#weeping over the option limit

[likealizardyousay]

joining the trend ehehe

[comfortless]

syl im begging on my hands and knees pls pls pls expand on that idea of könig being a warrior rumored to eat womens hearts its like giving scheherazade and i NEED IT

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. vague time period/setting. fem(afab) reader. light descriptions of violence and gore, talk of cannibalism, non-con groping & cuddling, forced marriage.

There are endless tasks to be done and everything beneath a vast blue sky to explore, forgoing those things, the men about your village often prefer to gather for a duel. There are no rules for their game, only that you bring a weapon and thrust it toward the opponent in such a way that it brings you glory, pride, some scabbing mend to a crooked scar.

Except not you, never you. They wouldn’t so much as allow for the women to watch unless sparring for the hand of a weeping bride happened to be the gleaming prize waiting at the end of the night.

Your eyes had witnessed such before, a girl with hair the color of autumn straw that rolled down to the end of her back, whisked away by some man from the sea after he dug his blade into an old farmer’s belly. Her father. A sad thing, but you imagined her life must be much better now. Instead of tending to a mule or pricking her fingers on needles for sewing, she’s off collecting sea shells and has the ocean’s breeze eternally perfumed in her hair. Maybe she cradles a baby on her hip now, plump and cooing happily whilst they watch the waves roll and glitter beneath the sun.

A better life for only the cost of a swift death. It was something that you had always envisioned wanting for yourself, away from this village that reeks of blood, the very place where your options were limited to shoveling after the horses or to die a lonely hag.

That was until the behemoth began to show his face. Not quite his face at all, actually. It changed things for you. Instead of a longing for one of these strong men to carry you off into the night, there sat a creeping terror each and every time he crossed the threshold into the village.

He was rumored to be many things: an executioner from a foreign land, either a lost and wicked saint or a demon made flesh, and worst of them all… a cannibal from out in the untamed downs that crest the mountainside.

The women of the village were frightened by him, by the bulk and height that suggested he was not a man at all, but something far more terrifying beneath that black veil. They hid away when he first arrived, claiming he carried an organ in his hands, chewing away at a still-beating heart with blood running down his fingers. The men remained rigid, but their hands shook when they took up their weapons against him.

And there was no way of knowing then that this man was to be yours.

Time and time again, the giant would win, request a warm meal and a bed for the evening, and would be gone away come morning. He wouldn’t return for months, and the gossip would continue to fester until his return. Then, only then, would lips be pursed in silence and another fool would rush to death in an attempt to win some measure of pride. His opponent would be buried in the very field they would fight in, his bones serving for another layer upon the earthen stage once the worms and rats had picked him clean, and the giant would be back. He was always back.

The town is hushed to silence when his horse is led through the well-worn street. There are lingering observers: the broad stable hand that would not even dare to raise a whip or a dagger to this behemoth, the women of the brothel even shy away from him, and the children who whisper their rumors behind open palms.

He does not stop for any of them, only carries forward with that dark cloth concealing his head.

You peek out from your window, nursing tea with honey to calm the chill drifting through the air, feathering over your skin. It’s bitter on your tongue, even with the sweet coursing through it. Bitter, when his blue eyes flick in your direction and you feel every inch of your skin begin to prickle and tense.

He’s worse up close like this. The man doesn’t conceal his torso, never seemed to find a need to— no one ever gets close enough to wound him. Not any more, at least, judging by the pasty scars that mar his chest with the biggest being a healed, pinkish blemish that stretches from below his ribs down to a narrow hip. You find the most unsettling part about him is not those marks of violence, but the fact that you can not read his face.

Time slows to a halt as he just stares, takes you in with your cup of tea and the old dress stolen away from your mother’s own wardrobe. And you return it, warily looking him over from his veiled head down to the toes of his boots. After regarding you in the very same way a bored cat would observe an unaware, little bird, he moves along his path with a quiet huff of breath as his face is turned away from you.

There’s a heavy axe strapped to his back that you only notice then. Something new and shiny, glistening in the rays of golden sunlight above. Sharp and wicked, too cruel a weapon to be used in a bout for dinner and a lumpy mattress stuffed with decaying straw.

You could only hope he brought a cloth to clean it once this ordeal was over. Perhaps he truly does use his veil to do so, gets drunk on the scent of blood and gore clinging to it and pleasures himself to the violence as they claim. The macabre tales of this giant only go darker than that. But the tales he lives up to most of all are the ones about his skill in killing.

When night begins to scrape across the sky in dark, drab purple, fate comes crawling throughout the town as though it is nothing more than a famished ghoul.

Your mother storms toward you where you’re sat, preparing for bed. Her face is a mask of pure anguish when she pulls you into a tight embrace. She bawls into your hair, digs her nails into your back as though she would sooner die than let you go.

The men of the town follow behind her, wrenching her arms away from you and pulling you up by the front of your gown. The thin linen tears with the force of rough hands, rips a thick line down your chest that almost leaves you bared to them. Though the hands are eager, the eyes of these men do not shine with hunger, only with fear.

The shouts and cries from your lips are lost to them, to even your mother who wails in defeat someplace behind you.

“You’re plenty old enough to be a bride,” says one of the men, voice like a coiled snake spitting venom. It doesn’t take one of the well-educated people of the capital here to explain just what is to happen to you now.

The giant, the cannibal, saw something that he liked, and decided that you would be his prize. When you’re led to the field, kicking and flailing against the strong arms that hold you tightly in their grip, the sight is enough to tell you just how much that he enjoyed your silent, curious staring only hours before.

He stands upright, silent and daunting above a body that’s been split by the axe still held in one strong hand. The color of crimson cakes his knuckles, crests over his arm and the expanse of his chest, all from the headless corpse lying disposed at his feet.

The scene is what you expected, you’ve heard the words of your people about this beast of a man’s propensity for violence, but no amount of mental preparation could have truly readied you for seeing so much blood. The blood of a man you knew to be good and true, a hard-working blacksmith from the foothills. What a tragic way to go out: fighting for a pouch of coin when this horrible giant must have clearly lost his mind to rut and rage.

No hand comes to cover your mouth when you shriek, and the tight grips guiding you forward only loosen when your man or murderer stalks forward to take his prize. Through your tears, you still manage to make out the lines beneath his eyes, how they fold upward, and there’s no doubt that he’s smiling beneath that mask. A big, ugly grin at the thought of prying open your ribs and helping himself to a maiden’s heart.

He lifts it over his head in a swift motion, and drops it over your own instead, opposite to the hastily cut eye holes to block out all of the hazy, pale light of the moon and flickering yellow-red torches surrounding. Amidst the panic threatening to send your heart fleeing from your chest, the cold trickle of dread that finds itself curling in your belly, you feel two arms hoist you up and settle you over the back of his wretched steed.

“Gehen wir.”

Then, the darkness turns abyssal.

You only pray your body has truly died of fright when you first wake. There’s no darkness, no scent of blood when your eyelids pry apart to flutter. Water laps over your bare thighs, cold enough to force a shiver up from your feet to the blades of your shoulders. But behind you sits fire, a warmth so comforting you would think you’re rested against a stone bathed in summer sun, if not for the softness.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, rationalize just what’s happening, until a hand clutching a scrap of cloth maneuvers up from your thigh to your tummy, lathers you in a soap that smells only of pine. It halts, cinches around your waist when you begin to tense, when he knows you’re truly awake. A pond to your front and a man of horror at your back.

There’s sunlight streaming down from above, painting the clouds in gold. There are birds happily singing from the surrounding trees, and other, unseen animals scurrying through fallen leaves. Serene, pretty, and almost comforting when the wind turns course and brings with it the scent of late-ripening fruit. If the reality of your situation were not so dire, perhaps you would have enjoyed it, being here with a man who killed instead of presented your family with a dowry or offered you some pleasant wedding to dine and drink your fill of berry wine at.

“Let me go.” Your voice is a feigned warning, the mocking growl of a mere pup. You imagine he must keep his weapons close, only offering himself the courtesy of cleaning you so your meat doesn’t taste of dirt or lavender oil when he sinks his teeth into it.

“Süss frau,” he mumbles behind you, presses his head into your hair and inhales deeply as your body only grows further rigid. There’s a pause, before he corrects himself. “Meine süss frau.”

It would help if you knew what he was saying, calm your nerves some, maybe, but each word spoken only sounds guttural and instills further fear. You twist in his grip, hissing small curses that would have left your mother in a rage, but he only laughs at your squirming. Then, he tightens his grip as the cloth is dropped into the pond’s glassy water.

“Take me back home,” you continue to urge, placing a trembling hand over the limb pressing your body further back against him. “Please.”

Your small attempt at pleading is met only with his head dropping to the nape of your neck, a kiss pressed against the flesh there. It warms for him, sends a heat spiking up to your cheeks in spite of the way you still suspect he wishes only to rip your throat open with teeth more akin to a devil’s fangs.

You turn your head, intent on spitting right in this monster’s face, but find only a man looking back at you.

There’s a shimmer in his eyes that almost seems playful, a grin so prevalent there it must cause the corners of his mouth to ache. No blood in his teeth, and though the silvery-blue of his eyes seems distant, they are not cold. The goliath who stole you away stinking of blood and innards isn’t present now, and that seems even less of a comfort. He’s even handsome in the strangest way, certainly not the look of nobility, but none of his features are cruel. There’s a boyish charm to him, perhaps he would have the look of a charismatic farmhand or an apprentice of sorts if not for the scarring.

“Won’t hurt you… too pretty,” he assures, burying his face against the side of your neck. But the bastard does, digs his teeth right in and suckles at your skin when you claw at his arm in surprise. It’s not enough to draw drops of blood, but it accentuates the point that he seems to see you as something of his, a possession of sorts.

There’s a messy patch of drool over bruising skin when he pulls away to laugh at the wounded expression upon your face. He apologizes in a huff of breath as he guides you up to stand at his side. His hands linger too long for comfort when they rest along your waist. Your sullen glare only seems to further endear him. Too much, judging by the way the pillar between his legs bounces thick and hard and proud, throbs when you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze and angrily hiss to him about how a man should treat his wife. Cannibal or not, the beast needed to learn some manners.

Fear still edges its way up your spine, but it diminishes more and more as the seconds pass.

He’s no gentleman when he splashes away the remnants of soap from your body, hands grazing over every inch of your bare skin he sees available to touch. Your breast first, weighed up in his palm with the nipple pinched between his index and middle. Emboldened by your hushed protests, he dares to slip his other between your legs, and only then do you force his hands away.

He certainly bears no resemblance to a proper husband when he hoists you over one shoulder to carry you further into the woods and into his shack, either.

It’s barren and ugly, an unsightly wooden structure decorated only with a thin mattress, a table too small, and blades of many forms. The axe sits proudly below the window, astonishingly cleaned of the gore from the night prior. The veil rests above it on the sill, damp from a cleaning that never should have been. You stare at his belongings for a time when you’re placed on your feet, silently judging the array in search of anything to justify the gossip, only to come up short of anything.

He doesn’t even touch you past the bathing in the pond. You’re dressed in a tunic that fits like a dress upon your form: far too big, long and dull to be anything you would normally be seen in. But there are no tailors this far out in the wilderness, though there’s an apologetic promise whispered to you once he sees you in his clothes. He’ll buy you a new dress upon your first visit to town as his wife, several if it pleases you.

The man leaves for a spell, brings you rabbit to clean and prepare, then busies himself stoking up a fire for cooking. His speech is a little broken when he tells you of how long he’s waited to have someone like you here with him, how he never suspected a woman so pretty would be his wife. And you don’t eat when the meat is fully cooked and placed in front of you both. You insist that you only wish to return back home, to hug your mother and tell her that you’re still alive.

That, he takes insult to.

His brow is pinched when he forces you to sit in his lap. He brings the meat to your lips and presses into your cheeks with his free hand to force your mouth open. There’s nothing romantic or cute about it, about him, but you do glumly settle in his hold when the realization does dawn on you that, though his strength is extraordinary, he is only a man and the only harm coming to you would be between your legs.

You’re drug over to the mattress after dinner by a tight hold over your wrist. The fight hasn’t left you, not by a smidge, even when the loose tunic is lifted over your head with shouts of your displeasure and you’re pressed onto your back with the giant watching you curiously from above.

He pins you there, but doesn’t force his hands down to your sex again. He only sighs when he rests his weight next to you and curls in to lie his head over your breasts.

You’re body remains stiff and rigid as a bowstring. His nearness only sends that same swell of heat back from the pond, brings with it the scent of fire smoke and sweat emanating from him. His hair is long and soft, soft as the kisses he places on the plushness of your tit, long as the drag of a callused palm from your hip up to cup the other.

He offers you no warning when his teeth circle over your nipple, holds fast to you when your back arches and your fingers weave into his hair to jerk him away. The worst part about him seemed to be having a penchant for leaving a mark, and the smug grin that crosses his face when he meets the fury in your eyes with the lust-drunk look in his own.

“Was? You don’t like?,” he grumbles, tracing over the marks of his teeth with his thumb, pressing against and smearing his saliva until you feel your back begin to arch and your breathing grow heavy.

“It hurts.”

He stares at you in amazement for a moment, whether surprised you haven’t made an attempt to flee or startled by the lack of a strike to his jaw after such a thing, it mattered not. Your terrible, ignorant “husband” only seems satisfied with your response. He draws back to sit on his knees before you, sliding his hands along each curve and dip of your body until they rest at your ankles.

“Ja… hurts. I will make it better, meine süße.”

He’s no less brazen when he makes a dive toward your womanhood, lips parted in preparation to breathe you in. Or… taste you in full, whichever option was suited for men who were more beasts than men at all. Maybe that was his only feat of cannibalism: licking at women until they were wet and pliant for him to take entirely. You pry him away with a gasp and a quick shift onto your side, demanding that he not touch you any further.

Again, he laughs, curls behind you and shifts his hips to slot the girth of his cock between your thighs, buries his face into your neck once again. You can feel the grin that stretches over his lips against your skin. When the dark envelopes you both, the quiet crackle of the fire in its pit still showing signs of life, he seems content to just cuddle you close.

Exhaustion creeps its way through your limbs, steals the fight from your voice and leaves your eyelids heavy. You consider waiting it out, listening to his breathing deepen and slow to creep away, but his grip is firm around your middle, so strangely comforting that you do allow yourself to relax. Running could wait until the morning sun rose.

[bitchimasnake-sss]

"pretty little slut" ft. portagas d. ace!

set-up: you learnt the hard way, just how impatient and territorial ace can get. warning: voyeurism, hair pulling, mean-ish!dom ace, jealousy, helpless bimbo reader, in public, pet names (slut, baby, sweetheart), ; mdni thankyou very much!

ace:

♡ well, it wasn't your fucking fault that the guy at the club couldn't take a hint and leave you alone. and it certainly wasn't your fault that your usually laid-back boyfriend had drank a little too much. ♡ maybe you should have stopped him as he pulled you onto his lap, his hot breath fanning your neck as his fingers slowly hiked up your skirt. maybe you should have stopped him as his fingers snaked up, feeling your chest before resting on your throat. maybe you should have because you were seated in a booth at the club, the glittering, faint lights painting your figures in darkness. maybe because there was a man seated at the bar, staring right at your lowly illuminated figure as he took another swig out of the bottle. but ace's touches were so fleeting, so warm against your cold skin. ♡ "tell me, baby." he whispered against the shell of your ears and you could smell the alcohol on him, clinging stubbornly onto his skin, "tell me should i fuck you right in front of him? show him how it's actually done?" "huh?" you mumbled, almost in a trance from the way his fingers were dancing on your inner thigh. "focus." ♡ he was staring at the man sat at the bar, drinking and staring right at you. he had been hitting on you all night and ace had hit his limit. his two options included burning him to ashes or fucking you till you drooled and passed out in his lap.

♡ ace's lean fingers titled your face backwards and he kissed you deeply, till you felt just as intoxicated as he did, even without drinking much. his taste lingered on your lips and you closed you eyes, feeling his fingers taking ahold of your tresses and pulling them downwards to kiss your throat. ♡ "a-ace. fuck." you moaned, feeling as his teeth skimmed over your throat, his fingers played with the thin strap of your dress, threatening to let it fall and put you onto display for the people in the bar. he ignored you, his fingers running over your figure till he reached the hem of your short dresses. playing with the hem, slowly threatening to hike it upwards and display you for any keen eyes to see. ♡ something primal came forward, his voice hoarse, "tell me i can fuck you right here, right now. please. let me show them all who you fuckin' belong to yeah?" without another word, his hand spread open your thighs, letting the pad of his thumb to gently rub over your clothed clit. ♡ you threw your head back, allowing him to rub your puffy nub through a thin layer. the wetness acted as lubricant, letting his fingers play against your weakest spots. the man at the bar was transfixed on you, looking at your slowly unraveling form with awestruck bewilderment.

"ace he's gonna see-" you spoke meekly, too wrapped up in the feeling of his warm fingertips tracing figures over your bundle of nerves. "and?" he scoffed, pulling your panties to one side. he made you gasp, collecting your slick on his fingertips and bringing it to your lips to suck on. "aren't you a pretty little slut? let him see what a fucking angel i've got. let him see how to actually fuck a desperate slut like you." "bu-" you tried to speak against his fingers but he shoved them further, his other hand holding your waist against him tighter. "any problems, sweetheart?" he prompted you to suck on his finger harder, causing you to moan around his digits. "i said any fucking problems?" you shook your head against him. ♡ he pulled his fingers out, leading them southward till he shoved them slowly inside you. your weeping hole accepted him as if it was muscle memory and you melted against his broad chest as he started pistoning in and out of your gummy enterance. "touch yourself" he whispered against your neck, "and look that fucker in the eyes as you do. show him who's gon' make you cum right the fuck now." ♡ you allowed your cold fingers to trace over you clit. tracing familiar figures over your exposed nub, you kept your eye on the man slowly palming himself as he faced you and your wet pussy. ace heated his fingers just ever so slightly, till you could feel a stark contrast between the cool night air and his burning, feverish movements. and the coil in your stomach started fastening with the pace of ace's fingers fastening. "ace, bab-y, fuck i think- i'm gonna fucking cum-" "cum on my fucking fingers, angel." he pressed open mouthed kisses along your jaw as you threw your head back, leaving hickeys in his wake. "you're so fucking pretty, my favourite fucking slut to show off" ♡ at his words, the coil tightened till it started falling apart, washing over you with waves of blinding pleasure. his fingers continued till the aftershocks were through and then slowly, he pulled out. taking his slick covered fingers, he pushed them back into your mouth, allowing you to suck it off clean as he sent the man a death glare. ♡ "you wanna go home and finish it off?" he asked lowly and you nodded. his arms picked you up, muscles flexing as he held you against his warm body. he glared at the mas as he walked out of the club with you, a silent warning to the stranger. ♡ (but he may/may not have set that man's pants on fire before leaving tho)

a/n: obsessed with this man rn and forever.

[boss-poss]

See, Lethal Company's real genius is that it somehow marries two normally opposed genres, those being horror and comedy together into something greater. Mechanically it's a multiplayer looter extraction survival type game. It's designed to create stressful and scary situations by forcing you to speedrun mini randomized dungeons while monsters hunt your character to meet a certain quota (our asses are not making quota). That's not the clever part though, no, that's giving the players the ability to fuck themselves over and the hilarity that comes from it.

Anything you say into your mic is said in the game world and can be heard by certain monsters. Many items, similarly, can be used to make noise and you can bet there is little impulse control when a player finds an air horn or gets a walkie talkie. The sound of a distant honk somewhere out of nowhere is not something most players are prepared for while in a pitch black maze. Sound in this game has a doppler effect, which makes it harder to hear the further away the source is, allowing screams to fade into nothing and unintelligible yelling heard for a second before vanishing. You must rely on your senses but those are, by design, limited and regularly tricked.

Because level layouts, monster locations, and item spawns are all random, it's insanely easy to get lost or lose track of thigs, especially in the dark and especially when panicking. Seeing a bracken for the first time will almost certainly send a player running in the opposite direction and get lost, if they even see it all. No one is prepared to have a hand wrap around their face and snap their neck in an instant. It's utterly shocking and will leave you gasping in surprise to first time you experience it.

Certain weather patterns make levels harder, some even nearly impossible (looking at you eclipse), and sometimes your options are avoiding deadly lightning or not being able to see due to fog. High level moons have excessively valuable loot but also feature the worst foes and cost a fee to access, forcing a compromise between greed, ability, and resources.

Dying, likewise incurs a penalties. Your team is fined for dying and not bringing the bodies back but if you all die, all your collected loot goes poof. Gone. A team wipe can and will effectively end the run in an instant if you do something stupid like stick around when you hear "pop goes the weasel" or try to pick up that funny looking roomba. You can almost feel the pressure weighing down on your shoulders when you realize you're the last one left and you need to get back to the ship or miss the quota.

The monsters likewise, are engines of terror that are comically effective killing machines with no cohesive theme to help anticipate them. The already mentioned bracken is one of the scariest things I've seen in a game, and those technically aren't even that bad. They're completely manageable if you keep your head on a swivel and pay attention to your surroundings. Coilheads are these mannequins with bobble heads that will path to and kill you in a microsecond the moment you aren't looking at them, weeping angel style. There's a thing called the ghost girl that I have yet to see but is apparently one of the most terrifying critters in the menagerie. Forest giants. If you know, you know.

All these little mechanics, these choices that are made by and for the player, create a maelstrom of unpredictable chaos that, like a buxom blond transforming into an orgasming pooltoy, turns what would be strictly serious horror into a unique form of dark comedy that layers over it like jelly on peanut butter. You are scared, you are on edge, and it only gets worse when you know what these things are capable of, but the sheer hopelessness is something you all have in common. It's funny how little hope you have. You will die. A monster will wipe your team. There will eventually come a quota you can't beat. You were doomed from the start.

So why not get silly with it? Why not try to fight that bracken with shovel? Fuck him. Why not just run past a turret and try to nab that fat jar of pickles? Why not wander off from the group? You're just as likely to come back with arms loaded and the quota met as you are likely to not come back at all. You're already dead, so take the gamble, do stupid shit, repeat this hell until you can meet its horrors with grim determination and put in the effort to afford that goddamn boombox. Dance. Just press 1 and dance the fear away.

You are all united in your mortality and duty, fragile sacks of flesh working to break even at the behest of perhaps the greatest horror of all: The company you work for. You are so preposterously fucked beyond all belief from every angle there really isn't enough adjectives to describe it. And that's comedy baby, when things are so bad all you can do is laugh.

[messiahzzz]

as much as i dislike the dialogue option that leads to this scene, i genuinely appreciate gale's response. it is easy to overlook what he is actually trying to convey here and is instead commonly dismissed as him being "overdramatic" or as a display of his bruised ego.

player: it was fine. gale: i see. gale: well, fine is... fine. nobody weeps because the weather is fine. no monarchs were overthrown because their ruling was fine. no artworks were burned because they were not masterpieces, but merely fine. player: would you have rather i lied? gale: the dignified thing for me to say is 'no. of course not. forthrightness before all.' but honestly? yes... i would have rather you lied. gale: i'm just a man. an imperfect one, with needs, wants, and flaws by the bushel. a fragile vessel in which to place potentially world-ending power. gale: perhaps it would be better to not shake such a vessel. gale: forgive me. these were already trying times before elminster delivered his missive. now, for me at least, they are potentially end times.

gale is no stranger to introspection. despite having his natural blindspots, he is fully aware of his flaws and imperfections. he lacks an inherent sense of self-preservation, displays impatience on occasion, can be hypocritical, has trouble handling pointed criticism well, and has a tendency to respond in passive aggression if he feels his competence is brought into question. he seeks admiration and is known to not honor his limitations and own safety for the sake of receiving praise.

gale: [...] people have always commented on my confidence, sometimes my over-confidence, and in one particularly cut throat assessment at university - my 'abject and incorrigible self-delusion.'

gale is not blind to how he is perceived by others, nor does he dismiss their conclusions without careful consideration. instead of deflecting he simply takes what they dish out and files it away for later contemplation and inspection.

player: because you acted the idiot. and paid the price for it too. gale: as always, i endeavor to be invigorated by your candour, rather than eviscerated by it. gale: blunt as your summation is - it's correct. i dared to call myself an archmage while acting the apprentice. the hallmarks of a most excellent idiot, unfortunately.

player: i can't say i share the same high opinion of you, gale. gale: always bringing such candour to our conversations. some would think twice about mocking gale of waterdeep, but you just go straight for the gut. nodecontext: playing along, making fun of himself gale: i like that about you. it's one of your rarer qualities, though i fear my ego can take no more of it tonight. nodecontext: cheerfully accepting the brush off, not taking it personally

needs, wants, and flaws by the bushel.

gale craves as mortals do. for relevance, safety, consideration, loyalty, care, acceptance, and love. he's desperate, he's angry, he's petty and hurt and lonely. he's contradictory, and at times inconsistent. he's afraid, he stumbles, he yearns. if he loves, he does so with all his heart but forgets to extend the same love to himself. he gains understanding only to disregard it later. he is absorbed yet devoted. he expects kindness but is bewildered when it is extended to him in turn. he's neither a perfect colleague, a perfect companion, a perfect lover, nor a perfect husband. he's just another human who's trying to navigate and make sense of the world. who is silently hoping for his soul to be handled with tenderness and care, to finally be seen for who he is —no need for performance or pretense — and to be unconditionally cherished nonetheless.

a fragile vessel in which to place potentially world-ending power.

he knows the burden he carries. understanding that even a momentary lapse in judgment could spell catastrophe if he doesn't exert tight control over his emotions at all times. he knows what is at stake should he lose the composure he painstakingly had to master. a mere moment is all it takes. this self-assessment isn't an "indirect threat" intended to subject pressure on tav or solicit pity, it's a stark acknowledgment of the truth. he is a fragile human, housing powers that should've never been his in the first place.

player: unbelievable. did you ever think what would happen if the tadpole got the better of you? gale: every waking moment. every dreaming moment too. but there was no way out.

he is also keenly aware of how his (former) colleagues perceive him, following his fall from grace.

player: bold. few would dare to reduce a goddess to their 'muse.' gale: i am, after all, the villain of the tale.

this line in particular is one i often think about. it makes me wonder about the extent of information gale received from the outside world after locking himself in his tower for an entire year, setting magical wards so no one but tara would be able to enter. did he hear the whispers? ("shunned by the goddess of magic herself, of course, it was only a matter of time before he flew too close to the sun.") were his colleagues ridiculing him, applauding mystra for cutting off the rot at the source? how did he arrive at the assumption that he is perceived as "the villain" and not the victim?

player: you must have been lonely, with only tara for company.. gale: sometimes. but i imposed it upon myself, after all. i set up enough wards to keep an army at bay, never mind the few colleagues who sought to inquire about my welfare.

or is this solely his own harsh judgment of his folly? that there is no chance anyone would meet him with sympathy, kindness and understanding after what he had wrought. he was too greedy, too impatient — selfish in arrogance, ravenous in ambition. letting delusions of grandeur guide him. he brought it all upon himself with his lack of patience. entirely convinced of his success and skill, blind to the possibility of failure. now doomed to drag innocents into the abyss with him. the hallmarks of a villain, right? after all, who would truly believe him that his ambition hid no ill will?

players: by rights. i should kill you. gale: perhaps that is what i deserve, but you deserve no such thing. [...]

[supermarketbae]

mean dom billy fucking your throat cus he’s mad and needs some sort of stress relief after having an argument with his friend.🤭 he calls you a nasty slut but also a good girl for taking his monster cock but overall he’s just being so mean😫 and cums inside ur mouth licking your tears away laughing at your state

ASJHSHSHSJJSJSJ U ACTUALLY CANT KEEP DOIN THIS BABBYYYYY!! *Screams in goth* IMM LITERALLY (s)creaming YOURE TOO MUCH!! 💋💋💋 HOPE U ENJOY BB!!

Naughty and Not So Nice

a series part 2

warnings: face fucking, mean Billy, semi public sex, jealous!Billy, man handling, degradation, praise, Hopper!reader, Loud!reader, Jason being a little shit .

You freeze, hearing the harsh voices carry from the boy’s locker room. Straining to hear, you press your ear to the door. Billy’s gruff voice carries deeply over Jason’s pitchy one. “Hargrove she’s not even yours, why are you bitching out about her?” Jason pries accusingly, Billy chuckles darkly “You think she would go for your scrawny ass?” Jason curses and you hear a loud, grating bang. You wince. Billy rarely fought without his fists. “Like I said Carver,” came the deadly whisper. You perk your ears up, ever desperate to hear. “She’s fucking mine.” Billy grunts. Jason laughs haughtily “you say that like you have her, freak.” another slam indicates Billy didn’t take kindly to that response “Believe me, I have.” Is Billy's venomous reply. A warm heat spreads across your cheeks at Billy’s words. Intently, you attempt to hear anything else, jolting at the sounds of incoming footsteps. You freeze, with limited hiding options. You squeeze yourself into the corner of the bleachers. Not a moment later, the door bangs open, Jason stalking off towards the exit muttering to himself.

Sighing in relief, you leave your hiding spot, walking towards the gym door, hoping to get out of there. “Well, Well, what do we have here?” you startle as hands grab your waist. Billy spins you around to face him eyes darkened, yet somewhat amused. "I-uhm..." you trail off at his heated gaze, biting the inner corner of your lip as somewhat of a nervous tick. "Speak up, Darlin." Billy drawls cocking his head, tongue sliding across his incisors as he smirked. You gasp as he pulls you closer to him hands ghosting your frame ever so teasingly. "I-well heard yelling and-oh~" your whimper cuts your sentences short as Billy's lips trail slowly up your neck. "Keep talkin' baby" he murmurs to you "I-oh my god-I overheard you and uhm Jason talking about the party an-ah f-fuck" you whine as Billy bites into you, no doubt marking the soft skin of your neck. "Billy-I-fuck-baby please" you whimper as he grabs your neck squeezing. "I think I need to teach this slutty little mouth how to be quiet hmm?" you moan nodding as he practically drags you back towards the locker rooms.

You glance around nervously inside looking up at Billy wide eyed "What if someone walks in?" you mumble to him. Billy grins darkly, half lidded eyes boring into yours. "Then they'll see your pretty little mouth being railed by my cock." You whimper at his words. The next breath you take intoxicatingly slow, the air around you warm and sticky. "On your knees," Billy states watching as you lower yourself obediently, eyelashes fluttering in arousal. "Such a fuckin' cockslut for me." He hisses as he unbuckles his belt shaking his head at your needy gaze. You moan quietly as he takes out his cock, jerking a few times in his hand. You reach out smiling as Billy tilts his head back in pleasure, lips parted as he pants out your name. "Such a fuckin whore yea?" Billy growls, slapping your face with his hardened dick. He smirks as you keen, eyes glazing over with lust at the lewd contact.

"Gonna let my fuck that slutty throat now? Ruin your little cumdump yeah" Billy purrs to you groaning as you stick out your tongue nodding. Gripping the base of your hair, he bucks up into your mouth groaning as the warm heat of it envelops his red and weeping cock. "M-make me cum-godd just like that-and I just might-ah- touch your needy pussy." Billy mocks as you begin to rut yourself against him. "Such a greedy little whore-fucking hell-my good cocksucker-oh my goddd right there darlin'" Billy moans as you gag around him watching, eyes rolling, as you drool around his girth. "Taking me so well sweetheart." He whines thrusting into you faster as you sigh breathily around him, wails muffled by his thickness.

"Please-ah-please-mph-t-touch me." You whine out desperate to soothe the aching between your legs. "Awhh can my pretty cumslut not take-" Billy mewls as you nearly take him to the shaft eyes darkening as you choke yourself around him "Fuckkk-baby-make-ah-make me cum-good girlllll." You whimper, your free hand coming to play with your clit through the fabric of your jeans. It did little to help as the man above you moaned attempting to push you further onto his cock. "Such a good girl-ah fuck-takin this cock too gooddd!" Billy sighs out hand coming to stroke your cheeks, toying with the bump each thrust of his dick made. A sob lurches out of you, tears streaming down your face. You were so turned on it hurt. You hopelessly needed a release as Billy rammed his cock to the back of your throat, over and over again.

"Fucking hell baby-ah god-you-fuck-you cryin' for this cock? you wanna cum?-Suck it darlin'-God sweetheart. Make me fuckin cum." Billy drools as you cry out, furiously grinding yourself against him once more. "So fuckin-ah-so close baby-feels so good-hell" Billy thrusts into you grow erratic as your throat tightens around him. "F-fuck gonna take my cum hmm? Take all of it like the good little cumslut you are?" Billy's keening mewls have your brain spiralling with need. You whimper as he cums, pushing you down until your swatting at his legs moaning for him to stop as you swallow his warmth. Billy grins, pulling you up by the base of your neck to give you a biting kiss. You shiver into him as he kisses your cheeks, licking sultrily at your slow drying tears.

"Such a good girl." He coos

[fictionfixations]

reincarnation

ive been writing a reincarnation series for twst

so i might as well share it now.

(in timeline order instead of publishing order. some of these might suck a lot, honestly.)

🌸: flower fields, amidst they weep (KnY x TWST)

Yuu had memories. They weren’t quite a past life, as much as they sometimes wished it was, but.. The truth was, in the modern world, demons existed. Those demons had existed since the Heian Period. Things that ate humans to survive, and burned in the sun. ..Although that wasn’t quite true, because they’d been born human, but through various reasons, had been turned into a demon. It could be desired, it could be forced. In the end, it was a mercy to end them, by demon slayers, wielding Nichirin blades. Yuu was one of them. Having lived among those who saved others thanklessly. They didn’t want child soldiers, but in the end it was often they were the last ones to survive, and would use up the rest of their life for revenge, before they eventually burned out. They were lucky, that way, because they still had the option to live their life. But there was only so much they could refrain from taking action. Once you know of the monsters in the dark, there really was no turning back. ---- Former Modern Demon Slayer!Yuu (WARNING FOR MANGA SPOILERS)

~ Excerpt ~

Pink flower petals followed the blade in a direct trail, almost like its own shadow, and shot straight past with a speed that could be almost seen as inhuman, were they not in a world with magic.  It struck true at the side, shattering the glass of its head on impact, and spilling blot everywhere. Rosehearts-senpai staggered. Everyone was stunned in silence, if only for a moment. The path wasn’t as straight as they’d liked. They probably shouldn’t keep throwing stuff with the hope that it’ll go in the right direction. “Yuu-kun!? How’d you–” “Ace!” Yuu’s head turned to where Ace was, bleeding sluggishly. Oh shit. They weren’t fast enough– In their panic though, Rosehearts-senpai suddenly moved, hand reaching out as the blot started to drip away from his form, shrinking away from the light that formed on his fingertips. Left underneath was a ruined dorm uniform.

🦋: Ignoring the ways of right and wrong (BSD x TWST)

"Ignoring the ways of right and wrong, eternal life or lasting fame, we turn to face each other, loved and lover, face to face." – Yosano Akiko, River of Stars: Selected Poems of Yosano Akiko Riddle Rosehearts is Yosano Akiko (or has her memories.)

~ Excerpt ~

His hand reached out in blinding light. Butterflies fluttered past him.  “Thou Shalt Not Die!”   And for a second, she felt free.  Everyone was silent. (Ace had been fixed up, good as new, in a flutter of wings.) His panting sounded too loud in his ears, more than disheveled for the first time in his life. His eyes were wide in– (“My ability can easily save lies,  so the lives of those in my proximity  end up as something cheap.  It's my fault that those close to me died.  I'm sure...  That will happen again.  Is there some place  where it's okay for me to live ?”) His eyes burned. ("I'm keeping a tally. I'm counting the number of times you've saved my life .”) (“When you tally things as they're done and finish the word, " correct / right ," it feels like the " correctness / rightness " in the world has gone up by one.") (“This is your “ correctness ”.”) ("That righteousness has taught me. No matter who you are, everyone's spirit has a limit .") ('You are too righteous.') Seventeen years. Seventeen years without this accursed ability. And then— What is wrong with me? Righteousness. ‘Correctness’ . How could I? In a life ruined by those words, I am here again, repeating my errors.  Bile rised up her– his? Throat. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth– He faltered. Blood. On his hands, his– Someone could’ve died and it was his fault– !  ‘You are too right.’ Wrong. Wrong. All of this is wrong!  Out. I need— I —

🔥: The past never dies (MHA x TWST)

From the time Leona was born, and from the time he grew a proper awareness, there'd been heavy expectations weighing down on him. (From the time Touya was born, he was made and trained for the chance to surpass All Might.) Compared time and time again to his older brother, always seen as lesser. Worse, no matter what. Their personality differences, even bringing up an ability of his and calling it 'terrifying' when they wouldn't fear such a thing from his brother. (The problem with Touya wasn't that he lacked in motivation. No, it was that he was simply born with a weaker quirk. An unfortunate combination of powerful flames, with a resistance to cold, thus being liable to harm by his own. He was deemed a failure and no more training was to be done.) --- Where Leona Kingscholar has Todoroki Touya's memories. (I know it's weird, but TWST names sound better with first name-last name, while anime names sound better last name-first name.)

~ Excerpt ~

From the time Leona was born, and from the time he grew a proper awareness, there'd been heavy expectations weighing down on him. (From the time Touya was born, he was made and trained for the chance to surpass All Might.) ... Falena didn't understand. How could he? What was the point of anything if working hard gave you nothing, and the only thing that got you far in life was privilege and when you were born? 'I'll show them,' Leona promised. 'Show them that I'm worthy to be king.' (So what if dad refused to train him!? He was the one who lit the fire under him in the first place! The one who gave him the desire to be a hero! To be stronger! What right did he have to suddenly stop just because Touya could get a little burned?      He started training in secret.) Everyone would find fault in him no matter what, all to be able to praise his brother. No matter what he did, he couldn't win. (Then there was Natsuo, who'd also inherited mom's quirk. Touya had slowly fallen into despair, when the golden child had been born– Todoroki Shoto. The perfect combination of half n' half. What?) "Must be nice to be the firstborn, huh? You can spend every day singing and napping and still become king." (Touya hated Shoto. He meant everything that Touya wished wasn't true. That maybe he wasn't needed. That his purpose, his dad's attention-! He kept training.) "Leona... You may never become king, but you are still wise. There is much you could do for this country." Was that supposed to comfort him? That he still had a purpose? Really? ('Stop training' , he says. 'There are things beyond being a hero you can do'. 'Do things like play with your siblings, or make friends at school.' "But everyone at school says they're gonna be heroes..! ..There's no way you'd understand..! Because I'm your son.") Why did he have to feel this way, just because he was born a few years too late? ("What would you know, mom!? You think dad's the only person that got me going? Your family was poor so they sold you away and you had no say in the matter. Isn't that why I was born in the first place..!?")

👶: i want the world to go away (KHR x TWST)

For a while, Azul had been unhappy with his life. As a child, looked down upon, bullied and laughed at as a silly little octo-twerp– It hadn’t been that great. Looking down upon himself, feeling like an idiot, and a good for nothing. He hadn’t been good at academics, not at sports, and the lack of a tailfin like the others meant he couldn’t catch up to them half the time. He was useless. Except he couldn’t let it end like that. Refused to let it end like that, and thus came an obsession with getting back at them. Proving to them that they were wrong. They would learn… After all, came his signature spell. Every single thing that made any of the others special, better than him could easily be taken. All he had to do was offer what they desired, and that was pitifully easy. ‘I’ll take your singing voice–’ ‘Your unique spell–’ ‘That tailfin of yours..–’ All were expendable, and all could easily be his for a price. It felt right. Like he’d found what he wanted to do. (It was meant to be revenge against those who’d wronged him, but now..?) --- Azul with Viper's memories, hell yeah

(ive never seen khr so im going off wiki knowledge.)

~ Excerpt ~

“Interesting. That's a pretty tempting offer.” “Then—” His heart sank. “Here's the thing, though.” How could he stop his worst nightmare from happening..? “No offense, but none of that's gonna be enough to justify me returning these contracts.” “What?” “See, if I don't help Team Ramshackle dispose of these contracts, they'll make a huge racket outside my room every day until morning.” “Huh...?” He blankly replied. “If you take their dorm away from them, they take my good night's sleep away from me. I want them gone from Savanaclaw, so these things have gotta go.” What.? “Sorry, Azul.” What could he– What…? And then he found his answer. (It popped into his head, like it had always been there. Something he had the confidence to know that he could do it, even if he’d never done it before.) “Viper Mirage R. ” Leona tilted his head, “Hm?” Rule set: Do not use King’s Roar. If this rule is broken, then the target will be damaged with a wound determined by the caster. This affects everyone in the area. “Do it and you’ll regret it. This is your last warning.” He steely spoke. “Sure, I’ll call your bluff. Kneel before me! King’s Roar��–” Leona's hand twitched, watching as a wound opened up. “Huh. Fancy trick. I wonder what other tricks everyone must be hiding.” “Leona!” The hyena called worriedly. The brunette shrugged it off, “Just a papercut. Whatever. I don’t actually need to use it, no matter how convenient it may be.” Azul braced himself.  ------------------------------------------------- Leona let a smirk grace his lips. ‘Sorry, lil’ bro, stealing one of your ultimate moves. Not like you’re here to catch me.’ “ Jet Kindling ,” he mockingly muttered as his fist burst into flames. He could tell that the both of them had startled. After all, most magic came from a focus, their pen. These flames were nothing, compared to being nearly burned alive once upon a lifetime. It’d heal easily anyway. What was the point of having these memories if he couldn’t put them to use, eh? The contracts went up in flames. -------------- Azul couldn’t.. Believe it. He’d been a fool. “Ah.. My.. contracts.. reduced to ashes… I don’t believe this..”

🥀: my riddled heart i had to cradle back together (BSD x TWST)

Riddle had been a little puzzled on what he wanted to do. After the realization, he hadn’t known what he wanted to do about his mom. Winter break was looming ever so closer with every day that passed. ---- Or, It's winter break, and Riddle decides to have a chat with his mom.

~ Excerpt ~

He still felt a pang of fear at the thought of being taken away from his friends anyway. ‘You can do this.’ “Even more than you had been before? What were you going to do when I got older? Keep treating me like a puppet who can’t think for itself?”  His thoughts went blank for a moment. “You raised me so dependent on you and your dumb rules. So sheltered.. If you kept me locked in all the time I don’t think I’d even be able to live. So many things could’ve gone and I- I can’t even believe you.” “..I can’t even understand what you were trying to do. It’s so nonsensical..”  Nonsensical was like the Queen of Hearts, herself. Except, maybe they were both flawed. Not someone to be followed all the time unquestioningly.  Not someone he should follow.  And while he himself had enforced the rules, they were less rules and more guidelines that could be followed. But it didn’t make much sense to follow them all the time when all it did was make him miserable. What was the point of rules? Usually to stop things from happening, things that could cause harm, generally.  The Queen of Hearts’ rules could be attributed to causing stability in where there is chaos. Something to strictly follow in a mess, and a form of control, in a way. What help did the rules enforced by his mother do? It controlled him. Sure, she helped him learn so much, but what was the point of it all without freedom? She wasn’t the ruler of anything, she didn’t need rules like that to keep order. Yet she did it anyway. And in a way, she was to blame for why he was like this.  “Riddle!” She chastised.  His mouth turned to a thin line. “I’m leaving. I’ve accomplished so much more away from your influence. In a year, I’ll graduate, and then you can’t do a thing.” Riddle was scared at first. Then subdued. Then angry. ..And then.. numb. Tired.  “I’ll give you the courtesy of ignoring what you’ve done so far, because it truly could’ve been worse.” ... “Don’t you dare, Riddle Marie Rosehearts ! I am your mother, and–!” You will listen to me. Maybe it was concerning that he’d gotten so used to it that he already knew what she’d say. “ ‘You know best’?” He mockingly muttered under his breath. The prefect had once shared a popular children’s story, along with the songs, from back in their world, and they’d both had a fun time laughing and making jokes while it was explained. He didn’t really know if he understood the story very well, admittedly, but Yuu had confessed that it’d been awhile since they’d last seen it so they hadn’t remembered it too well.

🎪: can you hear this? (HB x TWST)

Kalim had never been attributed to being particularly observant. He was always the one with no thoughts in his head, always smiling. Innocent. Naive. Gullible. It was seen in the way the ones with an intention of using him, he let get close. He’d let them steal from the many riches he’d been set over time. And maybe people felt bad for him, in the way kicking a dog would be (‘pathetic’), but otherwise unimportant. Except the truth was, Kalim trusted none of them. He understood from a young age that he was quite privileged, so it was only right to let them take and take, wasn’t it? Understood that not everyone was treated as nice as he’d been. Kalim was overly aware of the world as an heir should be. Aware that so many things could go wrong. If he got hurt, it would be on Jamil’s head. If he made a fuss, accused someone of anything, that person would be blamed even if they were completely innocent. It was a lot of power. ..And the truth was, he wanted none of it. The thing he wanted wasn’t something he could achieve. --- Kalim | Blitzo - Jamil | Stolas

~ Excerpt ~

Jade. “Kalim? Are you alright? Please speak to me.” “No,” He answered stiffly. He startled, “Huh?” “Why did you do that..?” “Hm? You mean..” “Hey, Rakko-chan. Didn’t you see? Umihebi-kun was gonna turn everyone against you and boot you out.” “I know.” “?” “..I knew already. You didn’t need to step in. You shouldn’t have stepped in!” “..So you were just letting it happen?” “Fuck! None of this even matters!”  Everyone was startled at the curse word. Tears of frustration were escaping him anyway. “I didn’t care! Him ruining my life was the least he deserved! After everything! But then you just had to get involved! So what if he was mind controlling me?! I didn’t even want to be the Housewarden anyway! I don’t care about any of this! In fact, I hated it. Him bringing it all down was doing me a favor! But oh.. Kalim wouldn’t notice this, Kalim’s an idiot! Kalim’s too kind for his own good! So I couldn’t turn you away because I’d already established myself as the kind of person to welcome everyone! But fuck it all! It doesn’t even matter anymore! Because Jamil could die, and it’s all because of you guys!” 

🎤: Idolization / Inconsolable (OnK x TWST)

Vil Schoenheit had felt like the only path in life was the entertainment industry. His father loved him, he knew, was supportive in every way, yet his father was also a famous actor. ..And regardless.. The truth was, he remembered another life. A life where the industry had sunk its claws into him already, messing him up deeply. Acting had been all he was– All she was, and to stop made him feel hollow. --- Vil Schoenheit having Ai's memories (warning for manga spoilers sort of?)

~ Excerpt ~

The first time around, she was meant to be cute and dazzling..! Emotive, and loving of her audience (she’d be a fool to think it was only innocent adoration they gave her) .  But that was okay, because she only mattered as much as her fans loved her, right? Maybe it was the drawback of being someone who hasn’t had love outside of that, doesn’t have someone to care for them like that. ..Or maybe it was a plus, because she would’ve always put her work first then some false validation.  Ai was shaped by love. And that ‘love’ she gave, throwing the word around like candy, deeply wishing that one day it would come true. And it did. And then she died.  It was with Vil’s eyes that he’d noticed the injustice. The undeserving blame, for being ‘imperfect ’. This time around, he’d taken the form of elegance. Of beauty so overwhelming, it felt intimidating. Vil understood what love was. He saw it in the way his dad would encourage him to do what he loved. In the way he cared for him when he had a nightmare, and in the way… But in the end, both were confined to their own roles. Any point of straying was met with backlash. An idol wasn’t allowed to fall in love. And an actor was nothing more than the role they played. ..Perhaps the media had simply forgotten one simple fact– Their age. Ai Hoshino was a teenager. (Twenty when she died, though.)  Wasn’t that age all about finding love, and experimenting? And Vil Schoenheit was a teenager as well, having started acting since he was a child. Didn’t everyone at one point dream of being in the spotlight? Dream of being the star that dazzled them all?  ..It felt unfair. The world felt unfair. ... .. Vil from then on had begun putting his all, hoping that someone would see his light. Would see his potential. But maybe it was his fault, that he was–  ..What were those words they used? Too perfect. Otherworldly. Special. Maybe that was Ai’s fault, for being such an efficient liar. After all, her smile had never been as genuine as it had been when she’d had something to love, to adore. Her children. That smile was what people loved, and that smile was what she learned to copy for the next time. Vil didn’t quite have that frame of reference, not anymore. Sure, he still felt happy, but the media invaded his life over and over. Acting was his life. It consumed him. The thing about entering it even once, meant that suddenly your privacy meant nothing.  He doubted he’d look as beautiful with a wide smile like that. Not with how he looked this time. Expecting one thing and getting another was hardly something that made you pretty.  ..Vil just wanted to win. Wanted to be seen as more. 

ive finished book 6. and i already have an idea of who idia's reincarnation is (how the fuck does one even get started writing a fic centered around book 6. like .HELLO so much stuff happened. and also theres a malleus appearance so im better off figuring who to make malleus first so i know how to write him as a character...)

started book seven. and honestly. i have zero clue who to make malleus, haha...

[outeremissary]

△ how do you think you will die? (directed at the oc you feel like answering this for!)

Sorry for the delay!! As sometimes happens with things given an option I uhhhh. Wrote four versions of this after getting home from work last night. I'll give you the one with the highest final distress rating!

[prompt]

“How will I die?” Kasander cocks their head, chewing at their lip. Idly, their hands play with the hem of their tabard in their lap. “I mean, I don’t really know! There are a lot of ways to die, and I’ve already gone through a few of them! Like, you’re asking for the last one, right? One I won’t come back from? Ah, I guess it’s kinda hard to picture… Once you’ve bled out a few times it kinda kills the imagination!”

A light laugh, which dies off as they notice that you aren’t laughing. Their picking at the embroidered hem intensifies. The frayed gold threads have already been worried well past their limit, but somehow Kasander finds ways to split them further. The tailor of the heroic garment would surely weep to see its mistreatment.

“I guess like… what are you asking? When I’m gonna be alone? When no one’s gonna want to bring me back? When Shadowheart’s gonna die?” The feverish final note is cut short as the fabric in their lap is twisted so sharply that they jump, staring at their own hands in confusion. They relax slowly, but even when they turn back to you the way they still watch themself, untrusting, is plain to see.

“Um… I guess, like, since that’s the question, I guess maybe I could… get sick? Or maybe one of these cultists is gonna get us, some time. I don’t know. There are a lot of ways, right? I don’t think I’ve got any good ideas.” They sigh loudly, flopping back onto the ground with arms spread wide. The tabard hem is released once more from its torment.

“I’m not any good at this,” they groan, muffled now by the angle. “I don’t have any idea, sorry.”

They lay there, stewing, and the awkward pause drags on long enough that you’re painfully aware of the papery rustle of leaves and thin buzz of late afternoon insects. Somewhere in the distance an argument is happening over the campfire, the words floating across your senses as the quiet between you and Kasander drags on. Finally, they shift on the ground, sighing again: quiet, without theatrics.

“Does it really matter anyway?” Their voice is so soft the words are only half-distinct. “I mean, you wouldn’t know. But none of it sticks. Maybe you’re stuck with me forever.

“Maybe some people don’t get to leave.”

[9/10, deeply uncomfortable. They’ve already been denied death on their own terms.]

[saccharinecoffee]

Halo of red | Henri & The Beast

Pairing ◈ Henri Clément x The Beast

Word count ◈ 3,130

Info & Warnings ◈ Smut, monsterfucking, implied Augustin/Henri friends to lovers

Author's notes ◈ Fun game! Could have been 10/10 if it had a sorta gothic Lovecraftian love story, though.

Read on AO3

You've reached your breaking point in the bunker when the beast finally catches you. Running away is no longer an option.

You walked slowly, flashlight in hand as you reacquaint yourself with the eerie corridors of the bunker. You were careful – you had to be.

You had heard the beast crawling within the walls, heard it stomping down the main hallway as it stalked after the sounds you made. It had been a terrifying ordeal, however long you’d spent in that hell since awaking. You sweat and panicked while the adrenaline flowed through your veins; you trembled and heaved whenever it wore off. There was just no winning. You were too exhausted to bear it much longer, maybe even too weak. Your body had reached its limit and it screamed at you for mercy, for rest. But you couldn’t stop, you had to leave, you had to-

Distracted, you tripped over something. You fell to the ground as whatever caught your feet snapped behind you and a hissing sound spread out. You cursed under your breath as dread began trickling up your spine.

A flare had gone off. Fuck.

You heard the creature roar the next room over and you scrambled uselessly on the ground as you tried to gather your bearings and get back up. Your feet felt as though they were made of lead, arms weak as you crawled away and kicked off the wire from around your legs.

It felt useless. Your heart pounded in your head and a sob bubbled from deep in your throat. This was it. Sharp claws and teeth awaited you. Blood and gore and pain. You screwed your weeping eyes shut as tears wet your face, the rumbling of a bomb going off at the surface making you shake and hug yourself tighter on the ground.

The thing's footsteps thumped as it rounded the corner and spotted you. You whimpered and cried, unable to move or to look up. It was too dark anyways, aside for the red sparkle of the ignition.

Thump. Thump. Growl. Thump. You felt the vibrations of the creature's feet on the floorboards you lay on, feeling more and more like an earthquake as it got closer. And then-

"Ah!” You gasped, clawed hands grabbing your ankles and pulling you closer and forcing you on your back. You kept your eyes screwed shut, your breathing laboured with anticipation.

A claw would soon rip through your gut, you desperately thought. And sharp teeth would puncture your skull.

Instead, something warm and slimy touched your cheek.

You froze.

It traced down your face, over your jaw. It trailed down your neck and you shivered, heat blooming in your cheeks. There was a sweet scent in the air, mingling together with salt and blood. Then, something a bit colder touched your chest and scratched down. It didn’t hurt and it caught the front of your shirt before ripping it open slowly, almost curiously.

You wanted to panic. Alarms should be ringing violently in your mind, warning you not to get complacent, that you were about to be devoured, but something about the air felt strangely comforting, like danger left when the beast touched your crying face. You shouldn’t be swayed by the strange magnetism in the air, by the insanity and the hope and the gut feeling you might have. You were taught that in training and you were aware of it, though merely in a rational sort of way that felt foggy and distant, behind the many layers that adrenaline cast between you and your senses.

Regardless of your inner turmoil, the warm wetness trailed down your chest, tasting, feeling and making your breath catch in your throat. It left too soon, slithering its way back up your neck and jaw and over your cheek before it completely withdrew itself.

It grunted, a loud sound that echoed through the hallways. It sounded strangled, like something was caught in its throat.

"Aargh," its voice was scratchy, deep and twisted. "Hhha..."

Was it trying to speak?

"Heen," it attempted, and something about it made your heart beat faster. "Henrrr- Henri..."

You opened your eyes in shock, chest feeling heavy. Specks of red light gave way to a massive silhouette that hovered over you, assertive and imposing. The rest, just pure darkness.

"W-what?" You said desperately, bits of panic seeping through your complacency. It wasn’t possible. The monster couldn’t…

"Hen... Henri," it rumbled again.

And you knew. You had no way of knowing but you just knew.

"Au-Augustin...?"

Something rumbled deep in the creature's throat. It moved closer, its face lowering over your chest and its teeth scratched your skin, almost experimentally. Your breath hitched, a moan getting caught in your throat. The beast's tongue was on you again, soothing over the marks and drifting back up slowly.

You couldn't get used to the feeling, always so novel whenever it touched you, making you tremble and sigh, making your skin prickle and blood pump faster. You felt bold, lifting a hand to where you thought its head was and it startled, but understood your intent quickly. It made a croaking sound, and despite it being so animalistic, you felt as though you understood its intent as well.

You stroked its skin, felt its ridges and valleys and plains. It leaned into the touch and rumbled out your name again, making an incredulous laugh escape your lips. Its head was hairless, but it seemed to have several wounds tender to the touch. Its teeth felt long and sharp like that of a tiger, but around the sides of its face, it had perfectly human ears. It leaned into the touch once more, though it growled like the beast it was. The dichotomy, you found, was more amusing than disturbing.

"Augustin, is it really you?" You couldn't help but ask again.

The beast licked your face, a claw running down your neck, then over your chest. It grunted and shrieked, and it retreated its tongue.

"Found... You..." It rumbled darkly. "Mon... Chèr..."

You laughed, tears stinging your eyes as your fingers traced over the beast's face. It was too dark to discern much of anything. Perhaps it had expressions you could not perceive. Perhaps it was for the best that you couldn't yet see its large teeth and deformed eyes. But you couldn't help but laugh, smile, and urge the creature closer.

"I'm sorry," you said. "It's my fault."

The creature grumbled, scratched you over your shoulder and over your chest again. A whine escaped your lips.

"I put you in danger," you continued, its claws ripping the rest of your shirt. "If I'd gone instead of you maybe none of this would have happened."

Claws ran over your skin, gently, playfully, making gooseflesh spread and making your back arch just the faintest amount.

"And I'm- I'm sorry I never gave you an answer... Before all of this."

The beast roared louder, nipped your shoulder. You gasped, reaching for its neck in surprise. It hurt, but not unpleasantly. You wondered if he still held a grudge against you, if your inability to follow your heart had left him resentful.

"I know, I know. I was a coward."

It licked over the flesh apologetically, the wetness making it more sensitive.

If this was the way being with him could have felt, you thought, then maybe I should have already plunged into the deep end with him earlier. Before all of this.

"Henri."

The beast ripped the front of your cargo pants open, its tongue immediately swarming your clothed erection. You sobbed, the feeling so overwhelming. It was hot and wet, the pressure just on the verge of pain. It felt vindictive, but not cruel.

You snickered. Maybe the ever perfect Private Lambert still held your rejection a little closer to heart than you though.

"Y-You shouldn't-"

Its claws scratched over your lower belly, making you arch into the beast's mouth.

"Fuck, fuck...!"

Just trust me and let go, you remembered Augustin saying. Stop worrying so hard about everything.

You helped the beast lower your trousers to your knees, that tongue slithering over your naked thighs and making you tremble. It was good, it was really good. And it was scary, the fact a deformed monster could make you feel this way. It was absolute insanity how it was once the very person you'd fallen in love with. Turned into a monster who'd killed everyone in their bunker, but couldn't help but feel the lust and playfulness of a human once more as he saw you.

A claw hooked into your underwear and you braced yourself. Slowly, they shifted lower and you lifted your hips to aid the process. The fresh air made contact with your heated, wet arousal and it made you shiver. You grasped your erection instinctively, pumping yourself a couple of times to release some pent-up energy. You moaned, writhing against the wooden floors, and above you, the monster was slow. It moved its hands around your torso, warm where the skin touched and tantalising where its claws raked and it was deliberate and precise when it drew its claws slowly to toy with your nipples. You wailed, hips rising into the air as you let the monster do with you what it pleased.

Saliva dripped down its maw and over your erection as its tongue whirled around your cock, making you retract your hand. You weren't sure of what it had in store for you, only that it wanted you. And you let it have the reins, let... Him, have the reins. You always trusted him and you wouldn’t – couldn't – stop now. You'd merely take what it dished out for you; it was too strong to fight back, regardless. The thought didn’t scare you as much as it aroused you further. So you sobbed, back arching and hands clawing at the floorboards as that tongue completely encased your arousal, rubbing it as it moved and slithered its way further and further between your legs. You rutted against it, riding the beast's tongue as you chased your pleasure. Meanwhile, the tip of its tongue poked your taint, rubbed it and licked it, making you cry.

Before you knew it you were flipped over, the beast's massive hands having so easily wrapped around your body and lifted it as thought you were weightless. You folded your legs beneath you as it drew your behind closer to its maw, claws digging into your skin just enough to sting, and stroked its tongue over your hole.

"Oh..."

Despite the size of the beast’s tongue, it wasn’t unpleasant, but rather odd and exciting as it poked and licked your crack, lowering to fondle your sensitive sac and coming back up to prod at your entrance.

"I don't suppose if I complain you'll rip me to shreds with your teeth, no?" You taunt, feeling a little brave.

The beast retracted its tongue and you felt its hot breath over your ass, the anticipation making your skin tingle. Then, you felt its teeth over your flesh, raking over the swell of your ass cheek and nipping it at the end. It made you shiver and you shamelessly raised your ass further in the air for it. It repeated its movements, scratching you where it held you down.

Words couldn’t begin to describe the maddening way you fear and desire mingled with your pleasure.

Its tongue soon made contact with your skin once more, but it didn't shy away from your entrance anymore. It breached it easily, slithering in like a snake and making your knees turn to jelly.

You cursed and twitched with every spark of pleasure it gave you. You could only take it, shoving your face into the meat of your forearm while your mouth hung open. Its tongue thrust in and out, warming you up and lathering your insides with its thick saliva, until it inevitably retracted. 

You felt disappointed and confused, thinking it could have at least lasted a little longer. Surely, what else was there to-

Something blunt poked his entrance, hard, round and flesh-like.

"Oh, my god," you sighed as it thrust in and bottomed out effortlessly.

You'd never felt so full in your life. You'd never known a feeling such as that could even be within the realm of possibility. The beast thrust out slowly, experimentally, and when it thrust back in you felt your nerves light up like nothing else.

You cried, wailed as the beast fucked you, leasurely at first, getting used to your smaller body, and then faster, pounding you like the animal he had become.

Your cock throbbed beneath you. It throbbed and leaked where it was trapped between your stomach and the massive hand of the beast as it held your body close against its. Inside, it was almost too much, its erection big enough to rub every nerve ending at once. You were useless in its grasp, a moaning mess of a man as this beast devoured and took you as his.

As arousal coiled itself deep in your core, threatening to spill, you looked behind you, hoping to catch a glimpse of the monster that had taken you.

It was still too dark to perceive it, your eyes barely adapting from keeping them screwed shut in the midst of pleasure. But the flare still glowed behind the both of you. Fiery flecks of light were dying out as they floated in the air like mist. From where you lay, it casted what seemed like a halo of red around the beast’s shadowed face.

"Henri," it grunted again. "Henri, mon-"

"Yes," you sighed. Your hips stuttered and you shoved your face into your inner elbow desperately as heat coiled rapidly in your gut. "Yes, yes, yes-"

Your friend's name was on your lips as you came. It, too, spilled its seed inside your shivering body as its hips stuttered and pressed hard against your behind. It was intense, mind numbing and startling. Your legs tingled as the aftermath of your climax rippled down your body, and how something so intense was possible, you had no idea. It almost drove you mad how you could have ever denied your desires to Augustin before, if this was what hehad wanted from you all along.

The beast lowered itself and held you close, its front to your back. It didn't retract itself from your body and every movement threatened to arouse you back to full hardness. You held onto its arm, breathing made hard from the way it kept stroking you, fidgeting with your hair and your wet skin, still heated and sensitive.

"My friend," you said with some difficulty. "If you keep that up I'm soon going to need more than just a cuddle on the floor."

The beast groaned and lifted you up with it. The feeling of its cock inside of you as you moved and stood up was bizarre, but just as riveting. And the way its huge body covered yours as it hunched over you was enough to stir something new inside of you.

You grabbed your cock, half hard already and tugged at it, once, twice, and you sighed. The monster moved, drawing you closer to a wall and grinding into your sensitive ass. You stroked yourself harder, leaning your head back and resting it against the creature's expansive body. It dug its claws into the wood and stone of the bunker's walls and held firmly into it as it thrust in and out with more fervour, using his other massive hand to wrap around your chest and neck and pulling you closer against its warm body.

It was tight and close, almost intimate despite the animalistic nature of your coupling and you couldn’t help but moan long and desperate as it fucked the air out of your lungs. Its tongue lolling out over your shoulder and around your neck and the feeling was akin to being devoured. Teeth scratched against your jaw and down your neck where its tongue drew patterns. It was so intense, so much stimulation from so many directions it made you dizzy. 

You stroked yourself with bated breath as you contemplated how it could so easily sink its teeth in and bleed the life out of you. Its teeth raked hard against your pulse, no doubt feeling the way your arousal escalated and you whimpered desperately.

Its hips slammed harder into you, the only thing keeping you upright being the claw still wrapped around your chest.

Its breath was against your neck where it bit and licked, its cock deep and wet within you. You tightened your fist and came once more, leftover cum dribbling down your fingers as the beast held you close and spilled inside of you again, thrusting short and shallow as it rode out its climax.

When it removed itself from you, you moaned, feeling all the cum he pumped into you dribbling out and down your thighs. You held onto the wall, catching your breath and hoping you wouldn’t fall to your knees.

The beast didn't help, its tongue surprising you as it licked at the wet mess between your cheeks. It lapped hungrily at it, and took no time in plunging into your ass. Your knees shook, you begged, mumbling under your breath as it licked you from the inside. Its tongue swirled and prodded hard at your inner walls, tasting you and itself all at once.

You shuddered, oversensitive as it refused to let up. Your legs were about to give out, but the beast licked hard at something inside and you saw stars. With a loud wail, you shook and came dry, completely untouched as its claws dug into your hips.

You must have blacked out after that, because when you came to, you were resting on a familiar mattress. Next to you was your bag and notebook, where you usually put them before the day was over and the platoon went to sleep. It was your bunk bed, where you slept before the horrors happened.

And next to you, where your dear friend once slept, was the beast, resting its tired, monstrous body. It didn't even fit on the bed, both legs and an arm falling off the edge comically.

You turned and lay on your back, staring at the metal framing of the bunk bed and cotton of the used mattress above you.

It was a strange situation, most unexpected for sure, but all things considered it wasn't so bad.

Maybe you two could both make it out of there. Run away from the trenches and make it through the French countryside where the only disturbances consisted of early rooster calls and the occasional downpour. Deserters got a bad rep, for sure, but nobody needed to know.

Running away didn't seem so bad, if it were done in good company.

◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ ◈

Thank you so much for reading! Please consider sharing and checking out my other works!

Tip jar☕

[gear-project]

Roleplaying and Relationships

There was a time when I was younger, when I encountered someone who actually Roleplayed as Dizzy, and she did it to the point of most if not all online interactions I had with her.

I rolled with it, not exactly taking it seriously, even following her to online events in MMORPG games she happened to play.

I wasn't particularly interested in the things she liked, but seeing as how I knew next to nothing about her, all I could really do was maintain the "friend" angle from my perspective.

She was, well... she saw ME as "Ky Kiske", and based her perception of him around me and her expectations of me.

Believe it or not that's actually a high hurdle to clear.

Even so, I still rolled with it... since I myself shared similar ideologies to Ky when I was younger (though I personally think I was immature and more hotblooded than Ky was when I was younger).

But at some point, I'm not sure exactly when, she disappeared.

Maybe I was too harsh, or perhaps we just didn't share the same interests... but for whatever reason, she took off to be by herself (no explanation, just left).

Over the years, I've developed a bit of a "wall" when it comes to interacting with people... It comes with the territory of interacting with people whom I don't know the true natures of.

Overcoming that "wall" for some people is optional, as it is not like I go out of my way to be rude or be distrusting... in fact I'm probably more patient as a friend to people than I get credit for.

But, over the years, I've encountered a great many people who are duplicitous by nature... they only think of friends as this "convenient tool" to get what they want.

Now, I'm just speaking from general experience... such people will act friendly, for a time, but at some point... whenever it is particularly inconvenient, they walk out of the relationship like it never happened.

I, personally, do not treat Friendships like a Gas Station Convenience Store that you can walk in and out of as you please.

You could argue I am being "selfish" or "clingy", but... I think just being the kind of person whom can engage with someone else's personal life issues on the day-to-day... A friend is supposed to (at the bare minimum) be willing to listen to what their friend has to say or how they feel. To "make friends" is to "be a friend"... it goes both ways.

I've also encountered flirty types who engaged with me, only to flat out act "intimate" with someone else right in front of me, as if I'm invisible and don't exist! As if my feelings on the subject do not matter.

So, can you really blame me if I have any sort of "wall" when it comes to interacting with people in a community whom I don't know much about?

To this day, I still wonder, and am concerned for the girl who roleplayed as Dizzy. She is neither the first nor the last to do such a thing, of course... and I personally do not mind roleplaying (as long as it doesn't strongly interfere with one's real life, that is).

We live in a world where people can literally become anyone they want to be... take on the roles of anything they seek to accomplish... and some people even become famous (or infamous) as the case may be...

But there are still people in this world who live in their "own worlds"... regardless of other peoples' feelings or state of mind.

There's also lots of toxicity when interacting with people, especially in a community where egos and tempers clash with great frequency.

From my limited perspective... I've always struggled to gain friends that were genuine... as if prospecting for Gold, only to find "Fool's Gold".

I've also encountered "incomplete people" who constantly walk in and out of my life, acting as if everything is normal to do so... and my heart weeps for these people and their incomplete sense of what friendship truly is...

Maybe it sounds like I'm being clingy, or selfish... or my expectations of people are "too high"? Well... even if I had high expectations... I apply the same standards on myself as I would anyone else.

In the days when I roleplayed as Ky, as Raven, as Asuka, as Bedman even... I did it for the sake of the fans, for the friends I had around me... to engage and interact with them... in much the same capacity that one goes out to Cosplay at Anime conventions.

It is (to me) an homage to the characters I enjoy, and to some degree, I do it to have FUN (real fun) with the friends around me.

In real life, while there's lots of things about me that need perfecting and refinement... I still seek to continue interacting with my friends because they are important TO ME.

I'm not perfect, by any means... and frequently my flaws appear to show that I can get pretty stubborn, lofty, and maybe even overly BLUNT.

But, I also think being a friend means to ACCEPT a person's flaws... or ROLL with them... even roleplay WITH them as a FOIL...

And yes, I admit, there may have been times when I deserved someone to walk out on me... but, I still believe that is no reason to stay disconnected forever...

Well anyway... even if I'm engaging with someone who firmly "believes" they are someone else... (from GG or anywhere else)... I still respect the person for their capacity to INTERACT as a Human Being.

To become Friends with me, though... I still believe requires BEING a Friend when it counts...

[conjoinedpubes]

Adventures of Maern - Chapter 2: A Chaotic Start

In chapter 1, a rough plan of the character. Now, the adventures of Sister Maern begin in earnest.

Truth be told, I walked into this adventure unprepared; leaving the starting levels chaotic and poorly documented. Combined with the perceived 'lack of options', I ended up rushing through the early-game.

1. The First Steps

Getting summoned right away upon emerging at 'The First Step' and at Base Level (7 for Prophet) is rather rare. Effectively limited to players attempting to rush down the [Tree Sentinel] boss.

Thus, to even begin our co-op focused adventure, some preparations:

1.collect multiplayer items (Small Golden effigy) 2.unlock Torrent 3.stop at (Level 15, Weapon +3) before moving on 4.unlock Ashes of War via. [Whetstone Knife] 5.meet Kale', grab [Torch] and [Crafting Kit]

The [Small Golden Effigy] was the first grab, without it there is no long range co-op, a must have. Next, headed to 'Gatefront Ruins' where Melina handed over Torrent's summons and the [Whetstone Knife] could be found.

Optional: the [Lordsworn's Greatsword] can be found at the 'Gatefront Ruins'. Prophets can wield this at base stats, I opted not use it for theme reasons.

From there, the aim was to ride around Limgrave and unlock the common summoning pools (ie. minor dungeons, Margit, Agheel). Runes went into buying a [Torch] and [Crafting Kit] then any leftovers into levels and weapon upgrades.

Limgrave: common co-op areas. (realized after post that Tree Sentinel is not shown in this map)

1.1 Co-op Concerns

As the idea is to co-op as much as possible, we would like the widest matchmaking pool. The limit of (Lvl 15, Weapon +3) being the highest (level+weapon) that could be summoned by all Classes (excluding Wretch) at starting level and with no weapon upgrades.

NOTE: Of course, you don't need to wait until that point to start co-op. Summons start to roll in frequently at (~Level 12, Weapon +1) and with a few dungeons unlocked. Being the at highest level for base level co-op simply gives you the largest matchmaking pool, since you can also be summoned by players who overlevel the area.

The focus on a wide pool also means that one should avoid overgearing the area, both in character level and weapon upgrade. For Example: its easy to get a +6 weapon in Limgrave (or even +7 from Patches). But keeping weapons at the mid-point of +3 allows matchmaking with +0 to +6 weapons. Effectively, this means that at no point are levels and upgrade materials an issue; as we are always somewhat under the maximum upgrade level an area allows.

It was also at this point I realised that some PVP functionality would be necessary, being summoned means having to defend Host players from invaders. This concern ended informing much of our later offense tools.

1.2 Early Impressions

Very early gameplay on this build was rather strange.

On one hand, combat was at it's least hectic; giving ample to time heal mid-fight. Flasks are severely limited, making that 'one extra heal' that much more impactful. At no other point in the game is a healer more useful.

The flip side is that its rather boring. At starting Mind, [Heal] has 2 uses. Outside of topping-off the health of allies, you simply poke things with a [Short Spear]. Spare fp can used to [Catch Flame].

2. Brancing Out

I felt that gameplay options for the character at this point had been exhausted; therefore it would be best to push for progression. Next, 'Limgrave East' then toward the 'Weeping Peninsula'. But before that, finished the 'Murkwater Cave' for the [Cloth Set]. Sister Maern now has shoes.

2.1 Limgrave East Errands

At 'East-Limgrave', Maern found the [Physick Flask] then completed Kenneth Haight's quest for the [Erdsteel Dagger]. One of the few weapons with an innate Faith-scaling while also accepting Elemental Infusion. It was prime Sidearm candidate and a place to stick [Endure].

NOTE: I forgot to meet Bernahl and grab [Endure]. As a result, I only acquired that weapon skill much later in the game. Near Kenneth Haight is also [Ash of War: Sacred Blade], the earliest source of Holy Infusion; compatible with almost all weapon classes. I also forgot to grab it.

2.2 Weeping Peninsula

The peninsula contains a large number of Flask upgrades, securing flask potency for the forseeable future. In addtion, a wide assortment of useful tools could also be found here.

Entering the 'Weeping Peninsula', Maern found the [Morning Star].

This is Sidearm candidate 2. Good stopping power and a [Bleed] effect to make up for the build's lack of raw damage. A [Strike Damage] weapon also makes 'Mine-type dungeons' much easier. Especially useful, as they are common co-op areas.

The eastern side of the peninsula holds 'Oridys Rise', completing the puzzle awarded a [Memory Stone]. Maern now has 3 spell slots.

A teleporting scarab to the south rewards the [Poison Mist] incantation.

One of the initial ideas was to use [Poison] for slow but fp effecient Boss killing in the early-game. This resulted in 2 realizations; 1. My preconception of pure-Faith casters being limited to throwing fireballs and lightning bolts for damage. Incantations wield a suprising number of spells with either status effects or utility+damage combined. 2. I should stop by Caelid for more Poison effects.

Next, the first [Erdtree Avatar] boss. This one rewards the [Opaline Bubbletear] and [Crimsonburst Bubbletear], decent choices for early-game physick flask.

Last item was the [Blessed Dew Talisman], via. 'Tower of Return'.

I could not come up with any other 'must have' talisman at this point in the build. Regen is good at low-levels, flasks are limited for summons; pretty good for general adventuring. This also sparked the idea of deeper regen focus later down the line.

Lastly, a few items useful for this build that I did not pick up.

1. [Winged Scythe], as I prefer an infusable weapon. 2. [Faith-Knot Crystal Tear] +10 Faith in Physick. I forgot this existed. 3. [Flame of Frenzy] and [Lightning Strike] incantations. Good damage, but I wanted to lean away from direct damage or 'fireball-type' casting. 4. [Sacrificial Axe]. No idea why I didn't get this, fp sustain is incredible for co-op.

And that is the Weeping Peninsula adventure; mostly a treasure hunt. Co-op in the 'Weeping Peninsula' is suprisingly rare despite the numerous caves and side dungeons. When summons do occur its almost always to 'Castle Morne' or the [Erdtree Avatar] field boss. Perhaps its due to optional nature of the zone?

Next chapter: To Stormveil we go!

[reedreadsgreek]

1 Corinthians 7:29–31

29 τοῦτο δέ φημι, ἀδελφοί, ὁ καιρὸς συνεσταλμένος ἐστίν· τὸ λοιπόν, ἵνα καὶ οἱ ἔχοντες γυναῖκας ὡς μὴ ἔχοντες ὦσιν 30 καὶ οἱ κλαίοντες ὡς μὴ κλαίοντες καὶ οἱ χαίροντες ὡς μὴ χαίροντες καὶ οἱ ἀγοράζοντες ὡς μὴ κατέχοντες, 31 καὶ οἱ χρώμενοι τὸν κόσμον ὡς μὴ καταχρώμενοι· παράγει γὰρ τὸ σχῆμα τοῦ κόσμου τούτου. 

My translation: 

29 And this I say, brothers, the season has been shortened, so that, with respect to the remaining time, those having women should be as not having them 30 and those wailing as not wailing and those rejoicing as not rejoicing and those buying as not holding fast 31 and those making use of the world as not making full use; for the form of this world is passing by. 

Notes:

7:29 

The substantival near-demonstrative pronoun τοῦτο is the direct object of the present φημι (“I am saying this”; NIV, HCSB: “I mean”). τοῦτο is cataphoric to the following clause. Commentators recommend marking Paul’s rare use of φημι (over against, say, λέγω); NIGCT, ICC: “I affirm”. 

ἀδελφοί is vocative and gender-inclusive. 

συστέλλω (2x) is “I limit, shorten” (BDAG), from σύν + στέλλω (2x) “I set, withdraw”. ὁ καιρὸς is the subject of the present ἐστίν (from εἰμί) which, with the perfect passive participle συνεσταλμένος, forms a periphrastic construction equivalent to a perfect verb. The construction could be dramatic, “the time has been shortened” (NASB; so Fee), suggesting that God has cut short the time for reasons given in the ἵνα clause below. Alternatively, the perfect could be stative, “the time is short” (NIV, NET), “... limited” (HCSB); however, for this meaning Paul would probably have used χρόνος. NIGTC notes that ‘καιρός often constitutes a critical moment in which much is at stake’ and translates, “limits have been placed on the critical time.” 

The articular adjective τὸ λοιπόν is an accusative of reference, referring to the remaining time of the καιρός: “[with respect to the time that] remains”; most translations: “from now on”. It is best to take τὸ λοιπόν with the below ἵνα clause, fronted for emphasis (so Fee, ICC). 

This clause has been cited as a (rare) imperatival use of ἵνα. However, two alternatives are possible. It is possible for ἵνα to have its normal sense of indicating purpose with the dramatic perfect above: “God shortened the time so that those who have wives may live as if ...” (so Fee, although CGT calls this interpretation ‘impossible’). A better option is for ἵνα to indicate result with the stative perfect: “The time is short with the result that those who have wives should live as if they did not”. The articular present participle οἱ ἔχοντες (from ἔχω) is the subject of the present subjunctive ὦσιν (from εἰμί). γυναῖκας is the direct object of the participle. ὦσιν is modified by the clause ὡς μὴ ἔχοντες “as [though] not having [a wife]” indicating manner. καὶ introduces the first item in a list, and is left untranslated in English. 

7:30 

The instances of καὶ in this verse and the next continue the list. 

The articular present participle οἱ κλαίοντες (from κλαίω “I weep, mourn”) is substantival and the subject of an implied ὦσιν. For ὡς, see note on verse 29. 

For the grammar of the clause with χαίρω, see above. 

κατέχω (18x), from κατά + ἔχω, here is “I hold fast, possess, own”; NIV: “theirs to keep”. For the grammar of the clause with ἀγοράζω (“I buy”) and κατέχω, see note on verse 29. 

7:31 

The direct object of the present participle χρώμενοι (from χράομαι “make use of, employ”; see note on v. 21) is τὸν κόσμον. For the grammar of the construction, see note on verses 29–30. 

καταχράομαι (2x) is an intensified form of χράομαι (see above), thus “make full use of” (BDAG); NIV: “those who use the things of the world, as if not engrossed in them”. 

παράγω (10x), from παρά + ἄγω, is “I pass by, pass away”. 

τό σχῆμα (2x) is, “shape, form” (cf. μετασχηματίζω in 4:6). τὸ σχῆμα, modified by possessive genitive τοῦ κόσμου τούτου (“the form of this world”, NASB; NIV: “this world in its present form”), is the subject of the present παράγει. The present-tense of the verb is progressive (“is passing away”). ICC: “transitory indeed is the outward fashion of this world”; NIGTC: “the external structures of this world are slipping away.”

[glapplebloom]

Don’t blink... (See Mr. Illustrated Videos here)

Secure. Contain. Protect. That’s what SCP stands for. Despite this, fans want to unleash them in Vs Debates to see how they could handle certain fictional opponents. Look up SCP Vs on youtube and you’ll see them fighting each other, creepypastas and other fictional characters. And one of the most popular ones features two creatures that honestly you can’t even realistically see in a fight.

SCP-173, also known as the Sculpture, is an animate and extremely hostile statue that will snap your neck if you don’t keep your eyes on them. Even a blink can be the difference between life and death. The Weeping Angels are pretty much the same thing. And according to google, they appeared first by days. So obviously, who would win in a fight?

Let’s talk about the difficulties first. SCP has a fluid canon. How you interpret any of these creatures depends entirely on person to person. So 682 (the Hard to Destroy Reptile) for example, could be easily defeated if you throw enough firepower at him or can no sell the Ultimate Nullifier going all out. The same thing is with SCP-173.

Which comes to how the debate goes. Both SCP-173 and a Weeping Angel can not move when someone is looking at them. So if these two different creatures look at each other, they would be locked into position forever since neither one can move or even blink to give the other the opportunity to do so. But here is where the debate comes in.

Someone believes SCP-173 would be immune to the Weeping Angel’s stare because it can function normally when other SCP-173s are around. That’s why they never went with the Mirror option to contain it: it can move when its own face is looked at. And we know it can see because it still activates 096’s (the Shyguy) Anomalous Effects. So this is where interpretations come into effect.

They’re basing 173’s immunity among its fellow creatures, so they logically mean that this would be for all Living Statues. But that assumption would mean that 173 doesn’t have immunities to its own vision or the vision of other 173s. And despite being stoned, they can see perfectly fine, thus their own effects take place since looking at each other freezes them as well. So what else can 173 bring to the table?

Apparently it is frikkin hard to destroy. And not only that, overtime it can make more of itself. So what can a Weeping Angel do against something that could be just as fast but is virtually indestructible. Thing is, it's not impossible. Using just the SCP Website, 106 (the Old Man) can destroy it over time. And time is exactly what the Weeping Angels possess.

Their usual method of feeding is to send their victims back in time and consume the potential energy of the life they would have lived. And they can do this anytime, even as a stone statue. So even if 173 had the drop on it, the instant he touched a Weeping Angel they’re sent back in time to whenever the Angel wanted. So while 173 will still be alive, it's already gone. 

Some SCP supporters think this would actually be bad since they can just wait and create an army by the time they return to that timeline. There’s two reasons the Weeping Angel has the advantage here. First, while it varies at times, touching the same Weeping Angel twice would cause a human to crumble to dust. And the Old Man proved the Statue can indeed wear down overtime, thus making this a possible outcome.

Now what about the army? The Weeping Angels can do something similar, but much faster. Weeping Angels can apparently make any normal statue into a Weeping Angel. See the Statue of Liberty becoming one. And it is not just limited to statues. Any image, video, photo or even drawing, of a Weeping Angel becomes one. Some even hopped from digital photo to mobile games. So get one to be a meme, spread it around and they could have an army within a day compared to who knows how long 173 could.

And there are cases where it can transform others into Weeping Angels. A group of them turned the 13th Doctor into a Weeping Angel (for a while) and even resides in the memories of a person (also around that time) until it can free itself. Plus with its quantum-locking, it's not like 173 could do anything even if it could resist the Time Traveling. But all this is moot because once they look at each other, they’re basically locked: right?

Not necessarily. The Weeping Angels are also psychic. They can mess with the electronics near to them. So any lights can be shut off. Add to this, they have Night Vision, meaning they could attack in the dark. But does the Statue have Night Vision as well? I’m not sure. While there is a story about it attacking people during a blackout, it could be using its speed to bump into flesh and taking advantage of that. After all, even if they can't see their victims, they know when someone is looking at them.

SCP-5000 is a Mechanical Suit from an alternate timeline. One where he survived an encounter with Blinkers (SCP-173) and when he blinked he realized what they were and they were looking for him. While I couldn’t find this story on the website yet, it was in a youtube video. So while it doesn’t prove 173 can’t see in the dark, there’s nothing to suggest it does and this does show it has no special vision.

So in my opinion, the Weeping Angels would beat the SCP-173 due to their superior defenses and options. But if you feel differently about that, feel free to discuss your own thoughts and viewpoints. That’s why debating is fun after all.

[walkthroughtheword]

Reading for July 3rd

Ezekial 1

A new book of the Bible! These prophets give us some really tough stuff to work through and they also point us continually to the glory, splendor and holiness of God! Ezekiel is no different. There is a lot of picturesque language in this book which we will not attempt to interrupt. As is our style, we will make our devotions more personal in nature. Other writers in our group have the great gift of bringing out the historical wonders of the Old Testament, and we are so grateful for them! We will point you to Enduring Word commentaries for your further reading and study./enduringword.com/bible-commentary/ezekiel-1/

Ezekiel starts off with a spectacular vision of God’s glory! In the last verse of the chapter, starting about mid-verse, the writer says, “This is what the glory of the Lord looked like to me. When I saw it, I fell face down on the ground, and I heard someone’s voice speaking to me.”

Have you ever wondered how you will respond when you are in the presence of God when you are in heaven? Carrie has always pictured herself running into His arms and just weeping and worshiping Him because her race will be over and all the pain of this life will be washed away. Urban pictures himself falling on his face before God. It seems to him like the only response to the awesome, glorious presence of God. Then when we hear His voice, we both agree it will melt our hearts!

We are so limited in our ability to sense God’s presence and hear His voice. All the distractions in life tend to diminish, sometimes even silence, His voice. The prophets in the Bible would often go into the wilderness to hear the voice of God. We may not have that option, but we can “be still and know that He is God.” (Psalm 46:10) We can sit at His feet and meditate in His presence by closing out all that shouts for our attention. We must be intentional about our focus. It’s where we will draw all of our strength. This is our goal as His children until He brings us home to heaven. If He dwells in us, then His presence will always be with us; it is us recognizing, worshiping and drawing from all that He has for us that takes effort that is more than a treasure.

What ways can you set aside distractions-really set them aside? How can you fully realize that Christ is in you? (Colossians 1:27) How can you be thankful for that realization today?

[amuseoffyre]

I'm so curious about these memoirs especially since the letters exchanged during the 1770s-1780s from d'Eon are anything but enthused about the whole affair, which appears to have been forced by royal command.

Speculation began because a member of the Russian court recognised d'Eon and announced d'Eon was female. D'Eon admitted in letters about going undercover in a feminine disguise in Russia while working as an agent for the French court many years earlier.

This is taken from a letter to a superior in Versailles in 1771:

Since it is required for the welfare of my country and an august personage, I agree to pass for a woman and promise to give no living soul evidence to the contrary. But what I cannot accept is to wear the clothing of the other sex, although for a time I did wear it in my youth in obedience to my king. To resume this disguise permanently, or even temporarily, would be beyond me; the mere idea appals me so much that nothing could overcome my revulsion.

In the correspondence where bets were being made on d'Eon's gender and d'Eon was livid and went to the stock exchange to fight anyone who dared place bets and was fully infuriated that the men there were all cowards.

It took years for d'Eon to agree and it was entirely because the royal house were leveraging so much: d'Eon was not allowed to return to France (despite pleas to be allowed to go back to the family holdings and live quietly), nor allowed to take up work anywhere else without the king's permission, nor to confront anyone he blamed for his fall from grace (ie. a political fall out with the French ambassador and blackmail) and oh, btw, you won't get paid until you give us back the secret papers you are holding to ransom.

A letter from Versailles made it clear that d'Eon returning as a man was not an option:

If you wish to return, its doors will still be open to you. You know the conditions laid down for this; the most absolute silence concerning the past; avoiding all encounter with the persons you choose to regard as the cause of your misfortunes; and, finally, resuming the apparel of your sex. The publicity it has been given in England can no longer permit you to hesitate. You are doubtless aware that our laws are not tolerant of such forms of disguise… The safe-conduct which has been sent to you is all you need; so there is nothing to prevent you from deciding which course you prefer to take. If you take the wiser one, I shall congratulate you; if not, I can only pity you for not having responded to the kindness of the Master who extend his hand to you.

Letters flew back and forth for years, with one of the ministers at Versailles pressing the issue by saying "Is it not better to have a great reputation as a woman than a small one as a man?"

In the end, d'Eon agreed to the terms and signed an agreement to confirm it, but described it as "Like a drowning man, I was ready to clutch at anything". There is a heart-wrenching section in one of the letters from 1775:

If I decide to adopt women's dress, I wish really to pass as a woman in the eyes of the public who do not know the truth: those who know it are luckily sufficiently few for their indiscretions to carry conviction against the visible evidence. But however limited the number of men and woman who know my true sex, it is still too large and therefore must not be increased. What I am consenting to do, Monsieur le comte, is a serious thing and no man on earth has ever made such a sacrifice to his King and country. Therefore I do not want what, for me, is the loss of a whole existence to be a puerile joke for the world; that it should see an amusing comedy in what is a sorrowful tragedy and laugh at a harlequin when it should be weeping over a martyr. I am not exaggerating in the least in calling myself a martyr. I see and appreciate in advance what great physical and moral hardships I shall have to endure in assuming that dress which will be like the shirt of the centaur Nessus on the body of Hercules. So I wish to prepare myself to assume it as one assumes a hair-shirt, with solemnity and recollection, with tears in my eyes and ashes on my brow.

D'Eon didn't willingly go into feminine attire either. There was at least one imprisonment for wearing the dragoon uniform upon arrival back and repeated impassioned letters sent to Versailles, pleading to be allowed to resume masculine attire and return to d'Eon's former position in the military. Since d'Eon had signed the contract and now everyone was aware that the 50-something Chevalier was now a Chevaliere, d'Eon was rebuffed at every turn. So many of the letters from those years speak of being abed, depressed and stricken with grief.

After the revolution, d'Eon was broke. Septuagenarian, still in debt, no income except for the kindness of friends, no royal pension after decades of service, d'Eon's only way of earning money came from the spectacle of being the Dragoon Who Became a Woman.

There was no option of changing back as d'Eon said in that 1775 letter that should people find out “I would rather hurl myself to the bottom of a gulf in America so as to bury my sex and shame and hide them from the eyes of man" than be thought of as a man who wore a dress.

If the public is once convinced that I am a man dressed up as a woman, I shall become a walking laughing stock and the children will run after me in the street, calling me rude names. You can well imagine that I am not going to stand for being treated like a freak in a circus.

Fencing matches and duels for entertainment was one of the ways d'Eon kept food on the table, taking the Swordfighting Lady show on the road. Unfortunately, it also led to the injury that led to d'Eon's final illness and demise.

Given how much d'Eon fought against the transition tooth and nail for so many years, my suspicion is that the memoir was another means to earn a crust, knowing people would still be curious about who d'Eon was, which would go a long way to explaining the way d'Eon writes about the experience.

Hi!

I really enjoy your posts about d'Eon; she's so fascinating. I'm definitely not an expert on her, but I'm very interested! One article I read said that, in her unfinished memoirs, she used both male and female pronouns. Is this a) even true, given some of the clearly wrong historical writing you've cited before, and b) if it is true, what do you think about it?

So I don't speak French. D'Eon's unfinished memoirs were originally written in French and I'm working with an English translation. This makes any discussion of gendered language in her memoirs a bit more difficult as there are words that are gendered in French but gender neutral in English and vice versa. Helpfully the translation by Roland A. Champagne, Nina Ekstein and Gary Kates notes when the masculine or feminine form is being used. However I'm still answering this question based on a translation not d'Eon's original words.

D'Eon's memoirs are written in first person so the majority of the pronouns she uses for herself are first person pronouns (I, me, my, mine).

Other characters use either he/him or she/her pronouns for d'Eon but this reflects that characters perspective not d'Eon's personal pronouns. For example in a scene set in Russia the Comte de Vorontsov confronts d'Eon about her double life, using feminine pronouns for Mademoiselle d'Eon and masculine pronouns for Captain d'Eon:

This young lady remarked to Madame Vorontsov and to my niece the Princess Asthoff that she remembers very well that Mademoiselle d'Eon has a small wine-colored birthmark on her left cheek near her ear, that at the convent in Meaux she wore gold-drop earrings, and that if Captain d'Eon has this wine-colored birthmark on his left cheek and that if he has pierced ears, you can be sure that this is the Demoiselle d'Eon whom I knew in the convent. (p20)

D'Eon pretty consistently seems to use feminine language for herself when speaking in the present tense. She uses the words "woman", "girl", "maiden", "daughter", the titles "mademoiselle" and "chevalière" and "she/her" pronouns at points when she slips into third person.

However when talking in the past tense she sometimes describes herself in the masculine. She was a "man" but is now a "woman". She will sometime talk about her past self in third person referring to "him" as her "brother". After Mademoiselle Bertin dresses d'Eon in woman's clothes for the first time d'Eon says to her:

You have killed my brother the dragoon. That leaves me with a heavy heart. (p61)

D'Eon's describes her transition as a death and rebirth. A few weeks before d'Eon was to be presented at the Court of Versailles as a woman she returns home to Tonnerre. Still wearing men's clothes she gets into an argument with her mother who believes she should start wearing women's clothes immediately. But d'Eon is reluctant, avoiding it. At one point in the argument d'Eon tells her mother she must resign herself to "the imminent death of your pitiful dragoon" as "he" only has a few weeks left in men's clothes. Their argument ends with the following passage:

In tears, my mother said to me: "You are still my dear daughter sitting in the darkness and the shadow of death. But you will be reborn, my daughter, without fear or reproach, to live and die peacefully by your mother, who loves and will always cherish you. For your salvation and our mutual happiness, I have long prayed for the misfortune that befalls you." She wiped her tears against my face and returned to her room. I hid my face under the covers in order not to see or hear anything. I was even troubled by my own presence in he darkness of night. (p41)

While d'Eon describes the loss of her "brother" the dragoon as painful she ultimately sees it as something that is necessary and positive:

Mademoiselle d'Eon has only one more step to take to bury her brother the captain of the dragoons with the full honors of War ... Tomorrow without fail I will inform Mademoiselle Bertin of my return to Paris and tell her to bring with her feathered aides-de-camp to deplume me and to sew the dragoon's skin to that of a girl who is worn out from bitter disappointment with her own skin. This girl has the greatest need of her help to be trimmed, readied, and fitted out by her skillful hand in order that I may walk with unworried assurance along the narrow path of virtue, as is befitting a Christian maiden (p56)

The death of the dragoon captain gives life to the Christian maiden:

In my regiment I sought only the rough and tumble. But in my convent I find only remedies and healing. Thus by a natural tendency I find it impossible to reconcile Mademoiselle d'Eon with her brother, the dragoon captain. The brother is imperfect, the sister perfect. How can one reconcile between the imperfect and the perfect? (p72)

Her life as Geneviève d’Eon brings her joy:

At present I am living in profound peace; and my joy is so great that I praise God in three languages so that a greater number of people may partake of the happiness of the angels in this life while awaiting the crown of ordinary martyrs, Nunc Genofeva d'Eon est nomen meum; quam suave et dulce est laetitia mea! [My name is now Geneviève d’Eon; how delightful and how sweet is my joy!] (p87)

However she doesn't always refer to her pre-transition self in the masculine. D'Eon presents herself as a woman who was raised as a boy by her parents: "I had been educated as a boy, and I dressed as one." (p7) She describes her past self as a "foolish girl who was tricked to go along like a foolish ewe." (p3)

One interesting example of d'Eon's use of gendered language is her invention of the word "demoiseau". One of the translators Roland A. Champagne describes it as a "masculine version of demoiselle" and explains "We translated demoiseau as "pretty boy" in order to capture the lexical proximity of demoiseau to damoiseau ("fop")." Champagne concludes that "d'Éon constructed in a neutral gender the demoiseau to live as a masculine woman beyond the codes of the Ancien Regime." (Decoding "The Maiden of Tonnerre": Translating Gender from the Eighteenth Century)

Champagne is correct to say that d'Eon lived as a "masculine woman" but I think he might be making too much of this one word considering the context. The word "demoiseau" comes from the following exchange between d'Eon and Bertin:

Mademoiselle d'Eon. Alas, at court everything is beautiful. To please the court, does a former dragoon captain have to become a pretty boy [demoiseau]? Mademoiselle Bertin. Yes, absolutely, when the so-called "boy" is discovered to be in fact a girl by the systems of justice both in England and in France. (p64)

So I don't think d'Eon necessarily identified as a "demoiseau" but perhaps I'm missing something in translation.

The part I struggle with the most is words that are gender neutral in English but gendered in French. Without being familiar with French it's difficult for me to understand what the use of masculine and feminine forms of words means in context. Take the following passage for example:

Neither my body nor my mind was worn out from studying when my father took(m) me to Paris at the age of thirteen. At that point, I knew only how to read and write, and not well at that. I, however, fell into the hands(f) of my uncle and aunt who made(m) me feel ashamed(m) of my ignorance and who motivated me to study. Furthermore, they alerted and warned me that if I revealed the truth of my sex I would be locked away(f) in a convent forever. (p4)

In "my father took(f) me" took is masculine. Does that mean that d'Eon is masculine, her father is masculine or the act of taking is masculine? What about "made(m) me feel ashamed(m) of my ignorance" is d'Eon masculine or is her shame masculine? If her sex if revealed she will be "locked away(f) in a convent". Why is the word away feminine?

One thing that I particularly found interesting is that the pronoun "me" is sometimes marked as feminine, sometimes masculine, but most often not marked as either. So we have:

The Revolution made me(m) so rich that today I do not have the means to buy ink or paper.

And then just a few paragraphs later:

I would just as soon suffer childbirth as to be doing this painful work of writing, which I have begun because of the destitution to which the Revolution has reduced me(f).

Then a few paragraphs latter:

I am no longer a disciple of this world since my wonderful conversion, which separated me(f) completely from the body of the dragoons and from the sin of my uniform and which finally stripped away the old man in order to make of me a totally new being before Our Lord, in the eyes of men, in front of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting as well as the Daughters of Holy Mary, and in the hopes of the fortune reserved for me in heaven. The knowledge of that fortune has filled me(m) with complete wisdom and spiritual intelligence so that I might bring to fruition every good action and so that I might behave as befits a Christian woman not only before the world but also before the Lord, since during my novitiate I was washed(f), probed(f), tested(f), corrected(f), corroborated(f), strengthened(f), and rooted(f) in every way, which I endured, in complete patience and spiritual tranquility, the Lord having erased my obligations, which consisted of military orders, orders contrary to my spirit, and which He completely abolished and replaced with my new obligation to live and die in the essential purity of my innocent dress, no longer thinking of those things here below but only about those on high. (p136-137)

The switching back and forth between "me(m)" and "me(f)" is interesting but I honestly have no idea what it means.

If I ignore all the little "f"s and "m"s the gendered language seems pretty clear and consistent. D'Eon is a woman who was raised as a boy. She is feminine in the present tense but sometimes masculine in the past tense. But I can't just ignore the fact that I'm reading a translation. That would not be a honest analysis of her memoirs. I'd love if someone who is familiar with French went through her writing and really analysed her use of gendered language. I'm unfortunately restricted by the limits of working with a translation.

[thecameronchronicles]

3 A.M.

TW: Somnophilia. Smut. Language. 

SUMMARY: You need him, asleep or awake, and you take him as you see fit…

WORD COUNT: 1100

*Requested*

3 A.M. 

The saying goes that ‘nothing good ever happens after 3 a.m.’. Although this could cover a vast range of topics from poor choices made following a need for sleep that was ignored, you found it to affect you in the most unpleasant of ways. Your Adonis of a boyfriend lay asleep at your side, just as handsome as he was talented, that specific craft making it impossible to find time to be together from a difference in schedules. Of course, he’d try and make it up to you with date nights and sweet kisses in passing between filming and your own hours contradicting his, but this had been the longest it had been since he’d touched you in THAT way. 

Of course, you tried to convince yourself you could be patient, after all, the release would be THAT much sweeter in delayed gratification. But the way the moonlight peeked through the lines of the blinds and onto his torso, meticulously sculpted from hours spent at the gym and a strict diet of limited cheats and self discipline, you could no longer ignore the beckoning coming from between your legs. Especially when you knew how he’d felt whenever he was inside of you. 

But as you shifted at his side, aware that your fingers would pale in comparison to his touch, you optioned for a more unethical approach than what he had been used to. Accustomed to passionate sex that altered roles of dominant and submissive, you decided to advance in stealth, needing to encourage him before you were able to silence that deafening needonly growing with these continuous thoughts. 

Carefully lowering his boxers just enough to expose him to you, you licked your lips at the sight of how truly beautiful every bit of his anatomy had been. The adonis belt teasing what remained lower, the perfect sculpt of his muscles tensing in small motions that made you still in fear of discovery, and the softest of groans that set your heart in an unsteady pattern to know the sounds that would come imminently if you could continue without awakening him. This would prove successful as you took him around a soft grasp, drawing him behind your lips and pumping him in a slow savor between your hollowed cheeks. 

You were only able to continue this for a handful of attempted siphons before his lips fell agape and those sweet moans became expressed in interrupted breathing. Once you felt him slowly climb from a slumberous rest to a state of erratic breathing, your eyes lifted to him looking at you with lids now heavy with lust in place of sleep, once weaking to this following his initial surprise. The way his jaw laid slack, almost as if in preparation to feast on you once given the chance, prompted you to quicken out of curiosity to just how long he could endure this sensation. This wasn’t the first time in which you’d had him testing your gag reflex, as it was a practice you preferred quite often for those moans alone, but it HAD been the first time you’d done so with unabashed focus and an unapologetic need for your own satisfaction. The flames of passion darkening your otherwise sweet eyes he’d adored looking only to him in this way. 

“Fuck…” He breathed before his fingers slipped through your hair, assisting your motivations by pulling it into a makeshift ponytail as he intended to keep you there as long as you’d allow. But when you moaned, the vibrations of this reverberation making a sudden whimper leave his clenched teeth, he couldn’t relish in you as he’d wanted. 

He needed you. 

Now. 

Pulling you over his lap, he tore the edge of your panties without a care for keeping them in tact, before guiding you onto him. The immediate warmth offered by your weeping heat was enough to cause a series of mutual moans and groans from you both. 

You favored how he held you whenever he was inside of you as it was done in a way that was spoken as a silent promise of trust and protection. In that instance, when it was only the two of you, he ensured your bounds would be respected and your desires would be fulfilled. But even in this compassion and care came the desperation of human nature. That pull of satisfaction allowed from the effect of every deep thrust. It made for cruel pulls of your hair and lines left on your skin from a broadcast of that very result. 

“You feel so good-” He groaned into you as you nodded, his body now pulled into your chest, head turned, while your fingers ran through his hair to comfort the lack of control he had with you riding him. 

“Drew…” You mewled, almost in a purr, as he couldn’t keep a steady pace. Everything about the moment had gone against his ability to keep his stamina in continuation. 

The way you clenched him, just how wet you’d accepted him, the lines drawn through his hair, the way your own moaning spoke his name as if it were a religion all its own, and finally the dominance you’d offered against his submission brought him bucking in desperation into you. 

A hand to the back of your neck would keep you set in place so he could offer you the same intensity you brought him, as his second hand moved to your clit, quickly replaced by his own. 

“I want to make you come for me, baby…” You nodded, biting your lip as he growled at the sight, knowing he was the reason behind your pleasure. 

“I can’t take it…You feel too good for me…” You agreed again before taking his face between your hands. 

“Come for me Drew…Come inside me-just please…please come…” He bobbed his head following your passionate kiss, withdrawing only when you were too breathless from the kiss to keep it steady. 

“Come with me baby…'' He grunted, driving you into a rise and a descent of his cock, quickening you and speaking your name between curses as you belted out a final call to God until feeling him relinquish himself inside of you. For a moment, you’d given a look to the wall battered from the headboard having rammed it, smirking at the trophy of this most recent bout of passion, as he brought you into him with a kiss. 

“I love you…” He spoke softly, taking you into an embrace as he pulled you against his chest, falling asleep with your response mirror his confession, the softest ‘I love you too,’ spoken before you found peace in his arms. 

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271