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comatosebunny09 · 4 months

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oral fixation | astarion a.

summary: he loves your lips. especially when they’re so eagerly wrapped around him. genre(s): erotica, romance warning(s): female anatomy described, oral fixation, face-fucking, bj, jealousy, possessiveness, bodily fluids, choking, cum-eating, brief dacryphilia, explicit language, alcohol and tobacco use (hookah), blood drinking now playing: criminal - taemin notes: please thank @nanaoise08squad for helping me write this! also, please let me know if i missed any warnings! hope you enjoy, lovelies! screenshot credit

Lips.

Your lips.

They’re his favorite—if anyone ever bothered to ask what he enjoys most about your body.

Well, other than the devastating clench of your pussy, of course.

They’re pillow-soft. Thick. Flushed like rose petals. Cute when they’re pulled into that warm smile.

Alluring, stretched into a thin line as you glare at your enemies.

Exquisite, stained with blood and bruises and split—he can’t help wanting to lick them whenever he sets his eyes on them, even in the heat of battle.

Perfect and sweltering, curled around him. Dribbling with globs of spit and pre-spend as you take him down your throat. His favorite of all. And those pretty, garbled sounds you release when he presses deeper, testing your gag reflexes, amplifies his love for them.

Your sinfully gorgeous lips.

Gods.

Astarion bites his lip, threatening to draw blood.

He observes you through the wispy haze of tobacco smoke staining the lounge, trained on every twitch and spasm of your mouth beneath the dulled lighting. Every smile, every scowl. Every dart of your tongue from betwixt them, chasing wine that glides down the corners.

Your tongue leaves a sheen of saliva in its wake. Astarion swallows thickly. Unconsciously flashes back to how you make his cock gleam like that. Glistening and flushed an angry red when you release him with a lewd pop after swallowing him down like a fucking pro.

Astarion shudders, his eyes rolling into the backs of their sockets. His fingernails pull at the plush, crimson cushions beneath him, a groan trying to make itself known.

You’ll be the death of him; he’s sure of it.

Astarion sulks, swirling the contents of his goblet, brows weighed down in the middle by something like irritation.

You’re doing this on purpose. Enticing him. Vexing him. Your eyes occasionally find him across the lounge. Twinkle with mischief below bowed lashes before flitting back to your company. Company he wishes would piss off.

He can think of better ways to occupy your mouth that don’t involve meaningless conversation.

However, everyone’s gathered around you to celebrate the famed Hero of Baldur’s Gate. Despite Astarion’s protests, you insisted on staying.

You are a beacon of hope. An idol perched on a plinth, the Madonna della Pietà. Who would he be to steal you away from your adoring fans?

He just wishes his trousers weren’t so unbearably tight. Wishes he wasn’t straining against the seam of them, throbbing and pulsing with beads of pre-cum staining the thick material. Plagued by memories of the beautiful sounds he evokes from your mouth instead of your airy laughter filling his head once again.

Astarion crosses his legs with a petulant sigh and shoves a pillow onto his lap to mask his growing need. Quietly simmers, downing what remains in his cup. He swipes the back of his hand across his chin to clean up errant dribbles of wine, uncaring of how unsightly he must appear.

He’s in no mood for pleasantries. No mood to entertain others, waving off the belly dancers who try vainly to charm him with the wind of their hips. He’s too busy boring holes into the arm draped about your shoulders—one of your fans getting a little too cozy.

If looks could kill, he would’ve murdered this imbecile a thousand times over.

His vision glosses red when the man’s thumb swipes at the corner of your lips under the pretense of cleaning off some wine.

“There you go, lass,” he murmurs, the rough pad of his thumb grazing your chin. “Good as new. And still just as pretty.”

There’s no mistaking the gleam in his eye. The lecherous cant of his lips. A look Astarion knows all too well, having pinned you with it so many times himself.

You chuckle something tense, finding Astarion’s gaze through the discord.

Astarion moves on instinct. Soundless as a panther, pushing through the harem of dancers that had gathered around him. Parts through the revelers assembled at your feet, and they look up at him with varying degrees of alarm.

With an abrasive sound pinched from his lungs, Astarion plucks you from the settee with a possessive hand encircling your wrist. Murmurs a curt excuse us, daring the man who touched you to protest with a predatory glare over his shoulder.

The hairs of your neck stand ramrod stiff. A pleasant, cooling sensation pools in your belly. Trickles southward into your underwear, and you throb.

You do so love it when he gets like this. Green-eyed and seething.

You bid the other patrons farewell, unable to disguise the sinister arc of your lips. Toddle behind your beloved, your body still buzzing from the wine, your head still spinning from the nicotine. Astarion finally tugs you beneath layers of sheer, burgundy curtains, far from the grasp of the lounge’s other clients.

“Astarion,” you gasp as the world twists around you, and he pulls your stumbling, giggling self before him.

You’ve hardly any time to admire your surroundings, the swell of sound from the longue muddled and blotted out by the clipped growl rumbling in Astarion’s chest.

You only have the gleam of his irises and the flash of his teeth as warnings before you tumble backward onto a mass of pillows, shoved into them by your beloved. You clamber to your elbows, breaths labored, pupils dilated. Again, you’re pushed into the satiny cushions as Astarion crawls overtop, fingers winding around your jaw and neck to hold you in place for him to ravage you.

He slots himself between your legs, and it’s like he’s always been there. Feasts on your mouth, pushing past the barrier of your teeth in pursuit of your tongue, thumb pressing against your larynx. He pours the most relieved sound between your lips when he finds it. Entices it into an ardent dance, and Gods, you’re so warm and wet here. He can’t help how he bears down, hips rolling like waves licking the shoreline as he presses against the stitching of your breeches.

You moan in tandem, and the air punches from your lungs, the heels of your feet digging into his back as you twine your legs around his waist.

His other hand pulls and bunches up your clothing in search of the supple glide of your skin. Groans something satisfied when the hardened pads of his fingertips find the xylophone of your rib cage, easing upward. He grazes the underside of your breast, and he kneads and rolls your nipple with slow, meticulous circles, luring the prettiest little whine from your throat.

“Astarion,” you recite, clawing at the bindings of his breeches. It’s the sweetest supplication to his ears to hear you begging so wantonly for him. To see he isn’t the only one who missed the hot press of your body to his.

He abandons your mouth to blister your neck with kisses, fangs nipping at your clavicle, thumbs cruising down the dip of your stomach in search of your hips whilst you arch your back. He sighs around your nipple when your soft hands close around the head of his cock, tugging and squeezing, your thumbs generous as they spread pre-spend around him. Instinctively, Astarion ruts into the scorching clasp of your hands, breathing hot against your flesh, rolling your other nipple between lithe fingers.

It’s almost embarrassing how desperately he yearns for you. How he leaks and whimpers while you fist him, and his canines sink into the doughy flesh of your tit, pulling a yelp from your mouth. He licks over the wounds in apology, hips pinning your waist to the floor. He’s dizzied and overwhelmed, and the wind of your waist isn’t helping matters.

The succulent tang of your blood provokes his tastebuds, and his hips paint a rhythm of their own volition as he pistons against you. He glances up whilst your head crashes into the pillows, your lips glistening and parting with a breath, and your lids shuttered against the wave of ecstasy sifting through your spine.

“Astarion,” you breathe, pulling so nicely on his cock. Swallow. “Astarion, please. My mouth. Need, I—you…want you in my mouth.”

How sweet you sound, begging for your mouth to be stretched wide and violated. The jumble of your words is endearing. Usually, Astarion would tease you for your impatience. But he hasn’t the tolerance to, having gone without your lips sucking him in for days.

Astarion pants, scrambling to his knees, straddling your shoulders, and tugging his breeches down, down, down until his impressive girth springs free of its confines. It slaps intimidatingly against his abdominals, a pretty, gossamer string of pre dribbling from the slit towards your chin, and his cock twitches at your eagerness.

There’s reverence in your stare. Hunger as your mouth opens and closes, and your perfect body squirms beneath him, anticipation lancing through you. You squeeze your thighs together to ward off the delicious, sparkling rush of endorphins collecting between them.

You watch as Astarion handles himself, his hand swallowing up the bulk of his cock whilst he pumps himself, head thrown back, the tendons of his neck flexing.

He groans something feral and desperate, his cock grinding against the hot, sticky pucker of your lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, darling. Open your mouth. Now.”

He spares you a few more stuttered rolls of his pelvis. Taps the turgid flesh of his cock against your tongue before feeding the swollen, sensitive head between your lips.

“Oh, Gods,” Astarion sighs. Draws back, his body shivering as your mouth releases him with an obscene pop. You flitter your tongue over the slit, chasing the briny edge of pre-cum.

He peers down at you through furled lashes, irises smoldering like liquid spilled over hot coals. He chuckles something breathy, easing back into the hot suction of your mouth.

“Eager, aren’t we, darling?” he husks. Cheeky as he drives himself deeper until your jaw clicks, your eyes roll back, and your whimper vibrates around him.

Your pussy clenches, and you undulate your hips off the floor. Grip the taut globes of Astarion’s ass, urging him further inside until he agitates your gag reflexes.

Your throat constricts around him, a fist-like vice that brings him barreling forward onto his hands. And he’s a pretty, panting mess hovering over you, alabaster curls falling over his eyes, sweat gliding down the tips, brows creased in anguish.

He gives you minimal time to adjust before taking a fistful of your hair and pinning it to the pillows, keeping you in place so he can fuck into your mouth.

Slowly, he draws his hips backward until only the head rests on the palate of your tongue. You whine petulantly before Astarion pushes back in, building a steady tempo thereafter, your lips stretching so wonderfully to accommodate him each time.

His mouth forms around silent ohs. Breaths choppy as he fucks your face, and saliva meddled with pre-spend bubbles on your cheeks.

Your eyes gloss over with tears, your throat rubbed raw, jaw aching. But you squeeze his ass ever tighter, urging him to use you. To chase that cresting wave of pleasure. You could die like this, with his cock distending your throat and your pussy weeping and begging to be stuffed.

“Gods, fuck, fuck, fuck,” chants your lover. His hips stutter, and his cock throbs on your tongue, fingers gripping your hair in a way that’s almost bruising. You know he’s nearing his peak, and you take to kneading his weighted, tight balls to help steer him to the edge.

It takes but a few more thrusts into the opulent warmth of your mouth before he paints your throat in thick, syrupy steaks of white. He pushes a groan through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut whilst he cranes his neck back, exhaling his release.

You choke, the hot rush of tears blistering your cheeks. But Astarion holds your mouth in place as you thoroughly milk him, dumping the last vestiges of his cum down your throat.

He slowly unsheathes himself. Crawls down to straddle your hips, petting through the riot of your hair and drawing your swollen mouth into an apologetic kiss. He tenderly entwines your tongues together, the briny tang of his cum coaxing a moan from him.

Astarion rolls onto his back beside you, giving you time to catch your breath. And with your lashes dewy and wet and your lips abused, you chuckle something satisfied. Astarion looks at you warily before laughing himself, seeking out your hand to lace your fingers together.

“I should make you jealous more often,” you muse once your laughter peters. You roll onto your side, propped on your elbow, cheek perched on your hand whilst you run your finger down the length of his arm. A cattish grin rounds your lips.

Astarion scoffs, avoiding your stare. “Jealous? Me?”

You give him a pointed look.

He flinches beneath the weight of your glare, a nervous smile twitching his lips. “Well…maybe just a little.”

You sit like this for a while longer, admiring the flutter of his lashes and the peachy hue of his cheeks. Finally, he breaks the comfortable silence, pinning you with a scarlet-spun gaze.

“We should go.” Astarion slowly sits up, a smirk taking residence on his lips as he tugs you into the circle of his arms. “I’ve much more in store for you, my love. Things I can’t be bothered to do…here.”

You shiver at the thought, boneless as your lover hauls you to your feet. You fix your clothes and hair as best you can before Astarion leads you back to the main lounge, twin smiles adorning your lips.

Astarion swings by the bar to drop some coin onto the counter to pay for your drinks. Catches the eye of the man who’d had his arm around you earlier, and his mind sparkles with a sinister idea.

He draws you against him, your breath coming out in a gasp before he takes possession of your cheeks and lures you into a soul-siphoning kiss. One of tongues and teeth and sloppiness, and you find your thighs rubbing together again to curb the insistent throb between them.

You whimper into his mouth, and Astarion fixes the man with a sinister look over your shoulder as he grips your ass and squeezes. Something of a warning, a threat.

Touch her again, and I’ll have your head on a pike.

masterlist

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion x female reader #astarion x female tav #astarion imagine #astarion smut #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion

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sepublic · 3 years

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Marcy’s Condition

I’m scared for Marcy. Seeing her so wounded, I just-

I really am afraid. Afraid that she’s going to need not just emotional and mental therapy, but physical therapy as well… Which, we don’t know how successful Andrias’ procedure is going to be, but still. It really sucks and haunts me how Sasha has that scar on her face, as a permanent reminder of what happened in Amphibia, of Reunion…

But not to compare pain, but Marcy is somehow even worse- Because she might just have that ENTIRE gaping scar on her chest and back, and… Remembering how she almost died, how she THOUGHT she died. The pain, the unimaginable horror and agony at being impaled. The reminder of everything that happened in True Colors, the pain and desperation, the betrayal… I can legit seeing it become an actual, medical trigger for Marcy. Sasha at least managed to cope with the scar on her face, good for her…!

But Marcy… I can easily see this breaking her. And it just leads to her always trying to cover up that scar and not look at it, which, is easy because she can accomplish that with any regular shirt, but still… It’s just the entire concept of bodily autonomy being violated, of being marked like that, and it worsens with the idea of Andrias turning Marcy into a cyborg, and/or his master possessing her. To already have her body so grievously hurt and wounded, to then be operated on like a test subject, to be controlled and puppeted with this entity inside her… It genuinely sickens me.

This girl suffered, and there’s always that permanent, visual reminder of it. At least with Sasha, you can argue how she brought it on herself, as a reminder of how she tried to kill Anne’s surrogate father and why this mistake backfired; It’s a learning experience, although trauma is trauma of course, so that is to be said VERY lightly and carefully. It’s not like Anne MEANT to scar Sasha; But Marcy… Marcy didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to be impaled by someone she trusted, who took advantage of and manipulated her…

She was afraid of confiding her fears in with Anne and Sasha, and she found that in Andrias; And now, she’s likely to be even MORE terrified of opening up because of this! Especially with how Andrias has the AUDACITY to literally gaslight Marcy in her final moments, as she realizes she’s going to die and is dead, by saying “Look what you’ve made me do.” As if he hasn’t emotionally manipulated her enough, to imply Marcy’s violent death is all her fault, and/or that of the friends she loves and didn’t want to lose, was so afraid of being rejected by. Because I guess her soul hadn’t been crushed enough!

Not to mention… Getting impaled like that, having a burning blade through your spine… I’m just really afraid that when this is all over, IF Marcy gets to recover and heal; She might be paralyzed. She might be plagued with physical health issues for the rest of her life, because she’s missing an entire chunk of her spine; And, hopefully Andrias’ procedure can give Marcy’s body a full recovery… Ideal scenario, no scar, even!

But I can’t help but feel like being possessed by Andrias’ master, THAT could leave its own physical toll on Marcy’s poor body, and it just agonizes me to see this girl be violated like that, emotionally and physically. It’s depressing how Marcy briefly treats others more like NPCs in her game than people, because now SHE’s being objectified, losing her agency, in a way that is so much worse and totally undeserved.

Marcy doesn’t deserve to have to live with physical health issues for the rest of her life, for what happened; She’s a kid. She doesn’t deserve to be plagued with echoes of pain and physical trauma that constantly remind her of what happened, even when she’s not directly looking at the visual mark it left behind. And I’m just scared that when this is all over… I can see Marcy being bedridden, being in ACTUAL medical therapy, because I have a hard time imagining her being able to function without that.

What if she becomes physically sick and ill, still feeling the repercussions of her wound or possession or being modified against her will? I don’t want to imagine Marcy looking at prosthetics that Andriasgave her, for the rest of her life. There’s nothing wrong with needing physical aid, or medicine, or therapy to get by in life; But for Marcy, it could serve as a reminder of issues that came as a direct, unfair, result of her time in Amphibia; A loss of carefree health she once had… And she doesn’t deserve to be haunted like that.

I don’t want Marcy to be plagued by health issues, she’s gone through ENOUGH already, having the rest of Marcy’s life be permanently riddled and restrained because of her wound, it just… It genuinely leaves me in anguish. I don’t want to see Marcy in a wheelchair, as a permanent, haunting reminder that is intertwined in every aspect of her life, of what happened… A reminder she literally can’t escape because it’s her own body, and it’ll affect just about every breathing moment for her.

I don’t want to see Marcy struggle to breathe from damaged lungs. Or have her struggle with meds –I know that feeling- or constantly need a device for physical aid, something to be hooked up to often. I don’t want to imagine Marcy sometimes lying in bed at night, placing her hand over her chest, so she can feel her heart beating, to relieve and reassure herself that she’s still alive. Not after feeling her heart stop beating when she was first impaled… She’s so young, she has her whole life ahead of her, or should, and she had that violently ripped away from her, barely got to live with that kind of normal life before it was gone for good. She deserves to just breathe, carefree, and feel the sunlight on her face and enjoy life.

As a disclaimer, I don’t want to patronize people with disabilities or injuries. I don’t want to turn physical conditions into some inescapable tragedy that can’t be moved past, can’t be healed from; There are so many people who have managed to adapt and continue living as always. I’m sorry if I did that… But Marcy’s whole condition could be a brutal reminder of what happened to her, of that horrible thing that wracked not just her heart but her entire body. She shouldn’t have to suffer for that, for the rest of her life…

And I’m terrified for her mental health. Of her suffering from actual PTSD, being triggered by things that remind her of that moment. Of having nightmares and waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing, as she reaches out for Anne or Sasha for comfort. I can’t handle that thought, the idea of a kid in that sort of pain… It’s so unfair and she doesn’t deserve it. I can genuinely, plausibly see Marcy becoming depressed, becoming somber and morose for a long while, before she can finally heal and become happy and excited and curious in things that open way she does; And GOD, I’d be inconsolable if she felt suicidal, because how do you move on from that? Thinking her life wasn’t worth it without Anne or Sasha, that she literally can’t handle it… Combined with the possibility of abuse in more ways than one from her parents, how THEY won’t help, if they’re even allowed near Marcy after all this.

Does Marcy have anyone to even turn to when it all ends? I hope she does. I can only imagine her being constantly terrified of being alone, and needing company just to get by… She really deserves a therapy pet after all this, maybe Joe Sparrow could help. It just… It just sounds like Marcy’s whole life has been wracked with this kind of pain, and I don’t want to her pain get any worse, to see it get physically chronic. Any kind of physical pain could easily traumatize and push Marcy to her limits… And, there’s the possibility of good representation for physical disabilities, but also, I don’t want to patronize anyone, or speak over their voices, so again I apologize if I did.

I guess this just stems from me wanting to see Marcy’s pain be acknowledged and addressed so she can properly heal from it, can be validated and told that it was terrible and should’ve never happened no matter what… But maybe I can find relief in the denial that it didn’thurt her this badly, that Marcy is fine and doesn’t have to deal with that to begin with, because wouldn’t that be better for her? I dunno.

It’s undeniable that Marcy is going to be emotionally crushed after this… But does she have to stay, or become, physicallycrushed as well?

I just…

SOMEONE GET THIS GIRL SOME LOVE AND CARE AND THERAPY ASAP FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE AND LET HER BE WELL AGAIN!!!!!

I just want Marcy to be able to recover and heal… I genuinely hope and wish her emotional spirit will at least be able to move on after this, that she can still find joy and excitable fun, and get to be a kidagain, with her best friends like old times; Only better, because she’s at least grown. God, these girls and their trauma, and the inevitability of how it’ll haunt and hurt them… It leaves me inconsolable.

#amphibia #amphibia spoilers #spoilers #amphiba marcy #marcy wu #angst #ptsd #suicide mention

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kodzumie-archived · 3 years

Note

Can l request a yandere kokichi and nagito with a insecure possessive so? Thank you very much

❝HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT❞

Synopsis; What are the yanderes like with an insecure and possessive darling?

Featuring; Kokichi Oma and Nagito Komaeda x GN! Reader

Warning(s); Yandere themes, established relationship, manipulation, emotional abuse, possessiveness, insecure thoughts (reader), sacrilege, worship, implications of stockholm syndome, self-harm (Nagito), blood, slight gore, attempted suicide, and mentions of hospitaliation.

Kodzumie’s Note; Of course you can! Thank you for your request, this was a very interesting concept, and one that I enjoyed writing! Take care, love. Muah! <3

➤ KOKICHI OMA

⤷ He’s cunning; calculating all the ways he can use your weaknesses to his advantage. Truthfully, he’s the reason you have a desperate need to pledge your claim on him. He made you this way; riddled in insecurities, fearing that you’ll never be enough for him.

⤷ The constant malice laced with faux, brutal honesty in his words as he admits that if you get boring, he’ll leave you. In the way he drops such soul-shattering admissions without a care terrified you. Were you that easy to discard?

⤷ And thus spiraled your fogged mind of whether or not what you do is spontaneous enough. Is it enough to be deemed unpreditable? Will it keep him interested? Will he be entertained?

⤷ It’s a cruel, sadistic game that he’s forced your self-assurance to play. Constantly chasing after him as he turns his back to you, threatening you with the shackles of abandonment.

⤷ He’s caged you in a mindset where you cannot rely on trust any longer. Trusting a deceiver would bring you nothing but heartbreak; you’ve had to bear this lesson far too many times to relive it once more. Trust—in this corrupted love—was a vice.

⤷ So you took it into your cold, dead hands to carry the burden of ensuring that your lover remains. Wary glances of where he runs off to, heart worrying away over who he could possibly be with at that very moment. Who has he deemed worthy of his invaluable time now?

⤷ You fret over any and all possibilities. Perhaps he finds someone more deserving of his time, leaving you for them in the blink of an eye. Or perhaps he simply grows tired of you, your existence proving to be far too predictable and not suitable to his adrenaline-crazed tastes.

⤷ In every moment, you fixate on the where his eyes flicker when he’s with you. It’s taunting, the distraught of catching him looking at someone else. Someone other than you.

⤷ And he knows this. He’s more than aware of how worriedly you follow his gazes, hoping not to find another person they’re directed towards. It’s a realization he plans to use to the fullest, caving in whatever sense of self-esteem you had that maybe—just maybe—he only had eyes for you.

⤷ But having faith in such a deceitful individual was a mistake you’ve made far too many times. Even now as you follow Kokichi’s eyes to settle upon a figure.

⤷ Your heart dropped to the pits of your stomach, an unruly pang piercing your conviction with the tendrils of a distorted reality; he’s gazing upon someone else.

⤷ That’s not you. That’s not you. That’s not you. That’s not you. That’s not you. That’s not you. That’s not you—

⤷ “Kokichi, what are you looking at?” You cut the suffocating silence. Your breaths uneven as the functioning of your lungs felt labored. Throat contracting in anxiety, you swore you wouldn’t be able to hear his—inevitably deleterious—reply over the deafening pulsating of your heart.

⤷ “Just someone.” He mutters. But you see it, you notice what you prayed was merely an illusory of your culminated fears; he wouldn’t take his eyes off them. Not even as he replied to you. Not even as you tightened the grip on your intertwined hands. He wouldn’t stop looking at them.

⤷ In that moment, you could only describe it as the relentless tearing of your fragile heart. The desire to be his faithful partner in which such devotion is reciprocated is tattered with disdain.

⤷ You’re replacable. In what you believed were the earnest eyes of Kokichi Oma, you were to be repudiated.

⤷ As your eyes tear up and you begin to drag your boyfriend away, successfully garnering his attention away from that supposed stranger at long last, your blurred vision and hasty steps led you to miss the deviously depraved grin of his that was far too sinisterly crooked.

⤷ Your reactions, your blind fury and innermost apprehensions were so amusing; so comically enthralling. It’s no wonder he promises the two of you are sworn lovers; you never cease to stun him.

⤷ Once you two have reached a somewhat secluded area and far enough from the previous scene in which your heart ached to think about, you turned to Kokichi with such a catastrophic sheen of betrayal yet interlaced with the poison of envisage. You had expected this, hadn’t you?

⤷ “Why?” The words hang in the tense air as you peer down at the ground below, unable to meet his eyes in which—to your expectancy—darkened with the tainting of rejection; rejection of you.

⤷ This was a game that seemed far too easy for the cunning boy. It was as though you’d granted him the key to your mind, allowing him to feverishly jeopardize your self-reverence.

⤷ “What do you mean?” It’s a simple question; a plead of elaboration. But Kokichi knows all-too-well what plagued root pollute his intentions. He wants to see you break. And it seems like he’ll be getting exactly what he wants.

⤷ “What do I mean? Kokichi, what do I mean?!” You sharply inhale, your breathing sporadic as tears spill from your eyes.

⤷ “Stop playing dumb for once! Just tell me, just say it to my face, Kokichi! Are you tired of me?!” It’s a shout that tears your throat raw, emotion seeping into each word, woven with the most intricate of desperation.

⤷ He sees how you’re beginning to lose yourself; losing your self-respect as you claw at all that he’s formulated to define you. It’s as he’d planned, you need him.

⤷ And it should’ve ended the moment he’d realized how far gone your independence has been muddled upon his taxing gambling upon your mind. But he didn’t. It was far too amusing to stop now. Your desperation for his affections to be for you—solely for you—were addictive, and he wanted more of it.

⤷ So, as he cradled you, drawing you closer and inviting you to seek comfort within his bodily warmth, he suppresses a wicked cackle.

⤷ Whispering promises that you were still the one whom held his heart captive; you, you, you! And as pitifully naïve as you are, you decide to believe in him once more.

⤷ Perhaps you’d never believed him, and rather seeked out an excuse that brought the most comfort to you. Attempting to piece together your fragmented self-assurance, you depended on the contentment of his promises. Even if they were nothing more than the lies you’ve come to confide in.

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ A sworn worshipper; Nagito will go to the ends of the Earth to prove his devotion to his darling. His heart belongs solely to you, interlocked between the weaving of your hypnotic web as he hails you.

⤷ He believes with the entirety of his worthless being that you are a divinity; a detiy amongst purposeless nobodies that serve as nothing more than your stepping stone. But he believes you are merciful.

⤷ After all, if you had not been so graciously charitable, you’d have no associated with a low-life such as himself. Much less, willingly put yourself in a relationship with him.

⤷ It’s a blissful thought; to think that he could mean something to someone. To have some sort of negligible value.

⤷ But it’s one that he cannot take to heart. His worth lies on whether or not he can serve you—his darling deity—to the best of his lousy ability. He’ll happily dedicate his life to you.

⤷ Far-too-gone in the abyss of infatuation, Nagito finds himself unable to properly comprehend how someone so ethereal—someone so celestial—couldn’t see their blinding eminence.

⤷ He genuinely believed the notion of insecurity was foreign to you; a vulnerability that the emobodiment of all that is heavenly shouldn’t identify with. And yet he is forced to acknowledge that his lover—his one true hope—is unbearably familiar with such a plagued enigma.

⤷ Your sporadic hues narrowing at those who meet eyes with Nagito. The common practice of smiles directed towards strangers irked you; they were smiling at Nagito. Was he familiar with them? How was their smile comparable to yours? Could it rival yours, the one he claimed to encapsulate his heart?

⤷ An inkling of doubt resided within you whenever another was involved with your boyfriend. You understood full-well how much he loved you, but love is as empowering as it is contagious.

⤷ You know that these fears are nothing more than that; a drop of blood in which dirties the pure waters of reassurance. You’re aware your reactions are exaggerated, a carciture in comparison to the situation. But then why did he bother to smile back?

⤷ The thought resides within the back of your consciousness as you ponder over it. Certainly, it was no big deal. But why did it spur such an ache within your heart? Why do you feel the insuppressible urge to vacate the vicinity right within that moment?

⤷ It hurt to think. A torment so grand at the miniscule possibility that-that mutual exchange of smiles meant something more. Was it possible for Nagito—who pledges full allegiance with you as his faultless god—to fall through the clutches of your claim?

⤷ He devoted himself to you, that much you were sure of. Upon your first true meeting, he terrified you to your very core. You insisted that there was something wrong with him; something sickeningly distorted within his fogged mind of fixation.

⤷ But over time, after the relentless admissions that he wants nothing more than to serve you; worship you; love you; you’d eased into his proclomations. His depravity, albeit sinister and channeled with great fault, was out of his love for you; his pure loyalty and devotion.

⤷ So why had you continued to doubt him? He told you himself, didn’t he? He loves you more than anyone else could, more than anyone else could ever be capable of. And despite this, he still admits to viewing himself as mere scum, unworthy of your love but whose purpose is to worship and hail you.

⤷ Could it be that he’d ever seek out someone he’d believe himself to be worthy of association? Would he truly leave you for someone he deemed, too, as lowly as him?

⤷ Your thoughts have riddled themself until there’s a gaping hole within your heart—a cavity that’s sunk itself deep within the caverns of your gravitated love—and within his home that you two enter, hand-in-hand, you allow your visage to crack.

⤷ One sob after another, your knees give out from beneath you, harshly meeting with the wooden floorboards.

⤷ The sound startling Nagito as he turns to you with concern evident within the stitch of his brows. Instantaneously, he drops to where you were seated on the floor, weeping away as sobs scratched your throat raw.

⤷ “My love, what’s wrong?” He questions. His heart thumping within his ears as he cradles you, swaying your bodies ever-so-slowly in order to soothe you. Thus your crying turned erratic as you clutched against the fabric of his jacket.

⤷ He holds you so gently, he embraces you with such a warmth pooling from his heart. Did you really have any right to doubt him?

⤷ Yet it spurs such pain as the flashing of his reciprocated smile loops within your mind. Over and over, eating away at your self-restraint as you blubber; Did that smile mean anything?

⤷ He pauses, attempting to register your words. But they’re far too vague for him to properly process, and he pulls away from the embrace to face you with a perplexed countenance.

⤷ “Y-You smiled at that one person a-and—and...I just felt—“ Before you could continue, a sob escaped between your quivering lips. Your throat ripped dry as you began to question why you were crying so hard.

⤷ But before you could continue, Nagito pulled away from the embrace completely. Unfortunately, putting the worst possible conclusion within your mind as your break down was amplified.

⤷ Why did he move away? Why, why, why, why, why? Is this it? Have you finally wrung out your time with him? Is it finally over?

⤷ Though your momentary doubt was put to a halt as Nagito presses his hands against his chest, gesturing towards himself, frantically.

⤷ His eyes dilated with depravity interlaced by the seams of desperation. His lips curled into a crooked grin as his breathing came out in sporadic huffs.

⤷ “No, no, no, no, no! My beloved hope, this is just a misunderstanding.” He confesses. His hands visibly shaking as he seems to tremble from the possibility that his darling deity would ever be put under such pain from his incompetence to outwardly convey his true, unhindered love.

⤷ “I’m merely scum beneath the soles of your shoes, I’ve caused this minsinterpretation due to my ignorance. I shouldn’t even weild the right to say, my beloved, please forgive me.” He rambled. With each word, his breathing was becoming more prominent to you. It’s heavy; panicked; furious.

⤷ “I promise to you, I am solely yours. Your stepping stone towards renouncing the world of its despair. Your follower even through the flames of societial Hell. I am yours, and only yours.” His hand move to grab a hold of yours, but he quickly shrinks back in disgust at his audaciousness. How dare he grab at the hands of such divinity?

⤷ And thus, he reels his hands back and clutches his throat. His nails digging into the supple skin as he releases a breathy chuckle. His eyes blown open with a sheen of insanity, you find yourself thrust into the fear you’d experience upon first meeting him; when his luck had been particularly bad that day, and you caught him situation outside your bedroom window.

⤷ His erratic, turbulent temper terrified you. The way he dug his fingers further into his throat, clawing at the skin until the salmon-tinted lines began to trickle with deep, crimson. His pale skin stained with his own blood as he kept tearing at his throat.

⤷ “I deserve the worst of punishments for enforcing such despair upon you! Being killed within a millenial of lifetimes could never be enough to repent for the sins that the trash that I am has committed!” He shouts. You gasp, fearing for his wellbeing as he continuously attempts to pry the skin of his throat open; an inevitable suicide if he continued.

⤷ “Stop! Nagito, stop!” You scream, tears blurrying your vision considerably. Yet as his figure turned to abtract forms of color, you could still make out the sickeningly red blobs. He was bleeding, he was bleeding so much.

⤷ Prying his blood-stained hands from his throat that—if he’d continued—would’ve been torn to shreds. Your breathing loud and hiccuped, whilst his is mellow and nearly inaudible. It must hurt to breathe.

⤷ “Why? Why, why, why, why?!” You question, fear woven into your eyes as you tighten your grip on his wrists for reassurance; the assurance that he won’t proceed to try and kill himself.

⤷ He smiled, though as he attempted to speak, he coughed up remanence of what he’d inflicted; blood mixed with his saliva as he attempted to regulate his breathing.

⤷ He needed to go to a hospital and he needs to go now. But as you attempted to carry him to the front door, your phone in hand dialing an ambulance, Nagito presses his thumb against the end call button.

⤷ You face him with a panicked and agitataed expression. Is he truly hellbent on dying? All because of the conveyance of your insecurities?

⤷ “Don’t...Can’t.” He voices. Though it’s so hoarse and mangled that you could barely understand his words. But with a bit of thinking, you find yourself deducing a reason behind his rejection of professional aid.

⤷ Even if you got him to a hospital, you’d inevitably have to explain what’d occurred. And informing them of his attempted suicide would surely have him hospitalized for much longer or even transfered to a clinic. Nagito always told you that any moment spent without you is the eye of true despair.

⤷ Why had you doubted him? Why couldn’t you suppress yourself? His pain, his injury, it was all your fault. You know he devoted himself to you and through extremes such as this.

⤷ You flung his arm over your shoulder, carefully treading towards the living room as you set him down upon the couch, ready to fetch the first-aid kit.

⤷ You can fix this. You can make up for your mistakes, and help him. This is your fault, all your fault! But you can still fix it, right? You can still make it right, yeah? It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay.

⤷ As you laid him down on the coach, his throat now barely trickling as he winces from the pain, he gazes up at you with such sincerity you find yourself in tears once again. “I love you, and I would happily die for you. I’m sorry for what my worthless self has caused you.”

⤷ His words force you into a state of fear. How could he speak of his death so easily? It unnerved you, yet you consistently reminded yourself that he wouldn’t die. The wounds are shallow, thankfully. He would live.

⤷ But that doesn’t alleviate the guilt as you choke back a sob, pressing a fleeting kiss to his lips before pulling away. The tears from your eyes cascading and rolling onto his cheek, a now painful intimacy. Never agin would you allow yourself to succumb to the clutches of your insecurity. “I love you too. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

#yay! double upload today! <3 #yandere #tw yandere #sdr2 x reader #dr2 x reader #ndrv3 x reader #drv3 x reader #kokichi x reader #kokichi oma x reader #nagito x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #danganronpa x reader #kokichi headcanons #kokichi imagines #nagito hcs #danganronpa hcs #danganronpa scenarios

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lilithsgayadoptednephew · 4 years

Text

Holy Hands

Fandoms: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Not Rated Graphic Depictions Of Violence F/M, Other Complete Work

Chapter List

Chapter 39

"You came back" was all he said as he helped the human stand. They brushed themself off and addressed him.

"I did what you said. It wasn't easy but I got the humans to sympathize." They said, as if speaking to a commander. Lucifer just stood unblinking. "I pitched and co-developed an app that became popular and influenced...well I'm sure you don't want the details, but the humans are embracing their sins again. Embracing you guys. I know it took me a long time but I ne–" he cut them off by pulling them close.

He wrapped his arms around them and almost fainted again as his heart beat wildly. Just seeing them had made his knees weak but hearing them again, holding them again, it was almost too much. He felt his wings come around to shield them in the silent selfish hope they'd never leave him again. He felt how small they were in his arms, how they were so soft and frail, their human bones like that of a birds in his hands. Like the most fragile of crystal.

And yet they were stronger than he was. So resilient and striking they couldn't possibly be contained in a shape so mortal. He missed this feeling, of holding them and appreciating them. The feeling they'd taught him to seek.

"You came back" he repeated. Nothing else needed to be said.

Michael rose slowly so not to alert the reunion. Approaching, he tried to figure out how to get his MC out of the devils grip. They were wrapped so snugly and shielded by an endless void of obsidian illustrious feathers. Any hope of retrieving them by force was off the table.

He decided his only option was to try to reach their heart one last time. Before he was forced to give up on them.

"MC." He started quietly. "Step away from the demon."

Lucifer tightened his grip, but only for a moment. He saw MC look at Michael with utter contempt and decided they could handle this. He released them and they didn't step away.

"Human I'm telling you, you are under an evil influence, you aren't in your right mind." He pleaded. MC realized this wasn't like the first couple times they'd faced Michael. There was no bodily reaction of trust or sympathy. Only their own cold hatred coursing through their veins.

"You don't know my mind, that is your mistake." They said simply. His pleading turned to thought which turned to rage.

"You think you're above an angels guidance?! You think you know better than I?" He stomped the ground like a petulant child. MC didn't feel the need to respond, but Lucifer's was being pulled into the past at the familiar words.

If the human did not want his guidance, his protection...

"Fine! Rot with the other human sheep for all I care!"

...then they could die out there with the other cattle for all he cared

"One day you'll realize all I've done has been for your own good ."

Your own good

Please understand it's for their own good

This is for your own good, Lucifer.

It was a cycle. How long had it gone on? God oppressed Lucifer, Lucifer oppressed Michael, Michael oppressed MC. How had it gone this far?? All for the sake of it being for their own good.

No one knew what they needed except for them.

Taking MC by the waist again he spread his wings and pushed off the ground. Away from the Celestial Realm, away from the madman who reminded Lucifer too much of himself. Away from the world and all the people who believed they knew what was right and what was wrong. Right to the Crux of the issue. The cause of the pride and the possession and the abuse.

He flew them to confront his father.

0Thousands upon thousands of powers laid slain. The locusts had to be called and laid in heaps of corpses as well. The stench was enough to choke but still Mammon stayed standing.

None of the brothers had fallen according to his knowledge, and he could feel a strength he didn't have before seeping into his skin.

Over the months it had been growing. So slowly it was hard to notice, but it was obvious out in the field. His energy was boundless, his magic was strong to the point of feeling youthful as he one felt. He didn't know how but he did know why.

MC had succeeded.

Some way in some twisted method, their running away had given the brothers back the powers they once had. They were strong and feared once more.

And they reveled in it.

With just a flick of his tail Levi could bring storms and rain down on the battlefield, turn the oceans to blood and boil them. Satan could shake the ground with his screams alone. The powers went deaf and blind from his howls so they could no longer take the Dominions orders.

Asmo charmed so many of the enemy that half the attacking force had doubled back to attack itself. Asmo simply sat and watched in pampered glee as tens of millions of soldiers proclaimed their loyalty and went whole heartedly to their demise.

Acacia sat at Abaddon's side, or more precisely, Abaddon sat at her side. The formidable demon was rendered powerless against the humans poor humor and boundless lack of social awareness.

He'd threaten her and she'd laugh. He'd try to please her and she'd get offended. All the while she acted as if he was the pet and not her. It was frustrating to no end and Abaddon found he could not escape.

All his attempts to ditch her or ignore her were met with unrelenting pestering. Her confidence in his servitude kept him there almost by his own will. He was losing himself, drowning in her overwhelming personality.

Acacia was doing okay, Abaddon was easier to break than she thought and now it was just a matter of waiting it out until he wanted her gone. But she was worried.

Mammon was out there, she still hadn't heard from MC, and she was in the middle of a battle.

Well she wasn't in the middle , more like she was watching a battle. From the hospital. With a greasy goat man and his pet plague.

"Aaaaaaiiiieeeeeee!!" Abaddon's scream cut the silence and made her cringe. "Marie! Marie! Oh my poor girl!" Acacia looked into the distance where the demon was pointing wildly and saw a figure fighting a large locust. She rolled her eyes and grabbed the baseball bat she'd brought for emergencies. Reaching the figure she stopped mid-swing.

He was a human.

The human threw a hand up. "Stay back, this thing is one of Abaddon's locusts."

"I know."

"Then you know to stay out of my way unless you want a swift end."

He wore strange clothes, black with golden trim, and he transitioned from English to a strange tongue as he spoke some kind of spell. After the spell was spoken the locust burst into flames. A distant "MARIEEEEEEE!!!!!!" Could be heard over the crackling.

"Stop that! Those are my dudes pets." She scolded, but the human man just looked at her incredulously.

"You're in league with the demons?"

"Well you're in league with the angels" she countered.

"Touche." He said. His compliance was a little too quick...shady.

"Who are you?" she asked, pointing her baseball bat threateningly.

The boy tossed white hair out of his face and started walking away.

"Solomon"

#obey me!#obey me fanfic #Holy Hands

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on-the-wings-of-hope-prose-en · 3 years

Text

Immunity

Hope dies last.

But how could have Gale hoped for anything right now, when the last hopes of the dying alive humanity were rapidly crumbling into thousands of tiny shards, precisely like the fragments of a broken mirror, in which it, humanity, in a moment of brief spiritual insight, was able to behold itself for a brief moment of its history?

Hope for salvation. Hope for earthly life. For the life after death. Is there one?

Today, by some kind of a miracle, Gale finally managed to get inside into one of the overcrowded churches, where divine services had been held without stopping for several months already. All over the planet, the temples of the three world religions have been crowded for a long time, during both day and night. Now, when the so glorified by earthly materialists science could not answer the challenge thrown by natural forces, people tried to find it in their appeals to the Gods.

Now, standing at a distance from the altar of the temple in the sea of other people pressing down on him from all sides and towering over them like a two-meter giant, Gale observed. He needed to understand what was driving these people now when they had almost no hope left to bear. What made them appeal to those of whose very existence this earthly life had made them doubt time and again?

Faith in the possibility of salvation? Fear of devouring nothingness that is opening its greedy mouth? Love for everything they have created – including the very nature that has become so deadly?

As for Gale, until the events of recent years, he believed only in science. It has been his holy grail for many years of life. It, with due diligence, observation, and long experimentation, was able to grant humanity an answer to any question and challenge... if you do not take into account the existence of a Higher Mind.

A sea of human faces. An ocean of emotions. A kaleidoscope of feelings. Raised either in prayers or silent threats, lowered in despair hands. Would anyone see them, would anybody hear this voiceless speech? Gale possessed no answer to this question that had been tormenting him for so long. The day of the answer has not come yet.

* * *

“Mining of antibodies. Participate in a volunteer program to test new vaccines. Earn pharmacoins. Give your answer to novovirus!”

A huge holographic billboard floated around the corner of the skyscraper right in front of Gale’s eyes as soon as he stepped out into the central square. Gale grimaced in disgust. The endless attempts to create vaccines will all die in vain. It’s never possible to accurately predict the shape of something that changes every moment of its existence.

“Virt-club “Pleasure”. There is no fear of death. There is life’s pleasure!”

A three-dimensional rainbow-colored hologram of a girl with her legs spread wide enlightened with neon-laser beams a couple of dozen meters away from Gale, sensitively and quickly reacting to the approach of a lone wanderer. No, he definitely doesn’t need to go that way. When the whole world is going straight to hell in front of your very eyes, there is no more time for pleasure.

“Life after death. Cryostasis. The latest military development. Call us right away!”

As if a living hologram of a man in a blue and seemingly frozen space suit waves his hand in greeting, inviting Gale to come to the next “saviors”. No. There is no escape from novovirus, there is no salvation. All the scientific researches of the best bio-geneticists on the entire planet were unshakable proof of this.

Novovirus. This pestilence had many other names, too. A new plague. Black Death. Reaper. Punisher. Wrath of God. Doom.

Being fueled by fear, the human fantasy gave birth to more and more associations. And more and more cases of infection and either mass death or mutation of people only fueled this hysteria of universal fear. What can the smallest virus do against a man who thinks of himself as the master of nature? Anything. Especially if there cannot be an antidote for this kind of poison.

The government records to which Gale had been granted access after he started working on the “Salvation” project contained a wealth of data on the primary localized cases of infection and their associated symptoms. South America. North Africa. Southeast Asia. First, second, third wave. Initially, the disease was considered to be a new type of malaria and didn’t gain significant attention – until the moment of a rapid surge in the number of infections across the entire planet. And all of a sudden the concept of a “mosquito bite” started looking not so harmless at all.

Along with the development and evolution of the virus, the symptoms also changed. Fever, chills, nausea, and vomiting were only the initial stages of the virus-induced disease. Then the infected ones started to cough up their bodily innards along with the blood. Then came the nerve paralysis and cardiac arrest. Genetic mutations followed their steps. And after them, human madness knocked on the door of omnipotent science.

The virus mutated rapidly, changing its protein-molecular structure within a matter of days. More and more cases, together with the accompanying symptoms, began to be recorded by the governments of many countries every few days. The entire civilized world was swept by a wave of panic. People stopped leaving their homes. Looting, arson, and street looting came into action. Many new “apocalypse witness” sects have raised their heads, each with her mad prophet and course. The quickly approaching collapse of social spheres threatened to plunge the entire world into chaos, hunger, and poverty.

Governments in numerous countries have made huge financial investments while trying to produce a life-saving vaccine. But what seemed so simple and routine at first to many scientific minds, stuck like an irresistible curse of a mad old woman-death on many groups of virologist scientists. The vaccines did not keep up with the virus mutations in the infected cells. And cell mutations inevitably led to the mutation of humankind. And this was so much more terrible than the casual and familiar conventional war – because in the flames and fumes of this new war for survival, the very concept of “man” was about to become the ashes of history.

Vaccines didn’t work. It was paramount to find different ways of salvation, locate it at any cost. Thus the “Salvation” project was born, uniting many of the best scientists around the globe. All they had to do was find another way to save humankind – even at the cost of the lives of thousands of infected people who had become new experimental material in underground laboratories, even at the cost of the lives of the scientists themselves. Everything for the scientific battlefront, everything for victory. And Gale desired to be on the edge of it.

* * *

Gale’s flycar roamed through the depopulated streets of the once-overcrowded metropolis, increasing and decreasing its altitude in violation of all the rules of multi-level traffic, rapidly obeying the commands of the machine’s artificial intelligence, soaring over the arches and billboards of skyscrapers, and diving into high-speed underground tunnels. But no people were willing to issue him fines.

Simon’s words were still ringing in his head. Uninfected one! One among hundreds of millions, one who somehow miraculously passed through the gates of this earthly hell and remained unharmed. A soldier with no signs of novovirus mutation delivered to the “Salvation” scientific laboratories.

A miracle? But science does not believe in miracles, science believes in experiments. And the relentless logic of science demanded that this experiment was to be carried out immediately for the sake of all the living. And if the life a new-found test subject it to be put at stake – it had to be done without the slightest portion of hesitation and remorse of unnecessary conscience. Agitated by the morning’s message that came to his audiovisor, Gale raced through the streets of deserted Chicago with his lips silently whispering prayers to the scientific gods only he knew.

* * *

“Good afternoon, Professor Gale. Simon is in his labs, waiting for you early this morning.”

“Thanks, Miranda. I’m just in a hurry catching up with him.”

“Looks like you have something really interesting planned for today,” their young assistant winked on her way, and after a couple of seconds disappeared around the corner of the sterile white corridor inside the underground laboratory complex.

Gale literally flew through the massive glass doors of the laboratory, almost breaking his forehead – all their outdated automatic opening system based on solar cells seemed to be too slow for him at that instant.

“Where’s the uninfected test subject? I want to examine him!” he shouted from the doorway.

“My, oh my, it must be no less than Professor Gale Newman himself, safe and sound! Did you pour a whole pack of nitro-coffee pills into yourself before the trip, so as not to fall asleep at the wheel at such an early hour?” Dr. Simon grinned through his mustache as he caught a glimpse of a colleague who had flown into the lab, while deftly adjusting his glasses with a free hand. “And Miranda and I were just arguing about whether you’d make it to us before sunrise, or whether you’d be completely put asleep by thoughts of a Higher Intelligence. Did mysticism get the better of you due to old age?” Simon said in a friendly tone, his fingers still working silently on the holo-terminal.

“Have you got a file on him?”

“The NSA transferred a piece of data this morning. Corporal James Cassle, Marine Corps. Participated in the rescue of civilians in Brazil and Venezuela after the outbreak of the pandemic wars. He was seriously injured by marauding gangs of mutated infected ones during the last operation. Received the Purple Heart Medal for battle wounds. He was taken out of the operation area and hospitalized in Seattle. This is all we know so far.”

“And the screening, how did he manage to pass the infection screening?!”

“After being extradited by helicopter from the infection zone, he was examined at a Seattle clinic. They confirmed this fact. The NSA reported that the local medics there literally dropped their jaws opened when no sign of novovirus was located inside his bodily cells, even in a latent state. You know – by today’s standards, this is something akin to a miracle.

“Have you confirmed the diagnosis with our equipment?”

“Not yet, only the general survey was conducted. He was delivered here just a couple of hours ago.”

“Simon, do you even realize that this may be our only chance to…”

“I clearly understand everything, Gale. Go ahead, he’s in the Alpha Bay right now,” Simon said softly, patting Gale on the shoulder, “Authorization code for today: Miracle”.

* * *

“Disinfection of the compartment is complete. Welcome back, Professor Gale Newman."

The voice of artificial intelligence, “Ada”, filled the sterile-white space of the Alpha Bay. As he walked in, Gale checked the protective functions of his tessa-suit once again and nodded in satisfaction. At the very least, this suit will protect him from potential physical aggression or infection for at least half an hour, if somewhere in the higher ranks a mistake was made with regards to the diagnosis of this notorious corporal.

“Do you have a habit of putting your guests in handcuffs these days, or is it just that I was so incredibly lucky today?" demandingly questioned James, shaking his huge cryo-cuffed fists in a show of force as soon as Gale entered the Alpha Bay, which served traditionally as the pre-interrogation cell.

A huge and strong one. Ones such as he usually tend to get away of troubles unscathed. Except for novovirus, perhaps.

“It’s for both your and ours safety, Corporal James. You are a very special case for us. But your true intentions and capabilities remain to be seen.”

“I hope it won’t take too long. My military command did not give me the order to go “awol” after the completion of my treatment.”

“You are within the borders of our responsibility here, with the NSA’s permission. Take my word for it, your commanders won’t have any questions concerning your temporary absence.”

“Is that so?” James leaned his beefy arms on the table and squinted at Gale’s face, his jaw working, “And to whom do I owe the favor of being invited to your party?”

“It’s thanks to your fighting skills, James. And your potential immunity to novovirus," Gale decided not to delay revealing his cards.

“Considering the so-called immunity – is it what your grandmother-midwife sang to you, or did a bullet suddenly fly into your forehead?” James chuckled bitterly and shook his head. “I have no immunities. None of us have. We are not the ones to decide the length of our own lives. Only the width.”

“Whether it exists or not remains to be seen. If the diagnosis made in Seattle is not confirmed – tomorrow you will be a free man.”

“Sure, great! That’s what I am going to do anyway!” James agreed abruptly, fixing Gale with his gloomy gaze. “Come on, don’t delay, your scientific majesty, I still have ordinary mortals to save from hordes of infected!”

“We were not the ones to develop this virus, James," Gale retorted, suddenly serious and edifying, “The virus is currently spontaneously mutating every day under the influence of natural forces that we don’t fully comprehend and…”

“Yeah, sure! Tell those who have been turned into animals alive about where the experiments on genetic material have led to in an attempt to create the desired vaccines! I saw with my own two eyes how the hordes of these madmen were tearing my fighters apart on the battlefield!”

“I understand your pain, Corporal, but our department has nothing to do with…”

“Be off with your lies, doc, or find a more attentive audience! What exactly do you need from me – blood plasma tests, cortical screening, a smear from the fifth point? Spit it out!”

“Nano-molecular cell screening. Observation of the reaction of cell membranes to the injection of viral molecular structures.”

“Simply put, you want to re-infect me with a new strain of novovirus and then observe with genuine scientific interest how long I will suffer in mortal agony? Am I missing anything from your plans, doc?!”

“If our tests are correct, this will be an attempt to develop a primary immunity to a new form of the virus.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“I am afraid you don’t,” Gale spread his hands, “until the test procedures are completed, you are placed at our direct disposal by your superiors.”

“More like being sold out.”

"However you desire to think of it. If you are ready, security will extradite you to the testing bay right now”.

“Then don't delay. I still have other unfortunate people to save from you and similar experimenters.”

* * *

Gale could not believe his own eyes. Over and over again, he rechecked the data coming from molecular nanoscopes, adjusted the scanning frequencies, and even rubbed his own eyes with bare hands. But the tools weren’t lying. The miracle lived on and did not intend to die out like misguided humanity.

The virus mutated, continuously rearranging its molecular structures, repeatedly trying to break down the protective cell barrier, to overcome the membranes separating it and the cells – and time and over again, as if an invisible and insurmountable wall stood in its way. These unsuccessful attempts of a newly created by nature bio-weapon to enslave and turn its next victim into a mad monster lasted about a dozen minutes. And then... then it finally came, a Miracle.

“Finish your experiments. You can see that, can’t you? I feel no fear!” James’ powerful voice ringed in the room.

He yanked at the inner levers of the terra-capsule he was trapped in with all his might, trying to free himself, but even his enormous strength wasn’t enough. And during that exact moment, the virus that had been trying to inject itself into the cells over and over again seemed to explode from the inside, rapidly disintegrating into hundreds of individual tiny molecules. It was as if a wave, invisible to both the eye or the instruments, had hit it, crushing, knocking over, and smashing to dust. The defeated micro-Goliath fell, and so did Gale’s glasses, hitting the lab floor.

“You... what… but how…”

“I am not afraid of you! Freedom!” James pounded on the inside of the terra-capsule with his powerful fists.

“Calm down... I just need to... readings…” continuing to fastly whisper something under his breath, Gale was rapidly pushing the keys of the terminal. “The reason for the disintegration of the viral structures… the impact of an unknown type of energy... the wave generated by the cell... I don’t understand!”

There is always room for wonder in genuine scientific discoveries.

“Cellular mitochondrial synthesis of unknown origin... Bipolar intracellular currents... But from where?”

“I am afraid of neither of your viruses, nor you nor anyone like you!” the violent impact from within caused a small dent in the outer surface of the terra-capsule.

“What... what did you just say?” Gale cast a confused glance at the prisoner who was struggling to get out of the capsule. “But this cannot be! If... only… A feeling! What kind of feeling did you experience a few seconds ago?!” Gale screamed in a frenzy of excitement that filled his entire being. “Please, James, repeat it!”

“Freedom! Life!” – another dent in the surface of the terra-capsule.

And the remaining viruses are scattered into molecular dust. Eternal – to eternal. Dust – to dust.

A feeling!

It was as if a new great revelation was descending on Gale at that very moment, breaking and overturning all the materialistic theories of the world, all the endless scientific skepticism and incalculable human stupidity in a single, unrestrained rush.

Spirit was prevailing over matter. The feeling was overcoming the disease. Fearlessness has become an immunity.

And this was echoed in unison by the laboratory devices that were going off scale from the waves of new-found energy.

“You are… free… to go," Gale Newman whispered helplessly, opening the capsule’s locking mechanism, “We are all free now…”

* * *

On this great starry night, Gale was once again flying in his now-adult dreams.

His spirit, freed in one fell swoop from the yoke of all materialistic prisons, was floating in this wonderful dream between seemingly absolutely real planets, moving like a great trailblazer starship on a hitherto unknown thrust. It was unspeakably calmly and joyful – as if wings had suddenly grown on his back.

And then an invisible warm wave lifted him and carried him somewhere high up. Two great figures, radiating with an otherworldly light, whose love for him surpassed any human love, tenderly took him into their enormous warm hands. They gently lifted his tiny spirit to their faces – and in that infinite moment, a wave of rapture and bliss, together with tears of joy, swallowed up his whole being…

“Blessed are those who weep, for they will be comforted…”

12.05.2021

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hereliesbitches--me · 6 years

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(Part 3)

Backstory continued:

Warning:

Possibly triggering content below, includes the vague mention of sexual abuse and attempted suicide. If you don’t wanna read that, feel free to jump to “ Soldier born from the Ashes” or “As of Now” section.

~Calvary Days~

Side Note:

The ‘Divine Calvary’ was founded in the late 1800s someplace in europe, originally by a priest who had been plagued by voices- whom he was convinced were demons. The time era was marked by the increase in the presence of demons and the supernatural , who were slowly but surely becoming intermingled among humanity and becoming increasingly threatening . Seeking answers, what he believed to be an “Angel” came down and showed the priest “Heaven”, thus implanting the idea within the priest to question why earth was so different from paradise he was shown. Concluding that the root of evil were demons(Anything nonhuman) , the priest sets out on a mission to create a paradise on earth like what he saw within his dreams. Digging up relic armor from the artifacts of the old church, they deem it “Angel Armor” to be worn in their crusades to cleanse a world of its evils. It begins only as a vigilante style group, these knights only coming from backgrounds of the wealthy and with military connections who were inspired by the preaching and the mission. In time, with the progression of technology, and with the aid of spreading missionaries forming connections among nations, the small group of vigilantes expand with a dire need as demons continue to overrun the lands unchecked. Many nations happily accepted them with their own branches and provided materials as needed. The shift in power by generations within the Calvary organization bring about new ideals and changes, and equally something devious in the making. They are not so conservative with traditional religious views against medicine and technologies, however their goal to exterminate the supernatural and the demonic continues well into the modern age, with much more deadly capabilities.

The Calvary bases in modern day are built into underground bunker systems beneath temples and churches for safety reasons, with entrances built at different discrete points- entrances are the only exits as well.

A Calvary base is Code named: Eden.

And in case of emergency to defend it, the code is “ Eden has Fallen”

Shortly after being drafted, Rosie’s mentoring relationship with Nova comes to an abrupt end with Nova’s sudden disappearance. Upon finding an unknown employer which offered her better deals, Nova did not waste times with goodbyes and Rosie is left alone completely in a world she has never truly known.

The Calvary sets its knights up in groups within the training stages, and the groups remained together long after even graduation. Rosie’s group consisted of 5 males and 2 females, though groups are randomized and there was no specific balance between the number of males of females in the group.

Being an outsider, not born into wealth like a typical Calvary recruit, she was made a target to physically abuse by her group’s leader, Damon. With her lack of family, he did not particularly worry about her telling anyone. Damon’s reputation as a child of one of the Calvary heads gave him an advantage in which it was her word against his own, and using emotionally manipulative tactics to shame her into submission, he had her exactly how he wanted it. As the leader of the group, the boys which followed his calls within his team followed his orders to simply feel like they belonged. Not all of them enjoyed hurting her, but they did so at Damon’s call. She had made a single friend among the group of people she called teammates, Gail, who had tried to sooth her despite his disability to stand up to Damon, but he too would soon fall victim to Damon’s demands. Over time, the physical abuse escalated into sexual abuse as Damon became dissatisfied with her numbness and acceptance of the taunting, teasing, and hits- and thus, her first sexual experience is a betrayal by Gail who forced himself onto her at Damon’s calling. Though Gail felt disgusted with himself and begged for her forgiveness, she had never trusted him again.

The Calvary had faith in its soldiers because of their religious standing, and that was a fatal mistake. It became a regular experience until she adapts to it, which manifests itself into her sexual addiction in need of validation in her adult years. It’s a shame which haunts her for the rest of her existence.

With all that was happening, this point of her existence had been so incredibly bleak that she had very little Will to live on. Often times she had tried to get herself killed on their missions, too afraid to actually end herself- it was an easy way out to die like many other soldiers did in the field, but her savior had come in the presence of her Albino teammate who had only joined the team upon graduation. Kasimir Everhart.

Having not known the group until after graduation- something which only rarely occurred, as group members trained together long before this point- Kasimir was oblivious to the truth of his teammates nature, although he already had a gut feeling about Damon. The two never liked each other. Being the optimistic man he was, he tried to bring light to Rosie’s depressing life. He tried to show her there could be second chances and that there is always a future, and he had worked her enough to eventually worm his way into her heart. After walking in on one of Damon’s assaults, he fought back the group members who had been present and saved her- only choosing not to out them by Rosie’s plead to avoid shaming herself any further. The two had become a close couple after them..Rosie clung to him,

From age 16- 20, Rosie served her time in the calvary. It is on these missions which she had gotten many of her bodily scars she wears now- the most prominent being the 3 pierced scars through her stomach, which had effectively killed her, but she had been revived by a supernatural being who, in return, left the mark branded in her left palm. The Calvary, thinking she had been possessed and it is the only reason she returned from the dead, attempted torturous exorcism, up until realizing she was in fact not possessed and lived by a ‘miracle’, though left a burned cross burned in her right palm.

After the rough ride at the beginning, she had gone on many misadventures with the team, many times sacrificing herself for the sake of saving people from the calvary terror. While never truly having any real belief in the Calvary ideals, she still typically followed through with orders, until she and Kaimir slowly opened their eyes to the nature of what they were doing. To the young impressionable Rosie, Kasimir had promised her dreams of their future together away from the calvary. Married, a little family, following his dream to be the greatest hero of all time. They had gotten engaged unofficially in secret, with a ringpop promise like children, and had been trying for a baby- however the dream they shared was cut short.

With the sudden death of one of the Calvary’s lead knights, Clifton, a new head was appointed to take his place. Rosie’s secret relationship would be cut to an end by Damon, who requested Kasimir be exported to another facility because of his nationality and inability to comply to orders- and because of Damon’s connection with the head, his wish was easily granted.

Kasimir, while swearing to return to Rosie as soon as he could no matter the wait. was forced across the sea to a base in Europe because of his German nationality, and 19 year old Rosie was left behind in America. While the two had always delivered letters to one another, the letters had eventually stopped coming.. Although Rosie retained her belief that he would come back to her. Unfortunately for her, while their attempt to have a child had been successful, the stress and despair of losing Kasimir had led into a quiet miscarriage of the child she could never tell him about. And it only deepened her despair.

When she attempted to seek advice from a priest within the base, she was hardly consoled by his answer that it was “God’s purpose” that she lost the child in order to focus on her duties as a knight. It was that answer that had been the final straw for her days following Calvary ideals, and it marked a turning point for her to stop waiting and to look for a way to save herself from it all.

~Soldier Born from the Ashes~

From 20-21, Rosie was steadily trying to pull herself from the webbing of the Calvary… She was pulling away from her team, more than she already had been, becoming defiant rather than her usual complacent submissive act. Step by step, mission by mission, she had worked on getting individual members of the team killed, while masking it as a simple mission mishap. There was now only 3 left, of the 7 they began with.

Rosie had made connections outside calvary walls when Nova made a miraculous reappearance to find her.. Along with a man named John. A charming asshole as he was, she shared an intimate relationship with john, although she was no fool to his tactics of trying to milk something out of her. He was forceful man and pushed her beyond her limits of purpose, resulting later down the line the conditioning to push her fears, sexually, to prove herself as something not weak. But in it, she had learned the game of wearing many faces and working your way around to get what you want.

The eventual revelation that they wanted a monster woman named Nikki, who Rosie had aided in the capture of was not entirely shocking. Having known they came for a specific reason, Rosie agreed to help with her own agenda hidden at the back of her mind.

A chance of redemption.. To save the monster whose life she ruined, and be done with the Calvary.

Under careful planning and timing, Rosie helps to plant bombs within the underground base. Creating a diversion with a system malfunction to open the cells of contained monsters, She is able to sneak the woman to the surface, and blow the chambers to leave a burning heap of metal and corpses behind effectively covering their tracks as remaining.

Lying to the woman for her compliance, Rosie had once more trick up her sleeve. Once Nova had injected Nikki with a serum to wipe her memory and put her out, Rosie shot Nova in the leg and made a break for it with the newly awakened and disoriented Nikki. The two escape with nothing but the tools within the truck she stole and the clothes Rosie could throw in a bag. And her new life, a life pretending to be normal, without calvary rules, begins.

From Age 21-28 , Rosie made her home in a small town in the mountains in Tennessee with Nikki. With her own ties, she fabricated entirely new identities for herself and Nikki in this place, living off the inheritance Rosie had left from her father until she got herself a job as a deputy. For these years, she lived by her lies. The lies she told Nikki to keep her under control, and the lies she told friends to keep her past in wraps. She held control of Nikki with ‘Good Intention’ , telling her that they were hiding from bad people, and that she needed Rosie in order to live. Rosie was manipulative and controlling, using Nikki as a reason to give her life purpose for years..unaware of her own behavior in this desperate time.

Nikki was a monster who’s unstable form required the consumption of human DNA, although while she was captured the reason was never truly understood, beyond that she needed it to look the way she did.

It was Rosie that took on the task of human hunting, taking on a variety of disguises and using her knowledge of criminal investion to cover her tracks as the number of missing persons cases rises throughout the counties. Playing many roles had developed into an identity crisis for her, finding peace in being anyone but herself, the person she hated. It was a way of coping with self disgust after having to reflect and accept that what happened to her really did happen, but once is was realized she quickly buried it underneath denial once again by pretending to be someone else. Pretending that she is unaffected by it, while subconsciously acting otherwise.

Over these years, Rosie did have a few flings here and there to feed her need of validation, but she still held out to that belief that Kasimir would have returned to her, and refrained from allowing herself to have any kind of healthy relationship, despite the fact she craved it. This was their lives for 7 years.. She had built up quite the knowledge and reputation in her field as a deputy, but the small town life was about to be traded for a big time city.

#mobile: bio #part 3 #long post #tw: abuse

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theseaeaglelives · 5 years

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ROUND 1

THE SEA EAGLE

MAKING RUGBY LEAGUE GREAT AGAIN!!!

Manly Sea Eagles 6

Defeated by.

Wests Tigers 20

The Sea Eagle took the opportunity to watch this fixture from the confines of the North Sydney Leagues Club. With the Stench of the Bear continuing to emanate from these less than hallowed walls, there was little confidence to be had in what was about to transpire.

Following on from the litany of off-field indiscretions that have plagued the game during the past off-season, the first half of this fixture did little to restore any confidence or credibility in rugby league. Both teams struggled to come to grips with the wet and slippery conditions and a procession of errors ensued. It was an average spectacle put on by two equally average and likely bottom feeder outfits.

Despite having very little in terms of field position and possession, somehow Manly led 2-0 at the break. It’s fair to say Manly were somewhat unlucky not to score a try when a bizarre instance of refereeing interference denied Curtis Sironen a try. Surely the onus must be on referees to stay well clear of the playing area and teams like Manly need all the help they can get.

Manly carried their average form into the second half, with scant regard for possession, simple errors and very little to offer, particularly in terms of attack. Unfortunately for Manly, the Wests Tigers left their poor form in the sheds and they ran roughshod in the second half. Dominating field position, with 60% possession and led by ageing veterans Robbie Farrah and Benji Marshall ran in 3 tries and put Manly to the sword. The fact that Manly could not come to grips with Farrah and Marshall is a real concern as its fair to say that both these players are well past their primes and what lies ahead when they have to face up to teams with genuine talent in their playing rosters.

This loss continues Manly’s tradition of poor starts to a season, now having lost 14 of their last 19 opening round games. It doesn’t get any easier next week where they will host the reigning premiers, the Roosters at Lottoland.

Peter Beattie sends a shout out to long dead Balmain Tigers legend Laurie Nicholls

The juggernaut of embarrassment that is Peter Beattie has made some big gaffes since he took over as NRL Commissioner but this one tops the lot. Who can forget shortly after being named NRL commissioner he was unable to identify that the Sharks were the club that played out of Cronulla during a TV interview with Phil Gould. Following this he then confused the Barcelona football jersey with that of the Newcastle Knights in an interview on the Today Show with Karl Stefanovic. But the prolific Twitter user has now made another stumble by bringing the Tigers greatest fan, Laurie Nicholls, back from the dead.

During yesterdays game, a spoof Twitter account known as “Laurie Nicholls is God” responded to a tweet from Peter Beattie who was at the game. The spoof account wrote “Isn’t she just a beauty Pete” when Beattie posted a photo of the Leichhardt crowd to his 12,000 followers. But it was Beattie’s response to the fake Laurie’s account that took the cake. “Good to see you are well Laurie. Good win for Wests Tigers today. All the best.” Somehow Beattie was unaware that Nicholls died some time ago. Peter Beattie is the gift that keeps giving and we eagerly await his next faux pas. Which brings us to his efforts earlier in the week

Beattie: We won't look like 'village idiot' over stand-down law

Sun Herald March 9, 2019 — 4.49pm

Australian Rugby League Commission chairman Peter Beattie defended the length of time it has taken for the new ''no-fault'' stand-down ruling to be rubber-stamped, declaring: "It's better to get it right and cop some flak now than look like a village idiot later on.''

Beattie apparently (according to the Sun Herald) told the Sun-Herald, NRL commissioners had received the draft for the new ruling late on Friday (8 March 2019) and would meet to approve it on Monday (11 March 2019) before the NRL quickly implemented it. This is despite the fact that the NRL had already told St George player Jack De Belin and Manly player Dylan Walker they had been stood down (to name a few) before the rules were actually in place. It came as no surprise therefore that St George Illawarra forward Jack de Belin scored a victory in the Federal Court on Thursday 7 March 2019 when Federal Court judge Steven Rares said on 7 March 2019 ''there's no entitlement to stand him down'' and ''there's nothing in place at the moment''. With the NRL rules introduced around 11 or 12 March 2019, De Belin is presently not playing rugby league and apparently back in Court against the NRL in April 2017 . One could be forgiven after all of this, for thinking the current membership requirements for a spot on the NRL Commission or a senior role at the NRL, may well be holding a PHD from a typical Australian university where you can now be degree qualified by actually being dumb, and based solely on a thesis paper “why it’s cool to be an idiot” or “the many things you should do now rather than look like a village idiot later on”. One of those things clearly, must be the policy of standing players down based on a press announcement, whilst attempting to put the rules in place to justify that, after the event.

Like the Billy Idol balls up at the 2002 GF (and many others), only in rugby league would this be considered “normal”. Now let’s consider this news piece from 2014, regarding Russell Packer, who played for the Tigers in this Rd 1 2019 fixture against Manly:

Russell Packer of the Newcastle Knights sentenced to two years' jail

By Stephen Ryan- SMH

January 6, 2014 — 12.20pm

Newcastle Knight rugby league player Russell Packer has been jailed for two years for assault, dismaying the Kiwi enforcer ….

Packer looked to his supporters, which included his partner and a number of Knights officials, in distress before he was led away in handcuffs from a Downing Centre Local Court on Monday.

Earlier Packer, 24, pleaded guilty to assault occasioning actual bodily harm after he bashed a man during a booze-fuelled night last year, with the court hearing he had stomped on his victim's face as the man lay motionless in Martin Place in Sydney's CBD.

No need to go any further into this incident. Given Mr Packer is now able to play NRL it seems the NRL position on off field atrocities is this:

1. if you are charged with a crime, that may carry a certain lengthy gaol penalty, and you plead not guilty, you may or will be banned, despite the fact you are legally entitled to the presumption of innocence;

2. if you are in gaol, then clearly you are banned from paying rugby league, given an inherent inability to do so;.

3. If you have been sent to gaol for 2 years, for “assault occasioning actual bodily harm” after bashing a man “during a booze-fuelled night” and having “stomped on [the victim's] face as [ the victim] lay motionless in Martin Place in Sydney's CBD”, then once released from gaol you are free to play NRL.

Naturally, this sound perfectly reasonable. The pathway is plead not guilty, banned by NRL, go to gaol, banned by the NRL, released from gaol, free to play NRL. One might argue the order of bannings should be the reverse, but that is just speculation. The Sea Eagle is sure everyone would agree with that. Like the Billy Idol balls up at the 2002 GF (and many others), only in rugby league would this be considered “normal”.

We could go into why Mathew Lodge is allowed to play for the Broncos given his well-documented efforts in the USA, but time simply does not allow this.

Off-season Atrocities – Final Comment

Since the last edition of the report The Sea Eagle has been left to ponder why these atrocities in the main seem confined to the NRL. Sure, other codes have the odd scandal and are not immune to player behavioural issues but none seem to be as affected and scandal prone as the under-seige NRL. This prompts the question as to why is this still such a regular occurrence in professional rugby league?

As far as the Sea Eagle is concerned and as unpalatable and politically incorrect as it may seem, a possible explanation for the extent of atrocities (as compared to other professional football codes) lies with the socio-economic and cultural backgrounds of the majority of participants at the professional level.

The Sea Eagle has previously identified the emergence of the largely Polynesian playing base at NRL level as a concern in terms of who will actually be plying the game, particularly the instances where the size and athleticism of these players especially at junior levels has led to a dwindling participation from the non-Polynesian population. It’s fair to say that country rugby league is dying on the vine as Tonga and Samoa are now replacing the likes of Maitland and Cessnock as the traditional heart-land and nurseries of rugby league.

Whether Polynesian players or other cultural playing groups are over represented in off field atrocity stakes remains largely speculative guesswork at present.

An urgent statistical analysis needs to be performed to see just how many of the recent atrocities, particularly those in terms of violence have been committed (or alleged to have been committed) by players of Anglo Saxon, Aboriginal, Polynesian, or other backgrounds, with a detailed analysis of educational levels attained and time spent in the non NRL playing workforce (ie holding doe a so called real job), and to then see why if at all, any particular player cultural group appears to be statistically over represented.

Then, analysis is needed as to where, NRL players as a whole, are statistically over represented in certain off field atrocity categories, namely aggravated sexual assault, assault occasion actual bodily or grievous bodily harm, DUI, domestic violence and the like.

Or as Tooves once said, there needs to be an investigation. That vital data needs to be collated, reviewed and sent to the NRL integrity unit for comment, and further review, and then sent to the press, media commentators and gender advisers for their take on it all. But without these core facts/data, and comment, we would all be merely speculating if we pointed the finger at one player group as opposed to any other as regards to anything. At best, all we can do about any incident in particular, is shrug our shoulders and say “but it’s rugby league”. Which is far from acceptable.

The Sea Eagle would also like to single out NRL adviser Professor Catharine Lumby for special mention. According to Ms. Lumby’s website she has worked in a role advising the NRL on cultural change and education programs for players since 2004. Whilst not questioning Ms Lumbly’s credentials, objectives and motivation, clearly on any objective analysis, the influence and impact of Ms Lumby’s work, as evidenced in recent years (and particularly this off-season) have failed miserably. One possible conclusion is the players have stopped listening to Ms Lumby if they ever listened and understood in the first place. The question must be asked, is she now ready to hear the words of the great man – you’re FIRED.

This will be the last mention by the Sea Eagle in terms of the atrocities and scandals that have plagued the NRL in the off-season, now preferring to turn his hand to reporting on the game at hand and the inevitable litany of atrocities and scandals that will no doubt follow now that season 2019 has commenced.

Let us not forget Round 9 of the NRL Telstra Premiership - 9-12 May 2019 will see every rugby league match at one stadium- for the first time ever, simply called “Magic Round Brisbane” which is coming to Suncorp Stadium. The promotional take on this is “That's Magic!”. All the Sea Eagle can say is if 16 NRL teams -circa 320 NRL players, descend on Brisbane in one magic weekend in May, what could possibly go wrong?

THE SEA EAGLE

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dopepoetrist · 5 years

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myupdatestudio-blog · 7 years

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New Post has been published on Myupdatestudio

New Post has been published on https://myupdatestudio.com/a-beauty-of-an-opening-weekend/

A beauty of an opening Weekend

How does Disney love the box workplace? Permit me to depend on the ways. The Burbank studio’s stay-movement retelling of Beauty and the Beast opened at $170 million domestically and $350 million globally, breaking more than one statistics. As VF.Com’s Joanna Robinson e-mails:

Opening Weekend

Makeup Amazon

Disney can give greater way to shiny younger ladies for a huge haul; seventy-two percentage of the outlet-day audience turned into a female and forty-five percent became beneath the age of 25. So don’t count on Disney’s urge for food for live-movement reboots in their hit princes’ narrative to slow down anytime quickly. And in a generation in which superhero movies—like Logan and Deadpool—have been scoring large by way of going for a darker R-rated vibe, Beauty and the Beast just broke a report for keeping things easy. It squeaked beyond Batman v Superman’s $166 million to land the largest March and bested Finding Dory’s $one hundred thirty-five million to become the most worthwhile establishing for a PG-rated movie.

Watson’s paycheck is tied to the box workplace performance of the film, in line with The Hollywood Reporter’s Tatiana Siegel, and the 26-yr-old British actress stands to make as much as $15 million if Beauty and the Beast fits Maleficent’s final global tally of $759 million, which seems likely to appear in document time as colleges head into spring run in coming weeks.

Solely Homosexual Bucks

Disney’s big weekend follows the dustup over Splendor and the Beast’s “Completely Homosexual second,” a quick scene of guys dancing that stimulated Malaysian censors to try and reduce the movie, Russian cultural authorities to slap a 16+ score on it, and an Alabama force-in proprietor to pull Beast from the timetable. As CNN’s Brian Lowry tweeted of the file breaking container office, “Well, that homophobic theater owner in Alabama sure showed them.”

The censorship story continues to be unfolding: Disney has declined to release the film with Malaysia’s proposed cuts, and on Tuesday, an appeals committee inside the Southeast Asian u. S . A . will meet to recall whether or not to allow audiences there to see the full version. Some Malaysians are getting their LeFou repair besides—journalist Umapagan Ampikaipakan and his pals took an avenue experience to neighboring Singapore to see the film. In a Fb stay video they shot out of doors the theater and hashtagged #CanonBelleRun, Ampikaipakan stated he observed the subtext pretty diffused, and the movie “no more Homosexual or less Homosexual” than cross-dressing scenes in Malay dramas he saw growing up.

THE Electricity Behind THE Power RANGERS

Meanwhile, some other film is breaking barriers—Lionsgate’s new Electricity Rangers film can be the primary big price range superhero movie to function an L.G.B.T. Protagonist, reports T.H.R.’s Aaron Couch.

The L.A. Times’s Meg James has a colorful profile of Haim Saban, the Egyptian billionaire In the back of the franchise that has yielded 831 television episodes, billions of greenbacks in toys and merch, and the $100 million reboot arriving in film theaters this week. Saban, considered one of Hollywood’s largest Democratic contributors, will receive a celeb on the Hollywood Stroll of Repute this week. “Before everything I idea, perhaps it becomes a mistake, a form of Oscar-snafu in which they deliver the prize to the wrong individual,” Saban informed James. “I recollect myself a caricature schlepper, and for a cool animated film, they gave me a star. I’m humbled and grateful.”

VF.Com’s Yohana Desta e-mails:

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The Sundance Kid has something to say. On Sunday, Robert Redford penned an open letter about the significance of the Countrywide Endowment for the arts, which “performed a fundamental function” in supporting him create the Sundance Institute. Donald Trump currently proposed to dispose of investment for the N.E.A., a choice that has acquired backlash from the inventive network and beyond. “The proposed defunding of the N.E.A.’s budget could gut our country’s long records of help for artists and art applications and it might deprive all our residents of the culture and diversity the arts brings to our use,” Redford writes. “This is totally the incorrect approach at completely the incorrect time.” He then calls on supporters to get in contact with their neighborhood congressmen and upload their voices to the “refrain of involved residents”—which incorporates one Julie Andrews. You may examine the rest of Redford’s impassioned letter here, on the Sundance Institute’s website.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: STACEY SNIDER

20th Century Fox film boss Stacey Snider spoke at U.C.L.A. Law College’s 41st annual Enjoyment Symposium over the weekend. In a Q&A with L.A. movie czar Ken Ziffren, Snider copped to the demanding situations of strolling a studio in a technology of rapid technological exchange, but stated, “We like our devices, however, none of my devices are any good to me if I didn’t have precise shit to look at.” Closing date’s Dominic Patten has the spotlight reel.

The Pursuit of Splendor

At some stage in my trip to Long island at the Express Bus one morning, I had the corporation and delight of studying the March issue of Attraction mag. I started out by using analyzing the Letter from the Editor Linda Wells and stumped upon this striking seize word, the “pursuit of Beauty”. Linda explains this phenomenon to be just like the pursuit of the American Dream. It is “a right to decide and enhance our important selves, psychologically and physically…That transcends gender, magnificence, race, age and sexual orientation.” I thought to myself, “This is so real!” What man or woman nowadays does not want to be and sense lovely? There’s absolute confidence, that we as humans are acutely touchy to our physical appearances and could do anything to benefit or to hold our personal Splendor. Our insatiable need for all things “Beauty” proves that we are all in full pursuit and unapologetically so.

in line with dictionary.Com Splendor is “the great found in a component or individual that offers intense pleasure or gives deep satisfaction to the thoughts.” This emotional bond to satisfaction explains why Beauty performs this kind of giant element in our lives. We can’t help ourselves inside the presence of factors or folks that name to our sensibilities. bodily Splendor, although a be counted of flavor and opinion is likewise characterized by using society’s views. In most cultures, the existence of symmetry or stability is a figuring out an aspect of Beauty as it suggests the absence of “flaws” or “defects”. Facial balance, complexion, frame shape, and size, as well as youthfulness are all standardizations of Beauty. The characterization of Beauty but, cannot be understood without also understanding that Splendor has another facet to it – One that is not so physical, however as a substitute metaphysical (a more intangible element ). We can not always see or contact it, but its presence is simple. With that being said, we cannot exclude mental elements inclusive of personality, intelligence, politeness, elegance or charisma as figuring out elements in recognizing Splendor.

As I researched extra into this Splendor craze, I stumbled upon A few very exciting findings. To my surprise, (ok maybe not so amazed) researchers have determined that possessing bodily splendor can be pretty influential in a men and women life. Someone who is taken into consideration to be stunning is probable to get higher grades, receive better care from their doctors, acquire lighter prison sentences and earn more money. As though we do not have sufficient issues in the global today, now we recognize that uncontrollable elements like our God-given Beauty or “lack thereof”, is just every other social barrier to feature to our list. whether or not we well known it or now not, and whether we do that consciously or unconsciously, this sort of “lookism” has plagued our society for years and may shed A few light on the depth of self-esteem that exists in our world these days.

This daunting truth truly affects how we understand ourselves in addition to others. The snapshots we see on television additionally determine what we keep in mind to be lovely and is the riding force toward this search for perfection. We spend thousands of bucks and insurmountable time purchasing on-line or on the shops, purchasing all sorts of Beauty merchandise, making nail, hair, facial and botox appointments, studying fashion magazines and taking unique observe of what our favourite celebrities are wearing, doing and the use of to stay slim, youthful and sure, lovely.

Allow’s now not forget, that there has been as soon as a time when we were all mystified by the lovely fashions and celebrities, who perfectly walked the red carpets and flanked the covers of magazines effortlessly, or as a minimum so it appeared. We dreamed approximately being them and searching for them, wondering they had been born perfectly that way. thanks to our growing obsession with celebrity-life, the shameless and countless invasions of privacy via reality television, the social networks and the “tell-all” craze, we not only have the records and the knowledge but also get right of entry to the once “top mystery” every now and then intense, bodily enhancers.

don’t get me wrong, the “pursuit of Splendor” would not need to mean a trip to a plastic general practitioner, nor is it an elusive commodity reachable to most effective to the wealthy and famous. We are able to all be physically lovely! The multi-billion dollar Splendor industry has made positive to fulfill our each Splendor need through bombarding us with a plethora of services and products geared towards making our experience and look more youthful and extra lovely.The opportunities and assets to be had to us are endless on this branch. We’ve merchandise that make us look more youthful, merchandise that make our pores and skin smoother, products that make our stomachs flat, products that make our lips plumper, merchandise that deliver us fuller hair, merchandise that makes our lashes longer and thicker, stylists, eyebrow threaders, makeup artists, style developments that alternate every season, adornments like jewelry, necklaces, tattoos, hats etc all of us use these items to decorate our non-public Splendor and beauty in A few manner.

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The reality is, however, our pursuit of Splendor isn’t always pretty much exploiting our “sexual capital”. It’s no longer simply the bodily factor of Beauty that enamors us. we’re looking for an aggregate among the visible and the unseen – The bodily (outer) and the mental (inner) due to the fact they both thrive off each other. I really like many, accept as true with that true Beauty comes from inside. internal Splendor in my definition is that plain, profound light that shines from you and onto the world. It’s far your air of mystery, your spirit, the stamp you go away Behind after A person meets you for the primary time. My father likes to refer to this intangible, religious side of our human nature as the “internal guy” or “woman”. even though this “internal Beauty” may come less difficult to A few than others, It’s far the start ranges to fulfilling this intrinsic preference for bodily pride or happiness.

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