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ruffboijuliaburnsides · 3 years

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Female Geralt AU

So I wanted to clean up this AU meme response for reasons, including the fact that I really like it but I churned out the original in like 15 minutes and needed more than 5 bullet points lbr. So until this actually gets turned into the fic I want it to be, here it is, a little nicer than it was before. 💜

1. No one ever tells Geralt he doesn’t have to be 100% exactly what people expect. He lives for years just… responding. He’s a monster because people expect a monster. He’s a tool because people expect a tool. He’s emotionless because people expect him to be emotionless. He’s a man because people expect him to be a man. It's not much of a life, perhaps, but he gets by, and he doesn't get killed by an angry mob or a monster, and that's the most a witcher can hope for

1a. Until he meets a bard in Posada

2. Jaskier is a bubbly, busty, ridiculous breath of fresh air. She's technically the daughter of an earl, but not set to inherit; Kerack is so picky about it being the eldest son who inherits, and she's never been anyone's son, so she’s not a viscountess, just the daughter of some nobleman who thinks himself far more important than fourth generation nobility from a tiny backwater kingdom could ever be. But she plays the lute like a dream, and her voice is sweet and chiming and clear when she sings, and her laugh is bold and loud and could make your ears ring, and her smile is infectious and wide. Geralt can’t let her travel alone, she’s too soft, too vulnerable, too easy a target when she always wears such pretty frocks and braids flowers in her hair.

2a. He can't let her swan into his life like sunshine and safe harbor and then just leave again, not that he'll admit it.

3. From that first day she fawns over Geralt in a way he understands means flirting, means fondness, means attraction, but he can’t imagine sullying her with his hands, his mouth, his co– his body. So he says and does nothing, just lets her write songs about his heroism and bravery, lets the slow shift of opinion catch him by surprise, lets her put a hand on his chest and push him back down into his seat with a vicious smile when someone accuses her of being a witcher’s whore, at which point she generally tends to grab a bottle or a metal serving tray or a chair and absolutely go to town on the person in question.

3a. Jaskier was never soft and vulnerable when faced with people who were a threat. She always seemed to be soft and vulnerable around Geralt. He decides very firmly that he won't think about it. (He fails.)

4. They go along quite happily for years, surviving all sorts of trouble, shockingly little of it actually caused by Jaskier herself. Eventually, of course, Geralt gets cursed, because it's sort of inevitable it would happen eventually. It’s supposed to be humiliating, being turned into a woman, meant to drive him to misery and shame, but it’s not. It’s strange, but comfortable. He's still himself, just with leaner muscles, softer features. His voice is still low and gravely, yet higher and softer than it had been before. His angles are still sharp and hard, but with just the tiniest bit of softness. Just a bit.

5. Jaskier fusses initially, and Geralt can’t understand why her heart is pounding so hard until he smells a familiar sort of sweetness on the air and realizes that the bard is flustered. She's actually attracted to the woman’s form he’s currently filling, in a way she never quite is for his usual form. He should be worried about getting the curse broken, but instead he finds himself wondering if the curse may be permanent.

6. Jaskier asks if he’s all right, in a soft, worried voice, if he’s upset or needs to talk or needs anything. Geralt doesn’t answer for nearly three hours, simply lets Jaskier's nervous chatter wash over him as they find a good campsite and set about getting settled. He knows he's worrying her, not saying anything, but she clearly thinks he's forgotten the questions until he asks, so fucking carefully and uncertainly, if she minds him being shaped this way. And Jaskier frowns, and Geralt thinks that maybe it was a horrible mistake to ask, but then Jaskier's expression clears with realization, and she smiles as bright as the sun and says, “Whatever form you want to come in, you are still my Geralt, and still my witcher. I will always adore you.”

6a. (they’ve never said love, can't quite admit to loving each other in such a way, but adore is fine, somehow. Adore could be something less and different than love, could be an aesthetic, could be the drive for adventure, could be desperate friendship. It is love, of course, but they don’t have to acknowledge it just yet.)

7. They find a witch, just to make sure there's no other parts of the curse they haven't run into yet. Instead of any of the increasingly unlikely outcomes Jaskier's come up with as they traveled, the mage verifies that there are no traps or hidden triggers she can find. Then she tells them it’s permanent unless removed, and says she can do it for very little fee.

7a. Geralt looks down at Jaskier, the bright ember of sunlight who's made her home in Geralt's heart, who is beaming up at him encouragingly. Geralt smiles; Jaskier's own grin always had been infectious.

7b. “No,” he– she tells the witch, lacing her fingers together with Jaskier’s, reveling in the startled and blindingly brilliant smile the little bard gives her. “I think I’ll keep it.”

8. She remains the most fearsome Wolf in the world, of course. She grows her hair out further. Jaskier braids it down her back - generally utilitarian and secure - but always always always tucks at least one flower into it.

9. They don't live happily ever after, but they do live happily most of the time.

#the witcher #geralt #jaskier #geraskier #fem geralt #trans geralt #fem jaskier #my fic

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scribeofmorpheus · 3 years

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Himmeløyne [22/?]

Pairing: Loki Odinson x Reader

Catch Up Here | Masterlist

Warnings: None

A/N: I have started my first original gothic story (it'll be much darker than this fic but can I offer you werewolves, vampires, 1970s Europe aesthetic as an incentive?). It's on Wattpad and I intend to update it every Wednesday, but I never stick to update schedules so... Here ya go: OUR LADY OF DARKNESS

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment or leave a like please ☺

~Y/N

The end of the abyss—that frightful stream of continuous fall and forceful uplift—it finally had an end. It was a large door. Smell of rain and storms, with the slick glisten of wet rock hugging the archway. A dark type of stone, jagged and natural, the door seemed to be carved into the side of a mountain. But the mirage ended where the rock began, there were no walls. No infrastructure. Just the green of the mirror world and two hunkering doors. The archway was carved in the shape of a snake; same as the kind that embellished the rigging of ships, tongue curled, eyes made of rings within rings.

A sequence of lettering—foreign, yet oh, so familiar—hovered in the mist, your mind scrambling to make sense of the words.

“Oracle, what is this place?”

The whisper was quiet, for a brief moment you worried that you were truly on your own in this stretch of emptiness.

I sense… something has been concealed from me. Its magic is fevered, dusted in loss. Pain. Desire. It is out of place. Out of time. The conjurer’s magic has the same energy as yours, only… stronger.

“Stronger?” You shuddered at the thought. After a pause, you asked: “You don’t see the door?”

Door? What door?

“What of the letters?”

I—No, I see nothing. Describe it to me.

“There’s a serpent on the door.”

A serpent? Does he eat his tail?

“No, his head marks the start of the archway, but his mouth is facing the ground.”

Then it is incomplete. An incantation must be needed to complete the image. What of the lettering?

“These letters, they’re different than common tongue or Asgardian runes. They aren’t Jotun either. They look… I don’t know. They look so familiar.”

Reach for them.

“What?”

Familiar magic has a tendency to want to be understood, that is why it feels familiar. Touch it.

You stuck your hand up, jumping on your tippy-toes to try and grab the incorporeal words floating above your head. In defiance, they simply rose higher up, further out of reach.

Do not reach with your body, Child of the Sky. Reach with your magic.

With an exhale, you stuck both hands high up in the air, conjuring the bristle of energy that raced across your spine during spellcasting. Remembering through muscle and memory of what it was like to be in control of your magic. Of what it was like to revel in its deliciousness, its wildness, its link to Loki. A swirl of warmth took shelter in your belly, that warmth you’d grown to love before it was ripped from you and replaced by the cold of Odin’s incantation.

Suddenly, the words began to sink, lowering themselves like feathers, at first, then with the heft of an arrow, and finally, a stone.

With a crash, the words burst into fire and embers, each ember digging into your skin in a sensory overload that formed echoes in the mist.

A version of you,—the shade whose voice you heard in the abyss—older, magic glowing a different hue of blue, in strange clothing, stood by the door. You were witnessing the construction of the doorway. Every splinter, fibre, rock and sand particle materialised as though you were undoing the wroth of a sandstorm to make way for a rock giant. A woman, with firebrand hair and soft features, stood beside you, she looked drained, weary. She had magic too, it was the colour of blood. The colour of fire. It flickered in and out around her body, as if fighting to take over.

There was a young boy clasping onto the shade’s hand. Aloof in expression, a scaly growth the colour of white sands on his elbows, ankles, neck and cheeks. He was a beautiful child, hair as soft as down, curls that fluffed in a way you could never get yours too. Eyes of a pure and deep blue. Ocean surface during a thunderstorm blue.

He looked at the shade the same way little Sigrid had when she’d waved her plump, little hand goodbye before following after the hunters. It made you yearn for something so pure with a fierce heart.

“There, that should do it,” the shade said as the door materialised from thin air. “Now, we need a seal so no one who wanders can know of this place.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?” the woman asked, hugging her frame as if she were cold.

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but this is the only way I know for certain that what we’re doing now happens.” The shade’s voice felt dark, wizened in years, the same way Frigga spoke of grave matters. “This fortress is the only way he survived in my time. If we can’t change things, as the sorcerer said, then the least we can do is ensure things continue on their set path.”

“He’ll be trapped… for who knows how long? Centuries? Millennia? He’s just a boy.”

“He’s more than that,” the shade got down on one knee to look at the boy. From that angle, you could see the mangled, L shaped scars over each of her shoulder blades. They resembled the scars birds would suffer when their wings were ripped for medicines. “This is the only way he stays safe. I’ve already cemented the other enchantments. Time will not be felt here. He will not feel sadness or regret or the bitterness of solitude. He will sleep, as I once did, except… he will not be aware. And he will dream of only happy things. Then, when the time comes, I will jump. I’ll take him back with me.”

The firebrand woman showed doubt for the first time, “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve already done it.” The shade touched the other magic bearer’s shoulder, a comradery there. A closeness built from time and triumph, much like that kindred fire you shared with Sif. “Now, a phrase. A word. Anything to bind this lock to. Something unique.”

“Why don’t you choose it?” “Because I know myself. It has to be something I’d never choose so that she never knows it, and no mind reader can ever guess it should they stumble upon this place.”

“Vision,” the woman’s lips quivered with loss, but there was a bloom of hope in the tweak of her lips as your shade repeated the word.

The biting of the magic ended, and suddenly, you were alone again.

What happened? Child of the Sky? Are you there?

“I’m right here, Oracle,” you choked out, a tightness in your throat.

You were gone. One instant here, the next… nowhere. Somewhere. Between.

“I know how to open the door,” you took several steps back and then cleared your throat. With conviction and authority, you calmly said: “Vision.”

What did the magic reveal to you?

Your head was spinning from the fabrics of this mirror universe being so amateurishly tailored, so lacking in its design and purpose. The more you discovered, the more you began to doubt if this world was ancient; or if it was barely into its adolescence. “I do not quite understand it, yet. You said you were imprisoned here?”

Yes. I have been without body or memory for as long as I can remember.

The snake on the door began to slither till its mouth was at the top, and its tail was tucked firmly in its jaws. Then its eyes glowed the same colour as the child’s, thunderstorm blue. With a groan and a strike of something loud, the door peeled back. Beyond its threshold was a mutation of worlds, all collided in exquisite syzygy; aligned, misaligned, human, Asgardian, Jotun, and even the liquid blackness of space with pepper spots for stars.

“And how long ago was that?”

I—I do not… Centuries? Millennia? Aeons?

To busy your mind of doubt and fear as you stepped past the threshold and heard the door seal shut behind you, you toyed with the idea of understanding more of this world. “You said you could hear the beginning of your name… What was it?”

The whisper grew soft, warm. It sounded like ‘see’. Or was it the sea? Sea? Sea. Sea!

A garden shifted into the plane, then with a breath, a lake, then a cave, then a temple, then a waterfall, then a tower made of metal and glass. The world wasn’t fixed to a temporal setting, nor a specific location in space. It was like watching fire tell a story; brief, bright and constant.

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

At the epicentre, laying on a stone tablet with a curtain of gold—that same curtain from the healing chamber—wrapped around like a fleece, was the child. Unaged. Beautiful. Asleep. He had no scaly growths like in the visions.

You took your steps with trepidation. Almost afraid to make a whisper even though the Oracle chanted ‘Sea!’ over and over. Its voice morphing into the very faint intones of a voice you knew all too well.

The world began to peel away the closer you got to the child. A presence was syphoning the magic, transmuting it for another purpose. A purpose that you now realised was meant to happen. Soon, a figure of pure light, with large wings of utmost magnificence, formed from the siphoned magics of the world. The Oracle was gaining form. The fleece turned grey and the boy began to stir. The magic of the sleep spell was broken.

You approached him slowly. Hands seeking out his aura. Then, in the most silver of voices you’d ever heard, he said, “You came. You said you’d come.” A smile of familiarity adorned his freckled laugh lines.

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

“Do you know me?”

He nodded.

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

“How?”

“From now.”

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

“What’s your name?”

He seemed confused. Reeling back from the line you’d cast him for with that question. Bait in hook, he fished in the muddy waters that were your consciousness. You could feel his magic, abrasive as sand between toes, cool and wet, but also warm and sea-salt thick. He replied, “You haven’t given it to me yet. But you will return hers to her.”

He pointed to the Oracle’s figure, pulsating into a more corporeal form. The boy opened his hand and you knew instantly what he needed you to do before you thought to ask. A reflex. His magic extended to yours, carrying thought, and the very genesis of thought in its energy. You placed your face close so his hand could cover the cavity where your eye used to be.

Sugar. Berries picked from the wild thickets. A prick into padded thumb. Ooze of blood. A slight sting, then a scab and finally nothing, no marks, no evidence of the thorn in your thumb. He was projecting images of what he envisioned as he healed you. What the berries would taste like; apples. “You can open your eyes now. It was gold when we met. I kept it the same.”

Feeling no different than before, you opened both eyes for the first time since you stepped into Verdenspeil. With a tickle, the runes drawn on your hand and forehead sloughed off like skin cells. You could see the world without them. You could see through both eyes again. The shifting world shifted to a hexagon of mirrors. One, the sky shifting blue of your mother, the other, the ancient, world piercing gold of your father, your face held two eyes again.

“It’s… beautiful,” you looked down at the boy with your eyes. He showed teeth with his grin, pleased with himself. Pleased with your laugh of awe. “There was a boy in my village. Half as beautiful as you are. Half as joyful, with a smile and constellations marking his nose and cheeks too. He showed me kindness. His name was Baldrick. I shall call you Baldrick.”

“Now that you have spoken my name, remind her of who she is,” the boy said, glancing at the Oracle. “You know. You know but cannot believe.”

A gasp left your mouth. A mix of hope and disbelief. With the new eye, you could see the face of the Oracle beneath the light, beneath the enchantment that kept her hidden.

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

“S-Sigrid.”

The Oracle hushed before exploding into a million, tiny pieces of energy. Out of the explosion was your mother, winged as the Valkyrie from legend, wearing the armour you had seen in the mirror prior to entering Verdenspeil.

“Y/N,” she said, lowering to the ground. Her hand cupped your face. You could barely feel her. “I have waited so long for this moment.”

“Mother,” you hugged her close.

A swirl of black formed once the mirrors of the world broke. Sigrid looked at you with panic.

“Listen, there isn’t time. Take the boy, “Sigrid removed a bracelet and cast it into the black-hole. A portal began to form, leading to what looked like a stone temple. “Take him and jump, it’ll lead you to the one with answers.”

“I don’t understand! Why can’t you come with us? How are you alive?”

“I’m not alive dear, sweet child. But I can promise this isn’t the last you’ll see of me. We will meet again, soon. I promise. But you must go, the world has fulfilled its purpose. There is no reason for it to exist anymore. It has already began to unravel.”

The mist began to turn sour, choking like poison.

You coughed, breathing through your sleeve, “But, as the Oracle, you said I had to take you to the source.”

“You are the source. You and the boy. Your magics are entangled. The maze was a lie, one devised by you. This world isn’t ancient, it is young. A deception. I am the deceiver. My purpose was to ensure none but you found the boy and the portal to Mímir’s tomb. You enchanted this world so all would walk along the lighted paths until they reached a portal that would return them to a random space within the nine realms. You enchanted this world with your memories, so only you could follow them. Hear them.” Sigrid handed you a four-pronged dagger, “Take this you’ll need it.” She kissed your cheek, then her form started unravelling with the world too. Through transference, she gave you her armour, it was lighter than you'd expected, and it fit to cover your proportions through magical effect.

“Why can’t you come with us?” you reached your hand out to Baldrick. He took it with ease.

“I am not meant for the lands of the living,” she lamented. “Go! Before the world takes you with it.”

You rushed to the portal, but before you could step through you asked one last question: “What did you mean by ‘sins of the father’?”

“The war,” Sigrid fluttered her wings to hover in the green mist. “It was a lie. The Jotuns, they didn’t start it. We—the Himmel Kvinner—there’s a reason why only the women in our family inherited the gift. It’s not just power. It’s essence. A woman’s essence. Odin didn’t know we would develop magic from the artefact, but none of us were able to understand the complexity of her spell. Until you. You will discover the reason behind it all. You told me you did. I suspect it is because you are not fully mortal." Bitterly, she added as her body turned to mist as well, "You will bring the heavens to its knees. And your fate is that none shall remember it.”

One of Sigrid’s wings dissipated, she faltered in the air, then shouted: “Go!”

“I love you,” you whispered before hurtling through the undulating expanse of the portal.

“I know…” you heard her whisper back as Verdenspeil was destroyed.

#loki #loki x reader #loki marvel #loki laufeyson x reader #loki odinson #tom hiddleston #himmeløyne #norse mythology #loki x you #loki x y/n #marvel imagine #loki imagine #tom hiddlestone imagine

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hriobzagelthewanderer · 3 years

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Muse aesthetics

[RULES: fill out with 3-5 items/aesthetics that fit your muse for each category. Repost, do not reblog.]

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

001. A promising urge to grow, to learn and adapt, no matter how steep and dangerous the climb ahead

002. The soft, strangely eager foreboding of walking on a grave, of following in the footsteps of those who came before you whether you want to or not

003. The feeling of distant thunder washing over you, the promise of rain hovering in the air in the few minutes before the downpour starts

004. A haunting emptiness, silently begging to be fulfilled, pushing you to look to others to find the cure

005. A yearning bitterness, longing for a past innocence you barely ever had, a need to recapture it, within others as much as within yourself

COLOURS:

001. Grey, like stormclouds or mountain slate

002. Dark Crimson, the color of drying blood and embers

003. Light Azure, an icy crystalline hue like starlight on a cold night, or ghosts watching from beyond the veil

004. Dark Green, the color of moss, pine needles, old growth

005. Tan, the color of leather, parchment, the play of hearthfire’s light upon rustic walls.

SCENTS:

001. Well-worn linens, soaked in sweat and perhaps a tinge of dried blood

002. The aroma of fresh baked bread, strong beer, and carefully seasoned foods

003. Parchment, Leather, Dust, and candle smoke

004. ozone, loam, and water. The hint of lightning in a rain-soaked forest

005. iron, charcoal, ash, sawdust, oil, and varnish

OBJECTS:

001. A tattered grey cloak, one he has had since before he can remember, one he can never seem to fully pry the secrets from no matter how long he wears it

002. A heavy Glaive, made of cold-forged iron and cursed silver, reinforced and enchanted by many runes. Both a weapon against harm and curses, and a reminder of all the wounds the spears that had been melted down to make it had caused.

003. An old Tome, hiding fresh ink within, set aside years prior yet never forgotten, as it now had many brethren within a certain library it now called home

004. A massive keg, bound in rune-etched metal bands and carefully sealed. As much a past time as a product, as much a peace offering as a potential weapon.

005. A wooden staff, simple in appearance, that nonetheless carries with it great life and vigor, a sapling in disguise

BODY LANGUAGE:

001. Careful, watching eyes, ever moving, ever cautious, seeing things most never are able to and piercing past defenses and disguises with ease

002. A quiet, unassuming gait, used to hiding and remaining unobserved as he observed others, much like a ghost ship silently gliding through dark waters

003. A gentle smirk, both self-assured and unassuming, balancing concern and ridicule - against himself more than any other - within its silent mirth

004. Hands that rest upon your shoulder, light and tender in their reassurance despite their coarse, powerful weight

005. A sedate sort of pause, as if a tree waiting for the wind and rain to remember he was there

AESTHETICS:

001. Misty Forests blanketing a Mountainside

002. A rough-cut crystalline gemstone, carefully if roughly etched with hand-carved runes and hand-wrought silver caging.

003. A solitary figure on a cliffside, hidden from sight and rain alike by a heavy cloak as they watch the heavens above

004. A deep cavern of ruins, once lost to time, now being filled with rustic furniture and the echoing sounds of home

005. A large, forgotten beast of myth and legend, reduced to mere bones in ages past, now coated in verdant wreathes of new growth

tagged: @cursedfortune

tagging: @boriiqua @callmekamikaze @gingerhoneycakes @roskaarotta @dragonskxn @ladyarjuna @bleedinghearth

#ooc #About Hriob #dash games

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ambvrs · 4 years

Photo

𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐍 / 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.

𝒃𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒔 — @opalsmedia !

𝒊. 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 ; open to anyone .

( ♫ ) — josephine’s life between scotland and strathmore is vague at best, other than she moved into her own place after graduation and spent a year working in london before her first year at strathmore began ( a time frame that puts her in line with the opals first year / immediately pre - strathmore prodigies ). a bond formed from a chance encounter by the river’s edge one summer or fall evening, two strangers simply sharing company and conversation before strathmore or the society or life had the chance to intervene. one meeting turned into several, someone she might consider one of her first friends in the city and they became more of a rock in her life than she would ever admit to them, letting her forget the darkness of the world for even a short while. perhaps time, and strathmore and society duties, have created distance between them that they’re not sure how to close. not in a bad way, of course, but in the way that life always seems to.

aesthetics : the warm glow of the street lamps as blue skies blossom into shades of flame, shoulders brushing against one another as steps fall in tandem, quiet laughter that melts into clamoring of the crowd, the same sense of ease that accompanies picking up long - forgotten novel, secrets shared the same as clandestine smiles, cobblestone paths that lead to nowhere in particular, the twinkle of an excited gaze, the comforting press of fingertips into the crook of an elbow, a collection of polaroids tucked away like perfect memories.

𝒊𝒊. 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔 𝒘𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 ; open to anyone .

( ❤ + ❤ + ❤ ) — two people that, under any other ( or relatively normal ) circumstances, would certainly not have considered themselves friends. but recent circumstances have brought them closer and they’ve found a sort of solace in one another. separately, they’ve seemed to function just fine on their own, or they’ve simply done everything they can to keep it all to themselves. perhaps it’s a slow - burn friendship, they didn’t like each other all too much starting out or simply butt heads over the most trivial of things, but they slowly grow to lean on each other for small things, figuring there are worse people to rely on. or perhaps it’s been a friendship that’s been blossoming slowly, both caring a great deal about the other ( even if they never really talk about it ) & who they trust to talk about secrets, feelings, the society, you name it without worrying about repercussions or what they may think of them. two people that come to rely on each other, one way or another, and will do anything to help them succeed. platonic twin flames who know each other almost as well as, if not better, than they know themselves.

aesthetics : pinky promises shared in an empty room, waiting with baited breath as quiet confessions are offered, hesitant smiles, hours of long conversation that slip into comfortable silence, trusting someone to keep a secret you would’ve taken to the grave, arms embraced in a hug that borders on almost too tight, a knock on your bedroom door at two am, long night drives with no destination in mind, shared blankets under a starry sky.

𝒊𝒊𝒊. 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 ; open to anyone .

( ✧ / reversed ) — josephine is truly soft - hearted, down to her very core, and is often far too kind and compassionate for her own good. she chooses to see the best in people, even if it’s not always there. that being said, they aren’t being friendly just for the sake of being friendly and whatever sort of ‘ friendship ‘ they have is formed for the sake this person’s own gain, be it academically, as a bit of romantic payback, or even because they feel she can benefit their growth in the society. there’s a lot of room for creative liberties here ( and plenty of angst, if we wanted ), but i think it would do her some good to face the truth behind typical rose - colored glasses, even if she’s completely oblivious to it for now, for a while ? forever ? perhaps she knows but will simply pretend she does not see because she’d rather live in the illusion than face the truth.

aesthetics : smiles that do not quite reach the eyes, lies veiled beneath honeyed tones, the steady rapping of raindrops on window panes, gifted roses already on the verge of wilting, bribes offered in the way of i - owe - you’s, rain check texts one hour after a read message, the slip of smoke through outstretched fingers, large sunglasses shielding disinterested gaze, company offered out of convenience rather than genuine desire, the dying embers of a flickering flame.

𝒊𝒗. 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 ; taken .

( ♫ + ❤ ) — two people that dance a fine line together, and perhaps they’ve been dancing it since the beginning of her first year up to joining the society ( or maybe they still are ). push and pull, always like two moths to a flame, this connection is the prime example of what could be if life wasn’t in the way. the two have obvious chemistry, but there’s something that’s keeping them from being together - could be the society, their parents or friends, or some other outside influence. physical or emotional boundaries aside, they are the epitome of the right place at the wrong time and perhaps they’d be together if they could but instead they fight against it, flirting the line of you could be mine and it’s just not the time. perhaps they’ve already put it behind them, but they both just have that knowledge that in another life.

aesthetics : fleeting glances shared across a crowded room, grazing fingertips in a fleeting touch, the lingering tendrils of darkness in the break of dawn, the way the moon controls the tides, harmless invitations for coffee that grows cold in conversation lapses, knowing coffee orders like the back of your hand, shared smiles hidden in the crooks of necks, faded photographs of a simpler time, handwritten notes tucked neatly between book pages.

𝒗. 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 ; open to anyone / one - two people .

josephine tends to her friendships like a neat little garden, cares so wholly for each of them in their own special way. but in light of recent events ( and moving forward amidst a still missing society member ), it only makes sense for a couple of her close relationships to start fraying at the seams. whether they consider them friends is neither here nor there, she’s taken to applying that term to pretty much everyone in the society, truly. their friendship is well on its way to dissolving, or at least a very close breaking point, whether it be because of the stress of everything going on ( or went on or will go on ), or they feel that she’s somehow betrayed their trust in some way ( could be trivial, could be completely valid ), or perhaps they’ve come to learn that she’s played a part in previous disruptive rule breaking.

aesthetics : fraying ends of a friendship bracelet, the bitter taste of black coffee, dark bags under tired eyes ( no, they’re not prada ), the ache of a disappointed gaze, the torn pages of an old notebook, waves cresting the shore to simply retreat again, empty roads at 4am, a table for two but party of one, the crinkling static of a tv left on too long, four missed calls and a ‘ we need to talk ‘ text, curtains drawn in once familiar windows.

𝒗𝒊. 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 ; taken.

the two had dated previously, prior to either of them joining the society. whether it happened during her teen years, the lull between life and strathmore, or right up to their time in the society - it’s very much open - ended. josephine has always loved too deeply, and it could have been their downfall or what had kept them together as long as they were. i imagine they didn’t end on the best of terms, but she still cares deeply for them and their well - being, regardless of where they stand now, and perhaps there’s lingering feelings that they both simply deny.

aesthetics : tba.

𝒗𝒊𝒊. 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇𝒇 𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 ; open to anyone.

someone that josephine has history with; either they’ve kissed or hooked up a few times, or just went on a couple casual dates but there was nothing ever really there. no hard feelings at all, they mutually decided there was nothing between them and they were better off as actual just friends. they’re probably pretty close because of the fact and it’s just something that they joke about now.

aesthetics : tba.

𝒗𝒊𝒊𝒊. 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒖𝒏 ; open to anyone.

they were sleeping together out of convenience at some point, perhaps they’d turn to each other on a lonely night or they’re hanging out and they don’t mean for it to happen, but they end up tangled together in one of their rooms, gone in the early hours of the morning before the other ways. or perhaps it was a one or two time thing, a moment of weakness or split decision that they pretend didn’t happen. truly no strings attached, neither of them expecting anything from the other because it’s not supposed to mean anything, so they’re always gone by morning, before anyone can see them, because there’s nothing casual about deep conversations when you’re half - asleep, bodies pressed together and hands intertwined.

aesthetics : tba.

☆ 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒖𝒔 ☆ ; aka a collection of six - word stories / musings that would also be fun plots but i simply did not have the brain cells to type up .

i. 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 ; ii. 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 ; iii. 𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 ; iv. 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒅𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 ; v. 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒕 ; vi. 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒊 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔 ; vii. 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒊𝒏 ; viii. 𝒊𝒇 𝒘𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 ; ix. 𝒊 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒚 .

this + this + this + this + this .

#opalsplots #enjoy this collection of six word story plots #this is simply So Long #any of these can be added to our current plots or they can be whole new plots !!#or we can brainstorm somethin just as spicy lmk just @ me #by the end i just think i have 3am jokes #if u see typos ...... yeah me too

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baylegend · 5 years

Text

Bayley & Sasha: Heroes & Villains

“There’s no stronger connection”

Sasha returned to WWE with a vengeance. She came back for everything that had ever been taken from her and Bayley was on that list. Her partner and team mate had been separated from her after Wrestlemania. That was why she was irritated during the backstage interview that night. Not only was she watching Becky Lynch, carry the title she wants but she also has to endure Becky tagging with her best friend.

Bayley is the only person Sasha has ever cared about. Last year she said she would always love Bayley. Even before what transpired at the end of the match, you could see her concern for Bayley when she got thrown out of the ring by Nikki. So when Bayley took the chair from her, Sasha didn’t understand. To her, it seemed like her best friend wasn’t on her side anymore. But Bayley stayed loyal and finished the job for her.

“My Hero”

Sasha has always called Bayley her hero. And Bayley has been her hero - protecting her from getting hurt and even putting her own body on the line to save Sasha. But Bayley has also protected her in another way. Bayley knew Sasha had been fighting back this side of her we’ve been seeing lately. Bayley was the one stopping her from returning to her old ways. Whenever Sasha would lose her temper, Bayley would calm her down. She knew that once she let it out, there would be no going back. So not only was she always protecting Sasha from harm, she was protecting The Boss from herself. Look at the damage Sasha has done since she returned. What she did and said to Natalya was unforgivable. She has been ruthless because she was on her own. The door has been opened and the only person who can close it is Bayley. Which is why when Bayley snatched the chair from Sasha, it didn’t just look like she was saving Becky, it was like she was once again saving Sasha from herself.

But that wasn’t the case. Bayley has changed. She supports the depravity now. She encouraged Sasha to attack Charlotte on Smackdown. Even Sasha was surprised. All this time she had been trying to be “good” because she didn’t want to lose Bayley. But now she knows her best friend sees the real her and still loves her. Now she’s going to be unstoppable.

Loyalty

While Sasha is finally showing her true colours, Bayley has evolved. Ever since she got on Smackdown, she’s shown a more a more aggressive side. Being this way has helped her accomplish so much over the past couple of months. And though her partnership with Sasha toughened her up and made her wiser, she’s been on this path alone. But she’s always going to have Sasha’s back no matter what. She proved that when she attacked Becky. But was it all about Sasha?

“If you don’t understand me by now...”

This descent into darkness began months ago. It all started after they lost the tag team titles and Sasha left WWE. The night after Wrestlemania, Bayley had a match with Alexa. Throughout that match Alexa mocked her for losing the belts, and you could see how frustrated Bayley was. Then she did something she had never done before. Something very out of character for her. She tried to cheat to win. It didn’t work out and she lost the match, but that was the first sign. Even Corey Graves pointed it out: “Isn’t she supposed to be the hero and the role model?” Losing the tag titles did something to Sasha and Bayley. It made Sasha return to her old ways and something snapped inside Bayley.

That’s why she has been so very aggressive when people doubt her. Whether it’s pushing Charlotte off a chair, smacking a drink out of Alexa’s hand, or hitting Nikki Cross first, Bayley hasn’t taken anyone’s crap since Wrestlemania. Pushing Sonya and Mandy off of the ladder, sucker-punching Charlotte and getting even with Ember are not things the old Bayley would have done. She was frustrated when she lost the tag titles and she’s frustrated now as she’s trying to prove that she deserves to be the Smackdown Women’s Champion. All of this has been building up inside of her. Like a ticking timebomb. So when she saw the opportunity to not only show her loyalty to Sasha, but to let it all out, she took it.

She’s been going down this dark path on her own for a while and Sasha just happens to be along for the ride now. Its not just about being loyal to Sasha. It’s about being better than Charlotte and being treated like Becky. It’s about being respected. She has always wanted people to take her seriously and now she’s going to force them to. But how far is she willing to go?

“Think about the kids”

The next night Bayley came out with smiles and the Bayley-Buddies like normal. After all nothing has changed, to her. Her promo on Smackdown revealed two things we already know: that she’s loyal to Sasha and she’s a role model. She’s trying to teach kids about loyalty. She doesn’t think anything she’s done is wrong. She’s always been the good guy, the role model, the hero. She doesn’t understand why people don’t get that. To her, she’s not the villain here, Charlotte is.

Charlotte also said something that stuck out that night: “what you see is what you get”. You know what to expect when it comes to Charlotte. And that used to be applicable to Bayley. But now you have this person with a very child-friendly aesthetic hitting people first and attacking them with weapons. It’s almost like the Firefly Funhouse, everything is “supposed” seem cute and perfect but you know it’s not. That unsettling feeling you get is because you know there’s darkness underneath. That’s what’s happening with Bayley right now and it makes her an even more interesting character. She’s unpredictable. Sasha didn’t know what Bayley was going to do when she took the chair out of her hands. She also didn’t expect Bayley to encourage her the next night on Smackdown. People think Sasha is going to betray her sooner or later, now that she’s changed, Bayley might end up being the traitor.

Heroes and Villains

So what’s happening with Bayley? She’s not the ‘babyface’ anymore but she doesn’t “look” like the typical heel. Why? Because she’s delusional. She still sees herself as the hero despite her recent actions.

Is she still the hero but just isn’t playing by the book anymore? No, it’s way more complicated than that. She’s become self-righteous. Comparing herself to Charlotte shows that. Like “hey I know it looks like I’m doing some bad stuff but at least I’m not Charlotte, right?” She has become a hypocrite. And she’s somewhat aware of it. If she was still connected to her moral compass she wouldn’t align herself with Sasha, she would be trying to stop her. She’s living in this state of semi-denial.

But does that make her the “bad guy”? After all, she cares about elevating her title and she still cares about kids. And if Bayley is the bad guy here, what does that mean for Charlotte? Charlotte the evil Queen is definitely not the one we’re supposed to root for in this story, right? It all just shows people can be more than one thing.

It seems like WWE is slowly moving away from the labels of babyfaces and heels. Look at Becky Lynch who starts fights and insults everyone. Does that make her a bad guy? Then we have Sasha Banks who says heartless things to people and does whatever she can to hurt them, yet still has a soft spot for Bayley. That doesn’t make her actions inexcusable. Even Alexa Bliss who used to only look out for herself has evolved. Now she shows concern for Nikki and even saves her when she’s in trouble. These characters aren’t one-dimensional anymore. Things aren’t as black and white as they used to be. And Bayley is an example of that. Right now, she’s somewhere in the middle. She’s not ‘good’ but she’s not ‘evil’. Not yet.

#sasha banks #bayley #boss n hug connection #wwe #becky lynch #charlotte flair #alexa bliss #firefly funhouse #meta #think piece #text post

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capsized-heart · 5 years

Text

Little Lamb

Pairing: vampire!Wanda Maximoff x Reader, incubus!Quentin Beck x Reader

Summary: Your simple life in the Sokovian countryside is no more. The events of a single night disrupt the natural order of your world. God is silent. He always is.

Word count: 4k+

Warnings: (oh boy..) violence, blood, gore, sacrilegious imagery, explicit smut

A/N: This is my entry for @thewritingdoll‘s freaky500 writing challenge! Congrats on 500 followers! <3 I wish I could have finished this before yesterday’s deadline, especially before Halloween since this shit is so dark aha

I had a lot of fun with this! I honestly wish I could have done more bc I could write about Wanda and Quentin forever..I feel like I had to restrain myself a bit. I really like how both Wanda and Quentin can see someone’s deepest fears and thought that dynamic would be really cool for an au.

I was also inspired to write this after seeing this beautiful moodboard by @tohomorii...you honestly killed it with that Wanda vampire aesthetic.

using the quote prompt, “He’s covered in blood again. Why is it he’s always covered in blood?” -harry potter and the half blood prince

Sokovia, 17th century.

Dawn breaks with rosy hues and warm, vibrant gold. The soft, streaky clouds of early autumn float lazily by, stippling the sky with pinks and baby blues. Your eyes follow a flock of blackbirds as they flicker across a patch of sunlit horizon in a melodious chortle, climbing and climbing beyond to lofty heavens. You smile.

Your purse jingles with the sound of newfound coin. You’ve had a productive morning at market, having left your family homestead yesterday afternoon for the day’s ride. You’d sold your stock of bread and eggs to Ms. Ryba, homemade jams to old Dmitri, trading your other goods for the groceries mother had asked of you. As a surprise, you’d also purchased a small leatherbound book for your papa, a new piece of stitching work and silks for mama. Gifts carefully wrapped in linen and secured in your saddlebag, a small bit of happiness glowing in the crook of your ribs. Your heart feels full. You finger the crucifix around your neck.

Times have been hard for you and your family. This summer’s harvest had been exceptionally low with heat and droughts. Money has never been a luxury and you’ve been broken with the disciplines of how to bargain hard, conserve, safeguard, and how to put the needs of your parents before your own.

These gifts will bring favor and approval to their eyes. A godly daughter. Honor thy father and thy mother.

You tilt your face upwards to the flushed morning, relish the fresh breeze tickling your skin and murmur a quick prayer of thanks.

O God, who hast folded back the mantle of the night to clothe us in the golden glory of the day, chase from our hearts all gloomy thoughts, and make us glad with the brightness of hope, that we may effectively aspire to unwon virtues, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

You ride atop Iryna, your family’s tender Carpathian pony now weighed down with your spoils, and watch the fields of your homeland ripple in red and honey light. Even Iryna seems to sense your good mood as her head bobs with her quick gait. You balance a basket of apples in your lap, a reward that you had purchased for her (and for yourself) after a long day’s journey.

This is a safe country, not at all uncommon for young peasant girls to ride to market alone. Broad plains and cut mountains, you’d passed your closest neighbors about ten miles back, welcome solitude on each homestead.

You like to spend your time on these rides daydreaming of riding in a royal procession as princess, or as cavalry returning from battle abroad. How you would be welcomed back home to your kingdom!

Smoke curls from your cottage chimney as the edge of your family’s property comes into view. You squeeze your heels against Iryna in encouragement and she trots faster, the promise of a waiting breakfast and the smiles of your mother and father urging you forward.

The smell of hay and manure greets you as you lead Iryna into the barn. You adjust your skirts, woolen tunic, riding cloak, and wimplet before dismounting, careful not to catch anything on your saddle or packages. You slide off Iryna’s bridle and feed her an apple, rubbing soothing circles into her neck as she devours the fruit, snorting happily.

You give her fresh feed, change her water, quickly removing your tack and supplies and turn her out into the pasture, whispering a promise to give her a thorough brushing later. She gallops away with a swish of her tail. With your arms full of supplies and balancing your bushel of apples, you kick through dust and dirt and enter your cottage.

You’re about to call out to your mama when your voice stops in your throat. The nauseating stench of rot fills your nose, familiar and ominous, like when papa slaughters the chickens for winter stock. Only this time it’s inside your home.

Your arms go limp and your packages fall to the floor in a muffled thud of wrapped paper. Apples bounce, scatter, rolling through soot and blood.

Your father lies crumpled, his strong body disfigured in a tangle of limbs. His skull has been crushed into a crown of grey matter and gore, leaking like tears down the planes of his face. His eyes and mouth hang open in a frozen, silent scream, twisted skyward in agony. Protectively draped over your mother in his final moments.

Your mother is spread-eagled with her throat slit open and her veil stuffed into her mouth, rosary beads crudely circled tight around her wrists in manacles. Her skirts have been torn, bunched around her thighs and you see violet bruises in the shape of hands.

You stumble to the hearth and wretch up bile and water. You heave, vomit, tears stinging your eyes and mucus dribbling down your chin until there is nothing left in your stomach but a wriggling pit of nerves. You can’t breathe, can’t think. Strength evaporates from your body and you sink in front of the cooling embers of the fireplace.

You look to the bodies of your parents. You don’t bother trying to feel for a pulse. You are numb.

You stay beside them until the light outside turns bleak and grey, until your legs ache from kneeling on hard wooden floor for countless hours. Slowly, finally, you wipe your mouth, lift yourself up.

You find the scythe used to harvest wheat. It feels good and heavy in your hands, makes you feel strong. You make rounds to the rest of the property with it tight in your grip.

Your homestead has been completely ransacked. What livestock that hasn’t been stolen lies dead, slain and swarmed by flies. You’re left with one cow, six chickens, two goats, and Iryna.

You salvage whatever raw materials you can. You return the scythe back to the shed, unused, the sharp, pristine metal gleaming a cool blue. Part of you had hoped that the intruders still lurked about. Maybe then you could have descended upon them with all the silent wrath of Jael, as she had killed Sisera.

You whistle a low blast. Iryna trots over to you, nuzzles your hand for another treat. It makes you smile and fresh tears to drip down your cheeks. You wonder if she can sense anything awry, sense that your entire world has been violently turned on its head. You don’t think you’ll ever crave apples again.

They’ll only taste of sin.

It takes you well into the night to dig two deep holes. The ground is frigid with frost and your breath clouds, fogging the air as you work the soil in an eerie echo of familiar, mundane times. Instead of the sun, the moon guides your hand. Instead of toiling the fields to lay in crops, you prepare the graves of your mother and father.

Sweat slicks your skin, dirt streaking down your neck and arms. The moon has dipped below the hillside when you finish, plunging you in complete darkness. You thrust the spade into the ground.

You are not strong enough to carry the bodies of your parents. You will have to tie them to Iryna and bring them here to the fields. But you cannot tonight with the last of the moonlight gone.

And tomorrow is the day of the Sabbath, your holy day of rest. You will have to wait to bury them.

You hug yourself tight. From the cold, from the juvenile fear of death and despair.

Did Christ not feel this way upon the cross? Abandoned by his own father? Alone?

And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" that is, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

You rise late. Fatigue still sits deep in your bones when you go and collect eggs and milk for your breakfast. You step over your mother and father. Splattered blood, now dry, ring around their heads in crimson halos.

You spend the day idly. You read the book you had bought for your father, practice your stitching with the embroidery hoop and silks meant for your mother. You heat water for a bath and sprinkle in some of the salts and oils she kept tucked away in her bedroom. You wash away tears and dirt and grime.

You relish the hot water as it seeps into your tense muscles, watch the milky surface ripple around your limbs. The cottage is quiet and seems to settle around you.

You were always the last to bathe out of your small family. You would be told to fetch and heat the water, waiting until your father finished, then your mother. By the time it was your turn, the bathwater was always cold and dirty. You were not allowed to change it out as it was costly and a waste of time. You would be quick to rinse.

Now, you sit until your fingers becomes wrinkled and pruny, your skin and hair fragranced with the smell of rose petals and lavender. There is no one to scold you to hurry up.

Iryna watches over you as you pack the last of the dirt over the burials. You’re both exhausted. You finish at midday. You finger the crucifix around your neck.

O God, grant unto us, in this dying life, that peace for which we humbly pray, and hereafter to attain unto everlasting joy in Thy presence; through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

You pass your days in solitude and in fear. You wonder if the bandits will return. It makes you pray harder, harder than you have in your entire life. You ask for forgiveness, for protection, for salvation.

The windy autumn nights bring chills and unease. The windows rattle in their frames, the cottage groans, and the goats bleat in the pressing darkness.

Visions of your murdered parents dance behind your eyelids. A crown of gore, blood red tears, suffocating rosary beads. The possibility of specters and demons and Satan’s lurking servants seem to hide behind each darkened corner. The homestead feels too vast, too isolating. You feel yourself slowly going mad, every howl of curling wind making you shudder in your cot.

You ask for companionship. A friend to share company.

A young woman’s voice calls out to you. The day is abnormally warm and you’re hanging laundry to dry in the sun when you first lay eyes on her.

She wears a riding cloak and veil, a pretty woolen dress of fine cardinal fabric. Her hair falls in loose waves down to her chest, catching the sunlight in a gleam of muted copper.

She leads the most magnificent looking horse you’ve ever seen. A towering black Clydesdale that stands eighteen hands high with a glossy coat and tail, powerful muscles moving with every stride. Curiously, you see no saddle or tack, only the leather bridle she uses to guide him.

When you approach her, the young woman asks if you are master of the house. You respond with, yes. She smiles and takes your hands in hers, inquiring if she may stay for a few nights before continuing her journey to the next town. She says she will pay you with coin and labor, with whatever help you may need around the property.

The gesture surprises you. Travelers are few in this stretch of country and your family has never housed one before. But, you think of how turning this woman away would mean another day’s ride for her until she reached the next homestead. As you’ve understood, these trails are no longer safe. Especially for a young woman riding alone.

When you agree to offer her lodging, she blesses you with another radiant smile and kisses your cheeks. It’s enduring, warms your heart and tingles your fingers still laced with her own.

As promised, Wanda helps you with your chores. She does not ask about your family or parents or why a young girl of your age could indeed be master of a homestead all by herself. You do not ask why a beautiful woman is traveling alone. Instead, she carefully listens to your instructions and assists you perfectly.

You’ve just finished gathering firewood when the two of you head to the barn to tend to your few and precious livestock. You muck out stalls, change hay and water. Wanda’s Clydesdale watches you from one of the extra stalls you’ve placed him in.

When Wanda tries to lead out Iryna, she flinches away and flattens her ears in a shrill whinny. It catches you both off guard and you quickly take the rope from Wanda’s hands before Iryna can hurt herself, placating her with a low hush.

“She does not like me.” Wanda frowns. It’s charmingly youthful, makes her look like a pouting child.

“She is not used to strangers,” you soothe, smiling gently. You return Iryna to her stall and slide the door shut. “What is your Clydesdale’s name?” You ask.

Wanda’s mood seems to lift instantly and you catch a glimmer in her hazel eyes. “Paimon,” she tells you. “Paimon is friendly to everyone, especially strangers. But, he loves pretty girls most of all.”

Later, you invite her into your home and the two of you relax your tired bones by the evening fire.

The days grow cold and dark. You and Wanda now share the bed of your late parents, bigger and warmer than your own. You awake each glowing morning with her slender arms wrapped tight around your waist, her face buried into the crook of your neck.

For warmth, you tell yourself.

Her sighs, her moans in sleep stir something in the pit of your stomach.

You’re unsure of what other reason you would prefer.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

Wind and rain whistle against the glass panes of your cottage. It is a dreary, bleak morning of storm, one that has forced you and Wanda to remain inside. A fire crackles in the hearth and throws dancing shadows along the walls. You sit and read while Wanda busies herself with housework. It is the first time you’ve felt peace in months.

She returns from the pantry, setting down her washcloth and bucket with a faint groan. You look up.

Warm, flickering light highlights the skin of her collarbones and cheeks. Wanda has plaited back her hair to keep it out of her eyes, save for a few wispy strands that fall to frame her face.

You swallow, enraptured.

She catches you staring and her irises seem to glow brighter with firelight. She turns slowly, sauntering towards you with measured, delicate steps.

“Little one, didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s impolite to stare?” she whispers. She walks until she is flush against you and the fabric of her dress brushes your toes. Without looking away, she eases the book out of your hands and sets it facedown on the table. Your father’s bible.

Your mouth dries up, your pulse hammers.

Wanda tilts her head, her expression clouding. Then, she sinks to her knees to straddle you completely, arms winding around your neck.

“Sweet girl, when I ask you a question, I expect a response.”

Her fingers trace your jaw, looking down at you with a stern, flinty gaze. You find your hands holding the swell of her hips, pulling her closer.

“Those who see you will stare and wonder, ‘Is this the man who made the world tremble and shook up kingdoms?’” you recite into the ever closing gap between your mouths. She sighs, high and breathless, feel her overheated body slowly start to move against you.

Your lips and tongue meet in a tangled kiss. Your first. She tastes of myrtle and honeyed milk. You feel yourself falling when you gently cup this young woman’s face in your hands, kissing and touching and her fingers lustfully twisting into the nape of your neck. Dizzy, ashamed. Your skin is on fire.

You think of Lucifer’s wings burning away as He hurtled towards earth.

“I’m so thirsty, my love. Thirsty for you,” Wanda gasps. Her pupils are blown impossibly wide, ringed in red. Her canines glint in the darkness. “Will you let me drink?”

You remember Iryna’s skittishness, Wanda’s beast of a horse, Paimon. No saddle, no luggage. A lone, beautiful woman wandering the countryside with exquisite eyes and sharp, sharp teeth. A devil in masquerade who never intended to leave.

Slowly, you untie the strings of your dress’s blouse and expose your shoulders, the dip of your chest. Wanda’s lips part hungrily, the shadow of her eyelashes fluttering like feathers.

She sets you back and runs her fingers over the thin skin of your neck. Her touch is smooth, gentle. Then, she leans over you, keeping you still with a single hand wrapped deliciously around your throat, pressing you deeper into the wooden chair.

The bite of teeth, then white pleasure. Your vision rolls and you writhe against her in a fit of sighs and otherworldly bliss. Suction, flickering tongue, the obscene sounds of her mouth devouring you whole. You moan, cage her against your body and you hear her chuckle.

Blood trails down her throat and drips between her breasts when she finally sits back, sated. Half-lidded eyes gazing down at you with more love and adoration than you’ve ever known.

You are her blessed wine.

Take this, all of you, and drink from it,

for this is the chalice of my Blood,

the Blood of the new and everlasting covenant,

which will be shed for you and for all

so that sins may be forgiven.

Do this in memory of me.

“Amen.” she murmurs with a kiss.

God is silent. He always is.

Wanda pulls you atop her. She cradles your face, smooths back your hair as she looks up at you in the silvered morning light.

“Little one, would you like to live forever?”

The question takes you by surprise, makes you pause. She takes the opportunity to kiss your fingertips, arch her hips into you. It makes your breath hitch, but your mind is clear.

“As long as it’s with you.”

She grins, gleaming and bright, the first glimpse of sun you’ve seen in this godforsaken autumn.

“Oh, my sweet little bride, my princess of night.” she sighs.

“Yes,” you whimper.

She gazes into your mind and sees what you’ve always wanted.

Wanda prepares for the ritual that very evening. Candles, parchment, a single serrated knife.

She bathes the two of you in the shared tub, washes your hair and cleanses you, a mock baptism with soap and scented oils. Her fingers wander, coaxing pleasure as you lean back against her.

Finally, she guides you to the bed when the world outside stands cold, silent, watching, at the cusp between night and day.

Wanda eases your finger between her lips and pricks the skin with the point of her teeth. Her eyes flutter before reluctantly removing it, a string of saliva following suit. You watch the single bead of blood bloom and sign the parchment with a steady hand.

Cold air brushes your cheeks, skin tingling as if touched, breath in your ear. You feel your vision haze in and out of focus, a foreign sensation overcoming your body.

Then, a young man appears before you. He’s tall and lean and handsomely bearded, dark hair curling against his forehead, down the tufts of his chest and arms. His eyes, green and glimmering, inspect you carefully, tracing every curve of your exposed skin. You feel achingly vulnerable, pinned.

Your eyes trail lower and lower until…

You find that he is completely bare. You flush and turn to hide your face into Wanda’s shoulder. She chuckles, gently takes your chin in her hand and tilts your gaze back onto him.

“This is the flesh of Adam, sweet one,” she murmurs. “It is not shameful to lust. Did God not create man in his own image?”

Wanda reaches out her other hand in offering and the man takes it, lowers himself onto the bed. There is an air of familiarity between the two of them as they share a kiss of greeting.

“Welcome, Quentin.” she hums. She fondly runs her thumb along his cheek and he leans into her touch. Quentin’s eyes then flicker to you.

“Is this my gift?” he asks. His voice is soft, sweet like honey. Wanda hums again. Quentin smiles warmly, looking you up and down. Your blood ignites.

With one hand on both of your faces, she guides you and Quentin together. He kisses you, surprisingly soft and gentle, cradling your jaw with a touch that makes your stomach flutter. You hear Wanda moving, feel her touch.

Some of the tension wound tight in your shoulders evaporates with Wanda beside you. It encourages you to be braver, bolder as you kiss the incubus back more urgently, touch his skin. Quentin responds with a purr and tangles a hand in your hair, mouthing at your neck, tracing your puncture wounds with a soothing, possessive tongue.

He draws you upon his lap, still pulled flush against him and the heat of him so close to the most intimate part of your anatomy makes you timid, afraid.

“Relax, lamb.” he whispers. “Enjoy this, enjoy us.”

The broad touch of his fingers against you makes you mewl in surprise. Wanda hushes you with a soft kiss, takes one of your hands in hers. Quentin’s palm rests on the plane of your stomach, his other easing into where you’re most aching and tight, where a man’s strong touch has never breached.

He slowly guides your hips upon his hand, until his fingers glisten with your slick and your body starts to warm with the glow of angelfire.

“Keep going, little lamb,” Quentin urges into your ear. “You know how, don’t you? Those lonely nights when your parents lay fast asleep abed?”

You moan. Indeed you do. Nights where darkness was most suffocating and you prayed that God would turn a blind eye to your lust.

You shatter with the heat of hell rain. With your body still clenching and fluttering, Quentin lays you out beneath him, his eyes darker, lips turned up into a sly smile. You’re breathless.

He feels cold when he enters you, a sensation you would have least expected from a creature molded by burning sin and Lucifer’s fire. Yet, it pushes your poor, mortal flesh to the thresholds of pleasure and you reach for Wanda, keening. Wanda slinks closer and pushes your hair out of your eyes.

“How does she feel?”

“Like a dream,” Quentin moans, laughing. “You want Wanda and I both, lamb? I can see it in your mind’s eye. So needy, you are. I’ll give you what you want, lamb. You’re doing so good for me.”

You don’t remember waking up. A blood moon hangs in the sky.

You feel the lull of pleasure, of Quentin’s lush curls buried between your thighs. Your fingers catch on horns, his velvety tongue forked as it slips into you.

Your world blurs around you, dreamlike.

Again, you reach for Wanda and she laces your fingers together with a smile, kisses your damp forehead.

“Is this real?” you moan into her neck.

“As real as your God, sweet one. Are you ready to come home?”

You nod, drowsy with euphoria. You see Wanda take up the silver knife and again, you offer your hand.

You wince when she slices open your palm, watch the blood seep over and down your arm in great drops. Quentin lifts his head from between your legs, intoxicatingly beautiful with shining lips and heat in his eyes. He keeps his gaze on you as he drives into you again, as your hand stains his chest and neck with crimson, ravishing you again and again. You feel Wanda’s tongue and then the bite of her fangs.

You arch, reborn with the blessing of immortality and pressed between two demons.

You wonder how many times these two have completed a ritual like this, with Quentin’s powerful body covered in virgin’s blood.

His blessed cup.

And the Lamb will overcome them, because He is Lord of lords and King of kings, and those who are with Him are the called and chosen and faithful.

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raph-peruggia · 4 years

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Funeral Pyre

Hey all!!!! love you tots and to anyone who’s still around and interested here’s Raph’s final selfpara. I wrote this a long time ago and was waiting for a good moment in his overarching plot to post it but I guess now is as good a time as any!!! I just want to say thank you all for being so lovely all these months, especially you Jess. You are a wonderful mod!! This was a great experience and I had so much fun. Please feel free to keep in touch via discord #3021 of my blog gloopyboop. TW are below the cut

TW abuse, unhealthy relationship with an abuser, burning, referenced self-harm, death, murder

The day arrives as all do. The sun rises. People wake up and slowly fill the world with their noise. Raph does not wake up. He hasn’t slept. He simply rises.

There is practice and class and homework. He should attend to all of these things. Their team is caught in the middle of the championships season. He should train, but he does not. For the first time since his arrival at Palmetto, Raph willingly misses morning practice. He feeds the cat and spends more time than necessary running his hand over the soft fur of her back until she’s a warm purring ball beneath his hand. When that is over he leaves the dorm. He walks off campus and into the city.

He stops only to buy a pack of cigarettes at the nearest corner store. He only needs one but he cannot bring himself to ask for one from one of his teammates. He doesn’t want to steal one either. Not for this.

“You’ll end up in an early grave,” the clerk warns him as he slides a cardboard box full of Marlboros across the counter.

He doubts that cigarettes will be the thing to kill him young. He does not express that sentiment to the beady-eyed man behind the counter. He takes the pack and drops the money on the counter. He leaves without a word.

Palmetto is too much. The sun beats down too hot here, there are too many people, too much of their static. There’s nowhere to be well and truly alone in this place. Raph heads towards the woods.

He picks the flowers along the way. Spring has hit the world full force and there are plenty of garden boxes in the city and even more flowers scattered across campus. He wrenches them up from the dirt as he walks, fistfuls of yellow and white and orange blossoms. It’s not a pretty arrangement but Raph doubts the aesthetics of it will be of consequence. She will not care. She can’t. The walk is without a real destination. The goal is simply to put as much space as possible between himself and other people. He needs to be alone for this. He walks and he walks until the path disappears and the trees grow so tightly together that he’s got to squeeze his way through the underbrush to make any forward progress.

Finally, he comes upon a clearing and he decides it is as good a place as any. He can no longer tell what direction Palmetto is in. The sun sits high in the sky and provides him no help. It’s quiet in a way that is almost oppressive. It’s the silence of being well and truly alone.

It is so green here. Raph’s so used to cities and their and dirt and grime. She probably was as well. That idea doesn’t merit further thought. He will never find out and it will never matter. She might have found it beautiful here, in the warmth and the shade, the canopy above cutting the sunlight apart until it falls like shards of gold on the ground, but that too is something that does not matter. It might have once but now it never will. There is nothing left of her in this world but the burned remains of a body that she used to live in.

Because of him.

He lights the cigarette and props it up between two smooth grey stones. He shakes the last of the dirt off the of the flowers and places them in front of it and then he sits, staring at the tiny, spartan alter he’s created. This is what he does, every year, without fail. He is not sure why. It’s a pointless ceremony with no significance to her. A family member or a lover would have performed this ritual with more fanfare, incense or better flowers or a real grave. Raph is not her family. He did not know her and he did love her and he does not know what she would have wanted to be done on the anniversary of her death. He only knows that someone has to mourn her. Her life had to have held some sort of significance that lasts beyond that night on the docks, his knife flying into her throat without hesitation or remorse.

He does not regret killing her. It is more than likely that she would have killed him and Frank if given the opportunity. Only one of them could have survived their encounter, him or her but not both. He doubts she would have wasted time regretting his death if she’d been the victor that night. But she is still dead, because of him. He still killed her. He owes her something for all the years she will not have. “My apologies,” Raph says to the trail of smoke that is crawling slowly skyward from the lit end of the cigarette. She cannot hear him but it should be said anyway, to the empty air and the smoke and Raph himself. “I did not know what I was taking from you when I killed you...or maybe I knew but I did not fully appreciate it.” He pulls his legs up to his chest in a rare and private display of vulnerability. “I’ve had the chance to experience things I never would have if I had not survived that night.” Palmetto. Michael Cheng. Exy. Companionship. Warmth. Lucas Ervine. The Foxes and the Vixens and all of the light. “For that, I suppose I should be grateful. I am grateful. I doubt it was your intention, or that you’d even be happy to know this, but I did receive all of this because of you.” He sighs, moving to readjust the flowers, picking away few of the more bruised and crumpled blossoms and tossing them to the side until a smaller, but more pristine bouquet remains.

“This apology means nothing. It is worth nothing. I doubt you or anyone who loved you would find any value or comfort in it but-” He looks again at the cigarette, the lit orange tip of it. He works his mouth for a moment. They’d been mirror images of each other on that day, two hollow people ready to kill to get what they wanted.

But he isn’t hollow anymore. He’d been allowed that chance because of her. And she- “The man who raised me used to use these when he wanted me to remember something,” he says, picking up the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. He looks into it, into the orange flame until white spots dance across the black of his eyelids whenever he blinks. “He liked to make scars. He said that I could feel every scar I ever had and I’d remember every lesson I’d ever learned. My skin would be a chronology of my own mistakes.”

He turns his free arm over to look at the soft skin of his inner forearm. The space just above the fold of his elbow is populated by a series of burns. They’re the only ones on his body that someone bothered to keep in order. Three neat rows, 14 in all. The final row is slightly shorter than the two below it, one burn shy of completion. “Sometimes he’d tell me to do it to myself.” Raph squints at his arm, at the empty space that sits at the end of the third row, waiting. “I never told him this but I cannot remember what most of them are for. The lessons he was trying to teach me with them.” He sets the cigarette back down in its place, tucked between two stones across a mound of flowers. “I only remember the burning.” He swallows and for only a moment his throat feels tight and his eyes sting. It passes him by in the space of a breath. He does not cry. “I’m not sorry that I killed you,” He says after a moment. Smoke trickles slowly upward from the lit end of the cigarette. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound. “But I am sorry that you never had a chance to stop burning.” She was burning. He knows this with a bone-deep kind of certainty. She must have been to have reached them on that dock, her eyes just as empty as his. “Thank you. For giving me mine.” He’s finished talking. He sits in silence until the cigarette burns down to ash. He waits until even the very last ember winks slowly out. He leaves the rest of the pack on top of the flowers when he leaves. He walks away and he does not look back.

#abuse #unhealthy relationship with an abuser #burning #referenced self-harm #death #murder #ITS BEEN A GOOD RUN YALL BLESS UP #IM NOT CRYING UR CRYING

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jirarhenare · 6 years

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WRITER AESTHETICS: J’ira Rhenare

JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets . flowers in the rain . sunlight slipping through clouds . lazy summer afternoons . the heavy scent of musk . flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books . fireflies on a cool summer night . being wrapped in fresh bedsheets . the ache of wanting what you can never have . dripping sunlight like gold . loving someone so exquisite . soft lips and soft whispers . fingers through hair . names of lovers carved in trees .broken glass . the insistence of being perpetually dreamy

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. mahogany wood . crisp winter skies with cold bright stars . the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog . empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room . pale bruised arms reaching out into the darkness . cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of blood, dirt . alcohol . a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered . a bad thunderstorm occurring at the end of a beautiful day . the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment . your favorite sweater . parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing .the contrast of blood against snow . a purple split lip oozing blood . black eyes fading to blue to pale skin . the butterflies of falling in love for the first time . the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries . the romanticization of self-destruction

FRANZ KAFKA. the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future . decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there . the way not even light can escape a black hole . the rich smell of old books . delicate veins in the wrist . ghosts filling lungs . shattered bones . raindrops on the tongue . rusting metal . nostalgia that aches . the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head

H.P. LOVECRAFT. the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave . pouring rain and mud . a child’s fear of the dark . thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never ending ocean . the silence of three a.m. . danse macabre by camille saint-saens playing on a record in an empty house . the possibility of aliens and the weird feeling it gives you that you can’t explain . explainable phenomena, strange lights in the sky in the dead of night . ouija boards and urban legends

JACK KEROUAC. the brisk pine air of being on a mountain . travels without a destination . those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory . screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive . coffee shops late at night . car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark . naps spent in the sun . novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins . the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders . ignoring flaws and loving life . wind through hair, depression as fog in the brain . impossible ideals . a quiet sunrise . walks alone . when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe . dazzling people . open lands stretching out into infinity . falling in love with being alive

EDGAR ALLAN POE. the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog . hollow bones . a preserved heart held in hands . twinkling stars above an old graveyard . the way everything turns to dust . silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom . self-inflicted flames . perfection depicted as a rotting corpse . death as bricks in the heart . lips barely brushing against each other . glassy glazed eyes . biting into a lemon . heart-shaped bruises . rotting flowers on a grave . dried blood and spilled liquor . the hush of dusk when it begins raining . the intimacy of a secret

tagged by: @sibutum tagging: @jserin-tia @avraiya @thegodnameddream @breathing-embers @mazinkhin @loslorien @seiunuyagir @ranirus @zhivaan

#x. meme #x. meme: answered

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parkerbombshell · 4 years

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Stereo Embers The Podcast: Hamish Anderson

Thursday's 2pm-3pm EST 11pm-12pm PDT 7pm-8pm BST bombshellradio.com stereoembersmagazine.com Stereo Embers Magazine #StereoEmbers, #podcast, #RadioShow, #AlexGreen, #NewMusic ,#Nowplaying, #BombshellRadio, #HamishAnderson “I Started Listening To All These Dead People” Relax. In the above quote Hamish Anderson isn’t talking about taking directives from those beyond the grave. He’s talking about how when he was a kid he discovered the blues and Charlie Chaplin and Alfred Hitchcock and his love of the past began informing his personal aesthetic of the present. In this interview the Australian-born blues guitarist talks to Alex about his love of history, his friendship with Gary Clark Jr. and his willingness to explore any musical genre. They also talk about hearing the White Album for the first time, the brilliance of Prince, what makes Ringo Starr a great drummer and the advice he would give a young musician. Read the full article

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manizeh · 7 years

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tagged by: @rising-ember, @luxelen

Manizeh Aurumstan

Faceclaim; searching for a new one

Appearance -

Gender: Female

Race: Human; Elonian

Height: Tall

Eye Color: Golden Brown

Hair Color: Dark Brown

Age: 25

The Facts -

Name Day: 62 Scion (August 31)

Occupation: Scholar, Botanist, Proprietor

Sexual identification: Heterosexual

Romantic identification: Monogamous

Alignment: Lawful Evil

Criminal History: None

Relationship Status: In a relationship with @eman-massoud

Sweet on: Eman Massoud, Haidn Kalkorzan

Favorites –

Treat: Chocolate

Drink: Jasmine Tea

Artist: Elonians

Scent: Lavender

Person: Kalonah Valdyr

Deeper Knowledge –

Ten Details:

Manizeh is more then capable of protecting herself with her mesmer magic, and is quite adept with creating powerful, detailed illusions of sights, sounds, and smells. She purposely holds back to appear weaker, to be underestimated in combat, but mostly to let others expend their energy for her.

Additionally, Manizeh is able to cast magic without a weapon or other foci. However, her illusions are far more powerful when a conduit is used.

Manizeh has really long hair. In its natural form, her hair is thick, curly and coiled. Yet, when straightened the ends reach just slightly above her lower back.

One of the first events I took Manizeh to was a fashion show in the Grove. It was there she was robbed by a charr. Although, she later got the money back, after reporting him to the event’s guards, she developed her lifelong hated of both Charr and Sylvari; blaming and associating the latter with the traumatic event.

Manizeh is one of five siblings. She has three brothers and one sister.

Coming from a large family, a household of thirteen, Manizeh desires to one day have such a family of her own with multiple children; at least four or five.

Manizeh sings! She has a low, hauntingly beautiful, almost gravely, voice. She weaves both magic and song together. And occasionally accompanies her singing with the harp.

Despite her prickly exterior, Manizeh is actually a very thoughtful and devoted person. She is very caring to those who have gained her trust.

As a member of the Durmand Priory, Manizeh is a published academic author several times over.

Manizeh doesn’t like flowers for their aesthetic appeal. As with all things in her life, she is interested in them for their usefulness. With the floral shop she rarely puts the arrangements together, that falls to her assistant. She started the business because a flower shop is unassuming, and nobles pay her good money; she often overcharges customers.

Five Things -

Things Preferred:

Elonians

Traveling & Exploring

Reading

Being in the water: swimming or taking a bath

Spending time with family

Things Disliked:

Non-Elonians

Tardiness

The Poor/Beggars

Being physically cold

Technology

Habits (Good or Bad):

Workaholic

Wanderlust

High-expectations for herself and others

Aloof

Gossips

Personalities Drawn To:

Ambitious

Confidence

Patience

Intelligence

Dedicated

Personality Repelled From:

Contentment

Hedonism

Impulsive

Passiveness

Laziness

Fears:

Being forgotten

She use to fear being disowned but that ended up happening.

Tagging: @akinyiazazi, @eman-massoud, @thelittleredminx, @elessar-volundir, @mirvolanchronicles, @saffronelli

#character sheet #Manizeh Aurumstan #this was really difficult for me #but thanks for the tags

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badbluebossbabe · 5 years

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Let Me Explain To You A Thing About Wrestling And Why You Should Watch It

(an essay by a new fan of two and a half years)

Sweaty men

Sweaty men wearing very little.

Sweaty men acting hyper-masculine and doing the gayest things.

I’m serious - wrestling is the gayest sport of all time.

Wrestling is like if dancing was hyper-aggressive and involved touching or being near people’s crotches/pants/speedos frequently.

SO MANY SPEEDOS

BEING WORN LIKE IT’S NBD

AND HIDING NOTHING.

Hyper-masculine men play fighting, grabbing pants, placing their opponents faces in their crotch, having their faces in crotches frequently, and pretending this is all Not Gay Stuff.

BUT! Kick-ass ladies kicking each other’s asses.

Ladies wrestling each other for realsies while looking mega cute.

Ladies wrestling each other for dominance because they fucking have it in them.

Ladies being stupid sexy and badass and moderately gay but in the best way because they wanted to.

Male wrestling is like that hyper-heterosexual man who is secretly gay but can’t possibly admit it because TESTOSTERONE.

Lady wrestling is like FUCK YOU IM AMAZING AND NOTHING IS STOPPING ME FROM BEING BETTER THAN YOU.

Lady wrestling is like, I respect you because together we are paving the way for the future of female wrestling but also IM GOING TO TEAR YOUR HAIR OFF AND SELL IT AS A WIG.

Lady wrestling is I can look hot AND destroy you.

Lady wrestling is not being able to tell if they’re gay or not because it fucking doesn’t matter, they’re wrestling because they deserve a place at the table goddammit.

The GIMMICKS. Everyone has one. Some they sell with ease (Ember Moon nails the she-wolf aesthetic, Bray Wyatt is a genius at being completely terrifying), and others are just stupid, funny (Miz being an ‘A-List Movie Star’ LOL, No Way Jose). And then there’s The New Day - it shouldn’t work but I’ll be damned if I am not delighted and dancing when they come out.

The entrance music to most of them is pretty great. My favorites are Roman Reigns’, Samoa Joe’s, and Finn Balor’s.

Probably the best thing ever is when the crowd is stirred up - their chants can really add to the story and they can get away with cussing on national television. They regularly say “Holy Shit” with absolute clarity, as well as “Asshole.” But they can be so endearing - I love when they chant “You deserve it.”

And then there’s the special case of Kurt Angle - a former heel - who was adopted the chant “YOU SUCK” at his entrance theme song and it was formerly chanted with all the fervor of a crowd who isn’t into you, but now, it’s chanted out of fondness and endearment and that’s pretty awesome.

Also the signs in the audience are definitely worth paying attention to. WWE fans give little to no fucks about anything.

I FORGOT - THE COMMENTATORS. Literally the best commentator ever is Corey Graves - retired WWE wrestler - who is a complete and total dick and entirely entertaining. He has predictable favorites whom he tries to validate and vindicate for entire wrestling matches and he loathes a few and slanders them for entire matches much to the ire of the other commentators at the table sometimes. Watching wrestling without Corey Graves’ completely biased commentating is wrestling not worth watching.

“Tell me, how much is the rent for your apartment on Sesame Street?” - A sick burn by Corey Graves that left me in stitches.

Come for the sweaty men/hot ladies, stick out the predictability, stay for the soap opera-iness of it all. It’s entertaining.

#Sorry i just wanted to talk about wrestling and this happened.

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beemansclub · 7 years

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Wrestling Tags Master Post

I’ve been gaining some followers, so if you need help navigating my wrestling head-space here ya go.

Singles

fight grumpy bear fight – Kevin Owens ➡️ high flyin murder bear – Kevin doing rope moves and/or being acrobatic ➡️ you are such a little shit and i live for it – Kevin being a turd sunshine bear cub – Sami Zayn / El Generico sourpuss has a tag – Seth Rollins / Tyler Black nui honu o ka naau – Roman Reigns dreadlocked swamp bear – Bray Wyatt yeti monster hurls a xmas tree – Braun Strowman ohno is hero – Kassius Ohno / Chris Hero bayley aka pure sunlight – Bayley murder lioness – Nia Jax asskicking cupcake – Candice LeRae dogg always be dancin – Road Dogg / BG James nxt dad – HHH aj the king of petulance – AJ Styles jack the gentleman – Jack Gallagher rudeboy neville – Neville / PAC halfdragon ember moon – Ember Moon prince mustafa – Mustafa Ali smol demon prince – Finn Balor / Prince Devitt gloriously roode – Bobby Roode queen heel – Steph McMahon what is it with you and elbows through the announce tables? – Shane McMahon everyone’s favorite omega – Kenny Omega aa and his banana – Austin Aries dolph gunn – Dolph Ziggler (he’ll always be Billy Gunn’s son to me) uncle samoa joe – Samoa Joe a perfect tye – Tye Dillinger tozawa – Akira Tozawa handsome rusev – Rusev glow queen – Naomi dutch antihero – Aliester Black / Tommy End trashy snarlboy – Pete Dunn mustache mountain the youger – Tyler Bate mustache mountain the elder – Trent Seven wolfie bear – Wolfgang villain☔️ – Marty Scurll adam bay bay – Adam Cole the greatest peacock – Dalton Castle ricochet👑 – Ricochet / Prince Puma dusty – Dusty Rhodes goldie – Golddust baby dream – Cody (Rhodes) / Stardust royal nattie cat – Natalya jimmy jacobs – Jimmy Jacobs kinshasa king – Shinsuke Nakamura not a cat (wo) – Will Ospreay takahashi and daryl – Hiromu Takahashi (and Daryl) tranquilo naito – Naito walking with elias – Elias (Sampson) thumbs up thumbs down – Sami Callihan / Soloman Crowe / Jeremiah Crane ruby riot – Ruby Riot hippie juice – Juice Robinson / CJ Parker philly boy gulak – Drew Gulak hottest dad – Joey Ryan no ham dar – Noam Dar foxycase – Alicia Fox he thinks his name is trent – Trent(?) Beretta chuckie t – Chuck Taylor mr crazy posture – Kyle O'Reilly fishie butt – Bobby Fish sterling graves – Corey Graves / Sterling James Keenan kogane no hoshi – Kota Ibushi we can roll – Rickey Shane Page / Christian Faith lil kazu – Okada Kazuchika cabana!!! – Colt Cabana lone wolf – Baron Corbin gresham 🐙🌈 –Jonathan Gresham penta – Pentagon Jr / Penta El Zero (0) M rising fenix – Fenix mjeff – MJF cedric – Cedric Alexander cien – Andrade Cien Almas ds david starr – David Starr jack sexsmith – Jack Sexsmith the lights not right for velveteen – Velveteen Dream / Patrick Clark pagefabe3.0 - Adam "Hangman" Page jersey bred fighter – Sonya Deville friesian clydesdale – Drew McIntyre tilly's bad boy – Joey Janela prince tana – Hiroshi Tanahashi tom tim philippe phillips – Tom Philips (WWE Commentator) deathmatch ref – Drake Wuertz / Drake Younger 316 – Stone Cold Steve Austin y2j – Chris Jericho brodie – Luke Harper / Brodie i like this boy who wrestles barefoot! – Matt Riddle star factory – Curt Hawkins / Brian Myers #zsj🇬🇧 – Zack Saber Jr miz the wiz – The Miz slam dancer – Zachary Wentz officer o'scare – Dan O'Hare

Teams and Groups

milk and honey tag team – Sheamus and Cesaro (Sheasaro) ➡️ cesaro is so underrated – Antonio Cesaro / Claudio Castagnoli ➡️ this irish idiot – Sheamus jeriko experiment – Chris Jericho and Kevin Owens storyline ➡️➡️ crash and burn ending – JeriKO (Festival of Friendship and after) ➡️➡️ its ending :( – JeriKO (buildup to Roadblock: End of the Line 2016) unicornmen of a new day – The New Day ➡️ big e is a national treasure – Big E ➡️ xavier austin creed woods phd – Xavier Woods ➡️ kofi the goat – Kofi Kingston thicc southern bears – The Revival ( Dash Wilder and Scott Dawson) the polyamorous tag team – DIY (Johnny Gargano, Tommaso Ciampa, {Candice LeRae}) ➡️ not replaceable – Tommaso Ciampa (was originally for DIY break-up) beauty and the man beast – Heath Slater and Rhyno fashion po po – Breezango (Tyler Breeze and Fandango) ➡️➡️ The Fashion Files are Amazing Comedy started from the bottom now we here – anything with Kevin and Sami/Generico ➡️➡️ cute but evil guardian angels – Sami & Kevin as friends post HiaC 2017 bullet club brothers – Luke Gallows and Karl Anderson sheasaro and their daughter bayley – Cesaro, Sheamus, and Bayley ladder kings – Matt and Jeff Hardy ➡️ broken and woken – Matt Hardy ➡️ brother eagle – Jeff Hardy superkick party animals – The Young Bucks (Matt Jackson and Nick Jackson) red shoes white shoes – Street Profits (Montez Ford and Angelo Dawkins) royal 1s – AJ Styles and Charlotte grindkore ascending – The Ascension (Konnor and Viktor) deuce uce – The Usos (Jimmy and Jey Uso) 🤙 – Samoa Joe and Roman Reigns big guys soft hearts – War Machine aop – Authors of Pain (Akam and Rezar) axe n bow – The B Team / The Miztourage (Curtis Axel and Bo Dallas) the rep – The REP.

General Wrestling Tags

wwe after dark – anything not “live” on USA uudd is (➡️ and it’s beautiful ) – up up down down content house show wrestling is beautiful – stuff I find funny, abnormal, and/or cool; storyline paralells; sportsmanship wrestling is a serious thing – when they do off the wall bullshit (actually used once for a serious post.. so I guess can go both ways ) i just cant quit you wwe – now used as a generic “untagged” for wwe content indies posts indies time machine smackdown lovelies – I’m a RAW Brand person so this is the guys on Blue I like cross promotion stuff impersonating other characters mmc – Mix Match Challenge yes yes yes yes – Bray’s heavyweight title run frenemies making magic – When rivals team up to beat a third (or fourth) rival during a match southpaw regional wrestling excited panda rolls – wrestlers rolling around with their newly won title aesthetic

Extra Special Tags

otp: kev + titles – Kevin kissing, hugging, or cuddling his titles otp: kev + zoos *kevin speaking french *sami speaking french *sami speaking arabic *joe sensually promising murder !cesaro voice: fellaaaaa – Cesaro using “fella” to refer to Sheamus !kevin owens voice: i never once felt bad i feel great [ripping signs] – Kevin ripping people’s signs that's deep kevin – interviews where he gets deep this is more for kevin’s hands than anything – he talks with them a lot, they’re expressive wonderful blue thunder bombs the guerrero gag – "Using" weapons behind the ref's back to trick them for DQ

#master post

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