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nyxwoodstone · 6 months

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Televangelism | Part 1

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Summary: Simon offers Johnny a place to stay the night after a deployment, and Johnny gladly obliges. Much to his surprise, there's more to Simon Riley's home life than he previously thought.

TLDR: Soap doesn't know that Simon has a wife...he finds out when he goes to his Lt's house. :)

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, female reader, pregnant!reader, Simon and reader already have a toddler..., maybe a little OOC Ghost but allow it, no smut all plot, still MDNI I swear to God, idk like minor swearing but if you're from the COD fandom I feel like you should know that, let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: if you saw this previously posted to another account, no you didn't :) I don't really know what to call this type of fic, it is a Ghost x Reader, but it's got quite a bit of self-reflection and characterization from Soap. very little beta, but msg me if there's any horrendous spelling or grammar issues. i'm not American, hence the spelling differences. let's just ignore the fact that Ghost inviting Johnny to sleep at his house is more than a little too friendly for special forces guys, let's just ignore that plz!!!!!

Dictionary: SO - superior officer Civvies - civilian clothing NOD's - them night vision goggle thingo's Padre - colloquial name for Bristish Army Chaplains

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It was done.

Another successful operation. A difficult operation.

The entire squad had returned with just minor scrapes and cuts, and more shit to compartmentalise. Not that there was much compartmentalisation these days, the missions just rolled into each other. Sometimes there was a week break in between, sometimes a few months. Never enough time for Soap regain his footing in civilian life. Never enough time to get past the 'disruption' phase of reintegration that the chaplains were always talking about.

Every time he flew back to base, he'd get the same bleeding rundown from a different Padre. Every. Time.

"Now, there are five stages of reintegration after deployment, Sergeant."

"I know that."

"Humour me."

He'd fight back the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes, he'd just do it. The chaplain would continue.

"Pre-entry, you've done that already, psych evals and such. You know the drill. Then, reunion, you'll see your family again-"

Shit. He needed to call his sister.

"-and take some time for yourself. Next is disruption, you'll realise not everything is the same as when you left it, people will have new routines, new hobbies, it's normal to feel resentful during this stage-"

And they'd go on. Tell him about communication, then normalcy. But he never got that far. He'd go home to his apartment, visit his mother, go to coffee with his sister (she worried about him, always did), and then he would be off on his next operation. He'd get a visit, or a call, and he'd be off, with little word to family. There was never enough time. Soap wondered why the task force needed the same spiel every time they returned, it wasn’t as if this was new. It was old. This runaround was old now: United Kingdom, to some forsaken country, to back home, with more memories and less connections. It was what he loved. But it was also what he despised.

"Johnny."

Most of the squad had dispersed, each finishing psych evals and heading off to the on-base housing, their cars, or the mess hall. He didn't actually know if the mess was open at this time of night, he supposed it was only the wee hours of the morning, but God-knew. Johnny had just finished his packing, and was heading towards the unremarkable block of small apartments on the far side of the base. It was a fair hike, but he'd do it. There wasn't another choice, but his flight wasn't until tomorrow, and he staunchly refused to stay awake all night. He'd sleep tonight, then go to debrief, then go the fuck home.

"Johnny."

It was Ghost, in civvies, hands in his jacket pockets. Mask gone. Johnny supposed that was just the way it ought to be, he couldn't wear it everywhere, and wearing it in civvies would certainly give any onlookers, soldiers or not, reason to be curious. Attention was not what men in their position needed. Still, seeing his face was…almost unsettling.

"Lt.?"

*************************************

Simon hung up the phone and tucked it in his back pocket. He felt God-awful calling at this time of night, but he had to do it. He'd sworn to, every time he got back to base, he had to call. Johnny was staring out at the quiet base, the parade grounds just a few hundred metres away, still lit up in the night.

"Johnny."

He'd never really thought about where Johnny must go after operations, he didn't even assume anything, once they were back on the ground, once they were out of the shit, it wasn't any of business, or any of his concern.

"You're allowed to like the men you work with, love." His wife's voice rang in the back of his mind.

He did…like them. They were good lads. Got the job done. Stitched each other up. Didn't leave each other behind. But liking them outside of work? Their job was far too dangerous to make close attachments like that. In his younger days, when he wasn't in the special forces, he'd made…’friends’ wasn't the right word for it. He'd made…acquaintances with some of the soldiers on his unit, they'd go out for drinks, egg each other on in the pub, take each other home after a long night out. But special forces were another world. Here, everything mattered. Every little thing mattered. And perhaps he was just older now, he'd matured more. Back then, he hadn't had anything to lose. Now, though-now he had everything to lose. A family, a home - a life.

But despite all of that, he had grown to appreciate Johnny. He was a good man, in the shit, and out of it.

They'd talked a few times about their lives outside of the army. Nothing important, nothing below surface level. Soap had a mother who had health problems, and a sister who worked in a hospital (he hadn't told Simon what she did, or even told him her name), and who worried about him constantly. Johnny joked that she would end up a patient one day if she kept stressing so much. Simon had told him that he lived far enough from the base that he wasn't constantly thinking about work, he'd told him that he played football as a kid; that was it. Not a lick more.

Johnny gave up far more information willingly than Simon ever could. But they got along. That was enough.

The Scot stood across from him, still staring out at nothing.

"Johnny."

Soap turned his head.

"Lt.?"

"Going home?"

“Sleeping on base tonight, sir, then got a flight tomorrow night.”

On base? After that operation? Simon sighed inwardly and observed the bent hunch of his subordinate's shoulders. He knew that feeling. Finishing a mission alive, but with more red in his ledger. That was all good and well, but the final fucking straw was those damned prison cages that the military called bedrooms. It took a moment to debate, no longer.

"Mine’s 15 minutes from the airport.”

Soap’s eyebrows raised at the Lieutenant’s offer.

“It’s alright, sir, I’ll survive here.”

“After that shit? You need a real bed, Johnny.”

The sergeant ran a hand over his face and dropped his shoulders.

“Y-yeah, alright, Lt. If that’s alright with you.”

“Let’s go,” Ghost turned on his heel and began towards the car park, taking out his phone to shoot off a quick text.

'One of the boys needs somewhere to stay. He's a good man.'

****************************************************************************************

'One of the boys needs somewhere to stay. He's a good man.'

You groggily shot back a text.

'Get home safe, love you."

Simon had been due back for a few days now, but you'd been trying to get used to the unpredictability of his work schedule.

This was nothing new, though. You knew exactly what you were signing up for when you got married to him. He had sat you down when you had first gotten serious, and showed you his will.

That had been an aggressive wake-up call. You knew how dangerous his job was. No one on the planet Earth was foolish enough to think that special forces meant 'safety.' You knew he could die any time he went away. But the long-term reality of that fact didn't set in until you sat beside him and scanned your eyes over that document. You didn't feel connected to your body. It was as if you were peering in on some other person's life, quietly staring through the looking glass to see some insane woman who was desperately in love with a man whose life meant very little up against the interests of international security. To your credit, you hadn't cried when he showed you. How badly you had wanted to. But you didn't. You grit your teeth and clenched your fists. He could die at any moment. So you had better make the most of every second you had with him.

You'd told him as much and he had accused you of not taking his job seriously. A method of self-preservation you recognized from your years of being with him. You had told him he wasn't going to push you away so easily. He had left in a huff and came back the next day with an apology on his lips, and a ring in his hand.

There was no pomp about it, just simple, and practical. So very Simon Riley.

Simon had never been a particularly romantic man, and God, was he difficult to read. But he loved you. He did. And you adored him. And you'd made it this far, a few years of marriage, one kid in, and one on the way; you'd done it. You would keep doing it until the day you dropped cold. So would he, he'd told you so hundreds of times.

No, he was not romantic, but he showed you in other ways. He would rub your back when you were tired, he would open doors for you, or kiss you gently when you needed it. Simon Riley was a man of few words, but frequent action. You loved him for it.

The first time you'd met him, you'd nearly gone weak in the knees. Cliché. He teased you for it endlessly, you never should have admitted that to him. But how were you to help yourself, he was a handsome, well-muscled man with a scowl that you found endearing. You still found that deep scowl endearing today, and on more than one occasion, you had gently pinched his cheek when he pulled that face. He would always chuckle and bat your hand away, biting the inside of his mouth so there was no looser skin for you to pinch again.

Simon Riley was, in your (biassed) opinion, the most handsome, most incredible, most loving man to ever live. And he was yours. Whenever he came shopping with you, or took you out somewhere, it was impossible to escape the stares that other women gave him. Part of you despised it, part of you basked in it. You'd lean in to whisper something in his ear, or pat him gently on the chest, anything to mark him as yours. See this man, he's mine. He'd swear other men did the same to you, but you didn't believe him. He certainly believed himself though, placing a hand on the small of your back or tucking a piece of hair behind your ear whenever he thought he saw eyes on you. It was sweet.

You two had this little…thing. This cocoon for just you two. The comfort and safety that flowed between the both of you had been years in the making, and had taken many, many arguments and discussions to solidify. And you had argued, sometimes into the night hours, going back and forth about trust, and patience, and understanding. You had often had to fight for his agreement, or for his trust, but you had never had to fight for his love. That had come without question, but you'd had to fight for him to show it to you, for him to allow himself one good thing in life. He was different now, all those years of being with you, and working on himself, and all the absolute hell that he had been through. He was different, and you loved the man he was, and the man he had become. No one at his job knew how gentle he could be, the softness he was capable of. No one.

Although, you supposed that was about to change. He was bringing 'one of the guys' to your house, to stay. You had told him before that you had absolutely no problem with him bringing his friends - he wasn't a fan of you calling them that - over. If they needed somewhere to stay, you were more than willing to house them, they were strong men facing down the worst of the world's threats, they deserved somewhere to feel safe, if only for one night. He'd told you he might - although you'd always suspected that he wouldn’t - allow one of his squad mates into his home, and you'd encouraged him to do so if it was necessary. Tonight was the night.

Simon had called you as soon as he could, like he always did.

"I've landed, love, I'll be heading home soon."

"Good. How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Hungry?"

"Just ate here."

"Alright, I'll be in bed, please wake me up."

"Will do. I love you."

"I love you too. Drive safe."

He sounded exhausted on the phone, nothing out of the ordinary though, he was always tired when he came home. You were remiss to admit to yourself that you were tired too. You ran a hand over your stomach. It had swelled up in the time that Simon had been gone. What a difference just a few weeks made. You'd had to attend your scheduled scan alone, and had the photos in the drawer next to your bed, ready to show Simon when he got home.

This baby had been something of a surprise. Not an enormous one, though. Simon and yourself had been significantly less careful in the months leading up to when you found out, and you'd talked about it: another kid, the whole thing. He had been apprehensive to say the least, so you had waited without resentment. He needed time, and God knew, you needed time, so you had both taken time. It had taken a year or so of discussions, he was terrified to become his father. He would never be his father, never. He was nothing like him, nothing. And he had come to his own decision. Being a father would be new, terrifying, different, but he put an ounce of faith in himself, and-

- And then you were late.

You wished you could be like those women in movies who have no idea, and have a whole revelation about being pregnant. But you were not stupid, you were practical, it was one of the things Simon often told you that he loved about you. So practicality it was. You were sure you were pregnant. Three positive pregnancy tests later, and that sealed the deal.

Then you'd burst into tears in your bathroom.

God, who were you to think you could do this? He was due to leave for a three-week operation in two days. You'd be alone in your first few weeks, with a young toddler as well, who's needs were more important than your own.

You didn't hear Simon come home from his run, you'd hardly heard the jagged tone to his voice when he pushed the door open. What a sight it must have been for him. You, curled into the bathroom wall, crying hysterically and hugging yourself. He did well to hide his panic, the soldier in him must have taken over for a few seconds. He scanned the bathroom floor, then checked you over for injuries, asking what was wrong the whole time. Then he'd scanned the bathroom counter and found the three tests lined up. He knew what they were, but bless him, he didn't know if they were negative or positive, the lines meant nothing to him.

"You're pregnant?"

You'd barely managed a nod and to his absolute credit, he did not clam up. He did not shut his mouth, or grit his teeth, or sink back onto his heels. He had reassured you, pulled you into his lap on the floor and talked you out of your hysterics. He'd waited patiently until you could talk. And you had been fine. You loved him, he loved you, and you both loved this baby. You would be fine. It had never been so hard to say goodbye to him as he left for his next mission. You'd never been so panicked whilst he had been away. You had to call your friend to come and stay with you for the time he was away, so she could help you stay out of your thoughts and help with the little toddler who was always asking where her Daddy was.

But all of that panic always subsided when he came home, when he lay beside you and breathed quietly as he slept. Everything was better when he was there. And he would be in an hour or two, so you allowed yourself to get some rest until you heard his tires in the drive.

**************************************************************************************************************

Every few seconds, the car was forced into the dull yellow shine of the street lights. Soap wanted to ask how much longer they would be travelling, but for lack of better words than ‘are we there yet,’ he remained silent, watching identical rows of darkened townhouses amble by. It had been a long drive though, long enough that Johnny had glanced at the clock on the car's electronic display once or twice, just to make sure he wasn't losing his mind.

Suburbia was not quite what Soap had imagined when he thought of his lieutenant's home, although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where he thought Ghost might live. Far from base was all the information he had to guess from. Everyone has to stay somewhere, right? Guiltily, John realised he hadn’t much considered that Simon did in fact, live a civilian life. For weeks or months at a time. The task force wasn’t on duty 24/7, but Ghost, as a normal person? Someone you might see crossing the street? Carrying groceries? It hasn’t crossed his mind.

Strange.

Strange to think of such a deadly man in such a domestic sphere.

They were the same though, he supposed. Just as deadly as each other. Just as domestic, too.

The low rumble of a flight path ahead served to calm Soap, so used to noise as he winded down. Silence was deafening, silence was dangerous. Deep down, although he struggled to admit it, the long string of silence that met him in his own home terrified him. The emptiness, the void that greeted him when he first entered his flat, before the click of his fingers on the light switch, before he turned on the industrial fan beside his couch and before the kettle started to whistle. The silence would grip him around the neck, trying to pull him into his thoughts.

Close-knit housing soon dropped off into plots of land, with sparser houses and longer driveways. The expected pricing of these blocks didn’t escape the sergeant.

Another hour or so later, when the modern street lights had long since faded out into antiquated street lamps every hundred metres, the car began to slow.

“We’re here.” Ghost ripped the quiet in two with the gruff edge of his voice, turning off onto a lined driveway. In the dim light, the house stood modestly. Perfectly normal. Far enough away from other houses to be private, but close enough to be watchful of the neighbours. How fitting.

The ignition rumbled to a stop as Ghost turned the key and exited the car.

Boots hitting the stone, Soap immediately felt at odds with this house. It wasn’t his. It was Ghost’s, a man he knew very little about. It wasn't enemy territory, perhaps this was worse: friendly territory. Too friendly territory. A peaceful space, one that he shouldn't be encroaching on.

He followed said man to the door, crunching quietly up the drive and swinging his bag over his shoulder, a more comfortable hold for his exhausted muscles.

Ghost grunted quietly as he unlocked and pushed the door open, swearing and muttering something about getting it fixed.

“Boots off.” He spoke rather quietly and Soap responded immediately, shrugging out of his boots and sitting them next to a few others at the door. His first sign that something was…amiss, was that there were a few pairs of shoes far too small for Simon, stacked neatly on a wooden shelf next to the door.

He was greeted with a long hallway as he followed Simon through the quiet house. His second sign that something was amiss, was that this house smelled, to put it kindly, feminine. It did not smell like an empty house, nor one that was inhabited by a lone man. Unless of course, Simon Riley had a penchant for vanilla-scented candles. Soap suspected he did not.

A few photographs and decorations adorned the walls but they were impossible to make out in the dark. Soap’s fingers twitched towards his head a split second before he was pulled back to reality and realised that there were no NOD's to help him out here. A stupid instinctual move that he found himself doing more and more these days.

Compartmentalisation, his ass.

Ghost pushed a door to his right open, it creaked quietly in the silent house.

“Spare room’s in here, bathrooms to the left-“

“Thanks, Lt.”

“Take a shower, but keep it down, the missus’ll be asleep.”

And as if he hadn’t just flash-banged Soap, Ghost left, turning on his heel and heading further into the house.

Next Part

#ghost x reader #call of duty #cod x reader #Simon Riley #Simon Ghost Riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x f!reader #idk how tags work

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eilidh-eternal · 9 months

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Having thoughts of the 141 but as the four horsemen of the apocalypse

Despite being known as the four horseman colloquially within the SAS, none of them got their names because of the way they fight, or for some stupidly brave thing they did on an op. Nope.

Gaz - Pestilence

Has an infectious smile. Literally no one can resist it. Can get anyone to do anything he asks with his smile and is soooo smug about it. Flashes it to the shy little secretary outside Price’s office when he needs a favor with his paperwork, or to the base gate-guard when he forgets his ID. He has tags on his truck for that but he likes seeing them flustered.

Price - War

Do. Not. Play. Risk. With. Him. Price has been banned from game night because the rest of the team is convinced he cheats. No one has ever beaten him at Risk—hasn’t ever come close to outmaneuvering him. Ghost takes it personally too because he’s known him the longest and still hasn’t figured out how to beat him.

Soap - Famine

Man can eat. The rest of the team knows to tell him dinner starts 15 minutes later than it really does because if you don’t beat him to it there won’t be anything left. None of the poor rookies have figured that out yet though, so Gaz always takes a little extra to share.

Ghost - Death

The jokes. Oh god the jokes. It’s not even that they’re particularly funny. It’s his deadpan delivery. He may not know anything more than cheesy military puns, but they’re good for talking rookies down in the field. Soap will never admit it but it helped a lot when he was alone in Las Almas.

NSFW below the cut

Gaz

Absolutely abuses his pretty privilege with the lads and ladies. If you think soap is a big flirt? He has nothing on Gaz. This man is disgustingly, sickeningly charming and sweet, even in bed. Is absolutely the type to have you babbling nonsense, clenching down on him as he rolls his hips languidly and murmurs the sweetest praises against your skin.

“Takin’ me so well, luv. Gonna give me one more, yeah? Gonna let me hear those pretty moans?”

Price

Talks you through it. He’s used to talking his team through missions and trainings, and it’s carried over to the bedroom. Especially when you’ve been a brat all day and you’re bent over his knee, counting each strike of his hand against the swell of your ass.

“Only 5 more, don’t get quiet on me now. If I can’t hear you I’ll keep going until you can do it right. That’s what this is for, isn’t it? To teach you to do things the right way?”

Soap

Goes down on you like he’s starving. Absolutely does it for his own pleasure, and is downright nasty about it. Begs you to let him do it, complains that he needs it, that he has to know what you taste like.

Won’t stop whining until you shove his face between your legs to shut him up, and even then he’s sucking and slurping and making lewd sounds, moaning and begging for you to cum on his tongue until he’s had his fill.

Ghost

Listen. He may be an Englishman, but Ghost fucks like the French and you can’t convince me otherwise.

La petite mort.

If he doesn’t leave you limp and tingly all over, he hasn’t finished the job. Will go as many rounds as it takes to see you dumb on his cock, so fucked out your eyes are glazed over and the only name you can remember is his.

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iiitsnotbase · 3 months

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Iyengar and the Portrayal of Class and Power in her Games.

Since its origin in 1974, Dungeons and Dragons has been used to tell multiple types of stories, all depending on the players at the table and the dungeon master at the head of it. Most of these games (and other Tabletop roleplaying games, of course) tend to have a central theme in common, which is the theme of power. Whether that be a power over the world, for example, a king or nobility or dragon terrorising the nation, or the gods having power, or anything in between those, power always comes into play. Especially when it is commonly argued that one person at those tables, the dungeon master, or the game master, has the majority of the power over the table (excluding dice rolls, obviously. Dice rolls are left to the whims of fate.).

There is one Game Master who portrays power in not only her games, but her characters, and she portrays it well. Though at times the way she portrays this power is often subtle and un-noticed, it is there; As intrinsic to her characters as the fact that they are alive, as threaded into the worlds she builds as the people (or even stoats!) that live in them. The way is not too heavy-handed, but it is not so subtle that you cannot see it, it is a delicate balance that she always manages to strike. I am of course talking about the Game Master of (most recently, at the very least) Candela Obscura; Tide and Bone, Aabria Iyengar. Though Candela Obscura is her most recent project (as of writing, 30/2/24), she is also known for her work on Dimension 20’s A Court of Fey and Flowers, Burrows End, The Ravening War, Pirates of Leviathan, and Misfits and Magic, as well as her appearances on Critical Role and being a main cast member of World Beyond Number. She is also widely regarded in all of these fandom spaces as (jokingly) ‘One of our own’, due to her frequent appearance on fanblogs. This is also sometimes colloquially referred to as ‘getting Quiddied’. Although Iyengar’s portrayal of power is always there, it is never more obvious than in Dimension 20’s A Court of Fey and Flowers.

Whatever you are imagining for A Court Of Fey and Flowers, times it by 10, add much more court drama, secrets, espionage, and one single, drugged-up, horny Grandfather who is all the worst parts of birds, and you might have something somewhat close. The table for this season of Dimension 20 includes frequently famous fliers (bird pun fully intended) such as Emily Axford (Lady Chirp Featherfowl), Brennan Lee Mulligan (Captain K.P. Hob), and Lou Willson (Lord Squak Airavis), as well as newcomers such as Surena Marie (Gwyndolin Thistle-Hop/BINX Choppley), Oscar Montoya (Delloso de la Rue), and Omar Najam (Prince Andhera), with Aabria Iyengar at the head of it, controlling all of their fae fuckery (both literal and metaphorical).

A Court of Fey and Flowers is Bridgerton on steroids, with magic and dice and eating feathers, and it is exactly as insanely wonderful as you think it would be. Interwoven with the romance inherent to the regency genre (BINX/Prince Andhera and Delloso de la Rue/K.P. Hob), there are themes of class and social standing, not only among the general population of the courts, but among their peers. This is there right from the beginning, in fact, as across the series illegitimate marriages, secret engagements, and whole secret children are revealed. Being the Game Master of this season, Iyengar portrays these struggles with a gentle touch and an ice-cold grip, never letting you forget that they are there, waiting to be shown, in the background.

In the very first scene we have with Axford and Wilson’s characters, we learn both must marry for power, which tips many off to the way this society works. Their Grandfather (portrayed by Iyengar), demands they marry for power. This move, on Iyengar’s part, is a masterful portal of class, and hints at the social standing the characters have in the show. Unlike every other character mentioned, these two do not belong to a court. The implications of needing to marry well so they are not tarnished and banished from future social events do not go unnoticed by the players or the audience. Axford and Wilson would both later go on to reveal their already secured, entirely inappropriate matches, and cause many issues for their Grandfather.

Another, darker moment of power is the power that the parents have over their children in this world. ‘Parents’ is a strong word for what some of these relationships are, ‘maternal’ being an even stronger word, so we will, for the purposes of this essay, say they are the people who watched over these characters as they grew and now hold power over them. Starting with the positive parental relationships, Marie’s character is shown to have a very unique relationship with their parents and family.

Unique in the fact that they are dead, and still holding power over her (in a somewhat positive way). Marie’s character’s grief spurs her to action on multiple occasions, at one point almost causing the end of her life through a power more powerful than grief. This is also down to Marie’s performance as BINX, her grief is interwoven with her character, holding court on her seat with her. Iyengar, several times, uses the care Marie’s character shows to her old family against her; Particularly in Episode 10, when she brandished a weapon for the first time against Najam’s Characters sister. The scene is incredibly impactful, as Iyengar cuts across to use the moment BINX (Marie) removes Andhera’s (Najam’s) shard to show Suntar (Andhera’s sister, Iyengar) losing the little power she had over Najam’s Character.

Though Suntar is not the only person who held power over Najam’s character, his Mother, the Queen of Air and Darkness (again, Iyengar) is shown to terrify them. In fact, the power The Queen holds over her son is so deeply rooted into his character, it is a part of his design, a shard shoved into his neck that rains on him when he gets upset, or any strong emotion. This allows Iyengar to offer reminders to the cast, even when Najam is portraying the emotions, that there is always someone more powerful than the main six out there, waiting. This impact is made even heavier by the fact Najam plays one of the most powerful characters at the table himself, a Prince of a court that is widely well known and highly regarded. There is a case to be made about how he might play the most powerful character at the table, because while Marie’s Character is the leader of their court, that court is diminished, and Montoya’s character still answers to other people.

Speaking of Montoya’s character answering to other people, The Chorus are some of the most prominent threats despite never being explicitly stated as villains (like characters such as Prince Apollo (Iyengar) are). They run one of the most powerful courts, The Court of Wonder, and help put together the entire event the story takes place in, The Bloom. The power they have over Montoya’s Character (Delloso de la Rue) is never unnoticed. It is integral to the character, given that they wore a glamour (a magical illusion to make them look like a green-skinned elf) every single day, to hide the fact they really are an owlbear, which are typically considered monsters. The Chorus only really exert their power once in a threatening way, but just because something is not said does not mean it is not felt. For example, Wuvvy (Iyengar) is a member of the Court of Wonder, and although she is Delloso de la Rue’s assistant, she is still a member of the Court of Wonder, which means she also answers directly to The Chorus if she is asked. Though all the examples mentioned so far are subtle in their power, one court likes people to know they have power, perhaps because the people in it are so very tiny.

Mulligan portrays Captain K.P Hob of The Goblin Court, which holds the most explicit power in the season. Before we have even learnt the name of Mulligan’s character, we learn he is a Captain, which might mean something in another, kinder universe. This ties back into the Goblin Court holding all the power, K.P is a captain of their court, and this is so important to him we don’t learn his first or second name until much later. Iyengar and Mulligan work together to portray the court gaining and losing power rapidly, and using its members with significant ranks to find and hold that power. This is shown when the Viscountess Grabalba marries the Head of the Trickster Court after her previous engagement is called off. It is shown, in a much more solemn light, when K.P Hob is promoted to Major and ordered to marry for the court, which he does.

There is also power in the way the cast chose to do their romances in this world, which Iyengar facilitates with several events throughout the ten-episode season, such as a Masquerade Ball and a Hedge Maze. There is power in the way Axford’s character has her own, secret family, in the way Wilson’s has a lover in every court, in the way Marie and Najam’s characters find each other, and in the way both Montoya and Mulligan’s leave their old lives behind for love (in Montoya’s case, in an almost direct parallel to Wuvvy). You could write an essay on the romances in A Court of Fey and Flowers, but this is an essay about power, and while love does have power, I would next like to discuss another Dimension 20 season headed by Iyengar and featuring Mulligan that heavily plays on power.

Dimension 20: Burrows End is Chernobyl (the TV show) meets Chicken Run (but replace the chickens with stoats) meets Peter Rabbit (but they are stoats) meets 1984 (but with stoats). There are a lot of stoats in this season. Almost every character is a stoat, with exception of the two named humans (one of whom is secretly a stoat). Again, this cast includes some frequent flyers, such as Brennan Lee Mulligan (Tula), Isabella Rolland (Lila), Siobhan Thompson (Jayshon), and Erika Ishii (Ava), as well as the transition of Rashawn Nadine Scott (Viola) from Play It By Ear to Dimension 20, and 3 Black Halflings’ Jasper William Cartwright (Thorn Vale). All in all, this cast is best described as a powerhouse.

Iyengar portrays class and power in this season in a subtler, more intimidating way. It is not so obvious at the beginning, as all the power seems to be in the hands of Cartwright’s Thorn Vale, the leader of an exclusive cult that worships The Blue. There is an argument to be made here that The Blue is the one with the power, despite not being a technical character in the season, it holds its place by being constant, whether that be through Cartwright and Scott’s character’s cult, or whether that is through forcing the beating of Mulligan’s character’s (Tula) heart. In this, the force which holds all the power is not a character at all; It is similar to what holds all the power in our world, which is simply nature.

When the main six reach a location known as Last Bast, or The Last Bastion of The Light, or Warren Peace Nuclear Power Plant (we’ll continue to refer to it as Last Bast), some of the first characters there that they meet have the least power. They meet the working-class of stoats first, before anyone else, and thus begin to see Last Bast from their perspective. They meet these working class stoats when they are dying, when it is implied they are expendable because they have no power. In reality, they have all the power, being the ones to provide the food for the rest of Last Bast, and being the ones to provide the food, which keeps the area going. In reality, as much as the ruling class don’t think the working class have any power here, they have all the power.

One of these working class stoats (as a reminder, these are all stoats) is an outspoken adolescent named Sybil, who loses her brother in the first meeting with the main six. Though initially she is portrayed as weak and powerless (literally being dead in her first appearance), we learn that she is resourceful, and if she is not strong in the literal sense, she is strong in the mental sense. She is also used to show the power that the leader, The First Stoats, have over their people, when they kill her in front of the Main Six to prove a point. Her death is explicitly described as being “The price of treason,” (Iyengar). Though Sybil is often argued as just simply being ‘a narrative device’, could the same not be said for all the characters in this story?

Sybil is also used to portray the idea of love conquering all, an overused trope but a trope for a reason. One of the most popular phrases in Last Bast, and a phrase used to guide other stoats towards it is “Follow your instincts towards the light.” Sybil takes this extremely literally, following her brother and breaking rules for her family, such as saying Curtis’s name even after he died (an act forbidden by The First Stoats).

Which brings me nicely onto the next point, the way The First Stoats attempt to hold power over death. The first way this is shown is through the disallowance of names for the dead, for the people who don’t technically exist anymore. This furthur shows their dictatorship and need for power and control; The way they cannot control death so they outlaw the names, taking away the family’s process of mourning and grief. The second way they do this is through Sybil’s aforementioned execution by them. They capture and kill her, showing again how they have the level of power and control that other stoats in Last Bast do not have.

Candela Obscura; Tide & Bone is not only a masterclass in relationships and trust between players at the table, but a masterclass in power. The cast includes Sam Riegel (Oscar Grimm), Noshir Dalal (Professor Rajan Savrimuthu), Gina Darling (Madam Cordelia Glask), Ashly Burch (Dr Elsie Roberts), and Liam O’Brian (Professor Cosmo Grimm). This cast includes Critical Role old and new friends, all voice acting powerhouses in their own right, and is headed, as all these tables are, by Aabria Iyengar.

Tide & Bone does not only choose to focus on the power of human emotions, but on the power of nature, and the freakish things we cannot control even when trying our best. To understand the portrayal of power in this game, we first need to understand the characters and their relationships to each other, since one of the long-standing themes across the circle is what power, and how much power, do our emotions have over us?

This theme is most obviously portrayed through Burch’s performance as Dr Elsie Roberts, a young Doctor with Cullet and a panic disorder that materialises as a terrible monster when she gets too stressed (take it literally), and Dalal’s performance as Professor Rajan Savrimuthu, a professor with a hive in his chest. I highlight these two not because they are the only people to portray the theme of emotions holding more power than they are worth, but because they are the most obvious. It is well stated that the professor and the doctor were together (romantically), “For a time.” (Burch).

The scene that highlights this the most is the opening scene to Episode 3, Candles in The Dark, where it is revealed to the audience that, for an unknown reason, Professor Rajan Savrimuthu spent the whole night outside Dr Elsie Robert’s bedroom door, after him leaving in the previous episode. This scene, or the opening to it, shows how people are easily manipulated by their emotions, especially people such as Professor Savrimuthu and Dr Roberts.

This theme is further explored later in the scene with the line “(Oscar) is interesting. He has certainly earned your trust.” Said by Dalal as Professor Savrimuthu. Oscar Grimm is one of Dr Robert’s best friends, and the only person to have ever seen her transform into the beast outside of herself (“I would have seen it before, right? So I know.” (Reigel as Oscar Grimm, narrating his internal monologue.)). This is further questioned by Dr Roberts, when she wonders why exactly ‘Raj’ is choosing to bring up this moment now, when they are about to go on the run, saying Elsie’s internal monologue is asking “Is this an inopportune moment of jealousy? What’s going on here?”.

However, romantic emotions are not the only emotions shown to have power over people. When Dr Roberts transforms into The Beast for the first time on-screen in Episode 1, it is not Professor Savrimuthu who comforts her through it, it is (one of) her best (and only) friends, Oscar Grimm. ‘Comforts her through it’ is a generous term to say ‘he is the one who takes the fall, not only for Elsie but for the rest of their circle, as she kills him’. Oscar Grimm cannot die, but he can still be killed, and he is. As he is being killed, though knowing she cannot hear him, he whispers, “It’s ok. I’ll be fine.” and then promptly dies and comes back.

This is another way that Iyengar portray’s power in this story; The power of death, and those who defy it, through Oscar Grimm, Empress Iomene, and Cosmo Grimm. While many other themes are ran rampant throughout their story, the main one is death and mourning, and finding power over those things.

For Oscar, the man who never dies, death is not something to fear. He cannot comprehend or remember what happens when he dies, and though he is often not alone, he dies far more than any one person should. Both him and his son, Cosmo Grimm, have power over death in separate ways. Whilst Oscar does not actively seek death, it seeks him, and he keeps coming back, whereas Cosmo actually seeks death and does not find it. The constant death for the elder member and the constant undeath for the younger one make this duo interesting and give them some of the most power in this circle.

The last character to explore power in a unique way in this circle is Gina Darling’s Madam Cordelia Glask. She shows us the power of the gods, who took her entire family from her. Darling also, during her portrayal of Glask, holds a necklace like a rosary, showing how she still has faith in the gods that raised her and ripped her family from her. This point also further proves the power that our childhoods hold over us, even when we are in a different location, as Glask is.

There are then the themes of communal power that are portrayed in the story, most obviously the power of names and titles. In Newfaire, there is a literal divide between the Eaves and the rest of the city, the literal divide being the staircase into the Eaves. This is evidenced in the circle by the fact that only one of them is not titled in any way shape or form; That person also being the eldest in the circle, Oscar Grimm. Whilst all the other characters are titled somehow, with either Professor or Doctor, offering academic achievements, or Madam, offering social achievements. This creates a divide in the circle, which is particularly emphasised when you realise that Oscar works for Madam Glask.

In conclusion, although power has multiple meanings, somehow Iyengar is able to portray all of them across the games she leads. This essay only covers the elements of her games, it mentions nothing of her characters, the ones who destroy themselves for power (Suvi and Laerryn) and the ones who let power destroy them (Karna). Power, as most things are, is a storytelling device that can often be overused. Iyengar does not do that. Iyengar’s take on power is refreshing, and in so many words (3410 to be exact), oddly comforting.

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theramseyloft · 12 days

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What were some things that made you want to stop breeding ringneck doves

Initially, I was forced to by suffering a heart attack.

Ringneck doves are wonderful little birds that tame very easily and are simple to handle. I would almost consider them the perfect beginner bird.

But they have very different housing needs from a pigeon.

Pigeons are social. (And intelligent enough to be taught house rules so that they can safely free range a home like a dog or cat.)

Ringneck Doves are absolutely not!

They do not flock!

They have no concept of "Friend who is not my mate", and any bird that is neither their mate nor current nestling is absolutely unwelcome in any space they can physically reach!

Once they hit sexual maturity, they have to be separated by pair, because if they can reach another dove of the same sex, they will attack it relentlessly!

Not just cocks either. They're just more straight forward about it, mostly slapping and ripping feathers out of each other.

Hens are like this too, and their attempts to quietly shove each other off perches and out of nests are often mistaken for peaceful cuddling.

And once a nestling is self feeding, you had better move it out right that second, because that flips a switch in their parents' brains from "baby" to "intruder!" and they absolutely will try to kill it!

My little flock only worked out because the population was unstable.

We had a pretty steady stream of clients, so most went home long before reaching sexual maturity, leaving only babies together who had not developed the territorial aggression of an adult yet.

Cleaning a cage per pair (I had 16 breeding pair at the time), and the floor of the growing weanlings in free flight every day was physically too much for me to keep up with after surviving the type of heart attack colloquially known as a Widowmaker by I'm pretty sure the literal finger of God.

(Long story. There were many, many layers to why I should not be alive from that single event.)

Pigeons, on the other hand, don't just do well free flying in a single space. That's the way they live the happiest.

I was heart broken to give up the doves, but I enjoyed working with the pigeons much more, the type of enclosure they live in most happily was the easier of the two for me to physically manage, and I firmly believe that a person should not have animals that they can't care for.

So I reached out to two breeders I was very close with and respected and split the entire flock between them.

I have most of my medical conditions under much better control now, but I will not be getting back into Ringneck Doves.

I honestly just enjoy the intelligence and social structure of the pigeons so much more.

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y-rhywbeth2 · 10 months

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Lore: Common Phrases & Words

Accuracy Disclaimer & The Other Stuff [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Translating some earth phrases and words into their Faerûnian equivalents, plus some words specific to Faerûn; Here's how make friends and insult people in Faerûn. Also they have coffee, guitars and health insurance.

Also included a handful of Waterdhavian phrases and words.

Phrases and curses:

"Before all the gods..." - "I swear to god..."

"Well met" - default greeting; hello

"Well again" - greeting between acquaintances, business partners and friends.

"Well enough" - agreement; "ok", "that's fine with me"

“Never undress in a room with a window, a Harper may be near!” – "Be careful what you say, you don't know who's listening. an interesting warning courtesy of Waterdhavian noble matrons.

"Haularake!" - The polite way to say "gods fucking damn it!" while in front of small children.

"Hrast!" - Damn it!

"Hrasted [thing]!" - Damned [thing]!

"[Deity]'s Blood" - eg "Cyric's Blood" Religious oath, rather like jesus christ. Contracted version of Blood of [deity]

I swear that I have seen "Umberlee's Teats" and "Cyric's Balls" said somewhere...

"Being an ox-haunch" - "Being an asshole"

"a breath" - a moment, a second; "wait a breath"

"A breath or two" - A moment/second; eg, "give me a breath or two to finish this."

"A goodly breath or three" - a minute. (Waiting for a notable amount of time, maybe ten minutes, but not that long.) -- The dwarven variant is "but a little while" -- Halflings call it a "long song"

"Counting like a halfling" - Being contrary just to be difficult Most of the Realms counts on their fingers starting with the thumb, halflings do it the other way around.

"Naeth!", "Naed!" - Shit!

"Sabruin" - Fuck you, Fuck off.

"Lay down [good] coin" - "pay [a lot] for something"

“Resourceful as a bard”

"Life's better when you're not a frog." - "Avoid wizards."

“Sweet water and light laughter until next we meet” - A goodbye said between nobles. Technically an elven farewell, but human nobility decided it made them look cultured or something.

"Gone to Daggerford" - Waterdhavian phrase meaning to hide from the law by lying low outside the city

"Black as a black opal" - used to describe people who seem evil, but aren't really. (Especially if they'd dislike you saying so)

- Faerûnian Lexicon:

Scorchkettle - a Karen.

Dining-house - a Restaurant

Glim - Eye-catching, beautiful, flashy

Kaeth - Coffee ~Fireswallow - a colloquial term for Coffee.

Yarting - acoustic guitar

Short scroll - Newspaper

Nandra - mediocre, meh.

Dael, daelin - a year, years

Saer - a term to address nobility when you don't know the proper title, or when they're children

Lackwit - Idiot

Roundskull - a prejudiced idiot who doesn't use their brain; "often applied to local folk who sit drinking in their tavern displaying prejudices and repeating the words of their parents and grandparents, rather than making their own judgements about changing conditions around them, and new concepts, items, and customs."

Handfast - an engagement (to be married) Handfasted - engaged

Goldnose, Goldnosed - Haughty. aka. "Has a stick up their ass." Highnose - as above

Lackcoin - a derogatory term for those living in poverty.

Darkmorning - the early morning hours between midnight and sunrise

Highsun - Midday

the Eavestrough - the Gutter

a Bell - an Hour

a Candle - an Hour

Festhall - a type of establishment found in the Realms. A kind of fusion between an inn, laundromat, spa, night club, brothel and casino. I'll explain these in another post. Suffice to day that BG3 is the most accurate portrayal of how damn horny this setting is that I've seen in a CRPG so far.

Blesséd - an elven loanword referring to immediate family.

Harhand - a labourer (minimum wage employee)

Healthshield - Health insurance, also known as a "healing-bond"

Fire-bond - Fire insurance

Rivvim - horny

Dawnfry - colloquial term for breakfast A common breakfast, especially for travellers at camp, is to quickly fry the leftovers from last night's meal.

Highbite - colloquial term for lunch Long variant is "Highsunfest."

Latebite, Evenfest - Dinner Abbreviation of "Eveningfeast."

the Art - Magic

Lackspell - a weak, or novice wizard

Aloft - Upstairs; "she went aloft/upstairs."

High-coin - Expensive; or referring to a high paying job Low-coin - Cheap; or paying minimum wage

Finework - intricate and valuable metalwork. Silverware and jewellery, for example

Finesmith - a smith who works with precious metals.

Hiresword - Mercenary

Stareyed - naïve

Shraehouse - a type of very small tavern

Fastmud - Cement

a Swords out - a brawl or violent argument

a Smur - a light, misty rain

Beast-men - common word for ogres

Big Folk - Term used by gnomes and halflings to refer to the other races

Longears - term for an elf

Little man - insult aimed at dwarves

a Blackstick - something like a grease pencil. A writing utility made of a stick of thorden (juniper) wood that can be sharpened on one end, which is then slightly charred and used to write with.

a Blandreth - a three legged cooking pot

a Boot - a Traveller

Dadacky - Rotten, Decayed

Heartstop - a Heart attack

Coin - Money; "I've got no coin until I get paid next week."

a Broad Cry - Headline of a newspaper/broadsheet

Holy hand - a temple guard

Tenday - equivalent of a week (10 days instead of 7) Other, less commonly used terms include; an "eve," "hyrar", "ride" or a "domen".

the Elf day - the Weekend. The tenth day of a tenday, sometimes a day of rest.

House storming - a burglary; home invasion

the Realms Below - the Underdark

a Black Robe - a magistrate [Waterdhavian dialect]

a Sun - a platinum coin [Waterdhavian]

a Dragon - a gold coin [Waterdhavian]

a Shard - a silver coin [Waterdhavian]

a Nib - a copper coin [Waterdhavian]

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the-bjd-community-confess · 2 months

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I wondered if this would come up with the repeated mention of being for or against using religious iconography on doll clothes, but I guess someone needs to mention something important about human culture and the nature of symbolism.

The reason crosses on things is problematic is because ultimately they will always represent an affiliation to Christianity. The nature of symbols is that they are inherently symbolic and thus they communicate to people a relationship to the belief or group which the symbol has been known to represent.

Because of history and the many complications of colonialism, Puritanism, and bigotry, I personally view symbols of Christianity (the cross, the crucifix, Jesus, etc) as akin to hate symbols, and therefore those who brandish them are unsafe and unwelcome to me. Obviously, other people feel the opposite and see Christianity as a beacon of love and faith and therefore the symbols make them feel safe and those who brandish them are felt to be friends or community. Ultimately, the lesson is the same. The cross communicates an affiliation to that particular religion, and to say that it can exist neutrally is frankly ignorant and naive, but it happens a lot actually because Christianity is so deeply ingrained in human culture that most languages heavily incorporate direct references to capital G God as colloquialisms, and because of colonialism and missionaries, and evangelicalism, there is nearly no part of the entire globe which has not in some way been touched or influenced by Christianity (or at the very least, Abrahamic religion). This creates a sense of easy assimilation that has existed for hundreds of years which makes us complacent to the oppressive thumb of Christianity, making us blind to its influence and heavy presence in everything we do, see, and consume.

So allow me to make an extreme example which will be easier to separate from the normality of Christian and Abrahamic iconography:

If someone started selling doll clothes (think gothic Lolita) but instead of crosses as decorations, they included sw*stikas, but the creator proclaimed that they “just think they’re pretty” or that they “believe in the original representation of peace, unity, and fertility” and are therefore unaffiliated with n*zis and believe the symbol to be neutral. Would this bother you?

I don’t think any reasonable person would say that it wouldn’t. Some may say that that person can do as they please, but ultimately the only people who would buy the clothes would be people who are entirely ignorant and naive to the implication, or people who directly identify with n*zis as no non-bigoted person would ever want to accidentally or negligently indicate to others that they hate Jewish people, poc, the disabled, or lgbtq+ people, or any other people that have been victimized by the people who have proudly brandished that symbol and gave it the infamy it has today.

It’s a outlandish example for sure because most people believe the n*zis were/are bad, and the majority of the world still feels some favor for Christianity as Christians are a lot of the time in the majority, but ultimately, the message is the same.

Like the sw*stika denotes n*zism, wearing a cross tells other people that you approve of Christianity (whether that is a good or bad thing in your opinion is entirely up to you) and similarly wearing a cross upside down tells people that you disapprove of it or even are affiliated with Satanism or some kind of anti-Christian faith and would therefore cause discomfort in people who believe in or hold dear God and Jesus. Trying to say that symbols hold no weight or meaning would, in essence, dismantle the fundamentality of language and culture in relation to humanity as every language and translation between languages began with an image which became representative of an idea or thing.

Sure it’s a lot to read into a metal charm, but I think it’s important to always question why we do something as human beings. Why is one symbol, beloved by a group that unfairly victimized a minority people (the sw*stika), seen as terrible and far too heavy to be used so carelessly or neutrally, but another symbol, also beloved by a group that has been known historically to unfairly victimize several different minority peoples and cultures (the cross), is comfortably used in neutrality because it “looks nice” and its “not that deep”? It’s mostly food for thought, but I think in this day and age we should not so blindly submit to these forces for the sake of complacency, neutrality, and conformity without asking ourselves “Why would I wear this symbol if I don’t agree with what it represents?” Especially in an age where people are educating themselves about brands which use child slave labor and actively pollute the world for profit, and then also trying to warn people off of wearing their logos or publicly displaying their use of that company’s products to limit the control those companies have on our day-to-day lives.

~Anonymous

#BJD #ABJD #BJD Confessions #Community Confessions #BJD Fashion #Religion

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plasma-studios · 7 months

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On Mercy (ao3: x)

The Council has been at war with the Emperor (more colloquially known as the King of Nightmares) for a long, long time. After defeat after defeat, they find themselves with no option but to request help from his fabled twin.

However, Dream will not help them for free; he locks eyes with Cross, and decides he wants him in exchange for the war victory. It is an easy choice to make.

But Cross is terribly apprehensive, because he his loyalty is not to the Council, but to Nightmare as a spy, and Dream is Nightmare's mortal enemy. Moreover he suspects Dream chose him knowing this, wanting information about his twin; and the issue is, Nightmare is absolutely unforgiving of traitors.

But he cannot offend Dream, for he too is an Immortal and God. He cannot forget that both Dream and Nightmare is dangerous, that any wrong move will end in his demise or worse.

(He forgets, however, that he himself is mortal.)

[OR: A Empire/Kingdoms UTMV AU, where Cross is caught between the crossfire of Immortal/Gods! Dreamtale Twins and some involvement with God!Errorink too.]

Inspired by love, in fire and blood by cicer

Chapter 1: a deal is struck

The tides would shift soon, they told themselves. Each day’s fresh defeats were a necessary evil, soon the tides would shift and they would have their victories. This war would be theirs to win.

That was the belief of the dreamers among them. Those who held onto their hopes even as they buried their comrades day after day.

Then there were the defeated, the broken. Those who had given up their hopes for a better life and fought to survive. Sometimes they just gave up and let the ocean take them, or the earth. It would be a kinder fate than joining his army of the dead.

Even with all the Kingdoms of the World allied together, his Empire overshadowed them all. Even in their Council, even with Kings and Queens and Dukes and Countesses they all seemed to have some grasp on the truth. Some awareness of their position, of defeat after defeat.

Cross watched them debate, then argue, then lament. They were losing, they all knew it. He knew it too. Even as a lowly soldier (it was what he was best at) he knew it, saw it in the numbers they were losing and the grim lines in their faces. He didn’t say anything, however, and lowered his head as they discussed troops and strategy.

As if he’d heard nary a word of the King of Nightmares.

There were rumours about him. He went by other names, too. The Cruel Prince, once. The Boy of the Night. There were rumours that he was a God, some that he was an immortal. (The Moon Immortal, they called him.) Some that he was just a regular mortal drunk on power. But what mortal lived for centuries?

The Council, at least in part, suspected his immortality. Perhaps even Godhood. But they did not want to, because their hopes of success were already dismal.

But there were stories that brought them impossible hopes. Stories about his twin, the Light to his Darkness. Stories, not rumours, for the twin was so little known about him and far less about his twin. At one point the numbers had climbed too high and someone bravely made the suggestion. Could we reach out to his twin for help? First, it had been a casual remark. But slowly it made its way into the official discussion, its feasibility and possibility debated alongside strategy and supply. Not happily debated, of course, for the implication was that they had no other choice. But Cross, again, remained silent as they worked out the finer details. First, they worked out how they’d contact him in the first place; a letter, perhaps, but it would need to be published everywhere to get his attention. That meant that it couldn’t contain anything sensitive, but they could work around that.

A few sessions later (and a couple lost battles) the letter was drafted. Soon after, published world wide. Hours later, they got their response. Though they would not discover it till the morning after. His reply had been burned into the walls of their Council Chambers.

To the Council:I hear you. I agree that my brother has been excessive in his terror; I also agree that you cannot win this war without me. It is not a matter of your weakness, but rather his strength. It’s time my brother is stopped.

However, I will not do it for free. On the Summer Solstice I shall attend your Council to discuss our terms. I sincerely hope we’ll find an agreeable compromise then.- The Sun Immortal.

At this the Council was entirely silent. There was only the sound of breathing, then gasping, and slowly they erupted. Insolence and arrogance bounced across the room: “What hubris!” “Is it hubris if he’s an Immortal?” And, of course, the confirmation of immortality. Though that was somehow the least shocking tidbit.

The writing was oddly neat for having been burned in, Cross noted. Then how long till the Summer Solstice? and what can we offer him?; of course they hadn’t been so optimistic to assume he would help them free of charge, but faced with the confirmation they suddenly found it difficult to discern what an Immortal would want in exchange. Gold and jewellery seemed like rewards for the living, for the mortal; would such material rewards be accepted?

What if he wanted land, instead? A crown, a Kingdom? What, then? They spent more time debating their terms than drafting the letter. But they had to come to a conclusion soon, as Asgore reminded them: the Summer Solstice was a mere three days away.

Finally they voted, and it was decided. They would ask him what he wanted in return first, and work from there. Surely if he was taking the time to discuss with them, he did want the deal to go through, and if he wanted it to succeed, he would not ask for something impossible. Surely?

However, they still prepared for all the options thought up in their hours of discussion. Rubies, sapphires and emeralds polished and stored away in trunks with gold and silver coins beneath them; carefully stored crowns with freshly gilded gold and polished jewels; cloaks and clothing made out of silk or laced with furs, etc.

Even obscure recipes were brought out, like boiled gold soup and silver ingot bites. The food once regarded as the highest cuisine, only for the wealthiest. Not anymore, of course, but nonetheless.

Finally, the preparations made not in official Council discussion but covert exchanges to prepare a variety of beauties. Some fair-skinned, some not. Some freckled, some not. Some muscled, some not. Some more compliant, some more recalcitrant, some more aggressive.

We don’t know his tastes, and there was an undercurrent of humour in it, even. It would not be the first time someone demanded people for their war efforts.

It was a little extreme. Even Nightmare’s tastes were… ah, somewhat sane. But Cross didn’t know the Sun Immortal, so perhaps his tastes were indeed less sane. Nonetheless the day of the Summer Solstice arrived like the sun rising for each day.

Now the Council would be arriving earlier today for fear of missing the Immortal’s visit, but though they’d arrived at their predetermined time (just after dawn) there was already someone there. A stranger in light silks, asleep in one of the chairs. Arms folded, head dipped, sleeping quietly.

His breathing was quiet, but it was still there, and in the silence of their held breaths they heard it clearer than their own. No sooner had the first of them stepped over the threshold, however, did the stranger’s eyes flutter open. “Ah, good morning.” His voice was clear and light; like a drink of water in the desert. “I assume you’re the Council?” There was a silence, before CORE Frisk responded, “Yes. I assume you’re the Sun Immortal?” At that, a sweet chuckle. Still so light, sweeter than honeycomb. “Officially, yes; but just call me Dream.” At that, whispers again: but they were quickly silenced by a look from Undyne. The Council had tentatively started filling in, all the while Dream was looking at them rather curiously, a hint of amusement in his gaze yet any mocking absent from it. Just like how an adult would look at a child. Like an immortal gazing upon mortals?

Cross was familiar with that sort of look.

Dream got to his feet and tilted his head. “I’m assuming I wasn’t so fortunate to choose my seat on a guess?” “Unfortunately not, but we’ll show you to your seat?” CORE Frisk had taken a tentative step forward when he raised his hand abruptly— lazily? “No need.” He reached over and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Guard. “You.” He smiled. “Show me to my seat.” The poor Monster was so very stiff as he led the Sun Immortal to his seat; a cushioned, grand thing, positioned in the centre of the rows of seats wrapping around it in a circle.

Cross made sure he wasn’t scrunching his eyebrows. Wouldn’t that be obvious that it was his, a seat in the middle? And once again that sweet, clear laughter. “Oh, that’s— aha .” His fist crumpled over his teeth and mouth. “It’s just— ah, it’s almost as if I’m on trial.” He pulled his hand away from his mouth. “So, terms! What will you offer me?” And Cross swore his golden eyes, though still agleam, sharpened.

Dream had not taken his seat.

“What would an esteemed Immortal such as yourself prefer?” Asgore’s tone had found the cadences of officiality, of usual Palace affairs or even mundane Council business. Still, it seemed to interest the Immortal (Dream, was it?) as he looked to him intently. “Such as I?” He laughed again, but this time it wasn’t as sweet. “Unfortunately, I don’t know what I want. It’s up to you to make a good offer, Your Majesty.”

In the Immortal’s mouth, the title was like dust. But to his credit Asgore maintained his composure and answered. “I suppose I should start off with the simplest offer. Coin? Jewels?” And it was evident that he did not think Dream would accept this offer. And he was right, Dream only raised an eyebrow. “I can find jewels anywhere. Coin even more so. What else do you have?” And then the silks, the cloth. He was as unimpressed with the offer as with the first, but strangely, Cross noticed from his place against the wall, not an inkling of disappointment lined his face. Still he let them offer more, and more. Offer after offer was raised with the speed of bullet fire, flying across the space as they desperately tried to appease the Sun Immortal.

Silently, Dream raised his palm. It seemed his patience had reached its limit.

“And what if I said I want people?” Immediately the tension in the room thickened. Looks were exchanged, confused blue on repulsed green, yellow irritation on pink curiosity. CORE Frisk observed Dream quietly, but did not speak up. Dream smiled a tiny small smile.

“Well, Esteemed Immortal,” Duke Isre murmured hesitantly. "If it would please you, you may have your pick of the courtesans of my court.”

“And mine, of course!” Another hurried to protest. “The courtesans of Sere are known for their allure—” “Oh?” Dream’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “Tell me more.” Then there were a dozen, more than a dozen, speaking at once; all so eager to grasp at the Immortal’s interest.

But that wasn’t a sparkle. Cross swallowed the sigh into his throat. It was a gleam: the gleam of amusement, of sardonicism. Dream was not interested in them, not truly.

But their offers of concubines and courtesans only continued, each one more outlandish than the first. Blue eyes like sea sapphires. Gold hair like threaded gold. Skin as smooth as a babe’s. Teeth like mermaid pearls. He had to force his eyes not to roll. Somewhere in him, however, there was the smallest shred of pity. Of irritation. If the Council failed to negotiate terms, they would lose their last hope. They were making too many mistakes; mistakes that were obvious in hindsight, but not so much in the doing; mistakes that were his job to report back to Nightmare to be exploited.

He did pity them, somewhat. He couldn’t just stand around and not see how much the common people were suffering. Starving children and cold corpses. Empty homes and unburied bodies.

But the Council was full of Kings and Queens, Dukes and Duchesses. People who’d never lived a day of hardship in their lives. People who, only a century ago or two, would’ve been delighting in tasteless gold delicacies while the people starved of famine. The generals and soldiers, he was annoyed less by. They were competent, at least. But they still could not fight a God, certainly not Nightmare. It was their deaths he felt more guilt over.

“Dream,” CORE Frisk suddenly cut in. “You haven’t accepted any of our offers. May I ask what they lack?”

Dream locked eyes with CORE Frisk. To their credit. CORE Frisk stayed unflinching. There was a moment of quiet, of tension.

Cross realised Dream was no longer smiling. “Since you’ve asked, CORE, I’m more than willing to oblige. You see,” He gestured vaguely around him. “I believe I never said anything about wanting someone to warm my bed.”

He turned his eye upon the one who had gotten the ball rolling.

“You know, I’m beginning to rethink this,” He said casually. “Maybe we aren’t suited for an alliance after all.” There was a dead silence. And then there was nary a sound, save for CORE Frisk: “I’m sorry for any offence caused, Dream,” They began. “May I ask why?”

There was sharp laughter, in the silence. Not a single eye wasn’t upon the Immortal, and Cross unconsciously noted CORE Frisk too was on their feet. “You want me to answer to you?” Like a violin string drawn taut, like the lightning striking the earth, backs straightened and sharp, fearful gazes were exchanged. “A little pretentious, don’t you think?” His eye was on CORE Frisk. The string, taut and tauter. CORE Frisk opened their mouth, but no words came out.

Too taut and now the ripped alliance between them. Dream still looked unbothered under the fearful and indignant glares of the Council.

“May I ask what it is that you want?” CORE Frisk tried, ever the meditator. “Or even just what you don’t want.” Dream looked into the rows and rows of people. Slowly, he turned his gaze down the row.

“I’m beginning to think,” He said softly. “That you don’t have what I want."

Well, that was it, then. There was relief of having finally bitten the bullet. Dream wasn’t going to help the Council after all. Nightmare would be happy to hear that, right? Momentarily his eyebrows almost scrunched together.

It would be difficult to get news to him, especially news of this nature. He’d have to wait till Dust came by to pass the news: it was always risking making contact on his own.

A pity, though. CORE Frisk’s face was blank, but they must’ve been disappointed. They weren’t as bad as the rest, really. But CORE Frisk was one person and the rest (whom he had little pity for) always outweighed them.

A pity, but a small amount of it only. CORE Frisk was blank, but probably carefully blank.

Dream locked eyes with him.

“You.”

Cross stilled. Those golden eyes, bright and alert, were on him now.

“Come here.” His outreached hand was curved, fingers beckoning. Cross did not move for the first few seconds. His eyes were on Cross’; no mocking, no amusement: there was nothing Cross could recognise.

Then, slowly, he took his first step. Then another. Then another. All the while the quiet had been broken but quiet exhales, gasps, confused rustling and carefully blank faces almost faltering.

Soon he was before Dream. A smile was pulling at his teeth. “Ah, may I ask for your name, sir?” Cross felt the welt of saliva in his throat. “Cross, Esteemed Immortal.” Dream smiled indulgently, and reached for his chin. His breath was in his throat; then, ever Cross’ saviour, CORE Frisk interrupted. “May I ask what the Esteemed Immortal wants of this Guard?” “A Guard, huh?” There was interest in his eyes, but his hand still did not let go. “I see. I don’t suppose he’s a recent one?”

On instinct, most of the Council turned to Undyne, but she was looking to CORE Frisk with a sigh in her throat. “He was recruited by CORE, not me.” “He was not raised to be a Guard,” CORE Frisk said delicately, as it was the custom. “But he was enough strong and clever to be one, and I happened upon him a few years ago. I beg your Esteemed Immortals forgiveness for any caused offence on his behalf.”

A light laugh, through the hall. Suddenly the weighted air lightened and Cross could breathe again when the hand withdrew from his chin. “No no, no offence at all. I’ve merely found my answer to your question, CORE Frisk.” Just slightly, they tilted their head with the air of curiosity. “You have?”

There was ice in Cross’ stomach.

“I shall help you in your war. By next month you will regain your frontlines,” He said casually. “You may reveal my part in it, or you may not. This I have no concern about. But in exchange,” And his eyes turned on Cross.

Fuck.

“Will you come with me?” And his voice was so soft, so sweet. It was so different from Nightmare’s, yet exactly the same air of persuasion.

Cross’s words were in his stomach; weighing heavily.

“May I clarify your intentions, Esteemed Immortal?” CORE Frisk carefully asked.

In turn, Dream sighed. “Why does everyone here insist on calling me that? Have I not said to call me Dream?”

“May we clarify your intentions, Dream?” The voice was just as dry.

“Isn’t it obvious? If he’ll have me,” He turned to him slightly. Cross steeled himself. “I’ll have him.”

Undyne frowned. “He is not a pig for sale. Courtesans, maybe,” And the look she sent the Court was no less disdainful than Dream’s earlier words, “Because it’s their job. But Cross is one of the Guard, not a cow to be bartered away to be a bed-warmer.” At cow, Cross almost flinched. God, that comedic timing was terrible and hilarious at the same time. Dream turned his gaze onto Undyne, who did not flinch, but subtly drew back. “I believe I have made myself clear,” He said quietly. “For him, I shall help you with your war. Without him, you die and your Kingdoms turn to dust. Simple as.”

There was a very clear swear in Cross’ head, confusion tenfold as he looked to CORE Frisk (he could do that, it would be in-character for what they knew him as) but there was conflict and no more in their gaze.

“CORE, perhaps— perhaps it would be best. If the Immortal wants him, in exchange for victory…” The voice trailed over. Dream’s gaze was still on CORE Frisk, waiting.

Abruptly Cross became aware of the eyes on him. The knowing gazes, the knowing eyes. Cross felt his face warm.

“No.” CORE Frisk finally spoke, firm. “No, he is not a pig for sale. Jewels and gold, I can offer you. Land and palaces, yes. Silks and furs, yes. But I will not barter you a person who has yet to say anything on the matter.”

“But I did not ask you.” Once again his words held the air of spelling out something incredibly obvious. “I asked you, Cross.”

And once again Cross found himself at a loss of what to do when his gaze was upon him once more. “Will you come with me? For the war?” Well, I’m actually on the other side of it, Cross thought anxiously. But he kept his voice steady (or as steady as it should be for someone about to be sent away) and spoke to CORE Frisk. “CORE, if I agree, will— will it stop the war?” CORE Frisk held his gaze for a second more. “Yes, but… but it’s still your choice.”

Ha. No it wasn’t. He could feel the weight of a thousand eyes, of expectation, weighing on his very bones. It seemed Dream knew it too.

Dream and CORE Frisk exchanged a strange look.

Cross opened his mouth, little choice left. “Then I accept. I will go with you, and you will help—” He almost said them . “ Us, win the war.” He only hoped Nightmare would not see it as traitorous.

Dream smiled brightly. “That was easy, wasn’t it?” He pulled a ring off his finger (and it was then Cross noticed the rings on his fingers, gold but the gold not of solid ingots but of the gold of sunlight) and gently took hold of Cross’ hand. He stiffened almost immediately, but Dream said nothing of it as he slid the ring on.

Onto his ring finger.

Well, a very public engagement.

“A gift,” Dream explained. “I will pay your family the rest of the dowry the next time I visit.”

The words stuck in Cross’ throat. “I don’t have a family.”

Because family did not seem like the right word for, ah, Nightmare’s right hand men.

Dream blinked slowly. “Oh?” But he did not soften. “Nonetheless, I’ll come by soon.”

Cross, almost imperceptibly, nodded. It was all Dream needed, it seemed. With a rustle of silk, a gleam of light, he was gone.

And Cross was alone in the middle, a thousand eyes upon him.

“Is there anything else?” Undyne said sharply. Angrily, almost. Cross kept his gaze on the floor. He would not know how to act if he locked gazes with anyone else. There was a silence. But Undyne did not speak again. Still there were a thousand gazes on him.

Cross feet turned and he left the Council chambers though it was against protocol. He knew no one would blame him for it; there would be no point, and far too risky to lay a hand on an Immortal’s betrothed.

Just before he passed the doors, however, he had faintly registered that the burned-in words on the walls were gone.

Cross prayed that Dust would come by soon, so they’d hear the news from Cross’ own mouth and not rumours spreading quicker than wildfire. Not Horror, the hole in his skull too recognizable, and certainly not Killer with his messy dripping eyes. Dust was always the one sent by Nightmare. So Cross left the windows unlocked, staying awake for hours at a time. But, it seemed his prayers did not hold that much weight at all. If ever. Dust did not come the next day, nor the one after. He had the feeling something was going on behind the scenes, why else would an Immortal choose a random Guard? But he could not confirm his suspicions, for there was no one to talk to. No one came for him.

#dream sans #cross sans #utmv #utmv fic #utmv fanfiction #utmv fanfic #core frisk #cream ship #wanna know why Dream chose Cross? here's a hint:#look at Cross' inner monologue when Dream alluded to no longer wanting an alliance #it's not particularly negative is it?#(and how would they look to Dream #if there was one single person in the whole room whose emotions were reacting so differently?)#and Dream came there specifically looking for someone. Cross doesn't know that's him #but next chapter soon he will #also pls remember this is from Cross' perspective and Dream is exaggerating himself #the cream here is CONSENUAL i swear #on mercy full fic

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wind-rider · 4 months

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hi hi! what are some fun facts about your wip? :3

Hi hi hello oh gods you have NO idea how enthusiastic I am to share the brainworms that have infested me for the past six years

Fun facts, you say? Hm, that implies they have to be fun, so I suppose my essay on how the environment the pov culture developed in influenced their culture and mythology and superstitions even into the more secular modern day will have to wait. I'll get back to you on that one (please ask me about this I am frothing at the mouth going insane-) Ahem. Anyway. Here we go:

The base concept is that there's a certain subset of humans that are born with the genetic potential to develop abilities! This is a recessive trait with far too much detail on the genetics front because genetics fixation? Aha what's that? In any case, these people are referred to as Cyrin!

These abilities can develop at any point in their lives- from the moment of birth to the golden years of old age. However, it is usually triggered by a period of high stress accompanied by an adrenaline response, and thus usually develops somewhere between preteen and late teenagehood, because school is hella stressful and so is Being A Teenager. Hormones have a little to do with it, but moreso that they facilitate the higher stress levels rather than trigger ability development (coloquially referred to as the Change, but in a scientific setting is called Metamorphosis)

Metamorphosis is, biologically, a massive spike of a hormone called Metamorphase (creative, I know), but colloquially shortened to the sort-of correct Biorase (which is, technically, the name for it after it's been extracted and processed. Which I will get to.) that a) triggers one's abilities and b) triggers the bodily changes to accommodate said abilities. It's a little like really horrible puberty that lasts about a week and can happen at any time in your life and has a high chance of Killing You, Actually

Metamorphosis, for a long time, was pretty lethal. Certain abilities' development is easier on the body, and so Cyrin with those abilities were vastly more common due to, well, Not Dying. Symptoms vary depending on the ability, but usually involve an extremely high fever, widespread autoimmune response against new tissue growth, severe migraines and occasionally swelling around the brain, dizziness, and severe nausea and digestive upset.

Modern medical advancements helped bring the death rate way down! But! In the process, they figured out what Metamorphase really is, and now it's... really valuable. Oops.

On the plus side, it's now in the government's best interest to keep all their Cyrin alive! The downside, however, is that all Cyrin basically have liquid gold in their veins that Everyone Wants.

Essentially, it's a catalyst of sorts that allows for widespread fine control over a body's cell growth, with the bonus ability to do fine pre-programmed adjustments to an organism's DNA and encourage the spread and growth of those modified cells. Useful for developing certain traits that allow a Cyrin to survive high temperatures or control flames with minimal skin damage- also very useful for a hell of a lot of medical applications. And it has proved almost impossible to synthesise. Oh dear.

Fast forward a couple decades, and here we have Protusol Labs, a government-run laboratory that the president sort-of heads and spends most of his time in because he doesn't really like being president that much. His son can handle the politics side of things for him! It's fine! This will have no lasting consequences!

Anyway one of Protusol's primary projects is Project Biomorph, aka, using Biorase (extracted and processed Metamorphase) to test directly on humans and Cyrin for applications of eliminating organ and limb rejection in transplants, and diagnosing and treating genetic disorders in developing embryos. The methods are questionable, but they do have good intentions. Mostly. Some of it is just 'fuck around and find out' and boy are they.

Each project is designated its own ID string! Because we love granular organization systems in this house yes we DO

One project, the one nominally testing limb and organ rejection, has the subject ID as follows: PB-GM-G(gen#)-M(mark#)

PB - Project Biomorph; GM - Grafted Metamorph; G - subject generation; M - mark, aka subject number within that generation, chronological.

One of our POVs, Aaron, is one of the GMs- one of the first, actually. He's also the president's son. This has absolutely no lasting consequences I assure you.

There's also another project, with the following ID: PB-CMW-G(gen#)-M(mark#)

CMW stands for Chimera Metamorph - Winged.

I wonder what that could be :)

Oh yeah there's also a guy who was designed and raised to be basically a fully biological android with no free will who follows orders unquestionably but his project was declared a failure when he imprinted on one of the scientist's kids as a toddler and developed free will and full sentience out of the power of We're Best Friends Now. He's fine don't worry about him there's absolutely no lasting consequences there either. None at all!

Said scientist's kid is an absolute ray of sunshine even as an adult now. Aaron fucking hates him. Their dynamic is glorious.

Hmm I think I might have lost track of the whole 'fun fact' format of this. Oh well.

I'll stop there before this gets stupid long because that's mostly just the stuff revolving around One Of The POVs. There's three others. Help.

Feel free to ask any follow-up questions, or poke me about other POVs or lore things or- anything, really. I can ramble about this story for hours. Clearly. Thanks for asking!!

#I'm very normal about this as you can see #I can't remember what tag I use for asks uhhhhh #that'll do #windrambles #storystuff

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sapphire-weapon · 1 year

Note

If you're comfortable, I'd actually LOVE to hear your Ada x Wesker opinions.

The way that Ada talks to Wesker in Separate Ways is very different from how she talks to literally anyone else in the series. She is more casual/colloquial with him than she is with anyone -- with the sole exception to this being the way she talks to Leon in Damnation. Basically, the way that Ada talks to Leon in Damnation? Is how she talks to Wesker in Separate Ways.

And... what happened between Leon and Ada leading into Damnation?

Just saying.

Separate Ways tried to heavyhandedly put more sass into Ada's character in general, but it's more honest when it comes to Wesker. She cracks jokes at him and emotes openly at him. She gets openly annoyed with him at times, and even has a tone of "dude, come on" with him when he gives her a ridiculous order.

She just always seemed very... comfortable with him.

And it always struck me as weird that Wesker wanted Leon dead so badly in Separate Ways. It is the only time in all of Resident Evil that Ada is given orders to assassinate/kill someone. And it's the way he goes about telling Ada to kill him:

"And that US government lapdog, Leon -- if you do happen to encounter him, put him out of commission. We can't let him interfere with our plans. [...] He's a survivor of Raccoon City. We could do without the extra distraction. Take him out."

Like, obviously, Wesker sees Leon as a threat to Ada's mission, and the pretense that he gives overtly for it is "If he can survive Raccoon City, there's no knowing what he's actually capable of."

But the "extra distraction" part always seemed like a weird choice of words. It was like Wesker knew that Ada had some sort of attachment to Leon already and thought that he would get in the way of her mission not because he'd overpower/kill her, but because she'd be too distracted by him to do her job.

And that struck me as being a little jealous.

Later, when Ada reports to Wesker that Luis is dead and Saddler has the Sample, his response isn't... anger or frustration or irritation or even disappointment. It's:

"Have you had a chance to eliminate Leon?"

It's only after Ada says no that Wesker gets the idea in his head to use him. He didn't ask her that with the intention/plan of using Leon if he was still alive; he just wanted to hear that he was dead -- and, when he didn't get that, he drums his fingers against the arm of his chair in thought and then comes up with the idea to use him.

And what's crazy about it is that Leon plays his part perfectly and unknowingly does exactly what Wesker wanted him to do -- and Wesker still wants him dead. And since he's clearly not going to get his way and have Ada do it, that's when he decides to sic Krauser on him.

And after Krauser dies, Wesker is still on this, and he's all like: (paraphrased) "Make Leon and Saddler fight each other and then kill the winner. MAKE SURE YOU KILL HIM, ADA."

And then he fucking hangs up on her.

It's starting to feel a little personal, at this point.

And then Umbrella Chronicles happened. And it's revealed that Wesker saw all that shit go down between Leon and Ada in real-time.

Which now makes his desire to see Leon dead feel really, really personal.

When Wesker contacts Ada in Umbrella Chronicles, he does so via video chat (somehow in 1998 the tech for that existed shut up), and her reaction on seeing him fucking shocked me.

I expected that her reaction/tone would have a hint of "oh shit" behind it or "oh god here we go" or even just cold, unfeeling business -- kind of like how a soldier "Sir"s their CO. But that's not what she does.

She sighs his name in that dreamy sort of way she sighs Leon's name during Separate Ways.

At the very end of Umbrella Chronicles, Ada says in her narration:

"[Wesker and I] are both used to being backstabbed and manipulated. I have a feeling our relationship will last for a little while longer."

Ada's hookshot? That has become a huge staple of her gameplay and character design? It was a gift from Wesker -- it's what he gave her so that she could make it out of Raccoon City alive.

And she never stopped using it.

NOW, WITH ALL THIS BEING SAID

I am not trying to make a case that Wesker and Ada loved each other or that their relationship was romantic at all.

What I am saying is that I do think that their relationship went deeper than just a professional working one. I think that they were definitely sleeping together, and I think that Wesker knew and understood who Ada was better than anyone ever has in her life, and I think Ada knew that.

Wesker is a sociopath, but he still trusted Ada's ability and her judgement and seemed to, on some level, also genuinely enjoy her company.

And Ada, I think, found some comfort in Wesker's familiarity and felt a connection with him based on their similar past experiences. I think that her keeping the hookshot even after she betrayed him and after he'd been killed is her way of honoring who he was to her and what he did for her without remaining beholden to him in any way.

Leon was the reason why Ada ultimately betrayed Wesker in the end, but it wasn't a matter of "Well, I love him now, so I'm going with him. Boy, bye." Ada says in Umbrella Chronicles that her meeting with Leon changed her, and she says at the start of Separate Ways that betraying Wesker is part of her own objective -- which, presumably, has to do with the way Leon changed her. It had to do with a change in worldview, not a change of heart.

And I think that what Remake is trying to do is to show that change in her happen in real-time. That's why she doesn't go into RE4make already intending to betray Wesker; it's a decision she comes to organically as a result of Leon's impact on her inspiring her to ask questions as to where her efforts are going.

She didn't betray Wesker because she fell in love with Leon. She betrayed Wesker because she started to look at the world differently and realized that Wesker's ambitions were incompatible with her new worldview. It wasn't personal -- it was just that their lives were now going in two different directions (two separate ways, you might say ayyyyyyy).

But I think that there will always be a part of Ada that's grateful to Wesker and holds some degree of affection for him -- even if it's not at the intensity of actual love, it was still meaningful, and he still had a profound impact on her life.

In some ways, I view Ada's attachment to Wesker the same way that I view Leon's attachment to Ada in the OG timeline. It's not true love, but it was something that kept her bound to him and that she found comfort in when she felt like she had nothing else and her life was spiraling out of control.

Ada is a part of Leon that he thinks he can't let go.

And I think that Wesker is a part of Ada that she thought she couldn't let go, until she finally did.

#resident evil #resident evil 4 #ada wong #albert wesker #meta analysis

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slickchickchocolatier · 5 months

Note

nah what if heethan gets drunk and goes all googly mode with reader

I did a small Drabble of this before, I think it’s in my ML but I’ll have to find it for you. But bottom line, heethan gets veeeeeeeeery…in the mood in an entirely different way. Like he’s still dominant and kind of gets very relaxed, like he’s not as aggressive (though he still is) but the big thing he likes to do to reader whenever he’s drunk (which reader always identifies and is the biggest indicator that he’s had drinks in his system) is that he tickles her p*ssy. That’s his thing when he’s drunk. So if he gets drunk and all googly, he’ll pretty much cling on to her (really not much different than how he normally is) but might get a bit giggly and extra mushy with love for you…

He walks in the room, apparently the fiesta downstairs was more than a colloquy. His kids were permanently half shut as he eyeballed you upon entering his room.

“How as the time with the guys downstairs? You guys sounded like you had a lot to catch up on.” You chuckle as you kept reading your book.

“It….waaas good….” He speaks in with a deep tone as he releases a single and tiny hiccup in between his words. “God you’re so pretty.”

“I know, you think I’m beautiful.” You jest as you internally rolled your eyes. He can be so silly at times. “Why don’t you shower and come to bed?”

“I mean it…you’re beautiful….”

“Thank you baby.”

“Too beautiful…”

“O-okay…”

He comes closer and hovers over you on the bed. His cheeks slightly flushed red from all the liquor. “Mmmm….fuck you look good.”

“Heeseung stoooop.”

“Nooooooo.” He mimics your vibe and playfully drags out his word while lighting up his tone a bit. “Come heeeeeeeere.”

“N-no! Heeeeung w-wait—“

He flips you over and kisses the back of your neck. Spooning you aggressively, he harshly raises your thigh as he sucks on your neck. He didn’t even take off his shoes, jacket, or his hat.

His hand feeds under your camisole nightie and you recognize the movements. “No! Heeseung not that!”

It was something he always did when he got drunk, and for the life of you you can’t understand why it was the one thing he always had to commit to when under the influence.

“Stop! Wait!” You were slightly sore from the earlier session, where he was sober and pounding into you in his usual nature, which was rough and passionate, painful yet pleasing. At the end of it, you felt stretched out and tender, not in the mood to be tickled.

“Did you miss da-d-d-y?” He smirks against your skin as he hooks a finger ominously your panties.

“Wait!”

He takes a whiff of the air. “Mmm smells like you did. You smell sweet.”

“Heeseung!”

His fingers tap against your clit and carrying out his inebriated behavior, he tickles you. An endless rotation of patterns and movements committed by his fingers as he taps, flicks, motions, and plunges his phalanges in a an around your womanhood. “Tickle tickle tickle.” He smirks and chuckles darkly against your cheek. The smell of his musk cologne penetrates your nostrils.

“Sssssstop……” you slur your words and begin to moan as he kept going. You’re getting more and more moist as he keeps up the momentum.

“Nnnnnnoo.” Again, mimicking your tone he drags out the drags out his lettering, in a sensual and yet, playful tone.

When all was said and done, you lay sore and tender. His fingers coated with the glaze of your reproduction while he offensively kicks it off while glaring down at you, hinting half smirk while showing off his teeth.

“I-I need to shower…” you stutter as the moisture glazed your inner thighs.

“I’d wait on that if I were you baby. We’re not finished yet.”

You gaze at him with horror in your expression. “But—“

“I SAID—we’re not finished yet.”

“He-Heeseung I can’t—“

Grabbing your neck, he pins you down in the bedding and grins while telling you…

“Wrong name baby.” >:)

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satancopilotsmytardis · 6 months

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I don’t know how to phrase this, but Dabi cumming in his underwear, and then having Shigaraki making him wear them, or Shigaraki keeps them in his pocket.

Dabi knows that he's in for a punishment the second that he starts acting up. Tomura never scenes angry, but he will scene frustrated if Dabi pisses him off in just the right way. The bratty way. He doesn't usually take that moniker for himself. He's what Duster calls a 'princess sub', usually happy to do anything Tomura wants if he's been spoiled with his attention or praise for his work before they've even gotten into bed. The problem is when he doesn't get enough attention– and it is no surprise to him that he's an attention whore– he stupidly decides that he will take any attention he can get from his lover. Even if that's a punishment. Tomura calls it 'bratting', Dabi thinks the more colloquial term for it is 'being a goddamn idiot'.

So when he goes into Duster's office between meetings and spreads out on his couch and flicks open his belt so that he can start to lazily stroke himself, he knows he's going to be in trouble.

In his defense, Shig has been away for a week and a half and he got home last night and didn't come see him or go to bed because he had work he wanted to catch up on. Dabi is feeling neglected. His cock especially so after being so absolutely spoiled by the mind-blowing orgasms his lover usually lavishes him with. He wants more of those and he's going to get them if it kills them both. So he lounges on Duster's couch, licks his palm, and starts to jerk himself off in long, languid movements. He gets even hotter when he hears Tomura's steps coming closer. Knows it's his lover because no one besides the two of them ever dare come into his office.

The look on his face as he walks in and finds Dabi being depraved is one that Dabi is going to cherish for a long time to come. He moans softly and speeds up his strokes.

"Tomura,"

"I told you," he growls, shutting his door and throwing the lock into place. "That I would take care of you later, brat."

Dabi hums, turning his attention back to his erection like he doesn't care what Duster does, "I need it now."

He knows he's beyond ‘in trouble’ when Tomura lets out a slow, even breath, and comes over to the couch. He doesn't even hesitate getting down on the furniture with him, replacing Dabi's hand with his own as the arsonist wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him in for the hot, hungry kisses he's been wanting. It's a dirty, fast, rough hand job. He normally doesn't get touched like this. Tomura likes to take his time with him and really work him over. But they have other meetings this afternoon and he guesses that he's still going to stubbornly make him attend too. So for now he strokes as roughly as he can with only their spit as lube and Dabi fucks up into his fist moaning and whining,

"Want you so much, Daddy." Doesn't use that one often, but he knows how hot it makes the other. "Missed you. Need your cock in my cunt, Daddy. Wanna make you feel good too." He moans and simpers, pressing them as closely together as he can, getting another low growl in return. Tomura moves his hand more deliberately as his teeth find his neck and sink in hard enough that Dabi is certain he'll have a livid bruise that no one else will be able to see. It doesn't take long after that before he's gasping, ready to slip over the edge--

Duster stops stroking him, grabs the waistband of his underwear, and pulls them up over him again before giving his balls a sharp tap. Dabi yelps and then cries out with his distress as he's too close to stop himself from cumming-- but the sensations take away his pleasure. He shudders as his cum soaks his boxers without an ounce of pleasure going over his skin, leaving him sticky, unsatisfied, and even more anxious for more than before he started this game.

It takes him a second to catch his breath, and when he does, he's sharply indignant. "I--you-- you ruined my orgasm?"

"You decided to be an impatient brat." And his voice is hard and unwavering. "So that's all you get until you've made up for your bad behavior. And you're going to start by wearing your dirty clothes for the rest of the day."

"But--" The sharp glare he gets stills his tongue. "Yes, Daddy."

"Better. And if you manage to be good for the rest of the day, then maybe you'll get to cum tonight instead of being put into your cage until after I'm finished with you."

Dabi only doesn't whine because he knows that will ensure he's locked up when they're done with their work.

///

He figured that walking around with his cum drying in his pants was going to be disgusting. He figured it would feel gross, and sticky, and irritating, and that he would be suffering all day because of it. And he was right about all of those things. He just did not expect that he would also have a heady humiliation sitting under his skin and making it so, so hard for him to focus on the rest of the meetings. He's covered in his cum like a teenager who couldn't control themself and it's humiliating, but that has always made him hot. And he can't get hot because if his temperature starts to rise, then he risks cooking the cum smeared against his skin and people being able to smell it. He feels like he's going to lose his mind halfway through their first meeting.

He does his best not to squirm around and behave, but he's floating. He hopes that no one notices, but he still waits for the others to have mostly filled out before he risks standing. Dabi's holding his temperature firm, but... he's hard again. It's so uncomfortable, but he can't help it. The thought of getting caught like this is horrifying and so arousing at the same time. He compromises, waiting until it's just him and Duster in the room before he moves, knowing that Daddy's eyes are on him. He's all hazy as he stands and lets him see the tent he's making against his pants.

Tomura laughs at him and Dabi mewls as that makes his humiliation burn across his skin and warm his cheeks. "That made you hot, brat? Knowing you were sitting here like a dirty, used little whore?" Makes him even hotter to hear his Daddy talk about him like that and Dabi can only barely manage a nod, his legs trembling beneath him visibly. Duster hums in the back of his throat and beckons him over. "Come here. Can't have anyone else seeing you like this."

Dabi eagerly climbs into his lap, trying to get a kiss, but Tomura knots a hand in his hair and keeps him at bay. Still in trouble. Naughty boys don't get kisses. He whimpers but lets himself be moved into the position that Tomura wants. His legs end up spread wide around Daddy's on his chair, and one hand slips lower-- He moans loudly as Daddy cups his palm around his swollen cock, the dried cum inside of his pants mingling with the fresh pre and making everything feel even more dirty and uncomfortable... and good as having his touch there again always makes him feel.

"We have five minutes until our next meeting. If you don't want everyone to know what a desperate slut you are, then this problem will be gone by then, won't it?"

Dabi nods frantically, too choked by his need to do anything else. He didn't think Daddy would let him cum again, but he's so desperate for it after before, that he thinks he can manage it in that amount of time. He starts to rub himself against Daddy's palm and glances up, making sure he's not misbehaving again. Tomura is watching him with amusement coloring his features. That's okay then.

He can't go slow and make it build, he wouldn't want to even if he could. So he humps into his hand, rubbing and writhing to try and get more pressure where he needs it, how he wants it. Even though the touch is dulled through the layers of clothes between them, it's good anyway. His head is floating high enough that he thinks he could cum just from Daddy rubbing his cock against his hole through their clothes too. This is more direct than that and in a matter of minutes he's gasping,

"Close, Daddy." Already misbehaved so badly before, so he remembers his manners, "Can I please cum?"

"That's much better, baby boy. You can cum for Daddy."

All it takes. The light praise sends him over and he rocks forward one more time before he's spilling all over himself again. This time pleasure pulses through his body and he can't help moaning and trembling apart in Daddy's lap.

He's taking deep gasps for breath when that pleasure starts to ebb and he realizes that he's just made his mess worse, and that he's so wet now that he's going to have to start to worry it will leak into the leather. He whines as he realizes what he just did and Tomura fucking laughs at him.

"Mm, I think you're well on your way to learning your lesson, don't you, baby boy?"

He swallows the retort that was sitting on the back of his tongue. He doesn't want to find out how Tomura can make his punishment any worse.

#tanco speaks #ask #asks #shigadabi #my writing #nsft asks #nsft txt #kink ranking ask

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sandandlightning · 1 month

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Ashtaroth | Ishtar Etymology

I have been wanting to do this post for a while! But have been putting it off because it's so detail intensive. >>

Astaroth, as is the most common romanization in modern works, is a goetic daemon with a fairly cut and dry pagan ancestry. The spelling Ashtaroth is closer to or more evocative of her etymology of origin- Astarte, which is another name for Ishtar or Inanna.

Ishtar, Astarte, and Inanna are all fairly ubiquitously agreed to be different names for the same goddess. Her cult was something extremely widespread across the near east in ancient times, with Ishtar being the Akkadian, Assyrian, and Babylonian name, Inanna the Sumerian name, and Astarte the Phoenetian and Cannanite name.

I say these names refer to the ‘same’ goddess the same way many modern individuals view Zeus and Jupiter as wholly interchangeable- largely because it was not just one similar divinity but the entire pantheon and family structure shared between cultures with few differences besides names. However, as with any divinity who has been distinguished out to multiple identities, each name would still hold individualized minutia and slight specific connotations. I don't want that to get erased by trying to explore the broader spectrum of how this goddess or these goddesses have been connected and transformed as they have walked across cultures.

Astarte's name is the etymological origin of the Hebrew word astarot, meaning- and I say this tentatively as I am far from an expert on hebrew- progeny or increase, which comes from Astarte’s associations with fertility. Further, she is one of a handful of pagan gods directly referenced in the Bible. She is given as an example of an enemy god that is supporting enemy nations of the Bible's protagonists, in this case the Phoenicians.

Obviously, the nature of colloquial language doesn't seem to care about her bad reputation among Abrahamic religions. Despite being decried as a demon tempting man from the path of Yhwh, her name was shifted and adopted into the language. It's easier to see how ‘Astarot’, when carried through over the hundreds of years, was shifted into ‘Astaroth’ as occultists and priests tried to understand demons in the Bible.

Ishtar is, inherently, a very gender fucky individual, though despite this fluidity is very specifically a goddess and uses she/her pronouns in historic sources. Unfortunately it wasn't simple confusion, but rather the general rampant sexism of the time this research was being done that lead to Astaroth and every other demon in the Ars Goetia being demoted as male.

Ishtar’s holy symbol was an 8 pointed star, as she was associated with the heavenly body Venus, the morning star. (A friendly reminder the planets as we know them were considered as stars in ancient times, though they often held notable importance over other heavenly bodies further from us.) Similarly, the sigil for Ashtaroth prominently features a 5 pointed star, and is the only of the Goetic sigils to do so. So, it's easy to say that more than nearly any other entity Astaroth has the most direct and clearest tie to her pagan roots.

#pagan #paganism #eclectic pagan #demonolatry #theistic satanism #astaroth #astarte #ishtar goddess #inanna #mesopotamian pagan #ashtaroth

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blackleatherjacketz · 1 year

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Forbidden Fruit: Chapter 7

Summary: Jack saves you from a vicious vampire attack and you discover you might be more entangled than you thought.

This Chapter: Alistair's surprise is more than you bargained for.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Mature Content, NSFW, Blood, Violence, Death, Gore, Vampires, Werewolves, Jealousy, Taunting, Threats, Infidelity Villain Monologue

Word Count: 1.4k+

Tags: @skittle479 @bullet-prooflove @acutecupidity @sadndnboii-reads @avatarofseshat @jessicafangirl

Read the rest of the story HERE!

Without thinking, you start to run toward Jack in an effort to free him from his bonds, but you’re immediately cut short by a quick tug of your hair, pulling you backward.

“Ah ah ah!” Alistair scolds, whipping your neck back to face the ceiling as he practically drags your heels across the floor. “Not so fast, little lamb.” He presses his lips against your scalp, inhaling the fear as it practically radiates off you. “Not until I say so.”

“Leave her out of this, Alistair!” You hear your original lover plead between heavy breaths, his chains clinking together as he tries in vain to break free. “Do what you want with me, but let her go.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Alistair grins with delight, each and every one of his sharp teeth glinting in the candlelight as he pulls you toward Jack along with him. “What’s that old colloquialism again, Jack? The forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest?” He loosens his grip on your hair once there’s barely any space between the three of you, carefully moving a stray strand away from your face before opening his mouth again to speak. “No one tastes quite like her, do they?” His eyes bore into yours, that dangerous draw of his making it impossible for you to look anywhere else as he continues stroking your locks. “And I’m not just talking about her blood.”

You hear Jack growl, the shackles around his wrists jingling as he pulls on them in another futile attempt to escape.

“Oh, you should have seen what we were just up to down the hall.” He pulls his gaze away from you to look at his prisoner, holding his fingers in front of his nose just long enough for him to catch your scent on them before he lets them fall back to his side.

“No,” Jack whimpers in disbelief, shaking his head at the thought. “You didn’t.” He looks at you, pleading for a different story but you’re too ashamed to give him one. Instead you only look at your feet, avoiding any further eye contact as he chooses to address Alistair directly. “You hypnotized her, enchanted her, you had to…”

“Did I?” He winks, leaning in toward him as the harsh truth hangs silently in the air between them. “Maybe she just finally came to her senses,” he smirks, narrowly dodging Jack gnashing his teeth.

“Oh, and you won’t be able to get out those silver chains, Jackie Boy.” He releases you all together, traipsing into the center of the room as he leaves you to your own devices. “Or should I say ‘Jacob’? Jacob Russoff, if my research is correct?” He smirks as he lets that extra bit of information sink in, your brow furrowing in exponential confusion. “I ordered these restraints special off the dark web; pure silver spikes should keep you from even thinking about turning while you’re down here with us.”

“I’m going to kill you, Alistair. As soon as I get out of these, I swear to God, I’m going to tear you apart.” Jack mutters, ignoring Alistair’s rant.

“Not from where I’m standing, you’re not.” He chuckles, glancing at him for a second before looking over at you. “You know, I thought about killing your beau after I found her… I really did. Just as quickly and ruthlessly as you killed Talia, but that just didn’t seem fair.”

Oh God. Oh no! This isn’t about you. This was NEVER about you. You were just a pawn this whole time to hit Jack where it hurt the most. How could you have been so fucking stupid? How could you have been so selfish?

“It would have been so easy,” he starts his villainous monologue by making his way back over to you. “But then I thought of something better, something more devastating to plague you with in your final moments.” He caresses your face and tugs on your bottom lip, entrancing you again. “Something more fun.” He fingers the hem of your silk gown as it dips into your cleavage, pulling it down far enough to expose the top of your nipples. “She looks amazing in this shade of green, don’t you think, Jacob? It really brings out the cooler tones in her skin, because… if I’m being honest… when I’m done with her, that’s all that she’ll have left.”

Jack growls with a fatal mixture of anger jealousy as he watches his adversary touch you, his face changing in shape as fangs and hair grow and shrink from his head before relinquishing back into his original form.

Alistair only laughs at Jack’s failed attempt at transformation, carefully tracing the outline of his first bite on your neck with his fingertips. “Talia and I had been together for centuries… traveling the world, drinking the blood of every man, woman and child in any country we could book passage to. Until you and your little daywalker friend broke into our home when I was out hunting. When I finally got back later that morning, the love of my life, my partner in crime, was reduced to nothing more than a pile of ashes.”

“Please,” Jack pulls again on his restraints, the spikes underneath them now digging into his skin as droplets of blood splash onto the floor. “Please don’t do this, I’m begging you!”

Alistair grabs onto your chin, squeezing it tightly as he forces you to face him. “Talia didn’t have time to beg for her life. So I thought, wouldn’t it be something if I found the love of your life and somehow made her forget all about you? Your romantic history, your cursed nature, the sound of your voice, or even your name?” He pushes the straps of your dress off your shoulders, guiding you out of the cloth that pools at your feet before grazing his palm over your breast.

You can feel your muscles moving under his silent command, every ounce of resistance you try to put up against him failing as your body does exactly as it’s told. His icy cold grasp surrounds your hips and waist as he draws you in to further torment you both against your will, still speaking to Jack as if you aren’t even in the room.

“Do you know how fast she folded? How quickly she ran into my arms as soon as I erased all those memories of you from her mind? Sure, it took me a while to comb through every interaction, to go through her phone while she slept, to delete every trace of you from existence, but it was worth it, Jacob.” He closes his eyes and smiles, reliving that moment for a minute before opening his eyes again.

“I mean I see why you like her, just based on the things she let me do to her,” he cups your breast before pinching your nipple, drawing out a reflexive moan from your lips that widens his smile. “The things she begged me to do to her were absolutely obscene! Honestly, when I looked back on all of her memories of you, I don’t think you ever got as far as I did. Not even close! You never truly understood her on the level she was so desperate to be seen on.” He taunts him as his hand smooths over your neck again, stopping only to softly caress your cheek. “But I think I’ve grown quite fond of her in the process, and I might even keep you alive long enough for you to watch me turn her. I want you to watch her become everything that you hate before the hunger takes over and it’s just you against your blood thirsty girlfriend.”

Before he has a chance to reply, Alistair kisses you deeply, ignoring Jack’s running starts to break his chains out of their metal fasteners in the wall as his frigid arms surround you completely. His cold embrace intensifies as he bombards you with that euphoric feeling from before, flooding your thoughts with images of you and him together in every heated position imaginable before suddenly pulling back.

A dense and deafening silence fills the air like the calm before a storm, forcing the three of you to pause and stare blankly at each other.

The distant sound of gunfire draws his hands completely away from you, breaking the spell that kept you docile and compliant as your eyes shift back over to Jack. Scattered screams and thuds from three stories up muffled by the thick concrete that encases this room only grow louder with the ding of the elevator down the hall. Quick, heavy footsteps increase in speed and volume before the red door finally swings violently open again, barely hanging on by its hinges.

“Took you long enough,” you hear Jack whisper under his breath with a smile.

#Jack Russell #gael garcía bernal #gael garcia bernal #Werewolf By Night #Jack Russell x Female Reader #Jack Russell x Reader #David Dastmalchian #Marvel #david dastmalchian x reader #werewolf by night fan fiction #david dastmalchian fan fiction

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formulatrash · 1 year

Text

holy fuck the Alfa Romeo press release writer has once again absolutely knocked it out of the fucking park

The subtle tension between history and modernity is one that requires skill to manage. Skew any which way, and the result is out of balance: too backwards looking, or too focused on things to come. This difficult balancing act, however, can be very rewarding when done right, when the perfect mix of its ingredients is achieved: and this is what we set out to do in Imola, one of motorsport’s shrines.

Imola is a track that boasts an impressive history, dating back to its first race in 1953: it’s a circuit born in Italy’s motorsport heartland, with the help of Enzo Ferrari himself – there’s no bigger endorsement for a track in this country. Still, Imola was never a track to sit on its laurels: as a venue, it had to adapt, evolve, keep in tune with the times – in its layout and its identity. “Auto-motovelodromo Prototipo CONI di Imola” was always a mouthful, and the colloquial name of Circuito del Castellaccio – after a nearby hill – became Autodromo Dino Ferrari in 1970, and finally Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari in 1988, as it played host to events such as the Italian and San Marino Grands Prix and, more recently, the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. Many a time its corners were changed, with chicanes added, turns reprofiled, sections amended: Imola is a work of evolution, never ending and always morphing, but without ever losing its soul. Imola is Jim Clark and Nigel Mansell; it’s Alain Prost and Michael Schumacher. It’s obviously Senna. It’ll be the champions of tomorrow.

The space between tradition and the future is also one where Alfa Romeo lives and thrives. Since 1910, Alfa Romeo embodies the spirit of noble, Italian sportiness: under its aegis, some of the most iconic cars – both in motorsport and in the automotive industry – have come to life and gone on to inspire generations of car lovers. But Alfa Romeo is strongly focused on the future, with the daring ambition to reinvent sportiness for the 21st century. In the upcoming electrified world, Alfa Romeo cars will still embody passion, thrills, elegance. Alfa Romeo reinvents itself in each new car, without losing track of what makes it the brand it is: each future generation carrying within the spirit of the Alfetta 158 that led the brand from its motorsport beginnings.

We celebrate heading to Imola in this spirit. We honour our history and tradition, with our gaze firmly forward – to great things to come. In a city, Imola, itself combining a historical core with the modernity of its suburbs, we stand on the shoulders of giants and set out to write another page of Alfa Romeo history.

do you know how fuckin good you have to be to write the FUCK out of a grand prixview email like this? they have to be some sort of god tier writer, a giant walking among us.

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prettyboypistol · 11 months

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Across Enemy Lines || TF2 Sniper/Spy 18+

[BDSM] [D/S relationship] [Powerbottom Spy/Needy Top Sniper] [Cigarette Play] [Pain Play] [brief knife play]

Sniper’s hands shook as he reached towards the door handle. He knew it was unlocked. Spy said it would be, as long as he was quiet in the late hours of the night. Mick swallowed a building of nerves as he finally opened the door.

“I assume you were interested then?” Spy murmured from his chair, whiskey in one hand and a fancy cigarette worth more than Sniper’s camper in the other. Sniper felt his teeth grit inside his mouth as he tried to step inside the smoking room and not trip over himself when he heard Spy’s voice.

Sniper nodded as he felt the sweat bead at his brow.

“If I may ask, why? Of course, as the only other homosexual-adjacent man in this damn warzone, I assume there is a level of desperation.” Spy questioned, his expression seemed far more out of smug curiosity- as if he already knew the answer. “I know you’re allowed out of the base fairly often for jobs, so why risk something so close?”

“I need you.”

The quick answer caught Spy off guard, but the poise was quickly recovered. “Oh? Why me? Mundy, I have stabbed you multiple times. Are you some sort of sick masochist?” Spy knew the sly usage of Sniper’s last name was a mild threat against the man, but he had to gauge the reaction of his potential hatefuck of the night. Sniper bit the inside of his cheek and refused to answer, which told Spy more than what he needed to know.

When Sniper cleared his throat and shifted his weight, Spy stood up and approached his daytime enemy. He thanked whatever god above that Sniper had the decency to shower before he came over and he did not have to turn away such an opportunity due to grime and grit. It even smelled as if he put on some sort of cologne, even if the price was evident in the scent.

“At least you put in effort.” Spy shrugged as he looked Sniper up and down. Still in his uniform, there were points docked for that. Although, Spy had to admit that, if he had the chance to dress the scraggly man up, he would heavily consider a shade similar to that red. “Did you prepare yourself?”

“Uh- yeah. Yeah . I did.” Sniper managed to say as a blush creeped up his neck and blossomed over his cheeks. “Did everything you asked me to.”

Spy paused for a moment, then rolled his eyes and handed his cigarette to Sniper. “Jesus, this is a hookup, not an interrogation.” He assured as he walked back to his plush seat, with a vague gestured hand to the other chair to the opposite of the intable, Spy spoke up again. “Sit down! Relax a bit. I’m not going to stab you tonight.”

The shuffle to the other seat was downright pathetic, but not pathetic enough for Spy to shove Sniper out the door where he came from. Spy had to admit, it was rather cute to see such a stoic and quiet guy as nervous as that! An unheard mumble caught Spy’s attention.

“Oui? Qu'est-ce que tu as dit?” //Yes? What did you say?//

A moment of silence passed, then Sniper spoke, his voice low and hushed.

“J-J'ai dit que je le souhaitais… S'il te plaît?” //I said I wanted it… please?//

The response in mis-pronounced but textbook correct French was a surprise to Spy, but a welcome one.

“Now, where did you learn that from, hmm?” The tone Spy held was painfully amused and a tad too smug for Sniper’s liking.

Sniper coughed and looked the other way as he took a drag of the cigarette.

“Uh, picked it up here and there for odd jobs. ‘M not fluent or anything… I’d call myself academically passable, but I dunno a word you usually say.”

“So you don’t know colloquial French?”

“Nope.”

Spy stood up and took his cigarette from Sniper to take a hit, he noted how Sniper’s eyes followed his every move as he breathed, the cigarette delicately between his lips.

“Tragically for you, I’m not interested in knifeplay tonight, you ruffian. Even if it’s on you.”

“That’s fine, yeah.”

“Any other kinks I should know about, bushman?”

Sniper fell silent. In the quiet, he bit his lower lip and stared at the pristine carpeted floor.

“If you’re not going to talk then-”

“I like bein’ submissive.”

“That’s more like it.” Spy smiled, a foxly mischief in his expression. “Now mon beau, I’m sure you like more than just that. If you don’t tell me, I can just order you to.”

Sniper felt this chest flutter, much like a violin string. Tight and taut, Spy’s voice was the bow that made his core vibrate in the most jittering of ways. He was excited. He was flighty. He needed more.

“You’re a spy, why don’t’cha read me like a book?” Sniper sassed, his usual personality back in full force. The denial was enough to irk Spy into knocking the hat off Sniper’s head and to grab Sniper by the hair.

“You listen here you son of a bitch, you will give me respect in this room. I invite you out of the goodwill of my heart and you will not take that for granted, is that clear?”

The speed at which Sniper’s pupils blew wide churned deep in Spy’s chest. The Aussie tried to nod, but whimpered at the pain of Spy’s tight grip in the roots of his hair.

“Yea- Yes sir.” Sniper quickly corrected himself as his eyes frantically tried to drink in all of Spy. The indignant look of disgust, the perfect fabric that hugged Spy in a way that only good money could buy, the way Spy breathed that cigarette that cost more than Sniper’s life as if it were second nature. The huffs of his breath were ragged, low, and gently vibrating in Sniper’s throat.

“Now, I believe I asked you a question, boy.”

“I like bein’ tied up sir.”

“What else?”

“Bein’ talked down to. Pushed around. A bit of bullying, sir.”

“And a masochist too? Really, no wonder you came to me. At least you learn quickly.” Spy halfheartedly praised as he seemed unimpressed.

Spy released Sniper and laid down calmly on the bed. “If you can manage to keep yourself from wetting your pants from excitement, strip.”

The way Sniper stumbled and frantically tried to pop off his shoes and undo all the buttons of his shirt. His breath fluttered like a tight vibrato; light, quick, and dizzying. The scars piqued Spy’s interest briefly but his eyes quickly swam away to watch the smoke patterns as he exhaled. Although, the calm stillness of Spy and the sloshing rapid of Sniper was quite the duality.

“I didn’t say to keep the undergarments.”

“Sorry- uh, sir.”

Spy seemed pleased with how Sniper obeyed so quick. Yes, a bit of brat taming was fun, but not tonight. The swirling of arousal mixed itself in Spy’s body as Sniper stood in front of Spy, already well over half-mast.

“Sir, can I?” Sniper asked, his tone a beg as he looked at Spy like a starving man. “Please?”

“Come along now, bring the condom too.”

Sniper approached the bed as if he was a sinner on holy ground. Reverently, he moved to sit upon the side of the bed and awaited further instruction.

“Take off my shoes and undo my pants, if you can resist the temptation.” Spy ordered flippantly as he took another breath from his cigarette.The dripping of building lust was far from intoxicating to Spy, but as he watched his favorite daytime enemy delicately undo the laced shoes with more grace than he had ever seen Sniper portray, Spy couldn’t help but allow himself to feel whirls of pride and egotism.

“What do you want, mon beau?”

“Whatever you want to give me.”

“Tell me.”

“Hurt me. Please.”

A slap rang out when Spy struck Sniper’s cheek, leather hit soft skin. The gasping shudder that Sniper breathed out as the pain bubbled up from the initial hit rippled through his body as Spy repeated the gesture on the opposite cheek.

Spy leaned closer to Sniper and bit into his shoulder, once, twice-! Sniper let out a small whimper of pain as Spy sucked a hickey into him.

“Say ‘June’ if I go too far.” Spy mumbled into Sniper’s ear, clearly and honestly.

“Right, gotcha.” Sniper responded, his needy air dissipated momentarily to assure to Spy that he was in a right state of mind.

As Spy pulled back, he adjusted the aviators on Sniper’s face, an unamused expression fell to him. “Ah, did you forget these?”

“Sorry sir, lemme-”

“No no, keep them.”

The seconds of slow movements felt like hours to the flutteringly impatient Sniper. His heart raced a million miles an hour, his breath was desperate to give his body enough oxygen to function. The thrumming need of ecstasy of merely being treated in such a way played Sniper, and with Spy behind the bow, Sniper knew Spy would play him like a violin too.

“What?” Spy hummed after he barely caught what Sniper said. “Really now, we need to work on that mumbling problem of yours.” He said before he struck Sniper’s face again. “Speak properly.”

“Please hurt me more, sir.”

Spy rolled his eyes. “Isn’t this enough, you masochist? Getting your face beaten, naked in front of your enemy?”

Sniper shivered in pleasure.

“God, you like being talked down to, I forgot. I could ignore you right now and you could get off, couldn’t you?” Spy cooed, no trace of affection in his eyes. Sniper bit his lower lip, with every word Sniper’s erection seemed more and more interested. “Fucking pathetic.”

“Sir please-”

“You are in no position to be asking anything of me, needy whore.”

Spy grabbed his butterfly knife from the nightstand and pressed the blade against Sniper’s neck, the pressure agonizingly not enough. “Would you get off to this too, bushman? Who am I kidding, you would stain my suit if I pressed any harder.”

“Yes sir, I’m sorry sir.” Sniper whimpered. Spy retracted the knife with his usual flair before the knife was placed back on the nightstand.

“Put the condom on, I already did the preparation. I don’t know where your hands have been.” Spy ordered, to which Sniper hurriedly obeyed.

Sniper opened up the condom swiftly, eager to please. God, that smug smile on Spy’s face made Sniper’s blood boil usually. Tonight though, the smile was a promise, a whispering of sadistic pleasure that Sniper could find nowhere else. Sniper’s cock ached, begging in its own right to have any sort of friction. Upon Spy’s denial, Sniper frowned as he was forced to wait slowly.

“Oh, another thing. If you get soft or cum, I’ll kick you out immediately.” Spy threatened as he sucked the smoke into his lungs from his cigarette. A moment passed, where Sniper’s eyes met Spy’s.

Then Spy exhaled. Right in Sniper’s face.

Sniper bit his lip and whimpered. The smoke even smelled fancy, goddamnit. Sniper breathed the smoke in, his pupils were blown in maddening lust.

“Oh god, how’d you know?”

“You seemed the type. Now go on, try your best.”

Sniper took no haste to push into Spy in one held breath, he breathed out a low, long “fuuuuck.” as he felt the warm tightness around him. It took everything within Spy not to react. Sniper wanted to be humiliated, so he had to play the part, cock shoved in him be damned.

“You know, you can put more than the tip in. You might be a patient man, but I’m not.” Spy spat as he feigned more interest in his smoke than Sniper.

“It’s… It’s all the way in.” Sniper whispered.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Spy could absolutely tell. Sniper was a decent size and certainly abused the fact that he prepared himself liberally with how tight Spy was stretched. With a twitch that nearly made him gasp as he berated Sniper, Spy rolled his eyes as he tried his hardest to ignore the swirling pleasure that sang like a siren to indulge in like an irresistible wine.

A shaky breath passed before Sniper started to move. God, Spy was tight. Little movements of Sniper, his hips flush against Spy’s thighs nearly broke the already delicate facade Spy held. Nevertheless, the mask stayed on, cold and disinterested as Sniper started to move, biting his lip to muffle the noises of embarrassment. The thrusts soon turned erratic, chasing the high of lust as Sniper groaned and growled as his dick was more than lavished in spoiled pleasure.

“Spy- I-”

A harsh slap to Sniper’s cheek reminded him of Spy’s position over the desperate man.

“Sir, please- I-”

“What could you possibly want, whore?”

Sniper bit his lower lip and screwed his eyes shut, nodding in agreement. A silent beg.

“Cheap, pathetic slut.” Spy purred as he puffed on his cigarette, the ash flaking onto the mattress in specks as Sniper’s thrusts jostled Spy. “How much of a whore do you have to be to come crawling to the enemy team, hmm? Did nobody want to fuck the piss-stained bushman over in RED?”

“Oh god. ”

“What other disgusting kinks do you hide behind that bullshit professionalism? Go on.” Spy demanded, his voice quivering slightly as Sniper brushed against his prostate just right. “Just know that if you say piss I will stab you.”

“No- don’t gotta piss kink-” Sniper stumbled out. “I’ve got a thing for- for suits, sir. I like smellin’ things too.”

Sniper was unceremoniously shoved into Spy’s shoulder, the order was clear enough as Sniper breathed the smell of too-expensive cologne and whiskey. The cigarette smell was a given, but the hints of quality mixed in with the tobacco made Sniper whimper as he used the new position to thrust deeper into Spy.

“Needy whore, I should put you on display, show everyone just how unfit you are to be a mercenary. You already are messy and dirty, imagine how fast you’ll be exposed for fraternizing with the enemy, begging him to demean you no less. Filthy fucking pervert.”

“Sir- I’m not gonna-” Sniper begged as he let his hips shake in uncontrollable desire. “Can I? I wanna ask something.”

“Oh? And what do you want?”

“C-can you put your cig out on the base? God, I’m not gonna last long- please? Please sir, I know it’s fucked up but I wanna be burned by you.”

Spy hummed, thinking tentatively as Sniper haphazardly pumped his cock in and out of Spy, only to pull out, presenting himself to Spy with a breathy wheeze as he jacked himself off, one hand on the headboard above Spy’s head, the other working himself to the teetering edge.

“Please sir, please put your cig out on me.” Sniper whispered.

Who was Spy to not oblige?

The white hot feeling of pubic hair burning, skin screaming in pain, and nerves firing danger signals sent Sniper over the edge with a low growl. The cum that spilled over Spy’s suit stood out horribly well, the off-white glistening against the deep blue. Shaky breaths echoed around Spy’s room for moments that lasted far too long for the rogue’s liking.

“You got your pleasure, now get out of my room. I’m sure you don’t want security to find a RED in such a secure location.” Spy ordered as he hurriedly dabbed the semen stains with his handkerchief.

Sniper nodded with a quick and casual thanks, legs shaking more than they ever should for a grown man as he gathered his clothes to quickly dress and depart.

As soon as the door shut, Spy bit the inner side of his cheek and used the same cloth to jack himself off- god, he deserved an acting award for keeping himself together during that fuck! Sniper was brutal and needy- Spy had never felt more desired! Rocking his hips to the same erratic beats, Spy gasped as his semen mixed with Sniper’s.

Spy was definitely paying Sniper a visit later that week. He wanted to make that stupidly cramped van shake.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #fanfiction #tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #bloody suit #sniper x spy #snipespy #tf2 smut #prettyboypistol #prettyboy pistol

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