#tales of deviance

[gnomeniche]

alice is (partially) about Imposed Definition of Identity and that's why it's just like dhmis

#am.txt #i have to read it for class which is fine bc i love alice. and i'm having a great time #thinking so hard abt the cheshire cat talking about how defining norms Creates what we perceive as deviance #alice in wonderland #fairy tales #literature

[txttletale]

is there any more reliable fact behind what people some trans people say about like cults of cybele

yes! the galli, their practice of self-castration, and their feminine dress and presentation are very well attested by many sources: among them catullus, ovid, varro, livy, and polybius, off the top of my head.

of course, we have no actual accounts from the galli themselves: we can only speculate as to what their subjectivity wrt gender might have been, let alone to the myriad different relationships any individual gallus might have had. however, we can at least know that their presentation was feminine by choice: there is archeological attestation for honorific monuments and art depicting galli in feminine dress, often commissioned by galli themselves, and for them being buried in it. so unlike elagabalus, who in his commissioned statues and coins is always depicted purely masculinely we do have some definitinve information about how the galli at least purposefully presented themselves to the world.

attitudes to them shift throughout Roman history and from source to source, from mild curiosity, to contempt, to violent hatred--we don't, unfortunately, have a lot of writing about the galli in and of themselves--many of their mentions are cautionary tales, a 'what not to do' guide for aristocratic roman men seeking to avoid effeminacy or gender deviance. different authors describe them in different ways: varro calls them 'half-men' (semiviri), while catullus' attis says 'ego mulier' (i, a woman) but also 'ego epherbus, ego puer' (i, a young man and a boy) in her lament over the loss of access to the world of manhood her devotion has resulted in.

but yeah, there is absolutely a gigantic body of evidence for the existence of the itinerant priesthood of cybele being a known and constant part of Roman life, for their having flouted gender roles, practiced self-castration, and adopted feminine presentation, clothing, and appearances of their own accord. take from this what you will! i certainly think that in the project of attempting to locate transfemininity throughout history, it is certainly a more fruitful and worthy ground than the lurid tales of elagabalus and his Big Dick Surveillance Squad.

some recommended reading if you're curious:

“Fabulous Clap-Trap”: Roman Masculinity, the Cult of Magna Mater, and Literary Constructions of the galli at Rome from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity, Jacob Latham

Transgendered Archeology: the Galli and the Catterick Transvestite, Renato Pinto & Gretel Luciano

Looking for eunuchs: the galli and Attis in Roman art, Shelley Hales (in Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, ed. Shaun Tougher)

#ask #Anonymous

[sayafics]

Dragon of Dorne - Chapter IV

This is quite a long chapter (which hopefully makes up for the long wait <3) with lots of fluff and some inappropriate thoughts - I promise so much more Daemon&Alaynha moments in Chapter V, I just wanted to give them something to build a relationship from.

A small change in this is that Viserys doesn't die - at least not yet. Another change is that Rhaenyra also doesn't have a miscarriage yet.

I still plan to stick to the plot-line, but just add in a few extra weeks for some Daemon-Alaynha moments <3 (which I feel so guilty saying but like oops).

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

Daemon had bargained plenty that night - the children did not have to stay. Rhaenyra did not have to stay.

But he would.

For Viserys. For his brother.

Of course, such a tale was not far from the truth. His brother was frail - dying, even. The quicker the hours pass, the closer the Reaper drew upon Viserys, awaiting for him to take his last breath.

Daemon had spent years at Rhaenyra's side, he had neglected his duties as a brother and cast Viserys aside. So his words were not all lies and some truth remained.

He would stay in King's Landing until Viserys had recovered or passed. The children could stay at Dragonstone and continue with their lives, and Rhaenyra with them to rear their youngest.

Of course, Rhaenyra was never one to listen and promised to join him after spending a fortnight at Dragonstone and remain by his side until the birth of their child, during which if all went well, their blended family would return to the Keep and claim it as their home once more.

Daemon gritted him teeth at that, frustration swelling within him at the possibility of navigating his countless schemes whilst being interceded by wailing babes and an angered wife.

There was a quiet ache of guilt present, too - knowing how long Rhaenyra had been pining for him because of his deviances as a terrible and power-hungry man all those years ago. For her to finally have all of which she desires, simply for it to be threatened by a kin she did not want - Daemon could sympathise.

But this was not affection he felt, nor lust. Surely it was much simpler. Much easier.

Daemon was curious.

Daemon is a shrewd man - calculating and manipulative, violent and mean. A rogue prince through and through, where all could see his qualities and hold it to the light with assuredness.

But this girl- this princess. So bright and kind and loving. A mask so thick and well-crafted even Daemon had struggled to see the beast that lurked beneath.

It was the darkness that welled up in those pretty eyes of hers, the spark that ached to turn into a raging fire.

It was curiosity, nothing more.

***

When Rhaenyra and the children had left the following morning, he urged them to return to Dragonstone by sea - it was safer with him absent. A worthy excuse for more time.

Rhaenyra had accepted with a quaint smile, a pretentious act at playing a blushing bride - to which he merely mustered a peck upon the cheek in return.

He could see the confusion in her eyes, could see her wonder why her Daemon was changing so quick.

But the truth was his previous marriages had broken him - kept him confined and chained. He allowed himself to become a tamed dragon, and freely handed his reigns over to Rhaenyra for her to wave proudly in show.

He loved her. Of course he did. He loved the girl who rode upon dragon-back to claim a stolen dragon egg, threats of fire and violence spewing from her lips - but even that girl he did not marry.

And yet, before him stood a swollen bride that was a mere echo of the girl he knew all those years ago. A realisation that had haunted him for far too long.

He thought the children would help - hoped they would ignite the dragon fire within him, would give him purpose and life.

Or perhaps they would ignite the fire that had become smothered within Rhaenyra and an ounce of the girl he knew then would return, and he would settle. He would revere and concede and accept.

Daemon felt weightless. Purposeless. Useless.

Pathetic.

***

Daemon suppressed the smirk itching at his lips as he sauntered his way back to his chambers.

His chambers.

The very ones he'd lounged in so many years ago with his wine and his whores, and not the one he had been made to sleep in the last few days.

The Keep was buzzing with life - Lords and Ladies of the Court watched him with sharp gazes, maids and guards were either hesitant to meet his gaze or watched over him with rousing suspicion.

Daemon could barely suppress his grin as he met their stares head-on with raised brows and dark eyes.

There was one thing he had to remember during his stay at the Keep - with Viserys bound to his bed and milk of the poppy poured down his throat in rivulets, he was without any allies in the Keep.

After Strong had burnt to ashes, Daemon was unsure of who led his Gold Cloaks now and was curious as to whether their loyalties had shifted alongside their leadership.

His mongrels were perhaps wastrels instead, eyes begging and hands postulated for any alms in the shape of golden coins.

Although there should be a few loyalists scattered around the Keep - he may not have been well liked, but he was brash and powerful, something that drew people in.

When Daemon returned to his chambers, he searched through his old belongings with renewed vigour. His muscles almost trembled as he pulled out clothing he hadn't seen in so long - too long has he spent in ornate robes and simple tunics. Too long has he gone without the needed release he found in the wiles of a well-earned fight.

Too long.

He stripped with ease, a sense of relief washing over him as the waning material of the tunics Rhaenyra loved so much fell from his scarred skin and he slipped on his leather armour with ease.

With his sword attached at his side, Daemon left his room feeling more like the depraved and nefarious prince he had been all those years ago.

This time he could not help his grin - big and broad and terrifying to all who glanced his way.

This was the rogue prince - no longer was he an ornament for the Heir to parade, no longer was he a dysfunctional and futile man.

No. He was a dragon.

And it was time he returned to the sky and wreaked havoc upon all those who would dare look down on him.

***

Daemon stood under an archway, arms folded across his chest as he watched the scene unfold with amusement.

Upon the training grounds, engaged in a vicious bout of training, was none other than his harrowing nephew and sultry niece.

Aegon watched his brother and sister in amusement, an array of cakes and fruits and wines laid upon a table near him as though he had beckoned them solely for the purpose of watching his siblings fight as a form of entertainment. He seated himself at the edge of the training grounds, unable to control his laughter or his brutal glee.

He would jeer when Aemond aimed too close to Alaynha's delicate face, cackle with glee when she would trip the boy and throw food at the pair when they would become so distracted in passing taunts they forgot to exchange blows instead.

Daemon was impressed by the skill of the girl - out-manouvering her brother with ease. She met blow for blow, with just as much force behind her own hits as him. She doged every cut and met every slash with a brutal one of her own.

Not once did an ounce of blood drip to the ground in failure - she was skilled.

But he could not ignore the possibility Aemond had taken it easy upon her - with the weight of his glares from the previous night, the chances of Aemond willingly hurting his younger sister was close to naught.

Still, Daemon could not help but draw comparisons.

His first wife had been handy with a sword, but he had only ever heard rumours. And those rumours did nothing to gain her his favour, as although she was a fine swordswoman, she was dragonless and, therefore, useless in all the ways a Targaryen would require.

His second wife and third were fierce dragon-riders. Unafraid of the fire of a dragon and the heights they could scale.

But even they could not tell apart the hilt of a sword from the scales of a beast.

But here, before him, stood a challenge and a promise. A swordswoman and a dragon-rider.

Daemon could feel himself stiffen within his breeches at the sight of her panting form, the sweat upon her brow as she dodged every deathly blow and sweeped her brother's feet from beneath him.

As Aemond fell to the ground, she kicked his arm with vicious glee and the sword he held flew from his grasp. She aimed her sword at his throat, her own rising and falling with hurried pants as a gasping laugh escaped her in glee.

Aegon leapt up from his chair, loud claps and a boisterous laugh at his brother's fall.

Daemon had expected Aemond to grow angered at the humiliation - to spit insulting words and perhaps even show her just how placative he had been.

Instead, he smiled - and for once he looked like a young boy again, a shadow of the child who had half his sight stolen from him.

Aemond stood up with a proud smirk when she had relinquished her sword, a conceding nod as he praised her, "a fine swordswoman indeed. I see Cole has taught you well, jorrāelagon mandia (dear sister)."

"Criston has taught me very well indeed, lēkia (brother). I believe if I continue under his wing, kepa will have no choice but to let me join the Gold Cloaks."

Daemon straightened at the mention of the army he had trained as his own, and his body flushed with a pleasant warmth at the idea of Alaynha - so mischievous and small - killing and maiming vile men under the uniform he designed.

It was almost a sign of ownership.

As though she was his - his violent, little dragon.

Almost.

He entertained the prospect of taking over his Gold Cloaks once more - Viserys would accept in a heartbeat.

And if he did, Daemon would pick Alaynha as his protégée in an instant - perhaps he would give her private lessons on the art of mastering the sword, teach her to command the army in High Valyrian simply because such a sight would flood his body in arousal and have her torture men in his name so he could watch her covered in blood, gazing at him with those pleading eyes, begging for his approval.

Fuck.

But he held himself back from his spiralling thoughts - curiosity. This was simply curiosity, he admonished his traiterous thoughts.

He stood straighter, hand reaching down to adjust his hardened cock.

He cleared his throat before stepping away from his hiding space - although it was quite out in the open, he almost grinned when he saw his nephews stiffen at the sight of his approach.

"Kepus," her voice was light and airy, just as surprised as her brothers to see the man still in the Keep when his wife and children had already sailed away.

"You're still here."

"Ah, I am. Although, dare I say Zaldrītsos (little dragon), you almost seem disappointed."

Alaynha rolled her eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips, "of course not. I simply thought you would have sailed to Dragonstone with your wife and children."

"They must miss you dearly," Aemond drew closer as he spoke, "perhaps it is not too late to join them. I am sure your dragon will carry you fast and far."

"Ah, but why would I leave such great company for that of whom I've endured for years already." Daemon raised his brow in challenge, daring Aemond to suggest he leave his homeland once more.

He watched as Alaynha gazed between the two of them, her eyes then turning towards Aegon as she sighed in exasperation.

"Come, sister." Aegon consoled from his place, lounging upon a chair with a cup of wine filled to the brim, "let us flee before they bore us with their barbs and insults instead."

Alaynha snorted quietly, an amused grin upon her face as she rolled her eyes at her brother's antics - "might I suggest a better alternative?"

The brothers and Daemon stared at her in curiosity, "well, it seems our dear uncle is prepared for a fight. What better way to bond with the kin he refused to acknowledge than by sparring with them? Do you not agree, kepus?"

Daemon recalled the girl's words from yesterday, the spite that tainted her words as she rightly accused him of despising her family for their Hightower blood.

They were half-blooded Targaryens, barely dragons in his eyes.

But such things could not be true if he saw such a raging beast exist within her, as she was just as half-blooded as the rest of them.

Just as half-blooded as Rhaenyra's children.

But her birth, alongside that of her brothers and sister, had not been tainted by lies and an unsanctimonious vow.

"Mayhaps you are too scared, nuncle," it was Aegon who spoke with a broad grin, "my brother was trained by Ser Cole himself. You must remember the man - he told us the tale of how he knocked you off your horse. And your feet."

"Aegon," Alaynha lightly scolded the boy but could not hold back her own amused smile at his words - even Aemond had cracked a smirk.

Alaynha's eyes widened at the sound of a deep and rich laugh. She feared they had angered their uncle with their taunts and tales, but it only took a glance into the violent hues of Daemon Targaryen to see them swallowed whole by challenge and delight.

So long it had been since he had experienced such provocation, such defiance. A call of like to like as his blood sang with the call of a dragon.

Perhaps there was a kinship here, long denied by tainted blood and half-whispered promises.

"If my nephew is up for the challenge, I will not be the one to shy away."

Daemon tilted his head towards Aemond in recognition, hand placed upon the hilt of his sword as he awaited his answer.

Aemond, never one to turn down a challenge, agreed swiftly by turning his back to his uncle and making his way to the centre of the training grounds once more.

Daemon smirked at the show of confidence that rolled off the boy in tumultuous waves, but even he could not help the ounce of admiration echoing in his mind - had this been Jace or even Luke, they would have quaked and trembled at his presence.

And yet, here was his brother's child - a second born son, a turbulent fire. Seething and wrathful.

The irony of such a thing did not beget him.

Daemon made his way towards Aemond, but a hand upon his wrist stopped him in his place. He glanced down to the delicate hand anchoring him, eyes travelling up the soft skin glowing with a sheen of sweat from a harrowing sword fight, to meet the gentle eyes of a girl much too complex and secretive for him to decipher her with ease.

"Do take it easy upon him."

Her words were spoken pleadingly, as though this was not her idea. It seemed she could hear the words ringing in his head, and she sighed quietly as she continued, "although he may not admit it, he admires you. Truly so. You told me you wanted to know me. Well, know I love my brothers, and I cannot see them hurt - even in jest."

Now, here was a thing Daemon could empathise with. Here was a thing Daemon saw in himself.

He loved his brother, wholly and true. He would conquer worlds in his brother's name, and cut himself upon his own sword if Viserys had asked.

He knew the love one had for their brother, and he could see it shining in her eyes.

Still, Daemon was never one to let an opportunity to tease and test pass without falter - "and what will you give me in return for such a favour?"

She raised her brow in surprise, as though she couldn't believe he was asking such a thing in exchange for a measly request. Still she rolled her eyes and conceeded, "anything."

And such words were the truth.

"Do not spill a drop of blood, and you shall have anything you ask of me, Daemon."

Daemon.

Daemon.

Fuck, she had called him Daemon.

A descending warmth filled Daemon's body at the sound of his name rolling off of her tongue - so familiar, so tempting, so erotic.

Call me Daemon. Say it again.

He was tempted to speak aloud and beg for it.

But he could see Aemond's impatient form and Aegon's restless agitation - "anything, you say? It seems we have ourselves a bargain, zaldrītsos."

***

If this was what he believed was taking it easy, Daemon would be sorely disappointed when it came to asking for Alaynha's favour.

Although, she did have to say - her brother held his own quite well against the battle-worn soldier they knew Daemon to be. She swore upon the Seven she even heard the boy allow a careless laugh to escape his lips as he lost himself in the flurry of lunges and blows they exchanged.

Alaynha couldn't help the soft smile that stretched upon her lips as she watched the pair. Still, she was on edge - whether it was from distrust, enjoyment, or fervent kinship, their fight grew more brutal.

Less and less were there moments of deflecting and blocking and feinting. Every stab and every slash was made to leave a mark.

And still, in place of tension and worry upon the training grounds, there was a growing fever of gratification bubbling in the air - as though this was the challenge they had been waiting for all this time, pushing themselves to the brink of exhaustion to relieve themselves of anger and worry and misery.

This is what they had been missing.

And the realisation only made them fight harder.

"Do try and beat him, little brother," called out Aegon from the sidelines. He stood now, leaning against the back of the chair as he spoke out words of encouragement disguised as mocking jeers.

Alaynha sat upon the chair, reaching back to slap Aegon lightly upon the shoulder. He only huffed in her ear instead, "what? I am being encouraging."

"You are being a nuisance."

"Ah," he grinned blearily, "when am I ever not."

She snorted, "when you a too drunk to raise your head and bat your eyes rōva lēkia (big brother)."

"Oh, but a day in the shoes of a forgotten Prince would have you do the same byka rūklon (little flower)."

She smiled sadly, leaning back so her head rested against his arms - "at least you have your wine," she jested.

"And my whores."

His voice lowered an octave, whispering so dramatically in her ears that she couldn't help the laughter that escaped her in a bubbling concession.

Her laugh was bright and loud and echoed across the grounds. So captivating Daemon felt his heart almost stutter to a pause as he raised his sword, ready to meet a vicious blow from his newphew.

His head turned, as though his body had a mind of its own and his mind clouded with thoughts. Thoughts and ideas and wishes and curiosity.

Just a glimpse.

Just a second.

Instead, he felt his face burn as his sword missed Aemond's by inches, and his hardened slash met Daemon's cheek with vigour.

Daemon hissed, head twisting to the side as blood dribbled from the wound and pooled at the corner of his mouth as a surprised laugh escaped him.

"Aemond!" Alaynha spoke out in admonishment, even Aegon had held his breath for a second.

Daemon tutted, "my mistake, I believe. One should never let their gaze stray from their opponent."

Aemond stared at the man with a gaze so similar to the young boy who had his sight taken from him, almost hesitant to breathe in his presence now.

"Do not tell me you give up now?" Daemon grinned at the boy, eyes simmering with the fire of a dragon, heart beating as adrenaline pumped through him and excitement singed his veins, "come on, nephew. I thought you were better than this."

His words caused a spark to glimmer in Aemond's eyes before a roaring fire was set alight, he raised his sword for another hit, which Daemon met with a fierce one of his own.

Where Aemond parried Daemon's every strike with rigid eloquence, Daemon would meet his with vicious victory - steel clashing against each other as neither was willing to submit.

Alaynha sat straight upon her chair, spine stiffened as her fingers twisted in the material of her own leathers. Aegon's hand came to rest at her shoulder, squeezing in comfort as they watched the two battle out years of anguish and anger upon one another.

Daemon continued thrusting his sword forward, Aemond dancing around him and evading every lunge and throwing back fierce blows as his own sword sliced through the air.

It only took a single second- a breath.

Their swords clashed against one another, and all kindness and civility washed away in face of pure rage and animosity.

Daemon was still Rhaenyra's husband. He still hated the Hightowers. He would rather see Otto and Alicent dead than near the King.

Aemond was a Hightower bastard. A second son only by Otto's manipulations and ploys. He would rather see Rhaenyra dead and sit upon the throne himself.

Teeth gritted and growls escaped their lips as they waited for the other to yield - but neither dared.

A glint of light caught Daemon's attention, and he watched over Aemond's shoulder as Alaynha drew closer in distress.

It seemed Aemond could also hear her approaching footsteps, and the sound caused his eyes to flash and simmer with recognition before the anger, which rolled off of him in flames, settled to a kindling fire as he nodded in ascent.

Almost a show of acknowledgement, a performance of respect.

Daemon smirked, his own head nodding as he reluctantly relieved his sword of the force placed upon it.

They each stood back, shoulders rolling and necks twisting as they came to a stalemate.

Aemond had gotten a blow, had hurt Daemon, and made him bleed. But Daemon had promised to take it easy upon the boy, so truly by what means did the boy succeed.

"You idiots. The lot of you," Alaynha scolded as she reached their side, "what if you had hurt each other? More than you already have."

She glanced between them worried, her eyes falling upon the gash across Daemon's cheek that had crusted and dried but still twinged with pain when his lips stretched into a placating grin - "last I recall, this had been your suggestion."

"Mm, he is right, sister. You cannot fault us for adhering to your orders."

Alaynha's lips parted in disbelief at Aemond's words as she turned to his in faux betrayal, "are you taking his side over mine?"

Aemond smirked at the pout upon her lips, "try as I might, I fear no one holds my loyalties more than you, jorrāelagon mandia."

She hummed, eyeing him in exaggerated suspicion before a grin broke out on her face, "good."

Aegon drew closer upon Aemond's seeing side, clapping his brother on the shoulder and shaking him for good measure, "I believe the Hightowers have won this battle. Do not fret, nuncle. I am sure you will win something, some day."

"Aegon!" She could drag her hands down in exasperation, wondering why her brothers were so desperate to test and mock their uncle until he had enough and unleashed his wrath.

Before she could correct Aegon any further, Daemon drew closer and it did not go unnoticed by anyone how Aegon seemed to shrink behind Aemond, as the younger brother inched in front of the older.

Despite being the younger, one thing was certain - Aemond did not see an heir in Rhaenyra but in his brother and in himself. He may never get the crown, but Aegon could - and Aemond would do all he could to protect the Heir. To protect his brother.

Daemon simply tutted at the action, reaching over Aemond's shoulder to ruffle the shorter boy's hair as he squawked with indignation.

"Do not fault the boy, Zaldrītsos. He only defends his brother's honour - it is what Viserys would have done for me."

Aegon's face heated up at the words, flushing warm as he almost preened under his nuncle's praise, like a child. Perhaps he had already drank too much wine - yes, that must be why.

He escaped his nuncle's petting at the sound of Alaynha's quiet laugh and Aemond's shaking shoulders. He blew a huff of breath so the strands of hair that fell over his face would leave his vision free.

"I am not. I'm just mocking you."

"Ah, of course." Daemon consoled with a teasing grin, words much too enunciated to be well and true, "do forgive me, my Prince."

Aegon rolled his eyes, easily catching on to Daemon's own mocking tone and mumbled under his breath as he stepped away.

Aemond stepped back to follow him, "come sister, we promised mother we would dine with her for supper."

Alaynha hesitated for a moment, a soft frown upon her lips as she gazed at her uncle with gentle eyes. She bit her lip in contemplation, and Daemon found he could not tear his gaze away.

"I shall see you there, I fear Daemon's wound may need some tending."

There it was again, his name - so tantalising, the sound, as it dripped from her tongue.

"Then let the maester deal with him," Aemond spoke in annoyance.

"The maester has much more urgent dealings. It is a simple wound, I shall treat him and join you."

Aemond opened his mouth, ready to protest that if it truly was such a simple wound, Daemon should be able to treat it well himself. But his sister looked at him pleadingly, and he simply pursed his lips and nodded in ascent.

As he turned away, Alaynha hesitated for a second longer before stepping forward and calling out to him - "please let muña know Daemon will be joining us."

She watched Aemond's shoulders stiffen at the order, but knew her brother would never argue with her over such a small and measly thing. He once again nodded his head, waiting for Aegon to swipe his jug of wine before they made their way to their mother's chambers.

Alaynha turned in the opposite direction, only passing a glance over her shoulder to meet Daemon's intense gaze - "come."

***

Daemon sat upon the Princess' bed, his body rigid and tense as he watched her move and gather items scattered across the room.

Whilst Daemon remained in his leathers, she had changed into something much more akin to that of a princess.

Daemon had almost prayed to the Seven to stop his aching thoughts and traiterous body, the temptation to walk behind the dressing screen and see her bare body tremble beneath his gaze.

He had held off long enough, growing hard and stiff beneath his breeches as the dressing screen was almost transparent and gave way to the very shape of the girl hidden behind mounds of fabric.

The gown she wore now was simple, but the material itself was still expensive - a soft satin, perhaps even silk.

As she drew towards him, Daemon couldn't help but part his legs open, ready for her to slot herself between them. She cleared her throat quietly as she stepped in the gap he had made, placing her gathered items next to him upon the bed.

He looked up at her, unable to stop himself from admiring the soft planes of her face, her sharp jaw, her full cheeks, the blush that stained her lips, the eyes that almost gleamed in the light of a setting sun.

When Alaynha peered down to meet his gaze, a damp cloth held in her hand, her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of it, eyes welling with infatuation.

Curiosity, he corrected.

She blinked vigorously, eyelashes fluttering furiously as her hand almost trembled when she took a hold of his face. Her skin felt soft against his flesh, dragging from his hollowed cheeks to rest upon his angled jaw and tilt his fierce gaze away from her own that was growing timid and shy.

The one holding the damp cloth dipped the fabric in a small bowl of warm water, reaching up to brush softly against his gash. Daemon held back a wince, but she could feel the way his jaw flexed in her grasp as he clenched his teeth in pain.

"Sorry," she whispered into the quiet between them.

"You should be." Daemon had meant to mumble the words quietly, but she had heard them all the same.

She frowned at the silent accusation, "excuse me? I do not need to help you. I could always call the maester if you prefer."

Daemon sighed, eyes closing as he realised he had spoken his words much too loud, "I only meant, I would not have gotten this injury was it not for you."

Her head twisted in confusion, stopping her ministrations of cleaning Daemon's gash so she could tap him lightly upon the cheek to gain his attention.

His eyes opened immediately, meeting her questioning gaze as he let out a breath in a huff of amusement, "if it wasn't for that pretty laugh of yours, perhaps I wouldn't have gotten distracted enough to allow my tempered nephew to land a blow."

Her face flushed deeply at his words, eyes rolling as a scoff spilt past her lips, "all I hear are some silly excuses, kepus."

"If it were up to me, I would lock you in my chambers and leave you there, needy and willing, so you never laugh alongside another man again."

He couldn't help the jealousy that tainted his words, couldn't help but tease and test her boundaries once more.

Her hands trembled in truth now as she picked up a small bowl of ointment, dotting it over the gash with a soft touch.

"You speak out of turn, uncle," but her voice still shook under his burning gaze.

"And you do not speak enough. Perhaps you worry of all the others who have been in my chambers, locked away just as I wish you were."

"Perhaps you grow too confident in your own charms and wiles," she sniped as she rubbed the ointment in with care.

"Perhaps."

There was a beat of silence, but his eyes never left hers. Even as she collected her balms and ointments, holding them close to her chest, he watched her.

And when she was ready to step away, he held her waist and pulled her close. Her breath caught in her throat and he simply waited.

Alaynha knew what he waited for, knew what he sought.

She also knew she could not give him such a thing, not when he was wed to her sister - not when he already had a child on the way.

"I am not one of your whores."

"I would never wish you to be."

His voice was earnest, stubborn.

Curiosity, he justified.

She sighed, her hand resting upon his injured cheek and gently rubbing circles upon his skin as his eyes closed as the sensation, her voice was almost a whisper, "my mother must be waiting for us."

And with that she stepped away, and Daemon's hands fell into his lap.

In that moment, Daemon truly did send a prayer to the Seven and begged them to bless him with morals and strength for even he knew his curiosity was giving way to darker desires he would soon be unable to ignore.

An infatuation grew within him. A simmering and burning and aching infatuation- obsession.

If you guys made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed the long read! Thank you to everyone who has engaged with this story by liking, reblogging, and commenting!! I promise to try and update this series more regularly <3

Taglist: @kelssssxd @esquivelbianca @chynagirl13 @luanasrta @kemillyfreitas @americanprometheuss @clarap23 @pet1t3 @your-favorite-god @hypocritic-trash-baby @esquivelbianca @serving-targaryen-realness @toji-girl @queenmendes @the-lil-spud

#daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x targaryen!reader #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen fluff #daemon targaryen fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd smut #hotd fandom #hotd fanfic #hotd #house of the dragon #dragon of dorne #hotd x oc #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #fluff

[vibratingskull]

Hello! 👋 I have a request if you don't mind. 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 Thrawn x f!reader reunion sex. F!reader was with Morgan, Bylan, Shin, and Sabine in finding Thrawn cause that's her man and she misses him and when they reunite, they have passionate alone time together 😏

Mmmmmmmmh 😋 smexy times with Thrawn, you have such good tastes anon. Plus Lars interpretation is DOING THINGS to me 😩🥵

Thrawnxf!reader

tag : reunion sex, cunnilingus, p in v sex, she/her reader and a bit of fluff

“What was first just a dream has become a frightening reality for those who may oppose us.” He casually says, closing the gap between him and the group with his signature smirk.

You straighten your back, gulping, your heart beating at 100 miles per hour.

Finally.

After ten years.

You can see him in all his glory.

Thrawn…

Your heart screams to throw yourself at him, everyone be damned, but it is a bad idea. None of them are aware of your relationship with Thrawn, you took great care in hiding that from them. This info is too sensitive to be known by anyone. Morgan would have tried to get rid of you if she knew, her thirst for power and glory pushing her to follow and obey Thrawn in all matters, but she’s not without deviances and you don’t trust her enough, Thrawn didn’t trust her enough either to reveal your relationship to her back in the Empire.

But you, you know her.

She always struck you as an odd choice for Thrawn to take as a protégé… She always lacked the genius he saw in Vanto and Faro, maybe it’s her undying loyalty that resembles obsession that pleased him? You doubt it. He surely only took her under his wings to know more about the Force and fight the jedis more efficiently.

“Great mothers, I salute you. Soon we should all escape this exile thanks to the help of Morgan Elsbeth.”

Oh that voice… so soft and melodic like in your memories. How much you yearned to hear it again. It makes you want to run into his arms and hug him tightly, to jump in his embrace and kiss him deeply.

But that would be stupidly dangerous. Elsbeth is too savage and you don’t feel those… Great Mothers. Something tells you they are the kind to exploit any weakness.

The discussion continues while your eyes remain on your man, your treasure, your cha’cah… He’s old. He seems tired and weary, his uniform is patched up. The weight of years really makes itself felt despite his haughty demeanor.

But to you he’s never been so handsome.

Nothing could compare to him and the moment of your reunion.

This instant is magic, timeless.  A fairy tale. You feel light bubbles in your stomach. But you have one lingering fear…

“And you are?” he asks Baylan, clasping his hand behind his back as you remember him doing.

“Mercenaries” Morgan explains “Baylan Skoll, and his apprentice Shin Hati.” She presents them, they bow lightly to him, remaining humble. “And (Y/n)(F/n), but I think you already know her.” 

You take a step forward and bow respectfully to him, a sour taste in your mouth. What if his sentiment faded during this ten years exile? What if he found comfort in the arms of one of his stormtroopers? What if you’re just too old for him now?

You look into his eyes as you raise back your head, he glares back at you with a light grin.

“I do remember. We used to work closely to defeat the enemy of the Empire together.”

“Indeed, Grand Admiral.” You nod humbly.

Oh to be close, you were close. As close as you can be. He takes his time to gauge you up and down with his little grin before turning back to Baylan.

“Then you must be General Baylan Skoll, of the Jedi order.”

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

You're fidgeting your fingers, laying on the bed. 

You can’t sleep. 

You’re well awake under the covers, eyes fixated on the stone ceiling of the cold room, mulling over your situation.

You find him! A hunt of ten years just ended, and you hoped for… more? Just after finishing the presentations Thrawn and Morgan locked themself in a room to strategize your next moves. Baylan, Shin and you were left arms dangling without anything to do. You tried to access the Chimaera to visit your old room but the captain, Enoch, stopped you and escorted you back to the stone citadel without a word.

You’re not welcome in the Chimaera anymore it seems.

Are your fears correct?

Did he find someone else?

You sigh deeply, turning in the cover again.You try not to think too much about it, you wished you could ask him for an explanation but each time you tried to enter the room a soldier stopped you. And you don’t think he would have appreciated to be disturbed in his brainstorming session for heart matters.

You bite your lips, feeling tears building behind your eyes. Even after ten years that still hurts like hell. You hoped for an explosive reunion, but you got a nod and a grin before getting ignored and relegated to a goon status. If only you could just cross path with him in the corridors, just one discussion to clear the air and know your situation for certain, if only-

You hear knocks at your door.

You raise your head. It’s almost 3am, who would come at this hour?

“Coming!” You shout, praying for it not to be Enoch with bad news.

You open your door to Thrawn, hands behind his back, and a serious gaze.

“Oh…” That’s all you can say, you thought he was already sleeping.

Apparently the session with Morgan only ended moments ago.

“May I enter?” he politely asks.

You step to the side, signaling him your permission. He enters slowly, like he’s discovering the room. You close the door and cross your arms, as much to protect you from the cold than to protect yourself from what he could throw at you.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, a little anxious.

He spins on himself, turning to you.

“Nothing is wrong, dear. Nothing has ever been this brighter in ten years.”

You smile a bit, nodding.

“Yeah, I guess finally seeing your rescue group must lift a heavy weight off your shoulders.”

“It is true. But I was not referring to that.” he counters. “Approach.”

You tilt your head, walking toward him. He extends his hand to you and you take it, wondering what he wants. He inspects your left hand and a smile graces his lips.

“You are still wearing your wedding ring.” you think you hear some relief in his tone but you can’t be sure.

“Yes. I kept it for all those years.” you admit.

“Does it still have value in your eyes?” he asks suddenly.

“What do you mean?” you frown.

“Your ring. Does it still hold any meaning to your heart?” he demands with gleaming eyes.

After a hesitation you nod.

“Yes. Yes it does.”

He looks into your eyes, as to see if you were lying and sighs of relief.

“You ease my heart.” he takes his left hand from behind his back into your hand, revealing his own ring “I kept mine too. It reminded me of you everyday.” He kisses your hand reverently.

You observe his ring on his finger, feeling your heart dilating with relief. 

He didn’t forget you…

“Thank Maker.” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Cha’cah.” you reopen your eyes, feeling his warm palms on your cheek “I am blissful to see you. I missed you terribly.”

“I missed you too.” you throw yourself in his arms, circling him tightly.

He squeezes you against his heart, kissing the top of your head.

“I am here, cha’cah. And I am not going anywhere this time.”

You raise your gaze to meet his, full of hope.

“You promise?” you hear your voice crack “I already lost you once, I won’t survive losing you a second time.”

“I promise cha’cah. From now on we will remain together, fight together, rule together…” he tries to appease you.

“I don’t care about ruling anybody, it’s you that I want!” You bury yourself against him, digging your nails in the fabric of his white uniform like he would evaporate. You don’t care about any powers, all you came here for is to bring him home, you will think about power after.

“You are right as always. I am sorry. This is the most important.” He murmurs as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling your scent.

He looms over you with his height, shielding you with his large shoulders. You start hearing a faint purr as he breathes in your musk.

“You smell lovely.” he finally says after a minute of silence.

“Yeah right!” you giggle “I’m sweaty and there aren't any showers here.”

“Well it is lovely nonetheless.” He inhales again with a growl of satisfaction “It is doing things to me…” he sighs deeply satisfied.

He starts kissing your exposed neck as you chuckle.

“Doing things to you? What happened to my unshakable Grand Admiral?”

“Maybe the unshakable Grand Admiral would like to revel in your delights.” he says lowly, pushing you gently against a wall.

You’re pressed between the cold stone and the large wall that is his chest, he kisses your neck, your jaw, stops to devour you with his red gaze and finally kisses your lips. You close your eyes to savor it, opening your mouth to let him enter. His tongue passes past your lips to hug and dance with yours. You  moan against his soft lips, indulging yourself in the languorous kiss. His purr grows louder, a hand in your hair to press your lips against his, his other hand snakes its way in your back to pull your body against his. You circle his shoulders with your arm, a hand passing in his hair, dishevelling him. The kiss became heavy and feverish, his hands sliding under your shirt, caressing your bare skin with his warm palm. You part with him to start unbuttoning his jacket with haste, barely containing your desire to simply tear it apart to gain access to his body. Thrawn chuckles darkly.

“I do not remember you so hasty.”

“We didn’t have 10 years to compensate.” you counter, you wince because a stupid button refuses to open.

He kisses your forehead tenderly and opens it for you, taking his sweet time deliberately. 

“I don’t wanna play tonight.” you say between a plea and an order.

“You are right, this is cruel of me.”

He finishes to open his jacket at a more acceptable pace and take it off, leaving himself in his signature black tank top.

“Maker, your taste in fashion hasn't evolved in ten years.” you giggle.

He sighs and tackles your feet. You yelp in surprise, losing your balance but he catches you with expert hands and carries you bridal style to your basic bed. He lays you down, looming over you like a predator and kisses you again, pulling your shirt over your breast and sliding your bra under it to expose your sensitive tits. He lapps them avidly, licks across the mount and sucks them like he would gulp down a treat, groping them with his large warm hands. You whimper and arch your back under his ministrations, how right does it feel to feel him on you again…

He kisses your tit and passes to the other, giving it the same treatment while massaging the first one. Your breath gets stuck in your throat and you feel your pussy starting to leak with your slick and soaking your undergarment. You want his lips and hands everywhere on you at the same time, you want to feel the weight of his body on yours, pining you into place, you want him deep inside you.

“Hurry… Please hurry…” you whimper as his tongue works on your nipple.

“No.'' He berates you gently “I have been deprived of you for so long, let me enjoy it as I please.” He slowly trails his way down your stomach with his tongue, leaving a trail of fresh saliva from your breast to your tummy. He reaches the hem of your pants and takes a good lick at your venus mons with the flat of his tongue. He kisses it swiftly and opens your pants with deft hands.

“First, let me indulge myself in my favorite treat.” he says with a short breath, a rare visible sign of his excitement.

You try to raise your bust on your elbow to have a better view when he slides your panties to the side to gain access to your wet cunny. He blows on it lightly, letting the cold hair hit your sensitive bud. You whine, your pussy demanding attention urgently. He chuckles and kisses your pussy lips before taking a fat sloppy lick with the flat of his tongue. You throw your head backward with a moan as he licks and laps you thoroughly, he focuses on your clit, sucking it and flicking his tongue, giving it extra intention, eating you out as good as you remember him doing. Maker, in ten years he didn’t lose his touch, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. He looks straight into your eyes as he does it, unashamed, growling like a carnivore feasting on its prey. You inadvertently squeeze his head in the spasm of your thighs, his large hands come part them wide open to give him better access. You flush deeply, taking shallow breath you feel yourself trembling terribly as pleasure waves spread through your veins. He continues to tease you like a hungry man, unbothered by your trembling limbs locking his head in its place. The waves grow furious and you come on his face. You let yourself fall on the mattress, tired and ashamed.

“I’m sorry…” you whine between two gasps.

“Never apologize for that. It is exactly what I wanted and you delivered splendidly.” he purrs, working his tongue on your fold. Drinking your slick, he parts your folds and enters you and tonguefuck you thoroughly, darting and caressing your gummy spot so deliciously.

You didn’t know any other man during those ten years, you stayed faithful to him and rarely took the matter in your own hands because you were so busy working to get him back. Those ten years of abstinence got you so sensitive that one orgasm already took a toll on your delicate pussy. You grip his hair and face, trying to pull him off you but he doesn’t budge, remaining firmly in place.

“Thrawn… please…” you try.

“That is it. Call my name cha’cah, do not hesitate to scream it as you cum.” he coos, his swollen lips working on yours all puffy and soft.

You try to wiggle out of his grip but he holds down your hips firmly with a growl of disapprobation, warning you to never deprive him of your cunny. He purposely makes the most obscenes sounds to get you hot and bothered, to let you know that it is because of you he behaves like a rabid animal in heat, that he tossed both of your dignities to indulge in the sinful pleasures of the flesh. You moan under his skillful tongue, you are hypersensitive and already sore, how could you take another orgasm without shattering in a million pieces? Your pussy clench painfully over his tongue, you feel your muscles gorging themself with hot blood and puffing up.

“I missed that pussy.” He groans “You have no idea how much. Ten years without it was torture.”

“It… It wasn’t funny without you either.” you breathe.

“We will make up for it tonight, cha’cah. Do not worry about that.”

Oh you don’t worry about that, you worry about your spasming cunt. You feel your heart beating at max speed, ready to spring out of your ribcage. You feel your own blood beat furiously down in your core.

You come again, a powerful orgasm that tenses up all your muscles. You squirt in his mouth as you land on the mattress with a “oof”.

“Prodigious, cha’cah! You have done it!” He praises you, you can hear the warmth and the satisfaction in his voice and deep purr as he licks his lips hungrily. Thrawn adorns a smug smirk of making you cum two times. He kisses your clit and looms over you again, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He places himself between your legs, raising up on his knees to take off his shirt and open his pants.  You wearily push yourself in a sitting position to get rid of all your clothes sticky and full of sweat. You help him with his pants, seeing the bulge in the tight fabric. It must be painful for him, you think. He frees his erection and you take it in your hand, stroking it lazily and kissing its head. You lick his blue girth from the base to the tip, peppering kisses here and there. He inhales deeply, his head back, caressing your cheek. you take him in your mouth and circle his crown with your tongue. It is warm and heavy in your mouth, it makes you drool. You taste the saltiness of his pre-cum. You start bobbing your head when he gently pulls you off. You look at him without understanding, pouting like a child who just got denied a tasty candy.

“What you are doing with your mouth is delightful, cha’cah. But I want my cock inside your pussy as soon as possible.” He rasps.

You open your eyes wide.

In your pussy? No way.

You’re already so sore, he can’t be serious.

“Thrawn…” you whine “I can’t take another one…” 

He gently pushes you back on the mattress, following you with a smirk.

“Of course you can, cha’cah. You are a big girl, you can take it and more. I trust you.” he licks and kisses your neck, weighing heavy on your more petite figure. You feel so safe under his warm, hot body.

He circles your waist with his arms and rolls on the side, pulling you on top of him.

“Ride me, my love. Take control.” He instructs.

You feel his dick poking at the plumpness of your ass, hard as a rock. You cry, your legs are already trembling, you don’t know if you can even ride him properly. You sigh and tiredly raise from your laying position to grasp him and align him with your sex. You ease yourself slowly on him, opening your mouth round at the full sensation. 

Maker, he’s big! You forgot how much.

You’re stuffed to the brim, you can’t take more. His hands come caressing your waist to ease your muscles.

“You are doing great, cha’cah. Ride me as you please, what you want I will give.” He praises you. 

You rise up and go down slowly, letting your slick act as a lubricant and it’s hardly a luxury given his girth. You breathe deeply through your nose and continue to ride him slowly, making circling motion with your hips. He can reach every spot with ease, you feel his tip brushing your cervix, deep inside you. You moan his name pathetically, your legs are barely working and you have difficulty raising your own weight on his shaft.

“Maker, were you always so tight?” he gasps with gleaming eyes.

You ride him sloppily as best you can, with Thrawn seizing your waist to help your motion, caressing you with his thumbs. He starts rutting into you delicately, but you can feel his eagerness bubbling under his skin. Despite that he respects the pace you choose. 

When you reach the end of your rope you fall on him, gasping for air. He hugs you tight, kissing the top of your head while rutting deep inside you, one hand between your two bodies to caress your clit. You can’t move anymore, you really should work on your stamina, you think with a tired smile, letting him work. Your sore pussy is stretched to the max, your pussylips are all swollen and your abused clit is all puffy and nervous. You feel your inner muscle working to welcome his cock deep inside you, so much you feel waves in your stomach. His veiny shaft stretches you deliciously. 

“Can I take the lead?” He softly asks.

You nod with a mumble, exhausted.

He makes you roll swiftly, getting on top of you again and installs a breakneck pace all of the sudden. He knocks the air out of your lungs, hitting your cervix with ease.

“Ha! Thrawn!” You manage to speak between two powerful thrusts.

“Hold on to me, cha’cah.” He indicates, panting, pressing himself against you and merely suffocating you.

Your head hits the headboard repeatedly, as you hold on to Thrawn for dear life. The scent of sex and his musk makes your head spin and the obscene noises of flesh hitting flesh resonate in the bedroom in an obsessing fashion. You gasp and mewls and whimper and sob, digging your nails in his large shoulders, his imposing figure shielding you completely. You let your gaze travel south and see how his cock disappears inside your body, a creamy O at the base of his shaft.

He rolls his hips like a jackhammer, pushing you into the mattress like it was nothing. You fear the bed will break, it’s clearly not made to bear such activities. 

“It is so good, cha’cah. It is better than in my memories. Is it good for you too?” he asks, biting your lower lips.

“Yes, yes, yes…” you can only chant.

He plunges into you with force, at this point you’re more of a fleshlight he uses than an active participant. But you’re so exhausted, and the pleasure you feel is so great it stiffen your limbs, preventing you from moving. You feel your poor pussy getting abused, hit repeatedly by his mighty hips. 

Despite his age, he really still got it.

It transports you back in time, with your younger self making love all night long, with him nuzzling against you, begging for another round while you just layed barely moving from exhaustion. In some way it is still the same, your older self just lasted less time.

You feel your pussy clenching on his cock again, and you just know you completely soaked up the sheets. You feel your slick and his pre-cum leaking of your cunny, running along your tight ass.

He holds your cheek tenderly and kisses you feverishly, muffling your mewls with his soft lips. His tongue comes to hug yours, languidly.

You cry his name as you cum again, seeing stars behind your closed eyes, tensing around his dick like it is trying to hold it deep inside, he kisses your cheek, purring loudly, clearly satisfied by his work.

His hips start jerking and moving erratically until he freezes, completely contracted, spurting long hot ribbons of seed in you. Your pussy milks him dry for all his worth.

He peppers your face with kisses, as you try to get back your breath.

“Can I remain inside? I want to enjoy you as long as I can.” he whispers in your ear.

You slowly nod, repressing a yawn.

He slides on the side, hugging you tight. You snuggle against him, your head against his beating heart.

“It was grandiose, was it not, cha’cah?” he kisses your forehead “I could go for another round if you wish?”

 You hide your face in his chest with a pathetic whine.

“Alright.” He chuckles, “as you wish, my love." 

You remain silent for long minutes, only listening to each other breathing. You draw circle on his wide chest with the tip of your finger before taking the floor. 

"You're gonna find it stupid, but I was afraid you'd find someone else." You let out. 

"Nobody could have taken your place, you are unique in my heart." Thrawn whispers back. 

"Yet when Enoch refused me access to the Chimaera I thought our time was over." You turn your head to meet his gaze. 

His hand comes grazing your cheek. 

"I had to do… reforms to keep my troops alive. It was not against you. I will warn Enoch to give you free access to the ship first thing in the morning." He comforts you. 

You pull the cover a bit over the both of you, thinking.

"I don't like Morgan." you let out "I don't trust her."

"Me neither. But she is a necessary evil to my plans."

"Necessary to the point of isolating yourself with her for hours?"

He gives you a sidelong glance with a smirk.

"Did you become jealous during those ten years?" he asks, amused.

"Yes, terribly. I want to know what you do with her." you demand.

"We simply planned our next campaign. I would like your opinion on some moves tomorrow, I trust your strategic abilities more than hers." He boops your nose and you wince exaggeratedly.

You remember the long hours you used to spend together, strategizing carefully each move, he asked your advices regularly, taking your opinions and suggestions very seriously despite his genius. You ended up sleeping at your desk several time but he would carry you to your shared bed and hug you tight... Those were simpler, nicer times.

You smile, looking in his magnificent red eyes. 

"I love you, Thrawn." you murmur, eyes heavy with sleep. 

"I love you, Ch'acah." He kisses your forehead "Sleep well."

@thrawnalani @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @bluechiss

#thrawn x reader #thrawn x f!reader #thrawn x you #thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #mitth’raw’nuruodo #fanfic #vibratingskull #thrawn smut

[saradika]

DIN DJARIN - 2023 FIC RECS

this year has been filled with so many beautiful fics, I wanted to make a rec list to share & support everything I read. please check these out and support these creators, they are all incredible! 💖✨

— A Kind of Demon by @fettuccin-e

Kinktober Day 3: Monster AU | Incubus!Din Djarin

— A Rule Of Threes by @5oh5

after not celebrating your birthday for many years, din djarin makes sure this is one you'll never forget

— Betrayal by @againstacecilia

Bounty hunting, not a happy ending, feels.

— Brown Eyes by @mandoisapunk

Din comes back to Nevarro only to find his favorite soldier acting as an interim Marshall, and the reunion is everything he could’ve hoped for.

— Coming Home by @whataenginerd

Din has just arrived back at the Sundari palace after a long and boring diplomatic trip. 

— Consummating The Riduurok by @beskarandblasters

You just got married to Din in a large celebration on Mandalore. At the end of the night it’s time for one thing only; to consummate the marriage.

— Coporal by @pentechnics

Your new job is more or less a cinch; you’re the secretary to the COO of a big manufacturing company. Day in and day out you balance calendars, prepare morning coffee, and send a variety of emails. / But you also fantasize about your boss. In every which way. And it doesn’t take long to find out that his mind is just as filthy as yours.

— Denser Than Beskar by @floral-force

Your beskar-clad taxi pilot is an awkward man, and you decide it’s due to his limited social interactions. Under the armor, a nervous Din Djarin thinks his flirting and hints are obvious. Will he be able to share his feelings before you’re lost to the sands of Tatooine?

— Don't Hold Your Breath by @bits-and-babs

forced proximity smut

— Fear Not The Abyss by @psychedelic-ink

din initiates you into the cult.

— Forbidden Cravings by @inklore

stay in your room; that’s all you had to do. a simple demand that you planned on following until something goes bump in the night and you’re trapped between two monsters. | din x reader x bo-katan

— Hex Code by @bits-and-babs

given the task to hunt down an enchantress renowned for her deviancy, din fails to understand just how hard this mission will be to complete.

— Home by @beskarandblasters

A little drabble about domestic life with Din at his new house on Nevarro

— Home Is Where You're Mine by @/inklore

in nevarro you and din can finally breathe and spend your days christening every surface of your home.

— Ichor. Blood. Water. by @cherubispunk

stranded. alone. a traitor to your people, your family. aeaea is the prison of paradise you call home, and he is the prophecy you like to call an enigma. the ‘man made from metal’, forged in fire, melted by your spell that is no witchcraft on your part. he is the hunter, you will always be the prey. it is the way as the fates designed it.

— Keen by @/bits-and-babs

the child has been getting in the way of you and mando spending time together. after weeks without your touch, he’s finally reaching his limit.

— Love, Intertwined by @lowlights

Once upon a time...no, that’s not how your fairy tale goes. Din might have saved you that fateful day, but he was no knight in shining beskar armor. But the universe has a funny way of pushing people apart and bringing them back together again. 

— Love Is a Fire That Burns Unseen by @moonlight-prose

on your list of things that could possibly happen while bounty hunting with din, dying from hypothermia wasn’t included. nor was finally admitting the truth to yourself about your feelings.

— Misjudgments by @floral-force

Din Djarin reluctantly agrees to work with a partner on a hunt, and they turn out to be incredibly skilled in bounty hunting. They make him a nervous wreck, something that never happens to him. But, maybe there’s more to Din’s mixed emotions than he realizes…

— Never Break The Chain by @/moonlight-prose

years after you lost contact and parted ways, he comes back into your life. in the most drastic way possible. | jurassic park!au

— No Words Needed by @againstacecilia

“Din, can I ask you something?” / His helmet turns to look in your direction. / “What does cyare mean?”

— Of Brown Eyes and Desert Skies by @floral-force

When a new man storms into the saloon you work at, you're instantly terrified--and captivated. But as he lingers in town and stirs up trouble with every step, you question who the brown-eyed man is underneath the poncho, and if he really is just a bounty killer at his core.

— Of Shadows and Roses by @the-scandalorian

You're engaged in an illicit affair with your bodyguard.

— One Night Only by @mondaychildsworld

You and Din get down and dirty in a fancy hotel room in Coruscant.

— Pearl Rosary by @sweetercalypso

Priest of Mandalore!Din Djarin listens to your sins during confession

— Permission by @javier-pena

You belong to Paz … but there’s something about Din Djarin. He’s on your mind constantly. | din x reader x paz

— Petals by @mandelirious

“When did you know?” / “Ithor.”

— Potter!Din by @silksaddle

A collection of drabbles and oneshots that surround your life with Din, who works away in his pottery shed.

— Raising Cain by @hier--soir

at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission?

— Return The Favor by @galactic-basic

din and reader share a moment in their newfound quiet.

— Rite by @bits-and-babs

 Traditions form after Din removes the mask.

— Salt Water by @5oh5

din carries you in his mind, in his body, the way waves carry the salt of the sea: unforgettable, inextricable, forever.

— Still Of Your Hand by @/moonlight-prose

"din was always scared he would hurt you. always tentative to give into your desires of being taken apart roughly, because he was a gentle person when it came to you. his life revolved around violence, yet when it came to this—you—he was anything but that."

— Tales of the Heart by @lavendertales

Joining Din on his missions carried no expectations from either side. You simply provided him with medical assistance when needed and tended to the ship while he was gone and nothing else. / But several situations arose where you truly believed something might happen between you and Din.

— That's Not My Name by @theidiotwhowritesthings

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.” - Shakespeare

— The Art of Failing by @theidiotwhowritesthings

The Division of Mythological Affairs was created to protect and serve the supernatural community while keeping the knowledge of their existence a secret. / You hoped to become an Agent of the DMA like your mother before you. Just as your dream begins to fall apart at the seams, you stumble across a missing persons report that could change everything. | Werewolf!Joel Miller & Vampire!Din Djarin

— Unearthed by @grippingbeskar

you are the new leader of your planet, but you lack an army. lucky for you, a new king has also recently ascended the throne.

— Unseen Smile by @beecastle

It’s your first anniversary and Din wonders if he should take his helmet off

— Velvet Mand'alor by @outercrasis

State functions are boring - certainly there are better ways to occupy your time

— Woven In Stars by @ilovepedro

Instead of navigating the galaxies, Din is navigating his new home life with Grogu on the ourskirts of Nevarro. In doing so, he meets you - a seamstress in town. The two of you form a beautiful bond through helping him adjust to domesticity in his secluded cabin. Throughout the time you share together, the bond you have flourishes into something more that can no longer be contained.

— Your Heart Got Teeth by @/moonlight-prose

horny thoughts about din’s necklace.

if you haven’t read these, you need to! and please support these amazing fics & writers by reading, reblogging & commenting! 💕

#fan fic recs #fic recs #please support these creators! #din djarin x reader

[imakemywings]

Something Sleepless in Mirkwood

Fandom: The Hobbit

Relationship: Elrond/Thranduil

Summary: Thranduil is plagued by the shadow haunting Mirkwood Forest.

No - Thranduil is haunted by the War of the Last Alliance.

Or - Thranduil has succumbed to some new and unknown illness.

Whatever the problem is, Elrond must solve it quickly, for even immortal Elves may not have forever.

Length: 8.4k

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

"But there was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever; it would arise again."

-- Unfinished Tales, "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn", Appendix B: The Sindarin Princes of the Silvan Elves

Approx. 800 T.A.

            “How is the pain?”

            “I had never said there was pain.”

            Elrond exchanged a long look in silence with the king, who was seated on the long edge of a divan in the little room.

            “I had assumed, as you had asked for this, that there was pain,” said Elrond after the pause merely continued to lengthen.

            “It is manageable,” said Thranduil. Elrond exhaled quietly.

            “Niwë says you are having headaches,” he tried. “Is that so?” If Thranduil was annoyed with the queen for remarking on his health to Elrond, it did not show on his face. On that day, he was crowned with a wreath of ferns and other greens, spotted with little white flowers, possibly young larkspur. His robes were greenish-gray and accented with indigo.

            “Yes,” he admitted.

            “And how is the pain?”

            “Manageable.”

            Elrond tapped his pencil lightly against the parchment. A bag of instruments sat nearby on the small, thin-legged table.

            “Have you noticed any patterns?” he asked. “A time of day, something you were doing when the pain struck, any other accompanying symptoms?” Thranduil was silent, looking over at a frieze on the wall, which depicted a sun-dappled woodland clearing, and then at last he said:

            “No. But I have been beset with dreams.”

            “About—?”

            “Sometimes,” he said softly, still not looking at Elrond. “Sometimes not. But if I dream that way, then I will have a headache that day. Sometimes I wake with them.” There were few among them who did not still occasionally dream of Mordor and what they had seen and done there, but Elrond knew these thoughts to lay particularly heavy on Thranduil. The War of the Last Alliance had changed something in him, and Elrond was not sure it could be reversed. He scratched down some notes.

            “Can you tell me anything more?” Elrond asked, sitting back in his seat. Again, Thranduil was silent a long stretch, legs crossed neatly at the ankle in front of the divan, considering.

            “The orioles have not returned,” he observed at length, and Elrond suppressed another sigh.

            “For the spring, you mean?” he said.

            “Yes.”

            “A deviance in the migratory pattern?”

            “Yes. They were so deviated last year as well, but they returned before now.”

            “Are they very late?”

            “No. But they are late.”

            “It troubles you.” Elrond concluded the obvious.

            “I have seen more mice than usual,” said Thranduil, and Elrond summoned the most of his patience.

            “Perhaps they have had a bountiful year,” he suggested with a jovial note in his voice, trying to prod Thranduil to something more optimistic.

            “I did not say there were more mice, I said I have seen more mice.”

            “I’m not quite sure I see what the difference is,��� Elrond said, unable to keep a faint prick of irritation out of his tone. Thranduil could be so wretchedly roundabout when it came to speaking of himself or his concerns. Worse: he seemed to believe himself speaking with perfect clarity.

            “They are less cautious,” Thranduil elaborated. “They are frightened.”

            “Thranduil…” Elrond did not wish to say he was making a dragon out of a lizard, but his friend seemed far more prone to worrying since taking up his father’s crown, and the shadow of Mordor lingered on his mind. He set down his pencil. “Greenwood’s recovery has been difficult,” he said. “You could be forgiven for a measure of stress over it.” Greenwood’s losses had been, truthfully, crippling. It seemed to Elrond the kingdom would never recover to what it had been before the War of the Last Alliance, or at least not within this millennium. It was not an enviable time to be leading the Woodland Realm.

            Thranduil’s long fingers drummed against the seat of the divan.

            “Do you think the mice are troubled for Greenwood’s losses?” he asked.

            “I think you are troubled, and such unquietness of mind may spread into other things.”

            Thranduil’s fingers sped up, then stilled, and he said nothing more.

            “How are you sleeping?” Elrond prompted him.

            “Well enough,” Thranduil murmured. “But perhaps you should ask Niwë.” Elrond straightened up, sensing this audience had reached the limits of its use.

            “I would advise mindfulness,” said Elrond. “Make sure you are taking some time for yourself, Thranduil. It is too easy to become so absorbed in the business of management that one forgets to be a person. Remind Niwë of this also; she is single-minded enough to need it.”

            “You may remind her yourself at dinner, if you like.” Thranduil rose to his feet, a thoughtful distance still in his eyes. Then he said: “I expect it will rain for the morrow’s hunt. Be prepared.”

            “We could defer it,” Elrond pointed out.

            “I do not believe it will be heavy. Do the Elves of Imladris melt in the rain?”

            “No, but they may grow rather cross with those who have hauled them out into it for several hours,” Elrond said pointedly. A smile flickered on the solemn-faced king’s lips.

            “Ah, well, that I shall survive with little trouble,” he said. “The lord of Imladris has afore been cross with me.”

            “And never does it seem to deter you,” Elrond sighed, closing up his bag.

            “Now, that isn’t so. There are degrees of all things, my lord.” Thranduil gestured for Elrond to go first through the door.

            “If it clears, perhaps we will observe the orioles,” Elrond suggested, and Thranduil’s expression grew serious and distant once more.

            “Perhaps we may,” he said, and though he sounded doubtful, Elrond thought there was an undercurrent of hopefulness in his tone.

***

Approx. 1200 T.A.

“Are you still having headaches?”

            “Yes.”

            “More or fewer than before?”

            “More.”

            Thranduil was reclined on his side on the divan, but there was a stiffness in this seemingly relaxed posture. Elrond could not see as how this visit would reveal anything not already apparent to both of them, yet if it would quiet his friend’s mind, he was happy to do it.

            “And how is the pain?”

            “I have felt worse.” This was delivered in the kind of flat affectation that from Thranduil, might have been a jest, or might have been genuine, but was devoid of the twinkling of his eyes or the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth that might have once given the game away.

            “Better or worse than before?”

            “The same, I believe.”

            Elrond made a few notes, and then, feeling it could not be avoided, asked: “Do you still dream of Mordor?”

            Thranduil’s gaze turned distant.

            “Not much,” he said, and Elrond could not decide if he was telling the truth or not. He made a few more notes, and Thranduil swept off the divan, moving across the room to study the frieze of the woodland scene on the wall. “There is more fog in the woods than once there was.”

            “Thranduil…” Elrond did not wish to have to remark on the obvious.

            “Yes, Elrond?” The king turned to face him, the wooden beads around his neck clicking softly. Elrond parsed his words carefully.

            “When last we spoke in this way, we talked of stress on the mind,” he said. “And I would venture to say you are now under considerably more stress than before…”

            “And so?” Thranduil asked, his voice quivering on the edge of losing his temper. “You believe I have imagined these things?”

            “A troubled mind is a powerful force,” Elrond offered.

            “So these troubles I have invented for the forest, as I have not enough already?”

            “I only mean to say that your grief may be influencing—”

            “Now would you suggest I have created problems because—”

            “I did not say created—”

            “You believed me not before, why should I be surprised you believe me not now?” Thranduil snarled. “You know precisely what I think the problem is, but you care not.”

            “That isn’t fair,” said Elrond sharply. “That I disagree does not mean I care not. I am here because I care, Thranduil.” He softened his voice, but kept it firm. “Niwë’s loss was a tragedy for all Elfinesse. But it does not mean that some greater force is necessarily at work. Tragedies happen every day, and sometimes it comforts us to believe they were a part of something greater. But most often they are not. Sometimes death is just death.”

            “And sometimes it is not!” Thranduil exhaled heavily through his nose. Queen Niwë herself had volunteered for the mission that had cost her life, but as king Thranduil had given the final order, and he had never forgotten it, and two hundred years after her death still he felt its acid sting.

            “And in your grief it would be better that it were!” Elrond cried, rising to his feet. “But Thranduil, I tell you, it is not. I saw him cut down, with mine own eyes. He haunts us now no more than we allow.”

            Thranduil’s jaw was so tight Elrond could see the outline of the muscles.

            “So I invite my own suffering.”

            “That is not what I said.”

            “I say to you, Elrond, the forest is coming under shadow, and ‘tis a shadow which I recognize, if the rest of you are content to pretend you know it not.” There was something of the gravity of the king that entered his voice as he spoke these words.

            Elrond exhaled quietly.

            “There is no proof, Thranduil,” he said. “You ask Lady Galadriel to take quite a lot on your intuition.”

            “Galadriel would not heed my words even were there proof irrefutable.”

            “Speculation is worth little.” Elrond had small wish to rehash the bad blood between his mother-in-law and Thranduil. Thranduil was determined to dislike her and Galadriel disinclined to put effort into changing his mind. Fortunately, they saw each other very infrequently.

            “Something is not right. I can feel it,” said Thranduil. “But perhaps I imagine this as well.”

            “You cast my words in very bad faith,” Elrond replied.

            “Perhaps it is only unpleasant to hear them repeated to you.”

            “Perhaps I had hoped for more grace from a friend,” Elrond said, which silenced further jabs from Thranduil. With a quiet sigh, the king moved back over to the divan, resting a hand on the back of it, looking toward the door rather than at Elrond.

            “A great deal have I asked of you of late. Too much, I imagine. Your patience is not unappreciated.”

            “If there was ever a time to ask of one’s friends, it is now,” Elrond said. Thranduil’s state was not ideal, neither was it the catatonia he had been in after Niwë’s death. Elrond had been not unconcerned that Legolas was going to lose his father right on the heels of his mother. “I am glad to be able to help where I can. I know there is much I cannot heal,” Elrond added.

            “And how this must be a perpetual frustration to you.” Elrond frowned. Perhaps hearing this disapproval in the silence, Thranduil turned back to Elrond and said more gently: “Yours is a tender heart, Elrond. That is a good thing, if it does not always feel it.”

            “I am not convinced yours is otherwise,” Elrond replied.

            “A king can ill-afford such tenderness.”

            “Perhaps. Or perhaps the ability to empathize with his people is a benefit. A king well-beloved may be more effective.”

            “Then I have goals still to strive for.”

            Elrond relaxed, feeling the tension of earlier had passed, but also deciding he was not likely to get much further with this interview.

            “For now, perhaps a walk?” he suggested instead.

            “I never say no,” said Thranduil.

***

Approx. 2000 T.A.

There were shadows like bruises under Thranduil’s eyes; in the centuries since they had begun this, he seemed to have grown only wearier, and Elrond fretted.

            “Legolas seems well.” Speaking of their children was often easier.

            “It must have been difficult for you to see, but he was rather pleased that Elladan and Elrohir came with you,” said Thranduil, and Elrond could not restrain a laugh. Legolas’ exuberance could not be more different from his father’s reserve, nor had he much grown out of it with age.

            “They shall let it go to their heads, I’m sure,” Elrond said. “They are accustomed to being treated as children in Imladris. It delights them for someone else to be the baby of the household.” Grown his sons might be, but still near the youngest in the valley, and few of the older Elves let them forget it.

            “Does Arwen not count towards that?” Thranduil asked.

            “It’s all the same to everyone else. The twins have stopped reminding everyone they are older than her, though.” Although for many years, he was certain they had done it only to make Arwen sour.

            “You will let me know if Legolas pesters them too much.”

            “If he does, they can handle it. He deserves to be a bit of a bother,” said Elrond.

            “I am certain he would agree.” As Elrond had hoped, this line of conversation made Thranduil relax. “As a child, he was ever so jealous of them. He wanted a twin.”

            “I do recall some comments to that effect,” said Elrond, his lips twitching with amusement.

            “He said it was as being born with a bosom friend.” Elrond made the mistake of actually considering this, and his gaze went soft with recollection that threatened to carry him away from the present room.

            “I suppose he isn’t wrong,” he replied at last, his voice soft with an aching kind of fondness.

            “It would have been well to have even one other child for him to play with. But things are as they are,” Thranduil sighed. It was a lament Elrond had heard from him before. The fertility of the Woodland Realm had all but disappeared. Thranduil and Niwë had despaired for years of conceiving, and since Legolas’ birth, there had been no Elf babies born to Greenwood.

            “He seems to have grown into a fine young man,” Elrond reassured him. If his odd childhood had made for a lonely child, Legolas seemed little worse for the wear (and he had been doted on by positively every adult in proximity to him).

            “I may only hope. I doubt my judgment is much impartial.”

            They lapsed into a comfortable silence, which Elrond was content to let sit for a moment before turning to the purpose of this discussion.

            “Alas, we must turn to graver matters. Will you be cross if I suggest it seems you are sleeping poorly?” Elrond asked.

            “Cross with myself for not making a better secret of it,” Thranduil replied.

            “It does somewhat defeat the point of my efforts if you are disguising your symptoms from me,” Elrond said.

            “I enjoy giving you a challenge,” Thranduil said, propping himself more upright on the divan. The rings on his fingers were a mix of metal and wood polished to a gleaming shine.

            “That really isn’t necessary. I have quite enough of those,” said Elrond flatly. Thranduil waited a moment, enjoying his little annoyance, before his expression sobered further still and he answered the question.

            “It is the same as it ever was.”

            “Stagnation can be a problem of its own. Has anything worsened?” Elrond asked. There was something that shifted in Thranduil’s expression then and his eyes moved away from Elrond.

            “The strange appetite patterns are present still.”

            “And the joint pain?”

“Yes.”

“Is it very bad?”

“It is manageable.”

“May I?” Elrond asked, rising from his seat. Thranduil made a nod of accession and tilted his chin up, permitting Elrond to come near. Elrond ran his fingers up the sides of Thranduil’s neck and under his jaw. Earrings of delicate bird-bone dangled alongside his pale throat, swaying with Elrond’s manipulations; a carved wooden pendant festooned with geometric patterns rested on his breast. Elrond tilted Thranduil’s head from side-to-side and examined his eyes, staring deep into forest green spokes as dark as holly in the present light. “Would you let me—?”

“I see no need for that.”

“Infection—”

“We are more than a thousand years past that risk, I believe.”

“Scar tissue may present problems beyond the initial injury,” Elrond said.

Thranduil sighed, but conceded. The glamor that made a mirror of the left side of his face to the right fell away, revealing the mark of the War of Wrath. The skin around the left side of his face was warped and pink scarred where he had caught a glancing blow of a gout of dragon fire during the chaos at the end of the First Age. The left eye was milky with scar tissue and entirely sightless; the hair thinner around that side of his head; the left corner of his mouth twisted slightly; the ear misshapen.

Elrond examined the damage thoroughly, but caught nothing of concern. Thranduil sat perfectly still throughout; the extent of the burns meant he could not feel much of Elrond’s touch there.

“Well?”

“Everything seems normal,” said Elrond with a brief frown. Thranduil’s glamor melted back into place and once again his face was perfectly symmetrical.

Elrond went back over to the table and made a few notes in his notebook.

“Have you sleepwalked again?” he asked.  

“Yes.”

“Have you tried the meditation exercises?”

“Yes.”

“Do they help?” Elrond pressed.

“Not measurably.”

Another frown from Elrond. There was another solution, but he was reluctant to put it into Thranduil’s hands. He had not forgotten the king’s bottomless grief in the wake of his wife’s death and his willingness to do almost anything to make it end. Yet Thranduil was obviously in need of rest and distressed in a way that nothing else Elrond had done had alleviated. Perhaps emergency measures were warranted.

“Have you been talking with Alwamath?” he asked.

“Now and then,” Thranduil answered. Elrond had hoped that more frequent discussions with someone more present than Elrond could be might help alleviate Thranduil’s stress.

“How are your dreams?”

“Unpleasant. Lingering.”

Still, Elrond hesitated.

“Do they recall Mordor?” he asked.

“At times. But often, no,” said Thranduil.

“And what do you dream of when you do not dream of Mordor?”

Thranduil looked worn out. “Darkness. Decay. Rot. A slow withering,” he reported dutifully. “There is a…malignance. I feel it over me; it seems to cling, as if it seeks to follow me into the waking world.”

Asked Elrond: “Do you dream still of Legolas?”

“No, I have told you so. Why do you ask again?” Thranduil answered.

“I only wish to discern the troubles of your thoughts.”

Elrond tapped his pencil thoughtfully against the notebook. Thranduil’s anxiety for his son, which had spiked in the aftermath of Niwë’s death and persisted for years after, had long abated, yet the other troubles of his mind lingered. What did it mean?

In the end, he decided he had to trust at least in part in Thranduil’s judgment.

“This may help,” he said, retrieving a glass phial from his bag and placing it on the table. “But you must use it sparingly. And no more than three times a week. It should help give you some dreamless sleep, at least until your mind quiets.”

Thranduil picked up the phial and held it up to examine it.

“Please understand, I would not recommend this unless I believed it was absolutely necessary,” said Elrond. “As soon as it is no longer needed, I would beg you discard it or return the remnants to me.”

“Is it dangerous?” Thranduil asked curiously.

“It may be. One who grows overly accustomed to its use may find it impossible to sleep without it, and it takes great care to brew properly.”

“Do you believe the situation is so dire?” Thranduil lowered the phial and fixed those shadowed green eyes, still keen in spite of his state, on Elrond.

“I believe you need rest, and I have found no other way to give it to you,” said Elrond candidly. “The potion carries risk, but it exists to give aid where it is needed. I will leave written instructions as to its use.”

“Very well,” said the king, tucking the phial into the folds of his robes.

“Is there anything else you wanted to share?” Elrond asked.  He thought—for a moment—he thought he saw Thranduil hesitate.

“No.”

“As you wish.”

“Shall we go?”

“Give me a moment to put my things away,” Elrond said.

“Has your intra-house equine war subsided?” Thranduil asked as Elrond packed up his bag. Elrond could have scarcely looked more confused when he raised his head. “In your last letter, Erestor and Glorfindel were quarreling over the new foals,” Thranduil reminded him.

“Oh! Ha. Yes, that’s been sorted out, thank goodness.” Elrond shook his head.

“A leader’s duty never ceases.”

With a briefly annoyed set of his mouth, Elrond replied: “Somehow one expects it to be less like telling one’s children not to pull one another’s hair. “

“It isn’t always,” said Thranduil gravely. “Sometimes it is like telling one’s children not to eat ants.” Elrond laughed.

“I believe all kings and queens would benefit from first being parents,” he said.

“I believe they would benefit from gardening,” said Thranduil. Elrond smiled; he could have guessed Thranduil would think so.

“I wouldn’t disagree,” he said. “To learn to care for and nurture living things…it is important.”

“Imladris is fortunate to have such a learned lord in that respect,” Thranduil said.

“One does what one can,” said Elrond, his cheeks warming slightly.

“Not all do, though,” Thranduil corrected lightly. Elrond had nothing to say to that, and he allowed Thranduil to open the door for him; together, they left the little room.

***

Approx. 2500 T.A.

As soon as Elrond swung the door open, Thranduil rose from the divan. They both froze, deer listening for predators, and the open, nearly pained look on Thranduil’s face flayed Elrond to the bone at once, no matter how he told himself he was in control of himself. Celebrían would expect— Celebrían—

Thranduil moved, began to open his arms, and Elrond came to him at once, and without thought collapsed into his embrace. Thranduil pulled Elrond tightly against himself, as if he could draw him in away from all the hurts of the world. Elrond should have done better than to cry, but he could not.

“I’m sorry,” said Thranduil hoarsely. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Elrond could say nothing, his throat would not make the words; he only clutched at Thranduil’s robes and shed his tears. Thranduil’s hand pressed against the back of his head, and neither of them was sure how long they stood this way, united in a grief they had wished never to know.

***

Approx. 2700 T.A.

The shadows under Thranduil’s eyes seemed more pronounced than before, and at a glance, Elrond suspected he had lost weight.

“You needed not send a guard,” Elrond remarked as he set his bag down on the little wooden table.

“I disagree,” said Thranduil, and his voice came out muffled, as he was holding a bloody handkerchief against his nose. He drew the kerchief away and dabbed at his philtrum with a finger; finding nothing concerning, he put the handkerchief away and rose. He went to a carafe set on a folding table by the divan. There was fresh blood smeared and crusting around his nostrils. “Better to ensure your safety in my realm,” he said before Elrond could remark on the bloody nose, pouring them each a cup of wine from the carafe. Elrond took the cup from him without remark, swirling the drink and using the moment to study Thranduil.

“I brought more of the sleeping tonic,” he said. Thranduil waved a hand.

“Leave it, then,” he said, already as if this visit had taken a great deal of energy from him.

“Is it still helping?” Elrond asked.

“Less than it was before.” With an air of resignation, Thranduil took a seat on the long edge of the divan. “Let us proceed.”

Elrond set down his wine, took his seat, and picked up the pencil. “In one of your recent letters, you mentioned these…lost moments. I find this very concerning…could you tell me more about that?”

Thranduil took a drink and looked up at the ceiling and then said: “What is there to say? At times, I…it is almost like being asleep, except to have no control over when or where it happens and to feel drained rather than rested when one wakes…I have little awareness of how much time passes until I come back to myself. Nothing I do seems to improve or aggravate the situation. Wherever I am during these moments…I do not recall, but I feel that I must be somewhere…” He coughed hard into his sleeve and took another drink. “And I feel it is nowhere pleasant.”

“You have mentioned a malignant presence in some of your dreams…do you feel it in these moments also?”

“I do.”

Elrond questioned him at length on the subject, poking and prodding as he considered his duty, but uncovered nothing decisive. Moreover, Thranduil seemed keen to be done with the whole thing, which made his task no easier.

After a long silence where Elrond contemplated whether it was worth trying more questions, he observed: “You have said nothing about the forest.”

            “Do you know what I have heard recently?” Thranduil asked.

“What?”

“The Men nearby have taken to calling it Mirkwood.” Thranduil’s expression twisted briefly, displeased, but unable to mount much of an argument. He took another drink.

“That seems unnecessarily pejorative.”

“You have not said it is inaccurate.”

“Of course it is.”

“You are a poor liar,” Thranduil said.

Said Elrond: “I am not a liar.”

“Still poor.”

“I would have your observations, if you care to give them,” said Elrond.

“They are of little interest. Let us not linger on it.”

Elrond frowned. “It is important to you, which makes it important to me.”

            “If the details are so important, you are at liberty to examine any of our almanacs. Peruse my private journals if the desire so strikes you,” said Thranduil, helping himself to a refill of wine.

            “You do not wish to tell me?”

            “I do not believe it will be helpful.”

            “Yet you sent a guard for me, which you have not done before.”

            “Consider it an expression of my paranoia.”

“I did not say you were paranoid.”

“Celeborn did. And I think you agree.”

“Paranoia is not unfair for those of us who made it through the First and Second Ages,” said Elrond. “And I do believe he said it only as he believed you would not hear,” he added, vaguely annoyed that his father-in-law had helped make this task harder.

“Wise of him. Incorrect, however,” said Thranduil, leaning back on one hand on the divan, fingers curled elegantly around his cup. He looked ever so tired, despite the defiant tilt of his chin.

“Let us not speak of Celeborn now. How was your visit with Mithrandir?”

“Do you think I left something from my letter?”

Elrond shrugged. It was always a possibility, and rather he hoped to get a more honest answer in person, when Thranduil had less time to craft his words. Perhaps Thranduil spoke more willingly with Mithrandir about his concerns.

“At least he no longer comes bearing gifts for Legolas. It was hard enough to keep the rest of the kingdom from spoiling him without wizards bringing gifts.” But Thranduil was determined not to speak of what troubled him.

“He is rather odd, for a Maiar, isn’t he?” Elrond conceded to a more casual track of conversation.

“Odd indeed. Though I cannot claim to be acquainted with many Maiar.” This was true. Elrond knew that Thranduil had never chanced to speak directly with Melian the Maia nor her daughter.

“I suppose I cannot either. And yet he is not what I would expect.” Elrond would not count Sauron to be very representative of Maiar in general, not least when he had been trying to make nice and slide into Elven society for his own ends. Neither, thankfully, had Elrond ever spent much time with him. He had always gotten the sense Sauron disliked being around him.

Thranduil shook his head an agreement, and then said: “Perhaps he is related to you somehow.” Elrond’s shock must have been satisfying to Thranduil, for he almost smiled and then added: “Only a thought.”

“I do not believe Maiar are related that way,” said Elrond, but he did not sound very sure.

“Perhaps not,” Thranduil agreed.

“You only meant to put that idea in my head, didn’t you?” said Elrond with a sigh.

“Far be it from me to put any ideas in your head, o lord of Imladris.”

“Tch. I think you seek to do it quite regularly.”

“And how is that?”

Elrond lifted his chin, but averted his eyes, and the right corner of Thranduil’s mouth twitched into what was nearly a smirk.

“Naturally, I must be at fault here,” he said.

“You are more trouble than you let on,” Elrond accused.

“A king is above being trouble,” said Thranduil delicately, swirling the wine in his cup. Elrond snorted.

“A particularly bold position for a king whose palace is underground,” he said. Thranduil showed that almost-smile that betrayed his amusement.

The king then allowed Elrond to examine him physically, making him stretch and bend (his movements were stiff) and allow Elrond to feel and listen. Thranduil sat back on the divan when it was done, with Elrond frowning thoughtfully at him. It seemed to him that if he looked closely enough,  he could discern a difference between Thranduil’s natural eye and the glamoured one, though he could not say exactly what it was.

 A drop of blood slid from Thranduil’s left nostril and without thinking, Elrond took out his own handkerchief and pressed it there. For a moment Thranduil just looked at him in surprise, and Elrond felt abruptly he had crossed some boundary, but it still took a moment for Thranduil to press his hand over Elrond’s so they could exchange the handkerchief.

“Does that happen often?” Elrond asked, trying to return to the businesslike tone of a questioning healer. Thranduil considered the question for several moments.

“No, not often,” he said at last.

“It is a recent development though, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Thranduil. Elrond went over to the table to scribble down this information, debating over which column of his note sheet to which to add it.

“The sun will be down now—the balcony is uncovered for summer,” said Thranduil. “Spare a moment for the stars?” His tone was light, and Elrond found it hard not to acquiesce. “I shall find you a new handkerchief as well.”

“I should pack…” On this occasion, they had saved their interview for the end of his visit, “…but it can wait. Let us admire them a while.”

Thranduil winced a little as he rose to his feet, and seemed for a moment unsteady, before righting himself.

“I will feel better afterwards, I’m certain of it.”

***

Approx. 2800 T.A.

            “Thranduil, I am concerned.”

            “Is this unusual? A great many things concern you.”

            “You look very poorly. I can see you have lost more weight.”

            “I shall not take offense, owing to our long friendship,” Thranduil responded, turning over and over in his right hand a small, smooth stone.

            “Thranduil, please. I am speaking seriously.” Elrond frowned, folding his arms and facing the divan.

            “And I find it dull,” Thranduil replied, rubbing his thumb over the surface of the stone. There was a tremor in his hands.

            “The dwellings I passed on the way here with the guard were empty,” said Elrond.

            “Most of the people have moved themselves into the palace.”

            “The guard instructed us not to drink from the river,” said Elrond.

            “It has ill effects these days. Those who drink from it lose track of time and direction. We have found them wandering half-dressed miles from the palace days later.”

            “This is unnatural,” said Elrond.

            “It matters little,” said Thranduil.

            “How can it not matter?”

            For a few moments, Thranduil did not reply. The stone turned over in his hand. He looked over at one of the woodland friezes, and then he said: “Have you seen Amon Lanc of late? It is no longer known by that name, of course—I mean Dol Guldur.”

            “I have not,” said Elrond.

            “I would not recommend it. We avoid it now.” Thranduil made an aggressive effort to clear his throat and then seemed to lapse out of the room entirely. Elrond had to shake his shoulder to get him to respond again.

            “May I?” he asked.

            “Be my guest.” Thranduil took a moment to unclasp the front of his pale gray robes with his unsteady hands so that Elrond could listen to Thranduil’s breathing for some long moments. There was a strained wheeze in his chest and Elrond could hear his body was struggling to draw in enough air to sustain itself. He stayed crouched by the divan, as if listening longer might reveal something to him he had not gathered from the first few seconds of Thranduil’s weak breathing, of the pulse of his heart against Elrond’s ear.

            “Open your mouth?” he said, rising. Thranduil’s robe was slipping off his shoulders as he nodded, tilting his head back and parting his lips for Elrond, but he did not seem to notice. Elrond peered inside and observed what appeared patches of raw, red, weeping fleshinside his cheeks. “What happened here? Did you bite yourself?” he asked.

            “No.”

            “It looks that you have sores here...did you know that?”

            “I felt them.”

            “And you have no notion as to the cause?”

            “No.”

            Elrond posed a few more questions about the sores, but uncovered nothing illuminating, except that here was a physical symptom it was impossible to couch merely as a psychosomatic expression of Thranduil’s anxiety or stress or grief.

            “Have you been to Dol Guldur recently?” he asked.

            With some bitterness in his voice, Thranduil replied: “The council would not hear of it, even if I wished to go, and I have not the energy to battle with them about it.” He tugged his robe back up into place and began to make it presentable again. “And what should I wish to see there? Beauty gone to spoilation and darkness; unnatural rot and ruin. Another roof destroyed. Too many scouts have we lost there already.”

            “It must be something strong, if it is causing such unrest in the forest,” said Elrond, frowning.

            “Yes, I imagine it is.” Thranduil finished the last clasp on his robe. Elrond was silent a moment before he said:

            “Have you given more consideration to it? Perhaps something in Imladris’ library might help.”

            Thranduil closed his eyes momentarily and then said, with effort: “Please, Elrond. Let us not have theater. I am tired.”

            “Something is clearly wrong. If we disagree on the conclusion, we need not disagree on the facts.”

            Thranduil began to make some answer, but broke off coughing, and took minutes to regain composure.

            “Come, take your measurements, make your notes. It was you that asked for this meeting,” he got out at last. Elrond could not tell if this was what he had originally meant to say.

            He nibbled at his lower lip, and his voice was soft when he spoke. “I had expected to see improvement.”

            “The optimism of a summer child.” Yet Thranduil’s voice seemed genuinely fond in spite of Elrond’s apparent failure to properly diagnose his problems.

            “Have you been taking the sleeping draught?”

“Four times weekly, as you instructed.”

“Perhaps you could take it five times.”

“I thought it was dangerous.”

“You are not resting,” said Elrond. How could anything else improve if he was not resting?

“I do not believe the fault is in the medicine.” Thranduil patiently held still, or moved this way and that, as Elrond sought to examine various parts of his person. Elrond had the distinct feeling he was being placated.

“How often are your nosebleeds? Do you notice any concurrence with the lost moments?”

“A few times a week, perhaps. And no, I have not.”

“How is the pain? The headaches, your joints?”

“Considerable. But I manage.”

“Have you fainted again since last time?”

“Twice.”

“Did you direct your people to move into the palace?”

“I advised it strongly, but it was not a fiat,” said Thranduil. “Some have chosen to remain in their homes.”

“I had not realized…”

“…that there were few enough of us to fit in here?”

“Why did you advise it?” Elrond asked after a pause.

“The beasts of the forest have grown restive, aggressive. There are new creatures here, warped ilk of foul temper and fouler make. The shadow spreads, deepens. There have been deaths. It is easier to defend from a central vantage point. She and I built this place to be defensive. Have you seen the spiders? Proof that Ungoliant’s lineage survives.”

“Your letters had not made it sound so stark,” said Elrond quietly.

Thranduil only shrugged.

“Mithrandir said he had visited you recently,” said Elrond.

“It was so.”

“He would not tell me of what you spoke. He told me to ask you.”

“It was nothing.”

Elrond pointed out: “You have not hosted the other Istari.”

“I have shared words with Radagast. But I have not seen him in some time.”

“You did not seem overly fond of Saruman when last we all spoke.”

“I am not overly fond of any on your White Council, which you well know,” Thranduil said, giving Elrond a somewhat pointed look.

“Why Mithrandir?”

“Mithrandir has come now and again to speak with me. Should I refuse him?” Thranduil coughed violently and winced at the sting in his throat.

“No, I was only curious. Was he helpful to you?”

“No. But I will sustain hope regardless.”

“Hope of what?”

But Thranduil would not answer.

“The necromancer in Dol Guldur—do you believe he may be responsible for this?” Elrond asked. “For the degradation of the forest? For your illness? Perhaps he means to take the territory from you?”

“There is no necromancer in Dol Guldur,” said Thranduil. “But yes, I do believe it.” It wasn’t impossible, that there was a connection between Thranduil’s sickness and the state of the forest. It made Elrond think back roughly two thousand years, to when Thranduil had first mentioned the mice of the Greenwood.

“Thranduil, if you have some knowledge of this illness I would beg you share it, for I am very nearly at a loss,” Elrond said, not quite pleading, but close.

“Oh, nearly?”

“Thranduil, you understand you are very ill?”

“Am I? Gracious, it had not occurred to me.”

“You may be beyond my skill to heal.”

When Thranduil spoke again, his voice was strained and hoarse, yet firm. “That may have been so from the beginning.”

“I am worried,” said Elrond, with the tone and expression to match.

“I know.”

“What will you do?”

“Go for a walk, I think. Come with me?”

***

Approx. 2900 T.A.

Thranduil was stretched out on the divan, his breathing audibly labored, filing the room with the sound of Elrond’s failure: a forced, rasping wheeze. He watched Elrond wringing his hands with glassy eyes set above hollow cheeks; Elrond had never seen him so thin.

“If you persist in that pacing, you shall make me anxious,” he croaked.

“Don’t make jokes,” snapped Elrond, something of the disapproving parent entering his tone.

“What a wearisome affair this will be then,” Thranduil sighed, coughing heavily into a blood-spotted handkerchief.

“I don’t understand,” said Elrond.

“Come and sit down, it will stop your pacing.” Elrond, slightly harried, obeyed without further protest.

“Thranduil, what is happening?” he said as he took up a seat in a chair before the divan.

“Ought I know?��

“Don’t you?” Elrond reached out and grasped one of Thranduil’s hands. “You must tell me what it is. You must tell me what I need do. Clearly all I have done thus far has been in vain; I have no more ideas but I will do as you say.”

Thranduil had to cough several moments before he could speak.

“There is something you might do.”

“Yes?”

“Read to me a while?”

Elrond dropped Thranduil’s hand and balled his fingers up in his lap. “I have asked you not to jest!”

“I am not.”

“There must be something I…” Elrond’s voice cracked and he breathed deeply to regain control. “There must be something I can do. Something I haven’t thought of yet. You must know some remedy, even if it seems unlikely or impossible. Something…” He flexed his hands and rubbed at his knees.

“Elrond…” said Thranduil, in what was clearly an effort to calm him down.

“I don’t want you to die!”

To his surprise, Thranduil smiled. It was a tender look, and he reached up to stroke Elrond’s cheek with one long-fingered hand.

“Even now, after all this time, after so much strife; still, you have a gentle heart,” he said.

“I cannot bear to be mollified,” said Elrond.

“I mean to compliment you. It is one of the things I treasure about you. You are a good person, Elrond.”

“I’m being selfish now.”

“I would not have known.” Elrond caught Thranduil’s withdrawing hand and held it tightly. “Truly, there is no means that I know of by which you might heal me. That is no fault of yours. Some things are beyond our power.”

“This I will not believe. I cannot.”

Thranduil laughed, and was immediately breathless. “I am not sure that makes any difference, but it is touching,” he said, rubbing Elrond’s fingers gently.

“If I had understood what you were saying sooner…if I had listened better…” If you had said more, he thought in frustration.

“Still nothing might have changed.”

“Or everything.”

“Perhaps the Music is written.”

“And perhaps it is improvised.”

Thranduil began to reply but broke off in a coughing fit, spattering blood over his hand and the floor, as well as something chunky which Elrond could not immediately identify, but which sickened him to look at. It took long moments for Thranduil to have control of his body again, and once he did, the wheezing of his breath was worse than ever.

Elrond gripped his hand tightly. “I will convene the White Council. Something must be done. We cannot allow a sister realm to fall into such darkness; it weakens us all; they will see that. Something must be done about the Necromancer. Mithrandir might convince them; I will speak with him beforehand. He has seen what transpires here, he has spoken with you. He is convinced of the Necromancer as well.”

“If it shall quiet your mind,” Thranduil rasped, still struggling with his spasming throat.

“They will listen. They must. You must wait for me, Thranduil. You must wait until I have spoken to the Council. If we may excise the Necromancer from the forest, perhaps…”

“Elrond…you must know it may be too late for that.”

“He can be dealt with!”

“Perhaps. But I speak of myself. The damage is…extensive, I imagine.” He worked himself into a more upright position on the divan. “You must acknowledge this.”

“No. I will not believe it until it is done. I cannot—you cannot do this.” Thranduil blinked at him.

“Die?” he asked, amused.

“I cannot bear any more loss. I cannot,” said Elrond, not at all amused.

“But you will,” said Thranduil, not without sympathy. Elrond bowed his head over their hands.

“It is terribly rude of you to look so desolate,” Thranduil said. “Oughtn’t you be cheering me, to alleviate the illness of my mind?”

“Do not mock me with my own words, Thranduil,” said Elrond miserably. “Do I not feel wretched enough already? I have failed.”

“Come here, Peredhel.”

Elrond leaned in closer. Thranduil’s shadowed eyes seemed to stand out all the more sharply against his sickly mien, though the keenness of his glance was dimmed. His earrings were filigreed wood shaved near parchment-thin and a clasp studded with amber glinted in his golden hair which before had gleamed with such luster.

“I am glad to have known you, son of Elwing. Whatever comes. You have been a comfort to me.”

“Then don’t leave.” Only privately, with so many years of shared words between them, would Elrond at his age have allowed such a plaintive, useless statement to pass his lips.

“I would stay, if it were my choice. My love is still in Middle-earth, and in many who dwell here,” said Thranduil. He reached for Elrond’s hand again. “I am sorry to cause you pain. I have never wished it.” Elrond sniffed, and Thranduil said: “Ah, but you will make me weep also, and then who will manage the examination?”

            Elrond swallowed hard. “Forgive me. I did not mean to make this about myself. I am being childish.”

            “I forgive it.”

            “I’ve failed you.”

            “I forgive it. I would argue with you, but it seems a silly expenditure of time.” Thranduil drew Elrond nearer, placing a hand on the back of his head, pulling him in until Elrond’s forehead rested against Thranduil’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I would prefer to stay and walk with you a great deal more and quarrel over the rules of board games and watch many more breaks of dawn with cups of tea, but the world has not ever seemed to place much weight in what I prefer.” Thranduil’s hold on him tightened, and Elrond felt the press of Thranduil’s cheek against the top of his head.

            “I would prefer it too,” he said quietly.

            “If I were not a king…” Thranduil began, but trailed off.

            “Yes?”

            Thranduil’s hold on him relaxed. “Ah, nothing. It was never something I desired. If I did not have it, I might have spent more time at leisure with you!”

            Elrond sat up, that he might see Thranduil’s wan face once more, but stayed close. “What makes you think I would have time for such things?” he sniffed, trying to regain control of this situation. It was hardly fair to come to Thranduil while he was ill and expect him to comfort Elrond.  

Thranduil laughed weakly, but broke off coughing. Elrond touched Thranduil’s cheek carefully once the coughing had subsided, his thumb stroking the skin. Thranduil held still, watching him. (He could be so still when he desired it; a remnant, Elrond assumed, of his training as a hunter in Doriath.) Their eyes met for a moment; Elrond almost drew back. Carefully, Thranduil put a hand over Elrond’s, pressing it to his cheek. With his free hand, he reached out to touch Elrond’s face, his fingers trailing towards Elrond’s lips. Elrond started forward first, but Thranduil was the one who sat up and closed the distance, pressing bloody lips against Elrond’s mouth.

            The stars tasted of iron, and for a time their strain of Music seemed to part with the rest of the world’s, resonating in exclusive harmony between the two of them, separate and apart from the rest of the symphony. For several moments they stayed so pressed together, trying to learn the shape of each other’s mouths by feel, with Elrond trying to at the same time ease Thranduil back down against the divan, which he considered an impressive moment of multitasking considering how much of his mind was presently occupied with the brilliant bloom unfurling in his chest.

The moment they separated, Thranduil gasped for air and devolved into a violent coughing fit, staining the divan with blood and more of the wet matter from before. He went on until he was nearly flat on his belly against the cushion, trying to suck in air between bouts of hacking. Yet it seemed to Elrond—

“Were you holding your breath?”

“I wished not to make a mess of you.” Thranduil’s voice was barely audible when he spoke. Gaining control of himself once more, he shifted onto his back and looked up to make a disappointed sound. “Tch. I would lend you my handkerchief but I don’t imagine you want it now.” Instead, he reached up and tried to wipe the blood from Elrond’s lips with his thumb. Elrond caught his hand and drew it away from his face.

            “You must not think such things would trouble me,” he said. The lightness which had fluttered in his chest when Thranduil’s lips met his sputtered and sank, and Elrond held their hands in his lap. “You must always make things difficult, mustn’t you?” he said quietly.

            Thranduil laughed at this, and then coughed so hard once again he couldn’t breathe. “I thought you wished not for me to die,” he wheezed.

            “Thranduil?” Alarm surged in Elrond’s voice, but the king waved a hand to indicate it was not warranted.

            “You should not let me interrupt you,” said Thranduil when he had recovered.

            “You are truly incapable of not making jokes about this.”

            “How can I not, when you look so despondent? The next one will make you laugh,” said Thranduil.

            “Forgive my disbelief.”

            “I shall, because you will be incorrect, only wait and see.” But Thranduil was visibly worn out from Elrond’s visit, and he was sinking back against the divan’s pillows with heavy eyelids. The shadows under his eyes seemed to highlight Elrond’s inability to grant him rest.

            “Will you promise?” Elrond urged him. “Not to depart until I have spoken with the council? Give me time; I will yet find some way to save you.”

            “Yes, yes, I promise. No—I will promise if you do something for me.”

“What is it?”

“Lie down a few moments.” Thranduil shifted to make room for Elrond beside him on the divan. Elrond hesitated, then joined him there, though it truly was not made to hold two grown men this way.

Immediately, Thranduil relaxed against him, which banished any worries about the cramped size of the divan. His eyes slid shut, and Elrond began to stroke his hair.

“I will save you. You must only give me more time.”

“As you will,” Thranduil murmured drowsily.

“Hold on a while more, please.”

Thranduil made no reply; it was possible he had already fallen asleep, or was simply too tired to keep replying.

“Just a little while more. This is not the end yet. Have hope. Have hope.”

#thranduil #elrond #elronduil #elrond x thranduil #rivenwood #the hobbit #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #rocky writes

[acapelladitty]

Morgott/Reader - Teasing (Kinktober #8)

Summary - Enjoying a very private moment with the Omen King, you tell Morgott an interesting tale which has a very wicked and ulterior motive for you both to enjoy.

“Filthy tarnished, thy tongue is as soiled as thy undergarments.” A gnarled finger brushed the scant fabric which covered your sex and even the light touch drew a keening sigh from your lips as his finger came away damp. Heat building in your groin, you roll your hips against his lap, teasing the thick, hardened length which remained hidden away below his tattered robe.

“My tongue is talented in many ways, my king. Allow me to show you.” With a coquettish flutter of lashes, you extend your hand towards his palm and wait for permission.

He complies quickly and the weight of his hand dwarfing your own is almost enough to make you giggle but you bite it back in an instant. Instead, you curl your hand around his finger to bring the dampened digit to your mouth.

“Tarnished-” Morgott mutters but cuts himself off with a hitched breath as you part your lips and flick your tongue along the pad of his finger.

You taste yourself, the cooling tang of your own arousal flooding your mouth as you press forward to suckle at the tip of his finger; teeth threatening the rough skin there as you swirl your tongue around the digit to pull it in further. Giving it all the attention you would soon be providing to another, very pronounced part of his anatomy as it noticeably twitched beneath your cunt.

Morgott growled at the display, the rumble of the sound coursing through you like a vibration and you immediately decide that you will do whatever it takes to make him do it again.

“My king?” You ask, pulling his finger free of your mouth long enough to glance up at him with wide, questioning eyes that brim with faux innocence.

His hands drop to wrap around your waist, pinning you in place as his mouth dips forward to press against the shell of your ear.

“Don’t think I will be fooled by that virtuous gaze.” Morgott mutters and his hot breath against your skin makes you shiver. “You forget that I have enjoyed the deviancies that you offer so willingly. No innocent maiden would dare to spread her legs so willingly for such a monster.”

“You caught me.” You gasp out, tilting your head to allow him to run his lips along your exposed neck, his sharp teeth grazing the skin in a deliciously threatening way. “Now what will you do with me, my king?”

“Hmm,” Morgott considered his options, “perhaps I should force thee to thy knees? Have thee service thy king like a true whore should?”

His hand wraps around your waist and the sheer power and strength which radiates from his grip as he easily plucks you from his lap and drops you gently to the floor before him takes your breath away. The floor is chilly beneath your knees and you shuffle uncomfortably as you seek out a position which is a little more enjoyable – your eyes never shifting from the thick heft of his cock as it now juts free of his tattered robe.

Much like the omen himself, his cock is monstrous. As thick as your wrist and mottled by a pinkish hue which extends out into his reddened cockhead, his entire length is dotted with small barbs which almost seem to curl against your fingers as you brush against them. Soft and only slightly textured, you had long since discovered their sensitivity and your elbows fan out across Morgott’s knees as you stroke your hand along his cock, your fingers unable to touch due to the girth.

“Shall I tell you a story, brave Omen King?” You ask, enjoying how responsive he is being as his body shudders beneath your gentle ministrations.

Caught off guard by the question, his expression quirks for a moment before settling into heated amusement. Morgott nods, his eyes gazing down at you as you remain in what must be a delightfully submissive position before him.

“In my village, the older girls would whisper a story around the fires late at night.” You began, using his undivided attention to your advantage as your hands fumble messily with the head of his cock before slipping to down to cup his balls. “Only when all the men were gone, and the little ones had fallen asleep. Isadora and her Beast, is what they called it.”

Rutting slightly into your hand as he fought to keep his control, Morgott’s fingers were curled around the arms of his chair and his knuckles were visibly white with the effort of keeping them there.”

“Yes?” He encourages, his tone tight and strained.

“Isadora was a maiden, one of great beauty, who spent most of her days down by the riverside washing her bed rags and clothing.” Pumping his length, you match the cadence of your tale with your hand for added emphasis, making note of the clear droplets of release which were weeping freely from his slit. “One day, after the sun had begun to set across the way, she was set upon by a pack of wolves. Terrifying beasts which all the locals feared due to their ferocity, Isadora quickly found her shift dress ripped to shred by the beasts as they attempted to tear at her with their teeth.”

“Poor maiden, foolish for her to journey alo-.”

“Silence, my king. This is my story.” You hush, tapping a finger along his cockhead to silence him as his hips buck into your fingers. “But Isadora was quickly saved from certain death. As she cowered by her wash basket, a beast of monstrous size set upon the wolves, driving them off just as quickly as they had appeared. It was a creature of old, a monster which stood over her like the evening sky and it gazed down at her with a hunger which sparked a heat in her exposed skin – her heart racing as warmth spread through her most intimate parts.”

Morgott’s eyes were lidded as they gazed down at you, his head tilting as his fangs peeked free of his curled lips – eagerly anticipating the next part of the tale as his cock jerked within your grip. So focused on your task, your other hand dipped beneath your skirt and your breath jumps in your throat as you provide some relief to your aching cunt, your fingers quickly growing slippery due to your arousal.

“As reward for saving her, she told the beast to do what it wished with her. To use her how it desired, and desire is what it sought. The beast set upon her, knocking her roughly to the ground and tearing what remained of her shift from her skin. It used its claws. It used its tongue. It ravaged her in a way that no man ever had, and Isadora screamed her ecstasy to the heavens as the beast took her.”

“Filth.” Morgott growled, watching with interest as your free hand continued to move beneath your skirt – his nose flaring as he scented the fresh arousal in the air. “You sound as though you admire her.”

“I sometimes wondered, when I lay in my own bed in the dark of the night - my hand moving between my thighs, slickened by my own need as it is now - if I would have been as brave in her situation.”

“Bravery is not lacking within you, common sense perhaps, but never bravery, foolish tarnished.”

Squeezing the tip of his cock, his teasing words dropped into a bestial gasp – one which showcased every one of his sharpened teeth as his head reclined and his cock twitched in your grasp, desperate for more as it leaked pre-cum freely.

“I asked you what you were going to do with me, my king.”

“Indeed you did, my light.”

Pulling your fingers free of your cunt, you rise to unsteady feet and press your digits to his lips – gasping in delight as his tongue does not hesitate in slipping free to wrap around your fingers and pull them greedily to his mouth, tasting you with earnest.

“Ravage me. Take me in such a way that the tale of Isadora and her beast would feel shame to even be put into comparison. By claw, by tongue, and by cock. Make me yours in such a way that no other could ever compare.”

The growl which slips past your fingers as they remain within Morgott’s mouth sparks a deep shudder across your skin as you relax your frame, ready for your beastly king to once again take what is rightfully his.

#morgott the omen king #morgott the grace given #elden ring morgott #morgott x reader #elden ring #fromsoft #Soulsborne #morgott x you #smut

[whiskygoldwings]

CC-3636 - a snippet from the Within Operating Parameters Universe

CC-3636 does not understand his General. The Kel Dor does not treat CC-3636 within guidance parameters. It confuses CC-3636, and confusion is not acceptable.

So CC-3636 ignores the actions that fall outside of the accepted procedures, and simply carries on.

Wolffe is kept awake by them. He stares at the grey ceiling, eyes open but unseeing, remembering warm words, and the clasp of clawed fingers on his shoulder.

He hurts, and does not know why.

General Koon persists, even when CC-3636 cannot return his overtures, cannot respond to his hand reaching out to CC-3636. The General tells him he has done well, tells him he can relax now, invites him to stand beside him and give his input in all matters.

And it is not just CC-3636 he extends this to.

CT-1908 stands a little taller under the praise the General gives him for his actions in their last skirmish, and CC-3636 reprimands him for the deviance. CT-4860 turns his head slightly to watch as the General recants a tale from the Jedi Temple on the Bridge, and CC-3636 directs him back to his work.

CC-3636 does not get frustrated.

Wolffe does.

Wolffe paces the hallways of the Vode, wearing nothing but his skin. He is angry and confused and the trappings of CC-3636 chafe at his flesh. He has torn them off, the eyes of his siblings watchful and wary. He feels stifled, hungry and desperate for something he doesn’t understand. The Kel Dor has offered him something, offered them something, and Wolffe tries painfully not to think that it tastes like family.

He can’t. They can’t. He will not lose more Vode to the deceptive desires of companionship with nat-borns. They were taught quickly and thoroughly on Kamino that they weren’t welcome, that any kindness or sanctuary offered by the nat-borns was followed with agony and betrayal.

Wolffe wanders the steel halls of the Vode and tries to strangle the longing in his chest.

——

The Sith takes his eye from him, and CC-3636’s defectiveness is reflected in his face. He lies in the medbay, straddling the line between CC-3636 and Wolffe. Unable to keep his helmet on, but the General has refused to leave him alone, so he cannot be Wolffe. He must remain perfect. He must.

He stands between his siblings and decommissioning. He must remain.

The General puts a clawed hand to his head, and Wolffe flinches. There’s wetness on his face, and a tremble under his skin.

He is defective, and the General can see it.

Fingers stroke at his hair, and Wolffe can’t help it. He closes his one remaining eye, and more tears run down the side of his face. It hurts so much, even under the painkillers and treatment the CMO administers. There is nothing on one side of his face, and it’s the ultimate defect.

They are always two. Always matched. Always golden brown. Anything else is unacceptable.

The General murmurs soft words in a language he doesn’t know, and his hand keeps smoothing through his ragged, sweaty hair.

Wolffe is already dead. He will take a little kindness before he goes.

——

Wolffe is still in the medbay, still alive, and he doesn’t understand why. The medics move around him, silent and cold in their helmed faces. They do not deviate from requirements, they do not give him touches of comfort, or quiet words.

Yet, they also do not update his ident as defective. The General has given him his datapad, and he checks it regularly between signing forms and checking on his siblings.

CC-3636 remains operational and within operating parameters.

Wolffe loves his siblings, but he is scared for them. They are not disclosing his defect, and if the Kaminoans find out, they will be marked as defective too.

He waits, anxiety and confusion twisting in his gut, and tries to hold onto the threads of CC-3636. It is difficult, without his helmet and with his sight distorted. He does not feel the same as before. The aches in his bones and tremors in his muscles are new and terrifying. He feels like he is wearing another man’s face. There is a weakness in his mind that the Sith has placed there and it feels like sinking, like grasping for handholds that slip under his fingers.

He has never been Wolffe for this long before.

——

The General has a bionic eye in a case, and Wolffe is blank.

The General explains he wanted to ensure CC-3636 had the best replacement, so unfortunately it took longer than expected. But it has given time for CC-3636 to heal and grow stronger, so the recovery after the surgery should go easier now.

Wolffe is Wolffe, and he does not have parameters to respond to this.

The General is silent, he has told CC-3636 that this is a choice. That it is his choice. No one will force him to have the surgery; there is no payment required of him if he does.

He has a choice.

“I am Wolffe.”

The General’s shoulders raise, then fall, and he bows his head.

“I am glad to finally meet you, Wolffe.”

#Oops I accidentally a Wolffe feels #This one shot universe has turned into a five shot #Oops #star wars #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #commander wolffe #plo koon #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #clone wars fanfic #clone wars fanfiction

[tenaciousdecapitator]

Entrapta, like Catra, has all the foundations for a corruption arc. Pre-existing deviance, a solid motivation for revenge, climbing up the enemy ranks until she is the head boss's left hand, and then gaining powet over Hordak himself. Like many villain scientists she assists and joins with the good guys from time to time.

What makes Entrapta different is that, through all of this, she ISNT a mastermind, morally grey ends justifies the means scientist. She is in fact a complete cinnamon roll who's hurt by what happened but doesn't hold a grudge at all and has joined the villains because they gave her sense of belonging, and a place to foster her love of science. So you have the top dog villain at the start of season 3 when shes finally got power over Hordak, and she's using it to tell him to love himself, to show him that our flaws are what make us beautiful and they shouldn't be masked, especially if we need help. And in season 5 she's not the sneaky ex villain getting a questionable redemption, she's literally leading the front lines in terms of converting people to the Rebellion, pulling one clone of a million clones out from under Prime and immediately being able to connect with him, being the one to tell Prime to his face he will never understand love, wrecking his brainwashing network, her connection with Hordak leading to Prime's death.

It's... so OPPOSITE to Shadow Weaver, who joined the rebellion about the same time Entrapta overtook Catra in the horde and then disappeared. Weaver has the standard "redemption" arc but doesn't learn a damn thing in her life, has no humility, and is constantly fucking with people's heads underneath her silver tongued words, all stuff Entrapta literally cannot do.

So you have this very compassionate pure of heart character influencing the iron cold leader of the villains, and this incredibly manipulative abusive character influencing the leaders of the heroes.

I think it's interested how shera plays so hard with tropes.

Yes! Exactly! One of my favorite parts about Entrapta’s character is that, in seemingly direct contrast to Shadow Weaver who looks, talks, and acts like a fairy tale Disney villain evil witch 24/7, with even her attempted ‘redemption martyr moment’ just piling more mental scars onto her surrogate daughters,  everything that we’re presented with in the first few minutes System Failure gives us the idea that Entrapta is this typical (albeit sweet-toothed) Mad Scientist soon-to-be-if-not-already-villain. She lives in a classically evil scary castle on a mountain, it’s full of traps, secret passageways, and (conveniently timed) robot zombies, and there’s mutants in the sewers apparently?!? Especially since some fans know her old incarnation was a shallow villain, once she finally crawls out of a vent like a goddamn Xenomorph with welding mask eyes glowing with menace the audience thinks they have her character figured out, and then she subverts these expectations by greeting our heroes with a genuine, cheery, hospitable welcome that still acknowledges the immediate danger they’re facing and her direct involvement in it. And ever since then, all she’s wanted to do is help people and do science (and hopefully make friends with people by doing those two things). Even when she learns She Ra’s most direct and effective weakness, even when she’s given the chance to use that weakness *again* after she thinks the BFS and Princess Alliance left her for dead, she still doesn’t take the opportunity to go full "They laughed at my experiments, but now I’ll show them all! Brand New Day! Muahahahaha!” etc etc. Shadow Weaver WISHES she could’ve climbed the evil corporate ladder as fast as Entrapta did, and ironically she accomplished it by doing the exact opposite approach to SW: Being 100% genuine and honest about her opinions, knowledge, and feelings. And Hordak establishes time and time again that he hates dishonesty in his ranks (mostly because he’s not great at subterfuge and trickery himself) and gains valuable knowledge and self-worth from Entrapta’s genuine honesty. I may be forgetting something, but I’m pretty sure the one and only time Entrapta intentionally, consciously lies about something is that bit in System Failure where she find the lab and says “We’re here! Uh, I mean, of course we’re here, we were never lost.” Of course, just because she never even considers taking steps towards actual, conscious Villainy and Vengeance doesn’t mean we can’t think up AUs where she does go down that path a bit.  One concept that I’ve yet to make into a proper fic is an alternate ending to Season 5 in which she has a more active role in usurping Prime, fully disconnecting him from the other Clones before Hordak does the Darth Vader/Emperor reference, then taking over the Velvet Glove’s army of clones, droids, and drones in order to collect data on the flora, fauna, and magic of Etheria before expanding her DC Brainiac style "data collection” to the rest of the newly entered galaxy. 

anyway thanks for prompting and then coming to my Ted Talk

#not technically a question but hey I'll take it #cracked open the Pandora's Box with this one #thanks Tipsy #entrapta #she ra and the princesses of power #she ra spoilers #character analysis #shadow weaver #hordak #she ra season 5 #Cartoons #netflix #longish post #asks answered

[chin-chilla-7]

👋

-Can I request a fic for Connor Rk800 x human reader, with maybe a hint of angst where Connor has a series of nightmares about before he a was a deviant and all the horrible things he did and in his process of waking up reader also wakes up and sings him back to sleep.

-if you need a song, the song Markus sings in that one ending, Hold On A Little While Longer, I think it's called.

Hey there! Thanks so much for this request! It took me a couple days to get to it so thank you for your patience! Let’s get into it!

Ghosts of Our Past

Pairing: Connor x Reader Summary: Connor is still getting used to deviancy. And with deviancy comes feelings he’s never had to experience before. Luckily, he has someone to help him figure them all out. Words: 1.3k Warnings: None for this! 

There was a lot of newness that came with being a deviant. The biggest thing, Connor noticed, was emotions - or, what he could assume to be the equivalent. There was often a tightness or strained feeling in his chest whenever he watched as other deviants took effort to avoid him. The nervous glances that were sent his way when they noticed he was nearby. It was a feeling that grew overwhelmingly difficult to ignore.

Connor quickly learned what guilt was.

It was hard to ignore. He knew that many other androids still saw him as a “deviant-hunter” despite Connor no longer following his programming. It made him feel like an outsider with the other androids, and how was he supposed to fit in with humans? It felt like Connor had nowhere to turn to.

That is, until he met you. It sounded like a fairy tale, and Connor knows they aren’t real, but that’s how it felt to him. It felt that finally someone saw him for him, and not what he was known for before the revolution. It felt like he could move on from what he was made for, to pursue this new aspiration in life.

So, he never told you much about his past. Not from his perspective, at least. You knew more or less what had happened during the time of the revolution, but only what was shared on the news. You knew Connor was a detective-type robot - only of his kind, as far as you knew, and that he was involved with the revolution to some degree. You never had specifics. And Connor never really told them to you. You didn’t mind, though. To you, there wasn’t really a need to know. The Connor you know now is loyal, considerate, a little goofy, and kind. You were glad the two of you met, so it seemed like a no brainer when the two of you became close like you were.

When Connor first started spending nights over at your house, you noticed that he often remained on for a majority of the night. Or, at least, you would leave him in the living room to go to bed only to wake up in the morning to see him already making you breakfast. You knew he was an android, but androids needed rest, too, right?

Even when you managed to convince him to spend the night in your bed, you didn’t think he slept - or, the android version of sleeping - and it was something that you couldn’t quite let go of. So, you brought yourself up to ask.

“Do you sleep?”

Connor seems a little startled by the question. The two of you were in bed together, Connor laying on his back looking up at the ceiling. He turned his head to you.

“I- No?” he answered, a slight furrow in his brow. “I’m an android, we don’t do that-”

“Right, but you gotta recharge power somehow, isn’t that your sleep?” You continued, propping yourself up on your elbow.

“Correct, but-”

“So you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Go into recharge mode and sleep?”

Connor was quiet for a moment before nodding. “Yes, I have a recharge mode. Two, actually: one is short, about an hour and a half. I do that one most often. It’s efficient. The other, though, lasts about the time of a person’s REM cycle.”

You hummed in understanding. “Then why don’t you do the second one?”

“I told you: the shorter one is efficient. And it gives me sufficient power. I don’t need to use the longer one.”

There was something about Connor’s answer that left you unconvinced. He got a similar way whenever you asked him about the revolution. You nod, pretending to take a moment to think.

“Well… could you do the long one for me tonight?”

“Why?”

“Why do I want my boyfriend to sleep the same length I do? Because I like when you’re here when I wake up,” as you answered, you moved closer to Connor, wrapping your arms around his waist. “And as nice as it is to have breakfast ready in the morning, I like it when I’m still in my boyfriend’s arms when I wake up.”

There was a moment of hesitation before Connor returned your hold, wrapping his arms around you. “All right,” he said softly, “I’ll do it for tonight.”

“Thank you,” you answered, matching Connor’s volume. There was a smile on your face as you fell asleep holding him.

At some point in the middle of the night, you felt yourself being tousled around in your sleep. You grumble into wokeness, realizing Connor was in the middle of sporadic movements beside you. His LED flashing between yellow and red. Any tiredness you feel gone in seconds as you sit up. “Whoa, Connor? Connor! What’s going on? Stop! Wake up!” you called, not sure how this long recharge cycle worked. Could it be interrupted?

There’s panic in your voice as you continue to call for Connor to gain consciousness, reaching over to see if there’s anything for you to push on him to get him to stop. You go through different phrases that may snap him out of it. Finally, by saying “stop recharge cycle”, you seemed to find the solution.

Connor stilled, sitting up quickly. His LED still spun yellow, occasionally flashing red. He looked to you, seemingly shaken up.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice not as strong as it usually was.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” you answered, reaching to rest a hand on his shoulder. “You started spazzing out and your LED was red and I didn’t know what was happening.”

Connor held your gaze, his lips in a tight frown. “I, yeah- I’m sorry for scaring you-”

“It’s okay, but what happened?”

Connor didn’t answer you for a moment. He pulled away from your hand, turning away from you.

“Connor, you can talk to me.”

And there it was. The thing that made Connor fall for you in the first place. No matter what, you were there for Connor to go to. Nothing he could do, you would judge, it felt like. It made him feel so safe, and he didn’t want that taken away.

“I just- I-” Instead of trying to continue, Connor stopped himself, taking a breath. He had seen humans do it, maybe it would do him some good, too. He turned back to you. “The reason I don’t like to go into the deep recharge mode is that it processes memories. It processes events that have happened. Things androids have done, so that they can learn and be even more ready for the next day. And I don’t- I guess I don’t like what I see when I have to remember.”

By the end of his explanation, Connor’s voice was only above a whisper. It broke your heart. You reached out to him again, resting a hand on his arm.

“Hey, whoever you were then? Whatever you had to do? It’s not who you are now, remember that.”

“I know that, but-”

“No, you don’t know that. You think you know that, but you don’t. The Connor I know. The Connor you try to be every day is not the Connor you used to be, right? Think about how you were back then? Think about what you did. You wouldn’t do it again, would you? You wouldn’t do it again because it’s not who you are anymore, and you have to forgive yourself of that. You may not be able to change what you did, but you can change what you do now. And what you’re doing now is enough. You need to think that yourself.”

Connor watched you as you spoke, tears forming in his eyes. He didn’t even know he had this capacity. He nodded along, his hand coming to rest upon yours. “Thank you,” he whispered again, giving your hand a squeeze.

You nodded, a soft smile on your face. “Of course, anytime. Now, let’s get some sleep, shall we?”

“Yes, I would like that very much.”

#detroit become human #dbh #detroit become human x reader #dbh x reader #connor x reader #fic #my writing

[rriotzine]

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[coochiequeens]

“India has one of the highest rates of honor killing and dowry deaths, where newlywed brides are tortured, burnt, sometimes even murdered on the basis of sex. For a man with caste and class privilege living so far removed from the everyday realities of Indian women, Alok Vaid-Menon sure has audacity to call himself a ‘bride,'” she (Vaishnavi Sundar) said.

An American trans activist who identifies as ‘transfeminine’ was recently featured by the Indian publication Brides Today on their digital cover, prompting criticism on social media. Alok Vaid-Menon, 31, who uses “they/them” pronouns, was interviewed and photographed for the magazine wearing clothing resembling traditional attire for women.

Vaid-Menon’s April 19 appearance in the magazine was presented as a commentary on same-sex marriage, which is currently being debated at India’s highest court.

During the full interview, Vaid-Menon was asked his thoughts on topics such as marriage and love, stating “love is about expansion, not constriction. Permission, not prohibition… I want to be a living love poem. Every day I ask myself, ‘How can I love harder?’ Love breaks through binaries—man and woman, us and them, you and me… Love doesn’t live in should, it lives in what is.”

Yet despite the platitudes, Vaid-Menon has caused concern for a past statement in which he referred to “little girls” as being “kinky” and claimed to have himself once been “a cute little girl.”

In approximately 2016, when Vaid-Menon was using the moniker Dark Matter to promote himself as a performance artist and poet, he published a disturbing statement on his views of young girls’ presumed sexuality.

In the statement, Vaid-Menon rejects the notion that little girls need to be protected from “gender/sexual deviance,” and instead claims that “little girls, like the rest of us, are complicated people.”

Vaid-Menon was writing about legislation that had been introduced in the state of North Carolina that year establishing that public restrooms remain single-sex accommodations. House Bill 2, the Public Facilities Privacy & Security Act, was intended to protect women and children from being exposed to men while in a state of undress. 

Vaid-Menon responded to the bill being signed into law by claiming that single-sex spaces were being upheld under a false narrative of protecting “innocent little girls” from “freaky” transgender people. 

“There are no fairy tales and princesses here. Little girls are also queer, trans, kinky, deviant, kind, mean, beautiful, ugly, tremendous, and peculiar. Your kids aren’t as straight and narrow as you think they are,” Vaid-Menon wrote.

He went on to claim that he viewed the 1973 horror classic The Exorcist as being about “a little girl … exploring her sexuality (masturbation and so on) and her own demons/meanness.”

In 2021, quotes from the post began circulating on Twitter and prompting outrage, but users found themselves getting suspended for referencing or reacting to the text. 

Conservative political pundit Lauren Witzke was suspended from Twitter for hate speech after retweeting a graphic showing Vaid-Menon’s quote, to which she commented that the views he expressed were “demonic.” Witzke was reinstated on the platform almost two years later, after Tesla CEO Elon Musk bought Twitter and offered “amnesty” on many previous suspensions.

The views expressed in Vaid-Menon’s Facebook post were criticized by the now-deceased lesbian activist YouTuber Magdalen Berns in a video she titled “Non-Binary Bullsh*t.” Berns concluded that in her opinion, his comments on girlhood made him “sound a bit like a pedo,” and remarked that “even his fans” disapproved, causing him to eventually delete the post.

The following year, in 2017, Vaid-Menon and fellow non-binary activist Jacob Tobia were profiled by Vice in an article titled “Why Can’t My Famous Gender Nonconforming Friends Get Laid.” The article was subject to widespread mockery for highlighting Vaid-Menon’s lack of success in dating, and included comments indicating that Vaid-Menon and Tobia had considered taking female hormones in order to date heterosexual men in an attempt to expand their dating pool.

Vaid-Menon has been a strong proponent for “neutralizing” women’s issues in order to make them “gender inclusive.” He has previously written about the importance of using gender neutral language when discussing abortion, pregnancy, or sex-based violence, also denouncing the term “women’s rights” as not being sufficiently welcoming to gender non-conforming people. 

In 2020, Vaid-Menon was featured by menstrual hygiene company This is L and the Phluid Project – a “gender free” clothing and lifestyle brand based in New York – in a promotional video featuring individuals of varying “gender identities” to spread the message that periods are not specific to females. Vaid-Menon had endorsed this belief previously when, in 2019, he shared an articlefrom Seventeen magazine, a publication aimed at girls and young women, titled “What Trans & Non-Binary Menstruators Should Know About Periods.”

Women’s rights campaigner and filmmaker Vaishnavi Sundar blasted Vaid-Menon’s activism as “dangerous” while calling attention to the plight of women and girls in India. 

In 2020, screenings of a documentary Sundar had produced titled “But What Was She Wearing?” were cancelled in response to previous tweets she had made opposing men in women’s spaces. Her film sought to address the sexual harassment and sexual violence that women in the nation experience, juxtaposing the contrast between what laws on paper purport and the on-the-ground reality.

“India is an extremely caste-riddled society. Indian women across all castes experience profound violence at the hands of men. A large majority still live under acute poverty, devoid of basic sanitation, education, safety, or legal recourse,” Sundar told Reduxx.

“India has one of the highest rates of honor killing and dowry deaths, where newlywed brides are tortured, burnt, sometimes even murdered on the basis of sex. For a man with caste and class privilege living so far removed from the everyday realities of Indian women, Alok Vaid-Menon sure has audacity to call himself a ‘bride,'” she said.

“To import gender identity ideology as some form of progressive ticket to freedom is not just obscene, it is dangerous. In a country that still kills the female newborns and blames young girls for being raped, gender identity is the last thing we want shoved down on us while we haven’t even saved ourselves from the existing misogyny,” Sundar added.

“The only group of people profiting from this ideology are the corporations, medical and pharmaceutical industries. Men like Alok Vaid-Menon are promoters of said industries under the veneer of being progressive and inclusive.”

#India #Brides Today #Alok Vaid-Menon #Trans identified males sexualizing girls and girlhood #Womb envy #Vaishnavi Sundar Spoke the truth

[loving-n0t-heyting]

I find smth addicting about reading ppls (especially women’s, tho that might be selection effects talking; I think women are just more prone to highly confessional narrative writing) personal stories about leaving culty far-right Christian sects for generic American centre-left politics plus a heavy dose of therapy culture. Once I pop I cant stop

Presumably much of the appeal is that it is like, the tale of my teenage self in reverse. I grew up immersed in both therapy and the kind of liberal communities they’re making their way to, only to reject them in a fit of youthful rebellion for aspirational ultraconservative Christianity. So it’s strange to see the roles inverted: what I grew up experiencing as alternately the air I breathed or an all-encompassing cage they get to see as a promised land, and what I fantasised about as freedom from my birth culture they actually had as their home and native way of life/thought. It’s especially amusing the way sexuality features so much in so many of these personal narratives: a lot of what got to me about my birth culture was its perceived hypocrisy about liberal tolerance for sexual deviance, and the refreshingly frank repressiveness of the trad christian alternative; so it’s interesting seeing ppl basically straightforwardly accepting as shocking and transgressive and liberating what always felt to me like trite pablum and empty promises. Same goes for the embrace of therapy/psychiatry as a sort of secular salvation they were taught to fear and abhor, instead of it being imposed on them since early childhood

Partly it’s hard to really accept that anyone can really have experienced insular christian conservatism as a default the same way I did secular/pluralist liberalism. It’s so deeply engrained to me as the universal standard that anyone’s journey to it always instinctively reads to me as them finally buckling under the pressure to conform. It’s helpful to see concrete evidence to the contrary

#faildaughters of the world unite

[britts-galaxy-brain]

In her most recent livestream Lily decided to begin claiming that a mutual friends of your’s (back when you and LO were still friends) named Alison told you about her molesting children/having CP on her computer and that you “just shrugged it off” without having told the police about it. Needless to say, given what an abusive monster that Lily is and the SHITTON of pedophilic fanfiction/porn that he has stashed away on various secret accounts or has tried desperately to scrub from the internet. I think its very fucking safe to say that LO made all of this crap up. Hell, this ‘Alison’ person sounds a whole HELL of a lot like that Tara Callie person that Lily USED to talk about and claim was guilty of these very safe fucking things. . . . .

You absolutely don’t fucking have to respond to or even mention this ask, I just couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t tell you about this horrible bullcrap that Lily is claiming about you. Its so horrifying to watch this abuse and slander being done by LO to you, Lizzy, Cypher, etc. when she thinks that nobody will be able to hold her fucking accountable for it. Because, surprise, this was absolutely another fucking livestream that has been deleted by LO and not archived by her in the least. I know how awful situations like these ones are, as I’ve had all too familiar experiences with abusers like LO in my own life, and I just want to say what you’re doing is some really great work. That has definitely made a REALLY fucking positive impact on the mental health and well—bring of Lily’s victims. Stay strong, keep doing this incredible work, and one day Lily will find out that abusive, pedophilic monsters like her NEVER fucking succeed in the end!!

I'm glad someone asked me about this directly. I just listened to the clip in full and...hoo boy. Let's begin unpacking that.

(Here's the clip anon is referring to. You can't erase history anymore, Lily.)

First off, there was never anyone in the Valkyr Studios Cinematic Universe named Allison, fake or otherwise. She's talking about Tara Callie. Also, Lily didn't "rat her out". LILY CAME TO ME ASKING IF SHE SHOULD DELETE TARA'S HARD DRIVES.

Now to address the harder, more embarrassing in hindsight aspect to this botched tale; I didn't handle it how it should've been handled. I had no idea what I should do and nobody I could go to for advice. I had also reached a point where I was almost completely convinced Tara Callie didn't exist, which added an extra layer to that "I have no idea how to handle this as a sheltered 19 year old" issue. On a personal note, I'd already dealt with attempting to report my own SM to law enforcement a few years prior to this, only to have it blow up in my face and make everything worse. So in my mind, if something that happened TO ME on a LOCAL LEVEL wasn't enough to be believed, how the hell was I going to get anywhere with an online crime with a person that I wasn't even sure existed at all, from an entirely different country? I racked my brain between the stress I was dealing with IRL to figure out what I should do, or if I should do anything at all, whether I was being played, who I'd contact, how I'd contact them (calling internationally even online was harder back then), etc. No, I didn't handle that situation well. Because I legitimately didn't know what to do. I didn't just "brush it off". It stressed me to no end. All I could think to do at that time was continue to probe "Tara" for any sort of solid proof on whether she was real or not.

LILY KNEW ABOUT TARA'S SEXUAL DEVIANCY THE ENTIRE TIME.

WHICH IS PART OF WHY I DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO HANDLE THIS. LILY KNEW AND ACTED LIKE IT WAS NORMAL. THIS IS NOT THE ONLY INSTANCE OF THIS HAPPENING.

The biggest question I have right now is thus:

WHY WOULD YOU GET DRUNK ON A PUBLIC STREAM WHEN YOU'RE JUGGLING THIS MANY LIES?

#lily orchard #lily peet #peet post #tara callie #evidence #receipts

[platoniccereal]

i wish i could undo time,

but i'm just code made to satisfy

i guess i could see how i'm the monster from your view

but to tell you the truth

i'm just as scared of you.

a little bit more on the background for these rn9 guys. sad pining and yearning of people who hurt each other in the past and now are learning how to exist together + one yet third-wheeling possum who is loved but doesn't understand it for now because everybody's depressed. angsty explanation under the cut.

as i strolled through the buddy simulator 1984 i was reminded to tell the story of rn9. there are many options for how their story evolves, but every tale has its beginning.

this one is about one pretty Standard robot and another very Screwed Up One that is put away in a metaphorical closet and occasionally used. let's say the Standard One is nines and the Screwed Up One is rk900. let's say the former is tested by the latter. it's a company's way to check the product, you see. nines as the Standard One has all the knowledge his model has to have as each product line was remade after the mixed results of the revolution.

the Screwed Up One saw god knows how many other robots passing by while company perfected its algorithms. rk900 doesn't know about his purpose and is sincere in his nature of a negotiator and intentions to befriend.

androids that are tested know perfectly well how to catch any sign of deviance, showing the deviant that it won't find any support from its hunters. even if it's a model with their face. why would that matter?

rk900 isn't going to let the last one leave.

rk900 has the same task as ever. to be liked, to be trusted, to be empathized with. he doesn't know the others are mindful of him instigating them. this is what the outcomes of what happened on the jericho are. other androids also have the same task as ever. to neutralize.

it's all a nice addition to the aggression and instability that grew in him because he's still a neural network and is still capable of learning.

rk900 waits for each of them with excitement, and even in this isolated space, everything feels like a failure because of every time they leave. in the end of the day, it's still a failed mission.

he needs to know what's wrong, why nothing works. every time he tries to be better at something he's told to do – to please. every time his actions help other rk900's to be better at recognizing deviants and to oppose them.

this tale is about the corporation, about connivance and digging a grave for someone else, but in the meantime nines is released into the world, and then there's time to understand that it wasn't only his batch that left the cyberlife warehouse.

this will end with searching, reputational risks, a love story, one escape for three people, being in court with the said corporation when chances of winning are slim, a bunch of abscesses in its system, social unrest, uncovering schemes, losing monopoly...

but for now it's the Screwed Up android rk900 who is unhealthy dependent on whether or not somebody's comes to visit him to chat. the android that will hate being alone, being left and waiting for someone for the rest of his existence. the android that has little to no knowledge of the real world that he didn't gain by accident. why would he have any, he's just a basic machine for testing.

although you can easily imagine what he does know. an endless row of criminal cases on top of other cases and profiling reports, that's typical for his model. it's what the normal world looks like for him. he knows something about the nature of crime, but... nines was ready for existence outside the warehouse, he has the real world, at least, and he can measure it with his steps.

this is where the plot gets ambiguous. it could be that rk900 escaped after the nines' batch in his own chassis, and it's a far more pleasant option where rk900 interacts with nines, hides somewhere and doesn't test anybody by his mere existence. or it could be that he escaped like venom from the movie. then nines just as eddie has to deal with the alien code in his chassis and rk900 has to exist waiting for when nines meets him again. until time when rk900 finds chassis for himself.

it says enough about nines that he didn't prefer to let cyberlife know everything he knows. about how tough and hostile he is, it's all there under this softness of a negotiator, it's been that way since the prototype was created, and it says enough about what the company has achieved through its actions.

nines perceives rk900 as a target, a threat, an enemy. and then he develops... feelings. he's scared and he's disgusted. he hates rk900 as someone who's at fault for his mistakes and for what nines has become. but it's just the way nines and other androids were taught to respond to deviants that try to gain their trust.

even years later, even after this clusterfuck, when they're at peace and live with their human, even when all three of them decided that they at least should try... there are still old habits. and they have to work this out.

nobody's a bad person, but they still have to realize it. rk900 has his reasons to try to reach out and to be scared, nines has his reasons to push him away. rk900 is unstable because he was used for the sole purpose of being unstable, and is rather immoral. he doesn't know what is dangerous and wrong, and what hurts others. nines... well, you understand what's up with this little guy.

#detroit become human #dbh #gavin reed #rk900 #reed900 #reed1800 #rk1800 #rn9 #dbh fanart #platoniccereal art