning back on her elbows with a small smile on her face. She smiles wider when he’s finally naked, and he’d happily suffer a little awkwardness to put such a smile on face.

Iwyn uncrosses her legs.

“Now where were you?”

Solas slides down in front of her. “Right here, I believe.” He slides his hands up her calves, past her knees. She yields to his gentle pressure, and lets her legs fall open. He kisses the inside of her thigh, and again, his lips caressing her silken skin all the way up to her lace clad mound. He kisses the lace, and she moans deliciously when he breathes hot air against her. He draws his head back to look at her, glorious above him, and caresses her with his fingers. He slips two inside her panties, touching her slick heat. Iwyn bucks against him, his other hand firmly holding her left leg.

“More,” she growls, and he draws her panties aside, leaving her clit exposed, pink and swollen. He teases it, and rubs against the sides of it, and then he presses down on it.

“Like this? Softer? Harder?”

“Harder, softer. Alternate.”

He smiles, and does as she asks, causing her to gasp and writhe. She is alluring, her half-covered sex arousing, her wet cunt inviting. He wants to taste her, to make her scream. He keeps working his fingers, and kisses the inside of her thigh. When he reaches the top, he licks up her cunt, reveling in her taste. She moans, a deep throaty sound and he groans too. He looks up at her, her shiny red lips parted, her cheeks flushed with desire.

“More?” he asks.

“Yes, please. Now.”

“I think I’ll get rid of these first.”. He smirks at her, moving his hands across her panties. They’re pretty, but in the way. He pulls the fabric a little up, making the lace rub against her clit, and then down. She lifts her hips easily, allowing him to slide them all the way down her legs. He carefully pulls the panties over the heels of her shoes, leaving them on her feet.

He doesn’t tease this time, no matter how inviting the soft skin of thighs is, but sits right up between her legs and spreads his palms over her hips. Her legs part wide for him, and he lowers his mouth to taste her again. He licks and sucks her sensitive folds and her swollen clit. He’s rewarded with a low moan, her head thrown back. He adds his hand, his fingers teasing her opening. Iwyn takes the opportunity to throw her leg over his shoulder. She’s wet and soft, clenching around his fingers, her juices coating his chin. Her heel digs into his back, pressing him closer to her, a beautiful counterpoint to her sweet taste.

She is all his, right here, even if it isn’t so outside this room. Not that she belongs to anyone but herself, not truly.

Solas keeps working his fingers, his tongue until she shudders around him, moaning and trashing against him. He lets her come down carefully, gently easing her out of her climax. Her leg slips to the floor and she relaxes into the bed.

“That was – very good.”

“Yes?”

“You did good,” she says again, firmer this time. His already hard cock jumps at it. He wants her and he wants her approval more. He wants to be good enough for her. He’s here with her, and her husband isn’t. He’s the one who slides his hands all the way down her legs, and gently takes off her shoes, kissing her ankles. He’s the one who crawls into bed after her when she swings legs up to stretch out on it.

He’s the one who asks her, “what can I do next?”

“Touch me,” she says. “Like you care.”

Solas is suddenly furiously angry, overcome with a need to punch Iwyn’s husband in the face the next time he meets him. He won’t, of course, and refocuses his attention on Iwyn. He just met her tonight, but he does care. He wants to touch her, to please her, right here in this downtown hotel. He also wants to talk art with her again, to get to know her better. He shoves that thought to the back of his brain. Being the one the satisfy her will have to be enough.

“I do care, Iwyn.”

She looks stunned at his earnestness, perhaps like she regrets her vulnerability. He patiently lets his fingers wander up her torso, feather-light. Iwyn recovers and smirks.

“Get on with it, then.”

He does, his hands wandering across her chest, teasing her nipples as he dips his head to kiss her. He learns what makes her moan, what makes her arch her back. Her hands are not idle either, sliding up his body, digging into his shoulders. He groans when she traces one finger up his cock, and wraps her whole hand around it. She pumps it slowly and all thoughts flee his mind, his hands randomly touching her, needing to feel her skin beneath his hands in any way he can. Iwyn sits half up, and kisses him.

“Lay back, Solas,” she says, extracting herself from under him.

He does, laying back and lets her continue to do as she pleases. Her hand is back on his cock as she grins, her other hand holding him firmly down when his hips jerk. He’s so hard it aches, and he almost can’t hold it together when moves faster, twisting her hand a little.

“I’m going to fuck you.”

“Please, please, Iwyn.” He’s ready to beg for anything, has been since he first laid his eyes on her.

She lets go of him, and finds the packet of condoms, opening one. Her nails are expertly manicured, a deep green color. The diamond bracelet glints against her wrist. She rolls the condom over his cock.

Seated above him, she drags her nails across his chest, her cunt hovering out of reach. He wants. He needs, he needs her now.

“Please,” he says again. “I need – “

She lowers herself on him, heat surrounding him, perfect and far too slow. When he moves, thrusting his hips up impatiently, she puts a hand on his chest.

“Stay still.”

Her eyes are burning, and it’s not a question. A demand. A test. He complies and grows impossible harder. Iwyn moves with agonizing slowness. His hands find their way to her waist, supporting, but not changing her pace, letting her stay in control. They’re both panting, eyes caught in each other.

Finally, Iwyn moves faster, leaning more on her weight on his chest as she collapses a little forward. He grips her hips tighter, and she nods. Now he moves with her, into her. It’s tight and hot and wonderful, and he moans her name as he throws his head back. Iwyn brings her own hand between her legs, and they both move faster, erratically. She trembles above him, glorious and beautiful, and his own orgasm takes him by surprise, intensity coursing through him.

Iwyn collapses fully on his chest, and he wraps his arms around her. She sighs and kiss his neck, as she slides off him, then tucks herself into him. Solas deals with the condom, and lets himself enjoy her warmth next to him.

"I don't normally do this," she says.

"Neither do I."

"Fucking a married woman, or engaging in one-night stands in general?"

Both. Either. He just nods, and kisses her brow. She idly caresses his shoulder. It feels far too comfortable.

“I’m glad I did,” she says.

“As I am I.”

They lay intwined, and he holds her. A minute. An hour. A moment. Long enough to pretend this belongs to him.

She slips away well before dawn. Home, he supposes, to her husband, or an empty bed he has left. Back to her real life.

She kisses his cheek.

"Thanks, Solas. I had a good time."

He squeezes her hand.

"Me too," he says, and he smiles, as wide and genuine as he can.