#a story character from nothing in particular
Text
quicksand
Pairing: Pedro's unnamed character in Materialists x f!reader
Word Count: 8.2k
Rating: Explicit
Summary: You meet a stranger at a party.
Warnings: smoking | drinking | creepy men | reader gets her butt slapped by a stranger | infidelity | cheating | age gap (reader is in her early to mid 20s, her boyfriend is in his 50s, I’m putting Pedro’s character in Materialists in his late 40s) | emotional neglect (boarding on emotional abuse) | reader has long-ish hair that can get wet without it being an issue | a little bit of self-loathing | possessiveness (the good kind and the bad kind | hands hands hands hands hands | oral (f receiving) | a little bit of praise kink | voyeurism | mirror sex | (unprotected) p in v sex | rough sex | multiple orgasms | overstimulation | a tiny tiny bit of degradation | oral fixation (🫣) | choking | dirty talk | creampie | cum eating
Notes: Last week I saw these behind the scenes shots of Pedro in Materialists and somehow I had to write 8,000 words about that? I'm also not quite sure what happened, it was supposed to be like 3k max. There was also this ask Han @swiftispunk received that I couldn't get out of my head. The title is inspired by Ms Swift's song Treacherous (And I'll do anything you say / If you say it with your hands / And I'd be smart to walk away / But you're quicksand), the rest is inspired by going completely feral whenever new pictures dropped. Tremendous thanks to Dani @alexturner who just beta'd a long-ass fic last week and then this fic this week - you're being way too good to me with indulging all thoughts I have that I have to turn into short stories 🫣 My dear, sweet anon who kept sending me encouraging asks, this is for you!!
***
There’s laughter coming from downstairs, deep, rumbling laughter impossible to ignore. Your whole body seems to shake with it, your heart stutters in your chest angrily, and you press your hands over your ears. But the loud voices are still there, mocking you with their indifference to your pain. You bury your face in your cool satin pillow and sob into it, ruining the expensive fabric. You don’t fucking care.
All your friends warned you this would happen and you hate how they were right. “You’re nothing but a toy to him.” Shut up, Marissa, you’re just jealous. “Maybe you should look for a boyfriend who’s closer to you in age.” Maybe you should look for a boyfriend, period. “You’re only a fuckmaid to him, do you realize that?” That was the point you stopped listening to them and, at the same time, it was the point you should have started listening.
You are nothing but a toy to him. You should have looked for someone closer to you in age. You are … no, you can’t bring yourself to even think the word, because the truth hurts too much. The truth and your blindness and your stupidity and the fact that you’re throwing your life away for a man who breaks every promise he makes and who treats you like a pet. A beautiful, expensive pet that can be ignored whenever it’s convenient.
“Come with me to the Keys,” he whispered into your ear, his breath hotter than his steadily cooling release sticking to your thighs.
“What?” you asked, heart clenching painfully. When was the last time he cared enough to make you come? Months ago?
“Come with me to the Keys,” he repeated. “The change of scenery will be good for us. I’ll show you around. We can go deep sea fishing. I’ll buy you some dresses and bathing suits. Just take my card tomorrow.”
He brushed your hair away from your neck, kissed the skin there, cupped one of your breasts, squeezed it hard. “Piers,” you warned, tried to get away from him. But there was nowhere to go.
The truth is you had been looking forward to his trip. Had been looking forward to having the apartment to yourself for a while. It’s not like you would’ve done anything in particular except just breathe for once.
“Don’t be like that,” he mumbled against your neck, squeezed your breast again. “Don’t you want to sip on a nice cocktail? Wear a risqué outfit for me?”
No, you didn’t want that. But if you didn’t say yes soon, he’d get angry. “Okay,” you gave in. “But you have to promise me that you’ll spend one day with me. No business.”
What’s easily promised is easily broken.
Today is supposed to be your day. And for once in your life, you thought it would be. Piers took you out for breakfast, right by the water. You watched the sunshine dance across the waves. Then he showed you around town, took you to his favorite spots in Key West, even held your hand. And you thought, This is it. I’m finally worthy of him. Then came the call, followed by those emails, and suddenly Piers was like, “Sorry, babe, I have to meet them, they’re important business partners. Why don’t you go to the beach club, buy yourself a nice massage? Here’s my card.”
Here's my card. You’ve never hated three words more.
What you didn’t expect was to come home to a party. At least twenty men were milling around the house Piers liked to refer to as his “Key West Residence”, a late 19th century villa. Twenty loud men, rich like Piers, most of them his age, leering at you as you stepped through the front door, mistaking you for tonight’s entertainment.
“Babe!” Piers boomed, spilling half his drink while opening his arms as if he meant to hug you. The glances didn’t stop. “Go upstairs, freshen up, put on something nice, and then let me show you off.”
You managed to complete the first step before breaking down on your bed. You’ve been sobbing ever since.
Something breaks downstairs and some of the men roar. You bury your face deeper against the pillow, terrified to go back downstairs, terrified to stay up here. Whatever you do, it will be the wrong thing. You close your eyes and think about what it would be like if the men downstairs vanished. If you had the house to yourself, sharing it with a person you loved and who loved you in return. You could be having dinner on the patio now. Before that, you might go for a swim in the pool, knowing the only eyes on you were your partner’s, the only glances you received were welcome.
You sit up straight. You might hate it when Piers’ business partners look at you like you’re a piece of meat, but Piers hates it too if they don’t do it without being invited. Twenty men imagining all the vile ways in which they could fuck you is the last thing you want right now, but it’s also the last thing Piers wants.
You stumble into the bathroom and wash your face with ice cold water, willing the puffiness of your eyes to recede. You put on your most expensive makeup, the kind that only comes off with intensive scrubbing, then you pick your most revealing bikini and put it on. If those men stared at you like that in a long sundress, their heads will probably explode if they see you like this.
Chin held high, beach towel thrown over your shoulder, you make your way downstairs on high heels the same shade of black as your bikini. You feel utterly stupid, like you’re giving them exactly what they want, but the flush that spreads across Piers’ cheeks when he sees you is worth it. There are some whistles, a few crude comments, one man slaps your ass, but you make it to the pool. None of them are brave enough to follow you outside.
The water is cool against your skin, doing its best to extinguish the fire that burns within you. The flames don’t die down completely but they’re certainly soothed. You start to swim, one length, then three, and soon the party resumes and the men pick up their conversations again. This almost feels normal; this almost feels like a life you could enjoy. Except that you’re alone. And not in a way you crave.
You stop swimming and start drifting on your back, watching the sky above turn from a gentle blue into a soft pink, a bright orange, a deep purple. Soon, the sun will go down and the party will pick up speed. You should go, put on a dress, let Piers show you off, vanish before they’ve had too much alcohol.
You climb out of the pool, squeeze water out of your hair, wrap the towel around yourself. No one is paying attention to you now, so you pick up your heels to carry them back upstairs. There’s no way you’ll make it back to your room without one or two unwanted glances, without the odd rude comment, but you can live with that. You step onto the patio, eyes firmly fixed on your destination, then start walking through the gathering, careful not to look at anyone, careful not to be seen.
Someone sees you though. It’s not Piers, and it also isn’t one of the men who look at you and lick their lips. It’s someone watching you from the shadows, someone on one of the chairs in the parlor. Keep your eyes on the stairs, you tell yourself. Nothing good can come from this. While you were in the pool, Piers must have turned on the music, old jazz songs he always plays when he wants to appear sophisticated. The tinny sounds of saxophones make your ears ring, irritating you more than the heavy smell of cigar smoke that seems to be seeping into every corner of the house. You feel horrible between all those men dressed in their suits, even with the towel covering most of your skin. And you wish that one man would stop watching you because it makes you feel hunted, makes your body beg to run and hide.
At the foot of the stairs you pause, your heart in your throat. A man brushes past you, pretending like there is only so little room he has to press his palm against the small of your back. You turn around looking for Piers, ready to pretend you have a horrific migraine and won’t be joining him after all, when your eyes land on the man who is making the hair at the back of your neck stand with his unrelenting gaze.
You can’t see him properly because he’s half hidden behind the door to the parlor, a room that’s devoid of proper lighting and full of cigar smoke. But you see his dark eyes on you, feel them look right through you, see you for who you are, while he laughs at something the man next to him is saying. You crane your neck to get a better look at him but two other men walk past, obscuring your view. When they spot you and start to make their way toward you, you bolt up the stairs. At least no one will dare to follow you up here.
*******
“There she is!” Piers announces later, opening his arms wide again. He doesn’t spill his drink this time. You step into his embrace and let him kiss your cheek. “Took you long enough, doll.” You hate it when he calls you that, but you keep on smiling. Then he leans closer and whispers, “If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll make sure you’ll regret it. Letting another man touch you! What’s wrong with you?”
So it did bother him after all. It should make you feel proud, but it only makes you feel empty. “I’m sorry,” you whisper back and kiss him. Someone at the back of the room whistles.
“Just try to behave for the rest of the night,” he says coldly, then smiles at you and asks in his loud business voice, “Isn’t she lovely?”
Some of the men nod but none dare to look at you directly. Not when Piers has his arm slung around your shoulder anyway.
“How about a drink?” he asks you and when you nod, he takes your hand and leads you toward the bar at the back of the parlor. You follow him, shivering slightly from the evening breeze blowing in through the open French doors. The smoke in the room makes your eyes sting.
With practiced ease, Piers fills a sparkling glass with vodka and soda, adding a bit of lime juice. You try to ignore the man who is standing a little bit too close to you, whose eyes hang a little bit too low.
“Here you are.” Piers hands you the glass. “I have something to discuss with those gentlemen over there,” he nods at two men standing by the door to his study, “but I shouldn’t be too long. Try not to cause too much of a scene while I’m gone.”
You close your fingers around the glass and nod. All you want to do is run.
As soon as he’s gone, they start to close in on you. It’s what Piers wants. He wants others to desire what belongs to him – his apartment, his car, his life. You’re part of all of that. He wants these men to desire you, to think they can have you. You should have listened to your friends, to Marissa and Annie and all the others. If you had, you might hate yourself less.
You know they all want to talk to you and they won’t take no for an answer, so you start to make your way toward the open French doors to escape into the garden. If you stand right at the edge, you can hear the waves whisper and feel the ocean breeze on your face. And if you keep still long enough, they might forget about you.
You don’t even make it out the door before your eyes start to wander from the lush green bushes and trees outside and land on a man sitting in a leather armchair close to the open doors. You don’t know if it’s the same one whose gaze you felt on you earlier, but there’s something about him that makes it hard for you to look away. He’s in the middle of a conversation, one leg comfortably slung across the other, ankle resting against thigh. One of his hands is spread on his knee, his fingers stroking and tapping the expensive fabric of his back dress pants in a nervous tick. His other hand is wrapped around a glass full of amber liquid that he takes a swig from right as you walk past, pretending not to notice how the muscles in his neck work as he swallows, pretending not to notice the gold ring on his little finger that clinks against the glass as he lowers it again.
Your own drink untouched, you stand on the patio, off to the side where you hope no one will notice you but where you can look at that stranger from time to time. You don’t think you’ve seen him before, but you don’t usually pay a lot of attention to Piers’ associates. None of the men here this evening look familiar. Still, there is something about the way this man runs his fingers through his dark curls from time to time, the way he tries to smooth the wrinkles in his white shirt, the way he takes a drag from a big, dark brown cigar once in a while that makes it impossible for you to look away. Until another man demands your attention.
“Hi there,” he says, his laugh showing off perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “I’m Hutton.”
You think about saying, “And I’m not interested,” but to Piers that would probably count as causing a scene. And Hutton looks like he’s one of the younger men here, probably in his late 30s. There are worse guys to talk to. “Hi,” you reply with a sweet smile.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” He steps closer to you, encouraged by your smile.
“Yes,” you reply. “So how do you know Piers?”
If he’s annoyed by you bringing up your boyfriend right away, he doesn’t let it show. “We work together,” he answers, which could mean anything in Piers’s world.
“And what brings you to Key West?”
“The scenery,” Hutton answers, not even trying to hide his hungry gaze that glides over your naked shoulders and cleavage.
“I thought it was business,” you say, your smile faltering slightly. “Seeing you’re here.”
“I try not to mix business with pleasure.” Hutton leans against the small sliver of wall between the French doors and the corner of the house. “It’s neither good for business nor pleasure.”
You hum, trying to take a step back. You’re already at the edge of the patio though, and you almost stumble off it, losing your footing.
Hutton grabs your arm and pulls you toward him. “Careful there, pretty girl.”
You try to pull your arm back but he won’t let go. “Thank you,” you say at the same time as he says, “Have you ever thought about exchanging Piers for a younger model?”
It didn’t take him more than a few words exchanged to get to the point.
You yank your arm free but he grabs it again. “Stop it,” you command in your strictest voice but he only grins at you.
“Don’t be like this. I’m only fooling around.”
“Then let go of me.” He doesn’t.
You’re about to throw your drink in his face, even if it means Piers will be angry with you again, when someone steps out onto the patio.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
He’s standing right there, one hand in the pocket of his dark pants, the other holding his cigar. Shame washes over you and your palms grow sweaty. You really don’t need this right now. But Hutton immediately lets go of you and turns to face the newcomer.
“We’re good here, thanks,” he says, his jaw clenched.
The stranger takes his time to take a drag on his cigar, lets out the smoke while looking up at the now deep purple evening sky. “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?” he asks and Hutton lets out a sigh.
“Are you just going to keep standing there?” he asks.
The stranger shrugs.
You glance into the parlor, at all the men milling about, wondering if you could make your escape without anyone noticing. But there is something in the way the stranger holds himself that makes you want to stay and find out how this ends. Piers, by now, would have rushed past Hutton, a snarl on his lips, his anger directed at you. The stranger just stands there, his shoulders relaxed, acting as if he doesn’t even particularly care that you and Hutton are out here on the patio as well. It’s a different kind of threat … a different kind of protectiveness.
Hutton turns to you. “Are you coming?”
You shake your head and with a roll of his eyes and an annoyed, “Whatever,” he vanishes into the house, leaving you alone with him.
The silence unbearable, you say, “Thank you.”
He takes another drag on his cigar, then comes closer to you. You ignore how your heart flutters at his approach. He reaches for your hand and for a wild moment you think he’s going to grab your arm too, but he only takes the drink from your hand, sniffs the contents of the glass, then dumps it over the edge of the patio. “Let’s get you a proper drink,” he says.
You’re too stunned to do much more than follow him back into the house and toward the bar. Around you, the volume has risen since you stepped out onto the patio, but you don’t care as much as you did before. It’s hard to care about anything when your stomach is in a tight knot and when you feel like the world around you has gone completely quiet.
The man steps behind the bar, gently places his cigar in an ashtray, then regards the collection of bottles before him with his hands on his hips. “You don’t look like a vodka girl to me,” he mumbles, and you feel your face grow hot. You don’t know why. “Here.” He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of vermouth. You only now notice how big his hands are, and your mind immediately starts to replay the evening. His hand on his knee, his hand around his glass, his hand … You shake your head, but the shiny gold ring on his little finger glitters enticingly as he unscrews the bottle of vermouth to smell the alcohol within. It’s like you’re a magpie, enchanted by everything that glitters.
“Sweet enough,” he concludes, pouring a little vermouth and a lot of whiskey into a martini glass. Then he goes through all the bottles once more until he finds one of lavender bitter and adds it to the mix.
“What is that?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m not done yet.” There’s a small jar of cocktail cherries he unscrews. With skilled movements, he skewers two of them onto a silver cocktail stick before handing you the glass. The mix inside is orange on top, a reddish purple deeper below. It looks like the sunset you watched earlier.
“What is it?” you ask again.
“Taste it,” he tells you, an eager glint in his eyes.
You take a careful sip and widen your eyes in surprise at the strong yet sweet taste. “Oh, this is really good!”
“It’s sweet, like you,” he says, then seems to change his mind, adopting a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “It’s a Manhattan. That’s where you belong, not in this tourist trash kind of town.”
That makes you laugh. “Hey, I like it here.”
The bar is still between you but he leans on it to get closer to you. “I bet you would also like Manhattan if I showed you around.”
“I’m from Manhattan,” you tell him. “I live there, actually.”
“I do too,” he responds. “Funny how we should run into each other here, of all places.”
You inhale shakily. You don’t know why. “If you hate it here so much, what are you doing here?”
He smiles at you, and you’re sure your heart stops. “I heard you talk to that other guy. I’m not here to have a conversation like that with you.”
You take another sip from your cocktail even though it makes your head spin. “What are you here for then?”
“That’s just another way of asking me what I’m doing here, angel eyes,” he points out. He does it so smoothly you almost don’t notice the diminutive.
You straighten your back, only now realizing you were leaning on the bar close to him. He mirrors you, then walks around the wood between you so he can stand directly next to you. “You tell me what you want to talk about then. After all, you approached me, you made me a drink, you wanted to whisk me off to Manhattan.”
“That was before I realized how worldly you are,” he says and his smile turns sly.
“Oh?” you make. You swallow. “Am I too difficult for you then?”
“I like a challenge.”
This is where you should stop. This is where you should thank him again for rescuing you, and for the drink, and where you should walk away to find your boyfriend, who surely has to be done with his meeting by now. But how can you step away when he’s still smiling at you as if he’s having the time of his life, when you felt drawn to him all evening, when having his eyes on you makes you feel truly seen? Yes, he isn’t exactly subtle in the way he flirts with you, but there is a kindness in his gaze you’ve never seen on another man before. And then he touches you, straightening the strap of your short, tight dress, and your whole body comes alive.
“You know smoking is bad for you, right?” is the only thing you can come up with, willing your voice to remain steady.
“I like things that are bad for me,” he replies.
It’s such a cheesy line, it makes you want to bury your face in your hands. But, god, does talking to him make you feel good.
“Ha!” He points at you. “That’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen all evening.
“Call me ‘sweet’ again and you might see some more,” you retort. All you want to do is to tell him you don’t mind his harmless flirting, that whatever this is between you is fun, but it comes out heavy with implications. Implications you can’t take back because you don’t want to.
He brushes your hair behind your ear and you think you might die. “You’re very brave.” It’s a statement. “I saw you walk to the pool earlier in –”
“I know,” you interrupt him. “I saw you watching me.”
He brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. “It made me want to kiss you.”
You freeze. There is nothing you can say that won’t end badly for you. “So you made me a drink instead?”
He plucks the cocktail stick out of your glass and holds it up to your mouth. You close your lips around the first cocktail cherry and pull it off slowly, your eyes fixed to his. It might just be the low lighting but you think his pupils dilate. He drops the stick back into the glass and takes a big swig of your drink, his eyes momentarily leaving yours. You do your best not to watch his throat as he swallows.
“You really are something,” he concludes, putting down the glass on the bar.
You feel lightheaded, as if you’d just made out with him for half an hour. “I’m also in a relationship.” The words are out before you can stop yourself. You didn’t mean to say them.
“I don’t give a damn.”
You giggle, actually giggle, like a schoolgirl with a crush. “You sound like the hero in one of those ancient black-and-white movies.”
“Or maybe I’m the villain.”
This time you do bury your face in your hands. “Oh, stop it.”
“No,” he simply says, and you get it. You want to kiss him too.
Instead, you glance at the small gold wrist watch on your arm. “It’s late. I should –”
He interrupts you. “Don’t –,” but you don’t let him finish.
“Thank you for the drink. And thank you for making me laugh. You made this whole thing bearable.”
You don’t know if you should shake his hand or kiss his cheek so you don’t do any of it. You pat his arm, once, trying not to notice how it feels against your palm, then walk toward the stairs, your heart breaking with each step. If you were single, you wouldn’t have hesitated to sleep with this man. If you weren’t Piers’ girlfriend, he would never have looked your way. It’s better to end it here.
The quietness of your room engulfs you, just like the soothing coolness of the pool earlier. As soon as you close the door behind you and lean against it, you can breathe. Yes, you can still hear the sounds of the party, but they’re muffled. You can finally hear yourself think again and you exhale shakily. You almost made the biggest mistake of your life. The adrenaline rush you got from it makes you snicker.
Piers isn’t entirely faithful. He attends parties with strippers, he looks at other women, you know all that. But it doesn’t mean anything because at the end of the day he comes home to you. What you just did … it goes beyond everything Piers has ever done, and you wouldn’t have been able to look at yourself in the mirror if you had spent one more minute in the presence of that handsome stranger. Even if your flirting made you happier than Piers has in months.
There’s a knock at your door and you jump. Expecting Piers, you open it without a second thought. “I’ll be right …,” you start but forget every word in the English language when you come face to face with the stranger.
“Hello,” he says, and that handsome smile is back on his face, even if he keeps a careful distance. “You vanished so quickly it made me wonder … did I do something wrong?”
“What?” you ask because it’s the only word you can remember.
“I’ll go back downstairs if you don’t want me here,” he goes on, “just say the word.”
They never come up the stairs. Never. Who does he think he is? “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just tired.” You try to close the door in his face, but he steps closer, bracing a hand against the wooden doorframe. “Excuse me,” you say insistently.
“Can I come in?”
Into your room? “Oh, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” you reject him. You laugh, but it sounds insincere. “You should go back downstairs.”
“Alright,” he agrees, “but you have to say it like you mean it.”
“Listen here,” you start in your best no-nonsense voice. He tightens his grip on the wood and you hear it creak, despite the noise downstairs. “I want you to …”
It’s no use. You don’t know who he is, you don’t even know his name, but you also know that if you don’t let yourself have this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.
“You need to say the words, sweet –”
“I want you to kiss me.”
You both freeze. His mouth hangs open, still in the middle of forming the next word he wanted to say. You tense, well aware that you said something you can not take back.
The few seconds that pass feel like an eternity. Then he pushes himself past the doorframe into your room, into your personal space. You smell the heavy scent of cigar smoke on him, you smell leather and lavender and citrus. You see his smile that turns into something more determined the closer he gets to you. You notice the stubble on his cheek, the glint in his eyes, the small dark spot on the collar of his white shirt. You feel … you feel his body pressing against yours, his hand pressing against the small of your back, his breath on your face, and then everything is reduced to his lips on yours, your breaths mingling, his … his tongue coaxing you open, not gently but insistent, and you not hesitating to open yourself up for him.
It's as if you’re watching it all from above, you pushing him backward, him closing the door with a hard slam, the both of you pulling at each other while kissing and kissing and …
“Careful,” he chuckles when you bite down on his bottom lip. “You said kiss, not –”
“I don’t give a fuck what I said,” you interrupt him, pulling his shirt out of his pants.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he says and grabs your wrist.
You groan. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”
He pulls you in for another kiss. “I’m not. You’re just … We’re doing this on my terms or not at all.”
Something throbs deep within your core.
He tightens his hold on you. “I’ve had all evening to think about this. To picture all the things I want to do to you.”
“It’s not going to be just kissing then?” you ask, relishing the chuckle you draw out of him.
“I knew I wouldn’t leave here tonight without feeling your pretty little cunt clench around me.”
It sounds like a line straight out of a porn movie. You should laugh, tell him to take you seriously. But all you can do is whimper at the thought of him sitting in his chair downstairs, talking to one of Piers’ associates or even Piers himself while thinking about being buried deep inside of you. Every other man would send you fleeing. Not him though.
“Who are you?” you whisper.
“Does it matter? Once I’m done with you, you’ll have forgotten your own name.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “Those are some big words,” you point out.
He lets go of your wrist, then bunches the fabric of your dress up in his hand until he can reach below the hem, his broad, warm hand landing on your naked skin, his ring digging into your soft flesh. You gasp.
“Do you really think I’d disappoint you?”
“No,” you say too quickly, too rashly.
He grabs your dress again. “How about you take this off for me?”
“No,” you repeat, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh at the look of shock on his face. Then you turn around. “I can’t really open the zipper without some assistance.”
He runs both his hands over your naked shoulders and down to the middle of your back. You expect him to take his time, but he yanks the zipper down so quickly you think you hear fabric tear. You almost don’t have enough time to slip out of the thin shoulder straps before he falls to his knees behind you, pulling the dress with him. His hands are on your butt cheeks now, massaging, grabbing you as if he’s set on memorizing every detail. He slips his thumb under the hem of your panties, dips the tip into the wetness there.
You gasp at the same time as he whispers, “Knew it.”
You pull him away from you and turn around, well aware you’re completely naked except for your panties. “Well, it’s hardly surprising,” you start, your voice airy, but then it dies down completely at the sight of him kneeling in front of you looking up at you with so much heat in his gaze you’re getting burned. How did you get here?
You want him to tease you back, but he only pulls you close, his hands clasping your hips insistently, and kisses your belly, right above the hem of your panties. Then he kisses your thighs and your sides, and your belly button, and then he pulls down your panties and buries his face in your wetness with a relieved sigh. Your hands shoot forward and grab his curls, dig into them, desperate for purchase, as your head swims from the overstimulation. You would like to focus on the feeling of his hair between your fingers. You would like to focus on his tongue swirling around your clit. You would like to focus on the growl he makes when you run your nails over his scalp.
You think you’re laughing. You think you say, “Does that still count as kissing?”
“Yes,” he mumbles against the soft skin of your thighs. His curls are already a mess, his face is flushed, but when he glances up at you, his eyes are bright with determination.
“I think you have to show me that definition of kissing someday,” you go on, glancing up at the ceiling. You can’t look at him directly, it feels too intimate.
“That’s enough talking,” he decides and licks a broad stripe across your drenched folds.
You tighten your grip on his curls in response because your legs start to quiver. You hope he doesn’t notice, but his fingers dig into your thighs to steady you. The edges of his ring are cutting into you almost painfully – you want more of it. His hair wrapped around your fingers you pull him closer into you and he moans against you … actually moans. You push away those thoughts that make you compare him to Piers, how Piers would never moan if he was between your legs, how Piers never eats you out. This isn’t about him – it’s about you.
There’s something in the way that stranger rolls and flicks his tongue that tells you he won’t make you wait for an orgasm. You want to hold on longer because you can’t bear the thought of this being over already, but there is something in the way he devours you that pushes you toward the edge at a rapid speed. You don’t even hear the sounds of the party anymore, the laughter, the music; it’s just him and his deep sighs and moans.
You’re almost embarrassed by how fast you come. One second you’re appreciating the way his tongue flicks your clit, the next you can barely stay upright when your whole body releases months and months of built-up tension. You quiver in his grip and he holds you close, licking and licking until you can’t take it anymore. You think you mumble, “Fuckfuckfuck,” but there is no way to be sure. All you know is that you just had one of the best orgasms of your life.
You laugh as if the weight of the world has been lifted off your shoulders. What else is there to do? “So this is doing things on your terms?” you ask.
He sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. You think you might explode at that sight. “No, that was for your benefit. The rest is going to be for mine.”
Your breath catches in your throat as you glance over your shoulder at your bed that’s rumpled from you crying on it earlier. If he can make you feel like that with just his tongue, what will he be –
“No, sugar, not like that,” he tells you, immediately pulling your attention back to him.
Your throat is dry when you ask, “What then?”
He stands and cups your cheek, his hand pleasantly warm. You lean into the touch immediately. “Don’t be so impatient. Enjoy the moment for a while.”
“What moment …?” you start but you don’t get far. He claims your mouth in a searing kiss that makes you wish you had been paying more attention to what he was doing when he was eating you out. You kiss him back, slinging your arms around his neck, the soft fabric of his white shirt rubbing against your naked chest. He licks across your bottom lip until you open your mouth for him, and then he claims you like no one has before. You fear that if you start thinking about how you can taste yourself on him, you’ll go insane.
“You’re so easy to kiss,” he mumbles against your lips. You’re not quite sure how he means it, but your chest still expands at the compliment.
“And you’re very handsome,” you retort lamely.
“Is that what you’ve been thinking about telling me all evening?”
“No,” you reply too slowly this time.
He kisses your temple, then brings his mouth right next to your ear. “I’ve been thinking about watching myself fuck you.”
He doesn’t give you time to process, takes you over to the vanity that stands opposite your bed, its mirror dull in the dim light of the room. Even when he places your hands on the table top, telling you to hold on, you still don’t think he’s serious. You look at yourself in the mirror, at the makeup smudges below your eyes, the birth mark on your throat that you hate, how your mouth hangs open in a way that looks so very unsexy. Behind you, that stranger you invited into your room, this man you know nothing about, is unbuttoning his expensive dress pants, his white shirt obscuring the view. What does he see in you that makes him want you like this?
“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he groans, his eyes fluttering shut.
He’s holding himself now, but you can’t see his hand moving without turning around. And he didn’t tell you you’re allowed to look. Your palms begin to sweat against the wooden surface of the vanity, at the thought of him telling you what you are and aren’t allowed to do, at him praising you for doing well and punishing you if you don’t. You don’t recognize that side of yourself.
His eyes are open again and he searches for yours in the mirror. “I asked you a question.”
You swallow hard. “No, I don’t,” you say, fighting down a giggle. It’s nerves.
“I’d better show you then,” he concludes, and he pushes inside of you with one hard stroke, filling you faster than you can spread your legs.
You both take a moment to breathe. He adjusts himself, you try to get used to the angle, the feeling of fullness. You haven’t seen his hard cock, but you know he’s more than Piers, so much more the stretch is almost uncomfortable. The wood beneath your fingers starts to swim when your vision blurs and –
“No, none of that.” He grips your chin and lifts your head, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror. “I’ve also been thinking about you watching me fuck you.”
His hand looks so big holding your face like that, and when you swallow again, he can feel it against his fingers.
His own face is right there next to yours, his eyes firmly fixed to yours through the glass. “You’re a big girl. I’m sure you can take it.”
Before you can think of anything to say, he pulls out of you and thrusts back in in a tentative motion that is enough for your eyes to flutter shut in pleasure.
“No, no, no,” he whispers into your ear. “Keep them open.”
You do as you’re told and he rewards you with a sharp bite to the spot where your neck meets your shoulders. Your hips thrust back of their own accord, meeting his in a quick snap.
“You make such pretty sounds,” he mumbles against your skin.
You hadn’t even realized you were making any, too transfixed by watching him move behind you. Whenever your gaze wavers and flutters to your own face, embarrassment sends adrenaline shooting through your body. But he … watching his shoulders and arms tense and relax beneath his shirt that looks all too tight now, watching him meet your gaze, eyes full of lust … you don’t know why you would fuck anyone any other way than this.
He straightens his back, changing the angle slightly, and now you do hear yourself groan. He grabs your chin tighter and pushes two fingers into your mouth. “You know,” he says, and his hips snap with more force, faster, making the vanity rattle beneath your hands, “if you were mine, I’d let no man touch you. I would’ve broken his arm.”
It takes you a few seconds to figure out what he means; you’re too busy relishing the taste of his skin on your tongue. There must have been a man who touched you … when you were coming down the stairs … You can see it all clearly now. He would grab that man’s arm, calm and collected, twist it, make him shout in surprise … you can almost hear the bones snap.
“Oh, look at that,” he groans, and you do. You look at yourself in the mirror, unashamed, eyes wide. You watch how you eagerly suck and lick his fingers, watch it as if another person was doing it. You’re trembling in his grip … or is he making everything shake with his thrusts that are coming faster and faster now as he fucks you, taking what he needs? “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You almost don’t hear him, too transfixed by how depraved he’s making you feel. “You’d get off on that, a good man protecting you. Shame I’m not good, really.”
You don’t care. You’re done with those men who act politely, who treat you with care when they know Piers is around, but who talk about you taking it up the ass when your back is turned. You’d much rather have this, a man who isn’t scared to say these things to your face. Even if he thinks he isn’t all good, he still protected you.
He pulls his fingers out of your mouth and you whimper at the loss, watching how a thread of spit connecting his digits to your lips breaks. With his other hand, he suddenly grabs one of your breasts, squeezing your hard nipple with practiced ease, and you arch your back with a moan, exposing your throat to him. His fingers close around it, hard, restricting the airflow, his ring pressing against one of the most vulnerable spots of your body in a way that doesn’t leave any room for doubt – you’re doing this on his terms.
He tightens his grip on your throat until you start seeing stars, the loosens it. “I’m going to make you come now. I want you to watch yourself. I want you to see what you look like coming around my cock.”
If you could, you would nod, but he isn’t looking for your consent. He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger one last time, then lowers his hand to find your clit. When he touches you, you make a sound like never before, one that’s feral and animalistic and can’t possibly be coming from you.
He shushes you, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t want anyone to hear us.”
You don’t? You have no idea. You can’t form a single coherent thought as he pounds into you, making sure you’ll be able to feel him long after he’s done with you.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Your voice is breathless after that scream, hoarse and raw. Your gaze flickers to his fingers curled tightly around your neck.
“Keep your eyes on yourself, baby girl,” he orders.
Baby girl.
That’s what does it. You watch your eyes widen and your mouth fall open as your body shakes first from his thrusts and then from wave after wave of pleasure. He was right. You love this. You love watching yourself come while he forces you to watch yourself, love to watch your orgasm play out across your face. He’s watching you too, licking his lips hungrily, never faltering. But you can see it in his eyes, the way he’s memorizing every detail of your orgasm.
“Well done,” he says once you’re done and moves your chin so he can kiss your lips.
Then he suddenly pushes you down so your chest connects with the table top. You grunt in surprise, then in pain when he rolls your head to the side so you can still somewhat glimpse his reflection above you.
“My turn,” he growls.
His teeth are digging into his bottom lip, his eyes are firmly fixed on his own reflection, and he holds you down with such a strong grip you can’t move, but also in a way that’s so casual it makes you feel like he’s using you. Your heart stutters with longing so intense at that thought that the feeling spreads to the rest of your body and becomes so intense he feels it in his own. At least you think that is what’s going on when he smiles down on you.
The position you’re in and the tenderness between your legs steadily turns from pleasurable to uncomfortable to simply too much. But he doesn’t finish. He keeps going and going, not as fast as before, seemingly transfixed by what you’re doing. You reach back for him and he grabs your wrist and pins it to the small of your back.
“Please,” you whimper, and it makes his intense gaze falter for just one second.
“Almost there, baby girl,” he replies, “you’re doing so well. Just keep taking it a little while longer.” You think you could bear anything if he just kept talking to you like that.
Then suddenly it’s over. There is one last thrust that pushes you onto the tips of your toes and then he stills. The only movement comes from his hips that are twitching as he empties himself inside of you. You don’t even dare to breathe, watching as his reflection slowly relaxes and he closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath.
Finally, he pulls out of you and you try to stand, but he pushes you back down again. “Stay. We’re not done yet.”
Your legs tremble in anticipation, but your mind is blank, unable to imagine what else he could have in store for you. You don’t feel anything at first, you just hear him moan, and then you realize he’s kneeling behind you, cleaning you up with his tongue, eagerly licking his own release off your skin. It makes you feel so lewd you forget about everything, even Piers. Especially when he doesn’t stop at your thighs but moves further and further up your legs until his tongue and nose are buried in your folds once more and he’s spreading you open with his big hands.
You can’t help it.
“Fuck, fu- I- I’m gonna –”
There’s no time for you to finish the warning before you’re coming a third time, your hips desperately twitching against the vanity. He licks you through it, catching every last drop you’re giving him on his tongue. You can’t tell for sure but you think he’s chuckling and for some reason the shame you feel turns you on even more.
When it’s all over, he peels you off the vanity and pulls you into his arms, brushing your hair out of your face that is sticky with sweat. “You sure are a greedy little thing,” he says before he kisses you tenderly.
You swallow a sob and give him a sigh instead.
“Half the people downstairs probably heard us.” There’s a big grin on his face at that thought.
“I don’t give a fuck,” you repeat your earlier sentiment, surprised to discover that it’s true.
“Someone wants to get caught,” he teases and kisses you again.
“What I want is for you to fuck me like that again.”
“Oh, baby girl.” You almost hate how he’s already figured out what hearing him call you that does to you. “There are a million more things I want to do with you. This was just a taste.”
You’re not sure if you can believe him, but you decide to indulge that fantasy. You put on your sweetest smile. “Can’t wait.”
He lets go of you and walks toward your door. “Why don’t you give me a call once you’re back in Manhattan.”
A red warning light switches on somewhere in your brain. “But I don’t even know your name.”
“Something tells me you’ll find out.” And with that, he’s gone.
#materialists fanfiction#materialists#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal#is this anything?
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ᥫ᭡ 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 | raphael x f!tav
｡˚ word count: 13.5k
｡˚ summary: tav and raphael have a history together prior to the nautiloid ship. she is to be betrothed to him, but he has something to take to ensure that she is his.
｡˚ a/n: my first bg3 fanfic so i hope u enjoy !! raphael is my favorite character and i wish u could romance him but oh well. anyway i will probably write more with this specific pair because i want to dive more into this relationship and story. i think it is very interesting.
｡˚ explicit content :: non-consensual (beginning), spitting, blood, p in v, dick sucking, ass smacking, pussy eating, intoxication, stealing virginity
the cold air finds solace in the cracks of your lips, and you would have shivered if not for the wyvern whiskey rushing through your veins. it becomes the warm pair of arms you’ve felt so many times before: like it was your mother embracing you all over again. you feel her hold you from behind and squeeze you tight as if she’s scared to let you go. but you were the one who was so scared. you miss that warmth that she brings you, that gratitude and happiness. and instead of finding it with her, you find it in this near-empty bottle. it gave you that false security and happiness, but it was shameful. it’s sinful how much it makes your cheeks flush and eases your mind. yet despite it all, it relaxes you.
the bottle is in one hand, raised high as you stretch your limbs. your free hand reaches as far back as it can to grasp at nothing before both hands come back down as you quit your groaning and stretching. you finally set the whiskey down on the table in front of you before you can indulge in it any further. you stare at it for a moment, pondering taking another sip, but you turn around and walk away. it was a sinful act—one you shouldn’t be enjoying but cannot help but do. as more time passes and the fear of the absolute taking control over everything creeps into your mind, you feel guilty about not praying to your gods and instead turning to drinking. but you can’t help it, can you? your prayers weren’t being answered. and they haven’t been answered in a very long time.
but tonight you stopped yourself. tonight, halsin had stepped in and expressed his concerns over the habit. he was the one who convinced you to set that bottle down and seek some time with nature. and maybe, just maybe, he was right. maybe that time with nature is just what you need, and not an addiction.
so you walked away from your companions to stand at the lake a few paces away. you occupied your busy mind by embracing mother nature’s gift and taking in your surroundings. but it was difficult to do since it was dark save for the light of the full moon, the fire from your camp, and the lights of the city. your eyes had wandered into the deep woods across the dark waters where no sound came from. it was dark and empty, much like the world around you.
the people of baldur’s gate needed a sober savior, not a drunken one. and tonight, you had somewhat of a clear mind for once.
you groaned and rubbed your face with your hands, specifically your eyes. you rubbed them especially hard and then looked back out at the water. it was peaceful—not a single ripple affecting its stillness. if only your mind could have the same effect. the tadpole is never quiet, and so is the emperor. with every thought that crosses your mind, he feels it. he knows it. but you don’t know if he is actively peering into it. if you were dumb enough, you could say the thrall had no particular interest in you. but you weren’t dumb, and you could tell that he wanted something more than just companionship.
but you couldn’t blame him. you were a very popular suitor for marriage.
you came from a noble family in baldur’s gate before getting snatched away by the illithid. you had a life promised to you granted the fact you would be married off to an asshole. but no asshole in baldur’s gate could ever compare to the one who has since come into your life at the ripe age of fifteen. he was unlike any other—with an attitude rivaling that of the gods and martyrs, and an ego so high it reached the peak of mount celestia. the devil was that man.
you only think of him because you can smell him; the sulfur. when you think of him he always appears, almost as if he’s the emperor himself. guaranteed though, the devil has always had great timing. but you have felt his eyes long enough on you tonight, and it is now that he makes himself present to you. he’s inviting you to converse with him. you turn around to catch where he is standing, but he’s not there. in that moment, you think back to the time you read a children’s book about how the devil loved to play games. and now as an adult, you realize that they only loved to play games they knew they could win. and that is how the devil knew he could win your heart and mind over so easily.
you then feel two warm hands cover your eyes. you don’t move. at first, you suspect it is astarion playing tricks on you, but then remember the only person that knew you were here alone was raphael. goosebumps run up your spine at the realization that he has gotten this close to you without you realizing it, and it makes you flinch. you could feel his smirk forming at the mere sight of you jerking under his touch. the soon-to-be hero of baldur’s gate flinching under the warm touch of the devil? it sounds pathetic after your adventures with gods and powerful enemies.
“my, my, what have we here?”
his voice is loud enough for your ears only to not alert your companions who are only a few meters away. you just so happen to be in a more private spot at the camp where the lake lies, and of course, raphael had to take advantage. too many questions would be asked if everybody saw the two of you together, alone, for they did not know your history prior to the nautiloid ship. it would be more of a nuisance to you than to him.
he removes his hands and you quickly turn around to look at him. it has been quite a time since you last saw him. and although you have changed, he hasn’t. not one bit. not a scratch on his hand, a blood splatter on his face, or a bruise. he is exhilarated, and you are exhausted. but at the mere sight of him, you feel more awake than ever. there is no need for alcohol, nature, or prayers when you have him. and you almost regret comparing prayers to being in the company of the devil; almost regret.
when you first met raphael it was at a masquerade ball held by your parents. they were devout followers of the heavens, and somehow, in some way, he managed to become a close confidant of theirs. of course, your parents never knew who he was, and probably never will. he never had any interest in your parents, but rather in you. you had no interest in raphael either—but that was only when you first met him. your opinion since then has changed, but you refused to admit it aloud to yourself or him. especially not him because it would fuel his big ego even more. even the day before you were kidnapped when he had asked for your hand in marriage, you still would not admit your feelings to him. but why would he want your hand anyway? you are no devil. you are no god. you aren’t a person of importance to him at all. just a pawn in his game of lanceboard, and he was the king.
but when it dawned on you now why he wanted to marry you, it all became clear. when he invited you and your party to his house of hope to accept his deal. when he kept playing nice to win that game of trust. when he spun you back into his embrace, alone, in that dining room of his and confessed to you, and you only, that you were the only person to secure the crown of karsus for him. only then, did you realize he only wanted to marry you to seal you in a contract forever. in a debt, forever. to trick your parents into signing a deal with the devil when they had dedicated their entire lives to their gods. to be one with them in mount celestia. the utmost betrayal would be marrying their only daughter off to a cambion, the heir and child of mephistopheles. and you too, would be the greatest sinner this world has ever laid eyes on. a young woman of god, making love and producing heirs for the devil.
only then did you realize how important of a pawn you would be. a pawn that would reach the end board and become a queen, just to be discarded after checking the enemy king. and after knowing the truth, you did not pray to your gods for help, no. you turned to a more sinful life. killing to save yourself. deceiving others for the benefit of surviving. drinking yourself away and losing any purity you had to you. allowing a vampire to suck your blood, allowing lustful visions of a wizard and druid to creep into your dreams as you try to sleep, and allowing a githyanki warrior to speak to you like a whore in a brothel. when you entertain those actions instead of stopping them, you realize how sinful of a child you have become.
but now, to have the devil have his hold on you? to allow him to hold you like your mother. to let his words rush through your veins as if it were drinking wyvern whiskey. raphael has played tricks and games on you ever since you were fifteen, and now, only now, does your heart succumb to the devil after years of resistance. do you blame it on the tadpole or yourself? when you look into his brown eyes that disguise his true golden, orange ones you see a flicker of fire and trickery. you shiver at the mere thought of when he first presented the idea of marriage to you while your parents happily stood by him. when he had looked at you in that moment and you swore you saw yourself in prison bars in the reflection of his beautiful eyes.
you swore when your parents had agreed to the idea you felt chains wrap around your whole body. back then, you didn’t know that raphael was a devil. all you knew was that he was a cunning man only put there to deceive your parents for whatever selfish reasons he had. you had compared him to the devil once before because all you saw was a man who would own you for the rest of your days. the devil that would ruin you with just one look.
and ruin you he did.
you want to say you hate him. you want to hate the devil and love the gods. to imagine yourself in the embrace of the clouds of mount celestia and lay there in an eternal slumber of bliss and peace. but you have found yourself in hell first. you have found yourself falling for the devil each moment you think of him. his red skin, his fire eyes, and his four horns that lay perfectly perched on the top of his head. and in his human form, a man who knows of only wise things and deceitfulness. raphael knows, and he knows very well, that you are enjoying him with each appearance of his that he makes to you. whether it be a quick whir of the moment with you privately or a public appearance to all. he sees the way you look at him with less hate and with more awe. how you stop presenting yourself with that heroic look of yours and almost bow to his mere presence. how tense you look when he gives you the most attention out of everybody.
nobody knows that you are engaged to the devil. it would cause quite a stir in your camp if they ever were to find out.
that is why when he holds you, you stop resisting. you enjoy it when he flatters you and makes you blush. you enjoy the games he plays. your late-night visits to the vampire’s tent stop, your sinful thoughts of the wizard and druid stop, and the githyanki’s comments come to a halt. for you retire to bed alone now and think only of the devil. you don’t touch yourself because you think acting on it is how it becomes a sin, and just merely thinking about it happening is alright. but you have tricked yourself just like how the devil plays tricks. the greatest sin of all is entertaining the thought of being with the devil in more ways than one.
and you want to blame all of it on raphael, but he has cast no spells on you or devilish incantations or rituals. it was only your behavior that forced you to stray away from the gods of celestia. a behavior only you had complete control of.
so why do you keep doing it? do you enjoy him so much? you do not know him. you will never know him.
“has the little mouse found herself a new toy to play with?” raphael asks, circling you like a cat. has he been watching you converse with halsin all night? his movements are precise, and his strides are long. he stops behind you again, and this time you don’t turn. the more you look at him, the more you feel you sin. you feel a shiver run up your spine when he traces his finger from the back of your neck down to your tailbone.
“don’t touch me,” you thought you said in a demanding voice, but it came out as a broken whisper.
raphael only laughs though at the pity attempt and retracts his hand from your body. you have no right to speak to him in that manner. you, after all, are nothing compared to him. you are just a person whom he will marry once he returns you to your parents back in baldur’s gate. he will have you in that contract before you do anything to get out of it. you will be his, forever, and so he will have his hands on you whenever he wants to.
“that’s no way to speak to your fiancée now, is it?” he asks.
you don’t say anything. you just stare at the dancing shadows of your companions by the campfire in the middle of your camp. how you long to run to them to escape his clutches. and you can. it is so easy to. he is not holding you back, and has even allowed you to run to them. that is why he purposefully stands behind you to play that game once again: the game of tag. the game that you will never win with him because it’s not a game he always wins, but a game you always purposefully lose. you lie to yourself, but in your heart, you want to be in his presence, always.
raphael frowns when you don’t say or do anything, but his frown turns into a grimaced look on his face as he grabs your wrist and spins you around to look at him. you gasp as you bump into his chest, and he grabs your chin to force you to look up at him. you quickly try to pull away, but he holds onto you tighter. he could break your wrist so easily right now, and snap your neck in one swift movement.
“you will face me when i speak to you.”
and you can only nod out of respect. respect? raphael rubs your bottom lip and smiles again. “see, my love? it isn’t hard to listen to me. i promise it will make your time with me much easier.”
he leans in close to your ear and moves his hand that grab your chin to your hips. “you do not want me to punish you so early on in our relationship, hm?”
you are powerless against him. you have fought countless enemies, slaughtered them even. you have fought a chosen of the dead three and killed a god. you have faced the githyanki queen and rid of the shadow curse. but when it comes to the cambion, you are nothing. and maybe you like to be nothing.
it’s difficult when you move your head to look at him. you want to talk but he has you at a loss for words. you can only abide by him. “why are you here, raphael?” you ask.
“why, to see you of course.”
“but why?”
your voice has that hint of urgency—but why? raphael can only smile wider because he knows it’s from your fear of somebody walking in on the two of you. most likely it will be halsin to check on you after you have stayed quiet for far too long. you gulp.
“you’re paranoid, aren’t you? scared that one of your so-called friends will happen across the two of us in a warm embrace. what ever will they do when i tell them that you are betrothed—to me.”
you look away again but then quickly look back up at him. you do not want to anger him, and you do not want him to tease you.
“one feels so exposed out here, raphael…” you murmur. your voice is low enough for his ears only. you were made for him. “please, don’t be loud.”
you beg. you only ever beg for him, and he knows. he watches you more than your companions watch your back. he knows your every curve and every move. he knows what position you like to sleep in, and what food you dislike least when it is time to eat. he knows that one strand of hair that always annoys you during battle, and when you are about to menstruate. he knows everything about you. you have never begged for anything in your life, but when he is with you, you are born anew.
it would bring such joy to raphael for everyone to see the scandalous position you have put yourself in. all it takes is for one loud word to come out of him. maybe step out into the light and bring all attention to him. maybe call out to one of your friends and bring them here to witness your broken self. but he keeps that luxury of your humiliation to himself and his house of hope. neither your parents, servants, nor your friends can experience it—only him. only he is allowed to hear your begging. but my oh my, would it make him smile to see you break down in front of everybody. to see them lose faith in their leader when they watch you beg a devil to shut his mouth. to see you collapse on your knees in front of him like the slave you are.
“a little louder, love, just enough to have your friends wondering what you are doing out here all alone,” he smirks.
“raphael, please…”
he doesn’t do anything. he doesn’t say anything. you can barely raise an octave because you are so afraid of exposing yourselves. but at the same time, he is irritating you to a surprising level, even to him.
“take me to your house of hope, we will talk there,” you almost cry. “please, raphael.”
“louder,” he demands. you cannot say no.
you grab at his collar tightly and look right into his eyes. you want to shake him and suffocate him. you are tired of his games, but you still play them. you are tired of yourself. but even when you threaten to cry, he doesn’t move. why would he care about your feelings? even if you harm yourself in front of him and threaten to kill yourself, he still won’t care. after all, he has told you that there is always another after you to take the crown, even if it takes millennia.
“raphael, please!” you yell, almost too loud for your liking.
you hear your name being called out by a certain someone almost immediately, and you whip your head in the direction of the camp. wyll was coming. was it not loud enough for raphael? you know he can hear the speed of your heartbeat quicken with every second that passes. he’s waiting. he wants to make you panic even more. and as wyll’s footsteps get louder, you tighten your grip around raphael’s clothes even more. your tears gather in your eyes. how could you be so vulnerable and so easily manipulated? it was so degrading.
and right as wyll’s devilish horns peek into your view, you are whipped away just like that with the snap of raphael’s fingers. wyll comes into the darkness of where you once stood only to find nothing. he turns to look back at his companions who are mindlessly doing their nightly routine, then back at where he thought he heard your voice. when the smell of sulfur enters his nostrils, he scrunches it in disgust. the cambion was with you, and now you both are not there anymore. wyll, despite his disgust at the devil, respects what private business you have with him. he will take the night shift if you are not back before sunrise, but he prays you do not do anything rash without discussing it first with everybody.
you find yourself still in raphael’s arms in his house of hope. the room is all too familiar when you step away from him and sit down on a lavish chair, panting heavily. the large portrait of raphael hangs above you, just as he is right now in his devilish form in the room he first took you and your party to. the feast hall now has skeletons riddling it with plates of rotten food. the stench almost makes you gag, but you stop yourself from pleasuring raphael with such a reaction.
he laughs at the pitiful sight of you. you now have freshly dried tears staining your cheeks and a heavy heart. it upsets you even further how you have succumbed to the devil’s doing so very easily every time.
“you really are my favorite client,” he says joyfully. “i enjoy every minute of you.”
“i wish i could say the same,” you say, looking up at him.
“now, now. don’t be like that, my dear. we don’t want such negativity right now, do we? after all, we have much to discuss.”
he extends a hand out to you. you look at it. you take it. and it burns pleasurably in your grasp as he helps you up from the chair and leads you out of the feast hall. you have not once left his fancy and furbished feast hall, but the corridors of his house look just as exquisite. he lets go of your hand the moment you step out into the hallway. in silence, the both of you walk to gods knows where. you are nervous.
“you never answered my question,” you remind him respectfully.
“you have asked many questions,” he said with such tease.
“but to you, only one.”
he stops outside of a door that a servant is peering into. he smiles down at you.
“you cannot outsmart the devil, my dear girl. there’s this little voice inside of you asking: “is this my will, or is it the worm’s?” but you have no answer, and no way of knowing.”
before you can say anything, he snaps his fingers and you are now inside of the room, but on the balcony still facing him. your heart quickens again, and it is only pumping the fuel in his veins.
“i have this picture in my head—of you tossing and turning in the middle of the night, thinking strange things, dreaming strange dreams. the good thing is, though, there’s only one little voice you should listen to.”
he grabs your chin and leans in close again. your breath hitches in your throat and you suddenly feel that you can’t breathe anymore.
“mine.”
he slowly backs away yet you still feel breathless. you take deep breaths in and deep breaths out. raphael chuckles.
“but ah, where were we?” he turns to look out his balcony and out into the views of avernus. “about you…”
you go up next to him, still looking at him. he intrigues you more than you would like to admit to.
“do you not have any idea as to why you are here?” he asks.
“no, i don’t.”
“take a look around then, my lost virgin. look and you will know.”
you don’t want to look. you don’t want to know. you want to go back home and hide yourself away from the world forever. you want to fall back into your mother’s arms and stay there until you take your last breath. but you can’t do that. instead, you do as he says. raphael takes pleasure in seeing you obey his every word. as you turn around and start heading into the room, you spot a lavish red bed next to where you are standing, as well as countless paintings of raphael again. behind a screen is a large tub with multiple fountains, and there are lavish items strewn across the room. and that is all. this is a room just for pleasure and nothing else. it clicks in your head why you are here when you think back to what raphael has called you, and why he has brought you into this room specifically. one of the greatest sins of all.
“you’re so very pathetic, love,” he says, now right behind you.
the insult doesn’t sting you anymore. it is the way his hands hold your hips that does, and you step away from him and back yourself up into the bed. it makes him raise his eyebrows in surprise.
“you’re an eager little pup, aren’t you?” he asked, coming closer.
you extend a hand out to stop him from coming onto you, and it comes in contact with his chest. he stops for his entertainment, and not because you wish him to. it is a dangerous game to play: trying to tell the devil what to do.
“is that why you came to me tonight? to have sex with me?”
“does it sound so terrible?” raphael asks, placing his hand on his chin. “i will not have the patience or time for your virginity when i claim the crown. tonight, you just so happened to make my day now that you are one step closer to the brain. tonight, i will wreak havoc upon your body and you will find the utmost pleasure in it.”
he mocks you. he mocks you because he knows pre-marital sex is a large sin you can easily avoid. having sex with the devil makes it even worse. the gods will never forgive you, raphael knows this, and it is the only reason why he wants to have your body now. to humiliate you in front of the gods and to ruin you. you know he has another to sleep with who could take on the form of whoever he pleases. he could have sex with an incubus posing as you, but tonight, he wants the real delight of breaking you. he doesn’t care about your faith or your mission. right now, all raphael cares about is destroying whatever purity you have left in you.
you try to push him away but he grabs your wrist easily. “your gods left you the second your mind started to fill with dirty thoughts of me,” he says. raphael grabs both of your wrists and pins you to the bed. he moves them above your head and crosses them to hold your wrists in one hand, while the other grabs your chin again. you frantically move your head but it doesn’t do much.
“they say the eyes are the windows to the soul. and when i look into yours, i see all of your greatest desires,” he says. “but there is one that stays in your mind. it is what you call your strange dreams and your strange thoughts. the image of me.”
he inhales your scent and it excites him. the scent of a virgin.
“no longer will it be strange imaginations, my dear, but a nightmare come true.”
he leans down and kisses you with a force so strong it catches the breath in your throat. you’ve never been kissed before. as a young girl, you’ve always dreamt of your first kiss to be with your husband during your wedding underneath the stars. to look upon his eyes on a beautiful, clear night in the backyard of your palace as you lean in for the perfect kiss. and for raphael to take it all away from you, just so easily as that, forcefully too, was a cruel joke. you want to hate him for it, you really do, but your body betrays your mind and kisses back. you enjoy this. you enjoy his heated kiss and his devilish touches against your skin greatly.
raphael pulls away, but not without biting your lower lip first and tugging at it with his sharp teeth to draw blood. you whine and pull your head back, and he laughs. he moves away again and lets go of you, but you are so flustered and heated from that kiss that you just lay there sprawled out on his bed. raphael smiles.
“agree to be mine and you will know pleasure, forever,” he says. “you will know what it is like to live lavishly in the comfort of my house of hope. under my protection.”
you shake your head. you don’t know why you shake it, but it is mostly because you want him on you again. you want him to bite you like that. to be rough. but then you realize what you just did and what you just thought. and your blood runs cold. these impulses do not act on your own accord… or do they?
raphael smirks again. “maybe if i show you, you will agree.”
he snaps his fingers and your clothes are off. you try to cover yourself immediately, horribly flustered as to what he just did. nobody has seen you naked, except for your servants and now the devil. you curl into a ball but it doesn’t last for long. raphael snaps his fingers again and ropes from the headboard of the bed appear and grab onto your wrists, dragging you to the middle. raphael stands in front of the bed now, but your legs are propped up to hide yourself from him. you are breathing hard and almost on the verge of tears. this isn’t real. it can’t be real. not with the devil!
“tsk, tsk. we can’t have you be like this the whole time.”
he snaps his fingers again and ropes now grab your ankles and spread your legs apart. you yell in surprise and now struggle to hide yourself. it doesn’t work, but raphael is loving every bit of it. you throw your head back into the pillow and squeeze your eyes shut.
“leave me to my gods and heavens, and i will give you the crown of karsus!” you yell. “that is my deal!”
“that’s not how it works, dear,” he says. “your gods have already abandoned you. you have committed far too many sins for them to forgive you. there is no place for you in those white clouds, but there is here. you’re sitting on it already, my little mouse. you have found yourself down here—with me. and that is where you will always be.”
“liar!”
he gets on the bed in between your legs, and you flinch when his leg comes in contact with your thigh. “i have never lied to you, my dear. i have only ever told you the truth.”
he leans over you, hands on either side of your head. you are completely held down. hands held above your head and legs spread apart all for him, and it will only ever be for him. nobody will ever see you like this, and nobody will have you like this. your heart is beating so fast from anxiety and nervousness that you can barely breathe. raphael kisses you again, and you can’t help but kiss back. you lie to his face but the truth is in your heart. you say to him you don’t want him, but you do. your body lights up like a flame every time he touches you. it reacts in ways you never thought possible. raphael knows you want him even if you say you don’t. it’s so obvious.
he stops kissing you and you find yourself chasing after his lips for more. raphael laughs in your face and sits back up.
“the day i met you, i remember everything, i wrote it down,” he says, grabbing your chin with one hand and lifting it.
his tone changes and so does your body language. this was a poem you had written about him after you had met him the first time. a poem you had written over and over and scratched it out for years before finding it again. and when he took you to his house of hope for the first time, and nightfall came, you took out a quill and paper and continued it on your little stool you had in your tent. you finished it in mere minutes, and from then on always carried it around with you in your pack. you want to say you don’t know why you do so but you do know. it’s because you are infatuated with him. maybe that’s when it all started. when your prayers stopped being answered and the only company that you had was him. maybe when your heart wanted him is when the seven martyrs abandoned you. you were damned. but you didn’t want this to happen. you didn’t want to fall for the devil, and yet here you are, not resisting his attempt to take you as his.
“your smile was cold, your hair was fresh,”
he moves a stray strand of your hair out of your face and cups your cheek. his nail is under your eye, and you feel it dig into your skin, warning you not to move unless you want a new puncture wound. you hold very still and listen closely to your poem coming out of his lips.
“your eyes were such a shade of brown,”
he moved his hand away and slid it down your body slowly. you jolted when his finger slipped in between the space of your breasts and stayed there, touching the soft skin. you wanted to look away so badly to hide your shame and embarrassment, but his eye contact with you was so strong you couldn’t. you had to relax under that devilish gaze.
“you press your ear onto my chest,”
he moved his hand to your left breast and squeezed your nipple, hard. you gasped at the pain and tried to move away from him, but the ropes only got tighter around your wrists and it only made you cry out in pain. raphael used his other hand to do the same with your right breast, and its pleasure was so intolerable you couldn’t help but thrust your hips upwards to meet his thigh. you wanted him, but also wanted away from him. make up your mind, damn you.
“you hear the speed my heart will beat,”
he kisses your breast and circles his tongue around it in an unholy way. you sigh in pure delight and throw your head back into the pillow, enjoying it so very much. your cunt aches for any sort of touch or penetration. it tingles your whole body, and yet he only flicks the hard bud slowly. it is a torture but you don’t want to beg for him more than you already did tonight. but this is the devil, and begging for them was a passing time they very much enjoyed.
finally, he sinks his teeth into the sensitive skin and you moan for him. you ride the air and toss your head from side to side. he knows what he is doing. he knows the pleasures of the female body. oh, you love it so much. you love the pleasure of sin he brings upon you. raphael kisses your breast one last time and then moves his finger down your body.
“seconds drag like days whenever you don’t want to talk or speak.”
his finger finds your clit with ease and rubs gentle circles on it. you are already wet and have been for quite a while. it’s shameful, sinful, and embarrassing. you shiver in delight under his touch and cry out a moan. you don’t want him to stop. the feeling is too good. a feeling you have only given to yourself, but now feels much better when another is giving it to you. raphael stops when he notices you are enjoying yourself far too much, and quickly moves his hand away.
“raphael…” you whisper, breathless. if this is only a small slither of real pleasure, you cannot imagine what he has waiting for you. for a second, you don’t care whether it be full of pain. you want that carnal release.
“this can be your life, my little mouse,” he says. “a place of protection and pleasure, and of course, most importantly, a place by my side forever.”
you don’t say anything. you just stare at him with half-lidded eyes and a distressed look on your face.
“and if i refuse?” you ask.
he leans in close to you again, still holding that infamous smirk of his. “i find it very hard to believe that you want to refuse me. not when your body reacts so beautifully to my touches.”
his hand grazes your nipple again and you shiver. he only proves his point easily by doing that, and you still don’t want to say anything. raphael is a patient man, you will give him that, but when his patience runs thin and you spot his brows furrowing… you want to run. he has entertained you long enough tonight, and now you will experience his rage. in more ways than one, he will destroy you. he will make you scream his name until your vocal cords have been destroyed. you will beg for his mercy and he will not give it. you will beg for him to stop, and he will not, for you have danced around his deal for days now and tonight was the end of that. he will show you what it means to mess with the son of mephistopheles.
you will no longer be a virgin with wings. no longer will you be a devout follower of heavenly martyrs, but a devoted wife to the cambion. to the devil raphael. to the man who will ruin you over and over again. you will give him the crown of karsus and bear his children, and forever live your life as his slave. and maybe, just maybe, it seems so pleasurable and delightful.
he snaps his fingers and now all of his clothes are off. you become wetter by the second as you take in his body. his cock, thick and large, just waiting to be thrusted inside of you. how will your virginal self ever be able to take that in one night? you have never even slipped a finger inside of you before. fear clouds your eyes and now you are scared to take him in. but raphael doesn’t care about your pain, he only cares about his pleasure.
“look at you, dripping wet all for me,” he rubs his knuckle in your wetness, teasing you. you hum in reply, enjoying the feeling. raphael rubs small circles around your most sensitive areas, eliciting soft moans and whimpers from your moist lips. he is preparing you for what is to come. that is the least he can do for you.
he slides a long finger in you, pumping it in and out slowly just to see your reaction. you shift uncomfortably, unsure of the feeling. raphael smirks and moves it in further, noticing that you had already ripped your hymen (most likely from outdoing yourself in a battle). you moan when he goes past it, finally feeling that pleasurable spot you never had experienced yourself. he suddenly inserts another finger, stretching you out more. it hurts and you tear up from the pain. the pleasure has gone and all you feel now is his fingers roughly hitting the spongey area inside of you.
“it hurts!” you cry, shutting your eyes and allowing your tears to fall. and this is just the beginning as well. you allow him to continue though, not bothering to thrash your body to force his fingers out of you. because the more he pumps and lets you adjust to it, the more pleasurable it becomes.
a pair of footsteps comes entering the room, and you hear a familiar chuckle coming from beside you. you open up your eyes to see what appears to be a younger-looking raphael bent down beside your head, smiling at you sadistically. you don’t give much of a reaction. you only look at him, then at the devil between your legs readying you for the loss of your virginity.
“my, my, what a pretty one,” the fake raphael smiles. “is she the one you speak so highly of? the lost virgin with wings?”
raphael only rolls his eyes at the incubus and then removes his fingers from inside of you. you feel empty all of a sudden, but when he pushes you up further against the bed, allowing the ropes to untangle around your ankles, you see him bend down and spread your legs even further apart. you try to back yourself up but his grip on your thighs tightens. your ankles have been freed, and yet you do not try to kick him. you instead relax in his touch and sink into the fine silks of his large bed.
“i will break her and clip her wings,” raphael says, moving his head closer to your cunt. “i will take her virginity and claim her as mine, haarlep.” he suddenly snaps his head to look at the incubus. “leave.”
his voice was demanding. he wasn’t inviting haarlep to tease him or play with him. he was serious, and with a grin and wave, the incubus left without another word. raphael probably instilled an indescribable fear in him. a silent fear. a hushed one. yet you do not feel any fear from that voice of his. only an ache you’ve never felt before. an ache that leaves you wet.
raphael notices almost immediately, and without a word or warning, dives his head in between your legs and kisses your cunt. you jolt at the light touch and sigh all at the same time. it feels so good.
“you are mine, little mouse,” he says. “do you understand?”
you open your mouth to say “never”, but he places his lips back on your folds and you moan loudly. his tongue laps up your wetness over and over again, and it tickles your whole body. you bite your lip to stop yourself from being too loud, to attract anybody from coming and peeking, but you can’t help it. you moan out his name, and he moves his lips from your folds to your clit and sucks on it.
the sensation was something you’ve never felt before in your life. you tried to shut your legs on him, to stop him from sucking too much but his hold on you is so strong.
“raphael!” you moaned. you squeeze your eyes shut and arch your back. he brings one of your legs over his shoulder to spread your legs even further, and it makes it all the better. he only sucks on it more and more and you try to thrash around to get away from him, but it doesn’t work. it felt so good, but it was all too much. it was so much pleasure that at one point, the nerves stopped, and you finally felt it.
you lay back down comfortably and sigh delightfully. raphael pulls away but quickly sticks a finger in you, thrusting in and out at a rapid pace. it feels good too but his tongue feels better, and so does his lips. you whine his name and buck your hips toward his face. he laughs at the pitiful state you’re in. you’re so humiliating when your bottom lip is all pouty, your body responds to his every touch, and the way sweat is already glistening on your skin. your cunt clenches around his one finger tightly, and all raphael can think about is how great it will feel to be in you. to rip apart your insides and finally claim you as his. to convince you, finally, to marry him before you defeat the brain. to have you sign a contract bound in blood, make you one of his, and forever be at his side. to secure the crown of karsus and a powerful ally all in one move.
he slips a second finger in and you squeal, arching your back again off the bed as you start to now cry a little. but he does not care. he knows you want his lips back on you, and not his fingers anymore. but dear, you need to be prepared for him.
“raphael…” you whine again.
“say it.”
his voice is deep and the thrusting of his fingers intensifies. it’s rough and it hurts. his nails scratch against the walls of your cunt and it makes you bleed. you can feel it, but you can’t see it. it hurts more than it brings pleasure, but you don’t want to admit anything. you bite the inside of your lip and lean your head back against the pillow to shut up. you won’t say it.
“little mouse, that won’t work…”
he presses his thumb against your clit and rubs painfully, slow circles on it. you gasp and hide your head behind your arm as best as possible, but the more he does it, the less you can keep quiet. the roughness of his fingers but the gentleness of his thumb breaks out a delight in you. you don’t want it to end. you want more and more. this is all you’ve ever dreamed of.
and you break easily. because that is all it takes for him to claim you that fast.
“i’m yours,” you quietly moan in the comfort of your arm.
he moves his head back down. “say it louder, my dear. say it louder so the heavenly martyrs can hear you from down here, and know that i have plucked one of their angels. they will know how i clipped your wings and stole your virginity.”
he places his lips back on your clit and you yell. you’re smiling. “i’m yours, raphael!” you moan, bucking your hips into his mouth. “forever!”
the ties around your wrists come undone and your hands shoot to his horns, grabbing them to drag him closer to you. you’re moaning louder than ever before, and you believe that the heavenly martyrs can truly hear you. raphael, the cambion, has finally claimed you. and all it took was his tongue.
you grind your hips into his face, moaning as he keeps on sucking on your clit. his tongue occasionally licking at it to never stop the waves of pleasure crashing into you. you want more and more. you don’t want him to stop. you can stay like this, forever, and never want to leave. raphael is right. all you could ever want is here, right in his house of hope. and that all you could ever want and need will be fulfilled by him.
your movements get more erratic the more you feel the pit in your stomach tighten. your movements get faster but sloppier, and you feel yourself about to cum. but raphael stops and moves away. he pushes you away from him and you shut your legs almost immediately, embarrassed as to how he pushes you aside. you see your wetness on his lips and it makes you flustered and your body heat up. but that pit in your stomach dies down, and now all pleasure is lost. you feel defeated and upset. unsatisfied.
“why?” is all you can ask.
raphael snaps his fingers and your places have been switched. now he lays comfortably with his back against his mountain of pillows, while you are at the edge of the bed. you finally can see his erection in all its glory. how your moaning and face fucking lead to this. how his cock will soon be buried inside of you any moment now, and it will be the worst yet best pain of your life. his cock will take your old self away. it’ll take your virginity, and all that will be left of you will be his. and you have never been so eager.
“have you touched yourself before, my dear?” he asks.
you can’t help but stare shockingly into his orange eyes. he was absurd. and so you nod, but then he snaps his fingers again and you find yourself now sitting on his lap. he grabs your throat tightly and moves you back. your last gasp of air leaves your lips, and you grab his hands to stop him from squeezing anymore. you couldn’t breathe.
“you have a tongue still. speak.”
his grip loosens just enough for you to use your words.
“yes,”
“have you ever touched anybody else?”
“no, raphael…”
he smiles at your answer and moves his hand from your throat to your head. he pushes you lower and lower until your face is up close to his erection. he runs his hand through your hair and grabs a thick chunk of it, tugging it to force you to look up at him again.
“then tonight, darling, i will break that. and if you satisfy me enough, i’ll give you the release you so desperately want. but only if you are a good little mouse.”
he caresses your cheek and smiles a little more. “and i won’t stop. you will beg and you will cry, but i will not stop until i’ve had my fill. then, i will ruin you…”
he moves his hand back to your hair and guides your head down to his dick. you don’t know what to do. you grab it so gently and place your other hand on his abdomen as you press your lips to the tip of it. you swirl your tongue around it before licking up its length. he’s quiet though, and it’s unnerving. you quickly take him into your mouth without another thought and start bobbing your head up and down his length. finally, raphael lets out a content sigh and pushes a few strands of hair out of your face.
it makes you wet knowing he likes it. that he enjoys your mouth on him, just as you did with his. you move your hand up and down at a good pace, not too slow nor too fast. you don’t want to tease him but you don’t want to try and finish him fast. you want to know what he likes. you want to explore his body as he does yours. you truly believe in your heart and mind that this will not be the last time you will be on your knees and stomach for him. and you’ll gladly do it over and over again.
he is hot; a cool burning to the inside of your mouth. it burns pleasurably, a feeling that is difficult to describe. you lose control over any willpower to run out of there, and to god knows where. your body melts into the bed as you mindlessly suck on him. you want all of him against you and in you. you take him in deeper and deeper and move your hand faster and faster.
it is quite a surprise how good you were. how fast you were able to discover what made him groan and jolt under your touch. his hands grip your hair tighter than before and you swear with one wrong move, he might take off your head. he is gripping so tight, that you start to feel some hairs getting pulled from your scalp. and it hurts badly. yet, you don’t focus on that. you don’t focus on the incoming headache and instead focus on wanting his release.
you move your mouth back up to his tip and lick it again, fast, as your tongue dives into the little hole and swirls in it. raphael moans and you open your eyes to watch him. his mouth is open and his face is contorted into an expression you’ve never seen before. an expression of pure bliss. your eyes lock with his and he gives you that infamous smirk of his. his sharp teeth a pearly white, and his eyes glowing more than usual. you hum against his throbbing cock that’s still in your mouth. raphael moans at that feeling and leans his head back against the pillows.
“you’re such a good little mouse,” he says in a deep voice. you hear the pant in his words, and it makes you so happy knowing you could leave the devil breathless.
you take him out of your mouth with a “pop” and smile at his compliment. you want to kiss him. to kiss his whole body and worship him like a god. he would soon be one once you deliver him that crown and you could be by his side even if he treated you like a slave. such power in his hands as you live a life of luxury and painful pleasure. it doesn’t seem so bad.
you gather the spit in your mouth and let it drool onto his dick. it drips from your lips slowly, and you use your thumb to rub it all around the tip of his cock, lubricating him more. you move your hand up and down again, watching as your spit slides up and down. raphael’s breathing grows heavier with each stroke, and when you put his cock back into your mouth and take him so deep. that it hits the back of your throat, he moans loudly.
raphael notices how quickly you moved back though, and so he quickly dragged your head back down his dick, forcing you to take more of him in you. you almost choke on how big he is, and how it hurts so bad. you can’t breathe and yet it doesn’t matter. it’s so disgustingly beautiful. you bob your head faster and faster, enjoying the sounds he’s making. raphael starts to guide your head, not allowing you to stop. he was almost there, almost on the brink of release.
his voice gets deeper and his moans are louder. you’ve placed both hands on his abdomen now as you just take him fucking your face. it makes you cry, how badly you cannot breathe, and how bad it hurts the back of your throat. tears run down your cheeks and onto him, and he laughs at the state you’re in again. so cute yet so humiliating.
“swallow it all, little mouse,” he says. it’s a demand, not a suggestion. he doesn’t say what will happen if you don’t, and you don’t want to know. you’ve never done this before and you don’t know how you’ll be able to take him all in.
with a few more thrusts into your face, raphael cums and lets out the sexiest and deepest groan you’ve ever heard. his load is hot and it burns your throat. you try to swallow it all, but there’s too much and it doesn’t stop coming. you moan and try to keep up, but his cum starts to drip down your chin now and down your throat. he pushes you away again and pants heavily. you’re still crying when he looks at you. your chest has his cum on it, and so does your mouth and chin. you look like a mess: a hot mess. and raphael loves it.
you go to wipe his cum off your mouth, but he leans forward and grabs you, kissing you immediately. you moan into the kiss and wrap your arms around him, enjoying it greatly. you can taste yourself still on his lips, and as his tongue forces its way into your mouth, he too can taste himself. and it’s safe to say that he tasted better than wyvern whiskey. a sweet yet tangible taste to it, he had. it was the complete opposite of what he is in nature.
you feel his hands grab your breasts and squeeze them, pinching your nipples so hard they almost bled. you gasped into his mouth and started to grind your hips against his, wanting that sweet release from earlier. raphael laughs in your mouth and pulls away.
“you are pathetic,” he says.
you look up at him with your big eyes and fucked-out face. it catches him off guard as to how beautiful you are. with his cum on your body, the little prick on your lip from where he bit you earlier, the messy hair, and beautiful skin. you are almost as beautiful as him. he can’t help but stare at your glowing features (caused by your sweat and his cum). you see raphael’s face soften, but it goes away as fast as it came.
“i am pathetic,” you murmur. “i am whatever you want me to be, raphael…”
your voice was low and soft. it was sultry and sexy, something he never would have imagined to come from you. and by the nine hells did it make him painfully hard again. he kissed you again to stop looking at your pretty face and to shut you up. he felt his nature soften when you spoke and it angered him how the tables have turned so easily. how that one look of yours made him crumble. you would not pull that sorcery again. not now, not ever. the devil raphael wouldn’t bend to a mortal’s charms, ever.
he moves forward until you’re lying on your back with him on top of you again. raphael doesn’t waste any time by moving back down in between your legs and licking up the wetness that now found its way in between your thighs. he sucks on a spot that was particularly wet and close to your cunt, and you clench at nothing and breathlessly moan. he then bites down, hard, and you yelp in pain. it bleeds now, and raphael licks up the blood like it is the richest of wines. it throbs painfully and you whimper because of it. raphael does not care though.
he places his lips back on your cunt and starts to lick again. he swirls it around your wetness and uses his fingers again to make you reach your orgasm quicker than before. but you have been on edge since then, and having to suck him off while not being able to touch yourself was undeniably the worst type of pain you’ve felt in your life. raphael, now feeling how wet you were with two fingers, painfully thrusts in a third one. he removes his lips and twists and turns it around to see how you adjust.
you cry even harder and have to wipe the tears away from your eyes. it doesn���t even feel good, it just hurts. “stop!” you cry. “it hurts!”
“i need you to be prepared for me, little mouse. pleasure will overcome pain, but only if you allow it to. don’t resist…”
you try to relax, but he doesn’t slow down. you can’t tell if he’s lying or not because you’ve never had anybody do this to you before. it scares you, honestly. but the faster raphael jams his fingers in and out of you without sucking on your clit, the worse the pain is. you cover your eyes and think about praying to the heavens to come and save you. but nobody will come. nobody will listen. you are on your own.
remember, you have lost yourself. everything you are and everything you own is now raphael’s, forever and always.
he hums and puts his lips back on your clit to suck on it again. it makes you gasp and moan, and he doesn’t plan on stopping. you feel that pit in your stomach again. it’s burning hotter than before, and it feels even better. you run your hands through raphael’s hair and run your nails against his scalp. it feels good to him, but his lips and fingers feel even better than a few head scratches. you buck your hips against his face and cry. you’re almost there.
and when it comes, it releases like a tidal wave. you scream raphael’s name and shake under him. but he doesn’t slow down. he only goes faster. you don’t have time to slow down your breathing. you’re sensitive to the touch everywhere and it is starting to hurt. you manage to move away a little, but raphael gets upset and grabs your legs again to drag you back up to him. he is sitting up now, holding your lower body up to his face as he looks down at you with only lust in his orange eyes.
“stop, please! raphael!” you scream, trying to get away again. but his grip on you is so strong, that his nails break the skin and you bleed again. you yell and jolt with each wave of sensation that comes in, and before long, you feel yourself about to cum again. it hurts this time though, and it lasts longer than the other one.
raphael finally lets go of you and your legs drop onto his lap. you’re trying to get control of your breathing again, but your body lays half unnaturally in his lap and your hair sticks to the sweat on your face by your nose, making it difficult to breathe. you close your legs and cry onto his sheets. it hurts so much at the end, but you think about that pleasurable orgasm you have never felt before in your life. if felt like a gift. a new becoming. it was a release you could never give yourself. a release you’ve never, ever had before. and it was breathtaking.
raphael spreads your legs wide open and you shriek. you go to shut them again but he smacks your ass hard with his tail in reciprocation. it stings and you hiss in pain.
“don’t defy me!” he snaps.
you shiver under him. “i’m sorry,” you whimper. you open your legs for him and he positions himself comfortably in between them. this is it. this is finally it. whatever you have left of you will finally be gone... you tear up again and close your eyes, inhaling sharply. raphael leans over you and kisses you softly on the lips, tugging at the bottom lip a little. you kiss back instantly, enjoying the taste of him and you. but then he pulls away to tease you, and you reach your hand up to touch his cheek. his skin is so soft and he leans into your touch like a cat.
“wrap me around your little finger,”
he’s reciting your poem again. it sounds better coming from him than it does from you, but the question arises again as to where he found it and how he acquired it. it was always on you, but you don’t dare to ask him now. he holds your hand with his and caresses the back of it with his thumb.
“wrap me around your wedding ring,”
he kisses your hand and moves it away to grab your hips. raphael uses one hand to position his cock at your slick entrance that was so sensitive and needy. he looks up at you to see the nervous look on your face. and with the slightest movement of his hips, he slips inside of you rather easily. you arch your back off the bed and reach for him, but he doesn’t give himself to you. not yet, anyway.
“your words, they take the shape my body makes,”
he thrusts into you slowly, and you moan.
“isn’t that the scary thing?”
he grabs a hold of your hips with both hands now and helps you find the rhythm. you only feel pain though and he’s barely in. you feel the inside of you burn with pain and rip apart from his cock and it burns with the fire of the nine hells. you don’t want to cry this time. you’ve cried enough and this time you want to keep your eyes open, clearly, and see what is happening to your body.
and he is glorious.
his body is beautiful, and the smooth bucking of his hips into yours is like an instrument. its sounds are beautiful and pleasant, and all nerves and pain wash away when you relax into the bed and let him take you. raphael’s bliss enters your tadpole-occupied mind and all you feel is the pleasure of his dick inside of you. it thrusts at a constant speed with such great precision. from the time you have been here, he makes it seem like he’s known your body for years.
his touches are that of a lover’s, and his care is that of a stranger’s. but with every other thrust, you feel him go slightly deeper each time. his cock stretches you out more each time and you watch it with a lustful look in your big eyes. you’re so intrigued by the sheer size of his dick.
but when raphael sees you enjoy yourself too much again, he always finds a way to ruin it. he suddenly thrusts hard and stops.
“raphael!” you yell in pain.
you feel yourself start to bleed. the pain could be intolerable to most, but you were not like most people. it hurt, badly. it felt like every inch of your body was going to rip. you want to relax, you want to calm yourself down. but it hurts even though he’s not moving. you steady your breathing, or at least tried to, and bathed in the hurt. he slid out slowly and thrust back into you with the same amount of force as last time. you cried and yelled with each time he did it. you bled and bled all over him.
your blood drips onto his bed and it matches the color of his sheets. a dark red that matches the color perfectly, and it was soon forgotten about. raphael roughly grabs your throat roughly again, and you fight against him this time. he slams his lips against yours and kisses you again, and it’s rough. there’s no passion or love; there never was. but he was hungry for you, and his fervent kisses were hard and fast. you could feel your soul drain and belong to him. he moves his head to your neck and bites down harshly, drawing blood immediately. you grab his shoulders but find yourself not pushing him away. you dig your nails into his skin and push him up closer to you.
it hurts. it hurts like a bitch when all you feel is his sharp teeth dig into your skin and his dick takes slow, painful thrusts into you. raphael could use a spell to make it better for you. to not make you so tight and tense but he likes to see you hurt and squirming and squealing like a mouse in a trap. to see how you bleed as you take him in painfully and cry and cry his name and beg for him to stop. he moves his head out of the crevice of your neck to watch the look of pleasure and pain contort on your face and your silent tears cascade down those flushed and puffy cheeks. the future hero of baldur’s gate was so beautiful like this—under the control and manipulation of the devil himself.
and when his fire pits of eyes look into your teary and puffy ones, he starts to go faster. he wants to see you cry more. he wants your pain to turn into pleasure. he wants to see your spirit falter and die.
“i cried the day i realized that lies were hidden in his kisses,”
he continues, kissing your chin right after.
“i was tangled in his arms,”
he brings you up to his chest and it makes it all the easier to hit that spot you enjoy the most. you forget about the pain and arch your back, now drawing his blood and staining your nails red. raphael goes faster and faster, hitting that spongy spot inside of you that drives you crazy. you wrap your arms around his neck and fall into him, grinding your hips each time he brings you down into him.
“raphael…” you moan, shutting your eyes.
his breathing is getting labored.
“i was his mess, his ball of strings,”
he grabs your hair and yanks it harshly, ripping a few strands. you don’t care. you offer yourself to him, willingly showing him your neck that had his bites and the vampires. raphael bites down on the spot astarion took pleasure in biting almost every night, and now covered it with his bite marks. he bites down harder than the previous ones and sucks on it. you run your hands through his hair and moan into his ear passionately. raphael shudders at the sound of your voice.
“i would give him everything,” you moan into his ear, lips hovering over it. “the nine hells and second chances.”
you finish your poem. the poem you had started at fifteen and finished only a few days ago. how your feelings for him were manifesting on a ripped and bloodied piece of paper that he managed to find on your journey to baldur’s gate. when you had written your one-way ticket to hell on your own. and how did you manage to convince yourself that you were still a child of the seven martyrs? how did you manage to keep yourself away from his many advances and sexual fantasies? from the trickery you bestowed upon yourself? you disgusting liar.
you hear raphael chuckle in between his low moans, and you hold onto him tighter. you don’t want to let go of the cambion you find yourself falling for every second.
you clench around raphael when he thrusts faster. you kiss his neck and moan into his skin, feeling the bliss of him. you want to cum so bad and so hard. you want to please him, to not anger him. you trail your kisses onto his chin, and he turns his head to kiss you again. you grab his cheek and slip your tongue into his mouth, fighting for some control. his tongue swirls around with yours and he groans into the kiss. he smacks your ass hard again, and you press yourself against him more. you clench around him again because of it, and it’s enough to almost send you over the edge. you moan into the kiss and pull away.
raphael grabs your chin and forces your mouth open, and you can barely stick your tongue out to meet his. you’re moaning as he sucks on the pink muscle and then spits right into your mouth. it drips down the side of your lips but you lick it. he did say to swallow it all.
“such a good little mouse,” he praises you, caressing your cheek.
you come to love the nickname. it turns you on and raphael can feel it. it’s starting to get difficult to breathe and raphael knows that you’re close. he lays you back down on the bed and spreads your legs wide. he doesn’t slow down. he slams into you like it’ll be the last time he’ll ever touch you. you can see stars when you close your eyes, and maybe his dick is so big you can feel it hit your stomach each time he goes in harder. your body tenses up and you start to cry again.
“i’m almost there, raphael!” you moan. “please, please don’t stop!”
you’re so sweet, so pitiful. he doesn’t plan on slowing down anytime soon. your begging is like a sonnet to his ears and he finds himself finishing inside of you. he stills and releases his hot load into you. you cry and shake, and soon you cum too. you grip the sheets and feel your life escape from your body. a feeling unimaginable; an orgasm so hard and beautiful. your back collapses onto the bed and you start to pant heavily. raphael slips out of you and uses a finger to feel the inside of your cunt. you were filled so much it wouldn’t stop leaking out of you.
raphael gets off the bed and fixes his hair quickly. you watch him, still breathing heavily, as he moves some loose strands back behind his ear. he looks at your body and notices the state it was in. blood and cum was smeared all over your sweaty body. your hair stuck to your face and your lips were bruised and swollen from his kisses. with a snap of his fingers he could take you back to your camp and leave you like that. in another time, he will, but some things needed to be discussed with you first.
your legs were pressed tightly together, likely to keep his cum inside of you. you were already missing his heated embrace and fervent kisses. you reach out a hand to him, smiling a little. his heart warms just the tiniest bit and he goes to grab your hand.
“will you accept now?” he asks, dragging you to him. he picks you up and takes you to the large bath in the room. you are still blinded by your lust for him, and although your body aches and writhes in pain from his relentless fucking, you feel like you can think clearly.
raphael sits you down in his lap in the bath, and you relax into his touch. he shocks himself with his tenderness towards you, and it makes him want to gag. but he enjoys it. he enjoys doing this for you. when your mind starts to clear from the bath, you realize what he has done. and it hurts.
“i was only a girl before you came into my life and manipulated my parents,” you say. “and because of you, i had to grow up fast to protect my family. you act like their friend. you act like you care about them. even i fell for your tricks, raphael, and then i saw you for who you are when you asked my parents for my hand in marriage.”
you think back to that night; the night before you were kidnapped. when raphael had talked with your father via letters to allow him to marry you. and when he had come to your home that evening, and your father excitedly told you that raphael had some great news for you. that you would be betrothed to him, and you saw that flicker of the hells in his eyes. you first blamed it on the trick of the lights, but when raphael appeared after the nautiloid and took you to his house of hope for the first time and revealed himself to you… you knew you were doomed.
“you took everything from me tonight,” you continued. “my privacy, my virginity, my wings… i no longer have any solace or faith in the seven martyrs that rule mount celestia, but in you…”
you turn around and look at him. he has no expression on his face, and it doesn’t shock you. he couldn’t care about your feelings, and you knew that. so why do you lay your heart bare for him?
“i’m alone.”
raphael laughs and it burns a hole in your heart. “it hurts my heart so dearly to hear you say this, my little mouse. i do not need to repeat myself. you may have been a lost virgin with wings, but as long as you stay here with me, in my house of hope, then your wings will regrow.”
you look at him, trying to study his facial features. but they’re deceiving many a time, and so you don’t know what he truly is feeling. all you know is that he has taken everything from you, and now your new self belongs to him. you lean in and go to kiss him but he stops you by placing his hands on your lips.
“enough with the teasing, my dear…” he whispers in that voice you love so much. “tell me what i want to hear. tell me what your heart desires. what you wrote for me…”
your breath hitches in your throat. he moves his hand away to allow you to speak, and you inhale sharply. was it alright to do this? everybody would hate you. but it was okay. as long as you have raphael, nothing else matters.
“i’ll marry you, raphael,” you whisper back. “i want to be yours until my soul ceases to exist. i want to be with you always.”
you lean in closer, your lips hovering above his. still, you look into his eyes.
“i will make you king of the nine hells.”
and you kiss him. raphael embraces you fast and kisses you right back, pressing your body tightly up against his. there was no need for a contract when this was something coming from your heart. you truly wanted to do this. you wanted to be by his side, lavished in sex and diamonds. you want to be his consort or slave—it didn’t matter to you. you were his. and that was all you ever wanted since he first looked at you when you were fifteen. when he introduced himself to you under the guise of a wealthy man. who ever knew you would fall in love with the devil.
—
you return to camp clothed and ready to retire for the night. wyll spots you emerging from the area by the lake where you were last spotted, and runs over to you. he can smell the sulfur as soon as he stands in your vicinity, and a look of disgust arises on his facial features as he looks at you. you don’t even have time to say hello before he says anything.
“you’ve been gone for ages, tav!” he almost yells. you put your hands out in front of you to quiet him down so nobody would ask what the problem was.
“i’m sorry,” you say, but you don’t feel all that sorry.
“what business do you have with raphael?!”
you don’t say anything at first. you only look at him and shake your head, ignoring his question. you go to move past him, but he grabs your shoulder and forces you to stay. you wince in pain and quickly pull back. raphael’s bath helped but he wanted to remind you of his marks and power over you. now that you had promised to marry him once you see your parents again.
“it’s none of your business, wyll.”
“you don’t know what game you’re playing. i swear if you signed a deal with him or—“
“it was nothing like that! we just… have a history together.”
“and you hid it from us this whole time?”
“it’s nothing serious. he just so happens to know my parents and… wanted to ask me a few questions.”
oh, but it was far worse. you had made love to him, professed yourself to him, and accepted his marriage proposal. you would give him the crown of karsus and help him take over the nine hells. it was the worst plot to come from the son of mephistopheles. it was something wyll could not even begin to guess even if he tried. but your sternness and collective demeanor convinced him that it was nothing more than that.
he softens up again and clears his throat. “like what?”
you cross your arms and raise an eyebrow. “wyll.”
“i know i shouldn’t pry into your business, but when it comes to the devil, it’s difficult for me.”
you stare at him for a heartbeat before grabbing his hands with yours and squeezing them. you smile at him gently and rub the back of his hands with your thumbs. “whatever we talked about has no concern to you guys. it was a personal matter that didn’t involve you or the tadpoles. i promise you.”
a false promise. wyll had no choice but to believe you and thank you for your “honesty”. as he turns around to head to bed, you drop the smile and make your way to your tent with pain in between your legs. finally, you collapse into your bed and stare up at the fabric of your tent. raphael was in your mind. he will forever be in your mind. he is you, and you are him, forever.
i can’t stop listening to cowboy carter forgive me <3
#bg3#baldur’s gate 3#raphael bg3#haarlep#tav#raphael the cambion#raphael x tav#raphael x reader#raphael bg3 x reader#raphael bg3 x tav#smut
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So, here's another Dean. This one's in neocolor crayon, which are very soft crayons - you can use water with them, but I haven't here, because the paper's newsprint and it would fall to pieces very quickly if I used water.
While I was drawing, I was pondering various arty matters. Mainly, how some art/craft posts - mostly on Facebook rather than here - irritate the hell out of me. You know the ones. Where there's some amazing piece of art/craft, but the caption is something like, 'please be kind - it's my first time!' When it's blatantly not their first time, unless art and craft is just plain easy, which it isn't. Anyway, I'm not sure why people make those posts - for others to comment how amazing they are? I suppose. But it must be pretty hollow to receive such compliments. Unless it really is their first time. And even then...
So, anyway, it made me think, why do I post my art? What exactly do I get out of it? Do I do it to receive validation in the form of compliments? I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that, but I just wanted to be really honest with myself. And also, why do I make art in the first place and why this particular type of art, drawing the same characters over and over?
Well, I think I draw for the same, or similar reasons that I write - because it's my own world, that I can control. There's comfort there, isn't there? And comfort in the characters I draw and write about - they're not called comfort characters for nothing, after all. And they're beautiful, aren't they? They're just damn beautiful. Why wouldn't I want to draw them?
So, I guess I want to pour my love into creating something beautiful, or as near beauty as I can get. And I choose to do that with my crayons or my charcoal or my pastels because I love those things too - their colours, the way they spread, the way you can make big, soft marks or sharp, dark marks, the way you can smush them around with your fingers, the way you can just mess about and sometimes it doesn't work and sometimes you get an amazing effect that you didn't know was possible. I love drawing randomly, roughly, searching and searching until I find what I want.
But why post online? Hmm... Well, yes, it is nice when people think what I've created is technically skilful. I have an ego that likes to be stroked, same as anyone else. But if that was the only reason, I'd probably cheat. Some people do. And if that makes them happy, who am I to criticize?
Anyway, I think what I'm after is connection, which is in no way an original thought. That's what makes fandom so wonderful, isn't it? The way you can find connections with other people all over the world. I think when I post, I'm looking for people who love the same kinds of things that I do - the same characters, obviously, but also the same kind of approach to art. The colours and the roughness, the playfulness and the 'continuing mission' to find beauty. I think I post in the hopes that someone will see my art and think, 'hey, I like that.' And that they'll feel a little spark of joy.
I think that's what all our fan creations are about. You get the firework of joy and excitement that goes off when you create your story or your picture and then, around the fandom world, other people get a spark struck from your joy. Which is pretty flowery stuff, but, hey - I'm a writer, aren't I?
That's enough rambling. Nearly. Because I also want to do the thing I often do, which is totally anti the 'it's my first time!' kind of posts. This is very far from my first time and I want you to see the crappiness of my progress shots, because it's important to know that there's almost always a lot of crappy stages before you reach something you consider beautiful. Not perfect. I'm not after perfection, which is impossible anyway, and I would never say any of my stuff is perfect because it's far from perfect and I don't want that - I want life and humanity and striving toward something.
I'm gonna shut up now, because there are burgers to be cooked and chocolate cake to be eaten, and hey! Doctor Who's on soon! Bye!
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Bridgerton season 3 (part 1) review
Thoughts on polin this season:
I stand corrected, people. I loved Penelope and Colin this season. I found the writing of those two as individual characters and a couple (on the show) to be mediocre before, but my god, it's like they jumped straight out of the fourth book this season. It's like I finally got to meet book Penelope and Colin (especially Colin). And the chemistry of the leads really surprised me too. I don't know what was going on before this season, but they are great together now. The writing/portrayal of the personalities of the two characters and their connection was spot on, and I honestly have no notes. I wish they had kept this same essence since the beginning, but I get why they were saving this until their season.
As I expected, the execution of the translation of this season and couple from the book to screen was the best out of all three seasons. I wish the past two couples got the same attention and treatment (specially kanthony), but alas, there's nothing to be done about that.
RMB is my fourth favourite book in the series, but this season is honestly my favourite. The dialogue, costumes, locations, aesthetic of the sets, and even the silent moments between the leads were so poignant. And this season made it clear how a show having a female show-runner can impact it so positively.
Now, on to the other things:
I really liked how they handled Penelope and Eloise's friendship and its fallout this season. Their friendship was written more subtly and with care this season and resembled the one in the books for the first time ever for me. And how they both changed as individuals by the absence of the solace the two of them found in each other in the past as they stood against the confoundedness and cruelty of society was written so well.
Kanthony were adorable and really cute and it's such a shame that we got so few scenes of them. At least they are together and happy.
I hate how they keep making a mockery of Benedict's character. It's clear that he should have already met Sophie and gotten his story cause his character feels lost among everyone else, but the poor boy is still smiling, so that's something I guess. I just wish they would for once properly focus on his love for art and improvement of his talent instead of his little dalliances. It's almost like the writers think that he has no other values/interests beyond that. I feel like the writers are so much better at handling Eloise's character and preparing her for her season than they are at writing Ben's. For god's sake, they should at least give him a best friend, or further build his relationship with one of his siblings or Violet to give his character some substantiality.
Eloise was really great this season and seemed so much more mature and grounded. Her costumes were immaculate too. I just wish we had seen her bond with Francesca more cause they're really close in the books.
As for Francesca, I'm sorry, I didn't like how her character or story was written this season. She was never meant to be this.. idk... plain and quirky? (no one come at me cause I'm a book Fran apologist). After watching these four episodes I feel like Ruby had a better grasp on Francesca's character than Hannah does but it could also have something to do with the very bland writing. But then again, most of what we know of Fran is from WHWW and she is more mature in it, so like polin, her character could also get major development later on as she gets older. But I don't have high hopes for that. And dare I say, I also didn't like how John was written either. He was always way more confident and outgoing in my mind (I also expected them to cast an actor of a larger build and screen presence to play him). But I do see how this version of him suits the new version of Fran. But all in all, neither of them were this particular in my imagination. I hadn't had any hopes for the adaptation of Michael's character since last season came out, so this is literally the nail on that coffin for me. At this point, I'm very desensitised to being let down by this show and prefer to be pleasantly surprised, so who cares.
The soundtrack was great (though nothing can beat season one's in my opinion). But Snow On The Beach playing in episode four at the exact moment it did was really poignant and sweet so it's my favourite song they used this season (so far).
Favorite quote:
"Eros and Psyche battling it out." "What you are trying to say, Miss Cowper? Are they not old friends?" "The oldest of friends, really. Ever since the Featheringtons moved in across the street." "Across the street from the Bridgerton house?" 😭 (argghhh! why is that the cutest thing? whoever wrote that deserves a raise!!!)
Suffice to say, I'm very excited to see how the rest of the season is written. I hope they handle the whole LWD thing with care too.
#bridgerton#penelope featherington#colin bridgerton#polin#romancing mister bridgerton#francesca bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#bridgerton spoilers
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I agree what the cast says does not hold as much weight as what happens on stream. I think this is why I get frustrated by the 'Orym is to blame for Laudna killing Bor'dor' debates, using things Liam and/or Marisha have said on 4-sided dive that contradict the actual scene, where Marisha states Laudna barely notices Orym and Ashton, and *nothing* will stop her from doing what she wants to do. At worst, it's inaction. Have interviews and things like that always held so much weight in fandom?
I am absolutely the wrong person to ask here; I was not super in fandom when I was younger. I am going to, as I am wont to do, make some educated guesses but please take with a grain of salt.
I think there's a few things going on. A lot of people have told me that Glee was the first fandom they personally recall where it became about winning more than like, having fun and sharing ideas, and I wouldn't be surprised if that is at least an influence. (The idea that two ships that do not conflict and indeed have incompatible sexualities are in some kind of deathly serious competition is truly so baffling to me that I have to chalk up that particular bit of, if I may use a yiddishism here, mishegos, to Glee for sure.)
I also think that there was a time and there are shows where interviews did (or do) carry more weight, namely, those with executive meddling, or loss of creative control, or, notably, queer ships until quite recently. I have a lot of friends in the Star Trek fandom even though I'm not knowledgeable at all and from what I am given to understand, there's been a few ships squashed or delayed by executive whim or homophobia that the actors would pretty openly and consistently confirm at conventions. (The ones I know are Riker and Troi; and Garak and Bashir; but I have only hazy recollections of TNG and know NOTHING of DS9 so this is second-hand). I've talked about this before, but Word of God used to carry more weight for me when you simply couldn't have same gender romances on network TV or most mainstream film without risking your career. Now? You're a coward and a panderer.
Anyway I think with actual play specifically, which is improvised (ie, intent can shift dramatically and unexpectedly) and which has a lot of talkback shows and also a disproportionately huge amount of content people get in the habit of cherrypicking, and in extreme cases this turns into cherrypicking themselves straight out of the actual narrative and into microexpressions and OOC interviews and side conversations from three years ago.
I also, and I am too tired and too many drinks in (two drinks in, to be clear) to articulate this tonight, find that actual play in particular has amassed a certain fandom that I think was attracted to things I like and support (queer characters, women/queer people/POC creating and driving their own characters, independent creator-owned productions, improvised and therefore at times really unique stories, not needing to have streaming services in some cases) but also doesn't actually like Actual Play as a medium (see: every single D20 fandom meltdown low-key boils down to "I have zero genre awareness of both whatever is going on narratively and also I high-key loathe D&D as a means of storytelling and particularly the existence of violence in narrative, yet I am watching the Violent Narrative D&D show, so dance or me, my puppets, wait why aren't you dancing.") So I think you get a lot of people who are just making dumb fucking arguments because they decide what they believe and then poorly reverse engineer the support instead of doing things in the proper order and I think the people claiming Orym is responsible for Bor'Dor's death are in that category and we should stop treating them as people who are adding anything of worth to the conversation.
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a few more bridgerton thoughts! i've always been only a casual enjoyer who watches just for a few hours of fun and doesn't get super invested, but even so, i'm still feeling pretty underwhelmed by this season so far. i watched it in one sitting and enjoyed it while it was happening but just immediately forgot about it as soon as i was done. maybe all the memorable moments are going to be in the second half of the season, but for these first four episodes, i feel like it was all just kinda bland and forgettable (granted, of all the romance tropes in the world, m/f childhood-friends-to-lovers is just about the #1 most boring one to me, so this never would've been my favorite season regardless)
i adore romance and romcoms, always have, and am pretty happy to watch The Classic Marriage Plot play out a thousand times, yet i feel like bridgerton is maybe becoming TOO formulaic and repetitive. although, to be fair, i WAS giggling and kicking my feet during all the Classic Romance Scenes, but the problem was maybe just that there weren't enough of them, which brings me to my second point of too many subplots. too much padding and filler and not enough Classic Romance, which is what i'm here for.
8 hours is way more time than is needed to tell 1 love story, so to fill up the time they invent 17 random subplots that are ultimately pointless and have little relevance outside of the current season. i would way rather a season be only 4 episodes but tightly focused on the main love story, or that a season be about two siblings and two main love stories at a time, than have all this extra time they need to fill up with random unimportant shit. why have we had 3 seasons' worth of storylines about benedict having one-off non-endgame girlfriends that don't have a lasting impact on his character development? what's the point? he's been treading water for so long that i'm not even going to care about him anymore by the time he finally comes into the spotlight, and same with eloise. god, the thought of eloise's season potentially not being until like 2027 is insane. it's past time to start picking up the pace and doing 2 siblings per season!
and the kicker is that all these subplots, which were only invented to fill up the time, end up filling too MUCH time and taking away from the main love story, which is left feeling underbaked. this sort of happened last season, but it's way worse this season. penelope is an excellent character, but her back is breaking from trying to carry the season because colin is kinda giving us nothing due to lack of narrative attention given to him as an individual. he's supposed to be the co-lead, yet i couldn't tell you a single personality trait of his besides "vaguely nice" because he's just had no development and exists more as a prop for penelope to love than as a fleshed-out character in his own right. there was that whole scene where violet was talking about how he's a people pleaser who focuses on making others happy at the expense of his own wants and happiness, and i was just sitting there going "he is?" because i didn't feel i'd ever gotten to know him enough as a person to see this trait in him.
i also think the "dropping a season in 2 halves" model is just about the worst possible release model. if you drop 1 episode a week, that's constant engagement and allows for longer time to digest and appreciate each individual episode. if you drop the whole season at once, it's all over too fast but on the flipside you can experience the entire story at once without risking forgetting things or losing interest while waiting for new episodes. but dropping in two halves a month apart is the worst of both models (over too quickly yet also makes you wait too long to finish the story).
i do like some of the subplots, though. cressida getting to be more than just a mean girl caricature has been a particular highlight, the mondrich family going suddenly from working class to noble is interesting to see, and as a mega-introvert myself (and a music lover!) whose ideal partner would be someone who's happy to sit in silence with me, francesca and john's whole vibe is THE definition of romance to me and has me absolutely swooning (and it's a nice change of pace from all the loud dramatic romances on this show). violet potentially finding new love is also very sweet and i'm rooting hard for her! meanwhile i am not a fan of the featherington subplot; after s1 portraying regency girls' lack of sex education as a serious issue, it feels.........odd for the show to now be playing that very same thing for laughs this season and it just kinda makes me uncomfortable.
but otherwise there isn't much i dislike about the season, it's just kinda "meh" to me so far. the second half might turn things around if it's more memorable!
#bridgerton#bridgerton spoilers#i am not active in the bridgerton fandom at all so i don't want to get into TOO much discourse or anything here haha#just recording my thoughts! and curious if any of my followers have similar ones
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Me: *creates oc*
My brain: hyperfixate on this blorbo please :)
Me: sure! What do you want to create?
My brain: no >:( only research :)
Me: but brain, we can’t research. We created the blorbo. There is no information, we have to make it
My brain: no >:( if cannot research THIS blorbo, then research a DIFFERENT blorbo!
Me: *makes another oc*
My brain: there :) research!
Me: we can’t, we have to make the information
My brain:
#writing#oc#original character#I currently have two#Kasey#dnd#ravnica#Sal#a story character from nothing in particular#I would very much like to do research#but alas#I have to settle for researching the things they’re BASED on#which is not NEARLY as fun#or intensive#i need enrichment#enrichment in my enclosure
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So I don't know if it was ever revealed how Duncan felt when we killed Malistaire all three times but I'm wondering if maybe some part of him could hate us for that too. Like you hear that and you go "but why. Malistaire was terrible and even Duncan knew that(?). Why would he hate you for getting rid of him."
But like I think it's so....... interesting in a very, very, very sad way how Duncan so easily latches onto anyone who directly feeds into his delusions of grandeur. And that's no fault of his own that he was manipulated by the nasty Schism but when you think about how desperately clung to the idea that Malistaire, easily one of the greatest necromancers any of us had ever heard of (at that time), somehow actually recognized Duncan's talents (even when canon supports that Duncan wasn't all that talented, at least no more than the next necromancer) and then praised him for it so often that Duncan believed that he would be the next Death Professor is. I mean ☹️
So like with that mindset I unfortunately feel like it would be quite easy to twist even Malistaire's death as something that's horrible and awful and all our fault. ESPECIALLY if the Schism was feeding into Duncan's already broken mind and shattered ego and was constantly telling him that everything bad that ever happened to him ever in his life was Our Fault. That's like a realistic conclusion that someone like Duncan could come to
And like, at this point in time, are Malistaire's crimes even a factor in how he thinks????? Was Duncan ever able to separate Malistaire's talent and skills and prowess from the terrible and awful things he did? If Duncan wasn't able to consciously tell that distinction in the first place I can't imagine it would be any better during the years he was being manipulated and isolated and lied to
Like in Duncan's mind it probably isn't, "maybe I shouldn't idolize a national criminal, or idolize anyone at all for that matter, and aspire to be like someone so harmful when I can recognize my own talent and build from there" it's probably more like, "you (the wizard) permanently got rid of a brilliant mind, an innocent person who just made a few mistakes, and someone who believed in me no matter what just so that you could be the better than me and loved by everyone else" and that's! very sad actually!
#this is all speculation btw idk if any of this is canon. how duncan feels about all this#i know i keep saying the exact same shit over and over but.... really not a fan of how the game handled duncan! sorry!#i know wizard101 isnt supposed to be about every single character gets a satisfying ending to their arc-#-meaning not everyone in the story will face consequences and/or find a happy ending and like thats fine they dont need to#but idkkkk its just imo really sad how essentially a kid suffers frrom something he cant control by himself (his ego)-#and then instead of getting help he is instead ignored (ambrose) and then manipulated and brought up by a cult#and then when it becomes super apparent how... TERRIBLE his life really is and we defeat him he just... goes back??????#we.... we LET him go back???? i mean we're not responsible for other people's bad decisions or mental health but bro....#and then when we tell ambrose he's just like “oh. too bad. well anyways-” AND IM LIKE WELL THATS THE REASON!!!!! NO WONDER HE'S FUCKED UP#NONE OF THIS IS ADDRESSED. NONE OF IT. WE KICK DUNCAN'S ASS AND THEN HE.... GOES BACK TO THE CABAL#i literally just got so desolate when (wallaru spoilers) because. okay. all that for nothing i guess#this isnt me being mad btw LMAO i know the tone probably reads as angry but im not im just disappointed#and tired. what is it with wizard101 in particular and just people suffering with no end. (me as i make my main suffer with no end)#but anyways yeah duncan has been in my head for a while. he's one of the guys that i love a lot BDKSNSKAJ#he's like a son to me and HE NEEDS A HEALTHY PARENT. HE NEEDS IT#not excusing his actions btw. he still committed crimes JRKDJSIEJ#i just have a soft spot for those villains in media who are doomed from the start yknow. (stares tearfully at morganthe and gf spider)#wizard101#wiz101#w101#text posts#duncan grimwater#im not normal about duncan at all he's probably the wozard oc i feel for the most other than malorn and us
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Random Thought
So, a while back I posted a pic of all the Pokemon dudes that I like despite knowing basically nothing about Pokemon, and it's become a very shocking fact to me that despite their apparent popularity, the train dudes do basically nothing in their home game.
#how do i know they do nothing if i don't play pokemon?#because i looked through a playilst of an old chugg/a/conroy LP and they weren't in a single thumbnail for that series#that dude covers EVERYTHING in a series. if they were important they would have been there#i guess side characters are capable of getting large fan bases for basically no reason#but i find it very odd regardless#is it a fun mode?#is there a different piece of media that led to their popularity?#because i have minimal interest in pokemon as a series outside of character/creature design#i don't mind looking up spoilers for it#so i know that ingo in particular got a boost after arceus for *Reasons*#and the inherent tragedy of that story was sure to increase the fans of both#but why the heck were they popular before that?#because them being on my personal list is because#i was bombarded with fanart about them for like 2 months so i was basically suckered into caring about them#anyway. i don't think i'm gonna go through the trouble of updating that graphic#but these are the new pokedudes that would be added to it:#gordie. as per forgetting him the first time.#the principal of the school and his alter ego#the dark type leader of team star#the biology. art. and cooking teacher#larry.#and the professor from pokemon sleep#for the record there are pokegals that i like too but that list is much shorter than thus much less interesting#it's hard for me to get into anime girls because i always feel like they're trying to sell me something#and i'm usually not buying
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novel introduction: Nothing in Particular and Everything
[image ID: A girl in a yellow rain jacket stands over a cliff face with her arms outstretched. Blue waves twist below. Greenery hangs over the cliffs.]
[text ID under the cut!]
started: February 2021
stage: 3rd draft
pov: first person, past tense
tags: #nip: inspo, #nothing in particular and everything
Ask to be +/- from the tag list if that is something you would like!
@words-after-midnight @thesorcerersapprentice
[text ID: There is a cliff at the edge of Point Blink where kids twist into the air and throw dust to the vortexing waves; they shoot past eroded caves filled with old bird nests that fly up like slots in a mausoleum. A lighthouse with a jammed bell leers over the expanse of heat lightning reflections. Metal gargles against stone in storm weather, warning us all of childish dares. I was a lighthouse: lived in by sailors, travelers, and strangers; pale stone tall and strong against a maelstrom of salt and rock. Moon shells speckled my base, crushed or buried. Clouds passed over the moon, and I opened my eye to cast sickly yellow light over the waves as they smoothed the footprints of my friends, and of Dad, and of me. Point Blink has stood for decades, but I will stand alone for many more, flickering against all the stars, waiting for those I love to return to harbor.]
Synopsis -
Ever since her best friend left Point Blink, Ray hasn’t felt the same. Now that Lonan is away at college, her friend group feels more distant than ever. Ray struggles to hold them together.
Photography is Ray’s passion. Memories with her friends have helped her create cover her bedroom walls. It’s her senior year, as well as the last school photography club trip she’ll ever be a part of. When Ray is paired with new girl Jude - who is determined to find her own way in Point Blink - they stumble on an abandoned fire tower in the forest. As the girls explore its mysterious contents, an act of arson threatens their lives.
Over the course of the winter, the girls spend afternoons in a dark room and build a profile for the arsonist – as well as a strong friendship. But as they delve deeper into Point Blink’s history, secrets surface within Ray too. Her mental health starts to decline, as well as her obsession with resolving her friendships. If she is ever to resolve the world she loves, she must care for herself.
Excerpts -
[text ID: I was a firm believer that the best art is created when the artist is lonely, angry, or depressed. The summer my best friend caught his train out of Point Blink, I was surprised to find that I became none of these things. We buried a time capsule beneath Sugarfell’s soaring pines and painted his bedroom walls a calm cerulean. We snuck out of house at nighttime to swim and went on a road trip to see our favorite band in concert. All my most colorful memories in Point Blink were unplanned in the beginning.]
[text ID: As it is, Lonan has always been a year older and a grade ahead of me. As I entered my senior year of high school, he entered his freshman year of college. It felt like we were miles apart. It felt like he was going to disappear. Together, we stared across the pink beach. A piper toothed the drowned shore for beetles. Primordial fire reeds combed rays of golden sun to fine sparkles. Lonan never left the shore, just blinked slowly while pockets of young horseshoe crabs chased each other into a swirl of murky blue. I could never resist the water. Often I spread my arms wide, walked barefoot along the rock wall trailing away from the beach into the water. Lonan only watched me from the sand – smaller and smaller and smaller. Now I tried to focus on the melodic thrill of the waves, but a cold headache was starting in my forehead. Sometimes I think that if I didn’t put so much effort into my friendships, I might not be so angry all the time.]
[text ID: I knew Lonan would never give up, because he was a rebel and I was quiet. He was my focal point. Point Blink a gauge built on magenta sea glass – and I had a third eye, primal in the growing.]
[text ID: The truth was this: time was fiction to me. When I lifted my camera up, saw the world as more beautiful than it was, made it mine for just a moment in time – the trees richer, the waves more childlike in their frothing – none of it stayed the same. When birds called my name over the burst of a wave onto the cliffs. When storms send shadows to dance across the bluff faces. My most purple imagination couldn’t convince me everything was going to be okay – my best friend was gone. All of these falling pieces of my world were stark reminders that Lonan Herrings was gone for what seemed like an indefinite time. Because once people find what they want, they never stop chasing it.I tried to hold a moment forever, but time isn’t fiction – it’s an hourglass. Lately, my life had felt more like a rusted compass with a broken face.]
[text ID: Where the familiar world of oaks met the dusty clearing, a graffitied entrance sign barely hid a girl. Had it not been for the bright blue hat she wore with the number twelve stitched on front, I might have missed her altogether. She closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the sun. Her lips curved to a satisfied grin as the sun highlighted her round cheeks a smooth sienna. She seemed truly content and stayed that way – forgot about the rest of us, even me.]
[text ID: I suppose – in many ways – I didn’t talk to anyone about Lonan. Not about school, either. About my friends, about the headaches I kept getting every night, about how I’d lost my appetite completely last week.
“My best friend and I used to come down here a lot.”
Jude’s smile was small. “When was the last time.”
“He’s away for college right now.”
Her smile fell. “Oh. That’s why you didn’t want me to tag along with you.”
I swallowed.
“That’s why you wanted to come down here on your own, isn’t it?”
Her arm brushed mine and it was so warm. It reminded me of the safe feeling I got whenever Florian hugged me.
A breeze trickled through the trees we’d come from and cascaded faint sparkles across the water, feathered the waves away from the shore. Briefly, the gray clouds pulled apart the fog, and pale sunlight touched Jude’s cheeks, drawing a smile from her lips. It seemed that, even in the darkest moments, she managed to find something to love. It made me jealous.
Her eyes were closed. “At least you can still watch the sun rise.”]
[text ID: Point Blink was like a sponge – it inhaled and exhaled water. Soaked up all rain and laughter, cursing and screaming. Rotting at the core. Sometimes I imagined Sugarfell might drink up all of that water, fold over itself like a map, and all those memories would surface from the ground with new bodies. Hands, the sort that I dreamed of appearing from underneath my bed. The hands of something that is supposed to be forgotten. Point Blink rarely exhaled. It just held its breath. Jude wasn’t afraid of Point Blink. She wasn’t afraid to live in a place where the people slogged from shore to shore, sunburned and bored. She wasn’t afraid to be alone in a place where the other kids grew up without her. She wasn’t afraid to sing as she walked up the beach and into the trees.
[text ID: “Are you crying?” he asked.
I hugged myself tight. “No.”
Lonan wasn’t totally convinced, because he tilted his head and stared at me with his green-blue eyes for a long time. “You were about to.”
Lonan leaned into my shoulder. For a moment, I thought he might have been crying since he was the sort of person who cried whenever other people cried. Sometimes I think he is the rarest type of person in the world. I wished I could feel everything the way he did.
But he wasn’t crying – he was just resting against me. He was never going to be taller than me, so his head fit onto my shoulder perfectly. He could stay there for all of eternity if he wanted to.
And suddenly, all that darkness and thick air didn’t hang so heavy over me.]
[text ID: Lonan came to me all at once: we were dissolved into black. I tried running to the opposite side of the fire tower, but then there was no ground beneath me. We must not have been that far up, because it didn’t take long for the rest of the tower to collapse beneath us. There was something soft underneath me – my bag or Jude’s arm. I could not see the sky – then light exploded from the veil we were trapped in. Jude’s hand found mine. She was shouting. I couldn’t tell what she was saying. I dragged myself through the grass, now pasty with smoke, infiltrating my throat, my eyes, my head – everything. It softened the world, made it easier to forget, but no easier to breathe. Jude screamed – a sound I never should have heard – and it brought hot tears to my eyes. Distantly, someone else screamed. It might have been me, but I wasn’t sure. Sirens wailed somewhere. We never heard many of them in Point Blink. I smelled of salt and smoke. What a fool I’d been to believe it possible I could carry on without my best friends, and what a fool Jude had been to think she could replace them.]
If you’re all the way down here, thanks for reading! I sometimes post snippets from the book as I write under the tag #nothing in particular and everything
:)
#i have so much love left for this story but not the time to write it#updates probably won't happen too often#but i want to start posting more smaller snippets from time to time!#i love these characters a lot and i want to finish this third draft#it's just such a comfort#<3#ray and lonan's friendship is so SOFT#agh#maybe ill post some more excerpts from their chapters next!!#my writing#nothing in particular and everything#creative writing#original story#writing#author
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don't feel like spreading the poll of the week because theres enough negativity and pointed-ness around, however
#can't fault SOTO#not from a 'great for my characters in particular' standpoint#IBS however almost doesn't exist for my commander's story#my characters took a large backseat during all of that and simply barely interacted with it#SOTO gave me the excuse to pull the worst [figuratively speaking] character i have that's still alive and give him meaningful development#the mute-ness works for him#he's not speaking outloud about how he feels ever#in fact some of the only voice lines that we get that're bangers were detrimental for him in particular because it DOES assume carrying -#the same commander through to be wayfinder#which makes sense; but whatever#IBS did nothing for me personally beyond give me a map that i like to farm sometimes and give me even more fear of comp PVE until recently#other than LWS1 which i didn't get to experience live and IBS; my charas were present and doing things in everything else#so my choice is purely down to 'this did nothing for the development of my OCs'#which i rank kinda highly; more so than a lot of other things in a game narratively driven by the fun lil guys you make i guess
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hey did you know that I can do whatever the fuck I want when it comes to the safe space of fiction.
I can take a piece of media and interpret it in any way I see fit, and even remove it entirely from any roots it may have to real life, simply because I feel like it! just because it brings me pleasure and I enjoy doing so!
and the best part is, you can do all of that as well!!!
#not to vague post about anyone in particular but oh my god. imagine hating fun and creativity this much#literally just do whatever#yes this is about hamilton because guess what it's SO easy to remove it from the real history. so easy! it's fiction!#you can't conflate the two! hamilton is not history and history has little to do with that funny little musical!#the characters aren't the historical figures and in ny opinion you are not delusional for separating the two.#you are delusional for insisting the two cannot be separated. it's a story about constantly singing characters. what are you on#sorry for flipping my shit down in these here tags but i don't understand why people have to be so annoying#like people will see someone having fun with something and call them sick in the head for it. hey it doesn't matter. nothing on here matters#go outside maybe#rayrambles
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.
#pickle pontificates#i need to find a nice chill blog to follow for a certain fandom because I've been braving the wild west of the tag for a few weeks#and I'm sick and tired of seeing weird braindead discourse that's just rehashing stuff from every fandom ever and refusing nuance#i hate shipping discourse. sick of it#liking a ship or hating a ship does NOT make you morally superior or inferior or say anything about your political opinions#(in and of itself anyway)#like. yeah i don't ''get'' a lot of ships and don't really love any for this particular thing#but like. people are going to ship. they're going to ship things that don't make sense to you.#they're going to ship ''the wrong couples'' and ''the wrong genders'' (???) and there's nothing you can do about that#it's fair to vent about ships you don't care for or understand and it's fair to enthuse about ships you love#what i don't get is discourse with ppl vaguing in main tags back and forth like there's a debate to be had#there's not. there is no debate to be had in matters of preference#if ppl were really debating what makes canonical sense then sure. you could debate that#but there are only like two or less implied canonical ships in this fandom and NO official ones#NOTHING makes canonical sense. SHIPPING IS PREFERENCE. shipping is almost always inherently nonsensical to varying extents#you're not going to change anyone's preferences or behavior by complaining about a widespread cross-fandom phenomenon that's now here#this is an adult/teen story with adult characters aimed at an adult demographic#be an adult and mind your own business instead of acting like it's a moral social justice crusade to engage in shipping discourse#mkay rant over#okay to respond/reply btw i just don't want this in tags
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Read more of Moira's pen and once again made myself sad and once again it has NOTHING to do with the content and it just seems to be like??? I think about it engage with qt for longer than 5 minutes and it hurts??? It's like looking into the sun??? It's this inexplicable ache that nothing else in the world has ever given me? Absolutely truly nothing no matter how much I've loved it has produced this specific sweet sorrow/bitter joy and I can't explain it it describe it but I'm so deeply upset??
#franposting#this is why i dont reread them too often#its too much#idk. is it just overwhelming love#is it the specific combination of themese and characters?#is it the story as myth and the lack of definitively certainty making my ocd flare up subconsciously#bc of my desperate need for definitive answers#all of the above??#like im just. nothing gets me like this doeso#other things get to me deeply and with similar or even more intensity#but nothing gets to me in this particular way#i feel like i might die from it tbh#unironically and completely genuinely i think actual religious experience is the only other thing that comes close#and still theyre different (obvs)#im just. i have a lot of feelings and not enough words#language is a tool but it is also a limiter#and i am so aware of that rn#also im so sorry everyone who sent me messages i havent answered yet im jusf. ah#i am gonna force myself to go to bed. work tmrw#i just wanna lay here in my sadness and ache and joy and think and pray and beg and bargain
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i do like sandman a lot, but episode 5 is so. the little will-they-won't-they flirty dance the show does with having a homophobic subplot is so cowardly alkdjalkdja.
like having bette tell marsh "judy's so pretty, she could have any man in town. some people are just afraid to be happy" because she disapproves of her gf, and then having her try to set judy up with mark, is very clear lesbophobia. it's not subtle, and judy's character is heavily impacted by that, as evidenced by her "everyone here judges me, you all think i'd be so much happier if i just fucked a dude" conversation with john.
which just makes the #plottwist that actually bette's just saying that because she wants to get with judy... ineffective writing?
1. it undercuts a major part of judy's character, in the same way that the classic "i wouldn't do that if i were you" "why, because i'm a woman?" "no, because (enter plausible reason here)" gotcha that people use to show that their male character is a #feminist (and thus making the female character look like a paranoid and judgemental bitch), undercuts their female characters. it renders her genuine frustration at the bigotry she faces harmless, because the bigotry she faces doesn't actually stem from people hating her for being a lesbian. and
2. Literally What Is The Point Of That Twist. like if they wanted to cut out the homophobia subplot from the comics, they could have cut it entirely? just not included any lesbophobia, and had bette be critical of donna without adding the boyfriend comments. but instead they like... half included it, in a way that cuts all the meaning and impact away from it. so the homophobia just ends up... a fun callback for comic fans to pick up? without digging any deeper into why those homophobic comments are present in the story, because the writers were afraid that portraying genuine homophobia might alienate their queer audience. bit silly.
#'but vinnie bette just did that because of her own internal lesbophobia' yeah i get that. it's not that a character CAN'T have that motive#or that that's a story that can't be explored effectively#it's just that they didn't. they did absolutely nothing with the lesbophobia angle at all after the Feelings Reveal#which means that this particular use of that character motive is incredibly weak and detracts from the overall story#rather than expressing anything meaningful#anyways. not to start talking about the show just to immediately criticize it. it's just that i'm on ep 5 of my rewatch </3#sandman
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been thinking a lot about ben's wasted potential as a character lately
#i love him so much but nobody ever seems to know what to do with him#they literally wrote him off bc he just wasn't working. but he could have!#he was the first unabashedly working class main character! he had an interesting skillset and backstory that could have gone places!#and they just didn't do anything with him#and that's extended to most of what i've seen of the eu#like he's never totally dead weight i'm always glad he's there. but he very rarely gets to be at the centre of the plot#off the top of my head the only ones i can think of are like. the macra terror and the forsaken#both of those stories do really interesting things with him and i wish more would follow suit!#in particular i'm mad that elliot chapman was SO good at playing him in audio and they did NOTHING with him before he left the role#i don't even think he ever got a dedicated companion chronicles story#they had a chance to finally do him justice and thry fumbled it#i respect his decision to not play him for longer than michael craze did#(even tho i've heard speculation that his departure had more to do with the james dreyfus situation)#but i wish bf had done more with him while they had him#and it's always been odd to me that he and polly are tied so closely together but he gets a fraction of the attention she does#even in mediums where there would be no need to recast him!#don't get me wrong i love polly i just wish he got a slice of that pie#i've slowly evolved from ''eh he's alright'' to the number one ben jackson defender SOMEBODY needs to show my boy some love#dw#my posts
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