#bolster cover size

[tranceindia123]

Get the bolster which is comfortable and elegant legacy

When it comes to fine bed linens, the bolster pillow offers a singular chance for both coziness and refined style. The bolster contributes a degree of refinement and aesthetic fascination to your sleeping haven. Trance Home Linen is dedicated to promoting the decorative potential of bolsters. We provide a carefully chosen range of cotton printed bolster covers (Pack of 2 & 200 TC) that take ordinary spaces and turn them into remarkable ones. A bolster has been a feature of bedrooms for generations, growing into a multipurpose accent element that improves comfort and style. The fabric is 100% cotton with a 40's yarn count and is TUV "ISO" certified. A sateen weave made entirely of cotton adds a subtle sheen, while a 200-thread count yarn with 40s gives it an incredibly smooth finish. These are made to precisely fit India's standard bolster cover size, which is 16 by 32 inches. These include ties to the bolster cover on both sides, to be fastened and tugged.

[iwaasfairy]

IWA HARSH PUSSY SLAPPPPSSS OR FINGERINGGGG

a/n. yea I made it dad iwa and also some oc bullshit fucking suE ME but it’s good i like this one yeAAAA I hope you enjoy BBYYYYY I know I liked writing it hahahHAHA

GET IT RIGHT

tw. incest, dad x daughter, single dad iwa, reader’s a brat, obv age gap, size stuff implied, pussy slapping, (hard-ish) dom iwa, brat taming, noncon voyeurism, it’s a family affair, solo masturbation, jealousy wc. 3k

iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader, iwaizumi eiji and hitoshi x fem!reader

Its not his business that you’re a total nympho. Frankly, he could care less. Hitoshi’s eyes flick from under his baseball cap to the older sibling’s smug, almost accomplished smile when he runs a hand through his head of hair, before shaking some of the excess water out. The lighter brunet chuckles. “Our little sister’s laying on a towel with her tits out in the Oikawa’s backyard.”

“Dad’s over there, ain’t he?” Hitoshi responds, already back to scrolling mindlessly through Reddit to cure some of his boredom. Head of the Iwaizumi house said to ‘go outside for a bit’ so here he is, sweating his ass off in the lawn chair. What you’re up to really is none of his concern. Really. Eiji only smiles.

“And what? You think he’s gonna tell her off? Be for real for a second, Tosh.” There’s a look on Eiji’s face. Mixed in under the amusement and the bolstering, there’s something a bit tense. Impatient, and though he’d sooner die than admit it, Hitoshi recognises the glint that sits in the slight scrunch of his nose. He’s jealous. Yeah, you’re the type of little sister who gets away with having your tits out while they’re supposed to pretend not to see it. After sloppily patting himself dry with one of the towels, the oldest sibling slaps his phone out of his hands to grunt. “Get up.”

He responds before he thinks. “Fuck you, bitch.”

But it doesn’t bother his brother, who only tosses the towel back onto the table. “Stop intellectualising it and get up. You wanna get a look too, right? Dad’s over there right now to keep an eye on our little sister, and no one else is home. What do you think’s gonna happen.”

+

The sun’s so nice on your bare skin, glowing heat onto you and making you feel so sleepy and dazed. You’re all housesitting, which means access to the ridiculously nice pool of the Oikawa’s — and a secluded garden where you’re free to do whatever the fuck you want. The low voice is the only thing interrupting the peace. Daddy. “Babe. What do you think you’re doing?”

Your hat’s covering most of your view, but if you crack open one eye you can just about make out the way your dad crosses his arms over his wide chest, wife beater clinging a bit too tight to his muscular form. You push your lips out. “Sunbathing.”

“Put something on.” He sounds a bit tight, like he’s gotta clear his throat. Good.

“Why though?” You lift the hat up with one finger to look up further, see the slightly flushed visage of your father as he eyes you down. He’s a bit sweaty, yard work, and now has all his attention aimed at you. “I can’t get warm evenly all over if I do. Besides, no one’s home, and no one’s gonna look at me. The only people who can see into the yard is us, and Hitoshi nii’s not going to crawl out of his dungeon to spy on me, I promise you.”

It stays quiet for a few seconds as he takes in your words, before he sighs. Frowns just a bit, as he lets his eyes glide down your body just once. Enough to have his jaw clench, though. “I’m working here.” Then, after a bit more thought, he forces out the rest of the words. “You’re distracting.”

“Daddy~ please~” you start though, now pushing off the hat completely and wrapping your arm around yourself in mock-modesty. You have no intention of actually covering up. And looking at the way he’s breathing and already sweaty, he doesn’t actually want you to cover up either. “Nobody’s home. It’s fine. Please?” His olive green eyes flick to the way you’re pushing up your tits with your arms now, and those swimming trunks start feeling a bit tight on him if the way he shifts is anything to go by. The intense look would’ve scared you off before, but… well, it isn’t the first time you’ve gotten away with worse.

It also probably won’t be the last. “Once the sun is gone I’ll cover up to go back into the pool out front, promise.” You smack your lips, and give him those big puppy eyes that he seems to love so much. “Ei nii’s out there and I don’t want him to get an eyeful anyway.” You roll onto your side to send him your best smile. “Only trust you like that, daddy~” You’re audacious, a brat, but only because you know that gets him going. Wouldn’t do it this way if he really didn’t like it. When you go to lay back down with closed eyes, you can already hear him move in the grass.

A slight line works its way between your brows at that, at the idea that he’d walk away from you. But then a warm palm wraps around your arm to pin it beside your head on the towel, and you can feel the heat of him getting onto his heels beside you. Your breathing hitches, but you force yourself to keep your eyes closed. “Trust me to do what, exactly?” He rasps.

His other hand comes to your shoulder to push his thumb in, nice and hard, and works a moan out of you before you can think— working his way down in circles that pull goosebumps out of you. “What’s all this show really for? To make your big brothers jealous? Hm?” He gets close enough for the whispered voice to tickle your neck, hot thigh pressed against your waist before he places the other on your other side, straddling you. “You think that you can ‘daddy’ all your problems away? That if you look at me sweetly enough I’ll give?”

“I- didn’t-” your voice hitches when his mouth drags over your pulse, slight stubble and warm lips leaving kisses all down the length if it. The heat of the sun on your naked chest only makes the almost touch more irritable and itchy, and you have to fight the urge to just curl your body up against him already. “Didn’t want my big brothers to see. Wanted -you to.” When he noses at your collarbone you try to find your voice, and worm your wrist out of his grip to reach for his hair. “Wanted daddy to play with me again. I’ve been waiting since yesterday. Please.”

You can’t help but think back to last weekend, grinding down on his thigh with his fingers down your throat. Panties coated in stickiness and your entire body trembling with exhaustion. He laves soft mouthed kisses onto your throat enough to have you shaking now, too. But Hajime’s nothing if not consistent, as he noses the side of your breast and his hands slide down to squeeze your waist. “You know that I can’t, right?” He always says that.

You can’t help but laugh, humourlessly, and tug softly at the hair trapped between your fingers. “Then why are you?” And he is. As soon as he gets near enough, you arch your back automatically, still clenching your eyes closed. If you look now, the image will haunt you every day for the rest of summer. You’ll need daddy’s hands on you until you can’t go any more. Your tit is pushed against his cheeks because of your motion, and he groans a low, rumbling sound against your body. You can feel the heat of his bulge through his shorts. “Did you get jealous that Eiji might’ve seen me? Even a little?”

A second passes, before he finally grunts. “Fuck, yeah.” His mouth comes to your tits, tongue rubbing over hardened nipples too well, too knowingly. Knowing your daddy’s had other women before could make you green with envy, but he feels so good. His mouth, and hands feel so fucking good. Good enough to cry about it, trapped under his broad, heavy form as he squeezes and sucks your tits. “You’re a headache, you know that? Do you feel what you do to me?”

“Mhm.” You nod, panting, squirming under him. His hardening cock pushes against your thigh as you roll your hips, and he leaves impatient lovebites all over your tits. “Daddy.. d-daddy. Want you.” He’s so big and hot and heavy against you any time you get this close, it’s not your fault. You’re only a headache because he made you one. The clothed grinding against his covered, hard cock leaves your pussy awfully wet and sticky. Your breaths short. “Don’t you wanna- s-show your boys who your daughter belongs to, daddy?”

Your eyes shoot open when a sharp sting jerks your body, spreading through the flesh of your tit before he laves his tongue over the ridges where his teeth dug in. He clicks his tongue while grinding your other nipple between his fingers, making your bottom lip wobble. It feels so good, he always does. It’s not your fault. “Stop tempting me to make you regret your little stunt.” Your teary eyes meet his, dark and predatory before he pushes himself up, and yanks you closer by your thighs. “Legs up on my shoulders.”

“But-“

“Legs.” He says again, lower. You do, let him help your ass up to his mouth and reposition you so he’s level with your cunt. Your pussy clenches around nothing as he blows on your clit through the fabric, and only one hand keeps wrapped like a vice around your thigh to stabalize you. “I don’t wanna hear anything except how good it feels. Understood?”

You nod, before thinking better of it and speaking up. “Yes.” Fuck, it’s hot. He’s hot. You’re about to melt into a puddle with his face between your legs. He pushes your bikini bottoms aside with rough fingertips before pushing in. And you gasp, doing everything not to whine already. As his nose pushes against your sensitive clit, his lips find yours to leave a wet kiss on the opening, and he pushes his tongue against your sloppy lips without another warning. It’s already too much.

“Agh- d-daddy. You feel g- gh-ud.”

The big, hot tongue pushing you open, makes you grind against him while blood rushes both to your cunt and your head. His other hand flicks over your enterance a few times instead, before two thick fingertips push inside you, slow at first. He makes a show out of bottoming them out, and you can feel the way he smiles when it makes your pussy squelch. His tongue flicks over your clit hard and fast, before sucking. “Fuck, you’re so- good- g-good to me. Daddy!”

“Mhm.” The blood makes your ears ring. It makes you so dizzy it’s impossible to see much past daddy’s face and how good he looks, rubbing his tongue in rough motions over your pussy. He’s licking and licking and licking against your clenching muscles so good it’s almost unbelievable. The rough friction of his chin and stubble against your pussy, the way he nibbles just right at your clit, it’s all too much. It’s too much because it’s daddy— because he knows what he’s doing.

“D-daddy!”

You mewl as you curl your body against him and the push to your clit gets even better. Too good. You’re so sweaty his hand slips on your thigh, instead pulling you back by your heel and yanking you back up, right as your toes curl. His face is making a mess between your legs, and your mouth hangs open. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He- he’s already gonna make you cum. Sweat rolls down your back as your juices run down his chin and he buries himself as deep as he can, groaning your name into your pussy. “That’s my pretty girl, there you go.”

Your thighs squeeze around him and your eyes open through your tears, desperately searching for the eye contact you need to get there. But maybe because he knows you, he pulls back and drops you back down by your legs, spreading them by his thighs. “No, no- daddy pleas-uhh~ I wanna cum.”

“You’re coming on my cock.” He snaps back, before pushing you open more and slapping your pussy with a flat palm. “That alright with you, miss princess?” He says it like it’s an insult. For a moment, it does feel like it. Your mouth snaps shut against the cry you wanna let out, as his hand lands again before you can react. You jerk against the sting, clench your legs closed around his hand, but he pushes them back open to do it again. And again, and again, until slick is dripping down to your ass and your clit is tingling and swollen. You could burst out into a sobbing fit any second. “Can I do what I gotta do to get you there now?”

“Yes,” you sniffle back instantly, and open your eyes at him. Thick tears sit on your vision at it, you can’t help it. It’s all his fault you’re this way anyway. Your thighs wobble before your bottom lip does, and it’s this that makes him sigh.

“Aw, babe, shhhh— I’m sorry.” He takes only a moment to pull his shirt over his head, then gets back over you to wipe away the thick tracks. It doesn’t do much against the tears that keep coming, but it’s ok. It’s much better when you can place your hands to his bare chest and feel his heartbeat through your palms, reach up to kiss him. He tastes like you, and you suck on his tongue until he moans into the kiss. When he pulls back, that hot, big palm cups your cheek. “Was that mean?”

“I deserved it.” His dialated eyes search yours for a moment, before he kisses you back another few times. The tingling ache between your legs remains, but there’s a pit in your stomach that becomes more demanding again. “Please keep going?”

“Take me out.” Your hands instantly glide down his body at the order, hooking two fingers around the elastic band before pulling. Pulling down until you reveal the trail of pubic hair that leads down to his thick, flushed cock and down further. Down until the fabric can no longer hold him back from bobbing up against his stomach and he lets out a deep breath. You pull a little more to get a glimpse of his fat, heavy balls too, before daddy grunts and places both elbows by your head again. “Lead my cock inside you like a good girl, hm?”

“Uhuh.” Gladly. Your fingers reach for him, touching the dripping head first. Pre gets all over your fingertips, and you truly can’t stop yourself from putting two fingers inside your mouth with a whimper. Your hands return to squeeze around the head, need both to reach and stroke down a few times. Not that he needs it. He’s hard enough to feel his heartbeat through the skin, thick cock twitching as you shuffle around to line up. “‘s big.”

“It’s big to make you feel good.” He agrees, kisses your temple, and bucks into your palm. “Go on.” You line him up with a deep breath, before blinking your long lashes up at him with your lip between your teeth. The head kisses your hole as he hums, slides your slick around on the puffy mushroom head a few times before pushing in. “Ugh-always forget,” he grunts lowly, biceps bulging as he holds himself above you, “how fucking tight you are. My little baby.”

He starts rocking himself inside you bit by bit, and you can’t help but drag your nails along his flexing back to hang on. “Ah, ah, agh, daddy. You’re- so- big.” You throw your head back, and pant, tears still wobbling. You’re no longer sad though. Your pussy’s being forced open too big, too- fucking wide for you to clench around him properly- but it feels so good. He feels so fucking good, oh God. You want to fuck daddy all summer. You want him to never, ever stop.

+

Hitoshi’s so fucking hot it makes it hard to see straight. Cum’s gotten on his shirt, all over his hand, and he’s got boxers full of cum running down his fucking thigh. While his cock’s still hard and red in his fist as he forces his own hips not to buck. He can just barely hear your whines echo over the field to where they’re hiding— and you sound, predictably, just like how he imagined you do. You look good. Fuck, he’s sure you’d look just as good under him, but instead you’re clinging flushed faced, tits bouncing to your dad with his greying temples and letting yourself get used.

You’re pathetic, honestly. But he’s also not fucking blind. His cock twitches hard in his hand, and his other hand comes to cover the flared head as if that’ll keep a third load in. He’s trying to hold it so hard that he’s panting, balls pulling up to his body.

“Think she’ll let me eat the cum out of her when dad leaves?” Eiji’s pumping his cock without shame like there’s no tomorrow, getting drops of hot, clear liquid everywhere. He’s christened the plants with his cum earlier, too. Hitoshi just grimaces, before looking back at the way your body curls around the fat cock driving in and out of you, your cries about to make him bust again. “Huh?”

“I don’t fucking care, Ei nii.” He then furrows his brows so deep that you’d say he’ll get permanent wrinkles, not bothering to look over. “Why do you wanna eat dad’s cum out of her?”

“So I can fuck my own into her.”

Hitoshi’s too busy watching you and breathing through it to care about what he’s saying, so it takes a minute to filter through his hazy thoughts. “You’re a pig.”

Eiji just rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, quick shot. Have fun trying not to cum when I go next.”

All Rights Reserved © IWAASFAIRY 2024. Works are exclusive to this Tumblr.

[willowed-wisp]

stitches [simon ‘ghost’ riley]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader/you

Hopefully this doesn’t suck and makes sense for the most part. Thanks for anybody that reads this 🥰

WARNINGS: smut, descriptions of injury, body insecurity… a bit of plus size!reader

When you joined the Special Forces, you didn’t want to form attachments.

That was the only rule you held yourself to.

As a medic back at base, you thought it would be easy. Alas, fate had other plans in the form of Task Force 141.

Lead by Captain John Price- who had handpicked you for medical support- to stay back at whatever base looked like- whether it be a van or a safe house.

With that, you lived with the boys. John Price, Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley. You kept yourself to yourself at first, not confident among four SAS soldiers nor in yourself. Knowing of them only.

So you planned to stay huddled in the corner and quiet.

Then in the middle of the night, you came face to face with a black balaclava and a gruff voice, “Ya good?” You only remember the nightmares… more so flashbacks. They were relentless- creeping in the recesses of your mind, waiting for times when stress peaked. Unfortunately this entire ordeal was nerve-wracking.

You only noticed the warm hand on your shoulder, instinct led you to stare past the noir covering the majority of his face and into his eyes. Caring eyes.

He had no need to check if you were okay, he didn’t know you but, nevertheless, it was nice to see the lieutenant as something other than a looming figure.

The seriousness became too much to bear for you, “Do you sleep in that thing?” Using humour to take the edge off- well trying to.

“Soundly,” Earthy, rugged… British yourself, he sounded awfully English. That was when your eyes dawned on the clock- the time more specifically. 02:01.

“Do you sleep at all?” Another attempt but he didn’t laugh- your smile faded, maybe a tad intimated. He wasn’t exactly small.

He stood away, no longer crouching at your bedside. How tall was the guy? You tried to hide the wonder on your face, “Better than you… when I do get a kip…” Some pain in those words. “Better get some shut eye, Y/L/N… see ya at dawn.” You slept better knowing at least someone in 141 had your back.

After that you started integrating more with the lads. You learned that Johnny could clean his messes up exceptionally well, and that’s why he was called ‘Soap’. Price still thought the name was bullcrap but alas, not your problem.

You also noticed that Ghost never showed his face. Black face paint shrouding the skin showing around his dark eyes or his sunglasses. You preferred the face paint.

He had a habit of watching you from across the room chatting with Soap and Gaz- you blocked any possible avenues of relationships. Not that they’d be interested in you (your own thoughts). You didn’t find yourself attractive or good enough. A bit too much weight, you continued to think.

It was a good thing, you couldn’t get distracted.

That was until that day…

Supply checks… stock up on the sterilised needle and stitch thread. You barely had any use to 141, just a glorified nurse who had no business being given a code name.

“Stitches! It’s LT!” The brash Scotsman bolstered his comrade over to the gurney in the impromptu medical van. Blue eyes flashed over into yours, hulking the larger man to lay on his back.

Ghost wasn’t having any of it, attempting to sit up only for more blood to gush from his thigh. You rushed into action, “Soap, get us out of here,” said all too calmly for someone under such pressure. The man did as he was told and they were off. Meanwhile, you had pushed the lieutenant down on the bed. He grunted in pain each time he made a move, “For fuck’s sake, stay still so I can fucking see.” Blue gloves on, as he stopped wriggling, “Thank you.” You were still unimpressed but at least he listened. Unbeknownst to you under the mask he donned a pained smirk- unaware you could be so commandeering. Almost proud of you.

A grunt paused his pride, “Fuck…” Through gritted teeth. Your fingers working the tweezers with expert precision.

He went to sit up, your left hand pressed against his sturdy chest- pushing him down, “Want me to snag your femoral artery, Ghost?” In no time, a red-coated bullet laid in the metal tray and he sat there in his boxer shorts- watching you work and hitching a breath each time the needle breached skin.

They were the gentlest hands that had ever worked on him. “What happened?” Eyes boring into his as you cast off the stitch.

“Someone got the jump on me, should see ‘im,” you smiled at that, able to tell he was too. By his eyes.

The ones you dreamt of every night- except when the terrors returned. Johnny was too heavy of a sleeper to hear you, but Simon’s eyes were what you woke up to. In the flesh. He never asked what they were about, just comforted you.

When your deployment ended, and you returned home… you missed the guys. And his warm eyes whenever you returned to the land of the living.

Johnny contacted you. A pub crawl in Scotland, apparently Gaz, Price and even Simon were game.

Turns out you and Ghost didn’t live too far away. In ten minutes, a knock at your door and you met that deep gaze. “Johnny only just message ya, didn’t he?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’m drivin’ us, don’t trust Gaz’s deathtrap…”

“Well… I just need to grab my stuff,” He started to walk away up the path to his 4x4. “You can come in and wait if you wanted?” Who was he to turn you down when you asked so nicely.

He helped you with your bags, “You sure ya gonna get through with that?”

“Haha,” dry humour, there was a reason you seemed to get on, “And if you want me to get more shit…”

You could see a glint in his eyes, “Nah, you’re alright, love…” That went straight down to between your thighs, the look on your face amused the man.

Surprisingly, the two of you weren’t awkward. Quiet here and there.

You assumed he wasn’t used to social interaction in general- especially wearing that balaclava, not good for conversation.

Simon was good to talk to, all waffled speech was redacted with him. Straight forward, sometimes sarcastic and wholly looking for banter- that’s what you preferred.

And there was no chance he would be interested in you. He has the aura of a guy who gets the attention of stunning women. Why would he want you? (You thought)

It was never going to happen.

By the end of that car ride, he learned about your messy string of exes and he had way too much Shania Twain on his playlist (and knew all of the words).

Johnny greeted you both with open arms, a tight hug for you, “You been ta’ing care of yourself, Stitches?”

“Better than you look, use more soap…” The laughs and hug came to an abrupt end- his stare directed over to Simon who loomed behind you. Was it just you, or did Johnny look scared?

“Let me show y’ where you’ll be sleepin’…”You went to grab your bags but Ghost already had it covered.

Poor you, you didn’t know what would await your stay at Johnny MacTavish’s.

The tip was a stretch, your head thrown back against the blanket pillow. Silent screams playing in your throat. He could feel the struggle and see the pleasure striking your visage. Murmurs of his name, “Si- Simon -!” Broken and whimpering. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t on the edge of losing his cool. You were pulsing around him so angelic.

“You’re takin’ me so well, lovie,” His hips took a full stroke, bracing your cervix. Thrumming and dripping wet. Another groan of his name.

The rhythm sank in, strangled moans trapped- your breathing wild against his ear. His thrusts swinging all the way back until they gutted you. Over and over. “Feels. So. GOOD -!” His hand covering your mouth, noting that the owner of the house was just next door and the other two at the end of the hall. Simon’s place supposed to be on the couch downstairs surrounded by Soap’s army memorabilia. Not right there, balls deep inside of you. Loving every second.

Cherishing every inch of you, kissing you in the moment to stay quiet so he could remain there for a while longer. So he may get some sleep, for the first time in a week.

Before you know it, his hand anchored around your ankles- spreading them to hook better. You’ve never moaned so loud in your life. Even echoing off the walls of the room. “Fuck it…” He was too far gone to care what the boys heard or thought. He had been thinking about that moment since he met you, looking so delectable with his cock hammering into you. Taking him so well.

You didn’t know if he would ever tire out, another rush of adrenaline and exhaustion swept over your limp body- numb to anything other than where his thighs slammed against your own and how raw you were going to in the morning.

Your legs fell, his grip focused at your jaw; leaning over- rubbing against sensitivity deep- and claiming your lips in a ravenous kiss that had your head spinning more than before.

Hands falling to your hips, thrusts sloppy as you tightened once again. “Where can I- ,” Drunk on how he tasted, your legs locked around his body.

“Inside,” Your hand found the base of his hair at Simon’s neck, holding on for dear life. Warmth spread downwards as your nails dug into his toned back and neck alike. A thick groan filled the air- enough to become addicted.

Neither of you panted, thriving in the silence. He savoured being hilted inside you, careful not to crush you beneath him. Hot breath spanning your collarbone. “Can’t tell ya how long I’ve wan’ed to do that…”

You felt so small against him, so yearned for. No face covering on his end, no boundaries. Laid bare to him and he wanted you anyway.

Fingers stroked at his thick hair, “Same, Si…”

Neither of you knew who fell victim to slumber first.

The morning came around, the boys had looked proud of themselves… too proud, too giddy. Especially Johnny.

“I think the gutters need check’ng, heard some weird noise last nigh’,” You’ve never threatened Johnny’s mohawk before but that day you grew close.

Price even had a glint of mischief in those clear eyes of his, “Vampires common in Scotland?” You didn’t check your neck, too caught up in the heat the previous night.

Gaz had a smirk on his face, “Not from what I know of, sir…”

Christ, you were never gonna hear the end of it.

______

masterlist

[translunaryanimus]

More Official reference for the Chenest. They have hands now!! Written transcription + extra information under the cut cause this is a lot to put in alt text.

Chenest, aka Land Seals, Gecko Horses, or Deer Fish, are horse sized oviparous hypocarnivores that sustain themselves primarily on swamp vegetation and mouth-sized creatures.

They have a quartered septum with two channels being for air and two for smell specifically. The nostrils and scent glands can be closed independently of one another, allowing the Chenesht to smell without breathing and breathe without smelling. Additionally, their six barbels serve as electrical and touch sensory organs that make up for the relatively poor eyesight.

Their eyes are fairly nearsighted but have a wide field of view and focus primarily on detecting movement in their surroundings rather than clear images. While swimming, diving, or foraging underwater, a thin nictitating membrane covers their eyes to keep them protected from harmful irritants.

Chenesht ears, similar to their nasal cavities, can Seal while underwater to prevent irritation or water from getting stuck.

Chenest hands have four fingers both front and back with retractable claws, the center two being less curved than the outer two. The bottoms of their hands have two main Gecko like pads, a secondary pad, and a pad per finger, with their feet only having one main pad. These pads allow them to adhere to their slippery swamp environment without tripping and eating shit on the ground. In addition to claws, the 'Cob' sex of Chenesht posess Spurs on their ankles used for fighting.

Their small tails generally serve no purpose aside from keeping small fly-esque creatures away from their rears, preventing crop infection, as well as being a small fat reserve. It's theorized that Chenesht ancestors once had much larger tails that shrunk over time in favor of a more terrestrial lifestyle.

Chenesht teeth are covered in a thick layer of keratin called Rhamphotheca which regularly grows and sheds to protect the inner teeth from from the harsh, acidic flesh of the meat their diet used to be primarily made of, as well as the irritating plant matter they regularly consume. Their dual uvulas allow them to produce thick, gummy saliva that keeps the cnidarian-typical barbs of the helium jellies (a common predator), nettle like thorn structures in most edible plants, and other soft tissue irritants from hurting their mouths as they chew. The Rhampotheca is black in color and leads to the appearance of ink stained or charcoal black teeth.

The blue blood of the Chenesht is due to Hemocyanins being the primary color receptor in their blood rather than Hemoglobins and is bolstered by a copper-rich diet.

The "hump" on their back is the attachment point for immensely powerful forelimb muscles. A Chenesht's arms are one of the strongest limbs on their body, second only to their powerful legs.

Chenesht are a bisex species, the two sexes being Reeve and Cob. Reeves are larger and duller, and Cobs are smaller and brighter. Cobs also possess a unique inflatable throat pouch used for amplifying calls and mating display. In their current culture, the pouch is often tattooed or otherwise decorated to enhance beauty and also because it's fun. Additionally, Cobs sometimes have patches on their body that flush with blood to take on a bright blue color. While mostly for display purposes, these patches will also flush if the Cob is exhausted or excited.

No I am not getting into Chenesht reproduction here. They work like seahorses. Sort of. That's all you'll get.

[quiddling]

Do you have any more lore about your Saera son targ oc? 😊

My sweet sweet boy.... The Bastard of Volantis !!! I love this guy sm so I do actually have a lot... and i realise now I haven't said anything about him other than he is Saera's son on tumblr before so i'm going to ramble on and on after the break heheh [:<

Aenor Targaryen, an infamous natural son of Princess Saera Targaryen. His father's identity remained an enduring mystery. Aenor was born in 98 AC and raised in the Free City of Volantis, where his mother ruled as proprietor over a famed pleasure house. Though born bastard, Aenor inherited the distinctive Valyrian features of House Targaryen - pale silver-blonde hair and deep purple eyes. Aenor himself made no public assertions for the crown much like his mother, though he took pride in his dragonblood heritage.

He is an irreverent and cocksure young man who revelled in the luxurious vices of the Volantene lifestyle. From a young age, Aenor displayed a keen intellect and a natural charisma that set him apart. He inherited his mother's sharp wit and political acumen, quickly learning to navigate the complex social dynamics of Volantis' upper echelons. Despite his bastard status, Aenor carries himself with the confidence and poise befitting his Targaryen heritage.

Aenor's relationship with his mother, is one of the defining aspects of his character. Despite the unconventional nature of their lives, Aenor loves his mother dearly and would defend her with his life if necessary.

As a boy, Aenor would often sit at his mother's feet, enraptured by her tales of dragons and the legendary Dragonpit of King's Landing. Saera's stories painted vivid pictures of scaled behemoths soaring through the skies, their roars echoing across the realm. These tales instilled in Aenor a lifelong fascination with dragons and a secret longing to one day see one with his own eyes.

Occasionally, in rare moments of nostalgia or vulnerability, Saera would share glimpses of her life as a princess in the Red Keep. These stories were always tinged with a mixture of fondness and bitterness, revealing the complex emotions she still harboured towards her past. Aenor learnt to treasure these rare insights into his mother's former life, understanding the trust she placed in him by sharing them.

However, Saera's recollections of her father, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, were infrequent and laden with resentment. The lingering pain from their estrangement was evident whenever she spoke of him. This unresolved conflict between Saera and Jaehaerys left a lasting impact on Aenor, shaping his own complicated feelings towards his heritage and the idea of family loyalty.

Through his mother's stories and silences alike, Aenor developed a nuanced understanding of power, family, and the weight of the Targaryen name. This understanding would come to influence his own ambitions and his approach to navigating the complex world of politics and personal relationships in Volantis and beyond.

I'm still not 100% sure on most of this part of his lore i just wanted my sweet boy to have a dragon and see the rest of the world....but regardless of his illegitimate status, Aenor managed to claim a wild dragon in Essos. The beast, which Aenor named Naerion, was described as being a medium-sized dragon with brilliant orange scales that covered most of his body, while his underbelly and wing membranes were described as pale striking gold. His distinctive colouration made him easily identifiable in the skies, earning him the moniker "the Sunset Wyrm" among soldiers and smallfolk alike. His wings, when spread, cast a shadow the colour of sunset. During the Dance of the Dragons, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, on behalf of his mother Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, sought to bolster the blacks' forces with additional dragonriders. Jacaerys dispatched envoys to Volantis, seeking out the Targaryen Bastard. He was initially reluctant to involve himself in Westerosi affairs. However, the promise of legitimisation and lands upon Rhaenyra's victory swayed Aenor and he agreed to cross the Narrow Sea with Naerion.

[kuroowo]

Gojo x Reader x Geto

- Poly & General HCs, not chronological

- GN!Reader

- WARNING : One mention of dacryphilia, mentions of fighting & therapy

Part 2 (still writing) // Masterlist

Gojo has a habit of stealing bites off yours and Geto’s plates. It doesn’t matter if he already has his own or has yet to even touch it. It doesn’t matter if Suguru drenches his in so much sauce you can’t even see what’s beneath anymore. It doesn’t matter if you try to fight his utensils with yours or stab his hand with your fork. It doesn’t matter if Satoru’s so full he could implode with even a whiff of it. If it’s food that’s yours & Suguru’s, he’s taking a bite out of it. Bet.

You come to find that Gojo can turn on the waterworks really easily, but it’s never genuine tears. Meanwhile Geto doesn’t really cry much and finds it extremely hard to fake cry like his boyfriend does, until you find him nearly bawling over sad family/loved ones/friends/animal centred movies in the dark of his own room. He tries to cover it up when he notices you at his door, but in the end, your boyfriend’s head ends up sniffling in your lap with the movie continuing instead. You, on the other hand, cry quite easily and sometimes most of the times it makes your boyfriends want to tease you. Especially in bed (pretty sure they developed dacryphilia).

Nearly every corner of Satoru’s & Suguru’s rooms are filled with affectionate gifts from you. Be it random little trinkets that reminded you of them, stuffed toys of white cats and black wolves in all different shapes and sizes, hand written love letters and poems, dried flowers of different shades and kinds, scrap paper filled with doodles of the three of you — everything and anything you gift them, they have it. Even the ones from before you got together with them. Shoko calls them whipped. Haibara calls them sweet. Not that it matters when it’s become their safe space.

Gojo teaches you and Suguru to live more carefree, to be more adventurous, and to love more openly. Geto teaches you and Satoru to be more inquisitive, to carry morality in your hearts, and to appreciate love in actions. You teach Satoru and Suguru to live with balance, to respect boundaries without distancing, and to accept love as if it were home embodied in a person.

Gojo & Geto gets into a lot of trouble, small or big, when it comes to being tactful and sensitive to others. If you find Geto alone, he’s much more gentlemanly & exemplary, but placing them together always seem to bring out the mischievous (sometimes dickhead) side in him. Placing you in between them is a 50/50 gamble. Sometimes you make them worse, much like a trio of green tea bitches, but sometimes you halt them as if on a leash, as if a saint with two devils tamed.

Gojo and Geto likes to drag you out a lot. It would be every weekend if it wasn’t for you enticing them with a movie marathon and junk food in pyjamas, cozied up together, cuddling and giggling. A type of weekend they learn to crave when you’re out without them.

Gojo moves around quite a bit in his sleep, Geto’s a bit like an immovable object in his sleep, you’re a little in between but you bring a thousand stuffed toys and a bolster so the shared bed is kind of a mess.

Geto’s not a picky eater, you’re a picky eater, and Gojo prefers sweets (if he could live only on sweets, he would). Whenever you three go out to eat, it’s almost always a bit of a bicker between you and Gojo because he wants to eat sweets first and you think that he’s going to get diabetes before he hits 30, or he wants to eat at XYZ but you hate the way they make ABC. Geto would not give two fucks and just drives to where he wants to eat, sits everyone down, orders his food first. Then you and Satoru would team up to admonish Suguru’s table manners because, “How could you?!” & “The betrayal!”. Suguru is sick of you two (affectionate).

Often times, Gojo would just eat out because it’s just lesser of a hassle for his schedule (OT’s quite a lot) and because Geto is in the same line of business, he ends up doing the same most of the time too. They would feel guilty for coming home late and having you eat by yourself if it weren’t for the fact that you crave alone time after spending a whole day working to recharge, so they just leave you be and you’re appreciative of that. But ever since they found out you tend to cook meals for yourself rather than order take out, they’ve unanimously decided to come home to your dinners at least once a week. You’re half annoyed and half worried because A, you’ll have to cook x5 the portion (their appetite’s huge) and B, your taste might not suit them (Suguru’s not picky but that doesn’t mean you want him to eat something that isn’t that good to him just because it’s edible). Your boyfriends quelled your worries (most of it) when they said they’ll help cook and set up with you, and for the most part they do quite well with you in the kitchen. So in the end, while you do need your recharge, you find that once a week(day) doing this extremely domestic thing with them makes you fall even harder. Who would’ve known? (They did.)

You made it a habit to kiss them when they get back from work and on rougher days, you’ll take care of them the best way you can. Drawing them a warm baths, ordering in their favourites, and lots of reassurance through words (for Geto) & touches (for Gojo). Nowadays, if Gojo doesn’t receive a welcome home kiss he’ll sulk (extremely so) until he does. Geto’s the same where he expects a kiss, and when that doesn’t happen, he’ll make you kiss him one way or another.

When you’re having a bad day, Gojo tends to be the one to notice by observation and Geto tends to notice by instinct. They try to be gentler, sweeter, softer, and even more so when it’s particularly rough for you. Geto would take care of you by setting up a comfortable space for you, cooking you your comfort meals, and making sure you’re drinking enough water. Gojo would be stuck by your side like super glue on skin. He’d crowd your space, cocoon you in a soft blanket, and surround you with his arms, legs, and warmth. Both Satoru and Suguru would talk to you or stay in silence until you’re okay again, and it would feel like they could finally breathe a sigh of relief. (Please expect lots of kisses after since they learned that’d be the fastest way to get you smiling again)

Having fights with them was the worst, especially since it rarely happens. The fact that all three of you know each others weaknesses, breaking points, and sensitive topics makes it all the worse because when it gets too heated, all hell breaks loose. You would always be the first to cry, Geto would always be the first to walk away, and Gojo would be the first to pretend everything was fine. The first time it had happened, you barricaded yourself in your room for one and a half day before they came banging at your door to reconcile properly (the boys made up separately by literally having a fight). The last time it happened, you considered having a break from the relationship and each other. Just one short enough for everyone to get away and have some time to cool and collect themselves, “I think it’ll be good for us.”, but a resonate rejection came immediately from the other two. They knew that if they agreed, you’d never come back to them because while yes, Suguru’s the first to walk away, but he always comes back just as quick. You, however, once you walk away, you would walk away for good in the end (it was just a matter of when). So the fact that you would suggest such a thing was more than alarming to them, so much so that a chill of fear trickled down their spine.

Couples therapy was suggested as an outcome of the last fight. While none of you wanted to have a third (fourth?) party knowing the more intimate parts (or any parts) of your relationship, it was the most logical and effective method seeing as you and Geto are already have your own therapists. Gojo was the most reluctant (“We can just fix it ourselves.”), but if it meant that you wouldn’t leave him, then so be it. The sessions were chaotic and didn’t progress too much at first, but with time and tremendous efforts from everyone, it helped with improving the way you three communicated and loved each other.

You fell first, but Geto fell harder, and Gojo fell hardest.

[mychlapci]

Nocturnal emissions ft ageswap Prowl As mechlings of his age tend to still get nightmares and wet dreams, imagine one night, after being thoroughly exhausted from datawork, Prowl goes to recharge with a frazzled processor.

He decided that he'd defrag it in the morning, since his specs takes about four times as long as a normal mech's processor to clean, so doing it that late at night would just result in more sleep lost. Ratchet spotted the early signs of a workaholic, and took it upon himself to drill the importance of a good night's rest into Prowl. After all, sleep is a very integral part of a young mech's development!

But as he recharges, his glitchy processor, with no conscious mind awake to make sense of the running sims, which cannot be turned off, start dumping the jumbled results into his subconscious brain. And before he knew it, Prowl is caught in the throes of his first wet dream.

In his dream, he comes to in his little bunk, confused as to why it was still dark all around him. When he tries to stand up, something pounces on his face, causing him to fall back onto the pillow with a startled squeak. He couldn't see what it was, but the shape and texture was so very familiar.

Prowl's collection of stuffies are rather diverse, you see. Some of them are just big enough to fill his palms when lined together, usually in the shape of a ball, like a plush DragonQuest slime or fuzzy mechanoid urchin soft toy. Some are about as long as his forearms, just the right size for him to cuddle to his chest and bury his faceplates into. These are things like his teddy ironbear, his stuffed turbofox, his floppy gel octopus, and his tuxedo cybercat. Then lastly, we have the jumbo plushies, which are almost the size of a bolster. He has maybe two of these, one being a large pink rabbit and another is a cybertronian sized IKEA python.

His optics covered and his doorwings trapped under the blanket, he struggles in the dark, trying to get whatever fuzzy stuffie off his face. But the moment he gets a good grip on the toy, the rest of them decide to join the fray, the jumbo plushies doing most of the work to restrain and pin him.

Panicking, Prowl tries his best to thrash under the blanket, but only succeeds in turning himself over, arms and legs still pinned together by soft but firm appendages. Whatever that was on his face lets go, but a tail quickly wraps around his eyes, blindfolding him. When he tries to engage his doorwing sensors, fuzzy little paws start molesting his very sensitive hinges and rubbing all over the smooth plating, effectively rendering them useless as his senses are distracted by the soothing pets and arousing stimulation.

Helpless and caught, Prowl tries to call for help, only for a blob of fur to stuff itself into his mouth, muffling his cries. There are more plush limbs teasing him and rutting their various textured coverings all over his body now, filling his senses with delicious friction in all of his erogenous zones. After a few breems of whimpering, his instincts finally give and his plating opens up against his volition, exposing his soaked array to the dark of the room.

Immediately, small little cottonmesh paws zero in on his pulsing node and leaky spike, driving him wild with pleasure. He can only moan when he feels one of the ball plushes pressing up against the entrance to his valve, becoming sopping wet as it soaks up all of his gushing juices.

It rubs against his valvelips for a bit, rotating and pressing onto the squishy protoform, spreading and massaging the entrance. Then it starts pushing in, the soft body providing no resistance as it stuffa itself up his valve, the involuntary squeezing only helping to guide it upwards deeper and deeper into him. Prowl squeals behind his gag when he feels it press up against the aperture of his gestation chamber. Before he could get used to the pressure, another ball of fluff presses against his pussy.

The stimulation on his anterior node and little cocklet continues as the stuffies travel up his valve one by one. It's so humiliating to be taken like this, but at the same time, a traitorous part of him doesn't want to stop.

With each successive deposit, the plushies gett larger and larger, and eventually, the non-blob shaped toys are stuffing themselves into his pussy, their much larger size pressing against all of the others in the back of his valve. It's becoming such a tight squeeze in there, his ceiling node feels like it's basically being tortured with pleasure. He'a getting close to an overload.

Teary and drooling, Prowl is no longer struggling, and is instead trying to rut against the bedding and the plush toys plastered all over his needy and charged frame now, mindlessly chasing his orgasm. His pussy is so full now, it wouldn't take much more before a hard shove into the contents of his valve forces his cervical entrance open.

And whem it finally does, he cums himself awake in his real bunk, groggy but horny, clutching his favourite cybercat to his panting chest. He sits up to find that the bedding around his hips have been soaked from his sonambulistic squirting.

Extremely embarrassed, he sees to changing his bedsheets immediately, praying that no one finds out about his mishap. The twins, being early risers themselves, catch him in the act of accessing the laundry room so early in the cycle, of course.

Once they've trapped their little cadet between them and teased a confession out of him, they scoop him up and pepper him with reassuring kisses, telling him that it's normal for mechlings like him to experience such things as he weeps from his stressful recharge flux. Once all washed up, Prowl gets taken back to the twins' quarters, where he finally gets to defrag properly and go back to sleep in between his mentors, burying his face into the soft fur of an innocent, inanimate plush toy in their embrace-🔌

ouhh Prowl having silly sex dreams about plushies is so fun. Fuzzy little bodies rubbing up against his needy valve and spike, making him twitch and convulse in his bed… He wakes up in soaked sheets, his spike and valve have squirted quite the mess all over his legs, and he’s so embarrassed…

I bet that next time this happens, Sunny and Sides would love to be there to watch their trainee squirm…

[simstorian-blog]

Dusty Turf

(CC List + Links)

World Map: Oasis Springs

Area: Parched Prospect

Lot Size: 30 x 20

(3-bedroom, 2 Bathroom)

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Used

Cottage Living

Desert Luxe Kit

Dream Home Decorator

Eco Lifestyle

Get Famous

Get Together

Get To Work

Growing Together

Island Living

Laundry Day Stuff

Outdoor Retreat

Spa Day

Wedding Stories

Build Mode

AnneSimmer – Wall Mural Pt. 1

Felixandre – London (Chandelier, Panelling)

Felixandre – Grove Pt. (Plaster Floor)

Harlix – Bafroom (Mirrors, Windows)

Harlix – Harluxe (Used Throughout)

Harlix – Orjanic Pt. 1 (Column)

Harlix – Tiny Twavellers (Mural Wall)

Harrie – Kwatei Pt. 1 (Doors, Windows)

Max20 – Polished Sandstone Trim

Peacemaker – Curly Koa Flooring

Peacemaker – Simple Siding

SimPlistic – Leafy Wallpaper

Sooky – Victorian Floor Tiles

Buy Mode

Anye – Cal Magazine

Anye – Neomy Table Lamp

Anye – Zara Bathrobe

Awingedllama – Apartment Therapy (Rug)

Awingedllama – Boho Living (Cement Planter)

Awingedllama – Blooming Plants

BlueTeas – Rivers Bedroom (Base, Headboard)

CharlyPancakes – Lavish (Shopping Bag)

ClutterCat – BusyBee Pt. 2 (FlatBox)

ClutterCat – Cozy Casita (Candle)

ClutterCat – Dandy Diary Pt.1  (Leather Tray)

ClutterCat – Dandy Diary Bathroom

Dereon – Silver Lining Stool (DL Available via Patreon)

Felixandre – Chateau Pt. 4 (Square Container)

Felixandre – Colonial Pt. 3 (Parasol)

Felixandre – Florence Pt. 3 (Luggage)

Felixandre – Florence Pt. 4

Felixandre – Grove Pt. 2 (Stacked Plates)

Felixandre – Paris Pt. 3 (Pouffe)

Felixandre – Shop The Look 1 (Side Table)

GreenLlamas – Kerv Inkblot Rug

Harlix – Baysic (Bedding, Hanging Clothes, Packs System)

Harlix – Baysic Bathroom (Toilet)

Harlix – Kichen (All glasses)

Harlix – Livin’ Rum (Tv, Bowl, Vase)

Harlix – Orjanic Pt. 2 (Vase)

Harrie – Octave Pt. 4 (Light Switch)

Joyce – Simple Live #5 (Separate Towel)

LeafMotif – House & Garden Covers

LittlBowBub – Home Barista

Littledica – Delicious Kitchen (Paper Towel)

Littledica – Rise & Grind (Flavour Syrup)

Madlen – Dionis Ottoman

MyCupofCC – ColourTalk (Mirror)

Myshunosun – Gale Dining (Cart, Wine Bottle, Wine Glass)

NoStyle – Mara Living Chair

Peacemaker – Ellipse Armchair

Peacemaker – Mid-Century Abode (Bedframe)

Peacemaker – Oasis Chic Living (Cordyline)

Pierisim – Domaine du Clos Pt. 2 (Account Book)

Pierisim – Domaine du Clos Pt. 4 (Zucchini Chopping Board)

Pierisim – Living Room Mini (Citrus Bowl)

Pierisim – MCM Pt. 2 (Rug)

Pierisim – MCM Pt. 3 (Metal Sconce, Soap)

Pierisim – MCM Pt. 5 (Table Lamp)

Pierisim – Oak House Pt. 4 (Shower)

Pierisim – Vera Bathroom (Mounted Hook, Robes, Soap)

Ravasheen – Hot Sim Disguise Clutter (Tray)

RusticSims – Kind of Modular (Books, Coffee Table)

RusticSims – Lofi Pt. 1 (All Lighting)

Severinka – Aura Ottoman

Sundays – Duvet

Sundays – Kediri Pt. 1 + 2 (Sofa, Throw Pillows)

Sundays – Kuta Pt. 1 (Dining Table)

Sundays – Pandawa Pt. 3 (Pouf)

Sundays – Sumba Pt. 1 (Pillows)

Sundays – Swell Pt. 1 (Bolster Pillow)

Sundays – Ungasan Pt. 2 (Slippers)

Sundays – Yarra Pt. 3 (Bed Pillows)

Syboubou – Caroline Shower Rug

Tuds – Ind 02 (Wine Rack)

Winner9 – Malibu Pillow

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

Tray Files: Download

[yuurei20]

Vil Info Compilation part 5: Perceptiveness and Physical Ability

In a chat we learn that the Fairest Queen’s “keen, observant nature” is said to have “served to bolster her beauty”, which may be why Vil himself is seen to be extremely perceptive.

He is able to tell that Lilia performs with “none of the youthful vim one would expect from a student”, that Jamil covered for Kalim’s mistakes during Fairy Gala and when Leona has a loose button on his vest.

He is also able to tell when a group of Octavinelle students is planning on betraying him during Beanfest, saying that “spotting betrayals is trivial” for him, and he makes the connection between the amount of rare gear that Azul is wearing during the event and when, a year prior Azul questioned him about Beanfest “to an unusual degree”.

Vil notices when Cater lies about preparing only three mandrakes for a class assignment, and sees through Jamil’s “lukewarm flattery” when Jamil approaches him for a favor in a vignette.

It is often demonstrated that Vil is very physically capable: he beats Epel in a magicless fight upon their first meeting and, after beating down two Savanaclaw students who are about twice his own size, explains that his personal trainer is a former kickboxing world champion.

He runs faster than his Savanaclaw teammates during Beanfest as well and—after saving Silver from ten members of the opposite team—explains that he “learned quite a bit about martial arts and self defense techniques” from when he played a spy in a TV show.

Vil says, “I had tutoring from a first-rate coach. It wasn’t just kickboxing, either; I also picked up karate an tae kwon do, among other things…I make it a point to maintain a training regimen, to ensure I don’t lose my touch. If I look like as seasoned fighter, that’s why.”

Vil often comes up with unflattering nicknames for those around him, including “half-price potatoes”, “spudlings”, “unwashed spuds”, “mere tubers” and “stumbling vegetables”, referring to Epel’s tsum in the Tsumusted Wonderland event as a peanut.

Vil occasionally fills the area he is in with sparkles.

Grim says Vil’s legs look longer than the player’s by nearly a meter and the dialogue options are “Such a beautiful person” and “His legs aren’t that much longer than mine…I think”, but these lines were all changed for NA.

[tranceindia123]

THE BOLSTER - A COMFORTABLE AND ELEGANT LEGACY

When it comes to fine bed linens, the bolster pillow offers a singular chance for both coziness and refined style. The bolster contributes a degree of refinement and aesthetic fascination to your sleeping haven. Trance Home Linen is dedicated to promoting the decorative potential of bolsters. We provide a carefully chosen range of cotton printed bolster covers (Pack of 2 & 200 TC) that take ordinary spaces and turn them into remarkable ones. A bolster has been a feature of bedrooms for generations, growing into a multipurpose accent element that improves comfort and style. The fabric is 100% cotton with a 40's yarn count and is TUV "ISO" certified. A sateen weave made entirely of cotton adds a subtle sheen, while a 200-thread count yarn with 40s gives it an incredibly smooth finish. These are made to precisely fit India's standard bolster cover size, which is 16 by 32 inches. These include ties to the bolster cover on both sides, to be fastened and tugged.

[thepro-lifemovement]

Pro-abortion activists fight for abortion throughout pregnancy for any reason—no exceptions. Their fundamental argument centers on women’s health.

But stunning research shows this concern is all smoke and mirrors.

Pro-abortion activists have long tried to claim that abortion is safer than childbirth. For years they’ve touted manipulated numbers, trying in vain to bolster this myth. We’ve always known those statistics were bogus, and a study by Dr. Priscilla Coleman and Dr. David Reardon reveals abortion is much more dangerous to women than giving birth. And the results are sadly even more devastating to women’s health than even I had anticipated.

First, let me vouch for the authors of this research. I know them both to be solid individuals with a reputation for thoroughness. I met Dr. Coleman in Santiago, Chile where we lectured at their largest university. We again shared an academic podium in Quito, Ecuador the following year.

Second, allow me to explain why this study is so important. It’s compelling because of its unmatched scope:

The study includes a large number of women—nearly one-half-million—experiencing first-time pregnancies.

The medical records are profoundly reliable because the data was compiled from Danish government sources including fertility records of births and stillbirths, the national abortion registry and cause of death registry.

The study covers an extensive ten-year time period, providing comprehensive long-term data.

It analyzes both early and late-term abortion compared to childbirth.

In other words, this isn’t a biased study with a relatively small sample size produced to cater to pro-abortion activists—or any side for that matter. This research was conducted at the national level, over the course of a decade, providing substantial credibility, a comprehensive level of detail, as well as earning publication in respected medical journals. The reliability has been substantiated, which is why the results are even more troubling.

When it comes to which is safer—abortion or childbirth—the results speak loudly and clearly:

During the first six months after an early abortion (12 weeks or less), a woman has double the risk of death compared to giving birth.

During the first year following a late abortion (after 12 weeks) a woman has over three times the risk of death compared to giving birth.

Here’s a link to the entire study if you’d like to read it.

Pro-abortion activists prey on the fear of Americans by perpetuating the myth that if Roe v. Wade is reversed, women will suffer horrific back-alley abortions and tragic deaths. The reality is that under legalized abortion, women are being killed on a much larger scale.

Remember when we heard the news that Planned Parenthood is responsible for 24-year-old Tonya Reaves’ death following a botched abortion. Reports showed that a devastating five-and-a-half hours passed between the time of her abortion and her transport to a local hospital.

There’s no record that a 911 call was placed by Planned Parenthood. The autopsy report indicated that her injuries were survivable if she had received proper emergency care in a timely manner. The only difference between her death and a back-alley abortion death is that Ms. Reaves’ abortion was sanctioned by the US Supreme Court, giving her a false sense of security that the procedure was safe.

Now Tonya’s one-year-old son will grow up without a mother. Sadly, there have been additional victims after Tonya’s death. And don’t forget the Gosnell “house of horrors.”

Planned Parenthood and other abortion facilities continue to lure young women under the false premise that they perform “women’s healthcare services.” Abortion isn’t healthcare. It’s killing. In fact, they’re an industry of death—killing unborn babies and exposing their mothers to a staggering increased risk of death. Let’s not let this grave injustice continue. Share this with those you know and take a stand.

You now have compelling proof that abortion is not safer than childbirth

[whump-me]

Unseen: Chapter 1

Chapter 1 of Unseen, a novel-length whump story about a ruthless mob heiress and the superpowered assassin she kidnaps and forces to work for her—and the unexpected friendship that develops between them.

Masterpost | the Mind Games universe | Read the complete novel on Patreon

---

Yvette had never liked the living room. The cavernous space was a showpiece, meant to impress visitors and set them on edge. It wasn’t meant for the comfort of the people who actually lived here.

Her father had hired a decorator five years back, a pinched woman who had looked at the then-teenage Yvette as if she didn’t match the decor and would have to be thrown out. She had filled the room with black velvet upholstery, modern art that looked like an alien’s attempt to understand three-dimensional space, and burgundy walls that would do wonders to cover up the blood if her father ever dispensed with subtlety and had someone killed in here.

Her father used to meet with new business partners in this room. The decor, not to mention the sheer size—the living room took up the entire second floor of the Couvillion mansion—made them feel insignificant, like mere specks of cosmic dust. It had the same effect as staring through a telescope into the vastness of the universe. Except this room was a window into the cosmic scale of the Couvillion criminal empire.

Today, though, the room was full enough that it no longer felt vast. And Yvette hated it all the more.

Black-clad figures stood like statues, matching the furniture as they clutched their wine glasses and spoke in hushed, respectful tones. Or they milled about, keeping their steps appropriately slow and their voices appropriately low, using this as a networking opportunity. Just because they had put their boss in the ground less than an hour ago, that was no excuse to let a valuable chance at making connections go to waste.

They left a ten-foot bubble around Yvette, avoiding her by some unspoken rule. As if her father had died of the plague instead of a sudden heart attack, and she was contagious. Or maybe they simply didn’t know what to say to her, when they only knew her as the silent presence at all their meetings with Magnus Couvillion. The fly on the wall. The decorative server of drinks.

That suited her just fine. She didn’t want to talk to them either. That could come later, after she put her plans into place.

Which was the optimistic way of saying: after she figured out what on earth she was going to do.

Every so often, someone dared to step into the bubble around her. The conversation always went the same way. They would ask in a near-whisper how she was doing. They would offer an unwanted pat to the arm, or worse, go in for a hug. They would tell her—order her—to reach out to them if there was anything she needed, anything at all.

The part unspoken but implied was that she should go to them, and not any of their rivals. Those conversations, and the surreptitious glances cast her way, told her that while no one in this room quite knew what her role was anymore, they suspected she could be a useful tool to bolster their own power.

She intended to change that perception.

As she stared out from her chosen corner at the sea of black-clad mourners, her heart chest tightened in her chest like a fist searching for a face to punch. Maybe she was the intended target. Maybe heart attacks were contagious.

It would at least break the suffocating hush that had settled over the room as soon as the mourners had walked in.

What would happen if she climbed up on one of the caterers’ oh-so-carefully-arranged tables, ripped her modest-but-flattering black dress down the middle, and screamed curses at the top of her lungs? It was a tempting thought. Or it would have been, if it wouldn’t have meant more people looking at her. More people asking how she was doing, as if grief were a terminal diagnosis.

A few feet away, three men huddled together by a shrimp platter. She could only make out half of their whispers, but she heard enough to discern the topic. More of the same hushed speculations that had filled the room since the first guests had arrived. Rumors about poison, or an assassination quickly covered up.

She glanced their way. The whispers abruptly ceased.

She could have told them they were wasting their time. The rumors made sense. The head of the Couvillion Syndicate had dropped dead suddenly and without warning. Of course people saw conspiracy where none existed.

But Yvette knew the truth, boring though it was. She’d called for a second opinion to confirm it, then a third. Her father had been killed by nothing more sinister than advancing age and his poor eating habits.

There was no revenge to be had. Nothing to set right. There was only a sudden absence, a hole in the universe where the sun had been. And a room full of people who wanted to fill it.

Across the room, Nathan Stanbury, her father’s second-in-command, broke away from his conversation. She groaned inwardly when she realized he was headed her way. It made sense. He was one of the few people from her father’s inner circle who hadn’t gone through the ritual dance of paying his respects to her yet.

At least he was more tolerable than some of the others. He never leered at her under his lashes when he thought her father wasn’t looking. He had brought her forbidden grocery-store candy when she was a child, passing it to her with a pickpocket’s reflexes. He had endured her corny knock-knock jokes. And when she had begun to see herself as too old for jokes and candy, he had quickly figured it out and offered her a respectful distance instead.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, in the required hushed tone. Unlike the others, though, his sympathetic smile looked sincere. Under his gray-streaked hair, his eyes shone with a grief most people in this room wouldn’t allow themselves to show.

“As well as can be expected,” she murmured, lowering her head while studying him from under her lashes. She’d had plenty of opportunities, by now, to perfect the script.

“Maybe you should sit down,” he said, offering her an arm. He gestured to one of the imposing black velvet armchairs. It was the size of a king’s throne, big enough to swallow her slight form.

She shook her head. “I’m all right.” Although she understood why he’d had the thought. That had always been her job at weddings, funerals, high-stakes trade meetings with other syndicates: sit down and look pretty. Be a living monument to her father’s virility.

Her father had never planned for her to be anything more. The man had thought he would live forever.

Despite her words, Stanbury took hold of her upper arm in his large and gentle hand. His fingers on her bare skin sent a shiver up her arm and down her spine. Not a pleasant one. His fingers tightened.

He tugged her toward the chair. To pull away would have drawn eyes and broken the respectful hush. She followed along.

“I’m happy to help with anything you need.” His voice was low, his mouth too close to her ear. “It’s going to be a complicated transition.”

Her arm was stiff in his grip. “I’ve got it handled. I’ve spent the past few days going through my father’s books.”

His eyebrows raised. “While planning the funeral? You’ve been busy.” The surprise in his voice made her stiffen further. Had he thought she was only good for sitting in the corner and smiling?

“Reynold Bishop handled the funeral planning,” said Yvette. “I thought this was a better use of my time.”

He didn’t say, A better use of your time than burying your father? But his eyes did.

“Ah, Bishop,” was what he said aloud. “I’m not surprised he stepped in to help. His… devotion… to your father has always been unparalleled.”

Yvette pulled her arm away.

She liked Stanbury better than the rest of her father’s inner circle—usually. That didn’t mean she would stand for comments about Reynold Bishop from him or anyone else, no matter how circumspect.

She didn’t know whether there was anything to the rumors about her father and Reynold. Her father knew how to be discreet, in personal matters as well as business. All she knew was that Reynold had been there for her as long as she could remember. In theory, he had been her father’s personal assistant. In practice, he had the one to pick her up from school, and check her homework, and admire her art projects, all while her father was cloistered in his office with his account books.

Reynold was the only one who had shown up at the hospital that night without avarice in his eyes. When she had realized she knew everything about how to run a criminal empire but nothing about planning a funeral, he was the only person she had thought to call.

“He won’t be able to help with the details of the transition, though,” Stanbury warned. “He never involved himself in the details of your father’s business arrangements.”

“That’s all right,” said Yvette. “I don’t need him to.” Or anyone else, her tone implied. “I’ve been going through my father’s books. There are a lot of expenses that can be trimmed. He had so much money, by the end, that he wasn’t as careful with it as he could have been.”

“You should bring me in sooner rather than later,” he insisted. He kept his voice low, and darted his eyes around the room like he was wary of being overheard. “Send me what you saw in his books that confuses you. Better yet, send me everything you have. I’ll need it if I’m going to keep trade rolling and stop any of our competitors from taking advantage and moving in on our territory.”

He offered her his arm again.

She pretended not to see. “I never said I was confused. I thought I saw improvements that could be made. And I think there’s been some mistake.” She looked up at his kind, fatherly face, her brows drawing together in a small frown. “Did you think you were taking over from him?”

The confusion on his face mirrored hers. “There was never really any other option, was there?” Confusion turned to suspicion. He shot another, darker glance around the room. “Has someone else approached you?”

“You’re the first to have the balls.” Then, before he could get over the shock of hearing her say balls—and in the midst of the mourning hush, no less—she added, “My father didn’t have a will. The man thought he would live forever. That means everything he owned went to me.”

“Right,” he said, nodding in relief like they were finally on the same page. “Which means we need to get the legal angle sorted out as quickly as possible. I’ve already drawn up the paperwork for the financial end of things. All I need is your signature.”

He held out his arm to her more insistently, his elbow jutting out in front of her.

She pushed it aside with her slender fingertips. She was done with subtlety.

“My father’s business,” she said, slowly and carefully, “it is mine now.”

His mouth formed an elegant oh. “You can’t mean you intend to—”

The shock on his face would have been comical if it hadn’t sent her into a tight-lipped rage. She cut him off. “That is exactly what I mean.”

“If you’re concerned about your own finances,” he said, “you have nothing to worry about. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of for the rest of your life.”

“If I were only worried about my own lifestyle, I would have been on the first flight to Barbados by now, to enjoy my retirement in luxury.”

“Then what is this about, Yvette?” he asked, like he was asking a kidnapper for the details of the ransom. No—like he was a parent, trying to talk a spoiled child down from a tantrum.

“I understand my father’s business,” she said. “I’ve been his sounding board for every deal and every change in strategy.” That had generally meant her father talking at her as if she had no more understanding of his words than a potted plant, but this man didn’t need to know that. “I’ve sat in on every meeting.”

“You served the drinks and sat in the corner so your father could show you off.”

“And while I was there, I took excellent notes.” She smiled without warmth.

“Did you think you were there for because your father considered you a part of his business?” The fatherly demeanor peeled away, just a little, to reveal a disbelieving sneer underneath.

“What I think,” she said, “is that my father’s memorial isn’t the place for business discussions.”

“Reconsider.” He leaned in closer, close enough that she could smell the hors d’oeuvres on his breath. Along with a glass of expensive wine. “Cooperate with me, and you’ll come out very well in the deal. If you don’t, I think you’ll find me much less inclined to treat you favorably.”

“Funny,” she said, “I was going to say the same thing to you.”

“I’ve always liked you, Yvette,” he said, shaking his head with what looked like genuine regret. “And I had the utmost respect for your father. I don’t want us to be enemies.”

“Maybe someday,” she said, her wintry smile broadening, “you’ll find it in yourself to have respect for me.”

The last of his mask peeled away. Only the sneer was left. “You’re a spoiled brat who looks at what your father built and only sees a shiny bauble you’re not allowed to have,” he said, his voice low enough not to attract attention. “You’re a doll whose job it is to sit quietly and look pretty, and you think that means you understand the world. You don’t have any idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “I think I’m feeling a little faint,” she said sweetly. “Maybe I need to sit down after all. Give me some air.”

“We’ll continue this discussion later,” he promised. “I hope you will have reconsidered by then.”

He stalked his way across the room to whisper in the ears of two men who looked like they had been waiting for him. All three shot furtive looks at her.

For decades, there had been a rumor throughout the Couvillion Syndicate that Magnus Couvillion had rigged the entire Couvillion mansion to blow. The idea was that he would destroy the mansion, all its wealth, and—most importantly—all its paper-only records, if anyone ever tried to take his position from him.

No one seriously believed the rumor. But somehow it persisted.

Yvette happened to know it was true.

Her father had had his vices. Occasional paranoia-fueled spite was one of them. A fatty steak was another.

For a second, as she stared out at the black-clad crowd and wondered how many of them were hiding treasonous thoughts behind their masks of respectful sorrow, she was tempted to go down to the basement and flip the switch.

Instead, she slipped out of the living room. No one would miss her for a few minutes. And if they did, they wouldn’t dare to comment.

She crept up the spiral staircase to the study, where she knew she would find Reynold. Sure enough, he was sitting in her father’s favorite chair, the leather discolored in the shape of his body from many hours of late-night work. The frame dwarfed the wispy man who sat there now with his body curled around a leatherbound book. It was a first edition of The Old Man and the Sea—Reynold’s favorite book. His Christmas gift from Yvette’s father four years ago.

When Yvette had gone through books, she had found out how much it had cost. She hadn’t known it was possible for a book to cost that much.

Reynold looked up with red-rimmed eyes as she entered the room. His expression of genuine grief was enough to undo her.

She closed the door and sagged against its fragrant wood. All the tension drained out of her, exiting her body as a small, horrible giggle. Why was she laughing? The world had lost its center, and the stars were streaking toward her one by one, aiming to kill.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, in a rough whisper that said he’d spent too much time crying.

From him, the question didn’t set her on edge.

“I’ve been better.” Another little giggle escaped her. Then one that wasn’t so little. If she didn’t get a handle on herself, she would wind up sliding to the floor, shaking with hysterical laughter.

She would be every bit as weak as Stanbury saw her as.

That thought was enough to sober her. She took a deep breath. The urge to laugh disappeared.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Reynold asked. “You could just disappear. Leave them to fight over what’s left.”

No, she couldn’t. “I won’t let him down,” she said. “And I won’t let them take everything I’ve ever known.”

He nodded. She hoped she was imagining the faint glimmer of disapproval in his gaze.

She straightened. Crossed her arms. “Give the order. Whatever you need to do to set it in motion, do it.”

“I’ll need you to be more specific,” he said carefully.

“No, you don’t. You know what I’m talking about. Do it.”

Now she knew she wasn’t imagining his disapproval. “I’m still not sure about this.”

“I am,” she said. “Do you trust me?”

There wasn’t so much as a fraction of a second of hesitation between her question and his nod. “You know I do.”

Something in her that had frozen solid mere minutes ago at Stanbury’s words thawed at his response. “Then do it.”

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg @whump-kitty

Ask to be added or removed from taglist.

[statecryptids]

OZARK HOWLER- ARKANSAS

The Ozarks are a range of low mountains found primarily in Northern Arkansas and southern Missouri with portions extending into Oklahoma and Kansas.   Their origins lie in the late Paleozoic when sand, silt, coral, and shells built up as layers of sludge on the bottom of a sea that covered  what would eventually become the American South. Over time these sediments hardened into rock- sand became sandstone, silt became slate, and the shells and coral became limestone- and the movement of tectonic plates pushed them upwards into a low dome-like plateau.  Over the next 485 million years rivers and rain gradually eroded the soft rocks into canyons, cliffs, and caves that have provided habitat for bears, bobcats, otters and other Southern wildlife along with more unusual creatures like blind cave fish, collared lizards and endangered grey bats. And perhaps a cryptid or two.

According to legend, the people of the Ozarks have been haunted for decades by the unearthly screams of a beast dubbed the Black Howler.  Those who have caught a glimpse of the monster describe it as a dark-furred cat nearly the size of a bear. Other reports claim it has glowing red eyes and demonic horns sprouting from its head.

Explanations for the beast range from a normal, though unknown, species of large cat to something more supernatural. A few people have even compared the beast to English and Welsh legends of black dogs, cŵn annwn, hellhounds, and other supernatural beasts that bring misfortune to those who see them.

More skeptical people have speculated that the Howler is simply a misidentified cougar. Though these big cats are believed to be extinct in this region, it’s possible that a small population has survived. Or perhaps a few lone individuals have wandered in from other areas. This theory is bolstered by photos from trail cams showing creatures that strongly resemble these animals, and by similar cases of “phantom big cats” occurring in areas of the US where they are not normally found.

Though some claim that legends of the Howler go back generations, cryptozoologist Loren Coleman has found that the first reports of the beast originated from posts on online forums in the late 1990s. His investigations indicate that the “folklore” about the beast was a deliberate hoax to mock the widespread reports of chupacabras and bigfoots that were becoming increasingly widespread at the time thanks to the advent of the internet. Hoax it may be, but the Howler has since become a popular piece of Ozark folklore and sightings are still regularly reported.

 The Howler is especially significant as one of the first urban legend monsters to be created online, laying the groundwork for later, more famous internet creatures like Slenderman, The Rake, Momo, and Trevor Henderson’s Siren Head.

RESOURCES

[swampstew]

KIᒪᒪEᖇᑕOOK - ᑕᕼᗩᑭTEᖇ 8

Welcome to Raven’s Reading Nook - a small corner of this blog dedicated to cozy story times. Join us in the family room as we sit around and browse our phones, and eat some Girl Scout cookies as we begin tonight’s story. Rated Mature for language. Minors DNI.

Summary: Inspired by this youtube short sent by @basilisa-scorpii <3

*Phone app notification goes ping*

TikTok – KillerCook has uploaded a new video. Check it out!

Title: Constructing Manwiches Description: Making the boys some lunch in an unorthodox way. What’s your favorite tool? 5 minute video. The thumbnail is Killer wearing his trademark blue and white striped helmed topped by a yellow hard hat.

*Press Play*

“Hey everyone! KillerCook here for a short one today. Between the four of us, we manage a repair shop that’s attached to a car garage that we also own for our day jobs. We’ve had some big projects recently and we’re all pulling double shifts to get our orders done in time. So, apologies that I haven’t been making content lately during this lull period! Today, I’m going to prep some sandwiches for the guys so we can keep on working. Recipe is in the caption, let’s get to constructing these bad boys.”

The head chef was wearing a half-unbuttoned, navy-blue jumpsuit with a beat up white tank top underneath. Perfectly chiseled muscles unfairly hidden under the tight-fitting uniform. He tied his apron over his outfit and then pulled out a yellow safety hat from off-camera and placed it on his covered head.

“Presenting: the ingredients—”

The camera panned to the countertop that had a line of uncut deli meats, veggies, cheeses, spices, and seasonings spread out in an organized fashion. At the end of the row sat a pile of long bread loafs.

“—And the tools to make our lunch.”

The camera panned to the kitchen table. Lined across the wood were literal construction tools. A circular saw, a smaller handsaw, a chisel, a bolster, a hammer, a wide head pan, measuring tape, a putty knife, a trowel, a disc grinder, a small torch, and of course, toothpicks.

The next few seconds showed Killer dramatically sliding on construction gloves, snapping safety glasses over the face of his helmet, and tying his hair back in a messy, low bun. The synth-pop beat of a song playing in the background accompanied his video.

As was common with TikTok videos, the next few minutes were short clips of Killer preparing the food using the tools to make the titular ‘Manwiches.’

Using the circular saw, Killer sliced the bread loaves apart. With the ruler he measured the length of each loaf half and then measured the meats, cheese, and vegetables. He utilized the smaller handsaw and bolster to chop the produce and deli ingredients to size. Killer picked up the head pan and began adding spices, seasonings, and wet ingredients, mixing them together with the chisel to create the signature sauce.

Stepping back to grab the torch, Killer used it to lightly toast the bread. Starting with the most cooled half, Killer reached for the putty knife and dipped it into the head pan, spreading the sauce over the bread.

Killer used the trowel to place layers of meat, cheese, and vegetables down one after another, each layer separated with a thin layer of oil, mayonnaise, and Dijon mustard, respectively. Before he placed the top half of the bread over the nearly complete sandwiches, he sprinkled salt and pepper from his fingertips like a diva chef. A certified meme.

With the sandwich constructed, Killer picked up the ruler again and began placing the toothpicks 5 inches apart from each other, using the hammer to lightly tap them through the thick sandwiches. Grabbing the disc grinder, he gave the sides of the loaves a once-over to trim the fallout. Wiping down the handsaw, Killer used it to cut the loaves into handheld sandwiches, the toothpicks helped keep the stuffed ingredients stabilized as he cut them into shareable sizes. A cute spinning logo led the transition to the next scene, the logo flying far too fast to make out.

For a moment, the camera was blurred and unfocused due to four sandwiches being pressed right up to the lens, only to be pulled back by the four hands of the housemates. As the sandwiches cleared the focal point, Wire, Heat, and Kid came into view as they brought their sandwiches to their mouths, taking large bites out of them. The camera zoomed in on their faces as each man’s face reacted to the food.

Each hunk was wearing a one piece outfit – Heat and Kid wore similar jumpsuits to Killer, though Heat was the only one who wore his formally. Kid had taken the top half of his off, hanging over his hips with no undershirt on as his sweaty skin glistened against his sculpted, muscles on camera. Wire wore a short, striped romper, choosing fashion over work safety.

Kid’s dimples were smeared with sauce, a bit of lettuce stuck to his lip as he chewed with bulging cheeks. How the food wasn’t oozing through his wide smile was a mystery. Heat’s eyes were closed as he took bite after bite of his sandwich, flashing a thumbs up at the camera.

Wire had one eye screwed shut and was pushing down the bridge of his nose as he ate his, “It’s got a bit of a kick!”

Instead of verbal reviews, the three taste-testers/lunch recipients held up pieces of paper with hand drawn ratings of the food. Kid and Heat both held up two scythes crossed at the center, while Wire held up one scythe. The redhead and bluette glared at their tall friend who responded with a shrug.

Wire was not expecting to be hit by a sandwich but that’s exactly what happened. From behind the camera, Killer threw his with such speed it appeared as a blur on camera, exploding on impact and showering Wire with sauce, meat, cheese, and veggies. Kid and Heat roared with laughter as Wire frowned at his stained short-sleeve romper, throwing a middle finger at the camera.

The video ended with the frame of Wire going through a glitch effect as the hue turned blue. At the end, KillerCook’s logo floated to the center of the screen before the final video effect turned the show off.

Bonus: The comment section

Bolt.N.Nuts: I’m just a lost lil’ bit looking for my power drill🥺 KillerCook: …I don’t even have words. Are you calling ME a tool? PunkNeverDied69: Your 🍆 dude KillerCook: Don’t bring eggplants into this!

Merry1589: I’m a ground stake looking for the right sledgehammer. PunkNeverDied69: Jesus Christ – Killer what did you start

Seri0usP3rson: My favorite tool is handsome and dumb as bricks FlamingHot420:  Now that’s just mean.

Read on Wattpad | Read on AO3

[harpershigh]

BG2 D&D one-shot this weekend didn't disappoint. I got to play Jaheira, my gf played Viconia and we had two friends playing as Minsc and Aerie.

Best moments (it's all out of order, nevermind that):

THE SPELL SLOT ECONOMY IS IN SHAMBLES

Aerie, after spending her last healing spell: How come a druid and a cleric don't have a single healing spell prepared? Jaheira & Viconia, who only prepared massively destructive & AOE spells for the day: ......... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

BOMBASTIC DUO

Aerie: Why every time you two leave camp together, something explodes or there is a fallout somewhere? Jaheira & Viconia, dusting off smoke powder from each other: It's all a weird coincidence.

PANDORA'S BOX

Viconia: Okay, I know this area. There are some demons trapped here, but as long as we don't open the west door- *Minsc opens THE door* Jaheira: You mean THAT door? *screeches and ominous noises come from inside* Viconia: ........Yeah....that door.

I HAVE A PLAN

(Jaheira is about to hurl a smoke powder grenade into a group of enemies when Viconia snatches her arm mid-throw)

Viconia: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? Jaheira: They're in a cave! If we blow up the pillars, we take them all out in one shot! Viconia: WE'RE ALSO IN A CAVE, JAHEIRA!!!

OUT OF POWER

(a battle was not going very well...)

Viconia: Jaheira, quickly! Throw a bomb at them! Jaheira: Oh, NOW you want me to explode a cave, but when I suggested— Viconia: Whatever, just blow it up already! Jaheira: Well, now I WON'T do it. Viconia: ............ Jaheira: ............ Jaheira: I'm out of smoke powder.

UNITED BY HATE

*Viconia and Jaheira arguing* Aerie: Girls, girls! We should not fight among ourselves, we need each other to survive! Viconia & Jaheira, in unison: SHUT THE FUCK UP, AERIE!!!

SMOOTH AND SUBTLE

Viconia: Damn. There's no entrance. Jaheira, holding out smoke powder: We make one :) Viconia: ............ Jaheira: ............ Viconia: That's why you're my favourite darthiir.

VERY MINDFUL, VERY DEMURE

Jaheira: Why are you crying? Aerie: Viconia keeps reminding me that I can’t fly anymore... Jaheira: Hmm. I thought you’d not need a reminder for that by now.

NOT ALL HEROES WEAR CAPES

(as good D&D players, we are stuck at a locked door)

Jaheira: There is a magical ward here, and the lock's mechanism is complex. We’ll need a thief or a key. Viconia: Or we could burn the door down. I am not standing here all day. Aerie: B-but what if there's a trap? And what about the ward...? Minsc, who rolls a nat 20 to kick the door open, splintering it: Hah! No lock can stop the righteous boot of justice! *Aerie starts to clap* Jaheira: ............How-what-how did that work? Viconia: ............He... he’s too stupid to fail.

FROGS

(The party is deep in the middle of a swamp, at 2 levels of exhaustion each, and lost after a series of really bad rolls in Nature, Survival and every other thing that could get us out easily)

Jaheira: If we get out of this alive, I am forbidding all travel near wetlands. Permanently. Minsc: But Jaheira! The swamp is brimming with nature's wonders! Look — frogs the size of Boo! I could train them as reinforcements! Viconia: Yes, let us bolster our army with amphibians. Truly, a fearsome force. Aerie: Can we not talk about frogs?! One jumped on me earlier, and it was slimy, and covered in muck — ew! Minsc: That is just their war paint! That's how they prepare for battle! Jaheira: Enough about the frogs! We’re lost, it’s getting dark, and *rolls a total of 8 in survival again, so her foot slips into a puddle of mud* ...Wonderful. Just perfect. Viconia: A most regal display from our fearless leader. Jaheira: Shall I drown you in this regal mud puddle? Minsc: If you wrestle, Minsc will cheer for both of you! Boo, too! Aerie, panicking: N-no! No wrestling in the mud! What if something bites you? What if — what if it’s a frog?! Viconia: Frogs. Don't. Bite. Stop being a scared litle whimp! Aerie: I-I’m not scared! They’re just... unpredictable! Jaheira: I should’ve left all of you in Athkatla.

[ofcorpses]

*cracks knuckles* ew i wrote something from the depths of my hell brain residency

dawn had yet to rise. night, bolstered by both heavy clouds and the new moon, blanketed pickens in near total blackness. any brightness shed by far-spaced street lights or passing cars didn't stretch this far into the south carolina woods. if harley turned her gaze skyward, she didn't think she would find a singular star in the sky.

how many times had she found herself drifting through utter darkness? how many more times would she found herself right back in this place, thinking over the many times she had already been here and how many more times were yet to come? how many times was she supposed to have the rug yanked out from beneath her? how many times did the world expect her to crawl her way up out of the seemingly endless mine shaft it dropped her into?

her feet, much like they had many goddamn times over, carried her forward of their own volition. to rise from her bed and slip out from under the worried watchful eyes of a found family into the dead of night. to wander from the familiarity of asphalt roads in favor of delving into the woods - her second home, so lovely and dark and deep - in search of the crow's path.

bare foot and drowning in a well worn henley many sizes too big - the comforting scent of jesse fast fading from the fibers and, maybe, that fact would have panicked her more if her mind hadn't fallen into a fog so dense nothing could pierce it - harley's body carried her through the woods. it ignored the briars and branches that snagged at jesse's shirt, at the sweatpants already beginning to droop even barely a week removed. it paid no mind to the chilling last dredges of a mild winter. it simply moved her forward, step after step, until satisfied with their destination.

her chest rose and fell in a long, slow breath. when she blinked, harley's eyes watered as if her eyes had been fixed open and unblinking for so long they had become dry. a shudder raced along her body, the fading scents of anger and sorrow and fear and hunter and wolf and fox rushed towards the fog - hellbent on penetrating it, on ripping it away.

the scents were stale, clinging on like ghosts to tell the story of what happened here. they did nothing to pierce the fog. that armor of sorts stayed in place, letting harley observe this place from far, far away.

there was no overgrown grass, not in the dead of winter, to cover up the flurry of tracks marring the ground. too many bodies where they didn't belong, invading a space they should have never been near. she should have realized it for what it was that afternoon. she knew jesse best; the wolf would have never let her get so close as to be standing in front of his trailer with how they had ended things.

she didn't need the moon or the stars or electricity to see the impressions left behind by the hunter and by jesse, by herself and rev and rose in the far removed aftermath. she saw the gouges in the broken down door, flung from its hinges with force and left abandoned in the dead grass. harley stood over it.

to her left, the empty maw of the trailer yawned - it's darkness somehow deeper and more black than the nighttime. she could go inside. run her fingers along the furniture, find the things of jesse's most frequently used, cocoon herself in his blankets on his bed with all of his books shoved underneath lest someone somehow find out how much he loved to read. she could lay there and wither away in the comforting memory of the times when he'd tell her about what he was reading. when he'd held her after the kidnapping, fingers combing through her hair and quieting her after the nightmare where jesse died rescuing her. where everyone died because of her and if she could have spoken she would have told them not to, would have told them she would be okay with dying to keep them safe.

to her right, the woods continued on. waiting for her to follow the tracks inside. waiting for her to trace her way through to the place where jesse had died, clawing open the earth that greedily soaked up the blood flowing from the hunter's bullet holes. waiting for her to find his beautiful blonde fur stained and matted because she had to be the one to find him. anyone else wouldn't have blinked twice, would have left the carcass there to rot or hauled it off to do god knows what with.

the fog willed her to turn towards the trailer, to the memories waiting to swallow her down and keep her sedated until something gave way. curling up in the center of his bed - of they bed they had shared - sounded easy. familiar. she knew where he kept his stash; if it was still there, sleep would come easily. she could sleep and sleep and sleep and sle-

something deep within the fog turned her towards the woods and harley's feet obeyed. they carried her into the torn up underbrush, slowly chasing the path of the layered scents. the hunter, adrenaline and fear bleeding off of him. jesse, anger and sorrow mixed in even measure. her own gut-clenching nerves wafting over top theirs. it plucked a tuft of blonde wolf's fur free from where bark had snagged it, fisted it her hand so tightly her palms bled.

there was no body at the end of the trail. there was just the scene of the crime left for the hunter to walk away from, left for jesse to rot in, left for harley to find. the heavy bootprints, the faint tread of her light steps, the churned up ground from jesse's death throes.

it was harley who took the first tentative step onto the tainted earth. against the fog's urging to turn back and find herself somewhere less painful.

harley who stepped lightly, afraid to disturb anything else, into her own steps.

harley who knelt where she had tripped and fallen next to jesse's body in her pursuit of reaching the end of the trail.

harley who slowly lowered herself onto her side in the stained earth with her mate's fur clutched in one hand. clutched to her trembling heartbeat while she curled in on herself, face turned towards the earth and breathing in the smell of jesse's blood, of jesse's death.