male warriors

The mageroyal looked absolutely stunning to Lyrica as she gathered the herbs and placed them into her satchel.  She took a glimpse of her inventory and carefully arranged the blooms as to not disturb their structure. “A few more of these and I should be able to have enough to create that wine that that troll told me about back in Booty Bay." 

Originally posted by heartshy

A small smirk spread across the rogue’s lips as she thought fondly of her time there. She remembered the male blood elf warrior that had his way with her as well. She sighed as she recalled the swift and feverish way he placed his lips over hers and traced down to her neck. Next thing she knew…she shook her head. "Lyr, get it together…you left him behind in search of something better.” She silently continued to pick the florals and noticed a slight movement in the grassy knoll that laid out beyond a line of trees.  Quickly, she went into stealth an creeped up towards the tree line. Crouched down like a nightsaber, she eased a little closer.  

One more twig snap and suddenly the blood elf saw a gloved hand reach from behind her and cover her mouth. A sharp point dug into the rogue’s side, piercing the soft leather armor she wore. Her eyes a brighter green as fear and rage all swirled within the young rogue’s eyes.  "You’d be dead by now with reflexes and stealth that moved that slow. Perhaps easing off the flask like recommended in the first place would do you some good.“ Lyrica tore away from the grasp and spun around to see her mentor, Aurora standing there. 

Keep reading

I think my biggest “huh” moment with respect to gender roles is when it was pointed out to me that your typical “geek” is just as hypermasculine as your typical “jock” when you look at it from the right angle.

As male geeks, a great deal of our identity is built on the notion that male geeks are, in some sense, gender-nonconformant, insofar as we’re unwilling or unable to live up to certain physical ideals about what a man “should” be. Indeed, many of us take pride in how putatively unmanly we are.

Viewed from an historical perspective, however, the virtues of the ideal geek are essentially those of the ideal aristocrat: a cultured polymath with expertise in a vast array of subjects; rarefied or eccentric taste in food, clothing, music, etc.; identity politics that revolve around one’s hobbies or pastimes; open disdain for physical labour and those who perform it; a sense of natural entitlement to positions of authority (“you should be flipping my burgers!”); and so forth.

And the thing about that aristocratic ideal? It’s intensely masculine. It may seem more welcoming to women on the surface, but - as recent events will readily illustrate - this is a facade: we pretend to be egalitarian because it suits our refined self-image, but that affectation falls away in a heartbeat when challenged.

Basically, the whole “geeks versus jocks” thing that gets drilled into us by media and the educational system isn’t about degrees of masculinity at all. It’s just two different flavours of the same toxic bullshit: the ideal geek is the alpha-male-as-philosopher-king, as opposed to the ideal jock’s alpha-male-as-warrior-king. It’s still a big dick-measuring contest - we’re just using different rulers.

Radical Feminism is NOT Feminism (Tumblr Feminism version since all of you are so butthurt).

I’ve been on Tumblr long enough to see heinous posts about men-haters and misandry. So let me clear this up for you hella quick.

I came from a third-world country, now having the privilege to live in a developed one for more than half my life. So let me tell you “Rad fems” a little something and I will be anything BUT nice about it.

Shaving leg hair and wearing makeup is NOT oppression. Being betrothed from the second you’re born is oppression. 

Having a guy call you “hot” or “cute” isn’t berating women. Having acid thrown on your face is. 

Having your gender mistaken because they don’t know what you identify as is not offensive. Being belittled for your gender (whether it be he OR she) is offensive.

Did you ever think that men AND women can enjoy rough sex? If it is consented, that is THEIR business and something THEY enjoy, and it’s not your place to judge how they like their sex to be. There are plenty of women who ENJOY rough sex. Shocker, I know.

Someone can be a housewife without a job, married to a MAN and still be a feminist. You are in no place to tell them otherwise.

Women can shave their legs and wear makeup and be a feminist, it’s THEIR choice. LET THEM BE. THEY LIKE SHAVING THEIR HAIR AND CAKING THEIR FACE. KEYWORD: LIKE.

Did it ever occur to you that girls ENJOY wearing makeup? I think makeup is art and my face is the canvas. I have days where I don’t want to wear makeup and days I do. 

And last but not least, man-hating. That’s misandry. In case you “feminists” forgot, feminism is EQUAL RIGHTS. Not superiority for women, inferiority for men. There are PLENTY of MEN who I know are feminists. My father, my brother, my friends. 

Did you forget about Barack Obama? Joseph Gordon Levitt? Matt McGorry? Men who ADVOCATE for women’s rights? Probably, if you’re that dumb to think all men are evil. 

Beyonce, Michelle Obama, Emma Watson, Malala Yousafzai, Benazir Bhutto are epitomes of ideal feminists TO ME.

I am a feminist. I advocate for equal wage, education rights, I advocate for pro-choice, I advocate for LGBT communities and minority groups. I run a community that fights domestic abuse and helps women in need, whether it be from abuse, poverty, anything. And guess what? Shaving their legs or wearing makeup is the LAST thing in their minds? I am a feminist who love men, love going to Sephora and buying a bunch of makeup and wearing it, and I LOVE shaving my legs to make them smooth af. 

And one day, I hope I do find a man BECAUSE I AM STRAIGHT! SORRY FOR MY SEXUAL ORIENTATION, WILL ALL OF YOU SHIT ON ME FOR THAT TOO?

Before you start thinking that all those petty issues are feminism causes, think about all those girls who have much bigger issues. Get out of your close-minded heads and stop giving real feminists a bad name. 

So Here's what happened

I started laying D&D a little while ago and during my second session our party: 2 warriors, 1 bard, 1 sorcerer, 1 rogue and a barbarian agree to take this cursed coffin that held a Lich spirit inside down into an ancient crypt. Turns out there was a large labyrinth beneath the graveyard and the walls were made of doppelgängers. One of the warriors gets taken and is pulled up to the ceiling and is surrounded by doppelgängers that take on her appearance.

Rogue: I want to climb up and get her down from the ceiling.

DM: Role for perception and athletics.

(Roles an 18 and a 23)

DM: Okay, you easily scale the wall of doppelgängers and successfully grab the real one. Now both of you are stuck to the ceiling.

Female Warrior: I want to try to break free.

DM: Strength check.

(Roles 27!)

DM: You successfully break free from their grasp and the two of you are now falling.

Male warrior (Me): I would like to try to catch them.

DM: role a strength and athletics for each of them.

(For the rogue I roll a 16 and a 17.)

DM: Okay you manage to grab the rogue’s cloak and pull him up on the wall of the labyrinth. Take two damage. What about the warrior?

Me: 14 and a natural 1!

DM: (Face palms and lets out a groan) You successfully grab the warrior as she’s falling but the weight of her heavy plated armor is too much for you and rips your arm from it’s socket.

Me: WHAT!?

DM: However the rogue that just lit a torch cauterizes it.

Shenanigans continue on until the party meets up again. Rogue and sorcerer are trying to lift the heavy stone coffin that has the lich’s soul.

Sorcerer: Can someone give me a hand with this?

Me: I throw my arm at him and say: “Just be sure to give it back when you’re done with it.”

(DM Stares at me)

We continue through the crypt as we avoid several traps and ambushes by the undead.

Rogue: Is the reward even worth it?

Female warrior: This quest is gonna cost us an arm and a leg.

Me: I’m already halfway there.

DM: Why? Why are you like this?

MUSCLE MODEL- GIANCARLO CASTALDO

AGE 24, 5′8″ 195 LBS

BODYBUILDER, FITNESS MODEL, GYMNAST, HOCKEY PLAYER, AMERICAN FOOTBALL.

This is the definition of a MUSCLE BOY. What a stunning specimen of man. His body and looks are just spectacular. But that body, its an athletes body. This guy has stunning strength and athletics capability. Look at how effortlessly he does those gymnastics moves.

But its not only that, its his muscle to height ratio. at 5′8″ and he is packing 195 LBS! That is in the territory of Steel from @thundersarenawrestling

His fast movements from Gymnastics, Hockey and Football will come in handy against Big but slower opponents. And this guy has serious attitude. He would get in the wing with the toughest and biggest without fear. Don’t let him fool you with his charming, cute boy smile. This man is a muscle machine. He can hit and take hits.

Lets get this muscle boy inside the ring and mats! Lets see what he is made off!

So I like to think about what would happen if an alien sees, first hand, what a human filled with survival instincts and rage looks like. Mostly I just wanted to write this lol
***

Th'wed never thought the peaceful cargo ship would have crashed, attacked by smugglers for the rare jewels they had been assigned to watch over once it exchanged hands between them and the Humans. A gift of peace. He remembers sneering when he saw the group in ornamental armor and wondering why such a brutish race had survived so long without destroying itself. He cringed when one of them, a blonde female in the robes of a scribe, bared her teeth. All of them are savages.

When the ship went down on a hostile moon orbiting the gas giant he didn’t expect to survive. But he did, all because the humans covered him and the unshielded female. Waking up covered in the viscera of the crew and surrounded by the twisted perversion of the ship he immediately turned and vomited, uncaring for the tube like filaments on his head being coated in the green slime, the scales on them and his face turning a sickly yellow of fear and pain. The cover did not save him completely from harm, leg snapped all three toes curled in pain like a fist.

That’s when he heard it. The mournful wail that sounded more like a vengeful scream. The scribe was not worse for wear but her companions has no such luck, ornamental armor unable to save them from being pierced by the gutted ship. She kneeled beside another warrior, male perhaps, with a neck twisted in a strange way. She sniffed and to his amazement began gathering the group and the crew members, laying them side by side and crossing their arms, closing the eyes of the ones that still had faces. It was a long process and more than once she had to toss away a limb. He leaned over to vomit again.

When he leaned straight again the unnerving creature was staring at him, eyes wide and glossy. She bared her teeth again and made a strange barking sound that he tried to lean away from.

“Of all the fucking people to survive it’s the chick without a gun and the racist torrin.”

She pointed to the near by body of the male she wept over, his dark skin charred black from the flames.

“His name was Christofer and if he didn’t order them to protect you, you’d be dead. Thank him, if you think you can handle thanking a ‘brutish savage’.

The scales tinged pink with embarrassment. So she had heard him complaining to the captain. He never expected her to help him up, short stature surprisingly sturdy as she helped him limp away into the foliage. He was always amazed that such tiny creatures command such fear. She was patient with the shell shocked male, saving her own tears for when they had found water. She used her outer robe to set his leg and left him to go back and scavenger for supplies. Th'wed doesn’t worry much, taking the moment to mourn as quietly as possible, scales turning a dreary grey. Help will come soon. It has to.
***

Help did not come. In the passing of the gas giant and the sun, night and day both equal to three earthling days according to his guid, Morgan, she healed the hollow bones of his leg best to her ability but he suspects he will limp for the rest of his life. Her eyes grew colder everyday although she smiles more. He remembers almost fondly the hysterical laughter she had when she explained that her species barred their teeth in joy and politeness. She hunted for them while he used his own knowledge of those sector to find edible plants and fish. Their dynamic grew into a fondness, perhaps even friendship, the smaller alien often touching him. Petting his "hair” or examining his pink hued skin or his clawless limbs. She was fascinated with his eyes, large and round and completely black. Equated him to something she calls an owl.

He often looks back at the day he asked her how she knows to survive and hunt, the smile he is now able to differentiate from becoming cold and predatory.

“I grew up on a ship colony with my brother. When we landed for supplies we had to hunt for our food, too poor to use what credits we had for nutrient blocks. They caught us one day, chopped off my brothers hand when he took the wrap. When I joined the military to provide for them they gave me survival training. Never know when a ship crashes and you have to make it until a ship comes for you.”

His respect grew as he sat in the small lodging they built together. From the craftsmanship of the things she lovingly carved he suspected she wanted to be something else and not a military lackey. The short alien from then on began using familiar nick names and hugging often. Pack instincts. He would have sneered months ago at the notion. She was a peaceful woman who laughed more often than she cried and went against every stereotype he knew. It lulled him in security with her, forgetting the predator she was.

An animal, one he never saw before but was monstrous in size and shape attached him while he gathered one day, snapping his makeshift cane and almost crushing his ribs in one swipe of its spotted paw. It’s long snout split the wrong way, vertical mouth filled with slavering teeth. Knowing he was going to die he lied limp on the forest floor and awaited the golden afterlife. He heard a great roar from behind him and felt the sweeping air of a spear over his body.

The creature backed off while his human crouched over his body, eyes wild, pupils so blown they almost dominate her eyes. Her chest heaves and fists tighten. Looking at her face he felt both of his hearts almost stop in pure fear. He wonders how he could have ever mistaken her smiling for a show of aggression. He can clearly see the artificially sharpened teeth, something he dutifully ignored before, glistening in the reflective shine of the bright red gas giant hanging in the sky.

Opening her jaw in a way he almost couldn’t comprehend he let out a strangled roar and charged the thing. With every swipe it bleed. With every indigent scream it made at her she answered in kind only angrier. It was insistent, probably not used to its food fighting back, and made as to clamp its jaws around her. Screaming for her to run did nothing. She stood there face twisted in rage as she grabbed the closing jaws and. Tore. Them. Off.

She separated the jaws until a wet cracking sound echoed but didn’t stop until she tore it completely free, fingers dripping in blood. Green for the creature and red from her own ripped palms. She tossed back her head and screamed to the sky, red planet outlining her body like a bloody halo. She looked like a god of war her people so love to worship. Rescue came weeks later from a human ship honing onto the beacon from the crash. He was roomed in the med bay while she was escorted away on the large military colony and he didn’t see her for days while he messaged his queen. When she came back she was groomed and wearing the royal blue of a generals uniform, chest glittering with the metals of valor. She grinned and stood at attention.

“We have not been formally introduced. I am general Morgan Regina of sector Terra. I was sent to ensure the first official contact with a new species went well.”

He took the offered hand which he now knows is filled with nanotechnology, turning her bones to metal and her muscles into inexhaustible strength. Even turning off her pain receptors so she will not be hindered with her own pain. Swallowing thickly he wills his face into the unfamiliar stretch of a smile and her eyes glitter at the effort. He fears her. Respects her. And will probably die fighting his people for the alliance her people offer. He is indebted, it seems, to a savage brute.
****