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sudokuplayer · 7 months

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MY LOVE IS A WEAPON THROWN ONTO THE OBLIVION OF YOUR BODY (taken from booklet of original art and essays by Sufjan Stevens, written to accompany his new album Javelin)

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1.MY LOVE My first love was an involuntary sound – the music of the spheres – a subdued, white-noise shuddering of my heart, a fluster of hummingbird vibrations that I could taste in the prenatal hemispheres of my mouth, body against body and brain against brain, two conjoined selves conjuring an off-shore thunderstorm in the horizontal distance, dazzling with flashes of metallic music and elemental chaos in the safe harbor of my mother’s womb. There was no light and no dark, no semblance of simile or semaphore. There was only the blurred and audible presence of a distant and divine voice hovering above the waters where I balanced between the prism of absence and presence on an inflatable dirigible of sea foam, wandering into the oleaginous abyss with a half-smile of hazardry and wizardry – my maiden voyage into the “unbeknownst” of oblivion. For what did I really know at this point in my primordial mindlessness? Nothing at all. I was struck dumb, created from ignorance and ether, first without function or features, then without order or form. I was sensation and consciousness postponed, a wet and placid portion of monotonous fruit cut in quarters awaiting heaven’s blessing. My only occupation at this point was to occupy, be occupied, preoccupy, and prevail nature in a womb-world of benevolence and buoyancy. The music of the heartbeat of the universe danced me to sleep. Within this realm, I was love and life supreme, undivided by thought, word and deed, a small promise kept until the act of doing would undo me for good. My birth was my undoing. And then I was born into oblivion.

2.IS I remember in college, falling in love for the first time, two spring months of rapture, residing on the tail end of a helium balloon. I was so giddy about everything: washing the dishes, tying my shoes, scrambling eggs, binding books, pulling berries off juniper trees. My infatuation had such an arrogant persuasion on the world around me. Everything as metaphor ascribed with romance. I remember, while mowing lawns on the college campus, finding an injured fledgling crow by the dining hall. I carried it to the biology lab, where we called a woman who ran an animal sanctuary from her home. She met us on a bike with a wicker basket. “You are doing the universe a great favor,” she said, holding the bird to her breast, like Mother Goose. The event provided endless fodder: for prose poems and folk songs and long conversations on the roof of the aspirin factory, where we got drunk on Boone’s Farm sangria, speculating on cosmic intentions and the order of the universe. So much meaning, so little time. I was young and dumb and in love. Guided by a perverse curiosity and a voracious sensation-of-the-imagination pivoting at the tip of my tongue, I marveled at the mysteries of life laid out before me, awaiting in the calm commotion between innocence and experience.

3.A WEAPON And then experience pummeled me. Many years later, after the long-suffering exhaustion of life had driven me into the bleak underbelly of realism, my most profound thought was sad and static: that nothing really matters, nobody loves me, and loneliness would always be my most devoted companion. In my new sobering worldview, absent of love, I began to encounter everything as an object without meaning, without modifier. The homeless man selling day-old newspapers on the subway was just a homeless man selling day-old newspapers on the subway. There was no metaphor, no rapture, no cosmic intentions. I had to ask myself: does this make the man, the newspaper, the subway, or myself any less meaningful? No. Quite the opposite. For what resided in that substantial vacancy where I was always prone to symbolize the world to death is exactly what I needed right then: Opportunity. Presence of Mind. Peace On Earth. Stable Stoicism. Absence of Metaphor. Responsibility. And Hard Facts. That was my prayer: to shake off the doting artistry of an over-eager poet with a proclivity to create dreams from doldrums; to approach the world as a concrete object, a thing to be held, not a thing to behold, or allegorized; to remain at peace and in careful jurisprudence in spite of the resentful intonation of my overarching loneliness that devastated innocent bystanders with all the magic castles of the imagination. I told myself: I must snuff out the candle of candy-corn dreams. I must soldier on like a dead-end daydream undeterred. I must be steadfast in the stolid presence and essence of common sense and survival. I must be true to life internal and reside in resignation at last.

4.THROWN My second love was less ecstatic, but more tragic: the “gift” of sight – an elemental flash of lightning, which struck me like a bag of metal shavings thrown out onto ice reflecting back at the centerpiece of my sternum. A sucker punch to the chest. My cold consciousness came into sharp focus, rattled by illuminating waves invading everything around me. The light was loud and extraordinary. And even with my eyes closed, my pupils began pontificating at the pornography of sight, and I was momentarily carved into madness. Seeing is believing is birth. I shuddered and shirked at the tangible evidence of something else – the others – the imposition of a sensation outside myself, in which everything was separated into opposable armies: the land from the waters, the air from the earth, the seasons from the doldrums, the seen from the unseen, sin from sainthood, light from dark, good from evil. Everything was put in its place by the curse of namesake. The world was now before me, beneath me, above me, and ultimately against me, a pressure foot pressed down on all sides. I felt a cold claustrophobia, empty and alone, trans-natal and tragic, baffled by the violence of this new environmental context. And to think I was just a silly beansprout of a thing shivering under the medical lights, squirming like an open earthworm, now tasked with this terrible act of naming. God gave me a pen and a pad of parchment paper. “Transcribe your feelings and your findings,” she said. “Do your thing. First thought, best thought.” I did as I was commanded, a dutiful sea urchin inching its way to the possibility of words and wisdom.

5.ONTO A world without language was once the indication of certain death. Soundless, voiceless, nameless vapor. A typography of empty vessels. The void! But now, what of the tragedy of names, spoken into existence with the demystification of words? I was culprit and complicit, identifying all the divergences, differentiations, variations, permutations, diversities, dichotomies and double entendres. Categorizing the animals, cutting them down to size, organizing the parts of the body with the parts of speech, a fanatical grammar-game of possession, domination and death. I had to ask myself: Is this manner of identification in the name of higher knowledge even if it disregards purpose, analysis, and compassion (observation absent of intention)? And how could it be undertaken without idolatry and ulterior motive? I desired the objectivity of the photography of the baby-brain, whose fuzzy visionary reception was a delightful nebula of perfumed consciousness and joy. I wanted to see the world coherently and without discretion, discernment, reduction, and deduction – unintelligible intelligence. Instead I began to perceive how intimate knowledge generates prosperity (fullness) and progeny (fruitfulness) – of ideas and offspring. To be “made known” was to be consummated: “Adam knew Eve” – intercourse as discourse (knowledge as physical/sexual engagement). To know someone was to take possession (to gain access, in confidence and with confidentiality). The exchange would potentially unveil the secret knowledge between lovers (the nominative ordinances of arousal) – wherein posterity would become the observable antecedents of this sacred wisdom, and pleasure would be its misfortune (of infatuation and love, of chaos and order). My sexual discourse began to die a slow death of observation and objectification, a nonsense category of substances seen and deemed believable, predicating a cosmic break from the universe: a psychic rebirth, from which invisible things transformed into figures of speech, wherein figures of speech were left dead in the wake of rivulets and rivers, drowning in a molten waterfall of dread, where they would meet their maker in linguistic whimsy. My death was now new life. My reincarnation, a reverse sublimation. I was made known; therefore, I knew nothing.

6.THE For a short time, my pet peeves were my shortcomings: dry skin in the morning – brushing off the bed sheets with bits of outer insulation from my body. Was I molting? I needed to drink more bitter herbs, I thought. I had chronic stomach pain, below the clavicle, a small fist of air. Sweet antacid, mint leaves, fennel seed tea. Invisible Anxiety. The pain in my leg: a hypochondriac’s dream. Soothing myself with palm oil and camphor. Small applications on the surface. At dinner with guests, supplementing aspirin with ice-water, saying very little otherwise, a friend agreed with everyone’s assessment: “Yes, sometimes you are cold and unfeeling. You could warm it up a little.” My apparent coolness – was it a matter of objective safety? That remote vacancy which I brought to every engagement, keeping the world at arm’s length, the anthropologist’s vantage point, sustaining the presumptive: was that my vocation – the judicious spectator, an odd outlier outlining all this activity while staying behind the line of sight? As the youngest sibling, I was always evaluating my older sisters with fierce judgment from the corner of the room, just out of reach: eavesdropping on phone conversations, catching glimpses of padded bras, curling irons, and maxi pads passed between casual doorways. Taking stock of the panoply of premature adulthood (teenage pregnancy), unruly rebellion (sneaking out at night), clumsy and combative excursions with our wicked step-mother (cat fights with elegantly finger-nailed fisticuffs). I watched from a dutiful distance, careful not to engage, harboring a catalog of tragicomic events and all their moral assessments in order to avoid the worst-case scenario for myself. I was in the world, but not of it. I learned from the mistakes of others: that I was nothing more than a mistake waiting to happen, potential energy. I learned from the mistletoe to keep watch overhead so as to avoid the dangling modifier of accidental affection. I learned from the stone in my shoe to keep walking through the pain with a staggering refrain in my step, a constant reminder of the brokenness of my body and the indefatigable self-loathing of my own self-consciousness.

7.OBLIVION My third love was a surprise affection – ticklish touching and tender swaddles of terry towels and cotton cloth wrapped in armfuls of goose down feathers transfixed in the careful undertaking of childcare. A sensual delight! I was an object to be objectified, a thing to squeeze and prickle, caress and carry about in a breadbasket. I grew from a pinecone to a pine tree, from a newt to a dinosaur, from a poppy-seed to a poppy flower bursting with fireworks. This love then transferred its fornications onto something wet, wild and ornithological – a flying, feathery python ascending to its countenance as a bastion of bridegrooms in a flaming aviary chariot of leathery kisses all aimed at my elbows. Hope is a thing with bird feeders. So I watched the feathered fowl crowd around the seeds and suet, grubs and grains with dinosaur intensity, beaks and claws doing their vast prehistoric business with messy execution. My lovers cawed at their community of plumy mishaps like transcendental mother hens: nuthatch and creeper, tanager and titmouse, blue jay and junco gallivanting together like an armful of woolen throw blankets clapping the dust from their ornamental features. Our fairy dance of foreplay lasted for days. Cat calls as birdsong with balloons, iambic pentameter poems, chimes that rhymed with clanging crystals hung on fishing line, and all the fanciful costumes with sequins and fringe, flowered bell bottoms, metallic body suits, reggae music, ballroom dancing, charm bracelets, diamond rings, glimmering little earrings with fly-fishing ornaments, and, on the last day, a very long and serious monologue about global warming. Our lovemaking was quick and witty, a little slutty and clumsy – nothing more than a jaunt, a quick choreography of slaps and body slams, two pigeons in a mosh pit, working things out in juvenilia. Nature had done its work. Afterward we lounged together in the afterglow with soft pillow talk and dreams of nest eggs and parenting, protecting, foraging, feeding, and changing diapers, all the domestic labors of love. But for now, in a warm bird bath, sunning ourselves with a glistening glow, I could only think of the sweet bliss of here and now, the wetness of loving kisses on my nape, my neck, my back, my rump, my foreshortened wings and a sweet nectar nightcap. Hope is a thing deferred, but a dream fulfilled is a tree of life.

8.OF My fourth love was peripatetic: a suitcase stored in an overhead bin on an airplane. Things beget things beget responsibilities. I procrastinated my life by traveling far from it. A day before the voyage, I stayed up late in the polar forces of the night, diligently packing the baggage on the couch, opened up like can of tuna fish, a glass of lemon juice on the nightstand (master cleanse), the Siamese cat washing itself, the dollar store dishes in the sink, my dirty clothes in a paper bag. The last time I had left for this kind of trip, my things were in boxes in one room on the second floor of a gated town house in God-knows-where, New York. Now everything had been transferred as in a swap meet, boxes upon boxes, things upon things, other voices, other rooms. The living room was a labyrinth of speculative journeys, a crossword puzzle of travel prompts. Outside, gale force winds rose to the occasion, knocking on the windows like unwanted guests. I imagined the weather overtaking everything in an apocalyptic frenzy: cups and saucers trembling in tongues, plastic wrap coming undone in a transparent wedding train, pillowcases falling over our heads like hard hats, ceiling fans circumnavigating the neighborhood like helicopter rides, the colored crayons on the kitchen shelf thrown asunder to make slapdash hieroglyphs all over the window panes, the mysterious penmanship of the gods! My mind was preoccupied by disaster, a force majeure, an act of God, a ball of yarn, and the four horses of the Apocalypse. I wanted nothing of it: this origami suitcase lifestyle of travel and transition. I wanted to be here and now. I wanted silence, solace, and stillness. I wanted the simplest of things: a bowl of vanilla ice cream, a warm bath, and a quiet place to sit and stitch my hand-crafted cross-stitch of rainbows and sailboats framing a sexy cartoon portrait of Dionne Warwick diligently working the lines for the Psychic Friends Network from way back in the 1990s, when every solution to every problem was just a phone call away.

9.YOUR History repeats itself, defeats itself, cheats itself, berates and beats itself. I am not historic. I am histrionics. I must hate my mother and my father. I must hate myself and take up the cross and be born again. In this way, my fifth love was an immutable shadow following me with sticky tricks and schemes, a cancerous contamination of the mind that could only be cured with the deadly venom of a cone snail. I couldn’t quite shake it, the cobalt-blue memory of a ghost haunting my sophistry, a prescient reminder that the knowledge of faith and the substance of hope were right behind me this entire time (and not something to pursue, or follow, like an ornamental object on the horizon, dazzling, elusive and alive in the distant future). The Divine Inside was a “previously known encounter.” I could never see it face to face, but only feel it in my shadow, the former patterns of an aura left behind, pushing forward, pursuing, persuading, steering and navigating my memory through the valley of the shadow of death. I wanted so desperately to “have and to hold” the real substance of things (evidence!), the physical, intimate engagement with the body and the blood, which I actively sought out in transcendental activity, prayer and supplication, the sacraments, the feasts of the saints, a metaphysical substance to salivate and sublimate within the natural order of things. But this was a false pretense. God is not natural, but supernatural. The real material of divinity is ineffable, unassailable, unknowable, unutterable, and unreal. The evidence of providence is not within our line of sight, nor within our grasp, but instead beyond and behind our physical kinesphere. It is unapproachable, unspeakable, unobservable, and ultimately “erstwhile”. And yet still we continue to feel it “under our skin” and “within the universe” of our own personal history: The Past/The Passed/The Repossessed. God is our delayed consciousness – the nameless, faceless dichotomy of our secret truth. And we are made in its indistinguishable appearance. Therefore our own true “image” is without a name or a face – a baseless, shapeless cloud hovering above the waters, a countenance of empty atmosphere (signifying nothing) – a gothic apparition, a vision of love, a dance of the eternal travesty of life, a burrowing beetle of impenetrating curiosity. Digging for the true grit of life in the eternal dirt of the universe.

10.BODY My last love was a kind of science fiction. I was out running errands at the mall when I saw a fleet of lampshades falling like flying saucers from the sky. The alien robots came to me in an escalating beam of light and said: “We come in peace! The obverse seeks to make its face shine upon you, while the inverse hides in shame.” They did their thing with my body, prodding and poking around for some good news, but at first I would have none of it. I struggled and squirmed under nylon restraints strapped onto a stainless steel operating table. I was a basket case of curmudgeonly vitriol, pointing out everything that was wrong with the world around me: Fossil fuels. Cancer. Money. Greed. Sales Tax. Frozen Yoghurt. Religion. Varicose Veins. Junk Mail. But the alien robots were unflappable. They said, “We just need a little DNA, not a diatribe,” while swabbing the insides of my mouth with a cottony Q-tip. Then, after careful intubation and a slow drip of aesthesia, I eased into the abyss. They removed my clothes and covered my body with a marshmallowy spray foam. They swaddled me into a warm cocoon of maroon goo, where I remained in stasis to the end of the ages, slowly resuming into the soft, pillowy features of my former self – pre-natal, premature, pre-conceived – a slippery and succulent primordial membrane of soupy warmth and illuminating agency awaiting, once again, the cosmic journey laid out before me like a yellow-brick road of possibilities – the secret oblivion of love, the “unbeknownst!” Within this pinprick vision, I saw a tapestry of afterbirth in afterglow as an addendum to an immaculate after-thought of rapturous joy. I was born-again in fullness and truth. I was a peanut. I was a pretzel. I was a pan-fried shrimp. I was pandemonium personified. I was once again myself waiting to happen again and again and again and again and again … until the end.

— Sufjan Stevens

#sufjan stevens #javelin

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fuckmyskywalker · 7 months

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"Positive." — Clayton Beresford.

— CW: 18+, smut! Pregnancy. Oral (fem receiving). Breeding kink (little?). | Word count: 1.1k (not proofread!)

— a/n: Okay late again but HAPPY HALLOWEENIE. You guys can imagine I will be posting everything that I couldn't this week today, so I'm sorry for the spam. I really did my best to be consistent but there were things beyond my control :(

— List of films! | Taglist.

“You are glowing,” He says with a smile, his light eyes reflecting the love he feels for you. Sometimes you wonder if your child will inherit Clayton’s eyes. You wish they did. “Pregnancy suits you…” His whispers are laced with a sultry emotion, as his hand caresses your swollen bump gently. Almost 26 weeks pregnant and with almost 12 more weeks to go, your body is changing rapidly, and you find it amazing how fixated your husband is with those changes.

With your legs hanging from the edge of your shared bed. He kneels in front of you, making you giggle at the way his head peeks from above your bump. These past weeks he has been refraining from touching you, trying his best to be a supportive husband, help you with your symptoms, buy you anything you require and more, helping you set up the baby’s room, even organizing a surprise baby shower for you a few weeks ago… but the need to run his hands up and down your body, to feel you— are burning him alive. Clayton found himself even more attracted to you with the way your body began to change and when he remembers those times when he heard men at work talking about how they weren’t attracted to their wives’ bodies after they gave birth; he can’t believe they are even called ‘men’.

It is no secret that he is devoted to you, and yes, it was no surprise either that the sight of you, bearing a life inside of you; a product of your love and adoration— makes him even more eager to pounce and ravish you. Countless nights he fists his hard cock in the shower while you sleep exhausted, and he isn’t guilty of himself— in fact, he is counting the days until he is able to be buried deep inside you.

But the thing is, with the growing shifts, more weight to carry, more vitamins to take… your body decided to also produce more hormones; so many that you wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat with a mess in between your thighs because your mind was so sex deprived it gave you the most filthy wet dream with the man who slept peacefully next to you.

The sexual tension in the room hanging between you is like a thick cloud— palpable and unreadable. “Are you sure?...” He asks sweetly, although his voice isn’t stronger than a whisper. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, dollface.”

“I’ll be fine Clay,” You reassure him. “I miss feeling your tongue on me, darling.” “My tongue?” His devilish smirks mean no good. He loves to play along, act dumb, and tease you until you start begging. Everything is a mere act, of course; he is as eager as you to fulfill your desires. A longing part of Clayton that wants to rip off your clothes, throw her onto the bed and give you such a rough fucking you will see the stars— but he can’t risk anything having to your baby. Sliding the silky fabric of your maternity nightgown, he exposes the soft flesh of your thighs and uses his hands to spread them, allowing you to do the rest and offer yourself to him. At this point, he can’t control himself anymore. “Come here." His hoarse voice sends a twirl down your spine. This is finally the moment you’ve been fantasizing about.

Taking the sight of your nakedness like a gift, he leans closer, his hot breath ghosting over your thighs. “God… you are so wet” His thumbs part your labia, inching his mouth closer and collecting your wetness with his tongue. “You taste and smell divine— I missed your pussy so much…” Clayton’s voice is in a deep trance, absolutely hypnotized by you.

As the tip of his tongue circles your aching clit, your fingers comb through his hair, pulling it and tugging it gently when he sucks harder on your clit and returns his tongue to your entrance. He returns his tongue to your dampness, savoring the salty-sweet flavor that only seems to be enhanced by the hormones that possess your body into a pleasurable, insatiable, and frenzy state. His hands leave your thighs to explore your body, caressing the sides of your belly as he crooks his head to slide his tongue in and out your pussy faster, eating you out just like he knows how to do.

The way your orgasm is approaching at light speed is ridiculous; the combination of his skilled tongue, the sexual deprivation and hormones work wonders to not only increase the pleasure and lust that is burning you alive— but also to bring you to the brink of ecstasy at record time. Clay who is now an expert, a professional even— someone who knows your body like the back of his hand feels the tension building around you— in you. The way he can feel your clit throbbing with every brush of his nose against it while his tongue continues to fuck your sopping, tight hole… with every buck of her hips in such a primal manner— he can’t blame you. He is seconds away from coming inside his sweatpants.

“That’s it—” He moans huskily against the sweaty skin of your thighs. Even you have to move your upper body to the side to be able to meet his face properly with your pregnant stomach getting in the way. But damn him if that doesn’t make his cock throb. The fucked up look in your eyes, how your lips part and small, rapid pants escape your lips. Clay can’t believe how beautiful you are and how lucky he is. “Come for me, Mama. Come all over my face.” There’s no trace of the sweet, caring husband, no; sounds like an equally sex-deprived man who is now overtaken by the lust and desire for his pregnant wife.

With every move of his face against your pussy, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit sending you into that precipice, falling and drowning in the pleasure you’ve been denied for months.

“Fuck…” He mumbles, and you are unable to hear him over the loud ringing of your ears. “I love seeing you like this, so fucking wet for me.”

Clayton’s tongue continues lapping at you, savoring you until you whine from overstimulation— he’s been keeping his hands to himself for months as well, so he feels like he deserves every single drop. The sight of his pregnant wife coming apart just because of his tongue, screaming his name in pleasure… is almost too much for him. He needs to be inside you, right now.

“Lay down, I need to fuck you. And when our child is born, I’ll pump another one into you.”

— 🐚 if you wish you be added to my taglist there's a google forms in the beginning of the post! There you can select which days you would like to be tagged in (or choose the option: all the above!). If you send me a DM or an ask I will tag you on every day! | some tags might not work due to your settings, so let me know!

#𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 anya writes!#𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 kinktober 2023!#clay beresford #clayton beresford #clayton beresford x y/n #clay beresford smut #clayton beresford x you #clay beresford imagines #clay beresford x reader #awake 2007

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360iris · 1 year

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I don’t really write smut nowadays but fuck it— without further ado, here’s my nsfw moon knight system headcanons (plus scene blurbs)

Steven is considerate. You could use a myriad of words to describe how he is in bed in fact, like attentive, or accommodating and devoted to pleasing you.

The word that truly encapsulates the experience, that describes what mindset he so seamlessly slips into when his eyes darken and his objective becomes razor focused however, would be generous.

Because Steven, first and foremost, always aims to please when it comes to you. He wants to know that you’re throughly satiated and well aware of how desirable you are in his eyes.

A misconception you’d had early on in your relationship with him was that he’d be gentle, in a borderline overboard kind of way. Not that you would have minded much, but somewhere along the line you’d just convinced yourself that he’d be soft, meek and docile— looking to you for encouragement, or perhaps even instruction on more than one occasion.

You most certainly did not expect for Steven to be the type of man that uses you like he needs it.

Like nothing in the world could get between him and his objective to have your cum covering him, sliding down his fingers and dripping from his wrists. His nose, chin and throat wet from how ferociously he eats you out.

Steven fucks you dumb, making it his personal mission to have you cum so many times that you lose count, but don’t worry because he never does.

“The kitchen counter is cold, the metal handle to the cabinets that currently press into your shoulders even moreso, but you deem the momentary discomfort minuscule and insignificant to the sexual tension that surrounds you and your boyfriend.

The unadulterated want courses through you like electricity. It makes you jittery, causing your hands at your sides to clench at nothing, making futile clawing motions on the dark surface as your pupils dilate, swallowing your irises whole and perfectly mirroring his reflection back at him.

Maybe you should feel embarrassed by how intense and delicious a simple caress of the tips of his fingers against your covered bundle of nerves feels— because it’s a signifier of how desperate you are for him, but any inklings of potential shame are quickly smothered in a blinding instance when his hand slips past the band of your underwear.

The pads of two coarse fingers set into a rotating circular motion as his left hand palms and firmly squeezes at the exposed skin of your thigh, holding your legs open even as you twitch from pleasure.

His grip maintaining even as you begin flinching and jolting in small, sporadic bursts. Even as you helplessly grip at the material clothed on his broad shoulders, cry into his collar and cum so intensely the long sleeves of his shirt are wet to his forearms.

Steven is many things, can be described many ways but above all else, he is generous in his affection and in the way he makes love.”

Jake could be described as rough, unrelenting. Possessive even, in the way he commands so much of you, that he might as well be taking all you have to offer and what remains after that too.

He’s consuming, with a hungry, ravenous sort of appetite for you, you, you.

Jake’s guaranteed to take the cake for the messiest fucks you’ve ever had.

He wants you wanton and cock drunk. Demanding nothing short of your makeup ending the night smeared and unrecognizable to its initial form, with his spit on your face and his cum dripping out of your cunt.

In the way that Steven uses you like he needs the satisfaction of knowing your pleasure is a direct product of his labor— Jake uses you as though you were a sex doll, made for his pleasure, for his use.

Though it’s not to be mistaken that he doesn’t care for you, when on the contrary the man loves you like you were akin to a cherished stuffed animal.

He focuses in on you, making the act of fucking you his only priority and mission. And you can’t say he doesn’t play to his strengths, doing his job well.

“Perhaps not every woman, but as you imagined it, most women wanted to feel pampered and special during sex.

A nice dinner date beforehand, the end result happening somewhere comfortable and lush, like in a comfortable bed fitted with soft sheets, a plush duvet and fluffy pillows. The whole nine yards laid out essentially.

You wondered how many expected to end the night like you were, slouched in the fine leather seat of your partner’s limo? Your left leg extended and pressed against your chest, leaving your core as open as the space— and your current level of flexibility, would allow for.

But you were more than certain that not many could say they’d experienced Jake Lockley like this. His cap, gloves and outerwear long since discarded. His pupils blown as his hips surge forward, hips meeting your own in ferocious and sturdy thrusts that have you moaning unintelligibly.

“Keep your leg up.” He commands, growling into the juncture of your neck as he maintains such a relentless speed— the intensity making it increasingly difficult to hold your limb up without any additional assistance.

After a particularly penetrating slip of his cock, your grip falters for the umpteenth time and Jake’s retribution is swift and brutal but sweet as he finally takes charge of the one task you were currently fucked too dumb to do.

The trimmed nails of his left hand dip into your thigh, creating half moons in their wake as his other hand finds it’s way into your hair. Looping his fingers into the strands, he issues out a rather punishing tug.

Freeing his digits only to give your face a disciplinary slap that seems to offer less towards correcting your insubordination, and more towards encouraging it as you simply moan shamelessly in the wake of the sting.

The sharp impact easily overshadowed by the resounding sloshes that originate further bellow. Slick thoroughly coating your thighs, his cock and the snow white leather of the seats below you.”

Marc’s method is slow and purposeful. He prefers to take his time with you.

It’s always the little things with him. Like the way he makes a point of holding the back of your neck, his forehead resting against yours as he thrusts in such a deliberate and gradual manner— all just so he can make sure you feel every inch fill you up before hollowing you out again.

He’s needy, just as he wants you to be for him. He’s also firm in his grip on your body as he pleasures you. Marc always makes sure to hold you close to him, as though you’d slip out of his grasp like drifting sand.

This is also the reason he has a bit of a cum play kink? Though it’d have less to do about “breeding” and more to do with claiming you as his own.

Marc wants to leave you used simply because he quietly enjoys the sight of his cum leaking from you; and loves the act of slipping your underwear back over the mess to have you walk around with.

Orgasms are more impactful and earth-shattering focused with him because he wants you to be obsessed with how he makes you feel. He wants to leave you unwilling to ever settle for fucking anyone else again.

This guy has the most debilitating praise kink, and that means that simple phrases like ‘good boy’ don’t cut it! You have to get creative and personal!

He would absolutely dematerialize and reform into the most feral version of himself if you ever whispered, “Your cock is made for me, baby. I need you, Marc. I need you, honey.” —into the shell of his ear as he fucked you.

“Desire is generally a fickle concept. People’s feelings ever changing and fluctuating in the same way nature alternates between seasons.

What someone wants today, they scoff at tomorrow, rolling past wants off their plates like freezer burnt peas.

When it came to Marc, the things that he wanted seemed to stay the same. He was just a simple guy like that, in a sense. Old fashioned and committed once he had his mind set.

Marc makes how head over heels in love he is with you abundantly clear, every time he fucks you.

With the way he holds you in between his arms and against his chest like he never wants to let go. And the way he makes a mission out of kissing every inch of your face, no matter how sweaty you are.

He wants his love to forever be a part of you and he’ll get the job done, no matter how many kisses it takes.

Though you keep this tidbit to yourself, your favorite part of sex with Marc is when he cums.

He’s all tensing muscles, deep breathy moans and needy hands that grasp for you as he struggles to make his way back through the foggy veil of dopamine-induced euphoria.

The man having a habit of fighting through his pleasure like he’s being forced to wade through high levels of water. But you try to make it as calming as possible, mouthing at his Adam’s Apple with tentative nibbles and kissing into the curve of his jawline as he rides it through.”

a/n: just finished my final proof reading! this took me days to work on in short sections because I have work and stuff— but reading everything back has me so shdhdh lmao this is just so hornknee!!

this really isn’t something I do much of anymore because i find my old nsfw fics to be really cringe,, anyway I hope you guys enjoy it 🫣🫠😩😭

#moon knight smut #moon knight headcanon #marc spector smut #marc spector x reader #moon knight system x reader #steven grant smut #steven grant x reader #jake lockley smut #jake lockley x reader

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geordikisser · 3 months

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jealous!redacted boys | suggestive

characters: david, milo, asher & sam :p

☆ a/n: any porter missers? miss porter. this was an excuse to write abt porter but might as well spoil my milo & david mooties who follow meee >_O!! part 2 later :33 ☆

context: someone is tryna spit some sweet shit to you as he steps away

david:

- david will never hesitate to let it be shown when he is feeling a type of way about someone who’s interacting with you. it’s in his blood to devote loyalty & possessiveness upon things he claims as his

- whether it’s intentional, it’ll show when he is feeling upset at someone who’s seemingly putting moves on you

- “is everything alright.” in the scariest voice you’ve ever heard from him

- david is a direct man but that directness doesn’t mean he’s directed in the right direction sometimes,, he isn’t to good with social cues with you. he’s stupid with love. smart with most! but love? eeeerm.

- he has a history with that too,, looks at jealous tsundere bf confronts you.

- he will become very touchy/clingy with you once he begins reading signs he doesn’t like. to hand holding or even thigh holding. he’ll rub your thigh with his finger gently or hold you closely by the waist and play with the bottom of your shirt. actions speak louder than words! i guess

- “clearly social cues aren’t your strong suit. fuck off, they aren’t interested.” as blunt as he’ll put it, in that same tone. he isn’t loud or aggressive. just direct and stern, he doesn’t want to cause a scene.

- after you two left from hanging out, david felt the urge to meet your lips with his as he dragged you in the house practically. you chuckle in between kisses as you put your hands on david’s chest. “you’re mine, you know that right, angel?” he asked in a low husky tone. you nod as you caress his cheek. “i love knowing you’re mine.” he growls lowly, his breath hitching as he said that.

milo:

- unlike david, he isn’t quiet. he’s loud about how he feels with you & other people who try to spit some shit with you

- “yo, who’s this?” mentality

- he will glare and give nasty looks from afar. until he realizes the whole shtick going on with you. he will make his entrance very grand and big,,

- “hey sweetheart!” he pulls you in and kisses you everywhere he can within public. “how’s my sweetheart?— oh? who’s this?” he’s petty with it i just know it

- if the punk doesn’t get the hint milo will get real serious. he will puff out his big boy chest and rip that person tryna hit on you to shreds. he’ll even bare his teeth a bit too ngl, he isn’t scared

- “listen here, punk. your little act for my sweetheart isn’t cute. quite frankly, you could use some tips. good thing i’m not a teacher. though, i could teach you some manners if you’d like. no means no, now scram.” in a low tone but if anyone walked by, they could hear.

- milo isn’t bashful, he knows what’s his and wants to keep it that way. he doesn’t need small hints and signs to show what’s his, he will scream it to the roof tops lmao. he’s a blunt and bold dude, no hesitation w him

asher:

- asher’s dumb. he has 0 tone reading skills & doesn’t understand most things. he won’t catch on until it gets physical or you show visible discomfort.

- he is more polite compared to his other friends. he’s a sweet boy, has 0 bad bones inside him. he’ll tell the punk to go off somewhere or tell them you’re taken to actually avoid conflict

- asher, despite his loud & unruly nature, prefers peace over violence such as that. he hates conflict, he isn’t a aggressive person at heart!! doesn’t mean he’s afraid to be aggressive he won’t hesitate to be violent, especially if it’s over you? he’s a extremely protective person.

- “hey, i know your intentions are pure but they’re taken! they have a boyfriend.” & whatever the other person has to say he’ll shut it down immediately, he doesn’t care for what they have to say. positive or negative, he doesn’t care.

- if the person persists (which they do most of the time due to asher’s kind personality ) he will get nasty about it. not crazy like milo or quiet like david, in between.

- “if i need to remind you again i will trust me! i ain’t scared of you.” he’ll be laughing as he says this, he’s to unserious,,

sam:

- sam is also very possessive. he know you can handle yourself but sometimes that side of him makes him want to handle that. he lives in a general dominant nature, sexual or not.

- sam will try to remain calm & trust you can handle it on your own, he is similar to david, doesn’t wish to make a big scene but he isn’t afraid to cause one. he can just teleport away if it gets overwhelming

- he will have similar mannerisms to milo, he will come in being touchy a bit and just glare at the person. his eyes will read a very distasteful message hoping the punk would take their leave understanding your disinterest.

- if not, he isn’t afraid of course to speak up

- “unless you got places to be tomorrow, i’d pick up the pace and swing on out of here.” in a low tone, his accent gets heavier the angrier he gets and the lower his voice is

- he would be very forward about it, he hates beating around the bush. these sort of interactions are quick and direct, he has an intimidating aura about him that make alot of humans turn away, that stomach churning feeling

- “i bet you had that handled sure.” he rolls his eyes as he peppers your neck in kisses. “you’re strong, i know.” he sighs as he nuzzles into the your neck. “but i love defending what’s mine.” he bares his lovable shit eating grin to you as you roll your eyes in response.

#redacted asmr #redacted asher #redacted david #redacted babe #redacted milo #redacted sam #redacted angel #redacted sweetheart #redacted darlin #redacted headcanons

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cupidbread · 4 months

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DEVOTED

ANAKIN SKYWALKER X DROID! FEMALE! READER

Warnings: Smut. Sub! Anakin. Master kink. Droid!Reader.

ANAKIN has been keeping something from Obi Wan. The feeling of loneliness and desire that calls to him every night, but as a Jedi he is prohibited from acting on those urges. Which is why he came up with a solution, Anakin has always had a knack for repairing and creating droids since he was little, this skill is of great use in this situation.

He hissed in pain as a wire lightly electrocuted his pinky. After some hard work and sweat, he twists the screwdriver one last time and switches the droid on impatiently.

"Commencing project R0-3E" the droid comes to life and blinks.

"Whoa..." he lets out a gasp of disbelief.

"Assessing... Anakin Skywalker. Booting completed. What would you like me to do, master?" That sent a rush of blood straight to his cock. Master, huh.

"You've programmed me to be anything and do anything you want, Master. Say the word and I am a slave at your feet." She whispered seductively. His skills truly are impressive if she learns this quickly, he thinks.

"Undress. Get onto the bed for me." He commanded, loving the fact that he was in charge for once, not Obi Wan or the Council.

"As you wish sir." R0-3E purred. She crawls onto the plush bed, showing off her round ass with such fatness, you wouldn't guess she was a droid. He unbuckles his pants like a desperate teenager and crawls in behind her.

"Fuck... I've had dreams of you, sweetheart. No one can take you from me now, no one will have to know. You're mine and mine only aren't you?" He breathes stroking his thick cock from behind her.

"Yes Master..." He groans.

"Master, I like the sound of that, I'm gonna make u scream it tonight, until you're too dumb to do anything but bounce on my cock, yeah?" R0-3E whimpers in pleasure of his words.

The automated lube inside her is released at the sense of lust in the air, making her cunt wet.

"This might hurt baby, just hold on for a bit huh" He muttered, drunk on lust. Brain fogging up making up unable to think of anything but her... He quickly shoves his thickness into her, whimpering at the sudden warmth and wetness.

The Jedi thrusts deeper into her, hands gripping her hips, as he uses her moans and mewls as fuel to go faster.

Anakin feels pathetic, desperately rubbing himself into her, mumbling nonsense while the room fills with moans from her and him. Bodies tangling with sloppy thrusts.

"M'gonna cum, m'gonna..." His eyes roll back as he falls onto the bed, thrusts never stopping, pulling the woman droid onto him.

"That fast? I never took you for such a pathetic desperate man, unable to even satisfy a droid, thank heavens you've never encountered a real woman interested in you." R0-3E smirks, finding his lust and stamina increase at her words.

"S-stop it. I'm in charge." He struggles out while she rides him like it's the last thing she'll ever do.

"Oh yeah? Is that why you're laying under me, as if you're nothing but a toy for my pleasure? You want to be used like this. You've always craved it, you're just a disgusting man in need of some attention you never got." She chuckles, knowing he is so close to tipping over the edge.

"P-please... I c-cant-" He shoots out ropes inside of her mechanized body. Tears are falling down his face due to the overwhelming pleasure he's never experienced before.

The droid comes to a stop and strokes his hair while he overcomes his pleasure.

"Aren't you pretty when you cry..." she whispers, a mind full of an unknown feeling her processors can't recognize.

His eyes snap to hers in pure vulnerability, "Can we just lay here a bit?" He trembled.

"Oh of course, Master. Anything you want." R0-3E lays next to him, his head moves onto her artificial breasts.

He traces her droid number, tattooed into her waist. "R0-3E sounds rather complicated, don't you think?" he sighs.

Before she gets to respond, "I think I'm gonna call you Rose. Goodnight Rose."

Just like that, he dozed off peacefully. Which was pretty funny to Rose, humans are strange like that she concluded, but rather lovely.

This was my first time writing and I KNOW IT SHOWS but please do interact sweethearts, it would mean the world to me.

My first post being a smut fic for Anakin Skywalker was not what I expected HAHA

Thank you,

Cupid xx 💋

#anakin skywalker x reader #star wars #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin x you #anakin x y/n #anakin x fem reader

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vespaer77 · 4 days

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I'd like to tell you a story...

... about my first Tav, Shayla Moonsong.

She is a Zariel tiefling, and a College of Lore Bard, and while she wasn't my first Tav, she was the first one to finish the game. I had romanced Lae'zel, Shadowheart, and Astarion in early access, so I focused on her because I was anxious to try a new romance, Halsin. However, because she was created just after full release, her save file was horrifically bugged. I got the cut scenes for Halsin that allowed me to progress his companion quest and cure Moonhaven of the shadow curse, but after that I could get no further dialogue from him at all, even in camp. I was playing with a party limit mod by the time he joined my party, so I never needed to worry about dismissing him from my party, but I did occasionally have difficulty with him following the party. I had to run around controlling him a lot. The only scene I ever got with him once he joined me was specifically his sex scene, after I did the love test at the circus in Act 3. I knew literally nothing about him, lol, so I had to google the answers.

But that was the thing. I knew… nothing about this guy. He was just some hot elf my bard boned, I had zero investment in him other than that. And it became a head canon for me about her - she was a typical bard, slutting her way to the Gate. She slept with the Emperor, she had a foursome with the drow twins and Halsin, and she absolutely played Haarlep's game to get his pass code. And while I'd wished, at the time, I could have had the additional enrichment of a poignant, heartfelt romance, I did enjoy exploring a character that was more free with her sexuality. As a result, though, I'd ended up "saving myself" for Halsin, because I knew his romance would (or in my case should but didn't) open up very late in the game. And I'd shot down all of the other companions fairly quickly.

Including Gale.

Especially Gale.

He was still bugged at the time, and his… overly amorous nature, lol, was widely known to anyone who'd spent more than ten minutes on the internet. So I ignored a lot of opportunities to know him better. And at the time, he was honestly my least favorite character. Particularly because I truly didn't enjoy him in early access. I genuinely found him offputting and way too over the top, and subsequently much of his narrative flew straight over my head.

Like a Boeing 777.

But let's be honest. Because of the nature of his story, and the way he seems to compartmentalize his trauma as devotion, and because of the mask of charm and confidence he wears to convince your character of his usefulness, and the way he tempers his emotions so he doesn't upset the orb, all of these things… the complexity of his narrative is super duper subtle. Or at least to me it was. I was the complete dumb dumb that didn't pick it up from context like we were supposed to.

Until I played my bard, Shayla. The first one to get through Act 3.

I had saved the culmination of Gale's quest in Sorcerous Sundries til nearly the end. Just before all the stuff with the foundry and Gortash. At the time, he was still a checklist item, a box to mark off on my road to the final boss.

So I went into it feeling like this man was probably pretty fed up with me, lol. And then he read the Annals of Karsus and I realized right then just how much I'd taken this character for granted. Because everything about him, his entire personality, shifted right there, and he became… someone else. And everyone else in my party noticed it too. The choice of responses I was given was crafted in a way that made me feel like the writers very much wanted me to notice a change had taken place within Gale. And then I picked a response that was honestly a touch unkind. I don't remember what I said to him, but…

He yelled at me.

"She left me to die!" he said. I remember that part.

And when the camera panned back to me and the party, we were all wide eyed and reared away from him in shock and disbelief that this charming, confident, gregarious, and benign creature was suddenly so… dark. And it was at that moment that a light switch was flipped. The missing puzzle piece was found and snapped into place. Suddenly I understood everything I'd missed up to that point, and it was more than just an "ah hah!" moment. It was an, "Oh my god…" moment. He hadn't become someone else.

We were seeing who he truly was for the first time.

His mask had slipped. Cracked beneath strain. He'd been pushed to a breaking point.

Naturally, because he's Gale, he recovered quickly. But it was too late. I saw him. And then two things happened. I fell in love with him. Instantly. But then I also realized the game was almost over. His romance opportunity had come and gone, there wouldn't be a "confess your love at the last minute" option. And of course his fate at the end of the game was not so kind to my bard either.

I've had big feelings about it ever since.

And then the Hugs mod came out, which only served to further poke my great big ouchy feelings.

I've lived in head canon land for a while now when it comes to Shayla Moonsong. In my head canon, he did end up taking her advice, he did pick an outcome that didn't involve using the Crown of Karsus or the Karsite Orb, and in no way did he become a pulverized cloud of stardust. He ended the game living peacefully in Waterdeep, giving Tara belly rubs and ushering in the next generation of wizards without grooming them for a lifetime of suffering.

But that leaves Shayla herself and her big, unresolved feelings. Feelings that were never processed or acknowledged, as the time was never right between her relationship status with Halsin and the fate of the world resting on her shoulders.

So, what is a bard to do when she falls in love, but it's too late?

Nothing small, that's for sure. And it will probably involve singing.

(I'm planning on maybe two to three chapters for this story, in which she very much makes things worse before they get better, lol. She's still learning. But it's definitely gonna end with some light cunnilingus and good, heavy railing either on a kitchen counter or against a bookshelf. I haven't decided yet. I do hope, if you do decide to read this humble beginning, that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And also please excuse my ill attempts at self-effacing meta humor.)

Pairing: Gale / named fem!Tav bard Rating: Smut is imminent (once we get through the foreplay… er, mutual pining) Word count: 4790

Read the story HERE or under the cut

Chapter One: The Wizard, The Real One

"Is there a loan shark in the audience or something?" Jory asked.

"Hmm?" Nelsyn replied, but she didn't look up from her lines. He supposed that was fair. She was busy letting Sara fix the adhesive on the curly teal wig that sat between her horns, and Jory knew as well as anyone on cast that nothing good came from troubling the crew. He let his heavy bear pelt slip from his shoulders as he sat down in the empty chair next to her.

"She's been there all night," he told his friend as he nodded toward the entryway to stage right. "Boss lady. We've been touring this show for months. We could all do it in our sleep, she knows that. Never seen her hover like this."

And there was no reason for it. "The Fall of the Absolute" was a roaring success. The production was Shayla Moonsong's crowning achievement, a media darling, and the current obsession of a whole continent. She'd catalogued volumes of stellar, five-star reviews thus far, and was selling out box offices everywhere she went. The show was the hottest new thing since "Volo's Guide to Sex in the Elemental Planes."

But it wasn't her biggest accomplishment. It wasn't what she was truly known for.

She was the Hero of Baldur's Gate.

She faced the illithid Netherbrain herself, and won.

And the tale they were telling in front of all those people was her story.

Heavens knew the winsome bard had faced far greater perils than watching a chapter of her life play out on a stage.

And yet there she stood, on this most unremarkable of nights, leaning just inside the door frame where she could observe without obstructing. Where she could scan the audience like a scrying eye, searching for… something. Normally she'd be flitting about like a cloud of gnats directing the cast and crew, answering questions, giving orders, helping the caterer, filling water jugs, finding toilet paper, running errands, meeting VIPs. Trying not to go crazy. But not tonight. Tonight she stood very still, chewing her thumbnail and unconsciously flicking the tip of her tail over and over, hard to the left.

And Jory remembered what Nelsyn had said about what it meant when tieflings flicked their tail to the left.

She was clearly nervous about something.

"Well, we're about to do the big emotional number," Nelsyn finally told him, closing the cover of her script while Sara gave her wig a good yank to test the glue. "It's the one all the teenage girls are sobbing over their sketch pads for right now."

She stopped to take a sip of water when Sara bent to pick up her cosmetics case. The girl made a gesture to Jory to give up his seat, and he tripped over his own feet unfolding himself to stand up. Once again he was reminded why he was cast as the big druid, Halsin. Shayla had told him once that while he wasn't quite as tall as the real thing… he was close. He wondered how easily the boss lady's former lover would have fit into that chair.

"This is our first time in Waterdeep," Nelsyn continued, trying her best not to move her lips while Sara applied a fresh coat of pink stain. "She probably just wants to see how it gets received. She doesn't really get to just sit out there and watch, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Could be it," Sara told them both, bunching her eyebrows and concentrating on keeping her hand steady. "Part of it, anyway. That is her favorite character out there, singing his heart out about the bomb in his chest."

"Her favorite character? The wizard?"

"Someone else got a bomb?"

"Please. Everyone knows I'm her favorite character."

"Listen," she replied as she wiped the applicator clean with a kerchief, "you're a good looking kid, and no one hates watching you take your clothes off out there." Nelsyn snorted, but they both ignored her. "A healthy percentage of ticket sales is probably yours, no one's arguing that. But that's not enough for you to game the win."

"Game the w- what?" Jory laughed, his oiled obliques glistening as he pulled the bear pelt back over his shoulders. "Look, I'm not trying to make it a competition or anything, okay? You brought it up. But I literally play an archdruid who carves ducks, sings to squirrels, and adopts orphans. Plus? He looks like this." He swept his hands grandly over his abdomen, flexing muscles most people had only seen in paintings or medical textbooks. "And did I mention he's also her boyfriend?"

"Her ex-boyfriend," Sara corrected him, pointing at Nelsyn as she spoke. "Have you even listened to the song she's getting ready to sing? You know. The one about love? And sacrifice?" She shifted her weight as an intern sidled past her to tidy the table, refill their drinks, and bag up the trash. "And don't tell me you haven't looked at Erik with both of your eyeballs. We've all seen him. The man has eyelashes as long as your forearm. And the biggest, saddest, wettest brown eyes on the face of this planet. He's like a baby cow, okay? I'm just saying." She stood to let the intern past her again, and bent to drag her cosmetics case out of the way. "This is the man she cast to play the lead in the big romantic climax of the whole show. When the main character realizes she's in love and it's too late. She's managed to capture," she pinched her fingers in front of her face, "the very essence of what it means to have sad children mooning over this show for years to come, okay? The baby cow is a cash cow. And he is clearly her favorite character."

"I think the vampire is her favorite character," the intern said, unprompted, as she reached to help Nelsyn out of her seat. "He's everyone's favorite character."

"You're all wrong," Nelsyn told them as she sloughed her way out of her robe with great theatrical flair. The intern caught it before it hit the floor, just as she'd done so many times before. Nelsyn stood with her hands on her hips and a gallant curve to her tail, casting her eyes toward the rafters and beaming a heavily pink-stained smile, resplendent in her artificially distressed leather armor blotted with thick fake blood.

"I'm her favorite character," she said, glowing with certainty. "And it should be obvious. I'm her! Now, stand back and watch while I go make a bunch of little girls cry!" And with that, she grinned devilishly and pranced toward the stage.

But once she was gone, the intern leaned forward and beckoned. Jory found himself instinctually drawn to listen.

"Well, you wanna know what I heard?" she whispered, and her eyes landed on Shayla for only just a moment. Jory nodded out of reflex. "I heard a rumor that someone in the orchestra pit overheard the boss lady telling someone in the box office that there was going to be a special guest tonight."

"What. Like, family?" Jory asked. "I thought she was an orphan."

"Could be anyone," Sara answered him from where she stood, combing through a wig hanging on the wall. "Philanthropist, politician. Who knows.

"Or," the intern hissed, leaning in even closer, "it could be one of them."

"One of who?"

"You know. Them. Thems what was with her, when all this went down."

"Like… like one of the actual…?"

"Don't you two have anything better to do than -"

"Wait. We're in Waterdeep," Jory breathed. He snatched up Nelsyn's script and started thumbing through it, fanning the pages and blowing a strand of hair across his nose. "Isn't… isn't the wizard…?"

Sara dropped her comb to her side and opened her mouth, but stopped and blinked at him instead. A thoughtful look crept across her face. She nodded her head in defeat.

"The wizard's from Waterdeep."

Then, as one, they all turned to look at Shayla where she stood at stage right, still as a statue.

And the music began to swell. The strings stirred the air with sounds as soft and sweet as sunset. The woodwinds sang a shrill crescendo as Erik began to make his famous climb.

And Nelsyn began to sing her famous song.

Before she disappeared beyond the narrow view from stage right, Jory watched her as she raised her arm to reach for him.

The wizard.

And her voice rang out so high and so clear, so heavy with every loss that Shayla Moonsong had ever suffered, with every plea that ever twisted her heart in bitter knots. With every word that ever fell from the mighty pen of their beloved playwright.

Who stood now with her hand at her throat. It bobbed once when she swallowed. Her lips parted and she drew a breath, and a hush fell over the crowd. She settled in to listen with the rest of them.

And her tail flicked once more to the left.

I know I've been unkind to you And I've pushed you way too far And I know in ignorance I forced you To reveal the man you are And I know I've left you with nothing to lose And even less to gain And though I know you owe me nothing Please don't give in to pain

Erik's silhouette was emblazoned across the long, velvet curtain hanging behind the hideously decorated staircase he was climbing. His movements were eery and real, despite their paltry attempts to pantomime a grisly memory that none of them had ever lived. Each step was measured and dreamlike and perfect, like a person caught in a trance or a dead man called home to his rest by a spectral light.

Or in this case, a massive papier mache facsimile of a netherbrain hung from a scaffold over the stage.

Please, Please don't do this I'm begging you not to go Please, Please don't do this There's something you need to know What can I do to make you wait Convince a goddess to change your fate Please tell me that it's not too late There's something I didn't say…

"It can't be him, though. Can it?" Jory asked. "Didn't he, like," he pointed a finger toward the stage, "explode?"

"Oh, no. It's just a story, mate," came a voice from behind them. It was Velanthyr, the elf who played Astarion. They rounded the table and perched themself on the corner, placing their white wig beside them as they took a bite from an apple. "She's embellished tons of stuff. For emotional impact. They all do it."

I should have loved you since I met you I should have loved you all along

"That bard she played? In the first act?"

"Yeah?"

"She ain't really dead either."

"Seriously?"

I should have told you that I love you Instead of hiding behind a song

"My cousin met her. Said he saw her play someplace they had dinner."

"No shit?"

"It's true. She teaches music in Baldur's Gate."

Is there nothing left that I can do But fall to my knees and pray

"So what's with her, anyway?" Velanthyr asked, pointing their apple at Shayla while they wiped the juice from their lips with their other hand.

The tip of her tail flicked again, and slowly she wrapped her arms around her middle.

To any god or any devil Who'd keep you from walking away

"She's been acting weird all night," they said.

"S'what we were just talking about."

Please, Please don't do this! Turn around! This isn't right!

"We think the wizard might be out there," the intern told them. "The real one."

"Oh no," the elf laughed.

Please, Please don't do this! Please, I'm begging you to fight!

"Hope he has a sense of humor. It's about to get weird!"

"Weird?!" Sara growled at them, flinging her comb about.

Forget your fickle god's desire I'd cross the oceans, I'd walk through fire I'd conquer all the Hells entire For you And yes, I know you're tired

"The man is getting ready to watch himself die! And I'm sure I don't need to remind you his death is self-inflicted! If there's a chance that any of this is real? That the trauma this man survived is on display? You all need to show a little respect." She shook her head and turned back to her wig. "Shut up and let her listen."

Sara's words may have stung him, but Jory knew she was right. So he obeyed her, and he listened. And for the first time he truly heard the fragile warble of desperate heartache that Nelsyn had worked so hard to craft through her voice.

Come back to me and take your rest Indulge one overdue caress I'll steal the sorrow from your chest And confess, I will confess

But he didn't just uncover a new appreciation for his friend and her level of skill. There was more to it than that. There was a depth to this scene that he'd been missing before now.

There was a meaning. One that wasn't meant for the whole world.

It was only meant for one man.

He could sense it in the vibrant tension bound between Shayla Moonsong's shoulder blades.

And then Nelsyn grew quiet. Everything got quiet. The music made a subtle shift to something low and dulcet, but tense, like a string pulled too tight without snapping. Jory found his feet had led him to stand at Shayla's shoulder. He could hear her breathing through her teeth and he felt compelled to reach out and take her hand.

She took hold of it like a lifeline.

You're everything to me and more You're all that I've been fighting for You're more than just an end to war…

Nelsyn paused after that last note. It was important to the narrative, it was the whole point behind the wizard's story. But her longing would go deliciously unrequited, and would inspire a veritable deluge of creativity from fandom communities everywhere.

Shayla squeezed Jory's hand, squeezed her eyelids firmly shut. She held her breath and Jory could see Erik had reached the top of the rise. There he stood, a straight, unyielding figure gazing off into the liminal distance, resolute.

And he would never turn around.

It wouldn't be long. Any moment.

Nelsyn sang her penultimate line.

And I would give my life for yours…

She held the word so long it nearly sank into Jory's skin. It sent a wave goosebumps to crest over every inch of his body. The orchestra wove their way through their final, sweeping refrain, and the conductor brought them to a close on a plaintive harmony between a flute and an oboe.

And then the light collapsed.

It shrank to a small, pale circle that drew its stark and shining focus on a razor-slim shadow cast against the curtain.

In the shape of a dagger.

Erik lifted it high and turned its point toward his heart.

"Gods preserve me," Shayla mumbled to herself. It was the only sound Jory could hear aside from the sniffs and sniffles of the audience. Collectively they teetered at the edges of their seats, enthralled by a beautiful, mournful man who was counting the final seconds of his life with undaunted stoicism and courage.

Nelsyn could've whispered her final line if she wanted to, but instead it burst from her as a scream.

"Don't do this!!!"

Jory felt it thrum like a shockwave within his own chest, and beside him Shayla flinched. She squeezed his hand even harder.

"Just tell me when it's over," she said to him. And then suddenly there was a flurry of activity.

He took a step back and yanked her away from the door when a small flock of technicians flew in to crowd the space they left behind.

Up high, far in the corner, Jory saw the dagger move against the curtain. And all of the good people of Waterdeep gasped when they watched the blade meet its mark.

"Fire in the hole," a technician murmured beside him, and the spotlight on the curtain went black.

Then a pair of spells were cast that bathed the audience in a blinding aurora. It blazed with ribbons of vivid blues and purples and greens, speckled with myriad glittering white stars.

And an arrow of roaring thunder was launched far overhead. It detonated with such a resounding boom that it shook everything, even the floor boards beneath Jory's feet. It rattled seats and drinking vessels, it toppled music stands, and it made Erik's staircase sway alarmingly as it was wheeled backstage, with him still riding precariously at its top.

Shayla Moonsong's face fell into her hands.

"Go on," Erik sang as he danced his way down the stairs. "Tell me how devastating I was. Don't hold back. Tell me everything."

"You were spectacular, my love!" Velanthyr assured him as they ran to greet him, cradling his face in their hands and kissing him sweetly. "You always are."

"Were they weeping?" he asked his lover, nuzzling their face with his own. "The lights are so bright, I can never see."

"They were drowning in their tears, darling. Drowning."

"Is everything alright?" Sara asked as she approached on her tiptoes, reaching for Shayla's arm. Velanthyr's wig drooped at her side, forgotten. "What can I do?"

"I can't even look," Shayla whimpered through the palms that smothered her face.

"Oh honey," Sara cooed as she pulled the woman closer. And in a blessed act of mercy, she asked the question that no one wanted to ask, but someone needed to. Long before now, before this critical point had been breached.

"He's out there, isn't he?"

"I think I've made a huge mistake." Shayla slid her fingertips down to press against her lips, unable to form any other words. She could only shake her head, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

"Do you want us to look? See if we can see him?"

"I don't think I wanna know."

"Where is he seated?"

"E6."

"Oh." Sara briefly grimaced at Jory, but didn't stop rubbing circles across Shayla's back. "Front and center. Of course."

"Yep." The way her lips popped at the end of the word only served to emphasize how mortified she was. "Wouldn't want him to miss anything."

"Well, of course not. He's your guest," Sara replied, jerking her chin in a way that suggested Jory had been volunteered for reconnaissance.

"Oh gods!" Shayla raked her claws past her horns to twist them into her hair. "I even told him he could invite his mother!"

"Well that's a perfectly reasonable thing to do, one would think."

Jory understood his assignment. He sauntered away but paused at the door frame. The show wasn't over yet. When the technicians finished collecting their gear, they scrambled off to safely stow their rockets and retrieve the set pieces for the final scenes. They were dragging the staircase away from the main thoroughfare when Corinne, the woman who played the narrator, whipped past them.

"Coming through," she chimed, racing out to center stage, taking her place before the curtains could rise once more. Her final soliloquy would lead them into the epilogue, and would give Jory the opportunity he needed to cast his eyes past the orchestra pit and across the section of seats that lie beyond.

Front and center.

He would only have a minute or two. Sara would need to replace Velanthyr's wig. Erik needed a drink and Nelsyn's makeup needed a touch up. Very soon they would be on stage, the lights burning holes through their retinas, leaving them blinded and oblivious to all but each other and the saga they would spin to its end. He reached up to buckle the clasp on the bear pelt that draped across his shoulders.

For now, it was the narrator's turn. But he was ready. And then the curtains rose.

He smashed his face against the door frame like a cat burglar. A shaft of light swung down upon the stage illuminating Corinne at its center, and Jory peered out into the darkness it left in its wake. He squinted until he found the end of the section behind the orchestra pit, and he started counting backwards from there.

But seat E6 was empty.

Certain he'd made a mistake, he counted back again to double check, to be extra sure.

But he was right the first time.

"It's empty," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"What?" Shayla cried as she spun to face him.

"Yeah," he told her. "I counted twice to make sure I had the right seat, but no one's in it."

"Oh gods." She began to pace, wringing her hands. "What about the one next to it?"

"Which side?"

"Just tell me if you see an older woman."

"Umm, okay." At first he wasn't certain. There was a child on the right side, but on the left was a person who'd stood up, and was bent with their back toward him, like they were reaching for something. "I think… maybe. Yeah. I think so. It looks like she's getting up. She's picking up a bag or something. Is that a cat?"

"Tara?"

"Who brings a cat to a -"

"She's not a cat. She's a tressym."

"What the hell is a tress- holy shit, it's got wings! It just flew over - oh! Oh, I think I see him!"

"Where!"

The tressym sailed through the air to float beside a tall, slender man who was moving quickly up the aisle toward the exit. He wasn't running, out of proper respect for social decorum, but he had the energy of a man who wished he was. His shoulders were hitched up near his ears and he was stifling his mouth with the back of one hand.

And a shiver ran down Jory's spine.

This was the guy. The wizard. The real one.

Gale Dekarios, of Waterdeep.

In the flesh. Right there.

From what little Jory could see, the play had done him justice. He was a very handsome man, lithe and lean, long-legged with a powerful stride, and every bit as comely as Erik had depicted him to be.

Yet it was hard to imagine, through simple sight alone, that this was a man who had once been the Chosen of a god. Or that this was a man who had once vanquished the avatar of Death itself. A man who had put an end to the Cult of the Absolute.

A man who had once made his own decision about whether or not to plunge a dagger into his heart.

But it was easy to see why Shayla would want to stop him. This man clearly meant something to her.

He didn't know what providence deemed it necessary for him to ask. It certainly wasn't any of his business. But the question tumbled out of his mouth, unbidden. Perhaps the gods themselves just wanted to hear someone finally say it out loud.

"Does he know how you feel about him?"

Shayla slumped and let her hands fall limp to her sides. She pulled her lip into her mouth, and her eyes swam with visions of regret. "No," she whispered to him. "It was never the right time."

Oh, how irony could be so cruel.

"You should go after him, then," he told her. "Go quick. If you hurry, you can catch him before he gets to the front door."

"Shit!" she snarled and for a moment, Jory was afraid she'd scurry across the stage in the middle of Corinne's long and emotional speech. There was a wild streak in him that almost hoped she would. But instead, she bolted through the loading bay doors and flung herself outside, presumably to tear down the alley between the theater and the wine cellar to run around the building toward the front.

Nelsyn wandered over to them, sipping cold water from her mug and watching over her shoulder as the loading bay doors swung back and forth on their hinges.

"Jory," she stated flatly. "What did you do."

"What?!" he cried. Sara could only double over and laugh at him. "I didn't do anything!"

"Somebody did something," she said, eyeing the doors skeptically. "And it looks a lot like it was you."

"I'm serious! She asked if we could see him, and I told her yes. That's all."

"See who?"

"The wizard!"

"What wizard? You mean, like… Erik?"

"No!" He stuck out both hands and shook them. "The actual wizard! The real one, from Waterdeep! Yes, he's still alive! No, he didn't explode!"

"Well, everybody knows that…"

"She wanted to know where he was, so I told her, and then she ran out the door."

"Wait. So he was actually here tonight?"

"Jory," Sara accused him, still smiling pitifully at him as she crossed her arms over her chest. "That's not all you said to her."

"But I didn't -"

"You asked her a pretty personal question."

"Where was he sitting?" Nelsyn continued as she took another drink and leered at him over the rim over her mug.

"E6."

"Wow. Front and center."

"Yeah. She didn't want him to miss anything."

"So what did you ask her?"

Jory could only roll his eyes and sigh. None of them had time for this. He dropped his head and pinched his brow between his thumb and his forefinger but when he looked up, he found all eyes were on him. Even Erik and Velanthyr had paused their conversation long enough to turn around and stare. The technicians in the back tried to appear as if they weren't listening, but everyone knew they were. Suddenly, he could feel the heat that was trapped beneath the heavy mantle of his bear pelt.

"I asked her if he knew how she felt about him."

"What do you mean, how she felt…" And through the window of her eyes he could see her mentally calculating every single word she'd just sung. Right in front of the very man it was all intended for. Seated front and center, missing nothing. Her eyes flickered like golden flames.

"Holy shit," she breathed. "Like… feelings? Real ones? What did she say?"

He didn't get to answer. Just then, raucous applause erupted from behind them. The thunderous retort of clapping hands and cheers drowned all other sound, and signaled to them all that their time was up. Corinne came skipping backstage as the curtains fell behind her.

"And that's a wrap for me! Slam and a dunk! Go get 'em while they're - what's going on?"

"The wizard was here tonight," Nelsyn answered her without breaking her eye contact with Jory. "The real one. Shayla is in love with him. What did she sayyy?"

"No," he told her, holding very still while Sara dabbed a powder puff over his face. "She said no. He doesn't know."

"Are you serious?" Corinne gasped, pressing a hand to her heart.

"Well he does now," Sara chuckled, wriggling her eyebrows as she dropped the powder back into her cosmetics case. "I hope she caught him before he got away. He deserves an explanation."

And all around them, activity buzzed. Scenic backdrops rolled by, the intern fussed with Velanthyr's wig on her tiptoes, Sara dug frantically around searching for her lip stain, and the other actors began lining up to take their places. But in spite of the jubilant bustle of life happening all around them, Nelsyn could only stand with her mug in her hands, awestruck by the revelation they'd just been given.

"Sweet tapdancing Asmodeus," she laughed, shaking her head with her eyes transfixed on some far away place. "You mean to tell me that this whole time," she jostled the water in her mug when she bellowed, "THIS WHOLE TIME?! This whole play has been just a great big love letter to some… man?! For months?! And he only just heard it? Tonight? For the first time?"

"I think that about sums it up, yep," Sara told her, taking the mug from her hands.

"That's genius!" She shuffled to her place in line, utterly befuddled, her eyes glassy and glazed. "They're star-crossed, it's perfect! I wish this would've happened months ago! Just you wait, you'll see. When all the little fan fic authors out there find out about this? They are gonna go berserk! People everywhere will pay money for a vial of our sweat! The contents of our chamber pots - we'll be famous!

"Gods have mercy on us all. There might even be a sequel. We'll be touring this show til the day we die!"

************************************************************************

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #gale bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #tav x gale #gale x tav #galemance #bg3 fic #bg3 gale fic #bg3 fan fiction #bg3 gale fan fiction

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darklinsblog · 2 years

Text

Thin Lines | Sandman Imagine

Summary: When John Dee kidnaps Dream’s lover and child, the king of Dreams is forced to remind him some boundaries are never to be crossed.

Pairing: Morpheus x Morgana! Reader

John Dee was a brilliant man, but he was blinded by his obviously broken moral compass, guiding him to make choices that were well, dumb.

Dream of the Endless was a family man, everyone knew this as back in medieval times, on one of his many visits to the Waking World with Death he encountered a dazzling witch known at that time as Morgana a former apprentice to the greatest wizard of all times, Merlin.

As a woman, you were constantly underestimated as sorceress, even by your own master, which Morpheus’ hated. After having spent time with you he thought you were truly fascinating aside from powerful and that you deserved more than the Waking World could offer you.

He offered the Dreaming to you, wholeheartedly. To be a queen, a figure of authority and respect, to expand your abilities to inconceivable parameters.

In the blink of an eye you took his offer and in time, all his promises became true, you were powerful beyond what Merlin had promised you, you were everything you were destined to be.

Morpheus’ enemies became yours as you married but they wouldn’t see you as a threat really, until one day Lucifer intended to act upon her many plans to attack the Dreaming.

You wasted no time as you went down to Hell to deal with this matter yourself

Everyone remembered that day as the day Queen Morgana had brought Lucifer, the devil to her knees.

Your love and devotion towards one another was unmatched, so it was truly no surprise when you conceived a child of your own.

With the birth of Kimaris you both became overprotective of your child and home, it was almost an unspoken rule when dealing with the Dream Lord that his family was off limits.

That was a boundary no eternal being dared to cross.

Of course, as human John Dee was not aware of this rule.

Doctor Destiny, as he insisted to be referred as, had altered the ruby to respond to him alone and was now trying to lure the Lord of Dreams into a trap using his son and wife as bait.

John had put you on a cell with your son, he had altered so neither you or your son could conjure any magic, his plan was to lure the Lord of Dreams into a trap to use his own ruby to “destroy” him once and for all.

Having helped Morpheus’ make that same ruby, it didn’t take long for you to realize his master plan would tremendously backfire on him, added to the fact Dee had imprisoned his wife and son.

“Papa will not like this…” Kimaris spoke softly as you played with his hair.

“I know, my sweet boy” you whispered planting a kiss at the top of his head, fully trusting your lover.

When Morpheus finally appeared, his eyes fell on you and Kimaris whose eyes glistened with love at the sight of his father.

The mad man continued with his plan, releasing the power of the ruby, Morpheus’ fell to the ground but not because he was defeated or weakened, but because he was reabsorbing his power in its purest form.

Being powerful as he had ever been, he set John Dee on a slumber he wouldn’t wake up from, as punishment.

“Sleep well, John” he sentenced him

Morpheus reduced your cell to shreds, setting you free, Kimaris immediately ran to his father’s arms, seeking for his warmth and protection.

When you joined them, Morpheus’ caressed your cheek with his free hand looking at you with light worry.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” You smiled, Y/N was your true name, but very little people knew as to become Merlin’s apprentice you had taken on a new identity as Morgana.

Ages ago, you hated your true name and thus why you changed it but with Morpheus you had learned to love your name again, simply because it reminded you of how much you had changed.

Taglist: @emiemiemiii @ladyfairenvale @hungrhay @aurorarevenclaw1927 @adishax @meganmayhem89 @mrs-captainsteverogers @hb8301 @sarahbullet235 @bambooing-shenanigans @queenshelby @characterxreaderimagine @emarich7 @carolcrysis @sister-of-stars @coolsnowker @sandman-33 @jesllianaquilesrolon @supermegapauselouca

#the sandman comics #sandman imagine #sandman netflix #dream of the endless #morpheus dream #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x reader #tom sturridge x reader #sandman shitpost #tom sturridge #dream x reader #sandman headcanons #morpheus x you #morpheus x reader #morpheus imagines #lord morpheus x reader #lord morpheus

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stevie-petey · 1 month

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Hi! I know it's pretty late to be asking this but I got a random blurb idea at three in the morning so I thought I'd send it in before I forgot it. It's for season one, episode 5/6.

After Steve finds Jonathan and Nancy in her bed and tells bug she deserves better he drives off with Tommy and Carol. Basically his POV that whole car ride. He's grieving, in disbelief and heartbreak. He's angry and sad, not only for himself but for bug. Tommy and Carol are only riling him up at this point. Remember how Tommy or Carol said something like " wow Steve you're right she really is pathetic to still stay with him" maybe we see the convo where that came from. I feel like he was excited to be around who he thought were Nancy's friends outside of barb, and it all came crashing down.

Again this is really random and super late but I was just thinking about season one Steve and this scenario popped into my head. For being such a little shit Steve really is handsome.

i loooove this idea omg yes ! n never apologize for sending blurbs i love doin em

enjoy <3

"did henderson really defend that creep?" carol practically throws herself over the drivers seat in disbelief of what steve has just said.

"she did." steve tightens his hands around the steering wheel. his mind is reeling. hes hurt, hes so fucking hurt, and hes angry. for you, for what nancy has done to him, for what jonathan has done to you. for years youve been his little pet, always doting on the boy, and he still has the fucking nerve to hurt you like this. "shes pathetic."

the words burn steves tongue. he regrets them immediately.

tommy snorts. "i mean, yeah. shes hot, but at least have some self respect, ya know?"

the boys words only cause steve to tighten his grip on the steering wheel harder. youre not pathetic; youre selfless. youre so fucking selfless and always see the good in people. it infuriates steve. youre everything and more, and hes seen people abuse this rare kindness for years. make fun of you for it, mock you as if the kindness you bring isnt a breath of fresh air for everyone.

he hears a yelp next to him and steve knows that carol has slapped tommy for calling another girl hot in front of her.

"i just dont get it," steve sighs out. theres so much he wants to ask, to say and plead and demand. he cant get the betrayal in your eyes out of his head. youd looked devasted when hed told you what he saw at nancys. how jonathan had been wrapped around her.

and yet even as the hurt crossed upon your face, you still managed to swallow down the hurt and see the good in people.

in the people who didnt fucking deserve it.

"fuck if i know, man." tommy rubs at his arm and glares at carol.

she simply rolls her eyes at him and goes back to picking at her nails. "why do we assume she even knows how to do anything other than put on that angelic act bullshit?"

"what, like she doesnt know how to be mean?" tommy asks, furrowing his brows.

steve stares straight ahead. "all shes ever been is kind."

"exactly," carol throws herself against the drivers seat again. "whos to say its real? not some creepy act? better yet: how do we know shes not, like, fucked up in the head?"

youre not. steve has seen your intelligence. youre the top of your class and hes had to shamefully ask you for help with english homework.

tommy frowns again. "wait, i thought she was smart."

"god, youre dumb." carol shakes her head. "what i mean is, what if she physically incapable of being mean. like, some chemical imbalance in her brain."

"could explain her freakish devotion to byers." tommy says.

steves grip tightens once more hearing the boys name. jonathan byers. resident creep who somehow has captured the heart of hawkins sweetheart. the same boy who has now cheated on her with steves girlfriend.

he will never understand this.

nancy has hurt him, shes abandoned him like everyone else has, and he knows that somehow its his fault.

but you? you dont deserve any of this.

what carol has said makes sense. maybe you really dont know how to be mean. if youre physically incapable of it, then steve decides that he has to do something about it.

if you need to be mean, then he'll be mean for you.

#ask #anon #m speaks #come home blurb #m's writing #set in season 1 #steve bless u #ur so dumb #very heavily “if u need to be mean be mean to me” coded btw

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one-idea · 1 month

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I love your wado ichimoji pov posts! Your only in whisky peak and show devotion well in an inanimate object well "my dumass son" (affectionately) *less than 2 weeks after starting to travel with others, the captain still believes after them losing badly*: I have 2 to protect now my son and a little king. What I'm really looking forward to 1. resignation at some point is that Sandai Kitetsu is going to continue to be here 2. the treasure trove of Timeskip on Mihawk's creepy would produce 3. sibling time with enma (Christ they have been made by the same person but wados going to be the only voice of reason between the 3).

Thank you so much!!! Sorry this took me a hot minute to respond to.

I really love that au and I want to work on it more.

As I am only in Thriller Bark I can’t speak in earnest about all of your ideas (yet) but I can hit one.

1. Wado excepting that Sandai Kitsune is here to stay.

They come to a begrudging understanding at the end of Whiskey Peak. Wado still doesn’t like Sandai and hopes Zoro gets ride of it, but at least Sandai has respect for the captain now.

It’s Alabaster where Zoro learns to cut steal when the two finally start to have a smidgen of respect for each other. After all Zoro uses all three blades to cut steal, if Sandai was truly a weak blade she would have broken by now.

Through Jaya and Skypia all three blades are focused on protecting Captain and crew. Gaining respect for some of the other crewmates (namely Robin) though throughout it all Wado is still waiting for Zoro to find a better sword.

It isn’t until Water 7 and Enies Lobby. When all three blades are in unity fighting to save one of their own. Because their King and Master wants the Archaeologist back. Because the King has lead them to an incredible fight, a test of their Skills. Because their King keeps asking them to do the impossible with total confidence that they can, they won’t let him down. (The sea train is going to be fun)

It isn’t until Yabashiri is destroyed that Wado realizes she wasn’t ready to lose either companion.

It’s been so long since she had traveled with companions who had voices. These were the first blades Zoro had, besides her, that had distinguishable voices. To hear one of those go out rattles both Wado and Sandai.

The rust man could have grabbed any of them but he grabbed Yabashiri. Her voice was gone. It takes sometime for both Wado and Sandai to come to terms with that.

While Wado is still annoyed with Sandai and her violent tendencies, she’s mellowed under Zoro’s care. Her bloodthirsty now matches his own. And while she does occasionally cry out for blood, it’s normally because of a threat to King or crew. She no longer calls for the blood of just anyone, only outside threats. Problem is those threats haven’t always attacked them yet. (Sandai’s more of a if we kill it before it can attack it can’t hurt them, sort of protector)

Wado and her still butt heads, but Sandai made it this far as a Grade blade, she’s not going anywhere soon.

Once in Thriller Bark, once they gain Shushi, another one of the 21 Great grade blades, a fully realized black blade, and Wado’s sibling to boot. Things get shaken up again.

Where Wado is motherly and protective of her dumb son’s dreams and loved ones. Aligned with Zoro in dream and crew, knowing him the longest and living up his values.

And Kitsune is Zoro’s bloodthirstiness. His violence but also protective fury. Zoro changed her from pure bloodshed to reflect his own violence. She reflects his more aggressive side.

Yabashiri was quite. One to follow Wado’s lead but still had its own personality. In that offered caution. She reflects Zoro’s observation. The ability to tell what is and isn’t a threat and when to act.

Shushi is different. Shushi already had a master take it to the full extent of its power. He is stronger and more durable. Increasing Zoro’s strength and forcing the others to rise to his level. Zoro cannot take this blade farther, rather he must rise to meet its strength and durability. Harding himself and his other blades to become the strong unbreakable protector of the crew.

Wado and Sandai are not (yet) black blades they can still grow and rise with Zoro’s power. Shushi is both a greatly needed boost and a challenge to rise to. He often thinks back on his prior master and compares Zoro to him. (He is quite pleased to be wielded by a descendent of his beloved Shimotsuki Ryuma)

Once I get to Zoro training with Mihawk I’ll talk more about them. But it’s going to be really fun to write all three swords interacting with Yoru. But it’s also going to be hard on Wado. Up until then Zoro favored her as his one sword style blade. But after his time with Mihawk it switches to Shushi. A stronger more durable blade. While the switch makes sense, I’m sure it was a hard transition for both Wado and Zoro. And I’m excited to write on it.

I am so excited to get to Wado and get Enma. It’s a needed change for Zoro to push forward. While Enma has great power on its own, it’s not yet a permanent black blade. There is still room to grow and strengthen along side Zoro. Shushi couldn’t grown anymore. Zoro had mastered it, he rose to the challenge and surpassed it. Now he needs to bring his own blades to the top.

(I really hope one of his blades becomes permanently black by the end of the show. I want it to be Wado)

Right now I’m in Thriller Bark, but the platform im watching on only has the show up to Marineford/ASL adventures so once I get through all of that, I will either rewatch all pre-time skip and start writing my Wado Ichimoji POV au and Reverse Strawhats while I wait for the platform to put up more episodes or I’ll crack and get a new subscription to watch post time skip. Only time will tell.

#one piece #roronoa zoro #zolu #one piece zolu #wado ichimonji #wadi Ichimonji pov #sandai kitetsu #yabashiri #shushi #Enma

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kidfoundonstreets · 2 months

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LOVEBRUSH CHRONICLE. YOU LIKE?

ill try to keep it brief 1/20397

lovebrush chronciles is an otome game deisgbed by team/company I AM ACTUALLY NOT SURE DESPITE YOU SEEING IT EVRRYTIME YOU ENTER THE GAME HOLD ON neteaze games (passion of gamers) and it is about altnerate universes, time fuckery, and school life.

the game begins introducing itself as a regular otome school life sim (my condolences to the fans who fell for william first sight only to find out hes not an actual love interest trust me i see u i feel u) but then WHAM BAM!! just when u thougut ur girl best friend was lookin kinda cute she gets X_x in this summon circle and you jump in to save her only to find out youre now in a royal cage surrounded by people that needa sacrifice you to save themselves from their own doom. oh and youre not in your own world anumore good luck have fun

so now here goes the different plots and paths with the love interests. the way i playrd it was as they introduced it, which was ayn aklaid lars claerence. no cael route yet which rips me apart every night. the love interests seem to have consistent values throughout most universes despite all of their diferet upbringings which i find pretty cool considering schoollife and royaltylife are two completely drastic diferent things, and also i nejoy how mc is written with more character and an amazing design to match the rest of the beautifully drawn cast

on that topic the art is GORGEOUS. i have never seen such beautiful detailed art in a game before and i assure you it will not disappoijnt. the graphics and smoothness of the game are especially a great touch. THERES A MINI STORY FOR EACH CARD BTW SR AND UP ITS SO GOOD becasenit feels as if the creatoes actually put care and give a shit into whar theyre writing and drawing and even in little events the absolute quality and depth of the cast shines theough its just i cannot express how much you need to play tjis game if you like dating sims ITS FREE TOO??,×*#&@ IMSO SAD WHY ID OBEYEME GETTING SM ATTENTION WHEN THIS IS SITTJNGHERE HUH dont get me wrong i too was in that hole but trust me brother there is only one man worth it there and obeyeme sure as hell isnt gonna do it justice with its 200+ chapter peobably plotline

anywya its 11 pm and ibhave no idea how to organize this post so ill just go through the cast

he is my plaything

ANYWAY ayn is so maahh hes the stupid cat that sleeps on me at night HE USED YO BE MY FAV AND WAS EXACTLY MY TYPE OFF THE BAT ITS SO IRONIC HES MY LEASY LIKED NOW but hes still very good and god you need to see this

^^ bisexual dilemma

^^ HIS EMO PHASE

i like him as a side piece, he has a nice personality but it doesnt stick out to me as much as the rest but i heavily respect the enjoyers of him

Aigh now

HHHRHRGGGHWH HHRGGBW WHWHWBW W SLSOPE9282B3BDND BSHSJW W GHENRBR .R FJJGGW HJ W..B GHN.F. H . THROWSUP aklaid my dear my darling ! i lvouou my little STARBOY my favorite my self sacrificing devoted prince who acts soo nice but is the cause of his own decay. smooochh I ADORE HIM dude one time he almost dies and mc is like "i am so sorry" and hes smiling qhile saying "nono! this is the happiest ivebeen" GET THERAPY

lars is my favorite lesbian

im onsessed w him hes always fun no matter where he is and yet they still dont dumb him down the moments where hes serious only add to his character his charm is unexplainable his rizz unatainable you could never

my TRUE favorite lesbian

MY FABORITE MY FABORITE KY DAVROITE I WAS SO WORRIED HOW I WOULD ENKOY HIM BECAUSE SO KUCH WAS UNKNOWN BUT AHGGWDHHSHW HIS ROUTE HIS DEPTH EVERYTHING IT MAKES ME SO SADITS HWARTBREAKING DUDE "HAIR HOLDS MEMORIES" IM GONNA SOB INTO MY HANDS I CANT BELIEVE I LOVE A MAN NAMED CLARENARENCNEUXIHQBQ SHUTOROSHUSITP oh and he really likes cats :D

i have run out of images but cael caught my eye since the beginning and i dont know whats wrong with him is he my parental figure my wife my side piece my worst enemy my hater my lover my killer my doomer my caretaker my one-time-leave-you-for-nine-months

i genuinely cannot stand him hes the one who i always run to and check on firstin efents and stories not claerence not lars not alkaid but fucking CAEL.

i cant help it maybe in the end my heart really belongs to him because im still waiting for his route and for him to show moreemotion and maybe break down or slowly go through the agony of learning to accept love despite everything despite you

this is the only part i feel a little uneased about in the writers hands.. they are very capable hands.. but will they do him right.. hes so stupidly simple but not it makes me grit my teeth and die

◇°♡○♤○£▪︎¥°₩`£•♡○◇○♡♤◇•◇•♡☆

THANK YOU EVERYPONY FOR REASING IF YOU DID PLEASE SMASH THAT OIKE AND SUBACRIBE BUTTON FOR MORE UNHINGED RANTS IM SORRY FOR BEING AUSTISTIC AND MAY DO IT AGAIN ♡♡ GOD BLESS

#hi roi #it just hit me i didnt elaborate on the time fuckery and uh well

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silviakundera · 16 days

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I found your blog while watching for love's sake splendid drama and nice commentary from you I saw you watch chinese shows and I have a question am I dumb or because why are they so frustrating I don't know if it's because I'm used to japanese ones where there isn't much romance and this is how romance is written these days or is this a cultural thing because why every one of these I watch has such weird romantic relationships where this dude is breaking his back for her from day 1 and this dudette is out here acting like he's number 5 on her priority list?

yaassss Love for Love's Sake representation. I will never rest from reccing that drama 👏👏 you clearly are NOT dumb & have great taste 😘

for cdramas, my beloved, in my experience of watching in recent years is that there is such a wide breadth of genres & tones. There is just SO MUCH. Definitely chinese entertainment has its own tropes and way of portraying romance. And you either like or you don't. But there are many different flavors. If you feel like you were seeing the same dynamic repeatedly, it may have been bad luck.

If you prefer minimal romance, there are definitely options for that in cdramas! There are mystery/investigation dramas and wuxia martial arts dramas with little to no romance. Because of censorship the gay romances naturally are circumspect and light on the romance (see: The Untamed, Couple of Mirrors, Word of Honor, Spirealm, Guardian). Since you like Love for Love's Sake, I'd rec The Spirealm on Viki - also queer love story about a guy who enters a video game and the people he meets there become real to him; though warning it IS censored and that means the ending is more ambiguous. I can't promise you'll like it. (Semantic Error and Eighth Sense are my other 2 fav korean gay romances btw. )

There are also cdramas that do include romance but in terms of screen time the romance is like 30% of scenes and the plot & character arcs are 70% of scenes. Like in Blossoms in Adversity that I'm watching now, yeah there is most definitely romance but the FL/ML romance scenes compromise like 25% of the overall screen time. It's about way more than who she might marry.

But also in terms of cultural differences? hmm idk because I'm not chinese. I really should NOT speak like I understand their PoV. From an outsider's perspective, I have felt like there are many cdramas with overtly feminist themes - commentary about restrictions on women, the challenges of navigating through a society that can be unfair and entrenched with misogyny. (I joke and yet not that chinese entertainment seems to have 3 propaganda drums that it beats: nationalism/unification, anti-war, and feminism.) It's certainly a fact that many cdramas feature female characters that fall in love but they maintain other priorites & don't let themselves be subsumed in devotion to a man. They have romance & find love but "keep their eye on the prize."

My best guess (??) about this is that it's a rebellion against old cultural mores about women's role being subserviant to father then husband, when during imperial times a woman was expected to prioritze her husband and his family above her own wants, health, and happiness. (It was immoral to be jealous or not follow direction from the man.) Modern chinese screenwriters, both men and women, appear to be writing for an audience that will respect & support the idea of a woman who has her own agenda and maintains focus on her goals despite her love for the ML. Perhaps because this is viewed as moving away from "old thinking". idk.

I presume the target audience in china for romance dramas simply doesn't worry so much that the ML is getting loved enough & aren't as sensitive to thinking he might be at a disadvantage... They're aware society is already set up to his advatange & for much of history he would have all the power in the relationship. (He might bend now and be giving it his all, but the audience knows he can tap into more power & control at will. if she gives up control & her goals, it will be harder for her to recover & reclaim status/money/power compared to him. There are dramas I've seen that pretty much explicitly state that FL wants to earn her own status and money that is hers, thru her own efforts, not lent by him - not prestige or wealth that comes through him and thus could be taken away).

Personally I don't view this as unromantic, just the practical realities of existing in a patriarchal society. (cdramas can hit different imo because they can be blunt about how people operate based on self-interest & pettiness, the realities of classism, the ugliness of rumors, how judgmental people can be about appearances, how you can't always get justice when wronged. Reminds me of the Discworld books that were very frank about how the common people commonly are. It's not saying: this is how people should be; it's saying: this is how things are, the bitterness of life, but you can still find sweetness & meaning within it)

There's another aspect: some cdramas have male protagonists (e.g. Mysterious Lotus Casebook, Blood of Youth, League of Nobleman, Eternal Brotherhood) and some have female protagonists. If you're watching a female protagonist, as the protagonist her priorities & goals are the story driver. So her love interest will take a back seat to that even though it's a romance. He's a support role - his job in the story is to break his back for the protagonist. (A Journey to Love is an example where ML and FL share the protagonist role & you can see that in how things play out, how they each have separate priorities that don't get dropped for love.)

At the end of the day, there are plenty of cdrama romances where I ship it hard and feel a mutual love & devotion between the couple. My fav flavor is where both FL and ML have their own strengths and can be counted on to support each other. I'm not keeping score on who owes who, and neither are they.

But it's all not gonna to be to everyone's taste and that's fine. :) When it comes to international tv, if we enjoy content from other countries then it's our good luck. But if we don't...well, it wasn't made for us. That's ok.

#fandom meta #meta #emphasizing again that i really REALLY cannot speak for the people making cdramas or their target audience #i am just lucky as an international viewer to get to watch them #and clap along to the unhinged web novel adaptions yaaaaayyyyyy

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sidestepping · 2 months

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Short. Moonrise, Dubhàn — "Distract her with your yearning for Gale."

Disclaimer: Obviously, everything belongs to Larian Studios; Baldur's Gate riffing! What to expect: snippet just to unwind the writing fingers, nothing fancy, a little tweak on Z'rell's scene at the start of Moonrise Towers explorating; I am trying to do justice to my little wizard, and Dubhàn is NOT amused to be here. About Dubhàn: they're a Tav, an open-hand monk (a good one, physically; a less good one, mindly, because balance is harder to achieve than you'd think when you're a natural hot-head), and they look like this:

(DUBHÀN - ACT II)

What are you doing here? You should never have come here. You’re not an actor. You’re not a charmer. You’re barely anyone, though you continue painfully to be something. In the cold dark devoted air of Moonrise, you are—choked, choking.

Maybe the shadows were better after all.

The shadows you can see, and fight. This labyrinth, it is made of walls you run into, of lines you can’t navigate.

What was Jaheira thinking?

“Z’rell is waiting for you,” someone says—who—a guard, a helmet, eyes ruby’d with Lolth, though Lolth doesn’t reach this landed tower, this towered land. And you are already gone—up the stairs, a buzzing in your ears, a silence in your gut. No space; between the too-closed walls, there is no room to move-shift-hit-and breathe.

“Dubhàn,” he says very close to your ear, Gale, he says—so close it is barely a sigh. When you meet his dark eyes there is a smile there, a smile for you.

A smile for you.

Him, he—he does navigate. More comfortable here in the snakepit than where the world is free, where the world is wild. To your constant shift, to your constant becoming, becoming-other, becoming-further, he is atemporal and fixed; he weaves symmetry. In Moonrise, symmetry wins. You smile back.

“Ready to shine, magic man?”

“Words, huh? Harder than they look,” he cracks a smirk, a smirk that tries very hard not to be smug.

No matter; you like him a little smug.

“Don’t call me dumb too fast,” you snort. “What are you gonna do when words don’t manage to carry your pack?”

He laughs; incongruous, the sound, and immediately swallowed by the rot-sponges that these walls are; how heartbreaking, that this god-filled, god-forsaken place would silence what should be crystallized.

“T-t-t,” he’s still chatting away, still chatting you up, “you forget telekinesis. Did you think I kept you around for the shoulder power?”

“No,” you push open the door to the upper hall. “For the shoulder gawking, more like,” and above the shoulder gawked at you also throw him a wink, which gets you the win. He has more words, he does, but more flustering too, as chatterboxes are wont to, and ah—on the tripping of his lovely tongue you make the mistake of advancing first.

“Excellent timing, True Soul.”

Shit. You stop. You look ahead, you look up.

She’s there, Z’rell, eyes full on you, eyes tunnelled pummelled on you; True Soul, that’s you—that’s not you, and really that’s the crux of the problem here, the crux the crack the flaw.

“No,” he says, very close to your ear, Gale, he says—so close, this time his voice clear and high, advancing before disaster can unfold, a shield of waterlight. “No, Commander Z’rell, I’m the one you—”

“Shut it, human. I’m talking to the drow.”

Eyes full on you, eyes tunnelled pummelled on you; not even a flicker towards him, and scorn so cold you bristle under its breeze. Gale doesn’t bristle, no; he huffs, good-humored, though his tadpole twitches; he bows his head; you bristle twice as strong. One last attempt:

“Well,” he says, all pirouette, “if you’d rather have a discussion with my bodyguard, of course…”

That you can be. That you are.

“Is he always so troublesome, True Soul? You should discipline him.”

You don’t rise to the bait, because it’s not a bait: she’s serious. She’s serious, so you clench your teeth, and dodge the scorching of your own anger; instead, you say, low enough to scrape:

“You wanted me. What is it?”

“I did,” Z’rell purrs. “The goblins, tell me how they suffered. No, better yet: show me.”

You want to say: don’t—but it’s too late, and she’s already parting the curtains of your mind, sliding inside like a robber’s hand, feeling, groping for something she won’t find; leaving behind the shame-slime of insertion, invasion, subjection. You are not—not a subject of this. You are not. You are the master of your face: pulled taut over your features, you feel its tight rigidity, its disciplined unmoving. Mouth, eyes, skin: still and stone.

“They didn’t,” she comes to, spat back, spat out. “Suffer?” A hiss, a threat.

“No,” you hold her gaze, though your mind is still burning with disgust. “I am no one’s dog, Commander. I don’t kill for others.”

“Except for the Absolute herself,” Gale adds, smarter than you, as you smart still.

His hand, not in your mind—here, on your naked shoulder, dry and cool, a weight on your body, a lightness in your soul. You like his hands—always open and dancing, like yours, but not like yours at all—their learnèd choreography, following a pattern you can’t know, graceful, rigid and algebraic—a neat-waltzing to your free-flowing.

Gently, you flow under his palm, and let it slide away; Z’rell is still watching you.

“Right,” she tongue-tips, an inch away from a threat. “And you came here to answer the Absolute’s call. Let’s see what you’re made of, then.”

This time you are ready, standing open so that she won’t leave a trace on the walls of yourself; but not ready enough—not ready to show her proof of your faith; as your minds collide, you grapple, you scramble for purchase—you know what to do, you knew what to do—you can drown anything, you can, that you can, in the power of Ki, in its gravel humming, you can, erase it all, deafen it all—this is what you should have done, this is what you should have invoked: smog and smoke to Z’rell’s mirrors, a force, a fog, but—but, oh, but Gale’s hand was on your shoulder a second ago, Gale’s hand, dry and cool, its dance its grace, skin-to-skin and close enough, not quite, cloth-enough, enough enough, closer you wish, you do—you wish for—Gale’s hand, and its—patterns, patience, power—Gale’s hand, meet-sweet-heat.

What Ki cannot drown, Gale did flood.

“Huh.” Z’rell laughs low. “You have used the wizard well. But the desperate one who would love such a pathetic man must hunger for—”

That’s it.

When your hand grips her throat (FAST)— When her head hits the wall (HARD)— FINALLY She shuts her damn mouth and gasps.

Under your grasp the strength of her wide-strong body heaves; under your gaze the wrath of her eyes ignites. That, you don’t fear, though. Strength you can tackle. Wrath you can extinguish. When she strains, you give her another shove, and delight in the ugly sound of her skull against stone.

“Have some fucking respect,” you hiss, very close. “Don’t make me strike you down before your Goddess inevitably does. Yes?”

Her hand has found your wrist, scrabbling for release. She sees you now: not the secret parts she shouldn’t touch, not the restraint of Ki, either—but the you of this ugly world, the you you’re willing to give to her, this, this you. You look at her, in that second, and you think: you could kill her there. You could, you think, you think, you think on it. You could, and it would feel good.

Instead you push her back, and step away.

“Well!” In the beat of silence, Gale chuckles, beautifully unfazed as Z’rell pulls herself together, mouth twisted with hatred. “Now that we’ve all been wildly inappropriate with one another…” When you snort, he smiles wider, sparkling. “You had a mission for us?”

#baldur's gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #notebooks #dubhàn

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