#Cavalcade of Lights

[arcturus11]

Some photos from last week's opening at The Cavalcade of Lights in Toronto. Sometimes it's hard to tell who are the children and who are the adults. 🤓

[uglyandtraveling]

Cavalcade of Lights Toronto & First Snowfall of the Season | Ice Rink at Nathan Phillips Square

Join me as we kick off the winter season in Toronto in the most magical way! 🌟 This vlog takes you right into the heart of the Cavalcade of Lights at Nathan Phillips Square, where the city lights up in a dazzling display of festive cheer. ✨

Watch as the iconic Toronto Sign glows under the twinkling lights, and the first snowfall of the season turns the whole city into a winter wonderland. I also take you for a spin around the ice rink at Nathan Phillips Square, skaters gliding on fresh ice beneath the sparkling tree lights is truly a sight to behold.

Whether you love the holidays or just need a dose of winter vibes, this video is sure to warm your heart and bring the festive spirit to life!

[irishgop]

This the season

[fionarara]

+ cherry bomb .

+ GOJŌ SATORU x READER .

+ T W ⇾ 18+ only . smut . sugar daddy!gojo . dilf!gojo . f!reader . implied ddlg dynamics . adult age gap (the amount is your interpretation) . aquaphilia aka underwater sex . praise . a bit of a baby bimbo reader so um dacryphilia, no rly, like i’m talking actual tears, yeah . gojou has a dumb joke (or two) . mention of divorce (not yours) and of gojo’s child (also not yours) . slight size kink if you squint . i feel like both flaunted capitalism and vapid self-indulgence needs a tag here ?? we be explorin dark kink of all kinds on this here blog, right? (｡>ω<｡) . reader has a few nicknames . no beta . and lastly, probably goes without saying but daddy kink, i repeat, daddy kink . oyasumi ✌︎ .

+ A N ⇾ um, istg i totally did not mean to post this dilf!gojo on actual father’s day, h-whoa? but the universe just always has my back i swear, an amazing coincidence as i only realized right before posting, and somehow it feels *symbolic* ?? - this is for the sugar daddy collab by @sleepysnk, ty for letting me join last minute summer ♡ 

+ W C ⇾ circa 5,500

Zz Zz Zz.

Within your skirt a vibration kicks off. 

The ringing of a phone tucked into the waistband against your tummy chimes out its soft little tune where you withdraw it to peek at the screen. Flashing vibrantly across its surface reads ‘DD Gojo’, and the smile unveiling on your face shines as brightly as the reflected device in your palm.

From where you stand on the sidewalk in elegant heels, all dolled up for the occasion, the twilight of dusk is visible on the horizon. The vision of picturesque dark multi-colored hues harmonize nicely with the wafting scent of warm pastries and tea in the air nearby, out from the cafe of the luxury shopping center you’ve been waiting in front of: Gojo’s favorite meeting spot. Whereby inevitably, has become yours as well. 

A place you have both frequented together before, where he has showered you with many gifts, many times over, treasured in both of your memories. Cherished adventures built here upon wining and dining at the finest restaurants, playing dress up at the shops amongst extravagance, the cavalcade of glittering jewels and lavish garments–all the things you deserve as far as he’s concerned. He is of the belief that whatever you receive should be nothing but the best the world could ever offer, or at least his wallet, he figures. 

And since life has been really tough on him lately–divorce is a bitch, the entire ongoing legal process has been one drawn out migraine–you and your overall companionship are so highly prized, not only in his day-to-day, but because of the new glow you’ve supplied his life. Especially during the last several months of regularly seeing one another after the separation from his marriage. 

Unabashed in his absolute fondness for you, he has deemed you his little crème de la crème angel.

You pick up the jingling phone in your hand.

Gojo Satoru seems to be in an especially exuberant and silly mood when his voice forces a notable husky tone, answering your greeting with a fun-loving tease, a low murmur on the other end of the call.

“Ring-ding-dong—is baby ready for my dong, sweets?” He finds himself hilarious, goofy, a laugh ripping out of his throat with audacity, clearly and thoroughly enjoying his own terrible joke.

Wow. There’s that classic on-a-whim, lively, larger-than-life bluntness that comes along with Gojo’s Sagittarius energy you have come to know well: he’s innately playful and comedic, fun, loud, has got a charmingly sharp tongue with no filter—it can sometimes come back to bite him in the ass if he’s not careful—and all of that is blanketed by a sort of fiery sense of passion for the things he loves.

The fact remains that his way of being has always been able to find a kind of carefree humor within you, something so inexplicable. He brings out in you a sense of total ease or lightness you weren’t even sure you were capable of. A kind of untapped, unfettered joy no one has ever been able to touch in you before…

So you’re halfway snickering at him now, amused, but with full-blown sarcasm you reply, “Ha–ha, Satoru, you’re so classy…” then you’re truly giggling, “...just shuddup and get over here already.” You try to restrain the crack of a too-wide smile from spreading across your cheeks, but fail, gloriously.

So you give in to it. Deciding to oblige him, you press the mic of the phone closer to your lips with a hand cupped over your mouth, shielding your next spoken words while you avert your head downward in a play of secrecy. It’s almost a whisper when you respond. 

“But…yes, I think that…just maybe, I am ready for it. Got it?”

He’s unable to actually see the minxy raise of your brow shown on your face, but the gesture is not lost on him from the tone in your voice. He hears it loud and clear.

“Jeesus, baby, I’m comin’, I’m comin’...”, the subtle rise of anticipation within him giddy and excitable. "Listen, I’m almost there. My GPS says I’m two minutes away.”

Late afternoon air has you rubbing away chilly goosebumps alive on your skin, particularly your upper arms, to bring you warmth. “Ok, good. Please hurry, it’s getting nippy out.” 

“Oh?” Here it comes… “Mm, ya better have nipples out…see you soon.” The sound of a bold chuckle is distorted by the phone speaker before it’s cut off by a prompt click. He disconnected the call in that way.

Already, it is your second humored eye-roll of the evening from his cheeky Gojo-behavior and you haven’t even seen him yet.

Your chest is lighter because of it.

The shopping bags in your grasp shift from two hands into one, your free hand thumbing to find the golden credit card Gojo lent you in the pocket of your jacket. Assuring yourself that it’s still there is important. 

Over a month ago, he had broken the news of how meetups between the two of you would soon become more of a challenge, due to court and custody hearings surrounding the finalization of his divorce. You’d be spending a considerable amount of time apart, he’d said. It would be longer than usual, by a whole month, and offered to grant you some form of consolation in return. So the very next day, an express-shipped credit card appeared at your doorstep in the fine afternoon with a letter enclosed. In it, he expressed that you were to use it and shop to your little heart’s content. The only deal was that you would hand it back upon the arrival of this date.

The car that pulls up to double park along the curbside beside you is, without a doubt, the most expensive car you will have ever ridden. It’s new. Gojo had mentioned it last week, making the purchase to lift his spirits and also as celebration for the court case he’d won against his ex. They’d granted him equal joint custody of their child. Actually, his final stop prior to fetching you this evening had been dropping off his baby daughter.

The door swings open on its own, remotely controlled by electronics. In view and resting on the front seat is a tatty teddy bear belonging to his child that was forgotten.

“Oops, lemme move that for you.” Somehow the sight of this tiny plush toy in his large hand brings about the sweetest rush in you for him. The stuffed animal is laid to rest onto the back seat where you also note a hollow purple baby bottle leaking a dribble of spilt milk from its nipple and onto the cushion. 

Nineties grunge-rock plays soft on the radio when you climb in. The air is filled with a sweet and peppery, woodsy scent, one you recognize immediately–it’s him, his comforting cologne so greatly missed, only making you that much more aware of just how profound the ache has truly been for this moment to be by his side. 

Crawling towards him, you pelt your eager arms around his neck, a way that communicates it has felt like an eternity apart. Both of you have a greater sense of it now, from being in the other’s presence. You can hardly keep your exhilaration in check, not with the soft squeals you let loose on his shoulder. For a moment, together you melt, breathing into each other.

It hangs in the air of the moment as you embrace. 

The weight of the wait. 

He then cradles you deeper, pulling you into an assertive kiss so welcoming, so sloppy with intention, it’s as if he’s blissfully unconcerned with how messy it is because, finally, you’re here. Letting you know it’s been far too long for him when he’s matting your cheeks with numerous pecks and taking in the scent of your hair.

Withdrawing to observe you, his eyes alight with radiance at the full sight of you, your energy. “God, I almost forgot just how stunning you are. Look at you! Just…incredible.”

The praise washes over you and after exchanging a few more greeting words, of how you’ve longed to see each other, he shifts the car gear into drive. 

Buildings whip across the dark sunset and late dusk settles in. The spectacle of nightfall on this ride, of the city through the windshield, excites him enough to ignite a sudden curious stir in his pants. Maybe it’s the prospect of what night can bring with you along after so much distance that has his dick twitch at the thought alone.  

And with that, his hand is creeping over to your lap. It should be almost comical when you believe for the quickest moment that his approaching hand would be innocent. One only of affection, to caress you, a gentle expression only in missing you…

But consequently, their energy becomes different—turn into those fingers, the kind you know well that are wanting, possessive. And being able to even think another thought is lost on you before he is squeezing at the thickest part of your inner thigh then slipping under your skirt.

“Satoruuu…wait…” you swat his arm with a light tap, dissuading him from getting too distracted. It’s happened once or twice before he’s lost control of the wheel when attempting something as naughty as this, but it is half-hearted when you breathily urge, “…pay…pay attention to the road…” 

Not a moment later, out from the speakers the bass booms more loudly, the volume amplifying higher by the second where the music thumps heavy throughout your body. You locate the outlandish crystal-eyed culprit and his thumb pressing the ‘+ volume up’ button on the steering wheel.

Not only does he have the music blasted, but has the gall to flash a cutesy grin of mischief at you, a most sinful and impish face. That expression is followed up with a playful mocking yell, where the holler of his voice competes and cuts through the music. 

“HUH, baby?-! WHAT? I can't hear you!” he teases, then carries on anyway with the slide of his fingers between your pressed thighs. It’s difficult for you not to part them a smidge while the electric feel of his three fingers reaches for your clothed cunt. They press flat against your mound at the first touch, then begin to fondle lightly at the grooves of your pussy, tracing the outer shape of it with his fingertips. 

Having some restraint here had been your aim, but tonight you seem to be failing plenty at not completely succumbing to his whimsical charm–it's just been so long since you’ve been near him–you’d almost forgotten how magnetic his presence truly is. 

Attempting to keep your desire hidden, you try stifling the puff of air that escapes your throat, turning your head away towards the window, but it is futile. On full display to him now is how unable you are to withstand his spellbinding touch, and he’d spotted it. That little starved expression tells Gojo how badly you’re fiending, it has him lowering the radio, the amplitude of the loud song descending and funneling out of the small space, volume all the way down so he can very clearly hear what his defiance has wrought on you. 

Listening to your tiny constrained moans sends heat straight through his abdomen. You do not want to be condoning any of this while he’s driving, but unfortunately for your willpower, you act on instinct when you begin pawing desperately at the muscular forearm connected to strong fingers massaging over the wet spot of your panties.

“Yeahh…you like this, huh? Knew it.” 

But, in a moment too soon, he is cut off by an abrupt swerve of the car and you gasp.

“Shit–” he grips steadfast onto the wheel, gaining composure of the vehicle.

“...Alright, alright, you were right. Let’s save this.” Punctuating the final word with one reassuring pat down onto your pussy, it's honestly more like a gentle spank.

You’re pouting, but of course you nod, agree, and settle into the electrically warmed seat produced by the suave leather chair, feeling loosened up.

Safety first.

. + .

The door to Gojo’s opulent estate, only a fraction of what sits on a 22-acre property, welcomes you by the greeting of a polished and suited butler. Warm lighting casts down from the expansive ceiling and it’s the first time this evening you’re able to catch a true glimpse of Gojo’s eyes. They look a bit tired, a tad worn from his recent circumstances, but it is truly a wonder how he can make even a light touch of under-eye bags look sexy.

Walking past the foyer toward the candle-lit living room, you extend him your comfort. Wrapping your arm around the bulk of his bicep, the other palm reaches for the hard pec on his chest to rub soothing circles of understanding. 

Here you are at long last, approaching the grand sofa, both of you plopping yourselves atop the plush expanse and seamlessly locking on to one another. He relishes in the beautiful body flush against his. 

Encircling his waist with your arms, you find it rather cute in taking note that he is marginally plumper around his middle than before, having developed a more modest weight around his butt and love handles. Though abs of steel still ripple his shirt, the overworked dad you hold in your arms seems to have relaxed a little from the recent stress and you are filled with a sudden pride for him. 

A light-hearted joke flickers in your mind of his natural ability to take up space from his energy alone anyway–how you admire it, a part of you secretly wishing you could embody more of that in yourself–but mostly in how you appreciate this bigger physical development in him, because it now means there's a little more of him in the world.

“Shall we toast?” he suggests, so he whips you up a nice pink drink while he sips hard gin on the rocks, leaning back, thighs spread open like an empowered slut. 

Curiosity then strikes him when the haul of shopping bags sitting on the floor from your spree earlier this evening catches his eye. “Ooo, lemme me take a peek at what you got.” he sits up and nods, face gleaming. 

One by one each item is showcased and he is enthralled by every piece, because of course he is—it’s part of why he adores you, chose you, your keen eye and clear level of taste has always been impeccable, distinct and unique, highly attractive. 

Then his heart is increasing in size as you confirm, right here, right now, that those aren’t amongst your only positive qualities when you’re showing him you’d also picked up something for him and had been thoughtful enough to do so. An ornate watch is pulled out of a fresh bag by your delicate hands, that then with a snap is on his wrist, handsome as it glints and refracts in the candlelight of the room.

Your body reaches over the littered items on the elaborate rug, clasping the final shopping bag which houses the bikini you had bought for this reunion by his request. 

He whistles at it. “Superb. Model it for me, will you, babe?”

You do. Twirl, shimmy, joke with an exaggerated runway catwalk, giggle, then there’s something visible written on his face and you’re able to anticipate what his next move might be.

Gojo had developed a pension for bestowing you with a few cutesy nicknames in the time spent getting to know you. Amongst his favorites and most frequently used is that of ‘cherrybomb���. Must be a fan of The Runaways, you figured, but it truly came about when, almost exclusively, you began wearing rouge-shade lipsticks in his presence. Perhaps you could make yourself seem a little older, you’d hoped, give yourself a closer touch of sophistication in his world by presenting yourself in such a way. 

But mostly he’d donned you with the specific moniker because a smattering of the red tends to end up around the lower half of his dick after he's had his way with you, a faint painted crimson over his pelvis near where it meets the shaft. 

You’re halfway through striking a faked model pose when he lifts himself off the couch and approaches. With an index finger so sensual, he presses up into the cushion of your ruby lips, holding tight to your gaze, coaxing you with a query, “So, gonna help daddy feel better now, cherrybomb?"

Then, far into the depths of crystalline aqua you swim, deep into the mesmerizing eyes that lock onto yours and you say nothing; nothing except for an exhale of hot moist vapor releasing onto the firm finger that baits you. The slow lick you give it afterward, dragging your tongue up along the column of his digit, landing at the tip, answers any and all of his questions. He can already feel the swell of blood trickling in to fill up his cock.

The time has come for his hand to guide you through another hallway toward the recently completed construction of a large-scale naturesque onsen the size of a massive pool, installed in the outdoor area beyond the sliding doors. Intending to experience it tonight for the first time was on his agenda, professing his desire to christen the new space with you, right before he glides a magnificent lustered glass door to one side, letting you through.

You step into the open atmosphere: water bedazzled by moonlight, submerged light fixtures softly illuminating a mint-aqua azure-blue glow, steam rising thick as fog. A plethora of tall bamboo trees enclose the surrounding space, a waterfall cascades off a giant boulder just around the bend and beneath your feet and everywhere is an assortment of gorgeous stones varying in shapes, sizes and sorts.

Gojo leans into you from behind when you approach the onsen’s outer edge, planting kisses along your neck. A clean tug at the string of your bikini top by his hand has it flopping off your breasts, exposing them to the crisp night air, amongst the sprinkle of stars hanging in the heavens. Bikini bottoms hit your ankles next and he strips completely, down to his boxers, then to nothing at all. Already he’s rock hard, a cock so upright, it seems it could nearly touch his abs.

A large hand links to yours, leading you down into the inviting water.

"God, you’re tiny next to me." He tells you, loving how much his big build towers your frame, admiring your body from behind as you descend into the blue, bare feet hitting each lowered pebbled step.

Submerging into warmth, it cradles you as you dip in. Vapor floats off the lapping surface where your joined bodies bob together in water, all of your limbs wrapped around him. He wastes not another second longer, gripping you impossibly closer, making out with you, ardently; proving himself to be ever the great multitasker with one hand gripped on your asscheek and another kneading at your breast.

Now the sizzling of your skin isn’t from the heated water alone, for beneath the very surface you simmer for him, a robust flame of aching arousal so unbearable it has you trembling. Shaky and flustered by lust, from how strong hands grope every inch of your body, how his tongue intoxicates you as it rolls fluidly against yours, he senses it all—how overcome you are by need—making him groan with a fire in his belly, as do you, too. 

Desire has your spine arching. Legs still grasped to his waist, your ass pops backward as far as it will reach, creating easy access for him where he can trace fingertips along the crack of your ass as a guide, down to the ‘X’ which marks the spot of your slick hole.

Two thick fingers dip up, curl inside you, and plumes of oxygen off your light moans release between whimpers. Like your third eye opening, the instant clarity you receive in understanding how these fingers are able to create such powerful sorcery is made evident now, by his digits making literal magic in you as they fuck you filthy beneath the water. 

“Missed you like hell.” He murmurs, then you grip tighter, moaning, sucking a quick bruise on his neck. 

Yet all too soon, he notes the angle of his wrist is not ideal, nor the slight pushback from the water. All of it provides much resistance for him to thrust into you at the necessary speed that he knows would truly have you unraveling for him.

A light bulb flicks on in his head.

“Turn for me.” He commands, gentle and true.

In favor of getting you back to the onsen steps without letting you lose arousal, he whips your body around, directing your arms to wind behind his neck, your ankles to wrap around his. With your back meeting his chest, exposed nipples sting wet in the cold bite of the air, wading you through the water. His goal to keep that hot coil of desire burning within you also means his own cravings run high right now, to have you squirming on his fingers from this position, knowing where that button can be pressed upon. 

“Thaaat’s it, baby, keep it up for me…” He entices, approvingly, an eager hand reaching from around your hip to the front, massaging over your clit in winding motions of expertise. His game is won when your hips begin to stutter, rocking and chasing for more of his touch and he can sense the steady rhythm of your thighs tensing against his.

Soon, your feet hit the stony steps. Placed on a higher level than him, it gives him reason to bend you over as planned, to hike your ass up above the waterline where it collects just around your thighs. It’s there you are instructed to hold steadfast on the edge of the onsen.

“Good, baby. Just like that.”

He reckons it’s his turn to make you pliant and easy access for himself. From where he stands below, waist deep in water, his face is lined with the entirety of your raw nether-region, anxiously awaiting to eat you out from behind.

But first, the sight of you like this is truly something to behold.

Here is a quick moment of pause for Gojo, caught in admiring the beauty of pearlescent vapors casting heat off of every bit of your skin, dancing upward through the shine of moonbeams contrasted against the darkness.

“Mmm.” There’s a tone of carnal wonder—and just a touch of light playfulness—in his humbled voice. “Your pussy is steaming hot, baby. Literally.”

You whine from the unfavorable lack of contact as he purrs his sweet words. Air is blown over your bare steamy cunt by his lips, cooling it down, watching it clench, eyeing heat vapors disperse around it. Then he gingerly pries the petals of your pussy open, lingers in admiration for another moment longer before finally tugging your thighs backward to strike his face onto the wet folds. He impresses a deep open-mouthed kiss onto it, sucking your pussy slow and deep into his mouth, and you snap—out comes your ungodly cry in ecstasy. He makes it sloppy, purposefully a bit disheveled, all wicked slurps and licks of passion, and a huff from his nose hits your asshole in a stimulating sensation. 

The taste of the mineral water mixed with the sweet drip of your cunt thoroughly quenches his thirst for this christening.

Light daddy scruff from his lower face can be felt against you as another slow upward lick nearly grazes your anus. He wants to create a plateau of his tongue stretching across the whole of your pussy, so he’s scooping under to search for your clit and press there, toying with the nub for several long languid beats. 

That is until he makes a quicker decision to swap it in favor of shoving his fingers inside you and pump them with force from behind. When you thrust back to help his fingers reach deeper, he already misses his face being trapped and pressed to your cunt, so he moves back to slurping your clit too. 

Your head falls forward as you crescendo from tiny whimpers into staccato groans, then sensing him pause for the smallest of moments only to catch a breath where you can feel his rapid draw of air.

He is attuned to when your hips begin gyrating harder onto his sucks, it’s a signal you’re close to your finish. So he doubles down, grabbing hold of your sides in a bruising grip, fingertips digging deep into the flesh of your hips where he forces you tighter onto his face. All that’s left to give is a tiny sting of pain to send you reeling and crying out his name, so his large hand cracks down on an asscheek, several filthy slaps, with the swirl of his tongue still on you.

He alternates, working and circling open your tender hole to motioning down onto pulsating clit-sucks in such perfect rhythm, it’s like the epic beat of a hit song—and in an instant, it must be your favorite tune, because now you’re singing out along with it, belting out with a searing vibrant orgasm that courses through you.

Your elbows and knees wobble, near to collapse, but he’s caught you just in time with a slide of his arm underneath your tummy, holding you up with another hand by your outer thigh. 

And you feel entirely supported by him, in many more ways than one.

You’re weakened and topple sweetly into the water, flopping backward into his broad chest. He draws in your back from behind, whispering warmth in your ear. “Daddy’s turn.”

The way your cheeks beam in post-glow daze has him tender-hearted. “Aw, my little cherrybomb…” he brushes away clumped strands of hair plastered to your face, “...like how only I can make you feel?”

Being older than you means he’s more experienced. No one other than Gojo has even remotely had you cumming as hard, so you can't deny his accuracy. You’d never dream of denying it anyway.

“Without question, daddy,” a little raspy voice so sincere, your body twirling in the clear blue liquid to face him outright, telling him point blank, “you’re the only one that has the power to make me feel this good.” Nearly sung like a lullaby off your tongue, you stare up at him with the most earnest eyes.

The sweet innocence of your praise is so astounding it raises his eyelids to widen so greatly until the appearance of the moon’s reflection fully shines in his eyes ; a genuine response to your unwavering devotion. Then it’s gone in a flash, because his eyelids shut when he’s peppering a line of kisses over your forehead and his dick is forcibly throbbing against you.

“Mhm yeah, you feel that?” He sucks on your earlobe, it’s still between lips as his whisper vibrates on the sensitive skin. “Want you bad. Help your daddy out now."

It’s nearly impossible to contain yourself when the all consuming thought and need in this moment is his grown cock in your hand, to supply him with anything and everything that would satisfy him, service him with the utmost amount of pleasure possible it’s as though he would never again know of pain.

Plunging forward and splashing further into the water, you hurl yourself onto him, a hand wrapped around his cock, an arm thrown around his nape. You pull him into another session of sucking one another’s faces, feverish mouths echoing moans into each other while you fist him below the water.

Gradually, the motion pushes him further and further backward until his spine hits an eventual rocky wall, arms-length away from the flow of the waterfall.

Gojo hauls you up by your thighs to wrap over his hips, simply wanting you to feel how hard he is from the outside, skin against skin, tenderly outlining the full protruding length of himself over your folds. Teasing between velvety lips, he’s grinning at how much of your slick can be felt through the water as he rhythmically runs his hard cock to bump up against your clit. Pleasure erupts through you with uncontrollable shuddering, from the remembrance of how unbelievable it could be just to have Gojo rubbing over you, the rush of the hazy memory all comes flooding back to you now.

Your head cannot withstand its own weight any longer, dropping dead into his fragrant shoulder, the scent of his neck driving you to delirium, inducing an almost intolerable desire for him.

 “Enjoying yourself?” He chimes, but you are barely able to muffle out an agreement with your mouth muted against his skin. The best you can give is a tiny nod and it feels you’ve mildly blacked-out behind closed lids. “Tell me how much you need it.” He commands.

“I-I…” you start, but it dies in your throat, “...I...I–”

“Come on, baby,” he coos, a little smug, a bit more pride in his request, “I wanna hear it.”

You're at a loss, struggling to form coherent sentences, already helplessly weak from his cock and it's not even inside of you yet.

“...so...s-so bad, please…I–”

A wordless understanding soon emanates between you both, suspended in the air surrounding you. It’s a palpable exchange of etheric empathy. He understands–identifies, since you have never spent this much time apart before and seeping into the gravity of that is also beginning to make him feel dizzied. “That's it…that’s it…you can do it, sweets, you can tell me...” He rocks his taunting hips, hypnotizing your needy hole from the outside with the prodding head of his cock as you try once more to formulate a sensical sentence.

“D-don't think…I've ever…wanted anything–so badly–I-I–” 

The more you babble, the harder he throbs.

“Daddy, I just–!” You feel actual tears starting to well up in your eyes, “–missed you so much-!”

An unexpected pang in your chest induces a flood of tears from your lower lash line. It’s only obvious to you now that you’ve been harboring this specific avoided emotion for a while, possibly even weeks. Trying to keep “strong”, convincing yourself you’ve been fine, or shoving down anything that would surface from within you about making the distance a bigger deal than you thought it ought to be.

Feeling so foolish, naive, to be crying with a mix of anguished pleasure for him, you lightly choke on your resistance to all of it, but without any ability to stop it.

He slows, then halts to observe your face, detecting the moisture below your eyes. It catches him by surprise. Concerned for you, he speaks with care. 

“Aww, angelll…” 

A tear streams down your cheek where he stops it with his lips, kissing it away, and Gojo feels his cock swell harder.

Undeniably horny by your undeniable ache for him.

A hand swipes over your face, shushing you to calm. “Shh…that's alright, okay baby, shh, you did good–so good speaking up for me–letting me know how much you want me…” soothing tingles by gentle scratches of his hands along your back quell you, “...re-laaa-x…shh…that was good enough for me now.”

Your cheeks are burning, born out of the pit of stupidity you feel as it pools in your stomach. Yet still, you continue to tear up, subtle quivering comes in waves over your body and has him offering you more words of comfort.

“...Nnnm…I missed you too, hey, hey–” he cups your face, making sure you’re truly hearing him. “–I did too, I really did…I know, baby, I know…” since you’re already crying, he might as well give you a better reason to, in the only way he knows to make it better, “...missed you somethin fierce…here–lemme show you how much. Come’ere–”

Lining up with your drenched hole, he guides you down onto the smooth stretch of his thick cock and your breath constricts. It has your face contorting from the dizzying nature of it all, denting your nails into his broad back. Gojo’s glimmering eyes connect with yours, reflecting back a shared intensity. Your gazes mirror one another as two pairs of eyelids are drooping together in unison, carefully examining each other’s faces as you adjust to him and he finally bottoms out inside you. But he grants you mere moments before the overwhelming thirst for you is far too irresistible to bear any longer. 

He surrenders to the will of his body as if possessed, chasing more of the sweet suck of your cunt in every thrust and now you’re crying from something else entirely. Strong, effortless, determined pumps of his length drive into your core, the way he knows you’ll always end up begging for, although now, no longer does he want to ask that of you. 

In this instance, his sole purpose becomes your unspoken bliss, to anticipate your desires without you needing to word them, yearning to spare you any further trace of strain or exertion. He intends to allow you the full sensation of simply craving his strong presence, pistoning into you, to let you relinquish control, entrusting him to tend to every remaining detail of your pleasure.

“Does this make you happier, baby? Hm?” Still carrying you, he turns a 180, switching spots to push your back against the flat rocky surface and ram you up against the wall. “Does it? H-huh? Ngh. Does it make you ha-happy?” 

The splishing of the waterfall and his fierce rhythmic grunts are the only sounds filling your ears. You nearly match the waterfall as more tears spill and that’s when you’re sure he doesn’t require a verbal reply. The confirmation of your entire body responding to him renders sufficient, like how your fingers instinctively entwine with his hair, gentle tugs at snowy locks for extra support, you then give a few wobbled nods.

But now he needs a little more support and leverage, gearing up for that one ideal angle in you. 

Hanging low and tilted just overhead, rests a bamboo tree. Reaching that one sweet gummy spot inside of you will mean reaching one of his arms up to grab hold of it. Gojo steadily raises both of your connected bodies so both waists together are just a hair above the waterline. He is up on his toes, tight grip on the bamboo culm, when he pounds you to perfection, deep and generous, positively wrecking you ‘till you’re wailing from your finish in blinding satisfaction. 

And daddy fucks you raw into the night, again and again, through to the edge of dawn; then later on, when the birds begin to chirp and you are fully spent in his bed – so fucking cute when you’re fast asleep – Gojo realizes he won’t ever grow tired of the faint traces of cherry smeared across his pillows.

. + .

+ link2masterlist .

[yokohamapound]

Oh hi Mark! Can I request some hcs on Dazai, Fyodor, Ranpo, Akutagawa, Tachihara and Odasaku with female reader who is a model and one day when he comes to pick her up from a shoot, she comes up to him and says they're short a model to finish a shoot with and the clothes just so happen to be his size and please won't he model with her? Just for this shoot? :D

Always love a good The Room reference! And what a perfect request for such a cavalcade of beautiful men~

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Edogawa Ranpo, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, Tachihara Michizou, Oda Sakunosuke

Contents: no real warnings, just Dazai throwing his ass back

Dazai Osamu

Dazai has a tendency to come to your photoshoots whenever he has free time (or even when he doesn’t but he just wants to skive off of work). Not only are you there, usually dolled up and hanging around between outfit changes and lighting set-ups, but there’s also usually a buffet table full of food he can mooch off of. He still hasn’t shut up about the crab rolls from the first shoot he attended. 

Photographers, wardrobe assistants, and make-up artists are all familiar with him by now, and just put up with his nonsense in order to work with you. And he is capable of wrapping people around his little finger when it suits him to do so. He can turn the charm on and off like a light switch. 

He does have an annoying habit of standing behind the camera and pulling exaggerated faces at you while you’re trying to maintain a pose. Don’t worry, you’re too much of a professional to break. One day, probably when he’s loitering around the buffet table or pissing off the lighting techs by doing shadow puppets against the backdrop, the photographer makes a suggestion to you—since the male model hasn’t been able to attend, why don’t you put your boyfriend to some use? 

Dazai’s tall, slim, and very good looking, so they might as well get some use out of him if he’s going to be there, right? Lucky for you, it really doesn’t take much convincing. When you ask him, Dazai seizes both of your hands, his eyes sparkling.

“About time! I knew I’d be discovered one day!” 

Dazai divas it up through hair and make-up, telling the make-up artists not to make him look too pouty. By the time you actually get his ass into the clothes and in front of the camera, everyone's a little exasperated. You don’t have the heart to scold him, though—you know he’s only really doing it for your sake…and he really does rock the clothes. 

Photographer: “Dazai-san, you don’t need to arch your back quite so much.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

I don’t imagine Fyodor can come to your shoots very often, but when he does, he always creates a stir. A tall, pale man with black hair, violet eyes, and that bone structure! He’s like a dream for the designers, and the make-up artists are itching to get at him just to enhance those features. There’s an aura surrounding him that makes them all keep a respectful distance, though. 

No one can quite figure out who he is. They speculate that he might be a European model. A musician, with those hands? Perhaps some kind of foreign celebrity none of them will dare admit to not knowing. You never elaborate and neither does he—the speculation amuses him. 

The way he watches you gives you delicious little goosebumps whenever you’re posing for the camera, and the photographer has to call for an assistant to come and blot you with warm towels to make them disappear. 

You’re never quite sure how Fyodor feels about your job, but he’s never objected. Part of you suspects he turns up now and then to make sure that everyone remembers who you belong to, and that it would be unwise indeed to upset you or take any liberties. Just to remind them that he exists and he’s watching. 

On one particular shoot, the wardrobe assistant and the director both approach you, looking a little sheepish. The male model has come down with the flu, they explain. Do you think your boyfriend would mind stepping in just this once? Otherwise they’ll have to wrap the shoot and reschedule, costing thousands…

You tell them you can’t make any guarantees, but you’ll ask him. Fyodor watches you with an amused expression as you approach him. One of his eyebrows creeps up when you haltingly explain what the photographer wants. You’re going to have to wheedle a little to get him to agree, because Fyodor doesn’t make a habit of stepping into the public eye. Then again, how funny if one of his enemies was to see him modelling on a billboard. It’s this, and his desire to indulge you, that finally makes him agree. 

“I suppose I can step in this once,” he says, putting a finger under your chin and lifting it so you’re looking him in the eyes. “But you’ll have to make it up to me, darling.”

The make-up artist is almost vibrating with nerves as she applies a few minor touch-ups to Fyodor’s face, not that he needs much, and the photographer phrases his requests very politely. No yelling, no orders, no “Yes, baby, give me more!” Although the thought of anyone saying that to Fyodor is enough to have you in hysterics. 

Fyodor’s naturally elegant, so he can pull off the poses, get the tilt of his head just right. He always makes sure that he’s touching you in some way—hand resting on your waist, your shoulder, fingers curled loosely through your hair. It’s like he’s claiming ownership of you in every photo. 

Style-wise, I think your best bet is either for a winter photoshoot, so he can keep his ushanka, or men’s formal wear. Fyodor in a suit? Yes, please. 

Edogawa Ranpo

At first Ranpo would come along to your photoshoots due to the prevalence of snacks on the buffet table, but as time went on he tended to get bored between all the time spent touching up your make-up, fussing with your clothes, or waiting for the lighting to be arranged. He loves you, but he gets bored easily and you’re too busy to pay him much attention. 

He’ll go off and find something else that interests him or wait for you at home, usually. He does still pop up now and then if your shooting location is near to where he’s investigating a murder or if he’s got lost and just used Find My Phone on your phone and followed it to your location. (Ranpo doesn’t do this to keep track of you—it’s literally so he has a way to find you if he gets lost. It’s not like you’re really able to hide anything from him anyway…)

It’s on one of these occasions that the male model has somehow been unable to show up for the shoot, so you’re forced to rope Ranpo in. 

He folds his arms, complete with a pout. “I don’t want to.”

“Please? I’ll bake you some macarons when we get home~”

You can see his resolve starting to weaken. Macarons are one thing, but homemade macarons, still warm from the oven? He starts to loosen his arms, opening his mouth, but you hit him with your ultimate move.

“I know you’ll be so much better at it than the guy they hired, anyway~”

Ranpo visibly wavers, then he sighs. “I guess. If you’re really that much in need of my expertise, I can help you out. I’m so charitable.” He points a finger at you. “Don’t think you don’t owe me those macarons, though.”

Suitably bribed and flattered, Ranpo loses his begrudging attitude and throws himself into it, letting the make-up artists primp and pamper him. Just picture him sitting there with his head tilted back, eyes closed, a satisfied little smile on his face. He’s so fucking cute.

Ranpo’s photographs well, posing happily with you through various couple-themed set-ups. Pretending to kick puddles in the rain while sharing an umbrella. Feeding each other bites of ice-cream from a sundae (although the photographer has to tell Ranpo to stop actually eating it). Sitting on a fake beach. 

Of course, the real kicker is when he opens his eyes and reveals that gorgeous shade of green. Your modelling agency is fighting to sign him up then and there, but he breezily turns them down, telling them he doesn’t have time to do this and be the World’s Greatest Detective. 

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Akutagawa doesn’t want to be there. Everything from his tense posture to his folded arms to his scowl make that abundantly clear. The only reason he is there is either because you asked him to be, or because he insisted on coming along to make sure that no one tried anything with you. He’s protective, but huffy about it. 

Naturally, this makes everyone on set a little nervous, even if they don’t recognise him as one of the most dangerous members of the Port Mafia. 

Despite how unnerving his presence is, more than a few of the make-up artists have fantasised about getting him in the chair and accentuating that face of his. His stark haircut, pale face, and sharp cheekbones make him look like he just stepped off the runway for an avante-garde designer. Like someone’s goth fantasy brought to life. 

When I tell you the amount of begging you’re going to have to do to get this man to take photographs with you…

“You must be joking if you think I’m going to make a fool of myself like that.”

He absolutely won’t do it if he thinks there is any chance of someone mocking him or laughing at him. It’ll take a lot of encouragement, and he’ll be militant about not taking his coat off, until you remind him that he’ll still be wearing clothes and able to use his Special Ability if there’s any kind of attack. 

You’ll have to do his make-up. No way in hell is he letting anyone else touch his face or his hair. 

Your best bet is if this is some kind of high-concept, gothic photoshoot. Lots of dead flowers and Victorian architecture. If it suits his aesthetic and his shirt has ruffles, you’ve got a much better chance of convincing him to go through with it. He’ll bitch about the antiques being fake, and he stands as woodenly as a mannequin, a scowl on his face, but that might actually work for this kind of shoot. He makes a great model for the clothes, austere and aloof. 

Basically, he’ll only do it if both of you look like you’re about to die of consumption and he gets to see you in something ruffled. 

Tachihara Michizou

I feel like Tachihara only came to your shoot in the first place because he’s a nosy little shit and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. And because he enjoys watching people fawn over his gorgeous partner. It strokes his ego, so what?

He likes to hang around and casually menace the make-up artists, or flick through the clothes and give his opinions on them loudly. 

“Ooh, bring this one home, babe~”

Despite this, he’s pretty popular. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he does have a slight charm to him, and his comments have made you laugh mid-photo more than a few times, much to the photographer’s chagrin. 

You didn’t realise how into it he was, however, until the day you ask him to step up and take the place of a model who couldn’t make it. They don’t often bring amateurs in, but Michizou’s cocky grin and delinquent good looks will work for this shoot. 

He gets pissy when the make-up artists make him remove the bandaid from his nose, but he settles down and goes strangely quiet while they’re dabbing stuff on his face. If you poke at him, he’ll grumble that he’s just making sure they don’t stick him in the eye with something, but you know it’s actually because it feels nice. 

“Hey, what’s the name of that crap you put in my hair? Looks good.” 

The clothes are fine as long as he’s not put in anything ridiculous. He can pull off a lot of different styles, but casual streetwear suits him best. He brings out all his punk boy poses: 

Kicking a foot back against the wall. 

Crouching down with his arms resting on his knees, hands loose.

Arms folded, slouching, giving a “what you looking at, hah!?” stare over his shoulder.

At the end, he wants to know if he can keep all the clothes. 

Oda Sakunosuke

Odasaku’s an easy going man. He was reluctant the first time you invited him along to a photoshoot, thinking he’d stand out like a sore thumb, but really no one has time to worry about him being there. He was able to blend into the background like a tall, handsome, stubbly shadow. 

He enjoys people watching, and a photoshoot is like watching an army of ants circle around its queen—you, in this case. People are fussing with your hair, your make-up, adjusting the fit of the clothes, the tiniest tilt of your head. He doesn’t know how you put up with so many people plucking at you, but he’s impressed by how professionally you handle it and accede to the photographer’s wishes. 

Sometimes they mistake him for a roadie (or the photoshoot equivalent) and he finds himself being roped into moving boxes of clothes or holding up one of those lighting umbrellas. You try to intervene where you can, but he always brushes it off and tells you he’s just content to get involved. 

He never expected to be so involved that he’d be in front of the camera, though. When the photographer beckons him over one day and asks him to take the place of the male model, he’s a little stumped. Not even his Special Ability could have foreseen this. 

“You wanna take photos of me?”

Oda’s pretty humble. It takes some convincing to get him to agree, and he twitches a bit as his hair is styled and wardrobe comes over to adjust the clothes he’s wearing. It’s easy to forget he’s still Port Mafia, and understandably paranoid about strangers touching him. 

Oda’s not really a natural behind the camera. Takes a while for him to shake off the stiffness and stop squinting at the bright lights, but the fact he’s doing this with his partner makes it a little easier. 

The photographer figures out he can get the most natural smile out of him by making sure he’s looking at you in every shot, rather than the camera. 

For some reason, I think he’d look really good in an Autumn/Fall photoshoot? Sweaters, boots, heavy coats, scarves, fake snow and falling leaves. That sort of thing. This man looks like he was built to wear plaid.

[inexplicifics]

For the WIP-game have we had any Eskel & the Fae yet?

So full disclosure, I have no idea where this one is going.

Eskel is on his way from one no-name tiny village to another, via a surprisingly peaceful stretch of forest - which probably should have been his first clue that something was about to go very wrong - when a streak of yellow light comes zig-zagging through the trees and runs smack into his chest. He catches the small glowing creature as it bounces off his gambeson, and blinks down in surprise at a person, about six inches tall, with glowing yellow wings about as long as its height, and an expression of pure terror on its - her? - tiny face. “Help me! Hide me! Please!” she cries. Eskel makes an impulsive decision, and reaches down with his free hand to flip open a saddlebag. “In,” he says, and she launches herself from his palm and into the bag, burrowing into it and vanishing. He drops the flap and gets his hands back on the reins - Scorpion, being a well-trained witcher’s horse, has kept walking steadily, without flinching at moving lights or strange noises - just in time for a whole cavalcade of riders to come out of the woods. Eskel reins Scorpion in, eyeing the newcomers warily. They’re definitely people, but their steeds range from what sure as hell look like kelpies to him, to slat-sided elk, to something that looks like a horse but very definitely has a predator’s teeth. And the riders are all armored in bronze and horn, and are shaped…not quite like humans. All the hairs on the back of Eskel’s neck stand on end.

[malaismere]

downfall subclass notes

Asha is a 20th Long Death monk - touch of death to get temp HP from archmage

S.I.L.A.H.A. is a 18th level Clockwork Soul sorcerer, 2nd level Ghost in the Machine warlock - Clockwork Cavalcade - mentions remote access, from the very early modern magic subclass; could also just have the spell, but this fits

Trist is a 14th level unknown Paladin, 6th level Light Cleric - improved warding flare - 70 points lay on hands

The Emissary is an unknown barbarian - ???

Ayden is a 9+ Peace cleric, 6+ unknown paladin, 2+ Stars? druid, 1-3 unknown barbarian - Rary's telepathic bond (peace or FCG's empathy domain) - channel divinity Balm of Peace for the hospital scene - aura of protection - guiding bolt (also a cleric spell, but Stars druids get some for free)

Emhira is Raven Queen warlock - dearest could be just a flavored pact of the chain familiar, but it fits the UA Raven Queen warlock to a T and also, technically she doesn't use an action to see which is unique to the Sentinel Raven

[spindlephysalia]

One of the fascinating parts of going to a selective male-only ("male"-only) grammar school is grimly fascinating just because...you can see the gnawing emptiness at the heart of this white upper-middle-class masculinity. There's just nothing there. The system is supposed to wire ambition and patriotism into that hole once it's ripped everything else out and turn us into state machinery but there's not really enough of a state to be patriotic for and not enough opportunity even for the upper-middle class for ambition to reasonably fill the space.

And the product is just a cavalcade of fundamentally broken people. Some of us are lucky enough to find queerness or art or something to grow a person around, some of us fucking light brigade ourselves into civil society to try and reach fundamentally unattainable expectations, and some of us slide into edgelord doomerism or outright fascism for lack of anything else to grasp at. But all of us just had the core of our beings burned out.

And like...this is it? The entire brutal project of the british empire ran for centuries for this? Every myth of nationalism and it just boils down to fucking borg-converting the people who benefit the most from the system into components of it by sheer violence? I know it betrays how deeply I've internalised this shit but even now it's so hard to come to terms with. It's just the violence machine. All it knows how to do is crush people into shape.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Monty, Charles, and Edwin (Sex Pollen AU)

All the while Monty tries to keep an eye on Charles, who keeps constantly almost surfacing, trying to pull himself back into his own body, trying to break the hold that the pollen has on him, and god, the thing that hurts the worst isn’t the sex. It isn’t the friction, the passion, the thing that Monty was made for.

It’s that they kiss again. And again. It’s the one way to keep Charles pulled to earth, to distract him from the pollen coursing through his body, to ground him to himself.

Every kiss breaks off another part of Monty’s heart, because if Charles was in his right mind, if they were able to check in with each other, if Charles actually wanted this-

It wouldn’t hurt like this. It wouldn’t ache. 

-aletterinthenameofsanity, i love him, kiss his mouth (pushing it down and praying)

I downshifted as I pulled into the driveway

The motor screaming out stuck in second gear

The scene ends badly as you might imagine

In a cavalcade of anger and fear

There will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

-The Mountain Goats, This Year

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@fandoms-princess @orpheusetude @jaysbraindump

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut @thelakeswillbreakourfall

@sapphic-corgi @occasionaloneshots @troublegoblin

@natureismynature

Filled for @dbdakinkfest!

[shelbswastaken]

hot take but I don't ship anyone in mouthwashing. idk it just feels weird to play matchmaker with these characters when the story they're in is a relentless cavalcade of misery where everyone's a little fucked up and there's no happy ending. Not to mention every possible relationship is either relentlessly toxic in a bad way (if not outright abusive) or a platonic dynamic that takes on weird/uncomfortable implications if interpreted in a romantic light (looking at the people shipping Swansea with Daisuke despite the fact that not only does Swansea have a family back home but he's old enough to be Daisuke's dad and pretty explicitly sees him as a surrogate son/protege)

[mysticstronomy]

IS THE MILKY WAY MOVING??

Blog#351

Wednesday, November 22nd, 2023

Welcome back,

As we delve deeper into the cosmic dance of celestial bodies, the mind-boggling journey continues. Picture this: as Earth spins on its axis at approximately a thousand miles per hour, and hurtles through space in orbit around the Sun at a mind-bending 67,000 miles per hour, we find ourselves part of a much grander performance within the Milky Way.

The Milky Way, our spiral-shaped home in the universe, is not simply a static backdrop. No, it's a galactic city in motion. Together with the Sun and the entire solar system, we form a celestial cavalcade, orbiting the center of the Milky Way at a staggering 140 miles per second. It's a cosmic waltz, and despite the breakneck speed, a full orbit takes around 200 million years, emphasizing the sheer vastness of our stellar neighborhood.

But wait, there's more. The Milky Way, in all its splendor, is not stationary either. It's on the move through the cosmic seas of intergalactic space. Our galaxy is part of the Local Group, a gathering of galaxies on a journey toward the center of our cluster at a comparatively leisurely 25 miles per second.

If the sheer scale of our local cosmic voyage hasn't left you dizzy, brace yourself for the final leg of our astronomical adventure.

Not only are we spinning, orbiting, and cruising through the Milky Way, but we, along with our cosmic companions in the Local Group, are hurtling at a jaw-dropping 375 miles per second toward the Virgo Cluster. This colossal collection of galaxies, situated a mind-blowing 45 million light-years away, adds an astonishing layer to our celestial expedition.

In the grand tapestry of the cosmos, our earthly existence is a mesmerizing part of an intricate, ever-changing cosmic ballet. The speeds and scales involved defy our everyday perceptions, inviting us to contemplate the awe-inspiring wonders of the universe in which we reside.

Originally published on https://stardate.org

COMING UP!!

(Saturday, November 25th, 2023)

"WHAT IS THE BLOCK UNIVERSE THEORY??"

[theholmwoodfoundation]

Jeremy: you cannot MAKE me go

Jeremy: *gets possessed*

Jeremy: fuck my entire life

I'm. I'm so sad for this man... That phone message - Braver than any US Marine *smh*

Addendum-

Jeremy: ...aaaaaaand now I've taught him a new word. Terrific 🙄

Truth. This week on Jeremy Larkin Cannot Catch A Break.

Now we just have to wonder which of the Crew of Light deserves the F-bomb in Dracula. (It's Lucy or the Captain of the Demeter, Jonny deserves several while he's scaling the walls of Castle Dracula. Mina needs a whole cavalcade at her disposal for everything she has to go through.)

[kintsug1kitsune]

clipped wings, risen metal [short story; cw: violence, gore]

Rip.

The angel's wing shudders to the ground violently, pouring bright-gold blood. "Please! Please, no!" The angel herself was weeping, limbs contorted and held by spells, burning circles of runes.

"Quiet." I take her other wing between my claws, giant metal digits snapping into their feathers.

She gasped and whimpered. "No..."

"Yes," I insisted, and--pulled, stripping the woman of her other wing.

"No--!" She shrieked one more note and fell limp into my arms.

All six of them stroked her naked body gently, cradled her tear-streaked face, lining it with her own blood. "There... You've been so good for me, little angel."

"Please..." she murmured. "I don't... You..."

"You've been a thorn in my side. Tracking my every movement. Tailing and, yes, even assaulting my dolls. Getting closer to me than anyone else dares..."

"It... It's for the..."

"Empyrean? Your Lord? For the mission? Or... was it for something else?" My fangs glinted as I smirked cruelly. "Something you maybe found to be... intoxicating?"

"I... Please, I don't-- I..."

"Yes?"

Given a moment, she shuddered and mewled, "It was for you..."

"Yes, it was. And now, your body and soul will be, too. Mine."

"Yours..." She fell even limper--

As I ran my claws delicately into her chest, bloodily extricating a brilliant light. The angel's Heart, and soul along with it.

---

In my workshop, the body of my new combat doll was left with its core exposed. Now was the time.

With the divinity excised from her Heart, it now shone a cavalcade of multicolored light, resting within my claws for the final time. I delivered it gently into the core, and...

It blinked open its seven eyes. The witchwork within it ticked to life, and it drew its first ventilating breath. The first in a new life, and it grinned. "My... Witch?"

I smiled gently. "Yes, my blade."

"Thank you."

[ranmagender]

[ID: Image of a woman with light skin, wearing a red sweater and blue pants and purple shoes, she has frizzy dark red hair and grey eyes with a yellowish ear ring, she's holding a remote of some sorts END ID]

My friend @marvelousmop's character Jenny Over-There from his web fiction about her adventures and the cavalcade of other characters.

Think it turned out great

[rubyvroom]

In light of all this, I came to see the question "what do we do with the art of monstrous men?" in a new way. The initial thought of how to take responsibility is to boycott the art -- the liberal solution of simply removing one's money and one's attention. But does that really make a difference?

To say someone else is consuming improperly implies that there's a proper way to consume. And that's not necessarily true.

When we ask "what do we do with the art of monstrous men?" we are putting ourselves into a static role -- the role of consumer.

Passing the problem on to the consumer is how capitalism works. A series of decisions is made -- decisions that are not primarily concerned with ethics -- and then the consumer is left to figure out how to response, how to parse the correct and ethical way to behave. Michael Jackson is exploited, packaged, served, catered to, even as his behavior becomes more and more erratic. The music industry does not concern themselves with the ethics involved; that's left to us, caught up in a cavalcade of emotions and responses as "I Want You Back" plays over the speakers.

In his 2009 book Capitalist Realism: Is there no Alternative? Mark Fisher tries to wake us up to the atmosphere of capital in which we all move -- and atmosphere so pervasive that we can barely see it, let alone critique or resist it. We are corralled into the role of atomized, individual consumer, even when we're not actively buying something.

Given the role we inhabit, it's natural for us to try to solve injustice and inequity through our individual choices. This feels like a great idea, but unfortunately it doesn't really work. "The problem is that the model of individual responsibility assumed by most versions of ethics" can have "little purchase on the behavior of Capital or Corporations".

Fisher uses the idea of recycling to explain how the consumer is required to be the enforcer and practitioner of ethics. "Everyone is supposed to recycle; no-one, whatever their political persuasion, ought to resist this injuction... In making the recycling the responsibility of 'everyone', structure contracts out its responsibility to consumers, by itself receding into invisibility... Instead of saying that everyone -- i.e. every one -- is responsible for climate change, we all have to do our bit, it would be better to say that no-one is, and that's the very problem.

[...] Fisher's book asks us to understand ourselves as isolated consumers, and from there it asks us to accept the amorality of our own consumption. In other words, we keep looking to consumption as the site of our ethical choices, but the answer doesn't lie there. Our judgement doesn't make us better consumers -- it actually makes us more trapped in the spectacle; more complicit in what Fisher calls the atmosphere of late capitalism.

-- from Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma, by Claire Derderer

[vanmarkus]

Snippet Sunday ☔️

I was tagged by @daffi-990 @wikiangela @fortheloveofbuddie @disasterbuckdiaz @exhuastedpigeon @eddiebabygirldiaz and @jeeyuns MWUAHH 💛

Mm I finally got over that slump in the mudslide fic that was giving me a headache and I was hoping to get to 45k today but I was busy editing pictures all day and didn't really get a chance to write.

Anyway, this part is from yesterday and it's still pretty raw, but if you couldn't tell they are disgustingly domestic and just totally gone on each other... losers. 🫶

After dinner, Eddie put Christopher to bed, taking him twice the time as it usually would, the kid asking for another and another story until he couldn’t even keep his eyes open. Buck listened to the tales from the living room, his head resting on the back of the couch and his eyes closed, letting Eddie’s hushed words wash over him; he never really got the voices quite right, only changing the pitch of his own voice enough to make it clear that he was trying, but never really allowing himself to get fully lost in the silliness of it all, unlike Buck, as Chris would remind him every now and again.

Still, despite continuously raising complaints about it, the kid loved to listen to him read — and Buck couldn’t blame him one bit. Eddie’s voice was deep and mellow, like syrupy resin running down the side of a splintery bark of a tree and Buck could’ve listened to it forever, if given the chance.

“Hey.” The voice came from much closer this time and Buck opened his eyes — only to realize that he had closed them in the first place.

“Oh uh, sorry, did- nm did you say something?” He blinked up at Eddie, grunting quietly as he slowly took in the blinking lights of the TV washing over Eddie’s body, drenching half of it in light and the other half into darkness.

“No.” Eddie smirked down at him with obvious amusement. “Long day, huh?” He asked as he walked around the couch, letting his knee brush against Buck’s before dropping down beside him.

“Something like that.” Buck hummed and without lifting his head away from the couch, he turned to look at Eddie. His face was illuminated by the ever-shifting lights of the screen, painting the entire living room into a cavalcade of colors, only leaving the corners to sulk in mysterious darkness. “Hey.”

Eddie looked back at him, shifting a little to mirror his position. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?”