#I’ve been having Art block and powering through

[ladyanthony]

A cute little atyd reference like the good ole days

[gojorgeous]

"business or pleasure?"

pairing: gojo x fem!reader summary: the gojo clan decides it’s time to secure an heir… and you’re the lucky woman selected for the job… content: HEAVY breeding, arranged marriage, language, praise, dacryphilia, p->v, fingering, mating press, a lil’ blood (if you squint), pet names, implied multiple rounds, gojo just generally being a menace, no established relationship, reader and gojo literally just met, reader is literally there for the purpose of getting pregnant, positive pregnancy test at the end, ideas of women as baby incubators :x, consent king gojo. wc: 3.7k a/n: I HAVE RETURNED!!! Hey!!!!!! Long time no see, babes. I was looking at my account and I haven’t posted a fic in *cough* TWO YEARS. There is simply no way that’s real 😭 Anyway, I’ve returned with something slightly different: A Gojo fic. You’re welcome. Mwah. Also, please send messages I miss y'all. happy new year bbs. and remember, AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED!

It’s only your third time in Japan. The first had been to visit family friends when you were eight, the second for a girls’ trip after you graduated college. You liked it. Tokyo was bright and busy and full of shops and things to do. The countryside always offered beauty and peace. But this third time was different. No shopping, no temples, no amusement parks. You were here for business, not pleasure. 

You run a finger along the edge of a mahogany bookshelf. Your feet are killing you, a flick of your ankles tossing your heels across the room. Your nose wrinkles when you land on a particular title. The Art of War? Interesting choice… You scan the other books, and your brows rise when you find a strange combination of academics, young adult, manga, and high fantasy? A multi-genre reader, then…

You absentmindedly rub at the arch of your foot, pushing out the ache as best you can. A day so full of stress has left you weary. Your mother hadn’t stopped hovering until the moment you’d escaped into your car, a new husband on your arm. 

You sigh. You could still hear the shower running along with said husband humming loudly to a tune you didn’t recognize. At least your groom wasn’t shy. 

A glance toward the bed has your brows raising. Were those… squishmallows? One looked like a shark, the other like a… sushi? You press your lips together, avoiding a laugh he would surely hear. You make your way to the mattress, sighing when you finally get to sit. You pull the sushi into your arms, hugging the pillow to your chest, but it no longer seemed so funny anymore. You had bigger things to think about. Your legs press together in a mix of anticipation and anxiety. All the way from America you’d come to marry the Gojo heir. It had been a rushed arrangement. Apparently, the Gojo clan had finally put their foot down and decided their heir should finally get to the business of making another heir. There’d been a search far and wide for the best match and somehow, they’d settled on you. An accomplished sorcerer yourself and abilities in your blood that only strengthened those of the Gojo line, you’d been an suitable pick. It didn’t hurt that you were young, healthy, and (upon a trip to a renowned fertility clinic) proven to be very fertile. 

Your parents had been oh-so eager to accept the Gojo clan’s proposition. The Gojo heir’s power hadn’t been matched in nearly 400 years. Any and every family would jump at the opportunity to be tied to them, especially through marriage and heirs. You were surprised you’d been chosen considering all of the options there must have been. 

Satoru seemed… fine, you thought. You hadn’t had much time to talk with him privately. The first time you’d met had been on a phone call with both of your sets of parents present and the next had been at the altar. At one point in the night he’d asked a waiter to refill your wine glass and he’d been a rather good dancer. Other than that, you’d been pulled apart at all odds and ends until you’d come back here: his apartment. 

You’d expected something a little more lavish for your wedding night, especially considering the spectacle that your wedding had been. Ice sculptures, thousand dollar bouquets, and diamond encrusted wedding rings had turned to an elegantly decorated bachelor pad. A glance around revealed a space that was obviously lived in, with odd mixes of $10,000 dollar chairs and… squishmallows.

You sink onto the edge of the bed, eyes peeling over the half-moons of your nails and the heavy gems that now sit on the fourth finger of your left hand. They are a weight you feel the pressure of. A pressure to live up to expectations, to produce a much-desired product. 

A door opens down the hall and you realize the pounding of water and the lilting of a hum has ceased. Your husband is done with his shower. 

A few seconds later he reveals himself, prancing down the hallway and into his bedroom like it’s just another Tuesday and not his wedding night. A plush blue towel is slung low around his waist and from the rivulets of water running all over his body you judge that he hadn’t even taken the time to properly dry off. Not that you mind.

You’d known your new husband was beautiful but you’d never imagined he’d be so… so goddamn seductive. 

Washboard abs, toned arms, sculpted back, wet hair and icy eyes… he was the image of a god. 

“Sorry for making you wait. I really needed that.” 

Gojo prods at his temples, eyes squished shut in what looked like a moment of pain. You’d heard of this problem from the clan. He hadn’t worn his blindfold all day for the sake of the wedding. It was no wonder the effects were catching up with him. 

“No problem.” 

A small smile reveals just a few blinding teeth and you could swear your vision went out for just a moment. 

“You hungry?” 

You arch a brow. The man had eaten two full plates and practically half the cake not yet an hour ago. 

“Can’t say that I am.” 

“Hm.” 

He nods and you watch as he plucks a stray candy off his bedside table, tossing the wrapper to the floor. 

“So, uh-” You watch the butterscotch bulge in his cheek. “You really wanna do this?” 

You glance at your half-naked husband who is practically a walking temptation. You take a breath. He’s standing so casually, as if this is a normal conversation to be having and not something life-altering.

“You don’t?” you ask.

All that gets you is a shit-eating grin. 

“Never said that.” 

You can’t help the smirk that crawls across your lips. 

“Well, we might as well get it over with, no?” 

Another flash of pearly whites. 

“Get it over with, hm?” 

You miss his meaning, pulling at a loose thread on the bedspread. 

“It shouldn’t take much effort. I’m on so many fertility meds you could probably spit on me and I’d get pregnant.” 

You pick at the thread a little more, biting your lip when you realize it’s one of those strands that’s infinite. 

“That so?” 

You jolt when a speck of wetness lands on your cheek. A quick glance reveals a fuzzy blue towel far too close for comfort. A half-naked Gojo is a whole lot closer than he’d been just seconds ago. How is he so quiet? 

Blue eyes bore into yours, water dripping down white strands and onto your skin. He’s so damn tall. He has your neck craned all the way back just to meet his gaze. 

“Yes.” You swallow. “It was part of our prenup.”

Dazed. You’re absolutely dazed. 

“Well, we probably shouldn’t risk breaking a legally binding contract, hm?” 

Closer. He’s coming closer. Too close. 

You lean back, scooting yourself up the bed in a feeble attempt to get a little more space, your emotional support sushi tumbling to the floor. He follows right after you. 

Something primal thrusts through your veins at the sight of a man, sopping wet and smirking, crawling after you, some mix of teasing and pure drive hidden in his eyes. Gojo doesn’t stop, not until you’re nearly pressed against the headboard and his arms cage your waist. Close. Too close. 

You’d thought he would have dried a bit by now, but water still slicks off his skin and hair, showering you lightly. You shiver and your husband notices. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and you get a breath of the sweetness of butterscotch and mint toothpaste. 

“You say stop,” he breathes, “and we stop.”

He leans closer, so close you can smell the eucalyptus and myrrh of his shampoo, the musk of his body wash, the candied sweetness of his breath. Those piercing blue eyes flit to your lips and back up again. 

A breath, a pause. 

“Stop?” he asks. His eyes are piercing.

You shake your head. 

“Go.” 

Lips, teeth, tongue. All of it hits you at once. For a moment you’re too shocked to respond, but then his weight is leaning on you and his hand is on your waist and his mouth tastes like candy and- and then you’re kissing him back. 

A heavy hand digs into the flesh of your waist and your hands find a patch of damp white hair to tangle in. 

He tastes good- too good and when a deft hand guides you down to the mattress you start to think that this whole baby-making business might not be so bad after all. 

Teeth knock, tongues touch, and you are on the edge of what would have been a particularly throaty moan when he pulls away. 

His attention shifts elsewhere, kisses trailing down your neck and hands straying to your hips.

“Have you-” a kiss to your collarbone. “Done this before?”

You freeze.

“What?” 

Gojo raises his head a bit and the most irritating kind of smirk plays on his lips. 

“Don’t know- thought maybe this was a virgin for your super rich husband kinda thing?” 

You shove his head back down.

“Shut up.”

He chuckles and the sound vibrates against your skin. 

“Okay, sp no need to go slow then…” 

His lips continue their assault, brushing and grazing over your skin until it lifts with goosebumps. Your breaths come a little faster, a little heavier and you gasp when his hand curls beneath the hem of your skirt.

“Oh? What’s this?” His fingers brush against the garter that rests at the top of your thighs. Your cheeks heat. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had you agreed to wear the damn thing? You reach down, hoping to quickly rid yourself of the scrap of fabric before you can become oven more mortified. You’re just about to clamp down on it when Gojo catches your wrist. “Ah, ah. No need to be so hasty.” Your hand is easily pinned down to the mattress and, for some reason, you don’t fight it. 

Your breath catches when your skirt lifts only for Gojo to dive beneath it without a second thought. You feel his teeth grazing across the skin of your thigh. 

“Gojo-” you breathe, squirming. 

His head reappears suddenly, another one of those mischievous grins gracing his lips. “Satoru when I’m about to be inside you, baby.” 

He disappears again and you gasp and wiggle when you feel his tongue laving across the inside of your thigh. 

His teeth graze you again, but this time they clamp down on the garter and you feel it slowly sliding across your skin, down, down, past your knee and eventually to your ankle where Satoru finally yanks it past your foot with a final tug. 

You stare at him, wide eyed and lustful. That had to have been one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen. 

Satoru plucks the garter from his teeth and dangles it in front of his eyes. It’s a white, lacy little thing that matches the shade of his hair. He’s grinning again when he slides it onto his wrist like a bracelet– no, like a trophy.

“Thanks for the present.” He’s still grinning, still staring, his fingers still fiddling with the hem of your skirt. “How attached are you to this dress?” he asks. 

You blink, swallowing nervously, unable to break away from his gaze. It’s too strong, too mesmerizing. “Not… attached at all,” you manage. It’s true. Somebody else picked it out, and you’ve only been wearing it for about an hour– and it’s not like you can’t just buy a new one now with access to the Gojo bank accounts. 

His grin somehow grows even wider. “Good girl. Just what I wanted to hear.” 

There’s a splitting sound and suddenly your dress is tearing straight down the middle. It’s slow and controlled and you wonder if he’s practiced at this or if his strength is just that regulated. You find yourself hoping it’s the latter. 

The dress is ripped from your skin and you see it land somewhere across the room. You hear something shatter along with a thud, but Satoru seems anything but worried, so you ignore it. 

You’re bare in just your undergarments, a lacy white set that you’re now half proud of and half embarrassed by. 

Satoru whistles and his hands settle on your waist. “Damn, baby. Why’d you keep all this hidden for so long?” 

You scoff, your confidence surging. You reach for him, grabbing a scruff of hair at the back of his neck and pulling him close. “You’re the one taking your sweet time, Toru.” 

The sound of the nickname on your lips makes him shiver and you smirk triumphantly.

“Hmm…” is all he says as his fingers trail lower, lower, lower, until they’re dipping beneath the band of your panties. It’s somewhere between tortuous and ticklish and you squirm. “Ah, ah. Hold still for me, now.” He presses one hand to the valley between your breasts, holding you down as his other hand continues lower. When his thumb finds the wet spot on your panties and presses down your back arches and your breath escapes. 

He chuckles. “Little needy, aren’t you?” His thumb moves a little higher, grazing your clit, and you whimper. 

With one deft movement he unclasps your bra, tossing it aside. You register for just a moment that your chest is now completely bare, but soon enough his mouth is closing around your nipple and all else is forgotten. 

“S-Satoru!” you whisper. Your voice feels hoarse, even if it has no reason to be. 

His thumb continues its assault between your thighs. “So wet already, baby…” He sounds ecstatic. The grin on his lips makes you whine. “Let’s get these out of the way…” Before you know it, you hear more tearing and then cold air hits your cunt. You cry out when Satoru’s thumb returns to its ministrations, but this time there’s no cloth barrier to dull the sensation. Your hands push out and your nails curl into his bare shoulders. You need him closer.

“Satoru…” you breathe. “Kiss me…” 

That shit-eating grin returns, but he follows your command. “As my wife wishes.” 

When lips meet yours it’s hot and messy. Your nails claw down his back and you’re sure you’re leaving marks. If he minds, he certainly doesn’t show it.

His thumb continues at your clit as a finger prods at your entrance. When he slides in slowly, you gasp. He murmurs something about you being so sensitive, and proceeds to quickly find that gummy spot inside you that makes you see stars. Before you know it he’s adding a second finger and soon your hips are rocking against his thrusts, meeting his pace as you chase your high. 

“God, you’re so wet.” he whispers against your lips. True to his word, he’s been kissing you, never letting up in his attack on your mouth. “Bet you taste like fucking heaven.”

You whine, your hips stuttering against his hand. “G-Gonna… I’m–” 

He grins again, and pulls away just enough to meet your gaze. “Go ahead, baby. Cum for me.” Your eyes flutter shut, your head rolling back– “Nuh, uh. Keep those eyes open. Wanna see every second.” 

Your breaths flutter and you whimper loudly, the sound bouncing on the walls. You’re not sure why you listen, why you fight to keep your eyes open, locked on him, but you do. Maybe you’re afraid he’ll pull away and leave you wanting… or maybe you just want to please him.

You feel your muscles clenching in your stomach, hear the sloppy sounds of Satoru’s fingers thrusting in and out of you, see the gleeful anticipation in his eyes. His thumb rubs a particularly delicious circle around your clit and you feel yourself thrown over the edge. 

You can’t help but be loud. You hold his gaze the whole time, whimpering and whining his name as you gush all over his sheets. Your cunt spasms around his fingers, clenching, holding him inside, desperate to be filled. You hear him panting above you, like watching has somehow taken his breath away. 

“Good girl,” he whispers and you feel a second wave of pleasure ripple through you. 

You feel weak by the time your orgasm leaves you. Your muscles are limp and your cunt is so sensitive that you flinch when Satoru removes his fingers. He brushes a tear from the corner of your eye and you watch as he brings his sopping fingers to his mouth, sucking your juices clean. He moans, a deep throaty sound, like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. You watch his eyes roll back in his skull, watch his throat bob as he swallows. Your lips part at the sight. 

His fingers fall from his mouth with a pop and his grin returns.

“Just like I thought,” he says. “Heaven.” 

He’s back on you in a second, licking a stripe from your collarbone to just beneath your ear. His hips slot between your own and a strong hands hook around the backs of your thighs, pressing your knees to your chest. You whimper. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so completely and utterly exposed. 

“On to the main event, yeah?” The twinkle in his eye has your heart racing even faster. His fingers catch the towel that is somehow still wrapped snugly around his waist. With one tug, it’s gone and your mouth is watering in anticipation. 

Your jaw drops lower, if it’s even possible. He’s… huge. Long and pretty with veins that you know are going to rub just right. His tip is pink and leaking, ready. 

“Satoru, it won’t–” 

His lips connect to your pulse, licking and sucking when you feel him prodding at your entrance. “It’ll fit, baby.” 

He slides himself through your folds, gathering your juices and torturing you every time his tip bumps your clit. By the time he’s finally lining himself up, you’re practically begging. 

The first push is heaven. You’re both moaning when he prods past that first tight ring of muscle and you’re gasping, crying out his name and clawing at his back. He keeps pushing, filling you inch by inch until he’s pressed snugly against your cervix. You thank him aloud when he pauses, giving you a moment to adjust to his size, to the feeling of being filled to the absolute brim. He only kisses the tears from your cheeks. 

The first thrust has you seeing stars, little white spots clouding your vision. The second has your nails embedding in his skin hard enough to draw blood. He doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it has him moving faster, grunting in your ear and whimpering your name.

“Sooo… f-ahh-ucking t-tight…” he whispers. 

A hand slides between your sweaty bodies, a thumb rubbing familiar circles against your swollen clit. You cry out, clenching down like a vice. 

“F-Fuck, princess.” 

His thrusts rock your body and the sound of skin slapping skin echoes in the air. You feel that familiar coil begin to form, to heat at your core. Your muscles tighten and your legs begin to shake. 

“Atta girl. Cum on my cock, baby.” 

You whimper at the praise, at the incessant rubbing of your clit, at the relentless pounding of your cervix. It’s all too much, too good. 

“Satoru…” you cry. Your legs burn and ache. Satoru has your knees pressed so tightly to your chest you’re afraid something might snap. It only adds to the tension beginning to unravel at your center. You feel as if you’re burning, as if you’re going to snap– and then you do. Heat unravels beneath your skin and your mouth falls open in a silent cry. Your legs tremble and your toes curl and you vaguely hear your husband whispering a mix of curses and praises in your ear. You’re still lost in the sensation when he starts groaning and you feel him flooding your insides with shallow thrusts close to your cervix, filling you with rope after rope of his hot cum. You’re still panting when you finally regain your mind. Satoru’s still on top of you, completely limp with his head buried in your neck. You curl a hand into his hair, silently holding him close. That was some of the most mind-blowing sex you’ve ever had. You smirk. Yeah, maybe this baby-making business wasn’t going to be so bad. 

You shiver when you feel Satoru licking and sucking at your skin. There’s a tenderness in the action that makes you pull him closer. He hasn’t even pulled out yet, but you can already feel him hardening inside you, ready for another round. 

“Think it stuck?” he asks. You smirk and answer with a breathy laugh. 

“Don’t know.” Silently, you think that there’s no way it didn’t. You can feel his cum dripping down your thighs and there’s just so much of it.

He lifts his head, eyes bright and sparkling even in the dim light. He grins. “Guess we’d better make sure.” 

~

With the rate at which Satoru fucks you it’s no surprise when you get two positive little pink lines a few week later. You tell Satoru by unceremoniously dropping the test in front of him while he’s drinking his morning coffee. He only grins and kisses you before he bends you over the counter, whispering something about needing to show you how appreciative he is when he slides inside you. The next morning you wake to Satoru’s lips on yours, a brand new credit card, and a new car in the driveway, fitted with all of the newest safety features (only the best for his wife and baby, he says). You sigh and smile when you see it. Yeah, this whole baby-making business definitely wasn’t so bad.

taglist (DM me to be added!): @lacheri

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[faetreides]

summary: rafe cameron x afab maid!reader

cw: titfucking, rimming/ass eating, collaring, power imbalance/dubcon, no real face slapping but reader gets rafe’s rings pressed into their face, gun mentions, rafe talks about wanting to do a line off reader’s tits, throwaway implication that his dad saw you, general rafe-esque warnings 💀, very plotless & possibly ooc (i’m new to the show but i’ve been lurking for a bit), rafe spits on reader, slight dumbification/objectification, hate sex coded but that's more bc i have a love/hate relationship with rafe, he calls reader a bitch once and a also a slut once, use of good girl

block & move on if uncomfortable !!

do not translate, repost, or give ai my work

kinktober masterlist

This stupid carpet is hell on your knees. Not that there was any time to pull a pillow down under them, you were pulled into the room and shoved down so fast you got dizzy. You’re brought out of your ruminations by a rough palm seizing your face in its grasp and squeezing. 

Rafe huffs, leaning forward to make sure he didn’t miss the way your eyes widened as his fingers tightened. His gaudy rings are going to leave impressions on your cheeks but it’s hard to care about that right now. One second, you’re dusting off the son of your employer’s bedroom, and the next you’re getting a wad of split slung on your face. 

Your pussy decides to be a traitor and clench in response. 

“Sorry ‘bout that………” Rafe trails off, flicking the spit off your cheek like he was picking at a persistent hangnail. 

The apology is as insincere as it could be but something about the bored inflection in his tone gets you wet. 

“It’s fine.” Your “ice princess facade” as he’s called it  falls apart a tad, an embarrassing heat blooming throughout your face. 

He seems satisfied with his attempt at amateur art and scoops the rest up with two of his fingers. He doesn’t ask you to clean them off, just shoves them in between your plump lips without a word. 

“You’re so fuckin’ messy, being such a shitty maid right now, you know that, babe?” He hums, giving your face one final squeeze. 

You’re not even sure he knows your name, he sure doesn’t act like it. All he does is coo at you condescendingly as you suckle on his fingers, telling you how much better you are at this. Once you’ve done an adequate job of polishing them off, he pulls the digits away and gives you a weak love tap. Rafe’s obviously wanting to wring something else out of you. 

You hate that your first instinct is to say “Yes, sir?” 

You also hate that it’s what actually fucking comes out of your mouth. 

The grin that splits his mouth reminds you of the only time you’ve ever successfully caught a mouse in an old fashioned trap. A vermin that used to disgust you until it stayed and you gave it a name. And then your mom has to turn you away from the sight of Jacque’s tiny body cleaved in two. 

“Get those fucking clothes off, now.” He orders you, palming himself through his khakis. "And toys don't talk back."

You roll your eyes and comply. You ignore Rafe's ramblings about how he wished his dad made you wear one of those skimpy made costumes without underwear, that he way he could stare at your pussy whenever you bent over. The door is wide open, you know you could just make a break for it if you wanted. But you kind of like how the humiliation twists your stomach in a knot. The air in the room gets so much hotter when you focus on the large bulge in front of your face.

As soon as your uniform is lying on the hardwood floor in a rumpled heap, your tits are being squished together. Rafe takes several moments to weigh each globe of flesh in his hands.

"Pretty tits, always wondered what they looked like under that stupid uniform. Wanted to make a mess of you so bad but you had to be all fuckin' stuck up and prissy." He hisses, digging his nails into your breasts.

He massages them in circular motions, forcing them to press together like he could cum untouched to the sight of it alone.

You obediently stay silent as you watch Rafe stagger to his feet and wrestle his leather belt out of his pants. His bottom lip is being toyed with to the point that tiny drops of blood are peeking out of the skin. The leather makes a thwack! sound as it passes through the final belt loop and flops around. Rafe continues to eye your tits like a hawk as he wraps the belt around his hand and kneels down to your level.

He tilts your head up with one finger under your chin, "This is going around your neck, okay? I don't have a leash to go with it, but I'll get one for next time."

You open your mouth to speak or maybe to moan at the vision of the expensive leather tensely coiled around your vulnerable neck like a snake about to strike. The warning look he gives you shut you up, but your damp panties made you want to push him further.

"Don't move a muscle."

The belt was warm to the touch, probably because of all the hours Rafe had spent on the golf course or wherever his "business" takes him. You stay perfectly still as he curled it around your neck, having to wrap it around you again due to the length. The metal belt buckle clicked as he fastens it, tugging it firmly to test how tight it was. It definitely feels like a weight baring down on you, but you seem to be able to breathe so he steps back again.

"There we go, pretty bitch just for me."

His pants fall to the ground unceremoniously, revealing the cock you may have had a stray wet dream or two about. Crowned by neatly and clearly obsessively trimmed hair, it looks about 7 inches and thicker than your forearm. His cock has a slight left curve, with a couple prominent veins and an almost reddish-pink colored tip that puffs out at the sides a bit.

Rafe's cockhead catches the drool that embarrassingly leaks out of your mouth, and you kitten lick the slit as you stare up at him through your lashes. You want to smile at the punched-out groan emanating from above you, but he might slap you for getting cocky, it wouldn't be unwelcome.

"You like it, babe? Yeah, I bet you do."

He brings your hands up to your tits and you pick up on what he wants you to do. Anticipating Rafe Cameron's needs is part of your job after all. You scrape the sides of your chipped painted nails against them as you softly cup and squish the globes together, creating a perfect pocket for him.

"Good girl." He chuckles, ruffling your hair like you were his pet.

He savors the wet slide of his cock through the valley of your breasts. You hold them impossibly closer together, ignoring the discomfort by getting lost in the game of peek a boo his tip is playing with you during every thrust. A near constant stream of precum is flowing from the silt and ending up all over the tops of your tits.

Rafe pants as he speeds up his thrusts, his pupils expanding as he takes in the spectacle of you hot dogging him with your tits. For how preppy he likes to act sometimes, he sure does seem to enjoy painting you with his bodily fluids. He weaves his hands down from their deadly hold on your hair to pinch and flick your nipples.

" 'G-gonna cream all over these gorgeous tits, get them messy, then snort some coke off your nipples after.”

It doesn't take as long as a man like him would prefer before he's spilling all over your heaving chest with a sound so inhuman you'd think he was possessed.

You're past caring if he sees you hungrily open your mouth as wide as possible in the hopes of catching some of his cum in your mouth. You grind your sopping wet cunt against the floor when you do, and fuck it tastes better than it has any right to.

A quiet 'shit' rings out and the room spins as you're swiftly flipped on your stomach. Rafe crowds behind you and yanks your hips up. You don't think much of it until you feel warm breath on your ass. You jolt in surprise, and he gives you a light smack on both cheeks before spreading them with his thumb.

"Bet you thought I wanted your pussy, huh? Well, this tiny hole right here looks much cuter, you can't blame me. We'll get you some cute plugs." Followed by a flat tongue licking a stripe over your rim. He gives your hole a strangely soft peck and then teases the tip of his tongue past the entrance.

You squeal, which you'd be mortified by if the sensation of Rafe's tongue filling up your ass didn't feel so good. The way he curls it and jabs it deeper between your cheeks in short busts is running a huge risk of causing you to go insane. It's like he's exploring every nook and cranny, you should be laughing because the man that treats you like a back-alley whore is up to his ears in your ass. His groans and grunts are muffled but they give you the confidence to be louder.

He drags his face away and hangs his tongue over you until a load of saliva drips down onto you. You shiver when it meets your hole. A high-pitched moan comes out when he massages it into the puckered skin with his thumb.

He dots sloppy open-mouthed kisses up and down your rim, nipping the flesh as he goes.

"I would say it's gonna be too tight, but sluts like you can take anything, right?"

You're too busy nodding to notice the sound of shoes hitting the floor in their rush to get away, or that the person wearing them softly closes the door behind them.

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ Venus in Cyprus ♡

♡ Pairing: boyfriend!hyunjin x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: smut

♡ Summary: A peek inside your boyfriend's mind and heart when he's making love to you. Told from Hyunjin's point of view.

♡ Word Count: 721

Warnings: unprotected sex & that's all, darlings

A/N: I wrote this to break my writer's block. I've never written anything from a male's POV before, let alone a male idol so let me know what you think ♡

I’ve visited museums that some artists can only dream of stepping foot in. The Musée du Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. The Tate Modern in London. The Uffizi Gallery in Florence. I’ve been inches away from Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” painting, depicting the arrival of the goddess of love herself to the island of Cyprus.

Its beauty is enough to bring some to tears but it’s nothing more than pigmented egg yolk on canvas, dull and unremarkable when compared to you. With you staring up at me, your eyes oceanic trenches of eternal admiration, the rest of the world falls away. I drown in them...in you.

I gently brush my finger along the line where your lips meet. They’re like velvet against my thumb. They part, the air stolen from my own lungs filling yours as I sink into you. Your body welcomes me into your warmth, eagerly swallowing my length inch by inch until you have all of me. My body trembles as my mouth meets yours.

I can feel your smile. A tiny one at first. The corners of your mouth barely lift. You clench around me. Release. Clench. Release. Your smile grows wider the deeper I groan. You know what you do to me. You love it. And so do I. Your hands skim my bare chest, arms coming around to trace my spine with your fingertips.

“Hyunjin” you gasp, the pressure of my throbbing tip hitting that one perfect spot overloading your senses. “Hyunjin.” My name’s sugar cane on your lips. I crave the sound of it. I lift you from the bed just enough to take two handfuls of your lush ass into my hands. I grip you tightly, securing you in place, and thrust into you harder.

“Say it again. My name.” Please don’t make me beg because I will. Anything to hear you say it. “Hyunjin” you’re moaning, hips raising to meet mine. I trail kisses down your neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and saffron permeating from your soft skin. Your fingers are tangled in my hair now, delicately tugging at my hair, guiding me along your collarbone.

Between your cleavage. To the rise of your succulent breasts where your buds stiffen to meet the textured surface of my tongue. I free a hand up to caress your breast as I lap at your delicious bud, pausing every now and then to watch it glisten with a thick coating of my spit. You twist beneath me, your body too lost in pleasure to know what to do with itself.

I can feel your heart racing, a rhythm I could mimic in my sleep like the notes of my favorite song. You’re soaking wet. I can feel your juices dripping down my shaft. Coating my balls. Making such a mess of your plush thighs. My hands, they have to travel. Explore the gentle curves of your body. I’m a slave to the way your soft body gives to my touch.

Addicted to tracing every stretch mark. Nibbling on the plumpest, sweetest parts of your figure. No paintbrush in the world can mimic the art of a body so tempting I’d give my whole being simply to lay eyes on it. You say my name again. Broken. Laced with need. You whisper to me, my lips at your neck once more, how close you are but I know. By the fluttering of your walls and the arch of your back.

I sneak an arm between us, stroking your firm clit with two of my fingers. Your nails dig into me, tearing skin, leaving behind an abstract message that I am, in fact, yours. Yours when your body tightens and twists, your whimpers flowing through the air. Yours when the ecstasy of your high has you trashing. Screaming. Incoherent. Nectar rushing from your pussy like a waterfall. Majestic and powerful all at once.

Yours when your sweat slicked body relaxes in my arms, those angelic eyes staring up at me with the same admiration as before. “I…” you start but your voice cracks. You clear your throat, shaky hands cradling my face like I’m some precious thing, “I love you.” And I love you. My work of art. My Musee du Louvre. My Musee d’Orsay. My Venus in Cyprus. 

I love you too.

[stardust948]

Frenemies AU angst

(I found this in my drafts and decided to post it. Based off this post.)

Iroh is a senior in military school or already in the military. The parents gaang is junior year in HS so around 16 and 17

Ozai still lives with Azulon but Azulon is hardly at home bc of work. When he is there or when Ozai knows he’s coming soon, he just doesn’t come back until he leaves again. Either stays with Ursa in her RV or roams around town in his car. Later stays with Hakoda and Bato when they become closer friends.

Azulon blames Ozai for Ilah’s death since she died during childbirth. He’s always been emotionally and verbally abusive to Ozai but it didn’t get physical until Iroh left for military boarding school. Ozai was 8-10ish. Mainly involved being burned or tased, which left less of physical scars.

There was a big fight between the two when Ozai announced he wanted to go to Republic Arts high school and pursue a career as a musician. Azulon wanted Ozai to follow his footsteps and go to military school like Iroh. But he backed off after Iroh vouched for his brother. Still, he refused to pay for the school but Ozai earned a scholarship and Iroh covered the rest. Ozai swore up and down he’d pay him back but Iroh just told him to give him free backstage access to his concerts and they’re even. Azulon and Ozai avoided each other after that; strangers in the same home. They physical abuse ended but the threat was still there and the mental scars lasting.

After the incident at the contest, Ursa finds Ozai sitting in his car at the school’s parking lot. She knows better to ask if he’s alright or what was wrong. Instead, she tells him to get into her car and they go back to her RV. There, they spend the rest of the night watching movies and cuddling. Ozai’s feeling somewhat better in the morning; able to speak some but not back to his usual loveable a-hole self. Though he is confused to receive a text from Hakoda of all people checking on him.

Hakoda: Hey man, you good?

Ozai: Are you seriously asking me if I’m good after burning a layer of my skin off?

Hakoda: You kinda just left after without a word.

Ozai: Because I burned a layer of my skin off.

Hakoda: Ozai, I’ve seen you explode over someone using your special pen without permission but you just shut down after burning your hand. Are you sure you’re okay?

Ozai: Who won?

Hakoda: Poppy.

Ozai: We’re going to be hearing about that for all next week.

Hakoda: She was pretty worried about you. We all were. You know, you can talk to me if you want.

Ozai: I just wanted to know who won. Now stop bothering me or I’m blocking you.  

Ozai closed his phone. Just then Ursa stuck her head through the door.

“Hey, my mom made pancakes. You want any?”

Ozai shook his head.

“Alright honey. Keep an eye on my children. I’ll be right back.”

Ozai smiled some as he rolled his eyes. Ursa always referred to her hoard of plants and succulents as her children. Still exhausted, he laid back down and pulled the cover over his head. Out of curiosity, he check his phone one last time.

Hakoda: Ok. See at school.

Ozai powered down his phone. He didn’t have the energy to be annoyed. He ran a hand along the bandages before drifting back to sleep.

///

The conversation they had in the janitor’s closet came flooding back. Hakoda’s seen Ozai fly off the rail many times, but that was the first time he looked guenically hurt. Hakoda’s clumsy joke about Dads also didn’t help. Hakoda cringed at the memory.

His mind drifted to the events after. The dark play Ozai wrote about the little boy slowly dying in the burning building wishing only to see his father again. Finally meeting Ozai’s father with his cold exterior and calculating eyes that made even the brash self-confident Ozai shrink back. And to top it off, Ozai saying he’d never seen his father look happier.

Hakoda didn’t know what to think at the time. He just assumed Azulon was like his father, criticizing his every move and lamenting how he wasn’t good enough.

///

Ozai refuses to bring it up despites Ursa’s suggestions of seeking professional help, even after he and Ursa wed and had children. Not until he lost his temper with Zuko and almost burned him like Azulon. Zuko’s horrified scream snapped Ozai out of it last second. Falling back onto old habits, Ozai took shelter in his car for the night and wept bitterly. Ursa finds him and directly tells him to get help which he finally relents.

It's very slow going but beneficial in the long run. Most importantly, his children never saw that side of Ozai again.

@waterfire1848

[themagicalkidproject]

If I may request the Transmascfem flag with a magician theme.

I have a few too many Magician Magical Kids, and I’d already designed this kid when it was requested, but I felt this was close enough!

This Magical Kid was requested by both Anonymous and @mogai-angels!

Transfemmasc is a term describing someone who is both Transfem and Transmasc, for any reason- this Magical Kid in particular is AXAB! This variant of the flag was created by @beyond-mogai-pride-flags!

This Magical Kid has a Unicorn Theme! She uses She/He/They Pronouns!

His name is Amalthea, after the main character of The Last Unicorn, but they also go by Farrow! She can heal any physical sickness and poisons at a touch- while this only rarely has effect on the battlefield, Amalthea puts their services to use at hospitals and clinics. They’re trying to prove that a Magical Kid’s power can change if they can convince Glass that it makes sense, and has been locked in a years long stalemate with Glass about whether or not her powers can aid with learned behavior from abuse under the definition of poison.

He’s gaining headway, which is the most surprising part of it all.

Their Magical Kid Weapon is a Handheld Mirror that shows the motivations of whoever it’s pointed at. If anyone other than Farrow touches it, it has the consistency of water and their fingertips sink through the surface. Again, not very useful on the battlefield, but Farrow is especially useful at using her weapon to expose abusers and other vile people. They can then use their power as a citizen (technically) to perform a citizen’s arrest, and his mirror is used as evidence.

A useless fact about her is that there have been several other Transfemmasc Magical Kids before, but the exact number is unknown. Each one is memorialized as a star on his dress as a show of their sacrifice. Because of the high number of mortalities, Amalthea believes Glass purposefully gave her essentially combat-useless powers and a functionally useless weapon in order to keep them in civillian work.

The Magical Kid Project is a project wherein I steadily turn Pride Flags into Magical Kids! You can request a Flag and Theme through Comments, Reblogs, or Asks! Commission info is under the #commissions tag, I have a deal on Magical Kid Portraits!

(AN: Alright guys, I’m back. I got cast in my school’s play recently (I’m a clown!!) and all my spare time has essentially been spend making sure that goes well. I’ve been super Art blocked, but it looks like I’ve got it unclogged finally.)

[pers-books]

The Observer Peter Capaldi

‘The government has been too terrible to make fun of’: Peter Capaldi on satire, politics and privilege

📷 ‘I’ve had to pretend to be more amenable’: Peter Capaldi wears blazer by oliverspencer.co.uk; shirt by toa.st. Photograph: Simon Emmett/The Observer

Tom Lamont Sun 14 Jan 2024 08.00 GMT

One winter morning, a Doctor Who comes calling. The Glaswegian actor Peter Capaldi lives about an hour’s walk from me and instead of us meeting in some midway café, the 65-year-old wanders over (leather booted, woolly jumpered, cloaked in a dark winter coat that sets off his pale-grey hair) to have coffee at my kitchen table. My son is off school with flu, medicating on Marvel movies and barely able to believe his luck as the actorly embodiment of an alien superhero wanders through our flat. While we’re waiting for the kettle to boil, I ask Capaldi whether he ran into any other Doctor Whos on his walk through the actorland that is suburban north London.

He grins an unguarded grin you don’t often see on screen. Capaldi became famous as the permanently angry spin doctor Malcolm Tucker in the BBC comedy The Thick of It, which ran from 2005 to 2012 and, after that, between 2013 and 2017, he played the sternest, least imp-ish Doctor Who in decades. In his new Apple TV show, a police procedural called Criminal Record, which Capaldi co-produced with his wife, Elaine Collins, he stars as an ageing detective: another scowler. Now, coffee in hand, he smiles affectionately. So, did he bump into any other Doctor Whos this morning? “David [Tennant, 10th Doctor] used to live in Crouch End, near me. Matt [Smith, 11th Doctor] lives around here. Jodie [Whittaker, 13th Doctor] is nearby, Christopher [Eccleston, 9th Doctor] too, I think.” But no, no encounters with his fellow alumni this morning, Capaldi says.

📷 ‘You can’t be the cynical melancholic I naturally am’: Peter Capaldi wears coat by Mr P (mrporter.com); jumper by uniqlo.com; trousers by reiss.com; and shoes by johnlobb.com. Photograph: Simon Emmett/The Observer

“You do run into each other. You have a laugh, a gossip, you share. There aren’t a lot of people who have been in that role in the centre of that storm. Most people think the job is being on the Tardis and running around with Daleks. Which it is. That’s the fun part. But there’s a lot of other stuff you have to do, too. You’re kind of the face of the brand and the brand is very big. You can’t be the cynical melancholic I naturally am. You have to pretend to be a version of yourself that’s far more amenable.”

Is it a bit like being the Queen?

“Kind of,” he says. “You embody for a time this folk hero, this icon. I was able to comfort people in a way that would be beyond the powers of Peter. You could walk into a room and people gasped with delight. It doesn’t happen any more.”

Capaldi grew up in 1960s and 1970s Glasgow. His Italian-Scottish family lived in a tenement block. “We had nothing. We had zilch.” From a young age he exhibited signs of artistic talent, though he characterises himself, then and now, as a seven- or eight-out-of-10 at various crafts. “When I was young, I was good at drawing. My grandmother used to say that came from Italy. She felt that I was an absolute throwback to Leonardo da Vinci – her direct line to Michelangelo! It confused me because I wanted to do these other things, play music, act – which one was I supposed to do?”

📷 Great Scot: Peter Capaldi wears blazer by ralphlauren.co.uk. Photograph: Simon Emmett/The Observer

After graduating school at 18, this confused cross-artistic trajectory continued. “I tried to be an actor, but I didn’t get into drama school, so I went to art school. When I was at art school, I joined a band.” In his early 20s, Capaldi released a single as part of a group called Dreamboys; then he quit music and spent most of his 20s acting, getting small jobs in theatre and TV as well as a walk-on part opposite John Malkovich in 1988’s Dangerous Liaisons. In his 30s, he decided to concentrate on directing.

In 1993, a short film he directed, Franz Kafka’s It’s a Wonderful Life, won him an Oscar, industry recognition that launched Capaldi off on a heady but doomed sojourn in America. Well caffeinated and gripping the edge of my kitchen table to tell the story, he recalls what happened when he was courted as a hot prospect by the Weinstein brothers, Bob and Harvey, then the co-presidents of Miramax and at the height of their power and influence. Capaldi spent a year working on a screenplay for them, at the end of which Bob flew him out to Manhattan to discuss casting and production. As far as Capaldi was concerned it was a formality; bottles of champagne were cooling at home.“I thought I was off and away.”

📷 Feel the heat: in The Thick of it. Photograph: Everett Collection/Alamy

Miramax sent a limo to pick him up from the airport. “I fell into conversation with the driver, lovely man, Ralph. When I got out of the car I gave him a big tip. Because I was a big shot now, you see. Then Ralph said: ‘I’ve been told to wait for you here.’” Uh oh. “Inside, all the people in the office were avoiding my eye. Bob said, ‘I’ll come straight to it, we’re not gonna do the movie, my brother Harvey says he doesn’t know how to sell it.’ He said, ‘But we love you! You’re one of the family! You’ll always have a place here!’ Needless to say, I never heard from him again. Obviously, while I was in the air they’d had a discussion and changed their minds. I was so dumbfounded as I climbed back into the limo I just laughed. I had no money, because we’d bought a little house in Crouch End, and I had no career, because I’d turned my back on acting.”

In a gesture that Capaldi has never forgotten, Ralph the limo driver tried to give him back his big tip.

As we chat, the postman rings the bell, delivering packages. Council tree surgeons are working on the road outside. My son needs water, words of comfort, possibly he just wants another good long look at Capaldi. I’ve never interviewed anyone in my own home before and the limitations of the format are becoming apparent. But Capaldi seems to respond well to the setting and its lack of frills. His adult daughter and her family have been visiting, brand new baby in tow. When I apologise for all the noise and interruptions, Capaldi says it’s nothing compared to a newborn.

📷 Fun fact: in Paddington 2. Photograph: Supplied by LMK

He and Collins were young parents themselves when his directing career fell apart. Arriving back in London from the disastrous Manhattan trip, “The initial feeling was shock. Then a pragmatic survival instinct kicked in.” Capaldi rejoined the auditioning circuit. “I was a psychiatrist in Midsomer Murders. I was a beekeeper in Poirot – AN Other Actor. Someone else would have turned down these parts first.” Collins, until that point an actor, too, decided to pivot into development and production, a career move that has worked well for her.

Artists often do their best work while they’re at their lowest, perhaps because they feel they haven’t much to lose, little to be afraid of. Sloping into a Soho audition room in the mid-2000s to meet Armando Iannucci about a new political comedy, Capaldi remembers being in a foul mood. He’d just come from an unsuccessful audition for another BBC show, “being taped like I was Vivien Leigh reading for Scarlett O’Hara”. He remained grumpy when Iannucci admitted there wasn’t yet a script for The Thick of It, they were going to try improvising instead. “I knew Armando was supposed to be a comedy genius, but at that moment I was, like, ‘Yeah? Let’s see some of your comedy genius then. Fucking show me what you’ve got, you Oxbridge twat.’ My whole attitude that day was essentially Malcolm Tucker’s, and it informed the improvisation we did.”

📷 Folk Hero: in his new series Criminal Record. Photograph: Ben Meadows/Apple

When The Thick of It debuted, Capaldi entered the sitcom pantheon overnight. Revisiting episode one, what’s glaring is how fully formed, how exquisite a character Tucker is. Alan Partridge, Samantha Jones, Frasier Crane, David Brent … these creations had to be discovered over time by their actors and writers. With Tucker it’s all there from word one, the controlled fury, the foul-mouthed eloquence, that constant convenient deployment of hypocrisy. Capaldi played the part for seven years, winning a Bafta mid-run. It led to other memorable gigs, as a news producer in 2012’s The Hour and as Count Richelieu in a 2014 adaptation of the Musketeers story. He was Mister Micawber in Iannucci’s 2019 reimagining of David Copperfield, a fun role that was bookended by two equally fun Paddington movies, released in 2014 and 2017.

Promoting these projects, Capaldi would be asked to give a view on political events of the day, as seen through the eyes of the character who made his career. What would Malcolm Tucker think of Brexit, or the pandemic response, or the premierships of Johnson or Truss? Capaldi long ago stopped answering these questions. “For one thing, I need about 10 writers, Tony Roach and Jesse Armstrong among them, to supply Malcolm’s bon mots. But more than that, I think these [recent Conservative] governments have been too terrible to make fun of. I think they’ve been incompetent and corrupt and I’m not going to make jokes to give them time off.”

📷 ‘You’re the face of the brand and the brand is very big’: playing Doctor Who. Photograph: Everett Collection Inc/Alamy

We talk about how weird it is that political satire should have fallen into abeyance in the 2020s – perhaps because, as Capaldi says, “things have been too bad to make fun of. Making fun normalises situations I don’t think should be normalised. The planet is burning. They’re pumping shit into the rivers. I’m not gonna be part of making jokes about that… All this highfalutin life I’ve had,” he says, of the awards parties, the film roles, the immortal runs as a sweary spin doctor and an inscrutable Doctor Who, “is because I went to art school. My parents couldn’t afford to send me. I went because the government of the day paid for me to go and I didn’t have to pay them back. There was a thrusting society then, a society that tried to improve itself. Yes, of course, it cost money. But so what? It allowed people from any kind of background to learn about Shakespeare, or Vermeer, or whatever they wanted to learn about. Why did we lose this, this belief in ourselves?”

For Capaldi, the world of acting feels narrower now, meaner in a way that seems to mirror British society at large. He thinks of his industry as one in which subtle discriminations hold sway and “gatekeepers and Aztecs still decree who shall be admitted… I think there’s a real problem. There isn’t the funding or support for young people from poorer backgrounds to get into the theatre. And indeed there aren’t the theatres.” He wonders about the teenage Anthony Hopkinses out there, talented, without the obvious means or encouragement to train in the arts. And the inverse, actors who Capaldi, in his frank and acid way, characterises as privileged duds.

📷 Shared vision: with his wife and co-producer Elaine. Photograph: Trinity Mirror/Mirrorpix/Alamy

“This business is full of people who are not the real thing,” he says, “people I perceived to be artists ’cos they had posh accents, but who didn’t have it, they just sounded like they did.” He goes on to tell a tantalising but intentionally vague story about a major star he worked with, someone who revealed themselves through the course of an acting collaboration to be a dud hiding in plain sight. He won’t provide details (“Too easy to figure out. When everyone’s dead I’ll tell you”), but he says the experience changed him professionally, leaving him more aware of his own limitations, but grateful to have a little vinegar and grit in the mix. “There’s a kind of smoothness, a kind of confidence that comes from a good [paid-for] school. That’s what you’re struck by: they seem to know how to move through the world recognising which battle to fight, where to press their attentions. But it can make the acting smooth, which to me is tedious. I like more neurosis. More fear. More trouble, you know?”

I think this part of his skillset expressed itself well during the three-season run on Doctor Who, when Capaldi was prepared to come across as remote, a little unreachable. “I don’t set out to make the audience like me,” he says. “Because my characters don’t know an audience is there.” For me, his high point as the Doctor was an episode called Heaven’s Gate, a chronology-stretching tale written by Steven Moffatt in which the Doctor is set a sisyphean task of endurance that lasts about 50 minutes or so in screen time and several millennia in narrative terms. Capaldi didn’t play it as a hero. He wasn’t charming or boyish. In this episode especially, he was grim and patient and knackered. It was a rare occasion when the character, apparently alive for hundreds of years, seemed old.

📷 Burning bright: with John Malkovich in Dangerous Liaisons. Photograph: Everett Collection/Alamy

In the new TV show, Criminal Record, he explores a more mortal kind of ageing, life’s third act, its inevitable professional humblings. Capaldi plays a London DCI in his 60s, coming to the end of a career, already moonlighting as a private security contractor, intimidated by the thrust and purpose of a younger colleague at the Met played by Cush Jumbo. As Jumbo’s character grows in confidence, Capaldi’s shrinks. It is a paradox of experience he can relate to. “I find the older I get, the closer I am to who I was,” he says.

I ask him to explain.

“Like I’m returning to… ‘roots’ is the wrong word. I feel more and more like my mother and father, more and more keenly aware of the values they had.” He provides an interesting example, how he has become all thumbs around the act of tipping in restaurants: “I can be in a complete sweat about that.” He can imagine his parents, both dead now, in a similar muddle. “From the background we come from, you can have a bit of anxiety about coming across as grand. So you have to allay that by making sure you are communicating with everybody, all the time.”

Capaldi shakes his head, chuckling softly. He has finished his coffee. He’s about to put on his big coat, say goodbye to my son, and walk back through Whoville to his home and his family. Before he leaves we return to the subject of actors from privileged backgrounds. He says he feels mean, like he took unfair advantage of them in their absence. “It’s not their fault,” he says. “It’s just that there’s less and less of my lot in the arts.” And this concerns him, he continues, because “people of all backgrounds are sophisticated, are interesting, are equally prone to tragedy and joy. Any art that articulates that is a comfort. Art is the ultimate expression of you are not alone, wherever you are, whatever situation you are in. Art is about reaching out. So I think it’s wrong to allow one strata of society to have the most access.”

He nods, feeling he’s expressed himself better. I agree.

Criminal Record is streaming now on Apple TV+, with new episodes every Wednesday

Fashion editor Helen Seamons; Grooming by Kenneth Soh at The Wall Group using Eighth Day; fashion assistant Sam Deaman; photography assistants Tom Frimley and Tilly Pearson; shot at Loft Studio.

[cup1dt3a]

How does the 1st year ob look like? I mean, what outfit/accessories are they wearing?

So basically I am actually working on some concepts for this but here are a few I have came up with. Hope you like them! I didn’t do a full design due to a time limit and art block please forgive me.

Adeuce duo they basically have the markings of their respective card suits on their head. Their markings downward are kind of like helmets too. But they both still have the heart/spade on the corners of their eyes.

With Aces overal design I had wanted it to be like a jerster and soldier like outfit. Because I had loved the traitor Ace theorys and some particular designs of his ob form had stood out to me a lot. But I had taken a lot of inspiration from the card soldiers from Alice in wonderland a lot.

With Deuce I wanted his more delinquent side to show throughout his appearance. Because his delinquent years were a big part in his life. A part that he tries to repress so I just thought what if he hadn’t changed? What if he was just very impulsive and didn’t hold back his tounge on snarky comments like Ace. So I have just been looking for the most grunge and delinquent styles I could find for him. His messy hair was kept since he probably doesn’t care that much for appearances. I had given him chains as his neck mark and to surround him. Because of his gangster persona and as a symbol of the weight of guilt he carries from seeing how upset his poor mother was. Not even bothering to change his ways because he was too deep into it and went “ FUCK GRANDMA!”

Epel like deuce would be a menace. For he must have a lot of built up gender dysphoria and hatred from always being called a girl. Even after constantly stating it to others only for them to still call him girly. So I wanted to give him a very delinquent-y look along with a long cloak since he is obviously inspired by the old lady queen? I forgot the name but anyways I wanted you to convey that through giving him a more intimating and messy look to convey how manly he is. Along with the fact he doesn’t care for his appearance either and is just a messy and chaotic farm boy. His blot markings are very similar to Vil’s but extremely messy and he has splashed markings everywhere on him.

Jack I am not too sure for his reasons of overblotting. Because sure you could have a good supportive family and childhood but still have issues. So I’d say that he maybe overused his powers to a point he had overblotted. But he is an obvious leader of the group due to him always keeping them in check. So I’d see his overblot form showing his animalistic side a lot more. Id keep his little shark tooth? Or fang necklace. But adding more fur onto him for a more animalistic look. Along with his very complex hair being more disheveled to add to his blot form looking very over worked. I’ve added the three scratches on his nose because of Leona.

Sebek… it’s just very obvious that he was bullied as a child for being half human. Due to Briar Valleys rarity of humans being there so he probably would have occasionally been bullied or felt different from the rest of the kids there. This would result in his self hatred. So his adoration for malleus besides his strength and other admirable characteristics would probably also be because he’s living perfection in his eyes. So his human racism would be at its max! But his loyalty to Malleus would still shine throughout his design because of how devoted he is to him. So most of his outfit would contain little accessories similar to malleus but expressed in Sebeks own unique way. Along with his reptilian looks shining through so he would most definitely have many inky and real scales around his face and body. Kinda like freckles for example.

I haven’t gotten his yet due to running out of time but still hopefully you all enjoyed this and are having a good day/ have your day get better! Sincerely Cup1d T3a💕

@simping-on-the-daily Got you some food!

[essie007]

Wheel of Time Season 2 Thoughts

Now that the season is over and I’ve had a few days to process I thought I’d put some of my thoughts about the season. No major book spoilers but I do make mention to some of the changes they’ve made while adapting the first two books. I might make a more book spoilery post later.

-Overall I really enjoyed the season. I think it was well written, tight and delivered both storywise and character wise. The costuming, special effects and art direction continues to be top tier and I found the season highly watchable and compelling. I did not love absolutely every moment and decision and definitely have a few nitpicks but as a whole I really liked it. I will say that I think a lot of the issues I did have with the season can be boiled down to the limited amount of time they had to tell the story they needed to tell. I really think this show would benefit from at least 10 episodes and season if not more, and I know that’s an opinion many have echoed.

- I loved all the White Tower stuff in the first half of the season. It was a good set-up for tower politics, different factions, how The One Power works and it introduced us to a lot of important characters.

-Hi Elayne! I love you and you are perfect girl!

-Nyneave’s Tower story and block was A+

-I personally didn’t mind Siuan’s book scenes being given to Liandrin. I think it was necessary to tell the story they needed to tell in the time they needed to tell it. And I thought Liandrin’s whole story, the explanation of why she turned to the Black Ajah was interesting both to make her a more compelling villain and to set up the stakes of the universe. We need to be worried that our heroes will choose the dark at some point, and for that to be a real threat we need good reasons why other have. All of her scenes were great. Loved her scenes with Nyneave, Egwene and Lanfear. And her petty fighting with Suroth. *chef’s kiss*

-I’m just gonna say it ok? Are you ready? I LOVE show!Alanna. Book fans can give me the stink eye if they want, but as she’s been portrayed on screen so far she rocks. The actress is incredible and the writing has done an excellent job as setting her up as a genuine, moral, strong and honestly necessary pillar of light in the dark. You really feel she is fighting on the side of good with everything she has, no matter what it costs her. She’s also a genuinely good teacher in the Tower! The way she fights for the girls, and for Moiraine, and later for Rand. We love to see it. Her story in many ways mirrors Moraine’s. The show has done a very good job of making her a character that you are strongly empathizing with and rooting for. And honestly book knowledge has only made me feel that more strongly. Knowing how many darkfriends she is holding the line against, you FEEL how necessary and important the work she does is. And I am starting to understand how she, like Moiraine and Siuan this season, and Rand in the story to come, might start feeling weighed down by that. My girl fits right in with the themes of the story. Sorry not sorry. I am weak for MILFs.

-Egwene’s entire storyline this season kicked ass. I think she had, hands down, the best story arc from beginning to end. I have very little to say about it because it was all perfectly done. And when she killed Rena, instead of sparing her like you’re expecting, oh boy did I cheer.

-Rand’s storyline, if you knew who Lanfear was from the outset was fun all the way through. Though I have it on good authority from @steel-wings that if you went in blind, it was quite slow in the beginning. I do have to say that the introduction to Rand this season being “he’s sleeping with an innkeeper for room and board” was the funniest and best thing I have ever seen. Dana The Darkfired from last season continues to give. No honestly, this is genuine foreshadowing (Selene is also *gasp* a Darkfriend) and character work. They decided to show Rand’s declining mental state and self esteem by contrasting how willing he was to sugarbaby this season with how against it he was last season. 10/10 no notes.

-Rand is a Mental Health Worker! I’m going to cry! Yes I know he has reasons for doing this but watching Rand with that old man, knowing he’s been doing this job for almost a year. Excuse me I need a moment.

-The Lanfear reveal kicked ass. She is so crazy and so evil and so manipulative. Love to see it in a villain. The scene where she “learns” Rand can channel was honestly hilarious. Although this was the moment that @steel-wings lost her patience with the storyline.

Steelwings: Ugh. This is so boring. She’s just there for his manpain. I can’t watch any more of this. It would have been better if she was evil.

Me knowing my wife is at the end of her patience and is about to abandon this show I love but not knowing how long they’re planning to draw the reveal out, pausing the tv: Do you want me to spoil you?

Steelwings: Yes! Spoil me! PLEASE tell me she’s evil.

Me: She’s evil :D She’s the most evil bitch whose ever lived. She’s so evil and so crazy and so manipulative. She’s Oppenheimer if he worshipped the devil and *horrifying spoilers*

Steelwings settling back in to watch: Love that for her. 🙂

-Perrin’s storyline was the least ineteresting and slowest of the mains but with the rest of the show so jam packed it felt like a nice break in some ways to have some breathing room with Perrin. We’ve got Egwene being tortured by the Seanchan and Mat being tortured by the Forsaken and Rand being imprisoned by the Amyrlin. Meanwhile, Perrin has met a cute girl and a dog. Good for him.

-MAAAAT. MAT! My baby boy Mat Cauthon. You are having a no good very bad life huh? And it’s only season 2 *cries* I did love the way he turned the dagger into a spear there at the end and also…HE’S A HERO OF THE HORN! I thought that was a perfect choice. Really made sense with his storyline and character arc. It also gives them a really good plot excuse for him to suddenly know how to fight with his big stick. Mat’s “I remember” and his Old Tongue and his immediate military Glow Up. So good. So fun. I will be screaming forever.

-Speaking of screaming forever the Cauthor reunion had me screaming and crying and dying. I will never be the same. It was giving big stars fading (but i linger on) by @butterflydm vibes. If you haven’t read it, it’s a fic that also adapts The Great Hunt as season 2 by saying “what if Rand just hung around Carhein playing Sugar Baby and getting dicked down while everyone else hunted for the horn?” (It’s really good and you should read it.) Hey @butterflydm how does it feel to be so smart and correct all the time?

-I was expecting the Mat stabs Rand moment to be caused by Compulsion, not friendly fire. It would have given him a really good reason to go searching for something to protect him from the OP in the future. But I’m not mad. We got some top tier cradling out of it. Although this is the second time Ishy has pulled that move (the first was with Rand at the Eye). Boy is not an original thinker.

-I know a lot of people were sad that Rand did not get cool sword battles this season. And look, I get it, the books lean hard in to the cool power fantasy moments with Rand, so if that’s your thing and what you came for, this show probably is letting you down. But I gotta say, as someone who has always been here for the characters and themes and narrative, I LOVE what they did with the battle here. AND with Rand’s learning curve.

-I love that Rand knows exactly one weave at this point, and that that weave is “make knife.” I LOVE that Lan is the one who taught it to him. (Miss me with your Lan hate.) I love that the first thing he did with it wasn’t fight an enemy but free Moiraine from her bonds, heal her, even though he’s not a healer. A knife is a tool and you can use it to heal or to fight. Just as Ryma used her healing weaves to rip Damane bodies apart, Rand uses his knife weaves to “heal.” I love that the second thing he uses that weave for IS to destroy Turak’s fighting force. I did not at all feel I had been robbed of a sword fight. I cheered! Excellent little Indiana Jones moment, right there. Rand WAS badass. And most of all I love that he wasn’t able to to defeat Ishmael on his own, that he needed Egwene and Perrin and Mat and Moiraine and Elayne and Nyneave. Like that’s the point! Lanfear is running around the city trying to dump the other Forsaken in the ocean. Ishmael is standing on that tower alone and betrayed with no allies. But Rand has friends! He has people who come to help him! And that is why he wins. That’s whole point. Hello theme of friendship and connection, I love you, never go anywhere.

-Also Moiraine being like I would kill thousands of people to help Rand made me snort and go “Ok Mom.” Yeah yeah scorched earth morality. Ruthlessness. She is on a mission to save the world even if she has to destroy the world in the process. But also Moiraine IS that meme from Parks and Rec. She has only had Rand Al’Thor for a year but if anything happens to him she will kill everyone in this room and then herself. Now fly the Dragon Banner.

-All that being said, there was one storyline this season that really did not hit for me, and I am sorry to say it was the Siuan Sanche of it all. I have spent a lot of time turning that episode over in my head and I still haven’t put all my thoughts together but ultimately I will say this. Yes, if you were expecting Siuan from the books her actions were definitely character assassination. She makes the exact opposite choices in the show. However, I understand why, both narratively and time wise those changes were made so I’m going to do my best to react to the story they told and the character they wrote, not the one I was expecting. The real problem I think with the story they told is that they didn’t give us enough time in Siuan’s POV and with Siuan’s story to really truly empathize with the decisions she’s making. We spend the episode in Rand and Moiraine’s POVs and honestly I think that’s a big mistake, because we don’t learn any new information about either of them. But in order for that moment at the end with Moiraine to truly be heartbreaking, in order for us to really understand why she’s imprisoning Rand at all we need to see her struggles and her fears and her beliefs. I talked earlier about how they do a good job showing what Alanna and Moiraine are up against but they needed to give us that with Siuan. We’re told she has enemies in the tower, we’re told she’s been depending on Moiraine and Rand to be the ace up her sleeve in the last battle, but we don’t see the emotional toll of that. And at the end there I think the writing needed to make it perfectly crystal clear that Siuan believes that Moiraine is black ajah. A casual viewer should understand and feel for Siuan who is doing this terrible thing because she believes she is saving the world, saving Rand, from a Forsaken and a darkfriend who has lied to her and betrayed her. But it's just not there. I understand that this plot point and this story serves a narrative purpose. It sets up Rand's relationship with the White Tower and the Aes Sedai as a whole. It draws a thematic parallel between the three Oaths and the Seanchan oaths and damane system. It brings up the theme of how power corrupts, how even good people who are doing their best to help the many, can use their power to do horrifying things when they believe it is necessary. But I think it still needed more set up and more character development and more room to breathe. I have…a lot more to say on the subject but I might need to make it it’s own post. I definitely think the writers have set themselves up for a headache when it comes to next season but that’s spoilers so I’ll end this here.

[shawtythatluvsurgut]

(If you’re a minor: go finish your english assignment, stop being thirsty, and get off this page.)

Welcome to my blog!

Introduction

I’m a dominant feeder from the United States. I’m a chef and I love to cook! Something that I love even more than cooking is feeding and fattening up feedees. I also love cats, nature, and art. I have an Onlyfans, so subscribe to see some spicy content 😈

Note:

Shitty behavior does NOT and will NOT fly here. That includes (but is not limited to): fatphobia, pedophilic behavior, promotion of violence, threats against myself or others, intimidation tactics, misogyny, lying/manipulating, ignoring the feelings of others, homophobia or any other type of bigotry, or attacking the feelings of others. I also will never share nudes with a soul on here because - let’s be real - a lot of mfs on this hellsite are not great people and I’m not down with that. Don’t bring that bullshit here. Don’t ask me to send you nudes. I will say no.

I will stand up for myself and others who I believe I should defend. If you don’t like that, you’re gonna hate it here so you might as well leave. I only want authentic, genuine, honest, good people following this blog. If that’s not you, don’t waste your time because I will see that and I will leave you on delivered. Don’t be rude or pushy; demanding or demeaning in my dms because that’s a great way to get ✨ blocked ✨

I also will not follow you back if you are a blank blog. No hate because I know some of them are not catfish accounts or scammers, but I still don’t trust blank tumblr blogs.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, here’s what you should know about me:

I’m a FFA and I have been for my entire life (The Santa Clause weight gain scene was my awakening and will forever hold a special place in my heart)

I am a feeder who has a feedee irl

I live in AZ

I’m an athlete and have been my whole life (collegiate level track sprinter)

I am bisexual. I like both men and women, but I lean more towards femininity

cats are the cutest animal on the planet

cats are also every other positive adjective you could use to describe a cat

I love my homies (this definitely includes internet-homies of mine) and I will defend them if I feel it necessary

I’m mad short and I’m mad about it. (Five foot three like are you fucking playing with me?! Give me a few more inches at least!!!)

I’m mad strong and can beat you up

I am an artist. My styles are realism, surrealism, and modern. I paint, draw, and write (though, it’s usually sexual fiction that I have kept to myself)

This blog is KINKY AS FUCK. I have a FAT FETISH. If you don’t like that, then leave because I literally did not ask! Here are things I am NOT into. I draw a hard line at these things:

• I am a dom through and through. Don’t send me asks implying otherwise because that makes me uncomfortable.

• ^^^ NO pet names or possessive language (ie: “my princess” or “my piggy”) (I don’t belong to any of you)

• NO age play

• NO rape/sa/abuse fantasies or you will be BLOCKED

• I want to reiterate: NO FATPHOBIA!!! I WILL COME FOR YOUR THROAT!!!!

• I’m not turned on by burps or farts, and especially not unsolicited nudes so please keep that stuff to yourself

• I’m not mean. I swear. I just know how I should be and deserve to be treated. I don’t tolerate bullshit because I don’t have the patience, nor is it my responsibility to teach anyone the basics of respect. Your lesson if you choose to cross my boundaries will be getting blocked by me, and I will simply continue on with my life.

• NO vore

• Not really into the expansion kink

• NO diaper, loli, or little kinks

• Do NOT message me if you are 40+ (because I’m too young for that)

• NO age play

• NO bossxemployee or teacherxstudent power dynamics

• NO death feedism (I stress this one because I want y’all to at least try to be a bit mindful of what you’re consuming large amounts of. I don’t want y’all dying on me)

I AM into:

• feedism

• feedism-related art/writing

• weight gain denial

• force feeding

• Shibari (bondage)

• femboys

• thicc/fat women and men

• submission (to me hehe)

• WEIGHT GAIN!!!!

• belly kink

If you are curious about whether or not I’m into anything not listed here, feel free to ask.

My social media handles are:

Instagram @feedernico

Tumblr @shawtythatluvsurgut

If you follow/message me on there, the same guidelines apply. Don’t try anything malicious over there because you will get exposed and blocked. Please message me on here before/when you request to follow so that I can accept it. If I change my handles at any time or get a new social media, I will update you guys here.

I use the hashtags #ffa #female feeder #fit female feeder and #it me on posts I make of myself. I also watermark every picture of me because I’m not about to deal with catfishing. I don’t fuck with that shady behavior, or any shady behavior. Don’t try to manipulate me because I can see past it. Don’t lie to me because I can see right through it.

Now that all is said and done…

Have fun and keep eating! 😈 I love and appreciate all of my respectful followers and I hope you all have a beautiful life!

[daydream-cement]

Hi! If you're still looking for prompts/requests to do with Fern X Larissa, I would love to see maybe the two of them walking around Jericho on a date or something and getting heckled because they're outcasts?

Also this might be a weird question but do you have a Kofi or a tip jar or something like that?

Freaks

Larissa Weems x OC (Fern Rogers)

Authors Note: This was an adorable little idea! Song for this oneshot would be Spurs by Madeline Edwards.

For those that don’t know, I have Buy Me A Coffee. So if you would like to buy me a coffee and support what I do, that is greatly appreciated.

“Sunday we could go over to Burlington. I’ve heard they have a new exhibit at the Fleming Art Museum…” Larissa suggested, after you asked what they should do for the weekend. You had been dating for a few weeks and everything was fresh and new. You were excited to do anything together.

“I saw something about that in the paper. The Dark Goddess photographs or the Rockwell Kent drawings?” You respond. It was the beginning of December and snow had yet to fall. It was probably a little too cold for a walk, but you and Larissa were enjoying a stroll through Jericho anyway.

You pulled yourself against her arm, happy to enjoy the warmth she exuded. Both of your hands gripped her bicep while her spare hand still carried a coffee from the Weathervane. While she didn’t enjoy public displays of affection, she couldn’t deny she loved having you close, “Dark Goddess, but I wouldn’t be apposed to Rockwell. You know when he was-“

Larissa’s sentence was stopped short when she noticed two men blocking your path. Their glares made their malicious intent evident. Your hands grasp at Larissa’s arm, communicating your nervousness at their presence.

Larissa didn’t seem phased. She continued walking, pulling you along with her. When Larissa attempted to move around them, that’s when they became confrontational, “Where do you think you’re going?”

The taller and skinner of the two spoke up, his glare focused on Larissa, “You’re a couple of them freaks from that school, aren’t you?”

You glance up at Larissa wondering what she would say to them. It wasn’t like her to tolerate slander against any outcast. Her lips remained pursed and she stayed silent.

“We teach at the school.” You state, lifting your chin to display a heightened level of confidence. You didn’t want to let them see you waver.

They seemed to ignore your words, continuing a discussion between themselves. They wanted you to hear their bigoted words. The stout man spoke up, “It’s a shame these freaks end up being attractive. That’s how they trick normies into making more of them. Happened to the sheriff, I heard.”

Their words made you cringe in disgust. How could someone speak such vitriolic words?

“I don’t know. The little one looks normal enough. What’s your power, freak?” They finally turn their attention to you and silence permeates the air between you. Now they wanted you to speak. You could see the clouds of breath that manifested in the space between you all.

You knew you had the opportunity to walk away, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, instead you chose words that would upset them and Larissa as well. You kept your voice steady and monotone, even though you were nervous to fight back, “The ability to do your mom.”

It was so childish, you knew that well, but these men weren’t interested in having a discussion about outcast/normie relations. No, they just wanted to make you both feel small and lesser. You saw no problem in your words.

“Fern.” Larissa pulled her arm away, not enough to break your grip, but enough to get your attention. Her tone was a warning. It was too late. You said what you said.

“He asked.” You remained steady in your words, not letting Larissa shake you either. The men had obviously been taken aback and were thrown by you taking a bit of power back from them. You watched them glance at each other, looking for the other to come up with something to say.

Instead of finding something to say back to you, the stout one led the way, pushing past you. The tall one moved past Larissa, choosing to spill her coffee which slashed on her shoes. Larissa was quiet in her reaction, but you heard her words, “Oh, my new shoes…”

You feigned like you were picking up her cup, but your hand reached into the dormant grass nearby. You focused past Larissa’s legs onto the moving feet of the men. Much to your delight, you watched the grass near them churn and move. Roots moved from the ground grasping at their shoes, just enough to trip them, sending them tumbling to the ground. The roots then slithered back into the ground to enjoy their dormancy. Larissa didn’t see what you did, but did spin around to see the two men on the pavement, trying to salvage the rest of their dignity.

“Must have been uneven pavement,” You shrug and pick up the now empty coffee cup and lid, “Come on. I’ll buy you a new coffee.”

You loop your arm through Larissa’s, pulling her along with you, but her eyes remained on the men, scanning the pavement. Larissa tried hiding a satisfied smile. She noticed that the concrete looked perfectly fine, leading her to doubt your reasoning. She shook the feeling, trying to forget about the men.

Her hands came to rest on your bicep now, bringing up your words from earlier, “Ability to do your mom? What are you? 12?”

[ufo-driver]

Could Ty-Lee be considered an energy bender?

I wouldn’t doubt if someone had already considered this theory before, but I tried finding if anyone had this idea. Nothing came up, so I guess I have to talk about it!

This semester, I have a TV in my dorm room, and a cool roommate to watch ATLA with. He has never seen the show, and quickly fell in love with it. Through his eyes, I’ve been seeing it all for the first time with new thoughts…

Introduction:

I know that Aang discovers energy bending at the end of the show. This is, of course, how he removes Ozai’s fire bending, rendering him powerless.

While energy bending is shown and described, very little detail is given in terms of its limitations, leaving me with many questions;

Is the Avatar the only person who can be an energy bender?

Is energy bending only accessible via Lion Turtle, or can it be inherited like other methods of bending?

Is the level of energy bending displayed by Aang only representative of a fully realized energy bending master combined with the power of the Avatar?

If methods of bending are learned from nature- fire from dragons and the sun, air from flying bison, water from the moon, and earth from badger moles- then energy bending must be granted from lion turtles. Does this mean that all other creatures can theoretically gift a human with bending abilities?

With all these questions left unanswered, it is hard to give a concrete answer to the nature of energy bending. What makes this even more complicated is the abilities of Ty-Lee.

Ty-Lee and Her Power

There are already many theories that debate Ty-Lee’s ancestry and its connection to Air Nomad Refugees. I am not opposed to the idea that she could have air bending abilities, but it would only be consistent with the canon if she was unaware of them; hence why she only “seems” to air bend. However, this can be explained as many years of practice and strength training that allows her to defy gravity.

The power that captured my attention in my latest re-watch is her unique ability of chi-blocking. Before, I accepted this as a form of general martial arts that she had learned over time, as being connected to Azula would easily grant her access to higher levels of self defense training.

However, I then compare her abilities to Aang. Ty-Lee has the ability to temporarily remove someone’s bending, something that she calls “chi-blocking.”

If I recall correctly, the entire concept of Chi is that it’s spiritual energy that flows everywhere. Ty-Lee, most likely unaware of her ability, is literally energy bending.

Of course, this would be the case assuming that not only the Avatar can energy bend, along with confirmation that full removal of bending is only possible at a level of energy bending mastery with the power of the Avatar.

Ex) while toph is powerful, I doubt she could move tectonic plates and create a separate island like Kiyoshi did

Another thing that makes Ty-Lee’s “chi blocking” interesting to me is her canonical ability to see people’s auras. Because she is able to manipulate chi, she can go as far to **physically see** the chi (or energy) that surrounds people’s bodies.

Of course, it would be easy to brush off as a metaphor, or even just Ty-Lee being a bit kooky. However, the latest rewatch made me realize that she says it so matter-of-factly, as if she has been able to do this her entire life, as if this is her normal.

I also want to point out that her ability to see auras could be similar to how Toph is able to earth bends: they can feel and “see” the medium they are bending, thus making it easier for them to bend.

It could be explained that her ability to disable someone’s bending is just another form of her ability to disable someone’s use of their arm (see when she fights Sokka). However, those are genuine pressure points, and this method of fighting has been studied scientifically.

This is not at all like the method of temporarily disabling bending. There are no physical signs of this; no muscle weakness, atrophy, or numbness. All that happens is the loss of bending, which can be seen as well when Aang defeats Ozai.

Of course, for this to be true would also mean that bending is of another energy that would inevitably cause a deficit once removed, causing physical weakness.

Because Ty-Lee is not on the same power level of Aang, assuming that his power is what allows him to remove bending, she can only block chi. Of course, it is possible that Ty-Lee unknowingly has this ability and just never has the necessary situation to use it.

This would explain why Katara, only having her energy disconnected temporarily and not removed, would not experience any physical effects as there would not be an energy deficit.

What Would this Mean for Ty-Lee’s Character?

If Ty-Lee is an energy bender, it raises many questions of her origins that could be important to the overall writing of ATLA.

Although the children born of the previous Avatars only have been seen to bend what their original bending nation was, it could be possible that Ty-Lee inherited her energy bending from relation to previous Avatars.

Whether this is because she is related to a distant air nomad Avatar or even Roku (which could explain how she had the possibility of meeting Azula in the first place, as she could be of a noble family).

In the show, Aang faces every kind of bender, many of them being more advanced in skill than Aang. The threat of Ty-Lee’s potential energy bending would seem powerful and impossible to overcome. This makes Aang’s mastery of energy bending more satisfying!

This could also explain why Azula confront’s Ty-Lee in the beginning of season 2. Knowing of her ability, Azula would absolutely monopolize it in case it needs to be used on the Avatar. Azula could have gotten any skilled fighter to accompany her, and yet she chose Azula.

You may ask, “well then why is Mai there?” In my opinion, including Mai is just a method for Azula to manipulate Zuko (knowing of their romantic history) and use Mai’s presence as psychological warfare. Her skill, although apparent, is irrelevant to fighting in general. This is its own separate theory, though.

Is Ty-Lee the Only Energy Bender Seen in ATLA?

The more that I analyze the show, I think of how Ty-Lee is very connected with spirituality. When I observe other “spiritual” characters, I also think of Iroh.

It is important to note that Iroh was jaded for his entire life by the programming from the fire nation. Assuming that Iroh has only began his spiritual journey after his failure at Ba Sing Se, he has not put much time into practicing this.

Ty-Lee has spent her entire life fine tuning her skills, unlike Iroh.

I think that energy bending, unlike other bending methods, could be learned. Considering chi is constantly flowing and is everywhere, it is inherently more available than other types of bending.

While Iroh can’t bend energy, he is tapped into chi and spirituality in general. He seems to know things that others don’t, somehow being able to say the exact thing someone needs to hear.

This is something that Ty-Lee can also do. She is often needing to read emotions, and placates Azula when she is at her most stressed. This is basically the much unhealthier version of Iroh and Zuko’s relationship.

So while the level of energy bending shown from Ty-Lee is not matched by other spiritual characters, it does seem that it can be learned over time while others have a higher predisposition. If anything, I’d compare it to midi-chlorians allowing people to have a higher sensitivity to the Force.

As far as canon from the show alone goes, Ty-Lee seems to be self taught, the show implying that only circus training could teach her this fighting method. Color me not-convinced.

Note; I do believe that there are energy benders alone in LOK, but I haven’t seen the entire show as it didn’t do the same thing for me that ATLA did. I know it’s important to consider all sources, but this is what I have! Feel free to reblog with explanations/thoughts that correct anything in this post.

[gwilymz]

with bated breath--steve harrington x afab!reader

Synopsis: Rumors fly after you attend Steve Harrington’s party one weekend in September. Thinking they were his doing, you do everything in your power to avoid him, which proves easier said than done. 

Warnings/Notes: Both Steve and reader are 18; smut, unprotected sex, slow burn, angst, degradation, name calling, spit, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, confessing feelings, etc. etc. 

Word Count: 7,250

A/N: this is my very first stranger things/steve harrington fic so i really hope you enjoy! i’ve poured my energy into this for awhile so im so excited she’s finally ready to share with the world :-)

Read on AO3

Friday, September 7, 1984

“I’m not gonna say you have to go,” Jennifer told you. Slinky blond curls framed her face, as swirls of an all-too-pink peony blush flushed her cheeks with false coloring. She pulled it off, though. Lashes coated in cakey mascara, dark brown, ‘cause black was too much. That was rule number one.

But, this was too much. Your first week at Hawkins was over; five days of classes, homework, begging for a companion–someone–and now you were somewhat there, at someone’s house. A powder blue suburban accolade, a white latticed sanctuary of conformity in suburban Indiana.

You didn’t really click in the way you had with your friends back home, but she would suffice. A filler friend, there for the time being. Jennifer back-combed her under-swept, feathery bangs, crunchy from the aerosol glue that held her appearance together like art drowned beneath a toxic pool of resin, a product stuck in place forever. 

You rested your elbows on your knees, leaning forward on Jennifer’s bed. Frilly pink with white lace trim and tattered teddy bears with matted paws where her fingers dented the evenness of their cotton-candy insides. Mementos of a childhood suspended in time were juxtaposed with posters of movie stars in tight Levi’s, the corners faded and ripped from where the tape eroded at the glossy paper.

You were nervous to go to this party. You hadn’t really talked to anybody all week, opting instead to scribble in the margins of your homework, rushing home as the clock struck three to call your friends--the real ones. The ones who played hopscotch with you five days a week and re-etched the uneven blocks as soon as the August rain dried up and your perpetual canvas was anew. 

Everyone in Hawkins was just–stuck, it seemed. They had their friends, their interests, an opaque black box marked in red, permanent ink with COMFORT ZONE. And it seemed like nobody had room for a new friend. Like the quotas had been met, exceeded.

You hummed in response to her statement. It had been a few minutes; she was now sponging a cool blue shimmer on her eyelids, pink and smooth, tinged with purple veiny tendrils, extending to the bottoms of her freshly plucked brows. You sort of wished you were her. Careless in the way that was cool, open, confident. She had seen you wandering on your first day at Hawkins, lunch tray in hands, tears poking the backs of your eyes like a pin prick bathed in flames. 

“Are you okay?” She asked, smoothing her houndstooth skirt over her knees. “You don’t have to go, but I think it would be good, you know, to put yourself out there?”

You nodded, both as an agreement and as a yes. You were okay, you just predicted where the night would go. Pools of sweaty teenagers, clung to each other in loosely tied cohorts. You would try, weakly, to make a friend, enter a group and likely be met with tight-lipped smiles and answers that were long-winded but never quite got to the point. 

“I’ll go,” You said. “I just don’t know what to expect.” You lied.

Jennifer shrugged, pulling a cable knit sweater over her torso. It wasn’t too cold outside, but a slight breeze whistled through the vents, and the early September air was just enough to nip at your shoulders.  “I think that’s the fun of it.” She pulled her purse over her shoulder, motioning for you to follow behind her. 

–

The walk to the party was short, but brisk. As cute as Jennifer’s kitten heels were, you were glad you had opted for tennis shoes. The uneven sidewalks of Hawkins were hard to walk on; tufts of dead grass and clovers tickled your ankles as you knocked on the door. The house was a behemoth, wrapped in veins of green vines, curling and climbing up exposed brick siding. There was a tall oak door and a clean trimmed lawn, peppered with a littering of beer cans and a stepping stone path of discarded shirts leading to the pool in the backyard.

That’s where the boy who answered the door led you to. Tight jeans in light wash and a salmon crew neck, crisp white collar tucked neatly underneath. His hair was floppy and long and chestnut brown, big and voluminous like the smile that creased his eyes and etched the divots by his mouth. He was charismatic already, with the only words you had heard teeter from the wet slope of his lower lip, a slurred, “Come out back.”

You listened; it was easy when the speckled saddle brown of his big eyes were swallowed by the entirety of his pupils, wild black orbs shielded by fluttery eyelashes and much-too-heavy eyelids. He held an empty beer bottle in his left hand, an unopened one in his right. Tossing the empty one over his shoulder into the plush chartreuse of the deadened grass beneath his tattered reeboks, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his snug back pocket, a lighter from his front. 

He stumbled forward, tripping over crumpled jeans; black and silver belts slithered along the ground like serpents. 

“Fuck,” He rolled his thumb over the ridged raw metal of his lighter, white and chipped, its plastic sheath peeled from the body.

The cigarette bobbed between puckered lips, eyes deep, entranced. It seemed like most of the girls there were watching him, the concentration in his boyish eyebrows, darker than the hair on his head, still blonded from the edge of summer. 

Maybe you were supposed to know who he was. Maybe it would be smarter if you didn’t.

The sun was setting; it was early for a party. Much too cold to wade in the pool, where soggy, wine colored leaves clustered in heaps at the corner, by the stairs where couples groped onto raisiny skin and kissed purpled lips. 

There was no more room in the pool, and your legs were cold, arms freckled with goosebumps that climbed over your collarbones. You went inside, where it was much warmer, and nets of people leaned against the kitchen island. You found an unopened beer, warm. Pebbles of condensation made the counter slick as your elbow leaned on the marbled linoleum, scratched and greasy from the sea of fingertips overlapped upon each other. 

You opened it, catching the fizz over your tongue. It soaked your cupid’s bow and tasted bad, yeasty. Spotting a free spot on the taut leather couch in the living room, you walked over there, fingers tight around the can.

“Hey, Tommy, keg is here. Help me–” The boy from earlier was walking backwards, hand carding through his hair, shoes untied. His legs were wobbling; he was clearly tipsy, and he ran into you. Amber liquid stained your shirt, deepening the navy blue of the fabric and the hue of your cheeks. Your jeans were soaked; even your shoelaces puffed up, swollen from being steeped in the stale beer. 

“Fuck!” You shook your hands; acidic droplets of the cheap beer clung to your fingertips like icicles. 

“Oh my god, I’m–so sorry.” He clasped his hands down on your shoulders, one ankle giving out as he rolled it, tripping over the tangle of shoelaces, the slippery wooden floor sheathed in alcohol and pool water. 

And then he fell, slipping onto his knees. Patches of wetness stained his jeans; his crew neck was damp like the corners of his eyes, pretty and brown and oh so big. They looked like they were saying sorry in the softest of voices, like pleading hands. Like they always got whatever it is they wanted.

“I’m sorry,” He repeated. He was obviously drunk. Ringlets of hair framed his square jaw, tickling the edge of his bitten lips. “If it makes you,” He gulped. “Feel better, my clothes are kinda ruined too.” He giggled. “Can you help me up? I could–get you something new to borrow.”

You sighed, reaching your hand out. Everyone was staring; new girl and drunken popular pretty-boy in a spat. Who wouldn’t be. A few girls with shades of purple painted onto prissy lips were rubbing his shoulders like he was some sort of monarch. Frankly, it embarrassed you.

Ignoring the syrupy coos echoing off the shell of his reddened ears, he took your hand, standing back up. 

“‘M okay!” He swigged the last of his beer, already empty. “I’m okay. The party goes on!”

And then, as if everyone else's conduct was dependent on the orchestration of his cordial permission, they resumed. Drinking, leaning into half-remembered kisses and tongues wrapped in seedy marijuana smoke. 

He looked into your eyes and you sort of understood the single-file line of your peers begging for his attention, a quarter of a glance, the whisper of their name. He was easy to look at, easy to listen to. 

“I can get you some,” He sighed, swallowing. “New clothes to borrow. ‘M sorry.”

You shook your head, peeling his sticky hand off the slope of your shoulder, sore from his pressure, dead and drunk. “It’s alright. Probably my cue to leave anyway.”

His shoulders sunk, eyes cartoonish with despondency, the reflection of the deep yellow lighting making them look wet–or maybe he was actually upset. 

“Leaving already?” He pouted. “You just got here! Didn’t even catch your name.” He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, and you felt a daggering of black-lined eyes and knees dressed in flimsy pantyhose pointed at you. 

“I’m Y/N.” You said. “And yours?”

You could tell he had never been asked that before. Like people came into his life as know-it-alls about himself, his past–-full to the brim with preconceived notions and curdled rumors, piggybacked off one another. 

“I’m Steve. Steve Harrington.” His eyes were dopey and downturned, and you loved to look in them. 

So this was Steve. You had heard about him at every pass through the hall, tangled on the tongue of every girl as they twirled their hair and puckered their lips in desperate hopes that he would notice for once. Finally.

But Steve seemed happy to have the chance to introduce himself to someone for once, hand outstretched and teeth a glittery white. 

You could stay for a little longer. 

“I guess I could stay. My shirt’s a little–”

“Wet?” He gestured to his own. “Yeah mine too.” He guided you to the stairs, hand over the small of your back; it felt hot, anxiety-inducing, but he was just hovering. An almost-touch felt scarier than the real thing. “But listen, I can let you borrow something. I gotta change anyway.”

You nodded, entranced by the depth of his eyes, how his mouth hung open, perpetually equipped with something else to say to you, so easily. He rolled his sleeves up; his forearms were strong, still tan from trips to the lake in late July.

His room was dark; the only visibility you had came from the backyard, the turquoise glint of chlorine and body heat catching the light of the waxing moon, hung crooked in the sky. 

He stumbled turning his light on, closing the door but leaving it open, just a crack. He was getting drunker, freckle adorned skin the salmon of his crew neck, all from the beers well-settled in his system. 

“I’m really sorry for that–I usually don’t really get too drunk at these things, but y’know,” He shrugged, pulling his collared shirt over his head. “God, it’s so hot in here.”

You quickly turned back around. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

“Oh–” Steve covered his chest, lightly hairy and moderately muscular. “‘M sorry. I didn’t even think.” 

He threw on a flimsy grey t-shirt and kept his jeans on, bending down to rummage through his dresser. He was more organized than you expected of him; each drawer full of neatly folded polos, old hoodies with peach, bleach stains dotted on the wrists. Heaps of nice Levi’s,--a tie die of navy and cobalt-- filled the drawer by his foot.

“You can pick, like, any of these. And feel free to change in the bathroom.” You expected him to tend to his party downstairs, the groupies flocked at the landing of the wooden stairs, chestnut like the belt Steve was unbuckling, throwing on his bed, taut with plaid sheets. But he just turned around, flopping forward onto his comforter, giggling with the same cadence of the innocent little boy he once was. “Just gonna lay here.”

You picked a loose red crew neck embroidered in cream with Indiana, in thick blocky letters, and changed quickly. Steve’s face was buried in his pillows, his hands shoved over closed eyes as an extra promise to you. I won’t look.

His breathing was jagged, and you would have thought he was asleep if not for his feet kicking at his loosened shoes, trying to pry them off. 

You grabbed his ankle, pulling them off for him. 

“Thanks, Y/N.” He said, voice muffled by drool-coated pillow cases. 

“Are you alright?” 

Steve had turned around; he was lying on his back, eyes still screwed shut, straining. His lips were chapped from the cold outside, the constant moisture of a new beer. “‘M fine.” He held his stomach, eyebrows arching. “On second thought,”

He shot up, dizzied, as he ran to the bathroom connected to his room, hunched in two. 

“Are you gonna-”

Steve threw up, hands tight against the peach-colored porcelain. His shirt was soaked in a film of sweat. 

“It’s so hot in here,” Steve grumbled. 

You weren’t sure what to do. Still hunched over the toilet, he unbuttoned his jeans. 

“Is it ‘kay if I take these off. Underwear stays on, obviously. ‘M so sweaty.”

You nodded, before realizing he couldn’t see you. “Yeah, Steve, that’s fine. But hey, if you want me to go–”

He shook his head, body lurching forward as he vomited again. “No,” His voice was high-pitched, nervous sounding, different from the saccharine self-assurance he usually wore proudly. “Stay, please. Don’t feel good.”

You kneeled down, rubbing his back gingerly, smoothing his hair down. It smelled like lavender, like Jennifer’s hairspray, like fleeing adolescence and the simultaneous desire to hold onto eighteen forever. 

“Alright.” You whispered. “Are you done?”

He shook his head. “Think there’s one more–” He was right. 

“Do you want some water?” 

Steve sat up, leaning against the sink, head tilted back. His adam’s apple bobbed with discomfort and the citrusy tang of acidic residue. “Yes, please. Sorry again.”

You shrugged, plucking the empty glass toppled on his bedside table. “No need to apologize. It’s all okay.” Bringing the glass to the sink, you filled it with cold water and sat down next to Steve, who drank it quickly. Some water dribbled down his chin; you tried not to look at his grey briefs, thin and tight around his thighs. 

“Thank you so much,” He sat the glass down on the linoleum, blinking up at you as he laid down on the cold floor, his hair fanned out behind him. Freckles lined the tuft of hair on his chest, dewy with a sheen of sweat. “This isn’t typical for me, just so you know.”

You raised your eyebrows, lips tugged between your teeth. “Alright, Steve.” 

“What?!” He sat up, resting on his elbows. The wooden cabinets slammed against the expanse of his back. “It isn’t. Just drank too much this time around.”

“Looks like this isn’t the first party you’ve thrown.” You could hear the subtle bass of Tainted Love, sharp splashes of water, the pattering of wet feet on cold cement. 

“You’d be correct.” He turned towards you, eyes flitting over your lips, almost quick enough for you not to notice. Almost. “Hosting is hard work,” He clutched his chest, sliding his jeans over his lower half, covering himself. 

You turned away, laughing. “Seems tiring. Wher’re your parents anyway?”

Steve parroted your laugh; his was louder. “Who fuckin’ knows.” 

You sat there for some time, wrapped in a cocoon of comfortable silence. Eventually, your head had migrated to Steve’s shoulder, strong and warm and unwilling to move once your hair feathered against his cheek. He vowed not to move; his shoulders were cramped and the bite of dormant nausea ate at the pit of his stomach, but you looked peaceful, comfortable. And really, really pretty.

–

You woke up before him; the sallow light of the bathroom was still on and Steve was toppled over, you tucked under his bicep, strong, dotted with a stippling of moles. His upper arms were paler than the rest of him. Somehow, one of his socks was stripped off, slunk on the rug by the running toilet. 

He held you tight; your arm had fallen asleep, but you could still feel the warmth emanating from his chest, hugged by heather grey cotton. Drool puddled by his mouth, hung slightly ajar like the door itself. 

“Steve,” You shook him lightly, and he moaned, turning slightly. He had granted freedom to your arm, and you slipped out from his own. “Steeeve.” You singsonged.

He shot up, cheek etched with the imprint of woven tendrils matching the shag rug under his head. One side of his hair was matted, the other making up for the sudden lack of volume. 

“Oh fuck,” He wiped his eyes. “What time is it?” He checked his watch, eyes squinted. It was nearing five in the morning; beyond the bay window by Steve’s bed was just obscurity, and the obnoxious silence of a party evaporated. 

“Is everyone gone?” You mirrored his movements, standing up to look at your reflection. 

“Hope so,” Steve ran a hand through his hair, a taste of trepidation in his tone. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night last night.” He tucked his knees into his chest. 

You looked down, meeting his eyes. “No, no. You didn’t. There was quite literally nothing happening. If anything, you made it more interesting.”

“Embarrassed you had to take care of me–not that you had to. But I appreciated it, you know.”

Steve stood up, going back to his room to search for some sweatpants; he had forgotten he had taken his jeans off. 

“No worries at all,” You didn’t know what to say. It was hard to think–to focus–with him there, like that. Illuminated by the moon and the artificiality of the outdoor lights refracting off of the stillness of the pool. 

“I can take you home, if you need a ride. I’m obviously sober now.” He offered. His toothbrush hung from his mouth. “Just need to get the nasty taste out of my mouth first.”

“What about the mess?” You looked out the window. The glass back door was wide open; discarded cans and soggy potato chips swam in polluted pool water. Everybody was long gone, but the evidence of their stay was symbolized by the parts of them they discarded for Steve to pick up.

“Oh, that?” He spat in the sink, rinsing his mouth out with cold water. “I’ll clean it up. I got ‘til tomorrow night.”

You felt bad. He had this sullen look about him, like he was mad at himself, at his loneliness, at the fact that he needed some sort of offering for people to stay with him, even if just for one night. A pleading with his classmates that saw him as nothing more than crinkled eyes and a forced joke. A party, booze bought with his dad’s credit card. Steve was handsome, and he had money and status–but stripped down, he was a performance piece for their laughter and ogling and obsession, ankles stuck on the top rung of a social hierarchy he didn’t create. He just perpetuated it, needed to be on top of it–or else his loneliness would tear at his skin and gnaw at him to the bone and leave him where he was now, with a pretty girl wanting to go home and a cold, empty house, the door wide open but no one daring to step foot inside, left alone with all the parts that nobody wanted.

You offered to help him, but he shook his head vehemently, lighting a cigarette and flashing a pseudo-smile, gummy and white. 

“C’mon.” He opened his bedroom door; it was much colder in the hallway. A torn piece of notebook paper fell from in between the door and the frame, bleeding through with red ink. 

Week 1 and already a whore? 

Steve plucked the unlit cigarette from his mouth. 

“What’s that?” You asked. 

Steve crumpled it up, tossing it across the hallway, toward his parents’ room, the door shut like it always had been. 

“Nothing, just people trashing the place.” His voice was hollow.

Steve took you home and didn’t say a word about his sweatshirt still snug on your body. He sort of thought it belonged there, with you. And you both said goodbye awkwardly, with bitten-lipped smiles and a listless wave goodbye, maybe so neither of you seemed so enthusiastic.

And maybe Steve was jumping out of his skin when the door shut behind you, when he was alone with his thoughts and the pang of an empty stomach. For the first time, a girl hadn’t pulled at his collar and adorned him with a cherry-red kiss on the corner of his mouth, crossing her fingers he would reel over it on repeat until his fingers were dialing her number by memory. 

He hadn’t even gotten your number. 

–

Monday, September 10, 1984

Going to school on Monday felt good, comfortable. Nothing had changed between the weekend and now, except for your pulsating, headache of a crush on Steve. How his voice had crept into your skull like a parasite, a slithering tapeworm indoctrinating you with cyclical thoughts of those lips, the tautness of his bicep. Handsome and wrapped tightly in blue stripes and menthol smoke. He sat in his BMW, eyes on you like yours were on him. He wondered if you knew yet. 

School was a flock of pigeons, searching for scraps, discarded and unwanted–and you were right there. At your locker, where the rounded page of a composition notebook was pasted to the door, anointed with SLUT and a sad face, a makeshift pity. You tore it down, but it was four-and-a-half minutes to first period, and the careening ears of your tight-lipped peers made it clear they had already seen it. Heard all about it. 

What it was, you didn’t know. 

Jennifer scoffed at your desperation for communication, her bubble gum a stale, dirty pink against the red of her tongue. 

She leaned against your locker, uncrumpling the paper clutched in your hand. 

“Week two and your reputation seems to be set on easy. I’m sure Harrington appreciates the new notch on his belt.” Jennifer threw the paper away, not that it fixed anything. Floating down on the dirt-caked linoleum, speckled in the pastels of putty chewing gum, it was stomped on, pressed into the ground, a truth, symbolic of those words that preceded you. 

Y/N Y/L/N: easy, whore, slut. 

You were livid because you trusted Steve. Multiplied tenfold because you liked him. And now he was leaned against exposed brick, the brooding yet exceedingly impossible-to-hate protagonist of a John Hughes film. Girls flocked to him like lint, hard to pluck off but so easy to see, so bothersome. And the coyness of his smile pissed you off, how he entertained them, teasing them from beneath a bomber jacket, behind brand-new Ray Bans and slicked back hair and cheap fabrications, made at your expense. 

Steve looked at you, though, through the fog of a September morning and the lens of longing for something that wasn’t so easy to grasp for once. 

But you slammed your locker shut and faced first period without care for the whispers that stung like darts on your back. You only had to survive one more year, and maybe making friends wasn’t even worth it, with college applications peeking over the cloudless horizon. 

You slumped in your seat; an ugly tan desk tethered to plastic blue, a chair etched with profanities: cunt, slut, bitch. Hearts and arrows and initials crossed out, replaced with suitable successors, forgotten, but still there.

A note flopped on your desk; you pushed it off, not wanting any more insults. You’d almost rather they be flung at you through words and venomous spit than the permanency of pen ink and exclamation marks. But it was Steve, playing footsie with you from behind you, his handwriting boyish and scrawled in lead. 

It wasn’t me.

Three words that meant nothing. Where was the context?

You pulled the cap off your pen with your teeth, watching to make sure Mister Anderson wasn’t looking, but the desperate, dry scratch of chalk confirmed your suspicions. He wasn’t

Then why do you look so guilty?

You dropped the note back on Steve’s desk; he audibly sighed. You had never heard an eye-roll so clearly. 

He stood up, chair screeching, muttering a half-assed ‘I don’t feel good’ and slamming the classroom door. The note had found itself back in your hands. 

Boys bathroom. The one by Mrs. Ringer’s room. 

He couldn’t be serious. Maybe you were easy; you excused yourself not a minute later. 

The bathroom he was in was as empty as it was dirty, and soiled paper towels made a makeshift rug on cobalt blue tiles, caked in muck. 

“Are you fucking crazy, Steve?” 

Steve held a finger to his lips. “Quiet. Sound travels.” 

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the door. 

“This bathroom has a lock. That’s why I chose it. Nobody else is here.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, because we need more people making assumptions.”

“You chose to come in here.” Steve deadpanned, watching you twist the hair tie on your wrist. 

“Don’t have much to lose, now, do I?”

He laced the room with unease and a rotten, oozing tension that felt sticky around you. Overgrown and teetering on parasitic, even though it was not even three days old.

“I just wanted you to know that,” He said, quietly. “--that I didn’t say those things.”

His sleeves were bunched up, wrists freckled and strong and twined with fine, little hairs as he leaned against the door you found yourself at.

“I’m supposed to believe that? That–I’m not just some joke to you? A way to show how your game is so slick you could even fuck a girl within fifteen minutes of getting her name?” You whispered the second part. 

Steve’s eyes read your lips like a book, rereading the same line over and over and over because he didn’t quite catch it the first time. And paying attention was hard. Oh, so hard when you could smell the cherry wood musk of his cologne and the sharp cut of aftershave tickling your nose. 

“I’m assuming they think what they do because we went upstairs together.” He straightened his collar, and the wind of spearmint toothpaste and menthol cigarettes on his breath was gone. 

“Nothing happened.”

“I know that. I’m not sure what you want me to do–I–I can tell them that it didn’t happen, but I don’t think they’d believe–”

“Why do you care so much? Shouldn’t you be out there, off the bench, courting some other girl you find pathetic?”

Steve scoffed. “I care because I don’t want you to hate me. And I don’t fucking find you pathetic. Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.”

You watched his. The pout of warm pink, the peppering of stubble you could only see if you were allowed so close to him. King Steve. What a stupid fucking nickname. Self-indulgent. Cocky.

You didn’t hate him, but you felt like you should just wave the white flag and join the club of sad, little girls who were once Steve’s little plaything, but who now have vaporized from the glossary of names in his dynamic tour de force of a short-term memory. 

“I don’t hate you,” You looked away from him; he refused to. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” His smile was evil, impossible to say no to. So you left before he could ask.

Wednesday, September 12, 1984

Avoiding Steve was hard, as hard as he was to miss. Hair adding at least four inches to his height, the static buzzing that followed him like a swarm. He had tried to communicate through kicks under your desk in first period. And then fourth, and then fifth. Whispers in your ear at lunch, offering you a ride the second school let out, with a fat pout and eyes that had a physical reaction to the word no. 

But today he drove by you, slamming on the brakes and shutting the radio off with a determination that was new. 

“Just let me talk to you!” He pleaded, eyebrows straight across with worry. “I can take you home.”

You shook your head, continuing to walk as Steve’s BMW trailed next to you, so warm and enticing and his. 

“I can walk. It’s not too far.”

“It’s about to rain!” He gestured at the sky, at the belly of a fat cloud. 

“I said no.”

“What if I told you I know who started the rumor?”

You stopped at the outskirts of school property, stuck between freedom and those dopey brown eyes.

“Knew that would get your attention.”

You tugged your lip between your teeth, leaning into Steve’s window. He kept eye contact with you, firm and unwavering–even though your shirt hung so loosely around the swell of your chest. 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

“Get in the car and I will.”

“I’ll get in the car if you tell me.”

Steve rolled his sleeves up, checking the subtle click of his wristwatch. “Got places to be.”

He was flirting, shamelessly. Coconut lip balm sheathed on that mouth and chewing gum lazy on his tongue like your name.

“Then you’d better get there, Stevie.” You batted your eyelashes and Steve hit his head against his headrest before leaning over to unlock the door. 

“Just–get in.” 

You faked a pout. “Pretty boy can’t stand being denied.”

“You don’t wanna know? S’fine by me.” And he drove away, but not without a few glances in the rearview mirror, one, two, three.

Friday, September 14, 1984

One week of invisibility and a big fat target on your back and Steve’s relentlessness was almost over. Almost.

Lunch was the worst; an amalgamation of every type of peer with one glaringly clear common ground: a distinct unwillingness to come close to you. A select few’s distaste metastasizing and ballooning until you were left by your lonesome, swirling peas around a spoon and jumping out of your seat when Steve Harrington sat next to you, chair squeaking, jeans tight around his hips. 

“Shouldn’t you be avoiding me?” You deadpanned, opting not to look at him. 

Steve scooted even closer to you, whispering in your ear. “Let them look.”

“You’re not the one being called a whore and a slut and easy.”

“If you’re easy, I’m easy.” He took a bite of a turkey sandwich, stray lettuce flaccid around the edge. “Plus, you never even heard who started it.”

You looked at him quizzically. His hair was messier; he hadn’t shaved in a few days. 

“The rumor. It was Jennifer.”

You plastered on an insincere smile. “Yeah, no shit.”

“You knew?” Steve tilted his bag of Lays toward you. “Eat some.”

You felt the sting of eyes on your back, saw the heartbreak on the pouted strawberry lips of girls Steve would never give the time of day. 

“She’s obsessed with you. Kind of been pining over you since freshman year, as she told me. Makes sense why she’s a little butt hurt about me seeing your room so soon, you know? When we fucked?”

Steve choked on his water, spewing it over the speckled ivory of the table. “I talked to her for, like, three days. Boring as fucking rocks.” He ignored the latter part of your statement. 

“Oh, and I’m more interesting? Because you can fix me?”

Steve crumpled his napkin and tossed it on your tray, scooting back on the metal legs of his chair. 

He leaned in. “No, because I actually have a crush on you.”

–

You walked to Steve’s house by memory that night with a monologue in your head and his crew neck tucked under your arm. 

Words that all fell dead and dormant on your tongue as you rapped on his door. He had mentioned in passing his parents would be gone again, and you half expected a party and pretty girls hung on his hip. But the house was unrelenting in its silence, and you could see Steve’s light was on, his car idle in the driveway, pebbled with the rain you hadn’t noticed until now. 

And then it was pouring, and Steve opened the door in running shorts and his basketball t-shirt, and the scowl on his face lifted into a smile of surprise. 

“Y/N. Wanna come in?” He left a space for you to enter; your head shook involuntarily. “It’s fucking pouring, please--just come in.”

“I’m just returning this.” You held out his crew neck, splotchy and darkened from rain. 

“Okay, well, if you’re just gonna go back home, let me drive you.” He plunged his hands in his pockets; his shorts were exceptionally small. “Sorry, I had to throw something on.”

The rain was soaking your hair into a tangled mess, and beads of water fell from the slope of your nose. But Steve looked at you with a boyish longing, defeat, a curiosity of why he suddenly wasn’t good enough. 

“Will you just come in?” He flung the door open all the way and then stepped outside, the rain pouring over his half-matted hair, making the thin white cotton of his shirt cling to the contours of his torso, the tense expanse of his back. 

“Steve, just go back inside.”

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re gonna leave, just leave! You’re standing here in the fucking rain, acting so intent on going, but here you fucking are!”

“You’re in the rain too!” 

“I know, and I’m freezing my ass off, and I know you are too, and my house is right there, but apparently I’m so miserable to be around that this–” he gestured to himself. “Is preferable.” His arms slung down, heavy from defeat, the pattering of sideways showers against his ear. 

“I have a crush on you, too.” You admitted. Your voice was small, and Steve would not have caught it if he wasn’t reading the shape of your lips with such distinct fervor. 

Steve trapped you against the door frame, his hands cradling your head as he kissed you. His lips were freezing, but the inside of his mouth, the curling of his tongue against yours was oh so warm, inviting. Your fingers tangled in his hair and you pulled him closer; your noses slid against each other as he moaned into you, one of his hands trailing down to your waist. He tasted sweet, like a honey cough drop and the longing he held in his mouth like a breath mint, flipping it over and over like a wish. She wants me, she wants me not. 

He was manly enough to hold your hips and guide you inside, but still boyish in the way his cheeks flushed and eyelashes tickled against your cheek as he used you to slam the door behind your back. 

Everything was squeaky; pants echoed from high ceilings, off the wooden floors of the open foyer, sterile, empty, all for you. Steve squeezed your ass, one of his hands coming up to pull on your hair, enough to gain access to your throat, where he left open-mouthed kisses. 

“You’ve fuckin’ played hard to get enough.” He said, in a low voice.”Definitely not easy.”

You whimpered, yanking on the hem of his wet shirt, stuck to him like papier-mâché. He pulled it off, and you admired him in the momentary glow of the lightning nearby, punctuating like an exclamation mark the smoothness of his bicep as he wrapped his arms around you. His kisses were possessive and fluttered against your pulse point as he dropped to his knees in front of you. 

He unbuttoned your jeans, eyes flitted upwards for your approval, peeling them from your legs. You nodded so quickly, you got dizzy. Your knees buckled as Steve kissed your navel, the pads of his fingers dragging across the hem of your panties assuredly. He cupped your cunt and his thumb rubbed over your clit in slow circles before the cotton was pushed aside and Steve was groaning against your mound, eyes huge with wonder and lust–the same drunkenness he was adorned with the night you met. 

His fingers slid over your slit, and he reveled in your wetness like it was a prize; it was. He dug his fingers into the globes of your ass as he buried his face into your pussy, nose resting over your clit as he licked and sucked and spat–and you clutched onto his wrists behind you, desperate for purchase as he devoured you.

“I fucking need you,” He said. You could see his bulge growing from beneath forest green polyester. 

He pushed a finger inside your cunt, and you gasped, knees giving out. Steve was messy, all over the place, wanting to do everything and be everywhere at once. But he caught you as you fell, laying you down against the oriental rug that cost more than all of his birthday presents combined–and he spat on your clit. Pulling moans and expletives from the back of your throat like the remnants of a cold that Steve was more than willing to share with you. 

He rubbed globs of his spit over your cunt and ogled at how you clenched for him, how pliable you were with his middle finger knuckle deep in your hole. 

“So tight.” He rubbed at your clit with his thumb as he fucked his finger into you, moving up to kiss you again. You pulled him into you, and he laughed against your neck. “I’m worried I won’t fit.”

You huffed as his spit and your arousal coated your tongue, his cock twitching against your center. “Stop teasing me.”

Steve grabbed your jaw, squeezing your cheeks. “All you’ve done is tease me.”

You untangled your fingers from the dampness of his hair, cupping his cock through his shorts; you could tell he was wearing nothing underneath. His kisses got less calculated and sloppier as you palmed him, soft mewls and whimpers, voiceless begs permeating the air like sticky humidity. 

“Cocky are we? Saying you won’t fit.”

He pulled away, a string of saliva a temporary tightrope between your mouths. “Might not.” He smiled innocently. 

You untied his shorts and spit in your palm, stroking his length and thumbing his thick, mushroom head as he sprang free. Holy shit.

“God, Steve.” You admired his cock, veiny and thick and his. “Your cock is so big.” You relished in how he twitched at your words. 

He all but growled, rocking his hips to fuck your fist, mouth hung open as he hovered over your half-naked body. 

“Please–take your shirt off.” Your nipples peaked through the sopping material, but he wanted more. Wanted them in his mouth.

You obliged, and he sucked on your nipples with hollowed cheeks, drooling around the buds. It was filthy and wet in more ways than one, touching each other like this, raw on the Harringtons’ ruined rug. No time to go to Steve’s room or ask sweetly for a kiss with bated breath and crossed fingers. 

The need for each other was palpable, and Steve’s hips jerked, his mouth falling open against yours, drooling over your bottom lip. 

“I wanna fuck you.” He grabbed your jaw and pressed your foreheads together as he lined himself up with your soaked cunt, teasing your entrance with the thick head of his cock. 

“Please–” You nodded, and Steve pushed in, slowly, agonizingly slowly, yet all at once simultaneously. He stretched you, and you were his, at least for now. Completely at his mercy, legs shaking with the torment of pain and pleasure, teetering on top of each other like a jenga tower, crumbling to the ground.

He fucked into you with faster strokes, falling to rest on his elbows as he hiked your legs around his waist. Cradling you like a porcelain doll, fucking you like the whore they all thought you were. 

“God–you feel so fucking good.” His head fell forward and he felt weak, unable to handle the feeling of your lips against his neck, your bodies overlapping, a jigsaw puzzle of limbs and neediness. 

All your breaths filled his lungs, and his filled yours, a terrarium of the lust settled in your throat, your stomachs, your limbs that felt one another with certainty, as if this had all happened before, as if you were fitted just for each other’s pleasure. 

Steve’s thrusts were languid as he held your face, shakily planting kisses in your mouth and licking and biting your bottom lip.

“I can’t– believe,” Steve moaned, nibbling your ear. He grabbed your jaw and forced your head to face him. “That you thought I started the rumor.” 

Your back arched as he punctuated his sentence by pulling out just to slam into you again--and he took that as a sign to fuck you harder. 

“Fuck Steve–” Your heels dug into his lower back, sheathed in sweat.

His thumb pulled on your bottom lip. “Maybe they’re true.” His voice was breathy as you opened your mouth for him, allowing a string of spit to fall on your tongue. “Maybe you’re my little slut.”

Your moans grew more desperate at his words, at how he was in complete control over your body, your pleasure, your feelings. 

Steve was testing the waters, seeing how much you wanted him--if it could even compare to how he writhed for you. He swore could have come just from kissing you, from the smell of your shampoo, triggered by the rain. 

“‘M all yours, Steve.” Your kiss was wet as you claimed him with the thrash of your tongue against him, twisting and braiding you together as Steve felt himself finishing at your words. 

He pulled out quickly, painting your navel and chest in thick ropes of his cum, his head thrown back. Your name an avalanche tumbling through his teeth. 

“Fuck, Y/N–” He regained his composure as you lost yours, the pumping of his fingers in your soaking cunt enough for you to finish, hands grasping at Steve’s strong wrist as it flexed from his movements. 

“Steve–” You sat up on your elbows as he rested on your chest, relaxed by the proximity of your heartbeat. 

“Mhm?” He nuzzled into your neck. Groggily, he said: “I don’t think you’re a slut, like, actually–”

“Yeah, I know.” Your laugh vibrated his head. “I just wondered if you actually wanted me to, you know?”

“Be mine?” Steve opened his eyes, mouth agape as he blinked at you. “Well, that I do actually want.” 

“I do too.”

“Are you just saying that because I made you cum?”

“No, Steve.”

“I have to tell you something, just to start things off on the right foot, though.” 

You craned your neck down to look at him; the fanning of his breath was warm, and you liked the patterns of freckles that cascaded down the length of his neck and his Adams apple when he swallowed with anticipation, his eyelashes kissing your shoulder. 

“Yeah?” You asked. 

“I spilled my drink on you at my party on purpose.” 

[thegroovywitch]

Michael Winner about Jimmy Page

Jimmy Page and Michael Winner at the Death Wish II premiere, 1982.

“They already had Isaac Hayes to do the music in Hollywood. There’s nothing wrong with Isaac Hayes, he’s very good, but I thought how dare they choose someone without consulting me? And he was doing it for nothing, I’m not sure why, and giving them a percentage of the record… But I’d lived next door to Jimmy for many years, I’d never seen him, never spoken to him. So I rang up the number, got onto Peter Grant, and actually Peter Grant was very clever because although Jimmy wasn’t paid anything, it was a very bad down period for him – the drummer [John Bonham] had died, and he was in a very inactive period. Jimmy was in a down period, bless him.

And he rang the doorbell, and I thought if the wind blows he’ll fall over. Ha ha! he might possibly have been on substances, shall we say, at that time…. He’s clean as a whistle now, he doesn’t even drink! He was running around the block the other day – he said “Don’t tell anyone I’m running, it will ruin my reputation.”

He saw the film, we spotted where the music was to go, and then he said to me “I’m going to my studio” – at the time he owned a studio in Cookham, it was later bought by Chris Rea. He said “I don’t want you anywhere near me, I’m going to do it all on my own.” Well, my editing staff said this is bloody dangerous! We’d normally expect to see a sample of music at least, and he’s never don a film! And I said, well, I trust him, that’s what we are going to do. I trusted him – just as I trusted Herbie Hancock for the first Death Wish, and Gato Barbieri for Fire Power. I’ve used a lot of these people who film companies don’t usually use.

Anyway, Jimmy then turned up with the score, and it was absolutely magical. Not only was it a great score but you know, filming is done to a 24th for a second, there are 24 frames of film go through every second… and everything hit the button totally! It was one of the most professional scores – well, I’ve never seen a more professional score in my life. On his own – we gave him the film, we gave him timings, and he did it all on his own. I personally edited the film and I laid the music on the film, and I’ll never forget, it was in my attic here in the house next to Jimmy’s – I put the two together, I put his start mark against our start mark, and I said “Fuck me! This is absolutely fucking incredible! Great music and its hits every fucking thing its meant to hit at the right time to the 24th of a second!” I was flabbergasted… he hit everything! You know, Herbie Hancock was adorable but he didn’t hit everything… Herbie was great, don’t get me wrong, but Jimmy was immaculate.

Then we made Death Wish III…. I cut up the music from Death Wish II and laid it against Death Wish III, and it fitted just as well. So I rang Jimmy one evening and said “Jimmy darling, do you want another film credit and you don’t have to do anything at all?” I recut the music, I used them differently, I chopped bits out the middle… I said “You come and see it Jimmy, it’s fucking perfect…” Jimmy said “I must give you new copies of the music from the original masters, I said ‘Well Jimmy I’ve got the masters, it’s perfectly alright…” he said No no. That’s how meticulous he is. “You want me to lay the whole thing again, lay every single cue by hand again?” I said “Jimmy, of course we will.” Hahaha! So he got two films for the price of one…

He was the ultimate professional, he was extremely gentle, extremely gentlemanly, I was asked to all his strange girlfriend’s parties – Charlotte, she’s now head of the church in Bray. He knows all the restaurants around here, recommends them to me now. He’s a great neighbour, a great person and a great expert on Victorian art – a serious expert on Victorian art. I went around all the painters and I didn’t realised then he’d been at art school. He’s got a fantastic collection of Victorian art, Byrne Jones tapestries and things.

Yeah, I once said to Jimmy “What’s all this about the occult and black magic?” Oh, he said, it’s all nonsense… well I’m sure it wasn’t nonsense, bless him, but he’d grown out of it by the time I’d met him. A lot of people had a period of lunacy, it didn’t matter – in his case particularly it didn’t matter, because that great talent was never affected by it.

I don’t think [Led Zeppelin] are going to reform. It’s well known that he has a kind of one off love affair with Robert Plant. One minute they love each other and the next they don’t… I think it’s 50/50 at best. Jimmy doesn’t need the money. What I admire about Jimmy is he is always working – I say “What are you doing Jimmy?”, “Well, it’s the 30th anniversary of something, I’m making a video, were redoing the film, re-relasing it…” He’s always doing something. I don’t know, I don’t want to get involved in asking impertinent questions because he’s a friend, you know? I’m quite happy to read about it in the papers.”

full interview: x

[princessmonochxkeme]

♱˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖑𝖚𝖘𝖙 ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚♱

𝕻𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Miguel O'hara x fem! reader

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: On a story New York night, you bond with a handsome stranger in a library (over comics of course). Moments later, you're attacked on your way home, saved by none other than Spiderman. He'd been watching you since you left, and plans on doing so all night long.....

𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 : 5.3k words

𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: S-M-U-T !!! NSFW !!! BARK BARK WOOF WOOF !!! lol but fr-- voyerism, choking, age gap, oral (fem receiving), pussy play, nipple play, overstim, fangs/bloodsucking, pussy stretching, breeding (kinda)... I think that's everything. just, DO NOT interact if you're a minor lol.

𝕰𝖙𝖈.: Whelp, I'm despicable lol...and so are you if you read this and enjoy it ;))) Of note, Miggy is 30-35 in this story (that's how I view his Spiderverse character), and you're a first year law student (23-26 y/o).

**THIS IS A ONESHOT BUT I'M CONTINUEING THE SERIES ON A03 **

Lastly,-- there's one violent-ish scene but its pretty short. Happy reading <<;<3333

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Universe 1999J: 9:02 PM, Queens, Nueva York

The storm boomed in the background, thunder echoing through the halls of the library. You were in your early 20s, in the most exciting city in the world…spending your Friday night in a library. You’d been there studying for hours. A month into law school and you already had 2 exams on Monday (and you were less than prepared).. Isn’t this the life… you thought to yourself dryly. The most recent bout of lightning caused a power to surge, which you took as a sign to leave soon. You packed up your notes, and decided to check out the comics before you leave. You’d recently gotten into Marvel comics-- you loved the linework of the art, the vibrant colors, and the simple yet exciting stories. Maybe in a different life you’d be illustrating your own books, or better yet, protecting a city in a sexy spandex suit... Sigh.

It’d been a while since you read a Spiderman story-- there were too many to catch up on so you gave up. P….Q….R…. you say to yourself, scanning the isles. You finally reach the shelf you’re looking for, but some man is blocking it. You immediately notice how large he is-- more than a foot taller than you with broad strapping shoulders. It was ironic, but he looked like he could’ve been a comic hero. Nevertheless, he was focused on whatever he was reading and didn’t notice your presence. “Hi, excuse me…” you say quietly “Do you mind if I look at the Spider-Man comics for a sec?” He looked at you, subtly embarrassed.. Getting a good look at his face you noticed he was gorgeous: Caramel brown skin, dark wavy hair, and perfectly chiseled features….not, not bad at all…. “I’m sorry, go right ahead.” He kindly apologized. “Thanks...have any good recommendations?” You replied, hoping to prolong your convo with this DILF-y stranger. “Actually, the one I’m reading is pretty good! I’ve read it about 100 times but it never gets old.” He smiled and handed you the book. “Spiderman 2099….” you read the title out loud. “Cool, I think I played a PS4 game with him once.” He rolled his eyes at your response, flashing his white teeth with a playful smile. “That’s how everyone knows him. OGs learned about him the real way.” he said, tapping the book. “Ohhh brother, whatever you say old man…” you smile back deviously. He looked 35 at most, but still noticeably older than your 24. “Please, I’m not that old” He chuckled back at you. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but was he flirting right now? “SHHH!” The librarian looked in your direction, glaring at the both of you. “Sorry!” you mouthed back at her. “Anyways..” he whispered “I hope you enjoy the comic, you have good taste.” You thanked him and walked away, preparing to check out the book.

You ended up leaving the library a bit later than you intended. It was almost 9:30 and you still had a 30 minute subway ride home. There were other, closer libraries to campus, but this one had beautiful marble architecture and was open later-- shame it was in a crappy part of town. Born and raised in Nueva York, you knew how to handle yourself at night: music on, head down, “fuck off” is the default response. You begin the familiar route to the station, scrolling through a thai menu for the place near your apartment. “Larb gai…basil stir fry…mang-” within seconds someone pulled you into an alley, slamming you against the wall. You’d dropped your umbrella, and rain started soaking you. “Don’t try to fucking scream cuz no one will hear you. If you try any funny shit, I’ll blow your pretty head off.” the man whispered in your ear. You felt the cool metallic barrel press into your temple, and with a click you knew the gun was ready to fire. “What do you want….” You manage to say. “Drop the bag” he commanded. You comply, removing your backpack and dropping it to the ground. “There’s nothing in there I’m broke” You tried to plea. “SHUT UP.” He retorted, keeping a gun aimed at you while scouring through your things. After stripping your wallet of any cards and cash he turns his sights back to you, scanning your body for valuables. “Drop the phone, and take your fucking sneakers off” “...What?” “FUCKING DO IT OR I SWEAR--” he screamed. What happened next was a blur.

Out of nowhere, a masked man slammed the robber's skull into the ground, twisting his arm back in an unnatural angle. The sudden struggle caused the gun to go off, making you scream for cover. Although it was dark, you could see the man was wearing a black and red suit with a webbed pattern. ‘W-Who are you?” You tried to ask. The masked figure looked at you before returning his attention to the scum below him. The robber tried in vain to wiggle free, only making things worse. With his back turned to you, the masked figure hunched over the robber, biting him in the neck. He choked on his own blood, twitching in the mangled position. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck… You think to yourself as the ordeal unfolds. For good measure, the masked man shoots webbed material over the robber, ensuring he can't move. Paralyzed in shock, you stare at the person who’d just saved you. He grabbed your stolen items, and reached a hand out to return them to you…but you were frozen. The suit, the webs, the insignia on his chest….you must’ve been losing your mind. “Are you….” you started“....Spiderman?” He finished awkwardly. “Well I was going to say real…but yeah that works, too.” You replied, finally grabbing your things. “I…um….thank you...” You said sheepishly. “Thank me later, we need to leave” he said firmly. “Wait what--” You start as the sirens in the background louder. “Hold onto me unless you want to go to explain this to the cops.” Reluctantly, you grab onto him before he shoots a web into the air. Within seconds he lifts the both of you up to the top of a random building, away from the police. “Sorry to be so hasty back there, are you ok?” He looks at you concerned. Your mind still hasn’t fully processed what’s just happened.

“...Uhhh….yeah...sure….”. You start. “Just to make sure I have everything right, someone just tried to rob me at gunpoint, Spiderman is real…and is you…and you just saved me….and now I’m on top of a 12 story building in the rain?” “...sounds about right.” he confirmed. “Well, at least I’m not concussed…” you say dryly, eliciting a chuckle from him. “I have so many questions but, I don’t have the mental energy to ask right now….” “Understood.” he replied, relieved he wouldn’t have to explain himself. “Ok I do have one question….can you take me to the Subway station? I just want to go home…” “Of course, but honestly if you’re up for it, I could probably get you home faster myself.” he replied. “By…swinging through the city in a storm?” you replied skeptically. “Well….yeah. You're pretty easy to carry.” he chuckled. “Plus you don’t really notice the rain when you’re swinging.” “Hmm…I don’t know….you seem a little old to be Spiderman…what if you drop me?” You cross your arms squinting at him. He was admittedly huge and towered over you, but he sounded too old to be Peter Parker….and in a strange way, his voice sounded familiar. You couldn’t pin it to anyone in particular, but you’ve definitely heard it somewhere. “Old? Please, I’m not that old…” He muttered. With that phrase, you recognized him as the man from the library. Your eyes widened as you realized this, but you fixed your face before he could notice. “Also, trust me, or don’t. But at the very least you’ll need my help getting back to the ground.” He continued. Shit, he was right. The more you mulled it over, this was a rare opportunity! How many people could say they’d swung through the city with Spider-Man? Besides, an uber home was laughably expensive, and you really didn’t want to wait on the subway with more potential creeps. “What the hell…let’s do it. But I swear to god if you drop me….” You hooked your arms around his neck, while one of his strong arms tightly wrapped around your waist. “Whatever you do, don’t let go…” And just like that you were off...

In the beginning you clenched your eyes shut, screaming in fear. But after a couple minutes, you got used to the sensation. He was right, you were going so fast you couldn’t feel the rain. You opened your eyes, regretfully noticing how high up you were, and silently buried your face in his neck. “It’s ok….I got you….” reassured you. He held you a little tighter so you’d feel secure. Maybe it was the adrenaline, but you couldn’t help but think how…romantic this all was? A tall, handsome, mysterious hero, whisking you through the New York skyline, chest to chest…You dreamily smiled the rest of the ride home, and as promised, he had you there in minutes. He gently lowered down onto your fire-escape, which was conveniently placed outside your bedroom window. “There you are…safe and sound.” he said kindly. “Thank you so much! I don’t have the words to express how much you’ve helped me tonight…” “Don’t worry about it kid, just try not to walk alone so late at night. You never know who’s watching…” He replied. He was happy he was there to protect you this time, but didn’t want you putting yourself in harm's way again. A cute girl like you could easily attract trouble. “Yeah…” You say biting your lip. “I’m lucky you were at the library tonight, Spidey.” “I- What do you- What library….” He stumbled. You couldn’t see it, but his face turned bright red under his mask. “It was pretty obvious.” you laughed sweetly. “Your suit looks just like the one in the comic you ‘recommended’, but your voice really sealed the deal. Tell me I’m wrong.” You smirked at him. Sighing in defeat, he removed his mask, revealing the handsome face you saw earlier. “Alright, alright, you caught me nena.” He confessed. “Nena?” you questioned. “Yes, nena.” He teased. “...and you can call me Miguel.” He said warmly, looking down at your lips. You notice this and move your gaze to his, gradually leaning in to kiss each other. You rested your palms on his defined chest while he caressed your cheek with his hand. The kiss was velvety and sweet, the perfect ending to this disastrous night. “Goodnight, Miguel.” you smiled up at him. You open your window to enter the apartment, and by the time you turn around he’s already gone. You plop your bag on the floor and begin to shed your wet clothes. Fortunately the books weren’t water damaged since you wrapped them in a plastic shopping bag-- a habit you formed after a different stormy New York night. Exhausted, you take a hot shower to decompress. You think about a lot of things, but mostly him--, how he got his powers, where he came from, and if you’d ever see him again… little do you know he never left.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Universe 1999J: 11:06 PM, Brooklyn, Nueva York

Freshly moisturized, you exit the bathroom with a cloud of steam. You rummage around your laundry looking for something to sleep in. Normally you like to keep the place tidy, but you were not in the mood to fold right now. You settle on a white t-shirt with red trim, and one of your many lacy black thongs, drowsily flopping on your bed. You tried to fall asleep, listening to the panging raindrops and rolling thunder….but you can’t. The storm drones on as you replay the night’s events in your head. The alley, the robber, the gun, Spiderman.....Spiderman. You really met a living comic book character today. He was so much bigger than you expected-- what was he, 6’8? 6’9? In the comics he seemed scrawnier, in a cute, boy next door way. THIS Spiderman was a pure beefcake. Although he was friendly, you were surprised to see such a statuesque man in a public library. A man with that jawline should be running for office, starring in movies…but he wasn’t. To think he held you in his arms just an hour ago, whisking you through the city…kissing you on your fire escape…Your body ran warm thinking about how handsome he looked: his sprawling back, powerful biceps, juicy quads, all covered in black webbed fibers…You slowly graze your hand over your panties, while your other hand squeezes your breasts. You move your panties to the side, and let out a soft, breathy moan as you begin to explore the sticky wetness between your legs. The dramatic flickering background fades as you play with yourself. “Ahh-…” you rasp through your aching lips… But between gasps, you swear you see spider man's silhouette standing at your fire escape. Startled, you hastily move to your window…ultimately disappointed when no one’s there. Any sane person would shut their curtains, down a xanax, and try to forget the traumas of tonight. But right now, you were anything but sane. You became irrationally horny at the thought of Miguel watching you fuck yourself. Your mind flooded with thoughts of him, strong enough to rip through steel and asphalt, lusting for your body behind a sheet of glass. Lulled by your unrelenting imagination, you stick a second finger in your gushing hole. Lust coursed through you like a siren luring your prey. You closed your eyes and moaned as you rolled your nipples in little circles. The little buds start to harden, peaking through your t-shirt. Once more, you creep one of your hands slowly down your taught stomach before stroking your panties…a growing wet circle already formed on the cloth--all for him. With hooded eyes, you pump your fingers in and out of your soaking pussy… “Fuck…Miguel…” you moan in a trance. Crazy as it sounded, you desperately wanted him to watch come undone...

….and he was. “Fuck…” he unintentionally echoed, watching you in the pouring shadows. He originally told himself he’d watch you fall asleep from afar, JUST to make sure you’re safe-- then he’d leave. But if he was being honest, he knew you were safe when he dropped you off (albeit stupid for fingering yourself with uncovered windows). For starters, you lived on the top-floor in an off campus studio apartment, plus he’d watched you check to make sure the front door was locked. At this point, we was aware his intentions were self-serving. He thought you were cute when you bumped into him at the library, but after the fire-escape kiss he wanted more of you. He wanted to ask you out on a proper date, get to know you better, old-fashioned courting ...but he wasn’t sure how--there were just so many variables to consider. He wasn’t from your dimension, and once his mission ended there wouldn’t be a justifiable reason to stay. It was already bad enough that a civilian found out his identity, and the more time he spent with you the more your life was endangered. Everything about his infatuation was problematic. But then he thought to himself…were things really that bad? There’s no spiderman in this universe, he’s just a myth here. You were a smart girl, he could probably explain things to you…right? “My name is Miguel O’Hara, I’m the leader of an interdimensional Spiderman force that’s keeping the fabric of the universe together…don’t tell anyone.” Pondering different hypothetical confessions, he knew this pursuit was stupid at best. Coming to his senses, he prepared to return to HQ, that is….until you started your performance.

The sight of you pleasing your supple body awoke something primal in him-- his eyes glared crimson and fangs unwittingly sprouted. As if this vision couldn’t become more delicious, he was able to hear you moan his name with his superhuman senses. The longer he stared, the larger the aching tent in his suit grew. He wanted to taste every inch of your body-- feel your perky nipples on his rough tongue. He wished his thick fingers were sliding in and out of you….better yet, he wanted to watch you unravel he stretched your pretty, wet pussy, filling you inch by inch. Reaching his limit, he immediately rushed to your fire escape. But of course, lighting had to strike in that instance, nearly revealing his stalking gaze. He was able to climb to the roof of your building, hiding just in time for you to come to the window…but it was a close call. Way to close. During the next eruption of thunder he returned to his original vantage point, far enough to remain undetected, but close enough to keep an eye on you. He was sure he frightened you given the events that transpired earlier that night…but he was wrong? Not only were you fingering yourself again, you were aimlessly looking his way. He knew you couldn’t see him through the turbulent darkness, but was stunned at the implication: you knew he was watching-- and you wanted him to. You were putting on a private show just for him, one that he refused to miss….

…You continued staring into the distance, fingering yourself for your deviant admirer-- at this point you were just as perverted as him. You bit your pouty lower lip, turned on by the gushy noises your body made for him…if only he could hear. “Come back…” you whimpered, looking into the stormy nothingness outside. As the thunder continued to rage, the lightning revealed another towering silhouette on your fire escape. You were so horny by now you thought you hallucinated him. You’d never been this down bad before, and you were still running off adrenaline. Ignoring what you saw, you moaned louder, slipping another finger into your spongey warmth. You could barely keep your eyes open as pleasure radiated throughout you…until lighting stroke again, and the body--his body was still there. Chest heaving, you sit up, crawling across your bed to open the window. The lights were off, but you could make out more details of him with every move you made--the red of his suit, contours of his muscular frame, and lastly, a bold spider in the middle of a webbed suit. For a second, you stare up at his towering frame, admiring his imposing presence. Now that you were closer, you noticed his warm brown eyes were now a piercing red shade, undressing you through the glass of your window-- He was frighteningly handsome. With a click, you unlatch the window and open it as wide as you can. You expect his entrance to be awkward given his size, but he moves with an unexpected quickness that makes you fall back on your elbows. “Long time no see..” you mutter “Likewise…” he returns with a smirk.

You watch him as he grabs your towel off the desk chair, drying his face and hair. To your surprise, you hear muffled laughter coming from his direction. “What’s so funny?” You asked.. You were at the edge of your bed, on your knees with crossed arms. He threw the towel down, smirking as he approached you. “You are.” he replied smuggly. He placed an index finger under your chin, and tenderly traced your lips with his thumb. Forcing you to look up at his crimson gaze, he wrapped his other arm around your waist, drawing you closer to him. You clumsily put your hands on his pecs for stability (but also to feel for yourself). “Tsk tsk tsk…. I save you from imminent danger tonight, and not even 2 hours later you’re letting a stranger into your apartment. Que tonta….” he teased. “Oops….” you say with an insincere smile.

He moved the hand caressing your chin to the nape of your neck, gripping a handful of your hair. With gentle swiftness, he forces your head back, exposing the length of your neck. You inhaled sharply as he grazed the delicate skin with his lips…then his fangs.

“Do you have any idea what I could do to you?” he mumbles into you, smiling. You had no clue, but desperately wanted to find out. His words coursed through you like electricity.

“...Want a bite?” You half joked. A part of you didn’t believe he would, but in the back of your mind you were terrified….it was exhilarating.

“Don’t test me nena…” With that he swirled his tongue, leaving velvety kisses along your jugular. You let out a repressed moan, melting into his dark embrace-- and then you felt them. A stream of blood trickled down your clavicle as his fangs plunged into you. Your tense body was too shocked to release a scream, and your pupils dilated at the sensation. Despite your haziness, you noticed he wasn’t actually drinking you….no, this felt much different. A stinging warmth radiated through your throat, then the rest of your body like a shot of whiskey. It burned through you in the best way possible, and disoriented you all the same…”what is this?”, you thought, “....what is HE?” Your senses ebbed and flowed--the pounding New York rain melding into his intense grip. Mere seconds felt like an eternity as he poured his hell into you, but you weren’t scared. If anything…you liked it? There was no time to ponder your questionable decision making-- when he was done, you were an intoxicated, tingling mess.

You finally look at him again, the lower half of his face red with your blood. Subconsciously, you bite your lower lip turned on by his brutish appearance. Snaking your arms around his neck, you passionately kiss him, a drunken smile forming against his lips . He follows your lead without an ounce of hesitancy. Your kisses evolved from urgent, to desperate, then feverish, his tongue battling yours for dominance. You got a taste of your neck blood during the exchange, savoring the metallic flavor. Hungrily, you bit his lower lip, getting a delicious grunt out of him before pulling away. You stared at each other with restless eyes and parted lips .

“Why did you stop?” he asked with frustrated curiosity.

“Because…” you start as you reposition yourself. You lean back on your elbows, arching your chest chest up, and opening your legs to him“… I want you to taste the rest of me.” you drag your hands up the sides of your torso before grazing fingertips over your nipples. He let your words linger for a second…meeting your coy gaze with a grin.

“Careful what you ask for, Nena….I’ll ruin you” he says with his last iota of restraint.

“So then ruin me, Spidey…” you taunt him. Right now, your body needed him in ways your mind couldn’t explain. Your eyes widen as claws grow out the tips of his hand, as if he’d read your mind. Before you can process his mutation, he tears your shirt clean in half-- your pretty tits bouncing out to greet him. “Oh-” you blush trying in vain to cover them, but Miguel won’t have it.

“Move your hands…” he commanded darkly, pinning your hands at either side of your head. Fully vulnerable to him, he immediately starts devouring you. He swirls his tongue over your nipples, licking, sucking, and them like his last meal. His lips feel heavenly as they savor your tender chest….Growling into you, he takes is time kissing a line down your stomach…..lower…and lower…stopping right at your soaking panties. With finesse, the lacy thong met the same fate as your shirt. “Much better” he said matter-of-factly.

You were now fully exposed to him, so vulnerable to his touch and every whim-- exactly what he wanted. He hooked his arms under your thighs, hungrily pulling you towards his devilish mouth. He relished at the sight of your luscious body, trapped in an explicit pose. Legs on his shoulders, he started slow…his tongue licking a line down your wet entrance. He groaned knowing your juices were meant for him, licking your opening over and over. After this initial tasting, he became even more depraved-- You were so sweet, and so deliciously reactive. He unhooked one of his arms so he could spread your pretty pink hole open…it was so beautiful. You both let out a loud moan as his tongue plunged into your sweetness. He was in a trance, bobbing his head viscously between your thighs, causing your shaky hand to grip his hair. Your touch was a catalyst, further igniting his animalistic need for you. More, more, more…..nothing would ever be enough. He started to rise, pressing your thighs back to your ears. With this new angle, he could push his tongue even further in you, taking you to new highs. “M-Miguel…Oh god….” you struggled. ‘How cute’ he smiled to himself. Burrowing his nose into your clit, he’d gotten you to cum in his mouth (exactly what he wanted). He didn’t stop until you were a shivering mess from the overstimulation. He finally removed his mouth, anxious to see your post-cum body. To his immense pleasure, you were a mess-- skin flush, tits heaving, eyes barely open. The bed sank as he crawled over you, his body resting between your legs. He kissed you slow and steady this time-- giving you a chance to savor your own juices. “Open your eyes nena…we’re not finished”.

Obeying, you daze up at your tangled bodies: his forehead on yours, his arms caging you, his bulge pressing into your sensitive center….but he still had on that goddamned suit. You tug the fabric covering his abs, silently telling him to take it off. He obliged, making the suit melt off in a wave of pixels. Being skin to skin, centimeters under him, it was the best view in the world. He looked like a renaissance sculpture and was easily the most attractive person you’d been with. You eagerly drag your fingertips down rippled core, tugging down on the elastic of his compression shorts. It's a bit of a struggle since he’s so huge, but eventually, it plops down on your stomach: thick, 9 inches, perfectly brown, curved, and leaking pre-cum. Without realizing it, a bewildered expression washed over your face-- where was this supposed to go????? You hear him chuckle lowly as he flips you on your stomach with ease. He raises your hips to his, using his other hand to stretch your back into a perfect slope. Next, he starts a trail of soft wet kisses down your spine, causing you to shiver with each contact. “Fuck you’re so cute….” He whispers into your ear. He bites it as he curls his fingers into your sticky slit--forcing a loud moan out of you. “I haven’t even fucked you and I have you like this…I can’t wait to stretch you out princesa…” . His thick fingers pumping you, his warm breath on your neck, his low seductive voice-- it was all too much for you. “...Please Miguel…please….” “Please what? You’re a big girl use your words” he taunted, but you couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck me! Stretch me out!” you yelled out desperately. He took his fingers out your pussy and started pumping them in your mouth, in and out…..in and out. Once you licked him clean, he spread your ass wide-- exposing your tight, wet, aching opening. He slowly dragged his dick along your slit before finally sliding the tip in. “Mmm” he said while you gasped. FUCK you needed more….He continued teasing you, making you wetter and wetter until he savagely thrust the whole thing in you. His rhythm starts off slow, giving you time to adjust to the fullness. You felt SO good clenching around his throbbing cock. The image of him stretching you, the squishy sounds you made, the way your ass jiggled with his thrusts---you made him absolutely feral. He wrapped a clawed hand around your throat, choking you as he pounded into your hole. Your moans became animalistic as he squeezed the out of you, owning you. You tried (and failed) to maintain your arch as he thrust into your g-spot over and over “AH Miguel, fuck….” you said deliriously. “Not yet nena, Fuck not yet…” he grunted. With superhuman speed, he flipped you on your back again. This time you were in a mating press with your hands pinned above your head. He grunted several obscenities while sliding back into you. The clapping of his thrusts competed with the raging thunder outside-- droplets of rain mimicking the sweat on your bodies. When things couldn’t feel any better, he started rubbing on your rock hard clit, crushing his lips against yours to swallow your moan. “Fuck Nena…can I--” “Yes, fuck…please cum in me…” you greedily finished his sentence. With a final sweaty thrust, you finished together. He collapsed on top of you, a panting, blissful mess. He released your hands, allowing you to rub his broad back and shoulders as you kissed.

Catching his breath, he slid out of you and came to your side. He tenderly moved your body towards him, making you his little spoon-- the beast had swiftly morphed into a teddy bear. “So Spidey…do you live far?,” you joked. “You could say that…” He smirked warmly. “Could I trouble you for a place to sleep tonight?” “Maybe…but you should probably sleep on couch. Could be dangerous to let a ‘strange man’ sleep in my bed.” you teased him. Smiling down at you, he caressed your cheek and began to kiss you again. You did this for a while, eventually drifting off in his arms. “Good night Nena…” he said once you’d dozed off already, affectionately kissing your forehead. You both slept peacefully that night, Miguel sleeping better than he had in years.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

The next morning, you woke up naked…and alone. Disappointed, you got out of bed to piece together what had happened, did you make last night up? Fortunately, you noticed the scraps of your thong and t shirt on the floor--last night was definitely real. You got up and looked in your mirror, analyzing your body. You longingly grazed over the hickies he left all over your chest-- your favorite were the bite marks on your neck. Last night was like something out of a movie, the most interesting thing that ever happened to you…..and it was over. You didn’t have a phone number, social media, hell you didn’t even know his last name. He just came into your life, gave you the best dick of your life, and bounced. Typical, back to Earth you went. Recalibrating to your normal boring life, you start to get ready for your day…when you notice something on your desk…a gift bag? You reach inside to pull out a brand new thong and t shirt, a rose, and Plan B with a sticky note on it “Sorry nena, I’ll be more careful next time. Thanks for last night. - M.” ….Next time? It was a short note…but you endlessly looped those words in your brain. With this, a small smile crept on your face. You continued your morning routine, interrupted with thoughts of your next Miguel encounter…..

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Ahhhhh that was my first fanfic! Hope yall liked it :))) PLEASE comment and provide feedback (I'm kinda a slut for comments lol). Anyways, shameless Ao3 plug if you want to support the rest of this series: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48369409/chapters/121995508#workskin

Bye for now xxx

[mitchelldailygames]

Heroes of Song Devlog Part 13: Refining

Now that all the Exemplar Hero art has been revealed, I can get back to my main devlog series!

Here’s a picture with all the heroes. The alt text is a little brief on this one because I was worried about it being more exhaustive than the casual scroller was looking for, but reach out or look at my previous posts if you’re interested in more descriptive alt text. Art is by Warren Kennedy. Follow him on Tumblr, Instagram, and Twitter.

My design principles:

The heroes are cute.

Kindness matters.

The world is weird.

Sometimes you don’t fight. Sometimes you do.

Health is hearts.

I’ve made quite a few small changes and additions since the last devlog that I’m going to run through quickly. I’ll probably miss something, since I don’t really want to go back and comb through my edit history, but I should be able to hit the main points.

Exhausted

I’ve added a condition called exhausted which makes it so a character can’t add any of their positive Aspects to their rolls. Exhausted is most commonly a consequence for running out of Effort. If felt like there needed to be more of a cost to using all of your Effort to balance it with using Spirit and to make it feel like it matters when an ability is used to damage Effort. It also just gives me more conditions to work with for special abilities, both for the heroes and enemies. It hasn’t come up in play yet, but I think it could be pretty impactful.

Slippery Scamp

I changed the Scamp’s Life of the Party move to the Slippery move. I think the new move is going to be more useful to Scamp players and is going to make the Calling play more like people will be expecting it to when they choose it. In my most recent playtest (which I will give its own post later), it seemed to be a good fit. It basically means you can crawl, climb, and squeeze in and out of pretty much any situation.

In the Works

I have some dual wielding rules drafted up. I think these are going to mostly revolve around decisions about what to hold in your hands. The main downside for holding a sword and a dagger, for example, is that you wouldn’t be able to also hold a shield and neither has the damage output of a two-handed ax doing a power strike. What I initially drafted out is a little on the complicated side, so I’m thinking about slimming the system down a bit.

I also wrote up a couple more runes. One is a Deflect rune, which I think fits the Zelda-like genre well. The idea is that you could knock ranged attacks back at the attacker. The other rune I wrote before but didn’t include initially was the Hood rune which would block senses like hearing and seeing. Both of these are a little wordy as currently written, but I think have potential.

I also have a couple more enemies written out that I’ll probably drop into the doc soon. One is a flying enemy. Another is a lizard-person enemy called a scalikin (which will probably eventually be a player option too).

Why’d You Have to Go and Make Things So Complicated

Some of the new additions, plus mechanics already present like the dodge/perfect dodge and weapon moves, make me worry a little bit about a pitfall I often associate with OG Pathfinder. In Pathfinder, there is a system for everything and I love it. But, I also come by memorizing a bunch of numbers and being able to quickly reference things pretty easily. That’s not necessarily the play experience I want associated with Heroes of Song and it just isn’t accessible for everyone.

So, I could strip things way back and cut a bunch of features—many of which make the game feel more like its inspirations. What I think I want to do instead, while also being mindful of bloat, is find a way to encourage tables to start simpler and add mechanics to their repertoire as they go. This is how it is handled in video games where new systems are doled out over time with a tutorial to go along with each new mechanic. I’m not sure exactly how to work this into a game book, but I think some direction about how to start with less experienced tables would be helpful. I might note this in enemy descriptions (e.g. the hobkin is an “easy” enemy, both to run and fight, while a sawshell is “moderate” because heroes will need to know how to use the stun mechanics to take it on). I might also include some tutorial encounters to go along with different mechanics.

Anyway, I definitely have a lot of work left to do! Don’t expect a full release of this game any time super soon! But I feel like I got some momentum last month and am excited about how things are going.

I also have some other projects in the works, so there will probably be other game releases in the coming months.

The world is weird; kindness matters.

--Daily