#ask nascent

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia,

Just from the tiny influx of Temsen posts lol. Honestly, if you were to ever write a story with Temsen as one of the mains it’d probably end up on the list of comfort stories, and that list has at least two of your works 😂 He’s my absolute favorite of all your characters so far, but I also haven’t read all your stories yet so I know him in UtB and TND. Have you written him inside any other of your works? Is there any interest (pleeeeease) in having him as a main or major character?

Also, I know you post update schedules, but I look at them maybe once or twice and then let myself wait in anticipation for the morning I wake up and see an email you’ve updated something because I often forget the dates and it’s a nice little surprise for me.

Love your writing and characters! I hope your well, and that something more can be done for your pooch! I know having a sick pet is hard, my cat has osteosarcoma. I hope he’ll be okay!

Hi anon!

(First, I'm very sorry to hear your cat has osteosarcoma, that's brutal, and I hope you can build more good memories on top of the ones you already share as you go through this together).

Right now Temsen only exists in The Nascent Diplomat and the Underline universe! He doesn't exist anywhere else (except in our not insignificant imaginations).

Honestly, if you were to ever write a story with Temsen as one of the mains it’d probably end up on the list of comfort stories, and that list has at least two of your works

So...here's the thing, I kind of feel like the only reason Temsen holds so much appeal right now is because he's not a main character. It's like the Raven Prince effect, but with someone new, and not the Raven Prince, who was far more polarising.

I don't really have any interest in writing him as a main character, unfortunately. Even though I love him so much, I don't feel like he could "carry" one of my stories. That's a pretty huge thing for a character to carry and it's only certain ones that can handle it (this is hard to explain but something I just feel, and it sounds so stupid when I write it out lmao). It's not about his weakness as a "person", it's about the kind of stories I like to write, and the kind of qualities I want in a character to carry that off.

That doesn't mean we won't see him again, but right now I feel like he has so much power in the imagination of others precisely because there's so many gaps and so many tantalising hints that leave folks constructing their own castles of who Temsen is, and they can be so much more catered to them (this is why some people want Temsen to be in a relationship in Underline, even though there's no indication he'll be happy in one, their castle/interpretation includes that in his personality).

[exsqueezememacaroni]

started listening to Cop Shoot Cop today bc i trust your taste in music (and also spotify recommended one of their albums?) White Noise is great i’m on my second listen. it’s reminds me a bit of Swans (their early stuff mostly) and i’m catching vibes from TJL and a few other bands. DIGGING it so far tho!

YES!!!! AHHHH!!!! I'm so happy!

You're totally right - it really is amazing to me that I never saw TJL back in the day? And, omg, funny story - I definitely saw Swans a few times in the mid-late 90s but they're sound had changed so much. And by then CSC was done and Tod A also changed his sound a whole lot for Firewater. So they were totally unrelated in my head. There was a guy (a fellow weaver, can you fucking believe it??) Who lived in NYC in the late 70s/80s and was SUPER in the no wave/punk/noise rock scene and he was talking about Swans' heyday and I was so jealous that I just missed that whole time period, it sounded amazing.

[yesmissnyx]

Waking up at 2am with an urge to start crying. My need for you is overwhelmng. All my senses all my reason all my will to breathe have been replaced by this brainless soul destroying need. I just want to cry for you Mommy.

TFW you want to to kiss their tears away and reassure them with snuggles and affirmations, but you ALSO want to do everything you can to make them cry harder and then fuck the tears away 😔🙏

[trashquisitor-shirozora]

been having my own oc related thoughts to how the hell the New Republic even works. I wish you luck in actually trying to articulate it into a story!!!

Hello there, Anon, and I appreciate the sentiment! I wish you all the best with your OC and their struggles with the New Republic :)

And honestly, if I had the time I'd've done some reading on post-war, post-regime histories to get an idea of just how goddamn fucking hard it is to rebuild on the remains of the previous government because it is ugly and it is hard and it never goes the way people had hoped it would.... but sadly I don't get paid to write so I just gotta make do with what I do remember reading on and what I remember not liking about the way Disney Lucasfilm set up the post-OT GFFA. Because at the end of the day I want to believe that Star Wars is about love and about hope, and I like to imagine that the OT heroes, remembered and forgotten, didn't sacrifice in vain. It's why my current fic series branches off from the Disney Wars canon after Mando Season 2. I'm not about to get pigeonholed by their shallow thoughtless bullshit.

[fiendy]

If you haven't addressed this query before, what are your primary artstyle inspirations? If you don't mind me throwing in another one, what got you into homestuck? While I'm at it, I'd like to thank you sincerely for supporting my artwork on my art blog. As a nascent artist (both in age and experience in the homestuck fandom), it means more than you'd imagine.

primary artstyle inspo? mostly just other artists and mutuals on this site. plus im in this discord with a lot of really talented artists and i get a lot out of looking at their art.

what got me into homestuck... tumblr. there was like a mcyt to homestuck pipeline i swear. we ditched ship flailing and screaming and got tossed lifesavers but the lifesavers indebted you to karkat vantas.

and 0_0 i love your art so much. i also have little "experience" in the hs fandom (ive only posted it to this blog for maybe a year?) so i think we are on similar boats.

[cutestkilla]

For your WIP ask game, I cannot resist: Your Kids Are Gonna Love It

Why thank you for the ask! So, here we have yet another idea from me that involves metaphysical fuckery, this time in the form of time travel (hence the working title being a quote from Back to the Future) AND going in depth with the Mage and his childhood trauma. Also known as: Baz goes back in time and accidentally befriends Davy as a teen.

A magical mishap sends Baz back in time to Watford in the 90s where his influence on Davy (and Lucy!) sets in motion a whole series of alternate universe things (like alternate Greatest Mages and Humdrums and the Mages) I won’t share here in detail because they would spoil the story (if I ever write it), but suffice it to say, SIMON IS BEING ERASED FROM EXISTENCE and it needs to be fixed.

This one will be fun if I get around to it. (OK one spoiler: I have BIG plans for Gareth.)

[reginrokkr]

Tag dump repost #1

◟༺✧༻◞ memories are all but forgotten in the river of time ┊queue.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ glimpses in the past of a shattered spirit ┊headcanon.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ events to be remembered in blue veins ┊addendum.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ fragments of light from the roots of truth ┊reference.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ what use has the veil of falsehood? ┊ask.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ sapphire flames in their wake ┊ic.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ lament of a fallen seraph ┊thread.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ searching for a long lost fate ┊meme.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ what lays behind the mantle of faux stars ┊ooc.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ fear not the long night if malice is to fade ┊musings.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ ethereal moon dust sunken in ripples of light ┊reflection.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ moon on the sky as a trembling heart ┊aesthetic.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ requiem of the echoing depths ┊music.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ crystalline traces splattered with stardust ┊open.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ analysis within the ley lines ichor ┊study.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ chaos is hardly different to poison ┊dash comment.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ shall fair divination be imparted ┊dash game.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ trust not the gods; nor overthrow them ┊psa.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ connections of an ancient twilight sword ┊promotions.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ forgo that which is cursed by the gods ┊self promo.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ gifts to prevail into eternity ┊keepsake.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ echoes of a fallen star ┊drabble.┊

◟༺✧༻◞ nascent dreams of fading twilight ┊wishlist.┊

[universalthaumaturge]

having a normal one inre soulsov i see

hey don't call me out like that!!!! but also Yeah.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Sandra Newman’s “Julia”

The first chapter of Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four has a fantastic joke that nearly everyone misses: when Julia, Winston Smith's love interest, is introduced, she has oily hands and a giant wrench, which she uses in her "mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines":

https://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks01/0100021.txt

That line just kills me every time I re-read the book – Orwell, a novelist, writing a dystopian future in which novels are written by giant, clanking mechanisms. Later on, when Winston and Julia begin their illicit affair, we get more detail:

She could describe the whole process of composing a novel, from the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not interested in the finished product. She 'didn't much care for reading,' she said. Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces.

I always assumed Orwell was subtweeting his publishers and editors here, and you can only imagine that the editor who asked Orwell to tweak the 1984 manuscript must have felt an uncomfortable parallel between their requests and the notional Planning Committee and Rewrite Squad at the Ministry of Truth.

I first read 1984 in the early winter of, well, 1984, when I was thirteen years old. I was on a family trip that included as visit to my relatives in Leningrad, and the novel made a significant impact on me. I immediately connected it to the canon of dystopian science fiction that I was already avidly consuming, and to the geopolitics of a world that seemed on the brink of nuclear devastation. I also connected it to my own hopes for the nascent field of personal computing, which I'd gotten an early start on, when my father – then a computer science student – started bringing home dumb terminals and acoustic couplers from his university in the mid-1970s. Orwell crystallized my nascent horror at the oppressive uses of technology (such as the automated Mutually Assured Destruction nuclear systems that haunted my nightmares) and my dreams of the better worlds we could have with computers.

It's not an overstatement to say that the rest of my life has been about this tension. It's no coincidence that I wrote a series of "Little Brother" novels whose protagonist calls himself w1n5t0n:

https://craphound.com/littlebrother/Cory_Doctorow_-_Little_Brother.htm

I didn't stop with Orwell, of course. I wrote a whole series of widely read, award-winning stories with the same titles as famous sf tales, starting with "Anda's Game" ("Ender's Game"):

https://www.salon.com/2004/11/15/andas_game/

And "I, Robot":

https://craphound.com/overclocked/Cory_Doctorow_-_Overclocked_-_I_Robot.html

"The Martian Chronicles":

https://escapepod.org/2019/10/03/escape-pod-700-martian-chronicles-part-1/

"True Names":

https://archive.org/details/TrueNames

"The Man Who Sold the Moon":

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/05/22/the-man-who-sold-the-moon/

and "The Brave Little Toaster":

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_212

Writing stories about other stories that you hate or love or just can't get out of your head is a very old and important literary tradition. As EL Doctorow (no relation) writes in his essay "Genesis," the Hebrews stole their Genesis story from the Babylonians, rewriting it to their specifications:

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/41520/creationists-by-e-l-doctorow/

As my "famous title" stories and Little Brother books show, this work needn't be confined to antiquity. Modern copyright may be draconian, but it contains exceptions ("fair use" in the US, "fair dealing" in many other places) that allow for this kind of creative reworking. One of the most important fair use cases concerns The Wind Done Gone, Alice Randall's 2001 retelling of Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind from the perspective of the enslaved characters, which was judged to be fair use after Mitchell's heirs tried to censor the book:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suntrust_Bank_v._Houghton_Mifflin_Co.

In ruling for Randall, the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals emphasized that she had "fully employed those conscripted elements from Gone With the Wind to make war against it." Randall used several of Mitchell's most famous lines, "but vest[ed] them with a completely new significance":

https://law.justia.com/cases/federal/appellate-courts/F3/268/1257/608446/

The Wind Done Gone is an excellent book, and both its text and its legal controversy kept springing to mind as I read Sandra Newman's wonderful novel Julia, which retells 1984 from the perspective of Julia, she of the oily hands the novel-writing machine:

https://www.harpercollins.com/products/julia-sandra-newman?variant=41467936636962

Julia is the kind of fanfic that I love, in the tradition of both Wind Done gone and Rosenkrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead, in which a follow-on author takes on the original author's throwaway world-building with deadly seriousness, elucidating the weird implications and buried subtexts of all the stuff and people moving around in the wings and background of the original.

For Newman, the starting point here is Julia, an enigmatic lover who comes to Winston with all kinds of rebellious secrets – tradecraft for planning and executing dirty little assignations and acquiring black market goods. Julia embodies a common contradiction in the depiction of young women (she is some twenty years younger than Winston): on the one hand, she is a "native" of the world, while Winston is a late arrival, carrying around all his "oldthink" baggage that leaves him perennially baffled, terrified and angry; on the other hand, she's a naive "girl," who "doesn't much care for reading," and lacks the intellectual curiosity that propels Winston through the text.

This contradiction is the cleavage line that Newman drives her chisel into, fracturing Orwell's world in useful, fascinating, engrossing ways. For Winston, the world of 1984 is totalitarian: the Party knows all, controls all and misses nothing. To merely think a disloyal thought is to be doomed, because the omnipotent, omniscient, and omnicompetent Party will sense the thought and mark you for torture and "vaporization."

Orwell's readers experience all of 1984 through Winston's eyes and are encouraged to trust his assessment of his situation. But Newman brings in a second point of view, that of Julia, who is indeed far more worldly than Winston. But that's not because she's younger than him – it's because she's more provincial. Julia, we learn, grew up outside of the Home Counties, where the revolution was incomplete and where dissidents – like her parents – were sent into exile. Julia has experienced the periphery of the Party's power, the places where it is frayed and incomplete. For Julia, the Party may be ruthless and powerful, but it's hardly omnicompetent. Indeed, it's rather fumbling.

Which makes sense. After all, if we take Winston at his word and assume that every disloyal citizen of Oceania is arrested, tortured and murdered, where would that leave Oceania? Even Kim Jong Un can't murder everyone who hates him, or he'd get awfully lonely, and then awfully hungry.

Through Julia's eyes, we experience Oceania as a paranoid autocracy, corrupt and twitchy. We witness the obvious corollary of a culture of denunciation and arrest: the ruling Party of such an institution must be riddled with internecine struggle and backstabbing, to the point of paralyzed dysfunction. The Orwellian trick of switching from being at war with Eastasia to Eurasia and back again is actually driven by real military setbacks – not just faked battles designed to stir up patriotic fervor. The Party doesn't merely claim to be under assault from internal and external enemies – it actually is.

Julia is also perfectly positioned to uncover the vast blank spots in Winston's supposed intellectual curiosity, all the questions he doesn't ask – about her, about the Party, and about the world. I love this trope and used it myself, in Attack Surface, the third "Little Brother" book, which is told from the point of view of Marcus's frenemy Masha:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250757531/attacksurface

Through Julia, we come to understand the seemingly omniscient, omnipotent Party as fumbling sadists. The Thought Police are like MI5, an Island of Misfit Toys where the paranoid, the stupid, the vicious and the thuggish come together to ruin the lives of thousands, in such a chaotic and pointless manner that their victims find themselves spinning devastatingly clever explanations for their behavior:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/adamcurtis/entries/3662a707-0af9-3149-963f-47bea720b460

And, as with Nineteen Eighty-Four, Julia is a first-rate novel, expertly plotted, with fantastic, nail-biting suspense and many smart turns and clever phrases. Newman is doing Orwell, and, at times, outdoing him. In her hands, Orwell – like Winston – is revealed as a kind of overly credulous romantic who can't believe that anyone as obviously stupid and deranged as the state's representatives could be kicking his ass so very thoroughly.

This was, in many ways, the defining trauma and problem of Orwell's life, from his origin story, in which he is shot through the throat by a fascist: sniper during the Spanish Civil War:

https://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/soldiers/george-orwell-shot.html

To his final days, when he developed a foolish crush on a British state spy and tried to impress her by turning his erstwhile comrades in to her:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orwell%27s_list

Newman's feminist retelling of Orwell is as much about puncturing the myth of male competence as it is about revealing the inner life, agency, and personhood of swooning love-interests. As someone who loves Orwell – but not unconditionally – I was moved, impressed, and delighted by Julia.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/28/novel-writing-machines/#fanfic

[hedgehog-moss]

What did the pasture-dwellers ask for Christmas?

Llamas

2. Hens

3. Donkey

4. Dog

(As I did not have mandarin peels yesterday, I would like to add to this nascent lore that Donkey Santa, who brings gifts to deserving farm animals, sometimes comes on December 26th, because donkeys don't like to hurry.)

[not-poignant]

Augus love letter here (1/2). He has been my favourite character in the series and across the AUs. I fell in love with him instantly from DITW. I read SAL bc i was intrigued with him as the villain too xD. I love how he struggles with Gwyn's kingship despite putting him there, or all the layers of him with Ash and TRP, I love that he mastered himself to raise Ash, and how he's so, so proud of that. I have so many thoughts about him and Ash, how he loves him so much despite being waterhorses.

(2/2) i love that Augus has so much perserverance under his grief. I love when u whump characters, but Augus is particularly crunchy to me bc of that perserverance. I like him as a dom, but its really satisfying when under that domination he really will bend so much for the people he loves, even if its bad for him. I love how distinct u portray that for Gywn/Ash/TRP. Is it possible to want to dom the dom? O.O Well anyways, I just want to let you know I love him a lot <3

---

This is the best :D

As for wanting to dom the dom, I don't think there's anything wrong with that! It's one of the reasons Gwyn gets to top him sometimes in Game Theory and The Court of Five Thrones, and why Ash gets to do it as much as he wants throughout Strange Sights (not without breaking his heartsong in the process though). And also why Gwyn gets to top him in The Spoils of the Spoiled too, lol.

Augus whump is really satisfying, honestly. For me I think it was at its most satisfying during The Spoils of the Spoiled, and also when Gwyn rejects him / gives him an ultimatum during The Court of Five Thrones, but it's all fun to write. There's something about seeing Augus flustered or comforted which can be very satisfying!

Ultimately I do love him as a dominant, but man, I love to put that guy in Situations (TM) as well. :D

But honestly anon, thank you so much for this, just *flails* this makes me so happy

[fateandloveentwined]

wuxia, xianxia, and cultivation differences meta

translations: wuxia 武俠, xianxia 仙俠, and cultivation 修真/修仙 (xīuzhēn/xīuxiān)

think i've seen posts on this eons ago, and i'm pretty sure there are tons of these online, but since this has been written up already let's just have another one.

wuxia 武俠

wuxia and xianxia sound similar, but basically for wuxia it is about the pugilistic world (江湖 jiānghú). It is relatively more down-to-earth, and people practice martial arts ("kungfu") in their current life -- they do not do it to become xians (仙) and gods (神) however.

Like Thousand Autumns and Faraway Wanderers/Word of Honor, it has more historical background and ties to the current court and kingdoms, because people are living in the moment and concern themselves with worldly issues.

Martial arts may seem unrealistic, but in view of chinese fantasy it would be considered "real". It consists of fighting moves and internal energy, which they call qi or nèigōng (內功), and at times you see people flying around, climbing hills and jumping across rooftops which is qīnggōng (輕功).

xianxia 仙俠

A level up would be xianxia, where characters in the story cultivate to become xians (and gods, like in the heaven official's blessing). They don't really care about earthly issues here now, because their ambitions lie beyond the current world, and cultivation, getting stronger, and an immortal life are majorly all their goals.

You may not always see them working towards that purpose, such as in mdzs they are considered a lower-xianxia society (低魔), meaning people don't go through all the steps of cultivation and only stay at the stage before the "golden core" stage.

In xianxia, characters still learn basic fighting moves aka. martial arts, but to direct the internal energy they use línglì (灵力), zhēnqì (真气), and fǎlì (法力), all xianxia terms you commonly see. "neigong" is practically nonexistent in this genre. That's why people building up their "neigong" instead of "lingli" are likely never going to be able to cultivate.

cultivation 修真/修仙

A subgenre in the xianxia category would be cultivation. Characters actively go through the stages of cultivation, and likely for the MC, because they are the main character, they successfully become a xian and exit the world at the end of the novel.

There are many stages of cultivation, usually defined at the beginning of the novel in the synopsis, and a typical example of the different levels would be this:

练气，筑基，金丹，元婴，化神，炼虚，合体，大乘，渡劫

And with a cursory search, an English translation would be something like this, albeit not with all the cultivation ranks identified.

Qi condensation (练气), Foundation establishment (筑基), Core Formation (金丹), Nascent Soul (元婴), and the names after that vary too greatly with translation and fandom so I'll jump straight to Immortal Ascension

extra info: getting into the philosophy of it all

It'd be interesting to note that the word "xiá" (俠) permeates all these genres. This is something akin to the concept of "hero", but not at all also, and I'd love to speak more on this but this post has already gone way longer than I hoped it would be, so perhaps another day.

Regardless, it is interesting to note that wuxia has a greater emphasis on "xia" than xianxia. (some joke that cultivation doesn't have the word "xia" in it, and much of that is because characters have foregone heroism and focused on gaining powers and working towards ascension instead). As a result, wuxia is more confucianism-oriented, though not without its taoism and buddhism influences.

xianxia, on the other hand, is mainly derived from "dào" (道), from taoism, which is another lengthy concept if I ever get to it.

And some may have heard of the "farming" genre, 种田 (zhòngtián). This has to do with golden fingers (mary sues) in imperialistic china, earning a wealth of money, and all that. It has nothing to do with cultivation, alike they sound in english.

that's it for now, hmu if you wish to ask/discuss!

(and apologies for the pinyin translations, hope it's understandable still! formally writing pinyin they are supposed to be two separate words not one.)

[readngandweepng]

afab!leon s. kennedy x top male reader

note: no pronouns for reader but written with a male in mind. not proofread whatsoever i couldnt bring myself to reread this lmfao. reader is kind of both a sub and dom, same with leon. i had no idea where i was going with this so strap in. also sorry to the anon that asked me to tag afab characters i didnt see the ask till now oops :(

leon’s hovering over you, your cock halfway inside him. his hands are on either side of you, alongside his legs that lay on each side of your thighs, keeping you firmly in place. slowly rocking his hips, the tip of your cock brushes gently against his walls. he lets out a shivery breath with every twitch of his hips. your eyes are locked into his deep stare, his blue eyes are hazy with lust. you can tell he’s fighting to keep them open—his eyes glossing over every time your hips jerk into his was indication enough. he could handle this. this is nothing, he can keep his composure perfectly fine. one jerk in particular, however, suddenly lands your cock inside of him completely and he chokes on a moan in an attempt to quiet himself, his eyes shutting momentarily before snapping back open to look into yours once more.

he swallows thickly before speaking, the tension in his voice evident. “that was dirty.” leon’s voice is somewhat crackly, but a welcome change in contrast to the stark silence of your bedroom. the smile he receives from you is irritating. though never explicitly stated, he knows what you’re trying to do. your fingers graze his skin, dancing around his waist, making his stomach cave and his pussy flutter. he internally curses at himself for letting weak touches get such a rise out of him, and before he can spit at you with a snide remark you lift your hips off the bed with purpose, a quick but deep thrust directly against his sweet spot. he almost buckles, a low moan slips from his lips as he grips onto the sheets under his hands. you chuckle, brushing his hair away that was sticking to the sweat of his forehead, revealing eyes that burn with ire. 

“stop it.” he says curtly. his body is completely still, almost afraid to move in fear of what his body would do in response. this kind of unpredictability was foreign, and leon wasn’t about to let you win this nascent fight. 

“why should i?” you say, not even bothering to hold back the same facetious smile. “afraid you’ll crack?” 

courageously, leon moves so that you have to raise your head up to look at him. you can tell the minor adjustment gives leon back some of his lost confidence when he takes your hands off of him and presses them down against the bed by the wrist, using the leverage to lift himself off and back onto your cock at a steady pace. leon is stone-faced, taking you with newfound resolve. breaking eye-contact, you admire his glistening body and the way he ungracefully bounces on your dick. the sight makes you groan, your face hot with reverence for leon and the sight he beholds. you can’t quite pinpoint his goal; does he want to break you? or better yet does he want to break you before you can break him? 

“holding me down is cheating,” you laugh breathlessly and it sends a shiver down leon’s spine, causing him to twitch around you (much to his chagrin). you don’t mean it, but your words make him speed up, your hips clashing together with fervor.

you can see now leon’s attempt to keep himself composed. his breath occasionally hitching, his grip on your wrists tightening when he feels like he’s about to lose it. he sighs deeply, barely able to keep his moans under wraps. his head lolls forward, his eyes shut tight. he’s so wrecked right now you could probably push him onto his back and fuck him until he can’t take it anymore, but you let him have this control, regardless of how fast it’s unraveling with every thrust of your cock inside him. 

“come on, leon.” you coo at him, his head raising momentarily to glare at you before falling forward back into place with a shaky breath. “look at yourself, you can barely keep yourself steady.” he shakes his head, a hand releasing one of your wrists and going over your mouth. with what you can, you lift yourself up to kiss his neck and caress his hip with your free hand. whether he realized it or not, he rests his body against yours and lets his arms wrap around you. his nails immediately dig into your skin as you move him up and down your cock. his face is tucked into your neck, muffling the moans that are pulled out of him when he’s slammed down onto your dick. 

with one last thrust leon convulses around your cock. you follow suit, cumming inside of him. you open your mouth to speak but leon once again slaps a hand onto your mouth, his words sharp but concise, “don’t say a word.” your smile grows beneath his palm and he rolls his eyes, planting an indirect kiss atop his clasped hand. 

[fayes-fics]

Absolution

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: After an argument, Benedict seeks forgiveness.

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI. Sub!Benedict, domme!reader, established relationship. Strip tease, slight begging, praise, massage, sexual tension.

Word Count: 2.0k

Authors Note: Anon request fill from HERE, where sub!Benedict begs reader to let him touch her. I'm not sure this is begging enough for you, Nonny, but it's what my muse chose - and after being unable to write for 2 months, I went with it. I hope that's okay. Unbetaed, cos if I ask someone to read this, I will chicken out of posting it. Errr, enjoy?

You feel as much as you see him—a hovering, hesitant presence in the doorway.

“May I… join you?” 

His request is sotto voce, tinged with a gauzy hope that pulls your attention, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mottled glass of your vanity table mirror.

“You are not yet forgiven….” 

Your response is a touch sharp, perhaps, as you restart your motions, untangling your hair with an ornate silver brush, the bitter edge of your dispute still ringing in your ears, even now, hours later. Yet there’s a metallic taste of victory on the tip of your tongue that he is the one attempting to broker the peace between you. 

“Understood.” 

Benedict nods, stepping fully into the bedroom now, the door clicking closed behind him as he continues talking. 

“Perhaps I may find another way to apologise?” 

He bows his head, lacing his fingers together loosely in front of him as he looks upon you through his lashes—a gentle, reproachful demeanour that softens the sharper edges of your irritation. After a beat, you twist around and stand up, moving towards him, the silk of your night robe a balm on your flushed skin, your body reacting to him in this room as it always does, despite what has transpired, something very Pavlovian about it. His light eyes seem to dance with the reflective candlelight from the nearby sconce as you stop just beyond touching distance.

“What are you proposing?” 

You don't miss the way his gaze is drawn to the pull of fabric taut over the swell of your breast as you cross your arms, perhaps still a shade defensive.

“I seek absolution…” 

His words are a sighed exhale, eyes pleading. You know precisely what he is referring to—that power dynamic play that neither of you can resist. And sure enough, a twitch of a smile ghosts over your lips in spite of yourself.

“And will you do as I tell you?” 

You don't mean your voice to be quite so throaty, but the rapid dilation of his pupils and the jump of the vein in his neck speaks volumes.

“I will do anything for you…” His murmur draws attention to his pink, damp, plush, distracting bottom lip as if he has bitten it for your delectation. “My Lady.” It’s a goading, blatant addition, an invitation you are powerless to turn down, especially when he looks at you like that, all large pupils and quivering lip.

“Strip for me,” you command, a surge of want in your veins as his lip quirks up, his hands flying to his buttons instinctively. 

You watch greedily as he fights off the cropped jacket, and his dextrous fingers start to pluck at the pearl buttons upon his paisley silk waistcoat. He is always so exquisitely wrapped in jewel-toned fabrics that it seems nearly a shame to ask him to remove them. As both items fall to the thick rug with an audible thump, you take a step to the side and sit in a comfortable chair in the corner of your bedchamber. You cross your legs, enjoying the bob of his Adam's apple as your legs are revealed through the parting of your robe. He has probably correctly guessed you are naked underneath; a keen flare of his nostrils as you sit back to get comfortable, gesturing for him to continue. 

You lick your lips reflexively as you watch his elegant hands unwind his soft gold cravat, the candlelight catching the signet ring upon his little finger as he throws it to the floor and takes a step towards you, a nascent trace of that troublesome smirk toying at the corner of his lips.

“All of it, Benedict,” you warn, taking the upper hand as he seems to be advancing upon you still in his boots, shirt and trousers. 

He stops short when he is a couple of paces away, close enough you can scent his cologne but too far to touch—perhaps an intentional tease. He will sometimes push up against your boundaries, that cheeky nature flaring under those beseeching, wanton looks. He follows your command, though, your skin flushing as he obediently pulls off his boots and tosses them aside haphazardly.

He takes another half-step forward, watching your eyes tracking the movement of his hands as he pushes down his braces, bouncing once on the outside of his upper thigh as they fall. Subconsciously, you squeeze your thighs together, tamping down the pulse of arousal, the sensual tension between you already heady and delicious, thick in the air, despite so many crossed words earlier.

“May I touch you, My Lady?” 

His soft, yielding tone makes a thrill prickle across your scalp, but your tongue is still sharp with a barb.

“Earn it.”

His eyes flash at your challenge, and there is a flutter behind your ribs���you are as under his thrall now as he is yours. 

And then he does something that makes your body surge with want. He suddenly buckles to his knees before you, looking up at you imploringly again through those long lashes.

“How may I earn it, My Lady?” 

His ask is tender even as he makes short work of the buttons of his frilled shirt, kneeling temptingly beyond your kneecaps.

“I am still awaiting your fulfilment of my last command…” Your response is accompanied by a raised eyebrow, emphasising your point. Benedict is indeed still in shirt and trousers, although the shirt now hands lose from his broad shoulders, framing that lithe, toned torso.

“And once I am naked, what then, My Lady?” 

“Patience, my love…”

Your tone is portentous, but you don't miss how something warm melts in his expressive eyes at the term of affection. His shirt sails down onto the rug, his movements carrying more urgency than before, keen to here your subsequent plans for him, no doubt. 

With him still upon his knees, your breath quickens as he reaches for the buttons of his trousers, knowing as you do what lies beneath. Indeed as the front falls away, you are unsurprised to see he is without underwear as usual, a thatch of dark hair teasing before his cock springs free before you, you canting yourself forward slightly to see.

As he pushes the trousers down around his bent knees, you see the little half smile, noticing your lean-in, your eager stance to see him nude as requested—the flash of that playful nature, which makes his obedience so much more delicious. Your eyes focus upon the constellation of freckles upon his left shoulder as he does, temporarily transfixed by the play of muscle under his skin as he fights off his trousers the rest of the way while still on his knees. His triumphant huff and hurling aside of the item snaps you back from your short reverie, and indeed, what a sight it is to behold. A beautiful, toned, naked man before you on his knees, raptly awaiting your next word, his smooth chest rising and falling a little with shortened breaths of anticipation.

“My lady…” he prompts, but there is a trace of prideful preening, knowing he has you captivated, your legs uncrossing reflexively as you lean in further, your eyes drinking in the sight before you, his gaze falling briefly to your lap, hoping for a glance under your ribe.

“You may touch my feet, my love,” you offer, and you let out a ragged sigh as those large hands cup your arch and a thumb presses into a sensitive spot that makes you collapse back, putty in his hands already. 

“Thank you, my lady; I hope I can soothe you…”

His light whisper falls onto your skin like feathers, your eyelids fluttering shut as his hands work their magic upon your feet. Indeed, you have been promenading today and his assured touch seems the perfect salve to the ache of miles walked. Tension drains through the soles of your feet as he works. 

Before you know it, his hands have moved up, and you do not protest as he starts to massage your ankles and the lower part of your calves. Your whole leg becomes less stiff, your eyes still closed, breathe deep and even until he makes a sharp inhale that has your eyelids flying apart.

In your relaxed state your thighs have parted, and your robe following suit. His heated gaze is upon the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs, not yet open enough to betray how aroused you truly are.

“You may not touch.”

It's a clipped statement, an attempt to wrestle control when he had you compliant under his touch. A slight pout claims his handsome face as if hoping a puppy dog expression will make you yield.

“You are the most beautiful creature, please, please, My Lady…”

“Not yet,” you modify, his adulation weakening your resolve a touch.

He massages your left calf muscle, placing your foot upon the warm fuzz of his bent quad muscle, feeling the warmth emanating from his nearby cock, a temptation you resist moving your foot to brush against. But you can no longer tamp down the need to moan gently as your body responds to his expert touch. It makes his fingers dig into your flesh temporarily, and you hear him take a steadying breath, knowing he is fighting his desire to pick you up and take you to the bed—a desire raging just as brightly in you.

And so, as if catharsis for your earlier argument, you tease him more. Begin to writhe slightly in your seat, an undulation that inches your foot higher on his thigh, your toes curling into his flesh there as your noises become less restrained, his touch heavier, still soothing but with an undercurrent of urgency that speaks of pent-up passion. You can almost feel the increase in his heartbeat, the blood thrumming through his body, his cock no doubt leaking even though you dare not glance at it—too tempting a prospect, wanting to elongate this tease, this foreboding simmering between you ratcheting up the tension between you.

“You are heaven itself, My Lady, I live to bring you succour….”

There is nothing like his lilting, wanton poetic praise. When his hands round your kneecaps, you let him continue higher, dextrous hands cupping your lower thigh and squeezing the tension from your muscles there. His breath is laboured as the movement parts your legs, and he can see what he has wrought, a glistening warmth you can feel deliciously as the cooler air swirls between your now parted thighs.

“Please, My Lady…. Please let me touch you there…”

His tone is broken now, fawning words tumbling from him between deep breaths as if scenting you, his whole body tilted over your lower half, looking up at you from your lap, supplicant arousal humming in his being, feeling the heat of his cock against your toenails as he leans in.

“Undress me.” your voice a breathy whisper.

The tiny noise of victory he makes has your heart skipping a beat as his fingers instantly fly to the sash, holding your robe cinched at your waist. Watching him work through a hooded gaze and a fluttering chest as he unloops the knot and then, as if unwrapping the most precious gift, parts the material from around your body, pulling it down from around your shoulders until you are as naked as him.

“My Lady…..”

It's a stuttering, wrecked sigh, trembling hands ghosting over the quivering of your stomach, your ribs—not touching without permission, but still making your pulse race, your skin tingle. And you hunger for him like nothing else, uncaring of the disagreement you had earlier, irritation and pride usurped by the burning need you have for him as much as he has for you.

And so you relent.

“You may touch me anywhere, my love.”

Your greenlight has him almost howling, and before you know it, you are scooped up from the chair and carried to the bed, his body flexing deliciously against yours, your lips meeting in a hungry, inelegant kiss, tongues tangling. Words of apology will come later—after your bodies have what they crave.

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[betweenlands]

i walk into the literature convention wearing a shirt that says ask me about the uniquely complex conditions of live improvisation, limitation of expression by narrative and physical constraints, meta-awareness of a specific audience, video editing/framing choices, and amateur enthusiast storytelling that contribute to virtual improv roleplay* being a fascinating nascent artform that is uniquely suited to telling stories that cannot be told in any other format and everyone cheers & claps & whoops & hollers and then they read the smaller text saying *especially within Minecraft builds, maps, servers, streams, and videos and then everyone boos & yells & shoots me with lasers and guns & blows me up with grenades & hits me with 2x4s

[seat-safety-switch]

Among car enthusiasts of a certain persuasion, there exists a yearning that cannot be satisfied by regular automakers. The hoi polloi are perfectly happy with their normal, pedestrian automobiles. The elites opt for penis-shaped zoom-zooms that cost more than a house. Those of us in the middle, who have an eternal love for going very fast for very little money, are abandoned. And as we all know, being in the self-described middle is the same thing as being morally correct at all times.

Back in the 50s, people really wanted to go fast for no money. It's what started the whole world of hot rodding. And they had lots of good options, thanks to the government suddenly having a ton of warplanes that weren't currently engaged in a war. Cool plane superchargers, engines, belly tanks – anything that weird nerds could get their hands on – got shoved into cars in the quest to go fast. And automakers were run by those weird nerds, back then.

Sure, a lot of them were putatively "run" by big-dollar, humanity-crushing fascists, but the real fun, in the research and development divisions? That was happening with the same hot rodder nutjobs who would go down to the beach after work and do skids in a car mostly made out of a bathtub, until the cops showed up. And in the late 50s, what those very same nutjobs were excited about were turbines.

See, turbine engines were getting exciting then. It was the jet age. Clean, efficient, very loud, screaming jets. Not inefficient, old clangy pistons with their oiled bearings and pitiful triple-digit horsepower. No, it was time to go fast, and so they dutifully started cramming turbines into street cars. Did it make sense? No. Were any of these cars even close to being practical? Absolutely not. Was it completely bad-ass? Yes.

Unfortunately, it was at this time that the nascent development of "management science" began to metastasize in the Western world. A lot of bosses came down and saw a screaming, shrieking demon burning nineteen litres of gasoline per minute, bolted loosely into a Ford Deluxe Coupe, and they asked: how many cupholders this got? Not having a sufficient answer that didn't start with "fuck you," these same bosses then began dismantling the apparatus that held a promise of a glorious, high-pitched-whining future of thirty-thousand-rpm engines.

There is still hope. For instance, things containing turbines get crashed all the time. Once the FAA is done looking at them to figure out what they fucked up (usually: aircraft contacted the earth too soon,) they don't really pay too much attention to what happens to the carcass. If you're quick, you can cut through the fence and get ahold of your very own helicopter turbine with which to start the project. And what do you use to slice through that fence and retrieve your futurist prize? A thirty-thousand-rpm battery-operated cut-off wheel, of course. Thanks, weird nerds.