zoner4t · 2 years ago
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Any 'joy I've ever spoken to has, one time or another, mentioned that havin' the fortune of runnin' into Jet Star in their travels is a blessing. Jet is such a soft and gentle creature, a reminder that love can grow in the smallest places and things, plants growing in cracks in the sidewalk.
At a glance, Jet seems real tough, bein' as tall and muscular as he is, hair usually obscuring his warm brown eyes. Once spoken to, he softens, eyes lock into yours, his mouth forms a crooked grin, n' he's the sweetest person you'll meet. He's got this ability to spark and continue a conversation with even the quietest 'joys, his facial expressions so invitin' and easy (but still so difficult) to read. He's a being made of love and stardust, and it shows in everything he does and says.
The way his hands cradle his guitar while he plays, able to create the loveliest sounds so effortlessly. His singin' voice is even prettier, soft n' light, floating above and around your head. Jet's always got this messenger bag slung over his shoulder n' across his chest, and if you ask what's in it he'll show you excitedly. Pull out all sorts of journals, n' maps, writings and diagrams of the Zones n' the stars, plants, people, animals. All sorts of drawings, including ones Girlie made.
If you're able to take in all the small details about him all while he's talkin' and chattering away to you, you'll notice he's got this pair of headphones balanced around his neck, the wires plugged into a cassette player he's always got clipped to his belt. He wears a few cord necklaces, some with assorted stones tied sloppily to the ends, one with a couple of keys. His wrists are home to a few beaded bracelets and hair ties (presumably for he and Motorbaby).
All this bein' said, you probably won't be havin' such a pleasant experience with Jet if you're not on good terms with him or anyone he's associated with. He's still the best shot thru the Zones n' i heard he used to be a bounty hunter
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ghostinthez0nes · 5 months ago
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Chaotic Fun Ghoul headcanons lets goooo💚
This mf refuses to wash his hair and needs to be restrained for a shower.
He moves in his sleep and does NOT lie still. The others have too many bruises from the constant flinching, Party got punched in the face while sleeping next to him once. The best way to counter this is to sleep on top of him.
Always on some kind of shit solely because he fucking feels like it. Whether that’s weed, battery acid or some other chemical he decided to huff, Ghoul is hardly ever sober.
Really good at making animal noises.
Can’t hear out of his left ear, thanks to his explosives.
Dare him to do something and he will do it. Will even ask the others to dare him to do stupid shit.
Has no regards for his own safety, but doesn’t do it on purpose.
A horrible flirt but makes it look fucking hilarious, which ultimately gets him a date anyways.
Carries sand in his pockets to throw at people.
Does parkour in his free time, thus why he’s constantly injured.
A goblin that likes to collect dead things, bonus points if it’s a lizard.
Scared of spiders and will cry if he sees one too close to him.
Fashioned himself some grills with sharp teeth which he wears during claps to do extra damage. When he bites he does not let go until he rips something to bits.
Got his ass beat by Kobra many times due to his pranks.
Shaved off his eyebrows one time, he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Has tripped into cactuses of various kinds on multiple occasions.
Passes out a’lot due to lack of sleep.
Constantly gropes Poison just to annoy them.
Likes the smell of spray paint and rust.
Due to his skill in making bombs he’s also really good at making fireworks, which he uses to scare the shit out of everyone at random.
Always covered in dust or motor oil.
A bipolar drunk that flips between laughing his ass off and sobbing profusely.
Starts fights constantly but hardly wins any of them.
Good at opening bottles with his teeth.
Horrible dad jokes.
Not allowed anywhere near the car since “the dune incident”.
Always gets lost, no one can take him anywhere without him wandering off.
Screams to get attention.
Always climbing on top of shit, whether that be tables, cabinets, walls, the Trans Am or Jet.
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blood-injections · 1 year ago
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Uuuh little western au in the works?? I have like half of a one shot but the more I think about it the more I’m tempted to make a full fic. But. I’m still working out how bli works and stuff if it’s still gonna be like futuristic or post apocalyptic even though the zones are like the old west?? Maybe it’s like they don’t have tech but BLi does idk. Or maybe I’ll just make an old west version of BLi. Maybe it’s a gang or something. Anyway the venom sibs are the best rodeo honeys(pickup riders) in the zones, but Kobra’s known more for racing while Poisons known more for bronc riding(…this whole idea definitely didn’t spawn from that “Let's just say I'm good at the rodeo, let's just say I'm good at riding the mechanical bull” incident…). Jet and Ghoul are basically siblings, have been since Jet took ghoul in after he was like orphaned or escaped bat city or whatever’s going to be bat city, and he started causing trouble, basically was a bandit. Jets a bartender and Ghoul lives with them now and helps out at the bar and watches the rodeo every week and pines relentlessly after Poison, who flirts with him whenever they come into the bar but ghoul is of course oblivious even though he flirts back?? It’s hard to explain but you probably get it. Show pony is idk a drag queen or something, Jets not so discreetly in love with them so she just lets them do whatever in the saloon for music/entertainment and oftentimes they go above and beyond. Cherris either like a sheriff if the zones end up becoming townlike but he’ll probably end up being Kobra’s racing rival and of course it’s a very homoerotic cowboy rivalry because what else would it be. And Doctor death defying is actually a doctor but he also mans the radio still. Obviously I’m still working out the details for the au but. Obsessed with it.
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bastardsofravenkroft-blog · 2 years ago
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*Holds up microphone to you* 🎤 What are your thoughts on British Kobra Kid and Welsh Jet Star?
British Kobra Kid:
Sure. Yes. Okay. Passable. My personal take with this is that he was born to British parents, didn’t live there for more than a couple years because one or more of his parents worked for BLi and they moved to the States and specifically Battery City. (The lore gets deeper from here.)
Welsh Jet-Star:
No.
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gghoulishdelight · 2 years ago
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Brand New City
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(in prog.) this series is my own take on the danger days timeline, where kobra is the last killjoy to join the fab. four, and following his story thru the zones. enjoy !
Main Works ;
i think my brain is rotting in places.
i think my heart is ready to die.
HCs / Unofficial Works ;
hcs for everyone (mostly)
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zot3-flopped · 6 months ago
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Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.
Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.
Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.
Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.
If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.
In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.
This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.
But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.
Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.
And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!
Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.
There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.
Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?
Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.
The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”
But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.
Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.
“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.
The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.
Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.
Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.
I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.
That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).
You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.
The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).
She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.
Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.
Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”
On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.
“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”
Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”
Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.
What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).
On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.
(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.
My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.
But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.
But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.
And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.
Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.
If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.
Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.
Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.
We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”
And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.
Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?
In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.
So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?
The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.
What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.
Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.
See you at the Grammys.
****
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chaoticbardlady99 · 10 months ago
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Astarion x Tav, but get this… A Druid with a wyvern drake hybrid (think the dragons from GOT and HOTD). Saddle and EVERYTHING and it’s not small, no it’s like 80 feet long with a 98 foot wingspan, black scales, and very very jealous when Astarion and Tav have alone time
If You Give a Dragon a Steak- It Will Bully You Into Flying (Astarion x GN! Reader)
I AM SOOOO SORRY! I must have seen this and just forgot about actually posting it!
CW: Brief mentions of smut, brief mentions of trauma
Not my pic, but this is what I was thinking of, but all black. Her name is Cala- Cala means light in Elvish. Cala refers to Astarion as isk which is Star in draconic.
What’s actually really cool about this is that there is something called a Dragon Knight in DND and you can link your soul with an actual Dragon (so cool, right!?)
This is lightly edited 🫡💜 please leave a comment or a like if you enjoyed my story! I would love to hear what you all think!
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Astarion is used to sharing your affection with the likes of Scratch or that little Owlbear cub. Yes it was annoying from time to time and the two still live in your house, but the creature he wasn’t expecting? The giant fucking Dragon that would live in his backyard post Tadpole.
He was outside one night, just minding his own business, and a couple wing beats later- you were crying tears of joy while scratching a dragon like it was a dog.
Of all the people he had to fall in love with, it had to be a Druid Dragon Knight. Astarion knows there are worst things, but my Gods how many more animals do you need!?
Your dragon, Cala, is jet black, at least 80 feet tall with a wing span the size of Baldur’s Gate itself. She is a very friendly dragon, but also incredibly possessive. Astarion hasn’t been able to have a moment alone with you since the Netherbrain was defeated three months ago. However, he is grateful for the Dragon’s existence- she’s saved him and you multiple times when a search for a way to either cure his vampirism or his ‘allergy’ to the sun goes awry. Cala is also very nice to him and if you are gone- the dragon will shrink itself down to a comically cute lap size and sleep next to Astarion on the couch until you return.
Astarion is certain he can convince her to leave you alone at least for an afternoon.
So here he is- five or six incredibly expensive steaks in a box and walking towards a Dragon like it’s the most normal thing in all of Toril. Cala eyes him, not suspiciously, but curiously.
“Hello Night Child,” her melodious voice floats through his brain, “how can I help my person’s beloved this evening?”
Astarion grins at the last part before putting the box of Steaks on the ground.
“My beautiful scaly friend, I have brought you some steaks,” he kicks the box, “and you can have them, but they come with one condition.”
Cala’s eye becomes eye level to him and she looks amused.
“A condition? You do realize I could eat these steaks and you in one swift motion?”
“Yes,” Astarion says, “but I think we both know how upset Tav would be if you ate me.”
There is a huff of agreement and a soft look in her eye. Astarion knows he has nothing to worry about.
“What are your conditions, isk?”
“I am so very glad you asked,” Astarion says, trying to keep his nerve from dying out, “I want one evening alone with Tav.”
“No.”
Dammit.
“No!?” He says incredulously, “what do you mean no!?”
“I mean that you spent time alone with Tav for the last six months while I had to be without my home- my person. You can wait at least another six months.”
Astarion just gapes at the giant beast. If he wasn’t sure she’d kill him in three seconds flat- he might just try to slay the damn thing.
“This is! Are you!? I was enslaved for 200 years!” Astarion says sputtering, “I’ve waited 200 years for Tav to come into my life! You’ve been with her since the moment you were born!”
Cala seems to consider this- her eyes thoughtful and her posture relaxed still.
“Tav wants to take you flying.”
Astarion feels like he’s going to be sick. Tav had brought it up to him when Cala first arrived. When he tried to say, “sure,” he began to dry heave. You haven’t asked him since.
It’s not that riding a dragon doesn’t appeal to him- he would love to be able to watch you in your element. Astarion just doesn’t love the idea of accidentally plummeting out of the air because you do one of your fancy tricks and he didn’t hold on tight enough.
Astarion squints at the dragon, “and?”
“Go on one flight with us and then I will leave you alone for multiple evenings as asked.”
That seems entirely too good to be true.
“Okay,” Astarion says slowly, “I agree to your terms.”
Cala’s eyes light up with Glee before looking at the box of steaks between her and Astarion.
“Do I get to keep the steaks?” Cala asks, her tail swooshing back in forth in the grass out of excitement.
Astarion scoffs, “what do you think?”
Her massive tail stills and there is a sad look on her contradictory (cute and scary) dragon face.
“Oh don’t give me that the sweet disappointed, ‘I’m not getting cuddly Astarion’ pout.”
And yet, Cala persists. Throwing his hands up in defeat- Astarion marches away and listens as Cala devours the box of steaks.
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You are practically skipping as you hold Astarion’s hand. You had been over the moon when Astarion asked if he could go on a ride with you and Cala. You immediately dragged him away when you got home- something about wanting to do it before the moon gets too low. He didn’t consider having to be worried about the sun melting him to ash if you don’t get back in time.
“If you become comfortable, we could even fly over the Ice Spires and the Spine of the World!” You say.
He offers you a tight lipped smile and you squeeze his hand in reassurance. You asked him multiple times if he was sure and he told you he is nervous, but wants to see what all this “flying nonsense” is all about. Astarion won’t tell you that he has essentially been cornered into this by a massive fucking dragon- only because he doesn’t want to become a snack (again, now that he thinks about it. Cazador did drink all his blood once).
Astarion’s stomach is churning, but your excitement has loosened the knot of nerves that are threatening to suffocate his being. He hasn’t felt this kind of fear and anxiety since Cazador.
Tav and Cala won’t allow anything bad to happen.
That’s what he keeps telling himself when he gets on the saddle behind you and all of a sudden- Astarion is in the air on a fucking dragon.
“DOESN’T BALDUR’S GATE LOOK SO SMALL!?”
Astarion wouldn’t know- his eyes are clenched shut and he has his face buried in the crook of your neck. The sound of your enthusiastic, beating heart helps him focus on calming down. Astarion thinks of laying with you in bed, reading a funny novel together, and any other shenanigans you get into together before he finally opens his eyes.
If Astarion needed air- he would have died immediately from losing all of it.
If someone had told him even 50 years ago that he would be riding a dragon, free of his master, and with the love of his entire life giggling with glee in his arms- he would have told them to piss off.
Astarion has never seen anything like it in his 239 years of life. He doesn’t think he ever wants to land. Why had he been so afraid before!? This is amazing!
“It is very small, Darling!” Astarion muses, “is that?”
“The Fields of the Dead?” You shout excitedly, “it sure is!”
Astarion initially thought it would be a quick five minute ordeal, but soon you were both flying over all of Elturgard. You soared over the Reaching Woods and the Sunset Mountains. Your last tourist attraction for him was the Lake of Dragons- Astarion swears he has never seen a more bluer blue- before heading back home. Much to Astarion’s disappointment.
You help him navigate his way off of Cala and the Dragon nudges him with her nose as a sign of trust. Astarion scratches her nose before following you back into your shared home.
“What did you think!?”
You whirl around and look at him with wide, nervous eyes. You are playing with your thumbs incessantly like you usually do when you worry you may have disappointed him. It’s such a silly notion- you could never disappoint him.
Astarion pauses your twiddling by taking your hands in his and placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.
“I would like to fly over the Northlander Isles at some point,” he says, “if you would be willing to have me join you on a flight again.”
You beam at him before getting up on your tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips.
“Astarion- you are always welcome where I am. I couldn’t think of a better person to see the world and this life with even if I tried.”
He couldn’t help but cry at your statement. Astarion is so grateful to be able to call you his home.
At least Astarion was finally able to worship you properly since Cala kept her promise.
You are riding him as Astarion pushes his hips up to meet your downward thrusts with eager enthusiasm. When both of your climaxes hit- you put your face in the crook of his neck and giggle.
“What’s so funny, Darling?”
You look up at him- hair beautifully messy and eyes looking blissful. Another giggle escapes your lips as you begin to say what you are thinking.
“Save a dragon, ride a Vampire.”
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mako-neexu · 3 months ago
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HELP MEEE I LITERALLY CANT DO THIS IT ALL MAKES SENSE THE SEVEN FRAGMENTS OF THEIR SOUL DESTROYED ONE BY ONE BY THE LIGHT HE ADORED WITH EACH INCH OF HIS EXISTENCE, EACH TRIAL WAS FIRE AND PAIN TO OVERCOME THAT DARKNESS BECAUSE THAT IS INTEGRAL TO EXISTENCES SUCH AS THE AVENGER CLASS THAT IS MEANT TO BE SHUNNED INSTEAD OF USED, THOSE WHO ONLY BURN AS RAGING FLAMES AND WHEN GUDA REACHED THE END THEY REACHED THE FINAL FIRE SO FULL OF LOVE FULL OF ADORATION AND TRUST IT WAS FAR MORE SCORCHING THAN THE REST IT WAS POISONOUS HELLFIRE FAR DANGEROUS THAN THE OTHER TRIALS THEMSELVES
HIS LAUGHTER WASNT JUST PRIDE AND HAPPINESS.
IT WAS A CRY OF HIS VERY SOUL!!!
FROM THE DEPTHS OF HIS SOUL, HE CRIES WITH JOY AS THAT STAR HE LOVED FAR TOO MUCH WOULD BE ABLE TO OVERCOME ANYTHING, HE FELT SO ASSURED THAT THEY WOULD REACH THAT HAPPINESS IN THE DISTANCE WITHOUT THEIR LIGHT AND LIFE IN DANGER OF FADING WITHOUT USING HIS ALL CONSUMING FLAME OF VENGEANCE THAT COULD SCORCH THEM ALIVE. HE FELT SO HAPPY FOR HIS FATE, HIS ONE AND ONLY IN HIS LIFE...
and yet it was truly a cry. his soul is crying. he is weeping. he is breathless with tears of joy. he is breathless with sheer anger at what must be done and the circumstances that pushed them to now. he is breathless with tears of sadness. he is so overjoyed yet he feels a sorrow just as bottomless. he can't be with them. he can no longer oversee their journey from their shadow. he can no longer walk beside them. he can no longer guide them in the future as is the inevitability from the start. he is truly happy over their choice but the excruciating pang in his heart is there.
and so with his iron determination and his deep affection, he will make sure to give them one last push towards the direction they face and wish to reach. and so he beholds them as the victor already. he beholds them to the world and both of them as he himself reveals the form he had made for their sake, made because of them, that radiance which made him utterly breathless, filled him with an emotion that simple words cannot convey and unforgiveable actions only will.
and so show me your soul! blind me! burn me! kill me once more! o star whom i profoundly adore, having lit my jet-black sky so long ago, my one comfort in this life of mine, my inevitable fate, my beloved accomplice, go past me and follow the path towards brilliance befitting your light, that radiance only you can make.
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that-house · 2 months ago
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SATAN’S PERFECT IDIOT OR: POP MUSIC AND THE BATTLE FOR SURVIVAL IN NEW SPACE CITY OR: INVINO VERITAS AND THE DOCUMENTARY TO END ALL DOCUMENTARIES (AND THE WORLD)
To explain why for me, universally-beloved pop sensation Invino Veritas, being drunk on The Every Night Show with Blue Jerry Seinfeld was a bad thing would require copious context that I’m too lazy to give right now, especially when it could be revealed at a more interesting and dramatic time later. Suffice it to say the conversation had started bad, and was going worse.
“is that legal?” asked famous talk show host Blue Jerry Seinfeld, bluely.
“No,” replied famous pop star Invino Veritas (me, in case you forgot), honestly.
We both trailed off into an awkward silence, the sort of silence that two famous people trail off into when one of them confesses to double-parking a private jet in front of the fire escape of an orphanage on live TV, but in my defense building an orphanage near the corner store where I buy my menthols was poor civil planning on their part. Hardly anyone got hurt, anyways.
“While we’ve got you here, would you like to say anything about your upcoming album, Always Read the Fine Print?”
I batted my eyelids coquettishly, my seventeen thousand dollar UltraGlitter eyeshadow emitting enough light to temporarily blind (and in one case, as my lawyers would later tell me, somehow permanently deafen) the audiences at home. “Well, let's just say it’s still a bit of a work in progress.”
Blue Jerry Seinfeld stared at me gormlessly and bluely. As part of his ten year contract with The Every Night Show, he was obligated to stay awake 24/7/365/10, or actually more like 24/7/365.25/10 to account for leap years. It gave him a miserable earnestness that drew his guests in and inspired them to share things they’d never even admit to themselves. He didn’t need that for me, though, because I was drunk.
“I’m actually delaying on purpose,” I continued.
Blue Jerry Seinfeld’s sleepless blue eyes bored into my soul the way a particularly blue soul drill might similarly bore into my soul, only bluer. “Tell me more about that.”
“You see, Blue Jerry Seinfeld, you know how I’m with Morgenstern Records, you know, the record label owned by Lucifer Morningstar?”
“The guy from the bible, right?”
“Yeah. He did porn for a while, too.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen that. Good stuff.”
“Yeah.”
We trailed off into another awkward silence, the sort of silence that two famous people trail off into while thinking about the biblical Lucifer’s penis and its frankly ridiculous proportions. Thirteen inches length, seven inches circumference, by the way. I know you were wondering.
“Anyway, what about him?”
“Yeah, so you know all those stories about how someone makes a deal with the devil, and then they get totally screwed on the wording?”
“I’m familiar,” said the man who was contractually obligated to go ten years without sleeping. He was kind of ugly, now that I thought about it.
“I don’t think you’d really get it, actually,” I said, dismissing his lived experience the same way I dismissed my first butler for not excitedly running to come greet me at the door every time I got home. I mean, it wasn’t in Gerald’s terms of employment or anything but would it really have killed him to go above and beyond every single day? (LAWYER’S ADDENDUM: Gerald MacDonald had a rare and little-known heart condition which would have killed him if he ever felt any excitement or joy, and the depressive spiral he fell into following his termination likely saved his life. You cannot conclusively prove that my client, Invino Veritas, was unaware of his condition or that she specifically ended his employment for any reason other than to protect him).
Blue Jerry Seinfeld bristled in irritation, shaking his venomous quills as if to deter a predator and making a noise that sounded like a blue, be-quilled clone of a 20th century comedian muttering “fucking divas, man” under his breath. “As you were saying,” he said, more audibly and bluely.
“As I was saying, I made a deal with the devil and then I got totally screwed on the wording.”
You know what, to save time, let’s just assume that Blue Jerry Seinfeld does everything bluely going forward, and I can just say that he did a thing and you can add in the word “bluely” yourself, because the way he did it, whatever it was, was undeniably blue. So next paragraph, when I was going to say “‘Much like me and my deal with the studio,’ said Blue Jerry Seinfeld, making everything about him, bluely,” I’ll just say “‘Much like me and my deal with the studio,’ said Blue Jerry Seinfeld, making everything about him,” and you’ll just have to keep this paragraph in mind.
“Much like me and my deal with the studio,” said Blue Jerry Seinfeld, making everything about him. Did you do it? Did you do the thing I told you to do? The super easy thing I literally just told you to do? Here, consult this flow chart:
Yes, I did as I was ordered by pop sensation Invino Veritas: good girl, or whatever you are. Keep it up!
No, I ignored the super easy request of a really hot woman: literally how did you fuck that up. The bar was so low.
“Sure, Blue Jerry Seinfeld. Whatever. Anyway, back to talking about me: so I have a seven record deal with Morgenstern Records, right? And in the last five years I’ve put out six albums, all to incredible critical and financial success. Selling my soul to the devil was the best decision I ever made.”
“But…?” said Blue Jerry Seinfeld (don’t forget).
“But… I may have neglected to Always Read the Fine Print. See what I did there? Anyways, it turns out that when the seventh album is done, I go to Hell, and so does everyone who’s ever listened to even a single second of my music.” And of course, due to my incredible popularity and sex appeal, my music is inescapable in New Space City, so every single one of the ten trillion people who live here has heard my music.
“What the fuck? My fucking kids love your music! Oh god! Oh god we’re all going to die! Oh god! Oh cruel and merciless god, all I have ever asked of you is the chance to dream again, and now it seems I will be denied even that!” Blue Jerry Seinfeld was having a panic attack, something famously pretty common in cheaply-made clones. He didn’t even have kids, he just had implanted memories from the 1990s.
It was frankly pretty embarrassing, watching this blue man break down and cry on the floor, and clearly the studio execs agreed. A crack team of clonehunters rappelled onto the stage and shot Blue Jerry Seinfeld until he stopped twitching. The corpse was dragged off stage, and The Every Night Show with Blue Jerry Seinfeld cut to commercial.
The commercial was an ad for dog food, and featured a few scandalously-uncollared dogs dancing at the club to my hit single I Literally Just Killed a Guy (So Let’s Make Out in the Back of a Cop Car), so if there were any dogs in New Space City who somehow hadn’t heard my music, well, they probably were going to Hell now, too.
A few minutes later, they’d defrosted a new Blue Jerry Seinfeld, and rammed an icepick into the part of his brain responsible for feeling fear. “Sorry about that everyone,” said the new Blue Jerry Seinfeld, oozing blue blood from a hole in his eye socket. “So, Invino, you were saying that we’re all going to Hell. I hear it’s nice this time of year.”
“Yeah, pretty much. Of course, if anyone kills me before I finish the album, I guess I’d be the only one to go to Hell.”
Why did I say that. Oh right, the context.
So when I was like, seven years old, I got into a wish-god’s windowless white van because he said he could turn me into a princess. When I told him my name was Invino Veritas, and that I lived at 3243293 Jelq Street, he started laughing.
I asked him what was so funny, and he said that he was going to turn me into a princess but then he had a way funnier idea, and cursed me so that I have to tell the truth as long as I have literally any alcohol in my bloodstream. It didn’t really affect me at the time, but once I reached the legal drinking age of twelve I started losing friends really fast because I couldn’t stop telling people that I thought I was better than them.
Who names their kid Invino Veritas, anyway? Like, that’s just asking for them to get bullied by an omnipotent, kinda pervy deity with a penchant for stupid puns. No one else in my family has a weird name, and still I got singled out for a stupid name-based curse from birth, the assholes. Whatever, I got to channel that rage into my music and I’m over it now. I’m over it.
“Could you say that again, for audiences at home?”
“Sure thing, Blue Jerry Seinfeld. When I finish my next album, every single person and dog and elf in New Space City will be immediately sent to Hell, unless I’m killed before it’s done.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to say, before a swarm of desperate fans looking to avoid eternal damnation storms the studio?”
“Just that I hear your complaints, and I’m listening, and I think I can delay the album for, like a year or two, so you should do whatever you want in the time you have before the world ends. Quit your job. Go on that vacation. Kill a guy and make out in the back of a cop car. Preorder Always Read the Fine Print, because I don’t think I can cash those royalty checks once I’m in Hell.”
“You heard her, New Space City. This has been The Every Night Show with Blue Jerry Seinfeld, and it will continue to be The Every Night Show with Blue Jerry Seinfeld until the world ends or my contract expires.” He turned to me, gripping my arm with the sort of intensity that you only get in freshly-defrosted clones. “You can escape out the back. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can. Good luck out there, Invino.”
Aw, that was actually really sweet of him. “Thanks, Blue Jerry Seinfeld. I’m sorry I called you ugly in my internal monologue.”
“Dying feels like falling asleep,” said Blue Jerry Seinfeld, still not releasing my arm.
“Okay, Blue Jerry Seinfeld.”
“Invino, even when I’m dead I don’t get to close my eyes. The cameras are always rolling.”
“Okay, Blue Jerry Seinfeld.” I tugged my arm free of his grip a little bit, but his grip was like magically-reinforced iron that was way stronger than steel or titanium, but probably weaker than magically-reinforced steel.
“The cameras are always rolling, Invino…”
“I have to go, Blue Jerry Seinfeld.” He let me go, and I sprinted out the back of the studio. Behind me, The Every Night Show with Blue Jerry Seinfeld cut to commercial again, and the screaming started.
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misskattylashes · 6 months ago
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This essay is so big, it needs two parts!
The EYCTE cycle
Part 1
From ‘I Just wanted to be one of the Strokes’ to ‘I’m scared of love’ and why I don’t think we will get TLSP 3 any time soon.
There is no doubt that Planet Milex is a different place to where it was in 2015. Back then, they hung out in LA, treated girlfriends like third wheels, were pictured cuddling and behaving like a couple outside The Kills gig, and then went onto record Everything You’ve Come to Expect.
Planet Milex 2024 seems like a desert. No official pictures of them together, the only indication they are still in each other’s lives being Miles frequently mentioning in interviews about hanging out with Alex, still sharing clothes, a picture of them walking the streets of Shoreditch, a sneaky photo at a Scott Walker tribute concert (which interestingly was taken down immediately). Then ultimately, Alex wanting his beloved to be the support act for the final days of the tour, when it was clear at times Alex felt a little overwhelmed by it all, and of course, Miles was there to hold his hand and bring him back down to earth.
‘Maybe I was a little too wild in the seventies’
It’s interesting out of all the Monkey’s songs, it is I Wanna Be Yours that Alex then merged with Star Treatment (often adding ‘I just wanted a jet ski for the moat’ – more of that later), which kind of confirms who I Wanna Be Yours is about – I have no idea why no none has ever questioned the addition of ‘secrets I have held in my heart’.
I think the EYCTE period was one where feelings deepened and promises were made. The one to watch is Miles. At the beginning of the promotional period, Alex looks like an adoring boyfriend, but Miles is quite composed and whilst flirty with Alex, it’s no more than he ever was before, during the SIAS and AM eras. By the end, in the days of Sziget and Rock en Seine. Miles is looking like a soppy puppy with eyes full of love (pretty much how Alex has looked at him since 2008!). But judging by the lyrics of Star Treatment (which Alex started writing during EYCTE), Alex was aware their little bubble couldn’t last ‘here ain’t no place for dolls like you and me’, but Miles, having fallen hard thought they could keep it going.
Alex went off to France to record TBHC leaving Miles stranded in LA, friendless and a bit lost, meanwhile Alex went through a period of self-reflection and justifying to himself why he had let Miles down. Not all the songs on TBHC are related to Milex, Alex was influenced by a whole variety of things, but songs like Star Treatment, Golden Trunks, Batphone and The Ultracheese address their situation. The Ultracheese even ends ‘I done some things that I shouldn’t have done, but I haven’t stopped loving you once’. I see TBHC as Alex’s ‘excuse album’. Sorry I let you down Miles, but look what a big superstar I am with all these big responsibilities, but know I love you’
Miles on the other hand was angry and hurt and wanted to lash out. Coup de Grace is full of angst with thinly veiled digs at Alex (of course during the official promotion, Miles said it was about Hannah his ex but I do think mentioning Alex’s personal information in Killing the Joke is kind of telling). Wrong Side of Life is possibly one of the saddest and most desperate songs I have ever heard. And on Silverscreen, how do you explain Two Faced Johnny as being a woman?! The only hint at self-blame is on Too Little Too Late, with the lines ‘I’m too fickle set in my ways, I’m too little too late’ – which has echoes of Troubled Son. Personally, I think one of the reasons Alex possibly wanted to go back to how they were prior to EYCTE was because Miles had never committed before (see most of AM!) and it was a case of do the hurting before being hurt. But CDG ends with Shavambacu, which in an interview Miles said was about an ex and they used to call each other Shavambacu as a silly little name (cue footage of Miles calling Alex Shavambacu on stage). And the last line is ‘oh honey I love you’. Like TBHC, CDG ends with a declaration of love.
In between CDG and CTS we have the night at La Cigale (which I will write about in a different post) where I think their fall out came to a head, because not long after that, we have grainy footage of them hanging out in East London. At the same time Miles is writing Change The Show, and whilst the songs are still a bit angsty, there is a lot more pragmatism. See Ya When I See Ya stands out, and we have the ‘Johnny’ character again, but instead of being angry with Alex for his double life and secrets, Miles has resigned to himself he’ll always be there for him and keep his secrets for him. I think because they had reconciled to a degree, Miles realised they weren’t going anywhere, but it didn’t mean Alex didn’t annoy him. Final track Adios ta ra ta ra indicates exasperation at their constant battles, but there is still an air of resignation.
Part two tomorrow
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zoner4t · 2 years ago
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the birtbday girl :3
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— we can't quite remember when Jet's birthday is. all he's said is that he used to celebrate with his old crew when it was colder. all month we treat him a little nicer and give him a little bit of our food as one continuous birthday month perk.
happy birthday month to jet star
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eupheme · 4 months ago
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— aero sky
this all-expense paid trip should have been everything you dreamed of. unexpected but lavish - a private jet, a two-week stay in fiji, a bungalow right over the ocean. but even with everything to do and no schedule but your own, you still can’t help feeling… alone.
though you suppose you could say you knew one person, after all. the man who’s bungalow is right next to yours. the man with a soft smile and warm, brown eyes - who you had shared a coffee with at the airport. not realizing he would be your pilot.
perhaps - if you can pluck up the nerve, knock on that neighboring door - this vacation might not be so lonely, after all.
@undercoverpena, you have me thinking of frankie, so to celebrate your birthday bash (and to celebrate you - happy birthday again, beloved!! 🎉💖) I made a little moodboard and fic blurb starring him & my 🩵 paint chip! sending you love, thank you for hosting such a fun event!
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rian1023 · 1 year ago
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What a chaotic family.
In which an isekai'd person gains a family throughout their journey in Teyvat.
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The adepti were having a simple 'brunch' that was introduced by Havria, the goddess of salt.
"Havriaaa~~ One more bite-" Guizhong, her lover was cut off by an odd ring that came from her beloved.
*Ring!* *Ring!*
"Havria, might i inquire as to what that unique rectangular object you have?" Cloud Retainter asks.
"O-oh, it's a phone. A device that allows me to communicate with my family quickly. My siblings are calling..." Havria accepts the call, as a loud screaming came from the other side.
"HAVRIA MY DEAREST BELOVED ATE (OLDER SISTER) PICK US UP PLEASE-" Kunikuzushi, or kuni in short, yelled for his dearest life.
Havria sighed, what had her siblings done this time? "Did you get high without me? Or did set the house on fire again." Rubbing her head which ached.
"IT'S NOT THAT, WE WERE MAKING A JET THAT ATE Y/N TOLD US ABOUT AND SHE SAW IT, FLEW IN IT, NOW SHE'S FLYING IN THE SKY WITH NO WAY TO GET DOWNNNNN!! KHOI HAS FAINTED." Yells came from the other side as Havria hang up.
Taking a bottle of strong wine, she gulped it all down setting the bottle gently. "Havria..?" Morax said questioningly.
"Puta, mga gago sila bakit limang minutos lang na wala ako doon, muntik na sila mamamatay? Oh well." Havria cursed in the language her chaotic older sister had taught her.
(Translation: Fuck, they're idiots i wasn't there for five minutes and why have they already nearly died? Oh well.)
"Apologies i have to leave quickly before my Ate actually dies this time... Mwah, i love you Guizhong, I'll visit you soon!" Havria teleported to a waypoint, seeing her older sister in the makeshift jet. (Guizhong panicked like crazy since she would be meeting with her girlfriends family and sought help-)
Focusing on the body of the jet, she turned it into salt when it was near the ground, also adding a large amout of Iodized salt to soften the landing.
Kuni, Khoi, and Y/n knelt infront Havria, one of the most responsible siblings with Beisht, scolded and worried about her siblings for being idiots as she prepared a snack for them to eat-
"And sarap Ate!" Kuni exclaimed cheerfully. Havria had mastered the recipe of pan de sal (or bread of salt if you translate) better than you.
"Right, when this aside, when are you going to introduce us to your girlfriend?" Y/n inquired, curious about her siblings love life.
"Pff- cough cough! Ate, I'll introduce you to Guizhong later-" Havria nearly choked on her food.
"I'm quite curious as to why Ate Havria likes the goddess of dust, if anything, it seems as if you're very in love that you'd get down on your kne-" Khoi was cut off from analyzing further when you pinched him lightly.
"Khoi, we don't discuss kinks on the dinner table..." You smiled, trying not to allow khoi to continue spilling the tea. "Tell me everything later Khoi.." Beisht whispered.
"Ahem! Maybe this dinner? there will be a feast in the Guili Assembly tonight.." Havria felt excited to introduce Guizhong to her beloved sibings.
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"Guizhong, these are my siblings! This is my older sister or Ate Y/n, you arleady know Beisht, but she is also my sister, my younger brothers, Kuni and Khoi!" Havria cheerfully introduced you all, oblivious to Guizhong' inner turmoil.
"Lovely to meet you Guizhong! Ito ang ka jowa mo Havria?~"(This is your lover Havria?~)You teased her, Beisht merely giggled heartily.
"Ate please..-" Guizhong was cut off when she noticed her lover's nervousness. "H-Hello Lady Star!—" Guizhong had her shoulders pat by you. "You needn't use that sister-in-law!" Guizhong blushed with embarrassment. Beisht and the two boys just nodded.
"Right.. You already know my brother Morax and Osial, speaking of which here they are-"
"Hi honey!" Beisht chirped as Osial was surprised to see her- "Wait darling, you had siblings??" Osial asked. "You never listen do you." The temperature dropped as Beisht started ignoring Osial who tried to please his wife.
"Where is Haishan, Osial?" Beisht asked. "I-" Osial was cut off when a big ass explosion happened in the distance that seemed like fire..works.
"That looks like Khoi's attempted fireworks..." You trailed off your sentence and looked at Havria. "I- Morax that part of the land is not yours right?" Havria asked.
"I do not believe so..?" Morax replied. Havria seemed to be relieved..? "Good, i was gonna make them fix it up but I'll just bury them in the ground."
Havria turned herself to salt and used the small air particles to move herself.
Boom!
"Well shit, I think i have to get them. What a chaotic family, my chaotic family." You said as you quickly teleported to stop Havria from destroying more property, and also killing your siblings.
The end.
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tjarry · 1 month ago
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find a blorbo!: a tag game for the new NHL season
thank you for the tag my beloved @mikathemad !!
RULES: Go through the roster of each NHL team and find at least one player that you can root for.
Yes, even the team you despise. Yes, even the team everyone despises. Yes, even the team who you dare not speak of.
(I used a different color for teams I actually root for.)
Anaheim Ducks -Jansen Harkins
Boston Bruins -Brad Marchand, David Pastrnak, Jeremy Swayman
Buffalo Sabres - Bo Byram
Calgary Flames - Nazem Kadri, Ryan Lomberg, Devin Cooley
Carolina Hurricanes - Freddie Andersen, Tyson Jost
Chicago Hockey Team - Pat Maroon
Colorado Avalanche - Nathan MacKinnon, Mikko Rantanen, Alexandar Georgiev, Gabe Landeskog, Nikolai Kovalenko
Columbus Blue Jackets - Elvis Merzlikins
Dallas Stars - Wyatt Johnston, Logan Stankoven, Tyler Seguin, Magnus Hellberg, Jake Oettinger
Detroit Red Wings - J.T. Compher
Edmonton Oilers - Leon Draisaitl, Stuart Skinner, Connor McDavid
Florida Panthers - Matthew Tkachuk, Sergei Bobrovsky, the rest of the Panthers roster
Los Angeles Kings - Darcy Kuemper
Minnesota Wild - Marc-André Fleury, Jake Middleton, Kirill Kaprizov
Montreal Canadiens - Nick Suzuki
Nashville Predators - Scott Wedgewood, Brady Skjei
New Jersey Devils - Kurtis MacDermid, Jacob Markstrom
New York Islanders - Anthony Duclair
New York Rangers - Mika Zibanejad, Igor Shesterkin
Ottawa Senators - Linus Ullmark, Claude Giroux
Philadelphia Flyers - Travis Konecny, Ivan Fedotov, Erik Johnson
Pittsburgh Penguins - the whole damn team next question
San Jose Sharks - Ty Dellandrea, Macklin Celebrini
Seattle Kraken - Brandon Montour, Philipp Grubauer
St. Louis Blues - Mathieu Joseph, P.O. Joseph
Tampa Bay Lightning - Jake Guentzel, Andrei Vasilevskiy
Toronto Maple Leafs - William Nylander, Anthony Stolarz, Mitch Marner, Joseph Woll
Utah Hockey Club - Alex Kerfoot
Vancouver Canucks - Teddy Blueger, Thatcher Demko
Vegas Golden Knights - Ilya Samsonov, Tanner Pearson
Washington Capitals - Brandon Duhaime, Logan Thompson
Winnipeg Jets - Adam Lowry
tagging: @psyduc @marcfleurys @ullybug @thebrood1979 @sidsthekid and anyone else who wants to play!!
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sunandflame · 1 year ago
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Kyojuro who plays a little game with you, moving your funko pops around the house and exchanging them with different fandom ones to see if you notice 😈
You little minx... I know exactly where this idea comes from, but I will play along hehehe...
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Squirtle's Attack
Warnings: none, just pure fluff
Pairing: Kyojuro x Reader
crossposted on AO3
It had started small and you didn't really paid much attention to it at first. You were just thinking that your brain was playing games with you until you noticed that it was not your brain but someone else.Because you would NEVER put your beloved Roronoa Zoro Funko next to your Star Wars collection, since they were in a completely different franchise!
Kyojuro, you thought at that moment as you took your beloved Zoro who was placed between Obi-wan Kenobi and Princess Leia and put him back in his usual corner. You thought that would be the end of it, but you were wrong.
Your Funko Pops were repeatedly misplaced around the apartment and placed in other corners where they should not belong. You didn't say anything until suddenly one of your Funkos stared right at you while you were going to the bathroom.
“KYOJURO!”
“Yes honey?” He popped his head through the door and stared at you. 
“Why is my limited edition Squirtle from the diamond collection in the bathroom?”
“I don’t know, but is Squirtle not a water pokemon? Maybe he was thirsty?” 
You gave him a deadpan look. “You know who else is thirsty?”
“Who?”
“You” And with those words, you splashed water from the faucet into his face and couldn't help but laugh at his surprised and adorable face.
Kyojuro wiped the water from his eyes. “Just wait… I’ll pay you back!” He picked up the shower head and you felt a sense of foreboding but it was too late. “Squirtle! Aqua Jet!” He turned the faucet on full and sprayed water all over you. You just stood there in shock, dripping with water until you both started laughing at your own sight. 
“So would you like to shower together?”
“I’ll never say no to that”
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All mentioned Funkos in this drabble exist in my own household.
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rose-and-thorn-fanfics · 14 days ago
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“A Far Fall From The Heights Of Heaven” A Dio Brando x Self Insert Fanfic (PART 4)
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Another month had passed. It was now the holiday season, and I was missing my sister Denise. Maybe, MAYBE even my mom. A little. Dio sat at the desk, writing with a fountain pen in the dark. I would've been concerned for his eyesight, but... well, vampires see even better in the dark. I peaked over his shoulder, attempting to read his handwriting. He stopped writing and handed me the paper, noting that I was struggling to read.
"To the family of my beloved Rose..." I read his words out loud, then paused.
"Too formal?" Dio asked earnestly.
I giggled. "Just the right amount. I mean you did kidnap me. They probably think I'm dead at this point. That in itself calls for some formality."
Dio chuckled, taking the paper back from me and signing it with his overly dramatic signature. "They'll be pleased to know you're alive. Your sister.... Denise. Does she live at a separate address? Should i make another copy?"
"No, unless her plans changed, her and her husband are staying at my mom's house in the guest bedroom for the first two years of their marriage while they shop for homes and get more secure jobs. One letter to my mom's house will do." I explained.
Lord Dio nodded, then stood up, slipping the letter in an envelope. He sealed it with a carnelian signet ring he often wore on his right index finger.
"Why are you writing to my family though? Is it just to let them know I'm ok? Or... about the baby?"
Dio blushed a bit, a rare sight, but becoming less rare since I'd told him he was going to be a father. "We are visiting them. I've made arrangements. Your family does celebrate the Yuletide season?"
My eyes must've lit up at the mention of visiting them because he leaned down and tilted my chin up, inspecting my expression with amusement. "They go all out for Christmas. My mom's a christian, so thats kind of her favorite holiday." I added. "My sister Denise is very much into the presents more than the religious meaning, so we should bring her something nice! And my grandparents come over and aunts and uncles...."
Dio frowned suddenly. "That's a lot of relatives you have. What a scene it must be."
I reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. I knew he hadn't experienced that growing up, at least not with his blood-relatives. I was glad I could be spending this time of the year with him. Maybe my family could show him that kind of Yule spirit that he'd never had in his childhood.
"They'll love you." I assured him.
"They'd better." He said in a snarky tone, regaining his confident demeanor. "Or your mom wont be invited over to visit her grandchildren."
I laughed nervously, noticing that gleeful look in his eyes. I prayed that all my lucky stars would keep this visit from being a catastrophy.
...............................................................................................................
The flight to Los Angeles was actually quite relaxing. I wasn't far enough into my pregnancy that flying was a problem. Dio had a private jet because public transport isn't suitable for vampires, apparently. He didn't fly it. THANK GOD. He isn't the best with electronics, being from Victorian era England, and having spent so much time in a coffin under the sea. I had taught him how to take a selfie on his phone. He was a fast learner, but not "fly a private plane" kind of fast.
We landed several times before the break of dawn and stayed at expensive hotels through the days, to avoid sunlight.
Finally we landed in Los Angeles. An SUV with tinted windows showed up at the private landing place of Dio's jet.
"You have connections in Los Angeles?" I whispered.
Dio Brando grinned. "I have connections everywhere. Now, lets get to your parents before the Christmas Eve party starts."
I yawned and slept through most of the car ride. I woke up when the car pulled in front of my mom's house in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Los Angeles, far enough from the hustle of hollywood or the stench of downtown LA.
I was wearing a green velvet dress with lots of chips of crystals on the edge of the neckline. It was expensive (vivienne westwood), and went fabulously with Dio's gold leather 1980s style jacket and fitted shirt and pants. I knew my mom would not approve of either of our outfits. I didn't care.
We strolled up to the tall front door with the beautiful transom window above it. The whole house was decorated in lights. Dio rang the doorbell, then stood back, wrapping his arm around me (for reassurance? Who knows...)
Several moments passed, then my mom opened the door. She was a tall woman, brunette, with a severe expression on her square face that got more sever upon seeing Dio and I.
"I assume you're the one who found my daughter in Egypt?" She said skeptically.
Dio nodded. "Yes, Madam." He said in the least respectful tone possible.
"So you've come to return her? Well.... I guess that's fine. Come in." She said, pursing her lips and eyeing my dress with a look of distain. I understood, though. No one likes to their missing daughter showing up in a revealing designer dress to a conservative celebration of the birth of Jesus with a guy dressed like David Bowie on his glass spider tour ready to perform.
As we walked in, Dio muttered words only audible to me. "I'm not returning anything."
I smiled, knowing this would come up later at the dinner table. I felt the eyes of all my relatives on me. My aunts, uncles, grandparents, and sister. They looked like they'd seen a ghost. I wasn't sure if I should say something. I ended up just waving meekly, and introduced Dio. "This is my husband, Dio. Dio, this is Aunt Jenna, Uncle Juan, My grandma, my grandpa, Denise, and her husband Todd."
"YOUR HUSBAND?!!!" Denise blurted out.
Dio took a seat, ignoring the shock of everyone and motioning for me to sit in his lap. I felt overwhelmed by all the attention, so I took him up on that offer, sitting on his lap and feeling a bit better now that his arms were around me. "You didn't mention the marriage in the letter, did you?" I whispered in his ear.
Dio shook his head. "I wanted to share the happy news in person. Letters are too impersonal."
I sighed. I should've expected that from Lord Dio. He loved a personal touch. Whether seeking revenge or announcing his bride, that seemed like a theme for him.
"Married, huh?" My mom scoffed. "You actually married my youngest daughter? Well, I suppose there was bound to be one man... unique enough to appreciate her." She made it very clear that "unique" was a replacement for a less gentle word. Yup. Thats my mom. She manages to be both protective over me and yet cant understand what anyone would possibly see in me for marriage. My eye began twitching with irritation and anxiety.
"She's not hard to appreciate, if you have enough brain cells... that is." Dio retorted. "Only an idiot would be blind to my Rose's beauty."
My sister snickered. My mom inhaled sharply and crossed her arms, clearly offended but not vocal enough to come up with a reply.
My uncle Todd spoke up. "Well, what's your job? Do you think you can afford to support our Rose?"
I started panicking. Money? Not a problem. Dio's occupation? BIG FUCKING PROBLEM. Being a cult leader doesn't really check the boxes for families like mine. I wracked my brain for alternative or vague enough answers that sounded legitimate. But Dio was faster.
"I'm the CEO of an organization that is highly classified in its nature. While I can't tell you the details of my job, I can say that I easily can afford to support Rose financially." Lord Dio said cooly.
"And you're from Egypt?" Aunt Jenna asked, raising a drawn-on brow.
"England, actually. London to be exact." Dio Brando said. "Is there any wine at this party?"
Denise rushed to the kitchen and came back with some expensive french wine and two glasses. She seemed the most receptive to Dio's presence. "Here you go!" She said, handing the one glass to Dio and the other to--Oh. Me.
"Uh, actually I don't drink." I said carefully.
"Huh." Denise said, slowly pulling the glass away. After a deafening few minutes of silence, Dio had finished his wine, and I was getting tired of being the center of attention.
Then Denise spoke. "So when's the due date?" 'And thats our cue' I thought, muscles tightening with stress. "Yeah.... uh, I was going to tell you guys at present opening time, but..."
My mom, catching on to the subject turned a shade of ashen grey that always was the precursor to her passing out.
"...I'm having a baby. It'll be in late fall, according to the doctors (thats the due date). Dio is the father, and we are both really excited to be parents!" I said, mustering enthusiasm in hopes it would be reciprocated. My mom passed out, but after everyone made sure she was alright I got lots of congratulations from the rest of my family.
I beamed, glad that at least this baby would be welcomed into my chaotic family. I had dreaded the thought of having to explain to my children how their grandparents, aunts, and uncles didn't want anything to do with them. This was a relief.
The rest of the night was filled with festivities. We sang carols (some of the older British ones Dio was excited to find familiar, and we feasted on delicious cranberry bread, apple cider, and roasted mushrooms by candlelight. Everyone seemed to fall in place, being supportive of our relationship (Except my mom who was resting in the master bedroom). I gave Denise a beautiful pair of designer sandals from Egypt, and everyone agrees they were definitely her style. I got lots of presents, and I loved watching Dio's expression as he saw my excitement when playing (and winning with his help) the traditional Yule games. After the games I fell asleep on the couch, cuddled in a blanket with my head in Dio's lap. I would remember this night forever.
TYSM FOR READING!!!!!
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