#taking great pleasure in its misery

[gauntletqueen]

Woke up from a bad and wild nightmare, which included my old borderline stalker, a haunted doll, nightmares within nightmares, turning the nightmare around on the doll, and a cliffhanger ending signifying that I hadn't won yet.

But I can't fall back asleep so I guess I'm getting up now! Good morning!

[creampuffqueen]

Cover Story

Yangvik Week day 1 - fake dating

Summary: At a party in the Earth Kingdom, Yangchen and Kavik are on a mission. When things don't go to plan, they have to think quick to keep their cover.

Word count: 4248

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“Traveling alongside the Avatar - what an honor!” The older Earth Kingdom nobleman smiles over his glass of rice wine. Kavik forces a smile in return, swirling the liquid in his own glass to obscure just how little he’s drank. This must be the third time he’s heard the same sentence in the last fifteen minutes. 

“Certainly. I enjoy the work.” The rehearsed words fall easily off his tongue, their smooth and gilded façade right at home inside the splendor of the royal ballroom of Ba Sing Se. “I am grateful to be a trusted companion of Avatar Yangchen.”

He goes to take a tiny sip of his drink, hopeful to avoid as much small talk as possible, but finds the wine frozen solid in its glass. Speak of the darkness. 

A subtle motion with his hand is all it takes to unfreeze his drink, allowing him to actually take a sip - though with the delay he knows it now looks like he just drained the glass. Before the nobleman in front of him can comment, though, his eyes are drawn to something behind Kavik’s back. 

Avatar Yangchen steps into place beside Kavik with gentle, measured steps. In the disgusting display of wealth here in the palace, she’s a yellow-and-orange breath of fresh air, both literally and figuratively. Kavik and the others had to dress up to attend this party. Yangchen, being an Air Nomad with no possessions to her name, did not.   

The nobleman bows deeply before her. “Avatar Yangchen, it is a great honor to see you here in the Earth Kingdom.”

Yangchen bows to him in turn; a smaller motion, but no less lacking in respect. “Please, Lord Bozhou, the pleasure is all mine. I do hope you don’t mind, but I must steal my companion away for a moment. We have something to discuss with Lady Gyeshe.”

Lord Bozhou (how Yangchen can remember all these names, Kavik will never know) nods quickly in response. “Of course, Avatar, please. I will miss his invigorating tales, but you must take care of business.”

“Thank you, Lord Bozhou,” Yangchen replies, hooking one of Kavik’s arms with her own. She pivots on her heel and drags him away. To the average onlooker, her pace looks easy and relaxed, but Kavik can sense the tension in her grip and in the way she steps. 

“He’s not going to miss me,” Kavik mutters quietly, trying to ease her with a bit of humor, “I was positively boring to talk to. And so was he, for that matter. Thanks for the save.”

“I didn’t come and get you just to get your sorry butt out of a conversation,” Yangchen whispers, in that eerie way of hers where her mouth hardly moves. “I just got the signal from Jujinta. We need to move quickly, but act as natural as possible.”

Kavik assumed about as much. If it were up to her, she’d revel in his small-talking misery all night. But they aren’t at the royal palace just to brush elbows with nobility. They have a job to take care of.

“You remember the plan?” Yangchen asks from the corner of her mouth as she smiles and nods at a group of Earth Sages they pass. 

Kavik dips his head in acknowledgement at the delegation from Omashu on the other side of the ballroom. “I do. I’ll wait for three and a half minutes exactly, counting from when the door closes.”

Yangchen doesn’t respond verbally, only squeezing his elbow where their arms are linked. The motion pulls them closer than before. Kavik tries not to notice. 

But as they stop to chat with Lady Gyeshe for a few moments, completing their cover story, he can’t help but notice that Yangchen still stays close, letting their shoulders brush together where they stand. 

She’s done nothing different to her appearance tonight. Her robes are the same as always. Her prayer beads lay in the same spot against her chest. Her hair is in its usual braid, swinging low across her back. And yet, Kavik can’t keep his eyes off her. In this room full of beautiful things, she’s still the most captivating.

“Don’t you agree, Kavik?”

Kavik barely manages to hold back a noise of confusion - something he’s had to train hard to achieve. With only a blink to refocus his thoughts, he manages to pull on his fake smile and nod. “Yes, of course I do.”

Yangchen pats his hand softly, one eyebrow raising a fraction of an inch. Nothing gets past her; she clearly knows he wasn’t listening in the slightest. Still, she plays it off with ease, excusing them once again from the conversation and leading Kavik towards the door of the ballroom, arms still linked. 

“Focus, please,” She admonishes as they exit, “We won’t get another chance as good as this one. If I don’t get Feishan some answers he’s going to get antsy, and we both know how that will end.”

“Sorry, I got distracted. It won’t happen again.”

“Distracted by what?” Yangchen asks lightly as they make their way down the grandiose hallway, “You were only looking at me.”

Heat rises in Kavik’s cheeks. He doesn’t answer. 

Thankfully, they arrive at their destination before Yangchen gets a mind to press for a response. The palace of Ba Sing Se is fancy enough that they have designated rooms just for freshening up; one for men and one for women. Nobles have been using the rooms all evening, keeping their looks fresh for a whole night of royal partying. Now it’s Yangchen’s turn.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Yangchen promises aloud, for the benefit of the guard outside the door and the noblewomen already leaving. 

“Please hurry,” Kavik urges in a similar tone, “I want to hear the end of Lord Bozhou’s story.”

Yangchen gives an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “I’ll be as quick as I can. It won’t kill you to stand outside for a minute or two.”

She steps away, and Kavik feels the absence of her at his side like a gaping hole. He’s so focused on her form retreating through the door that he nearly forgets to start counting, and he clenches his fist in frustration at himself. Keep your head on straight, you fool.

It isn’t difficult to feign boredom as he waits. Time passes so much slower when you’re counting each second. When he gets to three minutes he leans against the wall with a heavy sigh and begins to tap his foot. At three minutes and thirty seconds exactly, he pushes off the wall and heads back the way they came, ignoring the judgemental glare of the nearby guard. He can already imagine the gossip that will come from this. Some companion! Abandoning the Avatar at a royal function?!

Instead of heading back into the main ballroom, Kavik passes the grand doorway and keeps heading straight. He passes a few more rooms before he hangs a left, keeping his expression neutral, showing any onlookers only what he wants them to see: a man who knows where he’s going. A man who’s supposed to be there. Confidence is half the battle in infiltration. Act like you’re meant to be there and nobody will question you. 

The amount of royalty, nobility, and generally important people gathered in the ballroom means that the majority of King Feishan’s guards are close to that area. However, the young Earth King is a paranoid man, keeping guards posted all throughout the palace, just in case. But as Kavik makes his way to the target room, he doesn’t encounter a single one. Jujinta’s part has gone off without a hitch. 

Counting doors carefully to ensure he’s in the right place, Kavik at last stops walking, drawing his hand across the thick wooden door that should belong to the office of Minister Xahu.

That is, if he’s correct. He really hopes he’s correct. 

The door is locked, of course. Not an issue, though. A small pouch at his hip, carefully concealed beneath his clothes, contains enough water for him to freeze two long, thin spikes of ice to use as lockpicks. Kavik unlocks the door easily and slips inside the office, returning the water to its container and shutting the door behind him.

Barely a minute later, two small taps sound through the wooden panel, announcing Yangchen’s presence before she lets herself in. She conjures a flame to her open palm, illuminating the small office room around them, casting their shadows on the wall. 

She doesn’t bother with a greeting. “We need to hurry. Juji can only keep the guards distracted for so long without raising a proper alarm. I’ll take the walls in case the minister used earthbending to conceal anything. You take the desk and the bookshelves. Don’t move anything unless you’re sure you can put it back exactly the way it was.”

“I’m not an amateur,” Kavik reminds her, making his way to the desk. 

Yangchen uses her free hand to start tracing along the walls, feeling with her earthbending for any hidden pockets or seals. “I know that. I mean, this ought to feel natural to you at this point. We basically met in a scenario exactly like this one.”

She punctuates her last sentence by winking at him over her shoulder. Kavik refuses to react, even as he feels his cheeks begin to redden. His fumbling hands very nearly knock over a small carved badgermole statue. 

Kavik makes his way along the ornate desk, feeling with one palm for disguised seals or latches and using his other hand to tap a rhythmic pattern on the wood, listening carefully for any area that sounds hollow where it shouldn’t be. 

Nothing. Kavik grits his teeth, keeping his frustration in check. He moves on to search inside the many drawers, taking care not to disturb the contents. 

“Any luck?” Yangchen asks softly. She’s finished her check of the walls and is now inspecting the floor. The slide of her shoes across the polished stone floor makes a quiet rasping noise that prickles the hair on the back of his neck.

“Nothing yet. But these drawers are pretty full of papers. He might have tried to hide the records in plain sight.”

“Doubtful.” Yangchen peers over Kavik’s shoulder, glancing over the masses of files stuffed inside the drawer he has opened. This close, he can feel the ghost of her breath at the crook of his neck, feel the tiny puff of air she releases with every measured exhale. She keeps speaking, but Kavik finds it hard to focus on her words.

“Minister Xahu is the linchpin of this entire thing. He has spirits know how many people expecting their due, and he’s managed to keep it concealed from the Earth King for this long. Those records would have to be detailed, every copper piece accounted for. And he wouldn’t risk another minister or one of the aids accidentally stumbling upon them. They have to be hidden somewhere in this room.”

Somehow, Kavik manages to find his wits in order to give a proper answer. “You’re probably right. Let’s keep looking.” Yangchen pulls away from his shoulder and it takes everything in him not to utterly deflate in disappointment. 

With the desk proving a failure, Kavik heads to the bookshelves while Yangchen makes another pass around the walls. He lets himself fall into his usual rhythm, one developed years ago during his time as an errand runner in Bin-Er. Move quick. Keep your eyes open. Leave no trace.

Though, his jobs in Bin-Er rarely had such high stakes.

Almost six months ago, King Feishan had contacted Yangchen to report a discrepancy in the amount of gold he was receiving from the shang cities. He’d demanded the Avatar’s presence to prove his claims, so Yangchen and Kavik begrudgingly made the journey to Ba Sing Se. The first of many, as it turned out.

Feishan had the two of them count every last piece of gold he received in his latest payment and compare it to the reports they’d sent alongside it. A non-insignificant portion was missing. The king was furious. 

Now, they’ve nearly cracked the conspiracy. One of the king’s own economic ministers, a man named Xahu, has been allowing the shangs to siphon off city funds for themselves - and making his own pocket significantly heavier in the process. He demands a portion from each shang, as payment for keeping their theft off the records.

However, in order to keep track of exactly how much money is going where, Minister Xahu is certain to have his own set of highly detailed records. It isn’t easy to fool both the Earth King and the Avatar, and if the mission goes as planned, the minister will soon be seeing why.

Unfortunately, in order to justice to be enacted, the mission has to be a success - and the minister must be none the wiser that record of his activity has gone missing. At least, not until he’s put to trial.

Kavik is beginning to lose hope. Yangchen is on her third sweep of the office walls, and the flame in her palm is beginning to stutter. Not with exhaustion, but with frustration. Kavik himself has had even less success. Nothing in the desk, nothing in the bookshelf. The minister keeps his office sparsely decorated. They’re running out of things to search.

Yangchen flicks her wrist and the flame in her palm pulses bright, letting Kavik see the thin line of her lips, the deep furrow of her brow as she decides what they should do next. The glow from the fire makes her gray eyes look like molten pools of silver. For a moment, Kavik nearly forgets where he is.

“The plant. We haven’t searched the plant yet.” Yangchen brushes past him, making a beeline towards the towering fern in the corner by the door. Kavik spins on his heel and follows her, ready to assist in whatever way she needs.

With a swift motion, Yangchen grabs the packed soil in the ceramic pot and lifts, heaving the chunk of earth into the air. Instantly Kavik can see they’ve found their spot. A deep indentation is molded into the bottom of the dirt, roots growing around a distinctly block-shaped empty space. Kavik reaches into the pot and pulls out a dirt-covered wooden box.

Yangchen replaces the plant and the pair get to work, silently in sync. Kavik forms his ice-picks once more to unlock the box, and it opens easily under his practiced touch. The minister clearly thought he hid his secrets well enough that he only needed one lock.

The inside of the box is packed full with papers, an informant’s wildest dream. Kavik takes the top half and Yangchen the bottom, and together they sift through the papers at a breakneck pace, taking only the papers with the most damning evidence. Large sums, locations, actual names. Xahu has tried to play the game, but the older minister clearly knows very little about properly guarding secrets. Even the most amateur broker in Bin-Er knows not to use anything or anyone’s true name unless absolutely necessary. Kavik feels a bit like punching the wall. This is the man that robbed the Earth King right under their noses?

In only a few minutes, they’ve skimmed through the whole stack of records. Yangchen takes their evidence and tucks it into her robes, hiding the bulk of paper beneath the very forgiving outline of her Air Nomad clothing. Kavik puts the rest of the paper back into the box and relocks it. Yangchen lifts the plant again to let him replace the box into its hiding spot, cleans up the spilled dirt, and -

“We got it!”

Her arms are around his shoulders before he even realizes it, flinging herself at him with a wide grin, trusting he’ll catch her. Kavik’s hands land at her waist, holding her close for the brief moment of her hug. A triumphant smile of his own tugs at the corner of his mouth, the euphoric feeling of a job well done warming his chest. 

Still smiling, Yangchen reaches up a hand to tousle his hair fondly, making Kavik scrunch his nose in mock annoyance, even as his grin remains firmly affixed to his face. “Hey, it took me forever to get my hair to look this nice!”

Yangchen just ruffles his hair again, rolling her eyes. “I like it better this way.” 

Any retort Kavik had planned dies on his lips, his tongue suddenly refusing to make words as heat blooms in his cheeks. He watches, almost in slow motion, as Yangchen’s gaze veers away from his face. His ears - she must be looking at his ears, they’re probably bright red now and -

A palm slaps over his mouth. “Quiet! There’s someone outside.”

Kavik could kick himself. We just wasted so much time!

Yangchen steps out of his arms, nearly flattening herself against the door as she presses her ear to it. Kavik follows suit, straining to listen through the thick wood.

Sure enough, muffled voices can be heard, growing louder as the people advance down the hallway.

“Ready to get back to the party?” The first voice Kavik doesn’t recognize, but the accent is Upper Ring; the person must be nobility or close to it. Heavy footfalls nearly obscure the reply of the second person, but Kavik focuses with everything he has and manages to catch the second half of it.

“ - a moment, I need to check something in my office while we’re down here. Don’t wait, I won’t be long.”

Kavik’s stomach falls what feels like the height of the Northern Air Temple. The voice is unmistakable; he’s sat through enough miserable meetings with the man.

Minister Xahu is coming to check his office. The office where he and Yangchen currently are, stealing records that will get him sent to prison if discovered. 

Yangchen turns to face him with a blank stare. She doesn’t have a plan for this. They assumed the minister would stay in the ballroom all night. He’d have no reason to travel this far into the palace, not with all the food, drink, and dancing he could want in one place. 

Evidently, they were wrong. There’s no time to waste.

Kavik grabs the heavy chair from the minister’s desk and braces it beneath the door handle. That should buy them a bit of time as the minister struggles to push open the door. “Yangchen, is there any way you can earthbend us out of here?”

“Not without destroying the palace’s structural integrity,” She hisses in reply, beginning to pace. “And the walls aren’t thick enough for me to seal us inside, either.”

The office is sparse. There’s nowhere to hide. What excuse could they possibly give that would hold up their cover? Kavik’s mouth goes dry at the footsteps outside grow closer.

“Hang on, I’ve got an idea.” Yangchen grabs Kavik by both hands and drags him over to the desk. “You’re not going to like it. But trust me on this.”

“I think we’re a bit past caring about how I feel about a plan; tell me what it is.”

“You need to kiss me.”

“What?!”

Did he drink too much back in the ballroom? Did that plant have some kind of hallucinogen in its leaves? Did Yangchen actually just ask him to kiss her -

The door handle rattles, startling both of them. Yangchen’s head whips back and forth between him and the door. “Come on, it’s the only kind of cover that will make any sense!”

“But - I - what?”

The door handle rattles again. The chair budges a fraction of an inch. They’re running out of time. 

“Oh for spirits’ sake, I’ll do it then.”

Yangchen grabs both sides of his face and crashes their mouths together into the best kiss Kavik has ever had. 

Her lips are soft and warm and plush, pliable as they press into his, one hand coming up to tangle into his hair. Kavik stops breathing for half a second before instinct takes over and he’s kissing her back, imagining, if only for a moment, that any of this is real. Yangchen tugs at his hair and Kavik chokes on a gasp. She pulls him closer; his senses are overwhelmed by her. The scent of lemon on her hair, the heat of her body through her robes. He’s never been close to her like this before. He pushes her against the desk as the door finally swings open. 

“What is the meaning of this?!”

Kavik is loathe to pull away, but he does anyway, wondering what they must look like from the minister’s perspective. Blushing faces, wandering hands, messy hair - every bit the young, overeager couple caught in the act. 

“Oh! M-Minister Xahu!” Yangchen stumbles over her words, face flushed bright red. “What are you doing here?”

Kavik can tell the exact moment the minister realizes who he’s just stumbled upon. His green eyes nearly bulge out of his head and his eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline - impressive, considering how far its receded. 

“Avatar Yangchen! My… apologies for the interruption.” The man’s jaw twitches, clearly unsure of how to proceed. A typical couple would be reprimanded and punished for trespassing in such a high level area. But this isn’t a typical couple. This is the Avatar and her companion.

Finally, the minister seems to have decided to treat Yangchen as the Avatar. He bows deeply before them, the couple still tangled together on his desk, and does his best to sound polite when he next speaks. 

“Well, Avatar, this happens to be my office.”

Yangchen gives a surprised little gasp, covering her mouth with her hand. It’s one of the fakest sounds Kavik has ever heard her make. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t think - I mean, I didn’t realize this office would be needed this evening. You see, I just needed a bit of time away from the party and I asked Master Kavik to accompany me -”

“I understand perfectly,” Minister Xahu interrupts through gritted teeth. Kavik wonders just how much gossip is going to come from this. How long before news of this reaches the shang cities?

“Well, we should leave you in peace, Minister,” Yangchen says, pushing out of Kavik’s embrace and making a beeline for the door. She smooths her robes out as she walks, a flustered young woman trying to appear respectable - and not at all the spymaster checking to ensure the documents are still secured in her pocket. She gestures for Kavik to follow and he does as quickly as possible, eager to escape the fiery glare of the minister. 

Yangchen bows to him in the doorway, peering up at him with imploring eyes. “I trust this… misunderstanding will not be mentioned to others here at the palace?”

“Certainly, Avatar; you have my word.” Kavik bites his lip to hold back a scoff of disbelief.

“Well, in that case, we must be going. Have a wonderful evening!” Yangchen grabs Kavik’s elbow and leads him away, a strange repetition of the way they walked to the office the first time. 

It’s only after they turn the corner that both benders relax, Yangchen letting out an audible sigh of relief. “Good. He bought it.”

“Yeah. Quick thinking.”

She knocks their shoulders together, a small smile curling at the edges of her lips. “You did well, too. Good job making it look so real.”

Kavik can’t meet her eyes. His heart is still pounding too hard. “It was whatever. No problem.”

Yangchen pats at her outer robe again, making sure she still has the papers. “Now we can bring these to King Feishan, as well as the other shangs. We can finally put an end to this nonsense.” 

She keeps talking, but Kavik isn’t listening, not anymore. His focus is honed in on her lips, on the curve of her smile, on the flick of her tongue as she forms her words. He kissed that smile a few minutes ago. He kissed her because she asked him to, and he wants to etch the memory of it into his brain. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll get to kiss her again. Yangchen is clearly unaffected by it; just another matter of business for her. Kavik wonders if it’s stupid of him to hope she’ll ask him to kiss her again, even just for a cover story. 

“Hey, are you alright?”

Kavik jolts at the question. “Hm?”

“You’re not listening. There’s something on your mind. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he promises, willing himself to believe it. If he believes it, she won’t be able to tell that he’s lying. “I’m just still in shock we pulled that off, even with the hitch in the plan. Things rarely go that smoothly for us.”

Yangchen snorts in agreement, and Kavik’s heart flutters at the sound. “You can say that again. Come on, we’ve been away from the ballroom for a while. I’m sure we’ve been missed.”

They still walk with arms linked, even though the rules of propriety don’t require it at this point. It’s like neither can bear to let go. They step over the threshold of the ballroom as one, back into the gilded room of beautiful lies. Yangchen leans over to murmur something into his ear.

“You know,” She breathes from the edge of her mouth, a whisper of a whisper, “You’re not a bad kisser, Kavik.”

[geekforhorror]

HELLO!! sorry that im literally a fiend for sub!anakin its a problem i fear but idk maybe like femdom!reader teasing ani with a vibrator and then ruining his orgasm ☺️ idk guys maybe 🤸‍♂️

GIRL I FEEL U AND THANK U SM FOR THE REQ

take me to the top

pairing: rots!anakin x fem!reader

warning(s): SMUT (DNI IF YOU’RE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH IT!), dom!fem!reader, sub!anakin, jealous reader, anakin being bratty as fuck, use of a vibrator, edging, degradation, orgasm denial.

word count: 1.1k

How did Anakin Skywalker, the chosen one, end up being a complete mess while you were mercilessly teasing him? It was quite simple actually. It all happened because he was simply a needy little thing today. He had been trying to get your attention countless times throughout the day with no avail at first. Quite frankly, you thought it was kinda cute but in a pathetic way. That was before you saw him laughing with Padme. You felt the rage fill your body at that very moment and knew you had to do something about his bratty behavior.

See, you made him think he had gotten away with it when he showed up to your quarters. You pretended you knew nothing about it until you were ready to let him know otherwise. While the two of you were eating dinner, you decided to break the ice.

“So how’s Padme?” you ask him knowingly.

“Why do you ask?” he responds, not knowing why the hell you just brought up Padme.

“Well I saw the two of you having an awfully great time together today,” you say to him, letting him know just how upset you were.

“It was nothing, I promise you,” he said reassuringly.

“See Ani, I’m gonna have to disagree with you on that,” you say adamantly.

“Baby, I pro-“ he says before you cut him off mid sentence.

“I think you wanted me to see that, Ani, considering how needy and bratty you’ve been around me all day,” you say coldly.

“I swear I’m telling the truth,” he said, knowing he was actually trying to get a rise out of you with that stunt.

“You want me, Ani? Is that what you’ve been wanting all day? For me to pleasure you like the whore you are?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

At first he’s too ashamed to give you an answer, but he knew he had to tell you the truth. “Y-Yes,” he pathetically replied.

“Bedroom. Now,” you ordered of him. He walks behind you to the bedroom and you open the door without wasting any time. Once Anakin finally enters the dark room, you push him onto the bed. You are now straddling him with your legs on both sides of his waist, causing contact through the fabric of his pants. Suddenly, you feel him grow hard under you which you couldn’t help but smirk at. So pathetic.

“Look at my pretty boy all worked up over nothing,” you coo, taking in the sight of Ani’s lust-filled eyes, practically telling you to take him out of his misery. However, you had a plan that would make him plead all night long.

“Please I need you…” Anakin says to you.

“Be more specific, baby,” you urge of him.

“Touch me… Please,” he begs of you.

“You mean like this?” you say before teasingly rubbing his erection through the rough fabric of his pants. The contact causes him to let out a breathy moan while also bucking his hips in an attempt to gain more friction. You shake your head at this action of his before pulling your hand away from his erection just as fast as you placed it there.

“Oh, you didn’t really think I was going to touch you like that after how much of a whore you were today, did you? You see, dirty little sluts don’t get a reward like that,” you tut.

“I’m sorry, baby… just wanted you to notice me,” he admits shamefully before earning a playful scoff from you.

“All you had to do was ask me,” you say to Anakin. “Now you get punished,” you continue before getting off his lap, now making your way over to your nightstand. You open the drawer before pulling out a vibrator while shaking it towards him. He realized what you were going to do and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“You see, you’re going to get touched… just not by me, pretty boy,” you say. Before saying another word, you pull his pants and boxers down to his ankles before you make him step out of them. You took in the sight of his hard cock, which made you more cocky than you’d like to admit, but there was no time for that right now.

You turn on the toy in your hand before stripping him of his tunics, leaving him entirely bare in front of you. Maker, this was going to be fun.

You slowly bring the vibrator toward his cock and apply it on his aching shaft. He lets out a breathy gasp at the sudden pleasure and throws his head back. “So pathetic,” you retort before continuing your tormenting.

“Feels so good..” Anakin lets out.

“You like this don’t you?” you ask your hot mess of a boyfriend.

“Y-Yes,” he says in the most sexy whiny voice you’ve ever heard him speak in.

“How about this?” you say, working the vibrator further up his swollen cock, applying more pressure on his sensitive areas.

“Mmph,” he grunts in ecstasy. The noises he was making for you did nothing but turn you on more than you’d like to admit. You knew it was going to be the death of you when you felt the arousal practically dripping down your thighs. However, you had to focus on punishing him.

“Maker, Ani… You’re such a pretty little thing for me and me only. Remember that,” you say seductively before pressing down on his warm cock.

The pulsing sensation in his dick had been agonizing for him and he felt like he was seeing stars. Plus, your words weren’t helping either. Somehow, it made him even more desperate for you. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer and you knew too just by the way his cock twitched beneath the toy.

“ ‘S close, baby… Please let me cum,” he moans.

“You wanna cum, my sweet boy?” you ask rhetorically.

“More than anything… Please,” he says raggedly.

You were conflicted. He had been such a good boy for you while taking his punishment, but did he really deserve to cum after the stunt he pulled today? I mean, what kind of girlfriend would you be if you didn’t reinforce the consequences of his slutty actions?

You decide to pull the toy away from his cock, which earns a big frown from Anakin.

“Why’d you do that?” he whines.

“It’s just a reminder to never do something like that again otherwise next time I will edge you all night if you do something like you did today,” you say before walking out of the room, leaving him naked and in shock.

[talonabraxas]

Celestial Buddha Lotus by Talon Abraxas

The Four Noble Truths

One: Suffering exists. Life is suffering. Suffering is real and universal. Suffering has many causes: loss, sickness, pain, failure, and the impermanence of pleasure.

Two: There is a cause of suffering. Suffering is due to attachment. It is the desire to have and control things. It can take many forms: craving of sensual pleasures; the desire for fame; the desire to avoid unpleasant sensations, like fear, anger, or jealousy.

Three: There is an end to suffering. Attachment can be overcome. Suffering ceases with the final liberation of Nirvana. The mind experiences complete freedom, liberation, and non-attachment. It lets go of any desire or craving.

Four: In order to end suffering, follow the Eightfold Path.

The fundamentals of Buddhism are to be found in the Buddha’s first sermon. In it, he expounded the “Four Noble Truths.” These explain that suffering is inherent to life; that it is caused by attachment, desire, and delusion; that these things can be overcome; and that there is a prescribed way to overcome them.

While this can seem pessimistic — the whole thing is popularly summarized as “life is suffering” — Buddhists tend to see it more as an accurate diagnosis of “life necessarily involves suffering” rather than a nihilistic statement that “life is nothing but misery.” Importantly, the third truth is that there is a way past suffering. That route away from suffering and toward nirvana — a difficult-to-capture idea of the state beyond the cycle of suffering and reincarnation — is the primary focus of millions of Buddhists.

Dependent arising

“All formations are transient; all formations are subject to suffering; all things are without a self. Therefore, whatever there be of form, of feeling, of perception, mental formations, or consciousness, whether past, present, or future, one’s own or external, gross or subtle, lofty or low, far or near, one should understand according to reality and true wisdom: ‘This does not belong to me; this am I not; this is not my Self.’”

A key teaching of Buddhism is the idea of “dependent arising” — it is one of the few tenets that every school of Buddhism agrees on. This maintains that everything is devoid of inherent existence. Everything that exists is caused by something else and will cause other things. Nothing is independent; every phenomenon depends on something else. Metaphysically speaking, nothing has an independent essence and can exist in perpetuity. This also means that when you try to find your “self,” there is no single, enduring, isolated thing to point to.

Buddhism teaches that a great deal of the suffering in our lives comes from the idea that things are permanent, unchanging, and unconnected to everything else. The doctrine of “dependent arising” teaches that everything is in flux, that nothing is permanent, and that even we aren’t as enduring as we might like to think.

[necros-writing-stuff]

I love the idea of younger Eden taming a delinquent; she teased and bullied Eden relentlessly until he just snaps, and after “skipping” school for a bit, she returns with Eden by her side…oddly enough she isn’t making fun of him anymore…she wasn’t a great student anyways, so it wouldn’t be much of a shame in Eden’s eyes if she got knocked up and had to drop out

"You do look like a beast, don't you?"

You're at it again, sat behind him in English, pulling on his hair and whispering insults.

"I bet you fuck like one, too. Bet anyone who touches you regrets it when they leave covered in bites and bruises. And sweat. I've seen you in PE, you sweat like a fountain."

He's never... he's never willingly laid with anyone. So yeah, when he did he fucking fought. As much as he could. And it isn't his fault he sweats so much - he's got a big body and all that stupid hair covering him.

"You leave them with scars like the ones you have? Make them look like you so you feel better about yourself?"

Fucking hell, you're worse than usual today. Digging your claws in each and every chink in his meticulously built armour. You've had more practice than most, especially in this class. Bailey has a different period, he's not here to speak on Eden's behalf.

"You're a fucking freak for being so obsessed with me," Eden finally bites back. Its rare that he speaks, much less against you. But he's at the end of his rope and there's still fourty minutes left of class.

You giggle, leaning even further forward over your desk while the teacher helps someone at the front. "The dog can bark! I'm more interested in hearing you whine, though."

Your teeth scrape against his ear, the sensation sending a spark down his spine. The pleasure of it completely at odds with the misery he feels.

More giggling as you retreat, finally going back to your work.

Eden's face burns, his hand tightly clenching his pen until his knuckles go white. One little move, one ounce of physical attention and he's hardening in his pants. It's a foreign sensation for him, a rare happenstance that brings bad memories and discomfort.

"Going to the toilet," he mutters as he passes the teacher, the lady barely looking up as she hums. Your eyes, however, do follow him. You know what you've done.

He's frantic as he works himself in the stall. A sheen of sweat over his skin, a bead of it rolling down his forehead. The images in his mind are of you, bound, gagged, pants torn as he pounds into your hole while you cry and whimper. Just like Eden had been subject to. If anyone deserves it, it's you. With your disgusting words; your sharp claws that make him bleed more than any whip, stick or back-hand ever could.

He could do it. He knows he could. Get you alone, drag you up to that loft in the orphanage. Keep you for himself to take out every frustration he has on your body. Make you just as he is.

The tissue paper fills with his seed as the fantasies build, a shiver returning to his body when he looks down at it. Not a pleasant one this time.

He does what he can to get the sweat off of his body before returning. He can only do so much with stains on his armpits and the gathering on his shirt's collar. He can't go back to class, not like this. Not when you're there.

Out the back, he find the piece of fence he's been working on since his first year here. The hole he's made that lets him sneak into the park, into the bushes where he lays in the afternoon shade and tries to calm the frantic beating of his heart.

A tiny sliver of peace in all of this shithole. Similar to the forest, but not secluded enough. People pass by, dogs on leashes and runners keeping fit. Each rustle tenses Eden's body.

"A dog in the dirt, where he belongs!"

By Auriga and Virgo, don't you have better shit to do?

"You. Helloooo."

He ignores you, his eyes closed as he rests in the grass. You have to get bored at some point. Instead your foot jabs into his ribs.

"Mutt, I'm talking. Or did your little wank make you cum-brained?"

That makes his eyes open. A victory you clearly relish in by the gleam in your eyes. Leaning down, your head tilts in consideration, pupils narrow like the predator you think you are.

"Did you think about me while you were doing it? Cause if you think I'd ever-"

Eden's hand snaps out, enclosing around your throat. Grabbing, pulling, pushing. Pinning you down as you yelp and flail in your pathetic attempt to fight.

"You think I'm an animal?" He snarls, canines bared. "You want to fucking see what an animal can do?"

His hands curl into a fist, knuckles white once more. The muscles in his arm rippling as he brings it down against your temple. His eyes pinpoints as he sees yours roll back, the consciousness slipping away. You won't be out for long, though.

There's one last class in the day. Once last hour he can carry you to the gym, tie you up and stuff you in a gym bag before carrying you out. The janitor almost catches him, with you squirming inside, gagged so that you can't squeal.

The backstreets are perfect for getting you to his 'home'. The caretaker stays in his office, head stuffed in the books that tell of his business. The disgusting freak. How many times had Eden been entered in that log? How many times had Bailey?

The orphan won't let himself fall victim again. He's sick of it, and he has the strength to protect himself. If that old man dares, he'll be waiting. He'll beat him like he beat you.

Your squirming is annoying, as are the muffled words you try to shout. With that gag you can't. Can't do a single thing against your binds as he rips your clothes from you - as your hole is played with and his cock sinks into you. It's thick, long. A battering ram against your walls, tearing you down and making you weep at your raping.

Weep at the beast taking you, who's teeth bite into your skin, who's sweat falls on your skin. Who's seed fills your hole and make it leak white.

It becomes a ritual for him, going up there and ruining you. Making true every insult you'd spewed until you'd barely utter a word. Until the bindings weren't needed because you'd cower and shy away at the slightest sound.

Maybe it was a coping mechanism when you began to crawl toward him. Your mind creating a story of love and safety to make your ordeal better.

Beast. Dog. Mutt. That's what you'd called him. Love. Handsome. Eden. That's what you moan now.

Broken. Completely broken. It was beautiful to see. Peaceful, for his mind. Relaxing on his bones. You were ready to go back now - to let everyone see what you'd become. They'd been wondering where you'd been - friends panicking. Family forlorn.

When you'd pranced into maths class at Eden's side, hand held in his own, you were met by looks of disbelief. Whispers flitted around the room when you sat beside each other, a gasp ringing out when you kiss his cheek. Just one other student kept quiet. Bailey, smiling with his pen twirling between his fingers.

Of course Bailey had told him. He'd needed help smuggling your food in.

[kingedmundsroyalmurder]

Blue Castle Book Club 2.0 - Chapter 2

We begin in this chapter what will be a recurring motif, namely people whose spouses died because they did not care about them properly. Our first example is Mr. Fredrick Stirling, whose name haunts the narrative but about whom we know practically nothing. What we do know here is that he was a man who did not – could not? Would not? – override his wife and died because of it. There are a lot of formidable women in the Stirling Clan, but for the most part the men seem to match them. The two couples we see – Aunt and Uncle Wellington and Aunt Alberta and Uncle Herbert – are fairly evenly balanced, with the one pair being fierce and unyielding and the other being more chill. Meanwhile Fredrick Stirling seems to have been much closer to Valancy in temperament than to his wife, judging by the fact that neither he nor Valancy seems able to defy her.

More broadly, this is a book about how people blossom when they are loved and whither away when they are not. That bodes ill for Mr. and Mrs. Fredrick Stirling’s happiness, had he lived.

With that said, this is also a book about gossip, and backing up a step, what we are actually told is that “It was whispered about in the connection” that Mrs. Stirling killed her husband by not lighting a fire. We’re about to be told a great number of other things that “the connection” whispers about, most of which are patently untrue. We are also slowly going to learn that no one in the family actually particularly likes Mrs. Fredrick Stirling. And so that begs the question: did Mrs. Stirling cause her husband’s death? Or was he already ill and no amount of fire would have saved him and it was just easier for everyone to blame the newcomer to the family that they already didn’t like? Mrs. Stirling is undeniably a petty tyrant, but the Stirling clan is also undeniably vicious.

Mrs. Stirling is also undeniably afraid of rocking the boat. She exercises all her vicious tyranny onto Valancy because she has no other outlets for it. She is terrified of Uncle Benjamin and his will. She allows Aunt Wellington to tell Valancy how to wear her hair. She has extremely little power within her family, which was her husband’s family first. None of this excuses the way she treats her daughter, but it shows how deeply the poison here goes. The clan creates miserable, vicious people whose only pleasure is taking their misery out on others.

The other thread here is a complete disavowal of fantasy. Valancy is 29 and miserable and will only ever get older and more miserable and she can’t bear to hide from it any longer. There isn’t a hint of lightness or joy in any of the descriptions – they are all stark and bleak, monochrome and harsh. It’s grimdark but in the form of descriptive paragraphs. And, like grimdark, it feels in the moment as though it’s Valancy facing life as it really is, in all its dreadful hopelessness. But life at its most unflattering is no more a whole realistic portrayal than life at its most rose-tinted. Last chapter we rejected the Blue Castle’s diaphanous whimsy, and now we have to work to reject Elm Street’s harsh grimdarkness. Somewhere between those two extremes we’ll find a reality that’s actually worth living in.

Colors mentioned:

Brown gingham

Black stockings

Black hair

Black brows

White teeth

Dark-brown eyes

White face

Black bear

This chapter is short and almost aggressively drab. Brown, black, white. That's it. Those are the colors we get when Valancy is determined to go through life without any fantasy and "face reality unflinchingly".

[thecompassneverlies]

In vino veritas Part 2

Jack’s quarters have never felt smaller. It’s always been a sanctuary, filled with his most precious treasures, that may or may not include James but he has no intention of saying that out loud.

“Let me go!” James snarls, he’s sprawled in Jack’s bed, unfortunately still clothed and un debauched and Jack has taken the precaution to tie one of James’ hands to the bedpost. There’s no where for James to run-they are at sea but there is a desperation in James to self destruct and Jack isn’t going to take any chances.

“No,” Jack says, looking down at the map splayed on top of his desk. There’s a tempting rumour of treasure in a small inlet not far and he’s debating whether or not to chance it. The Pearl is well stocked and the crew are happy and paid-one of the only reason he’s gotten James onto the ship without a mutiny. There is little need to go anywhere or do anything.

James makes another futile tug on his bound wrist and the bed creaks ominously. James is strong and Jack likes his bed so he strolls over and places his hand over the wound on James’s wrist. Hard. James’s face goes white with pain but he doesn’t cry out. British discipline at its finest.

“Calm yerself ‘afore you do yourself a mischief” he says and stares down into deep green eyes he barely recognises. There’s so much pain there (not the physical Jack inflicted), all turned inward towards himself.

“You’ve no where to go so why not take a minute to dry yerself out. Take stock,”

“That’s rich coming from you!” James says, his voice scratchy from disuse. He sighs, looks up at the ceiling and Jack unabashedly stares at the swathe of sun darkened skin revealed by James’ ruined shirt. He’ll offer James one of his own once the boy has finished with the histrionics.

James’s chest rises and falls with one great sigh and his other hand comes to rest over his eyes.

“Just let me go back,” James says lowly.

“Ain’t nothin’ back there for ye. Thought that was clear. Maybe it’s time for a new chapter.”

“I rather think the book is over.” James says staring at a point over Jack’s shoulder at some frippery he’s hung on his wall.

Jack sits on the bed. The hand on James’s wrist running up the bunched muscles soothingly. He’s done this before when they were together in this bed. He’d unraveled under Jack’s touch then, bathed in candle light, muscles liquid and wanton in their pleasure. Now there is just misery.

“Don’t mistake the end of a chapter for the end of the book.” Jack says softly, he leans down and kisses his way up the exposed skin of James’s chest, up the column of his throat where the tendons clench at Jack’s touch. He arcs his head to encourage the touch.

“What am I if I don’t have my duty?” James gasps out, his free hand goes to Jack’s hair, tugs to direct Jack’s kisses and Jack hums in approval.

“By remembering that I serve others, Mr. Sparrow, not only myself."”

Jack remembers that line. He remembers the man who said it, dressed in all his finery, strong and sure in his superiority. But he’d seen the cracks, had exploited them first for their combined pleasure and then to James’s destruction.

“Serve yerself,” Jack murmurs into James’s collarbone, licking at the soft skin over tense muscle though it’s more to do with Jack’s touch rather then self hatred so Jack counts that as a win.

James’s mouth is still thin and unhappy, tense. Jack kisses him, smoothes out that unhappiness and James lets him because he doesn’t want to talk that much is clear but talking has always taken a back seat to this: pleasure.

James isn’t ready to take a step in any direction that much is clear but his body is more than ready to accept what Jack gives him and maybe in this hushed, private moment all they have to do is be. Here. Together.

[soisaidfine]

Balzac: 'There is the posterity of Cain and that of Abel. Cain, in the great drama of Humanity, represents opposition. That line in which the devil continued to fan the flames that were first sparked upon Eve'

'The splendors and miseries of courtesans' - Honoré de Balzac

Oscar Wilde: 'One of the greatest tragedies of my life is the death of Lucien de Rubempre in The splendors and miseries of courtesans. It is a grief from which I have never been able completely to rid myself. It haunts me in my moments of pleasure. I remember it when I laugh.'

The splendors and miseries of courtesans is the sequel to Lost Illusions by Honoré de Balzac. This lengthy French novel, in two volumes (45 hours of listening in the audiobook version), tells the tragic story of Lucien de Rubempré. It was one of Oscar Wilde's favorite novels.

Balzac, The splendors and miseries of courtesans, Letter from Lucien de Rubempre to Abbé Carlos Herrera:

"There is the posterity of Cain and that of Abel, as you sometimes said. Cain, in the great drama of Humanity, represents opposition. You descend from Adam through that line in which the devil continued to fan the flames that were first sparked upon Eve. Among the demons of this lineage, there are, from time to time, terrible ones, with vast organizations, who embody all human forces and resemble those feverish animals of the desert whose life requires the immense spaces they find there. These people are dangerous in Society, like lions would be in the heart of Normandy: they need prey, they devour common men and graze on the gold of fools; their games are so perilous that they end up killing the humble dog they have made a companion, an idol. When God wills it, these mysterious beings are Moses, Attila, Charlemagne, Robespierre, or Napoleon; but when He allows these gigantic instruments to rust at the bottom of the ocean of a generation, they are nothing more than Pugachev, Fouché, Louvel, or Abbé Carlos Herrera. Endowed with immense power over tender souls, they attract and crush them. It is grand, it is beautiful in its own way. It is the poisonous plant with rich colors that fascinates children in the woods. It is the poetry of evil. Men like you should dwell in caverns and never leave them. You have made me live this gigantic life, and I have had my fill of existence. Thus, I can withdraw my head from the Gordian knots of your politics to give it to the noose of my cravat.

LUCIEN"

. . .

Oscar Wilde: "As for Balzac, he was a most remarkable combination of the artistic temperament with the scientific spirit. The latter he bequeathed to his disciples. The former was entirely his own. The difference between such a book as M. Zola’s L’Assommoir and Balzac’s Illusions Perdues is the difference between unimaginative realism and imaginative reality. ‘All Balzac’s characters’ said Baudelaire, ‘are gifted with the same ardour of life that animated himself. All his fictions are as deeply coloured as dreams. Each mind is a weapon loaded to the muzzle with will. The very scullions have genius.’ A steady course of Balzac reduces our living friends to shadows, and our acquaintances to the shadows of shades. His characters have a kind of fervent fiery-coloured existence. They dominate us, and defy scepticism. One of the greatest tragedies of my life is the death of Lucien de Rubempre. It is a grief from which I have never been able completely to rid myself. It haunts me in my moments of pleasure. I remember it when I laugh. But Balzac is no more a realist than Holbein was. He created life, he did not copy it."

. . .

. . .

. . .

[blimbo-buddy]

Obsessed with Bug World No Mercy

I have a question tho, how would cicadas be regarded and viewed?

They can be 2 - 17 years old and they emerge often 5 - 6 years. Would Bug World see them as ancient figures? Legends of them rising from the earth and causing havoc? Their constant buzzing and chirping. The predators that come to feast on their broods.

Shout to the time a cicada landed on my mom and then on me and I accidentally (I don't know my own strength) smacked my mom on the back with full force.

I don't mind cicadas. They're harmless but I don't it when bugs touch me or fly near me unless I'm actually touching them. It's why I'm chill with Fireflies.

Oh! How would fireflies be treated too? Imagining them being guides of the night or sentry duty. What if speaking languages are their second language and their first form of communication would be Morse Code but for them it's called "Blinking"!

I love this! I love bugs :D They freak me out a little but I am also so fascinated by them and I would totally absolutely read this story like Warriors and Swordbird.

(it's been 7 years I swear to god i will read Swordbird I just been busy- I will read it-!)

I'm unsure exactly how they'd be perceived. Because I'm not quite actually sure where in the world Bug World No Mercy takes place yet. Most likely somewhere in America, but the question is, where in America?

Going forward: This is gonna be a big post

But, if I ever figure out a location that they're in:

Cicada society would be one shrouded in mystery and intrigue.

They most likely are some of the few bug societies viewed as masters of death and rebirth (maybe Samsara, but that involves misery and I'm not sure if that's what Cicada society would go through).

If any tunneling bug were to come across any of the nymph cicadas buried in the ground, they usually leave them alone to their process of rebirth

Cicada naming conventions include their current life's name, alongside their previous life's name, so: (Current life's name), Once-(Previous life's name). For example: Tree Root, Once-Honey (This is a wip)

It's said that a Cicada never forgets those it has met in its past life. Perhaps that is why they might be trapped in the cycle of death and rebirth, bounded to the world by mortal bonds they've left in their past life. But they aren't suffering, in fact:

Cicada society believes that when the life of a cicada is up, they may chose to finally move on, or start anew; experience new things, meet new bugs, see the world.

But not much beyond that is known by Cicada society, as Cicadas do not tell non-cicadas the ways of their society and religion, as that may prompt emotions of greed, jealousy, a need/want for rebirth.

But, their emerging process does indeed cause havoc and panic. The process goes the same as in real life: Males sing in order to attract females. But in a "Join me, create a new brood that will burrow and emerge, a new host for those singers who shall join us all in the next mortal lifetime just as our ancestors have" way. (Side note: I don't live in an area where there are Cicadas so I never had the pleasure (or displeasure) of dealing with them, can't speak on that topic lol)

Now for Fireflies: Again I'll just answer with the idea in mind that they will be included. Once again I'm not sure where exactly in America that Bug World would be in

Fireflies would definitely be experts in bug morse-code. While the flickering of Fireflies is of the males attracting females, that is only during the right season where fireflies attract mates. Any other instance of a Firefly "blinking" is through communication

This bug morse-code is actually a Firefly's first language, that's a great idea!

Firefly society were the inventors of shadow puppetry, both for entertainment and for battle

It is believed that when a Firefly meets their end, they become pure light energy

I'm unsure of what the naming conventions of the Firefly society would be. Generally, Fireflies are ones that I don't have many ideas on, compared that to Cicadas. I'm glad you like Bug World No Mercy! It wasn't something that I thought would get so many people interested in it, but lets hope I'm able to keep up ideas for it (If college doesn't get too in the way, that is)

[minorfamilysupremacy]

for the vp drabble requests: idk if you can even do anything with this since it's only a concept rather than an actual plot idea but i'm personally obsessed w the thought "vegas may sometimes have pete on a literal leash, but the one holding it in their lives and relationship is pete" (something something vegas learning to let someone take care of him and pete gaining agency in his own life)

OP i am so sorry that this is perhaps the most liberal interpretation of the theme possible but i did go hog-wild and write a thousand words of it while off my ass at 2 am so

Vegas understands the human body — the ways in which it works and fails, the ways in which it can be broken apart and stitched together, the paper-thin line between causing pleasure and pain. He understands how easily the same hands that touch Pete with reverence and devotion can be used to maim and destroy.

He looks at Pete, in all of his open, guileless vulnerability, and he thinks: If I didn’t love you so much, I could kill you so easily.

And yet, Pete turns to him, and offers himself up, and puts his life at Vegas’ mercy. He meets Vegas’ eyes and his gaze says, silently, If it’s what you wanted of me, I would gladly die.

—

They do not talk about the angry mass of scar tissue or the nerve damage to Vegas’ arm. He had seen the concern on Pete’s face the first time his body had threatened to give out and he had squeezed Pete’s throat a little harder with his good hand, and that ended the conversation before it had a chance to start.

He understands his own body and wishes he didn’t. He knows its pains and twinges and itches and its untold, unceasing miseries. He knows how to shove down the constant scream that builds in his gut and claws at his insides. He knows that there’s a great void inside him that hurts and hurts and hurts and that can’t be sated or calmed. He lies awake at night, Pete nestled close against him, and imagines smashing the useless meat and bone of his arm into a bloody pulp. It makes him feel good, or as good as he can, to think of tearing himself apart in such a fashion. The void inside him will never be full, but he feeds it anyway, lets it feast on the thought.

Pete sighs and moves closer in his sleep. He is teetering on the edge of a precipice, but when Vegas calls his name, he only turns and smiles.

—

He says to Pete: ‘You’ll leave one day.’ They had all left in a row, with Mama leading the way. Now Papa is gone and Macau will leave them soon enough and then Pete will go, and once that’s done, he’ll go too.

‘Don’t say that.’

Pete always sees the good in him. He is the closest Vegas will ever get to filling that empty space inside himself.

Vegas thinks, If you stay, you will be swallowed alive.

‘It’s alright,’ he says. ‘No one will blame you.’

‘I don’t care if anyone would blame me,’ Pete says. ‘I only care about what I want, and that’s you.’

‘For now.’

His hand is shaking involuntarily at his side. Pete takes it in his own. Vegas can feel the smooth line of the scar on his palm.

‘My heart is here,’ says Pete. ‘I’m not leaving.’

‘You’ll die if you stay.’

‘I���ll die if I leave.’

’And if I order you to?’ says Vegas.

Pete says, ‘I don’t think you could.’

—

His father had beaten him like a dumb animal for so long that it’s impossible to see himself as human any longer. The man who had shot him at the poolside had only done what you do with dumb animals too old and broken to be of any use any longer, and it’s only Vegas’ bad luck that he didn’t finish the job.

He stays alive for Pete, and for Macau, and for the gnawing fear of dishonoring his father’s memory by taking the coward’s way out. But Papa would be disappointed in him for the pitiful thing he’s become anyway. There is no escape from his shame, no matter if he lives or dies.

He is nothing, always has been nothing, always will be nothing. He sees Pete and the way Pete sees him, with fondness and softness, and he feels a vicious stab of guilt for the deceit. The scream that builds and builds inside of him, every hour of every day, is begging for release. The force of it could level mountains.

‘What will it take for you to see sense?’ he says.

‘You have an odd definition of sense,’ says Pete. ‘Come here.’

Vegas does not. He feels as though the yawning emptiness inside him will pull him under, too. He says, venomously, ‘Why would you love me when my own papa couldn’t?’

‘Oh,’ Pete says, more of an exhalation than a word, as though he’s just been punched. He goes to put his arms around Vegas, and Vegas shoves at him with the heel of his good hand.

‘Tell me,’ he demands. He wants to hurt them both and he knows he has. He can see it reflected in Pete’s eyes and it twists the ache in his stomach even tighter.

Pete cradles his cheek in his hand. ‘He should have.’

‘But he didn’t.’

‘I know.’ Pete’s thumb strokes over his skin. ‘I’m sorry.’

Vegas swallows and says, ‘Then what did I do wrong?’

He doesn’t say, Because don’t want to do the wrong thing again. He doesn’t say, Because I can’t lose you.

But Pete knows, because Pete knows him with a clarity Vegas will never know of himself. He says, ‘You didn’t do anything. It wasn’t your fault. It was his.’

He doesn’t say, I’m not him. He doesn’t say, I told you I wouldn’t leave and I meant it.

But Vegas knows.

‘I want to be better,’ he says.

‘You’re good enough as you are. More than enough.’

Vegas is nothing. He is a small sad thing, a worthless, burdensome failure, a drowning man lost at sea.

But Pete is drawing him in anyway, patient as ever, gathering all the jagged, shattered pieces together with gentle hands, pulling him to shore and saying, Fall to your knees. The ground is solid. It will not fail you. It will not give way. You are safe. I am here.

I am here.

[screaming-for-eternally]

Another Cayde AU I cooked in the Content Box with @luna-light-eclipse

Hive Zombie Cayde AU

Basically Cayde gets hit with a Hive curse that doesn’t seem to do anything. He goes on with his life, flash coward a couple years. Cayde is dead, they’re having the funeral.

And then he gets up. And people start freaking the fuck out for a bit. Cayde himself included.

Physically he looks like a damn mess. While he’s tried to get some repairs in, his face still looks all scuffed to hell, he still has the wound that killed him, his limbs keep falling off on occasions, especially when they’re in disrepair, and sometimes his eyes will go out. The only ‘upside’ is that he effcitevly can’t die, so he can be in pieces and still be put back together.

Mentally, he’s also a damn mess. Thanks to some slight brain damage and deterioration from being dead, he has trouble remembering things or getting his thoughts together-not as bad as what Banshee has to go through (though Cayde definitely appreciates the advice on how to deal with memory issues) it’s likely bad enough that he gets taken off strike duty, at least until he gets better. Not to mention Cayde’s usual self loathing is gonna be worse-feeling like a freak, feeling useless, thinking his friends think of him as an abomination that needs to be put out of its misery. All that fun stuff.

As for Eris. Well she ends up putting some spells on him in case Cayde suddenly goes evil or gets taken over by the Hive. Him and Eris actually get along somewhat better, owing to them both getting screwed by the Hive.

In combat, Cayde is just…absolutely feral. Grows claws and literally tears through enemies like tissue paper. Has chomped down on enough bad guys that he has bits of guts stuck in his mouth. He tends to black out for a lack of a better term, coming to having just wiped out a whole group of enemies. It’s not uncommon for Cayde to return from a mission covered in gore. Eventually the Vanguard bans him combat baring emergencies, since he keeps traumatizing the Guardians he’s sent along with

And finally there’s ‘Osiris’. Hoh boy. His memory tends to blank out more around him, and people keep saying he’s been talking to him when he doesn’t remember. Meanwhile, Savathun is taking great pleasure in extracting every iota of information she can from Cayde-who, by virtue of being Hunter Vanguard, knows a lot.

[serpentsapple]

(This post will contain mild spoilers for Yellowface. There will also be brief mentions of racism.)

Yellowface was a breath of fresh air!

Hello, welcome, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I honestly thought this blog would be abandoned to inactivity until now when I received renewed vigour to write for it. The cause is simple, really. I finally found another book I thought was worth talking about regarding its portrayal of women.

Now this may surprise you but we don’t particularly enjoy expelling negative energy on books. We started this blog out of a naïve hope that perhaps we would be put in touch with like minds and find books that speak to us. Fast-forward a few years on and that hope was dashed. My co-partner had grown busy with other pursuits and equally had few words to speak on anything literary, and we packed up this blog prepared never to update it again.

That is, until, my saving grace came in the form of a most unexpected source.

I had heard whispers of Yellowface prior to its publication but I admit after reading its premise and a few advanced reviews, it didn’t seem like anything I would be interested in. How it pleases me to be wrong in this instance! And to have taken a chance after having seen a few friends speak its praises. The premise to Yellowface is a simple one: set in a contemporary America, Juniper Hayward steals the manuscript of her deceased Asian female friend and passes it off as her own, and this callous act of self-serving ego rockets her to stardom.

Juniper Hayward is one of the best female protagonists I’ve read in quite a long time.

Before I continue, I want to make a few things clear: Juniper Hayward is no feminist icon. She is racist. She is egocentric, prideful, catty, self-interested. She is, in all respects, the villain of the story and the orchestrator of her own misery. And yet… and yet… she compelled me. She reflected an ugly side of being an artist I longed to see portrayed by a woman. While she is the furthest thing from an aspirational and awe-inspiring individual she was so startlingly human, so flawed, so hungry, that I couldn’t get enough of her. I devoured Yellowface in the span of two days and afterwards I was left utterly enthralled by Juniper and Athena both and their parasitic, competitive friendship. 

Deep down, I’ve always suspected Athena likes my company precisely because I can’t rival her. I understand her world, but I’m not a threat, and her achievements are so far out of my reach that she doesn’t feel bad squealing to my face about her wins. Don’t we all want a friend who won’t ever challenge our superiority, because they already know it’s a lost cause? Don’t we all need someone we can treat as a punching bag?

This is the sort of representation I was looking for! Women who are deeply driven by their own want and ambition, compelled to succeed until it takes them to unprecedented heights (or leads to an almighty fall). I truly commend Kuang for bringing these women to life, setting them in a book filled with equally dimensional and awful female side characters, with nary a prominent male presence to be found unless they serve the narrative. It was a genuine pleasure to read about Juniper and her desire to be recognised for her writing accomplishments, to create and leave something behind that was bigger than herself:

A musician needs to be heard; a writer needs to be read. I want to move people’s hearts. I want my books in stores all over the world. I couldn’t stand to be like Mom and Rory, living their little and self-contained lives, with no great projects or prospects to propel them from one chapter to the next. I want the world to wait with bated breath for what I will say next. I want my words to last forever. I want to be eternal, permanent; when I’m gone, I want to leave behind a mountain of pages that scream, Juniper Song was here, and she told us what was on her mind.

Juniper Hayward is a protagonist on par with Humbert Humbert. A loathsome figure full of pitiful self-excuses and delusional rationalisations for the wrongs they commit. You feel disgust with them, you feel for them, you yearn to understand them, but what you can never do is ignore them.

Plagiarism is an easy way out, the way you cheat when you can’t string words together on your own. But what I did was not easy. I did rewrite most of the book. Athena’s early drafts are chaotic, primordial, with half-finished sentences littered all over the place. Sometimes I couldn’t even tell where she was going with a paragraph, so I excised it completely. It’s not like I took a painting and passed it off as my own. I inherited a sketch, with colors added only in uneven patches, and finished it according to the style of the original. Imagine if Michelangelo left huge chunks of the Sistine Chapel unfinished. Imagine if Raphael had to step in and do the rest.

And what I love most is that, penned by an Asian woman like Kuang, there is no chance for Juniper to escape accountability for her vile misdeeds. The author holds her up in all her contemptible glory, with no veneer of justification to be found, and invites you to observe and cast your judgement. She tapped into the gnawing resentment that eats away at every writer in the publishing industry, each of us all clawing for the scraps of recognition those at the table see fit to toss our way until we all turn on each other. Why her? Why not me? Is it because I am not pretty enough? Not charismatic enough? Am I simply too blandly white and heterosexual? Am I simply too unpalatable for the masses? On and on it goes, the gears turning, powering the engine of jealousy until it churns out a monster like Juniper. 

The attacks on the publishing industry and how it commodifies and weaponises identity to serve capitalist interests were particularly salient and incisive from Kuang, I like how she tackled both sides of an argument, exposing both of their respective shortcomings, and left no one unscathed.

She’s done this in all her other novels. Her fans praise such tactics as brilliant and authentic—a diaspora writer’s necessary intervention against the whiteness of English. But it’s not good craft. It makes the prose frustrating and inaccessible. I am convinced it is all in service of making Athena, and her readers, feel smarter than they are.

But best of all, I loved how much the story was so singularly focused on Juniper’s ambitions. There was no looming romance in the background threatening to infringe on the narrative. Juniper never took the chance to lament her lack of a traditional lifestyle, if anything, she scorns it. 

I couldn’t stand to be like Mom and Rory, living their little and self-contained lives, with no great projects or prospects to propel them from one chapter to the next. I want the world to wait with bated breath for what I will say next.

However, like all books, there are shortcomings. I won’t detail them here as they are not relevant to the nature of this particular post and don’t detract enough from the positives to bear mentioning. All in all, Yellowface was a pleasant and welcome surprise and I heartily encourage people to pick it up if you’re interested in reading about women wallowing freely in their dark sides.

[demigoddessqueens]

Hey!! I have a request for the wolf of really everyone's eye, Jake Russell. Sorry if this is a little weird from cannon, I haven't gotten through the whole special :"D Maybe something with him stumbling on a pretty injured reader near his makeshift camp? Stuck in a bear trap, pretty beat up by a night of hunters. Of course, the reader is scared and confused. But the two meet at a sort of common ground. Maybe even some chemistry is generated between the two? I also thought it be cool if the reader was modeled after a vampire. Anyways, have a great day!!

Oh of course!!

He’s just the cutest and I love how everyone just flocked to him 😆

children of the night

You cursed every old god and new as the sharpened jaw sunk into your leg. Begging for any passer by to free you or put you out of your misery, you howled and screeched.

By the time the sun had set, you grew exhausted. Voice hoarse from all the yelling, you grew tired and began to slump over from your exertions. Before your eyes closed, you saw a small shape covered by some blanket and a hulking figure making their way towards you.

As Jack carried you back to the tent, he couldn’t help but take in your features. Not that he had ulterior motives, it’s just that you were….attractive? Well, yes. Absolutely! Very much so. But if he was being honest, you were a striking individual. Such angular, noble features of yours and the ears did not go unnoticed either.

When you awoke, there was a man sitting next to you nervously fiddling with his hands. He flinched only slightly when you fired off your questions.

“Who are you?? Where am I??”

“Easy! Easy now. You were injured and I couldn’t leave you out there.”

You glanced down at the bandaged leg where the iron jaws had clamped down. Looking back between the gash and the gentleman’s anxious eyes that searched for any response from you.

“Th-Thank you….you didn’t have to do that.”

He seemed to shrug it off, albeit it came across as a bit bashful.

“I know, but still…I couldn’t let someone like you suffer in the cold.”

The faint blush was not lost on you. You saw his eyes meet yours before averting their gaze.

“Well if I’m to thank my savior, I’ll need a proper name. I’m Y/N.”

“Jack. Just Jack.”

“Pleasure to meet you Jack. Just Jack. Although I wish it was under better circumstances,” you said with a teasing laugh.

Trying to cease this newfound infatuation, he smiled back at you.

And that’s how it began. You with your jokes and banter, while sweet Jack entertained you with stories of his own and eventually introduced you to Ted. He may have seemed like a fearsome creature but he was the best bed side nurse you could’ve asked for.

In the time you grew to know each other, your leg slowly healed. And when it healed, you offered Jack your skills in tracking and hunting, at least to keep the three of you fed. Yet, you weren’t quite ready to leave. He amused you, and you grew to like him, but there was something pulling at him as he avoided you more.

You eventually got your answer. The howls ripping through the air woke you one night. The moon shone high in its full orb as you gasped frantically around the hut. You could barely sleep until you saw the hulking shape of Ted carrying a crumpled and tattered pile in his arms.

In the morning, Jack woke to you dabbing a wet cloth at his head. Throbbing from the pain and glistening with sweat, he tried to sit up before you shushed him with some water first.

You offered him a kind smile, moving the cloth to the side of his face where you slightly cradled it.

“You saved me, and I’m forever grateful for that. Now let me help take care of you.”

[tawakkull]

SPIRITUALITY IN ISLAM: PART 20:  IKHLAS (SINCERITY OR PURITY OF INTENTION)

Ikhlas has been interpreted as being upright, sincere, and pure; being distant from show and ostentation in one’s intention and conduct; and being closed to whatever clouds or fouls the heart. Purity of intention, straightforwardness in thought, pursuit of no worldly purposes in one’s relationship with God, and loyalty in servanthood to God are also included here.

Ikhlas requires that one pursue nothing worldly while worshipping and obeying God, that one fulfills the duty of servanthood only because God orders it, and that one remains silent concerning any personal experiences of God’s special treatment and special gifts and seek only His approval and pleasure.

Sincerity is one of the most significant qualities of those most faithful or loyal to God; loyalty is regarded as a source, and sincerity as a sweet water originating from it.

The most eloquent of humanity, upon him be peace and blessings, declared that one who drinks uninterruptedly from this water for forty days will find channels of wisdom opened from his or her heart to his or her tongue, and that such a person will always speak wisdom.

Loyalty or faithfulness is the primary attribute of Prophethood, and sincerity is its most lustrous dimension. Sincerity is innate in the Prophets; all other people try to obtain it during their lifetime. Among them, for example, the Qur'an describes the Prophet Moses as one made sincere (19:51).

Faithfulness and sincerity were as intrinsic and essential to the Prophets as air and water are to the lives of those who communicate the Prophets’ message to others in every age.

In addition, they were the Prophets’ most important sources of power. The Prophets were convinced that they could not take one step forward without sincerity, and the representatives of the cause of Prophethood must believe that they will be able to achieve nothing without it. Faithfulness and sincerity are two wings or two deep oceans extending from Divine Favor and Grace to an individual’s heart. One who can sail in these oceans or fly with these wings will reach the destination, for they are under God’s protection. God values that which is done to please Him, regardless of its apparent size or importance, not the quantity of deeds. Therefore, He values a small deed done with sincerity over many deeds done without sincerity.

Sincerity is an attitude of the heart, and God views an individual according to his or her heart’s inclination.

The Prophet, upon him be peace and blessings, declares:

Assuredly, God does not consider your bodies, nor your appearances. Rather, He considers your hearts. [ Muslim, “Birr,” 33; Ibn Maja, “Zuhd,” 9. ]

Sincerity is a mysterious Divine credit granted to those who are purehearted in order to increase what is little and to deepen what is shallow, and to give finite (limited) worship infinite reward. One can use it to purchase the most valuable things in the markets of this world and the next, for it is esteemed, welcomed, and respected where others suffer great misery. This mysterious power of sincerity caused God’s Messenger, upon him be peace and blessings, to declare:

Be sincere in your religion; little work (with sincerity) is enough for you, [ ‘Abd al-Ra'uf Munawi, Fayd al-Qadir, 6 vols. (Beirut 1093 ah / 1682 ce) 1:216. ]

and:

Be sincere in your deeds, for God only accepts what is done with sincerity. [ Ibid., 1:217. ]

If we consider a deed to be a body, sincerity is its soul. If a deed represents one wing of pair of wings, sincerity is the other. A body without soul is of no worth, and nothing can fly with only one wing. How fine are Mawlana Jalal al-Din al-Rumi’s words:

You should be sincere in all your deeds,

So that the Majestic Lord may accept them.

Sincerity is the wing of the bird of the acts of obedience.

Without a wing, how can you fly to the abode of prosperity?

The following words of Bayazid al-Bistami are also very apt:

I worshipped my Lord for thirty years with all my strength. Then I heard a voice saying:

O Bayazid! The treasures of God Almighty are full of acts of worship. If you intend to reach Him, see yourself as small at the door of God and be sincere in your deeds.

For some, sincerity involves hiding from others when performing supererogatory deeds and avoiding all show and ostentation.

For others, it means that whether one is or is not seen while performing religious deeds is not important.

Still for others, it means being so involved in worship or religious deeds in consideration of God’s pleasure that one does not even remember whether one should be sincere or not.

Self-supervision is an essential dimension of sincerity, and a truly sincere person does not consider any possible spiritual pleasure that may be derived, or speculate upon whether it will ensure entrance to Paradise.

Sincerity is a mystery between God and a servant, and God puts it in the hearts of those He loves. One whose heart is awakened to sincerity does not worry about being praised or accused, exalted or debased, aware or unaware of deeds, or being rewarded. Such a person does not change, and behaves in the same way in public and in private.

[psalm22-6]

Source: The Jewish News of Northern California, 10 November 1995

With a three-hour running time and the pedigree of one of the most famous books in French history, the film adaptation of “Les Miserables” contains the elements of an epic. In fact, the great pleasure of “Les Miserables” is its tight focus as a character study. Even more unexpected is that the film’s emotional and thematic core is given over to the tribulations of a Jewish family in Nazi-occupied France. After decades of denial, French filmmakers have only recently begun examining Vichy-era crimes. But although fine films such as “Uranus” and “Doctor Petiot” cast an unflinching eye on collaborators, and Louis Malle’s “Au Revoir Les Enfants” acknowledged that the Holocaust struck French Jews, no French movie before “Les Miserables” has taken such a compassionate attitude toward the plight of wartime Jews. Writer-director Claude Lelouch (“A Man and a Woman”) has transposed Victor Hugo’s 1842 [sic] novel to the first half of this century. As his Jean Valjean, Lelouch invents Henri Fortin (Jean-Paul Belmondo in an extraordinary performance), a weathered but honest ex-boxer whose childhood was the stuff of nightmares. In the film’s riveting opening, Henri’s father (also played by Belmondo) is convicted of a murder he didn’t commit. The wintry prison scenes, set amidst falling snow, possess a fierce beauty that doesn’t mask the grim conditions. The young Henri and his mother, meanwhile, work and live in a dingy seaside inn. Since legal appeals are expensive, Henri’s mother is cajoled into prostitution by the greedy innkeeper. Henri’s parents’ separate attempts to escape their dire predicaments leave the boy orphaned at a vulnerable age. Fast forward to the end of World War I, as Henri begins a successful boxing career. A moment later, two decades have passed and Fortin is out of the ring and the owner of a moving truck. When he crosses paths with the Zimans, however, his life gradually becomes charged with purpose. And it is here that Lelouch’s “Les Miserables” begins to take on a mesmerizing momentum. Mr. Ziman is a successful Jewish lawyer, and his ballerina wife converted when they were married. But with Vichy France gripped by Nazis and their accomplices, the Zimans and their precocious daughter must flee. The illiterate Fortin not only carries their possessions, but transports the Zimans in his truck to avoid risky trains. They, in turn, repay his kindness by relating Hugo’s story of “Les Miserables.” On one level, the Zimans are the catalyst for Fortin’s wakening to the pleasures of literature and literacy. More importantly, they ignite his innate moral instincts. Fortin drops the daughter at a convent, posing as her father. And he delivers the Zamins to the contact who will supposedly guide them across the Swiss border. But the Zimans become separated, and face harrowing individual obstacles to survival. Fortin drifts to the background as Lelouch concentrates on the Zamins’ stories, particularly Mr. Ziman’s arduous months sheltered by a bickering couple in the cellar of their farm. “The Zimans are characters who do not belong to Victor Hugo,” Lelouch wrote in the press notes, “but who symbolize for me the misery of the twentieth century.” Fortin eventually returns to the foreground, of course, but his fate in “Les Miserables” is forever intertwined with the Zimans. By extension, Lelouch implies that the destinies of France and her Jews is equally inseparable, a noble sentiment that one endorses with a whisper of caution. “Les Miserables” is a gripping yarn in the old-fashioned tradition, rich with detail and nuance. For Jewish audiences, the film frequently transcends entertainment to achieve robust poignancy.

[gabessquishytum]

hey all it's me again and today i offer

dream fucking between hob's thighs or tits, denying him the pleasure of fucking in his hole. if it's between his thighs, maybe he gets that delicious friction on his cock, until it become almost torturous. dream said he couldn't cum and he knows better than to disobey! last time he did, his arse was smacked until it was black and blue.

he starts to whine and jerk away from it because it's too much! he's been through this for such a long time now. dream said he had to wait until he came first, then maybe he would consider letting hob cum.

by the end of it, he's so sensitive that he cries when dream starts to jerk him off with quick hand motions. (i have never jerked someone off before in my life is hand motions the right way to describe it?? help??)

between his tits? hob can't do much more than just push his chest together, watch as dream takes his own pleasure. it's always nice, watching his boyfriend freely let out his moans of pleasure. but gods, he knows dream is just doing it to tease him this time. dream can feel him against his back, twitching every time dream's hips stutter and his tip just barely pushes past hob's lips.

near the end, he isn't as sensitive, but he's happily licking dream's spend from around his lips and what's left on his tip.

SECRET THIRD OPTION!!! CREAM IN THAT BOY PUSSY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

but um. dream thrusting in between hob's folds, never quite pushing into him but taking a small dip in when he passes. it's a quick and smooth glide across his clit, yet it isn't enough pressure for it to be enough. the stimulation feels great, yet he finds himself moving closer to get what he needs. it earns a swat right on his clit from dream which makes him cry out and thrash in his hold, but he's soon corrected.

yadda yadda dream finishes over hob and gives a last few thrusts before hob is joining him, his hips twitching and jumping as dream rubs quick and rough circles over his clit. i love men

-🤰

Aksdjdjdjs all of this is so. SO. Good. I love Dream using Hob’s body like a toy for his pleasure only, that shit is the GOOD shit. But can we focus on option 3 for a minute bc dndjdjd

Dream just giving Hob the tip of his cock every other pass, so he can feel the tiniest bit of stretch in his passage. He's leaking so much, making such a mess that it's super easy for Dream to slide through his folds and enjoy the warmth and wetness there. Every time Hob moves or tries to clench his pussy around Dream’s cockhead, he gets his clit spanked. If he's really disobedient, Dream pulls away from him completely and just rains down a dozen sharp smacks to his cunt, until Hob is wailing because it hurts but also its almost enough to make him cum. Just not quite. And then Dream is back, fucking an inch into his hole and then pulling out again. He cums all over Hob’s slick shiny folds, and if Hob is lucky he pushes that cum slowly into his hole for him to keep. His clit is throbbing and swollen when Dream finally puts him out of his misery and rubs him into an orgasm that leaves him shaking and crying.

I love men also.