#the Horrors never end but neither does the Ecstasy

[transplanarrpg]

Pictured above: a cute pre-show stream selfie taken mere minutes before Connie and Hamnah terrorize the cast 🥰

See y’all Saturday for more horrors and tribulations! 😍

[angelshadowsinger]

Assistance

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Azriel x f!reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.8k

𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐲: smut, & a lil dosage of fluff at the end

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬:

dirty talk, heavyyy praise kink, oral(f receiving), implied size kink, light breeding kink, creampie, cum play, a little overstim, Az is a fuckin freak, sweeeeet aftercare 💗

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:

Azriel hears that no one has ever made you orgasm before, and makes it his mission to show you what you've been missing... again and again.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞:

y'all this is narstyyyyy nasty... as in, absolute filth. literal prawn. the most detailed smut i have ever written... probably too much detail. be warned.

･ ゜゜・．｡ ･ ゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･．｡ ･ ゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･

ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ: ʙʏ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ ꜱɪᴘʜᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴇʀᴛɪꜰʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ 18 ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪɴᴏʀ. ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ.

･ ゜゜・．｡ ･ ゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･．｡ ･ ゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･

“I dunno, I’ve just… never been able to finish when I’m with a guy,” you shrugged, nonchalant.

Mor’s jaw was on the floor, her big brown eyes filled with horror. She gasped, “A man has never made you cum?”

You reached across the wide oak table and slapped her arm roughly. “Would you shut up before every citizen of Velaris hears you??”

It had been quite a while since you’d lost your virginity, and after you’d run through a couple partners, you’d come to accept the fact that a man would never deliver that finishing, white hot ecstasy to you. But the way your friend had said it like such sacrilege made you embarrassed, a flush creeping up your ears.

“It’s fine, it’s not like I’ve never come in general,” you went on a bit too quickly, like you had to explain yourself. “It’s just that if I’m with somebody, and I wanna finish, then I have to… do it myself.”

“Gods,” Mor sat back, finishing the final sip of her— how many was that again?— umpteenth glass of wine. “This is why I prefer women.”

You stifled the laugh that nearly escaped. “I wish I could share that sentiment. Sadly…,” you sighed, “Penis is what does it for me.”

“Apparently not,” Mor whispered under her breath, going to sip more from her cup, but it was already empty.

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the open bottle, ready to pour her another— but nothing came out. The two of you blinked at the empty glass, slow to register what that meant exactly.

“Welp. Should we start taking shots, then?” She asked with concerning sincerity.

You were quick to shoot her down. “Um, no thanks. I'd rather not feel like complete death at training in—” you glanced at the clock above the hearth, “six hours.”

Mor’s expression turned sour, as did yours. Six hours was certainly not enough time for your tipsiness to wear off completely, especially since wine had been your choice of poison for the night. “Fucking cauldron. Guess we should call it a night,” she groaned, dragging her pretty hands across her face.

The House cleaned away your glasses and the numerous empty wine bottles and corks that littered the surrounding area. You thanked it, stroking the table briefly as Mor trudged off, wanting to take a minute to yourself and maybe have some tea to relax before bed. You were completely unaware of the shadowy figure that was frozen around the kitchen corner, having heard every word of your secret confession.

Azriel stood in silent contemplation behind the doorway. He did not believe in fate, or destiny, or whatever crock of nonsense others would claim ruled their lives, but… was it not a sign that he had been walking into the kitchen for a late night sweet, only to stumble upon you spilling drunken secrets? It was rare to find anyone else up as late as him, and it would be a lie if he claimed he wandered out of his chambers tonight solely in search of a snack.

The two of you were quite close friends, but there was something more there that neither of you were brave enough to acknowledge. Lingering glances, teasing flirtation that always went a bit too far, the easy back and forth you volleyed with your sarcastic, dry comments. Yes, somehow the shadowsinger had found himself wrapped around your little finger, yet again enamored with a beautiful lady friend who did not return his interest.

Except you did.

Azriel was too blind to know it; too doubtful, too hard on himself to believe you would really want him. But that did not stop him from thinking about you every time he fisted his cock in the long, solitary hours of the night.

Everyone else in the circle could see it plain as day— in fact, Mor was perhaps the most eager proponent of them all. And perhaps she was a bad friend for allowing you to spill that sultry, enticing secret when she was aware that the shadowsinger who loved you now idled within earshot. Perhaps she was even worse for leaving in a hurry, a smirk on her lips and her fingers crossed as she skipped off to her room.

You remained at the large wooden table, unaware that the man who ruled your fantasies was just around the corner. He was silent and still as possible, battling himself with whether he should sneak off and never breathe a word of this, or if he should join you and take the risk. His shadows reported to him from the other corner of the room, informing that you were now sipping tea and looking gorgeous as ever, clad in a tight, sparkly evening dress that you had worn to the club that Mor had taken you to earlier that night.

Azriel stepped out from his hiding place.

You jumped— even with your fae hearing and so many hours spent with your friend, you never adjusted to how sneaky the spymaster could be. He emerged from the darkness of the kitchen, donned in gray sweats that hung low on his hips, exposing a glorious stripe of tanned, hard muscle that you stared at shamelessly. The white t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest was criminal, and you had to actively avert your eyes from burning into his visage, finally forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

But Azriel was looking at you, too, taking in how your dress flawlessly hugged your every curve, the expanse of your arms and décolletage that laid bare in the sleeveless, sweetheart ensemble. He noted the matching heels that were kicked haphazardly underneath your seat, the hair now falling from the clip you’d pinned at the beginning of the night, your slightly glazed expression. A small smirk graced his lips.

“Az!” You sighed, a hand on your chest, “How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that?”

The Illyrian only shrugged, approaching slowly. “How many times do I have to tell you to work on your awareness? Always take note of your surroundings?” He quipped back easily, coming to stand beside you. He was so tall that you had to crane your neck to look up at him, and you motioned for him to take the seat that Mor had vacated only minutes earlier.

You play-scowled as he obliged, only replying once he was sat, his large wings tucking in behind broad shoulders. “And why would I do that, when one of your shadows is always watching for me?”

Azriel’s hazel eyes widened, a faint blush tinging his cheeks. You wished you could commission Feyre to paint that expression— you loved how boyish it made him look, how cute. But he quickly recovered, that measured mask of cool returning to his handsome face. “You should be flattered. They seem to take interest in you.”

“Hmm,” you feigned thought, rolling your eyes to then land on him and bat your lashes, “Just them that are interested?”

The shadowsinger couldn’t contain his grin. Flirting with you was just too easy, and he loved when you looked at him like this, gave him all your attention. It never led anywhere, anyway— so really, it was harmless… right? He chose not to respond, shrugging and taking a sip of the teacup that the House had conjured for him.

You huffed, displeased. Azriel was always the one to cut your flirting short, only entertaining you to the point where you weren’t sure if he was just playing with you or if there was actually some sincerity in his antics. It was fittingly mysterious of him, and undeniably irritating. You decided you weren’t going to have any of that tonight, the remnants of your liquid courage just enough to push you a step further than you would otherwise go.

“Az, tell me—,” you crossed your arms over the table and leaned toward the spymaster who took another sip of tea, nodding for you to go on. It took every ounce of the male’s willpower to not drop his gaze to your cleavage that was now pressed onto the tabletop, squished between your arms. “— Have you ever made a girl come?”

Azriel spit out the hot liquid, wings going rigid behind his back and his scarred fingers clutching the tiny cup in his palm. You examined the fresh line of tea that was sprayed onto the table, slightly amused as the House began to clean it away. But you continued on, determined to get an answer.

“I’ve heard you have a long list of lovers, surely you know how to do it?”

The Illyrian’s cheeks were now a bright red, the most obvious display of emotion you’d ever seen from him. “What—” he stuttered, still shocked that you had really just asked him that. “—Who told you that?”

You frowned, tilting your head in your hands, elbows sliding out further onto the table. “I asked first,” you pouted, taking a sip from your cup.

The male fumbled for words. True, he had heard your conversation with Mor and yes, he did make the choice to come in and sit down with you but never would he have expected you to ask him such a thing, so outright, so brazen.

“…I have,” he finally replied, slightly hiding behind his cup. You’d never seen the shadowsinger look so timid; it was endearing.

“But how do you know you really did?” You queried, looking at him curiously. “I mean— girls can fake it, so how do you really know?”

Azriel seemed offended at your insinuation. But he only pursed his lips and said, “My question…?”

You clicked your tongue and answered, “Cassian and his big mouth. And then Rhys with his… And maybe Mor at some point as well.”

His face contorted into a scowl, shadows coming to lick at his shoulders. But he decided to save his revenge for later, instead meeting your inquisitive gaze and deciding that your intention was not to slander him. “I am almost certain that my partners have never faked completion,” was all the explanation he gave.

“But how do you know—”

“Do you fake a lot of orgasms, Y/N?” Azriel shot back, his turn to pose the picture of nonchalance as he leaned on one elbow, hand on his cheek.

Your cheeks burst into flames. “W-What? No— I—”

The shadowsinger smirked at your flustered babbling. He was tempted to poke at you some more but took pity, instead savoring how cute you looked when you were embarrassed. But you couldn’t find the strength to answer, so he went on to fill the silence.

“If a man cannot make you finish, you should move on and find someone who can,” he said calmly, studying your bashful gaze that was now fixed on the table before you.

You sat up, removing your arms from the table so you could cross them over your chest, guarding yourself. It was your choice to enter this conversation but now it was getting a little too real, and your mortification was getting worse by the minute as Azriel’s steady hazel eyes were pinned to your every movement.

“Yeah…,” you agreed. In theory, his advice was all good and well, but there was no way that it would be that easy. “That’s hard to find, though.”

Azriel gauged your expression, wondering if he should admit he heard your earlier confession to Mor. But you seemed so embarrassed, he didn’t want to make you any more uncomfortable.

“Is there, like, a class you took or something? Maybe you can introduce me to one of your fellow classmates,” you attempted a joke, but the shadowsinger’s gaze only hardened, the corner of his lip twitching in distaste.

Jealousy and possessiveness swirled in his gut, not liking that you had just asked him to set you up— even if you had only meant it as a joke. You were not his, yet your faux request rubbed him the wrong way.

But the slightly hurt look you were giving him now was enough to wipe away any ill emotion that had briefly bloomed. “Just kidding…,” you murmured, fingering the handle of your now-empty tea cup.

Azriel fought to find the words that could navigate him through this strange situation. If only somehow he could reassure you, offer his services, but not ruin your friendship, nor come off creepy.

He took too long, because you rose, excusing yourself, “I think I better get to sleep.” Your cup disappeared and you quietly thanked the house, turning away from the male and heading toward the bedrooms.

The spymaster stood as well, following you down the hall. Both your rooms were at the very end of the walkway, meaning he at least had another minute of your time. His heart beat quickly in his chest, desperate to smooth things over with you, desperate for however much longer he could get with you. “I did not take a class,” he said, matching your pace.

You shot him an inquisitive look over your shoulder.

“One of the marks of a true man is to be able to fully pleasure a lady.”

You laughed, pausing so that you could walk by his side. “So you think of yourself as a true man? What is that supposed to mean?”

Azriel smirked, glad that your disposition seemed a little looser. “It means, I’ve had five hundred years to cultivate my skills.”

“Riiight, with your countless lovers,” you quipped, a little smirk growing on your lips.

A scarred hand pushed you gently, just hard enough to let you know he didn’t appreciate such accusations— even if they held some truth. Those gorgeous hazel eyes rolled as he clicked his tongue, about to shoot something back when you arrived at your door.

You didn’t reach for the handle though, instead turning to look up at him as your back brushed against the sturdy wood of your threshold. “Thanks for all your—,” you blushed, gaze fleeting, “insight.”

Dark brows furrowed at you. You had said it in such a meek little voice, your hands wringing with anxiety. It was easy for him to read your body language, but also, his earlier eavesdropping had cued him in more than you knew. Even though your conversation had made him seem like the one with all the expertise, his heart was slamming wildly against his ribs, tanned cheeks feeling hot. Somehow the spymaster managed to keep his composure and dared to take the leap.

“May I ask why you are so curious all of a sudden, little dove?” He said, a gleam in his gaze. “Would you like for me to prove myself to you?”

You chuckled, shocked, unbelieving. “That joke is deplorable— I think you’ve been spending too much time with Cassian lately. ”

Usually a jab at his brother would make the shadowsinger bark out a laugh, but he remained stoic, looking down at you with profound intensity. The two of you stared at each other, and you found yourself unable to look away. There was always something about Azriel that drew you to him, and in that moment, as he leaned a hand against the door behind you and filled your senses with the scent of cedar and crisp, chilled night…

His gaze flicked down to your lips.

You studied his, the full, soft pink calling to you.

Azriel could barely find the strength to resist kissing you, his face only inches from yours. The sweet, fresh smell of you was so devastatingly strong with such a short distance between you, and the way you were looking at him… he swore he could discern hunger in your beautiful, captivating gaze…

“Do you want that to be a joke, Y/N?” he murmured, warm breath washing over your cheek. The tip of his nose just barely scraped yours, another muscular arm coming to trap the other side of your body so he had you right up against the door with no escape. “I did not intend for it to be, but if that’s what pleases you…”

You looked at him with wide eyes, a shiver running through you. A new scent greeted your nose, and your lips parted as you took it in, your body shamelessly eating up the smell of his growing desire.

The shadowsinger licked his lips, gaze piercing yours as he detected the beginnings of a similar, honeyed scent emitting from you. There was no going back now, he decided. He was closer to you than ever, and he couldn’t pretend he could find satisfaction in you both returning alone to your rooms, not tonight. He dared to caress your jaw, the smooth skin a contrast to the rough texture of his scars.

“It’s your pleasure I seek, always…,” he said, and you held your breath, unblinking as you beheld his astounding beauty up close. “I only aim to please you… will you allow me to?”

Permission— he was asking permission. You could barely think; was he serious? Azriel was not the type to fool about things of such gravity… If this was some cruel joke…

Before you could give it much thought, your mouth was already moving. “Yes,” you breathed, answering him so quietly it was nearly inaudible, “Please, Azriel…”

The Illyrian’s brow twitched and he shuddered. He leaned down lower, lower— big, gentle hands coming to brace the small of your back and the nape of your neck, a thumb slipping along your jaw to point your face up to his… slowly, slow enough to give you the chance to change your mind… You leaned forward, eyelids fluttering shut. Another second went by and then, he kissed you.

Time stopped, and everything else faded away.

His lips pressed against yours and your arms wove around his neck, every place your skin touched exploding with sparks. The smell of him and his desire overwhelmed your senses, your knees weakening as he claimed your mouth with his, pressing you against him harder, hungrier.

You were snug between the door and his broad, powerful body. His hands squeezed at your hips, then slid down to your ass and lifted you effortlessly, your legs securing around his waist. The small friction of your core rubbing against his abs through your clothes was enough to make you gasp for breath.

Azriel seized the opportunity, his tongue coasting into your mouth without caution. The slick muscle wrestled with yours and you pulled at his hair, savoring the quiet moan that spilled onto your lips. You wanted more— to explore more of his skin, discover more of those sounds… Wordlessly the shadowsinger came to the same realization, fumbling with the door handle and tucking the two of you into the privacy of your room.

Your hair fanned out onto the pillows as the male deposited you on your bed, muscled thighs coming to part your legs and settle himself on his forearms above you, lips never leaving yours. It felt unreal to be consumed in the shadowsinger’s kiss, to have his hard body pressed up against yours and your hearts pounding together in harmony.

He felt the same, hardly believing you were really here beneath him, your small hands caressing his arms and his neck, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulders and curling into his thick onyx locks. Finally he tore his mouth from yours, panting, studying your breathless form under him. “You are so gorgeous,” he praised, licking his kiss-bitten lips, hazel eyes ablaze as he examined the valley of your breasts. Before he leaned closer, he whispered, “Your safe word is moonlight, should you want to stop at any time.”

Though you didn’t plan on using it, you appreciated the consideration… and you wondered just what the male had in mind that might require such a precaution. But he captured your attention once more and you murmured his name as he moved to trail his tongue down your jaw and nibble at your throat, slowly making his way to plant open-mouthed kisses on your exposed cleavage. He pawed at the top of your dress, taking his time as he memorized the taste of your skin, tugging the material down. Your breasts spilled out for his eager mouth to immediately greet, soft lips capturing a nipple and his tongue rolling over it while his fingers found the other. Instinctively your hips bucked up against his, pleasure tickling you as he gave all his attention to your chest, grinding his aching cock into the mattress below.

Teeth grazed the sensitive nub and a moan escaped you at full volume, your cheeks burning when a ravenous glint met the shadowsinger’s eye. With just one swift look you knew he would do anything in his power to elicit more of those sounds from you, and your excitement only bloomed further as a hand slid up the slit in your dress, rough fingers raising goosebumps on your now-exposed thigh.

He kept busy as he explored your chest, sucking and kissing the swell of your breasts. The slow trail of his fingers up your thigh had you clenching in anticipation, whining when the digits brushed the lace edge of your dampening panties.

“Az, wait,” you huffed, causing the male to release your breasts, his warm gaze coming to inspect your face. Even though it was an embarrassing admission, for some reason you felt the need to inform him of your predicament. “I um— I’ve never… No one has ever been able to…”

Hazel pierced into you from his lower position on the bed, his broad shoulders steady and wings taut behind his back. He finished your sentence for you, ceasing your struggle, “…make you cum?”

Just hearing him say it made your soul want to leave your body, and you shut your eyes, nodding, wishing you could just skip this part. A gentle hand cupped the corner of your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek with such tenderness that you dared to meet his gaze.

“I’m honored to be the first,” Azriel stated, unwavering as he looked deep into your eyes. His own were peering into you, the gold in his irises seeming to shine even in the dark of the room.

Your mouth opened to protest that he lower his expectations, but his thumb pressed into your parted lips and the words died in your throat. There was sheer determination in the look he was giving you— promise.

“Don’t think,” he whispered, his other hand coming to pull you down the sheets, back flat on the duvet and now squarely underneath his entirety. His toned body dwarfed yours and his ability to maneuver you with such ease made something distinctly female stir deep inside of you. “Just relax and focus on me. Focus on how my hands feel on you, my lips…”

A mewl escaped you as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of your neck, your head turning into the blanket while he left his mark on your throat. Your hips squirmed and his own pressed down in response, the hard length of him reaching for you through his sweats. The heat that resonated there made you dizzy, a fresh wave of desire pulsing through your pussy as he rutted against it.

The Illyrian’s groan rumbled across your skin, and he sank lower, again taking your breast into his mouth, an elbow digging into the mattress to hold himself up and curl a large hand around the back of your waist. The other wandered up your dress again, this time his fingers immediately cupping your core through your soaked underwear.

A string of quiet moans floated from your lips as his fingertips began to map your dripping cunt through the soiled material. The firm press of his digits against your entrance teased you until they wandered up to slowly rub your clit, his teeth grazing at your nipple. You whimpered, face twisting in ecstasy. Already the shadowsinger was making you feel better than anyone else had, and you weren’t even fully undressed.

At the realization, you fisted the cotton of his shirt. He complied instantly, ripping the article off of him with no issue, and you watched as the tattered cloth was swallowed by the shadows that danced at the foot of the bed. You then took in the sight before you, mouth watering at his utterly male form— the tan, lean muscle that tapered from his wide shoulders to his narrow waist, the contours and bulges that made his long hours of training evident, black ink melding perfectly with the straight planes and dipping down under the hem of his sweats.

Your fingers wandered on their own accord to splay across his broad chest, tracing the tattoos that laid there and thumbing over his nipples. That bit a low moan from the male, and he leaned down and captured your lips once more, tongue dominating yours. His hands disappeared behind your back and suddenly the zip down your back was undone, the material slipping down your sides. You helped him free you of the gown, now only clad in your soaked panties, hips squirming as you throbbed with need.

“Azriel,” you whimpered when his lips touched your sex through the cloth, the male taking a deep breath of your honeyed scent, and closing his eyes. His brow pinched as he experimentally licked at you, your thighs twitching as he released a moan of approval.

You gasped when he tore the drenched fabric off of you effortlessly, his teeth bared in a quiet snarl. Then he grabbed your hips and dragged your pussy onto his mouth, tongue spreading your folds and moaning as he savored the taste of you. He dove into you and you cried out in pleasure, his mouth sucking and nibbling on your sensitive core, tongue dragging up and down your seeping slit with fervor.

All of his attention focused on you was making you delirious, your eyes rolling back as you relished the sensations he was causing. His hands tucked under your ass and grappled onto your hips, not allowing you to squirm away from his generous attack. He alternated between gently sucking on your clit, your folds… then washing the sensitive bud with the flat of his tongue, laving over you wave after wave.

You were clenching, your hole leaking more and more as your body begged for some kind of relief. Utter want throbbed through you as scarred fingers slowly made their way toward your core. All remnants of thought left your skull at the press of rough digits at your entrance. There was nothing you could say or do as a finger slid inside of you, nothing but stretch around him and keen, gasp for breath. Before you could even moan, a second pushed in and disappeared knuckle-deep, right beside the first. The foreign stretch made your thighs tremble around his face, his nose nudging your clit as he continued his ministrations with his tongue.

His name became a prayer on your lips, a chant as those blessed digits curled and his knuckles scraped parts of you whose existence you had not known before. Slick was pouring down your thighs now, the steady, rough friction of his scars rubbing so deliciously along your gummy walls. You forgot any worries you had harbored, left them far behind as Azriel brought you closer and closer to the edge.

At some point you started begging, actually begging— you couldn’t help how good the shadowsinger was making you feel, couldn’t think to filter the words mixing with your ragged breaths.

Azriel only trekked on, mouth earnestly working in sync with his hand, examining the furrow of your brow, the part of your lips, the roll of your eyes back into your skull. Only then did he speak, mouth popping off of you just long enough to encourage you as you circled the drain.

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, the words vibrating through your cunt, tongue lashing against your folds between his praises. “I can feel your tight little pussy clamping down on me, I know you wanna cum…”

You could only whine and latch onto his shoulders as you hurtled toward that line no partner had ever been able to push you to, at full speed now that the shadowsinger was egging you on, pure filth falling from his lips.

“You can do it baby,” he purred, pressing another kiss to your clit, a brush of tongue following in its wake. “You’re gonna make me so proud, I swear my little dove, you’re right there… Come on pretty girl, cum for me, cum on my tongue.”

The tension in your belly heightened and you gasped, your body tensing under his firm grip and your back arching, teetering on the edge. And then you were cumming, your core gripping onto his fingers and pulsing, your head thrown back onto the sheets as you let out a long, sultry moan.

Azriel’s cock throbbed at the sound, his curiosity peaking as he wondered how your pussy would feel milking his cock like that, so tight and wet for him.

Your body was humming with bliss, fingernails embedded in the sheets beside your hips, your breath ragged and sweat glistening at your forehead. You’d only cum that hard a handful of times before, and it had taken a hell of a lot longer for you to get yourself to that point.

The Illyrian’s pace slowed, his fingers and his tongue still moving just enough to let you ride out your orgasm without overwhelming you. He continued to kiss your clit softly— even as his patience was wearing thin, his length crying for you, trapped tightly, painfully, beneath his pants.

His fingers finally fell from your entrance and he inspected the glossy sheen on them before he stuck them in his mouth. You watched as his tongue ran over every inch, savoring the taste of your cum. He pressed one final kiss to your clit and sat up, the tent in his pants more prevalent than before.

“I’m so proud of you, angel,” Azriel praised, a hand skimming down your thigh. His gaze was warm as he made eye contact, but the movement of his hand landing on his cock pulled your eyes from his.

You watched, still breathless as he firmly gripped his length through his sweats, a low sigh falling from his lips. He looked absolutely criminal touching himself like that, the shine of your cum still on his lips and his muscled torso heaving as he caught his breath.

All thought left your brain as his thumbs hooked the hem of his pants, dipping lower until you could see the base of his dark… thick cock. He pushed his pants down fully and your cunt clenched as his fully erect member slapped hard against his navel. The tip was the most beautiful shade of pink you’d ever seen, and your mouth dried as you examined the trail of glistening pre that dripped down the side. He fisted the base of himself, the wide vein running along the underside flexing as he twitched for you, eying the apex between your legs and your shared desire.

“See how hard you make me?” he said, a sinister glint in his gaze pinning you to the mattress. Both of you were fully naked now, and the sight of him approaching you, those big, ominous wings billowing with shadows behind him… he looked like a god, one that was about to completely decimate you. “See how much I ache for you? You completely own me, fuck… now that I’ve had a taste of that pretty little cunt, I’m yours.”

Your heart skipped a beat. It was unclear whether this was just dirty talk, or if he really meant that, but in the heat of the moment, you allowed yourself to believe his words were sincere.

He crawled toward you, completely predator as he neared. Heat rolled off his bronze skin, his member reaching for you, wings shuddering in anticipation. “These lips are yours…” he murmured, mouth grazing over yours. You closed your eyes, your arm reaching around his head, fingers carding through his soft hair. “These hands are yours…” His scars skimmed down the curve of your side, tingles echoing in their wake. “This cock, it’s yours…” you gasped as his hot tip sliced through your folds, tracing down your slit with ease from the orgasm he had just gifted you.

You moaned, hips lifting and your sex sliding along the length of him, coating him in your essence. He groaned at the sight, his breath mingling with yours as he panted, watching your most intimate parts slide against each other, your love juices mixing.

“Please, Az,” you cried. You’d never been more turned on in your life, the very tip of him nudging against your hole, the promise of pleasure so close you could taste it.

The shadowsinger could barely hold himself back, but he needed to hear you say it. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded, grit in his harsh tone as he began to lose his manners.

“I want you to fuck me,” you replied instantly, inhibitions thrown to the wind. “Please, please— I need you to fuck me, make me cum with your cock, please Az—”

Whatever semblance of restraint the Illyrian had was lost then, his lips pulling back in a desperate snarl. The sound had your legs spreading, your body feeling fuzzy with the overwhelming urge to be filled by him, taken and claimed by him.

Your body sang as he speared the tip inside of you, your cunt stretching around the sizable girth of him. A whimper fell from the male as he lowered his hips, half his cock disappearing into your tight, wet heat. It felt like he was heaven incarnate inside of you, your eyes rolling back and your legs parting wider around his hips, welcoming him deeper inside of you.

Azriel obliged, his balls slapping the wet backside of your thighs as he surged forward. The moan that fell from both your lips was pure sin, your bodies exploding in pleasure as they connected in the deepest, most intimate way, him fully seated inside of you.

Slowly he started to thrust, hips almost shaking at the all-consuming pleasure that was washing over him. He was already fighting his orgasm as he began to find his pace, the moans he was summoning from you urging him to press deeper, harder.

Again and again his hips slapped into yours, burying that impressive length deep within you. The depths he reached made your eyes cross, your pussy squeezing down on him, and your mouth drying from the constant panting he had you victim to.

He was growling into your ear, sweat sticking his hot chest to yours as he exerted himself. The sounds that tumbled from him only made your slickness grow, a wet patch forming beneath your ass as he started slamming into you with reckless abandon.

“Fuck, you look so pretty with my cock inside of you,” Azriel crooned, his face falling so that the bridge of his strong nose skimmed your cheek. It made his breath fall on the crest of your ear, rendering you privy to all the low, delicious noises that slithered out of his mouth. “M’gonna take good care of you, promise…”

Suddenly he pulled out and you wailed at the loss, but he was already flipping you over before you could register what had happened. He yanked you onto your knees, landing a quick slap on your ass before he nudged your legs apart and pushed himself into the new space. His cock dipped into your folds from behind and he loosed a delectable moan as he slid all the way back inside.

From this angle, the tip of him prodded a sacred, uncharted spot that had you shaking, arching your ass onto him and your back bowing in submission. The place he was reaching at the end of your inner walls made you weak, the hard length of him too euphoric for you to handle. He gave a tentative thrust, a hand coming to fist the hair by your scalp, the other weaving around you to tweak a pebbled nipple between his fingers. You sobbed at the newfound intensity, your stomach knotting and your hips sliding back on their own accord, once again seating yourself at the base of his cock.

“You like having me all the way inside, hmm?” he gasped, thrusting deep and hard, the clench of your cunt almost tempting his load straight out of his aching balls.

You gasped an affirmative, each thrust making stars dance on the back of your eyelids. “Yes, ah— yes, deeper— Az!” It must have been your g-spot he was ramming into because you could barely sit upright now, your body nearly collapsing in pure pleasure. “There, oh please right there!”

Azriel’s hand at your chest dove down, a large palm landing right above your womb, right where his cock nestled inside your throbbing cunt. “Here, baby?” He gave a few more thrusts, the very tips of his fingers nudging your engorged clit. “Feel my cock right here, dove? I’m right here inside you, fuck—“

You cried as he continued, ruthlessly pounding into you, the hand in your hair pulling your head back so he could manipulate your body and bend you into the perfect angle to continue hitting that spot.

Again you were rushing toward completion, completely stupefied by the shadowsinger rearranging your guts from behind. The pleasure was too intense— with each thrust his huge, thick cock stretched you to the brim and dragged against that delicious spot deep inside. Sweat dripped down both your bodies, heat and the lewd slap of his wet front against your ass filling the room again and again. His name became the only word you knew, a raspy chant as he brought you closer, closer—

You came with a silent cry, pussy pulling tight and fluttering down onto his hard cock. This orgasm was even stronger than the last, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull as his thrusts slowed, the intensity of your throbbing too great for him to continue his quick pace. Rough fingertips continued to circle your clit, drawing out your euphoria as you slumped into his strong chest, trembling with pleasure.

The Illyrian was fighting every inch of himself not to cum right then, blood tanging on his tongue as he bit the inside of his cheek. He refused to violate your perfect womb with his seed, even if every fiber of his being was screaming with the need to claim you as his. But he would not relent to his desires, not without your permission. And he didn’t want to finish yet, not when this was the highest he had ever felt, sheathed inside your ethereal body. So he clutched onto you and channeled all of himself into supporting your weary frame, rubbing your clit as you floated back to earth.

Once you had ceased twitching, Azriel laid your back onto the sheets again, joining you on his side, adjacent to you. You were still panting as you came back to reality, examining his mussed hair and how it clung to his damp forehead, the flecks of pure gold in his hazel irises, his slick, still-hard cock— a ring of your cream adorning the base of him.

Wordlessly you wiggled closer and kissed him. He moaned in surprise, either at how soft and sweet your kiss was, or at the touch of your small hand wrapping around his aching length. You jerked him slowly, the sound of it absolutely obscene, your thumb grazing over the weeping head where precum had once again begun dripping out. Your back pressed up flush against his chest, guiding his cock to your center and slipping the head into your slit, hips pushing into his.

The shadowsinger’s vulgar moan rung out as your warmth surrounded him again, your nails scraping his scalp. An arm slipped beneath your waist, his grip securing on the opposite hip and fully penetrating you once more. This position had your pussy tighter than before, and his chest shook as he tried to breathe normally, trying to fend off his orgasm. His finger slipped to the back of your head again, this time much gentler than before, just to turn your face and peer into your soul.

Azriel couldn’t find it in himself to thrust, just savoring how your bodies were completely intertwined like this, feeling absolutely one with you and staring deep into your gaze. But you wanted him to cum— needed it, pressing your ass flush onto his hips and clenching tight. The male’s broken growl was his only reply, words failing him. It was he who had planned to drown you in pleasure; he had not been prepared for how incredible you would truly feel, how whole he felt when he was inside of you.

You reached down and cupped his balls, feeling how tight and heavy they were with his seed. Azriel’s teeth grazed your lip at the movement, his body starting to shake with the need to release everything he had deep within you.

“Y/N,” he choked out, hips starting to press tentatively to yours on their own volition.

You studied the desperation on his handsome face, the shake in his thighs at each slow thrust, the dull fingernails that dug into your skin as he clung to you. “Azriel,” you moaned, he was reaching that spot again and rutting into it so slow, hard and precise… you could hardly think as pleasure filled your brain with fog once again. “Please… Need you to cum inside of me.”

Azriel groaned, tongue wrestling with yours and conceding as he began to lose himself in you. His thrusts became slower, sloppier, so you hooked your leg around his and began to arch back into him. The Illyrian began panting, fingers grappling onto your hips.

“This cock is mine,” you purred, repeating his earlier words, your ass slapping back against him harder.

His fingertips were blanching, the sight of his wet length sliding in and out of you from behind as you fucked yourself onto him mesmerizing.

“This cum is mine, too,” you squeezed his balls again and he let out a loud whimper, his orgasm surging forth as he started to meet your thrusts. “Give it to me, fill me up with your cum— fuck Az, need it deep inside me, please.”

He snapped, suddenly hard and fast and deep, a few more snaps of his hips that had you crying for him until— The most pornographic moan sounded for him and he pushed every inch of himself inside of you. His wings fluttered, thighs shaking as he gripped onto you and smushed you into the mattress under his weight. Warmth filled your belly as hot waves of cum spurted deep into your womb, his cock throbbing as you pulsed around him, milking every drop you could get. Sharp teeth lodged into your neck as he emptied himself inside of you, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself up as to not crush you completely.

Sweat dripped from his breathless form onto your back, and you laid there blissfully as you caught your breath. The sheets beneath you were completely ruined, drenched in sweat and slick and cum, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care; not when Azriel was naked on top of you, cock sheathed all the way in and his cum spilled deep in your womb.

After a minute, the shadowsinger’s dark chuckle sounded from above you, his fingers tracing down your spine. “Naughty little thing,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear before he laid a kiss there.

You smirked, squeezing onto his cock that was still inside of you, retorting “You like it. You like me~”

He growled lowly, nipping you with his teeth. But he nuzzled you then and your heart melted, his lips ghosting over your cheek as he said, “I do. Very much, in fact.”

You whined as he pulled out of you, the loss of him much too noticeable for comfort. But he was right there, turning you onto your back with care, pressing soft kisses into every inch of your sweat-slicked skin. You could feel his release seeping out, the sheer amount of it too great to stay tucked inside where you so desperately wanted it to be.

Azriel gently pulled your legs apart, inspecting the slow stream of creamy white that trickled out of your raw entrance. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to last long enough for you to cum again,” he said, a thumb running down your soaked folds, “I know you were getting there…” He licked his lips as you clenched under his heated gaze, embarrassed that he was outright admiring your most intimate part. Was he seriously apologizing for not giving you a third orgasm? “Allow me to make it up to you, angel.”

The male leaned down and pressed a kiss to each thigh, sliding back onto the foot of the bed and pulling you with him. You shot him an incredulous look as he settled between your legs, lips just inches from your soiled cunt. There was no way he was really about to do this— the mix of your cum with his was spread wide, coating your inner thighs, your pussy, your ass.

His tongue was like lava as he licked at you experimentally, eyes taking note of the shock apparent in your expression. Hazel glinted at you as he began to make out with your ruined center, his seed dripping from you as he made you clench. But he didn’t seem to mind the taste of himself, for he closed his eyes and traced his tongue down to your messy hole, petting you unabashedly, happily, even.

You didn’t think he could get any hotter. But this… this was outright perverted. Your core felt aflame at the sight, his pure enjoyment as he devoured the mixture of your cum like it was the most sacred delicacy. It had you moaning, legs trembling around his head, clit throbbing as he kissed and sucked at the poor bud.

Deft fingers brushed your core and were immediately coated in that same mixture, slick pouring from you as the shadowsinger continued his depraved quest. Two entered you with no warning and your back bowed, the digits instantly searching for that sweet spot as they pushed through the river of his release. A third joined and you released a garbled sob as they found their target.

Azriel, ever the observant one, took note and pummeled the spot relentlessly, knuckles curling as they slid in so they achieved full stimulation. His tongue was flat against your clit, licking you back and forth, and you were so sensitive from your previous orgasms that tears dotted the side of your eyes, your breathing ragged.

“Az, oh Gods— I—,” you mewled, hips squirming as the pleasure became too much. “Please, I can’t, it’s too much!”

But the Illyrian did not stop, would not stop unless he heard your safe word, his fingers picked up speed. “Come on baby, one more. Just one more,” the words vibrated through your cunt as he held you down, palm flat atop your tummy and pressing your sweet spot down so that it was even more vulnerable to his attack. “Trust me, it’s gonna feel so good angel, I swear.” His lips took hold of your abused pearl and he ravished you, his cum squelching as his fingers drove into you without reprieve.

Pressure gathered deep in your core and you whimpered, the intensity of your pleasure so great it was almost painful. You were close— so close to something big, you could feel that it was different from before with the way your cunt leaked and throbbed, the way your entire core felt on fire.

“Please—” you gasped, not even sure what you were pleading for, “Fuck Azriel, please, yes—!”

You screamed as you came, white-hot ecstasy imploding from your center. You nearly lost consciousness, your eyes crossed with utter bliss as liquid sprayed out of you and onto the shadowsinger’s chest. His chin, his torso, your thighs, and sheets, all of it was drenched as you couldn’t stop the squirt from pouring out of you. Fast fingers replaced his mouth and continued rubbing your clit, only slowing once you had ceased squirting.

Your entire body was shaking, toes curled into the filthy sheets, your brain trying to catch up but it was a mile behind your body.

“I’m— Az, I,” you stuttered, attempting to sit up, shock and shame taking root in your chest. The male was completely drenched from the chin down, the sheets beyond salvation. “I never— I’m sorry—“

A towel appeared from his shadows, and he swiftly wiped himself dry before he joined you on the bed, uncaring of the huge damp spot that now lay beneath you two. He shushed you with a kiss, taking your trembling form into his arms, a hand tucking your hair behind your shoulder. His lips were soft, his touch gentle as he tucked you against his chest.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I am so proud of you,” he said quietly, his low voice rumbling in your ear, “You did so well, little dove. Now let me clean you up.” His praise sent a pleasant warmth through your bones, and you curled closer to the male, basking in his embrace.

Secured in his arms, his shadows enveloped the pair of you in darkness, their cool caress whispering on your skin. Then, you were hovering over a large marble bath, steam wafting from the filled basin that Azriel was standing in the middle of. Slowly he lowered the pair of you into the water, holding you tighter when you squeaked at the heat from the water leaching into your tender core. He sat behind you, wings stretched over the lip of the tub, your chest against his back.

Wordlessly he tied your hair back and ran a damp cloth over your skin. You were still coming down from your high, the warmth from the water and the strong male at your back making your eyelids droop, exhaustion ebbing into your body. He held you up and washed your back and then his front, and when you leaned back against him, you somehow found the strength to smirk at the erection evident behind you. You scooted back to brush your ass against him and he growled lowly in your ear. The sound sent shivers through you, and you turned to face him, looping your arms around his neck.

You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, humming in content. The Illyrian kissed the top of your head, large hands supporting your weight as he lifted you from the water. The soft brush of a towel met your skin and his quiet laugh graced your ears when you refused to separate from him, your wet front clinging to his. Eventually he was able to pry you off of him so that he could fully dry you, but it took many kisses of encouragement and gentle praise.

Finally he placed you onto his bed, the silken sheets welcoming your clean, naked skin and flooding your senses with his strong, woodsy scent. Azriel slipped in beside you, his inked arms wrapping around you as he laid on his side, nose tucked into your hair, covering you under the blankets.

“So, did you fake it?” he whispered in your ear just as sleep was about to take you. He had clearly proven himself, teasing you now that you had experienced his full talents.

You swatted him with what little strength you had left, a lazy smile curling the corner of your mouth. “You’re deplorable,” you said and he laughed, gathering you closer to his chest.

You didn’t know what this night would mean moving forward, but you didn’t have the energy to care at the moment— completely drained from the earth-shattering orgasms the shadowsinger had summoned from you. You had the feeling he didn’t want to question it now, either, not as he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world, not when he had you naked, in his arms, in his bed. So you succumbed to slumber, content to leave the questions for the morning, your heart full and your body completely sated for the first time in your life.

⤷ masterlist

[the-hipster-nugget]

I think we need to talk about Scott’s third life death scene more often, specifically about the scene directly afterward with Martyn and Ren.

It’s so fucked up that Martyn chases after Scott, not hurting or actually touching him but follows him so his king can get a chance to kill him, but Martyn doesn’t touch Scott. Instead he yells after him these half baked apologies and explanations, trying to tell him “I didn’t want Jimmy to die!” That is actually insane.

As Martyn is chasing that boy he connected with at the start, the one he entered the nether with; they went through this worlds actual hell together. Now Martyn is tasked to take after Scott to not let him escape, someone he used to be close to, he chases with death in mind because his king commands it.

And Scott finally stops to face martyn, as the pathetic hand tries to tell him “we didn’t mean to kill your husband” is SO fucked up. Out of everything Martyn said, before having to watch his king murder him, he tells Scott that it was never his intention to harm Jimmy.

Upon Scott’s death, Martyn does not cheer or rejoice, he just lets out this pathetic noise of defeat after Ren murdered Scott for good. Martyn stands there feeling null and empty, while his king goes into hysterics.

Ren also, upon killing Scott, is immediately rushed with guilt and horror at himself. Starts sobbing, “how many more do I have to kill to this violence comes to an end?”

“It’s dripping into my eyes… I can’t see, I’ve been blinded by violence my hand.”

Ren sacrificed himself using Martyns hand, allowed his head to be chopped off so that he could become a red name- but even after all that, he cannot kill without guilt. Other red names like Skizz and Joel get this bloodlust and hunt like a predator. While Ren, the wolf king, kills and then he cries. He sobs and begs for Martyn to hold him. He’s a red name supposed to be thirsting for blood but it isn’t giving him that rush it should. He had Martyn take his head, and all for what? What was this all for?

He’s a red name, and the king of a red kingdom, with a red shield. He brought red winter in his wake, but he stays awake at night shivering in fear about the death of others. In his heart, Ren is too good hearted to kill without remorse. Despite it being his job, and something he sought out to do on purpose; he feels horribly guilty.

The blood dripping into his eyes blinding him is insane symbolism. Being a red name gives him this urge to kill, and it blinds the players. But doesn’t give Ren a rush of ecstasy or excitement, it scares him. Ren feels so blood thirsty that he gets dizzy, and it makes him want to cry. It makes him scared of himself, and he breaks down as yet another person died at his hand.

He begs Martyn to hold him, and all he can think about is before he had to murder another person. He never wanted to become this red king, never wanted his crown to be stained in blood. He wanted to hold Martyns hand, and enchant with him. That’s all he wanted, was a life of peace with his dear friend. Martyn was his friend, not his hand.

Ren asked for this, he prayed for red winter, but now that it arrived, he is so so cold. Ren just wanted to feel the warmth of spring.

Neither of them wanted to kill Scott. Neither of them felt satisfied watching Scott lose his final life, but they murdered him together anyway. They killed him, and then they cried about it. They hold each other in the dead of winter.

“How many more people do we have to kill before all this violence comes to an end?”

The red king just wishes red winter would finally end. He’s tired of his bloody crown weighing down his head, his weak scarred neck struggles to hold. Martyn holds his king in attempt to comfort him, but all he thinks about is how eventually, they will have to die too. Maybe if they’re lucky, they’ll die together.

[biggaybunny]

Several years ago I came across on my dashboard a little comic that left in me such a deep and intense sense of horror that it's haunted me ever since, though that is partially because of how my brain regularly revisits bad memories against my will for the express purpose of torturing me. Anyway, the point of this preamble is to serve as a content warning for existential horror, I guess.

The comic was simple, and pretty well burned in to my memory, so let me describe it for you first; a time traveler (a young woman) pops into frame and declares their excitement to explore the future. They are immediately greeted by a small feline robot that offers them a key to "their room", and a pill that will make them feel every kind of happiness at once. The time traveler refuses the offer, saying that they don't want simple happiness, and get their thrills from the sense of adventure. The robot explains that yes, no worry, that thrill is one of the things she'll feel once she's taken that pill. The time traveler agrees to try it for "just a minute". The comic cuts to the time traveler sitting on a chair in a small, completely barren room, with an IV hooked up to her. She is drooling and her eyes completely unfocused. We zoom out to see her room is just a small box next to many, each with a similar occupant, and we see rows and rows and rows of such boxes, implying this to be the fate of humanity. The comic ends there.

Just retelling this comic makes me want to puke, so distressing it is to me. I was also distressed by the person reblogging it who in the tags talked about how they felt this was a good fate for humanity; I blocked the post (I have thankfully never seen it again, despite blocking it multiple versions of xkit ago) and unfollowed the person who put it on my dash, and have never spoken to them again.

It's hard to explain exactly why I find this scenario so terrifying. It truly does shake me to my core. It's horrifying because it is a kind of living death, I suppose. A prison that cannot be escaped from. The mind is gone, or effectively gone, while the body remains. And there feels like there would be no saving someone from such a fate. What would happen to a person who experienced such a pure bliss, if you tried to cut them off from it? Do you think they'd find a return to existence anything less than traumatizing? That their minds would even be able to start working again, after what had happened? I don't see how. That's what makes it such a horrifying fate, to me. Once encountered, the person is lost, even as their body continues to function.

I also hate it because I've found it hard to refute as a potential fate for humanity. It gets kind of philosophically thorny. Our brains are just chemical machines; what is the difference between a sensation of pleasure earned versus one that's been chemically induced? What difference does it make if it's "real"? What does "real" mean? Is the person who climbs a mountain in a videogame not entitled to a sense of accomplishment the same as a person who really climbs a mountain? What about a mountain in vr? How far do we have to abstract away from the truth -- that every experience results in the production of a chemical cocktail by one part of our body to be processed by another part of our body -- for a sensation to "mean" something? Isn't pleasure something we all pursue, in some form, anyway? Isn't the goal of every moral framework out there to find a way so all involved can live happily? Why is it okay to imperfectly pursue pleasure of some kind -- satisfaction, ecstasy, triumph, whatever -- but not okay to pursue it optimally? If neither is okay, what are we all living for?

I refuse to accept this, because there's no room for both a world where this ultimate pleasure pill exists and a world where humanity continues. You can't say "this can exist and some people wouldn't take it". It renders all pursuits of humanity pointless. The thrill of discovery? That's just chemicals. The joy of companionship? Chemicals. All things we feel are just chemicals; we are just chemicals. This thought has never scared me before, but that's perhaps because on some level, I always took it for granted that consciousness was somehow... special. Something more important, something you can't just... bypass. But I know that that's not true.

Maybe consciousness is still the answer. Maybe our consciousness is what makes us human, and needs to be protected. I feel unsure if I've explained why I'm so sure that the scenario described in that comic would obliterate consciousness; it feels self-evident to me that the individual must be destroyed in such a scenario, because they are unable to take any action including thinking, because they have been robbed of all reason to act or think, or in other words, the very ability to think.

I do not rely on instinctive reactions to guide my moral philosophy, so my revulsion alone is not a reason to condemn it. Perhaps, however, in this case my revulsion is justified, for the destruction of the mind is truly immoral thing. It does not perfectly answer why the destruction of the mind is a horrible thing, because, again, we are not special. We are an accident of atoms in a mechanical universe, or at least so I believe (unfortunately). I suppose, when you get to the heart of the issue, I'm simply asking what is the point of it all? If it doesn't have a point, doesn't that make all the struggle pointless too? Doesn't it mean we may as well strap ourselves in and have super-heroin drip-fed into our brains for our entire lives? And if so, why do I find that so terrifying? Is my terror just an accident of my evolution-designed brain, that contains in it the same desires to preserve and proliferate my kind as the slime mold?

This is the part where I'm supposed to come up with an answer. Something that irrefutably denies the idea that some kind of super-pleasure-cocktail could replace the enormity of life. But I don't know. In order to deny it, we have to decide on a meaning to our lives that categorically excludes it as a valid option. And there's no such universally agreed upon meaning to life. But maybe that's the answer, itself. We contain within ourselves the ability to decide for ourselves what it all means. We have free will; even if the universe turns out to be perfectly deterministic on the scale we're on, we won't ever know our decisions until we make them. It is this free will that the scenario I've gone on about destroys, because as I've said, there is no way for this to exist alongside other choices to live. Maybe you don't believe that. Or maybe you're one of the sorry kinds that think we should all be living in tiny boxes, our brains turned into nothing but organic chemical processing machines that take in chemicals and produce other chemicals. If that's the case, I think I hate you. But that's the best I can do to stop being haunted by a stupid comic I saw five or six years ago now. That's really all this is about.

Sorry for subjecting you all to this, it's really just for my own sake. I just needed to write my thoughts down. I've tried writing this post a couple times over the years, and always scrapped it. It just upsets me that much. I'm a neurotic little freak and I wish I wasn't being constantly tortured by my own mind. Maybe you got something out of this, maybe I disturbed you, in which case I'm sorry. Hopefully you can find a better way to cope than I did.

Maybe in the future I'll post the other thoughts that my brain uses to torture me, like the short story I read about that taught me what autocannibalism is, or the time in the 4th grade I touched a girl's thigh by accident. It's not much fun being me, most the time. Anyway, I'll stop procrastinating and post this. Sorry again.

[maxksx]

Nick Land: (Digression on Horror: If today belongs to terror, tomorrow and eternity belong to horror. When an apparent agency arrives at its zone of non-existence horror irrupts, activating the phobic mechanisms of an entire organic lineage. In relation to this reaction the concept of horror might be dissociated on an intensive spectrum: from ‘hot’ meat- reflex revulsion condensed upon threatened boundaries, to ‘cold’ thanatonic affect fusing into the anorganic plane. Horror films typically trigger recollections of zero-fusional ecstasies associated with body panic, catatonic fugues cut violently with accelerated heart-rate and other somatic emergency signals. When a creature encounters the terminus of its own possibility it recoils in horror, but the entire horror genre – the horror industry – relies on the fact that it does not simply recoil. This in part accounts for the pulp-genre convention that makes horror the demonic destination of lust, a sub-organic tropism to the utterly alien – compared to which any anthropomorphic ‘libido’ is a restriction. (Mother of Abominations!) It also suggests that the truth of horror is drawn from the Thing itself, especially from its antipathy to every aspect of local, specific, or familiar modes of organization. These features make of horror an avatar of the Outside.) ključ RŠ  Nick Land: The difference between parasitism and symbiosis is very slippery, as you suggest. Merely contributing to stability can be construed as a cooperative function, whilst at the other pole the recent movie Parasite Eve anticipates a mitochondrial insurgency – triggered at a threshold of biomolecular science – that unmasks the ‘symbiotic’ mitochondria as strategic parasites. The trend of the Parasite Eve story is to dismantle apparent agencies into ‘deep biopolitics’ or interphyletic collisions. The refrain ‘I waited so long for you’ slides from human lyricism into microbial megatrategy, spanning aeons yet dissociated entirely amongst a diffuse distribution of bioparticles (and patently subverting the story’s romantic resolution). Despite genre differences, GAS seems to exhibit features of Parasite Eve. Both interconnect with Pest, or meltdown-plague, since they conceive strategy as an emergent wave arising out of tactical multiplicities and their ‘coincidences,’ propagating as a hypermutative virus. R. Negarestani: Militant tactical lines as intensity-probes need surfaces and dimensions to flow, conflict and run over each other – Follow their chemical attractions for surface integral, vector fields, surface modifications and 'flux = p/a' (where p is power and a is the representation of surface and dimensionality) – ... the work-ground of tactics is solidus in circulation or solidity through the slope process i.e. Pseudo-flux (See the conversation with Mehrdad Iravanian on Solidus in circulation and its surplus value: solidity ) whose oversimplified mode is that we may call monolithism, rigidity, masculinity or the body of despot. Solidus in circulation propels flows to stream through its metrons, slopes, dimensions, signifying processes and phantom surfaces, unfolding them through streams of fertilization and cultivation ... or the architectonic sphere ... or when the flux surges as the sedimentation processes (fluvial / alluvial) that is to say never-ending dynamism of consolidation processes by means of the sediments in the flux – unsettled sediments – which are distributed all over the unbounded horizon of solidus in circulation and ground to maintain the survival of solidity in an over-cultivated circulation (sediment process as an ever-modernizing process of solidity). Once flowing sedimentation process – working as a dynamic fertilizer and cultivator of solidity – arrives as disguised crisscrossing tides and flows, it genetically embodies (as of assemblages in Genesis) the terrains (terrenus) of solidity or the lattice-works of the sediments (Lands, territories, frontiers, boundaries, terra firma, plain of alluvium, ...) on which the militant (conflictual lines) tactical influxes / outfluxes are disseminated. What could be more efficiently bound to the circulatory hunger of solidity than a vein full of hot streaming manure, than the maneuvering lines investing ground with more slopes and complex fertilizing / irrigating architectures, than non-linear sedimentation and the desertificative (over-cultivating) emissions of fertilizer through the pseudo-fluxes of solidus in circulation (Dynamic sedimentation process is a post-industrial representation for introduction of phallo-erective materials – solids – to everything through the slope- flux, through the pseudo-flux of solidity)? However, there is a fatal twist in the whole panorama that also lies at the heart of Paranoia: all these frantic hungers for never-ending consolidations, filling-in / hollowing-out processes, furious transportations, dynamic sediments and facing processes (white walling / black holing) or the 'republic state of solid and void' (as Plato's Cave: the commonwealth of solid and void as the backbone economy of solidus in circulation) induce an excessive scarring process over the face of solidity ... scaring process (excessive and avert investments of solid and void) lies at the heart of paranoia, the face, the commonwealth of solid and void. 'Scarring process in excess' (auto- collapse of tissue ... fibrosis) germinates moldering infestations of solid and void, verminated depositions, desolated residua of slimed architectures and finally the fibroproliferative mess of rotting lands, tissues, faces, organs and membranes, lost their connective (regulative) tissues and economical nexuses to an epidemic openness (as what you discussed in the depths of biopolitics: the zero-genetic contagia of the interphyletic collisions) as an epidemic, the plague. Fibroproliferation or delirial scarring is triggered automatically in the hunger for the new networks and consolidation processes of solid and void and facing processes (a plague from within and from without), spreading septic, desolated and basically ill compositions of 'solid / void' in a zero-health manner. Fibroproliferation or delirial scarring is imminent to face, sur- face, consolidation, sedimentation process, all healing processes through solidity (Scar is the horror of healing process.) and militant tactical lines; subverting solidity (not through eradication) by activating the loathsome machinery of 'becoming corpse' or where solidity is not purged or introduced to Zero (S=0) but becomes a corpse necrotized by diabolic scarring (S/0), with the defunct dimensions and rotting compositions of solid and void, that is to say, it becomes an unground (ungrund) of mutations, pest technology, Druj's avatars (Mother of Abominations) and a black earth (the New Earth?). This fibroproliferative mess is the swarming multiplicities of terminal tactics from which (as you discussed) a miasmatic plague called strategy rises without genesis. Terminal tactics, terminal lines of multiplicities or black intensities are germinated on the corpse-of-solidus (necrotized solidity) where all attributes, ingredients and modifications of surfaces, metrons, the economical nexuses and dimensionalities (f = p/a) have been messed up under the machinery of fibroproliferation. ... And solidus is overrun by the defacing worms. Corpse of solidus – ungrounded by Anonymous until Now i.e. imperfectable mess – is a good meal for black intensities (terminal tactic). Jungle war, Parasite Eve, Terminal tactics, Strategy and Pest all infect with the horror of Anonymous Until Now or '...' without Genesis (Thing?). Nano-attack has been infested with such an anonymous GAS or unground; each nanite is a tank full of nuclear nihilism, a perforating machine for messing with dimensions instead of challenging them, conflicting or running across them. The nano-attack is the attack of imperceptible; to become imperceptible is to commence a nano-attack. In the wake of such a war (imperceptible war or the war of imperceptible?) how do you see our classic discourses over peace, terror, solidity, masculinity, even nomad war-machines and the New Earth (Deleuze)? R. Negarestani: (from the conversation with Nick Land ... on meltdown, Chernobyl and sarcophagus: "Metallurgical Transmutation of Plants into Iron") "An ancient ruin rises up to reinvent destruction." (Tunnel, W.H. Gass) Paranoid cultures and their artifacts always leave security leaks; they breed more holes and more solids than everyone; neither all these augment nor purge the solidus and grund but leave them as the corpses necrotized by heavy scarring (fibroproliferative mess ) or the chaotic investments of solid and void, entangling to anonymous compositions: ... hole ... solid ... hole ... solid ... solid ... hole ... hole ... hole ... de- faced. Ground is left as the corpse-of-solidus (a cryptogenic intensity), ready to be proliferated, to be putrefied and engineered as mess. Putrefaction is the valor of transmutation. Although the sarcophagus (as in Chernobyl or an ancient death-raum) seems to be an architecture of entombment and surface modification, a metron for dimensioning, localizing and restricting horror (and transforming it to terror), but its fatal architecture is the architecture of excavation and exhumation (it always summons the exhuming forces to itself), messing up surfaces and necrophilia, a snuffed architecture for necrophilic engineers, bringing a terminal contamination cryptogenic between 'arrival and emergence' (your suggested one), ascent and descent so the architecture of collapse into Anonymous-until-Now. Sarcophagus brings the architectonic energy (of solidus) of liveware to an ex-architectural dump: laying waste, rotting erect, oozing pores. "Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl" (Howard Philip Lovecraft) R. Negarestani: Referring to your argument about a crashed car; what do you think about the architectural aspects of a crash and particularly a car crash? Mehrdad Iravanian: Crash is a final stage of producing chain. The realization of exaggerated components and departments. Somehow, it seems the crash product is an error or contradictory to the established aim; since it cannot fulfil the primary program but the object is capable of reprogramming according to the new status. It is not an automobile (as soon as it stops running) but rather a composition of elements. We are usually reprogramming the buildings.... A crashed car is under the title of rehabilitation; it means a program after an actual event. The architectural analysis of the car totally depends on the type of crash and consequently the type of product that comes out of the crash.

When I am pointing to the crash as an entity, I compare the matter with the relativity theory and the subject of an observational entity which is based on coincidence of two or more point-objects at a particular instance of time. Somehow, these definitions remind me of the effective and necessary elements for happening the so-called crash; that is time, space, points, line, and surfaces collide in a very particular and exclusive manner which (by present dimension of analytical ability counted obscure and untraceable) contributes a unique behaviour each single time to a crash object’s elements. After a crash many dynamic elements appear that won’t follow the known linear movement; so many parts broken and live in a suspense situation that can move naturally by means of turbulence. So the crash is not the end of flexural movement but could be the beginning of different types of none linear operandums. An automobile cannot impose any location prior to that moment. It loses its linear movement. As soon as it stops, it’s not more than a crash machine: a mere composition that can simulate a building, a hole, a cave, an anchor object.

https://rhizzone.net/articles/complicity-anonymous-materials/

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

Kiss me now that I’m older (or Jamie tries her best to run away from love and it finds her anyway)

@nikkismalls28, here’s my best attempt at trying to convert your prompt into a semi-coherent fic.

******************************************************************************************

Jamie has long decided she’s going to live, and die alone, when Dani Clayton, au pair extraordinaire, walks into her life and upturns that plan very nicely.

It’s not like she sets out to do that, to be fair. Not like Dani knows the sheer magnetism that dogs her footsteps, knows the force with which her bright, blue eyes demand attention. She isn’t affected by the same energy that permeates the air in every room she walks into. Dani Clayton is trouble, and like every girl in the world who is trouble, she has no clue.  

And Jamie, like any other sad sucker who is prone to falling in love with tiny, pretty girls with eyes of steel, takes one look at her and decides to stay the fuck away.

(And thus begins the story of the biggest failure in history, ever)

She tries. Tries not to let her eyes linger on Dani, not even when she asks her if she’d seen a man on the parapet, although it’s hard. Trouble or not, Dani Clayton is the kind of girl who was born to draw attention. But she keeps on laughing with Hannah and teasing Owen about going after the new au pair.

(Here’s the thing about what you want. It’s easier to deal with never having it if you know it was never yours to have)

But then she finds Dani having a panic attack behind the statue, and she can’t help herself. She stands there, staring at Dani’s back, and tries her very best to make her smile.  

(And dear God, when that girl smiles in her direction, it’s like there’s a light shining right on her head, a choir playing in the background, flowers falling and gently landing on top of her. Jamie tries to blink it away. It doesn’t work)

One conversation turns to a second one on the couch, and this time Jamie has no excuses. She sits on the couch, Dani at her side, and can’t help the way her eyes stay on Dani, can’t help wanting to talk to her more and more, can’t help thinking What are you doing to me. She wants to stay up the whole night just talking to this strange woman with so much depth hidden in her eyes. Jamie feels weak, feels way out of her depth. This wasn’t the plan; she tells herself every five minutes.  

And then they kiss, and all plans flip upside down.

*****

Jamie remembers love as a distant language that has never quite made sense to her.

It never ends well.

For every gentle hair ruffle her mother left on her head, there’s another imprint of her footstep walking away; for all the meager memories she has of her brothers, there’s one that stands out the most – the day they came to take them away and put her younger brother in a home. For every kiss she’s received, there’s an indelible mark on her chest as a reminder of the loss that is, inevitably, to come.

At this point in her life, Jamie has forgotten so many pieces of herself behind with people, that she isn’t sure there’s enough left of her to piece together, isn’t sure if what’s still standing can even count as a whole person.

(And here’s another thing about what you want. It’s easier to deal with losing it if you refuse to go after it in the first place)

(Dani will leave. There are no two ways about it.)

(And if — when — she does, Jamie is certain there won’t be anything left of her anymore)

“It would be kinda boring, wouldn’t it?” Dani asks her, raw hope shining in her eyes, her words, and God, Jamie can’t do this.

“Dani,” she says, “I’m sorry, I — I can’t.”

There’s a dreadful attempt at a smile, that Jamie can’t bear to watch.  

“Okay,” Dani says, and when Flora wanders out, an entirely different kind of hell begins.

*****

Here’s something about love Jamie’s discovered since she’s met Dani: you really, really can’t help it at all.

She says no, but she can’t stay away. Says no, but her eyes still seek out Dani every time they’re in a room together, still feel an odd sense of euphoria and relief whenever she’s in her line of sight, as if a gentle hand is tapping on her heart, letting it know it’ll be alright. They’re still talking, and Jamie can’t help the way her hands sometimes reach out for Dani, and she has to consciously ball them up into little lovestruck fists.

“I’m gonna go,” she tells Dani, reluctantly, after Flora’s been put to bed.  

“Oh,” Dani replies, her eyes wide, her voice soft. “You could.... you could stay, you know? It’s late.”

And Jesus, Jamie wants to. She wants to step forward and hold Dani’s hand, wants to trace her face with her fingertips, wants to forget her stupid rules and kiss her.

(Plus, there’s this delicate sense of foreboding just hanging in the house. Every room at Bly Manor is drenched in it. Jamie wonders if she should stay anyway, but decides against it. If she does, she will do something stupid, and there’s no way she’s risking playing around with Dani’s feelings like that.)

“Goodnight,” she says, instead, the words hanging in the air between them. I don’t want to go. Ask me to stay one more time. Just one more time, and I will. I’ll never leave.

“Goodnight,” Dani replies.  

The night has just begun.

*****

Jamie’s running long before she even knows what’s wrong.  

Dani’s saying something that sounds like itsusitsusitsusitsus over and over again, and she knows she should worry about what of it means, but now that both Dani and Flora are in her arm, all she can do is tip her forehead against Dani’s and hold them as tight as she possibly can. You’re here, you’re okay, she says in response to Dani saying It’s you It’s me It’s us, not knowing which one of them sound more frantic. Dani, Dani, Dani, she says, the water on Dani’s face masking their panicked tears.

You’re here. You’re okay.

(I’ve got you. I’m never letting go)

And then they’re torn apart again, Jamie with Owen, and Dani back up to the house to take care of the children. She finds herself holding on a bit longer to Dani’s hand when they’re separating, trying her best not to ask her to come with her. She knows it’s selfish, but unless her greedy eyes see Dani safe and sound in front of her, she’ll have trouble believing they’re alright.

“I’ll meet you back at the house,” Dani says, a hand on Jamie’s cheek, eyes glancing once at Owen, who’s barely holding himself together.

“Dani.”

“I know,” she says. “I’ll be alright.”

“Sure?” Jamie asks, and feels like a little kid in need of constant reassurance. Do you promise you’ll still be here? Do you promise you’ll be okay?

Dani nods.

*****

It’s a long, long time after that goodbye that they get to be alone.

In all honesty, it’s probably hours, but it feels like eons. Making sure Owen eats, that Hannah’s body is laid to rest, and there is no evidence of the horror left behind is a long and arduous task, and Jamie does it all, completely numb. It’s been a long time since she’s cooked for anyone but herself, but she whips them up something, just so they can all go to sleep.

The door to Dani’s room is closed. Jamie stands there for an embarrassingly long time. Dani could be asleep. She could be resting. She could want to be alone.

There’s another part of her that thinks – Dani could be panicking. She could be huddling on the floor, trying, and failing to gather her breath.

Jamie takes a deep breath, then another, then another until she realizes she’s this close to panic herself. There’s an awful rope making its way up her insides, tightening around her chest, contracting until she can hear her heartbeat in her ears. Her hands can’t, won’t stop shaking, her legs feel like they’ll give way any second. She blinks furiously, trying to regain some feeling, trying to make sense of whatever it is that’s turning her lightheaded.

Dani, she thinks. I need to know Dani’s okay. And then she knocks.

(Or more accurately, her hand falls upon the door like a dying man’s last wish.)

Dani opens the door immediately, which would be something she should ideally think about except seeing her drives all thought out of her head.

“Jamie!” Dani’s face is twisted in concern. “Jamie, what’s wrong?”

Jamie breathes, and falls into her arms.

*****

Holding Dani nudges the air back into her lungs.

There’s nothing she’s ever felt like it. Dani in her arms is both ecstasy and relief. Holding the girl she loves is a drug all its own. It’s intoxicating. Addictive. She isn’t sure she can ever let go. She isn’t sure she ever wants to.

And there’s a part of her that dimly registers the material feel of everything around her, the soft fabric on Dani’s back, the way her hair smells (like fruit, like berries, like what she imagines heaven to be like), the sensation of Dani’s own hands around her shoulders. Dani, she says, through a shuddering sob, as her hands move on her back, making sure she’s okay. Dani, she says, as she presses kiss after kiss onto her shoulder, her neck, her hair. Dani, Dani, Dani.

“Jamie,” Dani draws back, after a long time, frowning at her. Jamie thinks, like she’s in a fog, that she could listen to her talk forever. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“What — what are you—”

“You’ve been saying you’re sorry for the past minute.”

“I,” she flounders. “It’s probably because I am.”

“Why?”

She draws back, the scoff escaping before she can help it. “Why? Because I fucking left! I should’ve been here! You asked me to stay. I could feel something was wrong, and I fucking should’ve—”

“—Jamie. Stop.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dani tells her, pulling her back in even as Jamie shakes her head. “No. No. You listen, okay? You didn’t know what was gonna happen. Neither did I. I mean, who would’ve fucking guessed—”

“It’s not just that,” Jamie admits. “Everything I did. Everything, even with us and I was so stupid—”

Dani puts a finger on her lips, then very quickly rises on her tiptoes to press a kiss to her forehead. It shuts her up nicely.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“It does. I—”

“I know, darling,” Dani reassures her, her hands now on either side of her face, thumbs wiping away tears Jamie hadn’t even known existed.

“I tried to stay away, you know?”

“I know you did,” Dani just looks fond.  

“Dani,” Jamie says her name like it’s a benediction. It feels purer than one. “I don’t want to stay away anymore.”

“I think we’re pretty shit at staying away from each other, to be very honest,” Dani’s smile is wry, and makes Jamie’s stomach fall, and settle softly, somewhere near her toes. “You wanna stay today? And tonight?”

Ask me to stay forever, and I will.  

(Here’s one final thing Jamie stumbles across when she finally stops running from love: here is all the pain in the world wrapped up in the possibility of one person, all your broken parts, pieced together handed over to them in the hope that somehow, by some miracle, they won’t drop it. Jamie doesn’t care, as long as she gets to spend all of it on Dani, consequences be damned)  

“One day at a time,” she says, instead, and kisses Dani. All of her plans are up in the air. She kind of doesn’t give a damn.  

[thecleverdame]

Gods of Twilight - 5

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Human!Reader

Master List (posting schedule is there as well)

Summary: You marry Sam, The King of Lebanon, as part of an alliance between two lands. You soon discover that nothing is as it appears and that your husband is hiding a secret that may end your relationship before it can begin.

Warnings: smut, dub-con, canon-level violence, domestic discipline, spanking

Beta:  ilikaicalie

*Chapters 6-25 are available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

-

It’s late and you fell asleep reading. Sam’s brother has returned after a long journey and you expect your husband to come to bed late, if at all. It’s well into the night when the door to your bedchamber swings open, hitting the wall with a bang. Opening one eye you can see him in shadows, the faint light of the fire illuminating just enough of the room to make out his massive shoulders swaying back and forth.

He’s drunk, which is to be expected. He and Dean often stay up drinking and eating until the wee hours of the morning. And with Dean’s homecoming, tonight is no different. You don’t move, waiting and watching as he looks at the bed, tilting his head and inching closer.

“Are you awake wife?” His words are little jumbled, he’s not entirely in the bag, but close.

You could just lie there and pretend to be asleep, but this a new side of him and you’re unsure about how to handle it. He rarely speaks to you, and certainly not drunk in the middle of the night. He always just comes to bed, flopping beside and snoring softly until early morning.

“Yes,” you respond, making no move to sit up. “I am now.”

“Good,” he grunts, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. “Take off your nightdress.”

Your breath stops. He’s drunk and this is new territory. You wonder what he would do if you told him no. But you won’t. He’s your husband, he’s the king and if he tells you to do something you do it.

Still groggy you sit up, hesitating as he removes his boots, bare-chested and listing to one side. He nearly falls over, catching himself on the small table near the foot of the bed. He chuckles to himself, successfully kicking off both shoes before looking up at you expectantly. Offering a look of why are you taking so long as he begins to unbutton his trousers.

Gingerly lifting your backside up, you pull your gown over your head, revealing you are stark naked underneath. You resist the urge to cover your breasts as your nipples harden in the cool night air.

Sam looks up, his eyes falling to your tits and grunting in approval as he shoves his trousers down his thighs, only to reveal his massive cock, bobbing and swollen just below his belly. He fists himself once, a long stroke from base to tip, before coming to the edge of the bed and pulling the covers away from your legs until you’re sitting nude and exposed in the middle of the bed.

“Lie back and spread your legs,” he instructs, like you’ve done this a thousand times. You’re thankful for the lower light of the room so that he can’t see how red your cheeks are as you do as he says, laying back on the pillow. Staring at the ceiling you take a shaky breath and let your thighs fall open exposing the most intimate part of you like you’re on display. You wonder if whores feel this kind of shame, utterly embarrassed and somewhat frightened as he knees his way onto the bed and between your legs.

You expect his weight on top of you, for him to take you right away but what you don’t expect is hot breath over the mound of your sex. You yelp in surprise as his teeth scrape over the soft skin, about to protest as the warm slip of his tongue scoops over your clit. You don’t know what that part of your body is called, you only know how it feels when there’s suddenly pressure there, but neither you nor anyone else has ever deliberately touched you like this before.

“What are you doing?” You gasp in horror, trying to close your legs around his head but he grabs the soft flesh behind both knees and holds you open.

“Tasting you.” He mumbles into your sex, his tongue sliding down further, swiping once, twice, then sinking in, splitting you open. His tongue slides as far into your cunt as he can get, lapping at you like the best meal he’s ever had in his life and your entire body comes off the bed, back arching as you grab his head with both hands.

You’ve heard talk of this, of men who do this, but you certainly never thought a king would have any interest in putting his mouth between your legs.

“I-I,” You sputter as his tongue travels back to your clit, lapping over the little bud with steady strokes.

“Relax,” he hisses against your trembling flesh. “Just let me…”

His lips seal around your bud and there’s a new sensation whirling to life. While you’re still utterly horrified that our husband has his face down there, there’s also a building pleasure creeping in, the likes of which you’ve never known before.

Your neck snaps back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue laps at you again and again and again, his rhythm unfailing.

Your first thought is that you should be ashamed to let a man do this to you and even more guilty that it’s a man of his stature. Your mother would be sickened at the very notion of such intimacy. But you're also starting to feel a building pleasure blooming from between your legs. The longer he works the more and more amenable you’re becoming. Over the initial shock, you’re now able to concentrate on how incredible this feels, the feeling of his mouth on your womanhood and the way he seems to be doing it for his own pleasure as much as yours.

A warm, tingling sensation winds out from between your legs, slowly creeping up your belly and fanning out in all directions. Completely overtaken by his touch you begin to roll your hips with each pass. It’s a gentle movement at first, as you try to hold back, but then it becomes untameable as you writhe up to meet his mouth. You don’t realize that you’ve started to moan loudly, breathless and panting, gasping his name like some kind of wanton woman.

“Sam, oh god, oh god, Sam, Sam-” The tension builds as he speeds up, tongue moving faster and faster, licking, swirling, flicking you closer and closer to some unknown finish line. Just as you’re about to fall over this unknown edge, he pulls his head away as you reach out in desperation.

Gasping, you prop yourself on elbows to find him on his knees, still between your legs.

“Don’t worry,” he grins wolfishly, grasping his manhood in his hand. “I’m not done with you.”

Before you have the chance to speak he’s inching closer, concentrating with his tongue between his teeth as his presses the plump head of his cock against your sex, swiping between the lips of your pussy and up over your bud. You whimper as he rubs you, and then he does it again and again before easing the swollen head between your lips and pushing forward, pressing the entire length of his thick shaft into your aching channel.

It’s the first time you’ve ever felt pure pleasure from intercourse. It’s always been uncomfortably dry and painful to some degree, not unbearable pain but nothing close to this. Until this moment you had no idea that sex could feel this pleasurable for a woman. Settling his entire length deep within your cunt, you’re overcome with a feeling of complete ecstasy as he stretches the most delicate part of you open with hard, warm flesh.

“Oh God,” you exclaim breathlessly, reaching up to grab his bicep.”It - it feels…” You don’t have the words. You’d probably be too embarrassed to tell him even if you knew how to describe how wonderful this is.

“It’s better like this when you’re wet.” He grunts, planting one hand on either side of your head. He pulls back, leaving just the tip inside and lunges forward filling you to the hilt. “I’ll be more attentive in the future.”

Even if your mind was working, which it is not, you wouldn’t know how to respond. You can’t believe that he’s speaking so blatantly about such a sensitive matter. He’s not done yet, pushing you further and further past your limits as he sucks your nipple into his mouth with a groan. It’s a night of many firsts and the sensation of his mouth wet and hot on your breast is just another reminder of all the pleasures you know nothing of. He moves from one breast to the other, his rhythm never faltering as he pumps the length of his engorged manhood inside your body again and again.

The combination of his mouth suckling at your breasts and him moving inside you is almost too much. You can’t focus on any one part of your body because there is pleasure coming to life that you didn’t know existed.

“Bend your knees.” Breath hastening he slows his thrusts, leaning back just enough to place his hands under each of your knees. He shows you how he wants you, bending your legs up until knees meet your ribcage. “Good, just like this. Now hold yourself open for me.”

He fucks you with long, deep strokes. In this position, with you open and ripe, he’s able to take you deeper than before. He adjusts himself again and you find that his pelvis is meeting your clit, not a lot but enough to trigger a response from your body.

Holding your legs wide, you watch him rocking above you, sliding in to the root as you feel the building sensation again. Your little bud is throbbing, aching with each touch and suddenly you’re on the cusp of an experience you've never had before.

“Samuel, I oh God - something is happening - going to-” you sputter, snapping your neck back, breasts arching up against his chest.

“It’s alright,” he grunts, speeding up his strokes. “Let it happen.”

You want to ask let what happen, but you soon find out as you race over the sought after peak and jump from the edge. Your cunt begins to throb, squeezing around his cock as you dive into a pleasure you couldn’t have dreamed existed.

Your whole body goes stiff as gluttonous satisfaction explodes, overtaking every sense you have as your husband pounds harder and harder into your body, drawing out every last inch of pleasure until you're a quivering mess of a woman underneath him.

You’re still riding out the last waves of pleasure when reaches down to grab at the base of his cock, holding himself as he presses forward trapping his hand between your bodies. Groaning against the damp skin of your neck he cums inside you, a familiar warmth spreading until you feel it on your thighs.

He’s panting as he presses his lips into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. You lie under him motionless, mindless after what just happened. After a few moments, he lifts himself over you, shifting his weight off onto his arm. His hair hangs down, framing his face and almost touching yours.

Taking a moment to get a good look at you, he grunts and pulls his cock from your pussy. You gasp, suddenly empty, relieved of the weight of his body and warmth of his skin. He rolls to the side of the bed, reaching to the floor to collect his discarded shirt and uses it to wipe off his dick, still clutching himself. Rolling onto his back he places one arm under the back of his head and tugs the covers over his hips. Without looking he reaches over, gripping your upper thigh with one large rough hand and gives you a squeeze.

You’re unsure of what to do, so you just lie there in the dying light of the fire casting a glow over your naked body and that of your husband. Within minutes his breathing slows and he falls into a deep sleep. The shirt he used to wipe himself is between you on the bed. Taking it carefully in your hands you clean your own thighs, before slipping under the covers and waiting for sleep to take you.

When you awake the next morning it’s to a shuffling sound. You blink several times, the early morning light finding its way between the heavy curtains and slicing bright beams into the dark room. There’s a maid at the fire, placing another piece of wood on the embers.

“Where is my husband?” you ask, yawning as you look at the empty bed next to you.

“He was gone before I got here, m’lady,” she explains, her eyes dropping down to your bare breasts as you cover yourself with a sheet. “I’m sorry. I’ll get fresh water and let you sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

--

Despite the whole world feeling like it’s been turned upside down, Sam acts as if nothing has ever happened. His dismissive attitude toward you hasn’t changed, he shows no more interest than he did, before leaving you dumbfounded, confused and frankly a bit hurt, although you’d never admit it to yourself.

Every time you look at him all you can think about is the way he looks with his face buried between your legs and how earth-shattering your peak of pleasure felt. But he’s not the least bit phased and life goes on while you hold onto the fading memory of your dirty secret.

[hyperfixatedonmdzs]

Even when the fangs come out (I’m only human)

Ao3

I got too excited to wait to post the next chapter. This may be familiar to some who followed me last year, since this was the ficlet that started it all from a prompt! 

See tags for cw

Chapter Two: Found

He was about to give up the search for the night when Lan Wangji finally saw Wei Ying. He rounded the corner after him but all that was there was a dilapidated townhouse at the end of a short alley. There was no sign that Wei Wuxian had been there. He walked up the steps, but as he reached out to knock on the door, it opened. Two pale, emaciated women stumbled out, giggling. They paused at the sight of a well-dressed man on the doorstep, but hurried past, sneaking frightened glances before bolting out of view. In their rush, the door was left ajar. Low, bass-filled music rumbled into the night alongside laughter and breathy sighs. He could not believe that Wei Wuxian would be in a place like this. Regardless, it was his only lead. He stepped across the threshold, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Inside was cracked, washed out walls and filth-grey floor. The banister of the stairway seemed liable to collapse if someone so much as looked at it wrong and the smell… Unwashed bodies, sex and… blood? Cries of pleasure came from upstairs. There was an open door to the right. Lan Wangji poked his head in slowly and his eyes widened. It seemed to have been a living room, with several slumped couches housing languid forms. A few were unconscious, while others were giggling uncontrollably. One man in a suit lay on the floor, hands running up and down the leg of someone on a couch. To the side, one had his arm out, a rubber tube tied around his upper arm. A woman in grimy jeans and hoodie held a needle poised above the inside of his elbow. Without looking at him, she spoke.

“I’ll be right with you.” Lan Wangji jerked back into the hallway. Should he leave? Before he could decide, the woman came out of the room. Her eyes slid over him, assessing. “Who gave you this address?”

“I’m looking for a friend, he just came in here?”

“Wouldn’t tell you if I knew, everything here is anonymous.” She moved to stand in front of him. “And no, you can’t ‘just check’,” she said, finger quoting. “I won’t have you interrupting—” A hand came to rest on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, Lin.” Familiar grey eyes found golden. “Let me handle this.” Lin sighed, returning to the room Lan Wangji found her in.

“Wei Ying.” As soon as the door closed he stepped forward, noting the ragged clothes and longer hair than when he’d last seen him. He was pale too, paler than the girls he saw leaving earlier. Wei Wuxian retreated, moving towards the back of the staircase, revealing a door. Lan Wangji followed him down into a dark basement. The smell of blood was stronger here. “Wei Ying?” They came to the bottom of the stairs. The room was cool and windowless, with a mattress in one corner, books and paper piled everywhere. He could make out dark stains on the concrete. Wei Wuxian turned to him, arms folded.

“Why are you here, Lan Zhan?” His eyes were cold silver in the dark. Lan Wangji almost frowned.

“To find you. Bring you home.”

“Who says I want to be found?” Wei Wuxian scoffed.

“Your sister.” Lan Wangji answered. Wei Wuxian looked away.

“This is for the best. I can’t be around them right now.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter? I just can’t.”

“It matters.” Lan Wangji stepped towards him. “If it’s drugs—”

“It’s not drugs,” Wei Wuxian interrupted.

“Then what—”

“It doesn’t matter!” He faced away from Lan Wangji, one hand bracing him against the wall. “I thought I could do this but…” Lan Wangji took another step, and another. “Lan Zhan, just go. You don’t belong here.”

“Neither does Wei Ying.”

“Please, Lan Zhan—”

“No,” Lan Wangji gripped his shoulder and froze when Wei Wuxian spun around.

Instead of the silver he was expecting to see, Wei Wuxian’s eyes were blood red.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji felt Wei Wuxian gripping his forearms.

“Lan Zhan you need to go, now.” Apprehension grew in Lan Wangji’s chest.

“Wei Ying, what’s—”

“Lan Wangji!” A long moment passed, Wei Wuxian’s eyes glowing brighter, wilder, by the second.

“Even if you were not holding me, I would not go,” he said lowly.

Lan Wangji suddenly found himself with his back pressed against a cold concrete wall, his arms pinned beside his head. Wei Wuxian stepped in close.

“I will not be leaving here,” he hissed, “and you cannot stay!” It seemed like he only breathed right before talking, and his eyes…

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji tried again, “why are your eyes…”

“Red?” He chuckled darkly. “Glowing?” With each word, each breath, his face moved closer to Lan Wangji.

“…Mn.” Hands tightened on his forearms. He felt hot breath against his neck with Wei Wuxian’s next words.

“Because three weeks ago, I died,” Lan Wangji jerked, trying to see his face, but he couldn’t move. “And Lan Zhan… You just smell so fucking good…” Lan Wangji gasped at a sharp pain at his neck that quickly turned into a shivering pleasure. His knees trembled and went slack as the euphoria spread. Wei Wuxian pressed his body against the wall with his own, preventing him from collapsing. He moaned, tried to bring his arms to hold on to Wei Wuxian, but they wouldn’t move, and all he could do was ride the waves of ecstasy that rolled through him.

“W- Wei Ying,” he sighed. Abruptly, Wei Wuxian pulled away. Lan Wangji slid to the floor and opened his eyes. When had he closed them? “Wei Ying?” Plaintively, he stretched out a shaking hand. Wei Wuxian’s eyes were fading back to silver as he stepped back. The horror on his face was as obvious as the blood running down his chin. Lan Wangji blinked slowly. What had gone wrong? He slumped down further. Why was Wei Ying running away from him? He tried to call out, but moving was such effort. His eyes closed, and he knew nothing else.

Wei Wuxian ran through dark streets, cursing himself. Why now? Why did Lan Zhan have to find him now, when his hunting had been going so terribly? When he was so hungry? He stopped short in an alley, far from the drug house he was using as a base. Broken glass sparkled in the faint street light and the smell of rotting trash wafted from a dumpster. He yelled, punching the brick wall of wherever he cad come to. Bits of wall, chunks and fine powder, rained down over his fist. He had barely had a quarter of what he would normally take from his victims, the ones he’d leave alive at least, and yet for the first time he felt… satiated. How? Was it something to do with his family? Why Lan Zhan had been kept in the dark about what went bump in the night? He shook his head. Questions he would never have the answers to now. Even if his family didn’t kill him on sight, the Lan sect certainly would. And he’d just fed on their pure, precious child!

And then left him there to sleep off his narcotic saliva.

Alone.

In a drug house.

Wei Wuxian dragged his hands down his face, scrubbing at the blood. He sighed, and started the run back.

[ferylcheryl]

Cathedral

Chapter 1

CW Infant Death

Private Heather’s exposed brain glistens oxblood and rose in the dim light.

“It’s a pudding, basically,” explains Stanley.

“I would have said ‘cathedral’,” McDonald retorts mildly. “I suppose it depends on the man.” He glances at Stanley, that ineradicable teasing glint in his eye.

And how much he has endured, Stanley thinks to himself. After all, there had been a time that he, too, might have likened man’s brain to a cathedral. Actually, he would have reserved that particular metaphor for the body, for it was more apt: the ribcage curved over heart and lung like the kerfed ribs of St. Paul’s vaulting up over the nave. A lavish miracle of engineering, man and cathedral alike; the one’s form echoing the other. The brain, he might’ve likened more to a clock. No less intricate, far less ostentatious of a metaphor. Or a lightning storm. A nebula of tree roots. Not a pudding, at any rate—but now, that’s what he sees, and that’s how he calls it.

Anyway, he grudgingly likes McDonald. He comports himself with a cheery equanimity more befitting a cook or a seaman than a doctor, and Stanley’s own effort to model a mien more befitting go largely disregarded by both him and Goodsir (who is such a soft, scuttling thing he hardly warrants notice). But McDonald: there’s something of steel in the man, a kind of grit; perhaps the ability to face up to the horror of the brain exposed and scry in it a holiness—and to speak of it with gladness. There was a time they might have been fast friends.

He casts a sidewise glance at Goodsir, who is busy with flame and sealing wax. He’d asked to stay and watch McDonald cauterize the edges, asserted his will in that cringing way of his: how timid he is, yet he seems always in the way, somehow. His mere presence grates. Now, the eyes having been sealed—at Stanley’s request, Goodsir notes—and the cauters heated, Goodsir takes a moment to inspect the brain closely. It is the first living brain he’s seen, the skull shorn away with unnervingly surgical precision, and it is enough in itself. What he means is, man’s engine needs no metaphor to claim divinity: it is out of this labyrinth of pink hillocks and blood vessels as finely-forked and intricate as lightning that the whole of human history is sprung. Yet removed from the context of its vast scope of accomplishment, one might think of it as so much meat. Both men are correct, but neither grasps the full complexity of it.

Nor does Goodsir, in terms he could explain. But for a moment its full complexity is unfurled before him—like Bernini’s St. Theresa, this vision of the brain’s thousand manifestations, transfigurations, iterations pours down around him like shafts of gold: a cathedral, a pudding, a geode hatched open. A chorale of light, of impulse, of blueprints and ecstasies. The holy symmetry of the lobes, their earthen ugliness; by the will of the great animator a thousand cathedrals erected and puddings confected—metaphor is inconsequential in the blinding light of this revelation. Metaphor is language: this transcends.

But it only lasts a moment. He is used to it by now, these—what else can he call them but visions? It is like his mind’s eye is momentarily deluged with a sight not his own, and his intellect (which he recognizes with conditioned humility is not insubstantial) is left to sort it out. When he was a child he tried to share it with others, he discovered that he not only lacked the language but that others did not experience the same. *A capital imagination*, his mother had beamed to a friend once. *Unnatural,* the woman had retorted darkly. He was eight then and never spoke of it again. Not even when it took the form of instructive presentiment. At ten, idly plucking blackberries on a country ramble, he fancied he could taste—for all of him was given to these visions, brain and ear, touch and tongue—within each black-shining drupelet smaller ones, an infinitude of — what might he call them? The matter of all things parsed into smaller, invisible things. And the next week he learned of cells, discovering their name only after tasting them.

He raises his eyes and glances from Dr. Stanley to Dr. McDonald to Stanley again. And again he sees the darkness around Stanley’s head, a scrambled etch-work of black lines, like a child’s drawing of cloud. He drops his gaze. This he is accustomed to as well: a crown donned by the miserable. A few other men aboard wear it—Captain Crozier, for one; Lt. Irving for another. One learns to disregard it.

The room warms incrementally as Stanley leaves it. McDonald crosses behind him in the small space, grazing his hand along the small of Goodsir’s back as he does so. This he does often, and it is such a natural gesture for a man of such bonhomie that Goodsir has only recently begun sensing something more in so many seemingly incidental touches: a brush of fingertips as they exchange an instrument, the older man’s gaze lingering—kindly, but lingering nevertheless—a few seconds longer than necessary.

Perhaps he is imagining it. He hopes he is. Not just because he dreads disappointing McDonald with his eventual rebuff, but because he senses—again, it is nothing he can explain, nor does he see it the way he sees the naked brain before him, the low wooden beams of the sick bay, the anatomical drawings pinned to the wall—a weak, fluttering light, like the beat of moth wings, emanating from Stanley’s heart when McDonald is near. In close proximity, it flickers nearly steadily; it gutters and fades as McDonald moves away. Goodsir knows what it is, though he’s never experienced it firsthand: longing, affection. When shared between two lovers, it buoys him—an aimless sunniness, like one felt as a boy the morning of one’s birthday. But suppressed, as with Stanley’s feeling for McDonald (not even, Goodsir guesses, acknowledged by the sour-tempered veteran to himself) it is an agitation; one’s hands shake and all things, even breath, taste of ash and iron.

———

Stanley sits up in the dark, willing his breath to quiet. He can almost still feel her scant weight in his palms. A skeletal pink thing she was, grotesquely proportioned. All skull and looming eye, like an unfeathered chick. In the dream he bears her before him like an offering, walking down a sun-blown lane of cypresses, birds darting back and forth overhead. She’d come too early, and with her characteristic stoniness Mary had declared it useless to name her. But in his heart he called her Mercy. In the dream he knows without seeing—in that way that dreams manufacture context with no care whatsoever for waking reality—her face, luminous eyes and a prim mouth belying an adamant will. Not here but somewhere else she grows to be willowy and tart-tongued; she marries and bears children of her own. Not in this life but in another will she make him proud and glad. In this life, he wakes tasting ash and iron, his palms open as in supplication to a weight too phantom to quantify.

Goodsir, too, wakes. He does not sit bolt upright in bed but rather lies bleary-eyed, assembling the disparate elements of the dream. Not being his dream, per se, he is detached enough to hold it before his mind’s eye like an anatomical model, turn it this way and that. He does not know whose dream it is. He does know, however, that the dream lives of most of his fellows are dreadfully tedious, and so he’s grateful for this startling departure. Generally, men’s dreams are panting, damp, carnal messes: curves of flesh, gliding hands, blurts of soaked heat. He wakes embarrassed, his own body inert but exhausted. Or he’s seen the million fears any man can have transcribed into just a handful of symbols: the dream of the teeth falling out. The dream where you can neither scream nor run nor speak nor hear; you may as well be a girl’s doll. The childhood home distorted: these, at least, interest him vaguely, for it is a bit like travel. His own dreams? He doesn’t dream them. He sometimes wonders if someone else, someone like himself, does.

But in this dream he is standing at the end of an avenue of cypresses. At his feet, a neat dirt path, impeccably clean edged. A warm day but the breeze bears a chill and the smell of blood, and at the far horizon clouds curdle into smoke. Someone far away, arms held out before them, bearing something small in their cupped hands. The figure shimmers and twitches and he can make out nothing about it: male, female, what. He only knows that the clouds have turned to smoke, conflagration not far behind. It keeps coming and coming, never drawing closer—then it is there before him—first a shuddering dark slit in the horizon and then standing as close to him as only lovers stand. His face is a mass of scarlet and char, but he knows him, he knows him like he’d know his own face in a mirror, but now, upon waking cannot recall who it was.

Peculiar, that he should remember the rest so clearly, but not that crucial detail. Equally peculiar, he realizes, is that he is uncertain of the time; doesn’t know how long he’s slept. Now he’s wired awake in that way his body has of feeling tense and angry if he lies about, so up he gets, dresses in the weak light, and steps out into the dark. Most but the watch are sleeping: late, then, rather than early. He climbs stealthily onto the deck, startling Mr. Hickey, who by his crumpled posture and crabbish, ruddy expression—what Goodsir can see of it between his cap and his scarf, mostly those glittering inscrutable eyes and that outsized nose—was probably woken.

“Warn a man,” he grumbles.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hickey, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says tartly, hunching his shoulders as he passes him.

“What are you doing up, eh? I’d give my left stone to be abed—“

“I thought you were,” Goodsir says, a bit unkindly perhaps—for he’s never done anything wrong that Goodsir’s aware of, but how he slouches about, the hungry way he is always listening, like a dog watching for a morsel from his master’s table. His proportions all out of sync: that round mouth big nose, all that muscle on a dwarfish little frame. Goodsir chastises himself: <i>he’s an inch on you</>, he reminds himself. <I>And the ladies probably fancy him a yard more for it.</I> Not that Goodsir cares for ladies. He’s simply rather put out that they don’t seem to care for him.

“You’re a funny kind of man,” Hickey tells him.

“I beg your pardon?”

Hickey grins. “You know things.”

“Oh? And what kinds of things do I know?” He turns too quickly and looks Hickey too hard into the eye, sure the witchy vagaries of his brain are writ plain as ABC across his brow. (<I>not that he can read,</I> says Goodsir’s bitter half.)

But then Hickey cocks his head. “As the ship’s doctor, I mean. You must learn a great deal.”

“I’m not the ship’s doctor. Dr. Stanley is. I merely... assist,” he finishes lamely. The ladies must love that knowing grin of his.

At that moment, there’s a creak as Lt. Irving climbs onto deck. His eyes are hard. “Is Mr. Hickey ill, Mr. Goodsir?”

Hickey beams at him. “I’m right as rain, lieutenant. The doctor was having trouble sleeping, I expect, and thought a turn in the brisk air might do him good. Isn’t that so?”

Goodsir nods vaguely and makes to go back down. How funny it is to constantly receive these vague little pricks and pops of energy—like static electricity or near lightning. Like, he intuits now what he could not quite make clear before: first, that the collective fancies of all of London’s fairest would do Hickey not a whit of good, and second, that Irving knows it. By the time he settles back into his own bed, Goodsir’s fretful near unto tears. It’s much too much for one man, to bear scraps and fragments of all other men. He reads until the words blur and drift on the page, falls asleep, and blessedly does not dream.

[myevilmouse]

H, K, O, S, T, X, and Z. Thank you!

Thank you for these asks!  Awesome to have an opportunity to contemplate fic on this lovely evening!  

H: How would you describe your style?

This is a really tough question!  I like to experiment with style.  I happen to be hanging out with @celinamarniss​ and @jadedjo​ and I asked them to help me answer this since they read a lot of my stuff.  They had some very good points because I was just like hmmm “I write smut!” which isn’t very helpful.  So the consensus is I like really descriptive language and unusual vocabulary (sometimes borderline purple prose I freely admit) and my style is changeable because I switch it up.  For example, my fic Endure is a bit choppy and broken, on purpose, to try to capture a different sort of feel for that story, while Corporeal incorporates a lot of Shakespearean vocab, and as a result is more dense and heavy, perhaps, also intentionally so, to feed into the vibe of that fic.

I would be very interested in anyone else’s take on how they would describe the evilmouse style 😊  

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come up with?

I think Corporeal is probably my angstiest fic.  I don’t write a lot of unresolved angst, because I love happy endings, but in Corporeal, Luke is possessed by the evil spirit of a dead Sith, who makes him do delightful wicked wicked things to Mara.  Although the story is told from Mara’s POV, I think the horror of being Luke in this fic (impotent is every way except the one that matters) is probably the worst thing I’ve ever done to him.  I know that answers the “fic” question but not the “idea” question.  I suppose it’s because I don’t come up with a lot of angsty ideas.  I just want everyone to get naked and have fun 😊  

O: How do you begin a story–with the plot, or the characters?

Neither! I start with an idea or scenario. For a good idea of how this works, you could check out my 2019 end of year recap which explains the idea I started with and how the actual fic turned out.  But in brief, it’s like… “hmm Luke hasn’t slept with _insert female character here_ yet”  Let’s make that happen starts to type

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

T: Any fandom tropes you can’t stand?

I answered these two a little earlier here 😊

X: A character you enjoy making suffer.

I just want everyone to be happy!  Let’s see though, I really want to think about this.  I suppose I am meanest to Mara just cause of the Corporeal fic…but I also give her such good things, so that doesn’t really count.  I am too much of a Pollyanna…but I guess I would pick Pryce, because I give her far more fluff than smut.  Does not giving her blue cock in every fic count as making her suffer?  In my world it does!

Z: Major character death–do you ever write/read it? Is there a character whose death you can’t tolerate?

I really read and write fic for the smut, I admit freely, so I tend to avoid fics involving major character death.  I’m sadly not in the game for epics or in-depth misery.  That’s not to say it can’t be done well, and I have seen it done VERY well, but it’s not really my cup of tea.  I am fairly certain that I will never write a major character’s demise unless it involves fucking Luke to death and he goes out in a blaze of glorious orgasmic ecstasy to become the eternal consort of some lust goddess in the heavens. (Yeah that’s the way he’s going to go, fight me).

And I can’t tolerate Luke’s death.  I mean…I have read it done well but I cannot tolerate it either 😊  He’s my BAMF Jedi and he is FOREVER!

Thank you so much for these great asks!  So much fun!

If you want to ask more anyone, they are from this meme

Since I don’t write a lot of angsty Luke, here’s a picture of a suffering Luke for ya

[dwindledglow]

001. MEET ISLA

FULL NAME: isla renee monroe. PREFERRED NAME: isla. NICKNAME/S: is. DATE OF BIRTH: may 15th, 1993. GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis female & she/her. ORIENTATION: hetero. RELIGION: agnostic. RELATIONSHIP STATUS: engaged to kendrick parker. OCCUPATION: sports agent, ceo of monroe corporation and actress. RESIDENCE: montauk, east hampton.

002. CHECK ISLA’S BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: quebec, canada. NATIONALITY: canadian and american. ETHNIC BACKGROUND: hungarian and canadian. LINGUISTICS: french and english which are her native languages, spanish, german, portuguese and italian in a fluent level and she can lead a conversation in japanese. EDUCATION: she attended university of birmingham where she got her BSc in physiotherapy and, later, she attended queen mary university of london where she got her MSc in sports and exercise medicine. CRIMINAL RECORD: despite some mishaps along the way and almost being charged for public lewdness and, later, having allegedly assaulted a paparazzo — which was settled in a deal, isla has a clean record. BIRTH ORDER: first. FATHER: lawrence jude monroe, born on may 19th, 1966 in toronto, canada, passed away on august 11th, 2006 in los angeles, california. lawrence was a high-profile hockey player and the founder of monroe corporation. MOTHER: audrey gabrielle kelly, née jones, born on october 29th, 1968 in montecito, california, residing in los angeles, california and working as a communication and media teacher at the university of southern california though she used to be a successful sports reporter. SISTER/S: elizabeth sophia kelly, born on june 8th, 2002 in malibu, california, residing in los angeles, california where she also studies. she’s one of two children audrey had in a second marriage, making her isla’s half-sister. BROTHER/S: anthony dean kelly, born on april 7th, 2000 in malibu, california, residing in los angeles, california where he also studies. he’s the first born of audrey’s second marriage and, thus, isla’s half-brother. SIGNIFICANT OTHER: kendrick parker. CHILDREN: bella nicole parker, born on june 9th, 2018 in montauk, new york. zoe eliza parker, born on june 9th, 2018 in montauk, new york. kyd lawrence parker, born on january 14th, 2020 in montauk, new york. OTHER RELEVANT FAMILY: none. EX/ES: joseph taylor. PETS: gliss and qana, two french bulldogs and brooklyn, an english bulldog.

003. GET UP CLOSE & PERSONAL

HEIGHT: 5′5″ or 168 cm. WEIGHT: between 117 lbs or 53 kg and 125 lbs or 57 kg. BODY BUILD: isla has a naturally willowy and curvy frame, something in between a hourglass shape and the classic supermodel-rectangle one — leaning more towards the first. she's not overly slim but she has the average weight for her height, and she has curves in the right places. her body isn't the most defined but she has a toned frame and she has more lean muscle than fat. isla has a big bust — 32C —, a flat stomach and long legs. EYE COLOR: she has cerulean blue eyes but, on occasion and depending on the light, they might look a grey-ish blue. EYESIGHT: whereas isla doesn't have any kind of issue like miopia or astigmatism, she has severe eye fatigue. she can get away without wearing anything but for activities that demand a lot of focus, such as reading, and when it comes to spending time in front of a laptop, as well as reading or watching television at night or in places where the light isn't the best, she needs glasses to stop her vision from going blurry. HAIR COLOR & STYLE: naturally, her hair is more of a caramel brown shade but, currently, it’s more of a chocolate brown shade. appearance and the way she portrays herself is very important for isla due to her career both as a sports agent / ceo of a world renown company and as an actress. naturally, her hair is straight and when the girl is in a rush, she opts for keeping it that way, using few products and a straightener to sleek it back. when she has the time, she prefers to spend some time making loose, beach waves or a few loose ringlets so there's some volume to her hair. if she's home or off-duty, she'll not waste much time on it and will often try to get her hair out of the way by throwing it on a ponytail or some kind of messy bun. if she has events, she likes to mix it up and often leaves the more elaborate hair styles to a trusty stylist. DOMINANT HAND: right. NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: her electric blue eyes paired with her angular facial features and plump lips are, perhaps, the most notable characteristic when it regards isla. there's almost a vintage quality to her features, something outstanding and that distinguishes her from other girls — and most people, in general — out there. likewise, her willowy figure is one of her most obvious, notable appearance features. SCARS AND MARKS: she has a few scars here and there, courtesy of her clumsy moments, but it’s nothing major or particularly noticeable. other than that, she has a few notable moles spread out on her tummy. TATTOOS: she has a small knife with a rose lying atop of it on her left hip — reference —, she has nineteen tattooed in cursive on the side of her left hand, her dad's favorite number, and she has I of III on her right ankle — a matching tattoo she's got with her two siblings. she has a b behind her right ear and a z behind her left ear, respectively representing her and kendrick’s daughter’s bella and zoe.  PIERCINGS: she has her regular lobes pierced. VOICECLAIM: barbara palvin. ACCENT & INTENSITY: to this day, and in spite of having lived a good portion of her life between los angeles, new york and england, isla still has her quebec accent intact and it's still as distinctive and as intense as it has always been. ALLERGIES: lactose intolerant, white chocolate, vanilla. PHOBIAS & FEARS: solitude and oblivion. MENTAL & PHYSICAL ILLNESSES: she has rhinitis. ALCOHOL USE: in social situations, she does drink. SMOKING: she stopped smoking ever since she started trying to get pregnant. NARCOTICS USE: not anymore. when she was younger ( read from fourteen to sixteen ) she did heavier drugs such as heroin, ecstasy, shrooms and cocaine and she used to smoke weed and, occasionally, do adderall to focus during college. INDULGENT FOOD: occasionally, when she’s down in the slumps or having major cravings. SPLURGE SPENDING: it doesn’t happen often, it’s rare for isla to lose her mind and splurge. GAMBLING: no, never.

004. DIG DEEPER

CAN THEY DRIVE? yes, she can drive. CAN THEY COOK & BAKE? yes and ish. CAN THEY CHANGE A FLAT TIRE? yes. CAN THEY TIE A TIE? yes. CAN THEY SWIM? yes. CAN THEY RIDE A BICYCLE? yes. CAN THEY JUMP START A CAR? yes. CAN THEY BRAID HAIR? yes. CAN THEY PICK A LOCK? yes. EXTROVERTED OR INTROVERTED? extroverted. DISORGANIZED OR ORGANIZED? organized. CLOSE OR OPEN MINDED? open minded. CALM OR ANXIOUS? calm. PATIENT OR IMPATIENT? in-between. OUTSPOKEN OR RESERVED? outspoken. LEADER OR FOLLOWER? leader. OPTIMISTIC OR PESSIMISTIC? a balance of both. TRADITIONAL OR MODERN? modern. HARD-WORKING OR LAZY? hard-working. CULTURED OR UNCULTURED? cultured. LOYAL OR DISLOYAL? loyal. FAITHFUL OR UNFAITHFUL? faithful. NIGHT OWL OR EARLY BIRD? a balance of both, leaning more towards night owl. HEAVY OR LIGHT SLEEPER? not heavy, nor light. an in-between. COFFEE OR TEA? coffee. DAY OR NIGHT? night. TAKING BATHS OR SHOWERS? showers. COCA COLA OR PEPSI? neither. CATS OR DOGS? dogs. NETFLIX OR CINEMA? cinema. SHOWS OR MOVIES? movies. LAPTOP OR GAMING CONSOLE? laptop. HEALTHY OR JUNK FOOD? healthy food. ICE CREAM OR FROZEN YOGURT? frozen yogurt. PIZZA OR HAMBURGER? hamburger. LOLLIPOPS OR GUMMY WORMS? neither. BEACH OR POOL? beach. SNOWBALLS FIGHTING OR ICESKATING? both. LITERATURE OR SCIENCE? science. HISTORY OR ART? art. CHOCOLATE BARS OR COTTON CANDY? chocolate bars. XBOX OR PLAYSTATION? playstation. FACE-TO-FACE OR PHONE INTERACTIONS? face-to-face interactions. DRAMA OR SCI-FI? drama. HORROR OR COMEDY? horror.

005. ISLA’S FAVORITES

FAVORITE ACTIVITY: working out. FAVORITE ANIMAL: caracal. FAVORITE BOOK: requiem for a dream by hubert shelby jr. FAVORITE COLOR/S: black and red. FAVORITE CUISINE: mexican and spanish cuisines. FAVORITE DISH/ES: poutine, nachos, tacos, huevos rancheros, chili, paella, gazpacho and fideuà. FAVORITE DRINK/S: watermelon lemonade, caipirinha and margarita. FAVORITE FLOWER/S: lotus, yellow hibiscus and plumerias. FAVORITE GEM: ruby. FAVORITE MOVIE: it’s only the end of the world, although she loves anything by xavier dolan. FAVORITE SONG: sleep on it by gallant. FAVORITE SCENT/S: peaches, the scent of the earth after it rained, lavender and leather. FAVORITE SHOW/S: how to get away with murder and scandal. FAVORITE SPORT/S & TEAM THEY SUPPORT: basketball, american football, hockey, baseball, soccer and volleyball. FAVORITE SEASON OF THE YEAR: summer. VACATION DESTINATION: vaadhoo, maldives.

[castlehead]

:a Not which one is right but which one is more like you Let's start now // this is a few makeshifts on the deity,

dint realize y i was gettin poor marks in college till i realized comic sans wasnt mla format for essays, but i kept on with it bc im anti establishment and my dope ass literary insights should speak for themselves.

my 'experimentation' as one nonplussed professor put it, with the font, progressively got crazier, and in the end i was doin all caps zapf wingdings mized wih herculanum

needless to say, i got my degree.. IN BEIN A BOSS.

na but yeah i got kicked out of that school. still bummin on campus actually, and probably psychotic from this ecstasy i keep taking. this guy in f comp makes his own, has a pill press nd everything.

the shoes i original got as a college present from my parents got stolen, or in any case i woke up in a snow drift next to the commons dumpster without them on, so i just wear slippers. my toes are purple. ther always feels like there is something in my teeth or throat i cannot dislodge. i am the campus transient, avoiding th. RAs and ignoring the eviction notices. like raping the willing, one cannot be evicted if one is homeless. with the help of a few friends i sold drugs to when my rents still gave me money and i was still enrolled, i alternate between various dormitory hovels, hiding out from the campus police like some ghastly dysfunctional version of anne frank.

i havent taken my pills and smell. i emaciate my already rejected body, rejected by the establishment goons, with cocaine, and remind myself of the leftover chicken carcass and neatly lined bones whose tomb was a disgusting box of dominos buffalo wings i ordred and consumed my first semester here and that remained in the same place until i abandoned that radioactive dormroom to die slowly and painfully, and metaphorically, since living quarters do not possess life. i am starting tho to wonder if i myself possess that as well or if i did once and now am but a structure, a part of the collegiate landscape, sniffed at by diligent students and attempted to get thru to by intellectual slackers, decadent addicts themselves on their way to where i am, and wooks who need someone to smoke with on a sunday 4 am and know i always keep track of what festis are goin on on campus; i receive the next round of empathy from a new stranger who maybe heard of me or has seen me around and wondered what i was still doing here.

empathy, empathy, curiosity as to the quirky insane dude fried by mdma and a shitload of adderall for no purpose bc i have no practical skills. a monotony of empathy ripping off and using for the metaphorical shit on my metaphorical ass, like swquares of toilet paper who fancy me a hobo poet in need of on top of text books i never opened, on a desk i used as a trash receptacle. and speaking of wings, i think i might be literally going into a dissociative state because all the leaves on the trees look like zapf wingdings. my clavicle is not only visible but sticks out of my body further than my chest does.

watch out for hell day today, for something godlier than god. i deliver it.

The effect I wish to give, as it always has been, is that of a truth clearly viewed, in utter horror. Gods factotum, shuffling thru abandoned files that sometime held a secret forgotten, tho no less true now, and the horror perhaps, that we forgot something so crucially, fundamentally true, and so long ago.

​this work is twisted, sad, manic, strange, fluid, stilted, inappropriate, foolish, magnificent.

if god doesnt exist, neither does the version of myself with dreadlocks

. .  .   .    .     .      .

one has no choice in the end but to resign oneself, and drop their head. and yet, where do they look, if one in shrinking away for the purpose of humbling hisself afore the god of anxiety, and receiving his respite, knows nothing more than but to resign? where is the clarity here? there is no clarity 'here'. it is there, and come upon in moments of fear and trembling at the dread chaos, the doubt in a heart and split in a mind.

it is there, for one is staring at the ground, awaiting an end to the necessary aversion from the sight of a higher morsel of GOD.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

atheism should not be an opinion it is not the result of not believing in god it is simply living life without a thought as to a religious god. we are not reacting to religion we are IN reality just as the catholic is IN reality. saying "I don't believe in god" is like equating nothingness to a lack of everything. there is no reactive state to atheism at its purest. it is not an acknowledgment, in other words, of no god, but an acknowledgment of what is before one's eyes, this vast neutral space I defy you to say is different from the religious folks' apprehension of objects and desires, all before them, swimming in ghostly revelry or not, only figurations anyway. o this insanely divided world.

i have a secular conception of god based on my teleological hypotheses re the nature of a causa prima, causa sui. it's the definitions that need defining, not the thing with a name on it that needs explaining. physics already does that.

remove intent for the case of nihilism, and you will have what i am saying here. no case at all. no 'response' so to speak. atheism can be evangelical

im not an evangelical atheist because what i believe changes based on the day but is always just as real haha. belief is tenuous. i go by that

it's the definitions that need defining, not the thing that needs explaining.

my conception of god is that it is the only thing that does not exist. so in a way, yes, i am an atheist.

'God' as defined in its easiest terms, is an ultimate uniquity. like, an outstanding substance. anyway, idk. at the end of the day idk haha

Kant's own a priori notional form of perception comes to mind. in front of our eyes is what is real. the observer initiates the ocular nerve, and the thing or situation burns into the receiving blankness of the mind.

like, have we reaped all the possible benefits of fire by now? surely the wails of prometheus fall not on deaf ears!

. .  .   .    .     .      .

twisted, sad, manic, strange, fluid, stilted, inappropriate, foolish, magnificent.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

green tortilla chips my ass. he said with no attempt at disguising incredulity, wiping the tears from his brow.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

whereas god is all, i am only myself, knowledgeable of only myself; therefore, unless god is simultaneously aware of being myself alone along with being everything, and of that everything knowledgeable of each and every thing as if god were only that thing, i am then let in on an experience of individuality that god is unaware of.

this is a question of how to be the most purely omniscient, omnipotent, etc. that is the question that our conception of god is asking.

corollary: if in the case of being simultaneously the experience i have of myself, and being all, then it is quite logical to say that our experience in life is in fact a godly experience, since i, too, would be unaware of being all, as goes the route of any human perception of things.

when i say i am only aware of myself i mean it in ontological terms, fyi -and also in, i will admit, somewhat absolutist terms. of course as people, psychologically, we can put ourselves in another's shoes, step outside of our comfort zone, change an opinion [or five] and every person is an environmental sponge -we can adopt varying personality traits from the culture we is born into etc. -this argument presupposes an absolute view, kinda,- in that, IF this were how it went, it wld go such nd such -this statement of mine does not examine a phenomenological or spiritual connection between people but examines the relativity and possible logical gaps in -the idea, or notion if you prefer- of omniscience.- there is only theory haha <#

we create our gods but they exist as much as we do

. .  .   .    .     .      .

turn your back, find yourself faceless, at least, to someone.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

wondering if I got a problm w. th prostate bc sometimes when I feel a shit coming I piss n it goes away. Don't change much re bathroom routine tho since I already sit down wen I pee in the first place, and according to my second ex wife this means I am a lazy fat whore

interested in the concept of the devout as being the truest sceptics.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

Thought has the coherence of being but is not being, i.e. beginning and ending in our living heads as something not itself alive, but a mere transfer of connection willed consciously to create that inert unbreathing grand called the magnificent bullshit, the idea.

the quiet horror of the mundane dailyness.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

i think something elitist and say within, Well that was elitist wasnt it, dan. then pat myself on the back at my ability to check my arrogance, specifically when i see the thought thru the lens of something a cousin of mine with generally liberal views and empathy who fishes in alaska for money and lives off the grid would remark to himself. then, i get slightly nauseated after mentally leafing thru all the times i have been proud of mentally criticizing myself for something in the first place outwardly bad. and there goes on the circular drudge of ugliness, not evaded outright, but felt the pangs of guilt in the says within, that say me again and again in my inertial brood, of void i would hope, of searching for clarity i wish, but that is probably more like a moralizing, limited gauge, like feeling better about something ugly that is yr fault by feeling bad about it for a little so you can get that part over with without the possibility of another harder wave of guilt for not feeling bad at all about the ugly thing, and therewith reacting with doubts to doubtful reactions, until yr whole value system is a wilderness of mirrors.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

im a perfectionist when it comes to sensation. the beautiful feeling must be experienced in the proper setting that would maximize its potential. i think this is y i used to do lots of drugs, which by nature are the commodification of sensations. probably also y i was super miserable doing them and kept doing them despite that. there is a certain ring of the hoarder or magpie in this perfectionism that wants to connect physicality with ego that i see as well in the idea of paying money to literally feel specific sensations; equally, the result of this on the psyche is as tenuous here as with the futile idea of thinking the perfect setting for doing drugs is always at hand, which it rarely is, or at the least there is something to mar the perfect dream, that dragon, that pursuit of happiness, life, and liberty via thinking on how best situate the chains to, in essence, 'maximize' your mobility, but nathless remaining held in doom. the drug world, uh, is itself volatile; perfectionism and volatility dont jive so well, usually. and so on. hm. hegh.

heh.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

I only like Eminem rap and that one NWA song like hell naw the rest is garbage now let me go back to my trailer in the woods where I live in harmony with the Elves who have seemed to appear more frequently now that I have that bathtub meth dungeon set up in my basement where skynerd plays ceaselessly from an unlocatable place. My hero is Ed Gein. But I don't do the lampshade thing. I do however have a human skull I bought from my buddy who owns a war relics and parephernalia shop, he had to go in the back to get it and lock the store so nobodys would come snoop. Turns out some folks comed snoop to see if he figured any more available and he got mad at me for blabbing, an I said, Giles, ya know I ain't blabbing, but he dint believe it, an now we just kinder avoid each other at the local NA meetin. People tryn cop there and some do and theys go behind the water tower tagitit, I int do that part tho, a tad fucked up I mean, these people try n getting clean an all, why make it harder n it eyis? But if y'all wanit I get it tiya, come by and share a chaw almighty God. Gib ye a gude price too. *PATOOEY* I. Uh am sober myself. 20 yrs. but damn ye ye make a buck more n working garbage detail selling home cooked meth I reckon ye. Don't touch the stuff I don't anymore after I heard this queer fella from out a town got his arm chopped off when he mainlined eyit. Tryn I guess do some sex stuff and a days travel from the city. City folk don't know it's diffeRent strength down here's doe. I reckon. *MEDITATIVE PATOOEY* yes sirn. Huhm.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

The thing abt the Sex Pistols is, tho they engineered the punk genre immeasurably, they seem to no longer be in the cultural conversation, except within factions of grey haired aficionados. Even the more radio friendly The Clash seems notably absent in this regard. Has punk developed beyond its early stages, or is punk, being the genre that it is, dependent on whatever the moments youth zeitgeist is? punk is visceral because it is held in time this way. first gen punk, cbgbs headliners of ago and ago, do not exert these days the same walbreaking feel, bc I think there's so much virtuosic music being made today that the path of what will develop is harder to determine. Musicians in throes break down walls without batting an eye. Any musical iconoclasm expressed in the music of the past, then, especially to the contemporary ear, is bound to seem bathetic. Like microaggressions as expressions of racism, our society's opening of mind leads to a closed mind, as one can justify not being racist by simply saying they do not think they are better than marginalized peoples, have never done anything racist, think we are all equal, are not clansmen lol. what ruffles feathers is less obvious, in turn, bc expressions of the ersatz new and the real new are harder and harder to determine. The surplus of media, ideas, and opinions, I think, will lead us to a place where "cultural norm" becomes an oxymoron, hopefully. But then, what else will be left to invigorate, if so much is already so much done out, already? Does there exist a perspective, artistic or no, that is not liable to become passé? Or even some thought never thought before? I know there is, I for one know there is, because as a poet I see much to fix, and much that I work to do bc I see it nowhere else; and this most crucially is not an impression of mine based on today's lit but every days lit there has ever been, throughout history. Just I can literally not even yo, yo

. .  .   .    .     .      .

Mathsmatics can transcend thru the grandeur of its implications but not thru the means towards said implications; philo can do the same, but it's better penchant is for transcending thru means to electrify a mundane conclusion or give a system of reason to a general thought-trope such as, "reality is an illusion" or whichever flat idea u prefer to follow. Since it is pure logos, philo differs from math in being more readily universal; tho the applications of math are more readilly useful than the positives that come with mental clarity at the understanding an achieved unified system. Poetry is all means, so then must dazzle, and needs no evidence, conclusion, or even subject, but need only sway with beauty. Therein is the problem with the existential issue of selfhood. Reductive analysis of self becomes psych, and the only pure philo to be had in selfhoods exegesis is not to be found in anything like a system of proofs or syllogisms, etc. selfhood, as Kierkegaard recognized, is poetic bc it exacerbates reality, exhausts all of it. it is individual, and so copious a thing has no one forged path to what it is, or even any path at all, to what it is, since like Pascals God the self is a circle whose point is everywhere and circumference nowhere. Figuring out a reality via a teleology or thru logic is nicer to attempts at systems. But individual self is too mucky for any proof to say it exists; the murkiness shines, as it always does, when the means are prevalent, since the means, being held moment to moment, rely on nothing but expose a variety of paths to more variety. Philo then is better at least than Math for finding out something obfuscated, but nothing but poetry can so deeply probe the self, as its humility is lain in the respect for a complete dissembling of systems.

. .  .   .    .     .      .

the iconic ny jewish deli sandwich is in essence a robust mountain of roast beef held feebly between two unnecessary pieces of sad, chickenshit marble rye

the roast beef, of course, wld be kosher.

I create; I waste. Yet nothing is perfect, nothing, nothing. Not even dignity.

[purple-possibilities]

I was tagged by the very wonderful @raendown

Here we go!

Rules: Answer all questions, add one question of your own and tag as many people as there are questions.

1. Coke or Pepsi: Depends. Diet Coke in a can, Diet Pepsi from a fountain machine, 7up in mixed drinks but Sprite by itself, and Regular Coke and Regular Pepsi are tied.

2. Disney or Dreamworks: Everything is Disney.  Plus it’s what I grew up watching.

3. Coffee or Tea:  Tea. I don’t drink plain coffee it’s not strong enough.  Espresso or Turkish coffee or lattes though over tea any day.  But I can’t drink caffeine anymore, so that’s like, half the teas gone and only decaf coffee for me :(

4. Books or Movies: Books. Unless it’s Lord of the Rings then throw me the move I’m never making it through those books.

5. Windows or Mac:  Depends.  I’ve always had Windows at home and Mac at school/work.  They’re both good for different things.  Windows for writing, Mac for drawing.

6. DC or Marvel: I grew up on DC but Marvel’s been killing it lately...

7. Xbox or Playstation: I’ve only ever played PS like, a handful of times, so Xbox.

8. Dragon Age or Mass Effect: Never played DA so ME

9. Night Owl or Early Rise: What do you call that person that stays up through the night and ends up going to sleep after the early risers get up? Me? Oh yeah. 

10. Cards or Chess: Cards. No one ever wants to play chess with me.

11. Chocolate or Vanilla: Vanilla!

12. Vans or Converse: Vans got me through a lot of concerts

13. Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash or Adaar:  does not compute

14. Fluff or Angst: There was a time when I was mad at the world for having no stories with unhappy endings...and then they all had unhappy endings and I just wanted my fluffy blanket back. 

15. Beach or Forest: Beach, as there are typically less mosquitos

16. Dogs or Cats: All cats, but only certain dogs.  So cats.

17. Clear Skies or Rain: Fuck rain.  I said it.  I don’t mind a little rain but all the time? No I can’t do it/

18. Cooking or Eating Out: I am a fabulous cook...when I feel like cooking.  Tonight the answer is eating out.

19. Spicy Food or Mild Food: SPICY!  I’m that person asking for spiciest thing on the menu and then saying “it’s not spicy at all! here, try this!” and then you take a bite and proceed to die.

20. Halloween/Samhain or Solstice/Yule/Christmas: HALLOWEEN.  i love dressing up.  I always have like, three costumes lol.

21. Would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot: Rn I am forever a little cold and it’s not so bad.  Better than sweating. 

22. If you could have a superpower, what would it be: Timetravel, without paradoxes, that could be controlled by scale.

23. Animation or Live Action: Live Action, although I love Animation.

24. Paragon or Renegade: I always play paragon, I feel so guilty making the renegade choices, even if you get cool scars.

25. Baths or Showers: Showers, then baths. As in, let me shower real quick so I can sit in that bath for 3 hours.

26. Team Cap or Team Iron Man: CAP!  Sorry Iron Man but I’d follow dat ass the Cap anywhere.

27. Fantasy or Sci-Fi: What about...Sci-Fi Fantasy? No?  Then Fantasy.

28. Do you have three or four favourite quotes? If so, what are they: 

"When music affects us to tears, seemingly causeless, we weep, not as Gravina supposes, from “excess of pleasure,” but through excess of an impatient, petulant sorrow that, as mere mortals, we are as yet in no condition to banquet upon those supernal ecstasies of which the music affords us merely a suggestive and indefinite glimpse.” --Edgar Allen Poe

“The vampire in us never sleeps, and always hungers for something we think only another can give.  But while we take and take again, it is temporary at best, and at worst, creates in us an ever increasing starvation of the soul.  There is no give and take, only take, and take, and more take.  Give me, give me.” --Beth Winegarner

“Throughout human history, as our species has faced the frightening, terrorising fact that we do not know who we are or where we are going in this ocean of chaos, it has been the authorities---the political, the religious, the educational authorities---who attempted to comfort us by giving us order, rules, regulations, informing---forming in our minds their view of reality.  To think for yourself you must question authority and learn how to put yourself in a state of vulnerable open-mindedness---chaotic, confused, vulnerability---to inform yourself.” --Timothy Leary

29. YouTube or Netflix: Netflix

30. Harry Potter or Percy Jackson: Harry Potter

31. When You Feel Accomplished:  When I complete something I felt was difficult

32. Star Wars or Star Trek: Star Wars (I did tell you there was only Disney, didn’t I?)

33. Paperback Books or Hardback Books: Hardback

34. Handwriting or Typing:  Depends.  Typing for writing stories, handwriting for everything else

35. Velvet or Satin:  Satin

36. Video Games or Movies: Video games

37. Would you rather be the dragon or own the dragon? Depends.  Is the dragon with me of its free will?  Are we chummy?  If yes, then sure I’ll own the dragon.  I don’t really want to be one.

38. Sunrise or sunset: Sunset

39. What’s your favourite song? No favourite.  I’ve already listed my most listened to song, so my second most listened to song is Creepers by Kid Cudi.  Neither this song nor the other one I listed are representative of my general music taste, though.

40. Horror Movies yes or no: Hell to the yes!  As long as they’re not just gore.  I don’t find that entertaining.

41. Long hair or short hair:  Long on me.  On other people it depends.

42. Opera or Theatre:  Theatre.

43. Assuming the multiverse theory is true and every story ever told has really happened somewhere, which one of the movie/book/tv show/game/etc worlds would you pick to travel to first?  First? Honestly they all seem kind of horrible.  But...somewhere where I can pick up some skills/powers to be better equipped to deal with the other shit.  If I can’t gain powers, then hook me up with the Marvel Universe, or maybe even Naruto (because Kakashi you know I had to).

44: If you had to eat only one thing for the rest of your life what would it be?  Steak, but like, I could choose what to marinade it with, right?  Right???

45: Older guys or young guys? Always older

46: If you could erase any show from TV history, what would it be?  90 Day Fiance. My brother watches it.  It’s so dumb.

47: Singing or dancing? Singing is a gift from the gods, but dancing is important too.

48: Instagram or Twitter?  Insta

49: Flowers or chocolate? Chocolate

50: Thomas Jefferson or Lafayette:  I feel like I’m not American enough for this.

51. Be able to fly like a bird or swim like a fish (and breath under water)?: The swimming is tempting but the flying is more powerful.  Just...I don’t want to have my arms transform into wings.  I couldn’t deal not having hands.

52. You listen to videogame or movie soundtracks?  If so which ones?: I Yep.  Sucker Punch, Sweeny Todd (with Johnny Depp and HBC) and the Batman Forever soundtrack (yes you read that right) it’s the shit.

53: What is something that under no circumstance you could never forgive? And why? I don’t forgive maliciousness.  Like, if you accidentally hurt me or even someone else, I can understand and maybe forgive but if you did it on purpose well...bye.

54: What’s your happiest memory? idk. I can’t choose.  That’s either a good thing or a bad thing XD

55. Would you rather be given a hover board or a talking dog (assuming that these are not the only of their kind)? The dog.  I can’t skateboard so I’d be screwed with the hoverboard, likely, but the dog would be cool.  

I...am stlll not tagging anyone.  I know I know, but I just...ok no I’m going to tag some people.  @mouseymightymarvellous, @bluefurcape, @nikkigrand, @cassandrasdreamworld​ and...that’s all I can be bothered to write out.  That’s not 55 people but whatever. 

and my question

56. Waffles or Pancakes?