#experimental script

[lucabyte]

A belief in Nominative Determinsim

[reality-detective]

The military personnel were/are the lab rats, but everything has been scripted to end the lives of billions of people. 🤔

[strifesolution]

now that ive actually read up on botc, if the yogs don’t do an atheist game at SOME point ill be disappointed

[writing-system]

Baksami Script

Source

[scriptistired]

Game that doesn't want to be a game but you keep INTERACTING and making the game mechanics is the game mechanic to its despair.

On the same vein: film that desperately wants to be a game but you can do nothing but watch as it begs you to interact

[ace-does-stuff]

trying to take a picture of a thing im working on to show yall and it just fucking tweaked out with the colors. anyways look at my script boys

[vergaarbak]

blue moon triptych (dec 30 2023) // dan derks

// my set from blue moon triptych, presented on dec 30 2023 -- the event was organized by the immensely kind + brilliant @renegog // more information about this performance series: https://llllllll.co/t/63551 // additional performances from the event: @zbsfm:

• zbs.fm // blue moon triptych 12/30/23… @awwaiid:

• Blue Moon Triptych - 2023-12-30 - aww…

// processes used:

the first two pieces are audio recordings from 2019 re-processed through kildareFX , an upcoming script for monome norns (https://monome.org/docs/norns/)

the other four pieces are one-take live performances using hills , an upcoming script for seamstress (https://github.com/ryleelyman/seamstress)

hills is a matrix of humanized-but-clock-aware sequencers -- in this video, its sending MIDI messages to sampler instruments in @bitwig , using samples from @natesmithdrumsofficial 's 'Pocket Change 2: Mad Currency' (https://yurtrock.com/products/nate-sm…)

the first three pieces feature visuals controlled by custom Lua code, using the fantastic Visual Synthesizer by @ImaginandoPt (https://www.imaginando.pt/products/vs…)

[eulangelo]

masterchef usa is not a show it's a punishment

[adrianastrix]

Since I'm in a Writing Mood(TM) today, here comes a small piece of advice from a seasoned internet/writer person (I'm doing this for *checks notes* almost 25 years by now holy freaking cow), take it as you please:

If you want to be a writer, even a hobbist one, Do. Not. Settle. For. Mediocrity. In. Reading.

I'm not talking about only reading pretentious Classics(double-TM-somehow). I'm talking about reading books beyond what is on top charts or fandom talks.

Don't get me wrong: fandoms are great and those books can be well written and unexpectedly artistic and stylized. And even if they aren't, they are great sources of inspiration for your subject matter, so go ahead!

BUT. It's still good to do your writing homework, just like it's generally a good idea for an artist to study a bit of anatomy, a bit of perspective drawing and a little bit of colour theory to hone their craft, even when they only draw cartoons.

And WHAT is the writing homework, you ask?

Things that push the envelope artistically and break for any expected rule. Books that are NOTHING but exposition, but manage to still be good (or, at least, to be praised as a Classic(TM)). Books with no plot, just characters being characters. Books in which the main character is a inanimate object. Books that use invented words every sentence or more. Books that have a single period in a whole page. Books that are a single 100-page poem telling a story that would fill a whole paragraph in prose.

But not ANY book that does those things. Classics(TM). Books that school tells you to read because they ARE homework, they are MEANT to be studied for their techniques, not just read for leisure (unless you happen to enjoy its thing). I ASSURE you that if you read those books in a spirit of "let's see how this Great Author(TM) handles this thing" instead of "let's have fun for a couple hours", you will be more pleasantly surprised than not. Many of the classics I read weren't things I enjoyed, but I blazed through them because the writing was THAT good.

It's hard for me to recommend English classics for writers because I'm a Brazilian born and raised, and our Classics are different, and most of them are character-based fiction with little to no regard to exposition of the environment or plot. Most of our literary icons have never been actually described in their books, and if they have, it was just by a few passing details scattered through the whole thing. For instance, we only know Capitu's appearance a bit because Bentinho is a creep (whoever knows what I'm referencing KNOWS).

Our biggest Brazilian fiction name is Machado de Assis. Lots of people (understandably) hate reading him in high school because language teachers rarely teach us to read and comment a book for study rather than enjoyment (or, if they do, we are rarely interested because we don't usually see what we can learn from it and how to use it in our own writing). But BOY, Machado is a World Classic(double-TM). Not because he writes in a complex, classy way or anything.

It's because he is HILARIOUS. And often in meta ways that will DESTROY you, like the chapter he left blank so you could recover for the one before. And his irony is a finely sharpened sabre, it cuts so deeply that it tickles your liver. Chef's kiss. Sure, he uses 19th century slang, so it feels old-timey and, at times, hard to understand without a dictionary nearby, but ANY effort you take to understand him is paid in TRIPLE OR MORE.

Couldn't recommend more. Look for his books in English, they are worth it, and I've heard that the latest translations are good.

My other venerated prose Classic Author is, sadly, basically untranslatable to English without serious effort: Guimarães Rosa. I SWEAR TO GOD that I read a 500-or-so pages book from him in little more than a sitting. And I barely understood what I read in an intellectual manner, but by the end, I nebulously KNEW what had happened without remembering, like someone trying to remember a dream they just had.

It was one of the best literary experiences I had, but I fear it will never be the same again.

But say that you don't want to spend hours on weird experimental novels absorbing their techniques and convention-breaking (sometimes convention-SETTING for being so good) powerful imagery. Then, at the very least, take this second piece of advice:

Read poetry.

Not any poetry. Artsy-fartsy, teacher-brought-to-class poetry. Don't stop to the couple of poems of that author you were forced to read. Comb through their library for themes you might enjoy. Poets are usually notorious for how horny and/or existentially terrifying their poems are, so TAKE NOTES.

Poetry is playing with words transcending the narrative mold. In poetry, words don't have to tell stories, words don't have to adhere to traditional meanings and spellings or even pronunciations. Words don't even have to have any of those things, they can become drawings in a piece of art that reminds us all that writing is a very specialized form of drawing.

Rhyming poetry, in particular, often leads poets to pair ideas that would never be paired together just because they want a rhyme that doesn't sound stale. Or because they have to fit an idea in a set amount of syllabes with the tonic in this fixed position, so they have to get CLEVER about how to word a sentence.

Picking a classic poetry mold that you are unfamilliar with and trying to write even a small poem in it is a writing exercise that might improve your writing more than 50.000 words of vanilla prose (believe me, I was the crazy one that decide to write Alex and Rose's chapter titles in Alexandrine verses because of the pun - and God Gracious in Heaven, it took me longer to write the 10-verse poem than it took me to write half the book).

To wrap it up: read authors doing crazy stuff. You will see that most of the "boring stuff in traditional books" is boring because the larger your intended audience, the less daring your publisher allows you to be. You don't need to reinvent the wheel: the world is chock full of crazy writers writing crazy experimental stuff just RIPE to be used in your fanfiction for maximum gut-wrenching or knee-slapping. New ways of describing things (or not caring a flying rat about describing anything), new ways of writing dialogues, new words, new ways of creating words, weird paragraphs, blank chapters and sentences so beautiful and poignant that you will forget everything else about the book and still be haunted by those words (mine are some of the closing sentences of Kafka's The Metamorphosis *shivers* - or the arc words "he died in the wrong lane, messing up traffic" in the song Construção - a brilliant piece of tragic narrative poetry, elevated by being turned into a cheerful samba-like song).

If anything, it will improve your writing, keep you from always copying an author who copies an author who copies classics. And you might find a WORLD of fiction that is more challenging and/or will tickle your artistic appreciation in different ways that canned books with the same old tricks, the same old silent pleas of "please adapt me into a film/netflix script/RPG manual/visual novel/comic/fanart/any other visual media, since I didn't have the money to comission it to begin with!" that excess visual descriptions often exsude.

Good luck in making your readers feel what is like when a cookie crumble in your mouth not like it should, but like a great glacier cracking, releasing a waterfall of filling that gives that bite a flavour of coarse cement and butterflies. Make them feel their stomachs sucking themselves in, as if they were sealed vacuum bags, in antecipation of swallowing that... stuff. Let them know that the feeling of coarse cement and live butterflies WILL transcend the flavour once the swallowing begins. I didn't say the butterflies were live? My bad!

I think a big part of why I read way more fanfiction than books is that there’s just a hell of a lot less exposition

the first 10 pages of most books are always “these are the main characters and here’s some background on each of them and this is the setting etc etc” and it’s such a fucking hassle getting to the plot sometimes

fanfic is just like “fuck it you know all of this already let’s go”

[anthonyopal]

from CHIPETTE & ATTALISA

A Play by Nadya Pittendrigh

*

ATTALISA. They were both with other people just six, seven months ago. People nothing like the ones they are going to marry today. Remember? So you see, the human heart is a wonderful bicycle; if a cog drops off the gear you can take the gear off and replace it with a popped football or a bundle of antlers, and it’s fine. Any part of the bicycle, any replacement.

CHIPETTE. You’re making fun of them.

ATTALISA. But l’m convincing myself as I do it.

CHIPETTE. You don’t think that’s how it works. What you really think is the bike didn’t work before and it doesn’t work now. It’s just a piece of outsider art. A piece of hype that definitely doesn’t work as a bicycle.

ATTALISA. No, I think it’s truly a miracle. New people just come in and we adjust. So it’s not that they all are broken, it’s that they all work, and the only thing that is desired is variety. You think my views are cynical because, if you did what I do, you would be doing it out of cynicism, but I do it out of - love of life!

*

Booklet, 32 pp, 7 x 5.25 in

Language: English

ISBN: 979-8-218-66512-8

Published: May 1, 2025

The Economy Press

[thebigaaa]

Did some meaningful blending today, for once:

[fredicia]

David Bowie: The Last Interview and Other Conversations

[ctooliganlifetool]

In the eerie silence of the high-security Stargate facility, an electric crackle fills the air, heralding the arrival of two fearsome, ravenous witches. Their laughter, a symphony of malice and madness, reverberates off the sterile walls. Amidst the ensuing chaos, they cast a spell, their hands dancing methodically like puppeteers controlling invisible strings. Suddenly, the containment chamber housing the Chosen One shudders violently. In a blinding flash, the Chosen One disappears - spirited away to a realm unseen, a world shrouded in a miasma of dread.

Desperate pleas echo through the halls of the facility, but it is too late. The Chosen one is gone - stolen by the mad witches who vanish as abruptly as they arrived. All that remains is an empty shell of a once thriving hub, its haunted silence a grim testament to the unholy union of witchcraft and Stargates.

[ohangeleyes]

⎯⎯ DEAN WINCHESTER'S FAVORITE SEX POSITIONS

everything written down is according to his birth chart. explained in details + mini scenarios :) if you want to read sam's version, click here

“he drives like he fucks—reckless, rough, and with both hands gripping tight.”

BRIEF EXPLANATION OF HIS BIRTH CHART:

✧. sun in aquarius – rebellious, unpredictable, magnetic

craves freedom and authenticity.

turns him on when you’re unique, bold, or a little quirky.

has a quiet intensity- doesn’t fall easily, but when he does, it’s deep and rare.

sexually: curious, experimental, loves surprises and breaking the rules.

✧ moon in sagittarius – fiery, adventurous, wild-hearted

emotionally restless, hates feeling trapped.

needs fun, playfulness, and lighthearted energy in relationships.

sexually: loves spontaneous, passionate encounters. he’s a dirty talker, big on thrill and adrenaline.

✧ ascendant in leo – bold, charismatic, protective

makes an immediate impression- commanding, warm, cocky charm

classic “alpha energy” but with a heart of gold under it

makes him seem confident, flirtatious, and in control even when he’s struggling underneath

sexually: likes being admired, enjoys performance, thrives on attention and praise

✧ mercury in aquarius – sharp, witty, forward-thinking

communicates through sarcasm, dark humor, and honesty.

gets off on someone who’s mentally quick and confident.

sexually: loves teasing banter, roleplay, or “mind games” that keep him on edge.

✧ venus in pisces – romantic, dreamy, soft beneath the armor

deeply emotional in love but hides it well.

needs to feel chosen, worshipped, needed.

sexually: sensual, giving, wants to feel emotionally fused. he melts when you’re soft with him after he’s rough.

✧ mars in capricorn – dominant, disciplined, controlled

powerful drive, needs to be in control physically.

expresses desire through slow, deliberate, sometimes possessive energy.

seexually: he’s a pusher. loves edging, control, restraint, but always delivers. one of the most intense placements for stamina.

THE POSITIONS:

✧･ﾟcowgirl (because he loves when you take control)

i mean, we all knew this.

sun in aquarius - he secretly loves when you surprise him or flip the script. moon in sagittarius - he likes a little fun, a little freedom, a partner who can ride him like she knows she owns him. plus? venus in pisces wants to be wanted. watching you climb on top? It shows him you crave him. that’s a turn-on all on its own.

control, but given, not taken. he loves letting you ride him. not just for the view (though let’s be honest, he’s feral for it), but because it shows you want him just as badly.

he’s cocky about it. grinning up at you with those hands behind his head like he’s in heaven. “go on, sweetheart. show me how bad you want it.” but the second you start rolling your hips, tossing your head back? gone. fists gripping your thighs, biting his lip, groaning like he’s trying not to beg. and when you lean down to kiss him mid-ride? he holds your face like you’re everything.

his leo rising loves the performance. the eye contact, the moaning, the way you take what you want while he lays back and worships every second. his venus in pisces craves connection. having you on top means he can watch every expression on your face, feel your hands on his chest, trace your body with his eyes like he’s memorizing it. and mars in capricorn? he’ll grip your hips and let you take the lead for as long as you want. but the second you start to fall apart? he’ll take over. flip you, thrust deep, and finish what you started.

⋆˙⟡ your hands are planted on his chest, thighs burning as you roll your hips slow, teasing. dean watches you, gaze dark, jaw clenched.

“fuck, baby,” he pants, hands sliding up your sides. “you look so good like this. all mine.” you grind a little harder, and his hands tighten. “keep that up and I’m not gonna last.”

you smirk, but before you can answer, he grabs your hips, thrusts up, and groans, “actually- screw it. I wanna see you fall apart first.⋆˙⟡

✧･ﾟdoggystyle (but not just for roughness)

dean’s mars in capricorn makes him dominant, focused, and deeply into the rhythm and control of sex. his leo rising makes him obsessed with the view, the power, and the performance of it all. venus in pisces? that’s where the hidden tenderness comes in, because even when it’s rough, he’s connected. and he never stops watching your reactions like they’re his lifeline.

this position gives him visual overload- your back arched, your ass bouncing, your hair a mess, it hits every damn nerve in his body. he's in total control- he can grip your hips, your throat, your shoulders, he can hold you still and pull you back into every deep, punishing thrust. emotional distance with emotional depth- from behind, it looks rough, detached, but dean? he’ll be muttering soft praise under every growl. he feels every bit of it.

he starts with firm but slow thrusts, watching how your body reacts, listening for the sounds you make. then he picks up the pace, gets more desperate, maybe one hand tangled in your hair, the other on your hip. he loves grabbing a fistful of your ass, leaning over your back to growl in your ear, his chest flush against you just for a second. if he really loses control? one hand slides under to rub you, because making you come from behind is his personal obsession.

⋆˙⟡ you’re on your hands and knees, breath heavy, sheets rumpled. dean’s behind you, one hand gripping your hip tight, the other tracing the dip of your spine.

“goddamn, sweetheart,” he groans. “this view should be illegal.”

his hips snap forward, slow and deep, making your arms shake. He leans down, mouth at your ear. “you feel that?” he whispers, voice gravel. “that’s me owning every inch of you.”

you whimper, and that’s it. he pulls back and slams into you harder, setting a rhythm that has you crying out, your hand grabbing at the sheets. dean’s groaning your name now, voice raw. “touch yourself, baby. I wanna feel you come around me like this.” ⋆˙⟡

✧･ﾟmissionary with his hands pinning yours

mars in capricorn gives him that slow, controlled dominance. when his hands are pinning yours? that’s him saying “i’m in charge, but i’m not hurting you. i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.” venus in pisces craves closeness. eye contact, connection, feeling you breathe against him. this position gives him full access to all of that. leo rising adds just the right amount of possessiveness. When he pins you down, it’s not just to dominate, it’s to remind you that you’re his, and he’s going to ruin you gently.

you’re flat on your back, your arms stretched above your head. dean’s body is pressed to yours, chest to chest, every inch of him heavy and grounding. his hands lock around your wrists, fingers laced if he’s feeling tender, palms firm if he’s feeling filthy. he looks into your eyes the whole time. and if you try to look away? he leans in and says, “no. eyes on me.”

he gets to watch every reaction, the little gasps, the lip bites, the way your eyes flutter. he loves the vulnerability, not just yours, but his own. you’re beneath him, but he’s bared too. there’s nowhere to hide when it’s this close. he can whisper to you the entire time, sweet nothings, filthy praise, promises he’ll make with every thrust.

⋆˙⟡ dean hovers over you, eyes dark, lips parted. your wrists are pinned above your head, his fingers strong and warm against your skin.

“you trust me?” he murmurs, voice low. you nod.

“good.” he kisses you. soft, slow. then pulls back, rocking his hips into yours. deep. unhurried. devastating.

“don’t move those hands,” he whispers, gaze locked to yours. “I wanna see you take it just like this.”

he grinds into you, his grip tightening every time your body arches. you moan his name and he smiles, leaning down, nose brushing yours. “that’s it, baby. let me see you fall apart.”⋆˙⟡

✧･ﾟlap sex / chair sex

control meets worship. dean loves to watch you. having you in his lap while he’s seated? he gets to feel everything, direct every movement, and watch your face. up close and personal. his leo rising thrives off the view, the confidence in you taking control. but also loves when you surrender to his grip. mars in capricorn brings the physical intensity. his hands will roam, grip, guide. he’ll lift you into every grind and keep the rhythm with bruising precision. venus in pisces softens it just enough. he’ll kiss your chest, your neck, your jaw. even when he’s losing control, there’s this underlying reverence, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

he’s sitting back, legs spread, arms flexing as he grabs your hips. you’re straddling him, facing him. or sometimes, you’re facing away- reverse cowgirl style on the chair, his hands on your thighs and ass, growling in your ear about how good you look. he talks the entire time. encouraging, praising, groaning: “that’s it, baby. ride me. take your time"; "you feel that? that’s what you do to me.”

he'll do it anywhere. motel chairs. those ugly ones with the stiff seats? doesn’t matter. he’s pulling you into his lap in 0.5 seconds. the impala. front seat reclined, you climbing over him, all breathy moans and fogged-up windows. kitchen chair. He’s already sitting there, legs wide, looking up at you with that smirk like, “what are you waiting for?”

⋆˙⟡ he’s sitting on a motel chair, legs spread, hands gripping your thighs as you sink onto him with a shuddering breath. his eyes are locked to yours, mouth parted, a little dazed by the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, pulling you closer, guiding your hips. you rock slowly, his hands sliding up your back under your shirt, fingers splaying across your skin. he kisses your chest, your throat, your jaw. with every slow grind, he exhales against your skin.

“you feel so good,” he murmurs. “take your time. we’ve got all night.” your foreheads press together. his breath catches as you clench around him and ride a little harder. he holds your hips tighter, barely hanging on. “god damn… you’re gonna kill me like this.”⋆˙⟡

✧･ﾟ spooning

but from behind or face-to-face?

the answer is both, but for very different moods.

from behind (traditional spooning – his favorite for intimacy & control):

this is dean’s default. it’s everything he craves in one position. he gets to hold you, thrust into you deeply, and watch you squirm while he whispers filth into your ear. it gives him full access. to your chest, your throat, your thighs. and he can wrap himself around you completely. it’s possessive without being aggressive. he doesn’t need to look you in the eye to feel completely connected. his mars in capricorn loves the control this position gives, and his venus in pisces adores the closeness.

⋆˙⟡ you’re barely awake, body heavy in the sheets, when you feel him behind you, warm, solid, breathing slow and steady. dean shifts, arm tightening around your waist, and without a word, he slides his hand down, finding the heat between your thighs. “you’re always so warm for me,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and want.

you arch into him, and he groans, pulling your hips back just enough to push into you in one long, unhurried thrust. “goddamn, baby,” he whispers, forehead pressed against the back of your neck. “just like that. let me stay in you.”

his hips move slow and deep, one hand gripping your thigh, the other under your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. your whimpers grow softer, breath catching with each stroke. he kisses the shell of your ear. “you’re mine like this. every part of you.”⋆˙⟡

face to face (the ultra-soft, post-confession or early-morning version):

rare, but precious. this is not his default, but when he initiates it, you know it means something. this version is full eye contact. kisses. breathy moans into each other’s mouths. he strokes your hair, presses his forehead to yours, maybe even says things he wouldn’t dare in any other moment.

he lets you see all of him. the desire, the tenderness, the love he doesn’t know how to name. it’s intimate as hell, and he only does this when his walls are completely down.

⋆˙⟡ the room is quiet. no motel noise, no hunting talk. just the hum of the night and dean’s eyes watching yours. you’re facing him, legs tangled, your bare chest pressed to his. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your jaw like he can’t believe you’re real.

“c’mere,” he whispers, guiding you closer, his forehead resting against yours as he slides inside you slowly. the pace is almost too soft. not lazy. intentional. like he’s trying to memorize how you feel.

his hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “stay with me, yeah? just like this,” he says with a small smile that cracks into something more vulnerable.

you wrap your leg over his hip, pulling him deeper, and he exhales sharply against your lips. “you break me, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “and I fuckin’ love it." he stays like that, thrusting slow and tender, kissing you between every movement, holding you like he’d never let go. ⋆˙⟡

so, which would he prefer?

from behind. because it lets him have you, protect you, ruin you, and hold you all at once. but face-to-face? that’s the one he saves for the nights when he’s too in love to hide it.

✧･ﾟ oral (but... he's a receiver)

dean loves getting head. not just because it feels good, but because it feeds his ego (leo rising). it gives him a sense of being worshipped (venus in pisces wants to be wanted). it lets him let go for a second, which is rare for him.

he leans back in a chair, one hand gripping your hair, mouth slightly open, those dean noises coming out of him- half moan, half growl. his eyes lock onto yours while he watches you go down on him, and you’ll see that cocky little smirk curl at the corner of his mouth, even while he’s falling apart.

but when he’s giving? it’s filthy worship. even if he prefers receiving, when he’s in the mood to go down on you, he’s ravenous about it. he’s not just doing it for you. he’s doing it because he loves tasting you. watching you squirm. hearing you beg.

so, he has an oral fixation- but in a very dean way. he loves receiving because it makes him feel needed, powerful, worshipped. he loves giving when he’s feeling possessive or when he needs to ground himself in your body. and he definitely has a thing for your mouth on him, especially if you tease him a little first, make him beg a bit. That’s when he gets obsessed.

⋆˙⟡ dean’s leaning back against the headboard, legs spread wide, hands behind his head like he’s relaxing, but his jaw’s already tight, watching you kneel between his thighs with that soft little smirk.

you press a kiss to his hipbone, slow and teasing. his breath hitches, but he keeps the smirk, trying to play it cool. “gonna take your time, huh?” he mutters, voice rough. “that’s real cute.”

but when your mouth finally wraps around him, warm and wet and slow, his cock twitches, and all that bravado cracks. his hands leave the headboard in a heartbeat, one threading into your hair, the other gripping the sheets like he’s hanging on for dear life. “shit- fuck, baby…”

you don’t stop. you hollow your cheeks and look up at him, and it wrecks him. his head tips back against the wall, mouth open, a low groan dragging from his throat. he tries to pull back control.

“y-yeah, just like that. jesus christ. don’t stop. please-” but his voice falters when you swirl your tongue just under the head, slow and mean.

now he’s panting. ⋆˙⟡

MASTERLIST

I JUST SERVED BREAKFAST, LUNCH AND DINNER + SWEET TREAT. you're welcome.

[electrosuite]

okay. al. i need something put into words. idk if you've seen it but in "we live in time" andrew and florence didn't hear cut when filming a sex scene. so i was wondering. could you do something where eddie has taken up acting. it's an experimental movie, so y'all are actually fucking. it's unsimulated sex. y'all don't hear cut, but you're so into it that neither of you stop. you don't notice until he cums, then you both remember the cameras.

warnings: swearing, fingering oral sex, descriptive sex, sex on camera

word count: 2.3k

a/n: i saw we live in time opening week and absolutely loved it. put andrew garfield's bare ass in more movies!!!

masterlist

One of the best decisions you'd made was moving to Hollywood to pursue acting. You loved it, and you were a natural. You could make yourself cry on command, you often lost yourself in scenes, and you weren't afraid to get nude on camera. That was something that was pretty common for the 80s, specifically female nudity.

You'd filmed many sex scenes in your career, but they were all simulated. Prosthetics, body doubles, cushions between bodies. But when you were approached to do an experimental film, one with completely unsimulated sex, your curiosity was piqued.

You were told you wouldn't meet the other actor until the day of, which turned out to be the first day on set. You were told that some studios, this one included, preferred to get sex scenes out of the way first and film the rest after. Your first impression of this guy would be when you had sex with him.

So when you were sitting on set in your tight black dress — which would be removed in the scene — and he walked in, your eyes widened. He was very handsome, just your type. He had long curly black hair, he was covered in tattoos, and immediately started joking around with the crew. He was wearing a suit, one which fit his body nicely.

When he spotted you, he walked right over and sat next to you.

"You my co-star?" he asked in a hopeful tone.

"That would be me."

"Eddie." He stuck his hand out and you shook it.

"Y/N."

"You look familiar. I feel like I've seen you in something else before."

"Maybe. Sorry, but I don't recognize you."

"I haven't been in anything big, just a couple of low-budget movies." He noticed your nervous energy. "You okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry, just... I've never done anything... real. It's always been fake sex."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Well, it's a first for both of us, then. It's a first-first for me, I've never done anything like this."

"Really?"

"Yep. Never even taken my shirt off on camera."

"And you're just jumping right in, huh?"

"Why not? If I'm gonna do it, I might as well go all in."

"Well, are you at least experienced?" you joked.

"Oh, I'm experienced. Yeah." You chuckled. "Also, I was told to tell you that they had me go ahead and put a condom on so it wouldn't disrupt the flow or anything. They said you were pretty adamant about it."

"Thank god. I really don't want to leave here today pregnant."

This made both of you laugh, but it was true. That was the most important thing to you when agreeing to do this movie.

"Alright, actors in positions," announced the director, who settled into his chair next to the camera.

Before you could get up, Eddie looked back at you. "Hey, I know we'll be recording, but don't let that stop you from telling me if I'm crossing any boundaries, alright?"

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Thank you."

"Of course."

The scene immediately started with the two of you standing at the edge of a bed, inches away from each other. So that's where you went, your calves touching the mattress.

You'd read over the script for this scene numerous times. There was a camera a few feet from the bed, and one strapped onto the ceiling above where you would be laying. Neither of you would speak, just moan.

You were getting more nervous by the second, the lack of space between you two making your heart pound.

"Hey," he whispered, making eye contact with you. "You still good?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I'm good." You got yourself into the acting mindset as they finalized the cameras. "Ready."

"Quiet on set," yelled the director. Everyone hushed, the silence making you realize how many eyes were on you. "Action!"

You reached up and slowly undid Eddie's tie, his eyes never leaving your face. Once it was on the floor, he pulled you in for a kiss. It was gentle yet deep, both of you taking in a deep breath. His hands gripped your sides, your palms flat against his chest.

He reached around you and unzipped your dress, letting it fall to the floor. He then effortlessly unhooked your bra and you pulled it off of yourself. So far this was exactly like some of the other scenes you'd filmed. It was always a little bit nerve-wracking to expose yourself on camera — how could it not be?

He pushed you down onto the bed, his knees on the edge between yours.

He wasn't supposed to kiss you as long as he did. It was only supposed to be a couple before he moved on, but he was going off script a bit. His hand cupped the breast visible to the camera, which was now a bit closer.

He began kissing down to your neck a bit, then trailing along your body. He wrapped his lips around your nipple, his tongue circling it. You couldn't help but tangle your fingers in his hair, knowing it would help the scene.

As he kissed down your body, he maintained eye contact with you, watching to make sure you were still comfortable with this. Once he was to your thighs, he knelt down next to the bed and pulled you by the legs closer to him.

He slowly pulled your underwear off, dropping them on top of your dress. He continued to leave kisses on your thighs, making a genuine and impatient whine escape your mouth.

The feeling of his tongue on your clit made you gasp, your hands immediately finding their way back to his hair. This was weird with cameras, and at first it made it hard for you to really get in the mood.

But he was good with his tongue. You were so used to fake moaning that the real ones that came out of you felt foreign. His hands on your thighs, keeping them spread, were also keeping your hips still.

Usually when you filmed cunnilingus scenes, they kept their mouth closed and just positioned their face between your legs. So it was a foreign feeling to actually be eaten out on camera.

He couldn't stop staring at you, you looked so beautiful. Your head thrown back, back arched, tits out and nipples hard, fingers pulling his hair.

He wasn't supposed to make you cum, the script didn't call for it. He was supposed to do this for about thirty seconds and move on to the actual sex. But he was told that if the scene lasted too long, they could just edit it down. So he decided before even meeting you that he would make sure you had at least one orgasm today.

And it didn't take you long to get there. The camera had moved now so that it was behind him and to the side, getting a shot of his back and your face simultaneously.

"Fuck," you whispered to yourself as you felt your orgasm approaching, and fast. You were worried about how you would look, actually cumming and being recorded. You were trying to remain as calm as you possibly could, but you'd never been eaten out like this.

You were much louder than you anticipated when you finally came, and Eddie had to hold you down to keep you in the shot. When he finally stopped, he was immediately back to kissing you. He was still fully clothed, so you pushed his jacket off of his shoulders.

Instead of unbuttoning his shirt, he just pulled it over his head. He had a beautiful body, and you couldn't take your eyes off of him. You reached down and helped remove his belt, but he took over a moment later.

Within a minute, he was completely nude, and you got a good view of what he was packing. You were told before the shoot that you'd be having unprotected sex, and as you were already on birth control, it wasn't that big of a deal to you. Or at least, it wasn't until you were finally here. Now it was sinking in that you were about to be creampied by a guy you just met less than five minutes ago.

He was already rock hard, the sounds that escaped your mouth having gotten him bricked up immediately. He loved giving oral. It was one of his favorite things in the world. If it was up to him, he would've kept going, gotten you completely out of your mind before fucking your brains out.

He positioned himself back at eye level with you, reaching down and lining himself up with your entrance.

"That okay?" he whispered into your neck as he pressed kisses to your skin. He wasn't supposed to say that, the script calling for no dialogue aside from the natural swears that would occur. But he'd already gone against it, and asking for consent was something he insisted on.

"Mm," you moaned simply, nodding as minimally as possible.

With zero hesitation, he pushed into you, and the gasp that filled the room was almost comical. It was such a perfect porno moan that you couldn't believe it was genuine, even though it came from you.

He stretched you out so much, so perfectly, you weren't sure you could handle much of this. It was almost too much, too good.

He engulfed your mouth into his, kissing you deeply as he immediately picked up his pace. The bed was already squeaking, and your chest was already red.

The camera was above your head now, recording from an angle that showed the top of your thighs and your head thrown back as Eddie began sucking hickeys onto the skin of your neck.

That was when the scene was supposed to end. It was the shortest one in the script, which was another reason they wanted to get it over with first. But when the director shouted "Cut!", neither of you could hear him over the animalistic moans you both were letting out.

In fact, he called it about three times. But you two were so immersed, and your moans were so loud in each other's ears that it was useless. After a moment and after all the equipment was put down, the entire crew left the room and just allowed you to finish.

Out of all the times you'd had sex before, you didn't expect the best to be a completely scripted one. Eddie wasn't lying when he said he was experienced, he knew how to hit every nook in cranny in you like it was the millionth time.

When he felt himself getting close, he reached down and began circling your clit with his thumb. In the movies he'd seen, they always came at the same time. That didn't happen much in real life, but he wanted to make it look cinematic because, to his knowledge, they were still filming.

You gasped at the sudden contact, not expecting it. Thirty seconds later, you were cumming in sync, moaning into each other's mouths. He kept it going as long as he could but eventually he had to stop. Both his and your legs were trembling, sweat beading on your upper lip.

He kissed you for a moment, thinking in his head how great that would look on camera.

But when you both looked over at where the crew was, they were gone. You were confused, wondering why they didn't film as much as possible.

"Oh my god," you said, looking back up at Eddie. "Did they yell cut?"

His eyes widened. "Did they?"

"Did you hear them at all?"

"No, I didn't. Did you?"

"No."

You couldn't help but giggle at the situation. "Holy fucking shit."

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck."

"That's kind of hilarious."

He pulled out of you, pulling the condom off before grabbing one of the robes from the crates behind the camera, tossing another one to you. He opened the door to the rest of the set and the crew's heads shot up to look at him.

"Did... you yell cut?" he asked the director.

"Yep. Three times. You guys were so into it we figured we'd just let you finish."

That was when you laughed even harder, your head fuzzy and body tired.

After everything was cleaned up and you were heading back to your trailers, you caught up with Eddie outside his.

"Sorry we didn't hear cut earlier," you apologized.

"I'm not." He smirked slyly, and you felt butterflies flutter in your stomach.

"Do you think you'd do something like this again? Real sex on a set?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. With the right person."

"Well, if I get another opportunity like this, you're the first person I'm recommending."

"God, please do." His voice was raspy now, seductive, sultry. Normally you didn't pay any mind to men who flirted with you. But something about actually fucking Eddie seemed to form some kind of bond, maybe just in your head.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out a napkin, which had your phone number written on it. You leaned in close, wanting this to stay between the two of you.

"Well, if you ever want to do something without cameras, call me." You turned around to walk to your trailer, his eyes glued to your ass the whole time.

He swore he could get rock hard again right now if he wanted to. Something was different about you. You were one of the best fucks he'd ever had, and he intended on using that phone number sometime soon.

[sh4nksslvt]

hellooo I really like your work and would like to request some angst

maybe like reader dies or gets close to it. some more uncommon charcters too like nami, usopp, or franky please!!

thank you for really cool work and I hope you can do this!!

hii! thank u sm~ oohh~ thats a great idea, ive decided to put them all together, hope u like it!

What Remains

The Straw Hats survive a Marine superweapon test — but only because you don’t. You made a choice to save them all, and they didn’t see it coming.

strawhats x platonic gn! reader tags: angst, sfw, ooc, major character death, platonic bonds, grief a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Smoke curled upward from the scorched ruins of the Marine testing island. The sky was dim, bleeding orange as the sun tried and failed to burn away the choking clouds.

They found your body beneath the collapsed structure—arms still raised like you were shielding the others even in death.

It wasn’t the injuries that broke them. It was the look on your face.

Peaceful.

Like you knew.

ONE WEEK EARLIER.

"These weapons..." Franky said, examining the diagrams. "They’re worse than anything Vegapunk ever dreamed up. They’re built to erase islands."

“And they’re testing them here?” Nami’s voice trembled with disbelief.

Usopp peered over the map. “That’s not all. Some of this... it’s Poneglyph script. These freaks are mixing history with firepower.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just stared at the map. Quiet. Calm. Like a storm on the horizon no one else had seen yet.

“We have to stop this,” you said.

Of course, everyone agreed.

But none of them saw what you saw. None of them realized the cost yet.

Not even you.

THE BATTLE.

The Straw Hats split into teams. Luffy and Zoro drew the front lines away. Robin sabotaged the comms. Brook and Jinbei distracted the guards. Chopper tended to wounded civilians trying to escape.

You were supposed to go in with Franky and Usopp.

You didn’t.

You slipped away the moment they weren’t looking, whispering your last words to Nami before disappearing into the smoke.

“I trust you. Don’t look back.”

You found the core buried deep underground.

A thrumming vault of seastone and ancient script, glowing with stolen knowledge and raw destruction.

You knew what it meant.

You could read the Poneglyph fragments embedded in the weapons.

You knew what would happen if they were activated.

So you made a choice.

A selfish, irreversible choice.

You overloaded the core.

THE AFTERMATH.

When the blast hit, it carved a crater into the earth.

Luffy felt it first—his scream carried across the island like a cannon blast. “(Y/N)!!”

Franky’s stomach dropped. He bolted toward the smoke, ignoring everything—orders, pain, fire.

Usopp followed. Nami, too. She didn’t even speak. Her Clima-Tact sparked wildly, emotions bleeding into weather.

They dug with bare hands and bleeding fingers.

And finally, they found you.

Still. Burned. Crushed.

But unmistakably you.

And unmistakably gone.

THE SUNNY.

Franky hadn’t spoken in two days.

He sat in the engine room, back turned to everyone, arms blackened with soot and oil. He worked until his hands bled, building gods knew what.

Chopper had tried to check on him. Franky didn’t even look up.

Usopp wandered the deck in silence, eyes red, mouth dry. He hadn’t told a single story since they left the island.

He’d tried. He opened his mouth once to make a joke, and nothing came out.

So he just sat with your grave marker, talking to it like you were there.

And Nami—Nami was broken in a way no one had ever seen.

She didn’t cry loudly. She didn’t scream. She just shut down.

She went days without food. Sat curled in the crow’s nest, staring out to sea, clutching the note you left her in your final moments.

"Don’t look back."

She hated you for it.

She loved you for it.

She never stopped shaking.

NIGHT.

Luffy stood by the railing, his hat pulled low, wind in his face.

Sanji stood beside him in silence.

“You knew they were gonna die,” Luffy said suddenly. His voice wasn’t angry. It was hollow.

Sanji lit a cigarette, fingers shaking. “I knew they weren’t coming back.”

Luffy didn’t answer.

“They saved all of us,” Sanji added after a long pause.

“I didn’t want saving,” Luffy whispered.

Then he turned and walked away.

FRANKY.

The machine he was building exploded.

He didn’t flinch.

Robin found him hours later, crouched beside the wreckage, staring into space.

“They’d have slapped me for this,” he said quietly.

Robin knelt beside him. “For what?”

“For not stopping them.”

“They knew what they were doing.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

Robin placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It never does.”

USOPP.

He buried the dials you used in a small, unmarked box.

Every trap you helped him design, every gadget you tweaked. Gone. Hidden away like a secret.

“I’m never going to be that brave,” he whispered.

Then he broke.

Ugly, shaking sobs that echoed across the deck.

NAMI.

She didn’t speak for three days.

Then, she found Franky. Slammed him into a wall.

“You let them go alone!” she screamed.

Franky didn’t fight back. “I know.”

“YOU PROMISED—YOU PROMISED ME THEY’D COME BACK—!”

He wrapped his arms around her mid-swing, held her as she sobbed, her fists pounding against his chest until they were too weak to lift.

ONE WEEK LATER.

Luffy called everyone to the deck.

No one knew why.

When they arrived, they found him standing in front of a small, newly-built monument.

A single beam of the destroyed fortress. Carved with your name.

And beneath it—your jacket. Cleaned. Pressed. Folded neatly.

Luffy didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

They stood together. Silent.

One by one, they left offerings.

Sanji placed a bottle of sake.

Robin left a single violet flower.

Chopper tied a string of charms around the wood.

Zoro leaned his sword against it for a moment. A quiet nod of respect.

Brook played a low, mournful tune on his violin.

Jinbei lit a lantern and pushed it into the sea.

Usopp placed a small slingshot on the beam.

Franky left a blueprint.

And Nami… Nami placed your note. The last one you ever wrote.

“Don’t look back.”

She whispered, “I’m going to.”

Then she walked away.

.

.

.

They kept your room the way it was.

No one said it aloud—but they all visited.

Nami would sit on your bed when the nightmares came.

Usopp would fix the shelves you always overloaded with junk.

Franky recharged your tools every week, even though you weren’t there to use them.

And Luffy…

Luffy would sit on the figurehead, facing forward, holding your jacket in his lap.

He never cried where anyone could see.

But the jacket was always warm.

As if it still remembered you.