#not quite wielding the obliterator

[howtofightwrite]

When I was 15 we went to China and we went to see a martial arts show and were allowed to take photos with the performers and hold the weapons. Well, the one I first picked (ji polearm) was heavy and difficult to just pick up and hold straight up and off the ground. I don't understand why weapons like this are 'NEVER heavy' is all over here. There ARE heavy ones.

So, there's a couple important things to note. For obvious reasons, I can't examine that specific ji, but  they usually weigh about 9lbs. Which isn't particularly heavy. Now, it is possible that the martial arts school was using a weighted ji as part of their act, or it could have been an ornate example. Even then, it would be unlikely to break around 15-20lbs. Which loops back to the original point, infantry melee weapons aren't heavy.

It is worth remembering that if you're picking up a weapon without any prior experience, it may feel much heavier than it's weight would imply. This is, in large part, because you don't know how to find the weapon's balance. As, I'm sure you noticed during the show, the trained practitioners had no problem spinning it around like a baton.

This is going to be true of most melee weapons. Even a sword, which weighs a fraction of what that ji does, may still feel awkward and heavy until you learn how to wield it.

With all that said, the ji is on the heavy side for melee weapons. That's generally true of polearms. They're large and a bit awkward (in the hands of the untrained), but the weight is still quite manageable once you learn how to hold them.

It's possible (though somewhat unlikely) the weapon was also simply too larger for you to wield. This tends to be more of an issue with being unable to effectively balance the weapon in your grip, rather than it simply being too heavy to physically lift.

With all of that said, heavy weapons do exist. One of the classic examples are parade swords, which were heavily ornamented, and could weigh up to 20lbs. The important thing to remember with these object is that they're art pieces, not functional weapons. However, the fifty pound greatsword that looks like it was fashioned out of a chrome bumper does not, and while an adult with average physical fitness could lift such a weapon, wielding one in combat would be extremely tiring.

Fatigue is the real reason you don't see heavy melee weapons. The heavier the object is, the more energy you need to expend getting it moving (or stopping it.) The more energy you burn getting your weapon up to speed, the faster you will exhaust. When you're exhausted and facing a fresh opponent, you die. (That last bit is part of why you never saw things like the 50lb greatsword. It's not enough to be able to utterly obliterate a foe in one strike, you also need to be ready for all of his friends that are waiting behind him.)

As mentioned earlier, weighted weapons can be used for shows like the one you attended. Usually the purpose is to adjust the center of gravity on the weapon to facilitate specific tricks, but I don't know if that was the case here.

Either way, what you're looking at isn't so much the amount of weight, as an unexpected point of balance. I don't know what your general physical fitness was as a teen, but lifting 10lbs should not be an issue for a 15-year-old. Consider that your winter coat probably weighed more than that ji. However, you were not expecting the weight distribution, and probably didn't know how much weight to expect. Also, while I didn't state it explicitly, weapons tend to feel heavier than they are, until you get used to them. This is a consequence of the weapon's point of balance being someplace you weren't expecting. It gets better, because it's surprisingly difficult to lift significant amounts of weight off your center of gravity. The normal exercise example of this is to lift and hold a small barbell at arm's length. If you've never tried it, (or tried to hold a gun on someone for an extended period of time), it's surprisingly difficult. No one is going to argue that 1-2lbs of weight is heavy, but when you're holding it out, away from your body, it feels much heavier, and takes more effort. So, the, “trick,” with the ji is to keep its center of balance is close to your center of gravity. That's actually pretty easy once you've started to build familiarity with the weapon, but it can result in a deceptive first encounter.

Finally, I hope it's self-explanatory, but a theatrical show is not the same as battlefield combat. A lot of the physical considerations, like the threat of being killed because you burned too much energy, aren't really a problem in a ninety minute show, where performers can rotate out. This leads to a flashier, more physically demanding performance. You couldn't take that performance onto a battlefield because, “exhausted then dead,” but it will entertain the crowds.

Which leads back to: No. Heavy weapons do exist, but their place is on the mantel or stage, not in combat. You NEVER want a weapon to be any heavier than is absolutely necessary, and in a lot of cases, when you can't get the weight down, that will diminish the value of that weapon in combat.

-Starke

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#howtofightwrite #writing advice #writing reference #writing tips #martial arts #chinese martial arts #melee weapons #Starke answers

[dat-bruv-person]

hii, i dont know if u accept requests but if yes, i am interested in your work "oh to be harbinger"? I'm not sure now and I wanted to ask if you could write something in the style where Signora is like an older sister/friend for the reader and reader is dating dottore or pantalone? I'll leave the choice up to you, i just wanted to know how they will react when they see s/o is on the verge of a breakdown

if it's uncomfortable, feel free to ignore it and have a nice day, thank you <3

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ oh to be a confidante

a/n: this is a really nice request! Oh, and also don't be mislead by the title, it refers to Signora rather than the reader.

gn!reader, poc!reader friendly <3

_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

Pantalone holds you by the waist tenderly, you on the verge of tears. The Harbinger's heart hurts to see you like this: you were always strong and firm, yet a joy to be around. You were fun to tease, and a good sport, which is what attracted him to you. However, this was all because of The Fair Lady: Lady Signora. When you first joined, you were completely different, but she moulded you to become a person of elegance and great strength, so you naturally became the Tsaritsa's favourite: the Tertia Rosa. Signora was your everything, had a deeper place in your heart than even your rich boyfriend. She was your first companion, the first to see you cry and the first to cheer you up. You were her everything, her confidante, her best friend, she vowed to be your older sister. Now you were crying because of her. Oh to be a confidante, you were supposed to trust and embrace each other, never to be the cause of the other's woes.

Poor Pantalone, all through the funeral he could see you were struggling, and through the sealing of Zapolyarny Palace you were practically crying, although tears didn't spill from your eyes. He went out to buy you gifts upon gifts, untied his hair to let you play with it, exchanged coats with you, got you a fluffier one, wiped your tears yet none of his actions seemed to affect you like Signora's did. You lay on your giant, king-sized bed in your mansion, eyes dull and glossy. You couldn't cry. Your boyfriend sat at your bedside with Arlecchino, who'd had a crush on you for quite some time now, but couldn't do anything but look jealously at you and Pantalone together. She could comfortably you wayy better than him. Who cheers a person up with gifts when you have physical affection to show??? Oh to be a confidante, others can replicate your affections and persona, yet they can never be them.

The Knave and Regrator watched with wide eyes as you obliterated Childe. You took out every single gram of your anger onto the ginger, every ounce of pain and anguish. You pretended he was the Shogun, your best friend's killer. She would be crushed like a bug, you made sure of it. You wielded your visions gracefully yet ruthlessly and with brutal strength. Childe might as well've been dead, because you were relentlessly dicing up his body as if he were onions, or apples for a small child to eat. (Pun intended). Oh to be a confidante, the things that you promise and vow to keep and never share to the world may be so deadly, one may commit suicide for the other.

You miss The Fair Lady. You miss Signora. You miss Rosalyne.

#ainsley answers #ainsley's gift pile #ainsley writes #genshin x reader #genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin x gn reader #genshin angst #signora x reader #signora angst #genshin x poc!reader #genshin x black reader #pantalone x reader #pantalone x gn reader #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino angst

[mawhumpria]

Supervillain meets Villain

"Oh, little villain.." Supervillain coos as he tilts villain's bloodied face to the side. He tightens the grip on villain's long black hair and villain lets out a subdued groan, "You can't get away now,"

Villain's world slowly dims as he felt a sudden piercing sensation in his neck. His misty eyes shifted as it gradually closes; his unyielding grip on Supervillain's arm slackening. Supervillain smirks. Gotcha.

-

Villain winces as he opens his eyes; finding himself in a bright room with metallic walls. He shivered notwithstanding the blazer he was wearing as he felt cold and frigid air cut through his body. Moments later, a door swings open.

"Villain..." A deep voice resonated, footsteps meticulously nearing him. The smug voice, it came behind him. "I see you've bestirred yourself," Supervillain saunters over and halts in front of Villain. Only when Villain shifts on his seat did he realize he was impeded by hefty chains on his wrists down to his legs.

"You've trascended my presuppositions, Villain. That's quite admirable. Excellent work there." He gives a hurrah before putting on his black leather gloves.

"You're a lot more attractive than I thought. Alluring," He inches towards Villain, taking his chin by his fingers fondling it. The touch was lenient, almost humane; it was prickling. "and those bold belligerent eyes, so inviting," A grin came all the way up Supervillain's face and Villain felt his jaw constricting. "can't wait to see it obliterated," he spoke in hushed tones, a fanatic look on his face. It made Villain twitch vaguely.

Villain only took cognizance of the outsized table in the middle of the room when Supervillain makes his way towards it; there were tools and durable equipments layed out on it. Supervillain makes a displeasing "hmmm" sound as he scrutinizes the intstruments set up before him. It took a while until he settled on a tool to use on Villain. Following that, he bimbles towards villain with a maniacal look on his face, flaunting a black gun-looking thing to which Villain afterwards discerns to be a taser on Supervillain's hand.

"I will only utilize this delightful taser if you pull away from me," He begins unbuttoning Villain's shirt.

"What are you-"

"Shhh"

"What the hell!"

"What did I say, Villain?"

"Get the hell away from me!"

Villain's body convulsed as he felt sudden, agonizing shocks permeating his bones as Supervillain wielded the taser on his thigh. "What did I say?" He purred on Villain's neck as he begins to feel up his rigid body. Supervillain, who was now sitting on Villain's lap cooed, "Oh come on, try and relax yourself. This won't be for too long," He sighs, planting a kiss on Villain's collarbone.

"You old filthy skunk-" Supervillain subsequently exerts the taser on Villain's neck and Villain jerks his head back with a gut-wrenching scream. "You never learn, do you?" Supervillain got to his feet and strikes Villain hard on the stomach with his boots causing Villain to crash against the ground; a sharp cracking sound oscillating the room.

"I'll make you." He proceeds to strike the same place relentlessly until Villain begins to cough up blood. Supervillain releases a heavy sigh as he ceases; kneading his sore leg. "I reckon that did something to your defiance." Supervillain remarks before taking his leave.

Villain layed there; his breathing was laboured and his eyes were foggy and shrunken. He didn't wanna move—he couldn't move. Otherwise it would put him in excruciating pain; the chains obstructing him were roughly skintight and the temperature of the room was aggravating; it was freezing making him shudder. This made him think: What the hell is this room? This room feels 10 degrees cold or lower. Could it be? No way.

Villain's breathing becomes shallow as he starts losing consciousness.

This was only the beginning.

#Whump #whumpee #whumper #defiant whumpee #intimate whumper #creepy whumper

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Insatiable

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling (Hob x Dream) Rated: E Word Count: ~3100 Tags: PWP, Top Hob, Bottom Dream, rimming, minor shapeshifting, anal fingering, anal sex, come eating (of a sort), let's call it reverse felching, creampie, multiple orgasms, no refractory periods in the Dreaming, a little bit of overstimulation, as a treat, Dream is Not Quiet in bed, Hob is Disgustingly Affectionate in bed, effusive endearments, pillow princess Dream, enthusiastic bottom Dream, yes he can be both, service top Hob Notes: This is the result of a bevy of Smut March prompts, to wit: deep, "Open up", licking, "On your knees", naked, kneeling, "Tell me what you want", harder. The phrase 'I want that twink obliterated' may have also wielded some influence on this.

Summary: Dream gets rimmed and railed within an inch of his life. That's it, that's the fic.

On AO3

Dream is drifting in the soft haze of Hob's attentions, face down in the enormous bed in his private chambers. His legs are splayed around Hob, whose hands are spreading him wide, and Hob's face is buried in between, the source of Dream's pleasure. His tongue is a thing of beauty, wet and warm, soft when he licks over Dream's hole, firm when he delves inside. He has been at it for quite some time, gently unfurling Dream's body with careful attention and Dream is lax, pleased, awash in the ebb and flow of arousal and the care Hob is giving him. He is half-hard, against the bedding beneath him, but it does not hold his focus.

It is bliss, to lie abed and be seen to thus, and Hob he knows is willing to indulge him endlessly here in the Dreaming. Still, however. There is. More, he would like. Eventually.

Long moments pass in this fashion, before the soft heat in his belly begins to grow restless. He sighs, rolls his hips, a languid push up as Hob's tongue slides in, and he lets out a soft breath of sound, fingers curling gently in the sheets. Hob hums in reply, sending new shivers of sensation into Dream's body and he shifts again, seeking more.

He is fully hard and rutting lightly between the sheets beneath him and the wet tongue behind when Hob finally withdraws, just enough to speak. "Alright, love?" He presses a soft open kiss to the crease of Dream's thigh, just beneath where his hand holds Dream open.

Dream groans, shivering at the absence of stimulation, working to bring speech back to the forefront of his consciousness. "Yes—" He squirms against the bedclothes, pushing back into the hold Hob has on him, seeking the heat of his mouth. Hob obliges, laving the flat of his tongue over the soft opening before him and dipping back inside, and Dream's breath catches in his throat. "I would have you. Deeper."

Hob chuckles, which is all manner of delightful with his face in its current situation, and Dream does not suppress the thrill that runs all through him. Hob pulls back again, hands as well this time, and pats Dream's flank gently. "Come on then, up on your knees."

Dream hurries to arrange himself accordingly, chest still on the bed, knees spread and rear in the air, presented like a trophy for Hob's attentions. It is an undignified position, to be certain; but here, like this, with Hob, his dignity is of little value.

"Sweet christ, you're beautiful," Hob breathes, tracing a fingertip around the wet rim of him, and Dream shivers. "Alright then. Open up."

Hob's broad hands settle on either cheek, squeezing gently, and then Hob's tongue is back upon him, within him, slurping obscenely and delving deeper. Dream arches into it, a long low sound of pleasure in his throat; Hob's hands move to his hips, tongue still buried within him, and then Hob is pulling him back in staccato little bursts matched by the stabbing of his tongue and Dream shudders. It is exquisite, sends heat singing sweetly through his body, and yet still he would have more.

"Hob," he groans, breathless, squirming backwards, needy, shameless, "Hob, Hob—aah—Hob—"

Hob pulls him back and plunges deep, as far as he can possibly reach, and Dream bites back a frustrated moan. It is good, it is gloriously warm and wet and good, but it is not enough.

"More," he demands helplessly, a hairsbreadth from begging, only let him be filled, let him have Hob as far inside him as he can get—

But Hob withdraws, as he must in order to speak, and Dream cannot stop the noise of loss that spills out of him.

"Sorry, love, the human tongue's only so long." Hob presses sweet kisses around his openness, a tiding tease. "Unless you're ready for—ohh, hang on—" There is a long suspended instant of silence, of aching emptiness, and then a delighted "Hah!" from Hob, and then—

And then Hob's tongue is circling his soft open rim again, licking into him, pressing inside and pushing deep, and deeper, yes, deeper—

Impossibly deeper, somehow, and Dream jolts as Hob's tongue curls with precision against the spot far within him that sets him alight. He cries out, gasping, turning his face into the sheets, hips pushing back for more. Hob's tongue squirms within him obligingly and Dream's knees slip a little wider apart. He can feel the sudden wetness at the head of his prick, knows it to be stringing down to the bedclothes, wishes desperately that Hob might touch him there as well, smear the slick of him all over his tip while that tongue works so inhumanly far inside him—

Hob has shown great affinity for shaping the Dreaming to his will, for the secrets of consciously crafting this realm while within it, and never has Dream appreciated it more than this moment. Hob's dream-tongue is wriggling within him, slick and wet and hot, thick, filling him deliciously and writhing against his prostate with deliberate abandon. Dream is gasping, thighs trembling, Hob's fingers digging into his hips a blessed anchor in the storm of pleasure overtaking him. He cannot think past the bright sear of it, can only cry out as it rises, bearing him up to the precipice. Hob's tongue surges within him and then he is there, tipping over the brink, trembling and spilling and suspended at the height of orgasm by Hob's masterful attentions. He lets out a sob when Hob finally relents and the orgasm subsides; Hob's marvelous tongue slithers wetly out of him and already Dream is aching for more.

"Hob," he croons, flexing his hips, "ahhh, Hob, my Hob..."

Hob grants him no quarter, no moment of rest and Dream is desperately grateful. There is no refractory period here, no need of any physical recovery; he will climax as many times as he pleases and Hob's tongue is positively serpentine by now, twined about his testicles and the base of his rigid length, curling up the shaft and beneath the head, lapping at his slit. He is leaking still, copiously, and Hob's tentacle-like dream-tongue is exquisite as it works him, collecting his spilling fluids like a sponge.

And then Hob's fingers touch his wet hole and Dream whines, dizzy with the writhing lapping attentions to his cock and hungry to be filled as well. His voice, when it escapes him, is raw. "Hob—!"

Hob hums, pleased, and sinks two fingers into Dream, crooked at precisely the right angle, thrusting deep and unhurried and Dream writhes, delirious. He's mindless in his pleasure, sobbing with it, clenching and clinging around Hob's relentless fingers, flexing into the coils of Hob's tongue and careening swiftly toward another peak.

It hits him like lightning, sharp and sweet and sudden, choking his voice in his throat as he seizes with it, trembling violently, and each lap of Hob's tongue to his spurting slit brings forth still more.

It is a long moment of this before Hob's tongue begins to unwind from about him; he can feel how it is heavy with his spend, dripping with it, and the thought nearly sets him off again. Then Hob's fingers inside him withdraw halfway and stretch apart, carefully holding him open and Hob's sodden tongue is slithering deftly in between, depositing Dream's own spend inside him. That does set him off again, a shivery aftershock of greedy sweetness racing along his prick, drawing forth still more, and the sound in his throat is startled and wanton.

Hob's tongue slides out of him, licks a wet path back to the tip of him and laps still more spend from him, returning again to where Hob holds him open and letting it dribble inside him as well. It is warm and wet, entirely welcome, and the lewd intimacy of it has stolen all thought from Dream save one—of Hob, sinking into him, and encountering what he now leaves behind—

"Hob," he groans, abject need swelling within him as Hob draws out completely and shifts behind him. There's a long agonizing instant of nothing and then Hob licks briefly at him again, tongue returned to its usual state.

"Fuck, you taste amazing," Hob breathes, kisses sweetly over his sopping hole. "What do you want next, love? My cock? My fingers? More of my tongue?"

"Your cock, give me your cock—" He is trembling for want of it, desperately craving Hob's hard silken length within him, filling him, dragging out and sliding home again and again. "I would have it, now, I would have you in me—"

"Oh, my sweeting, of course," Hob soothes, already rising into position behind him, and Dream shudders as Hob's length slides along the cleft of his body; he lifts his backside, pushes into it, shameless in his need. Hob's hands land heavy on his hips and then Hob is there, the bulbous head of him breaching Dream's opened body and sinking into the wet mess of saliva and Dream's own spend that Hob's tongue has left inside him.

A long wordless moan escapes him and he is shivering all over as Hob sheaths himself to the hilt, is clutching at the thick solid heat of Hob filling him to glorious fullness. He squirms, and then Hob is drawing out of him in a long slow glide and sinking back into him smoothly; there is a filthy wet sound as he bottoms out again and Dream whimpers. He is very nearly ready to take matters into his own hands, work himself backwards on Hob's rigid cock at the pace he would prefer, push Hob onto his back and ride him into sweet oblivion if need be. But he is foiled by Hob's implacable hold at his hips, and Hob is still fucking into him slowly—deliciously, maddeningly slowly—and Dream is shaking with how badly he wants more.

"Hob—"

It is meant to sound demanding, threatening; it sounds instead of desperation, of terrible aching need.

"My dearest," Hob breathes in reply, strained and ragged, pushing slowly into Dream again. "Tell me what you need, let me hear what you want—"

And Dream, whose care for dignity has long fled him this night, obeys. "Hob. Hob, my Hob, I beg of you. Give me more, I would have you. Faster. Harder. Deeper, give me your all, let me bear the full brunt of your ardor, only have me, please—"

The sound Hob makes is exquisite, hungry and breathless and he slams home, grinding hard against Dream's prostate, fingers digging into his hips. Dream chokes out a cry as he is jolted forward, scrabbling at the sheets as Hob draws back and slams into him again, pleasure flaring hotly throughout him to finally receive what he craves.

Hob sets into a punishing rhythm, hard and fast and deep and Dream can only cling to the bedding and push back for more, knees braced against the onslaught, anchored by the bruising grip at his hips. He will let the bruises rise, he thinks dizzily, will keep them awhile, delicious souvenirs of the use that Hob makes of him—

"Dream—ahh—Dream, my love—is this what you need, precious—" Hob is gasping, steadily pounding into him and Dream sobs in reply.

"Yes—yes—Hob, please—" His prick is swinging stiffly with every thrust, smearing slick all over his stomach, and orgasm is looming ripe in his belly once again. "Harder—"

Hob, impossibly, manages to hit harder and Dream cries out; Hob lands another sweet blow and another, another-another-another and Dream is spilling again, pushed over the precipice and tumbling helplessly down the slope beyond.

Hob, relentless, fucks him straight through it and Dream's cry goes choked and ragged as he convulses under the sheer force of unmitigated orgasm, the tidal rush of unflagging pleasure. There are over-stimulated tears welling in his eyes and saliva drooling from his gaping mouth, dampening the sheets beneath his face while the inferno of his pleasure roars through him, consuming him—and still he wants more, still he is yet to be sated.

"Ahh—ahh—Hob!—ahh—!" He's sobbing, voice punching out of him on every thrust, half-muffled in the bedclothes, hands clenched in the sheets and whole body rigid, quaking. His prick still bounces between his trembling thighs, ripe and leaking.

"Dream," Hob gasps, the piston of his hips going erratic. "Oh—fuck, Dream—oh—" Hob shoves in to the hilt and his grip on Dream's hips spasms and then he is spilling, pulsing hotly against Dream's battered prostate and flooding him with new warmth.

Dream keens, high and sharp, clenching tight around Hob again and again; he would milk him dry, if possible, keep them suspended in this instant for eternity.

Hob groans and shudders and jerks through his climax, hips stuttering abortively once, twice, again; Dream clutches desperately at his length as Hob empties himself and then, barely flagging at all, resumes his previous rhythm.

Dream, delirious with his pleasure, can only moan; there is a glorious mess within him now, spit and spend, his own and Hob's, and it is too much to be kept inside. It is forced out of him with each squelching thrust of Hob's cock, warm runnels spilling over his testicles, down the insides of his thighs, and the abject intimacy of it leaves Dream weak and shaking, impossibly aroused.

His knees splay gradually wider, the force of Hob's thrusts and his own trembling body bearing him down, down, until he is splayed on his face in the wet ruin of the sheets, hips barely tilted up. Hob moves with him, looms over his back and slides one arm beneath his chest, weight braced on his elbow that he might pull Dream close against him. He tangles his fingers with Dream's, prying them loose from the sheets by Dream's face, and Dream grips them ardently while Hob's parted lips travel up the back of his ear. Hob's other hand remains at his hip, holding tight while Hob hammers him into the bed, the sounds of their meeting loud and wet, accompanied by the grunts and gasps of Hob's exertion and the helpless noises spilling from Dream's throat. It is good, it is glorious, exquisite to be made love to thus, and Dream. Would still. Have. More.

"Hob," he manages, struggling once again to bring language to bear. "Touch. I want—touch me—" He summons the will to push his hips up just that little bit more against the weight of Hob above him, to brace his knees again, to make it clear where he wants Hob's touch.

"Oh, precious," Hob gasps, one of his favorite mid-coital endearments, and shifts accommodatingly. His hand at Dream's hip squeezes in a parting caress; he reaches beneath Dream, into the scant space reclaimed between the bed and Dream's groin, and his mouth touches down along the back of Dream's neck in an open panting kiss as he takes hold of Dream's prick. Dream sucks in a sharp breath that warbles out of him with Hob's next thrust, the slick glide of Hob's hand upon him, and then he is absolutely lost to the crashing sea of his want as it swells toward fulfillment, as Hob's rhythm falters and quickens and grows ever more urgent.

"Dream—oh, fuck—my perfect—beautiful—Dream, I—adore you—"

"Hob—Hob—Hob—" Dream is chanting his name on every thrust, spurred on by the praises falling upon him, mindless in the grip of their shared pleasure and trembling as it begins once more to overtake him.

"Dream—oh—oh!" Hob buries himself frantically again and again, stroking Dream in swift and perfect rhythm as they crest their peak together. He shoves in one last time and gasps, breathless, poised on the brink until swiftly he falls, and Dream falls with him, sobbing at the sharp and indescribable perfection of spilling in tandem with his love—of Hob pulsing inside him while lightning and honey race along his limbs and in his veins, Hob's stuttered moans sweet beneath his ear and Hob's hand clenched tight in his own.

When the tremors subside they are both still hard. Hob sits up and back, draws Dream up with him, until they both are on their knees. He keeps his cock inside Dream, lays Dream back against his chest; Dream hooks a languid arm behind his head, tips his own head back over Hob's shoulder and undulates in his lap, a slow writhe on his cock that has both of them panting. The mess of spend within him continues to leak out, much to his pleasure; it trickles down over Hob's groin, into the creases of his thighs, a slick warm intimacy between them.

"Dream, my love," Hob breathes, muffled into the side of Dream's neck where he's mouthing soft kisses. His hands roam Dream's chest, stomach, hips, mapping the slow ripples of his movement. "Do you need more, sweeting, dearheart, my precious dove?"

Dream considers for a moment, moving in an idle, mindless rhythm on Hob's magnificent length all the while. He could be satisfied, at this juncture, four orgasms richer than when they had started.

And yet.

Hob is still hard, and he himself is still wet and opened and filled, erect in turn, and the bliss of being split on Hob's cock is warm and bright in his belly, curling hotter with every languid roll of his hips.

"More," he decides, intoxicated by the slow rhythm between them, drunk on his own pleasure, and Hob's hands are moving immediately to stroke Dream's cock, cup his testicles. "I would have you—aaahh—take your pleasure of me, again, and again, and again—" He clenches his hand in Hob's hair, tugging lightly as Hob touches him sweetly, pleased with the breathy sound of approval Hob makes.

"Fuck you 'til you've had your fill, then. I can do that."

"I will never have my fill of you, Hob Gadling." He turns to drag his lips against the skin of Hob's neck, tilts back to find Hob's earlobe, takes it between his teeth and traces it with the tip of his tongue. Hob whines when he lets it go; Dream brushes his mouth across the shell of Hob's ear, pitches his voice to a murmur. "But I would have you. Fuck me, until you wake."

"As you wish," Hob breathes, kissing the side of his throat, fingers warm around his prick and chest warm against his back; Hob flexes up into him, ardent and tender, and Dream gives himself over completely.

===== Started: 3/5/23 Drafted: 4/22/23 Posted: 5/8/23

#Dreamling #The Sandman #Hob Gadling #Dream of the Endless #TJs Fics #Sandman #nsft #wip: insatiable

[merryfortune]

natural wonder

Prompt: Man Made Technology | Natural Wonder

Title: natural wonder

Ship: Respectfulshipping | Ryoken/Spectre

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Vrains 

Word Count: 1,457

Rating: T

Tags: Alternate Universe - Bunnyverse, Pre-Canon, Bittersweet, Affection, Flirting

   As Ryoken removed the head apparatus, his hair bounced with the movement as straps came undone. He sighed contentedly and smacked his lips together.

   Not all missions were going to be that mundane and easy so he enjoyed the novelty whilst it lasted.

   Ryoken turned his head to check on his companion from across the room. Spectre wasn't quite as happy-go-lucky returning from the Link VRAINS as Ryoken was as there was a crease of discontentment diagonal through his brow. He undid the goggles which were nowhere near as high tech as the machine - with all its gizmo's and gadgets and high end luxury - that Ryoken lounged in. It simply was not made for folk like Spectre in mind.

   “So,” Ryoken said, perhaps louder than he needed to be to get Spectre’s attention, “what do you think of the Link VRAINS?”

   “I can understand the hype.” Spectre said, deliberately in an understatement.

   After all, Ryoken had seen with his own two eyes the pure, elevated Wonder that Spectre had enjoyed mere moments ago. The vast expanse of territory and variety of domains, the way his monsters came to life as they were played, the hacked hidey-hole which would become the Knights of Hanoi's base, and yes, of course, the avatar creation menu. Speaking of…

   “I couldn't help but notice that your avatar… it is quite impractical. Wish fulfilment, yes, but aren't you worried that it lacks the ability to conceal your identity?” Ryoken said.

   “Only time will tell, I might actually look like that in several years’ time.” Spectre said.

   Ryoken laughed a barky laugh, “Several?” he echoed, sceptical.

   “Yes, several. I added five years.” Spectre defended himself with a frown.

   “Looks like at least ten to me.” Ryoken teased him.

   “Well, it gets the point across.” Spectre huffed.

   Ryoken smiled and eased up on ribbing his second-in-command. Though, it still felt weird to regard Spectre as such. It had been mere months ago when they had been just friends. But a major reshuffle of organisation and secrets had led to this. It left a bittersweet taste in Ryoken’s mouth but he hoped all would go well when he cornered the Ignis and obliterated them. Then, afterwards, everything would be normal. But for now. He worried about things like secret identities and if he could wield the power that he had inherited.

   Ryoken dislodged himself from the comfortable recline of where he had laid to enter the Link VRAINS. Spectre did the same. He set aside the pair of goggles and got up to stretch, though he had been sitting down normally on the sofa, it was a lot like sleeping upright and so, dulled his senses.

   It was here that more than an age difference of wish fulfilment became apparent between Spectre’s flesh and blood self and his digital self. He always looked so incidentally cute when he stretched, his shirt reached up and his fingers curled in and his long, rabbit ears bobbed up and down. With enough thought, Spectre could move them the same as any other appendage but not right now.

   Aside from looking like a bizarro mirror of five (or ten) years later, his Link VRAINS avatar removed Spectre’s bunny traits. It was weird to see a portrait of him as a stereotypical human, Ryoken thought but he could see why Spectre had elected to remove such highly identifiable traits from his avatar.

   Truly it was a shame. Albeit an understandable one. Rabbits were not known for their ability to intimidate, after all. But it was still a shame to Ryoken who thought Spectre’s rare genetics made him even more unique. Though they were an unwanted spectacle. 

   The Rabbit Condition was exceedingly rare: a natural wonder which was an unerring peculiarity it was bizarre to exist at all let alone. 

   It was a genetic trait found in all humans’ DNA but the chance of it occurring to affect was a less than one percent chance. Redheads and people with green eyes far outnumbered those with the Rabbit condition. They didn't have any associated health conditions and was just a benign variation of how people could look but tradition and superstition would disagree. Those with the Rabbit Condition were predisposed to bad luck and misfortune, or so stories went.

  Thus, Spectre was blisteringly certain that his cotton ball tail and grey rabbit ears were contributing factors as to why he was abandoned. He couldn’t think of any other reason as he was male and otherwise healthy. 

   They were also definitely among the reasons why he had been bullied at the orphanage, too. Kids didn't take kindly to outliers and especially ones with extra needs as Spectre’s clothes did have to be tailored special to him. He was pampered in that regard yet it was a dual punishment as it made him hyper aware that he was a tall poppy, rarely dealt hand-me-downs and taken on expeditions to have his tail accounted for in pants and underwear. Not to mention the “vet” visits as he called them.

   Even now, in the lap of luxury, Spectre was still not in a world which catered to him. Ryoken got the latest and greatest of technology and Spectre had to make do with extra tight goggles so he could sit on the lounge with a gap between the cushions and backing. It was uncomfortable to cramp his tail, after all. It was such a small yet painful thing.

   He never complained, of course. He had a chip on his shoulder about being weak. A trait exacerbated by his bunny rabbit traits but despite Spectre’s best efforts to cover his tracks, Ryoken found Spectre pitiable all the same for being so unexpectedly and excessively cute. It was a cause of ire and concern and yet…

   Ryoken couldn’t help himself.

   “What are you doing, sir?” Spectre asked through gritted teeth, annoyed but keeping himself tempered.

   “Petting you.” Ryoken replied and with a wink in his voice, he chuckled a small chuckle. “It's weird to hear you call me “sir”. No more Ryo-chan and Spe-chan, no…” His melancholy was lowkey and covered by a mask of mirth.

  “No more Ryo-chan and Spe-chan…” Spectre agreed in lamentation.

   Ryoken half-smiled as he looked up and admired Spectre’s rabbit ears. The patch of skin to the side of his head, so inconspicuous of what he lacked and the absurdity of what he did have. It was velvet soft and warm beneath Ryoken’s fingertips. 

   Spectre’s lips were a mangled smile. He didn’t want to but he enjoyed Ryoken’s touch despite being abrasive. He suppressed a chitter as Ryoken’s hand groped him so kindly.

   Meanwhile, in his mind, Ryoken couldn’t help but compare the flesh and blood to the human made of pixels. They were the same person, the same Spectre but the difference was immense.

   “Despite my previous comments,” Ryoken said, “I do like your avatar. It's handsome in its own ways…”

   Spectre laughed, insulted. “Well, I think your avatar is handsome, too, in his own, terrifying and striking way.” 

   “Good.” Ryoken said and he removed his hand.

   Spectre hated having his rabbit ears touched and fondled. By doctors and nurses especially. Anyone and everyone except Ryoken. He maintained a faux glare and Ryoken could see through the friction to realise that Spectre inhaled slightly: an unspoken wish for Ryoken not to stop.

   “It is a good idea though,” Ryoken said, “to at least conceal what is probably the most eye-catching element of your real life appearance.”

   “Yes, I think so, too.” Spectre agreed and maybe it was because he pined to be touched with love and affection just that little bit more, his eyes naturally fell to Ryoken’s hands. 

   Specifically to that odd triangle on the skin between the base of his thumb the knuckle of his index finger. It was too small to be the most eye-catching thing and yet… Spectre was reminded of a small detail.

   His avatar - Revolver - wore gloves. Spectre’s ear twitched as he made that connection which very well may not have been there at all. His face began to mire in these deep thoughts. Ryoken sighed, causing them to prick and bounce involuntarily. 

   “Let’s dismiss ourselves, yeah?” Ryoken suggested, upbeat. “It's almost dinner time.”

   Spectre bowed his head, he liked the sound of that. Ryoken smiled, even though it was he who had prevented them from leaving this room at all as he had gotten caught up in dissecting the flight of fancy which was the hidden desires buried in the selections they had made for their avatars. But at least, over the dinner table, to their former carers and current lieutenants, they could share that their first expedition to the Link VRAINS had been a success.

#respectfulshippingweek2024 #respectfulshipping #yugioh vrains #vrains #yugioh #ryoken kogami #spectre (vrains) #writing tag #natural wonder

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

Destiel Month, 4 Nov.: Snack

Cas made the mistake of washing his hands in the motel sink, which took all of a minute – plenty enough time for Sam and Dean to start arguing again.

deancas, post-Tombstone s13 au, first kiss, angst and fluff

Cas made the mistake of washing his hands in the motel sink, which took all of a minute – plenty enough time for Sam and Dean to start arguing again.

"You're not going," Sam was saying as Cas exited the bathroom.

"Like hell I'm not." Dean had put his boots back on and was reaching for his barn jacket.

Sam stood as tall as Cas had ever seen him do, using his height to loom over his brother not quite threateningly, but not quite benignly either. "Stay here and rest. There's no reason for you to become this monster's snack. Jack and I can handle it."

Jack, bless him, was already standing at the door. Dean glanced around Sam for a second. Jack gave him a timid wave. 

Dean glared back up at Sam. "You think just 'cause my memory's fucked up I don't remember how to shoot a gun or wield a machete? Or stab something? I'm fine." He tried to plow past Sam and Sam blocked him.

"We. Will. Handle. It," Sam said, face stony. "You're not coming with us." He pointed at Cas. "He's in charge until we're back."

With that, he stalked out the door, Dean's keys in hand. Jack looked to Cas; Cas gave him a quick nod and the worry in Jack's expression lifted slightly as he squared his shoulders and followed Sam.

Dean kicked one leg of the small table near the window and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "Guess it should be comforting to know he's still a bitch."

"Sam is not–"

"I know, I know." Dean flopped onto one of the beds and glared at the water stains on the ceiling. "Seems like most witches have continued to be a whole pain in the ass, so that's fun."

"He may not be as worried about your memory loss issues as he is the part where you were recently tossed down a flight of stairs," Cas mentioned.

Dean winced, as if he'd forgotten about his skinned elbow and the giant bruise on his hip, and maybe he had. He didn't seem to have any retention of memories since around the time Sam and Lucifer fell into the abyss with Adam and Michael to the point where their errant witch in question had hit him with a spell less than a day ago. On the bright side, Dean seemed to know himself generally; to hear Sam tell it, their last run-in with a memory obliterating witch had been somewhat more horrific, though of course Dean couldn't recall that either. He kept glancing at Cas with an expression of surprise, disbelief, and unfettered happiness, a combination Cas found somewhat inscrutable. 

It also just…made Cas's heart heavy.

He took off his trench coat, slung it over the back of a chair, and perched beside Dean on the bed. "Wouldn't hurt you to try to sleep a little. It's been a very long couple of days."

Dean made a grouchy, unwilling noise.

"We should know if Sam and Jack were successful almost immediately. That may take a while, regardless." Cas looked over and caught Dean staring at him with another of those difficult to parse expressions.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean looked away, a mild flush across the tops of his cheeks. Several minutes passed with only the sounds of traffic passing on the nearby highway to keep them company. "You ever learn anything about the Three Stooges?" Dean asked out of nowhere.

Cas quirked an eyebrow at him. "Only what you've shown me. There was one where three women pretending to be widows bashed them over the heads with champagne bottles."

Dean grinned with the tip of his tongue sticking out from between his teeth. "Classic. The local access channel's gonna show a good one tonight – it's one with Shemp, so your mileage may vary, but there's a skeleton in it."

"Does the skeleton elevate the humor?" Cas squinted. 

"Yes," Dean said definitively, bouncing off the bed to grab the remote and turn on the room's rather dinged-up television. 

The skeleton didn't make the Three Stooges funnier as far as Cas was concerned. He was about to voice this opinion, only to discover Dean had eased down onto a pillow and was asleep next to him on the mattress. In the tv's flickering blue light Dean's eyelashes were black and delicate as spider silk. Cas didn't trust himself not to touch him if he didn't curl his hands closed to keep them still.

He made himself watch the rest of the programming, until the channel's midnight sign off, complete with waving American flag. He clicked off the television and sat in the relative darkness, listening to Dean breathe and increasingly anxious that they'd heard nothing from Sam or Jack.

He flinched when Dean gasped. No – Dean sobbed. Cas looked down and was about to brush Dean's shoulder, but Dean woke up first, sitting up like he'd been flung out of a nightmare. His wide eyes met Cas's and he gasped again. 

"Did it work?" Cas asked, thinking the witch's spell must have been lifted. "Do you remember?"

Dean's face crumpled. He was off the bed and into the bathroom, door slammed behind him, before Cas could utter another syllable. 

In a minute, Dean opened the door and crept back out. He landed on the edge of the bed taking tremulous breaths.

"Dean?" Cas asked, as calmly as he could.

"No," Dean said in a miserable tone. "Memory's not improved."

Cas sagged. "I'm sorry."

Dean rubbed his face with both hands. "Yeah. Me too."

"We could call Sam."

"Like you said. It's probably just taking longer than expected. Ain't that always the way." 

"Almost always," Cas said, smiling small as Dean smiled small too. His anxiety ratcheted up a notch as Dean seemed to deliberately drop his gaze. "Are you all right?"

"Sure," Dean lied. 

Cas waited.

Dean blinked a few times, like his eyes were burning. "Hey, um. I know I'm missing a few, several, years. But could you… I dreamt something." He glanced at Cas and away again quickly. "I'd driven out a two-lane country road. What else is new, right? I get to this field with a lot of wildflowers blooming. Real pretty. There's an old windmill by a creek." 

Dean was trembling, just a little.

"I think. In the dream." Dean swallowed. "I think it may have been a memory? The palms of my hands were covered with ashes." He looked up at Cas, eyes glossy with unshed tears. "Could you tell me who died?" he whispered. "'Cause I think…I think someone I loved must've died."

Cas's throat had closed, sorrow choking him like a garrote. 

Dean said, "Please, man. Just. Please." 

It took Cas a moment to find words. "Your dream, the drive to that field, may have been from when I was dead."

"You mean after the, um, what did Sam call them? The Leviathan?" Dean frowned.

"Lucifer killed me, again, several months ago," Cas said slowly. "And I was asleep in the Empty. Jack woke me up."

Dean shook his head, clearly not understanding. Thing was, Cas didn't know how to explain it to him – so much time had passed since Sam went to the cage. They'd all endured so much pain and loss and trauma. Cas just barely understood how Jack's powers had manifested, or why, to wake Cas; he was grateful, of course, to be alive, but living with grief was trickier, and he had a terrible, sinking realization that Dean had perhaps grieved his last death far more than he'd imagined.

When Cas didn't say anything else, Dean shook his head again and wiped his eyes. "You're okay now, right? Jack brought you back and you're all healed up?"

Cas found that his chest hurt right where Lucifer's angel blade had pierced through, some dull echo of the murder, but he said, "Yes. All better."

Dean chuffed a watery laugh. "Well. Good. Good for Jack." He looked away, lips pressed together like he was trying to keep from crying more. He took a couple of long, shaky breaths and stared at the wall. "I think," he started. Pressed his fist against his mouth. "I think I missed you something awful."

He didn't look at Cas. A few tears raced down his face. 

Cas thought suddenly, for the first time in many years, of Anna, and of her telling him that feeling would get worse. He'd experienced that truth over and over, and yet at this moment, his emotions were so much more enormous than he'd ever believed possible – as huge as his angelic form, brimming with so much blinding light that felt like it might pour out of him if he as much as moved an inch in any direction. 

I love him, he thought, looking at Dean. I am in love with him: a startling distinction, equally true.

"Dean," he started to say.

Dean collapsed into the space between the bed and the wall.

Cas reached him in a millisecond, mind white with fear. "Dean."

"Ow." Dean let himself be sat up into Cas's arms. "How'd we… Why'm I on the floor?"

"You fainted." Cas helped him back up onto the bed. 

Dean rotated his arm around. "Gonna break this fucking elbow one way or the other, I guess." He saw Cas sitting practically atop him and blinked. "Hey. Remember that time we watched twelve westerns in one weekend?"

Cas gawped at him. "Do you remember that?"

"Yep." Dean rubbed at his hip and grimaced. "That reminds me, we need to buy you a real cowboy hat some day."

"Do we," Cas said.

Dean nodded. He hadn't moved away, but something shy came into his expression. "I think the spell's been lifted." He seemed transfixed by whatever he saw on Cas's face. "But you probably guessed that."

This must be whiplash, Cas thought. His whole body ached with it. "We should call Jack and Sam, see if they're okay." He knew that was the proper thing to suggest; his eyes stung.

"Yeah," Dean's voice was quiet and near and he made no move to go fetch either of their phones. He did, however, raise his hand to Cas's jaw, to rub his thumb back and forth beneath Cas's eye softly. "Hi, Cas."

Hello, Cas thought; it's me. It's you. We're here. He couldn't speak any of it. But Dean's mouth was on his then, gentle and warm; Cas kissed him back and hoped that said it all.

#destielmonth22 #deancas #destiel #spn #fic #snippetfic #destielmonth

[vikingsong]

oh is the aliens and swords one the one that you were asking about museum practice a while back? I want to hear more about that 👀

@sydneysageivashkov Yes, it is! 🥳

(Thank you again for answering my museum questions a while back! I have even more museum questions now if you’re amenable sometime!)

This is the elevator pitch:

Arthur Rhydderch had spent years trying to ‘find his calling,’ as his thesis advisor described it. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, the reincarnated Once and Future King thought as he gave his sword a twirl and launched himself at the alien before it could breathe another blistering spurt of flames.

Up-and-coming paleontologist Dr. Myrddin “Merlin” Emrys had thought he was adulting quite well; most days, he even managed to avoid getting yelled at by his landlady. Then secrets from his past life resurfaced, and everything fell apart. Facing an impossible choice, Merlin must come to terms with who he was, who he is, and—most importantly—who he wants to become.

Or: When Albion’s greatest need arrives in the form of an alien invasion, the reincarnated figures of legend must deal with the consequences of their shared past even as they fight for humanity’s future.

Arthur is cornered during the initial invasion in a building that has a collection of artifacts displayed in wall cases, so he breaks the glass (not security glass! just regular plate glass! There’s a joke about it later in the story) and pulls out a medieval sword in a ‘might as well go out fighting’ mindset, then ends up successfully killing the alien that cornered him.

It quickly becomes apparent that conventional modern weaponry is useless against the aliens. Only authentic medieval swords can kill them.

Arthur finds out that he’s the new King of England, despite having been 28th in line and having always held generally anti-monarchist views. He has to learn on the job how to actually lead/govern because Parliament and the rest of the upper levels of government have been obliterated, too, so all the ministers’ authority has temporarily reverted back to the Crown. He ends up working closely with the staff of an eclectic and widely respected (fictional) museum in London to try to figure out what it is about the swords that makes them effective. If they can figure it out, then everyone will have a better idea of how to fight the aliens effectively. (Spoiler: aliens = pterosaurs = dragons, and their only weakness is steel that is forged in dragonfire.)

Gwen is an expert on medieval weaponry. Elyan doesn’t work for the museum, but he’s roped in because his specialty is chemistry/materials science. Paleontologist Merlin joins the party because the aliens bear a striking resemblance to Cretaceous pterosaurs. Freya, the museum staff member responsible for sourcing items for collections (I have questions about this job!), fulfills her Lady of the Lake role by sourcing and distributing swords to the knights. 😉 Many other canon characters pop up along the way. (You may also remember a snippet about an OC named Mrs. Nettleburn? She’s Merlin’s landlady who wears a violently floral housecoat and wields a frying pan during suspected break-ins. 🍳)

Meanwhile, the characters start getting their first-life memories back sporadically throughout the story, and they have to separate the truth of their incomplete memories from the distortions of the literary legends. Merlin ends up betraying everyone by siding with the dragons based on his distorted interpretation of those incomplete memories. Arthur refuses to give up on the friend he remembers, and Merlin gets an intensive redemption arc.

The story began as a crack prompt, but it has evolved into a crack-treated-very-seriously novel. 😂 I have about 60k written so far…

#ask answered #asks #fic: reforged #aliens & swords #shameless self promotion #wip #writing #fanfic #my stories

[kharonion]

🎲 hehe 👀

KISS ROULETTE

30. A kiss to the palm of the hand. Picked Gail and Charon, and boy howdy. Even though I haven't written them in a hot minute, they're still so hecking emotional.

He’s a monster. He was made that way, into a weapon constantly set to the grindstone, sharpened and ready for whoever was to wield him—

“Bear. Are you okay?”

The quiet voice is booming in Charon’s ears. It jostles him like he’s asleep, and he blinks back into present to find himself sitting at the table still with broken-down gun in hand. Vaguely, he recalls parking himself there to clean his firearm, as he usually did. Though it never takes him long enough for Gail to express such a concern.

“Yes.” He answers curtly, but it’s quite obvious Gail in no way buys it.

They set their book aside and pat the space beside them on the couch. Green doe-eyes beckon him there. So, he sets everything down just as it is and sits where he’d been invited, with eyes cast down to his lap. Immediately, Gail directs all of their attention to him.

But, they don’t say anything. They never do. Never wanting to push the issue unnecessarily.

“How can you not see me as a monster?”

To Gail’s credit, they (mostly) maintain their composure, but he sees the sheen of tears swelling in their eyes. His hands begin to curl into fists… until a tiny set stops one of them.

“Charon,” they murmur so tender it makes his heart pound against his chest. Gail scoots closer, their arms pressing together, his hand still in that light grasp. “I never could.”

“Why?” He doesn’t intend it, but the question rumbles out as a frustrated growl. Because maybe he is frustrated.

Gail doesn’t flinch.

Instead, they hold his hand much more assuredly. Slowly uncurls his fingers, attentively tracing along each one of them. In a manner that still astounds him, they do not hesitate. Not even across the ragged edges of skin long obliterated or the patches of tendons and muscle rough with a sheer veil. And Gail watches every centimeter their fingers travel.

Finally, they look back up to him, wearing a doting smile, a few tears creeping down their cheeks.

“Because if you were one, you wouldn’t care.”

Where his heart was pounding mere moments before, it now feels as if it has stopped altogether. He’s looking into their eyes, so desperate to find… something. What shocks him the most is not knowing what he’s searching for.

… Was he searching for a reason to not believe them?

And then, Gail brings his hand to their lips. So gently presses them into the palm. 

Kissing a hand scarred by sin.

The air is pulled right out of his lungs. He feels as if he’s going to be sick. But he also yearns to lean into their space, to express what words cannot.

“You’re not a monster… not to me. Some of your pieces are broken, but that never makes you any less of a man. It doesn’t make you any less the man I love.”

Again, they kiss the palm of his hand… and then one of Gail’s thumbs is brushing his cheek. Wiping away the damp trails that’ve formed.

“My love, you treat me… better than I deserve.”

Gail shakes their head. They move even closer, craning up so their lips are so tantalizingly grazing his own. “I never can do it enough to make up for—”

Charon cuts them short with a kiss driven by the longing that’s been bubbling the entire time. He holds them tight, and yet as if Gail is made of glass—like the precious person they are.

“You do plenty, pchelka.”

#i feel like i'm so out of practice writing them ksdjf #so i hope this is actually intelligible #also let it be known i had hozier on repeat :') #khar writes #oc: gail parsons #fallout charon #x: so tragic so magic #fallout 3 #fo3 #.asks #thank you for sending one in!

[tryst-art-archive]

December 2010: "Until I Fall Asleep"

This is the second iteration of this story, and quite different from the first in that it's in Calez's perspective rather than Dani's.

---Story follows---->

            I used to keep a photograph of Dani silhouetted in a window in my pocket. In it, she stood on a desk, balancing her weight on her left leg, the right bent just so, her arms languid lines extending to the window frame, holding her loosely in space. She wore a short dress that clung to her and heels that boosted her three inches. The glare of a Detroit street obliterated the interior details of her body, allowing only for a single line down her side and along her arms. There was just enough light to see the pink-tipped gray of her hair.

            It was a photo from one of the richer periods of our wanderings. Dancing across the country and accidentally pirouetting into a Detroit winter, we found a cheap apartment overlooking one of the city’s busier streets. Michael took up work in a local night club, engaging himself as an exotic dancer, his perennial career. I found a part-time job in a pizza place and spent my spare hours on street corners, freezing my fingers on the ice of my flute in exchange for the pocket change cell phone-wielding citizens were willing to spare. Dani took to babysitting.

            We pooled our funds to afford rent and buy groceries and indulged ourselves in the luxury of a roof over our heads. At that time, Dani and I had been homeless for two years, Michael for I don’t know how many years longer, and had spent the previous winters in the southern parts of the country. This was the first time that we had lived within the confines of architecture since we had followed Michael out of southern Florida and into a life of musical vagrancy.

            We shared a bed for the four or five months that we stayed in that run-down, two-room apartment. I slept between Dani and Michael, forming a chain of spoons. Michael curled into my back as I curled into Dani’s, and her arms stretched down over the side of the mattress so that when I woke in the mornings, dull sunlight caught the olive of her skin and the pink fringe of her spider silk hair.

            She had gone gray in elementary school due to an otherwise minor thyroid problem, and by the time I met her in the beginning of our adolescence, she had embraced the color. I remember sitting at lunch with Dani and her admiring circle of misfits, my hands in my lap and my mind full of scales. Even at thirteen I was struck by her. She stared me down with ice cream green eyes and rechristened me Calez. Some days or weeks later, when she and the rest of the school discovered that I played the flute, she lauded my skill with more admiration than anyone else. She noticed that, when I became bored, I harmonized to the other flutes, and she begged to learn music. I taught her as best I could, and she became skilled in keeping rhythm and could sing a tune with everyday beauty. She danced when she made music, and before long we spent our time making melodies and dancing, laughing as we cast our emotions to the air.

            I fell in love with her quickly and quietly. I became the pillar that she stabilized her life upon. She told me everything there was to tell about her life, about the father who left her and her mother behind or about every boy she thought she loved who left her behind, crying on my shoulder. I held her when she needed comfort, laughed with her when she needed mirth, and shared only the secrets that wouldn’t upset her. For her, I was the smiling face with the half-lidded eyes. In the Detroit mornings, she would roll over, stretching, and smile at me as if I were not a man. Then she would sit up and reach over me to tickle Michael into wakefulness and laugh at him as if he were not gay. Then she would tell us what she dreamed, and I would forget why I slept between them. Michael would smile vaguely, mind clouded with sleep, forgetting to be untouchable.

            Michael came to us in the tangible heat of a Florida summer. We had graduated from high school and filed our applications to the University of Miami. Dani intended college as no more than a buffer to keep her from the working world; I had declined to go to Berklee College of Music in order to stay close to Dani. By that time, our musical sessions had taken us onto the street corners of Miami where my flute and Dani’s dancing gave us enough pocket change for booze and weed and ice cream. Dani claimed that it was the stream of thirtysecond notes, mordents, and trills that slipped out of my flute that brought us the cash; I knew it was her peculiar appearance and untamed dancing that drew the crowd’s attention. A tambourine in one hand, or perhaps she held a washboard that day, she spun on one booted foot, her scarf echoing her circles, her multitude of bracelets jangling. Then, as now, she wore her hair in an unkempt bun so that the pink tips of it made fireworks behind her head and free-falling segments framed her face.

            That summer a new club targeted at young gay men had opened in the city’s party district. Dani being straight, and myself being bisexual, we meandered down to it on a Thursday night and found a battalion of tipsy twenty-somethings waiting to get in.

            “Oh, we are so jamming near here,” Dani said.

            We picked a spot just far enough away as to avoid the drone from the bass pounding away within the club and just close enough to catch the attention of the waiting patrons. We made a killing that first night; the clientele enjoyed the side-show and sent members of their party over to leave bills in my flute case. Dani flirted with them lightly as they came and went, careless of sexuality and gender, playful in speech as in her dance.

            I closed my eyes on the scene, falling into my flute, aware only of the keys under my fingers and the way the air stepped aside for Dani’s body. Countless measures into the evening, I felt her movement stop, and she shook my arm. “Did you see that?” she said. Her eyes were wide with schoolgirl glee, and her mouth struggled with a grin too large to contain.

            I shook my head.

            She made an exasperated noise, rolling her eyes. “You have to look tomorrow night. The dancers from the club came out, man! They were watching, and this one—my god, you have to see him, Calez! You will shit your pants, I kid you not.”

            We returned the next night, Dani bouncing on her toes, goose bumps on her skin in spite of the heat curling around the buildings, lying heavily on our limbs. I drew music from my instrument, and Dani sang that night. When she stopped, the absence of melody popped my eyes open, landing them on a slim figure leaning against a nearby brick wall. He tapped the ash from the cigarette he held in one hand, his other propping up the opposing elbow. He wore a light sweater in spite of the heat; I imagine he wore it as an act of modesty as he later told us he didn’t wear a shirt in the bar.

            Dani struggled not to stare at him, and no wonder. His skin was like sand, his hair was like terracotta, and it flopped appealingly in front of his highlighter blue eyes. He watched us with a lazy fascination, entirely silent as his fellow dancers clamored around him. They joked with Dani while she danced, shouting encouragement, enjoying our enthusiasm. She laughed with them, of course. She bantered with them, though her minty eyes returned again and again to the Sahara man with Antarctica eyes. My own tree bark irises flickered between the two, watching Dani’s interest grow, watching this latest object of her desire smoke lazily, watching the by now familiar writhing gurgle of jealousy bubble through my gut and up into my chest.

            The leaning figure’s attention focused on me then, and he happened to catch my eye. He lowered his cigarette and flashed a charming smile full of commercial-perfect teeth before throwing the butt to the ground and rubbing it out under one scuffed shoe. He led the other dancers back inside.

            Dani whipped around, decorative scarf flapping behind her. “Well?”

            “Well.” I eyed the door to the bar for a moment. I had to admit that that brief moment of eye contact had sent a shiver up my spine. “He’s striking,” I said.

            “Striking? Is that it?”

            I shrugged. “I can’t get excited about someone I don’t know.” I grinned and elbowed her gently in the side. “You’re prettier anyway,” I said.

            She punched me in the arm and called me stupid, and I laughed, returning to my flute.

            The dancers visited with us on almost every night that we stood on that corner. We became accustomed to their presence, and it came as a surprise when, on a slower evening, the blue-eyed man said, “You two are pretty good. Real love of music. I’m a fan of yours. My name is Michael.”

            In Detroit, Michael briefly entertained a lover. This wasn’t the first occasion that he’d had one since we’d known him, but it was the first occasion that the relationship occurred where we could see it. Before that, he had simply gone to the home of the beau of the day, claiming that his own was unfit for lovemaking, glossing over the fact that his home at the time was the underside of a bridge or the forgotten attic of a church. The lovers believed him, oblivious to the subtle signs of his vagrancy. All three of us are careful to disguise our homelessness. We leave my flute case open for funds as we make our song and our dance, and usually those funds morph into a supply of cosmetics and food.

            Michael is religious in the cleaning of his teeth, and Dani is fanatical in the maintenance of her hair. We bathe in rivers, sneak into unrented apartments to borrow the showers, steal sleep and food where we can, carry stolen knives to defend ourselves from anyone who decides to dislike us. We’re easy to spot, Dani and Michael being the miracles of genetic chance that they are, and we aim to appear to thrive even when we are barely surviving. It’s the easiest for me. My hair is a mop the color of dirt; my skin is neither good nor bad; my eyes are sepia. My grin is too lopsided and vague to be untrustworthy, and I blend into crowds. I scruffily pass as normal without undue effort.

            But in Detroit we had unusual wealth that gave us a ramshackle home, and Michael brought his beau of the week there. On a Friday night, I came home to the unmistakable sound of Michael’s conquest, and a tightness in the air that made me look for Dani. She had curled herself up in the chair by the desk at our one remarkable window which overlooked the street and filled the room with dim, shifting light. She wasn’t in tears, but the rigidness of her face and tension in her poise said she held them back. She stared out down the street, and in an odd way, I could hear her thinking.

            I laid my hand on her shoulder, leaned down, and pressed my cheek against the top of her head. “Hi,” I said.

            It took a moment, but she managed a faint greeting. “We’re on the couch tonight,” she said.

            I nodded. “We’ll get him back some day,” I said, squeezing her shoulder.

            She smiled for half an instant. “I wish he wouldn’t do this.”

            “I know. We could ask him not to, but he’d pout.”

            The smile lasted this time. “That’d be annoying.”

            We sat together in silence for a few minutes longer, studying the cars slipping down the thoroughfare. I went to make the couch sleeping-appropriate for Dani, gathering blankets as I crossed the apartment so that I could make a nest on the floor for myself. Behind me, I heard Dani saying, “We should have a two-man party. We’ll get our rock on and take pictures and leave them around so Michael’s all jealous when he kicks his boy-thing out.”

            “Sure. Do we have a camera?”

            Dani appeared at my side, bent like a butler, holding an instant camera out to me. “We do indeed, my dear sir.” She laughed. “One of the kids gave it to me. She was dressin’ up like a princess and shit, all ‘Oh, Dani, Dani! Take a picture of me!’ It was adorable, man. I was like ‘Alright, I’ll go get these developed and give them to you next time I see you, okay?’ But I didn’t use all the pictures on dress-up. I figured I’d save the last few shots for myself. It’s like a tip, yaknow?” She stood upright and shook the camera under my nose. “Bless my foresight, eh?”

            I smiled and took the camera, watching as she pulled on some shoes and clambered onto the desk. Once there, she began gyrating and throwing her arms in the air, pretending she was in a crowded club, reverberating with the bass line in a techno song. I snapped a few pictures of her dance, set the camera aside, and jumped onto the desk beside her, finding the rhythm from the sway of her wrists and twist of her hips.

            We danced until after Michael and his beau had fallen asleep. Laughing, we hugged when our dance grew tiring, and Dani turned to the window. I hopped off the desk, returning to the camera. Dani, leaning into the window, said, “I hope we move out soon.”

            I snapped my picture of her then.

            After Michael introduced himself to us, that first time, our musical sessions on the sidewalk expanded to include a break period in which we talked with him and the other dancers. He was reticent about himself but similarly disinclined toward idle, polite chat. He spoke the most when his fellow dancers were absent, and they became more and more so; I began to suspect, as the months rolled on, that he was asking them to stay behind.

            “How old are you, anyway?” Dani asked once.

            Michael drew on his cigarette. “Older than you, but not by too much. I’d be out of college now, if I’d stuck with that.”

            “You went to college?”

            He nodded. “Up north, yeah. Studied music, dance, theatre, musical theatre just to roll it all in one. They taught me all the technicalities. Here’s how you sing a high C, here’s how you approach a part and develop a character, here’s how you waltz or salsa or tango. This is an aria, this is a ragtime, so forth, so on. Then they’d hand me a project and say, ‘Be creative!’ all full of bubbles, so I’d do what came natural. I’d take all those things, pick out elements, and throw out the rest, blend it all together to see what I got, just do what felt right.” The end of the cigarette lit up, casting his hair into sharp relief. “They didn’t like it.”

            “So you left?” Dani’s eyes were wide, her body taut with admiration.

            Michael didn’t answer right away. The corner of his mouth moved slightly, caught between responses. “No,” he finally said. “They failed me out.” He looked away from us.

            “Oh,” Dani said, sagging slightly.

            I tapped my flute against my shoulder. “People seem to like you, though.”

            “Yeah!” Dani said. “I mean, look at that line, man! You’re drawing a crowd, and it’s a friggin’ Wednesday.”

            Michael shook his head. “Dancing half-naked for a bunch of drunk men is fun in its own way, but it isn’t dance.”

            Another time, Dani asked him, “So where do you live?”

            “A bit of everywhere.” Her critical stare prompted him onward. “I don’t have a house or an apartment or anything, if an address is what you’re asking for.”

            “What?”

            He didn’t say anything, and Dani turned to me. I shrugged.

            Michael rubbed his cigarette, barely begun, out on the wall. “You stay in one place too long, they make you play by their rules. Keep moving, and they can’t find you.” He walked into the club.

            We stayed in Detroit until the winter passed by, then we headed east, a direction Michael had been reluctant to go. “Too many memories,” he said. We went south through Ohio, following the border of the United States and Canada, tracing along lakeside shores. In Pennsylvania we stole a tent from an unsuspecting SUV and pitched it in a cow field. In the morning, Michael and I awoke to a scream from Dani; a cow had poked its head into the tent.

            Michael refused to pass through New York, urging us through New Jersey, touching New York soil only briefly to enter Conneticut. In Rhode Island, we found our way to New Port and managed to spend two nights in one of the smaller McMansions before security guards realized we were there and chased us out. We lost them down along the rocky coast which we followed up into Massachusetts. In Boston, we wrapped ourselves in Salvation Army blankets like Scotchbrite.

            We entered New Hampshire in time for another winter, pushing us into the cheapest accommodations we could find and the least appalling jobs on hand. I framed my picture of Dani and left it in the center of our kitchen table. At that time, Dani’s work hours at a breakfast place didn’t line up neatly with Michael’s at yet another club and mine as the janitor to the same club. With Dani largely absent from our waking lives, Michael and I began to discuss matters that we’d tacitly agreed to ignore before, slipping into a surreal degree of honesty.

            “So Dani,” Michael said, evening after evening, until at last I said, “What about her, Michael?”

            He studied his fingernails. “You tell me.”

            “We’ve known each other for years. She’s beautiful and funny and kind when she wants to be. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, even though she doesn’t always use it. She loves to dance and break free, and she’s got more balls than me, that’s for sure.”

            Michael barked a laugh. “I’m pretty sure you’ve never said that many words in a row to me ever.”  When I didn’t respond, he said, “You’re in love with her.” Then, “You know she doesn’t feel the same way, Calez, and if she doesn’t by now, she’s never going to.”

            “Please don’t tell me to move on.”

            He shook his head. “You already gave up your life, didn’t you?”

            We were silent for a moment. “She’s in love with you,” I told him.

            He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. Her and everyone else with eyes.” He stared at me, piercing with his electric blue. “Except you that is.”

            I allowed myself a grin. “Heart’s already spoken for, man.”

            He threw his head back, laughing. I swept gum wrappers off the floor. When I looked up, Michael was leaning into my face. “You know,” he said, “you’re a good doormat, Calez.” He caught me by the chin, studied my face, and sauntered out of the club, through the snow to the bed where Dani lay curled in sleep, alone.

            Toward the end of the summer before our theoretical college years, Dani’s and my late night trips into Miami became more infrequent. Familial duties, the purchasing of collegiate goods, and the way we drew out the process of packing tore at our energy, so that we welcomed the peace of our beds. When we did step onto the streets, we found that Michael’s cigarette breaks lasted longer and longer. He spoke more and more freely, and though the specific details of his life remained obscured, we began to understand that he had let us into a confidence he shared with no one else, and when I mentioned this to Dani, he won the whole of her trust.

            At the end of August, Michael wandered out of the club without his cigarette, walking up to us and coughing politely to stop our music. “I’m leaving soon,” he said. “Seems to me you probably are too, but you don’t seem to be planning on going too far.”

            Dani’s face fell. “You’re going?”

            “I’ve stayed here longer than I wanted to.” He turned his head aside but watched us from the corner of his eye. “I’m thinking that maybe you two have too.”

            Dani’s hand rested on my forearm; her fingers gripped me.

            “You see,” Michael said. “I’m homeless, in a sense. I don’t live anywhere, I just wander around, dancing. But it’s pretty hard to dance without music, you know? And you two are quite the musicians.”

            Dani locked eyes with me, her breath faint and her body quivering. Her entire being shook with the desire to escape the mundane apathy of her life, to escape the father who left like so many other fathers, and the mother she unjustly despised like so many others despised theirs, and the high schools and colleges where she learned and would learn trivia through a haze of smoke, and the way that she woke up in the mornings, eyes crusty with sleep and chest filled with the feeling that she was going nowhere and never would find herself anywhere. Her soul wept for the chance to shed the detritus of her life, to shed the fact that it was essentially unremarkable. She stood on the cusp of finding the excitement she so craved, and the cost was all the life she had lived before, all that she had ever been or had, and all the safety that a dull life afforded.

            Staring into her eyes, watching her soul beg me, I saw that there was one thing she couldn’t leave behind. One aspect of her life, one pillar in it, that she couldn’t stray from.

            I looked at Michael and said, “Now?”

            “Yeah,” Michael said. “Before the ex-boss figures out I just took the cashbox.”

            I would apologize to my parents via payphone several weeks and two states later.

            After New Hampshire, we trekked through muddy Maine and clambered over the landscape of Vermont. We picked up the Appalachian Trail there and followed it down to Maryland. We took a detour out to see Washington D.C., walked through Virginia and began to head west. In Kentucky we found a railway line that took us further west faster, and we napped in the lullaby of its clamor, Michael and Dani each with their heads in my lap, the photograph of Dani wrinkled and creased in the folds of my pocket.

            We spent some time wandering up and down California, sleeping in its abandoned places. The corners of my photograph turned on themelves and were born away. The edges tore and the image scratched. In a Los Angeles bar, our bellies full of vodka and rum and gin paid for with flute money, Michael drew Dani and I into himself and kissed us both on our mouths. “Here’s to a beautiful marriage,” he said. “You are the loveliest concubines a scamp could ask for.”

            Dani reeled under the impression of his lips and the fog in her mind. She cupped my face in her hands and stole what remained of Michael’s kiss from my jaw, giggling as she pulled away.

            Michael smiled wolfishly and fished the photograph of Dani from my pocket. “Barkeep,” he said. “Another round if you please.” His gin and tonic oozed a circle into the face of the photo.

            On the last night in Detroit, Michael curled into my right side and Dani into my left. I didn’t sleep. Instead I worshipped the ceiling over my head, I worshipped the comfort under my back, the walls that kept out the wind, the locks that kept out the fellow vagrants, the muggers, the gangbangers, the filth.

            In the morning, Dani rolled awake and peered at me. “Did you sleep?”

            “Not really,” I said.

            “Silly,” she said. “We’ve got some serious walkin’ to do.”

            I smiled, stroking her hair. “I know. I’m just going to miss this place.”

            A little crinkle formed in her brow. Her mouth opened and closed, searching for the words or the breath to say them with. “Do you. Do you miss Florida sometimes? Do you ever want to go back?”

            “Do you?”

            “No.”

            “Why would I then?”

            She buried her face in my shoulder. “Good,” she said. Then, “Oh! I didn’t show you the pictures you took.” She rummaged in the bedside drawer for them and spread them out across our legs. Michael slept on.

            We admired some shots and giggled at others. As Dani began to pile them back together to put away, she pulled one out. “This one’s all arty,” she said, passing it to me.

            I agreed, and she said, “You want it?”

            “I… sure!”

            “It’s yours then.” She poked her tongue out at me and shuffled around to the other side of the bed to wake Michael.

            In the picture, she stood on a desk, balancing her weight on her left leg, the right bent just so, her arms languid lines extending to the window frame, holding her loosely in space. She wore a short dress that clung to her and heels that boosted her three inches. The glare of a busy Detroit street obliterated the interior details of her body, allowing only for a single line down her side and along her arms. There was just enough light to see the pink-tipped gray of her hair.

            Some hours later, she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had any pictures of you.”

            I said, “That’s okay. I’m right here.”

            After the L.A. bar forced us out with its closing, we wandered down unfamiliar roads, hanging off one another and crooning brokenly to stray cats and unperturbed raccoons. We walked into a run-down motel and rented a room for the night, vaguely feeling that it was a worthwhile thing to do. The door to the room closed behind us, and Dani flopped backwards onto the bed, laughing. Michael sat at her head, curling her hair around his fingers, watching her mirth fondly. I crossed the room and returned their kisses of earlier. Michael allotted me another, and Dani sat up, taking both our hands and drawing us deeper into the bed.

            We romped through our obliterated memories so that all I recalled afterwards was Dani’s voice in the darkness, singing softy in time to Michael’s breathing until I fell asleep.

            In the morning, we looked like strangers, and I couldn’t find my photo of Dani. Michael had left it at the bar. “I’ll see if it’s still there,” he said, stepping out.

            I sat and stared at the tumult of the bed sheets.

            Dani touched my shoulder, then wrapped her arms around me, resting her chin on it. Her mouth opened to say something, perhaps even formed words, but no sound came out.

            I held onto her arms, squeezing them in response.

            We tidied the room and left to find Michael.

#old writing #writing archive #short story #fiction #prose #10s #2010 #Age 19 #oc writing #original characters #Dani #Michael #Calez #assignments #homelessness #musicians #I remember one of my classmates got mad at me over this story #glorifying homelessness was the problem

[sasorikigai]

❝  you’ve got quite the mean streak in you,  haven’t you?  i’m impressed.  ❞ goddess liv @ scorpion!

PROMPTS FOR FRENEMIES,  ENEMIES TO LOVERS  AND  REFORMED VILLAINS || @somniaxperdita || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Violence pangs within beyond the impervious, tenebrous night’s golden pyres, embedded upon Scorpion’s vindictive gaze. Still, the hellfire he wields from the depth of his being has a very one-dimensional, childlike rage, and a very childlike loneliness. For his persistence and stubbornness is immature and incomplete; his heart continually sings a severed, broken tune no one would endure with compassion and patience. The once-safe haven of Old Shirai Ryu Compound only aggravate Scorpion’s wounded, shattered soul, as the unhealed cracks in his ribcage continue to ooze phantom pain in his chest. 

Truth has been, this is how Scorpion has been feeling. For he is his only comfort, for to be with him in this world is full of discomfort and unease. His skin is all charred rivers and valleys, and his heart a worn-out cotton ball. His bones are sugar that has already begun to melt away. Maybe Scorpion is a barely held jigsaw puzzle that had been falling apart, for Hanzo Hasashi’s essentiality and entirety had long disintegrated beneath the fathomless sea of broken glass, as the jagged waves of the sweeping inferno continues to ravage the cerebral reserve of his consciousness. Lest, Scorpion’s heart and soul had been blessed with strength of a wildflower; strong enough to rise again after being trampled upon, tough enough to weather the worst of summer storms, and able to grow and flourish even in the most broken places. 

A winding sanguine river flows through the wraith’s vessel; his rapids are fierce and no one would dare too traverse, for eternally burning hellfire surrounds the expanse of his desiccated, shriveled heart and soul. Scorpion does not feel the need to suppress this eternally, not when the Goddess effulgently radiates her blinding aureate brilliance, certainly his stark duality - horrid destruction propagating an inevitable rebirth - could never dare to match nor challenge. 

“I have long come to accept the feeling of not knowing what my wrath and vengeance can birth,” all the unraveling, unfolding of his Phoenix plumages, as Scorpion’s thrusted kunai tears through the stilled air of the world. Fire will choke, blaze, incinerate, as Hanzo Hasashi once had his developing wings bent, broken, then shattered, and obliterated as the absence of his life became a mere coincidence, not an inflicted curse. “I suppose I can hope, through serving incinerating justice through righteousness of my corroding hellfire, that everything will change for the better.”  ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion) #✗ hellfire fibrillating beneath his skin (iv) #✗ successions of binding music (olivia winter || somniaxperdita) #(Scorp you killed Bi-Han so you birthed Noob Saibot) #(that's not what I'd call 'change for the better') #somniaxperdita

[felinoir]

𝙸𝚃   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝙲𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚁   𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝚃𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳   𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝚈.   A   super   soldier,   propaganda   machine,   an   attack   dog,   a   looming   threat,   capable   of   being   wielded   with   the   precision   of   a   scalpel   or   used   like   a   sledgehammer,   all   bruising   and   blunt   force.   Everyone,   from   the   public   relations   managers   to   the   army   handlers,   kept   him   at   arm's   length,   both   literally   and   proverbially.   Felicia   wanted   to   take   him   apart,   expose   all   of   the   delicate   mako   laced   bone   and   muscle   that   made   Sephiroth   Sephiroth   to   sate   her   own   selfish   curiosity,   and   then   put   him   back   together   again   -   no   worse   for   wear.   

Perhaps   that’s   why   she   was   willing   to   volunteer   for   the   missions   with   the   man,   when   according   to   Reno:   ❛   𝑯𝒆   𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔   𝒖𝒔   𝒂𝒍𝒍   𝒕𝒉𝒆   𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒃𝒊𝒆   𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏’   𝒋𝒆𝒆𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒔.   ❜

The   slums   of   Sector   4   had   obliterated   her   sense   of   propriety   and   boundaries,   everything   a   bit   more   fluid   with   the   former   thief   turned   infiltration   and   extraction   specialist   —   perhaps   that’s   why   she   felt   so   comfortable   invading   his   space.   A   lock   hadn’t   been   invented   yet   that   could   keep   her   out   for   long   and   she   hovered   on   the   outer   perimeter   of   the   private   armory   that   served   as   @godhaed's   locker   room   of   sorts.   The   reasoning   for   the   wide   berth   others   gave   him   didn’t   quite   register   as   it   should,   for   better   or   for   worse.   

❝   Y’know,   I’m   startin’   to   think   you   might   like   me,   big   guy.   Or   like,   the   universe   is   tryin’   to   tell   us   somethin’.   ❞      The   mischievous   flirtation   was   comfortable   and   well-worn,   a   mask   so   beloved   that   it   didn’t   feel   like   a   mask   anymore.   Leaning   into   the   doorway,   the   pale-haired   woman   was   the   picture   of   playful   familiarity   even   in   the   company   suit   and   the   trademark   gloves   with   retractable   claws   made   of   a   proprietary   alloy.   ❝   Think   we’ll   have   time   t’grab   food?   Been   dreamin’   about   these   Wutaian   noodles   in   Sector   6   .   .   .   ❞

#riposte 𓂅 always have an escape plan #final fantasy seven 𓂅 can’t keep a good cat out #godhaed #[ cmon sephiroth go get street food w/ fe it'll be fine nothing bad could happen ]

[benjaminsblog]

World Grand Prix, Leicester

Typically, a week away at the snooker would be just what the doctor ordered after a bit of a rough patch, but it hasn’t entirely gone to plan. My uncertain living arrangements caused no shortage of headaches, which was quite difficult to deal with during the brief respites between sessions. And while there haven’t been any dramas on the table, we had some nightmarish stuff happen in the GFX van:

Some seemingly minor gremlins over the first few days suddenly become much more serious when – less than 5 minutes before going on air for the second semi-final – one of our machines crashed and left us with no pres (studio) graphics! The saving grace was that we still had the match side of things working, but after a few fruitless hours trying to rescue the machine, I had to admit defeat. The workaround was to combine both GFX sources on the machine that was running match GFX, but it was not something I could do until the match was over, so I literally flew in one graphic at the very end. I was at least able to say that I had a clean show!

What made the timing even more painful was that the match in question was by all accounts one of the greatest individual performances of all time; Ronnie O’Sullivan wielded his snooker cue like a paintbrush and turned the green baize in front of him into a canvas of the highest quality – he obliterated Ding Junhui 6-1 in 73 minutes of near-perfection, knocking in four centuries whilst registering a 96% pot success and 12-second average shot time! Ding didn’t play that badly, but Ronald-O was simply on another planet. A match of such quality deserved some appropriately impressive GFX to accompany it, but I was unable to oblige. Even worse, because I was otherwise engaged trying to fix the busted machine, I missed the whole bloody thing!

The final was thankfully issue-free, although it was a disappointing one despite featuring the two best players in the world; Judd Trump took a clinical 4-0 lead over Ronnie O’Sullivan, but the remainder of the afternoon session devolved into who could play the worst. It ended 5-3 to Trump, who left the arena likely wondering how on earth he wasn’t further ahead. Ronnie was particularly poor, but that all changed in the evening – he didn’t reach the heady heights of his SF match, but he was totally zoned in (15/16 long pots, anyone?!) and Trump couldn’t keep up. After losing the opening frame, O’Sullivan reeled off the next 6 – thanks in part to a couple of utterly atrocious misses from Trump, including leaving the final black right over the pocket for an easy Ronnie steal. O’Sullivan claimed the title two frames later, continuing his fantastic start to the season and reminding everyone that he’s still the man to beat – when he turns up…

#Grand Prix de Leicester #Ronald-O #Sniuuuuuuooooker

[hectormcfilm]

BOTTOMS

I did not plan on reviewing this film at all, a few of my friends asked if I wanted to go see it and I had seen literally nothing about it, no trailers or even the poster so I went in completely blind. On the surface this film seems like a parody of early 2000s films and the cringy stereotypes used within them when actually this is one of the strangest and most surreal films I have seen in a while.

To start off the worldbuilding of the school this film takes place in is simply wild. The lead jock character is glorified to an extent he seems like a god, having him openly disrespect or sleep with staff members without any complaints, he gets specific lunches for him and can be rude to anyone without consequence. He also has his own table in both the classes and the lunch hall, with a massive mural behind him replicating Adam and God. It is so unexplained and random but hilarious.

Similar to Sex education this film thrives on introducing stereotypical archetypes and then subverting them and giving depth to them besides the jocks and the the edgy school shooter side character, which felt quite insensitive in honesty. Overall most of the female cast is given great depth whilst the male cast like the jocks and the main teacher are made for comic relief and it works very well. The plot is a basic liar revealed story with the two main characters arguing at the second act low point but then getting the gang back together for the ending it's simple but works. The fight club scenes are probably the highlight, some fun montages and good character moments when they properly speak. As a side note I enjoyed seeing Sydney's actor from The Bear as a lead here since I adore that show and she ahs so much potential as an actor.

The main part of this film I need to discuss is the ENDING, this is the most baffled I've been in a cinema in a while, I was in disbelief. In the ending conflict the girls fight a rival male football team and basically just brutally murder them all and its given no focus or consequence. One sound effect used makes it sound like a single kick completely obliterates one players skull which was an absurd choice of sound. Even weird one of the girls begins wielding a sword and violently impales a player with it, the strangest apart of this sword is it was foreshadows but not for her to use it but to fight against it which could've been way more interesting.

Overall lesbian fight club is strange and surreal but an entertaining comedy, very refreshing to see in a cinema landscape so afraid to release new mid-budget comedy films.

[here4theheartbreak]

I would LOVE to see Ateez take care of a child for a set number of days. It'd be such an amazing thing to watch! It would probably change me on a molecular level. AND the kid would be drowning in genuine love and undivided attention. SOMEONE MAKE IT HAPPEN NOW. ✨

I don't have a kid, but I'd definitely trust them all to look after my dog. I probably wouldn't even worry all day long like I usually would~! 😂 And, yessss, they've already shown that they have positive responses to thinks like gender/sexuality. So, that's a massive green flag bonus. 🌈

Omg. San's outfits are always Atiny slayers. Give us a break (please, don't), Choi San!!! Also, bless the stylists who end up having to slice the back of all San's shirts and jackets because he's super broad BUT they're determined not to hide that tiny little waist away. They're doing so much extra work for the team. The true heroes of Tinytown! 🌟

True, true! Every part of Wooyoung is constantly gravitating towards San!! And to be fair. It's the same the other way around too! San's always just rightttttt THERE.

Ahhhh, the Woosan bed cuddling. Hongjoong was done but not surprised. 😂

RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY SALAD. Honestly, that is so often the mood when it comes to Ateez. 🥗👀

YESSSS. I also knew it was Woo who had the peppers! He was being too weird. And when they were about to exchange cases and he reached down to 'guard' his case?? Too obvious, my man. It was over. Then I couldn't decide if it was Mingi or Yeosang until the end. 🤷‍���️🌶️

Jongho seems like he's been 'old' for a long time. An old soul. I can imagine him as a toddler, wielding lollipops and sage advice. Or being in the playground, just sitting quietly, being all wise and cute. 😂 I would actually love it if he released a trot album one day! I loooove the drama of a good trot song! 🥰

I saw that Hongjoong went to some Chanel thing today. Fashion King~~! 👑

Annnnd I saw that the Korean age system has officially changed to the international system. Sucks to be Joong! Half the kids are his age now and Hwa is his hyung. For a man who gets SO offended when people don't address him properly it must be quite A DAY™️. Can't wait to find out who obliterates all the boundaries first. 😂

@daegu-flowjob

OH MY GOD, THE NEW BABY CLOUD THO DID YOU SEE IT?!

The way I screamed, Hwa is so sweet 😭 and the kids with those chili peppers, my tongue was screaming in sympathy, I can't imagine omfg. I like spicy stuff and I couldn't have handled that, their tongues were probably entirely numb by the end.

The twins not wanting to leave them though 🥲 - I cried. See this is why something like Hello Baby would be excellent! Spend a day with kiddos like this, then go home and take care of them and just kinda get that experience of parenting (co-parenting? Octo-parenting? lmao) and it would just be so adorable. Even if they did it in groups, hand 1 kid to each dorm or something for a few days. 😭 I don't want it to be over.

Also with the KR age system - I cannot imagine how annoyed Hongjoong is. But!! He can now officially get after Wooyoung for not using honorifics - because no matter what time of year, Wooyoung will never be his age, so he should always be using -hyung. (He won't, because it's Woo, and what fun would it be to not make Joong consider homicide 80% of the day 🤣). So, my money is on Wooyoung having obliterated the boundaries the second the clocks turned over. Man was probably standing by Joong's bedroom door watching the clock, knocking as soon as the day hit and immediately speaking informally to him when he answered. (And then probably running for his life because I'm guessing Joong has a multitude of heavy books to throw).

I don't think Joong will mind Hwa being older than him technically, tbh. He leans on him already as if he's older in some ways, and Hwa is so easy going I doubt he'd take advantage of that, except to tease sometimes in public.

(Figured I'd reply to the Salary Lupin ask I sent you as well here since I'm at it lol) I loved that show. I was so sad when I realized I'd watched all of it 😭 - they were so involved and I loved it, the final race cracked me up, such conniving little things.

Honestly, Yeo gets me every time in these games bc they overlook him so easily, since he is so sweet and forgetful and kinda empty-headed sometimes, which makes him absolutely deadly in games like this and it's just so cool to see him shine in this way.

Lol if they do a murder mystery type k-drama, you gotta make Yunho the prime suspect. He was so good at acting his role. The slightly off kilter silence, he was so good -- certain looks, he just made you uneasy and that's such an awesome talent to have, especially if you are playing the sort of genius villain/psychopath type role. Props to him, honestly.

So far I've watched Fever Road, Treasure Film, Salary Lupin, Wanted/Wanted Special, and Wanteez, and the hello82 stuff, I think. Do you know of any other variety type shows? I know ofc like 1N2D and other 1-2 episode things, but like the in depth ones like Salary Lupin and such?

I have seen a few that they did for Universe, but I also know that app is defunct now - do you know if Universe (or anyone else) uploaded the remaining episodes of those shows? I couldn't find them on YT last night besides the first ep of each that Universe originally uploaded.

#answered #ask #daegu-flowjob #ateez

[mandala-lore]

Cyborg Manifesto

Some disorganized thoughts after reading The Cyborg Manifesto (under a cut cuz idk how long this will become)

It's fun and sexy and fascinating to me that once we describe something, put words to it, we can manipulate it more easily - change it, reference it, wield it, obliterate it, revolutionize it, etc. It can be earth-shattering, important work, but it's also just fun.

I don't know why I can't let go of the idea of worship / reverence / holiness. It's stuck so deeply in my brain from the Catholic trauma that I struggle to accept any new system or work that seeks to do away with the sacred. To be clear, I want to redefine what "sacredness" is/means (see prev. paragraph), but to do away with the concept entirely fills me with dread and sadness. I'm not saying I'm right about this, but it's a point of confusion I'd like to tease at more.

That said, I'm not at all clear whether Haraway is describing The Cyborg as a metaphor for what we currently are / are doing, or if it's something we might aim for, or if it's an important/useful step toward more thorough liberation or or or or something else entirely? All these things at once? It's fun to be confused - but I think it's something I need to work out before the rest of it will make much sense.

"fathers, after all, are inessential" -> post-impregnation, I suppose this is true biologically but this is a radfem thing that's never sat quite right with me. Men are not to be discarded or used for breeding and then quarantined. We can have non-patriarchal fathers, can't we? And if so, then finding and nurturing and trusting those non-patriarchal fathers is absolutely essential to liberation. Sure, we could kill all men if we wanted to I guess, but where's the fun in that? I don't seek death that way, personally. /to be fair, this quote is in a very particular context so I don't think she's putting forth this idea unironically but I want to make sure my worldview incorporates what men are doing / could be doing. -> This also doesn't even touch on GNC fathers/men.

Again, not necessarily a point Haraway makes, but something in here got me thinking: why do we still treat play / playfulness as inconsequential or inconsiderate or juvenile or disrespectful? Play is so vital, so life-saving, so rich and healing. Play is erotic and soulful. Play can be equalizing. Play can be ironic. Play can be meta. Playfulness and taking things seriously can go together - or work as opposing tensions to work at something else. I tend to reject (to my own detriment) philosophies that don't consider play. CM definitely considers playfulness (irony abounds in it) so I guess I'm railing against other things I've read.

If cyborg-ness is all about transgressed boundaries and explosive possibilities, this feels extremely queer to me; in fact, essentially queer. But I feel like she could've just said that so maybe I'm missing something - I know class functions in here as well, maybe I'm not thinking hard enough about intersectionality? /also, I'm eternally bound up in and blinded by academia, which is hierarchal, classist, sexist, racist, heteronormative, etc. And to begin thinking about breaking all that down makes it harder to do my job. I try anyway but...

"a cyborg world might be about lived social and bodily realities in which people are not afraid of their joint kinship with animals and machines, not afraid of permanently partial identities and contradictory standpoints. The political struggle is to see from both perspectives at once because each reveals both dominations and possibilities unimaginable from the other vantage point" -> hot, sexy, brilliant, 10/10, no notes, my crops are watered, my skin is clear, screaming crying etc.

also: AFFINITY NOT IDENTITY -> for me, this looks like "queer queer queer" instead of "bisexual woman currently in a relationship with a gnc-man who can't define his own gender" /I understand that there are times/places where clarifying the finer points of my identity can be useful/necessary, maybe even powerful, but most of the time, queer is where I rest, queer is how I move, because it's nobody's goddamn business, it allows me flexibility, it centers my heart/soul, experiences, & AFFINITIES over my history and category

-> this also allows me, as a white woman (esp. one in higher ed. w/ some privileges) to seek out and understand affinity (and support and allyship, etc.) with other marginalized identities without dispensing with the fact that I am white and have privilege. The shared work of liberation is centered, rather than the separateness, the difference, etc - but those differences are not disregarded or ignored either. This takes work. /and of course it's not perfect but it can go a long way.

"Some differences are playful; some are poles of world historical systems of domination. “Epistemology” is about knowing the difference." -> sexy, hot, 10/10, blows my brain, crystalizes so many thoughts, eternally grateful for this text

Ok, here, we made it. The part that trips me up (ideologically) is the idea of giving up organic/natural perspectives because they contribute to unity/domination/hierarchy. I can swallow it for many things, like gender because gender =/= sex and even biological sex is not as strict a binary as we're indoctrinated to believe. But I don't want to do away with bodies, organic life, nature, etc. altogether... Maybe that's privilege talking. Maybe I'm blinded by my relative comfort. But I have been building a philosophy inside myself that is so deeply rooted to and connected with my own body. I think sensuality and subjective perceptions are valuable and beautiful and can be healing and affinity does not have to mean eradication of these things. Maybe I'm oversimplifying, seeing things in dichotomies when I shouldn't? Idk I'm stuck on this part of the argument and maybe it's because I'm wildly misinterpreting it idk.

Unfortunately it's rather urgent that I figure all this out as soon as I can because I'm trying to write about it and I think it's deeply interwoven with my thoughts about ChatGPT & AI. I didn't just start inhaling philosophy of consciousness texts out of nowhere. I want to know if my body is a prison or a tool of liberation. Or both. Or something else.

I want to lean into the fun cyborg stuff without worrying that I'm betraying the things I - oops - worship. Help!!!

Constellations, tapestries, cyborgs. Salamanders.

In the simplest terms, what I've walked away with is a strong urge to tell stories that eradicate hierarchy and transgress boundaries. I'm not sure I'm talented enough to do that - because I don't think I'm smart enough to even theorize about it..................... /kills self inside

-> I'm comforted though that anticolonial science fiction seems to be a good place to start. uwu

"There is no drive in cyborgs to produce total theory, but there is an intimate experience of boundaries, their construction and deconstruction. There is a myth system waiting to become a political language..." /I wanna do this I wanna do this I wanna do this

"Though both are bound in the spiral dance, I would rather be a cyborg than a goddess."

-> I know I've already said this several times but: 10/10, no notes, sexy, brilliant, earth-shattering

#the cyborg manifesto #mine #personal

[annyllel]

What it looks like when you reach the end-game with the One-Hit Obliterator. It’s pretty simple to do, actually. Obviously you have to have completed the four Divine Beasts so that the first part of the Champions’ Ballad will begin. (You have to make sure the Obliterator appears in the Shrine of Resurrection, ready to be picked up.)

Then you just go and fight Calamity Ganon, escape the Dark Beast Ganon fight, go to the Great Plateau, pick up the Obliterator, and use the Bow of Light to finish Ganon from the GP itself. You can do this without leaving the Great Plateau, which is pretty convenient. Then just sit back and enjoy seeing Link with the de-powered Obliterator on his back during these two cutscenes.

#breath of the wild #the legend of zelda #botw #link #zelda #end-game #one-hit obliterator #bow of light #finish dark beast ganon #hyrule castle #tloz #tloz botw #end-game spoilers I guess #not quite wielding the obliterator #it's nice to know you can keep it though! #with glitches #for some reason it's really fun to do this! #very pretty #screenshots #botw screenshots #I am op