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tragedybunny · 6 months

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Bedroom Hymns - Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW - Breeding / Sex Pollen

This is technically the second part of my wedding fic Dance With Me Under the Diamonds, See Me Like Breath in the Cold. I separated it out as it is just porn with a small tie-in to the plot. There will be another part that continues the story that doesn't require reading this. Reader is based on an Archfey Warlock. Tried some new things here and I'm not sure if they worked but oh well.

Reader and Astarion are happily married and celebrate their wedding night. But there may be more occurring than they realize.

Your hand fumbles for the handle of the door behind you, a difficult task with Astarion kissing and nipping your exposed skin. The door finally relents and swings open, to your endless relief. Maybe it was all the wine, but you feel as though there’s a fire stoking inside you, your skin radiating heat, to go along with the growing aching need between your legs for your now husband. You answer the door’s creak with a whimper. “Aren’t you in quite the state, my Love?” Astarion teases you, whispering against your ear.

There’s a blank in your mind where a witty retort should be, answering instead with another hungry kiss, and gasping when your legs are swept out from under you. Astarion carries you over the threshold of your home, turning to kick the door shut. It slams loud enough for you to be grateful Scratch is with Shadowheart tonight. That’s the last thought you have to spare for anything that’s not him though.

There’s no questions asked as Astarion starts for the stairs of your house, just your breathing, heavy with anticipation. The world around you has a haze to it, like it’s shimmering with summer heat. The need has turned to a feeling of emptiness that is almost painful. Arms looped around his neck to hold yourself steady, you whine in frustration you haven’t reached your bedroom yet. “Gods I need you.”

His grip on you tightens and he growls in your ear, something wild in his voice you’ve never heard before, but it makes you want to spread your legs and beg for him. “Soon my Sweet.”

Just beyond the last stair is the cozy bedroom the two of you share when you’re not adventuring beyond the walls of Baldur’s Gate. Safe and secure, the shutters block any sunlight when locked down, protecting your beloved while he sleeps next to you. It seems you’ll be needing it before either of you get any sleep tonight. Astarion sets your feet on the ground just before the bed and you open your mouth to protest, but he hushes you by grabbing your waist firmly. “Patience, Love, let's get this dress off.” Skilled fingers set to work unlacing you out of the dress that seems more like a prison, you lean into that touch, craving him. A cool finger bushes along your skin and the inferno inside you rises, hips rock back, the curve of your ass pushing against him, feeling how he’s already half hard. An arm wraps around your waist, locking you in place. “Behave or I’ll cut it off you, your choice Darling,” his voice is low as he speaks the words against your ear and you shiver. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recall it was an expensive dress and you were fond of it. You focus on holding yourself still. “Good girl,” he coos at you and you can feel your small clothes becoming damp with your arousal.

By some miracle of some god somewhere, he manages to free you before you turn into a writhing mess. Frantically, the two of you work to rid you of your undergarments before turning to Astarion’s clothes, the sound of tearing fabric letting you know they don't survive his attentions. “Help me,” you all but beg, leaving searing kisses along his skin as you undo buttons and trouser laces. He obliges, aiding in removing the offending garments until he’s bare before you. The fire and wanting fade just enough for you to drink him in for a moment, and you feel a giddy smile come on that you can’t repress. So perfect, he’s yours and yours alone. “You’re so beautiful, my Love,” you breathe out, almost reverently, and pull him in for another kiss.

Again he lifts you in his arms, finally settling you onto the bed and kneeling between your open thighs. One finger drags languidly along your slit. “Look at you all soaked and swollen already, needy little thing.”

“P-please Astarion,” you thrust unthinkingly toward his hand, your own reaching out to stroke him, thumb swiping through the liquid beaded at his tip. A throaty moan is your reward.

“Oh my Love, just you wait.” He sits back, content to let you touch him. Aching and still desperate for relief, you continue, wanting nothing more than to please him. Soft groans escape him as he rocks his hips into touch before finally taking mercy on you.

Pushing your hands away, he grips your hips and you obey his wordless command, turning so that you're kneeling before him, elbows propping you up. “My gorgeous wife.” Lips trace their way from the base of your spine up to your shoulders, hands cup your breasts, kneading them, thumbs brushing over peaked nipples. With a whimper, you grind yourself against him, the barest teasing touch of his cock driving you mad. “You want to be fucked so badly, don’t you. But you want more than that, you want to be filled, to be bred, like a good little wife.” He’s so close to you, words speaking of desires unknown until this moment, but it’s there in you, the yearning for what he promises. Desperately, you writhe against him and he pushes your hips away. “Say it.” One hand grips your chin, thumb worrying your bottom lip.

“I want to be filled with you,” his thumb slips between your lips and you suck at it gratefully, “bred by you.”

The press of him into you grants blissful relief to the emptiness, and you both still for a moment, bound as one. And then he moves, slow and deliberate, burying himself again and again. There are no words from you, just sounds of need, of pleading for more. “My Love, taking me so good.” His hand dips between your legs, finding your clit and tracing small circles over it as the rhythm of hips increases. A few more moments of those heady sensations and, with a keening sound, you clench around him, desperate for him to fulfill the promise of earlier.

He’s there right after you, one hand digging into your hip, pulling you tight against him, the other still playing with you. The feel of his seed pumping into you is almost enough to send you over the edge again. Gasping, ragged breaths are the only sound as you obediently remain how he positioned you, taking all of him, crying out when he pulls out of you.

The empty ache returns, but not for long. “Hmm,” fingers press inside you, spreading you.

“Love,” you plead, the need burning again at his touch.

“I don’t think I’m done with you yet, my desperate, sweet little thing.” His touch slips back around to your clit and you hiss at how sensitive it's become. The discomfort fades soon enough and you're lost in the euphoria of it.

His body covers yours, and teeth lightly nip into your shoulder and lap at the little drips of blood that escape. “Astarion.” You lose yourself again.

The world blurs around you, the only constants, his touch and your own ragged breath. There are no thoughts, only the drive to be taken again, like a wild creature in heat. Pliantly, you let him guide you to your back, where you stare up at him, enraptured. “Gods you’re incredible,” you whisper, “my husband.”

Leaning over you, he kisses your forehead gently. “Incredibly lucky.” Fingers brush your hair back and trace your cheeks, your lips, along your chin. “You’re the most amazing person in the whole world. And somehow you’re mine.” He ponders you for a moment, staring at you like you’re some holy thing, as though he’s engaged in an act of worship. Then his lips catch yours and you feel the length of his cock slide along you. Despite what you want, it’s painful as it presses against the exhausted bundle of nerves between your legs, leaving you whining. “One more for me, you can do that, can’t you?” His voice, sultry against your ear, is all the encouragement you need, and you nod. “Good girl.”

Legs wrap around his waist as enters you one more time. “I…ohhhh…hells,” divine torment, pain flowing into pleasure, desperation driving away exhaustion.

“Shhh, Darling, you’re doing so good,” he moves inside you, guiding you back to your precipice. Lips and teeth are everywhere all over you, fingers back to playing with you, you mewl and cry his name over and over until nothing makes sense. Your eyes are closed, all you know is the feeling of him, waves of rapture crash into one another and become one, and you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Finally, with a jerk he stills and you feel at last gloriously sated, filled as promised. Collapsing next to you, he pulls you onto his chest and nuzzles your hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” your eyes flutter close, your body finally succumbing to exhaustion, the strange need fading away. And then you remember, the woman at the park, the bottle, a gift from summer. Fuck, who knows what your patron gifted you with, you should really tell Astarion when you wake up.

Tag list:

@micropoe10 @spacebarbarianweird @writingmysanity

@mxxny-lupin @azu21things @tallymonster @dependsonthedream @sunfire-ancunin @bambamwolf87

@fayeriess @lumienyx @lisrelly

#astarion #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion x reader #x reader #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #my fanfic #my wrting

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mysticarts · 1 month

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Yujin Drawings! (Plus a ramble)

decided to do some drawings of Yujin!

If you guys don't know Yujin, She's one of my many LMK ocs! Yujin is a Emperess of the Eastern empire in China, a empire that has been standing for generations. All people of any kind stay there. (She's Also PIF biological sister)

Anyway, time to ramble about Yujin's charater-

Lets start with Yujin herself.

Yujin, in the LMK series, is a person of royalty. She's intelligent, tactical, a person who overworks herself, very much like her sister. However, Yujin is not only intelligent, but she's powerful too.

When Yujin was younger, again, was a Celestial Maiden along with PIF. However, younger Yujin was a confidence and courage fueled girl, leading Yujin doing unspeakable actions without thinking of the consequences.

Due to these actions, Yujin got banished from the Celestial realm. Yeah, it was that bad. When Yujin was stuck down on the mortals plain, she met others who seemed like outcasts. One of these friends were Macaque

Again, back then, Macaque was a much more cautious guy. But this cautiousness rubbed off on Yujin in the best way possible. Yujin's much cautious now.

Anyway, the next topic I'm talking about is femininity, and how I tried to properly add it to Yujin's charater. I'm not a writer, but I want to be a good enough one for my art. So if you feel uncomfortable with this, feel free to pass through this-

Yujin's never really been considered pretty before. But she knows that she is pretty. Yujin likes to dress up, wear make up, shopping etc. But Yujin isn't afraid to get her hands dirty when necessary.

At a certain point in life, while she was still in the Celestial realm, Yujin felt....lost. She saw all the other maidens around her prefect things she never seem to get right. They where all the same, yet so different, to the point Yujin felt outcasted. So what did she do? She started to wear what she wanted.

Yujin wanted to stand out, she wanted to be appreciated and accepted from others including herself, that Yujin started to do reckless actions to be noticed. Of course, it took a lot of time, a lot of talking to others and herself that Yujin realized: the only person who can fully accept you in yourself. So that's what she did.

To when her husband died (that's right, i aint name dropping but design dropping soon-) to when Red Son was born, to deal with that amount of truama on her shoulders, she had to accept that it wasn't her fault.

Overall personality wise, younger Yujin was a hot-headed girl who was competitive, and was a petty loser. But she cared for her the people around her, because those where the only people she felt accepted by. The Yujin now is still hot headed and sometimes stubborn, but her pride has lowered, she's more cautious, but she still loves to have fun.

Now, let's get talking relationships!

First off, Hui Ying!

Considering Hui Ying is the daughter of one of whom Yujin considers a sworn brother, Yujin treats Hui like her wn daughter.

Yujin sees how smart Hui is, how her determination and ambitious nature makes her have great results, but takes away her early years.

Yujin dosent want to watch Hui just toss her life at endless work, so she encourages hui to go shopping with her, go dancing, go to fast food places, basically outside. Yujin wants Hui to savor in New surroundings and areas, as not everything Hui thinks is actually correct.

Hui Ying sees Yujin as one of the best people in her life, and usually calls her Auntie Yujin. Hui Ying never had healthy female figures in her life, but Yujin changed that. Yujin didn't tell Hui who or what to be. She encouraged Hui to follow hearts desires, but to keep in mind on what her wants.

Tai Yang

Yujin notices that Tai Yang got his dad's friendliness, but also got his mother's craving for destruction or chaos.

Tai Yang is mostly quiet, and can be short tempered, but he's not afraid to grab a deal if it presents himself.

Tai Yang reminds Yujin of when she was younger, a person who's courage and ambitiousness can lead them to recklessness. So, Yujin brings Tai Yang down to earth, telling him it's okay to express himself.

As quiet as Tai is to Yujin, he does care about her a lot. He even calls her Auntie sometimes. Tai is very thankful that someone besdies Hui is trying to see through his eyes, to try to feel how he feels.

Anyway, that's all! Feel free to ask about Yujin, and if you want me to do any other of my ocs, don't be afraid to ask!

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writethemstories · 11 months

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Essay #1

Hello, guys. :)

This is my first personal essay, which I’ve decided to share here.

It’s about a lot of things, but primarily about my beautiful friend, who had to leave Ukraine when the war began, and her brand new baby. My friend is a healer and a wonderful mother of five; without her, I would have never made it through 2022, so it’s my small tribute to her.

Hope you will enjoy it.

______________________________________________________

Name: The heartbeat of two worlds

Trigger warnings: War in Ukraine, mental health issues

Truth be told, I’m wondering who precisely needed this the most. Her, Him, or the Island itself.

He was born at night, with no one around but his phenomenal mother, who welcomed him in sacred silence. No hospital beds and painful white lighting. No smell of medications and no rustling of the shoe covers. There were just the three of them - Her, Him, and Arranmore. Uniting on the 35Xth day of the war. In a house that wasn’t theirs, on land that gave them refuge. Finding and finally holding each other after the inconceivable journey. A remarkable mother and Her brand-new son.

I’ve been following Her for a long time. Like a ghost stalking Her in the realm of social media. Sinking in Her healing words, missing a breath or two admiring Her photography skills, and desperately waiting for at least one story on Instagram to show up and finally tell me how to live my life and not betray myself too much. How to respect me, acknowledge my feelings and my mental state. No matter how ugly, childish, or unreasonable.

I fell in love with Her because there is no such thing in Her reality. Whatever you feel is valid.

«What is building up inside you is asking for attention and respect. Nothing should be dismissed. Not a single uneven breath or a pinch in the middle of your chest.» She would say.

Nobody teaches you such things when you grow up in a post soviet country. There is no space for feeling too much or being too emotional. You are born, you learn how to function so you are comfortable for your family’s ecosystem, don’t show off your feelings, and don’t bother anybody. Then you grow up, do well in school, and graduate. After that, you go to the University, work your core off to make your parents proud, and that’s it. No time to think about what could make you proud of yourself. You just go. While being quiet, pleasing to the eye, and disturbingly polite. Become a functioning societal wheel and look for the place you can respectfully claim.

Time never gets wasted on dealing with feelings. You don’t question them. You make them go away.

At first, when I read Her stories about respecting every single thing you feel, I chuckled to myself. It just didn’t make sense. Come on, do I really have to make a place for thoughts like - I’m unhappy but for no apparent reason.

Boo-hoo, poor, privileged thing.

How on earth do you respect that? Delusional, ungrateful, right. That’s just being spoiled.

… Right?

And yet, she was telling me to pay attention to this. To pamper me, to be tender with impulses that arise deep inside, which I got used to shoving back down with sugar, nicotine, and way too much reality TV.

Regardless of my habits, I kept waiting for Her to post something. Religiously. Every day I expected to see these healing white letters She wrote on beautiful photographs. Feeling almost like a voyeur, hoping for another portion of my guilty pleasure of self-acceptance. I desired to read another healing line, which would tell me I was okay. That I’m aloud. She constantly gave this precious gift of allowance not to be perfect. At the very least, when I’m one-on-one with my reflection in the mirror, overworked, lost, «ungrateful,» and sad.

Back then, I knew She offered personal sessions. I couldn’t understand how they worked. She wasn’t a shrink. What was She doing there with her «clients»? Just sit and talk? About what? I couldn’t grasp the concept. It seemed too tender. No diagnosis or pill prescription in the end.

It took me three years of gently stalking Her before I hit my limit. Three years before the war came and I broke. So I’ve decided to ask.

«So, what do we do during the session exactly?»

«I listen to you. You tell me your story. We pay attention and dig into it with respect, love, and care. And unwrap what needs to be unwrapped.»

My story? I don’t have one, do I?

«Can it be any story?»

«Anything you want to share. We create space for you to tell me, and I guide you. It’s just you and me and whatever you have to say.»

But I don’t have anything to say. I was always meant to be quiet and comfortable.

It took me a while to understand what my story was. Exploring it under layers of quick fixes, deliberate ignorance, and the «It’s okay» mentality.

She didn’t simply create space. She assembled magic I was lucky enough to become a part of. Shrinks had nothing on Her. Nobody did. She worked with the body, mind, and visuals I’d created in my head. Visuals appeared so naturally as if I had done this a million times. She led me through, holding my hand in Her mind, sharing a candle with me, and effortlessly helping me travel in time and fix myself with my presence. And Her gentle voice in my earbuds.

Our first session was my first release after the beginning of the war. She asked me:

«Where did your fear begin? When did you freeze and take in your last full breath?

«At night on February 24th», I told her. «When I stood in front of the TV, watching this disgusting talking head, listening to his revolting, sickening reasoning, why it was all of a sudden okay to make me choke on fear and wonder if my family would die today. And constantly carry this question in my mind since that night.»

I didn’t realize how much I got stuck back in this moment in front of the TV, until I told Her my story. I just never took time to think about it, because why would I. It’s a luxury in given circumstances. And who am I to have this right anyway, when the whole nation, millions of people, are going through the same thing and don’t «just stop to think»? But She made me. She gently asked me to go back to this day and observe myself in the past.

«What are you doing back then, on February 24th? What do you see?»

«I see myself pressing the remote to my chest, crying, and then calling my family to wake them up and tell them it started. I was the first to know. They were asleep.»

«All right. And now tell me, is there anything you want to do now when you watch yourself back on that day?»

«I want to turn the TV off. I want to stop listening to him. Just make him go away.»

«Then do it. And hug yourself. Tell her she will make it because you made it. You’ve survived that night. You came out of it alive. This fear didn’t kill you.»

I did as told. I hugged the past version of myself, wiped her tears away, kissed her wet cheeks, and promised it would be okay. I couldn’t tell her when. Or how. But if we made it for six months, we would make it further.

Then my beautiful healer led me on, acquainted me with another version of me, who was wise, old, and smiled so cunningly that I knew right away - we would win this war. She gave me a present I later managed to manifest in reality, and then we traveled to the place of my strength. Which appeared to be a swing hanging from the black night sky, right under the full moon, watching over the Azov see. And I was there, swinging and screaming from the depth of my essence. Erasing from my country’s land every unwanted guest, with a wave of golden light, my scream turned into.

She gave me visions and helped me create my own. She guided me through them and allowed me to be whoever I wanted. It was true magic. I was magic.

If there is anything I could thank this war for - it’s for finally getting closer to Her. For the privilege of becoming Her friend after a year and a half of hell that destroyed everything.

Hell, that showed that amidst fire, a flower still can bloom. There can be life. There can be love, friendship, and respect amidst death.

Because She carried this life inside of Her, when She fled Ukraine with Her husband and four children. A life that was meant to become a soul of a traveler, a nomad led by spirits and Her intuition. A soul of guidance we all needed so much. It led Her family and us to the Irish Island called Arranmore.

That’s where Her fifth child, a baby of a Ukrainian healing witch and a post-apocalyptic Jason Momoa, was born. The first child appearing on this Island in thirty-six years.

Marvin, the almighty, ever-present life that fled from suffering and blaze.

This made me think about stories again. Stories I’ve disrespected and disregarded my whole life. See, one could say, they are just a family of refugees who landed on this Island by mistake and happened to give birth there. The end. But is it, though?

Or is it a marvelous, extravagant soul-led journey, a prophecy for the Arranmore Island, and a good omen for every person living there?

Because how come it took a crazy dictator, a free-spirited country, a Ukrainian healer, and endless amounts of driving, taking busses, trains, and planes to escape to gift this Island a first child born there in almost four decades. A life that was sheltered and saved from the worst, a life that journeyed beyond limitations. A vitality that is proof - there will always be dawn.

Why did you choose this place, Marv?

Oh, boy, I wish I could ask him this one day in an Irish pub, treating him with a Guinness or two.

Why did you choose to be raised there, to make your birth a sensation, a piece of news, which made it to the local announcement board? (It is a big deal, I promise.)

Who’s land will this soul choose eventually? Who will he become? A free-spirited Irish sailor swearing in Ukrainian, or a druid ambassador in a free and prospering Kyiv?

When She moved to Ireland, it dawned on me how similar Irish history is to ours in Ukraine. They’ve gone through the same oppression, and were accused of the same things. Being called nazis for not being willing to give up their freedom, their land, and their right to decide how to live. Do they still fight inside themselves, these people? Do they still want justice? Or is it a healed wound now that hurts only every now and then, becoming their very own genetic «winter back pain»?

Marv, did you choose them to help restore justice? Is this the reason? Will someday a brave Irish man of breathtaking Ukrainian origin win the stolen lands of Ireland back because you came for the truth, to protect those you feel for? Because your mother lived it? Because you once fled from it, being exquisitely oblivious inside of her?

Oh, these weather pains. We have them, too. I know I do. When someone tells me that not all of them are like that.

I know, but it still hurts.

Or that propaganda is a very addictive drug, and they just can’t help themselves.

I know, but it still feels like my loins might fall out if you keep talking so much it hurts.

Ask Irish, if you don’t believe me, if one can create weather with words. Because they created a whole climate when they told Her, that She was welcome and safe. When they let Her in their places of power and strength, gave access to nurturing cliffs, the ocean, and charity shops, where She found old yarn and then knitted little round doilies. She then would send them around the world to support other women, who fled. Or simply needed Her doily to keep their crystals on it. Or jewelry. Or to add a few drops of essential oils onto the wool and keep it on their nightstands, like I did.

We, Irish and Ukrainians, seem so far away from each other. Geography agrees. But who knew their mentality and our tragedy combined could create a gentle saga where She finds Her strength? With local charity shops and wool to knit, friendly strangers telling Her it’s okay to ask the mountain how it is doing today, or lovely grandmothers kissing her brand-new baby’s cheeks just because He is welcome and so kissable.

And they care about their neighbors in a most straightforward and therapeutic way. In a way that can save one’s life and sanity if you just fled from a place where “neighbors” have no boundaries. So be it mowing a loan next door, bringing some chocolate for children because there was plenty left from Easter, or simply asking, «When is your birth month?» instead of pinning down a specific date on you. Taking away the burden of being a perfect mother who would perform right on that day and deliver a healthy, happy baby.

Is it why, Marv? That’s why you’ve chosen them?

So many questions.

But one thing I know for sure. Marvin will not be one of those, shoving his feelings deep inside. He won’t hide them under sugar or nicotine or feel ashamed of his impulses. He will stand his ground and know his truth. He will not be quiet or choose to betray himself to make his parents blissfully unbothered but very proud. This little boy is on a mission, and I’m dying to know what it is. Why did it take a crazy dictator, an unbreakable Ukrainian spirit, a magical healer and a thousand of miles for him to show up?

And how come Arranmore chose him to start a new cycle of vital conversion and let life in?

We will find out. But for now, I raise my Guinness to Marv, healing white letters of his mother, the remarkable stamina and dedication of his father, and the endless, unbreakable love of his siblings.

Ahoy, little sailor. Let the waters of your sea be full of treasures. Always.

#writer #writerblr #essay #personal essay #war in ukraine #writing #creative writing #ireland #arranmore #short story #my wrting #female writers #wip #text

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if-you-give-a-chat-a-cookie · 2 months

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Untitled spy!Marinette draft

Marinette Dupain-Cheng is a seemingly normal girl with a normal life, who occasionally masquerades as the super heroine ladybug, right? No. 4 years ago she transferred to Collège Françoise Dupont from the elite boarding school known as The Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women obviously the newly formed French division, to the rest of the world it is known as an elite boarding school one could only get into if they were extremely rich or extremally smart, in actuality it is a school meant to teach the next generation of spies.

In a school where you defuse a bomb in gym class and everyone has to learn and speak fourteen different languages, Marinette thrived. She was smart, extremely so, calculating, athletic, and she could kill a man in eighteen different ways with a pencil, all of her qualities made her the perfect person to infiltrate Collège Françoise Dupont.

From what she’d been told this was a practice mission, sometimes she wondered if that was true considering how long she had been here. For 4 years it was her job to watch, to look for anything that might make it harder to keep the public safe, to find political corruption, or acts of terrorism. Shockingly, she found political corruption on the first day of school, when Chloe had first targeted her, unfortunately the organization failed to do anything about it because there were no long term affects to the public, Marinette thought that was stupid.

Even so Marinette was a good spy, every move was calculated, every word, every action had a purpose. One thing Marinette hated though, were the lies, more than anything she hated lying, But one can’t be a spy if you can’t lie, that's why every lie she told held a bit of truth. Her name really is Marinette just not Dupain-Cheng, Tom and Sabine are her parents, just not bakers, not professionals anyway, though their treats somehow became the best in Paris, one would suppose they are bakers now but still spies.

She wasn't as clumsy as she made herself out to be, and truth be told she didn’t have a crush on Adrien either, Alya just caught her staring at him one day and she had to think quick. Something about him caught her attention, but she couldn’t pinpoint why she still cant, and that frustrates her. The stuttering around him was an accident she decided to roll with to make the crush thing more believable. And despite having a hatred for lies and despite what her friends would tell you, Marinette was an amazing liar, she just didn’t try when with her friends because she knew they were trusting enough to know that if she wanted to tell them the truth she would in her own time.

Alya is Marinette's best friend, she’s tough and smart, most importantly she’s a good person who wants to help, Marinette had considered once or twice, asking to recruit Alya to be a Gallagher girl, she would have taught her everything she knows, There are many things Alya can do, Marinette had seen many qualifications first hand, she was resourceful, she knew how to investigate, she was cool under pressure, but if there is one thing Alya Cesaire can’t do, it’s keep a secret from Nino, her boyfriend.

Becoming Ladybug had been a shock, never once did Marinette consider the possibility of magic being real, she had always relied on facts and things that could be proven right or wrong with a bit of investigation and maybe a bit of hacking (that may or may not be completely legal), because the difference between belief and fact for a spy could mean death. Nonetheless magic was real and she was using her powers for good, though she did send a detailed report about the akuma attacks she just left out the part about her being ladybug, that was something just for her.

Something about Chat noir made her wonder if he was a spy too, though his mannerisms told her he was a class clown type, when he got serious there was a mysterious vibe about him, he was sneakier, almost hyper aware of everything, and when he got mad he was almost scary. He spoke multiple languages too, Mandarin, which Marinette was currently learning, but for some reason it is just difficult for her to grasp, Japanese, and surprisingly morse code. What teenager learns morse code for the fun of it?

He’s really good at hand to hand combat, though Marinette wondered if it was natural ability or if the miraculous had something to do with it, she never saw an improvement in the abilities she started with, she assumed they were natural, but one should never assume with the miraculous.

Despite it all, Marinette was happy with her life in Paris and even wondered what life would be like if she wasn’t a spy, sometimes she debated quitting spying all together ands just living a normal life, but she loved spying it was what she was born to be, literally. She just wished akumatized villains would stop showing up at the most inconvenient times…like right now.

#my post #miraculous ladybug #Marinette is a spy #im bad at writing clearly #just an idea #based on the Gallagher girls series i loved as a kid #my wrting

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augustjustice · 1 year

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Sunday Six

Eddie waves a hand, as though ushering away this trivial detail.

“The question still stands.”

It’s just–he can’t really fathom a jock like Harrington paying attention long enough to have even the slightest clue what the Hellfire club got up to. Unless maybe he had heard about it in one of those bogus articles claiming a tabletop board game was the death of American morality and probably the means for opening a gateway to hell itself. Eddie wonders if he’s about to be on the receiving end of yet-another pearl-clutching sermon. That, at least, would align perfectly with the worldview Eddie had established after years of stewing in this podunk town.

Harrington shrugs. “The kids I babysit for play it. The little shits are always trying to get me to join their game.”

He says all this casually, like he didn’t just drop several earth-shattering revelations on Eddie all at once. Like the fact that he babysits, apparently. And babysits nerd children, at that, if their interest in D&D is anything to go by.

Maybe Eddie likening Harrington to a scolding mother earlier hadn’t been as offbase as he’d thought.

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #sunday six #my stuff #my wrting #5 times steddie met before s4

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starrystories2 · 9 months

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hiiiiiii please tell me about your stories <3

Oh hi!

Where to start!

I've been working on an original world and story for the last five years. It's called Our Collective Witness (previously called 8 men). It's about a found family that forms between 9 people on all three sides of a war. As they try to survive, they learn how no side of the war really has any moral high ground. An assassin must decide if she should live or die. A spy has to choose between following orders and saving her friends. A child has to decide whether to hide or become the king he was never supposed to be. And a very broken man has to choose between seeing things through and saving the girl who became his daughter. Let me know if you have more questions, I probably butchered explaining this

#ocw #ocs #8 men #my wrting #stories #were you actually asking about my stories #or trying to make a joke about my handle XD #both are appriceated #salt and light

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caer-gai · 1 month

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Tristan to Iseult, Or, Who Needs A Love Potion?

Any other poet would’ve had to mention

The sparkle of your eyes,

The flowing majesty of your hair

How fair is thy face

How graceful thy form

They would talk you up, their goddess

Unattainable, most desirable

If that were truly all I could see, I could go along

And write all the soulless poetry my uncle could need

To woe you to his side

If all I glimpsed was emerald green and midnight hair

And a healthy blush

You would’ve been a beautiful woman,

But my uncle’s still

Another muse chosen for another man

But you greeted me on that distant shore

With cutting wit

The boldness to confront a knight of Cornwall

And tell him what to do with his degrees

You met me at the ship,

every thought your parents would not hear

Written plainly on your sleeves

You rode with me north to the castle, trading

Barbs for stories for sweet lyric

When we met here in the garden

Both knowing you were promised to my King

We joked of love potions and impossible escapes

And the stuff faerie stories

Who needs a love potion

When I can draw out that laugh

The unattainable is in front of me

The goddess matches my turn of phrase

The jokes stop being jokes, and give into plans

Plans of freedom

Of love

Of a life far away from here

A cottage in the woods and a pack of dogs

A happy family round the fire

Waiting to here the songs we will write together

And if all else should fade

If we are found

And that house burns

It will burn so bright

And we shall love so wild

And sing so loud

So that the minstrel and poet must remember

How deep was our love

The story of eternity, written in a thousand hands

And two

Tristan to Iseult

Us to the world

#tristan #isolde of ireland #Isuelt of ireland #Tristan x isuelt #poetry #my wrting #arthuriana

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okbutdramione · 1 year

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Ridiculous isn't it?

How the heart always falls for the things that are forbidden

#quotes #forbidden love #my wrting #writing prompt #love #its true #short writing #love quotes #forbidden romance #poetry #poetsandwriters #young love #writing #my writing #short quotes

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dmagedgoods · 1 year

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“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sal and Daeran!

I don’t know who will read this one first - I feel like both of you would be scheming to get to a shared letter before the other, so I’ll address this to both of you.

Sal: Please take some gods-damned time off today. You work too hard and deserve a break. I have a feeling Daeran will have you taking a break some way or another, but maybe make it a little easier for him today? Or harder, if you’re doing that kind of game.

Daeran: Don’t annoy Sal too much today. Get him to stop working but don’t stress him out with your antics. You KNOW what I mean! There’s only one way your blood pressure should be rising today.

Anyway, I hope you have a nice romantic day! I’ve sent some chocolates with ‘fun’ surprises. Technically, I confiscated them from Woljif but after reading the box I think you would appreciate these “love enhancing bonbons”, where “each bite has another layer of fun!”. I was tempted to use them myself but I think Regill would actually walk out of the bedroom.

(Please tell me how they work, I'm dying to know).

-Love, Minovae!"

“What are you doing with this letter?” “I’m being my usual, peerlessly helpful self!” “You stole it from my desk.” “I’m sure you meant to say ‘Thank you for your indispensable, highly-cherished, relentless work to shorten the unpleasant part of my days I waste with tiring piles of paper, I would be lost without you’.” Salvadore rose from his chair and snatched the letter out of his husband’s hand. “I would have read it to you, you know, it’s addressed to both of us.” “Then what are you waiting for!” Salvadore took his sweet time opening the envelope. It wasn’t easy to hide the excitement from his husband they shared more than he wanted to admit. Handwriting and seal gave it away as a letter of a much more personal nature than the professional, immaculate font suggested. Although the latter was a hint as well. He slowly unfolded the paper. – And eventually started reading the text he found out loud. His smile grew with every word, he couldn’t help it, and warm affection flooded his body. Daeran seemed delighted and touched in a very similar way. “She is right as always, you know. It’s about time you stop working today.” “She also told you to stop annoying me.” “Well, to be precise, she only told me to limit it. She knows too well that a little annoyance is more than necessary to get through to you.” “I hope you ordered the gift for her and Regill.”

“Well of course! I almost feel attacked. When did I ever forget to organize a gift, my heart?” Daeran eyed the 'love enhancing bon-bons' and picked one from the small pile. Salvadore raised a brow. “No way in heaven I’ll try one of those. Who knows what Woljif had planned with them.” “I insist! What an impolite faux-pas it would be to reject them!” “I don’t even like sweets, they all are meant for you, my love.” “Oh, you should take a closer look. Some of them are dark chocolate with mint. Your favorite.” Salvadore winced. His husband showed no mercy, unwrapped the bon-bon, and stepped towards him, an alluring smile adorning his face. “Open up.” Hesitatingly, he gave into his fate when Daeran brought the small piece of dark chocolate to his lips. They were good, surprisingly so. Warmth shot through his body, followed by a tingling sensation. “Oh!” Daeran stared at him with a weird expression of … fascination? “Well. It suits you.” Salvadore stared at his hands. His skin shined with a weak silvery glow. “I hope this will cease again.” “Hopefully not any time soon.” Daeran grinned. “I want to find out if every part of you is glowing. But first …” Daeran walked to the desk, took his quill, and started writing. Stepping behind him, Salvadore read the text while it appeared on paper in his wide entwined handwriting. After a while, he snorted and took the quill from him to add a paragraph of his own. Daeran stole the quill for an addition. They finished the letter in turns, then took a night blue envelope and put their golden seal on it.

“Perfect,” Daeran commented. “We'll use a teleportation circle to make sure it will still arrive today. And afterwards, it's time for the pleasant part you promised.” Daeran stepped to the door with the letter in his hand. “I promised no such thing.” Salvadore followed him. Then stopped, turned around and moved back to the table. With a swift motion, he grabbed the chocolate bon-bons. They would need those.

#SIREN THIS MADE ME SO HAPPY #I got terribly emotional #such a beautiful letter #😭❤️❤️❤️#thank you so very much #mino #friends' ocs #knight commander salvadore #oc: salvadore #daeran #knight and dae #dmagedtexts #my wrting

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nightimedreamersworld · 3 months

Text

Siiiiigh

#writing woes #my wrting #writing #making memes > actually writing apparently lol #“snowbaz”

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mysticarts · 2 months

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{ First meeting }

The story of how Carmen adopted Nia. (PT 1(?) )

It was a pretty cold but ordinary day, the snow was falling, yet no one was out in it except a panicked young Siamese Feline.

The young girl was holding onto the scarf stained with her blood tightly as she ran down the streets that were cluttered in snow. She wasn't in the best situation considering she just cheated some money off of dudes who were not only bigger than her, but older than her aswell.

The girl scurried into an unsuspecting alleyway, breathing for air as she stopped running. She then looked around before starting to pat herself down.

"Please don't tell Me I got hit..." The girl mumbled before slightly hissing in pain after touching her neck. There was a small cut on her neck, nothing to much. "Sh!t....."

Before the young girl could even decide what to do next, she froze when she heard a melodic voice breaking the silence.

"Oh dear, are you okay?"

The girl turned around to see a adult Calico feline with brown hair tied up in a ponytail and sharp green eyes. The girl acted out on impulse, backing away from the woman.

"Now, now, I'm not here to hurt you in anyway..." the Calico reassured, bending down to the girl's height. "My name is Carmen, what's your's?..."

The girl looked at Carmen for a while. Could she really trust a random woman who came up to her? Then again, people tend to usually ignore street cats like her, and she was getting desperate. So after a while, the girl answered.

"I'm Nia"

(just wanted to make this for funsies! If you guys have any questions about Nia or Carmen feel free to ask!)

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anerdquemoraaolado · 1 year

Text

Grains of Sand by the Shore

Chapter 8

---

Shuri's steps were slow and delicate, yet purposeful, she let her ears fill with the singing of the women, the clicking of their tongues in cheers, the sound of drums. They were proud of her, apparently, even though she was marrying the man who had taken her loved ones. She hoped, in that final moment, that her people would understand her heart's intent.

She then turned towards the front, waiting for Namor to get there. Shuri spotted it then, with what a foreign guest would wear in Wakanda. Namor, in turn, surrendered to the customs of the surface temporarily, respecting the customs of the land that was allied with him.

His usually exposed chest, sporting only his jewels, was covered in a river-tribe green robe and cloak, as close to the sea as he would find there. He walked like a humble servant, remembering that he owed his life to the woman who would become his wife. That she was technically already married to him.

Words were chanted by the priests, separately and together, sung and recited. Namor didn't know exactly what each one of them was, but he knew their meaning, since Shuri had explained what would happen before. A series of blessings and requests for luck and fortune, a flame was lit under the pyre in front of them, symbolizing that they would be together eternally from that moment on.

The head priest touched Shuri's head and then Namor's, with arms crossed, eyes closed and a moment of silence.

It was hard to look at each other, there was embarrassment and fear at first, but then genuine fascination. There was beauty and mystery in the shades of brown in their eyes. Shuri couldn't help noticing her husband's features, a strong chin, a sharp nose, tender, admiring eyes.

Namor noticed in his wife a gleam in her eyes, small but ready to grow, a noble hauteur, with her chin even trembling lifted upwards, proud, without lowering her head. The little curls that fell out of the lilac scarf on her head, gracing her forehead. He noticed her earrings, gifts from him. Seeing that she was wearing them made him happy.

They woke up from their little trance when the priest removed his hands from their heads, a sign that it was done and they would have to kiss now.

Moving to make the gesture felt strange to Namor. He touched Shuri's chin hesitantly, as if apologizing. She tipped her lips forward, giving him permission.

He pressed his lips against hers long enough to elicit a reaction from the audience, releasing them in some haste. Part of Shuri had expected something more elaborate and the feeling of disappointment took her by surprise. She didn't understand what she was feeling.

Returning to her sense of responsibility, her husband took the initiative to hold her hand and walk all the way back, introducing themselves to the guests as a married couple. Without exchanging more words, soon Shuri and Namor were in the center of the place of honor for the bride and groom, receiving tributes and gifts.

When the musicians filled the palace with the tinkling of instruments, most of the guests began to dance, which was watched with curiosity by the Talokani who were there, including their king.

Breaking a long silence, Shuri turned to her husband.

-Isn't there anything like this in Talokan? - she asked.

"It's not like we have the balance in open water to make the same repetitive movements so gracefully," he confessed, watching with delight, "but the movement of the water is great for a good ball game."

"I didn't know you played," his wife commented in surprise.

"I don't play, I just enjoy it when I can," he replied, not knowing exactly why he felt embarrassed.

-Maybe you could try it, the game, the dance - Shuri encouraged him.

-Would that be a command from my wife and queen? - he dared to give her a smirk, trying to take charge of the situation again.

-I don't know, I don't want to be that kind of wife, but to tell you the truth, it's tradition for the bride and groom to dance, remember that my brother did that at his wedding, don't you remember? - she explained.

-Oh no, if I have any favors with my wife, I ask you to spare me such embarrassment, I don't want to look like a fool in front of your people - he put himself in a position of defense.

-Look Namor, following a Wakandan custom will actually make you look good to them - she gestured in a relaxed way, in front of the guests.

-That's... interesting - he chose which word to use, sipping some of the drink he had been served, trying to buy time; time, that's all he needed - give me a little more time until I get a handle on the idea.

-Okay - she agreed, unable to stop smiling - I won't be that cruel to you.

"I thank you, my queen," he nodded at her, smiling again.

-Shuri, you can call me Shuri - she made it clear, seeing that kind of smile as someone's friend, and friends were treated by their first names - after all, I'm already your wife and I call you Namor all the time.

-Shuri then-her husband agreed, considering it progress.

Unfortunately, he didn't have much time to prepare for the dance. He watched the little prince, T'Challa, called Toussaint by the family, approach his aunt insistently.

-Come on, aunt Shuri, you need to dance! - he asked.

-Oh but I still haven't danced with my husband, it's tradition for the bride and groom to dance - Shuri corrected.

-I will pass my turn to the prince - Namor joined in her joke - but I promise not to escape your tradition.

Laughing at the comment, Shuri got up and followed Toussaint, grabbing each other's hands and kicking sideways in opposite directions, swaying their shoulders, bobbing their heads up and down. She might not be as graceful as the other guests, but at least she looked like she was enjoying herself. Seeing Shuri happy made Namor happy too.

With courage, he got up and went to his wife, touching the shoulder of the boy who was now his nephew, a clear sign that his turn had come. Toussaint ran to another corner with a mischievous manner, and Namor took his wife's hands. Shuri felt a slight tremor as she felt his fingers close against her palms, giving her a strange sense of security.

"I'll follow what you do," he declared.

"Good choice," she returned, seeing what he wanted to do.

Shuri did the same as she did with Toussaint and laughed at Namor, who for her was a little slow, but was getting the hang of it. A while later inside that dance, it made him forget that he was the center of attention, of the looks that were there. The world had become him, Shuri and their laughter, their heartbeat. They were living proof that their marriage had served its purpose in making their two peoples friends.

At that sight, T'Challa reassured himself, Shuri would find happiness that way.

(That was the fluffness I mentioned before)

#grains of sand by the shore #mcu #black phanter #shuri x namor #namor x shuri #shuramor #Namuri #seaprincess #my wrting

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