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zeebreezin · 17 days ago

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Wrote some self indulgent smut of Shaw enjoying himself in the Moth Pavillon >:) warning for dubious consent (due to the RHQ’s desires made manifest thing, but Shaw enjoys everything that happens here) as well as Intox

First time I’m sharing more kinky stuff publicly like this so comments/feedback are very appreciated. Formatted version here under the cut!

This wasn’t Shaw’s first night in the pavilion. Nor was it the second. He’d spent the majority of Hallowmas’s revelry filled nights here, weaving in and out of crowds under flickering candlelight. The greenhouse was abuzz with activity, the bustle of party goers ducking in and out of the overgrown botanical displays. Butterflies - real, alive, soarng - painted the glass ceiling above. It was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful places in London.

It was a shame Shaw couldn’t enjoy it. Not yet.

His mission was clear, after all. Red players dotted the party, vibrant blossoms through the throng, and it was his assignment to weed out their secrets. A dangerous task, despite the luxurious backdrop. Shaw had volunteered.

The first nights at the Queen of Air and Darkness’s soirée weren’t particularly eventful. He stayed to the lower levels, milling about to make his costume a recognized sight. Asking a few probing questions to the drunker guests behind the cover of the pavilion's luscious foliage. What he’d gathered with his careful social gardening were some acceptable secrets. Nothing grand, nothing another man couldn’t have ferreted out from people lost on expensive champagne. Even still, they were enough to fill a report. They weren’t what Shaw had been looking for, though, nor why he had volunteered for the job.

He was here for the Queen, for what her most loyal servants whispered above from their glass balconies. Their words occasionally trickled down to the vegetation covered lower floors. Snippets of plans so rarely spoken outside of Parabola, as they danced, drunk on absinthe and reality. He could have left the Pavillion tonight and not returned, and his work would have been adequate. Satisfactory.

The thought played on Shaw mind as he climbed the twisting metal staircase. He didn’t have to do this. He didn’t have to see her again. He didn’t have to do it alone. Shaw’s overly large tailcoat brushed against stray leaves and blossoms as he ascended the stairs. The clack of his crimson shoes against the metal caused a few butterflies to flutter deeper into the building.

No, no. Shaw had to. He had to see her, to snare a few secrets from her court. It had to be his hands that pulled loose the thread of her woven schemes. It had to be him. He had to prove that he’d changed, that he’d grown stronger since their last encounter. Even as he half dreaded what awaited at the top of the stairs, he knew what he had to do.

Shaw fought to steel himself with those thoughts as he reached the upper balconies. Even as something in his stomach turned, he did not hesitate. What happens now is up to him. This was his choice, and that knowledge was bitter on his lips.

Red butterflies flickered past his face as he surveyed the balconies. The finest flowers grew vibrantly here, alstroemeria and anemone bathing under the candlelight. Crimson silks poured from the partygoers, chattering quietly amongst themselves, rubies glittering in their hair. And there, sitting high upon a throne decorated with climbing roses, sat the Queen of Air and Darkness. Her pale mask shone like a beacon in the night. Shaw cannot see her eyes, but for a moment, he felt her gaze on him. He fights the urge to shiver.

There are other familiar masks, though. Half-acquaintances Shaw had grown somewhat familiar with over nights of revelry. He drifts to their sides, saying little. Half listening to their conversations as his attention focused on the Red spies he recognized. They were so close. All it would take was a little conversation, and a few questions. That was all. Then, all this was over.

A crimson masked attendant swaned closer, breaking his eye contact with his targets, offering him a tray of glasses. Shaw mutters some thanks as he takes a glass of absinthe, before the butterfly disappears deeper into the crowd. His focus stays on the attendant as she backs away. Where are they keeping the liquor here? There’s a chance that the staff may be an avenue worth considering. The absinthe here is supposed to be glorious, so their supplier may be a lead. It’s careless, really, how far his awareness slips away from where he’s standing.

That’s when he feels the first hand on his body.

The hand brushing his side caused Shaw to turn around, a squeak of undignified shock on his lips, but there was nothing to see. The chattering guests looked to be the very picture of innocence. One of his winged acquaintances tipped their head to the side, curious to the source of his shock. There’s a moment where he feels his indignation rising, but Shaw swallows it, dryly. He forced himself to breathe, to laugh at an unrelated joke.

He couldn’t risk his cover over this. Besides, it could’ve been an accident.

The butterflies tittered on, chattering about everything and nothing. Shaw added to the conversation sporadically, his reserved demeanor well known to them by now. For a while, there was nothing of note. He and his moth-masked companions walked the balconies slowly, occasionally offering brief greetings to those they passed. The sound of music rose up from the lower floor, slow and sweet. Someone made a rather tasteless choke about the shape of one of the burgundy blossoms hanging above them. It was easier and easier to brush off what had happened as time passed.

The Queen spoke to few of the guests as she sat, occasionally taking long sips of her drink. Shaw had barely touched his, in contrast, even as part of him itched for it. The air was hot and humid here, at the top of the greenhouse. It left the plants flourishing, and left beads of sweat beginning to pool underneath his costume’s collar. Briefly, he cursed his choice to request such highly tailored pants.

It was such a fine outfit, though. Beautiful, and so wonderfully soft. The nicest Shaw owned, without a doubt. Perhaps the nicest thing he’d ever worn. It felt wonderful, even as the heat left the expensive fabric clinging to him. It felt almost as if the hand was groping his thigh directly when Shaw felt the squeeze.

Yet again, Shaw startled, taking a step back. The circle conversing around him wasn’t the group he recognized - though, out of the corner of his eye, he could still see their familiar shapes. Once again, they looked like the picture of innocence, wide concerned eyes looking at him from behind their winged masks. Memories rushed back just a little too slowly. He’d been introduced by one of the moths he was familiar with. They were discussing another’s business. He fought out a small apology.

The heat was getting to him, despite his best efforts. She was getting to him.

When the attendant carrying the drinks came around again, Shaw didn’t hesitate before taking another. When had he drained his glass in the first place? He couldn’t recall. The absinthe was cool on his tongue as he took a long drink, letting a small noise of relief hum up from his chest.

The mingling continued onwards. Shaw swaned from group to group, making himself known, listening in to what they said and didn’t say. Or rather, he tried to. His focus was slipping through his fingers the longer he promanaded through the balconies. His answers to questions came slower, and he remembered less and less of what was said, even as he neared his targets for the evening. With the heat in the air and the pleasant hum beginning to settle in the back of his mind, it was much easier to grow distracted. Shaw had to ask the moths to repeat themself so often, and their sweetly patronizing laughs made something inside him coil against his will.

The hands, of course, were the worst of it.

Each time Shaw’s mind wandered from his assignment, someone reached out. Whenever he got lost in the sensation of finery on his skin, or the taste of fine spirits on his lips, or the eyes of another, a hand gripped him. The groping wasn’t aggressive, instead almost tender. His thighs, his hips, his ass, his sides. They favored his newfound softness, sweetly squeezing fistfuls of flesh. As soon as his focus returned, they disappeared. It felt as if his suit clung when they’d squeezed, leaving prints for all to see. The thought left Shaw’s mouth watering.

Oh, he knew he should stop this. Shaw should head downstairs, into the cold London night, and never think of this place again. Could he leave now, even if he wanted to? …The thought didn’t scare him as much as it should.

This was what he had wanted, after all. He heard that whisper in the humid air as his mind drifted. August Shaw feared his own desires more than any man should. But here, with the safety of a mask and the grace of the court, he wanted. Oh, how he wanted. He wanted to be felt up over his beautiful suit. He wanted the court to see him, not as a rook, but as a desperate slut, hungry and thankful for whatever they would offer. He wanted to lose himself, drooling over strangers, mouthing at the pants of his sworn enemies. He wanted to be ruined, stuffed full until he couldn’t remember the danger he was in. He wanted to be used. No one would ever have to know, Hallowmas would take his confession. All he had to do was be the Queen’s for the evening, and he would have all he wanted.

The whispers on the wind sounded like her. They spoke just as clearly, just as clearly as Shaw felt it in his heart. He’d daydreamed of this each night. How foolish he was to try and hide his desires from the Red Handed Queen. So terribly foolish.

Each time he regained clarity, Shaw came to a little slower. Eventually he lost track of his words all together, until he answered only with small, breathy noises. It was so hard to keep track of what to say, and when to say it. The hands were so kind, taking that away from him. He craved that demanding, possessive touch. He craved the way it made everything in his mind grow quiet and sweet.

Shaw let them have their way with him for longer, and longer, and longer, letting fine gloves squeeze him over his regalia, groping his chest from behind. He’d been stumbling around all week, denying himself this. It was so wonderful to lose. To succumb to desire. He left himself tipping backwards, falling like the piece he was.

It was only once someone cleared their throat in his ear, softly but insistently, that Shaw began to focus again.

The circle of masked guests he was standing in front of now didn’t seem offended. Distantly, Shaw recognized a few of them - the private spies he had been hoping to steal the secrets of. None of them were talking now, though. They only had eyes for him, swaying ever so slightly on his feet. One still stood behind him, though, kindly keeping him upright. His lips were parted behind his mask, so slack and willing, wetness already gathering in anticipation.

The guest behind him had asked Shaw a question, hadn’t they? He should answer. He should run. He should beg for their touch again.

“I, ah-” Shaw almost didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, so unfocused and needy. He’d need half grinding against the guest holding him steady, and only as another let out a fond noise did he notice. “P-please…” He couldn��t help himself. He wanted more.

There wasn’t any mockery when Shaw finally gave in. All those beautiful hands were on him in an instant, eager to make use of him. The reveler behind him hummed sweetly as they shoved two gloved fingers into his mouth. Shaw moaned around their length as his eye rolled back, already drooling against the silk.

He wanted this so badly. Now those hands were everywhere, working under his finery. Hands groped his flesh, finally reaching for his cock. Shaw was half lifted off the floor by the masked partygoers, so wanting and so willing as they stripped him down, manhandling him exactly how they wanted him. The words on the wind were darkly satisfied as the black layers peeled off him, eventually leaving Shaw sprawled above the crimson underside of his coat. They didn’t take his mask, though, only shoving it upwards as the gloved hand was withdrawn and a cock was eagerly welcomed between his lips. He let them used him however they wished, the murmurings of the court becoming little more than a sweet fog in his mind.

Every inch of him was humming in pleasure, ensnared in the thrall of being used. He knew what would happen as soon as he walked up the stairs, didn’t he? He wanted his desires pulled free, so he could bask in them, thoughtless and docile. No one would blame him. His Queen was so, so powerful, and Shaw was weak. So weak. So ready to lose, just this once, under her regal gaze.

No one would ever have to know.

#zeeposting #august shaw #my fic #suggestive #uhhh kinky?? kinky shit????#sorry Shaw you have to be subjected to this bc I’m unwell #Rd3Qxd3 #but uhhh yeah!#enjoy guys … let me know what you think #be brave forever …

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lskamil27 · 1 year ago

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what was your inspiration to create your game? how was the creation process?

all the best, and good luck with the game! :D

OOO I CAN DEFINITELY ANSWER THIS!!

My inspiration for Weeping Rosemary was? a bit varied throughout it's creation, since I had first conceptualized it in 2018. I don't recall what led me to it, but I remember first creating Ophelia and drawing her around this time.

Weeping Rosemary was originally a webcomic series, since it was what I knew best and what was easier for me around this time, even though I always imagined it as a game in my heart. However, uni came along and made me too busy to continue it - which, to be honest, might have been a blessing in disguise LMAO

The story of Weeping Rosemary was... not well written at all. Coming out of the hands of a teen who's main consumption of media was edgy horror manga, or really outdated harem anime; the writing of it was so juvenile and cringe ( and not in a 'but free' way! )

As I got older, and my interests expanded, as well as my own growth within myself - it affected a lot of how Weeping Rosemary has changed and developed.

Now, for what inspired - a lot of it is the gothic! And not gothic as in like, the fashion & makeup, etc. ( though I still like these elements a lot ); but the books of gothic novellas! The books that mainly inspired me being:

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter

And then of course, movies such as Crimson Peak, directed by Guillermo del Toro, and the series Penny Dreadful. They are other media I like as well that have inspired me, but I can't comment solidly as I only know them from an outside POV ( for now ), like Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu, and Bram Stoker's Dracula, for example.

I really like sensual ( sexy? ) horror, that does a nice balance of blending in elements of sexuality with terror - and I feel that gothic novellas do a nice balance of this; which is what I plan ( and hopefully succeed ) in with Weeping Rosemary's full game. It's also why WR's horror is not, like, a loud jumpscare horror, moreso than a subtle horror.

As for the creation process - The game production had commenced around February of this year, as it was my final semester as a art student. I had to do a thesis and all I knew was that I realllllly wanted to make a game, but I was unsure of what. I decided to revise and redo Weeping Rosemary, my webcomic, because I felt confident that I could not only give it the writing it deserved, but make into the game I always imagined!

My dear friend & classmate had the program, and she gave me hers, and so I got to work! Weeping Rosemary became my thesis, and I had completed the demo game around?? April 30th?

I'll show in the images below, but I had done a lot of writing; around almost 30 pages of script writing and 5 page outline to hand to my professor so he could see my plan. And then a lot of thumbnail planning and art to make for the CG and sprites! As well as see what art style would suit the game best.

Some progress shots, to show the general gist:

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