#this got a bit longer than i intended so

[amplichor]

[ stormy ] sender arrives at receiver's doorstep soaking wet

sᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ . / accepting

caliginous , is that how you see it ? a painter gone blind , a pallet made monochromatic . pigments mix , blend into a messy gradient of gray fading into black . but it still reaches into your chest , holds the heart hostage : IT FORCES EMOTION . 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 . a mist , a drizzle , the downpour . [ . . . ] there ' s a 𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 against the window , it echoes & * lets itself into the apartment , into the silence like a ghost calling 𝙃𝙊𝙈𝙀 . the rain has it ' s own song , a lullaby : melancholy in the bones , soaked with memories that are hanging ' round like ornaments : meant to be packed away , lost among the rose color nostalgia .

she can feel his presence before he ' s even knocked at the door , it ' s the cursed energy that you ' d know anywhere . it ' s troublesome , the deep blue that will swallow you up with no hesitation like a wave , a riptide . seaglass , sharp when it cuts against the auric nature of your own energy . ( it ' s ɑ protuberɑnce )

he doesn ' t need to knock . he knows that doesn ' t he ? he must , because it never comes [ . . . ] perhaps because utahime is already yanking at the door . fuming would be the wrong word : too harsh . 𝒗𝒆𝒙𝒆𝒅 may be a better discriptor , for her lips are already turned d o w n in a frown , facial expression flat & * even unamused . an overcast covers her . however nothing could have prepared you for what your gaze eats at .

just over the threshold , @eterxeo stands 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 , absolutely soaked : as if he ' s been submerged .

❛ does your limitless not keep you dry ? ❜ inquiry passes lips as she opens the door a little more -- acting as an invitation 𝐢𝐧 , even if it ' s a bad idea . ( give him an inch & * he ' ll take a mile . )

[elitadream]

Going anon for this one because I was feeling embarrassed but I also gotta know-- How did you manage to leave the Mario fandom? You seemed really passionate about it, and your posts were some of the best I've seen and read. What made you able to stop and focus on other things? Asking because as a small writer I kinda wanna do the same but I fear losing the few followers I have, so I feel stuck.

Do you have any advice for me?

Hi. ☺️ Thanks for reaching out!

While I wouldn't say I entirely left the Mario fandom (as I still have a genuine fondness for the games and part of the lore), I did let go of it quite a bit as an artist and I appreciate that you sought my perspective on what is a rather complex and delicate issue. 🤲

Fanwork and involvement in itself can be really fun and quite harmless when done right, but there are three things that I believe should always be kept in mind when participating more actively:

1- You are not getting paid for what you do. A vast majority of creators online receive absolutely no compensation for their contribution, and those that do usually obtain it strictly through commissions. For the most part, it's hours of hard work spent creating and then sharing content for free. And while this isn't inherently problematic per say, it's important to never lose sight of what your efforts go into and in what way it benefits you (or not).

2- There are thousands upon thousands of communities out there, for nearly every subject imaginable. The one(s) you're currently focusing on may mean the world to you right now, but that could very well change tomorrow, or next year. My point being: it's nice to have a notable passion towards something, but I don't think we should let it reach a point where it takes up all the room and seeps into our every waking thought. Being open to discovering and learning about other things can be an eye-opening experience, and having different interests is very good for the mind.

3- Views and likes don't matter at the end of the day. They really, truly don't. They won't make a significant impact in your life nor bring anything substantial to the table. Essentially, it all circles back to why you're creating something and who you're making it for. Having followers can be very exciting and uplifting for sure... But it shouldn't be your sole motivation for staying in a fandom, because chances are this will make you very unhappy longterm. If you want to draw or write about something, please do it for yourself above all. It's the only lasting way you'll get a genuine sense of joy and gratification out of it, trust me.

As far as the online experience goes, I consider friends and enthusiastic exchanges about common interests to be THE ultimate purpose of any community. Not fanwork. Not the followers count. Only good vibes. And the greatest thing about this is, the close friends you make will stay with you no matter what you choose to focus on next, I can assure you that. 💫💙

[a-most-beloved-fool]

Vulcan tails! I love giving Vulcans tails. But, because I am a writer more than an artist, I am cursed to think of The Implications™. So, have some headcanons. (i think there was a different one of these not too long ago, too, but i figure more can't possibly hurt!)

Prehensile - it is fully maneuverable and can be used to grasp small-ish objects. It's pretty thin, though, so it can't hold much more than 20 pounds. (even that seems like a stretch to me, with how long and thin they're usually drawn, but Vulcans are stronger than humans, so let's indulge.)

Telepathically sensitive! Not as sensitive as fingers or qui'lari, maybe, but still pretty sensitive. Compatible minds could meld using only tail contact, even if they're not the most telepathically proficient. Most of that sensitivity is concentrated near the tip, but in instances where the tail must be partially amputated for some reason, the telepathic centers have been known to redevelop farther up, on the new tip.

Tails are kept wrapped around the body (like a belt, typically, but there may be different styles of wearing them) the majority of the time. This is partially inspired by fanart, and partially because wrapping the tail around something is a Very Good Way to keep it still through emotions.* (I've seen it suggested that Vulcans would simply amputate tails as infants, but I Do Not agree with that, simply because I think that cutting perfectly functional body parts off of people without their consent is Horrifically Immoral, and also? inherently illogical? Like what do you mean you're chopping off their limb??? what if they want it later? it can't just grow back! wtf??? Cardassians might cut off tails, Vulcans Would Not. You could argue that the tails are usually kept tucked away beneath clothes, though, if you want an excuse for "no visible tail". You could also maybe argue that those who completed kolinahr would get their tails removed as a symbol of the removal of emotions, but tbh i don't like that much, either.)

I think I saw a different headcanon list somewhere on here which suggested that very young Vulcans might hang onto the tails of their parents, and I do like that concept. It's very cute. So, yes, tails are often used when caring for small children. They probably offer some kind of emotional support to Vulcans young enough to not have developed their controls yet. A telepathic pacifier or comfort blanket, if you will.

The V'Tosh Ka'tur (Vulcans without logic, like Sybok) advocate for tails to be freed. Sometimes Vulcan punks will experiment with their tails loosed as a form of rebellion. There's a whole underground movement about it.

There's an ongoing debate about whether tail use should be allowed during certain sports and gymnastics. It does help with balance, for example, but critics suggest that it's unfair to allow tail use when some Vulcan athletes will still refuse to use their tails for spiritual/Surakian reasons. They say it offers an unfair advantage to those who use tails, at the cost of more conservative Vulcans. Others say that it's illogical to ban the use of a natural body part that they almost universally possess.

(speaking of "universally possess" - I'm toying with the idea that the tail kind of begins as an umbilical cord? so before the child is born, it connects the infant to its mother, and after it's born, the cord develops bones and cartilage and transforms into another limb. idk how much sense that makes, but i like the concept.)

Because Vulcans keep their tails so contained, sometimes aliens don't realize that they have them. They assume that they're just an unusual belt that Vulcans are particularly fond of. More than one has been utterly shocked to see this supposed article of clothing twitch on its own! (sometimes, particularly young or rebellious Vulcans will deliberately play this prank on people.)

The VSA bans all tail use for tasks in their laboratories (both chemical and engineering) after a number of unfortunate accidents involving dropped specimens and tails caught in machinery. Space-OSHA is very strict about tail PPE. Tails must stay beneath the lab coat at all times!

Pre-Surakian theater often had blocking instructions for tails written into the script. The first time a modern troupe put on one of these productions, the controversy became the talk of the planet for weeks.

Similarly, pre-Surakian paintings and sculpture had a strong emphasis on tails. However, the tails were particularly prone to breaking off of the sculptures (they are very thin, after all), and large amounts of academic discussion have gone into attempting to restore the tails accurately. Unfortunately, it can be difficult to tell what position the tails would have been held in. There are only a handful of sculptures which have remained completely intact, and their tail positions are not consistent enough to provide a template, so many statue recreations are forced to guess. Some academics also suggest that there was a movement nearly 1000 years previously to deliberately remove tails from statues and destroy them!

At least one (non-percussive) musical instrument exists which requires use of a tail to play it properly.

Underground Vulcan clubs often feature risque tail dancing. This is less controversial than the plays, simply because it's not officially sanctioned and is considered to be a "display of skill and sensuality" rather than an expression of emotions.

*this has been haunting me with another silly spirk fic idea I don't yet have time to write, which is below:

Spock's tail, which is usually kept wrapped around his waist (save for when it's in use holding things), gets badly injured during a landing party. Some of the bones are broken, and because the bones are small and finicky, a good chunk of the healing needs to be done via a good old fashioned cast.

Meaning: Spock can no longer keep it wrapped around his waist.

And, having a free-hanging tail for the first time since he was three-ish, Spock learns that he is Very Bad at keeping tabs on it. Whenever he's focused on any sort of project, his tail has a mind of its own, and, naturally, it reacts most strongly to Kirk. Sometimes it wags when Kirk smiles at him, and nearly every time Kirk is close enough to him, it drifts over to touch him. They do reports together one night, and Spock's tail finds its way to Kirk's lap, and Spock, too focused on his work, doesn't notice that it's there for over an hour. Kirk does notice, and deliberately doesn't draw Spock's attention to it.

Kirk (pining) is trying his very best to not read too much into things (and is failing. oh boy does he want it to Mean Something). Spock (also pining) is just about at his wit's end trying to figure out how to control his wayward tail (because he doesn't want people to realize that it Means Something). Everyone else just finds the whole situation very cute (because they all knew from the start that the emotions were there).

[good-beanswrites]

Fe Aspec Week Day 4: Acceptance

This week on I Accidentally Made Myself Sad With My Own Angst :( As much as I know Forsyth would be the most accepting person in all of Valentia, I think his own insecurities/mindset would cause a bit of tension during his childhood with Python. It has a happy ending but I wanted to explore just a bit of that first...

“Python!” 

Forsyth’s tiny hands trembled, clutching the gift that he’d bought with his very own money. His father didn't need to know.

Python scrambled down the big oak tree to meet him. He tugged at the dress his father probably made him wear for the holiday. His hair had already come loose from it's braid, likely caught on the twigs and leaves of the tree. Forsyth waited anxiously at it's base for him to come down.

When he arrived, Forsyth shoved the box forward. He startled both of them with the force of it.

“I – I – I have this. For you. Will you – I mean – I would –” Forsyth’s cheeks burned red. It was clear what he was asking. There would be no other reason you’d give someone a perfectly wrapped package of sweets on the Day of Devotion unless you were asking them the question.

Python looked down at it. The two had been friends for so long, it took only a second for Forsyth to understand exactly what it meant. 

“Oh…” He felt his stomach twist up in a knot. His throat started to constrict. “I know Father doesn’t like you, but he doesn’t much like anyone. S-so we can make it work!”

“Fors…”

“We could keep it a secret!” Then, in desperation, “we could – we could run away together!”

“Fors!” Python whined. “C’mon, you know we’re too young for that!” With one hand he took the chocolates, and the other took Forsyth's arm. “We’re supposed to be climbing trees and playing pranks on Teacher – not doing gushy grown-up love stuff.”

Forsyth bit his lip. He didn’t think it was gushy at all. He didn’t trust his voice to speak; with one word he may just start bawling right here. The last thing he needed was to be scolded for being so emotional. 

Python beamed as if he hadn’t just shattered Forsyth’s heart into a million pieces. “Let’s just take it slow, okay? We’ll have plenty of time for all that when we’re older, okay?”

He coaxed a small nod from Forsyth.

“Speaking of! I heard Teach left the schoolhouse window open – have I got the perfect plan! We’ll share the chocolates after, okay? You’re my best friend, we should split them.”

I don’t want to split them. Forsyth let himself be tugged along. I wanted to give them all to you. To give everything to you.

He grit his teeth as they ran. He wasn’t the type to accept defeat after a small setback like this. So, Python wasn’t ready. That was fine. One day he would be. And Forsyth would be there. It was like every book he’d read: the steadfast knight would get the beautiful lover, if he was just patient enough.

He said a quick prayer to Mila, that one day they’d stop being friends, and true love would win out.

—

“Python!”

Forsyth’s hands trembled, his fists balled up in fury. 

“I am sick and tired of this.”

“Oh you’re tired of this? Then quit fucking confessing every single year. Every year it’s the same speech, and the same shitty plan to run away together. We’re not in some fairy tale, Fors. Just give it up.” Python moved to take a sip from his drink, turning his back. Though they’d both come of age, it wasn’t ale. Though it wasn’t ale, they both spoke as loudly as if they’d each had a barrel to drink. It was a good thing Python’s father was out all night; there was no one in the tiny house to hear them argue.

Forsyth grabbed the cup away before he could take a sip. It earned him a hard look, but a direct one. “I’m not tired of confessing, I’m tired of this type of disrespect!” He placed the drink down a foot away. “You can’t just be honest with me and tell me why I’m not good enough for you – it’s infuriating!”

“I am honest. I’ve told you, this has nothing to do with you. It’s me who–”

“Oh-ho, don’t give me that tired cliche! Every year, it’s another cryptic excuse, another roundabout lie!” He flung his hands in wild gestures, his voice pitching. “You say you’re not ready for commitment, yet you spend every day with me regardless. You say you would make a terrible housemate, yet you stay over at my home for weeks at a time. You say you’re not ready to be with someone, yet I catch word that you shared a bed with the innkeeper!”

“What, you jealous or something?”

“That is exactly what I am. And how dare you act like I’m the crazy one for it!” Tears threatened his eyes, but he pushed through. “I have been by your side your entire life, looking out for you, caring for you, giving all of myself over to you! And here you are, laughing in the face of my love! Like - like it’s another one of your jokes!

“Oh, you're jealous, huh? So is that why you do it? You do all that for me just to get laid at the end of the day? Well if you’d said that sooner, I would have happily –”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Then what do you mean?”

“It doesn’t make any damned sense, Python!”

“It does, if you would just pipe down and listen when I –”

“Pipe down?” 

“Yeah! If you’d let me finish a damned sentence this will all make sense!”

“Fine then, go ahead and finish – give me one good reason why you don’t want to be with me!”

“When you’re acting like this I could give you a hundred!” Python swatted his cup away, spilling the drink all over the floor. He stormed out of the room.

A heavy silence fell over the house. Forsyth gathered his things. He left. He finally let his tears fall.

It was simple, he decided. All he needed to do was accept the fact that this relationship was going nowhere. Python didn't love him, and he'd just need to imagine whatever reasons he could. They should simply end things before they got any more hurt. 

End our friendship...

He cried through the night, unable to even muster a word to Mila. 

—

“Python!”

Forsyth’s hand was steady as it took the man’s shoulder. The pair locked eyes. 

“Run away with me.”

The wind rustled the leaves overhead. Usually the area was bustling with chaos as the new building was erected, but Python was the only one to stay back today. Forsyth would have teased him for the irony, if it hadn’t presented him with the perfect opportunity to ask his question.

Python rolled his eyes. “Har-har. I thought today was Day of Devotion, not Flostym Fools'…”

“Huh?” Forsyth’s expression flashed with confusion, then horror. “O-oh! Not like that, of course! Oh gods, I meant… the Deliverance.”

He spread his hands. “It’s clear we’ll never get the approval we seek to join. So I propose we do it in secret. Everyone will be distracted by the village festivities tonight. If we don’t come home right away, everyone will assume it’s for… the festivities. It will give us a reasonable head start. We won’t need to worry about them catching up to us by the time they finally realize we’ve gone.”

He looked eagerly to Python. 

“Heh, using all the hype around love to make our escape... you’re a true ally after all, Fors!”

Forsyth’s look soured. “L-listen. I swear, I would never ask you that again. I mean, we got over that years ago. I nearly lost you to that argument, and I shall never make the same mistake again. I know how much pain I put you through, and I would never dream of –”

“Hey. I know. You had a lot on your mind, then.” He let out a loud sigh. “Which is why I’m gonna come along with you. Somebody’s gotta help you find that special someone, right?”

“Do you mean it? Wait, what is that supposed to mean?”

With a hearty laugh, Python pulled him into a hug. Forsyth held him close. Reality may not follow a path like the perfect little fairy tales he read as a child, but that made it no less perfect.

“So… that’s a yes?”

Python leaned back so he could study his face. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”

“W-were you not?”

“Eh, I’m not serious about anything…” He offered his hand. “But I’m in. I’m always in.”

Forsyth accepted it, clasping it within both of his. He found himself too choked up for words, though he didn’t care if anyone saw him cry. He wiped tears from his cheeks and smiled at Python’s kindhearted teasing.

He thanked the gods that they would never stop being friends.

[kingdomvel]

Trick or treat.

No special request, so why dont we go back to Returning Hope?

This happens right after the end of the fic (as I was writing it i realised it was a bit long, so it's under the cut)

Koboh is not a densely populated planet. Obi-Wan and Anakin had received the coordinates to a settlement, not very big, enough that they would have to ask around to find the Cal they are supposed to be meeting. They don't know anything about him, where exactly to find him, how he looks.

They settle for the safest option: ask at the cantina. They sit down at the bar and ask for a drink, close together while they look around, trying not to look too suspicious. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea. They should be expected, so their contact may appear if he hears about strangers at the cantina.

When Obi-Wan finishes the first drink, he waves at the bartender, a latero male, for a new one. When he comes to pour it, Obi-Wan strikes.

"Is this the only cantina around?"

"And the best!" The bartender answers.

"You must know a lot of people then."

The bartender eyes him suspiciously then.

"Are you looking for someone?"

Anakin shifts on his seat and looks around the room again before turning to the bartender. Obi-Wan puts a hand on his thigh, to try to help him settle down.

"We are looking for Cal Kestis." Anakin says. Obisqueezes his thigh, sends a reprimand through their bond. He was trying to be more subtle here, but it's a skill Anakin hardly has the patience for.

"And who are you?" A voice says from behind them. They turn to look at the newcomer.

The humam boy there must be a few years younger than Anakin, he has red hair and his face is full of freckles. There is a small exploration droid clinging to his back. The moment they turn, the boy freezes, his gaze fixed on Obi-Wan.

"Master Kenobi?" He asks, pushing through his shock.

Anakin frowns and turns towards Obi-Wan, but he seems confused too.

"Pardon me but-" Obi-Wan starts.

"I'm Cal" the boy answers, and at least that's a question out of the table, at the lack of recognition, he adds, a bit sheepish "I'm Jaro Tapal's padawan."

"Jaro..." Obi-Wan whispers, a while dofferent feeling in his voice now. His hand leaves Anakin's thigh as he stands up and walks to Cal. His hands move to frame the boy's face. Obi-Wan smiles, and Anakin can see his eyes filling with tears. "Look at you, a survivor."

[vannyblutea]

[Question for Yoku] Which country has the best wine?

He is indeed, a drunkard. Dont let him foole you

[hyenahunt]

saw u mention on twit that no one thanks fan tlers... which makes me sad. im very new to liking media that heavily relies on fan tl (ive been an es fan for like... ~6-7 months?), so i'm really grateful for the translations you have provided to the fandom!! they were some of the first i've read (bogie time was great 💘🥰) and im happy to be able to read stories i wouldn't be able to otherwise. thank you for your work 💝 (no need to post this by the way. i just wanted to say this)

thank you so much anon;;; i know you said there's no need to post this but i also wanted to be able to express my gratitude for this!! i hope you've been enjoying your time in enstars so far and welcome to the fandom! i'm sorry you had to see me lamenting but honestly ... just a simple thank you makes me super happy to hear so this really made me smile.

i'll take this opportunity to talk a little too.... i always translate for the sake of sharing the original stories, and never with the intent of wanting gratitude for it, i'm happy to just drop chapters and poof (which is basically what i do tbh haha) but when translations take up so much time and hard work - for example, to say nothing of how much time actual translation work alone takes, uploading the 15 chapters of saga the other day took me like... five hours from start to finish - just knowing people actually appreciate all the effort makes me feel better about all the time i spend.

we fan translators don't see a cent for our work, so really my payment is learning that people enjoy it.... and i'm sure people may post about it on their own accounts but i don't really get to see any of it without having to actively go looking for it, so it means a lot when anyone goes out of their way to personally let me know!! so that's why... thank you again 🥺❤

[undead-potatoes]

Finally got to that Act 2 Durge camp scene if you refuse to kill Isobel last night, and while I've seen that scene like a billion times other places, going through it with both Astarion and Shadowheart as Aurora gave me some thoughts whirring in my head

Aurora's mental state for most of the game is in the gutter. Like the level of self-loathing she carries with her at all times is honestly a bit much, leading her to be very self sacrificing and borderline suicidal. She's kept it together thus far, even finding some renewed hope and purpose after discovering her connection to Lathander at the monastery, but when she's forced to almost kill a loved one in camp she just falls apart completely.

When she's finally back to her self again, all she has left in her is tears. She's just so tired. Between the sleepless nights, the chronic headaches and pains, the constant battles both within and without her cup is already full, and now it's spilling over.

She genuinely contemplates just leaving, putting as much distance between herself and the others as she can before turning, maybe taking down some shadowy abominations with her as she goes. And if push came to shove, a dagger to the heart always does the trick.

She's kept her Urge mostly secret until now, afraid of what the others would think, and is very pleasantly surprised to discover she's met with compassion of all things. The others are wary of her, sure, but none of them seem to blame her for her affliction, and seem mostly preoccupied with how to avoid any possible incidents in the future.

And then there's Astarion, who almost got killed by her uncontrollable bloodlust, and Shadowheart, who could just as easily have become the victim had the dice of fate rolled slightly differently. The way both of them are so supportive of her, seemingly unfazed by the moral aspects of the Urge. How Astarion is being a little cheeky about the whole thing, joking about it in all the right ways to ease the tension, while Shadowheart's more earnest and serious approach still makes her feel seen and taken seriously.

To be met with such understanding and love when she has none for herself is so important to her I think, to have something more to live for than just a sense of duty and spite. Someone to keep the candle of hope lit, even when the Urge tries to snuff it out.

[sayakxmi]

Absolutely. Jade would draw on them, too, and they'd both have So. Much. Fun. They'd also draw their fursonas, and of course joke about Jade being a part dog, so she's in a way her own fursona in real life. Dave draws her in his signature style. Jade ends up drawing furry!Dave, too, not just Akwete, as a payback. All in good faith, obviously, they're just fooling around and they both know it.

And when their kids are born (or adopted), they are not only allowed but encouraged to add their own creative touches to the ever growing collection of plant pots and probably even more random knickknakcs.

They have one of the tackiest houses out of all the people they know, being outranked by 2-3 at best, but it's colorful and full of joy and good memories.

Something they have both always wanted.

[senselessalchemist]

My horrible bastard brain: haha what if you tried to make the line "time for your medicine" poignant

Me: bet

Me, 80k worth of words later: this was a mistake (tm)

[kurancs]

"you really created this?" it's almost a statement instead of a question, évariste's hand trailing across the pale marble wall; he doesn't bother mitigating what awe he feels, although alongside that awe creeps in some terror. he is and has always been terribly out of his depth. some part of him knows he should have come to celephaïs sooner — there was no reason to put it off. but standing here he understands why he did. he's a wanderer, a stranded adventurer in the dreamlands, not a sculptor of them, and standing beside the creator and king of this place he can't shake the latent fear that even he isn't immune to such powerful influence. "nothing i heard before seeing it myself did it justice." / @selfpres

kuranes twirls a yellow ginkgo leaf between thumb and forefinger; time does not pass in the valley of ooth-nargai, but sometimes the green skirts of mount aran turn yellow in a mimicry of changing seasons to please its king. he watches the movement for a moment longer, basking in the compliment, before letting a passing breeze take hold of the leaf and carry it down sloping streets. the fondness in the king's gaze is unmistakeable as he follows the leaf's frolicking path until it slips out of sight and his focus shifts to the view opening below them: clusters of buildings constructed of white marble and gilded roofs, separated by paved streets; clusters of people going about their daily lives, many of them heading towards the harbour for either work or leisure; cats, slipping out of their owners' windows into back alleys, undoubtedly to some conference with their kind; and in the distance, the snow-peaked mount aran and the sea-shore, and further still galleys sailing towards the purpling horizon.

"i did," he answers eventually. "though it was a long time ago now." there's weight and history in that long time, though what kuranes fails to tell évariste is that celephaïs was raised out of a childhood fancy, without any conscious knowledge or decision on his part. few know that celephaïs is not the result of intentional craftmanship and fancy kuranes quite the sculptor and architect and that suits him just fine.

it's refreshing to see his city through the eyes of a stranger. he can keep the comforts of his manor-house and the countryside waiting for a little longer. "it's quite something, isn't it? if you have the time, you should board a ship and visit serannian as well. i would be glad to host you in my castle there as well." then the king laughs, as though delighted by some private joke. he turns to regard évariste from the corner of his eye, gaze sharp and mouth turned upwards at one corner, as though expecting him to share in his amusement.

[cupcake-complains]

I can’t wait to see how happy xB and Beef are when they finally have their friends back. Only to get immediately confused again as their friends accidentally brought a bunch of new people.

[sysig]

Your Weekly TV Guide

On Monday you can expect:

2:30 PM: Villainsona ft. Villainsona

And Tuesday:

2:30 PM: In Stars and Time

Wednesday:

2:30 PM: ISaT

Thursday:

2:30 PM: Sona general goings-on ft. Villainsona

Friday:

2:30 PM: ISaT

Saturday:

2:30 PM: ISaT (blood warning)

Sunday:

2:30 PM: Star Control II

Thanks for tuning in! (Patreon)

[moonlight-prose]

smut prompt #8 for logan 👀💗

forty five minutes in the closet

a/n: not me literally writing this in right where you left me ch4. hilarious and iconic timing, because i was fighting the urge to just have them fuck full on in that closet. so here's my chance to do just that. for funsies i'm shoving it into that universe. do not look at me for using that gif. i literally can't deny myself the sight.

summary: an alternative scene to what really happened in that closet.

OR wade wilson forces logan to play seven minutes in heaven. (it was longer than seven minutes if we're being honest.)

word count: 2.6k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, exhibitionism, dirty talk, logan is filthy af and we love that, spit, fingering sort of, p in v sex, quickie, rough sex, biting, he's down bad for his honey what can i say, panty gag, a formal apology for how fucking horny and unhinged this is.

The closet felt smaller than intended—even as your back was pressed to the wall hard enough to feel the cracks in the drywall that stretched to the ceiling. Laughter filtered through the thin wooden door as Wade told yet another joke about shit you couldn't discern. Even if you asked him to explain, you'd still be confused come morning.

Logan leaned heavily against his side of the closet. Approximately two feet of space between you. The tips of your shoes touched his boots. The faint scent of cigar smoke still lingered from where he ripped it out and tossed it in an ashtray. You wouldn't have cared if he smoked in here. You might have asked for a puff.

He insisted on keeping the air clean in case you had to breathe.

Wade claimed you were playing seven minutes in heaven. Seven minutes of alone time with the man who made your head spin. In a proximity close enough to feel the heat of his body from where you stood. Although you'd been standing there for four minutes (you were keeping count via the watch on Logan's wrist) and the group seemed to have forgotten about the both of you entirely.

"Do you—um—know what usually happens here?"

A smile curved on his lips—eyes scrutinizing you with a look that told you he was teasing you. "Yeah. I do. I'm old, not stupid."

"I just wanted to make sure..." In a swift move you barely saw, he rose to his full height and crossed the invisible line holding the two of you on opposing sides. "Oh–"

"Honey." His voice was low, yet you felt as if he was screaming in your ear.

"Yes?" you breathed—eyes fixed on the way his chest took up your space. His flannel was stretched across it and for a moment you wondered if you started salivating at the sight.

"Are you nervous?"

Another raucous round of laughs broke through the darkness that surrounded you. But you could barely hear them over the echo of your own heart. It hammered loudly against your chest—quickening the closer he got. The more his large frame began to engulf you in a warmth you only dreamed of. You clamored to come up with a response, to flippantly push off his advance with a tease of your own.

His hands pressing on either side of your head to the wall behind you killed every ounce of bravery you had left. All your worries and thoughts about what lay on the other side of that door were extinguished. Logan leaned down, his nose brushed yours, and inhaled deep enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

"I can smell you," he rumbled. "Sweet like honey."

A searing heat built beneath your skin, burning from your cheeks down to the tips of your toes. Your mouth opened—words still fighting to be formed—but he didn't need an answer. Not when he could smell the arousal that pooled between your thighs. How you subtly shifted to find a bit of friction in the hopes of something more.

"You mind if I kiss you bub?"

A piece of you fractured in the darkness of that closet—settling comfortably in his own chest. You might ask for it back after all of this, but Logan felt his chances of you walking out as his were growing the longer this went on.

Glancing up—eyes wide and darkened with lust—you bit back the whine that crawled up the back of your throat. "They'll hear us."

He shrugged, shifting close enough for you to almost taste the whiskey off his lips. "Good."

"Logan–"

Lips pressed to your cheek, drawing a soft sigh from your parted mouth. "Somethin' tells me they're just waiting for it." His hand left the wall to trail along your waist, dipping slowly with a kiss to the corner of your lips. "And somethin' also tells me...you like that idea."

It's not as if you were entirely opposed to the idea. Actually most nights (if not every night) was spent with you imagining what it would be like to feel him this way. To be stretched with his cock so much you would feel a delicious burn.

You craved it.

He knew solely from the wanton look on your face. The way your eyes fluttered the further his hand went.

"You gonna let me in or what honey?" he cooed, fingers dipping beneath your skirt to seek out the slick that soaked the lace of your underwear.

Surely the seven minutes had run out, leaving the both of you to make a choice. Stay here and keep going for everyone to catch you. Or walk out, find a room, and continue this in private.

The thought of waiting a second longer snapped at your heels with an air of impatience you let consume you. What the fuck did it matter if they heard you getting fucked against the wall? What did it matter if you'd never live this down as long as you lived?

How could you actually think about shame when Logan's fingers were pressed against your dripping cunt, seeking out your clit through the thin fabric that divided you.

Sagging against the wall with a soft moan, you gripped his flannel in your fist and yanked his lips to yours. He groaned, falling into your body and effectively pinning you to the wall, as his tongue met yours. And suddenly you realized...you liked how whiskey tasted off of his tongue.

He devoured you with the kiss, swallowing each moan and stunted whine as his fingers made quick work of finding your clit. Rubbing quick circles, he plunged his tongue into your mouth - licking at your teeth with a fervor that seeped down into your stomach. It was messy. His spit mixed with yours, staining the skin of your cheek. Your slick coated the inside of your thighs as he pushed the fabric into you roughly.

Yet none of it felt enough to ease the ache that spread rapidly down to the tips of your fingers. Your heart twisted as he gripped the back of your neck—leading you in a kiss that divulged down to nothing but teeth and spit.

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, your leg hooking around his hip, in the hopes of dragging him closer. To feel the hard bulge against the rough denim of his jeans.

"Look at you," he mumbled against your cheek. "All pretty and leakin' for me."

A sharp burst of need pulled tight at your stomach—the breath torn from your lungs. "Inside–"

He smiled. "C'mon honey. Use that smart head of yours. Gimme some words."

His words were a brutal tease that scraped against your skin. Yet that coupled with his fingers that seemed to hold an edge of desperation, left you gasping for air. Fingers dug into his shirt, lips found his in the hollow darkness, and you begged for mercy. This was your penance. The altar he intended to bend you across.

Oh how you longed for him to follow through.

"Fuck me," you managed to get out between sharp intakes of breath and heady kisses. "Please Logan. It hurts.

The sound that emanated from deep in his chest could only be described as feral. You'd never heard him like that before. Bordering on the line of unhinged and sanity. A flare of want pulled at your body, echoing loudly in your chest.

You wanted to hear it again. To feel him break beneath your palms as he rutted into you with need. You ached to watch him whittle himself down to the barest of his senses. The animalistic urge of lust he kept hidden for weeks on end.

"Yeah?" His words were a snarl against your ear, teeth scraping your jaw as he ripped his hand away. "'M gonna make it better. Gonna take away the pain."

Nails scratched at the back of his neck when you heard his claws slide out—cutting through the fabric that clung to you. It was sopping wet; proof that you hadn't in fact been lying about your need. Logan felt his cock leak in his jeans at the sight—how your slick clung to his fingers as he swiped along the gusset.

"All for me," he sighed.

"Uh-huh." If you thought you sounded needy before, that was nothing compared to this moment.

He eyed you briefly. The hazel you'd grown fond of now dark and clouded with lust. The plea for more lay on the tip of your tongue—ready to be laved against his skin the longer he took. But then he brought the fabric to his mouth, his tongue running across it with a broken groan. The breath was punched from your lungs—legs shaking as a wave of slick poured out of you.

"Oh fuck–" you gasped, cupping his chin to catch his lips in a kiss.

The clink of his belt buckle echoed like a gunshot in the small space. Your heart began to race. Fingers shaking as you watched him tug his cock free; fisting the red and leaking tip with a throaty moan. Saliva filled your mouth at the mere thought of him sliding between your lips. The image of him feeding you his cock with a smile.

He fanned the flames of your simmering fire, offering you pleasure with ease.

His hand gripped your other leg, positioning it over his hip before pushing you up along the wall. The yelp was muffled by his lips; your hands finding purchase against his hot skin.

"Gotta be real quiet now bub," he mumbled, sliding his cock along your drenched cunt.

The head tapped against your clit once, twice. By the third time your teeth were dug into your bottom lip so hard copper burst on your tongue.

"I promise."

He chuckled, breathless. You joined.

The compact space stretched out before you, expanding with each joined breath and laugh. Passion intertwined in your chest, reaching for him with a tender touch of reverence. And nothing existed but the two of you.

"Hey Logan."

His cock jumped at the sound of your voice so light and airy. "Yeah honey?"

"If I don't tell you after this." Your hips canted into his, grinding towards where he positioned himself. "I had a really nice time tonight."

His heart fluttered as your words settled into his skin—soaking up your warmth. "Me too."

The laughter diminished the second he pushed forward, sliding into you with a slickened thrust that left his body shuddering. You swallowed the sob that wrenched from your chest when he kept going. Stretching you until you felt the burn begin to seep into your body. You weren't prepared for how addicting it felt; how mindless he made you.

Seven minutes had surely blended into fifteen, giving the group no doubt of what you were doing. That only solidified when he bottomed out and you moaned so loud it nearly gave him a heart attack. His fingers clamored for something in his pocket—his lips sliding against yours to silence the endless whimpers. He filled you until you saw white behind your eyes each time they fluttered closed.

"They're gonna hear ya," he muttered. You caught a flash of lace before it was being pressed to your lips—willing you to part them and hold the fabric between your teeth.

Logan gave you one minute to find your brain in the muddled thoughts that filled you, before pulling out. Only to slam back in. Your cry was muffled—eyes rolled back—and he felt a searing triumph begin to form in his chest. At the sight of you in a messy state of bliss.

His hips slapped against yours, the wet slide of your cunt a loud echo. Adding to the symphony of his groans and your whimpered sounds. Your spit soaked into the lace, fingers digging hard along the planes of his back, and he felt you gush at the feel of his teeth sinking into your neck.

"So fuckin' sweet for me," he grunted, cupping your ass to push you back and forth on his cock. A shift in the angle had you going dumb. Eyes wide and glazed with tears. "My pretty girl huh?"

Fuck you wanted to scream. You longed to hear his name bounce off the closet walls and spill into the foyer of Wade's damn apartment. To remind them that time was still passing and their limit had reached the vastness of infinity.

He pounded into you with sharp gasps of praise, words that fell on ears deafened by the rush of blood that ran right to your head. Oxygen felt secondary when his cock kissed the wall of your cunt with such accuracy it left you blinded. Enough to have you sobbing into the spit soaked lace - tears spilling down your cheeks.

"You take it like it was fuckin' made for you yeah?"

You nodded, breasts bouncing as he fucked you along his cock—his other hand pressed to the wall. You took it like it was made for you, because it was made for you. Logan belonged to you. Whether he knew it now or not.

"I can feel you squeezin' me," he gasped. "Gonna cum?"

"Mhm," you mumbled, the squelch of your cunt loud enough to block out the laughter from the outside.

"Then do it honey." His thumb found your clit, swirling it with sharp pointed circles. Your toes curled in your shoes—head falling back to the wall with a soft thud. "That's it. Fuckin' cum for me."

"Mmff–" A sob of what morphed into his name tore from the depths of your body. Rendering you a shaky mess in his arms as you clamped down around his cock.

Slick poured out of you, coating the hair along the base of his stomach in your essence. Logan growled at the sight. His eyes narrowed and teeth bared with each stunted thrust of his hips into yours. Claws punctured the drywall behind you as a way to keep his body level. To ground himself as he came with a hoarse groan he quickly muffled into the top of your breast.

Grinding into you, he emptied himself entirely. Rope after rope of his spend now filling you to the point of dripping down to his balls.

You felt the need to drop to your knees and taste him.

To clean him entirely and place him neatly back in his jeans. But the movement of your body no longer remained an option—your legs numb and back sore from being pounded into the wall.

He removed the gag with a huff, kissing you gently with his thumbs pressed to the tops of your cheeks. A soft caress. A contract to the rough way he manhandled you.

"I can't feel my legs," you sighed into his mouth, tongue swiping along his bottom lip.

"You're not supposed to." The weak slap to his chest had him laughing louder than intended.

"Don't worry. Wade won't notice if you carry me."

He groaned, his teeth scraping at the flesh of your breast. "Don't fuckin’ say his name or I won't be able to fuck you again tonight."

You giggled, running your hands through his mussed hair. "Whiskey dick?"

"Shut up–"

"He's told you–"

Lips sealed over yours, hips pushing yours until the sigh stuttered from your chest. "Don't fuckin' start honey."

You smiled into the kiss. "Or you'll finish?"

A thump rammed against the door, startling the both of you. You half expected it to swing open and expose Logan with his jeans down to his knees and his softened cock still inside you. But all that came through was Wade's laughter—his knuckles rapping on the wood.

"Did he rise babygirl?" he shouted much to the detriment of the group who booed behind him.

"I will cut you open through the door!" Logan snarled. A triumphant laugh rattled the walls as Logan lowered you to the ground. Only for Wade to get the last official word.

"HE ROSE!"

[suiana]

yandere! priest and gn! succubus/incubus guys... omg...

he's a devoted little thing, so passionate to his religion and his god. his mind and heart are pure, never straying from his faith even when the most beautiful of people had thrown themselves at him.

and then you came stumbling right into his life.

you, a sex demon. all skimpy clothes, flirty and giving him bedroom eyes in a church. it was even worse that you had thrown yourself at him on your first meeting, clinging to his arm like some clingy lover.

"hey pretty boy~ wanna show me a good time?"

"the only good time i have is when I'm thinking of my god. do you want to join a sermon?"

maybe it was because he was so holy but he wasn't repulsed by you. flashing you a gentle smile as he allowed you to cling to him. oh, a sinner. how pitiful. it's no matter, if you repent enough and ask for forgiveness, he's sure that even god will accept you. he'll help you find the right path that is god. you've fallen right into his arms after all. it must be fate and perhaps he was meant to help you.

you don't quite share the same sentiment though.

you just wanna fuck that priest. his cute face, sweet little laughter... devil below you want that man. plus you hadn't fed in days... you're practically starving over here!

"come on... just some head? i bet your pretty mouth could be out to better use than some sermons."

"yes, a better use would be when I'm holding your hand and bringing you to the light of salvation."

he's always so calm and composed. all smiles and a calm demeanour that never exposes what he's feeling. even his eyes are smiling, damn. it's a bit scary that you can't accurately tell what he's feeling. the only thing you have is the slightly obsessive and unsettling darkness his eyes seem to contain. nah, can't be anything much. he's just a priest who wants to play hard to get.

it's infuriating, you think.

you continue to hold on a little longer. maybe he'll crack sooner or later? he's just a man after all... and you're a gorgeous thing meant for temptation... he'll give in right? right? you continue pestering him, clinging to his side as you ignore the horrified looks the other clerics and church goers give you as you beg for the monstrous dick you know he's packing.

but he doesn't show any signs of budging and you eventually try leaving because you're so starved that it hurts. like damn! you still need to feed! and if he's not gonna give it to you, you'll just find someone else!

however...

"where do you think you're doing?"

"huh? priesty boy? you following me?"

"yes."

"???"

you're confused as he practically rips you off of the random guy you picked off the street, dragging you back to the church with him. and all while he continued to smile at you like he always has. only this time, this smile harboured some... ill intent.

"oi at least tell me what you're doing-"

"i am going to punish you."

"punish?"

he stops in his tracks, turning to smile at you as hus grip around your wrist tightens painfully. you wince at the force he's using, desperately trying to tug your hand away. what the hell?

the priest doesn't let you. if anything, his grip only tightened even more. what's worse is that he's now punning you to the wall, caging you in as he stares down deep into your soul with his deep and unnerving eyes.

"yes, punish."

he continues to smile at you, simply caging you against the wall before his voice drops.

"it's the job of a priest to guide newcomers to repentance and i intend to do that with you. yet, you've almost committed an act of sin. i cannot allow that to pass, my dear."

what the- what is he doing?!

"you'll understand once I'm done with you. after all, the god above has personally given you to me as a mission and a gift."

he mumbles, leaning into your lips before his smile lowers into a creepy and unsettling smirk. bruh you might be a demon but this guy right here has got to be the devil's spawn or something. what is he yapping about? gift? mission? you just want some dick!

"hey I don't understand-"

"of course you don't. you're confused."

he cuts you off before you can say anything. his face way too close for comfort as you try sinking into the wall. um... you don't think you wanna play anymore...

"it's okay. I'll help you understand. I'll help you understand your true purpose and that is to repent and be born anew."

he pauses, tilting his head before his smile widens unnaturally.

"that way we can actually be together under the eyes of god. you want to copulate, yeah?"

huh? what's sex gotta do with this?

"after you've finally repented, I'll give you what you want. sex is an intimate and special thing between two people in love. don't worry, there'll be plenty of time for you to fall for me."

wait what?!

[azrielsrealmate]

alcohol and pancakes

azriel x reader

summary: azriel was always devoted to you, but when drunk? He was clingy, touchy and devoted. And he wanted to take care of you even if his mind was spinning.

warnings: mentions of alcohol?

word count: 1.3k

this is a silly little thing because I’ve just read somewhere that Azriel gets clingy when drunk and oh my god that’s sooo cute 😭

Your touch on his cheek was like a soothing balm for a wound that throbbed and stung, with each languid and incredibly soft stroke easing the pain more and more. He let go, leaning into your touch.

Why did he always have to be the tough and unbreakable guy? He wasn’t that tough, nor unbreakable, he was just... himself. And your gentle caresses made him want to whimper. His honeyed eyes closed with a hum of satisfaction, and you laughed softly. Why was even your laugh soft? Azriel didn’t understand. Azriel didn’t want to understand.

“How much have you had to drink?” you asked, arching both eyebrows in pure tenderness.

It took Azriel several seconds to process the question, in reality, he had drunk quite a bit. But that didn’t diminish any of the things he wanted to do with you, which at the moment was nothing more than resting his face between your generous breasts. He nuzzled your palm, breathing in and pressing a soft kiss.

“Not too much.”

Liar. Lies. A shadow whispered in his ear, and Azriel nearly growled, brushing it aside and nuzzling your hand further.

“Ah, I see,” you murmured, entertained by the sight—a warrior nearly two meters tall, and a spy no less, clinging to you like a needy child craving affection. Your voice was drenched in amusement, dripping over him just enough to make him open his eyes slightly.

“I’m not that drunk.” He almost whined, his eyebrows furrowing, and you had to stifle another giggle. Not wanting to offend the oh-so-scary shadowsinger that was hovering over your body, laid across your marriage bed.

“I’m not that drunk,” Azriel repeated, this time with a firmer, almost defiant tone, though it wasn’t as firm or defiant as he intended, because you could see the tremor at the corner of his lip, trying not to smile like a fool upon seeing your own smile. He reminded you more of Nyx trying to convince you that he wasn’t sleepy at bedtime just to spend more time with you, than of the five-hundred-year-old spy that he was.

His eyes, usually as inscrutable as the night sky, were now clouded by a mixture of alcohol and a tenderness he rarely allowed himself to show—a vulnerability that made you stroke his cheek once more.

“Azriel…” you whispered with a gentleness that only softened the normally sharp edges of his face further. You could see the freckles scattered across his nose, small and nearly invisible, like tiny constellations marking his skin. And the slight green ring in the center of his eyes, and a few strands of hair longer than the others.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of you,” he said, burying his face in the crook of your neck, this time sounding more resolute, acceptably more resolute, as he breathed in your scent like it was a balm he desperately needed. The way his body, so big and strong, curled up against yours was a delightful paradox you couldn’t help but enjoy. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders to pull him closer. You felt the weight of his head on your shoulder, the brush of his dark hair against your cheek. “I can take care of you... always.”

A soft laugh, impossible to contain, escaped your lips. The irony of his words filled your chest with a playful warmth. “Really?” you teased, your hands caressing his back with the same slow indulgence of someone petting a spoiled kitten. Carefully avoiding his wings, so as not to turn clingy-drunk Azriel into horny-clingy-drunk Azriel. “Then, if you’re so capable, why don’t you go down to the kitchen and make me some dinner?” You were pretty sure he would wobble if he got up.

Azriel lifted his head, his eyes gleaming with a determined light that almost made you regret your words. He could make you dinner—no, he should make it for you. You were his mate, and he had lost count of how many nights he had come home dazed with exhaustion only to find a warm dinner and loving arms.

Before you could react, he got up from the bed with the agility of a feline, the weight of his determination palpable in the air, your thoughts incredibly wrong; he didn’t wobble even once.

“Azriel, no—” you began, reaching for his arm as he headed toward the door. “It was a joke, I’ve already eaten, please don’t try to make me dinner when you’re in this state…”

He didn’t listen, or decided not to, moving through the room with that lethal grace so natural to him. You were forced to follow him as he made his way down the hallway and then down the stairs to the kitchen.

When you reached the kitchen, you made sure to turn on the lights because Azriel hadn’t bothered, given that he was already opening the cabinets, inspecting their contents with an intensity that almost made you worry.

“I’ll make you pancakes,” he announced, and you laughed, so much that your cheeks turned red.

“Pancakes?” you approached him, placing a hand on his arm in an attempt to stop him. “Az, that’s not dinner.”

“It will be,” he said, determined, and his stubbornness brought another smile to your face. There was no stopping him now, so you resigned yourself to helping him.

He continued to inspect the cabinet contents, searching for something that he didn’t even have in mind. You couldn’t help but let out a giggle—he was so determined that he didn’t even seem lost.

“How about you start by getting the flour?” Azriel’s eyes lit up as if he finally remembered something. He grabbed the bag of flour. Then he looked back at the other contents in the cabinet, and you wanted to laugh again.

“The eggs and then the milk.” As he pulled out the ingredients with hands that were skilled but slightly shaky, you stayed close. He observed everything he had taken out, all placed on the counter, and then directed those hazel, clouded eyes at you, tentatively, in a silent question.

“That’s all we need.”

“Ah… I knew that.” He said as if trying to convince you of something.

“Of course you did, I wouldn’t doubt that my clever shadowsinger knew.” You were teasing him, but he didn’t even notice. Though you did notice the red that brushed his cheeks.

You handed him the bowl and the ingredients, watching with amusement as he measured and poured, his brow furrowed in concentration. His hands, which usually wielded weapons with deadly skill, now worked with adorable clumsiness to mix the ingredients. As he stirred, fearing that Azriel might spill too much of the mixture out of the bowl, you moved closer to help him, your hands gently falling over his, trying to guide him. Azriel froze for a second, and you knew almost instinctively that he was looking at the scars covering his hands, so different from the softness of yours. You offered him a warm smile, quickly making him forget about it.

The warmth of the kitchen was comforting, but not as much as the warmth radiating from his body next to yours. That warrior who could bring down armies was now focused on making pancake batter with the same seriousness he would approach any crucial task. And though pancakes weren’t a conventional dinner, you knew that the dedication he was putting into them made them more special than any banquet.

“Is this good?” he murmured, turning his face toward you, and for a moment, his honeyed eyes met yours.

“Perfect,” you replied softly, allowing yourself a small moment of respite in his closeness, enjoying the tenderness hidden behind that façade of hardness.

Azriel nodded, satisfied, before turning toward the pan that was already starting to heat. And as he poured the mixture, you couldn’t help but admire him, so determined and so devoted. All for you. All yours.