Happy pride from the changeling kingdom
art blog(derogatory)
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AnasAbdin
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cherry valley forever
we're not kids anymore.

Janaina Medeiros
hello vonnie
NASA

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@scribbleses
Happy pride from the changeling kingdom
"Husband."
You rap at his door at you push it open. The man shifts his stance in reflex, hand flying to his side where a longsword might sit. When he realizes it's just you, he relaxes. Training has been drilling into his core.
"Wife." He steps forward, then back, dipping into a half bow. "I did not expect you this hour."
The house cloak you have cuts the cool air of the stone walls, but your cheeks are cold. He has a fire going, so you skirt the room towards it.
"I wanted to seek your permission," you ask, quietly. He nods sternly but does not deny your request outright. Your husband has not proven himself an unreasonable man, but you have only met him twice. His real personality could be waiting to strike. "May my father visit? I miss him dearly. And my friends, from back home. They write to me and... I fear I grow lonely."
His brows knit. Your friend's husbands can be cruel, quick to temper, and neither are in the crown's army. Neither fight.
But your husband just shakes his head.
"Anything you desire, my lamb," he says. "Make this place your home. You never require my permissions."
This time when he steps forward, he is firm in his decision. He meets you in front of the fire, his silvered scars taut and reflective in the glow.
"I am sorry. For the loneliness." He is handsome, you decide. Even with the wounds. It is not the handsome you would have ever chased, but it's there, underneath. "I did not consider."
And his eyes are warm. They are the color of toiled soil and deep woods, bark that has grown for eons and will continue to grow long after you are gone.
"Will you be home more?" you ask, unsure the answer you desire.
"A fortnight, then a trip to the coast." His eyes flicker across your face, from eyes to lips. "I will return as fast as my duty allows. One moon, if that."
He smells of a man. Not in the way of sweat and stink, but something you cannot describe, something rich and wantful.
"Have you truly never seen a stay?"
"I have not."
You let your housecloak fall. Under, you have on your stay and chemise, not gown to conceal them. Neither are beautiful, but his mouth falls open at the sight.
"It ties here. I pull it tight until I look suitable." You flatten the strings down your front with your palm. He reaches for your hip, where the skin bulges out from the pressure of the boning.
"It must hurt." The touch is incredibly soft. "To dig into your skin so harshly..."
His finger traces the line down, then freezes when he realizes it's become too close to to your stomach.
"It pinches," you admit. The crackle of the fire is drowned out by the pounding in your ears. He is your husband-- his touch shouldn't feel so scandalous.
"Take it off then."
His words hit him a moment too late. Suddenly, he withdraws. "I did not mean--- Solely for your comfort--"
"If you want it off of my body," you say, slowly. "You are welcome to take it off."
mr knight and his arranged marriage wife having intense, late night sessions playing chess together
i think its the first thing you two really have in common. You notice a chess set, clearly gifted, and perk up immediately, offering to teach him to play.
he. absolutely cleans the floor with you multiple times.
and he's smiling the entire time
thats not to say you aren't a good chess player. You're very good.
He's just... better.
though, you find on nights where you wear your looser gowns, the ones that gap at the top, the chemise that's nearly see through, he seems to forget how to play
the first night you play is quiet. both of you focus on the game and awkward small talk.
the second night, as you're moving your first pawn, you gingerly ask a question.
"Why is your second staying here?" Your bat your eyelashes as you ask. "Does he not have family to return to?"
Your husband rolls his head back and forth, sucking air through his teeth.
"I don't know if I should divulge."
That makes you sit up.
"Is it dangerous? Related to espionage or battle-"
"No, no, it's... He has fallen out of favor with his wife." He moves his piece confidently, the painted stone clicking against the tile. Tonight, you play on his bed, on top of the covers, both of you lounging long. "He has been with her for seven years. Their eldest just turned five."
You wait for more, but he gestures to the board, waiting for your move. Once you move another pawn, he continues.
"Last time we went to his estate, he brought home his bastard, who was born five days before his eldest," he says. His eyes is focused on the board, but you know the knit in his brow isn't because of your chess prowess. "Now, he expects her to raise the boy, who is now the firstborn and will inherit the family estate."
The pieces of the game go flying when you reach over and shove the man by the shoulder. he nearly falls off the side of the mattress, stumbling to catch himself.
"Shut up!" Your voice echoes down the hall from the volume. Your husband looks shocked, eyes wide, mouth popped open.
"Why did you hit me?!" he says, aghast. " I didn't do it!"
"These are things you tell your wife!" you say. "Why are you friends with such a slut of a man?"
"We-- slut?"
"Slut! I'm allowed to curse, am I not?"
"My wife is allowed to do whatever she likes for the rest of her life!"
cont.
Month seven and your husband arrives without warning. His letters had ceased for a short while and the loneliness of it all almost made you miss them. His writing had improved greatly in the short time, but his spelling is still shamefully horrendous. Or, as he wrote once, whoreandous. You do not appreciate that he knows how to spell whore and not his own name.
Men. All the same.
You meet him at the door, house cloak pulled over your shoulders. The best part of his absence is how you get to relax. Your gown is baggy and wrinkled, your hair is undone: you have no one to impress.
Until, of course, your husband and another man arrive.
"I was not aware of your return," you explain, nearly panicked as you wrap your cloak tighter. Your husband does not acknowledge your shame.
"This is my second," he says curtly. The man beside him is obviously highborn, handsome in the ways girls often whisper about. He bends at the waist in the proper manner, holding a palm out in your direction.
"My lady."
You grant him your hand and the second presses his lips to your knuckles.
"You flatter me," you say. "I am simply a merchant's daughter."
"Modesty. Your family name is well known in The Golden City and the Black Coast. The tales of your beauty were not exaggerated."
Your husband frowns, but that doesnt ruin your joy.
"Are you both staying the evening?"
"A fortnight, if the lady permits," the second says. Your husband looks at him, brow knitted with confusion, but he repeats.
"If you permit."
"I will have them prepare a hearty dinner," you say. "I apologize for my appearance. Allow me to get dressed."
"Are you not already dressed?"
The second laughs too hardily at your husband's question.
By the time the food is prepared, you have dressed yourself in your finest. Jewelry and gems, rich purple cloth your father had saved especially for you, hair twisted into a beautiful updo-
"What happened?" Your husband rises from his seat the moment you enter the hall, nearly knocking over his chair. Both he and his compatriot are freshly bathed, clothing clean and nicely pressed. You take a step back, unsure whether to brace yourself against the hulking form or not, but he does not reach to strike. Instead, your husband's hands find the space above your hips. "Have they not been feeding you? Has the crown not been sending gold?"
"My lord, I don't know what you mean." This is the first time he's ever touched you. His hands are calloused and catch the fibers on your gown. "If anything I have been fed too well, I'm afraid."
"Your waist!" He squeezes his hands towards each other as if to prove a point. "It's half the size!"
Both times he has come home have been by surprise; you hadn't been in a real gown for either.
"I-" you shift uncomfortably. "Forgive me, I... The maid helped properly..."
His second has a fox-like smile as he downs his ale.
"Have you been refusing to eat?"
"No, it's the fashion..."
"The fashion is to waste?"
"Have you never seen a lady undressed?" you ask, suddenly furious.
Your husband goes red.
Not out of anger, but out of a painful embarrassment. His back goes straight and his eyes go wide.
"I--" he stammers.
Luckily, his second puts him out of his misery. "Friend, she has a corset on. Have you never noticed how all highborn ladies are shaped so erotically?"
Your husband's head snaps towards him.
"Clearly you need to spend more time undressing your wife and less time--"
"You will not say such things in front of my poor lamb."
"You two are married! She knows of sex!"
You do.
In theory.
In vague terms.
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
"Until next time," he repeats back.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
your loving husband
WELCOME TO THE TADC MLP CIRCUS âŒïžđȘ
The IW server has been infested with bees lately so I had to draw this
To Ăcalan, there are two rivers flowing throughout all of human history. One is the river of Capitalist Modernity (state), and the other the river of Democratic Modernity (society). No matter how long or how much Capitalist Modernity remains dominant, the river of Democratic Modernity flows through every act of personal and community resistance.
Unlike other models of socialism, Ăcalan does not believe society needs to "evolve" to a certain point to reach Democratic Modernity. It is always waiting within us, and it can rise up at any time.
Recommended further reading (all free):
In Defence of Ăcalanâs Vision of âDemocratic Societyâ (article)
The Theory of Democratic Modernity as a Guide for Building a New Internationalism (PDF, 32 pages)
The Main Principles of Democratic Confederalism (article)
World War III Has Begun â There Is Another Way (PDF, 18 pages)
The understanding of fascism in Ăcalanâs concept of democratic modernity (article)
Reflections on the Palestinian and Kurdish Resistance (PDF, 36 pages)
The Bond Between Peopleâs Power and Democratic Confederalism (article)
World Women's Democratic Confederalism (PDF, 50 pages)
The roots of the conflict and the Sudanese vision of democracy (article)
More links here
look dude me transforming painfully into a centipede isnt a fetish thing its for work. Can you take a pictyre for my linkedin its starting hherggghh
R1999 sketch dump
you fuck a banjo player and itâs great until six hours in you realize theyve been plucking out man of constant sorrow on yr clit the whole time
you fuck a spoons player and itâs great until smithsonian folkways comes in to document and culturally preserve the odd shit theyre doing to yr dick
no one has ever successfully fucked a dulcimer player because they vanish like a dream into the morning mist
Grandma Ferret. (X)
Todayâs Grandma Ferret
REAL TEARS I AM CRYING REAL TEARS
This is Sarasota County Ferret Rescue (linked above) and she posts all sorts of ferret outfits!
Consider donating to her, she takes crazy good care of her ferrets. She always chooses to try to save them, rather than getting them put down. Even when the surgeries are expensive and have low success rates, she always gives them a shot. She does everything for those ferrets, including only feeding them homemade raw food diets, and converting multiple rooms in her house into ferret paradises so they can free roam rather than living in cages. She really is the best ferret parent.
mold pisses me off so much
oh you have to eat your produce the moment it leaves the store or the fuckin Hungering Dust will get it. and. poison your food
I ran into this post years ago and to be honest, it has completely reoriented the way I engage with food.
Like. Iâve always sorta understood that things grow moldy or stale or sour or such if left out, but I never really internalized it in a meaningful way.
But now Iâm just like.
Yeah. The hungering dust. There exists omnivorous dust in the air that will eat my food if I donât.
Those bagels have been sitting there for a week. Are we going to eat them soon or are we leaving them for the hungering dust?
Pizzaâs been sitting out on the counter for an hour. Everyoneâs enjoying the pizza, but if we donât want âeveryoneâ to include the hungering dust then we should probably put it away soon.
Thatâs just. Thatâs how food works to me now. There exists an invisible predator in the air that hungers for your yummies, and it will not hesitate to eat your food if you donât make the effort to protect and preserve it. And eat what canât be preserved before the dust can.
Life-changing.
food doesnât actually âgo badâ, it just gets eaten by something else first
the christian veneration of the lamb has always been terrifying to me in ways i canât explain
hereâs this figure that is vulnerable and easily abused and whatâs admirable about it is that it doesnât fight back and it doesnât try to defend itself and itâs suffering is noble because it just sits there and takes it. pain is beautiful when you surrender to pain, suffering is godly when you donât question or try to protect yourself and survival is ugly⊠like it is just me or is anybody elseâs fucking skin crawling rn!!
âAbyssalâ, new Secret Knots comic.
love that doesn't end