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thedreamlessnights · 11 months

Text

Fervency

Non-Ascended Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Synopsis: After falling into mysterious spores in the Underdark, you start to experience some... strange side effects. Astarion is more than happy to assist.

Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough), aphrodisiac/glorified sex pollen, established relationship, discussions of consent, fingering, oral sex (both giving and receiving), blood drinking, multiple orgasms. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.

Word Count: 5.7k

There’s not much that surprises you anymore.

It’s true - being kidnapped by illithids, having a tadpole implanted behind your eyes, facing the gods themselves - all of that does make it difficult for mundane life to come anywhere close enough to truly shock you. Your days aren’t necessarily peaceful, but they never seem quite as exciting as that blind haze of companionship in the aftermath of the nautiloid, trekking through the wilderness and shadow-cursed lands and the city, finding yourself in the company of strangers but soon-to-be family.

Still, these days, there’s something every now and then that catches you off guard. The trouble is, you’re never quite left in a space to know how to handle it. Unlike your earlier adventures, things are rarely solved with a dagger in your hand or a dash of flattery in your words. No, the burdens of day-to-day life are much more complicated than that.

Falling into a patch of mysterious spores, for one.

The Underdark is full of various mushrooms. Poisonous. Explosive. Befuddling. You could go on and on. You’ve had your number of close calls with them, but the sensation coursing over your skin feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced - and it doesn’t help that you’ve never seen spores like this.

Hells. Of course this is where your day would end up.

Just a little stroll, you’d told yourself. It’ll be harmless. And it had been, for the most part. There’s an unearthly beauty to the Underdark that you’ve never encountered anywhere else, one you’ve come to appreciate just as much as the upper surface. But halfway through your usual route, your feet had snagged on a branch and you’d gone tumbling, and now - now you’re in a patch of glowing, red spores, feeling like…

Gods, what do you feel?

Hot. You feel very, very hot. Sweat trickles down your back. Warmth blooms like poppies in a number of strange places - your cheeks, your lips, your neck. The feeling is spreading fast, bleeding through your ribs as you get to your feet.

Alright, you think to yourself, ignoring the sharp, bleeding panic in your throat that’s threatening to take over. Situations like this call for a sense of rationality. You’re going to get out.

It takes much longer than it should for you to slowly stumble back to familiar ground. Your movements are jerky, as if you’re being puppeted around, and it’s getting harder to think straight when you’re feeling as if - whatever this is - is slowly consuming you. The heat is in your lungs, coursing fire near your pounding heart, raging with every inhale.

You need to get this off of you, and as quickly as possible. After that, maybe it will fade and maybe it won’t. You’ll… you’ll figure it out.

By the time you make it to the river, your knees are trembling so much that you nearly fall in. The water barely scratches the surface of the fire when you splash it over your skin, but the coolness of it is euphoric. You go as quickly as you can, covering area by area - your clothing, your arms, your face and neck - until most of the spores are off, but the feeling pulses and throbs in you all the same. Whatever it is, it isn’t killing you, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

You could tell Astarion. He’d tease you a little, but he’d also be certain to search endlessly to find something to stop your discomfort. And you ache for him. His touch, his voice, the fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.

Had it really been just this morning when you’d last seen him? It seems like lifetimes away - lost to a very, very different type of ache in your veins that won’t seem to fade. You’ve just made up your mind to go find him, rising to your feet again, when the heat rushes to a very specific place between your legs and all thoughts of looking for Astarion are instantly cast out.

Oh, you think, somewhere between dizzy, needy, and utterly humiliated. So that’s what this is.

You’ve read about things like this - plants, pollen, potions - but most of them had been in bad romance novels, and none of them had ever come with any mention of an antidote. And, needless to say, you won’t be making your way to the Myconid Sovereign to learn more. It’ll have to be handled on your own.

You could risk going home and pretending to be ill, but Astarion is far too perceptive for that. He’d see through your ruse immediately. Which leaves the only option: hiding in a cave and waiting this out, praying he won’t notice you’re gone and come searching for you before you’re back.

And really, how bad can it be?

Bad. It can be very, very bad.

You’ve been sitting in this cave for who knows how long, and your sanity is fading more and more by the minute.

It had been manageable at first. The heat spread through you like warm cider on a cold night - a slow, steady increase, the way a candle gradually burns down to the wick. You’d thought it would stop at a certain point (it had to, didn’t it?), but no. It just… kept going.

Now, every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire, and it’s not slow, or steady, or even remotely bearable. It’s a strange, pleasurable flame, but a flame nonetheless. You can’t even decide whether touching yourself would even help at this point. Even just grazing your hand along the length of your thigh sends the fire rising, and you’re not keen on experimenting at the moment.

Your hands have gone stiff from balling your fists. Your mouth keeps switching between being as dry as sand and overly salivating. Each breath ignites more warmth, and you’ve been trembling for so long that you don’t remember how it feels to be still.

Gods. If you trusted yourself to get to your feet, you’d go see the Sovereign - a lifetime’s worth of humiliation or not. You don’t have any clue what time it is. There’s no sun or moon down here to guide you, no mechanism to spell out the hour. Has Astarion noticed your absence? How long until he’s concerned?

You know enough to know that you should have been back by now - that it’ll be unusual for you to have been gone so long. At least this spot you’ve found for yourself is relatively private. A dark, dry little place with a stone floor; fluorescent ivy in shades of lavender and coral; remote enough that, if your willpower fails and you end up making some noise, no one will be around to hear.

You attempt to swallow, but the action dies on your tongue. You attempt to breathe, but you can’t seem to suck in any air. You’re just thinking you really might die in this painful, mortified state when the pad of footsteps on stone hits your ears, and your whole body pulls as taut as a rope.

Oh, gods. Please not him. Anyone else. The Sovereign. The Society of Brilliance. Anyone.

But it’s him, because of course it is. He slowly makes his way inside, pressing through the narrow entrance and around the corner, and when he sees you curled against the cave wall, his brows rise - alarm.

“Wait,” you blurt out, determined to speak before he can. “Don’t come any closer. Please.”

Astarion stays where he is, but his eyes start instinctively scanning you over, searching for ailment or injury. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, even though you’re anything but. You want to say more, but your thoughts trail off as another wave of heat flares inside of you. You’ve started trembling again. Your fingers accidentally graze against your thigh, and you let out a small, involuntary noise.

Astarion hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Darling,” he starts, raising a brow, “you make a terrible liar.”

Of course you can’t fool him. Not even a little. You let out a laugh, but the sound hitches into a strange, choked sob. You pull your knees to your chest and let out a long, shaking breath, trying to get a grip. “I know,” you say softly. “Gods. I’m sorry.”

He takes another step closer, and concern writes itself into his expression. “Gods below,” he exclaims. “Er - my sweet, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look...”

“Horrible?” you finish for him. “I know.”

“I… was going to say ill, actually,” Astarion replies, laughing a little. “This dark cave lighting looks beautiful on you, my dear.”

You can’t resist another laugh. It’s less burdened this time, but it fades away as you hesitate, very pointedly gazing down at your fingernails instead of meeting his eyes. “I may or may not have fallen into a patch of mysterious spores.”

“And?” Astarion says, lifting a hand into the air and giving a small, contemplative gesture. “Go on, darling. Seeing as you aren’t dead - I’m assuming they weren’t poisonous?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. How the hells are you going to phrase this? “No,” you answer. “I just feel… hot. Not like the explosive ones, just… hot.”

“Well,” Astarion says, “That’s… interesting. Alright - let me take a look at you.”

Half of you wants to protest, but what’s the point? He’ll find out the truth sooner or later. So, instead, you nod.

He steps closer, kneeling down at your side, and you have to ball your fists to keep from doing something stupid. You’re expecting more flame at his touch - a painful flare, like when you’d grazed your thigh - but when the back of his hand meets your forehead, his touch is like a salve. Soothing, cool, sweet. It mellows out the fire, makes you feel sane again.

You shut your eyes in relief, staying as still as you can, and when you open them, you find him giving you a look you know all too well. Smug. Affectionate. A glint in his eye that can only mean trouble.

“My, my,” he purrs. “Darling, I’m no healer, but… a racing pulse, dilated pupils, feverish to the touch? That, I know.” He leans in, his voice low in your ear. “And I can smell how much you want me.”

A shudder runs down your back, betraying you. Astarion leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours - soft and gentle and perfect - and it takes everything in you to pull away.

“Wait,” you protest.

He instantly halts, pulling away from you and scanning over your expression. “What is it?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” you say quickly. “But you don’t… I mean - I can manage this on my own, you know.”

His brows rise. “My dear, you do realize I am very capable of helping you in this situation?”

“Gods, Astarion,” you say, biting back a delirious sort of laughter. “Believe me, I’m well aware. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. I can manage this.”

A fondness enters his expression - the rare kind, reserved for the most meaningful of moments. He leans closer, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. “I know,” he says softly, the words tender and delicate. “Trust me. I want to do this.” He trails a finger along your thigh, and you shiver again. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “And, unless I’m wrong, you’ve missed me, too.”

After searching his gaze and finding him entirely present, you let yourself relax into his touch. “I’ve missed you more than anything.”

“Good,” he says. “I was almost worried.”

He skims his knuckles over your jaw, leaning in to kiss you once more, and the flame in you seems to bend to his touch. It rages in you like a furnace, bellowing and cruel, but with every frigid brush of his fingers, the feeling subsides. Even the feel of his lips on yours seeps away the discomfort.

He’s slow with his actions, but he doesn’t tease, even though you can see the amusement in his eyes when he pulls away to look at you. He’s enjoying this, and if you’re honest with yourself, you are, too. If only it didn’t come at the price of your dignity - but if it’s going to fall away in front of anyone, it might as well be him.

His hands slide down to your thighs, and your whole body pulls tight, torn between wanting him to touch you now and not wanting him to stop what he’s doing.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting against your ear. “I’ve got you, darling.”

You let out a shaky breath and try to coax your body into cooperating, shutting your eyes and letting the feel of him drown out the path of your thoughts. The sensation of his mouth, trailing down your neck, ranging between feather-light kisses and the barely-there sting of his teeth against the skin, making every inch of you melt into his touch like clay. His hands, sliding to the front of your top, deftly unlacing it and pulling it away from your skin.

Thank the gods no one is anywhere around this area - if anyone were to interrupt you, you’re sure you’d die right here and now. The simmering need that lies under your skin is bordering on painful, a white-hot delirium of impatience that will not be ignored any longer.

Astarion’s fingers skim across your sternum, further soothing the burning inside your chest, and his lips soon follow downward. You let out a soft noise from the back of your throat, something choked and desperate, and he hums against your skin in response.

When your eyes flutter open again, you find that he’s staring up at you as he kisses down your abdomen, eyes dark and hands curled lightly around your ribs, ardor and affection both palpable in the heat of his gaze.

Your instinct is to shut your eyes again - to shut out the intimacy and vulnerability that comes from holding his stare - but you don’t. Instead, you move the stiff muscle of your arm and coax your hand into working again, gently tangling your fingers into the silky-smooth, silvery curls in your lap.

He gives you a roguish grin, tugging on your bottoms until they finally, mercifully, pull away from your skin, leaving you in nothing but your smallclothes.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, the words dark and heavy on his tongue, but they feel more for him than for you. His brows crease together and his actions turn sure and firm and quickened - as if he can’t wait to have his mouth on you.

Beautiful. It’s the second time he’s called you that word tonight, but it doesn’t stop the heat from rising back into your cheeks, and that feeling of the warmth seems to spark a chain reaction.

It’s as if his voice is stoking the fire - more heat, all rushing to the very place his lips are heading to now, only to be soothed by his touch. He gently pulls at your thighs, coaxing you to lay on your back, and you’re so desperate that you nearly knock your head against the hard floor laid out beneath you in your effort to obey.

Your mind isn’t processing things the way it usually does: in an even, progressing line of events, every moment spread out from one to the next. Rather, everything comes in bursts of feeling, flashing between being a thousand miles away and all too close, all too present. You barely feel the graze of fabric when he removes your smallclothes and leaves you entirely bare, but the gentle, wet press of his tongue against you feels amplified a thousand times over.

“Astarion,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair.

He hums again, and the feeling of it has you shivering, muscles going slack in pleasure. Short, soft flicks of his tongue over your clit and you’re left a shuddering mess, not thinking to try to be quiet - not really thinking at all, anymore. He grips at one of your thighs, looping it over his shoulder as he pulls away for a moment, nipping at the tender flesh there. Soothing it with a gentle kiss, then returning to his work.

You’re a walking - or perhaps laying - contradiction. Your arousal is lava hot, but your pleasure is cold as ice. You can’t decide if you’re cold or hot or both or neither. You’re not in a place to think, not as blinding bursts of pleasure course up your spine, rendering you a lump of skin and bones and not much more. His mouth is nothing if not fervent.

You aren’t sure how long it lasts - your hand in his hair, his mouth against you, writhing in dizzying pleasure against the hard, stone floor and barely feeling the discomfort. It might not be very long at all - but it feels like hours before his fingers enter you.

You’re soaking wet. If you weren’t so focused on, well, everything else, it’d be humiliating. Still, when two fingers slip into you and meet no resistance whatsoever, Astarion groans. The pace he’s setting with both hand and tongue is torturous, slow and even, and it takes everything in you not to beg him for more.

But when he goes a little faster, a moan pulls from your throat, and you look down to find him grinning as he pulls away, fingers still at work. “Look at you,” he says, praise lilting the words as he curls his fingers - sending your hips rolling. “You’ll come for me, won’t you, darling?”

And as if he’s flicked a switch in your mind, you’re coming around his fingers, gasping and shuddering and clenching. Electricity seems to coarse through your veins, hot and sharp, flaming and radiant, and when it’s gone, there’s only the slickness between your thighs, a slight breathless laughter that escapes from you without a thought, and the fading warmth of the spores.

For a moment, it seems as though there might be relief. Your thoughts clear and the heat wanes, but after a sparse second or two of relief, it comes back as strong as ever.

You’d be disappointed at its reappearance, but then Astarion is crawling over you, using his knee to coax your legs apart for him, so how could you ever be disappointed? Everything else slips away except for him. His eyes, dark with want, his lips, molding against yours, his tongue, gently pressing into your mouth as he buries a hand in your hair.

He’s hard for you. You can feel it, and that realization has you grinding against him. He groans, cursing under his breath, then reaches down to undo his trousers. “Are you ready for me, love?” he asks, his voice half-broken with want.

You laugh, still trembling from your climax. “You know I am.”

“Mm,” he hums, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “But maybe I wanted to hear you say it for me, darling.”

Gods. He’s beautiful - always so beautiful - even here, in this dark, cold cave you’ve found. A work of art down to the dark circles under his eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes, his smile lines.

You could spend a thousand years studying the art of him and never, ever get bored; not of his voice, and the way his confidence sometimes, ever so rarely, breaks into something real and raw. Not of his hands: nimble fingers and the calluses from his blade and soft skin - and not of his eyes, which seem both dark and light depending on his mood, and which can seem so sharp and severe at times, but sometimes soften into something soft and round. Sometimes. When they’re looking at you.

You could spend a thousand years admiring him and never, ever get tired of him, and never, ever deserve him. And he’d never believe it.

He’s noticed you staring, because of course he has, and he tilts his head. “What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?”

You can only smile, deliriously happy and wanting and both hot and cold - hot where the warmth burns uncontained, and cold everywhere his skin meets yours. “I love you.”

Your words must catch him by surprise, because it’s shock that meets his expression first. It fades away into affection, placing itself on his lips in a soft smile. “I - I love you too,” he answers, brushing a stray strand of your hair out of your face. “More than anything.”

He clears his throat and shifts, and as you feel his erection brush against you, only then do you remember the conversation you two had been having. Him between your legs. You, still needing him inside of you.

“I’m ready for you,” you breathe. “Please. I want you.”

“How could I say no?” he asks, leaning in and biting at the lobe of your ear.

He presses into you slowly, even though you don’t need it - not after the effects of the spores and your first climax still evident on your thighs. Only when he once again begins a slow, torturous pace do you realize that he’s doing it to tease you, and when you look up and find a certain amount of devious intent in his eyes, a shudder runs down your back.

He’s always seemed to enjoy watching you fall apart. How many times have you looked up in the middle of one of your late-night trysts to find his eyes on you, the darkened ruby gaze that seems as starved for you as his hunger for blood?

How many times has he eased your arm away from your face when you felt the need to hide yourself, and how many times has he gently pulled your hand away from your mouth so he could hear the noises you made for him?

There’s never really been a question about it; Astarion gets off on your pleasure, and the feeling is very, very mutual. Vulnerability aside, it does something beyond words to you to know how much he enjoys giving you pleasure. And, sure as the hells, you like to give it right back to him. So, keeping your gaze locked on his, you grind your hips down to meet him and let out a moan.

His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, his thrusts deepening as he props himself over you. You watch the lovely path of the action over the bob of his Adam’s apple, then flit your eyes back to his, letting out another noise.

“Gods,” he says, and his pace quickens. His hands wrap around your shoulders and he groans, panting as he rocks into you, his grip turning into something almost bruising.

Part of you desperately wants him to keep going - but the other part of you wants to give him something, and now seems the proper time for it. So you tilt your head to give him access to your neck and murmur a few, soft words, and he slowly comes to a halt: breathing heavily, nails digging into your skin as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.

He kisses down your jaw, slowly drags his teeth along the skin, then sinks his fangs into your neck. You’re used to the sharp pain of his bite, but it’s different today. Intensified. It’s as if his mouth on your skin, the barely-there pain, is salving through that fire and every single limb of yours goes slack with…

What is it? Pleasure? Affection? Relief? It’s something in between, something warm but not scorching, something sweet but not overly-saccharine. He starts moving his hips again and you’re instantly on the edge, planting your hands on his lower back underneath his scars and resisting the urge to dig your nails into the skin.

He’s drunk from you enough times since you met to know where the limit lies, even on the cusp of his climax. He drains you until you’re sufficiently lightheaded, but not enough to harm you, then pulls away, planting a messy kiss on your mouth.

Messy. It’s how you know he’s close. His actions are usually so graceful, his movements lithe and calculated. Only on the edge of orgasm do the pretenses fall away - his shaking thighs, soft moans into your lips, panting, blood smeared across his lips and almost certainly yours.

There’s a blinding moment of pleasure as he thrusts harder, deeper, neither of you caring about the level of noise you’re making, and your nails dig into his back. He lets out a groan of approval, then - gods, you’re climaxing again, your whole body trembling with the waves of pleasure that crash over you. Overwhelming at first, then receding into the brief moment of clarity that lasts a minute or two this time.

Then the spores start their work again.

The heat isn’t nearly as intense this time, but it’s still there. Part of you wonders if it’ll ever really fade. You lay still, gasping, as Astarion slowly pulls out of you. Then he brushes the damp hair out of your face and kisses you again.

“Darling,” he starts breathlessly, flashing a mischievous grin at you, “if this is where we’ll end up, you should fall into mysterious spores more often.”

You laugh, sending a playful, light hit toward his shoulder. He catches your hand mid-action, pressing a kiss to your palm, holding your gaze the entire time. “You’re not the one who feels like they’re on fire, Astarion.”

He hums, kissing back down your neck, cleaning up the remnants of blood from his bite. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, his voice gravelly with want.

That gives you pause. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says with some effort, propping himself above you, “whatever those spores were - they seem to have entered your bloodstream, my dear. It’s - an interesting sensation, I’ll admit.”

You’re searching his face for a tell that he’s not being serious, but instead you find wide, blown out pupils, flushed cheeks, and nothing beside his usual mischievousness. Any blood left in your face quickly exits. “Gods, I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He presses another soft kiss to your lips, and you see a small smear of your blood on his lips. When you lick your lips, you can taste the iron of it on your tongue.

Astarion is watching you. His gaze darkens, and he lets out another thin, broken groan. “Darling. At this rate, we’ll be going the whole night.”

And, honestly? With the rate the heat is returning - you don’t doubt it.

Still, you gently ease him off of you to sit up, then make your way into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

There’s something addictive about Astarion - there always has been. From the moment he’d had you against the dirt, a dagger to your neck, he’s been your fix.

In those first days when you’d had to hide your want for him - not even lust or sheer desire, but want; the ache to run your finger through silver curls, the warmth in your cheeks when he held your gaze just a moment too long, and the rare moments of vulnerability that came more and more as you’d gotten to know him - it had been torture.

And then he’d propositioned you. And all at once, you’d found yourself in a clearing under silver moonlight, alone with him, long before you ever knew the extent of what had been done to him - and after all this time, the craving for him, the need to lay beside him in the long nights and find him there come morning, has only ever gotten so much stronger.

The heat is somewhat bearable now. Enough to take a moment to admire him, head tilted as he gazes up at you, pure need simmering in his eyes. Dark, glinting rubies. His fangs, barely visible under parted lips. Flushed cheeks. That will fade before long; the rosiness of drinking never lasts more than a few minutes, but you admire it all the same.

“You’re beautiful.” The words are hushed. You hadn’t even meant to speak them, but your mind isn’t really yours at the moment, not wholly, not as firm as it should be. You feel half-drunk, half-needy.

The corners of his lips flick into a smile, and he raises a brow. “Oh?” he asks, clearly stealing for more flattery. “Do you think so?”

You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You know I do.”

You gather a single, loose curl in your fingertips and gently roll it between your thumb and index finger, admiring the softness of it. You could use the same soaps, wash your hair with the same things he uses a thousand times over, and it’d never matter. It’d never be as soft as his.

“Anything in particular?” he asks. His voice is particularly airy; he’s battling between begging you for what he needs, and the compliments he likes so much.

You think back to when you’d first described him - that night beneath the stars, when he’d tossed the mirror aside and asked how you viewed him. Words hadn’t been enough then, and they still aren’t, but you’ll try.

“Your eyes,” you start, running your finger over his crow’s feet. “They change color in the light. Right now, they’re dark. Hungry. I can tell you want me, and I like that.”

His hands, which have strayed to the back of your thighs, tighten against your skin. “And? What else?”

The heat’s strength is back, clawing its way up your abdomen. “The way your hair curls around your ears,” you murmur.

He frowns, and you know you’ve gone too poetic. To distract him, you lean in and nip at the lobe of one, and any of his upset disintegrates.

“Gods,” he murmurs, bringing his hands up to your waist. “Darling, I can’t wait much longer-”

You’ve trailed down to his jaw, alternating between kisses and sharp little nips just like the ones he likes to give you, and the words die in his mouth in favor of a sharp inhale.

You won’t keep him waiting much longer. In fact, you have a plan. A plan that’d hatched from the moment you’d realized that the spores were in his system, too. Since you’d seen the hungry look in his eyes - every inch a predator circling around its prey.

Only, you’re not content to be the prey. You want to disarm him, and if any of the time you’ve spent together means anything, you’ve gotten very, very good at that.

His shirt is still on, so your hands are quick to remove it, tugging it away from cooling porcelain skin, silky under your fingers as you drag them down his sternum. He shudders, and you remember how it’d felt when he’d first touched you. If it’s anything like that, he’s probably dying to beg you for more.

Your lips soon follow the path your hands are sitting, taking your time with the softness of his abdomen before you pull his trousers away. He’s panting now, and a frenzied sort of desperation lies in his gaze when you look up at him.

And he’s hard again. Leaking.

You lightly trace your nails down his thighs, silently relishing in the way his breath hitches - the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you.

“Gods,” he says again, and though it isn’t a direct request, with the broken way it falls off his tongue, this time it is every bit a plea.

And you’re in a mood to please.

You take his cock in hand, swiping your thumb over the head, where precum is slowly leaking, and he lets out a long, breathy noise. You hum in response, taking his length between your lips, and the sound becomes strained, more needy. His hand gently makes its way into your hair, very lightly guiding you where he wants, but not forcefully.

You alternate between things: long, even movements of your mouth as you drag your tongue down the shaft, swirling your tongue around the head, then sucking him hard and slow. Eventually, simply following the guidance of his hand. His grip tightens in your hair - not painful, just encouraging - and his noises become more drawn out, less coherent.

When you pull away for a moment, using your hand to continue what your mouth had just been doing, you find him dangerously close. You press a kiss to the head and take him in again, increasing pace, accommodating him as you take him in as far as you possibly can, and he starts whimpering.

“Please,” he says, and if that isn’t a rare word to hear from him.

On another day, you might tease him, but you don’t want to. Not now, while he’s begging to have you. Instead, you take him as deep as you can again and suck harder. Astarion tugs at your hair and his thighs shudder and you know he’s close.

“Please,” he says again. “Gods, don’t stop.”

And you wouldn’t dream of it. What you can’t take into your mouth, you use your hand to stroke, and that’s it. He’s coming.

There’s something artful about it - the tremor that runs through him, the salty taste of him in your mouth, and those seeking, breathless sounds that come out of him as he spills onto your tongue. A long, shaky inhale as he pumps his hips, still chasing out his pleasure, then the trembling exhale as his mind starts to come back to him.

He doesn’t soften, and you don’t take your mouth off him. Not yet.

Usually, Astarion can be counted on for two orgasms, but if those spores are doing anything remotely like what they were doing to you, there’s certain to be much, much more than that.

“By the hells,” he murmurs airily, running a hand down your back. “You’re going to kill me, darling.”

You pull away for a moment, kissing at his abdomen, keeping his eyes locked on his as you do. “Does that mean you want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, trailing your nails along the skin of his thigh.

He swallows hard. “Gods, don’t,” he pleads.

And you don’t.

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #astarion x you #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 x reader #mywriting

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kedsandtubesocks · 6 months

Text

seasons of you (year 1 - spring)

Farmer!Joel Miller x F!Reader

summary: it’s your very first spring living in the valley & you’re very sure Joel Miller already wants you leave

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI, stardew valley AU, reader is a new farmer & has a family but no physical description, mentions of unspecified age gap (reader’s age is not mentioned but Joel is older & in his 50’s) very light use of gendered language, handyman & farmer!Joel, grumpy!Joel, wound tending & blood imagery, discussion of family loss with light navigation of grief, Ellie being Joel’s daughter, secret softie!Joel, alcohol consumption mention, use of nickname, budding romance

word count: 5.4k

a/n: our first ‘Joel’ fic for our stardew AU series! Here’s to starting this new aventure with y’all! I couldn’t have the strength to post this without @swiftispunk @lowlights @ahauntedcowboy @burntheedges @perotovar you angels don’t know how much I appreciate y’all and am so grateful for you babes…and to you, if you read this - I’m so thankful for you too ♡

No one in Pelican Town hates you more than Joel Miller does. George, the crabby older elderly man in town, might be a close second, but Joel has him beat by miles.

For someone so incredibly handsome, almost beautiful in a rugged wilderness way with his misty mountain gray hair and sharp lovely nose, his glare could wither your entire family farm’s field.

“He’s just an ass sometimes.” Your Dad had told you with a sigh over the phone. “Been that way even when your gramps was around.”

At first you didn’t want to fully admit it but yeah, Joel is a prickly cactus of a man.

He owns a farm further down the path from yours. You love walking by it when you take the long way home and getting to spot all the sheep roaming around his fields. He’s also the town’s handyman.

“A jack of all trades, more like it.” Pierre, the main store owner, snickered that to you while Joel was in the store fixing a light fixture.

After that Joel helped you set up your first fencing gate. Then he fixed your sink. And then your water heater.

It’s been a lot and you know it. You feel guilty at how bad you can’t seem to get a hang of this new life yet. Your grandpa did it, thrived even. You can too, or you hope you can.

Until Joel glares at you like you’re a bug ready to squash, then you feel incredibly small.

Once you physically and accidentally ran into him walking out of the blacksmith’s shop when he was heading in. You sputtered out an apology, but without a single word Joel walked past you as if you weren’t even worth his time.

One night you went to the town’s saloon hoping to maybe mingle and get to know everyone better. But simply seeing him sitting inside made you turn on your heels and scramble out.

From that point on you’ve been avoiding him.

But now unfortunately, a few paces away from Joel Miller’s farm, your hand bleeds out a bit aggressively.

“Shit.” You hiss, slipping off your backpack to search for your mini first aid kit.

Yesterday you stubbornly tried fixing your fence and accidentally scrapped your hand pretty bad against the wood. Earlier you believed you wrapped it good enough but now the blood soaking through the bandaid mocks you.

“You alright?!”

The sharp accented drawl rings out loud in the early morning and fear collides into you.

Of course Joel hadn’t left for the morning.

You yell back that you’re fine but scramble frantic now trying to find the damn first aid kit.

“Is that blood?” Joel snaps, sounding closer, as his boots rush against the dirt.

“No, I spilled paint.” You grumble to yourself annoyed.

“M’old but I fuckin’ heard that.” Damn.

He’s much closer now, so close his shadow falls over you but you refuse to look at him.

“What happened!?” He barks confused.

Sighing, you give up hope on finding the poor elusive first aid kit.

“Just cut my hand, that's all. It isn’t deep. I’m fine.” You reassure him.

Joel sighs angrily.

“Come on.”

Now you turn and discover his soil eyes stare at you with such a steeled intensity you almost want to scurry away.

“Fixin’ this up inside.” He doesn’t even ask or let you leave. With one yank Joel Miller pulls you towards his farmhouse.

“I’m fine.” You snap back.

“What? Just wanna let it bleed ‘n get everywhere?” An edge in Joel’s voice silences you.

Any argument you wanted to hiss out immediately floats away the moment you cross the threshold into his house. Your eyes go wide. You never once thought you’d ever see the inside of Joel Miller’s place.

It’s larger than your grandpa's.

Joel deposits you into his kitchen. The lingering smell of breakfast, possibly oatmeal with its warm cinnamon notes, hangs in the air. Yet you feel like a caught feral cat that doesn’t know how to react being inside a house for the first time.

So you let your eyes wander.

Beautiful wood cupboards line the walls. A fridge is covered with various papers held up by sweet colorful cartoonish magnets you never would’ve expected from him. A worn cozy, well loved, couch peeks out from the slight view of the living room you spot being inside the kitchen.

Joel’s house seems knitted together by a rustic weathered comfort. Yet, there’s a hollowness to the house, like it’s waiting for more spirit to fill the halls. You can’t pinpoint or describe the stillness here in this place, but you sense it.

After rustling around a drawer, Joel yanks out a rather impressive medical kit. Largely bulky and intimidating, like him, it’s no surprise a handyman and farmer has such a first aid kit.

“How’d it happen?” Joel asks gruff and quiet as he rummages around the bag.

You tell him and his seasoned face scrunches up frustrated.

“Why didn’t ya call and have me go fix it?”

You thought about that. But you couldn’t handle the thought of asking him to help again, to deal with his frustrated sighs and gruff annoyance. He barely said a word to you last weekend when he went to check your sink again.

“Don’t need you to fix everything.” You tell him composed while Joel pulls out various things to wrap your wound.

“Besides, I can fix things on my own.” You add firm.

“Not all the time.” He replies.

You stay quiet and watch his hands, large and callous, gingerly dab away all the crimson from your cut.

He’s never been this close to you. You catch the faintest smell of wood and of something clean crisp, his laundry detergent maybe. It threatens to fog your senses knowing he smells this lovely.

“Y’dont ask for help and shit like this happens.”

Your face hardens at Joel’s words. You even childishly want to yank away your hand and storm off.

“Look I get it, you barely tolerate me and think I can’t do shit. I know I’m still new, but this was an accident. It happens.” Your words come out harsher than you intended, sharpened scythes that cut through the room, and Joel freezes.

“I don’t think that.” He replies clear as a spring blue sky.

You want to bark a laugh of disbelief, but instead you simply stay silent.

Joel sighs, keeping his eyes on the medic tape he readies.

“And I… tolerate you.” He sputters like he’s trying to muster the words out.

A moment passes. Then Joel sighs, ancient and heavy.

“Don’t mind me. M’just some grumpy old fuck-”

“Hey you’re not old. You’re just grumpy.” You interrupt trying to ease the mood and your heart jumps hearing him snort.

“M’old.” He clarifies. He is older, older than you, and that fact creates a strange flutter in your chest you don’t want to explore just yet.

“And…don’t want ya feelin’ like shit.” He continues with a curt softness.

You never knew his voice could sound this layered, so tough but tender.

“Just tryin’ to look out for ya like your gramps asked me too.”

There’s a strange apology shaded in his words but you manage to catch it. A rush of emotions drown you in their current.

“You were close with my grandpa.” You comment with a curious question lingering below the surface.

“Yeah,” Joel answers low now tenderly moving to wrap your hand. “His ol’ ass used to keep me in place.”

You smirk fondly. That sounds like your gramps.

“Miss seein’ him walk by this place and hearin’ him complain that he likes the sheep more than me.”

Joel’s fond and aching voice digs its hooks into your soul. You miss gramps too, so much.

“Used to fish a lot together out by the lake.” He adds.

This is the most Joel Miller has ever spoken to you and you worry the sun might fall out of the sky soon.

“I bet he out fished you.” You tease soft.

Joel snorts. “Damn right he did.”

You can almost picture it clearly, your gramps and Joel laughing together, having a friendship.

“He’d be proud of ya.” Joel mutters but his words chime clear.

Your attention flickers to Joel. He keeps his focus steady on your hand. However his words crystallize deep in your heart and you blink away tears. You ever expected Joel Miller to almost make you cry like this.

“Thanks…means a lot.” You truthfully tell him while you swallow back the heartache and love threatening to spill over.

“He’d also say you’re a fuckin’ stubborn thing for not askin’ for help.”

You snort at that.

“Well you knew the old guy, it runs in the family.” You reply.

Joel chuckles.

It’s small - like the faint flash of seeing a cardinal in the trees. But you heard it, his amusement, and it’s lovely for a man quietly layered as him.

“Alright, all fixed up.”

The wrap is tight, secure, and speaks of his many times previously doing this before.

“Thank you Joel, appreciate it.” You do.

“Can't be a handyman if I can’t fix up people sometimes.” He shrugs but there’s a deadpan charm to his words you’re slowly catching now.

“Doctor and a handyman, no wonder the town keeps you around.” So you dryly joke back.

This moment isn’t much. Yet it feels like gaining a good step in the direction of something right and solid.

Gathering your things, you decide to head out. Even though curiosity claws at you to take in a few more moments being inside Joel Miller’s home, you have seeds to buy.

“Where ya headin’’ to?” Joel asks.

“Pierre’s.” You huff. “Need more parsnips.”

He hums a noise of acknowledgment.

Back outside the mid morning sun’s warmth soaks you in its gaze. Maybe you could fish for a bit before you head to the store. After all, the weather is so nice.

“Hey.” Joel barks out and before heading back on the road, you turn to him.

He’s a sight on his porch. You think of the typical romance movies of the handsome farmer trying to woo the newcomer in town and how right now he puts them all to shame.

Hands crossed over his chest, his broad shoulders seem like mountains against the doorway, so striking and large taking up the entire focus.

“Don’t hesitate to call y’hear? Don’t fuckin’ care what it is or what it’s for, call me.” Joel’s face is hardened and serious, reflecting the unwavering tone in his voice.

Something heated crawls up your throat and makes you dizzy. You blame it on the blood loss.

“Besides, s’what neighbors are for, right?” He adds a bit awkwardly.

It hits you. He’s the closest homestead to you. You are neighbors with him.

“Alright will do, promise.” You nod and mean your words.

“Thanks again neighbor.” Those words tingle on your lips.

Joel nods and with that you head out.

You’re on such a strange high you simply float straight to the pier and fish. It’s comforting being among the crashing waves, the sea breeze, and the wonderful weather. You also think of your gramps and Joel here.

But by the time the sky starts to turn into a ripe tangerine you realize in horror you forget to buy more seeds.

You almost scream in anguish when you find Pierre’s doors locked. Accepting momentary defeat, you head home.

When you reach your porch, there against the steps a bundle of parsnip seeds and a small pack of bandaids sit waiting for you.

- ☼ -

Your hope to quietly enjoy the egg festival, your true first event here in the valley, is diminished when Mayor Lewis practically drags you into the egg hunt saying it’s a rite of passage.

His deadly polite politician smile said there was no way you could worm your way out of participating. So you simply start the hunt thinking of the strawberry seeds you can’t wait to plant once this is over.

You’re not overly competitive, but these eggs are getting harder to find. You want to finish at least with some dignity.

Besides the area around Stardrop Saloon you scan every inch like a hawk. Someone coughs, clearing their throat, and it catches your attention.

Under the shade of the building, nursing a cold drink, Joel slightly turns towards you.

Now instead of a hawk you feel like a surprised field mouse caught in his gaze.

Without saying anything Joel flickers his eyes a couple of times towards the corner of the building. Is he giving you a hint?

Heading to the spot his eyes vaguely guided you to, you discover a colorful egg.

You almost want to keep it as proof this happened. Joel helped you.

By the time the egg hunt ends everyone already seems to be packing up and the mysterious Mr. Miller has vanished from the commotion.

Abigail wins the egg hunt and you aren’t even upset. In fact you walk home feeling like a champion.

The next morning on the help wanted and errands bulletin board in town you spot Joel’s name. Below it is a request asking for a small pack of wood.

You readily answer it and drop off the bundle eagerly, a way to help pay him back for everything.

The pretty decent payment he gives you is nice but the crooked soft hint of a grin on his face when you arrive to deliver the request is worth iridium.

A few days after that he mails you a recipe. The letter is so simply Joel - a straightforward recipe then a scribbled JM below it. You hang the letter up proudly on your fridge.

Spring blooms more and more before your eyes.

You decide to take advantage of it by foraging for the day.

“Where y’heading?”

You’ve been taking the long way to the forest these past few weeks in hopes of seeing him again. Now that you’re not actively avoiding him, you discover, small town or not, Joel is a surprisingly busy man.

When you catch glimpses of him, instead of glares being thrown your way, Joel Miller simply nods acknowledging you. Comforting as it is to know he doesn’t outright detest, you don’t like how much you hope to run into him more.

Now he’s here sliding on his backpack while moving to lock his gate.

“Just heading to the forest, gonna forage and walk around for the day.” You answer him.

“Works out, hafta head that way myself.” Joel explains falling into step besides you.

Alone with Joel Miller once again.

The small talk comes - asking each other how your days have been, anything new or interesting happening. The heat is starting to pick up announcing summer’s close arrival. Thankfully it’s still not unbearably hot as you and him fully enter the woods.

Cindersap forest is tranquil. A beautiful glimmering evergreen haven you enjoy simply strolling through. You never thought you’d ever be here with Joel.

“No new crops coming in?”

“Nothing exciting.” You shrug. “I’m more upset that I didn't plant any tulips this season.”

“Those your favorite?” Joel asks, surprisingly curious.

“Not mine, my gramps.” Your memories of the farm might be hazy, but you always remembered fresh tulips in the kitchen.

“They’re for the fairies.” Gramps would tell you with a wink.

You were bummed after realizing Pierre had flower seeds and it was too late to see them bloom in your kitchen.

“Damn,” Joel sighs. “Ain't your fault. Pierre’s an ass and hides all the good shit, flower seeds included.”

You’re almost positive Pierre doesn’t do that, but you burst out laughing.

A giddy twinkling glee consumes you and fills you buoyant. He’s trying to comfort you in his own Joel way. And it’s dangerous how fast you’re growing to enjoy the company of this grumpy cactus of a man.

You move to snag a few dandelions and wild horseradishes. You make a face at one that smells a bit ripe and decide to leave it for the forest.

“You can eat those y’know.” Joel comments.

“Yeah so I’ve heard.” You tried your first ever daffodil this month. “A wild horseradish might be a bit too much right now though, but who knows. Maybe one day I’ll try ‘em.”

“My kid used to eat these all the damn time. Never took a likin’ to ‘em myself.” Joel grumbles kicking the disposed horseradish.

Kid.

“You have a kid?” You ask curiously.

Joel blinks to you and there’s a gleam in his earth eyes of something reserved slowly revealing itself.

“Uh… yeah. A daughter. Ellie.”

A daughter. He’s a dad.

It fits him in a way that you never would have expected.

“She doesn’t live here?” You ask but then quickly apologize for pressing the subject. Joel waves you off, casual and unbothered.

“She did, just graduated highschool this year. Wanted to do the whole college deal. She lives out west now.”

So he’s an empty nester.

Delicately, wanting to know more about him and his daughter, you ask about her.

Joel inhales deep then exhales slowly, as if an immovable weight on his shoulders rattles deep to his bones.

“She’s a headache, my Ellie.” Fondness trickles out of Joel a steady stream.

“Stubborn, damn near impossible to argue with cause she’s so fuckin’ smart. Got a good heart. Good head on her shoulders too, wants to be an astronaut.”

“An astronaut?! That’s incredible!” You exclaim in brilliant excitement.

Like the proud dad he is, adoration tugs at Joel’s lips.

“Yeah, been wantin’ to be one for years. That’s why she’s going to school.”

“She sounds incredible, Joel. You must be proud.” You earnestly tell him.

“I am…” His voice is thick, and you don’t miss the way his eyes gloss over distant and misty.

You decide not to press the subject any further. He instead does it for you.

“She loved livin’ here until the damn flower festival rolled around. Then she’d swear up ‘n down about how much she hated this town and was gonna leave the second she could.”

The flower festival is just days away. The town swirls in a controlled chaos for its arrival.

You laugh warm. “I’m guessing she’s not a fan of dancing.”

“Takes after me.” Joel nods.

“Ahh…so guess that means you’re not asking anyone to dance this year.” You comment lightly and Joel snorts.

“Ain’t danced with anyone in a very long time.”

A wistful ace now twists your heart thinking of Joel alone in his home, alone watching the others in town pair off.

“You gonna ask anyone?” Joel turns the question around to you and you almost choke on an inhale.

Not wanting to get flustered or react wildly you focus on the wild springs among the lush forest.

“Uh no. Don’t think anyone wants to dance with the newbie in town. Which is fine.” You answer.

There are lovely and gorgeous people in town. Some have caught your eye. However, you didn’t feel brave or interested enough to ask anyone to dance. And no one seemed intended to ask for your hand in the dance, and you find you’re not too upset about that.

Joel hums low, a sign you’re catching on means he’s listening without having to reply much.

“Hopin’ someone will ask ya to dance?” That question takes you by surprise.

You shrug not wanting to fully answer the question either.

Someone suddenly calls out to Joel from behind. At the edge of the forest leading back into town stands Maria, the town’s legal counsel and assistant mayor.

“Caught playing hooky, busted.” You snicker and Joel scoffs.

Maria yells out Joel’s name again.

“Can you come back to town and help us with something? Thought you’d be at home seeing how it’s your day off today. I’ve been trying to call ya but nothing went through.” She yells.

The service here in the forest was awful compared to the town, a hard lesson you’ve learned quickly.

But you also don’t miss Maria’s comment.

Joel had today off. Yet he decided to stay a bit with you. That thought has teeth and you can’t stop their bite from sinking into your heart.

Joel groans but doesn't hesitate to head towards where the assistant mayor stands. Maria of course spots you and a wonderful grin lights up lovely her face.

“It’s good to see you.” She calls out.

“You too!” You reply back thankful your voice is level.

Joel glances over his shoulder to catch your eye.

“Good luck foragin’. Don’t eat any weird shit.”

You sputter out a squawk at his casual comment.

“Next time I see you, I’m giving you a wild horseradish!” You playfully snap the ridiculous reply before you can even stop yourself, but Joel thankfully rolls his eyes unbothered.

Maria’s eyes however flicker curiously between you and Joel. Too many emotions heat up your skin now. So bidding Joel and Maria a quick goodbye you stomp back into the forest to continue foraging.

Now along in the woods, your thoughts still think of Joel. The bag of parsnip seeds, the bandages, and the recipe, come to mind. You never once discussed any of it with him or him with you. It’s something you keep locked in your heart, just like today will be.

Soon the day melts into early twilight. You snag a couple of dandelions and a few other forageables before deciding to head home.

Joel’s farm house looms quietly still with no lights. You can’t bring yourself to open the gate to his farm and walk up to the house.

So instead you place a few dandelions along with a nice fresh large wild horseradish on top of the mailbox by his gate then head home.

Even when you unwind for the night, you mind still feels like it’s snagged on Joel Miller, still there with him foraging in the forest.

- ☼ -

The flower dance, as strange of a custom as it is, is rather ethereal. So many vivid floral arrangements decorate the space with dynamic colors and the air even smells fresh.

The flower dance honors the legacy of celebrating the final days of spring. But it also is a celebration of love blooming.

“It has roots dating back to fertility rituals.” Demetrius, ever the town scientist, told you while you were chatting with him and his wife.

He was right of course. The flower dance is the opportunity for someone to extend a hand of romantic feelings towards another. Those who hope to participate in the couples dance, or possibly win the crown of Flower Queen, are dressed in glorious attire. Soft light fabrics and flowers woven into crowns create a scene conjured out of a fairy’s kingdom.

Compared to the others in lovely attire with flowers in their hair, you didn’t even dress up or change out of your messy dirt covered jeans. And the only flowers in your hair are actually twigs and leaves from cleaning up more of your property.

With no need to worry about someone asking you to dance, you instead simply enjoy the various foods prepared for the occasion.

“Be careful, the salsa actually has a pretty good kick.” You’re about to go in for a second helping when a gentle accented voice floats out to you.

Besides you is a man with the kindest eyes you’ve seen. Faintly you recognize his face and can recall seeing him around town.

“Tommy Miller.” He reintroduces himself seeing your slight hesitation and your eyes go big.

“Oh, Maria’s husband!” You fully remember her introducing him to you. But now something else clicks.

He’s Joel’s brother.

“Yup.” He grins proud at his wife’s mention.

You apologize profusely for not remembering him sooner and with a kind understanding smile Tommy reassures you it’s fine.

“Been a busy first month for ya, I get it. You’re a tough cookie handlin’ it all.”

Even though his twang mirrors his brother’s, Tommy already radiates a much different energy than Joel. He’s warm in a way that reminds you of a soft summer day welcoming everyone with his vibrant energy.

You thank him earnestly. “The town’s been good to me.”

A part of you wants to add Joel has been good to you. Weeks ago, you would’ve laughed at just the idea of Joel Miller showing you an emotion other than annoyance. But now you and him seem to slowly be warming up to each other.

“Don’t go stealin’ all the good stuff, y’little shit.” Joel arrives with a gruff grumble of a voice and quickly nudges Tommy.

Yet his eyes remained glued on you.

You also seem to notice how striking Joel looks in the crisp light jean button up shirt he wears.

“Speak of the devil… was just about to ask our new farmer here if ya haven’t scared her away yet.” Tommy jokes.

Joel’s face flickers with a scowl fighting to form but he keeps himself surprisingly composed.

Guilt sinks in your gut. You know he’s hard to read and you even feel bad for thinking he’s mean. Because you’re learning fast Joel is earnest in his own way.

“Nah,” you tell Tommy, answering for yourself and Joel almost. “His sheep are actually scarier than he is.”

Tommy busts out laughing and you grin. Your eyes flicker to Joel but see he isn’t grinning. Instead Joel’s handsome aged face stares at you guarded and you can’t read the emotions shimmering in his eyes.

Shit.

You might have overstepped and upset him. So to physically stop yourself from saying anything else you take a bite out of the delicious cornbread on your plate, wave a weak goodbye to the Miller brothers, and scurry away.

Now alone under the shadow of one of the lovely cherry trees, you’re aware of how new you still are, a fresh bud still trying to foster roots in this new ground. You wonder how your gramps dealt with this every year.

Soon enough, the music starts and Mayor Lewis claps excited ready to begin the dance.

At least this will be over soon.

The couples slowly sway to the soft melody then rustling arrives at your side. Gently your eyes turn to the source and you almost collapse seeing Joel move in besides you.

His eyes though stay on the couples dancing among the blooms.

“Could’ve at least picked better music to dance to.” He mumbles bored.

Your lips press hard trying not to smile ridiculous and wide.

“Could you imagine if someone played the wrong song?” You whisper back. “Like, some heavy metal rock song suddenly started screaming out?”

Joel snorts, masks it with a few coughs, but you did it. You made him laugh.

Golden soaked triumph fills you and it feels like the first morning you woke up and found a sprout peeking up from the dark tilled soil.

He’s a complex man and you’re barely even scratching the surface of him. But it’s a tender start you want to continue kindling.

For all the commotion and production given to the festival, the dance only lasts a few moments. It’s over thankfully fast.

“Bit anticlimactic.” You mutter under your breath.

“Yeah it’s dumb.” Joel deadpans.

Your lips fight from letting out a laugh.

Everyone claps joyously at the couples concluding their dance. You wonder, even as silly as this is, if one day maybe you’ll dance with flowers in your hair. But you don’t give that thought too much attention. Just imaging yourself next spring already seems so far away.

“Headin’ home?” Joel asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You hum, narrowing your eyes at the gorgeous meadow.

“I’m kind of tempted to maybe see if I can steal some of the leftovers but yeah, I’m heading back.” You reply.

“Tell me which food you’re eyein’ and I’ll grab it. No one will tell me no.” He offers and you laugh.

“Tempting as that is, I’m just gonna go home.” You wish Joel a warm good night.

He continues walking alongside you.

Your heart jumps until you realize he lives in the same direction. The chatter from the festival still lingers in the air even while you walk further away from the meadow.

“How do you deal with that every year?” You ask with a sigh.

“Alcohol.” Joel dully answers and you snicker at his reply.

“Maybe one day you’ll be dancin’ out there.” Joel comments like he’s trying to continue the small talk. But the suggestion makes you skin itch for a reason you can’t pinpoint.

You only reply with a simple ‘maybe’ and a shrug.

“I’d pay a hundred bucks to see you dance though.” You joke, but also quickly imagine Joel a picture of softness with a flower behind his ear resting beautifully among his silver curls and it makes your knees weak.

Joel however rolls his eyes.

“Next year we’ll just sneak in and take over the music. See what happens.” You offer.

“Now that sounds like a plan.” Joel agrees gruffly.

It sounds like a promise.

You bid him good night until his eyebrows crinkle so classily grumpy Joel.

“Whadya doin’? Ain’t lettin’ ya walk home alone, sprout. Now come on.”

He continues walking as if nothing while your mind tries to recover being tilted on its axis for a bit.

Joel is walking you home.

And he called you sprout.

You want to cradle this new nickname so tenderly in your hands.

Joel quietly asks about your plans for the upcoming season, almost as if he’s trying to keep you focused.

To settle your flutter heart, you manage to ramble about the new incoming seeds you’ve heard about. You talk about your hopes of going to the beach more, not just to fish but to simply enjoy the ocean.

Among all that discussion, in a blink you’re back at your farm.

Instead of Joel rushing home, he lingers.

He checks your porch almost like he’s making sure the thing still stands.

“Hope one day to see that dang greenhouse up ‘n runnin.” He points to the broken greenhouse and you can’t help but sigh at the sight. You hope so too.

Then Joel moves to stand next to you on the land.

It feels different seeing him here.

Just a few weeks ago he was shouting every profanity known to man trying to fix your ancient water heater. He also glared at you the entire time.

Now he stands next to you suggesting on what to grow for the upcoming season.

“You could plant the tomatoes over on this side, give ‘em more shade to grow.”

Joel already reminds you of a back alley cat, one that hisses and refuses to let others near until he decides when to warm up to others. And, like a fresh new sprout, you want to soak up this warmth of him up.

“Also… Don’t forget to plant flowers.” He adds with a soft grumble.

“I won’t.” You grin impressed he remembered.

When you bid him goodnight and thank him again, you almost want to promise you’ll stop by with coffee tomorrow morning.

However that feels too much, like you might make the wrong move and spook him. But you do want to know if he makes it home okay. You can’t even bring yourself to ask him for his phone number.

So you watch Joel leave until your thoughts move fast and you blurt them out.

“Wait how will I know you made it back?”

Joel suddenly stops then glances back to you.

A very soft twinkle comes over his face and he gives you a crooked grin. It colors him with such a boyish expression. This new face of Joel feels sacred, special, and it steals your breath away.

“Hang outside for a bit. I’ll give ya sign, don’t worry.” He nods then melts into the darkness.

You stay frozen on the spot, not wanting to miss whatever it is. You wait, hoping he makes it back safe. Then out from the darkness, far down the path, you see it.

A light from Joel’s house blazes alive.

Then it flickers on and off, like someone flipping the switch a few times. The movement of it against the darkness even feels like a wave of some sorts.

You wish so badly to wave back.

Reassured that he’s home, you head back feeling as light as a feather.

Stepping onto your porch, something catches your eye.

Resting on the main railing barrier are a batch of tulips that were not there when you left.

Your heart jumps into your throat. You didn’t even see Joel place them there.

Delicately placed, the tulips so brilliantly colored sit warm and bright for you - the most beautiful end to your spring.

Though, in your heart, these blooms feel like something closer to a beginning.

#I blame this on the Stardew valley update and thinking of sheep farmer Joel and here we are lol #but wow this au means so much and im so grateful to write this and if you read this me & Joel love you & are giving you a stardrop #joel miller x f!reader #farmer!joel miller #Joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller x you #stardew valley au #seasons of you fic series #Joel 🤎#pedrostories

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optimist-pine · 7 months

Text

Eloquence

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: implied injury, implied past emotional abuse

Summary: A short one shot/drabble.

Era: Season 2, the Farm

Daryl has never had much of a thing for words. His whole life he'd toed the line; two steps away from saying the wrong ones and paying the price. Words shine a light upon thoughts (which he preferred to keep to himself), and feelings (which almost always got out of hand.) They had perhaps been the worst weapons of his past, like hammers demolishing and striking down relentlessly instead of building up. Intentional or not.

After Merle left, blessedly taking his limited vocabulary with him, a rather peaceful silence emerged. It wasn't long before the absence grew to become it's own annoyance though, and that's when he found himself drawn to new words - yours. He'd never found words beautiful until he really heard you speak. As skillful and precise as a master practicing their craft, each word a genuine and perfect combination of head and heart. For the first time Daryl was intrigued enough to truly listen.

That didn't change how he was wired though. His frustration only grew each time he proceeded to act on his own impulsiveness and snap at someone, or when he reacted in the way he despised most. It felt as though his admiration for you in that regard was pushing all of his own shortcomings to the surface.

Regardless of his own insecurities, you must've at least found him to be a tolerable conversationalist. With increasing frequency he'd suddenly find himself the object of your attention, inquiring about his opinion on whatever the group had been discussing, or even just asking about him on a more personal level.

Most often though, you'd ask him to explain some aspect of hunting, tracking, or other obscure wilderness knowledge. Every time he immediately felt like an idiot, your patience and attentiveness making him nervous enough to stumble over some words and forget others.

"See how tha' one got cut off all sharp an' attan angle?" He asked, gesturing with the toe of his boot at a stem eaten off a few inches from the ground. "An', there ain't any leaves left."

You crouched down to get a better look at what was left of the little twig. "Rabbit?" You guessed, squinting up at Daryl's face.

A quick nod. "Yup." He replied.

"Yes!" You stood, pumping your fist in mock victory with a laugh. "You're a good teacher, Daryl." You smiled at him and his heart did a tiny summersault.

Truthfully you were quite intuitive. He'd barely had to teach you much of anything, and definitely nothing worthy of being praised for. "Naw." He grunted, turning to continue on your trek trough the woods. "Best get a move on."

"Hey." You huffed, jogging a bit to catch up with his quick strides. "I really do appreciate you taking the time." You grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop. You didn't start speaking again until he met your eyes. "You do make a good teacher. Unless you think I'm a liar." Your eyes were as unwavering as your grip on his arm and it made him feel like some unfortunate raccoon caught in headlights.

Your sudden firmness caught him off guard. Where your fingers wrapped around his bicep his skin practically burned, the heavy Georgian heat weighing down on him. He swallowed and then managed to scrape together a, "Course I don'."

Immediately the corner of your mouth quirked up. With a hum of satisfaction you released him, continuing your search for Sophia.

---

The next evening Daryl was more than relieved to hear your voice. Earlier that day the two of you had split up on your search in order to cover more ground, and after barely making it back in one piece himself he couldn't help but worry until your return.

Breathless, you called out his name, peeking into the bedroom that had become a sort of infirmary, your face twisted up with... worry? "Oh, thank God." You gasped.

He was pleased to see that you looked no worse for wear, but still he didn't like you being so upset for no reason. It agitated something within him to be anyone's burden. "What're y'all worked up about, woman?" He asked.

You hurried to his side, trying to slow your breathing. "Carol said you'd been shot in the head. I just- I..." You panted, eyes darting around, inspecting all of him enough to make him feel self conscious.

"Ya what?" It came out more gruffly than he'd intended.

You shook your head. He couldn't recall ever really seeing you at a loss for words. "I was afraid that you..." Your hand started to stretch towards him before you pulled away. "You're okay?" You asked, eyes wide.

He almost wished you hadn't pulled away so soon. Just to see if your touch still burned like it had before. "Yeah." He said quietly.

You hovered over him, apparently in no hurry to leave. He realized he didn't actually want you to leave, in fact, he desperately wanted you to stay, to have your company instead of being confined to this perfectly quiet room alone. Selfishness began to bloom inside him and he longed to hear you, to have your attention all to himself. He was certain your voice would soothe and heal more powerfully than any medicine or even time itself. Was it wrong to want that from you?

"Could ya read ta me?" He asked before he'd even decided to let the words out.

The red on your cheeks from the summer sun began to darken. "What?" You asked, slightly taken aback. Your eyebrows were drawn together as they always were when you were thinking.

He hadn't meant to say that aloud; sounding like some sort of small, scared kid asking for a bedtime story. Hell, he'd never had any of those even when he was a kid. "Sorry, nevermind." He muttered, pulling the covers up and turning his back to you.

"No, no. I can." You blurted, maybe a little too loudly. "That sounds nice. Haven't had the time to read, what with the end of the world and all." You laughed dryly. Had he made you uncomfortable? You sounded nervous the way you were rambling - he could hear your boots shifting on the hardwood floor.

The bed creaked as he rolled back over, but there you were, a small smile unhindered by the grime and dirt sprinkled across the rest of your skin. "Any uh... any requests?" You asked.

"Whatever ya like." He replied, then added, "Nothin' trashy."

And as you sat on the bed beside him, the soft candlelight flickering gently across your features in the darkness, his heart slowed and an unexpected warmth filled him. It was as if every kindness he'd ever experienced was multiplied, each one crammed inside of him until he was practically bursting and then the feeling flooded over him bringing the warmth to every part that he thought was doomed to stay cold forever.

He listened to the melody of your words, watched the way your eyes were losing the struggle to stay open, felt the heat from your side pressed ever so slightly against his. He felt like a child again, the overwhelming desire to be protected that had never been fulfilled when he was young. In this moment he felt more love than he had his whole life.

As sleep finally claimed you he quietly set the book aside, pulling you down into the comfort of the bed. He hesitated to blow out the candle, secretly relishing the peaceful look on your face. As the red glow of the wick faded away, he promised himself that someday he would have the words to tell you everything.

#twd #the walking dead #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #twd season 2 #optimist pine

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hpowellsmith · 11 months

Text

Honor Bound Public Update: Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of Honor Bound is up and playable for everyone. The demo is now around 135,000 words!

Things you can expect from this chapter:

go on a trip with students and their families, all of whom will be paying a lot of attention to how you conduct yourself

more friendly, flirty, and tense developments, both between you and between other characters

a confrontation!

you can kiss some people; you can sleep with some people for the steamiest scenes I've ever published or fade to black; you can have some romantic interludes without either of those things...

stick to your job or abandon your responsibilities

Enjoy! I’d love to hear what you think, whether here or via the anonymous feedback form.

Note! This version will most likely need you to restart your game as I added a lot of variables behind the scenes since the last update. I have removed the chapter-based checkpoints as they were becoming unwieldy, in preparation for the integrated ChoiceScript checkpoints to be implemented later. But save slots are still there as usual. If you are replaying earlier chapters, you may notice that your character is more likely to feel bothered by their pain levels; this is because of some tweaks to the thresholds at which it becomes a problem for the PC.

Second note! The intimate scenes in this game are much more explicit than the ones in Creme de la Creme or Royal Affairs, and rather more so than the ones in Noblesse Oblige. If you don’t want to see that, pick the fade-to-black options or you can entirely switch sexual content on and off using the stats screen. In-depth discussion about the scenes is best to be done either here or in the NSFW-focused forum thread.

You’re a promising officer in the Teranese military, a force which has not seen major engagement in decades but which holds vast influence. Thanks to an injury, you’re no longer in the field. Thanks to the… complicated circumstances of that injury, you’ve been quietly reassigned.

Now you’re to be the bodyguard to the child of a famous scientist who is attending a wilderness boarding school for the children of the richest and most powerful figures of Teran society. What could go wrong?

#choice of games #interactive fiction #creme de la creme series #honor bound #honor bound update #if wip #dashingdon wip #interactive novel #interactive novel wip

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fortheloveof-sebastian · 1 year

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Lovebirds

Pairings: Sebastian x F!Reader

Summary: You almost miss curfew (again) coming back from a study session with Sebastian. The gentleman he is, he walks you back to your common room and his feelings for you accidentally slip out.

Warnings: kissing, fluff

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: For some reason I just really love the idea of Ominis being the disgruntled mother of the friend group having to deal with you and Sebastian’s shit. Mommy Omi.

Not gonna lie this one put me in my feels.

I intentionally didn’t specify a certain House in this oneshot. It probably doesn’t work as well if you’re in Slytherin, but then maybe just imagine Sebastian is walking you to the girls side😉

The rosiness of Sebastian’s freckled cheeks reminds you of the wintery dusk settling behind you, backlighting Hogsmeade and the snow-covered wilderness. A cold wind cuts through your school cloaks and, without thinking, you lean closer into Sebastian’s side as you both laugh. Naturally, his arm falls around your shoulders, and you walk like that into the castle.

“Well, it’s about time,” came Ominis’s cutting voice. “I thought I was going to have to send out a search party.”

Ominis emerges from the shadows.

“Ominis.” Sebastian presses a hand to his chest. “Were you worried about us?“

“Be still my heart,” you say, pretending to swoon.

Ominis clicks his tongue. “I was more worried that I would have to venture out at an untimely hour to drag you back. Who knows what shenanigans you two get up to, I should never leave you alone.”

The three of you scurry up the grand staircase.

“We asked you to come with,” Sebastian points out. His arm leaves your shoulders, and there’s a twinge of disappointment in your chest.

“Well, I don’t need to study last minute,” Ominis declares hauntily.

Sebastian rolls his eyes.

“No studying actually happened,” you say. “Your integrity would’ve remained intact.”

Ominis scoffs, and you and Sebastian snicker in response.

You did have all of the intentions to study for Potions. But once you picked up the necessary ingredients from The Magic Neep for practice, the sun began to sink and a chill set in, and you shuffled into The Three Broomsticks together. Sinora ended up plying you with new variations of Butterbeer she was experimenting with, and Potions quickly fell to the wayside.

You actually had been laughing earlier because Sebastian had a smudge of foam on his upper lip, and he playfully nipped at your thumb when you went to swipe it away.

“I’m not spending another detention with the likes of you two,” Ominis says. There’s a curl of affectionate amusement in his voice. “We ought to get to the common room before someone catches us.”

Sebastian says, “Go on without me, Omi.”

“Are you not coming?”

“I’m going to drop off my fellow delinquent here,” Sebastian tells him. “Make sure that she doesn’t run into anymore trouble without me.”

“I’m fine, Sebastian,” you say.

“Well what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you go alone? All kinds of frightful things traverse these hallowed halls.”

You tap the side of your chin. “I can’t remember, was it you or me who won our duel?”

“I was going easy on you,” Sebastian chides. “You know, being a gentleman and all.”

Ominis waves a hand. “I’m leaving, I don’t have the energy to discuss this duel again. Goodnight, Y/N. Don’t lose your way, Sebastian, I don’t want to hear you bumbling your way into the room again.”

Sebastian and you watch Ominis’s retreating form, and the crimson glow of his wand.

“He loves us,” he says.

“How could be not?”

Your conversation lulls into comfortable silence. Even with your history of banter, you also enjoyed the moments when you weren’t talking, just walking together in your companionship.

The last handful of students were rushing by. Shadows had begun to stretch and take form on the tiled floors.

Finally you approach the entrance to your common room, and you’re reluctant to leave Sebastian. You turn to him, hoping to steal just a few more seconds.

“Tomorrow’s Potions class should be interesting,” you say.

Sebastian shrugs. “We’ll be fine as long as we don’t sit by Garreth again. Class might be a touch boring, but much less explosive.”

“I had a good day with you,” you blurt. Your desire to elongate these late fleeting moments backfires, and you feel your cheeks burn. Did you really just say that?

“I did too,” Sebastian says, softly, and gratefully without a stitch of taunting in his voice.

You mutter the password and the entrance opens. You step inside, one foot in and one foot out. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yep.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yep.”

“Sleep tight,” you add. You haven’t budged.

Sebastian smiles. Casually, he says, “Goodnight, Y/N. I love you.”

His face spasms, and for the first time you think you see a light dusting of color cover his cheeks. You freeze, then, invigorated, say, “You love me?”

“Well, um, yeah,” Sebastian awkwardly replies. He coughs a little. “You know we were just talking about how Ominis loves us and perhaps my mind was still there. I didn’t mean anything by —”

You climb down and interrupt Sebastian’s nervous rambles by grabbing the front of his robes. He blinks at you in rapid succession, mouth ajar, obviously still fumbling for an appropriate response to accidentally confessing his love for you.

“I love you too, Sebastian,” you tell him.

You’re not sure who kisses who first, but soon he’s captured you with his mouth, pressing it firmly against yours. Faintly you taste the trace of Butterbeer, which makes you smile. In response Sebastian moans softly and then draws you in closer, deepening the kiss. Your fingers slip into his hair. This moment is everything that you’ve wanted and more and —

“OOO KISSY KISSY!”

A familiar blur of color soars overhead. Instantly, Sebastian and you tear apart, slightly out of breath and pink-cheeked.

Peeves circles back around and makes a face. He sings:

“What do we have here?

A pair of lovebirds

Caught in the act, oh dear

Kissing like they have no fear!”

He cackles, high pitched and splitting, the sound ringing through the halls.

“Oh, bugger off, Peeves,” Sebastian snaps. “I’ve had enough of you.”

“Caught red handed, in this moment of bliss

A moment like this they surely won’t miss

But it’s not a secret, they can’t dismiss,” Peeves continues to bellow, laughing devilishly.

You grab Sebastian’s arm. “Don’t bother giving him the time of day. He won’t quit.”

Sebastian looks back at you, and his face softens.

He sighs. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

“I tend to be quite often, yet people are always surprised.”

Sebastian chuckles, then pulls you in for a hug. Your cheek ends up in the crook of his neck, and the feel of him is so warm and safe and good. Peeves resumes his mocking but you both ignore it, and in good time he leaves to wreck havoc elsewhere.

“Told you,” you say.

“Say it again.”

You raise a brow. “Told you?”

He smiles again, and rolls his eyes. “No, what you said before. I want to hear it again.”

You rack your brain, then realize what he means. Your heart pounds. Mirroring his smile, you lean in and whisper, “I love you, Sebastian.”

#fanfic #hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow #harry potter #first kiss #sebastian sallow x reader #peeves the poltergeist #butterbeer

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monstrousgourmandizingcats · 4 months

Note

ik the post was from like a week ago but would like to hear your thoughts on jackie and the prescription drug thing because it really isnt discussed!

Absolutely. Jackie has prooooblems and I really wish they were more openly talked about in the fandom.

So there are at least three references to Jackie abusing prescription drugs in canon. I forget what the third is (I might be misremembering it but I'm pretty sure it's there), but the first two are in "Pilot" and "Blood Hive". The reason why Shauna is asleep during the flight is that Jackie has given her Valium, a benzo (its generic name is diazepam) that in the 70s through 90s was commonly prescribed for anxiety and to an extent still is. What's remarkable about this is the casual way everyone involved treats it; this is consistent in how Shauna and Jackie themselves talk about Jackie's drug use, but the scene also establishes that even Jackie's mother doesn't seem to see any need to monitor her teenage daughter's access to her pills. As Jackie puts it, "Swiped these from my mom's medicine cabinet. Valium. She's got, like, a never-ending supply, so I doubt she'll even notice."

A series of questions already arises here, all of which the show is fascinatingly uninterested in answering, possibly because the screenwriters share Shauna and Jackie's flippant attitude (which is generational, as I'll discuss below) but, I think, likely also because what's implied about the Taylor household here is more disturbing if it's not spelled out. Why does Mrs. Taylor have that much of a med lying around at all times? Has Jackie taken the Valium before? If so, why and how often? (Does she, perhaps, use it to get through sex acts with Jeff?)

The second time this comes up is in the scene in which Shauna and Jackie are discussing their respective Wilderness skills as Shauna butchers one of Nat and Travis's first quarries. Almost everyone in the fandom has favorite bits of this scene, which is full of fantastic Shaunajackie lines and moments, so it's surprising to me that this isn't discussed more, but again, the breathtakingly casual delivery probably goes some way towards distracting the viewer from what's actually being communicated. (It could also be that the line in question here comes immediately before "Wowza, Shipman," which understandably steals the show):

Shauna: Remember when Kiffy Schumacher broke her arm right before we were supposed to go to Whipsplash River, and you told her that if she shared her Percocet, we'd all crash bingo at the Elks Lodge instead? Jackie: Wait. Is this a pep talk? Wowza, Shipman. Wow, that is so not your style.

Uh. Girls? You okay there? "Poppin' Percs" is something Kendrick Lamar accused Drake of earlier this month. The company that makes this drug is currently being pounded in court by the Attorneys General of Ohio, Mississippi, Missouri, New York, and possibly other states too since the last time I checked. You're talking about like it's Pez.

Percocet is a mixture of oxycodone, which is an opioid, and paracetamol, which is a common over-the-counter painkiller (it's called acetaminophen in the US and a few other countries; it's the active ingredient in Tylenol and Panadol). Unlike Valium, oxy is something I've been on in the past--I, like Kiffy Schumacher, had a badly fucked-up arm a few years ago--so I can speak to how it's currently treated in American medical culture. You're given a very small amount of it at once, you pace yourself taking it and alternate it with over-the-counter painkillers unless absolutely necessary, and if you have any left over when you decide you no longer need it, which I did, you surrender whatever pills you still have on you to the police. I know that the current widely accepted view on drug control is that it's wildly overdone in the US, and I agree with that for the most part, but in this case the tight controls on this sort of painkiller are a regulation that was written in blood. And the opioid epidemic is still ongoing; in fact, in some ways it's worse, since people are using black-market opioids now that are even more dangerous than oxy and its ilk.

I do want to stress that Jackie's pattern of drug use isn't unusual for a teenager; in fact, it's pretty classic. "Adolescents....most commonly reported receiving prescription[s] for free from a friend or relative, although significant proportions of adolescents also used their own prescriptions, purchased drugs from a dealer, or took them from friends or family without asking." (The article linked cites data taken in 2006, when the prescription drug abuse epidemic on whose upward slope Jackie lives had plateaued.) I also want to clarify that the cavalier attitude Shauna and Jackie have towards prescription drugs isn't unique to this category of substances; teenagers in the 1990s were much more blasé about controlled substances in general than they are today, and adolescent prescription drug abuse has declined less than most other categories:

(Note the especially massive drop-off in adolescent cigarette use after the turn of the millennium. Lottie in her kinderwhore-meets-Empire Records party outfit diffidently holding a cig is very much an image from the past these days. And yet this isn't entirely a success story; adolescents who are still engaging in substance abuse are OD'ing a lot more than they were thirty years ago.)

I don't really have a conclusion here, because I just want to encourage the fandom to discuss this aspect of Jackie's character, not necessarily to adopt any particular narrativization or interpretation of it. This, then, is the basics on Jackie and prescription drugs. Poor girl.

#yellowjackets #jackie taylor #meta #tw drugs #anonymous #cold girl closeted girl living dead girl

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runawaychar · 3 months

Text

Myst Master Post

Okay, so here's a massive infodump for Myst, made to introduce my friends a series that I've been obsessed with since I was a child. In light of the upcoming remake of Riven, I decided to share it with y'all. I'm gonna be laying down some spoilers to the Myst book series and the first three games - you've been warned:

Part 1: The fall of D'ni

The D'ni were an ancient civilization from another world that lasted for tens of thousands of years. They advanced technologically and scientifically further than we can possibly imagine, but along a different axis than we would recognize as progress. A good example of this is their apparent obsession with geology - the D'ni were obsessed with stability and longevity, and found metal a poor building material, since they built things for the long haul and steel doesn't last as long as stone. Their capital city also existed within a massive underground cavern, and as a result they made it their business to understand Rock.

In conjunction with Rock, the D'ni civilization was built upon the Art of Writing - they had the ability to create books that, when a certain page is touched, would transport the reader to the world described therein (but leaving the book behind - this becomes important later). A poorly written book would be unstable - the world within falling apart if instabilities weren't corrected in time. Linking books could also be written - smaller books that reference another preexisting book - essential to keep on your person if you ever planned on returning home from whatever world you warped into.

Now, the origin of the D'ni is lost knowledge, but it is known that they aren't native to any of the worlds they inhabited. Long ago there was a schism that resulted in the D'ni fleeing their homeworld into a book Written by their founding figure. Without a linking book back, they essentially cut themselves off completely from the worlds they originally came from. The book they fled into linked to the massive cavern I mentioned earlier. The book itself is described as one of the most detailed ever written, designed to last without instability.

It isn't revealed until the third book why, but the D'ni took with them a taboo that, if broken, would result in the writer being sent into a prison world - essentially an island or wilderness without a linking book back home. The taboo was this: never ever ever write a book with people in it.

So you can imagine their surprise when an archeologist on a dig in New Mexico stumbles into their cavern.

Slightly upset at the revelation that their super special custom-made paradise has natives crawling on the surface, they imprison the archeologist, named Anna, and proceed to have many big boy discussions about whether or not this surface creature is intelligent or just a philosophical zombie. She manages to eventually win her freedom by learning their language and speaking to them in it, but they forbid her from ever returning to the surface, lest more filthy non-Writers dirty up their cavern.

She gets taken in by a respected D'ni called Aitrus, who has a thing for surface girls. He happens to be friends with a Writer's Guild member called Veovis, who decidedly does not. Their friendship becomes strained and eventually breaks after Veovis learns they fuckin', but worse, Aitrus is teaching her the Art.

Meanwhile, we meet an incel called A'gaeris who has a chip on his shoulder about being kicked out of the writer's guild and likes to write reactionary pamphlets in his spare time about the dangers of "interbreeding" with natives, i.e. Anna. In the fashion of youtube skeptics, he calls himself the Philosopher, and fosters a cult following of D'ni fuckboys. He befriends Veovis and secretly frames him for a murder, guaranteeing his exile and radicalization as part of A'gaeris's master plan. He resents the D'ni for not giving him his dream job, and sees the acceptance of Anna as proof of their degeneracy.

Using this as an excuse to break taboo, A'gaeris writes a book in secret with a native population that he enslaves, and uses this base of operations to free Veovis from exile and recruit him into his shitty shitty schemes.

Having been convinced that the D'ni aren't worth saving, Veovis helps A'gaeris spread a deadly plague through the D'ni cavern, killing every member of a ten thousand year old civilization overnight. They load up bodies onto carts and link them into every book they can find, spreading the disease to every world the D'ni ever linked to... All because his best friend married outside his race.

Agaeris then turns to Veovis, and says "haha lets create a world where we can rule over everyone as gods" and Veovis finally gets it through his thick skull that maybe his new friend isn't as rational as he advertises in his debate streams. This revelation doesn't mean much in the face of freshly commited genocide, and doesn't last for very long before he gets shanked by A'gaeris.

Anna, Aitrus, and their shitty kid "internalized Racism" Gehn, manage to escape the plague by sheer accident, having made a pilgrimmage to the surface. Aitrus finally kills Agaeris by luring him into a linking book to a volcanic inferno, sacrificing himself in the process. Anna leaves the cavern with her terrible child and raises him on her own, a task made difficult by the fact that Gehn blames her for the fall of the D'ni and hates that he's part human.

So that's the first part of our story - a civilization isolated from an outside world and cultures that they considered to be less real than themselves, destroyed utterly because they couldn't handle contact with evidence to the contrary. Their refusal to link to worlds with other people, while understandable considering what people like Agaeris would do with the power, led to a brittle, deeply racist society easily toppled by a reactionary demagogue.

In the second part, we'll see what happens when an asshole romanticizes that society and attempts to rebuild it in his own image.

Part 2: Gehn is the Worst

A thing to keep in mind before I continue is that genocidal fuckery skips generations in the myst series, opposed by those unfortunate enough to be in the odd-numbered ones.

Let me compose my thoughts here and tell y'all about Gehn, proof that good parenting does not run in the Atrus family tree. Gehn was a mixed race child to a human and a D'ni, and that came with complications, physically and socially. He suffered a lot of illness and was sickly as a kid, and no one really thought that he'd survive to adulthood - worse, his teachers and peers hoped that he wouldn't. Incredibly bright and taught by brillaint parents, he made it into the Book-Maker's guild, second only in social standing to the Writer's Guild. While there he was harrassed and bullied mercilessly by his racist classmates, and internalized that hatred, resenting his mother and idolizing his father and the D'ni culture even as it collapsed around him. When the D'ni fell, he blamed the events on his mother's arrival to the D'ni caverns, and decided to rebuild the lost civilization entirely by himself. He abandoned her to solitude while he crawled through the D'ni ruins, trying to understand a people that he only really knew in childhood.

He also had a kid with a native tribe on the surface, who he suspected had contact with the D'ni millenia in the past and were therefore worthy of his notice. The mother suffered complications during childbirth, so he brought her to Anna for help, the first time she had seen him in years. The mother died, something which Gehn also blamed Anna for, and without even looking at his child he set out back into the ruins.

Gehn, filled with ideas about D'ni supremacy, finished the work that A'gaeris set out to achieve - he pieced together the Art from books he found, and Wrote (i.e. slapped together) several unstable worlds that he dominated as a God and destroyed.

Now, imagine that you are someone who desperately wants to write a book, but can't read. Imagine you are clever enough to piece together linguistics ex nihilo but too full of yourself to actually learn how to write your own original sentences. Imagine you have a lifetime of anger and access to the complete works of the Library of Congress. You may begin to understand the "incredible chaos that my father's economy of words has yielded", as Atrus puts it at the start of Riven.

Motherfucker literally took sentences out of Shakespeare and stiched them onto Steven King paragraphs because they seemed to "work right" in the original books. This led to horribly unstable links, where contradictions, mismatched vocabulary, pacing, and tone led to worlds on the verge of collapse.

Of course, Gehn wasn't to blame. Gehn was never to blame. "It must be the ink I'm using", mr. Fuckboy thought to himself. "My moleskin notebook just isn't authentic enough to convey my brilliance".

So he did as one does and wrote worlds with the materials he needed, and people in them to exploit as a workforce. He showed up, used D'ni technology and manipulation of the link to freak out the natives, and set himself up as both their boss and a deity, who's divine commandment was "clearcut your forests and hunt your wildlife to make me books".

After four failed attempts, Gehn finally created his first working age, which he called the "Fifth" age because creativity is for soyboy losers and has no place in big boy writing. The natives called it Riven.

This world was probably his most stable work ever, which is a very low bar. It was so fucked and so kludged together that it eventually split into five seperate islands. The contradictions were also enough to eventually creat a tear in spacetime, which we'll get to in a bit.

Gehn eventually realized that he needed an assistant to help keep the world stable while he did his godly duties, so like a the deadbeat that he was, he showed up fourteen years late to take custody of his teenage son. At first enamored by his cool dad with goggles and an ancient city, Atrus's opinion of his father started to sour when he realized just how boneheaded the old man was. Without the mythologization of the Art that made the D'ni super special in the mind of Gehn, Atrus figured out something in a couple months that his father couldn't do in a couple decades: these were just words. Like, what if instead of trying to create Othello by slapping together phrases you found in a dictionary and a farmer's almanac, you just wrote something original?

Gehn was not happy with this idea - how dare this fucking child sully the Art by trying new things?! Everything good has already been written by the master race, dumb dumb, what makes you think a half breed could do better?

Gehn burned Atrus's first book.

It was around then that Atrus decided his father was a dangerous moron. When Gehn finally took him to Riven and Atrus saw what was going on there, he knew he had to do something. Meanwhile, he met a cool girl named Katran, who found his stuttering and mispronunciation of her name cute in a lame puppy kinda way.

Gehn had, in the years before he suddenly remembered he had a son, tried to recruit assistants out of the Rivenese population - Katran was his best student, and so he decided was gonna marry her. Real Frollo shit. When Katran shows Atrus the book she had written by herself in secret, Atrus scoffed. It was full of contradictions, broke every rule of Writing. The grammer didn't work, the words were out of order. It was poetry. The world she had made surpassed anything the D'ni or Gehn had thought possible. She had linked to a torus world, kept together with spin gravity - A pillar of water in the center shot out of the world on the dark side of the rim, spilling out into the stars. This blew Atrus's mind, who had adopted his father's unconscious bias that only the D'ni could Write. And here was some "primitive" native in a dying world, who had managed to create something impossible. She had groked the concept of symbiosis and dialectics in Writing, and demonstrated that contradictions work if done in a way that complement the whole. She then shows Atrus another book - this one leading to a library on a forested island - Myst.

They make plans to imprison Gehn and keep him from destroying more worlds. Atrus links into Riven and destroys all the linking books he can find leading out of it -unfortunately, his father captures him in the act, and imprisons him. Katran is not happy about this. And from their base in Myst she happens to have in her possesion the book that Gehn wrote - his fifth age. She does some editing.

Part 3: Katran is so cool in the books holy shit

Now, y'all might be going, "but Char, if Writers don't create the worlds they link into, how can they make changes and write a world into tearing itself apart?" The answer given from on high, unfortunately for us, is quantum mechanics.

You see, when you write a book, you essentially are referring to a place in the multiverse that matches your description. In the Myst universe, everything that hasn't been observed/described yet is in a combination of all possible states. So you can't really write in a forest fire if the forest's climate is already described and precludes the possibility without risking linking to an entirely different age, but you can describe the unseen/undescribed tectonics to cause a lava flow. This also means that unstable worlds like Riven become even harder to patch the more you try, because you can't really take anything written back or remove observed inconsistencies without linking to an entirely different place filled with strangers.

This does mean though, that the Writers of these books have a horrific amount of power over the future of the worlds they link to, and shitty writers will doom all that live there.

So, with that in mind, Katran, seeing her boyfriend trapped by his abusive dad, decides that, actually, metors in the shape of GIANT KNIVES exist, and have always existed, moving inexorably through the unobserved void of space over countless eons in a direct collision course with her homeworld. There were probably less metal options, but Katran was not interested in those.

The collision and resulting earthquake opens Atrus's prison cell and the patch job that Gehn had done to contain the rip in spacetime his shitty writing had caused, and he soon learns a timeless lesson: never, ever, *ever* piss off your editor. The final showdown has Katran linking in to save her nerdy damsel boyfriend in distress, while his father rants about being God and air gets sucked, howling, into the void between worlds. They put up their finger at him and walk backwards into the void, linking out while he sputters at them and all of Katran's childhood bullies stare at the power couple in religious awe.

I may be editorializing a bit here.

The Myst linking book, the last way out of Riven, tumbles through the vastness of not-space, far away from the pretentious self-hating clutches of the world's worst writer with a god-complex... and ends up almost clocking a random hiker in New Mexico as it tumbles back to the most improbable place imaginable, the place where it all started.

This is where a 90's point and click computer game about pipe management begins.

Once on Myst, Atrus discovers that Anna, 100% done with her son's bullshit, had actually done the responsible thing and followed him into the caverns when he was collected by his deadbeat dad. She had written Myst and given it to her grandson's more competent significant other and helped orchestrate the rescue attempt in secret. Katran and Atrus then lived happily ever after had some more shitty kids.

Part 4: Pipe Management and Terrible Children

Turns out, Atrus was too busy writing journals, trying to figure out a future for what was left of the D'ni after generations of fuckery, and stopping Riven from completely collapsing to really do the whole genocide talk with his sons. And I assume Katran was too busy doing hot girl shit. So they kinda left their sons to run amok with the native populations of peaceful tree dwellers and waterworld survivors.

The sons weren't motivated, as Gehn was, by some imagined past empire, or as A'gaeris was, by some deep seated hatred of the culture that denied him a spot at the top. They just really liked it when people licked their boots, both in and out of the bedroom. Maybe they were a shitty influence on each other, in the way that fuckboys are. Or maybe the Atrus family just has the star wars gene. In any case, the brothers suck each world that their father let them loose on dry to satisfy their endless greed and bloodlust.

Achenar, the violent one, has torture devices in the rooms you stumble on on the game, holograms designed to scare the natives (something he picked up on from gramps, maybe), poisons, and a torture chamber filled with human remains.

Sirius, the greedy one, has chambers filled with jewels, fine wines and silks, hidden daggers, plundered wealth and thrones.

Atrus's solution when he learns about this was "Oh no, we better send them to a nice friendly age with nice innocent people who will show them how to be kind and stuff" and there goes Channelwood.

They were not taught how to Write, ironically because Atrus was worried about their maturity and didn't want another Gehn in the family. He also forbade them use two books. You see, Atrus was feeling guilty about trapping his father on Riven - not because he was torn up about his dear old dad, but because he had basically trapped him in with a bunch of innocent villagers who he was taking his anger out on. So he had been working with Katran on a plan to trap pops in a prison age, similar to how Veovis was trapped.

This plan involved two prototype books called Trap Books - books that *look* like they're gonna link to somewhere fun, but instead trap the linker in the void between worlds. He had realized that having a library of books sitting around for anyone who may stumble on a myst linking book to fuck with was not a a good idea, so he put the trap books on the shelves with the rest for extra security. There they would sit undisturbed until he was ready to face Gehn again. Or so he thought.

Sirius and Achenar, not content with simply fucking up Channelwood, embarked on an omnicidal mission - they exploited, terrorized, exterminated, and burnt every book in Atrus's collection they could get their grubby paws on. When Atrus realized what was going on, he tried to return home, but was tricked into linking to D'ni with his Myst book tampered with. Katran was similarly tricked into linking to Riven. These fuckos, thinking themselves kings of the multiverse, started to wonder about the two forbidden books - was dear ol' dad hiding the best jewels and slaves from them? Was this his secret stash?

...And this is how we find the Atrus family when the MC links to the island.

These idiots plead their case to the Stranger, each blaming the ruination of Atrus's collection on the other, and ask you to free them by collecting all the link pages that Atrus had torn out of the trap books and scattered across his surviving worlds. After some excellent pipe management, you collect enough pages for both for them to let slip that "hey, don't check out that green book in the hidden room, just get me the last page buddy". Of course inside the green book is a very irate Atrus, pissed off that this has happened a second time in his family's history. You free Atrus, he throws his sons into a fire, and they live happily ever afterfuck we forgot about Katran.

Part 5: The part where I spoil all of Riven (please go play this its so good)

So Atrus gives the stranded hiker (you) a deal - help him free his captive wife, get rid of a tyrannical godking, and evacuate the Riven people utilizing your incredible birdwatching skills and pipe management experience. In exchange, you are given a way home to your retail job. You pick him up on the offer, because confrontation makes you socially anxious.

You are captured almost immediately, and the prison book you brought with you confiscated by the cops. Fortunately, you happen to be on the same world that Katran was tricked to, and she has been *busy*. An antifa supersoldier knocks out the guard, takes the book to someone competent, and lets you out of jail.

Turns out Katran did the sensible thing and has been fomenting rebellion against god from the second she realized her sons were the worst. Meanwhile, you bumble around the islands for a bit, fixing their pipes and learning how to count while guerilla forces fight for their freedom.

You eventually learn that Gehn has been successfully (by some definition), writing books. Fuck. Not willing to let the Wheel of Time author loose on an unsuspecting multiverse again, you manage to apply your birdwatching skills and locate the rebel base. All according to plan. After beating you up a bit, they let you know that Katran has been locked up, presumably after trying to take down Gehn with fisticuffs, idk. Turns out that Katran and Atrus's exit was kinda a big deal, and led to a weird offshoot religion where they worship Katran and... Atrus for some reason. They formed a secret society known as the Moeity, who use the space knives as sacred symbols. Katran uses her exile in Riven to build a world with a secret treehouse for them to hang out in.

This treehouse.

You go to Gehn's HQ, trick him into linking into your prison book ("oooh nooo haha don't steal my only way home >_>") and set Katran free. You signal Atrus that the mission is a success by opening the star fissure and starting the collapse of the world while Katran evacuates her people. He shows up, thanks you, and you jump into the star fissure, returning to the 9 to 5 grind. It is lucky that the star fissure ends up opening in Anna's backyard a couple miles away from the D'ni cavern, because Atrus and his family getting into situations that can only be solved with pipe management skills.

Part 6: The final book

The last part of the story I want to talk about is from the Book of D'ni, arguably the weakest of the Myst Reader trilogy, set shortly after the events of Riven, I think. It's about Atrus finding D'ni survivors in linking books, and trying to figure out how they're going to rebuild, but Do It Right This Time(tm).

Eventually they unearth a massive ancient linking book underneath the zero point - the original linking location of Earth's descriptive book, and central location in the D'ni cavern. Turns out one of the original D'ni who fled to Earth decided to bring a linking book back home. This book leads to an age called Tehranee (no, seriously), where they encounter a thriving Ronay (the D'ni race) civilization on a lush paradise world. These people, who all live in massive opulent ziggurat palaces the size of cities, welcome the descendents of their wayward cousins who decided to fuck off ten millenia prior, and offer the D'ni survivors refuge in their utopia. Inside the palaces they live in the lap of luxury, playing games with mechanical contraptions and mazes, eating amazing food, having stimulating intellectual conversations and parties.

The other shoe drops when Atrus n' pals realize that the walls are unusually thick, and discover the slave races imported from a hundred thousand different worlds that toil and perish out of sight of the ronay so they can play their stupid games. There is a part where they realize that an indoor waterfall is literally powered by a crank - some poor person is forced to toil at the pump so they can have a water feature. So! Turns out there was a reason why the D'ni have a taboo about writing worlds with people in them - Because this shit right here is what they wanted to escape.

In a fitting end to the tehranee, the survivors happen to have brought A'gaeris's plague with them, having developed an immunity to it. The slaveowners all perish to smallpox, and the slaves lead a revolution.

The big takeaway Atrus has after his summer vacation is that maaaaaybe rebuilding the ronay civilization is not such a good idea. So he decides to close the sordid chapters of Tehranee, A'gaeris, Gehn, and his sons, and build a new age for all D'ni and the inhabitants of the worlds they touched, to live in harmony together.

Conclusions

Every story after this is kinda added on, I feel that this covers the main storyline. Atrus and Katran eventually have another kid, this one they parent way too well to overcompensate and ends up becoming the D'ni'satz Haderach.

Thanks y'all so much for listening to me ramble about a series really close to my heart - sorry for the tense issues, this was really stream of consciousness.

Oh! One last piece of worldbuilding I find Neat is the D'ni guild of Maintainers - they had the unfortunate job of being OSHA for books. When they found a unusual book or discovered one that had little to no info on the other side, they would link into it to make sure it wasn't leading to the center of a gas giant or covered in poisonous spiders. They did this while wearing something called an EV suit - a big bulky hazmat suit made of special Rock designed to be nigh unbreakable. The gauntlet had a linking book back home built into it, with a temporary membrane acting as a timer in case the inspector gets knocked out. There has only been one recorded instance of the EV suit being damaged by unfavorable conditions - The inspector had the misfortune of linking into a book just as its star went supernova (the helmet got a tiny crack in it).

Book of Ti'anna showed us the consequences of a racist, isolationist culture so fragile that, for all talk about stability and millenia of continued status quo, it collapses after it encounters a single person from the outside world.

Book of Atrus shows us what happens when an egomaniac fetishizes a glorified view of a mythic past and builds a fascist police state. It also shows just how incompetent and hateful such a worldview makes a person.

Myst shows us that even barring contact with some original historical sin, the atrocities from the past will come back to haunt us if we aren't vigilant against the impulses of greed and hatred.

Riven shows us that revolution is the only answer against fascism.

Finally, the Book of D'ni reveals what happens when fascism wins. It shows that the past was Terrible, Actually, and we should focus on building a future, rather than attempting to go back to some imagined golden age.

I think Myst:Exile shows how the past cannot simply be buried, however. Some victim from the past comes back for vengeance against Sirius and Achenar and steals Atrus's book, i.e. the future of the D'ni. Myst:Revelations is about forgiveness and redemption, and book five is about book jesus? idk. Uru is about saving a dying videogame studio before it gets bought out. Not sure if it's about anything else, I've been stuck on a puzzle since 2019.

Till next time.

#myst #riven #infodump #my writing

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wordsinhaled · 2 years

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something something established relationship shenanigans ~*~ there was more i wanted to add to this, but i had to wallop a pretty impressive bout of imposter syndrome into submission to post this, so i'm just gonna let it float off down the river the way it is <3

Hob wakes up with his mind already on Dream.

He pictures Dream getting his morning coffee—holding the steaming cup, lid off, the “M” in “Morfius” scribbled on the side peeking out from beneath his grip. They do tend to misspell it, Hob's noticed, in some occasionally tragic ways.

Dream would scoff and say, “This is precisely why I tell them my name is Murphy..." Hob would get his pen out of his shirt pocket and correct Dream's name for him. The ink would feather on the styrofoam, of course, and he'd probably need to tune the nib later, but it'd be worth it for the lift in Dream's forlorn expression, for the tiny satisfied smile it earned.

Hob’s thoughts drift to Dream during his lectures, too.

He remembers how they’d sat up in Hob’s bed together one evening earlier in the week while Hob skimmed through the assigned reading and marked pages in the book with sticky note flags to correspond to his discussion questions. How Dream had said to him, eventually, “You should not do your work in bed, Hob. Beds are to be used for sleep.”

How Dream’s hand had wandered up Hob’s thigh under the covers and curled around his hip, and he'd rubbed small circles there with his thumb, until Hob had looked over at him, and put down his book at last, and said, amused, “Your mind seems a bit far from sleep, love."

He'd found Dream’s eyes sparkling at him, mischievous and starry-dark, before Dream leaned over and took his reading glasses from his face, and said, “Beds can be for other things as well, of course.”

(In the end, Hob was in fact no longer doing that sort of work in bed, so he guesses Dream won that one.)

There’s a knock on Hob’s office door around noon.

Hob is expecting a student, or a colleague, but instead it’s Dream—his Dream, but not quite the same as ever: longer- and wilder-haired, leather-jacketed, taller than usual, an assortment of earrings and studs glinting in his ears.

Hob lights up.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your thoughts have circled me rather insistently today,” Dream says, “and there was not much to do in the Dreaming. I thought I might visit.”

Hob knows there is always something for Dream to do in the Dreaming—knows Dream is, effectively, taking an actual break if he is here now. It makes his heart feel full to know his lover is choosing to share this scant, stolen time with him—and even more so to know Dream has, for once, done something for himself, however small.

He walks around his desk, kisses Dream hello. Dream tastes, impossibly, like the cinnamon latte Hob had imagined he'd have ordered that morning. He has to kiss him again to make sure; and once more after that, slow and indulgent; until he remembers he has actual work to do, and then he pulls back and touches his fingertips to Dream's choker. “This is new, darling. What’s this look, then?”

“I am... experimenting,” Dream says, the tiniest bit smug. Hob gives him the kind of thorough once-over that he hopes communicates his appreciation raucously enough.

“I’ve been attacking my emails,” he says, going regretfully back to his chair, “they’re never-ending, I swear. And I’ve got a Zoom with Liam about his writing project at two. But I hope you’ll stay anyway? Sit anywhere you like.”

“Of course,” Dream says. “I would not dream of keeping you from your tasks, Hob.”

Hob just raises his eyebrows at him, pointed, until Dream laughs—a sound that used to be so rare, one Hob is still getting used to being able to evoke. It's an odd little noise, different every time; today it’s pitched low, somewhere between a cat’s purr and a human chuckle, and the vibration of it strokes a gentle but insistent warmth down Hob’s spine.

He expects he’ll accomplish remarkably little, if things go on this way.

Sit anywhere you like proves to be a difficult invitation. Hob’s office is largely taken up by his desk and his bookshelves on the best of days; his bicycle and umbrella vie for one corner. Most of the remaining space is currently occupied by a massive box, which contains Hob’s most recent order of secondhand books. Seating for visitors is almost an afterthought at the minute.

Yet Dream accepts Hob's challenge with aplomb, settles on the unopened box as though it is as good as any throne to him, and Hob returns to clearing out his messages.

He can feel Dream watching him, but whenever he glances up over the top of his computer, Dream has his nose buried in some tome or other plucked from Hob’s shelf. The afternoon passes like this—all through Hob’s Zoom call, during which Hob listens more distractedly than he'd like to Liam's latest additions to his thesis draft, and sweats lightly under the heat of Dream's gaze.

The moment his meeting is done, Hob snaps his laptop shut, the resounding click making Dream look up from the copy of Women's Libraries in Late Medieval Bourbonnais, Burgundy, and France he'd been perusing.

"Want to get out of here?" Hob asks.

#the sandman #dreamling #hob: if you spoil me on this book that i JUST got on preorder i'm gonna riot #dream: MY BELOVED I WOULD NEVER #hob: you would and you know it #i don't know that they actually make it home to be honest #hob's got Things to Do

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utilitycaster · 9 months

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Sorry if you discussed it and I missed it. Do you think any part of the disconnect on Bells Hells is because they have only been together as group for like 3 months (in game) and what were small jobs to take at the start has very quickly snowballed into this possible world ending thing? They haven't had the chance to take those moments (or at least have felt like they haven't anyway) to actually talk?

Oh definitely - I talked about this a lot more earlier in the campaign but that's a major factor. Specifically:

lots of money early on + rarely in rural areas = no need to limit how many rooms they get at the inn = rarely shake up the pre-existing friendships (ie, the insularity has never been challenged)

Airship with a fully staffed crew early on = individual rooms + comparatively few dangers + relatively few choices to make as a group while traveling + no watch conversations

employer (Eshteross) early on = no need to come to group consensus over their next big move because they had a task.

Compare the Mighty Nein, who frequently had to only get one or two rooms because they had very little money, spent considerable time in small towns or traveling in the wilderness early followed by essentially having to crew a ship mostly by themselves, and were constantly faced with choices of what to do next because honestly even when they had employers, for the most part they had to find those employers themselves. I get why Bells Hells had an airship for plot reasons but in terms of group bonding? absolute poison.

#answered #Anonymous #cr tag

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santmat · 2 months

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John the Baptist's Vegetarian Diet -- An Exploration of Early Christian Writings and Scholarly Texts - Spiritual Awakening Radio Encore Podcast

@ Youtube:

https://youtu.be/rBM34Cm4laE?si=u7tDt-Y4WeiUAHqi

Due to a mistranslation of a particular Greek work in certain gospel manuscripts John the Baptist has gained the most unfortunate cave-man reputation of being a bug eater, an eater of locusts. It's supposed to be locust beans ("egkrides"), used to make a kind of Middle Eastern flat bread or cake from carob flour, not bugs ("akrides")! If we examine early Christian writings and learn of the Nasoraean movement the Prophet John was associated with, a wilderness sect operating near the Jordan River maybe somewhat related to the Essene branch of Judaism, we will discover references to the vegetarianism of John the Baptist and his disciples (Sabians, a "People of the Book"). Contemporary scholars have also recognized this and written about it. Today on this Spiritual Awakening Radio podcast we'll sort through the evidence, including a surprising number of fascinating passages from ancient sources, as well as learn about "Saint John's Bread" and the "Saint John's Tree" of the Middle East.

Since my original research on this topic, a couple more early Christian apocryphal writings have come to light, have been made available in English. These add to the surprisingly large collection of vegetarian references in early Christian writings regarding the diet of John the Baptist. New Testament Apocrypha, Vol. III, by Tony Burke was published and some John the Baptist books are included. In one of the earlier volumes there was a John the Baptist text made available for the first time in English that has a vegetarian passage regarding John's diet in the wilderness. Included in the third volume are, The Birth of Holy John the Forerunner, and, The Decapitation of John the Forerunner, both containing plant-based passages about John's diet consisting of "locusts from the tree" (in the Middle east called "the Saint John's Tree", and "Carob Tree") and "wild honey", also "an abundance of bread and wild honey dripping from a rock". Clearly there was an understanding in early Christianity that this was referring to locust beans (carob pods), not insects. Carob pods do look a bit like locusts hanging from tree branches, hence the name. Locust beans can be ground up and used to make a kind of Middle eastern carob flour flat bread. There's a "cakes dipped in honey" reference in the Gospel of the Ebionites. The wild "honey" was not from bees but sticky desert fruit of some kind. So, as you'll hear being documented during this podcast, there are all these plant-based references to John's diet coming from many different sources, and scholars have noticed and discussed these:

"Probably the most interesting of the changes from the familiar New Testament accounts of Jesus comes in the Gospel of the Ebionites description of John the Baptist, who, evidently, like his successor Jesus, maintained a strictly vegetarian cuisine." (Professor Bart Ehrman, Lost Christianities: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew) "His [John the Baptist's] food was wild honey that tasted like manna, like a cake cooked in olive oil." (The Other Gospels, Accounts of Jesus from Outside the New Testament, by Bart Ehrman)

John the Baptist was a prophet with large number of followers in Israel and Transjordan regions. After his passing, several of his successors headed what became various rival Nasoraean (Nazorean) sects, one of those being Jesus and the Jesus movement. "Again Jesus said to his disciples: Truly I say to you, among all those born of women none has arisen greater than John the Baptizer." (Matthew 11:11, George Howard's translation of Shem-Tov's Hebrew Gospel of Matthew, described as "the oldest extant Hebrew version of the Gospel of Matthew")

Henry Ford: "Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty. Anyone who keeps learning stays young."

Albert Einstein: "Intellectual growth should commence at birth and cease only at death."

All for the Love of Wisdom, Radio, and Podcasts,

James Bean

Spiritual Awakening Radio

https://www.SpiritualAwakeningRadio.com

#vegan #veg #vegetarian #john the baptist #mandaean #nasorean #nasoraean #christianity #early christian history #podcasts #spiritual awakening radio

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lyledebeast · 7 months

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Male Homosociality and War Crimes in The Patriot

Of all the problems The Patriot as a story creates for itself, the most interesting for me has always been this: how do you craft a villain when the hero is also a war criminal? It appears to me the filmmakers had a simple answer to this question staring them right in their faces, so why does a story that leans so heavily on the rumor that Banastre Tarleton habitually ordered the execution of surrendering Continental soldiers do absolutely nothing with the rumor that he habitually raped and allowed his men to rape colonial women? Surely, that would have helped to make Colonel Tavington as despicable as we are clearly meant to find him, particularly since the Patriot soldiers do not engage in rape, at least not literally. Instead, both Benjamin Martin and Tavington are tried by juries of their peers with Martin being nearly universally adored and Tavington being as nearly universally despised. This approach creates two problems. First, it means the Patriots, who something tells me are the people the audience is meant to sympathize with, are okay with some very fucked up actions both past and present. It also makes it hard to justify the Patriots' hatred for the British as whole when the audience sees how little support Tavington has.

Somewhat ironically given the myths about Tarleton, the only characters to directly mention rape in the film are Patriots, a father and son. As the Martin family anticipates survivors of the battle being in near proximity to them, Nathan attempts to titillates his siblings with this dire prediction: "They'll probably kill us men and do lord knows what to you women." In addition to shock among some in the audience, this elicits the question that always arises when a child says something incredibly fucked up: where did you hear that? Judging from her disgusted reaction, I do not think it was his caregiver Abigale. We get an answer some months later when Benjamin describes the events leading up to the Fort Wilderness massacre. "[The French and Cherokess] had killed all the settlers. The men . . . with the women and some of the children they had . . . we buried them." In the moment, Martin's hesitancy to name the particular violence these settlers suffered seems to speak to respect for them, but if so, he failed to convey that to either the son who makes the prediction earlier on or the even younger boy who giggles at it. This is the first time violence is referenced as a means of male bonding; it is certainly not the last.

The conversation between Martin and his oldest son referenced above is bizarre for a couple of reasons. Not only does the narrative twist Martin's confession to war crimes against the French and Cherokees in reprisal into evidence of his morality (he feels so bad about it!), but Gabriel is thoroughly nonplussed by this confession. He shifts the topic to his murdered brother and his desire to avenge him, but not at the expense of "the cause." Why is Gabriel so eager to take his father's supposed contrition at face value when he has personally seen him both hack a man's back to shreds with a tomahawk and participate in the murder of surrendering British soldiers a hell of a lot more recently than the French and Indian War? By the end of his life, Gabriel does more than tolerate his father's violent past. He approaches Tavington's prone form, believing him to be mortally wounded, to repeat it.

Bonding with his son through discussion of war crimes is not an anomaly among Martin's relationships. When he and Major Villeneuve recruit in the tavern, two of the men who sign up are acquaintances of Martin's from the previous war. One of them inquires about bounties and Martin give the intriguing response of "No scalp bounty this time, Rollins, but I'll pay for the gear of any redcoat you kill." How Rollins is going to prove the gear belonged to redcoats he killed who were not wounded or surrendering after Martin issues his orders against such conduct is a mystery the movie never clears up . When the other acquaintance, Billings, asks Martin if he is one of "that sort--" the sort Gabriel believes should not serve in the militia because, well, they're war criminals--Martin jokingly tells him, "You're the sort that gives that sort a bad name." Just boys being boys!

My favorite use of war crimes to further male bonding is the bizarre relationship between Martin and his second in command, Major Villeneuve. Initially the two grate on each other: Martin tortured French soldiers to death, while Villeneuve is French. The two offenses are presented as carrying basically equal weight. Ultimately, though, Villeneuve's objection to Martin is less that he committed war crimes but that he forbids Villeneuve from doing the same. But over time, they come to see each other in a different light. When Martin greets Villeneuve after the militia's ill-fated furlough, Villeneuve responds with a tongue in cheek, "Where else can I kill a few redcoats? Perhaps a few wounded ones when you're not looking." That Martin laughs nervously at this joke should be surprising, but it really isn't. While we haven't seen any wounded or surrendering men killed since Martin's order, nor have we seen any in militia custody. Has Villeneuve had a change of heart, or is Martin simply skilled in looking the other way? Later, Martin asks Villeneuve what color his slain daughters' eyes were as they march into the final battle, psyching him up to go and do their favorite activity together: vengeance! This shared priority, the only thing they have in common, outweighs their shortcomings in each other's eyes. Liberté, fraternité, and all that jazz.

Most of Martin's screentime, and he is in almost every scene, is spent developing his homosocial bonds, but even British men seem to regard Tavington with varying degrees of contempt, disgust, and fear. This lack of fellowship even characterizes his scenes with his own Green Dragoons. There are only two opportunities for dragoon comradery depicted in the movie: one where Tavington interrupts his men at dinner and one where he is grooming himself in the creek while they eat around their campfires. Tavington being left out of eating and drinking in particular becomes a recurring theme. His first meeting with Cornwallis, in the extended cut, happens after the Battle of Camden when the British officers are celebrating their victory. Tavington arrives late, apparently hungry from the way he immediately reaches for the food on the table, withdrawing his hand when Cornwallis draws closer to scold him. As he's dressing down Tavington, Cornwallis takes food from the same table and feeds it to his Great Danes. The exchange ends with Cornwallis proposing a toast, turning his back on Tavington and his second, who do not have glasses. The scene establishes that his role in winning a battle in no way makes Tavington's treatment of the enemy or civilians less odious, and his fellow officers are so united in this that no one so much as blinks when their general is incredibly rude to him. Over the course of the movie, they all maintain this conviction, except for one.

Producer Dean Devlin's describes Tavington as "seduc[ing]" Cornwallis into allowing him his brutal tactics, and this seems especially apt given the way their relationship develops on screen. As they grow closer tactically, they also grow closer physically. In their scene after Cornwallis ices Tavington out of his tent, Cornwallis remains seated at his desk while demanding that Tavington, who is standing on the opposite side, cease his brutal methods. In the scene following Cornwallis's humiliation at Martin's hands during the prisoner exchange, he is again seated at a table, eating dinner, while Tavington stands on the other side. From this point forward, though, there is a marked shift in the two men's positions. Cornwallis motions Tavington forward, and Tavingon approaches, putting as much space between himself and Cornwallis as we see between the general and the servant waiting on him as Cornwallis says, "I want you to capture [Martin]." If he intends to remind Tavington of his own servile position, the message does not register. Tavington takes a little stroll, peeks at Cornwallis's map, and helps himself to a glass of his claret, a stand-in for the glass he was denied at their first meeting. He assures Cornwallis, "I alone will assume the full mantle of responsibility, rendering you blameless" for his future crimes in pursuit of Martin. In light of Devlin's description of this scene, it does sound a bit like, Don't worry, babe, no one is going to know about this but you and me.

It is a ridiculous claim. When the Green Dragoons go on a veritable murder and arson spree after months of abstinence, it does not take a genius to realize that maybe the general of the whole fucking British army might have something to do with that. Nonetheless, by the end of this scene Cornwallis and Tavington are standing side by side for the first time in the movie. Their last scene is even more elicit. Cornwallis walks in on Tavington having his wound dressed to warn him against an early charge, the very same thing he scolds him for in their first scene, but this time Tavington is only in his shirt and his hair is loose and . . . it's a little on the nose, to be honest. And they're all alone. As powerful as Cornwallis is, he is also the only person Tavington ever convinces to condone his actions, and he can only do so by offering assurances he could not possibly grant. What does not change is the conviction of everyone in the British Army, Tavington included, that they will live and be remembered in infamy until the end of time if they do Bad Things to the Patriots. Meanwhile, the Patriots are bonding with each other almost exclusively through planning and doing Bad Things to them.

There are double-standards, and then there's this bullshit. Martin commits a dizzying amount of fuckery ranging from sending the Cherokees pieces of their fighters in bags to terrorize them into compliance to ordering his young sons to kill soldiers to apparently talking about rape in front of those sons in a way that left them thinking it is something to laugh about, and he is seen as a hero and a loving father by everyone around him. Tavington walks into a tent full of his fellow officers after a battle he helped win, and they all look at him like "Who invited Murder Molly?" Martin's men are devoted to him not in spite of his past war crimes but because of them, and the movie's insistence that he has changed his ways is, in the most generous terms, feeble. The thinly veiled homoeroticism of Tavingtion and Cornwallis's relationship only serves to underscore how marginal their position that war crimes can be justified under the right circumstances is among the British. Among the Patriots, that position appears to be standard.

Representing Tarleton's dragoons as the rapists some people of the time believed they were would obviously not have been great from a historical perspective, but it would be a drop in the ocean of inaccuracies the movie is adrift in. And it would have at least made the redcoats as bad as the characters the audience is meant to support! Both sides ultimately do terrible things, but they are framed by the narrative very differently in ways that inadvertently present the British in a favorable light. While the Patriots treat the vilest of war's excesses with understanding and sometimes even levity, the British have a horror of the idea that war exceeds the limits of the battlefield that is hard to fathom in professional soldiers. In the homosocial world of The Patriot, the ultimate measure of virtue lies not in actions but in the approval of other men.

#the patriot #jason isaacs #william tavington #banastre tarleton #benjamin martin #mel gibson #charles cornwallis #tom wilkinson #homosociality #seduction #if there was one more table #cornwallis was going to bend tavington over it

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fuckyeahworldoftaika · 10 months

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Taika Waititi: “I just want to spend my money and enjoy it”

As he talks about what a fabulous thing it is to be Taika Waititi, he occasionally glances out the window of the hotel to the gin palaces moored in Auckland’s Viaduct Harbour. So, which one is his?

“They’re all mine. I’m actually trying to get rid of some of these to make room for my QE3.” Everyone in the room laughs – there’s a Disney PR team with camera crew present for a small conveyor belt of local interviews with journalists under instruction not to ask our most prominent global celebrity anything unrelated to his new movie. But Waititi does present as a man who has done quite well for himself. That’s assuming the jewellery that is adorning his fingers, neck and ear is as expensive as it looks. Of course it is. The man’s been on the cover of Vogue, after all, albeit as half of a “power couple” with wife of a year-plus, UK pop star Rita Ora.

It’s not the Listener that has brought up the fruits of his success. Just before the boat quips, Waititi had been pondering the difference between being the young Taika following his creative whims and the 48-year-old one, who now doesn’t have the option of starting things – like multimillion-dollar superhero films – and not finishing them because he can’t be bothered. Add to that, he has so many irons in the fire, there is a risk of a stable overflowing with shoeless horses. That’s whether it’s writing that Star Wars film (“four pages,” he deadpans on how far he’s got), acting in pirate comedy series Our Flag Means Death, making videos for the All Blacks, among other corporate gigs, or supposedly doing remakes of seemingly everything he ever liked growing up. Yes, there is a New Zealand film on his to-do list. More of which later.

To that work-in-progress pile (“I’ve got a few irons underneath the other irons”) you can also add a redo of Mel Brooks’ classic comedy Young Frankenstein. The Jewish-American comedy great liked Waititi’s Hitler-spoofing Oscar-winning Jojo Rabbit very much – it reminded him of his own Hitler-spoofing good old days. He asked Waititi if he’d like to remake Young Frankenstein, the 1974 film starring Gene Wilder that was arguably his greatest big-screen comedy. You don’t say no to Mel Brooks. He is 97, after all. That said, Waititi says he could do with a break from the blacksmith shop. Right now, he says, “I just want to spend my money and enjoy it”. Well, reportedly, he has splashed out on that unobtainable thing for many Kiwi artists of his generation – a nice house in Auckland. The NZ Herald last month reported he’d bought a $10.5 million waterfront property in Point Chevalier, supposedly as a base for his joint custody of his two daughters with his former wife, producer Chelsea Winstanley.

We would be discussing his purchase – after all, who doesn’t like a natter about Auckland real estate? – but this interview is taking place back in April. Disney stipulated it couldn’t run until the local release of his new film Next Goal Wins, which it eventually bumped until the end of the year, having made its New Zealand staff redundant in the interim. Next Goal Wins is based on the true story – there was an earlier doco of the same name – about the American Samoan football team, the biggest losers of any Fifa World Cup qualifying round, having gone down 31-0 to Australia. It stars many familiar faces including Oscar Kightley, Beulah Koale, Dave Fane (“all of my mates – I think Robbie Magasiva is the only one not in this”). And, as the Palagi saviour coach, is Michael Fassbender, an actor not exactly known for his comedy. He plays Dutch-American Thomas Rongen, who became the team’s coach and lifted them from the bottom of the Fifa rankings, a little.

It’s a film that seems to have been stuck in extra time. It was shot in Hawai’i in 2019. Then came the pandemic, which paused production for a year. Along the way, Armie Hammer, who played a minor role as an American Fifa official, became persona non grata due to a storm of sexual abuse allegations, which required reshoots with comic actor Will Arnett subbing in. “I was actually already changing that character in the edit and Will came in and played a different version of it,” says Waititi, who isn’t the first director caught with a cast member who’s acquired a toxic reputation. But all his films, even his modest budget New Zealand ones at the start of his career, have taken years. “This is just the normal Taika schedule … I started working on Star Wars three years ago. By the time I finish, it will probably be another four years from now.” Next Goal Wins debuted at the Toronto International Film Festival in September and opened in North America last week. The reviews have been decidedly mixed. That’s possibly because, like his parody-risking Thor films, it’s trying to be two things at the same time – a feel-good underdog sports film with the coach trying to redeem himself, and a send-up of feel-good sports films.

The American-Samoan team featured Jaiyah Saelua, a fa’afafine who was the first transgender international footballer. Played by fa’afafine actor Kaimana in the film, the character is a big chunk of the story. Some reviews have wondered why the film’s whole focus wasn’t Saelua. Why wasn’t it? “Jaiyah’s story is really interesting, but I was not tempted, because I really wanted it … to be about that relationship between the team and Thomas. But also him and the team, because there are a lot of other interesting characters there … [Jaiyah’s story] wasn’t something that I was massively drawn to as the main thing.” Waititi wanted to keep things light and bright in what he has said is his least cynical film yet. By which he means? “It’s more just that in this film nothing bad happens to anyone. In all of the other films there’s some darkness there. Jojo Rabbit is probably the most cynical, but in a satirical way. But with this film, the message is on the poster: “Be happy.” I think one of the most important parts of the film is when Thomas says, ‘I can’t win’, and Oscar says, ‘Well, then lose, but don’t do it alone, come lose with us.’ That’s a really important thing. If it was in an American’s hands, it would be all about winning … I think it’s good to embrace losing but doing it together.” Waititi isn’t much of a football fan. He played as a kid for a while before switching to rugby. “I played it from, like, eight to 10. I just felt like it was a real white sport, so I was a bit turned off because all of my mates were playing rugby. I just enjoyed playing touch a lot more than waiting for that round ball to come my way … ‘Can someone, like, kick it to me?’ “Notoriously, soccer is one of the worst things to try to film, because it just always comes across as super boring … It’s bad enough watching it when you’re waiting for something to happen in a big game. But it’s just a hard sport to make look interesting on film. And I think we did a really good job.” Whatever Next Goal Wins does at the box office – and it’s unlikely to be troubling Oscar voters – you suspect Waititi’s life and career will continue on its seemingly charmed way. According to the man living it, it has always been thus.

“It’s like The Truman Show – everything has just been put in front of me, for me. Like, you’ve just been sent in here to entertain me for 15-20 minutes, then you’ll go and these people [the PR team] will do something for me. My mother says this to me all the time … I used to write stories about how the world was on fire and everyone was dying. My parents died and I was the only one who survived. I’m always, like, the star of my own show … This is basically my whole story, just for me.” There are words for that. “It’s called being a Leo. Oh, narcissism? It’s true.” But with that, he says, is the self-doubt of being a fêted figure but feeling a bit of a fake. “It all comes from a deep place of insecurity and imposter syndrome – all the things that everyone else in this industry has – the deep sense of not feeling like you belong here, or that you’ve gotten away with something, and no one’s found out yet. “Most people in this industry have that fear or that sense that it’s either all going to be taken away – the window is going to close – you’re going to be irrelevant soon, or that you’ve somehow stumbled into this undeservedly – that there’s been some sort of glitch or mistake, and no one has noticed that you don’t know what you’re doing. “If anyone asks me, ‘So, how do you make films?’ I don’t know. I don’t know any of the names of the equipment on set. All I know is what I’d like to see as an audience member in a rectangle on a big screen, and I’ll try my hardest to get that. “I think directing in general is just you making decisions fast and confidently, and then people will believe you and follow you.” Does he have anything left to prove? “Nah, I’m good. Film wasn’t even my dream. I didn’t have a dream of doing this, and I’ve already achieved it. I don’t care about anything other than just my happiness and my family.” His marriage to Ora has made him both tabloid-famous and a glossy magazine fixture. He also appears to have met everybody. Yes, he has been starstruck on occasions. Such as when Ora introduced him to Mick Jagger at a party. He gulped, excused himself and departed.

“It was, ‘I’m not going to sit down and talk to you because I’m going to fuck this up, so I’m just going to walk away.’ ‘Have a good night.’ That was enough for me.” He will be busy for the foreseeable future with whatever is next on his Hollywood to-do list. But he does have the makings of a New Zealand film in a drawer somewhere. One of his early short films, Tama Tū, was about six Māori Battalion soldiers in World War II Italy. He’s been tinkering with an idea about a battalion feature. It is the “Don Quixote of all films that every Māori film-maker has been trying to make,” says Waititi. He’s not the only one – Muru director Tearepa Kahi also has one in the works. Waititi feels his is a good 10 years away. “I think the problem is we shouldn’t be making a Saving Private Ryan version of the Māori Battalion film because we’ve already got Saving Private Ryan, right? So, it has to be something that celebrates being Māori – the stories, the cool, amazing stories of the battalion. It’s got to be in our style, which means it has to be entertaining and fun.”

By Russell Baillie, 24 Nov, 2023 And thanks to @sassy1121 for the article

#taika waititi #next goal wins #nz herald

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bookish-monster · 1 year

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RECOMMENDATION

Providence Girls

by Morgan Dante - find them on Twitter and Instagram as well

The StoryGraph link contains information such as publication date, page count, and community-created content warnings

Providence Girls by Morgan Dante is a standalone sapphic novella set in H. P. Lovecraft’s cosmic horror universe in the 1930s and 40s. The story is a slow burn buildup of the romantic relationship between Lavinia “Vin” Whateley, an SA and incest survivor who fled from Dunwich, Massachusetts to East Providence in Rhode Island, and Asenath “Azzie” Waite who abandoned her hometown of Innsmouth for East Providence in an attempt to escape the slow transformation of her body and mind into an eldritch being of the sea.

I really loved this book! The prose is luscious but curt, using a lot of short, sharp sentences full of vivid description. The opening scene of Vin fleeing her murderous father (who intended to sacrifice her to a Great Old One after she bore its hybrid children at his… behest) and getting lost and delirious in the wilderness of New England is beautiful but unforgiving. Everything is described, from the bird calls and inquisitive wet nose of a bear cub to the infected cut on Vin’s foot that oozes pus and blood.

The chapters bounce between the first-person POVs of Vin and Azzie, who are both writing down their thoughts of each other. They often address each other in their respective sections, reflecting on their relationship with one another and how it developed over the course of less than a year. The story is very slow in the beginning and middle, focusing on the humdrum daily affairs of Vin learning to be her own person outside of her abusive father’s shadow and Azzie slowly opening her heart to her new housemate as her transformation progresses. The tension between Azzie and Vin grows stronger with every page, and feels realistic for two women who have been deeply wounded but nonetheless crave intimacy and trust.

A lot of this book concerns itself with the misogynistic violence that was present in the earlier half of the 20th century in America, as well as with the misogyny that is present in Lovecraft’s writing and universe. Both Vin and Azzie rail against it in their own ways, but are constrained by their gender and society. A quote: “[The doctor] was only here to ensure you weren’t dead. Women disappeared sometimes, and their fathers and husbands were never questioned because what they did with their women was their business.” Azzie is mentioned as being the only woman to have graduated from Miskatonic University.

The entire book feels less like a love letter to Lovecraft’s work and more of a critique of it, an exploration of the women who so often fall through the cracks in these narratives. We see this in Azzie’s unnamed mother, a Deep One who forsook the sea and the eldritch glory of the ocean floor in order to be exiled to the attic of her human husband’s home—all for the sake of watching her daughter grow up on land.

Overall, I absolutely adored this book. The romance between Vin and Azzie is beautiful and heart-wrenching at the same time, as Azzie’s transformation drives her to the edge of death on land—and yet she, like her mother, does her best to ignore the sea for the sake of a loved one. There is definitely sapphic monster fucking here, as well as discussions of what it means to be a monster in someone’s eyes. Providence Girls is a delicious, slow burn meditation on the Cthulhian mythos and sapphic romance within it, and I greedily devoured every word.

Find this book on Amazon Kindle (US)

#monster lover #monster romance #bookblr #terato #book lover #book recommendation #human x monster #sapphic books #lgbt books #queer books #wlw fiction

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blakegopnik · 8 months

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THE FRIDAY PIC is a 1905 image by Henri Matisse, drawn when he was at the port of Collioure, in the South of France, and now in the collection of the Musée d'art moderne in nearby Céret.

"Vertigo of Color: Matisse, Derain, and the Origins of Fauvism," at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, is all about the two artists' stay in Collioure.

Like every discussion of Fauvism, the Met's (as per its title) dwells on the movement's "pioneering" use of bright and unnatural colors — while mostly ignoring the powerful precedents set by van Gogh and Toulouse-Lautrec and even, in some ways, Monet.

I think the real radicalism on view in this show comes in its drawings. They are crude to the point of truly evoking the scratchings of "wild beasts." I'm not sure there's any precedent for their deliberate, extravagant ham-fistedness -- which they aren't using as a new style (earlier "bad" drawing could work as that) but as the refusal of anything like consistent, coherent, credible style.

I have a feeling that, in some sense, the wild color used by the Fauves was a kind of camouflage for the much wilder, weirder — uglier — drawing that lurked below it. Color, however bizarre, can always have a certain appeal. "Bad" drawing can feel like an attack on the world.

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griefabyss69 · 1 year

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For the Drabble request- rockstar eddie based loosely on the song city of angels by Demi Lovato ;))

There was no way this was going to fit in under 1K!!! Based on the song and on the whole ass universe we've cooked up <3

[Drabble request series on ao3]

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2.8K words - Steddie - Rated: E

Contains: Exhibitionism, humiliation (he's into it), public sex, sex on stage, audience participation (verbal)

I'd say this requires a general suspension of disbelief LMAO, just have fun!

Eddie fucking loves to perform, whether it was back during his humble beginnings at shitty dive bars or on a big stage with Lights, Cameras, and recently, plenty of Action.

He didn't think he'd ever be performing like this in particular, but the life he's lived has never ever gone the way he used to imagine it, each year bringing something newer and wilder and usually a hell of a lot scarier than he planned.

So when he and Steve finally get their shit together, when Steve starts to get more and more daring as he uses his puppy dog eyes and his beautiful mouth to sweet talk him into doing crazy shit like wear a plug onstage, or to get him rock hard through his tight pants before kissing his cheek and shoving him out on stage, he just rolls with it.

It's fine, he can deal with the embarrassment of some people knowing, putting two and two together – tabloids and paparazzi photos turning into interviews where he and Steve get to tell the truth and control their narrative a little – that when Eddie starts off the night already red faced and sweaty and oh, hard enough to cut glass, it's Steve's fault.

The reception they've been getting has been warm enough that Steve gets bolder with every show this tour, and finally one day all of their previous discussions of him coming out to say hi to the audience come to fruition – Steve not only kisses him in front of the cheering crowd, but grabs his ass too, fingers pressing against the seam of his jeans to see if he can push on the plug inside of him.

Eddie has to pull the mic away from their faces so he can moan into Steve's mouth without thousands of people hearing it.

After that, the audience reception is, well, hot.

Steve loves to take the mic, rile them up, get them chanting for him to touch Eddie or tell them an edited but super dirty story about what they've been up to, and despite how legitimately embarrassing this all can get, it has Eddie more horny and in love than ever.

One night during the LA leg of their tour, Steve's not actually around that much as Eddie and the guys prepare for their set. He sees him whisper in the guy's ears and sees everyone exchange nods before he runs off again, making a phone call or talking to security or to the cameramen.

He can't lie, it has him on edge, considering every other time Steve's been up to something it's always been an escalation of their little game.

And you know what, call him paranoid, but he was right! He usually loves being right, but when Steve cups a hand to his ear to signal the audience during the band's intermission, Grant tooling around on his guitar to give the crowd something to listen besides Steve asking "What was that?" into the mic, he gets a feeling that this is going to be one of those nights that changes his life forever.

The audience yells a lot of things. Steve hadn't actually prompted them with a chant yet, but he just laughs into the microphone, slotting his eyes over to Eddie who's still panting from the screaming backup vocals of their last song, the beaming smirk on his face filling him with dread and the kind of lust that would have the devil on his knees -

He says, his eye contact sharper than his teeth -

"You want me to fuck him?"

The audience explodes into a wall of sound and Eddie feels just a little dizzy, his ribs crushing his lungs even as his ass clenches around the plug Steve asked him to put in earlier.

"Hmm…" He says, drawing it out in a tease. "I mean, I did ask the staff if I could, do you know what they said?"

The incoherent answer from the audience is drowned out by the pounding of Eddie's heart in his ears, as he's stuck there, frozen, hands getting clammy against his guitar.

"That's right, they said as long as you all behave – you know, follow the rules, tip your bartenders handsomely, and take lots of pictures – then I'm allowed to!"

Eddie knows he should start breathing or running or begging or something, but the part of him that loves to stew in his own humiliation has his feet bolted down to the floor, desperate to find out if this will be anything like the fantasies he'd seduced Steve with back in the day.

"You motherfucker," he croaks out, the sound lost before it even gets past his lips.

Steve laughs, throwing his head back in something like pure joy before he stalks over to him, raising his eyebrows, the twitch of them so familiar that Eddie can tell that he's serious about the whole thing, realizes that this is why he was whispering to his band mates earlier.

After that, things happen fast.

Steve drags Eddie to the center of the stage, a few feet away from the edge, stage lights bright and focused on them as he takes Eddie's guitar and hands it to one of the guys. Eddie knows he's got a stupid look on his face right now, not able to play off this off as the usual slutty shit he does for the performance, wondering if it's worse that he's in front of all of these people, or in front of cameras that are going to capture this on fucking tape.

His dick is throbbing.

Fingers move his hair out of the way so Steve can whisper in his ear, his teeth grazing the shell just to pull a shiver out of him, and he can barely hear him telling him that if he wants to stop he just has to say the magic words.

Eddie reaches back and grabs Steve's thigh, squeezing it once. He understands, and despite how the feels exactly like a cold-sweat nightmare, he's into it. Of course he's fucking into it.

It's like he blinks and his pants are down to his thighs, his dick springing up to slap his stomach and he can feel the cheering from the audience, buzzing through his skin. He has to swallow a moan already, finally finding enough air to make noise, unable to ignore the fact that he's exposed even as Steve's easing the plug out of his ass. He goes to cover himself with his hands but Steve's there already, pulling his arms behind his back to tie his wrists together.

It was never really like this, when he imagined it.

Maybe he'd thought Steve would just tug the back of his pants down and slide in, let him grind into his own hand or maybe even his guitar, but that was fucking stupid, he knows Steve doesn't do things halfway. Hell, he's surprised he didn't strip him off completely, the thought making him shudder and tilt his head back against Steve's shoulder.

Steve grabs the mic stand beside them to tip it in close, voice rough and deep and Eddie can tell that this is also one of his wildest fantasies.

"Should I turn him around for you?"

Eddie lifts his head to gape at him, shaking his head. Steve winks at the audience and presses a kiss to Eddie's cheek, smacking his ass lightly.

The audience starts chanting "Show us!" and Steve loves to give them what they want, and so Eddie finds himself facing the back of the stage while Steve gets an elbow over his spine and makes him bend, fingers digging into his ass cheeks as he spreads him open for everyone.

He could cum just from this, he thinks, face burning. Sweat drips off of the end of his nose and he watches it hit the floor. Despite the heat of the lights, the air in the venue is cool against his ass, making it hard to focus on anything else.

Steve's fingers tease at him and sink in, making sure he's all nice and lubed up and stretched out for him. The moan that it pushes out of him is loud enough the microphone picks it up, just audible over all of the cheering.

His dick is leaking on the floor by now, joining the sweat drops, and Steve's pulling him back upright and turning him back around before he can really feel sorry about the mess they're making.

"Alright, I hope you enjoyed that," Steve's saying. "The guys are gonna play a nice song for us, right Jeff?"

Eddie hears Jeff laugh into his mic and he squeezes his eyes shut, wondering how much of this they all planned behind his back.

"Of course we are! Though, gotta say," Jeff says, and Eddie can hear his smirk. "We've never done music for gay porn before. Eddie, you good to sing on backup for this?"

What?

Eddie looks up at him, about to shake his head but Steve plants the mic stand in front of him and he wants to melt like ice cream down into the floor.

"Of course he is," Steve murmurs into the microphone over Eddie's shoulder. "You all should hear it, he moans in key."

There's a hand on his hip, Steve's dick at his ass, his teeth on his neck, and then -

Steve bites as he sinks into him, already pulling a rough sound out of his chest as the band starts to play a song that Eddie usually has a sick solo in, and he misses his guitar for a moment before he kind of forgets about it. Steve's hand is firm around the base of his dick and he doesn't bother easing him into things, just starts thrusting hard and fast like Eddie's the instrument, matching the explosive intro of the song.

Any plan he had to control what comes out of his mouth has flown off like a paper airplane on the wind at this point, Steve's mouth and his hands and his dick taking him apart so seamlessly that he wonders if his moans are drowning out the lead vocals or not. Surely the sound guy is in on all of this, will figure out how to mix them so it doesn't sound bad.

"Stop thinking," Steve murmurs in his ear before biting it.

Yeah, thinking. He's thinking.

"Open your eyes, look how many people are watching," he says, and Eddie wishes he had something to bite on just to help the tension that's got him feeling like he's going to burst right out of his skin.

He does what he's told though, cracking his eyes open against the bright lights to try to look past them, seeing the glint of the professional cameras and a vague sea of people, including a pit full of people dedicated to moshing even though Eddie's getting fucked like ten feet away from them.

"Alright Eddie, use your manners," Steve's saying into the mic, voice breathy as he keeps thrusting, lighting him up hotter and hotter each time his hips slap into him.

Eddie bites his lip, shaking his head. He's almost there, but until then he's not about to beg in front of everyone. This is humiliating enough, something he's going to be thinking about like a brand directly in the back of his mind for maybe forever.

"No, you don't want to? Everyone's being so well behaved and you want to be rude to them?"

"No, fuck," Eddie moans, squeezing his eyes shut. A little more.

"Then be nice, babe," Steve says, huffing a laugh against the side of his face.

He kisses his cheek again as he tightens the hand on Eddie's dick.

"Fuck, sorry," Eddie gasps, tugging at whatever's tying his wrists together. "Please, Steve."

"Please what? And I'm not who you have to beg…"

Eddie can feel his grin against his skin, teeth pressing into him.

"Please, let me," he swallows, tries to catch his breath, skin flashing hotter than ever. "Let me cum."

Steve groans, pounding into him faster. The drag of his dick inside of him has lightning curling up his spine, his lower back starting to feel more like a pool of endorphins rather than an amalgamation of tissue and bone.

"Should we let him cum?" He asks into the microphone, and the wall shaking noise from the audience seems like a yes to Eddie. He laughs. "I don't know, I'm just not sure? What do you think Eddie?"

"Fuck," he gasps, arms shaking where he's fighting to get them loose. "Please, c'mon, I'm going to-"

He cuts himself off but the audience gets the idea, starts up another chant.

"Let him cum!" Is going to ring in Eddie's ears for eternity.

He thinks that's a clear enough answer as he tries to grind into Steve's hand.

Must be to Steve too, because he loosens his grip enough to start stroking him, fist getting soaked as soon as it reaches the tip, the wet slide of it enough to send him over the edge before he can even make a sound.

Hot cum splatters over his chest as his spine arches back against Steve, feeling his fingers press hard into his hip and then more hot cum is shooting into him, pulling a reedy sound out of his throat as he pants for air. It's so good that he forgets about the humiliation for a moment, nothing but him and Steve and the band and thousands of people all frozen in the half minute it takes Steve to make him shatter apart against him.

Between the stars in his eyes and the lights and the way he's struggling to keep his eyes open, he has to give up on finding which way gravity goes so he can stand up and start dealing with… everything they just did. He buries his face in Steve's neck as best as he can and finds a good spot to bite him, hard, before backing off a little.

Steve gasps, still sounding rough and slutty, his dick twitching in Eddie's ass before he starts gently pulling out.

"Yeah, you loved that, didn't you?" He asks, and Eddie isn't sure if that's for him or the audience.

He just mumbles a "yes" into his shoulder while Steve works the plug back into him, trapping his cum in there. It feels good, despite the pounding he just took, despite how Steve gets him to brace himself on his shoulder while he pulls his pants back up, despite the beaming of the stage lights and how everyone's learned what he looks like when he cums.

Steve doesn't tuck his dick back in, just lets it hang out of his open fly, and Eddie bites his lip against a whimper, looking for the knots on his wrists. He's still not fully soft, the cool air and the cameras pointed at him keeping him worked up enough that he's still twitching.

"Be patient, babe. It's not like you're showing them anything new," Steve says, laughing as he brings his fingers to Eddie's mouth.

He sighs, shooting him a glare before opening up, letting Steve play with his tongue before he cleans them off.

Steve gives him a few minutes, gets a bottle of water from somewhere – one of the guys probably – and presses it to his bottom lip, letting him drink until he's finished with it and then dumps it over him, cooling him down.

He can't help but laugh, even as the cold water feels like a shock through his shirt and on his poor dick, making him finally start to get soft.

"Alright Eddie, what do we say to the rest of the band?" Steve asks, bringing the mic to his mouth.

Jesus Christ. Is he not satisfied yet?

"Um, thanks guys. Sorry my boyfriend is power hungry. Hope my uh, singing? Was good," he says, trying to sound like he doesn't want to shrivel up in embarrassment.

Steve laughs, hugging him from behind.

"And what do we say to the audience?"

Eddie tries to glare back at him, and then glares at the audience.

"You're welcome," he says, and Steve smacks his ass.

"That's what they should be saying," he says, holding the mic in front of Eddie's mouth until he gives in.

"Fine," he sighs, unable to keep the smile from creeping onto his face. "Thanks for putting up with all of this. Hope you liked it?"

The audience roars and Steve unties him, finally satisfied. He uses clumsy fingers to put himself back together, his dick safely back in his pants as he heads on shaky legs over to where his Sweetheart rests in it's stand, picking her up and slinging her strap over his shoulder.

"Alright, see you at the next show!" Steve yells before putting the mic stand back where it belongs, waving to the crowd as they cheer him off stage, blowing a kiss to everyone in the band as they start in on the second half of their set.

Yeah, Eddie doesn't think he could've imagined his life going in this direction.

#griefabyss69 writing #steddie fanfiction #steddie fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #drabble requests

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