#its so fluid and has so much substance to it

[lnkedmyheart]

Ouch

Double ouch

[pickledpet]

Perhaps it was a mistake to choose dinosaurs as your topic for your university's science fair. Perhaps you screwed up following the instructions or did not read them carefully enough.

You sat in your dorm, half your project done, sat on your desk. A little nest where you were going to present the replica dinosaur eggs, without its crown jewel however the eggs.

You rubbed your humongous stomach self consciously which has stretched to an unimaginable size. You were naked but there was no way you could see further than your gargantuan bullet shaped stomach littered with red and purple stretch marks and veins. 'Gives a whole new meaning to "ready to pop"' you thought to yourself. You squirted more oil you purchased from a dubious store (along with the egg kit of course) on your puffy pussy that you could barely reach and rubbed it in. It made you feel hot all over but still you dutifully resumed your nightly ritual.

The rubbing felt incredible, before you knew it you barely had any oil left and you were writhing beneath your stomach. You probably would've arched your back off the bed too if you weren't pinned against it by the weight. Then suddenly something shifted within you, you could practically feel your pelvis creak as a torrent of fluid flooded your bed.

You tried to at least get yourself up on your elbows to see in the mirror facing your bed, what was going on.

The bed was soaked alright and between your legs was something slimey and brownish.

"What the fuck..." you muttered to yourself, trying to at least somehow maneuver your body on your hands and knees. Was this it? Upon examining it closer, you realised what it was and your heart dropped just as an extreme wave of pain washed over you. It was the fucking mucus plug. But why was it so huge. How much would your cervix have to dilate if this was keeping it sealed. 15 cm? 20 cm?

You started to feel sick. Just how many eggs were there?!

The sudden pressure increasing tenfold halted your train of thought.

At least you were already on your hands and knees right, besides you had the whole night to yourself. You bore down gingerly and hoped that your huge stomach pressing against the mattress would help too. Nothing but more liquid came out and the pain and pressure was only increasing.

After 3 hours of rocking back and forth with 0 results you decided it was time to get serious about this. You steadied yourself, gripped the sheets and gave a huge push.

Nothing.

1 hour into birthing with all your might you didn't even notice how far apart your legs were and how much your lower half felt like jelly when finally you felt something behind your entrance. Encouraged by the progress you began pressing on the top of your stomach with one hand while gritting your teeth and bearing down hard. Something began emerging. Covered in a slimey substance a jelly like egg started poking through your aching cunt. You moaned and pushed as hard as you could, waiting for the relief of it plopping out onto the blanket so you could birth the rest but it never came. With the next effort you buried your face into your pillow, hopefully muffling your desperate screams. Every time you let up the egg would slide back, nestled deep into the warm slick of your pussy.

This went on for another hour or so when you finally gave a push hard enough that got the egg to a point it wouldn't slip back from. You almost felt relieved. It will slide out any second, right?

Your pussy was stretched to its natural limit as you panted and pushed. But this birth was anything but natural...your only luck was that you kept up your oil regimen because soon you felt something slick and almost gelatinous touch your inner thighs, even with your legs spread.

"Wh-what?!" You whined into the pillow.

Fuck.

No no no no no.

This was supposed to be several small eggs not ONE. Cold sweat covered every inch of your body as the realisation hit. How would this ever come out?! There was no way you could call for help, what would you say, not to mention that you were fully immobilised by the gargantuan egg spreading you open way past what should be humanly possible.

Back when you realised what was happening to you, you tried watching at least SOME birthing videos though you knew your experience would be nothing like that. You tried to think back to them hoping to remember anything from the ones where petite women would have to squeeze out a 10lbs kid. Although even those babies would seem like light work compared to whatever was stuck in you. The pain made it much to hard to think but then suddenly you had an idea!

Gravity would help.

You gathered all your strength to heave yourself up from your hands and knees only onto your knees you could hopefully get into a crouching position from there. However as soon as you glanced up and caught your reflection in the mirror, in a split second, before you could change the outcome you realised it was a huge mistake.

The egg was absolutely humongous and your pussy was stretched grotesquely around it, completely white and on the brink of tearing and worst of all you could not kneel down as the egg was so gargantuan. It was touching the mattress. Or at least you couldn't kneel down without the egg sliding back into your tortured cunt a few inches with a sickening squelch.

You held back the urge to throw up and fought until you were in a squatting position.

You didn't care about making noise anymore, you screamed while pushing down on your pulsating stomach that was urging you to expell the giant egg while with your other hand you reached down to rub your clit. The clit you could barely locate as it was practically flat against the egg with your pussy pulled so taut.

This seemed to be somewhat helping you progress however an earth shattering orgasm caught you off guard and you lost your balance.

You fell onto your back and with the sudden change of position your birth canal caused the hideously massive egg to practically be sucked in once more. All the progress you made was undone and the wind was knocked out of you at the ginormous intrusion. You screamed and thrashed on the bed, violently pressing down on your stomach and pushing with strength you didn't know where you got from.

By this time you were laboring for over 8 hours. You laid in bed and just felt wave after wave of contraction wash over you, the weight of the egg in your birth canal had to be about 50lbs and every 10 minutes or so you felt a dull sensation of pleasure course through you as the contractions were easing the egg out of you agonising by agonising millimeter and every once in a while it'd brush against your tortured clit just right.

You were just about to resign yourself to your fate when you realised the small bottle of oil was within reach in this cursed position. There was still some left, not that it'd make much difference now, you were probably going to die like this. With a humongous egg wrecking your lower half.

You picked up the bottle and with hazy eyes read the instructions again. This was your last hope. Maybe you missed something.

'MORE effective if orally taken?!'

Your eyes widened as you wasted no time gulping down the last of it. Too bad you didn't read another sentence which would've clarified that you only need droplets in a glass of water.

It immediately took effect and kicked your labour into high gear again, you screamed as you practically felt your womb and birth canal undulating, forcing you to scream and push like never before. You spread your legs nearly into a split while thrusting your hips into the air.

"Fuck! FUCK! My cunt will tear, fuck fuck my pussy!!!"

The egg slowly slid out and stopped at its widest point. This made you trying to hold your legs back an utter waste as the egg was already doing it for you. The pain made you unable to breathe properly. You took shallow panicked breaths but by this point you lost all sense of your dignity.

You HAD to give birth then and there.

You let out an animalistic scream and screwed your eyes shut. A vein popped out on your forehead and no doubt you burst a few blood vessels. You didn't care anymore, you used both hands to push down on your stomach and gritted your teeth hard enough to chip them

"FUCK, COME OUT ALREADY!!"

Then with a contraction that made you see stars, the egg erupted from your canal, not to mention the aftershocks of your final effort pushed out at least 5 liters of whatever fluid this was out of your pussy along with the huge egg, mixed with urine that you couldn't bear to hold any longer. Your bed was sopping wet and your cunt twitched and pulsated as one of the most intense orgasms of your life ripped through you.

Before you passed out you mustered enough strength to glance at the clock on your bedside table.

It was almost midday.

Didn't the science fair end at 11...?

[lilislegacy]

Ok guys this is somewhat of a controversial take on Jason Grace’s powers. You can tell I was nervous writing this out because I used capitalization lol. Please read till the end

I want to start by saying I love Jason Grace. He is such a cutie. I adore him. And he is a very, very powerful demigod. And he is totally capable of very evil things, just like Percy. This take concerns a certain ability that a lot of people seem to think he has, but I don’t think people realize how unrealistic is. (I mean people can still hc whatever they want, it just doesn’t mean it’s canon.) Okay, here goes

There is absolutely no evidence or reason that Jason Grace would be able to control the electricity in our bodies. And here’s why…

I know so many of you really love that idea, and justify it by using the logic that percy can control people’s bodily fluids, so since jason can control lightning, he could control neurons and action potentials. But here’s the thing: The reason percy can control bodily fluids is because bodily fluids, like saliva, blood, and tears are largely made up of water, so he can manipulate the content of those substances that is water. And water is water. H2O is H2O. Percy directly controls all water. That’s his power.

Jason, however, controls weather. Which means he controls clouds, thunder, wind, rain, and yes, lightning. But just because lightning involves electricity does not mean he controls ALL electricity. He controls rain, right? Rain is water. But jason does not control all water. Just rain. Because it’s weather. And before you completely ignore what I just said about rain, and argue “but if he can control the electricity that causes lightning, he could control the electrical signals in people’s brains and muscles,” I see where you’re coming from, but the electricity in lightning is NOT the same electricity in our bodies. Unlike water, not all electricity is the same. Water is a basic chemical compound, in all its forms. Electricity, however, is the flow of electric charge through conductive materials, which produces energy. And those materials and types of energy vary. There are different types. The two we are discussing here are static electricity and bioelectricity.

Static electricity is the accumulation of electric charge on the surface of an object. Did you ever do that experiment where you rubbed a balloon on your head and your hair stuck up? Static electricity causes lightning when there is a buildup of electrical charge in the atmosphere during a storm. When the charge difference between clouds, or between a cloud and the ground, becomes too much, it creates a sudden discharge of electricity, which we see as lightning.

Bioelectricity involves chemicals. It refers to the electrical signals and currents produced within living organisms. It works through the movement of charged particles, called ions, across cell membranes, which allows for communication between cells, nerve impulses, muscle contractions, and various physiological processes.

So here’s the thing. Even if Jason could control ALL static electricity, which likely is NOT the case, it’s not even the same type as the electricity that makes neurons fire. And like I stated, Jason/Zeus has control over weather and storm elements, which may involve electricity, but does not mean he controls all electricity.

Okay besties, now before you show up in my comment section aggressively defending jason and assuming I think he’s weak, let me clarify: I am not saying Jason is not powerful as hell, or that he could not do some creepy ass evil things. He definitely could. For instance, he’s shown through his control over wind that he can manipulate air currents in various ways. MEANING he could create a vacuum effect, and suck all the air out of a person’s body. Like… HELLO? He could collapse their lungs. Deprive their brain of oxygen. He could repeatedly suck the de-oxygenated air, aka CO2, out of their lungs, and then force it back in. Which would be torture. Death by slow suffocation. So using his control of wind and air currents, Jason could be terrifying as hell if he wanted to be, and could do unspeakable things to human beings. I’m simply saying that his ability to summon lightning has absolutely zero connection to the hypothetical ability of being able to control people’s neurons. They’re not even somewhat related processes.

Please don’t yell at me. I love Jason. I think he could be very very scary and evil if he wanted to. Him as a villain would be catastrophic, and I’m not doubting that in any way.

[angellurgy2]

Hiveship

hii! this is the 1st and 2nd chapter of my new story, as a little show of whats to come when i make it a full-length book.

cw for bug rape but like, its also just an introduction to deeper non/sexual ways the bugs will destroy this girl's soul. you'll see!

i'd appreciate if people checked this out/gassed it up because i've worked reallyyy hard on this for a bit ^-^

CHAPTER 1

A live wire sparks as loretta reaches a gloved claw inside the open electrical box, her digits blunted by her heavily plated and padded, alabaster white cosmonaut suit. she roots around the active electricity, scraping out chunks of the greenish-brown sludge growing in its crevices- the same mysterious viscous slime that’s been popping up in parts across her starship over and over the past few weeks. her theories ranged from an excremetal expulsion of an unidentified space object, to some disgraceful cosmonaut’s trash finding its way into her ship’s vents.

she clicks the button for the analyzing tool of her protective visor, closely examining the fluid. long thin wires splay across all sections of the large junction, leaving burning hot indents in the thick substances that feel like way too much of a fire risk. looking at the wires, spread out in patterned parallels like gigantic spider-webs, an anxious tinge of fear strikes her. don’t fall in, don’t get caught- robots don’t need any more prey. not that you’re prey. you aren’t.

she flicks her visor back off, worried her sweat might fog up the the visor, and continues swiping the rest of the gunk into a bin.

all clean, she fixes the fuses back into place before immediately making her way back over to the equipment corridor to hang up her suit. on the way she passes vibrant posters of mechanical cross-section diagrams, detailed anatomy drawings of every variety of species she could scavenge, and historical propaganda posters. it was a nice splash of existence inside a clinical minimalist coating. 

lounging in the cabin suite on her sofa, she flips her state-provided entertainment console to the galactic news. on-screen a suited, pristine looking woman takes the centre stage behind a stretched out desk. her voice is calm and analytical, with a hint of soft sympathy that can’t be hidden no matter how hard of a professional facade they must put on.

“News from the pandora planets have finally reached the internal core, revealing devastating effects of the latest assault campaign from the exoskeletal hives, multiple colonies’ messengers have reported complete razing of ground and sub-ground infrastructure, with several not appearing for the census at all. the URSS military and all commune bioships have retreated back to pantheon-V for rehabitation before a pandora counter-takeover can be attempted.”

Loretta shudders. the exoskeletals have been advancing deeper into URSS territory much faster than ever before, the fact that the state hasn’t been able to put a stop to it—and that the threat has only gotten more aggressive—makes sweat begin to pour down her head. if she was doing a term with the forces or part of a commune science crew she’d probably be worried for her life right now. thankfully, her ship was currently flying safely in one of the middle systems, relaxing in orbit of an abandoned desert world after recently coming back from a call of excursion to the outer worlds. she always enjoyed the quiet of minimal space travel and the utter lack of civilization when she gazed down upon a world, so this has been her favourite spot to reside for a long while. from the cabin module’s glass wall she can see such stark vistas of sandy mountain ranges, demarcating the most beautiful fields of gigantic outstretching spiny cactus.

with a loud buzz the tv automatically switches to the nightly Sallite news segment, where they broadcast the most important of state propaganda to every television set at 8pm local time. with an exasperated sigh she turns the volume all the way down to 1, takes off her grey tank, and throws herself into her cushioney bed. a switch on the wall next to the alloy headboard turns on the room’s surround sound to a soft pitter of forested rainfall, and she falls asleep in a matter of seconds.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Loretta awakes to the foreign sound of a sloppy wriggling near the floor by the end of her bed. jerking upright, she quickly slides into the suit boots she had laid at the side of her bed, strapping them tight, and moves to examine the intruder. 

a pulsating green slime slides itself across the floor, leaving a small trail of slightly transparent lime goo behind it. loretta kneels to look at it closer. she could swear it’s looking right back at her- though without any obvious eyes or features of its own. it excretes another loud squelching sound and fires off a copper-smelling mist around it, some of which sprays directly into loretta’s face causing her to wince and tear up at the dense cloud of smell. she reflexively slams her booted heel down into the creature, stomping through its gelatinous body.

she attempts to swiftly scrape the thing off her heel,, but the flattened slime spreads to encase her entire boot before she can even look down at it. when she does, she sees sticky lime green half-translucent goo coating the suit metal like adhesive, excreting a slight burning odour. loretta throws her leg around trying to eject the subject, but only manages to trip over herself, tumbling to the thick panelled floor with a resounding thud. 

on her back she watches with wide terrified eyes as the slime continues to slowly expand up her limb. it should be stretching itself out fully by now, but it seems to have an infinite amount of mass to express over her. some kind of anomalous entity from deep space? but how would it have gotten this deep into the middle systems? a new wormhole would’ve been reported immediately, and the nearest systems are all too well-inhabited. the gears turn in her head, clearly rusted over, struggling to think of a potential scientific hypothesis. by the time she breaks out of her clouded monologue and thinks to stop analyzing, the slime has already subsumed her entire left leg, grasping spreading tiny green tendrils grappling for the next part, which is fully uncovered by the comforting protection of the URSS engineer corps. she struggles to force herself away by clawing into the floor, but the slime seems to have extra weight to pin her leg down. such a little creature, overpowering her so easily- it must be alien. she doesn’t stop struggling even if it pins her utterly. if she could just get to the corner and grab her piece she could-

her scrabbling eyes find themselves staring at the cabin’s ceiling vent. a thick bile-like grey sludge seeps down from the cracks, forcing her to hurry. loretta shoves her hand into the green slime against her better judgement, trying to peel it off like one of her mother’s gelatin molds. her hands try to slide underneath it but they find themselves struggling to push against an unmovable solid, far away from the gravyesque consistency it had before. then she feels her legs, or rather, feels the lack of feeling of her legs. when she tries to move them, she cant even muster a shake, lower half pinned to the floor, not even pins or needles remaining. it doesn’t stop her relentless pushing and attempts to pull herself out by her arms, but she might as well be an amputee at this point. like one of those UOA prisoners of war from back in the day, laser neutered to be nothing but working hands for the Authority’s machines.

unable to get away from the oncoming deluge, lorreta realizes it must be relent or die. and so she does, shutting her eyes tight and curling her lips inward together like the anti-parasitites’ studies have taught her. though this wasn’t the typical annalidesque parasite commonly found in the outer cosmos, or a parasite at all for all she knows, it’s the best her dizzy mind can handle. and as she feels the sludge’s drip touch down on her estrogenated skin, it succeeds in helping stop it from flowing inside her eyes. she can feel it coat the skin tight, like a face mask but smelling of wood and suffocating and lively probing at her pores, blocking her vision black with its opaque body.

the sludge now dispensed, loretta senses a chance and attempts to pry the mask off of her. blindly groping for a free spot by her neck and sliding her unkempt nails under it and into the disgusting goo. it feels like a cadaver from anatomy class under her fingers, diving into the fat and peeling away the outer layer. but this corpse has undergone rigor mortis, and loretta’s attempts to peel it off go only slightly better than with the green thing, lifting an inch before it slaps itself back on even tighter. her second attempt goes even worse, her arms starting to feel numb and anaesthetized. she lifts her arms to fight but she cant feel the texture of what she touches anymore, and then the viral limpness travels to the rest of her motor function, and they flop uselessly at her sides. no part of her body responding to her brains frenzied orders to move, the most she can do is flail inside.

she pictures Andromeda-ZE in her mind’s eye, emotionally travelling to the place she spent most her childhood. she’s running through the market, the most well-known place in the capital, excitedly waving at family friends and commune teachers like she’s a kid again, so happy, so free, so ignorant. red and yellow and orange colours shine bright on the market stalls, sand and wood structures stand beautifully tall around her, everything is even more beautiful than it was when she was young. the wind on her cheeks as she runs makes her glow with a safety she doesn’t feel in the atmospheric void in space. not far ahead she spots her unit hut, and ramps up her speed. in a minute of invigorating sprint, she makes it to the large aspen door, knocking 5 times. she hears several light footsteps trot up and bounces with excitement. the door slowly creeps open… 

and a hulking nurse bug towers over her. its mandibles chitter, the egg sack on its back wiggles, and its claws rub together in front of its chest. she looks into the creature’s eyes and sees a thousand mirrors staring back at her. she screams muffled into the slime gag, jolting away from the colour behind her eyelids, and back into the void in front of them. instead of trying to push inside like loretta assumed, the sludge begins to creep into the part of her eye socket above her lids, pushing with prying hair-like digits. her heart cramps, and she can feel her heavy perspiration being immediately absorbed by the material the second it drips.  she doesn’t want to close her eyes, doesn’t want to see the bugs that close again- the spindling inner legs, the slimey chitin, vision of swarms of exoskeletals charging her squad flash through her, all she wants to do is scream but all it does is wear out the last muscles she can work. but she can’t stop, she wails banshily, reverberating in her own skulll. and then she can’t manage to hold her eyes open any longer.

the jointed arthropod returns, fully subsuming her soul. 

“it’s okay, sweet darling Lore, we are here now” it speaks in her mothers voice. sweet and soothing.

CHAPTER 2

loretta wakes up in a stasis vat, her body floating in air like oil. green biofluid drenches her skin, manufactured nutrients flooding her organs, keeping her fed and stable. she smiles, thinking back to her first spacewalk, bounding into the open cosmos with footless steps. she kicks her foot up, sending herself into an airy backflip. her mouth opens on its own and takes in a load of the fluid. it tastes like the earth pineapples her mothers would trade for on her birthdays. she has to figure out what this is when she’s out of here. and by the looks of her motor functions, she’ll be out of this in no time. 

* * *

she awakes groggily inside of another vat. there’s no more fluid, but something similar sticks to every inch of her skin. the walls of steel have turned into a coffinesque cocoon, fleshy and aboreal brown and wriggling with her movements. yet as she attempts to push herself backwards, her hands still find themselves scraping cold metal. she sees how some light manages to seep through the cracks of the chitinous chamber, and prods at the squishy folds where the tiny glowing rays strike, poking through an inch or two of foreign flesh before her fingertips feel air. bio vat? or some sort of.. metamorphosis chamber? she can’t remember how she got here, or when she signed up for such a procedure. she needs to find someone before she gets stuck. she lifts her moist lips to one of the little holes and screams out a plea for help. she manages to fit another finger out, and begins trying to spread open the breach when she’s stopped by someone’s cold fingers pulling hers. one of the scientists, or guards? 

the person outside pulls on loretta’s hand hard and she feels her light body raise up to the roof of her confines. despite her reaching the walls, they keep going, tugging forcing painful friction between her bare limbs and the meaty hide. in a few short, supernatural pulls she is burst through the sac entirely, getting to see chunks of what appears to be sinew and slime splattering the surroundings as she flies through antigravital space and crashes hard into a familiar wall.

HISSSSSSSTHH

innumerous spindly brown limbs bringing fading memories of phasmid anatomy charts stretch out across the polished floor and walls now brutally scattered with keepsake and furniture debris, looking like abstract blobs in loretta’s slime coated vision. blobs which are constantly being absorbed upwards into the air by twitchy movements. loretta grasps at the wall behind her, pulling herself away from the enormous creature. 

slamming into the far wall, she attempts to reach for where her dresser should be, where her trusty sidearm should be awaiting its imminent retrieval. then she remembers the lack of gravity. 

it was a stupid idea to make a grav switch so accessible. she never even uses it, and humans are the only creature out in this abyss who are weak to its pull. stupid stupid stupid. she tries to look for it in the debris but can’t make it out through all the other white and grey blobs. 

in the room, a few brown splotches stand out, utterly foreign to the ship’s shade-based palette. she stares closer, and even more seem to appear. the black space where the open door leads to dark corriders begins spewing them  out en masse until at least two dozen of them scatter across the floors walls and ceiling of the cabin, staring right back into her with beady pinpricked eyes. 

a bug pounces, its thin limbs pinning loretta hard. the hair on its tarsi scrape across her bare arms jolting goosebumps up her entire body. its membranal underside presses up close, making her shake with unease as its squishy segmented body rubs against her and coats her with an inky discharge well familiar to her after multiple campaigns. 

click, click, click, click. clinking mandibles together, like a hungry and petulant child. antennae rub against her ears, just then noticing their dulling by a xenotic wax substance. yet the vile hissing of a group of specially angered freaks still deafens. 

searing pain transports into her flesh. she screams but a sludgey backup in her windpipe stops everything but the vibration. loretta looks down at the thick brown apical claw stuck inches deep in her side. a gaping void begins a slow seeping of crimson.  another of the blobs quickly dashes into her view, bursting into definition as it pops up at the wound’s side. the same black liquid that drapes over her skin begins to leak out of its open mouth-thing, mixing and diluting the blood until the cut is naught but a thick black wall subsuming a portion of her outer thigh. 

she looks forward again as a twinge of neck pain insults her for forgetting herself, and sees the first roach reaching its body upwards. a yonic hole in its abdomen begins to slowly invert, while a large black tendril reaches out of the now-extremity and fluidly twirls itself around loretta’s leg, dripping ichor all the way.

she’d never gotten this close to one of the breeders before, to the point she didn’t even recognize their exotype until now. as far as she knew, they stayed deep inside the tunneled grounds of the hive worlds, fucking like lagomorphs to appease their queens and ever-outbreed the URSS’s onslaughts. and yet, here they are.

the appendage flicks into loretta’s belly, proding at and pushing inside her navel cavity. it feels almost like she’s being licked by a pet dog, or it would if it wasn’t by a fucking bug. the creature tries to push forward past the inch-deep space and is swiftly yanked back in turn, reaching the end of its rope. loretta sighs. if they can’t even reach her then the worst they could probably do is-

the tentacle prods at a lower place before a concept can reach her nerves. a deserted, forgotten plateau, a space too human for her to accept. sliding over a smooth ravine, wet shocks drive up her legs. coiling atrocity digs into her malleable dirt like the hills in pandora. she screams like she imagines it must. though the terror speaks in soft, writhing texture, and not pain. pandora and i, sister bodies- desecrated in twain.

she turns her head to the room’s one window. beyond the hexagonal plasteel frame, one of the last things held up through the chaos, halcyon skies stretch out for infinity- vistas of beautiful achromatic calm broken only by dots of terrestrial colour. an anaerobic dead zone, where nothing except calm would subsume her. devour her. she yearns to feel that cold blanket take her now. she dreams of the window bursting open, space gaining pressure the glass wasn’t ready for, and ripping them all out with it. she dreams of mom bursting through the door gun in hand. she dreams of simply disappearing from all being. 

from above her head slithers another pair of mandible and trio of forceps, digging into her budding chest. a sparse pink miasma sprays across her vision, and she’s stumbled out of her wonder by a furious coughing fit rising in her trachea, and finally taking off some of the adhesive coating her throat alongside it. she tries to look back outside and the claws digging deeper just force her gaze right back. her eyes glaze over with water and, unable to wipe the sleeves away, it drowns her. it fills her mouth until her muscles strain, spread taught like an epithelial fingertrap. she cant help but cough more, painfully clenching on the foreign object sliding deeper inside using her windpipe as a transistor to her weak points.

beige meat squishes up against her face, phantom sensations of a man’s stomach thrusting. it should never have been able to get more evil than that. how did they put human’s cruelty into animals, was it taught? more inches of squishish meat force the thought from her shrouded head. her tears taste like ink. maybe they like it that way.

Lorettas’s hull stretches with fullness and terror. she cant see it, but she can feel it bulging her front extremitously. it feels like the two tendrils will soon meet in the middle. she shudders in fear and feels them swirl inside her as punishment. 

she feels a slight relent, and her thoughts finally losing their haze. the creatures in front of her thrust backwards through the air, and the twisting coiling tentacles whorl their way out like a pullcord. again she has to feel the thing climb her hole, leaving a painful space where there used to be nothing, unable to go back to nothing. it is ashamed and sobbing in it’s own. what a bipolar old lady you are, where is your rage?

his voice forces itself inside of her. look what you’ve done. ruined and irreparable. you must’ve loved it. you and your little bug fascination. maybe if you didn’t spend your time with abominations, you wouldn’t have become one. 

she screams back. it’s not too late, i don’t love them. he’ll never control me again, i’ve carved so much into the world, i won’t let myself be belittled. you’re smart, they’re miniscule- a surprise assault shows their utter lack of strength. i’ll kill them all if i have to. i’ll prove it, i will.

she tries to open her eyes again and sees, stained by pink clouds floating in her sclera, a huge mutated insectoid towering behind the others. a large dynastinaen horn displays ignorant ideas of its strength above its excitedly quivering mandibles. or perhaps the exoskeletals have no need for concepts of pride or egotism. perhaps hive mentality’s destroyal of the individual will always grant them an advantage. no thought of the victim- evil little creatures. no different than the evil of the Authority. no different than-

two blunt black mandibles thrust into her chest. the wind is crushed from her body before she can realize what’s happening. she is too dazed to look at the impact. her deflated cadaver is thrusted into the air, and carried,

her vision bobs up and down as swift twig limbs drag her forth without thought. station windows fly past her, blobs vaguely looking like her favourite posters lay scattered and sliced in pieces, slime staining them irreparable as it coats the floor. does their cruelty know no limits? was the destruction of her ship and her spirit not enough? the destruction of her people? will anything sway their pure evil? she wants to cry, but she’s already using all the tears her body can muster. 

black begins to gorge itself on the halls, the chunky whirring of automatic doors blares in her ears drowning out the chattering sounds of dozens of limbs. the hydraulics were a deeply familiar sound, one she had always cherished hearing. it felt like a reminder of the spacecraft’s life, always interacting to her existence, responding in kind noise whenever loretta’d root around fixing her insides. it was a comforting relationship, wonderful in its unconditionality.

now, her beautiful partner screamed red with anger. they destroyed her entrance too. the airlocks outer seal is burst open with what could fairly be assumed to be anti-ship cannons, if not for the claw marks and acid tainting it all. she looks through the inner seal, into the void where death surely awaits, her body has been so painfully torn and remade, that she can’t make herself put up a single limb to fight at the end. she imagines a blaster in her hand, and clenches its handle tight. then she opens her eyes, and her fingers havent moved an inch. 

then her face meets cold surface, jagged. then the green drapes grab onto her skin again. then her blood mixes with the green and turns the colour to the same rust she smelled in the air at the start. then she feels the perfectly held-at-average air of her beloved spaceship turn into cold freezing anguish of the outside. then she feels her body turn to nothing. then, she feels nothing at all.

[angstics]

3.3k words summarizing queliot if you've never seen the magicians. or if youve seen it and you want to indulge in my insane criticisms. lord touch his mind

okay so the magicians was a tv show about a bunch of post grads learning magic in magic university then discovering that the fantasy world from a kids book series was actually real and the Beast of that world was out to get them. WHO GIVES A FUCK. the crazy people were focused on the relationship btwn main character quentin coldwater (depressed, heart on his sleeve, surprise sex maniac who is new to magic and loves those books) and gay best friend eliot waugh (substance addicted (big surprise!!), gay trauma, named after evelyn waugh oh you know…) they form a friendship and it’s weirdly touchy and close. eliot keeps trying to seduce quentin but it’s never serious. i dont even think quentin notices. anyone remember the “lets not talk” scene? he was about to fuck that sad man. anyway this tension was actually fulfilled by the end of the 1st season with a drunk threesome including the two and their best friend margo. they at least kiss and cuddle and MAYBE sucked dick if the ghost of his girlfriend who haunts him later is to be believed (which i do #cockinhismouthsunday).

at this time articles that were like “THIS SIFI SERIES IS PROUDLY BISEXUAL” were coming out which. lol. lmfao! quentin never had any sort of queer identity. not even a hint of it. the homophobia of the show started with the regurgitation of the “sad drunk lonely sex-crazed” gay man trope with eliot, then the “everyone is fluid but no one actually has same sex attraction” trope, THEN by sidelining and killing off almost every gay or trans character, THEN THE QUENTIN THING. and the quentin thing turned people insane. let’s see why.

so after the threesome, eliot and quentin continue having a good friendship. there is some tension that isnt present with margo which sure is a choice… but it is resolved by a heartfelt crowning ceremony nd hug. oh theyre kings of the magic land now btw. eliot and q are pretty much separate from this point on xcept for certain episodes/moments. it is strange they dont have any storylines together. but love finds a way. at some point a version of eliot sacrifies himself for quentin. if u look at the scene it is on instinct it is crazy. then they reunite at the end of s2 but it’s all business really. the show was really involved w its nonsense plot.

anyway season 3. hahaha. so like i said theyre separate most of the show past s1. this is true in this season xcept for episodes 305 and 313 (with some notable moments in between). the plot of this season is that they have to go on quests to collect keys. the creature that gives eliot this plot calls quentin his “brother of the heart”. ok! when they see each other for the first time in a while in 304, they hug in a very sweet way :) look at this photo from bts during that scene :) i have it framed

after a series of other quests, 305 turns out to be the Eliot and Quentin quest! finally a story with the two! the quest is for the “time key”, which is fabled to be given to whoever solves the mosaic puzzle in fillory (magic world). the puzzle? they have to arrange 100s of tiles in a way that depicts “the beauty of all life”. quentin is very excited about it. eliot is happy to hear him infodump. they eventually get pushed into fillory to solve the mosaic. turns out they were also sent DECADES in the past. there might have been a way out but they were dead-set on solving the mosaic and getting their key. so they get to work. they live in a cottage attached to the mosaic and they spend hours, days, months on it. just the two of them and the mosaic. this episode is called “a life in a day” which is so perfect you wonder why the writing couldnt be that good within the show.

at the 1 year anniversary, quentin kisses eliot. and eliot kisses him back. and you wonder woah what does this mean?! well keep wondering girl because this tv show does not care to explore any of that. it chugs on and eliot and q fight about “living their lives there” and quentin gets a Wife and has a child with her and then she DIES (leaving her as a narrative incubator rather than an actual character, which is very in line with the sexism of the show). and they grow up and decades pass and the child grows old enough to leave and it seems eliot co-parented him but (again) the tv show doesnt care to show you that. and this whole time theyre working on the mosaic. years and years. eventually they grow old. it’s just the two of them. until eliot dies. quentin goes to bury him in the mosaic plot and he finds a special little tile. he places it in the mosaic. he gets the key. the puzzle is solved. “the beauty of all life”. but quentin is alone. his life companion is gone. and that’s the last we see of him.

we go back in time til before they enter fillory. their friend stops them and she has the key through time shenanigans and they never live that timeline. UNTIL!!!!! they do. they remember it all. what does decades (50 yrs btw) of living happily together mean for them?!? FUCK ALL APPARENTLY!!!! because the next episode (306 if yr keep track) they mention it ONCE AND NEVER AGAIN. and there is so much beneath the surface with the looks and the line that mentions it (“go be life partners with someone else” eliot says jokingly in a manner that shouldve been the catalyst to quentin’s magic-induced suicide spiral later that episode).

ok quentin does mention it once more to his dying dad. but nothing about his Male Life Partner Of Fifty Years. Nothing. they dont even talk about it with their best friends, leading one to believe they just kept it a secret . which. okay.

okay. so theyre apart til the last episode of the season. and quentin decides to sacrifice himself by locking himself in a cage with a monster for all of eternity. he says the quest prepared him for it which is yikesss. eliot refuses. but quentin insists. they travel to the prison (he gets back together with his gf during this trip btw they had been apart that season after some shit. one of their worst writing decisions i hate this stupid ass cockroach relationship). quentin almost exchanges himself. then eliot shoots the monster. dooming them all.

so the monster doesnt die. instead he possesses eliot. and that becomes the story for season 4. at first quentin and co think eliot is dead. and it’s devastating lol. an interesting thing is that the monster was so. touchy with quentin. unbearably so. it’s such a perverse reflection of eliot’s touch. which is sorta pointed out by quentin in this quote (paraphrase) “i know it’s not eliot. but he has his face and his eyes…”

anyhow 405. hahahahahaha. so this episode it’s revealed eliot is alive but trapped in his own head. and to get out for a moment and tell his friends he’s alive, he needs to confront his most terrible most shameful memory. the whole episode is him trying to figure out what it is. meanwhile, quentin and co are setting up a plan to kill the monster. and quentin breaks up with his gf (lol). in a deleted scene that WAS shown in promo they argue about the monster. and quentin says “im team eliot”. lol

anyhow, eliot’s hit a dead end. he cant figure the worst thing that’s happened in his life. then his memory of quentin (theyve been hangin out) says he’ll “sacrifice” himself if he had to. eliot smiles and says “i know youre just a memory… but youre a very generous one.” and quentin says— (im reciting this from memory btw all of this has been from 4 years of NON STOP thinking about it) quentin says “well you sacrifice for the people you love” and he gives eliot a VERY pointed look. and then it dawns on eliot. and the guilt is instantly palpable.

hahahahha. hahaha. hahahahahaha. okay so eliot goes to the memory he knows is the worst thing he’s ever done. his most traumatic memory, after a lifetime of violent homophobia and bad choices. the person possessed before him described this memory as being “the day he left home”.

the memory? the day they remembered their past lives. did it happen? fifty years. it happened.

theyre sat under a wedding arch (that was the b plot of the episode lol). it’s beautiful. eliot watches the memory play out, standing in front of the seated figures. the guilt. the guilt.

outside, the tension is building. the plan to kill the monster is in motion. quentin has to coax him to a certain spot. he has to look at him as he kills his best friend.

eliot doesnt know this but he gets anxious watching it play out. there is a certainty that this is it. the first time viewer has no idea whats going on. we never saw the direct aftermath of them remembering. we always assumed there wasnt anything.

well a year after 305 aired, a yr after thinking THAT WAS IT, they recontextualize Everything.

it is worth saying here that in the promo interviews leading up to season 4, quentin’s and eliot’s actors were sussing it UP. quentin’s at some point talks on q’s queerness, saying it was the one aspect of his life he didnt feel anxious about.

well

what happens is that quentin asks eliot for a relationship. remember how it was quentin who first kissed eliot? it happens again. heart on his fucking sleeve. i can recite this scene pretty well so im going to fucking do it:

did it happen? fifty years. it happened. it was sort of beautiful. it really was. i know this is gonna sound dumb but … us. i mean we work. we know it cause we lived it. who gets that proof of concept? (eliot smiles uneasily) we just got injected with fifty years of memories so i get that youre not thinking clearly. no im just saying… what if we gave it a shot, would that be so crazy? (eliot looks down, worried and thoughtful. quentin smiles RADIANTLY it is BLINDING) why the fuck not?

editors opinion: quentin is such a beautiful person. to be so truthful about something so scary is unthinkable. especially in context of him being so hopelessly and quietly in love his childhood best friend, and his whirlwind romance with previously mentioned gf, and all the tragedy he endured with these two. but this is someone who loves with his whole heart. what was he supposed to do? contain it?

then eliot hardens.

i know you and you arent… whats the matter? dont be naive it matters. (pause) q i love you but… that isnt me and that definitely isnt you. not when we have a choice. (quentin looks away. he wipes his eye) oh. okay. sorry.

and silence. the real eliot, the eliot who isnt the memory, looks on. tired and angry, he speaks to himself:

what the hell is wrong with you? what the hell are you doing? someone Good and True… Loves you. yeah it was a little crazy but you knew. you knew this truly mattered. and you just SNUFFED IT OUT.

then he looks to the memory of quentin. soft as the clouds:

q. im sorry. i was afraid. and when im afraid i run away.

then he kisses him. and he hits you with the thesis of the episode:

if i ever get out of here q… know that when im braver it cause i learned it from you.

well

thats his most traumatic memory. he is granted passage to consciousness. what is the first thing he sees? quentin. the real quentin.

q? (smiles) q (laughs) it’s me. it’s eliot. ok come on no games. it’s eliot. i said no games. (eliot looks around, worried as all hell) fifty years (he walks towards q) who gets proof of concept like that? what? peaches and plums motherfucker (this is the symbol to their mosaic life) im alive in here. (eyes as wide as saucers, heart in his throat) eliot…

and he ruins their plans of killing the monster. “eliot’s alive.”

then the episodes keep rolling. “eliot eliot eliot. why do you care so much about him?” “because i do.” and “wow i love that plan. except the part where it doesnt save eliot.” quentin gets back with his gf for reasons only the devil knows. but fine ok whatever quentin and eliot will HAVE to talk post-saving. even if the writers ignore it once more they have some kind of relationship. and they do save eliot in the finale! you know who they dont save? lmfao

quentin dies. in a manner that many including myself found weird and unsatisfactory and suicidal. and he never gets to know how eliot feels. never. he’s just gone. their story means nothing 💯

editors note: this ending broke me. i was using the show as a depression crutch, so a fate so hopeless ruined me. cant blame the show for my mistake but being so technically bad certainly didnt help.

well when the show came back for its next (and final lol) season, they did attempt closure for eliot and quentin. for some reason this was all contained in 3 episodes, most of it in the third (503) but what the fuck ever. it has its moments.

the episode is basically about eliot and alice (q’s gf i dont think ive mentioned her name. sorry alice) going on a mini quest up a treacherous mountain for grievers to return a piece of quentin’s soul back to the underworld. their fights are soooo funny. toxic lover vs almost-lover.

alice at some point says “well he was MY boyfriend this is MY pilgrimage and you just TAGGED ALONG” and (blood obviously boiling) eliot goes “right, because he meant nothing to me”. and this highlights something so sneakily homophobic about this whole affair. quentin and eliot’s relationship never mattered to the narrative as much as all the other straight relationships, especially quentin and alice’s. like i said, they would separate for entire seasons. you will be happy to know that not 1 episode goes by without quentin and alice conflicting and making up conflicting and etc. i dont understand how quentin and eliot’s relationship wasnt important enough. they were best friends, they kissed multiple times and had sex AT LEAST once if the mosaic subtext isnt considered. and the mosaic… it isnt just that they lived together for 50 yrs and raised a child and were happy, something they couldnt quite grasp in their old lives… they achieved the beauty of all life. that is a monumental achievement that shouldve changed not only their lives, but their stories.

the thing about the confession is that it wasnt planted in s3. talking about 405, the writers said they came up with it while working on that episode. it was essentially a retcon. though its inclusion explains why they didnt talk about it literally, it doesnt excuse the narrative outright ignoring it. it DEFINITELY doesnt account for why it ignored the rest of the SAME SEASON it was ESTABLISHED IN. if this was quentin and alice, they would be talking about it nonstop. and guess the fuck what when they get back together it is *non stop*.

SO. 503. they are on their pilgrimage. tensions build. eliot hallucinates quentin’s voice (it’s a soundbite from the mosaic when eliot dies which is depressing). they meet another traveller who is grieving his long dead boyfriend.

the traveller asks who theyre grieving and alice goes My Boyfriend and eliot looks away and says he knew him as a friend and it’s so sad it makes me want to die. why did they invent new exciting ways for gay people to be ashamed of who they love. i hate this show.

anyway the traveller talks about his boyfriend and how he was a magician who died young and how his dreams were haunted by him. and eliot is listening so intensely you want to jump hale appleman for being so good at this acting thing. alice goes to sleep and leaves the two alone. then they really start talkin:

(the traveller asks) have you ever had love? (eliot smiles small, hesitant) love…? yeah love. (pause) the friend we’re putting to rest. (traveller is delightfully shock) wasnt just a friend.

truly truly truly cant describe to you how much it physically pains me that it took 2 seasons and for one of them to die and a conversation with a stranger to get to this point. why wasnt this always part of the narrative. why does this only matter now after 2 yrs of fans badgering you about why this isnt part of the fucking show despite BEING PART OF THE FUCKING SHOW! it is dead obvious this was never the intent so even with something that should feel right feels wrong because the show never wanted it. it never wanted quentin to be in love with eliot. but it doesnt make sense if he isnt. i hate this show.

the convo continues 🙄:

does she know? oh god no. a torrid secret affair. (eliot looks away) no, nothing like that.

and i wish eliot was given a proper story. i wish i knew what was going on in his head through all of this. i wish i wish.

so it is revealed that quentin and eliot “had love” and that eliot is keeping it a secret (a revelation considering they werent intimate on screen past the 1 yr anniversary, they were only ever referred to as best friends by cast and crew, AND even what they were was obscured in the confession scene. and their feelings didnt matter past 405 fuck this world). this is huge. it should be huge. eliot’s first arc is about how he cant fall in love until he does and gets his heart broken. quentin’s stories are so wrapped up in alice that having another love interest should complicate that entirely. it doesnt.

the climax of the episode is when eliot expresses difficulty of letting go of quentin and alice says “he was your friend” and eliot replies (quick as if not meaning to) “he wasnt just my friend.” and wowww. how cathartic. the first time in the history of the show they talk about it. 5 seasons btw.

and eliot tells her about the mosaic and how “we loved each other for a really really long time.” and how he told him to fuck off and how he died for him and how he was never able to talk to him again. he just died.

and that part is supposed to be cathartic too. it feels cathartic for eliot the character at least. but to me the Viewer. i was sick of how they were trying to appeal to MY thoughts of what he should be feeling. as if trying to placate me. cuz if it was soo important it wouldnt just been solved after this episode. he DGAF about quentin after this. i dont get it. why cant they write a proper story.

well one line that stuck with me and i truly felt was this:

alice: he was pretty in love with you eliot: i wouldnt say that alice: .. i would

and then eliot looks at her the most devastated a man can look.

thats it. that’s quentin and eliot. a heartfelt and final fuck this show. the fic goes crazy esp the 2019 shit.

[eldritch-spouse]

Bregs obsession being a weirdo who secretly collected his cum in a jar who knows how and breg walking in on them slurping it like a regular drink

[Oh, you're so gross. I love you. Fem reader.]

TW: Unsanitary (cum jar TW? I dunno, it's gross.)

He can't really believe it.

There must be something wrong with his mind, with his sight, he's hallucinating. He's finally gone mad and this is what his melting brain chooses to taunt the breeder with.

It could be worse, all things considered. He has to admit that.

Out of all the horrid things a greatly perturbed mind could pluck from its many shelves of unfortunate life happenings, Breg's brain was the least bit merciful- And in the wake of his spontaneous insanity, he's only shown projections of you, eating his cum like it's frosting on a cake.

The monster remains stock still, partially hidden behind the door to the kitchen, black skin shimmering slightly in the pitch black darkness of your home, the only thing providing any light being the open freezer.

Breg didn't plan to get up from bed tonight. Sure, he finds it hard to sleep as many hours as humans apparently require, but that doesn't mean he can't cuddle you or play with your hair while you're deep into slumber. It just so happened that he did nap for a while, and when he woke, you weren't there. This had raised in the male no small amount of anxiety, and he began looking around for his mate. Perhaps it was wise of Breg not to call out for you, because he would have missed this marvel of a sight.

There you were, a decently-sized glass jar in your hand. The type you'd used to store jams or fancy desserts, the substance inside was of a pretty solid white coloration, nothing too off, so he wondered if you were going to cook something at that untimely hour. Said assumption died as soon as little hands unscrewed the lid. His nose never fails him, that was definitely fluid... After a quiet snort, Breg balked.

His cum?

That... Definitely smelled like him.

He sniffed again just to be sure, pelted with his own musk, even if masked by the coldness.

Why- Why did you have a jar of his seed? When did this happen, for that matter? Breg wasn't that surprised, you make him so horny he basically agrees to everything you want when you're touching him, but that didn't make this any less odd.

Some part of him soured. Were you selling it?

Again, his expectations are flung out the window, as the breeder watched you lick your lips, cheeks heated, slipping a single finger right into that mess and shoving it right in your mouth, a string of it falling to your chin. Breg could see your throat shift when you swallowed, making a quiet sigh of what he could only hope was contentment, before repeating the gesture.

He swears to anything out there his cocks never sprung up so fast.

It hurts actually, to get hard that fast. His slit is stretched before having had the time to warm up, Breg bites into his arm to muffle a groan of equal parts relief and mild pain. He can feel the events unfolding before him being burned into his frontal lobe, something he'll keep fresh in his mind for a while to thrill himself with.

It's one of the most puzzling but also erotic things the breeder has ever seen in his time outside captivity. Your short, pretty, now cum-stained tongue laps at slick pink lips and you forgo sucking on your fingers entirely in favor of tipping the jar directly into your mouth.

Oh fuck him. Fuck yes, Gods above yes. You filthy thing.

Breg feels his eyes bulge out under the layer of skin hiding them, stiffening -In many ways- As you almost chug it, audibly swallowing down his seed like it's the sweetest, most addicting treat one could ever hope to taste. You were never the type to waste his offer, now that Breg thinks a little, but he had no idea you loved it this much.

His cocks practically ooze to the floor, he wants to cry out from how hard he is, but the monster doesn't think he could forgive himself if he ruined the moment. The vision. The dream. Whatever the Hell this is, hardly reality.

This has to mean you love him as much as he loves you. There's no other explanation, you want him so bad and you're so taken with him that you'd collect the fruits of your love and eat it. So that it always remains with you at some capacity. Sure, his cocks throb, but so does his heart.

And then you had to moan.

The voice of self-control in Breg sits down and shrugs, telling him to do whatever at this point. His legs power him forward immediately and the monster stalks into the kitchen without so much as a click of claws on tiled floors. He's behind you in seconds, hovering like an unseen shadow, having to suppress the chirp from deep inside his throat when you make a gross slurp.

Do that again and he'll fucking cum.

A fever seizes his arms. He slams the fridge door closed. You're jarringly turned around, the container in your hands tumbling to the ground, thick enough not to break upon contact. Although you yelp and prepare to scream, the air to do such with is forced out of your figure when he pushes you down by the shoulders, forcing you to land on your knees. He'll regret this later, but right now, he's got other, urgent goals in mind.

You can't see anything in this blackness, but Breg gets to ogle you, a wet cock nudging your cheek while the other hovers untouched.

" W- What- "

" Please please please please- " As if he had the mind to say anything else, guiding a precum-soaked member to your lips desperately.

" Breg, I- " There's something akin to shame and timidity in your face.

" Please angel- It'll be quick. I'll come for you, as many times as you want, please I'm so hard. "

You gawk in what would be the general direction of his face, and he whimpers like a kicked dog until you finally slip the insistent length into your mouth, working at it. Breg sighs, then moans, as you focus on torturing the most sensitive parts. He fists his other girth with a fury, intent on keeping his promise.

" You- You don't think I'm gross? " His sweet angel must be joking.

" I think you should just tell me when you want my cum. " He nearly growls, a large hand edging you back to work. " Please harder. "

It doesn't take too long before you get more than a generous reward. It's hot and fresh as it slides down your throat, coats your mouth, chin and chest, the breeder more than happy to let you wring the rest out of him with that eager little tongue.

You seem secretly satisfied. Perhaps, in the dark, you forgot he can see your face perfectly fine. Breg grins as he resumes stroking his members in front of you.

" M-More? " He suggests.

He wakes up long before you. As usual.

Breg's planning on doing some simple errands for you, but of course, he hasn't forgotten your present. How could he?

There's a nasty little smirk on his vastly featureless face as he calmly walks back to your now shared bedroom.

Your bedside table is graced with a hefty, slightly bigger white jar filled to the brim. Warm, and perhaps clumsily cleaned.

Breg kisses your cheek before getting ready to leave.

He loves his mate so much.

[evolutionsvoid]

The "Beyond" is a fitting name for what lies outside of the mortal realm, because there is no other real way to describe it anything outside of vague terms. Though magic and research has expanded the minds of the entire world, and many mysteries are solved each year, the Beyond remains an untouched frontier. Some claim that little is known about it because it is far too alien and fast to comprehend, while others say it is avoided in fear for those very same reasons. Glimpses past the veil have driven some folk to insanity, and even fragments that fall into the world are said to hold power greater than many mages. There is a reason why many doomsday cults desire to summon something from these strange planes, as they are beings that have no equal in this reality. For this, the Beyond is avoided and feared the same way a pond minnow never wishes to be dropped into the open ocean. Unfortunately, there are times where the mortal realm gets no say in the matter, and something from Beyond falls into this world instead.

How this thing wound up in the mortal realm, none can say. Was it a cosmic slip up that caused this being to tumble into the wrong world? Or was it done so purposefully, an invasion into a plane incapable of withstanding such power? Regardless, the entity is here and it is now everyone's problem.

It does not speak or write, and thus no name can be discovered. Instead, it is simply called The Sculptor. A rather common naming convention for things that emerge from Beyond, as when no one has answers, just call it by what it does. The Sculptor is a mysterious entity that seemingly wanders the land, its mission and purpose known only to it. Thankfully, it looks like world domination is not on the list, as it hasn't shown any true malice or thirst for destruction. As its name suggests, it appears to care only about sculpting. The problem, however, is that it doesn't stick to simple clay...

While The Sculptor is built from an impossibly hard ceramic-like shell, its body is hollow. Instead of blood and fluids, these cavities are filled with a wet clay-like substance. It drips from orifices and settles in open portals within its shell. The Sculptor regularly plunges its limbs into these openings and coats its hands and feet with thick gobs of its red clay. In fact, The Sculptor has never been seen without these muddy coatings on its appendages, as it always freshens up even in the midst of battle. The layers of clay on its limbs don't appear to affect The Sculptor in anyway, but the same can't be said to any mortal material that comes in contact with it.

The clay from The Sculptor has an insidious effect on any materials it comes in contact with. When exposed to its power, the item touched will slowly begin to develop the consistency of wet, moldable clay. The outside appearance will remain the same, but if one were to touch a stone wall that was altered by this Beyond substance, they would find it surprisingly soft and pliable. Brief contact with the clay will only cause the effect to be surface level and in close proximity of the area touched. However, its power can spread farther and seep deeper if The Sculptor "kneads" the afflicted item. By working the target with its supple clay-coated fingers, it lets the power leech further in. And once the effect is in play, The Sculptor can bend it, twist it and shape it in whatever way it wants. And that includes living things...

The power of its clay affects all mortal things, be it live or dead. A person touched and kneaded will find their flesh and bones bending like putty, allowing limbs to be twisted into knots or holes worn straight through one's chest. The horrifying part, though, is that this doesn't hurt or harm the victim in anyway. Despite one's organs turned to dough and their head twisted into a pretzel, they will remain very much alive and breathing as if it was normal. The clay does not impede bodily functions, it simply overwrites the consistency of all things. Men tore in half like clay dolls will find both parts functioning just fine, and can even be put back together if one can reconnect and shape them before they "dry out."

Thankfully, it appears that the clay's power is temporary. If the area afflicted breaks contact with the clay for long enough, the effects will slowly begin to wear off. Obviously, the time to "drying out" differs depending on how deep it has gone. Surface level effects will return to normal after a minute or two, while full body infusion can take almost an hour. Even if one's body has been thoroughly bent and molded by The Sculptor into a fancy urn, "drying out" doesn't result in death. The victim will continue to live as normal, even if their limbs are mangled beyond use. The one saving grace with this is, if their body can be infused again, someone skilled enough could possibly shape them back into a normal form. As long as they don't get "glazed."

When The Sculptor creates a piece it wishes to keep forever, it may choose to "glaze" it. This is done through its eyes, which always remain closed. But if it were to open them just a crack, a strange green energy would flash from these slits and fry everything in close quarters. Though short ranged, it is a powerful heat that even demons can feel, and it appears to permanently solidify anything that had been altered by the clay. If this happens to a shaped victim, then they will mercifully perish, as the glazing process converts their body to solid inanimate matter. However, this glaze is rarely used, as The Sculptor only utilizes it with a piece it truly enjoys, and it seems this being is having a hard time finding its muse.

The Sculptor appears to be on the hunt for inspiration, for new materials to sculpt. Thus, it targets the most random things, turning them to clay and then molding them into strange shapes. It can be objects, buildings, boulders, trees, beasts or even man. Anything is on the table to be experimented with and turned into bizarre sculptures. But the entity tends to always leave displeased, rarely proud of what it makes. It would take a king and warp them into a fancy jar, but then toss it aside in boredom as it feels lacking. All the while, the victim is still alive and trapped in this mangled state. Thus, even though The Sculptor has rarely killed and shows no active malice, it is an entity widely feared. When the being is spotted in the area, weapons are drawn and gates are locked down, but all these efforts are in vain. How do you stop an entity that can turn walls to putty and swords into useless noodles?

Fighting The Sculptor appears to be a wasted effort, as no mortal weapons have been able to crack its ceramic shell. All it seems to do, really, is just piss it off. When met with resistance, The Sculptor will fight back, but only long enough to render its foe helpless. Shields are turned to clay and torn in two, weapons are squished into wet blobs and locked doors are pulled open like one ripping soft dough. Enemies will be grabbed in clay covered hands and then kneaded and shaped into useless forms. Arms twisted into flailing spirals, heads mushed into incomprehensible wads and the whole human body can be flattened into a wet pancake. And once the fighters are taken out, The Sculptor will march on towards its desired subject. So far, the only advice is this: run. Run as fast and far as you can, and hope The Sculptor loses interest. If luck is on your side, something else may catch its eye and become its new muse.

The Knights of the Wrong Table learn of this strange entity during a missing persons case, and find out why no other knights or mercenaries dared to take up the job tracking them down. The poor soul was the latest muse of The Sculptor, and it does not appreciate strangers trying to steal its art. The Wrong Table best hope they can get the victim to safety, all while avoiding becoming art pieces themselves. Unfortunately, Yir doesn't appear to be able to do much to help here. The chef from Beyond, when told about The Sculptor, only had this to say: "Ah. An art school type. Good luck with that."

-------------------------

"The Sculptor"

Here is a weird fellow I been trying to draw and color for a good long while! Gosh, gee, I wonder why it has been hard! A strange entity from Beyond with a love of pottery! As you can see, purely inspired by Jōmon pottery and the dogū, with an ability that honestly feels like a stand to me.

[kurimiaki]

Without a name, things tend to get lost. [III]

Heartslabyul’s terms of endearment

Octavinelle’s set is here!

Content warning: dark content, toxic relationships, manipulation, verbal and physical abuse, forced intimacy

Riddle Rosehearts

By his word, Riddle truly had tried to remain amicable and open-minded for this date.

Too-rigid, too-coddling, too-stuck for time, too-unbending. You had tried to impress upon him the importance of fluidity, fun for fun’s sake, and a sense of ease which he has yet to fully feel on these types of romantic excursions. It’s difficult to entirely will himself away from ironclad routine and tradition, the dating guides he poured himself over in the library, what to do and what to avoid, the formulaic manner in which he wants to pursue your hand.

It’s all in the effort to satisfy you. To guarantee your partnership, commitment, and adoration. But it’s a hearty struggle for Riddle to live easily— rules are foolproof and unshakable, and shan’t allow his unease and insecurity to slip through the cracks. The fluid, lackadaisical attitude you wish him to assume certainly will, though.

He’d suggested a scarcely-populated and unfrequented cafe for a reason, and you’d vetoed his vote without care, adamant on lugging him over to some sleek new burger shop that recently opened on Sage’s Island, flush with people.

People he’d wanted to avoid, for fear of them robbing him of your attention. The things he’d wanted to speak about were overshadowed by your gushing over inconsequential things— the quirkily named menu items, their gargantuan milkshakes, that girl’s crazy boots, and, hey, was that an RSA student? Menial things, of no conversational value, void of substance. Things that deviated too far from his idealized date, that left him unsure and output. He had complacently nodded along, feigned a smile, and chewed up as much of his order as he could manage; but of course, change takes time to adapt to, and Riddle was less than content.

On your way back to campus, following along an isolated path cloaked in brushes and weeping willows, you become familiar with the consequences of pushing your boyfriend too far. Your takeout bag strewn about graveled ground, slushed and ruined strawberry milkshake soaking into dirt mounds and rocks, Riddle goes as far as to stomp down on the remains of your burger. “Was that fun for you, darling?” He jabs, emphasizing the last bit with a sneer, digging a finger hard on your sternum. You gape, grappling as to what could’ve spurred on such a drastic shift in his mood, but Riddle speaks for you.

“You’re a selfish little thing, aren’t you? You don’t think. Not about my preferences, my plans. Being seen fraternizing with you in public— alone, mind you— was a giant leap on its own. A risk.”

“I do try to be lenient, my dear, but all you do is take. You’ve even monopolized my time. See?” He lifts his wrist, removing his other hand from your sternum and unsheathing his casual dress shirt, showing you a watch. He taps the glass two times, clinking it with his fingernail, and sneers at you; so out of sorts, one might think you’d cussed out his mother. You open your mouth, the beginnings of a ‘how was I supposed to know that’ lingering on your lips, but he grasps your shirt collar and drags you down to him.

“If you’re so keen to make this relationship work, do right by me. Listen. That’s all I ask, darling.”

Riddle is not well-suited to the use of cheesy nicknames. Even something as benign as ‘my dear’ has the potential to throw him off kilter for his foreseeable future, utterly wrought with embarrassment and fear of coming on too strong. At his calmest, you’re not likely to receive an affectionate endearment from him— it’s much too unbecoming for a dorm leader to openly show favor like that, anyway. His inexperience is ultimately covered by the claim of ‘not wanting to be a biased ruler,’ which, quite blatantly, is an ineffective lie. To his credit, Riddle does try to be sweet on you. He has repeatedly practiced utilizing the name ‘darling’ in the isolated comfort of his dorm room, though he often finds himself flustered when merely conversing with a pillow.

But he’s fully in his element when buzzing with rage, isn’t he? He may not be the most articulate, gurgling and stomping around like a fussy toddler, threatening you with shattered teacups and sullying your dorm room with his tantrum: but he is free of inhibition and shame. Riddle will scream at you for allowing your grades to slip (it’s a burden to monitor you, you know, but he loves you well enough to take the task), but at least his blow is softened with the use of darling— albeit weaponized as a taunt, lilted and demeaning. In his furious blowouts, he’ll often take pause to berate you as if you were a fussy child yourself, cooing and verbally stooping to your (lower, in his distorted image) level, asking ‘do you understand that well enough, my dear?’ when your only transgression is running five minutes behind his predetermined schedule.

Riddle strictly calls you: darling, my dear. These are the only endearments he’s familiar with; he hasn’t been exposed to romantic media in the same way Ace has, for reference, and isn’t well-versed with what’s on trend to call one’s lover.

Trey Clover

“And now he won’t even answer me in class, Trey. And we sit next to each other!” You huff, throwing your arms into the air, growing increasingly irate, your every suppressed frustration bubbling up with ease in his presence. The beginnings of tears prick your eyes, and you feel your throat swell shut. To have an unresponsive group partner will always be an unbearable frustration— especially in Trein’s class, with his sink or swim curriculum, his rigid syllabus, his unwavering expectations. If your classmate doesn’t cooperate soon, you’ll fail.

You only wish you were headstrong enough to force him to comply.

All you can do, at present, is vent your every frustration with this situation to your sweet, doting, attentive boyfriend.

“I don’t know what to do…” You mumble, leaning against the cool kitchen countertop. You’re thankful that he’d entertain you so late in the night; not a soul can be heard in the surrounding rooms. It’s mostly silent, save for your ranting, the kitchen’s hum of electricity, the nervous shuffling of your feet.

Save for Trey’s worn sigh.

Exhausted, almost sounding more irate than even you, his mere exhale startles you straight. Is he mad? Eyes wide, worry seeps into you. Have you spoken too much? Had you even asked about his day? Are you being inconsiderate? You stutter something incoherent, but before your worn brain can muster something appeasing to say, Trey speaks up.

He lifts his glasses to rub his temple, green hair slightly tussled. He’s tired, and you certainly aren’t easing his tense mind.

“And what do you want me to do about this?” He starts, uncharacteristically monotone. Yellow eyes settle on you, unblinking, and you avert your gaze. Wholly intimidated, cowed into silence. When he wills it, Trey’s perfectly capable of sucking all the air out of a room.

Your sweet boyfriend speaks for you.

Pacing forward, he’s suddenly before you, so close the tips of your slippers touch. “I told you that one’s trouble, didn’t I?” Trey lightly chides, still cooly composed. ‘That one,’ being your fickle partner; the one your boyfriend did, indeed, warn you about. More than once, insisting that you inquire with your ever-intimidating professor about a group change, and to no avail. “Didn’t I?” He reiterates, pressing you for a reaction. You look away, a mix of scandalized and ashamed, called out on an error you hadn’t felt was too egregious to make. You thought you could handle it. You still can.

“Look at me, buttercup.” He implores, cupping your cheek with one hand and facing you to him— but, for fear of what you’ll find, and shame for the presumably selfish manner in which you’ve acted, your minor betrayal, you keep your eyes averted.

But your sweet boyfriend doesn’t like that, doesn’t enjoy offering his tenderness and receiving none of your compliance in return. Trey squeezes your cheeks so harshly his nails dig into your cheekbone, and you gasp, eyes immediately flickering to peer up into his.

“You know you can always trust me, right?”

You nod. Faintly feeling like he’d just grip your cheeks and do it for you, if you hadn’t.

“Take his name off of your research paper, tell Trein what’s been going on, and own up to it. It’s your work, sweetheart.” Thick fingers loosen their hold, and a soreness stabs the meat of your face, but you refrain from soothing yourself. He brushes hair from your eyes, and leans in to kiss your forehead.

“If you’d just listen, we wouldn’t have hiccups like this, would we?”

It’s a tad uncharacteristic for him, but still expected, given his pastimes and upbringing— Trey utilizes sickeningly sweet nicknames to when referring to you. He feels he’s being unoriginal when he calls you things like ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’, largely because he’s playing it safe and sticking to what he knows: what his parents call each other. It’s a secure bet to call you the aforementioned endearments, normal things like ‘pumpkin,’ but Trey does have a tendency to let pure sugar drip from his lips when he’s cross with you, using grossly saccharine names so as to glaze over the pure venom he’s fully capable of dishing your way when it’s warranted.

His idea is that, the sweeter his words, the more willing you’ll be to acquiesce to the severe alterations he wants to impose upon your relationship, which will ultimately bind you to him. Because he’s so articulate and persuasive in the manipulation he does, working the rest of your peers out to be these wholly volatile creatures so as to solidify his position as the sole recipient of your love, this strategy is incredibly effective. He plays a long game, planting little seeds of doubt in your own capabilities whenever you have the smallest slip-ups, hinting to the possibility that, yeah, maybe you’re just not cut out for an environment like this, that it’s in your best interests to quit, save yourself this cutting mental strain. It ultimately snowballs into a bigger issue, wherein you’re constantly left too-hesitant to pursue bigger feats in your school life, doubting your intellect and hard work thus far, feeling deep inadequacy in areas that you may not even struggle in. He’s at the root of it. And he’ll be there to soothe and sway you to him when you stray too far from the path you’d set for yourself, falling completely behind.

Trey doesn’t use lover’s nicknames too freely with you, though. They’re an indulgence, and something he typically doles out as a reward, somewhat micro-dosing you with doting words when you do what’s expected of you, and unprompted. Holding his hand, never straying too far from his lunch table, not growing too needy, listening to him (at bare minimum)— even going as far as to check up on your flossing and treat you with a ‘good job, honey,’ if you stay consistent. Like you’re some child.

Additionally, he’ll wean you from his tenderness should he feel the PDA gravitates too much attention to the both of you. He’s got no qualms in publicizing your relationship, and is in favor of doing so— but, as with most things, Trey is partly wary of exposing too much of himself, and this applies to you. It’s a mix of possessiveness and a desire to keep the raw parts of his life squared away, untouchable, and unseen. You’re among those things.

Trey loves to call you: sweetheart, honey, buttercup, muffin, sweetness

Cater Diamond

Cater wrenches you to him, hands spread over the expanse of your back, rubbing you up-and-down, as if attending to a distraught animal. The evening sun gleams through the club room’s windowpanes, kisses your cheeks, bathes you and Cater in a warm, honeyed veil. You’re both sat snugly atop a pile of pillows used to form a makeshift couch, snack wrappers littering the floor, the room left vacant with both Lilia and Kalim having long darted off to attend to their own dorms. Your boyfriend gives up on his half-assed massage and wraps an arm around your waist, curling over you and stuffing his face in the crook of your neck.

It’s intimate, it’s sweet, and it makes you flush. His earring rests cooly against your flushed cheek, and a smile tugs on the corner of your lips. It’s nice.

Even still, what he’d just said bordered on creepy. Invasive, possessive, and utterly strange, coming from him. In good conscience, you can’t let it slide.

“Cater?” You push, trying to nudge his head away from you, but he’s fully leaning on you now, his nose nuzzling into your jaw, this close proximity lightly frying your nerves. “Can you just— can we talk for a second? I don’t want to glaze over that.”

A little sigh comes from him at that, warm breath spreading over the expanse of your neck, making you shiver. “Glaze over what, cutie?” He croons into you, not sounding quite as irked as you anticipated he’d be from the interruption. If anything, he only squeezed your midriff a bit tighter, and you couldn’t exactly complain. It’s nice to be held like this.

Why don’t you quit your club for me?

You take a beat of silence, hoping that he’ll remember the jarring little tidbit he’d dropped on you not twenty minutes ago, his phrasing then disregarded and brushed away by the crushing gravity of Kalim’s excitement at the prospect of your participation in their band-snack-club… thing.

For me, he’d said. It’s not too weird, is it? He wants to spend more time with you. You’re already skipping over your obligations to your own club every other week to be with him, urged on by his club’s cumulative persuasiveness and heady enthusiasm, the ploy that Cater just really, really wants to see you more. That it’s boring without you there. It’s sweet that he’s so insistent, you think, but a thing of doubt gnaws at your brain. A bit of queasiness, at how easily he’d suggested you disregard what’s so important to you.

It’d be fine thing to say, had this not been the fifth time Cater’s brought it up, disregarding the five respective times you’ve already shot this suggestion down.

You like your club. You like what you do, and you really like the people in it. And you love Cater, of course, but you can’t deny the twang of uselessness you feel at wasting two hours to simply lounge and snack and sit in silence as Lilia mercilessly shreds an electric guitar, the sense that you’re misplaced, that there’s another place you’d rather be.

You’re queasy because of his insistence. You’re queasy because he won’t let up, and Cater seems just a little more annoyed every time he brings it up, as if he’s fed-up with some unreasonable display of defiance you’re putting up, that this is the end-all decision to the fate of your relationship.

You could very well be overthinking.

This could be no big thing.

He’s mouthing your neck at this point, warm lips lingering over your pulse. The hints of teeth he’d let roam your neck have you squirming by now, arms twitching to shoot up and brush him away from you, but you resist, indulging him in indulging you. It takes a moment to gather your bearings, find a modicum of mental fortitude, but you persist in your interrogation, wanting to quit the creeping discomfort that’s been nagging at you for weeks now.

“Cater, I’m not— I’m not comfortable coming over here anymore. After school, it’s… It’s better for me to do my own thing. I think. My club relates a lot to the field I want to go into, you know? It’s not optional for me.”

He doesn’t stop kissing at you. He doesn’t show a hint of concern to you, not baring a glimpse into what he’s thinking, and you’re getting a bit scared, to be fully honest with yourself. You want to be honest with him.

“And… I dunno. You’ve been really weird lately? Not, like, creepy or anything, just a little off. You don’t open up to me as much, and I feel like something’s wrong.” You explain, still letting him lean into you, wringing your hands in your lap as his lavishing persists, not once acknowledging your words. Taking a second to open room for an addition, you sigh as you’re met with silence, the movement of his lips not once abating. So you continue. “I just think—“

Cater bites your neck without an ounce of forewarning. A sensitive spot, the place he likes to tease his fingers over when he plays with your hair, that he knows can cripple you with a single chaste kiss. He bites down there, and hard. You stifle a cry, overwhelmed with a conflicting wave of pain and minute pleasure that does not abate. Confusion and fear overwhelms it all.

Your hand jolts to cover the aching impression the instant Cater lifts away from you, and you quickly turn away to face him, face twisted up in shock and slight discomfort at the jarring action, feeling quite miffed and, frankly, betrayed that he’d do something like that without asking. For biting you so hard. Hard enough for tears to prick your eyes, which, as you observe Cater lean back on the pillows with boyish ease, you’re faintly certain has caused his smile.

Lax and nonplussed with your shock and awe, the hint of trepidation that lingers around you, Cater spreads his arms, opening himself for another hug. As the seconds tick by, the longer you remain stagnant in your disarray, the more impatient he becomes. He leans forward, taking initiative, wrapping you again in his embrace and falling back with you.

Your boyfriend lets out a little ‘oomph’ upon contacting with the pillows, chuckling a little— so lackadaisical in nature, you could mistake this rendezvous for the same teasing tousling he likes to do in his dorm room, not the serious conversation you’d intended it to be. Why won’t he take you seriously?

His hand soothes over your head, lightly brushing over your baby hairs, and a little kiss meets your earlobe.

“Let’s just be quiet for a little while, yeah? Take it easy. You think too much, babydoll,” He coos, but not without a twinge of warning to his tone, sterner than he’s ever been with you. You go a bit rigid.

“You shouldn’t wear yourself out with useless stuff like that. Everything’s just peachy, isn’t it?”

Out of every Heartslabyul member listed here, Cater uses endearments with the most frequency. It’s expected of him!

He experiments with your nicknames like one would throw darts, constantly changing his flow of speech and choice words, shooting either to hit or miss. He’s not super in-tune with your likes and dislikes— it’s more so how his peers react to the nicknames he lavishes you in. If hearing him call you ‘booga-bear’ makes his dorm mates crumple up and cringe, he’s not likely to ever use it again. Whatever is popular to call one’s beau online, he’s likely to start calling you. It’s very impersonal, quite obviously only intended to build him up as the sweetly doting boyfriend he aims to be, superficial enough to throw you off. But he doesn’t exactly want that, either, so he’ll ease up a bit if he finds it makes you increasingly wary to accept his attempts at PDA, sticking to what’s tried and true— babydoll. It’s equal parts endearing and embarrassing, just intimate enough to make you squirm, with how quietly he’ll whisper it in your ear. Just below the rush he gets from a hit Magicam post is the thrill of making you shrivel up, be it out of shyness or plain discomfort. He likes to have that level of influence over your state of being, to get you to curl up from a small word.

Cater marks you his: babydoll, cutie, cutie-pie, lovebug, hon’, sugarlump, puppy, sweetums

Ace Trappola

Petulant, mean, and uncaring. Your boyfriend is a rotten bully. You fume and stomp down a main hallway, steps long and wide, aiming to make Ace acutely aware of your indignation.

“Leave me alone!”

“Baby, come on!” He groans, the noise reverberating throughout the gymnasium, following him out as he slams into the push handle and jogs after you. You don’t look back, walking faster now.

Mean, mean, mean. Who is he, to tell you to fuck off? What sort of boyfriend is he, to mutter that you’re only showing up to practice to ‘soak up attention,’ to flaunt and flirt with his teammates? You had thought doling out refreshments would be a nice gesture, something he’d recognize for what it is; his partner demonstrating support on a hot summer’s day, being his mini-cheerleader. You thought he’d be happy to see you.

‘Leave them there and go,’ are the words Ace greeted you with. Not a smile, no wave, no questions of why you weren’t at your own club, none of his typical sweetness. None of it. No, the second he spotted you in the sidelines with Floyd, he was immediately abrasive and cold, meandering over to tell you to piss off the instant a whistle blew for a break. Even upon pointing out your reason for being there, a cooler packed with carbonated sweetness and water, you received; ‘That’s nice, babe, but we’re busy.’

Perhaps if Floyd hadn’t been so close to you on the bench, Ace’s mood wouldn’t be so sour. His jarring bouts of jealously are a sign and dance that you are, regrettably, well familiar with. And utterly sick of.

But he’s always been quick to make a smooth recovery.

Catching up to you, breathless from the last game and the mini-sprint it took to reach you, Ace snatches up your forearm. You, still furious, wrench it away from him, but his hands are quick to follow. In a flurry of motion, you’re spun around to face him, shoulders gripped tightly by Ace’s sweaty palms.

To top off his absurd assholery, he absolutely reeks. You scrunch up your nose in distaste.

“Hey, hey, hey! Babe, I mean it. I’m sorry for being such an ass back there,” He smiles, crooked, his eyebrows knit together in a blatant mockery of regret. “That’s what you’re all mad about, yeah? I didn’t mean to talk so harsh. Honest.”

You open your mouth to rebuke him, attempting to shrug out of his hold, but he’s even quicker to interrupt you, to hold you tighter.

“I mean it.”

Tighter, tighter, tighter. Tighter until your shoulder locks up, rigid with pain, threatening to pop out of socket. You whine, thrash, try to maneuver yourself in such a way that throws him off of you, but Ace doesn’t let up. Till he wrings out your forgiveness, he won’t.

“I-I know! It’s fine!” Is what you muster, more of a yell than the timid acceptance he usually likes to hear from you, but it’s enough. His grip eases. You breathe.

And then he holds you, more tender than before, in that performative tenderness you can easily see through. It’s always the same— brush hair behind your ear, pepper your cheek, nose, forehead, and neck in kisses, and stroke your back up and down. He must think this is all it takes to rid you of your hurting.

Ace uses nicknames as one would a bandage. He strongly believes that, with enough sappiness, any wound he’s inflicted upon you can be easily amended. Typically, he’s too flustered to use endearments around his peers, not wanting to appear as some lovesick puppy-dog who’s desperate to win your favor. Cooly, he’ll call you by name, occasionally switching to ‘babe,’ if only to solidify his position as your boyfriend when he feels threatened by another man. Those sickly sweet nicknames only come up when you’re well and truly put-out with his abrasive behavior; he gets aggressive and accusatory when you display interest in anybody other than himself, and is both deliberately and unintentionally cruel, often forgetting himself and going too far with barbed words and vicious snipes. Only when you’re teary-eyed does Ace bust out ‘baby,’ cupping your cheeks in his hands and softly leveling with you— cooing warmly, as if he hadn’t just marked you a whore for electing to work with Deuce over him in a paired project.

Ace likes to call you: babe, baby, and (very rarely) cutie. Will try and fail to woo you by calling you ‘sexy’ and ‘kitten’. He’s not suave enough…

Deuce Spade

“You know… I’m not really comfortable with you hanging around Epel so much.”

You take pause from preparing Deuce’s study guide, setting your pen down mid-vocabulary word, leaving the bright blue flash-card unfinished. Intrigued, albeit slightly put-out by the serious tone he so rarely takes, you devote your full attention to him.

He immediately interprets your blank staring as open criticism rather than a gesture for him to continue— justifiably so, you suppose— but what do you say to something like that? What exactly has made him uncomfortable? Is he about to accuse you of something? You’re not sure. So you wait for him to speak, your expression the image of neutrality.

“Sorry. I’m sorry if that’s overstepping a little. I’m just… I don’t know, he’s a bit touchy, I guess ? He knows that I’m dating you, but he still calls you such nice things, and it’s kinda irking to see him hover around you like he does. Like he’s trying to win you over or something. I dunno,” He rapid-fires, speaking so hurriedly that you can hardly deliberate on what’s being said, as if to gloss over this blatant source of his concern.

Deuce has been clingy the past few weeks. To say the least. You’re well aware of his fried nerves as of late, but you’d thought to attribute the incessant lingering and repeated calls to his concern for midterms— that’s the viable excuse he had, anyway, and the very reason why you’re going so far as to make him a study guide right now. For a class you don’t even have.

“Maybe I’m just overthinking.” He asserts, about to brush away his statement, waving a hand in the air. Deuce’s right hand deftly flicks and twirls a pen, a mesmerizing little gesture, one you’re certain he’s doing to curb his own anxiety. You can feel his leg jolting up and down, practically vibrating from the intensity of his nerves. You think he’s finished, and open your mouth to inquire further, to coax out a better explanation from him, but he fires off again.

“I mean, it’s weird, right? I call you up to come over and study, like we promised, and he’s with you at Sam’s shop. He mozies up to our table in the cafeteria and sits next to you, and I have to sit two people away because, y’know, my class is so far away I’m always late, which I’m sure he knows. The apple thing, too, you know?” Deuce whines, breathlessly exasperated, so frantic in his explanation that you’re wildly taken aback, minimally gaping and grappling for an area to interject. But you can’t, and he continues for you.

“Cutting that apple for you. Making the slices into little bunnies, all that. I couldn’t even do it for you when I tried after school, and you had to wrap my hands cuz’ I’m such a clutz and went and cut myself, and— geez.” He breaks off, voice cracking, and you’re forced to full attention at the warble his lip takes, the wet gleam that instantly floods those striking chan eyes, threatening to drip down onto your freshly inked flash cards.

You don’t mind it. Instead, You immediately lean over the desk to cup his hands in yours, trying to ease him into meet your eyes as his own go glassy. He dips his head downward, clearly hiding from you.

“Hey, hey! It’s okay! Please don’t cry, Deuce.” You quietly urge, not keen on attracting any watchful eyes from around the library, empty though it is. You’d be sorry if anyone else saw him like this. If he became the butt of some joke for his sensitivity— you’ve always liked that about him. You don’t mind the tears, but you do worry.

So you do what any good lover would do, and comfort him. Do anything to right what’s making him so wrong.

“It’s Epel, yeah? You don’t want me to hang around him so much? That’s all fine. We’re weren’t even that close in the first place, Deuce. I swear.” Reaffirming him, you acquiesce to the inquiry that so quickly wracked him with anxiety, leaning over and pressing your forehead to his. “I wish I’d known about this. I’m sorry that I didn’t catch on sooner,” You offer, trying to get him to look at you with gentle reassurances, half-empty promises.

Then you kiss his forehead, and he rockets upright.

With a grin peeled over his lips, he leans forward to kiss your cheek, filled with fresh zeal and eagerness. Your eyes widen a bit at how quickly that crumpled expression fled his face. How immediately he resumed that easy boyishness of his, the sweetness that endeares him to you so much. It’s strange, but he kisses away the stitch that forms between your brows, too.

“I knew you’d understand, lovely. Thank you for being so considerate.”

Deuce knows much better than to degrade you in any capacity. Among a plethora of other life tips, his mother made it a point to drill into him the importance of respecting his partner, to communicate, harbor respect, to treat you as an equal. Ever since he meekly announced to her that he’d found you, she’s reminded him of this. Treat them well, she’ll note, every time he brings you up over the phone, which, admittedly, is incredibly frequent. So, he’s not likely to use the same monikers that Ace or Cater take to, which are markedly less respectful given the context they use them in— Deuce wants you loved and appreciated, and takes great care with what nicknames he chooses for you.

He’s flushed for hours after using it, but Deuce strongly favors ‘lovely’ for your trademark endearment, something to call you every day without fail, be it publicly or over the phone each night before bed. It’s sweet and easy, gentle, something that rolls off his tongue easier with repeated use. It’s comfortable and safe for him and you. It’s nice.

The issue with Deuce’s nicknames doesn’t pertain to you, necessarily, but trouble does arise when he seeks out a new individual to project his insecurities onto, someone he views as a threat to what you two have got going on. Be it with someone in his close circle physically inching too close to you, or an unknown classmate he shoulder-checks for staring at you too long, Deuce can quickly become volatile. To a fault, he’s incredibly possessive of you, and although it’s something he’s aware of, he struggles to keep it in check. Old habits die hard and, inevitably, he’s going to cuss someone out for crossing some benign and inscrutable boundary he’s made around you. Unbeknownst to you, or so he hopes. He’s not a massively threatening presence at school, but he’s got his fair share of bite— Deuce builds a bit of a reputation as an attack dog, where you’re concerned. If he deems it as warranted, he’s not above a bloody brawl. If his mom heard of any of this, she’d burst into tears. He’s quite certain that you’d leave him if you found out about him breaking fingers for the meager crime of latching onto your arm.

Deuce will call you: lovely, precious. He rarely deviates from these two, if at all.

[zoeykallus]

Hi there! I love your headcanons and I was wondering if I could make a personal request. Let me know if this is a no-go.

I have PMDD, premenstrual dysphoric disorder, basically PMS [premenstrual syndrome] but 20x worse. It usually resolves upon the onset of the crimson wave. But not all the time.

I have been struggling really badly with the deep depression, insomnia, and self-image issues brought on by my disorder.

Do you think we can see how the Batch handles their fem reader S/O struggling with this disorder specifically? And maybe, if it's not too much, a part 2 with some of our favorite regs?

Thank you so much!

Aloha my dear!

Oh, this is a heavy hitter, I know where you are coming from. So many people out there have no idea how freaking much this can affect someone's life. PMS is already a hard thing to deal with, but PMDD brings it to yet another really shitty level. Don't worry, I got you 😊

The Bad Batch x Afab!Reader HCs - Struggling With PMDD

Warnings: Mention of PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder) and its symptoms /Hurt/Comfort/Fluff

_______

AC: I'm using Techs Part first to introduce PMDD and its symptoms to those who might not know what it is. So don't be surprised about Tech's Part being longer than the others, there is a lot of information in there. So please read Tech's part, to understand what this is all about 😊

_______

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

_______

Tech

The first experiences he has with you in this context are frightening for him. Apart from the fact that you suddenly seem like a completely different person to him, he is really worried about you. But Tech wouldn't be Tech if he didn't get to the bottom of this.

It takes him a little while to find the right material.

Premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) is a much more severe form of premenstrual syndrome (PMS). It may affect women of childbearing age. It’s a severe and chronic medical condition that needs attention and treatment. Lifestyle changes and sometimes medicines can help manage symptoms.

The exact cause of PMDD is not known. It may be an abnormal reaction to normal hormone changes that happen with each menstrual cycle. The hormone changes can cause a serotonin deficiency. Serotonin is a substance found naturally in the brain and intestines that narrows blood vessels and can affect mood and cause physical symptoms.

What are the risk factors for PMDD?

While any woman can develop PMDD, the following may be at increased risk:

Women with a family history of PMS or PMDD  

Women with a personal or family history of depression, postpartum depression, or other mood disorders

Other possible risk factors include lower education and cigarette smoking

Talk with your healthcare provider for more information.

"Healthcare provider?" he mumbles softly between reading, "As if any of us have such a thing"

Symptoms of PMDD appear during the week before menstruation and end within a few days after your period starts. These symptoms disrupt daily living tasks. Symptoms of PMDD are so severe that women have trouble functioning at home, at work, and in relationships during this time. This is markedly different than other times during the month.

There is a chart with symptoms and he worriedly starts to read it.

The following are the most common symptoms of PMDD:

Psychological symptoms

Irritability

Nervousness

Lack of control

Agitation

Anger

Insomnia

Difficulty in concentrating

Depression

Severe fatigue

Anxiety

Confusion

Forgetfulness

Poor self-image

Paranoia

Emotional sensitivity

Crying spells

Moodiness

Trouble sleeping

Fluid retention

Swelling of the ankles, hands, and feet

Periodic weight gain

Diminished urine output

Breast fullness and pain

Respiratory problems

Allergies

Infections

Eye complaints

Vision changes

Eye infection

Gastrointestinal symptoms

Abdominal cramps

Bloating

Constipation

Nausea

Vomiting

Pelvic heaviness or pressure

Backache

Skin problems

Acne

Skin inflammation with itching

Aggravation of other skin disorders, including cold sores

Neurologic and vascular symptoms

Headache

Dizziness

Fainting

Numbness, prickling, tingling, or heightened sensitivity of arms and/or legs

Easy bruising

Heart palpitations

Muscle spasms

Other

Decreased coordination

Painful menstruation

Diminished sex drive

Appetite changes

Food cravings

Hot flashes

His brows are drawn together critically. With a heavy sigh, he says quietly to himself, "Oh boy…"

Tech makes it his business to see that you are examined by a proper doctor, given appropriate medication, and change your diet. He sometimes seems stern and matter-of-fact, but only when he notices you neglecting yourself. Tech also pampers you to counteract the psychological symptoms, with picnics, massages and the like.

Don't worry too much, Tech's got your back. He won't give up on you.

Hunter

His senses already tell him what connections exist with your condition. But of course he is not a doctor and therefore informs himself accordingly without your knowledge, Tech helps him. What he learns frightens him, Hunter is really worried, and he makes it his mission to make this time, these symptoms, easier for you. Apart from making sure you always have the medication you need at hand, he is also much more attentive and caring than usual during this time.

You can let yourself go and not have to worry about anything, Hunter takes everything in hand and has it under control. He is especially gentle and forgiving with you during this time. You mean a lot to him, and he does his absolute best to help you.

He doesn't argue with you when you get your moods, if you want to be alone he respects that, but keeps an eye on you from a safe distance, just in case.

Echo

This sweet man really throws himself into the task of helping you. Whether it's getting your medications, preparing food, massages, and running relaxing baths, Echo has it all covered.

With him by your side, you will want for nothing during this difficult time. He is also not easily scared away, he is as patient as he is stubborn. You don't have to go to the doctor alone, Echo will accompany you.

He organizes your medication, your diet and everything else you need, if you want. If you don't, you must tell him clearly, because Echo will automatically see his task in taking care of everything.

Wrecker

He is warm, and lively. Contrary to the expectations of most, he is also very sensitive and attentive. Of course, he does not miss the fact that something is wrong with you. Of course, he is worried and wants to help.

Talk to him honestly, try not to withdraw, and you will have a steadfast supporter and caretaker in Wrecker. He likes to spoil you, make sure you are taken care of and have your medication.

Wrecker is happy to adapt to you, you just need to communicate with him and let him know what you need. Taking care of you is very easy for him, he likes to do that. Knowing that he can make things easier for you is also good for him in this situation. So confide in him, there is absolutely no reason to pretend in front of him.

Crosshair

He is a bit more complicated at first. Of course, you are incredibly important to him, and he also has a certain empathy, but he often stands in his own way when it comes to emotional, interpersonal things.

At first, he can't really deal with it at all and is looking for some distance at this time. But in a small conversation between brothers, in which Hunter makes it clear to him that his behavior sooner or later can seriously damage your relationship, Crosshair first informs himself more precisely about the existing problem. Finally, he approaches you with the knowledge he has gathered and tries to discuss with you what you can do together as a couple, what he can do as your partner to make the whole thing easier for you.

You talk about medications, doctor visits, relaxation techniques, and home remedies to combat some symptoms. It doesn't take long for the two of you to work out a certain routine that you can both manage and that he can use to help you get through this time okay.

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

@chxpsi

@thebahdbitch

@nahoney22 @ladykatakuri

@darkangel4121

@ttzamara

@arctrooper69

@padawancat97

@agenteliix

@allsystemsblue

@palliateclaw

@either-madness-or-brilliance

@ortizshinkaroff

@andy-solo1

@hunterssecretrecipe

@heyitsaloy

@greaser-wolf

@extrahotpixels

@hated-by-me

@hunterxcrosshair

@malicemercy

@bebopsworld

@echos-girlfriend

@cpnt616

@dangraccoon

@jediknightjana

@pb-jellybeans

@antishadow2021

@sleepycreativewriter

@projectdreamwalker

@1vlouds

[muffinsin]

Sweet Divorce, dark Obsession, Love to come

Donna Beneviento x Daniela Dimitrescu

Donna sees her, and she knows; she must have her. She must claim what is hers.

Partly NSFW, Stalking, Manipulation, Top Donna, Bottom Daniela, Obsession, twisted intentions and falling in love quickly, a long post

Could probably be considered a part in a Stalker Donna x Dimitrescu series. Bela’s part can be found: here

Masterlists

Donna Beneviento is said to be many things.

A crafter of beautiful dolls, tiny clothing, and tools. A scientist and doctor, interested in exploring every little substance and every unique thing in detail. A botanist, collecting and using dozens of flowers and their pollen to her advantage. Now, those are all noble titles.

She also is a puppeteer, however, controlling and manipulating, shaping and guiding all to fit into the plot she has designed for them. She is an observer, quiet and appearing meek, and it helps her blend in with the shadows perfectly.

And she sees no reason not to blend in with them, to observe from afar, to study, to watch. She never allows an opportunity to pass by, but rarely recognizes opportunities as worth her time and effort.

This, is about to change, when a single, special woman catches her dark eye.

A regular day, a regular visit, nothing out of the ordinary, all is as usual. This is what Donna believed that day was going to be. After all, why wouldn’t she? After all, every previous visit has been just that. Arriving at the castle, a greeting by Alcina, an offering of tea and biscuits before Donna could get to work.

Never anything else. Never any disruptions, never anything out of the ordinary.

That was, until today, when it changes, when Donna sits in the room provided to her as usual, the cracked open window allowing fresh, warm air to fill the room.

Only this time, it’s different.

This time, she hears a cry. A cry so desperate, so pure, so helpless, so passionate. More follow, and more.

Her curiosity rises, she must know where this sound is originating from.

Donna rises from her desk, the thick, white dress from her lap momentarily forgotten. Alcina would have to show patience, there are more pressing matters at hand as of just now.

“What are you doing? This isn’t any of our business!”, Angie scolds, but Donna can’t find it within her to care. She wants to find out about this noise. She needs to discover its origin.

She stands slowly, her fingers grasping and opening the window fully in a fluid motion. Immediately, the sounds become a little louder. It’s a woman’s cry. A lover’s cry.

When looking below, she at last finds the source of such dainty cries. A woman indeed, of auburn hair, sunken to her knees at the castle’s gardens. She looks almost angelic, surrounded by flowers and white. The seamstress can’t make out the woman’s features, nor her face.

“Can we get back to our work now? I want to get home!”, Angie complains, but the brunette pays her no mind. No, returning to the manor, or working, is not an option now.

Her eyes wander to the white halo surrounding the creature- a large, expensive dress. She recognizes it, the puffy sleeves, the long skirt, the thin waist, the pale colour. Only is it now dirtied by the mud and dirt of the ground beneath and dark red smears of blood.

The woman keeps weeping. It’s a small part of Donna that feels pity for her, for whatever must have happened. Yet a larger, much larger part of her finds itself fascinated and drawn in by the sound.

She did not think she’d find such a pure and raw sound at Castle Dimitrescu.

No, all work has to wait. She needs to investigate.

Adjusting the vail over her head again, she quickly makes for the way down to the gardens. Passing staff pays her little attention, and her equally so to them. Walking in shadows, as she always does.

She finds the entrance to the gardens fast, despite just rarely spending time at the castle to fix one of the countess’s dresses in exchange for rare and precious fabrics and wood.

Only this time she is not after such things.

She walks outside, the sun hitting her eye even through the mourning garb. But she can’t bring herself to pay any mind to it this time, when she would normally grow annoyed.

Instead, her dark eye is set entirely on the beautiful woman on the ground in the middle of the field. Clutching a single rose to her, red, she weeps to herself.

She doesn’t even seem to notice her, until Donna kneels down right in front of her, her knees hovering over the dirty ground.

“L-Lady Beneviento”, the woman speaks. Her voice is soft, her lips even more so. Donna finds herself staring at the woman in front of her. Up this close, she can make out her features properly.

Her auburn hair, slightly sticky and messy with blood, some sticking to her wet cheeks, the rest ascending down her back and shoulders.

Strong, golden eyes, wide and beautifully teary, almost gleaming in the sunlight. Donna finds herself lost in them easily.

A button nose, soft as the rest of the woman, a little red and wet from her endless crying.

Her plump lips. Unpainted, but smeared with blood and tears. Her cheeks are equally wet and sticky with tried and wet tears, some remaining makeup is smeared against them. Donna admires the shape of them, the beautiful tear streaks they created.

What catches her eye though is the black rose tattooed on the woman’s forehead. This beautiful creature is no mere maid, no staff member, no prisoner escaped from the infamous Dimitrescu dungeon, but one of the countess’s daughters herself.

Donna searches her mind for an answer to her own questions. Daniela, was it not? She never officially met the three sisters, only ever heard Alcina speak so very fondly of them.

Ah, but she remembers the stories about Daniela, the youngest of the three. How often she would fall in love and get her precious little heart broken. It seems, this is a similar situation.

Daniela watches silently, her teary eyes wide, her bottom lip quivering a little.

“La-Lady Beneviento”, she greets again, her voice shaky and cracking from the tears that still run down her soft and round cheeks.

Never before has she seen such a marvellous creature.

Donna understands all in an instant.

She must know more of her.

She must get to know her.

She must have her.

Her hand reaches out, icy cold, strong fingers coming up to grasp Daniela’s chin. The woman doesn’t struggle against her hold in the slightest, instead merely keeps on whimpering a little.

Donna eyes the flower clutched in her hand, her mind burning with envy. Surely, this must be for someone else. Surely, someone else has hurt this beautiful creature.

Possessively, almost, she extends her other arm and snatches the flower from the auburn haired woman. Daniela gasps sweetly at the quick movement and for a moment Donna hears the flies she is said to be made of buzz almost aggressively before they calm.

The rose is tossed aside, leaving the younger woman’s hand slightly bloodied, but empty.

Instead, Donna plucks one of the pink roses from the ground.

Daniela’s cries have quieted down a little, her attention turned to the Lord in front of her. Never has she met a Lord of the village, save for Alcina of course.

She feels intimidated and a fluttery feeling in her stomach all the same. Despite having her heart broken mere hours ago, her lover, her fiancée, murdered by her sister after an unsuccessful attempt of escape, she already feels her heart sing again.

Perhaps, this is a sign? Daniela resists the urge to shake her head. No, Mother keeps telling her, she falls too fast. No, Bela keeps reminding her, she’s naive, she’s young, she’s gullible. She keeps falling for the wrong people. No, for Cassandra insists Daniela is too clouded by the bubble of false promises and expectations from fantasy books to ever hold a proper relationship.

And still, she feels a flutter at her chest, being this close to the Lord. She feels lightheaded almost, like a foolish, young maid again, this close to the older woman, with her fingers grasping her chin and keeping her eyes set on her.

Only, she wishes she could see the face behind the veil. She wonders how the woman looks below it, what features she is hiding.

Despite her tears, her face burns bright pink and warm when the silent woman raises the rose and plucks each thorn from it. She then raises it to Daniela’s face, and she shivers at the unfamiliar, but welcomed touch when the flower is set behind her ear.

She hears the doll maker’s heart beat quietly beneath her chest, a wild contrast to her own, fast heartbeat.

Donna smirks underneath the veil. Daniela is proving very cooperative. She watches golden eyes flicker across her, searching for her face, over and over again. She might just grant the poor thing a look sometime in the future.

As her hand retracts, the brunette’s fingers brush lightly against the Dimitrescu’s hair. Soft, again, and warm from the sun hitting it for the past hour or so.

Donna smiles again. Yes, she must have her.

After all, who would make a better doll for her than Daniela Dimitrescu?

In the days to come, Donna finds herself at the castle increasingly more often.

While sometimes she lets Alcina know of this, at other times she merely sticks to herself, unnoticed, invisible almost. After all, she rarely finds herself in the company of the Lady of the house, nor her daughters, who she has found out spend their days out hunting.

All, except little Daniela, who is usually away for half a day before retreating to the library; a routine Donna has been able to see and figure out within the first week.

She watches from afar most of the time.

When hunting, Donna likes to create beautiful illusions of the thickest, quickest, healthiest animals. A perfect prey. A perfect trap. Of course, Daniela adapts to this eagerly, changing her hunting grounds and gradually pushing more into Donna’s territory, while rarely staying within Castle grounds.

During the time her doll is out, hunting whatever catches her eye, Donna reaches out using her pollen.

She fills her love’s mind with her scent and the thoughts of her, until the poor thing is too distracted and flustered to even hit her prey with a simple attack of her sickle.

This usually means Daniela is left panting and blushing wildly, oblivious as to why her head is full of the thought of the Lord and her scent is strong as though she had smelled it a thousand times over.

Sometimes, Donna gets lucky. Sometimes, her pollen has an almost aphrodisiac-like effect on her doll.

Then, she watches hungrily from afar as Daniela neglects whatever creature she was chasing in order to lean back against a tree, hike up her dress and shove her fingers in her underwear.

Such as she is doing today, with her head thrown back and quiet moans and whimpers passing soft lips.

Donna almost feels it, almost smells it. She considers helping her sweet doll out already as she is helplessly and clumsily rutting against her own fingers. But still, no matter how clumsy and careful Daniela is, her sharp nails take away a lot of the fun and barely help with the brimming heat and wetness between her thighs.

Ah, but Donna could to better. Being the seamstress that she is, she is more than skilled enough with her fingers to bring her sweet redhead to ecstasy over and over again.

She begins to crave Daniela’s moans. Her pollen reaches out a little more, just enough for her to slip inside the woman’s mind unnoticed.

She groans lowly under her breath. She almost feels the other woman’s need for pleasure and release. Instead of tending to it just yet, she opts for adding more to it.

Daniela whines and moans as images of the Lord flicker across her mind. Has she been thinking of her? She can’t recall, and doesn’t care either. She must have, if it’s in her mind, after all.

More and more, day after day after day, Donna fills more and more of her doll’s mind with images of her and her scent.

Daniela is completely used to it. She no longer picks up when Donna is near, too accustomed to the smell being around her at all times. And with her doll prepared, Donna is ready to make her moves.

She moves silently through the castle, her heart pounding a little. In her hand she grasps a basket, in the other her little doll companion’s hand. Every little fibre in her body calls to her, beckons her closer, urges her to keep going.

“What are we doing here?”, Angie asks. Was her voice not only in the doll maker’s mind, she would have hushed her companion.

With her friend in such a state, it’s almost as if the doll represents the small, sane part left of them. Alas, Donna no longer cares for sanity. She knows exactly what she wants and craves. What she needs to have.

“Don’t you think this is going too far? Let’s go home! They’ll catch us!”, Angie pleads. Yet, when the brunette woman only keeps walking, she follows behind quietly.

She stops only when she finds what she was looking for; a door, dark brown, with a small D engraved in gold in the middle of it.

Cautiously, she opens it. She’s completely quiet, but her breath quickens and an excited, almost sinister smile crosses her lips for a mere moment as she steps into the warm room.

Inside, she finds Daniela, sleeping peacefully. The beautiful creature is tucked beneath heavy, dark red sheets and surrounded by more pillows than Donna ever imagined someone had.

She trails her fingertips across the satin covers of the blanket. Daniela doesn’t even stir.

If she notices the new presence and scent in her room, she doesn’t give it much thought. After all, Donna is always with her. And there is no telling when she truly is next to her, and when she merely occupies her mind.

With each passing day Donna’s obsession grows, and with each Daniela’s love and dependance does, too.

Every little maid that caught her attention in this time was released and lost in the woods, where their pollen induced state led to their ultimate demise. Of course, Daniela doesn’t quite know this. Of course, even Alcina does not understand this little secret of Donna’s.

Of course, though, she is always there, always around, to comfort her doll when she cries so sweetly after losing another. And with every time the thought of Donna and the feel of warm caresses in her mind leave Daniela more and more smitten. Despite rarely having seen her since their first encounter, she feels already incredibly drawn to the older woman.

Donna smiles as the back of her fingers brush over her beautiful doll’s soft cheeks. She sleeps peacefully, content, perhaps even unaware of the actions and presences around her.

She moves from the bed, then. Crossing to her closet, she begins picking bits and pieces of clothing. Some dresses, some underwear, some stockings that aren’t in top shape anymore.

Instead, she gently takes the folded clothings from the basket and replaces the missing ones. Summer dresses are replaced by ones crafted by Donna herself, some representing house Beneviento subtly in their design and threads, some less subtly, such as pieces which have the very crest snitched into the waist piece.

She puts the taken clothing into her basket, ignoring the growing excitement in her chest. Only a little more, before she could claim her..

She steps closer to the bed again, her fingertips gliding across Daniela’s exposed shoulder before pulling something from the basket yet again. A flower, this time, a dark purple.

“Do as I say”, she commands as she hands the flower to her doll companion. Although sighing, somewhat implying this can’t possibly be okay, Angie submits to the command and crushes the large petals directly under the sleeping woman’s bed.

Donna watches, enhanced, eagerly, as the pollen seems to rise. She holds her hand out in front of her, her eye closing.

She sees nothingness at first, then an image clears. Daniela, in her grace, skipping across a field and swarming in the sun with her sisters close behind her. A beautiful dream.

She sneaks into it, a woman standing in the fields. Daniela finds her in an instant, a wide smile on her lips. Yet, she gasps when suddenly clouds begin covering the sun and both her older sisters fade away. Still, her eyes are trained only on the dollmaker.

Donna moves as though in a blink, suddenly appearing behind the auburn haired woman. Her hands slide across her thighs, up to her hips. Daniela moans softly, even as her clothing begins to feel too tight on her.

She allows the woman to undress her, smooth, silky skin revealed more and more.

Donna groans. She yearns to reach out, to truly feel her soon-to-be lover.

Daniela moans softly as her clothing falls to the floor, the high grass tickling at her hips. She almost feels high, unaware of the sweet bliss coming only in form of a dream. She doesn’t question the many hands, some ghostly, two Donna’s, on her.

She feels them at her hips, her thighs. She moans breathily when they cup her large breasts and squeeze, two ghostly fingers pulling at her sensitive nipples.

Another pair slides between her legs, across her smooth thighs. Donna’s real hands, she notes dreamily.

With her head thrown back, Daniela sighs softly, then, a loud moan is pulled from her when the fingers push inside of her. She feels them, deep in, curling and pushing. Inside, across her clit, the palm of her lover’s hand smearing wetness all over her southern parts.

Donna feels her body tighten and her chest and pussy throb with want. She watches Daniela squirm on the bed, trapped, not unwillingly even, in her beautiful dream, constructed by her lover. She squirms and moans softly in her sleep. She watches as her hips raise and rock gently against the covers.

Daniela’s breathing turns faster, more desperate. The wind blows lightly against her face, somewhat helping her cool down even as her body grows hotter and hotter.

She whimpers and moans, slurry phrases and pleads passing soft lips the closer she gets. She feels it, the bubbly, light feeling, the rising pleasure.

She feels just how close she is. And then;

Donna pulls from the connection, a self satisfied smile passing from her lips as the woman whispers on the bed and a single, desperate tear runs down her cheek.

And as such, desperation and obsession, dependency and yearning rises and multiplies within Daniela for a final time…

Donna smirks confidently underneath her vail as she walks down the castle halls. She is unseen by most, bowed to by others. She could not care less about them, though.

She strides down the hall, then, upon arriving at the door with the golden D engraved on it, she opens it slowly.

As expected, Daniela’s eyes immediately flicker to her.

“Lady Beneviento”, she whispers, greets.

Donna smirks a little under the veil. She feels the power of her pollen all around the room. It has engulfed her little doll completely.

“A formal greeting to a Lord of the village starts with a bow”, she states, using the newly created bond to speak the command right within the other woman’s mind, rather than using her lips to convey the words.

Immediately, Daniela bends a little, her foot stepping forwards in a polite and almost regal bow.

“Lower”

Again, her darling Daniela follows her command in an instant. She bows lower, her head raised enough for golden eyes to meet Donna’s veiled face.

She whimpers lowly when a cool hand comes down to her chin. Donna cups her lower face gently, at first, then two fingers trap Daniela’s chin between them firmly.

She squirms in place, her entire body and all her flies buzzing, with electricity almost. She feels ready for the taking, ready to be reaped by her one and only love. She knows, it must be Lady Beneviento.

“Watch, my little doll”, Donna husks seductively. Daniela watches eagerly, her breath catching in her throat when one of Donna’s hands comes up and the veil is pulled up and left discarded on the small dresser by the door.

She feels almost lightheaded, both from the woman’s low and deep voice and the features of her face. A mix of harsh and soft curves, a dark eye, the other disfigured and scarred by the cadou.

She feels herself be pulled in closer already. This time, despite her shock, she needs to command or reminder to speak.

“You’re magnificent”, Daniela coos breathlessly. She received a sly smirk in return, then gasps upon feeling the same ghostly hands come up behind her.

Her face burns as she feels them grasp the hem of her nightdress and pull it up, revealing dark panties that leave little to imagination.

“I had a feeling you would show up…”, Daniela whispers shyly, her golden eyes, despite her shyness, set right on her lover:

“Strip, and kneel, little doll”, comes the Lord’s next command.

Again, Daniela does so eager and fast. She slides the panties down her smooth legs and steps out of them, then fully takes off the dress. She feels the ghostly pair of hands slide across her skin, groping here and there and making her jump.

She feels them tear apart her stockings as she takes off her bra and steps out of both the moment they fall to the floor around her.

Then, she kneels. She feels the pair of hands grip at her wrists and pull them behind her back, until the woman looks perfectly submissive for the older woman.

With her arms behind her back, Daniela can only stare and breathe heavily as Donna’s dress is lifted and comes off in a fluid, slow motion. Creamy, pale skin is revealed, a black garter belt and equally black panties, and a matching bra that comes off within seconds as well.

The younger woman’s mouth waters as she watches the panties fall to the floor. Then, suddenly, Donna takes a hold of her jaw and pulls her head forwards. She whimpers, her heartbeat quickening.

“Are you going to serve me, doll?”

Daniela shivers at the voice in her head, and nods fast.

Spoken like a question, it is more of a demand, really. A demand Daniela is all too happy to fulfill.

“Yes, my love!”, she insists.

In an instant, she feels the ghostly fingers wrap tighter around her wrists and shove her forwards. Her hair is gripped by her lover’s hand, just tight enough for her to be held in place. Her nose brushes up against Donna’s clit and her raw scent floods her senses.

Immediately, she gets to work. She moans against the other woman’s skin as she laps at every bit of wetness of Donna’s soaked pussy.

She feels, in return, how soft ghostly fingers slide against her slit and dip in a little. Never enough to push into her, just barely enough to give her a taste of pleasure.

An unspoken promise of a reward.

She moves her lips and tongue eagerly, Donna’s quiet moans fuelling her. The sweet taste of her arousal almost feeds into her efforts and the heat between her legs, as well as the slick wetness gathering there.

“Keep going, suck on my clit, my darling”

Daniela moans at the now familiar voice in her head, as well as the gentle pull of her hair to have her just where Donna wants her.

She wraps her lips around her pussy and folds and slides her tongue against and across her lover’s clit repeatedly, each time growing hungrier and more desperate.

She’s panting and rolling her hips down and against the pair of hands between her legs sliding against her slit and groping her ass and thighs shamelessly.

And Donna? She’s experiencing what can only be described as sweet ecstasy. Her eye is lidded when she glances down at what is hers and hers alone, the beautiful woman squirming and moaning on her knees, flushed face hidden between her thighs, bright pink pussy lips teased as she sucks on Donna’s dusty pink ones.

To some extend, she feels an extra set of thrills from taking the woman like this, from snatching her right underneath her family’s nose. No, Daniela may be born into house Dimitrescu, but she is of house Beneviento, now, Donna will see to it.

Her fingers tighten their grip on the younger woman’s auburn hair as she feels herself be brought closer to her orgasm.

A few more seconds, more hushed moans and groans, gasps and breathless whimpers even, and Daniela feels the woman cum just when her tongue pushes into her.

She is pulled up mere moments later, the hand sliding down and gripping at her neck guiding her to her tiptoes for Donna’s lips to come against her own.

“Good Girl”

Daniela moans at the low voice whispering in her mind. The groping touches only add to her desperation and want.

She is guided backwards, her arms and hands so flush against her back one could think they are tied or still held there by the phantom hands.

Donna smirks at this as she sits down on the soft, red mattress. Naturally, her sweet Daniela follows.

She allows the woman’s hands and phantom hands to guide her, her lips parted and allowing gentle moans and heavy breaths to pass by as she is set on Donna’s smooth, strong thigh.

She leans forwards eagerly, her lips hungrily pushing against soft unpainted ones. Both women moan gently. This close, both feel each other’s skin and smell one another’s scent. Daniela feels utterly consumed by the doll maker’s scent and the pollen around her, luring her closer and closer and creating more wetness between her thighs. Donna, in turn, feels more and more obsessed the more time she spends in such proximity to her doll. She craves her, can never be too close to her.

“Spread your legs. I wish to feel you”, she whispers against the younger woman’s ear. Again, her good girl obeys without hesitation.

She spreads her thighs and hovers just above Donna’s.

“Hha- A-Ah!”, she mewls upon feeling two fingers snake between her pussy lips and push inside. No virgin, certainly, but nonetheless the length of Donna’s fingers surprises the redhead.

She arches her back and grips her lover’s shoulders tightly, her lips parting wider and her moans and gasps increasing in volume when the fingers are thrust in and out of her at their full length.

“My lo-love!”, she cries out. She commands her arms to move and her hands to reach down at the fast pace, yet it’s as if they are glued to her back. She moans and rocks her hips, helpless to the overwhelming pleasure bestowed upon her.

Never has she had a maid this deep in her, this skilled with her fingers. Never have her nails been trimmed enough for her to curl them in herself or push them in properly without squeaking at the pain and damage they caused to her insides.

Donna, though? Yes. Lady Beneviento has no such problems. She easily finds and targets the most sensitive spots inside of her doll, with her G Spot being the one focused on the most.

Poor Daniela is a moaning, rocking, squirming and shivering mess. Her back arched and head thrown back, she can only rock her hips against the hand and thigh offered to her to attempt to regain some control.

“My beautiful doll”

“What a sight for sore eyes you are”

“You feel utterly soft on your insides, my little Daniela”

“At last, I am to claim you”

Daniela shrieks as the fingers of one ghostly hand shove between her lips. She feels her own wetness smear against the inside of her mouth and the back of her throat, then shrieks as another forces her flush against her lover.

Suddenly, the pollen surrounding her begins to burn. Daniela moans and cries at both the pleasure and pain given and forced upon her. She feels, slowly, how the burning pollen digs into the soft skin of her back, a brand made forever in the shape of the Beneviento house sigil.

Her first orgasm comes fast, even before the branding is completed. Tears of pleasure, happiness, pain and overstimulation mix with those caused by her constant gagging on the fingers down her throat, and each reflects in Donna’s dark eye.

The woman watches hungrily as Daniela’s wet pussy swallows a third finger and takes it inside, her body growing weaker and weaker, shivering and trembling on her lap. And yet, she keeps begging for more, endures the pain on her backside with the reminder that it shall mark her as Donna’s.

And such, Daniela comes again, her body trembling and caught by phantom hands and real ones alike.

Her body lays weak against her lover and her back stings and burns even as the pollen have let up. Yet, a large smile is set on her lips.

“I love you”, she coos dreamily. Donna’s smile widens. She nearly lets on about the darkness within her. Of course, her naive little Daniela believes to be head over heels in love. After all; her Mother kept telling her, she falls too fast. And her protective eldest sister, Bela, kept reminding her sister, she’s naive, she’s young, she’s gullible. She keeps falling for the wrong people. And of course, Cassandra, who would always insist Daniela is too clouded by the bubble of false promises and expectations from fantasy books to ever hold a proper relationship.

Now, Donna will ensure all this is only reserved for her.

With a smile on her lips, she kisses Daniela’s soft lips again, engulfing both of them in shadows.

[alaskan-wallflower]

Can you do sick Ponyboy headcanons, like with a stomach bug? Ik you did Soda recently <33

yessss these are my FAVORITES (i made a reply yesterday and it got deleted fml

Pony’s kinda used to stomachaches and things of that nature because he’s just always stressed, doesn’t drink enough water, never eats and also the aspirin thing

He’s basically a walking stomachache at that point, but they’re never bad enough to the point he gets actually sick-he’s got a lot of discomfort though

If he has a genuine stomach bug though he’s out for the count, like he always thinks his appendix burst or something with how intense the pain can be

I feel like Pony has a very very very vocal stomach though…like it’s always making embarrassing noises (like sometimes it keeps Soda up at night 😭)

That being said, Soda’s the only one who can tell the difference between when Pony has a genuine stomachache and when he’s hungry

Darry assumes the stomach pain is from hunger, like it always is, so he just makes Pony eat a pretty hefty breakfast and just sends him off

Pony is NOT having a good time in class either like he’s just got his head down and just prays the day will go faster

Its not until lunch that anything really happens because the smell of the cafeteria just makes it so so so much worse

He probably tried to gf into the school from the outside but almost got attacked by some socs and he throws up because they wouldn’t let him leave

He just feels so mortified because not only did he throw up on some soc guys but he also threw up in front of what felt like the entire school

Two Bit took him home evacsue Steve had work after school and couldn’t help take care of Pony

Two literally smuggled him out of the building as if he were some sort of illegal substance lmfao

Pony bets Two not to call Darry or Soda tho because he doesn’t wanna be a burden and he also doesn’t want Darry to get mad at him (he’d never get mad at Pony, Pony just has low self esteem and always assumes the worst)

Two actually is pretty okay at caring for people-I mean, he’s got a little sister and he says “I’m a latch key kid” in the musical which makes me think his parents aren’t in the picture…..so take that as you wish

He did ty feeding Pony chocolate cake tho and then wondered why he threw up

Steve tells Soda tho and Soda tells Darry who of course is VERY concerned and feels VERY bad because he made Pony go to school sick

Pony doesn’t blame him though since he has frequent stomachaches and he himself had assumed the same until he started feeling sick

Pony wakes up in Darry’s arms- he doesn’t wake up until a few hours later and Darry just kisses his forehead and apologizes for bit believing him

Soda gets home and he’s real concerned too and immediately starts barraging Pony with questions and trying to inspect him but Darry tells him to lay off

Pony def tries drinking Pepsi as a way to burp up the pressure but Darry makes him take medicine instead and opts for letting Pony have sparkling water instead to get ACTUAL fluids in him

He’s sick for a few days but he’s okay in the end!

hope this is okay!!

[obm-avenquire]

devildom ambience - solomon’s room

•  The clocks are almost never synced up. You have no idea how he manages to keep track of them all, each unlabelled and seemingly always operating on a different time, repurposed as stop watches and timers and then back to keeping track of time zones across the realms.

• His room smells a little different every time you visit. There's always a faint smoky undertone, mixed with parchment and the old yellowing books that fill his bookshelves. Still, it's almost always overshadowed with whatever chemical he played with last - thankfully he keeps the more unpleasant and dangerous ones (sulphur, mercury, the hundreds of unnamed plants and substances he makes use of-) contained, both out of consideration for you and to Simeon who despairs at the mess and clutter that no amount of cleaning is ever enough for.

•  You run one hand across the deep button tufted leather, sleek and red, and less comfortable to sit on than you had initially expected. Not uncomfortable, per say, but there's a grounded firmness only found in unused furniture. (Solomon later confesses later that you are, in fact, the only one to really use it. Solomon is rarely one to rest, and he'd picked whatever he thought might seem welcoming for guests. He doesn't get many.)

•  Crackling fire, bubbling, simmering liquids, concentrated fluids that drip-    drip-    drip-     down into empty glass.

• He lets you help, sometimes, when he can trust that he can keep you safe, guiding you through the specifics bit by bit, shaving thin curls of some gnarled root into cauldrons, cutting up plants and peeling rough skin off strange fruits. It's an arduous and particular process, and Solomon ever-lighthearted, becomes remarkably critical, picking and choosing at each ingredient and transferring each piece to its proper place.

•  He always has something new to show you, even when he invites you to hideaway in his room from everyone else provided you 'don't expect him to be a good host', he just can't help but get...distracted. Boyish, eager for feedback and admittedly needy, he can only spend so much time tinkering before he feels the need to show off just a little. Once, silently tapping your shoulder to show you dried, ashy seed pod heads on twirled stalks, pouring bright blue kernels into the mortar. He picks up the pestle - just as old and well-loved as its partner - and carefully, carefully, splitting the seed in two, and you watch as it crackles and pops, keening like a firework as it sputters multicoloured sparks and flickers of light.

•  They'd offered to soundproof his room when he'd first joined - an offer he appreciated, but not one he ever accepted. The artificial silence that came with that sort of thing gave him headaches, he'd said. Listening faintly through the walls of the Purgatory Hall, you can't help but just...find it more homely. Footsteps in the hallway, students bickering outside the darkened windows, little things like that, and - on days where you're lucky - faint singing. His temporary home is alive.

•  He shows you pointed crystal growths along the shed skins of strange creatures, glass-like teeth from the maws of sand dragons and the green, moss tangled furs of rain deers. Clay and ochre and blood and ichor, though he spares you his most unpleasant ingredients, he can't help but want to revel in sharing it with you, ever fascinated by the unending resource of learning, creation without exchange, or loss.

[phyrexian-phucker]

So o just stumbled on this and I have no clue what it is other than being incredibly hot so could you please explain? I’ve just come from some human domestication guide and this popped up and idk how related it is but I’m intrigued if you can explain or send me some I places that I can find the info that would be fantastic

thank you very much and have a lovely day!!

Welcome!

This is a primarily TF kink blog focused on the Phyrexians, a type of creature from Magic: the Gathering. Very briefly, they are biomechanical hybrid people (though non-sapient life very much can be Phyrexianized, it's outside the scope of this explanation) that can turn non-Phyrexian creatures into more Phyrexians, through a process called compleation. They do this with the use of their reproductive/mnemonic bodily fluid, glistening oil. (Notably, the canon states that ALL bodily fluids of compleated organisms are replaced by glistening oil. I take that to its logical conclusion here.)

Exposure to glistening oil initially causes a condition called phyresis, which is the slow, infectious process of becoming more and more Phyrexian. (Metal grows out of you, you start crying black oil tears, etc. That's the process this post expands on.) This is usually concluded by a highly invasive surgical procedure that comprehensively augments and replaces the body parts of the subject with Phyrexian ones, the compleation itself. Newly compleated Phyrexians are often designed and intended for a specific purpose, determined by the one who performs the procedure. In general, though, Phyrexian body parts are very resilient and modular, easily changeable as long as one has access to replacements.

Notably, phyresis and compleation are not purely physical processes. The oil is a mind-altering substance, and the dominant ideas contained within it--which it passes on to anyone infected--usually concern the overarching Phyrexian religion and imperative to spread Phyrexia across the Multiverse. In the most recent incarnation of Phyrexia, this includes loyalty to the self-proclaimed Mother of Machines, Elesh Norn. She is dominant, haughty, arrogant, cruel, and a big fan of yonic imagery. Make of that what you will. She is also 12 feet tall, titanically strong, and forces people to worship her, sometimes by shoving them into walls.

So as a result, those who find their bodies changed by phyresis often also find their minds changing to crave and desire Phyrexia, and yearn to spread its glory by infecting others. (Disclaimer: Phyrexians are still very much sapient and free-willed people, and being Phyrexian by no means requires this blind loyalty. There are vast numbers of freedom fighter Phyrexians who oppose Norn's regime, also beyond the scope of this explanation.)

Some kinks that Phyrexians play in the space of include: corruption, transformation, body horror, surgery, mind control, hypnosis, cum/blood play, femdom, religion/worship kink. Not an exhaustive list--there is so much going on in this setting. This blog focuses on the first four but it's hard not to at least touch on the others occasionally due to the setting's nature.

For learning more, I compiled a list of some resources for a previous similar ask here.

Enjoy your stay >:)

[y-rhywbeth2]

For the murder-inclined types: Poisons

(tbh, I think some of these would have medical applications too...)

Poisons, officially classified by the law, are substances considered too dangerous to be permitted either because of past use or because they only exist to injure and kill (certain drugs may be classified as poisons in some realms and cities). All poisons are illegal to produce, sell, possess and use, and they can be difficult to acquire if you don't know where to go. Followers of Talona are often a good source.

-

Calad An opaque golden liquid created from the cranial fluids of various creatures, including basilisks. Attacks the victim's vision and hearing, leaving them disoriented and in agony as the poison begins corroding their internal organs.

Thardynyn An odourless translucent yellow liquid that tastes of strawberries. Distilled from birds' blood, fish scales and wine (other alcohols may be substituted). Thardynyn causes seizures when it makes contact with the skin.

Horel A green liquid distilled from lilypad-like plants called oxhrel or "halfling's hand" and powdered horseradish. Harmless to touch and ingest, but it causes violent seizures if it enters the bloodstream.

Imvris A paralytic. Clear, with a very faint purple-tinge. Smells "peppery" and floral due to being distilled from the crushed petals of twelve types of rainforest flowers (so look at ingredients imported from Chult, I guess) Imvris is versatile: it can be absorbed through the skin, which leaves them momentarily paralysed before dissipating within the hour, but it works with greatest efficiency when ingested.

Vampire blood Tricky to use, especially because the vampire needs to be alive for its blood to contain magical properties and they're not very receptive to being on the other side of a blood donation as a rule. Vampire blood appears much the same as humanoid blood at first glance, but has a golden sheen when held up to allow light to pass through it. It may be caustic to touch or ingest (though the properties of vampire blood is highly unpredictable, and some vampires have blood with other random effects, some of which may also function as poisons of different effects).

Dragonbane Bright blue and opaque, the poison is brewed using the blood of three different dragons. Obviously, due to the difficulty of acquiring the ingredients, the poison is rarely seen and more of a legend. Used on most creatures the toxin will only cause wracking pain and a little distress to the organs, but its main targets are dragons (possibly dragonkin?), upon whom it becomes a fast-acting deadly neurotoxin that prevents them from breathing.

Swiftsleep A gummy liquid that looks like ale and smells like citrus. It's a very easily aquired and common poison created from crushed flies and tree beetles mixed into the sap of duskwood trees. As the name implies, when injected into the bloodstream the victim drops almost immediately into a deep sleep.

Drow Sleep Poison A similar poison to swiftsleep, though far more potent. It's highly sought after by surfacers, however it needs to be carefully sealed and kept out of the sunlight or it loses its effect. It takes the form of a heavy thick black liquid, like molasses in texture. Dark elves coat their darts and javelins in it. When entering the bloodstream it causes damage to the internal organs and quickly causes the victim to fall into a brief coma which nobody can awaken them from without use of a neutralise poison spell. It also causes damage if it gets into the eyes, nose or mouth, and drow like to make nail varnish out of it. Notably it is not effective on dark elves, who have gone out of their way to engineer a resistance to it Minthara-poisoning-her-lover-while-they-sleep-style.

Sindari Made from herb native to Thay: when ingested the poison is slow acting, showing no effects for 24-hours, at which point the victim begins to experience violent seizures which will rapidly cause painful death.

Jesseret A lethal poison in the form of a purple powder with a strong peppery flavour, named after the rogue who invented it.

Snow Adder Venom The snake's venom causes paralysis and is cold enough to inflict frostbite while in the bloodstream.

Srindym An old elven poison, to which the elves themselves are immune and half-elves are resistant (including drow and half-drow), and which was created aeons ago by individuals and organisations to use against "lesser races". It's a nightmare to find and insanely expensive when you can get it. The Tel'Quessir don't enjoy reminders of their less pleasant side; people who can make it are rare, secret caches are carefully hidden. It's a neurotoxin crafted from elven blood and several plant-based ingredients, mixed under the moonlight and enchanted with several spells. Srindrym is versatile: the victim can be poisoned through ingestion, dermal absorption or by getting it directly into the bloodstream. It causes delirium, seizures and loss of consciousness. It's possible to develop a resistance to the substance over time though.

Belarris An oily black mixture of wyvern blood, two types of tree bark, and six plant saps. It's one of the few poisons that can be used to lace uncooked food without losing potency in the cooking process. A fast acting poison that causes rapid overwhelming fatigue almost immediately after entering the system and causes them to lose consciousness for several minutes.

Lorbral Fully named lorbralinth, the poison is crafted from the saliva of sixteen different monsters (including the basilisk, again). It's clear, has an oily texture, and a sweet smell. Fast acting but brief in effect: If it enters the bloodstream, be that from a coated weapon or ingestion, the victim is debilitated by severe fevers and chills.

Bhaalspawn Blood Basically impossible to acquire due to both the severe scarcity of the Children of Bhaal and their tendency towards horribly murdering people who pick fights with them or try and take their blood; some Bhaalspawn have been known to have blood that - upon entering a human[oid]'s bloodstream, usually applied by coating a weapon - causes extreme fatigue and weakness, worsening until the victim falls into a coma and wastes away into death. The blood may appear normal, or be black and viscous.

[evolutionsvoid]

There was a time when the ancient dragons and the Church of Divine Wealth were not at odds. When the two coexisted and learned much from one another. The dragons knew well to gain favor with the highest power in the land, even if the Ichor they worshiped had brought their age of Eitr to ruin. For the Church, the dragons were still potent creatures and held sway in some regions of the world. To hold them as allies was wise, and so their scripture subtly bent to allow these ancient beings to fit. Though the Church had opposed many other cultures and religions, it would seem at least the dragons would find sanctuary within it. But then the Betrayal occurred, and on one fateful night, a swarm of dragons laid siege to the holy city. From out of nowhere, their Primal Flame fell upon the divine capital, the heart of the Church itself. Much death and ruin came from their treason, but that would include the dragons themselves. The Church and its incredible power fought back, and carved through the attacking dragons. In time, they were forced to retreat, having failed to reduce the city to ash. From that day forth, the dragons were labeled blasphemous and enemies of the Church, and so the dragon hunts began. Man, beast and construct marched forth to slay these ancient reptiles, and soon their numbers plummeted from the heavens above. All dragons, old and new, faced the swords, spears and humors, with no hesitation or mercy. Dozens of the great dragons were slain, and their weaker brethren and lesser offspring fell in greater numbers. What ancient dragons survived these assaults were quick to flee, spiriting themselves away to parts unknown. To this day, the dragons are seen as foes and the order is to kill them on sight. Though the hunt has greatly slowed since their prey has vanished, the many massive corpses that litter the land show its glory days.

Many dragons perished in these hunts, and their carcasses have been left as a symbol of the Church's victory and a warning to those who would dare think of crossing them. What was once a beast of pride and power, now an abandoned corpse that has slowly been stripped by time and scavengers. The Church took what pieces it wanted, and what remained was eagerly picked over by looters and commoners in search of potent materials and flashy trophies. While scale, tooth, claw and horn were quick to vanish in the grasp of greedy hands, there is one substance many shied away from: the vast quantities of Eitr that leaked from their wounds. The primal fluid is their blood, and all other creatures know it to be toxic and dangerous. After the death of a few careless looters and scavengers, folk learned to give it a wide berth. Best let it seep into the earth and vanish, a fitting fate for this has-been liquid. But it would seem it would not go so quietly...

To the many men and beasts of these lands, Eitr is toxic and can quickly lead to death if not properly handled or cleansed. Plenty of animal carcasses can be seen near sights of fallen dragons, where the foolish critters dared tread on something primordial and angry. But this is not the fate for all, as it appears that Eitr can have another property in the right circumstances. Some have consumed it and survived, but wind up being permanently changed from the encounter. There is something mutagenic within the fluid, and when granted to the right being, it results in something powerful, and horrific.

Rising from these pools are the primal beasts, monstrosities born from this primordial soup. They are hybrids of humor and Eitr, given a new terrifying form and life. They were once simple creatures, but now have warped into abominations of great power and danger. They cause havoc wherever they go, bringing destruction to ecosystems and towns. To the followers of the Church, these monstrosities are proof of the insidious nature of dragon and Eitr. See what is born from their tainted blood!

The Primal Hydra is a terrible beast that comes from a jellyfish that was mutated by the Eitr. Its size is great, and its weight immense. No longer can they float upon the air, but instead slither and crawl across the earth. Their many tendrils have grown sharp beaks, which snap and stab at any who get within reach. Their "maws" spew yellowflame, though sharp eyes can see a hint of Primal Flame within them, evidence of the Eitr that birthed them. They burn and bite everything, eventually dragging it towards its true mouth, which greedily devours flesh and fluid. Its body is powered up by the mutation, and thus heals rapidly from any injury. Lopping off a tendril head will only lead to another being born a minute later. If one wishes to slay a Primal Hydra, they must do so with great speed and no hesitation. Those who fail to do so will be reduced to ash, torn to shreds or smothered under its great bulk.

While it is easy to believe that random mutation can create these monstrosities, others find it implausible. What are the chances that Eitr can just happen to turn ordinary creatures into giant rampaging beasts? Would the spilling blood of dragons truly be that potent? A possibility, but others have their own theories. What if these were no accidents? What if this process had been secretly refined? When people wonder this, their eyes turn towards the Academy of Veritas Mundus. The massive institution is a favored target for conspiracy and rumor, and it feels that most people talk about it in hushed whisper. But as a rival of the Church, it should be no surprise that many are eager to blame them for any earthly woe or blight...

---------------------------------

"Primal Hydra"

Alright, enough of those regular shmegular dragons, its time for some REAL monsters! HEY, you spilled Eitr on my invertebrates!

[bluegekk0]

I should do some worldbuilding art for the creatures of Hallownest. Come up with some designs for the existing critters and maybe some new ones. I think it would be fun.

I like to imagine TikTiks are kinda like the rabbits of Hallownest. They breed fast, they're herbivorous and their meat is especially tasty, so they get hunted a lot, for food and as population control. They are spiky, but the spikes are more like hardened fur than hard shell, I imagine them to be something like echidna spines. They also harden with age, so young TikTiks aren't as protected and have much softer bodies.

I also think hunting juvenile animals wouldn't be frowned upon, if anything, it helps the population maintain its balance. Hunting only the adult animals would decrease the population's ability to reproduce, and that can have repercussions on the ecosystem. So hunting young TikTiks for example wouldn't be seen as bad by the Hallownest population, though it might not be enough to sustain larger communities. There is definitely a balance to be found there, and I like to think certain bugs choose to patrol the areas and monitor the populations for that reason. For Dirtmouth, I imagine Hornet has that duty, she frequently goes hunting and gathering so it would make sense that she would want to keep track of the local animal populations, and switch between hunting grounds whenever it's necessary (she would also tell FPK to follow her example, so he doesn't overhunt the animal populations in certain areas).

Because the climate in Hallownest is cold, there are definitely some animals with thicker fur coats, which would be hunted for that reason. I'm already imagining large, buffalo like critters roaming the underground, maybe even the mountains surrounding Dirtmouth. I'm currently redesigning the Dirtmouth characters and giving some of them more fluffy cloaks, so exploring the source of those furs would also be pretty neat.

Some of the creatures are also filled with fluids, during the infection they would spit the infection substance, but these days they returned to normal. Squits have bellies filled with a substance that, when consumed, has recreational drug like effects, which I imagine would be quite popular among the population. Hoppers fill their bodies with blood of other creatures, so any blood-drinking bugs would have a good reason to hunt them. Then there are those with hard shells, used as furniture and tools. Bones are also present in many species, which can also be utilized in similar ways. Bone clubs, necklaces, some may even be used in clothing or as building supports.

There are also many predators which make traveling alone dangerous, so it would be fun to come up with the kind of beasts that would fill the bear/wolf niche, and function as a cautionary tale for young wanderers.

Those are just some thoughts I had, that I would like to expand on with future posts. I really want to draw some of those critters, canon or not. Expanding the world of the AU is always fun.