#GOD i love magmatic

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Bound Dove - An Aemond Targaryen/Reader Smut Short.

Bit of Dom!Aemond, besties? Ya got it!

Words - 985

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

“My little dove,” he speaks, the quiet rumble of his voice making the soft hairs all over your body stand on end. “How pretty you look, bare but your bindings.” 

Shifting against your restraint, the many intricately tied knots in the rope which binds your arms behind your back, you nod, the gag of a silk scarf preventing speech.   

“Over here, wife. Stand before me.” He commands, his eye focusing on you, the sapphire within the socket where his other was lost twinkling like a lone star in a vast, barren sky. He reaches for you, trailing his index finger from between your breasts, toying with you a little, circling your navel but moving no lower.  

You whimper, your frustration igniting a soft chuckle in his throat, his eye taking in the deeply erotic sight of your longing for him glossing your upper thighs, the scent of your arousal making his desire spark.

“Oh, how you desire it, don’t you, my insatiable little dove?” 

He takes his rigid cock, giving it a few pumps with a strong grip, a grip you wish was yours, staring you in the eyes as he does it. He curls his finger, your gaze snapping from the sight of him pleasuring himself with his other hand, leaning toward him.  

Reaching behind your head, he unties the scarf, the silk fluttering down to the stone floor below. “Speak.” 

“Yes, husband. I want your cock, I desire nothing more than to sink down upon it, or at the very least for you to touch me, sate me with your hands, my love. Please. I’m begging you, Aemond.” 

His eyebrow arches, lifting his head. “A little keen, are we, sweet wife?” His gaze falls down to his thigh with a small nod. “Seat yourself.”  

“For you, always.” you purr, sitting astride his thigh. The heat of his smooth skin against your bare sex is torture, longing for him to sate you with fingers, or perhaps his skilled mouth, have his tongue lick at your bud and satisfy your burning need. He is not forthcoming with any gratification, though.  

Nay. He’s talked you into this state, his commands making your cunt become slick with anticipation, and now, it would seem, it is your problem to deal with.   

“If you seek gratification so fervidly, then you shall have to pursue it yourself.” 

You whine indignantly, Aemond giving you a little slap on the cheek in correction. 

“Do not give me petulance, little dove.”   

“I apologise.” 

“Good girl. Now, as I was saying. If you desire to be fulfilled, it is upon you to achieve. It is my thigh, or nothing.” 

“May I, husband?” 

His eye twinkles at you like a smoky amethyst bathed in fire, the control he has over you making the dark pink skin of his cock flush, his chest rippling a little with a shuddered breath. It’s killing him too, not to pull your thighs wider and guide his cock into the streaming mess of your cunt. He understands it, though, the power he wields, how the dark yet sweet lust of his torture will make the finale so much more gratifying.  

As ever, Aemond has you exactly where you need to be. 

“You may, my love.” 

Tightening your thighs around his, you begin to gyrate, the warm blade of slender, solid muscle giving your bundle all the friction it needs to begin glimmering, tingling as you grind, your mouth falling open on a shaky gasp. It feels magmatic, the soft, pale silver hairs adding to your stimulation, your entire body host to a winding tempest of delight.   

You leave him slick, the unashamed gush from your cunt soaking him as your hips purl, staring at him, Aemond grasping your jaw and stealing smoking, messy kisses from your mouth. 

“You needed that didn’t you, little dove?” 

“Yes, oh gods be good!” you hiss with a breathy gasp, moving faster against him, riding him keenly. Your avid grinding has your ascension sparking wildly, euphoria whirling quickly, all that pent-up arousal finally able to release.   

And it does, soaking him as you cry out, Aemond clutching your waist to steady you as you come all over his thigh, his hands sliding to your back and pulling you closer, honey-soaked kisses peppering your throat. 

“Stand,” he commands, still gripping you, your legs shaky. Moving one hand, he returns it to his hardness, his gaze dropping to it, looking back up with a smug curl of his pout. “Now seat yourself back down upon this. I know how much you have ached for my cock.”

Sinking down on every last hot, hard inch of his manhood, you feel ecstasy fizzing to your marrow at finally being joined with him. Rocking against him steadily, his cock hits your depths, sparks skittering deep in the clutch of your sex.  

He groans, raising himself against every one of your downward movements, hand entwining in your hair and gently pulling until you arch elegantly for him, your body bending like a bow. What begins as sinfully slow, steeped in lazy heat, soon begins to quicken, your pleasure winding tight as he grips your waist and bounces you on his cock with rapid snaps of his hips.  

“Yes, little dove,” he pants, mouth closing in a warm, wet suck upon your nipple. “Come apart for me.”  

It surges, like a shooting star streaking across the darkness of a vast sky, your body alight with bliss as he groans deeply, filling you with hot ropes of his spend. Your walls are still fluttering around him as he unfastens your bindings, fingers rubbing against the rope sore marks left behind, kissing you softly. 

“You took that very, very well, little dove.”  

Leaning back, you reach for the rope that had you tied, raising an eyebrow. “Your turn next?” 

His face breaks into a wide grin. “Hmm. I thought you would never ask.” 

A/N - Feedback is free. If you enjoyed it, please reward your author with a reblog and/or a comment :)

[funishment-time]

🔵 Kodaka BlueSky Q&As: Rain Code Characters (All)

⚠️ DISCLAIMER: Please be advised! Translations of all Japanese answers derive from a combination of Google Translate and my manager's three-quarters-remembered Japanese. We've tried our best to work out what he's saying, but there will be mistakes here and there. Do not take this as gospel!

To avoid spreading too much misinfo, where we're completely boggled about an answer, we've decided not to even make an attempt. We'll still list the post, but mark it accordingly.

➡️ AN IMPORTANT NOTE FROM KODAKA BEFORE READING:

First of all, the questions answered here are not official. Everything that is official is what is said within the work. In contrast, this is simply what Kodaka, the creator, thinks, and it is not the correct answer. Use this as a starting point to enjoy the depth of each character, or to say, "That's not right!" and enjoy it with your own interpretation. I think of this as a way of communicating with the characters who live in fiction. This is important, so please spread the word.

💕 FEBRUARY 2024:

Q: I love shinigami chan. Please make games forever!

A: YES

/////

Q: What happened to everyone at Amaterasu Company after the main story?

A: Yomi [Hellsmile] is growing magmatically angry with the opportunity to revolt while imprisoned…!

/////

Q: Why does Vivia wear such stringy underwear? Does he untie it every time he takes a bath or something?

A: I feel like he just goes in like that.

/////

Q: Was Vivia's umbrella tattoo done in Kanai? I was curious because that was the only tattoo related to rain.

A: I think he likes the gloomy rain. I'm sure he doesn't think Kanai Ward is so bad.

/////

Q: The pattern on Director Yakou's uniform is really cool, is there a reason for that?

A: I leave that up to Komatsuzaki-kun, but being a detective is, after all, a job in the underworld, so I think it's better to have that sort of shady side to it.

NOTE: Komatsuzaki is the guy behind Danganronpa and Rain Code's art.

/////

Q: [the question has since been deleted, but I remember it was about the ages of Master Detectives in Rain Code]

A: It varies quite a bit, but let me just say that most are in their 20s to late 30s. By the way, I'm 45. Oh, you didn't hear that.

/////

Q: How much does the director smoke in a day? That ashtray is disgusting.

A: That's probably three packs a day. I smoke half a pack a day. Oh, you didn't hear that.

NOTE: This is about Chief Yakou.

/////

Q: I would like to hear about your impressions of the masked man, and what you were conscious of when writing. I will continue to support your work��️

A: He's nonchalant, talks about himself without listening to what the other person has to say, but seems intelligent. That's the impression I get.

NOTE: This is about Rain Code's Makoto.

/////

Q: Kodaka-san!! Thank you for your wonderful works as always ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎⊹ Amaterasu is exactly my type of organization (especially the head of security...!) Even if it's not a sub-story, I'd like to know if you have any small details that haven't been made public 🙏🏻💞

A: Thank you! Of all the Amaterasu characters, Komatsuzaki-kun was most enthusiastic about the robot researcher.

NOTE: We're pretty sure this is about either the character known as "Akira." The one weird about the Ama-pals.

/////

Q: A question about Rain Code: Are there plans to release a book that delves deeper into the backstories of the people who appeared in Chapter 0?

A: If there's a demand, I'd like to see a spin-off novel or something...

/////

Q: Excuse me for asking a question about Yuma, the main character of Raincode! What type of woman does Yuma like?

A: I wonder...! I think he's a pushover. lol

/////

Q: The names of the characters in Rain Code are sprinkled with elements of Japanese mythology, but is there any inspiration or backstory for this? Is there a reason why you named Makoto after the god of fire?

A: It all started with me wanting to incorporate a Japanese flavour.

/////

Q: Rain Code was really fun! I wonder if there will be an "if" story where the five train detectives (all real) arrive in Kanai Ward!? I'm ready to buy all the DLC and whatever else it takes👍

A: I would love to depict stories of their success. It would add more depth to Chapter 0.

/////

Q: Are there any characters who are certain that Halara's gender is this or that?

A: I don't think anyone can ask. Even if they did, Halara would probably think there's no point in answering. They might tell someone they like...

/////

Q: Mr. Kodaka, what is your impression of Director Yakou of Rain Code?

A: He's caring but also lazy, sloppy but cool... I think he's a very human detective.

/////

Q: Is Vivia's name a reference to the movie "Ghosts of the Sierra de Cobre"? Are there any other works that the names of the other characters are also based on?

A: I'm ashamed to say that I hadn't heard of that movie. The characters in Rain Code were named with an emphasis on giving them a stateless feel, and on the sound of the name.

/////

Q: Was there a deciding factor in casting Uchida Yuuma for the role of Seth?

A: I basically leave the casting up to the sound company. They did a very good job.

/////

Q: I'm sure Desuhiko has picked up as many women as there are stars in the sky, but does he actually have much experience in love?

A: Although he is not unpopular, he is most likely rejected quickly.

🍀 MARCH 2024:

Q: I'd like to know the ages of the Resistance members (even a rough estimate is fine if you haven't thought about it)! Since Iruka is planning to receive a birthday present from her parents, is she the youngest member?

A: Judging from his voice, Shachi sounds like he's 52 years old.

/////

Q: Excuse me. Who is most given chocolates on valentine day in raincode ?

A: Maybe, Vivia.

/////

Q: Why did Shinigami-chan give Halara-san the nickname "Hellara"?

A: I wanted Halara to be so stoic it drew Shinigami's attention.

/////

Q: There may not be sushi in Kanai Ward, but I'd like to know what your favorite sushi toppings are, folks at the detective agency.

A: Desuhiko likes sea urchins, Yakou likes mackerel, Vivia doesn't feel like eating, Halara likes maki rolls, and Fubuki tries to save the fish with time reversal.

/////

Q: [The question has since been deleted, but I believe it was about Seth's childhood.]

A: His childhood must have been similar to that of Jataro [Kemuri]...

/////

Q: I would like to hear about Martina's "calculation" of Yomi, which came up in a previous Rain Code interview. Did you have any stories in mind, Mr. Kodaka?

A: She thought she could use Yomi's favor to advance her own career.

/////

Q: I'd like to know the name of the Amaterasu Researcher who appears in Director Yakou's DLC!

A: His wife? It's a secret! I only tell people when I'm drunk, so... nope. (said cutely)

/////

Q: I'm guessing the age order of the train detectives is Zange > Melami > Zilch > Aphex > Pucci, is that correct?

A: There are various theories about the location of Melami [in that order].

🥬 APRIL 2024:

Q: Do special abilities have a genetic component? (e.g., Vivia's family is more likely to see spirits)

A: Sometimes it is and sometimes it is not. It is said that the Clockford family will rarely produce a child like this due to genetics.

/////

Q: Sorry if this has already been mentioned❗️ Harara Nightmare's gender is unknown, but do they ever wear feminine clothes like skirts as fashion?

A: "No. I only wear clothes that are easy to move in."

/////

Q: Halara is often depicted holding a lollipop, but do they have a favorite flavor?

A: Anything as long as it's sweet. It's to get the sugar needed for that person's brain.

/////

Q: I played Raincode to the end ☔️ I love the masked man...! I'd be happy if you could tell me anything about him.

A: "I made the masks myself. I made them suspicious on purpose to scare people away."

NOTE: This is about Rain Code's Makoto again.

/////

Q: A question! I'm curious about what method the Raincode super detectives used to get into Kanai Ward! What other routes could they have taken besides the Amaterasu Express!? I'd be happy if you could tell me who got there and how!

A: I'm saving [this info] so I can make a special edition someday! lol

/////

Q: who would you choose to solve a mystery and why? kirigiri, saihara or halara?

A: It would be great if the three of them performed together!

🌺 MAY 2024:

Q: What do you think about animals other than dogs and cats, Halara?

A: "More precious than humans."

/////

Q: Can Chief Yakou cook?

A: "I can make lazy meals."

☀️ JUNE 2024:

n/a

🎇 JULY 2024:

n/a

🌭 AUG 2024:

Q: I want to know how Yomi Hellsmile is doing after the main story of Raincode. Also, how is Seth Burroughs doing?

A: In his luxurious cell, his desire for revenge boils.

🍁 SEPT 2024:

Q: Is there any reason why the masked man in Rain Code has one eye?

A: Apparently he chose the most suspicious mask possible, so that no one would like him.

NOTE: This is about Rain Code's Makoto once more.

🎃 OCT 2024:

Q: Even though Fubuki is a rich girl, why does she have a chin piercing...? Did she get it on her own or was it recommended to her by those around her?

A: “I was born and raised in a place with that kind of culture.”

/////

Q: Excuse me for asking a question! If you were to rank everyone at the Night Detective Agency in order of ←big eater, small eater→, what order would they be?

A: It's confirmed that Fubuki eats the most and Vivia eats the least.

/////

Q: How did Halara, Fubuki, Desuhiko, and Vivia reach Kanai Ward without getting caught or killed like the Master Detectives on the Amaterasu Express? How did they evade the Peacekeepers?

A: Each of these episodes would make a long and thrilling story that could be made into a movie.

🦃 NOV 2024:

n/a

🎄 DEC 2024:

Q: Is Dominic Fultank based on Adam Smasher from Cyberpunk 2077? Seeing as they're both scarred veterans?

A: It is similar, but unrelated, as it was already designed before the launch [of Cyberpunk].

/////

Q: How did Makoto fake and fabricate the WDO HQ bombing?

A: He created the video in CG.

/////

Q: What is the name of the woman, childhood friend, and Amaterasu Researcher Yakou wed? And how did she die? All we know thus far is that she was killed 4 years ago, and Dr Huesca was involved, but how exactly? I also noticed Yakou went on to wear her glasses. Does he miss and love her that deeply? 💙💜

A: Yes, he [does]. His glasses belong to his loving wife.

[lazodiac]

It's time once again to ramble incoherently about magic cards. Lets try and divine where each of the cards of Outlaws of Thunder Junction are from, why don't we!

You can find the first two parts here and here! And today we're covering...

BLACK

Starting us off with a native to Thunder Junction. God this critter is spooky looking. Love it though!

Aaah, the Hellspurs. I'll get more into them once we meet our first creature Hellspur, but for now just accept that this magmatic thread of doom is native to Thunder Junction.

Another native creature of Thunder Junction! Vultures are important and regal birds and shouldn't be so villainized, I think... but I can't deny they do sometimes look this nasty.

While we've seen a number of vampires in magic practice ye ol' Sanguimancy, the plane most often shown to do this (and the plane most likely to pop their collars THIS ridiculously) is Innistrad.

As mentioned with ghosts in the Blue cards, dead and revived means you're bound to the plane- zombies are native to Thunder Junction, regardless of where they're from previously.

Sweet lord kill it with fire! This abomination is from Thunder Junction and if it's not I never wanna see where it's from. Snorses are wonderful an idea but god they look comfortable.

Gonna say something controversial about this one- the way the lady is posing, her culty robe, and the predominance of ash in her fire, makes me think this is a deep-cut to Azgol, last seen in MOM. It's got similar vibes to various Hellspur aesthetic stuff, but the woman is clearly just too alive to be one of them- more on that later.

Okay this is probably the best place to bring this up. Hellspurs! One of the criminal factions of Thunder Junction. Lawbreakers, murderers, and thieves to a man. Each follows the brutal scorpion-dragon outlaw Akul, and almost every single one of them is mutated beyond all belief by the Chaotic Thunder of the plane.

As a result, much like with zombies and ghosts, these guys have fully stripped away all of their previous life in exchange for lava hands and shit. So, there's gonna be a lot of folk who are native to Thunder Junction purely by this metric, and it'll skew things a little. This is why I'm counting the numbers by colour, since the Hellspurs are predominantly red and black.

A natural (and very spooky!) magical mirage of death. I love this art.

See? This is what happens when you don't "lower" yourself to feeding on animals. You end up shoving your stupid ass face into a cactus. This is a Ravnican vampire, since we've seen before they're often stupid enough to pull this exact trick.

*Dry bones falling apart noises* Tinybones' funny trick and/or prank! This is from Dominaria since that wonderful friend is from Dominaria too.

Raised on the plane, native to the plane. This skeleton owns by the way, this is a good ass skeleton.

Gisa Cecani is, much like her brother, one of my favorite characters in Magic. She's Innistradi born and raised, and seems to fit in like a glove on this plane.

Really unsettling art on this one! Ghost, so native to Thunder Junction... though we can actually, likely, identify the body here; four arms suggests a Mirran Vedalkan. Neat!

Our first actual look at the main antagonist of the set (for as much as that means in a villain focused set). Akul, the Scorpion Dragon of Gastal- a fact revealed right before I started doing this!

Kaervek! The Merciless! The Conqueror! The "too big a deal to be dealing with this shit", imo. Everyone's upset at Marchesa being here but Kaervek is the one that bugs me the most- this man is a country-conqueror, not a petty crook!... but, it's fine, because it's clear in the story Kaervek is insulted Oko's recruited him for such trivialities.

Anyway, he's from Zhalfir. I hope he gets to kill Oko.

Swing your partner round and round, rip their corpus from the ground! Gisa doing a barn-raising in the most literal sense, a uniquely Innistradi way of waking up the dead, with a Thunder Junction flavor.

A hellspur bursting his way out of a shallow grave- oak box included. Funny, and native to the plane.

No real way of figuring out where this guy is from or his gaseous death-cloud... so I'll say Eldraine, based purely on the fact that it's the plane most likely to have such a simple burst of "sleeping" poison.

An easy one! He may be a rat man but he's called out as a Nezumi and that's a Kamigawan thing.

There are a couple places this delightful fellow could be from... but given the pickpocketting and the general demeanor, he's from New Capenna.

Azul, laying a horrific waste to his "friends" to benefit. The scorpion claws being a vent for his breath weapon is exceptional a design, incidentally.

A ridiculous piece of art for many reasons, this one is native to Thunder Junction purely by the fact that this is where the gang was born.

The reason why this is ridiculous is because every single height here is wrong. Vraska is taller than basically everyone to the left of her. Oko is using magic to make himself look taller that's literally canon so that's fine, but Kellan? Annie? One's a baby (described as small for his age) and one's a grandma. Tinybones is also probably far too big. The only person here who is the right height is Rakdos, whose height is "whatever height he wishes to be he can change shape depending on how excited he is". Wild shit.

The only plane with actual snakes-for-hair gorgons is Theros, and even then only half of the time. So this lady is from there. Fitting too, apothecaries making booze and poison is within Pharika's perview absolutely.

As fun as it would be to say this is a raven from Dominaria, implying the presence of Omenpaths are allowing the (currently suppressed and trying to fight his way out of Lili) Raven Man is doing some work, naw. This is just a normal raven.

An all-natural undead member of the Hellspurs, double erasing his identity. God dangit.

This being an ASSASSIN vampire suggests New Capenna. It's kind of their jam, you know?

Gisa showing she is more impulsive than a monkey-goblin obsessed with explosives is why this story spotlight (that isn't given a story spotlight tag) is happening. Innistradi magic running wild and giving us a real Train to Busan energy.

A later card explains that the demons that are natural to the plane grant gifts like this, so this scorpions and their soon to be scorpionman friend are native to the plane.

Fun fact; scorpions do just glow like this. Bio Luminescence is fun!

Jana has the exact same vibe (and the same demon-snake familiar) as Elnor from Yuma's story, so I'm calling it for New Capenna here. Also, funny flavor text AND reminder text. Fantastic work.

And that's it for part 1. Tune in momentarily for part 2 of Black!

[ularkanojo]

SP Fallen God Orochi S-jade Skin 'Finality Incarnate' Bio

The Sun Goddess defined good and evil in her laws, and locked desires away with her so-called love. Yet both evil and desire came from her, from that hypocritical light. What the light feared is what interested me. Even when I was plunged into that dark Rift, void of light, I vowed that one day I would cover the world with the Goddess’ flowers of sin, initiating judgment on the world.

With the help of the God of Lies, I returned to the high heavens of the past. Finally, after countless attempts within endless possibilities, I became the God-Emperor of the new world created from the ashes of that dark, yet beautiful old world. The gods had fallen and the walls had collapsed. I freed everyone from the shackles of love. As I had expected, they shed their disguise and started killing each other for their desires until they had all been assimilated into true evil. But as the benevolent God-Emperor, I didn’t allow them to have regrets. I sat on the throne of the Adjudicator in the very center of the Scales; walls and seats rose up to form the Trial Ground.

“Today, I will pass verdict on everyone using my own divinity to rule, instead of Yata Mirror. I will show the old gods and the world the sins they have committed!”

“Lambs of the gods, you were born on your knees to pray for peace from birth. The gods bestowed blessings upon you, only to make you weak, ignorant, and shackled to your pitiful existence. They claimed this would prevent you from committing evil deeds, and thus keep the world in peace. What the gods didn’t tell you was that sins are born out of weakness, and committed out of ignorance. The shackles were forged for the sinners.”

The first star crashed into the land. Magma spewed out of the ground, creating a sea of fire which burned the grass and trees to ashes. Then, with a gust of wind, the wildfire was pushed further, scorching meadows and forests into the distance.

“With the fall of the old gods, a new Adjudicator came into the world. Thanks to his discerning eyes, no sins could escape. But when he laid his eyes on the world, he saw a place filled with crime, and everyone a sinner. And so, he ascended to his throne and passed his verdict on the world, `Guilty!`”

The burning star crashed into the sea. Burning mountain peaks fell into the sea, and the water boiled causing a steamy mist to rise up. Ships drifted helplessly into turbulent currents then swallowed by huge waves. After the waves had passed, the boiling sea water turned red as hundreds of boiled wrecks emerged from the water; the ocean looked like a graveyard stretching into the horizon.

“`Please forgive me! It was never my intention to commit any crime,` The lambs pleaded.”

The third star struck towards the part of the world where it was night. As it fell, it brought with it a meteor shower, turning the night into day. The meteors burned and disintegrated along its trajectory, transforming into countless meteorite fragments which smashing into the earth like a torrential downpour. Mountains collapsed and rivers were cut off, villages were obliterated in the blinding flare, and forests were consumed by a sea of flames. Magmatic tides surged forwards, engulfing everything in their path.

“`Please correct the unfairness. It was not our intention to wear these shackles.` The lambs pleaded with the Adjudicator.”

The fourth star struck towards the part of the world in daylight. White clouds dissipated then were refused into burning red clouds. Magnificent buildings and towering trees were split in two. Any living being still hiding quickly fled as a chasm appeared in the ground which started to consume all.

“The Lambs lamented, `My body burns in eternal torment, my soul wanders in an endless labyrinth.`”

The fifth star fell towards point in the sky where day and night met, breaking the divide between light and shadow, yin and yang. Darkness consumed the sun, and daylight consumed the stars. The sky was turned into a messy palette where light and shadow intermingled, trying to corrupt each other. Before long, all light was lost; the day ceased to be bright and the night sky lost the glimmer of the stars. Complete darkness shrouded the world where only the echoes of the people’s wailing could be heard.

“`Please give the first light of the world back to this infinite darkness. Please show pity for the hopeless land one last time. Please begin the end and purge the sins. Please grant me a peaceful rest before the new world comes.` The sinners pleaded.”

Aether poured from the crack and engulfed the stars and the world like a dark wave.

I was sure that this was the end of the world, but then I found some humas huddled in dark caves. Some of them still clung to the beliefs of the old gods, and it intrigued me. So I sent the Evil Gods to stir up their desires, and waited for them to show despair when their beliefs collapsed. But no matter how much torture they underwent, those fragile mortals still refused to give in.

When I came back to my senses, I was once again under the cherry tree; unlike before, the surroundings were so silent that it was as if time had stopped. I ended the age of the old gods, salvaged everything from the injustice it had suffered, and liberated everything from bondage. Then a cherry blossom petal fell into my hand.

“The falling cherry blossoms that fade after blooming are so fragile, yet so glorious. The same goes for you, who have remained unchanged for thousands of years.”

[skyistheground]

[sentient78]

VERSE EMOJI MAGMATIC LET'S GO

VERSES DRABBLES

"The chamber's all sealed up, sir." Voices are muffled through thick walls of steel, though from the sounds of raspy trilling, it's easy to tell that's some crocodile.

"Then cast the spell," a gruff pig's voice says. "Set a time for five."

Footsteps walk away. A trapdoor hinges open.

WX watches little blue, glowing particles drift down from the opening. The bot usually sits in the upper left corner of this room, for no other reason then it’s habit. As the particles hit the ground, blue blooms magically sprout from the ground. The bot can feel their effects immediately-- puffs of pollen seal tears in their chassis and smooth over dents and scratches. How it works is beyond the bot. It’s beyond anyone. The only thing these people know is that the bot seems completely unaffected by the pollen’s sleeping spell. Somehow, that same magic actually repairs them.

They don’t complain. Why should they? It’s free repair for their service of enacting bloodshed onto the lava stage. Besides, it’s a little relaxing for the usually high-strung bot. Their posture sinks a little, crunching into their fiery core as exhales of black smote leave through the vents in their head and shoulders. 

This room would be toxic to anyone else, WX thinks to themselves. Sleeping pollen combined with their smoke would lead to a sleep nobody could ever wake up from. At least WX doesn’t need to breathe.

They hold one of the blossoms in their hand. Their blue glow begins to fight with their fire-orange one, trying to show up against the petal. The bot tugs up, ripping that single blossom from its stem. Immediately, the flower wilts and ceases to glow. At least it’s still blue.

They crumble the petals in their hand then let it drop to the floor. It’s devoid of its magic now. How easy would it be, WX wonders, to stomp out a field like this?

They won’t get the answer to that. The flowers shrivel up into an ugly grey, slipping back into the rock solid ground from which they came.

Well, that’s done, but the bot knows they have to wait a bit longer before they’re retrieved. The Forge residents are wary of lingering pollen. Though WX usually can’t see any after the flowers die.

So they straighten themselves back up in their corner and wait. Wait. Wait.

[vanillasakura]

RDRSW21 Day 4: Clothes

Title: Breathe Our Vows While the Stars Chase the Clouds

Word Count: 1452

Pairing: Abigail/Reader

Notes/Warnings: NSFW, slight exhibitionism, domme Abigail

Title from A Wistful Waltz by Teddy Hyde

≿━━━━━━━━━━༺❀━━━━━━━━━━≾

Let me rest in your eyes, hide in your ears

Abigail always looked perfect. No matter what time of day, no matter what she wore, she was always gorgeous, a magmatic queen for the rest of the world to behold. You were convinced that you could keep your eyes locked onto her the entire day through and it still wouldn’t be enough, you’d still want to trace your eyes along her figure, studying the way her clothing accentuated her body and the softness of her skin that wasn’t covered. You were enamored, obsessed, and you would do anything to keep it this way. She was the most gorgeous woman you’d ever laid your eyes upon.

“Abi…” you whimpered, hiding your face in her chest, arms wrapped around her as you ground down on her thigh, both of your skirts hiked up and your bloomers discarded somewhere on the ground. The two of you were behind your tent, Abigail sitting on an old crate with you in her lap, her plaid jacket pulled tight around both of you so as to shield you from the cold night air. 

“Sh, you’re doing so good… so good…” she coaxed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“I need more… please, touch me…” you begged, still rutting against her. 

“I know, I know, but can you hold on just a little bit longer for me? I know you need me, but I just want to watch you for a while longer. Please, my darling?”

Your hands squeezed at her waist, encircling it and pulling her closer to you as you kept on riding her thigh. Abigail dropped one hand from around your back, touching your chin lightly and pulling it up to face her. You flushed red, embarrassed from the forced eye contact, but also couldn’t help taking in just how loving Abigail looked. Her eyes reflected the lamplight, her smile soft and loving as she smoothed her other hand over your back, running it back and forth over the openings of her jacket and the little bit of your shirt that stuck out in between them. 

“Mm, do you know how good you look right now, my darling? I can’t think of a better sight in the entire world.” Abigail whispered, and fuck she was so attractive you had to bite your lip to hold back a whimper. “I love watching you, so much, my darling, so, so much. My good girl, such a good girl.”

You felt your face flush, and you bit down on your lip to hold back a groan. “Abigail…”

“Could watch you like this for hours, just grinding down on my thigh, chasing your high again and again…” she paused, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “I’d love to do that, y’know?”

The fact that she still had your chin in her hand, eye contact unbroken was threatening to break you. “Oh God, Abigail…”

“I love you, by the way. Love you so much. So damn much it almost kills me sometimes…” Abigail tightened her grip on your back, and you kept grinding down, letting yourself drown in her. “You mean the world to me, you know? I have no clue what I’d do without you, my darling…”

“Abigail, my love, please, I’m…” you cut yourself off, not able to finish your sentence. The praise, the eye contact, the closeness, it was beginning to be too much.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you, my love. I always do.” Abigail cooed, slipping the hand off of your chin to between your legs, the hand on your back halting your movements as she began to rub at you, and relief swept through your entire body as you began to shake against her.

“So wet for me, such a good girl.” Abigail praised once more. Her hand may not be on your face anymore, but you still didn’t want to break eye contact with her. You’d never felt this physically close while you made love before, (you’d definitely have to try the jacket again in the future,) and not getting to see all of the adoration in her eyes would be like throwing the last piece of a puzzle into the Dakota River. It just wouldn’t be right. 

“Can feel you dripping down my thigh, by the way. How utterly soaked you are, how much you need me… do you have any idea what that does to me?” Abigail asked, running her finger around your clit in hard, fast circles. 

You weren’t sure whether to nod or shake your head, so you just sat there, rolling your hips against her fingers. When you didn’t respond, Abigail chuckled, taking her hand off of your back and grabbing one that held onto her waist, hiding it under her skirt and her bloomers. “How ‘bout you see, hm? See what you do to me.” Abigail’s gaze was full of lust, and when she guided your hand up against her completely soaked core, that was it. You threw your head against her chest as you started to come, vaguely conscious of her grabbing your chin and forcing you into a kiss as she helped you through your high, moaning into her mouth and letting the waves of pleasure carry you away. For a moment, you and her existed as one, and the rest of the universe around you faded into nothingness.

You slumped against her once you finished, squeezing your arm around her waist as she did the same to you, kissing the top of your head. Lazily, you began to rub at her in return, cherishing the sounds she made quietly.

“Love ya, Abigail…” you murmured into her chest, the soft cotton of her bloomers rubbing against the back of your hand while you pleasured her. “I love you so much…”

“That’s good, my angel, just like that… good girl.” Abigail moaned your name gently, letting her face fall into the crook of your neck as she tried to coax you inside of her. You obliged, sliping two fingers into her warm heat and dragging them along her walls, utterly adoring the sound that she made as you did so. 

“Come whenever you need to, okay?” You whispered into her ear.

 She laughed. “You really think you’re the one in charge here, my darling?”

“Hmm, I mean, I am the one giving you what you need, am I not?” you teased. “There isn’t anything stopping me from pulling away now, is there?”

Abigail laughed again, low and sultry. “Oh, but I know you, and I know that right now, you’re far too enamored with me to tease me.” She pulled her head up and kissed your cheek. “You can talk all you like, but I’ve got you right under my thumb, and you’ll give me whatever it is that I need.”

You clenched your jaw, not meeting her gaze, and not stopping your ministrations.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” 

“...You are.” 

Abigail moaned softly, pleased. “Just as I thought.” She kissed you again. “Fuck, you’re really good at this, my love.” 

“How good?” You couldn’t help but tease her just a bit more.

“Good enough to make me come.” Abigail responded, grinding herself down on your hand. “I’m getting close.”

“I love you, Abigail.” you told her, moving your hand faster at her words. “I love seeing you feel good.”

“I love when you make me... feel good. Fuck, my darling, just like that, keep going…” Abigail coaxed you along, and you kept fucking her, smiling as you heard her let out a choked cry and fall against your chest, arms gripping you close to her as she trembled.

You kissed her as she came down from her high, brushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear as she caught her breath. “God, you’re gorgeous, Abigail.” You told her again. “I’m so in love with you.”

“I love you too, my darling.” Abigail smiled, pushing you off of her lap and inviting you to take the space next to her instead. You obliged happily, resting your head on her shoulder as she wrapped her jacket around your two figures once more.

“Was that good?” you asked, hand finding hers and fingers interlacing,

“Of course it was, my darling. It was just what I needed.” Abigail assured you, putting her head on top of yours as she stroked the skin on your hand with her thumb. “You’re always just what I need.”

You smiled, closing your eyes and pulling the jacket tighter around you. Jack would probably need to go to bed soon, meaning you two would have to make your appearance at the campfire once more, but for now, you simply let yourselves bask in the afterglow of your lovemaking. Reality could wait a few more minutes.

[sasorikigai]

How does Grandmaster Hasashi feels about that thunder God? Does master think he's reliable or trustworthy? Despite deceiving his champions and omitting pertinent information... And actually inducing Grandmaster Kuai into searching the kamidogu and exposing him to unfathomable dangers and all...

Send my muse anons about their relationships. || anonymous, mention of @indulgentia || always accepting!

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Excruciating forlornness, combined with undying, unconditional love becomes a set of perfect words for the way Grandmaster Hasashi feels for the past gruesomely slaughtered and pulverized. Weary words for a weary feeling; the coalesced twisting of joy and hurt that comes with each thought of his beloved Harumi and Satoshi. Closing his tenebrous chestnut eyes bring forth the long-disintegrated and faded reflections of them in  their pinnacle, along with his own being, who looks much less melancholic and at ease. His subconscious absent from the hoisted torture of despair, vengeance, grief, and regrets. This version of past Hanzo Hasashi looks more agreeable and pleasant, yet so far away. 

How the pyromancer finds himself drifting into the cerulean abyss above his head, despite all the unspoken love poems and bird calls, all fading into the sky like woolen embraces with an absent lover. They remain divine poetry that forever touch his heart and soul so deeply, ardently, and passionately. Yet, there is a silver lining in all this; that his days used to be empty, sorrowful, and colorless. For everything he does even in the name of righteous justice and rebuilding of the Shirai Ryu still reminds him of so much irreversible pain and loneliness, and his defiant love is the one that saturates awestruck passion, making his heart swell with transformative gasps of divinity, crossing the realms of humanness and godhood. His hellfire could be windswept, soft-caressing, and yet simulate widespread, all-engulfing destruction. 

His complex emotion towards the Thunder God had entombed unparalleled hatred and wrath in deep mind, as Scorpion once lost himself to the pool of rhythmic vibration that was the magmatic explosive inferno. A ripping whirlwind that would even unfurl and unravel even the atoms of a demigod. For his resolute, indefatigable passion is the bridge that had taken him from wallowing in pain, to take on such a transformative change; utilizing his grief-fueled wrath and vengeance to save the world on the precipice of extinction, as the weaponized memory of helplessness sprawl of his brutalized body become the catalytic valor and strength. 

“There are things even a Thunder God cannot foresee, for he is not an omnipresent nor an omniscient God,” Hanzo believes such omittance of information could have accelerated the annihilation, along with himself drowning in the sorrows of unworthiness, afraid of receiving the very thing he craves so deeply, because the pieces of his past he doesn’t know how to let go of holds him hostage in the melancholic and morose depression of his head, as he lays awake at night with the emptiness in his chest, as chasm widens, as his soul would cry, and every night, feeling a little more dead inside (what an irony, as a resurrected man losing pieces of himself as his reflection would scream). “Lord Raiden deals with immense, incomprehensible responsibilities as Earthrealm’s Protector. However flawed and human the demigod has been in his fated role, I simply abide by what is asked of me, regardless of vices I continue to deal with affect my own responses, frequently in sudden gush of fury and vitriol.” 

“Perhaps I was loveless back then, when I sought Sub-Zero out to defeat him alive or dead; we were both cruel and perhaps heartless to some degree, as our respective hearts burned in their own light without taking regard for the different frequency and intensity, never finding the perfect constellation of words or actions as we both were wounded souls. I simply wanted to translate my pain onto the pages, but no words could ever assuage the punishing brutalization Liang took because of Kamidogu possession.” Hanzo’s fathomless chestnut eyes seem to speak to the soul of the inquirer; they remain deep, perhaps full of unadmitted revelations and secrets and dimensions that no member of mankind will ever comprehend, unless that individual was Kuai Liang. For his tenebrous darkness will shine an illuminative light upon the wise sapphire of Sub-Zero’s understanding and empathy, as pools of ink, once devouring light in their intensity would speak of Hanzo Hasashi’s subconscious and psychological torment and trauma. 

“Unless it was Sub-Zero, it would have been an impossible for anyone to endure the fatal exsanguination, lest breathing one’s last as my unforgiving rage would have suffocated, scorched, and burst one asunder.”  ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[whereisthesun]

working for vacation - sibo matto & magmatic refinery - nanoray ^_^

couldn’t listen all the way through | not my thing | it’s okay | kinda catchy | ok i really like this / downloading immediately | already in my library

THIS RULES SO MUCH OMG. OMG. OMG... i really like this voice. this is really good. definitely going to listen to this a ton. Straight into my listen more playlist

couldn’t listen all the way through | not my thing | it’s okay | kinda catchy | ok i really like this / downloading immediately | already in my library

ooo i know of nanoray bc i like desktopbuddy so i was excited for this and it ALSO delivered god i love songs like this make my brain feel so fast. youve done it again...your music taste always gets me

[kmp78]

I’m loving We Crashed! Have you seen it? Jared is really doing a tour de force performance. He’s really nailed this guy. : yeah. The real Adzz a m is a trip and you love hat Ed him bugg TV JL does a spoof on job of nailing his magmatic but obnoxious personality. Yeah Zi you will say that’s J’s real personality but ya know, this performance is spot on.

As far as the magic between AH and JL, I think IG idd sad there the way it might be with the real characters. Real but sometimes restrained…

Well going by the trailer and clips, the "magic" between Hathy and JL seems about as electric as the "magic" between Dakota J and Jamie D in that god-awful 50 Shades trilogy... 😭😬👎

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Done Dirty.

Ta da! I have completed the last of my Smutty Sleepover requests, hurrah! This Jax Teller drabble for my beautiful (and patient!) @innerpaperexpertcloud​ and the prompt of “I’m gonna fuck you so hard, your ancestors will feel it.”

“What do you want, darlin’? Tell me, I want to hear it.”

He pulls you against him again, mouth hungry at your neck, hands pulling up your dress with a wanton moan. He can barely wait to be inside you.  

“What I want? What I want is for you to park that big Mack truck in my little garage,” you purr while squeezing his throbbing bulge, making him laugh.  

“Didn’t think you liked Cardi B.”

“I appreciate the woman’s sentiment.”  

“Where vehicular positioning is concerned?”

“Absolutely.”

Your mouths meet in a frenzy of gasps and tongues, your hands yanking at the tight, white t shirt he wears, pulling it over his head to reveal the honed physique beneath. Your nails dance across the chiselled washboard of his abs, grasping his jeans, ready to grapple for what you can feel tenting the dark denim.  

He has other ideas.

Turning you around, he pushes you against the wall, fingers encircling your wrists and positioning them above your head, strong hands travelling in a sumptuously explorative, slow glide down over your curves, yanking your dress down to expose your bare breasts. He pinches at your nipples, mouth burying at the side of your neck, pressing himself against the curve of your back.  

“Babe, I’m gonna fuck you so hard, your ancestors will feel it.”  

Well, if there were words more enticing than those, you’re yet to hear them. And the setting too, right there in the Teller-Morrow workshop, where anyone could walk in and catch you. He smells of cologne, beer and bike grease, a potent mixture that has always acted favourably upon your senses, hands clutching your hips before he grabs your thong and snaps it with a swift tug.  

Desire charges through you, over your skin like a mist as his hand slides into your slit, fingertips stroking you, his dirty mouth murmuring further filth in that sexual, deep baritone.  

“I love the way your pussy feels on my fingers. Damn, baby, so hot and wet.”

“I bet you can’t wait to feel me give you every inch of my cock, huh? And you’ll take it too, like the good girl you are. Good girls always like it rough and nasty.”

“I’m not that good, Jax. I wouldn’t be letting you fuck me against the workshop wall if I was. But still, I require it rough and nasty.”  

He groans at your neck in response, nipping your earlobe, fingers daggering your silky heat a little sharper as you clench upon him, magmatic heat rising up your spine. Your pulse quickens as you hear him freeing his cock, Jax pulling you back at the hips and then gliding into your cunt with a rumble of satisfaction, grunting at you push back on him and squeeze your inner walls around his shaft.

“That’s where I want you. Nice and deep in me.” You purr as he bottoms out, slips back and then thrusts sharply, knocking breath from your lungs. “Fuck!”

“Yeah, darlin’. Fuck is right.” He rasps, running his tongue over the junction between your shoulder and neck, his knee widening your legs while one hand fists your hair, yanking your head back while between your legs, the annihilation begins, his cock pounding into your soaking hole with rapid determination.

He enters and retreats from you with aggressive force, your head held back, throat exposed to the onslaught of a carnivorous mouth, his teeth sinking into your flesh with a growl, not letting go as he gives you his many inches with primal urgency.  

“Who’s are you?”

“Yours.”

“Who does this pussy belong to?”

“You.”

“That’s right, my hot little whore.”  

Your only response is to wail, driven into mercilessly, your insides throbbing as he drags you, the pressure of his cock absolutely perfect as he drives incessantly into the clutch of your wet heat, speeding up, his bulk pushing into you, imposing, hard and hot.  

“Fuck, oh my god, Jax!”

“Yeah, you gonna cum around my cock, baby?”

An unintelligible mewl signals your ascent as you spasm around him, his free hand clutching your tits before sliding down, fingers pinching gently at your clit, sending you into utter paradise, your waves crashing against his shore as with a few final, frantic motions, he’s there with you, spilling within you deep, cock jerking against the tight restriction of your fluttering cunt.  

He always does you better when he does you dirty.  

[justinehudock]

Genuine.

When Blanche Wisener was brought into that aluminum-wrapped closet and positioned on the floor decals shaped like a pair of men’s tractionless loafers and heard the X-Ray machine turned beepedybeepbeeped on accompanied by a climactic full-blooded slide whistle sound and the big iron thing laboriously fiddled with so that it faced her and the rays of hair-singeing energy flew through her body like beams of a sunrise yawning through a suncatcher, nothing changed. The X-raying apparatus, spotted with little barcoded apple stickers from the technicians’ snacks, radiating faintly skull-shaped silhouettes of an electromagnetically green shade that set off car alarms for three square blocks and induced rapturous labor in nearby women who were not due for several weeks, produced an image on its receptor screen between which, and what Blanche looked like to the naked eye, there was no difference at all. This is how genuine she is. 

Blanche, as true to her name as any one could hope to be unless one’s name is Ugly and Unentertaining Joe in which case one had better hope for the antonym to that, is peeled of the regular veiling, protective trappings that women are imposed upon to develop, portraying the supernovic potential of blinding authenticity that a woman might be. Blanche is daylight, a single beaming red circle in the center of a white canvas; the magmatic heart of a great, burbling volcano. Unprocessed and pure as non-homogenized milk or a well-asseted woman’s naturals, Blanche wears her heart on her sleeve, and hangs her kidneys from her earlobes, and wraps her intestinal track up the length of her forearm like a gladiatorial bangle. 

There are billions of feme covert type-women whose personality and capacity for sincereness are subsumed by that calculated feminine reticence that makes men fall in love, but Blanche does not hold a membership with this calico group, all arched backs and deliberate movement, like just any fluffy-headed dandelion breezing back and forth in the mild but persistent wind of misogyny. Blanche chose to inhabit a body with candor, plumply and ingenuously and immovably insistent that she was the only one who would put one leg in front of her other, that she was the one to make up her lunch boxes and nobody else, and that her metaphors for autonomy need only hold wisdom for her. A frank portrait, or sometimes a medium shot or over-the-shoulder-shot, depending on your point of view, to the world at large: a woman on display, a real woman, one who can be observed by anyone as if the observer was an X-ray machine peering into all that lay behind Blanche’s blue-veined eyes, miasmic like empty words; everything from the interior of Blanche’s soul, to her dense tissues, to all her other kinds of physiological matter, even to any emotions processing themselves into the full range of multicolored biles.  It was not unlike watching an ant colony by cross section, watching Blanche.

The X-ray machine unscrambled all of these facets to the fact of nature that is Blanche; its only function, after all; praise is hardly called for. Her large, generous mind (like an empty ballroom), the density of her flannel-slacked thighs (rugged and dark and close with a layer of thick-coming hair that was disturbingly similar in texture to a five-o’clock-shadow), but above all this, it focused on the nauseating, unaccountably bruised, massive and disagreeably heart-shaped tumor punching out of her abdomen.

  That X-ray and annual medical feel-up after the fact led to the expert opinion of her doctor -- a woman, by the way, by the name of Renée Donet -- who attributed this grotesquely misshapen goiter on Blanche’s lower stomach with an apocryphal-level of evil and peccancy and malevolence, finally diagnosing it anecdotally as a kind of growth that will “cause middle fingers to raise from every direction, as if inspiriting them with a larvae of some supernatural thing that has a very low tolerance for vileness.” The doctor’s note burned up upon contact with these words, the charcoal marking of Renée’s pencil rising upwords and leaving the word larvae on her forehead in mirror. 

Renée even admitted to Blanche, as if under the hypnosis of a high fever, that she and the other radiologists had hung the image of this lump above the donuts in their break room in a pitch to ruin everyone’s appetite. It was nearly Summer after all. 

“It’s disgusting,” said Renée.

“What is?” asked Blanche.

“Your lump.” said Renée.

“Which is?” asked Blanche.

“New one.” said Alrene.

“This?” asked Blanche.

“No. Lower. The goiter thing.” said Renée.

“Hm. Can you remove it?” asked Blanche.

“Don’t think so.” said Renée.

“Think so? Or know so?” asked Blanche.

“Know.” said Renée.

“Alright. Bye then.” said Blanche.

“Goodbye. Don’t come back.” said Renée.

“Alright, bye then.” said Blanche.

“Thank God I’ll never see her again,” said Renée.

“I’m still here, Renée.” said Blanche.

“Sorry, wasn’t looking at you. As I said, I’ll never see you again.” said Renée.

“Bye. I don’t know where I’ll find another doctor whose name rhymes.” said Blanche.

“Try Francisco Banananisco, on 32rd Street.” said Renée.

“Alright.” said Blanche.

This was a shock. A grave shock. Blanche had long dismissed the loaded nacho platter-sized lump as anything to worry much about. It was only characteristic of her patient approach to life and its issues that Blanche should have assumed the mass was merely the snowball those boys in the neighborhood had thrown at her some months ago, after they hijacked a travelling magic troupe and held the headlining magician’s head in a toilet until he conceded their demand to produce enough snow to terrify their dinosaur action figures. She had planned simply to continue to cover the lump, the sticky, slow-thawing snowball that she thought it to be, with clothing until the excess water melted and was absorbed into her bladder. Blanche knew enough about human physiology to know that the bladder was nearby. 

But it was as disgusting and real and genuinely worthy of fear as she dreaded to accept; scary things are always as scary as they can possibly be. With knowledge of its doctor-determined evil, Blanche became afraid to touch the lump, worried to bring objects or clothing even near to it. The thing was so large and veiny and had so many life lines running across it, as though to say to Blanche “I will be with you for this and any existence after,” that it was fearsome, and maybe, she thought, capable of incorporating anything that came close to it and becoming stronger all the time, like an Increasingly Lethal Enemy or what gas is to a fire, whatever that relationship is. Clothing became unwearable, but the Spring air, being so humid and revealed to her bare skin, only made the lump bloom larger and fatter, like cotton wool in water. The large holes Blanche had cut into all of her tops, including ample border space around the lump to give it even more room, put much of her wardrobe out of commission, and because they were her tops and public barebreastedness was still on the books, consequentially a major blow to her ability to venture into public at all.

Blanche was changing, now in roars like the changing sea, beyond her power which was once almighty and head-spinning. Some speculated this change was the effect of the lump in a literal way, that it was leaking dark, unvaulted emotions this special woman’s brain had never before experienced (these people are quacks). The emotions of misery, bitterness, butterness (always scrambling for control over the slippery constitution of true agency), and nausea, like her body was a boat surrounded by sharks that were shaking the craft, shaking it, and laughing at this, her funeral, the death of a one-woman civilization and its god, the same woman. But what was happening to her was not biological, or kenotic, and with Blanche’s last ounce of that particular, unparagoned vigor of self-certainty, she was convinced that the lump was calling in the favor she had benefited from all her long life: calling her back to the ugliness of self-consciousness, and ugliness. 

Under a mental smog so dense that might have been imported from San Francisco, Blanche would leave her apartment wearing nothing but a skinny scarf and large sunglasses, her posture reduced to an all wrong sort of curvacious C-shape, it seeming to all who passed her that Blanche had forgotten herself completely and assumed the role of the third member of the Village People. The lump grew larger daily. Imperceptibly, like a child, but nevertheless larger, assuming more and more of its host’s stomach, growling for ever more flesh to integrate. Blanche had no sense, no idea what to do, only tears that dribbled off her chin to fall on the lump like an eyedropper. The lump grew shiny with these tears, expanding with her stomach as she breathed heavily in abyssically large sobs. As snow blows off a car’s hood at speed, Blanche was beginning to blow away from herself. Blanche, once a model city of a woman -- silver skyscrapers and plastic lakes and abstract topographical icons all her own unparalleled design -- now ground down daily toward unparalleled impoverishment. 

On the first day of Summer, Blanche in her greatest despair was discovered: a small purple tumor sitting in the center of a T-shirt, a circle of fabric cut out of it. One day a man came in, looked at the tumor, and squashed it with his boot. The tumor squirted and spread into the shape of a pair of tractionless loafers.

[elisaenglish]

Elizabeth Gilbert on Love, Loss, and How to Move Through Grief as Grief Moves Through You

“Grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. It comes and goes on its own schedule. Grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. In that regard, Grief has a lot in common with Love.”

“All your sorrows have been wasted on you if you have not yet learned how to be wretched,” Seneca told his mother in his extraordinary letter on resilience in the face of loss. One need not be a dry materialist to bow before the recognition that no heart goes through life unplundered by loss — all love presupposes it, be it in death or in heartbreak. Whether what is lost are feelings or atoms, grief comes, unforgiving and unpredictable in its myriad manifestations. Joan Didion observed this disorienting fact in her classic memoir of loss: “Grief, when it comes, is nothing like we expect it to be.” And when it does come, it unweaves the very fabric of our being. When love is lost, we lose the part of ourselves that did the loving — a part that, depending on the magnitude of the love, can come to approximate the whole of who we are. We lose what artist Anne Truitt so poetically termed “the lovely entire confidence that comes only from innumerable mutual confidences entrusted and examined… woven by four hands, now trembling, now intent, over and under into a pattern that can surprise both [partners].”

But we also gain something — out of the burning embers of the loss arises an ashen humility, true to its shared Latin root with the word humus. We are made “of the earth” — we bow down low, we become crust, and each breath seems to draw from the magmatic center of the planet that is our being. It is only when we give ourselves over to it completely that we can begin to take ourselves back, to rise, to live again.

How to move through this barely survivable experience is what author and altogether glorious human being Elizabeth Gilbert examines with uncommon insight and tenderness of heart in her conversation with TED curator Chris Anderson on the inaugural episode of the TED Interviews podcast.

Gilbert reflects on the death of her partner, Rayya Elias — her longtime best friend, whose sudden terminal cancer diagnosis unlatched a trapdoor, as Gilbert put it, into the realization that Rayya was the love of her life:

“Grief… happens upon you, it’s bigger than you. There is a humility that you have to step into, where you surrender to being moved through the landscape of grief by grief itself. And it has its own timeframe, it has its own itinerary with you, it has its own power over you, and it will come when it comes. And when it comes, it’s a bow-down. It’s a carve-out. And it comes when it wants to, and it carves you out — it comes in the middle of the night, comes in the middle of the day, comes in the middle of a meeting, comes in the middle of a meal. It arrives — it’s this tremendously forceful arrival and it cannot be resisted without you suffering more… The posture that you take is you hit your knees in absolute humility and you let it rock you until it is done with you. And it will be done with you, eventually. And when it is done, it will leave. But to stiffen, to resist, and to fight it is to hurt yourself.”

With an eye to the intimate biological connection between the body and the mind (which is, of course, the seedbed of feeling), Gilbert adds:

“There’s this tremendous psychological and spiritual challenge to relax in the awesome power of it until it has gone through you. Grief is a full-body experience. It takes over your entire body — it’s not a disease of the mind. It’s something that impacts you at the physical level… I feel that it has a tremendous relationship to love: First of all, as they say, it’s the price you pay for love. But, secondly, in the moments of my life when I have fallen in love, I have just as little power over it as I do in grief. There are certain things that happen to you as a human being that you cannot control or command, that will come to you at really inconvenient times, and where you have to bow in the human humility to the fact that there’s something running through you that’s bigger than you.”

Gilbert goes on to read a short, stunning reflection on love and loss she had originally published on Instagram:

“People keep asking me how I’m doing, and I’m not always sure how to answer that. It depends on the day. It depends on the minute. Right this moment, I’m OK. Yesterday, not so good. Tomorrow, we’ll see.

Here is what I have learned about Grief, though.

I have learned that Grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. It comes and goes on its own schedule. Grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. In that regard, Grief has a lot in common with Love.

The only way that I can “handle” Grief, then, is the same way that I “handle” Love — by not “handling” it. By bowing down before its power, in complete humility.

When Grief comes to visit me, it’s like being visited by a tsunami. I am given just enough warning to say, “Oh my god, this is happening RIGHT NOW,” and then I drop to the floor on my knees and let it rock me. How do you survive the tsunami of Grief? By being willing to experience it, without resistance.

The conversation of Grief, then, is one of prayer-and-response.

Grief says to me: “You will never love anyone the way you loved Rayya.” And I reply: “I am willing for that to be true.” Grief says: “She’s gone, and she’s never coming back.” I reply: “I am willing for that to be true.” Grief says: “You will never hear that laugh again.” I say: “I am willing.” Grief says, “You will never smell her skin again.” I get down on the floor on my fucking knees, and — and through my sheets of tears — I say, “I AM WILLING.” This is the job of the living — to be willing to bow down before EVERYTHING that is bigger than you. And nearly everything in this world is bigger than you.

I don’t know where Rayya is now. It’s not mine to know. I only know that I will love her forever. And that I am willing.

Onward.”

Gilbert adds in the interview:

“It’s an honour to be in grief. It’s an honour to feel that much, to have loved that much.”

Complement with life-earned wisdom on how to live with loss from other great artists, writers, and scientists — including Alan Turing, Albert Einstein, Abraham Lincoln, Rachel Carson, Charles Darwin, Johannes Brahms, and Charles Dickens — and the Stoic cure for heartbreak from Epictetus, then revisit Gilbert on creative bravery and the art of living in a state of uninterrupted marvel.

Source: Maria Popova, brainpickings.org (17th October 2018)

[sasorikigai]

Emotional response: Your wife and son are dead because of you. You had too much blood on your hands to ever deserve peace and they suffered for your past. You have added their blood to your hands and no matter how you scrub, you will never be clean.

With one ask, try to elicit a strong emotional response from my muse || anonymous || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || How Hanzo Hasashi yearns for a detachable heart, a detachable brain to take them out, leave them on the bedside table, so that he may enjoy the nonexistent silence that would come after. But could he ever defy the fact that his limbs turn stone, his solemn stoicism petrified, as Grandmaster Hasashi recalls with utter chagrin the seemingly eons’ stretch of his being manifested as the walking hate, the fallen god of no mercy that would take and take everything, leaving everything asunder in the wake of his magmatic tears and ferrous stench of sanguine sprawled in his ire and vengeance. 

His guilt is rot, the inside of his body succumbing and suffocating; the mind controlling the movement, the subconscious controlling the warrior, the grieving husband and father, a wounded man’s thoughts and actions, saying, rot and burn, burn yourself ablaze in absolution as onslaught of regret further causes you to suffer in conflagrations as you transform yourself further as the heart of your everburning embers scorch the track through your trials and tribulations. 

Such accusations of Scorpion’s heinous crimes, and his own malevolence of the world causing the Earthrealm on the brink of extinction still causes immeasurable faults in his kintsugi heart and soul, which Hanzo must mend from oozing pus and precious passion. Embedded guilt and regret did transform and catalyze the pyromancer to burn himself ablaze, to reconcile and transform with the pain he caused, in order to serve and protect. Such viscerality and herculean weight of his proverbial emotions gather around the taut crease of his forehead, as dark brows pinch together, the tenebrous gaze honed with such obstinacy and indestructible dedication that no one could shatter and desecrate. “I have made my own choice, and with that, there is nothing I can do. Ultimately, I have found a way to live with that, lest what I do for the Shirai Ryu and Earthrealm may never be a salve for my guilt.” 

Grandmaster Hasashi has long relinquished the constructs of joy, warmth, comfort, embraces, and stability to welcome cold-hearted truths, discomfort, disquietude and isolation, and instability stemming from his Chaos aspect dwelling forever within. Hope may be too dangerous, too inconsistent, and too reliably wrong at times, nor he could expect these things in an idealized, perfected context and construct. Still, how blessed is he, to bemoan his chance at redemption and resurrection, as his inextinguishable and intent tenacity steer him towards the right path, as he strives to become the best version of himself. The one which he was destined to be pre-death. 

Hanzo Hasashi draws Harumi and Satoshi Hasashi with his eyes closed; their story may have been a story without a pen, nor an imagination, but in him, they become an immeasurable wick that will continue to cradle the hearth flame of his heart. However imperfect and incapable the Shirai Ryu ninja may become, or he may falter beneath greater challenges other than his own human flaws and vices, but they are the sunset stream pulverizing the raging darkness swarming within him. “My heart and soul blazes with effulgent love, because it bleeds excessively and continuously wearing their innocent blood. I may still be choked down with the lessons of my unforgivable past, but I no longer speak wrath as my vice and vengeance as my language; however unachievable peace and tranquility may become, the caliber of my ever-improving being will never wane nor diminish.” 

[sasorikigai]

🎁 ( any verse of your liking + bonus for aurorae ablaze )

spotify wrapped has arrived. send me a number from 1-100 for a starter based on that song, or a lyric from it, or send a 🎁 for me to shuffle. || @sonxflight, feat. @biiingchu || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Crimson water, the thought rises unbidden; it’s like being surrounded by water - hand reaching out to break the surface, but being unable to. Hanzo Hasashi doesn’t think he is moving, not really. There is sunlight streaming down and dancing across his skin in waves amidst Shirai Ryu Fire Gardens; it’s almost serene, peaceful the way he is being pulled down, down, down. Familiar susurrus zephyr of the spring curls around the verdant greenery, and they brush past him like sea foam, slip between his damp fingers. The cleaved wound of his forearm hurts in the way old wounds hurt, the ache never completely fading, but he has long gotten used to it. Like that one time he sprained his ankle in the dojo, and how it still acts up sometimes. He moves past it, because pain feasting on his scarred body, heart, and soul has always been a familiar company he will always persevere. 

Hanzo Hasashi knows, most often times it’s the guilt. The somatic guilt manifesting as the salt-water burning in his lungs. He tries to cough it out, but more rushes in because he is still under water. It’s crushing in its weight, his lungs would collapse under the pressure of it if they weren’t being filled with water, being squeezed from every direction. He is too exhausted to thrash, as a sheen of thick sweat glistens below the phantom of sunlight remaining. 

His breathing treading softly under the moonlight, and there is an absence of love; his nightmare-scape filled with the Shirai Ryu children’s screaming sounding aloud, cries for mercy, death, and freedom filling the air beneath the red spectacle. Hanzo’s chain rattles metallically, his eyes alight maniacally beneath the vitriol wrath and vengeance, the flurrying arc of his blade and kunai carrying proverbial inextinguishable flames of his explosive passion and deliverance as to render any adversaries beneath an altar of gleaming ivory and crimson of death.

The taste of blood on his lips; what a cruelly wretched memory. Coppery and saccharine sweet, but his strong heart crumbling and writhing and disintegrating beneath his own blood, magmatic warm and metallic. Fire and Ice had become the perpetual predator and prey, as perhaps their shared and reciprocated desire render them both delicate and fragile, while formidable and unyielding in strength and will, lest their choreographed deadly dance which they perform in their ‘friendly’ sparring conducted nearly daily become utterly irresistible. With the ancient samurai’s stainless steel formidability added, the pain stabbing through their flesh and blood electrify and excite their spirits, lest their bone-seeped exhaustion pushes the threshold of their regal longevity of Edenian-originated blood. 

“Even when prospects of oblivion draws near, for me to lose absolute control against all the endured pain and unbridled hope... You both become the antidote to the poison in my blood. There is no denying the fact that I would have long come apart and relinquished myself to the familiarity of rage and vengeance.” Or Hanzo Hasashi could have long been lost himself into months of isolation, lest he engraved his pain in with his gleaming tanto, disemboweling his being naught.  

Breaking Benjamin - Blood

 ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

❄️ || Kuai Liang would simply let his veins guide him home; let the blood course through, a natural flood of hard-steeled discipline and flawless executions. For his absolute zero, its immensity and explosive power could challenge even that of demi-gods and even gods. The blessed cryomancer’s blood builds with a quieted, gentle agitation, clawing at the emanating crystallized flesh, as Sub-Zero’s piercing eyes and repressed viciousness of his skillset becomes his resistance, in order to exist on Earth with unrealized dreams, aspirations, and experiences robbed from his formation years. 

His cryomancy must bite to destroy the pain - it must ignite burning despair in order to shatter and melt the monster which bleeds and cries. Kuai Liang had unwantedly escaped the ruins of humanity and became the eldritch-stained monstrosity he vowed to fight to his death. His winter would sweep in with such brutal front, and an attitude of frigid demolition with his regal confidence and grace. As his body lurches to cause frostbite, this cast of cold lashing ruin against the usurping darkness and evil threatening to condemn Earthrealm in the brink of extinction. In the process, Kuai Liang would attain carmine scores distressing his skin, with the expanse of his well-sculpted flesh ragged and bruised purple from holding on his defiant stance and stalwart defense, just a bit too tightly. 

In these winter nights, amidst the Lin Kuei training grounds, the thrusted summer’s touch may scorch and burn him ablaze - yet cold kisses prickle against his skin, as the duality of their warmth and destructive power keeps his cheeks warm. Beating hearts draw to an end, as either one could yield as rounds persist and drag on. The life he had been fated as Grandmaster’s mantle fell upon his hand shortly after Bi-Han’s death at Scorpion’s hands, Kuai Liang’s rooted feet have never faltered, frayed, nor failed. For he defiantly reaches for their right of way, even in the upside down sky. 

Even when he is in distress, with his soul burning with delirious pain, he grievously rebels, lest evil deeds of the world abounds and at home. There is constant threat of kidnappings and deaths, and Sub-Zero has always been known to ameliorate and annihilate such prospects when they are at an initial stage. Cyber Initiative had been a malignant, inhumane zealot in the service of Shao Kahn and ultimately, serving as pawns for Kronika, and regardless of the time displacement and its unstable anomaly, his gelid righteous justice will serve them the most unforgivable and unbearable blizzard there ever will be. 

“There is much in this life that is not what it seems - there are moments that cannot last longer than a night, moments when some extraordinary person reaches across just to make into another day, another break of dawn. Maybe I will waste a lifetime’s worth just to cling to one single peaceful, splendor day, but with you two, I think it will be worth it.” There is splendor as imagination adrift paints a masterpiece. In Kuai Liang’s psyche, nothing remains obscured, as his demanding discipline and defiant responsibility keeps him evermore erect, even as exhaustion settles upon his broad shoulders. “This is what all of us deserves.” 

Stone Sour - Absolute Zero

❄️ ||

[sasorikigai]

❝  i have weathered the anger of gods before.  ❞ goddess liv @ scorpion!

song of achilles rp starters || @somniaxperdita || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || It is unbearable; the smoke of Scorpion’s blackened, scorched past without any saving grace. No matter how hard the wraith tries to move past, the proverbial stench of death and destruction always seem to find him. The ashes staining his hands red of the hearts he has disappointed and macerated, all catching up to the shattered, fragmented heart and soul and his entirety. But Hanzo Hasashi did not mean to. Scorpion still vehemently struggles with the burdensome weight of his chest threatening to collapse and crumble him whole. He still endures the immeasurable stretch of his pain and tribulations, but he could vouch that he has neither wasted time nor missed anything else, besides the life he used to have as a mortal. 

He lived, he loved, he tried, he lost, he gained, he fell, then he stood for himself. He does not know what comes next, but he has, in his guts, what it takes to survive the immeasurableness of life, because Scorpion knows, he must be more than what he thinks of himself and certainly more than what people perceive of him. Who took the scintillating tapestry of stars from the sky of his universe? There’s nothing, but this black abyss above where his home used to be. No swollen moon for company and tranquil silence until dawn, and the wraith is only trying to ensure and survive in the only way he can. 

His effulgent, destructive, and revivified fire for light and sight and sound, as he fights the cacophony of whistling nothing. Scorpion’s suffering and despair may shake through the dark matter of his entirety, as they further entrap him in eternal night, a reality not for the faint of the heart as the sempiternal pain consumes him all over again in vicious cycle, as ferrous tears stream down in copious waterfall. “My proverbial suffering may not know no bounds, but I too, have been totally immersed in intoxicating wrath, which manifested as sheer desire to retaliate what I have suffered, and what I had to repaint in my subconscious as brutal horror and cruelty that would forever etch into my being, even in death and beyond,” instead of taking the heaviest battering of wretched life which resulted not only in his loss of life, but the irreversible and irretrievable loss of everything, Scorpion directed the ramming onslaught of his magmatic wrath towards an ascended being, particularly Lord Raiden. 

“Nothing, not a damn bloody thing will satiate my pained cry of hunger, the excruciating pangs of an empty vessel withering. This endless hunger to see the world in justified righteousness, as absent tranquility and peace will no longer afflict the ravaging maelstrom of fire burning ablaze within,” Scorpion’s eternally somber and scowled expression tightens further, as proverbial rage viciously stirs the fathomless ocean of unstoppable will of his given title. Lest he continues to bleed and be heartbroken beneath the engulfing tides of torment and trauma, would Scorpion face his damnation without ever begging for mercy. “Nothing will hold me accountable, because I have got nothing to lose.”  ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||