#I feel unreal if that makes sense? like I have a body and flesh and I’m physically here and aware but I’m just.

[rateater69]

I feel empty

[klanceyuri]

tear a hole exquisite red (fuck the rest, and stab it dead)

Summary: Creek has layers to his personality just like any other Troll does, rotting and wretched and vomit inducing layers, but he has layers nonetheless

Warnings: psychological manipulation, physical violence, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: @bulliestrolls started the psychopath Creek au, so go give him some love for all of the glorious ideas his brain spawns. also Creek's a bit of a whore, just to spite Branch even if it means sleeping with all four of his brothers, because I think it's funny. anyways! if ya'll enjoyed consider dropping a reblog or checking the Ao3 port, it really means a lot

It's all a game for Creek, he's playing the long con and Floyd is his perfect little experiment. Who knows, maybe after he inevitably decides to make Floyd cut the cord, he'll try for Bruce, really tear a hole into Branch and his family. He can laugh at the thought of getting Bruce to divorce, to manipulate him into leaving Brandy for another Troll after Creek himself picks apart Floyd and and gives Branch enough mental anguish for a thousand lifetimes.

But no, that won't be enough, not for Creek. Oh not in the slightest, not after all the agony that Branch has given Creek, his vendetta will never be satiated. Who knows! Maybe he'll go so far as to return Branch to his gray state, that'd be delectable. That could make him feel a sense of satisfaction if anything ever could, or Branch's head on a platter, but the downside to the otherwise beautiful idea is that he wouldn't be able to torture Branch anymore.

"Creek!" It's Floyd, the specific tone of his voice is one that Creek has learned to pick out of a hundred in a similar fashion to Branch's. Just so he can hunt down Floyd and use his sweetness and ignorance of Creek's intentions as a weapon. The magenta Troll has this adorable smile on his face, well, adorable if it weren't for the downturned ears that look just like Branch's.

Creek gives a smile, warm like a fireplace on the TV screen, "Floyd, lovely to see you," He catches sight of Branch trudging behind the slightly older and quells a smirk before tacking on, "My love."

Then he's being hugged and as much as he wants to recoil in disgust when it comes to anything that Branch has any form of relation too, he doesn't. He has a performance to enact, and he plans on fulfilling the part with precision as much as it makes him feel ill and want to gag. But at least Floyd is tolerable compared to the likes of John Dory, Clay, or Bruce. He has gripes against each of them for seperate reasons than being Branch's older brothers.

John Dory is far too obnoxiously loud and arrogant and stubborn and always thinks he's perfect, and apparently he bailed on Branch which he can respect. Clay is somewhat paranoid, always has this brat (Poppy's sister, disgusting) clinging to his side, his hair is a mess too. And Bruce, well, Bruce isn't half bad, his only problem is how often he says sorry for leaving Branch to raise himself, and his domesticity, it reeks like rotting flesh.

"What brings the both of you to my meditation alcove?" Creek asked, giving a small bow to his 'boyfriend' and his least favorite person. He wanted to just be cold and cruel to Branch up front and center, the amount of vitriol stored in his tiny body towards Branch and the queen was unreal, but he refrained. He didn't let it seep through the cracks of his composure, he didn't let it show through until he was alone and could tear something to shreds.

"My brother has been having anger issues again, and he's looking a lot more gray than usual," Floyd explained and Creek just watched Branch get even more agitated as Floyd spilled details that should be confidential, or saved for close Trolls at the least. But wait, that's right, Creek is a close Troll now, and Branch just has to deal with that.

Creek gives a hum as he steps ever closer to Branch and takes his paw, it's yanked away and Creek feigns hurt.

"Branch, he's trying to help," Floyd hissed.

"Really, Branch, I just want to lend a hand," Creek tacked on.

Branch gave a long groan of annoyance before reluctantly letting Creek take his paw, only because it made Floyd smile. He hated every second of his bristled fur brushing against Creek even though it was for just under ten seconds.

"Unless he finds a way to perk up," Creek goes the extra mile to grab the tips of Branch's ears and flick them up, the graying Troll stumbles back. Oh he relishes in that and tries to hide his smirk, "He'll go gray again, I'd suggest meditation."

"I'd suggest meditation," Branch bitterly smarms back at Creek who raises a paw to his chest in faux hurt that only Branch can see through for some fucking reason.

"Branch! If you make one more jab at Creek, I'll," Floyd falters, "There will be consequences."

"Love," Creek begins with, "It's fine, I'm used to dealing with children," The glare Branch shoots is sharp enough to slice diamonds, "If you'd like you can leave him here and I'll teach him the basics of meditation."

Floyd gives this soft smile, completely wrapped up in Creek's performance, and then he presses a kiss to the purple Troll's cheek. Creek returns the favor before Floyd speaks, "Thanks, Creek, I'll be back in hour," And then he's taking his leave.

"You're gonna leave me here? With him?!" Branch questioned, a frantic lilt to his voice as he spoke. Two paws held one of Floyd's, desperation clear with how he held himself.

"You're in good hands," Floyd answered with before gently lifting Branch's paws off his own, "I'll bring snacks when I return."

Branch knows he won't win, "Alright, be careful."

Both Branch and Creek wait patiently for Floyd to be out of earshot range before they interact any further. And their interaction consists of Branch trying to tackle Creek to the ground without any remorse behind his actions. Creek doesn't scream, doesn't writhe, doesn't kick or retalliate, and that scares Branch more than any other reaction could. Instead the Troll in question just smiles, this calculating and cruel one that oh so often is matched with the rest of the face, not now, his eyes are cold and most of his face is stilled.

"What do you want with my brother?" Branch tried to snarl, hands resting atop of Creek's arteries, a bit of pressure and he'll go lightheaded, maybe even pass out. It's illegal to kill a Troll, but every single day that Branch has to watch Creek feign domesticity around Floyd he gets closer to committing an atrocity.

Creek gives a hum, "Your suffering, as sweet as he is he's not my type," He watches Branch go through a thousand thoughts at once and the second he knows Branch is starting to formulate a response he adds on, "I'd go for a guy like Bruce if nothing else."

"You absolute cunt," The expletive is more of a harsh whisper, voice coarse with rage, "You homewrecker."

And Creek just laughs, "Oh, Branch, don't you get it?" He ever so carefully raises a paw and traces it across Branch's face, and he knows that the graying Troll would flinch back but he can't lest he wants to let go of Creek's throat, "I'll drop to lows you've never even heard of it'll hurt you- and if your brothers are the collateral damage? That's not really my problem."

"You're fucking sick, do you know how Floyd's gonna react hen he hears this? You'll break him," Was all that Branch could supply in response to to the downright sickening knowledge he had been given.

"And that'll hurt you, which is really what I'm looking for. But if I want a chance to have a go at any of your other brothers then I'll have to let him down easy," Creek said, "I've talked my way into getting a Bergen to not eat me and give up on happiness. You know damn well I can convince Floyd he's the monster so your brothers and all of Pop Village will come to my aid."

Branch steps back from Creek, speechless, and then the fucker laughs.

"They'll come to my aid Branch, they'll be doing everything they can to make sure I don't off myself while leaving Floyd to suffer- and the best part of it all, Branch? It's a two for one deal, and I just know that one of your brothers will be too caught up in making sure I'm okay to even realize how fucked Floyd is," Creek spat, "I'll fuck that one next."

"I'm gonna tell Poppy everything," Branch said firmly like the words would register as a threat to a Troll that's escaped death three times over now.

"She'll never fucking believe you," Creek answered with and the break of silence from Branch is all he needs as an answer. He stands up and makes his way over to Branch, firmly grasping his jaw, "What're you gonna do about it, Branchie?"

Branch doesn't have an answer ready for what he just had unloaded onto him, all he can do is wrench away Creek's paw. He steps back and wipes his paw off on his vest, "Something."

Creek gives a hum and a smirk, "Cute, you think you can beat me at my own game."

"Oh I don't think I can, I know I will," Branch snapped back with.

"We'll see," Creek said, again with this calculating and cruel smile on his face, "When Floyd crumbles you'll go down with him," It isn't an idea, it's something that Creek knows is true, "I look forward too it."

-/-/-/-

Its Bruce.

After Creek has cried a god damn ocean of crocodile tears and used gold to frame Floyd as the monster, Bruce ends up being his next weapon. And he even went so far into twisting Floyd's perception of reality that the magenta Troll is the one saying sorry even though he did nothing wrong. Even though he was the sweetest Troll in all of Pop Village, turned to a somewhat paranoid and reclusive Troll whose graying just like Branch is.

He loved Floyd to pieces. He loved Floyd into his basic elements. He loved Floyd into a million little bits that can never be arranged again. He loved Floyd and played him as the monster with so much accuracy that even the true victim was fooled into thinking he did everything wrong. He loved the way he played Floyd, he loved the way he could use Floyd, he loved everything about Floyd except for the fact that he was Floyd.

Maybe it's wrong, being a user in the way that Creek is, but he doesn't quite care. So long as it brings Branch mental agony than he'll be enacting it, whether it's him being the source of Floyd's joy or pain. And now he's going to go through the same song and dance all over again with Bruce, except, to a considerably more intensive degree.

Because with Bruce he has competition; and that would be Brandy, Bruce's soon to be former wife. What fun really, Creek can tear two families to shreds in one go while no one is looking. He'll gouge another gaping wound into Branch's family and he'll completely excommunicate Bruce from his family.

He's playing this pathetic act when he casts out the first bait for Bruce, sniffling and whimpering as he leans against the purple Troll. He has his knees hitched, "God, I just, I can't believe I was so blind for three months," He forces his breath to catch.

Bruce rubs comforting circles against his acquaintances back, "I wouldn't have seen it coming either, Floyd of all Trolls," It makes sense he'd never have seen it coming what with it never happening at all. All those years in acting school finally paid off for Creek, and he's using them to seduce a Troll with a wife and thirteen kids just to spite Branch.

"I don't even think any of the kisses were real," Creek sighed, slowly lowering his knees and tilting himself to face Bruce just a little bit more. He had to work this operation delicately, like giving someone a transplant, one wrong incision into Bruce's psyche this early on will botch the entire attempt. And he can't have that happening, no not at all, then he wouldn't have a chance to break apart Clay or John Dory afterwards.

"I get it, being the heart throb brings a lot of insincere praise your way," Bruce laughed a little bit as he spoke, edging away from Creek just a bit.

Creek gives this smile, the smallest upturn of his lips at one corner, "Well, if I kissed you it wouldn't be insincere," There's a slight twitch in Bruce's expression. Exactly what Creek is looking for.

"Yeah well, I'm married now, I have a wife willing to give me as many kisses as I so desire," Bruce said, a hint of defensiveness to his voice.

"Well," Creek begins, dragging out the 'L' as he speaks, "Brandy doesn't need to know, it's just between two friends isn't it?"

Bruce is crumbling, Creek can feel it, he can see it, he devours the destruction of resolve. The purple Troll gives a sort of discontented sound, a partially confused one, "Just between two friends, to make up for the falling out between you and Floyd."

Paws are already upon Bruce's face before he can finish his sentence because Creek already knew that the answer would be yes. He's swift to lean in and speak in a tone that he knows will snag Bruce on a barbed hook, "Thank you, Bruce."

And Bruce moves first and Creek has to try his hardest to not smirk into the kiss that picks up pace so much faster than he thought it would.

Hook, line, and sinker.

[juststoriesintheend]

II. Bulabird

Chapter Pairing(s): Master Sol x f!Reader; Osha Aniseya x f!Reader

Chapter Content: reunion, unrequited to requited feelings, love admissions (kind of), sex pollen, consent talk

Word Count: 3,846

《 [series masterlist] 》 《 I 》 《 III 》 《 IV 》

Your eyelids make an awful scratching sound when they open and your vision is flawed, blurry as if filtered through a screen, but the image you fix upon remains as familiar to you as your own reflection.

“Hey, bulabird.”

There are few things in this galaxy you know as well as you know yourself. The Force, the Temple, the way Sol’s hair spirals in on itself when damp, the weight of your saber in your palm… But you never thought you would know the sound of Osha Aniseya’s voice again.

“‘sha?” Your voice comes out garbled when the weight of your tongue proves too heavy to counter.

Through the haze, you think you glimpse a smile and the sheen of artificial lighting on nut brown skin. It’s hard to tell. Everything feels confused, as if the galaxy has been painted over with a great brush and left only smudges of reality in its wake. The light catches on something vaguely hand-shaped, and your body confirms it moments later when Osha’s knuckles brush your temple. It burns like a brand on your skin, but it brings with it the aftertaste of pleasure like candle wax on your fingertips or an itch scratched just right, and you chase after it, face dipping low to catch her palm when she starts to withdraw.

“What happened to you?” she murmurs.

You wish you knew. Your mind has been lost to itself for what seems like an eternity, but then, anything that exists outside of this singular moment feels as unreal as a dream. There’s only the fever raging beneath your skin and the bite of relief that Osha’s touch brings.

“Don’t,” you rumble when she tries again to extract herself. Your fingers are desperate in their attempts to wrap around her arm, to twine themselves with hers, anything so long as she stays. “Hurts.”

Something shifts above you and a whiff of her scent floods your senses - sweat and sand and everything Osha. It takes you a moment to realize that the strange sound of moaning is coming from you.

Her hand smacks against your cheek when you finally manage to drag her back to you, the force of your need nearly flattening her atop your body, and the sweetness of it shoots ice through your veins. This is what you needed, this whisper of skin on skin to soothe the agony of your clothing and the heat and the eternal suffering of this Force forsaken planet.

“Woah, hey, easy there-”

“You make it better,” you try to explain, all while rubbing your face into the rigid flatness of her palm.

A few fleeting seconds of tranquility shudder through your bones before Osha is retreating again, though she doesn’t go far. Her palm shifts to your forehead where sweat has beaded so heavily that it’s pooling along your hairline, dripping slowly down the back of your head to your neck. She exhales through her nose and it hits you just below your eyes. Another strange sense of relief floods through you. Like the kind when Sol had caught you at the base of that sand dune, when he’d saved you. Something so deep within you that it might as well have been stitched into your flesh.

Sol…

It’s the thought of him that brings you clarity enough to start analyzing your surroundings. Metal and light, somehow both cold and scalding hot. It’s the Polan, you realize belatedly, but it looks so unfamiliar to your eyes, almost alien. Perhaps it’s Sol’s absence that feels so off-putting. You’re so used to his presence that to be without it when you feel so lost, so sick to your stomach, is almost debilitating.

“Where… is he?” you croak.

Osha’s face swims before you, in and out of focus, in and out of thought, but you think she looks sad. Or unsure? It’s so hard to tell when everything inside you seems to be on fire.

“Sol?”

You nod frantically, moaning as another wave of heat crashes over you and beats you back into submission. “He was… He said…” Acting on its own instinct rather than any sort of conscious thought, one of your hands reaches for Osha while the other… “Need ‘im, Osha, I-I…”

Pleasure spikes up your spine when your hand rubs a few soothing strokes against the storm between your legs. And by then, the rest of the universe just falls away. Whatever coherent thought you had, whatever you might have said or done, it’s nothing compared to the blinding relief of steel-hot pleasure and the driving need to take take take until there’s nothing left but your heartbeat and your hope.

Leaving the Jedi behind had been the right thing to do, no matter how it broke her to do so, but leaving Sol and leaving you had hurt the most. It’s why she ran when she realized Mae was alive, though she may not have understood it at the time. More than anything, Osha wanted to avoid all of this - the pain a reunion would carry, the guilt of what once was fading into obscurity because of her, the emptiness of a lifelong yearning for something she could never have. But the Force, it seems, has other plans. At least, that’s what Sol might have said to her once.

Now, though, she looks upon your face, twisted and pained, damp with sweat, and she feels a surge of memories wash over her. The scent of your skin in the mornings when you would walk into the courtyard, meditating together under the shade of the Great Tree. The flash of your saber reflected in your eyes, bright and brilliant. Every small and fleeting moment spent pining after you, hoping you might notice her…

In the present, stuffed into containment within the walls of the cockpit, Sol’s presence flickers in and out of the corner of her eye. She can’t feel him in the Force anymore, but she doesn’t need to. She knows exactly how worry looks on him, she knows it from the years spent inflicting him with her own particular strain of chaos.

“Sol,” she starts, some last ditch effort to talk him down, but the glint of panic in his eyes when he rounds on her is enough to stifle that need.

“No.” He says it in the same tone he used on her once before - just once, so many years ago. It’s a glimpse of something un-Jedi that persists deep inside him, something angry and fierce. Osha thinks he might call it attachment. “Find another way.”

Irritation flares in her chest. “There is no other way.”

“There is always another way,” and she thinks she sees fear in his eyes, some unknown terror that claws at his gut the same way it claws at hers.

He has always been the one to hope, clinging to his Jedi tenets as she once clung to her mother’s skirts. But Osha learned long ago that hope is a fickle thing. She knows what ails you, what pulls you apart at the seams and stokes its fire in you, and she knows there is only one way to save you from its flames.

She sets her jaw. “You know there isn’t. Not this time, Sol. We have to help her.”

“Not like this. It’s not right.”

No. It isn’t. Guilt is a ghost that’s haunted Osha her entire life, but it flares to life now in the face of your predicament because this should never have happened, and it wouldn’t have happened if she’d never run in the first place. Like she might have once been a Knight, a Jedi standing tall and proud at your side if she had only chosen to be a good Padawan. Like Mae wouldn’t have burned their home to the ground if she had chosen instead to be a good sister. This isn’t right, but it’s the only way she knows to save you. And she would rather condemn herself to a lifetime of guilt for saving your life than a lifetime of guilt wishing she had tried.

“I can make something, a drink with a low dose that she can share with- with one of us.” She lowers her eyes at the thought of Sol being the one to take care of you, how it would burn in her chest knowing that he would be the one to… when she knows it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. “And you can burn the pollen off together like you’re supposed to.”

Sol’s face is wrinkled in horror. “No,” he says again, disgusted.

“It’ll save her,” and she finds that she’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince him.

Sol pivots so his shoulder is all she can see, but his face is turned toward the door, toward you. She wonders for a moment if he can feel you the way she once did. Like it was second nature. Like you were an extension of the Force, of her own heart, a beacon in the starlight.

His voice is broken when he speaks. “I know it will.” If she didn’t know any better, she would think he carried the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders.

Osha thinks she understands. “Then we have to try.”

Several seconds tick by. The ship is quiet, save for the creaking of the hull when the wind picks up and the muffled, labored sound of your breathing trickling through the door and into the cockpit.

“She asked for you. She wants you, Sol.”

The entire galaxy seems, for a moment, to stop, frozen in place as her words sink into her Master’s skin. She can see understanding swirling across his face, burning him alive as he processes it. “I can’t.”

“Then what? You want me to do it? She doesn’t… She doesn’t want me like that.” Though she thinks of the desperation in your bones and the frantic need to touch her body to yours, the way your heat and glassy eyes and soft, wanton cries set her body aflame, and she feels shameful for wishing that you did. “It would be wrong to force that on her.”

Sol takes a breath that rattles in his chest. “I can’t, Osha,” he says as if the entire universe might collapse in on itself if he dared to sacrifice his pride in return for your survival. “And I won’t.”

Something bitter and icy-hot scalds its way from her stomach to her throat, bile built from the ashes of the love she’s harbored for you all these years and the stench of regret and the festering wound of a child begging to be heard. Sixteen years he’s known you, and for the past six of them she suspects that both of you have become close - close enough to work together on a mission, to stand side by side on an alien planet and seek her out. Do those six years mean nothing to him? Is the devotion that lights your heart not enough for him? Does he not love you enough to try?

“Don’t you understand?” Her fury bursts from her chest like a saber igniting in the dark. “She’s dying! And you won’t even try? Not even to save her life? Sol, she needs you!”

“It is not saving her life that concerns me, but the consequences of my actions if she survives.”

The consequences? Osha stills. A part of her wants to demand a better excuse than that, because what consequence could be worse than letting you die? But another part of her, a part that feels so alive and raw that it hurts to breathe, finds that a half-reflection of itself in the depths of Sol’s dark and distant eyes.

She swallows. “What do you mean?” But somehow, she thinks she knows.

Familiar, umber-blackened eyes flicker with uncertainty and shame, eyes that Osha has known nearly all her life but have never been so heavily tormented as they are now. At least, not since the day she left Brendok. A chill creeps down her spine.

His mouth parts to allow space for words that never come. She loses count of how many times he seems to start a sentence only to silence himself before a single thought is spoken. The torment in her Master’s eyes spreads far and fast like a wildfire, leaving destruction in its wake until Sol is so knotted up in his despair that he stands before her now as little more than a shell of the man she thought she knew. And there’s only one thing she’s ever known that could shake him so deeply. The same thing that’s shaken her to her core a thousand times over.

The realization strikes her in the gut, punches the air from her lungs. She diverts her eyes, desperate to give Sol his privacy in this moment and also to find a reprieve from the shock, but all she can think is that there are too many threads tying the three of you together, too tangled to make any sense of. Because she loves you. And you’ve always loved Sol. And now she knows that he loves you back, but it’s too much too late and all at the wrong time.

Ten years’ worth of growing up a Padawan, of growing up his Padawan, awakens an instinct in Osha that she thought she had matured past in her last few years of freedom. She feels the burning need to ask - for permission? Guidance? Advice? Each idea is more ridiculous than the last because he’s as compromised as she is, both of them struggling against their selfish desires in an attempt to fix an impossible situation. A situation with no right answers and no clear winners. Because even if Sol had agreed to help you, it wouldn’t be in the way you’d want. It wouldn’t mean anything, couldn’t mean anything, not to a Jedi. And now, to save your life, Osha must place one foot in Sol’s shoes and the other in yours. Keeping her love for you in check while also knowing that consummating her most intimate desire with you will ultimately lead to nothing. Because you are a Jedi. Because you won’t allow yourself attachments. Because she is nothing more than a memory compared to the shining brilliance of the Order.

Accompanied by only the pulsing of her heart and the shaking hesitance of her breath, Osha closes her eyes and makes a choice. The only choice she can make.

“I need you to stay with her. I’m going to find those flowers.”

The unfortunate side effect of being a Jedi is the awareness of one’s surroundings that the Force supplies. Sol can sense the atoms of starlight as they beat upon the Polan’s hull, warming it. He can sense the crashing of the waves along the distant shore and the surge of life that swims below its surface. He feels the breeze as if he were outside, bare to the world save for his skin. He can sense Osha as she retreats, farther and farther away, rushing for the nearest cluster of purple flowers that she can find. And, more prominently than anything else on this planet, Sol can sense you.

Now that he understands what it is that clouds your mind and rips your better judgment from your consciousness, he feels frozen. Because he can feel every. Single. Thing. That you do to yourself, every desperate attempt to soothe the ache that racks your body. It doesn’t matter that he’s isolated himself on one end of the ship and left you behind closed doors on the other. Your arousal is so strong that it permeates the very air he breathes, it seeps into his skin and brands him a traitor.

His teeth grind together, his hands ball up into fists, and Sol employs every meditation tactic he knows to fortify his mind against the onslaught of your Force signature, but in the end, he finds that his own worst enemy is neither the flower that poisoned you nor the desperation in your body, but the selfish desires of his own soul. A selfishness he thought he left behind on Brendok.

Because he would rather not have known. The rest of his life could have been happily spent at your side, even if he could never pursue the secret longings of his heart, the things he only ever dared to dream of. For he would have seen your face in the mornings before classes with the younglings. He would have heard your laughter over dinner. He might have touched his essence to yours in the rare moments of mediation spent in each other’s company, and it would have been enough for him. But now that he knows, now that his love has been almost-spoken and your own feelings practically confirmed, Sol finds that its existence is a blade to his gut.

Horror, guilt, and shame coil up in the base of his stomach, rattling like a snake as he attempts to find peace in the battlefield of his mind. You’re in pain. And when you’re not in pain, you’re pleading for relief from the chaos raging through your bloodstream. It would be so easy to make excuses, he knows. To accept Osha’s offer, such as it is, and claim that he is doing his duty as your friend, as a fellow Jedi, putting your life before honor, before the Code. It would be easy because it would be true; Sol would do anything for you, and there was once a time where he would have done anything he could to get what he wanted. But the last time he’d been so careless with his dreams, an entire coven had been wiped out and Mae…

Indara’s words come to him then, unbidden but a blessing all the same - do not confuse her feelings for your own - and it solidifies his resolve. Your feelings for him do not matter, neither do his feelings for you. He cannot and he will not allow himself to be blinded by something that could never be. It would be taking advantage of you when you have no chance to speak coherently for yourself, and Sol could never forgive himself for taking that from you.

Decision made, he pulls up the hood of his cloak and stalks for the ship’s main exit. He needs to put as much distance between you as possible. He doesn’t want to hear you crying out his Padawan’s name in the throes of your pleasure. He doesn’t want to know what you sound like when you beg. He can’t. He can never, ever know.

“I need you to listen to me, okay?”

Your head lolls to one side as you struggle to maintain some sort of eye contact. A blob of color shaped vaguely like Osha swirls before you, but your head is so dizzy and your throat is so dry, it’s too difficult to focus on anything but the endless, mindless, bone-crushing ache. Still, you try.

“‘sha…” It’s the best you can do.

The top of the Osha blob bobs - a nod, maybe. “I know. I know it hurts, just stay with me, bulabird.”

There’s a ringing in your ears and a mess of damp, sweaty cloth under your back, between your thighs, bunched up behind your shoulder blades. And the ever-present, ever-consuming need to slake your thirst no matter the cost. Your hands slither down your stomach to try and dull its bite, but Osha’s hands are quicker and stronger.

“Stop,” she grunts as she pins your arms down. “Just stop and listen to me.”

You feel your entire face wrinkle with the force of your frustration. “Don’t. ‘sha, it hurts, I need-”

“I know what you need and I’ll give it to you, but have to fucking listen to me first! Okay?!”

A more logical you, more sound of mind and body, might have listened, especially with that tone. But you’re so far beyond logic now. As it is, all you can think about is the fact that she’s manhandling you and it feels really good. Too good.

“You’re sick,” she says some heartbeats later. “There’s a flower here, a purple flower, and the people here use it for their marriage rituals. By itself, the pollen is lethal. It jacks up your blood pressure and gives you a fever that’ll kill you, but when it’s combined with liquid, it becomes an aphrodisiac. Okay? Are you with me? Do you understand?”

You only manage to catch every few words. You’re too busy bucking your hips up into Osha’s leg to properly pay attention, but you catch something about a flower and marriage, and that sounds nice to you. It sounds like something you might have dreamed of as a child, before the Jedi, before the Code.

“Hey.” Fingers wrap around your chin and maneuver your head until you’re forced to look the Osha blob in the eyes. At least, what you think are eyes. Your vision’s been swimming in and out of focus for longer than you can recall. “Answer me. Do you understand?”

You nod lazily, not for any real reason other than Osha told you to and you want desperately to please her. It’s a strange sensation. New and unknown, but you think… maybe you like it.

“There’s only one way I can keep the pollen from killing you, and it’s by making us a… a pleasure potion. Like the locals do for their weddings. And then I…” Osha’s head bobs as she comes sharply into focus. “We have to work the pollen out of our blood together. With sex. Do you understand?”

With her thumb still pressing into your chin, you find it impossible to open or close your mouth without great effort. Or perhaps it’s not her thumb at all but the sudden rush of adrenaline that screams through your veins at the mere mention of “sex”. Suddenly, it all makes sense. You’ve known, of course, that shoving your hands down your pants and rutting against empty air isn’t exactly normal, but it hadn’t clicked in your mind that the animalistic urges pooling in your belly and the flame blazing in your chest were one in the same. You’d sort of thought that maybe you were losing your mind.

“I need to know you understand me.”

Sex. Anticipation pounds hard and heavy behind your eyes. Blood. It burns. Flower. Wisps of purple swirl at the edge of your vision, casting Osha in undulating shades of violet. Wedding. Like new life, new beginnings. Death. Reunion with the Force. You think you understand.

When Osha speaks again, she speaks with the thickness of sorrow and fear and the watery sound of tears. “I don’t know how else to save you,” she whispers.

But your body knows. Moaning softly against the pressure of her weight as it presses you into the floor, you wriggle an arm free and grab at whatever you can reach. “Save me,” you beg with what remains of your sense. “Osha...”

taglist: @wolffegirlsunite

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[n1nchawrites]

I am the guide, I am the beacon, I am the font - Navigator short story

I am the guide.

I kneel before the altar, I clasp a rosary in one hand and a censer in the other. Sweat greases my palms as tendons flex and lock, I concentrate, surrounded by a half a dozen others. We mutter litanies and prayers of safe voyage, though I lead the flock in our fervent whispers, for I am the shepherd to this herd.

A woman beside me keens as she bears the brunt of a psychic onslaught. Our task commences. Before me, visions of colours that should not be and creatures that never were whip and tumble. I am assaulted in every sense of the word. I feel my bones crack, my organs rupture, my soul wail in agony. I know this to be a falsehood.

I cannot discern the mundane from the abstract any longer, the keening woman has transmogrified in ways I cannot describe, her being bulging and morphing into shapes unrealised by the human mind and sounds echoed by the Urr-song of the Dark Gods.

I am the beacon.

My soul flares bright. My flock sees me, they swarm my soul, a warm, bright shroud against the lapping darkness of the unmaking waves. My soul burns with the heat of ten thousand suns, the pain of the unreal caught ablaze in the rapturous sense of communion I have with my fellow clandestine guides.

And then darkness devours us whole. I can see but two lights in this shroud of confusion, dampened like cascades of incandescence strangled by a thick-woven bag of burlap. Where am I? Where are the flock? Their radiance had blinded and captivated me so that I have been disoriented. Where is the Astronomicon? Where is my beacon? I call for my congregation to converge, but my throat is caught and sealed with cloying tar, burning it shut as I am forced to make a judgement.

I scream in frustration and fear. The tar sloughs down my throat like a slug and the sack tightens around my throat. I must decide. And so I do.

I am the font.

Energy surges through my body, it is as if my spirit is swollen and bloated. I feel my veins and innards bellowing and ballooning in my physical self. I cry out, the burlap is removed from my skull and I am face to face with a horror I can hardly describe. The tar melts away, yet my throat is still raw from screaming, bloating to impossibly broad proportions as the being grins at me sadistically.

I understand now. I am the font. This thing, it molests my very essence, it defiles my soul and uses me as nothing more than a portal. I am bursting apart as it uses me to infiltrate my flock, my ship, my charges. 

I am the end.

I do not want to die like this. For this anathema of a creature to use me in such a heinous way. I lash out, I beg for death, for release, to be stopped. I am plagued with visions of the beginning and the end, I become a mouth-piece for this being to espouse scornful truths of what is to come.

It warps my voice, I warble and gurgle each word simultaneously; several voices erupt from my throat at once as other cretins see to use my flesh as a means of breaching the realm of the real.

Please, I beg, end it.

But no righteous fate shall befall me, none of honour, none of peace. I bloat, I choke, I distend, I burst. 

I am not dead.

Luminescent rays explode from my body as I finally rupture, and from them cascades the remnants of my very being. I shatter marble and crack armaglass, bisecting one of the flock who was knelt beside me. I have failed them. My consciousness fades as the soul dissipates, all I can do is watch in silent disgrace as the daemons tear through the room, razing all in their wake.

I am undone.

[carrionhearted]

i need to watch more horror movies so please drop your favourites 🙏🙏

GLADLY!!!! These are in no particular order, or category… just a list of horror (& adjacent) films that feel special to me. Some of these are genuine works of art, and others are just campy fun. Some of them are flaming garbage. Have fun figuring out which are which!

- House of 1000 Corpses (& sequels: The Devil’s Rejects, Three from hell) (Ho1000C is just a blast, campy and vibrant and fun— while the sequels are a lot more grounded and gritty in tone. The characters really make this franchise. Rob Zombie is great at writing hate-lovable bastards.)

- Eraserhead (a fever-dream-nightmare perfectly translated into film. Surrealist imagery that will permanently etch itself into your grey matter. I hope you like long shots and ambient droning sounds! I love films you have to decode in order to understand.)

- Donnie Darko (more ‘psychological thriller’ than ‘horror’, but god I love this film. If you like unreliable narrators and themes of unreality, blurred lines between the supernatural and psychosis… watch Donnie Darko.)

- I Saw The TV Glow (made me ugly cry until I threw up and gave me a headache so bad I couldn’t sleep afterwards. VERY effective psychological horror if you struggle with identity and dissociation/ dpdr. Like, dangerously effective.)

- Pearl (standout fav of this trilogy, though X and MaXXXine are also great. I am in love with Pearl as a character. Insane writing, insane acting, and it’s shot so well… ooghsgdh I love this film…)

- The Lighthouse (Damn ye! Let Neptune strike ye dead Winslow! HAAARK! Hark Triton, hark! Bellow, bid our father the Sea King rise from the depths full foul in his fury! Black waves teeming with salt foam to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til' ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more - only when he, crowned in cockle shells with slitherin' tentacle tail and steaming beard take up his fell be-finned arm, his coral-tine trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye - a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the harpies and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the Dread Emperor himself - forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff for part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea!)

-Carrie (the original is, of course, the best… but the 2013 iteration is also surprisingly good. She is so normal girl don’t worry about it)

- Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (SPECIFICALLY 2, but watch the first one also) (Bill Moseley as Chop Top… Oingo Boingo on the soundtrack… sexual tension with the chainsaw… the dinner scene… Leatherface <3… it has it all…)

- Society (Do not go into this expecting a good solid film. Go into it expecting to have a very confusing, VERY FUN time. One million bonus points for The Shunting.)

- Sleepaway Camp (another campy cult classic. The most wtf acting, wtf dialogue, wtf line delivery, WTF AMOUNT OF MEN IN BOOTY SHORTS, wtf kills and wtf ending. Also diversity win!)

- Slither (now that’s what I can body horror! This film is outrageous it’s insane it’s… goopy… lots of slugs. Great mix of horror and comedy imo)

- Ready Or Not (a “death game” premise with an almost cartoonish quality? The characters are all… all such characters, they did great fleshing out a large-ish cast. They did a great job in general. Also funny. Also WICKED set design.)

- Hereditary (a predictable answer, but I think it earns the praise. It’s uniquely effective at being… horrifying, as a horror film. The sense of dread in this film is something special.)

- Silence of the Lambs (another obligatory mention. It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.)

- Terrifier, 1 2 and 3! (obligatory Terrifier franchise mention. Art the Clown is just a silly little guy. God forbid a clown have hobbies.)

[emmy-dekarios-bg3]

Heart of the Weave - A Baldurs Gate fanfiction - part 2

Chapter 7

I awaken to the excruciating brightness of the sun beaming in my face, and I’m astounded that it’s already morning. I did sleep better than I thought I would though, despite these crucial circumstances. It still feels incongruous to wake up without my wife by my side, and a feeling of emptiness is still within me as I realize it’s been a full day since I’ve seen my daughter. I miss Emmy. I miss my baby girl. Oh, to see Jenevelle and hold her against my chest while I lie in bed with her mother… That’s the ideal day I enjoy.

“Let’s go, go, go!” Karlach shouts enthusiastically. It appears she’s more than confident we will destroy these Bhaalists, and I sure hope she’s correct if that’s the case. We finish eating our breakfast rather rapidly and pack up our tents to scurry off to our dreaded destination. It still feels unreal adventuring, and I never pictured us doing it again, that’s for sure. We make our way to the rugged dirt path, and I notice the city just straight ahead, though it appears we still have a few miles left until we arrive, so roughly an hour or two. Maybe even three, depending on if any horrifying events occur along the way.

“Say, Halsin, where are your children while you’re away?” Wyll inquires.

“Ah. Well, between Arabella containing the shadow weave, Thaniel and Oliver having extreme powers, and the Owlbear… They will be alright. Yenna is greatly protected, thank Silvanus. The kids will be alright. Besides, they are under extreme protection by the fellow druids in the area, who are also guarding the shack we live in so they won’t be touched.”

“Ah, a man of strategy. Good planning, I must say.” Wyll and Karlach are holding hands as we continue our travels on the road. Their fearlessness is admirable, I must say. To stay positive in a dire situation must be comforting, though they’re used to fighting in Avernus so this must be nothing to them. While I am not afraid myself, I do worry about the future of our friends and my mother’s life. She has no protection, and she also hasn’t written to me in over a month, which is not like her at all. I hope she’s doing okay.

I begin to feel an unusual sensation, one that I’m unfamiliar with. I can sense a horrible presence or event that’s about to occur, and it’s rather unsettling to the nerves. No sign of anyone is nearby though, but that wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been spied on.

“Anyone else feel like they’re being watched?” I question suspiciously.

“You are most certainly not alone,” Astarion answers, eyeballing the area around us. The sound of knives clashing together is replaying in my head and it’s making me uncomfortable; and I have no control of these thoughts.

“Ahhh ahhh ahhh ahhhhhh!” A maniacal laughter can be heard within these thoughts, though it sounds distant…but the laugh sounds familiar. Orin, maybe? Even though she’s been deceased for quite sometime?

“Murder…murder…death…” Another voice whispers nearby, and it lingers for a moment like an echo.

“Someone – no, multiple people – are close to us, and we aren’t even at Baldur’s Gate. They’re leaving the city,” Wyll warns us. “We need to hurry.” As we try to bolt our way toward the city, a bunch of Bhaal assassins reveal themselves from their shrouds, exposing themselves from invisibility. They’re all dressed in black robes, and a crimson aura seems to be surrounding their bodies as they appear.

“Oh, how lovely,” Astarion says sarcastically, slowly pulling out one of his daggers from his pants. “Just what we needed.” One of the five assassins steps out in front of the others, approaching us with a grim smile on his face and wiping his bloody hand on his robe.

“Bow. Submit. Let us carve your flesh like raw meat. Give in to the temptation of darkness. Give in to the Lord drinking the chalice of your blood. Let us absorb in the aroma of your rotting skin, fueling our thirst for more. There’s only five of you. Much more awaits at the temple, begging for your deaths.” His voice is baritone, holding intense eye contact with me as he speaks these dark words.

“Step back,” Wyll murmurs. As we step back, he casts Hunger of Hadar on the assassins, damaging at least three of the five of those bloodthirsty murderers. Karlach charges at the other two that weren’t damaging, bashing her warhammer into their skulls. One of them perishes, but luckily the other is close to death, so she swings at him once more. One of the assassins escapes the cloud from Wyll’s spell, coming at me with his rusty, bloody knife. He’s trying to aim for my heart but I cast “Disintegrate” which causes him to die immediately before he could even lay a hand on my body.

“Only two left to go, hell yeah!” Karlach shouts, jumping around to keep her energy flowing within her. “Let’s crush these fuckers’ skulls!” Astarion shoots his bow at one of the assassins, but unfortunately misses.

“Damn it all, let me try again. Shithead won’t sit still,” he mutters, then aims the bow directly into the man’s brain, killing him instantly.

“You’re only pleasing our murder Lord!” Astarion laughs at the man’s comment, who doesn’t seem to be fully aware how Bhaal’s plan works.

“You have to be the one to kill, not us, you ignorant fool.” As the assassin tries to charge back at Astarion, Halsin casts ‘moonlight’ and I use ‘Magic Missile’ to finish him off, leading him to meet his Lord, where I’m sure some sort of judgment will be passed.

Silence occurs for just a few moments as everyone tries to catch their breath, and I’m over here just coming to terms that the entire situation we dealt with was nothing compared to what’s to come next.

“Well, we killed those guys off. Five Bhaalists. That’s a win, right?” Karlach comments. Five is better than none, but unfortunately there’s hundreds – if not thousands – of them lurking around and ready to strike. Who knows how many we can stop?

“It may be a win, sweetheart, but brace yourself. That’s nothing compared to what’s ahead,” Wyll responds, rubbing her back as they take a breath from the intense yet quick fight. At least they weren’t too challenging to destroy. If you’re going to be a villain, never approach your victims by talking, just strike from behind. Alas, it seems common sense lacks tremendously nowadays.

The city is just a few feet ahead but it appears much more calm than I anticipated. I hope it’s because no one is fully aware of what’s going on and not because of the endless murders. How many people here have passed?

“Well, nothing is on fire, so that’s a good sign.” Oh Karlach. Always trying to find the positive in everything, a trait I wish I had.

“Everyone seems to be acting like everything is fine, what’s–” Before Wyll could finish his sentence, loud shrieks of horror can be heard closer to Wyrm’s Crossing…and we’re all the way in Rivington. We all look at each other with sheer panic, and simultaneously mutter “Shit.” As the shriek shakes the city, most people are scurrying inside their homes or the nearest buildings they can find, while others are caving into their curiosity and head toward the screams.

We fast travel using the portal in the wall and find ourselves at Wyrm’s Crossing, where there is a thick trail of slimy blood on the cobblestone path next to the castle and bloody handprints painted on the walls. All of this blood appears to be of a fresh kill.

“We made it too late to save them,” I mumble, then sigh. I try not to feel defeated, but we could’ve prevented it if we made it much sooner. Then again, so many lives have been taken the past few days I’m sure. Nothing we really could have done.

The rotten stench of death is overwhelming, yet all too familiar. It has been ages since I’ve had to witness the sight of this much gore, and I sure as hell did not miss it. The odor brings back horrid memories I do not want to remember, mostly ones involving Orin. The bodies we’ve found on our adventures because of her doing. Lack of heads. Lack of limbs. Blood painted on the walls. Body parts scattered around on the floor. I actually gag as the smell lingers, becoming poor potent as we walk down the path to the Basilisk Gate.

“Oh good Gods! Even Avernus didn’t reek this bad. The worst it got was the smell of sulphur,” Karlach says, then proceeds to make a gagging sound. “Blech!”

“I couldn’t agree more. This rancid odor makes changing dirty diapers a walk in the park,” I respond, holding my hands over my nose. It’s true though. I thought I’d be so accustomed to the gore that even being away from it for so long, it wouldn’t bother me. Boy, was I incorrect.

As we meet the bridge that leads to the Basilisk Gate part of the city, we notice an even larger pool of blood with a couple bones scattered on the ground within it.

“Damn, poor soul,” Wyll says with a sigh. “This one got torn to shreds.”

“The piece of clothing next to the bones looks to be of one of the cultists,” Halsin adds. “This one doesnt’ look to be a bystander.”

“Have they started killing each other now? The fuck is going on?” Astarion murmurs in pure horror as we stare at the puddle in front of us. Whatever is happening, it’s not getting better.

[restwellsoon]

Last one – may I please have a spicy daydream with dabi and demon au? Thank you so much, rest! I had an angst one but that was before I got sick and when I still had braincells so oh well 🤷🏻‍♀️ please stay safe and hydrated ily

Minors & ageless blogs DNI!

Pairing: Dabi x F!Reader

Warnings: smut, demon!AU, mentions of unprotected sex, degradation

He looked like an angel with his white hair and bright blue eyes, but you should have known better than to think that angels appeared in clouds of smoke like this. Nothing about this bar could be described as saintly, from the curse words to his cologne; most definitely not the hand that crept up and down your thigh.

The light flickered above you as he whispered, making his sweet features look ominous in-between words. But still you listened, and even nodded. Perhaps that's the true gift of the devil- temptation seemed so easy.

Your feet answered for you when he told you to meet him out back. Your mouth on his was a greeting.

"I normally don't do this," you told him between kisses.

It was true. An open space for curious eyes wasn't your thing. It didn't matter if the alleyway was half-hidden by a malfunctioning streetlamp several yards away. Even your most uninhibited self had enough courtesy to lock your affairs in the bathroom or an unoccupied room.

He did nothing except nod and laugh a little. The half-smile in his voice didn't reach his eyes. "I know, sweetheart."

A part of you wanted to make him believe you, but that part was drowned out by need. The kisses were no longer there, just hands and grinding and unbutttoned clothes. Your back pressed against brick. You could tell that he's experienced.

You're too engrossed with what he's doing to realize what happened to your clothes. You only remembered a tickle of something razor sharp. It wasn't the cold press of steel to make you worry. If anything, you'd say it almost felt like claws. Your panties were a mess at your ankles. He made a comment about how you wouldn't be needing those anyway.

"You say that you don't do this often," and you nod in response, as if it really mattered if you were a good girl-it didn't-, "but maybe you will in the future." One digit then two slides in, wetness making it easy to enter.

What should have been a retort is instead a breathy whine for more.

It's not just his body, but his touch feels like fire. It wasn't the brand of a sharp smack to your bottom, but the way he picked you up with ease that draws your slightest suspicion, fingers pressing against your supple flesh to brand his memory into your skin.

You feel lost without him-empty without his fingers. He responds with something more filling.

"Oh my god."

Your cry brought out his annoyance and you felt it in his hips. Each jerk felt sharper than the last, and unintentionally you drew his burning body closer with your legs.

He felt unlike any other man you've been with, and you regret the fact that the light's barely out of reach to see it.

"You feel unreal," you said more to yourself than him. His cock felt ridged, but you couldn't remember him sliding on a ribbed condom-another bad decision. And that tip. You knew he had some length to him, but it kept prodding sensitive spots that made you quiver.

You've had enough.

Finally you said his name.

"Say it again."

There was a sense of urgency and need in his voice, as if his whole existence depended on your words.

You called him.

"Again."

"Dabi."

His voice darkened with lust, and like a being summoned, he already knew what you wanted.

"Weren't you saying something about being a good girl earlier?"

His started to still inside you.

"That normally you don't do this? Oh, don't act all shy now. You're the one getting fucked against the wall by a stranger you met at the bar."

Your hips rolled in frustration.

"Just because you want it, doesn't mean that I'm going to give it to you easily, sweetheart. Maybe if you beg for it, I might change my mind. There you go. Was that that bad?"

It was worth it to toss aside what little pride you had left as Dabi's hips moved once more, but this time, each movement was methodical and timed.

Your vision grew spotty as your body shook in anticipation, hands gripped against his shoulders. You were hoping you'd see stars as you neared the edge, but instead, you saw azure fire as your body burned from the orgasm.

If you weren't too lost in post-coital bliss, your eyes closed as you caught your breath, you would have seen his true form as the light finally reached you. The streetlamp flickered on and should have given Dabi a halo, but there were horns instead.

A/N: Whoops, I got carried away with trying to build the atmosphere with this one. Thanks for sending this in, Onyx!!

A Token of Sleep | event / Todoroki Masterlist / Rest's Main M.list

[yingren]

❛  isn't it ironic?  ❜ ( go on. give me angst. )

random questions for starters.

ren dabs disinfectant around a larger cut, a practiced precaution to avoid infection. something in the air shifts when veritas speaks and he finds that perhaps there is some unspoken irony to it all. then again, this isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. blood, something raw and unfiltered, just a sprinkle of pain that stings and burns. ratio’s voice is the only thing that keeps him tethered to reality, the only thing that makes him believe that any of this is actually real.

ren wraps bandages around an open wound, a practiced motion he knows all too well. up, down and around. he laces it in a zig-zag pattern to keep it from coming undone. the feeling of nausea kicks in, stomach twisted in pain. it feels as if a void of anxiety has opened up in his very core, greedy hands searching for anything to hold onto and consume. again, this is not an unfamiliar sight. it should blend into all of the other times he’s been injured, exposed to obscene sights that can’t properly be described. carnage after carnage, the natural sound of a sharp blade cutting through flesh, the following stench of iron in liquid. this time is different, this time he wants to turn, run and empty the contents of his own stomach to get rid of the nauseating agony. 

ren finally acknowledges the irony of it all, a reluctant smile trying to ease the tension. if anyone is well aware of how strong the human body is, it should be him. regardless of overflowing abundance forcing itself upon him, cuts like these are usually not that difficult to handle. they require quite the easy fix and nothing more, rarely affecting one’s physical body or mental state. 

ren knows that he has seen it all before but not like this. hands reach for ratio’s, clasping it between warm palms, another heated confession brought forth by an unexpected turn of events. ren stares at the bandages around veritas’ arm, gaze shifting between their arms as if comparing something. it should have been him, or so he thinks, then at least veritas would not be the one injured right now. it should have been ren, he would have gladly suffered this injury if it was guaranteed to spare ratio of any unnecessary pain. oh, how ironic it really is. ren bleeds and bleeds & bleeds even more. all so that veritas doesn’t have to. to inadvertently care so much for someone else is still new to him, an emotion he still needs to master properly. where frigid walls once wrapped around a cold core, veritas has granted ren so much time and patience, thawing out a heart sealed in ice. 

“ mhm, the irony does not evade me. ” a thumb brushes over the bandaged arm and ren steps closer. just close enough to make sure that veritas is still there, as if his senses are not to be trusted. he can see him, hear him and feel him — yet something feels amiss. selfish, he labels himself as, for focusing more on his own feelings than whatever veritas is going through right now. part of him still thinks this is unreal, that maybe this is another nightmare his brain concocted to instill proper fear into his system. fear of what? this, whatever the fuck this is. this horrible feeling of worry and panic. this whisper that reminds ren that his lover is not safe from the jaws of death. the back of his hand searches for ratio’s cheek, begs for any type of contact that might help him feel better, seeks out comfort that veritas ( and veritas only ) knows how to offer. “ you need to be more careful. ”

ren does not hesitate when he leans in & plants a shaky kiss onto ratio’s lips. he lingers that close for another moment, maybe it won’t make the worry in his eyes so obvious if he manages to hide it like this. ratio is here, he is going to be just fine, he is alive. again, he repeats the same words over & over until they begin to sound real.

he is here. he is going to be fine. he is alive. 

“ please be more careful next time. ” oh heavens, he even pleads. “ i am not sure how pleasant living would be if i had to do it in a world without you. ”

[expirydateofficial]

Expiry Date (Chikn Nuggit Infection AU Fanfic POV : Slushi)

Read Chapter 1 here

Read Chapter 2 here

Chapter 3 - Promise - Part 1/2

Read Chapter 3 Part 2/2 here

[Image ID: (Note : The original dialogue was coloured so y'know who was speaking, but that's kinda impossible here so I've added a few more sentences here and there, that way, you'll get to know who's talking!)

Milkshek resisted. "I won't leave you behind."

"It's ok. I'm a newt, I can climb this." Old Pea reassured.

Milkshek kneeled down and gently carressed his head with a kiss.

It's clear that I'm the tallest.

"Right, I guess I'll climb up and break the window, then I'll pull you in. " I explained.

It was hard to speak through that noxious fog of sweetness.

Milkshek climbed onto Old Pea.

I turned my head.

Big mistake. I saw the tangled mess of skin flopping in its own filth and fluids, inching closer and closer.

I swallowed my puke and climbed.

I pressed against the glass.

"Here goes nothing." I said to myself.

I bashed the window as hard as my body would let me with the rifle end. A mist of glass flew into the air, I felt them injected into all over my flesh, slipping under my closed eyelids. It burns like hell.

I pulled myself upwards and rolled into a sea of glass.

I felt them pull and tug against my flesh, like millions of paper cuts all over my body. Every movement dragged and pulled at the glass in my skin. I saw red everywhere. It was from me. I can barely keep my eyes open, but closing them makes the pain worse. It felt unreal, but I couldn't scream, not now.

I quickly sweeped the mist away and turned to pull Milkshek, a shard in my neck squirmed in my skin. Old Pea pushed her upwards.

"Babe!" Milkshek shouted.

The thing was way larger than I realised.

It was towering, still progressing at that ever mind numbing constant pace.

Old Pea was already by the window, his hands slipping around the window sill.

We each took both his hands and raised him in.

Milkshek pressed against a switch, light floods and blinds the room.

...

Milkshek stared and gasped.

"Slushi, you're bleeding!"

I looked down, red lined my fur and the ground below. I hadn't even realised the extent of my injury.

Old Pea laid down his backpack and took out a box.

"Hold still." He mumbled, pulling out a pair of tweezers and a bottle of iodine.

Wait, TWEEZERS???!!!! Shit!!

"WAIT! Do we really have to do this?" The words flowed out of my mouth in fumbled panic.

"The wound may get infected." Old Pea replied coldly.

"Slushi, please. Just bear with it, for a while, ok?" said Milkshek.

"Yeah! I can do that, Yeah!" I replied, forcing down my sense of fear.

I can feel my sweat building up in my fur.

"Yeah! Yeah!" I repeated, as if that will make me feel better somehow.

Old Pea turned on a lighter and placed his tweezers under the flame.

It kicked in, I can't breathe. The flame, its's heat, its taunting me. I swallowed as hard as I could. I wished that this moment would last forever, that the imevitable would not come.

I let out a scream.

"WAIT!!!"

I struggled to breathe. I kneeled over, I felt stings in my chest.

"Slushi." Milkshek sat next to me. "You can do this, I believe in you."

I cannot let my friends down.

I slowed down my breath and stared.

"I understand. Let's do this." I replied.

Old Pea nodded, and pulled at the first shard. I felt the shard being ripped off from its tight hug on my flesh. Suddenly, I felt a sharp stab as a cloth made contact. I gritted against my canines.

He moved on to the next one, the one in my neck.

My tears washed away the dust of glass in my eyes.

It felt like forever.

Pain increasing exponentially every time.

"Done." he signalled.

I moved, relief. Air carved in and out of my wounds. A few microshards still writhe in my skin but I felt much better.

"Thank you." I sighed.

I looked around. A bed, books, a computer, all pristine as if time had froze. A family potrait, three kids.

A charger laid on the desk.

"My phone." I realised.

I picked up and shoved it against my phone.

"IT FITS!" I screamed in excitement.

Milkshek gasped.

"Now I need to find a plug, plug, plug..." I scanned every object in the room. I saw it, under the desk. I let out my excitement and relief.

"PLUG!"

"Do any of you have your phones?" I turned to ask.

"Mine... was destroyed." Milkshek mumbled.

"I don't have one." Old Pea replied.

"Wait, you don't?" I turned on the switch, I felt my phone vibrate in response.

"He only uses a PC for streams." Milkshek answered.

A light emitted from my phone.

+99 missed calls.

End ID]

Read Chapter 3 Part 2/2 here

[picturesdarkpurple-69]

I wrote this a while ago and think it fits perfectly with this month.

Summary: Ivan's body can do some weird stuff and he'd like to show Alfred an intimate part of himself.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Warning: gore, blood, inappropriate use of a human heart

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nervous excitement flitted through Ivan's body. In his bedroom, he stood across from Alfred, staring down at him with an expectant gaze. Having called him over, Ivan forced his need to fidget in place down and make the request he'd been holding on to for the last few months.

"Лучик, I want you to play with my heart."

For a moment, his boyfriend met him with silence, clearly trying to figure out what the big guy meant by that invitation. "Uh...look babe, I know we've both had our fair share of mind games over the years, but now that we're toge–"

"No no no Alfred, not like that!" He shook his head and giggled at the silly insinuation, "Stay where you are and watch me~"

The scarf around his neck was tied back into a simple bow before he crawled onto his bed and sat on his legs across from Alfred. Grabbing the hem of his sweater, Ivan pulled it up just enough to reveal the soft skin of his tummy, right to the bottom of his rib cage.

Bemused, Alfred watched Ivan pull his sleeve up and poke and prod at the skin around his diaphragm like he was searching for something. Before he had the chance to crack a joke and fill the silence, a desperate gasp from Ivan beat him to it. He jumped and stared in astonishment as the pale flesh beneath his fingers caved in making Ivan cheer inwardly at his success.

Allowing his hand to sink inside, Ivan trembled, not from pain, but from a strange sense of vulnerability that blanketed him under Alfred's gaze. The more his fist pushed upwards into his ribs, the more labored his breathing grew. Like always, it felt unreal when he made contact with his roughly beating heart, as it easily slipped out of its place into his hold.

Bearing witness to this weirdly made Alfred's cheeks burn. The horrifying sight that lay before him equally brought with it a strange feeling of warmth in his gut. It didn't matter much when Ivan fared worse than him, seen by the obvious bulge in his pants as the slow trickle of blood seeped from the open hole in his body and into the formerly pristine bed sheets.

"Christ Ivan! Doesn't that hurt?!"

A shaking of the head was the only action that Ivan could muster past fully removing the fist within his chest. The moment his hand felt the cool air, a deep groan pushed past his lips as a quivering arm triumphantly presented the still beating red mass to Alfred.

"Брать." he eagerly urge.

Quick on his feet, Alfred jumped in to rescue the object from its unsteady host. He tried to keep his grip gentle, not wanting to harm the now slumped over man or ruin the apparent state of bliss he was in.

"Hah... You are s-so warm." This being the first time someone other than himself had held his heart, Ivan couldn't believe how good it felt. With a pleased hum, he smushed his face into the bed sheets, practically hiding any embarrassing expression that would come his way.

"You concern me, you know that?"

Weighing the organ back and forth, Alfred watched in fascination as it still bled over his fingers and onto the old hardwood floor. He knew what the next step was, "You said to play with this right?"

In one flat, wide stroke, Alfred slid his tongue across the wet expanse of muscle. He had no qualms with swallowing down the blood in his mouth, quite familiar with the metallic taste, especially Ivan's.

"Aah– Alfred please!" Ivan's body seized up at the intense feeling. Every little touch against the simple organ made the throbbing in his pants more unbearable and he needed relief.

Shifting around, he pressed his lower half firmly against the bed to better grind down on. In the back of his head, Ivan knew it wasn't good to let the blood from his chest soak in the mattress, but he couldn't give a rat's ass when Alfred moved to sit next to his head and used a bloody hand to play with his hair.

"You're a weird guy Ivan. For such a big man, all I have to do is grab this little piece of you, give it a few bits of attention like so," he trailed a line of kisses from the apex to the aorta causing Ivan to hump the bed, "and you're seconds away from creaming your pants."

Ivan's brain was too scattered to come up with anything against his teasing. Instead, he reached a shaky hand up to grip at Alfred's pant leg and, feeling exposed, said, "Я тебя люблю..."

It took him a moment, but once the words clicked in his brain, a big sappy smile plastered itself onto his face. "Love ya too big guy~"

With a firm grasp on the organ, Alfred squeezed his palm in a slow rhythm. Ivan trembled beside him and failed to quiet the breaths that forced themselves out with every pump to his heart. As the beating grew faster, so did Alfred's pace as he tried to keep up with every building contraction.

Face all red and eyes glassy, Alfred could tell Ivan just needed that final push and had one last trick up his sleeve. Using both hands, he took his index finger and slowly pushed it into the opening of his vena cava, careful to not stretch it farther than it could handle.

Almost immediately the sounds from Ivan stopped in one big gasp, just before his head buried itself fully into the mattress. It worried Alfred for a second that he might've hurt him, but that wasn't the case when he could still feel the tight pulling on his leg and see the way his hips stuttered uncontrollably. Ever so slightly, Alfred slipped his finger out to watch his heart as it experienced this very strange form of orgasm.

When it seemed everything was starting to die down, Alfred placed a big wet smooch over the center of the organ causing Ivan to cry out in oversensitivity. It brought him an immense amount of joy at having gotten to witness this intimate part of Ivan, inside and out.

With a little more bloody ruffling of his hair, Ivan pushed his head back against the hand, warm and content. He would have loved to stay like this, but Alfred wasn't gonna let that happen.

"I know you're all cozy and stuff babe, but I need you to turn over. You're still, somehow, bleeding all over the place and this is gonna be a bitch to clean."

Ivan grumbled, slowly flopped over to his back, and pointed to the hole to his chest. Because of his lazy behavior, Alfred took it upon himself, after a moment of hesitation, to reach his hand inside and place the organ back in the owner's body.

"Didn't think I'd be inside you like this tonight~" he joked to Ivan's hidden amusement.

As soon as his arm was free, the cavity almost immediately closed in on itself. Now sat in blood, sweat, and, in Ivan's case, cum, a heavy need to wash up hit the two. The blood stains in the bed and their clothes would be a bitch to get out, but nothing except a bit of elbow grease, bleach, and love couldn't fix.

[odysseywritings]

I'll Never Know

@flashfictionfridayofficial

It was a nightmare that kept repeating in my head. The image of my dad as he died of a heart attack tattooed itself in my sight every day. I always hated death, and I don't have comfort thinking about an afterlife since it's all bunk, and I never wanted to go back to the cemetery after his funeral. He wasn't even 50.

There was a pit in my gut every time I passed by the cemetery. The thought of death, of pure nothing, paralyzed me from taking risks that might've made living exciting like hang gliding or urban exploring. Yet the graveyard itself seemed to have a light or an aura around it. Even weirder was that I'd see a silhouette roaming it, and it wasn't any of the normal workers, but I didn't think much back then.

One night I had a nightmare that still haunts me. I woke up to find people surrounding me in the dark, their hands stretched out and pushing me down, while the blue and yellow lights around them dimmed. Even after I woke up, my body couldn't move out of bed from shock until at least an hour.

After talking with my therapist, I wanted to confront death, or grief, or something. I went to the grave site where my dad was buried, part of exposure therapy I guess, just to settle with this crippling fear. It was an empty place and the crisp autumn wind added to the chills, making me rush to Dad's grave and getting it over with.

I used to love this season even if I hated going back to school. The Halloween parties he'd set up were amazing and full of creepy decorations and music that gave me the right adrenaline rush. But really I just miss him, and the warmth he gave when he'd hug and kiss me after a breakup or being bullied, how he'd travel with me for miles to enjoy a great ice cream shop. And then he's just gone. No new memories or love. Only flashbacks and pictures.

"My condolences," I jumped back and held my chest when I turned and saw a woman. "Death is always painful. Yet it's the truest thing."

I saw her closer and she looked unreal. Like a skull painted to look like a human with flesh. The rest of her clad in white clothes like an ancient priestess. I stepped back and he followed with a step. She smiled and pointed at my dad's grave.

"I won't be so poetic as to call death a pleasant peace," she said as a plot of the land instantly opened up. "But would it not be better for your health to embrace it and not hide it away? Like the filth and trash discarded from plain sight, away from weak senses, into a landfill to be repurposed."

Her finger pointed again to the empty grave and the skin dropped off to reveal a bone. My breath quickened and my eyes budged to the site despite my instincts to run. The grave had my dad as he looked before being embalmed. The body then transformed into me with my mouth agape and my skin thin enough to be translucent. I stumbled from delirium and fear, I almost fell into the grave, a scream coming out of me, until I was yanked back by my coat.

"In due time," the woman was just a worm-riddled skull in clothes surrounded by red light, "but not today. Your reservation isn't so cut and dry. It's not very lively, so please, do make the most of your time while the sun still shines."

The light around her grew and absorbed my senses as everything was just red like a star engulfed me. And just as quickly it stopped. The cemetery was normal as ever, the wind still wailing, and my dad still dead. But I was still alive for whatever that's worth.

It seemed like a waking nightmare yet I felt every second of it. Another thing to talk to my therapist about if she'll even believe me. Maybe it's for the best that I don't know because I'll never be satisfied. And I'm feeling that way about death, too. How I'll never really understand it, or if anything comes after, but I'm never getting an answer until my time. I'll still have fears for myself and grief over my dad, but I can't fight the inevitable. I just have to thank him for the time we shared and the time I can share with others while I'm here.

[foster-the-moths]

(Content warning for implications of self harm, body dysphoria, sort of generally uncomfortable imagery, possibly unreality?)

There is something uncomfortable in the way my skin wraps around my body

A suffocating sensation, a pressure on my chest

A pressure that says “everything is wrong,”

And I don’t have to look at the mirror to know

That something is deeply, deeply wrong

That this isn’t mine.

I can tell by the numbness, that overwhelming feeling of encasement that surrounds me

This body feels dead

The heart beats, but it feels hollow

I am a parasite in this corpse

Raw and bloody,

I was a bundle of nerves, poorly packaged fat and muscle

A foreign object, enmeshed in foreign bones

Implanted and sewn shut into an oversized sack of flesh

Forced to grow and conform to the mold of it

I am mutilated, misshapen

Torn apart and reattached with mixed up parts

I am a clay figure, shaped by a child’s hands

Left with uneven lumps of flesh

I am my own puppeteer

I am anything but authentic

And no one understands that.

No one sees how I struggle to move with these tight joints

No one sees how painful it gets

How painful the nothing can be

“Your body was a gift”

Anything can be a gift, that doesn’t give it value

What good is a gift if it only takes up space?

I engrave tally marks to count the days in my prison

They come thirty nine at a time

Spreading from hip to knee in legible crosshatch patterns

They feel right

Right because I carved them myself

Not Him

You live in my mind, a maggot gnawing away

But I know your deceit

I know I can’t change

I know I’m going to die this way

Don’t tease me with that false promise

You aren’t what I’ve been calling you, but

I know your real name

I will not say it, I have no right

Not in a voice that doesn’t belong to me.

—Poem anon.

HI POEM ANON!!! REALLY LOVE THIS ONE I THINK ITS MY FAVORITE!!! i really love the descriptions in this... 'parasite', 'packaged', 'shaped with a child's hands'. the words you use are a contrast between something organic, a manufactured product, and something handcrafted by a human being - and even though all of those things are wildly different they make sense when compared together in context (just something i noticed that i think is really cool)! and it all evokes a very specific feeling to being trapped in a body not made for you and its really well done!! and i really like the line "What good is a gift if it only takes up space?" its just so. arghghghhghg(/pos). again, your poetry feels like looking in a mirror sometimes and its really incredible how you manage to capture the feelings of what you write about. the emotions in this one are especially vivid and its just so cool to me how they are portrayed. i could go on and on about this one and which parts caught my eye but i think i'll cut myself off here because idk if anything i write would be coherent in the slightest.

[sinvulkt]

Angstpril: Alt 10 - Mistake (slave past)

@whumpril - day 17. Self-Treatment

I was a slave. This was a truth no one, not even the other slaves that scorned every breath I took, could deny. It meant my every step was carefully watched over, limited, judged like a prised asset. It meant I was to obey the governor's second’s commands, and never, ever fail. It meant I was a well oiled, beautiful tool.

Slaves were like droids in a way. Were we to stray too far away from our programming, to break some costly part and stop functioning, we’d be sent away to the landfill the same way.

Getting upset, sick or broken in some way lowered your value, took you closer to the landfill, and simply wasn’t allowed if you wanted to survive. Which is why, when I first felt a wave of fever cloud my senses, I ignored it.

Despite the first-class care I was provided as the ‘governor’s Jedi pet’, I had caught a cold a few times already. Everytime, I managed to hide it, and kept my usefulness all throughout. When I was too sick to truly hide the rawness of my voice, the tightness of my throat, the hissing breath, the governor second shifted most of my duties to harder, but less political chores, where I wouldn’t hurt the governor’s reputation nor his friends' sensibilities. I never vocally told him I was sick, but I doubted the shifts were a coincidence.

This time, the fever came slowly. It slithered through my body like water, dampened my awareness one inch per day, never too slow, never too fast. No mucus filled my nose, but it felt like cotton had replaced my brain. My feathers were damp, covered in moisture from dawn to sunset. Each step felt more difficult, more heavy. The temperature in my room seemed to drop lower at night, chills running down my spine as I struggled to fall asleep, only to jump awake feeling on fire.

It took me several ‘accidents’ during my daily chores, broken tableware mixed with shattered dishes, guest tripped or glasses knocked out, to understand I was sick. It took me a single glance at the governor second to know my lack of foresight would have consequences. It took me failing to take off after the dozen lashes I had been saddled with as punishment to realise the sickness was serious.

A grounded bird is a dead bird, my mind whispered.

I weakly flapped my wings again, to no success. The simple action of holding them up was an impossible task, and I soon let them fold back limply on my shoulder blades. The change of balance was enough to make me waver.

I geared myself up for the long walk ahead. The walk from downtown to the palace was barely a few kilometers. Through flying, I could do it in minutes, but now, with my limbs weaker than a loth-kitten’s and my vision blinking in and out of existence, it felt like crossing the whole planet. 

That night, I arrived late to the palace. The governor second didn’t punish me however— and simply locked myself in my room earlier for the night. I was still a potential asset, and we both knew I would only get better if I was allowed to rest.

The next day, I opened my eyes to a world of blur.

Today there was a big meeting, and I would have to serve. I clenched my fists, preening hooks biting at flesh. There was no cutting it.

I stumbled upward, nausea balling inside my stomach. Only the fact that I missed most meals the previous day stopped me from soiling the floor in vomit. Using the wall as support, I slithered towards the corridor. The door of my room was so hard to open I almost thought it had been left locked. 

(But it hadn’t been)

I blinked, and I was in the meeting room, a plate in my hands. I had a vague recollection of struggling through the halls, of getting my assignment and being ordered to serve guests their wine, but nothing more. My memory was as fuzzy as my thoughts. Everything felt suddenly confusing and disorienting, tinted with an unreal edge. 

"Sinvulkt,” I almost dropped the plate at the voice of the governor’s second. “Come serve sir Beral, would you?"

I nodded. The movement was enough to send my world into a whirl, and I flared my wings to retain balance, almost knocking a vase off its shelf.

One more step.

Someone was speaking angrily at me. My feathers flattened. What were they saying? I tensed, forcing my leg forward, a false smile on my face. If I obeyed, everything would be alright.

One more step.

The speaking turned into shouting, but I felt far away from it. Had I done something wrong? The vase was still at its place. The wine glass was only a few centimeters away now. I was almost close enough to pour the ambery liquid inside.

One more step.

I wavered, but held on. My heart clenched under the fear of what would happen if I stopped being useful. I needed to reach the glass.

One more step.

Uncontrollable shudders racked my body. Had the glass always been so far away? My breath came in short, and my head spinned. An icy void filled my stomach, sending my heart racing, and yet, I was burning. Dark spots kept appearing in front of my eyes, hindering my vision.

Just… one more…

I collapsed.

[themissmott]

I’m hoping this makes somewhat sense? I made it in like 20 minutes so might be a little OC

Glutton.

It could have been a dream, an exact replica. Down from the creaking floorboards, the strain of breath, and a rapid yet dulling heartbeat. It wasn't unfamiliar, not in the sense that he has never done this before. His legs straddled the chest of a man, eyes bloodshot, face blotchy and purple as he clawed, digging his fingers into Nacho's forearms. legs scrambling against the wood in fast streaks, hoping to cleaver off his assailant. His own last show of strength to show that he could live, that he could stand one more day in this loveless world. How could death touch you, even as you stood face to face?

His body often felt unreal, cold, and untouched in these moments. As if a corpse was in his place, puppeteering him through the final grand play of a person's life. The spur of warmth was only through his fiery hands as they burned. A fierce yet controlled fire that burned him whole, chalking off pieces of himself.

And to the fears of a younger nacho, that side of humanity has faded into rotten hands, aching deep down in the heart of the first man he killed.

But, it was different now. In a deja vu sense, as if he has been here. In this murder, in this seemingly insignificant moment of his life, he feels rawer and felt than he has in years. Years under the scope of the cartel, always one breath away from death, he feels alive, as if resuscitated into existence. Into the cold hallway, with a man withering under his hot hands, already buried in the ground.

He feels more explored and worn through than meaningless nights of sex and drugs. Burned down to his bones, til he was bleached and spongy.

Lalo watches from the side. Arms and legs crossed as he watched, observed as Nacho felt and succumbed. And in a twisted view, saw through Nachos' eyes, as if possessing him, wrapping his cold hands around Nachos. Suffocating the man together in a strange symbiosis. Linking together in a way that only they knew. Veins and arteries intertwine into one single pump of blood.

It was always there, that dream. That nauseating fantasy stuck in his gums and teeth. An understanding in two men who ate the other. They were overstimulated messes of flesh, pulling into each other. Taking, always taking.

A retelling of greed and gluttony.

[sockpuppethistorian]

Sex and the City, S1E2 Review from the PoV of an AroAce

Alright, y’all. I’ve got a nice large glass of water (??? this is not even a normal show-watching drink, not sure why I’m mentioning it), Netflix open. We’re up to Season 1, Episode 2 of Sex and the City (to read my first liveblog review go here).

My prediction before starting, while the credits play: there will be sex, talk of sex, and it will fail the Bechdel Test so bad that it has to repeat a grade.

OKAY: We are opening to Voiceover Carrie typing away on her computer, setting the stage for the little mini storylines I assume. These are the stories that the episode ends up being about:

Miranda goes on a blind date and discovers a “Modelizer” (that’ll make sense shortly) and is disgusted then spends the rest of the episode being disgusted by a guy who likes her

Samantha really wants to be treated like a model and tries to get a guy who only dates models to also have sex with her

Carrie tries to “test out” whether a Modelizer will have sex with her? Or something? Not sure what she’s doing

I think Charlotte is like not in this episode except for group scenes. Oh well.

Starting with… Miranda and a “dinner party first date” thing with some guy who has a thin head. Naturally, it opens to them at the table with like 10 people and the question asked at this first date dinner party is “old movie stars would’ve you liked to f*** when they were young?”

I—

There are lots of fun questions that I’m sure would be entertaining at a dinner party but I feel like this would be so…………….. uncomfortable. But OF COURSE, Miranda laughs this off and says “hahaha alive or dead lol XD?” And everyone has an IMMEDIATELY answer…………. Not going to list out all their answers because they seem slightly outdated even for 1998 but I’m?? Do people just casually think about this?

Reminder this is a FIRST DATE.

The women at the dinner party then pull Miranda aside, and basically say -- GET THIS — “usually Nick brings models here and they have bad answers to the “old celebrity f***ing” question so we told him to bring someone with a better answer who wasn’t a model and you had a great answer.” So Miranda is the non-model.

And they say she’s “obviously not a model.”

And Nick admits he’s “obsessed with models.”

Carrie says these types of men like Nick are “modelizers.” (Aka men who date models almost exclusively)

“Modelizers are a particular breed, a step beyond womanizers.” -Carrie Bradshaw, 1998, Earth.

scene change

Aaaaand now the 4 ladiezzz are having Chinese food discussing men wanting to date models and how they’re not models. Voiceover Carrie refers to the four of them as “four single friends.” Do we need the identifier of their relationship status in this? Really?

Briefly talking about the “impossible standards of beauty” before quickly going right back to hating models. They’re talking about the parts of their bodies that they all hate, which I don’t feel the need to repeat here because they’re obviously played by famous actresses who are all gorgeous and while I’m GLAD they’re showing that everyone has moments of self-esteem struggles it’s frustrating too because they barely lift each other up.

Okay TED talk over.

“I find it hard to believe that four beautiful flesh and blood women are intimidated by some unreal fantasy.” Okay, Carrie, you have a good point there.

Soooo interesting things are happening. Voiceover Carrie is now basically contemplating why models make women feel insecure, but instead of just focusing on the insecurity/women/body shaming aspect of it, she’s saying it’s related to MEN DATING MODELS. And men finding models attractive.

Carrie, babe….. I don’t think it’s related to men.

Ooh! A quote from Nick, for some reason: “Why f*** the girl in the skirt, when you can f*** the girl in the ad for the skirt?” Gag me with a spoon.

A few models explaining how men want them because they’re hot and they enjoy being the object of their attention, a few lines that basically make models sound like idiots (“I read. I once read a whole magazine cover to cover.”

Aaaand Nickyboy (NIck, Miranda’s datę) has another little cut-in comment about how sometimes people tell him models don’t have brains, but he then argues to the camera that they don’t need to use their brains and who cares what people think, because he gets to “f*** a model.” The objectification is ABHORRENT.

scene change

Okay, now Carrie is with some weird “modelizer” artist named Barkley.

Please buckle in before I talk about this.

He’s… making some sort of art exhibit while talking about “beautiful things” (aka models) and why he likes to have sex with them. And then decides to show Carrie the art he is working on that he “unfortunately” can’t show the public yet……. And it’s about 10 televisions that he turns on and shows Carrie, each of which have a different sex tape with a different model. And Carrie just sits and watches it with him?? And the women don’t know about it??

So Carrie lights a cigarette and watches the simultaneous sex tapes with him.

Y’all this just makes me angry. I get that this show is about sex but this seems to make it seem like objectification is just completely intertwined with it. I don’t like that at ALL.

There’s got to be some way to talk about sex without losing respect for the women and gaining respect for the men about the exact same things in the same conversation.

Skippeedoo asks Carrie to desperately find out whether Miranda is interested in him, and has Carrie call her, but then takes the phone and is desperately trying to ask. I just… Man.

“Modelizers.” Oy.

I’m also seeing a lot of objectification of literally everyone on all sides, including Carrie’s token Gay Friend who has a male model client who he is also “obsessed” with. We love boundaries. (“We” does not include Carrie’s Token Gay Friend, who hopes the male model is gay and wants to date him).

“How could anyone that gorgeous be straight?” I have so many questions.

Samantha finds out that Barkley (the sex tape man) “only dates models” and seems to take this as a challenge. Samantha is Aromantic, I’ve decided. She’s definitely sexual but I’m not seeing any desire for a long term romantic thing. That’s my new take.

BIG IS BACK. I literally do not get it. Carrie tells Big that some men only date models, and tells him what she is “discovering,” with Big commenting some people just have a “thing for exceptionally beautiful women.”

Carrie apparently doesn’t have an office??? She WORKS FROM HOME FULL TIME?? Either in her apartment or a coffee shop?? In 1998????????

MR. BIG IS DATING A MODEL HAHAHAHAHAHA. Amazing.

Samantha asks about Sex Tape Man Barkley, and when Carrie explains that he records their sex, she wants to do it even more???? Aromantic Samantha.

Alright now Carrie is hanging out with Male Model, saying how he’s essentially an Anti-Modelizer (like him personally, he avoids dating models, you get what I mean). I literally cannot tell if Carrie is trying to date him/have sex with him/I don’t even know or just experimenting to check a box off or something.

“So what do you want to be when you grow up”-Male Model, asking 30something Carrie. I love that for him. He says he wants to leave NYC and move back home to his hometown to be a cop, then goes on to ask if they could just lie together and hang out all night and talk and not do anything sexual, and that he's lonely. Y’all, Male Model is asexual. Another new take.

Skippydippy just ran into Miranda in a convenience store and begs for like the third time this episode why they can’t date, and even though Miranda is like “no you’re too young for me,” he asks a fourth time and then she tells him to come over……. Presumably... to have sex………..

Aaaaand Samantha has sex with Sex Tape Man Barkley, and asks mid-sex if he’s making a sex tape. When he’s not (“I only tape models”) she asks him to and he says “fine.” ???? I think it’s fine to want to make sex tapes and whatnot but knowing he’s doing it in a public art installation and has no respect for the women and doesn’t even usually tell them they’re being filmed makes me kind of…………… icky. I’d think sex tapes are more like a “we both agree to this” thing, which I guess they’re agreeing in this scenario, but I don’t think if I was Samantha I’d agree to that.

Actually if I was Samantha I wouldn’t have been having sex with him in the first place so that’s irrelevant isn’t it.

“After a while you just want to be with the one who makes you laugh,” Mr. Big explains why being a Modelizer can’t be a lifelong pursuit. Again, WHAT??? I just don’t get it. What is the goal of dating for these people?????? Nobody here wants a relationship.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Most “ALLO SAY/DO WHAT?” Moments, in no particular order:

Samantha wanting to have sex with someone--anyone-- who has sex with models

That dude Barkley casually making secret sex tapes and then casually showing them to Carrie

Samantha being offended Barkley wasn't secretly taping their sexual encounter

Skippideedooda continually wanting to see Miranda even though she was mean to him the entire time

All four of the main women believing that women's insecurities are specifically due to dating men

ANYWAYYYYY

This was very long, so thank you for sticking with me. This episode was disgusting I give it a 2/10, everyone needs to screw their heads on straight and respect each other. You can be allosexual but I draw the line at viewing other people as bodies to use for sex.

Should I keep going? Should I try to shorten this very very lengthy format? I’m still trying to play around with how I should do this, like keeping it as stream of consciousness or doing something more concise.

Happy June :)

[emmy-dekarios-bg3]

Heart of the Weave - chapter 28 - still Gale’s POV

I awaken to the excruciating brightness of the sun beaming in my face, and I’m astounded that it’s already morning. I did sleep better than I thought I would though, despite these crucial circumstances. It still feels incongruous to wake up without my wife by my side, and a feeling of emptiness is still within me as I realize it’s been a full day since I’ve seen my daughter. I miss Emmy. I miss my baby girl. Oh, to see Jenevelle and hold her against my chest while I lie in bed with her mother… That’s the ideal day I enjoy.

“Let’s go, go, go!” Karlach shouts enthusiastically. It appears she’s more than confident we will destroy these Bhaalists, and I sure hope she’s correct if that’s the case. We finish eating our breakfast rather rapidly and pack up our tents to scurry off to our dreaded destination. It still feels unreal adventuring, and I never pictured us doing it again, that’s for sure. We make our way to the rugged dirt path, and I notice the city just straight ahead, though it appears we still have a few miles left until we arrive, so roughly an hour or two. Maybe even three, depending on if any horrifying events occur along the way.

“Say, Halsin, where are your children while you’re away?” Wyll inquires.

“Ah. Well, between Arabella containing the shadow weave, Thaniel and Oliver having extreme powers, and the Owlbear… They will be alright. Yenna is greatly protected, thank Silvanus. The kids will be alright. Besides, they are under extreme protection by the fellow druids in the area, who are also guarding the shack we live in so they won’t be touched.”

“Ah, a man of strategy. Good planning, I must say.” Wyll and Karlach are holding hands as we continue our travels on the road. Their fearlessness is admirable, and they really work together as a team in both combat and partnership. To stay positive in a dire situation must be comforting, though they’re used to fighting in Avernus so this must be nothing to them. While I am not afraid myself, I do worry about the future of our friends and my mother’s life. She has no protection, and she also hasn’t written to me in over a month, which is not like her at all. I hope she’s doing okay.

I begin to feel an unusual sensation, one that I’m unfamiliar with. I can sense a horrible presence or event that’s about to occur, and it’s rather unsettling to the nerves. No sign of anyone is nearby though, but that wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been spied on.

“Anyone else feel like they’re being watched?” I question suspiciously.

“You are most certainly not alone,” Astarion answers, eyeballing the area around us. The sound of knives clashing together is replaying in my head and it’s making me uncomfortable; and I have no control of these thoughts.

“Ahhh ahhh ahhh ahhhhhh!” A maniacal laughter can be heard within these thoughts, though it sounds distant…but the laugh sounds familiar. Orin, maybe? Even though she’s been deceased for quite some time?

“Murder…murder…death…” Another voice whispers nearby, and it lingers for a moment like an echo.

“Someone – no, multiple people – are close to us, and we aren’t even at Baldur’s Gate. They’re leaving the city,” Wyll warns us. “We need to hurry.”

As we try to bolt our way toward the city, a bunch of Bhaal assassins reveal themselves from their shrouds, exposing themselves from invisibility. They’re all dressed in black robes, and a crimson aura seems to be surrounding their bodies as they appear.

“Oh, how lovely,” Astarion says sarcastically, slowly pulling out one of his daggers from his pants. “Just what we needed.” One of the five assassins steps out in front of the others, approaching us with a grim smile on his face and wiping his bloody hand on his robe.

“Bow. Submit. Let us carve your flesh like raw meat. Give in to the temptation of darkness. Give in to the Lord drinking the chalice of your blood. Let us absorb in the aroma of your rotting skin, fueling our thirst for more. There’s only five of you. Much more awaits at the temple, begging for your deaths.” His voice is baritone, holding intense eye contact with me as he speaks these dark words.

“Step back,” Wyll murmurs. As we step back, he casts Hunger of Hadar on the assassins, damaging at least three of the five of those bloodthirsty murderers. Karlach charges at the other two that weren’t damaging, bashing her warhammer into their skulls. One of them perishes, but luckily the other is close to death, so she swings at him once more. One of the assassins escapes the cloud from Wyll’s spell, coming at me with his rusty, bloody knife. He’s trying to aim for my heart but I cast “Disintegrate” which causes him to die immediately before he could even lay a hand on my body.

“Only two left to go, hell yeah!” Karlach shouts, jumping around to keep her energy flowing within her. “Let’s crush these fuckers’ skulls!” Astarion shoots his bow at one of the assassins, but unfortunately misses.

“Damn it all, let me try again. Shithead won’t sit still,” he mutters, then aims the bow directly into the man’s brain, killing him instantly.

“You’re only pleasing our murder Lord!” Astarion laughs at the man’s comment, who doesn’t seem to be fully aware how Bhaal’s plan works. These have to be new assassins. There’s no way they aren’t.

“You have to be the one to kill, not us, you ignorant fool.” As the assassin tries to charge back at Astarion, Halsin casts ‘moonlight’ and I use ‘Magic Missile’ to finish him off, leading him to meet his Lord, where I’m sure some sort of judgment will be passed.

Silence occurs for just a few moments as everyone tries to catch their breath, and I’m over here just coming to terms that the entire situation we dealt with was nothing compared to what’s to come next.

“Well, we killed those guys off. Five Bhaalists. That’s a win, right?” Karlach comments. Five is better than none, but unfortunately there’s hundreds – if not thousands – of them lurking around and ready to strike. Who knows how many we can stop?

“It may be a win, sweetheart, but brace yourself. That’s nothing compared to what’s ahead,” Wyll responds, rubbing her back as they take a breath from the intense yet quick fight. At least they weren’t too challenging to destroy. If you’re going to be a villain, never approach your victims by talking, just strike from behind. Alas, it seems common sense lacks tremendously nowadays.

The city is just a few feet ahead but it appears much more calm than I anticipated. I hope it’s because no one is fully aware of what’s going on and not because of the endless murders. How many people here have passed?

“Well, nothing is on fire, so that’s a good sign.” Oh Karlach. Always trying to find the positive in everything, a trait I wish I had.

“Everyone seems to be acting like everything is fine, what’s–” Before Wyll could finish his sentence, loud shrieks of horror can be heard closer to Wyrm’s Crossing…and we’re all the way in Rivington. We all look at each other with sheer panic, and simultaneously mutter “Shit.” As the shriek shakes the city, most people are scurrying inside their homes or the nearest buildings they can find, while others are caving into their curiosity and head toward the screams.

We fast travel using the portal in the wall and find ourselves at Wyrm’s Crossing, where there is a thick trail of slimy blood on the cobblestone path next to the castle and bloody handprints painted on the walls. All of this blood appears to be of a fresh kill.

“We made it too late to save them,” I mumble, then sigh. I try not to feel defeated, but we could’ve prevented it if we made it much sooner. Then again, so many lives have been taken the past few days I’m sure. Nothing we really could have done.

The rotten stench of death is overwhelming, yet all too familiar. It has been ages since I’ve had to witness the sight of this much gore, and I sure as hell did not miss it. The odor brings back horrid memories I do not want to remember, mostly ones involving Orin. The bodies we’ve found on our adventures because of her doing. Lack of heads. Lack of limbs. Blood painted on the walls. Body parts scattered around on the floor. I actually gag as the smell lingers, becoming poor potent as we walk down the path to the Basilisk Gate.

“Oh good Gods! Even Avernus didn’t reek this bad. The worst it got was the smell of sulfur,” Karlach says, then proceeds to make a gagging sound. “Blech!”

“I couldn’t agree more. This rancid odor makes changing dirty diapers a walk in the park,” I respond, holding my hands over my nose. It’s true though. I thought I’d be so accustomed to the gore that even being away from it for so long, it wouldn’t bother me. Boy, was I incorrect.

As we meet the bridge that leads to the Basilisk Gate part of the city, we notice an even larger pool of blood with a couple bones scattered on the ground within it.

“Damn, poor soul,” Wyll says with a sigh. “This one got torn to shreds.”

‘

“The piece of clothing next to the bones looks to be of one of the cultists,” Halsin adds. “This one doesn't look to be a bystander.”

“Have they started killing each other now? The fuck is going on?” Astarion murmurs in pure horror as we stare at the puddle in front of us. Whatever is happening, it’s not getting better.