#but that might be a little less scholarly

[max1461]

Thinking about different websites...

The worldview of redditors is really Bronze Age or perhaps Iron Age in a truly interesting way. Deeply transactional, concerned with honor and commanding honor, with everything founded on property relations. The comments of any AITA post will evince this. It is "patriarchal" not in the sense of being misogynistic (which it sometimes is and sometimes isn't), but in the sense that it is structurally like the morality of the archetypal Patriarch of the isolated family unit, very Indo-European. The Man who rules his own little kingdom, his family, and who deals with other such Men through a certain kind of economically-inspired honor code. Most redditors are liberal enough that they deal with their spouses as other Men though, and indeed with their children once they reach a certain age. But I think even this has some historical precedent.

It's all about who has the Right to do what, you see, it's about who can and who can't and who must. Very Norse, very Bronze Age, very Indo-European. The redditor sees themself (actually or aspirationally) as on top and as agentic. They speak positively of learning hard lessons and of teaching hard lessons. Their world is a world of contracts, not abstract and mathematical but specific and personal.

This is notably not the ideology of 4chan, which anyone who's been on that site much should know. 4chan's ideology is much less confident in itself. The 4channer sees themself as beneath, not on top, either with acceptance or with resentment. Frantz Fanon might have something to say about it. The 4channer is the subaltern.

And here? I was going to say that tumblrianas are somewhat domesticated, but I don't think this is exactly right. It's more like the world-sense of eunuchs in a harem, desperate for stimulation. Scholastic (though not scholarly) and estranged from the world—from normalcy—for reasons they can't escape. And they know this, and have mostly elected not to try. "Eh", say they, "I will read about life in one of my books," or perhaps just as commonly "I will simulate an outside-life in here with the other eunuchs, and it will be better than what they can make on the outside anyway". Maybe that's true; it probably depends on you and your eunuch crew.

I don't think I'm any of these types of guy. I've spent more of my life as a lurker than a poster. Lurkers are a whole other type of deal.

This is of course all "bullshit" you must understand.

#navel gazing

[ilydottie]

| The Pleasures of a God |

Pairing: Alhaitham x  Afab!GN!Reader

Warnings: MINORS DNI, Not sfw, Smut, reader is afab, semi-public (in his office), implied squirting, fingering, descriptions of vaginal anatomy, butt groping, reader screams and cries during, Alhaitham is packing, 1.1k words, 

A/n: Hey don't mind me reposting my one and only Alhaitham fic <3

“Alhaitham, someone might hear us.” You whispered too loudly. On one hand you were anxious someone would catch the two of you in the act, and on the other you couldn’t have cared less. 

Alhaitham had you in quite the predicament, back against the wall as one of his hands were being shoved down your pants, and his other was stifling your noises. You tried resisting him but you couldn’t, as embarrassing as that sounded. He presented himself to you as a mere feeble scholar, but he was anything but. He was built like he was some sort of mercenary. Funnily enough it was a subject that came up quite a few times when it was just the two of you alone in the library. Of course, he denied all of your claims. Whether it was because he was too modest or stubborn, you weren’t too sure. 

Sometimes, during your classes in the Akademiya you found yourself daydreaming about him. The words the professor spoke became airy and invisible as your mind drifted to more.. inappropriate topics. The only thing that was on your mind was, Alhaitham. Alhaitham and his toned body. Sometimes you’d drift off and tell yourself that it had to be big, biting your bottom lip in a flirtatious way purely from the impure thoughts that ran through your mind. So, of course you couldn’t resist when he pulled you into his office to “study”.

He curled his finger inside of your cunt, hitting that sweet spot till you were gasping, eyes rolling towards the back of your head as you gushed all over his hand. The feeling was electrifying, the most pleasurable sensation in the world, but better. Although, you would never admit it outloud to Alhaitham, because the last thing he needed was a boosted ego. 

Alhaitham kissed you and then replied to you. “I’m counting on it.” 

He made quick work of bending you over the edge of his desk, lifting up your scholarly uniform he swiped two fingers along your slit. Leaning in he pressed his lips against your ear and sucked on your earlobe. Taking his hand he rubbed your ass cheek and grabbed it firmly, letting out a loud groan in the process. Alhaitham was bursting at the seams, his cock was rock hard and throbbing eagerly. He wanted- no, needed to be inside of you. He was growing impatient.

“Alhaitham, please stop teasing me and just shove it in.” You pleaded with tears in your eyes.

He chuckled to himself and unzipped his pants, releasing his cock from its confines. Rubbing it against your ass he threw his head back in ecstasy, grinding against your ass as if to take what he was owed. You could feel his hand slither up and around your neck. He did not squeeze it, but instead held it there like he was claiming you. You could feel himself becoming more and more desperate with each passing second.

“Want you so bad.” Alhaitham whispered in your ear, nibbling at it a little harder with each thrust against your ass. 

“Then fuck me.” You snapped. 

Quickly pushing down his pants he added pressure onto your back by the flat of his hand. Taking his cock in his free hand he aligned it with your entrance. Gradually pushing himself inside, he grinned at the savory sight of his thick cock disappearing inside of you. Alhaitham couldn’t get enough of the view of your glistening cunt, he imagined how you’d look riding his cock. 

Oh, god the thought almost made him cry, it sounded heavenly. Once he was fully inside of you he held himself there to allow you to adjust, letting out a shuddered breath. Your cunt squeezed him in just the right way to have him begging for more, practically having him at your beck and call just by the way you felt wrapped around his length. Your hands reached up to grip the edge of his desk to ground yourself, and to control what little balance you had. 

Before you could get used to his ryhthm, Alhaitham had begun thrusting into you fervently, wasting no time fucking you. His arm slid underneath you and rested in the middle of your chest as he fucked into that perfect spot with little remorse for how hard he was fucking you. So little in fact, that the pain had become pure pleasure. The euphoria you experienced coursed through your veins like an addictive substance, it truly was like nothing you’d ever felt before. 

“God, you feel so good. Fuck, so good.” He moaned against the back of your neck. 

You squirmed, moaning and writhing underneath the weight of his muscular body. The ecstasy was suffocating and it hit your bloodstream in a way that no drug ever could. His cock curved up into your sweet spot as his body pinned you to the desk. It was the perfect combination of pain and pleasure. The sort of mixture that wouldn’t have been complete without the other, the pleasure made the pain and vice versa. You were rendered helpless underneath his hot breath and from the heaviness of his form, and you loved it. 

You tried to speak to thank him, maybe even beg him for more, but whenever you tried all that came out were whines and the start of what you assumed could only be described as a scream that was cut short by the palm of his hand. As much as it would boost his confidence and rile him up, he couldn’t let either of you get caught. He knew that if that were to happen, out of the two of you, you would be the one expelled from the Akademiya, and he wasn’t willing to risk that. 

You felt a sudden absence in your lower region as Alhaitham abruptly pulled out and sat you on his lap, seated in the very cushioned desk chair positioned just behind it. Without warning he immediately slid you back down onto his wet cock and bounced you up and down, both hands dug into the skin of your hips. He was a mess and had lost all control by now, his mind in a daze as his head fell back in ecstasy and drool from his mouth spilled out from the side. Wrapping your arms around his neck you allowed him to take total control as you hid your face into his chest, latching your mouth onto skin in a desperate attempt to suppress your screams. 

He could feel the pressure rise up in his core as you did yours, and taking his mouth he pressed it against yours, twisting his tongue around yours like two sinners would do. He knew he couldn’t take away your screams or suppress your shivers of pleasure, (and part of him didn’t want to in the first place), but he could swallow them at the very least. And after a few very hard thrusts he was immediately cumming inside of you. His nails dragged along the skin of your back as your nails scraped against the nape of his neck, tugging on his hair as you rode out your high with him, slowly and passionately.

#alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #alhaitham smut #genshin smut

[the-punforgiven]

I mentioned at some point I was gonna talk about how Gideon Ofnir's helmet is probably one of my favourite pieces of Fromsoft character design a little while ago, so I figured I should talk about it before I forget to again

I really like this helmet because it serves as an excellent crystallization of Gideon as a character, so I figured I'd break it down and go step by step as to why I like it so much

Firstly, its design is clearly based off the Greek Corinthian helm, which sticks out a fair amount when compared to Elden Ring's generally 13-16th century European fantasy aesthetic, doing a good job communicating that he is, effectively, much older than most of the other characters present, and conveys a sense of seniority that even he himself comments on when you first visit the Roundtable Hold. (There is an argument that it could also be based off a barbute helm, but I feel like the sharper shape language and closer-to-bronze coloration swing it more towards the Corinthian helm for me)

Secondly, and quite possibly more obviously, the ears. Viewed from a distance they give a vibe closer to a sort of scholarly beard almost reminiscent of greek philosopher statues, again tying in to his aged academic vibe, but being ears instead of a beard also hints at his deceptive nature as even his character design is somewhat misleading, but also hints at his more insidious habit of watching and especially listening to everything you do. He is called the All-Hearing for a reason, after all

The spikes on his helm mirror the shape of a crown, symbolizing both his lordship over the Roundtable Hold, but also his desire to become Elden Lord. Given how simplistic the points are, as well as how some of them (in the icon at least) appear almost bent or dented, I feel could also demonstrate how worthy of a lord one like Gideon may actually be, worn, out-of-shape, thin to the point of frail-looking and remarkably plain compared to the meticulous engravings and stalwart construction of a crown like Godfrey's, but that might be a bit of a stretch so take it with a grain of salt lmao

The eyes across the forehead lock in the crown aesthetic for him (as well as touching slightly on the double helix pattern that is literally everywhere in this game), while also further punctuating his motif of eyes and ears; always watching, always listening to what you do. Curious that the eyes are notably less detailed than his ears though, I wonder if that's relevant

Lastly, the "face". It's a fairly common trope out there that people tend to use masks in character design to portray an air of distrust about a character, in a sort of "If they were trustworthy why would they conceal their face" sort of way. This feels incredibly deliberate on Gideon's part, since a helm like that by all accounts should let you see a good portion of the wearer's face, and is indeed why barbute helms have been a staple of good guy knights throughout the fantasy genre for years, Gideon's quite clearly does not, preferring to cast his face in impenetrable shadow. and That, I think, is a pretty blatant and in-your-face indicator that you definitely should not trust him

Anyway character design is really cool have fun out there 👍

#Pun's text Posts #Elden Ring #Gideon Ofnir #The All-Knowing #There's other things I could go into as well too #like how meticulously detailed the ears are compared to like every other detail in this helmet #but idk how to put my thoughts about that into words so this is all y'all get from me lmao

[senualothbrok]

Rest

Summary: You have defeated the Netherbrain and survived. But when Gale asks you to marry him, you find that you cannot accept his offer.

Word count: 2.8k

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Gale x female Tav. Hurt/comfort.

World state: Gale did not sacrifice himself or claim the Crown of Karsus, which remains in the Chionthar.

AO3 link

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

His words wind you. You do not expect them. Had they been an upper cut, or perhaps a cross, you would have seen it coming. You would have tensed for impact, like you have thousands of times before. You would have barely felt the blow when it landed.

But these words – you do not anticipate them. They blindside you.

“I wondered if you might consider accompanying me back to Waterdeep as a new member of the Dekarios clan?”

His soft eyes shine, brimming with hope. Love.

You feel like you are suspended. It is not unlike the numbness after a fight. The empty shock and silence, the world bustling around you while you listen in a stupor to your laboured breaths. You cannot even feel the aching of your limbs. You mouth makes your question without your consent.

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

Such warmth and light, such gentleness in his smile. It would speak volumes, even if he were silent.

“I suppose I am. Tara would be delighted, not to mention my mother. But I’d be just as happy without such ceremony, as long as we’re together.”

You flinch. You do not know why. And you do not know why the sounds stick in your throat as you turn from him, as if defending against a punch to your gut.

“I’m sorry, Gale,” you manage to force out.

You cannot bring yourself to look back at him as you retreat.

-----

You never expected to fall in love with this man.

You were not surprised to find an instant friendship with Lae’zel, disciplined and fuelled by combat, instinctively aware of how the battle could swallow you up until nothing of you remained. Even Wyll, his life rewritten by tales of glory, and Shadowheart, reduced to the pinprick of a divine mission shrouded in secrets. They were fast and easy companions, in whose presence some things did not need to be spoken to be understood.

But Gale. This man spoke as though reading from a textbook, and carried himself with an awkwardness that suggested he had never thrown a punch in his life. You had few dealings with wizards, much less ones of skill and renown. You had no education or scholarly insight, no aptitude or experience with magic. You were sure you had nothing in common with him, pleasant enough as he was.

The only time you had encountered anyone like Gale had been when your coach had tried to sell you to wealthy sponsors and patrons. They would stand there in their spotless robes and finery, appraising your bruised and bloody body after each fight, grimacing and finding you wanting. You had won a handful of fights but lost more. Outside of a small circle in Baldur’s Gate, you were little known in the boxing circuits. Human females, much less ones as slight of stature as you, generally did not fare well.

But you had fought your way out of that flophouse, and every day was a fight to keep surviving. You could not remember a time before you had been recruited as a boxer, a time before fighting was what you lived and breathed and dreamt of. A fighter was all you were, all you had ever been.

No, you did not expect to grow close to this man. You had never known anyone like him.

The first time you had felt it was when he spoke to you of the Weave. No wizard or sorcerer had ever bothered to really speak to you before, let alone share this most intimate of secrets. Gale had felt held and cradled by the Weave, cocooned in its embrace, and it had transformed him, even in the telling of it. And you had known, then, that he would understand. You knew you could tell him how it felt in the midst of a fight, when the battle became a spirit that carried you like a wave, a surge of freedom and ecstasy that possessed you, until you became the fight. You were one with it. Without it, you felt lost, like you were nothing.

He had understood it. Much later, when he told you of Mystra, you realised that he understood it more acutely than anyone else could.

When you learned he was from Waterdeep, you told him about the fight you had lost there about a year before you had found yourself on the Nautiloid. The two of you had revelled in the realisation that you had walked the streets beneath his tower, looked across the sea that he had gazed at from his balcony. If you had looked up, you may even have seen him sitting there, reading or bickering with Tara. In Gale’s unbridled excitement, you could feel an agonised yearning for home. But you could not tell him you had been to all the taverns and libraries he recounted with longing. You could not tell him that you had enjoyed all the specialties of Waterdeep that he wished so intensely to cook and share now. You felt disappointment, and even some shame, in this.

“I didn’t have the pleasure of any of that,” you told him. “The second that I was awake, I was training for the fight. And after the fight, I had to leave to start training for the next one.”

He grimaced. “And I had locked myself away, and couldn’t have seen you fight. Another regret I can add to my ever growing list – that I didn’t have the privilege of crossing paths with you then.”

The thought of Gale pinched into the jeering crowds that loomed around you while you bled and battered the daylights out of an orc seemed so ridiculous that you could not help but laugh.

“I don’t think that would have been your scene, Gale. Even if you had left your tower.”

He chuckled. “I might have met you at a tavern after the fight.”

You arched an eyebrow. “I doubt you would have given me the time of day. Boxers like me don’t generally have any enlightening insights about the arcane arts.”

At that time, you did not tell him the truth – that you never would have gone to a tavern. Your coach would not have permitted you, even if you had wanted to. The temptation to drink and feast and choose pleasure over sleep would have been too great. Everything in your fighter’s life was measured and rationed out like water in a desert. You could not have a morsel without your coach’s approval, and even with it, warning bells would signal in your head whenever any rule was broken, any restriction disregarded. A tavern may not have been Gale’s scene, but it was not yours either.

You did not tell him that long before he had been trapped in his tower, you had been trapped in that boxing ring. It was the only home you knew. Yet you still yearned for it, even as he did.

He looked at you then, in a way no one had ever done before. There was a fullness in his gaze, a tenderness, but his eyes were unflinching. It stirred something inside you that you had forgotten was there. A warmth tingled through you like trailing fingers.

“I would have relished a conversation with you,” he said. “Just as I do now.”

Desire was not something alien to you. Sex was not frowned on in the training camps you had been sent to time after time. It was a way to remove distractions, ease tension, improve performance. You had even benefited from it with competitors. “Judicious bloodletting helps to resolve disputes,” Lae’zel was fond of saying, and you found sex to be the same.

When Lae’zel had made you an offer, though, you had declined. Though it was years ago, you could almost feel the aches from your last dalliance with a Githyanki fighter. The mere thought of it exhausted you now. To your relief, Lae’zel was pleased when you suggested regular sparring instead. You would go on late into the evenings, your companions watching enthusiastically at first, Karlach and Astarion even taking bets. But when one by one, their interest waned and they retired to their tents, Gale remained, wide eyed in wonder. There was no disaffected judgment, no wry appraisal in his stare.

You could see that it aroused him. You recognised that look well. He had even told you so, deep in the recesses of the Shadow-cursed lands, with your jaw clenched, muscles taut and slick with sweat. You were surprised and amused, and it had aroused you too, to know his feelings while he watched you doing what you did best. And it was familiar to you, to have to earn your keep and prove yourself worthy.

Everything in life had always been a fight to you. You were used to pushing your body to its limits and your mind beyond what it could endure. The battles you fought on your journey to the Netherbrain had not been so different than what you were used to, absent the looming threat of death. You were used to the gruelling, endless cycle, training and harrowing yourself before each fight. But you had never been accustomed to success and victory. The shame of defeat suffocated you, the fury and resentment of your coach more painful than any knock out. And even when you won, when you attained the glory which you had tortured yourself for so long to achieve, you would be overwhelmed by a crippling emptiness. It was an emptiness that could only be filled momentarily by the promise of another fight, a semblance of another purpose.  Yet always, you would lie awake in the dead of night, muscles throbbing and torn, bruises purpling and bones broken, exhausted but unable to sleep or rest.

But you did not feel that emptiness anymore. Each victory on this great struggle did not disappear once you had reached it. Instead, every trace of goodness and kindness, every life saved, however fragile, was a light cast into the hole inside you that you thought could never be filled. For the first time in your life, you found that you could sleep, though rest still seemed to elude you.

And when he came to love you, it sometimes felt that that hole was not there at all.

The first time he showed you the Weave, it was like nothing you had ever felt before. There was no pain, no exertion. No gritting of teeth, no agony of toil. It felt like floating in warm water. It felt like your mother holding you in the cradle of her arms, the gentle rhythm of her heart beat, when you were small and she was healthy and you were still together. It felt like rest. And so it was, all the times when he touched you, every kiss he left on your skin which lingered inside you like a flame. He was rest.

He looked at you like you had saved him. But you could not understand it. How could anyone help but love a man like him? There was no malice or cruelty in him. If there was any shadow of Mystra, any inkling of hubris, it was not difficult to steer him from it, or to speak to the fear that lay underneath. To love him was like breathing. It was not a skill you had to master, a performance you had to train for, a habit you had to beat into yourself. It felt easy. And that terrified you.

His love for you terrified you even more. It did not demand from you, always pushing for more than you thought you could give. Ever sharpening and honing you like a blade, chipping away at you until you were more, enough, worthy. It was like being buoyed by the Weave. You did not need to struggle to stay afloat. You did not have to swim against it to survive. You could just be.

No one had ever looked at you, or touched you, or loved you like that. So you had explained it away to yourself. Perhaps he was simply grateful. Thankful to be seen and loved for the man he was, a person to be cherished rather than a life to be used. Flattered that you would fight for him. Enamoured with your prowess in combat. Driven by the threat of imminent death. You had not truly thought it would last, if you both survived the Netherbrain. You were prepared to let him go.

But he did not go. Instead, he said, “I love you, more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” And he asked you to marry him.

You do not know what to do with that.

-----

You can hear him shuffling outside the door. There is a long pause, then the smallest of knocks.

“Are you alright?” He waits, coughs. “I didn’t mean to upset you. If my words have distressed you-”

You want to hide, but the trembling in his voice is too much. You rise to your feet. As the door opens you see that his eyes are glistening and his features have fallen, as though he is on the cusp of collapse. And though the thought that you have hurt him claws at your heart, there is a wall that has sprung up inside you that you do not know how to break.

“I’m sorry.” Your words come out flat, hollow.

He steps towards you hesitantly. You can feel in the lurch of his body that he wants to embrace you, but he does not. Even in this moment, he is thinking of what you want.

“If you wish to end this, I understand. I’ll cherish everything we shared, and I’ll always love you-”

He stops, breathes in sharply, turns away. His chest heaves.

Without warning, you feel a tear roll down your cheek. One begets another, and another, until you are drowning in a flood of the hottest tears that you have ever shed. Hotter than the anguished tears you sobbed through so many nights of gnawing hunger and cramps, when you told yourself that the fight was all that mattered, that the sacrifice was all there was. That you were nothing without them.

You are almost doubled over now. You cover your face with your hands. By instinct, in shame, or in fear - you are not sure which.

“Please, go,” you choke.

“If that’s what you want. If this is the end.” His voice breaks. “I suppose this is goodbye. I always knew it was a colossal stroke of luck, to have been loved by someone like you.”

You find that you are shaking your head, over and over again, as though in a frenzy. Because you cannot lie, but you do not know what the truth is.

“No one has ever…”

He holds you with his gaze, whirling with agony, infused with love.

“I haven’t earned…” You struggle to breathe. “I’m not…”

There is a sudden flicker in his eyes. Is it recognition? When he speaks, there is longing, and the fire of resolution. He cups your face with his hands.

“I love you completely. I love everything about you, every single part of you. You never needed to earn it. You don’t need to fight for it. My love is forever yours, if you want it.”

“Gale-”

He traces his thumb over your cheek, caressing a tear away. “You love me, not for the magic I command, just as I love you, not for the fights you can win.”

You take hold of his hands. You can feel the wall crumbling now, but you are afraid of what is behind it.

“And if I lose? If I fail? If I stop training, fighting, if my muscles sag and I lose my strength? When I am nothing-”

You had not quite realised, until you spoke the words, all of the things you feared.  

“You were never nothing.” His words are so firm, so kind, that they reverberate through you. “You were always everything. And I will love you until I breathe my last, until nothing remains of me but ashes. I will never stop loving you.”

At first, you cannot be convinced of his words. How can they be true? All these years you have fought, all the times you have fallen short. Love must be a fight to be won, a standard to which you cannot measure.

But Gale’s face is bright with the sincerity that illuminates his eyes whenever he looks at you. And in that moment, you let yourself believe him. You let yourself dissolve into him, like a river flowing back into the sea, and you do not fight the current. You lose yourself in his warmth as he wraps himself around you, the smell of sandalwood and smoke, the bittersweet taste of his musk and sweat, the vibrations of his skin against yours. The stars that burst and expand inside you with every surge of his being. You are home.

“I’ll marry you,” you whisper afterwards.

And with his arms around you, you rest.

----

Liked this fic? You can find more of my work here.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #gale romance #gale fanfic #gale fic

[cinnamonest]

I loved your student x teacher posts for Childe ❤️❤️ could you possibly write one for Ayato? Rich boi might be one of those private school honor students who gets anything he wants or maybe he’s home schooled with a personal tutor? thank you 🫶

omg he would be the biggest overachiever kid but also I am loving the idea of rich kid!Ayato, I love rich boys with an subtle arrogant flair and he's the perfect candidate

For reference, the past Teacher X Student posts can be found here:

Childe (Part One)

Childe (Part Two)

Xiao

-----

Working in a private school environment has its ups and downs. There's a lot of benefits, sure, but the thing is that those benefits can often be downsides in and of themselves.

For example, the most elite of private schools tend to bring a lot of very strict parents, and thereby kids who have been raised with high expectations and rigid enforcement of behavior. Consequently, they're usually very well behaved, making life easier in that regard for faculty.

On the other hand, such kids also have a tendency to be perhaps a bit too prideful with themselves, see themselves as above certain rules or having to listen to authorities, are showoffs, or simply suck up to the teachers a bit too much (and yes, even as the teacher yourself, those types still can be a little irritating). These kids come in surplus, higher amounts than you would find in "normal" schools, and thus, this presents both a higher amount of both the positives and negatives that come with that.

Not that you're really complaining or anything. For the most part, they're all very pleasant students to teach. You get plenty of wonderful students that are a delight to have, even if some have their moments every now and then. The few truly not-so-great ones are the minority, and even then, the fulfillment you get from enriching lives and all that makes it worth whatever inconveniences you have.

There's also another element that can be even more of a challenge to deal with than the students themselves: the parents. In this environment, it's a well-known, terribly-kept secret that administration chooses which students are to be taken into higher degrees of consideration, given more leeway and assistance, and so on, based on their parents' donation history to the school. There seems to be a trend in which those students from the absolute wealthiest of families always seem to get the highest degree of special treatment and favoritism in several areas of the student experience.

Not that those kids are necessarily bad themselves, no, plenty of them are still great students. And some of the elite families have very pleasant parents and children alike, very wonderful families all-around.

You're actually familiar with two students exactly like that -- a pair, actually, siblings. Parents are involved in politics or something like that.

Their daughter is more or less the ideal student, successful in everything she does, and notably, has inherited the social prowess befitting someone of her status. Their son, likewise, is a high achiever, but focused particularly on academic and scholastic achievements rather than social status.

You've seen Ayato's records on file a few times before. The type that excels in everything. Every academic subject. Whereas some kids might say they're more of a "math and sciences" person while some say they're more of a "fine arts person" and others still a "humanities person," he is all of them. No one area is better or worse than the other beyond maybe a single point or two in his grade average, which are all borderline flawless, very close to if not right at a perfect score.

To your knowledge, he's involved in some sport or another, and excels in that too. A few extracurricular activities, too. He takes part in each one of those scholarly national and regional competitions they have for maths and essays and the like, and has come back with some sort of recognized finalist award each and every time. He's in the nation's respective honors student chapter at your institution. He's on the student council, too. You heard another teacher say that with his current standing, he's more or less guaranteed to be his class's valedictorian.

And you... well, actually, you feel a little pity for him when you think about it. Sure, you're certain he enjoys a lot of those things, but you also can't help but think that some of that probably isn't really his own choosing, but rather expectations that have been set for him that he has been conditioned into meeting at all costs. You see it a lot with the students at these types of schools.

You're certain it does have its costs. The one thing you haven't seen him doing a whole lot of is talking to other students. He eats lunch in the classroom while he works, since he takes so many of those special, higher-level classes. He seems to always be working on something school-related, even during otherwise free time where others are socializing.

Not that he isn't well-liked or socially apt, because he certainly is -- capable of winning over anyone, charismatic and persuasive. He just doesn't seem to have enough time to really socialize too much. He's the sort of student who is popular with everyone and well-liked by everyone, but has never had the time to form any particularly close relationships. Everyone is an acquaintance, he's on everyone's good side, but no one is truly close to him.

You're somewhat surprised he comes to talk to you, one day at complete random, walking into your room with a soft smile and a hand held up in a greeting gesture. Surely he doesn't need any help. He's always done very well in your class without needing anything.

And you're right. As it turns out, he wanted to ask you to write recommendation letters for him to turn in for various universities. You're unsurprised when, after you ask as casually as you can, he gives the names of some of the institutions he's considering: all incredibly prestigious, renowned, and notoriously low-acceptance ones, the sorts of places most kids don't apply to simply because they know they stand no chance. But for him, of course, it doesn't really surprise you, and you honestly doubt he'll have much trouble. If there's anyone set to land themselves a spot there, it would be him.

Still, it puts quite a bit of pressure on you to write the best letter you can.

You do wonder to yourself why you were his choice of teacher to go to. Sure, you like him plenty, but who doesn't? All the teachers are fond of him. You've never really had any one-on-one conversations or anything. Perhaps he's looking to study a field related to your subject. There's also plenty of that happening in these elite environments -- many kids with business or politically involved parents are already set to inherit said business or enter directly under their parents' career, and will be accepted into a high position as soon as they are ready. Some actually study for the field, but a lot of them simply go to a university for the "college experience," and simply study something they find interesting, even if it's completely unrelated to their future career. Still, you'd imagine someone like him to intend to study in a way that's dedicated to his career... well, whatever, it's not something worth pondering over too much.

So you go through with it. Normally, writing these letters doesn't take very long, honestly you just kind of write one very generalized letter, then replace the name and a few descriptors here and there for each student you write one for. For him in particular, though, you make sure to add a lot of attention-catching words that you know admissions people like to see, fluff it up to make him sound like the best student to ever walk the face of the earth and all that, then send it off to the front office to be organized and sent out.

He drops by again to thank you for it, after school a few days later. Common courtesy, nothing out of the ordinary, a lot of students do that sort of thing where they always come to thank you in-person, especially here where they're all raised under a strict concept of manners and customary practices. He shows up at your door, pleasant in expression and voice, I just wanted to stop by and thank you for... and so on. The usual. You smile and nod, and likewise give the standard response -- oh, you're so sweet, I'm happy to help... A set-in-stone sort of dialogue, as if the lines are predetermined by the social norms.

And then he adds something else.

I'm incredibly grateful. If you'll allow it, I'd like to repay you. Are you busy this coming weekend?

That part catches you off-guard, though. You sit still for a moment, blinking, hands still resting on your keyboard.

...Huh? Well, no, I don't... have anything...?

He doesn't seemed to be fazed by your clear bewilderment. He keeps that same soft smile, says that's perfect. He was a bit worried you'd end up being busy... making reservations before asking probably wasn't the best idea, but he just got ahead of himself, you know? Anyway, your address is already on the school's directory, so no need to give it to him. Just be ready by eleven-thirty in the morning or so. We'll just come to your door.

You're still rather puzzled, he's moving so fast into whatever he's referring to, but you gather the jist, that he wants to take you somewhere, which, of course, strikes you as rather odd and somewhat inappropriate.

But before you can try to find the words to voice that thought, he adds that his sister also wanted to come, she likes you plenty too and all. The two of them just wanted to show their appreciation.

Anyway, dress formal, but not too formal, you know? Somewhere in the middle. Will that work for you?

I... well, I... I guess I...

Great. Everything works out well, then. See you then. He nods, turns and gestures a goodbye, makes his way out the door while you're still blinking and sputtering and trying to process the interaction that just happened, not even close to being able to formulate a response.

...

Well. That was... a bit strange. It's a bit burdensome, really, you'd be much happier just spending your day at home at rest, you don't need to be shown appreciation in this way. And isn't it a bit odd to do something like this, considering your relationship to each other? It just seems like such an unusual proposal under the circumstances that you don't really know what to think of the matter.

Still, he means well. And besides, his sister being there makes a huge difference in terms of appropriateness. If she wasn't, well, maybe then you'd have to have a brief discussion about how it's probably not very acceptable, but since she'll be there, it's alright, you suppose.

It's probably just yet another one of those things where these wealthy young students go above and beyond on everything they do. You once had a student give you a rather pricey gift card as thanks for tutoring, and there was that other one that went on a trip abroad and brought back fancy souvenirs for every teacher, even. To these kids, expensive or time-consuming gestures have far less significance than they would to a normal person. So sure, it's odd, but you can rationalize how he would think it was something that he was supposed to do. Still, you have no idea where you're even going, and, well, you don't know him well enough that having an extended one-on-one conversation will be anything short of horribly awkward and uncomfortable.

You don't see him again for the remainder of the week, except in-class, where he doesn't stop to talk or anything, merely comes and leaves with the bell as everyone else does. You almost forget, until you get the reminder from your phone on Friday night, and begrudgingly go to find something you can wear. You're still rather bewildered by the whole thing.

But no matter how bad you thought it could be, that could never compare to how bad the awkwardness actually is, the day of. It's so, so, so unbearably awkward, coming out to meet this boy you really don't know that well, forcing yourself to return the smile and wave he gives you as you walk up to him as you talk, oh, you're so nice to be doing this...

...And then, you turn your head to look from side to side and...

...Didn't you say Ayaka was coming?

Oh, her? Well, it turns out she had something come up. She hates to miss this, but turns out she had a previous commitment that she forgot about. Such a busy girl, she's always doing something, haha. Anyway.

He just sort of immediately moves on, switching the conversation to the present moment -- it's a really nice place you're going to, his parents go there quite often, you'll like it for sure... he just sort of goes off on that, leaving you no opportunity to speak, sort of quietly shifting you over to the car... which does have someone else in it...?

Oh, yes, that's the family's driver. Don't mind him, his job is to just drive without saying anything.

Anyway.

He's fond of that word. Conversational navigation is a skill he's become rather good at over the years, largely out of necessity, considering his prospective future. When someone is starting down a path of conversation that they probably shouldn't, all one has to do is distract them, change the subject, engage them with another matter and steer them away from matters that will only go down an unwanted path of dialogue.

Yes, anyway, what a quaint little area you live in. Although these buildings are dreadfully close to each other... and there's no gates around the whole area... how unsafe. He thought that a private institution would pay teachers a little better than that. Maybe you're just frugal.

He keeps talking. You wouldn't deny he has a certain charm about him, he's an easygoing person to talk to, even if it is still quite awkward. He mostly focuses on questions about you and your work. You in turn ask him a few questions -- has he heard back from any universities yet, does he have any idea of what he wants to study, so on and so on... for someone who you've always perceived as quite the perfectionist, it turns out he's actually quite indecisive in that regard. Says he doesn't know yet, doesn't really have a place or a major in mind. Plenty of time to think on that.

You want to get this over with, nonetheless. It only gets worse when you arrive at your destination -- one of those places you would never even think about going to yourself, where everything in the building looks like it costs a fortune, down to the tablecloths and curtains. It makes you uncomfortable. And oh, oh no, the menu doesn't even have prices listed next to the options, one of those places. You're tense.

You almost feel kind of guilty, even. All you did was write a copy-paste sort of letter. Was that really worth this...?

In contrast to your unease, he's very calm and relaxed. You're pretty sure there's no way he doesn't notice how tense and uneasy you are, but he doesn't say anything about it, just keeps talking. He knows the owner of this place, actually. You see, he and his father met a decade ago in the such-and-such region (a word you could never hope to pronounce) of such-and-such country (one you've only heard of a few times in your life) at a resort his father was at on a work-related trip and... are you alright?

He finally seems to acknowledge your tension. You give a wavering, forced smile. I'm just not used to something so nice, haha...

He just chuckles. Don't worry about it. I wanted to do something nice for you, after all.

The words themselves are perfectly innocent, kind even, but there's something in his tone of voice, the way he says it, that makes you hold back a shudder. It's just so, so unbearably uncomfortable. You force another smile.

You get the cheapest-sounding thing you can think of, but of course he notices that -- really, don't worry about it, get whatever you want -- and after a bit more pressuring (almost like he wants you to get something expensive or something), you go a step up and get something that sounds like middle-ground. You're just grateful he can't have them bring out expensive wine or something, since he's not quite old enough for your region.

He talks like someone far beyond his years, in the sense that he's like one of those (usually, they'd be middle-aged, not a high schooler) men that seem to know everything about everything, are well-versed in knowledge of this or that place and the quality and make or origin place of everything in the room. You just try to listen, let him do the talking, hope it'll be over soon. You hope no one you know sees this, that you don't get spotted in some horrible coincidence that someone else happened to be here at the same time... people might think this was something... weird.

You keep up the same casual conversing as you leave, as you get back in the car (was that poor guy just waiting in the parking lot this entire time? He hasn't moved from the space he let you out in...), about this or that. Little things about the school, classes, the future. All the way back, until you see your place in sight, a quite welcome relief.

...But you feel like you need to say... something, before you leave. There's a lingering thought in the back of your mind.

As per norms, the conversation begins to close as the car slows. That sort of conclusive tone, well, it's been wonderful, that sort of thing. You get out, he gets out, walks you to your door, saying something about how he's sure you have a lot to do before Monday, so he'll leave you to it, thanks you for your time, hopes you enjoyed yourself, all the usual... But you voice your concern, slightly cutting him off, feeling it necessary.

Hey, ah, by the way... um...

He pauses. Tilts his head, raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to speak. You swallow.

Ah, don't take this the wrong way, but... don't mention this to anyone, alright? I just... I wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea.

He doesn't get offended, nor does he seem amused or anything. He just smiles and nods. Of course. No worries.

You're glad he understands. You bid him goodbye, say you'll see him next week, go inside and practically collapse on your bed. Ugh. The whole ordeal was exhausting.

It feels sort of relieving, but odd at the same time that he just sort of... leaves it at that. Doesn't mention it again aside from once, a very basic 'it was great seeing you' the next Monday, and then just sort of... returns to normal, for the rest of the week. Doesn't say a thing. Though, you do find yourself making eye contact with him more in class, he always seems to be looking directly at you. He always gives you one of those warm, closed-eye smiles when you gazes meet.

It's not until the following Thursday that something happens that's a bit... off-putting.

School let out for the day twenty minutes ago, most of the kids have left, and you also intend to leave as soon as you print a few things off. You make your way to the printer they have towards the front office, get what you need, head back to your room.

As you approach your door, you catch a familiar face coming down the hall. She raises a hand up as she sees you. Hello, Ms ____. Gives you a warm smile.

You haven't really spent that much time around Ayaka, you only ever had her in one class, but she's much like her brother in the fact that she's generally well-liked by everyone, on account of having a very pleasant, kind nature.

You smile back, unable to really wave since your hands are full. Oh, you're still here?

She says yes, that she merely forgot something and went back to go get it before leaving. A casual exchange like any other. But you figure it would be odd if you didn't mention the other day, you should probably acknowledge it, for the sake of social norms if nothing else.

Oh, and by the way, sorry you couldn't be there the other day. It's fine, I know you had other stuff going on. Tell your brother thanks again for me!

She's silent for a moment. She blinks, still smiling, but she tilts her head.

Hm? Sorry, what do you...?

A moment ticks by. A second. A third.

You shake your head, giving an awkward chuckle. Oh, nothing, sorry, I got something mixed up for a second there... A-anyway, ah, well, you have a great day, okay?

Oh, okay, ah, you too...

You walk off before she can say any more.

....

You don't like the feeling the interaction gives you. You can't get any work done, the rest of the afternoon. Your mind is far too distracted, sorting out all of your thoughts.

He wouldn't outright lie to you, would he? And if so, why?

...Well, you can think of one reason. You're not stupid. But he doesn't seem like the type of kid to be... like that. And besides, there was a valid reason to do something nice, it wasn't as if it was out of the blue. It would be horribly embarrassing, and you'd feel quite guilty, if you accused him of something that wasn't his intention regarding the whole thing. You decide not to say anything at the moment.

And neither does he. She must not have said anything to him, as he doesn't mention anything about his sister, merely greeting you as normal the next day.

Nor does he seem overly attached. You do start to notice that he lingers, after the class is over, will stop by for just a few moments to speak with you just for a moment, a very basic how's your day going sort of thing, before leaving in time to get to his next class. It's a bit odd, but it's not overstepping any boundaries or anything that would be unacceptable. You've formed close, pleasant relationships with students before, those students who just seemed to like you, in a purely normal way. They just particularly like you, and it's nothing more than that. There's no reason to think any differently of him.

He's not trailing you all the time, not smothering you, he's not overbearing. The only other thing you notice is that he often catches you on the way out when you leave for the day. Naturally, he's involved in so many extracurricular activities, that he doesn't leave school at the same time as everyone else, often staying behind for various reasons -- he's the president of some club or another, he's in the student council, so on and so on. Often times, as you're leaving for the day, you hear him call out to you, smiling and making his way over. Says he was just about to leave too. What good timing. He walks you to your car, but he never gets pushy, always bidding you farewell without any trouble or clinginess.

See, if he were acting only on impulse, he certainly would, but he's a very self-controlled, calculated person. He knows not to go overboard, to ensure he doesn't smother you. That would only irritate you, and he can't have that.

And even if he doesn't show it outwardly, he's very, acutely aware of the signals you give off, the subtle messages of the things you say and do. He could tell how uncomfortable you were that day, how awkward you seem to talk to him. But at the same time, it's the kind of discomfort caused not by you disliking him or anything, it's more situational, he can tell that much. Likewise, he can tell it's getting better, you're much more comfortable around him now, whenever he speaks to you.

Although sometimes, he prefers to just watch you from a distance. You're so cute. He's memorized the time of day you eat lunch -- most unfortunately, you were assigned a different lunch period than his classes -- and often he can see you out the window, always eating at the same spot. He enjoys just watching you go about your day, doing all your little tasks and the like.

You do feel odd, as if being watched, sometimes, but a quick glance around shows nothing, so you assume you're just overthinking things, being paranoid. You've been trying to ignore it.

And things just sort of stay like that. There's no gradual increase in the intensity or frequency of his interactions with you. He doesn't get too close, neither physically nor in the social sense. He's always polite, never pushy, always seems to exit conversations just when it's about to cross over the line of being normal for a student who is just very fond of one particular teacher.

He does get you gifts. His family went on a trip for a week, he brings you back some sort of fancy champagne and chocolate made in that country from the trip. But to be fair, Ayaka also brought a little trinket back for every teacher, she's done so more than once in the past in fact, so you figure it's just normal for them... you tell yourself so again when he gets you one of those super expensive watches, around the winter break. How generous. Still, it's no big deal (and you're not sure if you even have much use for it anyway...).

The only other thing you can't shake is the feeling of staring, how you can feel his eyes on you as you stand at the front of the classroom. That odd feeling you get sometimes when he's not around. The way his eyes fixate on you when you're talking with each other. It's all so... odd.

But he never escalates, never does anything inappropriate. So, you don't see any reason to confront him or try to stop him.

Sure, maybe he does have a teacher crush. That seems obvious to you, as time goes on. He does let something slip every now and then. Things that aren't necessarily inappropriate, per se, but the occasional compliment that is obviously not normal for a student to say, things like telling you you look nice that day, that you have such a pleasant voice, that you're just so enjoyable to talk to, with such a sincerity in his voice it goes beyond a casual, normal interaction between two people of your sort of relationship. But even so, if he does, he's self-controlled about it, never goes too far, never does anything warranting having to say something to him about it.

In truth, he realizes that it would never work, that it's not a realistic fantasy, that it's unwise to even consider actually pursuing it. Thus, he's resolved to just enjoy the time with you that he has. He knows better than to let it go too far, to get carried away, and thus never takes things any further. You think that's a very mature way to handle it, if that is in fact the case.

And thus, you just... say nothing. You imagine he knows you know. You're polite and pleasant to him, neither encouraging anything more nor discouraging him in any way. You think it's a good balance.

The months pass. It always teeters on the edge, coming just barely short of the line where, if crossed, you'd feel something needed to be said, but it never is crossed.

About three-fourths of the year passes in total. For those in their final year, as he is, a lot of them are getting anxious, excited, lots of feelings all at once, as they draw nearer to closure on their current "chapter of life", as some call it. Still, they have a while longer to go, but nonetheless a lot are already thinking about the future.

You were anticipating NOT having to handle the year-end events. They rotate which teacher gets assigned to it each year. Some gathering they host at an off-campus venue that goes on all night, a teacher is assigned to essentially stay a while just in case something bad happens needing an ambulance to be called or the like (the requirement for a teacher to be there for a while was implemented after there was such an incident when a kid fell off the side of a staircase a few years back), but the general practice is that said teacher leaves after a while and the kids are left unsupervised... probably for the best, or else said teachers would probably be under legal obligation to report the sheer amount of underage drinking, among other questionable substances being passed around. Besides, it's off-campus and not official, so they don't have to have someone there the whole time.

And you, well, you did it last year. It's a high-energy social event, it's always loud and annoying and you end up leaving with a massive headache, so you were hoping to be spared this year.

He asks you out of the blue one day. You were expecting that maybe, towards the end of the year, he'd try to come spend time with you in some way or another, but you were not anticipating him to ask you to meet outside of school once again... especially not for this.

He comes into your room after classes have ended for the day. Comes straight to you, rather quickly rushing over, visibly excited -- it's endearing, really, whenever he gets excited like that. He's normally essentially forced into an unusual degree of maturity and seriousness, it's cute that even he can have moments where that very energetic, typical teenage-boy type of excitement shines through even still. He smiles and says that he has something to ask you. You’re aware of the event, right?

You say yes, of course, you’ve been to some in the past before… why?

Well...

He smiles. It just so happens that he and his sister volunteered to host the venue, since they have a suitably sized estate and all. His parents agreed to it.

Would you happen to be willing to volunteer as the designated chaperone? It would really make her quite happy.

It's almost like that day, months ago now, that he asked you to go out to eat as thanks; you sort of stare and blink, caught a bit off-guard by it. You try to formulate a response.

Oh, well, ah...

She'd love for you to be there, he adds. Oh, and of course, he would want you there too. But you know, forget him, he wouldn't want to be demanding or anything, he just knows how much she really likes you, and she wanted you to come, so...

It's a bit odd. You really don't know her all that well, you've never really spoken to the girl very much. And considering last time... well, you're not sure what happened there, maybe it was all a mutual misunderstanding. You can give him the benefit of the doubt. You'll be aware and cautious about it, so it's not like you're naively walking into it unaware.

You agree to it. Lots of people will be there, so it's not like he's got you one-on-one, and hey, maybe they'll spare you for several more years after this.

You insist, in the coming days, that you really don't need to be picked up by a driver, you can get there yourself... eventually, he relents and gives up trying to get you to agree to be picked up again. You're not really dreading it, per se, but you're not exactly looking forward to it either. It's a matter of the fact that you'd really enjoy just staying home... but, these two have been good kids over the years, so at least you can feel good knowing you're doing something for them.

You still have to more or less force yourself to get out of bed that day, make your way over there... you were given the passcode to get past the gate. There's a lot more people than you expected... did they bring the entire high school...? It's also very unpleasantly loud. Really loud, the kind of loud where you can physically feel the music vibrate against your chest, can't hear yourself think over how loudly they're talking and yelling as they move around. Sigh. Kids these days.

You don't have to go looking for Ayato. He's already striding up to your the moment you walk up, asks if you had any trouble getting in, more or less immediately starts talking about... well, you're not certain. You can barely hear a word he's saying, both the music and the kids themselves are so loud. And most of them fairly intoxicated too, you're pretty sure he's the only one that isn't... you suppose you'll just have to turn a blind eye and pretend you didn't witness that part, or any of the filled coolers laying around.

He notices your discomfort more or less immediately. Ah, too loud for you? There's a quieter room inside, if you would prefer to go in.

You nod. If it's not too much trouble.

Hm?

I said, if it's not too much... You end up trailing off, shaking your head and not bothering to even try to speak over the noise, just gesturing and letting him take you in. At least the house is a ways away from all their neighbors, the people here all have a lot of land surrounding each house.

It's immediately quieter inside. You're led into a foyer area, then into a hallway... all very empty and quiet. You pass by various rooms, each of which have some purpose or another, additional rooms for various purposes the average house would not include. You reach a staircase headed down. He doesn't say much. You follow behind. You realize you didn't actually run into Ayaka at all... you suppose you'll have to talk to her later.

You end up in a... room. Not a bedroom or a living room or any sort of standard, definable room that the average person has in their home, but rather, some sort of extra lounge room in the basement. It's not the sort of average damp, cold, grey sort of basement, no, they have the whole thing furnished, there's a huge TV, a fridge, carpet, and so on... and it's completely devoid of people. Empty. When he said there was a quieter place inside, you were still assuming that meant that there would be other people, not an empty room... at least it is quiet. You can still sort of hear the noise outside, but it's all muffled.

He doesn’t seem bothered by it. So loud out there, it's much better in here right? Nice and quiet. Do you want something to drink? Hang on, there’s bottled water over there in the fridge, he’ll get you one. He’s moving and talking rather fast, you can barely get a word in – you can’t help but wonder if it’s intentional, to prevent you from saying anything, and if likewise he’s moving around so much to prevent you from speaking to you directly.

Go ahead, sit down wherever you like…

…You know it’s too much. You shouldn’t be doing this, allowing it. But it’s peaceful in here, whereas out there… and you only have to stay here a short while, right? That’s how it always goes, the teachers are just there arbitrarily to ensure it doesn’t seem completely without supervision, no one actually needs you to be out there. He probably just wants to talk to you some more.

You sit, but very tensely, body rigid and ready to stand back up at any moment. It would also, of course, be rather bad if anyone walked in here. You wouldn’t get in too much trouble just by being in the same room alone, but it wouldn’t look good, for sure.

But you also can’t just tell him you want to leave. Not when he comes over smiling as he does, extending his hand to give you your water, that soft, endearing expression.

He’s not doing anything wrong. You would feel awful if you hurt his feelings in some way.

You can just stay a while. Yes, that will work. Just stay another hour or so, entertain conversation with him, excuse yourself and say you have to head home. You can even get up every few ten minutes or so to go check on the crowd of kids, right? Better in here than out there. You trust him not to actually do anything bad.

So you sit there. Stiff and uncomfortable. You’re on a sort of sofa, with you pressed right up against the arm of it, trying not to make it too obvious you’re leaning away, and with him sitting more towards the middle. You try to break the tension. So, have you decided on what you’re doing after graduation yet…?

It’s a good transitional question, it helps get a conversation going. Ah, yes, he’s planning to go to this institution… it wasn’t his first choice on its own, but he decided he wanted to stay somewhat close to home, you know? Still undecided on a field of study, but he has a few things he’s been considering…

You talk for a few more minutes. It goes back and forth, back and forth. He finishes answering one question, but before you can ask another, he asks you one of his own.

What about you?

You tilt your head, give a soft hm?

Oh, he just meant… what are your plans for the future? Didn’t know if you intended to stay here or not, is all.

You shrug. You haven’t really thought about anything other than staying right where you are, really, and unless circumstances pull you elsewhere, you were more or less intending to stay at this school until retirement.

I see.

There’s something off about the tone of his voice. As if that answer was somehow incorrect, as if he has thoughts on it. His expression is rather flat and neutral. You pause. You ask him if something is wrong.

And just like that, he returns to that soft, more pleasant sort of resting smiling expression. Ah, well, no, it’s just, I can’t help but think you must be under a great deal of stress here, you know?

You give a sheepish laugh. Well, it certainly is often sometimes stressful, but you like what you do.

There's a pause.

Do you have any other passions and hobbies, outside of work? I was just thinking, you probably don't get a great deal of time to work on them.

To be fair, he's right about that part. You sigh, say yes you do, you list off some of the things you enjoy doing. Haven't had any time to work on them recently though, you add, just too busy. But it's alright, you'll get around to it eventua--

Have you ever considered early retirement?

The question seems to pop up out of nowhere. You raise your eyebrows. Huh?

He doesn't seem deterred by your confusion. In fact, he seems like he really wants to bring up the matter, almost as if he's been waiting to do so. Leans forward, elbows on his thighs, interlacing his fingers.

It would be ideal if you had the financial support, right? Perhaps you should consider it. You're so very busy, it must be incredibly stressful, it's really not good for you. It leaves you with no time to go out and do things for yourself, no time to meet anyone. If you were able to quiet your job, think about all the things you could do! Surely you have hobbies and passions you'd rather be pursuing, yes? And you probably want a family, no? You'd need to have far more free time for that. Besides, you're really at the age where you should be thinking of settling down and marrying and having children, don't you think?

...He seems to catch himself. His mouth opens again, like he had more to say, but he stops short, goes quiet. Ah... well, never mind that. Uh...

You can see a sheepish unease on his face. He realizes he stepped over that boundary, the line he's been so perfectly teetering on the edge of all these months. For just a moment, it breaks his composure, you see a slight sense of panic in the way his eyebrows furrow, the way he leans back just ever so slightly.

And you, well, it catches you off-guard, almost shocked at the boldness of such a thing to say. Struggling to think of the right words, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

That's not appropriate.

Maybe you could have worded it differently, but the audacity of saying something so out of line does take you by surprise.

He doesn't react poorly, though. As quickly as his composure broke, so he regains it in the same few seconds.

Ah... my bad. Apologies.

But he pauses. There's a hesitation in his body language, the way his lips part like he's going to speak. Like he knows he shouldn't keep going, but has to, a sort question refrained from asking for so long that the urge is unbearable.

..Just... out of curiosity... would you not want that opportunity if it were extended to you? Because... It's just that...

You stand up. An abrupt motion, it causes him to go silent.

You take a deep breath in, sigh. You shake your head, hold a hand up to your head, rub at your temples.

This has gone too far.

You don't explicitly say out loud what you mean by "this". You don't have to. There's a mutual understanding. You both keep pretending to not know, keep ignoring it and refusing to acknowledge it, but you know it comes as no surprise to him either that you're aware.

There's a silence that follows. He doesn't seem angry or distraught. His eyes go wide for a moment, he looks startled by the suddenness, but his expression goes cold, neutral, eyes slightly narrowing, face otherwise expressionless. But he doesn't say anything.

It's my fault, you add. I allowed this to go on too long.

And you do mean it -- you think back now, you feel guilty. You should have nipped it in the bud sooner. And finally, you finish --

I'm sorry. Really. You're a good kid, you really are. I just... this isn't right of me to be down here. I should go.

You grab the bag you brought with you. You take a step back. The silence is so horribly uncomfortable.

His eyes close. There's an obvious disappointment on his features. He takes a deep breath in and out, but nods.

...I understand. Do you need any help getting to your...?

No, I'm fine. You start to turn away. Thank you, really. I'm... grateful for everything. I just... sorry. This is just how things have to be.

And you leave. You turn, you walk as fast as you can without breaking out into a jog, footsteps rapidly clacking against the hard floors.

You make a beeline back out, ignoring the volume, keeping your head down. Don't stop to talk to anyone -- most of the kids themselves are too intoxicated to notice your presence anyway. You make a straight path for home. You realize you never did get to go see his sister... but you get the sense she probably didn't even know you were there in the first place, much less was the one that wanted you there.

You feel ridiculous for shedding tears over the matter, but you can't help it, as you lie there in bed after getting home. You don't bother to eat or shower, merely crawling under your covers as you feel your eyes water. It's all so uncomfortable and unfortunate, and frankly, you feel horribly guilty. You had opportunities to stop it, you probably should have. Now you probably hurt the poor thing. And how are you going to handle seeing him again from now on? It's all so much, it's overwhelming... you wipe your eyes, trying to blink the accumulated water away before it actually starts to run down your face. You resolve to try and rest now... you can handle everything when the morning comes. You can't take anymore tonight.

...

...Well, that certainly did not go over well.

He normally doesn't like to be particularly dramatic, but it would be a lie to say he didn't more or less feel like he's been stabbed in the chest. Ugh. He ends up slouching back, laying down and staring at the ceiling... now that racket from outside is starting to sound even more annoying.

He wasn't expecting much, granted. Knowing it was unrealistic, he tried to push away indulgent fantasies where it went perfectly, like some sort of cheesy pornography plot... although maybe he should have gone with the original plan to give you alcohol, that would have worked better... he wasn't dumb enough to take you to a bedroom, but still, this couch is very wide, it would have worked just fine... ugh. No, no, this is the exact type of unrealistic fantasy he was referring to. Never mind that.

He really, really, really didn't want to have to do this. To do something that hurts you. But you're being so difficult. He's been so nice to you, and he's been so careful to hold himself back, to not be overbearing. And yet, this is what he gets in return for all that time and effort spent. Did you not even comprehend what you're being offered?

No, of course you didn't, now that he thinks about it. You were so caught up in recognizing and reacting to any acknowledgement of whatever... thing you have between you is, that you didn't actually stop and think about what he was actually saying. Maybe you will, now. You'll go home, think back over his words, understand exactly what you're turning down. There's no way you would actually reject it, if you're in your right mind and in a steady, stable emotional state. Maybe you'll come back tomorrow and apologize. Surely you won't wait until Monday to speak to him again.

He can forgive that. Yes, even though you were incredibly hurtful, he understands you're just concerned about your perception of social norms and doing the right thing and all. 'This is just how things have to be.' That was what you said. Yes, so you do want it, even if you don't realize it, you're just allowing yourself to be held back by all these... unnecessary outside forces, getting into your mind. He understands how that happens. It's forgivable.

He'll give you one day, then. Rather than acting on the backup plan now. You have twenty-four hours before he actually starts going down that path.

If not, though, well... he can't afford to have this take too long. He's already considered, too, the possibility that you may try to get him in some sort of trouble, too, and he can't have that... so he has to be proactive, and take care of you before you can get him in trouble.

He's already told his parents it may be necessary for them to speak with the school, that he was having some issues with a particular teacher... if he says nothing, they'll just forget about it, but if he brings it up again, adds in some... fabrications, well, they'll surely want a word with administration on his behalf.

In fact, maybe he wouldn't even have to come up with something to accuse you of. Pretty sure his parents donate more money to the school annually than your salary, even. They can afford to lose you easily, might not even take convincing. Blacklist you from the entire region of institutions. And what will you do then? Come crawling back and apologizing? That would be quite nice, actually... but he's not so cruel as to wish that on you.

Regardless, he's sure you're going to come around, once you're convinced to reconsider. Maybe an opportunity isn't quite enough. What you need is a little push.

#.ay #lena's asks

[yandere-sins]

(a/n: It’s late I am not correcting this, sorry sinners) Everyone has the hots for obsessed stalker Alhaitham and so do I, it would be the portrayal for him I’d use too, but in the light of the new quest(s) this came to mind for some reason...

Yandere!Alhaitham who started getting in contact with you just because you were a source of information for things he needed. And lets be honest, he was a treat on two legs. Cool, handsome, and smart enough for the occasional touches that made your heart jump out of your chest and then leave you with a suave remark about how much he enjoys his time with you. You keep biting your lip every time you see him sit in the tavern you work in, peptalking yourself to not give him what he wants this time, but even if you try to be mad at him for using you, he soon makes you spill more than just what he wanted to know.

Knowing you are just someone he comes to for the newest whispers and directions for his missions, you are not completely against repeating your mistake of letting him in your bed. You two are grown adults, even if it hurts your pride a little to wake up with his pillow as cold as the night. So, you bury your feelings, take what you can from him when he comes and try to forget him for weeks afterwards until he shows his face. Once you settle down, he, too, will just be a memory to you, just like you are to him apparently. But you are not quite there yet, and his face right in front of yours, pressing you into a corner of the tavern to tell you he’s been longing to see you... frankly, too good to pass up on.

At least he’s coming back to you, even though you doubt he’s loyal.

However, as little as you know him, you don’t realize that, in fact, this is as loyal as he gets. Because Alhaitham never trusts someone twice, much less a couple dozen times. You are useful to him, no question, but the alluring passion of your lips and warmth of your body pressed up to him—what can he say? Under his scholarly diligence, he’s a human man with very human desires and he projects them all on you.

You might think he just visits to gather information and charm you with his efforts in your bed to stay in your favor, but in reality, you’re a constant companion while he’s out there, searching, running, hiding. A lot of his thoughts are occupied with scientific research, but once he hits a wall, it’s your image that pops up in his head. When he has to run from people chasing after him, it’s you who he thinks of running to. And as he hides in yet another very run-down place, he tries to think it was your embrace he’d rest in instead.

God, if he wasn’t so busy, he’d stick around to wake up next to you, but he can’t allow HIMSELF the pleasure of that. Alhaitham keeps telling himself that a silly little crush should not be enough reason to abandon his mission, but he’s licking his lips for days after meeting up with you, hoping to have something of your taste left on them; and the moment he steps into the tavern, it’s you his eyes are searching for.

However, despite you two never having anything going on besides transactions—as you like to call them to feel less disappointed—he really hates to see you live your life without him in it. Clenching his fists it takes a lot of effort not to pin you on the table of the costumers you are smiling at and take you in front of them, claiming you as his. Why must you smile so innocently at them, not even noticing Alhaitham’s presence from the corners of your eyes? It’s your job, but he’d much prefer it if you were waiting on him exclusively.

The question of what’s new has long become just an excuse as to why he returns. The mission he originally asked you about has long been completed, but he neither wanted to admit it to himself nor you that he was here because at least that little human part of his was in love with you and wanted to be with you. So, he came up with the lie to need more information, even though he only ever visits you when he’s off-mission and can take his mind off of things without it biting him in the butt. This way he can focus on you and your wonderful, exquisite, quality-of-life-enhancing essence; one, he’d gladly hog all to himself.

But time stops for no one, and while he’s out every day and night doing his thing, you live your life apart from his, developing new relations and making decisions he has no say in. Telling him you were no longer interested in him even though you gave him the newest rumors around the city, hit him harder than you expected. At least, you never saw him speechless despite his quick recovery of composure. You don’t even stick around to justify your reasoning, you just moved on, and Alhaitham... can’t.

I mean, how could he? You’re the only person he ever loved aside, maybe, his parents. You might be exposed to countless of interesting people every day, but he most certainly is stuck with the same lame few and the occasional annoyances. He only has you. There is no logic or reason to why he feels like he needs you exactly, nothing he can scientifically explain his behavior with, and yet, you are essential for him not to become one of the mad ones, the person grounding him and keeping him company in the loneliest times of his life (even just imaginary).

Oh, he wished he could have done better for you. It’s what you deserve really.

But your heart belonged to him once, and he played you like a fiddle with skilled hands and honeyed words, Alhaitham has no doubts he can reclaim you. Because you are the only one to satisfy his poor, human heart in need of loving, both from between your legs and your eyes snapping right to him the moment he enters. This time, he’ll make sure to take your mind alongside your heart, as he goes above and beyond for you to stay sweet and ready at all times, right here at your tavern, for whenever he needs you to tend to him.

He was already using you way before he realized his feelings, so he'll just continue to use you to satisfy them too.

#Alhaitham #alhaitham genshin #yandere alhaitham #genshin #genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere!genshin #yandere!alhaitham #yandere genshin impact #yandere!genshin impact #yandere talk #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

[broomsick]

Sharing a bit of UPG: underrated, lesser known aspects of some of the Gods!

Hi, people! We’ve got some beautiful rain over here, today, and it’ll soon be warm enough for me to plant my garden! How’s everybody doing? Today, I want to write up a fun and laid back post to share with you all a few of my UPG’s concerning some of the norse Gods and their lesser known aspects! Since my posts are often focused on historical practices and beliefs, I thought it’d be fun for me to write a bit about my personal experiences, for today. Without further ado, let me get into it!

A while ago, I was blessed with the opportunity to talk to a fellow pagan about my thoughts on Eir and my experiences with her! I thought to myself some of you might be interested in hearing about this, since I have posted a few prayers to Eir in the past, but I have not gotten into too much detail concerning my worship of her. The reason for this is that since she is a deity whom we unfortunately don’t know much about, I found it quite difficult coming up with a clear, personalized Eir worship. Hence, my work with her ended up being very casual. Some could say, a bit messy! But I do my best! What I mean by “messy” is that I don’t hold specific events in her honor, but I pray to her quite regularly, for good health and the like.

Now, I mostly want to address one aspect of Eir that’s less spoken of, but which I share with other followers: her ties with intellectuality, scholarly practices and the like. She’s often regarded as a Valkyrie, and as such, it’s possible to associate her with Óðinn, making her ties with knowledge all the more prominent. In my experience, praying to her for help with studies is not unheard of, and it’s certainly not a bad idea! The study of medicine is quite complex, and to master such a skill requires much reflection, especially considering that Eir was primarily worshipped during an era when proper medicinal care was harder to access and all the more necessary. Which is why, in my opinion, associating Eir with anything related to research, studies and the like isn’t too much of a reach!

As a Goddess of medicine and health, amongst other things, she’s often described as kindly and compassionate, even gentle. However, though she is very kind, of course, my experience with her is a bit different! In the sense that, she can have quite a serious aura about her. When it comes to medicine, she takes things quite seriously. So when you pray to her for help with healing and the like, she’s kind of like a fussing mother who tells you to take better care of yourself while she’s making you her homemade remedy!

The next deity I’ll be touching on is Njörðr! Lots of historical evidence, as well as little details I have noticed along my spiritual journey have led me to associate him strongly with leadership, and even fatherhood/parenthood. Many of the people I’ve met and who worked closely with him told me his presence felt fatherly and noble, and I have also experienced this feeling, during the few times when I strongly connected with him. While he generally isn’t viewed as some sort of “King of the sea”, especially not when compared to Ægir and his large hall and opulent feasts, I still tend to associate Njörðr with leadership. For one, due to Yngvi-Freyr’s ties to the concept and the many parallels that can be drawn between these two deities. However, a small, seemingly insignificant detail has also made me to see him as a leader figure. It is the fact that he is more often than not depicted holding an oar! The oar is a symbol of the sea, of course, but there’s something else I came to think of. I was reflecting on this once, during adoration, and thought to myself: “He carries the oar because he isn’t one who stands at the prow and gives out orders, he is one who rows along with the other men.” He accompanies us and leads by showing example! Of course, this is just one of my personal interpretations of the symbol of the oar in Njörðr depictions, and there can be many possible explanations to the presence of this symbol. This interpretation is quite emotional and subjective indeed, but it feels right to me, especially given how a handful of other Njörðr followers have shared this thought with me!

Next on my list is kindly Frigg! Something I find to be very unfortunate is that many pagan sources will boil down her domain to one singular concept: family. Sure, she can indeed be associated with marriage, pregnancy, children and the like. But reducing this Goddess to just these things, for the simple reason that she’s a female figure, and the wife of Óðinn is quite crude (I would even say misogynistic, depending on the context) in my eyes. She is a complex deity whose domains of influence are wide, in my experience. For example, one of her aspects that’s quite prominent in the myths is her ties with divination, fate and prophecy. It’s even said that she knows the fate of all but won’t reveal it, and that she’s adept at the divinatory arts. The extreme resemblance between her character and that of Freyja, which has led many scholars to believe they might have been the same deity at some point in time, has made me draw parallels between the two and eventually associate both with magic, or seiðr. I have asked for Frigg to help me improve my tarot and rune casting skills, in the past, and each time, she has delivered! In that sense, she can be viewed as a patron for those who practice witchcraft, divination or other magical arts. 

Eir art

#personal #spirituality #upg #deity work #deities #Eir #Njord #Frigg #norse paganism #norse gods #paganism #norse polytheism #heathenry #polytheism #norse mythology

[csuitebitches]

Reading List: Spirituality, Globalisation, Parenting and the 0.99 Cent Pricing Bias

What I’ve read (🖤) and planning to read (🤍)

Books

• Fall of human intellect - A Parvasarthy (genre: spirituality, humanness) 🖤

Academic Papers

The backlash against globalisation - Stefanie Walter (from annual review) 🤍

In recent years, the world has seen a rising backlash against globalization. This article reviews the nature, causes, and consequences of the globalization backlash. It shows that, contrary to a popular narrative, the backlash is not associated with a large swing in public opinion against globalization but is rather a result of its politicization. The increasing influence of globalization- skeptic actors has resulted in more protectionist, isolationist, and nationalist policies, some of which fundamentally threaten pillars of the contemporary international order. Both material and nonmaterial causes drive the glob- alization backlash, and these causes interact and mediate each other. The consequences are shaped by the responses of societal actors, national gov- ernments, and international policy makers. These responses can either yield to and reinforce the global backlash or push back against it. Understanding these dynamics will be an important task for future research.

The causes and consequences of urban riot and unrest - Tim Newburn (from annual review) 🤍

This review explores those varied bodies of work that have sought to un- derstand crowd behavior and violent crowd conduct in particular. Although the study of such collective conduct was once considered central to social science, this has long ceased to be the case and in many respects the study of protest and riot now receives relatively little attention, especially within criminology. In addition to offering a critical overview of work in this field, this review argues in favor of an expanded conception of its subject matter. In recent times, scholarly concern has increasingly been focused on ques- tions of etiology, i.e., asking how and why events such as riots occur, with the consequence that less attention is paid to other, arguably equally impor- tant questions, including how riots spread, how they end, and, critically, what happens in their aftermath. Accordingly, as a corrective, the review proposes a life cycle model of riots.

Parenting and it’s effects on children : reading and misreading behaviour genetics (from annual review) 🖤

There is clear evidence that parents can and do influence children. There is equally clear evidence that children’s genetic makeup affects their own behavioral characteristics, and also influences the way they are treated by their parents. Twin and adoption studies provide a sound basis for estimating the strength of genetic effects, although heritability estimates for a given trait vary widely across samples, and no one estimate can be considered definitive. This chapter argues that knowing only the strength of genetic factors, however, is not a sufficient basis for estimating environmental ones and indeed, that attempts to do so can systematically underestimate parenting effects. Children’s genetic predispositions and their parents’ childrearing regimes are seen to be closely interwoven, and the ways in which they function jointly to affect children’s development are explored.

More than a penny’s worth: left-digit bias and firm pricing- Avner Strulov-Shlain (from MorningBrew) 🤍

A penny saved. What’s the difference between $2.99 and $3.00? Basic math says one cent, but you probably perceive the difference to be about 22 cents, a new paper by a University of Chicago business school professor estimated. The research explores left digit bias—the phenomenon where consumers’ perceptions are overly influenced by the leftmost number in the price—and it brought receipts, analyzing retail scanner data on 3,500 products sold by 25 US chains. And while it might seem like every price you see ends in .99, the paper argues that retailers are leaving money on the table by underestimating this bias when setting prices.

#c suite #powerful woman #strong women #ceo aesthetic #personal growth #c suite aesthetic #working woman #beauty #empire #that girl #books #academic papers #parenting #globalisation #99 cents #0.99 marketing #marketing strategy #riots #spirituality #spiritual books

[velidewrites]

When a neighbouring kingdom of Scythia begs for aid in the impending war, Prince Lucien is forced into a marriage with its princess.

He doesn't expect to fall for her handmaiden instead.

Pairing: Elain x Lucien

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, blood and injury; Eventual smut

Tags: Alternate Universe, Forbidden Romance, Angst, Pining, Forced Proximity, and everything else that makes two characters Go Insane, Complete disregard of the canon world map, More Tags on AO3

Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter I

Lucien was going to kill his father.

Perhaps not in the literal sense of the word, but Helion was about to get an earful nonetheless, and one that was sure to make him wish he’d never sired an heir to his kingdom. Right now, Lucien certainly regretted being one, anyway.

The least King Helion Spellcleaver could have done was deliver the message personally. It wouldn’t have made his news any more bearable, but still—the effort would’ve been appreciated. Instead, Lucien received the order from a very smug Jurian, who had not been able to stop talking about it since this morning.

Congratulations, son. You are now engaged to be married.

He’d been a fool to think this would never happen to him—had grown too comfortable in his role as courtier and emissary of Montesere to remember that above all, he was a prince. The only prince this kingdom had to offer.

The rational part of him, the same one he’d conveniently opted to hide away for the rest of the day, knew his father was not to blame. Helion had given him the freedom Lucien doubted any other heir could boast of—far across the continent, Prince Tamlin had been married two years already, despite only being a year his senior. But Tamlin’s kingdom had needed the alliance, needed the strength and wealth it offered—with Vallahan’s former might crumbling away generation after generation, their King had simply been left out of options.

Lucien’s father had options. Montesere, after all, had been prospering ever since Helion assumed its throne. Located at the southern centre of the continent, the country had become the very capital of music, arts, and academia. Scholars had travelled from across the Western Sea to lay their eyes upon his father’s thousand libraries, rumoured to host answers to any ancient questions they’d come to ask. Lucien, for one, had always thought they made an excellent spot for, well—less than scholarly activities.

Though, he supposed, everything depended on perspective. Getting his cocked sucked by a pretty, foreign researcher in a stash of books, for example, had definitely felt enlightening to him.

He would’ve given just about anything to sneak out there for the rest of the night. His kingdom, his title—anything for a moment of reprieve before his life fell into pieces.

If only.

The quiet knock on his door all but confirmed the helplessness of his situation, as though even the palace itself was intent on reminding him. Lucien let out a long-suffering sigh.

Another knock. “Lucien?” a gentle voice sounded, slightly muffled through the sandstone walls. “Are you in there?”

“Yes, Mother.” He rose from his bed, straightening out his somewhat rumpled shirt. “Come in.”

The door opened with a soft croak, and the Queen appeared.

“Still busy brooding, I see,” she observed, something twinkling in her russet eyes as she made her way inside, the silks of her gown trailing her steps. Their ivory colour offset her skin nicely—every year, the summer replaced its usual paleness with a delicate, shimmering tan.

“I think I’m allowed to brood a little,” Lucien noted, though a certain lightness managed to creep into his tone. His mother’s presence had always grounded him—calm and steady even when everything around him became too volatile.

The Queen hummed. “You certainly are,” she agreed. “But I think you’ve grown old enough now to not dwell on it for too long.”

Lucien couldn’t help but sigh again. “I just…forgive me, Mother,” he said. “I just don’t see how any of this is necessary.”

She angled her head, her long, auburn hair—the same shade as his own—shifting with the movement. “I think you do,” she mused quietly. “But you’re having a difficult time coming to terms with it.”

Well, shit.

“Don’t blame your father for this,” his mother continued softly. “He’s doing the best he can, you know.”

“Is he, though?” he snapped, the words leaving his throat before he could manage to stop them. Lucien cursed himself slightly as those russet eyes narrowed in reprimand.

His mother said, ever so patient, “You know he’d never put you in a situation from which you stand nothing to gain.”

“What do I stand to gain from this, Mother?” The question was almost desperate. “This…marriage?”

The Queen sighed, the sound so much like his own. “Lucien.” She gestured to the small table toward the back wall, where a large window overlooked the bustling city below. “Sit.”

Only when he rested his back against the chair’s wooden frame, wordlessly gazing outside, did his mother speak again. “You are aware of the threat to Scythia.”

Lucien nodded. “Yes.” Vaguely—the neighbouring kingdom had been unusually cryptic in their messages. Its main purpose was clear, though—Scythia was facing an imminent war, war that, if not contained, could very well escalate far beyond the country’s borders. A war threatened by none other than Rask—a kingdom that rivalled Montesere in all aspects but one. Their size, their infrastructure, their military might—Rask had it all. The only thing they did not have was a Queen.

For the Queen of Rask was now the Queen of Montesere—and Lucien’s mother.

So Lucien said, “You shouldn’t feel guilty about this, Mother. It was him who banished you.” He’d never spoken King Beron Vanserra’s name out loud. He was afraid of the anger that stirred within him from just a mere thought of the man—thought the Queen did not so much as flinch.

“It is not guilt I feel, but understanding,” she countered. “I know what he—what Rask—is capable of. I’d never wish such fate upon anyone.”

Lucien swallowed hard. “Why not send the army to Scythia, then?” he pleaded. “Why do we need all of this?”

“Because,” his mother pushed, “Like I told you, we do stand to gain from it. Montesere, your future kingdom, does. Lucien,” she said, her tone stern even as compassion shone in her eyes. “King Koschei’s daughter is his only heir. Scythia borders the Western Sea, cuts us off from its resources—a union with the Princess would mean access to them all, including their trade routes to Prythian.  Do you know what this would mean?”

“I do,” he said, “But I also know we’ve been doing perfectly fine without them.”

Had it been arrogant of him, to demand so much? To be unwilling to take a wife solely for the political advantages she would offer? He’d always been a good courtier, had always served to the best of his country’s interests as emissary—perhaps…perhaps it was as prince that he would finally fail.

That tinge of guilt scraping at his chest only sharpened its claws as his mother said, “A good king always seeks to better his kingdom. To give his subjects the life they deserve.”

Father had done more than that, he wanted to say. No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard you believe I can do, I will never be a better king than him.

But instead, Lucien only said, “I simply wish there was another way.”

His mother smiled at that at last. “Give it a chance, dear. She’s not the enemy. Besides,” she added, “I hear Princess Vassa is quite the beauty.”

“They all are,” Lucien murmured. Every princess, every lady he’d ever met had been beautiful—as though beauty was some sort of prerequisite to attend court these days. He did’t want a wife for her beauty.

He didn’t want a wife at all.

“All I ask, Lucien, is that you at least meet her before you decide your life has fallen apart.”

He huffed a small laugh. “That’s sure one way to put it.”

That familiar twinkle returned to her eyes. “You and your father both have a flare for the dramatic.”

Lucien took a breath—one last second to himself before his words cemented his fate.

“No chaperones,” he said. The last thing he wanted when meeting his future wife was to be surrounded by a battalion of noblemen and advisors. If he truly was to spend the rest of his life with Princess Vassa, he wanted to at least meet her without the pressure of their watchful eyes.

His mother’s smile widened—as though somehow, she’d read the thoughts racing through his head by merely looking at his face.

“I’ve raised my son well,” she remarked, though something like sadness hid behind her words. Lucien opened his mouth to ask—to make sure he’d done as she had wished—but the Queen had already risen from her seat, her back turned to him as she made her way out. “Make sure you’re ready—they arrive tomorrow,” she said.

And with that, she was gone. 

***

At the very least, Lucien did not look half bad.

Unwanted or not, he supposed he did want his wife to think of him as handsome. He’d done his best to appear presentable—had even worked on his hair for the occasion. Most of the time, a single leather strap would suffice to tame the unruly, auburn mess—today, though, he’d woven small braids into it, letting them fall down his back and over his shoulder in a somewhat organised effort.

He’d made sure to select his own wardrobe, too, desperately wanting to avoid the palace staff gossiping on just how much he’d chosen to reveal to his betrothed. Montesere’s traditional clothing was loose enough.

The robe, a warm shade of ivory similar to the gown his mother had worn yesterday, hung over his body down to the stone floor, clasped just above his hips with a golden belt, engraved with his kingdom’s insignia—a large sun with a hundred beams circling it proudly. Two cuffs in an identical design adorned his wrists in traditional Montesere fashion, covering a large portion of his forearms before finally revealing the golden-brown skin of his arms, peering through the flowy sleeves of his robe. A careful, triangular cut opened the fabric slightly at his chest, enough to prove to the Princess that her fiancé did more than spend his days sitting around at meetings. He’d spent enough years of his youth in training to know politics were only one aspect of a future king’s rule.

Evidently, marriage was one of them too.

He was grateful Jurian was away, that he’d only be returning later in the afternoon—after Lucien and the Princess were acquainted. He probably would have found this entire ordeal hilarious, the prick.

Their first encounter had been arranged to take place in one of the drawing rooms on the lower level of the palace. It laid close to the throne room, as well as the libraries—if the conversation got too dreadful to bear, Lucien would have the convenient excuse of offering her a tour, spending the next hour or two discussing the origin of the marble pedestals adorning most of the spaces. The though itself, frankly, filled him sufficiently with dread—what if the meeting did go wrong? If they truly had nothing in common? Would they really spend the rest of their lives boring each other with endless talks of architecture? The Montesere Palace was sizeable, to be sure—but not nearly enough to cover a lifetime of being shackled to one another.

Deciding that one more hesitant thought would send him into a spiral of insanity, Lucien took one, last look into the mirror before striding out of his chambers.

His journey downstairs seemed no more than a haze. His body manoeuvred through the bright halls of sandstone and marble without his mind even registering the movements, too focused on the loud thundering of his heart.

The Queen had offered to keep him company for the first few minutes of their meeting, but Lucien insisted on going alone. The truth was, he admitted shamefully in the privacy of his thoughts, Lucien wanted to talk to the Princess without interference because somewhere, deep inside of him, there was still a glimmer of hope for another solution. Some ridiculous, wishful part of him was still hoping that perhaps, he could convince her that this union would ruin them both—that, with her on his side, they could find another solution. One that, if executed correctly, could appease all parties involved and eliminate the threat King Vanserra had posed to Scythia—and possibly, the entire continent.

And to do that, they needed to be alone.

When the large, ornate door of the drawing room finally stood before him, Lucien loosed a shaky breath, his palm tight on the golden handle.

He could do this.

Right?

Without another thought, Lucien opened the door.

The sunlight blinded him at first, the momentary flash enough to shield everything else from view. The drawing room, it seemed, had been directly linked to the outside terrace leading straight to the royal gardens. This was one of his mother’s favourite rooms, he realised. She and his father would often take their morning tea there, leaving the doors wide open to let the summer breeze become one with the space. He wondered if her choice of this place had been intentional.

If she hoped for him to fall in love, too.

Within an instant, his vision cleared, the room coming into full view at last.

As if of their own accord, Lucien’s eyes flickered to where the sun poured in through the windows.

To where the princess stood, illuminated by its soft, golden light.

Lucien stopped breathing entirely.

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

So achingly beautiful, in fact, that he could not remember how to breathe air into his lungs again—could not decide where to look to take her in fully, for every inch of her seemed to make all thoughts evaporate from his head.

As though made of freshly harvested honey, her golden-brown hair dripped down her back in soft waves, glistening each time the outside breeze whooshed into the room. It framed her lovely curves, veiled by a gown of the lightest amethyst that hugged her body in the most delicious way he’d ever seen. There was little indication she was of regal descent—no crown, no tiara to lay atop her head, only the small, tear-shaped pearls adorning her ears, twinkling at him as they caught a ray of sunshine.

It was her eyes he liked the most, though.

Brown as a fawn’s coat, soft and warm and welcoming, the kind he’d want to bury himself in had the circumstances been different. Despite all the sunlight surrounding her presence, she radiated all the light, as though the sun merely reflected what she offered.

That was what this woman really was, Lucien decided then and there. Sunlight.

But then, another movement shifted the heavy air somewhere to the princess’s side, and Lucien’s gaze couldn’t help but follow suit.

The words escaped him. “You were supposed to come alone.”

For standing beside Vassa was another woman, a greenish cloak shielding most of her face from view—except for the cerulean eyes, now glinting back at him.

The princess hummed, and Lucien’s eyes darted back to her. “Of all the welcomes I imagined, this is definitely not what I expected,” she said, and damn her, even her voice was nice. Soft and melodic, like the first birdsong in springtime.

Forcing some shred of composure back into his body, Lucien cleared his throat. “We had an agreement, did we not?”

“We did,” she agreed, tilting her head slightly at him. “But, I’m sure you can excuse a woman wishing to protect herself in a strange country she’d never once stepped foot in.”

Lucien straightened. “Strange country?”

It was her turn to shift, her shoulders rolling back at the question in his tone. “Apologies,” she clarified, “Foreign is what I meant.”

It dawned on him then, for what might have been the very first time, that perhaps the princess wasn’t perfectly content with this arrangement, either.

Would it make his plans easier? He’d come into this meeting with a clear idea of how he wanted it to unfold—he’d done it countless of times as emissary. So why, this time, was he feeling so…startled?

“Well, Your Highness,” he began, “I can assure you that in this country, no matter how foreign, you will be well protected for as long as you remain here.”

Her brows knitted over those doe-like eyes. “As long as I remain here?” Confusion laced her tone. “I was under the impression my stay was more of a…” she hesitated. “Permanent nature.”

Gods. Had one look at a beautiful woman truly ruined his decade of experience as a courtier? In his twenty-four years of life, Lucien had never felt so tongue-tied.

So he said, “Forgive me.” He took a careful step forward. “Shall we…shall we start over?”

She seemed to relax at that. “I’d like that,” she said, and Lucien released a breath.

“My name is Lucien,” he offered, sketching a bow.

Her gaze followed the movement. “I…Vassa.” She offered a small curtsy of her own. “It’s a pleasure, Your Highness.”

“Just Lucien is fine.”

Vassa nodded. “Good.”

Something chirped in the background, and she whipped back toward the sound—to where a small flock of birds flitted over the gardens, swaying atop the warm, gentle wind. Her gaze seemed to fix on the sight, as thought temporarily mesmerised by the rolling green land sprawled beyond the terrace.

“Would you like to see it?” he found himself asking all of a sudden.

Vassa turned back to him. “Pardon?”

“The garden,” he said, gesturing behind her. “I could show you, if you’d like.”

Something glimmered in her gaze—a familiar flash of sunlight. “I would,” she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He couldn’t help but wish to see it bloom in full.

He turned to her right, where the cloaked figure now moved an inch closer. “I understand your…handmaiden will be joining us?” He could only assume that was the role of the mysterious woman trailing the princess.

“I’m afraid that wherever I go, she goes.”

“I understand,” Lucien said. “After you, then.”

As they descended down the stone stairs of the terrace, there was no doubt in his mind that the stifled gasps he’d picked up had come from the princess, completely entranced by her surroundings as she took in the flora blossoming around them. She seemed to take a liking to the tulips in particular, her face filled with quiet awe at the flowers that bordered the main pathway. Her gaze followed each buzz she’d heard in the bushes, each trill up in the trees, each flash of colour she must’ve found foreign enough to pause briefly and admire it in full.

When she’d stopped by the sunflowers, tall enough to cast large shadows over the gravel they walked on, Lucien dared to remark, “You seem to be…enjoying this.”

She faced him again, a pink flush creeping up her cheeks. Lucien was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to touch it—to find out if it was as warm as her gaze as it locked on his.

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “I used to garden back home.”

That gave him pause. “Since when do princesses revel in gardening?”

She stiffened slightly—but then she asked, the question slow and careful, “You do things differently in Montesere?”

It wasn’t Montesere’s customs that made him surprised—here, ever since his father had taken the throne, women and men alike could engage in any activities they desired. No, it was Scythia and its elusive king that made Lucien question just how much he truly knew about the freedom the country offered.

“Yes—well, no. We don’t,” he said, silently cursing himself for stumbling over his words again. “I just…” Gods, her eyes really were beautiful. “I’ve never seen anyone show such…”

Vassa angled her head. “Yes?”

“Care,” he finally uttered.

She considered, tearing her gaze off him to look to the bright sunflowers again. She reached out a hand, her thumb brushing over one of the yellow petals, and Lucien realised there was a roughness to her palms—calloused skin near her fingernails, a few cuts at the back of her palm.

Her voice was quiet as she spoke. “Aren’t we supposed to care for the things we love?”

His mother’s words lit up some slumbering place in his mind. A good king always seeks to better his kingdom. To give his subjects the life they deserve, she said. Wasn’t that exactly what Vassa now spoke of? Care?

Love?

“Yes,” Lucien hummed. “I suppose we are.”

Maybe…just maybe, he could postpone his plans for now—could try and discourage this union later, when…when the time was right. When his head finally stopped spinning, as if dazed by her words, her eyes, her smile.

“Vassa,” he said, his voice strangely tight. “Tell me what it’s like for you—back home.”

She turned to him again. “I—”

“Your Highness,” a smooth, male voice sounded behind them. A guardsman approached quickly, moving past Vassa’s handmaiden to stand at his side. “Apologies for the intrusion, but the General has returned. Your advisors request your presence immediately.”

Excellent timing, Jurian, Lucien thought bitterly.

“Forgive me, Princess,” he said to Vassa, then smiled slightly as he teased, “This isn’t how I imagined our first meeting, either.”

Vassa laughed, the warmth of the sound practically sinking into his chest. 

“I hope we can finish our conversation soon?” he asked. “I believe your formal introduction is to take place in the throne room this afternoon.”

Vassa’s smile faded. “Oh.” Had he said something wrong? “Yes—yes,” she repeated, and when her smile returned, it no longer reached her eyes—as thought it wasn’t the princess, but a different person now speaking to him tightly, her familiar warmth gone with the summer breeze.

Lucien tried again. “Perhaps we could discuss after that?”

But Vassa only nodded. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

***

The throne to his father’s left sat empty, for Lucien chose to stand instead.

Truth be told, anxiety had been trailing him ever since he’d left the meeting in the early hours of the afternoon. He’d been waiting for the evening to peer through the clouds at last, so that Vassa’s formal introduction to the court could proceed as scheduled. So that he could talk to her again.

He couldn’t explain it—couldn’t explain why he wanted to know more about her, but the only thing he could think of in that garden was to ask. About her home, about her garden, about the things that made her light up with a smile and the things that made her brows crease with worry. Much like the scholars in Montesere’s libraries, he would feel restless until he knew all the answers.

“You’re fidgeting,” a rich, deep voice spoke behind him. Lucien turned to face the King.

Helion’s dark brows were high with amusement. “I’d never known you to be so nervous around women, son.”

Lucien shifted on his feet. “I’m not nervous.”

To Helion’s right, the Queen smiled knowingly. “I take it your afternoon went well, then?”

Lucien’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It did, until we got interrupted.”

A light chuckle sounded somewhere to his left. “Sorry about that,” Jurian said, still in his heavy armour.

Lucien flashed him a glare.

His mother waved a hand. “There will be plenty of time to get acquainted, dear.”

As if on command, the grand doors opened, revealing the princess and her entourage.

Only it wasn’t Vassa who stood at its very front, approaching the dais.

It was her handmaiden, those cerulean eyes bright with challenge.

Lucien’s gaze darted all over the small group, something tight twisting in his chest. It wasn’t possible—it couldn’t have been.

And yet, the woman he’d thought was Vassa now stood at the princess’s right, dressed in the familiar cloak of her handmaiden.

“You lied to me,” he accused, a bitter mix of anger and shame rising through his chest as his gaze locked with that of the princess—the true princess, who now stood at the foot of the dais, her chin held up high.

“I wanted to find out who you truly were,” she said calmly. “This marriage is about more than you and me—it’s about the fate of my kingdom. I wanted to know whose hands I’m placing it in.” Princess Vassa gestured to her right. “I’ve asked my handmaiden to pose as myself for our first meeting, with me observing in the background. I must say,” she added, a sly smile curving her full lips, “I expected to be discovered much sooner.”

Lucien was seething.

But then, a loud, earnest laugh echoed through the great hall. “Clever, Your Highness,” his father said. “I do look forward to hearing more about your…” his eyes twinkled, “Observations.”

Vassa only nodded.

His mother smiled. “We’d like to welcome you to Montesere, Princess Vassa. Please know we will do everything in our power to assist you and your kingdom through this difficult time.”

“You have my thanks,” Vassa said, something tighter filling her voice now. “Your help is, and will continue to be, invaluable to us.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of assigning you a security team,” Helion told her. “You’ll be quite safe here at the palace, of course, but one can never be too cautious when it comes to the threats of Beron Vanserra.” He practically spat out the name.

“That won’t be necessary,” Vassa interjected. “I have a security team of my own—they are perfectly capable of protecting me.”

“A personal guard, then,” Helion insisted. “I am certain my son will sleep better knowing your safety is being well looked after.”

Vassa’s lips tightened. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

The King gestured to his left. “General Jurian shall be at your service.” A flicker of brown eyes was the only indication of Jurian’s surprise. “He will escort you to your chambers for the rest of the night.”

“I understand,” Vassa said, not even looking in Jurian’s direction. From the corner of his eye, Lucien could see his friend’s face burning at the obvious dismissal. “Your Majesties,” Vassa curtsied. “Your Highness,” she added, glancing at Lucien.

“We look forward to proceeding with our discussions tomorrow,” his mother said.

Vassa curtsied again, and that was that.

Before she turned to leave the room at last, Lucien dared to look at the woman at her side again. Dared to look into those sun-like eyes, asking them the only question that mattered.

Who are you?

But she only turned away, leaving the room behind her princess.

When the door slammed shut behind them, Lucien whipped to his father. “Call it off,” he told him.

“I will not,” Helion said calmly.

“She tricked me,” he seethed.

“Spectacularly so,” his father agreed, that infuriating smile playing on his lips again. “But I’m afraid this union is too important for something so trivial to jeopardise it.”

Lucien’s shoulders slumped.

Great.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @asnowfern @areyoudreaminof @readercacau @fieldofdaisiies @melting-houses-of-gold @octobers-veryown @selesera @addicted-to-nothing @wilde-knight @emily-gsh @thelovelymadone @corcracrow @darling-archeron @kingofsummer93 @panicatthenightcourt

#elucien #pro elucien #elucien fic #elucien fanfiction #elain x lucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #acotar fic #acotar #my writing

[haggishlyhagging]

By the end of the second millennium, the religious thinkers of Mesopotamia saw the cosmos as controlled and regulated by male gods, with only Ishtar maintaining a position of power. When we see such a pattern of theological change, we must ask whether the religious imagery is leading society, or whether it is following socioeconomic development? Was the supplanting of goddesses in Sumerian religious texts an inner theological development that resulted purely from the tendency to view the world of the gods on the model of an imperial state in which women paid no real political role? Or does it follow in the wake of sociological change, of the development of what might be called "patriarchy"? And if the latter is true, is the change in the world of the gods contemporary to the changes in human society, or does it lag behind it by hundreds of years? To these questions we really have no answer. The general impression that we get from Sumerian texts is that at least some women had a more prominent role than was possible in the succeeding Babylonian and Assyrian periods of Mesopotamian history. But developments within the 600-year period covered by Sumerian literature are more difficult to detect. One slight clue might (very hesitantly) be furnished by a royal document called the Reforms of Uruinimgina." Uruinimgina (whose name is read Urukagina in earlier scholarly literature) was a king of Lagash around 2350 B.C.E. As a nondynastic successor to the throne, he had to justify his power, and wrote a "reform" text in which he related how bad matters were before he became king and described the new reforms that he instituted in order to pursue social justice. Among them we read, "the women of the former days used to take two husbands, but the women of today (if they attempt to do this) are stoned with the stones inscribed with their evil intent." Polyandry (if it ever really existed) has been supplanted by monogamy and occasional polygyny.

In early Sumer, royal women had considerable power. In early Lagash, the wives of the governors managed the large temple estates. The dynasty of Kish was founded by Enmebaragesi, a contemporary of Gilgamesh, who it now appears may have been a woman; later, another woman, Kubaba the tavern lady, became ruler of Kish and founded a dynasty that lasted a hundred years. We do not know how important politically the position of En priestess of Ur was, but it was a high position, occupied by royal women at least from the time of Enheduanna, daughter of Sargon (circa 2300 B.C.E.), and through the time of the sister of Warad-Sin and Rim-Sin of Larsa in the second millennium. The prominence of individual royal women continued throughout the third dynasty of Ur. By contrast, women have very little role to play in the latter half of the second millennium; and in first millennium texts, as in those of the Assyrian period, they are practically invisible.

We do not know all the reasons for this decline. It would be tempting to attribute it to the new ideas brought in by new people with the mass immigration of the West Semites into Mesopotamia at the start of the second millennium. However, this cannot be the true origin. The city of Mari on the Euphrates in Syria around 1800 B.C.E. was a site inhabited to a great extent by West Semites. In the documents from this site, women (again, royal women) played a role in religion and politics that was not less than that played by Sumerian women of the Ur IlI period (2111-1950 B.C.E.). The causes for the change in women's position is not ethnically based. The dramatic decline of women's visibility does not take place until well into the Old Babylonian period (circa 1600 B.C.E.), and may be function of the change from city-states to larger nation-states and the changes in the social and economic systems that this entailed.

The eclipse of the goddesses was undoubtedly part of the same process that witnessed a decline in the public role of women, with both reflective of fundamental changes in society that we cannot yet specify. The existence and power of a goddess, particularly of Ishtar, is no indication or guarantee of a high status for human women. In Assyria, where Ishtar was so prominent, women were not. The texts rarely mention any individual women, and, according to the Middle Assyrian laws, married women were to be veiled, had no rights to their husband's property (even to movable goods), and could be struck or mutilated by their husbands at will. Ishtar, the female with the fundamental attributes of manhood, does not enable women to transcend their femaleness. In her being and her cult (where she changes men into women and women into men), she provides an outlet for strong feelings about gender, but in the final analysis, she is the supporter and maintainer of the gender order. The world by the end of the second millennium was a male's world, above and below; and the ancient goddesses have all but disappeared.

-Tikva Frymer-Kensky, In the Wake of the Goddesses: Women, Culture, and the Biblical Transformation of Pagan Myth

#Tikva Frymer-Kensky #Ishtar #female oppression #mesopotamian mythology #goddess erasure #ancient history #religious history

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hi there! Do you happen to know any good ttrpgs that can be run with 3 people (gm included if there's a gm) virtually and is light on math/crunch? Bonus points if it's scifi or fantasy. Double bonus points if there's minimal prep

THEME: Light 3-player Games

Hello friend, I’ve got a number of fantasy-themed games that you might like to check out. If you want some non-fantasy options, check out the bottom of this post!

Wickedness, by Nightling Bug. 

Wickedness is a peculiar tabletop game written for exactly three players and one tarot deck, with no dice and no GM.  Together, you'll form a coven between three mystical archetypes (the innocent and gentle Pure Heart, the volatile, revelrous Wild Spirit, and the uptight, scholarly Old Soul) and try to keep your world of magic and mystery in balance with the mundane world, in spite of its ignorance, poverty and violence.

This game uses tarot cards and draws a lot of inspiration from Belonging Outside Belonging Games, so there should be little to no math or crunch required. As a GM-less game, you might want one person to read the book ahed of time, but character generation and setting are figured out at the table, at the beginning of the session. I like the fact that the author provides pick-lists to choose from: it means that players will have a quick list of options to choose from rather than writing a bunch of abilities out of thin air.

The playtest in the game page shows three people playing it virtually, possibly on Roll20, so it looks like running it online is totally doable!

What’s So Evil About Necromancy? By Tyler Magruder.

Take the role as the product of necromancy (undead), the practitioner of necromancy (necromancer), and the guide (GM) and trade roles multiple times over the course of play.

What’s So Cool… games are pretty rules-light most of the time: you write down a few details and descriptions for your character, and roll 2d6 whenever you want to do something risky. You get +1 for advantages, and -1 for disadvantages. 8 or higher? That’s a success!

What’s So Evil About Necromancy? builds on this framework and adds bits and pieces that allow players to switch roles throughout the course of play. The game is meant to be expandable, so if you want to write lore or expand upon the rules, there’s room for that! The game is pretty light so running it online should be easy, especially since there’s very little character maintenance as written.

 If you want more ideas about how to play with necromancy, or if you want to flesh out a setting to play in where necromancy is rampant, you could flip through In Play Issue 2: Necromancy, by FKR Collective, for ideas. 

QuestFellows, by Penflower Ink. 

QuestFellows is a GM-less collaborative story-telling and role-playing game for 2 or more players, based on the Four Points RPG System. QuestFellows combines the atmosphere and themes of classic high fantasy adventure, with a narrative, player-driven and fully cooperative role-playing experience.

This game is what you want if you’re looking for a classic fantasy game. It’s GM-less, so like other GM-less games, it should expect the group to learn how to play together, which usually lend themselves to little prep beforehand. It also provides you with form-fillable character sheets and game instructions that allow for online dice-rollers. This is an excellent option for folks who want an setting akin to the stereotypical fantasy world but who don’t want to give one person the burden of being a GM.

POWER | WISDOM | COURAGE, by UnabashedlyRose.

POWER|WISDOM|COURAGE is a GMless game for three players about being chosen by the Light to face off against the Shadows and save your home from destruction. 

It's also a game about defying expectations and resisting the control of any of these so-called gods. 

This game pulls greatly from the themes of Legend of Zelda, with a focus on a trio of heroes and reincarnation, as well as going to fight against a devastating Darkness. The three characters are provided with predetermined stats according to the virtue they most embody, as well as a series of pick-lists to determine their motivation and background. The setting feels pretty abstract, so you can decide the details of it by yourselves, or perhaps with a world-building game to accompany you, such as Questlandia 2nd Edition, by turtle bun.  If you want a game that is epic in scope, this might be the game for you!

Games I’ve Recommended Before

Poutine: Deep Dish Nine, by The Kinematic Cafe.

Anyone Can Wear The Mask, by Jeff Stormer.

#dnd #game recommendations #indie ttrpgs #tabletop games #three player #gm-less #fantasy

[edwad]

What's the best secondary literature on the Grundrisse?

i'm not necessarily a grundrisse-doer by any means so i don't go out of my way to leaf through all the secondary literature on it, but rosdolsky's the making of marx's capital is the classic text which set discussions about the grundrisse in motion. it has been somewhat outmoded by later scholarship (even the title of the work itself is based on a misunderstanding of marx's changing plans for the critique of political economy), but all serious grundrisse-ing since is in some way indebted to this work.

otherwise, i think the relevant part of oakley's marx's critique of political economy is probably the best study of marx's source material and what he was doing with it. he has his flaws, but i consider oakley a must-read for anyone really trying to grapple with marx's economic work. his earlier book, the making of marx's critical theory (an obvious nod to rosdolsky), is much less ambitious than his 2-volume work, but has plenty of overlap and works well as a brief but scholarly overview of marxs development as an economic thinker in a way which dovetails nicely with the framing offered by mandel in his similar work on the formation of the economic thought of karl marx, but without nearly as much stupidity. mandel's work is worth reading if you can get to it, because he has a certain sensitivity to the development of marx's theory of wages in a way which puts the problem neatly to the reader, but oakley's work is undoubtedly superior.

there are also a zillion or so edited volumes out there which are more or less useful (in marxs laboratory ed. bellofiore et al, karl marx's grundrisse ed. musto, etc) and they're worth perusing on topics of interest, but -- like most scholarly volumes of that sort -- they are probably best digested after achieving a certain degree of familiarity. i don't know where you stand in relation to the grundrisse or marx generally, but these volumes tend to involve a lot of specialists wading into long-running debates that not even rosdolsky can fully prepare you for, so they don't necessarily work well as a handy guide to the text, if that's the kind of thing you're looking for (although obviously some pieces are better suited for this than others). that being said, musto's original work in particular (found in his edited volume but also freely available on his website) is quite useful for situating marxs grundrisse in the context of his life/intellectual development.

the last thing i might throw out there as a suggestion is sixel's understanding marx. this is a thin companion to marx's introduction of 1857, which is typically included in published editions of the grundrisse even though it doesn't really belong to that project and, in some ways, can complicate the reading by making it seem as if the grundrisse is supposed to somehow fit into the shape or develop the case for the conclusions of this introduction. this isn't really the function of the introduction, and the grundrisse wasn't written as a book-draft which ought to be introduced to an audience of readers. that being said, it's an important piece and is usually read by people picking up the grundrisse, so sixel's little book is handy for anyone interested in thinking through its implications. his approach is rooted in a philosophical reading of marx as navigating the terrain of german idealism with a notion of critique in mind which implicitly nods toward kant and hegel, so no one can complain that ive neglected these elements.

[sindirimba]

a bit ago @nevermindirah and i had a very serious scholarly discussion about who among kiki and matthias' film roles should kiss. it's kind of difficult because both of them have played a lot of people who truly Went Through It in a way not conducive to frivolous nonsense, but we gave it our best try. i made a chart:

now it's true that kiki has not yet played storm and matthias escaped playing batman, but if you believe you can do anything, imagination is the key etc.

we don't know dandelion (dandelion) yet but the music connection makes kissing paul (a bigger splash) obvious. he seems loyal(ish, author is dead etc) and he cries, what more could she ask for

nile & booker is obvious and inarguable. i can't remember why there's a (2) there. comics booker? dirah help.

we went with margaret (don't worry darling) and peter (brothers by blood) because he's large and there'd be some interesting class stuff to explore. probably.

ellie (chip n dale) and gene (our souls at night) are some of the more normal of this group (even accepting the chipmunks), we envisioned them watching tv together and presumably making out on the couch. jane fonda probably approves.

meeka (coming 2 america) and vincent (disorder) is obvious. lots of sexually tense brawling and pinning down and such. the physicality is compelling. highly erotic.

bessie (native son) and gabriel (far from the madding crowd) is wholly a 'who can we give to bessie to give her a nice pleasant time. gabriel as the soft sheep boy seemed like the clear option. now there is some culture/chronology clash but they can work it out i think. note the sheep which is a highly important aspect. also less sensical but we decided to have bessie and roman (the mustang) be besties because i'm not sure i remember why. but i think it's cute. bessie needs hugs and in this fanciful little universe roman is capable of giving slightly horse-scented hugs.

tish (if beale street could talk) and olivia (veracity) are out of the equation here due to being happily partnered and into women respectively but they are on this chart anyway because. just because. gigi (le fidèle) is here for similar reasons, being an Xtreme Wife Guy.

matthias has a more extensive filmography than kiki sadly so we kind of went a little off the deep end at this point. django (django) and andré (a little chaos) are NOT from the same time period but are nevertheless paired because they fit into generically historical wig time, and they'd both benefit from some sweaty weird clone sex. probably. don't question it. it's true that andre is also happily partnered but something something libertine free love french hedonism something something. idk.

roman and ali (rust and bone) form a fight club due to being remarkable examples of meat and who (would) benefit from throwing their bodies at other men. it doesn't need to be sexual but can be if desired. jacky (bullhead) needs an incredible amount of care so why not let him hang out with a literal saint, st peter (the way of the wind). neither dirah or i know much about this topic but we went on the assumption that a literal heavenly being might be able to help the tragically in need of help jacky. the second peter is there for humorous name reasons but also he's had a lot of family related trauma so he and jacky could maybe bond somehow. not really romantic but if they want to i'm not going to judge.

#tog #kind of #we shan't speak of bathsheba at this time

[racefortheironthrone]

I imagine the real answer is "it works how the plot needs it to work," but can we infer anything about structure of Westeros' raven communication system and how it would work? Does every castle have a raven for every other castle, or are there nodes/relays, lords only maintain stocks for castles they expect to communicate with? Are ravens like homing pigeons where they only travel one way? If so, does that mean there's this extensive network of raven traders moving throughout the Seven Kingdoms to keep the lords stocked?

The raven post system is a fascinating topic, and one I've written a bit about.

To answer your questions:

Does every castle have a raven for every other castle?

It seems unlikely that every castle has a raven for every other castle - there are a lot of castles in Westeros (196, just counting the named ones) and any given lord probably doesn't need to communicate with most of them, which would make maintaining ravens who can't be used for any other purpose pointless. My expectation is that a lord would have/want at the very least:

ravens for their liege lord and the Lord Paramount (depending on whether they're a principal house or a vassal house, this could be one or two ravens) and probably a raven for King's Landing - in order to communicate with their higher-ups in the feudal hierarchy. Similarly, they'd have ravens for their vassal houses, if they had them, in order to communicate with those lower down in the feudal hierarchy.

ravens for their neighbors, the principal houses of their kingdom, and their relatives and in-laws - for day-to-day communications and to participate in the political and cultural world of their peers.

a raven for the Citadel - this one is probably more for the maester than the lord, but they probably need to be able to communicate with the Citadel in order to keep up with scholarly discourse, to request specialized resources and personnel, and to communicate about important issues like epidemics or the seasons or the like.

Are there nodes and relays?

On the one hand, this would massively improve the efficacy and efficiency of the raven post system, by allowing castles that don't have ravens trained to fly to a particular castle to send one to a nearby castle or a more important castle that has a wider communications network (and thus is more likely to have a raven for that specific castle) and have them pass on the message.

On the other hand, nodes and relays bring up the inescapable problem of message security. No matter how ironclad the maester's oath of neutrality might be, there would always be the fear that the intermediary castle had opened and read the message. Now, we know from the example of Catelyn and Lysa Tully that some Westerosi nobility create cyphers and codes to encrypt their communications, but it doesn't seem to be very common.

So if there are nodes and relays, I think it would only be for messages that were either encrypted or for less vital messages that the writer didn't mind other people possibly knowing about.

Do Ravens Only Travel One Way?

Here, I think the text is a little ambiguous. Surprisingly, the first mention of this basic question about the system comes in a preview Winds of Winter chapter:

"Both." Stannis snapped the word out. "A maester's raven flies to one place, and one place only. Is that correct?" The maester mopped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "N-not entirely, Your Grace. Most, yes. Some few can be taught to fly between two castles. Such birds are greatly prized. And once in a very great while, we find a raven who can learn the names of three or four or five castles, and fly to each upon command. Birds as clever as that come along only once in a hundred years."

Now, the plain reading of "some few can be taught to fly between two castles" is that most ravens are one-way, and that only "some few" can do a round-trip. On the other hand, that's not how it works for ravens who can do 3 to 5 castles, so maybe the maester means flying to two castles and home?

The reason why I'm skeptical about the plain reading is that this would seem to make the raven network substantially worse (and by extension the maesters surprisingly dim) than the historical system of carrier pigeons. Putting a pigeon's food in one place and their home in another to activate the homing instinct and allow for round-trip communication is pretty basic as experimentation goes, so you think that someone would have thought of it after several thousand years.

If ravens truly are one-way rather than round-trip, then yes, you'd have to have a ground-based transportation network of men on horseback or wagon whose job it would be to return the ravens to their castle of origin, and given the distances involved in Westerosi communication, that would seem to reduce the system's efficacy tremendously.

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #ravenry

[jiubilant]

cw: brief blood mention

The city Bromjunaar, bright crown of old Keizaal, has sat abandoned for a thousand years. The wind scratches like a rat through its maze of crumbling walls, skittering through rubble, gnawing the nose of the mage struggling up its frozen steps. He scrunches it.

Then he leans heavily on his staff, breathing hard, and stares. The ruin is dotted with tents. Unless he is seeing double—and he won’t, he thinks wearily, rule it out—he counts several figures, cloaked and cowled, poring over a fallen bas-relief.

They must not, the mage thinks, know the meaning of the word abandoned. Or dangerous. He cups a hand around his mouth. “Hello?”

The figures jump. A young man with the patchy beginnings of a beard spots him, starts, then scrambles down to him over the scree—looking for all the world, the mage thinks, like a disgruntled goat. The fuzz on his chin has frozen into a point.

“Who goes there?” the boy demands, scowling. His voice cracks, bless him. “Stop where you are. You’re—you’re intruding on College business.”

Baa-siness, thinks the mage, then chides himself. They had warned him in the village that the mountain air would make him thick. He’d only half-believed them; now he can’t get his breath, and his vision is starting to swim, and he’s making goat puns. “College business?”

The young man folds his arms. “College business.”

Surely not, thinks the mage. Bright spots dance like witchfires across his eyes. He squeezes them shut, then opens them again, half-worried that the boy might vanish with the lights; surely Mirabelle had not sent a pack of prentices to undergo the most perilous trial known to wizardry, no matter how dire the circumstances—

“My friends—my colleagues and I,” the boy continues, blushing at the slip, “are conducting field research. The Archmage knows all about it. Um.” The points of his ears flush red. “This site is full of ancient tr—uh, artifacts of, of historical interest, and we—are you all right?”

The mage, with scholarly eloquence, says, “Nuh.”

He sways like a metronome. Then there is a steadying hand at his elbow, and another at his back, and a startled little laugh—strangely familiar, the mage thinks, and less like a bleat than he had expected—easing him down, all together, on a jut of stone.

“Altitude,” the boy says sagely. “Or you’re timesick. Here, sera, sip this.”

He thrusts a flask at the mage, who takes it in numb hands. Mirabelle, he thinks, did not send these students. They must have set out on their expedition—unsanctioned, the mage does not doubt—long before things on campus went bad. Savos Aren’s amulet, cold as the man who once wore it, hangs heavy as a millstone from his neck.

He clutches the flask. He stares at this boy too young to grow his beard, who doesn’t know about the Archmage, or Ancano, or the Eye.

“—can’t hurt to tell you what we’re up to, I suppose,” the boy is saying, oblivious. “In a few weeks, we’ll all be famous. Well, go on.” He straightens, dusting the snow from his breeks, and crunches backwards through the rising drifts. “Ask me why we’re here.”

The mage stares at him. The boy, or perhaps the mountain, rocks gently to one side.

“Why,” he rasps, the words thick and slow, “are you—”

The boy, with a grin and a grand flourish, throws out his arms as if to embrace the rubble. “This is the site”—he raises his voice over the frigid howl of wind and snow—“of a temporal singularity!”

The mage’s ears are ringing. He tries to look interested. “A temp—ah, temporal—”

“Years ago,” says the boy, bright-eyed, “a dragon-priest of Bromjunaar meddled with chronology, hoping to create a space outside of time in which to stash his treasures. There’s no record of whether he succeeded. Maybe he did. Maybe his pocket-realm can still be unlocked, if you have the key—not that anyone, to my knowledge, does.” He crunches back and forth like a scholar pacing behind a lectern. “Though we were supposed to meet a Breton fellow here, a scholar, who was excited about a sonaak mask he bought from some antiquary. But he’s a week late. We won’t wait much longer for him before going in.”

The mage’s face sharpens. He sits up straighter, ignoring the nausea that rolls in his stomach like a stone. “Going—”

“In any case,” the young man continues, unheeding, “time was broken here, once, and the cracks remain. Things slip through. It’s not unprecedented. You’ve surely heard of the Second Numidian Effect—”

He stops. An odd look crosses his face.

He’s staring, the mage realizes with strange unease, at Savos’s amulet.

“Things slip through,” the boy murmurs again, half to himself. “Um.”

And he draws, from the folds of his scarf, the same amulet.

The mage stares at it. He fumbles a hand to his own talisman, cold and heavy and there—around his neck, yes, but around the boy’s neck, too—

“Are you from the future?” The boy’s voice is soft. His eyes, red and watery with the cold, are wide as coals. “Are you—are you me?”

Not real, thinks the mage. Not real. But the boy, he remembers, had touched him.

He swallows a hysterical laugh. “I’m not you.”

“Oh.” The boy’s face falls. Then it fills again with wonder, hesitant and trembling, like a half-tame animal. “Are we—friends?”

The mage stares at him. He thinks, as the wind cuts their faces, of the man that this boy will become—twisted in the snow, blank-eyed, beard bloody.

“You saved—” His throat closes. He clears it. Smiles, somehow. “Saved my life.”

The boy’s eyes gleam. “Really?”

“Savos!” One of the other apprentices, little more than a speck on a high wall, waves down at them. Her dark curls fly in the wind. “Sav! Hurry up!”

Savos Aren jumps. Turns around.

“Atmah,” he calls back, his face wild with delight, “you’re not going to believe—”

He vanishes. The girl vanishes.

The mage stares, unblinking, as the snow whirls through the space where they had stood.

“Not real,” he says to the wind, the ice, the frozen stones.

Then he blinks down at the flask, capped with a cork, still clutched in his cold hand.

#skyrim #college of winterhold #microfic #oc tag #ravi

[urwendii]

Written for Femslash February

Sequel of this drabble by @cilil

Rating: T Pairing: Varda x Nilmírëa (oc) x Ilmarë

The loss of the Trees had plunged Valinor in great chaos, deprived of the Hallowed Light, a Noldor Rebellion, an unsuccessful chase for their fallen and depraved kin, Varda could not feel any less disheartened if her heartbreak was not a swirling tempest of hatred.

Twice, they had asked Fëanáro for his help, but the arrogant fool was spewing the poison Melkor had so cleverly fed him, even convincing the Noldo that his folly of rebellion came from his own mind. Varda could only imagine what futile endeavour their so-called Cry for Freedom would result in. Her husband had cried for peace and negotiation, but even his seemingly endless patience had limits in the wake of so much carnage.

The Doom takes them then! Varda feared not the dark, Queen of the stars she was, but the vast expanse of the cosmos was her canvas. She climbed the circular stairs, leading to the upper rooms of her observatory, a complex of cosy rooms made for enjoying a rest or pursuing scholarly avenues in a calmer setting.

However, when she let herself in one of the rooms, adjacent to the Library, she found two of her maidens giggling, sprawled half dressed on the plush carpets.

Raising an eyebrow, she surveyed the scene with nonplussed amusement.

"May I know what this is about?"

Ilmarë was the first one to let out a startled squeaky sound as she stumbled back to her feet. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, the pupils dilated and tried as she might to appear contrite, there was the ghost of a laughter bubbling behind closed lips. Nilmírëa was tying back her robes and tried to stand up too, only to dramatically fail in her task. The laughter that erupted from both Maiar was a little wild, a little too carefree, a little too-

Varda's eyes fell on the empty discarded box of chocolates, a glittery pink ribbon a better explanation than any of the half slurred, half giggled words the other two women babbled about.

"How many times have I told people to not accept any food or beverage that comes from Irmo?" She sighed with only half felt exasperation. Truth to be told, seeing Ilmarë and Nilmírëa in such a giddy state - even one born out of intoxicating chocolates - made Varda feel a little better. So much darkness outside and so much unknown, but for now, she thought with a sudden idea, she could indulge in a little distraction.

"Well, my two lovely Maiar, a Queen shall too be offered some fun."

Strolling with purpose to the chair standing the closest, Varda let herself fall gracefully, readjusting her raiment into a more solid shape that would serve her purpose.

“Come my darlings and let your Queen appraise you.”

Nilmírëa was blushing so prettily Varda thought with a sudden appetite, crooking one finger she ordered the Maia closer until Nilmírëa stood directly in front of her. Her silver robes had been hastily tied, leaving a shoulder exposed. Varda licked her lips in anticipation.

“Sit on my lap, Nilmírëa, you have always been so good to me.”

The Maia fell without her usual grace, all languid limbs, giggling when Varda wrapped one arm around her waist.

“Ilmarë.”

Her most trusty Maia nodded, head bobbing up and down, the rosy pout of her lips enhanced by the candlelight.

“Mistress,” she whined as she moved to kneel by Varda's feet, nuzzling her face in the Queen's dress. “‘Am sorry.”

Varda gently carded her fingers through her hair, humming a soft song. “No need to apologise, my little star. Here let me give you a kiss.” Varda tilted the pretty Maia's face upward and rewarded her lips with a soft kiss of her own. Ilmarë made a tiny sound, a little breathy thing, fingers clutching at Varda's dress with renewed insistence.

As cold and dark as the world might be outside, there was only warmth and heat between the three of them until Varda was once more called back to duties as Queen leaving two languid Maiar in her wake.

#prompt: tolkien lgdrm #varda #ilmarë #oc: nilmírëa #femslash february