#bare bones articles

[bb-bare-bones]

Transformations in Re-Animator: Body Horror at its Finest

By Tabby Knight (Instagram - tabby.knight6)

Artwork by Dy Dawson, @xgardensinspace

I love Re-Animator. I’m in love with it. Seriously, disgustingly, violently in love with it. If I could marry a film, it’d be Re-Animator (and I’d be sure to court it first—flowers, chocolates, disembodied hearts floating in jars, the works). If I could marry a character in a film, it’d be Herbert West, which probably indicates—not that I needed an indication—that there’s something really very wrong with me as a human being.

But the heart wants what it wants, and ever since I watched Stuart Gordon’s 1985 splatter-fest as a bloodthirsty undergrad, streaming the film in low quality on my cracked, ageing iPhone, my heart has wanted Re-Animator. I love everything about the film, from its lead characters to its buckets of blood to its ridiculous, oh-so-quotable moments of barefaced comedy (“You’ll never get credit for my discovery. Who’s going to believe a talking head? Get a job in a sideshow.”) and I know just about everything about it, too. I’ve seen its sequels (Bride’s a messy triumph, we don’t speak about Beyond) watched interviews, deleted scenes, actor and director commentaries, the works. I’ve also tracked down just about every other horror film featuring the dynamic duo of Jeffrey Combs and Barbara Crampton, seeking something of the same calibre to scratch that gory itch. A few films have come close, but none so far have surpassed it. As a lifelong viewer of 80’s corn-syrup gore, I can assure you that Re-Animator is unmatched. It stands alone.

There’s a lot of talk about Re-Animator as a cult classic, and rightly so. There’s also talk about it as a comedy (true) a splatter film (also true) and a landmark of Lovecraftian canon (absolutely). But what I don’t see talked about as much, is that it’s a pretty impressive piece of transformation horror—verging on body horror, really—in the same vein as Jekyll and Hyde, The Fly, or American Werewolf in London.

At its core, Re-Animator is a film about uncontrollable, transforming bodies, both the obvious and the subtle. From its opening sequence (Doctor Gruber’s freaky, bulging eyes that explode right out of his head) to its final, blood-soaked showdown, the body is a constant site of change.

There is, first and foremost, the transformations brought about by Herbert West’s re-agent: the re-animation of the tranquil dead to aggressive, violent zombies. By that same token, the re-agent also transitions Dean Halsey from a rational human being into a creature who mindlessly kidnaps, restrains and strips his own daughter, and aids Doctor Hill’s transition from a creepy, unethical professor to an all-out, murderous sexual predator (albeit a decapitated one).

But there are also the subtle changes. Dan’s patients are always in motion, crossing over from life to death (it’s funny to think that in a film set primarily in a hospital, none of the patients on display actually make it out alive) and the bodies in the morgue are always shown in transitional states of rot and decay. Almost every shot of a body (or its parts) displays these changing states in full detail, a constant reminder of human fragility—our own lack of control over our own bodies, and the inevitable breakdown of the flesh.

But my favourite transformation—and perhaps the most criminally overlooked—doesn’t actually occur in the body at all. Or at least, not at first glance. It’s the transformation we see in All-American good guy Dan Cain: our squeaky-clean med student protagonist, and eventual accomplice to Herbert’s maniacal experiments. At the start of the film, Dan appears to have it all. Good career prospects, a super cute girlfriend (Megan Halsey, I’m in love with you) and what appears to be a fairly concrete spot on the Dean’s List: Dean Halsey even goes so far as to describe him as one of Miskatonic’s most promising students—no mean feat, considering he’s regularly bedding the ultra-conservative Dean’s only daughter. The only identifiable flaw in his apple pie life would appear to be his inner struggle with mortality. Not his own, you understand, but that of his patients. He refuses to accept that dead is emphatically, irrevocably dead. And of course, it’s this struggle that sets up the rest of the film.

Throughout Re-Animator’s speedy 90-minute runtime, we see Dan transition almost seamlessly from an upstanding member of society to a man who willingly injects a volatile substance into the corpse of his dead girlfriend, despite knowing full well what the consequences will be. In essence, he transforms from a regular guy into an all-out monster. Granted, he’s a monster with a conscience (we see that very clearly in Bride of Re-Animator) but arguably, so are your American Werewolves and Brundleflies.

In fact, you could argue Dan’s a little bit worse than most transformative monsters: Dan’s conscience, such as it is, always seems to disappear when faced with the prospect of his own self-interest. Despite all his prior reservations, his reluctance to revive Dean Halsey (until it suits him) his fury at Herbert’s murder and resurrection of Doctor Hill, all of it seems to dissipate in the face of Meg’s death. Then, suddenly, there’s no hesitation, no ethics. He barely hesitates in retrieving the reagent, measuring up the dose, or injecting Meg in the brain stem. His transformation—man to monster—is complete. And he didn’t even have to shed his skin to do it.

This is, in part, what I think is missing from the 1989 sequel, Bride of Re-Animator (aside from Stuart Gordon in the director’s chair). Bride’s a good movie, and I like it a lot, even if it does lag a little somewhere around the middle. But what really lets it down is the absence of that underlying transformative arc – we as an audience aren’t particularly unnerved by Dan’s second descent into medical madness, because it’s not exactly shocking or new. We’ve already seen the very worst he could do first time around, and anything Bride tries to offer us naturally falls short. A better direction for the sequel might have been a role reversal—maybe Herbert gains something of a conscience while Dan continues to lose his? But then of course, there’s the risk that Herbert might also lose some of the callous edge that makes him such an iconic anti-hero (and makes me love him so, so much). It’d be a fine line to walk, and interestingly some fanworks do a great job of it, but it’s never quite transferred to the realm of sequel film.

For me, it’ll always come back to that final shot—the plunge of the Re-agent filled syringe before Barbara Crampton’s iconic scream and the dramatic cut to black. There’s only one ending that comes close to scratching the same depraved itch in my strange little brain, and that’s the closing line in Stephen King’s Pet Semetary:

“…Darling.”

[snowstories]

BOTW's story is kinda weak because it sucks at information distribution, but I think it did a great job incorporating the gameplay into the narrative. Breath of the Wild is an open world game, meaning the onus is naturally on exploration and freedom. By contrasting this main gameplay loop with the memory flashbacks and given information of the past, it manages very naturally create a narrative of past vs present and restriction vs freedom.

Almost everything we see of the past in BOTW creates this stifling feeling of repression. It is a past filled with restriction, where everyone is given a very narrow role to play and punished when they do not play it well enough. Everyone is always prim and proper, anchored by tradition and the 'right' way to do this.

By contrast, in the present, if you want to spend a whole day trying to make your way through Hebra in your underwear, you can just do that. Sure, you can also just beeline for the Divine Beasts and then the castle, but few people (speedrunners not withstanding) will do that, and moreover, people aren't supposed to do that. Breath of the Wild wants you to spend your time fucking around rather than completing your divinely ordained world-saving quest.

This creates a contrast between past and present, where Link and Zelda are pushed into restrictive roles by precisely this destiny. Link is still mostly a vehicle of projection for the player, but is nevertheless established as a character in his own right in the game, and what limited notes of characterization we get indicates that he was absolutely miserable in the past. In memory cutscenes he's stoic and unemotive (probably part deliberate characterization, part effort to preserve his status as a blank slate), and Zelda's diary establishes him as not talking because he's afraid of saying the wrong thing. Whichever way you read his character, he's clearly very repressed.

And in the present he's spending a whole day seeing if he can get a picture of a bug, or eating dubious food, or chasing ducks or whatever. Because that's what you're doing. And since you're probably having a great time, you're gonna project that on the character designed to be projected upon. While I do still think past!Link could have done with a little more emoting, the game overall does a good job utilizing Link's status as a player insert to create/add to the story and its themes.

BOTW's chosen story is one set in the past, mostly about Zelda and her failure to fit into the role she's given. It's a story of restriction and repression. It is a deliberate contrast between the freedom the gameplay gives you. With this, it does a great job incorporating the gameplay into the story; rather than a game where every second you spend screwing around and exploring feels at odds with the urgency of your quest, the fact that Link, the repressed and miserable knight of the past, is screwing around freely feels like character development. Now having the freedom to screw around rather than single-mindedly pursue destiny is the point of the story.

In addition, it adds to the game's overarching theme of past vs present. In the flashbacks, we see an overreliance on Sheikah tech and ancient plans, hailed blindly as a savior when we know exactly this will be everyone's doom. Breath of the Wild never posits that we should ignore or scorn the past; on the contrary, it encourages exploration of it, both in the past with Zelda's character via her fascination with Sheikah tech, and in the present, with encouragement to uncover Link's past and the gameplay's incorporation of Sheikah tech. However, it cautions against worshipping it. The past is something to uncover and honor, but not a thing to live in; ultimately, you must forge your own path in the present. This is reinforced through the freedom of the gameplay and the aforementioned contrast it creates between the past and present. Following the past brought doom upon Hyrule a hundred years ago; doing so again would surely repeat this. You are encouraged to ignore the blueprint of the past and forge your own path. Even and especially if it involves riding your horse everywhere but the plot points.

By the very nature of the game's design, you are creating a story where Link wakes up in a wild future filled with endless possibilities and obtains a freedom that was inherently restricted in the past, letting go of the past and celebrating the future.

It's not groundbreaking or revolutionary or anything, but I think it's a very solid example of incorporating gameplay into the narrative.

[grinchwrapsupreme]

my dad is the kind of person who makes fun of things (mental illness, gender, sexuality, etc) until he encounters it at a close enough proximity to actually think of it as a real thing at which point he’s totally normal about it forever which means I get the honour of gently guiding him through conversations about Vico Ortiz now that he’s discovered they’re nonbinary in the same way a bull is gently guided out of a grenade-strewn china shop

[mastersoftheair]

a very brief article about kirk saduski and john orloff speaking with students at Air University about the bombing stategies used in MotA

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

We've had one specific ask from an anon in our inbox about The Idol Stuff for nearly two weeks by now and we haven't answered it because we were feeling really damn low-energy over the past few days but if anon's still around then uhh. We're Working On It, take the direct quote "supremely talented and gorgeous, single, heterosexual star, seemingly accessible to fans of the opposite sex", this fun handful of words, & a Wikipedia page to tide you over.

[mihai-florescu]

You 🤝 me

Lookin up and finding that article on how to get out of bed. Also prolly walkin away from that google search havin made no progress in gettin out of said bed

🤝🤝🤝the advice about staying in contact with people and making plans to look forward to was good However what would i even talk about with people anymore...? The entire month of february passed and i have at most 3 memories in total, i just feel like my friends' time can be better spent with others who actually have Anything going on for them and more interesting lives. But i see how this becomes a reinforcing loop of thoughts and actions and i just need to make the first step...

[piratewinzer]

I was so absolutely targeted and gobsmacked off my rocker by the very specific "mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about" and the example that is straight out of something my indeed 12 year old self not only wrote but ADMIRED in others writing at the time.

This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.

e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.

I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.

This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.

And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you 🫵 are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.

[sbcdh]

On the morning of August 19th 1966, the merchant marine vessel Pelican unloaded its cargo into the port of Los Angeles. Recently declassified information about the Pelican’s ship manifest confirms that the ship was carrying experimental materials for a nascent project Clover. Of the 425 drums of material, only 424 were accounted for. 

While government officials have not confirmed exactly what was in the lost barrel, its contents are believed to be approximately 55 gallons of an experimental substance similar to LSD. 

To anyone with a passing interest in the 1970’s music scene, this will not come as news. Tall tales of a lost ship full of experimental drugs were as common as disco, though the stories have been exaggerated. The most common form of the story features a drunk crane operator loading a shipping crate onto the wrong train, though in reality it was only a single barrel that went unaccounted for. The more outlandish forms of the legend include everything from a daring heist by a crew of rocker-pirates to shadowy government entities vanishing the entire ship for their own nefarious purposes. 

The reality was a simple logistical mixup, a mistake that can be tracked back to a simple addition error on an inventory sheet, an ordinary yet deeply embarrassing mistake on part of the government. Additionally, The information that revealed the lost barrel came alongside a report detailing project clovers lost asset tracking protocol. Protocol that reads as comically naive in hindsight, with guidelines including “monitoring local jazz bars” or keeping an eye out for “feminist thought.” With the benefit of retrospective, it is no surprise that agents were not able to track the barrel. 

Declassification of the Pelican’s manifest prompted an unexpected crossover with another niche legend of the 1970s Los Angeles music scene: the disappearance of the Knights of Altonia. 

Even today, many consider the Knights of Altonia to be a myth, but scant references to their existence can be found. According to a review from a 1977 issue of Jam! Magazine, the Knights of Altonia were a “D-List psychedelic glam metal outfit with more style than skill, known more for their disappearance than their music.” Though a 1997 retrospective from Tempo calls them “A band too ahead of their time to be properly appreciated” noting their flamboyant stage costuming and its significant influence on the aesthetics of the genre. 

To the frustration of music historians seeking to separate fact from fiction, the band featured an elaborate mythology, with each member claiming to be a “Wizard-Knight of the Mystic Tower” who traveled from their world to ours “on a journey through the Nine Realms to find the secret stone.” This has been the source of innumerable urban legends around the band. A common joke among hobbyist historians at the time claimed that the Knights did not vanish, but simply “returned to the Nine Realms.” Information on the band is so muddled that many music historians doubt their existence entirely. In fact, the only confirmed, physical evidence of the band’s existence is a photograph at the bottom of the Jam! Review, it features:

Lead singer and guitarist Donald Hawkins as his stage persona “Zozimos the Wise.” He sports a mane of dreadlocks, and a classic blue wizard hat and robe decorated with yellow stars.The robe is worn open to reveal Donald’s bare chest, along with velvet short-shorts and a pair of thigh-high leather boots. The article states that the glittery bright purple guitar in his hands was named “Excelsior.”

Rhythm guitarist Jon Todachine as “Wan the Witch King.” He wears a deerskin jacket, also open at the front, decorated with what appear to be crow feathers and small animal bones. The theme of bones continues to his belt buckle, which features an as-of-yet unidentified animal skull. This figure is presumed to be Jon, although it should be noted that the broad hat he wears features a curtain of beads that obscures his face. 

Bassist Riley Knox as “Chulainn the Horned.” He wears a full deer skull, along with a lit candle that appears to be slowly melting down over the mask. Most of his upper body is obscured by what appears to be a cloak of leaves. Beneath the cloak he appears to be wearing a pair of Nike Blazers. 

Drummer Marcus Wilson as “Magnus Fire-Weaver.” He wears a viking helmet over intricately braided red hair, a chain-maille loincloth, a pair of medieval bracers on his wrists, and nothing else. 

Most notably, a speaker on stage left is placed upon a large steel drum identical to the ones used by project clover. 

Study is ongoing. 

[frantic-fiction]

Payback 18+

(Pic: northernolddragon) I cropped it

Astarion x f!reader, Astarion x f!Tav

Summary: Astarion goes too far and embarrasses Tav in front of the party. She decides she wants a bit of revenge.

Warning: Smut, MDNI, slight Dom!reader, slight Sub!Astarion, Dom/Sub switch (kinda?), delayed orgasm, Oral sex m and f receiving, PnV sex,

Word Count: 3.8k (I'm a gremlin who just can't help myself)

Masterlist

That fucking asshole. How dare he? You slammed open the door, the handle hitting the wall with a resounding smack. Locking it behind you, you kick off your shoes, stumble over your feet, and rip off your dress. You begin throwing off every other accessory and remaining article of clothing until you are completely bare and breathing heavily. You sigh, frustrated, and pull on a pair of trousers and an old, tattered shirt. Anger pulses through your veins, and embarrassment burns deep in your chest. Falling onto the bed, you drop your face into your hands and pull at the ends of your hair.

Astarion went too far this time. Usually, you loved his sassy comments and sarcastic humor. You were typically the first to laugh when he jests and pokes fun at you and the other party members. But how can you laugh when his lighthearted jokes turn to dirty secrets? When he's telling your friends out in a crowded pub intimate details from your sex life.

You should have known it was a bad idea to have Astarion feed from you while there was liquor coursing through your veins. But he was curious and very convincing. It didn't take long before you were offering him your wrist. Neither of you really thought the alcohol would affect Astarion, and you didn't expect Astarion to be such a fucking ass when intoxicated. 

He teased you and shared private moments all night, and you wanted to hate him. Moreover, you wanted him to be sorry. Beg for forgiveness and mean it. But Astarion is a prideful man and has a stupidly hard time giving out apologies. He's improved, especially with you, but you don't want a simple sorry. You want payback, a little revenge, or as close to it as possible.

A sudden, devilish thought crosses your mind, and you know how you're going to get just that. Quickly, you jump up and move to set your plan in motion. You clean up the room, erasing your angry tantrum from before, and strip down naked once more. You dig around Astarion's pack and pull out his white-laced shirt. And then you wait for him. 

It takes just under an hour of waiting. You filled the time with one of the books you picked up the other day. But just as you go to flip another page, the door handle twists, catching on the lock. You’re on your feet and at the door before Astarion can attempt to unlock it. The palm of your hand hits the door hard, and you're holding it close. 

"Why should I let you in?" Your tone lace with venom.

"Darling," Astarion sighs, a tinge of exhaustion undertoned in his words, his voice no longer holding that annoying drunken slur. "Must we do this?"

"You weren't very nice to me tonight." You lean your back against the door, crossing your arms. “I have half a mind to make you bunk with someone else.”

His head falls against the wood, pushing lightly against your back. "If you let me in, I promise I'll make it up to you." It felt like he was breathing these words sinfully into your ear. 

You flip the lock and open the door. "Say you're sorry."

"Is that really what you want?" He purrs, his eyes darkening and pressing into your space. "I much prefer physical apologies."

Astarion pulls you into a lustful kiss, his hand snaking up your shirt and massaging your breast. He bites your lip, and when you gasp, he licks into your mouth. He traces his fingers over your hip bone and pulls you close.

"Wearing my shirt with no underwear?” He nips your bottom lip, and you shudder. “I don't think you're as mad as you say, my sweet."

You smile sharply and pull him further into the room. Reclaiming his lips, you start pulling at his shirt, exposing Astarion's pale skin. He's kissing down your neck, tugging your shirt aside to lather his tongue over your shoulder. His fangs tease your skin, and you moan. Trailing your fingertips down his stomach, you undo his pants, tugging it down. Astarion steps out, leaving him in a pair of tight briefs, an outline of his swelling cock evident against the straining fabric. He pushes the trousers to the side, and the two of you fall onto the bed in a heap.

"Who says this is for you?" you say coyly, forcing his head to the side and biting hard at his throat.

"Hells,"

"Maybe I was going to take care of myself tonight." You kiss his cheek "Take a bath, have some wine," you bring your lips to his ear. "Touch myself." You tease his ear between your teeth. His grip tightens on you. "I don't need you to please myself, Astarion."

Astarion groans deep in his chest and runs his hands up your thighs to the swell of your ass. He grinds you down onto his half-hard cock. "But here we are." 

"But here we are." You mimic, smiling smugly, relishing how Astarion so confidently believes he holds all the cards.

He kisses you again, and you let him. You could easily get lost in the wet dance of lips and the delicious silent promises of more to come. Give in and just let Astarion consume you. But no, you are far more excited with what's to come. 

"I want to taste you." You moan needily- dragging your teeth down his chest. Maybe you were playing it up, but it seemed to work. You circle his nipple with your tongue, and Astarion lets out a deep groan, nails digging into the plush flesh of your ass.

"Don't let me stop you, my love," 

You tug his cock out and squeeze him softly; he's stiff and aching and instinctually bucks up into your palm. Licking over his nipple, you begin to suck. A trickle of precum starts to fall, and you collect it, beginning to stroke slowly. Kissing down his stomach, you reach his pelvic bone. You look up, meeting Astarion's intense gaze. His mouth is agape, his chest moving in harsh breaths. One hand is reaching up, gripping the headboard in an ironclad grip. You softly press a kiss to the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth. 

"Fuck," He hissed through clenched teeth, "Gods, I love your mouth." 

Urged on by his response, you take more of him in his mouth and begin to move at a slow pace sucking and bobbing your head. Astarion's hands grabbed your shoulder and softly stroked up your neck to the back of your head. He didn't force the pace, just gently held your head, rubbing his thumb softly behind your ear.

"That's it, Darling. So good to me."

Heat rushes through your body, the praise going straight to your core. You hum and begin to bob your head faster. Sucking hard, hollowing your cheeks, you trail your hand down his tensed thigh and cup his balls. You roll him in your hands, and Astarion moans, thrusting into your mouth. You gag and grab his hips, holding him down with your weight.

He's close. His eyes are unfocused, trying desperately to stay on you; he's letting out breathless gasps and attempting to buck up into your mouth, seeking more for you to give. That's when you pull off of him entirely and squeeze his cock tightly.

Astarion lets out a needy whine, sits up, and instantly meets your eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it. 

"Apologize!"

"What?" Astarion says, dazed and still lost in the loss of stimulation. Then it dawns on him, and he realizes what's happening. "Naughty little-"

You give him one stroke, and Astarion chokes. "Apologize for embarrassing me tonight."

"My sweet, I was intoxicated; it's not really my fault." He's trying to give off an air of indifference, but you know him better. Astarion was moments away from crumbling.

"I was just as drunk, and I wasn't telling everyone about our sex life." You lick over the tip and begin to stoke him slowly. "Apologize, and I might just let you fuck me."

He moans deeply, thrusting up into your fist. "I-ng shit, I'm sorry, you were upset with my words tonight."

"Nope, try again." You stop completely and meet his eyes. "You have to mean it."

"Please! My love, I'm sorry." His voice cracks. He's practically whimpering; he brings his fist to his mouth and bites down to keep a semblance of control. 

"That's closer, but what you said still hurts, so I want you to make it up to me." You move up his body and kiss him. "Do you want to make it up to me?"

"Yes! Anything!" He sounds so desperate. You don't think you've ever felt so aroused. You clench instinctually against nothing, seeking friction that's not there.

"I want you to beg. I want you to beg to fuck me, handsome" You scratch your nails teasingly down the broad of Astarion's chest. "I want everyone to hear how - how did you put it, love? 'desperate and needy' you are for me."

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, eyes blackened from arousal, and a smile stretches his lips."I like this side of you, Darling."

 Astarion captures your lips, and you're on your back before you can comprehend what's happening. "My sweet, please, I need to touch you." His voice is louder than it needs to be. 

"Do you?" You purr, hooking your leg over his hip. 

"Yes!" He moans out, rutting against your dripping cunt. "Please, I need you!"

You brush your hand through Astarions hair and pull him down for a kiss. "Then be a good boy and touch me." 

Astarion doesn't need to be told twice to tug up your shirt. You let him pull it off and throw it across the room. He starts to trail sloppy, wet kisses down the column of your neck. A rough hand grabs your breast, and nimble fingers pinch your nipple. You sigh and thrust your hips up when Astarions mouth finds your other nipple and rolls the peak softly between his teeth before sucking hard.

"Astarion," you moan, caressing any available skin of his you can reach. "So good to me."

He grunts at the praise and moves down your stomach, leaving kitten licks and sharp nips in his wake. His hands are trailing down your sides and stop to grip your hips in a firm hold. He pulls you down the bed, and you let out a little yelp. Astarion meets your half-lidded gaze and bites at the fat of your thigh, lapping up the droplets of blood that bead up to the surface. 

"The sweetest treat," Astarion moans, throwing your leg over his shoulder, trailing his nose down your thigh to the spot you want him most. But I'm still famished. I need more, please."

"Don't let me stop you, handsome." You smirked, mimicking his previous words. Your breath was catching, and you felt just as desperate as Astarion.

You let out a gargled mewl when Astarion trails one long agonizing lick up the length of your cunt. He never breaks eye contact; you bite your lip and grip one of your breasts, fisting the other into the bedsheet.

Astarion consumes you like he'll never be able to again. Desperate, messy, and with no care for the thinness of the walls. You gasp and instinctually try to clamp your legs close. His cold hands hold your hips apart, only allowing pathetic gyrates of your hips. The room is filled with filthy wet slurps and needy moans as Astarion tears you apart.

"Faster, Star. Don't you dare stop," you demand, grinding against his face, shivering when his pointed nose teases your clit. "Such a good boy."

His moan quakes through your cunt, and you throw your head back into the pillow, arching your back slightly. Astarion's fingers push into you and match the ragged pace of his mouth. Your hand finds his soft curls again and holds him in place, pulling gently at the roots. Astarion could break away anytime, but he seems to like it because you feel him grind down against the bed. 

"No, no, pretty boy." You tsk, pulling his hair harsher. He grunts against you, sucking harder at your clit. "You don't get to come until you’re forgiven."

Astarion pulls away from your clit, chin glistening with your juices. His fingers are still pumping into you. "You cruel women." He practically whines breathlessly.

"You're- shit- you're making up for your naughty behavior, remember?" The coil is tightening in your stomach, your body hot, and your breath shaky. "Now be good and make me come."

He smiles wickedly and resumes his ministrations. He curls his fingers up and presses against the spot that has you gasping in silent cries. His mouth finds your clit again and laps his tongue against it. He's relentless, and your legs are trembling. The pleasure is building, the flame licking through your veins. 

"m close, Star,"

He doesn't stop or voice any cheeky comments he would typically make. He just pumps his fingers faster and sucks and lavishes his tongue harder against your cunt. You feel your body tightening, and you grab for anything to hold on to; one hand is still in Astarion's hair, but your other hand grabs his shoulder, digging your nails into his flesh. Astarion scrapes his fangs playfully against your clit, and that's all you need to fall apart. 

You're moaning and screaming his name and mumbling incoherent praises into the air. Black spots seem to cloud over your vision, and all your muscles tighten at once. Astarion drags you through your orgasm, slowing his fingers and moving to soft kitten licks. It takes you a moment to return to yourself, and you are out of breath and covered in sweat. Looking down, you see Astarion. He's staring at you, licking his lips, collecting every drop of you. His face is full of affection and untenable arousal.

"Am I forgiven?"

You surge forward and tackle him into an uncoordinated kiss. You maneuver him around until his back is against the headboard, and you are seated comfortably in his lap. Your tongue tangled with his, the tangy sweetness of your release mingling in the dance. Pulling back, you catch his lip tugging playfully.

"Hmm… I don't know," You smirk, grabbing his neglected cock and giving it a few languid strokes. 

"Darling, please!" He begs, head falling back, exposing his neck to your greedy mouth. 

You press your mouth to the hollow of his throat and suck until you're sure there will be a noticeable mark tomorrow. "I guess you have been such a good boy." Circling your thumb over his tip, you swipe his cock through your folds, coating him in your arousal. 

"Yes, I've been so good." His voice chokes, and he clenches his jaw, desperately trying to seek more friction. Hells, he was so incredibly sexy like this.

"And I think a good boy deserves a reward. Wouldn't you agree, Star?" The rush you feel at his desperation, his neediness for you and only you, has your confidence surging. 

"Yes! Please!"

You line him up with your hole and sit down painfully slow. Two groans of pleasure join together in the room as you seat yourself to the hilt. Astarion grabs your hips in a death grip, releasing an almost painful hiss through his teeth. For a moment, you don't move; feel the stretch and the completeness he gives you. Meeting his eyes, you place your hands on his shoulders and raise on your haunches. You pull up almost off him completely before lowering at the same brutally slow pace.

"Gods, you're so tight." Astarion groans, head falling against your arm. 

He uses the grip on your hips to help set a steady pace that has both of you dissolve into a moaning, blubbering mess. You clench around him and run your hand up his neck to the back of his head, pulling him to your chest. Astarion is quick to resume lavishing your breast with messy kisses, surely littering you with bites and bruises that will linger for days to come. 

You would have loved to drag this out. Punish Astarion for hours until he was nothing but a mumbling, blushing pussy-drunk mess. But you were growing impatient, and the delicious feeling of Astarion's cock filling you was clouding your more devious thoughts. Grinding your hips down hard onto his cock had Astarion gasping into your chest. 

You cupped his jaw and captured his mouth before whispering seductively into his ear. "You've been forgiven. Now I want you to fuck me hard."

A deep groan rumbled through Astarion's chest, and he did just that. You're suddenly on your back, and his tongue is in your mouth. The slow pace was thrown out the window to a brutal pounding that tore the breath from your lungs.

"A-astarion, fuck” You roll your hips to match his pace. 

You're not going to last much longer; you don't think you've ever been more aroused, and seeing how pent-up Astarion is, having been teased along for too long. You know he's just as close. You grab his hand and pull it down your body to where you want it most. He grunts huskily in your ear and rubs harshly at your bundle of nerves. Throwing one of your legs over Astarion's hip, you adjust your body, and his thrusts find a new angle that presses against that beautiful spot inside of you. 

Astarion’s other hand, can’t seem to stay still, moving up and down your body, trying to pay equal attention to all of your soft skin. He’s squeezing your hip, tickling your side, cupping your breast, and moving back down to repeat all over again. He’s peppering kisses over your forehead and cheeks, biting your kiss-swollen lips, running his nose along yours. It’s overwhelming and not enough, but it is always with him. Astarion moves to your neck and sucks at his favorite spot, the place he feeds most frequently from, silently begging for a taste. 

"Mhm," you nod, words no longer forming on your tongue. 

Astarion's fangs pierce your skin, and the familiar icy cold floods your veins. You cry out as he greedily drinks from your body. Your blood seems to turn Astarion feral. He grabs your other leg to join the other in a link behind his back. Astarion grinds you into the mattress, brutally pumping in and out of you. All your body can do is wrap your arms around his neck, smoothing your hands over his body, and hold on. The only sounds that echo in the darkroom are the slick, obscene sounds of skin sliding against skin and needy moans and desperate whimpers. 

You can't tell if you're lightheaded because of the pleasure Astarion is giving you or the blood that he's consuming from your neck. It's probably both, but right now, you only care that he keeps going because that lovely burning heat is returning and boiling in your stomach. 

"I'm so close," you whimper.

This has Astarion finally pulling away from your neck. He looks deeply into your eyes, his pace never faltering. There's a trickle of your blood running down his chin, and you reach up to catch it. You push your thumb into his mouth, and without breaking your gaze, Astarion licks it clean. He grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours above your head. His hand somehow seems to move faster against your clit, and you are moments away from coming undone. On the ledge but seemingly hanging by your fingertips.

"S-so am I, darling." He manages to stutter out, and you pull him down for a kiss. It is desperate and needy, and the taste of your blood, sharp and metallic, mingles with his spit. "Come for me, love; let me feel you."

Those words, always commanded with such affection, had an immediate effect. You clench around him like a vice, mouth falling open in a silent gasp. You sigh his name into his mouth and cup his face with your spare hand as if the moment you come down from this high Astarion might no longer be real. 

Astarion's pace falters, and he clumsily thrusts. Once, twice, three more times before burying deep into your cunt and coming hard with a deep groan. While you're still amid your ecstasy, you are still mesmerized by Astarion coming undone before you. The way his jaw clicks shut and he squeezes his eyes closed. The tightening of his hand on your body, gripping hard enough to bruise, not that you minded. The stuttering minute juts of his hips as he rides out the last of his orgasm. And finally, watching Astarion's body turn to jelly, bones and muscles collapsing under his weight as he falls onto you, head finding your chest.

You run your hand through his curls, scratching his scalp. Astarion purrs softly and kisses your chest, running delicate fingers up your side. He catches your hand and brings it to his lips to kiss the inside of your wrist. 

Astarion rolls off of you and moves from the bed. You whine at the loss of fullness but make no other protest. A tiredness has settled deep in your bones; you don't think you could move if you wanted to. 

Thankfully, Astarion was quick to return. In his hands was a cup of water and a wet cloth. Smiling softly, you take the glass from him and take a long gulp. Handing it back, he places it on the nightstand and rejoins you in bed. Astarion delicately cleans you off, kissing your neck when you wince from oversensitivity. After that was taken care of, he discards the used cloth and pulls you to his chest, kissing the crown of your head and tightening his hold on you. You hum softly and nuzzle into his chest. 

"I am sorry," he says, fingertips drawing nonsense patterns on your back. You glance up to meet his gaze, and he pushes some of your hair out of your eyes. "I'm truly sorry I hurt you, my love. I didn't mean to." 

You give him a tender smile, "Thank you, Star," you kiss the chest just above his heart and whisper, lips brushing against his skin. "I love you."

"And I love you."

Next Day: You giggle over your glass of juice, watching a very disgruntled Astarion from across the room. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes were sharp. His bare forearms crossed over his chest. He was slouched down in his chair, looking like he would rather be anywhere else than in his current situation.

Gale was sitting in front of the vampire, a dusty tome placed on the table between him. You could barely hear the wizard's words as he vainly tried to teach Astarion a simple silencing spell. Gale was trying to help, given the very vocal display Astarion gave last night. And you couldn’t be more pleased at Astarion’s predicament. 

Astarion's ears twitch and his head snap in your direction to give you a pointed glare. He's only given more of your laughter in response.

Fine I'll admit it, I like a needy Astarion, sue me. But you got to agree that drunk Astarion would be a fucking menace.

Anyways let me know what ya thought. Talking with you guys is a highlight of my day.

Taglist: @heartfully10 @ayselluna @marina-and-the-memes @anixson @canonicalchaoticneutral @toadsbitch @meulinkitten-blog @ambr4armr

Want to be added? DM me.

[shadowmasterthirteen]

A lot of people are under the impression that the test was valid but the disqualification was invalid. But the IBA are so unreliable you ought to double check if they say the sky is blue.

https://www.rte.ie/news/primetime/2024/0731/1462837-explained-the-gender-controversy-miring-womens-olympic-boxing/

Do they test male athletes the way they test female athletes, I wonder? Like would an xx male or a man with high estrogen have to be recategorized for women's sports or banned from participating?

[bb-bare-bones]

Deya's Favourite Body Horror Films

Art and Words by Dy Dawson, @xgardensinspace

John Carpenter’s The Thing (1982)

Films that have practical special effects tend to be my absolute favourites! And this film is – at least in my humble opinion – the holy grail for practical special effects! I never get tired of watching bodies becoming unrecognisable masses of bone and sinew in this incredible film, and the fact that everything looks agonisingly real whilst being done through the power of makeup and human hands with such extensive precision blows my mind! EVERY GODDAMNED TIME!

The Void (2016)

Similarly to The Thing, I praise the shit out of this hidden gem because the practical effects are PRISTINE! I don’t wish to say much about this one because it’s a real treat, and the fact that they managed to build a WHOLE creature on such a tight budget (plus all the many other special effects) is insanely amazing. A must watch, if you haven’t already!

Braindead (1992)

For this one I would like to say, buckets of blood and a lawnmower. That is all.

Nah, but in all seriousness, this is considered to be the goriest film of all time, and for good measure. It’s extremely campy, but all the effects are practical (I think you might start seeing the pattern here), super well done, and even if this is a horror comedy, the gory scenes are bound to make you feel icky! Also…Peter Jackson made this masterpiece before Lord of the Rings. I just think that’s fucking precious.

Child’s Play 2 (1990)

Some might not consider this a “body horror” film, but if we really think about it, this film series still contains an extensive showcase of body horror as a doll is quite literally turning human. This could fall under the “mutation” bracket of body horror. The first two films do the best job at showcasing that; the doll’s appearance shifts as Chucky spends time inside the doll. It’s shown through the progression of his staining teeth, the receding hairline, and a blemished face. I have specifically selected Child’s Play 2 because it’s got the most beautiful blend of this “mutation”, and the violation of the doll’s (human) body itself. That final scene in the factory is the best, and this stands as the only film that I couldn’t sleep with after watching. Sure, I was 8 years old, but I’ve been watching horror since the age of 5 and the fact that this one genuinely frightened me and has now turned into one of my favourite franchises saysa lot (mee thinks).

Akira (1988)

This film is simply amazing! And the most stunning example of body horror in animation! Well, the kind about physical human body mutilation, of course. But the animation behind those scenes is pure bliss and such a beautifully grotesque visual. I played King of Fighters before actually watching Akira, though. So when I saw Tetsuo’s arm do “the thing” for the very first time, you can imagine how happy I was to know there was a magnificent reference to the character X/9999. It fulfilled some childhood nostalgia I didn’t know I was craving, and seeing those scenes in the movie still runs chills down my spine because that animation is GORGEOUSLY disturbing. And trust me, I like to be disturbed.

Hellraiser (1987)

My favourite thing about body horror is the absolute gory violation and destruction of the human body. The whole centrepiece of this film is body mutilation, so of course it’s going to be on my list! My favourite scene is when Frank Cotton is being resurrected from the floorboards of the attic. When that spine connects to the brain, I shriek with Frank in pure awestruck! Another thing I love about body horror is THE GOOP! I need fluids, blood and goop and ooze and stringy bits. And that scene has SO much of it!

If I’m not being disturbed and/or disgusted, am I really watching horror?

Re-Animator (1985)

What can I say about this one that Ed hasn’t already? I mean… c’mon! There is SO much body horror and practical effects in this baddie to fill an entire house! I mean, the opening scene has exploding eyeballs, for Pete’s sake! And the entirety of Dr. Halsey head is oscar-winning material for the makeup department! As well as for the effectiveness of working smart, not hard. This entire film is a beautiful collection of practical effects that work effectively by not spending an absurd amount of money. It’s a B-film for a reason! And let’s face it, B-films often have some of the best effects in the industry because people have to work around that tight budget, get very creative and manage to deliver effects that can withstand the test of time, as well as look as convincing as possible. Re-Animator does this so well, and I sometimes forget Dr. Halsey isn’t actually decapitated in that fucking scene. Such a simple effect accomplished incredibly effectively.

Ginger Snaps (2000)

This is one of my favourite films, but not necessarily for the body horror; it’s just such a bloody good story! I still wanted to include it because I feel it’s a bit of an underrated or not very talked about film. Anyone with a period needs to watch it, first of all… And the practical special effects for Ginger’s werewolf transformation are genuinely impressive! One of my favourite things about this film is the opening sequence, with the sisters’ photoshoot on deaths. They are all very precious ways to die, and some are very body-horror oriented! (As well as the social commentary on women and their periods. It’s fucking BRILLIANT!)

Event Horizon (1997)

This one is truly a treat for sci-fi and horror films alike! And if you, like me, adore both genres, this film is just a treasure! It’s gorey, it’s gritty, and the plot is to die for. A little Hellraiser around the edges, but who’s complaining? And the special effects are truly magnificent! Also, look out for deleted scenes or the unrated versions of this film, please. You cannot miss this film in its full horrific glory!

Taxidermia (2006)

Taxidermia’s a bit odd, but I love it for exactly that reason. It’s one of the only films to have genuinely disturbed me; although it’s for my emetophobia reason rather than for body horror-situations. Although…it brings the question on whether competitive food eating is a bit of a violation on the body, hehe. It’s a film about 3 generations of one family, through the POV of the grandfather, the dad and the son. The biggest “body horror” part in this film is the last segment, and boy is it beautiful! Well, the bits with the son only. The body metamorphosis the dad went through is certainly grotesque, but the effects are sort of unrealistic/comedic(?) and thus look a bit silly. But trust me, that final transformation the son goes through is truly beautiful :)

Again… a really bizarre little Hungarian film, but if you are interested, go watch it and don’t say I didn’t warn you! I also don’t personally know anybody who has seen this film…so it’s always great to recommend and put it out there!

Honourable Mentions:

Tetsuo: The Iron Man (1989)

This one is here for being ICONIC. This film is so creative and artsy about its body horror. Certainly taking inspiration from Akira, but also just being unsettling for its stylised way of showcasing the destruction of the human body. Bits and wires everywhere! In black and white? SURE! I love the red of blood, but this movie gets a pass for its sheer imaginative way of displaying body horror.

The Fly (1986)

Love this film, but surprisingly it’s not one of my favourites! I wanted to include it here though, because the metamorphosis Seth Brundle goes through is EXTREMELY grotesque! It’s got absolutely everything I adore about the genre: Physical human body violations, gore, GOOP, and practical effects.

Scanners (1981)

Honestly, this one is just here because I FUCKING love that head exploding scene everyone knows about :b LITERAL ART!

Black Sheep (2006)

A dark comedy! Or horror comedy? Either way, this fucking film is DISTURBING! The practical effects are to die for, and the final creature sent shivers down my spine. I don’t care how silly this film is, if it wasn’t comedic, this would be a straight up HORROR of the most disturbing kind. And besides, anything making commentary on animal cruelty and animal testing is a definite narrative artistry about body horror in my book.

American Mary (2012)

This film has A TON of body horror displays! Full frontal and all. It’s one of my picks that isn’t just about gorey mutilation, but actual sexual violation as well :0 It’s got such a strong message, and the visuals are pretty great! Extra points for empowering women ;)

Slither (2006)

This film is only here for being one of the only ones to genuinely disgust and disturb me. The transformation of that one woman in the barn creeps me to the core :( And that doesn’t happen often! So as much as I hate this movie for making me feel uncomfortable, it’s gotta be on the list, right?

Society (1989)

This film is also fucking GROSS. Commentary on the rich being as disgusting as the actions happening, and as gross as they look in the end of this film is fucking GOLD! I’m all for it. Definitely not one of my favourites (it’s just a little boring at parts), but worth mentioning for that social commentary mixed in with absolutely horrendous body mutilation scenes done with practical effects.

Splinter (2008)

Another little hidden gem of a movie! I don’t hear people talk about this one ENOUGH! One of two films in my list that doesn’t exclusively include practical effects (I think). But that’s okay! Because this film is SO creative and has such a unique version of the zombie virus! It certainly will shake you; especially if hearing and/or seeing bones cracking is one of your “irk” uncomfy factors.

[heavenlyraindrops]

“ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ.” | ᴋᴇɴᴊɪ ꜱᴀᴛᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | { ɪ }

☆ Warnings: profanity, sports!photographer!reader, fem!reader, afab!reader, for future chapters: social media au, eventual smut

☆ 1.3k words | Available on: Tumblr, AO3

A career in sports photography was never something your parents wanted for you- they had decided your career path since the moment you were born. A surgeon. Bound to make them plenty of money, to make them proud. They wanted it more than anything else, and…

You decided that wasn’t your problem. 

You researched the job, the career path, and began building a portfolio. Taking pictures of athletes at games, major ones and others such as college games. Mostly baseball. In fact, it was almost all baseball.  

Oh. College games. Baseball.

You’d attended college in the States, attending the baseball games and snapping pictures. And, for some reason, you seemed to gravitate towards one specific player. 

You had no idea what his name was.

You didn’t share any classes. You saw him around campus occasionally, but you weren’t one for parties so you had no chance of running into him at one of those. Your circles barely even touched. You didn’t know each other at all. 

Correction: he didn’t know you at all, and you only knew him as the hot athlete guy you took pictures of. 

-

“Another one?” Your friend, Taika grumbled, another one of your posts coming up on her feed. “[name], this is the fifteenth time you’ve posted this guy.”

You rolled your eyes, laptop balanced on your thigh as you edited a picture. “I’m just building my portfolio.”

“No one’s gonna hire you if your portfolio is just a million pictures of the same guy.”

“It’s not, there’s other pictures too.”

“Yeah, like, two.”

“Hyperbole much?”

Taika sighed aggressively, setting her phone-face down next to her as she leaned forward, face turning serious. “[name], is this some weird fetish? Kink?”

“What?” You almost threw your laptop at her. “You’re so dramatic. Obviously it’s not. What kind of kink would that even be?”

“Just admit you think he’s hot.”

You pressed your lips together, slamming your laptop shut. “Okay, get out.”

“But-!”

“Out!”

-

And that was that. You kept taking pictures of Mysterious Hot Athlete Guy,, eventually veering away from him in the end to expand your name. Your portfolio grew, you gained jobs, and your parents got increasingly frustrated until the point where they threatened to cut contact with you. 

You didn’t care. This was your passion. You’d much rather be on a pitch, capturing the essence of exhausted yet still exhilarated camaraderie than in a sterile surgeon’s scrub, brandishing a scalpel, cutting into flesh to expose your patients innards. 

Unfortunately they went through with the threat. Oh well. 

With the little savings you had, the weight of college debt for a degree you’d never use on your shoulders and your rather expensive camera equipment for which you’d somehow managed to scrape together the money for, you decided to follow Taika back to Japan.

“There’s plenty of opportunities for you there,” she told you.

Taika, being a trust fund baby, had more than enough of her parents' money to support herself, and you in Japan. You slowly grew your career and by a couple of months, you could afford to move into your own apartment. 

And now you were a- somewhat-well known sports photographer in the industry, despite never actually having a stable job, and… that was that. 

That was your story. 

But not the end of it.

Because after a good few months deep into your path of sports photography, a baseball player rose to stardom. 

Kenji Sato.

-

“Oh my god!” Taika grabbed onto your arm, nails digging into your skin and making you yelp as she thrust the phone in your face. “Dude! That’s the guy you had a crush on in college!”

Your face burned with embarrassment, and your voice was grating. “I didn’t have a crush on him.”

He just had a nice… bone structure.

Maybe I should have taken pictures of models for magazines or something. 

You looked at the article. Newest player on the field sparks talk of the rise of a new baseball legend. 

Oh damn. Maybe he should have been a model. 

“Kenji Sato,” Taika read out the name. “Dude, I swear this is the guy.” Pulling up your instagram account, she scrolled all the way to the bottom, at your earlier days of shooting. “Dude. That’s him.”

“It’s him,” you said weakly. She grinned at you, a knowing smirk that made you want to tear her hair out. 

-

Another stretch of time passed, until the days where your life was immediately thrust into a direction it did not give consent into going. 

Firstly, Ken Sato made headlines by coming back to Japan. Secondly, you’d landed a job at a baseball game in the Tokyo Dome. Thirdly, it was the game which the Yomiuri Giants were playing. 

You were now on the corner of the pitch, equipment set up, game in full play. The heat of the crowd pressed down on you as you angled your camera at a figure all too familiar. 

Fucking focus, [name].

The ball whizzed through the air. He hit it, arm and bat lashing out, and-

“Fuck!”

You cursed, jerking away from the camera set up and throwing your hands over your head. It fell to the ground, shattered, and the ball rolled across the ground, hitting your knee. 

You looked up. The crowd was roaring. Your head was ringing, feeling faint as you stared at the broken camera lying on the ground. Oh jeez, you were going to faint. Fuck, those players hit the ball hard.

You looked up and saw Ken Sato hurrying towards you. 

And that was when you fainted. 

-

Kenji Sato was going to fucking jump off of a bridge.

Pacing his living room, he dragged his hands through his hair, muttering a string of curses under his breath. “Mina, I’m so screwed.” He paused, looking at her hopefully. “Am I? Screwed, I mean.”

“That would be an interesting topic of debate, Ken.”

“Give me a proper answer, dammit!”

“You’ll be fine.”

“What about the girl?” He stopped suddenly, freezing in place. “I feel awful, you know.” Mina stared at him. “Yes, I can feel regret. Shocker.” He ran his hand through his hair, again. “I already replaced her broken stuff, right?” He looked sick. “Should I apologize? In person? Over text?”

“You could apologize over text,” Mina said.

Kenji immediately fell into the couch, pulling out his phone. “What’s her instagram account name?” Pulling it up, he scrolled through the photos. “[name] [surname], sports photographer,” he read aloud, eyes flicking down to the pictures. 

“She has taken photos for teams, articles, and even major sports magazines.” Mina flew down, hovering near his head as he scrolled curiously. 

“How many photos do you bet she’s got of me?”

“Would you like me to run a search?”

Ken looked up, surprised. “I was just kidding.” He dug his nail beneath his other nail, considering the offer, but Mina was already doing it. 

“Approximately ninety-seven out of two-hundred and twenty-nine images posted on her professional account include your face,” Mina concluded. Ken stared at her blankly. She remained silent for a few more seconds, letting it sink in, then spoke again. “I suggest scrolling to the very bottom of her account, her earliest days of photography, Ken.”

“Ninety-seven?” He asked incredulously, and Mina simply repeated her previous statement. Scroll down.

He did. It took him a while, but he finally managed to hit it, and-

“I’m in college in these.”

His eyes scanned the pictures on the screen- most of which were of him. College games, every one of them. He’d never noticed her in the crowd. Had he?

And there were so, so many.

He could feel heat creeping up his neck. He didn’t find it creepy, or stalkerish- not at all, but instead dared to feel a tiny bit flattered. 

Oh, she was obsessed with me. That’s kind of cute. 

He wondered if she still was. 

Taglist: @moonjellyfishie, @lovingyeet, @aise-30, @scarasw1f3, @v1ennie im only doing taglist this once but I’d prefer it if people just followed me instead because they’re such a hassle

[charliemwrites]

Part 3 for Nikto with his… handler? Living god? Owner? Who knows, certainly not the reader.

Content: Sexual Desire (Wet Dreams), Codependency, Mild Injury/Violence, Mentions of Dissociation

Snuggle in, you tell him. Every night, clockwork, a signal to calm, settle, rest. Leave the blood and bone of the day behind.

Like he’s not a man who barely remembers he’s alive most days. Like he doesn’t turn to you blooming human, a plant to sunlight. All because you tell him to.

Snuggle in, you bid, tugging at his thick bicep. Your fingers don’t even curl halfway around it. He’s huge, even without all the gear. Or maybe because he's out of his gear.

Snuggle in, you coo. A guilty part of you preens at the way his head cocks at that turn of phrase. He never hesitates to climb into the bed you’ve shared since he made himself yours. There’s really no choice but to snuggle on such a small mattress, but he still lets you move him, teddy bear-like, to the most comfortable position.

“You’re warm,” you hum, because he needs to remember his heart is beating, pumping blood. That he’s not a corpse.

“Too warm?” He asks.

“No,” you sigh happily.

He lies on his side tonight, always between you and the door. You pluck at the front of his t-shirt, urging him closer, away from the edge of the bed. It feels like you’re constantly coaxing him away from an edge. He always comes willingly at least.

His heavy arm drapes across your waist, as robotic as a cuddle can be. You don’t mind, he’s still getting used to this. Knows how to provide you comfort but not how to take it in for himself. He'll settle, you know, always does. Virtues of sleep melting all his harsh, rigid lines.

You wrap both your legs around one of his. Rock-like muscle flexes, twitches, settles. He’s wearing just his underwear and a t-shirt; he’s hard again.

You understand why he said no. Aren’t even all that disappointed. Not for your own sake, anyway. For his, perhaps a little. Wish he’d treat his body with more than just obligation, but small steps. One at a time. For now, you’ve got him here, warm, his breaths already lengthening in preparation to sleep.

You stroke your hand along his ribs like soothing a horse. It’s more for yourself than him, a silent affirmation that you’re both here and safe and bedding down for the night. Count the bumps of scars - one… two-three, four… and five. Five-and-a-half at his hip.

His cock twitches against your lower stomach. It feels thick. Big. You squeeze his hip and tuck your arm between your bodies again.

“Were you ever ticklish?” you ask.

“No.”

You snort in amusement and press your forehead to his chest. Feel his heart beating slow-steady. Always so, so calm. Inhumanly so. You never fall into the trap of letting yourself think he’s anything but a man.

“What do you want to dream about tonight?” you pipe up again.

You don’t know why you’ve started asking this. Maybe to remind him that he’s not dying for a short while. Maybe to figure out something of his mind, still so unfathomable to you. Maybe just to get his voice in your ear as one last nightcap.

“Winter,” he answers. “Snow.”

You make a soft noise. “I think I want to dream of that too.”

You do dream of winter, and snow. You dream of green-black trees and swathes of frost crystal. And you dream of Nikto. A smudge of black with ice chips for eyes.

You reach for him, drag him down to a pillow of snow with you. Even in sleep, he yields for you, doughy and soft. Drapes himself over you, clucking about the temperature until you shush him with kisses snuck between his shirt and mask. You press and pull, want him close, want him...

"Are you alright?"

You blink into the darkness, at ice chip eyes and a patchwork jaw of scars and stubble. Nikto's mouth is pressed thin, worried. A canine peaks out from a scar that healed poorly despite your best efforts, skin tugged back into a permanent little snarl. His canines always look so sharp.

"You were... having nightmare?" He drops articles when he’s tired. You must have woken him. Part of you despairs at ruining his sleep; he gets so little of it.

You lick your dry lips, swallow past an equally dry throat. There's a noticeable stickiness between your thighs. A needy ache throughout your pelvis. You're nearly shaking.

"Um," you rasp, rubbing at your face. "Not a... it was just intense."

His brow furrows a bit. This tiny line that emphasizes a jagged mark over his forehead. You trace over it absently, nearly grind down on his thigh again when you see how his pupils dilate further.

"Alright?" he asks again. Always so worried. So expressive with you, for you.

"Yeah, I'm okay," you sit up slowly, carefully. He sits back with you, eyes sharp as he looks for injuries, as if someone snuck in and attacked you while he slept. "Just need a drink."

He makes room for you to climb out of bed. You wish you could grab a spare pair of underwear on your way, but you can feel his eyes burning on your back. Don't want him to feel... pressured? Awkward? You swallow your lust and stumble into the bathroom.

A cold splash of water shocks you more awake but also cools your blood.

It’s been a long time since you got yourself off. Nikto all but lives in your pocket now; and whenever you do have privacy, you’re usually too tired to bother with getting off. Some days it’s all you can do to brush your teeth before collapsing in bed.

Not right now though. Right now you want to do sinful things to the man who’s entrusted you with his fragile psyche.

Fuck.

You rub at your eyes, discard of your soaked panties in the hamper. You’ll grab a new pair in the morning and just spend the rest of the night commando.

When you climb into bed again, Nikto is still wide awake, waiting for your return. You crawl in with him, chilled now.

“Better?” He asks, almost hesitant.

The heat of him seeps into you like honey, a sweet drizzle down your spine, diffusing through your bones. Sleep is already dragging at you again.

“Mhm,” you sigh. You don’t wrap your legs around him this time. But you can’t help hooking your calf around his, ankles locked together.

“Alright,” he whispers, almost to himself.

You hum, fingers curling loose around his wrist. “Settle in, Nikto. I’m okay.”

You fall asleep with your head against his tricep. This time you dream of nesting birds.

—

Anger, like most strong emotion, is something you thought a bit beyond Nikto. Not that he doesn’t feel it, more that the dissociation mutes it all. Makes it into something vague in his mind, a vivid color desaturated to pastel.

You were wrong. Or maybe you’re right in every other instance except this one.

The circumstances brew up a storm like so:

Kortac has sent you (and by default, Nikto) with a small team to yet another military base. Mundane by all accounts.

You and Nikto bunk together, also by default. (“Snuggle in,” you chide as he glares at the door. It’s not your door; it’s not your base. It makes him twitchy. It even seems like he hesitates for a moment before climbing in.)

You, by virtue of being novel and shiny and discouraged, are viewed as a tempting commodity. Think you even hear one of the men you’re supposed to be working with mutter “dibs” to someone else. Also pretty mundane.

What is not mundane is someone seeing Nikto at your side and apparently thinking, that’s a place I want to insert myself uninvited.

The clouds roll in at the gym. You’re setting up the squat rack while Nikto finishes up his last set of pull-ups. (You’re trying not to ogle. You might be failing.)

Someone sidles up to behind you, just in the corner of your eye. Standing closer than a perfect stranger should. You think it’s Aksel and turn, wondering if he’s already done with cardio. Instead, you find a man you’re only mildly acquainted with.

You’ve run some drills with him, saw him in a briefing two days ago. But you’re generally so wrapped up in the microcosm you and Nikto have formed that you don’t even remember his name.

“Need a spotter?” He asks, smiling.

You shift your weight back, trying to put more distance between you two. It’s strange. Nikto stands even closer than he is on a regular basis and you’d feel bereft if he didn’t. But this… feels invasive.

“No, I have someone,” you reply, perfectly polite. “But thank you.”

“Ah, you mean the Nobody?” The man chuckles. You clench your teeth. “Someone else ought to get a turn, no? Your teammates said you are not romantic.”

You frown. Whatever they said, you’re sure that was not the verbatim answer. You don’t know what you and Nikto are — it’s something that defies any language you know. But it’s certainly beyond “romantic”.

(Waking deep in the night, sweating and panting and aching for the man already awake, worried for you. Dreams plagued with pale blue eyes and scars that still ache. Phantom sensations of skin that only breathes in the safety of your room.)

“No,” you answer, “Nikto is my partner.”

A shadow passes behind him, Nikto returning to your side, faithful as always. His eyes don’t even flick towards the other man.

The man, however, locks eyes on him and sneers.

“What, does your guard dog bite?” He mocks. “You don’t owe it anything just because it humps your leg.”

Your temper flares, white hot and mean. “The only dog here is the one yapping for attention.”

Anger ripples across his face, he tenses like he’s going to move. The start of some derogatory name on his tongue.

And then between one blink and the next, he’s on the floor and Nikto is standing over him. Metal flashes beneath the lights; a wicked knife held in Nikto’s tight fist. The man isn’t getting back up any time soon though, he’s bleeding from… somewhere on his face. You can’t tell with the way he’s covering it.

“Knife away,” you tell Nikto quietly.

It’s gone in an instant.

You hook two fingers in a chest strap and tug. “We’re done in here.”

He follows you out, silent as ever. Follows without question or complaint until you stop between buildings. Let out a sigh.

“Fuck that guy,” you huff, running a hand down your face.

“I could still gut him,” he offers.

You’d laugh if you didn’t know he meant it wholeheartedly.

“He deserves it for what he said about you,” you mutter.

Nikto cocks his head, stares. Doesn’t understand, you realize.

You shake off the last of your ire and turn your full attention to him. Step in close and take his gloved hand in both of yours. The same one that had held the knife. There’s a little smear of blood on the knuckles.

“I don’t know what anyone says about me,” you explain. “You know who I am, and that’s all that matters.”

His eyes bounce between yours, something stunned in smooth skin around his eyes. You smile a bit.

“But what I won’t abide is anyone trying to take your humanity from you. Not ever again, you hear me?”

He mask moves like he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. You wait a moment to see if he’s just picking his words, but nothing comes. After a long moment, he just blinks, and you continue.

“You protect me, right?” He nods instantly. You tilt your head. “Well, I take care of you. You let me decide how to do that, yeah?”

His voice comes out shredded. “Yes.”

You hum, pleased. “C’mon, let’s get a bite to eat.”

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Masterlist

[jasmineoolongtea]

jason todd's skin isn't untouched in the slightest, far from it.

almost every crook and cranny of his sculpted form has been marked or marred by some sort of scar or injury he's managed to sustain over his time as a vilgilante to the point where there's barely anywhere on his body that's seemingly safe from this apparent curse.

is it bad to say that he's lost count of them over the years? a bruise here, a large jagged scar there; sure, jason used to spend time fixating on them like some strange obsession he couldn't shake off when a new one appeared fresh on the canvas of his skin but by now, all they would get was a slight grimace whenever he caught a glimpse of them in the mirror as his lips draw into a tight line before quickly throwing some article of clothing over his head to cover it.

unfortunately for him (though seemingly par for the course for his life trajectory), many of them are the result of some less-than-pleasant experiences and encounters that and in true jason fashion, he has taken it upon himself to bear this metaphorical cross even if it weighs heavy on him and his every waking moment.

though he would never admit this out loud, he can't help but see each line of scar tissue or faded bruise as another reminder of his own mistakes, failures and inadiquacies and at times, they sting more than what caused the wound in the first place.

however, he's found a type of mark that doesn't hurt as much (quite the opposite in fact) and those are ones caused by you. specifically, the lipstick marks you leave in your wake.

the way you trail and place these kisses across his body is like you're trying you're trying to commit every plane and edge of his chiseled figure to memory and who is he to stop you in your quest. whenever you arrive at one of his many scars on your journey, you always take extra care to linger on them for a second longer than the others and for a fleeting moment, he lets himself forget the backstory attached to them and instead focus on the sensation of you against him.

you treat him like he's your own personal canvas with how you meticulosly choose to mark him such as clustering them in certain places like on his shoulder blade or placing them in a line leading down his torso and ending just below the band of his underwear.

your lipstick is smudged so perfectly around your mouth and when you pull away to go to wipe it off, he has to fight the urge to audibly let out a sigh of disappointment at the sudden lost of contact and how good you look when there's evidence of his presence on you.

although the public will never be privy to this artwork, jason thinks that it just might be one of the greatest masterpieces he's ever had the pleasure of seeing or experiencing.

everytime he catches a brief sight of the faded imprint of your cherry red lips dotted against his bare skin in the mirror, there's a ghost of smile that graces his features as he makes a mental note to ask you to top them up when he deems them too faded for his liking.

he can't decide what he likes better; the feeling of your soft lips against the harsh lines of his muscles or the look of pure satisfaction you get when you lean back to admire your work. jason's never been one for photography but god he wishes that he had a camera just so he could take a photo of these moments to immortalise them for the rest of eternity.

sometimes you like to joke that he's the reason that you go through your lipsticks so fast and he'll offer you a somewhat bashful grin in response although you know that there isn't an ounce of guilt in his bones for this. silently, he swears to buy you a lifetime of lipstick if it means that your lips keep coming back to him.

[yandere-wishes]

‧ ₊˚✧ Do Not Weep Hydro Dragon ‧ ₊˚✧

Summary: There's a crack in Neuvillette's heart that bares your name. He sheds a tear for you each day. Yet once you return to Fontaine with your fiance. The cracks and tears begin to grow. 

Warnings: Yandere behavior, stalking, arranged marriages, affairs. 

Author's note: I'm sorry 😭💔😭💔

There've been rumors circling around Fontaine. Ghostly whispers floating between coral-tainted lips and fervid ears. The rumors spoke a bittersweet name. One Neuvillate had long since buried. At first, the notion of your return had felt like a bad dream. like the roar of a tsunami before it crashes on shore. Terrifying yet, ultimately unreal. He'd summed the rumors up to some traveler who bore your mien. To an erroneous article by the steam bird. Anything. anything at all. 

Anything that wasn't you.

It wasn't until after a particularly grueling trial that he'd witnessed the truth behind these rumors. There you were in all you're glory. Gleaming akin to the finest pearls laying dormant in the primordial sea. Your expression, when he could catch it, was gleeful, delighted, A drastic contrast to his last unfortunate memory of you. His eyes follow the delicate movement of your gloved hand as it stifles a cheery giggle pouring from your cherry lips. It's only after noting your delight that he becomes conscious of the gentleman accompanying you. A ginger with bloodthirsty eyes and a soul that reeks of carnage.

A splash of heat rolls down Neuvillet's cheek. Right before a splash of cold splatters across his temples. his attention narrows on the sky, as the

clouds begin to weep. What once was a peaceful sunny day shatters like a wine glass on porcelain tiles. Humidity threads through the air robbing him of his breath. 

It's raining.

How fitting, Neuvillette thinks as he watches you and your companion run to find shelter. 

Neuvillette recalls your smile almost as clearly as he recalls your pulse under his teeth. The taste of your flesh as his teeth left bloody love bites in every wrong place. He remembers saying I love you, albeit there was more to it than that. It had started with I love you and ended with every truth he'd forgotten how to tell. He had shed his human masquerade, in the hope of finding true love. You had screamed that night. You had screamed every night since. 

Neuvillette thumbs through his memories. As the rain outside grows more ferocious. He remembers you standing by the sea, he remembers you telling him the phobias that ran deeper than blood. 

You hadn't been from Fontaine, not originally. A fallen gear from an ancient automaton whose kin resided across the sea.

You'd been raised in the ways of the hydro court. Even if 'raised; was too generous a word. Morphed or sculpted may have been more appropriate synonyms. You grew up clawing at your own skin, trying to find who was underneath the layers of mindless expectations. You'd been raised as a lady and grew into a harrowing beast that feasted on the stars. 

Yet even creatures of unparalleled strength had their weaknesses. Even ever-blessed vision wielders bore a certain Achilles heal. 

Yours so happened to be your incompatibility with your foster nation. Or rather with the water itself. 

When people asked, as some had tended to do. You'd weaved them tales about serrated Pisces and dorsal-finned leviathans with open maws awaiting their prey. You don't tell them about the vastness, the dark blue landscape that feels all too wide and all too endless. You don't tell them about the things you swore you've seen lurking beneath the infinite waters of Fontaine. And you most certainly leave out the parts about the creature who engraved fear upon your bones many moons ago before you even knew how to walk.  

Neuvillette remembers your eagerness to leave. That had, ultimately, been your bonding point. He'd been an outcast. The supreme justice was ever only relevant when he upheld the law. And whilst Supreme Justice Neuvillette was revered and adored by all. Plain Neuvillette was nothing more than a shadow of evaporated water that hunted the streets of Fontaine. You had never wanted to mingle with the people. Keeping everyone at arm's length. Maybe it was fate that had brought two lonely souls together all those moons ago. Maybe it was something else. 

He had loved you. He swears it on the Hydro archon ( or any other Archon who lacks Furina's fickleness) He'd tried to show you that the waters of Fontaine meant you no harm. He'd even shown you his true form, the utmost assurance. Maybe that's why you fled. Maybe that's why you'd left him heartbroken one morning when the sun didn't rise. 

It had rained that day. As well as the following days. Until the surrounding islands ceased to exist. 

You'd left him hollow and alone.

Yet your return made the cracks in his heart fester. 

 Neuvillette had taken it upon himself to cloak you in his watchful gaze.

He'd come to notice how you and that dreadful Fatui Harbinger you'd come to associate yourself with. Rather liked taking long walks

 where the sea kissed the shore. He'd also noticed a ring of Snezhnaya Alexandrite perpetually wrapped around your finger. 

Neuvillette's footsteps are heavy as they collide with the concrete. He's closer today. So close he can practically smell the scent of citrus and eucalyptus. If he reached out with his powers he could surely touch you, feel the warmth of your body bleeding into him, just like old times. He misses you, yet a part of him pities your return. Neuvillette's grey eyes follow your desolate gaze. It rips open one too many wistful wounds. 

"So then Teucer said...Hey darling are you listening?"

Childe's eyes follow your frozen glare, tracing your line of sight straight to the menacing waters that refuse to part from your side. You hear your lover mumble a faint 'right'. Before you feel his silk-clad fingers dance across the back of your neck. Flirting with the chilling fear that rolls off you in waves. You pin your body to him, finding comfort in the familiar scent of his cologne as you bury your head in his neck. 

"I'm truly sorry for this darling" Sincerity rolls off his tongue, percolating into the tender kiss he presses to your temple. "I've just been feeling...down lately. Like this inexhaustible sadness is going to swallow me whole. Fontaine was the only place I could convince the Tsaritsa to transfer me for a short while. I just, I need a break from it all." You answer him in a low melodic hum. You get it, truly you do. Sadness is a poison, acidic in nature. It engulfs one's soul. Melting away their purpose, their resolve. Eating away until it reaches their hearts, their desires. It leaves behind empty shells and broken pieces too fragile to ever fully mend. 

Who better than you to understand the pains of being soulless, bereft? A mere shell awaiting a miracle that had died long ago. 

There's a voice, carved from velvet and silk. It rolls across you like a tidal wave. Potent yet soft. It whispers your name and calls out in hopes of mending broken hearts. You turn to look behind you. All you see is the endless sea. 

It's only on the fourth day of your visit that Neuvillette permits you to see him. Actually, see him. It's no longer his ghost that haunts you nor the empty waves that he commands beckoning you by name. It's him, really him. His glare is relentless as he leaves a prolonged kiss on your knuckles. You're in the middle of a conversation with that dreaded harbinger. Something about his older sister wishing to take to shopping upon your return to Snezhnaya.

"My darling it's been all too long, how fare thee my-"

He's cut short, how rude. Yet far be it from him to expect proper mannerisms from the Fatui.

"Hey, I'm having a conversation with my betrothed. Don't interrupt." Childe's eyes morph into his own glare. One which promises blood and violence. The fates of those caught on the other end of said glare are never pleasant. 

"As the chief justice of Fontaine, I have to right to interrupt any conversation I see fit."

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh. Choke the fear down with a cup of Fonta and ask Neuvillette to join the two of you. It's the nostalgia talking really. Some remnants of the past collide with the present causing your heart to adopt an unsteady rhythm. 

It's after that event that Neuvillet permits his presence to be seen by you and your "lover". He's always a mere breath away, following under the guise of being a gracious "tour guide". But tour guides do not wrap their arms around a lady's waist when her fiance isn't looking. Nor do they sneak kisses behind open parasols. You haven't protested about any of this. Maybe your fear of the hydro dragon has perished, replaced with a yearning for your former lover. He prays to every star in Tyvat for this to be true. 

It's on the day of your departure that you receive the bad news in the form of an army of Gardemeks. Childe is being arrested, something about a serial disappearance case. Something about a trial. It's a ruse you feel it in your bones. Neuvillette personally appears at the docks and holds you in his arms as you weep. He assures you this will all be cleared up soon. That you have nothing to fear. 

But you do, you have all so much to fear. Neuvillette permits you to stay at his house whilst the trial takes place. He traces the shimmering blue of your veins with his lips. He says he loves you, that he refuses to let you slip from between his fingers ever again. He'll keep you here. Keep you safe. Away from the Fatui. 

Away from Ajax. 

How he wishes he could tear the universe apart with his teeth. Part the oceans and bury the two of you under it. He dreams of keeping you by his side away from everyone else. Neuvillette is the chief justice of Fontaine, it's a prestigious role, one that demands trust. Yet maybe, just this once. He'll have to find the accused guilty regardless of the evidence. 

Tag list: @rebeccawinters @fangirl-katwithclaws @starshiningsirius

[lastoneout]

Hey @ my fellow bitches and besties who deal with a lot constipation/gas/bloating because of IBS or other digestive issues!!

Did you know there's a way to deal with it at home on your own without medication?? Because my doctor sure didn't fucking tell me about this!! But I just tried it because my gas always makes me SO fucking nauseous that I can barely function and it takes like an hour for my nausea and IBS meds to kick in, but I always feel the urge to rub my stomach when I'm bloated, so my Wikipedia boyfriend ass googled it and YEP MASSAGING IS BACKED UP BY SCIENCE.

The article does say to not do this if you have recently had abdominal surgery, but here's the method:

"To perform abdominal massage on yourself.

Lie flat on your back with your belly exposed.

Overlap your hands on your lower belly and hold them here as you focus on your breath.

Warm your hands by rubbing them together for about 30 seconds.

Apply any oils that you’re using.

Use the palm of your hand to massage your entire stomach in a clockwise direction several times.

Then massage the centerline of your abdomen, starting below your sternum and ending at your pubic bone.

Do three more lines an inch apart down the left side of the abdomen.

Do the same on the right side of the abdomen.

Then press your fingers into your navel firmly.

Continue massaging with gentle pressure and circle outward from your navel in a clockwise direction.

You can spend extra time on specific areas or trigger points that feel like they need some extra attention.

Do this for up to 20 minutes.

If you don’t feel comfortable massaging yourself, you can also have your abdomen massaged by a massage therapist. Call before you make your appointment to see if the therapist performs abdominal massage. Not all masseuses provide this service."

I also found a slightly different one from the University of Michigan!

"Massaging your stomach can help to move stool along the inside of your colon. It may help relieve symptoms of tightness, pressure, cramping, and bloating.

Start on the right side of your stomach down by the bone of your pelvis.

Rub in a circular motion lightly up to the right side till you reach your rib bones.

Move straight across to the left side.

Work your way down to the left to the hip bone and back up to the belly button for 2-3 minutes.

Rub with your fingertips in a circular motion. You may press a little deeper with your fingers.

Spend about 1 minute moving from the right hip bone to the right ribs then 1 minute across the middle (gently) and then 1 minute down to the left bone by your pelvis to the belly button.

Repeat rub, always in a clockwise motion, for 10 minutes."*

I was literally so nauseous from being bloated that I couldn't even swallow food without feeling like I was going to puke, but I did the second one just sitting up at my desk, clockwise like they both said(I'm assuming bcs that's the direction things travel through your gut) and within like 2 minutes I felt better. I cannot BELIEVE no one has ever recommended this. Fucking life-changing. I used to just sit there and drink sprite and hope it was over soon and now I don't have to do that!! And if people already know about this that's good but like, again, no one EVER told me about this so if this can help even ONE person who struggles like I do I'll consider it a win!

Also, for clarification, I'm not advocating ditching your meds obvs, I just know it takes a while for pills to kick in and I don't think people should have to be miserable while they wait when there's something easy you can do to get some quick relief.

(*I added more bullet points to the second method because the wall of text was a little hard to read.)