#living out my wedding fantasies through my art

[sbeep]

Ok ok ok, who is Dawn, the tiefling? Can we get some history on them? I hope I'm not misunderstanding. Love your work!

No misunderstanding, you got it! Dawn is my paladin of Lathander OC, originally made for a pathfinder game that didn't pan out but as all rivers flow to the sea, my fantasy characters inevitably end up with a D&D/Forgotten Realms incarnation.

He's an Asmodeus-bloodline tiefling who was abandoned as a baby on the steps of a Lathander temple, the House of the Morning, and the clerics there took it as a great omen and portent that they had been delivered the blood of their enemy to strike back against the forces of evil~~. As such, they named the baby in the light of Lathander and raised him to be The Unbridled Glory of the Dawn.

Educated, trained, and conditioned to uphold Lathander's righteousness from the moment he could hold up a training sword, a huge amount of responsibilty and purpose was placed on Dawn's shoulders. He was raised to thank Lathander every morning that he had been delivered into the light instead of the infernal pits of 'his father's house'.

He and Evaric were squires together at the House of the Morning in Cormyr and they grew to be the best of friends. The companionship was one of the few personal outlets Dawn had in his youth even if he was subject to much stricter tenets than his human friend. Every moment of Dawn's life has been planned out and ordained in stone and scripture as the fire that overcome evil's flames.

With his identity so interwoven with the church, when Evaric left Cormyr it was a deep and personal blow to Dawn. It set him up with a view that his life and destiny was going to be a very lonely one, and he should take as much joy in Lathander's good works as he can.

Dawn is good at fighting, protecting, every bit the fairytale paladin and capable of being that destined sword to strike the forces of evil, but he would so much prefer to minister weddings, care for parents and babies as they're born, or simply walk through a festival of the arts sponsored by the church. But there's always some enemy of good to strike down, and he'll do it so others don't have to.

Tidbits:

Dawn's horns were shaped by the clerics to grow into the shape of a rising sun. The process stunted them and they will never grown longer.

Dawn paints beautifully. He loves to illustrate and illuminate new poems and stories.

His ideal profession would be as a midwife, because medicine and Lathander's dogma of new beginnings and rebirth are where he's found most comfort.

He is one of the happiest and most optimistic characters in my little D&D collection. He has a place, a purpose and meaning to his life that he cherishes (even if he doesn't cherish how many people and prophecies try to tell him how to live it.)

Dawn can be driven to the point of obsession when he knows something needs to be put right or anything needs to get done. You need a fearsome charisma roll to convince him to back down.

He holds the title of Morninglord in the Order of the Aster.

There is a statue of Dawn within the House of the Morning that he always remembers being there, but no one has ever told him if it was made before his birth or after it.

[theoldsports]

SOUR.

Art Donaldson x Reader (Patrick Zweig x Reader) | SORRY series | 4.2k words

it’s finally here by popular demand. Patrick has entered the plot. this is set before all of the prior chapters, two days before the Donaldson wedding. can be read as part of the SORRY SERIES (read more episodes of their lives here) or on its own. lemme know if you’d like to be on the taglist.

warnings: 18+. angst. it’s brutal angst. more than allusions to Patrick’s canonical use of hard drugs. rehab, allusion to an OD, mention of Art’s disordered eating patterns. they’re bad for each other in a good way. the Donaldsons have a friendly dog. coveting another man’s wife. discussion of niche sexual fantasies. making out. biting. tornados/extreme weather. running away from your problems.

“Art?”

“Nngh.”

“Artie, wake up.”

“‘M up. Fhhh… ‘m up. What’s the matter?” Art grumbled with half shut eyes. “Somethin’ wrong?” He whispered even though they were alone. It was nighttime which meant whispering to Art.

“I don’t like this storm.”

What a sign that storm should have been.

Art smirked. “We’re getting married in, like, three days and you’re worried about the weather?”

“There’s a tornado warning. Or watch. Whichever the worse one is. I saw it on the news.”

Art frowned. “You ever been through a tornado?”

“No.”

Art rolled over from his position in [Y/N]’s arms to face her nose to nose. “I have. A lot. Close your eyes,” he commanded softly. His arm slotted into the dip of her waist and pulled her closer. “Close ‘em for me. That’s it, that’s it.” He coaxed as she followed his directions.

“I don’t see what this has to do with—“

“Shh, listen,” they both got quiet. Rain pelted against the windows. Wind whistled. Branches cracked and crunched. Thunder boomed. [Y/N] could see the gleam of lightning even behind her eyelids. “Hear it?”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Congrats. Your ears are workin’ best as they can,” Art teased to try and get his fiancé to crack a smile. “Now, which one’s the loudest? Which of the sounds?”

“You breathing.”

“I’m flattered. Which one outside?”

[Y/N] listened. “Right now? The rain, I think.”

“We’re in the clear for now. Let me know when the wind’s louder. Like that real, real crazy whooshing, whistling sound. When it starts whipping like that, we’ll go in the bathroom and lock the doors, yeah? Hell, we can head in now if it would make you feel better?”

“What if I fall asleep before the weather gets worse?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay awake,” Art yawned. “How about I get you up if I notice a disturbance. I gotta take care of my wife, right?”

“I’m not your wife.”

Art sighed. “…I know. I’m just practicing.”

Fortunately, no tornado ever touched down. And Art was still there when [Y/N] woke up.

It always amazed her that Art was still there everyday. For every nasty thing she said to him that she didn’t mean, every argument where she told him Patrick was right, every tennis match won or lost, every natural disaster, every tear shed. Art was there for all of it. He liked the bad moments as much as the good ones because it meant simply more time spent by [Y/N]’s side. He wasn’t going anywhere. Ever.

It was too much power, [Y/N] frequently thought, that she had over Art.

[Y/N] faced Art and brushed his strawberry blonde hair away from his forehead. Art often looked exhausted. He wore his tiredness on his face and shoulders. The exhaustion of constantly chasing, people-pleasing and being a professional athlete could destroy a kid. Art wore it like a Boy Scout badge. [Y/N] could watch him look relaxed forever. It was so rare he looked like that.

“Good morning, guard dog,” [Y/N] whispered. Art stirred. She could tell he was awake even though his eyes were shut due to that crease the reappeared between his eyebrows. It was never not there in his waking moments. Slowly, Art’s hand crept up and gently clutched [Y/N]’s wrist. Art used his grip to slide [Y/N]’s hand down his own drowsy face. He planted a kiss on her palm before tiredly looking at her. “Good morning.” She repeated to him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” [Y/N] replied. Gray sunlight filtered through the window. “You ready for today?” She smirked.

“What’s today?”

“Patrick’s in town.”

Art dramatically threw his arm over his face and groaned. “I thought he was in tomorrow… Everything was so peaceful… And quiet,” Art mumbled into his elbow. He couldn’t keep a straight face for long and resolved into a soft laugh. “Whose babysitting?” He asked, peering his blue and brown eyes over his arm.

“I’m picking up the cake today, so I figured I could use his strength.”

Art sat up a bit. “You’re getting it today?”

“In the later afternoon, yeah. Why?”

“It’s gonna be, like, stale.”

[Y/N] glanced over at Art. “If we had gotten cupcakes like I wanted, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You’re such a little jerk.” Art teased.

“Me!” [Y/N] gasped. “It doesn’t even matter because it’s not like you’re gonna eat it anyway because you don’t eat anything.”

“Little jerk!” Art said with his crooked smile widening. He leaned in, slotting an arm over her. “You heard me. You’re a little… troublemaking jerk.” Art’s nose almost pressed against hers.

“Oh yeah? Why are you marrying me then, hm?”

“…You’re pretty,” Art grinned almost timidly, bowing his head. His flat vocal timber sounded like the verbal equivalent of a blush. “Like, really, really pretty. Even if you suck.” Tenderly, Art leaned the rest of the way in to kiss [Y/N]. Once and then twice and then seven times. Maybe fourteen.

And they would have stayed like that all day.

They would have.

BANG BANG BANG.

Like gunshots.

Their lips parted and they held long eye contact. They paused. They sighed.

“Patrick.” They both said.

With a bend of his arms, the full weight of Art’s toned body collapsed on top of [Y/N]’s.

“Pretty baby!”

“No. ‘M pretending he’s not out there,” He laid flat on her, head on her chest. “Can’t go anywhere now.”

BANG BANG BANG on the front door again. Cheese, the couple’s Labrador mix barked at the sound from downstairs.

“Art!”

“Mhm-mm. Nope. Too bad. Sucks for Patrick.”

[Y/N] huffed. “You’re upsetting the dog.”

“He’s upsetting the dog,” Art started to laugh. “He showed up early. I’m just laying here. Hey, hey!” Art jeered as [Y/N] wiggled out from underneath him from backwards. She tried to inch away off the side of the bed. Her shoulders slumped against the carpet, while Art held her legs in place on the bed. [Y/N] dangled in a half on-half off sort of way. Her oversized Stanford t-shirt rolled up during the drama, exposing her breasts to Art. Unashamed, he stared.

[Y/N] twisted her foot into the side of Art’s face, causing a small cry of disgust from him. Just enough chaos for her to slip away. Without hesitation, she tossed the lightweight door open and skittered down the stairs with Art’s long gate keeping pace behind her. His arms reached out in an attempt to grab her. “He’s early! He can wait! He’s never been early in his whole fucking life!” Art laughed. Cheese jumped and barked at the hysteria.

The chase continued until [Y/N]’s hand hit the doorknob and chain. She unlocked it immediately. As [Y/N] ripped the door open, Art’s arm encircled her waist yanking her to the side with the force of his momentum, causing her to laugh with glee.

And on the other side of the door was Patrick Zweig.

Smiling impishly, Patrick took in the disheveled appearances of his two favorite people. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Nice boner.” Patrick smirked at Art, while he pulled [Y/N] into a side hug.

Art didn’t have a boner, or at least a proper one. But the comment was enough to get Art to look. He rolled his eyes and pulled Patrick in for a hug. Cheese ran over to the door for attention, when Art greeted Patrick.

Art closed the door. Patrick ducked down to greet the Labrador too. He liked Cheese, but wouldn’t necessarily choose to be around a dog in his free time the way that Art and [Y/N] did. Cheese really liked Patrick, much to his chagrin, so he pretended to be nice. While Patrick sat on the floor with the animal, he looked up at his best friends. “What’s with the clothes? You just get up?” Art with no shirt in just tube socks and boxers, and [Y/N] in Art’s old college shirt and underwear. They had all seen each other like this so many times growing up that no one particularly cared that the future Donaldsons looked so post coital. It was pretty normal. Patrick’s smirk sliced further across his unwashed face with the ghost of a laugh. “Were you guys fucking?” He said like a horny teenager.

[Y/N] laughed hard and kissed her lifelong best friend on top of the head on her way to make a pot of coffee in the kitchen. “No.” Art sighed in disappointment, flopping onto one of the barstools in the kitchen. This disappointment was either disappointment in Patrick for asking, or disappointment in the lack of sex due to Patrick’s arrival. It was Patrick’s fault either way.

When the dog got bored, Cheese wandered into the kitchen for nonexistent scraps. Patrick pulled up a chair next to Art and dropped his backpack on the floor. “How’s it going, man? You look good. Feeling ready?” He asked, leaning forward to tap Art across his bare knee.

Art nodded as if it say it’s a sure thing. “Thanks. We miss you. We appreciate you being here. It means a lot.”

“I appreciate you being here,” [Y/N] cut in. “Because you’re in my half of the wedding party.” She and Art were always in constant competition over who loved Patrick more. Art wanted him to be his best man. [Y/N] won out, though, having known him since the age of seven and Art only since age twelve.

“Ladies please. Not all at once.” Patrick said. He stood from his chair and wrapped his long arms around [Y/N] in a proper hug finally. Briefly, his chin rested on her head. He stopped before it went on too long.

“Good to see you, kid. How’s it going?” At two months older, [Y/N] had been calling Patrick ‘kid’ diminutively for almost two decades. It was cuter before he got so tall.

“I called you yesterday.” He replied dryly, stepping back to look at her. [Y/N] noted Patrick’s intimately familiar eyes. Too wide, pupils too dilated. Hm. He wore a long sleeved sweater and jeans. And dirty tennis shoes.

“You bring something nicer than this for Saturday?” She teased, pulling on one of his holey sleeves.

Art snorted at Patrick’s expense and cracked a smile. His freckled elbows leaned onto the counter. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here for two seconds, ‘n you’re already giving me tsuris?” Patrick quipped to [Y/N].

“Tsuris… Never thought I’d say it, but you sound like your mom, Patrick.” [Y/N] scoffed. Art snorted a laugh too.

Patrick frowned. “Guess I have to kill myself then.” He joked harshly to more laughter from the other two. M

“Yep. Have some coffee. Both of you. I’m going to put pants on.” [Y/N] turned away and moved to the stairs.

“Aw, do you have to?” Patrick called after her. [Y/N] tossed a middle finger up over her shoulder as she walked away. Art hissed at Patrick’s comment.

“Do you have to flirt with my wife?” Art sneered without malice.

Patrick smiled that boyish small, wicked, unassuming smile. “She’s not your wife yet.” He snapped back. Art smiled at him in return. The two held each other’s gaze adorned with sick grins for a moment before both of them dissolved into laughter. Everything was a competition, but it was only real if they brought it up.

Fast forward a few hours and Patrick and [Y/N] were in the car. Art had taken off for a haircut because his mom thought he looked like a messy little punk and wedding pictures were forever. [Y/N] drove because Patrick drove too fast and without mercy. He had a sports car once when he was in school and still spoke to his parents daily and had notably wrapped it around a telephone pole and walked out without nary a scratch. How’s that for nine lives?

[Y/N] had a sedan.

She and Patrick both held a cigarette out each of their respective windows as she drove.

“You should really quit, y’know.” She told Patrick.

He leaned over and blew smoke in her face. “Yeah, I’ll quit when you do.”

Patrick’s rude gesture didn’t bear acknowledging. “It’s different. You’re an athlete. I watch movies and review them for a living. It’s expected of me. You… you’re making your performance actively worse. You’re kneecapping yourself by choice.” [Y/N] explained.

“I’m good enough to take the hit.”

[Y/N] laughed and took a drag of her cigarette, asking it out the window. “And you’re arrogant enough to make that comment. Sometimes I look at you and you’re still thirteen. I swear to God. It’s fuckin’ funny,” she said. It was quiet for a moment. “Art, though. He doesn’t smoke anymore.”

“I don’t believe you,” Patrick replied immediately with a wild look in his eye. That was apparently a big surprise. “He’s totally lying to you. There’s no way—“

“Nope! Quit on his own too. He just decided he was done with it one day and got all pro-athlete about it.”

“Y-you’re wrong! You’re so wrong. He’s a liar. Last time I was in town, we—“

“No. No fucking way,” [Y/N] shook her head in manic disbelief. “When you came by to—“

“Mhm. Yep. On the patio. You didn’t notice?”

[Y/N] shook her head. “No sense of smell because of… I’m a smoker. I just… He’s such a shit.”

“A shit and a hypocrite!” They both laughed. When the glee dampened naturally and the cigarette butts were pitched out the window, Patrick looked over at [Y/N]. One good, long look. “You ready for Saturday?” Patrick asked because he was a masochist.

[Y/N] found herself often thinking back on this moment. Was this when it had gone wrong beyond repair?

[Y/N] sighed. She would only ever tell Patrick and maybe Art this. “Yes and no.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t say it like that. I have been ready to marry Art since I was, like, seventeen years old. It is unfathomable to me how much love I am capable of giving him, y’know? If he wanted the Mona Lisa, I’d be robbing the Louvre tomorrow. He’s it for me,” she said. Patrick faked a smile very convincingly and nodded for her to go on. “What I’m not looking forward to is everyone I know being in the same room at the same time. I don’t like other people except you and Art. And my editor. That’s about it.”

“You’re not at all worried about spending all that time married to someone?” Patrick tried to jab at her with his words while he scratched his right forearm.

“Not with Art.”

“Wow. That’s awfully grownup of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m a grownup. With a smokin’ hot fiancé. And he actually cares if I live or die. Isn’t that crazy? My parents weren’t like that with each other. It’s… Am I allowed to say how grateful I am to you for bringing him home for break that one time, or is that stupid?”

“It’s kinda stupid,” he agreed teasingly. In reality, he wanted more than anything to put himself out of his misery. My fault, my fault, my fault. The words looped in Patrick’s head on constant repeat. He wanted to rip his skin off for so many different reasons. He couldn’t take it and he was trapped. Fuck.

Patrick scratched his right forearm again.

“Truth or dare?” Patrick slurred. He was twenty-one and drunk for [Y/N]’s birthday. She, Art and Patrick sat on the disgusting archaic carpet in Art’s dorm room.

“Uh, truth.” [Y/N] said too soberly to sober.

“Boring!” Art said, putting his hand on [Y/N]’s thigh.

Patrick took a long swing of his beer while he thought. “Okay, okay. What’s your weirdest sexual fantasy?” He asked.

“Ew.” [Y/N] wrinkled her nose.

Art thought the question was epic, but wasn’t going to facilitate his girl’s discomfort. “Hey, it’s her birthday, she doesn’t have to—“

“Um, no. I’ll do it. This is an actual dream I had. I think about it kinda all the time. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. It so dumb. So, it’s Art and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee or something. And Art… sings me Happy Birthday like Marilyn Monroe did for JFK. And he’s dressed like Marilyn, but like a boy. No dress, but like the boy version of that look. Then we fuck. That’s weirder than you wanted. That was weird, right?” [Y/N] rambled.

Art leaned in closer to her. They were all drunk as skunks and he couldn’t help bite his lip. His arm pulled her closer to him. Art was handsy when drunk, they were all learning.

“Whose Jackie O?” Patrick asked.

“No Jackie O. And I’m not JFK. He’s just Marilyn. Gentlewomen prefer blondes.” [Y/N] had laughed so hard at that while she tangled her fingers in Art’s sandy hair.

The car ride to get cake and the drive back was the last proper conversation [Y/N] and Patrick had. The pair got home. Nothing seemed unusual to [Y/N] at all. They talked the whole time without any dry spells. The cake, in pieces to be assembled, was carefully toted in and placed way out of the way from disaster. Patrick took his bag to the bathroom, claiming he was going to shower.

[Y/N] shouted after him. “You know where the towels are!”

Patrick looked back over his shoulder at her with a smirk and closed the bathroom door behind him.

And he went out through the bathroom window.

[Y/N] had no idea he had gone until she heard his car start. For a minute, she thought it was the neighbors. She walked halfway down her hallway and saw the bathroom door open. No running shower water, no half nude Patrick shaving or something. She ran back down the hall and glanced out the kitchen window and watched his new white SUV whip out of the driveway.

[Y/N] stood there for several minutes. Staring and staring and staring after him. Not a single effort to move. The first thing she did was pick up her blue slidephone from beside the sink. She called Art, not Patrick. Patrick made his choice.

[Y/N] hadn’t realized she was crying when Art picked up on the other line.

“Honey? Honey, you there? You buttdial me?” Art said. [Y/N] thinks he said shit like that for several moments before she spoke. She just faced the window and stared for what felt like ages.

“Patrick’s gone.”

“Hm?”

“Patrick’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone.”

“He climbed through the bathroom window and drove off. We-we didn’t have a fight. Or-or… He just left. Like it was nothing.”

“I’m on my way. Stay where you are.”

Art rushed back in his blue-black jeep wrangler. It ripped into the smooth driveway causing the tires to damn near squeal. When he got out of his car and bounded to the door, it was clear that about half of his hair had been cut instead of all of it. [Y/N] would have laughed in an ideal situation.

“Baby, hey, what happened?” Art said breathlessly as he unlocked the door. [Y/N] sat at the seldom used dining room table the two of them used to hold their junk mail, sitting straight up and looking through Art. Art was alarmed. She never sat at the table and rarely was her face so expressionless. She was always feeling, expressing, something. He couldn’t tell if she was crying or not, but her eyes were red.

“Patrick seems to have decided not to join us this weekend.” [Y/N] said clearly.

Art closed up the door behind him and walked over to [Y/N]. His scraggly hair and bewildered expression lessened into some devastated softness. He knelt, as he often did, in front of her and took her softer hands in his. “Can you tell me what happened?” Art asked quietly. He felt angry tears sting at the corner of his own traitorous eyes.

“We went out, got the cake, got smoothies, and came back. We… He didn’t say anything weird. Nothing happened.”

“Okay. And then?”

“No, I mean, nothing happened. Like, he was on his best behavior. Like, he was doing so well. He seemed okay. Really okay, y’know?” [Y/N]’s voice broke and finally betrayed her. She choked on her last words and the tears followed. Art’s right hand traveled up the side of [Y/N] face to rest there in comfort. “We talked about everything, like always. He was totally fine. I swear. Then we got home and he says I’m gonna take a shower, or something. And then I heard his car pull away. That’s it.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder him.” Art said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth. He stood from the floor and pulled his own phone out of his pocket. Art leaned against the table [Y/N] sat at. He called Patrick. Then he called him again. And another time. Up to what felt like twelve times or so. He left voicemail after voicemail.

“Hey, call me.”

“Hey, it’s Art. Call me.”

“Art again. Call me back. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry about the last one. Patrick, call me. Are you coming home?”

“Hey, man. Fuck you. Fuck off.”

“I’m sorry about the last one too. I’m… Understandably, I’m kinda… Fucking pissed at you. I don’t need to talk to you like that, though. Are you okay? Are you safe? What happened? You can talk to me.”

“You’re an asshole. I wish you could see the look on [Y/N]’s face right now.”

“Don’t come back.”

Eventually, the voicemail box was full.

[Y/N] reached wordlessly for Art’s hand. She could feel his rare anger climbing. He got this ridiculous blush across his cheeks when he got angry and she could see it against the sunset’s glow. “Art?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened,” He said, turning his eyes to her. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

“It’s not your fault. You don’t have to apologize, pretty baby.”

“Yeah, but he’s my best friend. He’s your best friend,” He ranted. “That was a dick move to leave like that. I’m sorry that happened to you. He’s a piece of shit.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No! I do. I do mean that. For the last year, he’s treated us, especially you like trash. Do you not see how much more you deserve, [Y/N]? I don’t know what’s going on with him… Do you?”

“He’s…” [Y/N] looked down. “You think he’s using again?”

Art didn’t say anything, he just looked down. That was answer enough. [Y/N] buried her face in her hands with a shuddering sob. Art pulled her to her feet and into his chest. He buried his face in her hair, unable to hold his own tears back. Eventually, the pair landed on the sagging green couch. Art’s legs wrapped around [Y/N]’s middle. They kept the news on all night. In case he matched an accident description. They called hospitals and hunted for John Does that were over six feet with dark hair and stubble.

“What are we gonna do? He’s… He’s not coming back, is he?” [Y/N] whispered. Cheese rested his heavy beige head on her thigh. He obviously didn’t understand why Patrick had gone either.

“No, I don’t think he is,” Art replied, lips against her forehead. “I’m sorry.

Pathetically, [Y/N] raised her head to Art. “I’m sorry too. I don’t know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” He said. [Y/N] forced Art to lean back against the couch and she laid her head on his chest. Cheese circled for a new position where he could be touching them both at the same time.

[Y/N] knew it was a little bit her fault. She leaned up and kissed Art on the corner of his lips. “It’s my fault.”

“Then it’s both of our faults. You can’t talk about yourself like that. You’re the only you I’ve got, babe.” Art huffed tiredly.

[Y/N] dug her hands into Art’s hair the way he liked. “Can I fix your haircut? Haircut’s a generous way to describe it.”

“Damn, I was actually trying out this new thing. You don’t think it’s cool?”

“Yeah, it’s big for guys who blindly answer their wife’s phone calls, I hear.” [Y/N] said weakly.

Wife was all Art heard and he melted.

“I have never known someone I love as much as you,” Art said. “I’m all in with you. You know that, right?”

“‘Course I do.” [Y/N] did know. She sunk her teeth into the freckled skin on Art’s right shoulder gently and he moaned. Over top of the spot, [Y/N] left a trail of kisses down Art’s bicep.

“I’m gonna call his mom.” He said once [Y/N]’s pace had slowed. Art’s stomach growled. When he got upset, he didn’t eat. [Y/N] told herself it was because he had forgotten to in stressful moments, but wondered if it was a punishment instead. She pretending she hadn’t heard the sound.

“They don’t talk.”

“I know. Just in case he turns up.”

Patrick did turn up. About ten hours later, wet and unconscious in the emergency room. Following a psych eval, Patrick went to a short stint in rehab. He had gone once prior at the age of twenty. Needless to say Patrick missed the wedding. It was too much money to up and cancel, according to Art’s piece of shit stepfather, Douglas. Patrick made no efforts to contact the Donaldsons since leaving, as he left or following rehab. Despite all of Art and [Y/N]’s tireless efforts to find him, all they had to show for it was his disconnected phone number and a crippling feeling of shame and loss. Patrick had vanished from their lives without giving either one of them a say.

Patrick was gone.

But Art was there for all of it.

TAGLIST:

@toxiclovergirl @basicallynotbreathing @miniemonie2001 @valentine333 @tremendoushorsepeachbanana-blog @athxnss @babyspice6 @diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @avylanchce @shysstuff @soberbabes @ysuftmikey @pussy-f41ry

[keepingsecretstokeepyoutk]

This is going to be very long and sound a little crazy at first, and maybe a little mean but please hear me out…

I’m convinced that Taylor sometimes purposefully includes one line or multiple lines of poorly written or clunky lyrics in specific songs to make a point.

We all have seen some version of this with bearding songs like London Boy, a simple bop whose lyrics were immediately detected as sounding disingenuous, even with the general population (the locations she was signing about were the most touristy and too far away from each other to visit on the same day, etc, basically implying that she doesn’t actually have a long term local bf there that she spends a bunch of time with exploring the city with, etc).

But just like everything else on the album, I think she’s doing maybe a more in your face version of that. No holds barred.

So High School is an obvious example of this, with all of the early 2000’s hs imagery, she seems pretty blatantly to be mocking the idea the public has of her “living out every American girl’s high school fantasy” of dating the tall popular football player. With lyrics like “touch me while your friends play grand theft auto” (barf), etc, shes being clear enough that this is not a serious song.

This is the possibly controversial part, but I’m so curious to see what others think about this - I think another iteration of this on this album is the title track, The Tortured Poets Department. Hear me out.

(First, I want to reassure you that there are lines in this song that I really like and think are well written, like: “you’re in self-sabotage mode/throwing spikes down on the road” and “but you awaken with dread/pounding nails in your head/but I’ve read this one/where you come undone/I chose this cyclone with you”. And I fully agree with the idea that these sentiments are from Karlie’s perspective. Basically, when you take out the chunks I’m about to talk about this song makes way more sense and has a beautiful sentiment of undying love behind it - which makes the following parts stick out that much more!)

The first time I listened through the album, and this was the second song, I got terrified because I didn’t understand its place in the whole narrative and when I heard the first clunky line “scratch your head like a tattooed golden retriever” I got the ick. Then the bridge with no structure and no wit and no clever turns of phrase, no metaphor, just “you put my ring on the finger people put wedding rings on” and “that was the closest I’ve ever been to my heart exploding”. So over simplified and cheesy, and doesn’t sound anything like her writing, especially the caliber of her recent lyrics

I know art is largely subjective, but I insist there is no way that the same person who wrote Cowboy Like Me wrote these lines into her title track if she didn’t have a reason and a point to make. To make it clear that this isn’t a matter of genre personal taste, because I know CLM is a very specific sound and a style that music snobs often take more seriously - I love SO many of her candy pop bangers, they are infinitely more clever, articulate, and overall works of art by a true wordsmith than this. Karma, The Very First Night, etc are all a master classes in clever words and tight writing being tucked into an “unserious” pop song.

The lyrics I cited above to me sound like what haters believe her writing sounds like, even fans who make little jokey TikTok’s about her and make up a spoofy something to sing while in character - that’s what these lyrics sound like.

Im worried im being too harsh, but please stay with me because the more I think about the more genius I think it actually is.

In the context of the themes of rest of the album, (her being trapped, miserable, manipulated, ready to burn it all down, screaming to be seen) this theory became clear to me. I think she’s leaning into her public persona (in more ways than one, we’ve already seen it with the stunting), in a way setting a “trap” for her fans and the public, that will essentially call them all out on how they ignored the real her in favor of her pr narrative, making the album about paternity tests, etc, all of which I’m guessing will become very clear in retrospect, possibly after she comes out? (Of course it’s already clear to us now, which is another purpose of the beard songs including clunky writing - to signal to us that these are not serious and that she knows that we know that she knows (like Phoebe on friends lol))

Ultimately, this is (along with So Highschool) a classic beard song. When she writes in this voice, she embodies the most extreme versions of her public persona, not just the one she has cultivated on purpose, but also the one that people have of her that don’t know her (as she did in Blank Space), including those that don’t take her seriously - because her identity as a boy crazy psycho ex girlfriend is directly tied to people dismissing her art as vapid because, they’ve only ever heard her singles, they don’t know the full her.

That voice is the straightest, the most boy crazy, the most one note, and sometimes the most unsophisticated writer version of her that people have in their minds, including her fans - the fans that refuse to see her as a whole person, the real, that believe she is head over heals for big football boy, that believe “he knows how to ball, I know Aristotle” is a romantic line about how opposites attract, the fans that say they don’t “get” some of her most beautiful and well-written songs, the fans that don’t see her and haven’t been seeing her.

They didn’t see giant Taylor on the eras tour, they refuse to see all of her queer signaling, etc, and I think she’s making the bearding songs obvious to underscore the difference between her Taylor(TM) and Taylor(person) personas.

She knows that despite the fact that the lyrics don’t even come close to measuring up to the rest of the album, the public, and many of her fans, will make this song one of the most listened to simply because they are looking for evidence of her relationships from the past year. We’ve all commented on how insane it is that this layered, complex, devastating album is being reduced to the usual paternity tests. This is currently one of the top songs precisely because it is “about Matty”. And of course, So High School is one of the tops songs along with it because it’s “about Travis”.

The juxtaposition of the bearding songs alongside her beautifully written poetry of Prophecy, Peter, Whose Afraid of Little Old Me, Cassandra, How did it end, The Albatross, etc mirrors the juxtaposition of her two selves during the Midnights era.

She has proven the point that if they think she wrote every line of this song completely in earnest, then they see her largely no differently than her haters do, as a subpar writer who writes absurdly cheesy love songs praising trashy to mediocre, problematic men. By eating it up they tell her that’s what she’s good for, for being the subject of tabloids and warring fans who make this entire album about two (purposefully) mediocre songs and the men who “inspired” them.

She has proven her point - that a subset of her fans will be distracted by a lesser song simply because they think it’s about one of the greasy men that’s she been seen holding hands with. That they will ignore once again all of her pleas to be seen, that she’s in pain and caged, and has been driven insane by their willful ignorance. That they don’t appreciate her full potential and talent, that they don’t even see it, and just want to be confirmed in their ideation of her.

This song is essentially the “forget him(her)” pill at the beginning of the fortnight mv, but it’s a sedative for the fans, who are addicted to her straight narrative. Similar to Willow’s 13 chants of “that’s my man” that started off evermore, casting a spell of heteronormativity over everyone who wanted it, so that they could choose to just completely ignore the following 14 gayest songs ever written. Don’t pay no mind to her singing directly about women with zero male perspective - she said “that’s my man!” We’re good! She’s still straight!

Taylor in the fortnight mv had to a take a sedative to be able to go into the next room and write her bearding songs - ie she self medicates to deal with keeping up the straight persona and to get through having to release dumbed down songs to feed the masses. (I also see the pill as something forced on her, I think it represents both layers)

From the first time I watched the music video I thought the writing Taylor looked so miserable and the bearding songs are why.

In this room she’s trapped, churning out the songs that her fans expect of her, the songs that make her team money, the songs that make her money, but that she has to compromise her truth to create.

But when she frees herself she’ll burn the stories that weren’t true, the filler that doesn’t represent her.

I’m curious to hear other’s thoughts on this - have you ever felt like Taylor purposefully inserts off-sounding lyrics that are written in a different voice to make a point?

I want to reiterate that it’s not the entirety of either song that I think is terrible, I genuinely love bopping along to both So High School and TTPD (track). Like I said above, when you remove the clunky lines from ttpd (track), the song has another layer and likely gives voice to some Karlie insight that is beautiful and tragically profound. It’s the red herrings, the pieces specifically meant to tie this song to a bearding narrative, that I’m dissing, and the only reason they are suspicious in the first place is because I know how gifted Taylor is with the written word.

Taylor is such a skilled writer that she can embody the voice of the bad writer that dismissive ignorant idiots believe her to be, just to make a point!

I even wonder if maybe there is a second version of this song locked away in one of those drawers in the fortnight writing room that leaves out the red herrings and is a thousand times better than the bearding version we got.

I hope one day we get to hear it.

[cuddlytogas]

there was some Twitter madness recently where someone left a comment on someone's art to the effect of, "Ed shouldn't wear a dress, he's a man!" which I do disagree with on principle, but unfortunately, it brought out one of my least favourite trends in the fandom

so, naturally, I had to write a twitter essay about it. and I already largely argued this in a post here, but the thread is clearer and better structured, so I thought I'd cross-post for those not on the Hellsite (derogatory). edited for formatting/structure's sake, since I no longer have to keep to tweet lengths, and incorporating a couple of points other people brought up in the replies

so

I want to point out that the wedding cake toppers in OFMD s2 aren't evidence that Ed wants to wear dresses. Gender is fake, men can wear skirts, play with these dolls how you like, but it's not canon, and that scene especially Doesn't Mean That.

People cite it often: 'He put himself in a dress by painting the bride as himself! It's what he wants!' But that fundamentally misunderstands the scene, and the series' framing of weddings as a whole. I'd argue that Ed paints the figure not from desire, but from self-hatred; it's not what he wants, but what he thinks he should, and has failed to, be.

(Yes, I am slightly biased by my rampant anti-marriage opinions, but bear with me here, because it is relevant to the interpretation of the scene, and season two as a whole.)

The show is not subtle. It keeps telling us that the institution of marriage is a prison that suffocates everyone involved. Ed's parents' cycle of abuse is passed to their son in both the violence he witnesses then enacts on his father, and the self-repression his mother teaches, despite her good intentions ("It's not up to us, is it? It's up to God. ... We're just not those kind of people. We never will be."). Stede and Mary are both oppressed by their arranged marriage, with 1x04 blunty titled Discomfort in a Married State. The Barbados widows revel in their freedom ("We're alive. They're dead. Now is your time").

But even without this context, the particular wedding crashed in 2x01 is COMICALLY evil. The scene is introduced with this speech from the priest:

"The natural condition of humanity is base and vile. It is the obligation of people of standing ... to elevate the common human rabble through the sacred transaction of matrimony."

It's upper class, all-white, and religiously sanctioned. "Vile natural conditions" include queerness, sexual freedom, and family structures outside the cisheteropatriarchal capitalist unit. "The obligation of people of standing" invokes ideas like the white man's burden, innate class hierarchy, religious missions, and conversion therapy. Matrimony is presented as both "sacred" (endorsed by the ruling religious body), and a "transaction" (business performed to transfer property and people-as-property, regardless of their desires), a tool of the oppressive society that pirates escape and destroy. That is where the figurines come from.

When Ed, in a drunk, depressive spiral, paints himself onto the bride, he's not yearning for a pretty dress. He's sort of yearning for a wedding, but that's not framed as positive. What he's doing is projecting himself into an 'ideal' image of marriage because he believes that: a) that's what Stede (and everyone) wants; b) he can never live up to that ideal because he's unlovable and broken (brown, queer, lower-class, violent, abused, etc); c) that's why Stede left. He tries to make himself fit into the social ideal by painting himself onto the closest match - long-haired, partner to Stede/groom, but a demure, white woman, a frozen, porcelain miniature - because, if he could just shrink himself down and squeeze into that box, maybe Stede would love him and he'd live happily ever after. But he can't. So he won't.

The fantasy fails: Ed is morose, turns away from the figurines, then tips them into the sea, a lost cause. He knows he won't ever fulfil that bride's role, but he sees that as a failure in himself, not the role. It's not just that "Stede left, so Ed will never have a dream wedding and might as well die." Stede left when Ed was honest and vulnerable, "proving" what his trauma and depression tell him: there's one image of love (of personhood), and he'll never live up to it because he's fundamentally deficient. So he might as well die.

This hit me from my very first viewing. The scene is devastating, because Ed is wrong, and we know it! He doesn't need to change or reduce himself to fit an image and be accepted (as, eg, Izzy demanded). Stede knows and loves him exactly as he is; it's the main thread and theme of season two!

(@/everyonegetcake suggested that Ed's yearning in these scenes includes his broader desire for the vulnerability and safety Stede offered, literalised through unattainable "fine" things like the status of gentleman in s1, or the figurine's blue dress. I'd argue, though, that these scenes don't incorporate this beyond a general knowledge of Ed's character. Ed is always pining for both literal and emotional softness, but the significance of the figurines specifically, to both Ed and the audience, is poisoned by their origin and context: there is no positive fantasy in the bride figure, only Ed's perceived deficiency.

Further, assuming that a desire for vulnerability necessarily corresponds with an explicit desire for femininity, dresses, etc, kind of contradicts the major themes of the show. OFMD asserts that there is nothing wrong with men assuming femininity (through drag, self-care, nurturing, emotional vulnerability, etc), but also that many of these traits are, in fact, genderless, and should be available to men without affecting their perceived or actual masculinity. It thematically invokes the potential for cross-gender expression in Ed's desires, especially through the transgender echoes in his relieved disposal, then comfortable reincorporation, of the Blackbeard leathers/identity. It's a rich, valuable area of analysis and exploration. But it remains a suggestion, not a canon or on-screen trait.)

Importantly, the groom figure doesn't fit Stede, either. Not just in dress: it's stiff and formal, and marriage nearly killed him. He's shabbier now, yes, but also shedding his privilege and property, embracing his queerness, and trying to take responsibility for his community. In a s1 flashback, Stede hesitantly says, "I thought that, when I did marry, it could be for love," but he would never find love in marriage. Not just because he's gay, but because marriage in OFMD is an oppressive, transactional institution that precludes love altogether. All formal marriages in OFMD are loveless.

So, he becomes a pirate, where they reject society altogether and have matelotages instead. Lucius and Pete's "mateys" ceremony is shot and framed not like a wedding, but as an honest, personal bond, willingly conducted in community (in a circle; no presiding authority, procession, or transaction).

That is how Stede and Ed can find love, companionship, and happiness: by rejecting those figurines and their oppressive exchange of property, overseen by a church that enables colonialism and abuse. Ed is loved, and deserves happiness, as he is, no paint or projection required.

ALL OF THIS IS TO SAY: draw Ed in dresses! Write him getting gender euphoria in skirts! Write trans/nb Ed, draw men being feminine! Gender is fake, the show invites exploration, that's what 'transformative works' means! But please, stop citing the cake toppers as evidence it's canon. Stop citing a scene where a depressed Māori man gets drunk and projects himself onto a rich, white, silent bride because he thinks he's innately unlovable and only people like her can find happiness, shortly before deciding to kill himself, as canon evidence it's what he wants.

(Also, please don't come in here with "lmao we're just having fun," I know, I get it. Unfortunately, I'm an academiapilled researchmaxxer, and some of youse need to remember that the word "canon" has meaning. NOW GO HAVE FUN PUTTING THAT MAN IN A PRETTY DRESS!! 💖💖)

[ohwolfling]

I know the fandom has generally agreed that Gale would be a bridezilla and want to have a perfect wedding. But you get married in the 6 months post final battle. Tbh, I think Gale proposes and the literal next day he's like "soooo shadowheart is a cleric, and she said she could marry us"

Like he goes from asking you out to dinner to a proposal in less than 3 business days. I'm struggling to imagine this man waiting for wedding planning lmao.

I DO NOT believe in Bridezilla Gale. He is type A and Romantic Gestures™️ coded, YES, but I think that interpreting that as Bridezilla rather than as sincere and creative touches on a bravado part of him that is part of his mask, not his maybe more genuine self. And for me, that's the fantasy, baby! Gale gets to be autistic & traumatized openly (& happy about it) in my future fics.

I believe in intimate ceremony Gale, who wants commitment to be meaningful and Tav and their loved ones to be comfortable, who wants peace, sincerity, & joy to finally take center stage after all they've been through.

I believe in big gesture Gale, who would focus less on "wedding planning" and more on doing something for Tav that says "this is for you, forever," "this is only the prologue," really custom to what Tav wants. He did the night sky because for Gale the celestial heavens were what he wanted to work up to and he thought he was dying. You're telling me he's decided to LIVE for you and he's not gonna be insane now that he knows your favorite flower? Your favorite instrument? Your preference for the woods or butterflies or candle light? Babygirl is doing SET DESIGN more than wedding planning.

I believe in genuinely enthusiastic about local customs Gale, who is going to research what wedding traditions are in Tav's home or religion or culture. He wants to go home to Waterdeep, yes, but he'd be overjoyed to start a life with you by dragging his mother and Tara to meet YOUR family, to engage with nature ceremonies of druids/barbarians/rangers, to learn the customs of your wood elf heritage, etc.

Like I think modern AU Gale would happily elope with a handful of MVPs in tow to a national park or very old Cathedral or favorite beach of Tav's choosing, wearing whatever is traditional for a Waterdeep wedding equivalent, overjoyed for Tav to wear something traditional for themselves (or not if that's your Tav's vibe, sending out wedding announcements after the fact, and doing a tour of "receptions" at different family's houses or a favorite restaurant in your small town, or whatever. Things like that.

Gale is incredibly Greek coded so I do think it's cool to think about the DnD application of that. Like maybe they elope and then later Tav is like, "hey, you know I would technically convert if a bigger ceremony in Waterdeep is something you want," or if culturally there's some equivalent that would be meaningful to his mother or if this is a world where Gale and Tav have children on purpose.

And I personally really love the idea of Gale trying to be so cool and go along with a more laid back about the art of commitment Tav for a few months and then being like "I'M SORRY - I NEED TO MARRY YOU NOW! ... if it would be alright with you. I know it's customary for [Tav culture] to [Tav culture] & I did my research. We could be married within the month."

But yeah... no Bridezilla Gale in my head canons and lmao making Shart do a wedding ceremony makes me giggle. Top Ten Ways I Did Not See This Simple Task Going includes the ilithid, a religious crisis, and being an officiant for sure.

[dreaming-in-prose]

be still my foolish heart

Summary: Penelope needs an answer to a burning question, so she goes to her betrothed's home the day before their wedding.

Read on AO3

The hem of her chemise felt heavy with dew as she walked across the cobblestone street to Bridgerton House. The unseasonably warm spring day had brought on an unseasonably warm spring night, and the cloak she had thrown on to conceal her identity, the very same one she would wear to the dressmakers to deliver the latest Whistedown in the dead of night, felt stifling. But she had to see him.

Penelope Featherington weaved behind their grand estate as she had so many times before, previously to meet her long-time best friend Eloise, but tonight she was meeting someone different.

My betrothed, she thought to herself with a mix of joy and disbelief. The very thought sent a swarm of butterflies through her stomach. She was engaged to Colin Bridgerton, the man her heart had yearned for all her life. She had spent years convincing herself that a life that included a romantic marriage was beyond her reach, that she would be content with a pragmatic match. But now, the reality of her engagement was a dream come true, a reality that was a stark contrast to the nights she had spent in bed, after a failed ball, after another season out, trying to convince herself that she would be okay with good enough. That she could accept pragmatism. A marriage where there may not be love, but there would be security. And maybe that could be enough. Perhaps we could even learn to love each other, she would say, unconvinced by her own acting.

For three seasons now, she had hidden in the shadows, her dance card empty and her prospects minimal, holding out hope that she might get the fairytale ending she had read about countless times, sitting at that window overlooking the Bridgerton house, by all accounts containing a happier family than her own. Idealistic in every way. The Bridgertons had no money troubles and did not struggle to find their place in polite society. In fact, after spending so much time with them, Penelope had even begun to believe a family could enjoy spending time with each other in earnest. So different was her own experience, with a social-climbing mother and two sisters who had the wits of half a woman shared between them, she had all but resigned to a life of partial happiness that always felt like it could be more. If she hadn't seen a family like the Bridgertons laughing and enjoying each other with her own two eyes, she may have convinced herself that partial happiness was all that there was.

And then there was him. Colin. Sweet Colin. He was curious and kind and clever. On his travels, he wrote to her, and in his script, he gave himself away as far more observant, far more clever than his family seemed to know. As he wrote to her about his travels, Colin painted a picture of a world outside London. One of a romantic life full of art, meeting strangers, and becoming worldly. She had caught herself sighing blissfully while reading his recounts of the days. Paris, Rome, Milan. Colin may not have intended it, but as she read his words, she got a glimpse into him: a romantic who could find beauty in every moment. She hardly ever allowed herself to dream that those romantic sentiments would be allowed to be directed towards her.

But in the dead of night, when she was truly truly alone with her thoughts, then Penelope would dream of him. Of his dark hair and light eyes looking at her full of love. Asking her for commitment. Craving her the way she had craved him for so long: completely, and in every way and every moment. But she never believed the fantasies that kept her company through the lonesome nights would ever make their way into reality.

Tomorrow, they were to be wed. She and Colin would say their vows and then be off to live together in bliss. Free to express their love both verbally and physically. The only problem was Penelope still could not fully grasp what would be expected of them on their wedding night. She could recall discussing the processes of conception, that when two people were wed, they could perform a particular act that would not only help to bring them closer together mentally but also create an heir. But what was that specific act?

Penelope found herself under Colin's window. Now, here, she realized how she had failed to consider this plan thoroughly. How could she get the attention of her betrothed without warning the entire house of her presence? With only the love stories she read to back her thinking, she began to search the garden for stones that she might throw at his window. How else was one to get their lover’s attention? As romantic as the act had been in all of the novels she had read that featured it, she found the actual act of throwing stones to be a strenuous task. She had never thrown very much at all in her life and never when precision mattered as much as it did now. To throw a stone amiss would mean exposing her.

Her first throw landed accurately enough, just to the right of his window on the wood siding. The stone made a satisfying "thump" before returning back down to the ground. Penelope leaned down again to find another stone, this one slightly smaller, thinking she would rather not press her luck with a broken window, and she pulled her arm back to throw it again. She released it, and it landed slightly lower, hopefully still audible but much closer to the siding of the home than to his window.

And again she began the process anew: finding a stone, preparing to throw and - Just as she set to release it, Colin's face appeared in the window, searching the yard for the cause of the interruption. The shock of seeing him threw off her aim, she noted, as the pebble left her hand, and a grimace passed over her face as she realized the stone was set to land directly at the window.

With a high-pitched thunk, the pebble made contact with the glass. Colin recoiled at the sound. Pulling from the diligent searching of the yard, he caught a glimpse of her. She pulled the hood of her cloak down, exposing her blushing face. She now felt herself become sheepish. It was foolish of her to come here and even more foolish to throw rocks at Colin Bridgerton's window like some romance heroine she knew she was not.

His eyes lit up as he saw her, and a grin graced his beautiful face. Her betrothed. She could not believe it.

Penelope wondered, in the moments after he had signaled to her that he would come down to her, whether it was truly real that she felt the way she did. Did his heart stutter just thinking about her? And threaten to stop in her presence entirely? Did she inhabit his dreams the way he did hers? Where they talked for hours, enjoyed each other’s company? And on occasion, shared a passionate kiss that always seemed to want to go somewhere further, to become more? Did he know what more there was to explore with each other?

She only stood there in the garden for a few moments, waiting for the door to unlatch. But in that time, she had enough room to think to let herself spiral, losing her grip on the shameless confidence and recklessness that had brought her here. To the Bridgerton estate. In the dead of night.

Colin's shock was the first thing she saw on his face. His eyes met hers in disbelief, seemingly prepared for the worst but optimistic that perhaps this was exactly what he thought it was: a late night call. With all the reckless abandon that entailed.

"Pen? Is everything alright? What's the matter?" His voice was low and gravelly as he kept it slightly above a whisper. And her eyes drifted down, seeing him in his sleep clothes. The thin fabric of the shirt and pants intended exclusively for the comfort of sleep displayed his sturdiness, indeed. His chest hair poked out the top of the low-cut shirt, and his breeches showed off his sturdy, well-formed thighs. Evidence of an athletic capacity she had never seen him display. She feared that if she did, she would be unable to hide her appreciation for his form and dexterity.

"All is well; I just can't sleep," she said through the sand in her mouth.

"Looking for something to occupy your mind from wandering? I can understand that. I am feeling anxious, too. But we must not be caught." He said, pulling her deeper into the yard

They walked together in the moonlight, the garden bathed in a silvery glow. The familiar surroundings of the Bridgerton house backyard provided a comforting backdrop to their conversation. Colin led the way to a set of swings hanging from an old, sturdy tree. Penelope followed, her heart beating faster with each step.

Taking a seat on one of the swings, Colin looked up at the sky, his expression thoughtful. Penelope sat beside him, the gentle sway of the swing soothing her nerves. After a moment of silence, she could not wait any longer. The anticipation of future embarrassment was eating away at her as she sat. She turned to him, her eyes searching for answers in his.

“I have not been entirely candid, actually. I need to know something. Before tomorrow.”

He looked back at her, curiosity flickering over his eyes. “Yes, Pen, anything. What would you like to know?”

"I ask not as your lover, but as your friend Colin," she says, her eyes searching for answers in his. Perhaps in those expressive, familiar blue eyes, she would find a hint of his feelings. “What is the marital act we will be expected to perform tomorrow?”

Colin's mouth fell agape. Indeed, he knew the answer to her question. His time abroad had been clarifying in many ways, including matters of the flesh, she suspected, but in his eyes, she could see his question: was she genuinely ignorant of it? And if so, how does one begin to explain something so impolite with any grace or poise?

The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed deeply to free them. "Well, Pen, your question is a rather valuable one. However, is it not customary for one's mama to address such matters? Thus, sparing one's future husband the potential embarrassment of the discussion?”

Confusion transformed into curiosity on Penelope's face. A smirk pulled at her lips as she took in his frazzled state. She stood from where she sat on the swing next to him. "Do I see confoundedness on your face, Colin Bridgerton? Do you also not know the details of the very act you and I will be expected to perform tomorrow?"

Her smirk transformed into a smile: he was frazzled and completely adorable.

Colin finally closed his mouth to set his jaw, clenching his teeth as he analyzed his betrothed before him. His eyes searched.

"Pen, I know well the answer to your question, but the presentation of the answer is what I am grappling with."

He seemed almost frustrated as he said it; Pen noticed, as children do when they are pretending to be more knowledgeable than they indeed are, perhaps. She let this idea carry into a gentle laugh.

"I would let you have more time to prepare, but I believe we have very little until the act must be done, Lord Birdgerton, and I would very well like to be informed."

Dismounting from the swing, Colin placed his feet on the ground and closed the distance between them. With his movement, she stood to meet him, him towering over her small stature. Every fiber of her body swelled in response to his proximity, to his scent. His mouth opened to speak, but again, no words came out. Penelope stepped forward, allowing her instincts to guide her as she putt her hands against his belly, feeling the warmth of his skin under his nightshirt.

"If it helps in your framing, how does it relate to what we did in the carriage together?" She whispered, carefully scanning the garden to ensure none of his many siblings had made their way out to spy. Just the contact of her hands on his stomach was enough to make it hard for her to breathe, and her acting was put to the test as she tried to hide her breathlessness as she scanned.

"Uh, yes, the carriage, right," his breath shuddered as her hands began tracing down as if to trail under his shirt. "Well, in the carriage..."

Her hand breached his shirt slowly, fingers touching warmly against his abdomen, eliciting a hitch from him.

"I quite liked what you did in the carriage. When I am alone in my chambers, I find it rewarding to recreate your techniques on myself while reminiscing. Does that relate?" She whispered mischievously, willing her heart to slow as she said it. His abdomen tensed under her touch as she spoke, and his tense jaw shifted into a smirk, his eyes glazed over in some hungry kind of admiration. Like he would devour her if he could.

Suddenly, she began to feel her heart beating in her ears, and the once familiar and comforting feeling of dew-kissed grass beneath her feet faded around her. No longer could she hear the chirping of the crickets, but instead, her thoughts were raptured by the memory of their time together that night and what her confession had elicited from him tonight.

Colin licked his lips, bringing one hand to cradle her face gently. Without thought, she found herself leaning into his touch.

Under his breath, he said, "Yes, that does relate, very closely, hopefully, to the act. I It is my earnest hope, um, that in such intimate moments, I shall always endeavor to bring you to, uh, satisfaction. Though it may not be traditionally taught as an essential aspect of the experience…" She let her hands wander downward as he spoke, a thumb grazing under the waistband of his trousers, feeling coarse hair there and a shudder from him. "Pen, I cannot think while you're touching me like that," he sighed.

"Like this?" She goaded, pressing her body to his, feeling an unfamiliar hardness pressing into her belly from his trousers.

"Pen, I-"

Her eyes gazed up at him deviously, her original interrogation gone from her mind in favor of discovering the rules of whatever the game was they were currently playing with each other. Colin let out a sigh, part frustration, part enjoyment. With a free hand, Penelope undid the bind on her cloak, releasing the stifling garment to the ground and letting her night rail be exposed. The cool breeze of the evening welcomed on her too-hot skin.

"I am beginning to believe you never cared to learn the answer to your question in the first place, Pen." He goaded, "In fact, I believe you came here not to ask an innocent question of me but to seduce me.”

Penelope opened her mouth to retort, to deny the accusation, but before she could, he continued, “But if you are allowed your fun, then I suppose it is only fair that I indulge in mine.”

Grabbing her by the waist, Colin gently and carefully spun Penelope a quarter turn, landing with her back against the tree from which the swings hung. With barely time for a breath, he pressed her body into the thick body of the tree with a kiss to her neck. The sound that escaped her lips shocked even her, as the warm pleasure of his lips on her spread through her body.

His lips felt hungry against her, with a tongue flicking out to taste her soft skin, where her neck met her shoulder, and she contained a moan. The feeling, the contact, with him, it threatened to turn her brain off entirely.

Caught in the bliss of their joining, Penelope reached her hand out to once again touch him. Her fingers craved to card through the hair on his chest and stomach, to explore the wanting she discovered even lower than his abdomen. She needed to have her hands on him as he put his lips to her pulse point, inspiring her to groan and tense against his touch.

As her fingers slipped again under the thin cotton of his shirt, finding a familiar purchase. Her hands trembled slightly at the contact, at the dizziness that came with the rush of lust she was feeling. Through the fog, she could hear a tsk from him, almost invisible.

The hands that had previously taken her waist, Colin's large, broad hands, so quickly found and enveloped both her wrists; pulling her hands away from his body, further from the satisfying heat of him, he pinned her hands gently but firmly against the bark of the tree they were leaned against.

But her body craved him. Deep in her stomach, a coil of heat had formed, a knot that formed from the same heat that gathered when he kissed her neck, when his hands brushed her waist, when his mouth was on her chest. Between her legs pooled a longing that was difficult to satisfy. She needed to touch him.

Penelope pushed against his grasp, her hips moving of their volition in search of contact, of satisfaction like what she had in the carriage, like what she experienced in her bed chambers, with a hand under the covers trying to quell the same drive that motivated her now. His hand stayed firm against her wrists, holding her still against the bark of the tree, keeping her from satisfying her needs. She could see the idea enter his mind before he acted:

Colin's smile was devious as he extended his knee out, slotting it gently between her legs, allowing her to press against him. Immediately, Penelope could feel her eyes fall to half-lids as the decadent electricity of the impact fed that fire inside her.

A rumble came from him as her eyes fell. Low and gruff, Colin leaned to her ear and, under his breath, whispered, "The act you and I are to perform tomorrow - It will feel like this, but so much closer. And as you reach your peak, I will be there with you, wringing it out of you. Once you're done, I will begin the process anew, bringing you to the edge again and again until you are spent. That is how I look forward to spending the rest of my years with you: making you so satisfied you cannot even dream of teasing me with your countless, persistent queries."

His words constricted her heart so much she felt she could burst. Her hands above her head, grinding against his leg, being whispered promises of a life of love and diligent pleasure, it threatened to cause her undoing. And when she looked up to him to see the glisten of arousal in his blue eyes, the smirk of mutual attraction as he watched her use him to seek her end, something grew in her. A need to both hold tighter and let go, that dichotomy of breathless need that threatened to push her over an invisible ledge.

Her hips quickened against him, her breath short and needy. She was nearly there, one step from walking over that edge. She just needed more. “Colin, please, I need you to touch me.”

As if he had been waiting for her to say it, he lowered his face to hers, and in one fluid motion, he locked his lips around hers hungrily. Their kiss was fierce and demanding. His soft lips against hers were the kind she had dreamed about.

His free hand lowered to take one of her breasts into his hand, with fewer layers between them than ever before. She could feel the heat radiating from his touch and imagined it was similar to the very same heat that was radiating through her body. The one driving her to press her hips into his thigh in pursuit of the release she imagined was nearly hers. She could feel it, just out in front of her.

His thumb began tracing over the sensitive peak of her breast; her breath quivered at the contact. His hand on her like this felt so good, almost too good. A moan managed to escape her lips as his thumb continued its circle, his index finger joining to gently pinch her nipple. The increase in sensation was delicious, combined with the feeling of his mouth on hers, his soft lips pressed to hers in a frenzy of excitement and pursuit; The liquid heat in her belly seemed to grow warmer, and her hips began to stutter in their motion as pleasure ripped through her.

"Colin," she moaned against his mouth, trying to keep her voice down.

“That’s it, Pen. Keep going." He mumbled against her skin.

She reclaimed his lips with hers, kissing him with the same urgency she felt between her legs. The world faded away in that moment, as the sensation kept building and building, until finally, the knot of attraction and lust and connection that had been steadily forming in her abdomen uncoiled in one abrupt motion, causing her body to tremble and a moan to escape her lips.

Penelope let her eyes flutter back open, connecting with Colin's stare. Blue, like the ocean, stared at her, luminous and shameless and hers.

His smile curved wickedly. Sudden awareness of their location, of her appearance, flooded into her. Colin's grip had loosened, and Penelope used her free hand to smooth her hair, clawing her fingers through her fiery mane in an effort to hide any evidence of their debauchery. "I'm a mess," she muttered, more to herself than Colin. A reminder of who and where she was before she had let herself be lost to the pleasure she had found in the wonderful friction between herself and Colin's muscular thigh.

"I could get quite used to seeing you this way, Pen." He said, her heart skipping at the raw lust behind his eyes as he said it, "If this is a mess, then I prefer you messy and reeling. When I see you amongst the ton, in polite society, I will cherish in the knowing that I have seen you undone, with words failing you, and so, so beautiful."

The way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her, the feeling of his leg still pressed between hers, it fueled an idea in her. A demand from her body. One to share the completely mindless, overpowering, demanding pleasure she had felt. Before she could think twice, she slipped her hand between them, finding the evidence of his pleasure straining against the material of his sleep pants. Thick and hard under her hand, she could suddenly vividly imagine where she wanted to feel that part of him. Suddenly, she ached, feeling the emptiness of not having him inside of her.

Colin's body flinched against the touch, in a combination of pleasure and a knowing that this was too far, even for two betrothed people.

"Pen, I cannot threaten anyone finding us this way. If you continue to touch me like that, I do not know if I will be able to restrain myself from this becoming more than stolen moments before our wedding night." His voice sounded velvety, luscious. It made her dizzy to merely consider it.

"I do suppose I have the answer to my question, and though you were no help in telling me, you have done well to show me, Colin." Unsteady, her hand applied pressure to the hardness she felt there, and he groaned.

Lowering his head, Colin brushed his lips against hers. Penelope tried to savor the places where they connected, the taste of him, the feel of his warmth, but mostly, her mind was preoccupied with talking herself down from the impulsive, reckless thoughts that begged for her attention. She wasn't ready for this moment to end yet.

"I will make it up to you tomorrow. And then again and again and again for the remainder of our lives."

They connected once more, lips meeting and expressing wordlessly the need they were both resisting.

When he pulled away from her, her mind was a haze. Before her body had time to chime in, her mind spoke, "I did not expect to linger this long, Colin. I should go."

"Yes, one should be well rested for their wedding day."

Neither made to move, their eyes connected, lips hovering not far from each other.

"Thank you for tonight."

"Of course. It was my pleasure."

She scanned his face, committing the details to memory of the curve of his chin, the dark lashes of his eyes, the color of his lips. And she could feel his stare on her, scanning her nose, seemingly counting the freckles that smattered across her face, memorizing the curve of her lip.

"It was nice... speaking with you." She said, pulling herself from the magnetic stare and finding herself moving away from him quickly, looking over her shoulder to steal one final glance.

And as she did, she noticed once again the chirping of crickets and the sound the breeze made through the leaves of the trees, all things that had faded from her as she was caught in the moment with him, suspended in time.

She couldn't wait for tomorrow.

[cartograffiti]

February '24 reading diary

I finished 19 books in February, which sounded like a mistake until I realized I read most of them as audiobooks while doing manual tasks. It's always nice when my ears are on my side (says someone with a hearing disorder).

I like poetry, but I don't read enough to feel knowledgeable about it. I've been trying to read a bit from various countries, and after I enjoyed the Pablo Neruda collection so much in January, I went on to read three other poetry books.

Khalil Gibran's The Prophet is one of those works that I've seen quoted out of context so much that I was shocked to discover I didn't actually know what it's about. It's a series of prose poetry fables with a linking plot in which the titular prophet converses with the people of a city he is departing about different aspects of life. A lot of it is really beautiful and thought-provoking, and I thought it was great. It's become a popular source of quotes for weddings and inspirational goods, but I was surprised and moved to find it's also a text about multi-faith unity; Gibran was Lebanese, and Lebanon had and has striking diversity of religions.

I also really enjoyed The Poetess Counts to 100 and Bows Out, a collection by the important Venezuelan poet Ana Enriqueta Terán. I find her wordplay unusual and her subjects interesting, and even in translation, I found her work to give a powerful sense of humor and hopefulness, and a gift for creating a scene.

I did not enjoy Rupi Kaur's Milk and Honey. Kaur is one of the most famous living poets, and I had read so much praise and disdain for her work that I wanted to form my own opinion. There are turns of phrase I really liked, and it is laid out in an interesting way that means some related poems could be read either distinctly or as sections of a longer thought, which I found neat. But I found myself so grumpy the more I read of it that I ended up also reading a lot about Kaur and other people's analysis of her work, trying to contextualize why I bounced so hard off it. Many critics wrote about trying to separate her style from her content, and chose to praise just one or the other, but I am critical of both. Her style lacks personality that would tell me it was her work as opposed to any other poet's, and her content is full of basic, played-out sentiments of popular feminism and bathetic viral posts. Being reminded of "take me to a museum and then make out with me," "but they said not to touch the masterpieces," is not what I'd hoped for out of this. I do think it's a good thing and a strength of Kaur's that she is able to speak to so many people's common experiences through her clarity and intimate tone; it's a shame it didn't click with me. And unlike several professional opinions I read, I think she's completely entitled to write poetry that is not all self-revealing confessional pieces; that should not be something we demand of any art form. But it's a shame some of her verses suggest that certain kinds of shame and violence are a collective and integral part of womanhood and South Asian identity. She's only a little older than I am, and we were both students when she wrote these. I wonder whether her recent work is more sophisticated. I'm not motivated to find out.

The title of the Kaur book reminded me of some enthusiastic praise I'd read for Mary Robinette Kowal's Regency fantasy romance Shades of Milk and Honey, and I found that disappointing, too. I almost liked it; there's some great bits about making art with magic, and it's a good little world. The most interesting character doesn't get enough page time, a lot of secondary characters feel like flat loans from Austen, and the late-book resolution was forced and rushed.

In the Emelan group read, we finished! We read Melting Stones, an Evvy-centered book that I really enjoyed until it became repetitive in the second half, and feel pretty mild about, and The Will of the Empress, reuniting all the original kids as older teens, which I thought was just great. Pierce in top form, and one of the best of this setting.

Lois McMaster Bujold has a new Penric & Desdemona novella out that I haven't been able to borrow yet, but in the meantime I discovered there was one I missed. Penric is a physician mage devoted to an unusual god, which means he's benignly possessed by his demon friend Desdemona, and they have adventures and solve mysteries. This one was Knot of Shadows, about a puzzling corpse and curses. Great fun. Don't start here.

In the land of romance, I've been really enjoying Mimi Matthews's Belles of London series, about a friend group of interesting Victorian horse girls, so I read The Lily of Ludgate Hill as soon as I could. These are no-sex but sexy books with a lot of skill. I've been easily invested in each couple so far, the friends are well integrated into each other's lives even after resolving their own storylines, and their new beaus are introduced smoothly. More than that, there is a lot of consideration for the social issues and new ideas of the period. My favorite is still the first, but Anne and Felix have a strong second chance romance backstory and they're fun to see squabble and cooperate.

More romance: I finished another Gail Carriger novella, this time Defy or Defend. Dimity Plumleigh-Teignmott in the Finishing School series was only learning to be a spy because her evil genius parents wanted it. Her actual dream was to marry a nice politician of not too much importance and be a domestic goddess and social power. Now an adult working for the government, her professional partner is also her perfect man, and she hopes he'll admit to mutual feelings while they're on a mission to rescue a vampire hive from dangerous disintegration. It's very much a Cold Comfort Farm or The Grand Sophy plot of a cheerful girl solving everyone's problems, which is perfect for Dimity: I love her and I love this premise. Felix's internal conflict is a bit of a nonentity, but I don't care, he's too busy adoring Dimity and taking the trans vampire to buy new clothes.

And the last romance for the month, The Companion by E.E. Ottoman. An extraordinarily efficient novella about Madeline, a writer whose spirit has been crushed by trying to break into the industry in NYC in the 1940s. A friend arranges for her to go stay with Victor, a successful author lonely in a too-big inherited house upstate. She is quickly attracted to both him and his artist neighbor Audrey, and they adore her. All three are trans, and the core of the plot is Madeline navigating these new relationships while settling into the unfamiliar safety and encouragement offered to her. In Madeline's POV, Ottoman very much treats the poly triangle as two distinct romances and a third observed at a close distance, which means doing about 2.5 times the work of most. I went wild for the execution, which felt like magic. You do have to like reading about people trying to write and cooking, which fortunately I do. Highly recommended.

A very different book about a writer that I was impressed with this month is Malice by Higashino Keigo. In translation, this is the "first" of a longer detective series that I can't remember where I heard about. That was to my advantage, because I wasn't primed for the premise, alternating between the deductions of Detective Kaga and witness statements. It quickly becomes apparent who did it, fitting best into the why-dunnit class, and using my expectations as a mystery fan against me. Higashino does not idly use an author as one of the POV characters; his profession creates a surprise that taught me something about how writing works mechanically. Very cool.

Also a book about books: Sunyi Dean's The Book Eaters. My oldest friend and I both listened to this as the audiobook wonderfully read by Katie Erich, and we both complained that the interview in the bonus material killed a little of the mystery for us. Despite that, we loved the main character, Devon, and it's full of interesting ideas. It's about a group of families who eat information instead of food. It's about...fairy tales and it has a unique form of dragon and vampire myths and a slow-burn escape from Christian cults. It's about figuring out you're gay when you're already a parent. It's weird and fascinating and upsetting. I think Dean made very smart choices about when to reveal information through flashbacks, and I think Dean sometimes over-explains things to the reader in the narration that would have been stronger if I was left to interpret them myself. L and I both think we'd be interested in another Sunyi Dean book, but not a sequel to this one. It is a complete concept.

I feel that way about Shigidi and the Brass Head of Obalufon by Wole Talabi, too. This one is a fantasy heist with lots of backstory starring Shigidi, who is a kind of minor nightmare god, and Nnemoa, who is a kind of succubus. They have gone freelance, breaking from the corporation of Orisha and taking their own jobs through the living and spirit worlds. I particularly like Nnemoa's backstory chapters and the heist, but Aleister Crowley is involved for some reason and much less repulsive than in real life, and I was disappointed the heist is a pretty brief element. I'd like to read another Talabi book, though, and this was the first adult book I've read that features the orishas of the Yoruba religion which have been a welcome part of several recent YA fantasy books.

The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water is not the Zen Cho book I thought it was when I checked it out, but I'm glad to have read it. It's a wuxia novella about a nun and some bandits involved in rebellion, told with a lot of humor and thoughtfulness about the role of holy objects through the POV of a trans bandit with his own history with the nun's order. I love Cho's style!

That was a one-sitting project audiobook, as was a full-cast play recording of The Importance of Being Earnest. This is a sensational play that I had put off reading because I thought it had probably been overhyped. It hadn't. This is the source of a lot of Oscar Wilde's best quotes, and it's a jewel of drawing-room comedy and dialogue that operates on multiple levels of significance. I'm glad I happened to listen to actors doing it, which I wasn't expecting when I tapped on the first audiobook that came up.

More old books: I found an Agatha Christie mystery I didn't like! How sad! This was The Big Four, a series of spy short stories starring Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings, compiled together into a loose novel. The effect is somewhat disjointed, and not every story shows her ingenuity. It's full of 20th century political paranoia of conspiracies and spies, with anti-Asian racism and antisemitic tropes I can often count on Christie to avoid or subvert.

And Steppenwolf, by Herman Hesse, which is a very strange and influential work of literary fiction about a man who believes--not to minimize it by putting it this way--that he has a secret wolf-self inside him, much like certain middle schoolers of my acquaintance. The edition I listened to opens with a letter from Hesse in which he remarks that this book is frequently misunderstood, which I will admit put my back up. Maybe there's stuff in your book you didn't intend, Herman! I enjoyed its vagueness, I adored the complexity embodied by Harry Haller's friend/alter-ego/mother/girlfriend/boyfriend Hermine, and I got a lot out of reading literary analysis that gave me better context for the transmigration of souls and Jungian theory. It also suffers from didactic passages, racism and antisemitism, and dogmatism about artistic quality. Very worth reading, difficult to say whether I "liked" the book.

Carrying on with Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond books, I went straight from GK into Queens' Play, which I loved every moment of. It's easier to read than the first book, as she pulled back on stylized spellings and puzzling quotations, without losing any sparkle or punch. It's sooo fun. It's sooo distressing. Spies! Plots! Assassins! Disguises! Escapes! Messy bisexuals! I told my Lymond friends this book was funnier, but that feels like the wrong word for some of the things that happen in it. Giggling and kicking my feet and crying.

And a book I am very solidly neutral on: The City Beautiful by Aden Polydoros, full of vibrant personality and a great premise, but the plot gets in its own way in complexity and the pacing was a real struggle for my taste. The core cast is really strongly varied Jewish immigrant characters in Chicago in the 1890s, some teens have been murdered, there's a dybbuk, and gay kissing. I think I would have enjoyed it more when I was a teen; some YA takes me that way.

[loverontheleft]

Like You Want (revised)

Warnings: language, dirty talk, playful degradation (slut), sex, oral, mildly rough sex, spanking, arguable edging, etc.

Word count: 4.1k➡️5.8k

-||-

You can hear the sound effects of his video game the moment you step into the kitchen from the garage, and you smile. You’ve missed him today, and, if all the texts he’s sent are any indication, he’s missed you too. You drop your purse on the counter and head into the living room.

“Hi, Sugar!” Brendon’s eyes light up and he sets the controller aside, patting his lap. You crawl onto him and you kiss his forehead as you stroke his hair.

“Someone’s in trouble,” you murmur, and he makes an intrigued noise, laughing. “No, really. You were supposed to tell me what you wanted as a wedding gift last week.”

Brendon’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, love. I guess it slipped my mind, because I don’t want anything—other than to marry you, of course.”

“B, it’s a tradition.” You pout now, running your hands down his chest. “You said you wanted all of the traditional stuff, right? The bride and groom exchange gifts.” You give him your biggest, saddest eyes and shove his shoulder lightly, playfully. “Tell me what you want. Let me get you a gift.”

His hands move up the back of your shirt and he gives you a soft smile. “I do want all of the traditions, yes. But I don’t need a gi—no wait, I’ve got it. Take some sexy photos for me. That’ll work.” His smile slides from gentle to seductive, and his fingers caress the clasp of your bra. “Don’t get me wrong, every photo of you is sexy, but—”

You grin, cupping his face in both hands. “You asking me for boudoir photos, Urie?”

“Depends. Are those the ones where you’d be sprawled in our bed, stripped down to next to nothing, looking like a fucking fantasy? Except, you know, not explicit. I wouldn’t mind explicit photos, but I don’t want someone else taking them. I’ll take those myself.” You laugh and kiss him, and he caresses your cheek. “I’m talking about ones that highlight the absolute work of art that you are. Tastefully suggestive. Artfully erotic. Are those boudoir photos?” His eyes are dark, and his voice is husky.

You nod, and his lips attack your neck while he works on unfastening your bra. “If you’re comfortable with it, those are what I want. So what do you want?”

There’s a beat of silence, and he nips lightly at your neck before lifting your shirt off over your head. You wriggle free of it, tossing your unfastened bra to the side, and tug at his shirt, giving him a desperate look. Brendon groans under his breath, and you can feel how hard he is. He pulls his shirt off, flinging it in the same direction as your clothes. “Sweetness, if you say ‘nothing’ or ‘I don’t need anything,’ I will wage a tickle war the likes of which this house has never seen,” Brendon warns, making you laugh and shake your head.

“Oh no,” you tell him, “I definitely want something.”

“Go on.” His voice is a low purr now; he cups your breasts in both hands, stroking them reverently and paying extra attention to your nipples. “Take all the time you need to think, sweetness; I’ll just be right here, playing with your incredible tits. Goddamn, you are perfect.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Gladly,” Brendon says quickly, and he shifts you from his lap to lay you out on the couch next to him. He moves on top of you; you can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants. You wrap your legs around his waist, rolling your hips up to grind against him longingly.

“Well no, not right n—I mean, I do want you now, but that’s what I want for my wedding gift. You to fuck me.”

He sputters out a laugh. “Okay, surely that can’t count as a gift. We fuck all the time!”

“No,” you argue, “we don’t. We have sex all the time; we make love all the time. But I want you to really fuck me. Hard, rough, whatever you want to call it—I don’t care. I want to fuck.”

Brendon’s eyes are dark; you suspect he’s about to say something, so you rush to keep talking. “Don’t get me wrong, I love our sex life. Still, I can’t stop thinking about that night on tour last month, when you—and we…it was so—we were just all over each other, and it was unlike any other time. The way you held my—and how you grabbed—B, we both came so hard. But then you apologized the next morning for being so rough with me, and I don’t want you to do that. Don’t want you to feel like you have to apologize, because I want you that way too. Urgent and desperate and wild. I want you that way too, and I want you to fuck me, really fuck me.”

His hands cup your face, and he kisses you softly. “Sweet baby,” he murmurs, “you don’t have to do this for me. I’m more than satisfied with our—”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Urie,” you say with a grin, pressing two fingers to his lips to cut him off. “I love you and want you to be happy, but this is my wedding present. Mine. As in, a gift for me from you. This is not some gesture on my part, like ‘oh, I’ll let my husband fuck me because he wants to be rough,’ or whatever. No. I want it. Me. You’ve been holding back, and I don’t want you to. I can take it, Bren; I promise.”

He studies you and moves a hand from your face to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. “You want it rough?” His voice is velvety smooth, his eyes locked on yours, and you nod. He tugs your hair lightly, and you can’t stop the moan that bubbles up. “Use your words, Sugar.”

“Y-yes,” you manage, and he grins, going back to your neck with renewed vigor.

“You want me pushing you up against the wall, pulling your hair, grinding my hard cock into you?”

“Yes,” you moan, rubbing against his erection with greater urgency. Your body is on fire, your mind is racing, and it feels like electricity is coursing through your blood. Every inch of you is craving him and his touch.

“You want that? You want us frantically pulling our clothes off until I’m lifting you up and fucking you against the wall, or pushing you onto our bed and taking you from behind, my hips slamming into your perfect ass while I pull your hair and rub your clit? You wanna feel it the next morning? That ache between your gorgeous thighs because of how good you took my cock?”

“Yeah, want all that, want to be sore from how you fuck me—god, Brendon, please,” you whimper, your head rolling back against the armrest of the couch. You’re luxuriating in his words, getting lost in the fantasy he’s building for you both.

“Dirty girl,” he sighs, grinning and tugging your hair again. “Begging for it. Love that.” He presses his erection firmly against your clit, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “You feel me? You do that to me. You make me fucking crazy. I have been holding back—not because I think you can’t handle it, but just because I want to worship you like you deserve. I love you so much, and I want to treat you like an absolute fucking queen, my perfect girl.”

You whine, kissing him fiercely, and his tongue fights yours for dominance. When you part, he tugs your hair again, smiling when you moan his name. “But if my sweet girl is actually a bit of a dirty girl, if she wants to get fucked hard, if she wants me to bend her over a bed and take her, fill her wet cunt from behind while I pull her hair and spank her,” you moan and his hand that’s not in your hair goes to your ass and squeezes firmly, “and just really fuck her,”—he’s breathing hard; you both are—“then I’ll really fuck her. God, I’ll fuck you so good.”

“Shit, that’s what I want, Brendon,” you whimper, grinding up against him. “You’re so fucking hard.”

“Of course I am,” he says in a rough voice, suckling a path up your neck before biting softly. “My gorgeous, perfect fiancée is practically begging for my dick; she just told me she wants to have wild, rough sex. Who wouldn’t be rock hard right now?”

“Can I ask for something else that will probably keep you hard?” You stroke his chest, nuzzling his neck the way he loves.

“Ask me for anything, sweetness.”

“How would you feel about not using condoms anymore?”

Brendon’s eyes go wide, and his lips part slightly; you can tell he’s trying to fully process this. You also know from the way his cock is throbbing against you that he’s very interested in what you’re suggesting. “Keep talking,” he finally manages.

“After the wedding, I think we should stop using condoms. I’ve got my IUD, so there still would be a low risk of a pregnancy.”

“Okay—but then why—”

“I want to feel you come in me, want to feel all that hot cum I normally swallow for you fill my pussy instead.”

“Sweet fuck,” Brendon groans, clutching you. “God, yeah. We can stop—fuck, you’re so—shit, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, B,” you murmur, kissing him softly. “No one has ever come in me—I want this with you. Only you.”

“Only me,” Brendon agrees, stroking your hair. “And I’ve never come in anyone. I’ve always used a condom. But I want this with you, and only you.”

You tangle a hand in his hair, kissing him more fervently now, while your other hand works its way down between your bodies to grasp his cock through his sweatpants. “Any chance of getting a preview now?”

He chuckles and shakes his head; you moan when he gets your hands pinned to the couch above you. He sucks on your lower lip and grinds into you desperately before pulling away. You take a moment to catch your breath, and you stare up at him longingly.

“Nope. You want this as your wedding present, so you’ve gotta wait for our wedding night to get it.”

“Brendon,” you pout, and he taps your nose.

“Don’t sulk, sweet baby; it’s a good way to earn yourself a spanking,” Brendon says with a wicked smile.

“What if that’s exactly what I want?”

“Then you’re well on your way to getting exactly what you want,” he tells you. “God, I fucking love you. I’ll make love to you now, because we both need it, but I’m going to force myself to be slow and tender. I’m not going to fuck you until our wedding night.” He attacks your mouth with new vigor and, breathing hard, murmurs, “Oh, and by the way—for the photos, I prefer black lace.”

-||-

“Not much longer,” Brendon whispers in your ear, and you grin, squeezing his thigh under the table at your reception. “Not much longer until I’ve got you bent over and on my cock, so I can take your sweet, wet cunt hard and fast like you want.”

You have to stifle a moan as you try desperately to not look aroused. You’ve been aiming for a ‘blissful newlywed’ expression all night, but your husband is making it hard to maintain with his explicit whispers and filthy promises. You fucking love it.

“First, it’s gonna be soft and slow and gentle. I’m gonna make love to my sweet girl, my bride, my, and—fucking finally I can say this—my wife. But after our first time as a married couple, I’m gonna take you hard.” His voice catches in his throat, and he looks at you longingly. “I love you so much, Sugar.”

-||-

“Patience, baby,” Brendon soothes, kissing down your neck as you tug frantically at his jacket and shirt. “Patience.” He’s one to talk, you tell him; he’s just crossed the threshold of the honeymoon suite with you in his arms, and he’s already trying to get you out of your dress, fingers working at the tiny pearlized buttons that start at the nape of your neck and run the length of your spine. He laughs, acknowledging your point. “How many—”

“One hundred and fifty.”

He lets out a groan, and you push his suit jacket down. He pauses on your dress buttons long enough to let the jacket fall, and you start on his shirt. “Want you naked at least,” you murmur, shoving his shirt off, watching hungrily as he wriggles out of it and pulls his undershirt off over his head. “God I want you,” you whisper, taking in his chest and the hard planes of his stomach leading down to the defined V above his pants.

“Want you,” you repeat helplessly, sinking to your knees and mouthing over the swell of his cock through his pants. You look up at him longingly, and he groans; the sight of you on your knees in your wedding dress is too much for him.

“You are so gorgeous,” he mumbles, stroking your hair. “You are so goddamn gorgeous. Your eyes, they fucking kill me. Gotta get you naked, gotta show you how much I love you. And gotta get you off your knees. The first sexual act in our marriage is not going to be you sucking my cock.” He gives you a small grin, reaching down to offer you a hand. “Personally, I think our first sexual act as a married couple should set the precedent for what we want our married sex life to be. So, I think it should be my head between your thighs, eating your sweet pussy until you come all over my face. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” you agree in a shaky voice. “Yeah that sounds good. Do want to suck your dick at some point, but yeah, you can—yes, please.” You stand again, and his hands move to your back. He pulls you close so he can work faster, and you can feel the bulge in his suit pants. “God, I want your cock.”

“You’ll get it, sweetness. Maybe you should lay down,” Brendon suggests in a low voice, leading you over to the bed. “Maybe it’ll be easier for me that way.” You nod, lay down on the bed, and bury your face in your arms, ready for his hands on your body again. He straddles you, and you can feel his erection pressing into you needily. He’s moving faster with the buttons, hips grinding slowly into you and leaning over to kiss each new part of your back that’s exposed as he frees a button. You’re gasping and trying not to squirm under him, and he chuckles. “Feels good, baby?” His breath is hot on your back.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “yeah, feels good. Love your hands and mouth on me. And,” you pause, blushing even though he can’t see you and you know you’ve got no reason to be embarrassed. “Your hard cock pressing against my ass.” He groans, and his hips buck helplessly. “Grinding into me, making me think how good it’s gonna feel when you’re fucking me like this.” He frees another few buttons and his lips trace over your back. He’s gotten low enough and made enough progress that he can’t keep pushing against you and teasing the new skin, so he sits up and tightens his thighs around yours, holding you still for him to really rub his cock against you while his fingers keep working. “You will fuck me like this, won’t you?” You’re breathless, needy, begging. “I need you to fuck me like this.”

“Of course I will.” He makes a small noise of triumph when he frees the last few buttons. He slips off of you and runs his hand down your exposed back. “Stand up, sweetness.”

You obey and he shifts to sit on the edge of the bed and you stand between his legs. His hands ghost up your sides and he tugs gently at the delicate straps; his breath catches when your dress slides off and pools at your feet. “You’re—my god, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and you’re mine,” he whispers, his arms encircling your waist and bringing you forward to straddle him as you sit in his lap. “You’re my wife,” he murmurs, kissing your neck and rubbing circles over your hips before moving up to cup the swell of your breasts in the white lace lingerie you picked out specifically for this night.

It has the effect you hoped for; he’s touching you reverently. “You are so—” Brendon stops to catch his breath, eyes locked on yours. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you reply softly. “You’re my husband, and I love you so much. Gonna get me out of this lace and into our bed?” He groans, urging you to stand again, chest heaving with his labored breaths. His thumbs hook into your panties, and he slides them down your thighs for you to step out of before moving back up to your breasts and reaching behind you. “It opens in the front,” you whisper; he swears, reaching for the tiny, almost imperceptible clasp between your breasts. He unhooks it, the lace parts, and you’re entirely open to him.

“Baby,” he groans, pulling you close so he can lick at your nipples and kiss down your stomach and move lower, breathing hard. “Gotta get these pants off,” he mutters, unbuckling his belt and shoving them down. His boxers go too, and you’re biting your lip, desperate to get your mouth, hands, and pussy on his cock. He kicks the pants off and looks up at you, lust burning in his eyes. “Come here, my love.”

You settle in his lap, your slick heat sliding over his erection, and he grunts when you move forward with purpose. “Love you,” he repeats, shifting slightly and cradling your head in one hand as he turns on the bed to stretch you out under him. “Love you so much.” Brendon kisses you softly, fingers moving down your sides and curling under your thighs.

He works his way down your body, kissing a warm path and when he’s low enough, he looks up at you tenderly. “My beautiful bride. My sweet wife. My forever love. Can I taste my best girl?”

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Please.”

Brendon’s fingers are warm on your hips, and he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Spread for me, love.” You spread your legs eagerly, reaching for his hair and guiding his mouth exactly where you want it. “Goddamn,” Brendon moans, resting his head on your hip for a moment. “I know our week of self-imposed abstinence was for this exact reason, to make our tonight even more intense, but my god, I’m about to lose my mind over your cunt, baby.”

“Do it, then,” you groan, making both of you laugh at your desperation. Brendon’s mouth closes over you, tongue rolling gently while his thumbs work between your thighs to keep you spread wide for him. “Oh my god, I have missed your mouth.” You’re breathless, gripping his head and rubbing back against his eager tongue. “Shit, you’re the fucking best, Bren—yes, fuck, curl—oh!”

Brendon’s worked two fingers deep into you, and he’s curling them back to press against your G-spot while he sucks at your clit; this is one of his go-to moves that always leaves you squealing and squirming against his face. It makes you come hard, and you’re always a little self-conscious, but Brendon’s consistently said that the moment when he’s worried he might actually drown in your cunt is when he’s happiest. He teases that he’d die without any regrets, doing what he loves most—getting his best girl off.

Now, you shriek his name as your back arches; you’re rigid as your orgasm rushes through you, and all you can do is tremble under his touch and praise him for the way his tongue is urgently lapping at you.

When you’re both sure you’re done, Brendon rolls onto his back between your legs, breathing hard and gripping his cock. “Fuck, your cunt is to die for. I’m fucking addicted to the taste of your pussy, my love.”

“I think I lost consciousness for a moment,” you say with a soft laugh. “Shit, that was intense. Come up here, B.”

Obligingly, Brendon rolls back over and works his way up your body. He’s pressing soft kisses along your neck and collarbone, and you can feel how hard he is. You reach down between your tangled legs and squeeze his cock, making a small, desperate sound. “I know, sweetness, I know. I need you too, so damn badly. Let me just—” he hesitates as you’re cradling him between your legs, and he reaches for the bedside table before remembering you’re not at home, which means there’s no box of condoms in the drawer. He pauses. “Wait—you said we didn’t have to use—”

“No,” you say softly, locking your legs around his waist and keeping him in place. “We don’t have to. I want you to come in me, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, kissing your neck as his hands roam, groping and caressing. “It is so okay with me.”

-||-

“I love you,” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he rocks into you over and over again, his thrusts deep and slow. “I’m, oh god, gonna—”

“Come for me,” Brendon murmurs, kissing the pulse point behind your ear that makes you fall apart. “Come on my cock; let me feel you.” You let out a breathy sigh and whisper his name when you feel your orgasm hit; he moans low in your ear. “God, that’s incredible; feeling you directly on—shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna come,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna come in you; is that still okay?” You nod, legs tightening around him, moaning that he’d better not even think of pulling out.

“Fuck,” he gasps, groaning your name, and you feel him: hard, hot, throbbing; the sensation of pulsing heat filling you makes your eyes roll back.

“Oh god,” you whimper, “you feel so good. Your cum feels so good in me, filling me; fuck, Brendon, yes.”

“Fuck,” Brendon gasps, breathing hard as he collapses beside you. “That was insanely good. God, your pussy…with nothing in between us. Just the two of us, feeling your slick cunt squeeze my cock, and then coming deep in you…I need just a minute, but then I’ll be good to go. Gonna fuck you hard and fast like you want, I promise.”

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes closed, trying to catch your breath. “Yes, please.” It’s been maybe ten, fifteen seconds before he’s rolling onto his stomach and crawling between your legs. “Brendon?” You sound surprised, and he looks up at you. “I thought you needed—”

“I know. I thought I needed a minute too, but this is what I really need. Your hot pussy on my face.”

“Oh shit,” you whimper, clutching the sheets when his tongue licks over you swiftly. “But you just—oh fuck, you just came in—”

He pulls back, kissing your inner thighs while his hands stroke your hips. “Don’t even care. I’ve just always loved the idea of tasting us together. Before now, it would’ve been the taste of your sweet cunt mixed with latex. But now, I can—if you don’t mind. Is that—is this okay?”

You take a shaky breath and nod. “Of course. I just didn’t know—I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

He grins, curling his hands under your thighs and spreading you for him. “I will always want to eat your pussy, Sugar. Don’t ever worry about that.” And with those words, his mouth is on you, and his tongue is working deep inside you, moaning and gasping as he eats you out.

You tangle your hands in his hair and grind slightly against his face; after a moment, he pulls back, licking his lips. “You’re so damn hot. Want to make this incredible for you. Wanna sit on my face?” You blink at him, and he grins. “Let you really be in control while I fuck you with my tongue. You can ride it, baby.”

You can’t stop the moan that bubbles up from you, and his smile widens. He crawls up over you and rolls onto his back.

“Come here, love. On your knees.” You shift as instructed, and he gestures for you to straddle him. “Let me guide you,” he murmurs, both hands on your hips with his fingers curling back and pressing into you. “Just—yeah, just like that,” he says as you settle down over him with one hand in his hair and the other clutching the headboard. “Feels so fucking good; just move how you want, and I’ll keep up,” he groans, slightly muffled, and you sigh happily when his tongue flicks out to taste you. “Gonna get you coming on my face,” he promises, hands tightening around your thighs.

“Oh shit, yeah you are,” you whimper when he goes back to licking and sucking eagerly. He’s eaten you out before, obviously; your man loves pussy, but he’s never had you like this, never on top of him like this. It’s driving you fucking crazy, and you start to move in small circles.

“Brendon,” you sigh, the hand in his hair tightening. “You make me feel so good.” He moans against you and you settle in a little lower, gasping when his entire tongue rolls over you before going deep, fucking you roughly only to pull back and suckle at your clit.

“Oh god,” you hiss, head tipping back. “My pussy, my fucking pussy—you’re gonna make me—oh god, oh god, Brendon please—fuck! Brendon, I need something in me right now, your tongue, your fingers, something, god baby, ple—oh shit!” He’s managed to get two fingers deep in you, curling to hit your G-spot and rubbing urgently as his tongue rolls in circles against your clit.

You’re shrieking your climax, and his tongue is working hard, lapping up everything you’re giving him. Your fingers curl around the headboard and you’re bucking against his face hard, squealing and shrieking and gasping as you come. When it subsides, you try to catch your breath and end up slipping off of him, curling into his side.

“It was good?” He asks quietly, the smile audible in his voice. “You enjoying yourself?” He’s got a fist wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly, eyes glazed over, clearly still lost in the feel of your pussy on his lips and tongue, and how you trembled when you came for him.

“Fuck yeah,” you breathe, eyes closed as he pulls you in close. “Damn, that was—I can’t even—it was just so…”

“I know,” he agrees, his voice low. “I know.”

“You gonna keep being rough with me?” You open your eyes and look up at him longingly. “You gonna fuck me hard?”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, kissing your forehead. “I will fuck you however you want.” You smile and reach down to curl your hand around his dick. “God,” he sighs a little helplessly, “your hand feels so good. All of you. So soft and smooth and warm and—fuck, mine.”

“Yours,” you agree, sitting up to gather your hair into a ponytail. “All yours.” You take a shaky breath.

“You okay, honey?” He sounds concerned and sits up next to you, hands moving up your back and his lips pressing to your shoulder. “You need anything?”

“Water,” you admit with a smile, and you stand. Brendon protests, saying he’ll get it for you, but you wave him off, stretching and stumbling towards the kitchen in the suite. When you get back, you have another glass in your hands for him. “Thought we should both hydrate,” you murmur, passing him the glass.

“I’m reluctant to do anything that will wash away the taste of your sweet cunt,” Brendon tells you with a soft laugh. “But I suppose you’re right; hydration is key. Can’t drive you wild all night long if I’m dehydrated.” He sips at the water slowly, eyes tracing over your body. “And,” he adds, “I do plan to drive you wild.”

“I can’t wait,” you say with a little sigh. “God, I can’t wait for you to fuck me and call me your slut, pull my hair and slap my ass, tell me spread my legs and take your cock. Did you bring handcuffs by any chance?”

Brendon blinks at you in surprise. “What? No—I don’t think we even own—hold on, do you want to be cuffed?”

“Kind of,” you admit, grinning at him. “I want to do all kinds of dirty things with you. And getting restrained before you just lose all control and start fucking me senseless sounds pretty dirty.”

“You’re such a bad girl,” Brendon groans, laughing under his breath. “How did I not know my wife is such a bad girl?”

“Well, to be fair, I don’t think I knew until we really fucked on tour; even then, I didn’t fully know,” you concede, taking another long sip of your water. “I’ve just been thinking about this a lot.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Brendon murmurs. “So tell me, what are you thinking about right now?”

“I’m thinking about how you tangled a hand in my hair while I pulled you down on top of me on the couch of your dressing room, how you got my legs spread wide with one up on the back of the couch, the way I scratched at your back, begging for you, while you started thrusting like crazy—can’t get the sound of your hips meeting mine out of my head; it was so hot. We were both so loud, and you held out for so long; you made me come twice before you finally let yourself come. Thinking about how good it felt to have you moving over me like that, grunting against my neck and shoulder, grabbing my ass and telling me you needed me to come on your cock.”

Brendon’s breathing hard now; even if you ignore the way his dick throbs in his hand, you can still tell how turned on he is.

“So,” you continue, “I was sort of hoping you’d fuck me like that again. But I think I want to try being on my hands and knees.”

“Sweetheart, are you sure? I don’t want you to feel—”

You cut him off with a soft kiss; you know exactly what he’s going to say. “I’m not going to feel degraded if you fuck me from behind,” you reassure him. “You’ve done it before.”

“Yeah,” Brendon acknowledges, “but we were on our sides then; I was spooning you, remember? And it was slow and gentle. I could get my hands all over you, hold you close while making love to you. You promise you’ll tell me if you don’t like this?”

“I promise,” you murmur, kissing him again. “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” Brendon replies, holding you close. He sighs your name and then kisses your forehead. “Okay, sweetness. Hands and knees.” You obey and he groans at the sight, running a hand from the back of your thighs up over your ass and across your back. So pretty, baby,” he whispers, settling on the bed behind you. “My sweet girl, begging for me to fuck her hard.”

“Please,” you moan, burying your face in the pillow. “Please, Brendon, I need you to fuck me like this.” You’re rocking back, whimpering, gasping his name when you feel him shift behind you again. “Please,” you whisper, turning slightly to look at him. “Give it to me. Let me take your cock like this. Fuck me.”

“You’re the best,” Brendon tells you, gathering your hair in his hand, tugging gently. “Don’t come until I tell you that you can.” And with that, he’s thrusting into you, and you’re immediately clenching around him.

“Shit,” you whine, arching and pushing back for more. “God, you’re—can you feel how you’re pressing right against my—fuck, Brendon, I could come right now; you feel fucking huge like this, oh god!”

“Thanks,” Brendon laughs breathlessly, thrusting hard.

“No, you’re always—you always fill me perfectly, but this—I can feel every inch of your cock stretching me and going deep, and it’s—god, how does it feel for you?”

“Fucking phenomenal,” he admits, pausing to catch his breath. “Hot, wet, tight—shit, your cunt is incredible. Don’t come though,” he warns, hips rocking. “Don’t you do it, not yet. Have some patience; do not come.”

“But I—” and you’re aware of how high and needy your voice is. “B, I need to—”

“You don’t,” he counters, teeth sinking briefly into your neck as he curls his body over yours. “You’ve come plenty; you’ve come on my cock and on my face; you don’t need to come. You want to come. There’s a difference.”

“I want to come,” you agree breathlessly. “I want to come so badly.”

“And I said no.” He spanks you firmly, making you squeal. “Don’t be a greedy slut; take what I give you.”

“Oh god,” you groan, biting your arm to temper your want. “Oh fuck, I love that so much—if you keep calling me your slut, I swear I’m gonna come—”

“If you come before I tell you to, if you come on my cock,” Brendon warns, fingers tightening in your hair, “I will punish you.” His voice is teasing though, and you can tell he won’t do anything too bad. You almost want to see what he’d do. “Don’t tempt me. Do not fucking tempt me, my sweet, slutty baby.”

“Oh fuck,” you hiss, your head falling forward to the pillow and your body tensing as you give in. “Brendon, you’re too good—I can’t st— can’t—oh god yes, fuck, all over your cock, fuck, fuck!”

It’s as if a bomb has gone off inside you; you’re shaking and squealing, biting at your pillow as you feel yourself come with a wet rush of heat. Your eyes roll back in your head, and you can’t stop the sounds coming from you—you’re not sure if you’ve ever come this hard before.

His hand comes down fast, and you cry out, pushing back for more, begging him to make you come again, to keep spanking you, to keep fucking you. “I said no,” Brendon repeats, rubbing soft circles over where his hand just landed. “I told you no, and you did it anyway.” He spanks you over and over again, making you shriek in ecstasy. It’s a blur of pleasurable pain and soothing touches, and you’re pretty sure you’re still coming. You can’t quite tell; everything is blinding pleasure, and your entire body is tense and trembling as he fucks you mercilessly.

In between now, desperate groans, you’re begging him to punish you, and his tone has shifted to taut amusement. “That’s it, baby, come for me. Come from how I spank your perfect ass while I fuck you—you’re gonna be a bad girl, gonna be my slut and do it anyway, so come for me.” You’re moaning and cursing, and you’re pretty sure it’s all nonsense, the shit coming from your mouth as he grips you tightly and tells you to come.

“Need you to come too,” you gasp, scratching at the sheets. “Come in me, fill me with your cum!”

“Such a slut, begging for my cum. Say please,” Brendon manages, pulling your hair and sucking hard at your neck.

“Fuck, please!”

“God, sweetheart, now,” he grunts, slamming his hips against you and gasping in relief as his body tenses over you. You gasp too, feeling him come deep in you, and you reach behind you, groping for him. He grips your hand in his, still thrusting into you.

After a moment, you can feel him start to relax, and he slips from you, still murmuring soft praise and gathering you in his arms so you’re face to face. “Brendon,” you whisper, and his lips press to your forehead while his arms tighten, grounding you.

“I’m here, honey.” His voice is soft and his hands are moving in slow circles over your body. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, my love. I’m here. You did so well, my good girl.” He presses his lips firmly to your forehead, then guides your head back so he can capture your lips. “My best girl, my sweet girl, my wife. I love you, sweetheart.” Once his lips are on yours, his hands move down to cup your ass and he scoots you higher, encouraging you to wrap your legs around him. “I love you so much,” he murmurs, nuzzling your ear. “So much. Always.”

“I love you,” you manage, clinging to him. “Always. Holy fuck, B, that was—” and you break off in a short moan, clutching him and kissing him fiercely. “So good. So hot.”

“I know,” he whispers against your lips. “You okay?” You nod, assuring him you’re better than okay, and he makes a soft sound, holding you close. “My sweet girl,” he repeats, reaching to grab the blanket with one hand. “Get some sleep, baby; we’ll shower in the morning.”

“Okay,” you agree with a small yawn. “God, that was—you are so—Bren, you’re fantastic.” He chuckles and pulls the blanket up higher, making sure you’re covered.

“You are too,” he tells you. “Some people are just built to fuck hard, and you, my love, can fuck hard. Or get fucked hard, as the case may be.” He grins and kisses you again. “Goodnight, Mrs. Urie.”

“Oh shit,” you whimper. “You calling me that makes me want to start all over again; fuck, that’s so hot.”

“Yeah?” He nudges your earlobe with his nose. “You like being reminded that you’re my wife?” You nod desperately, and Brendon kisses your forehead. “Love that. You think you can take more?”

“…no,” you admit with a laugh. “Not right now. But,” you say with another yawn, “wake me up like that and see what happens. Want to climb on top and ride you, and I still want to get fucked against a wall. Want you to push me up against it, tell me to beg for your cock. Want it hard and fast; don’t care if we’re face to face and you’re holding me on your cock, or if I’ve got my whole body pressed to the wall while you fuck me from behind.”

“God, tell me what else you want,” Brendon groans.

“Gladly. Want you to bend me over the bed; want to feel your hands on my hips as you fuck me and call me your needy slut. Make me scream into a pillow while you take me with deep thrusts. And I still want to suck your cock clean after you come in me. Fill my cunt with your cum, then push me to my knees and tell me to suck.”

He swears under his breath and closes his eyes as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Fuck, my wife is a bit of a slut and a tease, isn’t she? Feel free to remind me of all that tomorrow, though I doubt I’ll forget. If anything, I’m gonna dream about your hot, slutty mouth all over my dick after I’ve had you bent over our bed, begging.”

You whine, clinging to him. “Your wife is a slut and a tease,” you whisper. “But don’t worry. She’ll deliver in the morning. Goodnight, Mr. Urie.” He groans, and you grin as you succumb to sleep. “Told you it was hot.”

[taking-shots]

born to love you | n. mackinnon | part one

warning(s): nothing too major that i know of! mentions of childbirth, pregnancy, like one mention of the word "traumatic"

word count: 1,951

a note from the author: it's finally here!!!!!! part one of my long-awaited natemac series. a couple of things i do want to mention - this is PURELY fantasy and pretty much an au fic. for example, covid and the pandemic will not exist in this story. one more thing - if you want to be tagged when i post part two, let me know! also, feedback is so appreciated. without further ado, here is part one of "born to love you"!

The sun rays of an early Colorado morning peak through the blinds as the dreaded alarm sound rings from Ivy’s phone. As much as she despised waking up early, today was not as awful as usual; it was her wedding day. Today, Ivy Camille Pierce was finally going to marry the man of her dreams.

Nathan had appeared in Ivy’s life one random day in pre-school in Mrs. Sutton’s class. He clung to his mother’s leg as Mrs. Sutton peeled him off by enticing him with dinosaur figurines. Four-year-old Ivy saw him sitting at the table all alone, just staring at the T-Rex.

“You don’t have to play with dinosaurs.” She told him softly. “There are lots more toys over here.”

The blonde boy said nothing still but instead looked at her with bright blue eyes filled with fear.

“Don’t be scared!” Ivy assured him. “Mrs. Sutton is the nicest teacher ever. She always helps us make things out of our snacks after lunch. Yesterday, we made snowmen out of marshmallows and pretzel sticks.”

Mrs. Sutton took notice of Ivy trying to soothe the new student. “Ivy,” the teacher said gently. “This is Nathan. He’s really nervous about starting school. Do you remember how frightened you were the first time your mommy dropped you off?”

Ivy nodded her head quickly, her dark pigtails bouncing as she did so. “My mommy came back though. Your mommy won’t leave you here, Nathan.” she explained to him, though Ivy did struggle with her ‘H’ sounds, so his name sounded more like “Nay-ten.”

“That’s right.” Mrs. Sutton smiled happily. “Everyone’s grown-ups will be here before we know it, so we need to have all the fun we can now. Ivy, do you want to show Nathan where we put our things away in the cubbies and then head to the arts and crafts table?”

The little girl smiled proudly before offering her hand to Nathan, who cautiously took it. As the pair placed Nathan’s Superman backpack into his wooden cubby, Mrs. Sutton looked on in admiration. “If only she could see us now.” Ivy thought to herself as she prepped the coffee pot for a fresh brew.

While waiting for the coffee to be ready, Ivy thought it would be a good idea to go and do a wake-up call for the few members of the bridal party who stayed the night. Morgan, Ivy’s first cousin - though she felt more like a sister, was coming out of the ensuite bathroom as Ivy interred the guest room, a toothbrush hanging from her mouth.

“Today’s the day!” She squealed with excitement. “How are you feeling, Mrs. MacKinnon?”

“I’m not Mrs. MacKinnon yet.” Ivy shook her head, yet grinning from ear to ear. “But I am excited.”

“Oh, please. All this is legalities.” Morgan playfully rolled her eyes. “You two have basically been married since you moved to Denver.”

Morgan was not the only one who felt this way; in fact, almost all of Ivy and Nathan’s close friends and family shared that same mindset. The couple had lived together since they were 18 years old. The first apartment they had was located a couple of blocks from downtown Denver, which meant plenty of drunken nights at the bar with Gabe, Erik, and whatever blonde had decided to hang off their arm that night - even if she nor Nate were legally old enough to drink in the states. (Thank God for bouncers and club owners who were Avalanche fans.)

Ivy left her cousin alone to finish getting ready before the remainder of the bridal party started arriving for brunch. Moving swiftly across the hallway, Ivy tightened her robe around her frame, shivering from the cold air of the house. Her body temperature was never constant, especially if she was indoors. Normally, Nate would be waiting for her back in their king-sized bed, offering his body heat willingly. However, he was awaking at Gabe’s house instead; Ivy was really starting to regret following traditions.

Opening the bedroom door tenderly, a sleeping teenager lay curled under the floral print comforter. Ivy took a moment to admire her baby sister who had just turned thirteen a few weeks ago. She still remembered when Stella was born along with Stella’s twin brother Brody. Ivy was thirteen herself and more than thrilled to finally have not one but two babies to show off as her siblings. She also recalled how much flack her mother caught for having the twins; her family made comments on how traumatizing that it would be for Ivy and how the babies would suffer due to the large age gap between them and their big sister. Those doubters were proved wrong rather quietly as everyone observed and commented on how attentive and protective Ivy was of Brody and Stella. Besides, having new twins sibling was the least traumatic thing to come.

Sitting down on the side of the bed, Ivy reached up and stroked Stella’s long, soft hair; it was the same honey color and soft texture as their mother’s. Immediately feeling a presence, Stella began to stir but not panicked because she knew it was only Ivy.

“Good morning, beautiful.” The older sister greeted lovingly. “It’s time to get up. The other girls will be here soon, and then it’ll be time for hair and makeup.”

“Is Kathy coming?” Stella asks groggily, sitting up to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “Nana Kathy? Yeah, she’s going to meet us-”

“No.” Stella cuts her off. “Sid’s Kathy.”

Breaking out into a smile, Ivy nods her head. “Yeah, Kathy will be here soon too.”

Walking back into the kitchen, the smell of the exotic Columbian filled the room. The special blend was an engagement gift from Sidney and Kathy themselves who were more than thrilled at the news of Ivy and Nate finally tying the knot. Sid’s partner was even more ecstatic when she was asked to be a part of the bridal party. The front door opened, and there Kathy appeared, punctual as usual.

“Good morning!” she chirped happily, squeezing Ivy’s shoulder from behind. “How are you feeling? Any nerves?”

“Morning, Kath.” Ivy smiles. “I’m good! No cold feet here; he’s stuck with me for life after this.”

The blonde lets out her contagious laugh before placing the bottles of champagne she brought into the fridge. Grabbing two coffee mugs from the cabinet, Ivy pours the piping hot beverage into each one. As much as she wants to start the day off with a mimosa, the bride knows how nauseous she will become if she ingests the alcoholic drink before having breakfast.

“You know the drill; make yourself at home,” Ivy tells Kathy as she hands her the mug. “A certain someone is looking forward to seeing you, though. You just might be her perfect motivation to get out of bed and join the festivities. I’m going to go shower.”

Padding back to the master bedroom, Ivy could hear her phone start to ring, signaling an incoming call. Unplugging it from the charger, she saw it was the one and only, Nathan MacKinnon.

“Hello?” Ivy answers, a smile already plastered across her lips.

“Yeah, can I speak to Mrs. Ivy MacKinnon?” His familiar voice asks on the other end of the phone. She can picture exactly what his facial feature look like right now.

“Hm, I don’t think she’s available at the moment.” Ivy teases her fiance. “She should be able to connect with you in a few hours. Did you want to keep your appointment with her at the altar?”

“Oh, yeah, that’d be great! Is there any way I can move the meeting to an earlier time?” “I’m sorry, sir, but she will be booked until the allotted time. We do hope you understand.”

Nate let his boisterous laugh flow through the speaker, unable to keep up the banter anymore. “I hated not waking up to you this morning,” he admitted.

“Same here, Mac.” Ivy pouted, using one of her many pet names for him. “I bet Izzy doesn’t too much mind it, though. She always enjoys her sleepovers with Nana and Papa.”

She just knew Nate’s entire face lit up at the mere mention of their precious little girl.

Izzy Katherine MacKinnon made her grand entrance into the world on February 9, 2020. Her first name, which everyone thought was a little odd at first, came to be randomly, and also to everyone’s surprise was not short for Isabelle. On a particularly chilly November evening, Ivy settled down with Stella in the master bedroom for a girl’s night - which consisted of takeout food, the best bakery cupcakes, and all the romcoms the two could handle - while Nate and Brody headed out to Top Golf with Gabe and Cale. It was Ivy’s turn to pick a movie, and she decided to choose a classic favorite of hers: Legally Blondes. The spin-off of the cult classic that featured Reese Witherspoon was not winning any Oscars by any means, but Ivy was thirteen when she saw the movie, and it quickly became a core memory ingrained into her brain forever.

As the introductory credits came into frame, Ivy truly wasn’t paying the movie too much attention, but neither was Stella; both of them were mindlessly scrolling on their respective screens, though doing two different things. The younger female was chatting with her friends and laughing out loud at the silly TikToks they shared in their group chat, but Ivy was doing something far more important. Her due date was quickly approaching, and baby girl MacKinnon still did not have a set name yet. Both Ivy and Nate had names they each liked, but they just couldn’t agree on one. All of a sudden, a name overheard on the television piqued the woman’s attention.

And then, she heard it again. Izzy.

“That’s it!” Ivy realized, excitedly, turning to look at Stella.

“What?” Stella asked, dumbfounded. “What’s it? What are you talking about?”

“The baby! That’s her name! Izzy.”

“How do you know? Don’t you kinda need to talk about it with Nate first?”

As soon as the words left Stella’s lips, Ivy felt the baby move around in her rounded belly. She placed her hands on her stomach out of instinct to feel the shifting of her daughter.

“I think she likes it.” Ivy beamed.

The family was thrilled Ivy was expecting a baby and even more so when the gender was confirmed to be a little girl. Ivy thought Nate would be slightly disappointed that he wasn’t getting a son for his firstborn but that couldn’t have been further from the truth; the star athlete had always (secretly) hoped his first child would be a tiny baby girl who his world revolved around. Sure enough, Izzy had the 6’0” center wrapped around her teeny finger since the day she was born.

Soon enough, all six members of Ivy’s crew had arrived and gathered in the dining room to quickly eat a beautifully prepared brunch and sip mimosas before the makeup artists and hair stylists started arriving to begin the beautifying. Morgan was the maid-of-honor, and Stella had her role as the junior bridesmaid; her four bridesmaids were Gabe’s wife, Mel, Sid’s long-term partner, Kathy, Nate’s older sister, Sarah, and finally, Ashley - the wife of former Avalance center, Nazem Kadri.

Of course, there would be several other friends and family members in attendance from both Nate’s and Ivy’s respective parties, some of which neither of them had seen recently. Ivy couldn’t help but feel a sharp emotional blow in her chest, though, as there would be one person missing from today’s lovely celebrations.

One very important person.

Ivy’s mom.

-

TAG LIST: @thetravii @ghostly--photography @eightmakar @fallinallincurls @boqvistsbabe @landeguin @je-ne-regrette-rien

[dellamortethelesser]

Mahanon Tabris Meta Post

This is going to be a long one, boys. Read more under the cut. tw: brief discussion of SA

Gender and Gendered Violence

For Mahanon Tabris, the journey he undertakes in Dragon Age: Origins is one that is centered around his gender, and gendered violence. Despite the Andrastian faith being the prevailing religion across Ferelden (and Thedas as a whole), we’re still treated to the typical misogyny in-world as we can come to expect from any pseudo-medieval fantasy game released in 2009. Ranging from snide comments made about the capabilities of a fem Warden or what can be extrapolated as parallels from real-world allegory as headcanons (click here to read my headcanons about Ghilan’nain), the world of Thedas is not so different from our own in regards to subtle if enforced ideas about gender roles and norms.

Enter the City Elf origin. Regardless of whether you first played it with a masc or fem Tabris, it leaves a sick feeling in your stomach about the underbelly of nobility of Thedas and their treatment of their lessers–elves, servants, and, well, women. 

Mahanon Tabris lived most of his life in Denerim performing as a gender-conforming woman because that is what was asked of him. Although his mother Adaia indulged him in many things; the art of weaponry, whispers of a life beyond the Alienage walls, and the gift of a new name for her son once he asked for it, the narrative demands that Adaia dies. The wife dies, the mother dies, the woman dies to further the story. That is the very first thing that Mahanon Tabris learns; the woman will die. 

His father, Cyrion, asks him to put aside the notions of masculinity that his mother had humored. Not for a lack of love; in fact, it is an outpouring of Cyrion’s love, concern, and fear that drives him to make that request. Mahanon, who has learned that deviation from the norm equals death, acquiesced to the request. From there he continued to stifle everything that made him “Mahanon”--that which is now intrinsically tied to his mother, and by virtue, her death. (These themes relate to how Mahanon interacts with his Andrastian faith. I’ll discuss that in another post).

I decided not to start Mahanon’s story (Born Again in Blood) with the wedding day, and the horror that it was. Instead I started his story in the immediate wake of it; being led out of Denerim by Duncan, after he had silently witnessed his life trade hands three times. From his own, to Valendrian, to the Arl’s men, and then finally to Duncan and the Grey Wardens. Truthfully, it was hearing that Duncan had once wanted to recruit Adaia that fostered trust once they were far enough away from Denerim that he was willing to speak.

Duncan gave him that chance; let him announce his new name. On the way to Ostagar, Mahanon cut his hair. There is also an instance in which he speaks with the armorer and it appears this stranger recognizes his plight.

His lips twitched downward at the thought, but his chest bloomed with new breath. He could give any name that he wanted. He could weave any lie, any tale, any story to make it palatable on the tongue. If he was a Grey Warden now–at the least, a recruit–his life would never be the same. He remembered the name his mother gave him when his father wasn’t listening, her hands soft and warm on his cheeks. The name they shared in whispers together as she taught him how to wield a sword to defend himself. The same name Shianni muttered as he lifted her up off of the floor. “Mahanon,” he said. “My name is Mahanon Tabris.”

Fingers closed around the cold hilt and he brought it up to his neck without much of a second thought. He cut through the wet tresses just where they brushed against his collar; it would have been easier, he realized, were his hair dry, but he had already begun to cut it away now. He braced his feet in the mud and stood there, cutting, until he felt a weight fall free from his head and he could breathe freely. Left in his hands were the twenty years of his life. He would let the river take them, too.

 “I think I have something that will fit you,” he said. “Put this on underneath. Those bandages don’t do shit beneath the plate.” Mahanon looked down to see something reminiscent of a corset in his hands, though the leather strands could be more tightly bound, and it did not go as far down the torso. Confused, he looked back up at Gareth.

The smith didn’t bluster as he collected pieces of a plate set. “My daughter went off to become one of them Templars. I still see her at the Chantry sometimes. But she has a similar issue. Things can’t get in the way; I get it.” (paraphrased).

These are three experiences on the way to Ostagar alone that Mahanon is allowed to express himself the way he would prefer. There is an acknowledgment from Duncan that everything in Denerim is dead and left behind, and so he gives Mahanon that space to let it go and embrace a new life, which he eagerly grabs onto. That being said, Mahanon has just walked away from the most horrifying instance of gendered violence that one can articulate within the Dragon Age series. Reeling from that trauma, it changes how he interacts with the world.

Behind his gleaming amber eyes, Mahanon’s mind went blank. He wasn’t sure where Kallian ended and he began anymore, but all he knew is that he was a liar again; a liar wearing a beaded wedding gown. It was green once, he remembered that. Then it was red. Red, red red, and dripping with the lifesblood of men who had tried to take his own. Her own. Took Shianni’s. Took Nelaros’s. So he took theirs. Everyone whose hands had touched and stolen and dirtied. All of them. Like dogs. “I killed an arl’s son for raping my friend,” Mahanon snapped, and he took a step forward.

Finding the first of the recruits, Daveth, was a simple but stupid affair. Mahanon had stumbled upon the man harassing one of the women in King Cailan’s army. It took Mahanon planting himself firmly between them and introducing himself to give the woman a chance to run off. Not that he blamed her. Daveth introduced himself as a thief from Denerim. Not that Mahanon couldn’t tell. The accent gave away where he was from. His attitude gave away the fact that he thought he was entitled to take what he wanted even if it didn’t belong to him.

Mahanon did not sleep soundly that night. In his tent, which he erected far from the others, he remained tense. Rest did not come for him, and he did not close his eyes. Instead he curled his body around his sheathed sword, his bleary gaze locked upon the flap of his tent. A camp full of strangers. Stronger than him, faster than him, deadlier with a blade. He would be a fool to think that he could rest soundly and safely when surrounded by them.

“Come on,” the man said, forcing a smile to his face. He clapped a hand on Mahanon’s shoulder. Alistair withdrew his touch when Mahanon flinched away from the wall and his hand, scowling. Alistair’s smile turned apologetic as the pale light of the sun began to rise.

 “I am sorry,” he said to Mahanon. “I was told what occurred in Denerim. It should not have happened to your friend.” There was pity in Loghain’s gaze. Mahanon loathed pity. With that, he swept away into the tent, and Mahanon was left breathless. Reeling, he felt like the only eyes left to pull him apart were his own, as if he could step out of his own body and watched as he forgot how to breathe. He watched himself stand there as the world drowned out with the roar of blood in his ears. He didn’t need pity. Apologies. He needed them to understand. He had been the one to cradle Nelaros’s bloody corpse to his chest. He had been the one to carry Shianni out of the arl’s home as she sobbed silently into his torn sleeve. 

 Duncan found him later in the kennel with the ailing Mabari. It took him a while. The sun was up. He could only assume that he was tough to find, or maybe Duncan wanted to give him space enough to collect his composure. The dog had begun to perk up, the kennel master had told him when he had come by. Food and water had been partaken of, and so Mahanon had plopped down inside and let the dog rest her slobbery head on his lap. He wasn’t sure what brought him here of all places. Maybe it was the fact that the Mabari brought a rare feminine touch to a place where he had only been pitted against men who, unfortunately, were surpassed by dogs where tact was concerned. 

“Do you know who removed them?” Mahanon asked. He put a hand out towards Alistair’s chest to deter him from saying anything else. Jory was quaking at the sight of the woman, but Daveth’s face had smoothed into a steely regard, and there was a dark glint in his eyes that sat ill with Mahanon. Like a knife that caught moonlight through a dirty window.

That’s a lot of examples, but I wanted to lend significant insight into how Mahanon views the world around him  in the wake of his trauma. He may be a man, but he does not trust other men. He has spent too long and too wary to make the mistake of doing so, even if they do not treat him with the same regard as they would if he were still presenting as a woman. At the core of Mahanon’s masculinity, he carries with him his own violence that comes with existing as a woman–and the inherited gendered violence that he carries from his mother, and his grandmother, and so on and so forth all the way back. (Andraste ties into this as well. We will readdress this in the religious meta post).

Mahanon’s masculinity is centered around his femininity, and his outward masculine expression is another way to protect that part of him. Yes, he is trans, and has been a man from the very first breath, but he will not abandon that girlhood of his, he will not sell it out and lie abed with the men who tug and tear at women like his mother until there is nothing of them left. 

Mahanon saw the Grey Wardens as such: 

Death to his old life.

A chance to live his new life.

But the Joining was a baptism of blood, and inherently feminine. You must consume tainted blood, let it pass through you, to become Greater? It is baptism, it is birth, and it is life. It is everything that a mother does,and  it is his mother who remains the straight arrow in his mind that guides him. Mahanon’s themes and the way he grapples with his own gender is the idea of death, life, and rebirth, and everything that he has to live with. He cannot any longer deny any part of himself.

He looked down at the chalice in his hands; blood, tainted. He looked up at the statue of Andraste that peered down upon them all. He thought of her when she died a martyr. He thought of his mother, lifesblood, the breath she gave for him at birth. He thought of himself, a child, blood-red and slick from between his thighs. He parted his lips and drank deeply.

[bourbon-ontherocks]

Don’t really know anyone else that watches this show lol but I fell like I need to rant. Honestly “The Art of Crime” is a good show, I like how well they incorporate the art and the artist and they have an array of suspects to choose from. My only gripe is how they’re writing Antoine and Florence relationship, especially Florence.

I got that she’s quirky and she’s got issues she’s working through and I like how often she goes to therapy for that. But I have no idea why they portray her as a child when it comes to Antoine. It was bad enough when they introduced Juliette and he’s already hooking up with her at the end of the episode. But she’s still pining after him, even going so far as to wear the wedding ring, pretending she’s in a relationship with Pardo, and then twice kissing Antoine even though she knows he’s with Juliette and she saw it! I mean, it’s just so childish!

I’m sure you see it differently, how do you explain her behavior?

... Well, those season 6 links escalated quickly! 😂

Look, anon, I'm gonna be honest here and say that I don't really see your point. You're mentioning wildly different things that, even if they connect to each other on some level, have radically different causes, and I see no childishness in any.

Pining after someone isn't a childish thing to do, unless adults can control their heart and feelings now and nobody thought to inform me.

The first kiss was an undercover one. Also Juliette did the exact same thing with her target two episodes before. I don't see the issue here.

Wearing the ring was the consequence of an impulsive decision to live a fantasy just for a minute, and pretending to date Pardo the only way out of the unintended catastrophe that ensued (which, incidentally, remains one of the most hilarious trainwreck I've ever seen on TV)

And so on.

And of course, the bigger picture depicts someone with HUGE issues to address, and a chronic walking disaster, but to me it doesn't mean that Florence is a child, in fact she's a grown woman with a very adult approach to many of her relationships. It's just that in her case, her inner child (we all have one by the way) takes over a little more often than average. That she loves living in a fantasy. That she's impulsive. That she's a dreamer.

And sure, she's completely neurotic and I love that she's seeing a therapist but it's mostly because for me the only thing that's superior to the "walking disaster who should see a therapist" kind of character is the "actually sees a therapist and manages to STILL be a walking disaster" type.

Obviously you are totally entitled to your opinion on her actions, but pardon my bluntness here, I genuinely don't think The art of crime is a show for you if you're seeing it that way. And that's fine, not everything is for everyone! But the whole show is about the way reality and imagination interlace in our lives, it's about how art bleeds through real life, it's about fantasy, hell why do you think there are so many dreams/hallucinations/imaginary conversations/magical realism sequences?? The entire show is about Florence and the way she sees the world, actually, and stating "I like the show but I dislike Antoine and Florence's relationship and/or Florence's actions" sounds like a total oxymoron to me, because that's the point of the show.

Besides, it looks like you're assessing her actions according to a "real life" moral compass which sure, why not (although it's never proven itself to be a good idea), but I think this is missing the point entirely. The show is supposed to be goofy!! This is not something that should be taken seriously.

Also, this might be unintentional, but the way you phrased your ask suggests that you're asking me to justify myself for enjoying Florence's character, which is something I do not appreciate. I do not owe you anything, and frankly I have better things to do than trying to "convince" you or whatever. I'm glad that you got to rant if you needed to, but I'm not gonna write a full-length essay defending Florence's behaviour and explaining the essence of her character as I see it (in case you were wondering this was not an essay, we barely grazed the surface of the beginning here 😂).

I'm sorry that this reply probably won't meet your expectations, and I apologize if I misinterpreted some of the stuff you said in your ask, but I sincerely don't know what else to say, and I'm not interested in getting into an argument over whether Florence is childish or not.

That being said, feel free to come back anytime, and maybe I'll have more interesting insights then... 🥺

[madscientist008]

Why I Love Critical Role and You Should Too

If you’re a fan of fantasy, adventure, comedy, drama, and role-playing games, then you should definitely check out Critical Role. It’s a web series that features a group of talented voice actors playing Dungeons & Dragons (D&D), a tabletop game where you create your own characters and stories. The show is hosted by Matthew Mercer, who acts as the Dungeon Master (DM) and guides the players through various quests and challenges in a rich and immersive world.

Critical Role has two main campaigns so far: Vox Machina and The Mighty Nein. Each campaign follows a different group of characters with their own backgrounds, personalities, goals, and relationships. The show is streamed live every Thursday on Twitch and YouTube, and each episode lasts for about three to four hours. You can also watch the episodes later on YouTube or listen to them as podcasts.

One of the best things about Critical Role is the amazing chemistry and friendship between the cast members. They are not only professional voice actors who have worked on many video games and animated shows, but also genuine fans of D&D who enjoy playing the game together. They improvise, joke, cry, laugh, and create memorable moments that make you feel like you’re part of their adventure. They also interact with their fans through social media, fan art, fan fiction, cosplay, etc.

Another great thing about Critical Role is the quality and diversity of the storytelling. The show features a mix of genres and themes, from epic battles and political intrigue to romance and comedy. The show also explores complex issues such as identity, morality, trauma, redemption, etc. The show is not scripted or planned in advance, so anything can happen and the stakes are real. The DM and the players collaborate to create a compelling and immersive narrative that keeps you hooked and invested.

Some of my favorite moments from Critical Role are:

The first time Vox Machina met Scanlan Shorthalt (Sam Riegel), a charismatic gnome bard who sang hilarious songs and flirted with everyone.

The battle against K’Varn (Matthew Mercer), an evil beholder who controlled an ancient city under a lake.

The confrontation between Vax’ildan (Liam O’Brien), a half-elf rogue who made a deal with the Raven Queen (Laura Bailey), a goddess of death.

The wedding of Percy (Taliesin Jaffe), a human gunslinger who sought revenge for his family’s murder, and Vex’ahlia (Laura Bailey), a half-elf ranger who loved nature and money.

The introduction of The Mighty Nein, a group of misfits and outcasts who met in a prison transport.

The encounter with Mollymauk Tealeaf (Taliesin Jaffe), a tiefling blood hunter who had a mysterious past and a colorful personality.

The rescue of Jester (Laura Bailey), a tiefling cleric who worshiped the Traveler (Matthew Mercer), a trickster god.

The infiltration of Nicodranas, a coastal city ruled by an oppressive lord.

The reunion of Caleb (Liam O’Brien), a human wizard who suffered from trauma and guilt, and Astrid (Matthew Mercer), his former friend and lover who became an agent of the Cerberus Assembly.

The showdown with Lucien (Matthew Mercer), a cult leader who sought to unleash an ancient evil.

These are just some examples of the many amazing moments that Critical Role has to offer. If you’re interested in watching or listening to the show, you can find all the episodes on their website or YouTube channel. You can also join their fan community on Tumblr, Twitter, Reddit, Discord, etc. You won’t regret it!

[arwenkenobi48]

The grand hall of the castle looked like something out of an 80s dark fantasy movie. The ceiling was decorated with golden lights, fancy dragon ornaments adorned the tables and the overa atmosphere was pure magic.

I entered the room, dressed in my black gothic suit, drinking in the wonderful sight. Sauron, Mephistopheles and Ulysses were already there, as were the rest of the Brotherhood and their loved ones. Micah and Kaine, two of Amsel’s brothers, were present with their families, as was his father, Mathias. I felt my heart skip a beat. I couldn’t believe this was happening. In a few minutes from now, Amsel would be my husband.

I could see him standing at the other end of the room, all dressed up in his black and red suit, his hair tied back into a neat ponytail tied with a scarlet ribbon. The way the room was set up, there were two aisles. Mephistopheles had agreed to walk me down mine and Mathias would walk Amsel down his. “You ready for this, Ezra?” Mephistopheles asked telepathically. “I sure am.” I replied, my heart fluttering with excitement.

We walked down the respective aisles, meeting at the altar in the middle. As I saw my husband to be getting closer and closer, I felt like I was floating. This felt like a dream, only it was real and that made it so much better. The man officiating the wedding, as requested by both Amsel and I beforehand, did an impression of the Impressive Clergyman from The Princess Bride, speech and all.

“Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togevah today. Mawwiage, vat bwessed awangement, vat dweam wivin a dweam.” Mathias was clearly bewildered by this and why everyone else was amused, but Micah quickly explained it to him and he smiled as well. I locked arms with Amsel and stood beside him, both of us beaming with joy. “Ven wuv, twue wuv, will fowwow you fowevah…” the speech continued. “So tweasure your wuv…” After this homage to our favourite film, we each read our vows.

“Amsel, from the moment I first saw you, heard your melodious voice and felt your loving hands on mine, I knew you were the one for me. Fate seemed to draw us closer and closer together and the more I time I spent with you, the stronger my love for you became.

You are the most beautiful man I know. I could gaze into your eyes forever. My heart melts when you smile. Your laughter is music to my ears. Your gentle touch is as soft as silk. I always feel happiest when I’m in your arms, your lips gently pressed against mine.

I always feel so safe with you, in a way I’ve never felt before. I’m safe enough to let my guard down, safe enough to be intimate on a deeper level than ever before. I can fully, truly be myself with you and I know you’ll always love, cherish and care for me, as I promise to do for you. No frogs will come within an inch of you while I’m around.

You make me feel so brave, so special, so loved. You make me feel like a real man. I’m so deeply grateful for all you’ve done for me. From this day forward, I hope that we’ll continue to build our love and our lives together. I love you, Amsel, with all my heart and soul.”

Soft murmurs of “Awww…” reverberated around the room as I finished reading. Friedrich dabbed his eyes with a silk handkerchief. Amsel was deeply moved. Then, he read his vows as well.

“Ezra, before we met, I would have never believed in love at first sight, but now I certainly do. I felt a connection between us from the very beginning. You make my heart soar with joy in everything you do. Your love for life, for the world, for your art, for me, it seems to know no bounds.

Since you entered my life, the darkness has been banished. I finally feel like I can emerge into the light and face each day with a brave heart and a kind smile. You find beauty in the most unlikely places and you helped me find the beauty within myself. You’ve been there for me through thick and thin, you’ve seen so many sides of me and you’ve loved me more and more throughout. Words cannot express how thankful I am for you, my love.

I would do anything to see that cute smile, that bright sparkle in your eyes, to hear that sweet giggle and run my fingers through your hair. Holding you in my arms and whispering sweet words of love, knowing that I’ve made you the happiest you’ve ever been, that brings me such joy. You are my light in the dark, the man of my dreams, the angel who put a song in my heart.

But most importantly, you are the best friend I’ve ever had. The closest, most sincere friend I could have ever hoped for. I value that friendship more than I can say and I hope that with our marriage, that will continue to grow. I love you, my sweet Ezra. My dearest, you will always be the love of my life.”

“Awwww…” everyone murmured again. I couldn’t suppress a soft squee of happiness. Then the moment came, when we both said “I do.” and were pronounced partners for life. “You may kiss the-“ The officiant began to say, but we already had, quite passionately. “Hooray!” Mephistopheles cheered and everyone clapped and cheered as well. Then, the dancing began.

The golden lights on the ceiling changed colours, slowly shifting through a wide range of blues, purples and greens, as if the northern lights were shining overhead. As The World Falls Down by David Bowie began playing as we all waltzed together. It was then followed by When I Look Into Your Eyes by Firehouse, I Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore and other classic 80s love ballads. I’d never got the hang of dancing before, but somehow I managed it. With my Amsel by my side, I felt like I could do anything.

The party went on into the night, as Amsel and I fed each other cake and everyone chatted and took photos. Micah was honoured to be Amsel’s best man, just as Feral was for me. Toasts were given, happy tears shed and both cake and the banquet were devoured.

In quite a few of the wedding photos, either Ulysses or Cortex could be seen popping up at the corner of the frame. “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Amsel smiled, gently cupping my cheeks in his hands. “Aww, so do you, songbird.” I giggled, blushing. “Red looks really good on you.” We kissed again and heard the camera click, accompanied by another “Hooray!” from everyone.

Eventually, at around midnight, after the last song had played (a rather relaxing track by Enya), we all agreed to retire for the night. We shook hands with everyone and were all very happy. The other members of the Brotherhood all gave us hugs. Amsel and I admired our wedding rings. They were a stunning silver, each fitted with a small ruby. “Wow…” I murmured, leaning on Amsel’s shoulder. “Are you alright, my love?” He asked gently. “Never better, babe.” I smiled dreamily. “Just…so happy…”

Later on, once we had retired to our room, I hugged Amsel tight and we made out in the moonlight. “Happy birthday, Amsel,” I whispered in between kisses. “Ah, that was the best day ever,” he chuckled, nuzzling me gently. “And tomorrow, we shall embark on our honeymoon. Finland awaits!” “Yayyy!” I squealed happily.

If we hadn’t been worn out from the festivities, we would have probably danced around the room. But for now, we only had enough energy for soft kisses and cuddles. “I love you so much, baby boy,” Amsel whispered, kissing my cheek. Blushing, I laid my head on his chest and murmured: “I love you too, my sweet songbird.”

(PS: regarding the line about frogs: Amsel has a phobia of them. I’m basically promising to keep him safe from everything he fears.)

[risingsouls]

[The DragonBall fan boys have to be the grossest fan boys, and that's beating hentai fan boys. Under the cut because. Good fucking grief it's gross. If you're an actual Goku fan, i suggest avoiding this one. Goku isn't my favorite character, but I like him, and this made me want to tear off my own limbs and eat them.]

[So I'm absolutely not surprised that this kind of garbage is created and spewed by this fucking fandom, but this once again proves the fan boys of this series want to project SO HARD onto the characters to live out their gross little fantasies with fictional characters. Which you know. Fine. But theyre doing it this time by tearing a character to ABSOLUTE SHREDS to do it. So they come up with this. That somehow, the most loyal and probably borderline asexual (demisexual maybe? His libido isnt fucking high guys thats obvious and he isnt a damn horn dog) character bangs all the "attractive" women, leaves his wife--who yes is written like shit but is attractive as well and he fucking LOVES HER as the fan boys and writers of at least Super conveniently forget--and has...a couple more kids with three different women? Like this is so fucking nasty I don't know where to BEGIN.

Like...fuck. the art is nasty and hyper-sexualizes at least Vados with big tiddies and her nipples showing through her wedding dress in one image.

Then there's the fucking ChiChi abuse. And you know. I'm not the biggest fan of how ChiChi is written, and I know this is a staple for the fan boys. Toriyama and Toyotaro really just made her a walking, awful stereotype like they've done with Bulma. But good grief. The "artist" first of all is wishy washy with her with this...fucking weird idea of ChiChi being okay with Goku shacking up with Vados, and serving them in bed? Like there is so much wrong with that from the obvious to like some gross societal ideas that once a woman reaches a certain age she's only worthwhile in a servile role. Unless they look like Bulma that is, who abuses the dragonballs to maintain her youth a d appearance BUT you get me. And despite that, the artist still has Beerus kill her for some reason? Because of course. And then the picture they have of her above the milk jar that I imagine is supposed to be her urn (even though I'm pretty sure a Hakai leaves nothing behind but why am I even trying to find a shred of something that is potentially accurate to the lore in this, when this is already steaming hot garbage and the lore is inconsistent anyway) is of her being angry. Like...fucking God. The idea that Goku doesn't love ChiChi is atrocious and flat out wrong, and he would NEVER select a picture like that to honor her. But I guess at this point who fucking cares because he's brought his hot angel mommy into their marriage home, so who cares about a little more disrespect, right? And that's not mentioning how the rest of his family is just a-okay with this.

I don't even know what to say about Heles and the Zeno baby. Like....wtf. you were fully into this Vados idea but now he's having a kid with Heles who he....literally never talked to. I'm not sure he ever really saw her.

I'm honestly a little surprised Bulma isn't somehow included in this atrocity. I say a little because she's probably not because that would mean taking their king Vegeta's wife from him and we can't have that. Also like...what does it say about the fan boys' masculinity when they want to make their Shonen anime into a literal, raunchy soap opera rather than a series about overpowered warriors fighting evil? Idk but that's not very manly....🙄🙄🙄 (disclaimer: I don't actually care about that kind of thing and men can absolutely enjoys soap operas; I only bring it up because they care about their very fragile masculinity being challenged). I mean these are probably the same people that whine and bitch about the filler in Z that's by and large actually not bad but stan everything Super has to offer, even the absolutely trash filler.

This pervasive shit is what makes it so hard to be a fan of this series, especially as a girl who grew into a woman watching this series since she was 6. And like yeah. Sure. Toriyama wasn't writing this shit for us. The target audience was boys. But damn. I know Toriyama and apparently Toyotaro are a lost cause on the sexist front, but it would be really nice if the fans didn't take their sexism and dial it up to 9000.]

[gracemisconduct]

This has been a strange Christmas. The first without my dad. I've always struggled with being explicit about emotion; this is the second major grief in my life, and the first nearly killed me. This time, I'm trying to be open, less self destructive, but man, it's hard work. My mother, still here, is...someone who loves me better from afar. She also struggles to accept that this has happened to more than her. And yet, Christmas, funerals, and the time of year forces proximity, and forces everything that comes with it.

He died in increments, then all at once. I first saw him die a little ten years ago, getting a pacemaker. Then a little more two years later, when he was so breathless he couldn't walk across the small medieval town I lived in. I saw him die a little bit when he was diagnosed with cancer, and when he broke down crying at my wedding. I saw him die most and fastest this year, when he went from visiting China to not having the strength to sit up in bed by himself. And then, all at once, he died.

I never knew there was so much admin involved in death. People would ask how I was; I had no idea. I was too busy sourcing a death certificate, arranging a funeral, writing a eulogy, telling friends and family he'd died, sorting my mum's finances. Every now and again I'd burst our crying. Then I'd stop.

Through it all, two things kept me just about sane; walking, walking everywhere, and fantasy. Good fantasy, bad fantasy. Smut and angst and fandoms and AO3 and all the wonderful ridiculousness of it that teen Grace loved and 20s Grace tried to pretend she didn't. Now I'm in my 30s, no shits are given. It was a balm, a source of humour, a relief. A place of happy endings of all kinds. A lot of BG3. It even made me think about doing a little writing of my own, though we're far from there yet. Thanks, hellsite, for the wonderful wildness of this place. Thanks, makers, for putting your work out there into the world for me to get lost in and cling to like a life raft.

____________

So, who was my dad? He was the most accomplished man I ever knew; nearly 40 years curating Japanese art and metalwork at internationally renowned museums, published books, honorary positions, a photographer, a ceramicist, a singer and more. His eulogy took days to write just to remember everything he did, and we still missed things.

His curiosity for culture, his love of learning, his collecting of obscure facts and bizarre stories, was infectious. It was the golden thread of my brother and I’s upbringing, with weekends and holidays punctuated by museums, bookshops, National Trust properties, standing stones and sci-fi movies, and everything in between. It was this same passion and curiosity that meant his list of friends and admirers was longer than your arm. He was a G.I. and so am I. Yes, I stole his badge.

When we were looking for readings for his cremation, we came across this poem. It's a later addition by Tolkien, written by Bilbo as he travels to the Grey Havens, thinking about his life and what comes next. I think that dad - LOTR narrator, deliver of funny hobbit voices, old hippy - would appreciate it. I hope you do too.

Day is ended, dim my eyes,

but journey long before me lies.

Farewell, friends! I hear the call.

The ship's beside the stony wall.

Foam is white and waves are grey;

Beyond the sunset leads my way.

Foam is salt, the wind is free;

I hear the rising of the Sea.

Farewell, friends! The sails are set,

the wind is east, the moorings fret.

Shadows long before me lie,

beneath the ever-bending sky,

but islands lie behind the Sun

that I shall raise ere all is done;

lands there are to west of West,

where night is quiet and sleep is rest.

Guided by the Lonely Star,

beyond the utmost harbour-bar

I'll find the havens fair and free,

and beaches of the Starlit Sea.

Ship, my ship! I seek the West,

and fields and mountains ever blest.

Farewell to Middle-Earth at last.

I see the Star above your mast!

- J.R.R. Tolkien

notes on grief - chimamanda ngozi adichie

[innertragedywerewolf]

Swapping Smirks and Scrunches: Navigating the Zany Zoo of AI Face Swap shenanigans with PPnude

Let's be honest, we've all had those moments when we look at a photo and think, "You know what this could use? My face, superimposed atop that giraffe's mug." Well, my curious friend, you're in luck! Thanks to the wonderful world of AI Face Swap technology, and the particularly nifty PPnude online free tool, your wildest face-switching dreams can come true.

Imagine the scene: It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, and you're scrolling through your photo album, when suddenly, you stumble upon that perfect snap of your buddy doing the robot dance at a wedding. Your mind, awhirl with possibilities, thinks, "But what if it were me, busting those moves?" Enter the stage, left, with a dramatic flair, the AI Face Swap feature of PPnude. Just like that, your mug is on that dance floor, living out your robot fantasies vicariously through your friend's historically bad dance moves.

Now, before we go swapping faces willy-nilly, let's take a moment to acknowledge the elephant in the room. The legal quagmire, my friends, is no joke. Using AI Face Swap, especially in NSFW mode with PPnude, can be a wild ride that might just land you in a heap of trouble if you're not careful. You see, not every image is a free-for-all, and swapping faces without permission? That's a no-go, unless you want to test the depths of the legal ocean with a Titanic-sized lawsuit.

Let's pause for a sec and think about the implications. We're talking about the digital slicing and dicing of human visages here. It's like being a rogue dermatologist, but with pixels instead of skin. Are you allowed to swap the face of that cute barista who made your latte art with your own? Maybe not. But what about your own face on the Mona Lisa? Now that's an art piece worth seeing!

Now, I'm not here to scare you off from the sheer joy that is face swapping with PPnude, but I do want to paint a clear picture. Imagine you're at an art gallery, and you decide to take a little snippet of paint from a masterpiece. It might seem innocent, but it's not quite the same, is it? The original is still there, altered and violated in a sense. The same goes for swapping out faces. Consent is key, folks!

But let's not forget why we're here in the first place – to have fun! There's nothing quite like seeing your own face on a grumpy cat, or trading smirks with the president on a historical billboard. With the PPnude AI Face Swap tool, the world is your playground, and you're the kid who's just discovered the slides. However, keep it legal and keep it respectful, because while it's fun to play dress-up with pixels, we don't want to be responsible for the next big digital scandal.

Let's talk privacy, too. In a world where our online footprint is often more significant than our physical one, it pays to be mindful of what you're swapping and where it's going. The internet is like a vast ocean, and once your face is swimming in those digital waves, it can be hard to reel it back in. Always be sure the photo you're using is yours to play with, and that no one's going to get their feelings hurt or, worse, their privacy violated because of your facial shenanigans.

So, by all means, swap away with PPnude's AI Face Swap tool, but keep it snappy, keep it kind, and remember that there's a real person attached to every photo you're manipulating. After all, what's a good laugh and a bit of fun worth if it comes at someone else's expense?

In conclusion, the digital wonderland of AI Face Swap is a place where your creativity can run wild, and with tools like PPnude, the possibilities are endless. But just like with any tool that packs a punch, use it wisely. We're not just swapping faces; we're swapping stories, and those should always be told with care and respect. Now, go forth and swap those smiles, but remember to keep it legal and keep it snazzy!