#dunno if ill keep this one up but if anyone resonates with it ill leave it be i suppose | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lizzy-williams · 3 years

Text

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐭

🐺Warnings: Alpha/Omega dynamic, SMUTTTT, neediness, language, mature themes, dubcon?

🐺Masterlist

🐺Summary: Every Omega knows that going into heat is rough, especially when unclaimed. All eyes are on you. So when it hits you in the middle of a coffee shop with your friends, a particular alpha is very willing to help.

🐺Theme (All I Need by Radiohead)

🐺A/N: Lol we gonna get dirtttyyyy. By the way, you’re small in his, like body proportion wise, like 5′4 small so there’s that. I know people want the ‘independent strong hardheaded alpha female’, but in this one ur compliant, sorry if ya don’t like it. There will most likely be a part 2 :)

“Y’know, I dunno how you drink that stuff,” Anna-Lynn said from across the table, making [ y / n ] roll her eyes and look up.

“You’re just jealous cause your tastebuds are weak,” she retorted, taking a teasingly long sip of her dark black coffee.

It was nice having a day out like this. Especially when everyone seemed so busy with preparing for the spookiest holiday of the year. Paper bats and small pumpkins littered the store-fronts of London, the summer weather fading with the light chilly breezes autumn seemingly brought.

The calm warm light streamed through the window of the coffee shop the three young women were in, the dusk just hitting them. The tree leaves complimented the light as it covered the area in a soft blanket of pink and orange hues.

“So, um,” [ y / n ]’s other friend, Elizabeth, began to speak, clearing her throat and shooting a daring look at Anna-Lynn, “Have you thought about Ethan at all?”

Ah, yes, Ethan. He was Elizabeth’s younger cousin, just then turning 19, a simple beta with no claimed mate.

[ y / n ] shook her head, and to this, the two girls let out a defeated huff, “You need to chose someone,” Anna-Lynn’s voice was clipped as she huffed, but it had a hint of concern. Worry even.

And of course there was a stipulation to one of [ y / n ]’s favorite seasons. Because for her kind, not only was it autumn, but it was also mating season. A dangerous time for any omega unclaimed. If you were unclaimed when the time came around, you were easy pray, and other alphas and betas could smell you much much easier.

You would become a target. Even more so if you were in heat.

“I’m not worried about it.” [ y / n ] sighed, nonchalantly, taking a large gulp of her drink before setting it back down. But deep down she truly was.

“We just don’t want you to become like one of those other omegas... you know, getting claimed by someone on the street during their heat... someone they don’t love at all and being forced to have pups, it’s just barbaric.” Elizabeth glanced down at her dwindling hands.

“I understand that. But I’ve had no issues with this before. I’ll just... lock myself up in my room with a vibrator and some porn. That’s worked before,”

“Bullshit, you were a grump for like a month because you had built up aggression. Ethan’s a good guy. You should really consider it.”

Yes, Ethan was nice. But when it came to [ y / n ]... she just felt as if they weren’t meant for each other. And there was no way that she would consider having pups with him and-

Speak of the mother fucking devil-

It was as if she was hit with a million bricks at once, her body becoming hot, a powerful wave of uncomfortable warmth crashing through her body like a tidal wave, her mouth clamping shut tightly. Her breath hitched, her thighs tightening around nothing, her legs shaking as she felt herself feel as if she were going to throw up. The moisture between her thighs was uncomfortable as she felt her panties stick to her mound.

How could she be so careless? Now she was in heat in public and she knew that nearby alphas and betas had already caught onto the scent, most likely heading their way. She knew it was roughly the time she would go into heat. And it was hell on earth right now, knowing that now that the sun was just now taking it’s last breaths over the tall buildings, the night heightening her kind’s senses acutely.

Her friends caught on almost immediately, knowing the mannerisms of the heavy breathing and the quivering lips. Her eyes were wide as she bit down on her bottom lip harshly, trying her best to keep her whimpers and whines in the back of her throat.

Thoughts raced through the young woman’s mind. Thoughts of her being taken in the most delicious ways possible by any man that just so happened to look her way. And her friends could tell that there were already at least a few alphas coming in hot, the sudden howling through the now darkened air making the 2 other girls’ senses hyperactive.

What was ironic was that there was a conversation going on between two baristas behind the counter, “The dogs are at it again, they’ve been a lot noisier than usual.”

“We need to get her home, right now.” Anna-Lynn commanded, Elizabeth giving a chaste nod before flipping through her phone as a poor, squirming, [ y / n ] sat right across from them, panting in her intense discomfort.

She shut her eyes tightly, desperately trying to ignore the ache in her core. She wanted, no, needed to be filled up. To be claimed. But the thoughts only drove her down deeper, desperation seemingly seeping out of every pore.

As soon as she was called an Uber, it was an agonizing amount of time before it finally came to a stop, the driver flashing concerned looks at the poor squirming girl in her back seat. Throughout the whole ride, it took everything for [ y / n ] not to touch herself, and all she could do was shift her thighs together, and thankfully, (soon enough), the car came to a stop.

[ y / n ] let out a strangled ‘thank you’ to the driver before getting out, and after the woman drove off, she found herself stumbling into an alleyway. Her whole body was on fire and she needed release, any release.

Her back violently hit the brick wall of a darkened alleyway, her loud and labored breaths echoing through the seemingly empty face. She needed tension. At least a little bit.

As if her legs weren’t her own, [ y / n ] spread her legs only a small amount, just enough to slip her hand under her pants and softly drifting her fingertips over her clothed clit.

A smooth and controlled rubs soon turned into harsh and fast circles, her needful thoughts forcing her mind to tune out the howling that was getting closer and closer to her. It wasn’t until a low and terrifying growl resonated through the hollow space, making her stop in her tracks, yanking her hand out of its position, doing her best to stand up and steady herself.

But it was far too late, because by the time she finally started bolting towards the opening in the cold alleyway, her body was caught and thrown against the frigid brick, a pitiful yelp leaving her lips, unleashed tears forming in her eyes.

“You smell fucking delicious,” a dark voice spoke, no doubt an alpha, and [ y / n ] wouldn’t dare look up and meet his eyes.

“P-Please, I c-can’t-”

[ y / n ] didn’t even know why she was saying please, for there were so many reasons she could be saying it.

Please don’t.

Please help the pain.

Please touch me.

Please don’t touch me.

Please.

But the young woman’s thoughts were cut short by a violent tug to her hair, forcing her gaze on the person in from of her. He had bright red hair, freckles apparent, even in the dull light of the closed off space. He wore a jet black hoodie, and that was all that [ y / n ] bothered to take in.

“You’re a pretty one...” his words rattled through her mind, muffled by the sharp ringing in her heat from the sudden contact to the wall only moments earlier, “Glad I claimed you before anyone else could,” he paused to chuckle to himself, “Would hate to touch damaged goods.”

[ y / n ] whimpered and almost recoiled away, but she knew better. This alpha seemed ill-tempered, and she didn’t want to find out what would happen if she dared to disobey.

He gave a rough tug to her hair, standing her up, and immediately started to kiss her neck in hopes of warming her up a little bit more, not that she needed it, but nonetheless, his lips continued their assault on the young woman’s neck, whimpers and whines escaping her lips.

“Just one little thing, pretty girl, you’re unclaimed, I can smell it on you.” he spoke before leaving a long, sinful lick up her throat, “I’m going to bite this pretty little neck and make sure that nobody else is going to touch what’s mine.”

The girl’s body shivered violently. He was talking about a claim mark. If that happened, she could never escape him, it was a tracking device. Where ever she decided to go, he would know exactly where she was.

“Please, don’t, I-”

But a violent growl made her blood run cold and her words pause half-way up her throat. But it wasn’t from her captor. His head was already snapped towards the source of the sound, which was at the opening of the alleyway, the minimal light caused by the streetlight exposing a clothed figure with its hands in its pockets. They weren’t tall but they weren’t short, but their stature was confident.

Great. Another alpha.

“Drop her.” the voice spoke, straight to the point and commanding.

“Fuck off, she’s mine, I got to her first.” the ginger male snapped, his eyes now a vibrant scorching gold, shining in the darkness.

“Drop the fucking girl or I’ll rip you’re fucking head off.” this time it was a vicious growl, strong and unwavering that sent goosebumps down [ y / n ]’s spine.

“That a challenge, pint-size?” the ginger taunted, referring to the other alpha who only stood at a good 5′8, while he stood at a large 6′1, slamming the girl onto the ground making her yelp out in pain.

Finally, the young alpha stepped into some form of light, making his face visible, and the ginger’s expression of defense faded into a face of fear and regret, the eyes that once glowed yellow dying down to it’s original color.

“T-Tom, Jesus, man, excuse me, I didn’t-”

The alpha, apparently named Tom, harshly grabbed the ginger’s shirt, pulling him in and looking up at him with deadly eyes, “Leave.”

And just like that, he was gone, and hopefully never going to be seen again.

Tom’s expression turned soft when he saw the poor writhing omega in a mound on the hard concrete of the ground, small whimpers of discomfort making his chest clench.

“You live here?” he questioned, motioning to the building she was now leaned against.

All she could to was let out a whine of confirmation, nodding her head slowly as she clamped her thighs together as tightly as possible.

“Come on then, can’t have you out in the open, there’s already talk, let’s get you inside,” he said, kindness and understanding in his tone, holding out a hand to [ y / n ], who in turn took it almost immediately.

It took her a second to walk, her knees weak, not to mention it was hard not to notice Tom’s muscles, and his face. God, he was truly attractive.

She let her mind wonder as they began to walk, his arm firmly around her waist, trying to keep her steady. She wondered what it would look like when he came, filling her up to the brim, making her full, a thin blanket of sweat covering his body, his eyes glowing, hungry, and she let out a whimper at it.

“You’re staring.” Tom smirked as they stepped into the elevator of the complex.

“S-Sorry,” she muttered, trying to shake the embarrassingly dirty thoughts from her mind as she continued to try and focus on just getting to her apartment.

The sooner she got there, the sooner she had her vibrator, the sooner she had release. She was convinced, at least, that that would solve her problems, at least temporarily.

She led him to her apartment, still holding onto him for dear life as her core throbbed with need and want. When the door unlocked with a small click, she turned the doorknob, almost collapsing through the doorway.

“Do you need any help?”

This could have meant many things. But of course, [ y / n ] was oblivious in her response.

“N-No, I think I can manage to put myself to bed.”

Tom gave a small chuckle as he sat her down on the couch, sitting next to her as she slouched back, “No, I mean I can help with your problem... that is, if you want me to,”

[ y / n ]’s mind was clouded in a haze of neediness, so with no hesitation, she whimpered a small yes, before immediately unbuttoning her jeans and slipping them down a little bit to eagerly.

She knew this was happening to quick, almost irrationally quick, but the need in her pounding cunt was much more important to her at the moment than her petty morals and reason.

“Are you sure?” he looked at her with sincerity, watching as she shifted out of her pants and took his hand, placing it on her covered mound.

“Please, just touch me, Tom,”

Hearing his name on her lips was almost enough to make him lose his control and say ‘fuck it’, but he figured that if her were to do this, he might as well try to do this right.

“Don’t have to tell me twice, darling,” he muttered, easily finding her sensitive bud, even through the material of her panties.

She let out a soft and breathy moan, taking her hand of his own and moving it to his bicep, squeezing, as if it were anchoring her down to Earth, because she had never been touched like this, especially by someone else.

As if Tom had read her mind, he looked up at her, drinking in her reactions before speaking, “Are you a virgin?”

She nodded her head, his pace never faltering.

“I’ve been waiting- ugnh - for the right person... I trust you,” she managed to get out between moans.

“You barely know me,”

“But I want to. There’s - ah, fuck - something about you. I l-like you,” she admitted, the filter between her mouth and her brain nonexistent as she felt nothing but pleasure and a release from the uncomfortable pressure she was feeling only moments before.

“Fuck,” to Tom, it was nice to hear that somebody needed him, trusted him, especially with something like this, so sacred and meaningful. She was giving him the gift that could only be given once, and he was happy to receive.

After a few moments of him rubbing her in all the right ways, he hesitantly pulled his hand away from her, hating the noise of protest that she released.

“Come on, princess, let’s take this to you're bedroom, yeah?”

[ y / n ] was compliant to his suggestion, standing up best she could without Tom’s help, but soon leaning on him as she directed him to her bedroom door.

The door was busted open, and she was thrown onto the bed, and as soon as she hit the mattress, she stripped off everything else, leaving her completely nude, and her actions inspired Tom to do the same.

He quickly got on top of her, grinding the length of his cock against her soaking wet folds, making him growl.

“Fuck, darling, I’m not even inside you yet and you feel heavenly-” he hissed, the little omega nodding in response.

“Alpha, please, I need you inside me, I want you to fill me,” she desperately pleaded.

Tom let out a feral snarl at the use of the word ‘alpha’, surprised it had so much of an effect on him being used like this. It was so fucking hot. She had him wrapped so tightly around her pinky and didn’t even know it.

“Anything for you, darling,” he muttered, lining himself up and ever so slowly easing himself inside his new mate, a pained whimper escaping her, his cock seemingly splitting her in half.

Tom finally remembered that she was a virgin. And that made him even harder inside her. He waited for him, for her mate, while he was out fucking every omega that crossed him. But with her, she wasn’t just an omega. And he wanted to prove it to her.

He took his time, almost cockwarming, staying still inside of her as her body naturally adjusted to his size, feeling so close to each other, it was enough for the two of them to almost fall in love right then and there. Tom finally took in how perfect she was to him. Someone he knew he wanted to keep around in the long run. Someone he knew he wanted to protect, even when she didn’t need protection.

[ y / n ] scratched up his back, signaling that she was ready, and confident that he could move with little to no discomfort from her.

The alpha started to move his hips, her tight cunt making his eyes roll back in his skull as he dropped his head into the crook of her neck, leaving soft and reassuring kisses to her neck as she made the most delectable noises, making him addicted, almost like his own brand of opioid.

“So fucking tight, princess, you feel like fucking paradise,” he praised as he drank up the omega’s reactions as she experienced her first time with him.

She’s like this for me and only me.

Her face was scrunched adorably in pleasure, her eyes shut tight as she felt the moment, his skin under her finger tips, the burning that was set in her core easing as she finally had pleasurable relief. Like getting a refreshing drink on a particularly hot day.

Tom couldn’t help himself, and as if his body wasn’t his own, primal instinct took over as he began to make his strides harder and quicker, making the most pathetically cute noises release from her mouth.

“You like that, darling?” he panted licking and sucking her neck, making one of her tiny hands weaving itself though his chestnut curls, “Why did I bother asking, of course you do. You love it when your alpha fucks you.”

All she could do was nod her head as she felt a coil inside her tighten. Tom felt his cock inflate as he continued to drive into her, pounding her into the mattress as he growled praises into her neck, her moans and whimpers never stopping.

Soon the praise turned into a single word, falling out of his mouth like a prayer, even though what they were doing was the farthest thing from holy.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

The omega could take it anymore, whimpering out, “P-Please, I... want you to b-bite me. Please, I need you to claim me,” she begged, which made his assault on her cunt falter slightly, slowing down to a calm and intimate pace.

He knew what that meant. When an alpha bites an omega, she’s claimed. It means that nobody can touch her. Almost like an unbroken bond between two of their kind, and it meant a lot.

And though they had just met only a half an hour prior, he knew that she was special, and he knew that this was who he was meant to be with, and his heart swelled at the thought of getting to know her inside and out. A true connection.

“You want me to claim you, huh?” he paused his movements, [ y / n ] nodding frantically, wanting more than anything, “I’m not going to go easy on you. I want you to feel nothing but you inside me while I claim you, nothing but rapture as I claim you as mine.”

[ y / n ] nodded once again, to while Tom protested, “Words, darling,”

“Yes, alpha, I understand, I- OH FUCK-,” she yelled out. And she thought he was going hard before, but that was nothing compared to the pleasure she was now presented with, his cock properly railing into her as he left a long and sinful lick up her neck before taking a bite, his eyes glowing a bright fluorescent gold as she let out one of the most pornographic moans she had ever heard.

The copper taste in his mouth tasted like candy, and home, the sweet substance covering his lips as he finally pulled back, knowing that she was close.

And close she was. She was so close to release she could almost taste it, and god did it taste good. Without warning, the coil inside her snapped, making her vision cloud, her thoughts unable to collect themselves as her vision clouded, and she swore she blacked out for a second.

She was so overcome with pleasure, she didn’t notice that he had cum himself, the sensation of him pulling out and his cum spill out of her enough to get her riled up enough. But if what just happened didn’t vanquish the heat she was experiencing before, God only knew what would.

Tom stepped back, taking in the sight of his new mate, completely fucked out and covered with marks, his cum dripping out of her like a faucet. He wished for this image to be branded into his mind so he could see it every time he closed his eyes.

“Absolutely stunning.” he praised, his hands now running up and down her thighs.

[ y / n ] was finally Tom’s, inside and out, and Tom couldn’t be more proud.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, love, yeah?”

The morning was soft and filled with nothing but admiration to each other, the two staying in bed most of the morning until they finally went to the omega’s kitchen to make breakfast/lunch.

[ y / n ] was cooking the bacon and eggs when she suddenly felt arms wrap around her from behind, a chin resting on her shoulder.

“How’re you holding up?” he questioned, and it make [ y / n ] blush at how considerate she was about her state, his fingertips dragging lightly over the violent-looking bite mark on her neck.

“I’m absolutely perfect,” she smiled, “Feels nice to belong to someone.”

“You know what? I was thinking the exact same thing.”

And for once, the two of them were truly excited for the future.

#werewolf au #alpha #omega #alpha!tom #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #peter parker #peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #marvel x reader

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btelvin · 6 years

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Teleport Trip WIP

So! It’s been quite a while, creatively. I haven’t done much with my OCs no thanks to my fandom obsessions cycling back around, and I’ve been stuck in Sonic for a while.

There is another story that’s been in the works. I’ve posted Jasmine and Auberon’s fateful meeting, so now I’m going to treat y’all to a work-in-progress of Roan and Tesshu’s own meeting and their subsequent friendship. It’s very sparse, only a couple pages, but I like what I have so far and I thought I’d post it here for now. The title is a WIP too, I dunno if I’ll keep it. I might if I don’t think of something better, since it pretty much encapsulates what kicks everything off.

I appreciate any and all feedback! Related art here and here

He did it! He finally did it! A safe, unsupervised, unassisted teleportation spell! Roan felt so proud of himself, he could barely contain his excitement! Wait until he told everyone!

That is, once he figured out where in the world he ended up. The lad's original intention had been to rematerialize in a desert area, not in the frozen tundra in the middle of a windstorm! Not only that, it was supposed to be spring, yet the chill told him that winter still held the land in a tight frozen grip. How did it happen? Did he make a mistake somewhere? Perhaps his mind faltered, or he lost just enough concentration. Roan was too disoriented to figure out where he went wrong. He had to find shelter or risk freezing to death in the new and unforgiving land.

Being so far north he knew he wouldn't be able to mentally contact even Ellah, his present teacher. If he had more training, perhaps. Roan hugged himself and rapidly rubbed his arms to keep from losing too much heat, then started off southward. He could figure out his exact location once he either found some shelter, some people, or a coastline. He could worry about the locals' reaction to his appearance later.

The wind howled relentlessly, battering the stranded elf with a mix of rain and ice that cut into his cheeks and frosted his white-silver hair with crystals. Visibility was dismal, as Roan could barely see in front of his face. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled, and in response the grunts of some kind of deer warned of the preadtors' approach. The animals weren't that far, prompting Roan to put his guard up. If the pack deemed him easy enough prey, his tribe could send their prayers in memory of his recklessness.

"For once, I think I agree with Auberon's favorite nickname for me," he muttered through chattering teeth. "I can just--brr!--hear him now... 'His stupidty finally got him what he deserved! An icy death in the middle of nowhere!'" A gust of wind silenced him, the bitter cold too much to talk through.

Thousands of miles southeast of Roan's wayward location, in the woods known to the local humans as The Big Thicket, the elfin elder Ellah tried her best to pinpoint Roan. Her mental ability was the strongest of the tribe's, but even that had its limits. Back in her race's beginning the power was much stronger, but most elves nowadays hardly had any use for such a long mental reach. Roan had the makings of possessing the same ability as she, but he required extensive training and mind disciplining.

Ellah sighed to herself, resting her cortex for the moment. Wherever Roan ended up, he was too far to reach. The deserts of the American Southwest would have been reachable for her, but much farther than California would be pushing it. Just where had the lad ended up? She brushed stray gray strands away from her nose and sat on a fresh stump, wondering how she would tell anyone that she lost a tribesman's whereabouts. A student, no less! That made everything her responsibility. There wasn't much else to do but wait a while and keep trying, and pray that Roan was safe.

How in the world could a place be so damnably COLD in the SPRING?! Roan had heard of the arctic and antarctic having such low temperatures, but experiencing that firsthand was jarring to say the least. His body shivered and his legs burned. It took so much energy just to keep himself standing, even more to walk straight. The sounds of pack, herd, and flock were long gone, leaving the elfin lad truly alone for the first time in his life. He shuddered at the realization. And at the cold. Curse this cold.

Roan walked on for what seemed like forever. The terrain finally gave way to a wide valley, but the storm raged on. He thought he smelled smoke for an instant before getting pelted by yet more ice. He couldn't feel his face, and his extremeties were numb. So tired... Did he even shiver anymore? He still couldn't see a damned thing beyond the icy curtain of sleet and snow. He could feel his strength ebbing, but his will kept him staggering forward. Being so ill-prepared for anything going wrong would wind up costing him his life. Roan grit his teeth and took another unsteady step, his toes unexpectedly catching on an exposed rock.

And so, Roan learned the ground and the stones up north felt one and the same. He landed hard on his face and chest, his grunt puffing up a little snow and grass. The elfin lad tried to get up, but it was as if two great weights on his back held him in place. He quickly realized he no longer had the strength to move. How long had he been walking? Surely not that long. Perhaps he was just that weak to any extreme cold. Perhaps ... if he just rested for a moment, he could rise again and continue...

The winds seemed to only pick up as the day wore on. To anyone caught out in it, it could mean certain death. Even a hastily-built rickety wooden and metal shack would have succumbed had it not been built under a protective rocky outcrop in the valley's foothills. Tesshu sighed to himself, resolving to check for any damages once the storm subsided. For the time being he would nurse his fire and listen to those haunting howls as the air funneled itself through the mountains before billowing down to the valley at full speed.

The young man had just reached adulthood, and as such his father decided to send him on a fool's journey to get him used to senses he already made full use of. Whatever Tesshu's full-demon father wanted the boy to learn or discover, the blonde couldn't think of anything. He already obtained his Soul Scythe, been to several Reaper Clan ceremonies, and even guided a few souls to either Heaven or Hell for their afterlife. All he really needed was some finer tuning of his skills. Then again, he thought, this just might be Father’s idea of "fine tuning".

Though generally scorned by both humans and full-blooded demons, half-demons like Tesshu tended to have as great or greater abilities coupled with features unique to mortal humans. Tesshu's father was one of the few who embraced his halfling spawn, even going so far as to properly marry Tesshu's human mother. Luckily, the Reaper Clan in general held a more lax attitude about the situation, so long as the child learned the Clan ways. Thus, Tesshu wound up living a normal ... ish life.

The young half-demon decided to turn in for the night, confident the shelter would hold up, but suddenly a familiar kind of pull tugged at his heart. Tesshu instantly homed in on it, and he recognized the aura of a living soul weakening in order to leave its body. Tesshu might have ignored it if it wasn't so close. It also had a distinct resonance, something he never sensed before. What kind of being held a soul like that? The normally stoic halfling softly gasped at the fact the soul was fading fast. The storm, of course!

With an unusual sense of urgency, Tesshu donned his parka, boots, and gloves, then headed out into the cold that became colder by the minute.

#Roan #Tesshu #elf #OC #original character #fiction #WIP #half-demon

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palerdin · 6 years

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Home

Argus was a hell of a planet, or really, a hell of a loose collection of rocks floating in space. Mairèad had lost track of how long she, Chadley, and Lorcan had been stationed there, but it felt like years. Twice now, she’d had to add pages to the album they’d been collating of pictures showing the three of them posing triumphantly over some monstrous demonic fiend. Those pictures had grown lackluster, however, as had the Draenic field rations that had served as their primary source of food and the constant fel-green glow from the land below.

Well. The latter had never been exactly pleasant, but now it wasn’t even interesting. It just existed, as they did, day in and day out, like the demons and the shattered world and the ceaseless hum of the orbiting Vindicaar. And truly, Mairèad objectively preferred routine combat situations to chaos and panic, but as their deployment dragged on, she found herself thinking more and more about home.

Where was home, though, really? Was it the Bad Wolf, docked in Stormwind for whenever Mairèad could come back to her beloved ship, the only good remnant of her ill-fated marriage? Was it Stormwind itself? Hearthglen? Dalaran? Azeroth in general?

She thought of this often, particularly when her team of three returned from their Winter Veil holiday, leaving behind the festivities at home for the rocks of Argus once again. Rumor had it that the current campaigns, in Mac’Aree, in Krokuun and the Antoran Wastes, were all part of the final push against Sargeras and the Burning Legion. Antorus, the Burning Throne itself, was under siege by the Light’s best and brightest, and other swords were still needed on the ground, to supply the troops and keep the demonic legions occupied as the death blow came.

One morning (Mairèad thought; time seemed to have lost all meaning since coming here), Chadley shook Mairèad awake long before she would have preferred to wake up. “It’s over,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling much as he said it. “We’ve won.”

Mairèad sat up, pushing hair out of her eyes and wrapping one of the Vindicaar’s scratchy blankets around her shoulders. “What happened?” she asked, offering a sleepy wave to Lorcan, who sat on the bed opposite.

“The usual with this kind of thing. Minimal casualties, thank the Light. Supernatural intervention at the last possible minute, epic tales of heroism, the whole lot. Illidan stayed behind with the Titanic Pantheon to face Sargeras himself, because…”

“...because ‘a course he did,” Mairèad interrupted, rolling her eyes. “So that’s it, then? Clean up and go home now?”

Chadley hesitated a beat. “We’re orbiting Azeroth now. People are departing left and right. But there… well, things didn’t end as cleanly as everyone had hoped.”

Lorcan picked up the tale before Mairèad could ask about it. “In a final act of desperation, as the Pantheon pulled him away, Sargeras drove his sword into Azeroth herself. It’s… well, it’s still there.”

Mairèad’s stomach churned violently. “Where?” she asked. Visions of a devastated Stormwind, of churning seas, of Krogu flashed before her eyes. Chadley held up a hand to calm her.

“Well, that’s the thing. It’s in Silithus, as far as anyone can tell.”

“Silithus!” Now Mairèad let out a laugh of relief. “I mean, no good that there’s a fuckin’ sword comin’ outta th’planet, but of all th’places he coulda hit, at least it’s th’one what oughta be wiped out fer good, right?”

Lorcan and Chadley both gave her half-hearted smiles, and Chadley spoke up. “You’re not wrong. I’m sure there are teams from the Cenarion Circle and Earthen Ring heading there now, but if the Light is just at all, he’ll have taken out whatever remains of the Silithid and the Cult of the Forgotten in the process of trying to destroy the world. Still…”

“Still. It’s a mess,” Mairèad agreed and stretched. “But. We’re goin’ home?”

“Once we receive our official discharge papers, yes.” Lorcan’s smile broadened as he spoke. “The real question is, though: are you going to keep the pictures with you or shall we take them with us?”

Now Mairèad laughed again and clambered out of bed, faster than she usually would have, the idea of finally being home on Azeroth for the foreseeable future giving her the push she needed to hurry through her morning routine and report to their commanding officers for discharge. By what felt like midmorning, the three had teleported to Dalaran with papers in hand, said their good-byes, and headed home in their various directions--Lorcan and Chadley to Hearthglen and Mairèad back to Stormwind and the creaking decks of her ship.

Of course, it was too good to be true. The missive arrived in Mairèad’s mailbox the next morning, bearing the seal of the Alliance. She groaned when she saw it, grumbled, “What now?” and tore open the seal.

The words blurred together somewhat after she read the first line of the missive: Forces needed for a special assignment in SILITHUS. An odd pain shot through her chest, one that she’d once known intimately but hadn’t felt in a long time. Her hands shook, uncharacteristically, as she tried to read the rest of the missive. Something about mining a new material that had begun cropping up since the sword, something about the Alliance, the Horde, the Twilight’s Hammer.

All of a sudden, Mairèad realized she was about to throw up. She staggered to a nearby planter and coughed up bile and what remained of the previous evening’s dinner. “Fuck,” she rasped. “I’m supposed t’be over this. Get it together.”

But the panic attack wouldn’t stop, and she ended up sinking to her knees, eyes watering at the stench of vomit in the planter beside her. She tried to ground herself by the stench, tried to touch the planter, to gain a sense of something real, but everything was happening too fast. She heard dying gasps of breath. She saw broken, burnt bodies. Chadley, his abdomen mangled from an impalement. Fiery Light engulfing them all, the raging howl of the Apophan, his minions screeching and cackling…

The cabin wasn’t her ship, but it was warm and welcoming, and Chadley and Lorcan had at least been dressed when she arrived this time. Mairèad had no idea how she’d gotten there--portals, maybe, or a gryphon--but as soon as Chadley opened the door, she thrust the missive into his hands and sank down into one of their kitchen chairs. “I can’t do it,” she managed to say as he scanned the page, looking similarly pale when he’d finished.

“Is-- are we--?” Chadley stammered a few times before he was able to speak, dropping into the chair beside Mairèad. “It’s not a draft, is it? Not an order?”

Mairèad shook her head. “I… I dunno. I don’t think so. It don’t read like a order, but… what else could it be?”

As she spoke, Lorcan finally made his way to the table and read the missive himself, frowning as he did so. “Odd,” he remarked. “It sounds here like something that’s trying to reignite the war between the Alliance and the Horde. All of the language is painting the missions here as preventing the Horde from doing… something, though I can’t piece together what. Mining new ore, spying on the Horde’s endeavors… why are we at this again, when there’s literally a sword sticking out of the world?”

Neither Mairèad nor Chadley acknowledged that much, even as Lorcan sat himself, resting his hand on top of Chadley’s. And when she looked back at it all later, Mairèad could remember only snippets of the conversation, her mind constantly drifting to those horrific images that would forever come to mind at the mere mention of Silithus. She didn’t leave the cabin until it was growing dark out, even more unsure of her next steps than she had been before.

She couldn’t go back to Silithus; she wouldn’t. What use would she be there? The landscape was vastly changed, but reports told of Ahn’Qiraj itself remaining untouched, and Mairèad could almost feel the incessant droning of the Silithid resonating in her head. The droning that was only broken by the gasps of the dead and dying, the cries of pain, a hissing and unrelenting cackle that echoed across the sands.

Even the calming sounds of her ship and Stormwind outside couldn’t lull Mairèad to sleep. She estimated that it was near four in the morning when she finally rolled out of bed, eyes aching, and slumped over the ill-used writing desk in the corner of her room. Her penmanship was far from its best, and she barely knew if the letter she wrote was legible, but once she’d scrawled it out and sent it, she was finally able to sleep, in anticipation of weighing anchor the next morning.

All the coast of Stranglethorn had in common with Silithus was sand, but it was a beach, and that was different. Mairèad had docked at Booty Bay and trudged along the coast until she came to the place she’d described in her letter, once home to a naga temple and now merely a quiet spit of land with gentle azure waves and a waterfall high above. She settled down on the beach, a jug of rum beside her, and waited, praying that the Azerothian postal system hadn’t slowed down any in her absence.

It hadn’t. The sun was barely reaching the top of the sky when she saw what she’d hoped to see: a broad figure, shorter than the average orc but still head and shoulders taller than she was, trudging towards her from the direction of Booty Bay. She stood, and when he spotted her, he broke into a run through the waves, and she did the same, meeting him halfway and letting him sweep her up in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist as they kissed.

“Welcome home,” Krogu murmured against her mouth, and Mairèad smiled, something stilling inside of her.

Fuck Silithus, she thought, as she and Krogu sank to the sand, the sea lapping over their bodies. Fuck Silithus, fuck this new warmongering, fuck whatever rocks they’re talking about, fuck it all. I’m home.

#mair and krogu #chadley macglynn #lorcan hart #krogu thunderhowl #wyrmrest accord #rp #writing #the apophan #fuck silithus

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theramblingonesie · 5 years

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Facing Our Making Part 4: Makeup and Performance

Misty Copeland as “Firebird”

Welcome to the grand finale of the makeup blog series! It’s been a great experience writing about all of this because it’s given me an incredible opportunity to really dig into myself to discover my own biases, blind spots, preferences, and ways I can learn and grow. I dunno about you, but I rather enjoy that shit. I hope that maybe you learned something, too, or at least had a chance to tease out and reflect on how the subject has affected you in your own life.

Getting into social customs and how we each feel about them is an interesting sport. For me, I liken it to when you get your blood pressure measured at the doctor’s office.

You put the arm cuff on,

“Okay, here’s this social topic”

and they put the stethoscope on you to hear your pulse,

“Hello, world. Here’s what I think…”

and then they start pumping and tightening the cuff.

“This is wrong! Here are some arbitrary rules! Less of those people! Restrict! Cancel! Humiliate! Isolate! Deprive! No! Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong!”

They go until they can’t tighten anymore, and pause.

“Yes, I’ve arrived. This is the TRUTH.”

And then release.

“Actually, fuck it, let people live their lives”

Whooooooosh!

Leaving you with the sound and feel of your own beating heart, the pulsing of the blood as it rushes back in.

“Hello, life.”

(Sorry, I think the sexy blood pressure pout is goddamn hilarious. )

We can do a review of previous blogs in this series, but ultimately what I hope you’ll walk away with is this:

Let’s stop arbitrarily restricting people, whether directly or through complicity, and let them live their best lives.

Yes, we need to examine social and structural cancers. But no, a boy with a purse and an 80 year old woman in sequins snake-print pants are most certainly not that.

I want to write about makeup and ageism. I want to write about makeup and classism. I want to write about makeup and racism. I want to talk about makeup lineage in families and cultures. I want to write about intimacy and faces, and a million other topics that makeup touches, holds and carries. But I am not a makeup artist or enthusiast, nor any kind of image specialist (fun fact: I’ve never been to Sephora), and I must move on to other things. At most, I am a shapeshifter who delights in the moods and adventures that dabbling in makeup and fashion can provide to the human experience. Who knows, maybe I’ll tackle another piece randomly in the future. But regardless, I strongly encourage anyone who feels called to pick this up and run with it. Nothing I’m writing is original-- it’s just a collection of thoughts and opinions gained from experience and conversations had over the course of my life. I want these conversations to be had. They’re already being had, and we need to add voices to it. So please-- let’s hear yours <3

Here’s an oversimplified review of the rest of the blog series:

Beauty standards are impossibly harsh and cause a lot of unnecessary pain. Let womxn decide what they want to do with their own damn bodies and stay out of it. Unless they hire you for a consultation. Wearing makeup is awesome, and so is not wearing makeup. Your gender presentation and basically any presentation of your body and behavior do not determine who you are and aren’t attracted to sexually. And fuck gatekeeper behavior. If someone tells you that you aren’t the gender or sexual orientation you know yourself to be, then that’s a reflection of some internal shit they’re fighting with, boo-boo. Not you. But I know that doesn’t make it hurt less, and I love you. How toxic masculinity ruins the day in relationship to makeup or not makeup needs to die, and YES women and cis-women** also support and host this behavior (internalized misogyny).

How you choose to adorn yourself does not make your human experience any more or less “real”. Qualification for living a real life in a real body: having a pulse. Just because it is not your experience does not make someone else’s experience a myth. Womxn who wear makeup are not whores unless they are, in fact, professional whores. Professional whores keep the world turning, and bless em for it. The problem isn’t sex work. It’s violence against sex workers. Consider your complicity.

If you want sexual attention because you enjoy sex, then that’s your business and FUCK YEAH GIT IT!!!

Christianity was largely instrumental in informing men that they are not allowed to wear makeup, lest they lose their “manhood”. I have so much to say about that, but I’ll leave it to a recent quote I heard from poet Regie Gibson: “We must learn to fear churches that fear drums.” That will resonate deeply with some and confuse others. Think about it.

The art of drag is centuries old. Makeup has been used by all genders and sexes for decades as a form of protest, revolution, equality, and visibility.

Whatever body you are in, whatever gender you are, you deserve to wear makeup if that is part of your desired expression. It is up to the rest of us around you to do the work to create a world that accepts and allows you to safely do so. Your level of perceived attractiveness does not determine the size and capability of your brain. What does need to be examined is how we sexually and emotionally abuse “attractive” girls and women, both in person and through media, in a way that forces them to believe that they cannot achieve a full life without using sex as currency, or that none of their accomplishments or thoughts matter because their only purpose is being a sexual accessory. As we’ve seen time and again, sexually “attractive” women are punished for straying beyond the purpose of being unintelligent sex objects. Or, there’s a lot of “woke” folks out there who are all “yay! Hot women are also smart, give them opportunities!” and will ONLY respect and listen to women they deem worthy of sleeping with. I will also challenge society by saying that it is sexual abuse to strip a person of their sexuality simply because they don’t fit what you’ve been conditioned to believe are your “standards”. No, one is not required to be sexually active with anybody. But denying another human’s right to love and affection due to superficial beliefs IS abuse, in my opinion. Forcing a person who does not fall into conventional beauty standards to intellectually perform beyond their abilities is abuse, and based in the illness of consumer culture.

What is your purpose?

WHAT is YOUR purpose?

What is your PURPOSE…

THING?

Are you picking up what I’m putting down?

A person’s decision to wear makeup, not wear makeup, or augment their body is their business, because those are decisions they make for their own personal survival. Do not blame them for wanting to survive. Consider the bombardment of messages we hear daily about “worth”. What our bodies look like determine too much to be listed here, but for many, it’s the difference between life and death, even if that’s not an immediately conscious motivation.

Marinate in that.

So let’s get down to the series conclusion. This is an exciting, though brief, one for me:

Performance and Makeup

When my friend Aepril (from blog #1) messaged me about her dilemma of being asked to show her “real” face, we both connected over the uniqueness of the application of makeup as performers. For a performer, makeup goes beyond wearing a nice face out in the world while we conduct our business. Makeup becomes a ritual act, and a space of channeling energy required to suspend disbelief and transport an audience to other times, realms and worlds.

Makeup for performers is also practical: don’t get drowned out by bright stage lights, and accentuate features so that the audience can follow your expressions while you’re telling a story.

One of my favorite parts of performing is, honestly, the pre-show ritual. I love the act of transformation. I go from my blank little pasty potato face and limp baby hair to creatures and characters from my dreams. I can be:

Super femme

Super butch

Superhero

Child

Old man/woman

Dragon

Cat

Spy

Femme fatale

Ballerina

Goddess

Bird

Elemental

Victorian socialite

Bum

Cartoon character

Someone’s dad

Heartthrob

Potted plant

And the list goes on…

Important note: I recognize that my age, whiteness, and stature grant me certain privileges of transformation that not all are afforded. I think this is important to acknowledge, as well as participate in conversations around greater equity in the entertainment industry. Except in cases such as blackface or cultural appropriation, it’s important to challenge type casting and beliefs around the limitations of who can play certain roles.

Makeup allows me to embody the energy I want to convey. If I can look like it, I can believe it. Sit backstage and watch performers after they’ve put on their makeup and costumes. Often, it’s as if their “normal” personality has left the building, and they begin taking on traits and mannerisms of the character they’re playing. It’s a wild experimentation in the realm of the human psyche- peering into our layers and depths of possibilities and dormant desires and aspects of ourselves. Some performers will reference a character they play and say, “yeah, that’s not who I am. But understanding that character gave me greater compassion for people like that”, while others will tell you that their character is a portrayal of their truest selves.

Because of the perceived separation from reality (though art imitates life), the stage is often the safest place for artists to fully show themselves. There is always the option to retreat afterwards and say “oh no, that wasn’t me. It was all pretend.” Or conversely, moments on stage can empower the artist to be supported in their moment of authenticity, because the audience understands that their role is to respectfully hold space and witness. I find that audiences are far better at allowing for differences when the context of being confronted by them is in an environment separate from their daily lives.

Plainly said-- everyone loves a loose cannon or bold personna on stage or in the movies. They feel far more threatened by it in the workplace or in their beds.

I’m neither advocating for, nor dismissing acceptance of all personality types. But I also sometimes find myself in a producer/manager stress space of saying, “yes, I get that this is wicked cute on stage or in the movies, BUT THIS IS REAL LIFE AND COULD YOU PLEASE ANSWER YOUR EMAILS AND NOT STORE THE KNIVES WITH THE HAIR BRUSHES, THANKS.”

The stage is a place where your desire to give everyone the finger and store the knives with the hair brushes is totally okay. And I think it’s great to have that outlet.

Pro tip: it’s smart to carry bandaids on a film set or backstage at a show.

Makeup gives us the courage to let those pieces out. Sam, looking like Sam, won’t do a lot of stuff. Sam looking like a person, animal or entity she admires (or loathes), will do almost anything. Yes, you can have a field day digging into that psychology, but the fact remains nonetheless.

A couple weeks back, beloved Boston burlesque Monster Queen and icon, Devilicia, recommended that I watch “Susanne Bartsch: On Top”, a documentary on Netflix. If you don’t know who this is (I didn’t), here’s an excerpt from her biography on her site:

Susanne Bartsch is New York City’s patron saint of transformation and inclusion. The parties she’s thrown for three decades—from Paris to Tokyo—have provided a venue for countless creative souls and “creatures” to express themselves, come together and forget the hum-drum of the everyday. As Michael Schulman wrote in his 2013 New York Times profile, Susanne’s “empire” continues to flourish “particularly among scene seekers too green to know her history. Wherever Ms. Bartsch goes, the demimonde seems to follow, as if summoned by the bat of her curlicued fake eyelashes.” Fashion mogul John Badum once referred to Susanne as “Mother Teresa in a glitter G-string.”

I can’t recommend this film highly enough. One of the most important parts was when Susanne tells the interviewers that she never had any artistic talent for painting or any other such creative mediums. She instead decided to use her body as her canvas for expression, exploring what makeup, color, texture, and so on could create, and that relation to the world around her. She refers back to the restriction of her upbringing, and how that influences her openness and dedication to personal expression. Susanne influenced countless careers and communities, especially for LGBTQA+ folx and those who consider themselves to be “outsiders”. When people who attend Susanne’s legendary parties were interviewed, many of them speak of these communities as life saving. It was a place where they could just be themselves, and finally be around others who either understood them, or allowed them to be exactly who they are. All of this through the power and creativity of makeup and fashion.

Makeup serves infinite purposes-- safety, transformation, personal exploration, etc. But one thing I love about this craft is its ability to amplify visibility as a sort of flag for finding your people. Often when I’m in a new city, I find myself dressing in a way that will signal to others who might share similar lifestyles that I’m out and available for connection. When I’m at my incognito cafe job and a womxn with black stiletto nails comes up to the register, I’ll give her a certain acknowledging smile and say “I love your nails”, which really means “I see you, friend.” The same way a lonely gay man will show up to one of Susanne’s events with mirror glitter on his eyelids and a tutu made of eyeballs thinking, “hello, do you see me? I’d love to be a part of this family”, so many of us will walk around the world looking for signs of matching lipstick, hairstyle, eyeliner, and tattoos in hopes that we will find other aliens who might accept and understand us.

Photo by Cheryl Gorski

Some people find community through the act of not wearing makeup. Yes, I use the word “act” intentionally, because in today’s society, I believe it is a conscious decision to not wear makeup, just as much as it’s a conscious decision to apply makeup. But from personal experience, the people I most often attract when I’m not wearing makeup are not usually “my people”. I give off a very different impression when I wear muted tones, a floppy messy pixie cut, and display my thin, pale, generically-European facial features. When I outwardly express myself through makeup and fashion, it’s like throwing a direct line to the crowds and conversations I want to be having. It’s not a flawless system, of course. Sometimes the same people who love and adore me while I’m dolled up have absolutely no use for me in muggle form, not always realizing that I’m the same person. Sometimes that makes me laugh, sometimes it makes me cry. Depends on the day.

I stand by the belief that your decision to wear or not wear makeup is revolutionary. It is a decision made that acts as agency in how you want your life to be played out. That’s powerful, whether for better or for worse. So many people say “ehhh wearing makeup is conforming” or vice versa. But I’d like to present the challenge that what we do to our own bodies is not the conformity, but rather the conformity lies in the pressure we put on others to think, feel, and present as we do, or in a way that’s convenient and pleasurable to us.

If you did the exercise from the first blog in this series and kept your list of all the reasons why you do and don’t wear makeup, go ahead and look at it now. Reflect on each of those responses, and remember that it’s your fucking life. Our bodies dictate almost all of the experiences we will have in the world. It is your right to try and have as much say in that as possible.

Thank you so much for reading, and best of luck on your journeys of exploration, expression, and finding a home with your people, whoever they may be.

** “women and cis-women” is a term my friend Alexis recently said to me, and I’m playing around with it.

#makeup #bodypolitics

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