#the correct lyric is “no wound as sharp as the will of God” but what can you do

[decaymouth]

REPENT NOW CONFESS NOW - Lingua Ignota

[timeforelfnonsense]

Under the Light of the Moon (Updated)

Dafni x Astarion 

Rating: E 

Ao3

I’ve been reworking some of the first fics I wrote for these two now that I have a better idea of their relationship. I’ve updated them on Ao3 but there was some interest in me reposting them here as well!  

Sunshine & Starlight: My on going bg3 series 

The tiefling’s fireworks boomed overhead, filling the sky with shimmering lights of gold and silver. Dafni smiled to herself, soaking up the feelings of splendor and revelry that swirled all around her. Their merriment danced across her skin like a warm summer breeze and filled her chest with contentment. She closed her eyes and pictured herself back home in the Feywilds where such joy would have surely created astonishing delights that could only exist in the imaginations of those who had never basked in its splendor.

“Well, you seem quite blissful!” A pretty tiefling spoke, “I hope I’m not bothering you. I just wanted to say thank you-.” She paused, “Is that umm normal for you?”

Dafni blinked a few times allowing herself to float back down to reality. She followed the bard’s eyes down to her feet where a small patch of flowers had begun to bloom.  “Oh! Yes!” Dafni assured, taking the other woman’s hands in her own. “Sorry! I was a bit far away just then! What were you saying?”

“Only that I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh! You don’t need to thank me Alfira! I was happy to help!”

“You remembered my name?” Alfira said, her eyes lighting up as a beaming smile formed on her lips.

“Of course! I sang with you in the grove!” Dafni gave her hands a little squeeze, “You have a beautiful voice.”

A deep plum blush spread across Alfira’s cheeks as she babbled a thank you. Dafni had that effect on people, charming and beguiling them as effortlessly as breathing. It wasn’t something she did on purpose. It was simply the way the gods made her. She craved closeness and affection from those around her more than most. She had been brought up by a serious, if not dotting mother who tirelessly protected her from those who would seek to take advantage of her kind heart. As well as a clan of ‘sisters’ with whom she had shared her every thought and confidence. To Dafni tenderness and trust were simply the way of things and she had carried that sensibility with her into the Material.

“Don’t look,” Alfira leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “but, that man is staring at you rather intently.”

“What man!?” Dafni squealed, “Where?! What does he look like!”

Dafni began to bounce on her heels as she battled the urge to follow Alfira’s stare. She, like so many of the fey, found herself rather enchanted by flattery and adoration. A dashing stranger admiring her from across a party was a positively delightful prospect.

“He’s an elven man, very fair in complexion. He has handsome features but he looks a bit...Intense. I think I saw him with you at the grove?”

Astarion?

Her heart skipped a few beats. She’d always thought him rather attractive- Princely even. With his strong cheekbones and a sharp jaw. And those ruby-red eyes, teeming with unanswered questions. There was a delicious danger about him as well. She should have found his vampiric nature ghastly and frightening, but it only added to his wicked charms. She certainly wanted him but he could be a hard book to read. On one hand, he was always chiding her for ‘unnecessary acts of kindness’. On the other, he’d nearly kissed her that day on the riverbank. And the night she’d allowed him to drink from her he had held her with such affection but she’d attributed that to some sort of vampire feeding behavior rather than attraction. The curiosity became too much for Dafni to bear. He was leaning against a tree drinking wine straight from the bottle. It seemed Astarion was indeed her admirer after all. Her cheeks went hot as they clapped eyes on each other. With a smirk, he mouthed a silent ‘hello’.

He heard the lyrical chime of Dafni’s laughter from the other side of camp. She threw her head back, sending her lovely pink curls tumbling down her shoulders. Flowers sprung up at her bare feet and butterflies with wigs of faerie fire fluttered around her. She had traded her armor for a nearly transparent dress that left precious little to the imagination. He could hardly look away. She had an exquisite figure, softer than most elves, plump and curvaceous. It was as if she had intended to tease and tempt him, prancing around in next to nothing. A gentle breeze blew through her hair and filled his lungs with the familiar aroma of lilac and evening primrose.

His mouth watered at the thought of sinking his teeth back into her once more. The memory of her fingers laced through his hair, pulling him closer, inviting him to drink deeper, was still fresh in his mind. He’d thought about bedding her plenty of times after they met but, they had been little more than idle fantasies. But, since that first taste, he found his imagination wandering towards the debaucherous more and more often when she was around.

“Enjoying your party, Daffodil?” He asked, taking a long drink of his wine as she bounded towards him, “Would you like some? It tastes awful but please, help yourself.”

“It’s OUR party!” She corrected, “You shouldn’t be over here sulking alone!”

She shook her head, rose curls bouncing as she snatched the bottle for a nip. He couldn’t help but smile as she screwed up her nose when she swallowed. No, red wine wouldn’t be her drink would it? Too heavy and bitter. She’d like something sweeter. Floral maybe? Just like her.

“See. Awful! You know, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they toasted for saving so many lives. And now that I’m here…” He paused for just a moment before scrunching his nose up in disgust, “I hate it. This is awful.”

“You did a good thing!” She scolded, “You deserve to enjoy yourself.”

He scoffed, giving her a dismissive wave, “I just would have liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine. I’m just looking for a little more excitement. A little more fun.”

“You should attend a party in the Feywilds sometime.” She suggested, “They can go on for days at a time! Especially if a satyr is involved in the planning!”

“That does sound more exciting. This drawl gathering could do with a little more heathenism. You know, we could always make our own entertainment, darling. Get a little closer so to speak.” There it was. He needed to have her. Why deny it any longer? He’d been cautious and calculated but the craving for her never stopped. He looked her over from toe to tip, drinking in her beauty with unapologetic want.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?”  Her pink eyelashes fluttered over winsome topaz eyes. Her slender fingers tucking a stray hair behind his ear.

He stared at her dumbfounded. Was she really that innocent? He thought he’d made it clear he was interested? Perhaps she’d never been propositioned before, though he doubted that. She was a fetching little enchantress. It was impossible that he was the first to take note of her grace and charm.

“By the Hells! Sex, my dear.”

“Oh? Is that what you are after?” A mischievous grin formed on her perfect lips. “Well maybe if you say please.”

“What?” He couldn’t help the keenness in his voice.

“Say please,” Dafni repeated, her tone was honey-sweet.

Her head tilted to the side allowing her hair to slip from her shoulder and expose her neck. She took a step closer, closing the space between them. His breath caught in his throat as he struggled to swallow a low moan as she caressed him over his breeches. It seemed sweet, angelic, Daffodil was not quite the innocent maiden after all. A delicious turn of events. Her other hand wound its way through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down to her. Her lips were petal-soft against his as she pulled him into a slow, teasing kiss. The tip of her tongue dancing across the velvet of his inner lip. Each brush of her mouth coaxing more and more desperation from him.

“Please.” He sighed between hungry kisses rocking against her palm.

“Yes.” She relented at last before placing one last, maddeningly chaste kiss on his lips, “How could I say no to such a polite request.”

“Cheeky little pup.” He purred, “ Now go on- Enjoy the rest of your party. I’ll see you later.”

He emphasized his statement with a quick squeeze of her backside that was met with a high pitched squeak. He had half mind to take her right then but surely someone would notice if they were to sneak off so early in the night. No, it seemed he would just have to wait. At least that would give him time to think of all the things he would do to her once the rest of the camp was sound asleep.

She crept softly on the balls of her feet. She could feel the excitement like electricity on the air. She was a creature of revelry at her core and the promise of a late-night romp in the woods filled her with delight. She pinched her thighs together savoring the fire growing between her legs. Cool hands wrapped around her waist drawing a frightened yelp from her lips. She felt his breath hot on her ear as he chuckled in response.

“There you are. I’ve been waiting.” He whispered pulling her closer, his hands wandering towards her chest, “Waiting since the moment I first set eyes on you. Waiting to have you.”

She could tell he was grinning without having to look at his face. She could hear it in the tone of his voice. Feel it in the squeeze of his hand on her breast. She let her head fall against his chest glancing up at him with a look that was equal parts mischief and desire.

“You don’t have me yet.”

“Don’t I?” He mused. His free hand pushed up her thin dress, running up her inner thigh, “You are here. And I don’t think you want to talk.” She bit down on her lip holding back a whimper as she felt his cool hand cup her core. “I think you want to be known. To be tasted. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me?”

She was lost for words all she could muster was a simple nod. She tried to squirm against his hand but he held her tight as he pulled her into a deep kiss. She could taste the wine, dry and sharp on his tongue as he ran it along the seam of her lips.  

“I thought so.” He smirked, releasing his hold on her, “But, you’ll have to say please.”

Dafni watched him as he circled her, admiring her from every angle. She considered yielding to his request for a moment...No, the urge to misbehave was far too appealing. She would give in eventually, of course! But, the thought of reaction was far too sublime to not test the waters.

“Make me.”

He tisked, shaking his head at her rebellious reply. A fearsome look danced across his features. He flashed her his teeth, fangs on full display as a playful growl rumbled in his chest. In one fast movement, he picked her up, throwing her legs around his waist. She clung to him for dear life as she felt her feet leave the ground.  

She was infuriating, that little minx. She seemed to know all the ways to rile him up and more than that seemed to enjoy doing it. He made quick work of that madding dress discarding the translucent, shimmering fabric to the forest floor without a care. He lifted her, pressing her back up against the trunk of a tree. She had a white knuckle clutch on his shoulder.

“I won’t drop you,” He promised.

“Are you sure? I’m a bit heavy.” A perfect blush the same color as her rosy hair covered her freckled cheeks.

“I’m sure.” He gave her thigh a reassuring squeeze. “Now where was I? Ahh- That’s right...”

He brought his head to her heaving breast listing to the rapid beating of her heart. took in a lungful of air savoring her bouquet before taking a nipple into his mouth. He reveled in the sweet mews was making. He slid a hand between her legs. His body stirred as he found even wetter than expected. He slipped a finger into her meeting no resistance. Dafni whined, grinding agent his pumping hand.

“Have you reconsidered my generous offer, Daffodil? I can feel how close you are. Just say please and I’ll give you what you need.”

She had never been one to beg but he knew what he was doing. Offering her just enough pleasure to turn her into an incoherent mess but not enough to find release. Dafni swallowed her pride at last.

“Please…”

“What?” He teased, “I don’t think I heard that? You’ll have to speak up, darling.”

“Please!” She nearly shouted, “Please let me cum, I’ll be as loud as you want just please!”

He slid another finger into her and hastened the rhythm of his touch. Dafni felt her breaths grow shorter and shorter until a long breathy cry fell from her lips. She felt relief wash over her first followed by the sensation of floating in a sea of bliss.

Her feet hit the ground with a soft thud as Astarion dropped his vice grip on her thigh. She wobbled, grabbing onto his biceps for balance. . He seemed extremely pleased with himself! Dafni stuck her tongue out at him. She pushed off the tree taking fist fulls of his shirt into her hands. She yanked him down to meet her hungry kiss before he could make any smug remarks about her begging.

“You have far too many clothes on.”

He wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up splayed out in the dirt. It had all happened rather quickly after she stripped him down to nothing. He found himself struggling to care, however. All that mattered was the feeling of Dafni’s wet slit sliding over his throbbing cock. He grabbed her hips controlling her tempo. She leaned forwards nipping at his collarbone. He groaned as she ran her tongue along the faint imprint of her teeth. A moonlight garden had begun to spring up around them, snowdrops, jasmine, and in her hair delicate white and pink daffodils.  

“You had me fooled,” He moaned, “I thought perhaps, you were still a maiden.”

She laughed, throwing her head back, “Are you disappointed?”

“Hardly” He scoffed, “I don’t think a maiden would be quite as- Ah! Skilled…” His hips jerked upwards causing Dafni’s curves to bounce sinfully.

“Ok enough teasing.” She said with a peal of silvery laughter.

She stretched her arms overhead grinding into him once more before pulling her hair to the side baring her neck. The ravenous sound Astarion made sent a jolt of pleasure zipping through her body. His eyes wide with disbelief, he seemed almost flustered by the gesture, the whisper of a pink blush spreading across his nose to the very tips of his ears. She couldn’t help the gentle smile that tugged at her lips. It was strange to see him this way, with a worried brow and puppy dog eyes. He nuzzled against the hollow of her throat. Placing a lingering kiss over the faded mark of his teeth.

He took her by the shoulders, flipping her onto her back. In one push he hilted himself. Dafni cried out, lifting her hips to meet his. He felt her hands slide up his ribs, traveling ever closer to his back. He pulled back with a start on instinct, wrenching away from her loving caress. She stared at him. Worry flashed across her delicate features. He had hoped to avoid questions but his reaction seemed to have only ignited her insatiable curiosity. He took her hands pinning them over above her head and he laced his fingers through her own as he sunk his teeth into her tender flesh. A sharp exhale fell from Dafni’s lips in response. Whatever questions that she had fallen to the wayside as she writhed beneath him.

The feeling of her blood rushing through both their bodies was intoxicating. Her taste was like pomegranate, bright, and sweet. Though, her flavor was but a small part of the rapturous experience. The joyful presence that surrounded her was dizzying enough on its own but to drink from her went far beyond the playful delight simple proximity brought. She felt like every good thing he had been denied in the last two centuries. He forced himself to pull away despite his instincts begging him to take his fill. He recalled the sleepy delirium that took her the last time. A state that was far from ideal for fornication.

“You are exquisite.”   He gasped,  “ Sunlight made flesh. ”

By the Hells!

Had he said that out loud? He felt the fresh blood in his veins betrayed him, his face growing hot with embarrassment. He tried to look away from her but she reached up brushing his messy white hair away before placing a cautious hand on his mid-back.

“ I want you to look at me ”  She whispered, “ You don’t have to hide from me. Not ever .”

She ran her fingers along his spine feeling the telltale texture of marked flesh. He tensed at first but with a deep breath allowed himself to melt into her soothing touch. He was still holding back. Tucking parts of himself away from her even now. She wouldn't push him no matter how badly she wished to know his every secret. She would simply have to savor the glimpses he allowed her for now and trust he would tell her everything in his own time.

His thrust grew frantic and impassioned. She dug her heels into the base of his spine until his body was flush with her own. He bit down on his lip as he came undone spilling his seed inside her. The feeling of him pulsing inside her pushed her to her climax. A cry broke loose from her that echoed through the trees and what had started as a humble bed of flowers spread across the forest creating a lush meadow. Butterflies of pure light burst into existence.

He lay beside her in silence for a while, staring up at the stars. He felt her slide her warm hand into his own. Her hair tickled his shoulder as she scooted closer, snuggling up at his side. He kissed the top of her head. Her breathing was slow and deep. It seemed she was worn out enough sleep rather than taking her usual trance. It had been a long day. She deserved some rest. He would leave soon but he wanted to savor her for a few moments longer...

[the-odeviant-machine-blog]

Change of Heart

Summary: All you wanted to do was escape the hopelessness and despair, even for just a moment. But you couldn’t possibly have known the impact it would have.

Takes place during Crossroads

Slight Connor x Android Reader

A/N: The song link in the story is a recommendation. Feel free to substitute what ever gets your groove going.

You were short on blue blood and biocomponents. Your wounded were shutting down and there was nothing you could do about it. President Warren had issued an official statement stating you were a threat to national security and needed to be exterminated. Humans were conducting raids in all the big cities and taking androids to camps to destroy them.

Needless to say, it was a very serious situation.

You could see the stress carved into Markus’ face. You could hear the strain in his voice. You’d watched the life fade from the eyes of too many androids to count. You’d hauled away so many biocomponents and mopped up so much thirium you swore your hands were stained blue beneath your skin. All around you, so much death, sorrow, hopelessness. So many newly awakened androids experiencing emotion for the first time only to feel despair.

Needless to say, it was not the kind of situation that called for music.

Or dancing.

Unfortunately for you, your model was designed for entertainment and musical theater. In these trying times, your programming defaulted to various showtunes and inappropriately timed slapstick humor to relieve the tension.

Fortunately for you, the only other androids present when you learned that about yourself were Simon and Markus.

The correction had been firm, but gentle.

You’d gotten very good at curbing your tendencies for showmanship very fast. You were quick, nimble. Built for grace, agility, and extravagant dance numbers. That made you an ideal candidate to lead Jericho’s very own squad of android coyotes. Even North had thought you were crazy when you proposed the idea. When you’d returned to the dilapidated ship less than 24 hours later with a dozen fugitives, nearly all of them changed their tune.

Josh was never any fun anyway.

The soles of your boots skidded on the frozen asphalt as you sprinted across the road, hot on the heels of the three stragglers you’d encountered on your last sweep of the city before Markus locked Jericho down. Good thing you’d found them, too. As hard as you fought to go out one last time, just in case, you didn’t think you could stand the insinuating eyebrow raise you knew you’d get if you turned up empty handed.

Cocky little shit.

“Keep going!” you hissed under your breath, eyes darting side to side for any hint of movement, any miniscule flash of light.

God damned soldiers were everywhere.

They obeyed without question, LEDs spinning red and eyes wide with fear. You felt a pang of regret for the sharpness in your voice. It wasn’t that long ago that you were in their position. But, you didn’t have time to dwell on that now. Jericho was nearly in sight.

“Hold up,” you whisper-shouted, skirting around their hunched figures to peer out of the dark alley the four of you were crouched in and out into the street.

You couldn’t detect any movement, save for the falling snow and the thick, industrial tarps that flapped freely in the wind. With a flex of your fingers and a set of your shoulders, you turned back to the three androids whom you had just met, but that trusted you with their lives.

“We’re almost there,” you said lowly, taking care to keep your voice calm and even. “The docks are at the end of the road. We stick to the shadows, and we stick together. Got it?”

Despite the blind panic written clearly across their faces, they all nodded with an inspiring sense of determination.

“Okay,” you huffed, turning back around and steeling yourself for the run. “Stay close.”

With that, you darted from the cover of the alley and out into the street, strafing along the side of the chain link fence on the opposite side and away from the high floodlights that lined the sides of the buildings. They were brave, you had to give them that. It was with a great sense of pride when you heard three separate, distinct footsteps directly behind you as you broke out onto the docks, the entrance to your refuge in sight.

You didn’t slow down until your feet found the rusted metal floor of the ancient freighter, finally slowing to a jog then brisk walk as you wound your way through the labyrinth of hatches and corridors to the hold. It was bustling with activity inside, androids strewn in every room, on every stairwell, on every walkway. You picked your way through the crowd with your charges in tow, peeking over your shoulder every now and then to make sure you hadn’t lost any of your little ducklings.

“The main group is in here,” you called, the hatch to the hold swinging open with a groan. “Medics are over there, go have yourselves checked out.”

You pointed off to the far corner where opaque white tarps were hung to create a makeshift ER.

“Once you get the green light, make yourselves at home.”

You smiled in response to their tearful thanks, squeezing each of their hands reassuringly before sending them on their way. You watched them go for a moment, allowing yourself a split second of victory before sending a message to Markus that you were back in one piece and with three new recruits. He was quick to respond, but you had already begun to make your way up to the captain’s hold. You knew he’d want a debrief on the situation currently playing out in the streets of Detroit.

You also knew he wouldn’t mind if you took a few much-needed minutes to yourself.

He may not have understood how you handled your stress, but he respected it nonetheless.

You tilted your face skyward as you stepped out onto the deck, eyes slipping closed as you allowed snowflakes to melt on your cheeks while you searched through your archive. Not that you really needed to. You already knew what you were looking for. It was old, a bit dated, probably hadn’t been played on any radio station in decades, but there was just something about it.

It was with great effort that you repressed the urge to sing along with the first harmonized line of vocals as the song began, rolling your head on your shoulders to get the thirium pumping. Eyes still closed, your hips began to move themselves to the beat of the thumping drumline, lips noiselessly moving along with the lyrics. You didn’t think about your movements, you simply let them happen. You let the rhythm of the familiar song carry you away. Away from the disintegrating ship you now called home. Away from the soldiers and the humans. Away from Cyberlife and their hypocrisy.

Your arms floated out to the side, your feet skipping along the slick metal panels that made up the deck. Hips swaying, head swinging, you were free.

“Well done, Connor. You succeeded in locating Jericho and finding their leader. Now, deal with Markus. We need it alive.”

Connor’s dark eyes slipped open, severing the link to Cyberlife. Without so much as a second thought, his fingers wound around the grip of his pistol, pulling the weapon from the waistband of his jeans as he stepped from the darkness. This was it. What he was designed for. What he was programmed for. Every moment of his existence had led up to this moment. He knew what he had to do, and he would not fail. As he stepped dutifully forward, jaw tight, shoulders set, the slightest flicker of moment out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

He couldn’t help his curiosity. He was programmed to be tenacious, to find the little details human investigators could not. It wasn’t his fault, it was his nature.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

But of all the things he had expected to see as he turned his head to investigate, a rogue deviant, a soldier, even Hank, an android dancing whimsically in the snow was not one of them. His Cyberlife instincts had him drawing his gun, had him advancing, had him opening his mouth to bark the order not to move, but that’s where it stopped. His lips parted, yet no sound came out.

It was as though he had fallen into a trance. It was as though all of his programming had been deleted, all of his instructions, his reasons for functioning, for existing, had been wiped clean. He was transfixed by the sight before him, as if it were not real life but he had stepped inside some kind of fantasy. Sharp lines blurred, colors swirled together, and at the center of it all, an android. One he had never seen before. It wasn’t Markus, he knew that. It was a hard, indisputable fact.

Yet, he still felt as if this was the android he had been sent to Jericho to find.

It was with clouded judgement that, in a moment of insatiable curiosity, he reached out and discreetly accessed their audio synthesizer. He still hadn’t had much of an opportunity to listen to music, except for the music Hank blasted at a volume that couldn’t be safe for human ears in the car. But in that moment, he was grateful. As the melody filled his head, he was grateful that this, here in the snow, pistol still gripped firmly in hand in front of him, was his first real musical experience. He was truly lost, now. Lost to the rhythm of the unfamiliar song, lost to the fluid, mystifying movements of this intriguing stranger.

They were drifting closer now, their carefree undulations carrying them across the deck of the large ship and towards the captain’s hold where he knew Markus waited. It was only a matter of time before they noticed him, before they sounded the alarm and he was swarmed with hundreds, possibly thousands of deviants.

But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to move. He couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the enchanting sight before him. Even as the stranger danced closer, and closer, until they were mere feet away, until he could reach out and take their hand in his. He froze at the thought, unsure of where it had come from.

What was happening to him?

The frightened gasp snapped him out of his head, eyes refocusing to stare down the barrel of his gun at the wide eyes of the dancing android.

You could feel the tension drain from your system, trickling down your arms and legs to leave your body as you twisted and spun gracefully across the open space. It had been so long since you’d had this opportunity, since you’d been alone and free to be yourself without the burden of purpose you had eagerly accepted and wouldn’t hesitate to accept again. You would never regret your choices, but you’d learned to take whatever time for yourself that you could find.

For those few minutes, the imminent possibility of extinction didn’t hang over your head like a dark, heavy cloud, sparking and crackling with the thunderstorm that threatened to devastate you all. For those few minutes, you had no other responsibility or obligation than to dance like an idiot. What was it the humans said…

To dance like nobody is watching.

You were nearing the captain’s hold, and the sad end of your few minutes of reprieve from the shit storm your life had become. For those last few bars, you didn’t hold back, skipping and floating across the deck as light as a feather and as carefree as a bird, giving it everything you right up until the end as the song faded away once again into silence. You allowed yourself just one, last moment of peace, a satisfied smile stretching across your face as your arms dropped to your side.

Right. Back to work.

You set your shoulders with a huff, snapping your eyes open and preparing to for the short trek to where Markus waited for you, but sight you were met with rooted you firmly in place. You couldn’t stop the surprised, panicked gasp that escaped your throat, eyes widening in shock as you found yourself face to face, or, rather, face to gun barrel, with the deviant hunter himself.

The seconds ticked by, each one slower than the last. You stared at him, and he stared back at you. Each, excruciating moment you waited for the click of the trigger, for the blast of gunpowder, for the inevitable moment that you would either cease to exist or be dragged away to a recycling camp. But as each moment passed, nothing happened. As your racing mind slowed and your jumbled thoughts disentangled themselves, you could see the conflict in his eyes, on his face. You could see the hesitation and slight tremor in the gun he pointed at your face.

He started as if he had suddenly realized you had spotted him, eyes following yours to drop to the pistol he gripped in his hand as if he suddenly realized he still held it. Another moment passed, and slowly the round barrel dropped away from your face, his eyes still staring at the weapon as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. As it fell to his side, he turned his face back to you, still confused, conflicted, but with fresh purpose, fresh life blooming deep in his eyes. You weren’t expecting him to speak, so you nearly didn’t catch his words as they tumbled hesitantly from his lips.

“They’re going to attack Jericho.”

[chimchimssenpai-blog]

Alexandra Wallace Smith's Idea of Privacy

My sister is striking. All the ladies in our own family are. My Aunt Magdalene was notably stunning too. They have spitfire personalities. Daddy, you know, you of all understand my moved quickly notes, the journals that I even have kept from youth continued to beyond, the magazine, the rejected novel, the reckoning, the poems that I've scribbled, misplaced, that point and electricity and ego forgot. Then there are the black Croxley notebooks. I am decided to keep that away from you, and from the relaxation of the world for good.

Muirhead wounded me Loose Diamonds. I consider all his ladies inside the workplace area in Johannesburg earlier than I got here home to my formative years home in Port Elizabeth anxious to death of falling pregnant. Having a child out of wedlock. Becoming a unmarried parent and raising a child on my own with little or no cash. I rarely made any money or had an income to aid a child. How they included him, laughed at his jokes, how they positioned him on a pedestal, how they worshiped him, how they sat opposite him in fancy Johannesburg restaurants ingesting their cabernet or merlot. Thinking ladies, stunning ladies, women with youngsters, naivety and sexual inexperience (although the sexual impulse, the sexual power become there) on their aspect. How he winded hem up as if they may be electric powered dolls. I heated up the livers, mushrooms and bacon, the leftovers, scrambled the eggs and listened to the morning information on the radio. The bus coming in from Port Elizabeth to Johannesburg had flipped into the air off the highway. There have been no fatalities. The plums have been juicy and sweet. I might store them for lunch. I sat at the kitchen desk, buttered my toast, drank my lukewarm coffee, crossed my legs, scratched my knee absentmindedly and stared out of the window. The breakfast's grease turned into stuck to the pan. I should forget about about it. And the extra aware I became of the sky, the environment, the internal, the more conscious I have become of who created the invention, vision, dream, aim, and stop of this line of sky, of blue, of this author, this tortured poet, this fowl?

I felt his hand intimately as if it become a dream and then not anything. I felt ashamed.

The dream girl after leaving Johannesburg turned into a lady. She again to the coast, to her father's house, her mother's kitchen, her mom's expertise and the thrones of her early life persevered, to the artwork of a coronary heart undone. She again to the coast in which water may be discovered in wild places, where tides had been difficulty to trade, to the location where she spent magnificent blue hours staring up on the sky. She had her books. Her index finger could linger on the backbone in her father's grand observe, his library, and his 'London enjoy'. The residence changed into dilapidated. It changed into in a awful way. The tiles had been falling off the wall in the kitchen. The partitions needed a lick of paint. The interiors had been in need of restore. The whole house needed to be renovated. The dream woman had back. The dream female become also decided to alternate. She also desired to be heroic, angelic and magical.

Writing approximately grief is one of the maximum hard matters I have ever needed to do. Nerves I could fathom as I stood in front of them however what I without a doubt desired to do became break out. Everybody constantly speaks approximately the miracle of existence at a funeral. When death can pay a visit there's no apprehension about discussing what track to play while the coffin is decreased, what hymns might be played, what verse will be examine out of the bible, and who will make the potato salad.

Ocean of beads. Not intended to last long on this lifetime or the next. The people of South Africa are like that. My city is a dignified town filled with church human beings. In Central you'll locate the fine women within the international. They will detach themselves from feminism, and the tigers that come at night time, their competitors in a finite time and location. They are moneyed. Drugs have destroyed the very art in their soul. Every gram in their spirits have wasted away. Muirhead. Flesh have come earlier than you and after. The most exquisite elements of you portioned off like cubicles in an office space. Tell me the whole lot you need me to be I could have stated in my twenties. This doesn't need to be the give up of it however it's far. It is. And still I say allow it not be so. So comic. So tragic. I stand on this ice residence. In this residence from hell. Pale. The origins of smoke and mirrors, the cosmic bloodlines of my creativeness, may be seen thru the embodiment and timeline of my flesh.

Paper thin skating on ice is what I've yearned for my complete existence. Not to fail, no longer to discriminate, but to create art within the landscape of suicidal depression and contamination. All poetry and poetic justice seems to ask of us is to have a decided lust for lifestyles. I nonetheless need to familiarise myself with rituals that I found so comforting in childhood. Norma Jean where are you, where do you discover yourself now, who are you and what's that golden mirrored image staring lower back at you? Is there whatever more seductive than insanity, than being blonde and being favored via the world at big, to be quiet approximately your philosophy on existence, your starving targets to be a author and a poet? To triumph like you've got triumphed Norma Jean is to chortle within the face of men and women, of presidents, of feminists, to snigger in the face of the adversity that they have got confronted. No remember how quick, how solitary ecstasy is one can't get away its urgency, its survival manual, that stain of love no matter how powerful and sparkling it is probably, how dwindled it'd make you experience in the long run, you may discover that that revel in turned into worth it. I left the insanity and the heat of the city in the back of me in my early twenties. It will go away you superbly grown now.

The universe is sweeter, purer, greater honourable and I am less haunted, less ghostlike, much less transparent, baffled via denial. I cannot erase the treasured of life anymore and the fragility of it. How crushed and petrified my spirit once changed into. Am I, become I ever simply loved? The women round me in life, in the place of business, within the sphere of immediate own family were introspective cohorts. I am exhausted of writing about preference and that is the reality of the problem due to the fact in some manner it is invincible like scrapbooking on whatever at the inked tattooed patchwork planet that you stay in. I've end up a primitive girl in green spaces, inexperienced feasts of them, and foundations of iciness timber of them. I've grow to be an invention of a modern lady. The invention of the width of the thread of the other girl in a land that time forgot. What are the lyrics once more to that music? What are the lines that point forgot in that journal on the ones cold, harsh blue, blue traces? I am bored with feeding the beasts galore but should not angels usually be defended? Who or what in essence defines an angel? An angel is the unseen, the invisible correct and no person can hardwire your mind like God can.

And what's choice truly? Smoke and honey within the dance of anger, intimacy, duplicity and deception and the everlasting obsession of all those matters. It is meant for the gamine, the airy, and the otherworldly, the mystical woman. The adolescent. Children are intended for women and what takes place when you want writing about loss of life. For me I value feedback on dying, on eternity, at the paradise of heaven, the recognition-thinking in wishful questioning, the curious creatures that volcano human beings are and the many faces of saints. I've usually believed in angels. The dwelling keep on living whilst the dead turn to dirt. There's a dark aching, a canvas on which to play on, the haunting ache in my brother's soul is the identical ache which I actually have in my very own. There's a ghost state in my head. The faculties, the rooms, and all the white walled interiors of my imagination. And if I near my eyes I can consider all of our contours and the blue sharp mild poured into the cages of the heavenly sky. The lover and the mother and the drowning blossom that become me. Dirt swimming-swimming in a watery spool gene pool of garbage. The dying of a pet and a poet portray this elusive world with lucid thought styles.

Does decay, blood and the darkish each get lonely and the groom with the unspoken ardour he has for his bride? The bride in her wedded bliss. In her impossible high-heeled footwear. So I turned into there in spirit. If fish kissed oxygen they might surely die. Their pomegranate gills snuffed out of lifestyles. What are the grains of poverty? Where do they lay? Are they sequestered? Their souls lie in South Africa, perhaps even take root there. Roots tapping into the lifestyles of the soil, the subculture of the earth, tapping into the burden of water, or squalor (whichever it reaches first beneath the situations), keeping the fragility of phones as existence buoys, unspecified social media is the new sexy, tapping into religious poverty, the cemeteries of poverty, of the bone-tired. What sweetness! The unknown comes with anticipation. The anticipation of the attention of marvel and the prying eyes of society. Where does my soul lie? It lay with you for a while I bet. Sated bride, uninvolved girl, splendor meeting the stunning middle of a masculine identification, and the physical frame of a mysterious wellspring of the intelligence of the alternative of sexuality.

Alone, given way to non secular abandonment, inhibitory nostalgia and the holiest of holies privacy, and with the solitude status that includes intimacy I consider you. You burnt via. You not anything however a burnt and melted fragment yet still dispelling radiance. You like the crested burnt cease of a matchstick. Sooty cinders within the fire. Cinders from the coal. Cinders and smoke from your freshly lit cigarette. Give me mouth to mouth resuscitation so I can be brought back to life, your existence. I assume that the only aspect that genuinely mattered in the long run, and that was product of a substance that might be harvested from the cells of a everyday fact turned into inside the steps of Jean Rhys's haunting vulnerability. The haunting vulnerability of all ladies. I can see it in their eyes, their manner they keep themselves responsible to shielding themselves from being put on show if it is not on their phrases, the lengthy street in their guarded pilgrimage into humanity, spirituality. Gods to be made from their reflections interior of the looking glass. I marvel the way to prevent stammering. How to break out into letter-writing. If I cannot get away into love, its poetic grace, mercy and use.

Into wincing at its threshold of pain and but comprehending it at the equal time. Comprehending the sun, moon and big name fabric, the summer season's son and his empire. And so begins the letter to a brother in rehabilitation. Brother and anchor. The 'filthy special' ceramic little Buddha pottering around. You had been the anchor that cemented me, my symphony, my tool, my common aim, my oracle, my ardour. You had been my one direction to comply with homeward sure. What is living in the coronary heart is this. The walls of a garden manufactured from brick and mortar, stone and the whole thing this is recuperation. Winter timber and Whitman. It is time for the display, finding Isaiah within the gritty switch of the loophole. Why did not you come back once? Why did not you write as soon as healthy specimen of ownership, what's the tragedy of all of it however are you satisfied, refreshed by way of all the seeds, roots, vegetation and stems? I stared and stared at the photograph of him and questioned on the tragedy of all of it. Speechless earlier than the photo evaporates completely something takes location and soon the whole lot unearths its area on impartial ground, in gravity, in the world or in soil. There is no promise in the dying of the solar handiest the angelic, the whispers underfoot.

There is new life in vegetation, in love, in empathy and the ardour that humanity has for empathy. Everything frail earlier than it's far misplaced. Lost to the dark. What is black and what is darkish? Is it one and the same? The smell of cinnamon and bark. Salt and light. The colour of the day, dawn breaking into fragments. The stillness of the air. What are you manufactured from Mr. Muirhead? Skin and bone, flesh and tissue, a succession of the physical melting away around you to your immediate surroundings? The noise to your head, in that rush, are you able to feel it on your blood, that instance of possession. Where to from right here from following a street map into the complex intrigue of a sheltered formative years endured, and there I observed love. In the behaviour of an artist at paintings, the supply of verbal exchange, the self-portrait of human capital, the entirety heightened whilst it's illuminated as an instance visions of the cosmos disintegrating, collapsing below meteors on film. Drawings of earth's destruction, the bride of technological improvements, the use of the psychological framework of what got here before the humanity as we knew it as youngsters and as we get older, end up human beings with our very own thoughts to returned up our values we alternate, and we alternate the sector around us. We have Sci-fi to thank for that, Kubrick and Spielberg.

'Do no longer lecture me. You do not know anything about my scars.' My brother tells me. He says it together with his eyes too and I see a wild blue sky. Its journey is electrical in which its routes have become as important as the destinations of a diamond in the tough. Through the looking glass's façade comes the first harm, the poetry of my early twenties. Every family is dysfunctional of their personal manner. We live in a stressful society. I seem to have been born with this intuition to be considerate and touchy, knowledge and caring to others who appear to be in a less privileged role than I am but it has include a rate. My brother along with his cigarettes, stale smoke and moustache and the younger woman on his arm who herself is a fragile beauty. They are both stuck up in contemplative noise. They have discovered themselves only to fall amongst the stars. So I am left in mourning for what has been misplaced for each of them. A formative years.

'But I love you. Please don't do that.' I say in return and I see a revolution taking location inside him, the insufferable heaviness, and the uncivilised not anything of an echo vibrating like a shell casing. Something is let loose and communicated to me. Something bittersweet and sour.

And so I go back to love, loss and the elated appreciate I actually have of both of them. There is something inside each the innerness of the equipment for eternity (there is no bodily frame required for eternity, handiest the spirit, the soul, and kindred). There's an equilibrium inside the territory of the vacancy every so often determined in a human vessel after the sexual transaction and a symphony. Rhys's transactions and now I even have turn out to be really like her. I think that I have misplaced myself inside the very last analysis the preference to emerge as desirable. What would Moses do? I wouldn't be able to pick up the smartphone and speak to him up. He might pray in the desert history he found himself in. There become not anything else he may want to do inside the occasions he found himself in. He had a flame within himself that burned bright. Romance well what can I say except what a harsh experience that was. It become hellish. Love is a posed interlude, a pause among  acts, oh the way it modifications the entirety approximately a bleak international enjoy, materialism, values, poverty, and that high commodity of spirituality. You could be as lovely to me now as you'll be in old age. I will do not forget you, wish for you, and that this romance will move ahead and go on and on however my soul lies in South Africa in which the ache of the mind may be greater devastating, felt greater acutely than the pain of the body. What taints the ache of a toddler feeling that another sibling has taken her region, overshadowed her. Let me now look at that distillate.

[triscribe]

Quill the Living Planet

Summary: Hundreds of years after the rest of Guardians are dead and gone, Peter Quill remains. He decides to give being a planet a try.

Rocket was the first to go, his fur long turned to a mix of white and pale grey. Rather than admit to the growing weakness of his limbs and eyes, the feisty little bugger went out in a blaze of glory, blowing up himself and a ship full of Skrull slaver-scientists. They gave him a Ravager funeral, figuring he’d appreciate explosions made in his honor.

Drax went next. It surprised everyone - they thought he would go down in the same manner as Rocket, fighting to his last. Instead, he slipped away in his sleep one night, found the next morning with a content smile on his face. They burned his body, and scattered the ashes on his deserted homeworld, to rest with his wife and daughter.

Mantis died a decade later, helping to ease the passing of others in a refugee hospital on a planet caught up in civil war. With the others fighting on the battlefield, she had no one to tell her to stop, to take a break. Instead, she absorbed as much pain from the fatally wounded as possible, until she just... Stopped. They buried her on a quiet planet the next star system over, one where flowers tinkled like bells in the wind.

Gamora joined them after many years, injured while guiding escaped slaves to safety on a Kree colony world. Her body’s modifications only helped so much, allowing her to keep pushing on long after she should’ve stopped to rest. By the time she collapsed, there was nothing more that could be done to repair the damage. They gave her a traditional funeral of her people, on Zen-Whoberi’s remaining moon.

Nebula faded within the same year - she simply stopped giving her own mods the meticulous care she had in days past, which meant the effects of old wounds soon caught up with her. They put her to rest next to her sister.

It was several decades before the next death, that of Merdu Udonta Quill, Peter and Gamora’s son. He left behind a Terran wife and seven children: Ditha, Yon, Lini, Hethe, Ket, Tis, and Neba. They, along with his father and walking plant of an uncle, summoned the one hundred Ravager Clans for a Captain’s Funeral.

A few centuries later, it was finally Groot’s turn. He’d grown into a huge form, bigger than the one he’d had when the Guardians all first met - one capable of holding up a whole village’s worth of terrified people as the ground beneath shuddered and spewed molten rock. Evacuation ships were able to get all the civilians out of harm’s way by the time he finally collapsed, grinning at his victory. There was nothing left to give a funeral to, but that didn’t stop the planet’s entire population from throwing an annual garden festival in his honor.

After that, Peter was more alone than he’d felt in ages. His descendants were scattered across the star lanes, some aware of their relation to him, many not. A few galactic governments, those of Xandar and Terra and so on, remembered his name, enough to be polite and welcoming when he showed up within their borders. Most places, though, had forgotten who he was; there were only legends among spacefarers of the ‘Starlord,’ who wandered from system to system, searching for the family who’d left him behind.

Part of him laughed at the irony.

Another part contemplated how to destroy himself, and so rejoin his loved ones, wherever they were.

The greatest part of his mind, however, wondered what it would be like to be a planet.

So, he found a solar system with a young sun, picked an orbit just close enough to it for a decent amount of warmth, and got to work. It took a long time to build a decent-sized shell around himself, and longer to sort out what features he wanted on his surface and where to put them. By the time settlers began to arrive, though (grandchildren of his grandchildren’s grandchildren, called by the songs sent out to every corner of the galaxy), Peter was ready. Planet Quill was ready.

There were two large bodies of saltwater: the Draxian Ocean (situated right on the equator, so the currents were always warm) and the Nebula Sea (further to the north, where it seasonally froze over, but was always lit from within by glowing kelp). Across the continents were numerous freshwater lakes and rivers, each named for either one of Peter’s grandkids or a Ravager who’d been decent to him growing up on the Eclector. They all flowed together into the massive Merdu River, which continued on down to the shore of the Draxian. In the very center of the ocean was the Island of Mantis, where the ground was soft enough for bare feet, every tree bore sweet fruit, and the pink flowers all tinkled like bells in the wind.

There was also the Forest of Groot, full of trees with friendly faces, which produced glowing spores every night and little white flowers every spring. Just south of it was the Rocket Desert: by day, an unfriendly mass of dusty scrubland and deep ravines, full of downright hostile cacti covered in sharp, black and brown bristles. At night, however, all manner of small, curious creatures came out of their dens, water welled up from depressions in the ground, and electric sparks danced along the edges of dangerous drop-offs as a warning. Even the bristles of the cacti drooped, becoming soft to touch and revealing tiny, bright orange flowers, which produced bitter seed pods that could be brewed into an invigorating drink.

In the east there was a great wide plain, the Gamoran Grassland, covered in pale green grass with silver veins running through the stalks. Here and there grew flowers of red and pink petals, which parted when picked to produce some lyric of a lively song. To the north were the Yondu Mountains, made of a vibrant blue stone and capped by groves of a tall, bright red reed plant that whistled even when the wind didn’t blow.

Nestled in the very center of the mountain range was the City of Meredithen, the planet’s capital, a place that practically glowed from how much hope and happiness lived there. Further away was the settlement of Kraglintown, where members of the Ravager Clans and the sorts of folk who catered to them were always welcome - provided they didn’t break anything or anyone, of course.

The skies were filled with birds of orange and blue feathers, called Milanos, that soared endlessly through the clouds and were thought to bring good luck to any ship they decided to dance around.

Underground was an expansive network of crystal-lit tunnels, large enough for multiple lanes of traffic and connecting every settlement and city sector, with more than a few hotels, pit stops, and mushroom farms along the way.

Planet Quill became haven and home to many, who developed a culture blended from their own pasts as well as what their protector, Peter Starlord, shared with them from his own. Song was a favored form of subtle (and not-so-subtle) communication, between lovers, rivals, neighbors and so on. The Walkmen, a group made up of people of all genders, were honored performers and storytellers, who came in two kinds: the generalists, who could work in any situation, and the specialists, who would attend events of their field, such as birthday parties, coming-of-age celebrations, weddings, festivals, or funerals. They were as close to a Priesthood of Quill that the Starlord would allow.

Though he avoided becoming mixed up with his people’s political climate too often, there was one law that Peter insisted upon: that all citizens of the planet from age eight and up learn at least one form of combat, be it hand-to-hand, with a specific form of weaponry, or from within an armed craft. As such, the first and only time an invading force entered the airspace above Meredeen, they were summarily handed their asses and kicked back into space. Every other government in the galaxy took note, and the Quillian homeworld was not bothered again.

Had he kept his consciousness in the planet’s core more often than not, there was every possibility Peter would have become a true god to his people, revered and honored by those who lived upon his surface. Instead, he made sure to constantly walk among them in his human form, wearing heavy boots, work pants, a grimy t-shirt, and old red leather trench coat; cracking jokes, sharing stories and songs, and making sure to regularly visit Kraglintown to hang out with visiting Ravagers. Everyone he spent time with, he insisted either address him as Peter or Grandpa, depending on whether or not he could sense they were a Starling, a descendant of his. More than once, he’d been mistaken for a particularly over-the-top Walkman - when corrected, those people usually tried to make up for their error by praising him, often citing their admiration of his heroics with the other Guardians eons earlier. Peter had a standard response to that: “Nah, we weren’t heroic - we were losers who just happened to be in the right place at the right time, with enough collective decency in us to do the right thing. Which, really, is all anyone can hope to do.”

It was well-known throughout the civilized universe that one did not mess with travelling Quillians, because they were even crazier than the average Terran: pulling insane stunts to save the lives of complete strangers, and taking down jackasses who threatened honest folk, from street bullies to intergalactic terrorists. They were a world of lunatics, and proud of it.

Eventually, long after Planet Quill was first formed, when the sun it orbited was no longer young, Peter met one of his many-times-great-grandchildren who possessed the powers of a Celestial. Her skin was dark green; her hair was a blend of shimmering blues; her eyes were solid purple all the way through.

Her name was Yondi, of the Neb-Quill line.

It wasn’t long before people began to call her the Starchild.

In her youth, she spent a lot of time learning from Peter. As an adult, she roamed the universe, battled some monsters, stopped an apocalypse or three, even served as a crewmember with about half of the Ravager Clans. When she felt ready to finally settle down, Yondi returned to her Grandpa’s planet. She went down to the very center, where his core consciousness rested, and carefully, cautiously... Took Over.

Planet Quill, overall, suffered a few minor earthquakes, a temporary slowing of its orbit. Afterward, though, the people continued to have a Celestial wander amongst them, the Starchild smiling and singing and keeping watch over her own descendants.

As for Peter, well, he finally got to move on: to endure shoulder-smacks from Kraglin and his original Ravager friends. Lean against Groot’s bark; rub Rocket’s fur. Press foreheads with Mantis; offer Nebula a simple nod. Get his ribs bruised by a hug from Drax; have the pain disappear after kissing Gamora. Exchange hugs and grins with his son, daughter-in-law, and seven grandkids.

Embrace his mom.

And of course, smack Yondu, call him a jerk, and then wrap his arms around the blue doofus as tightly as possible.

After that, he sat down and told them all about the cool shit he’d made back on Planet Quill.