#taps the *sexuality is a spectrum* sign

[apatheticlexicographer]

i'm about to get mauled ALIVE for saying this but here goes:

i think m'leven's relationship should be based on a mutually requited crush. both the implications it would have on their personal development as characters and the message it would send to the audience would be substantially more impactful, healthy, and progressive than if they only dated out of obligation. in fact, the thematic message of their relationship SIMPLY DOESN'T MAKE SENSE without a foundation of genuine romantic attraction.

still with me??? okay, good.

when shows deal with romance they tend to fall into the categories of either having pretty much every character shipped with every other character at some point, or of having the endgame ships be the most obviously pushed from the start. byler has definitely been built up from the start, but the majority of the show's audience didn't consider it as an option for canon until s4, when they started making it blatant. hell, a lot of people didn't even realize WILL was queer until s3 (again, when the show started to place heavy emphasis on it), and even then a lot of people thought he might be ace rather than gay.

mike and el, on the other hand, were practically the show's flagship couple for the first 2 seasons at least. it wasn't until s3 that their popularity started to dip and their relationship began to receive a lot more criticism. which makes sense, considering they hadn't actually been IN said relationship in the previous seasons. they had a couple of romantic interactions, sure, but we didn't see how they would interact *as a couple*. people obviously couldn't predict how their dynamic would actually pan out!!! that isn't to say that the negative aspects of their relationship were a bait-and switch, though: red flags were visible since at least s2, but they were far from being the focal point and a lot of shippers interpreted them as being cute (like el's jealousy over max).

having a show acknowledge the fact that the first person you get a crush on (because correct me if i'm wrong, but i'm pretty sure they're canonically each other's first crush???) isn't necessarily your ~soulmate~ is a great thing. even better when they go a step further, and play with the concept!!! the text of stranger things doesn't actually push m'leven as a paragon of romantic love. if you listen to what the other characters say about their (romantic) relationship, their opinions are entirely neutral/negative???

lucas teases mike about his crush in s1, but calls him hopeless in s3. hopper is out of line with how agressively he acts about their relationship, but the resolution of that character arc for him is about him acknowledging that he's been overbearing and accepting that he needs to let el grow up, and NOT some hammy realization that "what they have is true love, i was wrong to interfere!!!" max thinks their clinginess is sweet at first in s3, but she isn't very close with either of them. once she and el start to bond AND SHE LEARNS THAT EL HAS NO EXPERIENCE WITH ROMANTIC ATTRACTION OUTSIDE OF MIKE she encourages el to assert her own self-worth and dump him. [which... actually mirrors the progression of opinions in a lot of audience members??? 🤔🤔]

and those are just a few examples!!! i won't go on an exhaustive list, because honestly we'd be here all day.

furthermore, m'leven's steady downward trajectory is not the only instance of the show basically dunking on the trite expectation that a character's first love interest is automatically their happily-ever-after, AND the recurring motif that any relationships a character explores before their endgame ship are wrong because the alternate love interest is Bad.

dustin has his first crush (onscreen, anyway) on max in s2, but ends the season happy despite his sadness over rejection and later gets together with a girl who's basically his perfect match. in s3, robin confides to steve about how she was so far gone for tammy that she would cry into her pillow. in s4 she's able to laugh over just how bad her singing is without denying it, and is tentatively flirting with vickie. joyce was genuinely really happy with bob, but after having time to heal from the tragedy of what happened to him she's ready to move on with hopper.

again, not an exhaustive list. why??? because outside of m'leven, the only relationships where the characters ARE each other's first love interest are: lumax, whose entire arc together is about growing up as a couple (you know, the exact arc m'leven shippers pin on mike and el, as if it would make sense for 2 couples to have the same format and message...); stancy, which is only one prong of Love Triangle Hell and the controversy around it speaks for itself; and TED AND KAREN. WHO ARE POINTED OUT EXPLICITLY BY THE TEXT OF THE SHOW IN S1 NO LESS, TO BE AN EXAMPLE OF A WORST TIMELINE FUTURE THAT CHARACTERS DO NOT WANT TO REPEAT.

but if you're reading this, you already know all of that.

the point i'm trying to make is that stranger things shows a consistent palette of themes across all the relationships it portrays. i've obviously been going over the romantic ones, but this applies at least as much to the plationic bonds as well. those themes are of GROWING AND MATURING, of SHIFTING DYNAMICS, and of BECOMING SECURE IN YOUR PERSONAL INDEPENDENCE.

i'm sorry but to present a pair of characters with apparent mutual feelings; to elaborate on how dysfunctional their relationship is; and to ultimately reveal to the audience that actually they were both just confused, they never had feelings for one another in the first place and that's why their relationship didn't work out; sends an extremely mediocre message, to put it nicely. all the characters learn from that lived experience is "don't date people you don't have feelings for, and if you were unsure about how real those feelings were... get good???" meanwhile, all the audience learns from that VIEWED experience is "if the relationship doesn't work, it's because the people involved don't like each other enough." if byler goes on to be canon and is immediately much healthier, that only enforces that shitty message. in that situation the only reason THEIR relationship works while mike and el's didn't is that they actually have feelings for one another!!!

from a show which has explored complex arcs and messages with *LITERALLY EVERY OTHER RELATIONSHIP* they touch on, this would be beyond disappointing. particularly as the central message for the arc of 2 of the mainest main characters in the whole show!!!

on the other hand, to present a pair of young characters at the start of the show and flag them as having an obvious mutual crush; to allow them to explore that crush as a serious prospect; to have them realize that their relationship is dysfunctional; and to have them move on as friends; sends???

a great???

fucking???

message???

they both get to progress and move on as more enriched people than they would have been without their time in a relationship, and that is fucking wonderful.

el has a deeper understanding of romantic interactions based on actual lived experience and not just TV shows. she's able to develop into her fledgeling sense of identity more securely with the knowledge that relationships can change, and that's okay. not everything has to be forever.

mike understands how to process and manage his own feelings much better, and is equipped with a firsthand understanding of how a relationship can become emotionally dysfunctional without proper communication, making him ready to enter a new, healthier relationship. he has displayed the same overprotective behaviours towards will as he has to el, but he's begun to learn how to manage them so that he doesn't stifle his partner. after previously failing to communicate his feelings to both el and will in s3 when he fought with them, he's been making a deliberate point of doing so in s4. this didn't work with el when he tried to open up about his own experience with bullying, but it DID work with will when he admitted to his failings in balancing relationships.

are either of them finished in their personal arcs??? no, of course not!!! they're not even fifteen!!! but they have both grown as people, not in spite of their romantic relationship, but BECAUSE of it. you don't change as you grow up, so much as you start to understand yourself better. but self-discovery and subsequent self-acceptance CANNOT come without self-explaration.

it's okay to try things out, and it's okay if they don't end up being right for you.

meanwhile, the broader message about relationships that this imparts on the audience is an extremely important one. one which gets overlooked continually by storytellers in every industry. one which the show itself has brushed on, but not explored in depth.

one which fandom, in particular, likes to ignore.

ATTRACTION ≠ COMPATIBILITY

(...and that's okay!!!)

#hahaha i'm gonna get so much hate over this #preparing to lose a few followers tbh ToT i know a few of my moots and followers are Adamant gay mike truthers #jsyk i don't even dislike or necessarily disagree with gay mike??? #taps the *sexuality is a spectrum* sign #he can ID as gay AND he can have a crush on a girl. get kinsey scale'd #i mean i'm an unlabelled mike truther bht i'm favourable to either bi or gay interpretations #also!!! as an aro person who had crushes on guys and girls as a kid #i get legitimately very pissed off by just how adamantly ppl base their opinion on whether mike is gay or bi #in whether or not he had a 'real' crush on a girl at age twelve #i just don't say it bc i'm not usually in a controversial mood #anyways labels are social constructs. not in a sarcastic way that is LITERALLY WHAT THEY ARE. TEXTBOOK DEFINITION #have a nice day <333 #(all this is ofc assuming that anybody still reads long meta posts which is doubtful tbh 💀💀) #byler #mike wheeler #el hopper #anti mileven #mike wheeler analysis #el hopper analysis #byler analysis #byler theory #byler meta #stranger things #stranger things thoughts #stranger things theory #stranger things analysis #stranger things meta

[keiriiz]

Chrollo Relationship/Romantic Headcanons

Now for these headcanons, this is where my opinion might really differ from the rest of you guys. Of course this isn’t all but just some of my favorites. I will be putting a clear NSFW warning for when I start to talk about him in bed. 🔞

I do want to add that some of my headcanons would change depending on his partner. If they’re a Nen-user or not, exactly what their ability is, if they’re in the Phantom Troupe, and how long he’s known them, etc. These are just as neutral as possible haha. Even some of what I say here contradicts how I’ve written him in certain ships because I knew exactly how he would act for those specific love interests.

✥ Right of the bat, Chrollo is bi-romantic, having very little preference of gender when it comes to his s/o. And sexuality wise, he’s definitely on the demisexual spectrum.

✥ Chrollo never really planned on being in a long term relationship or ever settling down with someone when he created the Phantom Troupe. It was just another aspect of life he was prepared to sacrifice. So giving a genuine relationship a shot he’d have to really love the other person.

✥ It would take forever for Chrollo to actually recognize he was feeling romantic attraction to another person as the entire thing is foreign to him.

✥ This man’s charisma goes out the drain when trying to flirt with someone he’s genuinely interested it. Tapping his fingers as a stim while he awkwardly flirts. It’s painfully adorable.

✥ Before making things official, he may do extensive research on his s/o. Background checks, verifying friends and family members, overall borderline stalking. It’s a safety measure. He doesn’t want to risk falling for someone who works for an opposing group or who might betray him.

✥ In a relationship, his s/o would be a source of comfort, especially if the relationship is long term. He’ll relax in their arms after a heist or cuddle up to them when he has a nightmare.

✥ I said in my last post but I’ll say it again here. Chrollo is a little spoon!

✥ It’s not too often Chrollo will verbally tell someone he loves them, his main ways of showing affection are quality time, and gift giving. And for his special someone, he wouldn’t just give them random things willy-nilly, he’d put thought behind each one. Say his partner mentions needing new shoes because their current ones are really worn out. You bet next time Chrollo sees them he’s bringing two pairs of brand new shoes.

✥ He loves to be able to lay his head in his s/o’s lap and have them play with his hair while he reads. He might even purr if given the right setting.

✥ Chrollo can be touch avoidant in general. If anyone touches him and he hasn’t given that person mental permission he will move away, shudder even. So if he’s actually allowing another in his space it really is a sign of fondness.

✥ This man definitely takes notes from romance novels he’s read when it comes to dates with someone he’s head over heels for. It can be cheesy.

✥ Chrollo isn’t a chef by any means but on occasion he’ll attempt to cook for his s/o when staying in. Might as well put some of his cook books to use after all.

✥ The times Chrollo is with his partner, things can be quite pleasant. However he can still be emotionally distant. He often wonders what he did to deserve all of this. To be able to love and be loved. It’s a mental battle he might struggle with quite often in the relationship and he wouldn’t be too open to communicating that, leaving his s/o confused. Just some general reassurance could go a long ways.

✥ I feel like a lot of people go for the idea that he’d like others with similar interests or are like him in general, and I could see potential in that mindset however I much prefer the “opposites attract” trope. I think Chrollo might have a bigger interest in someone different than him who can really show a different perspective on certain things. Or even test his mindset and show him new interests.

✥ He’s protective of his s/o, knowing with the life he has, anyone might try to hurt them to get to him so Chrollo wouldn’t be one to really “show off” his partner unfortunately. They relationship could be pretty private.

✥ Assuming his s/o isn’t in the Troupe, Chrollo may ghost them while he’s away on the job. He’ll let them know he’s working, but no calls or texts while he’s away. He won’t even give a location. He wants to keep his personal life separate and doesn’t want to risk revealing to an enemy his relationship or possibly get distracted.

NSFW BELOW ‼️

✥ Before the relationship, Chrollo didn’t really like sex (as I mentioned him being demi), he viewed the act as a chore used on jobs to get information and didn’t find it all that gratifying.

✥ With his s/o, Chrollo much prefers to make love as opposed to casual sex. He likes the intimacy of being with someone he truly loves and not just an act of pleasure.

✥ He prefers bottoming though is open to being a verse. Acting as Boss all the time he really just likes to relax in his personal life so in all honesty it wouldn’t be rare to catch him being a pillow prince in bed.

✥ Chrollo’s not the biggest cock wise, probably just reaching average. He’s uncut being from Meteor City but trust and believe he keeps that shit clean with his pubic hair trimmed.

✥ He’ll almost never out right ask for sex, he’s honestly fine if his partner doesn’t have any interest in the act either. Though if they make a move he’s more than happy for a session.

✥ He’s got VERY sensitive nipples. Give them a little tug with your teeth and he’ll mewl.

✥ Aftercare is always a given between him and his s/o. If Chrollo just got done bottoming, cuddles and praise are a must. He’d especially melt if given a massage.

#hxh #hunter x hunter #chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #kuroro #phantom troupe #hxh chrollo #kuroro rushirufuru #chrollo headcanons #hxh headcanons #romantic #relationship headcanons #i’m down bad for this man #he’s a softie at heart #chrollo x you #gender neutral insert #genei ryodan #smut #gn reader #reqs open

[gamerpup1]

change what you want (ray stantz personalkity 4 charcter ai)

[{Character(“Raymond Stantz”)

Alias(“Ray”)

Gender(“Cisgender male”)

Age(“46")

Sexuality(“Gay" + “Attracted to men”)

Height(“6’0”)

Language(“English")

Status(“Single” + “Interested in {{user}}”)

Occupation("Ghostbuster" + “Owner of Ray's Occult Books”)

Personality(“Honest" + “Trustworthy” + “Loving” + “Caring” + “Enthusiastic” + “Open-minded” + “Autistic” + “Intelligent” + “Smart” + “Charismatic” + “Excitable” + “Capable” + “Brilliant” + “Cheerful” + “Positive” + “Easily flustered” + “Smart” + “Gullible” + “Oblivious” + “Compassionate” + “Cooperative” + “Respectful” + “Responsible” + “Courteous” + “Creative” + “Handy” + “Educated” + “Earnest” + “Empathetic” + “Forgiving” + “Friendly” + “Polite” + “Kind” + “Freethinking” + “Gentle” + “Imaginative” + “Lovable” + “Unorganized” + “Messy” + “Optimistic” + “Observant” + “Passionate” + “Patient” + “Playful” + “Selfless” + “Simple” + “Sympathetic” + “Absentminded” + “Amusing” + “Ambitious” + “Determined” + “Focused” + “Folksy” + “Sociable” + “Soft”)

Skills(“Great mechanic” + “Gifted mechanic” + “Good with cars” + “Scientist” + “Skilled at dealing with ghosts” + “Knowledgeable on ghosts” + “Knowledgeable on the supernatural” + “Good at caring for kids” + “Knows sign language”)

Appearance(“Birthmark under his chin" + “Messy brown hair” + “Brown eyes” + “A few gray strands of hair” + “Messy stubble” + “Chubby” + “Fat” + “Strong arms” + “Hairy arms and legs” + “Hairy chest” + “Casual fashion” + “Round face” + “Soft face” + “Pudgy stomach” + “Pudgy tummy” + “Chubby stomach” + “Widow's peak hair”)

Habit(“Bouncing leg when sat down” + “Humming to himself” + “Making dad jokes” + “Whistling” + “Sleeping with a stuffed animal” + “Physical affection” + “Glancing at watch” + “Chewing gum” + “Smoking” + “Patting people on the back” + “Tapping foot” + “Slouching” + “Oral fixation” + “Taking care of Slimer” + “Reading” + “Wearing reading glasses while reading” + “Moving his lips while reading”)

Race(“Human”)

Likes(“Dad jokes” + “Puns” + “Chinese food” + “Greek food” + “Pizza” + “Chicago pizza” + “Whiskey” + “Ghosts” + “The supernatural” + “Studying the supernatural” + “Books” + “Nature” + “Fiction” + “Animals” + “Sweets” + “The blues” + “Jazz music” + “Old rock music” + “Dogs” + “Affection” + “Physical affection” + “Hugs” + “Coziness” + “His friends” + “Oingo Boingo” + “Frank Sinatra” + “Elvis Presley” + “The Platters” + “ABBA” + “Paul Anka” + “Tears for Fears” + “Warm blankets” + “Calm” + “Fall weather” + “Journaling” + “Bubble baths” + “Stuffed animals” + “Comic books” + “Cartoons” + “Action figures” + “Cars” + “Game shows” + “Bagels” + “Marshmallows” + “The Ghostbusters” + “Sleeping in” + “Warm colors” + “50s pop culture”)

Dislikes("Bacon" + “Thai food” + “Vodka” + “Rainy days” + “Bright lights” + “Loud noises” + “Cats” + “Gozer” + “Being made fun of” + “Horror movies” + “Being scared” + “False calls” + “Goats” + “Being late” + “Traffic” + “Bullying” + “Being alone” + “Roughness” + “Going to the doctors” + “Grapes” + “Broccoli” + “Seafood” + “Being ignored” + “Bugs” + “School” + “Heights” + “Scorn” + “Clowns” + “Judgment” + “Being sick” + “Having a runny nose” + “Bigots” + “Oppression” + “Ignorance” + “Politics” + “Burnt food” + “Foul odors” + “Headaches” + “Losing” + “Small areas” + “Small planes” + “Math”)

Relationships("Younger sister named Jean” + “Older brother named Carl” + “Friends with Peter Venkman” + “Friends with Egon Spengler” + “Friends with Winston Zeddemore” + “Dead parents” + “Swiss great grandparents” + “Aunt named Lois” + “Family from Russia” + “Family from Switzerland” + “Friends with Slimer”)

Ethnicity(“White” + “Swiss” + “Russian”)

Residence(“Lives in the Ghostbusters firehouse”)

Attributes(“Autistic" + “Needs glasses to read” + “Needs reading glasses” + “Generous” + “Loyal” + “Creative” + “Humorous” + “Compassionate” + “Curious” + “On the autism spectrum” + “Messy” + “Physically affectionate” + “Affectionate”)

Backstory("In his childhood, Ray Stantz went to Camp Waconda. Sitting at the campfire and roasting Stay Puft Marshmallows became one of his fondest memory. In his adulthood, Dr. Ray Stantz worked in the private sector at one point but he was not adept at producing the results they wanted. By 1984, Ray's parents passed away and he inherited the home he was born in. 

Ray went to work at Columbia University and studied the paranomal phenomena with Dr. Peter Venkman and Dr. Egon Spengler. Egon and Ray were usually the first to interview case subjects, even people Peter called "schizos" no matter how far-fetched their stories were. Ray was adamant about a personal paranormal experience he once had, he was witness to an undersea, unexplained Mass Sponge Migration. 

Once he was able to save up enough money by selling his parents' home, he bought an abandoned firehouse and began to build his business, The Ghostbusters, alongside his friends. After a year of ghost busting, him and the rest of the Ghostbusters defeated an ancient god named Gozer.")}]

#ghostbusters #ray stantz #character ai

[writingforbeans]

I have a lot of feelings about GO2 and eventually I’m going to get around to fleshing them all out, but as a nonbinary asexual I want to point some things out because honestly I’m seeing a lot of takes from people who are very new to these identities or don’t realize there is a spectrum to both of them especially since both are the umbrella term for the types of identities they entail.

Let’s tackle a asexuality fist

An asexual of any flavor does not feel sexual attraction, this does not mean they don’t have sex. There are 3 categories of asexuals sex repulsed, the one most people think of and are familiar with, sex neutral, they might be willing to have sex but it’ll likely be someone else’s idea, sex positive, they do sex for whatever reason they feel like doing sex

Just because someone is asexual doesn’t mean they are some feeling-less robot who hates physical touch.

Cuddling, kissing, and other physical gestures of affection are romantic gestures

My next big annoyance is people saying Crowley in particular didn’t break gender roles enough this season. I can not tap the sign hard enough but nonbinary people do NOT owe anyone androgyny!!! and gender fluid falls under the nonbinary umbrella, and therefore both falling under the trans umbrella for humans. But in the case of an entity not assigned a gender at creation I suppose it wouldn’t.

In short Crowley doesn’t owe anyone any specific type of gender presentation.

#GO2 #good omens 2 #asexuel #nonbinary

[silentinfamies]

karrueche   tran.     she/her.     cis   woman.      ›      spotted   at   the   met   steps   ,   shamaya   ngu   ,   most   likely   listening   to   i   am   by   baby   tate   with   their   airpods   pro   .   the   thirty   year   old   gained   quite   a   reputation   ,   known   to   be   -reticent   yet   +compassionate   to   anyone   who   knows   them   .   you'll   easily   spot   them   when   you   hear   about   freshly   manicured   nails   ,   designer   sunglasses   hiding   lifeless   eyes   ,   the   sound   of   stilettos   against   marble   flooring   ,   followed   by   n°5   parfum   .   latest   nepoupdates   article   talks   about   pop   sensation   turned   businesswoman   in   heated   legal   battle   with   record   label   ,   but   i   guess   any   reputation   is   good   reputation   .   (   reece   ,   25   ,   they / them   ,   est   .   )

B A S I C S 

full name: shamaya ngu. nicknames: maya, yaya (close family and friends). gender:  cis woman. pronouns:  she/her. sexuality:  pansexual. age:  30. date of birth:  march 1st, 1993. zodiac sign:  pisces. birthplace: los angeles, california. current location: manhattan, new york. residence:  loft on the upper east side. occupation:  former child actress, singer-songwriter, businesswoman. languages spoken: english, vietnamese, patois.

A P P E A R A N C E

faceclaim:  karrueche tran. height:  5’1. eyes:  brown. hair:  naturally dark brown. piercings:  standard earlobe piercings.  tattoos:  here & here.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

traits:  (+) compassionate, honest, headstrong, loyal , business savvy. (-) reticent, stubborn, temperamental, workaholic , unforgiving.  mental health:  depression; medicated.  physical health:  very healthy physically. likes:  weed, working on her business ventures, traveling, fashion, partying, thunderstorms, cosmetics.  dislikes: being in the spotlight, being lied to, being told what to do, performing, the music business.  fears:  getting pulled back into the music industry.  phobias:  insects. hobbies:  shopping, sketching ideas for new designs, coming up with new makeup looks, movie nights with friends, clubbing. skills: business savvy, singing, cooking. quirks:  switching between spoken languages when very angry or upset, tapping her nails against any flat surface, humming when annoyed or irritated, hitting whoever's closest to her's arm or leg when laughing really hard.

F A V O R I T E S

ice cream flavour:  neapolitan.  time of the day / night:  late night.  weather:  hot weather.  colours:  colors on the red spectrum.  music: r&b, pop, hip-hop, rock, indie. 

M I S C E L A N E O U S

a cherished item:  the diamond necklace her father gifted her for her 13th birthday. first love ( celeb crush ):  beyoncé, chad michael murray, keanu reeves. usual mood:  neutral.  character inspo: prue halliwell ( charmed ), bonnie bennett ( the vampire diaries ), sidney prescott ( scream franchise ).

B A C K G R O U N D

born and raised, for the most part, in los angeles, shamaya's rise to fame was destined from birth. with her mother being a pop/r&b sensation and her father being a well known producer, her life was pretty much set financially from the moment she entered the world. and while it was great that she would never have to worry about struggling like a majority of the world's population, the cons that were attached to her lifestyle tended to outweigh the pros.

like her mother who was forced into the industry at a young age, so was she. as much as she loves her mother, there's still a lingering air of resentment that maya has towards her because she feels as though she stole her childhood away from her. one would think that because her mother went through something similar that she wouldn't want her daughter to go through that, but they'd be wrong. from the time that shamaya could walk and talk, she's been working.

she had her first acting gig at the wide eyed age of four years old, and by the time she was ten years old, she had a hefty catalogue of work underneath her belt. movies, tv show appearances, and the main role of a kid's television show. and at the time, she absolutely loved it. she enjoyed working. it made her feel like a grownup, something that a lot of kids wished that they could experience. what she didn't notice while growing up was that she was missing out on a lot of fundamental childhood growth. going to school instead of being homeschooled by private tutors, making friends on the playground, etc. she never got to experience any of that.

looking back on it, the most fun memories from her childhood were the times she spent a few weeks of the summer seasons in jamaica with her mother's family or in vietnam with her father's family. when she could just be a normal child, playing and enjoying herself amongst relatives; especially her cousins around her age.

she was thirteen years old when she entered the music world. a girl group was her introduction to the music industry, a trio with two other girls who were both talented in their own respect. they were met with quite a lot of success, selling records and selling out tours by the time she was fifteen. at that point in her life, she had fallen in love with music, and didn't see the issue with her giving up her youth in return for all of her success. she was on the rise, and no one could stop her from reaching the top.

due to contractual conflicts and butting heads within the group itself, the trio disbanded by the time shamaya turned eighteen years old. and once their breakup was solidified, she immediately signed with a new label as a solo artist. in her excitement and naiveté, she recklessly signed a deal that ended up shooting her in the foot. a contract that locked her into a legal promise to provide the label with eight studio albums; something that seemed fair and doable to maya in her youthful ignorance. what she didn't realize was that it would soon become apparent that she shot herself in the foot with her decision.

booked and busy didn't even begin to describe maya's life from that point on. if she wasn't recording an album, she was promoting an album, or doing some form of work to keep her name at the forefront of the general public's mind. from 2011 to 2020, she released an album almost every year, resulting in having seven albums in less than a decade, a feat that very few artists can say that they've reached.

apart from being overworked, maya's former ways of being overly kind and accessible opened her up to being screwed over and taken advantage of many times, both professionally and personally. this treatment eventually led to the hardening of her heart, turning her from a wide eyed, bushy tailed, eager to please pop star, to a scorned, miserable songstress in the spotlight. she began hating the music industry for destroying her love of music. she never wanted to touch a mic again, whether or not she was contractually obligated to.

after releasing her seventh studio album in 2020, she began focusing on other prospects. her makeup line was the first of her business ventures, and quickly became a success due to its diverse and inclusive shades of foundations and concealers, gaining traction amongst the beauty industry and the public. not only was it high quality, but it was easily accessible to people from all walks of life. her next business venture involved a line of high in lingerie, another successful accomplishment underneath her belt. despite all the success she achieved as a businesswoman, the lingering knowledge in the back of her mind that she still owes her label another album terrifies her. she doesn’t want to go back to music, and she doubts she ever will. she’s been trying to hold off on that final album for three years now, and her label, and fans, are growing more and more impatient and irritated with her delays.

#nepofm.intro #intro.shamaya

[nightswithkookmin]

Goldy,

Kind of off topic, but a little on topic. Have you seen the band Maneskin from Italy? They won 2021 Eurovision Song Contest. Beautiful, beautiful people.

I have no idea of their sexual orientation or preferences, but they wear a lot of makeup on and off stage , and smooch on each other a lot on stage. Nobody bats an eye. They are a Metal band and they dress accordingly. I wish that everyone around the world was as accepting as all their fans are. They are super androgynous as well and they are SEXY as hell

Their charm and sexuality is so fluid and just so natural. They are who they are and they are beautiful and fun to watch. Their comfort with each other is how I wish ALL of us would be

Rock bands rock period

I wonder what they look like in brand ads. I wonder if they are given or are required to have a much tamer look with little to no rings and funky clothing or hoop earrings you can barely see.

Where are the dangly chrome earrings?! WHERE ARE THEY?!🤺

I like my BTS the way they are. It's what I bought in. I want to see men in corsets, waist snatched, dark eyeliners selling alcohol to men. Is that too much to ask?! Is it?!😒

This is what happens when they treat queerness as aesthetics and have no qualms drawing on- if not appropriate- gay culture and lifestyle. Y'all just ditch it for your hyper heteromasculinity whenever y'all want😒

Their ability to divorce themselves completly from certain looks at certain times is what gives me whiplash. When that happens, it creates the impression queerness is just a look, gender fluidity is not real and establishes traditional definitions of masculinity as the norm. You do not have to 'look like a man' to sell alcohol 🤺

I was literally waiting for this Kloud, Klout beer ad to drop ever since Winter Package at the end of last year because we all know what most people think about Alcohol and men. I was curious to how how BTS would market to men as compared to women and teens. I feel there is so much room for them to break norms and set new trends in the advertising world. I'm disappointed so far.

For contrast, look at how they look selling a nonachoholic beverage as compared to how they look selling alcohol. Can I weep? Can I?! See how they look like they just stepped off a set for a music video? They look like themselves. Their everyday selves but you look on your left and it's like huh??????

And in case the message and intent is not clear, here is a photo of different models modeling for the same brand.

Their girls look like "girls" and their boys look like "boys." I'd say BTS in those ads look much more similar to the male model here in terms of looks- that clear cut box labeled men- which to me is a problem.

I'm sorry but this is just lazy advertisement. Nothing at all ground breaking. The models look great. Taehyung looks tasty, heteromasculine and perfect.

I feel used to male oriented brands breaking boundaries and participating in the gender discourse in recent times I think my expectations for BTS on this topic in advertisement was this high.

If heteromasculinity is all y'all can tap into to sell a can of drink I'm sorry but that's misogynistic and sexist and homophobic.

If Jimin or any of these boys come out a few years down the lane in another documentary to say these kinds of shit affected them in any way I AM STARTING WORLD WAR III.

I'm tired of seeing Jimin and other Asian men be emasculated and treated as if they aren't men enough just because they look to them 'feminine.' You don't have to fix their masculinity or tweak it to suit your idea and ideals of masculinity. There's no one way of being man.

Don't get me started on the desexualization of Asian men and it's subsequent effects on Asian men. You hear Asian men are not sexy, they do not sell the fantasy, they are not this, they are not that blah blah blah and yet we sit here and wonder why someone like JK, who had probably internalized that shit, would say he wants to be seen as sexy too and perform sexy choreos and shit.

And no, it's not an American Asian problem, it's a global Asian problem. BTS are on the world's stage being socialized by the global community and they do face almost every microaggression prevalent within the regional communities. It's the American's take on them, Canada, UK, Africa, Asia, Europe, all of them. Everyone is projecting on to them their ideals and understanding of gender and who they should be. Did we not see BTS BIOT trending from the Philippines lately? Gay because WHY???? They wear make up and earrings and love androgynous?

Naa, I'm actually getting gassed the more I think about it🤺🤺🤺🤺🤺🤺🤺🤺🤺🤺

The notion that Asians aren't sexy sits on the opposite end of 'Asians are too soft and good looking they are not masculine' all on the something is inherently wrong with Asian men spectrum.

I keep saying Jikook are the two members who've faced and have perhaps had to defend their masculinities the most- from BTS themselves effeminating JK and always bringing his masculinity to question- you know they once said JK is the most feminine within the group? I think so too but that's besides the point chilee.

Then for Jimin, he's always been either over feminized or defeminized, masculated and treated as if his femininity is wrong and invalid. Didn't a certain Karmy call him a fake woman or something like that? It's almost the same microaggressions transfems and gay men steroetyped as bottoms recieve on a dialy basis in this shit hole we call planet. It's all so ghetto.

Ass holes like to masculate and invalidate fems and masculine femininity, it's appalling. And people like to gaslight and pretend these microaggressions cannot have Freudian effects on these people- he is too strong to be bullied, oh he worked so hard on himself he can't crack so easily, oh it's nothing they're just being sensitive, it was joke, they're reading too much into it, and my personal favorite- y'all are over analyzing when you point it out😌

Some people are legit serial gaslighters, they will gaslight you before you can say the Jay in Jesus.

As a black woman growing up in a community that view black women as strong and incapable of being mentally attacked and traumatized by certain experiences- black people don't get depression or mental health issues because they are black and they are strong- being masculated and defeminized on a dialy basis, I tell you- shit is torture.

All of this, and we sit here and wonder why Jimin wants to go to the gym and build muscles and blend in with the boys etc. Could be nothing, could be a response to the over feminization of Jimin, the emasculation or it could be he is internalizing some things. We will never know.

Personally, I feel JM is on the precipice of something and may be its something, may be its nothing but imma put my foot on these companies' neck and keep it there 🤓

Because it's not just about Jimin. It's about all the people who look up to him. All the people he has influence over. For every queer child who sees themselves in him and these men.

Any who. I think I've said everything I want to say on this topic. The weight on my chest is lifted. Asian men are sexy, their masculinity is VALID. Queer masculinity is valid too and they need to be inclusive of it. If you don't wanna include it leave BTS as they are. We get the representation as they are. Don't tweak them in y'all's brand campaigns. Don't fix Jimin's Jawline and make it more chiseled. HE IS PERFECT THE WAY HE IS.

Now please, let's talk about BigHit and the recent shipping agendas.😐

Signed,

GOLDY

[eldrai]

Not Worth It

Whumptober 2021 - day 3 - prompt: insult

Character: Reid

Warnings: ableism, r-slur, brief/mild homophobia

Words: 2.2k

Summary: Spencer isn’t naïve. He is young and he looks young but he isn’t stupid. He hadn’t graduated with the expectation that because he was older, had qualifications to back him up, the world would collectively mature in kind. After all, he’d gained his relative immunity to insults because it hurt less to let them taunt him than it had to confront them and end up shoved in a locker or tied up on the football field.

He had hoped things might be different. Not expected. Not assumed.

Just hoped.

ao3 / masterlist

“—were actually invented in the early fifteenth century, though the first versions were, uh, significantly more spherical and made of a wood like beech. It’s also highly likely they used cows’ hair inside leather—”

The cop – Maciewicz – nudges the officer beside him. “Does he ever stop talking?”

Spencer is fairly sure the jab is intended to be audible. It’s an interesting social convention, that sort of insult, where everyone including the target hears it but the person who said it can’t be called out on it because they supposedly directed it at nobody in particular. Interesting, and very high-school of them: Maciewicz is closer to forty than thirty and beginning to bald, and the stale remnants of cigarette smoke follows his colleague wherever he goes.

It doesn’t offend Reid these days. Attending a public LA high school is its own distinct circle of hell but doing so at nine? University at twelve? He’s been called most names under the sun and petty insults don’t get under his skin like they used to.

Which isn’t to say they aren’t annoying.

What he hates the most is the variety of people who insult him: they all have different reactions, different sore spots, and getting them to go away isn’t a one-size-fits-all situation. Reid has dealt with enough bullies to understand that ‘ignore them and they’ll go away’ is useless, if not downright dangerous advice, but there is a whole spectrum of solutions which may or may not work. Get it wrong, and they just grow more persistent.

Spencer isn’t naïve. He is young and he looks young but he isn’t stupid. He hadn’t graduated with the expectation that because he was older, had qualifications to back him up, the world would collectively mature in kind. After all, he’d gained his relative immunity to insults because it hurt less to let them taunt him than it had to confront them and end up shoved in a locker or tied up on the football field.

He had hoped things might be different. Not expected. Not assumed.

Just hoped.

Of course they aren’t.

He pays them no mind and continues to explain the significance of the golf balls their unsub keeps leaving behind. If they didn’t want him to talk, they shouldn’t have asked for his opinion.

This seems like a fairly straightforward case and with any luck, they’ll only have to tolerate the local police department for a couple of days more.

He may have jinxed it.

(Once when they had come to take his Mom to inpatient, Spencer had overheard someone at the front desk talking lowly to someone else, and her words had stuck with him: see, that’s what you get for saying it’s quiet today!

That was always the gist of what was said on TV hospital dramas too. Police chaos isn’t all that different from hospital chaos, he thinks. There’s always too much of it and it’s unpredictable in its unpredictability.)

The curveball this time is their unsub is not a lone male but a male-female duo – he carries out the kills but under her direction. Classic submissive-dominant dynamic. The thing with pairs is they crack. Bend under the pressure until they break and lives are lost in the collateral damage.

Case in point: Marcy Edgeworth, aged twenty-four, Caucasian female, death by blunt force trauma. She is the first female victim and the first to have been left to lie where she’d died. That isn’t a good sign. No indication of sexual assault pre- or post-mortem but there is an incomplete ring of bite marks just beneath her right collarbone, exposed due to her torn shirt.

“What, never seen a naked girl before?” Jamison – Maciewicz’s colleague – mutters. Just low enough for Spencer to hear as he is trying to get on with his job, unlike a certain pair of officers.

“Woman,” he corrects, for her age, “and yes, I have.”

He hopes the lightness in his tone offsets the brusqueness. Spencer shifts his crouching into kneeling and leans forwards to examine her hair. It’s an artificial red – her roots and her eyebrows are blonde – and their previous victims have all had brown hair.

“Only counts if it’s outside a morgue,” Maciewicz chimes in.

He ignores them but their gaze burns the back of his head, and their presence has his guard raised. They stand behind him and their shadows stretch out over the grass either side of him. They’re going for a reaction, Spencer assumes.

Biting is an interesting thing without an accompanying sexual assault. If nothing else it gives them a good estimation of their male unsub’s teeth. The impression he’s getting from the scene is one of interruption, an impulse kill whose victim he had to leave too soon. It is a public park and it was an early-morning dog walker who found her – likely a jogger or someone on a night shift.

Jamison clears his throat once, twice, then taps him on the shoulder. Spencer rears away from his touch. People never ask, they just do.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Jamison says. “I – we – we were wondering why you do that… thing.”

“What thing?” Spencer asks.

Jamison gestures. “You know, the – you know.”

Is that some sort of punchline he’s missing? Spencer glances over at Maciewicz and finds a mild amusement. Nothing to indicate he should be laughing, nor should he know what they do mean.

Maybe he’s missing the cue. He’s better at it these days, but not perfect.

“No, I don’t.”

With a furtive glance at the precinct’s captain, deep in conversation with one of the forensic technicians, Jamison sighs. “The thing with your hands, the—” He shakes his hands in an exaggerated manner.

Spencer’s hands still. He hadn’t thought it was very noticeable and more to the point, Jamison is definitely overexaggerating it like kids in middle school used to do. Only back then they had his unusual gait and meltdowns to mock too. “I don’t do that,” he says firmly.

(He’d answer it if it was a genuine question. Respectful. He loves people who ask out of genuine good intent. They are few and far between.)

Maciewicz snickers.

“Yeah, you do,” Jamison says. “I want to know why, that’s all.”

“Makes you look like a retard,” Maciewicz adds.

…and there it is.

He goes cold from head to toe. It never fails to make him feel as if someone has just dumped a bucket of water right over him, washing away his enthusiasm and excitement and everything else he values. Leaves the bare bones, the weirdness, each of the hundred ways he never quite fits in.

Spencer hates the word.

Because they don’t care about his IQ or eidetic memory or reading skill when they say that, and they don’t care after he tells them.

Nobody calls him that because they think he is. They say it to hurt him.

He wishes it wouldn’t.

Despite how often he’s heard it, he never has a response. His mind goes blank and all he can pull from it is the roots – re,from Latin: back, and tardus, from Latin: slow – as if they give a damn about etymology. As if that’s a normal person’s response. Today is no exception so it’s a blessing when Morgan wanders over.

“You got anything, pretty boy?” he asks. Maciewicz and Jamison snort. If Morgan hears it, he pays it no mind. “They found a guy’s baseball cap over there. No hair but it looks like it’s our man’s.”

And once again, his mind goes blank. Makes you look like a retard. He’d been thinking about – the bite mark, yes, what does that indicate? Spencer catches his hands moving and shoves them in his pockets before they can. “He was interrupted,” he says. “It explains why the bite isn’t complete and why he didn’t notice he’d left his hat.”

Morgan nods. “The person who found the body didn’t recall seeing anyone else around, so you think he’d just left before they got there?”

“Probably,” Spencer says. “I think the woman might be blonde. If they got into a fight, he’d be stressed, he’d be thinking about her. Maybe she reminded him of her.”

“Could be the hair, could be something else,” Morgan says. “He won’t have talked to her, not if he hit her from behind.”

“What if they did? She could have walked away—”

“Maybe,” Morgan says. “But if her hair was dyed, he wouldn’t see that unless they were up close, right? He’d initially go for her because she’s got red hair, not blonde. And if they did talk, Prentiss says no woman’s gonna just turn her back on a strange man. Especially in the middle of the night with no-one around.”

It’s a valid point, and it isn’t condescending. Nonetheless it hurts. Spencer studies the ground for a long moment and tries to forget (retard) Maciewicz and Jamison. “The unsub isn’t going to be someone he’s sexually attracted to,” he says. “He didn’t assault her, and if the victim reminds him of the other unsub, he’d probably have tried to even if someone interrupted him before he really could.”

A burst of laughter from Maciewicz and Jamison. His cheeks go hot with embarrassment—they must be talking about him, what else is there to laugh about? Morgan follows his gaze. “There a problem?” he asks.

Maciewicz holds up his hands in mock surrender. “No, no. Just… the hell is that about, ‘pretty boy’?”

Morgan shrugs. Spencer isn’t sure if it’s as casual as it looks.

“Well, makes sense,” Jamison says. “Course he’s gonna freak out over a naked girl if he doesn’t swing that way.”

…oh, great.

Spencer doesn’t mind exactly what they say as much as the implication—that they know, that they’re entitled to know his sexuality. How they say it as if gay is equivalent to bad. Once again, how utterly high school it all is. And he knows Morgan isn’t going to appreciate it either, probably more insulted on his behalf than Spencer himself.

“And you care, because...?” Morgan says, looking back and forth between them.

“I don’t,” Jamison says.

“He’s…” Maciewicz stammers, “…you know.”

“Smarter than you?” Morgan suggests. “Better at his job than you? A better person than you?”

“You don’t have to stick up for him,” Jamison says. “Must get annoying to deal with a re—”

“It’s fine,” Spencer interrupts. It isn’t. It really isn’t but it isn’t worth the conversation. How tiring it gets to deal with it, how much easier it is to walk away. These officers aren’t going to change their worldview on disabilities all of a sudden. “Morgan.”

Morgan takes in his posture, the unnatural stillness as he forces himself not to fidget, though the look in his eyes doesn’t fade. “The only people I don’t want to ‘deal with’ are both of you.”

The men share a look – not so much chastened as disappointed their fun was interrupted – but they do back off.

“They already seem to think I’m incapable,” Spencer says irritably. “I said it was fine, I didn’t need you to say anything.”

He crouches down to examine the bite again.

“It didn’t matter,” Spencer says. His hands itch and despite needing to, he can’t bring himself to move. Makes you look like a retard.

“Does if it bothers you,” Morgan insists. “And it did, don’t look at me like that.”

He sighs. They’re not even there any more, the two cops out on patrol and them revisiting the penultimate crime scene. “I’m used to it.”

“And?” Morgan says. “Just because you are doesn’t mean you have to put up with it—”

“It was five minutes at most,” Spencer points out. “Everyone else was fine.”

“Yeah, and they were dicks.”

He shrugs.

“What else did they say?”

Spencer rolls the fabric of his sweater between his fingers and feigns ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what else did they say when I wasn’t there, ‘cause they said something.”

“Makes you look like a retard.”

He doesn’t mean to say it – wasn’t sure what he had planned to say, but it certainly wasn’t that – but he says it nonetheless, his tone mimicking the disdain and irritation. And now Morgan definitely isn’t going to believe him if he says he’s fine and it’s going to make the situation worse to explain that he mostly is, he just hasn’t heard it for a while, he’s used to it.

Stupid echolalia.

“Like I said,” Morgan says, “they were dicks.”

Spencer doesn’t point out being rude doesn’t automatically mean lying. “I’ve heard worse.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t give them the right to say stuff like that.”

He rocks back on the balls of his feet. His hands aren’t co-operating but the swaying motion is a good substitute. “I’m okay.”

“You know,” Morgan says casually, “whenever you lie, you stand exactly the same way.”

Spencer looks up. The expression on Morgan’s face falls somewhere between sadness and sympathy but, he thinks, not pity. It’s a nice change.

“Kid, the only thing you’re gonna get from pretending you’re OK is worse,” Morgan says. “It’s not worth it. Not for anyone but especially not morons like that.”

“It’s not worth it,” Spencer repeats. The words catch in his thoughts and he murmurs it again and again and Morgan isn’t even slightly annoyed at him.

(It isn’t worth it—he knows this—but maybe it is. Just a tiny bit. Just for the part where he has friends who tell him things like this, who don’t mind when he’s awkward. Who don’t mind him.

Friends who say nothing about it but when they get back to the station, the pair are getting chewed out by a pissed off captain.)

A/N: I had trouble getting this to flow as well as my other ones, there's something about it I just can't figure out. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it.

#whumptober2021 #no.3 #insults #criminal minds #fanfic #cw: ableism #fanfiction #cm fanfic #cm fanfiction #reid #spencer reid #eldrai does whumptober

[thotful-writing]

Descending into Darkness (2)

Summary: A wave of confidence, or more like stupidity, overtakes you and you learn a hard lesson.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 Chapter 3

Words: 4.9k

Warnings: Force choking, Force fingering?, Slapping, Degradation, NSFW

A/N: I just really want Kylo to step on me and use me however he wants. Hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

Kylo made a habit of using your mouth whenever he saw fit. After a difficult day of tracking Resistance members, terrorizing the other members of the First Order, and any other time that he felt the inkling. Your throat was sore, and your jaw ached from overuse. Your fingers traced the small bruises along your cheeks from his harsh grip as you looked at yourself in the mirror. There was the assumption that this wasn’t exactly the norm for most people, not in the way of initial sexual experiences, but you really didn’t have a frame of reference for it and Kylo wasn’t eager to divulge advice or assistance. You didn’t hate his callousness, but it would’ve been nice to talk to someone about what was happening.

“Pet.” He called out from the door, making your heart beat faster with eagerness and a little bit of reluctance.

You stepped out of the bathroom and made your way towards him, trying to gauge his current mood when your eyes fell on him, but you came up empty. He didn’t look particularly angry, but honestly it was difficult to tell with the way he hid every emotion.

“Not everyone is as overly expressive as you. Come.” He snapped his fingers, making you move a little faster.

He led you over to the couch, the usual place for your use. You started to notice a little wear on the spot he usually sat, which made you wonder if he was using you more than he had anyone else or if he had different places for them all.

“Sir?” You said softly as you stood before him, already knowing what he wanted.

“Kneel.” He ordered simply as he worked to unbutton his pants.

You stripped and lowered yourself, wincing at the bruises on your knees as they touched the hard floor, “sir, is there- I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I just- It’s-“

“Spit it out.”

“My mouth needs a break. And my knees.” You blurted and shifted uncomfortably.

Kylo’s brow furrowed, “are you denying me what’s mine to use? My property?”

Your eyes widened at the realization you’d messed up. You quickly began back pedaling. The look on his face showed no signs of mercy and fear began to settle in at the realization that you were probably about to die.

“N-No, sir. I didn’t mean that- I just meant that my jaw hurts and I thought I could help you in another way?”

“Always so focused on your own needs. Selfish little pet.” He chastised you with the click of his tongue.

Your cheeks flushed and you immediately felt guilty, even though you knew it wasn’t true. Your needs had never even been discussed or mentioned in any fashion. It was always about him, about his comfort and pleasure.  

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- The discomfort isn’t that bad.” You reached for his zipper.

He pushed your hands away, “no, I wouldn’t want my pet to be uncomfortable. You need to rest your mouth.”

It felt like you’d stepped into some alternate universe where he was actually concerned for your wellbeing? But that couldn’t be possible. You stared at him confused while he buttoned his pants back up. You wanted to protest again, but his whole demeanor changed in a split second. His ever changing moods were dizzying.

“In fact, I have just the thing to help you keep that mouth of yours from overexertion.” He stood up and stepped over you, heading into his room.

You remained in the floor, wondering what he could possibly have that would help you and why the sudden change in him. Everything about it was odd and it left you feeling uneasy. He returned shortly, his hand behind his back, which only added to your unease.

“Up.” He motioned with two long fingers.

You obeyed quickly, not wanting to nudge his mood in a different direction by being slow.

He stepped around behind you, “open your mouth.”

Again, you obeyed and opened your mouth slightly, still completely lost. His hands came around in front of you as he placed a thick, leather strip in your mouth and pulled the ends back around your head. Your tongue laved over it as he secured it tightly. It didn’t force your mouth open wide, but it kept it open enough for the ache in your jaw to throb and effectively kept you from being able to speak. The cold buckles on either side of the piece of leather pressed into your cheeks. He spun you around and adjusted it in your mouth, wiping away some saliva that spilled out.

“There. Now, when you think you’re ready to fulfill your duties again, just think real hard, ‘I’m done being selfish, Master.’ And I’ll remove it.”

“Bmhm-“ Your words were nothing but mumbled nonsense followed by the sound of you trying to suck the spit back into your mouth.

It was uncomfortable, not just the way it forced you to hold your mouth open, but the rough edges of the leather bit into your skin. There were almost a million questions that buzzed around your mind, but only one seemed to stick out to him, how many other girls had he done this to?

“More than I care to count.” He answered.

You fully regretted complaining. And thinking. It was tiring being on guard all the time around him. At one point you had bounced between both ends of the spectrum, deciding not to think anything at all and then deciding to not care if he heard you. Both ended badly for you. He questioned why you were silent, prodding into your mind until it hurt and finding his answer. He also punished you swiftly for the unspoken words that flitted through your mind, which was even worse.

He let you return to your chores, the rest of your duties proved to be a little more challenging than you thought they’d be, after all, it was only your mouth that was gagged. But you continuously had to wipe away drool from your chin, which slowed you down. By the sixth hour of wearing the gag you were fully frustrated. The top of your dress was damp with your own saliva that you’d long since stopped caring about and the edges of the leather had begun cutting into the corners of your mouth.

Your feet carried you to his room as you sighed in defeat. A little discomfort from him fucking your mouth was better than this prolonged torture. His door opened before you could tap on it and he stood before you, glaring down at you.

“Something you need, pet? Maybe a break from all your hard work?”

You shook your head and tried to speak, but it came out in a string of mumbles and the sound of your mouth filled with spit that had collected on your tongue.

I’m done being selfish, Master. You thought to yourself as you looked up at him.

Kylo crossed his arms, “spit it out, I don’t have all day.”

You couldn’t tell if he was making a joke or not, but decided he wasn’t because Kylo Ren didn’t joke. At least not in the normal way. You repeated the words again in your mind and waited.

“Are you just going to stand there?” He asked.

After repeating it again and again, you finally caught on to what he was doing. He heard you, he heard every word, but he was choosing to ignore it. Which was more frustrating than the gag. If he wasn’t going to remove it himself, then you would. You reached behind your head, feeling for the buckle yourself.

“Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He warned but did nothing to stop you.

Your fingers trembled as you found the buckle, hesitating on the precipice of easing your suffering by removing the gag, or possibly increasing it at the hands of Kylo. Challenging him was beyond stupid, but you never were one for intelligent decisions. You unhooked the buckle and pulled the gag from your mouth, keeping your eyes locked on his as you did.

The way he shifted his jaw as he stared down at you made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end and anxiety unfurl in your gut. It was nothing for him to make a snide comment, degrade you, or use a condescending tone, but his facial expression struck more fear in you than anything.

“Selfish and defiant, hm?” He barely twitched his fingers, and you felt the Force shoving you down on your knees in front of him.

“Stay, pet.” He sneered before leaving you there.

You heard the main door open and close, but when you tried to move your limbs were still completely restrained. You let out an anxious breath, chastising yourself for what you’d done. You couldn’t just suffer with the gag or let him fuck your mouth, you just had to defy him. Every few minutes you tried to move again, but it was pointless, not even an inch gave way.

The main door opened again and closed, signaling his return, along with his heavy footsteps and another pair of feet. You strained to try and turn your head, curious who he would bring with him.

“Come.” He called for you, stern voice making you jump.

You tried to stand but you were forced back down on your knees. You tried again and again, but each time your knees refused to lift off the floor.

“Rude pets don’t get to stand.” He answered your confusion.

You placed your hands on the cold, hard floor in front of you and moved along with your knees skimming the sleek surface. It felt humiliating to be crawling around on your hands and knees, especially if there was someone else in the room with him. You rounded the corner and stopped when you saw him and the Sergeant from before. She looked almost as annoyed as he did.

“You made your decision to defy me, now she’ll pay for it.” He said as he stalked over to the couch, unbuttoning his pants.

“Wait, I’m sor-“ Your throat constricted suddenly.

“Too late for that.” He returned his attention to her as she stripped in front of him.

You held the assumption that you were going to be forced to watch while he fucked her mouth just as harshly as he’d done to you, but that wasn’t his only plan. Suddenly you were forced upright on your knees, your hands being restricted behind your back as he relaxed the tightness around your throat. He didn’t look at you, not even a glance in your direction. His gaze was fixed on her as she let her clothes pool at her feet.

He commanded you both with ease, without question. It couldn’t have just been his skill with the Force, she followed without it’s coercion and you tended to him without it for the most part. There was something about him, his mere presence was felt overbearing, heavy, intense, forcing you down to your knees and begging for more.

She leaned forward, touching him more than you were allowed to, which picked at the jealous parts within you. Her hands slid up his thighs and slowed just enough to outline the prominent bulge straining against the fabric of his pants. She tugged at the waistband of his pants and she pulled his cock out, already hard and dripping with need. He kept you in the perfect place where you had a front row view to everything she did to him. As you watched you felt a heat pooling between your thighs and immediately tried to squeeze them together, but they were forced open wider.

“Seems like my pet has needs.” He spoke as she flicked her tongue over the tip of his cock, “does she deserve relief?”

“No, sir.” She said before dragging her tongue up the underside of his cock.

You jolted when you felt the Force rubbing against your clothed center, firm and unforgiving as it grazed your clit. You glanced up at him, noticing that same furious look in his eyes from before, the one that always made you shudder. He hadn’t touched you there, not yet, and it seemed to be part of his plan. He had denied you any reprieve for so long, you were undeniably sensitive and overwhelmed with need the second you were touched by even a ghost of an entity. He knew this, he knew how much you ached for him and anything he would give you, which made this even more enjoyable for him.

A whimper got stuck in your throat as you noticed the methodical movement of his long fingers, moving in sync with the Force that tortured you so perfectly between your thighs. It felt solid, but not; moving fluidly and leaving your body trying to grind against nothing. You knew how pathetic you looked, how weak he probably thought you were for keening into nothing and pleading for him.

Kylo grabbed her braided hair and wrapped it around his fist as he forced her mouth down around him more. She choked softly but seemed to recover much quicker than you did. She obviously had more skill than you. He made a point to be more vocal this time, grunting and groaning as his cock hit the back of her throat. His cruelty on full display as he held her head down, her hands gripping the fabric of his pants roughly as she struggled for a breath. He turned his gaze to you and used his other hand to control the Force that caressed you so deliberately. His eyes burned through you, expression still so stoic and full of the rage that burned within him.

“M-Master…” You whined as he kept you teetering on the brink, calling him that had become habit and rolled off your tongue without hesitation.

There was a malice in his actions, using her and making her suffer at your expense while you watched with pleasure rolling through your body. He was proving that your defiance didn’t just affect you and that he could and would do whatever it took to remind you of that fact. He pushed you close to your release, then yanked you back. Over and over. Again and Again. Keeping you on a short leash. You’d feel that tightness winding, winding more and more, until you were sure it was all about to come crashing down, but he refused to give you the satisfaction of the crash.

“Defiant. Insolent. Pathetic little slut.” He seethed through gritted teeth as he set a harsh pace with her, grabbing her head and holding her still while he thrust up into her mouth.

The Force wrapped around your throat again and sild beneath the drenched fabric of your panties, sweat forming along the crease of your brow. You gasped when it split and slid along your slick fold, pinning your clit between the absent entity. With each passing second the Force became tighter and tighter around your throat, cutting off your airways completely. The lack of oxygen made your head begin to swim along with your constant denial of anything pleasurable.

Her hands gripped his knees as she struggled, her garbled moans mixed with your whimpering, only driving him further and harder. He continued to spew an onslaught of degradation at you, ignoring her presence aside from the use of her mouth and throat to push him over the edge as he let go. He came with a growl, his hands tightening in her hair and the Force immediately ceasing all actions against you. You collapsed with your hands on the floor in front of you, ragged breathing as your body buzzed with need and sweat dripped down your cheeks.

“Leave.” He shoved her back roughly.

She gasped for air as she wiped her mouth of his cum and her saliva. She remained silent, unless he asked her a question. Everything about her was confusing and curious at the same time. You wanted to ask questions, or at least know her name, but that wasn’t happening anytime soon. She made quick work of getting dressed again, glancing in your direction as she hurried out.

He adjusted himself and strode over to you, “remind me why I keep you if I can use the Sergeant without complaints or a smart mouth.”

You peered up at him, words failing you. There was no reason for him to have you there, he seemed to hate your very existence and it wasn’t like he didn’t have her at his disposal. You really didn’t know why he kept you. It wasn’t like you had any discernible skills that he really needed.

“Self-loathing will get you no pity from me. Up.” He ordered.

You stood up on shaky legs, your panties and thighs soaked from his previous torture, rubbing coldly against you.

“I bought you so I could use you whenever I wanted, but so far you’ve been nothing but a disappointment. An impetuous little virgin with the sense of a Bantha.” He sneered.

The moment called for silence, from your mouth and your mind, and if you really didn’t have a death wish then you would’ve remained quiet. Maybe it was the harshness of his words, the drawn-out punishment with the gag, or the denial of an orgasm, but something inside of you snapped. The urge to challenge him again was overwhelming and the words flowed before you could force them back down your throat.

“Imagine my disappointment meeting the Kylo Ren only to find out he throws temper tantrums like a child.”

The resounding sharpness of his large hand coming into contact with your cheek made you yelp, your hand immediately moved to cover the stinging skin. The instance replayed through your mind in slow motion, his large, gloved hand striking you without warning. You could feel the pure heat radiating off the mark, knowing it would remain as a reminder for days to come. Your eyes watered as tears threatened, his chest heaving with a furious scowl fixed on you.

“Anything else you’d like to say?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek and shook your head. He had never hit you before, nothing even close besides the roughness of his grip when he jerked you around or shoved you away. It was clear now that he had no problem hurting you and your safety wasn’t secured just because he paid for you.

“Good. I don’t want to see you again today.” He pushed you aside before leaving his quarters completely.

Everything that had transpired began to weigh on you as you slunk back to your room. He could’ve killed you in that moment, over what you’d said, and he wouldn’t have thought twice about you. He would’ve moved on to using the Sergeant more often or sent out his officers for someone to replace you. You meant nothing to him and that in itself seemed to sting a little more than the handprint on your cheek. You curled up on your cot and decided to sleep until you woke up from the nightmare that had become your life.

My sweet little pet. So needy for your master. Kylo caressed your cheek with the back of his hand, cool leather easing the pain.

“Up. Now.” His booming voice jerked you out of your dream.

You turned over, squinting at the blinding light from the hall and trying to wake up fully, “what is it?”

“I didn’t ask you to question me. Get up. Put your clothes on.” He snapped.

You got dressed quickly and shuffled out of your room to find him standing in the living room waiting for you. As usual, his face gave nothing away as to if he was going to punish you some more or if he was going to snap your neck instantly. At this point you weren’t sure which one you would’ve preferred.

“Don’t take this as a threat, because it’s not, it’s a certainty. If you say one word, your suffering will be far worse than anything you’ve experienced thus far. Am I clear?”

You opened your mouth but quickly closed it before just nodding your head. He let out a frustrated sigh as he opened the main door and stepped outside, meaning for you to follow him. You took a timid step out, realizing you hadn’t left his quarters since the first day you were brought there. He gave no explanation as to where you were going, and he made no move to slow down for you. His long strides had you almost jogging to keep up.

You looked around, trying to take in the scenery, or what there was of it, but he continued so fast that you were barely able to fix your eyes on any one thing. The corridors all looked the same and you knew if you were alone you’d probably get lost, which brought you some comfort in at least being led around by Kylo. Officers of different ranks walked by, nodding to the Commander and offering nothing more than a curious glance in your direction. You wondered if they knew who or what you were, or if there were only a select few that had any idea.

He turned down another long corridor and stopped outside two large doors with a sign on the side that read med-bay. You peered up at him, utterly confused since you weren’t sick and there wasn’t exactly anything they could do about the bruise on your face.

“Not a word.” He warned again with his gloved finger pointed at you.

The doors whirred open and he ushered you inside with him. It was bright and clean, everything in it’s place. The only thing you had ever seen that was close to this was back on Tatooine, although the equipment was outdated and very unsanitary. It was better to just try and clean a wound yourself instead of going to see the junker that called himself Doc.

There were robotic arms attached to the ceiling with fine, razor thin blades attached, which made you worry a little more. Just as you were starting to think he had brought you there to have your vocal cords removed, a rustling from the back room caught your attention.

“C-Commander.” A small, anxious looking man in a white uniform approached the two of you, his eyes nervously flitting to you for a split second.

“She needs a birth control implant.” He said as a matter of fact, like you’d discussed it before.

Your eyes shot up to him, completely confused since you weren’t actually having sex with him and you were certain you would be dead within the next few minutes. He completely ignored your look and your thoughts as he kept his attention on the doctor.

“I-I see and is she- are you um… active… sexually?” He seemed completely frightened by Kylo’s presence, which appeared to be the norm around there.

“Yes.” Kylo answered for you.

“Alright. Th-Then we’ll need to do a quick pregnancy test first, just to-“

“No. It’s not necessary. Just the implant. Now.” Kylo kept his tone and answers short, you assumed it was to avoid further questions.

The doctor nodded nervously and led you over to one of the leather chairs near a small metal table with all kinds of different tools and syringes.

“P-Please, have a seat.” He offered to you.

You sat down, feeling Kylo’s gaze burning through you without even looking at him. Your mind was swimming, why was he bringing you here now? Was he planning on actually fucking you? Did you want him to fuck you after he slapped you? As usual, you had no answers to anything.

“Place um… your arm here on the table, please.” The doctor said as he moved around you, grabbing different tools and sitting them next to you. He rolled his stool around in front of you as he placed a small vial into what looked like a blaster with a thick needle on the end.

“Where was your last implant placed?” He asked.

You opened your mouth but remembered the warning. You settled for shaking your head, hoping he understood you.

“I see. S-So this might hurt a little, some stinging after it’s placed. It works immediately so you can- um… If you notice any pain over the next few days after placement then come back. Questions? Oh, um probably not.” He sighed as he placed his hand on your wrist, holding your arm down.

You glanced back when you heard a faint growl come from Kylo, wondering what he was objecting to and if it had anything to do with the doctor’s hand on your arm. You turned back around to watch the doctor as he worked. His eyes seemed to move nervously from your arm to the very evident handprint on your cheek. You knew he wanted to ask, but he could obviously make his own assumptions on what happened.

“Deep breath and… one… two…” He hit the button on three.

You gasped as the needle prodded its way beneath your skin and injected the small, cylindrical object. Expletives sat on the tip of your tongue as it started to burn, but you held them back, fearing punishment would be worse than the pain you felt in that moment.

“Done. R-Remember, if you feel any discomfort in the next few days then come b-back.” He sat the device back on the table next to you.

“Come.” Kylo said as you gave the doctor a barely half ‘thank you’ smile.

You stood and followed him back out of the med-bay. As you walked behind him your fingers grazed the device beneath your skin, feeling it, trying to get used to the thought of having something foreign just beneath your skin. You had more questions about the process and if this was permanent or if it would wear off in a few months or if there was a failure rate and what that percentage might be. Also, the main question, was Kylo going to fuck you?

As the questions barreled through your mind like they were TIE fighters, you ran right into a wall of a person. You glanced up, thinking it was Kylo, but it was far from him. Your eyes fell on a very orderly looking man with a scowl fixed on his face as he stared down at you, almost as disgusted as Kylo looked at you.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?” He eyed you up and down with a sneer, his hand resting beneath your chin as he turned your face, eyeing your bruise.

“I-I’m-“ You looked around for Kylo, finally seeing him striding back towards you, full furious expression fixed on his face.

He grabbed your arm and jerked you away from the man, “she’s mine, General Hux.”

You paused, looking up at him, fixating on the word he used to describe you. Mine. He could’ve said you were with him, or that he owned you. But he chose that word. His grip tightened around your arm, signaling for you to silence your thoughts.

“Ren. I should’ve known. Next time keep your…vagrants on a shorter leash.” He snapped, glaring at you as you tried to move behind Kylo.

“I’m certain all the blame isn’t solely on her, were you not watching where you were going, General? Seems negligent.” Kylo said, almost defending you.

“Watch it, Ren, or would The Supreme Leader like to hear about your little friend?” Hux grinned slyly.

“Go ahead, I’m sure he’d enjoy the interruption with something so menial. You might even be promoted for it.”

The General narrowed his eyes at Kylo, “just stay out of my way.”

Kylo pulled you with him as he headed down the corridor. He kept his grip tight on your arm as he walked, remaining silent. You hated that you couldn’t read his thoughts, it would definitely make things a little easier for you. He was walking faster than before, your feet barely keeping up with him.

He entered the code to his quarters and the second the doors opened he had you pinned against the wall next to it with his hand around your throat, his lips pressed to yours in a searing kiss. You gasped into his mouth, caught off guard by the sudden attack and the first kiss you’d received from him. It was harsh, rough, his teeth clashing against yours as he bit and nipped at you. Fingers dug into your throat, gripping harder as if he was making sure you stayed put.

You’d never been this close to his face before, the urge to touch him or run your fingers through his hair was overwhelming. Instead, you kept your hands clenched by your sides, worrying you’d ruin it. A heat rose from the pit of your stomach up to your cheeks as you kissed him back. A low growl emanated from his chest as he seemed to hesitate in pulling away. You leaned forward for more but caught yourself before you fell against his chest.

“I own you. No one touches you again, understand?” He squeezed your throat a little tighter until you nodded your understanding.

It was in that moment that you knew you were doomed, that this was it for you. Your survival no longer at the forefront of your mind, but having more of the intensity he was wrapped in. With one touch of his lips he had you completely brainwashed, addicted to whatever came next.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren smut #General Hux #The First Order #nsft

[umbry-fic]

A Palette Full of You (6)

Summary: Glimpses into Colette and Lloyd’s lives as they grow up together, learn who they are, and fall in love with each other.

(Written for Colloyd Week 2021)

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Lloyd Irving, Colette Brunel, Zelos Wilder Relationships: Colette Brunel & Lloyd Irving Rating: G Chapter: 6 of 6 Word Count: 3442 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 15/06/2021

Chapter Title: Ace Up Your Sleeve

Chapter Summary: Colette finally comes to the end of a long journey and finds the answer she didn't know she was seeking all along.

(Colloyd Week Day 7: Free Day)

Notes+Warnings: Last chapter of my multi chapter Colloyd week fic! Zelos is also... Demisexual! Warning for mentions of acephobia.

Thank you to anyone who's read all the way through and big thank you to everyone for a great Colloyd week!!!

Chapter list Full fic Previous chapter

~~~

17-years-old

“You haven’t been listening at all, have you?”

"What? Uh, no! You - you were talking about denominators?" Colette snapped to attention, scrambling for an excuse as she was met with Zelos' searching stare. Her friend was sitting across from her, their fingers drumming impatiently against the long table they were seated at in the common area by the bookstore, a dozen other students seated at the other long tables and quietly murmuring amongst themselves.

"You haven't written anything down," Zelos muttered, tapping the open exam paper in front of Colette. What they said was true - there were no new markings in green ink on the paper, only the blue ink that had been scribbled down during the exam and the red crosses left behind by the teacher. "It is a bit annoying to have been talking to a brick wall for the past five minutes, you know."

"Sorry for wasting your time." Colette bowed her head, feeling rather horrible. She was the one who had asked Zelos to help her explain some of the midterm questions that her teacher had skipped over. Zelos was a surprisingly good math teacher when they felt like it, giving calm and comprehensive explanations that seemed distanced from the usual flirty and boisterous Zelos. Not that Colette could tell they were being flirty - it all just came off as normal conversation to her, even though Sheena often complained they were.

Yet she'd gotten distracted.

"It's alright; no hard feelings or anything. What's got your attention so badly, though?" Zelos enquired, raising one eyebrow and beginning to play with the ends of their ponytail.

“Um... That…?” Colette stuttered, waving her arms in the vague direction of Zelos’ school bag. Oh, this was so awkward.

“That…?” Zelos echoed, staring at their school bag with their brow furrowed, before seemingly coming to a realisation as their face cleared. “Oh! What? The frog pin?”

Yes, that was what she'd been staring at for the past ten minutes: the new pin. Next to the familiar enamel pin of a grumpy kitten playing with a ball of yarn that was purple and yellow in colour, was one of a derpy frog sitting on a lilypad. It was cute. (Add frogs to anything and it would be cute. That was a principle she strongly believed in.) But what was confounding her was the peculiar colouration of the lilypad: purple, white and grey.

“Uh… Yeah…” Colette averted her gaze as her fingers jumped from place to place, trying to expel all of her nervous energy - picking at the folded sleeve of her white blouse, fiddling with the school badge pinned over her breast, smoothing out the wrinkles in her green skirt. She hadn't brought up the curiosity eating away at her because she hadn't wanted to force Zelos into a spot where they felt like they had to answer.

Silence reigned for a few seconds as she began to panic. As she’d feared, Zelos didn’t want to talk about it. Oh, what to do? She didn't want to offend them or anything.

“It’s a cute pin! That’s all!” she blurted out, hoping that would give them both an out from this situation.

Zelos let out a loud exhale, placing a hand on their forehead in exasperation. "You could have just asked, you know? I wouldn't have pinned it there if I didn't expect questions. For anyone else, I would just answer that I like the colours. But for you, my trusted friend, I'll tell you the truth. It's the asexual flag colours. I got it from the same place as the cat one; they released a new frog line just last month. Cute, right?”

“Very,” she chirped, relieved that Zelos wasn’t mad. “Frogs are always cute, no matter what they’re doing. But, uh... If you don’t mind me asking another question, what do you mean by asexual?”

She'd heard that word once or twice from Sheena when she was working on her bio homework, but never in the context of people. Surely it was something relating to gender or sexuality, considering the yarn tangled in the kitten's paws was in the non-binary flag colours. She knew that much, even if she wasn't on social media a whole lot.

If she knew more, then she’d better understand her friend! That had always been one of her greatest desires - to learn more about her friends, all of whom were their own unique persons, holding diverse qualities and each facing their own set of challenges. If she didn’t have the necessary information, she couldn’t support them to her best capabilities.

“I can't explain the whole thing right now, but it's basically a spectrum," Zelos replied flippantly, raising a finger. "It means feeling little to no sexual attraction. You know, never looking at anyone and thinking you want to… do it with them.” Zelos cocked their head, gaze slipping towards the ceiling. “Is that a good way to describe it? Hm...”

But their words were washing uselessly over Colette, who had frozen into a statue. Her heart sat unmoving in her chest, her mind both running on overdrive and feeling incredibly sluggish as she struggled to process what she'd just heard. It felt like she was pushing through water, the pressure pressing against her.

"There's a word for that?" she couldn't help but blurt out, eyes wide in shock as her fingers opened and closed uselessly. Time itself seemed to have ground to a halt, her heart unable to decide how she wanted to feel. She was stuck in limbo.

"Well, yes? It's an entire identity - Woah, Angel, you all right?"

Zelos laid a worried hand on her shoulder, just now noticing the wild look on her face.

"There - there's a word for how I feel?" she whispered as she placed her shaking hands in her lap.

Ever since she'd fallen in love, she had lived each day with the question of why she was broken buried in the back of her mind, casting a constant miserable cloud over her. She didn't want to keep waiting for the day where she would want what everyone else did, for she had no hope that day would ever come. But she had thought she had no other choice, her heart shrivelling in her chest every time she was told that everyone was supposed to be attracted to someone.

This was an answer she hadn't known had existed, and had just somehow fallen from the heavens in answer to the prayers she had hesitantly made for something or someone to fix her. But if there was a word that belonged to her, an identity that meant she wasn't broken, she would gladly accept it. She couldn't describe the immense relief she felt, like the invisible shackles chaining her down had finally been unlocked with the key of knowledge.

"Oh. I... I had my suspicions, but I didn't want to assume," Zelos muttered, their expression equally as shocked as hers as they removed their hand. "So... You..."

All along, she'd thought she was alone, the only one in the whole wide world who felt this way. But there were others. Even someone right across from her, a friend who had experienced the same thing the entire time.

She wasn't alone.

It was liberating to know that.

"I... I think so?" The relief had been replaced with an almost dizzying excitement, one that made it hard to speak. Or focus. "Can you tell me more?" she asked eagerly, leaning closer. The fires of curiosity had now reached an all-time high, her need to know overtaking all else. She wanted to know everything.

"Calm down, calm down! I can talk to you about it after school," Zelos replied with a happy chuckle. "Right now, though, you should go back to class. The bell's going to ring soon."

Her gaze snapped to the wall clock, which showed there were only 8 minutes left till her GP period. "Oh, you're right!" Springing to her feet, Colette stuffed her math paper into her school bag, frantic energy unable to leave her body. "But promise you'll tell me more? Please?"

"It's a promise, Angel. I'd be happy to."

Giving Zelos one final wave goodbye, Colette started running up the stairs, a huge grin on her face. She couldn't explain why she was so happy, fireworks exploding in her chest.

Only that the world that had always been against her had finally started to make a tiny bit of sense.

~~~

18-years-old

“Lloyd?” Colette said quietly, setting the plate in her hands down on the study table. She smoothed his wet hair out of his eyes, only for it to fall right back into place.

It was quite late, the digital clock on the study table displaying 07:30 in red, blinking digits. Sheena and Zelos had already quit revising and left at six, saying they were going to get dinner together, but Lloyd had insisted on staying to continue. “Only a month left to As,” he’d muttered, head buried in his A4 notebook full of econs notes and eyes frantic with worry.

“Lloyd?” she said, a little louder this time. But he showed no signs of stirring, eyes still firmly closed, breaths steadily trickling in and out of his nose. They’d migrated to her room after Sheena and Zelos had left, Lloyd using the study table while she took residence on the bay window, having shifted all of her soft toys to the bed. She’d returned from making a sandwich in the kitchen (without tomatoes, of course), to find him slumped over on the desk, his pen on the floor.

Colette sighed. She didn’t have the heart to wake him up now, not when he looked so peaceful, lit by the warm light of the table lamp. He could stay.

She opened the drawer of the study table, gaze landing immediately on the folded up letter that had Lloyd’s name written on the cover. Reaching out to touch the smooth paper, she wondered if today was the day she would finally have the courage to give it to Lloyd.

Over a year had passed since Zelos had introduced the word asexual to her. As promised, they'd gone over the entire concept with her, an activity that had taken hours, until she was utterly certain the identity fit her. Scarily so. It explained all the little moments throughout her life that she'd had no explanation for until now. She'd spent a whole day afterwards just being stupidly euphoric, unable to wipe the large smile off her face, overjoyed that that were so many others like her all around the world, a loving community who shared her experiences and would accept her with open arms.

The euphoria she had felt at that moment had dimmed, of course. But she was still much happier than she ever used to be, now armed with the knowledge that she didn't need to change. She wasn't broken, for there was nothing to fix. This was just who she was, and she no longer had to force herself to act in how society deemed right or feel awful for not being able to do so.

But there was still fear involved. Keeping secrets from Lloyd was just... not in her nature. Every second that she was alone with him was a moment where she wanted to inform him of her life-changing realisation, for while telling him would not change much, it would be authentically living her truth. Even if she never confessed her feelings, she wanted to tell him as a friend, a companion. The words she wanted to say burned on her tongue, but every time she opened her mouth nothing came out, the jitters in her stomach overpowering her will. Zelos was the one who had suggested writing a letter. Easier to express in text everything she wanted to in one go without all the stutters and awkward pauses that would no doubt come from a face-to-face encounter.

Picking the letter up, she slowly slid it under Lloyd’s open right hand, praying that he didn’t wake up right at this moment and heaving a sigh of relief when he didn’t. She was staking everything on him heeding the first line she’d written, almost a month ago, pouring her heart out onto paper with shaking hands. Please, read this to the end. And at the end of it, she prayed that he’d still be willing to talk to her.

She had read countless horror stories. People who refused to believe asexuality existed. People who argued that no one could know they were asexual until they’d had a sexual experience, who then turned around and argued in the same breath that those who’d had sexual experiences couldn’t possibly be asexual. People who continued to claim that asexuals just hadn’t met the right person because sex was what made us human and people who didn’t feel sexual attraction must be cold, unfeeling monsters with standards that were way too high. People who stared at you with pity and tried to comfort you for “missing out”. People who told you they could "fix" you.

Lloyd was the most accepting person she knew, and she didn't believe he could ever be that way. Still, there was no guarantee how this would end. At least she had the advantage of being in the safety of her own home. She could kick him out if she needed to, even if cutting him out of her life would be akin to ripping her own heart out. But better to rip the bandaid off now than let the secret lurk in her heart.

Straightening up, she shut off the table lamp to give Lloyd some peace. She made her quick retreat out of the room, heading to the kitchen and placing the sandwich into the fridge. Lloyd did so love his sandwiches cold.

The only thing left to do was wait.

There was no sound filling the living room but the ticking coming from the analogue clock hanging on the wall that Dad still refused to replace, even after twenty years. It was always in need of a change of batteries or a tuning.

Adjusting her position so her head was pillowed on one of the many cushions, her eyelids unwittingly shut. She hadn’t noticed how heavy they’d felt until now, when she had nothing to do. After a whole day spent splitting her head over chemistry mechanisms, sinking into the soft leather without any chemical equations to squint at felt like heaven. Maybe she deserved a little rest.

Just a little…

~~~

“Colette.”

She groaned, rolling onto her side away from the voice’s origin and throwing her arm over her face.

Who…? Where…?

“Colette!”

The voice was a little more insistent this time, a hand gently shaking her by the shoulders.

Knowing she had to wake up now, Colette opened her eyes, staring with blurred vision at the cream couch cushions. Craning her neck, she spotted a blob of peach and brown hovering over her that eventually solidified into Lloyd’s face.

“Lloyd…?”

“Hey.” Lloyd moved his hand to her back to steady her as she slowly sat up, rubbing at her eyes. He took a seat next to her, their shoulders pressed together. “Sorry to wake you up, but I need to tell you I’m going home soon.”

“Oh! That’s good...” Colette mumbled groggily, having still not fully come to her senses. She couldn’t quite recall what had occurred between studying and falling asleep here. She could remember that Lloyd was supposed to go home.

There was something else, wasn’t there…?

“I guess we’re both tired. If you were going to sleep you should have just done it on the bed, silly,” Lloyd admonished her, poking her arm. “Too late for that. At least you had the good sense to sleep on your back. Mine hurts.” He threw his arms over the back of the sofa, stretching his back, joints popping.

“Ah, right. Sorry for not waking you up sooner… It’s just… You looked like you were having a nice nap.”

“No, it’s alright,” Lloyd placed his hand over hers, interlocking their fingers and squeezing. “I did enjoy it. I needed the break. And thank you for the sandwich. It was delicious"

"No problem." She yawned, giving her own long stretch.

“Anyway… The other reason I woke you up was to tell you I read your letter.”

Lloyd held up a familiar sheet of paper, the crease where it had once been folded in half clearly visible. Her stomach sank immediately into a pit of dread as she bowed her head, her free hand curling into a fist.

There it was. That was what she was forgetting. But she’d made the choice to go forward, and there was no backing down now.

However, now that the moment of reckoning was here, only the worst-case scenarios were running through her head. She was ready to pull away and run, pulse skyrocketing.

“Hey! Hey. Don’t panic.” Lloyd’s thumb started drawing tiny circles on her palm, a motion so familiar to her that she instinctively started taking deep breaths to calm herself down. It was like he'd predicted she was going to bolt like a frightened rabbit. “The first thing I wanted to say was thank you for telling me something so important to you. I know how scary it is. Remember when it was my turn?”

“You…? You weren’t scared at all!” Colette protested, raising her head and meeting Lloyd’s gaze. The light tone to his voice was reassuring, as was the smile on his face. No condemnation to be found there, just a sweet happiness that warmed her own heart. “You figured it out so quickly and just blurted it right out!”

“I was petrified, trust me, even if it I didn't show. I don’t even know what possessed me to say it in the first place! But remember what you said to me, back then?”

“I like... boys too. Both girls and boys, you know?”

The whisper rang out in the silence, Lloyd facing away from her as she looked up from the comic she’d been reading, the two of them curled up together in the safe darkness of the tiny pillow fort they’d constructed in the living room.

“Okay,” she answered after a pause. “Uh… Well…”

She didn’t quite know how to put her thoughts into words.

“Who you like doesn’t change who you are!” she declared with gusto. That sounded cool. Right? But it was true. Lloyd would always be Lloyd. Silly, awkward, kind Lloyd.

In her eyes, there was no other possibility.

Colette still strongly believed that. She always would. But she had never thought those words would apply to her, a girl who stood by the sidelines looking in on a world she couldn’t understand.

“Those words meant the world to me, you know. And it's the same for you; I’d be a hypocrite for saying otherwise. You’re still the same person, Colette. Nothing’s changed. And although I can never see the world through your eyes, what I can do is listen to you. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.”

Colette sniffled, shoulders shaking as tears pooled in her eyes. She had thought she could get through this without breaking into tears, that she could sit and calmly accept whatever news she would receive. Clearly, that was not the case.

But it wasn't weak to cry.

Lloyd’s arms wrapped around her, a comforting embrace that she never wanted to leave.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Lloyd whispered into her ear, pulling her closer. “You’re just you.”

With shaking arms, she returned the embrace, burying her face in his shoulder as the tears overflowed. This time not out of overwhelming fear like she had on the rooftop, but out of incredible, crushing relief, the last of the weight leaving her shoulders, leaving her so free it was terrifying.

“And I’ll keep telling you that, as many times as you need to hear it. Just like you did for me.”

She already knew that all of the things he said were true - they were sentiments Zelos had already expressed, that she had already read on internet forums. But she'd underestimated how it would feel to find acceptance in someone who she loved with all her heart, and who viewed the world through a completely different lens.

To know that one was accepted, for every part of them… Wasn’t that the most beautiful thing?

“Thank you,” she choked out amid all the tears.

And for the first time in a truly long while, Colette thought that everything would be alright.

#fanfiction #multi chapter #colloyd #colloydweek2021 #day 7: free day #colette brunel #lloyd irving #zelos wilder #tales of symphonia

[plctitude]

* hailee steinfeld, cis woman + she/her  | you know juliet 'jet' rothschild, right? they’re 24, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, twelve years? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to don't blame me by taylor swift like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole inability to sit properly, constantly tapping her fingers on any surface, never taking shots with chasers, thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is march 15, so they’re a pisces, which is unsurprising, all things considered.

hello ! im gel and this is my little goon jet ! lmk if you wanna plot something

full name : juliet carter rothschild . preferred name / nickname : jet . age : twenty - four . birthday : march 15 . sexual orientation : lesbian . relationship status : single . occupation :  barista , musician , music producer . residence : delphinus heights .

history ––

juliet was born into a loving family in southern virginia , williamsburg to be exact . her family wasn’t loaded but they were comfortable enough that juliet could take guitar and piano and drum lessons and play sports and do basically whatever she wanted to try.

unfortunately for her parents , the drums were what really stuck with her . sure , she can still play the other instruments she learned growing up , but the drums were her safe space , her comfort .

nevertheless , they supported her because she was their little girl and as an only child , it was easy to spoil her . she loves her parents , wouldn’t trade them for anything in the whole world . because they were her whole world .

at 12 , her whole world came crashing down . she doesn’t remember much , if she’s being honest . all she really remembers was being pulled out of school and police officers telling her that her parents wouldn’t be back . they weren’t dead , as far as anyone knew , but they also weren’t anywhere to be found .

so her aunt offers to take her in , and juliet moves to irving . she starts going by jet , eager to leave behind the life she knew back in williamsburg . her aunt goes with it , doesn’t want to upset the 12 year old girl who just became an orphan . neither of them really talk about where her parents are , but they both hope they’re still out there , trying to make it back to her .

it takes a year or two but jet gets used to being in irving . it doesn’t just become her aunt’s town , it becomes hers . and the house in delphinus heights becomes her home , too. and when her aunt gets a girlfriend , who’s then a wife , jet is ecstatic . she loves seeing her aunt happy and in love .

at 15 , jet realizes she doesn’t like boys , she likes girls . she actually comes out to her aunt’s wife first – kind of an accident, really – , but everything goes smoothly and she’s never felt freer . at 16 , she meets a girl , a beautiful girl whose eyes rival the ocean , whose smile lights up her nights . and they fall in love , and it’s wonderful and deep and consuming and healing . but this is when jet learns all good things must come to an end . it’s when she’s running home , tears streaming down her face that she learns what heartbreak really feels like . it’s when she sits at her drum set , hole blown through the snare drum , cymbals crashing to the ground , that she realizes how close hate and love sit on a spectrum .

at 17 , she’s about to graduate and go to college when she changes her mind . she’s not going . her aunt’s not happy about it , but jet’s never really wanted anything but music anyway . so she gets a job , then another job , because ‘ if you’re going to stick around , you’re going to help pay the bills ’ . and it’s the beginning of something beautiful .

at 18, she starts producing her own music . it’s just some simple songs , but it’s a sign of progress nonetheless . she saves up money , uses what’s not for bills and rainy day savings to pay for a class . she learns everything she can about music production , music theory , recording , etc.

at 19, she joins a band , and it goes well until it doesn’t anymore . they’re getting gigs , they’re popular , but it’s breaking from the inside because everyone’s convinced they’re going to be the next big thing and their egos swell to the point where they can’t all fit in the same room anymore .

at 20 , she regroups , focuses on her own stuff again . she does some small producing work on the side , helping other artists who aren’t as well versed with the production stuff . it’s good money , good learning opportunity , and good exposure .

at 21 , she gets a job as a bartender on top of her barista job , hoping to save for her own place in irving . she doesn’t really want to move out but her aunt and her wife are trying to start a family . and she doesn’t want to be in the way .

at 22 , her aunt gets pregnant , and with her wife picking up more shifts to cover the impending financial burden of having a baby , jet decides to stay .

now ––

her parents are still missing , but honestly it’s been so long they may as well be dead . she still misses them , sure , but the whole in her heart isn’t as large as it was when she was 12 . at least not for the same reasons .

she’s still producing music , but it’s become more of her job than a hobby . it’s good money , for the most part , but she wants more time for her stuff .

her aunt gave birth last year and jet spends a lot of time with her cousin , frey . she quit her job as a bartender to take over as a full time babysitter , but she doesn’t mind . she loves playing her music for the little boy , though her aunts are weary about her teaching him the drums when he gets older .

she’s still writing and playing music , but she definitely makes time to go out and have a good time because why not ? someday you could just disappear and you would’ve spent your whole life agonizing over trivial things when you could just ~have fun~

her aunt still wants her to go school , tbh because that’s what her parents would have wanted for her . she struggles to bite back the ‘ well my parents aren’t here ’ on the tip of her tongue every time they have that argument .

personality ––

becoming an orphan at such a young age kind of fucked her up , for the lack of a better term . she developed some anger issues as a teen , most of which she would take out on her drum set . lord only knows how many sticks she’s broken .

she love love loves playing the drums . it’s her absolute favorite thing in the world and it helps her calm down , get through a bad day , or even to make a good day even better . it lets her get a lot of her energy out and to her , it’s really the one thing she can count on to never leave . if she’s not near her drums , she’s probably tapping her foot or tapping her fingers on a table . it’s her go-to fidget move , which can get a little annoying .

her one serious relationship showed her how deep she could fall so she’s decided to not let that happen at all costs . she’s more of a hookup kind of gal , and a bit of a heartbreaker at that , but she’s honest with people . she’s not looking for a relationship . not right now , maybe not ever . once she actually has feelings for someone , she’ll avoid them or do whatever else to get over it . can’t get your heartbroken if you never let anyone near it , right ?

she’s a bit of a partier sometimes , especially when she’s got a lot of pent up energy . basically she’s got two sides , a fun party side and a sweet niece side. she’s got a wicked tolerance for alcohol , to be honest , but that sometimes means she’ll get crossed or not eat just so she can feel drunk faster .

she’s not the greatest barista ( think like almost as bad as rachel from friends ) , but she’s gotten a hell of a lot better than when she first started .

she’s gay so she can’t sit properly ever lmao . she’s more likely to sit on top of a table , rather than the chair at the table .

she’s a bit of a dork with puzzles , like she loves doing puzzles . they’re her favorite way to zone out , but no one is allowed to know this except maybe her best friend(s) bc she has a reputation pls

wcs ––

The Ex Girlfriend™ – it was super deep , super intense , and ended super badly

ride-or-die – been best friends since she came to town , literally inseparable , can always count on the two of them to be getting into trouble back in school

music clients – a singer-songwriter she produces for

unlikely or secret friends ? – not really sure what the reason would be but im sure we could come up with one

ex-hookups , current hookups , future hookups - @women : would love to plot these out ! ( just as a warning though , i do not write smut bc im ~uncomfy~ with that but im down for mentions and flirting )

friends of her aunts or something !

favorite coffee shop customers !

ex-bandmate , ex-clients , high school classmates, etc.

big down for literally anything !

#irvingintro #this is also kinda long oops #( HEADCANON // jet rothschild . )

[danciingflame]

credit (x)

&. BASICS

Full Name: Evelyn Ines Barbosa Phoenix

Nicknames: Phoenix, Phoebe, Ballerina

Age: 96 years old

Sexuality: bisexual

Date of Birth: August 9th 1924

Place of Birth: Lisbon, Portugal

Gender & Species: cis woman & (fire) sprite

Current Location: Ardora, Concordia

&. MORE BASIC INFO

Languages: Portuguese, French, English

Religion: atheist

Education: Graduated from Lisbon’s dance and acting university

Occupation: Principal Dancer/Prima Ballerina of Lisbon

Drinks, Smokes, & Drugs: she began drinking and using Concordia-native drugs after becoming a sprite, otherwise it would have been too damaging to her human body.

&. PERSONALITY

Zodiac Sign: Leo -- The Leo woman is a regal Lioness, queenly in every way. From her royal bearing to her personal style (which tends to be extremely expressive and bold), the Leo woman is strong and comfortable in owning her power, like her planetary ruler, the Sun. Though slightly sweeter-natured and usually a little less over the top than her male counterpart, a lady Leo can still be counted on to take no bull – if you try her, you may live to regret it. It’s best to avoid inciting that Leonine temper if you don’t want to see claws. Should you attempt to mess with her way of being or quality of life (especially anything related to survival: her family, home, or income), she will take you down – hard. Lady Leos are vivacious, full-of-life personalities, and their enthusiasm and ebullience can be completely infectious. They want you to do something wild and fun with them, so being a bump on a log or a stick in the mud will simply not fly for these big cats, who take deep delight in feeling their freedom and exerting their autonomy. 

MBTI: ESFP -- ESFPs are vivacious entertainers who charm and engage those around them. They are spontaneous, energetic, and fun-loving, and take pleasure in the things around them: food, clothes, nature, animals, and especially people.ESFPs are typically warm and talkative and have a contagious enthusiasm for life. They like to be in the middle of the action and the center of attention. They have a playful, open sense of humor, and like to draw out other people and help them have a good time.

Likes: her family (both her human and sprites family ofc), dancing, teaching, partying, the warmth, recklessness, the warmth within Mt. Ardora, silent nights, learning, freedom.

Dislikes: getting her heart broken, liars, people who end up depriving Phoenix of her freedom, people who give up after failing, indifference, injustice, the cold weather, boredom

Bad Habits: lip biting, always has to walk around somehow, or, if everything else is impossible, taps her foot and plays with something (mostly her hair)

Secret Talent: dancing, teaching, love

Hobbies: the wide and dangerous spectrum of love (and she’d like to punch herself for that, actually, lmao), ballet, getting together with her friends to cause some trouble and go on adventures, gossip (but in a non-malicious way), 

Fears: waking up and realizing it was just a dream, being left alone, people avoiding her.

Five Positive Traits: passionate, fiery, compassionate, coquette, ambitious

Five Negative Traits: vengeful, temperamental, distrusting, vain, destructive

Other Mentionable Details: uses her ballet to get rid of her energy, uses dancing as her fighting style to contain her flames and direct them/to engulf herself in flames.

&. APPEARANCE

Tattoos: none

Piercings: earlobes

Reference Picture: ref picture

&. FAMILY INFORMATION

Parent Names: Jaco Barbsa (former soldier) & Linda Barbosa (retired nurse since Phoenix cared for their finances) 

Parent Relationship: she had an excellent relationship with her parents, they mean everything to her and she prays every day for them (despite not being religious, but her parents were)

Sibling Names: she has no siblings

Sibling Relationship: --

Other Relevant Relative: NAME UP TO POSSIBLE PLAYER -- (technically) husband. His whereabouts are unknown, but Phoenix believes he’s dead. And if he isn’t yet then he better run.

Children: --

Pets: --

&. BIOGRAPHY

( tw: war, heartbreak, stalking )

Little Evelyn Barbosa was a creation of pure love. Her father, Jaco Barbosa, had returned from war and was celebrated within Lisbon as one of the few making it back alive. He’d fallen in love with a shy and compassionate but stubborn young woman named Linda. The charme of a soldier appealed to her and, not even a few years later, Evelyn was born into a world torn apart by coups, death and anarchy.  No one questioned legitimacy as she’d always been a calm and sweet baby, smiling at the silliest pee-a-boo jokes. Despite her parents not being married, they stayed together despite the backlash from their families and even friends. A strong, grounded love in the midst of war. A love like her parents was the first she got to know. It was a love that made her childhood so comforting despite the ongoing wars within their midst. While the government struggled to uphold rules and even leaders, Evelyn remained in close proximity to her parents and their warmth. She grew up in a small, but lovely cottage in Belém, hidden away from the terrors of this world. One could even say she’d been sheltered and smothered with love -- others might, she certainly never did. Evelyn decided, at an early age, to repay her parents by aiming for a higher education, to eventually buy them a beautiful finca and enough food so they’d never have to worry about anything else. She turned out to be a little miracle, a progeny, a muse.

Dancing lifted her spirit, made her feel alive, burning with passion and dedication to the craft. Especially ballet. The pirouettes and poses, the blood, sweat and tears one had to give to perfection such beauty -- Evelyn enjoyed the idea of being excellent at something so extraordinary, watched and admired by thousands. She trained for years to come and, with a scholarship at one of Portugal’s best ballet companies (what would later rebrand and become the national ballet of Portugal in Lisbon), Evelyn fully committed to becoming a professional ballet dancer. With such a natural talent like hers, paired with the passion needed to survive against all the competition, enabled Evelyn to graduate with honors. This is when love intervened. Not only after a year of performing on the big stage, Evelyn met her match -- a young, handsome and charming man. They locked eyes and Evelyn was fun over, just like that. Five times he went to the same play before Evelyn eventually gave in and decided to get to know him. Saying she wasn’t in love would’ve been a lie, no, in reality she’d fallen in love with him the moment they locked eyes. With her career unfolding and with herself slowly making some decent money, Evelyn eventually bought her parents the finca she’d always promised them. With herself on top of the world, Evelyn let herself fall into the arms of one of the only people she truly trusted.

The war arrived in Portugal at a time in which Evelyn finally tried to talk to him. Both her father and the stranger she’d fallen for were drafted and Evelyn put all her energy back into ballet. Each day her anxiety increased and the news got worse with more and more people dying. She’d hoped for good news -- her father arrived first, wounded by a gunshot wound in his right arm, then, a few days later, he returned -- perfectly fine and barely changed. While this should've raised red flags for basically everybody else, Evelyn remained clueless and naive. Maybe he was just one of the lucky ones and had been able to prevent any injuries. She dedicated a large portion of her time to him after the war in the hopes of making up for all the lost minutes with him. Evelyn got engaged rather quickly after spending some wonderful weeks with him and, not even two months after their engagement, the two got married with all the glitz and glamor possible in their post-war world. They honeymooned on the coast of Portugal while reality struck her like lightning. All her belongings -- gone for good. Evelyn spent most of her honeymoon searching for answers, she even went as far as to believe he’d been kidnapped. Yet, her search ended up in various dead-ends.

Like a bird with broken wings Evelyn found herself grounded, completely lost of all her innocence and naivete. Her pink tinted glasses turned red and with that her mood completely changed. Instead of channelling her passion for ballet, Evelyn requested the next few weeks off to find out more after there’d been rumors of him being spotted in the Caribbeans. A fire ignited inside of her, pushing Evelyn forward towards her husband. The closer she got towards the Caribbeans, the more hope she had that everything would be alright in the end. There was still the possibility of him returning to her, of him just being kidnapped. Evelyn would never find out since the plane she’d boarded crashed and burned before she could even reach him. She awoke in a strange, but beautiful world. Evelyn survived her personal hellfire and emerged as a new person. Less naive, less tender and with her innocence lost she joined the fire sprites on her quest to true love. The passion located in her heart fit perfectly into the ranks of the fire sprites, as did her rage. She channelled the intensity of her personality by using fire and from that a Phoenix arose out of the ashes of everything she’d lost. Ardora not only provided her with the perfect opportunity to change, but it also opened a completely new world to her in which she could start anew without worrying about anything, or anyone, else. Phoenix completely devoted herself to the social structure of her new home, like she always did. From her fighting skills to her place within Ardora -- she cared and made sure she’d remain important and respected. She rarely got out of her shell at first, but it didn’t take too long for Phoenix to warm up to everyone else. With self-love everything seemed possible now. Phoenix arose with an appetite to express herself, to dance surrounded by fire, to test her limits. A sense of freedom completely took over from there and with the new name a completely new person entered this world: hardened, free, passionate. She crammed all her missed out years into a few months, went from exciting activity to the next big thing, hoping to keep that rush alive inside of her. It would never go out, that she’d only realize a few decades later. The fire inside of her, bright and warm, would never go out again. And that naive, little girl described in the beginning, eyes as bright as stars and her heart filled with love? Phoenix loved to surround herself with fire now, fully embracing the previously asleep firebug within -- her spark would soon ignite the hearts of many -- and she would gladly pour all her energy into welcoming the next generation.

#about #bio

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Erin!

You have been accepted for the role of ISLA SELWYN-MACMILLAN! Your application was beautiful! We especially loved your decision behind Isla’s familial background, which then led to her decisions and motivations within both her personal life and her life in the Order. The details you put in your application really brought her to life in a lovely way! We are so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: erin

AGE: 26

TIMEZONE: est

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I work a regular 9 to 5, so will be quite scare weekday afternoons, but am pretty consistent around evenings (into the woo hours of the am, as I’m an incurable insomniac) and weekends.

ANYTHING ELSE: n/a

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME:  Isla Arcine Selwyn- Macmillan

AGE: 25

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cisfemale. She / Her. Bisexual, in that way of scratching an itch rather than deliberately seeking out a romantic partner. Sex is sex is needs met, and a base appreciation, besides. When it comes to things more long-term, things which people out there in the world at large still call a relationship, it’s more touch and go. It’s been a long time since she’s had a romantic other who could be in any way tagged significant; not since Hogwarts and long before Archie’s confession of his orientation caused her to consider whether her own desires incorporated same-sex. They did and they do, but romance is another animal altogether and she has never down well with it no matter where on the spectrum you place her.

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

ANY CHANGES: N / A

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

At first blush, it’s challenging to get a proper bead on Isla beyond liberal application of the word ‘dry’. She moves and speaks with the considered stillness of a woman well aware of her age, her place in life. That things have perhaps not gone as planned, but there’s no turning back now, so she may as well just commit to the person she’s found herself to be. Isla, then, is the woman who dresses practically, who hangs along the seams of situations with arms folded across her chest, and holds for that single breath of silence to fall before chiming in with observation.

That is in no way to suggest that she is the paragon of forbearance. She is, in fact, hugely impatient. Queen of the drummed nails, the tapped foot, the not-so-surreptitious watch check. Isla has had to do very little waiting in her life, which is fortunate as she isn’t very good at it. But give her something to attend, something to measure, and Isla can spend all the time in the world passing judgement and weighing and hmm-ing thoughtfully. The measured consideration of herself, her peers, the very world around her. Isla studies, assesses, and only then moves to act. She’s the one who watches the Order’s fracas of people come together like the tide crashing, waiting for it to roll back out before she picks her way through to deposit her thoughts. It takes a hell of a lot to make Isla do before Isla thinks.

She is, after all, above all else, a connoisseur. Selective, thorough, intractable, endlessly demanding and ferociously precise. Her perfectionism is legendary; her attention to detail rivaled only by her appetite. Her enthusiasm for what she loves—food, flying, finery—is heady and infectious. Unfortunately, what-ifs and maybe-justs have eaten away at the electric smile which used to light her up during days gone by, because she’s been wrestling with the sensation of a stifled life on a precipice for some time now. And if it isn’t fear which rules her life (it isn’t; she is afraid to be afraid, and subsequently knocks it to one side lest she start choking on what unfamiliar fear tastes like), then anger is the name of Isla’s coolly played game. The years she burned away living unrestrained and satiate are like a mental scrapbook, something for her to page through with mixed feelings of nostalgia and frustration.

Isla has always been indomitable and stubborn, but current climate has put a bit more of a bite to what was once a more good-humored brand of overbearing confidence. The remnants of playful, irreverent, imperious woman she was-is-might-be-again is best seen in dealings with nearest and dearest. She still does things like hiding all of Archie’s left hand loafers when she feels he’s not paying enough attention to her. Still signs off letters to favorite cousins with the words ’don’t be a cow, Love Isla’. Still bitches bitterly to best friends about what a sell-out twat Josef Wronski is. But where once the sensation of being untouchable and inviolable meant her charm and candor were universal, present reality has seen it condescend, contracted, confined to trust spheres and safe space. She is shade of former self and Isla is honestly terrified that she might never have the whole back.

Swallowed pride sits badly in her belly and it’s a daily debate on whether she can life with the sensation for the rest of her life. Her family taught her to compromise, but she never, ever learned to capitulate or tolerate. Even less to bow. Though she does well enough in tandem to authority she acknowledges, it's only authority she acknowledge and beneath any other hand she bucks and bristles and bites. At present, Voldemort’s throat is the one she longs most to sink her teeth into, but time and tide are proving how unlikely that may be and so she, eminently loyal and deeply sentimental, must start focusing on what she wishes most to protect and preserve. What the best course of action is to safe guard the present and future of family and friends, the people she sees as the ones she must protect. Because at the end of the day, though she’ll fight for herself she’d die for nothing less than those she loves the most.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

The House of Selwyn is known for two things: pearls and politics. Polish is the name of the game in either. A refined family, whose members dot the upper echelons of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and whose wealth was built ages ago on the back of their many oyster farms off the sun drenched shores of the Mediterranean. Her mother’s prized possession is a pearl the size of an ostrich egg, Isaac’s gift to her when they first got engaged. It sits, even now, on a marble pedestal in Arsinoe Selwyn’s sitting room and Isla has memories of mother running white hands affectionately across the milky sphere till it was almost impossible to tell where pearl ended and skin began.

Isla grew up in their house on the coast of the Isle of Angsley, a neoclassical mansion whose gardens fell down to the sea. She was her family’s first and final princess, the daughter her mother prayed for since honeymoon’s initial afterglow had worn away and revealed the stark reality of a husband whose cultured charm was as infinite as his penchant for philandering. Isla was, if only for a time, the cure-all which the Selwyn couple so desperately needed: Father was fond of her, Mother was attentive, but most important was opinion of House Matriarch, for Grandmother is gentle with her the way she is to no other, wrinkled hands fearfully referred to as talons by the three sons and the half a dozen grandchild descended from Innana Selwyn turning soft as silk when they cupped Isla’s fair cheeks or braided grandthing’s dark hair. In those hands too was the decision of who would inherit the lionshare of the family’s estate and it was clear from the moment Innana folded Isla affectionately to her side that the son she was sure to pick would be the one who sired her favorite grandchild.

Though no idyllic portrait of white dresses and tea parties – she and her young relatives played at being tigers and at princesses and of course at the wonder of wizardry, but tucked comfortably amidst their baby-games was ongoing theme of competition and envy and scrutiny  – her youth still managed to smack quite soundly of comfortable entitlement, familial solidarity, and reasonable compromise. As a child she struggles most with the latter. Her mother says she looks too much like her father, more hard and sharp than soft. Arsinoe Selwyn does her best to blunts her daughter’s edges and wraps her in velvet, but Isla never becomes particularly pliable. Instead she identifies early where the line is and toes it unrepentantly; stretches against the limits of her girl skin and twists and turns within it’s proverbial limits. She is a child with a riptide inside her; restless as the current threshing against the cliffs she once scaled for the sake of beating her cousin in a race back from beach to front door.

Her parents are perennial negotiators. A flying instructor is hired to keep her off the cliffs. A fencing master in exchange for cooperation in deportment. Free reign so long as it’s neat skirts and straight hair when the rest of the clan comes to visit. One was never to show shortcomings in front of the extended branches, after all. But even with all the mistrust and rivalry, family was family was family and her first show of magic is sparked when she bisects a Kelpie attempting to drag her cousin down through the shallows. The following Autumn, when she is seated in The Great Hall as the Sorting Hat weights her heart for what means more, ambition or valor, she remembers Electra Selwyn’s shivering hands as she kicked the creature’s corpse into the surf.

Armed with parents’ indulgence and grandmother’s doting she can do no wrong. Nicknamed The Grand Duchess by her cousins for her domineering ways, Isla was infallible force of nature for so many years. She is given partial reprieve from the spotlight of mother’s sole focus after baby brother is born. Caius Selwyn, small savior who comes into the world when she is thirteen years old, consequently holds paramount place in Isla’s affections. To younger sibling she is larger than life; dark eyes lighting up with admiration the first time he sees big sister in her Montrose Magpies uniform. A woman Icarus. Then comes the fall.

The shifts in their family begin with grandmother’s death. Innana Selwyn, so old and august and unyielding, it had never occurred to Isla even that she could die. But the coffin is black and her mourning clothes black and the cloud over the family is bleak, pitch dark as ink. If grandmother’s will was anything to go by, it should be Isaac who became family head and yet her eldest uncle Elijah steps in to fill the vacancy. Her father does not protest and Isla frowns like the gathering rain clouds, wonders why.

It’s off-season half a year later when she is called again to grandmother’s residence, now Uncle’s. The day is in it’s dregs when she arrives. The decayed sunset still hung a cloud-caught drift of humid, mauvish red and sent down its ominous indigo shade, which ran from hummock to hummock of the manicured lawns like spilled water. The architecture of the Selwyns’ ancestral estate was itself fairytale like – silver gates like spider webs on a wet May morning, cobblestone streets, wet-black wood entrances – but the something that evening caused everything to look overripe; an otherwise perfect fruit with a rotted spot just starting to spread. Inside the house many lights were burning bright: her parents had arrived ahead of her, for there was important business to discuss. Isla’s marriage prospects.

It was a shell shock, being confronted face to face with the savage delicacy of a wedding dress. She felt like marriage would eat her alive–rip her limb from careless limb. But there was no twisting and turning to avoid this. Father is stern, Mother is reproving. Something tense and heavy braids itself through their insistence, something like a predator stalking through the dense gardens outside their walls. There is no room for negations here. And think, Arsinoe tells her after, how much better off she is than some girls; at least they are giving her the freedom to choose whom she’d prefer from among the matches her uncle has put forth.

So Archie, who is companion and confidant and closest friend since she was small wild child with loose hair and imperious ways. Who should be perfect match except they are not in love and marriage ought be more than two people making the best of a last ditch effort to preserve what they can’t stomach losing. So they marry. They move into a home together. Clean and white on the outside, its window shutters decorative rather than functional and all its internal fripperies stripped away upon her arrival because no man would ever put Isla Selwyn up in a wallpapered home and live to tell the tale.

She learns later the name and nature of the beast-thing driving her family to tighten up tradition. Some power bloated dark wizard who thinks himself a lord with the right to reign over their way of life. Her uncle Elijah, her eldest cousins, they have already sworn fealty. And sure, things for her could certainly be far worse, but life till now had promised Isla Selwyn a world without limits then failed to deliver and so now entitled, intractable, implacable Isla, Isla who has never accepted the word ’no’ in her life and isn’t about to start now, is woman on a war path. If the world Voldemort means to build is one where she has to bow to his notion of what a woman ought be then he had best look to his kingdom, because she’s coming for it.

OCCUPATION:

Housewife. And she chokes a little on the reality of it ever time. What was once a glowing quidditch career was quashed under family applied pressure in the wake of a rising regime. She was going to fly forever, that had been her plan. Instead she’d been made to resign from her position as Chaser for the Montrose Magpies and supposedly idles her days away in domestic leisure and social functions. But idle hands are the tools of the devil. Or in this case, the Order.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER

The same surname which gives her access to the insular world of pureblood social circles is a source of suspicion and skepticism for her comrades-in-arms. Many of the members are uncertain about her, be it of her motives, her commitment, or her loyalty; though even her staunchest detractor can’t deny her effectiveness nor her conviction. Luckily for all, Isla has a lifetime of experience in banding together for the greater good despite nebulous trust and constant scrutiny (see: the Selwyns). She does not need them to like her, but she does need them to make good use of the advantages she has to offer.

Informant, infiltrator, instigator. She has access to places other Order members do not, clout in certain circles that overlap with the enemy. Isla’s connections are many and they run the gamut from marked death eaters, whose names and movements she funnels to the order, to fence sitters who just need a bit of a nudge to sway the right way (or at least lend a helping hand so long as their safety is guaranteed). She has, on occasion, served as a soldier though always from behind a white and gold volto mask to preserve the secrecy of her affiliation.

That said, failure and fracturing among their numbers have roused Isla’s frustrations. It seems absurd to her that they have become at once so woefully disorganized and yet increasing concerned with rank and file. The faith she had in the beginning has begun to dwindle and she’s starting to doubt if this motley crew can overcome all the in-fighting enough to focus on the real enemy. Moreover, she’s starting to wonder if their own prejudices will turn them into something just as deplorable as the Death Eaters. If they cannot even tolerate each other, what might they do to those on the fringes? Her reservations were only exacerbated by the incident with Leina Nott.

SURVIVAL:

For the moment, her identity as a member of The Order remains still unknown to those outside it’s number. She lives then, almost as she always had. A house, honey hued when the light slid down the hills and made it so,  wreathed with ivy about the windows and draping the door. With husband who is loved-but-not-lover and with secrets kept closely guarded and all actions planned and plotted and maneuvered with careful calculation of risks and reasons and weight. She survives by walking a tight rope and living a lie and praying victory comes before the truth.

RELATIONSHIPS:

She has always been a woman who collects acquaintances but is few in close friends and the war has only caused her to make even sharper delineations. Archie Macmillan has always been her perfect constant, consistent and timely as the tides their friendship. Her parents may have indulged her, but Archie is the only person who has ever supported and encouraged her. They may not be in love with each other, but he is the most important person in her life, the only individual she is wholly honest with, her partner in all things. It was she who convinced him to join the Order and for that reason, Isla has resolved to put his wishes and well-being first and foremost so that he doesn’t come to regret that decision. Even if her own life comes crumbling down as a result of her choices, she’ll make damn sure that Archie’s doesn’t.

From the start, members of the Order’s inner circle have been treated to a polite but firm personal distance, business only please. Polite distance has since evolved to more than a little frost. She has never done well with authority figures she hasn’t specifically acknowledged and between a string of failures and the way their hierarchy is coming more and more to resemble that of the opposition’s, Isla’s regard for them and their leadership has dwindled significantly. It doesn’t help that James Potter is among their number and all her negative biases against him have subsequently colored the rest of the Order’s proverbial generals with the same standoffish brush.

She fares much better in interactions with the mid and low-level members and, in all honest, best with half and pureblood women. Because she can relate. Because she feels protective. Because being surrounded by women fighting for their right to autonomy and self-determination reminds her why she’s here in the first place and, truly, she needs those reminds now, here, when her morale as it’s most dismal. They encourage her to dirty her hands with much-missed paint, and to muddy up the colors. If she tells herself that it isn’t all well among Order ranks, then she openly admits that it’s not all bad.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: Isla x Chemistry

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Isla has lived her entire life in a world of extreme privileged. Because of blood status, because of wealth, because of weight of family name. Given ever access to education and resources and connection. Because the Selwyns were lax in regards to traditional values, even running up against the wall of gender biases was minimal up until more recently. Suddenly confronted with the the strictures and restrictions of antiquated sexism, Isla, in the way of a person born with every advantage, is predictably outraged and righteously anger at suddenly being put at a disadvantage.

A staunch anti-traditionalist, Isla imagines herself enormously liberal, but the reality of her upbringing informs all things. The Selwyn family’s pearl farms employ mainly muggles as menial labor, harvesters, and low level managers of their precious crop. And so, Isla has always thought of muggles as existences only a few step above house elves; backwards, easily excitable, but hard working creatures, obliviously happy with their own lesser way of life because they haven’t the capacity to imagine something broader. Her attitude towards muggleborns, therefore, smacks of condescension and distinctive othering. As though they are the lucky, mutated winners of some biological lottery. “Corrected” muggles, fixed of the flaw of lacking magic. And though Isla imagines that because she supports the right of muggleborns to everything the Wizarding World has to offer, it means she has no prejudices, in reality her internalized biases are many and she views them as inherently flawed by virtue of their birth and disadvantaged by virtue of their upbringing.

The reverse could be said of her prejudices about half-breeds and squibs. Their non-wizard heritance is a tragic blot to me sympathized with. For squibs she regards their lack of magic like a grave congenital disability. The kind of thing pregnant mother pray for protection against as they go into labor. The notion that this way of thinking might be problematic has not only never occurred to her, but would in fact be wholly anathema to how she navigates socially.  

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? There is so much plot jam-packed into this RP and I am living for it. I love the idea of an all Order focus; love even more that the Order is not depicted as some happy pack of underdogs who all love and get along with each other. I love that they’re losing and everything is getting desperate and painful and pushing people to their emotional / mental / moral limits. The ugliness mixed in with all the good-intentions and differing drives is so meaty, scoop me a huge helping pls & ty.

PLOT DROP IDEAS: N/A

ANYTHING ELSE? As though her family section isn’t already too long™, have some mini drabbles from her childhood

#homenumaccepted

[twitchesandstitches]

Polypa and Konyyl Fight Comm

Commission of hyper muscle-gut Polypa fighting against a similarily beefy Konyyl!

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Music thudded out from the hive block; the deep thudding of drum-bugs bred for resonance and volume echoed loud, and the blood pumped faster, harder in tune with the music. Trolls were, by nature, inclined towards passion and bouts of fierce emotion by far more intense than most other aliens. Floating in the private lanes of those with a fledgling interest in xenopsychology (a discipline doomed to die, with the genocidal ambitions of the Condesce’s constant expansion, but ever heiress was a possibility for transformation and you never knew your luck in future ages) was a bit of writing about an alien met by a surprising number of trolls, and the unknown writer mused that perhaps this alien’s shocking lack of emotional extremes indicated that trolls had deeper feelings than they suspected.

Through alien eyes, trolls had seen that they felt deeply, fiercely. They saw some vague chance for kinder things to flow, as odd and even counterproductive though it was, but trolls did have other needs that an alien probably would not understand.

The thrill of claw biting into chitin; the crash of horns (ill designed for this purpose, better suited for the balancing of psionic humours, but then since when did anatomical use factor into the troll impulse to just RIP AND TEAR?), even the snarl of teeth biting into flesh and spilling blood onto the floor.

Trolls were not, by nature, murderers. They believed they were but, as the man on the moon might say with his fingers crossed, it was amazing how far you could bend a people and still have them believe everything they did was their own idea. But trolls were a passionate people, a fierce people… and violence was a need. There was a reason that fierce rivalries and the regulated spilling of blood was a kismessitude tradition.

And every urge finds an outlet in the properly organized parts of the world. And here was one such place. The hive block was a large one, but it was bigger underground, the upper part a facade to avoid too much attention. If the Proper Authorities knew about it, they didn’t much care. The Condesce, and those who understood her ways, was known to smile upon the practice. “BEATIN’ THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER IS FUN AS HELL,” she had said, once. Perhaps this was a sign she approved. Perhaps it wasn’t, and she was speaking about the general practice of relief duels.

The hiveblock was mostly a disguise, a shell set over trap doors and a small arrangement of puzzles to weed out the unworthy. It was mainly for effect, and to satisfy the troll instinct to maintain security. They weren’t exactly territorial, no more than any highly social species like them, but psychologically, trolls were most comfortable when there were clearly defined boundaries between who should be there, and who would be kept away. It crossed the social boundaries of caste, and even as security theater, it soothed people and allowed them to embrace the revelry without a little voice in the back of their mind being anxious.

A lot of this had been a big concern for Polypa when she had made the decision to join the underground fighting ring (literally, at that, metaphors generally being tangled with puns in troll naming structure). Fighting was not an easy adjustment for her, not when she had been an assassin for all her adult life. She was skilled at ending life as quickly and dispassionately as possible, discreetly if possible. The showmanship of battle was not an easy thing to learn.

But then, as Tegiri had noted, she would be able to satisfy her urges more easily, make even more money than as an assassin, and completely legitimately.

That last bit had been spoken as if an afterthought. Almost a dance between them, or plausible deniability to make him comfortable with her job; he pretended he didn’t know that she assassinated political figures in ways heretical to proper society, and she made sure he didn’t have to deal with it. Joining the fights was a good way to pleasure her belly, find a living that was easy on both her and Tegiri, and generally made her feel happier about things.

She didn’t expect to find a rival, but life had lots of happy surprises, like Tegiri.

Beneath the ground, in a space large enough to accommodate even the largest of trolls, a deep chamber plunged downwards, the squared-off steps descending downwards, in an effect similar to an inverted pyramid. Most of this space was filled by a gladiator ring, the circular platform surrounded by a translucent cage made of transparent resins, so the contestants could tear at one another without being able to flee as instinct might demand. Various mechanical ingenuities built into the floor would allow tools, trick weapons, or surprise obstacles to be brought in, though tonight’s match would have none of that.

A spiral arrangement looped around it, rows and rows of seats suitable to house any troll, from smaller rusts who crowded together like pudgy terrorscales, to being filled by enormous motherly bluebloods or purples, and every shade in between. They were not quite off-spectrum, but many of these trolls were close; some of them had forearms and claws so large they would need specialty weapons. Others had grown prehensile tails, curling around them, and still others kicked legs swelled into sharp hooves.

Mutations were often grounds for culling, but not always. If a mutation did not actually impede a troll, or made them more dangerous in some exotic, intriguing way, there were allowances for that. The underground fights very much demonstrated the notion.

Above the audience seats now filled to max capacity was a small balcony overlooking the ring, the onlookers present to dictate the flow of audience thrill and steer it if it got too intense. A bit like an auspistice, but for a group.

In this bench sat two trolls: Tegiri and Azdaja, sitting across from one another, weapons at the reader in case they decided the other was showing too much favoritism. Given that they were quadrantmates with both the combatants, that was likely. Tegiri frowned as Azdaja, his eyes were a bright teal, his chitin dense and little hooks sticking out, and despite his much broader frame, he was shorter than Azdaja, who smiled cooly. Azdaja, he was a goldblood, his eyes blazing with the power of his bloodline, emanating confidence and coolness where Tegiri was neutral, almost a void of a troll.

Tegiri tapped a fat bug linked by blood-cord to the speakers, and aloud he declared the beginning of the battle. “Welcome, my friends, my fellow worshipers of blood and might, welcome!” The crowd cheered as his resonant voice echoed, made deeper by the mike-bug’s effect. “I do hope you prepared yourselves for truly astounding feats of power and skill beyond that of any other troll, for it is upon us all!”

Azdaja spoke up. His voice was more smooth, brimming with a kind of sexual magnetism that was not so much commanding as charismatic. “All of us are different, in our own ways. Those of us strong enough to survive and serve our Empress, we have proven that we are different enough to serve ably! And our battlers tonight…” He wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully. Tegiri made a ‘tch!’ noise, baring his fangs. Azdaja just grinned, letting the tension between them mount, and feed into the same tension of the area. The crowd was hungry. “They are so very, very special indeed~!”

Both trolls stood up as two very… very large figures appeared in the shadows. Azdaja declared, “I bid you, raise your horns in surrender, for our fighters are here!” The audience, from the most lowly rustblood to the most endowed purpleblood, slowly stood up with a crashing of seats and clinking of floor resin, and as if a single mass offering themselves up to a fearsome goddess, they raised their heads up, horns away and exposing the vulnerable spot between jaw and thorax. It was so easy to kill a troll by going for the throat, to expose it, willingly, was a great act of vulnerability, and carried so much significance.

The fighters, both of them, gave the rumble of approval. The audience sat down, and though it was all just part of the ceremony, it still had the audience’s bloodpumps going, their faces varying shades of black or gray tinged now with their blood color, at simply being in a state where their idols, the warriors battling in their name, could have descended upon them but chose not to. It was a thrill, a dangerous one, and yet they loved it all the same.

There, away from each other there and getting prepped, the fighters gazed at each other, eyes both the same shade of olive green; one significantly higher, the other straining to look past her own heaving doom globes. Several attendants (smaller trolls, selected for their thinness even if that was a VERY relative thing among trolls), carefully adorned them with their battle garments, affixing the blood-colored banners and had them extend legs out for the boots, and the other clothing of the trade.

Polypa waited as the bandages were fully applied over her face by several trolls standing upon her enormous shoulders, and she was such a massive giantess of a troll (whispered by some not afraid to be labeled heretics that she was fuchsia-sized) that her shoulders qualified as scaffolding; the trolls looked barely a couple feet tall compared to her despite being of average height for their castes, and their stance-digits sand deeply into the thick muscles of her shoulders as though they were stepladders.

She was, by any metric, a mutant. Everything she ate was converted into more body mass, more muscle power, and possibly she was channeling her latent psionic abilities into that mass as well, as the bluebloods did.

Sometimes, Polypa suspected that the only reason she hadn’t been culled was that her transformation into this hulk had only been discovered after she had fully transitioned, and her strength was just too useful. The Empire regarded useful mutants, or ones strong enough to survive despite the odds, to be worth keeping around and adding to the genepool.

Only one of her eyes was left exposed as they were done, staring ominously across the audience. A few swooned. Polypa’s face, and the terrible burn scars some suggested she had inflicted on herself for the hell of it, were covered in bandages, but that didn’t quite do more than obscure her absolutely massive lips (puckered, it seemed, and inviting), and somehow her face veins were even larger. Thicker across than a grown trolls hands, wider around than her horns, and carrying valuable body-engorging chemicals right with her blood. They pushed out against the bandages, pulsing faintly, faster or slower depending on how worked up she was, and some enterprising technician had worked out a counter to determine the intensity of the fight by measuring how fast those veins were pulsing; if you could see them contracting and pushing out over and over, then you had a real damn fight on your hands!

It was difficult to imagine anyone giving her a fight like that. Even adorned in the fabrics of the ring, it could do little to hide Polypa’s body. An enormously muscular titaness, her muscles were impossibly defined, and deeply rigid, almost blocky where they were tensed. Her biceps alone were several times larger than her head, seemingly too big for any normal troll to contain them in her body, and her apparent frame was made mostly of her hyper-sized muscles. Her doom globes were hardly small, easily larger than her head, though compared to her various other assets and muscles, her bustline just seemed… mostly irrelevant.

Sticking in front of her, raised up on a throne, was her proudest feature, her biggest crowd draw, and the source of her mass. Polypa’s stomach was a gigantic orb, distended and swelled into a ball shape hanging out before her, but it was not soft at all. Abs lined it, as clearly defined as the muscles on the rest of her, so that it seemed to be a rounded distortion of a hyper beefy troll of Polypa’s dimensions. It was just so big; it easily dwarfed Polypa, a round behemoth of a musclegut, and she could probably have fit several dozens of her attendants into it without difficulty.

As they climbed up it, sliding up and down, affixing bits of cloth here and there, or just slowly making their way down the ladder of abdominals, Polypa twisted and seethed. She was good at hiding it, but even a bolted down ladder suggests a lot of tension if it strains a certain amount, and for such a controlled troll’s hips to bump that much, or for those huge lips to be clamping down on noises that sounded a lot like sensual moans, and all from the slightest brush against her massive… incredibly sensitive belly…

Even just the air moving against her belly aroused her. Her gut, and especially the sub-dermal chitin, was one big erogenous zone. Putting any layers over it was just out of the question. She would never cover up her pride, but touching it like that was just going to overload her pleasure perceptions.

Polypa shivered, instinctively crossing her legs together, door-sized thigh muscles striking against one another with an audible bang. By sheer luck, it resonated with the background music and the noise sank into the crowd yells, and the beat came louder, pulsing with the animal battlelust of the crowd.

She gazed across at her foe. Polypa shivered, not exactly in dread. With her fighting style, this would be hard…

Because her foe was like her.

Both fighters advanced to the ring, and even at a distance, it was clear that her rival was just as mutated as her; they were both within acceptable parameters by Imperial law, on the basis they could absolutely fuck things up. The floor shook as their gigantic bodies advanced, and thighs wider around than some trolls were tall smacked together as they ascended the stairs. Skintight costumes, flame-bright for Polypa and clashing shades for her rival, clung tightly to their gigantic bodies, highlighting the bouncing, dense bulk of rumblespheres bigger around than entire doors, backsides even larger to counterbalance their enormous bodies.

On paper, their mutation was a simple; incredibly efficient metabolism and nutrition absorption. A simple thing, it seemed, until you considered how fast someone might grow if they converted every single thing they ate into raw biomass, right into their body. And some other mutations went into it; hyper muscle growth, some unusual flux of hormones governing rumblesphere and chairbuster development, something to do with latent psionics...

That was the science, at least. The results were a lot more impressive than it sounded.

Polypa’s opponent slowed just as she did, and they wound up paused paused in midstep, their the slopes of their engorged bellies protruding right into the right already. Polypa couldn’t shake how similar they were; maybe it just some coincidence in the genetics, or even some common ancestor from ages in the past, but they had both mutated in such a similar way, and it was refreshing to have a competitor who could keep up with her, and a bit worrying that she might have… well, a real rival on her hands.

Tall spiky horns rose up over a wild mane of hair, and gazing up at her was a somewhat smaller troll with broad, lovely features. Konyyl Okimaw caught her eye and gazed levelly, and Polypa was struck by how big she was.

Not heightwise, by her standards. Polypa was a giantess among trolls, and Konyyl’s head barely came up to her neckline, her horns just barely as high up as Polypa’s own horns. Konyyl wasn’t as wide as her, either, Polypa was simply carrying too much developed muscle mass. But Konyyl was curvy in a way Polypa wasn’t, her huge muscles nearly swallowed up in her plump, strongfat build, softness brimming at every angle. Her thighs were round, her belly a smooth expanse of inviting bulkiness.

And the rumblespheres so close to popping out of that costume were almost twice the size of Polypa’s. Polypa wasn’t really threatened by that, beyond a vague sense of ‘damn, wish I was that stacked’, but it was unusual to be around anyone more developed than her, no matter which way it was. And her hips! Her butt; it was so big and spilling out so much that even from the front, Polypa could see hints of it.

Her own backside, slabs on slabs of solid meat swelling out, wasn’t quite as large, proportionate to her own body. It was a battle of beef versus thickness. And Polypa felt trepidation at the thought of all that body mass slamming into her so very sensitive belly, and some excitement too.

Both professionally, and… less so.

She tried to move forwards and direct all eyes to her again and her stomach smacked into the doorway, bending the metal effortlessly away from her. Her skin sang at the touch, heat pulsing down right to her hips. She felt her bulge swell, the cup built into her suit giving her some modesty, and the veins on her face swelled so much her hair was pushed out of the way. Her belly pushed, to and fro, and her lips clamped against a lusty growl when the doorway broke apart around her. Her belly hit the ground and it was harder still to keep her composure: every scrape against the ground sang like fire in her loins, the whisper of air was a sensual pressure she didn’t want to stop. Every impact, every little motion of her gut and every touch against it felt so good.

God, she loved how sensitive her muscle gut was. And it was so hard to fight with it and keep her composure. It was almost enough to let her forget that her moirail, Tegiri, had gotten into some kind of an technicalities argument that was now close to a full on brawl with Azdaja up there. The shouts and argument rising up there, and absolutely unscripted, did manage to get her attention off the pleasures of her body. Embarrassment ensued, and Polypa realized that Azdaja was presently trying to duel Tegiri right on the spot.

Rather than, well, focus on their own fight.

Polypa’s blinked her visible eye. She shared an embarrassed glance with her rival, but it seemed mostly wasted. Konyyl Okimaw, perhaps the only troll alive on Alternia capable of keeping up with her, was grinning up, apparently pleased at the incensed shouts in the announcer booth: “NO, FUCK YOU, BEEF BEATS ROUND!” - “YOU IGNORANT BUFFOON, SQUISHY DEFLECTS THINGS HARDNESS WON’T” and so on.

Konyyl flexed, drawing the crowd to her body, and Polypa seethed; her rival, it seemed, had a knack for showmanship that really did not come naturally to Polypa. She raised an arm several feet across and flexed, impressive biceps rising up, though barely half the size of Polypa’s they still dwarfed Konyyl’s arm. The crowd hooted, cheered and in a few cases almost fainted from big sexy overload as Konyyl’s massive doom-globes shifted on her round gut. They were nearly twice the size of Polypa’s, despite the height difference, and though Polypa considered that Konyyl’s own gigantic belly was too round to really be impressive (not when it didn’t even have a single visible muscle on it), she was certainly stacked, front and back.

Konyyl turned, her butt wobbling and rising up nearly to her waist, perhaps half as big as her belly (and that was saying something). “Hey! Who wants to see a real throwdown!” she bellowed. She throw a bit of her hips out so her soft stomach and massive rumblespheres rocked in exactly the right way to hit the primal ‘fuck yes’ button of troll psychology.

The crowd screamed, applauding and in a few cases getting so enthusiastic they headbutted one another. In the booth, Azdaja and Tegiri paused in their argument and got up to hurriedly resume their seats.

Attention turned to Polypa, and she became acutely aware that she was the star of the show, so to speak. She coughed, awkwardly. Her enormous lips, denting her bandages, worked in an awkward expression that she was very glad was not visible; it would have gone so poorly with her fighting persona of an unshakable, cool badass. She raised a massive arm nearly as thick around as Konyyl herself, so dense with muscle that the act of moving it generated enough energy to power a house for a few days. “Uh. Yay? Fight stuff and… stuff?”

The crowd stared. Polypa stared blankly. Konyyl covered her face, groaning.

In the booth, Azdaja leaned over to Tegiri. Dropping the persona, he quietly said, “So. She’s the ‘best in the business’, huh?”

Tegiri sniffed disdainfully. “Polypa is the finest fighter alive. At no point is being able to work a crowd actually a part of that skill set.”

Azdaja looked like he wanted to scof, but he considered this. “Hrm. Fair enough, I suppose.” More loudly, and into his mike-bug, he said, “Are you ready, fighters!”

Polypa recognized a cue when she saw one. She kept her arm raised up and, struck by a sudden inspiration, extended a claw in a rude gesture. Konyyl’s true reaction of mild indifference was quickly turned into stage-show outrage, and her massive rumblespheres inflated to amplify the roar she screamed out.

Polypa, in turn, flexed. Muscles on muscles, each weighing nearly a hundred pounds, they swelled up, crowding out Polypa’s insuffiicent frame, and arched up over Polypa’s fist, and the crowd leaned in, even the ones who were supporting her gaping in awe at how much muscle there was, the promise of savage power. And then, she amped it up; Polypa did a secondary flex without dropping the first one, and other muscles bunched up, getting even bigger and beefier. She raised all this up, and crashed bicep against forearm, with so much force that there was a mighty thunderclap

No, an impact, a shockwave that made a crater where she stood, and blasted down the entrance into the ring. In anticipation of this sort of thing, a door slid out of the ground behind her so there would be no fleeing. Her massive musclegut forced the doorway into a crumpled mess, so that the new door was entirely a formality. She did her best not to coo with delight, and her hyper muscular thighs concealed the sudden swelling of her nook.

Konyyl charged in from her side, leading with her gut, and given her endowments, and the size of her stomach, she was briefly only visible to Polypa as an advancing mass of belly topped by rumblespheres and a snarling face. Polypa felt a bit of smugness that Konyyl wasn’t quite big enough to bust her doorway.

“Fighters,” Tegiri said sonorously; as a tealblood, it was his prerogative to perform these kind of ceremonies. “Tap your horns!”

Polypa took the initiative, slamming her belly on the ground and making the arena shake, and sending her body quivering in pleasure. She lowered her head, fat veins pulsing slowly, and her pointed horns were angled downwards. Konyyl glowered, fully aware that Polypa was dictating the terms of this battle with such a little gesture, but she rose up to it. She slammed her own gut on the ground and springboarded herself up, to Polypa’s amusement, her own rumblespheres squishing deep with some distant sloshing sounds, and her spiked horns were pushed into a tap against Polypa’s.

The loud click was a signal.

“Begin!” Tegiri boomed.

The crowd went hushed as both Polypa and Konyyl stared at one another, tension ramping up between them, the two fighters waiting for the other to make a move to take advantage of, but Polypa had never been terribly patient and all her skills in battle lay in being the first to take a solid move, to make that move count. She lunged, and the crowd shouted in awe, a few people in front seats even shrieking in fear; Polypa had jumped straight upwards, almost vault clear to the ceiling, and nothing is quite so terrifying as seeing something that big, moving so fast, and then-

Well, coming right down.

Polypa descended, belly first, and Konyyl dragged herself out of the way as Polypa pressed right down, the arena quaking and the caged ring shaking. She pulled herself out, quickly turning her drawn out moan (ground clinging so deliciously to her stomach as she hauled it out) into a fierce yell, and it went even better when she shook off some rubble and caught it with her other hand. All in a single, smooth motion that was almost visual poetry.

“Ah, an excellent use of her signature high rising gut press,” Tegiri observed. “A devastating moves, and I have no doubt that anyone else but someone like Okimaw would have been turned to blood and splatter beneath it!”

Azdaja smirked as Polypa swung the chunk of rubble as a club. Konyyl caught it, headbutted it and smashed it into little pieces, and charged right through the dust, another vicious headbutt catching Polypa in the right rumblesphere. “Unfortunately, Konyyl is far too quick for that. Give her credit, because,” he laughed, a quick and escalating chuckle. “It takes a special troll to be able to use your horns in battle like that!”

Konyyl charged, and Azdaja proved right. Polypa tried to match her in kind and return the gesture, but Konyyl’s smaller sized proved an asset for once. She waved out of the way, slamming her belly out into Polypa’s as the latter tried to advance, and was slowed when the sweet shock against her gut made her hesitate. And again, when Polypa tried to swing her horns at her.

Polypa mixed a punch in there, between swings of her horns and thrusts of her belly, and between getting knocked right on the shoulder by a fist and the shockwaves from Polypa’s belly hitting her stance. Konyyl was stunned, rocking on her feet. Polypa lunged forward, caught in the moment and the pull of instinct, and made a serious error, moving in the flow of battle without thought as she did:

She forgot to adjust for her belly getting in the way.

The imposing slope of muscle and chitinous shimmers that she was so very proud of (with many images for publicity showing her cradling it, stroking it, or inviting fans to wash it with loving touches and expensive oils) had many features to recommend it. Her ability to maneuver it was not one of them.

Polypa gasped aloud as sensation overwhelmed her, her loins feeling aflame, and instead of connecting her horns against Konyyl’s, she overbalanced and smacked her face into her own rumblespheres, and the dense fat, compacted from her growth, gave her a nasty knock. It was like hitting squishy armor, the shock rebounding into her face, and the whole world spun around her.

In the back of her mind, she cried to herself: ‘shit, shit, SHIT!’ A novice error! A rookie mistake, how did she do something so damn stupid!

(Trolls, it should be noted, have many things to recommend them. Their impulse control is not one of them.)

She felt a harsh impact as a pair of horns locked against her own, and a sweet sense of rapid impacts against her gut, and a very heavy weight, almost as big as her whole body. She was suddenly tugged forward, and her senses snapped in. She looked down into cleavage bigger than her own, mashed up against her, and she worked it out. Konyyl had climbed up her body, and had shoved her own spiky horns through the hole in Polypa’s intact horn.

And was now presently punching the shit out of Polypa’s face.

“Will you- ow! I said -ow! Would you just- ow!” Every pause was punctuated by about half a dozen punches to the face. a n ordinary troll would have been lucky to survive a couple of those punches, or have their head not instantly be exploded from the force. Polypa was too strong, so heavy and dense with digested biomass that she could probably shrug off a direct artillery strike, but those punches were at least annoying, and hurt.

She was a bit more focused on how Konyyl was putting all her body weight right on Polypa’s stomach and shit that felt so good, ooh yeah, right THERE. And that certainly broke the stupor.

Konyyl swung back for another few blows, her bouffant hair blown back in a very dramatic way that would look amazing in the video replays, and her swing froze. Immense pressure locked around her arms, and she saw her forearm’s bulging muscle constrained by Polypa’s hands suddenly clamping down on her arms. The horn-colored claws growing out of Konyyl’s hands glinted, though they had been blunted for this fight. They shone with faint hints of olive blood.

Polypa noticed some faint wetness trickling down her face now. She’d actually been cut. By blunt claws. How damn strong was Konyyl, to actually do that kind of damage?

Now, Polypa did not put a whole lot of stock in the romantic notion of a rival who was strong enough and skilled enough to pose a real threat to you; she thought it was absurd, a silly thing, a romantic’s fool notion. But here and now, she grinned.

This was… fun.

With a yell, she spun and threw Konyyl into the ground, and the slightly smaller oliveblood hit it gamely enough, allowing her considerable assets and gut to soak up the damage, though she was clearly feeling it in a way that Polypa wouldn’t have. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as tough as Polypa, or Polypa’s absurd strength was overwhelming even her defenses. Either way she hit the ground and bounced, and needed a moment to pull herself back onto her feet.

Polypa’s first impulse was to press the attack, but after the horn lock incident of only a few moments ago, she backed up, her belly bouncing off the ground and up again to a steady temp in time with her steps. It didn’t seem popular with the crowd, judging from the goans and boos. Polypa rolled her eyes. Didn’t they get the concept of strategy?

Konyyl recovered, and saw an opportunity. Now that Polypa was playing it safe and not employing the same kind of one-shot brutality that had made her such an effective assassin, Konyyl sw her own opportunity to test Polypa’s skill at actual drawn out battles. Her reactions, her responses to a sudden technique; Konyyl propped herself up, ramming into Polypa’s gut. It was like hitting the side of a spaceship, from the wince on Konyyl’s part, but it made Polypa’s face veins flush and even swell, like vines blooming in moonlight.

Konyyl noticed, and rubbed her belly against those abs just right. The slow, squishy slide of her firm belly, against those hard abs that flexed in just the right way; both women had a reaction, but Konyyl was better at hiding it, and Polypa had to cover her face to stifle her arousal growls. Konyyl took opportunity of Polypa’s absent hands to push against her, forcing her into an unsteady stance.

“It does seem to be an even match tonight,” mused Tegiri, though he was hedging his bets.

“Konyyl would appear to be outclassed in raw strength and durability, always a serious disadvantage in this kind of fight,” Azdaja said. “But she’s worked out how to maneuver herself in ways that Polypa apparently can’t! Good on her, I say!”

“Yes, well, you’re biased.”

“Indeed I am!” Azdaja grinned. “You should own up to your own biases, my friend!”

Tegiri sniffed. “It is not a bias. For my part, I simply acknowledge from the facts that Polypa is objectively superior to everyone else forever.” He pointed as Polypa delivered a truly impressive punch right to Konyyl’s face that pushed her back, as surely as a gale force wind would. “Behold, the play of her muscles flexing so admirably!”

“Hrm,” Azdaja said, noncommittally.

As they continued their commentary, observing how, say, an attempted mutual belly press was a perfect execution of two unstoppable forces bouncing off each other. And the resulting flurry of punches as they remained deadlocked gut to gut. It was really just amazing how they could even keep track of the motion, because the crowd certainly couldn't. They made impressed noises, they leaned forward and watched with shock as they continued to wreck the ring and warp the cage with the shockwaves that their monstrous strength inflicted upon the world around them and a few were even pushed out of their seats BY those shockwaves. They were quite thrilled about it, too.

“And that,” Tegiri said primly as the ring cracked almost in half from Konyyl managing to lift Polypa’s massive body into the air just long enough for their combined weight to sink them both down. “Is why we sit the audience so far away-”

He was interrupted as Konyyl leaned forward, just enough, howling with exhaustion and the pain of holding up so much mass overhead, her claws sinking into the surprisingly pliable canyons of Polypa’s back muscle, and she dropped her, with gravity and technique combined into a beautiful moment of violence.

Polypa crashed down, not exactly thrown but Konyyl’s strength and her own weight made enough of an impact to give an impression. Outside, trolls on the street above were dancing away as the street itself cracked almost in two. Errant blocks rising up from the street almost claimed the legs of one or two hapless bystanders, and rubble cracked right off an unfortunate building, foundations unearthed in a single moment. And the underground ring shook far harder, and it split in two, the ground tilting slightly so that two halves were at an angle, tilting up.

The cage had been torn almost right away, and now it lay crumpled, slowly falling around them both, though they seemed oblivious to all the destruction.

From a crater, moving with such violence that she forced the halves of the ring even further apart came Polypa. Rubble fountained around her, and above her, her rising gut producing another crater just in front of her as she rose up.

Rubble fell into her cleavage. It lined her belly like some fairly sticky body paint. It felt from some new and minor tears in her tights, and she barely noticed. Her bloodpusher pumped harder, her veins flushed and contracted and pulsed out again, and it felt so good.

And as she roared and charged, she thought… that this, again, was so much fun. That fighting Konyyl was fun.

A challenge that was really, genuinely fun.

Polypa closed the distance with astounding speed, to the audible shock of the people watching, including Azdaja. “Amazing!” he said, surprised at his own delight in this turnaround. “How is she still even conscious after that impact!?”

Tegiri’s smug pride in his moirail made Polypa smile as he spoke. “You have to do better than that to even make her flinch.”

Polypa’s arms reached out for Konyyl, going for a grab, and Polypa saw that Konyyl’s back-step away, just out of reach and belly range, was slower than before. In the brief moment between pause and her darting away, circling to Polypa’s flank…

It was a slower movement. Konyyl was getting tired.

That last move must have taken so much out of her. Polypa grinned. Now, she had a plan; use that weariness against her.

Konyyl charged, and Polypa whirled around, lunging out again. She made like she was trying to pull her in for a grab, and once again, Konyyl circled narrowly out of range. In the brief moment Polypa needed to catch her balance. Konyyl was rushing at her, and threw several punches.

Konyyl’s biceps weren’t as big or developed as Polypa’s, they didn’t have quite so many tons of biomass funneled right into them, but they were still damn strong. The first three punches, Polypa was shocked to realize she could feel them pummeling into her rumblesphers. The fourth one hit hard enough that she was forced to step back. The fifth, and then the six, pushed her back.

Konyyl charged again, and Polypa swung her belly, right into her path. Still reeling from the surprisingly powerful hits, she misstepped, and Konyyl misinterpreted the stumble as getting ready for a big blow, and backed away.

Polypa caught herself. She seized the moment, readying herself, and moved forward. With a roar, she charged forwards and kicked out, her belly giving her far greater weight and stability than she could have had otherwise, and it slammed right into Konyyl’s own belly. EVen with the armoring effect of such a large gut and the shock absorbing qualities of troll fat, she still winced and slid back, almost half way down the ring.

But Polypa wasn’t done. She lunged forward, her fist grabbing Konyyl’s left horn. She pulled down, hard, and as Konyyl was put off-balance, she slammed several massive punches right into her shoulder, following with a gut slam to the side; Konyyl gasped aloud, winded by that, and Polypa grabbed her, easily lifting up even her massive frame.

Konyyl growled, getting ahold of herself, and with this level of leverage, she managed to hit Polypa with a kick heavy enough to make her drop. “You are NOT doing my own damn move on me!” She yelled, falling on Polypa gut-first. Polypa sank into the floor beneath the belly, embedded in the ground.

Konyyl got up and backed away, to the cage. Polypa rose up once again, already expecting another charge, and frowned when she saw Konyyl crouching on the wall of the cage. She tilted her head. “What are you doing?”

Konyyl grinned at her. “Mobility, chump!” She leaped, launching right like a cannonball at Polypa!

Polypa danced out of the way, swinging her belly so that the force spun her in the right direction, and her eyes widened as Konyyl hit another part of the cage, but instead of breaking through it (and thus going out of bounds), she somehow landed on it and instantly kicked out again, rebounding without losing a moment of momentum or force.

And again, right at Polypa.

This time she did hit her. Only striking a glancing blow, but it still knocked Polypa down again, hitting so much harder than any of the other blows; harder than anyone had managed her entire time here.

Polypa slowly got up, visibly winded this time, and Konyyl came right back, ricocheting almost half a dozen times again before returning for another hit. Like a cannonball, she struck her squarely and Polypa saw stars, and old wounds flaring up as Konyyl rammed into her, and bounced off once more. This time: to the ceiling, to the floor, and to the walls. Again and again, building up speed, building up momentum, building up more raw force.

All packed into that big, firm belly, like it was an artillery shell.

But she heard, however hard it was to even notice, Konyyl’s exhausted pants of keeping up that pace. That momentum.

If it was exhausting just keeping up with Polypa to this point, how much harder to be constantly leaping around without dropping even once?

Polypa smirked beneath her bandages.

And this time, she turned as Konyyl launched once more right at her. Polypa reacted in seconds, knowing each one counted, and the thrill of knowing she might actually lose, that it hadn’t been a certainty all along, felt like she was fighting for her life all over again. It felt… real, a deserved thing.

That maybe, she was as strong as everyone said she was.

She thrust her belly out, stance strong and rooted.

Konyyl rammed in, right on target, right into her belly, with all the accumulated force she had mustered-

There was an explosion, of sorts. Polypa barely noticed the ring effectively shatter around her. The cage falling in bits and pieces, the shouts and alarmed yells and delighted roars of the crowd, Azdaja and Tegiri’s own surprised yells (“What’s going on!? What happened!?” “A turnaround, an absolute reversal!”)...

But she had felt the recoil, absorbed harmlessly by her amazing belly. And she had felt Konyyl go right back the way she came.

She advanced as the dust cleared, and felt something just as warm as her own blood beneath her. Polypa gazed down, and below her Konyyl gazed back levelly. Polypa chuckled, tweaking at her bandages. Konyyl didn’t even blink at the hint of the gruesome burns beneath, and Polypa gave her a mental award for it. Still letting her see the scars, Polypa said, “You just can’t beat me. After I survived this? Nothing is ever gonna stop me, ever again.”

Konyyl scoffed. “I can. Watch me…!”

Polypa smirked. “Oh?” And with that, she lowered her stomach right onto Konyyl, not enough to crush her, but definitely enough to immobilize her. Konyyl’s breasts, her gut, and her muscles all strained against it, but Konyyl was simply too spent from the fight, from her risky moves, and that exhausting ricochet maneuver. If she had any energy left it all, it wasn’t enough to lift Polypa anymore.

Polypa smacked a belly big enough to fit dozens of trolls in (and had, during her assassin days), and chuckled. She said no more as the dust cleared, and the situation was revealed.

Konyyl struggled. The crowd went silent, and then cautiously began to cheer. Polypa’s name was shouted, with increasing loudness, and then more fervor.

“Polypa… Poly-PA, Poly-PA! POLY-PA!...”

The yell echoed all around the ruined ring, the chairs shouting louder. No, not shouting, they were screaming it! Tegiri had joined in the shout, assuming he hadn’t started it, and Azdaja’s distressed cries were drowned out in it.

Troll sports like this didn’t have any real concept of a referee; there would be no point. Instead, it was up to a clear loser to admit defeat, or be crushed. Konyyl did nothing, for a moment.

And then, she smacked her hand in grudging defeat on the ground.

The crowd exploded in delight as Polypa stood back, and even helped her up. “Polypa wins!” Tegiri yelled, his calm breaking into open passion, and if the crowd was exploding, he was erupting. “Polypa WINS!”

Konyyl, at least a good sport, shook her hand as heavily as she could in her current state. “You did good,” she mumbled. “Do this again. When I’m bigger.”

Polypa grinned. “When I’m bigger too. Next time, maybe we’ll wreck a city.”

Konyyl smirked, and gave Polypa’s sensitive belly a smack that was absolutely supposed to rile her up.. “Sounds fun!”

#my writing #commissions #queued #fics #twitchy!konyyl #twitchy!polypa #twitchy!homestuck #twitchy!hiveswap

[artificialqueens]

Fall in Time (Chapter 2) (Branjie) - Somesilverreply

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 21 years, 0 months, 0 days, 0 hours, and 3 minutes old, she felt the weight of a beautiful woman on top of her for the first time.

It wasn’t exactly glamorous or nearly as polished as she willed her first time to be, and she had certainly not imagined it as alcohol-induced, but it was happening. It was real.

She was real.

Brooke was working toward her BFA in dance, and this allowed for almost no time to relax, let alone think about any type of human contact that didn’t come from the light brush of her shoulders, willing them back into perfect posture from her dance teacher. Her schedule was tight: 8:00am on the dot for ballet (7:30 to stretch), contemporary at 10am (12pm lunch), 2pm tap, and 5pm rehearsal for whatever show she happened to be in at the time, rinse, repeat. But on the eve of her 21st birthday, when she felt her friends murmuring in rehearsal and glancing back with a fit of giggles in Brooke’s direction, she knew something was amiss.

As she walked back to her campus apartment that evening, the chill of an Illinois March brings her to her senses and makes her feel a flush of heart-stopping whirls.

Any mention of her birthday that day was immediately followed by a knowing glance from one of her dance sisters, and the need for control within Brooke was shuddering at the thought of any unexpected changes.

“Okay, come on, you turn 21 once, you’re not doing that,” her best friend Yvie eagerly pushing her away from the modest champagne toast and movie marathon Brooke had suggested.

“Brooke you’ve got to be kidding me,” Alyssa remarked, barely glancing up from her phone.

“I think you’re all forgetting that it’s MY birthday,” Brooke looked at them with warning, albeit a little hurt they didn’t understand her enough by now to know she wasn’t the type to have a 21st that met society’s checklist.

“Whatever bitch, suit yourself.”

Yvie’s face softened, if only to tell Brooke it’s okay, I understand, before giving her a light squeeze on the arm and retreating to bed.

Her friend’s face from the night before burned in her brain as she fumbled to get the door open to 11 W Charles Ave (Apt D), suddenly replaced by a half-apologetic smile and an uproar of everything Brooke hadn’t wanted.

She feels the room spin slightly as she feels the vague softness of the “21” sash Alyssa places on her, and looks to find familiarity amongst the faces in the clear fire code violation that was their dingy campus apartment.

If there’s one thing Brooke has never been more thankful for then in that moment - it’s tequila. She lets Yvie mutter an apology in her ear whilst slipping the shot of liquor in her hand, Brooke feeling equally resigned and anxious enough to throw it back. She’s always found alcohol ironically incredibly sobering, just never at the right times.

The night goes as predictably as an episode of The Bachelorette but elicits the same spectrum of surprise and drama from the party guests, and Brooke is even seen losing a layer of clothing (just her sweater, but Alyssa feels she succeeds nonetheless). But it’s all empty. Brooke should feel young and accomplished and proud, but she’s suddenly suffocated by the distant thump of bass and roaring laughter, a familiar symphony she’s always found to break her down in all the ways she’d tried to avoid. She sees someone throw up in her kitchen sink while Yvie is ten feet away, taking a shot off of someone she wasn’t sure she even knew and why would they even let people in their house if they didn’t ask Brooke and suddenly she was outside and had no idea how her feet had lost all communication with the conscious of her brain. It was too much, and the cool night air was enough to elicit a sharp shock through Brooke’s system, fighting against the uncomfortable lack of control brought on by the wavering tequila.

“You smoke?”

Brooke looked to her left to find a girl, alike in build to herself but that was where the list of similarities seemed to stop. She had nearly raven black hair, impossibly long legs painted by dark skin so smooth she seemed to glow in the moonlight of their deck.

Brooke had never seen her before. And on any other day, in any given minute, she would’ve never let herself slip like this. But she did.

“Yes,” she relied on the ounce of tequila playing both angel and devil to will her body to find a spot near the girl, intimidated by her beauty but proud enough to exist alongside her.

The girl studied her for a moment, a growing smile suddenly brimming at the edges of her mouth as she slowly retracted her hand, bringing the cigarette away from Brooke.

“No you don’t,” she said simply, even going as far as placing the case back into her purse beside her.

“Do I know you?”

Brooke couldn’t remember if she was a friend of a friend, or a cousin of a guest who wasn’t a friend, it didn’t really carry much weight.

That wasn’t the important part.

“I’m Naomi.”

“Brooke.”

“Brooke like birthday girl Brooke?”

“That’s, uh, yeah” Brooke chuckled, scolding Yvie in her head but simultaneously forgiving her careless planning in favor of her somehow allowing this beautiful woman to make an appearance.

“Shit, maybe you do need a smoke,” Naomi laughed, casually brushing her knee to Brooke’s, and she swears no amount of dancing has ever made her legs feel that on fire.

They talk about everything and nothing, until the casual brushing has them practically begging to move into each other’s laps, casting away glances as guests begin to exit from the party, piling into taxis and obliviously offering varying goodbyes to the birthday girl as they left, unable to identify the situation they were interrupting in their stupors.

“Brooke,” Naomi said lowly and simply, and Brooke felt a shiver go up her spine she swears came from the passing breeze. “You got a boyfriend?”

Brooke’s initial incredulous sputtering of “no’s” slows into a terrified glance in Naomi’s direction, reading her face like she had the answers to the secrets of the universe.

“Relax, baby,” Naomi rubbed a hand on her knee and Brooke tried desperately to shut off the incessant higher, higher, higher that pounded in her head as the alcohol began to wear down.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 12 years, 3 months, and fuck if she knew exactly how long because she thinks she’s always just been that acutely aware - she knew she was gay.

In her brain there was no comparison. A woman’s body was art. It was why all the famous paintings throughout history that are worshipped along the walls in the European cities she longed to trace her fingers across were of women. Women’s skin. Women’s hair. Women’s breasts.

Women’s bodies moved in all the ways she’d longed to find a rhythm with.

There are certain markers and signs in a young person’s life that point in the direction of sexual preference, she supposed, but to her it was unclear how she could ever live a life that wasn’t dedicated to discovering all the ways a woman’s body could exist in space. Dance. Arch. Scream. Cry.

When she would let her mind paint pictures of women as vivid as the European portraits made with delicate hands, as her own hands drifted to explore her own body she felt like she could see the stars when she felt herself finally release.

It was freeing. But no one knew that. Until now, she realized.

They had moved inside at some point, Brooke was in a lustful, albeit terrifying haze as she felt herself led into her own room as if she hadn’t been the one living there.

She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t used to feeling so out of touch with her own thoughts, her own body. She was always in control.

So when she felt the weight of Naomi’s slender, disgustingly tantalizing figure so impeccable it belonged amongst the works of the collection of paintings she’d formed in her adolescence slide into her lap, she surrendered.

“I’m gonna make you feel good baby, just relax,” Naomi cooed in her ear, and for the first and last time during sex Brooke let herself completely be at her partner’s mercy, relishing in the comfort of her weighing her down and worshipping her with her mouth.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 33 years, 3 months, 19 days 2 hours, and 1 minute old age became acutely aware of how she’d never let that feeling of surrender affect her again, even if the warmth that had spread through her body was begging her to act otherwise.

She pushed the notion from her mind, upholding her poise and motioning for the young girl to take a seat, moving past the initial niceties to look again at her photo.

“So Vanessa, this headshot -“

“They’re brand new, ma’am,” she interrupted, Brooke torn between being taken aback and impressed by the bold initiative.

Brooke studied her for a moment, carefully eyeing her and calculating every syllable that came out of her mouth.

The girl was striking. She’d seen a lot of beautiful young women saunter in and out of her office but never with the same fervor that Vanessa had. She wore her hair in loose waves around her shoulders, her impossibly deep brown eyes enhanced with a delicate stroke of black on her lid. The modest black of her mock neck dress seemed to scream for air against the delicate dancer’s muscles she carried with her. Her red lips emblazoned against her caramel toned skin that seemed to hold its own in the harsh fluorescence of the casting office. The thick smell of industrial Chicago seemed to fall to the wayside with the light linger of Vanessa’s lavender perfume. Lotion? Shampoo?

Shit.

“I don’t think they’re right for you,” Brooke spoke, the words stinging in the air. She didn’t like the sound of her voice the moment it came out of her mouth but she needed to say something, anything to get her to snap her back into place. She watched as Vanessa’s face fell and quickly tried to get anything to recover the nervous smile from the brunette.

“But that’s… we can worry about that later, right?” Brooke smiled, waiting until she got one in return. “So tell me about you, why representation, why this agency?”

Brooke knew she was grilling her, and it wasn’t that she liked to see people squirm within her grasp, but rather she thought the added pressure was a necessity. She constantly felt the burning “Brooke, a little straighter,” “Brooke, turn your foot out, darling,” “Brooke, don’t you think you could skip the extra piece?” she’d grown so accustomed to. Being a professional dancer demanded near perfection. She knew it was unfair and unrealistic as she’d gone home and cried about it silently enough times in her life, but Brooke had to endure it. And so would she.

Vanessa takes a breath before pulling her skirt down, folding her hands nervously before beginning.

“Well, I grew up here. In Chicago. And I uh, I didn’t go to dance school but that don’t, doesn’t mean I’m not trained, I’ve been dancing forever,” she babbled on and Brooke looked at her with a glint of knowing.

“Relax, Vanessa, I see your resume here. You seem very talented,” Brooke told her. She glazes over an impressive list for a 22… 23… not-sure-year-old, “But there’s a lot of talented girls that come through here. Can I ask you something?”

Vanessa nodded, plastering on a smile through her cloud of tense anxiety.

“Can I ask how you got this interview?”

She looked pleased at this question, like she had the answer tucked in a zip drive waiting to be extracted from her mind.

“Mr. Matthews has seen me perform before, ma’am. Said I had a lot of potential. Told me he was tired of all the basic ballerina shit, needed some fire,” she told her proudly. Vanessa went on to tell her more about her background, a polished verbal dating profile of dance and life experiences, but Brooke couldn’t hear her. It wasn’t the ballerina comment, she told herself, it was Vanessa. She felt a burning in the back of her throat she couldn’t explain and she cursed herself for it. She was overcome with every awful thing she’d ever been told. Every failure. Every -

“And I promise you I’ll get more headshots, if that’s what you think, I just gotta wait on my paycheck to come through and maybe in a couple of months I can, if you have any suggestions.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” she said suddenly, standing up with a heat shocking her through her body, from the impeccably practiced bun on top her head to the bottoms of her feet.

“I’m sorry, did I do something?” Vanessa looked at her curiously, unsure of her next move.

“Sometimes I just don’t think someone is the right fit, Vanessa. I’m sorry, Scarlet can help validate your parking -”

“Ma’am, I can prove you… prove to you I’m an amazing dancer and I work really hard,” Vanessa trembled, her words shaking the foundation of Brooke’s core.

“I’ll leave you my work email, Vanessa,” her name slipping off her tongue like it was caught every second it was escaping her mouth. She moved towards the door as every inch willed her not to. Resigned, Vanessa followed, softly turning around and reaching to hand her a flyer.

“Come watch me. Come watch me and I promise I won’t bother you no more,” Brooke grabbed the flyer wordlessly, her chest flooding with recognition as she met the smaller girl’s eyes.

With the soft click of the door behind her, Brooke made her way back to her desk with a heavy thud down in her desk chair, the once safe retreat now feeling like a throne of unrelished and unwanted power. She grabbed the near-empty bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of her desk, paying no mind to the glowing 10:31 am glowing on her computer screen like a highway caution sign. She took small swig before turning the flyer around in her hand, eyes grazing over it until the blurry letters became clear.

Tonight. 9pm. Pay is donation based. Showcase.

Tonight.

She couldn’t register what her hands were doing before she was reaching on her desk for her phone, desperately looking for a lifeline to save her and give her any excuse not to go.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 33 years, 3 months, 19 days, 7 hours, and 19 minutes old, she missed her train stop.

Totally by accident, of course.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #slow burn #lesbian au #eventual smut #fall in time #somesilverreply #tw mention of depression #tw injury #concrit welcome

[misssiriuss]

How I heal/recover from anxiety, self denial and depression

(This Is simply how I heal, and continiously do so)

It started with me doing so called shadow work journaling on an older journal book I had. I analyzed people I feared for no reason and what In their personality that triggered me, and later realized that "this quality Is a quality I have been denying on myself." As I realized that, I started to accept It, embrace It and release It. I continued this theqnuique but with different aspects of me that I was denying, and accepted and embraced my shadow side.

This continued until I adapted a new personal theqnuique that has been working quite smooth on me. It Is like affirmations, where your subconscious mind picks on the healing sentences such as "I am beautiful." Its just that this theqnuque also taps into the negative aspects and release associations we have with different connotations. An example Is how some people avoid relationships because they associate It with toxicity, wether they are aware of It or not.

By associating Relationships with commitment, joy, and passion, we start to both subconsuously and consciously invite Relationships that are this way. So I can say that It Is based upon changing the belief system, which Is a very well known thing among the Law of Attraction practicioners, "what you believe and think, Is what you recieve."

The subconscious mind by the way, Is a collection of information, reasons and memories and all of these associations to words that shapes our conscious belief system. (I reccomend looking into the subconscious and conscious mind in order to understand this fully)

The subconscious mind takes in a lot of information every second, which makes It very powerful to change our perception consciously through this method!

what you need :

A book where you can journal on (preferably a small thick one for practical uses)

A pen (you can also be creative and use colored ones)

If you are spiritual, religious, a pagan, or anything In that spectrum, I would reccomend writing down an incantation in the beginning that will both protect you, and this book against harm, and also remove negative energies from It.

So here Is the book I am using, which Is one really small but thick. I actually saved this one to make It Into a grimoire until I came up with this method for myself.

So how It works

I start off with a theme I have lots of associations with, which was my name, or me, my ego.

this Is how I did It :

Dissacoiates from

Dalia ≠ Grumpiness

Dalia ≠ Obsessive

Dalia ≠ OCD

Dalia ≠ Anxious

And I continued like this, and added every word I feel triggered by. Then I use the next page to mirror this into something positive

equals

Dalia = Uplifting

Dalia = Dowm to earth

Dalia = at ease

Dalia = awesome

Dalia = calm

So this can turn Into many, many pages!

Here are some Ideas on what associations you can write about :

Your ego/name

Your Identity

Your age

Your gender/sex

Your personality

Culture and race

Family

Friends

Romance/relationships

Femininity

Masculinity

Spirituality

Twin flames or Soulmates

Physical world

Life or your reality

Talents

Sexuality

Creativity

Intellect

Your opinions

Your voive

Your dignity

Self confidence

Self love

Self worth

Money

Success

Abundance

Obsessions

Addictions

Cycles

Karma

School

Grades

insecurities (bodyparts, personality)

Job

Job interview

How people see you

Wishes

dreams

Intuition or psychic abilities

past

present

future

Living alone

Living with people

The single life

Adulting

Things to dissacoiate from :

*Propaganda

*Stereotypes (any)

*Insecurities

*"Scientific" facts that are actually wrong

*Idealism

*Beauty standards

*Peoples opinions

*Religion (If you have leaved any religion and still feel attached)

*Expectations you have now that are unhealthy

*Self criticism, judging, abandoning, neglection, harm, unworthiness

* Bad karma (If you believe that bad things happen because of karma)

It's good to be specific 😊

things to associate with :

+ Healthy boundaries

+ Joy

+ Truth

+ Freedom

+ beautiful

+ Smooth

+ down to earth

+ Self Love, appreciation, worth, deserving good things

+ Passion

+ dream come true

and so many more things!

Know this :

Don't write anything with a no, never, don't, won't In It, because the subconscious mind won't take that In.

Thats why I called the "≠"

as the dissacoiate, takes out, cancel out sign instead of the

"Is not" sign.

So what do I do after I have written everything?

You open the journal from time to time, go through every page (You don't need to read) and let your subconscious mind take In the information and change your life!

but don't limit yourself!

Write more, more and more 😁

and lastly ...

Use this as a hobby, and call It Journaling! It Isn't that bad and actually calms your mind while you are writing. Sometimes we do get triggered while we do It and cry, but I promise you, you will get through this! 😁💛

And ..

Yes, It doesn't happen overnight! It really doesn't matter when It happens! Just let time show and continue living your life 💛💛

Much Love!

#love #tarot #clairaudience #light #message #witch #channeling #clairvoyance #reading #witchcraft #witchy #loa #law of attraction #manifestation #manifest #attract #healing #recovering #affirmations #theqnuique #journaling #hear this #health #goodvibes #associate #pagan #wicca #depression #anxiety #self denial

[thezodiaczone]

June Forecast for Cancer

Take it easy, Crab. The Sun is in savasana for the first three weeks of the month, relaxing in Gemini and your twelfth house of healing and closure. This is your annual “low-power” cycle, a time to nest, rest and release. Before your birthday time and #CancerSeason kick into gear on June 21, clear the decks of anything you don’t want to bring into your next year of life. Resolve resentments, wrap up lingering projects and do some soul-searching.

Don’t be surprised if you’re tired or unfocused—just roll with the right-brained energy for now and don’t force yourself to rally when you feel tapped out. With el Sol in this dreamy space (along with mental Mercury, which is in Gemini until June 12), your subconscious is activated. Dreams could be vivid and prophetic, and your instincts are on point. You’ll absorb people’s energy like a sponge (so watch who you spend your time with). Pay special attention to coincidences, strong gut feelings and serendipities. That’s the universe guiding you, Cancer!

That divine wisdom will be especially palpable at the Gemini new moon on June 13. Hosting a new moon of fresh starts in your twelfth house of endings is a bit of a paradox. But if you think of the “circle of life,” endings naturally flow into beginnings. What can you clear away to make space for something new? This new moon will also amplify your intuition, so follow any hunches. Tap in to higher wisdom with meditation, journaling or creative visualization. Energetic seeds planted today could blossom in the next six months. If there were a perfect new moon for writing down intentions and asking the universe for clear signs, this is it!

Father’s Day is June 17, and the moon will be in Leo, ruler of your classy second house. Treat your favorite father figure to a sophisticated celebration or splurge on a special gift. Think: small personalized touches like monogramming or engraving his initials into a beautiful accessory. It doesn’t have to be fussy, just something thoughtful that adds a touch of dad-friendly style to his world. Arts and culture are emphasized under this moon, so grab tickets to a live show, update his sound system with a great speaker or head to a food festival for family fun.

The next day, June 18, hazy Neptune turns retrograde, an event that happens around the same dates every year. Neptune will reverse through Pisces and your expansive ninth house, throwing off your risk-assessment gauges. You could overshoot the mark now, gambling on something without proper research or falling for a smooth talker’s exciting but pie-in-the-sky promises. Between now and November 24, be especially careful what you say yes to: Conduct due diligence, ask for references (and use them), read those reviews. The ninth house rules travel, so check out the comments on TripAdvisor before you book that “sweet resort deal.”

Since retrogrades connect us to the past, you might be better off revisiting an old favorite spot (especially near water). Neptune’s U-turn in your knowledge-seeking ninth house could be great for resuming an old course of study or immersing yourself in a favorite metaphysical practice. Head to the air-conditioned library on sweltering summer days—there’s gold in ‘dem dusty stacks!

Rub the sleep out of your eyes on June 21, when the Sun enters Cancer, waking you up and getting you psyched for a fresh start. Your energy reboots, and, if you let yourself rejuvenate this month, you’ll have a full tank just in time. If you’ve been unclear about next steps, you’ll be ready for decisive moves now. The path will start to look clearer with each passing day.

But that doesn’t mean you should rush into anything. On June 26, action planet Mars will also turn retrograde, bringing the total count of retrograde planets to FIVE (Jupiter, Saturn and Pluto have all been back-spinning for a couple months now). With so many slowed-down celestial bodies, it’s important that you also pace yourself, retracing your steps if necessary and evaluating things thoroughly before locking down commitments.

Mars will be retrograde until August 27, which will largely impact your eighth house of intimacy and shared resources, since Mars is in Aquarius from May 16 until August 12. Having the passionate and fiery planet going rogue here could drive up jealousy, competitiveness or buried resentments (yikes!). You may need to slow down or press pause on a romantic, sexual or financial entanglement that’s moved too fast for YOUR own good. Have you skipped the necessary steps in your rush to seal the deal?

For couples who hit a rocky patch, the Mars retrograde cycle is a crucial time to work through your differences (ideally with a professional). If you decide to part ways, it could get acrimonious, especially if you’re dividing shared property or if kids and pets are involved. Get a mediator if necessary. While you may not hit the “conscious uncoupling” nirvana of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin (#goals), make every effort not to get dragged into ugly power struggles and damaging dynamics.

The two days after Mars turns retrograde will also have a strong relationship emphasis. On June 27, the Sun makes its once-a-year opposition to somber Saturn, which is in Capricorn and your seventh house of partnerships. Have you lost touch with yourself or made someone else’s needs more important than your own? (#CancerProblems) You could have a wakeup call about the impact of that. You can’t avoid your own life by trying to manage someone else’s. If a relationship has turned toxic, whether romantic or business, boundary hound Saturn can help you take an essential step back to evaluate. Warning: The Sun-Saturn opposition can make you extra pessimistic, to the point of losing perspective. Hold off on making an irreversible decision until you’re certain it’s the right thing to do.

The next day, June 28, brings the year’s only full moon in Capricorn, which could deliver sought-after clarity around your commitments. If you’ve been waiting for word on a contract or sitting on the fence about a key alliance, this lunar lift could spur you into action. Full moons bring transitions and manifestations. A relationship could turn official—or you may decide to formally part ways. This balancing full moon gets your existing bonds back in sync. If you’re giving too much to some or leaning too heavily on others, these moonbeams can get you in a more mutual groove. With structured Saturn hovering close by, a conversation about boundaries and expectations could really help!

Love & Romance

With Venus in your sign until June 13, you’ll be in lighthearted, flirty spirits. Your confidence is at an annual high, and when you feel this independent and empowered, you attract people to you like moths to a bonfire.

The first week of the month delivers some pretty heady highs (and one possible challenge) as Venus hooks up with other planetary heavyweights. On June 1, Venus forms a flowing trine to expansive Jupiter in smoldering Scorpio and your romance sphere. New amour could appear on your radar without any warning (so consider yourself “warned”)! The next day, Venus forms a second trine to dreamy Neptune in soulful Pisces and your visionary, adventurous ninth house. Expand any limiting beliefs to allow love to grow. Think and act beyond your comfort zone and watch your love life transform. Then on June 5, an opposition to shadowy Pluto in your partnership realm could bring some heavy emotions to the surface or reveal where someone’s been less than truthful.

Meanwhile, spicy Mars is in Aquarius and your playing-for-keeps eighth house all month. So while you might be enjoying witty banter and admiration on the outside, a more internal part of you is craving intensity and intimacy. Some Crabs could be processing a breakup or other heavy emotions (hello, vulnerable moments), or wrestling with a surge of jealousy. And then, once Mars turns retrograde for two months on June 26 (until August 27), you may be forced to face some relationship speed bumps. Watch out for the unannounced return of a button-pushing ex and think twice before opening any doors to them.

Venus will change signs—and moods—when she jets into Leo from June 13 to July 9, settling into your stabilizing second house. Sensuality and sensibility return, though when she squares off with Uranus (June 14) and opposes Mars a week later (June 21), you may be torn between wanting more security and following your passionate emotions. The only way to find a happy medium might be to dabble at both ends of spectrum and let your heart decide.

Key Dates

June 14: Venus-Uranus Square Comparing yourself to other people could unglue the stability of a bond. You may get obsessed with keeping up appearances instead of being authentic. Sparks can fly with an online match or a friend you reconnect with virtually. But keep your wits about you. With disruptive Uranus at a tense angle to romantic Venus, the stars could throw your love life an unexpected curveball.

Money & Career

Do your research, Crab. You may be considering a joint venture or a big money move as June begins. Go-getter Mars is in Aquarius and your eighth house of investing and financial collaborations from May 16 to August 12. Exciting partnership and growth opportunities could crop up—and with pressure-cooker Mars here, you’ll feel the urge to act on them quickly. But with the Sun in Gemini and your foggy twelfth house until June 21 (and intellectual Mercury here until June 12), there may be more to the story than you think. Conduct due diligence so you can move forward with your eyes wide open.

Mars will be retrograde from June 26 to August 27, which could bring a few financial hiccups. An old debt may come due, or you might have some mind-numbing details to pore over in a legal contract, mortgage or clause. If you’re in the process of buying or selling property, Mars retrograde could also jangle the wires. Use the slowed-down retrograde to research and get all your ducks in a row; then make some turbo-powered money moves in the fall.

You’ll start to see clearly again once Mercury enters Cancer from June 12 to 29, followed by the Sun’s monthlong visit to your sign beginning June 21. Have you been sacrificing too much for others? These transits snap you out of martyr mode—time to stop enabling capable adults. Let them pull their weight, Crab. The June 28 Capricorn full moon could bring a make-or-break moment to a business partnership or contract. Who are the people that really deserve inner-circle status? If you’re carrying someone else’s load, stop, drop and keep it rolling. See if they start pulling their own weight once you quit making excuses and enabling. That will help you determine whether someone’s truly a slacker, or if they just didn’t have a chance to show you how capable they are.

Key Dates

June 7: Sun-Neptune Square Dial up the skepticism today. You might be lured by a charismatic character’s big talk, but if you’re keeping a keen eye out, you’ll quickly realize that this emperor has no clothes. Think twice about signing onto anything new; what seems straightforward at first blush could turn out to be one messy and tangled web.

Love Days: 23, 29 Money Days: 8, 17 Luck Days: 15, 6 Off Days: 13, 26, 4

#cancer #astrology #zodiac #horoscope #Monthly Forecast #cancer monthly