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chvoswxtch · 5 months

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taste

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: matt just wants a taste.

warnings: swearing, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

a/n: it’s thanksgiving here today, and despite my mixed feelings about this holiday, I am thankful for all of y’all. so, here’s a little treat from me to you bc I haven’t shown our favorite human disaster some love in awhile. 🖤

word count: 1.1k

Matt lost track of how long he’d had his head buried between your thighs. Your hair was still damp from your shower earlier, fresh notes of citrus and green apple lingering on the silk sheets. That coupled with the crisp sandalwood of his own cologne from the worn Columbia shirt of his you had stolen to bed intertwined with your own distinct scent lit a fire of desire within him. He’d discarded a layer of his black suit with every silent step he took descending the staircase that led up to the rooftop door.

It had been a bad night, and Matt’s inherent Catholic guilt was at an all time high. So, he positioned himself exactly where he thought he belonged.

On his knees.

Matt held your soft thighs in his rough, calloused hands, his warm tongue lazily tumbling over your swollen clit over and over again. He slipped his tongue through your soaked folds much like he had the first time he had really kissed you; when a sweet kiss good night had ended with your back firmly pressed up against your front door and the two of you panting into each other's mouths.

Angelic pleas for mercy had sounded from your lips in various intervals, but your greedy fingers continued to tug him just a little closer by tight grips on his chestnut strands. Neither one of you seemed to be able to quit the other. Matt’s nose was nuzzled against your public bone, and his plump lips were wrapped around your clit, alternating between suckling languidly at a pace that made your eyes roll into the back of your head and dragging his tongue up and down the length of your entire pussy meticulously.

Every time you let out a desperate chant of his name and rolled your hips up in a needy way in search of more, Matt groaned loudly and moved his own hips in tandem. He had been rutting against the mattress for God only knows how long now, the front of his briefs completely soaked from the weeping slit on the head of his throbbing cock. He’d never been so painfully hard in his life.

But Matt didn’t feel like he had earned a release yet.

Despite the several tangy coats of your arousal on his tongue, he wanted more. He needed just a little more.

Just one more, he told himself, then he’d finally let himself fuck you. But right now, he was exactly where he wanted to be. Face nestled against your pussy, feeling your heartbeat pounding against his welcoming tongue, smelling the scent that was uniquely you right under his nose, hearing the verbal reassurances of how much you needed him, and how badly you wanted him.

Praises of his name and confessions of love slowly lifted the self imposed weight that laid heavy on his chest like cement. If an angel like you believed the Devil deserved Heaven, then maybe he did. You didn’t ask for his penance, but he wanted to give it. He wanted to be worthy of being the man you made him feel like he was.

Matt ignored the ache in his jaw, and he whimpered against your core as his briefs snagged against the sensitive head of his cock just right. He wasn’t gonna last long. Not with the heavenly aroma of you surrounding his senses completely, the sweet sound of your pleasure hitting his ears, the thrum of your impending climax thundering against his tongue.

He never wanted to come up for air. If this was how he was going to die, drowning in the tidal wave of your gratification, then he’d die a happy man.

Matt used his index and middle finger to spread your slicked pussy apart, eagerly swirling his tongue around your pulsing nub before switching to flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth across it like a metronome. God, you were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet. He couldn’t tell where his saliva ended and where your own essence started, but he didn’t fucking care. The only taste he wanted seared into his taste buds was yours anyway.

He delved his tongue as deep within your cunt as he could, fucking you with it sensually while his nose bumped against your overstimulated clit repeatedly. You were close again. He could tell by the hitch in your breaths and the quiver in your soft thighs that were enclosed tightly around his head.

Matt never felt like he deserved you, so he made it his personal mission to make sure he earned you.

As soon as another wave of your candied tang drenched his mouth and dripped down his stubbled chin, Matt exploded with a pathetic whimper, feeling his own sticky warmth coating his lower abdomen and the tops of his thighs. The only reason he pulled his face away from your cunt was because you weakly pushed at his shoulders with your trembling hands.

“Fuckfuckfuck…Matty…I can’t. I-God, I need a minute-“

The breathless pants sounding from your lips were an elegant symphony to his ears. He closed his eyes while resting his head on your smooth thigh, trying to catch his own breath. For several minutes neither of you said anything, just laid there tangled up in the sheets together, basking in the afterglow of pleasure.

All of a sudden, Matt sensed a shift in you. He heard your eyes flutter open, and felt the way you shifted your head off the pillow to peer down at him in curiosity.

“Matty…did…did you-“

“Yeah.”

He didn’t bother hiding it. He wasn’t ashamed. He’d be pissed when the cloud of lust currently fogging up his brain eventually cleared and he realized he ruined yet another set of silk sheets, but right now, he was too satisfied to give a shit about anything other than this moment with you.

A melodic giggle immediately erupted from your chest, and Matt squeezed your thigh teasingly in retaliation which caused you to squeal.

“Hey! I wasn’t making fun of you. It’s actually quite flattering that you enjoy having your head between my thighs so much that you can come from that alone.”

“Sweetheart, you could make me come just by reading our grocery list.”

Another round of angelic giggles fell from your lips, and a quiet whine of disapproval sounded from Matt when he felt you shifting in bed. Much to his dismay, you moved your soft and warm thigh away from under his head, which caused him to purse his plush lips in a pout. But before he could even protest, you were gently pushing him onto his back and brushing your lips against the shell of his ear.

“Maybe I’ll test that theory later, but right now, I’d rather make you come with my mouth in a different way.”

tags: @yarrystyleeza @little-miss-dilf-lover @avengerstower-houseplant @mars-rants-a-lot @topperthornton @hailey-murdock @neverlandcity @charmedkim @queenofthenoobs @stilldreaming666 @mattymurdock1021 @bubuslutty @thyme-in-a-bubble @ninejlovebot @purrrfect @pennylovey @firesunflamed @oscarisaacsleftknee @messymissy @dark-academia-slut @strawberry1042 @utterlynuts

#matt murdock #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock blurb #matt murdock smut #daredevil #daredevil blurb #daredevil smut

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honeyhotteoks · 10 days

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i genuinely can't stop thinking about yunho as a fallen angel... like...

yunho’s catholic confirmation name is stefano, which is i believe a reference to saint stephen. saint stephen is the patron saint of several different things, but the one that caught my eye was the patron saint of coffin makers. ive had that knowledge churning around in my brain for a long time, especially after watching the kdrama doom at your service, but after seeing these pictures my mind is absolutely spinning with fallen angel soulmate yunho brain rot……… so come along with me

•

fallen angel yunho. he's been wandering the earth for years, passing through life and people and history and he's never known the reason that he was cast out until he meets her, you. he hears you first, a distant voice in the back of his mind, a prayer to his saintly name, a name he hasn't heard in what feels like a millennia. a whisper to saint stephen, the man he used to be, many years and many bodies ago.

no one prays to him anymore, not really. certainly not a voice like yours, ringing clearly and angrily in his ear, a bitter request for a coffin to be ready in early spring. he thinks about the way it's almost winter now, the air turning crisp, and he wonders what in your life has you so angry and yet so practical about death.

he thinks of you for days, weeks, idlily waiting to hear the voice again. he dreams of it, sometimes wakes from a stone sleep to your bitter tenor, the clear catch of tears in your throat, but it's always a memory. he finds himself wandering the city for you, searching through churches, reverent houses of worship that you might be hiding away in. he doesn't expect to find your voice ringing out clear as day across the crowded room of a museum, full of life and joy and the picture of health.

he finds a way to speak to you, he's practiced in the art of conversation, of seduction even when the end goal isn't sex. he just wants to know you, to hear your pretty prayer in person, to understand your voice just a little and why in the world you were praying to him and not god himself like everyone else. in the midst of many, he makes a space for you both alone, the connection and the pull immediate and essential.

for a while, you make him smile, laugh, relax, he feels more at ease and more like a person than he ever would have expected. he doesn't understand you or your prayer though, not until you cough painfully, fitfully into your sleeve and he sees the bright kiss of blood at the corner of your lips. he never imagined you sick, but he supposes it makes sense. in all the versions of meeting you he imagined, this outcome wasn’t one he ever entertained.

he's never watched someone he's loved die before, at least not since his first life, and shamefully he barely remembers the names of his family from then. but somehow he knows he'll remember yours, the way he aches is altogether new and even though he knows it would be better to watch over you from afar, he just can't. and it doesn't help that you keeps finding your way to him around every corner of the city, coincidence after coincidence. so easy to joke about how it must be fate when it is in fact fate, pulling you tightly together and tying the knot tight.

he allows himself to love you then, and you allow yourself one last, good thing. he never lies about who and what he is, and you never really believe him, for all you know he's just a figment of your imagination. a hallucination from one of your tumors like the doctor warned you about. you think if cancer can give you one gift before dying, at least it's him.

for a little while yunho thinks his purpose in falling from grace was to love you, after all you prayed to him, no matter how bitterly. but he understands the truth the moment he meets your daughter, the moment he realizes his purpose for you is much more than momentary, final happiness.

and so he carries you forward through those final months, easing your pain and your giving you one last chance at real, lasting love. and he helps ease you into the other side, his promises whispered tearfully into your hair, that he'll see you again but only after he stays by her side. your child's own guardian angel, happy to watch over her and guide her until it's her time to come home too.

and of course, that means he has to wait. you both do, but he's already waited, even when he didn't know what he was waiting for.

#this is straight rambling #but i know i can commit to writing this fic #so please have a wildly fleshed out idea #honeyhotteoks updates #yunho brain rot #cw cancer #cw death #but like i’m so sorry yunho is prime soulmates fic fodder #like red thread of fate!!!!!!

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whumpalicious08 · 4 months

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More Public Humiliation Whump (READ WARNINGS ⚠️)

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Aka my magnum opus, in my humble opinion.

⚠️Cw⚠️ / Smoking, Drinking, Gun violence, graphic gore, minor character death, non consensual touching (over clothes), manipulation/manipulative language, religious (catholic) imagery & references, internalised shame, public humiliation, possessive behaviour

2nd person Whumpee has they/them pronouns. Brief, vague mention of area between legs, no explicit reference to any biological organs.

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Living Weapon Whumpee / Mafia Whumper.

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You find it difficult to breathe inside the pub. Smoke congeals with the air and stains the insides of your lungs.

The stench of blood is so strong it makes your mouth taste metallic.

Whumper is speaking and everything else feels quiet.

"...Kid comes waltzin' into your house, starts touchin' on your property. Can't hardly blame nobody for gettin' a little unkind."

There's a man on the floor in front of him. He's a couple years younger than you- twenty. He's studying geology, a topic that lit up his eyes endearingly. He's on his gap year.

You'd tried to warn him off you, gentle but insistent. Whumper likes you seen and not heard.

But the charming bastard had leaned in, eyes painfully kind, and he'd told you how pretty he thought your smile was. It'd been so long since anybody'd told you that.

The kid had brushed his knuckles over your wrist, coyly hiding his concern at your reaction. His compassion had distracted you.

You hadn't seen Whumper approach.

He'd dragged the kid away from the bar, away from you, and into a more open area. God, you'd forgotten to even ask his name.

You hadn't seen Whumper approach.

You don't see him now, either. You turn your face away and stare down at your drink. But the tourist's throat keeps flapping wet gurgling noises and you can't turn away your ears.

Another shot cracks through the air. Another terrible banshee cry. You count up from one silently to distract yourself.

It doesn't work, but you pretend that it does, and that's enough sometimes.

It was enough before, when Whumper had jovially condescended to the tourist and amicably levelled his shotgun at his knee.

(You'd missed the money shot. You always strive to when you can, innate coward that you are.)

Whumper loves that gun. He's always telling you that it's;

"a gorgeous weapon second only to one".

He'd won it from the Sheriff, during a poker game he'd hosted last month. The policemen in attendance tonight eye it with just as much desire as they do Whumper; the perfect power fantasy.

"Please."

The kid's warped voice rings too loudly in your head. You falter at 37 and can't start over.

Whumper does something to him that makes him hack up air like a cat, unable to scream any longer.

"Shut up and listen real fuckin' close. Whumpee is mine. Mine to touch, mine to use."

You feel the tips of your ears burn in violent shame. Your teeth feel wobbly with how hard you're clenching them.

Whumper's silent for a beat. You don't need to be facing him to know he's looking at you. "Sometimes, they're so damn good at bein' owned I get to thinkin' they like it." His tone turns jeeringly wistful, and indignation curls your hands into fists.

People's eyes and unspoken words become embedded in your skin like shrapnel. Pieces of you, of them, sting when you think you've found reprieve.

"All I'm doin' to you is some kindly teachin'. Got to set an example, you understand."

"Did- I didn't-"

You think he may be trying to say he didn't know, but it'd be futile anyway. Whumper wants an execution. The tourist begins to catch up and abandons his words for sobs.

Whumper hums in sympathy, the sound vulgar in its sincerity. "Whumpee. C'mere."

There's white hot needle points dancing over your body as you stand. The shrapnel sinks deeper as more attention shifts to you.

You find it harder and harder to avoid looking at Whumper's barbarity. The tourist's humanity entices your own; you grow unable to pretend either don't exist.

You reach Whumper's side and look down.

The bullet had shattered the kid's kneecap fully. There's a gorge where it should be; exposing jelly-like tissue the colour of pus and flesh and viscera. Dark shades of dried blood makes it look like somebody'd rubbed dirt into the gore - you can imagine Whumper doing that, tearing at the edges of the exit wound with gritty black fingernails.

His elbow is gone too, chips of shattered bone and viscous chunks of torn muscle the only remnants of it left.

You notice that the tourist's lips are moving once more, and gratefully take the opportunity to look away from the depravity. You can't hear what he's saying. Just the feverish, incoherent ramblings of a man from whom Death will have to beg for mercy.

Whumper's voice pounds against the inside of your skull like tinnitus, trying desperately to drown out the injustice he's caused.

"Kill him. Bastard's all used up." Whumper's cigarette wobbles as he snaps the order. His perverted sense of mercy makes you squeamish.

You've met people who mark their kills. Some do it to boast. Some do it to self-flagellate.

You've never had to carve anything into your bedpost. Every one of your victims live on, feeding, parasitic within you.

But this ... this boy, convulsing and begging in a pool of his own fluid; his death will be a tumour, destruction for destruction's sake.

You're suddenly not sure that you can handle another ghost.

"No."

Whumper's eyes cut into you. You used to believe he had the Devil in them. Now you don't believe there are any Gods or Demons here at all.

"Say that again?"

He's offering you an out he knows you won't take.

You lower your head, but peer up at him through your lashes, a veiled mockery of the submission he expects. He's pushed you just far enough tonight. The several shots of sickening, unidentifiable liquids coalescing in your stomach makes you too brave.

"No, Sir."

Whumper likes you brave. He'll fill your glass and enjoy the consequences.

His hand closes around your arm, fingernails ripping skin, and he roughly handles you into position. You try to jerk away, but the weight of his shotgun reminds you of his conviction.

The tourist is crying again. You can't remember if he'd ever stopped.

Whumper's chest is firm against your back. His leg parts yours sightly and he angles your body with intent, displaying you to the rest of the pub. He rests the long barrel of his gun on your hip, slowly guiding it lower. "I ain't askin', angel."

The pub's only sparsely populated today, and some people are only watching out the corners of their eyes.

But it may as well be packed to you.

Whumper lingers behind your knee purposefully; making you think he might actually do it, before he moves on again.

You feel your heartbeat everywhere; in your throat, under your fingertips, at your temples.

You feel terror everywhere, too. You think it's circulating the room, a plague of quiet fear. Endemic to the bar and your body.

The gun stops at your inner thigh.

Whumper brushes his lips against your ear. Radiant heat from his cigarette warms your clammy neck. "You'll do as you're fucking told."

He gyrates the barrel ever so slightly, a brutish imitation of a caress. Your breath hitches. I own you.

The muzzle's pointing down, safety on. He doesn't need a lethal weapon to remind you how to behave. I own you.

If you hesitate any further, it's only for a second.

Your defiance is brittle and impulsive. Your deference is always enduring.

The bitter pill Whumper feeds you settles on your tongue and makes you think maybe you do like being owned.

"I'm sorry."

The gun's driven sharply upwards, stabbing too hard even through clothing. Your ignoble cry seems to carry. He holds you in place and it hurts.

"Louder."

"I'm sorry-"

He slips his fingers down your back pocket and pulls out your revolver. He presses it into your hand and steps behind, painful pressure lifting off your back and from between your legs.

"Show me, then."

Eyes are boring into you. Whumper's, the patrons'. You hear somebody sniffling across the pub. You have the feeling there are more.

Under different circumstances you'd sneer at the pity, but the room's just seen Whumper what, assault you? Debauch you?

You're pretty damn pitiable right about now.

The tourist's lips are still fluttering. You lower yourself down on one knee to hear him better.

"...forgive thy... holy father ... mercy on me."

You glance at his neck in case you've missed anything. No cross.

You place your hand over his darting eyes, and your gun over his forehead. His mouth stops moving, and then he does too.

For one bleak moment you hope, much for the tourist's benefit and quite contrarily to your own, that there is a next life. You hope that Whumper will burn in infernal fire; searing with a fury rivalled only by the flames awaiting you.

There's more friction generated by the bullet than you'd like. Smoke from the barrel rises up, up.

Whumper's derisive words feel distant, but his fingertips gently carding through your hair seem to scald. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

You breathe in and choke.

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#whump #emotional whump #whump writing #whumpee #pet whump #whump community #whump prompt #whump fic #whump scenario #verbal humiliation #defiant whumpee #whum

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ceasarslegion · 9 days

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I absolutely want to know the details of the needle abortion claim please

*end of the world voice* hokay, so.

In conservative catholic school sex ed, they taught us many egregiously false things. I have a list. The clitoris didnt exist, masturbation gives you cancer, having sex before marriage is like being a piece of tape that gets passed around and the more people it gets stuck to and taken off of, the more it loses its "bonding power." Babies born out of wedlock are more likely to have birth defects, STIs are gods punishment for being horny for anyone whos not your spouse, AIDS is a "sinner's disease" and a divine punishment against sodomy (that one was fun!), our teacher once told us that we didn't need to learn about contraceptives because they were sinful, just family planning so that sex would ONLY EVER BE FOR PROCREATION!!! And of course, the needle abortion claim

The claim was tied into another false claim that fetuses are like, fully-formed tiny babies that just get bigger as time goes on, because of course life begins at conception and fully-formed babies literally hatch from human eggs and thats why theyre called eggs (you think i am being sarcastic. They actually said this). So when abortions are performed, it's when a doctor takes a needle full of "poison" (never specified what the poison is btw, just poison) and injects it through the mother's womb, into the baby's brain, and lets it slowly and painfully die as the poison kills its brain. And then the baby is removed by C-section.

I remember this one so vividly because i went home and told my center-left but extremely feminist parents about it, upon which they went "HI WHAT-" and immediately pulled me from the sex ed class and started sending me to school with actually accurate sex ed homeschooling curriculums to work on at the library while my classmates were in sex ed. They didnt actually have to do this, my parents are just IB-certified high school teachers so any gap in education didnt sit right with them, and they knew which resources they could trust to make a way better lesson plan for me. But the bar was at the center of the earth after that. I didnt go to their school at this point because i was in junior high

And the catholic sex ed didnt stick much considering i grew up to be a world-class whore, but according the protestants thats the whole deal right

#ramblings

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dragon-communion · 1 year

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While on the one hand, Fia’s sessions of “taking lifely vigor” from the Tarnished are definitely implied to be sex, and I find it hilarious that this is a situation where the devs probably bapped GRRM on the nose and told him to calm down, what if I roll with the implication?

It’s implied in a previous version of the Turtle Neck Meat item that people in the Lands Between just don’t have sex anymore. It’s too feral. Bestial. Might even have something to do with the birth of Omen children, actually, considering how such an animal act might bring one closer to the Crucible.

So what if extended hugging sessions are that scandalous and vulgar? Spending a minute in the arms of another person being worse than a glimpse of Victorian ankle has some fascinating implications for society in the Lands Between. If physical contact itself is base and hedonistic, can you imagine how touch starved everyone is?

One of the major problems in modern day America is how distant everyone is. While the Lands Between might not have the same issues with a lack of third places or the consequences of car-focused city planning, our level of general societal paranoia compounded with the advent of COVID means we just don’t touch eachother at all ever. This is grossly simplified because I’m too lazy to go get sources, so feel free to fact check me, but part of the focus on getting yourself a romantic partner is so folks can finally have someone it’s acceptable to get positive physical touch from. Failing that, getting into a sport at least earns you a more violent facsimile of that.

In the Lands Between, where society is focused on being a civilized as possible, it would make sense (a la Brave New World by Huxley) for society to try to eliminate sex and its trappings. Given Elden Ring’s heavy Catholic themes, celibacy also takes on a religious twist- Augustine of Hippo “taught that original sin was transmitted by concupiscence”, or physical desire and longing. To quote briefly from Wikipedia, “The view of the Church is that celibacy is a reflection of life in Heaven, a source of detachment from the material world which aids in one's relationship with God.”

Looking at Queen Marika the Eternal makes it painfully obvious to the player that she’s not even a creature of flesh anymore, twisted into something like a glorified clay pot or even a reliquary for the Elden Ring. We don’t know much about what she was like beyond a few queenly speeches, but whether she was always literally a vessel like that or not, the no doubt popular image of her as a vessel of life could have easily changed over the years from something very physical to the more chaste implications of the female water-bearer statues or iconography of her pouring out a chalice. People do still swear by Marika’s tits, so obviously physical desire might still exist, but my recent theorizing on crystal tears and amber babies really puts me in mind of the sterilized process in Brave New World where disembodied ovaries are fertilized in a lab via cloning. There’s something there in the imagery of the baptismal fonts around the Erdtree collecting tears that become new births.

The whole arrangement might also put a new spin on the gladiatoral games in the Coliseums, and to some extent Marika’s warlike drive. People crave contact, and the high of violence can be close enough to sex to mimic it, though poorly. I think everyone has probably made jokes about how American football has some undertones, and pro wrestling is the same. The most obvious example is dog collar matches, which look so close to BDSM as to be nearly indistinguishable to me.

With all of that in mind, the unmistakable intimacy of Fia’s actions might actually be as degenerate and twisted to modern Lands Between sensibilities as pup masks and handcuffs to the modern day American. What she offers is a gentle hug, perhaps even extended cuddling, and pillow talk. It’s stated that Rogier says “all sorts of things” abed, and while it’s easy to take that to a more physical interpretation, it could actually literally be Fia playing with the man’s hair for an hour until every single thought falls out of his head. When she makes the offer to you, she has to couch it carefully, framed in the ideas of a foreign interpretation of the sacred as if the only way it can be legitimate is if it is a sacred act, as if that’s the only way you’ll be able to understand it. Like when we argue for gay marriage and couch it in the language of romantic equality, because surely everyone can empathize with romantic equality, when the real physical benefits involve insurance and hospital visitation rights.

Anyway, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.

#elden ring #elden ring theory #elden ring lore

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thepunchingbag · 11 months

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Should the Atton and the Exile get into a relationship after the game ends, dear lord god it would be a mess. And I say that as someone who actually ships these two war criminals.

Firstly, it'd be the mother of all learning curves for both of them. For Atton, I headcanon this is his first relationship he's ever had that isn't just casual sex or sex for credits or sex followed by assassination. So, there's lot of hangups. Plus he's emotionally overwhelmed despite trying really, really hard to play it cool. He's not used to someone actually... sticking around. He loves it and he hates it (being the messed up, strange juxtaposition of a man he is). He's got some major self-sabotaging tendencies, so leave it up to him to do/say something that would put their relationship on thin ice too.

Added to that, he probably feels like ANY moment Meetra's going to come to her senses and break the whole thing off. A really screwed-up part of him kind of wants her to. Because, who are they kidding, this is never going to work out. Because he's getting tired trying to camouflage that he breaks out in a nervous sweat at even the thought of her running head-first into battle - sure, he's always been concerned but now it's gone into hyperdrive. Because this is some sort of warped perversion of karma where he gets rewarded for all the fucked up shit he's done; he should be face down in a ditch somewhere, not sharing a bed with a woman way out of his league. Because he's painfully aware Meetra's standards are pathetically low, and he sort of wants her to do better than him. Then again if they ever did break it off - he would never, and I mean literally never, get over it.

I bet there's a lot of "I'm going for a smoke, I'll be right back" moments where he goes off and just breaks down.

And, I headcanon, thanks to her upbringing in a religious cult the Jedi Order, Meetra's over here seeing the Darkside in everything. The Catholic guilt Jedi Order's hangups - strong with this one, it is. They argue over who's going to clean the flux capacitors, she cusses him out, and she worriedly checks her face to make sure her eyes aren't glowing red. She's leading him astray (Atton's rolling his eyes in the background). She's a selfish, sad excuse of a failed Jedi and she's dragging him down with her. Etc, etc, I don't know, despite the fact she's so absolutely done with the Order, she still spent her childhood in a Jedi monastery where she had been indoctrinated/taught in that tradition and the mindset is hard to break. Also, the Force bonds have been an ongoing existential crisis for her since she learned about her fun little "talent" - she's always side-eyeing the situation, secretly thinking that maybe she's mindfucking him into loving her. Even after they grow close, it's always in the back of her mind. Maybe she's just using him to leech life/power off of him like some sort of ghoulish Force vampire.

Still, I think Meetra's the confident one in the relationship and she's ultimately not the sort to back down from a challenge. I think she's more than willing to call Atton out on his BS, and he's good at giving her perspective/a reality check on her martyr complex.

And that's not even getting into the ex-combat veteran PTSD double whammy, or Atton's misogynist vibes.

They obviously are shippable but my god they'd be a hot mess.

#atton rand #kotor 2 #knights of the old republic #atton x exile #atton rand × meetra surik #meetra surik

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klapollo · 1 month

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all jokes aside something i talk about a lot wrt being catholic is that the passion of the Christ really did always kinda strike me. when i was a kid sometimes i'd legit cry at the stations of the cross because seeing Jesus be beat down and mocked and struggling to carry the weight really upset me. the parts where He'd fall again and again in particular got me. like all that struggling almost made the part where He finally died kind of a relief. one of the most intense parts of Christian canon for me is when He's been nailed to the cross slowly and painfully dying for NINE HOURS at that point and He screams in pain asking why God (His dad!) abandoned him.

it just really sticks with me -- this idea that the person who is supposed to be an incarnation of God, also God's own child, a guy who knows He's going to die the whole time and who is in on the plan and knows He's coming back and that He's saving the world -- is afraid and wavering and feeling like God abandoned him. there have been so many times in my life where i felt like God was looking away and abandoning me while i was suffering and there's something oddly cathartic about the idea that Jesus Himself felt that. it really drives home the point that this is God ON EARTH, he's human and privy to human vulnerability and pain.

i feel like even if the Bible/Christian canon is just a book of myths and fictional spiritual legends to you it's a very compelling and haunting concept from even just a narrative standpoint

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nubreed73 · 7 months

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LOL look who is in a hell of her own making again.

I watched The Guest while we were on holiday in South Korea and it was a REVELATION. I could not believe that the drama we watched because "it looks like a fun gothic horror thing and Kim Jaewook plays a hot priest" was capable of bodying me like MCTNA did the first time (and every time since)

But rewatching to incept @judiwench and @moodybluestocking has cemented it deepdeepdeep in my DNA.

I am SO VERY SCREWED.

For this man, who is so terrible at people and so haunted and so hot and so every lifelong Catholic kink I have ever had in a long boi body. Trying his best at all times.

Choi Yoon, who is so in love with a boatload of disregulated impulses in the body of a PTSD-addled, cute-aggression-inspiring, chaos gremlin of a man.

THEM. I AM FERAL OVER THEM.

For Gilyoung: precious, beautiful, brave, strong, steadfast and vulnerable Gilyoung who loves her stupid boys so much and who is their rock and who deserves THE WORLD. When she cries it's like being stabbed very slowly and painfully.

THEM. THE FOUND FAMILY/QUEER PLATONIC (ISH) OT3 OF MY DREAMS.

I love them alllllllll.

BUT THAT ONE THERE? THAT ONE? YEAH. He is a massive, massive liferuining problem for me.

Yoon Hwapyung. GOD. That beautiful, eviscerating, self-blaming, trauma magnet, brat of a man. He makes my entire chest ache and makes me want to a) protect him, b) whump him to the East Sea and back.

And boy does he get whumped (as do they all, bless this galaxy brain show)

I cannot comprehend just how Kim Dongwook manages to hold two polar opposite characters in his face at THE SAME TIME?! Those tears while (redacted) is (redacted) are my doom.

I just. I can't. The SEVENTEEN MINUTE sequence culminating in (redacted) in episode sixteen is just the most exquisitely beautiful things I have ever seen and words will never do it justice.

And then. THEN. Well, if you've seen it you know and if you haven't I will not spoil too much but. UGH. Incredible. So many tears. SO SO MANY. SO SO MANY.

Anyway I love them so so much and already have multiple fics and vids in the works and no I have not forgotten about MCTNA but The Guest has lodged itself in there next to my lovely Joseon himbos and isn't going away anytime soon.

#the guest spoilers #the guest ocn #손 the guest #yoon hwapyung #choi yoon #kang gilyoung #i love everyone in this sea demon bar #otp: a priest and a medium (traumatised) walk into a bar #rs: sometimes an ot3 is a priest a medium and a cop #cw: blood

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the-celluloid-correspondent · 28 days

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Quickie Reviews

Immaculate (Michael Mohan)

Cecilia, an American nun of devout faith, embarks on a new journey in a remote convent in the picturesque Italian countryside. Cecilia’s warm welcome quickly devolves into a nightmare as it becomes clear her new home harbors a sinister secret and unspeakable horrors.

Immaculate is a peculiar yet untamed exploration of Catholicism's darker aspects in cinematic form. It occupies a unique space between the jumpscare-centric horror characteristic of Blumhouse and the more nuanced, "elevated" horror epitomized by A24. While it draws from both traditions, it doesn't fit neatly into either category. The film follows Cecilia, a Catholic Nun, who joins a new convent in Italy to care for her ailing sister in faith. As weeks pass, she inexplicably finds herself pregnant, leading many to believe she carries the Son of God. However, as strange phenomena and unsettling visions unfold, doubts arise about the true nature of her pregnancy. On paper, Immaculate promises a chilling exploration of religious trauma and the intersection of women's bodies with faith. Yet, in execution, it falls short of realizing this potent blend of horror.

In the initial half of the film, tension is primarily manufactured through cheap jump scares rather than allowing the story's natural ambiance to set the mood. These jumpscares feel contrived, lacking originality and failing to evoke genuine fear. However, as the narrative progresses into its latter half, the film begins to leverage its inherent atmosphere to truly horrify the audience. The transition marks a shift towards a more immersive experience, where the unfolding horrors stem from the organic progression of the story. The horrifying realization of being unwillingly impregnated is terrifying as it is routed in reality. Additionally, when juxtaposed with moments of authentic tension, such as the harrowing escape from captivity in the convent catacombs while undergoing labor, there's an inherent sense of unease that permeates the scene. I just wished the entire film had this momentum that it showed in the film's later half.

The performances in Immaculate offer a varied experience. Sydney Sweeney is inconsistent in Immaculate. She has many moments, especially in the first half, where she is unintentionally funny in what would have been serious and unsettling scenes. However, when she is finally allowed to go full Scream Queen, she kills it. She has this horrifying intensity in these unholy moments that proves she is a perfect match for this genre. Overall, Immaculate is interesting and terrifyingly fun at points, but feels like it is wasted potential.

My Rating: C+

Damsel (Juan Fresnadillo)

A dutiful damsel agrees to marry a handsome prince, only to find the royal family has recruited her as a sacrifice to repay an ancient debt. Thrown into a cave with a fire-breathing dragon, she must rely on her wits and will to survive.

The title of "most likely written by AI" in 2024 undoubtedly belongs to Damsel, a Netflix production that is so undercooked that a dragon would dare not eat it. This film is a colossal failure, lacking in excitement, originality, and substance. Its narrative is painfully predictable and riddled with pretentiousness, making it seem like I had already pieced together the entire story from the moment the first poster and synopsis were released months ago. Despite claiming to break away from the "damsel in distress" trope, Damsel ultimately succumbs to it, failing to deliver on its promise of subversion. Millie Bobby Brown's performance is disappointingly bland, portraying a character that attempts to be different but ends up feeling forced and unconvincing. Her portrayal lacks the intimidating presence she brought to her role as Eleven in the first season of Stranger Things. The only redeeming qualities of Damsel are its costume design and the visually appealing dragon design. However, these aspects alone are not enough to salvage what is otherwise a forgettable and lackluster movie.

My Rating: D

Road House (Doug Liman)

Ex-UFC fighter Dalton takes a job as a bouncer at a Florida Keys roadhouse, only to discover that this paradise is not all it seems.

On one hand, I appreciate that Road House didn't take itself too seriously and embraced the campiness of its story, which made for an enjoyable experience. However, on the other hand, I'm frustrated by how it spiraled into a chaotic mess. The remake of the 1989 classic, Road House, is a film characterized by tumultuous disarray. Amidst this chaos, there are moments of fun, particularly in the first half. The fight scenes are entertaining, and the chemistry among the cast members adds to the enjoyment. Initially, the film strikes a balance, embracing its campy nature while still maintaining some grounding elements. However, this balance is lost as the movie progresses into its second half. The once-cohesive story and characters are abandoned in favor of poorly executed CGI fights and nauseating cinematography. As a result, what started as an enjoyable romp devolves into a disappointing mess.

The dialogue throughout the movie feels forced and awkward, reminiscent of lines one might encounter from non-playable characters in the Elder Scrolls games. This feeling is exacerbated by the noticeable use of ADR (Audio Dialogue Replacement) throughout the entire film, sometimes even for entire characters. Conor McGregor's acting debut is particularly noticeable in this regard. While his skills as a UFC Fighter are evident, his portrayal outside of fight scenes comes across as a bit cartoonish, making it difficult to take him seriously. Although he seems to be enjoying himself, he stands out starkly from the rest of the cast. McGregor's talents might be better suited for roles as a stunt coordinator or stuntman. On the other hand, Jake Gyllenhaal shines in the movie, carrying it with his natural charm and impressive physique. Despite the poor dialogue, Gyllenhaal manages to infuse his scenes with comedic brilliance. While the rest of the ensemble delivers adequate performances, Gyllenhaal stands out as the highlight of the film.

In general, Road House presents a varied experience. While it has its enjoyable moments amidst the chaos, there are instances where the tumultuous nature of the narrative can overshadow even the most entertaining aspects of the story.

My Rating: C

Problemista (Julio Torres)

An aspiring toy designer’s work visa runs out, and a job assisting an erratic art-world outcast becomes his only hope to stay in the country and realize his dream.

Problemista left me somewhat lukewarm. While I found merit in its narrative, character development, and the societal critiques it presented, the comedic elements failed to fully resonate with me. Although there were sporadic instances of humor, I felt that the execution often fell short of its potential. One highlight was witnessing Tilda Swinton's portrayal of a fiery Karen, accompanied by Julio Torres in a comedic tug-of-war. These moments provided a delightful contrast to the otherwise lackluster comedic delivery. However, outside of these standout scenes, the film struggled to maintain my interest. In summary, while Problemista boasts strengths in certain aspects, particularly its performances, it ultimately failed to capture my attention due to its inconsistent comedic tone.

My Rating: B+

Late Night With the Devil (Cameron and Colin Cairnes)

A live broadcast of a late-night talk show in 1977 goes horribly wrong, unleashing evil into the nation’s living rooms.

Late Night With the Devil is an innovative horror satire that brings new life into the found footage genre. Framed as a late-night talk show from the late 1970s, we follow our host, Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchain), through a night that will never be forgotten as he brings a child onto his show who claims to be possessed by the Devil. The opening sequence immediately plunges the audience into the satanic panic and frenzy of the era, while also highlighting Delroy's struggles to compete with his rivals. Following the tragic loss of his wife, Delroy's show spirals downward, leading him to desperate measures in his quest to dominate the late-night talk show scene.

The narrative progresses as a typical late-night talk show on Halloween night. We have three guests, a psychic medium, an ex-magician turn skeptic, and a parapsychologist who brings her teenage patient on air. As tensions begin to brew between the guest, the host, and the network, Delroy pressures the teenage girl to concur up the entity on air, and all Hell begins to break loose. Late Night With the Devil walks a very fine line between horror and satire. It is a slow-burn horror that isn’t particularly scary, but the ambiance that the entire crew was able to build is undeniably unsettling. However, Late Night With the Devil is filled with the ironic spectacle of late-night TV that is similar to Martin Scoreses classic, King of Comedy. This unique blend of horror and satire creates a truly unforgettable film.

David Dastmalchian has been in nearly every single franchise and has worked with some of the most talented directors in Hollywood, but hasn’t gotten a role as a leading man until now. Hopefully, Late Night With the Devil will finally be a sign for Hollywood to cast David Dastmalchian as a leading man. Dastmalchian is excellent here as our host for a night that we will never forget. He transforms into the charismatic host, Jack Delroy. He shows the undeniable talent of his character charm while also highlighting the mediocre limits that are holding his character back from becoming the greatest. But his performance is more than just the imitation of an average Late-Night TV host. Within his performance, he has subtle layers of

unresolved grief from his wife’s death, while also showing subtle desperation and envy for becoming the best. His performance is perfect and shows everyone that he has been overlooked as a leading man for far too long.

Now with the controversy surrounding the 3 AI images used in the film transition cards. If you are going to boycott this film because of this, fine, more power to you. However, you are pushing creativity and independent filmmaking because a graphic designer in the movie art department got lazy and decided to use AI instead of their talents to create the transition cards. To punish an entire film because of the actions of a few people is insane as every graphic designer I know today uses AI for editing or as an inspirational sandbox for their designs. So please do not punish this movie because someone got lazy. This is an excellent horror satire that breathes new life into this genre.

My Rating: A

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a-queer-seminarian · 11 months

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Oh, God. I just realized that the main obstacle to me getting ordained isn’t any of the many things I’ve been listing since graduating seminary in 2019.

It’s not that it’s too daunting to jump through all the hoops as a genderqueer, autistic person — though sure, that’s true enough. All the steps to ordination are designed to root out people like me — but I’ve already made it past most of them! And I’m lucky to have a CPM that is willing and even eager to ordain me!

It’s not my hesitation to formally enmesh myself into organized Christianity in this particular way — though again, that is part of it. There is part of me that winces at the thought of bearing a title that has done so much harm; but a larger part of me wants it, wants to reclaim it from that harm and use it for good. Likewise, I do enjoy my role on the periphery, and being able to hop around spiritual homes, and getting ordained could complicate that s bit, but I could make it work.

No. The main reason I’ve been dragging my heels after coming this far, and while having so many people in my corner: I don’t think I’m worthy.

I can’t imagine myself holding up the bread and wine and proclaiming it the body and blood of Christ and feeling like anything but a fraud. “Get away from the altar, who do you think you are!”

I can’t picture myself baptizing someone or declaring a couple married without feeling skeptical that it “counted.”

I can only imagine myself feeling like I’m playing pretend, dressing up as a priest when really I’m just…god, a silly little girl who has no right to wear a stole and claim to speak for God.

Ouch. The internalized misgendering is a punch in the gut — but that’s what’s in my brain.

The internalized ableism is also painfully clear in a way I can’t believe I’ve been repressing all this time: I’m almost 29 years old, but I feel like a little kid. I infantilize myself, all the time, because of how my autistic body moves and autistic mind thinks and the limitations of how much work I can make my autistic self do before I break down.

Regarding the feeling of not having a “right to speak for God”: The funny thing is my denomination doesn’t claim pastors “speak for God” except insofar as every human can! But my Catholic roots run deep, and not just into the nourishing stuff but the toxic stuff too. I’m acknowledging that more honestly lately since the whole Pentecost incident — that there are parts of my psyche that still haven’t unlearned the Catholic way of putting clergy on a pedestal. And of course I don’t measure up through that lens!

I don’t know how to unpack all this right now. I feel overwhelmed and startled that this has been stagnating here in my brain, weighing down my spirit, without me even realizing. Just naming it is a good start, but where do I go from here?

Whew. Holy crap. Even as I say that as if I want to untangle all this enough to finally get ordained, part of my brain rebels — “no, you’re right about being unworthy! You’re too childish, too unstable, too flawed! Don’t try to convince yourself otherwise!”

What a mess. When I was so sure I believed at a core level that pastors are not in some way “more holy” than anyone else; and also that there can and should and must be more than cishet abled men in clerical roles. How has all this crap been festering in my psyche this whole time??

I can’t help but laugh a little! How fascinating!

Lately I’ve been reflecting on and praying to Mary in her role as Untier of Knots. Well, Mother, here’s a whole tangled mess for you to help me pull apart! I certainly need the help.

#log #summer 2023 #internalized ableism :/#internalized transphobia //

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luvbug724 · 2 months

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kevin and renee don’t have many big moments in the books i don’t think but there are some painfully domestic or sweet parts like during andrew’s stay in easthaven when kevin and renee (and nicky) slept together on the floor (which i’ve deluded myself into thinking is kevrenee content). also when she meets jean for the first time she has her arm locked with kevin’s :) and she’s the only fox kevin allows to hug him (or at least the first who tries) :) and her begging for his help when she was going to take jean… this is just off the top of my head but i believe they would be good because renee is very reliable and strong and i think when she lets more edge shine through kevin would be really enamored by her :)!

i know you have a catholic jean streak but i also love for kevin and renee a bonding moment because i believe kayleigh was catholic 🤏 my reasoning for this is that during the kathy interview neil notes kevin audibly praying under his breath (adorable to me). so i think she could also get him to reconnect with faith and the idea of a religious community as a whole…. renee is like if andrew was a better influence and a lot more charming

also hiii its dayurno 🖐️🖐️ SORRY ABOUT THE PREVIOUS ANON i was just like what if they think kevjeanee sucks actually and i should explode and die. but it wasnt the case yay! hello :D

ay dios mio... im slipping i should've remembered those i blame the jean brainrot he's pushing out the og trilogy. UR SO RIGHT. renee and jean meeting for the first time while renee and kevin have their arms linked is literally all the reasoning i need. i'm on board. kevjeanee is a FULL TRIANGLE

i am all for catholic Everyone. ESPECIALLY in the nest theres something delicious to me about them maintaining a belief system that simultaneously tells them that they deserve everything they're going through and it is all for the light at the end of the tunnel. if god is truly benevolent then why must i go through this for my happy ending. Whatever. kevin i think picked up catholicism actually kind of similar to renee vs jean "sunday mass his entire childhood" moreau bc kevin was much much much younger when he went to the nest like he was 6 at that point he wouldn't really remember kayleigh much less catholicism. which now i am thinking about kevin going to mass at psu and meeting renee there by accident. HELLOOOOOO

i've also got to thinking about kevjeanee housekeeping now & i know logically it would make the most sense for the moriyamas to give them a scary mafia accountant to a) make their taxes line up for the IRS and b) make sure jean and kevin aren't skimping the moriyamas any payments but this answers the age old jeanee question: if I'M dyslexic and YOU'RE dyslexic then WHO is doing the taxes!!!

#tumblr user dayurno... come sit with me we have many things to discuss #jean moreau chronic migraines do u agree?#kevjeanee #asks #kevin #jean #renee #opening this question to the floor. @ everyone #jean moreau chronic migraines???? discuss?????#once he becomes comfortable seeking care for injuries and health problems its over for every athletic trainer in a 3 mile radius of him #every three weeks his pro team is like: Jean Moreau (upper body) is out today and will be evaluated day-to-day #the upper body is without fail a migraine but hes being very brave about it

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swanoopdev · 6 months

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Saturday of week 32 in Ordinary Time: PERSISTENCE IN PRAYER BEARS FRUITS

Luke 18:1-8

There are various forms of prayer are presented in the Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC 2623-2649). These various forms include prayer of blessing or adoration, prayer of petition, prayer of intercession, prayer of thanksgiving, and prayer of praise. These prayers could be verbal or silent. We may adapt various forms of prayer to express dependency in God.

In the Gospel reading of today. Jesus narrates and set example of a parable of a widow, who has been persistently asking for the mercy of the king.

To persist in prayer and not give up does not mean endless repletion or painfully long prayer sessions. Always means keeping our requests constantly before God as we live for him day by day, believing he will answer. When we live by faith, we are not to give up. God may delay answering, but his delays always have good reasons. As we persist in prayer, we grow I character, faith and hope.

Widows and orphans were among the most vulnerable of all God’s people, and both Old Testament prophets and New Testament apostles insisted that these needy people be properly cared for (Exodus 22:22-24; Isaiah 1:17; 1 Timothy 5:3; James 1:27).

If unjust judges respond to constant pressure, how much more will a great and loving God respond to us. If we know he loves us, we can believe he will hear or cries for help.

Do you say the prayer or make the prayer?

How much faith do you have in God?

Are you kind towards people who need your help?

PRAYER:

Loving Father in heaven, thank you for your kindness, mercy and compassion. You are our good father, the just judge. Thank you for providing everything that we need. Often, we give up our hope and trust in you, especially when things do not happen according to our plan. We ask your mercy Lord, so that we may learn to submit all our hope in you alone. Amen

#homily #prayer #catholic

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 1 year

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Living Pictures | BODY BACK Update #1

A writing update??? In THIS economy???

Paying homage to my old writing updates, except we're getting 10x more self-indulgent. Let's talk about falling back in love with characters, orbital chapter structures, Harrison's messy redemption, God as memory, and of course, the first chapter of my novella, BODY BACK. With lots of excerpts of course. 😈

Post starts under the cut!

BODY BACK background:

Here's a summary if you missed the chaotic conception of BODY BACK: it's a literary fiction novella that occurs between a duology I wrote a few years ago (book 1 is Moth Work and book 2 is Feeding Habits). The duology follows two men, Lonan and Harrison, who are at the centre of a very complicated relationship.

I talked in depth about this project's conception in THIS post, but the gist is that I re-read Moth Work recently and was so enthralled by Harrison's psychology that I had to extend his story.

This was the first nugget of BB:

[ID: BODY BACK: Harrison's novella in the two months he lived in Las Vegas, 2005 (Oct-Sept, between the events of FH in 2006). Energy: bad decisions, lots of parties, self-destruction but make it glitzy. /end ID]

Logline: It’s 2005 in Las Vegas and 21-year-old Harrison is tired of routines, of gods, of men. On a mission to move past a complicated breakup, he’s about to get recklessly indulgent–and he’s come to the right place.

I'm honestly shocked, but deeply grateful to be writing this project. The last time I wrote a writing update, I'd been deeply struggling with Feeding Habits, and also hated Harrison as a character (shock!). Of course, he was still my baby, but at the time, I just could NOT crack his psychology. It took a full year to really come to terms with where he was in FH, and BB is almost an opportunity to "redo" what I wish I could've given him initially. So BB feels like a redemption for me as much as a redemption for him (albeit... he does zero redeeming in this book lmao).

I think I'm in love... with Harrison

Characterization is complicated for me. I don't think I'm particularly good at it because I have no idea how I characterize. However, BB has been such a wonderful way to fall back in love with Harrison (more than I already admire him as a fictional person in my brain lol). While I've been writing with him becoming a better person in Seventh Virtue, BODY BACK is the opposite of that. He's in his destructive era and knows it. And it's only making me love him more!

In BODY BACK, Harrison is painfully aware of who he is as a person, but simultaneously extremely destabilized in his identity. He understands he's a disaster, but also doesn't know how to be anything else (or what he was before), now that Lonan is no longer in his life. At the end of Moth Work, he willingly walked out of Lonan's life, aware this was what was best for himself. BODY BACK explores what it means to regret the "right" decision. Grey areas, wooohooo!

A smaller note that maybe only means a lot to me, but Harrison & I are the same age in this book! I've never been the same age as one of my protagonists, and maybe I'm being mushy about it, but I feel like I really... get where he is right now. We've always been similar (except he's you know... much cooler than me), but it feels like a real blessing to see him in this state (lmao *fucked up*) while also this age.

Living Pictures

We open BB with "Living Pictures," which is about Harrison perceiving his life as separate from himself, a carefully constructed veneer that he's merely watching.

Thematically, "Living Pictures" is about falsities and also how easily people can fall into--and be trapped by--roles. Harrison also thinks a lot about gods, which is interesting for his psychology because he's an atheist. However, his contemplations of God are deeply rooted in what God means to Lonan, who's an ex-Catholic. I've had a lot of fun exploring these themes also as an ex-Catholic. It's been quite cathartic to recall my memories of God, project them onto Harrison through Lonan, and then have him bastardize them.

The title comes from the literal translation of the phrase "tableau vivant" which appears in the opening paragraph.

Scene A:

Harrison floats fully-clothed in a pool that belongs to a wealthy couple. He is jaded and also thinking about God.

Scene B:

Harrison describes the couple who own the house/pool. The man is a realtor, and the woman stays at home mostly, but walks dogs on the side.

Scene C:

Harrison contemplates his "easy" Las Vegas life since moving in with his mother, Suzanna.

Scene D:

Flashback: Harrison recalls drawing his new sort-of boyfriend, Jeremiah.

Scene E:

Harrison describes his vices (smoking and his ex, Lonan lmao, comparable)

Scene F:

Harrison recalls a recurring dream/nightmare of his aforementioned ex.

Scene G:

Distracted by the dream, Harrison is caught by the couple. The man seems unimpressed by him, though the woman (Sadie), perhaps realizing how young he is, invites him inside for tea.

Scene H:

Harrison observes the couple's "catalogue" home while Sadie makes tea.

The writing process & orbital structures

This first chapter took about two weeks to draft start to finish. Total word count is at about 3k. The scenes are very short, almost like vignettes!

Across MW and FH and BB, I use what I call an "orbital plot structure." I've been using this method for years now for this particular duology.

Essentially, we have a core theme (the "satellite") that every single scene "orbits" around. Here's a horrific drawing of what that visually looks like in my head:

Instead of thinking as these chapters as a three-act structure, I think about them on a deeply thematic level. What is the core of this chapter, and how does every single scene lead back to that core theme?

If this diagram is unreadable, dw, I'll make a video explaining this soon, LOL.

Excerpts

I've shared a number of these, but enjoy this repeated content! Also this is... most of the chapter LOL. I'm going for this extremely shimmery prose style to mimic Harrison's mindset.

Here's the opening scene, which is... the best opening I have ever written LMAO. CW: blasphemy??? So sorry.

Harrison doesn’t need a god. Fully clothed in a stranger’s pool, he pities people who do. So what if he’s alone? The sunless sky is carbonated with stars, another stranger’s backyard smelling like burned cedarwood and marijuana. And he likes it here, star-fished on water that doesn’t belong to him, inventing constellations while someone else’s cigarette hangs from his lip. What god could manage this miracle? Take this drowsy tableau vivant: a man cloaked both by the sky’s navy and his own jacket’s leather, his eyes as wide as spoons. Harrison is fine art and God isn’t. He wins.

Here's a chunk of Scene B:

This isn’t the first time he’s done this. This means a couple of things: 1) challenging God and all his righteousness, and 2) breaking into the pools of wealthy suburbanites. The latter really isn’t that hard. Since mid-September, he’s stalked the houses plotted along Paradise and learned routines. This is even easier—people who fringe their homes with crisp lawns often stick to the same schedule. The pool he floats in belongs to a young couple. The man works real estate according to the signs Harrison’s seen of his face peppered around the neighbourhood. He’s wondered if that’s ever humiliating, to constantly see pixelated versions of yourself everywhere. But that doesn’t matter. His wife walks dogs in her free time, which means always. Last week, Harrison watched her jog with a vizsla, and just yesterday she spent the morning on their gable-roofed veranda brushing a wispy Alaskan malamute.

Here's the entirety of Scene C (CW: suicidal ideation):

Technically, everything in Harrison’s life is easy. He lives in an easy apartment, sleeps on his mother’s easy chesterfield, eats over easy eggs for breakfast, watches easy infomercials every night from midnight to 3:00AM. (Technically, the infomercials aren’t necessarily easy because he watches them in French without subtitles, but it’s entertaining to make up slogans: Cut Away Your Problems with Our Wrapping Paper Cutter! Yeehaw!, so he doesn’t really mind.) And he’s grateful for this, how unassuming his life has become barely a month after Lonan. Perhaps this is how he views things, in two simple parts—not Before Christ, but Before Lonan, which now that he considers it, might be the same thing. Anyway. Before his fawny portrait face, just like Renaissance men in oil on canvas. Before his blunt hands. Before his raven hair, glassy as dark water. Now there’s only one place left to go: after. And how can Harrison complain? His easy mother has insured his easy sedan which means he could get around the city easily if he wanted to. She’s even offered to use her easy money to set him up in his own easy apartment— “Imagine the view!” she’d said as a selling point. And Harrison did. As Suzanna unclogged the kitchen drain, he painted an easy coastline in watercolour and surrendered to the image of his easy, independent life. Easy trees like the date palms pinched against this couple’s home. Easy skies, never a cloud in an easy haven of blue. Easy walk to an organic farmer’s market for easy pancetta if he wants it, or easy cinnamon butter that he has no purpose for, so eats straight from the jar. Easy morning coffee in an easy alternative garden right out his back door, easy sand where there should be golden columbine, easy gravel where there should be soil. And the easy neighbours to greet—them going, “Hello!” and then him going, “Hello!”

Harrison doesn’t like easy. He’d rather walk all the way back to Brooklyn with nothing but an empty backpack and a sleeve of cigarettes, scale a silverish high-rise with his bare hands, struggle onto the vacant roof, stare out at the blinking, vulgar city, then climb onto the building’s railings, let the wind ripple his jacket, his hair, and jump right off.

Here's some of Scene D, ft. Jeremiah:

The cigarettes belong to another man. As Harrison sucks its filter, blowing out remaining plumes of smoke, he’s enthralled by him. Skin velveteen, hair always tediously puffed like dandelions. Jeremiah is more than a man in Harrison’s eyes, the way he speaks like a cross between the frontman of a nineties alternative band and John the Baptist. “You’ve got the soul of a cypress,” he said once, while Harrison sketched the fake rhododendron perched on Jeremiah’s nightstand. He crouched lower over his sketchbook, fingers blackened by a slim rod of charcoal.

This is also from Scene D, ft. Harrison being an Artiste. Screaming at the last line:

Jeremiah quirked a brow, his smile dopey like his glazed eyes, but didn’t move. He could’ve been one of those tawny art mannequins, flat-faced, poseable. But he was so much more than that. As Harrison approached him, setting his sooty hands on his chin, shifting it slightly to the left, pushing his ring finger slightly up so it eclipsed the koi’s eye, his silver signet ring pinging a circle of light onto the opposite wall, Harrison understood Jeremiah wasn’t just a model. More than a man, yes, but not a god either—the creator’s creator, maybe, or perhaps a private natural wonder meant only for this room. Or maybe he was just beautiful, and that was enough too.

Harrison continues to reflect about God (also CW: blasphemy!!!):

In the pool, he doesn’t look at the moon because how cliché would that be? So what if it’s a wide bend in the sky like the parenthesis of cantaloupe his mother ate for breakfast this morning? So what if it looks also like a good bite in a wrist, molars and all? He’s not in this pool to be poetic. He doesn’t care about godly creations, miracles, divine epiphanies. Sure, God said let there be light, but why should Harrison give a fuck? He’s not a romantic. He’s not a dreamer. Not anymore.

This is the entirety of Scene F, which is a direct continuation from the above. I love how the "dreaming" element is immediately brought over.

There’s this one dream though. It hovers over him nightly, a thorny memory warmed by sun. He holds a face like a sculptor holds a brick of clay. This is a face he knows. A face he loves. Soft light dredges both their jaws, firm and ready to rear into the other’s, two animals feeding, or laughing, or breathing. Sometimes, the dreams add birdsong, sometimes a black cat named Beatrice who mews in the corner. Sometimes, the face’s hands become Harrison’s hands, and he searches for his own pinkie to find someone else’s. They don’t need to touch more than this. Even as the sun hazes the room gold, looking is more than enough. Are there mirrors in his eyes? Harrison isn’t always certain. Is he a mirage? He could be—a chromized distant object. He’s a masterpiece in some moments, a man growing into soapstone, buffed marble. Sometimes he’s haloed like Jesus in citrine stained-glass portraits. A saviour, mid-ascension, a shadow of flesh. But sometimes he’s just there, wide-eyed, a simple body. In those cases, Harrison wakes up screaming.

This is from the beginning of Scene G:

Sure, he is a floaty man in this pool, his clothes bloomed around him. He could be petals of blood dispersing in open water, or the unspooling ribbon on a Maypole. His cigarette has burned down nearly to his knuckle, smoke chalk white and feathery like cirrus clouds.

Just going to leave this extremely Lonancore excerpt here:

And then a voice. At first he thinks it might be Lonan’s. One of the last things he’d said: How long will you be gone? Gone. How easily Harrison had stood in that apartment, aware of what he’d do just like he was aware of the mouth Lonan had touched the night before, the palms Lonan had imprinted with his own like Eucharist imprints a tongue before being swallowed.

(????? bruh ???)

This paragraph continues the previous:

And then he’s gasping on water, and there’s the voice again, and it’s not a friable whisper but a shout. “Who the hell are you?” it’s saying over and over again, a godless prayer, except scratch that—when God speaks, he does it with violence.

And the end of Scene G:

Harrison is dragged out of the water by the realtor like he’s a plastic bobber attached to the end of a hook. His cigarette butt smolders in his hand, curlicues of white trimming the tarry night. On the concrete pool deck, he coughs water, the world spitting around him like a skipping VHS. His soaked hair drips into his eyes, down his mouth, half his weight bent on his wrist, his waterlogged jacket heavy like a body on his shoulders.

The man’s got a bony hand hooked around his collar and hides his struggle to let go with more shouting, something about grabbing a home phone, about police, about changing the locks. Really, Harrison should care more, but he’s focused on the man’s drawn face. He looks different than he does in his signs around the neighbourhood, his thin mouth clefted, his hair mousy without its Dippity Do shell. Did his wife fall in love with him, or the glossy image in the ads?

The man is trying to yank him up by the arm, manages to get halfway before Harrison says, “You’re the guy in the ads,” his voice hoarse as he wipes a hand over his slack mouth. And this must be surprising to him because the man immediately loses his grip. Harrison could ask him about that—why expect not to be noticed if your face is everywhere?

“What did you say?” asks the man. What’s his name? Something generic, but with an edge. Trevor Slade. Sean Horton. Brody Spencer. A gingery light pulses behind his head—a lamppost from the street. Harrison pants like one of the woman’s dogs. If he were a dog breed, which one would he be? Mastiff, German shepherd, golden retriever? He’s about to ask when the woman speaks first.

She’s got that same rainy look in her eye from before, a pointed pity that’s soft at the edges like highlight bloom. “Do you want to come inside for some tea?”

In Scene F, Harrison dangerously flirts with the idea of being punched in the face:

“I like your place,” Harrison says, pinching the ceramic kitten that sits on the coffee table. This isn’t a lie unlike everything else he’s told them—his name is Harold Fraser, and the number Sadie dialed into their home phone is his personal assistant’s, not his mother’s. In here, the walls are tangelo orange, each entryway arched instead of severely right-angled. Suz would like the warm wood, the army of rubbery philodendrons on the windowsills. Harrison cranes his finger up the kitten’s paw, as if shaking its hand. Across its domed belly, translucent letters: JESUS IS STILL THE ANSWER.

“Don’t break that,” says the man, whose name is actually Nash Baker.

Harrison quirks a brow, his mouth twitchy. In five minutes, he’ll need another cigarette. “Family heirloom?”

“Do you take any sugar?” asks Sadie, perhaps at the right time because Nash Baker’s fist is agitating like a fighter fish’s tail through water. Harrison wouldn’t blame him if he did punch him in the face—to be frank, that would be the most interesting thing to happen to him all week.

Harrison relates to Sadie's apparent feelings of being trapped in a picturesque life:

Sadie walks dogs, sure, but what else does she do? A beaded tapestry of a blue heron hangs in the foyer—did she make it? The bird’s eye is onyx black, something unfurling there—maybe the urge to spear a minnow, maybe just deadness. If Sadie didn’t make it, what did she do in this house? Nearly everything is handmade but certainly purchased—the pottered mugs shaped like seasonal fruit that she vigorously plops teabags into, the rust Chobi rug that snags under Harrison’s socks, the ringed vases fluted with dead baby’s breath. How does she know life in this catalogue home? Besides the numbing daily walks with dogs, the repetitive brushings. She’s as fucked as he is, isn’t she? Trapped in this living picture.

And finally, another mildly blasphemous excerpt! We return to the "easy" metaphor from above.

Tomorrow, Harrison will again wake up in Suz’s easy apartment, eat her easy turkey bacon, drink an easy cup of dark roast. He’ll do this for the rest of his life, probably. For Yours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever, amen. Harrison’s got no kingdom. The best he can do is steal Jeremiah’s cigarettes, float in an aquamarine pool that doesn’t belong to him any more than Lonan’s aquamarine eyes ever belonged to him. He’s got no more power than a dead car battery, no glory. That’s right. Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever amen.

Harrison, basically:

And that's it! Chapter two is going to contain the trigger into destruction territory, so look out for update #2!

Rachel

#writeblr #writerblr #amwriting #writing #writing updates #writingupdates #bodyback #actually writing this was fun LOL #seeing all the writing in one place....... like wow this is amazing #if i leave a writing update with a god complex...#i have won #question for the masses: if u had an opportunity to punch harrison in the face #WOULD YOU #he wants you to say yes <3

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sapphicmoonlightlilith · 4 months

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chroniclesverse hades hadestown my absolute dearest most beloved skrunkly. hes a father of six. hes been a present father to three and a half at best. he may be the worlds most autistic man. he's deeply catholic, a hard-line man of science, and a greek god all at once. he runs hell. he's best friends with a witch. he's trans coded. he's probably bisexual. i unconsciously refer to him as a lesbian regularly. he needs reading glasses. his father is the personification of time. he has religious trauma crowley goodomens would go "yikes!" about. he's been around longer than organized religion. he's been around longer than HUMANS. he's in his late 50s. he's so painfully oblivious to flirting that he spent a whole six months hanging out with minthe thinking she was just being friendly with him. he knits. he's a chemistry guy. he's a mad scientist at heart. he's the worlds sweetest man. he's roughly 7 feet tall. he falls apart like a takeout napkin in a thunderstorm at the sight of his wife. he's a king. he loves paperwork because he's been stockholm syndromed into loving it. he would cry if you played mitski for him. he broke the cycle. he is the cycle. he is a warrior. he is at heart a gentle and pacifistic man. he shares more in common with hestia than any of his other siblings. he may as well be hera's twin brother. he looks just like his dad but with love in his eyes. he can't help but take care of those around him. he can and does cook but struggles to when hes depressed. he can't trust his employees to hold things together for long enough to go on a proper vacation. he accidentally beat up his son once. at one point he almost got divorced. hes a parallel for the biblical lucifer. i love him.

#chronicles tag #hadestown tag #lilith.txt #do i dare tag this as hadestown #hadestown au #chronicles of a lost prince #(thats my fic go check it out)#hadestown #hades hadestown

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songsofbloodandwater · 3 months

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🌞 🎭 🥂 🎉 ⭐️ for the ask game!

Hello!

🌞 - Which deity(ies) are you closest to/do you worship the most often?

Right now, that would be The Blue Queen, Stella Maris, and The Wild King, the Akephalos. La Dolorosa deserves a special mention because even though She only makes Her appearances here and there, and I wouldn't say I work with Her as often these days, Her touch is always weighty and decisive. The Blue Queen has been my guide ever since I can remember and She's the one I turn to for most things, while the Wild King has been a constant presence over my work and craft these past few months, quickly but firmly taking root in my life.

🎭 - What is an emotionally impactful or a silly worship-related experience you've had?

I don't think my experiences with Spirits are something most people would consider 'worship' proper. Ancestral veneration is the closest thing I have to worship in my personal practice. I don't really 'worship' Ancestors or Deities. I commune, from a sense of filial relation, which I personally don't think is the same as worship. I guess whether the difference exists or not, and how we use these terms, is up to each person.

The way that I 'worship' or rather, venerate Deities and Ancestors is through invocation. Inviting Them to my house, to my table, and to my body. Each experience is emotionally impactful to me, because in each they share with me a piece of Them, and viceversa. Each God or Ancestor has their own ways, experiences, and teachings, but each is important. It's not exactly putting yourself in Their shoes, as I wouldn't dare pretend to know a drop of what they know, or to have lived a second compared to what Their times entail. It's more about finding ways to let them live through you, act through you, speak with you, feel with you. You can learn a lot by simply listening, with all your senses, and the bond you create with your Ancestors and Deities is unparalleled.

But I do have to admit, there's nothing quite like meeting a loved one on the Otherside for the first time.

🥂 - What is your favorite devotional act or offering to give?

Probably prayer. It's not exactly what I do most often (that would be quick simple things like pouring a cup of coffee for Them while I'm making my own) but it's the kind of offering that makes me feel closest in alignment to my Deities.

🎉 - Do you celebrate any festivals? If so, which ones?

I observe the Solstices and Equinoxes, as most do, but following my family's indigenous traditions aswell as incorporating what I've learnt in the Land I live in, from it's own keepers. I also observe some catholic feast days that are significant to my Spirits, and to my living relatives.

⭐ - What is something you wish people outside your practice knew more about?

ROCKS. Dirt, yes, but more specifically rocks. You often hear people mention the many uses of dirt (depending on where and how it's collected, what it contains, and more) but when we're talking about rocks, the conversation feels painfully oversimplified. Most people seem to turn to either the modern "correspondence lists" for crystals and the like (it's own can of worms), or it's anthropological - historical (barely any better, in my opinion) sibling "folkloric attested uses". The latter at least tends to give the reader some context to be able to understand Them better, but it's still incomplete. In fact, most of the time what I see flying around is deeply, painfully, uprooted and taken out of context, and thus stripped of all sense.

It's interesting to see so many witches who call themselves animists yet don't really take into account mineral spirits, as... their own thing. On their own right. Not just "haunted dirts" and "ensouled stones" or Spirits of the Dead inhabiting the Land, I'm talking the actual Spirits of the rocks themselves. Of mineral formations. Of Mountains. Of entire continents. It's something I rarely see acknowledged. I think it probably has something to do with how, to most people, rocks being alive is unthinkable. To me, it's just about what we consider "alive" to mean and which time (and space) frames we use. To me, they are very much alive, and rightful, powerful allies.

Thank you for asking!

#asks #ask game #ask games #my notes

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