#but it’s a visceral temptation. I want to know

[zebracakesarecopingmechanisms]

I want to slap Dr. Honeydew’s bald head so hard it sounds like a batter hitting a home run

[erideights]

Little pieces here and there (3)

Pairing: Buggy x Fem!Reader (One Piece Live Action)

Chapters: one, two, four, five

Word Count: around 2K again.

Warnings: minimum context of the arlong park part of the story (background), MUTUAL FLIRTING, forbiden pinning of them both, Buggy has his body back *wiggling eyebrows*, sexy times

A/N: devil works hard but i'm working harder, every 5 free min i have from work/class/practices i'm writing on my phone, i'ts actually insane and i love it (ROAD TO CHAPTER 4?? If you like this one and want the next one, please let me know!)

Oh, he was mad. He was really mad.

Maybe "sexually frustrated" was a way more accurate term given the circumstances but the feeling was so strong, so visceral, he was sure he was reaching a point where jumping to the sea to end that agony -even if a bit exaggerated, like him always, everywhere and for everything- was justified.

Somewhere in Arlong Park, Buggy could feel the boner pressing his pants, demanding to be satisfied; dirty talk was one of his true passions and when (Y/N) played that card on him, being capable of picturing himself with her on his lap, that damn woman so -actually- close to his face in that moment he was already tasting her lips, her low, smooth voice driving him insane, he could not help it, but get turned on so easily and so strong is been hours, and he's still mad, incapable of stop thinking about that.

That is, perhaps, the reason he feels relief as soon as the sun rises and Usopp is back on the helm again, asking for directions as Buggy, in fact, demands to go faster. Like instead of slicing and dicing his body, his power could control the wind that propelled the boat or the force of the waves against the hull.

(Y/N) ran away just after such a -even if brief- conversation. She may have broken his balls with that dirty trick, but she was equally a victim of her own game. She knew what to say to push Buggy and leave him so stunned -to speak- that the poor clown didn't have the chance to fight back at that moment, not without his body to help him keep her in that kitchen, lift her up on the counter, force her to back down, regret even thinking she could do that to him, and then, only then, yes, fuck her until she wakes up the rest of her little and - according to him - pathetic crew with her moans.

Or so the girl imagined, leaning against the door of her room, eyes closed, heart slightly racing, fighting the temptation to lie down on the bed and masturbate thinking about what had just happened.

Which included him. Him!! What the hell, was she actually losing her mind? All that damn flirting had really gotten into her, for fucks sake, because regardless of her finding him quite interesting when they met, this attraction was something else.

Lately everything around her was something else. Did she really think through the decision of leaving her mercenary life behind and follow those kids to the Grand Line? Did she really think through the decision of flirting back with a psychopath clown?

Because in the end it's just that, right? Flirting. Was nothing else, is nothing else, and will be nothing else. She doesn’t want it to be something more, that's for sure; there's no need for unnecessary complications and extra headaches. In the meantime, it's fun, a bit of a backfire kind of situation, a bit -sexually- frustrating, but fun.

After a good ol' resting night and already some hours into the new day, (Y/N) notices that it's been a lot, since their encounter in the kitchen to be precise, that Buggy not only doesn't flirt with her, but doesn't talk that much or even look at her as amazed as before. Of course, he is, also, way less annoying, which Zoro subtly points out clearly pleased with how calm, nice and silent this morning is.

At some point she shakes her head, knowing, or at least guessing, the reason for this behavior, so she decides to check no one's around and the rudder is locked in the right direction, and then goes to where the bag with his head is, closed probably by the sniper when he got the last indications he needed from him. She opens it, lowering it until the clown's head is free on top of that barrel.

"How are you doing, Bugs?" she starts with a funny little smile, looking intently at him as she leans her back forward to leave her face level with his. "It's been hours I don't hear your raspy voice, I'm starting to miss it."

Silence. Absolute indifference besides the sidelong glance he gives her because let's face it, Buggy is annoyingly proud, extremely, exaggeratedly, but he loves attention. He likes nothing more than receiving it, no matter where, when, and from who, and she could see it as soon as they met.

"Also your silly nicknames for me" She grants, giving in. She would also be mad as hell if someone leaves her as horny as she knew she left him, so she doesn't have any problem being the one to start the tug-war this time.

"Already tired of the shidiots?" He finally asks, almost drily, after a minute; now he is the one to play difficult, huh? "No wonder, they don't even know where to start being pirates."

"Oh, of course, because no one compares to the famous Buggy The Clown, the colorful nightmare or the East Blue." Playful, she retreats a bit, resting her hip in the barrel, arms crossed over her chest.

"Quit the sarcasm doll, you know I'm right." Well, he was, in fact, right. None of them had real experience in the whole i-wanna-become-a-pirate thing, still, they were doing pretty good to be newbies. She was quite proud of them.

"I cannot wait to have my body back" he then murmurs, adding before she could say anything else about her new friends. "To do what?" She asks, you know, like she didn't know.

"Take a guess"

"Recover your spotlight? Find a new crew and a way to enter the Grand Line to go search the One Piece and be the king of the pirates?" (Y/N) mocks, clearly enjoying being the annoying one this time.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah'' Buggy rolls his eyes, scoffing. ''All that, but not before making you regret what you did last night." To that accusation she gasps, resting her right hand over her chest "What did I do last night?"

The clown falls silent again, but his mood is completely different. Right now he's not pissed off, it's obvious that this time, instead of flirting with her in a casual and natural way, he’s thinking what to say, choosing carefully his words to return a fraction of the effect she had on him hours ago.

His eyes darken, and his voice goes octanes lower and raspier. "Sweetheart, there will be no possible escape from what I plan to do with you. At the slightest opportunity I will make you cum on me so many times you will be the one to find the One Piece without needing to go to the Grand Line, but first…'' He pauses, breathes, and lets it go calmly, like the intimidating, psychopathic calculator she saw at the circus and not that flirty cartoonish version she got to know on the ship. ''you will beg for it."

She knows she shouldn't surrender to this type of tease, but she also can't and doesn't want to avoid it. Getting heavily carried away, without thinking about it twice, one of the girl's hands slides to the back of his neck, slipping under the bandana, and tugs his hair aggressively as she leans in again to speak close to his face. He grunts in pure satisfaction, closing his eyes for a second. Of course (Y/N) is, once again, taking advantage of the fact that he cannot defend himself no being more than a head, and the fact is that he enjoys like a condemned bastard those small but intense gestures the girl has given him since they met at the circus.

He can't wait to break a woman like her. And oh, he will.

"Are you sure about that?" Hearing distant steps, someone from the crew coming out on deck and climbing the stairs, she gets some distance from him, acting naturally, closing the bag again around his head. "My expectations just skyrocketed, I hope you don't disappoint."

By the end of the day, the Konomi Islands begin to appear on the horizon, and as soon as they set foot on them, shits get really serious. The situation of the poor people who live there is heartbreaking, so for two days, no one dares to make a single joke, Luffy's usual energy and bubbly positivity is nowhere to be seen, and of course, the interactions of (Y/N) and Buggy are reduced to = 0. The clown's head is no longer of any real use to them, and it’s poor Sanji, the new recruit, who’s carrying it around just in case.

At least until they reach Arlong Park.

Again, (Y/N) is not exactly the type of mercenary expert in martial arts and although she knows how to defend herself, fighting like Zoro or Sanji is, in few words, impossible. Her only advantage is being very, very fast, and knowing how to use the scenery to her advantage, so it doesn't take long for her to hide here and there among the different tents and attractions in the area to get rid of the most straggler fishmen, with a knife she got long ago during one of her jobs, capable of cutting their tough skin easily.

Everything happens so fast and is so chaotic that apart from some screams and blows in the background and having seen Usopp running towards the forest, (Y/N) is completely unaware of what is happening in the main complex.

A strong pull on her left arm activates her flight or fight response as one last fish falls dead to the ground in front of her. Raising the knife, in a quick movement, she tries to defend herself by aiming at the stranger's neck, although in vain; a pair of lips whose red has already been worn for days impact against hers, stealing her breath, a small moan escaping her. Eyes wide open, she barely registers the blurry color of Buggy's nose when two strong hands squeeze her hips as if the life of the clown depended on it, pushing the girl against the wall of the building behind them, cornering her without any type of delicacy.

She hadn't heard from him since they reached the island. Hell, she didn't even know he had got his full body back and was already so close to it that air was unable to pass between each other.

Of course, the moment the clown's head joined the rest of himself -the feeling much better than he remembered- he fucked off his captors and decided to flee. Not before making a vital stop along the way.

The ideas about how to proceed with her once he was whole were very, very different in his wild fantasies, but when he saw the girl's back, he knew that the only thing that would -partially- calm his yearning would be to kiss her before disappearing as fast as possible. To taste her lips, to feel her warmth.

Still not recovered from the shock of the kiss, Y/N doesn't remove the knife from the clown's neck, but he couldn't care less; quite the opposite. He is so turned on and waited so much -again, exaggerated- for this he doesn't know yet how he will be able to break the kiss, take distance from her, and run away.

Passionately carried away, moved by his most primitive instincts, Buggy sneaks one of his legs between hers, pressing in between them as Y/N inhales through her nose and her free hand flies to his vest, pulling it a little.

It wasn't the time, nor the place, to think about fucking that asshole, but damn, after all the teasing and the tension and the adrenaline of the fight--

And just when she starts fully giving in to him, he retreats just enough, panting a bit, and looks at her now red, stained lips, eyes darkened and full of lust. Just like hers.

"Hate to leave you like this sweetheart but I have things to do and places to go. I don't want people relating me to Arlong, I would hate the bad press on my persona." He whispers, cracking his usual cruel, playful smirk when he finally puts some distance between each other.

‘’It's time to exit stage left.’’ Buggy adds, theatrically raising both hands in the air. ‘’I promise I’ll see you around.’’

And like this, he stars running away again. Where? She doesn't know, or even guess at this moment, too busy registering the kiss in her memory, the way his lips felt on hers, how his nose pressed her cheek the entire time, or his hands grabbed onto her for dear life.

Bastard.

''You better'', she whispers to herself.

[butcharondir]

Okay favorite new themes after first listen:

Estrid - Definitely at the top of the list, the Hardanger fiddle is so heart-wrenching and the way the tune plays with scales offers a slightly sinister edge to an otherwise tender and romantic composition. The way it ends (on a more sinister note) makes me particularly curious but I love love love, all in all one of the most musically interesting tracks to me on Season 2.

Concerning Stoors - OH I love this so much! Bear's Harfoot theme has always been my least favorite from Season One, mostly because of how viscerally it reminds me of his work on Outlander, but Concerning Stoors is much more musically distinct to me, while still calling back to the textural vibes of the Harfoot theme. Really love the tune here, it evokes a whole new world. The hammered dulcimer sound is *chef's kiss*.

Rhûn - this track is SO sick. The children's choir adds such a unique texture -- polyphonic singing is so underused and it immediately evokes a different vibe from anything else Bear has written for Middle Earth. I love the way the folk instrumentation is layered with more orchestral sounds and how percussion-forward the track is. Also love the way these sounds combine with the Stranger's theme in Sandstorm at the Well.

Forgiveness Takes an Age - I'm basically assuming this is the Ent theme, as we heard an Entwife utter "Forgiveness takes an age," in the trailer. This track also includes Arondir's theme, which makes sense because we know Arondir will be with the Ents. The Last March of the Ents is in my top 3 orchestral themes from the Jackson trilogy, and this is definitely a different vibe but still holds some of that beauty and epic-ness. I really really love the texture in the first section, where the voices and the drums combine in a way we haven't heard before on the soundtrack, and when it opens up into more epic strings, it makes me want to cry!!!

The Last Ballad of Damrod - I wouldn't call this a new theme, but I have a lot to say about it. I know a lot of people weren't super into the vibe when it was first released, but I think this track fucking SLAPS. I also actually really appreciate it in the context of the full soundtrack, it fits perfectly between "Army of Orcs" and "Battle of Eregion," deepening and turning up the volume on the raw energy of the "Nampat" theme. The orchestration underneath also reminds me a lot of the "For the Southlands" theme from Season One, evoking Arondir's fight with the Big Orc. This make sense as we know that Arondir will be facing off with Damrod. Can't wait to have a heart attack! SNAP! GO THE! BOOOOOOOONES!

Special mention of the Where the Shadows Lie/True Creation Requires Sacrifice theme, which is not on its own track anywhere on Season 2, but which comes into play on several tracks, including "Last Temptation," "Emissary at the Forge," and "Cirdan's Perfection," all of which makes sense. I just think it's really cool that ROP introduced this theme in the very last moments of Season One, incorporating it into the Ring Poem, and now have woven it through the entirety of Season Two. Musical storytelling at its best!

okay i need to dive deeper into the new songs, especially Disa's and Gil-Galad's, but these are just my first listen thoughts.

[thevioletcaptain]

the ashes by imogenbynight

1.2k | mature | deancas

a 13.01 coda with dean scattering cas' ashes. technically this is canon compliant but i feel like i need to trigger warn for like… cannibalism? not really but. man. idk.

Dean sits with the ashes when they get back to the bunker. Sits with them and stares and goes a little insane with it, until he can’t stop imagining himself cracking open the lid and reaching his fingers inside.

Would Cas be soft? Chalky, velvety, like the white-charred remnants of driftwood after a bonfire? Would he be rough as his voice; as the sand his pyre had been built upon?

With a belly full of fire and whisky and desperate unease, he stares and stares as his thoughts spiral. As he thinks about pressing his damp index finger into the ash and raising it to his mouth. Swallowing it down and letting Cas become a part of him.

He could keep Cas forever that way; absorbed into his being.

Fuck, he can’t stop thinking about it.

Years ago, they worked a case where a young couple had been so frantic with love, intensified to the trillionth degree by the cruel touch of famine, that they'd eaten one another alive. Torn into each other's flesh with teeth as they clung together, ecstatic and bloody. Dean remembers feeling as confused as he was revolted by what had seemed to him a far-too-literal leap from desire to hunger.

Now, though, he kind of understands it.

Because it wasn't hunger, exactly, that lead to such a violent conclusion. It was need, followed through to its inevitable end. And he gets it now. Gets wanting to take the one you love into yourself and keep them there always. To hold them so wholly that they become a part of you, so you can never be parted again.

Of course, that's the thing that stops him, in the end. Not what should have stopped him--not the sick, visceral horror of what ultimately equates to eating his best friend's remains, no matter how he spins it--but the fact that tying Cas to himself in such an irreversible way feels like a betrayal. A punishment to Cas' spirit, however much of it still exists. He can't do that. Can't force whatever part of Cas' grace or soul might linger in the ash to endure however many years Dean has left as a part of him. Can't tether Cas so selfishly in death when Cas had never seemed to want to stay with him in life.

Cas might have been the love of Dean's miserable fucking life, but he's not under any illusions that the feeling ran both ways.

He learned early that it wasn't even possible--learned before he'd even fully slipped into loving Cas himself. Learned before he ever could have known how important it would be to him. Anna had told him, point blank, and he'd seen the difference in her. Human, feeling; angel, cold. And sure, Cas has come a long way -- had come along way by the end. He feels. Dean knows he feels, and feels for him, in particular. But his capacity for it is limited, and it's never been clearer than in his ability to leave Dean behind at a moment's notice. He's detached. Was detached.

So he can't force Cas to be a part of him. Would never forgive himself.

When he had eventually started falling, he'd hoped the knowledge that nothing could ever come of it would help keep him from toppling headfirst into something deeper than a fleeting infatuation. He hadn't been so lucky.

And now here he is, staring down a can labeled Cafe Bustelo Medium Roast and thinking the kind of thoughts that make his stomach turn in endlessly cycling fits of longing and revulsion, all because he fell in love.

It's half past five in the morning when he decides he can't keep the ashes in the bunker. Can't have the sick temptation. Less because he thinks he's actually going to do it, and more because he knows he won't be able to stop thinking about it whenever he sees the tin. So he scoops up the tin, and creeps down to the garage to the Impala, and drives west on US-36. 

Keeps driving until the rising sun starts turning the sky in his rearview a pale shade of pink, and he sees a few lonely lightning bugs blinking in and out of view on an quiet roadside near Phillipsburg.

He's pulled over before he's consciously decided to do so.

It's a pretty spot, is his first thought. Tall grass and scattered wildflowers spanning the open meadow which slopes down to a stream. A rusted old windmill stands vigil over the scene, slowly spinning in the gentle breeze.

Cas would like it here, is his second thought. Would gaze up at the windmill and make some observation about the ingenuity of human invention, and crouch down to watch the fireflies as they gently sink back into the grass at the arrival of the sun. 

The image is so clear in Dean's mind that he forgets, just for a second, that Cas is gone. Or-- he doesn't forget, exactly. He just isn't thinking about it so directly. Is so focused on the visual of Cas in the tall grass beside him, on the memory of his voice and the way his long fingers would look dipping between blade of grass that when he looks back down at his hands, at the coffee can he's holding with white-knuckled grip, the reminder of why he's here is harsh enough to leave him winded.

"I woulda brought you here," he says once he's caught his breath, like Cas can hear him, but it's a lie. They rarely had downtime, and whenever they did Cas almost always took off. Dean was lucky to get him to stick around long enough to watch a movie, most of the time. But he'd have wanted to bring him here. That much is true. He would have wanted to.

"I hope--" he starts, then stops, drawing his lip between his teeth and looking first to the sky, then to the ground, then just closing his eyes. Taking several deep breaths. "Man... Cas. Cas, I hope you're--"

Okay. Safe. Alright. Fuck, but all the words he has equate to alive, and with me, and whole, and underneath them all an unwavering current of coming home soon. Anything else feels like another lie. His throat clicks on a swallow.

"I hope you're happy," he says finally, and pries the can open. Stares down at the small cloud of ash that rises with it. "I'm gonna miss you for fucking ever, but wherever you are... I really hope you're happy."

With the windmill at his back, and the field of flowers spread out before him, he lets Cas' ashes run through his fingers as he gives him over to the earth, and he doesn't notice the texture at all. He's too busy thinking about how Cas' hand felt in his the last time he'd helped him to stand. How heavy he'd been, then. How light he is now.

It's not until he's preparing to return to his car, wrung out and cracked open and raw as an exposed nerve, that he notices the thin cut on his ring finger. He must have nicked it on the coffee can, or the fence, or the dry grass, and it doesn't hurt, but-- his blood is swelling from it in a bright red drop, and his hands are dusty with ash. His heart lurches at the sight of Cas' ash and his own blood mingling.

He raises his finger to his mouth.

Cas is holy on his tongue.

[also on ao3]

[mamasuellen-blog]

Aziraphale's Diary in Crowley's hands

Aziraphale keeps a personal diary, in which he recounts his experiences, ideas, adventures, feelings and desires that he wants to fulfill with Crowley. A diary that also narrates her deepest pains, her questions, her religious guilt and, above all, her fear of losing Crowley to hell or heaven because of her love. This diary is a testament to how much Aziraphale loves Crowley and wants to protect him at all costs.

Aziraphale needs to write, he needs to remove the weight from his shoulders through writing. This is beneficial for him, as he is able to maintain emotional control, which helps him understand and organize his thoughts in relation to the events he has experienced.

I'm not saying that this is the only way Aziraphale expresses his emotions. Aziraphale is always expressing his emotions and this is quite extensive in the series. Aziraphale understands and consoles Crowley's pain, understands and accepts other opinions. He questions himself about what it means to be an angel, he shows concern for others, he is confident in what he believes, he has love for others, he has empathy, hope and he feels such an intense love for Crowley that it is impossible to control. That's why he narrates in his diary about his feelings, his love, as a way of dealing with it, as a way of calming him down.

Crowley knows that Aziraphale loves him, that he likes him, but sometimes I wonder if Crowley has doubts about this, about the strong love that Aziraphale has for him, because even Crowley has his fluctuations and this is due to his traumas, which prevent him from seeing things clearly, he has doubts whether he is worthy of love or not. There are examples of this in the series, such as in 1862, when Aziraphale is afraid of losing Crowley's existence because of holy water. Crowley, with his anxiety, ends up misinterpreting things and thinks it's all about heaven and not about Aziraphale being afraid of losing him. Furthermore, their conversation is not so clear, but the point is that Crowley did not realize Aziraphale's fear twice. Nina talked about them, which led Crowley to question about Aziraphale's love, about their love. Later, Nina and Maggie talked about it again, which motivated him to feel encouraged and speak out. Crowley and Aziraphale know that they talked about almost everything during their existence on earth, even if in codes due to a lack of adequate security for good communication, but they never spoke openly about their traumas and especially about their feelings, in a way that would make each other feel the other, in a visceral and organic way.

Aziraphale's diary has already appeared in the series and I have no doubt that it will return in season 3. I have a great interest in this diary being in Crowley's hands, but I'm not sure how that could happen in the series. Perhaps Crowley returns to the bookstore to look for something relevant that he forgot there and sees the diary on Aziraphale's bedside, arousing his curiosity.

Crowley misses Aziraphale and, therefore, will not resist the temptation to read the diary. Crowley will discover that Aziraphale is going through the same heartbreaking anguish as him, the fear that this love will bring them danger. I can imagine Crowley reading Aziraphale's pains, Azirpahle's desire to touch him, hug him and kiss him. The desire that, if he could, he would alleviate all of Crowley's pain and trauma.

I can imagine Crowley reading from Aziraphale's diary...

7 May 1967

Dear Diary, yesterday, I found Crowley in Soho. The reason for looking for him was an urgent situation, which threatened his existence. I discovered that he intended to steal holy water from a church. Even though so much time has passed, I'm still afraid of losing him to something that could completely destroy him, but I can't allow him to take risks alone, I never will. So I handed him an unopened bottle with the purest holy water in existence. After so many years, my opinion has not changed, but I trust him completely and am confident that he will not open the bottle. I won't forgive myself if something terrible happens to you, especially because of me. As thanks, Crowley offered me a ride, an escape to somewhere. I would have accepted immediately if we had security for it, a place where we could be together without fear. However, as much as my heart cried out for this connection, my mind was flooded with worries and fears from the past. I know that my feeling could put us in danger again, and the weight of the consequences is too overwhelming. Every time I see Crowley, it's like a constant reminder of an internal battle that seems to have no end. The objective of my desire, an unattainable mirage that torments me day and night throughout my existence. I'm afraid I'll lose Crowley forever if I dare express my feelings. The mere idea of losing the love of my life is enough to freeze my heart in a state of pure agony... It's so unbearably unbearable... It's like a cruel paradox, wanting something with all your strength and at the same time fear the consequences. It hurt me to see that Crowley had a sad smile on his lips because I hadn't accepted his ride. I felt a stab of pain deep in my chest. I knew I had made the right choice, but that didn't make the goodbye any less painful. As I write these words, I carry the weight of a decision that could have changed the course of our lives. But I also hope that, one day, when time and circumstances allow, we will be able to meet again and perhaps go to the Ritz like we always did. Sometimes I wonder if Crowley feels love for me, I mean, I know he likes me, but I wonder if he wants me as much as I do, if he wants to kiss me, hug me. Oh, Crowley, my love, I want this so much, but I'm afraid. I am plunged into a self-destructive maze, where every step towards that love is overshadowed by fears and insecurities. Oh God, I just wish I had the freedom to live something so pure with my love. I know that one day I won't be able to hold it anymore, I feel that sooner or later I might lose him again, and just the thought tears me up inside..., but I won't run away from the fight, even if I have to suffer . I promised myself to protect you forever, even if I have to sacrifice my existence, even if I have to fight against hell and heaven together.

11 April 2021

Dear diary, Today, finally, after a few years, I visited our Chalet again. When I opened the door, I was enveloped by a love that I can't even explain where it came from. A soft light came through the left window, welcoming me, hugging me warmly, almost as if you were there, I thought with a laugh. Whenever I go to the Chalet it's an indescribable emotion, realizing that that place, that wooden and stone Chalet, is much more than just a property; It's the home I always dreamed of for us. The place is quite dusty, but nothing that a miracle can't solve. As I watched the light dance across the floor, I felt such hope, I felt like I was witnessing destiny itself unfold before me. I vividly imagined the two of us dancing in the middle of the room, twirling and laughing like there was no tomorrow. The soft sound of birds in the garden will be our soundtrack as we lose ourselves in each other's arms. Ah, Crowley, I long for the day when I can tell you about the acquisition of that beautiful Cottage on the South Downs, and I hope that one day we can live there together. I may not have told you yet, but I imagined you being surprised by the news, but then immediately accepting it with a beautiful smile. I imagined you offering me a ride and I accepted with great satisfaction, because, on this day, we will be going home. I imagined the two of us in the kitchen preparing dumplings, I imagined you and me in our garden drinking wine in the moonlight. I imagined you in our bed, waking up to birdsong, in fact, I imagined you with messy hair and you looked beautiful. I hope all this imagination becomes our reality one day. I have faith in this, I have faith in you Crowley, in us.

​

[tomorrowxtogether]

The 10 best Tomorrow X Together songs

Ahead of the boyband’s 2024 ‘Act: Promise’ world tour, NME picks the best cuts from their enchanting back catalogue 

There’s always been something magical about Tomorrow X Together, even before they started adding elements of enchantment to their music in late-2019. Over their first five years together, the Big Hit Music boyband have been consistently spellbinding in their approach to sharing their experiences of youth, whether weaving colourful creations in their early days or dialling up the angst as they screeched into young adulthood.

Along with their penchant for genre-hopping, it all makes for a vibrant back catalogue that doesn’t always follow the expected path. TXT will always keep you guessing and never stay in one spot for too long. Ahead of their upcoming 2024 ‘Act: Promise’ world tour, which kicks off next month in Seoul, NME looks back on their enchanting catalogue.

Honourable mentions

‘Blue Spring’ (2023) ‘MOA Diary (Dubaddu Wari Wari)’ (2021) ‘Puma’ (2020) ‘Wishlist’ (2020) ‘LO$ER=LO♡ER’ (2021)

10. ‘Ghosting’ (2020)

The opening track of 2020’s ‘minisode 1: Blue Hour’ glistens in its gloominess. Through clouds of shoegaze-y guitars, the five-piece tell stories of friends who’ve become like spectres and the isolation that comes with growing apart from those you love. It’s a beautiful piece of songwriting that highlights TXT’s knack for taking trending lingo and using it to share their tales of youth.

9. ‘New Rules’ (2019)

Since their beginning, Tomorrow X Together have served as guides and companions through life and that’s no different on ‘New Rules’. The funky hip-hop track details rebellious phases sparked by the frustrations of life, piled on by social media, teachers and class. If you’re looking for a way to break free from it all, this addictive cut will help you.

8. ‘Can’t You See Me?’ (2020)

Even without watching the flame-filled music video for ‘Can’t You See Me?’, you can feel the scorching emotions that course through the song. Rather than showcasing them in the big rock anthemics that would come later in TXT’s journey, it’s the more seemingly subdued moments that sizzle here. “With resentment, my heart is heavy / ‘Cause you don’t understand me,” Beomgyu and Hueningkai murmur in the second verse, every ounce of that weight pouring through their words.

7. ‘Good Boy Gone Bad’ (2022)

On the lead track from 2022’s ‘minisode 2: Thursday’s Child’, TXT fully embrace the moment when it feels like you’ve hit an emotional rock bottom. Instead of wallowing in the misery, they make it their new super power – there’ll be no more “pathetic days” left on the calendar when you rise up with hearts “gone dead”. Set to searing rock, it’s become one of the most electrifying moments in the group’s concerts, not least Yeonjun’s bridge that ends in the laughter of someone truly cold-hearted and the declaration: “I like being bad.”

6. ‘Crown’ (2019)

The song that started it all. Tomorrow X Together’s debut single ushered in a boyband who sounded refreshingly bright but, beneath the bubbling synths, were dealing with the complicated growing pains of adolescence. Years on from its release, it still feels like a perfect snapshot of the dichotomy of youth – at once energetic, curious, self-doubting and concerned.

5. ‘Tinnitus (Wanna Be a Rock)’ (2023)

The boyband dabble in Afro-pop on this standout from ‘The Name Chapter: Temptation’. Despite its slinky rhythms that are practically a call to groove onto the dancefloor, lyrically it finds the group wanting to sink into a stillness caused by a crisis of confidence. “Rockstar minus the star / Just a rock, OK?” Taehyun sighs, preparing to descend.

4. ‘0X1=LOVESONG (You Know I Love You)’ (2021)

The moment TXT leaned all the way into the raw, serrated sensitivities of emo. With the help of featured singer Seori, ‘0X1=LOVESONG’ wears its feelings on its sleeve so viscerally it’s hard not to get swept up in its storm of emotion. Although the five-piece’s storyline would later disavow the need for connection, here it was still an essential, the group crying out for a loved one to “take my hand” and save them from being swallowed up by life.

3. ‘I’ll See You There Tomorrow’ (2024)

The concept of fate emerges on this sunkissed house jam, the beats forming a linking pattern between TXT and the person they believe is “meant to be”. ‘I’ll See You There Tomorrow’ is fresh and breezy, while its post-chorus refrain of “there’ll be no more sorrow, I’ll see you there tomorrow” could serve as a slogan for the comfort that spills out of the group’s catalogue.

2. ‘9 and Three Quarters (Run Away)’ (2019)

The title track of ‘The Dream Chapter: Magic’ more than lives up to the sorcery in the album’s title. Sprinkled with sparkling melodies that form the aural equivalent of the magic dust that accompanies wands casting spells in movies, the song captured the heart of much of TXT’s early storyline. It’s an ode to friendship and the feeling of finding people to run alongside you as you buckle up for the rollercoaster of life.

1. ‘Eternally’ (2020)

Tomorrow X Together have never been ones to shy away from trying something new, and that spirit quietly fuels ‘Eternally’, the stand-out track from ‘The Dream Chapter: Eternity’. What starts out as a gentle lullaby pleading soon morphs into something darker and prowling. The beat switch is tellingly signalled by a rapid-fire gunshot and the verse that follows feels like a villain origin story. That the group are able to pull off the revolving door of switch-ups on this track with such elegance is nothing short of impressively exhilarating.

[korereapers]

Title: Tainted

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Ship/Pairing: Astarion Ancunín/Gale Dekarios, bloodweave

Warnings: smut, Netherese orb shenanigans. LOTS OF FLUFF

AO3

Join the bloodweave server if you want to!

It has been a mistake on his part, and Gale can't help but blame himself for it. Who would be to blame, if not him and his foolishness? For how much he prides himself in his intelligence, evidence suggests that he has been, yet again, way too impulsive.

"It's more than fine, darling," Astarion says after a deep sigh, and Gale knows that he must be lying. It's not fine, nothing is fine, and Astarion's thumb on the corner of his own lips, licking it absentmindedly, tells him that he has, indeed, ruined the night.

"I swear to you, Astarion. In Mystra's name, I swear I had no idea-"

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Astarion exclaims, clearly irritated, baring his fangs dangerously, but Gale has learned to discern real danger from just a very visible frustration. "I know you had no idea! I know you wouldn't! Can you please keep that goddess of yours out of this?"

Gale bites his own tongue, because everything he can say would make the situation worse. He knows that Astarion blames Mystra for his situation, but Gale knows well enough that he has nobody to blame but himself. His foolishness, his impulsiveness. It wasn't hubris, not really, not as he understands it. He wanted her to like him, to admire him like he does, to-

"Honey," Astarion says, a hand with long fingers on Gale's cheek, a tentative touch that desperately makes him want to go back to reality, far from these thoughts. Can he allow himself that, though? Doesn't he owe him, them all, himself, and Mystra the guilt he is feeling? Isn't it better to do something useful with it, to use what he has inside of his chest for something good, instead of corrupting everything good that has ever happened to him? "Gale. Stop thinking. Look at me."

Gale smiles weakly at that.

"I am afraid, my vampiric companion, that ceasing all thought is kind of an impossible task-"

Astarion groans exasperatedly.

"Wizards… Fucking wizards."

"I mean. At this moment. I am brimming with thoughts. And not the good kind, I assure you."

Astarion's touch is cold, almost grounding. Red eyes look at him with worry, as if Gale was the one hurt, and not the other way around. It makes the hole inside of his chest feel bigger, the orb thrumming softly.

"Don't try and deflect again. That’s supposed to be my job."

Deep down, Astarion cares. He cares, because he reacts, sometimes viscerally, to the choices the group makes, to what Gale does to him, or to himself. Blood might not flow naturally inside of his body, but anger can make it boil just the same. Sadness does make his eyes sink, his movements slower. Happiness making his features shine, too young to what he had to endure, too full of life.

Gale doesn’t really want to think about when Astarion’s expression shows fear.

“I am aware of the… reservations you had towards us getting intimate. I of course intended to give you space. I tried my best at it,” Gale starts, his voice a little high, panic still fresh in his body. “I wanted to give you a special night. A night you would never forget.”

As if in cue, the starry sky becomes even more beautiful, its colors more intense. It’s a miracle that Gale hasn’t lost his concentration, given the circumstances, his magic still a wonder to Astarion, who looks up for a brief moment, only for his eyes to be back on Gale’s a second later. 

It might be dark, but Gale works his magic for human eyes, and Astarion is an elf, and a vampire. He can see his warm eyes, rightfully worried, even if his worry is misplaced, this time. He sees how he gulps, he can almost feel every breath, even more because Astarion himself doesn’t have to, his lungs useless long ago. His blood, warm inside of him, the most tempting current, its flow a temptation he has learned to ignore most of the time.

He is aware, both of them are. Gale’s blood is corrupted, the orb inside of his chest making his body slowly rot from the inside, its magic taking Gale’s, and everything he touches with a purpose. Astarion hasn’t tried it again, Gale being adamant about it, about how dangerous it might be for him.

Gale is sure it is, at least. Not an acquired taste, as Astarion had tried to put it. As it turns out, it was not just his blood that got tainted by the Netherese orb, but many, many other parts of his body. Which is why, when Astarion had made the exact same face he did back when he first tried his blood while trying another completely different fluid of his, Gale had panicked.

Blood is one thing. It’s different when your vampire companion tries to bite you against your will, and he bites more than he can chew. Quite literally. Enjoying the… attentions Astarion’s mouth gives to him, after weeks of dancing around each other? After a well needed conversation about how Gale hasn’t had a partner after Mystra, while Astarion very much prefers not to be touched sexually until he feels ready? That’s a completely different thing.

Gale has ruined it all. Again.

It’s surprising, because he feels their illithids close, together, connecting. Astarion might not be able to understand, but wants to. His expression relaxes as Gale lets him connect, lets him see. There is no point in hiding anything anymore.

“You wanted to make it special. For me.”

Gale nods, closing his eyes  when Astarion closes the gap between them, not to kiss him, but to touch his forehead with his own. Astarion, who doesn’t like physical touch, initiates it with someone like Gale, who caresses his cold face as if it was easy.

“You are afraid of this eternal feeling of yours. You feel that you are not good enough, that you have to impress me to make me think that you’re… worthwhile. That you have failed me and you have failed yourself.”

Gale doesn’t even try to hide, a sigh escaping his lips, his heart sinking when Astarion imitates the gesture a second later. He can feel his irritation through the tadpole, but Astarion keeps his cards close, he always does. The connection gets interrupted when Astarion moves, and Gale is, indeed, afraid. Afraid that he has ruined it even more.

Mystra didn’t deem him worthy. Maybe Astarion thinks the same.

The vampire shakes his head, graciously, and Gale finds himself looking, red eyes shining in what he recognizes as anger. Anger at him, maybe. That would be understandable, as Gale Dekarios seems to have a talent to make people angry at him.

“That’s… oddly self centered, don’t you think?”

Like that, Gale’s mind goes blank. He registers the words, but they don’t make sense to him. A part of him makes his blood burn with rage at the audacity, but the sad, heavy feeling that reminds him that he deserves it is too overwhelming for the rage to take place. It drowns its embers without effort, and Gale is left weak, his shoulders slumped.

Here it comes. The punishment.

“You don’t get to decide what to think and what to feel. Only I get to decide that.”

Gale wants to speak, really, he does. He has practiced speeches for situations like this, so usual with Mystra, having to use his silver tongue to get in her good graces again, until he couldn’t do it anymore. Until no words would appease her.

He can’t talk, though, because his lips are sealed with Astarion’s, whose anger seems to translate into a particularly rough kiss. A kiss that hurts, a kiss that heals. A kiss that makes him bleed. 

He wants to warn him, he really does, but his brain feels foggy, almost as if it wasn’t his own. Gale kisses him back, selfishly, and he feels Astarion tense when he drinks, the taste probably hellish. Everything in him surely tastes like Hell.

But Astarion doesn’t relent, and damn, Gale knows that neither of them are particularly strong, but Astarion manages to push him into the floor, letting him breathe just before he kisses him again. A different type of hunger, he guesses. His red eyes burn like a predator’s, and Gale wonders, even if for a brief moment, what color they used to be.

“Stupid fucking wizard. When are you going to stop being lost in your own mind? I care about you, everyone cares about you. You feed and take care of this group of weirdos, you talk and talk, and Hells, talk so much and so eloquently it makes me angry at how much it makes me want you.”

Gale shudders at his words, not moving an inch when Astarion starts unbuttoning his robes, slowly, dexterous fingers tracing his skin. He is beautiful, the lines on his skin as he frowns, his eyebags of not sleeping properly in who knows how long.

A hint of fangs shine behind his lips as he admires Gale's body, his chest hairy, rising and falling, the rhythm increasingly quickly because of how excited he feels, his breathing so intense he is afraid of passing out. A slender finger plays around the orb on his chest, and Astarion finally smiles a little, Gale's body reacting to his touch, the weave reacting to his touch.

"I'm afraid I am not sure of what will happen if you toy too much with it, Astarion."

Red eyes glint when the vampire's smile becomes more visible, playful, almost cheeky.

"We'll be careful, won't we, darling?"

He feels exposed in front of him, all of his fake pride gone, not flaunting anything anymore. He feels insecure, even if he knows how good his skills are, maybe because he does, and doesn't consider them nearly enough. Blame the tadpole, Astarion seems to notice.

"I like the Gale Dekarios I see. Not Gale of Waterdeep, not Mystra's chosen. Just you. She doesn’t get to define you, and neither does anyone but yourself."

Gale does smile a little at that.

"You are sweeter than you claim to be, Astarion."

The vampire scoffs at his words, as if they were the funniest joke in the world. Gale doesn't need an illithid to feel the bitterness coming out of him.

"I speak the truth, my star. You know I do. And your words, your feelings, are more than welcome. They may hurt, but I can discern good intentions when I see them."

Astarion does groan this time, no energy to sugarcoat it.

"Can you please shut-"

"I want to kiss you again, Astarion. And do whatever you are comfortable with. The only thing that worries me is that I will burden you with a rotten body, and a rotten purpose."

He feels that the words lose their original meaning, his pants still unceremoniously unbuttoned, his robes half open, long hair disheveled, a clear blush almost everywhere. It’s Astarion’s time to shudder, though, his expression intense when he gets closer again, Gale’s breath on his face, and he feels it in Astarion’s features, he thinks it’s nice, that it feels nice. Astarion’s breath is, of course, absent, an intense red color filtering through beautiful, white eyelashes. Knowing. Waiting.

“Come and get it, then. Show me how much you want it.”

Gale feels a tug from inside. Something in his chest that’s not his orb. Something down his abdomen that’s definitely his cock, still hard, against all odds. Still, he has to ask. He would never forgive himself otherwise. A small gesture towards Astarion’s comfort.

“Do you want it? Do you want everything my body, mind, and soul can offer you? Even after having briefly tasted me and felt how far gone my body is?”

Astarion doesn’t move, almost not blinking, so clearly undead that it should make Gale’s skin crawl, but it doesn’t. It really doesn’t, not when Astarion’s hand is nervously on his own, his lips still a treat to Gale’s eyes. He feels the word before it abandons Astarion’s lips, a half casted spell that Gale feels against his lips.

“Yes.”

He is sincere, the word engraved into Gale’s brain, making him tremble in anticipation. Gale’s warm hand is on the cold cheek, just keeping him in place as he moves, closing the distance between them with a shaky breath.

The Nine Hells be damned, Gale knows what he is doing, but Astarion almost has it engraved in his muscle memory. He gets lost in the sensation, something that makes Gale’s heart flutter, because Astarion may be used to sex, but he is not used to this. He is not used to the way Gale’s hands shake, slowly and desperately trying to get rid of the vampire's clothes, until Astarion helps, his hands more skilled at the matter. 

With a decent amount of collaboration they manage to show themselves, unclad, under the myriad of stars.

“Are you okay, darling? You look like you’re about to collapse…”

Gale nods, desperately, his lips letting out a soft moan when Astarion’s hands explore his body, every curve, the soft patches of hair. He shudders when a slender, cold hand is on his cock again stroking him softly, his mouth carefully biting Gale’s lower lip, dry blood on it that only seems to make Astarion even more eager.

“You won’t like whatever I can offer you, Astarion. Especially not you.”

Astarion huffs in frustration, a word in elvish that he doesn’t quite identify, but he doesn’t move when he is on the ground again, Astarion’s beautiful body shining under the artificial aurora Gale has created. Lots of small, little stars joining one of their kind, whose fangs slightly glint in a grin when Gale looks up at him, hands on his waist when Astarion straddles him with his legs.

“I wanna ride you. That’s what I would like to do.”

Gale’s throat is dry, eyes big and focused on Astarion’s face. There is no warmth on his skin, but that’s just another reason to keep him close. To try and remind him of when he was alive, before Cazador, before all of this madness. Warm hands move from Astarion’s waist to his chest, aware of the lack of heartbeat, still feeling in the tension of his muscles that he is, indeed, nervous. He caresses the scars on his back, and dexterous hands guide him downwards quickly, way too quickly. As if he didn’t want Gale to touch the words engraved into his back. He respects that, of course, his cock surely interested when Astarion’s hands guide his own towards his butt, and Gale blushes when the elf smiles knowingly.

“I assure you, my dear. Whatever your body and mind can offer me is more than welcome."

Gale isn't so sure about that, to be honest. Not about Astarion's… predisposition, but about his own body. Maybe if he manages to talk to Mystra one day… maybe she would understand. Maybe she'd forgive him, and grant him a body he doesn't deserve. Maybe.

Astarion brings him back to the present, far from possibilities, making him focus on what they are doing. A bottle of something Gale bought as soon as they got into the outskirts of Baldur's Gate floats in the air, courtesy of Astarion's invisible mage hand. He smirks at him, fangs showing slightly.

"Do you want to get me ready, or would you rather watch?"

Both choices seem impossible to Gale's own fragile mental health, to be completely honest. Still, the choice is obvious to him at the moment.

"If you do not mind… I would rather touch you myself. You might find that I have some… untapped skills."

He doesn't know how he manages to say that with a straight face, but Astarion's smile only gets wider. He believes him. He really does. He takes the small bottle from the mage hand, handing it to Gale carefully.

"I'm sure of that."

There is this thing about Astarion. About sexual matters, he always seems to be confident, experienced. Not a hair out of place, clearly a performance that has been honed for centuries. His façade breaks slightly when Gale's coated fingers caress his entrance, red eyes bigger, like a nervous animal. Prey, for once, and not a predator.

Gale is, still, very much not a predator, thank you very much.

"You know you can relax around me, Astarion. We can stop whenever you want."

Astarion's groan is supposed to convey frustration, but to Gale's ears is just yet another expression of fondness.

He feels tight and cold around his finger, eager and fed, having drunk from one of their enemies mere hours ago. He feels warmer when he is sated, Gale has noticed. More alive, also more sensitive. His soft sigh when Gale slowly fingers him is not performative, for it's not perfect, not calculated, not so beautiful for it to be irreal. He is sure that Astarion would blush if he could.

Gale likes it even more this way.

The way his red eyes shine when Gale looks up to kiss him are more than enough, though.

"Hurry up. I can take it, wizard."

Gale knows he can. He still doesn't rush it, arching his finger a little, his caress a little quicker, but not much. He kisses his lips, his chin, his sharp cheeks. Sadness fills him when he thinks about being unable to feed him, not in a way that matters. Meat and stew taste good, but do nothing to placate Astarion's hunger. He still eats, though, not saying a word about the taste, so Gale assumes he enjoys it. Astarion would never take anything less than what he deserves, after all. In that aspect, at least.

Gale is the living proof of the exception, after all. Why would he choose a human, with a rotten body, a damned future caused by the most damaging part of his ego?

"Wizard. Stop overthinking, or the gods help me…"

He doesn't even have to ask. Astarion rolls his eyes, as if it were obvious.

"You get a little frown when you think hard about something. It's not usually something happy, for what I know."

Gale sighs, teasing his entrance with another finger.

"I get lost in my mind way too often. For that, I apologize."

Astarion gasps as he enters him, slender legs shaking on Gale's lap. 

What a sight…

"You're lucky you're kind of cute, Gale Dekarios. If you weren't, I might have stabbed you long, long ago."

Gale knows that he is joking. He also knows that it's not a coincidence that Astarion is saying that when he is feeling vulnerable, or that he is using his family name, and not the epithet Gale uses for himself. He has been since they met Tara, since Gale mentioned his mother.

"I am cute? You are gorgeous, my star."

Astarion's muscles tense around his fingers in response. He surely likes the praise, especially when it is sincere, when Gale is not just speaking about Astarion's good looks. For a second, Gale wonders about it, about those muscles tensing around him, tight and delicious, taking him eagerly. He blushes at the thought, and Astarion smiles, dashing and knowing. 

"A copper piece for your thoughts?"

Gale mumbles something incoherent, burying his burning face in Astarion's shoulder, making him giggle.

"Nothing? That's a first… having rendered Gale Dekarios speechless…"

He doesn't get to tease him for long, because Gale actually gets to work, trying to focus on the task at hand. Which is both preparing and pleasuring Astarion until he feels ready to take him and… experience whatever doom is awaiting them when Gale fills him with his rotten seed and-

Astarion kisses his temple, and it does make Gale think, about how comfortable he seems to be with his new role, in which his lips are not a tool to prey on others, to lie and lie and keep lying until someone finally falls for his tricks. This, this soft caress, honest and without worry, suits him perfectly. Maybe, Gale himself suits him perfectly.

Maybe.

"I said no overthinking."

Gale smiles at him, brown eyes like melted chocolate, his motions slow but purposeful. Astarion trembles on his lap, his cock twitching in interest, and Gale tries his hardest not to just take him in his hand, no matter how much Astarion's eyes, drowning him in crimson intensity, are almost ordering him to.

"I would like for you to enjoy this longer, my star."

The petname seems to work, because Astarion begrudgingly, sighs, almost as if trying to relax. He frowns when Gale curls his fingers, carefully massaging his insides, fingers that were made for reading and handling powerful spells finding a sensitive spot, and Astarion does indeed make a sound. It's not dignified, or elegant, but it's natural, raw.

He guides him through the whole process. How he likes it, the intensity, the pressure, the pace. He murmurs it all, sweet instructions against Gale's lips, who follows them in between soft kisses, shuddering each time Astarion seems to especially enjoy something.

"You are a quick learner, wizard. Such a beautiful brain you have…"

Astarion is riling him up. He doesn't have to be smart to know. He is successfully doing it, and Gale hates himself for falling for it, weak and pathetic, panting against his smile, feeling his thighs tensing around him.

"Inside, Gale," he says in a low tone, demanding, almost a growl. "I want you inside."

Gale Dekarios is, well, currently untouched. He still trembles when Astarion speaks, a desperate sound leaving his lips. He feels pathetic, but Astarion's expression is unchanging. Honest, wanting.

"Shit," Gale enunciates eloquently when Astarion moves, making Gale miss him dearly when his fingers are no longer inside of him. Astarion takes the bottle of lubricant, manually, slowly coating Gale's cock with it, keeping eye contact. Which would be hell for Gale if not for the fact that he is currently mesmerized.

His orb pulses, the sound of electricity filling the air. Maybe this is the way he goes. Unable to keep himself under control, way too excited and reckless to think about the obvious. To have enough strength to care about the danger.

"You are not going to get hurt," Astarion assures him. "You are not going to hurt me either. Or anyone in camp."

"But-"

"You might be a self centered asshole sometimes, but you care about us. About yourself. About… about me."

Astarion may be unable to blush, but the way his tongue seems to twist and make him ponder about his words is maybe the closest thing he has.

"Deep down, you never wanted to off yourself. You just thought it was the only thing you could do. The right thing to do. Bullshit…"

Gale smiles at him, his hands on both sides of Astarion's face.

"Is that an insight… from self centered asshole to self centered asshole?"

Astarion chuckles at that, enamored.

"Oh he has some edge… I love that."

It's Astarion who guides Gale's cock towards his entrance, his experience still unmatched… which leaves Gale with a sour feeling. He shouldn't have had to deal with something like that. He deserved better. That's why he is trying to make everything beautiful, perfect for him.

"I can… I can do it all myself, if that helps you…"

Astarion gently rolls his eyes.

"Darling, I am indeed deeply grateful. But I want to do this. I want you to feel good, and I want to feel good with you. I do appreciate the pampering but… I'm fine, I swear."

Gale’s smile is nervous. Knowing what’s to come, knowing what to expect. His throat bobs slightly, gulping a little bit too loudly.

“If I understand correctly… that means that you want to pamper me, I am assuming?”

Astarion’s smile is devilishly sexy after he answers with a single word, but it’s not rehearsed, not so pretty it has to be unreal. It’s pretty, his fangs showing slightly, but it’s not too wide, not too flashy. There is a hint of nervousness in trembling lips, and Gale can only kiss them softly, feeling their cool touch that is starting to warm up to him.

His insides are not cold, but not warm either. Something is at work there, maybe that Astarion has fed recently, so his body is especially vigorous. He takes him slowly, almost like torture, and Gale has his hands on his hips, making sure that he doesn’t rush it. Astarion seems proud of himself when Gale lets out a breath that he didn’t know that he was holding, a little fanged smile that Gale makes sure to kiss yet again.

“Are you sure…” he tries to ask, nervous about his obvious problem, but Astarion is having none of it.

“Yes.”

“But-”

“Darling, you might be an incredible wizard. A wonderful man. But I’m pretty sure your cock lacks the skill to kill me, no matter how good of a cock it is.”

Gale’s face is flushed, both mortified and incredibly pleased. Trying not to let the compliment go too deep inside of his psyche. He can feel himself getting harder at it, and Astarion’s smile is amused, sinking himself more into him, making a sweet sound when the friction seems to be a little bit too good.

“Fuck… finally.”

Gale cannot say much in return, too overwhelmed by the sensation, not just the physical one. Astarion makes him lie down, the beautiful night sky above them. Pale skin reflects the light slightly, making Gale gasp in awe. The stars may be beautiful, but Astarion is the most gorgeous of them all.

“My star…” Gale manages to say, his voice strangled, before the vampire moves, hungry for him in a way that Gale hasn’t felt in decades. Before Mystra, before his own foolishness, before all this mess. Red eyes shine in recognition, in fondness, rocking his hips slowly.

He’s beautiful. That’s what he thinks as Astarion moves, his movements elegant. He thinks about him moving in the shadows, slicing an enemy without effort, his eyes hungry in a completely different way. He looks up at him, because he knows, he knows he might be doing this for him, and not for both of them, but his expression is not vacant. Astarion is there with him, moaning softly when Gale’s warm hands caress his thighs, tenderly, digging his fingers into his skin with both sweetness and lust.

“May I… may I touch you?”

Gale has to ask, wants to ask. Astarion confided in him, about his worries, his past, his relationship with sex. He won’t do anything Astarion is uncomfortable with, but it’s still refreshing to hear him chuckle, the gesture making his whole body tremble.

“Of course, my dear,” he murmurs, just a second after moving again, Gale’s hold on him tighter, moaning softly, a hand slowly moving towards Astarion’s erection. He takes him with no hesitation, sensing him tense, the eye contact making Gale’s insides burn. Astarion looks intense as he moves, as Gale pumps him, tight around each other, an exhalation escaping an undead mouth with effort. It is rewarding when he finally moans, and Gale just frowns, nodding slightly.

It’s funny, almost, how words elude him in that moment. He feels himself babbling at times, about Astarion, about how pretty he is, about how nice and sweet he is to him. It makes Astarion’s expression change, and Gale doesn’t feel any kind of disgust coming from him, if the tension around his cock is to be trusted. He has never been good at reading expressions, even less in this state of near climax.

That’s why it takes him by surprise, the way Astarion keeps moving, but gets closer to him, looking for his lips briefly before the kisses go down his chin, his throat. Gale is pretty sure the vampire is not going to bite him, given how revolting his blood is, but his lips are dangerously close to the Netherese orb.

Gale wants to warn him, to tell him he doesn’t know how volatile the orb might be, but he isn’t sure if Astarion would have listened nevertheless. His voice breaks when Astarion kisses it, tenderly, his face buried on Gale’s chest as he keeps rocking his lips.

If there was something to say, Gale isn’t sure he can find the words, his face so red he fears he might faint. He just moans, feeling the orb thrumming, Astarion’s own whimper making his sight blurry. His movements are erratic. He must be close, too.

“You wanted to keep this from me, wizard? You feel like electricity… Powerful and vigorous and…”

Gale wants to say something, anything.

“Astarion…”

“I love everything you have to offer. I love… I love everything…”

That’s a little bit too much for Gale’s heart to handle. He feels himself coming messily, with the strength of a sledgehammer, the orb dangerously close to losing its stability. He is, too, so he wouldn’t really blame it. The stars seem to flicker above them, and Gale doesn’t know how his concentration hasn’t broken or faded, after all. Astarion keeps moving, almost desperately, reaching his own orgasm shortly after, Gale’s hand erratic on him, but apparently still enough to make him figuratively or not, see the stars. He feels a smile against his chest, a small kiss on it afterwards, and Gale realizes, embarrassed, that there are tears on his face. He still kisses Astarion’s temple, both in relief and in gratitude.

“I stand… I stand corrected,” Astarion mutters, still kissing his skin. “That cock almost killed me, albeit not in the way you feared.”

Gale lets out a small chuckle, trying not to sniff too loudly. Still, he knows that there is something in the air. The orb seems to react to Astarion’s touch, even if weakly, as if drawing itself to him.

“Do you… do you feel the weave, like back when we practiced?”

Astarion nods, looking up at him, magic oozing from him, a faint purple glint in his eyes.

“If I compliment you too much, it’ll go over your head, so I’ll just say this. You may taste like hell, but this…”

Gale knows the feeling well. Completion, understanding. Fulfillness. He caresses Astarion’s face, feeling the magic under his fingertips.

“You are lovely. I know I might have said that already, but if you are not averse to-”

Astarion’s lips are on his own, trapping him between the vampire’s body and the ground. Drinking from him without draining him, just… sharing an experience. Connected in a way that makes sense to both of them.

“It feels good, to be like this with you.”

The netherese orb is like a curse, a punishment for his own hubris, but Astarion’s fingers circling it, his small kisses, almost make it all bearable. They both wear their marks, the weight of their past. Gale’s fingers ghost over Astarion’s scars as they kiss, not daring to touch them too much, not until it’s Astarion who guides him towards them, as if trying to repay his trust.

If Astarion realises that Gale is crying again, he says nothing about it. They just lie side by side, looking at stars that aren’t real, but that are proof of everything Gale wants to convey. Closer than they should be, even if the moment is technically over. Gale would love to cuddle a little more, but he doesn’t really want to push it and make him uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” he says instead, his warm eyes looking at him, at the beautiful start shining among hundreds of his kind. “For everything.”

Astarion doesn’t meet his gaze, still looking at the sky. At everything that Gale has created for him.

“You have been kind to me. That’s more than most people can say,” he offers as an explanation, but says nothing else.

Gale still notices how he gets closer to him, his head casually resting on Gale’s shoulder as he admires the sky. Gale, though? Bless the weave and its wonders, but in that moment, Gale can only keep looking at Astarion.

[nym-wibbly]

Fic: My Bonds in Thee by Nym - Good Omens (TV)

Aziraphale comes back. Their love was never in doubt but they still have different exactlys.

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Wordcount: 42,600 of (probably 80,000 - WIP) Rating: Explicit AO3 Archive Warning: No archive warnings apply Tags: Second Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Angst, Hurt/Comfort Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49148341/

If you need an AO3 invite code to view fanworks set as 'visible to logged-in users only', just contact me at the e-mail address on my AO3 profile.

Excerpt from My Bonds in Thee chapter 8:

The world ended here just a few days ago. His world. He's not sure he feels good about returning, but Gabriel got one thing right (one damned thing in his damned smug damned charmed damned bloody Supreme existence). Home is wherever the heart is. And Crowley's already given his to Aziraphale. That's like Armageddon: You don't get a do-over when it goes pear-shaped. Push on, then.

Crowley scratches his head through the cloth of the hood, relieved to feel that he still has hair.

"How, um, deviant are we thinking? I mean," he gestures to the spiral staircase, upstairs, shocked to feel his cheeks and ears getting hot. "Physically?"

Aziraphale freezes while putting the front door keys into the top drawer of the desk. He clears his throat lightly and composes his features into his usual expression of placid warmth.

"If you can't choose your form, my dear," he says, with a facade of ease that Crowley really admires under the circumstances, "I'd say, 'very'. Not that one knows much about these matters, being an angel." He closes the drawer, slowly, and turns around. "Were you, um, hoping to find out now?"

Crowley pictures Aziraphale in Eden, hastily turning his back on Adam and Eve with a shocked little huff when they figured out what all the naked bits were for.

He still wonders what would've happened if he hadn't tempted Eve to try the bloody fruit. Suppose he'd seduced an angel instead—whispered visceral temptation in that innocent ear and stroked that sweet, soft, angelic hair until Aziraphale shivered and dropped his flaming sword?

That would've looked great in Genesis.

"One doesn't bloody know," he says, throwing himself lengthways onto the couch in a dramatic sprawl. "And one would like a bloody big drink now."

Aziraphale brings him a small drink, a careful measure of Scotch, but he has the decency to bring the bottle too.

For a moment, the angel hesitates about where to sit. Crowley sees the moment when Aziraphale remembers the park, the water's edge, and their kiss. It softens his whole face with wonder and quiet joy. This in turn makes Crowley stop breathing. He pats the edge of the couch beside his hip, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Aziraphale sits there, flustered, and hands him the glass.

"Can we really do this?"

"It's too late to ask that now." Crowley's not sure of much right now, but he's clear on that. They can only move forward.

"No. I mean, the other thing. 'Pillar of salt time'."

"Oh." Crowley empties the whisky down his throat in one gulp. "I've no idea. Can we? It's not actually written down anywhere, is it? 'Thou shalt not have carnal knowledge of an angel stroke demon'?"

"Carnal knowledge," Aziraphale echoes fretfully. "Sounds very bad when you put it like that."

"You'd blush if I put it any other way."

"I'm already blushing. They call it 'making love'. The humans, I mean. That's nice. I like that one."

"I think we..." Frowning, Crowley tries to think it over. He's not supposed to be out of his mind with temptation. It's been his job to do that to other people. But the possibility of the two of them, more together than they're already together... "We can be anything we want. Any shape, I mean. So I guess we can find one that, you know." He gestures vaguely with his glass, unwilling to sully the idea with what Aziraphale would call 'vulgar language', "Works," he finishes, awkwardly.

"Do snakes, um..."

"Don't go there."

"I'm a bit worried that we could accidentally destroy each other," Aziraphale admits. "With carnal knowledge."

"According to most humans, it's one hell of a way to go."

"Oh." Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. Crowley holds up his empty glass with a meaningful nod. Aziraphale ignores it, instead putting the whisky bottle down on the floor. "It's worrying me," he confesses, almost whispering. "I know nothing worries you, but—"

"You think that?"

"What?"

"That nothing worries me?"

"Well..."

"I'm terrified." Crowley slaps a hand to his chest as evidence of his thundering heart. "I'm absolutely scared out of my mind. Hence the empty glass," he adds, meaningfully. "I don't have the answers, Angel. I'm not sure I even know the questions."

Aziraphale takes the glass out of his hand and puts it down next to the bottle with a tidy little 'chink'. Crowley watches it go with a tiny pang of grief, the hint of a pout.

"I had no idea. I'm sorry." He lays his hand on top of Crowley's with slow care. "I assumed again. That you'd— Being a demon, with all the temptations and everything..." It tails off as the merest hint of a question.

Crowley wrinkles his nose.

"Humans?"

"Yes."

"Ugh. No. It was my job to get them doing it to each other without, you know. The love bit. Selfishly. Destructively. Unadulterated lust. Except when it's adultery, I suppose. Does that adulterate it? Does it get cancelled out if it's adultery but they love each other? Or if they love each other but do it selfishly? There's a few decades of temptation time I'll never get back."

Crowley realises he's babbling and stops.

"I see." Aziraphale's fingers curl around Crowley's unresisting hand, fingertips brushing his chest. Even through two layers of clothing, the sensation makes Crowley's toes curl. "And how exactly does one tempt a human to succumb to the flesh?"

"Uh..." Crowley blows out his cheeks. It's been a while. His temptations, halfhearted anyway, have been on a larger scale since the Industrial Revolution. Whole populations, technology, not furtive couples. "Well, you know. Rainstorms, shelter together under an awning, Jane Austen's balls. That sort of thing. They look uncertainly into each other's eyes, go in for the big, climactic kiss and... and Bob's your uncle. Carnal knowledge all over the sho—place." He fidgets uncomfortably, suddenly regretting the way he draped a nonchalant leg over the far arm of the couch. He's exposed everything, and Aziraphale is looking uncertainly into his eyes. His sunglasses, anyway. "It's programmed in for them. Some of them. A lot of them."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, making a devastatingly unsuccessful attempt to look naughty. "Take off your glasses. I can't kiss you if you're not looking at me."

Never, never, in the thousands of years since he invented the bloody things, has it taken Crowley so many agonising eternities to snatch the stupid bits of glass and wire from his nose.

Aziraphale plants a hand on either side of Crowley's shoulders and bends swiftly, pecking him on the lips and—Crowley gulps—chuckling in the back of his throat. It's a deep sound. It's the sexy, evil twin of Aziraphale's guilty, nervous titter.

"Oh, God," Crowley mumbles, kissing upwards, like it's programmed in. "If this doesn't work—" kiss, "—we'll be cringin—" kiss, "—cringing about it 'til mumnff—" kiss, open mouths, a shared gasp, "'til the heat death of the universe."

[continue reading on AO3]

[sonofthedunes]

luke skywalker takes the strap like how a claw machine grabs at a toy

ANON I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW I ALMOST CHOKED ON MY OWN SPIT LOOKING AT THIS??? not what i was expecting at 10 pm on a monday but fuck it we ball

i have actually never considered luke getting pegged before and i can’t fathom why? young subby luke would be so into it, begging you to wreck his tight little hole. picture it in your mind’s eye: that lithe tanned farmboy face down and ass up on the bed, hands bound, blindfold on, already shaking and you haven’t even touched him yet. he helped you pick out the strap (nothing outrageous-you don’t want this ending in a trip to the medbay and some truly embarrassing questions), he’s done the prep, and he’s still nervous about going through with it. but you soothe him with honeyed words-oh sweet, i know you can take my cock just like i take yours-and pet his hair, and gradually he relaxes enough to let you lube up and slowly, oh how slowly, push past the ring of muscle.

a sharp short gasp from below makes you pause. you okay? does it hurt?

n-no…not exactly? it’s… he hisses between clenched teeth. there’s pressure, but it’s not bad. i can handle it.

you sure? you ask, trailing a finger down his spine. ‘cause we can stop if you-

he shakes his head vehemently. no. need this. need you to…

though he can’t see it, you wonder if perhaps the force is allowing him to sense your small fond smile. need me to what, luke?

taking an unsteady stream of oxygen, luke answers in a rather shy voice, need you to fuck me.

fuck you where, starboy? we agreed to use our words, remember?

he actually whimpers at that, hands tightening to fists in their bonds and thighs clenching. fuck my ass, he whispers breathily. PLEASE fuck me in the ass. i want it so bad.

now was that so hard? you reply, sliding the plastic resin strap’s length nearly all the way out of him. he reacts with a distinctly whiny moan and shudders when your hand travels south to close around his shaft. ah! looks like that’s not all that’s hard. you grant him a few quick pumps, enough to cause a few pearly beads to leak from the tip onto the bedsheets, and settle your hands on his hips. time for the real work to begin.

luke, however, seems a bit discontent. wait, he groans, wait, touch me please.

now why would i do that? you question rhetorically. you’re already getting your hole filled, you want your cock stroked too? greedy boy. that isn’t the jedi way. you pat his head again, almost condescending. no, you’ll come from this rod up your ass or you won’t come at all. you wanted me to tie your hands. you wanted to be denied. so you’re getting exactly…what…you…wanted. and as you finish your sentence, you venture back in-your words practically drowned by an mmmmmmmmm capped with a deliciously aroused fuuuck.

you lean down over luke’s trembling back, his hands pressing into your breasts, and inquire softly you ready?

his lip quivers, the cords in his neck work as he swallows. are his eyes screwed shut behind the cloth or wide open with emotions he can’t possibly sort right now? yeah, he manages.

you sure?

baby, PLEASE…

how could you deny him when he’s so polite? okay, you nod. okay. and at long last, you start thrusting in and out of him, setting a pace that seems doable: steady, rhythmic, something like what he usually does to you. and it certainly feels good when you’re receiving it, so you can only hope it’ll turn out that way for luke.

undeniably you’re surprised by his body’s immediate and visceral answer. hell, he probably is too. he cries out at the first movements, face twisting into the pillow beneath him, back arching and toes curling; you resist the temptation to check how much his cock is dripping. yes, YES, oh FUCK, he moans obscenely in what sounds like relief. just like that, fuck me good, fuck me HARD.

oh…oh no, not very hard, love, i don’t want to hurt you, you chuckle breathlessly, tugging on his hair and receiving a muffled shout in turn. but good. good i can do.

need it, he grunts, pistoning his hips back to meet yours sloppily. maker, if he’s already at that point he won’t last long at all. wanna come on your cock, wanna-fffffFUCK!-wanna be your slut.

oh, how very beautiful a sight he is. fingers clutching at nothing as they vainly struggle against the rope, shoulders and back tensing with every stroke, the sweat beading and flush reddening on his sunkissed skin. his breath punches the air with little haah’s between every babbling of praise and adoration. and as your pelvis slaps dully against his, your clit sparking from the friction of the strap, you wish he could see himself like this. the rose of the desert, fully blooming beneath you.

letting out a groan yourself, you dig crescent nail marks into his hips. you gonna come for me? you demand. you gonna fuck up my bed, show everyone what a dirty slut for my strap you are?

luke is rapidly approaching the point of full incoherence, that special spot finally making contact. make me come pleeease, want it, oh fuck, OH- he gasps once, twice, essentially fucking himself on the resin phallus regardless of your own motions. it might be one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen.

then DO IT, you snarl, the growing flame of your own passion harder to ignore-but you won’t tend it until he’s satisfied. make a mess. get loud, skywalker. show the whole fuckin’ rebellion how much their hero loves getting fucked in the ass.

and he roars, wrenches all the air from his lungs in a primal scream that devolves into sobbing and you can hear those thick strands of come spurting onto the coverlet and likely his own stomach, his body heaving with every one until he simply has no more left to give and collapses into the sticky puddle. the very moment he’s done you rip off the strap and harness and furiously rub your clit, climaxing to the sound of luke weakly crying and your own high-pitched moans.

after the white noise clears from your mind and the tremors have ceased, you look on him limp and drained, tears carving tracks down his pink cheeks. goodness, luke, you sigh. let’s get you out of those. first you unwind the rope from his hands, wrists red and sore from where they chafed; then comes the blindfold, revealing at last a pair of watery, hazy blue eyes, blinking up at you through damp lashes. as soon as they focus, he grins shakily.

oh i love you, he declares, raising himself on one forearm-probably about all he can manage in his present state. the film of his semen is already drying pastelike with his sweat on his chest and belly, a trophy of sorts. you know he needs cleaned up, but that can wait. this was…

you move to kiss him, his lips salty in a most inviting way. for me too, you assure him. you know, i didn’t really think you’d be into this kind of thing.

…i’d used my fingers before, he admits with a giggle, but never anything like that.

would you do it again?

he scrunches his face in mock-thought, then: i dunno. maybe the next time i blow up a space station and we need to celebrate.

in a cloud of post-sex endorphins, the two of you fold into helpless laughter, a tangle of kisses and rubbery limbs and the inner peace that only comes with an oasis of calm in an increasingly fragmented galaxy.

[icarusignite]

The only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you

Alfred the great x POC! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 3k (angst/hurt-no comfort, yearning, religious imagery, blasphemy)

Dedicated to @justasightseer , sry this took me so long yet again lol

A/N: lol lowkey hurt myself writing this. So technically this is now complete, but if yall want another part, lemme know (fair warning though, them reconciling wouldn't be a very realistic ending but i am happy to write us a delulu happy ending where he proposes to reader lol). Also plz someone tell me you liked the religious imagery. I went a little nuts writing it <33

Part 1

"Perhaps it was sacrilegious, but what was a little blasphemy in the face of something this holy."

"Good morning, Your Majesty. And how are we feeling today?"

As the soft, early morning light streamed into the library, a sense of tranquillity hung in the air. With your trusty satchel slung over your shoulder, you approached the king for his daily check-up, giving him one of your best smiles. Although, if he was being honest with himself, all the smiles you gave him were your best. The veil that draped over your shoulders today was a vibrant green, and it reminded Alfred of early spring. 

"I'm much better these days," the Saxon king grinned at you, feeling almost boyish. It was the highlight of his days, these mornings spent with you tending to him. "It's all due to your hard work and dedication," he added. 

You inclined your head, acknowledging the king's words with humility, sporting slightly red cheeks at his compliment.  

"It is my utmost pleasure and honour to be of service to you, Your Grace. Your health is of paramount importance."

As you approached the king, who was seated comfortably on the divan that had been brought in for him, your nimble fingers deftly unfastened your satchel's clasps, revealing the carefully prepared herbs that had been instrumental in King Alfred's recovery. With meticulous care, you began to administer the prescribed treatment, all the while keeping a gentle conversation that offered solace and companionship.

"Excuse me then, Your Majesty. I need to take your pulse."

When you reached out to put your fingers around his slender wrist, Alfred froze, heart thundering in his chest at the touch. His breath hitched when you stepped a little closer, a faint floral scent enveloping him. By God, you smelled like spring too. Alfred closed his eyes.

You completed your assessment quickly and pulled back with a sheepish smile, mumbling a quiet apology for invading his personal space, but the King paid it no mind. In fact, his fingertips brushed against the sleeves of your dress, fighting the urge to pull you into him. 

The King was in love. There was no doubt about it. He had suspected it yes, back when he watched you sleep right here in this library, but the feeling had only solidified as time passed. It had been a while since he felt like this. He didn't even think he was capable of loving again, not after the death of his beloved Aelswith. He was somewhat ashamed to admit that yes, he had been with quite a few women after that, but there were no feelings involved. It was simply temptation, a weakness of the flesh. 

"It is good to see you doing better, Your Highness. Now that I have shown your healers the English substitutions of many of the herbs I use, they will be able to brew you these tonics even after I am gone. You will be in good hands."

Alfred looked up at her in alarm, snapped out of his internal reverie. You would be leaving? Why didn't he think of that? Of course, you would be leaving. Wessex was not your home. You likely had a family, someone you cherished back home. You had to leave one day, but the thought of not having you in his life sent an aching jolt through his heart. The feeling was so visceral, so real that he closed his eyes and winced. 

You gasped and rushed to his side, fingers splayed on his arm as you murmured your concerns frantically. Alfred finally opened his eyes to look at you, a little taken aback at your proximity. if he leaned forward just a few inches, he could kiss you. He could kiss that damned frown off your face. Instead, with great restraint, he nodded. 

"I am perfectly alright. Just a spell of unpleasantness," he waved his hand dismissively. 

You reluctantly pulled back, "Are you sure, Your Grace? I-I wasn't expecting such a reaction. The medication I gave you is not meant to have such side effects. Perhaps I might reevaluate your treatment plan again?"

"No!" the king blurted. "It has nothing to do with that I am sure."

How was he to tell you that you were the cause of his pain? You were both his downfall and his salvation, both poison and cure. 

"Are you sure, You-"

"Stop!" the King snapped. 

You blinked, a flash of hurt flashing across your eyes. 

"No, no, I did not mean..." Alfred sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I am sorry. I did not mean to speak that way to you."

"It is quite alright, Your Majesty. You may speak however you wish."

You bowed your head, not quite meeting his eyes. How presumptuous of you, to imagine that you and the king could be friends. He was still the king, and you were just...you. It was audacious of you to even feel offended at his tone. He was free to treat you as he pleased and you swallowed the tears that you felt bubbling in your throat. It was foolish. A mere traveller and the king. There was no room for anything else between the two of you. It was foolish to even feel this way. It was foolish the way your heart raced every time you saw him and the way you looked forward to your daily conversations. It was foolish that your heart had begun to yearn for something that could never be yours. 

As if sensing your internal anguish, Alfred finally gave in to temptation and wrapped his hand around your wrist, pulling you down to sit next to him. You comply, too immersed in your thoughts to realize that you were practically seated on his lap now. 

"I am truly sorry, you know," Alfred whispered. "It's just that...I was wondering if I might ask you for a favour?"

Slowly, you looked up at him, into his striking eyes and for a moment you couldn't speak. 

Alfred couldn't help the smirk that twitched at his lips at your speechlessness. 

"Do not worry, it is not something you are not capable of giving me."

"I-Alright, Your Grace. If it is within my power, then who would I be to deny you."

"See. That right there. I want you to call me Alfred. No more Your Grace this, Your Majesty that. Just Alfred."

"I could never, Your Gr-"

"Please..." the king's voice was ragged. 

"But-"

"Please," he said again, softer. 

A prayer. A plea. 

"But you are the king," you protested. 

"It is a heavy mantle to bear. I am always the king. But sometimes, I would just like to be Alfred, the man. So, at least while we are alone, I would like to be referred to as...just Alfred."

Your eyes softened at the desperation in his voice and you graced him with one of your radiant smiles. God, you were dazzling. 

"Very well then, just Alfred," you teased. "If you promise I won't be beheaded for it..."

Then you realized that you were still seated in his lap and a fierce crimson blush spread up from your neck to your cheeks. You hurriedly moved to stand but the king wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you back down. You gasped in surprise, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders for support. 

You just stared at him, eyes wide, equal parts terror and anticipation. You were on his lap. You were face to face with the fucking king of Wessex and yet all you wanted to do was press your lips to his. You must be utterly insane. 

Lucky for you, Alfred was just as insane.

"Are you married?"

A startled laugh broke free from your chest as you wrinkled your brows in confusion, "What?"

"Are. You. Married?" the king enunciated slowly, eyes drilling into yours with a ferocious intensity. "Or Betrothed. Or whatever... are you a woman spoken for?"

"What? Absolutely not! Why would I be-"

There would be time later for Alfred to rejoice about the fact that you were not, or for him to wonder how someone as breathtaking as you wasn't. For now, there was just you, and him and the searing heat of your hands pressed you into his shoulders. He lifted his hand gingerly, his movements painstakingly slow, allowing you plenty of time to pull away, to push him, to run. 

When you didn't, he let his fingertips trail up your jaw to cup your face. You stilled, your breath catching in your throat. You couldn't breathe. When he brushed his thumb across your cheekbone, you just about passed out. 

"Is this alright?"

You didn't say anything. You couldn't say anything. The words were stuck in your throat. 

"Say something..." Alfred's voice was low and raw. He was scared. Scared he had offended you. Scared he had pushed you away forever. 

"It-it's more than alright," you finally choked out. 

That was all he needed, and perhaps that was all you needed too, because it wasn't clear who made the next move. There was just a breath of silence, and stillness before the two of you were crashing into each other. Drowning. 

 Alfred kissed like he prayed. With a devotion so dedicated that it left you breathless. His lips moulded into yours and you sighed against him, your arms going to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. 

"Please."

A prayer. A plea. A call to the divine. 

Alfred's eyes were closed. He was drowning. He was drowning and you were the breath in his lungs. You were proof that God existed because who else could have created a creature of such perfection? You were the heavens brought to Earth and Alfred would spend the rest of his days on his knees, thankful to have gotten a taste of your sacred lips. 

Perhaps it was sacrilegious, the thoughts he had about you now, but what was a little blasphemy in the face of something this holy. 

A sudden knock on the door sent you jumping from your seat, pupils blown wide, and chest heaving, and Beocca's probing voice for his king, sent you skittering across the room. When the old priest entered the library, you were out of sight behind some shelf, pretending to be engrossed in one of the manuscripts should someone spot you. 

"Ah, there you are Your Grace," Beocca smiled as he approached the king with a nod. "And how are your treatments going?"

Beocca's smile faded when he saw the glazed look in Alfred's eyes. It was only there a moment before the king quickly schooled his face into a scowl, but the old priest had sharp eyes. 

"Pardon the interruption, then, Your Grace," Beocca sighed. "Were you with one of your...women then? You are being careful I hope. Edward is nearly of age, and we have no time to be dealing with another...situation...that would rival his claim."

"You speak out of turn, Beocca!" Alfred snapped. "How I conduct myself in my private affairs is none of your concern."

"Of course, my King, I come from a place of concern...there are rumours."

"What rumours?"

Beocca hesitated, "Nothing too serious."

"When I ask a question, I expect it to be answered clearly, Beocca."

"It...it's your foreign healer, my King. Some of the ealdormen feel as though you have been spending too much of your time with her. They feel as though your efforts might be better suited to finding an appropriate bride."

"They want me to find a wife?" there was a dangerous glint in Alfred's eyes and the old priest knew he had to tread lightly. 

"I am sure it is just so that they can present their own daughters as candidates. I am just informing you, Your Majesty, so that you proceed with caution. There are many who seek to bring about your downfall and they are not above over scrutinizing every action."

Alfred sighed, heart sinking. He was fully aware of your presence in the room and he was not pathetically optimistic enough to hope that you hadn't overheard this conversation. He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation and sighed. 

"If that will be all, then leave me be, Beocca. I shall...take your words into consideration."

"If I may, Your Grace..." the priest hesitated. 

"Go on then, you always do."

"While I have greatly appreciated the lady's presence here at court, and it is truly joyous to see you in good health again, perhaps it is time for her to return home. She has taught us much and I believe our healers here in Wessex will be able to properly administer her treatments to you now."

"Leave Beocca."

"Yes, Your Grace."

As the door closed softly behind the priest, there was a stifling silence in the room. 

"You may come out now," Alfred muttered dejectedly. "I...I am sorry you had to hear that."

Your hurried form rushed out from the back corner of the library, making a feeling for the door. The king, in his panic, stood immediately, reaching to grab your elbow before you could leave. You pulled away from his touch as if it burned. His heart plummeted. 

"Apologies, Your Majesty. I must be taking my leave now," you bobbed your head in a bow, a curtain of your hair escaping the confines of your undone veil and falling over your face, obscuring your expression from him. 

So you were back on formal terms then. The Your Majesty grated on his nerves and he stepped forward to grab your wrist again, pulling you closer. Then, he pressed his fingertips against your chin, urging you to lift your head. 

What he saw when you did broke his heart. 

Tears streamed down your face. You had your lips pressed tightly into a thin line and your fingers clenched into fists. When you caught the expression on Alfred's face, you ducked your head and moved to pull away again.

"Wait, don't go, please..." 

The desperation in his voice might have moved you, if you weren't so incredibly consumed by the weight of your own self-loathing. You felt so utterly pathetic. He was a king, and you were nothing. What did you even expect? He had had other women clearly, judging by the words his priest spoke to him just moments ago. You would be nothing more than another notch in his bedpost if you allowed this to continue any further. Already you had debased yourself. You could not bear to lose any more dignity. 

With great difficulty, you freed yourself from his grip. 

"Will you at least let me explain," he called out after you. 

A strangled laugh burst out of you, fresh tears charting their course down your flushed cheeks. With a sudden surge of recklessness, you turned back toward him. 

"Explain what? You don't have to explain anything to a mere foreigner such as myself, Your Majesty. And Beocca was correct. I do think I have overstayed my welcome here in Wessex. I will leave detailed notes on your treatments with your healers and take the next ship back to Baghdad. Rest assured I will leave you in good hands."

Alfred shook his head frantically, "I do not want to be left in good hands. I want..."

"What? What is it that you want?" you scoffed. "What is it you want that you do not already have?"

You. I want you. For the longest time, all I have wanted was you. 

"I want you to stay," was all he said. 

Perhaps it was not quite what he had wanted to convey but it was the closest thing that he could push past his lips at the moment. 

"It appears you are the only one then. It is clear to me that I am of no more use here."

"I want you!" the king blurted. 

Then you really scoffed, your eyes sharp and angry. 

"How will you have me then, Alfred? In secluded corners, under the cover of darkness?" you spat, your voice venomous, but your stricken eyes and tear-stained face betrayed your pain. "I will not be your whore. I will not be your mistress. I deserve better than that!"

Alfred inhaled sharply. You had said his name. It was lovely. You had said his name and the syllables were right at home on your lips, just as he was too. The circumstances were all wrong but he could not help but marvel at it all the same. 

"You cannot deny it, can you? You have nothing else to give me!"

"But I-"

"Don't say it," you pleaded. 

Perhaps the king should have listened to you. 

"I-I care for you."

"That is irrelevant!"

"I have come to love you!"

"That is not enough!" you exclaimed. 

Alfred stepped forward, taking your hands in his. You let him. 

"What will be then?" he asked, urgency laced in every syllable. 

"Nothing," you sobbed. "I will not be your plaything, and you will not marry me. This is how it must be."

"I could-"

"Don't! You. Will. Not. Marry. Me. Your people would never accept a foreign queen, much less one who isn't Catholic."

"Is that what you want then? To be Queen?"

"What I want is to be respected. To have my honour, my dignity. I will not have that taken from me."

Alfred pressed a reverent kiss to the backs of your hands, "You will have it. You will be respected."

"Not as your whore. Not as the woman their king beds while his people pressure him to find a lawful wife."

"Please."

There it was again. A prayer and a plea. 

"You can't say it, can you? You can't say that you will marry me because you know it's impossible."

A single tear escaped the king's eye, streaking down his face. You were already insane you thought. What was a little more insanity? You reached up and brushed the stray thing from his cheeks. He stiffened at your touch, closing his eyes and leaning into it. 

Then you pulled away and he was left missing your warmth. When you walked out the door, he did not stop you. He did not stop you to tell you that you were already the queen of his heart and that anything else was a mere triviality he could deal with. 

Alfred, king of Wessex had a duty. A duty to his kingdom, a duty to the future of Christianity and a united England. A duty to his children, and his people. Alfred, the king, was revered, respected, and had a reputation to uphold. 

However, all Alfred, the man, could think about was the feeling of your lips against his and the broken betrayed way you looked at him when he told you he loved you. Alfred, the man, was only human and there was no desire more human than the one to love and be loved in return. Not revered, not worshipped, just loved. 

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

WIPs 7: A Shadowgast Rec List

This week we have the seventh edition of the work-in-progress fic rec list! Check under the cut for seven unfinished and WIP fics, and don't forget to kudos and comment if you like them!

Living Things by melodious_me (24668, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn, Is it domestic violence if one party is arguably goading the other? I say yes, others disagree.

A scenario in which Caleb and Essek have been — “studying” together for a while already, a night that gets terribly out of hand, and the aftermath of it all. Deep emotional wounds, bad BDSM etiquette, and even worse communication skills make a terrible combination.

Reccer says: Dark, heartbreaking and enthralling, this is an Essek-centric POV and the way that it locks you into his perspective and out of Caleb’s (even in the few outsider POV chapters) is masterfully well done. I want to say unreliable narrator, but more like deeply one-sided narrator who doesn’t know wtf is going on in the other person’s mind, and both of them are lashing out and hurting the other because of it. Every time there is a new chapter I want to run around in circles and jump up and down! It’s so well written! It’s so painful! It’s so good!

the continuous remembrance of a life unlived by LivThael (101109, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-con

Essek is missing and Caleb desperately tries to find clues about his whereabouts, but something is wrong and Caleb seems too lost in his grief over Essek's disappearance to catch up with the signs. This story is a mystery and a deep dive into grief.

Reccer says: Fascinating dark mystery story. Trying to untangle the puzzle is engaging enough as it is, but the visceral way Caleb’s own grief is written draws you in enough to make it even harder to solve the mystery yourself. Incredible, upsetting, real messed up, but it looks like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel?

characters of no illusion by Anonymous (6398, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

In which a shop assistant (Caleb) teaches a courtesan (Essek) a touch of magic, and a courtesan teaches a shop assistant the magic of touch.

Reccer says: There's something heartbreakingly sweet about the fic so far. I can't wait to see where the story goes.

The Wizard's Assistant by InkDippedFeathers (11708, General) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Essek hires Caleb to act as his assistant

Reccer says: Mutual manipulation is one of my favorite tropes, and I love their dynamic

blue waltz by atlasarcana (11990, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Caleb and Essek have a vacation in one timeline, while in the same location, Bren and the Shadowhand hunt for a beacon in the other timeline. Things start to converge and get freaky quickly.

Reccer says: I think the Echo Bren series always has some very high quality writing that balances pretty insightful character and plot. I love the differences between Caleb and Bren, and their respective relationships to each other's Esseks. It's only on chapter 2/6 for now but it still looks like it's going to go some pretty cool places, considering the tags and the Author's note.

Confronting Shadows by Hyaluronic (1411, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Dominox was definitely an opportunist and the high level spell caster was too delicious a snack to pass up on.

Reccer says: Delicious, delicious angst

Pas de Deux by pugcloud (1614, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Caleb is unaccustomed to the aristocratic tendencies of any nation, let alone the one that has only recently come out of a war with his own. Despite this, he is allured to the Firmaments' High Society-though it is not the work of the sparkly chandeliers or gaudy bouquets, but rather the temptations of a handsome drow man whom he'd trekked miles with, Essek Thelyss.

Reccer says: New regency-flavored Shadowgast my beloved (also great writing)

Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we’ll be back with College AUs!

[femmefatalevibe]

Hi!! How are you?

I was wondering if you have some good advice on how to be disciplined and consistent. :)

Ty in advance <3

Hi love! Thank you for asking. Doing well I suppose <3

Sharing my tips and a few extra guides below that could help you with consistent self-discipline:

HOW TO CULTIVATE SELF-DISCIPLINE:

Know Your Why: Always Keep The End In Mind 

Keep Small Promises To Yourself. Make Them Non-Negotiable. 

Create And Consistently Log Your Progress 

Take Temptations Out Of Sight 

Find Indulgences To Help You Focus On Your Goals 

Know Your Why: Always Keep The End In Mind 

Decisiveness drives discipline. You need to clarify and define your goals. State them clearly with their authentic purpose in mind. If you seduce this end goal into your life, what desire are you truly fulfilling? Ex. If you want to lose 10 pounds: Is it to feel healthier? Look better in a bikini? Fit into a certain pair of jeans? No matter how superficial, identify the genuine reason why you want to achieve a certain goal. Whatever reason elicits a visceral and emotional reaction. Sometimes, especially during a busy work day, your reason could be as simple as wanting to lessen your anxiety and ease into a more relaxed state. Any purpose that resonates. Once you have an emotional response tied to a goal, it becomes infinitely easier to motivate yourself to take small steps towards achieving it. Where energy goes, energy flow. Simon Sinek goes more in-depth with this concept in Start With Why.

Keep Small Promises To Yourself. Make Them Non-Negotiable.

Think of performing self-discipline rituals as confidence-building exercises. This action helps you trust yourself, establishes a sense of integrity, and builds self-confidence. For example, if you stick to your meal and workout plan for 5 days a week, you build trust in knowing you're more powerful than your cravings and are capable of taking good care of your body. If you complete a project on schedule (personal or professional), you prove to yourself that you’re efficient, build confidence in your ability to finish tasks you start, and self-affirm that you follow through on your ideas. Finishing that book this month reflects confirms that you value yourself enough to expand your mind, learn, and expand your knowledge base. Eventually, through enough consistent repetition, these rituals into unconscious habits that you do effortlessly in daily life. 

Create And Consistently Log Your Progress 

You can’t manage what you don’t measure – your finances, calorie and step counts, workouts, productivity, etc. Tracking data related to your habits – such as your spending habits, eating or workout patterns, writing word count, and task completion – on a given day or week – allows you to understand and analyze your current behavior. What habit cues, environmental or other situational factors are keeping you from sticking to the current task at hand? Do you leave your running shoes stuffed in the back of the closet? Junk food in the house? Work from bed or with your phone by your side? Are you avoiding certain emotions? Does this data change when you’re stressed or tired?  

Awareness is the first step towards redirected action. Analyze these data points to see your pitfalls and strategize how to help yourself. 

Take Temptations Out Of Sight

Set yourself up to win. Get the phone away from your workspace, remove any junk food or soda from the house, delete apps, or silence notifications from people who distract you from your goals. Self-discipline becomes significantly easier when you have to take additional steps to indulge in your vices. Replace these temptations with helpful cues to help you build healthier habits that lead to self-discipline. Give yourself visual cues to move you toward your goals. Keep a journal with a pen next to your bed. Leave your workout clothes and shoes out near your bed. Write a quick to-do list right before finishing work for the following day, so it’s easier to jump into the first task right away the next morning. Cut up some produce or do a 30-60 minute meal prep once a week to eat more healthful meals. Find ways to make it easier to stay on track than give in to temptation. 

Find Indulgences To Help You Focus On Your Goals 

Self-discipline shouldn’t feel like deprivation – of certain foods, pastimes, or activities you enjoy. Buy cute workout clothes you feel confident in. Create the most dance-worthy playlist. Make it a priority to buy your favorite fruits and vegetables every week. Rotate a selection of your favorite healthy meals. Leave your sunscreen out – front and center – on your bathroom counter. Find a big, beautiful water bottle to keep on your desk. Purchase aesthetic notebooks, pens, planners, journals, and other office organization items. To make self-discipline feel like second nature, you need to marry indulgences and your desire to meet your goals. Discover the habits that work for you and find small ways to make these tasks more enjoyable. 

Go easy on yourself. Build one habit at a time. Self-discipline is like a muscle. It requires time to build and grows in increments. Try to stay on track and more focused than yesterday. Your only competition is your former self. Find pleasure in the process. Focus on the immediate task in front of you while also keeping your future self in mind. 

Additional Guides on Goal Setting, Consistent Motivation, and Productivity:

How To Achieve Goals & Find Pleasure In The Process

How To Gain Motivation & Get Out of A Rut

Productivity Tips To Help You Master Your Day Like A Queen

[totallyboatless]

Pip Gets High and Writes an Essay: Wrestling and Shakespeare Edition

Hello friends, today was stressful and I want to distract myself, so it is time for another writing-while-high game. For those new, here's the breakdown:

I'm about to take an edible. I'll time stamp when I took it and when I've realized it's hit. You will almost certainly realize it's hit before me

I will write this in one go with minimal editing. If I got back to edit or add a note, it will be from "Pip From the Future" who will be significantly more high

This is a topic I've thought about before, but have never sat down to write out

Additional notes:

I was super into wrestling when I was a kid in the 90s/early 2000s, fell off of it, and then was reintroduced this January when my boyfriend got me into AEW (I'm almost entirely going to be talking about AEW btw--I'm not as into WWE). So though it's become a significant hyperfixation this year, I'm still new to modern-day wrestling. Please forgive the inevitable mess ups.

2. I love Shakespeare with a passion and have taken a handful of classes and seen a lot of performances, but I'm by no means a scholar. Please forgive the inevitable mess ups.

OKAY WITH THAT: Devil's candy eaten at 10:22pm Mountain Time.

Now let's get into:

Wrestling is More Shakespearean Than Many Modern Day Shakespeare Performances

Part 1: When the Audience is a Character, Theatre Hits Different

I wrote about this in my previous weed-induced essay, but one of my favorite performances of A Midsummer Night's Dream of all time is the 2019 Bridge Theatre's version with Gwendolyn Christie (it was filmed, highly recommend checking it out on the National Theatre streaming service or...by other means). There's a whole lot to love about the production (it's so gay, guys, like SO gay), but one of the absolute highlights is the way that the stage is set up.

The stage is like theatre-in-the-round on crack. It's made up of multiple moving parts, and as the tech crew attaches and detaches parts of the stage to move throughout the space, the crowd needs to ebb and flow along with them. The actors engage directly with the audience, often as the catalyst to get them to move in order to make way for the stage changing.

Anyone who's ever studied Shakespeare, even in the most casual of ways, knows that in the original productions, especially for the Comedies, the audience was encouraged to interact with the show and actors--it was deeply immersive. The Globe Theatre isn't fully in the round, but it almost is; no matter where someone sat or stood, they could see the face of another audience member. Their shared reactions and interactions were an integral part of the experience.

This wasn't unique to Shakespeare, but this setup works particularly well when dealing with stories whose core (no matter the genre) are about visceral human experiences. Being able to feel something, whether it's joy or pain, and directly see someone else experiencing the same thing in the same way amplifies theatre in a gorgeous way. There's nothing like that feeling of connection with someone you'll never talk to.

Seeing the recorded Bridge Theatre's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream made me realize how much I missed that feeling of being completely immersed in a story, and I still feel so jealous when I watch the audience in the recording. I fucking love being surrounded by people whose bodies thrum along with my energy at a show. Shortly after watching it, I went to see a live performance of A Winter's Tale, and it was a good time--but it was on a normal stage, the barrier between the audience and the story well established. It was a show being performed at the audience, not with them.

And that's how most modern day theatre productions are, Shakespeare or not. And it makes sense from a logistics perspective--a lot of people are assholes when they're given the freedom to interact with a show. They take advantage, especially in the age of social media when the temptation to do something to make you go viral is there. And people pay a lot of money for live theatre now and don't want their experience disrupted. (it's high Pip from the future--I finally realized the thing I wanted to say here that was going to make for a better segue: Shakespeare doesn't just love the idea of an immersed audiences, he also saw the magic of "audience as character." So many of his plays break the fourth wall and are meant to be delivered to the audience not as performance but as someone sharing their deepest secrets to a friend). I get it, but in some ways it feels like an opportunity at magic is lost.

UNTIL I GOT INTO THE BIG MEATY MEN SLAPPIN' MEAT

It wasn't hard to sell me on wrestling since I already loved it as a kid, but there was one video in particular that my boyfriend showed me that flipped the switch so hard my brain lit up like Mark Briscoe got a hold of the pyrotechnics.

The video in question is Invisible Man vs. Invisible Stan, in which two invisible wrestlers fight each other. When my boyfriend first told me about this, I thought two dudes in green suits were going to come out, or that everybody was going to pretend they couldn't see two real-life dudes. But my guys IT IS A FULL FIGHT BETWEEN TWO IMAGINARY WRESTLERS.

I'm not kidding in the least when I say this video is one of my top favorite pieces of art from the modern world. It's a story told entirely by two entities: The referee (Bryce Remsburg) and the audiences. And yeah, I'm considering the audience one entity--just watch the video, the way they all meld together is WILD. The crowd is fully bought in, they all take cues off of Bryce and each other in order to collectively decide where the Invisible Man and Invisible Stan are and they move accordingly. That bit where one of the wrestlers goes up to the balcony and jumps down, and like 10 people all fall in unison as if they've been landed on--are you KIDDING ME?! That shit is some of the best improvisational collaborative storytelling I've ever seen--and it could never have happened if the audience wasn't as much of a character as Bryce or the wrestlers. Seriously go watch it, it's incredible.

"The audience is a character" is a sacred rule in pro wrestling--audience participation is the meat of what moves storylines along, and can (and has) literally change(d) the course of character arcs over the years. They set the tone for matches: for the audience back home, for the actors, and most importantly for each other. They chant together, they hold signs together, they gasp together.

(They chant "he's gay he's gay he's gay" in the kindest way those words have ever been spoken -- high Pip from the future, i went to go grab the link to insert bc i had forgot and i rewatched the video so the rest of this video.........this is not a video, but it's playing in my head as one. Anyway I'm tearing up that is such a good gay moment. Also for non-wrestling people reading this -- why are you reading this? -- that tall blonde man is named Daddy Ass. I need you all to go look up the story of how "Scissor me, Daddy Ass" came to be if you do not know it. Unrelated my keyboard feels like it's tilting)

They give the ability for actors to feel more immersed, themselves. A wild crossover I never expected: Anthony Burch (DM for Dungeons & Daddies) held up a sign for a Kenny Omega match that references a years-long storyline that's HONESTLY HEARTBREAKING LIKE JESUS FUCK THE GAY TEARS IT MAKES ME CRY THEY CALLED THEMSELVES THE GOLDEN LOVERS ARE YOU *KIDDING* ME--

(Aside: Is this the first time the edible hits and I realize the same time as you guys? Time 11:17pm, almost an hour after taking it. Or am I going to read this back tomorrow and be like "what the fuck that is gibberish.")

Anyway, I'm not going to go into it (that's Super Eyepatch Wolf's job)--all you need to know is Anthony's sign stopped Kenny Omega in his tracks. His face changes as he sees the sign, and it feels like the energy from that reaction carries him through the rest of the match. It gives a beautiful additional motivation to his character actions--and it never could have happened without an audience that was alive.

TL;DR and main point of part 1: Wrestling understands theatre-in-the-round productions and audience immersion in a way that many theatres don't understand or utilize the vast power of, and I think going to a live wrestling show would finally sate that desire that the Bridge Theatre's A Midsummer Nights Dream makes me feel that I haven't been able to find.

Shakespeare would fucking lose his shit over wrestling, man. He would be like "this is real theatre, baby." I'm not joking. I think he'd think that. And not just because of the "audience as character." OH HEY WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT

Part 2: Good Wrestling Stories Are Fueled By a Core Made of Visceral Human Experiences of Joy and Pain and Mortality and Legacy, Shakespeare also did that

Nailed it, what a good title

When we talk about Shakespeare not being as high bro and pretentious as the general public often thinks it is, we're not just talking about the dick jokes (though there's a lot of dick jokes).

(Aside: I'm not sure who the "we" is I'm referring to--who the fuck am i to be using academic talk i literally just spent too long that i want to admit trying to spell academic)

(Aside again: aHIGHed. Is that anything? That's nothing. Don't look at me)

Shakespeare isn't just low-brow, it's also incredibly accessible on a story level. Obviously the language is hard to overcome, but if you boil any Shakespeare story to its bones to explain to someone, they're stories almost everyone can relate to in some way:

In the tragedies:

The experience of deep grief, and the existential crisis of mortality that comes with it

Loving deeply and passionately while the world tells you it's better to hate, and the existential crisis of mortality that comes with it

The desire for legacy, how your story will be written in the minds of those left behind, and the existential crisis of mortality that comes with it

In the comedies:

The hilarity of being part of a friend group when relationship drama is going down, and you know two of your friends have a crush on each other

Having a fantasy about romping around with horny faeries in the forest

Enjoying sex jokes, twins, and weddings

Doing trans shit and then being really bisexual about it

Good wrestling, when it boils down to it, approaches storylines in a similar way of centering visceral human emotions.

So which genre is wrestling? It can be sad and happy and gay, sometimes all at once.

Wait I thought of a funnier way to say this:

Broke: Wrestling can't be put into a Shakespeare genre of Tragedy or Comedy because it's both at times

Woke: Wresting is a History

(Aside: GOD this is like the core of what I wanted to write about but it's almost midnight and I am p r o p e r high now, I keep staring off into space and my beanie is squeezing my head--if you like this next part and want me to talk about it more maybe i'll do it sober)

(Aside: I was about to go into a full aside here about Prince Nana and the ongoing bit from multiple characters that they want his weed...but we don't have time for that)

My favorite Shakespearean monologue is the "Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs" speech from King Richard II. I have those first words tattooed on my upper thigh, like some kind of pretentious slut. Anyway, the monologue is all about how kings only become kings and stop being kings due to one main thing: death. And there's this part that goes:

For within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king keeps death his court

In a recording of Ian McKellen receiting these words, he takes a crown and tilts it at the audience until it becomes an O.

A crown is something that's coveted, given so much weight and meaning and power. And yet when you look in the middle, it's ultimately hollow.

Belts are crowns, you got I was going there, right? A wrestling belt is a stand in for a crown, it's a symbol of proven power, it's coveted beyond anything else. But ultimately, it's hollow.

And just like with kings, there's only way one to win a belt and to lost a belt.

Well like metaphorically. It's not death with this one, and it's not like when wrestlers lose their characters die off. But like defeat is a metaphor for death in this. You get me.

There are.....

Fuck my brain is fully breaking friends, lol. This weed friend has sent my mind to space. I gotta wrap it. There's some more thoughts on this, and wanting to tie some parallel stories (Orange Cassidy has big Prince Hal vibes, etc.) Maybe I'll return to this sober, or maybe this is way too niche of a crossover and no one will read this lol. If you read this, I appreciate you.

I'm truly unsure if this is readable but i gotta commit to this bit even tho i just got freaked out by my own fingers for a second (we're good now) so gonna post

/end

[magistralucis]

It's striking that the memories Obyron lets go of in Severed are all life-sustaining ones - not just Yama, but where he was born, drinking water, his father's name, the sense of taste - whereas the things he remembers are deathly, usually of things he had to kill, or perished friends. Eventually nothing but his own death will remain. The narrative is set up so that Obyron seems to be ticking down to his end with every chapter - even noting that he's attracted to the thought ('a constant temptation [...] to give in to the whispered promise of ecstasy and let the subjective hours fly past, until time swallowed him whole'), and mayhaps just wants it all to be over, because he doesn't think there's anything else out there and it is best to forget and be dissolved.

Except Obyron's love for Zahndrekh isn't a memory. It's not eliminated with his memories of Yama, so it must be a supervenient state, not stemming from any particular moment. This love has character like no memory Obyron has: it makes him covet another's death, for the sake of his and his beloved's lives, but leaves him (albeit briefly) with no regard for sustaining his own life in order to achieve this. Just the most visceral, animal murder sequence. Knowing that's the closest Obyron gets to being Severed, I wonder if it is actually possible for him to be lost in the same way Doahht's denizens are, when his engrams are powered by something much stronger and more devastating.

And to think all of this is achieved down deep in the core, in the literal darkest heart of that world. In Tristan und Isolde it is only by night, and the knowledge of their impending doom, that the two lovers could express their love. I am not normal. There's some strong Liebestod energy present in this pairing

[mswyrr]

@werecats2

"Deep honesty about women's sexuality that's really hard to see in fiction." Yes! It's so potent and visceral.

re: Handmaiden. I think the Neo Noir plots probably do something to heighten the intensity because they're about how easily these women could be fatal to each other? Whereas I think sometimes there's an assumption of safety in how canon F/F is written, an assumption that women aren't as much a threat to each other as men and women can be. But they're not automatically safe together! These couples come thisclose to destroying each other - bringing the emphasis to *who* they are and their growing, hard won intimacy and trust and personal struggles over doing right by each other rather than what generic category of person (women) they are.

"layer of raw violence that makes the romance feel more visceral too" - OH!! I love this. Yes. The raw violence sensitizes viewers to the body as a vulnerable and needy thing -- a source of intense pain only because it can know pleasure; and all pleasure comes at the cost of risking pain-- now that I think about it, this is most clear with the threat to cut off Corky's finger, when the narrative has shown us how much passion and connection Vi and Corky experience through their hands and fingers.

@isagrimorie pointed out that they're so clearly (and kudos to the actresses and directing on this) thirsty right away, but it's allowed to simmer. It just builds and builds. And the narrative gets that thirst and intimacy and trust are not the same thing; their dynamic is building on all of those levels in a way that feels on the precipice of danger, that feels like it could so easily go wrong.

I think the whole scene in the truck encapsulates a lot of these interweaving factors, especially this quote:

Corky: For me, stealing has always been a lot like sex. Two people who want the same thing. They get in a room, they talk about it. They start to plan. It's like flirting. It's kind of like foreplay. Because the more they talk about it, the wetter they get. The only difference is, I can fuck someone I've just met. But to steal, I need to know someone like I know myself. Violet: You think you know me like that?

The lovers have to prove themselves and "work for it." It's similar to the raw violence too in that way: the pleasure is so visceral because the pain is too. The trust is so raw because the danger is too. There's weight to it.

These women do not, simply by being women, have any reason to trust the other or any special knowledge of each other. They represent a real danger to each other; they genuinely are different people and (especially for Corky) they have real temptations to demean and dismiss each other. And Violet IS a femme fatale; she does prove fatal to Caesar but not to Corky, because they work at it.

One can read it as a Film Noir where the femme fatale is gay and not fatal to another woman because she's a woman (and I've read it that way before) but Violet isn't fatal to Corky because of who Corky is and who she chooses to be with Vi. Any of the women who would look down on Vi for her sex work, for her "impure" queerness? I think Vi might just be fatal to them too.

[fukanouna]

Disconnect

Warning: SMUT 18+ Only, Minors DNI !!!! (and some angst)

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Wanda has a wet dream involving her and Natasha - but it wasn't her Natasha. The Darkhold calls out to her and she succumbs to the book's temptation, discovering the spell to Dreamwalk.

Words: 2580

A/N: I haven't written smut in over 2 years. I hope it's okay. Please enjoy :')

*Cross-posted on AO3

---

It was the first time Wanda ever had a dream that she felt with such visceral clarity.

She dreamt of herself grasping the sheets of a bed that wasn't hers, her body exposed and every inch of her skin on fire with arousal as the head of a familiar woman was settled between her legs, an experienced tongue having her writhing in pleasure. A sinful moan escaped her lips, and though Wanda knew the voice was hers, it also was not. Her attention was drawn back to the other woman, jade green eyes glittering knowingly that Wanda was close, pulling away with a smirk curled on her lips. The woman crawled back up to lock eyes with Wanda, and before Wanda could whine at the loss of contact, the woman plunged two fingers into her throbbing center and instantly pumped her fingers in and out of Wanda at an unforgiving pace.

"Look at me when you cum," she husked out the command and Wanda's legs involuntarily spread further apart, desperate for those fingers to drive into her even deeper.

"Natasha! Natasha!" she sobbed between whimpers, the pressure in her lower abdomen reaching its apex, yet she couldn't deny the other's request, forcing herself to stare right back into Natasha's eyes. She cried out her lover's name when she felt Natasha's thumb rub harsh circles to her clit, hands moving from the sheets to gripping Natasha's shoulders, blunt nails digging into soft skin as Wanda's back arched off the bed from reaching her climax.

Then suddenly, the dream was over.

Wanda's eyes snapped open.

She was back in her own bed.

Alone.

---

In her isolated cabin away from civilization, Wanda prepared herself a simple breakfast that consisted of an omelet, hash browns, and a black cup of coffee. Typically, she preferred tea but after last night, she needed something dark and bitter. Her brows knitted together, trying to ignore the ache between her legs and focus on eating her breakfast.

A sinister whisper slithered into Wanda's ears. She didn't need to get up from her seat to know that the Darkhold was speaking to her, the Book of the Damned set on top of a desk in the living room, wide open to the last page she left off of. But there was something different. It wasn't just trying to speak to Wanda, it was trying to teach her something.

Unable to take the book's incessant whispering any longer, Wanda pushed her chair back and walked into the living room where the book resided. The first thing she noticed was that the book was turned to a page that was different from before. She scanned the ancient text, fingers gliding over the pages.

Her eyes flared red.

The whispering grew louder into a malevolent hiss.

"Dreamwalking… The Multiverse…" Wanda murmured.

As Wanda continued to read more into this new spell, she failed to realize that the tips of her right thumb and index finger became tainted black.

---

As soon as the front door closed behind them, Natasha pressed Wanda against it and captured her mouth in a heated kiss, the latter instinctively moaning into her mouth. Her hands were busy undoing the buttons of Wanda's blouse while the brunette's hands wandered to unbutton her jeans.

"Someone's impatient," Natasha teased in between kisses as if she wasn't equally feeling the same.

"Do not blame me for wanting you when you've been away on a mission for a week," Wanda said hotly, nipping Natasha's lower lip playfully. "If this keeps up, I will have to talk to Margaret myself."

"Calling Peggy by her full first name? You really are upset." An amused hum vibrated past Natasha's lips as she pushed the blouse apart, revealing a lacy scarlet red bra beneath and licking her lips at the sight. She moved to leave a trail of wet, open-mouth kisses on Wanda's jawline, down to her collarbone, then gently sucked on skin between her breasts.

Wanda groaned as she tangled her fingers in Natasha's reddish brown locks. "Natasha, as eager as I am, you are not taking me right at the door."

"Well, you were the one who went straight to undoing my jeans," Natasha quipped but she did agree with the unspoken concern that it'd be best to move to somewhere more comfortable. Wanda cupped her cheeks and brought her back up into another kiss, sighing contently.

"I missed you," Wanda murmured.

"I missed you more," Natasha whispered before kissing her again.

Somehow, they successfully staggered together up the stairs amidst the flurry of lips, tongue, and tangled lips. The moment they entered their bedroom, they helped each other tear off every article of clothing from their bodies and were naked within seconds. Wanda gracefully fell backwards onto their queen-sized bed and flashed a sultry grin as Natasha crawled over on top of her, tilting her head upwards when the older woman lifted her chin with a single finger to kiss her at an angle, moaning against her lips when she felt Natasha tease and pinch her nipple.

The erotic sound of Wanda moaning her name never failed to make Natasha throb. Her mouth replaced her fingers on the pert nipple, alternating between suckling and lapping it with an intensity that had her lover whimpering for more. When Natasha switched to give attention to the neglected breast, Wanda gasped in a way that shocked her and she immediately lifted her head in concern.

"What's wrong? Was I too rough?" Natasha quickly asked, worry bubbling inside of her when Wanda sat up and her eyes were wide, not from arousal, but from something else that Natasha couldn't decipher.

Wanda was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly as if she was gasping for air, but after a minute, her breathing returned to normal. "I'm sorry… I don't know what came over me."

Natasha deeply stared at her with a furrowed brow. "Are you okay to continue? I don't want you to ever feel pressured with me."

Wanda leaned forward and pressed her lips to the Russian's, her hands traveling up and down her sides. "I'm okay. I'm sorry for worrying you."

The simple touches to her skin was enough to ignite the heat between Natasha's legs once more, pressing her knee against Wanda's slick center which caused the brunette to whimper. Still, Natasha wanted to make sure. "If you want me to stop, tell me."

Wanda wrapped her arms around Natasha's neck. "Don’t… I need you." Then she fell back down onto her back, tugging Natasha down on top of her and kissing her hard.

Natasha didn't miss the way the tone of the other woman's voice shifted in a different direction compared to moments before, but then her attention was drawn back to the way Wanda's tongue tangled with her own and the way she grinded her slick center against Natasha's thigh, groaning from how hot she was for her.

Natasha wasted no time worshiping the beautiful, flawless expanse that was Wanda's body. Kissed-swollen lips, fingers that dug into soft mounds of flesh, and her tongue lapping at every drop of sweet nectar Wanda's pussy gave her.

But something was wrong; something was different.

Wanda's body was normally sensitive to Natasha's ministrations, but Natasha had never seen her this sensitive and responsive. Wanda gripped the sheets beneath her so tightly that her knuckles turned white and wondered if she'd draw blood from digging into her own palms. The younger woman would thrash about and throw her head back, seemingly overwhelmed from the pleasure she felt, and tightly squeezed her eyes shut, her whimpers almost sounding guttural.

Unease bubbled in the pit of her stomach.

Natasha had to confirm her suspicions.

Without warning, Natasha thrust two fingers into Wanda's sopping wet folds, causing the latter to cry out in pleasure, and Wanda shamelessly rocked her hips against her fingers. The sight alone made Natasha gush and throb, loving how easy it was to turn Wanda into a whining mess, but the other more rational part of her brain didn't miss the way the Sokovian continued to keep her eyes shut.

Natasha pressed small, firm circles against Wanda's clit and moved upwards so they were face level. "Are you close?" she asked huskily.

Wanda's hips jerked and a long moan tore from her throat. "Yes!" the younger woman sobbed, desperately clinging to Natasha's shoulders. Natasha responded by pumping her fingers more vigorously.

"Look at me when you cum," she commanded, the speed of her thrusts not faltering for even a second.

"I-I can't!" Wanda cried out with flushed cheeks and back arched off the bed.

"Yes, you can," Natasha insisted hotly, gazing down at her writhing lover, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in her gut. She felt Wanda's inner wall tighten and convulse around her fingers every time she went knuckle deep. Wanda couldn't even respond, tears pricking the corner of her eyes, the pleasure overwhelming.

Natasha bit down on her lip, feeling her stomach drop; she got her answer.

Natasha pulled out her fingers and began rubbing Wanda's clit mercilessly, and Wanda squealed with her hips jerked into the air. Leaning down towards the Sokovian's ear, Natasha's voice is soft and affectionate. "It's okay… You can let go," she whispered.

A strained cry tore out from Wanda as she called out Natasha's name and reached her climax, her petite frame shuddering violently with each wave of her orgasm washed over her. Her hips twitched as Natasha slowed down her fingers to ease her through the small aftershocks. Wanda covered her eyes with her forearm, chest heaving from exhaustion.

"Wanda, look at me… Please?" She wasn't sure if the other woman would comply, but to her surprise, Wanda brought her arm down and back to her side, finally looking at Natasha with teary eyes.

Natasha quietly studied the woman beneath her, deeply searching those ocean-green eyes that were so familiar yet not, and struggled to get out the question that had been itching at her conscious for some time. "You're not my Wanda, are you?"

Tears slid down Wanda's cheeks, smiling sadly. "Even in this universe you're very perceptive, Natasha Romanoff. You are right. I am not your Wanda…"

---

After putting back on their clothes, Wanda followed Natasha back downstairs and into the kitchen. Wanda thanked her when the other woman made her a cup of herbal tea, but all Natasha did was give her a nod then turned to focus on preparing a cup of coffee for herself. The silence between them was heavy, almost tangible, and Wanda understood why all things considered, patiently giving the woman space.

Finally, Natasha spoke.

"If you're dreamwalking, then that means you possess the Darkhold," Natasha observed, watching her warily. It was strange to look at this woman across the kitchen island. The body was her Wanda yet the person inside was someone different. She felt so conflicted and confused.

Wanda nodded then took a careful sip of her hot tea, well aware of the distance that existed between them. She tried to ignore the pain it was making her feel. "Yes. It seems that you're knowledgeable of the Darkhold's capabilities."

"In this universe, Steven Strange was in possession of the Darkhold," Natasha began, eyes downcast as she took a couple of sips of here coffee before continuing. "He used the book to dreamwalk to his other selves in other universes to find a way to defeat Thanos, and while he proved to be successful, his actions caused the destruction of those universes he traveled to."

"You talk about Strange in past tense," Wanda noted softly and tilted her head. "What became of him?"

Natasha shrugged her shoulders, still averting her eyes from Wanda's. The coffee tasted bitter than usual. "He atoned for his actions with his life. The Illuminati made sure of that."

Wanda fell silent. She wasn't sure who or what the Illuminati was, but their presence must have an impact on this universe. Her eyes fell back on Natasha, the woman's visage still unreadable as ever. "You must be revolted by the fact I'm using the Darkhold."

"No, that's not it at all," Natasha responded, finally looking at Wanda in the eyes since the bedroom. Her brow furrowed, trying to formulate her thoughts and feelings into coherent sentences. "It's just… I don't understand. Why did you resort to using the book? It corrupts its user the longer the person is in possession of it. And why come to this universe to dreamwalk into my Wanda?" The spy stood in place as Wanda came close to cup her face in her hands. Even though Wanda was smiling, Natasha could clearly see the pained anguish swirling in her eyes.

"Because I lost you. I was jealous that this Wanda had her happy ending with you. I know that doesn't excuse my actions but..." Wanda quietly trailed off. She swallowed back the tears that were welling up in the back of her throat. It slowly occurred to her that this was the first time she's acknowledged her reality out loud. "In my universe, Thanos succeeded in obtaining all six Infinity Stones and snapped half the universe's population away. I was one of those who were snapped away. But my Natasha survived. Because Thanos destroyed the Stones after he accomplished his goal, Natasha and the remaining Avengers devised a plan to go back in time to collect the Stones from the past to reverse the Snap."

The tears grew hotter in her throat, but Wanda pressed on as this Natasha quietly listened. "Clint Barton went with Natasha to retrieve the Soul Stone, both unaware of the price that had to be paid in order to receive it." The tears finally fell and streamed down her cheeks. "The two of them fought each other as they both wanted to be the sacrifice… and Natasha won."

Natasha felt her heart tightened. Wanda's tears wouldn't stop but she went on.

"When I was brought back into existence, something died inside of me when I learned that the one person I desperately want to see was gone. I didn't get the chance to thank her for saving me." The last words came out in a defeated whisper. "I didn't even get the chance to tell her I loved her…"

Natasha held the younger woman close, letting Wanda quietly sob into her shoulder, her heart ached at the thought of what this Wanda went through and how she became so broken as a result.

"I'm sorry… I just… I wanted to see you again…" Wanda whispered.

"I understand," Natasha answered back just as quiet. "But I'm not her. I'm… not your Natasha."

Wanda held this Natasha tighter.

"I know… Just a little longer. Please."

Natasha couldn't say no. There was no way she could. If she could, she wished she could take away all of the other woman's pain and suffering.

Once Wanda calmed down, she pulled away from Natasha and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. "Thank you for allowing me to be selfish."

Natasha nodded slowly with pained eyes. "Of course. What will you do now?"

Wanda gave a rueful smile. "Say goodbye. I've taken away the person you love long enough."

Natasha hated how sad she looked but she knew she couldn't allow this Wanda to remain in her universe any longer, fearing an incursion could happen. "And the Darkhold?"

"I'll close it for good. I know it's what my Natasha would have wanted." Wanda gazed into her eyes. "Your Wanda… Please know that she loves you dearly. I can feel it. Never forget to cherish her."

"I won't," Natasha promised.

Wanda gave one last tearful smile then mouthed her farewell, her irises flared red for a brief moment before eyes fell to a close and the body went limp. Natasha rushed in to catch her lover's body before she hit the floor, cradling her in her arms. The former assassin held her breath in anticipation, exhaling in relief when eyes fluttered opened.

"N-Natasha…?" Wanda rasped lowly.

"Hey, baby," Natasha smiled as she pushed some stray strands of hair away from the other woman's face. "Are you okay?"

Wanda stared up at the ceiling, eyes distant. "I… I had a dream."

Natasha pressed her lips tightly together. "What did you dream about?"

Wanda blinked a few times, swallowing thickly. "I dreamt of another me. From another universe. I felt all of her pain, all of her sorrow… because she lost someone really important to her."

Natasha was trying not to cry and blinked back the tears threatening to fall. "Is that so?"

"Yeah..." Wanda nodded slowly and turned back to look up at the older woman before wrapping her arms around Natasha's neck and burying her face into the crook of her neck. "I hope she'll find happiness again. I want her to be happy."

Natasha pressed her lips to the Sokovian's forehead and held her lover tightly, her thoughts drifting to the other Wanda she wished she could save.

"Me too, Wanda. Me too..."