#and if you carve multiple pieces a week like me

[claypigeonpottery]

I recently saw your ram plate! What’s the tool you used to carve the ram called? I know someone who’s doing ceramics in college who wanted to know 💕

it’s Kemper’s Wire Stylus! my favourite tool 😁

it’s a great carving tool for leather hard clay, capable of a lot of fine detail and texture, but it can break if the clay is too hard, since it’s just a wire

[pinkberrytea]

He is the king, you are his crown; he is the tree, you are its blooms.

Requiem—A ceremony for the dead. The Vampire Ascendant once made her his bride; now he weds her before the gods. Eternal rest grant unto them, and let perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.

The pleasure of your company is requested at the marriage of Lord Astarion Ancunín to his darling consort, Lady Ancunín. Reception to follow.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 7k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! this one was inspired by information released by Ed Greenwood about wedding rites in the Forgotten Realms. I thought the blood pact in particular would fit AA and consort perfectly! hopefully it is an enjoyable read. I’d like to thank @bardic-inspo and @starryjuicebox for their support and help with this piece. I appreciate you lovelies!

tags: blood drinking; cunnilingus; orgasm edging; overstimulation; fluff & smut; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; dry humping; frottage; multiple orgasms; possessive behavior; mirror sex; wedding night; piv sex

“Art desirous of union with the man who comes for thee?” 

As the Galerian priestess’ words reverberate around the otherwise solemnly quiet venue, you are escorted to the snow-covered aisle by your dapperly dressed handmaidens, clad in beautiful scarlet silks with gemstones sown on the sleeves, and all eyes present turn to gaze upon your quivering form—yet none are more piercing than the pair of crimson irises taking in your image from their place by the altar, ruby red flecks swimming in pools of blood whose glistening surface is now disturbed by the waves of emotion breaking on their sanguine shores. Astarion had not been prepared for this; for how his heart would beat faster, how his stomach would twist and turn at the sight of you in your wedding gown, holding the bouquet of dahlias and asphodels he’d endeavored to choose for you himself close to your chest, pale cheeks glowing a faint pink and snowflakes falling leisurely on the veil covering your hair. Suddenly, the shallow reasons for why he had even come up with the idea of hosting the ceremony are all but forgotten, and his frenzied thoughts reduced to a single word: perfect. You look perfect. A vision in white, a bloodied rose, his darling consort, his sinful bride.

His eternal lover.

The moment you start walking towards him, the attendees all rise from their seats and the processional begins, your timid gait almost in rhythm with each pluck of the harp’s strings. He looks hauntingly beautiful in his elegant white doublet, intrinsically embellished with golden and carmine embroidery, silver curls pristinely arranged and marble skin shining ethereally, reflecting the gentle light of the winter moon. The fresh wound on his hand stands in stark contrast against the otherwise smooth blancheness of his palm, blood trickling down onto the soft snow below, and the enticing scent of it wafts through the air almost like an invitation, a temptation too great for your starved self, as all the endless preparations have left you no time to quench the everlasting thirst he bequeathed to you. How long has it been since you last fed? Days? Weeks? Try as you might, you cannot remember. Yet it matters so little now, as he waits for you with almost jovial expectation, ready to once again seal your undying bond, renew the vows made on the fateful eve of your turning.

“Seven thousand souls have given me the power to carve out my own future, and I want you to be part of it.”

The more you approach him, the thicker the air around him becomes, the louder the buzzing in his ears sounds. Your lashes look so long, your rouged lips so full—and gods, how sweetly you gaze upon him, how bashfully, naught behind the bright gleam in your lachrymose eyes but pure, unconditional adoration. Through all the pain, all the hurt, your devotion to him never once faltered, and though the perpetual guilt haunts you both still, it is not in spite of your shared burden that you are brought closer together, but because of it. As you finally make your way to the altar and take your place by his side, time seems to come to a standstill, and in the minutes that follow, you can see nothing but his face, smell nothing but his blood, hear nothing but his heartbeat. No one else matters, nothing else matters—just you, him, and your immortal love.

“My sole endeavor now is to make this world yours and mine alone.”

The priestess takes your hand in hers, and using an ornamental dagger, cuts a gash across its surface, as she did with Astarion’s before your arrival—yet unlike his, the blood takes a while to bloom from the broken skin, so little of it remaining within your veins. You bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a yelp, her treatment of you clearly rougher than would be otherwise necessary; the eldest heiress of an influential patriar, her father had sponsored the construction of the first Galerian temple of Baldur’s Gate, a venture Astarion had enthusiastically supported to gain his favor, and with it, access to the growing following of the God of Ambition. A young acolyte at the time, her infatuation for your darling was undeniable—it was almost wicked then when he arranged for her to be the one to wed you, a political ploy to cement the bond between the two families. You knew his motives, and his cruelty brought you no joy, yet his darkness was something you had long decided to embrace rather than deny, the weight of your choices a penance you’d not ever dare renounce.

Once the deed is done, she lets go of you and backs away, a hint of contempt muddying her lowered gaze. Neither of you pay it heed—rather, you remain focused on each other, the guests but faceless figures looming in the background, blurred and meaningless. He holds his hand up, eyes locked with yours all the while, pupils blown out and raw emotion blazing like a firestorm in their depths. You do the same, your movements small and uncertain, yet as the tips of your fingers touch, he is the one to close the distance between your bloodstained palms, wound against wound, your crimson flowing into his and his flowing into yours. The connection assails you with almost overwhelming fierceness, your minds blended together and a thread of blood binding your souls to one another, as if you were but a single being. You can feel his heart pounding in your chest, his red coursing through your body, his thoughts seeping inside your head and reassuring you of that which needs not be professed; he loves you, oh, how dearly he loves you, like the moon loves the stars, like the dusk loves the dawn. Yours is the light keeping him from being consumed by the shadows, a flickering flame he is willing to protect, no matter the cost.

“I ask for thy hand as my equal, that our lives run as one, from this day forth,” he says, voice soft like velvet, laced with undeniable warmth despite its measured cadence. You may not truly be his equal, not really, but that is a fact you were always willing to accept. He is the king, you are his crown; he is the tree, you are its blooms. You could not hope to compare to his greatness, he could not hope to live up to yours—yet even if those around you may not understand, even if they may challenge it, your love is no less real, no less precious.

“I accept, before the gods, and before all these good people,” you answer, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes as the words slip from your trembling lips. His feelings become entangled with your own while the blood link lasts, and hidden beneath the yearning, beneath the sheer intensity of his longing for you, you sense anguish, you sense remorse. How many times have you danced to this same tune, played this same game? What a hopeless fool he is—manipulating your affections and toying with them, only to then realize the upper hand was hardly his, not in that pretty clearing during your first night together, not now, as you stand before him so beautifully, so earnestly, laying bare your heart and handing it to him on a silver platter. Your unwavering trust in him is something he was never quite able to come to terms with—why? Why is it that you want him, even after everything? Why give yourself to a selfish villain such as he while asking for nothing in return, nothing but for him to love you back? He knows not the answer to this, but still he would take it; your body, your mind, your soul, he would take it all and make them his, and his alone.

“I shall protect thee and succor thee, until my breath fails and the gods claim me, putting thy needs and comfort before mine own, and keeping no secret from thee, until the end of my days, or until the gods set us apart, though I hereby pray they shall never do so.” The gods have no say in this—you are forever his, and he is forever yours. Astarion is your god, and he shall be the one to claim you; such is the fate you have chosen for yourself. Once he finishes voicing the pledge, your hands come apart and the connection is severed, leaving you empty and vulnerable. Still, you carry on with the rites, bringing your bloodied fingers to his parted lips, and his to yours, staining them with your combined essence; while mimicking your movements, he purposefully refuses to pry his eyes from yours, looking upon you and through you, so fiercely yet so gently, so ardently yet so lovingly. You lose yourself in the urgency of his gaze, giving into its passionate allure, feeling your body lean forward almost as if you were but a flesh puppet, and him the performer pulling your strings.

“You’ve never tasted so sweet, darling.”

He lowers his head to meet you halfway, and the instant your mouth crashes into his, all your thoughts crumble down and dissolve into nothing. The coppery taste of your crimson mixed with his spreads through your tongue, reaching the back of your throat, and the pain of hunger tugs violently at your stomach; yet even in death, as he breathes into you, you feel alive, through him, for him, enraptured by the softness of his lips and the warmth of his skin, protected from the bloodlust, from its all-consuming fury. He cups your cheeks with both of his hands and pulls your face even closer to his, almost as if trying to assimilate you, become one with you, to which you respond just as desperately, standing on your tiptoes and wrapping your arms around his neck. The tears that had been threatening to fall spill from your closed eyes, the surge of emotions bursting your frozen heart open; he dries them with his thumbs, delicately tucking the few hair strands that have slipped from underneath your headdress behind your ear. Blood is his ink, and with it, he shall again carve his name on your soul and claim that which belongs to him—requiem aeternam dona eis, so that tomorrow, you may rise anew.

“We have a beautiful, bloody future to look forward to, my love.”

It’s useless. No matter for how long or how hard you peer into the grand cheval mirror standing before you, it refuses to show you your reflection. Rather, all you see is an empty room, illuminated by naught but the moonshine creeping in from the open balcony, its velvet drapers swaying with the evening breeze. The snowfall has ceased, but the air remains mercilessly gelid; with your veins painfully wanting for blood to keep them warm, you wrap your arms around yourself, which unsurprisingly brings you no comfort. The guests are all gone, the ceremony is over—now you are left alone with the wandering voices echoing in the recesses of your mind, which grow ever so loud as the aftermath dawns upon you and dissipates the dreamy fog that had been cast over your still veiled head up until this very moment. 

Alone—yet not for long.

“Stunning.” You hear his voice before you see him approach you from behind, elegant fingers brushing against your bare shoulders and squeezing them gently, the soothing heat emanating from his hands sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. “You look stunning, darling,” Astarion whispers in your ear, his pretty lips grazing the ruby-carved earring hanging off it, which in turn dangles ever so softly, catching the moon beams on its shiny surface; breathing hot air onto your sensitive flesh, he then slides them down your neck and plants a loving kiss at its base, half-lidded eyes staring back at his own lonesome figure on the other side of the glass. 

“Do I?” you ask, the hint of disdain in your tone taking even you by surprise. He, however, seems unphased; on the contrary, his handsome face creases into a subtle, cheeky smile, and his hands glide down your arms to then join them around your waist, his chiseled chest pressed flat against your back. As if under a spell, you promptly let down your walls and lean into his embrace, closing your eyes and cocking your head to the side to grant him better access. His smile widens in response, and he kisses your neck again, letting his fangs ghost over the set of bite marks disrupting your otherwise immaculate skin for a moment before pulling back slightly and resting his chin on that same spot.

“Why, shall I be your mirror, my sweet?” Astarion purrs, the silky smoothness of his voice covering your now limp body in goosebumps. “Would that please you? Knowing what the world sees when it looks at you.” He articulates each word with a guttural growl, scarlet irises darkening as his grip on you tightens, yet swirling in their murky depths, you glimpse ruddy hues of worship and desire, fondness and hunger; while it may sound like he is being unserious or trying to egg you on, there is sincerity underlying his offer, an honest wish to make good on it. “What I see.” 

No sooner than the question leaves his lips, he spins you around and presses one of his hands to the small of your back, the other brushing your veil away from your face and caressing your cold cheek—once you lock eyes with him, his cheerfulness vanishes and he gazes upon your graceful figure in pensive silence, scanning every inch of your frame, from the opulent headpiece around your forehead to the sequined pumps hugging your tired feet. After what seems like an eternity, he brings his hand on your cheek down to clasp one of your own, fingers intertwined with yours; lifting it up gently, he then gives it a tender kiss, an impish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“May I have this dance, dearest?” As he waits for your answer, it occurs to you that the chance to waltz with him never really presented itself, noblemen and underground overlords alike having kept him plenty busy throughout the night. You nod timidly, and immediately he takes the lead, stepping to the side and bringing you with him. You tumble awkwardly as if about to fall, but his palm splayed across your back holds you firmly, and instead you lean onto his torso, resting your head right above his heart. The instant you do, its loud pounding reverberates against your ear, lulling you, cradling you, and your tangled bodies sway gently to its soothing rhythm. In the mirror, the image reflected is that of a groom dancing with his ghost bride; no music, no ballroom, no elegant footwork, and yet the intensity of his lovestruck stare paints such a vivid picture that one might see shadows of your presence reflected in his eyes.

“Let’s see then—a slender neck, deliciously bare as if inviting me to feast on it, thanks to that lovely hairdo of yours,” Astarion suddenly says, voice quiet but hoarse, tinged with undeniable specks of lust. He guides your hand to his own waist and lets go of it, only to then slide his newly freed digits along the curve of your throat, carefully tracing the bite marks with their soft pads. “Though I must say, beautiful as your gown may be, I would very much like to undo that pesky knot keeping some of it concealed. May I, darling?” he asks, fingers quickly moving to the satin ribbon holding your bodice in place, wrapped fast around your neckline and flowing down your naked back. You nod again, cheek still pressed to his chest, and with a smug simper, he expertly unlaces it with unparalleled adroitness, letting the pure white fabric slip down your now completely nude bosom. You shudder and snuggle closer to him, in response to which he affectionately folds an arm over your shoulder and buries his fingers in your hair, partially unweaving the elaborate braids that had been tugging at your scalp all day, only those held by the crystal flower barrettes on your temples remaining. 

“Flawless, supple skin, which flushes so handsomely with my essence blooming under it,” he continues, digits sinking deeper into your ribs before he twirls you around, dipping forward as if going in for a kiss, though instead, he reaches for the hemline of your dress, hiking it up your long legs and in so doing, exposing the sinuous contours of your hips and thighs. Almost absentmindedly, the wandering fingers knead their way to the plushness of your round behind, still hidden beneath your underpants; giving it a firm squeeze, he then brings his other hand down from your head to unbutton the tulle corset attached to your petticoat, and just like that, the sumptuous wedding gown falls to your feet, leaving you covered in nothing but your veil and smallclothes.

“Bright crimson eyes that always stare so very coyly, so very docilely.” With a provocative growl, Astarion pulls you taut against him, and once your navel clashes with his crotch, the obvious erection forming under his pants becomes nested right between your bodies. Holding onto your waist with both of his hands, he then presses his mouth to an artery pulsating slightly above your collarbone, letting his warm tongue graze it teasingly as he speaks. “And oh, those precious little fangs, peeking from under lips most luscious… shall we put them to good use, pretty vampling?” he asks, pitch lowering dangerously, and his meaning is made instantly clear—positioned as he is, his own neck is conveniently exposed to you, too tantalizing an offer to ever be refused, so you accept it graciously, biting down on his ivory flesh just as he bites down on yours. The piercing pain of his teeth puncturing your skin is entirely numbed as the thick blood cascades down your throat, and you lose yourself in the bliss of life being returned to your undead veins, gripping both of his arms in an almost delirious haze; while drinking from each other, you rock back and forth, dancing still, a dark waltz under the fading stars.

“I can’t wait to taste your lips after you’ve tasted me.” 

Never unlatching from your bruising artery, Astarion wraps his arms around your rear and picks you up, taking you with him to the canopy bed on the other side of the room. Upon reaching it, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, you in his lap, knees bent on each side of him. He takes a few more swigs of your crimson before pulling away, though you remain feeding—while letting you drink, he carefully removes your headdress and veil, laying them aside to then cradle the back of your scalp with one of his hands and gently run his fingers down your spine with the other. You both moan and groan quietly in each other’s ears, and you can feel him leisurely grinding his hardness against your core; due to the friction, slick starts building between your now puffed-up folds, most of his red going straight to your aching sex rather than swimming around in your stomach. 

“That’s enough, pet,” he coos after some time, lightly tapping your shoulder, and you reluctantly obey, prying yourself off him with a needy whimper. He smirks and plants a kiss on your forehead, sliding his hands under your thighs to lift you up slightly and rotate your body so that your back is turned to his chest. Once your buttocks are pushed flush against the swell between his legs, you help him peel off your soaked underpants—pressing his knees to the back of yours, he then spreads you both wide, exposing your pretty cunt to the chilly winter air. You mewl pathetically, casting down your gaze in shame and hiding behind your palms; with an amused snicker, he grabs your wrists and lowers them, holding both together with one hand and using the other to grasp your chin. “Look, darling,” he whispers, tilting up your jaw and brushing his fangs against your earlobe, “see how exquisite you are.” 

Raising your head almost hesitantly, you do as told, and it takes you a moment to register what now fills your field of vision: the mirror, albeit more distant, is angled perfectly to reflect your naked form, no longer a ghostly apparition, but flesh and bone, your image returned to you thanks to Astarion’s ascended essence sizzling within your veins. Still holding your wrists, he slides the hand on your chin down your neck, gliding it across the hollows of your sternum and then up the soft curve of your breasts, where he stops to pinch a pebbling nipple, earning a high-pitched yelp from you; looking straight into your eyes through the glass, he lovingly kisses the back of your shoulder and smiles against your skin, obviously pleased with himself. After playing with the puckered nub for a moment, his fingers continue descending, through your navel and crotch—finally reaching their intended destination, they circle the twitching bundle of nerves crowning your mound, and you arch your back in turn, shock waves shooting up your limbs.

“Asta—ah!” you moan, rolling your hips into his hand, but he immobilizes you by tensioning his arm muscles, without ever stopping stroking the engorged knot. You whine impatiently, the tautness in your lower belly growing more agonizing by the second; Astarion, however, is clearly in no rush, his movements mercilessly languid. Pressing down on your clit with a deft digit, he buries two others in the sticky warmth of your folds, parting them gently and hungrily gazing upon your wetness, or rather, its reflection—in the mirror, your slickened entrance glistens wantonly, a honied flower waiting to be pollinated, given a healthy flush by the heat of his crimson. One finger rims it tentatively, coating itself in your juices; with no prior warning, he then plunges it in you up to the knuckle, venturing within the tightness of your walls. You try to stifle a shriek, in vain—emboldened by this, he plunges another, watching mischievously as you writhe and squirm. 

“Oh, little love, I do quite like those pretty noises you’re making, I like them very much,” he says, kissing your shoulder again and curling his fingers inside your slit, which flutters desperately in its urge to be stuffed full. Overwhelmed by the lewdness of the scene unfolding before you, not quite used to witnessing yourself in such a vulnerable position, you try turning your head to the side, only for him to quickly let go of your wrists, capturing your face in his now freed hand and pulling it back into its previous position, intent on having you be his audience as he brings about your ruin. “Tut tut, cheeky pup.” Despite clicking his tongue, Astarion’s voice carries a playful lilt, accompanied by the roguish glint in his lust-ridden irises. Bucking his hips forward, he wedges his still clothed bulge deeper within the valley of your ass, and even through the fabric, you can feel it twitching and jerking. “You will be a good girl for me, won’t you?” 

You nod vigorously, hot tears of yearning prickling your eyelids and escaping through your long lashes. He dries them with his thumb, the smirk still gracing his lips, yet his gaze softens a little; moving his hand from your jaw to your chest, he then cups one of your breasts, squeezing and kneading it gently before resuming his attentions between your legs, now pumping his elegant digits in and out of your center. Feeling your body edging closer to the precipice of desire, you hold onto both of his arms, clenched abdomen covered in a glossy sheen of salty sweat and cheeks burning bright red—however, just as you are about to climax, he suddenly snatches you up and throws you on the bed, stradling you right after so that you become entrapped beneath him.

“Good girls must earn their spurs, darling,” he growls, grabbing both of your knees and pushing them apart, licking his lips at the sight of your cunt spasming madly in protest, hopelessly slickened and swollen. “So needy… have you no patience, my dear?” Smoldering you with a lascivious stare, he ignores your avid pleas and lowers his head, pressing his mouth to the plushness of one of your thighs. Ever so delicately, he kisses it and lingers for a short while, only to then unceremoniously sink his fangs into the squishy flesh, coaxing a soft cry out of you. Moving his hands to your hips, he holds you in place while voraciously sucking on the throbbing artery, some of the blood leaking and trickling down onto the silk sheets. Your arousal makes your crimson taste delectably sweet, an ambrosial aphrodisiac—with each gulp, his neglected cock jolts angrily, translucent drops of precome running down its length, so hard now that the pink tip peeks out from the hem of his pants.

“It will only hurt a bit—the pleasure will be far greater than the pain.”

“Hnng—Astarion, please…!” you beg, attempting to bring a hand to the tumid bud convulsing atop your dripping core, but Astarion seizes it with one of his own and pins it to the mattress while drinking still. Finally unlatching from your thigh, he laps at the red beads that remain oozing out of the small wounds inflicted on your skin by his teeth, following the trail down to your groin; once there, he lets his tongue wander and graze your folds, tauntingly flicking it as if by accident. You bury the fingers of your other hand in his silvery curls, half expecting him to stop you, but he doesn’t—instead, he brushes the wet appendage against your clit, swirling it around for a moment before making his way downwards, leaving a glistening string of his saliva mixed with your lifeblood in his wake. Upon arriving at your entrance, he traces its outer edges, savoring you with lengthy strokes to then delve inside at last.

“Oh, gods… hah…” No longer capable of keeping the breathy whimpers and erratic pants contained within the confines of your mouth, you throw your head back and let them fall freely from your parted lips, grabbing a fistful of his hair, though carefully so as not to pull at it. Pleased with your reaction, he rewards you by nuzzling his face against your mound, reaching as deeply within you as possible while massaging and tasting your tender walls, the bridge of his nose auspiciously pressed against the hood of your pearl. Heat starts again pooling in your stomach, your every nerve set ablaze, and it doesn’t take long before the tension snaps and you finally come undone on his tongue, creaming and clenching around it. He enthusiastically partakes of your tangy nectar, eating you up still even as you bask in the afterglow, only stopping once you let go of him. With one last lick, he propels his torso back up, drool dribbling down his chin. 

“Ah, but that won’t do,” Astarion says, releasing your wrist to wipe his lips, their corners still quirked upwards into a haughty, devilish smile. “No, my sweet… I’m not nearly done with you yet.” Lowering both hands to his pants, he swiftly drags them down, freeing his erection and wrapping his fingers around its base. Your eyes are irresistibly drawn to it, and from under heavy lids you gape at the bulging veins and enlarged crown, his foreskin tautly pulled back to reveal the weeping slit. Leaning on one of your knees and slipping his free hand under the other to keep you spread open, he then guides the swollen cockhead to your fluttering folds, dipping it between them and glazing himself in your essence. With a quiet whine, you wiggle your hips, your sex still sensitive as you recover from your orgasm, but instead of backing out, he doubles down and presses the velvety tip harder against your raw knot, chuckling as your protests grow in volume and you try to slither away from him, straining your thigh muscles in an unsuccessful effort to close your legs.

“Gods, you are too cute.” Staring smugly at your flailing body while rubbing himself up and down your wetness, Astarion fastens his grip on your calf using just about enough force not to hurt you, but simply restrain your movements. “Where’s my good girl? Again. I know you can come again,” he purrs, voice deceptively gentle, although the warmth in his eyes is genuine. You shake your head, unable to muster up an intelligible sentence, your mind wiped clean of coherent thought; bending down to brush his lips against your temple, he kisses away the tears beading your lashes, affectionately pressing his forehead to yours. “You can do it. Come, my love. For me.” The whisper caresses your ears with such tenderness that as if by magic, you feel yourself relax, the pain slowly giving way to rekindled arousal. You try your best to focus on the budding sensation, reveling in the smoothness of his cockhead as it grinds against your sore clit, indulging in the intimacy of having your center of pleasure almost merged with his. Gradually, the waves of lust and hunger rippling through you gain momentum, spreading from your gut to your extremities, every inch of your skin tingling and prickling with primal yearning—taking notice of your rapid ascent to rapture, he hastily aligns his cock with your entrance, stretching its tight borders open, though not yet shafting himself inside. 

“That’s it, my darling little bride. Come for your sire.” You can barely hear his words as white noise overtakes all your senses, the world around you reduced to a blurry, chaotic maelstrom. The moment he finally slides his length between your walls, filling you to the brim in a single thrust, your toes curl and your hands ball into fists, your body going limp as you are at last pushed over the edge of ecstasy. Letting go of your knee to take off his doublet, he carelessly tosses it on the floor to then gently cradle both of your cheeks, pulling you into a sensual, passionate kiss. Muffled groans form in the back of his throat with every twitch of his cock, which pulsates longingly as you vibrate and flutter around it; he nips at your bottom lip as if asking for passage, sucking on the bloody droplets drawn from the nicked flesh, and once you comply, without delay his tongue starts massaging your own, eagerly rolling over it while he patiently waits for you to adjust to his size. Wrapping both of your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, you roll your hips upwards, wanting to feel all of him, each bead of sweat, each drop of blood, until it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

“Mhnf—Astarion…” you mewl into his mouth, encouraging him to start moving, his rhythm slow and gentle at first. Despite how wet you are, he works your slit open with a bit of difficulty, his girth abnormally enlarged due to the drawn-out neglect, although even through the discomfort you find yourself relishing the chance to have him so snugly nested within you. Astarion, too, seems to be thoroughly enjoying having you gripping him so deliciously tautly, his usually husky grunts growing louder with every push. His hands leave your face to roam the sides of your body, gliding down your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist and slipping underneath you to grope and fondle your ass, slightly tilting you upwards so he can sink deeper within your cunt. Finally breaking the kiss, lips bruised and plumped, he lovingly gazes upon your just as disheveled self for a moment before leaning back down to give you a chaste, tender peck; pulling away again, he then lowers his head to have his tongue ghost over the skin of your throat, your clavicle, and then up the swell of one of your breasts, stopping to hover above its reddened peak.

“Say it, pet. Tell me who you belong to.” His breath tickles the sensitive nub as he speaks, voice dripping with honey and eyes searching for yours from under thick lashes, darkened with desire. To anyone else the question may sound like just another racy quip, provocative banter to spice up the mood, but you know better—you know him better. Following the Black Mass, on that very eve Astarion would first test his unholy gifts as the Ascendant, not by calling upon the dark forces now at his mercy nor by turning into mist, but by making you his for all eternity. That was always the plan—to become your warden, your guardian, your sire and master. Never before you had he ever felt as wanted, as needed, and he cherished that power; for once in his life he was the protector, not the protectee, not the weak vermin wriggling about to find shelter. You gave him a reason to be, a reason to live, and he would not lose that, not for as long as his thawed heart beats.

“I’m yours, Astarion. All yours,” you say, giving him the reassurance he seeks while at the same time soothing yourself. Yes, you are his, entirely his, and that is of solace to you as much as it is to him. Satisfied with your answer, Astarion smiles softly; refusing to avert his gaze from your face, he then wraps his perfectly-shaped lips around your nipple, circling it with a pointed tongue. His teeth graze the supple surrounding flesh for a moment before unexpectedly sinking into it, and your mouth pops open to let out a soundless gasp in surprise. You propel your torso up slightly by resting your arms on each side of your body and leaning on your bent elbows, firmly gripping the sheets beneath you with both of your hands, panting and whining as he suddenly speeds up the pace, undulating his hips more energetically with every thrust. Through his cock and fangs alike, his presence inside of you is absolute, imperious, overwhelming—yet also comforting and fulfilling, like a crushing, constricting embrace.

“You complete me.” 

“Mnhg—ah!” While still latched onto your breast, avidly drinking from it, Astarion moves one hand to your lower back so he may gently raise you with him into a seated position, and you let go of the sheets to hold onto his broad shoulders for support. His other hand continues fondling your ass, fingers widely splayed across one of your cheeks, applying just enough pressure to push your crotch flat against his, securely settling you in his lap as you had been before, except you are now both facing each other. Prying himself off you, he then pulls back to admire his handiwork—the blood seeping from the freshly made puncture marks on your chest trails lazily down your abdomen, the bright crimson accentuated so beautifully by your pale skin, a perfect match with the rubies encrusted in the jewelry that you remain wearing despite being otherwise completely nude. You make for a breathtaking vision, one belonging perpetually and irrevocably to him.

“My darling,” Astarion croons, voice uncharacteristically tender, bringing his hand on your back up to lovingly cup your chin. “My pretty darling,” he whispers before capturing your lips with his bloodstained ones, hips snapping upwards to resume massaging your walls. You bob your body in rhythm with his thrusts, buttocks slapping against his thighs every time you sink down to the base of his length, and his fingers dig deeper into the soft swell of your rear, surely to leave bruises in the morning. Eyes fluttering close, you lean fully against him, the contours of your frame hugging his own almost perfectly, save for your breasts, which are now squished between your rib cage and his pectorals. Releasing your face, he instead grabs your throat, his grip strong, but not binding; giving it a gentle squeeze, he then pulls away, tongue absentmindedly lapping at the strand of saliva connecting you still even as your mouths unweave.

“Astarion…” The way you utter his name sounds almost like a plea, a supplication, yet you can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. “I love you”—is what you mean to say, but you bite back the words instead. They are empty, meaningless; the depth of your bond is such that “love” is a sentiment which needs not be voiced. You know he can feel it, for you can feel it too—way past just affection, the pure devotion carved on the core of your very being, so raw and so visceral that it may as well be an open wound, never to heal, bleeding thick, warm emotion. As tempting as it may be to proclaim it, the world is not owed any measure of access to your relationship; this is something meant just for the two of you, a silent understanding between an eternal bride and her husband-to-be, sacred and precious. Thus, rather than speaking any further, you look into his eyes with as much earnestness as you can possibly manage, and he looks back at you just as intensely, pupils so dilated that his irises are but thin red discs, barely even visible. He knows; of course he does. He always did.

“Shh. Hush.” He lets go of your throat before softly pressing a finger to your lips, only to then comb all five digits of that same hand through your hair and cradle your head, gently nudging you forward. Following his lead, you rest your chin in the crook of his neck, flushed cheek brushing against his; upon raising your gaze, you notice that you can see the mirror behind him, reflecting his strong back and shapely waist, still encircled by your entangled legs. More than that, you can see him moving—his hips going up and down every time he disappears inside you, balls swinging whenever he lifts up his ass from the mattress. Watching him fuck you might as well be the most erotic thing you have ever laid eyes on, and for a third time arousal coils low in your belly. 

“Oh… Astarion…” you whimper in his ear, feeling him bump against the spongy skin of your cervix just as his cock is fully swallowed by your needy cunt in the mirror. Your blunt nails rake down his spine, gliding across the valleys and ridges of his scars, once a reason for shame and pain, now a proud symbol of his victory—and of the ghastly consequences it entailed. The fingers buried in your hair pull at it firmly as he pounds into you, and those on your rear continue their ministrations, wandering to the space between your buttocks to lightly graze the puckered entrance. As he peppers kisses over your nape and shoulders, his own moans grow more desperate and less dignified; sweat drips down his curls, now tousled and sticking to his forehead and temples. You feel so tight, so wet, so warm, so good—always such an obedient little thing, so eager to please, letting yourself be thoroughly ravaged and catering to his every whim, his every desire. There is nothing Astarion values more than his dominance over you; his most beloved treasure, the source of his life, the source of his light, however dim. How terribly he adores you, and how frightfully he yearns for you, to be drunk on you, an addiction so great that the very thought of you leaving his side for even a minute fills him with pure dread. To love you is bliss, but also torturous, for you are at once his greatest strength and his most alarming weakness.

“That’s it, gods, that’s it… you’re taking me so well, darling,” he groans, breath hitching as you push against his thrusts, the lewd sound of smacking flesh reverberating across the room. He is close, so close, and so are you—beyond the glass, his reflection plunges into yours with reckless abandon, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. As you ride him, you can feel the entirety of his length, the velvety skin, the throbbing veins, the tumid girth stretching and rubbing against your slickened walls; and with one last powerful jerk of his hips, you can also feel his thick spend painting them in spurts, flooding you like a broken dam. 

“Oh, my love…” Astarion continues rutting into you even through his orgasm, pumping his seed out of your slit. Before long, you too clench violently around him, thighs trembling and gut convulsing, coating his twitching cock in your release. Shoving you back onto the mattress, he keeps leisurely sliding in and out of your sex as you both pant quietly, reveling in the high of your respective climaxes; with his face nuzzled into your cleavage, he affectionately laps at the bite marks on your breast, occasionally intercalating each lick with tender little pecks. You bring one of your hands to his scalp and run your fingers through the silky locks, closing your eyes and emptying your mind, intent on enjoying the moment for what it is, safe and sound in the arms of your lover; he who took you into his sanguineous embrace and imparted on you the gift of absolution, he who set the world on fire while shielding you from the dancing flames, he who placed a crown of roses upon your head after ripping off every thorn. Lux aeterna luceat eis—let perpetual light shine, and from the dark, the two shall reign, betrothed in immortality, wedded in undeath, now and forevermore.

May they rest in peace.

[avernusreject]

Warning ya'll this is gonna be a long post. But please join my descent into insanity, as I deep dive into the vague wormhole that is the durge betrayal pre bg3 timeline.

Before we start, it’ll help if you have context around the faerun calendar. There are twelve months in total, each having exactly 30 days. Additionally, weeks don’t exist in faerun. Rather months get broken down into chunks of time called tendays, which you guessed is literally just ten days. If that was too straight forward for you, don’t worry, they add in five extra days to the calendar that fall outside of the months (ngl I still have no idea where these are located) to make the full year 365 days. 

At the beginning of the game, the nautiloid crash occurs at 20 Eleasis. Which means, the game starts in the middle of summer. Obviously, the way you play the game is going to influence the speed of events, but for my playthrough I reached moonrise towers around 12 elient (total time being 22 days). When you get to moonrise, in Bathazar’s chamber you can find his journal that explains that Kressa (the crazy necromancer chick) managed to keep durge alive. This entry is dated “two tenday ago”. But in game, that makes no sense because we know that the nautiloid should have crashed around that point. So either Balthazar doesn’t understand how the Faerun calendar works (I mean same, my guy) or we have to change our frame of reference. I think its more likely that the implied frame of reference is the start of the game, 20 Eleasis (since the developers can’t control how fast the player goes). 

If true, durge was saved by Kressa around 1 Eleasis. Her vivisections took place after this in the following days. However, durge is taken away before the end of the following tendays (at least before 10 Eleasis).

Now when you talk to Kressa in the basement of moonrise, she states that she found durge only hours after they had been given the tadpole.

In the fight with Orin, she states that when she attacked durge she carved out a hole for the worm (ignore the Half-Elf part, that's just from the moment Orin turns into durge during the pre-fight convo).

The part that we're missing is when specifically the tadpole was inserted into durge. But given how the game describes just how utterly fucked durge was, there's a high likelyhood that the tadpole was given to durge moments after their fight. Which if true, places Orin's betrayal at 1 Eleasis. Giving us twenty days till the start of the game.

The piece that threw me for a bit was this piece of the narrator's dialogue when durge examines the pod, stating that durge had no idea how much time had passed.

But the blood in the pod is still fresh enough that Astarion is able to ID it as durge & in another dialogue choice if you examine the blood further the narrator states the blood hasn't been there long enough to rot.

I think this dialogue is more explaining that durge is actively being tortured by Kressa so time feels unending (kressa being the one who put them in the pod to begin with).

I've seen in other posts that Gortash's draft memoir explains that Orin's betrayal occurred during or just around the crowning of the brain (I don't have a screenshot of that unfortunately). But we have to take that with a grain of salt because Gortash is the definition of an unreliable narrator.

Personally, I don't think he's lying though. Orin's betrayal occurred in moonrise and there's really no other reason that Orin and durge would be in moonrise that the game has provided. Not to mention, the warden explains the last time that durge was in moonrise, they never left.

I don't think durge came to moonrise more then once given the fact that the warden, who had clearly been there a while, had no clue who they were. I find it hard to believe their identity would be kept under wraps had they been at moonrise multiple times. Employees have to gossip about something.

I think its likely that Ketheric, Gortash, and Durge tamed the brain in the days leading up to 1 Eleasis (like ~20 to 30 Flamerule).

In summary, the dead three had a Phineas and Ferb summer vacation by deciding to create the cult of the absolute.

And yes if you are wondering this is how I look now.

[thefiendio]

Romanced! Kokushibo Headcannons!!

Hi everyone! It’s been a really long time since I’ve updated something on this app, I’ve been really busy but I’m going to try and update as often as I can.

There are some fics and other things in the works right now for the SFW and NSFW lovers

To help get me back into the habit of writing, have some headcannons of someone Ilike to write for.

These are NOT cannon, however are just how I see him based on the manga and other things, he still has traits of cannon attitude, however he isn’t perfect in my mind

Warnings: None, but KNY spoilers on his lore and everything

Reader is gender neutral unless stated otherwise :)

Kokushibo is red

Gn reader is purple

Fem/specifically stated AFAB reader is pink

Masc/specifically stated AMAB reader is blue

I’m skipping a LOT of a timeline after he met you and abandoned his wife and kids, you both are dating in these

He was quite cold when you both got together during the start of your relationship because he didn’t know how to react, however you opened him up (he’s still not Mr. Nice Man all the time)

If he were to ever get you a non-stolen gift, it would probably be something homemade

No, he can’t cook, so it could be a piece of art he crudely drew himself, a poem that he wrote himself, or a wood carving that didn’t have every detail, however the shape is there and it was made by him

He’d get a little sad if you didn’t accept his gifts :( he really tried so hard even if it doesn’t look good :(( but he’d try better next time to make his gift better so you’d like it

He truly believes in “actions speak louder than words” so he’d rather show you that he loves you, rather than just tell you

There are times where he isn’t home for days or weeks on end, and that’s when he gets antsy to see you

After he gets back, he gives you his undivided attention for a while

There are times where he wants to spend his time with you, but he also wants to meditate. His solution? Have you seated in his lap as he’s sitting cross-legged and he meditates with his arms around you

He’s tried to help you cook in the kitchen multiple times, that’s when you’ve found out that he is AMAZING at helping you, just not when doing it by himself

Whenever you get hurt, even if it’s as minor as accidentally bumping into a wall, he makes sure you don’t get hurt again for the rest of the day by keeping you beside him

If you’re a human: He truly believes in separating you from the rest of the demons, and makes sure that you do not follow him into any meetings, or have any association with demons besides him

The only demon that you’ve ever had any sort of interaction with was Akaza, and that was because you were dangerously sick, and Akaza got the fear of Yoriichi coming back put into him by Kokushibo, you’ve only seen him once though, and you don’t really remember what he looks like, besides pink hair

If you’re a demon: He’s a lot less hesitant to let you interact with demons, however he will try his best to make sure that you don’t get too close to the upper moons or Muzan in fear of your safety, you’re allowed to talk and interact with Akaza because your boyfriend is sure that he won’t do anything to harm you

I’m a firm believer that he either calls you by your name, darling, or some non-traditional name that sounds so nice whenever he says it. Those nicknames consist of: flower, little one, honey bee, or starlight

He also likes to call you nicknames that have “little” in front of it because, let’s face it, he’s taller and larger than you (I hc him to be around 236 cm or 7’8”) so you are little to him

He is a man of few words and rarely talks, however you fill the void of silence with your voice

If there are times where you don’t want to talk, then he will ask if you want him to start talking, or if you want to sit in silence

If you choose for him to talk, he will. His words will range from how his day was, to what he likes about you, to stories he read, to things he has heard about others in the towns he has been to

If you want him to not talk and be how he is, you both will be in a comfortable silence, with you leaning on his body, or laying on his chest

He likes to read, whether that’s to you, or by himself in your shared room, he even likes it when you read to him. He would even settle for both of you sitting near each other and reading the same book

In my opinion, I think he wouldn’t buy you flowers. HE WOULD GROW THEM HIMSELF

He isn’t very affectionate outside of when you’re tired and need him to curl around you, and trying to get him to kiss your cheek outside of your shared home is like trying to argue with Douma on how big his ego is

He acts kind of like a modesty appropriator to you, making sure your kimono, hakama, or other clothing pieces are covering you properly, and are not falling off of you, are fitting properly, and are comfortable on you

If you wished to go to a festival with him, he wouldn’t like to go however would make sure that you both stayed away from other people, because of his eyes and appearance

In my opinion, he likes the idea of having a garden and has done research on that sort of field, however he doesn’t have much of a green thumb outside of growing a couple easy vegetables and simple (but pretty) flowers

He likes to be alone a lot, and admires having his own space. If your shared home is big enough, he’d have his own room to himself that you are only allowed in with his permission. The things inside are plain, with a bedroll, a box for scrolls and books, a sitting mat, and basic sleeping room appliances. He keeps this area clean and is content as long as you respect this simple space as his

If you were to give him a gift, whether that be a new kimono, something you made or grew for him, or something you bought from the market, you can find it on a shelving unit in his private space, with other things of yours that you have used, but don’t need

These things of yours can be a hair stick, clothing item, hairpin, hair piece, piece of jewelry, or a gift he plans on giving you

He likes to watch you sleep, but not in a creepy way, he likes how peaceful you look

He notices things about you that you didn’t notice yourself

He might not understand certain words and cues relating, however he is a literal god at reading body language and expressions

Dating him at first can be a bit difficult because he most likely isn’t so easy to read, however the longer you both have been together, the more you pick up on his cues for each emotion he is feeling

Again, he is a man of few words and expressions, however he means what he says

He really does care about you and your safety

He loves you <3

———————

Hope you enjoyed! I’m going to try and post something at least once a week, and see how that works

Asks are open! Please give me ideas on what to write :)

Have a great day!!

[ganondoodle]

(while i am crumbling into pieces from cramp pain)

back when they announced the totk masterworks book i said i wasnt happy about it bc it would either

prove they thought all this was good from the start and everything went as planned

show us that they had unbelievable better ideas and plans but for some unknow reason scrapped it all

as it stands now with the concepts i have seen ... they somehow did both, some things seemed to have been planned fro mthe start (the whole focus on sonau/zonai stuff for example, which i personally just dont like bc i liked them better as an unkown mystery you never get to meet) and other stuff (like ganondorfs concepts, or the infinitely cooler castle in the sky esque concepts for the sky islands, instead of some nonsensical, meaningless little stone crumbs) was much, much more interesting initially (together with the interviews that said they initially planned to have the battery be a magic meter and make the sonau more magic than tech- but then decided to build their stuff around modern electrical devices just so players would immediately know what it was an what it would do -why????? thats so boring?? and unecessary ?? and they still give you tutorials for it anyway, multiple times??!!- for some ungodly reason)

it makes me more and more sure that this game, that took 6 years to make with most assets already being there (the same time that botw took to make?????????), went through a similar development hell as that one final fantasy game did where the director decided to make it an entirely different game every few weeks bc he saw something cool in another game-

its the only thing that makes sense to me, why else would it be so weirdly ... unfinished, its full of grand ideas badly executed, or like i said in a previous post, like an alpha build (weird! did someone in charge also see cool stuff every few months and decide they wanted it in there too no matter what so everyone had to scramble to try and put it in making the whole jenga tower fall over and over??), just to test how far you can push things, with placeholders everywhere, the same cutscene pasted in where another should be and a placeholder reason to get players to go soemwhere (fake zelda) and rough ideas for puzzles etc, that was never finished, jsut highly polished (in looks, sounds and presentation) in hopes of it being 'good enough' or players not noticing (like, take the underground for example, the idea itself is fantastic and cool as fuck, but its feels like an idea that was never finished and just barely fileld with some things to try and cover up the fact that it was never done, like a statue that wasnt done being carved but ran out of time so they painted it anyway- take the base map and invert it, put some easily accessible points of jumping down into it in random spots to test if the game can handle it- no time left to actually get that idea anywhere more specific and well thought out/put together, so its left like that, put the same texture everywhere, barely modified copies of the same enemies, and some little reward spots that make no sense, modelling three types of trees and an enemy camp is way quicker to do than actually making an entire new map (they didnt have to make it the same size btw, just make it big but unique caves, put the gravity effect down there in enclosed spaces! makes it less weird to have randomly happen in the sky! etc) but its there!! its in the game and if they are lucky most players wont go down there enough to notice how meaningless and unfinished it all is)

knowing they would most likely never admit to it though, probably bc of their reputation, is just addign to the frustrations i have with it :I

(i just hate to not know the reason for things, if the devs, who are usually the ones being worked to the bone for things they know arent good, where put through that bc some executive big shot threw their tables around every so often or neglected their project bc they wanted to focus on something else first ... id like to know, i dont enjoy making up these conspiracy (?) theories .......... but i cant shake this feeling, its jsut makes no sense)

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 2/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

                “What is your name?”

                “Bradley Bradshaw.”

                Leandro blinks at him and he’s not sure if it’s the name or if they simply sound too similar to one another.

                “Hmm. I will call you Lee… like Leonardo. You like pizza too much. And you are American like turtles…”

                “Do you want me to wear an orange bandana while I’m at it?” Bradley jokes.

                Leandro laughs and pats his face.

                “Silly boy. Leonardo wears blue. Michaelangelo wears orange.”

…            …            …

2016

                Filming has wrapped for the morning and he finally gets to walk around without a crew trailing his every step. They’re still taking shots, but they’re not filming him, which he is supremely grateful for because he wants to go back and actually do some proper shopping, not just the stuff for cooking later, but items he saw in passing and knew he wanted to go back and get. He has time. It’s a proper farmers market, there are even livestock for sale off to the side, although he’s been told that’s not every week, more like once a month. He walks without any direction, there are different avenues set up, some with raw produce, meats, baking, candles, soaps, art works and carved pieces of wood. Another with preserves and pickles, little wafers to the side so people can taste them. He takes his time and tries everything he can, loves places like this, everything so fresh and everyone so friendly. Even if they know who he is.

                He’d never imagined that his life would take this many twists any turns, that he’s now a celebrity chef, one everyone considers self-taught, despite the fact he insists that Leandro and Silvia taught him, along with the whole extended Gallo family and their friends. He’s got fifteen years of experience now, the last seven though being the wildest. He’d been spotted in the background of the show with the British celebrity. Sought out and asked if he’d do a little cooking segment, then they’d found out he could do it in multiple languages. He’d been popular. More popular than anyone had anticipated and then he’d been asked to do a longer running show.

                In amongst it all he’d ended up with an agent and a manager. Leandro and Silvia had sat him down and made him plan things out, made him call Ice and tell him. He still hasn’t spoken to Mav, and he knows he’s maybe being immature and holding a grudge but Mav hasn’t ever reached out himself, or apologized or, even better, explained. So, it is radio silence there and he knows that Ice is likely keeping Mav updated with his goings-on, but he is okay with that as long as Ice doesn’t push him to forgive him.

                He’s stepping back from a stall, thanking them when he bumps into someone, apology already on his lips when the other person is also apologizing.

                “No, my fault. Sorry.”

                “Both our faults then,” the man says, and he’s tilting a cowboy hat back and he’s got a fucking toothpick sticking out from the corner of his mouth. He’s also wearing a sinfully tight white t-shirt and tight jeans, which are either old and worn, or just doing a poor job at containing some very nice-looking thighs. Bradley licks his lips. There are other appetites he hasn’t indulged in a while either.

                “You from around here?”

                “Uh. No. Just here for work…” Bradley says, and he can see the guy trying to place him, figure out why he recognizes him. It’s happening more and more often now, people recognizing him in the street and out of context.

                “What’s your name?”

                “Um. Bradley Bradshaw.”

                He’s waiting for the flare of recognition at the name, but there’s nothing and it’s kind of a relief. He’s not quite that famous, not a household name quite yet although the marketing team are definitely working their hardest. He looks at the guys face again does a double take, there’s something about him though which is casting him back nearly a decade, he looks so familiar and the way he’s smiling…

                “And your name?”

                “Jake. Jake Seresin.”

                That is a hell of a coincidence. For him to also be called Jake. And Texan. He remembers the accent. Bradley imagines him nearly ten years younger, a buzz cut and baby faced…

                “You remind me of someone. You ever been to Italy?”

                It’s Jake’s turn to pull back, eyebrow raised and the toothpick does a little twist in and out of his mouth with his tongue and it’s kind of distracting but there is a slow roaming of his face, like he’s looking at Bradley the same way.

                “Yeah. I have. Why?”

                “2008?”

                Jake is frowning now, clearly trying to remember what year it was, but Bradley is more and more sure the longer he looks his fill. This is his Cinderella… the one he’d always jokingly said had got away even though he hadn’t expected anything else that night.

                “Yeah… my first time there…”

…            …            …

                Jake steps back, raises his hand to cover the bottom half of the other man’s face, because the guy didn’t have a moustache, and there’s only one guy, one man, that could be asking. The night in question is seared in his mind, his first taste of freedom, his first kiss with a guy and also the overwhelming fear of doing anything more than kiss. And apparently, he’s grown a moustache and changed his name. Only one way to find out.

                “Leo?”

                “Yeah. Hi.”

                “Holy shit… Oh. You grew up good.”

                “So did you,” Leo (or is it Bradley?) replies, and his eyes show he’s clearly appreciative of how Jake looks. He’d liked Jake plenty all those years ago too. He also looks good, firm muscle and nice looking forearms and they’re both clearly checking each other out and there’s a little thrill fizzing through him because there isn’t any second-guessing his interest, no fear of getting punched for looking at him the wrong way.

                “This is a coincidence and a half. You here looking for me?” Jake asks, knows it’s unlikely but he’s still going to ask. Like he’s worth being hunted down across the world. Leo-Bradley throws back his head and laughs, looks at him and gives him another once over and Jake tries not to preen too much.

                “No. Not unhappy that I bumped into you though.”

                “Hmm,” Jake hums, lips and teeth continuing to play with the toothpick and Bradley’s eyes track the movement. “Neither am I. Although, can I ask why you’re using a fake name?” Leo-Bradley blinks, maybe confused and Jake isn’t an idiot. “Bradley Bradshaw? Really? Trying to sound more American?”

                “Well, you can call me Leo, but I am American and Bradley Bradshaw is the name on my birth certificate.”

                “No shit. Really?”

                “Yeah. Really.”

                “American. Huh. You had me fooled…” Jake murmurs, because he may have been trying to learn Italian for the last few years because of this man. Maybe.

                “I did live there for nearly a decade if it’s any consolation. Just travel quite a bit now. What are you doing here? Work?”

                “Yeah, my sisters are working me into the ground even though I’m on leave. But it’s nice being out in the wide-open space.”

                “I bet. What are you on leave from?”

                “I’m a naval aviator. What do you do?”

                Leo’s mouth drops open, but Jake has gotten used to telling the difference between someone being impressed and someone just being surprised. Leo is definitely more surprised than impressed though, his head shaking but he’s still standing close enough that Jake can feel the heat of his body.

                “What’s that look for? You got something against naval aviators all of a sudden?”

                The laugh that Leo lets out is pitched a little too high and Jake quirks an eyebrow up.

                “I don’t have a problem with it. I just… Shit. Small world I guess. My dad was a RIO in the Navy.”

                “Yeah? What does he do now?”

                “Uh. He died. When I was a kid.”

                “Oh shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to put my foot in it,” Jake says, pulling a face.

                “It’s okay. You didn’t know. But just a heads up that my mom is dead too, so, maybe don’t ask about her either.”

                “Well. Thanks for the heads up. What is a safe topic of conversation?” Leo smirks and Jake lets out a bright laugh, the message received loud and clear, if the body language wasn’t all telling him the same thing. “So… What do you do for a job then?”

                Leo blinks at him, like he’s not used to such a run of the mill question.

                “I’m a chef.”

                “Cool. Then I look forward to you feeding me…”

                “Oh yeah, I think I can definitely manage that.”

                “Think you can manage a lot more than that.”

                “I’d like to give it a try…”

                “Hmm. Me too.”

THREE

[eskeptical]

worthy watch - miguel o'hara x reader

a/n: thought of a little scenario also sorry for any mistakes i did not spell check if u find any lmk! ✨

summary: after peter b. parker accidentally destroys your watch, miguel ensures you get it back

The Spider Society HQ held its usual lively environment. Multiple spider-people walking around, chattering, a sea of voices drowned as your brain focused on a particular stimulus: the conversation you were currently having.

“I said I’m going to get you a new one, and I will.”

You looked at Peter B. Parker, who was slurping down a strawberry milkshake, eyes closed in delight, because apparently it was that good.

Usually, Peter was not someone you would sit down with to eat some lunch. Your busy schedules prevented you from it, but also, a part of you didn’t like to. You enjoyed hanging out with him, of course, but watching him eat felt like an intrusion, of sorts. Usually, you weren’t one to judge or be affected by something so trivial as a person’s eating habits, but his constant moaning while chewing accompanied by his finger licking after a good, hefty meal made you feel extremely uncomfortable, like you were walking in on something you weren’t supposed to see. However, a long, tiring mission involving both of you led you to go out to eat at the restaurant in the Spider HQ as a well-deserved reward. His treat, because of a little ‘incident’ that occurred during the mission.

You glanced at your left wrist, the ghost of where your dimensional travel watch once was still lingering on your skin, now replaced by a flimsy purple day pass. Then you redirected your attention to the small plastic bag beside your burger, filled to the brim with dust and rubble.

“But it won’t be like the one I had before.”

Your watch - at least, what used to be your watch before it was blown to pieces - had a personalized interface, the orange replaced by blue, with little carvings on its metal structure. All of them intentional, little symbols and initials that represented something important in your life.

“Miguel can probably redo it just the way you had it before. You know, it’s really not fair he only upgraded yours. I’ve been begging him for weeks to add a little Mayday and MJ background to mine.”

“He could redo the interface, I guess…” you replied. Probably not the little carvings, though. Fidgeting with the last few fries on your plate, you then added, “...that is, if he’s not furious when he finds out it got destroyed.”

Peter looked down at the miserable pile of rubble, his brows creasing in concern as he pointed at it with his index finger.

“Pulverized would be a better word for it, I think.”

You glared at him. “And who’s fault is that?!”

He raised his hands defensively in the air.

“I thought it would work!”

At one point during the mission, the anomaly had been holding on to your wrist, and Peter said he knew a secret code you could type in that would shoot an emergency laser beam immediately.

Looking back, you wish common sense had kicked into you to realize how stupid that sounded. But your perception was clouded by the adrenaline, and you were forced to observe helplessly as the watch unlatched from your wrist and self-destructed soon after typing the code in.

“I don’t even want to talk about this anymore.” You sighed, rubbing your neck.

“I’m sorry. If you want you can order a dessert, okay? On me.”

His pitiful attempt of redemption made you look down at your nearly empty plate.

You raised your hand, two fingers up. “Two desserts.”

It didn’t take long for Miguel to notice your watch was gone. In fact, it took him a little more than an hour after your lunch with Peter. He called out your name, impatience setting in his fast pace towards you.

You hid your hands behind your back, the remains of your watch tucked safely in your pocket.

“Why am I not able to contact you?”

“Hm…Maybe it’s a malfunction?”

His eyes narrowed and darted to your arms, tilting slightly to try to get a look at your wrist.

“A malfunction would leave the location of your watch where it was last functioning. Yours completely disappeared.”

You stayed silent. “I feel…caught.”

“Where’s your watch?”

Shame crept up through your entire body as you reached into your pocket and handed the plastic bag to him. “...Here…”

Miguel stared at it, disbelief sprouting on his face.

Deafening silence filled the hallway.

“How…how did that happen?”

“Peter confused the code for self destruction for…something else, so I typed it in…and…well…”

You nodded towards the bag. The rest was self-explanatory.

He frowned, the rim of his eyes a deepened shade of crimson. “...ese pinche idiota…”

“Wait. It was my fault too. I should have been able to recognize it, but I didn’t pay attention when Lyla explained the watch’s functions.”

“Still…he’s an idiot. What did both of you think typing the code in would do?”

“Don’t ask. It’s really dumb. But… I can’t believe it got destroyed.”

You said the last part wholeheartedly, the corners of your mouth falling as your fingers began to trace the vacant area on your wrist.

Miguel finally calmed down as he caught on to your expression, imitating your saddened expression.

“Hey...I can make you a new one…just like the one you had before…with the blue…and the little…”

You raised your hand to stop him.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t want you to worry about it.” Your hands returned to your sides, and you raised one lightly to motion towards the flimsy purple bracelet.

“Peter said he would get me a new one. I can make do with the day pass for now.”

His eyes softened.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. He’ll take care of it.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

“...Okay.”

The next day, you were just walking through the many hallways, not really heading anywhere specific, when Peter approached you, out of breath.

“Peter…everything okay?”

He raised one finger as he panted, hands planted on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Then, he pulled out a small device from the pocket of his pink robe.

The watch.

He finally stood up correctly, and your eyes immediately darted towards the heavy, dark bags under his eyes. Your hand reached his shoulder.

“Peter…it really wasn’t that urgent! You didn’t have to spend all night making it! Did you even sleep?”

“Like one hour, maybe less…I just…got motivated to do it last night…”

“Well, thank you. I really appreciate it. But you should not have done that. The watch could have waited…”

He waved his hands around, shooing away your concerns.

“Nonsense. Anyways, I gotta run. Lyla was going to review some…issues…that need attention.”

Before you could respond, he swung out of view.

You looked at the watch in front of you.

Sliding it open, your jaw dropped when you saw the blue interface.

Peter could not have figured out how to do that.

The culprit was revealed when you inspected it, and sure enough, all of the previous markings were carved into the metal side, almost exactly in the same position.

Well, all except for one.

You began walking again, now sure of were you were going.

Your webs easily helped you reach the platform on which Miguel was standing.

“Miguel…” you called out, hands firmly placed on your hips as he swiped a few orange screens away and turned to face you.

“...Yes?”

You raised your arm, displaying your new watch.

“Oh! Your watch is back! Good thing Peter put in effort to replace it so quickly.” His voice was filled with surprise and warmth, but you knew him all too well.

“He said he was motivated. Did you, by any chance, influence his motivation?”

His facade quickly dropped, as he began to scratch his nose.

“Maybe…”

“Miguel…” you warned.

“I just reminded him to make it.”

You met his response with silence, prompting him to add, “and maybe I told him he would never be allowed to bring Mayday here again if he didn’t finish it soon.”

“Miguel!”

He shrugged.

“What? I wasn’t entirely being harsh…I did that stupid background he wanted for him when he finished your watch.”

You sighed in relief. At least Peter got something in return. “What about the blue interface? And the markings? I’ve only shown them to you.”

“Okay…after he finished the initial one, I altered it for you.”

Your finger traced over the markings, the little dents for symbols and numbers on the silver metal, and heat rushing to your neck when you added, “...you missed one…did you skip over it..?”

Miguel smiled warmly at you, his hands gently reaching for your wrist.

“How could I? We made it together. I just relocated it.”

He shifted your hand for your palm to face down, and slid a part of metal, revealing a small inscription.

His initial, a plus sign, and your initial.

"Plus, I added a new one. Look."

He pointed his finger to the new addition, right below the initals.

Three letters, carved neatly. TQM.

You know exactly what it means.

Warmth fills your chest, and a dumbfounded grin forces itself upon your mouth.

He slides the metal back into place, and holds your hand, moving it upwards to his mouth, peppering kisses all over it.

“Now go.”

Surprise flooded your expression.

“Go? Go where?”

“You’re joining Peter down at the left wing. Lyla is going to run over the watch functions until they’re drilled into your pretty little head.”

He placed a quick kiss on your forehead, and turned back to the screens.

You groaned, and begrudgingly swung out of his office.

[pastelwitchling]

Could you write a story where Michael finally gets to visit his home planet and he of course takes Alex with him. Every one on the planet is just absolutely smitten with Alex and Michael is so damn proud? ❤

@ashleymarie1684

***

At first, Michael had thought it was a joke. His brother had come to his and Alex’s house, sat down with a solemn expression and a promise in his eyes, and asked him if he wanted to go to Oasis.

“There’s a lab,” he’d explained, “below the throne room. A portal here and back closes every week. Liz and I were looking into it with Dallas’s help, and we think we can open it on this side. Just the one time, and then when you come back, there’s no chance of opening it again or we risk sending all of Roswell through.

“And Michael,” he’d held Michael’s gaze here, reassuring, “the palace is safe for humans. It was part of Nora and Louise’s experimenting when they were making me, they knew I’d need to adjust to different climates, and their air filter’s just been running the whole time. If you’re still worried about Alex getting radiation poisoning again, I’ll just heal him when you guys get back anyway, so he’s at no risk.” His fingers interlocked, his knuckles white, Max had said, “What do you think, brother?”

Michael hadn’t known what to say, what to believe, but Alex – his always-steady, controlled, loving Alex – was pressed to his side; he took Michael’s hands, which he hadn’t realized he’d been clenching hard enough to carve his nails into his skin, and interlocked their fingers, giving him something else to cling to.

“We’ll leave as soon as possible.”

That was how Michael found himself now, staring out a large arched window in an even larger room, overlooking a landscape of shimmering trees, bushes, and a mountainside that all glittered like the pieces of his spaceship. The scientist part of Michael wanted to go outside and test the grounds, see if they felt anything like his alien glass. The bigger side didn’t dare leave Alex out of his eyesight, and if he was being honest with himself, just didn’t want to go without Alex, period. It was strange, not what he’d expected. They’d been here two days, the initial shock overshadowed by the palace full of people who knew him and called him by a name he had a hard time remembering seconds after he’d heard it.

They’d known of Max, but it was Michael and Isobel who they’d remembered as children. Michael didn’t remember any of them, but they didn’t seem to mind.

“You’ve got that look,” Alex sighed, leaning against the wall on the other side of the window, his arms crossed.

“What look?”

Alex smiled, amused. “That ‘I’m-stuck-in-my-head-and-can’t-get-out’ look.” He tilted his head, his bangs falling over his beautiful eyes. “Talk to me, baby.”

Michael swallowed. They were alone now, still dressed in their flannel and jeans and winter jackets, and Michael stole glances at his husband, checking for any sign of black veins peeking out of his collar or sleeves. He’s fine, he kept telling himself, he’s safe.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he murmured, eyes searching the eternally-twilit sky, hoping that the stars or the planets and multiple moons he could see from here would give him some answers. He kind of wished he could just go up to the roof and map them out, but the rest of his charts weren’t here. They were back home, covering the coffee table of their living room because he always got swept up in his work, marked with dark rings from Alex’s steaming cups of tea, forgotten when Michael would take him inside to ravish him.

“Nothing,” Alex said loyally.

Michael’s lips quirked into a small smile despite himself. “Well, thank you. I guess I just . . . I don’t know, I thought I’d get here and feel . . . right, you know? This is where I belong, this is what I’ve been waiting for, this is what I’ve been working towards. Now I’m here and . . .”

Alex watched him quietly, waiting. His steadiness helped Michael breathe a little easier; he had no idea how tense he was until he exhaled shakily, the knot unraveling in his shoulders.

He shrugged, a little helpless smile tugging at his lips. “I miss our home.” Alex’s eyes softened, but he didn’t look particularly surprised. Now that Michael had started, however, a dam opened and he huffed, “I miss our lazy Sunday mornings, and dinner on the living room couch, and smelling coffee when I wake up because you’re always up before me, and everything just feels so much more alive because . . . because it might not have been the home I had been working for, but it was the home we’d been working for, and now it just kind of feels like I’m a visitor in the place I’m supposed to be, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You’re supposed to be with me,” Alex said easily, like it was just fact. “And we’ve only been here two days, Michael. If you wanted to spend a longer time, years, until we created another home here, we can do that.”

Michael pursed his lips, eyes burning. He couldn’t voice his mess of thoughts, so he just shook his head. No, he silently said, I don’t want that.

He couldn’t stay here without Max and Isobel, he couldn’t stay without Walt and Dallas and even the Ortecho sisters and Valenti who he’d deny were growing on him. Most of all, he couldn’t trap Alex here. He’d never be able to go outside, to explore, to see anything beyond the walls of the palace which he’d been doing since they’d gotten here. The closest his husband would ever get to fresh air would be this; standing by a window. He couldn’t doom the man he loved to that, and even if Alex was fine with it, Michael would never be. Alex was his heart, his thoughts, the air in his lungs; how would he ever be able to breathe knowing that he was yet again someone in Alex’s life that forced him to settle for good enough?

“Let’s give it another week,” Alex said, taking Michael’s hand. “Get your fill of the place, and then if you still want to leave, we’ll leave. Where you go, I go, Michael. As long as you’re here, I don’t care where we are.” His smile widened, like he was fighting off a laugh. “And stop scanning me, I’m fine. If I had any trouble breathing, I promise I’d tell you.”

Michael swallowed, running his hands over Alex’s chest, just to feel his beating heart. “I know, I know that.”

“Do you though?” he said, definitely laughing now.

Just like that, the weight on Michael’s chest dissipated, and he smiled, about to retort when –

“Mr. Guerin,” a butler, Jeremy, glided in, and Michael almost jumped. Everyone was so freaking quiet here and softspoken. The whole butler thing had also taken a minute to get used to, but someone had to mind the palace, he guessed, especially since its rulers had been sent to earth.

Yeah, Michael wasn’t going to start unpacking the truth of that either. Oasis had thrived without them, and he believed the people he’d met were legitimately good. They aided those who came to the palace in need of any food or shelter or supplies. Honestly, Michael had kind of felt like he was getting in the way when he’d arrived. Still, Jeremy had been so attentive and kind that he had a hard time feeling unwanted here.

“Yeah?” he started, but Jeremy was already hurrying towards Alex.

              “Mr. Guerin,” he scolded as much as a softspoken man could, “you forgot your scarf! The weather is terribly cold for a human, you could get sick!”

              Alex smiled, a little bemused as he’d been since they arrived and everyone lavished him with attention. “Thanks, Jeremy, but I’m fine.”

              “Fine doesn’t keep the body strong, does it?” he demanded.

              “Oh, Mr. Guerin!” a tall woman appeared, Sofie, mittens on and a tray of what looked like rainbow cookies in her hands. Michael tried to answer, but she’d come right up to Alex as well. “I made your favorites! You said you liked Germanium cookies, didn’t you?”

              “Is that what that flavor was?” Alex blinked. “Yeah, uh, I loved them.”

              Sofie beamed, her face red. “I’m also making clam stew for dinner! We fished them just this morning out of the river for you, so they ought to be –”

              “Excuse me, Sofie,” Jeremy said, “but I believe I was speaking to Mr. Guerin first.”

              “You’ve gotten your fill,” she openly whined. “I want to look at him – er, talk to him!”

              “Does anyone care I’m here?” Michael muttered when the two started politely arguing for Alex’s attention.

              “I care,” Alex said, once again ready as though nothing mattered to him except Michael knowing how important he was.

              “Mr. Guerin!” another voice boomed, this one belonging to a large man, Marian, with a stethoscope around his neck, except this one had jewels at the end of it and was mostly made of glass. Michael didn’t even bother acknowledging the summons this time as Marian came to a stop in front of Alex, panting. “Mr. Guerin, please, you must watch your blood pressure here! This atmosphere isn’t always safe for humans, you shouldn’t be standing next to the window, of all places!”

              Alex smiled kindly and thanked everyone for their attentiveness, and they all swooned and softened in a way people only did for Alex, and Michael watched on, hiding a secret smile.

Despite his teasing, he had been beaming at the love Alex had received since they’d gotten here. He might stick around another two weeks just because he’d felt bad about leaving Oasis in the first place – though that hadn’t been his fault – and he wanted to give these people someone to adore, at least for a while. He got Alex for the rest of their lives. He supposed he could share his husband for a few more days.

Just as long as everyone kept their hands to themselves; he was kind, not a saint.

***

Happy Malex Monday ❤️

[a-chinese-doll]

WHY NOT ME?

Chapter 1

You and Choso had been living together for some time. After the terrible events plaguing the world of sorcery had come to an end, you thought it was only fair to suggest he stay with you. He didn’t have a place to go, he was alone, and you had felt lonely so many times in a house that was way too big for just you, a place bought by your parents in the heart of Shinjuku.

His heart nearly exploded the day you asked him to move in. After everything you’d been through together, including the war against Kamo Noritoshi, he held an immense respect for you—respect and gratitude. After all, you took care of his little brother Yuuji as his teacher and fought by his side in one of the most brutal battles the world of sorcery had ever witnessed. In return, Choso was always kind and helpful, perhaps even too present in your daily life. But let’s be real—his absolutely submissive and servile attitude? He called it gratitude; everyone else called it love.

Yes, Choso Kamo was madly in love with you, and you were probably the only one who hadn’t realized it.

Everyone else, including Yuuji, had noticed. They saw the way he blanked out just to stare at you, how he jumped every time you said his name. Whenever he talked about you, his eyes sparkled with admiration. He always made time for you, whether it was buying groceries, accompanying you to run errands, or helping with chores. He was always there, though he kept hiding his feelings behind his aloof mask of indifference.

No, he would never tell you what he really felt. He had reached some sort of balance within himself, and simply sharing space with you—having meals together, spending evenings in front of the TV after tiring days—was enough.

His primal appetite? Well, he could handle that in the privacy of his room, the one you had so kindly given him, without you ever hearing him, of course. His big, calloused hand would never compare to yours—small and delicate—and it could never be worthy of your adorable pussy, but that was still fine. He didn’t want to disrupt the balance lingering in the wonderful connection you had crafted together.

However, there was one thing that Choso absolutely could not tolerate: in recent weeks, you had started seeing a man. Who the hell was this guy to barge into your lives and ruin the harmonious atmosphere you had forged?

Masayuki was his name; he was the son of a wealthy owner of a notorious company in Tokyo. Choso had seen him several times, and every little gesture, every annoying laugh, infuriated him. All he wanted was to punch the guy in the face and make him disappear. But out of respect for you, he restrained himself, often gritting his teeth and blowing off steam by training or wandering the streets of Tokyo, most of the time with his younger brother.

Masayuki was, in all honesty, a charming guy, and with his connections and expertise, he could secure you a bright future. Yet, Choso often wondered what you saw in him. You weren’t the type to get involved with guys like that; you were much simpler and down-to-earth, just like him—a half curse fighting to carve out his own place in the world. How could it be that you had never even considered him as a potential partner?

He was always so caring, so sweet, and he would have given everything for you—even his own life, as he had proven multiple times in combat. Not to mention that his body was strong and well-defined, molded by arduous fights and countless hours of training, his muscles perfectly chiseled like a Greek sculpture. Why had you never laid your eyes on him?

It didn’t make sense.

Choso often caught himself fantasizing about what it would be like if you were to finally see him as more than just a friend. He imagined scenarios where he could show you just how much he cared—as if he didn't already demonstrate it daily—where he could prove that he was worthy of your love. But every time he saw you with Masayuki, that fantasy shattered into a million pieces, replaced by the harsh reality of his unrequited feelings.

That evening, you were in the bathroom getting ready, waiting for your phantomatic date to show up, while Yuuji and Choso sat in the living room, waiting to leave right after him picked you up to take you to a very fancy place in Shinjuku, the most renowned and expensive restaurant in the area - he said.

At 8 PM, as expected, there was a knock at the door. Still busy fixing your eyeliner, you asked Choso and Yuuji to help greet your guest.

“Choso, could you please open the door?” Despite his grunt of disapproval, Choso reluctantly got up from the couch to answer.

“Who is it?” he asked. He knew perfectly well who it was, but he would have much preferred if someone had come to report that Masayuki had gotten himself into some kind of trouble and wouldn’t be showing up, disappearing from your life for good.

“It’s me, Masa,” a gentle voice replied from the other side of the door.

Choso rolled his eyes and proceeded to open the door. Standing in front of him was the slender figure of Masayuki. He was handsome, with black hair fashioned in a slightly longer bowl cut and deep, almond-shaped eyes of intense blue. His pale skin highlighted his pink lips, making his smile charming like that of a Disney prince.

Disgusting.

He wore an elegant black suit, tailored perfectly to his slim frame, the fabric catching the light just right to enhance his sharp features. A pin, bearing the emblem of the company his father founded, glinted subtly on the lapel, adding a touch of sophistication that only amplified his already considerable lure.

Revolting.

Yes, he was utterly sickening!

Yet, the cruel reality was that you preferred this polished, perfect guy with clean hands and composed demeanor over the rough and slightly disheveled man who had always supported you on the battlefield.

Choso cast a bored look at him. Apparently, tonight his dark eyes were glaring more fiercely than usual. He gave him a once-over, trying to suppress the urge to slam the door in his face and break that perfect nose of his. But no, once again, he held back his impulses.

Masayuki felt crushed under the weight of Choso’s stare and timidly asked, “Can I come in?”

The half-curse narrowed his eyes, making a grimace of disapproval as he continued to glare at him, as if Masayuki were the most abominable monster he had ever encountered, then stepped aside, leaving the door open, and returned to slump back on the couch beside Yuuji. The latter quickly jumped up, trying to make up for his older brother’s lack of respect. He warmly welcomed Masayuki, closed the door behind him, and invited him to sit.

Masayuki’s awkward attempts at small talk were met with silence from Choso, who seemed to be in a world of his own, utterly uninterested in the conversation unfolding.

“So, how’s it going lately?” the well-mannered boy asked enthusiastically.

Choso didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the TV.

“Great! Life’s been going really well” Yuuji replied to desperately keep the conversation alive.

Then Masayuki started talking, inappropriately, about the place you two were going that night. He made comments about the ambiance, insinuating that the restaurant was the perfect setting for a romantic encounter, complete with suggestive remarks about the type of food and drinks that would heighten the experience.

Choso’s grip on the remote tightened, his knuckles turning white. Every mention of the night out irritated him so much that it felt like his brain was on fire, his heart pounding with rage. Why was he discussing plans that involved you and that pretentious guy?

As clearly demonstrated by the throbbing vein on his temples, Choso was furious to the max. So, instead of listening, he turned up the volume on the TV, drowning out the poor Masayuki’s voice as if it were some annoying background noise.

Yuuji gave him a warning look, but Choso only made an indecipherable expression and continued to stare at—no, not really watching—the show on TV.

Finally, after a good twenty minutes, you emerged from your room. For perhaps the first time in your life, you had dressed in a truly feminine way. A beautiful black dress hugged your waist, the wide, gothic-style sleeves falling just to the middle of your hands. The soft neckline offered a glimpse of your collarbone and, perhaps a little too much, your cleavage, accentuated by the push-up bra you had chosen to wear. Your figure appeared even more refined thanks to the high heels that added a touch of lightness and made your body look longer and more elegant. Your hair was carefully tied into a chic bun, adorned with a stunning white Sakura flower hairpin.

As you made your entrance into the room, silence fell. No one had ever seen you so dolled up before. Even your makeup was striking. You were already a naturally beautiful girl, needing little to enhance your looks, but tonight... tonight, you were truly enchanting—perfectly suited for the chic venue where you were headed.

When Choso turned to look at you, he couldn’t help but show an almost dazed expression. He was mesmerized by your appearance, his jaw dropping open in disbelief. Stunning—like a nymph, the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. And, unfortunately for him, you belonged to someone else.

There was a small detail to add regarding Choso's obsessive reverence for you. He often found himself subject to rather spontaneous reactions whenever you were around; without warning, his shaft would spring to attention in the blink of an eye, and it was impossible to control. This time was no different.

Yuuji noticed his brother's loose pants clearly tenting under the pressure of his aching erection, desperate to be set free. With an incredulous look, he elbowed Choso, shooting him an embarrassed glance. "Seriously, man? Control yourself," he whispered, trying to stifle a laugh while feeling embarrassment and concern for his brother.

Choso snapped out of his reverie, quickly pulling his hoodie down over his pelvis to hide his sudden, physical admiration for your body, a furious blush creeping across his cheeks.

“Beautiful!” Masayuki stood up from his seat, arms wide open, practically worshipping your appearance. “Stunning! You’ll be the most gorgeous woman of the night; every man will have their eyes on you.” Then, in a softer voice, he teased, “And so will I…” as he approached you.

Hearing those words made Choso’s blood boil, jealousy flooding through him so intensely that the marks on his face began to shift in response.

“Choso,” Yuuji whispered, urging him to keep his composure. Choso gritted his teeth, struggling to stay calm as he watched Masayuki wrap his arm around your waist. He would’ve ripped that arm off with his teeth if he could. It should’ve been HIM in that egotistic jerk’s place, wrapping his powerful biceps around your waist, brushing against the thin black dress you wore. God, that dress, how could he have taken his eyes off you? Trying to focus his attention elsewhere from your curves was almost an impossible task... the truth is, calm and composed Choso was a pervert when it came to you, and the way your thong peeked slightly through the delicate fabric only fueled his fervent imagination. He couldn’t stop thinking about how it would feel to slip his hand under your gown when you least expected it, watching you gasp in embarrassment as he pulled you closer, fucking you everywhere while your dress slid up and your underwear fell to your ankles. But that wasn’t the case. He wouldn’t be the one accompanying you tonight, kissing you, or giving you pleasure.

Fuck off, you two-bit dandy.

He hated how helpless he felt, knowing he might lose you to someone who seemed to have it all— Money, charm, and a knack for giving you the most enticing experiences he couldn’t replicate. It just wasn’t fair.

What could he have done?

Absolutely nothing.

His fear of losing you and his desire to see you happy left him with only one option: being stuck on the couch, suffocating in silence, while that stupid was taking you away from him. All he could do was watch as Masayuki became the one you turned to, the one you chose, while he remained in the shadows, wishing for a chance he might never get.

“Guys, don’t wait up for me tonight. Choso, I’ve got my keys, so go ahead and sleep,” you said.

Choso’s gaze still wandered over your body, but he did everything he could to hide what he was feeling. “Alright… but, anyway… call me if anything happens,” he muttered, his dark eyes landing on Masayuki with a clear warning.

Masayuki gulped and quickly pushed you out the door, shutting it behind him as you waved goodbye to your friends. Silence enveloped you two, abruptly shattered by his single unsettling remark.

"Gosh… he scares me," he grumbled as soon as the door clicked shut.

"Who?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Choso… your roommate. I don’t think he likes me."

"Scary? Him? He’s harmless," you laughed softly. "Just a bit protective of me. We’ve been through a lot together."

Masayuki frowned, still uneasy. "Are you sure there’s nothing more going on?"

You shook your head, brushing off the suggestion. "No, not at all… Choso’s not into that kind of stuff," you assured him, ending the conversation about this subject, though deep down, your date’s judgment of one of the best people you’d ever met gnawed at you more than you cared to admit.

Meanwhile, Choso and Yuuji were left on the couch. Choso’s hungry dick was still pressing against his boxers, making him incredibly flustered.

“I’m gonna take a cold shower, and then we’ll go out,” he growled at his little brother. Yuuji nodded, frowning, clearly worried about his reaction.

As Choso entered the bathroom and slipped into the shower, his eyes landed on his prominent erection that kept reminding him how beautiful you were, inside and out... He didn’t even have time to deal with it properly, as he had promised Yuuji they’d go out for dinner together.

He let the cold water wash over him, hoping it would cool down his raging body. He wanted to follow you to the restaurant, wanted to get rid of that Masayuki and keep you by his side. God, the frustration was unbearable!

The half-curse ran his hands through his hair and, in a stupid display of self-loathing, began hitting his forehead against the shower wall.

"I’m... such... an idiot!" he shouted to himself, his voice echoing in the small bathroom.

His masochistic outburst was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"You good in there?" Yuuji asked cautiously.

"Yeah..." Choso replied curtly, quickly stepping out of the shower, even though his body was still painfully aroused.

Yuuji rolled his eyes; this situation had been dragging on for months now. No matter how much he encouraged his older brother to make a move, nothing ever changed.

After cooling down a bit, Choso decided to spoil his little brother with a burger, taking him out for the evening. But the tension never fully left his body, his thoughts still stuck on you. The image of you with Masayuki bothered him, fueling his irritation. He clenched his jaw as they sat at the diner, annoyed and restless, feeling powerless against the guy who pissed him off so much.

“So… when are you gonna tell her?” Yuuji asked, biting into his burger. Choso was distracted, furiously scrolling through Instagram stories (Yuuji had been a good teacher when it came to the customs of human beings.) trying to figure out how your night was going. Seeing pictures of you with Masayuki was the most maddening thing he could have imagined.

"Choso," Yuuji called again, louder this time to get his attention.

Choso finally looked up at his younger brother. “When are you gonna tell her?”

“What?” he asked, pretending not to understand.

"Don’t play dumb… that you like her. When – are - you – going - to – tell - HER?"

Choso averted his gaze, taking a sip of the lemonade he’d ordered. “Never, that’s not gonna happen,” he said flatly.

“What? Why? I think Y/N’s the only one who hasn’t noticed you’re into her. You need to tell her, for your sake… for you two. We both know she has nothing to do with that guy.”

Choso started blowing bubbles in his drink, the loud sound of the popping liquid reflecting his anxiety about the conversation. “Not gonna happen,” he repeated, pulling away just one second from the straw before going right back to blowing into it.

"Not gonna happen…? But you live with her. How do you not lose your mind? I mean, you got hard just watching her walk out of the room. Don’t you want to… you know…"

Choso turned his gaze away again, fixing it on a small white spot on the wall.

Don’t you want to…? His brother’s implication was clear.

Of course he wanted to! He wanted you 24/7, constantly fighting to keep his urges in check, hiding his spontaneous reactions.

His mind drifted to the marble kitchen island, placed in the center of the room where you often found yourselves preparing lunches and dinners together. He’d lost count of how many times he’d imagined hugging you from behind while you cooked, then lifting you up onto that gray marble and ravaging you like a beast in heat. How many times? Who knows!

Everything about you drove him insane: your voice, the way you teased him by calling him Onii-chan, your movements, your easy-going attitude. He loved even your oddities, like how you casually spread your legs on the sofa during your evenings together, so effortlessly masculine, or the quirky dances you made up while listening to music. He adored your spontaneity in every action—whether you were cooking for him, smiling, or petting your cat. And your scent... Argh! Your scent was intoxicating; that jasmine fragrance you always carried with you was something he inhaled deeply at every opportunity.

Pitiful… he was so damn pitiful.

Choso rolled his eyes, not because of Yuuji’s inappropriate questions, but because the mere thought of you had caused yet another standing up that day—not his second one, anyway, but this time in public. He was still trying to figure out how the hell he had managed to get rid of the one he had before. He growled under his breath, adjusting his hoodie to conceal the boner in his pants. He then gulped down the entire lemonade before throwing himself back, slamming his frustrated body into the diner seat.

The half-curse tried to shake off thoughts of you, desperate to calm down his little -not very little- friend, still once again trapped in the confines of his stupid choices.

“Not... gonna... happen...” he muttered, squeezing the straw from the empty glass, crumpling it up, and tossing it furiously onto the table.

Yuuji remained quiet, biting his burger. “Well... whatever you think is best,” he mumbled with a shrug, diving back into his food.

Meanwhile, your night was getting a hell of a lot spicier upon entering the club adjacent to the fancy restaurant Masayuki had brought you to. After downing a few drinks—probably a few too many for Masayuki—and dancing to the club's thumping music, he couldn’t resist the urge to pin you against the wall and make out with you. His hips were grinding against yours, his mouth crashing into your lips and leaving hickeys along your neck like a damn roadmap.

“Don’t leave marks on my neck, Masa,” you whispered, but he was too lost in the moment, shoving you against the wall of the private room without a care for your wishes.

In just seconds, he had you on the couch in the private area, roaming your body with his hands like he owned you, and without your consent.

“Masa, you’re overdoing it,” you whispered, clearly embarrassed, yet he didn’t give a shit. Tonight, he wanted to fuck you, and he was determined to do it. You weren’t ready—not in this state... and definitely not with him...

Yes... not with him... deep down, you knew Masayuki wasn’t the right person for you. You were well aware that your soul belonged to someone else, someone you were too shy, hesitant, and scared to confess your feelings for. That someone was always waiting for you at home, staying by your side...

You fool...

Inadvertently, Masayuki shoved his hand under your dress, trying to yank at your thong, but you squirmed, pushing him away with all your might. He wasn’t strong; he was slim and not particularly muscular—definitely weaker than you—so you shoved him back easily.

What was hard to swallow were his insults afterward.

“Come on, don’t be such a tease!” he sneered, his confidence shaken but still trying to regain control of the situation.

“I don’t want to… not here… not now… I’m not ready,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly as you pushed him away again, hoping he would understand.

"Bitch, we’ve been seeing each other for weeks now, and you still haven’t opened your legs for me! You, fucking gold digger!” You stared at him in disbelief as he smashed a glass full of champagne on the floor. “Either you let me fuck you tonight, or it’s over between us!”

No one had ever insulted you like that, and your anger boiled over. Your response was inevitable, as expected from a fierce and independent woman like you.

“You know what? Fuck you. There’s no way I’m opening my legs for a scumbag like you, especially not in a club surrounded by people while you’re shit-faced drunk. Who the hell cares that you have money? Stay the hell away from me; I don’t give a damn about that!”

As expected, Masayuki stormed out, leaving you alone in the club while tears streamed down your face. You felt more devastated by the realization that you had deluded yourself into thinking you’d found someone worth your time than by actually losing him.

Sitting on the plush sofa, you poured yourself a glass of the expensive champagne he had bought.

“Fuck men,” you muttered, pulling your phone out of your bag.

When you guided your fingers over it, the screen lit up, welcoming you with one of the photos you cared about most.

For some reason, the wallpaper on your phone featured you, Yuuji, and Choso together—the only people you truly trusted. Choso rarely smiled, but in that photo, his subtle grin seemed to be the brightest of them all... He was the one man who stood out among all these ridiculous human beings, paradoxically being only half-human.

You dragged your fingers across the screen of your phone, contemplating whether to disturb the brothers’ evening because of your stupid fight with that jerk.

But the answer was clear: you needed to spend time with the one person you knew you could count on. So, instinctively, you dialed Choso’s number—you knew it by heart, after all.

[emcandon]

the ballad of fancy uncle chucklefuck pt. 6

(previously on fancy uncle chucklefuck: 1, 2, 3 (look at the reblog for the update), 4, 5)

a long one! so this time, a cut!

GUESS WHO HAD A BAD TIME THIS WEEK HAHAHAHAHA

my plans to have fancy uncle chucklefuck idly making breakfast for the recently re-traumatized (BY HIS GOD) party were thwarted bc he instead woke up to being physically threatened by another, different god

bc lol the party weren't the only ones his god had pissed off -- an old god of the land itself had come to menace this sad old dandy and make its complaints Known

old god was understandably pretty upset that yet another power was throwing its weight around in barovia -- and even worse, possibly making itself available to strahd?? you idiot!! you asshole!! what's wrong with you!!

sidebar: feral hagdaughter tried to wallop the old god MULTIPLE TIMES bc it was the sensible thing to do! something seem dangerous? whack it until it goes away! DUH.

anyway btwn the old god's ire + the rest of the party's comments about "worst night of our lives" and "truly fucked nightmare" and the like, fancy uncle chucklefuck started to piece together that his god had maybe FUCKED AROUND only to leave him to be the one to find out! come on!! ¯\_(ಠ_ಠ)_/¯

anyway he went from protesting that he didn't really know anything to, well, protesting that he didn't really know anything, but with more detail.

you know, like admitting this power is something he recognizes but could never have expected to wield bc he doesn't even go here. (in terms of both being not of the royal bloodline, also not even technically from the kingdom, so like ¯\_(ಠ_ಠ)_/¯ !!!)

but also in terms of how, well, the power doesn't look like he remembers it looking. he's used it to make light and to heal -- and he only ever saw it used for violence, or to change the course of a mind.

which, to be fair, it has very obviously been fucking around in everyone's brains so ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

tl;dr it's new, he doesn't like it, he's never seen the god -- or whatever it is -- do anything for anyone that wasn't directly harmful, and the only time it ever saw fit to talk to him! it gave him a migraine! so like! ¯\_(ಠ_ಠ)_/¯

but the worst part was arguably when the old god made some comment about how this god loves him.

uh oh

oh no

why

tangentially, uncle chucklefuck asked Seasonal Affective Disorder: the Warlock a thing he'd been meaning to ask her ever since she said something about how there are "different kinds of dead"

namely whether it's possible for the soul--the self--to be carved out of a body, only for the body to still be breathing

(which was probably the most intense rush of emotion i'd felt at the table thus far bc holy shit not the time he wanted to ask that, if he ever even actually wanted to)

turns out this question hit HER in a terrible and unexpected way, but tl;dr the horrible answer is "YUP"

anyway that was around the point the old god decided it was satisfied -- which it articulated by suggesting they all go walk into a lake so as to not bring any more problems down upon its people or its land. buh-bye!

to which the dragonborn herbo was like "actually that sounds great, byyyyeeeee" and promptly exited stage left

the dour divine bard and SAD: the Warlock went to go talk her through her stress/ongoing powerful aversion to God Shit

which was DARLING esp bc the dour divine bard proved far more emotionally deft and gentle than they had yet dared to be!

but THEN the dragonborn herbo was like "THAT. CHUCKLEFUCK. TOLD ME NOT TO BE VULNERABLE. AND THEN WENT AND EXPOSED HIS ENTIRE FUCKING RIBCAGE TO US." (see 3)

here pictured: me, offscreen, wailing with laughter

SAD: the Warlock's answer to this was along the lines of "to be fair, uncle chucklefuck's probably going through it, and i suspect that awful god is too -- but ALSO, if they touch our brains again, i will kill him :)"

which made the dragonborn herbo feel better so we're all good now! we're fine! we're great! it's chill!

meanwhile fancy uncle chucklefuck had offered to make food for the group before answering any questions they wanted answered and feral hagdaughter was Extremely Interested in breakfast.

which was the most sensible thing that happened all morning and made him finally confess she's his favorite.

while they tended to that, a very distressed farmer's wife politely asked the utena butch bard whether the party planned.....to stay....any longer..... and desperately pretended the farmhouse was SO haunted by the most OBNOXIOUS ghosts so they would probably be MUCH happier if they just CONTINUED ON DOWN THE ROAD...

breakfast ended up remarkably chill all things given. dragonborn herbo (NEEDLESSLY!!!) apologizing for her "outburst" and committing to sticking with the group -- and making clear she keeps her fucking promises.

followed by fancy uncle chucklefuck cautiously offering to part ways with the group bc lol! didn't expect to be contagious! sorry! haha! fuck!

tho he was also talked out of this by the double-punch salvo of 1) we've already caught the contagion and distance probably won't help, 2) strahd has already proved Interested in your god and none of us really want him to get it, so!

ultimately we hit the road again with fancy uncle chucklefuck having changed into the farmer's spare clothes bc 1) god he's tired of putting on fancy face, 2) when he runs out of money, the fancy clothes will also be good for bartering.

and we left off on debating how best to deal with hags who have the bones that we want, with the conclusion that we definitely should not bargain with them, probably could not kill them, and therefore ought to steal from them -- so uncle chucklefuck has a new mission! which is teaching these whippersnappers how to do CRIME.

relatedly, two of the party members who are decidedly not actually whippersnappers due to various circumstances (dour divine bard + SAD: the Warlock) had a sidebar where they were like "hey i maybe Get you in a weird way. anyway are you also feeling 'i just met this dragonborn herbo but if anything happened to her i would kill everyone in this room and then myself?' yes? awesome. good talk."

great and functional party with tremendously admirable coping mechanisms you got there. would be a shame if they were to trauma-bond or something.

[inkykeiji]

Oh boy! I just read your new Vox fic as well as your little ideas for daddy Lucifer and OH BOYYY is it hot in here or is it just me…

👁️👁️💦

Thinking about how Vox would take care of his sweet baby while the ‘V’ he carved heals. He’d be so meticulous and careful checking on it daily and making sure you aren’t touching it. Only Vox’s hands belong on the carving while it’s still fresh. He will take care of everything, cleaning it, dressing the wound, pleasuring you if you are good for him. You don’t have to worry about a thing…. TRUST HIM. 🤍🖤🤍🖤

On the other note, your ideas for Daddy Lucifer were *chefs kiss* in every way. You see him the same way I do, loving gentle doting service dom. Ugh I’m drooling just thinking about it! Luci not tolerating any misbehavior is so so so good! The King demands only the best. Thinking about a good over the knee spanking from Lucifer has me ripping through a phone book with my teeth. I swear I’m NORMAL! It’s been a pleasure to read your works!

- with adoration, anon Spook! 👻🤍🖤🤍🖤🤍

OH hehe i am so glad you enjoyed them!!! <33 and thank you for your other message, too!!! it was so lovely n i’m happy to hear ur excited!! thank you for sharing your enthusiasm with me! i’m rly excited to write that piece n share it! (´∀｀)♡

YES YES YESSS EXACTLY. he’s got a whole treatment plan formulated right down to every hour of your recovery, spanning several weeks. he is painstakingly scrupulous throughout the entire process and consistently reaffirms that you can’t do it on your own—that he doesn’t trust you to do it on your own, not perfectly, not the way Daddy would. it’s better for you both if you just let him handle it all ♡ besides, he needs to make sure it heals exactly the way he wants it to—sharp, clean lines and a hard, raised scar—that requires diligent attention he’s sure a sweet, stupid little baby like you can’t manage; at least, not as well as he can. and make no mistake; he will take immediate action if required, including peeling off scabs and repeating the carving, to ensure he receives his desired outcome.

he definitely demands you video call him multiple times per day so he can have a good look at it, monitoring the whole situation with a concerning amount of obsessiveness. but it’ll all be so worth it, he promises you, when it heals flawlessly, a perfect, permanent stamp of eternal ownership, etched into the most intimate part of your body ♡

ah thank you!!! i’m glad you agree!!! c; i just think he would be such a good Daddy waaah (*/ω＼*) the thought of being spanked by lucifer makes me absolutely feral so i completely understand where you’re coming from—i also go a little wild over the thought of him spanking you with his cane, which i’m sure he only reserves for severe misbehaviour ehehe

[snowvalley-real]

sorry I need to rant about this.

so Vincent. right. Vincent Bonnsnkebdjs something (I can't spell his last name. the one from dead plate) so. him. HE MAKES ME MAD.

"ooooh I cant taste I lost that in childhood!!" unless you carved your entire tongue out I think your taste buds will heal. I was so mad I actually researched this. taste buds heal every couple weeks, and I don't think he has ageusia, because that implicates an underlying disease or infection like COVID, sinus infection, head or ear injuries, that type of stuff.

some other things that cause it is high blood pressure, diabetes, poor nutrition, sjogren'a syndrome, ALZHEIMER'S, MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS AND HOW COULD I FORGET

SMOKING.

so unless he's chugging things like lithium or thyroid medication or being treated for CANCER while munching on lemons, then that motherfucker would've had his sense of taste back had he not been stupid.

plus, a chef with no sense of taste? really? what's next, a dentist with rotten teeth? I don't want a guy that eats lemons with the peel as a snack to cook me a five course meal. Not even gonna get in my cannibalism hyperfix so I don't get cancelled on Twitter dot com but I DOUBT he even prepared Manon properly.

And really? the ear? out of all parts of Rody you could've eaten, you choose the ear? the piece of cartilage with no meat or fat in it whatsoever? not only is the texture horrible but it has absolutely no taste, not that he'd know apparently.

TL;DR: not at all a criticism of dead plate, I just hate Vince. he cooks with no love and that is an important ingredient. You couldn't even cook him; from how much he smokes, he'd taste terrible.

[mariacallous]

In early 2006, Russian Pvt. Andrei Sychyov had his legs and genitals amputated from frostbite after he and at least seven other conscripts were forced to squat in the snow for hours during New Year’s Eve celebrations, during which they were brutally beaten. It took three days for him to get any medical aid. In 2018, Pvt. Artyom Pakhotin had the word petukh—meaning rooster (figuratively, “prison bitch”)—carved into his forehead as a punishment for smoking in the barracks. Two weeks later, he killed himself with his AK. On Oct. 25, 2019, conscript Ramil Shamsutdinov opened fire on fellow soldiers, killing eight of them, after what he said was a prolonged period of beatings and threats of rapes.

Every six months, approximately 130,000 Russian conscripts are called up for their year of service, where most of them will face sadistic hazing. In Russian, it’s called dedovshchina, a brutal internal army regime that began in Soviet times but is thoroughly embedded in modern military culture. Western militaries have worked hard to reduce bullying and hazing in the ranks with some, but not complete, success. But in Russia’s army, dedovshchina is a unique cultural staple and a formative part of the military identity. It’s a process that leaves Russian soldiers brutalized and traumatized; it in turn teaches them to inflict pain on others.

Multiple sources, both those who served in Soviet times and those with experience in the modern Russian Armed Forces, have described this hazing to me as not just a byproduct of service but as a deliberate part of Russian military indoctrination. (I interviewed these sources during my history studies and early journalism work on this subject and reached back out to many for this piece.) The same attitude is expressed all over the Russian internet. In 2006, as Lenta.ru reported, the then-prosecutor-general of Russia, Vladimir Ustinov, even admitted in a speech to President Vladimir Putin and his prosecutor colleagues that he “is unable to do anything about the criminality in the armed forces.” 

The survivors of this hazing say the main goal is to break young men. They are turned into submissive, intimidated, and obedient drones who will not ask unnecessary questions nor show any independent thought or initiative. The methods are brutal. Take punching the plywood, used as a so-called toughness training exercise and also as a form of collective punishment. Service members stand in formation in a single line at attention. An authority figure passing by the formation hits each of the standing service members in the chest with the butt of an AKM assault rifle until the bolt jerks in the frame. Soldiers who’ve been through this say that it leaves your chest black and bruised for at least a week. 

Then there is staking the moose, especially prominent in the Russian Air Force. The soldier puts his hands on his forehead with the palms facing outward, like a moose’s spread antlers. His abuser hits the center of the crossed palms with his fists, or a rifle butt, or a stool, or whatever else is on hand. The task of the “moose” is to remain standing. Failure to do so will, undoubtedly, result in even more severe beatings and other punishments. There are various versions of this, such as “suicidal moose,” where a far-off wall is chosen and the conscript is forced to run toward it as fast as possible until their “antlers” slam into it. If they don’t run fast enough, there are more beatings.

Not all punishments are physical. In a blog called Army Diary of a Conscript 2012-13, the author, who just goes by “Sergei,” writes: “It is one thing when you are awakened at night by a blow on the head with a stool, after which you get bullied just for ‘fun,’ and another thing, for example, when younger conscripts are sent to hard and dishonorable work in the first place. The difference is in the goals—sometimes suffering and humiliation is the main purpose, and sometimes it is a side effect.” 

Another former conscript posted about his experiences in a link that’s now only accessible through waybackmachine: “Fear. Misunderstanding. And fear again. To the point of shaking at the knees. It’s a strange feeling. I’m surprised it’s so prevalent. We weren’t ‘guests for three days’ in the old army tradition. We got picked up and beaten senseless the first night.”

“Guests for three days” here means the unwritten rule once adhered to in Soviet times, where the conscripts were treated with overplayed kindness and politeness for three days, before the horror began, just to see what kind of people they were and how they would act in stressful situations. Such niceties have largely disappeared.

But those are just the regular methods. Some of the ways to dedi, or break, the young conscripts are genuinely disturbing—and those who’ve served seldom want to talk about the worst experiences they’ve had. This isn’t surprising, because oftentimes it’s on the same level as the worst punishments in the prison culture, and parallels incidents in today’s police torture cases in Russia. There are cases of rape and being forced into prostitution and threats of such. Then there are abuses like the infamous sitting on a bottle, often used by Ramzan Kadyrov’s Chechen units to punish those who oppose them. It’s all about humiliation—some of it imitated from the ponyatiya, the sadistic regime of Russian prison culture. 

As the name, literally the “rule of the old-timers,” suggests, dedovshchina is based on the superiority of veterans to rookies. While there’s always been bullying, going back to the tsarist military, Soviet dedovshchina began right after World War II, when the army was still swollen by the wartime call-up. Of course, the military command realized that hazing was a foolish idea, but the army severely lacked manpower, due to the immense number of casualties it had suffered, and there was little appetite for cracking down on soldiers. Due to the lack of manpower, prisoners were also often transferred to the army, which led to the spread of their own unwritten laws, the ponyatiya, among the armed forces.

Veterans who had survived a war that killed 8.7 million of their comrades and around 19 million Soviet civilians were not interested in peacetime military affairs and everyday chores like washing floors or cleaning. Nor did they care much about proper dress code and discipline. Their officers had often served with them in the war and tended to treat them with well-earned respect—so these veterans instead delegated all the daily work to the fresh recruits and also took it upon themselves to teach them proper discipline and the ethos of the army, severely beating them in cases of disobedience. And then the veterans demobilized and the previous victims took their place, creating a permanent cycle of violence. 

This only intensified after Leonid Brezhnev’s 1968 reduction of the term of service in the army from three to two years. Since the Soviet Union had become a stagnant bureaucracy, the reduction had numerous flaws and was implemented carelessly and haphazardly. Those who had already served one year had to continue serving for two more, while the new recruits had to serve for only two years. This caused resentment in the older recruits and hatred in the younger, so the older service members began to amplify the violence and humiliation they inflicted upon new recruits, who then did the same to subsequent conscripts. 

After the introduction of the one-year system, in another half-hearted attempt at military reform in the mid-2000s, these term-based beatings became less formalized. However, this didn’t mean a stop or even a general decrease in violence, just a change in the reasoning and pace behind it. Today, the older service members just beat up whomever they like. A soldier used to take beatings for a year and then spend another year giving them to the fresh recruits. Now a conscript does both for six months apiece. Once-organized violence has become general brutality. 

Another form of hazing is zemlyadstvo: hazing on national or regional grounds. It started when the various nationalities of the Soviet Union—and today the Russian Federation—formed cliques and clustered together to collectively deal with “outsiders.” The nature of zemlyadstvo has not changed much since the Soviet era—save for the general disappearance of some of the nationalities, like Georgians and Armenians, once involved. But there are still plenty of minorities inside Russia, and they’re particularly targeted for conscription. It is disproportionately the minorities, especially those from the eastern regions, who bear the brunt of the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

Despite selling itself as an international workers’ paradise, the Soviet Union was anything but. Russian culture was always pushed to the national republics as a superior one, and if you weren’t seen as properly Russian, then you’d often be treated as a second-class citizen. We in the Baltics were always “evil Nazi sympathizers,” with Estonians especially portrayed as slow and dim-witted. There was a range of ethnic slurs: Caucasians were chernye, “blacks,” or “black-assed”; Central Asians were cherka, “blockheads”; Ukrainians were nothing but khohols; and so forth. Those attitudes have persisted, producing conflicts between the ethnic Russians, who tend to view themselves as superior, and everyone else.

For some groups, these were essentially protective alliances, shielding members from the brutality. My late father told me that, in his unit, people from the Baltics used to hang out in the vehicle workshop, doing all the necessary work there, while those from the Caucasus took over the canteen. That spoke to their power, since it was always warm there and they had access to extra food. Neither of these groups spent much time in the barracks, thus avoiding the dedovshchina that took place there. Teaming up in this way was vital, because otherwise Russian racism led to minorities being subjected to the worst bullying—as in the tragic case of Shamsutdinov, an ethnic Tatar from the Tyumen oblast who snapped and shot his comrades.

This case blew up all over the Russian internet at the time. My interviewees agreed that because he had an “Asiatic look,” he must’ve been treated extra harshly by the ethnic Russians. “He must have jumped higher than his place,” a Russian sailor currently serving in the North Sea told me on the phone. “Must’ve tried to complain to someone about the beatings or dared to stand up to someone. Bad idea. For the army, they (the non-Russians) are meat. They’re far from Moscow or Saint Petersburg. Nobody cares when they die.” Today, the attitude of Russian superiority beaten into soldiers feeds into the racism of Putin’s war, where Ukrainians are portrayed as subhuman.

To some extent, dedovshchina thrived during peacetime in the absence of anything else to do—and traditionally it diminished during war. However, as Putin fuels and supports hate groups within his own country for political reasons, it’s only getting worse. One traditional aspect that hasn’t changed about brutality, however, is that it tends to play out in violence against civilians. Ukrainian civilians suffer war crimes from brutalized Russians, just as Chinese suffered from the brutalized imperial Japanese. That, too, was a militarized society, where people were taught that their lives belonged to the emperor. Training was brutal, and beatings—for very little reason or none at all—were often. And those who endured became brutal and desensitized themselves, capable of justifying any cruelty. Similar parallels can be drawn with the South Korean Army of the Vietnam War, whose ultra-harsh internal discipline and brutal training produced its cruel treatment of the Vietnamese.

And the internal violence in the Russian army has gotten worse—even before the brewing ethnic tensions are taken into account. There are reports of those who want to refuse fighting in Ukraine, or just misbehave in the Russian army, being beaten by the military police and then being put in torture pits for days. The soldiers who are returning home are committing crimes, and violence in Russia is becoming ever more normalized. 

This is nothing new—statistics published by the U.S. Department of Justice in 1992 showed that, in 1989, when the Soviet-Afghan War ended, the overall number of recorded crimes grew by 31.8 percent. Obviously, the last returning soldiers weren’t the only cause for this, but they certainly played their part. And then came the 1990s, when veterans of the Chechen wars played their part in creating the peaks of murder reached in 1994 and 2002. 

Another generation will be put through the wringer of Russia’s self-inflicted misery. Russian opposition journalists are already talking about how Russia has changed and what it’s going to be like to live there after the war. But none of this brutality, nor the hate groups and crime that have spawned from it, is going to go away easily.

[hotforharrison]

My ex-husband visited last night to have some time together as friends, and we spent a couple hours watching a show about sunken ships on Disney+ and had dinner together.

It was nice.

I admitted to him how much I missed him and that I genuinely appreciated him seeing me, even if it was on different terms than we used to have.

He cuddled me on the sofa for a while, and he let me cry all the tears seeing him again brought out of me.

We talked about very hard things for me to talk about, while I cried more than I thought I would, and we're going to go to the courthouse to file the paperwork to legally start the divorce this coming week.

He had some overtime this last paycheck, so it won't be a problem to pay for the (stupidly expensive) court costs.

We've been separated for almost two months now. He's moved out, and nothing else will change because of some paperwork, but it's somehow different dissolving our bond legally.

When I was finishing up cleaning his former room to turn it into my own space, completely devoid of his things, I found the ring he wore when we got married, the temporary one I got for less than $20 at Walmart in 2010. I didn't know he kept it for all these years.

It fucking broke me for some reason, and I cried for so long at the discovery.

Even if it wasn't stupidly hot, I can't be in the master bedroom. It feels so wrong. There's no more "us," and the decor is different, but it still feels like "our" room. We shared it for over a decade.

Maybe that feeling will fade with time.

Right now, I can't bring myself to remove his stuff from the vanity or the shower, even though I know he's not coming back.

I'm not in denial. It's just hard to accept it, that this chapter of my life is ending, and I'm so fucking terrified. I've never been more hurt or scared in my life.

I've been spending most of my time in his former room that has the window AC unit, which I'm working on make into something that's as mine as possible with very, very minimal spending -- just using as much stuff that I already have as possible.

I might have to hit up a Goodwill or two to see if I can find some wall decor on the cheap. It's looking like I'm coming up short in that department, and it's so important to me to make the single room I'm spending extended periods of time in as homey and mine as possible.

I'm not painting it, at least not any time soon, because I'll be (hopefully) starting to work soon. The room will stay deep space blue for the time being.

It's not the worst color ever, just not very me.

But I'm not the same me I was before I met him all those years ago.

He's always going to be a part of me.

You don't spend 17 years with someone without that person becoming a permanent piece of you.

Maybe the blue is kind of like that -- that piece of him that stays with me while I'm starting down my own path without him by my side.

Anyway, in addition to trying to carve out my own space in his former room, which is a work in progress, I've been working on getting the kitchen cabinet trim ready to be painted before I paint the walls and the cabinets themselves.

There are four layers of paint on those cabinets. It's taking multiple applications of paint stripper to get it off so I can properly paint the trim, which is my first task.

I want to get the trim done and the new liners put in so I can put what I'm keeping into the cabinets again instead of being a huge mess in my former room. The mess is bothering me, just knowing it's there.

My goal is to get the kitchen completely done before July 18 -- the date of my next meeting with the vocational rehabilitation case manager so I can get a job. He called it the "planning" meeting, since I was accepted into the program.

I'm supposed to send him a résumé, and I'm like "...I haven't worked since early 2008, and my work experience was stocking shelves at Walmart."

My college education in IT is irrelevant because technology has changed so much since 2006 when I graduated.

I'll send him one, though.

Maybe there's some form or something I can plug my information into without putting in a ton of effort for the absolutely pointless résumé.

[tokiro07]

Undead Unluck ch. 144 thoughts

[Rising Up, Back on the Street]

We get a brief flashback into Void’s past when he was very poor, likely homeless, and emaciated, living on the streets of an American city, which I’m willing to bet is New York. Despite the fact that Void was walking literally on the edge of the sidewalk, a rich couple bumps into him, getting mad that he didn’t avoid them. He responds that they could have walked anywhere else, and frankly, yeah, what the hell is their problem? There was SO MUCH ROOM for them to walk, but the idea that’s trying to be conveyed is about Void’s decision not to avoid people as the cop says in the next part of the flashback

Based on what Void and the cop say, it sounds like Void was trying to live a life where he faced everything head on, but may have been making some kind of excuse for why he wasn’t improving his life up to that point. I’m a little unclear, I don’t think they’ve given us quite enough information yet, and I’m not entirely sure they’re going to give us any more. I imagine we’ll get at least one more flashback for Void when he’s on his first Quest, as at this point he hasn’t grown or changed, he’s just been put in a new situation, but admittedly this flashback left me just a little confused

Back to the fight, Fuuko explains midmatch what Negators are, and thanks to her pre-established understanding of Unavoidable is able to land a counter attack in lieu of trying to avoid Void’s attack. She promises that even if this is Void’s final match, he’ll still be able to box in the world of Negators, then unleashes a barrage of attacks by combining her Unluck Whip (charging an enemy with Unluck using her hair) with a Dempsey Roll, a boxing technique wherein the fighter moves in a figure 8 pattern meant to land multiple hits quickly. This technique was developed by Jack Dempsey in order to fight larger enemies because of his relatively small stature, making this move perfect for Fuuko to use against Void. It’s not really stated, but I believe that each bit of contact Fuuko is making with her hair is allowing her to land her punches as “lucky shots”

The cop’s words to Void in his youth, if you overcome hardships then luck will come your way, is pretty ironic when you consider that Fuuko is Unluck. Fuuko’s Unluck has surprisingly made her a source of good fortune for many people, as she’s now helping everyone AVOID their tragedies

On the sidelines, Gina notes that Fuuko and Void are enjoying their battle. I’m not quite sure if Gina was referring to Nico as “Nico ojii-san” up to this point, but for whatever reason she’s decided to switch to calling him “Nico-san” instead, which I believe is a lot more respectful. Also for some reason Ichico’s spirit has left her body, so I think she might have used her newfound control of her soul to allow herself to faint for...some reason. Maybe it’ll be explained in an omake

Void adapts to the rhythm of Fuuko’s attacks and lands a blow on her strong enough to knock the bandage off of her cheek. He declares that he doesn’t care about her ability; all that matters to him is that the place in the world he’s carved for himself hasn’t been lost, and he tearfully asks if there is still a world where he’s allowed to be. Even through her bruises, Fuuko is able to give such a soft and sympathetic smile, and promises that not only does he still have a place to belong, he has only seen the tip of the iceberg and the size of the ring has expanded to the entire Earth

She then reveals that the bandage that Void knocked off of her was actually strategically placed three weeks prior to act as a Bad Bullet and load him with Unluck. You might actually have noticed that this is a piece of sports tape as opposed to the more traditional bandage that Fuuko had been wearing when she first confronted Void. I imagine she switched it out so as not to hit him with more than three works worth of Unluck in one go, as any more than that might have been fatal

Instead, as I predicted, one of the lights falls down, though not directly onto Void. Instead, the light momentarily blinds him, allowing Fuuko to land one final direct blow on Void, bringing him to his knees. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to avoid his final strike either, so while she managed to stay standing, she passed out, resulting in Void’s victory

However, Void knows in his heart that the victory is Fuuko’s, but he accepts his loss with grace and leaves the world of boxing without regrets. No time to take in the cheers, though, cus the Quest’s time limit is just about up, so Move takes everyone back to the Roundtable just in the nick of time

I love Void’s reaction to Apocalypse; “whoa, monsters are real? It’s on sight” and BAM, right in the teeth. Get wrecked, Apocalypse

Begrudgingly, Apocalypse announces the Quest results and adds the third seat to the Roundtable. As Fuuko is unconscious, Ichico takes it upon herself to defer the seat to Void, as she’s a support unit and not fit for fighting UMAs. She asks him to have faith in Fuuko and lend her his strength for the upcoming battles, and he happily obliges. This is exactly what I’ve been talking about the last few weeks: all of Fuuko’s efforts to help Void exit the world he knew on high note did, in fact, foster the kind of faith that Void would need to have in her to join her cause

So now Void has officially been added as the third seat, but the next Quest won’t be revealed for another three months, so what are we going to do in the meantime? Well don’t forget, the reward for capturing Void is the location of Remember! Three months seems like plenty of time to go about finding that, so the real question is, who’s going to get in the way? Is it going to be guarded by a UMA? Or will this be how we’re reintroduced to Ruin? I don’t want to speculate too much, but if I had to guess, we’re going to get a bit more development for Void in the meantime as I said earlier

And who knows, maybe we’ll finally get to see Andy again

[mobydicks203-briancarew]

Insurance by Day, Whaler by Night? Maybe Not so Exactly.

Nick Ruickoldt is one of the owners of the new bar Moby Dick’s in West Haven, CT on Campbell Ave. Moby Dick’s opened as an upscale oyster bar on August 18, 2022. The bar was made to resemble the inside of a whaler's ship, hence the name which was the name of the place about 50 years before. Ruickoldt and the rest of the team tried their best to keep the original pieces of the bar intact. For example, the authentic paintings inside each porthole, the wood beams going across the ceiling, and the same copper bar with all the carvings of people’s names and so what  in the wood going around it. Moby Dick’s obviously isn’t just known for their looks, but their food and drinks as well. Any of the bartenders can make you a one-of-a-kind espresso martini while you enjoy Chef Jeff Lamberti’s signature dish of the week, his classic cast iron mac and cheese, or go raw bar and have some fresh oysters. Ruickoldt explained that he believes the community has taken a liking to Moby Dick’s because of the aesthetics, food and drinks, and the “home feel” the business gives off. Although Ruickoldt has been somewhat successful in the bar business so far, this is not his main interest or where his main income comes from. As a graduate of Merrimack College in 2008 Ruickoldt found himself in the insurance world. He started working at The Russell Agency in 2009 and in 2013 Ruickoldt was elected to West Haven’s city council as a representative of the second district. However, that term came to end but Ruickoldt still stays in touch with many of the other representatives. 

Interview

Q: What is your typical day like? 

Ruickoldt: “My primary living is in insurance. My real estate ventures and Moby Dick’s are side interests. So I have an ownership stake in it, but we have employees and managers that run day-to-day operations.”

Q: So you would say you are not there on scene front and center?

Ruickoldt: “Yes, exactly. My model is to find other really good people that can manage these things for me on a day-to-day basis and then just report up to me in various capacities.”

Q: What made you get into your extracurricular activities, like the city council position? 

Ruickoldt: “I got involved there because I had some issues that I wanted to work on so I decided to run for office to make those changes on that level. I really learned to love it and got more involved. Other opportunities opened up and I was able to serve in multiple different capacities.”

Q: What specific issues were you concerned about?

Ruickoldt: “The two major ones were economic development and how our beachfront was being handled and taken care of.”

Q: When talking to you about how the customers enjoyed the place, you used the term “home feel”. Where does the feeling come from?

Ruickoldt: “I believe the feeling mainly comes from the great staff that has become a close-knit community. We try and have our employees remember as many names as possible and I think that makes a huge difference in customer satisfaction.” 

Q: Can you tell me about the trivia night you recently started doing?

Ruickoldt:  “The trivia night idea was an attempt to try and bring in more business. We have it every Wednesday and have various topics ranging from 80s music, sports, and close to St. Patty’s Day we did an “All things Irish” edition as a fundraiser for the Greater New Haven St. Patrick's Day Parade Committee.”

Q: Is there anything else you did for St. Patrick’s Day?

Ruickoldt: “Yes actually we had a leprechaun hide bags of gold around the city with the hopes of the public going out and finding them and bringing them to Moby Dick’s on St. Patrick’s Day to win a prize. The people loved the idea. So many people saw the leprechaun and gave him compliments or wanted to take a picture with him. Doing events like these definitely add to the “home feel” we were talking about before.” 

Q: What have been the main obstacles you have faced when opening the bar?

Ruickoldt:  “It's always people right, in any business. I think the biggest hurdle is always finding the right people. The ones with the right skill sets. It’s finding the right people to bring together because ultimately it’s your people who are going to make or break your business. Dealing with permits, construction, delays, and cost increases due to covid are all other things you have to deal with but I think they are pretty manageable and just a part of the business.”

Q: What is a piece of advice you would give someone who is filling your shoes?

Ruickoldt: “People, Process, Product. We buy the best fish and shellfish that money can buy. We try to pay our people the most we can and still run a business and we are still looking to figure out the best process. That's another obstacle we've encountered is the process. Fine-tuning that process to one, be efficient, and control costs but to give our customers the best experience possible to make a safe environment for your employees.”