#smoke gyre | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeyinde · 1 year

Note

‼️imagine riding price while he’s smoking a cigar‼️ that just popped inside my head and now i’m horny

⇾warnings: unfettered filth, gratuitous smut; gendered!female reader, female anatomy; very slight possessive!Price; very heavy dom!Price; choking?? kinda???

⇾notes: damn, op. me, too. also, has anyone seen bodies bodies bodies? you know that moment when Pete Davidson says I just look like I fuck? that's this. that's Price.

With his head tilted back on the bed, lit cigar dangling from between his teeth, he looks almost attainable in the gloam. Touchable. Like a man you reach out, and have. It's so different from his usual countenance that it jars something inside of you, pricking that soft, sensitive place between your thundering heart and ribs.

Shadows cut under his eyes, his nose, the jut of his lip, illuminated only by the flushed, yellow light of the lamp beside the bed.

Cot, really. Barely enough space in it to fit a single person, much less two. How he manages to squeeze inside the tiny slip of a mattress makes you question everything you know about physics and spatial mathematics.

Though—

"That's it, mm," he rasps, words slurred and muffled around the cigar in his mouth. His hands are firebrands on your breasts, where they settle hot and firm, rough palm grazing your hard nipples. "Just like that, dove. Take me in—all of it, yeah? Want to feel your cunt around all of me."

—there really isn't any room in your head for complex queries when you're sat on your captain's cock, pussy pulsing around him all the way to the root.

He knocks all logic from your head with a soft flex of his hips, cockhead nudging something inside of you that has you reeling through samsara.

You can't stop the whine from spilling out—high-pitched and breathless—when he shifts like that, grinding his fat cock against your gummy walls.

"C—captain—," you mewl, nails digging into the coarse auburn covering his chest. Your hips gyrate over his groin, seeking more of that delicious stretch, that blistering press of him splitting you apart.

"Shush, shush," he coos, his hand falling away from your swaying chest to wrap around the body of the cigar. The tip burns red; the heavy scent of sex and tobacco permeate the tense atmosphere between you.

His other hand stays, and slides down until your nipple is caught between his thumb and forefinger. A pinch of his fingers sends a ripple of pleasure-pain shuddering down to your core. You keen at the sting, the bliss.

"Gotta be quiet, love. Want them to come in, and see you like this? Bouncin' on your captain's cock like you're desperate for it? And you are, aren't you? So fuckin' greedy for it."

"Fuck, sir—"

His groan is filthy around the butt of the cigar when your cunt flutters at the notion. The idea of being watched while your aching cunt takes him to the base.

"What a slut you are," he teases, slurred and gruff, words thinning out around a pull of smoke. "Want them to see how pretty you look on top of me, eh?"

He bites down on the end of the cigar, his hand falling away to reach behind you. Your mouth opens—pleas, apologies on your tongue; but it's stifled by a loud whine when the flat of his palm slaps across the meat of your ass. The sharp crack of his hand hitting you sends a gyre of pleasure roiling through your core.

Your belly flutters; molten heat spumes at the sting. It's too much, it hurts, and—

You want more.

"Please—;" the word is choked, bitten off when he slides his hand up, fingers dancing between each knob of your spine. The other tugs on your nipple until your back arches for him.

"Come on, pretty thing." He purrs, eyes lidded and burning. A veil of smoke congeals in the air between you when he breathes out. "Like I'd let anyone see you like this. This—;" his teeth dig into the cigar, hips canting up into your pussy. "—is all mine, love."

You don't know how he expects you to last with his thumb brushing over your nipple, his cock battering the plug of your womb with each fervid grind of your hips. Each soft bounce sends you spiralling closer and closer to the edge, to that white-hot haze of euphoria that splits your head down the centre until all you can feel is the swell of his cock in your cunt; his full, heavy balls slapping against your ass each time you sit fully on him, taking him to the base where he's the thickest, where he throbs like a heartbeat. It's too much, too much—

He hums low in his chest. The noise ripples through your palms, desperately scrambling for purchase on his slick, broad chest. It should have been a warning, but you're too far gone, too blissed from the way his liquid sapphire gaze threatens to flay you alive; the wide arsenic white of his eyes boring into you, watching you fall apart at the seams with each plunge of him inside of your pussy.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—captain—I'm… I'm gonna cum—"

Heat sears into your throat. Your tremulous words are cut in the middle when his hand slides up, palm pressed flat against your jugular. His thumb strokes your jaw gently, a dizzying contrast to the unyielding, solid grip he has on your neck. His thick, tobacco-stained fingers wrap taut around the delicate, fragile, curve of your throat, nearly spanning the entirety of it. If he wanted to, you think, a touch delirious, hysterical: he might be able to touch his index and thumb at the base of your skull.

Your inhale is shaky; a quivering gasp that edges on instability. You feel yourself being pulled deeper and deeper into those pits that sear into you.

A burning ache throbs inside of your belly; a coil pulling tighter and tighter with each press of your groins, his cock filling you deeper than you'd thought possible, the unruly auburn hair around the base of his cock grazing your clit. Your core tenses. Cunt spasming around him when he squeezes his hand, the air choked from your esophagus.

"Look at you," he drawls, nearly slurring the words around the end of his cigar. He pulls in another mouthful of smoke, eyes gleaming aquamarine in the dim light. "Such a pretty fuckin' sight you make, don't you, love."

All you can see is liquid blue. A spark of ochre from the end of his cigar. Your vision fades, blurring around the edges. He's not choking you, just holding steady, firm, but it's everything: his voice, his touch, that stupid cigar wrapped around those lips—

"C—captain—"

"Go on, then." He settles back into the pillow, hand still wrapped around your throat. His eyes bore into yours; a whirlpool cuts through the sea—dark and dizzying. "I want this pretty little cunt to cum around my cock, mm." He rumbles. His hand flexes, shifts, until his thumb is pressed to the seam of your lips. His eyes darken. "And then when you're finished, I want you on your hands and knees. I'm gonna fill you up, nice and proper, yeah?"

All you can do is whimper his name, and try not to slip inside those frothing waters that threaten to drag you under. A swirling vortex of want; pleasure. You burn under his heavy gaze. Feel the heat of his cigar scorching your skin.

“Oh,” he adds, blowing out a plume of white against your skin when you shudder on top of him, nails biting into his skin. Smoke rings curl around his words. His voice is hushed. Quiet. The lilt an unbreakable command. “Better not make me drop my cigar, love. Or there will be trouble.”

#captain john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price #john price x reader #john price #captain john price x you #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #this man is singlehandedly ruining my life

3K notes · View notes

naphiatra · 2 years

Text

Smoke Gyre

Gloom/Shale/Caramel

#flight rising #familiar matching

33 notes · View notes

kp777 · 1 year

Text

By Bill Mckibben

Common Dreams

May 18, 2023

Something very troubling is happening on and under the 70 percent of the planet’s surface covered by salt water. We pay far more attention to the air temperature, because we can feel it (and there’s lots to pay attention to, with record temps across Asia, Canada and the Pacific Northwest) but the truly scary numbers from this spring are showing up in the ocean.

(Graph/Data: via Climate Reanalyzer.org/University of Maine)

If you look at the top chart above, you can see “anomaly” defined. That’s the averaged surface temperature of the earth’s oceans, and beginning in mid-March it was suddenly very much hotter than we’ve measured before. In big datasets for big phenomena, change should be small—that’s how statistics work, and that’s why the rest of the graph looks like a plate of spaghetti. That big wide open gap up there between 2023 and the next hottest year (2016) is the kind of thing that freaks scientists out because they’re not quite sure what it means. Except trouble.

The magnitude of this jump has scientists somewhat perplexed and considerably more frightened—as the BBC pointed out, the numbers are extreme.

In March, sea surface temperatures off the east coast of North America were as much as 13.8C higher than the 1981-2011 average. "It's not yet well established, why such a rapid change, and such a huge change is happening," said Karina Von Schuckmann, the lead author of the new study and an oceanographer at the research group Mercator Ocean International.

One factor at play is that seagoing vessels have been rapidly phasing out their use of “bunker fuel,” the literal bottom-of-the-barrel tarry sludge that ships have generally burned because it is very very cheap and because they are…out at sea. Research indicated that the pollution from this stuff was blowing back to port and damaging humans, so as Ryan Cooper reports it is being replaced with cleaner fuel. Big enviro win, except that the aerosols in the choking exhaust of those ships (the stuff coming out the smoke stack) helped seed clouds as it trailed out across the main shipping routes; the air is now clearer on those routes, and hence more sunlight gets through to the ocean.

That big wide open gap up there between 2023 and the next hottest year (2016) is the kind of thing that freaks scientists out because they’re not quite sure what it means. Except trouble.

But in a deeper sense, the oceans just seem to be heating very very fast now. A little-noticed recent study headed by Katrina von Schuckmann found that “over the past 15 years, the Earth has accumulated almost as much heat as it did in the previous 45 years,” and that 89 percent of that heat has ended up in the seas. That would be terrifying on its own, but coming right now it’s even scarier. That’s because, after six years dipping in and out of La Nina cooling cycles, the earth seems about to enter a strong El Nino phase, with hot water in the Pacific. El Nino heat on top of already record warm oceans will equal—well, havoc, but of exactly what variety can’t be predicted.

And the ‘can’t be predicted’ part is the real problem. Remember, people, this is an experiment we haven’t run before, and the test tube we’re using is the whole planet. Lots of things will happen: maybe the Beaufort Gyre will release a whole lot of freshwater into the North Atlantic, further disrupting the already weakened Gulf Stream. I bet you hadn’t been worrying about the Beaufort gyre, but a new study last week… Or maybe there will be more of the Midwest drought currently forcing farmers to abandon wheat crops at a record rate. Or ocean oxygen levels will keep falling, putting pressure on lots of species (except jellyfish).

Some things we can say with near certainty: the World Meteorological Organization predicted today that there was a 98 percent chance that sometime during this El Nino run the world will set a new annual temperature record. (I’ve been guessing 2024, but the odds that 2023 might break the all-time record set in 2016 are rising by the day and are currently about one in four). There’s a very good chance, in fact, that at least for a year we will go past the 1.5 Celsius level that Paris set as the mark we should move heaven and earth to avoid. We haven’t moved heaven and earth—we budged Joe Manchin very slightly, though he’s now pushing back—and so we didn’t avoid it. Now what?

Now we have to organize as never before. This havoc, whatever form it takes, will produce pressure on our political and economic systems to do something. The oil industry will be trying to make sure that pressure is converted into yet more public dollars for carbon capture so they can go on burning coal and gas (check out this excellent summary of this particular scam from Food and Water Watch, and this NPR report on what happens when carbon pipelines rupture and suck out all the air).

Now we have to organize as never before.

So the rest of us better be prepared to give one last vigorous push to the clean energy project. As prices for the silicon in solar panels keep falling, the convergence of political pressure and economic opportunity offers the world one last good chance of—not stopping global warming, too late for that. A new National Renewable Energy Lab study underlines the fact that this is our cheapest, fastest option; a new Nature Conservancy study shows it will take even less land than we used to fear. But maybe stopping it short of cutting civilizations off at the knees. That’s what we’re playing for, and this stretch of hot weather is going to be our last best chance.

Bill McKibben is the Schumann Distinguished Scholar at Middlebury College and co-founder of 350.org and ThirdAct.org. His most recent book is "Falter: Has the Human Game Begun to Play Itself Out?." He also authored "The End of Nature," "Eaarth: Making a Life on a Tough New Planet," and "Deep Economy: The Wealth of Communities and the Durable Future."

#ocean surface temperature #ocean warming #global warming #climate change #bill mckibben

11 notes · View notes

ashlynniis-bracketeers · 9 months

Text

Fuck it, posting this here too. Crossover brain go brrrrrr.

Yes, my brain is currently fixating on both Warframe and Kenopsia/Forever Ocean lore, and that's manifesting as "What Sembla would each Warframe have?" (and possibly what would each frame look like as a Kwaiz/Vani ajsdgajsdk I have no clue how I'd incorperate things like Parazons n shit with that lmao).

So, yeah, Warframes placed on @kenopsia-official's Sembla wheel. (taken from this post)

Note from me: I don't really know much about the sembla outside of what Juno's mentioned on the Tumblr Sembla breakdown and what I've seen mentioned on Kenopsia-asks and Juno's Toyhou.se. I'm not in the official Discord or anything, so if anything is off from info derived from the Discord, let me know!

This thing is honestly still a huge WIP, what with all of the frames that are still in the "????" category in the middle lmao. A lot of these frame/sembla pairings are being a pain in the ass, a lot of frames don't really fit neatly into any single sembla and have intricacies that can fit in multiple or no sembla. Honestly, if anyone has any ideas, that'd be great lmao.

As for the wheel: Frames inside the Sembla section are the "Primary" user, while heads outside of it are considered "Secondary" users (what with how many frames overlap in the "element" department).

This is already getting really long, so the rest of this (specific selections + reasoning, going over the ???? squad thoughts, etc.) will be under a cut.

Going through the wheel, elaborating on decided pairings, from Hex going clockwise.

HEX - N/A

FIRE - Primary Ember, Secondary Nezha. Basically exactly what it says on the tin, they both specialize primarily in burning shit.

ALARM - N/A

FLESH - Primary Lavos, Secondary Garuda. I put Lavos here because of the fact that his Orokin-granted ability in his Leverian is power over flesh (Maybe his Kwaiz-version would have a specialized Amplifier that mimics specialized organs to still fit with his "element-mixing alchemist" thing?). Garuda's there because she's basically just all "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD" (her talons could probably be considered Switchlimbs? Maybe???).

VISCOUS - N/A

WAX - N/A

ROCK - Atlas. Another "exactly what it says on the tin" situation. Punchy with rocks, rock armor, etc.

DUST - Inaros. Because POCKET SAND.

METAL - N/A

THREAD - Khora. Weirdo barbed-wire whip-ensnare-dome dominatrix lady. Early info points out that she was originally supposed to be spider-themed, further fitting with Thread.

ELECTRICITY - Primary Volt, Secondary Gyre. More "exactly what it says on the tin" stuff. Just look at 'em.

FORCE - Mag. She's supposed to be magnets, but she can yoink basically about anything, and "magnetizing the bones of your enemies" makes no damn sense for just metal, so telekinesis it is.

PLANT - N/A

SLIME - N/A

WONDER - N/A

CORROSION - N/A

RADIOACTIVE - N/A

PLASMA - Wisp. It may be a bit of an odd pairing, but she's based off of will-o'-the-wisps (which have had theorizing over their origin from crude flames, electricity, swamp gasses becoming luminous plasma, etc.) and her fourth ability is her opening a portal to the surface of the sun to rain forth a beam of solar plasma, so I think Plasma fits most cleanly for now. She's honestly stuck in a limbo between being Plasma or Plume lmao.

SALT - N/A

COLD - Frost. Another "Captain Obvious" pick. Just look at his abilities lmao.

WATER - Primary Hydroid, Secondary Yareli. Both "Captain Obvious" picks. Hydroid's a yarr harr pirate that can turn into water, call down water, and has a KRAKEN. Yareli's a cute seaworld totsugeki surfboarding magical girl that can summon bubbles, water blades, and a whirlpool.

GRAVITY - Rhino. His abilities are all over the place, but I put him here because of his fourth ability, which states: "Rhino stomps with force sufficient to disrupt time, tumbling enemies around him in stasis.". Distorting space to distort time, you say?

SILICON - N/A

PLUME - Ash. Smoke bombs, that weird smoke vent billowing from his left arm... That's about the only reason I put him here. Weeb.

CRYSTAL - Citrine. Gemussy. To be serious, just look at her and her kit. All crystals, all the time.

INK - N/A

SPIRIT - Nekros. He's also a bit finicky like Wisp. I put him here because he has technical "literal" soul manipulation, and I noticed that there's a lot of language about manipulating fear in Juno's description of the sembla, which fits with Terrify.

TOXIN - N/A

FUNGUS - Saryn. She could honestly have fallen under Corrosion or Toxin as well, but Fungus has enough variety to cover both while also fitting with the language around Saryn's abilities involving "spores".

GLASS - Gara. Duh, glass lady. The "messing with perception" bit also fits for Spectrorage.

SUGAR - N/A

MUSIC - Octavia. Duh, the Maestro, the Pied Piper of Doom. Buffing, debuffing, luring enemies to their doom, fits her like a glove.

DREAM - N/A

LIGHT - Mirage. Similarly to Nekros and Wisp, I wasn't really sure where to put her. Her illusions could also fall under Spirit, but I decided to put her under Light because of Eclipse (which gives her various buffs depending on if she's in the light or in the dark) and Prism (exploding laser disco ball of doom).

WIND - Zephyr. Wind bird lady. Flying around, redirecting enemy fire with a shield of swirling air, it fits.

PLASTIC - N/A

VOID - N/A

DISEASE - Nidus. Literally a walking manifestation of a disease (in WF's case, the Infestation), throwing around weirdo worms and maggots, while also being able to parasitize enemies and be symbiotic with allies. Can't get much more

SHADOW - N/A

(UNKNOWN) - N/A

----

The ???? Squad™

Excalibur - I have no clue what sembla he'd fall under lmao. His "thing" is swords and blades, not much else. He could be Light because of Radial Blind, but that's one minor ability out of four, two of which tend to overshadow it... idk lmao.

Equinox - No clue here either lmao. She has A Lot going on, to say the least, none of which really fits cleanly into one sembla.

Gauss - Funny speed man. He specializes in kinetic force, energy storage, friction, etc., not telekinesis. He can both light shit on fire and freeze things solid. Another messy one.

Harrow - Weirdo glock-wielding, self-flagellating, crit-buffing Void priest. No clue here either lmao.

Vauban - Balls™. No clue what to do with him.

Xaku - Resident bone-zone Void weirdo. No clue what to do with them.

Banshee - Her abilities are a weird mixture of noise, debuffing with sonar, and silencing the aforementioned noise. Her passive is that all her weapons are silenced. There really isn't a sembla based around silencing noise. Feels like a toss-up between Alarm and Void.

Baruuk - Putting enemies to sleep, disarming enemies with his own summoned projectiles, avoiding projectiles when not attacking, going ham with projectiles from his melee attacks. Not sure where to put him.

Caliban - He's a fucking weirdo in-universe, I have no clue what sembla to give him lmao.

Chroma - Dragon hunter given power by his hunted pelt. He's all over the place, his gimmick is that he can cycle between Heat (Fire), Cold, Toxin, and Electricity, so he doesn't really fit neatly in a single sembla.

Grendel - He's the food/eating guy who can give team buffs. Feels like a toss-up between Salt and Sugar.

Hildryn - Flying buff shield lady. Shield in the Keno-verse are probably a whole other can of worms, especially considering that Shields are her whole gimmick. Might be Silicon territory, who fucken knows, people in-universe barely understand it lmao.

Ivara - Stealthy invisible huntress. Invisibility falls under Ink, but I'm not sure how to account for her various arrows (zip-wire, noise, cloak, sleep).

Kullervo - The all cannon, no glass overguard guy. I have no clue what sembla he'd have lmao. He's another one of the weirdos along with Caliban. The Void + Keno-verse is another can of worms like Shields lmao.

Limbo - I tip my hat to you, my old friend, you've confounded me as to what sembla to give you. His whole thing is slipping into (or sending others to) a different dimension, somewhere under the skin of reality between it and the Void, or ripping a hole in reality to it. No clue.

Loki - Another invisibility guy. Could be ink, but not sure about Switch Teleport or Radial Disarm.

Mesa - Yeehaw cowgirl. No damn clue what to give her lmao. Her thing is Gun™, a reflect barrier, and a weirdo enemy-gun-jamming beacon thing that moves between teammates. That gun-jamming ability could fall under Wonder, but that wouldn't fit with her other abilities.

Nova - Antimatter lady. No clue, there's no sembla that manipulates antimatter or sounds much like any of her abilities unless I decide to just cram her under Plasma.

Nyx - Mind control, mass hysteria, temporary defense-strip, making herself the main target. She's... strange. A toss-up between Ink and Spirit.

Oberon - Deer-goat paladin. Lots of radiation, the lawn of team-buffing doom, team-heals, and slamming enemies around. Could fall under Plant (Hallowed Ground) or Radiation (Smite, Reckoning, Hallowed Ground again).

Protea - Hacky sack tinkerer time-reversal lady. Big ability weirdo. Shields, throwing around blades and hot plasma, sustain with energy/health/ammo dispensary, and then the weirdo timey wimey reverse stuff. No damn clue lmao.

Revenant - Mr. Vampire Eidolon dude is a thematic mess lmao. He's got mind control, weirdo "Sentient" energy, and lots of funny laser beams. No clue what he'd have as a sembla lmao. A fellow weirdo along with Caliban and Kullervo.

Sevagoth - The JJBA Stand user space Flying Dutchman rescue guy. As he sows, so does he reap, cloaking himself in something... outside of darkness. Life drain, enemy slow and damage taken increase, whatever the hell the Exalted Shadow is. Not really sure what sembla to give him. "Shadow" seems too literal for what he does...

Styanax - THIS. IS. (NOT) ASS SPARTA /j. Succ spears, enemy defense strip, team buffs, becoming the center of attention, a Rain of Hell. Not sure what sembla to give him.

Titania - Tinker Bell's packing heat. Make enemies fumble weapons while allies become status-immune, "extract" a buff from an enemy, turn an enemy into a beacon of doom, and then Tinker Hell™. A bit all-over-the-place. Maybe Wonder due to her fairy/fae-themeing? She doesn't really fit anywhere, but Wonder is extremely weird.

Trinity - Basic healer. Make an enemy a healing well, make an enemy an energy well, split any damage taken between enemies she links to, and a big fuck-off uber-heal. She's a general healer... but that could fall under both Flesh and Silicon, so no clue.

Valkyr - Angry skinless cat lady. Spiderman meme silly string, team melee attack speed buff, radial stun by expending her own shields, and Rip and Tear Mode. Outside of Warcry (the melee buff), she doesn't really do sound-based abilities. It could fall under Alarm, but that isn't her main theme, her main theme is rage, which isn't necessarily the same as Alarm. Brayziel's a ball of anger because she has Alarm ESP that's driving her insane, but I don't recall that being a native quality of Alarm-users in general.

Voruna - Wolfpack mom. Unlike with Lavos, looking at her Leverian lore didn't help much. She can go invisible, slap All of the Elements on enemies, force the drop of health and energy orbs, and generally likes ripping and tearing, not even getting into her variable passives like cheating death. She's all over the place and doesn't really fit cleanly into one sembla.

Wukong - MONKEY FUCK (Affectionate). Celestial Twin, turning into a cloud, returning enemy damage, and Big Stick™. Not even getting into his Passive. He could be anything from Plume to Wonder to Hex. No clue.

#Warframe #Kenopsia #the forever ocean #Vanishing World #Vaniwo #long post #crossover #cross over #The 'tism won. This took me 800 years to type out. Send help. If I forgot any information please tell me lmao #Hypnofantasma

5 notes · View notes

jackhkeynes · 2 years

Text

The Pinprick Eden

excerpt from The Pinprick Eden, a work of parachthon romance released in 1911 Sangathy by Mica Lus, the first trevold from that Mendevan polity to be published in translation across the Vetomund.

Forn poy may a deg meis sceut des l'annihilation dy mont, e caye je sy nascenç. It had been just over ten months since the end of the world, and it was her birthday.

Kimmela au l'un je nascenç jubilað abord dy kenonaut deja, durant y gyr por mantien. Kimmela had celebrated one birthday on board the voidsailer already, during the maintenance gyre.

L'ig au un jorn teut con allagrtað e spien, e lor un sorty souvr n'er parið tesqual a bas a respirar. That had been a day of happiness and hope, and throwing a party had seemed as natural as breathing.

L'oc annað i poðe alcun jubilation vray dijarr lon jant. This year she couldn't stomach any real celebration.

Kimmela gazau pall'oscbou veðr vars y vogt semnað de stel atras. Kimmela stared out of the viewport at the star-strewn void.

L'oc sta bel, de façon freit e mortal, ant stel noc lougent yon parmig splendisce y Sol ja briglandessem for com picq. It was beautiful, in a cold and deadly way, with untwinkling stars among which already the Sun shone only slightly brighter.

Se poðe y Tar foscað de fum fos visibr pall'apprað ny kenonaut, pu i douta. The smoke-blackened Earth might yet be visible with the voidsailer's equipment, though she doubted it.

#conlang #boral #conlanging #boralverse #alternate history #conworld #translation

9 notes · View notes

rassilon-imprimatur · 1 year

Text

Christ, I’ve got a lot of thoughts about Morrison/McKean’s Arkham Asylum and Morrison/Janson’s Gothic and this weird, unspoken, unintentional energy of Batman being a reflection of other traumas, of other victims (victims of murder, victims of sexual abuse, sexual violence), all in the constant entrapment of infernal architecture, curses, ghost stories, evil gyres. Queerness bubbling and frothing messily and subversively, queerness as horror, queerness as violence. Batman being the pattern in the smoking mirror, the reflection of trauma and violence and queerness so trapped in the poison it can only be violent or horrifying, the reflection that can break the mirror, break the cycles, take vengeance. Something something. Workin’ on it. This post is boring a hole in my brain.

#I've been venting on Twitter about it but am trying to make a proper post #I should just write essays like a normal person but.

3 notes · View notes

thelibraryiscool · 2 years

Text

Short Story Project – Weeks 6 and 7

What I read these past two weeks – as before, no ratings, but I’ll still say if I recommend (R), strongly recommend (S), or don’t recommend (D) a story:

1. James Baldwin, “Previous Condition” (S) “I didn’t believe that she could really understand it; and there was nothing I could say. I sat like a child being scolded, looking down at my plate, not eating, not saying anything. I wanted her to stop talking, to stop being intelligent about it, to stop being calm and grown-up about it; good Lord, none of us has ever grown up, we never will.”

2. Lesya Ukrainka, “Святий вечір!” [Holy Evening] (S) “Вся сім’я гомонить, кожному хочеться сказати щось радісне, кожний почуває себе щасливим і повним надій, хоч ніхто не знає, чого, власне, сподівається він і чи справдяться його надії… Тая радість перелітає з одного обличчя на друге, мигтить, мов зірниця, в очах, бринить чарочками, лунає в дзвінкому дитячому сміхові.” [tr. below the cut]

3. Nazlı Karabıyıkoğlu, “Elfiye,” trans. Ralph Hubbell (R) “tear it up, tear it up, tear it all up, you, and you, and you keep what’s left this constant gyre of orders, my mouth was going dry my heart was rattling, so then the spirits and the fairies had finally shown up, ah—!”

4. Natalya Rubanova, “Шесть музыкальных моментов Шуберта” [Six Musical Moments by Schubert] (D) “как ты думаешь, вот если кто-нибудь заглянет в окошко… – никто не заглянет, дурочка, девочка, три часа ночи, мы одни, одни во всей Москве – как славно: одни во всей Москве! иди ко мне… – смотри, снег хлопьями валит… – это для тебя, это всё для тебя – а для тебя? что для тебя? – ты…” [tr. below the cut]

5. Shih Chiung-Yu, “Wedding in Autumn”, trans. Darryl Sterk (very disquieting. can’t say if I recommend or not bc I think it’s written well but I wouldn’t read it again) “Women’s wombs are strange places: they can nourish new life and discharge it, over and over again. In that respect, a womb’s kind of like my big sister’s temper. One moment she’d say she wanted to play house hopscotch, the next minute she’d be whacking my head with the wooden spoon saying she’d never speak to me again. Soon she’d forget all about being angry and say: ‘Ah Chung, want to play again?’”

6. Anton Chekhov, “Корреспондент” [The Reporter] (R) “Теперь кому кушать хочется, тот и пишет, а пишет что хочет, лишь бы сбоку на правду похоже было. Хотите денежки из редакции получить? Желаете? Ну, коли хотите, то и валяйте, что в нашей Т. такого-то числа землетрясение было да ��аба Акулина, извините меня, mesdames, бесстыдника, намедни единым махом шестерых ребят родила…” [tr. below the cut]

7. F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Winter Dreams” (R) “Dexter raising himself on his arms was aware of a figure standing at the wheel, of two dark eyes regarding him over the lengthening space of water--then the boat had gone by and was sweeping in an immense and purposeless circle of spray round and round in the middle of the lake. With equal eccentricity one of the circles flattened out and headed back toward the raft.”

8. Fatimah Busu, “The Lovers of Muharram,” trans. Pauline Fan (S) “The Angel of Paradise turns to face west. The flaming red-gold rays of the evening sun saturate the sky above the desert, unfurled in its ochre vastness. He sees the panorama of the sprawling city all the way to the gray-blue sea. And the walls of the city have turned parchment yellow in the dusk. Ships glide, their funnels churning black smoke into the evening air. He sees the pinnacles of skyscrapers strewn against the boundlessness of the galaxy. He sees the network of telegraph wires. He sees the labyrinth of bridges and roads. He sees countless vehicles crisscrossing in all directions. He sees people moving like swarms of ants. He sees everything. He sees all.”

9. Leila Aboulela, “Missing Out” (R) “So she, who had once braved tear gas, the crush of running feet, now faced a middle-aged teacher, a jolly woman who had recently travelled to Tunisia for her holidays and come back encased in kaftans and shawls. The teacher gushed at Samra, ‘You must be so relieved that you are here, all that war and famine back home. You must be relieved that you are not there now.’ From such a woman Samra recoiled and like a spoiled stubborn child refused to continue with the course.”

10. Veniamin Kaverin, “Пятый странник” [The Fifth Wanderer] (R) “Душа бургомистра, со одной стороны как бы коренастая и неуклюжая, с другой являла вид вполне очаровательный. Она повисла на щипцах с необыкновенной легкостью и переливалась всеми цветами радуги и не-радуги, при свете свечи и лампы.” [tr. below the cut]

11. Ray Bradbury, “Shopping for Death” (R) “‘People die every day, psychologically speaking. Some part of them gets tired. And that small part tries to kill off the entire person. For example—.’ He looked about and seized on his first evidence with vast relief-—’there! That light bulb in your bathroom, hung right over the tub on a frayed wire. Someday you’ll slip, make a grab and—pfft!’”

12. Yoko Tawada, “Where Europe Begins,” trans. Susan Bernofsky and Yumi Selden (S) “It was August, and there was no trace of the cold that had stiffened the Creator’s hands. The Siberian tribes mentioned in my book were also nowhere to be seen, for the Trans-Siberian Railroad traverses only those regions populated by Russians — tracing out a path of conquered territory, a narrow extension of Europe.”

13. Charlie Jane Anders, “The Fermi Paradox is Our Business Model” (R) “The idea is, you evolve. You develop technology. You fight. You dig up all the metals and radioactive elements out of the ground. As you become more advanced, your population gets bigger, and you fight more. When your civilization gets advanced enough, you fight even harder, until you kill each other off. We don’t even find out you existed until after you’re all dead.”

2. The whole family is clamoring, everyone wants to say something joyful, everyone feels happy and full of hopes, though no one knows what he actually hopes for and whether his hopes will come true. That joy flits from one face to another, flickers like summer lightning in the eyes, clinks glasses, sounds out in the children's ringing laughter.

4. what do you think, suppose someone peeks through the window... -- no one will peek, silly, girl, it's three in the morning, we're alone, alone in all of Moscow -- how nice: alone in all of Moscow! come here... -- look, snow falling in heavy flakes... -- it's for you, it's all for you -- and for you? what do you get? -- you...

6. Now anyone who wants to eat writes, and writes what he wants, so long as it looks like truth from a certain angle. Want to get money from the editorial office? That what you want? Well, if that's what you want, then go ahead and scribble that in our T. on such and such a date there was an earthquake, and old Akunina -- forgive me, mesdames, for a shameless cad -- popped out six kids in a single sweep....

10. The bürgermeister's soul, on the one hand so seemingly stocky and ungainly, on the other hand had about it rather a charming look. She swung from the pincers with a marvelous lightness and glimmered with all the colors of the rainbow and not-rainbow under the light of the candle and the lamp.

#i realize that of my strongly recommended one isn't available in english and one isn't online #(so far as i could find) but such is life #also as before if the ukrainian translation is not quite correct i apologize it's my best attempt #allie reads #short story project #books #quote

7 notes · View notes

fr-familiar-bracket · 5 months

Text

#flight rising #fr #flight rising polls #fr polls #fr familiar bracket #steam gyre #smoke gyre #round 1

4 notes · View notes

bellsofblueficlets · 6 months

Text

The Truth Within

He was getting more used to this place. Gyre crouched in something like a runner's stance, one hand braced before him, fingers splayed, head bowed, and good socket shut tightly. Behind him, his tendrils had unfurled, like plumes of smoke, rising into the magic of the place, until it was hard to tell where exactly they ended- a trick of the eyes that could prove deadly to the wrong opponent.

There was no sound, but he heard every last one, his socket was squeezed shut, but in this place that should be empty and lightless, he could see every last detail.

It was impossible to tell just how much time had passed... days, weeks, more... and maybe it didn't matter. The dust bitty- Soot, Gyre had taken to calling him, for the black tear tracks that left soot like smudges on his cheeks- had fortunately been receptive to their magic. Very, very receptive, to the point that there really was no question anymore that what the demon had told him was true.

So now he knew they could keep him alive, indefinitely even. Shame that did nothing for the near constant gnawing hunger, but a win was a win, and he would take it. And the dust bitty? The dust bitty has rewarded his efforts a hundred times over, in the very best way he knew how-

The blade sliced so close to his cheek that the air of its passing felt chills across his corruption, but Gyre was already moving, having spun on his heels, and twisted aside, landing lightly to resume his stance, once more facing his opponent. This time, the followup was immediate, and the nightmare bitty leapt back, and back again as Soot continued his pursuit.

Strike, blow, blow, strike, dodge- As much as he'd gotten better at this though, for nearly every blow he evaded completely, another left a sharp sting somewhere on his body.

At least now the wounds were mostly shallow things, mind. He'd lost count of how many times those blade had gouged deeply, in what would have, in another life, been killing strikes. The dust bitty hadn't held his blows, but Gyre had never intended him to. Pain was a good incentive to do better, and if he was anything by now, it was very, very familiar with pain.

Then again, maybe on some level, that was part of the point. If he was used to pain... then, it could never blindside him like that again... right?

As if on cue the dust stepped back, and Gyre was left without his intended target. This led to overstepping, which led to his foot coming down too hard, and his focus was split for an instant as he recovered his balance.

An instant was all it took. Something moved past him, alarm flaring with him as he tensed, spinning to meet the next attack-

The hilt of a blade slammed into his temple, filling Gyre's head with a ringing that would be deafening under other circumstances. This was followed almost immediately by the flat of Soot's palm striking him in the center of where his ribcage would once have been, with enough force behind the blow to have quite conceivably shattered the bones he thanfully no longer had. With the breath driven from his lungs, Gyre stumbled backward-

Soot darts forward, pressing his advantage, and sweeps the nightmare's legs, striking upwards as he falls, letting Gyre's own momentum drive his blade bite deep, as unable to twist enough, impaled as he is, to keep from at least partly landing on it. This doesn't stop the dust bitty from reclaiming it, the blade all but tearing his chest open in the process, a long, deep cut slicing both across and through a significant portion of his upper body, before the weapon is violently ripped free again, even as it's twin is driven into his back-

'Enough!' The word is almost felt more than heard, as his attcker is knocked free, hard, Gyre's tentacle slamming into him, and ragdolling the dust's entire body some distance away... 'We're done!'

Blood flowed heavily from the deep wounds his dust had inflicted, or... magic, or... something. Corruption at this point, mostly. He definitely had no marrow left to bleed. No dust left to shed.

His head was swimming from the pain, but he didn't lose consciousness, just lying there, the brief burst of strength soent, and all too aware of the weapon still embedded in his body.

Managing to curl a tentacle around it's hilt, slowly, carefully, he attempts to pull it free, but his efforts are rewarded by further agony, and a terrible pain that lances through his body.

With a whimper the tentacle falls slack at his side...

{Still useless.} The demon mutters, summoning an additional tentacle, and starting to reach for the weapon, to pull the thing free itself-

Only to find a bony grip closing around it instead, as the dust reclaimed his weapon, drawing it forth in a smooth, easy motion. The demon hisses, its tentacle sharpening, but Gyre growls under his breath, forcing the thing to retreat into his body again. That was *his* dust, dammit.

Learning that the demon could not only summon additional tentacles from his body, but control them in ways he couldn't, hadn't been a welcome discovery, though it shouldn't have been a surprising one. It was something, in the end, he'd begrudgingly come to terms with, as deeply unsettling as it was- But he would not let it use them on Soot.

Repairing multiple stab wounds was hard though, and harder still when his consciousness was blurring from the pain, and having rejected the demon's 'help' once, he could feel in it's seething that it had no further intention of fixing the problem itself, shared body or not.

Admittedly, Gyre had never practiced healing magic the way he probably should have, which didn't exactly help, but now? Now had the motivation to learn. He had things he needed to do, and it was a means to an end... One he feared he'd need to resort to far, far too often.

The wounds close, slowly, agonizingly. The one on his chest takes considerably longer than the others, naturally, but in far less time than it had previously taken him, the nightmare breathes a deep, shuddering breath, pushing himself to his feet.

Now to deal with his 'minion's' injuries...

The dust's magic was very, very receptive to his, and the dust himself offered no objection, meaning that what damage the nightmare had inflicted- a couple busted ribs, and a cracked ulna from the dual impacts at the end from Gyre's tentacle and Soot's landing- mended fairly easily, not even leaving any visible scar tissue to mark the place.

Gyre also shored up the dust bitty's magic reserves a little, endlessly nervois about them running too low, before reclaiming his hand again. Traces of dust and blood lingered on his fingers...

"Training's over." He repeats bluntly, looking at the dusty, intending to make absolutely sure the other understood this, before doing anything else. Soot signed acknowledgement, meeting that gaze, and Gyre sighed, relaxing a little as he walked a short way away, sitting with his back to the other.

It wasn't long before the dusty joined him. It never was. He sat with his back to Gyre's, and though the nightmare didn't like admitting it to himself, he welcomed the company. The demon hissed silently inside him though, bristling against... something. He didn't know what. He told himself he didn't care.

Soot didn't like the creature, and went to no pains to hide it. The dust bitty could clearly hear the demon, and he didn't pretend otherwise. Yet never responded to it, directing anything he said to Gyre himself.

It soon becomes unmistakable to Gyre that there were a few injuries that he'd missed, and after a brief, dour reflection not to send his dust after anyone he might actually want alive later, he turns to addressing them. He thought he'd caught them all this time...

The demon notes, bemused, {You're the only person I can name who can 'spar' with a trained assassin, not to mention a creature specially crafted to serve the role, with LV like his, and end up surprised every single time by how many places you're bleeding from when it's over.}

"Do you ever have any helpful observations?" He mutters under his breath, nevertheless relaxing still more as the pain from his previously lingering injuries begin to ease.

The question has the effect of rendering the demon silent, if only for all of a few seconds, before offering coldly, {Sure. Helpful observation number one. Maybe don't lock doors behind you when you don't have the key.}

Okay, admittedly he'd walked into that one. He decides to go back to ignoring the demon. Gyre might be getting a bit more used to *his surroundings*? But much of the company definitely left something to be desired...

Once the last of his wounds are addressed, the nightmare bitty starts considering sleep, not sure how long it's been since he has. Sitting back to back with Soot is a very different mood though, than waking to find the other intently watching him sleep. Telling him not to had resulted in him sitting against 'his' nightmare's back instead, and staring off at nothing, a position that Gyre found him still in when he woke again.

Several iterations of 'stop doing that' later, to the point where he genuinely couldn't tell if the other bitty was deliberately missing the point or not, he kind of half gave up, and accepted sleeping as little as possible. He was pretty sure that Soot wasn't sleeping at all, mind...

Sleep was out of the question for at least a little longer though, until he finished his full 'post sparring check,' which meant- "Your turn," He says, well aware that Soot by now knew the routine. "Let's see what I missed."

Soot stands again, obediently, and walks around him, before sitting back down in front of him. Every time... Gyre didn't question it anymore, suspecting by now that routine was important to the dust bitty. He couldn't really blame the other, remembering that collar. A dog who knew his role well being less likely to suffer his master's hand, or something.

Knowing which actions promoted which reactions... Yeah. He could see that being important. He in turn did his best to be consistent, at least in things like this. It was almost a ritual by now-

None of Soot's wounds were as severe as his own had been, unsurprisingly, and luckily, but skin did have a tendency to bruise more easily than bone, and injured muscle tissue wasn't always immediately obvious, and well, organs and such...

Once he's pretty sure he'd tended every last bruise, he sits back, dropping his hands into his lap, and starts to tell the other bitty that he's done, only to pause, certain something in Soot's unchanging expression looks different...

...No. Not his expression. It was hard to sense much else beyond the mismatch of roiling negativity that continuously churned beneath Soot's surface, but something about him felt... waiting? Giving him a studying look, Gyre finally straightens again, and nods. "Go ahead."

It takes Soot a moment to nod back, if so brief that someone else might have missed it. Still he chooses his words, carefully, before beginning. "Why say 'dust?'"

Gyre blinks, caught off guard by this. "You... mean monster dust? Or bitty dust?" How did this guy not know what dust was? He'd seen his LV. He'd almost definitely seen his share of death.

"...You call me dust." Soot answers, simply, those piercing eyes too bright, too alert, too steady somehow, as they watch him. "You, and the thing. Both."

{Thing?} The demon echoes, all but bristling. {Excuse you...}

Ah. He supposed they probably didn't explain much to their creations. Not like they consider people...

"Many bitties belong to types," He taps absently on his knee, thinking the words through. "I'm not sure why, myself- When bitties wild spawn from residual magic buildup, they're usually one of these types, though if anyone knows where that magic comes from, I've never been told. It must have a common source though..."

"I'm a type of bitty called a nightmare bitty," That aqua eyelight burns softly, looking at nothing. "More accurately, I'm a corrupted nightmare bitty. My bitty type has... an unstable sort of magic. I wasn't like this... before." His tentacles shift behind him in slow undulations, before curling around to settle into his lap as well. "No tentacles, no corruption- I was bones, and lavender magic." His fingertips brush briefly against his brow. "I had a circlet. My kind tend to wear them. They're... important."

"Mine was lost that day." He doesn't need to clarify which, he doesn't think, but does anyway. "It must have been knocked away when my mage was killed. That's when I corrupted too, and my magic became this. I... became this." It didn't trouble him the same way it had, in the beginning, but it did remind him of what his life had been, and how much had been lost, "And I can never be that again."

"...your bitty type is called 'dust,'" He explains, clarifying after, "And yes, you're named after that dust, the one that comes with death."

Through all this, he listens, and Gyre feels the twist of emotions that never reveal themself in his expression. Anger, loathing, resignation. "Because this is what we are. Made for death."

A soft sound, unreadable, from Gyre, as he reflects on this. "Is that why I'm a 'nightmare,' then? Because I was made as a thing to fear and despise, leaving people desperate to escape me?"

"...No."

It's not a surprising answer, exactly? But Gyre doesn't expect it from the dust bitty. "No?"

"No." This is signed almost impatiently, but if he expects further elaboration, there's none. Instead Soot gets to his feet, and walks away, with a sense of the discussion being done. Maybe this is why the nightmare bitty is surprised when he continues anyway. "What does it mean, being stripped? What was taken from me?" Nothing he says indicates he cares, there's no tremble to his hands as he signs, and his face, before turning away, was as always impassive. Anyone not an empath might even believe it was true...

"Every bitty type has their own traits," Gyre decides to start with, watching the turmoil twisting within him. The dust bitty hadn't struck out at him since declaring his loyalty, at least not unless ordered to by Gyre himself, but he was careful to stay alert just the same. "Aspects that most others of their type share, like the fact that nearly all nightmares have a dream, at least to start out with, and nearly all dreams have a nightmare."

"We're brothers," Something in his tone changes, marginally. "Whether wild spawned, factory spawned, or naturally born, we start our lives together, our magics each the balance of the other, in a way that pretty much defines our types, despite being different types ourselves- though, some just call both types 'guardian bitties.'"

"...I was an exception." A soft sound, weighty, but hard to read. "Even though my kind aren't supposed to, I came into existence alone. A wild spawned nightmare, without a dream."

"Dust bitties aren't supposed to come into existence either," He continues, and finally here, his sharp eyelight catches a reaction, the merest twitch, before Soot turns his head marginally, to indicate he's listening. "They come into existence with a papyrus that no one else can see or hear, like a ghost that always stays with them. A brother. Family. Or at least nearly dust bitty insists it's true, though usually no one but the dust bitty can see him."

Soot has turned back away by the time he's done, just staring back at the not ground, his hands clenching and unclenching, slowly, deliberately. Gyre can see just barely seen the tightness of his jaw, and his breathing, just a bit more tightly controlled than usual. "The demon said that I had this." He asks, the words carefully, deliberately slow. "A papyrus."

"...Where is he?"

Ah. That... was a question he definitely should've expected. Okay.

{There's nothing left,} The demon answers before he can, something hard to put a finger on behind it's words. {They killed him before you ever took your first breath, and pulled out whatever was still left, never telling you. Then they shoved something dark and painful in you instead, that they could use to break you, and make you obey."

"Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up-shut-up-" Gyre growls under his breath, though when Soot's gaze flicks to him, he stops, hesitates- and taking a deep breath, nods, ever so slightly, admitting it's true.

Oh, what begins to rise slowly inside that dust bitty is like something so distinct and palpable that in his mind's eye, it rears like a serpent, a black gaze cold as death, slowly revealing it's dripping ebony fangs as this slowly sinks in, and just... doesn't stop. Going deeper, and deeper, as this rage bristled and swelled, a knot of rage and pain that burned deeper than even Gyre could hope to see. The sheer degree of raw negativity was overpowering, pain and grief and despair and rage and hate. Above, all else. Hate.

Something like black sap begins to dribble slowly down his cheeks again, where previously they'd been reduced to little more than faded smears. It would be easy to mistake it for tears of some kind, but what he knows of such things, it's Hate, Gyre remembered hearing someone say it was, liquid hate, too much to keep in. Whether it was true, he didn't know.

What Gyre did know was that that building fury was going to need an outlet, and he was the only target here. And he did not feel up for another fight right now.

He's surprised then, when rather than attack, those same hate filled eyes lift to his, startlingly lucid, and utterly furious. "I was made. To be broken." It's, among other things, asking Gyre to confirm this, which he does, if with some reluctance, nodding again. This time, Soot closes his eyes, and turns away again. He just stands there, the maelstrom of negativity burning like some twisted hellfire within him, rising until it fills every last hidden corner of his soul, burning hotter and darker, until it seems like he has no choice to be consumed...

And then a takes in a single, slow, deeper, shuddering breath, clenches his fists exactly once, and turns back to Gyre. "The ones who stripped me. They took your mage, too?"

"Yeah," The nightmare agrees, the reminder still bringing pain, despite already missing him constantly. "They did. My mage. My home-"

"What they didn't take from me directly. Is still gone." The person he'd been, that sweet little passive nightmare, filled with eagerness and curiosity and hope, may as well be dead, and he the creature that had taken his place. Just. With every memory. And every pain.

As for Soot's pain? The twisted knot of hate inside Soot felt like the warmth of a hearthfire to him, but maybe one that burned just a bit too hot, like being so close to it should sear his corruption...

Instead? He just felt...

{Not surprising,} The demon almost seems to smile, {You're a nightmare. The more you surround yourself with the suffering of others, the stronger that part of your magic becomes. Even better, I can feel it making me stronger too.} And judging by the demon's tone? This absolutely delighted it.

A tentacle outright snaps, whip like, in irritation at the creature. " Do you think you could enjoy my sworn's suffering a little less?" He growls, furious that anything in him would take such pleasure in his subject's pain.

{You're a nightmare,} It growls, contempt quickly returning to it's tone, {You can feed on misery, draw it out, magnify it, or inflict it. Or you can lie to yourself, and pretend you don't enjoy it, but it doesn't change what you are. You'll find it far more useful to just embrace it.}

Gyre growls more deeply, but the sound cuts off as he feels a shift of emotions close by. Turning in surprise as he registers it, his expression becomes almost confused, but all thought of comfusion fades when he sees the dust watching him again, and remembers the demon's words. *Feed on it, draw it out, magnify it, or inflict it.*

Wary. He's wary. No, suspicious. It feels like a light bite on the tongue, the sort of unique warmth and sharpness of wine, and if it hadn't been so unexpected, if it wasn't so unwelcome, he might gave enjoyed the sensation, which to his mind only made the whole thing worse, as it seemed to prove the demon's words true.

Aqua eyelight narrow slightly, anger briefly registering there, corruption even peeling back enough to expose sharp fangs- funny, he hadn't had those before. Beyond this, Soot earns only a glare. No growl, no rebuke, no scathing remark, just a look, anger and... probably some other feelings as well, that he wasn't prepared to sort out right now.

Still angry, he looks away, frustrated by his inability to storm off, and put some distance between them. Damn cell...

Back turned, he could still 'watch,' and he did. He was getting better at it, and why wouldn't he? If the dust really thought he was trying to feed his pain, he could very well attack, and Gyre had every right to defend himself.

He saw as well as felt when, after several 'however many longs,' suspicion faded, at least a little, and Soot seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. Not that Gyre cared. How dare he suggest-?

A tentacle thwacks him in the head without warning, and he stumbles, confused and alarmed by where the attack had come from, and raising his other tentacles in ready-

...Other. Tentacles. The nightmare stared in disbelief at the added tentacle that the demon had summoned, again, this time with the apparent intention of smacking him upside the head. It adds cooly, for good measure, {He didn't *suggest* anything, your butt hurt lord of dumbass. So stop moping, and do something. Or did you miss what I said about drawing it out?}

"I didn't. Miss it." He denies, the cut of ice in his words. "You said I can draw out the negativity from a person, feed it to get what I want-"

{Why would you-} Followed by a pause, and a mutter of disbelief from the demon, {Wow. So apparently you know jack shit about your own magic. I'm finding myself so reassured that we're ever getting out of here.}

{...Drawing it out. Means draining it. You fucking moron.}

Oh.

No, wait...

...Could he actually do that?

There was echoing disapproval in the demon's thundering silence as he weighed this new information, before asking at last, {Do you actually know anything at all about being a nightmare bitty?} From it's tone, it was clear that the demon already knew the answer.

Gyre bites back his own answer of 'of course he does,' because, well, if the demon is telling the truth, he obviously doesn't.

But. How much doesn't he know?

{...Have you ever even met another nightmare?}

Had he? He'd been found less than a day after spawning, a brand new life stirred into existence among the overgrown weeds of an empty lot...

From there, he'd been taken to a bitty acclimation center, where he'd been introduced to a few bitty who had trained in helping other bitty adjust to existing, and find their own places. His instructors had been a baby blue and a sansy, and from there he'd slowly been introduced to a few others here and there-

The first time he'd met a dream, he hadn't understood the way something inside him ached, and he'd stared, confused, until he was gently reprimanded for it. The dream hadn't seemed to mind, waving at him, but when he'd tried to walk closer, intending to introduce himself, the both had been urged in opposite directions. He still remembered the confused look in the dream's golden eyelights, looking back...

It was then that he'd been told more about what he was. Told that dreams and nightmares sometimes tried to kill each other, and that it couldn't always be predicted whether it would happen, especially when meeting each other for the first time. Told that sometimes, they succeeded.

It was also when he'd first learned that dreams and nightmares usually came into existence together. That he was an exception, a nightmare with no dream. In fact... it was when he'd first learned... a lot.

It was also the last time he'd tried to get to know a dream, even after he chose his placement, and trained, waiting for his bitty. There had been dreams, both with nightmares and without, but he was the only nightmare without a dream. The other nightmares had moved on after a while, tired of waiting to be chosen, or just tired of having people want their brothers, but not them, and being the reason their dreams were passed over. Their dreams had always refused to be placed if it meant leaving their nightmares behind. When they left, they always left together.

When no one else had chosen them, their dreams had chosen them over and over again.

He'd... mostly avoided both. After a while.

Gyre sighs, gently rubbing a strange, dull ache, in that place where an eyelight no longer shone. "I've met other nightmares," He denies, quietly, "But no, we didn't exactly hang out together and compare magics."

"...If you have a point, get on with it."

There's a huff, and a general sense of annoyance from the demon. {You can feed someone's negativity, and make it stronger, and you can force them to feel a negativity of your choice, you can grow stronger from their negativity, and you can draw it from them as well. If you want to do something about his pain? Do it.}

Gyre is quiet, taking this in, and turning it over, weighing it.

Finally, he turns back to Soot. Take some of his negativity?

"...Well?" He asked, softly. Leaving the final decision to him.

The dust doesn't answer, at least not with words. He does approach though, after only a moment to consider, and then, surprisingly, he reaches for Gyre's hand. Cool, scarred fingers closing around his, and just... stay this way, if only briefly, before lifting the nightmare's hand to his chest, hate still dripping sticky black down his cheeks, and waits.

He doesn't need to be so close to feel the knot of rage and pain burning just beneath the surface, it was overpowering, evdn from a distance. But being this close, one corrupted hand resting over Soot's soul? It was... different.

Okay, Gyre thought, taking a slow, deep breath, here goes. Taking great care, he began opening his magic to the terrible anger, with it's roots of something twisted and bitter, winding deeper and deeper into what felt like his very design, the very magic that makes him. It had been biting and burrowing into itself, eating him alive from within for what felt like a very long time...

How old was he? Decades? Centuries? Did it matter?

Before he can think long on this, Gyre feels something else, deep in this mass of pain. Something familiar, and dark, and...

...and well, nightmarish.

Something cold settles inside him, as the significance of this sinks in. He swears he feels a shudder tracing across his soul. There was no question that this magic had come from a nightmare, but this...

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, looking more closely. The demon had said something about a killer bitty...

There.

His throat had gone dry, a trick in itself considering the circumstances. This didn't end with dust bitties. These magics had been taken from somewhere, someone, in a way that let them self sustain this way. It wasn't the kind of magic that a nightmare used, but the kind that made them nightmares in the first place. The magic that *made* them.

So somewhere inside the magic of this shaped, stripped, reshaped, and previously enslaved dust bitty, was whatever was left of a nightmare bitty's life-force, winding its roots deep inside him, every part of it seething anger, loss, and despair...

Just how many bitty types are being used, crafted and then stripped? Or, maybe worse? Was there worse?

...How much of this would lead straight back to the demon? To him?

His dust waits, watching, the drip, dripping of black tears whisked away as quickly as they can fall, except the ones that hit Gyre's arm. No, those... tingle.

"They took from you," Quietly, he says this, suppressed rage behind, held in tight control. "And took from other bitty types, to remake you." His gaze lifts, settling on Soot's with a look that many would shy from now. "Life magic taken from a killer bitty- and life magic taken from a nightmare bitty." The unspoken words, *like me,* hanging in the air.

And as a nightmare bitty, the magic responds to him. With great care, he begins to work it free, approaching the Gordian knot of stolen lives and magics, and coaxing it gently apart.

He can't help but wonder how many of his type they'd ended, to make chains like these...

...It feels, wrong. Like cold, clotting milk, being drawn into him. Little by little though, he claims it, every drop, every last spark of pain, and only when the last of it settles inside him like a bloating, rancid meal, does his hand fall away.

Soot sinks to his knees, as soon as he let's go, and remains there, shaking. The negativity inside him that had overfill his senses, leaving no room for anything else, a constant cacophany of anger and despair, had faded to a background 'noise,' and for the first time in his existence, there was room for more.

It would be a long time before Gyre's 'meal settled. It might take longer still for Soot to... a lot. Just a lot. And the killer's magic was still wound inside him...

The nightmare sits slowly, his socket closing. He had a lot of magic to process. He had a lot to process. But he had to know one thing, before he could process anything else...

"Was this our magic too?" He asks the demon inside him, still shaken. He knew the answer. He already knew. It wasn't just because the magic belonged to a nightmare that it had obeyed him, it was because it had been made to obey magic like his before...

{...Yes.} This was all he said, but the weight in that one word told Gyre far more.

I've had many, many 'masters,' the demon had told him, and they've taken my magic, and done things with it that if you knew, if you understood the true cruelty of the souls inside you, you would never sleep well again.

It was... so much. Too much. Maybe it really would be better if they just, stayed here, do nothing so terrible could be done with their magic again...

{It won't stop what they already do,} The demon points out, it's voice more dull and tired than he'd heard it before. {But sure. Sit here forever. That's definitely going to change anything.}

"...I'm a bitty. I can't-"

{You're a demon,} It corrects, {Just as I am.}

This time, Gyre doesn't respond.

A familiar weight settles back to back again, far sooner than he expects. Soot, still trembling, but there. Still beside him. Maybe still unable to feel joy or hope, but still, better. And able to choose his own loyalties.

The nightmare bitty remembers a dying slave, and a burning library, and his mage, his family, fallen, never to rise again. He remembers everything he'd lost, and everything that Soot had never had, and even a demon, imprisoned, by so many masters...

...And he begins to understand that it had never been the demon at all, that the world had needed protecting from.

----

1 note · View note

yeyinde · 1 year

Note

more john price please. maybe reader is tongue pierced giving him sloppy head? 👀

"Haven't worn one in a while," you wink, cheeky and a little tipsy. Filled with liquid confidence in shades of amber malt that remind you of the taste on his tongue. You lean in close, agarwood tickling your nose. Eyes flash in a mockery of something demure, staid: lashes cresting, babydoll coy and saccharine sweet, over your glossy eyes in the way you know he likes. Your countenance might have been twee, virginal, but the words that seep from your lips are drenched in hedonism: sultry and sybaritic. "Do you like it, baby?"

⇾warnings: unfettered filth; gendered reader, gendered terminology, female!reader; oral—m!receiving; dom!Price; this is basically just price fucking your throat; reader has a tongue piercing ⇾notes: i am so sorry this took so long. no excuses—but life got away from me for a moment. this has the flavour of sugar daddy Price, and maybe kinda sorta might be a small drabble piece to my sugar!daddy Price fic(s). —i listened to a very specific set of lana songs for this.

"Oh, fuck, love—," his hips lift from the seat of the armchair, forcing more of his spit-slicked cock into your mouth, nearly gagging you. "That's it—just like that—"

You sputter, nose burning at the way he plugs your throat with the blunt, fleshy head of his cock. It bludgeons into the soft lining in the back, pressing taut against the gummy walls that flutter, flexing, around him. His hand is ironclad against your skull, keeping you pliant, open for him. Just for him—

It borders on too much, riding that hazy line between what you can take and what you can't. Your mettle is tested by each inch he forces inside of your esophagus, delicate flesh coloured a mosaic of blue and black as he splits you apart. Your eyes are drenched in tears running down your cheeks as his cock spears your throat, a brackish sea loch, turning you into nothing but a conduit for his pleasure. A receptacle for him.

Really, though: you have no one to blame but yourself.

When you first flicked your tongue out at him, a pretty titanium barbell catching in the soft light of the pub, you thought you broke him.

Knuckles blanched on the glass tucked inside his palm. The calm lake of his eyes rippled when you rolled the ball across your upper lip, frothing, gyre-intense, and arsenic white.

(It tasted like victory, then. Now it tastes of firth and sea spray.)

His voice was low when he spoke, a brassy rumble that barely fit through the grit of his teeth. "You didn't tell me about this, love."

"Haven't worn one in a while," you winked, cheeky and a little tipsy. Filled with liquid confidence in shades of amber malt that remind you of the taste on his tongue.

You lean in close, agarwood tickling your nose. Eyes flash in a mockery of something demure, staid: lashes cresting, babydoll coy and saccharine sweet, over your glossy eyes in the way you know he likes. Your countenance might have been twee, virginal, but the words that seep from your lips are drenched in hedonism: sultry and sybaritic.

"Do you like it, baby?"

His knee hits the underside of the table, the noise only just drowning out the groan that drags, crumpled and ruined, out of his throat. Heady chamois chokes the giggle from your chest when he looms over you, hand white-hot on the skin of your thigh, pushing up the hem of the pretty lace dress.

(The one he bought for you.)

You glance up, and the air is smothered out of your lungs. Intense, bonfire-bright.

"We're going home."

Fullstop. A command. No room for arguments. Not that you could make any with the heavy way he stares at you, eyes drifting to your gaping mouth where the metal surprise catches in the glow.

There is a click in your throat when you swallow, heart lurching in your chest. Your belly burns with the smoke from his cigar, and amber malt from his glass.

His thumb notches inside of your thigh. Danger close, as they say. You wonder if he can feel the dewiness staining your skin.

Price hums low in his throat–a rasping trill that makes you feel like you're a stripped wire. Flayed. Open. Raw.

His eyes are storm clouds over the sea: a thunderclap in the granite distance. He speaks, a rucked husk over smouldering sandalwood, and your spine tingles with the way his slurred accent curls over the words.

"And when we get there, love, I want you on your knees," his fingers press into the dampening gusset of your panties, eyes sapphire grey. "And we'll see how much I like it."

Which, of course, turned out to be a lot.

You pull back, gasping, and wrap your hand around the base of him where he pulses like a heartbeat in your palm. Teary eyes flicker up to him, lashes clumped together, watery from when he'd fisted your hair in his hand and pushed you down to the base. Yeah, take all of me, love.

His eyes glide to you, lidded and heavy. Price gazes down at you, lips pulled up in a wry smile as he watches you fall to pieces with just his cock buried deep in your throat.

In petulant retaliation, you drag the metal ball across his frenulum; a slow roll that makes his eyelids drop, head falling back with a grunt of liquid sin.

Suede fills your nose when his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the skin below your wet, glossy lip. You lap at his sensitive, flushed tip, eyes fluttering.

You can't get enough of the way he tastes—clean pine, wet skin, salt. You drink it down like you're parched for him. And you are. His taste rides the line of nicotine and power. It's stupid, really, but think you could stay on your knees for his man as long as he'll have you. Desperate in a selfless way: one that makes you want to hear his smoky growls, the grunts of pleasure, and bask in the briny tang of him in your mouth.

You pull back, dragging your hand up his aching flesh. Precum beads at the tip. Your mouth waters.

It's a feast: the way his thick, fat cock glistens from your spit, flushed vermillion; long veins throbbing under your fingers, pulsing through the velvet flesh. The flared, wet mushroom head. The bulge an inch below, a swollen slope that stretches you unexpectedly when he has you on your back, your knees; fat head shoved inside. Then the stretch, the burn, as he pushes the rest of his girth into you. Unending, all the way to the base. Price is stocky. Thick.

Your jaw aches already.

His stare burns when you meet it over the leaking tip of him, chin falling on his hairy thigh. Lachrymose eyes wide and wanting. An innocent whore.

(Just for him. Just the way he likes it.)

He groans when your tongue flicks out, lapping at the base of him, tongue ring rolling over his baby blue vein.

You breathe in the smell of him—musky, manly: weathered wood, wet earth; loam, humus—and feel your core pulse at the heady scent burning your nose, clotting in your lungs. Your eyes flutter, dimming at the intoxicating miasma of him making your head swim. Your head rolls, cheek flattening on his thigh. The coarse hair tickles your nose. You rub your skin against his, the warmth bleeding into your smarting cheeks.

His hand falls to your head, thumb brushing over your temple as you lick around the base of him, trailing just the tips of your fingers up and down his hard, twitching length. It's lazy compared to earlier, but you need a moment to breathe. To dilute the hypoxia in your head.

His hand is warm on your skin, like the thigh beneath your cheek. They smell of tobacco, smoke. Your eyes flicker up, catching his sapphire gaze.

It's a small lull: a moment when you just take him in, feeling the pulse of him under your hands. Gentle, despite the burn in your jaw from how wide you had to stretch it to fit him. The scratchy ache in your throat. It's hushed. His hips flex in your hands, cock bobbing and dribbling prespend as your whispered graze only just barely touches the velvet skin.

His fingers curl in your hair, eyes shaded in desire. He rasps low, a small breathless rumble spilling from his lips. "Better stop teasing me, love."

You roll the ring over your bruised lips. "What are you going to do about it?"

His eyes crease, tight around the corner. A little rumbling breath spilled from his lips. His chest sinks with his exhale. "You won't like to find out."

It's not a threat. Not really. It's a promise.

There is a slight pressure against your jaw. Your mouth parts, falls open under his wordless command.

"Good girl—," it's almost a snarl: ashy and brittle. "Keep your mouth open for me, yeah?"

He knocks your hand away from his cock, and curls his long, thick fingers over the girth.

You soak him in, breathing deeply so as to keep the tang of him inside of your lungs. A whimper falls when he grips himself tight, head blooming vermillion and spilling more milky precum. He holds it there, letting you watch the way his prespend dribbles down the hard length, gathering at the seal of his hand.

A huff leaves him when he sees your thighs rub together, eyes—dewy and lachrymose—fixed on the fat swell of him. The ticking veins running down the sides. Your saliva and his cum pool at the base, covering his heavy balls in the combined slick.

It's intense. Blisteringly hot. You want him inside of you, splitting you open, and making you take him all the way to the root. Deep, hard thrusts until you can feel them slap against the seal of your cunt pulled taut around the girth of him. You want him to fill you up until you can taste him in your throat, until your belly bulges with the heft, ballooning from the cum he pours into your womb.

You want him to use you. Fuck you stupid until you're swollen and full to near bursting—

The breath pops in your throat, sticking to your larynx when he pulls his cock down, the slick head dragging over your cheek. The noise he makes is caustic. It burns through you until you're gasping from the blue heat of him.

He drags his palm up his length until the head disappears through the seal of his hand. The sound it makes is slick, tacky. Your thighs press together, tighter, desperate, to stem the ache, teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue until the metal ball scrapes across your gums.

Price looks at you for a moment, gaze softening in the flushed light of the lamp, and it's there you feel the throb in your belly start to thunder. You shift your knees, searching for friction, a little whimper spills out, quivering with longing.

Sprawled on the chair, trousers barely pushed down his thick thighs, and with his flushed, wet cock sitting fat and heavy in his palm, he looks like he was carved from smoke, and made just for you.

His beard twitches. The hand on your jaw tightens just a little. Just enough to bring you back into focus. Your eyes drop again. Obedient. Docile.

"Fuck," the word falls like the crack of a whip. He lifts the fat head of his cock from your tongue, and pushes it against the metal peaking through your flesh. Prespend drenches your upper lip as he rubs his cock over the piercing. "You suck my cock so good, love. You want it bad, don't you?"

You can't speak. Can't think—

The wet, heavy thud of his cock dropping over your mouth makes your eyes squeeze shut. A whimper drags out of your throat when he does it again, and again. His cock slaps over your panting mouth, stinging your flesh, and making your cunt ache.

"Please—," it's slurred around the weight of him pressing against your mouth. Your eyes open, find his. Pleading. Begging. The words tumble out, broken and needy, from your blistered lips. "Please, baby. I wanna choke on your cock—"

"Fucking hell, love—"

His cock slips over your lips, your ring, and he pushes it down your throat, until the head of his cock hits the gummy, slick wall at the back. You gag. Tears blur your eyes, leaking down the corners. It's not enough to choke you, but it makes your chest tighten, and your head swim. Black dots moult across your vision. Your hands grasp his knees, fingers digging into the rumbled fabric of his trousers. Ground yourself. Breathe through it. Easy, and steady.

Hypoxia isn't enough to stop you from getting his cock as deep into your throat as you can.

A briny purl slips out from his mouth when you gasp, tears soaking your cheeks.

His thumb brushes across your cheekbones, smearing the tears that steam down, and catching them on his rough skin. The touch is softer than it has any right to be with him drowning you in the precum that weeps from the tip, spilling down your throat. It's gentle, reverent. The starchy, warm pads of his fingers ask if you're okay if you can take more. Always so considerate.

Your eyes lift, bleary and gritty, and you find him through the haze of smoke billowing out from the end of his cigar.

There is a burn in the back of your neck, your jaw, but you breathe through the pain that licks at you, and hold his molten gaze, drenched in pleasure at the warm, wet give of your flesh. The pinch between his brow is full of euphoria, but it oscillates now with unease, with that cosseting veneer that makes his hands ease off your body, giving you distance. The very thing you don't want.

The sight of him—dressed in shades of smoke and tobacco—pools inside of you like a sickness, a fever. He's a rough cut of a man: guttural snarls and resonant growls of displeasure, of anger brimming in the furrow of his brow, but you'd never been touched with such reverent adoration before. The smeared sheen under your eyes, the deep rubescent flush to your cheeks, and the lost haze in your eyes, all make him shudder with barely constrained desire.

He's greedy for you. Hands always on your skin like an addict; desperate for one more pull. One more hit.

And yet—

Price doesn't take.

He gives you what you want, always: the searing heat of his hands, the bulk of his body, the brutal snap of his hips sending you into the throes of nirvana, his teeth digging into your neck when you offer it up so prettily for him. But rarely, rarely, does he give into that rapacious hunger that curls like fine smoke in the pits of his eyes.

You want him to break. Shatter. You want this man to fall apart in your arms, so you can reassemble him again. You want to be crushed under the weight of it with him until the end of him and the beginning of you is a blurry line. A pulverised puddle of sex and sin and the feel of your atoms stripped bare and congeal into one. To feel his flesh moulding to yours.

The softness in his alder eyes makes you melt, makes you mewl, unable to keep the gale from spilling out.

You want this. Want him. Want the hickory-scented ashes of his resolve in your hands. Calcined and charred. You want to tuck the smouldering husk of his propriety between your teeth until the charcoaled remains are ground out, and masticated with your effort. You'll see this gruff man shatter. Break.

Leaning forward, you flash him a look—that pretty one he likes with your lashes fanned over your eyes, half-mast and full of lust, desire for him—and flick your tongue out again, barbell catching in the ochre glow. His hand trembles when you seal your mouth around the thick of him, hollowing your cheeks as you slurp up the mess of prespend and saliva that covers his throbbing length.

He jerks in your hold, head falling back with a husk of pleasure. Ruin me, you think, molten tongue worshipping him. Wreck me.

He tastes of amber and salt when you swallow him down: heady and musky. You can't get enough of the way he wrenches you open like this, leaving you feeling like a raw wound, a livewire, with just his fat cock sliding down your throat.

Fingers dig into the back of your head as he cants his hips up, thrusting inside the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. Your nose is stuffed, the scent of him clogs the air around you. You can't breathe, but despite the black dots in your vision, you stay put, gasping for air when he allows it.

It edges into discomfort, but you fight through the strain in your jaw, and take him deeper, and deeper. You don't stop until his knuckles press against your nose, until you can feel his hand slipping away from the base, giving you more room. The coarse, auburn hair tickles your lip. You slide down further, tongue flat against the underside of him, and the blunt nudge of his weeping cock battering against the soft walls of your throat makes you gag, makes you choke.

You sputter, tears running down your aching cheeks in an unstoppable deluge. Your nose burns, stings, when you breathe in. You cough around him, and he grunts at the way your muscles spasm, squeezing him tight.

You pull back off the length of him, swallowing thickly. The ragged gasps you take do little to abate the burn in your lungs.

Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to open your bleary eyes, staring up at him through damp, clumped lashes. As your sight slowly focuses, the image of him leaning back on the chair, teeth grinding together is enough to make you dizzy.

It's the expression of euphoria that etches itself into the furrow of his brow, the curl of his lips—bared, snarling at the feel of your mouth—and the dangerous narrowing of his eyes that makes you whimper, makes you shake. White-hot pleasure spumes inside of you.

You want more. Everything.

Your fingers curl around the base of him, little finger nestled in the wry bed of hair. He throbs in your clutch; a glob of prespend breaks free from the puddle pooling on his engorged, mushroomed head, and slides down the length of him.

It makes your mouth water. It feels a little bit like battling the ferocity of a Chinook. Chafed cheeks, stinging lips all covered with the slickness of your efforts.

You must wear it on your expression, then. Price looks down, and groans, his cock jerking in your hold. His mouth falls open a touch, a huff of pleasure slipping through the seam.

You shuffle forward, knees aching, and place your tongue against the swell of his cock beneath the slow glide of his prespend trailing down. It drips down, and you catch it, smearing the pearlescent bead over the soft, fleshy tip. The muscles in his thighs twitch when you lift your chin, showing him the droplet gathered there.

"Bloody fucking hell—"

You don't wait for him to continue. You want him broken.

He groans as the gluey, wet walls of your mouth surround him, slurping up the excess saliva that pools in your throat, spilling down your chin. You nearly choke on him, then, when his hips jerk as you lave your tongue across the head of his cock, pressing the bead of your tongue ring into his frenulum again.

His smell envelopes you. Heady and rich. A potent cocktail of salt, smoke, and cured wood that liquefies your self-control.

Price's hips lift, more of his cock slips down your throat. You tremble when his hand threads through the loose strands of your hair, fingers curling around the locks until he has a fistful gathered at the base of your skull. You know what's coming. Know, even before his hand tightens, and the lash of pain makes your cunt throb.

It's when you look up at him through misty eyes, lidded and sticky, that he finally crumbles.

The sound he lets out makes you shiver. A moan cut by the jagged end of a broken bottle; husky and molasses heavy.

You moan around him again, unabashed, and taken by the sensation of having him fuck your face in shallow, pointed thrusts. His hand tightens in your hair, pilling your pliant mouth closer.

You love it. The taste, the smell. The inexorable feeling of him using you however he pleases, unleashing something dark and primal that curls around you, wrenched up from the hypoxia of having his cock spear through your esophagus.

There is barely time to brace yourself before his hips buck into you, forcing his cock deeper. The force of his brutal, shallow thrust makes his balls slap across your chin. The forceful gait of his hips increases until he's pounding your throat, groaning deep in his chest.

The noises he makes barely sound human. They drip molten sin, and burn your flesh when he leans over you, eyes sparkling embers in the soft light of the room.

He stops when you gag around him, hands pressed flat against his thighs.

"It's good, isn't it?" he husks, eyes tightening when your throat spasms around him, fluttering. Another grunt when you moan, a weak whimper that vibrates over him. He pulls you back, head tipping back with another rasp of pleasure. You squeeze your thighs together to stem the ache.

Misty-eyed, you stare, transfixed, at the strain in his pale neck: skin pulled taut, veins bulging through his flesh. His Adam's apple rises and falls like a buoy in the middle of a turbulent ocean with each harsh swallow. His cock grinds against your gummy flesh, and you wonder, distantly, if you'd even be able to speak tomorrow.

"Gonna cum—," it's rucked out of him, hissed low: the sizzle of a cigar on dry flesh. Your cunt throbs, jaw twinges with pain. Spit runs down your chin in rivets, pooling over your bare breasts. You feel battered, and bruised: throat raw and aching. But there is something intense about it, about the way he looks at you, now. The way he handles you. This, you think—thoughts a wisp in the static of your pounding head—and seeped in delirium, is him taking.

His eyes lift. Sapphire shatters; a crack, a crevasse, a fissure split down the middle. Black pools, desire-thick, and covetous.

Price's mouth drops: the breath that spills from his lips is drenched in bliss. The hand in your hair tightens, fingers knotting through your locks until your skull stings, and tears leak from your babydoll eyes. A torrent down roseate cheeks.

Broken cerulean falls, catches the cascade of them dripping on the swell of your flushed chest. His feet shift, thighs tensing under your hands, and then he lifts his hips again, sinking his cock all the way to the back of your throat. It's controlled, measured. Inch by inch until he's smothering your nose in the wry bed of auburn that scratches your wet nose. The heady scent of him is intoxicating. Your head swims, dizzy and burning at the sun-warmed moss and rain-soaked granite that clots, congeals around you.

"That's it," he slurs, eyes fixed on you. They tighten around the edges, eclipsed blue: the ocean at night, but his stare doesn't waver from the mess of you over his lap. Pleading, begging. Your gaze turns desperate. "Take it all."

Liquid pleasure blooms in your core. Your cunt aches at his timbre: a cauterised wound; the hiss of a raging fire doused in water. The muffled whimper you let out makes him twitch against your larynx; a hushed groan falls from his lips.

He pulses like a heartbeat when he cums; molten liquid spurting down your throat with each rumbling groan he lets out. He holds you there for a moment before slowly, deliberately, pulling your head back until the tip of his cock rests on your tongue, the slit perched against the barbell. He drenches the piercing in the last mouthful that spits out, eyes sharpening at the sight of it covered in his milky cum.

You know better than to swallow it. Not until you're told. You hold it on your tongue, tastebuds overwhelmed by the salty, ozonic thunderhead tang. You keep it there, in your mouth, like a good girl. Like his good girl, and wait for him to catch his breath. For his eyes to clear from the sea mist that clouds them. It's liquid bliss in shades of blue and sea foam.

His eyes crease, heavy and lidded in pleasure. Pride rears in his languid expression. Good girl lingers in the crevasse you wrought. You shiver, spilling a dollop of his briny release down your chin.

Price cocks his head, eyes hooded. His thumb catches the drop, staining his skin milky pearlescent.

His voice is a smoky purr when he speaks. It makes tremble, flesh fever-hot, at the stormcloud grey in his gaze.

"Any more secrets you'd like to share, love?"

1K notes · View notes

ifyourefree · 7 months

Text

I Need A Lint Roller

The mornings have been tougher than they used to be—I just can’t seem to be able to pull myself out of bed. The blankets are too soft and lovely, I want to press them against my face forever. The light pulls, streaming through the blinds and I’m trying to ignore them. They’re waving at me now, but I pretend that I don’t see.

Breakfast is a weird assortment of things. Pasta, a pork bun, an apple, iced coffee, and taiyaki. I wonder if I’ll regret this. The coffee isn’t enough, it never really is. I’m on the beige couch, leaning my head back against the wall and tracing patterns into the lightscapes on the ceiling. Running my eyes over the new plant shelf, the marbled monstera, the wild lilies dotting the coffee table. I close my eyes momentarily and thirty minutes pass. I let the minutes go.

Bathed in the yellow of the room, I think of the color blue.

Northside is very quiet. Even on Saturday nights, I hear each of my steps as I walk past the closed shops, lit up with fairy lights and dim street lights. Everything is so still and quiet, the air feels thick as I light a cigarette and watch the moon. The air is cold and I breathe in tight gulps of it, letting the smoke drift up and over like a summer haze. My head feels funny, I let my hair down in my face, I watch the moon through the slants of dark brown. It looks like a pearl. Gleaming gleaming gleaming until it’s gone under the clouds. I miss you, ardently.

I need a lint roller. My black jacket has white specks in it. I let it be, though. In a way, it looks like stars in a night sky, scattered and messy and just existing. It’s dumb, but that’s just what I make of it. I’m a cigarette in—I’m always a cigarette in. When am I not on a cigarette, when am I not… It’s beautiful out here, I’m learning that there’s a lot more to see when I’m outside. I’m turning unafraid. Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer. I’ve been turning inwards for some time now, but I’m learning to change that.

0 notes

abellinthecupboard · 1 year

Text

Anchorite in Autumn

She rose from bed and coughed for an hour. Entered her niche that was also her shower. Shaves her legs with Ockham's razor. Rinsed her hair with holy water. Opened the curtain that was double-layered. Slipped on her robe in /the widening gyre/. Gazed in the mirror with gorgeous terror. Took out a cigarette and held it like a flower. Lit it devoutly like the wick of a pyre. Smoked like a thurible in the grip of a friar. Stared out the window at the leaves on fire, fire, fire...

— Chard deNiord, Interstate (2015)

#Anchorite in Autumn #Chard deNiord #Interstate #poetry #literature #writing

0 notes

rps-addicted · 1 year

Text

So, there's an app that you can turn your promts into artworks. It's called Dream AI. I turned my promts (that these are the Gyre members's appearance informations) and they there are, but abominous.

This for example, was supposed to be Saraline's Dream AI appearance. There are more than this

Dennis's Dream AI appearance, what a coincidence. I thought he has long hair and he wears a sweatband on his head. He came off with short hair and no sweatband, instead.

Ansi's Dream AI appearance. Strange. He's a Latino boy but he came off as an Afro-american boy with a yellow tie.

Olly's Dream AI appearance. But he looks like more a realistic version of Norman from Fireman Sam than a plumped hyperactive boy! XD

Wendell's Dream AI appearance. Oh look, we got another kid here.

Leif's Dream AI appearance. almost almost he's near to the original character. I like It, but I don't love it.

Goodness's Dream AI appearance. I have absolutely zero words to describe this montruosity.

And finally, Katherine Alice's Dream AI appearance. Ugh, look at her! She looks like she smoke 30 inches of weed (no offense but, those pink eyes).

I'd rather prefer the original Gyre than the Dream AI's Gyre. Enjoy (if you hate AI art, then I respect your opinion)!

#welcome to the wayne #team timbers #dream ai #kill me please #the gyre #abomination #what the fuck #ai art

0 notes

nothingrpgzone · 2 years

Text

Magic Item Interest Generator

Simple Magic Weapon Interest Generator

Mainly intended as a starting off point for an item and a way to make it more interesting than a simple plus one weapon. Featuring initial quirks, and potential lore related to its origin for the players to discover with 3 easy rolls of a d12

First roll on the origin table, then roll on the table that corresponds to the number you originally rolled.

You then roll a final d12 to see if it is sentient, 1-11 is not sentient, 12 is sentient

Origin

It fell from the skies

It comes from a great underwater civilization

It was recently found in the core ancient tree that was struck down by lightning

It was found in an iceberg

It was made 5,000 years ago but no one knows who made it

An explosion of magma rocked the earth and in the crater sat this weapon

A dragon gifted it to a close friend

It grew out of a giant flower

It was found in an alien junkpile

It was an interdimensional trade

It materialized in a cloud of smoke caused by great mages getting together to smoke

It’s a new experimental item made by a local mage

1) Fell From the Sky

Whenever it moves quickly through the air a choir can be heard

The wounds it leaves show the constellations

It casts out dim light

It always hovers slightly, never touching the ground

A small gyre clouds surround the business end

Any metal appears to be gold but is as hard as steel

It’s engraved with phrase death from above, the character that spells them out glow slightly

Birds are naturally attracted to it

A wind gust always follows with the use of the weapon

The weapon is rough and resembles a meteor

It is decorated with images of feathers

It always falls facing tip-up

2) Great Oceanic Civilization

It always has a slight layer of moisture at the end

It is made of an unidentifiable bright blue metal

The sound of the waves on the beach are heard by the holder

Whenever you strike with it a flash of illusory tentacles follows the attack

There are perfect metal replications of crab shells decorating it

It is perfectly neutrally buoyant

It smells of fish, no matter how hard you clean it

When dropped it always points towards the nearest body of water

It glows when under water

Illusory fish swim around it at all times

It repels any water near it

A slight fog always emanates from it

3) Ancient Tree

When left on soil flowers quickly grow around it

A large termite decoration adorns it

It kills any trees it comes in contact with

If it is sharp the sharp part is made of impossibly strong leaves, if blunt it is made of incredibly hardwood. Cannot be burned

Creatures of the forest are calm around it

It's carved with ruins of a dead script

Small amounts of electricity arc off of the metallic parts

It is metal but looks like smoldering wood

It bears the name of an ancient family on the handle

If left unattended fungus will grow from it

There is a gem on it that changes colors with the seasons

It smells of pine

4) Iceberg

The business end of the weapon made up entirely of ice

When someone new picks it up they suddenly have a vision of great treasure under the ice

When it is left alone in a room you can hear from the other room it cries out for someone named Annabel Lee.

The wooden bits look to be made of an old shipwreck

If someone holds it their teeth jitter

It is decorated with a great swirling tusk

The weapon freezes any water it comes in contact with

The weapon always seems drawn to heat, like it’s still cold

It is adorned with white furs that cannot be torn

It moves by itself during a snowstorm

It fills you with internal warmth in cold air

The weapon sings along with you if you sing about the cold. It has a high pitched voice and seems to linger on the notes at the end of the song

5) Five Thousand Years ago

It gives you a prophetic vision of things to transpire within your lifetime

People killed by the weapon seem to disappear, leaving no corpse

The first person to pick it up gets a flashback of an ancient ancestor of them telling them they are proud

It glows brightly on the night of a full moon

Birds instinctively fly away from it

The room seems darker where it is

It has a timer on the handle that is counting down, it starts at 1 year and 5 days. It appears to have been counting down for thousands

It hums in a nearby woods, close inspection will repeal there used to be a building there

All dogs seem to take a particular interest in it

Thunder cracks in the distance when you strike something with it

It has a dead language written on the handle if you find a translator it says beware the Lady’s might

If you meditate while holding it you mentally relive the last fight you were in

6) Magma

It stains the hands of people who hold it a sooty grey

It is always warm to the touch

If dipped into water it will come out encased in stone

If struck against the ground the ground will shake hard enough to let small loose object tip over

It spews smoke

Rough black stone adorns the weapon

A constant warm glow emanates from the business end

The business end is made of volcanic stone

It is adorned with the visage of an angry god

When dropped it points towards the nearest hot spring

Any stone it hits melts somewhat under the blow

It gives off a constant sizzling sound

7) Dragon Gift

It is encrusted with many jewels

A small dragon scale decorates it, obviously from a molt long ago

You can use it to divine towards gold, seems the enchantment is a bit too old

The handle has a decorative dragon head on the end

The business end is made more deadly by the addition of teeth from an enemy dragon

It whispers to you in draconic, if you speak draconic you know they are innuendo-laden sonnets

Whenever you strike with it you hear the roar of a dragon

The handle looks like the wrapping tail of a dragon

It smells intensely of dragon

Gilded threats run through the black leather handle

Flames (or other possible dragon’s breath) engulf the weapon when it swings

It is adorned with so much gold, like so much

8) Flower

Bees are naturally drawn to it

It always smells mildly like fruit

It hums when in the presence of flowers

If left alone on the soil it will begin to grow roots

It is a delightful pastel color

It is adorned with petal-like protrusions

It tastes like honey

It sings songs that songbirds respond to

It glows during harvest season

Nectar slowly drips from it

A giant flower always blooms on the handle

It looks plain in the sight of most but those with ultraviolet vision it is a dazzling display

9) Alien Junk Pile

It hums ever so slightly

Arcs of electricity occasionally burst from faulty circuits

It glows a radiant blue

The weapon can retract fully into its handle with the press of a button

The weapon is made of pure energy

It sounds like a sawtooth wave when it moves fast enough

It appears to be a wireframe version of the object

On cloudless nights it seems to communicate with something up there

When picked up by someone for the first time it says genetic user identified

Small metal objects are attracted to it

It seems to give off bad physic vibes

A small projection of an alien occasionally pops out and speaks, if you understand them they are saying “if you enjoy this product so far please consider upgrading to the full luxury model”

10) Interdimensional Trade

It is made of clockwork that ticks along seemingly doing nothing

It is made of pure water

It is craggy and earthen, but still very usable

Demons seem irritable in the presence of it

Angels seem disgusted by it

You can see an astra sea in the place of where it once for a few seconds

When it strikes something it makes loud white noise

At night it seems transparent

At night the holder receives dreams about them with minor changes to who exactly they are every night

It comes with the design sensibilities of a much sillier universe

When an attack is made with it you can see in the blur a destroyed version of our own reality

Fey seem to want the sword a fair amount

11) Smoking Wizards

It smells incredibly skunky

The colors seem to change every so slightly

Smoke always flies off of it when it hits against something

There is an ornament of a drooping eye on it

There is a crystal on the end that many would claim is magic but does nothing

It lets out a high pitch whine when near law enforcement

It gripping onto it tightly calms you down somewhat

When picked up a laugh not too dissimilar to Seth Rogan's laugh is heard

A mild coating of cheese-flavored dust always appears on the handle

The weapon occasionally burps

It causes massive bubbles within any water it is put into

The colors on it are just so pretty

12) Mage Experiment

Reroll to see it’s quirk but it keeps the mage experiment origin

It is roughly made with care put into it but obviously an untrained hand

It comes with a tag saying prototype v1.3

It is perfectly matte black with no light reflecting off

It has a handy mechanical calculator attached to it

The handle is profoundly ergonomic

It sparkles, even on bits that would not normally shine

It has nuts and bolts in it in a seemingly haphazard manner

Any damage to it seems to mend itself slowly over the course of a day

It is incredibly smooth, almost frictionless

As it moves fast you can hear it play a small tune

It lets out a small chime every day at noon

0 notes